Imprisoned - Petyr Baelish x Reader [Smut]
Synopsis: After being captured during a raid on your home, Petyr Baelish is sent to interrogate you… neither one of you finds what you expect you will.
Notes: Tully!Reader. A little bit of an au, where the Blackfish did in fact marry and have one daughter, the reader. His wife is dead tho. Also, this is set sometime around season 4!
Also warning for sooorta dubcon? Not really but sorta??
@underratedcharactersimagines
You run as fast as your feet can take you, your boots pounding through blood on stone. You would have stayed and fought them with your family, but somebody had to get North and tell your Aunt what had happened. Today could not, and would not be forgotten.
The grey cloak conceals your face, your hair shoved underneath your hood. You had been getting ready for bed when the Lannister army had invaded Riverrun, and had just finished brushing it.
You can hear them behind you, chasing you, yelling after you. You can run faster than any of them though, and your swimming can be rivalled by none in the seven kingdoms—a true Tully.
You prepare to drop your cloak and dive into the river leading North, but as you unbutton your dress, you let out a scream. Arms three times the size of your head wrap tight around your ribs, and you kick, feeling your feet lift off the ground and your body being tossed over this monster’s shoulder.
“Unhand–!” you begin to shout, then your world goes black.
Tywin Lannister places his goblet down, sitting at the head of the banquet table of Riverrun. Across from him sit his attack dog The Mountain, a Lannister bannerman, and a trusted advisor… Lord Petyr Baelish.
“Good news, I presume?” Tywin directs his question at the bannerman. The man nods once.
“Our men have secured the castle.”
“And the Blackfish?” Tywin continued.
The bannerman lost a little of his confidence, and shifted. “…Escaped, milord.”
Tywin’s jaw clenched, but he only appeared mildly inconvenienced. “I heard we captured someone. A girl. At least my army can do that much.” Tense silence fills the room, and Tywin looks up expectantly. “Well? Who is she?”
“A chambermaid I’d wager, my lord,” Baelish speaks up, “Caught fleeing to the river in a cloak, stolen no doubt.”
“Smart girl,” Tywin nods, “It takes at least some mental capacity to deduce armoured men can’t swim.” He looks at Petyr. “I want you to interrogate her. I want to know what she knows, who she served.”
Lord Baelish gets up, and gives a deep bow, heading off to carry this out.
You come to, head rolling back against jagged rock. Your eyes adjust to relative darkness, the only light streaming in coming from the small window just above you. You moan slightly, looking around. Chains hang from the stone walls, your family sigil chiseled into the heavy iron door.
You think back to your childhood, and how absolutely fucking brilliant you were to spend days playing with your cousin down here. You would get him to lock you in (always you, as if you locked him in, he’d rot down here). You would then make a day of discovering weaknesses in the walls, how to scale them with your bare hands, how to wiggle loose the faulty bar in the middle of the door and get out. The imprisonment scenarios you two came up with always made for good laughs.
Of course, your father, Brynden Tully, would find you two and make you sorry you even thought of running around where dangerous men could snatch you into their cells to get back at the family who imprisoned them. But the game certainly served you now.
You brush off and reach up, preparing to scale the stone as you have so many times, but the iron door creaks. You quickly drop back down, and cover yourself with the cloak, hugging your knees to your chest. A man steps in—shorter than most lords, but regal in posture. He must be a lord of some sort.
“It’s alright, child,” the man speaks in a gravelly, mysterious sort of voice, “I didn’t come here to hurt you.”
You make no move to uncover. Letting him think you’re frightened will serve you better when you eventually use this cloak to choke him, hang him, and escape.
“I wouldn’t try what you’re plotting in there if I were you.” You pause, and steal another look at the man. Your eyes narrow, and he smirks, shutting the door. “I know what it’s like to be young and scrappy. But I’m telling the truth. I will not hurt you.”
He walks over, takes the hood off of you… as your hair tumbles out, his eyebrows raise.
“Well. I see we’ve made a fortuitous mistake, haven’t we?”
You get a good look at the man now that he’s standing right in front of you. He’s a middle aged man, has attractive facial hair, silver laced throughout the black hair on his head, and a gleam in his eye that suggests he’s experienced at a great many things.
Don’t let your perchance for trouble set you back.
“You’re not a Lannister.”
The man tilts his head. “I am not.”
“Lord Petyr Baelish, Lady Tully.”
“Your mother’s dead. You’re of age. That makes you Lady of Riverrun.”
“Where is my father?” you ask, ignoring the sting of reality. The man leans against the far wall, ignoring this inquiry.
“I’ve heard stories of your valour, my lady. They say you take after your extended family up North… why didn’t you stay and fight?”
“Lord and Lady Stark had to know,” you mutter. “Our legacy will not be buried once you and your lions trample over our home.”
“They intend on keeping it as a stronghold,” Petyr tells you.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I would say it’s a preferable outcome to Tywin Lannister gifting your home to the Freys,” Petyr nods. Your mouth closes. He has a point. “So,” he goes on, that devilish smirk returning as he approaches you, “What a predicament we find ourselves in. I am the only one in this castle who knows who you are. For now.”
“And what do you plan to do with that information?”
“That all depends on you, my love,” Petyr says, and reaches a hand out. You realize all too late you’re not pulling away, and almost lean into his touch as he strokes your cheekbone, up to your hair to twirl a lock. “I always was partial to the hair of a Tully.”
“What do you want?” you grit out, and he hums.
You feel the desire starting to simmer inside you, and as usual, it is at the wrong time, with the wrong person. Extremely wrong. Terribly wrong. Horribly—
“To what are you referring, Lord Baelish?” you ask, legs just barely falling open. His eyes dart down, then back up to yours, calculating. He’s momentarily thrown off by this display, but regains his footing quickly.
“Tell me something I can tell the Lannisters. Something about your family. Plans, anything. Then I can let you go.”
You finally lean out of his touch, closing your legs. “I’d die before I tell you anything.”
Petyr hesitates. “You’re nothing like your cousin.”
"I haven’t seen Edmure in years.”
“That, is because he’s living out the rest of his days in a dungeon.”
“Put there by the people who command you.”
He gives a shrug, conveying his “such is life” attitude, and you look away with a disgusted scowl. He gets up, and walks closer to you. “Lannister dungeons… Tully dungeons. Stark dungeons, Tyrell dungeons, they’re only namesakes. The stone does not belong to a house. You are imprisoned by stone, the same as Edmure Tully. Who it belongs to does not make it any friendlier.”
“I beg to differ,” you mutter, “If this was a Stark dungeon, I sincerely doubt my cousins would watch me dwindle to a corpse in Winterfell.” Petyr smiles, one of his many.
“Now, my love, you are thinking like a princess.”
You continue to watch him, biting your bottom lip. His intelligence, his behaviour, how well spoken he is… he’s exactly your type, and you can feel it where you need him most.
“What’s dancing around in that head of yours?” he smiles, touching your hair again. Your lips open, but no sounds come out. His hand begins to trail down, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
“Lord Baelish,” you try to say, but his hand feels its way down to your breast, squeezing gently. You take a deep breath, the desire returning. He moves on, and reaches down your stomach, rubbing up your hipbone.
“Say my name, sweetling,” he whispers. Don’t do it. Don’t give in.
“I…” your eyelids flutter as he inches closer to you, lips almost touching yours. How did he suddenly get so close? Before you can do anything, he’s got you flipped around, front pressed against the wall.
“Do you want me inside you?” he hisses, hand wandering over your ass, and your pussy clenches. “Do you want my fingers slick with you? Do you want my cock pounding in and out of your tight little cunt, while I tell you what a good little girl you are? Tell me. Tell me what you want.”
“I want you, daddy,” you moan, leaning back for the kiss, but he evades you, smirking. Time slows back down, and your eyes open, mouth wide and waiting.
“Perhaps another day,” Petyr breaks the silence, “I can’t keep Tywin Lannister waiting.”
Your heartbeat pounds as anger hits you. You step forward, and drag him in for a kiss, flipping you two so that you’ve got him pinned to the wall. He kisses back as if he can’t help but ignore his own excuse, and his hands find your arms, gripping on as you work his belt. Once he’s undone, you slide down to your knees, and Petyr watches you with darkened pupils.
“Show daddy how much you need him, my love,” he breathes, and you delve into his pants, sinking your mouth over his cock. He lets out a breath, remaining calm, keeping his composure. He looks down at you, admiring how you look on your knees, and you keep your hands on his hips as you continue to suck him off.
“Daddy,” you murmur, popping off. You hold his cock in your hand and stroke him as you talk, “How does it feel, my lord?”
“Perfect,” he hisses, and guides you back on. You continue to blow him, listening to his breathy moans, his whispered curses in that drawling voice of his, and with every deep throat, you want him even more.
Finally, he takes you off, and pulls you up for another kiss. He holds you against the wall again, whispering in your ear.
“Is this what you want, girl? You want me to make you come so hard you forget every suitor Lord Tully ever arranged for you? Forget every other man you’ve ever had between these legs?”
“Yes, Lord Baelish, yes.”
He parts your legs, and buries himself in, thrusting deep and hard. You cry out, but he covers your mouth with a gloved hand, holding it there as he slams you into the wall again and again, his other hand snaking down to lift your dress further.
“Such a pretty cunt,” he whispers, “Perfect, sweetling.”
You moan, letting his words wash over you, and his ministrations below build your climax.
“Please,” you gasp, “Oh please…”
“Do you need to come, little dove?”
“Are you certain you deserve it?”
He gasps, feeling his orgasm begin to build. “Come for me, my lady. Let me feel it.”
You come hard, gasping his name as quietly as possible, and he groans, spilling inside you. The sound of skin slapping against skin dies down, and he smoothes a hand up your back, then down again, pulling out.
You turn, to find him standing, in awe of you. You steady out your breath, licking your lips, and run a hand through your hair.
“Don’t expect… Lord Baelish… that this will prevent me from running you through with a sword the next time I see your smirking face.”
He gives one last of those little smirks, opening the iron door for you. “I never expect, my lady Tully. I wager.”
As you’re escaping by foot to Winterfell, Lord Baelish approaches the dining hall once more, poised and unruffled. He bows as Tywin takes notice.
Petyr gives a small smile. “Of no use to us, my lord. A lowborn girl of no learning and scattered wits, I assure you. Her body is at the bottom of the river.”
Tywin gives him a look. “I would appreciate it, Baelish, if you would tell me before you drown the only prisoner I’ve taken from a raid.” Petyr gives a small bow of apology. “…But despite my better judgement, I believe you. Very well– we ride for King’s Landing at dawn.”
Lord Baelish smirks to himself as he imagines running into you again in the North someday. You certainly everything he wanted, and nothing he would forget.
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