Ah! The chill of his touch. The chill of his hands and his nose and his
lips. Whatever tactile sensations might boast otherwise, the reality was
that Petyr Baelish was not, in fact, cold. Far from it, for
whatever preternatural vitae swam just beneath his skin was hot,
boiling, and such was proven to her each time he allowed her to sup from
pale blue veins. The human shell of him – that was dead. Cold.
Corpse-like, even. But the innards of the beast were as bubbling and
thriving as any living creature, though his blood did not gush nor flow
from his wounds and it was no beating heart which kept his essence
pumping through him. Is that why she was drawn to him? There was
something magical about him, wasn’t there? A deep, dark fairy
tale, and she the intrepid heroine. Did she ever think about it, as she
stumbled further and further into the labyrinth?
The crust of
ice crunched beneath their footfalls, and Baelish smirked at Sansa’s
suggestion that he best be prepared to carry her. “When ever have I
failed in that, my dear?” It was mildly insulting, but the way he
glanced down at her told her she had no reason to take offense. “If you
twist your ankle I will take the greatest of care in mending it.” And the greatest of pleasure.
Any injury inflicted upon Sansa was always seen to by Baelish with a
zealot-like interest, from the smallest of paper cuts to the horrible
gash in her head she had once sustained in a car crash. It was always
her flaws which he seemed to focus on, delight in, have a vested stake in.
At
her next words, Petyr paused in his step, turning his head fully to
look at her. “Do you find me cold?” The glint in his gaze did nothing to
hide his mirth. “A cold lover?” One brow twitched upward. By the hand
he guided her again, turning sharply into a narrow alley between two old
buildings; it was occupied by soggy cardboard boxes and the snow had
not been cleared. Undoubtedly she would find it wretched, a horrible idea, and voice her consternation with no small amount of fervor. But before she could, Baelish had swept her off of her daintily-heeled feet, though it was far from how a lady would be carried, and more indeed how one would arrange a whore preparing to be fucked.
Through layers of cloth finery their abdomens kissed, and in such a
position it would be more than natural for Sansa to wrap her legs about
her carrier. Certainly it would come with ease when she felt the old
stone of one of the alley’s walls rough against her back. Petyr kissed
her, ardently, his mouth a possessive crush against her own, his
hands sure in their support of her body. It was a lover’s kiss, through
and through, hot and full of need. There was nothing cold about it, and
below she could even feel the press of his passion which told her it was
not some simple charade forged in order to prove her ideas wrong.
A heroine, Sansa did not fancy herself. Protagonist to her story, the central figure amidst a swirl of color and light, certainly. Yet what otherworldly lover taught was that perhaps good and evil, right and wrong, existed in a state altogether more fluid than childhood tales suggested. Though Baelish likened her to a stream, slowly eroding what was once immovable, she entertained no such delusions. In time the girl could make him privy to her wants, her needs, those small peculiarities which marked one human being as separate from the rest; indeed, he had already taken into account a great many, yet such attention to detail did not — to Sansa’s eye — change his nature, nor how he indulged feral instinct.
In every story, heroines tamed beasts. In hers, Sansa sought to join them.
“I know.” Gentle smile peeked out from beneath snowy tufts of fox. It ought have irked her, she who bucked at nearly every demonstration of control. There were moments where Sansa did wonder: was it that he believed her so utterly fragile, his care an equivalent of kid gloves and soft words meant to soothe? Then Petyr’s breath, warm, would fall upon ivory skin, his tongue sweeping slow and long across opened wounds; pulse quickened, thoughts fogged, a faint, inexorable pull calling to her through a conduit purer than loyalty or love. Blood. In those moments knowing came, a shallow understanding of what drove him, and the deeper, vital urge to follow.
Until now Baelish made such following easy. Luxury hotels, fine wines, designer clothes… oftentimes she felt just like those porcelain dolls Eddard Stark brought back from his jaunts down to London. Sansa floated through her days and nights upon a luxurious cloud, untouched by any true hardship; even violent moments — ones punctuated by teeth and tongue and pulse — found her comfortably ensconced amongst brocade cushions, enveloped in linen sheets. So did she find him cold? “Only when you wish me to,” Sansa teased, arm stretched taut as for a moment the girl made to continue on along their well-paved, well-lit path. To step into the alley’s darkened maw fingers twitched with distress, her first thought absurdly rooted in a fear of robbers. Painted lips opened with unvoiced questions, jumbled together into a faint, shocked gasp when Petyr swept her up and out of puddles glistening with an oiled sheen to wrap both legs loosely about his waist. “What— ?” Flesh understood well before mind. Even as confused query echoed down unswept cobblestones her arms looped firmly behind his nape, hips tilting forward to better feel amorous swell. Mouths worked together, her passion stoked by that first anxious quiver in her belly. When at last they broke apart, noses brushing, breath commingling, a gleam not reflected from any yellowed streetlamp flashed in sapphire rings. “Here?” Nails dug further into Baelish’s shoulders. More kisses trailed from lips to jaw, brushing at his throat where it disappeared into a collar impeccably pressed. “We might be seen,” she warned, heat coursing beneath whispered words.
He had promised her, once, that there was great pleasure to be found in submission. For too long Baelish had been alive – at least so far as one such as Baelish could be considered alive. Without a beating heart or the need to draw breath into his lungs he was almost certainly not, and yet he existed, moved, spoke, felt, and all such things meant he was at least not dead.
In being so, he had become firmly set in his ways, a mountain, a great
pillar of granite, immovable, and more importantly, not interested in
moving. As such, having the sudden, sprightly energy of a girl who
thought herself all-knowing in all things (as young girls were wont to
do) constantly surrounding him became something of a bother. Like
a stream, she was, winding and swooping and intent on seeking out the
furthest reaches of the world with watery fingers. Too, like a stream,
she flowed over him, eroding him, etching out a furrow to which she
might forever travel, reshaping him.
Such was his delight with mortality. Such was his delight with her.
Outside,
the flakes of snow found shelter in her hair; tiny white crystals
winked at him from within copper waves. Baelish liked her like that,
clad in the elements, far more than any expensive swath of silk or wrap
of fur. It transformed her into something ancient, as though she were
part of the earth itself, a goddess which predated man and his
clumsy ways. She leaned into him, the fibers of her fox brushing his
face where she trailed her nose along his skin. Her confession prompted
him to turn against her, their cheeks brushing. Across her throat his
fingers lifted in covetous brush, propping his thumb beneath her chin,
hovering his mouth just over hers. In satisfaction he hummed. He met her
gaze, and it was no man who looked down to behold his lady.
Milos stepped outside, the car all shiny wet black salted by snow, but
Baelish held a hand out to him before he could round the vehicle to open
the door.
“Let us walk home.” An absurd notion, for the manor
was several miles away, along far off fields and twisted roads. The snow
grew ever deeper by the minute. Sansa’s shoes were fit for the innards
of a posh soiree, not for tramping about through the icy cold. Surely he could not mean to walk back?
But Milos disappeared back into the car, and Baelish wove his fingers
more tightly with Sansa’s, turning to lead her down the sidewalk.
On Petyr, the snow failed to melt. Where his coat harbored vestiges of warmth, held in by black woolen fibers which lingered under the steady hum of modern heating, it slowly turned to watery droplets, staining the fabric an impossibly deeper shade. But on his lashes, his cheeks, his hands? The crystals remained intact, making it seem to Sansa as though she viewed him through a crystalline lens, slightly unfocused but imminently flattering. As her time with him continued she eventually took notice of how Baelish fitted into the natural order — or rather, how the natural order refused him. Beyond the numerous obvious matters, ones of eating and breathing and resting, Sansa had begun to see how nearly everything of natural origin granted him a certain berth, as though distance itself from that which it did not fully understand.
Except humans. Prey. They were not repelled. Sansa least of all, turning into him, against him, seeking shelter from the wind. When she did not shiver at his touch a queer thought took root — perhaps you shivered at a cold hand not because of its temperature, but from an expectation of warmth gone unfulfilled. Baelish sometimes indulged her with flushes of heat, manufactured, temporary; those illusions never convinced her, not entirely, and so she rarely shuddered to feel his bare flesh on hers.
She did blush, however, blood rushing in lurid display to both cheeks. It was not the chill breeze which made it so, but Petyr, looking down at her more like a wolf than a man. His suggestion to walk offered no pleasure — Sansa enjoyed the snow and cold well enough, though not when navigating them in an evening’s finery — yet in the spirit of cooperation she raised no complaint. A creature centuries old, Baelish made no suggestion without forethought; if he meant to stroll back to their abode, then surely some ulterior motive lurked unseen. “And if I twist my ankle?” A distinct possibility, considering the terrain and her charmingly mortal fragility. “You had best stand ready to carry me,” she warned, smiling, “unless a lover as cold as you is your preference.”
It would come full circle. One day in the future she would again find
the mortal body and soul far greater than that of its immortal
counterpart. It would be counterintuitive to perhaps believe that God’s
brittle son was the gilded bark which covered the cankered trunk of a
luxuriant tree and not the lasting shades of night which lived on and on
and on – yet it would be correct. It was man and his flaws, his
futility, his death, his aging, which would beguile her once she was no
longer possessed of those abilities. She would change and change again,
hate what she could not have, and then hate herself for not having it.
All in due time.
For
now, they bored her, like the feline possessed of a hunter’s foreteeth
who does naught but lazily bat at the mouse. She thought herself above them, by simple proximity to one who she believed was.
“Are you accusing me of neglect?” Petyr’s fingers trickled into the dip
of her back, guiding her towards the exit with the slow, meandering
gait of one in no rush to leave. He smirked, quietly, delighting in the
rare flash of her candor. It was not often she allowed him the upper
hand without the ruse of a fight. She wanted it, then. She wanted him.
Wanted him to show her who she truly belonged to. “Mm,” he agreed in
thoughtful sound. “And I would share your satisfaction.” At the door he
stopped, handing over a small ticket for the host to fetch their coats.
Outside, there was a glittering blanket of snow covering the ground, and
more coming down in thick, wafery flakes. “Gloves, my dear.” It was a
long wool coat, that familiar shade of black, which enveloped him. “I’ll
not have you catch a chill.” But it was Baelish’s chilled hand which
again was held out to her, ready to escort her into winter’s bite.
Ah, but how haughty the auburn nymph might become! Imbued with the unflappable self-assurance bred into higher classes, a conviction that life and all its players somehow conspired to better an already fortuitous life, Sansa could only hone such attitudes when faced with the great expanse of eternity. It was as much a part of her as that crimson waterfall of hair, those wide pools of rarest sapphire, porcelain skin so pale, so perfect, one might fear to break the girl with a misplaced touch; obfuscated by lettered quartet, hidden deep within whorled strands of elements perhaps not even named when the man so-named Baelish drew breath, there lurked certain traits neither blood nor time’s passage could alter.
Yet tonight such pointed wiles she directed towards unfortunate strangers alone. With Petyr the girl slipped into a docile shroud; mayhaps she tired of gnashing teeth, hungering instead for submission’s liberating hold.
“So serious a crime? Never.” Her heels — whose soles would boast of an Italian origin — tapped out a cadence pointedly authoritative, despite their lackadaisical pace. Narrowed to an almost threatening point, they elevated Sansa until she stood nearly eye-to-eye with her shadowed escort. Baelish never cared. Though oftentimes far quieter, his own aplomb never failed to ensure that demarcation between man and girl remained unshaken. Blue stare toyed with it then, cutting across a collar of snowy white fox; the same fur encircled both wrists, a fitting accent to her coat, cut from creamy dove grey wool. “Do you promise?” Such blatant invitation rarely graced innocent tongue, least of all accompanied by a coy smile devoid of venomous challenge. Obedient, she retrieved a matching set of gloves from one pocket, donning them without complaint. Once outside Sansa laced their fingers together, as lovers were often wont to do. So too did she clasp an unoccupied hand over both of theirs, a gesture often undergone in pursuit of warmth, now a simple means of bringing them close. “I’ve waited for you all night.” Her whisper carried with it an aching mortality: anticipation, desire, willingness, all alongside the peculiar delight of warm breath and a chilly nose pressing upon one temple as if to remind Petyr just how very susceptible she was.
Something about objectifying his muse pleased Petyr Baelish quite
tremendously. He enjoyed having others pour themselves over her in an
effort to sway her attention; he enjoyed their scents, their taste, the
evidence of them shrouding her like clotted wool. Ah! If he could but see her
then he would not busy himself with torturous thoughts about it,
wouldn’t feel quite so much like a voyeur, even if he was by every
definition of the word. The act of discovery, later, was like savoring
every morsel of a slow, blindfolded meal. Some pleasures, some delights,
arose from the sense of an object present; and those may be called
pleasures of sense, tactile and corporeal. The rest, merely imagined, or
intentionally avoided, became a game of sensual gratification, in truth no more than a reinvigorating self-torture.
“Will
you have me believe you do not enjoy their attentions?” Petyr leaned
down and near his red bird where she craned in submissive patience, her
cheek pale with the working of a heart too big for that little body. The
tip of his nose dragged against it, curving his mouth against her ear,
scenting every intrusion she delighted in taunting him with. A hand was
held aloft for her to take as he straightened, a glimpse of his
wristwatch peeking from beneath well-tailored heather. Late. Far
later than he had earlier let on. “I only linger when I must.”
The lie of his smile was as vexing as the beckon in his gaze.
At first, Sansa had enjoyed their futile efforts rather a lot. Pumping hearts, warm flesh, the swollen purple-blue veins running just beneath conspired to relieve her of the faint unease still perpetuated by one Baelish in those early days. No matter what parlor tricks he employed, the girl remained wary, knowledge of his otherness a cumbersome barrier between complacency and intimacy. Respite came from mortal men, who by presence alone steadily convinced Sansa of their inferiority; how unrefined they were, all jagged edges and barely-acknowledged chaos, whilst Petyr stood there as smooth, as unblemished, as impenetrable as smoky, blown glass. Through him every motion had a purpose, every phrase a second meaning, and every choice bore consequences which rippled out well beyond some momentary pleasure.
When such possibility intrigued, rather than appalled, the girl knew she had changed.
“I would have you believe I enjoy yours more.” A dance, so many of their conversations, though he still knew many of the steps better than she. Tongues moved with waltzing elegance, tapping out tripartite steps as they came together and drew apart, a subtle flirtation in which neither partner ever relinquished their hold. Fox-like was the tilt of her chin, upwards and along Baelish’s jaw, deigning with a muted pleasure to accept his survey. Warm flesh slid over cool, deception unnecessary here. The slightest concession toward a shade other than inky black served only to draw her further in, a faint discrepancy that aroused curiosity, intrigue, appetite. Was it for her, or whomever he spoke with in the shadowy cover of a distant booth? “Unfortunate,” she bemoaned quietly, rising to a stand beside her escort. Playfulness lurked in azurine rings. “It is often in your lingering that I find myself most satisfied.”
She let them touch her. Not for long and never beyond the flirtatious bounds of wrist or shoulder or back. In all their time together Baelish’s coffers remained limitless, no restrictions placed upon his protege’s spending; though some would offer the finest wines, sips of liqueur from dust-shrouded bottles — displays meant to prove not only wealth but it’s disposability — she had already tasted every finery that city could offer by the time they came around. Contact left traces: lipstick on a wineglass, smears of blood on skin, the smell of perfume lingering long after embrace’s end. Once Sansa learned such evidence incited him, excited him, she sought it out with glee.
“I missed you,” the girl told him simply, swiveling away from the bar on padded seat. “Maybe you ought to think of finishing your business more quickly; it seemed as though that last one meant to carry me away.”
should an exclusive partner go inactive for 1+ month, then i will become tentatively open to interactions with duplicates. when/if they return then exclusivity may resume.
