Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1128371.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sandor_Clegane/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Sandor_Clegane
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Vampires, Angst, failed_rape
      attempt, Dark, Oral_Sex, Blood_Kink, Happy_Ending
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-01-10 Completed: 2016-09-28 Chapters: 9/9 Words: 17972
****** The Long Road ******
by RedSmileyFace
Summary
     Sandor has a drinking problem. A problem with drinking blood. Too bad
     there's no Blood Suckers Anonymous for him to attend. The good news?
     Sansa.
     Same incident as my "Sweetest Kill" story, with happier results. No,
     you do not have to read that first, it is more graphic then this one.
Notes
     Someone (*cough* Zsra187 *cough*) reviewed on my "sweetest kill" that
     she was intrigued by the idea of a vampire story, and how she
     wouldn't complain if I made it a longer story. Well... here it is.
     Because Damnit!! Inspiration happened. Or some shit like that.
     If you've read Sweetest Kill, this is an alternate ending with a
     different POV. If you haven't read it, don't worry, it's darker and
     more morbid then this one, and a one shot; but you won't be missing
     much. This one is still dark and morbid, but not quite to the same
     degree. Well... maybe in later chapters. But for now, it's safe
     (ish).
     This will NOT be updated regularly, like my other stories tend to
     (more or less.... shut up!). But, I really really really couldn't
     wait to share. It's dark. It might end sad. I don't know, there's no
     ending yet...
     Very little editing as of right now. Forgive my mistakes.
***** Sweetest Kill: Redux *****
"It's getting late!" Joffrey yelled over the loud bass thumping through their
eardrums at the bar, "Do you want to go?"
Smiling at his gallantry, Sansa nodded in the affirmative. As he led her with
his hand on the small of her back, she quickly thought over the evening:
laughing at her daring move to sneak out of her parent's house, blushing at the
attentions the older boy paid upon her, cringing at the amount of alcohol she
had drunk, more then she had originally planned...
She sighs in relief as the cool night air caresses her face. While dancing and
making small talk with Joffrey had been fun, it was getting late and she was
tired and warm. Hot from the dancing and from the more then healthy dose of rum
running through her veins.
Joffrey hung his arm around her shoulders, and Sansa leaned into him, grateful
for his steadying presence. She smirked when she thought upon the next day,
mere hours away, already not caring the least about the lack of sleep, for her
rewards would be better, much better. She was only a freshman at King's Landing
High, a transfer from a small northern town, family steeped in mystery to the
southerners. She was unknown and relatively unpopular, yet she had scored the
most handsome and popular jock, plus he was a senior! She couldn't wait to see
the faces of her friends.
She giggled, and Joffrey squeezed her closer, laughing along though he didn't
know why. He was good like that, indulging her courtesies, after school
activities, and fantasies that left her spaced out more than once. It was fair
turn, for she had to put up with his own sports schedules, the need for her
presence at every game, and his peculiar brand of temper.
She reached over to rub his stomach, glad he had convinced her out for the
night. Relieved that the fake IDs he procured from who knows where worked, and
hopeful that no one in her family would ever find out, least of all her mother.
She giggled at that though. Laughter erupting soon after as Joffrey tickled her
in turn. Playfully, the traded blows: him with twitchy fingers, her with half-
hearted shoves. When he finally stopped, she realized that he had maneuvered
her into the alleyway across from where he parked. He grinned at her, and she
was captivated by his classic beauty. He leaned closer, and her heart sped up,
practically breaking open her ribcage as he kissed her.
It was by no means their first, but somehow it was different than their
previously innocent pecks. He was demanding, hot, and exploring her in a way he
hadn't before. Her lips would be bruised the next day, and that would be a
first. But she didn't care, it was delicious! Moaning, she hugged him closer,
wanting to kiss a little while longer, pleased at his ardent kissing, even if
he was a little sour tasting.
He squeezed a breast, and she allowed him. She may even have liked it. She drew
the line at his hand fluttering beneath her halter top: she smacked his hand
away, giggling to soften the blow, as if to say, "Later, you can touch that
later."
They continue to kiss, and his hand rubs her side, as if to assure her his
intentions were true. She moans again, arching to him as his kisses continued
to thrill her. His hand caresses her thigh, and she lets him, though in the
back of her mind she wishes he wouldn't ruin their good make-out session with
hands far too curious in a far too open atmosphere. When his hand goes to the
inside of her thigh, just below the hem of her short skirt, however, she has to
break the kiss. "Wait." She whispers, "Not here. It's too in the open."
"The car?" he asks.
"Yes. Please take me home."
He laughs. "I'm hardly going to take you in the room above your parents!"
Furrowing her brow, she replies, "No. Not now, not here, and not tonight. I'm a
little tipsy, and besides, I'm not ready for that!"
His face, for the first time in her memory, blazes in fury. She had seen him
angry before, but never quite dangerously so. She quails, "Please, Joff, I had
an enjoyable night. Please, take me home, don't scare me like that. Don't ruin
what a nice night we had. Please..."
"You cock tease!" At her indignant gasp, he just laughs, "Oh, please, princess,
what did you think was going to happen? That I would just be happy to have a
platonic relationship forever? Or just until you graduate high school? I'll be
long gone by then, in college, and this will have been a waste!" He yells in
her face.
She slaps him, hard. "Take me home!" She demands.
Slowly, his face rotates back to her from her slap. When he faces her, he
ignores her tears, her trembling lip, just sneers at her, then backhands her in
retaliation, his varsity ring catching on her lip and cutting her. When she
cries out, he shoves one hand over her mouth, and grabs a fistful of her hair
with his other. "Hear me, bitch; I'll have you willing or no."
Muffled under his hands are her pleas and her begging him to stop, to take her
home. He removes his hand from her mouth, quickly jerking it to slap her again.
She winces and prepares for the blow, closing her eyes against the pain, when
instead Joffrey is jerked away from her.
Her eyes are still closed, but she hears a raspy voice address her boyfriend,
"You'll not have her at all." And then she hears Joffrey cry out in pain.
Taking a quick breath to steel her nerves, she opens her eyes, gasping in
shock. Joffrey is still in front of her, looming above her, yet his eyes are
glazed in fear, trying in vain to see that which holds him. Behind him stands
an even taller man, for the most part hidden in shadows. One muscled arm flexes
with strength around Joffrey's shoulders as he holds Joffrey to his body. The
other arms tenses with the same strength, grasping Joffrey's golden locks
between the dark fingers graced with even darker hair, yanking the head to the
side to reveal the neck.
But even stranger than the new arrival holding Joffrey like so, was the
stranger leaning over Joffrey's shoulder, biting his neck, licking his neck!
Gods! He was a VAMPIRE! 'Oh Gods! Oh Gods!' It was all Sansa could think. Even
as she watched the life flicker from Joffrey's eyes, watched thin lines of red
form on his neck and stain the collar of his shirt, and then finally latched
onto the gaze of the vampire, all she could think was: 'Oh gods!'
The stranger, the dark vampire, continued to suck and drain the life out of her
boyfriend, and continued to stare at her. She was captivated by his stare: it
was angry yet not at her, it was strong and old and... and... would not let her
go! She stood rooted to her spot, lips quivering in abject terror; a doe caught
in the headlights. Her whole body seemed to grab at the brick wall of the alley
behind her, while he stood towering over her, holding her erstwhile boyfriend
between them.
Joffrey slowly stopped struggling, at one point passing out; yet the staring
contest continued. She wondered if the vampire was waiting for her to do
something, to run so he could chase her, or attempt to beat at him, or
something; but he would not release her gaze, so she stayed rooted to her spot.
The vampire licked the last bit of blood from Joffrey's neck, leering at Sansa
as if he'd like to lick her too. She shudders at the image, at once fearful and
yet wondering, morbidly, what it would feel like. Joffrey, now dead, is left to
crumple ungracefully to the ground. Sansa quickly spared a look at the body,
afraid even of the short moment to leave the vampire's eyes, then returned his
gaze again, whimpering and cowering in fear that she was next.
She started to lower herself to the ground, as if to make herself into a ball,
but the vampire finally moved on her, garbing her shoulders and lifting her up
towards him, unbalancing her and causing her to involuntarily crash into him.
He seized her with both arms, holding her close, sniffing her.
Shivering in fear, she does nothing to impede him, nothing to help herself,
nothing to call for help, unbelieving that would she would be effective. She
feels him against her, hard, all of him hard. Tears form in her eyes. Perhaps
agreeing to Joffrey's lusts would have been better. She would have survived
that, at least!
The vampire traced Sansa's auburn hair with his nose, crooked and sharp as it
is, and then sniffed her neck, which did nothing to soothe her nerves. He licks
her neck, causing her to whimper, and she is finally inspired to try something
to prevent what was surely unstoppable: "Pl…. pl…ppp…pl…." she stutters.
She feels him looking up from where he was sniffing, looking at her as she
stoutly refused to look at him anymore. Surprisingly, though, the vampire
gently starts to trace her face, lingering near the bruise Joffrey gave her
with his slap; it was a cold hand, but felt nice on her hot injury.
He then grabs her chin and bringing her face towards his. "You should have
run." He rasps, "I would have let you go."
Gasping, she looks at him in surprise, staring into the depth of grey emotion,
unable to work out just what he wants from her. "Shhh… You're all right, Little
Bird." He whispers, "So tiny, fearful, fragile… so far from her nest." He
caresses her arms, though his hands are far from warm or comforting, and grabs
her hands in his. Her hands looks so tiny in comparison, yet he handles her
delicately, gently placing her small hands upon his broad shoulders, where she
feels his coldness, and realizes how stark their temperatures are.
He stares at her, and then takes a deep breath again, holding it for far longer
than anyone has held his breath around Sansa, and she wonders briefly if he
really needs to breathe, dead as vampires are, or if he just wants her scent.
Is he attracted to her? Could he want her in that way? Or is her blood? For the
first time since knowing he was a vampire, she wonders if she would survive
this encounter. After all, he had just saved her from a rape. Were his
intentions more honorable than originally thought? Could a vampire do good
deeds?
He looks down at her lips, quivering still, yet as she takes a shaky breath,
they slow as he does nothing but stare at her. He looks back at her eyes when
she's calm again, and he exhales, slowly, his rank breath of copper and decay
do nothing to endear him to her, yet she endures silently. He does not breathe
in again, and his own body leans away from her for the first time.
"I won't hurt you." he whispers, just before he leans down and captures her
lips. That his taste is different than his smell is her first thought, more
like dark wine than rotting corpse. Her second thought is: 'am I really
enjoying this? The man who murdered my boyfriend, whose very existence is the
stuff of nightmares?' Yet as he sucks upon her bottom lip, and licks at her
moistness, she puts up no fight.
And then he leans away from her again, licking at his lips a smear of blood:
her blood. She brings a hand from his shoulder to her lips, fingering them,
finding the blood and looking at it before returning the vampire's gaze. He
smirks at her, rasping, "Delicious."
All too swiftly, fear of death again comes full force. He had just enjoyed a
taste of her, he would want more: "Don't... don't do this...please, I just..."
He looks at her with anguish, and she trails off. Perhaps he truly didn't mean
to drain her dry, and really only paid her a compliment. "I'm sorry." She
finished, lamely.
"You'll not have to worry about me anymore, Little Bird, so stop with your
chirping." He releases her, slowly, as if to not startle her. "You smell
divine, Little Bird; you've no idea what you do to me." His hand holds her hand
last, and he tells her, "I don't kill innocents, though; you have nothing to
fear from me."
Just as he's about to let go, she squeezes top retain his attention. "Wait."
She says, hardly believing her own words, yet for some reason, she would know
more of her strange vampiric savior, "What is your name?"
"What is it to you? Quick now, before I lose all restraint."
Gulping, gathering her resolve, she replies, "I'd know the name of the man who
saved me."
He stares at her, incredulous at her request, and she thinks he won't reply, or
will have some scathing remark, but eventually, he shakes his head, replying:
"Sandor."
"Sandor." Tentatively, Sansa smiles, "I'm Sansa. Sansa Stark. Thank you. For
saving me from..." rape, "from him, that is."
He says nothing, only rakes his eyes over her, causing her one last shiver,
before he releases her hand and turns towards the shadows of the alley, and out
of her life, left intact.
For a few months at least.
***** The Butcher *****
Chapter Notes
     This is quite a fast update. I don't expect the next chapter to come
     quite so quickly. Also, there's a lot of background stuff in the
     first half of this chapter, I'm sorry if it's not as fun to read as
     the "good stuff". BUT! Let me know what you think!
Vampires are not mythical creatures, they did exist and there is hard proof.
There are even training schools for people who want to hunt vampires: members
of the endangered species list though they are.
Sansa's previous home in Winterfell did have much to do with the undead,
preserving the decaying bodies of the zombie nation just north of the border,
but vampires were not one of their citizens. Vampires didn't like the cold
much: made them turn to blood ice, too stiff to move. Little that Sansa ever
paid attention, though, even if some of her family guarded the wall against an
invasion.
Even after they had moved to King's Landing, where Vampires were more likely to
appear, she had not paid too much attention. But ever since the incident with
Joffrey, "vampire" was all she could see/hear/think for the next few weeks. She
even looked on the computer for articles and reports of local vampire
occurrences. She had plenty of time, what with her "post-traumatic stress
disorder" discharging her from school.
Seemingly, King's Landing, most notably the "Flea Bottom" section, was cursed
with a vampire; or blessed, depending on who you asked. According to Sansa's
research, Joffrey had been one victim out of many such incidents: most
"victims" had been charged with a previous crime, or in the middle of one;
sometimes both. They ranged from misdemeanors to homicides. A startling
percentage of them, spanning ten years of research, revealed that the vampire
saved victims of attempted assault and/or rape.
She thought of the vampire, "Sandor" as he called himself, often. His coldness,
his strength, his eyes, the way he talked of restraining himself, and the way
he blended into the shadows... she very well could believe all the failed
attempts at capturing him were not the police's fault, he was thatgood. He
didn't even have to hurt them to get them off his tail. Though they doubled
their efforts now to capture him, since Joffrey was the darling son of a
prominent family, and she herself was no cheap prize either, Sandor had yet to
be cornered, let alone caught a glimpse of.
The police questioned her; once they found out she was the saved victim after
running tests on her blood found on his class ring. They called her father, and
he was eager to assist the police, eager despite Joffrey's mother's words that
Joffrey wouldn't even hurt a fly.
Sansa had to admit to it all, and it led to more tears then she wished, from
herself and her mother. The shame she endured, self-brought and inflicted was
hard to bear. But the punishments, they were less then she thought they would
be, and the hugs and kisses of her parents, they were the strongest bandages
upon her weary soul. Her sister promised to avenge her, despite the fact that
Joffrey was no more, and her brothers, as always, made sure to assert their
protectiveness.
But earlier, as she sat in the dingy police headquarters answering their
inquiries, was when she recalled Sandor's looks and realized how much danger
she had been in, without even knowing it. And she had heard some things she
never knew before about vampires.
In answer to their questions, she described his eyes, his stature, his
strength, and his burns. She blushed when they asked her if she was attracted
to him, and though she said no, they told her not to be too ashamed. Vampires,
after all, had the ability to attract prey, made them wantto be near death.
More than one vampire slayer fell to their charms...
She claimed she was more fearful than anything else, and they believed her. He
was scarred after all: probably negated that special talent. Though one rookie
cop, a woman, quipped that the vamp's muscles could probably do it for some;
Sansa blushed even more.
A month after the incident, her research slowed to a halt, and she prepared to
go back to school. Yet still she perused the articles in the newspaper. He was
not captured; he was not cowed, and continued with his deeds. He killed a
college professor this time, as he attempted to do perverted things to a young
boy. There's disgust at the world over that, that a smart man with a
respectable profession, could fall so far for such... depravity. Then there's a
small smile on Sansa's face. Sandor: he was a monster, but only to other
monsters.
Another month that goes by and she's almost back to her perky self. Almost.
There was one other thing that clouded her happiness from that night: Joffrey.
Nothing could erase the sight of seeing Joffrey die in front of her. True, she
had conjured every mean thing he had ever done after he died to make herself
feel better. But still, she witnessed his death; any death would have done the
same. It chills her, and causes her nightmares, no matter how much he may or
may not have deserved such.
At times, she remembers their nicer dates, his beauty and gentlemanly behavior,
his attentions, his wildness, his promising future. It is those times she hopes
Sandor is captured, and when she cries the bitterest.
And then one night, Sandor is there. One moment, she's staring into a photo of
her and Joffrey; him with his possessive arm around her shoulder, her with a
soothing hand on his chest. They laugh, her little sister photo bombs the
picture, it covers his rude hand gesture, and Sansa keeps the photo anyway.
Another moment, a shadow falls on the photo frame, throwing Sansa out of her
reverie and causing her to gasp. Sandor shoves her to the bed, one hand over
her mouth, the other grasping her hip as he leans over her. "Don't scream." he
rasps.
She nods, and he slowly releases her. But not before leering at her skimpy
clothing, a camisole with short shorts. It is nearing summer after all, and
Sansa is used to colder weather...
"Why are you here?" She blurts, stunned that the object of her daily musings
has appeared, finally, seemingly out of nowhere.
"Couldn't get you out of my head." He replies, staring at her chest. Abruptly,
he turns and looks around her room, stopping every now and then to look at her
knickknacks, photos, even her bookshelf.
"I'm… in your head?" She asks.
"Yes. Gods be damned, you ingrained yourself; what with your sweet words, your
sweet scent."
There's nothing she can say to that, so she doesn't. Instead, she curls into
herself, hugging her legs close and wrapping a bed sheet around her. He finally
looks at her again and nods, as if to approve her fear. "Yes, keep the vampire
at bay at all costs. He'll hurt you otherwise." He sneers. "I won't hurt you,
haven't I said?"
"I know... I mean, this isn't... I'm uncomfortable with you..."
Lifting an eyebrow, he doesn't help her situation at all.
Huffing, she exclaims, "You can't leer at a girl, tell her she 'smells sweet'
and expect her to be OK with that!"
Barking a laugh, he nods. "Fair enough: it has been a while since I've talked
to a girl, though."
A small smile breaks on Sansa's face, grasping for any normal thing to talk
about. "Yeah? How long has it been?"
He thinks about it for a bit, reaching to touch one of her school projects,
before he answers, "About a hundred years or so."
Her smile falters. "Oh."
"Yes, 'Oh.'"
She contemplates the years he has on her, on any living being, probably only
younger than a turtle, unless he was older, and how ridiculous it is that such
an old being would come into a high-schooler's room, a silly girl's room. There
was not much they could talk about.
"Why me?" she finally asks.
He looks at her, then away, going to the window again and breathing in the
night air from outside. She recalls how he had once breathed in a lungful of
her scent. Before she can blush at the memory, he answers her, "That night. You
thanked me. You wanted my name. You were so close to being ravaged you didn't
even know it, and yet you thanked me for your life and you wanted my name." He
grabs her windowsill, his knuckles going white, and he leans his chin to his
chest. "I have been thanked. Rarely, but it's true. There have been other
women, beautiful and sweet smelling, it's true. But no one, not one, has ever
asked for my name."
He turns towards her again, and slowly stalks closer again. "I saved a boy
recently. I didn't get the same satisfaction saving him as I did you. He looked
at me in fear, and I had no chance to tell him I wouldn't hurt him, before he
scampered away to hide from me. The police came, and the boy's first statement
was to mention me, the monster." He reached Sansa's bed, and leaned down again,
causing her to fall back, bed sheet opening up around her. As Sandor settled
himself over and around her, he continued: "I have been asking myself for years
why I do this. Save the worthless, the needy, and the fearful. They'll all die
eventually: I am just a butcher after all, and you all are the meat."
As he continues his story, his eyes leave hers, following his hand as he traces
her hair and caresses her cheek. "I had a brother once. He made me thus, and I
swore never to be as monstrous as he. When the bastard finally died, the
reasons to be partial with my meals became muddled and faint, more so as the
years went by."
He grasps her neck, not helping her fears in the least, and looks towards Sansa
again, eyes blazing in a fury that seemed... lost, as if he were not really
there in the room with her. "Perhaps I should just give in to the vampire
instincts. They can't catch me. They're all afraid of me. They'd best leave me,
or I'd kill them. And you! You girl, had best stop being so..." And he leans
down further, pinning her down with hands, chest, and pelvis, making his
hardened member quite known to her.
"Perfect." He rasps.
She gasps. She doesn't know what to do with this information, with the fact
that she's a temptation, or why he believes her perfect. She's just a teenager,
trying to earn good grades and make her parents happy. Tears start to fall from
her face, and then she's jolted even more when she feels sharp fangs scraping
along her neck. Not enough to break the skin, but she shudders in fear.
And arousal: she knows not why, but his member and his teeth awake something
within her she hadn't felt since Joffrey had kissed her: wanting. He feels
deliciously hard, a promise of pleasure, even as the knowledge of possible
death lingers near. She remembers it is a talent of vampires, to lure in their
prey.
Surprisingly, she then feels, instinctively, that Sandor had the same ailment,
an attraction that he did not want. It is not knowledge, but a tingling
sensation: "You won't hurt me." She whispers. At once, Sandor stops his
movements. She moves her previously immobile hands from her sides to his chest,
and gently pushes at him.
He complies with her body language, just as easily as he could have ignored it,
and moves away. "No, Little Bird." he states dejectedly, "I won't hurt you."
And he leaves her for the second time, still alive. Confused and scared, but
alive: for a few months more, at least.
***** Help Me *****
A new school year started. Summer came and went without hearing anything from
her savior, or reading about vampires in the news.
The fear of society passes, and she starts to hang out with her friends again,
though it is always daylight and crowded when she does. The fear of boys
passes, and she becomes good friends with unlikely candidates, searching for
kindness before beauty. (The short Tyrion always making her laugh with his wit;
the crippled Willas always making her feel like she exists as he asks her
opinions; the effeminate Loras making her feel beautiful as he harmlessly
flirts with her.)
A birthday passes, and Sansa is now Sweet Sixteen, as well as "sweet smelling".
It makes her smile and wonder if he has passed from her life forever, if she'll
never see him again. Then, all of sudden, he appears.
She's studying at her desk when he reaches around to silence her surprise, and
holds her to him. Her heart beats fast, fluttering in fear; this is almost
exactly how Joffrey was held as he died.
"Little Bird," Sandor rasps, sniffing at her hair, and any doubt about who it
is fades away. She calms down a bit, yet he stays where he is. "Help me." He
whispers.
Before she can ask how or why, he gently pulls at her, maneuvering her to
stand, pulling her closer with her back flush to his chest. "I ran away." He
tells her. "I fled to Essos. I had my bloody fill. And do you know? They were
all thieves and murderers: scum of the earth." He keeps his one arm around her
shoulders, using the other to pet her hair, to move it aside and then yank,
forcing her to present her neck to him.
"I met a slayer." He kisses her neck, right at the pulse point, and she grabs
at his arm, whimpering. "And all of a sudden, it did not matter who I killed,
only that I did." He licks her; she jerks, ineffectual as it is, and he hardens
his grasp.
"I fought for my life. I won." He scraps his teeth along her neck again,
jutting his hips forward and trapping her between the desk and him, making her
aware just how aroused he was no matter how many layers of cloth separate them.
"I went for my reward." His arm around her shoulders moves down, caressing her
collarbone just above the hem of her tank top, "She was a strong slayer, she
was a worthy warrior, she was my blood type," he cupped a breast over her shirt
and bra, squeezing and chuckling darkly at her errant moan. "She never asked
who I killed, if I was repentant, she did not know me nor had any desire to do
so: no mercy for the vampire... So no mercy for the slayer..."
Sansa is unable to fight the feelings arising in her body: the flood of lust
fueled by her inexperience, his hunter's lure; the feelings of fear that ebbed
beneath the flow, that he truly meant to devour her in the truest sense of both
lover and hunter, the fear that even if he did intend for her to live, he'd go
too far.
Yet she still thought to know why he was here. Her curiosity, all but buried
beneath the torrent, still lingered because of his words. He sounded...
desperate... despite the story he was telling her, the cold way he spoke.
"What..." She breaks into a moan as he snakes his hand down her stomach, tries
again, "What do you want of me?"
"Ah, yes," He rasps against her neck, "I asked for help, didn't I?" He fingers
the hem of her shorts, glides over them and down. "I did not claim my reward
from the slayer bitch. She lives. The reason... still eludes me. Remind me."
He cups her womanhood over her pajama shorts, causing her to cry out in
surprise. Her brain is muddled, yet she remembers once he had told her his
rule, and grasps at the straw: "Innocents!" She gasps out, and when he stills
his hand upon her crotch, she tells him, "You don't hurt innocents." His hands,
both, lose their intensity; though seem reluctant to let go. He travels along
her side with one, raising it up and around her waist. The one in her hair lets
go, causing her to sigh in relief, almost purring as he cradles her head
gently, soothing the sting of pulled hair. "You won't hurt me." She murmurs,
almost unaware she's said it.
"No." He confirms, "I won't." He kisses her neck, and she hums appreciatively,
closing her eyes in enjoyment, hugging the arms that hug her. "Don't be afraid,
Little Bird." He whispers.
She opens her eyes, wants to ask what? Then, OH! She flexes her fingers against
him, digging nails into unfeeling skin, yet the sharp sting on her neck quickly
fades to a burn as he removes his fangs. Warm liquid falls down her neck, which
Sandor laves at, a cold tongue upon her fevered neck. Her eyes flutter close
again, blood pounding in her ears and warmth spreading from her chest up to
inflame her cheeks.
Sucking at her neck, once, he groans behind her. "So good." He rasps, grasping
to uphold her tightly as she loses the will to stand, knees buckling with the
loss of iron. Chastely, his kisses her neck once more, licking a final time,
telling her she's delicious. Slowly, he releases her, twisting her around and
lifting, knees and neck supported by strong arms, and he carries her across the
room.
She looks up to him for the first time that night. The sight of her blood
dripping from his lips shock her, but his eyes, dark and brooding, hold no
malice towards her. Instead, they look dead: he is fading from the world. She
feels the urge to help him, as he had once done for her, to show him that there
were still reasons within his life worth fighting for, worth remembering. She
didn't know what they were, she was still learning them for herself, but
perhaps she still could help, in some small way.
Reaching up, she fingers his scars: he lets her. "Don't forget. Please, Sandor,
don't forget about the innocents, about your honor. You aren't a monster you're
a man. You are a good man."
He stays silent for a while, body standing still and eyes boring into hers.
"I'm losing..." He rasps, he chokes, he begs. "I'm failing...I... I don't know
how..."
Sansa shushes him. It feels right, to comfort him; though later she will spend
days wondering at the power she has over him: the power to help him, or damn
him. The power to redeem, or ignore; his future lay in her hands.
"It's OK," she whispers, even though they both know it is far from such. "Come
to me. When it gets too much, too hard: visit me. I won't ... I won't shun
you."
"You don't know what you ask, Little Bird." He growls, anger seeping in a bit
again, "What happens if I do fail, and come to you afterwards? What then? Will
you truly not judge me? I'm a vampire; it is only a matter of time before I
give in, all the way, and then you'll just be another victim." He more or less
tosses her down to her bed, stiffly standing at the side in fury.
"No," Sansa whispers with an edge, refusing to back down, "I won't."
They stare at each other, and then he nods at her determination. "We are both
fools." He muses, "But better fools then monsters."
Kneeling beside the bed, he caresses her neck, right where he bit her, and
leans down for a proper kiss. Again, he tastes of a sour dark wine, even if the
smell is much worse; Sansa leans up willingly into the kiss, opening her mouth
and battling tongues with him. In some ways, it is a more heady feeling then
when she was losing blood: he is dominant, bruising; always nipping at her lips
or tongue, then sucking the bite afterwards, soothing the hot pain. More than
one moan of hers fills the silence of her room, yet he never goes further than
kissing her mouth, or caressing her face.
With a last swipe of his tongue, he releases her, placing his forehead upon
hers and fingering her cheek as if it were breakable glass; "We will try your
way." He growls, a hint of his restraint breaking through, before leaving her,
the night reasserting itself as life continued, uninterrupted, for a few days
more.
***** Guilty and Deranged *****
Chapter Notes
     This is has a sexual scene, and while this is already rated "E", I
     feel like I should warn the readers further: this does involve a
     vampire, and what do vampires do? Morbid blood sex scene. (which may
     or may not be inspired by a movie scene somewhere)
     I will leave it at that, but be forewarned!
     and then enjoy, if that doesn't stop you :D
     Also, this chapter has been in the works since the beginning, but I
     originally thought there would be a few intervening chapters. They
     were boring to me, and I especially don't like writing dialogue. In
     conclusion, I believe time gaps are what's going to save this story.
     I believe I cover everything that's important with a few words here
     and there, so I think I've committed to more time jumps. So say
     goodbye to standard timeline story telling. And then enjoy some more
     :)
Teeth, sharp and piercing, scrap along her neck.
Fingers threaded in her hair, and fingers in her core; but what were fingers
when his fangswere teasing her? How could one describe the feeling of having a
predator's weapon close in upon your life source, yet not go for the kill?
Moaning, Sansa arches against him begging, pleading, needing more.
Sandor obliges, but not as much as she'd like. He moves to her breasts, kissing
one, suckling at it, pulling at it, scraping it, all with his tantalizing
teeth, before moving to the other. His bite there elicits a squeal from her.
She holds him to her, warm fingers against his oily cold scalp. He groans
against her breast, his suckling bringing her closer to her finish, vibrations
spurning her heartbeat faster underneath his dangerous mouth.
Her hips buck with need, not nearly as filled as she wants, though she cannot
say what it is exactly that she craves. His fingers, in her, against her,
rhythmically pumping, are a torture that make her go mad. "Please..." she
pleads, drawing it out, moaning it loud, "Please!"
Cold hands trail her body, tracing where he has bitten, soothing the burns, and
gently guiding her to spread her legs. They hold her down, a vampire lover's
cold shackles that her hips struggle against, but without any real intent to
escape.
'His head, gods he's giving me head!'She gasps with shock as he bites the
inside of one thigh, and she quivers, the subconscious fear coming out despite
her complete trust in this undead man. He sucks, laps, and kisses the burn on
her thigh, rasping in between that she's all right.
And then, he follows through, thrusting his tongue in her. She yelps, jumping
in the bed, fighting with joy against his restraints. She has never felt so...
unh! It is so overwhelming, she hardly knows whether she is in her room, or in
heaven.
So overpowering, yet it is not enough. Something crawls towards her, something
builds, something teases her at the edge of her very reason, and sanity.
"Please! I need..!" What is it that she needs? "I... I..."
One of his hands goes to her stomach, splaying his fingers and calming her
crazed fluttering. His other hand retreats to her womanhood, stroking where his
tongue is also, and he thrusts them in again.
The shock of cold fingers cause a loud gasp to escape her lips, and he doesn't
let up, pumping them in over and over again, and though he is doing all the
work, she pants, gyrating her hips, begging, pleading, needing more.
And then he bites her clit, bringing the elusive climax to scream out her
mouth.
Her next conscious thought is, 'I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't
breathe',panting as the throws of pleasure recede gently, coming to realize
that he's still at her womanhood, lapping the blood from the wound he
inflicted. Her high from pleasure did not fade towards disgust or guilt, but to
satiation.
Opening her eyes, she watches him, her lover, her vampire, her Sandor; he
crawls up to her face, looking to make sure she is OK. Cold fingers trail her
cheek, silently questioning. Swallowing her pants, calming her body, she grabs
his hand, and offers a smile. A small one that grows in confidence then becomes
a laugh as she feels herself blush.
He smirks, and then leans down to kiss her. Warm, tangy, soft: the best kiss
they have shared, in her recollection.
She reaches for his cock, but he grabs her wrist first, saying, "No, you've
done more than enough, Little Bird. I wouldn't want you to wear yourself out."
The meaning of his words does not fully materialize until later, after his
final caress and shadow leaves her college dorm room. She feels lightheaded,
happy, and thinks the only thing to make it better would be a bubble bath.
She watches the froth turn red, contemplating that he in fact did take from her
all that he wanted, that for a vampire blood is more desirable, more orgiastic,
then fornicating.
He had explained such to her once, sometime during their many talks in the
intervening years; blood being the cause for 'reproduction' rather than sex.
Blood was their food, the life source, their means of survival; individually
and as a race.
Lazily, she smiles, swirling a finger amongst the small whorls of blood that
pooled from her, from all his vampire kisses: her neck, her breasts, her thigh,
and, yes, perhaps the most morbid, her bundle of nerves. And she does not feel
guilt anymore for not pleasuring him as she assumed he would want.
She feels relief. 'Is this wrong?'
In the back of her mind she fleetingly worries about poison, like from a
snake's fang, swirling amongst the blood and water that might make her woozy,
pleasured, drugged upon his pleasure, to allow him to touch her thus without
her being afraid, or disgusted. But no, she cannot deny she still feels
satisfied, and recalled he had soothed her before he had even bitten her once
that night. Caressing her, gently talking to her with his calm rasp, always on
the watch for her discomfort... shivering in the warm water as she recalls him
stripping her of clothing, she realizes she would do it again, gladly.
' What would mother say?'
And, of course she remembers only now, he once told her a vampire had a
presence, not a poison, which called to his or her prey, and once out of sight,
victims (if still alive) would again regain their fear.
Still, she feels no fear.'Is something wrong with me?'
Her eyes drift close, the heat of the water soothing her as the soap tingles
the bites, most especially the one at the apex of her thighs. Leaning her head
back upon the edge of the bathtub, she idly wonders if she has gone deranged. A
normal human girl of legal age from a wealthy family who could ask for nothing
more should not have a rapport with an undead man who had nothing to offer her
besides infrequent clandestine meetings.
Since Joffrey had attempted to rape her, she had been defending herself against
accusations. It has been days/months/years since the 'incident'; you should be
better by now.A classic argument, she thinks. Everything is the same, as
before, why don't you want to go shopping like we have before?Ugh. And her
current favorite: Why would a rich girl like you, pretty enough to marry into a
set life, or inherit, want to study to be a nurse? That's for working girls.
Sansa shook her head in memory; happy she is no longer friends with the ones
who had voiced those "concerns". Her current bunch of missed-matched friends is
far better, and her family is proud of her as well, no matter what she decides
to do. (And with half their family in the military or protective services, it
isn't that farfetched for her to also want a hardworking, harsh paying job…)
And when she did occasionally relapse with fear and depression, her siblings
didn't condemn her as "seeking attention". She only regrets not trusting them
enough to share Sandor with them.
That's about the only guilty thing she feels these days.
Deciding she'd rather feel guilty than possibly be without Sandor's
contradictorily protective presence, she sighs and fully accepts what had just
happened earlier that evening. She caresses the bite wounds with a loofah,
feeling their tenderness, remember his tenderness, wanting more, and not caring
how strange it might seem, even to herself.
He is Sandor, who happened to be a vampire, not the other way around... He
saved her, respects her, and he treats her well, in his own way. He is the best
boyfriend (can she even all him that?) she ever had, and she only regrets he
isn't the kind to bring home to meet the parents.
And she is Sansa; a woman of newfound convictions and strength, who would not
turn away the man who not only saved her, but who came to her for his own
saving. He wasn't there just to have her, or to give of himself. Never had she
thought she would be the one to hold a vampire's hand, to chase away
hisnightmares; but now that she is, she isn't going to give it up, isn't going
to turn him away. That's what friends do for each other. That's what lovers
do...
Sansa stills within the bathtub, loofah poised over her shoulder, and the
startling revelation strikes her immobile:
' I love him.'
***** Sandor's Maker *****
Sansa panted upon her bed, naked and coming down from another orgasmic high,
courtesy of her vampiric lover. Could Sandor even be called a "lover"? After
all, they had not gone "all the way" yet, and he had never allowed her to
please him with her body, only with her blood.
He had assured her many times that it was all he needed, that the blood was
euphoric enough for him.
Recently however, she started to worry. Was there something wrong with her for
Sandor to hold off from making love to her? As Sandor, clad only in black
boxers, climbs up her bed, over her, licking some trails of missed blood,
before wrapping her in his arms, she recalls that it is only the fourth time
this year that he has visited her. And it is almost the end of the fall
semester! Wrapping her arms around Sandor, she works up the courage to voice
her concerns. "Why haven't you come more often, Sandor? Am I not... good enough
for you?"
He chuckles, and it rumbles pleasantly against her chest. She takes comfort in
that, and in his words: "You are so fucking perfect, Little Bird, there is no
doubt that you could please me." He kisses her smile, frowning when he stops,
"It is I that worry about being good for you; do you really want a vampire in
your life? As a friend? As more? I sully you every time I visit, and touch
you."
Sansa shakes her head no, "Don't talk like that!" A little bit of anger flared
through her. How dare he demean what they have? It might not be a lot, but damn
it if it isn't more than him that has a choice in anything! "I don't see you as
a vampire, Sandor, I see you as my friend. And besides, this relationship works
both ways. I wantyou here, I wantyou to feel free to talk to me, to come to me,
to..." and here she blushes, "touch me."
Sandor strokes her cheek, not interrupting as his Little Bird chirps her
demands.
"Despite what you might think, you don't 'sully' me every time you visit, you
make me happy. Happier then you realize. Do you know what I am like when you
are not around? I am merely a shell of myself. I have everything I need:
friends, family, purpose; but when you are around, then and only then, am I
truly complete. The rest is meaningless without you."
"You don't know what you are saying..."
"No! But I do!" She grabs at his hand, holding it firmly, "I want you to come
more often. Please, I know you wait for the times when you can no longer be
strong, but visit more often, please! I have no way of telling you that my
strength wanes when you are gone. I've missed you this past year."
Sandor closes his eyes, looking like he wants to deny her, but unable to go
through it. Sansa presses her forehead against his, "Is it me? Is this...
getting old?"
His eyes snap open, incredulous. "What? How could you ask that? I already said
you are perfect, what other words could you want?"
Sansa lowered her eyes from his intensity. "You are centuries old, and I am a
silly girl. How can I compete with time, with the myriad of women you have
had?"
"Silly Little Bird," he rasps affectionately, grasping her chin to bring her
gaze towards his, "You know you are the only woman I have had a relatively
functional relationship with, have you not connect the dots?" When she does not
answer, he chuckles, "Gods, you are naive." He kisses her, short and sweet,
before continuing to reassure her. "All those women I've had? Unwilling; from
when I was vampire at least. All of them were thieves or harlots, maybe both,
on the wrong side of the law, but it doesn't change the fact that didn't want
me. I took their blood, and took their bodies, mercilessly, until they lay dead
or dying."
He wiped a few stray tears from her face, "That is why I am unworthy of you.
You are more to me than just blood, Sansa. You give me tenderness,
understanding, and a lifeline to who I was, who I want to be. No other woman
could do that, or ever tried, and this," he gestures between them, "is very
new." He kissed her forehead, "I could never tire of it." He kissed her nose,
"Nor of you." And he kissed her lips, "And I beg of all that is good that you
will not be damned because of me."
Sandor sighs, leaning down further, burying his head against Sansa's stomach,
taking comfort from her scent since the time had come for him to speak of his
past. "I told you once, when we shared childhood stories, that I was once a
stable boy. I was as innocent as you are now, Little Bird, a pup before he was
ravaged and burned. I, too, was once content, peaceful, if a bit impatient for
life to start happening."
Sandor paused, stroking Sansa's sides in memory of another, "My first, the one
I lost my 'innocence' to, was the only other woman I have ever had that was
willing. Well, she was hardly a woman by today's standards, and I was only four
and ten, I remember that.
"I do not recall her name, only that she was like a field of wheat: straw
colored hair, healthy tanned skin, and sky blue eyes. Eyes a shade lighter than
yours, Little Bird. I remember that she was a kitchen hand; it was summer, and
lust filled the air that stagnant, but beautiful, afternoon, and she seduced
me, much like she seduced many other servants of the keep. But she was nice,
and taught me many things I have, for the most part, forgotten, that one lazy
summer afternoon."
He gripped Sansa's shirt, the only sign of his anger, even centuries later.
"Gregor, my older brother, he never shared anything with me. I never
complained, because even then we were not close, and I felt no desire to be so.
However, he decided he wanted to share the woman with me, whether I complied or
no. But she, well, she also had no choice. I don't actually know if she was at
first willing or not for Gregor, I only know that after he raped her, and it
can only ever be rape with him, she was found dead amongst the dogs of the
kennel."
Sandor paused again, taking a few moments to reign in his ancient fury. "I did
not love her," he rasped, unable to hide his emotions, "but one could say that
was when I lost my naiveté, that it was then that all Gregor's hurt added up
just then into something I could handle no more. Not even when he turned me
into a vampire, nor shoved me in the sun, did I hate him as much as when we
were actually alive.
"And the terrible thing is, is that kitchen wench was just the starting point.
Gregor killed our whole family, all before he was knighted." He smirked wryly
at Sansa, "He and I both were taking as squires by our lord's knights, seeing
as how strong we were, how large we grew, even as pre-teens." Sandor frowned
again, "Gregor was truly a monster long before he was damned.
"I still have not felt peace over the loss of my father, my sister, or even of
the maid. It seems pointless coming from me, a soulless immortal of all people,
but I did not even gain peace from ending Gregor's life. No, an old Dornish
Prince was the one who finally finished Gregor; poisoned his own blood that,
when consumed by the monster that was my brother, ended both of them. It's
ironic, since it was a young Dornish Prince that hurt Gregor enough for him to
seek the aid of vampirism to continue living..."
He looked up to Sansa again, coming to the present once more. He stroked her
cheek again; glad she had not turned away from him in disgust. "After the
girl's death, I promised myself that I would never be like him. I never gained
knighthood, I never raped honest women, I never sired more vampires, and I
never drank of the innocent. When he killed my family, I promised fratricide;
even if I failed in that, I surely was successful in stopping his legacy."
Sansa was about to add her two cents, to sympathize, to offer comfort, but
Sandor shushed her, placing his fingertips over her lips. He smiled wanly at
her, and finished, "Misery loves company, and so did Gregor. Callously, he
destroyed many lives, and damned just as many souls as well. Virgins were his
favorites. I try and never do what he has done, not even centuries after he is
gone. You will be safe from me, Sansa, no matter what you say or do."
There was nothing Sansa could say. She only hugged Sandor to her again,
comforting him in the only way she knew how. His head buried into her neck
again, and she smoothed his hair, and rubbed his back, humming once or twice.
After a time, she leaned back, bringing Sandor's face to hers. She kissed him,
still faintly tasting of her blood on his lips. "Thank you for telling me this,
Sandor." She said, "I'd like to think that you are wrong, though. I don't feel
damned when I am around you; quite the opposite, really."
Sandor groaned, pulling away from Sansa and laying back on the bed with his arm
over his face.
Sansa leaned over him, refusing to allow him to put space between them. "Forget
it." She soothed him, "I can change your mind another time." After Sandor
snorted, Sansa laid her head on his chest. "Can you tell me more about your
family?" She asked.
It took a few minutes, but Sandor opened up to her once more, sharing more
stories of his childhood, and new, happy, anecdotes of his father and sister.
They did not revisit the subject of their relationship, but once again, Sansa
had brought a measure of peace into Sandor's existence.
***** Breakup *****
Sansa sobbed heart-brokenly into her pillow, cradled against her in poor
substitution of any real comfort. She screamed against it, wailed into its
fluffy depths so that her fellow dorm mates would not hear her.
And things had being going so well...
"What a stupid Little Bird you are: you and you humans' fanciful tales of
loving vampires and their human 'soul mates'."Sandor had sneered at her
earlier. "Ican't marry you, Ican'tgrow old with you, I cannot fucking give you
children!"
Hiccups break forth, chest hurting with the force, the pain, air failing to
relieve her body. Never had she thought Sandor would be the one to hurl hateful
words at her. He was not in the wrong, but did it have to come out so ... so
foul?
"My body is DEAD! Nothing within me lives. My ... my fucking cum is worthless
in your cunt!"
"Stop! Stop it! Please... Sandor, stop!" She had pleaded pounding on his chest,
begging him to understand her, to listen, to stop with his cruel diatribe.
But he did not stop, grabbing her flailing wrists and destroying whatever
dreams she had that featured them together, forever:
"Sansa," she flinched when he did not use her endearing nickname, "You are too
pure for that life, and it would destroy you. I'd destroy you."
Silence had followed that statement, a void of happiness that stretched the
eons of heartbeats. And then he kept going, making it worse.

"I won't curse you to this life, Sansa, you deserve so much better..." She had
stared at him in agony, tears falling down her cheeks, but through her sorrow,
she saw his bloody tears tracking down as well. It was the only hint of his
dreams being shattered as well. "I don't deserve you." He whispered.
"I only wanted to share my dreams with you..." She replied, equally defeated,
cursing herself for thinking she could change his mind.
"And I cannot fulfill them, Li... Sansa. Vampires are not able to create new.
We only take what is old, and turn it into something monstrous, and that is our
greatest ecstasy. Adoration, love, fucking: it's all for nothing. Nothing! Do
you hear me? Nothing..." He finished, finally calm again.
But she saw his anguish, his own pain hidden within the anger, belying the
insinuation that she meant nothing to him. Pain that was not enough to change
his mind and that made it all the more worse.
"I have already done too much. I shouldn't have... the first time I ever saw
you... gods but you are my own temptation. I can't... I can't bring you down to
hell with me." He turned away from her, stepping to the dormitory window for
his usual exit, if a lot earlier than normal. He hesitated, and then choked out
some parting words, "Find another man for your dreams, Sansa."
That was only a few hours ago, last night in fact, and she had not slept.
Indeed, she had not stopped crying. It was so abrupt, so unexpected, and
because of that, it was doubly cruel. There was no warning, no hints that he
did not want to continue their relationship or friendship.
"I graduate in a few months, Sandor."
"Aye? And what will happen next?"
Such a hopeful statement, a curious question; neither of them had talked of the
future before, and neither had been prepared for the negative outcome. With
every utterance of her half thought of plans, a new shadow fell on Sandor's
face. Sansa was not even given the chance to say that her thoughts were not in
stone, that she would listen to his of fantasies of family and love, she should
have stuck to the basics, and only said: "I want us to stay together, no matter
what." Instead:
"I'll apply to a few hospitals, find an internship somewhere. I hear some
places have voluntary donors for Vampires. Then we can work on us..."
"What about 'us' needs working?"
She should have said, "Nothing".
"I want to bring you to meet my parents, my family. Then, maybe, we could work
on our own?"
And then the shit hit the fan.
"What a stupid Little Bird you are..."
***** Sign Post *****
Chapter Notes
     "Nosferatu" has a major/minor inspiration for this chapter. There is
     a book in the movie, and there is a book here. I obviously changed
     things, but the whole "willing virgin/maid" thing came from the
     movie. Obviously, there are inspirations from other sources
     throughout this whole thing, too many to mention or recall at
     times... BUT Nosferatu is a main inspiration here. Which is funny
     since that movie was illegally made (whoops).
The sculpture of a Seven-Pointed Star was old, humble in its materials of wood
and iron, anonymous with no artist's name attached, and dull without jewels. It
was so far removed from what Sandor knew of Seven-Pointed Stars belonging to
the Faith of the Seven, that he did not know it for a religious icon at first,
and had stared at the old, worn, unassuming thing with a critical eye before
making the connection.
Realizing the star for what it was, he straightened up and nonchalantly walked
away, as if embarrassed that he had been enraptured by a religious symbol. Then
berating himself for acting the fool, he turned back to look once more, knowing
she would have liked it.
He currently roamed Dorne, as inhospitable a place as far as vampires were
concerned, but Sandor relished the pain, a physical agony to match the one in
his heart, if he were to admit to such a thing. It was currently the dead of
night, and that was saying much in a land where the sun was out most of the
day, and gone completely for only four hours. Sandor would have to retreat to a
shelter in roughly two hours, he surmised.
It was welcome, though. Aside from the pain, he rarely had to think since he
was asleep for twenty hours a day. Such was a blessing for a vampire who
recently fell, and fell hard, for an innocent human.
Four hours was long enough to allow him the pleasure of thinking about her, to
remember her heat, her skin, her smell, her taste! And just before self-
loathing would set in, or regret, he'd have to find a suitable sleeping place,
and forget about her for another twenty hours.
Assuming, of course, that his dreams were not filled with images of her:
'Sansa', he thought, 'Little Bird, fly away free...'
Their last night together, however many moons ago, he had wanted more of her
than ever. As he had pushed his fingers into her, felt her breathy moans, timed
her pants and gasps with relish, fed of her life blood from her breasts as
slowly as possible to prolong his own pleasure, and ease her pain; as he did
all that, he thought of what was next. Perhaps they would cuddle? Or he would
tell her another anecdote about his sister...
Satisfied with her mere presence alone, he stopped nipping her breasts, licking
away lingering blood drops and raising up over her, watching her ecstasy mount,
crest, and fade. The vampire had known eyes of lust, satisfaction, and desire;
but her bright blue eyes shone with something more, something he instinctively
knew he reflected, something that was dangerous in a way that only distance and
abstinence could cure. If she was lucky she could be saved; he never could be
redeemed.
Sandor loved her, and acknowledged it to himself at that point in time. But he
knew... he knew he had to let her go. And so long as her happiness and health
were assured, he could happily open his hands and allow the Little Bird her
freedom to fly, explore, live. He would not be the cause of her damnation; he
would, to the best of his ability, save her from hell.
Sansa had thought him angry, disgusted with her human ways and silly dreams.
Ah, but that was far from the truth. He had been so close to thinking those
very things, wanting as she had, for a future to be shared. Instead, he shunned
them, and her, harshly, so that Sansa could turn away from his coarseness.
And since he was already damned, he let himself think of her those four hours
the sun shied away from Dorne. He let himself wander the hot sands that burned
his body, and the memories that burned his soul, secure that one would
physically keep him from harming innocents, and the other would keep him from
forgetting who he is, and what he wants to be.
Digging out change from his pockets, he wandered to where the postcards were
displayed. He looked for one that caught his eye, one he hoped the receiver
might like, letting him contact her once in a while to somehow keep in touch,
even if she could not reply. Dorne was vast and vague; not even a nondescript
picture of an anonymous sculpture could tell her where he was. And he moved,
constantly, from sand village to sand village.
Not paying attention to his surroundings, he lays the correct change
(estimating for taxes) on the counter and turns away from the kiosk.
"The Seven thank you for your contribution, brother." A deep, calm voice
sounds.
Startled, he whips back to face the stall that he had thought carelessly left
open.
"Fear not, vampire," the broad shouldered monkish looking man spoke, "you are
in no danger here."
Taking no chances, Sandor stalks closer, taking in the fact that he cannot
smell the man, nor hear his heartbeat, til he is actually within the small
confines of the kiosk. Grabbing the holy man's neckline and pulling him close,
taking a whiff of the very much alive man, Sandor snarls, "How?"
The man has the audacity to chuckle, raising his hands in surrender as Sandor
shakes him in impatience, finally answering, "I used to be a slayer, vampire. I
know your kind: how to detect, hunt, and defend myself. This is but a prayer of
concealment that shrouds this small box from your awareness." He gestures
amicably around him, "The Smith is strong within these humble walls."
Growling, Sandor shoves the elder man back into his chair, "And why have you
not taken the chance, and be done with it?"
Straightening his plain brown robes, the holy man turns a reproachful glance
upon Sandor, "It is not every day a demon of the night pays for trivial
things... My poor robes would thank you if you repaid my kindness with a
gentler approach."
Sandor huffs, turns and makes to stride away. Words stall him, "And do you pray
to the Stranger to die, vampire, that you question why I do not slay you? That
you live, almost quaintly, within the most dangerous country for your kind?"
"Stop calling me 'vampire.'" Sandor demands, a vision of Sansa telling him time
and again that he is still a man floating through his mind. "My name," Sandor
snarls, turning back to the monk "is Sandor!"
Contritely, the holy man nods, "I did not know, or else I would have used it."
He stares into Sandor's eyes, "They call me 'Elder Brother', and I help the
Septons in the humble Sept dedicated to the 'Crone', most humble of the Seven
and patron of wanderers. Why do you wander here, Sandor?"
"None. Of your. Business." And Sandor moves to walk away again.
"Whom do you send postcards to?"
No answer.
Fading to a whisper behind him, "Your soul can be saved, vampire!"
In a blink, the neck is in vice like grip. "And what would you know, brother?"
Sandor snarls, "Five hundred plus years, I have wandered this gods forsaken
world, and not once have I received salvation, or help, or a fucking answer to
any of my god damned questions! So who the fuck! Do you think you are?!"
The Elder Brother just takes it all, not even bothering to fight against the
angry vampire, knowing, despite his relative youth of sixty years, that Sandor
is still a soul crying out in the dark. Calmly, he stares into Sandor's eyes,
willing the sad creature who once was a man to find the courage to believe in
something greater. "I know enough." He finally spoke, rasping through the near
choke hold he is in, "I know my wife and child were killed by one such as you."
The grip on him loosens, and he can speak clearer, "I know vengeance is a poor
cause to live for. I know answers are hard to come by and even harder to hear.
"But I think you already have an answer of some kind, don't you? You spoke
false when you said you had nothing from the gods." He nods his head towards
the vampire's other hand, "Who is the postcard for?"
Sandor releases the Elder Brother, gingerly grasping the slim paper as if it
were something more than that. "A friend." he finally admits, not sure why he
does so, but the holy man had unsettled him enough, more than thought possible,
that he felt the man worthy of answers.
"Is this friend another vampire?" The Elder Brother gently queries.
Still staring at the card, Sandor replies, "No, human, a girl barely a woman."
Chuckling, earning himself another glare, the Elder Brother clasps Sandor's
shoulder. "That sounds like an interesting story in the making. Come, I have
drink we can share." Thus saying, he gestures Sandor to follow him into holy
ground. Sandor hesitates, before feeling a protective aura surround him by the
Elder Brother's quick prayer, this time against the gods' wrath.
"I left her," Sandor spoke, near the end of his life's tale he shared with the
Elder Brother, "I could not give her children; I could not bear the thought of
her married to another, so I ... left." He contemplates the postcard still in
his hand, her name and address written out, "I thought the memories of her
would be enough, such as memories of my brother lingering throughout the
centuries. They only haunt me, make me feel guilt, and disgust. What am I, to a
pure woman? How dare I think for one moment of my worthiness?"
The small kitchen that vampire and man sat in was quiet. Most nights in Dorne
were quiet, but for Sandor, venting his emotions, it was an accepting quiet, an
unobtrusive, understanding, please-take-your-time quiet. The Elder Brother had
opened a bottle of dark red wine, and Sandor, accepting, thought it close in
taste to an elderly male that he enjoyed it enough. It would not sustain him,
but somehow, the act of drinking together opened him to the strange holy man
seated across from him.
"It was her fault for the longest time. She wanted children, a future, for me
to meet her parents: all the things I could not give. But it was I who
ingrained myself into her life... I was always near, asking for her help, never
saying 'no' to her... it's my own fault for feeding into her own fantasies as
much as feeding my own.
"But it can never happen. I am a killer, and I relish in it." He pauses, looks
towards the brother, finding only an open face. And then Sandor tries to
explain his nature, as if defending himself. "It is only natural for vampires;
it's what keeps us alive, and what swells our numbers. What animal doesn't do
the same?
"It's different only that we used to be something more, something alive... We
try to keep our human roots, we try to kill sparingly, or judgmentally, or of
animals. Do you know how ridiculous that is? You wouldn't infuse a dying man
with horse's blood, would you? No! It's not compatible. Human blood only..." He
mockingly saluted with the dry Dornish wine, taking a sip before continuing.
"We try to remember that which made us happy, or sad: either one. We try to
make attachments, to have our soul safe for heaven, but fail. We get so hungry,
we just want to live." He gestures off to a fictional distance, "There's a
person over there, ripe, sweet smelling, the richest waft of life just waiting
to be eaten. I'll only take a little; a man can give up a pint of blood without
serious injury.
"I'll only drink a pint. Gods! It tastes so good! I haven't had anything to eat
for DAYS! And before we know it, the human is dead.
"I'll do better next time. Then the next. Soon, I leave a trail of broken
bodies behind. I only have the consolation that they were criminals.
"Then the severity of the crime lessens and lessens as my hunger increases and
increases. Then I remember, I'll live forever, and these poor blood sacks will
die eventually. It's only natural for me to kill. Who knows what that sad
sonofabitch would have done with his sorry life? Mayhap nothing, mayhap
everything; I don't know and it's not my job to know! If Mother Nature did not
want me to survive, why did she give me urges to live, desires to eat, lusts
for blood? I shouldn't have to worry about my next meal, so I slowly think
about just grabbing the next meal, innocent or not, and devouring.
"The slow descent to depravity, Brother," Sandor spoke, defeated, "I've
described it in less than five minutes, but it takes more than five hundred
years. Do you not see how the thought of Gregor was not enough, was never
enough?"
A moment of silence follows that sad tale, before a flicker of hope shines
within Sandor's eyes.
"But Sansa; Gods, she is enough to make me want to starve to death, and enjoy
it. If there was physically no way of me being around her, I could live
thousands of years on her memory alone, honoring her. But... she's alive: so
close. There is nothing stopping me from traveling to her... claiming her,
keeping her, and loving her till death. Perhaps beyond that, too." He put his
head in his hands, hope dispelling, "Gods, why can't this new temptation leave
me!?"
The Elder Brother put a hand on Sandor's hand, "Perhaps it is not temptation
that pulls you to her, but a destiny? Perhaps you and her are meant to be
together, that your souls are drawn to each other?"
"The fuck, brother?" Sandor incredulously asked, looking up to meet the man's
eyes, "I have no soul. You know this!"
The Elder Brother chuckles, standing up. "Follow me," he says, making his way
around the kitchenette and out the door, "I have something I want to show you.
I wanted to hear your story to be sure, but the moment I saw you I knew: come,
there is an ancient text that has answers to your dilemma."
Sandor followed the Elder Brother through the modest halls of the small Sept,
eventually coming into a small, dusty, but well maintained library. He looks
over the tomes, recognizing various editions and versions of the Seven Pointed
Star, and noticing some not-so-religious tomes, most having to deal with the
occult. Behind him, he can hear the Elder Brother shuffling around, lighting
candelabras and dusting some shelves, muttering titles and noting that they
were not what he wanted.
"Ah-ha!" He finally shouts, "I have found it!" He dusts the tome gently,
revealing a thick text of red velvet binding and silver lettering, titled:
"True Blood". It's author, Van Helsing. "I have read this many times during my
years as a vampire hunter, and many times since I have retired. Not many
vampire hunters read this book, for Van Helsing writes about saving the
Vampire, instead of slaying." He looks to Sandor, "It was the last book he ever
wrote, and the only one of his the Faith of the Seven bans."
Sandor snorts, "Then why is it here?"
The Elder Brother smiles enigmatically, "Because I am in charge of the
library." He lays the tome on the tiny desk within the room, bringing the
candles closer. "As I have said, I have read it many times. I have not always
agreed with it, nor understood at first, but as I reach the twilight of my
life, it continues to teach me new things. Ah!" he exclaims, pointing to a
seemingly random page, "Here it is. I could tell you what I know to be true
about vampires, and their souls, but you would not believe me unless I showed
you the source, and so here we are." He turns the book around so Sandor can
read, but he continues to explain what he knows to Sandor.
"Basically, there are only a few ways a vampire can regain their souls, as
described in overabundance in the book. I will give you the cliff notes
version. You have found one such redeeming way quite by accident.
"The first is self-destruction. While humans are damned if they commit suicide,
vampires are reclaimed by the Seven if they do so, and do so willingly and with
remorse in their thoughts.
"Another is sacrifice, which is an admiral deed whether dead or alive. If a
vampire willingly destroys, or detrimentally harms, his or herself for the
greater benefit of another, preferably mortal, they gain their soul again, just
in time for the Seven to reclaim them.
"By now you recognize a theme: accepting True Death. However, there is one
known way for a vampire to regain its soul, and live. And that is to gain the
love of a willing mortal." He pauses, looks at the book upside-down, then
points to a passage no longer then three lines long:
"There is a legend among the vampyre lore that a willing virgin can bring about
a vampyre's destruction, or redemption. A willingly sacrificial virginal man or
woman can not only be the means to destroy a vampyre, as most successfully done
against the monster named 'Nosferatu', but willing virgins can also save those
creatures of the night. A vampyre cannot overpower a pure human, cannot deny a
pure human's power, and can easily be slain. On the other hand, should a
vampyre gain a pure ally, or pure lover, they may rejoice with gladness, for
the Seven knows of their worthiness, and rejoins husk with holy essence."
Sandor looked up to the Elder Brother, brows furrowed, not quite believing what
he read.
"You can see why it is an unpopular book," the Elder Brother commented, "who
wants to read about saving vampires? But yes, that is what makes up the
philosophy of the book as a whole: saving 'true' vampires, those of worthy
blood, 'True Blood'. Terrible title, I know, but there you have it. Van Helsing
spends pages on the virtues of those vampires he has actually met that had been
good, if only in the last few years of his life, unfortunately. But being the
definitive authority of monsters and mystical creatures, we know Van Helsing is
not making fantasy when he says those few undead friends have reclaimed their
souls."
Sandor looked back down at the book, mind racing a mile a minute, not daring to
hope, to believe, to trust the word of this brother, and of this most famous
vampire hunter of all. He had never heard of Van Helsing changing his tune
about monsters, until now. But how could he doubt it? He read Van Helsing's
other works, for pure spite, and he knew the man's words, his manner. This was
his writing, his style, and the stupid title... it all fit.
"So you think," he spoke towards the book, not daring to look at the Elder
Brother, "That Sansa can help me regain my soul?"
"I think she has already helped you halfway. The book mentions 'true
friendships' as a worthy way. And why I believe you are so drawn to be in her
presence again."
"Bullshit." Sandor states, "It couldn't be so easy. I can't give her anything
she wants. She won't always be around. This" and he thumped the book, causing
the librarian monk to wince, "is bullshit."
Sighing, the Elder Brother wipes at his brow, "I did not say I, nor the book,
would have all the answers, Sandor." He gather's the book, closing it and
protecting it from further harm. "As with anything in life, nothing comes
easily. You know this, I know this, and this book knows this. This isn't the
'be all end all' of your problems. It is just a sign post, to show you that you
are already on your way to redemption, if you just accept what Sansa can do for
you, and stop being afraid of harming her.
"It won't be easy, my friend. Any road to redemption will be long, perilous,
and full of twists and temptations. But it will go easier if you stop believing
that you are no good for Sansa, that you have nothing to offer her, that your
short time with her is worthless. I don't know what it is worth, Sandor, but it
is worth examining, at least."
Silence fills the library again, a fitting tune to the staring contest that
arose between the skeptic and the teacher. Eventually sighing, the Elder
Brother smiled, knowing it was not he that could convince the vampire, but
circumstance and experience. He looked away first, confirming the dawn that was
mere minutes away.
"Come," he gestured towards Sandor, "let us get you underground for the day."
***** You Are My Sunshine *****
"No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and how dear to his
heart and eye the morning can be." -Johnathan Harker: Dracula.
Lightning flashed through the darkness, and a millisecond later, thunder
boomed. The patter of rain quickened, became louder, and rivaled the thunder in
sound. The vampire, used to walking silently and deadly, was further doused by
Mother Nature's cacophony. Only his shadow, tall and looming, is known to the
world in brief intervals.
His clothing is plastered to him, making a clammy body that much more
uncomfortable, and his hair matted to his face, leading tiny rivers of
rainwater to trail all along his face. Minuscule lakes formed and flooded upon
his scars, while the man tilted his head up, staring at the window that
sheltered the only happiness he had ever known the last few hundred years.
It had been years since he's seen her bright visage, and the turmoil in his
heart and mind rivaled that which physically drenched him. The gloom that
appeared the further he distanced himself from her had started out small; a
depressing mist that hung around him while he wandered the slums of random
cities, feeding when he needed, fighting his brother's injustice in the only
way he knew how, replacing that monster with the untold thousands of thieves,
perverts, murderers, rapists, drug lords, and so on that he wiped away from
existence.
Then his anger, his fear, his sorrow, multiplied month by month, growing worse
with every moment he was not near her. Till his very reason for living, to say
nothing of eating seemed buried in the torrent of pain. He became gaunt, just
this side of the living dead, one step away from the True Death himself.
The soulless wanderer came and went, from city to city, the words of the
Dornish brother and his thrice cursed book haunting him no matter how far he
traveled, no matter how starved he became that he couldn't act, let alone
think. Eventually, the powerful words would not only taunt him like an ever
present whisper on the wind, but guided his unconscious actions, tugged his
instincts towards that which his rational mind, now numb, would never have
allowed. He would never believe in otherworldly fates and shit spewed by well-
meaning men and their books of convenient facts, but he could believe that her
power over him was enough to pull on his center of gravity, like the true sun's
pull on a despondent, cold, lifeless chunk of rock floating aimlessly through
space.
He had gravitated closer, unknowingly traveling north and east; his numb mind
distracted and centered around one idea: "Let me cease to feel. Let me
cease..."
It was up to his body, suffering though it was, to take charge; while the man
wallowed in self-pity, little realizing where he was going, instinct moved one
foot in front of the other. There was little chance of decaying: of choosing a
local dumpster, slumping next to it, and perishing; instincts would not allow
such. And should a Vampire Slayer come upon him, his fangs and his fists would
defend of their own accord. All the while, Sandor watched with dispassionate
eyes all that happened around him, and waited listlessly for the moment when it
would all... cease.
Now he walked through reviving waters, it sluicing away his sluggish fog, and
he knew where he was. Instinct drew him forward, his mind still too weak to
decry that he would harm her. A door opened before him, and the rain water
followed, leaving puddles on imitation Bravosi carpeting, his boots squelching
loudly in the nearly silent corridor of an apartment complex, his stomach
fluttering with butterflies, his mind... blissfully awakening yet still heeding
the call of nature: a mother that always knew best.
And then, she is holding him: arms wrapping around him, warmth suffusing him as
he holds on to her for literal life. When he had knocked on her door, he
doesn't recall, if he spoke to her, he can't remember; he falls to his knees,
bowed over against her stomach, and silently begs her, his goddess, to... he
does not know, but he begs her.
She smells heavenly, she smells different. Traces of a hospital, a dog, a
flowery perfume... new things in her life that have replaced the vampire, as
had once thought they should. Bitterness inflames him, and he buries his head
further in her stomach, crying anew. She had once had an overwhelming smell of
dust and books and learning; he had missed so much of her life now, and with
little time afforded to live, it was unacceptable that he had ignored her.
He had not known the sacrifice it was to release her from him, and though he
thought his absence was the right thing to do, it was wrong, all wrong. It was
wrong that she lived alone, by herself, without even a roommate to keep her
company. It was wrong that her only companion for most evenings was a mongrel,
a show or book, and a pint of ice cream. It was wrong that there were shadows
underneath her young eyes that should instead be vibrant with joy; her skin
calloused with hard work, her frame just living, but not... living!
As much as his practical mind said it was wistful thinking that it was solely
his fault that, in leaving, made her a woman buried in work so to forget what
is was to be happy, the fanciful part of his mind knew it for true: it had been
wrong for him to leave, and he held the key to revive her, as much as himself.
She sits in an armchair, and he lays his head on her lap, grabbing at her
thighs like a lifeline, hunching down and becoming a pitiful creature that has
crawled in from the dark, begging for something he has no right to ask for,
trying to remember why he wants to live, and what the fuck there was to live
for. Something no holy man could give the vampire, but could hint at; her pure
and willing soul is the answer, had always been the answer, and he reached the
point where he could deny the truth no longer.
She tilts his head up, fingers warm and gentle, and kisses his lips chastely.
His tears subside, calmness suffuses him again, and he sighs. When she releases
his lips, he is not afraid for her damnation, and he knows neither is she when
she cradles his head close to her breasts. He can tell she has started to
shiver against his wet and cold body, but still she is warmer than he is, and
he greedily holds on.
Feminine arms rub his back, up and down, up and down, till he feels drowsy. She
shifts, and the smell of her neck becomes powerful, entrancing. He rubs his
nose against her chest, clavicle, and neck, till his mouth is right over her
pulse point. She hums, and her offer of blood stills his mind again. Everything
slows down. A minute or two passes, while they stay locked in the moment
between offering and taking; it is a moment he cherishes, a moment in time,
where her whole trust and love is given to him, and he wants to appreciate it
as if it were a physical thing: this wonderful moment in time.
Slowly, to savor and to control, he opens his mouth, scrapping fangs along
flesh, holding her tighter as she shivers some more. Again he stills, stilling
the raging starvation that has flared in the presence of her and begs to stuff
his fill. When he feels he can eat without being a glutton, he bites down,
hearing an involuntary whimper from her; involuntary, but an anchor between
them, between prey and hunter, between lovers. She is not a victim, she is not
food that is lower on the food chain: she is higher, a siren, but benevolent,
and gave godly food that fed his soul, not his body.
The first lap of blood on his tongue feels like liquid acceptance. The second
like love. His veins are physically filled, but with every drink of her blood,
he feels grateful, instead of just satiated; he never knew such a thing could
happen, that he could feel the bond that existed between hunter and willing
prey, and he abnormally feels everything about her, instead of himself. He
knows her thoughts, he knows her feelings, and he knows she would not give this
moment up for anything.
He knows when he has taken as much as he can without hurting her permanently,
and he stops immediately, without difficulty. He chastely kisses her neck, as a
human would, and then looks up to her in wonder. She has tears as well, but
smiles at him. She has him back, and never thought she would ever have seen him
again. She has had her own sorrow amongst the joys of life.
Grey eyes bore into blue oceans, knowing her happiness for a fulfilling job,
knowing how wonderful a NICU nurse she is. He tears up at how beautiful that
thought is, but grows sad again that she will never know motherhood; not from
him at least.
But the future is nothing compared to here and now, the power of appreciating
what one has for whatever amount of time overcoming him, so Sandor dismisses
the future. He reaches up to cup her cheek, and then she is holding on to him
for dear life now. They both kneel by the armchair now, and she sobs against
his chest, while he now rubs her back and tries to soothe her. He kisses her
temple, her cheek, and then her lips.
Still numb from their time apart, he neither knows nor cares what she had been
wearing, but all to soon she's not wearing anything, laying beneath his equally
naked self upon the floor between her various furniture, and holds on to him as
he thrusts into her.
THUMP-THUMP!
Her gasp of pain is but an echo in his mind, as he stills and looks at her in
shock. But not for her sake, he is ashamed to admit later on, but for his own.
No doubt she had felt pain, but Sandor had also felt a jolt, a tremor that ran
through his who body, head to toe. For the first time in centuries, he feels
warmth suffusing his body, and not from the blood he has siphoned from others,
but from his heart.
It had thumped, it had quickened, and it had swelled with amorous happiness:
for she had waited for him, and had still been pure. He can feel her
innocence's blood spilled upon his manhood, and can scent it as well. Dimly
Sandor is aware that Sansa is trying to catch her breath, getting used to his
girth and the newness of sex, moaning with the sensation of being filled to the
brim. Still in a state of shock, he brings his fingers to where their sexes
meet, and explores her canal. His thumb instinctively massages her button,
bringing her towards pleasure and helping her forget the pain, as Sandor's
other fingers found his original quarry and dip into her essence.
Soon enough he is licking a mix of her blood and juices off his fingers. If
possible, Sansa's face matches her hair in embarrassment, but she makes no move
to stop him or look away. Indeed, as he savors the sweetest blood he has ever
tasted, she shines forth with smiles through the blushes. Groaning in
appreciation of her sweet nectar, he gives a half thrust into her once more.
She gasps again, bringing his focus back solely towards her. He leans down to
kiss her, "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I did not mean to harm you."
She grins against his lips, bringing her arms around his neck, tonguing her
essence that he had unwittingly gave her a taste of as well. "You could never
hurt me." She replies, and after a few seconds of staring into each other's
eyes with an understanding, she shifts against him.
He feels her, the gift of empathy from earlier still hanging on; he knows of
her joy, gratitude, and thankfulness for him being back. He grinds slow,
reveling in her happiness, and just because he is there. He leaks tears at
feeling her worry, worrying that this is just another random visit, that she
better make the most of it, just as he had thought himself earlier.
Holding her face with one hand, his hand a frame to her utter beauty that has
not faded, they stare at each other, each rapt and still in wonder over finding
each other again. His other wraps around her waist and brings her impossibly
closer, chests mashing against each other wherein he could feel her heartbeat
thundering against him, overshadowing the storm that was slowly receding
outside.
Thus entwined as never before, embracing and accepting love that was never
truly acknowledged, overwhelmed by her scent, blood, and warmth, he buries his
head into her neck and his hips recede from hers. Slowly, he brings their cores
together again, the stroke languorous and filling. Just as he had lapped at her
blood earlier, he wanted to savor, and not be a glutton for his pleasure. She
moans into his ear, tightening her arms and walls even more so, causing the
vampire to revel in heat he hasn't felt in ages. Again, he recedes and again
another slow but sure stroke follows.
With every slow thrust, he promises himself, 'Never again, never again. I'll
not leave her.' "I'll not leave you, Little Bird." He says.
She gasps at his words. It had been a harsher thrust, but he knows it had been
what he said that had moved her. "Sandor..." She replies, and he feels what she
wants to say, but cannot utter over the rising pleasure that will not plateau,
every increasingly stronger stroke bringing her towards completion. Soon, his
thrusts become swift and strong, bringing her pleasure to crest over, toppling
her senses as she screams out rapturously.
And he follows. Grunting as she clamps on him tightly, groaning, and saying her
name like a prayer, "San... Sansa..." Till he finishes within her his own
pleasure, spurts of long dead cum coating her walls and mixing with her juices
and her blood; their joining more complete than ever before.
It was the best fuck he ever had, and yet with a sense that there was even
better! Never had it been like this, and he knows that that is what it is like
to gain pleasure from making love. It has always been about the blood, but this
once he not only pleased her with the act, but somehow, by some miracle, he
didn't need blood to feel ecstasy. He needed it, yes, to flow his veins and
stiffen his cock, but beyond the mechanics, he did not need to feed to feel
complete. He just needed her.
He held her even closer, sagging against her completely in elated release, both
hardly caring about rug burns or the cramped quarters between the sofa and
coffee table, both already making plans for another, softer, more exploratory,
joining, perhaps upon a bed. Sandor contemplates more on what the hell had just
happened; he would not trade it for the world, but he appreciates...
'Fucking Elder Brother had been right.'
The morning that follows dawns bright and clear, the storm's rage a thing of
the past. A golden haze filters through the curtains, slanting at a harsh
angle, and dust motes fly through, becoming brief sparkles that captured one's
gaze, should anyone have been awake. An hour or so after dawn, a ray of
brightness had traversed the young woman's abode, feeding her plants, shining
upon knickknacks, disturbing her pet dog from its own sleepiness, before
alighting upon the naked couple entwined on the floor.
***** Blessed *****
Chapter Notes
     I'm so sorry for how long it took to get back to this. I think as you
     read, you'll see why I had so much trouble writing this out (besides
     the lack of inspiration.) I had so many ideas on how to end it, that
     nothing cohesive seemed to form in my mind. Until now. I hope you
     enjoy it, besides it, hopefully, being a great ending to the story.
     Do I really need to warn anyone? I think anyone still reading by this
     point likes lemonade... but this IS rated "M", that is the final
     warning ;)
     And to make sure it is clear; this chapter takes place directly after
     the end of the previous chapter.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
"No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and how dear to his
heart and eye the morning can be." -Johnathan Harker: Dracula.
Seven_Hours_Later
Sandor stood outside on Sansa's apartment balcony, a grey terry cloth towel
around his waist, his washed hair dripping around his shoulders, beard
tolerably trimmed for the moment, and, content as a dragon, soaking the rays of
the sun. He held his hand before his face, watching as nothing happened,
pleased as punch that his pale skin, taught over corded muscle, was not
burning, was not crisping, nor even tingling in agony.
With the same hand, he reached and touched the scarred half of his face,
remembering the age old depressing thought that the sun was his enemy, but now
reveling that he is allowed in its presence once more. As he had not been in
over five hundred years. Almost as giddy as he had been as a child, a genuine
smile bloomed over his features, pulling pleasantly on the leathery scars.
Who knew such would be his rewards after accepting the affection of a willing
prey? He had only dreamed of a few years to enjoy of each other, and perhaps
embracing the sun in a true death once Sansa had gone before him. Who knew that
love, the truest between soul mates, was such a powerful force? One that erased
one's past, sins, and damnation? Certainly not he, he who did not even dare to
hope for such after running into the Elder Brother, even as the old man made
sweet suggestions...
But here he is, working on a tan.
He heard the balcony door swish open, but didn't turn away from the sun. As he
hoped she would, Sansa joined him, kissing between his shoulder blades before
placing her head there. Arms clothed in a fluffy grey robe wrapped around his
waist, her hands lightly scratching at his bare chest. He grabbed at them,
twining their fingers together. His content sigh echoed hers, and both stood in
the morning sunlight, not in any hurry to do anything.
Seven_Days_Later
Sandor held a blank postcard, from Torrhen's Square visitor center, in his
hands. He was seated in Sansa's tiny kitchenette, staring at her fridge with a
smirk on his features. Littered over her fridge were all the postcards he had
sent her (plus some her sister, Arya, sent as she traveled the globe as a
slayer). A casual viewer would not be able to tell what color the fridge is...
Sansa had commented that she would like to see the places he sent postcards
from. He promised her they would, even to the run down Sept in Dorne. Perhaps,
especially visiting there? In any event, as much as Sandor was loath to admit,
he had been wrong. Which meant the Elder Brother deserved to know; Sandor was
grateful to the man, though he would admit it only once. Hopefully the paper
trail would disappear...
He turns the image of the cobblestone square filled with colorful shops,
awnings, and diverse people shopping around, picking up a pen and writing
swiftly:
"I blame you for my sunburn. Thanks for nothing."
Hearing Sansa giggle behind him, he turned around to see her returned from
work, still in her nurse scrubs and with a bottle of aloe vera in her hands.
Leaning over his bare and sun burnt shoulder; she reads his note, a smile
permanent on her face, her long red hair brushing his skin. Not annoyed at her
snooping in the least, he reached for her chin, and gave her a kiss.
Seven_Weeks_Later
"Should have gotten a postcard from bloody Winterfell Castle." Sandor thought
as he stood in the ancient stone building's yard, being greeted by his
girlfriend's family. "Girlfriend? Bugger me, it's real..."
They had waited for an opportune time to present him to her parents, and what
better time than when her siblings and their families were there too? It was a
perfect situation when all six siblings were in town from their various lives
and jobs. If he was not five hundred years old, he might have cared a little
more about the very shitty situation he found himself in; but old age, and the
glow of happiness, his own and hers were something of which no imposing family
could diminish.
He forgot nearly everyone's name, but he mentally promised he would make the
effort to learn her family, from Sansa's father to her youngest niece. Her
father had shook his hand, stern of face and firm of shake; "You were the man
to rescue Sansa from Joffrey, all those years ago?" Sandor nodded. "Then I can
finally thank you. Welcome."
None mentioned his scars, or his age, or the fact that he was also the cause of
Sansa's loneliness and depression. He did not know if they knew he once was a
vampire or not. "Time for the turkey dinner!" Announced Mrs. Stark sometime
later, when he found himself seated beside Sansa's older brothers, cheering and
high-fiving over a football game as if it were a normal thing for an ex-vampire
to do. He was thankful that Sansa's family had been open enough to accept his
presence, to want to take the time, (all the natural time!), to learn his
flaws; for now all that mattered was the honest happiness the man brought to
Sansa.
Seven_Months_Later
Heat and humidity beat upon Sandor, sweat slicking his body, plain white tee-
shirt sticking to him because of it. The sun didn't help. Taking a moment, he
smiled up at the ball of fire as if to say, "Do your worst."
After ineffectively wiping his brow, he hefted the last box from the moving
truck, and made towards their, his and Sansa's, new home. It was not a "forever
home", as she described things, but it was definitely larger than her one
bedroom apartment she had been living in when he returned to her. As an added
bonus, it was closer to the hospital where she worked.
The place was a little boring with white walls, beige carpeting, and a distinct
cigarette smell the previous tenants left behind; however, he looked forward to
painting, ripping up the carpet for wooden flooring, setting a bar between the
kitchen and dining room... things he had been learning about at his new job
working in general handy-man shit. He loved it. He loved that their combined
efforts created this opportunity, this... home...
He had never had such before, and it is a hundred times better than being a
monster of the night. He loved honest work for honest rewards. Of course,
nothing would be worth it without Sansa to share it with. He hated his absence,
bemoaning lost time, but perhaps things happened as they needed too. Sansa kept
her job she was passionate about, the job that helped the girl find her calling
while he was gone; would she have found such independence and spark otherwise?
Who knew, and it was in the past, no longer able to affect them. Speaking of
Sansa...
"Here." She offered him a glass of iced water after he deposited the box in the
blessedly air conditioned living room. He smirked at her, purposely allowing
water to dribble down his chin, neck, and chest as he nearly drank the whole
contents. Her breathing deepened, as he hoped it would; breasts heaving
underneath her tank top, leaving her squirming in short shorts. Thank the Seven
for modern clothing; it could make any man a believer.
Stepping closer, she placed her hands on his chest, exploring the wet shirt
that highlighted his physique to her wandering eye. Licking her lips, she
looked up at him with "bedroom eyes", cheeks heated, and not from the
temperature.
He kissed her, nibbling her lips and savoring her flavor, once more thankful
his bites were not harmful anymore. Her moans in his mouth pushed his past
away, as they usually did: there was only them, now.
Hands found their way underneath shirts, exploring her softness, his hardness.
He palmed her breast, and she brought her hips to his; both groaned as spikes
of arousal flared. Her legs were around his waist; his legs moved them to their
bedroom. Hot kisses trailed her breasts, torso, licking her salty sweat and
smooth skin, blunt teeth biting and scrapping where his hands led, leaving
trails of bruises or scratches, but no blood; while her fingernails teased his
scalp and her moans floated to his ears.
She felt his hot hands explore her, his hot breath exciting her skin and
causing spikes of pleasure to lick at her core. When he finally explored her
canal, stretching, filling, completing; it was all she could do to remain
cognizant. His fingers, long, calloused and experienced, went deep and fast,
mouth kissing her clit. It was too much too fast; she died a little death.
She awoke, sated and lazy a few minutes later, to Sandor hovering besides her,
an ice cube being trailed between the valley of her breasts. It reminded her of
his undead days, when his iced hands had brought her to pleasure more than
once. Moaning, fast becoming ready for more, she raised her hands to bring his
head closer, finding her taste upon his lips.
He kept her attention on his kisses, but the ice cube did strange things to her
nerves, igniting them in a blazing trail. She was hot all over, except where
the ice glided over sensitive skin: dipping into her navel, stinging one
nipple, stinging the other, teasing her neck where he used to bite, and then
finally melting into nothingness over the long trail down to her bundle of
nerves. Despite its temperature, it had done nothing to cool her off, quite the
opposite actually.
Pulling at Sandor's shoulders, she guided him over her, between her legs; it
was almost a relief when his hot cock lay against her chilled vaginal lips, but
he didn't enter her right away. "Sansa," he whispered, "look at me." She did,
her breath hitching; he was beautiful, half in shadow, half in the afternoon
summer sunlight, a genuine smile on his usually smirking or blank face, and it
is for her, because of her. "I love you, Sansa." He said.
Tears stung even as she smiled, "And I love you."
He entered her slowly. Moans filled their new room, both relishing their
joining. She closed her eyes upon his second delicious thrust, scratching nails
along his chest. Wrapping her legs around his waist by his third, moving her
hips to meet his, she silently begged him to go faster.
He leaned closer, both sets of arms reaching around shoulders to grasp
lifelines. He sped up a bit, biting her neck out of habit, and she arched hard,
pleased with his actions. Grunting, he kissed her neck, one hand gliding down
her back, grasping her ass, the other tangling within her hair, pulling her
head around to kiss.
Scratches were made on his back, and he grunts into her mouth, going faster.
She holds on for dear life, and their kisses become merely mouths open to one
another, moans joining the sounds of their bodies melding together.
Sandor grits his teeth, pounding even faster, going towards his finish. Then
Sansa's neck arches beautifully, throat exposed and releasing her joyous
rapture. Her sheath constricts his cock, finishing him, milking his essence,
causing the man to close his eyes in release.
Long seconds later, he opens his eyes to Sansa beneath him, the sunset
burnishing her hair a fiery red halo, her skin flushed and utterly beautiful in
her blissful happiness. Flopping down by her side, he chastely kisses her,
pulling her pliant body towards his as they lowered eyelids in an impromptu
nap.
Awakening from their afternoon nap, Sansa found herself in Sandor's arms, and
him staring at her. She smiled, and he mirrored her. He kissed her nose,
squeezing her closer.
"Marry me." He whispered.
Eyes misting, she replied: "Yes."
Seven_Years_Later
Two giggling red haired children played upon a beach; the younger toddler,
barely able to walk, chasing after his older sister.
"They grow so fast..." murmured a pregnant red head. The man she was sitting
against, resting upon his sturdy chest, hummed in a non-committal way. "Soon
our girl will be entering Kindergarten..."
A tan hand, strong and already changed with scars that he was never able to
receive as a vampire, cupped her jaw, his thumb wiping at errant tears from her
face. "Damn hormonal woman; next thing I know, you'll never want the new baby
to be born, to stay within you forever."
Sansa giggled, looking at her husband's tanned face and grabbing at his hand,
"I already think that..."
Sandor sighed as if he suffered from her strange ways, but his smirk belied his
mirth. "Just think of the next baby I'll put in you once the new one is out."
And he tickled her sides to further tease her.
Shrieking with laughter, she slapped him, "Stop! Stop! Unless you want the
birth here, on the beach, in Dorne, miles away from home!" She laughed some
more, hearing his baritone chuckles joining her. When they had calmed down,
they shared a look of contentment. New lines graced both their faces, showing
the time and laughter that blessed their lives; they stared at each other for
long moments, relishing the gift.
Chapter End Notes
     DVD Extra: I don't think I ever smiled so much writing a chapter in
     my life...
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