No thread of vixen existed within the fibers woven together to create Sansa Stark. Not an ounce of smoldering seductress could be found mixed into her essence. It was not that Petyr preferred the wide-eyed tentative quivering of a naif, it was simply that he preferred Sansa, no matter the qualities which might be found abundantly or not at all. Even when she had mistakenly discovered him in the throes of self-satisfaction, she had not exuded the confident airs of one who had true intent. Sansa stumbled through her interactions with Petyr, and their physical interactions especially. Early days of solicited kissed were met with a faltering grace, escalating to a no less faltering hand or breath or shift of hips. And in that, Petyr was no fool, all-too aware of her aversion to him in many ways. It was not romanticism or affinity which drove her decision, her admission. Did he care enough for her to allow himself to be placed at such a disadvantage?
Did he?
The unyielding pull of her was more problematic to the man than any other factor he had yet been forced to consider. More worrying still was his willingness to submit to her. At the faintest implication that she might consider him, him, all plans were mentally scattered to the wind, rearranged in favor of…what?
She did not lean into his touch, nor did she offer him a smile whose inception came from any genuine place. It was a compromise she presented, a bargain, a give and take, no less calculating than her hand had been as it pumped over his flesh. Petyr regarded the practiced curve of her mouth with hollow pride. She had learned well, blossoming under his tutelage certainly, though her skills were her own, natural, uninstructible. Petyr had succeeded in teaching her, above all, how best to manipulate him. She knew what he wanted, and had wrapped the rope about his neck with nary a scrap of regret.
He would have it no other way.
The kiss was familiar enough; it was the sort of kiss delivered with rote and concision that he’d received so many times before, as her Lord Father. Though he had neither asked for it nor expected it, and perhaps therein was the difference. Is that what she proposed? A partnership of stiff, glancing touches, an ever-present yearning for more chasing a desire to withhold? The hand at her hip rose to her face, fingers sliding across skin, the pad of his thumb caressing the apple of her cheek. There was an icy chill, passed with the bands of his rings. For a moment it seemed as though he intended to return her kiss, the way his gaze shifted over her face, flickering over her mouth before meeting her eyes with unwavering candor. Oh, his want was obvious, though his hold on her remained gentle, almost fragile.
A clipped ‘hm’ echoed in his chest, his throat. A brief, contemplative tour of her victory. Were she to have blinked, she might have missed the twitch at one corner of his mouth. At her cheek his thumb continued to slowly stroke. How he would like to lean into her and claim her mouth, lift her skirts, drink her in. No one would come to the library. Against the shelves of dusty tomes he could push her, ravage her, seal her contract with binding kiss. The heat of them would fog the winter glass, taint the pages of Vale histories.
But his hand dropped, two fingers ghosting a line down her throat to trace the frilled edge of her bodice, before falling away. A more glaring imperative, greater even than his want for her, was the need to regain control.
“We must acquire new gowns for you.” Against a pattern of dark lace, just below her threaded hands, the back of his fingers brushed. “These simply will not do.” His gaze was tilted down, surveying the slender length of her. “I do believe you have mourned quite enough – wouldn’t you agree?”
It was not simply confusion of sentiment that restrained her kiss; Sansa wanted to know what Petyr would do. A test of them both. He would not ravage the girl, surely, but respond in kind? Gather her against him where none could see, show what relief he felt she would rather join with the Mockingbird than seek out another green boy to woo and shackle. Having never thought of Baelish as a romantic partner, such a hurried gesture could never begin to explore the notion. But I could, Sansa resolved, his lips unmoving beneath hers. I could give him sons and be safe.
When enough time had passed, though, and still he did not rise up to answer questions unspoken, the girl pulled away. Remaining close enough that her breath would fall warm and humid on his chin, tiny flecks of silver and steel reflecting candlelight in her gaze, Sansa waited. She wished to close her eyes, lean into the caress and take comfort from Petyr’s loose grasp. How long since last someone touched her, held her, without artifice or agenda? Even Harrold, poor boy, had touched her more like a thing than a woman, as if by cupping her waist he held Winterfell itself in his palm.
Kiss me. The corners of her eyes tensed with anticipation. Show me something, anything. He had once, in the godswood; he might yet do so again. Slippery as an eel, Sansa felt the reins of power tangling in her fingers. Baelish hungered for a great many things: wealth and lands, recognition and control, her; she could see all of his appetites as if through smoked glass, vague forms hovering in the middle distance, recognizable but faint. What remained uncertain was precisely what he lusted after most of all — were it Sansa, then he should have seized her, claimed her, left no doubt that this confession of hers was favorably heard. Yet Baelish only stared, surely watching as expectation turned to anxiety, to disappointment, to embarrassment.
She dared speak the truth, granting him advantages unforeseen, only to stand rejected. Had she misjudged Petyr so egregiously? Was she still such a child, to believe one shared moment of transparency might possibly grant some peace? Now Sansa wanted only to flee, to lock herself in her room until the hot, thick lump of shame choking her dissipated.
But she had given Petyr enough already; Sansa could not, would not let him see her more vulnerable still. It was settled then: like so many before her, the Stark girl would be foisted off on whomever’s lands and titles and gold proved most worthy, all the intimacy of months past set aside in favor of what best suited him.
Fool girl! To ever think they stood as partners, or that Baelish desired them to. Nothing remained for her to fall back upon, no secret knowledge or quiet confidence, all Sansa’s assumptions scattered like dry leaves across Arryn’s dusty shelves. Only courtesy, that first and strongest shirt of mail that had weighed so heavily for so long atop her shoulders, returned to her then.
”Might I wear any color I please?” she murmured. There was no blood to conceal now. “For I daresay no suitor wishes to see his betrothed clad in remembrance of another.” Stepping back, away from his reach, her fingers clutched more tightly at one another. “But perhaps we might discuss this another evening, my lord; I grow quite weary. If you would excuse me?” Sansa offered no elbow or hand to take, merely turned back towards the narrow shaft of light from an open door, and left.