aviary | CLOSED | prompt eight

[ He shifts in his seat, gaze flickering up quickly to meet hers as the smile he wears turns sharp. (As much as he enjoys power plays, he doesn't enjoy starting out with the lesser hand. She'll pay for it later, but for as long as her little brother's still in the other room, there's not much he can do about it.) ]

Might be an understatement, honey.

[ She'll pay for it later and maybe that's what she's counting on — knock on wood, fingers crossed for a fresh set of bruises, for the kiss that comes after (neverendingly sweet) and the guise of something good, like he almost maybe cares, when he tells her sorry, baby, can't help myself around you. ]

Y'think? [ comes the reply from behind her magazine and then Sansa hums, her toes curling against him, feeling for that tell-tale resistance that lets her know he's got him standing at attention for her. ] Tell me something else I already know, huh?

[ (Sweet things whispered through panting breath, through a self-satisfied smile that tries to curb its edges for her sake. You know I love you, baby.

Love is a word he throws around without much caution. He'd lost whatever use he had for it a good long while ago.) ]

How about this for size, [ he starts (and yes, she's got him hot, yes, she's got him hard), ] you aren't exactly winning any prizes for goodness, either.

[ From the other room comes the loud crash bang of Bran's grand touring car hitting a cement median at 150 miles per hour. The younger boy shouts, but doesn't necessarily curse, as the game over music begins to play its techobeat fanfare. The slow knead of Sansa's foot stops abruptly, the pressure still firm against him; her attention slides out from behind her magaazine to peer towards the open doorway to the living room but no one comes through. The game resets and the music starts again and it's only after the sound of that big block engine starts climbing the higher registers that Sansa relaxes again.

A painted toe nail scratches along the length of Uncle Petyr's fly. ]

Don't see you doing anything about it, officer. You off the clock?

[ For an instant, Petyr's eyes close, a sigh smoothing out the line of his shoulders. (There's a certain amount of temptation to leave the boy to his own devices and take advantage of one of the empty rooms. Only time will tell if it'll actually come to fruition, he supposes.)

As she turns back to him, he opens his eyes again, letting his tongue run a slow circuit about his lips as he glances down and then back up at her. ]

Why don't you tell me?

[ His eyes close and that's a kind of victory, however small. In this game — and it is a game, anyone who says otherwise is full of shit — it's every man for himself and Uncle Petyr's not the type to give anyone the edge. Not even Sansa.

The magazine gives a soft slap as she drops is abruptly onto the table. It reveals a smile and flushed cheeks. (The wronger the act, the hotter she gets. That's one of the first discovers he ever made about his sweet little niece.)

She's a little breathless already, a free hand drifting down between her own thighs: ] You seem pretty on the clock to me.

[ When he grins at her across the table now, the expression is all teeth, a you got this round, baby, and, yes, a promise for later. She knows him well enough by this point to know that.

The line of his lips only widens as he watches the path her hand takes. ]

On the clock and your little brother in the next room, [ he hisses, one hand curling into a fist on the countertop. ]

You actively looking to get coal for Christmas?

[ The soft heat beneath the arch of Sansa's foot has grown hard and hot, offering a satisfying sort of resistance (that friction and ache that Uncle Petyr likes best of all). It's easier now to gain a bit of leverage over him, even as her own hand slips under her skirt to feel at the wet spot in her panties.

She gives a small yelp when she presses down hard enough on that damp cotton, her foot jerking awkwardly against Petyr as the sensation travels down the length of her leg with a tell-tale twitch. If it's a matter of who'll last longer between them, the advantage can easily spiral out of Sansa's hands if she isn't careful. (Sixteen years old, legs that go on for miles, and a hairtrigger located smackdab between her thighs, hotwired directly to her ears and to her mouth. A classic case of dirty in, dirty out.)

Slumping back in her chair, the strap of her dress slipping carelessly off her shoulder, Sansa gives a visible shiver beneath her own fingers. ] You rather I be nice, Uncle Petyr?

[ (Jesus Christ, he's a lucky man.) ]

I'd never be that ungrateful, [ he hums, gaze traveling down the length of her arm before flickering back up to her face. He's still smiling when he shakes his head in mock reproach, though that smugness dies soon enough. (Sixteen years old, legs that go on for miles, already wet — he's not the kind of man who has a lot of shame and it doesn't bother him to admit that he wants her, bad. It's not every guy who gets to live this kind of thing out.)

With a nod toward the other room: ]

Hope you've got a good excuse for the little one.

[ Sansa tries to laugh — light, so the sound carries proper, the way a normal laugh would — but the air gets caught up in her throat as she pulls the thin fabric of her underwear to one side and feels the cool air tickle against the wetness there. She wants to giggle at the sensation, but she can't, her head fizzling with both adrenaline and arousal as she teases herself with the suggestion of slipping an overeager finger inside (these days she doesn't touch herself unless Petyr's watching, doesn't allow herself that kind of satisfaction unless he's given it to her or wrung it from her). It's nearly enough to derail her, her foot stilling against Petyr momentarily before finally starting up again.

Though she doesn't ask for permission, her eyes beg for it regardless. (Even when she vies for the upperhand, Sansa still needs his approval, his unmitigated ugliness and desire. At the end of the day, that was the whole point and without it, she had nothing.) ] I'll take care of Bran— [ Another caught breath, her hand still teasing, teasing. ] —if you take care of me.

[ He glances once at the nearby hallway, the smile on his face nothing short of razor-sharp. (Grin like that could split a hair in two.) She likes him sweet, but she likes him ugly, too, and it's in that balance that Petyr has found himself caught like a fly in honey, too delighted by the ugliness he finds mirrored inside her to notice that he's drowning at all. (Though, that said, he's well aware he needs to be careful. He may by the adult, but at the end of the day he knows who Ned Stark would believe.)

He's half breathless when he speaks again (too noticeable a weakness, though his senses are too hazy for him to truly care). ]

've I ever let you down, honey?

CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

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