Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5876239.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Petyr_Baelish/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Petyr_Baelish, Sansa_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      fic_prompts, fic_challenges, A_collection_of_oneshots, Age_Difference,
      Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Masturbation, Mutual_Masturbation,
      Nude_Photos, Fingerfucking, Pseudo-Incest, Uncle/Niece_Incest, Daddy
      Kink, Daddy_Issues
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-02-01 Updated: 2016-04-29 Chapters: 7/? Words: 6940
****** A Collection of Indecencies ******
by Alayne_StoneColdFox
Summary
     Short and sweet and awful.
     Making my way through a list of one word fic prompts.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Storm *****
There was always an excuse in her mind when she did things such as this
The storm raged outside, violently, unseen behind pitch black windows that
simply shook from the nights wind and rain. There were all too frequent flashes
of lightning, followed quickly by the inevitably rumble and crackling of
thunder.
Sansa padded lightly down the long hall, a guest in this great house, as her
aunt made abundantly clear. This was not her home.
The excuse was that she was scared. The weather was so frightful, so violent.
It was true it was what kept her up, what kept her on edge as the panes of
glasses rattled, the branches of the trees scraping across them so that she
tossed in bed, unable to sleep, unable to settle.
But even as she felt her way through darkened halls, towards the faint outline
of light that emanated under the door of one of the many rooms of the vast
estate, Sansa knew she wasn't truly scared. It was only the weather after all.
She had weathered far scarier forces in her life.
Once she reached the wood panelled double doors, she rested against them and
breathed, and listened, her hands only rested gently on the brass handles. She
could hear the faint sounds of a television, a mans voice, not his, and the
kind of music that hinted to a film from years passed. He was always watching
older films. Films she'd never heard of, but he always says she should have.
For a few heartbeats more, where it felt as if that heart beat resided in her
throat more than her chest, Sansa leant her forehead to the door and thought of
what to say.
'I'm scared' she could say, but would he find it endearing or would he find it
pathetic? She could say it sweetly, with her lips parted and her big eyes wide,
and would he take the chance to comfort her if she acted the part of a
frightened child? Bring her in close and put his arm around her, where she
could press herself closer every time the thunder cracked?
She decided perhaps she was more scared of this weather than usual, and excused
herself.
She wore her silk satin shorts and a thin strapped camisole, soft pink in
colour. It was cold but they were her prettiest pair of pyjamas, and her
favourites. She had started out of her room and simply not though to put a robe
on over the top, as skimpy as it was, as much as the peaks of her nipples
showed through the thin material. She excused herself.
With a gently click, she turned the handle, and pushed open the door. It
creaked entirely too loud in the silence, and at once she was met with Petyr's
turned head, as he sat reclined on the sofa.
This was one of his little hide aways. A smaller room of the manor, un-touched
by Lysa. A little informal living room, with warm plush sofa's draped in
throws, and a tv, and only a warm glow from old lamps. So many rooms here were
cold, intricately arranged, designed to impress, not to comfort, but this room
was not like those. It was hidden and private and his. It smelled like him.
Like his cigarettes, his cologne, the scent that was just naturally him.
He looked at her with inquisitive eyes but said nothing as she stepped inside,
hovered by the door frame, still holding on to it.
“I couldn't sleep.” she said with a small voice.
He smiled then. Not kindly. Knowingly.
Smugly.
“Little wonder.” he said, gesturing to the curtained windows, doing little to
muffle the violent storm outside “Come. I don't mind the company.”
She was beckoned over and what relief took her. What fear. How she relished
both the feelings as she closed the door softly behind her and made her way
over so shyly.
He was dressed in his own pyjamas. Soft cotton, dark blue, and matched and
monogrammed. His dresing gown was light but burgandy and navy striped. He was
almost as put together as he was in day time, though Sansa glanced over how
relaxed he looked. How he lounged. His hair was even slightly out of place and
she rather thought it was charming that way. To be able to see a great and
important man so much more relaxed than anyone else got to see him.
He moved his feet off the sofa to beckon her to a certain spot, close to him,
and Sansa fixed her eyes on the screen of the TV as she nestled her legs
beneath her, curling up into the cushions. Her bent kneed grazed his thighs,
the smallest of contact, but it thrilled her nonetheless. It was not on
purpose, she excused herself.
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” he explained, as the film played on, feeling him
shift in position. She was sure it was just him getting more comfortable, and
by his merit she did the same, excusing them both as they moved in closer to
each other.
“I didn't know that was a black and white film.” she said.
“This one is, made in 1934, one of many different versions, but I'd say it's by
far my favourite.”
“You've seen it before then?”
He nodded, eyes at the screen “Many times. I've read the book about three times
in my life too, as much of a doorstopper it is. One of the greatest classics,
in my eyes.”
Sansa tried to follow the story but she found she couldn't. She'd come into the
storyline half way through. The noise outside was still a distraction. Petyr's
hand had found it's way to her leg. She found herself relaxing into him as the
movie progressed. Too tired, to comfortable, to at ease to find anything wrong
with the way his hand now played at her waist, toyed with the material of her
camisole to touch delicately at bare skin.
There were always excuses.
***** Button *****
Chapter Summary
     Prompt sent by ChipNSansa from Tumblr
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I busy myself polishing my shoes to perfection.
A ritual of mine before attending a party such as this. One of the first since
Lysa's death.
I had submitted myself to an appropriate mourning period. I was a grieving
husband, keeping off the social scene. Let them imagine me alone, burdened with
grief, melancholic at home. A tragedy, to lose a spouse and a step son in so
closer time frame, people would shake their heads and feel pity for me and for
Sansa. I needn't say anything to invoke it, it came so naturally to people, to
care. Staying silent for close to a year was enough for them all to think me
now brave for finally stepping out again. For putting on a brave face. A forced
smile, they'd all assume.
Kella entered the room to lay my neatly pressed velour jacket on the bed, good
old thing that she was.
“Is Sansa almost ready?” I asked her, on the chance that she knew.
“She's already washed and done her hair, and the makeup, so we should be in the
home stretch.” she muttered, with exasperation and affection, the both of us
knowing how she is. Sansa always took such an age to get ready. Her commitment
to perfection was appreciated, of course, but it is lucky I am a man who enjoys
being fashionably late.
I choose my watch, silver this evening, to match my cufflinks. I slip on my
creaseless jacket. I comb through my hair, run a hand through it to make it sit
somewhat better, then decide to comb through it yet again. It is getting much
too long, but I look simply dreadful when it is too short.
I am ready, and it is time to check on Sansa. In all honesty, I'm surprised she
has not come hurrying into my room with five different dresses draped over her
arms, to ask which one looks best. I rather enjoy that.
Though stepping out into the hall to perhaps wait for her in the kitchen, I see
her coming down towards me already. She does not have any dresses in her arms,
instead, she has on a dark blue one, held to her chest as she walks.
“Oh,” she exclaims as we all but run into each other.
She is in somewhat of disarray, the dress I notice almost falling off of her.
“Um, I need someone...could you do this up, please.” she mumbles, turning
around shyly to expose the bare expanse of her back.
For a second I stare and breath in, teeth pulling at the skin of my lip, a
repression.
“Why, of course.” I say, staring at the flawless complexion of her youthful
skin. No, I lie. It is not flawless, there are perhaps a few freckles, the
smallest of birthmarks, dotted on the flesh. I take them all in, devour the
entire sight, before my hands come down to the very small of her back.
I feel her flinch slightly when I touch her. I press a hand to her hip more
tightly, come up behind her so I am closer, hovering right behind her, as close
as I dare.
It is no doubt designer, bought with my money, which I must say is well spent
on such elegance as this. The dress has a multitude of buttons. The entire line
of her spine, from the top of her buttocks to the nape of her neck, there is a
line of exquisite pearl buttons to be done up in the silk. Her skin is the
colour of a pearl. Running a thumb over her, she feels like silk herself.
I cannot help indulging myself, letting my fingers travel softly up the smooth
skin, softly trailing up the middle of her spine, achingly slow. I can feel her
shiver, hear her breath hitch, and I admit I must hold myself at bay. She does
not say anything, though. She never stops me when I press her like this.
I ache to run a hand to the side of her, to slip under that silk lining, to
come around to her front to cup her breast. She isn't wearing a bra, her little
tits sitting high and round, just ripe for me to handle. They would be as
smooth as the rest of her, with nipples I could tweak, run my thumbs over until
their hard.
Another time, I assure myself, as I move to do up the first button, hands now
low to her ass. Another ache emerges, to pull back the dress and peer down, to
see if she has perhaps forgone all forms of underwear all together.
Slowly I work, doing up button after button, as she holds her long auburn hair
over one shoulder, silent and allowing and unquestioning to my pace. Letting me
enjoy myself, I believe. Giving me this view, a preview of sorts, to what a
treasure her body is. As if she doesn't know I covet it. It is as cruel as it
is kind, to give me a taste, a mere morsel of her charms, when she must know
how hungry I am.
When I button her up all the way to her neck I am sad that my enjoyment is
over, and now I must attend a party, a much duller way to spend my time, in my
opinion.
“There.” I whisper to her ear, entirely on purpose, in the way I know makes her
blush “It looks beautiful on you.”
Oh, how sweet it is to see her turn and face me. To see the heat in her face,
see how pink I had turned her. This girls mere blush could sustain a lust in me
you could scarcely imagine.
“Thank you.” she says, her voice wavering slightly, not yet a temptress, but
certainly tempting.
I smile, already thinking of a time that would come later this evening,
thinking of ways I could give myself reason to un-button those pearls I had
just done up.
***** Hunger *****
Chapter Notes
     Prompt sent by The_Deadly_bunny
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Sansa has gotten it into her head that she should cook a breakfast.
An entire english breakfast at that. Sausages, eggs, bacon, toast with butter,
baked beans, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, and hash browns. I told her I don't
even like fried tomatoes, but she insists that they must be on the plate,
otherwise it wont be considered a full english breakfast, and she won't be able
to brag that she's made it.
It's rather an undertaking for a girl who's been waited on hand and foot for
the better part of her life. Who's scarcely stepped into a kitchen to pour her
own cereal, let alone prepare a meal.
I watch on, dubious but silent, as she works in the kitchen and I sit myself at
the counter to watch the show that comes with the meal.
She scrambled the eggs until they looked like a little pile of dry yellow
rubber. She used to much oil in the pan for the bacon so that she kept giving
little yelps as hot grease spit on her skin. She almost cut her tomatoes with
the same knife she'd just handled the raw sausage with, and when I pointed that
out to her, she got quite stroppy, again insisting that she was to do this on
her own. She then proceeded to struggle with the very nature of how a can
opener operates, burn the first lot of toast, and then rip holes in the next
two slices as they weren't cooked enough and she tried to smear hard cold
butter across them. All while letting the rubber eggs go cold.
I know It's hardly in her nature to be domestic, but by god, this is a tragedy.
I should see if she knows how to make a bed next. That could be equally as fun
a spectacle. Especially if I get her a little maids outfit.
She must have taken my smile at that private though to be mocking, which in
fairness, it somewhat was, and I was shooed from the room.
“Stop sitting there with that smirk, your putting me off!” She said, in her
short cotton dressing gown , spatula in hand, looking the antithesis of
threatening.
“I really doubt my smirks are what's putting everything off right now.” I say,
eyeing the cold eggs I may have to force down as a labour of love later.
“Oh, just go and wait upstairs in bed.” she says, needing to hurry to take the
beans off the stove and the hash browns out of the oven at the same time.
I wave a hand “But I'm already up?”
“Yes, but just pretend. I need to bring it up to you, It's breakfast in bed.
You have to do this properly.” she insists.
She has a good insisting face. Just the right amount of pout.
I make a show of sighing, or dragging myself from my chair, of idling my way
back upstairs to my room, where I sit myself against the headboard, pull up the
covers, and wait dutifully.
I strain an ear for the sounds of any crashes or shrieks or fire alarms, but
hear nothing, until theres the sound of her pattering feet.
She emerges in my room carrying a tray, a sweet smile on her face, as she walks
over to present me with a plate of ill-prepared food, a glass of orange juice,
and a little card in an envelope.
“Oh, look at this! What a thoughtful surprise, breakfast in bed! My I am
spoiled.” I make a great show, and she gives me a look, though pleased, as she
puts the tray down on the bedside table before clambering up to sit atop the
covers by my side.
I take the plate and cutlery and inspect my demise.
Trying the eggs, they are as cold and as chewy as I expected. I do not venture
to try to the tomatoes, as I mentioned before, I don't care for the things. The
hash browns are as cold as the eggs, and the ripped toast is not bad,
considering it is only lightly browned and mangled bread. The bacon is burnt ,
and then I cut open a sausage and see it is still pink in the middle, and
decide that perhaps I've had quite enough breakfast.
She has watched me intently the past few minutes as I inspected the breakfast,
but thank fully, she does not look upset. At least not upset with me anyway.
“It wasn't very good, was it...” she admits, staring at her pink in the middle
sausages, as I discard the tray on the bedside table, drinking the juice to get
rid of the taste.
“Well, besides the potential food poisoning, it was a nice attempt, sweetling.”
she flops down on the bed looking thoroughly put out but she mumbled something
to to covers “You didn't open the card.”
Ah, yes, the card.
I run my finger along the top of the envelope, ripping it open. Pulling it out
I smile at the cover, expecting as much.
'Happy fathers day' it reads, deep blue with gold glitter writing, and inside
there is a sweet message and an abundance of crosses and kisses. From your
little girl, it's signed.
“To the best daddy in the world.” she says with a smile full of cheek, as she
leans up to kiss me, and I take her in welcoming arms, intent on reaping a much
better gift than that of a breakfast.
Chapter End Notes
     He's gonna be eating something alright, ye-hea-yeah
***** Treehouse *****
Chapter Notes
     Fic prompted by bae'sbitch
Sansa bustled through the crowds of boring chattering adults, past their legs,
slipping by largely unnoticed to get to the open terrace doors of the country
house.
Mother said weddings were supposed to be fun, she thought, hitching up her
puffy blue dress to walk down the steps to the garden, and across the grass.
Well, this one wasn't fun. It wasn't proper either. You had to get married in a
church, with flowers all along the pews and a big white dress. Aunt Lysa's
dress wasn't big and white, it was plain and an off beige colour. Mother said
it was because this wasn't her first wedding, so it was as special of an
affair, but that in itself didn't seem proper. You should only really get
married once, Sansa knew, but she supposed it was alright since Uncle Jon had
died.
Leaving the throng of adults behind her, their talk becoming distant murmurs in
the background, she could hear other voices now. Other children.
Coming to the base of big tree, She looked up and saw the wooden stakes nailed
against the bark.
Her fancy dress made it more difficult to climb, and she kept having to kick
away the layers of tulle every time she tried to take another step. It wasn't
that high, but even so, she didn't like the climb or being up so high. She
usually had father behind her when she did things like this, to catch her just
in case she fell.
As she made it all the way to the top, her hands reaching up to the deck of the
treehouse to pull her self up.
“Sansa!” Theon was the first to whine as she peered her head over to see them.
Rob and Jon, Theon and Arya, and two other little boys she didn't know, all
sitting in the tree house together, having been laughing just a minute ago.
“What are you playing?” she asked, but she could already hear the groans.
“Go away, it's boys only!” Theon said again, swatting at her.
“Yeah, boys only, that's the rule.” Rob said, like there was nothing he could
do about it, always the leader.
“But Arya's here!” Sansa protested, looking at her little sister.
“She's different, she plays properly, you don't.” said Jon.
She frowned at them, at how unfair they were “I do so play properly!”
“No you don't, you always get upset and go and tell on us!” Arya said.
“Only when you hit me!”
“But that's how we play!” Theon sighed, the most exasperated of all of them. He
was always the meanest. She was right to tell mother when he broke her
favourite polly pocket hair clip that one time.
Then they all banded together to tell her to go away, go away, all their voices
at once, and she wanted to cry as she slunk back down the wooden ladder as fast
as her un-sure feet could, until she dropped down to the grass, and ran back
towards the house.
She would definitely be telling mother about this, but she decided not to go
right away. She would go and have a cry first. Around the back, in a secret
hiding spot, where she'd stay until everyone noticed she was gone, and they
were all worried, and when they found her all upset she would say it was those
mean boys and Arya, and how they were always unfair and so, so mean, and then
they'd all get into such trouble.
Walking her way around to the pebbled side of the house, she found a side door
open, and entered down a small hall.
She was looking for the perfect sulking spot, when she heard a door open
besides her, making her jump. For the most part this section of the house had
seemed empty.
Outstepped a thin man, with black hair and a moustache, and he was sniffing,
tapping at the side of his nose as he left the bathroom.
“Oh, hello.” he said as soon as he spotted her, almost run into her, he looked
quite distracted, and thus surprised by her appearance.
It was Lysa's new husband, Sansa recognised him from when they'd all gone to
Lysa's house for the engagement party, only a couple of weeks ago.
“Hi.” she said shyly in return, as he stood and observed her with a small
frown.
“And what are you doing down here?” he asked, looking around “Wouldn't you
rather go and play around the garden, rather than the service toilets?”
At that, she remembered the boys, and she said a very firm “No, I don't want to
play with them or play in their dumb treehouse.”
he held up his hands in mock surrender “Right then. Far be it from me to get
involved...” he trailed off, reaching for a pack of cigarettes “Ok. Run along
then. Go sit with your mother, the ceremony should be starting soon, god help
me...”
Sansa watched as he lit the cigarette, her eyes fixed to the bit that burnt
bright orange as he held the shiny metal lighter to it.
“Do you have a flower girl?” she thought to ask.
His eyes flicked down to her again “No.” he said, simply.
“Why not?”
“Lysa didn't even want bridesmaids.” he said, in way of a non-answer.
“Could I be your flower girl?” She asked hopefully, having always thought she
would be good at such a thing.
He looked down at her properly, taking his time dragging in the smoke and
blowing it out up into the air, his hand waving in idle dismissal.
“Do you have any flowers?”
“No.”
“Then how do you expect to be a flower girl without any flowers?”
Sansa pouts, frowning at him just as she had with the boys.
“Smoking kills you, you know.”
She'd said it most seriously, and at that he'd simultaneously frowned and
smiled at her with a bemused sort of regard.
“Well, aren't you the little macabre one. You shouldn't be rude to your new
uncle, you know.” he teased, bringing the cigarette to his lips again, gazing
at her in such a way it made her uncomfortable.
Sansa tip toed from foot to foot for a few more moments, eyeing him warily,
before decided it best to hurry off in the other direction, dragging her eyes
away from the strange new man of the family. Her new uncle Petyr.
***** Photo *****
Chapter Summary
     Prompted by Marquise
“Yes, like that,” I heard him say from behind me, my face pressed into the mess
of sheets and pillows, blushing slightly as I heard the click of the camera and
the whir of the polaroid being printed.
I had done my makeup all special for him, dusted power all over my face,
applied a dark shade of mascara, and worn lipstick, but he had made me wash it
all off. He liked me pure, he said, a pretty thing like me didn't need whores
tricks to hide behind. He wanted me as I was, as venus came from the sea, he
made me wash away everything but the beauty that truly belonged to me in my
most basic state. Un-altered, un-hidden, fresh. All I had on was a thin slip,
pure white, the sheer material hiked up about my waist in disarray as I rise my
ass up for him, spread my legs apart as my knees sink into the plush mattress.
“Beautiful.” I hear him breath as he see's my pussy, hissing through his
nostrils in the way he always did when he repressed himself like this, another
click and a whir “you've got such a pretty cunt, do you know that? Not that I
don't like the red, but you should see yourself when your bare like this, all
pink and soft... I can see every part of you....”
I arch up to give him a better view, wanting to please, wanting to be flattered
even as I turned red with a kind of shame, posing like a whore. Posing for my
uncle, the lover I longed for. I turned my head slightly to see him, to see his
erection pressed flat against his stomach as he stroked himself languidly,
staring at me with hunger and thought. We locked eyes and he leered, a wolfs
grin that brought me all kinds of perverse comfort. He was the big bad wolf and
I was the little girl he wanted to eat right up. The kind of man I was always
warned about, who's clutches I was pulled into, where I resided gladly. He
leered and I smiled, blushed, pressing my face further into the covers as if I
had been caught. My eyes still glanced at his cock, and I squeezed and
compressed my still virgin slit as I imagined what it would be like as he
entered me. I tried to feel the ghost of it fucking me, eliciting a little
surge of pleasure through me through sheer imagining, my hips keening back
towards him. I kept my hands to myself but I could feel myself grow wet.
He circled the bed, thoughts of how best to play with me running through his
mind, the director to his own show, with me his star.
“Turn over,” he decided “Touch yourself.”
I followed his direction obediently, rolling over and scooching my back up the
pillows, bringing my legs together naturally in a pretence of modesty,
ingrained in me at such a deep level. My hand paused over my belly button,
somehow still managing to feel shy one moment from the next. This, however, he
seemed to like.
“Come on, spread your legs for me. Show me that pretty pussy of yours, play
with yourself... rub yourself.” he crooned, leaning a leg to kneel against the
bed, hovering over me with the camera in hand.
Slowly, I let my knees drift apart, watching his eyes rest hungrily between
them. I felt the cool air on my pussy as my hand drifted down to touch gingerly
at the top of my lips, where I grazed over them softly.
“lovely...,” he whispered in his reverence “My lovely, lovely Sansa...yes,
touch yourself just like that. I want to see you wet...make yourself wet for me
girl...”
His words spurred me on, made me slip my fingers down between my folds, played
until I could pull away strings of wetness with my finger tips. I was almost
fascinated by just how wet I could make myself, how I could make my body
respond, with my touch and his words. I dipped in my fingers and pulled the cum
from between my lips like spun sugar, resting it against my thighs, coating
myself until I glistened, all while he immortalised it in print, the polaroids
placed neatly in the white sheets in a line.
“Slip in your fingers, slowly...fuck yourself..” his voice was dark with lust,
and I always hoped he'd snap one day and descend upon me, his cock ready in his
hand, my body ready to take it, I knew it, I knew I was ready for him. I coaxed
my thin fingers into my tightness, wishing It were him, slowly pumping into
myself as he rubbed a hand along his own cock.
He said he couldn't fuck me. Not yet. Perhaps after my next birthday, as a
special treat. The present I so sorely wanted. For now he only took pictures.
Keepsakes. My gifts to him he called them. He told me he keeps them all in a
special album he keeps all locked up in his desk drawer, and when he thinks of
me he brings them out, pours over them, touches himself to them. It is as
intimate as fucking, he says, almost feverishly, to deny our pleasure and
embrace it at the same time. To feel it rather than touch it. Two people bonded
with sex without an embrace between them.
It was for the best, I knew, because when mother, father, aunt Lysa, questioned
me about my uncle, what we did together, wether he had touched me, I didn't
have to lie. He never touches me. I touch myself, and he touches himself, but
our between ourselves we never touch. Not in any way but the chaste kisses we
share at family functions.
***** Swim *****
Chapter Summary
     Prompted by nairn
She shrieks as she runs. A joyous shriek, a laugh, a dizzying, pure laugh that
echoes in the bare expanse around us for only me to hear.
I follow her, my own breath coming in short sharp bursts as I chase her through
the long grass, whipping at my bare legs as we run. My heart beats like a young
boys, I recognise the feeling, but I cannot verbalise it like her. I won't,
can't, let a sound escape me even as I feel it. I feel it though, trapped deep
in a ruined soul. I wished it dead for so many years but could never bring
myself to kill this completely. This infatuation, this adoration, one of those
rare resounding moments in time that makes you feel like you were more than you
ever were, that this is everything that matters. It is piercing in a dull
existence, so rarely given in a drawn out life, and I want to take it in in
every way I can, cling to it desperately so that I can cherish it. I recognise
this feeling. I recognise it.
I peel off my shirt without slowing down, without taking my eyes off her, the
auburn hair she is shaking loose from its style. I pull away my belt without a
second thought as I toss it away, it doesn’t matter if I lose it, it doesn't,
or my shoes, I don't care. I chase her. She hasn't stopped laughing, high and
sweet and I want to catch up with her.
Her dress was discarded yards back, her underwear no where in sight. She is
smooth and taut and unhindered as she runs. Restraint will come back when the
sun shows itself but until now she's alive in the moonlight. It reflects off
the lake, off her. Her pale skin illuminated like she isn't real. For a brief
second the thought flashes through my mind that she isn't, as I pant to keep
after her, what if she is just another dream. I have chased auburn hair and
milk white skin before and I've always woken up before I caught her.
Then I hear the splash as she hits the water, still shrieking, still laughing
as the cold still lake is brought alive with her touch, her body making the
white reflections of the moon disrupt into a steady pattern of ripples, all
emanating from her.
The second before I throw myself into the water behind her I feared I'd wake
up, but I don't. I am cold and I am drenched and I am still here and she is
still laughing.
I have been in this water before, these lakes, these rivers, this taste, this
smell.
She has stopped laughing as I look at her, stood up to her thighs in black
water that runs over her body in rivulets, her arms held close to her chest,
her hands clasped under her chin as she shivers slightly but smiles. A shy and
unhindered smile.
I stare and wonder if I reach out, will I ruin this. Will I ruin her.
Like rust on a car, rot in pines, decay spreads. With every touch of my hands I
rot away pieces of her, so slowly she may not notice until she looks back on
the person she used to be. The girl she is now, shivering and smiling and
alive. She will only know how much this means years later. When she'll want to
come back but can't.
I want to keep her here and I want to take her so many places. I want to keep
her young but I want to spend years with her. I want to fuck her and I want to
keep her pure. I want to catch her and I want to let her keep running
***** Party *****
Chapter Notes
     Now this one isn't a Petyr/Sansa yet, but I've been thinking I might
     do second parts to a couple of these drabbles. This one should have a
     second part to it. At least I have one planned.
Charlotte hates the word whore. It was such an ugly word. No class to it. Plus,
It rhymed with boar, and that made her think of pigs, all dirty and fat. The
more she said the word whore in her mind, the worse it sounded. Whore, whore,
whore, sometimes on bad days she’d say the word over and over until she hated
herself too.
She wanted to call herself an escort. A courtesan. Now those sounded nice.
Conjured up a bit of elegance. She used to call herself a model. She’d hoped to
still do some modelling in the future, but twenty four was practically over the
hill in the industry. At age eighteen Charlotte thought she was set for life
when she was ‘discovered’ in a Sainsbury’s cold food isle, by a woman from one
of Londons leading model management agencies. She took a card, got a call, an
interview, some test shoots and a contract. It was all happening. They all said
her long legs and big lips were going to make her a star, one photographer even
said she was the new Angelina Jolie. The next big Victoria’s secret model.
Charlotte had never forgotten that, never.
She had jobs. Decent jobs. She was in a Topshop catalogue, and some print
advertising. A glamour magazine shoot, and one for Look and two for Instyle UK.
They weren’t big jobs but she was told not to expect them early on in a career.
She was tall enough to audition for runway castings, and she got a few, mostly
swimsuits and lingerie, but for every ten shows she auditioned for, she would
only get one. She didn’t think she’d been doing badly, but somehow over years
it all just slowed down instead of picked up. The jobs came few and far
between, and even then it was more print advertising. H&M and River Island. Not
Gucci or Chanel or Burberry.
Charlotte didn’t get it at the time. She was beautiful. Every one said so. Her
agent had always bullshitted her way around the lack of jobs she got her.
Throwing around terms like ‘conventional’ beauty and a ‘certain type of look’.
Charlotte remembered snapping that it wasn’t her fault that the fashion
industry was obsessed with strange looking lanky girls, with big eastern
european jaws and frail looking boy bodies.
Looking back on that, Charlotte thinks that was what made her agent set up that
one meeting that changed the trajectory of her life.
He was very well dressed. Dark hair, greying at the temples, and he had an easy
smile as soon as she walked into the room. He got up to greet her, very
gentlemanly like, and even pulled out her chair for her to take a seat next to
him. He had her modelling book in his hands, and he flipped through it,
stopping on certain photo’s, her glamour shots and her lingerie shoots
especially.
Charlotte had assumed he was a casting director for a shoot, someone from a
magazine, so she was very surprised to have his first question be: “Tell me
dear, do you like parties?”
Yes, was the answer. What twenty something year old girl didn’t like parties?
Then she was told that he wasn’t a casting director, or an editor, or even a
designer. He was just a man who liked to throw parties, and liked to hire
pretty girls to come to said parties. A job he was willing to pay one thousand
pounds for.
Charlotte remembers locking eyes with her agent across the desk, not believing
this was at all serious. A thousand dollars? Just for attending some old mans
party?
But her agent had nodded and smiled.
And Charlotte had gone to that party.
Her room mate had told her not to go, that he was probably some old sleaze who
was going to try and get in with her. Charlotte had thought of that, but it
wasn’t likely. She’d googled the address and it was in a luxe apartment in
Knightsbridge, she even had an official looking invitation, plus the man was
quite obviously gay. He had a moustache and Dolce and Gabbana shoes.
And she’d gone and it was amazing. Everyone was in suits and designer dresses,
the expensive champagne was free, and truly all she had to do was mingle and
chat. Those were the exact words for her when he’d found her. Mr. Baelish. He
was so kind. Introduced her to everyone, all the rich types, told them she was
a model and they all agreed, oh yes, of course, how gorgeous she was, of course
she had to be a model. There were other very beautiful girls milling about just
like her, and when she asked they said they used to be models too. In general
the girls didn’t talk too much to her, it was mostly the men, but that didn’t
surprise Charlotte. That’s how it had always been for her.
“Are you having a good time?” he’d asked some hours later, well into the
evening. Past midnight at least.
“Yeah, it’s really nice. I talked to a guy who said he was in parliament! He
said his name but I don’t actually know who he is. There, that one over by the
grand piano, him.”
He glanced over before joining her on the sofa, but he hadn’t seem as impressed
as she was to be surrounded by these rich types.
“He’s a tad old though. I’m sure you’re more interested in talking to the
younger types. Like that young man over there I saw you talking to early. An
investment banker.”
Charlotte had laughed a little “He’s not that young is he? He looks about
thirty.”
“You have a cruel definition of old. Did you like him?”
“I suppose he was nice. Talked a lot about banking. A bit boring really.”
“but he’s not bad looking. Rich, too.”
“Are you trying to hook me up with him?” she asked, all while Mr. Baelish
smiled.
“Would you for three thousand pounds?” he said, quite casually.
Charlotte laughed until she realised he was still smiling, and waiting for a
proper answer.
“Wait…you’re being serious?”
“Very serious. He’s told me he’s willing to pay you three thousand pounds to go
upstairs with him so you can…get more acquainted.”
Charlotte remembers how her stomach had sunk, at how he was clearly not just a
man who wanted to hire girls for parties, and how her heart had jumped at
hearing that amount of money.
“You said this was just a party. I was just going to get paid for coming her,
you didn’t mention anything else.” she had said, nervously.
“You’ll still be given your thousand, that was already agreed upon. I am just
offering you a chance to make an extra three thousand on top of that.”
“By making me sleep with some strange man?”
“He’s not a strange man, he’s a thirty something year old investment banker
named Tom, and I’m not making you do anything. I’m simply giving you an option,
and you’re free to do as you wish.”
At that point he had drawn a small envelope out of his breast pocket and passed
it to her, and opening it Charlotte did indeed find a wad of notes inside which
she fingered longingly.
“If I’ve offended you in anyway you’re free to leave with your thousand pounds
now. I wont contact you again…or, you could make three times what you hold in
your hand, and more. There are a lot of parties in London my girl. I can get
you invited to all of them.”
Looking back on it now, years wiser, Charlotte would have told her young self
to just get up and go. Just take the thousand, don’t be greedy, don’t be
stupid, don’t be so naive.
But that’s not what young her had done.
End Notes
     The List: (found at Tumblr)
     *water
     *button (done)
     *coffee
     *pink
     *enough
     *wrapping
     *beach
     *treehouse (done)
     *art
     *werewolves
     *travel
     *pets
     *cookies
     *swim (done)
     *pack
     *book
     *cold
     *storm (done)
     *delivery
     *assignment
     *house
     *message
     *find
     *kitchen
     *photo (done)
     *early
     *guitar
     *soft
     *mug
     *silent
     *party (done)
     *scary
     *company
     *cake
     *time
     Please drop a prompt you want me to tackle next into the comments!
     These will be fun warm up exercises while I tackle new chapters to my
     other fics.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!