Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/209265.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Petyr_Baelish/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Petyr_Baelish, Sansa_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Dubious_Consent, Orgasm_Delay/Denial, Community:
      kink_bingo, Begging
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-06-07 Words: 977
****** Not Yet (Please Now) ******
by helens78
Summary
     Telling Sansa she can't doesn't actually stop her, but of course
     Littlefinger must have known it wouldn't.
Notes
     I... I don't even know. I was quietly working on another fic and my
     brain went "YOU MUST WRITE PETYR/SANSA ORGASM CONTROL FIC. NOW." And
     I said, "But... I have no idea how they even end up on the run
     together in canon, what the fuck!" And my brain replied, "SO WHAT."
     So, er. This happened.
His hands are stronger than they look, and she doesn't know if it's because he
trains when no one's looking or if it's because he's had so many women in
positions just like this one. Held down so they won't run, held fast so they
can't squirm. The name Littlefinger feels like a cruel joke; Lord Baelish's
hands aren't small, not really, and right now they have her right where he
wants her.
Sansa twists her face away, as if that'll do any good; he can probably smell it
on her, all that want, all that need. It's not her fault. He's been seducing
her since they took off together, seducing and not assuming, not the way
Joffrey did.
Even his hand on her throat is a seduction; even his hand in her hair. He
knows, maybe, that she doesn't know how to say yes. He knows she needs a firm
hand, just not a cruel one, and that's what he is to her: a firm hand to keep
her in her place. This place. With him.
She still remembers what it was like being taken for the first time, how much
she'd ached for him, over and over, until finally he gave her his fingers (not
little, never little, not when they were deep inside her that first time), and
in spite of the pain and the fear, there was need above all else, need that
wasn't just for any man's hands or his cock but for him.
Now it's his cock, filling her up, while he puts a hand on her throat and holds
her head down by the hair and whispers, "Not yet, girl, not until I say--"
She whimpers. He always says that, always tells her to wait, and she can't this
time. She can't. They ran, today; they hid, they held their breath together and
stayed unseen, and on days when she's still safe and still alive despite the
odds, it's as though her whole body vibrates for this, as though she could come
just from being breathed on.
She wonders if he knows how to do that. If anyone does, it's likely him.
She draws her knees up, angles herself to get more of his cock inside her.
Sometimes when he's deep enough, there's still a little pain, and that helps
her to hold off from coming, at least for a while.
Sometimes, like now, like this moment when his hands are holding her still, the
pain is just another kind of pleasure, deep and deceitful, hurting until it
threatens to push her to the other side regardless.
She brings her hands up, small and slim on his back, and scratches at him. He
grins down at her, eyes narrowed, smile false--she's beginning to know all his
false smiles now, and wonders if she's ever seen a real one.
"Not yet," he tells her, hand tight against her throat. She closes her eyes and
focuses on breathing, which gives her something to think about other than the
pleasure, other than how close she's getting, how her thighs are drenched with
her need.
He tugs at her hair, lightly, oh-so-lightly, and that's it: suddenly she can't
wait anymore, and she knows it. She grasps his arms and opens her eyes, looking
at him in a panic. "Please," she mouths, hands tightening, "my lord, please,
please--"
But his smile doesn't change. "No."
Too late, too much--she gasps and curls forward, fighting it down. Not yet, not
yet, not yet--
But as she curls forward, he bends down, putting his lips at her ear. "Don't,"
he warns her. "Don't. I know you want to--I know you can't help yourself--but I
said no, so it's no. Hold yourself together, don't think about the pleasure,
don't think about how hot you are for my cock, how hot you always are for it,
how I barely need to touch you and you're wet for me--"
"--please," she begs, beyond caring about his words (true, they're all true,
every one of them, oh, Gods, help me), and she finds herself left with only
that, that one word, all she can give, something she has to give him. "Please,
please, please..."
He pants against her lips, breath hot, mustache tickling. "No," he growls, low
and deep, and he slams himself into her, faster now, just right, but no, he
said, but yes, she can't--no, Gods, no, she can't stop--
He's laughing as she comes, laughing as the tremors take her, laughing as the
pleasure releases and leaves her begging and wrecked and shaky. He takes his
hands off her hair, her throat, and holds himself up, looking down at her as
she tries to breathe and struggles for--anything, really; dignity, composure, a
moment's belief that she's more than just another one of Petyr Baelish's
whores.
But as he strains and spends himself, she knows she's lying to herself. She
opens her eyes while he's catching his breath, and she reaches out for him when
he starts to move away.
"Please--!"
He pauses and raises an eyebrow at her. "You'd like to stay like this?" he
asks, gently rolling his hips forward. He's softening now; she can feel it even
as he moves. But he lowers himself down on top of her, and she wraps her arms
around his shoulders and tucks her face into his neck.
His lips move against her shoulder, and she has to strain to hear him, even
from this close. "--such a naughty girl," he murmurs, "coming even when you're
told you can't..."
She nods against him and squeezes her eyes shut tight. "I'll be better next
time," she promises. "I'll be good."
"I'll teach you," he whispers, and he bites down lightly on her shoulder. She
gasps, but clutches him all the tighter.
She's good at lessons.
-end-
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