CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

[dondarrion]

prompt eight | R U I N dressing-room style. closed to rog.

 

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[precinct]

[ (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.

[neighbourhood]

[ 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.

[precinct]

[ 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?