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

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.