FIC: The Rules of Survival for Little Birds (Sansa/Sandor)
Recipient: the_gentleman
Title: The Rules of Survival for Little Birds
Author: perch
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sansa/Sandor
Word Count: 1,082
Summary: Sandor teaches Sansa some life rules.
Warnings: Alas I fail at smut, domination games and a fairy tale retelling to boot (snow white). This is also pretty AU.
He never touches her, not with his flesh. His hands never run across her ribcage, glance carelessly over her hair, mark the lines of her lips and cheeks. There is never a trace of his mark, nothing that can link him. This doesn't stop Sandor from haunting her, it only makes it harder for Sansa to explain why the sight of apples alarms her.
It started with a comb. A beautiful delicate piece of woman, the edges sharp if pressed too firmly into the flesh. Sansa was lost in the monotony of numbers, counting the strokes of teeth through hair when he approached her. His breath on her shoulder startled her and she dug the tines into her scalp, wincing from the sting. Sandor took over the operation and Sansa was left to nurse the tears that were trying to escape.
His motions were rough, pulling too hard on her scalp, but Sansa gritted her teeth, keeping the pain until he finally removed the offending comb. Then she felt it lightly at the base of her skull, scraping along the edges of her hair.
"I can kill you with this," Sandor whispered, scratching her neck. The comb slid to the side, tracing the delicate veins pulsing blue and white against her throat. He pressed lightly causing her to flinch and sit more rigidly straight.
He teased the comb under her jaw forcing her neck up and to the side, pulling her eyes to his as her throat lay exposed.
"Never expose your throat to the enemy," he said, and dropped the comb onto her lap before exiting.
Sansa took to combing her hair at a different time after that.
The corset was next.
The concept of Sansa and privacy didn't exist in Sandor's world and he found himself watching her at every spare chance. When she started to wear the garment he noticed, watched as the lines of her waist and bust changed with the tightening and loosening of strings. One night he found her alone and watched as she sat watching the sun set.
This time he made a noise, so that she'd tense with fear and then when she saw it was him he hoped there was some anticipation in her gaze. Sandor shook his head and grimaced at her, focusing on the laces of her corset to push his foolish fantasies aside.
"Turn around," he whispered and Sansa's eyes grew impossibly wide, betraying her. She slowly turned away from him, keeping her back rigid as Sandor worked out where the end strings were and undid them.
Sansa opened her mouth, but Sandor pulled the laces tighter making her gasp instead.
"Don't talk little bird, only feel," he said, pulling on the laces again. Sansa gasped, putting one hand on her ribcage. Sandor let go of the strings and wormed his way between the crossed string, slowly loosening until the corset was lax. Then he started the process over again, reaching in manually to tighten the strings that would manipulate her bust line, her waist and generally making a mess of her corset.
Soon Sansa was gasping again and leaning back towards him.
"Get up," he said, tugging on the strings again and Sansa stood, shakily. Using the trailing laces he led her to the wall of her room.
"Put your arms up and place them on the wall," he whispered, putting his mouth next to her ear.
After Sansa had complied he started over again, tugging on the string from the top, on down and tightening her corset evenly. After she was rebound the way he found her he wound the laces around his fists and started to pull, making her arch her back and suck in her breath to keep with his motions. He held the laces until her face flushed and her lips trembled as she glanced back at him and then he let go and watched her try to stand on unsteady legs before taking pity and removing the offending garment.
"Don't wear garments that will restrict your ability to run," he said before walking away.
One night there were only apples, tart and slightly bitter from having been picked too soon. They were green and red and golden, intertwined in a basket in Sansa's room. She sat staring at them for a time unsure whether or not to chance eating one.
Sandor reached over her and speared a green one on the tip of his knife ending her internal debate.
"Afraid they were poisoned?" he asked, and Sansa nodded.
"Good, you're learning," he said and held the apple to her lips.
"But it looks good doesn't it?"
"It would probably be too bitter, it is still too early for apples," she whispered.
"You're still tempted," he whispered, before putting the apple back.
"You have two choices," he continued, "you can take the chance and eat the apple before it rots, or you can leave it alone."
For long moments they sat in silence before Sansa slowly reached for the apple Sandor had speared and picked it up.
"The safe way to eat an apple is to cut it into portions," he said, "so that you can pick any maggots out."
He held out his knife to her handle first, but Sansa did not take it.
"What, what is the unsafe way?" she asked and looked into his gray eyes, unflinching under his stare.
The easy answer sat on Sandor's tongue before on impulse he took the apple from her and moved to sit behind her. One hand fisted into her hair, pulling her into position while the other held the apple to her lips once more.
"Bite," he said, his breath harsh on her skin and Sansa did, taking a large chunk of apple into her mouth. Slowly Sandor fed her the rest of the green apple, the juices trickling down the corners of her mouth and onto her throat. When she had finished he stared at her mouth, the lines of her throat, her eyes languid and unsure.
The words of his next lesson were lost as he continued to watch her and that's when Sandor knew he had to leave. Swiftly he stood, snaring strands of her hair in his glove when he jerked too hard, strands he slowly unwound later and stared at when he was alone.
"Don't be fooled by little birds," he said aloud, and crushed the strands in his hand, closing his eyes to the memory of her face.
Title: The Rules of Survival for Little Birds
Author: perch
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sansa/Sandor
Word Count: 1,082
Summary: Sandor teaches Sansa some life rules.
Warnings: Alas I fail at smut, domination games and a fairy tale retelling to boot (snow white). This is also pretty AU.
He never touches her, not with his flesh. His hands never run across her ribcage, glance carelessly over her hair, mark the lines of her lips and cheeks. There is never a trace of his mark, nothing that can link him. This doesn't stop Sandor from haunting her, it only makes it harder for Sansa to explain why the sight of apples alarms her.
It started with a comb. A beautiful delicate piece of woman, the edges sharp if pressed too firmly into the flesh. Sansa was lost in the monotony of numbers, counting the strokes of teeth through hair when he approached her. His breath on her shoulder startled her and she dug the tines into her scalp, wincing from the sting. Sandor took over the operation and Sansa was left to nurse the tears that were trying to escape.
His motions were rough, pulling too hard on her scalp, but Sansa gritted her teeth, keeping the pain until he finally removed the offending comb. Then she felt it lightly at the base of her skull, scraping along the edges of her hair.
"I can kill you with this," Sandor whispered, scratching her neck. The comb slid to the side, tracing the delicate veins pulsing blue and white against her throat. He pressed lightly causing her to flinch and sit more rigidly straight.
He teased the comb under her jaw forcing her neck up and to the side, pulling her eyes to his as her throat lay exposed.
"Never expose your throat to the enemy," he said, and dropped the comb onto her lap before exiting.
Sansa took to combing her hair at a different time after that.
The corset was next.
The concept of Sansa and privacy didn't exist in Sandor's world and he found himself watching her at every spare chance. When she started to wear the garment he noticed, watched as the lines of her waist and bust changed with the tightening and loosening of strings. One night he found her alone and watched as she sat watching the sun set.
This time he made a noise, so that she'd tense with fear and then when she saw it was him he hoped there was some anticipation in her gaze. Sandor shook his head and grimaced at her, focusing on the laces of her corset to push his foolish fantasies aside.
"Turn around," he whispered and Sansa's eyes grew impossibly wide, betraying her. She slowly turned away from him, keeping her back rigid as Sandor worked out where the end strings were and undid them.
Sansa opened her mouth, but Sandor pulled the laces tighter making her gasp instead.
"Don't talk little bird, only feel," he said, pulling on the laces again. Sansa gasped, putting one hand on her ribcage. Sandor let go of the strings and wormed his way between the crossed string, slowly loosening until the corset was lax. Then he started the process over again, reaching in manually to tighten the strings that would manipulate her bust line, her waist and generally making a mess of her corset.
Soon Sansa was gasping again and leaning back towards him.
"Get up," he said, tugging on the strings again and Sansa stood, shakily. Using the trailing laces he led her to the wall of her room.
"Put your arms up and place them on the wall," he whispered, putting his mouth next to her ear.
After Sansa had complied he started over again, tugging on the string from the top, on down and tightening her corset evenly. After she was rebound the way he found her he wound the laces around his fists and started to pull, making her arch her back and suck in her breath to keep with his motions. He held the laces until her face flushed and her lips trembled as she glanced back at him and then he let go and watched her try to stand on unsteady legs before taking pity and removing the offending garment.
"Don't wear garments that will restrict your ability to run," he said before walking away.
One night there were only apples, tart and slightly bitter from having been picked too soon. They were green and red and golden, intertwined in a basket in Sansa's room. She sat staring at them for a time unsure whether or not to chance eating one.
Sandor reached over her and speared a green one on the tip of his knife ending her internal debate.
"Afraid they were poisoned?" he asked, and Sansa nodded.
"Good, you're learning," he said and held the apple to her lips.
"But it looks good doesn't it?"
"It would probably be too bitter, it is still too early for apples," she whispered.
"You're still tempted," he whispered, before putting the apple back.
"You have two choices," he continued, "you can take the chance and eat the apple before it rots, or you can leave it alone."
For long moments they sat in silence before Sansa slowly reached for the apple Sandor had speared and picked it up.
"The safe way to eat an apple is to cut it into portions," he said, "so that you can pick any maggots out."
He held out his knife to her handle first, but Sansa did not take it.
"What, what is the unsafe way?" she asked and looked into his gray eyes, unflinching under his stare.
The easy answer sat on Sandor's tongue before on impulse he took the apple from her and moved to sit behind her. One hand fisted into her hair, pulling her into position while the other held the apple to her lips once more.
"Bite," he said, his breath harsh on her skin and Sansa did, taking a large chunk of apple into her mouth. Slowly Sandor fed her the rest of the green apple, the juices trickling down the corners of her mouth and onto her throat. When she had finished he stared at her mouth, the lines of her throat, her eyes languid and unsure.
The words of his next lesson were lost as he continued to watch her and that's when Sandor knew he had to leave. Swiftly he stood, snaring strands of her hair in his glove when he jerked too hard, strands he slowly unwound later and stared at when he was alone.
"Don't be fooled by little birds," he said aloud, and crushed the strands in his hand, closing his eyes to the memory of her face.