GoT - A Wolf and a Mockingbird (Miss Tris x Shadows)

[Miss Tris]

(The following thread is based on the Game of Thrones television series. Our first two scenes are written adaptions as seen in Season 7, Episode 1 and Season 6, Episode 10, respectively.)

Bright blue eyes stared off into the courtyard, taking only a mild interest in the action that unfolded before them. The steady clashes of steel and murmur of conversations and the general noise of traffic gave Sansa an odd sense of clarity. She would stand out here, upon the second-story wooden walkway that overlooked the grounds, lost to her thoughts for hours at a time. So it had been when she was a girl in Winterfell, and so it was again now that she had returned as an adult. Her sight remained focused on the woman who had sworn to serve her, Brienne of Tarth, and her squire, Podrick. Their training exercises served as a constant reminder to the squire that he often left himself open to attacks, which Brienne would exploit. She'd chide him with a "no" and they’d reset and start again. Over and over. Sansa’s mind was elsewhere, carefully weighing some particular concerns, when her attention was pulled back to her sight by the appearance of a wildling. Tormund was approaching Brienne directly, a brow lifted and a heart-on-the-sleeve look of pure admiration upon his rugged face. The tall blonde woman caught sight of the man and his obvious expression just as an engagement between her and Podrick concluded. Perhaps assuming they were still sparring at the previous pace, the squire took the opportunity of Brienne’s distraction to land a clean shot on her breastplate. In retribution he received a punch to the stomach, followed by being thrown in to a snowbank.

“I heard she beat the Hound in single combat,” Petyr spoke as he approached Sansa on the elevated walkway. The red-head nearly looked at him but purposefully refrained from showing an interest in his company. “She is a very impressive woman,” he continued as he settled by her side.

“What do you want, Lord Baelish?” she asked in a unique combination of bored and annoyed.

“I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe.”

“I am safe. I’m at home, surrounded by friends.” Sansa cast a glance in Petyr’s direction as she spoke the latter part. She had believed Petyr to be her friend, once upon a time; she struggled, now, to convince herself it was still true. “I have Brienne to protect me from anyone that would harm me,” she continued, her gaze returning to the courtyard beneath. Tormund was speaking with Brienne; Sansa couldn’t hear what was being said between them, of course, but she need only witness the way the man looked at the lady to know that he was absolutely infatuated.

Petyr shifted his position, leaning the middle of his back against the railing. Sansa could more easily make eye contact with him now, her gaze only needing to shift a few degrees to look the man directly in the face. Still, the young woman’s eyes remained upon Brienne and Tormund. It appeared that the lady had enough of conversing with the wildling, walking away from him with a shake of her head. She approached the weapon rack and exchanged her training equipment.

“What about happy?” Petyr asked. A pause existed between them, Sansa having no answer to offer. The quiet persisted long enough for Brienne to finish swapping her gear and start an approach to the stairs that would bring her directly to Sansa. “Why aren’t you happy?” Petyr pressed. “What do you want that you do not have?”

“At the moment: peace and quiet.” Sansa did not look at Petyr as she delivered the stab, no doubt adding markedly to the insult. Moments later the ascending steps of Brienne could be heard, causing for both Sansa and Petyr to look in her direction.

Her appearance suited nicely to dismiss Petyr. As if sensing her intentions, Lord Baelish’s lips parted to speak. “No need to seize the last word, Lord Baelish,” Sansa cut him off. “I will assume it was something clever.”

Sansa continued to purposefully deny Petyr her direct attention, instead turning fully to face Brienne. The latter looked upon the two expectantly.

“My lady,” Petyr spoke cordially to Brienne. He shifted his gaze back to Sansa, offering a softer version of the courtesy. “My lady.” His sight lingered upon the red-haired woman, a short pause – or hesitance, perhaps – proceeding his exit.

Brienne and Sansa alike remained quiet for several moments. Once Lord Baelish was out of earshot Brienne asked, “Why is he still here?”

Sansa gave a soft sigh. “We need his men. Without the Vale, Ramsay Bolton would still hold this castle.” She paused a moment. “Littlefinger saved us.”

Brienne could only nod in agreement, even if she did so without any enthusiasm. She would concede the point that Lord Baelish’s presence (or at least that of his men) had turned around the Battle of the Bastards. Still. She held no love for the man and she did not trust him. “He wants something,” she observed as they watched Litterfinger take his leave through the courtyard.

“I know exactly what he wants.”

=====

He had told her, after all. Not but a day previous he had confessed to her in the godswood, told her everything that he desired.

“Every time I am faced with a decision I close my eyes and see the same picture. Whenever I consider an action, I ask myself: will this action help to make this picture a reality?” He closed the distance between them, Petyr’s gaze holding Sansa’s with an intensity from which she couldn’t escape. “Pull it out of my mind and into the world? …And I only act if the answer is yes.” He paused for the span of a breath. “A picture of me, on the Iron Throne,” he spoke the last four words in a low tone, forcing the secret of his ultimate ambition past his lips for the first – and perhaps only – time, “…and you by my side.”

Sansa soaked in his words. She knew that Petyr was a dangerous man; although she knew not the half of what he had done or caused to happen, still the glimpse of what she had seen was enough to be terrifying.

She wasn’t frightened, however.

He leaned in to kiss her and Sansa put out a hand to hold him back. “It’s a pretty picture,” she remarked without emotion. She moved to step past Petyr, intent on taking her leave without any further discussion.

But Petyr was famous for getting the last word. When Sansa was a half a dozen paces away he called to her: “News of this battle will spread quickly through the Seven Kingdoms. I have declared for House Stark for all to hear.”

“You’ve declared for other houses before, Lord Baelish. It’s never stopped you from serving yourself.”

“The past is gone for good. We can sit here, mourning its departure; or we can prepare for the future. You, my love, are the future of House Stark.” A beat. “Who should the North rally behind? The trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, born here at Winterfell…or a motherless bastard born in the south?”

Sansa had halted for their conversation but she hadn’t bothered to turn around to face Petyr. And, after hearing what it was he had to say, she walked away without a response.

Jon was all that she had. Her mother was dead. Her father was dead. Robb was dead. Rickon was dead. Brienne claimed to have seen Arya, who was at the time a hostage of the Hound, but had lost tabs on her whilst at combat with her captor. It wasn’t a recent event and nothing was to be seen or heard from Arya since. She had learned that Bran hadn’t been murdered by Theon Greyjoy, after all, but whether or not he still survived…?

And then, later that night: Jon Snow was named King of the North.

Sansa approved but she showed only the stone expression her house was known for as the bannermen called out their allegiance for the newly named King of the North. Sansa’s sapphire eyes shifted to Lord Baelish. He was openly watching her, remaining quiet and calculating; Sansa could only imagine what sort of schemes might be manifesting in his mind.

=====
The young woman would have been content to keep ignoring Lord Baelish if he hadn’t posed such a threat; as it was she kept him at an arm’s length while trying to decide how it was that she could play his game. She could play not at all: order him executed for the crimes she knew of, have a certainty that was otherwise impossible to gain. Or…

“Summon Lord Baelish,” she spoke to a guard as she approached her chambers for the evening.

“Of course, Lady Stark.”

She continued on, through the threshold of Winterfell’s master chambers, soon after disappearing behind closed doors.

Quarter of an hour later, Lord Baelish answered the summon.

“Yes?” Sansa responded to the knock at the door.

The woman turned as she heard the hinges moan, her gaze settling on Petyr’s face as he took steps into her chamber. He spoke some courtesy or remarked of her call as he entered and shut the door behind him.

Sansa said nothing. She watched Lord Baelish in silence for several long moments before casting her gaze towards the space directly before her feet, then returning her eyes to Petyr. He followed the unspoken request and approached. His expression betrayed none of what he might expect or feel as he drew near to her, halting and patiently awaiting whatever it might be she had to say.

Sansa studied him.

Once she had thought Petyr would propose to her. Her sight fell upon his lips, lips she had felt on her own on more than one occasion. He had always been the one to kiss her; though she had kissed him in return she had yet to initiate. She had honestly believed that he loved her, had managed to justify to herself that it was okay to love him back. But, then…the proposal he had spoken of hadn’t been for Petyr Baelish. It had been for Ramsay Bolton.

She hadn’t forgiven him for that. She wasn’t sure that she ever could. But she did know – for whatever mad reason – that she had some lingering attachment from their previous almost-relationship. The world was potentially coming to an end, the Night’s King and his countless army of undead on the march for the Wall… Fearing Petyr Baelish’s betrayal could be entirely moot. But in that moment – the one in which Sansa reached a hand to the side of Petyr’s face, her fingertips caressing up his cheek as her palm settled along his jawline – Sansa wasn’t counting on an end-of-days scenario. She had convinced herself that she could make him hers.

Sansa focused her sight on Petyr’s gray-green eyes. She slid her hand away from his face, her thumb brushing against his lower lip as it left him.

“Kneel.”

 

[Shadows]

“My apologies if I made you wait, my lady. I had some last minute affairs to finish up, but came as quickly as I could.” The voice of one Petyr Baelish called out in a cordial manner as he entered her chamber and took the liberty of closing the door behind him, as Littlefinger knew better then any just how careful one must be to an unwanted audience when it came to likely personal discussions.

When she said nothing, the man simply waited, which he was no stranger to doing in this long game which he’d played for so many years now. As he did so, however, the older male did try to get a read on the young Stark girl that he’d come to have genuine feelings toward, despite how shamefully he had used her to further his own goals in the past. For once, Lord Baelish was the one struggling to make heads of what Sansa was playing at, but still he obeyed her unspoken command to approach once it was given.

As she raised her hand, the older male had half expected her to slap him across the face, only to find those soft fingers instead stretching outward to stroke upon his cheek with surprising gentleness. There was little that would make Lord Baelish display even the smallest crack in his collected demeanor, but Sansa touch, especially after his past few attempts at closeness had been rebuked, was one of them. A light sharpening of his breath. A subtle dilation of his pupils. The way his head visibly struggled to not fully tilt itself into her hand as it explored his face. The hand of the one woman since her mother that had made Littlefinger feel anything close to what he felt at that very moment. How many times over the years had Petyr wished to feel Catelyn’s hand upon his face in such a manner? How long had he desired to feel Sansa’s own in its place?

When Sansa drew her fingers away, it took everything within Lord Baelish to refrain from tilting his body forward into her escaping touch in the hopes of prolonging it for an additional brief instance of time, though his lips did betray him in parting ever so slightly when her thumb brushed over them. Still, standing this close to the older male, it likely wouldn’t have been hard for a woman like Sansa, so clever now from dealing with a world that punished naivety and with an understanding of Littlefinger that few could grasp, to read his features for what he desired. No other woman would draw out such a subtle reaction from Lord Baelish. But Sansa? She, much like her mother before her, was something different.

As the order came for him to kneel, there was only the briefest of pauses before the man lowered himself to one knee, with a softly spoken, “As you wish, Lady Stark” flowing from his lips before doing so. Kneeling as she had requested, Petyr’s head was lowered toward her feet at first, as his eyes slowly closed and the inner workings of his mind pondered that question which he had shared with Sansa rather recently.

After days of trying to avoid his presence whenever his services weren’t needed, she had now summoned him into her chambers. It was the type of scenario that undoubtedly spoke to a rather basic desire within most men, with Littlefinger being not an exception when it came to this particular young woman. But he was not a man solely ruled by his… hungers. No, Lord Baelish was a smarter man then that. Thus, it wasn’t simply an undeniable desire for Sansa Stark that would make the man obedient to whatever she had summoned him for. It was the fact that complying with whatever game she might have in mind could help to heal the rift between them. The rift that kept her away from what he saw as her rightful place at his side.

Opening his eyes and raising them upward toward his lady, Petyr felt his heart quicken just a touch at the sight of her gazing down at the man on bent knee before her. It wasn’t his first time kneeling before a lady of nobility, but unlike those other occasions, where it was purely for the benefit of furthering his own agenda, there was an unexpected flush of excitement at having the daughter of Catelyn Stark looking down upon him like so. Still, the older man maintained much of that normally hard to read demeanor of his, as he looked to Sansa and inquired, “What can I do for you, my lady?” A simple and expected question. Yet one spoken with the faintest hint of eagerness to be read within its tone at finding out what might be the answer.

 

[Miss Tris]

"You belong to me," Sansa spoke evenly. Her tone was hardened with the natural command of a Stark, her expression serious and cold. "I would ask you to swear your loyalty, Lord Baelish, but we both know that your promises are hollow."

She watched him for several moments, her sapphire eyes not quite leering but carrying a severity that warned Littlefinger against a response. After a moment she took several steps, her paces carrying her towards Petyr's side, her sight shifting to their surroundings.

"You want to refute it, I can tell. You want to tell me that you love me, swear that you'd never betray me." A few more steps, placing her behind him. "Whisper me the same sweet nothings that you shared with Aunt Lysa."

Sansa halted. It pained her to speak of Lysa, for many reasons. Worst of all was the way that she had dishonored her aunt's memory, when she had publicly claimed to have witnessed the woman's suicide - when, in fact, Lysa had been murdered. By Littlefinger. Sansa had watched him push his wife through the Moon Door, listened as her aunt screamed in terror and heartbreak as she fell to her death. Or perhaps it was worse, still, that Sansa felt nothing in that moment. She didn't know her aunt, hadn't met the woman until days before her death, and had no attachment to her. She was almost relieved to see the woman plummet, having just moments before been the one being held at the edge of the Moon Door, Lysa threatening to throw her through. But...Lysa had her reasons to act as she did. Sansa couldn't blame her entirely. Her aunt had witnessed Petyr and Sansa's first kiss, had reacted as any jealous lover would.

"The difference is that I won't believe you," she spoke as she continued her progress, not caring to allow her mind to dwell too long on the pitfall that was the memory of her time at the Eyrie. After several moments she completed her circular pathing, bringing herself once again in front of Petyr. Sansa's gaze fell onto his. "You're going to have to show me your devotion."

"Are you prepared to prove yourself?"

 

[Shadows]

His eyes nearly lowered as Sansa made clear how aware she was of what little his word of loyalty was worth to her or anybody else. Over the years, Littlefinger had conspired with, used and discarded countless people on every side of the field in the hopes of clawing his way one step closer to his end goal. It was a fact that Sansa had been made painfully aware of in more ways then one since the day he’d rescued her from the Lannister’s, only for her ‘savior’ to play her like a pawn when it suited him best. Deep down, it may be one of the few acts of cruelty that the man held any regret over, but it was a cruelty which he’d willfully performed nonetheless.

The older male held his tongue at her leering gaze, while at the same time struggling to find the words that might best satisfy her accusation when given the opportunity. This allowed Sansa ample opportunity to further call him out as his eyes followed her until she moved behind his kneeling form. And not just for what he’d done to her, but to Lysa, her aunt and the previous woman that he’d swore his love, loyalty and devotion toward. A woman that Lord Baelish had quite literally thrown away after what little usefulness she had left had become overshadowed by the burden of continuing to satisfy her emotional needs. An act which the man held little regret toward, save for the mistrust it helped to brew within the young woman pacing with intent around the room.

When she returned to standing before him, the older male could only gaze upward in return at this lovely, crafty young woman. As she completed saying her piece, Littlefinger knew that his options were few, with none of them likely to result in any better of a turn out for himself then to comply with everything she wished. It wasn’t the first time that Lord Baelish had needed to do bend to another’s will to achieve his own goals, but this was perhaps the first time it happened while faced with somebody so familiar with how he worked or who had something he desired beyond his quest for power.

“My lady.” The man finally spoke when allowed, as a short pause followed while he gathered his words, before continuing, “I know that my actions have hurt you many times over in the past. Injuries for which, I realize, no simple apology could ever hope to fully amend. But you must believe me, that what I feel for you is far different from what I felt for any other.”

There was truth to that. What he’d come to feel for Sansa was far different from what there was with Lysa and even different from what he’d genuinely felt for her mother. Sansa had seen sides of Petyr that Catelyn had never witnessed or could dare to imagine, even after she began to become aware of his true self during her final days. There was something oddly liberating about having a person in his life that knew him this well, even if it made controlling or manipulating them far more difficult then he was used to dealing with.

Those eyes stared upward into Sansa’s own from his lowered position, as that silver tongue relented to the situation at hand, with Lord Baelish swearing to her, “Whatever it is that you require of me. Whatever it takes to prove to you both my loyalty and my devotion. You need only speak it and it shall be done.” While it was hard to say how much of what he said was truthful and how much was him playing the part, there was truth, at least, in his conviction to doing what it took to regain Sansa’s favor.

 

[Miss Tris]

Sansa didn't respond to his words. After a moment of lingering quiet she bent forward, placing fingertips upon Lord Baelish's sigil. She studied the mockingbird, her gaze tracing the graceful lines of the creatire's wings and tailfeathers. The symbol fit Petyr not at all. The mockingbird sang only to please others: it was a bringer of joy and was universally known as harmless. Undoubtedly Lord Baelish had chosen his personal sigil for just that purpose, to conceal what he really was. It had worked, for awhile at least, and now Sansa had to wonder how many people knew that the titan (House Baelish's actual sigil) was not a mockingbird at all.

Her eyes returned to Petyr's as she moved her free hand to his collar, diligently removing the aforementioned sigil. She stood erect, her form regal and proud, maintaining unwavering eye contact with the man kneeled before her.

She fastened the pin to her collar. Her gaze left Petyr only long enough to glance down at the sigil affixed above her breast; when her eyes found his again she smiled softly, almost wickedly.

Again, she offered no words. There were terms, of course, that would preface a union of House Stark and Baelish; but Sansa had no want to discuss the details at present. She simply wanted Petyr to know how far she was willing to play their game. To show him a picture he might see fit to pull into reality.

Sansa needed to learn to play the game as well as he did. Outside of whatever there was between them, whether or not she could truly out-maneuver Lord Baelish, Sansa had an enemy in Cersei Lannister and the Queen was unmatched in her ability to scheme and destroy. Unmatched by all except Littlefinger. Assuming the winter didn't bring an end to them all, Lord Baelish could prove a useful ally. So long as it remained in his best interest to serve House Stark...

"Stand."

They were of similar height so Sansa easily continued to stare directly into his eyes. Was Petyr capable of love? She wondered. The man owned brothels, and as to whether or not he indulged himself or just used the tastes of his patrons for blackmail fodder, Sansa couldn't say, but she felt comfortable assuming he wasn't one to be so easily won over by pleasures of the flesh. Sex didn't equal love: a lesson Sansa knew all too well.

She reached for his face once again, her fingers brushing over his cheek before trailing back and along the silver streak of hair at his temple. She leaned forward, her lips coming teasingly close to his, halting just outside of making contact.

Her heart pounded in her chest. A heated breath escaped her lips.

She drew back.

"Undress," she spoke, watching him expectantly.

 

[Shadows]

The man’s eyes did not waver when she moved her hand to remove his sigil, but there was a fairly clear hint of excitement within that gaze at having her hand placed upon him in any such manner. They did break away to follow in seeing where she placed the object, however, with Petyr silently wishing she had at least instructed him to place it upon her chest like so. But the older male kept hold of his tongue and he rose, upon his lady’s word, without question or hesitation to his feet before her. He watched, tried to study, reading only bits and pieces of what she might have on her mind, yet coming up short on figuring out the full picture of her own game plan, as Sansa eventually broke her silence once more to give a perhaps not entirely unexpected, if still surprising order.

“As my lady wishes.” Petyr stated, as the older male began to move his hands with only the slightest of hesitation toward answering her command. A command which certainly made for a change of pace with Littlefinger, who was used to watching the women of his brothel undress and even ‘perform’ for the supposed sake of insuring they were giving his valued custumer's their coins worth. It was the most that he’d ever engage himself with them when it came to the carnal nature of his employees , since going much further would mean giving any of them a potential opening to overstep their place under his thumb, much like a certain Mother of Dragons had done with her now departed husband.

Yet here Lord Baelish was, readily undoing his collar the rest of the way, before moving those hands to the front of his lengthy upper garment. Unfastening the material, Petyr pulled it open at the front while Sansa watched, letting her see his pale upper body which, while fit enough from his constant travels over the past years, was certainly not that of a warrior. It was evident that his quick mind and silver tongue had saved him where physical measures would surely fail, as the older male slide the garment off his shoulders and pulled his hands through the sleeves before discarding it to the floor.

Crouching down to an almost kneeling position, Petyr loosened the straps of his shoes, all the while looking upward the the beautiful Stark girl who had given him such an order. His heart started to beat a little faster already at being this exposed and knelt before her, as he eventually rose, stepping out of the footwear with slight effort, before turning his hands attention to removing his trousers. Without breaking breaking contact with the girl for more then the briefest of seconds, Lord Baelish crouched once more as he tugged his lower garments down to his ankles, before standing before Sansa, naked as the day he was born, while taking a final moment to step out of the dropped material.

For his part, Petyr’s legs were a bit more impressive, with a firmness from dealing with those many travels around Westeros to make his deals and act upon his double crosses. More so, between the older male’s legs, was an already semi-erect cock, which stood at a larger then average length with a telling indication of arousal about exposing himself to the young Stark girl, despite his best efforts at complete self control. It was perhaps to be expected, since Littlefinger seemed to enjoy watching others, that there was a part of himself which enjoyed the aspect of being watched by another. Or at least, being watched by Sansa.

“Does this please you, my lady?” Lord Baelish inquired with a coy little smile upon the side of his lips. Despite his attempt at playing it cool, however, there was a hint of excitement to the man’s voice when he’d spoke. Of anticipation in finding out what he could of just what Sansa might think of the body of the very person who intended on making a Queen out of her once the dust had settled from all of the battling and scheming which he’d played a huge part on setting into motion.

 

[Miss Tris]

Sansa's sight drank in every inch of Petyr's body. She couldn't help but to focus on his flesh as it was being revealed; her gaze first following the trail of the man's chest and stomach as he unfastened his top, exploring the entirety of his torso when he allowed the garment to fall from his shoulders. He was soft, though not unfit; his form was of one that lived a comfortable life, unhardened and without scar from battle.

Sapphire eyes trailed to his hands as he knelt down. She knew that they were as smooth and delicate as her own; she had felt his touch, after all. He had tenderly cupped her face as he kissed her so long before. Sansa tried to recall the feel of his skin against hers, transferring part of the memory to imagine the feel of his fingers upon the flesh of her body.

She wouldn't be allowing him to touch her tonight, however.

Her gaze returned to his as he stood. She held eye contact as he moved his hands to the front of his pants, maintaining her focus until it was that he was fully disrobed. There was only a moments pause before her sight ventured downwards, leisurely trailing over his body. Her sight settled and she studied his manhood unabashedly. Her expression remained unreadable.

His question lingered, unanswered. Eventually Sansa lifted her gaze to meet his, offering him a small but genuine smile. "It would please me if you'd call me by my name," she remarked. She turned away from him and took several steps before glancing back at Littlefinger from over her right shoulder. It was easily apparent that she wasn't walking away from him; rather, she was leading him towards her bed. As they approached she further commented, "Something in your formalities feels like a lie to me, Petyr. Like some charade." She stopped at her bedside and turned to face him, waiting for him to come within reach before she continued. "I don't want to know you as the world knows you, I've seen too much beneath the surface to believe in to the mask you wear." She placed a hand softly on his chest, eyes focused on his intently. She wanted to know everything that was in the man's mind. Not only what he knew, much as his information network supplied him, but also how he thought. It wasn't something Sansa could learn overnight; and it wasn't something Lord Baelish was likely interested in teaching. She felt confident, though, that she could have the man for as long as she wanted. There was no rush in her quest.

Her hand left him and motioned towards the bed, inviting Petyr to make himself comfortable. Once he was settled she continued.

"I want you to show me your restraint, Petyr," Sansa spoke evenly. She used a hand to sweep her hair forward, over her shoulder, causing the bright crimson tresses to cascade and rest upon her front. She reached behind her back and began unhooking the clasps of her gown. "You will not touch me." The material of her dress loosened around her bust. "You will not touch yourself."

Sansa knew that Littlefinger was an entirely different kind of monster as compared to her late husband. No doubt he would be a more tender lover - although it didn't take much to accomplish that, few men were as sadistic as Ramsay Bolton - but the young woman was still hesitant to allow him any freedoms upon her person. She wanted to take the power that she had been denied, to rewrite her sexual identity.

"You will only watch as I pleasure myself," she concluded as she finished unfastening her gown to her waist. Her arms yet remained in the sleeves, the hold of the material about her shoulders concealing the sight of her porcelain skin from Petyr's view, the garment otherwise ready to fall from her form.

"Are you willing to place my desires above your own?"

She knew what his answer would be. Whether or not he meant it (particularly long-term) or if he would just sing what she wanted to hear was another question entirely: a concern Sansa had to acknowledge. It didn't deter her, though. Before the man had an opportunity to answer the young woman was guiding the material of her dress from her shoulders and arms. It wasn't but seconds before the fabric gave way to reveal her chest. The material pooled around her waist, her torso left without any other coverings. Her breasts were a perfect handful; each firm and gracefully rounded, capped by light pink nipples. The dancing shadows cast by the flames of the fireplace accentuated the contours of her body.

Her hands moved to her hips and she further guided the material downwards. Her gown fell to the floor, puddling about her feet, her only remaining clothing a pair of simple panties. She stepped out from the fallen article, towards the bed, waiting only to hear Petyr's answer.

 

[Shadows]

“My apologies, Sansa. That was not my intent.” The older male quickly corrected himself, even as he flubbed the truth about his intentions, as Petyr was very much trying to put forth the best front possible to appease his future Queen.

Following her lead, Littlefinger listened to what she said and, as he suspected might be the case, his usual masquerade would not be enough to satisfy the young Stark woman’s concerns about his loyalty. The hints of concern on his features were fairly evident, as Petyr found himself walking a path he’d not threaded in quite some time. A path formed with a person who could read him like few others had managed in many a year. It was somewhat ironic that, despite his current state of undress, this was the part that perhaps made him feel more exposed then anything else at that point in time.

There was a noticeable tightening of his muscles and sharpening of his breath when her hand found itself upon his chest. His desire for the young Stark woman was easily read without any need for words on his part. It was clear that, if nothing else, his earlier declaration of doing whatever it took to appease her was far more then a charade, as the man’s eyes followed her hand when it left him before diverting his attention to her bed. Perhaps too quickly, Littlefinger moved to Sansa’s bed upon receiving the wordless invitation, which showed that the man wasn’t completely immune to thoughts and promises (or at least assumptions) of pleasures of the flesh.

Taking a seat near the edge of the bed near the left side of it, Petyr would move himself inward toward the center a bit, until he was resting upon his back in the spot that would normally be reserved for its owners lover. Propping himself up onto his elbows, the older male watched, clear evidence of his arousal standing even more firmly between his legs, while evidently awaiting for the young Stark girl to join him. Much to his chagrin, however, that looked to not be the case, as Sansa instead spoke of Lord Baelish showing her his restraint even while she began to undress herself.

Being told he would not be allowed to touch her was a disappointment, with Littlefinger’s mind almost immediately going to the notion of at least being able to relieve himself, much like he did after watching his employees do their work, at the end of the day. Unfortunately, Sansa was ready for that, as she added the instruction against being allowed to touch himself, which caused a clear look of conflicting uncertainty upon Petyr’s face, even as he continued to watch her make the proper preparations to undress with undivided attention.

With just about any other woman, thiese instructions wouldn’t have been such a problem for Littlefinger, but Sansa was once again another matter. Petyr knew what she wanted to hear and was ready to sing for her like he would any other to achieve his goal, but actually having to go through with what she wanted was another matter. Watching as the beautiful , confident young woman undressed, Petyr doubted his own self control in such a matter, as her gown began to fall to reveal to his eyes the body he had not to subtly been desiring for such a long time. His lips parted in silent awe of her breasts as they came into view, while those attentive gray-green eyes eventually continued to follow the gown on its journey downward, until finally he had the young Stark girl standing before him in a manner that he’d only dreamed of seeing her and her mother before her on so many occasions of the past.

“You look… beautiful.” Petyr spoke at a near whisper. It was perhaps the first thing he’d said to her since arriving which flowed from his lips without any intent of satisfying her demands or playing to her games. A rare moment of pure genuineness from a man so used to carefully picking his words, as his heart raced and his arousal stood at full mast despite the apparent lack of attention it would end up receiving this night. His decision was firmly made within that moment of time.

Collecting himself enough to best choose his words, the older male raised his gaze enough to return it back to Sansa, as he finally addressed her proposition. “Your pleasures are my pleasures, Sansa.” Petyr responded with words which held some truth to them, even if his truest pleasures at that time would have included something far more… direct, then what she was proposing. Still, with his fingers starting to grip down into the sheets beneath him, the man further confirmed to comply with his lady’s wishes, “For what little my word may mean to you, I give you my promise that I will refrain from touching you or myself until granted that permission.” And so his watch begins.

 

[Miss Tris]

She believed him. When he called Sansa beautiful she couldn't help but soak in the praise, to give one of her oh-so-rare genuine smiles in response. She wasn't conceited; rather her pleasure and pride was fueled externally, from Petyr. She could, if only for a single instance, know that Littlefinger was telling her the truth: he thought she was beautiful. She felt honored on both the counts.

Her mind played through the first time he had given her such a compliment, the memory both exhilarating and painful.

=====

(Source material: Season 4)

"I hit him."

"Yes, I saw," Petyr responded in an amused tone. He was descending an open staircase to the courtyard, where Sansa had just been seen striking her younger cousin, Robin.

"I shouldn't have done that," Sansa spoke regretfully. She looked guilty and remorseful.

"No." A beat. "His mother should have. A long time ago. Consider it a step in the right direction," Petyr offered.

"If he tells Aunt Lysa--"

"Let me worry about Aunt Lysa." He settled before her, his demeanor confident and calm.

Sansa cast her eyes towards her feet, to the place where she had built a snow castle replica of Winterfell. Robin had destroyed it. "I was trying to remember what everything looked like," she explained. After several mournful moments she added, "I'll never see it again."

"A lot can happen between now and never."

Her gaze lifted to meet his.

"If you want to build a better home, first you must demolish the old one," Littlefinger spoke sagely.

Sansa had no idea how much of what he said was in direct reference to her. She didn't know that he was the one responsible for starting the war between the Stark and Lannister Houses, nor that he had directly betrayed her father; much less could she understand what further damage she personally would take for the cause of furthering Littlefinger's goals...or even that he would, in very short order, murder her aunt. But without knowing any of this, or perhaps because she couldn't relate to Lord Baelish's offered wisdom, she changed the subject.

"Why did you really kill Joffrey?" she asked.

Petyr said nothing. He studied Sansa, appraising the moment.

"Tell me why," she insisted.

"I loved your mother more than you could ever know." He paused, allowing the statement the weight it deserved. "Given the opportunity, what do we do to those that have hurt the ones that we love?"

After having been a hostage to the Lannisters, and having witnessed her father's execution and endured Joffrey and Cersei's torments, Sansa knew something of desiring revenge. At length she offered a discrete upturning of her lips, signaling that she could appreciate such a motive. Petyr reflected her smile.

"In a better world, one where love could overcome strength and duty...you might have been my child." He approached her closely as he spoke, his eyes focused intently on her own. She had taken the intensity in which he spoke - and how he looked at her - to be attributed to some paternal instinct; that because she was the daughter of his love he would want to protect her. "...But we don't live in that world."

For several moments the pair simply locked eyes as Petyr's statement hung in the air. Eventually Lord Baelish's sight traveled downwards, over her chest, settling upon the bright red tresses of her hair. He moved a hand, his fingers lightly taking a lock between them. He examined the strands, no doubt appreciating the color; she was, after all, the only Stark child that inherited the apeparance of a Tully. She had her mother's hair. Her mother's eyes. Her mother's bone structure and complexion.

"You're more beautiful than she ever was," Petyr spoke sincerely, his eyes returning to Sansa's.

Her heart jumped. She knew that it shouldn't, that they shouldn't. But in the moment she was stunned, or entranced, and able to only mutter his name in response. "Lord Baelish..."

"Call me Petyr."

And then...it had been like magic. He cupped the sides of her face and drew her towards his lips, Sansa more than willingly leaning in to meet his kiss. Instantly she was melting against the heat of his mouth, her mind for the moment forgetting all concerns. Blissfully she soaked in the feel of his lips and tender touch, feeling a connection she had lacked with Joffrey or Tyrion: both of which she had been engaged or married and neither of which had she been intimate. She hadn't been shown this sort of gentle affection from anyone before. But despite the moment, despite that she somehow knew Petyr was capable of being the charming and considerate prince she'd always imagined marrying, she eventually pushed him away.

He was married to her aunt. She found Petyr incredibly attractive, and at present regarded him far more trustingly than she should, but she knew better than to let things escalate.

The damage had already been done, however. Aunt Lysa had witnessed their kiss; the woman would be dead before nightfall.

=====

The memory was painful, if only because the first time Petyr had called her beautiful, he had done so with a direct comparison to her mother. Sansa knew Petyr loved Catelyn. She wouldn't hold it against him, nor could she possibly be inclined to be jealous. But. ...Did Petyr have any love for her? Was he just appreciating her as a shadow of her mother? Was he just using her as he had Lysa?

Sansa wanted to believe that Petyr loved her. It was stupid, she knew. She couldn't convince her heart with appeals to logic, however, even as her mind remained cautious.

Sansa climbed on to the bed, remaining upright upon her knees. She moved close to Petyr, coming to a rest near his hips, her narrowly parted thighs facing him. She sat on her heels and studied her lover-to-be appreciatively.

"You're perfect," she spoke after several long, appraising moments. Her gaze trailed down his body, along the contours of his chest and stomach. She was glad at his obvious arousal; in that he lusted for her, while also pleased by the sight of his generous endowment. Her eyes did not linger long, sight returning to Petyr's gray-green eyes. "Physically, anyway," she added with a light and teasing tone. A mischievous smile tugged at her lips. She was sincere in that Petyr perfectly suited her tastes; even as she had never guessed she would desire a man twice her age, Petyr's maturity was a large part of his appeal. His mind - his cunning and intellect - however, is what turned a simple physical attraction in to some desperate desire to have him.

Her hands found purchase upon her own flesh. The right slid over her breastbone, fingertips reaching to play at the bend of her collar; the left made contact at her waist, slowly straying towards her bellybutton. Her head tilted by the slightest degree as her lips parted and she exhaled a heavy breath. Her eyes remained locked on Petyr.

She wanted him to desire her more than he had anyone; wanted him to ache for the honor to worship her body, to hear him praise and beg and promise.

A fingertip traced her collarbone before diverting towards her chest. Her alternate hand slowly rose up her midsection, her touch so easily curving over a breast. She squeezed her grip lightly and pushed the pillowy flesh upwards, giving Littlefinger some visual reference to their firmness. She idly wondered how long he'd have to wait to feel them for himself. Meanwhile her descending hand found its place upon her free breast. She fondled herself in a fashion similar to the initial display, hands working in tandem, her cleavage greatly exaggerated as her breasts were pressed and kneaded together.

Sansa continued to watch Petyr as she worked to memorize his expression.

The fingertips of her right hand slid towards her nipple. Her touch merely grazed over the nub of flesh, the stimulation enough to cause a very obvious stiffening. She was aroused - had been aroused since well before Petyr was undressed (she had very much thought this all over, of course) - and her body was ready for some much needed satisfaction. She pinched her nipple, a quick inward breath proceeding a light bite upon her lower lip. Feeling herself up for several more moments, it wasn't long before she desired more.

A hand trailed downwards.

"Petyr," Sansa spoke just above a whisper. Her form lifted from sitting on her heels, propping herself up on her knees, bringing her body closer to the older man as her fingertips paused at the hem of her panties. Her legs parted slightly, as if impatient of the delay. "I've only ever pleasured myself imagining it was you who was touching me."

It was true, that once upon a time, she had fantasized about Joffery; before she knew what he was. But then she had been too young, or perhaps too proper or innocent, to do anything outside of her imagination. It wasn't until Petyr kissed her that any such inclination to touch herself had been kindled. She hadn't been given much time to explore her desires, however, before she was married to Ramsay and suddenly sex was something awful. Sansa was intent on replacing those memories with something much more satisfying in the nights to come.

Her fingers slipped beneath the material of her panties. Unhesitantly her touch moved downwards, the pad of her middle finger sliding over her clit. Her lips parted and she gave a quiet pant as her touch reversed the motion, her brows drawing together briefly. She stifled a shudder.

"Sing to me, mockingbird."

 

[Shadows]

Her worlds of appraisal actually caused the often calculating and, in many ways, coldhearted older male to feel a skip in the beat of said heart. His eyes were expectantly glued onto Sansa’s beautiful form as the young Stark girl moved onto the bed with him, as Petyr already found himself having to resist that small, yet growing urge to reach out towards her or to even move a hand near his eager arousal. The way she looked him over made it even harder to not do the latter, as their eyes met, with his head tilting while gazing at the girl in mock confusion over her teasing remark before noting, “Well, that’s not good. After all, there are many who would stand by idea that the mind is the sexiest part of the human body.”

Along those lines, Petyr’s own ideals of attraction tended to be split evenly between both physical beauty and a woman’s intelligence, which perhaps did the man little favor in dealing with Sansa’s games. Once a smart, yet naïve young beauty that he’d taken an interest in due to her mother and the flashes of potential he saw beneath the star eyed girl looking for her Prince, Lord Baelish had come to see her grow and come into her own as a cunning young woman fit to lead.

There was more to that desire reflected in his eyes and displayed through the reactions of his body then simple physical lust, even if that portion may be the predominant one at the time, for rather obvious reasons as his gaze drifted to follow the movements of her hands. Sansa had his complete and undivided attention, as the older male watched her move those slender fingers and soft palms over her alluring figure in ways that he’d wished to do with his own hands, which instead settled on lightly gripping at the sheets beneath them for strength.

Petyr’s eyes silently followed every movement and soaked in every act of self pleasure she inflicted upon herself, with the only sounds to be made on his part being those of notably harder breathing due to that mounting lust. His parted lips felt incredibly dry at that point to where his tongue eventually brushed along them very briefly to add a touch of moisture, which likely made for an amusing visual atop of the way his face displayed an almost vulnerable sense of desire within its awestruck expression. Little finger had watched many women pleasure themselves and each other over the years. So many to where any thrill to be found out of it was largely absent for the past several years, save for the display of power that it allowed him to flaunt given his position.

But there was no power here, at least where it came to himself. Only a thrill which he’d never felt in years. No, this was far stronger then any sexual arousal to be found by watching even the most stunning or well trained professional whore that had ever come into his employ. As he watched Sansa’s hands move over her breasts, teasing at her hardening peaks of flesh, Petyr felt such a state of arousal that he’d almost believe himself capable of climaxing on the spot without even touching himself. Not that he’d dare to do such a thing and ruin what was happening before him, as that by now tortuously hard cock practically twitched between his legs while watching the young Stark girl increase the pressure on her own breasts.

When she let out that quick inward gasp after pinching her hardened nipple, Petyr’s own chest showed a similar sharp intake of breath, as if being able to feel even a taste of what she was experiencing while toying with herself before the by now barely able to control himself older male. The crown of his cock further showed just how aroused he’d become, with a notable sheen of pre cum glistening over the sensitive flesh, which begged to be touched by either the girl only inches away or its owner. But it was denied either, as Littlefinger’s eyes quickly darted upward to meet Sansa’s own when she spoke his name, clearly showing just how much control she was starting to gain over him beyond his willing attempts to satisfy her in this game she played.

That gaze drifted downward on occasion to take in the sight of Sansa’s wandering hands and how they further explored those lower, far more intimate portions of her body, before always returning upward to meet the girl’s eyes as she shared her lewd little secret with the older male. This revelation caused Petyr to take in a deep breath, as his hands nearly gave into the moment by starting to release the sheets, only to ball their fingers back into tight fists before pressing down into the mattress. Littlefinger was rather good at reading people, even during rather… ‘strained’, moments such as this one, and couldn’t detect any notable hint of Sansa being dishonest with this information.

This, in turn, only aroused the male further, as the conflict within his eyes burned with a growing lust which he could not satisfy on this evening, it would seem. True, it perhaps wouldn’t be too hard for him to take her by force if he’d wanted, especially as she was close enough to where his hand could muffle her mouth before she could call for anyone to help. But that would only accomplish a single nights worth of hindered passion, followed by either his death or the loss of Sansa for the rest of his days. No, Petyr would not give into such brutish desires, as he watched her fingers move from teasing over the material of her panties to exploring beneath the thin layer; fully intent on making this beautiful, clever little creature his future wife.

Watching as the outline of the Stark girl’s fingers moved within the thin material of her panties and how such actions drew pleasure from her body, Lord Baelish drew his eyes upward when she spoke again, as the mockingbird sang for the young wolf who had so cleaverly pinned him beneath her paws. “You are… the most beautiful woman… the most beautiful creature… that I have ever bore witness to in all of my days.” The older male spoke earnestly with words relating to both that of her physical beauty and what he saw beyond, as that desire for Sansa became evident not only with his choice of words, but also in the way he spoke them.

True, Petyr was an individual with a silver tongue, and there certainly was a sense of cherry picking what he thought might please Sansa best, but there was also a sense of genuineness in the tone of the man’s voice and the look in his eyes as they roamed with meticulous eagerness along her stunning figure from top to bottom and back again. “I want… I desire… nothing more right now, then to touch you… to replace your fingers with my own in bringing you pleasure.” The older male spoke to her at a lustful whisper, as his eyes returned to meet her own with some reluctance to leave the rest of her temporarily unviewed while continuing, “To press my lips to yours and to… to draw your own hands to my aching need… so that you may feel how aroused your beauty has made me and… if you saw fit… to grant me release of even a fraction of that ever growing need for you… Sansa… my Queen.”

 

[Miss Tris]

To hear him speak was a guilty indulgence on Sansa's part. Early on, she had taken an attraction to his silver tongue: she enjoyed listening to the man talk, even in circumstances far less intimate than the present. And in the present...she ceased to remind herself that, in fact, Petyr had a silver tongue. In her current state she was willing to accept whatever sweet nothing he gave her, allowing it to fuel her lust without question. As he spoke of her beauty her hand slipped deeper beneath the thin material of her panties, fingertips brushing open the lips of her womanhood as they redirected upwards. The warmth of arousal coated her fingers, lubricating her touch as attention shifted back to her clit. She massaged herself in small, circular motions, her alternate hand pawing possessively at her breast.

There was nothing more gratifying than hearing Lord Baelish's desires. She continued to molest herself as he spoke of wanting to touch and pleasure her; she locked eyes with him as he spoke of kissing and desiring her touch. He wanted release.

"In time," Sansa spoke softly in response. She studied the man for several moments, her hand removing itself from within her panties. Without ceremony she shifted her position; seating herself to the man's side, facing away from him. She leaned back, settling with her shoulder blades on the bend on of Lord Baelish's ribcage. Her head tipped back, pressing on to his chest, and she turned her face to look up at Petyr. She offered a playful smirk as she imagined how he might appreciate (or perhaps even resent, given the circumstances) the view afforded to him.

She placed a hand at each hip, thumbs hooked beneath the band of her only remaining article of clothing, teasing the motion of removing the material. Her lingering, coupled with the way she looked at Petyr: no doubt he could easily read she wanted to hear more of his singing. "Pledge to me, Petyr. Swear to me your love and absolute loyalty."

Sansa slid the material of her panties down her smooth, creamy thighs; over the bend of her knee and downwards past her feet. Once clear of her body, the article was carelessly tossed aside. Her touch settled on her thighs, fingers tracing towards the apex between her legs. She listened to Petyr speak, enraptured by the sound of his voice, pleased by the context of his words. Slowly, the gap between her legs widened. A hand traveled from her hip, up her stomach, while the other moved to her now exposed slit. Simultaneously she fondled a breast while running a pair of fingertips along the wet folds of her pussy. It wasn't but moments later that she used those fingers to penetrate herself. Her head rolled back against Petyr's chest, her eyes fluttering shut and her brows drawing inwards as a moan escaped her lips. She pushed her fingers deeper, prolonging the moan, her body giving a light shutter. Drawing the hand back slowly, she pulled her fingers out to the last knuckle, and paused briefly to take a breath. Again, Sansa pumped her fingers into her wanting hole, a steady rhythm to the piston of her hand developing shortly thereafter.

Her back arched and she emitted a lustful whimper. In her mind, it was Petyr doing the touching: Petyr plunging his fingers inside of her, lovingly preparing her body to take his large cock. She imagined him kissing her breasts, offering a playful bite to her nipple - she pinched the nub of flesh to simulate the sensation - a quick inward breath proceeded Sansa biting upon her lower lip.

Given Petyr's positioning, he couldn't rightly see the details of what was going on between the young woman's legs. His line of sight tapered off somewhere at the bend of Sansa's mound, giving him perhaps peeks or flashes of more if the lady shifted herself accordingly. Still, there was plenty for his sight to take in, otherwise, and there couldn't possibly be any doubt of as to what was happening.

She continued in such a manner for several minutes, the hand at her breast eventually venturing downwards to play with her clit as she continued to finger fuck herself. Her body was ever moving; squirming against Lord Baelish as she moaned and gasped and trembled. As both hands worked between her legs she brought herself close to climax...and then she stopped.

"I want to feel you inside of me, Petyr," Sansa suddenly confessed. Her eyes opened and she looked at the older male's face, seeking to catch his gaze. She continued speaking quickly so as not give him (too much) false hope. "It won't be tonight...perhaps not even tomorrow... But for my sake, I'm going to imagine it."

She sat up, turning at the waist to keep her attention on her could-be lover. Her body followed the motion at her hips, the result bringing her back on to her knees. "Sit up," she instructed. As he moved she'd prop a pillow against the headboard behind him, allowing for him to lean back slightly once settled.

Sansa straddled his lap. Her knees brushed against his upper thighs; no other points of contact being made, though her body remained only inches away from his. She held herself high on her knees, hovering just above the tip of his erect manhood. The height of her position versus his left his face directly level with her youthfully firm and perky breasts.

Now the real test of his restraint was to begin.

Sansa's hands cupped her breasts before trailing down the curve of her waist and the flair of her hips. Sapphire eyes watched Lord Baelish intently. It was cruel, she knew, that she wanted him to suffer like this...but she wasn't even the least bit remorseful.

She resumed pleasuring herself. She began by rubbing her clit, the pad of her middle finger teasing the nub as her other fingers descended further to push open her lips. She glistened with a sheen of arousal. After several moments she lowered her hand, positioning two fingers just outside of her opening. She teased the idea of penetration but held off. Bending forward, she lowered her lips to Petyr's ear.

"I will be yours, Petyr," she whispered. "You need only to wait."

She righted her posture and watched the man as she pushed her pointer and middle fingers inside of herself. Her expression contorted with pleasure. She began to develop a rhythm once again, although this time she moved her body rather than her hand. The effect being that she steadily rose and lowered herself above Lord Baelish's lap, not at all touching him but most certainly simulating riding his cock. Her pacing was unhurried but it was with enough drive behind it that her breasts were in a state of perpetual bouncing.

"You feel so good," Sansa purred, obviously back to imagining Petyr as she did when masturbating.

 

[Shadows]

A soft whimper nearly escaped the older male’s lips as she spoke of only allowing him to touch her, to find his own release, at some point ‘in time’. Lord Baelish knew better then anyone how long such a vague notion as ‘in time’ could end up being and, while he’d learned the art of waiting patiently over the years, this was one area in which he’d believed himself to perhaps be facing his greatest test yet. Rarely had something he’d wanted been this close, while at the same time so far, with Petyr having little option other then to endure the girl’s sweet torments as the older male watched while she moved about on the bed.

The feel of her warm body pressing even a portion of itself against his side as she laid back against him from the right while resting her head back onto his chest was both a blessing and a curse for the older male. If Sansa listened closely, she might be able to hear how quickly the man’s heart beat, as his eyes roamed over her upturned breasts and soft legs, before returning to meet her gaze with a look on his face which showed a mixture of frustration and amusement, or perhaps even appreciation, for how she was using his desires to further test his limits. This deceptively wicked girl knew so many of the right buttons to push for her mockingbird to get him singing however she liked.

His eyes followed her hands as she moved to peel away the last layer of clothing, before gazing back at the young Stark girl resting against his chest, as the older male gave a knowing smirk right as she voiced her request. “Sansa… I pledge to you…. my undying loyalty and devotion. ” Lord Baelish spoke, actually sounding more genuine then his normal attempts at saying what needed to be said to get what he’d wanted out of somebody else.

Letting his eyes drift away to watch her peel away the thin material of her panties, the man’s breathing quickened upon being able to enjoy what he could see of her hands sliding back up her legs and to her wet mound, as the girl’s impeding fluctuations of breathing and resulting whimpers helped to make up for what he could not fully see given their positioning. “I may not be much with a sword, but what skill is there is yours to command.” Petyr continued after that short pause, looking back to her eyes, feeling so tempted to lean forward in an attempt at claiming a kiss on those tempting lips, as he refrained for now and carried onward with his ‘song’, “I… devote to you, my mind. My talents, to help you achieve any goal you so desire. To exact revenge against those who’ve taken so much from us both.”

His own breathing actually seemed to quicken a bit to somewhat match her own increasing pleasure, perhaps showing there was more truth to his earlier statement of her pleasure being his own then either of them might have expected. Certainly,it wasn’t hard for him to share in the unspoken imagination going through her head, especially given her earlier reveal on having only touched herself to thoughts of him, as thoughts of letting his lips and hands explore over that beautiful young body flowed within his mind like it did her own.

“My silver tongue is yours… to make use of in whatever way you may wish.” The older male added; his double meaning being rather blatant, particularly given the way he’d smirked at the young Stark girl, albeit briefly, before looking into her eyes the next time they met and finally pledging to her, “You have my love, Sansa. My eternal love. You, my beautiful lady, who I cherish more then anyone or anything else in this world.”

Was there truth to those words? It was honestly tricky for even Littlefinger to tell, as the years of lies and deception had made the man cold toward anything other then his grander goals and his love for Catelyn Stark, which was perhaps the one ‘pure’ thing he’d had left in his heart for so long. But Sansa was something else. A mixture of both what his old self sought before the harshness of the world helped to shape him into what he is and what his present self desired, as the man looked to the young woman and fought back, for what surely felt like the millionth time within the past hour alone, that temptation to claim her on the spot.

There was a near pause in his breathing when she stopped herself so close to climax, as Petyr glanced to where her hands had been so actively working away at herself, before gazing back into the young woman’s eyes as she made her confession. There was a glimmer of hope within the older male’s eyes as she spoke of wanting him inside of her, which was quickly followed by visible frustration and silent acceptance when she elaborated on how that wouldn’t be happening tonight or perhaps even the night after.

This damned girl was growing bolder with her actions by the minute, it seemed, as he watched her sit up before doing so himself when she instructed. With the pillow in place, Petyr leaned back with about as much comfort as one could have given his current situation, while Sansa moved herself to, surprisingly, straddle his lap. It was an action which, despite realizing he shouldn’t get his hopes up, was impossible for Lord Baelish to not feel a twinge of anticipation to what came next, only to find little else then her knees brushing along his upper thighs when it came to physical contact.

Looking Sansa over while she better got into the position she wanted, the man beneath her gazed back up to the Stark girl’s face with a look in his eyes that showed he had an idea of what she might be doing next. ‘You wonderfully devious girl’ the older male thought to himself as he let a brief hint of a smirk touch upon his face, before letting it fade away as his tongue moved to lick those long since dry lips as he watched Sansa resume to cup and folding her breasts with intent matching that of the way her eyes watched for his reaction to every movement she made.

The man’s already aching cock could practically feel her heat of her sex during those brief, oh so tempting moments where it came within centimeters of that thick crown while she fondled her breasts. It could be so easy for him to simply lift his lips and gain that momentary friction. Surely he could claim it an accident if he were subtle enough with the movement? Gods, it was tempting as anything else Petyr could imagine, especially when her fingers eventually lowered to tease along those lips while he stared with fully displayed desire and lust etched throughout his features for that sliver of hope at something more being granted to his throbbing need. Instead, she leaned into the side of his head, causing Petyr to momentarily close his eyes as he felt her breath along his skin, while she whispered her sweet promises into his ear.

“Of course, my love. For… For however long it may take…” Lord Baelish whispered back to Sansa with a strained and breathy tone; only opening his eyes back up when she righted her position afterward, before almost immediately shifting his attention lower to memorize every wonderful detail of her fingers pushing forward past those glistening folds.

Watching intently, the older male quickly picked up on what she was going for, as he let out a low, almost whimpered whine in response while Sansa started to fuck herself on her fingers in place of the unattended cock directly beneath her. Petyr’s breathing slowly quickened at this, with those green-gray eyes moving from where she was plunging herself on those soft digits to the girl’s perky, youthful breasts, which bounced so teasingly only inches away of his face. The increasing discomfort on the man’s face was quite visible, as he fought back those urges, both primal and of his admittedly twisted heart, in order to endure this part of Sansa’s test.

This control was tested further as her increasing pace resulted in those first expected drops of her arousal to begin dripping down onto his lap while she bounced against those fingers. The few that landed near and even upon his painfully hard cock was the closest he’d come to feeling her touch, but it only served in further tormenting the man with promises of what was to come at some later point. The knuckles of his hands were white with how tightly he’d gripped those sheets to avoid brushing even the side of either hand along her thighs. His breath, hot and labored, was the only thing of his which occasionally touched her flesh, as it came it out warm bursts against her bouncing chest and upon her neck while he continued to endure her trials.

“Sansa…” The older male breathed out; not seeming to have any further follow up after simply speaking her name upon his lips with a strained voice which likely fit close enough to how she’d imagined him to sound during actual sex to add that further touch to the girl’s imagination. The man wanted nothing more then to actually be inside of her at that moment in time. But outside of that, he’d wanted to see her pleased with him, so that she would accept him like he’d desired. To that end, without the need for direct prodding, the mockingbird sang further.

“That’s… That’s it, my love. Ride my cock. Take it until you’ve had your fill.” Petyr spoke with a genuine strain of lust and a need for release behind his voice. There was a little extra sound of ‘pleasure’ behind his tone then what he was currently allowed to feel, but most of his tone held true to how he’d felt at that moment, as the young wolf’s bird continued to sing for her enjoyment, “Do you feel it? How hard I am for you? How… aroused you’ve caused me to become? Far more then anyone else has ever managed in all my years. My dear, beautiful Sansa.”

 

[Miss Tris]

There was nothing like it in the world: no greater pleasure than that given by Lord Baelish's song. Sansa had allowed for a temporary suspension of disbelief, for the sake of the moment, but the depth at which she was taking his words... She wanted to believe every sweet utterance Petyr offered.

And so, she did.

It was sudden and intense. In a moment Sansa became incapable of disbelief; in a moment her heart was too far gone to recover. She loved Petyr Baelish. And regardless of how much she may or may not trust him otherwise, she knew that he loved her. She refused to acknowledge whatever concerns she should have outside of the bedroom, instead basking in the reverence Petyr offered as she continued to pleasure herself. Sansa felt the heat of Lord Baelish's breath, reveling at the labored bursts of air as they caressed her skin. Never could she have imagined something so real. It supplemented her fantasy greatly, bringing her arousal to a height she hadn't known was possible --

And then her mockingbird began to sing again.

A whimperish moan escaped her throat. Petyr played along with her imagination, speaking as if he was currently filling her with his cock. Sansa watched him through half lidded eyes, her sight focused on the movements of his lips. He made claim that his desire for her was greater than it had been for anyone else; the young woman's eyes shifted to hold Petyr's gaze, her lips parted as if to speak but only a ragged exhalation followed.

Her expression contorted, almost appearing to be in pain, although it was evident it was a blissful agony she suffered. "Petyr," she lustfully moaned his name. A hand came to rest on Lord Baelish's chest, Sansa steadying herself as the first jolting wave overtook her body. She trembled and gasped. No longer did she move her body, rather her fingers remained firmly buried inside of herself; she could feel the spasms of her sex, the greedy tightening of her vaginal walls around her fingers. Her head tilted backwards and she arched her back, the press of her hand upon Petyr's chest increasing. She bit her lower lip as another wash of pleasure coursed through her body. Her hips bucked subtly against her hand in conjunction with a full body shutter. "Gods, Petyr," she spoke with a strained voice.

She rode the orgasm for what might have felt like an eternity to her (mostly) untouched partner. Afterwards she took several long moments to catch her breath and recover before removing herself from Petyr's lap. She sat next to the man, facing him.

Sansa studied him in silence. She looked upon Petyr with nothing but adoration, her eyes alight with happiness and a warm smile upon her lips. She reached out to him, fingertips gently sweeping across the man's cheek, her hand following to cup the side of his face. She stared intently into his eyes, marveling at the beautiful mix of colors.

She leaned towards him. Tenderly her lips touched to his, a satisfied and dream-like sigh escaping her in the moment before she deepened the kiss. Her lips parted as her alternate hand rediscovered and roamed over his smooth chest. Her tongue confidently sought to coax Petyr's attention, exploring the feel of him unabashedly. Her hand trailed over his shoulder, fingers curling and taking hold to pull him harder into her mouth. Her kiss remained soft, however: Sansa was a hopeless romantic, after all, and so she kissed him as you would a fairytale prince. Her touch trailed in to his hair as her lips and tongue passionately worked against his own.

The kiss lasted several minutes. When she withdrew, Sansa's eyes were again focused on Petyr's.

"You'll be staying in my chambers from now on," she spoke. Her attention diverted to her bedding, which she gathered in a hand and began to tug downwards. She had to shift her position somewhat to allow the material to be pulled out from beneath her, as did Petyr, but it was managed easily enough. She'd pull the blankets just far enough to slip her legs beneath as she turned her body alongside his. "I will have your belongings brought up tomorrow."

Sansa cuddled into him as he settled, listening to whatever response he might have. Spooning to his side, her head rested upon the front of his shoulder as her body melded against his. She thought to justify it - to explain that she was only sleeping on him to ensure that he didn't find relief in the night - but...she wasn't entirely certain how true the claim would be. It felt good, to be in Petyr's arms. She wanted to be there. Sansa wouldn't admit her love, as if doing so would give the man some advantage over her, but nor would she lie in an attempt to conceal her feelings. She tilted her face to look up at the man, curious if he already knew.

 

[Shadows]

The older male watched as the Stark girl drew closer to her release, as his gaze caught the occasional meeting glimpse of her own stare through those lidded eyes. His words stopped when she lustfully spoke his name, with both of his hands starting to reach up to embrace her the moment her own hand came into contact with his heavily breathing chest, before balling both of them up into tightly wound fists which he slapped down into the mattress with both frustration and as a show of restraint. “That’s it, my love.” He spoke again, this time with hints of his sexual frustration showing within his tone, even as he mostly managed to keep with the tone needed for his ‘song’, “You look so beautiful, Sansa. Take every inch of me until you’ve had your fill.”

She was cumming for them both. Letting him watch her in this most intimate of displays, yet not allowing him any relief or even much in terms of contact as she began to climax only inches above his painfully neglected cock. How easy it would be to just push his way upward. To just let the head f that swollen, sensitive cock brush itself along her glistening flesh. Whether it be her sex or the bent knuckles of her delving fingers. Whatever the case, it would have been preferable to having nothing but the increasing trickle of her rather intense orgasm. Maybe she would even enjoy the stimulation enough to allow him to enter her? Or, if nothing else, to allow him to cum against or before her in a similar manner? If only.

If only, but that was not the case, as Petyr maintained that considerable resolve in holding back his urges. If he could wait years upon years to act as he had for the sake of climbing his way up the ranks of power and social standing, then he could wait a few days, or more, if that’s what it took to gain Sansa’s blessing to fully join with her like they both appeared to desire so greatly. Saying that, however, it was indeed a harder task then most that he’d faced to keep from acting stupidly on his wants and desires at that moment, especially once the young Stark girl started to come down from her peak, with the clearly pent up older male gazing up at her with a barely contained need for release as she spoke his name again.

“Sansa…” Petyr whispered out with suddenly dry lips. His tongue would move to lick at them after a few moments, while his surprisingly labored breath continued to flow through said lips, as he watched her recover from the intense orgasm that he’d wished to play a more direct part in then was currently allowed. Knowing that she would eventually be making similar noises while taking his cock in more then fantasy was little consolation at the moment, given his present state of uncomfortable arousal, but it, along with the admittedly welcomed affections of her soft hand trailing over his chest and toward his face, was enough to help keep the unknowingly smiling in return male in line as the girl eventually lifted herself off his lap.

The display of affection was certainly different from most, if perhaps even all, of Littlefinger’s past ‘romantic’ affairs. While Sansa remained a romantic at heart, Petyr had long given up such ‘silly’ notions, particularly after years of having watched his first and perhaps only true love marry somebody else before pumping out one child after another for the man. As such, the way in which she lovingly gazed upon him as her fingertips reached out to gently caress his cheek before cupping themselves upon the side of his face was a notable contrast to how he was usually approached by the types of women he’d taken into his bedroom in the past.

His hands wanted to reach out for her at that moment, but restraint kept him from doing such a potentially damaging action. Instead, the man began to slowly press his cheek into her hand for the moment, as he let his eyes close for a moment to soak in the surprising sensation of comfort before opening them again to meet Sansa’s gaze once more. Similarly, when she brought her lips to tenderly touch his own, it was unlike the usual manner in which he’d kiss a woman. In fact, it was often that, unless needed for the sake of a greater part of his goals, Petyr rarely actually kissed any of the women that he did bed in the past. They were a means of pleasure or power, sometimes both, but nothing else. But this? As his lips parted to welcome her own as she deepened the kiss, even going so far as to allow their tongues to mingle in an intimate, yet oddly romantic fashion. This was different from those other encounters, as the older male continued to let Sansa control the pace, albeit with his tongue giving a few unspoken ‘pointers’ as they joined between their lips while kissing her back in full.

When their embrace eventually concluded, Petyr was left surprisingly short of breath, as he watched Sansa with a touch of surprise while panting ever so slightly. The man remained silent save for this as she spoke of what their living arrangements would be from this point forward, seemingly accepting of what she had in mind, as he shifted about as needed for the blankets to be pulled out beneath them. His own legs slipped beneath the sheets, with his body slightly facing her own, while finding himself having to bend in such a way around the hips to keep that unattended arousal from the temptation of ‘accidentally’ brushing along her own warmth.

“As you wish, Sansa.” Petyr responded, seemingly content to go along with whatever she wanted, if it meant earning back even a fraction of her trust in his dedication towards her, as he continued with a slight smirk, “But I must admit, ordinarily when I share a bed with somebody in such a state of undress, I’m usually a lot more… ‘relaxed’, so to say.”

Not that he’d fully expected her to give him any relief on this first night, but it was hard to not call attention to how he was at least behaving himself to her wishes in the hope of earning some further leeway with Sansa over the coming days.

Regardless, the older male did allow his arm to reach outward and place itself around her waist to hold her a little closer to his warmth. But only her waist, as he fought back the temptation to let that hand wander anywhere else that might earn him a warning or worse, despite how tempting of a target the young woman’s soft rear was while resting only away of where his hand was laid. This was another element which was somewhat foreign to Petyr, at least in terms of doing so with the amount of genuineness put behind the action. He’d held Lysa in a similar fashion before, but purely for the sake of furthering his own ambitions by drawing himself further into her good graces.

And true, there was some of that manipulation behind every act he performed with Sansa, even up to this point of time. But it wasn’t purely for Petyr’s own self serving nature that he let his arm coil further around the young Stark girl who watched him with eyes unlike those made by any other woman. No, there was something genuine behind his actions. Something which perhaps he’d not even fully recognized, either out of self doubt or simple ignorance due to being so used to hardening his heart toward such concerns. Perhaps it was because of the part of Sansa that reminded him of her mother. Or maybe it was something unique to the girl herself. Or perhaps a combination.

Regardless, what Lord Baelish felt for the young Stark girl was difficult for him to admit or even recognize, perhaps due to it being clouded within the weaves of lies and deceits that made it difficult for him to separate anything genuine from that which he’d think and say to achieve his own goals. Along those lines, while the man had a notion of what the girl may feel for him, he’d not quite yet figured it to be actual love. After all, after what he’d put her through, how could she love him? No, she was playing her own game, much like he and everyone else in this seemingly never-ending round of human chess. This was a means of attempting to control him using his admitted lust for the girl.

Or that was what he’d tell himself for now. Proving to be somewhat blind or even ignorant in one area of reading a person at this point in time, as he moved his other hand toward Sansa’s face. “If I may?” He spoke, allowing her a chance to answer with words if she wished, but taking a similar chance to the arm around her waist by slowly moving his fingers to caress upon her soft cheek. She was soft. Despite what she had been through to harden her inside, she remained soft to the touch, as Petyr’s hand slowly traced the tips of his fingers along her cheek and down to her jawline before lightly cupping her chin.

This time, the man wouldn’t ask permission, as he slowly leaned his head forward to try and meet Sansa’s lips with his own. Whether she would allow it or not was entirely up to her, as Petyr seemingly sought to somewhat mimic the tender way in which she had savored his lips a few minutes prior.

 

[Miss Tris]

Sansa gave a small nod in response to Petyr’s question, granting his wish to touch her. Unintentionally she ceased to breathe as his fingers tenderly stroked her cheek. She was completely and utterly captivated. He had been the only man to touch her with such care, with such gentleness and finesse. She stared into his eyes, her heart beating wildly – just as it had every time in the moments right before Lord Baelish kissed her. There was no resistance to his charms. Whether it was the man was genuinely everything she had ever wanted or if he was simply playing the part…well. He was welcome to the role, either way.

She needed this. To be adored, to be treated as something precious. She eagerly accepted his kiss, returning the affections as she marveled at the skills of the man’s silver tongue. She never wanted it to end. And yet – she was the one to pull away.

“Good night, Petyr.” She flashed him a sweet smile before snuggling in against him.

=====

The following morning, Sansa awoke in a manner that had been lost to her since childhood. Her eyes flitted open peacefully. She felt…happy. Or, at least, she wasn’t immediately assaulted by an anxious, suffocating fear of what terrible things might befall her on this day. Nestled against the body of her lover, she was truly unconcerned about anything outside of the comforting heat built between them. Her hand reached out idly, fingertips grazing over Petyr’s flesh; her sight traveled along the curve of his breast, her gaze settling upon the scar centered upon it. As she traced the scar visually she restrained the desire to run a finger along the mark. The offending wound had extended the entirety of his torso, starting at the base of his throat and continuing downwards beyond his navel.

Petyr had questioned Sansa when she had claimed to know him so long ago. Perhaps she hadn’t, then. Even now she couldn’t say she fully understood the man, insofar as solving the complexities of his schemes, but she was perhaps closer than any other. An active interest in Petyr’s past had revealed a great deal about him.

She knew that this scar defined him. Receiving it had been the most painful experience of his life, both physically and emotionally. It represented Caitlyn’s rejection. He had fought for her hand…and lost. Soundly. It humiliated him, to be so easily cut down by Brandon Stark. To be forever branded with the mark of his failure. Littlefinger was born the day he was cut open, transformed into a man that wanted to be the King of the Ashes.

Sansa lingered for several long moments before casting her attention upwards. Upon making eye contact she smiled warmly. “Good morning, my love.”

She rolled her body towards him and propped herself on her elbow, allowing her to more fully press her lips against his. Her kiss was teasingly passionate and brief. As she drew back she continued to wear a bright smile.

Sansa watched him, soaking in his response to her affection. She knew that he – like any warm-blooded man – wanted to be loved. More than that, he wanted to be loved by her. He might be the most dangerous and self-serving man in Westeros but Sansa felt…safe. She was all too willing to believe that she could become Petyr’s exception to the rule, that a genuine love for her would render him unable to do her harm. That his cunning and drive could be applied in their interest, rather than just his.

It was strange how quickly the young woman’s perspective of the game had changed. She had invited Lord Baelish to her chamber with the intention of playing against him, but already her romantic notions had her convinced it was possible to be on the same team. Even as she chastised herself for being naive she couldn't extinguish the hope entirely.

A playful smile came to her lips. She reached out a hand, taking a hold of Petyr’s. She drew his touch to her breast as she rolled on to her back, the contact of their bodies being broken, leaving Sansa’s form on display. The grip on the back of Lord Baelish’s hand pressed his palm more firmly against her, a heated and almost whimperish exhalation escaping her lips in response. She removed her hand from his, her touch trailing up his arm, over his throat, coming to a rest cupping Petyr’s jaw. Sapphire eyes stared intently into grey-green.

“Show me, Petyr, how it is to be brought pleasure by a man…solely for my own benefit.”

Sansa’s previous sexual experiences had been traumatic. Much as it might appear that making Petyr wait for his own gratification was some sort of power play, in reality it had much more to do with Sansa not being ready to be intimate. It helped some to pretend he was proving some semblance of loyalty or devotion to her in the process rather than admitting that she needed to be eased in to it. She knew Lord Baelish would play according to her boundaries, however, and she trusted no one else with redefining sex as she knew it.

“I want you to memorize the feel of my body, the taste of my skin… I want you to spend the entirety of the day aching to sate your lusts for me.” She lifted herself just enough to kiss him, her lips lingering sweetly upon his for several moments.

“Tonight I will be yours,” she promised in a whisper.

 

[Shadows]

To say getting a good nights sleep had proved a bit of a challenge would be a considerable understatement, as Petyr wished his lady a good nights sleep before watching as she inevitably gave into slumber’s embrace. For himself, it was a touch harder to get so relaxed, especially given his continued state of arousal, to which the older male was constantly tempted at ‘cheating’ with by letting his hand wander lower in a bid at relieving that built up pressure while Sansa slept. In fact, were it not for the likely difficulty at cleaning up after he was finished without inadvertently alerting the younger Stark girl to his movements, Littlefinger may have given into said temptation.

Thus, it seemed that the young lady Stark had acted wisely in having him share her bedroom for the night, as Petyr struggled for a good while with a sweet torture of having such a beautiful specimen of femininity lying naked next to him. “Devious little beast.” The older male whispered softly. His tone almost seeming to show an appreciation for how she’d handled him, despite his choice of words in referring to her, as Petyr looked to Sansa in longing silence for a good long while, until the pull of sleep inevitably managed to win him over to its side.

--------

When he’d awoken the next day, there was the briefest of moments where Petyr thought the previous nights events to be little else then a dream. To be sure, Sansa had been a regular player within the various ‘improper’ thoughts which played out within the older male’s mind in recent days, so it wouldn’t be that unlikely of a finding for him to awaken within an empty bed despite how vivid his memories were of the prior events, along with the surprisingly continued sense of arousal which had only partially eased after several hours of rest.

As a result, there was a notable look of surprise and, indeed, happiness upon the older male’s handsome face as he turned his head to be greeted by the beautiful redhead whose shifting motions had helped him stir awake. More so then that, there was the feel of her fingers roaming along his flesh which brought the man from his sleep, with Petyr needing a moment to actually process where her hand was exploring. In most cases, having somebody else attempting to touch his scar would have caused Littlefinger to swat or pull away the persons hand on reflex alone. But, surprisingly, despite a noted look of slightly startled realization upon his features as he gazed down at the forever opened wound, the older male did no such thing.

If anything, there was unexpected sense of soothingness at Sansa’s touch, as Petyr watched her explore for however long she desired, before drawing his gaze back to the young beauty. The man didn’t have time to respond to her greeting at first, but the way his lips attempted to return the good morning kiss given to him by Sansa - with his head even leaning forward into her out of a mostly failed attempt at prolonging the embrace - had been evidence of how welcomed of a sight she was to awaken beside. It was a sight which Littlefinger hoped to become a regular fixture within his life, only with the added setting of their bedroom being that which welcomed to he who sat upon the iron throne.

“Certainly one of the better starts to a morning that I can hope to recall.” The older male responded with a sly smile after their lips departed from the other. His body continuing to enjoy the feel of her warmth pressed up against his own, while at the same time struggling to hold back the ever persistent urge to pounce upon the young Stark girl. Patience may be a virtue which Petyr knew all too well, but damned if it hadn’t been tested more then it had been for the past day, particularly as the conniving young romantic smiled that playful smile of hers before leading his hand to her breast and rolling back to leave her gorgeous body on display for his attentive gaze.

His hand followed her lead by slowly increasing the force applied in cupping her soft mound, with Lord Baelish allowing himself a soft smirk at hearing those first of hopefully many whimpers of the day from the Stark girl. The man’s hand continued to slowly grope and knead at Sansa’s breast even as her hand drifted away to further explore along his arm before coming to rest at his chin in a manner that drew a soft sigh of enjoyment from his own lips. Whether it was a result of the way Sansa did it or the simple fact of who she was adding an extra element to everything she did, Petyr couldn’t recall the last time another persons touch had brought such a sense of excitement to every inch that she graced with her sensual explorations.

The older male listened to what Sansa had to say even while clearly continuing to soak in the very sight of her naked body on display. While Petyr didn’t immediately respond verbally, the way in which his hand began to increase the boldness of its motions, with his fingers making the added effort of purposely rolling and squeezing the girl’s sensitive nipple within his grasp, made it clear that he was eager for answering her request. His breathing slowly quickened as she neared the completion of what she had to say, with his own body leaning forward to meet her part way in their next embrace, which Lord Baelish made certain to enjoy for every lingering moment that it lasted.

The older male was unable to fully contain the smile which threatened to completely fill his face as he took in Sansa’s words, with Petyr’s gaze slowly roaming along her body once more, as if to take in a rough road map of how to go about bringing his lady the attention she sought. “It will be my greatest of pleasures, my love.” Lord Baeiish quickly added with a sense of excitement to his voice, as the Stark girl’s promise had an obvious affect in encouraging the man onward to meeting any expectations she had of her unlikely love.

Immediately, Petyr’s lips moved toward Sansa’s collar, as he instantly began to enjoy the partial freedom given to explore her as he’d like, even if it meant increasing the near torturous sensations of the previous night within him by the time she was brought to release once more. The man’s mouth was gentle, yet methodical in how it worked over her tender flesh, as he kissed and even licked with partial flicks of the tip of his tongue against the young woman’s skin while inching his way toward her chest. His grey-green eyes glancing upward to her lovely face, seemingly both watching for further hints to what might be working for her, along with perhaps wanting to continue confirming to himself just who it was he was being allowed to explore so intimately as his face moved toward the girl’s chest.

The hand presently upon her left breast moving to slowly cupping that soft mound, while his other hand did the same as he moved onto his knees slightly to avoid putting too much of his weight upon Sansa even as his own body pressed into hers to where they could feel the others warmth and breath throughout this stage of the exploration. Slowly, both hands went about gently, yet firmly kneading at the young woman’s breasts, which had truly matured into as perfect a pair as any other that Littlefinger had seen in his day.

His hands caressed them for a short time, before bringing them closer together however far as they could be brought like so, with Sansa’s nipples being made to press toward the other. With that, Petyr began to press his face forward, as his lips parted and he allowed his tongue to extend outward to teasingly brush along her right nipple, then the left, before going back to the first and then repeating with the other. This continue for a few moments, as Lord Baelish also took the took to almost cruelly tease at the budding sides of her hardening nipples with his fingernails, until finally he began to wrap his lips around one breast while tilting his head enough to let his light stubble of the morning brush along the other with the affectionate embrace of his cheek.

Indeed, it seemed as if Lord Baelish was intent on following Sansa’s wishes of him memorizing the feel and taste of her body, but it seemed as if there was something else that he’d wanted to memorize, as those grey-green orbs of his gazed upward at his intended Queen. That being the looks and noises that she made during pleasure, along with just what actions to took to bring such delightful little sights and sounds to the forefront. What parts of her body could make her own breathing quicken even a little, when manipulated in just the right way. After all, manipulation was something which Littlefinger had a knack for, even if this particular case perhaps wasn’t solely for his own benefit like so many other instances of the past.

The older male moved his mouth from one breast to the other, while his hands wasted little effort in both supporting and teasing at the young Stark’s breasts throughout the exploration. His own body once again aching for attention of its own, especially given how close his now firm cock had been to the redhead’s thigh, which itself lad a path right to her womanhood. A part of him (an admittedly obvious part) had wanted to test the waters. To see if Sansa would allow her lover to press his aching need along her leg, with little regard to how it might make him look and feel like a hound trying to gain a sense of relief with its Mistress’ thigh.

But Petyr refrained. Somehow, he’d refrained yet again at giving into his own baser interests, as his mouth moved away of the young woman’s breasts, before letting his face nestle within her cleavage for a moment to listen to her heartbeat. Whether or not there was any noticeable change to the pace of her heart, Lord Baelish had to admit to finding the spot a rather comfortable one to rest his crown for a few moments, as he glanced upward toward Sansa with a sly smile.

“I could almost spend the entirety of the day, just like this, with my head resting comfortably upon your bosom, my love.” Lord Baelish suggested. His words were only partially intended to attempt in further winning her over to accepting him, as there had been more then a touch of truth behind them, with the man even nuzzling at her chest for the all too short moment taken to rest there.

“However, we both have needs which require tending to, don’t we?” Petyr added with a teasing little smile, before placing a few parting kisses upon Sansa’s chest, then slowly lifting himself enough to begin making his way lower along her body.

One hand remained cupped along her right breast, while the other lowered itself with him, as those warm fingers caressed along the side of the younger woman’s soft abdomen. His lips, meanwhile, were taking their time to explore along the center, as he kissed and ran his lips slowly along the contours of the girls’ stomach. His warm breath brushing along her soft flesh, as the attentive figure made a slow, yet steady pace down toward the part of Sansa’s that Lord Baelish had hope for becoming fully familiar with in a variety of ways by the time the day had finished.