Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/785663.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sansa_Stark/Margaery_Tyrell
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Margaery_Tyrell
  Additional Tags:
      Courtship, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-05-05 Words: 4340
****** Heliotropes At Her Wrists ******
by FallacyFallacy
Summary
     When Sansa smiles, her eyes sparkle and it makes you happy. You have
     many reasons for doing this, but that on its own would have been
     enough.
Notes
     I'll make this very clear: I have not actually read the ASOIAF books.
     At all. Like, quotes on tumblr and TVTropes are literally it. I'm
     really really sorry about that! I'd like to someday, but at the
     moment I just don't have the time and in the meantime I really needed
     to write some Sansa/Margaery. So I apologise if there are canonical
     inaccuracies in this! (Let's be honest: when the books are that
     detailed, there are probably a million.) I only wanted to write some
     beautiful sweet Sansa/Margaery! I can only hope this offering of
     earnestly-made lesbian porn cleanses my sins.
See the end of the work for more notes
'Little dove', they call her – your grandmother and the queen regent both.
Doubtlessly, it is not affectionate in either case. But as you watch young
Sansa Stark, head bowed and skirts shifting musically as she hesitates and
stumbles, you find yourself thinking with a sudden, completely instinctive stab
of fondness that it suits her well.
You show her around the gardens first of all, pointing out the daisies and
larkspurs and mayflowers and rattling off long lists of names, giant bushes of
flowers surrounding the two of you on all sides like a comfortable blanket or
protective wall or both. While there, you tease her about cute servant boys and
take her hands, conversing about everything from sweet desserts to fun parties,
connected only by their utter unimportance. At the end of the path you almost
twirl her into a lovely little seat beneath a roof of lilacs and pick for her a
small blue flower.
It matches your eyes, you say with a smile as Sansa tentatively tucks it behind
her ear, and you can tell at once that she is smitten.
From the gardens to the bank of a river where the grass is green and soft and
dotted with dandelions and the skies are blue, and you watch with a light heart
as she giggles and throws pieces of fresh bread to the ducks, squawking and
clinging to your arm as a large mother pecks at her feet. In the morning mist
the scene looks like something out of a painting, faint and surreal, but
Sansa's little giggles of joy enliven it more than anything else ever could.
You go to parties together sampling all manner of treats – shortbread so
buttery it almost crumbles in your hands, strawberries fairly dripping with
juice, rich puddings you can scarcely bare to eat three mouthfuls of before
you're warm and heavy and sleepy – and chatting amiably with the other ladies.
She's shy at first, but at your encouragement she's soon locked into fierce
conversations about something or other with a distant cousin or aunt of yours;
when she catches your eye, she gives you a small smile and you grin back.
And then there are the days you simply walk hand in hand through the markets,
running your hands longingly over the beautiful silks and new fashions on
display, sending happy little smirks to one another when the crowd clamours for
your attention. You roll a parasol in your arm and let her duck beneath it –
after all, a lady must take care of one's skin, no? - while you extol a
captivated merchant about the wonders of the North, and when Sansa twists her
head in confusion, you wink.
It is, all in all, marvelously fun.
You cannot say that it did not start that way. Courting Sansa Stark was a
political goldmine, of course, but you have always found that the best approach
to all things is to have a little truth in every lie and a little lie in every
truth. That way, your allies assume you always speak the truth and your enemies
assume you always lie, and no-one ever quite knows you for sure. It would be
fruitless to hide away all of your feelings, in any case. So when you bow your
head and request that the King not harm your brother, he smiles and promises to
heed your wishes, and the queen regent frowns and suspects a plot, and at the
end of the day Loras will be safe and sound.
So when Sansa begins to look up at you with wide blue eyes and twirl strands of
beautiful red hair in your presence, you aren't surprised to find yourself
feeling a little bit giggly yourself.
You buy her pretty jewels, next, a pair of sapphire earrings that she clutches
tightly. Despite her feeble protestations that she is not a child, you sweep
her thick hair away, tucking it behind her ear, and gently affix them one by
one to the white skin of her ear. Done, you move back just far enough to see
her face, the small amount of her skin that is exposed at her neck trembling
slightly.
They're beautiful, she says in a whisper.
So are you, my Sansa, you say in response, letting a hint of playfulness tug at
your lips, and Sansa ducks her head as she always does when she smiles, as
though trying to hide it away and apologise for her happiness.
On another day Sansa compliments your hair and you offer to show her how to do
it, circling around behind her immediately. A call to a maid and a minute later
you have a comb and are pulling gently at the long waves, delicately undoing
the small braids that Sansa had created herself and reworking them smoothly,
talking quietly about this or that as Sansa leans back, shoulders dropped and
eyes closed. As you work, you take white carnations from nearby and braid them
smoothly into her hair, and at the end when you hand Sansa a pretty golden
mirror she is speechless.
You see Loras watching you now and then, his gaze neither approving nor
disapproving, merely steady. Don't lose yourself, he seems to say. But you
pout, because everyone else around you is losing themselves in everything all
of the time, so it seems an awful shame for you to be the only one to miss out.
Besides, it's fun to lose yourself a little. It makes the game more
interesting.
So you continue to eat together every other day, lemon cakes (Sansa's
favourite) and blueberry tarts (your favourite) and lemon tarts and blueberry
cakes and lemon tea and every time Sansa smiles it's still one of the most
beautiful things you've ever seen. You shower her in compliments like rose
petals that caress her tenderly, and she gathers them up in her arms and holds
them close, stringing them around her neck and letting them rest by her skin
like pearls. She's smiling more, now – your friendship is well-known to
Joffrey, and for now at least his desire to please you appears to be
outweighing his propensity for cruelty – but her sheer delight every time you
do something for her makes you worry, a little, to think of what came before
now. She reminds you a little of yourself when you were young, and yet somehow
she's more innocent despite her darker experiences. You find yourself wanting
to preserve that – to remake the world in her image if it means that she
doesn't have to cry anymore.
But even you are surprised by how deeply you have fallen into this when your
feelings fully make themselves known to you. She comes to your room one night,
a month or so in, eyes dull and voice quiet. The two of you end up sprawled
over the top of your bed on purple silk staring at the canopy above as she
speaks of her worries for her family – her brother leading the first war he's
ever fought in, her sister gone and alone somewhere strange and scary, her
mother forced to deal with a scattered family and a dead husband all at once
without a single moment to rest. Her dress is a pale grey, the colour of the
same home which has always seemed so cold to you but which she speaks so warmly
of, and the thick material bunches around her uncomfortably, smothering her
tiny figure.
When you take her hand and she holds on to you so tightly, you think to
herself: when we kill Joffrey, I will ally the Starks and bring her family back
to her.
Another factor, you think, a line of logical thought lying parallel to your
emotion. Already you are slotting it into place, planning to consider it among
the others later and reformulate your plans accordingly. It goes without
consideration that you will attempt it. Otherwise, you will be sad. Sad people
are terrible at plotting. Only when you are satisfied that it will happen do
you shuffle close to Sansa and invite her to stay the night if she so wishes.
She nods, hand tight in yours.
The nature of your attentions changes, then, in a way too subtle to be noticed
by anyone except you. It isn't difficult – already you are the best of friends,
and it takes only the slightest push to entice Sansa into something a touch
more intimate. You give her a ring – a beautiful golden thing with a deep red
garnet surrounded by intricate carved vines - and run your fingertips over her
impossibly soft hand, not even yet marred by the callouses of a woman prone to
sewing. When you look up, your faces are close enough that you can count every
one of the long eyelashes framing her eyes, and you feel the warm air against
you as she gasps, quietly.
You spend the next night together in your room. She lounges on the couch
sipping sweet fruit wine as you play old Tyrell love songs on your harp for
hours and hours. Only when the night grows far too late do you remind her of
the time; she sits up with a start, slightly drunk and slightly sleepy and coos
over your raw fingertips, bandaging them slowly. The candlelight flickers over
her face and your bare shoulders, revealing and concealing in turn.
You discuss literature and music and politics, segueing smoothly from great
artists of previous centuries to possible futures for Westeros to delicious
regional recipes that the other simply must try. When given an ear she is
strong-willed and passionate, and while as she finishes she will duck her head
down and mumble minimisations, in between it is as though she is lost in some
magical moment, words swimming and dancing within and about a wonderful place
you know not. The world Sansa can imagine is truly incredible, and all the more
so now that she is starting to realise how far it and reality diverge. You tilt
your head to one side and compliment her ideas with a laugh and you know she
thinks you're being polite but every thing she says is tucked into a little
back corner of your mind. Sometimes you take them out at night, gazing up at
the stars through your bedroom window, looking over them and smiling. 'Ahh, she
wishes for this.' But their pureness is their strength, their uniqueness, and
to your surprise you find her desires not merely interesting but outright
valuable.
One evening, you prepare with her before an event. While her maidservent stands
back awkwardly and sends you strange, narrow looks (protective; you like her)
you show her how to apply chalk to her cheeks and dyes to her lips, your
fingers floating just above her sensitive skin, and help her with her dress,
smoothing down the material at her shoulder and down the arms you have
persuaded her to bare. You laugh and joke and tease her, but in the moment when
your faces are close before you tap her nose and smirk you see her take a
breath, eyes dark.
You cannot spend the entire night with her, alas, but you deliberately set time
out to dance with her, holding her little lace gloved hand in yours as you spin
and laugh, skirts flying out like flower petals. She catches on to the steps
quickly and it isn't long before you are are moving as though you've danced
together hundreds of times before, bodies acting as one. When the time comes
that you really cannot put off paying attention to more practical matters
anymore, you make sure to take a detour into a dark patch between the
candelabras and whisper lowly into her ear, inviting her to your room the next
night. When she replies affirmatively, you bite your lip and lower your head
just slightly, looking up at her coyly.
You spend a day preparing. It really is an awful waste of your time, but you've
been remarkably productive lately in between courting Sansa, so decide to
interpret it as a reward to yourself. (Your grandmother, perhaps, will not see
it your way, but she has never much been one for dull submission, either.) You
consider everything with the seriousness you would give to matters of national
importance – would it be worth changing the drapes if they clash with this
dress? Yes, you think, you must wear this one, the drapes will have to go – and
then, when you're done, you stand in the middle of the room and turn. You have
many dreams and hopes for the future, but ever since you were a child one thing
has stood apart from any other - you have always wanted to make the world a
more beautiful place. To stand and look and see only pretty things that you
adore is one of the most wonderful feelings imaginable.
It is your room. The queen's room. The room in which you will make Sansa Stark
your lover.
Sansa is punctual as always. You open the door with a flourish, inviting her to
sit at the table you have prepared. She seems in turns bemused and impressed by
the luxuriousness of your gown – deep purple, and patterned with tulips - and
the setting, but she follows suit, sitting straight-backed and sipping daintily
at the tea set out. You run your finger over the porcelain, leaning just a
little over the table so as to better listen to her as she speaks of this or
that, cheerfully nibbling at the lemon cakes you had the servants prepare.
Finally, the time comes. You scoot your chair closer to hers, only smiling
wider when Sansa looks at you, perplexed. You place a hand over hers – she's
wearing the ring you gave her and you couldn't be happier to see it – and
explain in light and whispered tones that you have fallen in love with her.
Sansa, naturally, is surprised. You take her hesitation as an opening.
You explain how her beauty is like that of some exotic crystal, sending
rainbows of light through each fragment and plane, refracting warm brightness
into dark places, different from every angle. You explain how her presence is
like that of an otherworldly bird, feathers too fine and pure to belong to this
place, a song in its heart that speaks of the best of mankind. You explain how
she has left you dizzy, enraptured, caught up in a dance that you do not know
the steps to, moving and gliding around her at all times, hand outstretched.
You explain how you would love to spend a lifetime creating for her the world
of her desires, touching her cheek softly, writing her marvellous letters and
playing for her heartfelt music. You explain it softly, breathily, your neck
outstretched as you draw close to her.
By the end, Sansa is trembling.
I understand, you soothe her, that this is a sudden confession. If she would
wish to take some time to think it over, you would think that only reasonable.
And if she would wish to refuse-
She cuts you off.
As Sansa swallows, you are thankful. Only when your breath stutters and your
eyelids drop do you realise how very far your speech has tilted towards the
truth end of the spectrum.
She smiles. You smile.
You touch her hand, first, finger to finger, thumb to thumb, as though teaching
her to play the music you showed her some nights ago. Sansa's eyes close and
you can't help but laugh. If this light touch is sensual, then your thoughts
run heady to think how she will respond later on. You embrace that, moving your
hand to let your fingertips draw circles on her wrist, making her shudder as
you touch the sensitive skin on the underside.
You lean in closer, lips slightly apart, your nose just touching her cheek by
her ear. As your mouth touches the shadowy skin just beneath her jaw, her
breath hitches.
I want to kiss you, you whisper. Sansa, eyes still closed, nods twice.
With one hand, you gently brush her hair aside, pressing a soft kiss beneath
her ear. Birds chirp outside the window loudly and the sun is briefly covered
by a cloud, but beneath your hand and lips Sansa is warm. You kiss beside her
eye, next, and then just below it. You dot her face like raindrops on a
summer's day, almost too soft to be felt, but with every touch Sansa shivers.
The sun is beginning to set, veiling everything in a warm orange glow, dancing
in Sansa's hair like candlelight. You breathe slowly, taking in everything
before you, as though trying to inhale this image, to swallow it and make it
part of you. With delicate touch you place a fingertip by Sansa's mouth and,
after a moment, kiss her.
Sansa is hesitates, but with your urging, responds, kissing back with
restrained excitement. You capture her top lip in two, then dart your tongue in
briefly, tilting your head for a better angle. Sansa lets out a deep, long sigh
into your mouth, shoulders relaxing as you trace your fingers down to her
collarbone. You slip your fingers through hers, the sudden movement making her
gasp, biting down on her lower lip briefly.
You stand up, encouraging her to come with you. You take her other hand and
move it to the back of your neck. She blushes, but obediently helps you to
remove your dress, head bowed. The soft silk lining brushes your skin beneath
her hands and you shiver. The material falls and you stand before her in only
your chemise, watching with some amusement as she stares at your underclothes.
You draw close again, kissing her once, but after a moment you pull back just
enough to speak, lips brushing against Sansa's as they move. I want to give you
pleasure, you say. Pleasure that can only exist between women – pleasure that
man know not.
Sansa lets out a soft noise. And then she nods, deeply, moving to kiss you
again before she completes it.
The room is darkening, growing red and deep as though to cloak the both of you
as you guide her slowly towards your bed, her dress whispering against the
floor, almost inaudible beneath the sounds of your mouths sliding together, wet
and slow but full of purpose.
Sansa sit down first, her small frame only faintly disturbing the immaculate
velvet blankets covered with poppies the colour of red wine, the colour of your
swollen lips. She looks up at you for some moments, long neck bared, lips
parted, somehow the more vulnerable despite your near-naked state.
Simultaneously, you smile.
You help her to remove her dress, pressing kisses now and then at the revealed
skin. Sansa strokes the top of your head, fingers threading through your hair,
humming to herself at your touch. Each inch is a wonder to you – precious new
things to discover about this girl you want to know completely. A freckle here;
a small birthmark, barely noticeable, there. Despite the coming evening her
skin is pink and warm, flushed by your sight, your touch, you.
You reveal yourself slowly, peeling down the layer of white cotton as you stand
before her. Your tongue wets your lower lip and you smirk as Sansa stares. When
your slip hits the ground you bring your hands to the bindings around your
breasts, carefully peeling them away. Done, you throw your head back, enjoying
the feel of your hair against your bare skin. But Sansa's would feel so much
better.
Sansa shifts backwards, hand to the sleeve of her underdress, but doesn't go
further. You crawl onto the bed beside her, utterly nude, and pull the curtains
of the bed around the two of you, encasing yourselves within another little
world of your own, the closest thing to creating one you can do for her right
now. Within the confines of the heavy hangings, however, there is a queer
quality of utter disconnect. In here, outside sound is muted while inner noises
are heightened, Sansa's breathing in tandem to your own. For all that you know
– for all that it matters – the land beyond the bed could be a whirling vortex
of infinite space, lost in some directionless place. And within it, Sansa. Only
Sansa.
Sansa touches a hesitant hand to her cheek, her lip, but then obligingly
slivers out of her chemise, curling in over herself as she pushes it past her
legs. She turns, then, hair parting at her neck to fall forward over her
breasts, and removes her band. You place a hand by her spine and her skin
jumps; after a moment, you leave a kiss at the top of her neck.
Sansa turns with wide eyes and leans back onto the sheets, white on red, her
hair pooling around her and twisting over her unblemished skin. Bending over
her, your own hair falls down around your heads like a frame, the third and
final wall of the cocoon. You put your hand in hers again, interlacing the
fingers. Sansa closes her eyes, the smallest and most content smiles you have
ever seen on her gracing her pretty face. You kiss her lips once more, the
taste of lemon and sugar still faintly there, and then return to her neck,
smiling as Sansa tilts her head to give you a better angle, a pure white canvas
on which to paint her pleasure.
You move downward slowly, mouthing words of love against her skin, making her
giggle and sigh and murmur. The scent of roses reaches you – she is wearing
perfume, you realise. The fragrance of your house sigil on her body – chosen,
undoubtedly, thinking of you – makes your heartbeat quicken. You breathe warm
air against the peak of her nipple and are delighted when Sansa jumps, fingers
briefly curling in the blankets beneath her. You kiss it faintly, drawing out
the sensation, and Sansa almost moans.
Beneath you, the velvet of your bedspread is soft and inviting, sinking at your
weight as though inviting the two of you to tumble into it and never come out.
Your vision is locked, warm reds at all sides save for the pale figure sprawled
before you, pink and gorgeous. You slide downwards as though over water,
tracing over her sides and fanning your fingers at her hips. You pause and she
begins to tremble, knees raising just slightly, eyes closed.
You kiss her softly between her legs and she gasps immediately, body rolling.
You kiss again, lingering as your eyes flutter closed, inhaling her scent. You
lick – once, twice – running small circles into her thighs with your thumbs.
Her back arches clean off the surface, as do her fingers, her toes.
Oh, she says, over and over, in shot sharp breaths. Oh, oh.
You smile. You press forward, listening to her moans and adjusting accordingly.
It's like composing a song, really – you do what you know and then continue
with what flows naturally, only pausing now and then to calibrate properly.
It's an art, undoubtedly – and one with a far more powerful, instant effect
than most. You like it.
You do not move within her, of course – yours and her manoeuvrings both would
be far easier if she would remain pure, and you have always found this manner
of pleasure far more rewarding, regardless. So you continue your attention
there, showing her through your actions your care for her. Every sound from her
sends a shiver down your spine.
Finally, she reaches her peak, flushed and open-mouthed but nearly silent, a
last little squeak transforming into an exhausted mewl of satisfaction. Her
feet shift over the bedspread and she wriggles lethargically, hair clinging to
her damp skin.
You watch her, head quirked to one side. After some moments you stroke her
cheek and her eyelids half raise, dark irises covered by long lashes.
Here, you say.
You take her hand and, as you shuffle to lie beside her, guide it downwards.
She nods, licking her lips in concentration. You take the opportunity to kiss
her, breathing in sharply as her hand makes contact.
You move her hand for her as though showing her how to paint or play. You do
not disguise your appreciation, rolling your head over the pillow. When you
open one eye she is staring at you, eyes dark and more intense than you have
ever seen before. You smile, playfully, coyly, as her finger rubs against you.
She smiles back, lopsided and unintentional and genuine.
It isn't long before you are gone as well, with a little warm voice that says
Sansa... and then swirls around the both of you, encasing you in a pleasant fog
that sends a shiver down your spine. Her hand never leaves yours as you sink
into the bed, pressing the side of your mouth into the pillow.
You open your eyes. You curl your fingers around her wrist, moving close enough
to kiss her. Sansa, you whisper again, full of meaning and joy and for a moment
she closes her eyes and you giggle.
I love you, she says.
I love you, you respond.
You wrap yourself around her, thick hair covering your arms like a lace
blanket, and she leans into you completely, hooking one of her ankles against
your own.
Oh, no, you think sleepily, for you realise that you have broken your own rule:
there was no lie in that last statement.
No matter, you decide, breathing in the rose at her neck. It will be a gift for
her, as true as any you have placed on her finger or clasped around her neck.
She may never understand it but in times from now when you are separated it
will bind the two of you like an invisible ribbon tied at your wrists and
dotted with heliotropes, beautiful and impossible and there.
Like her, you think, and sigh. Like her.
End Notes
     All of the flowers in this fic have a meaning! Or according to
     Wikipedia, anyway! (Hint: 'larkspur' is another name for
     delphiniums!)
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!