[ It's only once he, too, has found his feet that he tries to pull her closer, his arms carefully winding about her frame. (He nearly pauses for a moment, unsure of the wisdom of his own actions, but the thought lingers for just a passing second.) Gently, cautiously, the pad of his tongue presses against the seam of her lips, a hint as to the embers that begin to glow in his blood and the part of him that yearns for her in a way that isn't quite storybook. The children are not allowed movies nor radios nor books and Mr. Baelish knows as well as any of the other staff to what extent their education is lacking.
He is not confection and sugar sweet but a different sort of gentleness — like the worn patches on his sleeves, like an old hand-knit scarf, like a beloved book. Kind, more than cloying. The very best parts of him. Still sad, still melancholy (still damaged), but kind. ]
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He is not confection and sugar sweet but a different sort of gentleness — like the worn patches on his sleeves, like an old hand-knit scarf, like a beloved book. Kind, more than cloying. The very best parts of him. Still sad, still melancholy (still damaged), but kind. ]