Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/862019.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Game_of_Thrones_(TV), A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Sansa_Stark/Petyr_Baelish
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Petyr_Baelish
  Additional Tags:
      Post_AFFC, Femdom, Book_Spoilers, Light_Bondage
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-06-29 Words: 741
****** i call myself ******
by ClassyFangirl
Summary
     Petyr keeps saying her mother's name in bed. Sansa sets out to fix
     this.
Notes
     Takes place shortly after A Feast for Crows, in the space before
     Sansa's eventual marriage.
Sansa loves her Lord Baelish, and she willingly lets it show, whether she is
Alayne Stone, who gladly kisses her father's cheek, or when she is behind
closed doors, and they lie together in dim candlelight, Petyr's breath hot on
her neck.
But she is dissatisfied. Well- she's always dissatisfied, if she's quite honest
with herself, but that is always assuaged by Petyr's kisses and promises of a
new start and Winterfell returned to her. More specifically, she is discontent
with the way Petyr says her mother's name when they are in bed together.
Otherwise, he is quite talented, she thinks, though she's known no one else,
but she is mostly quite happy with the way he touches her, the way he arches
his hips against her.
But that matter of the name...when he moans "Cat," while he thrusts into her,
it puts ice under her skin. She is quite tired of it, and finally, Sansa
decides to put an end to it.
They are in his bed, both of them undressed, and Petyr is above her, stroking
one hand through her hair. "Cat," he whispers, letting his other hand rest on
her hip.
Sansa pushes the hand away. "No." Saying it excites her, makes her feel truly
powerful.
Petyr is startled out of his lustful reverie. "What, love?"
Sansa rolls out from under him. He turns to watch her go, and she pins him down
onto the bed. He is not a large man, not by any means, but he is bigger than
her, stronger, and he could push her off with ease. But he does not. "You
always say that name," Sansa says. "I want you to say my name."
Petyr raises his eyebrows. "Oh, my sweet, I can certainly do that-" He lifts a
hand to touch her hair again, and she grabs his wrist, slams it back down to
the bed.
"You will," she says firmly. How strange it feels, to command him! But he does
not protest. "I will make sure of it."
He smiles wickedly at her. He has been teaching her for so long how to get what
she wants through quiet suggestion, but it seems that a change of pace
intrigues him. "Of course, my love. I shall."
Sansa nods curtly. She wishes she could sit up and keep pressing his wrists
down, when- ah-ha -she spies his belt on the floor, discarded in their hurried
disrobing. She picks it up and begins to tie Petyr's wrists together in front
of him. She glances at him quickly, to assure that this is all right, and he
nods almost imperceptibly. Sansa smiles and sits straight up. She slides her
hand along Petyr's torso as she centers herself over his hardening cock. "Say
my name," she says.
"Catelyn," he says, his eyes laughing. He wants to play a game, then? That's
fine. Sansa started this game, after all.
She digs her nails into his skin and he winces. "Say my name," she repeats
coldly, though inside she is grinning like a child.
"Sansa," he breathes. "Sansa."
"That's better." Sansa lowers herself onto Petyr's cock and shivers as it
enters her. She looks down at Petyr to see him panting already, even though
they've hardly started. It makes her stomach flip joyously to have such power
over him. She wonders if this is how lords feel all the time. She understands
why they like it so much.
She presses down against him and lets out a little gasp. "Say it again," she
says, rocking her hips back and forth. "Say it again."
"Sansa," Petyr groans. "Oh, Sansa-" He strains against the strip of leather
wrapped around his wrists, as though he longs to touch her and cannot. It is a
delicious sight, to see him unable to. "Sansa, my sweet," he whispers.
She presses her thumbs into his hips as she grinds against him. She wonders if
she could press hard enough to leave bruises. Maybe that's a test for another
day. "One more time," she whispers, nearly breathless herself.
"My queen," Petyr pants as he spills into her. Sansa feels light enough to fly
away.
Sansa unbinds Petyr's wrists and they lie there in bed, sticky with sweat. "I
think," Petyr says, his bare chest heaving, "the student has surpassed the
teacher."
Sansa laughs and leans forward to capture his lips in a kiss. "I'm sure we can
still learn plenty from each other."
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