Work Text:
"Tyrell solicitors were very eager for me to help them with this particular case. Then again, so were Lannisters & co. Do tell me, Mr Stark, why I should work with Stark and sons. Do you have a better contract? Or do you expect me to do it for the honour?" He laughed, his deep voice mocking. Sansa shouldn't be listening, she knew that. But the door had been ajar when she had arrived outside her Father's office and the sounds of the conversation had beckoned her to peek inside. Her father was facing away from her, sitting opposite a man with dark hair, littered with silver at the temples. The man's eyes roamed the room as her father spoke. He gazed at the door and smirked. Sansa dived out of the way. There was no way he could have seen her, yet the look on his face suggested otherwise.
After half an hour the door opened and the man stepped out. He saw Sansa straight away, as though he had been expecting her, and walked towards her. "Miss Stark, I presume?" He asked, smiling. She nodded, shyly. "Of course, you look just like your mother, Catelyn. Where are my manners? I'm Petyr Baelish." He shook her hand, holding it for a moment too long.
"Sansa?" Her father's husky voice called out. "What are you doing here? Oh, is it time for your work experience already?" Ned's hand flew to his head as he looked around, puzzled. "Miss Mordane will give you some work to do. I'll see you later." Sansa nodded and walked towards the lift. Mr Baelish's goodbye echoing behind her.
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Mrs Mordane was an elderly woman, covered from neck to ankle to thick black clothes. Her wrinkled eyes scanned over Sansa's short blue dress with disapproving eyes. She led Sansa to a small room, hidden away at the end of the hallway. Nailed to the walls were empty shelves, revealing crumbling wallpaper, which time had turned into a dull grey. Where the shelves were empty, the floor was not. Towers of folders were piled messily, covering the ground completely. Odd papers were crumpled up, poking out of the black files. Mrs Mordane's instructions were simply to organise it. After two minutes she left, clearly not caring whether she was meant to be teaching Sansa or not.
Sansa flirted through the folders, placing them on the shelves tidily. After an hour, she still hadn't made a dent. She picked up a pile of sorted files and lifted them above her head onto the top shelf. They sat there for a moment, until they began to sway. Sansa jumped, pushing the bottom of the pile backwards, which caused the top ones to give way. Sansa's arms flew above her, sheilding her head as the folders hit her full force. The edge of one dug into her hairline as it fell, but Sansa didn't seem to notice. A small shriek escaped her lips and her blue eyes glared at the papers littered around her feet. A chuckle sounded from the doorway. Baelish. She didn't know how long he'd been there for, but she didn't care.
"Are you okay?" He whispered, his voice thick with concern as his grey-green eyes rested on her forehead. He moved with grace around the crowded floor, lifting his hand to her head. His fingers came away with red staining the tips. He held a tissue over the cut until it stopped bleeding. "There you are. Don't worry: it's just a small cut." His hand moved from her forehead until it was cupping her cheek. He leaned in and placed a gentle kiss where her head was throbbing. "Come on, let's get this mess cleared up."
Petyr was much quicker than Sansa and the room was tidied within an hour and a half. They sat on the desk, admiring their work. Petyr lifted his bag up from the floor and smirked at Sansa. "I won't tell if you won't." He pulled out a bottle of wine and unscrewed the lid, taking a hearty gulp from it. Sansa gingerly lifted the bottle to her lips and drank. The fruity liquid burnt the back of her mouth, but it sent a strange warmth through her body too. Her small hand stretched out to the door, locking it. Petyr's eyebrows raised in surprise, but he didn't say anything.
"You told me I look like my mother. How do you know what she looks like?" Sansa asked, full of courage that only wine on an empty stomach gave.
"I was friends with her when we were younger. You look just like she did at your age." His smile grew bigger with every word. "She was very pretty, Sansa." Sansa blushed and looked to the floor. "What?" He laughed.
"If I look like my Mother and she was pretty, then I must be pretty." She laughed, a grin grew across her face, hoping for his to be embarrassed. He wasn't. He hand cupped her cheek, turning her to face him. He was so close now.
"Yes, you are." He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers. Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into her, kissing him deeper. Their tongues melting together, as his hands drifter from her hips, to her lower back, to her auburn hair. He moved off of the desk, standing between her legs. His hands moved to the hem of her dress, pulling it up to her hips. He tugged at her underwear, trailing kisses down her legs as he pulled them off her and sent them flying across the room.
She unzipped his trousers, wrapping her legs around him as she did so. He nipped at her shoulder lightly and entered her. Her hands grabbed his shirt, pulling it with all the strength she had. She cried out. His hips slowed, allowing Sansa to take control. She met each thrust, quickening the pace. Petyr moaned in her ear as he dug her heels into his back, pulling him in even closer. He rests his forehead against Sansa's and his thrusts become sharper, and more forceful. With one final thrust Petyr shakes and calls out her name.
Her pants mirror his as they try to regain their breath. He leans in and kisses her again, before moving away. He brushes down his clothes and leaves without another word. Sansa sits there for a moment, fixing her clothes and her hair, which is now clinging to her back. As she leaves a thought crosses her mind: she going to enjoy her work experience.