This was written for UKCat over a year ago. It sat untouched until my girl requested something to read, then offered (was coerced) to beta for me. So please, any and all p̶i̶t̶c̶h̶f̶o̶r̶k̶s̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶r̶c̶h̶e̶s̶ thanks for catching me in your feed again goes directly to fenrirsfangs. You're welcome, love 3
**I have no clue what a day spa is
**I have no concept of fluff either, apparently
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Original Character(s), Older Man/Younger Woman, Explicit Sexual Content, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Aged-Up Character(s)
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The thing about gifts is that they're meant to be enjoyed. However, this, Sansa thought as she watched the scene from the doorway of the bright and airy suite, was the antithesis of that very sentiment.
Natya, greeter of Sansa's clientele and most trusted of her rank and file - feared by some, loved by all - whispered side-mouthed to her employer, "I have my money on the tall one."
Although, with the nature of this unique session, this notable client, Natya had her intuition to thank in opting to call the boss instead of stepping in herself. Either way, for the sake of taking proper measure of the situation, Sansa was momentarily stuck observing a confrontation turning rather tenuous. She had to decide whether or not to jump into the fray as a voice of authority or opt for the safer route and ease into the conflict as the voice of rationality.
However, when your client was Tywin Lannister, one always preferred the safer route.
However, when your client was Tywin Lannister and he was there at the behest of his granddaughter as a surprise, well, you opted for the soothing voice of fucking rationality. Even if, by the way this was playing out, it would take more than a tranquil lilt and a pleasant smile to prevent the man from murdering someone.
Elliot. By the show of things, Mr Lannister was going to murder Elliot.
Elliot Marten looked all Dorne, save his violet eyes - playful, but utterly professional when it came to his work - and while he wasn't as tall or broad at the shoulders as Mr Lannister, he was definitely no slouch in terms of fitness.
"That's pretty uncharitable, I think," said Sansa, a delayed retort to the barb parlayed by Natya. Never taking her eyes from the two men, she offered an offhand prod of her own. "Elliot has speed on his side."
Natya, dark skinned and with near-black eyes - a living vortex of mystery that could tug you under if you weren't careful - stood just behind her left shoulder taking in the drama as it unfolded. Impeccably confident with atypical fashion sense, she was not one to allow bravado from clients, let alone staff. Mischief, perhaps. Flirting, absolutely. But never an attitude of superiority or entitlement. It was the reason Sansa had Natya personally greet most every client.
And yet, Sansa's attempt to inject an even greater taste of devilry into the situation fizzled unnoticed into the atmosphere.
"You will not put your hands on me, boy."
Mr Lannister stood imperiously, judgmental and terrifying, his arms crossed high on his chest. Well tanned wrists peeked out from a crisp contrasting white of the opulent low-pile terry cotton robe he wore, all the while fixing an intimidating glare down his nose at the young man before him. Obviously, a lack of clothing did nothing to dent the man's pride, and by the cut of his physique, accentuated in a snug wrap of white, he was fully aware of its effect.
"Sir... Mr Lannister," Elliot tried to placate, "it is going to be inevitable if you're here for an appointment."
The quip of an honest statement and it was as though the large room shrunk by means of the furious heat that flared into place throughout the mien of the older man. The air buzzed, made of that unspent energy, yet his words carved through that curtain with a deadly edge.
"If I had felt the need to be fondled, you half bred sand-eater," he bent at the neck, his shoulders so stiff it seemed painful, "I would have walked the length of Flea Bottom with my wallet out." He bared his teeth a little, widened his eyes slightly - all a sure sign of threat. "Find your rent elsewhere-"
"Elliot!" Utilizing a pleasant tone, Sansa called from the doorway. It was a split-second decision to defuse at that moment what had every potential of escalating into something far more ugly.
Both men turned their heads, still Sansa kept her eyes trained exclusively on her taciturn employee, waving him over. Without having to address her directly, Sansa instructed Natya to ensure the books reflected compensation for a full session regardless of when Elliot swiped out that day.
"Sorry, Boss," Elliot said as he approached, his tone bearing nothing of frustration or affront. Taking a casual glance at the greeter as she turned and left, he then refocused. "I don't know where you came in on the conversation, but I didn't-"
"No, Elliot, it's alright." Sansa smiled softly in understanding and support. "I saw enough to know you did nothing wrong."
No explanation was needed outside a small nod of her head - she would now be taking responsibility for this... client. It didn't matter that she was scarcely prepared to do the job, dressed as she was for brunch with Margaery - a pencil skirt, sleeveless high-neck blouse, and heels would have to suffice as impromptu dress code. Her feet would unquestionably be bloody stumps by the end of this farce, though Mr Lannister was now her responsibility.
Sansa sighed.
Straightening non-existent wrinkles from her shirt and stepping into the suite, she walked toward her new charge. Sansa could hear Elliot retrieving his kit quietly, and she didn't fail to notice that Mr Lannister watched, not her getting closer, but Elliot readying to leave.
"Good morning, Mr Lannister."
His eyes ventured nowhere save the retreating back of the young masseuse exiting the place with a quiet click of the door; and yet his inquiry hung back, dry in a storm of ridicule and buffeted directly at Sansa.
"Is it?"
She refused his bait a foothold, letting her silence force him to acknowledge that she stood in the room with him.
And acknowledge her, he absolutely did.
"I'll admit," he said, his eyes sliding to meet hers, "you're prettier than the last one." The look that greeted her was the flat stare of a predator determining whether it faced a peer or a meal. "What is it you have to sell, girl?"
"This is not that kind of business, Mr Lannister."
In her mind, Sansa cursed Myrcella to all seven hells, individually.
He's far too tense... Never in my lifetime has he been relaxed... It won't be a big deal when it's a gift from me, her brain simpered, exaggerating Cella's usually pleasant voice. Oh, her friend would be paying handsomely indeed for the amount of gin Sansa would need to consume in order for this encounter to be forgotten.
"Myrcella booked your treatment here as a gift, Mr Lannister," Sansa explained, keeping his stare. "I can assure you our intentions are just as honorable as your granddaughter's." She studied him pointedly then, wearing her most professional-yet-disappointed-mother look. "We are here neither to rob nor molest you, sir. Your appointment is confidential. Our discretion is impeccable."
Skepticism was an art form on the face of Mr Tywin Lannister; a quiet contempt that seemed to reach out for her.
Aside from phone interviews and appearances at various high profile events, Sansa's business was known only by her surname. You had to know what you were scouting for in order to find her exclusive services. The ambiguous nature of her business was deliberate. Stark catered only to those who could afford the luxury of anonymity, and her marketing consisted entirely of word-of-mouth referrals. Which meant that while her business did not launch immediately into the stratosphere, her 'talented hands' - as described by an unforgiving press and their sordid innuendo - proved to be no fabrication, assuring a perpetual rise to her current success. Needless to say, her clients were the names in sports, entertainment, and society.
But this... This was for Cella. A gift, not a favour, to one of her best friends. And her friend had dropped off her grandfather like a parent would a child, equipping him with her own access fob to the nondescript building in the exclusive heart of King's Landing, and the result was already proving why Sansa's bypass of well maintained security standards was a shitty, shitty idea.
"A gift? For me?" He asked of her so flatly the words gouged the floor.
"Yes, Mr Lannister, a gift." Her patience was legendary. "For you." As was her pride. "Did Myrcella not explain this?"
"No. She told me how to enter the building and informed me... I was to do as I was told." His fierce glare burned with a practiced hate as he all but sneered, "However, I will not do..." his chin kicked in the direction of the door Elliot had exited, "...that."
Sansa's lips pulled all the way in, forming a tight line on her face. Idiot, she cursed her friend one more time. He thinks he's been delivered to a brothel. Well, it certainly made his reaction to Elliot's appearance a little more illuminating.
Her curiosity then piqued at the fact this man did, indeed, walk into an unmarked building and proceeded to undress and don a robe, as his greeter had instructed. Although, if she were truthful - and she was, to herself, always - if Natya ever told her to take off her own clothes, Sansa would do so in a heartbeat. So, that part could be forgiven. But what could not be forgiven so much, what made the gossipy side of her imagination eager and beg for more, was wondering what in the world Lannisters gifted each other that he believed his granddaughter treating him to a whore was par to the course…
Sansa had to steel herself and sever those thoughts before she followed them into that oh so fucked up, oh so intriguing mental abyss.
So many cocktails, Cella. So, so many...
Centered again, professional on the inside again, Sansa cleared her throat. "Mr Lannister, I can appreciate your distress." At that, he inclined his head and raised a brow, a mute statement of his doubt coupled with what read plainly as certainty of her stupidity. Neither assumption bothered her. "However," she continued, "the establishment you have entered offers various massage therapies, nothing more scandalous than that."
"Massage?" he pronounced slowly, then let his timbre plummet to a pitch so low it undoubtedly rattled the glassware, "Are you sure?"
Plastering on her most neutral smile, one that doubled as a visual version of a sigh, Sansa answered, "Yes, Mr Lannister, I am sure."
He wasn't the first man to proposition her at work, but he was the only one who looked thoroughly disgusted at her for making him do it. She pressed on, trying to at least warm him on the idea of massage.
"Whatever you assumed you'd find here before, I can guarantee won't be as good as what we offer."
"You."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. What you offer," Mr Lannister corrected. "There will be no we, I will deal with you. Alone."
"Fair," she conceded, the word drawing out the length of her consideration. Then clarified, "Have you... explored massage therapy before, Mr Lannister?"
"No."
"Alright. Do you have any preexisting medical conditions I should know about? Anything affecting your circulatory system, arthritis, anything like that?"
His glare lowered to slits and Sansa understood she had just roundabout called him old and feeble. He was not; unquestionably, just by the look of him. Again she cursed on the inside, except this time her list of those to blame included herself. This stuff would have been covered in the pre-appointment interview, not when the client was already without clothing.
"My apologies," she sighed, hooking one hand on her hip and pressing the heel of the other palm against her forehead. She hoped Elliot was sticking around, the tension headache she was trying to push to the back of her skull was becoming persistent.
"Am I boring you... What is your name?"
"Sansa Stark, Mr Lannister." Raising her head, she let her arm return to her side. "It's a pleasure to meet you." She intended to offer her hand; however, the way his face twisted to the kind of loathing reserved for people who kicked puppies, caused the gesture to die stillborn.
Obviously he had a grudge with her bloodline. Probably one from a thousand years ago, he seemed the type of man to carry that kind of torch.
"Yes, those Starks." Like there were others. She had appeased as best she could, but Sansa hadn't gotten this far by letting herself be bullied. "Some of us develop independence from the hive and travel south of the Neck."
"Do you now?"
An inward groan reverberated heavily across her logic before it worked first to berate her spite, then dug a hole to bury it in. She would never win one-up with Tywin Lannister, she wasn't even going to try.
A big breath in, and Sansa said, "Mr Lannister, I am the best in the world at what I do, I know you can appreciate that, at least. This establishment has refused kings, but here I am, at your service."
"For a... massage?"
"Yes, sir, a massage."
Even his eyes were scathing in their drag from hairline to hemline, obvious in their wont to find her lacking.
"Tell me, Miss Stark, what does it feel like? What exactly do you possess that is so unique in this world I would be poorer for not indulging?" The corner of Mr Lannister's top lip raised minutely, not yet a curl of reproach though near enough, as he concluded without bothering for the effort of concealing a taunt, "I insist."
Prior to this venture, Sansa would have taken both the man and his words as a threat, she would have paled and stuttered. However, this was her life and her livelihood Mr Lannister was so callously flinging down for scrutiny, and if she had learned anything in a world so very fond of failure, it was that her hide was far from delicate and her name was only as good as her word.
And her word had become the foundation of her business. If Sansa Stark committed to a cause - in this case, no matter how gold or daunting - she bloody-well saw it to resolution.
Sansa tilted her head to side, observing the lord-of-a-man standing before her with his arms crossed high on his chest, trying to be as intimidating as a thin bathrobe could offer - which hovered somewhere around that of a fussy toddler.
With a swooping rove of her own, Sansa mapped the man from bald head to bare feet, methodical in her gaze. She was underwhelmed. He was no different than any other man who graced her table: a body in need of relief. Unaware or not, Mr Lannister was in need of something only she could provide - providing she would give it.
However, when you've seen a man's naked feet, his sway over your hesitations is laid to rest.
Another lesson learned early in her career was that exposure, no matter how banal, like knowing how much hair covers a man's toes, is perceived vulnerability. And while she was still the pleasant girl she had always been, fair and sunny and never cruel, Sansa now knew very well when to press an advantage.
Taking one step forward, she watched as he took an equal step back.
Interesting.
Stood there, his green eyes honed sharp, wearing a posture so rigid he was vibrating, the pieces fell into place with a distinct and ugly click. Out of place, she pondered. He appeared awkward in a way that had nothing to do with his mode of dress, and for someone standing so commandingly in large space he now looked awfully… anxious.
Not anxious, she amended, not exactly, but a demeanour somewhere in the realm of afraid.
This wasn't a man who was supposed to fear, yet he obviously feared the prospect of her touching him. No wonder he would have preferred the company of those in the sex trade, it was an enterprise he governed. Whereas this was an encounter he would be forced to endure without control.
She stepped again. He retreated again.
"I won't hurt you," she said, more breathy than anything and raised one hand slightly to implore his understanding.
"No," he returned in a sad, droning way. "You will not."
"This isn't a battle of wills, Mr Lannister. I won't pursue you around the room." She licked her lips, the strain in the air was the kind she imagined one experienced when trying to gain the faith of a wild animal. "If you would prefer to leave, I'll have a car waiting for you within the time it takes you to dress." She pinned him with her open stare, warm and genuine. "All I ask is that you allow me to answer your question before you decide to go." A small smile graced one side of her mouth as she finished, "I insist."
He didn't move, didn't speak, merely peered beyond her into the suite behind and tensed his jaw.
It could hardly be considered permission, yet Sansa took a tentative step in order to test a hunch. As expected, the man stayed rooted to the plush hand-knotted silk rug under his feet; however, his hands curling into tight fists and his chest rising higher than what was required for natural breath were her indicators that Mr Lannister was indeed fighting a want to flee. Or lash out.
When finally she stood toe-to-toe with the man, felt like she had journeyed a thousand miles in as many days, Sansa found she had to necessitate his height with slight tilt of her head in order to meet eyes that were stuck so utterly to a spot near the door. Yet it was the shivering rigidness to his frame which was now tangible - a detail that suggested but something nominal from seven feet away - and the chance to quell such obvious misery, that had made the trek worth the peril.
Sansa cleared her throat lightly, a signal not of impatience but to gain his attention - when he was ready to give it to her.
A scant eternity later, he peered down.
She burned at a glance and felt a heavy sense of tingling trickle down from the base of her spine.
In retrospect, her action could easily be construed as reckless. On the other hand, in that singular span of time, Sansa's only consideration was to convey the idea of touch in the most cautious way she knew how.
Tall by design, taller by footwear, Sansa only had to lift very slightly - over-straighten her posture really - to reach her goal. Without a word of warning, she pressed her lips against those of a visibly shocked Tywin Lannister. It was the only place they touched, that gentle press of supple skin, and when she was sure his attention held, Sansa closed her eyes and fit her mouth to his a little more snugly.
This was nothing overt, no pawing or moaning, just another taunt of sorts. An invitation to an explanation; an answer to his question.
When Sansa eased some of the pressure, pulled herself back the barest of fractions, she knew her plan played out successfully. She felt his mouth follow. Felt him press just as carefully onto the line of her lips with the line of his own.
They remained connected in that one place, a place gathering friction, a place fit to burn, and when Sansa opened her mouth a sliver to tap the very tip of her tongue against the crease of his lips - yet one more invitation - his nose let out a loud rush of warm air across her cheek just before the rest of his face sunk a little way to accommodate her open kiss.
Mr Lannister was tentative in the act, like he was shy. So opposite the man who, until now, she had only known by way of Cella's stories and a few magazine articles. No longer the fussy toddler, Mr Lannister stood before her an unsure boy, and Sansa took care not to accentuate the truth of the matter. Instead, welcoming his exploration with coaxing of her own, moving her lips in easy sweeps to get a better taste of him.
Her palette discerned nothing heavy, nothing sour - a lick of mint in his saliva, a hint of coffee on his tongue.
It was soft, what they were doing; they became softened: the mood, the kiss, the tension in the room. It all tallied and told her the point had been made. Also, that her cheeks would be a flush of pink and her lips would be rubbed plump.
She felt breathless and good all over.
She wasn't the only one.
Slowing their movements to a standstill, Sansa stepped back a few inches to create a necessary gap. Mr Lannister was breathing deeper, not panting or breathless, merely pleasantly winded, but the boon she knew she'd find presented itself in his stance.
The man stood relaxed. The ridge of his shoulders stooped ever so slightly and his arms hung limp at his sides. Although it was the shadow of serenity on his face that made her smile.
Sansa gave him a moment to consider her actions and how he felt because of them. Then offered softly, "That is what it's like, Mr Lannister."
Her kiss had not been administered as a prelude to sex, but more a method of example, a (albeit eclectic) mode of demonstration. They each understood this, unspoken as it was. The rules between them were set clear at the beginning: tell me, and instead she had taken the further step in showing him.
When he didn't answer or stiffen, she knew this trial had been won. There was enough trust, shaky as it might be, for her to lead this dance.
"Step back and take a seat on the table, please," she instructed with the same soft voice - serious, professional yet blanketed in kindness. A swish of her palm in the direction behind him showed Mr Lannister the long cushioned table she was referring to. When he flicked his eyes from her to the table and back again, his words gone but his face speaking volumes, Sansa didn't hesitate then, either. "You don't have to lie down," she promised. "Just sit at the edge there."
He did. Mr Lannister had height enough he only had to sit down and scoot back a little to become seated properly.
"I am going to touch you with my hand, Mr Lannister, nothing else. Is that alright?"
Nodding his consent, he stared intently at the high neck of her blouse. Sansa closed the distance between them to stand just before his knees. She didn't touch him there, just as she'd assured, and wrapping her right arm around her middle, keeping it in plain view, Sansa reached slowly for his shoulder with her left so as not to startle him by the contact.
Cupping the muscle there through the soft, light fabric of his robe, Sansa began slowly, gently kneading her fingers into the straining tendons. There would be no deep tissue pressure, nothing painful, she simply meant to accustom him to the concept of being touched this way. Even the most impervious and empirical are not immune to unpredictability of emotions through the therapy of touch, and if you're not prepared at least for their eventuality you risk a greater degree of suffering at their onset.
Like Mr Lannister, right now.
Her thumb dug into a tendon with a heavier angle and Sansa watched as Mr Lannister groaned, more rumble than noise, as the lids of his eyes fluttered closed.
"Lean forward if you'd like, sir." Her murmur a light bounce. "My shoulder's here. I've got you."
Without fight or delay he did just that. His temple rested first on the boniest part, then shifted nearer her neck to a place with more padding as he exhaled a long, quiet breath. And though the large fireplace in the loft-like suite was used more to aid focal meditation than a heat source for that kind of square footage, and the temperature was climate controlled, she shivered from one end of her spine to the other at the graze of that warm push of air. He didn't seem to notice, and she was glad, smiling toward the view of the treetops beyond the room, letting the tentative peace they had created inspire her fingers.
This was a big step for him, submitting to her whim, in effect reciprocating her touch, and she used that affecting momentum to unwind her right arm and slowly, ever so slowly, lever it so to bring her hand in contact with the expanse of skin displayed below the jut of her chin.
His neck was dry and warm to the touch, and even though the press of her fingers was feather-light she heard the distinct sound of wood polish protesting under a tightened grip. A quick glance, merely a shift of her eyes, confirmed her speculation and brought her witness to a viscous whitening of knuckles. His fingers tightened and released, over and over, in a rhythm of distress.
"Hopeless."
The word fluttered out a chuff of air on the skin of her neck in a tone lilted like despair, and she could only wonder if Mr Lannister meant it to be heard at all. Nevertheless, the implication of it was something staggering, raw, and Sansa had to poke around inside herself to identify the open wound. Guilt.
"It's only hopeless if we stop trying." Came the whisper of her reply. It was said placidly, yet there was a fair amount of challenge in it too. Sansa knew that if she were to give this man an out, an opportunity to abandon their small amount of progress, he'd surely take it… and leave her directly in the path of failure's blowback.
Either way, the decision was his to make.
"Do you want me to stop?"
Latent pull-and-work of his throat as he took careful consideration of her gentle provocation could be felt where he nuzzled her neck. When he stilled, when his fingers relinquished their death-hold on the work table, when his determined voice gritted out a definite 'no', Sansa did not stall in her returned attention to the task of him.
And she worked. One hand cradling his shoulder while the fingers of the other dipped slow methodical lines under the collar of the robe, up and down the back of his neck, creating space, creating contentment.
And he gave over. Closing off the introspection that circled like a vulture over the carrion of his insecurity. He rolled his shoulders, once, twice, experimenting with loosened flesh that had been twisted and seized for decades, played with the strength renewed into the cords of muscle. Fevered, he was panting for the heat she imbued to thaw as far as her reach would take her, and began shrugging out of the slackened garment he'd been hiding under.
This was the thrill for her. This was the reason she had dedicated herself in school and endured social inquisitions: The resurrection of the human spirit through the remedy of touch. Mr Lannister's courage to carry through, pooling his robe to lay bare the top of his body and to trust himself in her hands was a triumph so significant it manifested like another body in the room.
And she worked.
And he gave over.
No two people are built the same, not underneath, not in the composition of musculature. A gentle stroll of her fingers from the top of nape, down and away to the distinct horizontal spine of his shoulder blades and Sansa could feel the way the muscles anchored from his neck to his shoulders, how they were built stronger than most with his body type. She would wager confidently that Mr Lannister was a swimmer. It made sense though, him being born next to the sea.
The exercise until then had been furtive, tempting him to accept her touch. Now it was to map him as far as her reach would allow and get a sense for the lay of him. As she had suspected from one look at the haughty man across the room, Mr Lannister was composed of covert strength. Peering down the long stretch of his back, she could see clearly defined ridges, the progression of ropey muscles that make up his mid-back. How they wrapped from his ribs to his spine creating the taper to his waist, and how it tucked under at the small of his back.
She wanted nothing more than to study every part that shaped him, take those pieces and rehabilitate the body under her fingertips.
As if to agree with her unuttered pronouncement, his knees opened, and, without much thought, Sansa stepped into the vee that he created. The stoop of his upper back arced a little more to accommodate this new proximity, but his breathing seemed to settle into deeper pulls and pushes.
At the base of his neck where Sansa's fingers had been petting in little motions, sometimes skimming the edge of his clavicle, she felt another corporeal agreement as the muscles buried along the side of his throat softened. Her fingertips brushing in a firmer stroke, plying the surrendered flesh as she went, they traveled the long length of muscle prone to protrusion there - the same one Sansa tended to focus on with her mouth when in company of lovers - she followed it, cheeks blushing bright and hot at the image of using her tongue instead, to where his face tipped up. To where the line of his jaw protruded like a summons and her fingers wandered over the ridge of jaw bone and buried themselves in the thick sideburns that ended there. Her thumb slid along that same ridge to the back, to the point where the jaw line angled upward, and nudged in behind, massaging the bend in minute circles.
Occupied by the even noise of breathing and soothed by the subtle scuff of skin-on-skin, they fell into the tranquil quiet that was the trait of a well administered massage - regardless of its unconventional inception. She knew this part by heart; even when angles were reversed, her fingers knew where to press and where to smooth. She knew exactly where to dig for angry tangles of muscle just by intuition. It had never failed her. Sansa coaxed the first knot to the surface, a small thing by all accounts, rubbing it flat then kneading it together, again her letting her senses lead the way until the tension relaxed all the way with a near audible scrape.
At that same moment, Mr Lannister sucked in a great hissing breath through his teeth and grasped her hips by the tips of his fingers, bunching the material of her skirt. It was nothing punishing, more like a cat would knead when it found itself pleased, and she didn't know whether to let her heart sing or break for seeking victory in such a trifling feat.
She snatched back that pity instantly, choked on it, and thrashed herself in mute admonishment. Regardless of how slight she might think the significance, to him, his attempt to not only match her calm but to stay diligent through what must have been his first and only alleviation from that type of strain was nothing if not a milestone.
"Very good," she said, a soft purr near his ear.
His fingers dug in a little more while he nestled deeper into her neck. She basked in the huffs and whimpers that pitched higher for every little knot carefully untied along the stretch of his nape. And with her praise, Sansa also felt the unmistakable nudge of his erection just under her navel, centered between the two heavy pleats on the front of her high-waisted skirt.
He wasn't shoving it into her, nothing lecherous, simply there - the male body's natural reaction to stimulation - and it counted not so much a distraction due to his reaction but more an object lesson on the application and impact of knowledgeable hands.
Talented hands.
Her mind sighed. This was not that kind of business. There was enough conceptual fallacy toward the industry already, she could ill afford the stain of gossip. Gods forbid it be reported she was not only good with her hands but running a high end rub-and-tug as well.
Her mind cringed. Fornication was strictly prohibited on premises, as was consorting with active clientele outside a professional role. However, today, now, the stiff prod of Mr Lannister's sex served as a blunt reminder - a physical protest of sorts - of the blatant unconventionality pertaining to their current engagement.
That she found an act - which had been purely clinical before this day - undeniably erotic, was worrisome to no end.
Shit.
Her worry didn't stop her ministrations, absently finding the worst jumble of ligaments lumped against his cervical vertebrae and proceeding to massage.
Shit shit.
Her worry clearly didn't end the pooling heat in her own sex, or the raunchy imagery now clouding the front of her mind...
And when the vicious twist of tissue finally gave...
His breathing reduced to shallow gasps and Sansa could feel his body tighten under her hands. The stiff jab of flesh at her abdomen became harder and less resistant as her fingers untied the last threads holding the stubborn knot together. Her body managed to exhale a soft, satisfied 'oh' just as the maligned bump along his vertebrae melted away and her fingers soothed the freed strands of muscle.
A muffled sound, more like a mash of consonants trapped behind teeth, crawled into her ear, down her body, coupling with a pulse of intense warmth that set to slither about her cunt - the gusset of her panties was distinctly wet with proof of this effect. At the same time, exactly where his cock pressed, it then throbbed just prior to the sensation of heat wicking through her skirt and onto her skin.
The large room condensed to the space two bodies occupied, sounded of rough breathing and the minute scrape of side whiskers on silk for every lungful. What they'd done had been more sensual than overtly sexual and that seemed to have made it all the better.
Restorative, almost.
Now there lived a renewed air of uncertainty caught between them. The deed complete, momentary contentment bled into ingrained apprehension - a slippery unease that was hard to wash off.
Sansa thought to redress him as they stilled, bring his robe up again and help him slip his arms back through. Then thought against it, lest he view her assistance as patronizing.
Stepping back from the table, Sansa felt as Mr Lannister lifted his head from where it had been resting on her shoulder, allowing her to do so freely. Yet, in stepping away a little further, she noticed his gaze lingered lower on her body. Sansa knew he was inspecting the dark spot on her skirt where his seed had soaked through.
There was no hint of anger, nothing really, he simply blinked lethargically at the part of himself that had stayed with her, and she fought her instinct to touch him. But when it took an intricate production to permit her touch once, Sansa knew it would take more than idle regard toward a damp patch of semen to warrant a second instance of liberty.
That was fine, she mused, blinking her gaze around the room.
A slow incline up had him looking at her.
Mr Lannister's eyes were bright; watery but not necessarily miserable. They were brimming with lost emotion and she could tell by his creaking hold on the edge of the table that he was struggling to rein it all in.
He did not speak a word, merely slipped down from his perch. Tightening his robe awkwardly around the low-center of his body, Mr Lannister blinked half way out of his trace while straightening to his full height, then walked the short distance to the door of the Changing Suite.
Turning at the waist, Mr Lannister watched her in a way that made blood surge like sluggish razors through her veins. The tall, proud man looked shockingly grieved then, nothing like only seconds prior; hurt in a way that was far more than visceral, and for the first time in a very long time, Sansa felt uneasy in the company of her consequences.
Muscle memory is not relegated merely to physical repetition but psychological recall as well. With a higher limit of relaxation and a sense of letting go, a session on the table under knowledgeable hands can easily unlock emotions long forgotten. The deeper a muscle is worked the deeper are the secrets that can dislodge. Sansa had seen this happen before, and although the influx could be jarring for those on the receiving end, the overall effect was usually one of cleansing; of moving forward beyond the kind of pain that was truly untouchable. She could only hope that perhaps given time this would hold true for Mr Lannister.
Just like that, he turned away again, disappearing through and shutting the door behind him.
There was a very lengthy debate raging inside Sansa's brain as she puttered around the room, straightening towels and linens that in no way needed the adjusting. Her mind told her to leave well enough alone, where her heart told her to ensure this man was… well.
Wellness and well-being were all fine in general terms, yet where Sansa's debate rang to outright argument was the fact that her concern laced its way through her initial curiosity for the man and had now formulated her own brand of interest. Not of a professional nature but of a personal one, and no matter how many of her own rules she had already smashed to this point, for this man, her practical sense was fighting back from underneath the pressure of her emotions.
No love harboured there, nothing like that; however, there was clear desire. It fluttered around under her ribs only to snake downward where it pulsed between her legs.
Sansa had never before slept with a client, her inclination toward them were friendly at best. But she had never kissed any of the others, or allowed the men she had worked with to ejaculate on her person, either. The latter was sometimes the effect of massage, of the touch, but never would it be spoken of. Emissions were part of the practice and it took a professional to understand that clinically. Which, until today, was exactly how she had viewed them.
Sighing internally, Sansa resolved herself to leave. Taking two strides toward the door, her exit was interrupted by the reemergence of a freshly showered and dressed Mr Lannister.
He wore a black turtleneck and black trousers with a dark brown belt, and over his left forearm draped a brown sport jacket that looked textured like corduroy. His shoes matched his belt, of course, and were unique in that they appeared scuffed. Yet, instead of cheapening the rest of his clothing, the contrast worked to give the impression of less pretentiousness, and if Sansa were to guess, she would hedge firmly on the notion that Cella controlled her grandfather's wardrobe. The thought of it made her smile a little on the inside.
Clearing her throat, Sansa asked gently, "Do you have need of a car, Mr Lannister?"
"No, my driver will be here." His eyes flicked about the place, not landing to meet hers. A deep breath later, he blinked several times then said in a forced, steady voice, "Thank you."
Back was the shy boy who had kissed her, and Sansa felt her spirit lift. She ducked her head to hide that bright bout of happiness.
"You are more than welcome," she replied honestly.
They stood in the quiet of the room, neither moving nor offering more to the conversation - a moment of awkwardness that never pushed to become tense. There was determination in those two bodies, though. A clandestine resolution that lived and flowed and buzzed between them. They had shared an intimacy, a type of bond, whether they willed it or not, thus creating the foundation of what could easily be construed as a personal affinity.
And affinities were spontaneous.
And affinities were natural.
And affinities were feeling.
...Much like the touch she offered him.
She could not say he was hesitant in his approach, his steps were made like those of a man built of confidence. However, when he was within arm's distance, it was rather like he didn't know what to do once the steps ended. It didn't surprise her though, this had been a morning of revelations in regard to contact, the man could hardly be expected to have gained total mastery of a thing so freshly unearthed, even if it was merely the prospect. So, she encouraged him with her own confidence, letting her mouth tip to an easy smile.
Sansa witnessed a raise of his hand then. An intriguing motion once she discerned that the language of his body in fact articulated purpose.
Long fingers proffered a coin.
Strong fingers accepted it.
Both sets lingered on their glancing rub before retreating.
Turning the disc over in her palm, Sansa could acknowledge quite easily that this was larger than a dragon and not of any currency known to her. On one side was an intricately engraved rampant lion, the sigil of House Lannister - an archaic form of identification, to be sure, though when her father still stamped paperwork and Yule bonuses with a big, shaggy direwolf, who the hell was she to speak against tradition? On the flip side of the coin was an equally intricate engraving of Casterly Rock. She had only seen the Keep in pictures, never in person, but there was no mistaking the castle on the cliffs.
In the span of time it took to visually dissect it, Sansa realized three significant things about her newly obtained token. The first was that by the heft of it, Mr Lannister had given her solid gold. The second was identifying a succession of stylized numbers arranged in an arch above the depiction of Casterly Rock, blending impeccably with the artwork. The third was that they were not random, but were in fact a phone number.
Leave it to Tywin Lannister to hand out chunks of gold instead of a proper business card.
Blinking her gaze from her shiny prize to the eyes of the of the man before her, her features spoke the question her mouth refused to voice.
"A gift," he said. His tone was serious, but his eyes took on a kind of softness. The type of look she would see on the face a person fighting with instinct to try and open themselves. The type of look she would see on the face of someone trying to be a friend...
...not a client.
Sansa tilted her head, a coy angle much like she had sported a short while ago, and asked oh so sweetly, already knowing the answer, "For me?"
Mr Lannister's green eyes took on a complexity she couldn't even begin to work out, whereas his mouth twitched in a way completely different than disgust.
Leaning forward just enough to stray into her personal space, he paused and Sansa suspected perhaps he would leave, he then seemed to gather himself again.
"No, Miss Stark," he whispered. "For me."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
6 months later…
The thing about gifts is that they are meant to be enjoyed. However, this, Sansa thought as she watched the scene from the doorway to the dimly lit room, was the height of that very sentiment.
Standing still at the entrance from the bathroom suite to the bedroom suite of Tywin's penthouse, Sansa took in the man before her. Sprawled in the most comfortable way he could accomplish, in the middle of the largest bed she had seen, he waited for her. He hated the waiting, the expectation of her arrival. All he had to do was turn his head to end the misery, but he never did because she was still so far away, and it wasn't of the promise of her company he dreaded but the foresight of taction - no matter how pleasurable.
She waited, surveyed the immense room, her eyes drifting to a glint of shine. Admiring the coin that now took permanent residence on the nightstand - her nightstand on her side of the bed - she knew now that Tywin was the gold he gave her: respected only for its worth, noticed only for its luster. The weight of it all more burden than anything. She also knew, without an ounce of doubt, that he endured without tarnish and had become her treasure.
They as a pair didn't have a title, they simply were.
It had been six months. Six months, and they made quite a decent replica of a couple, she thought; compatibility in cunning disguise. They wore each other openly: shared meals, sipped wine, enjoyed the theatre, spoke of business and life and aspirations. They met equally on several levels and cared nothing for those they didn't. Experience didn't happen at a set age, it simply happened, and with it came the rare and simple joy of conversation. Of companionship.
The only time their paths seemed to diverge, when the narrow gap between them became a chasm, was when they would reach the double doors which led to his bedchamber.
That room was their sanctuary for touch, and the depth of affection found there was still met with a pause. However, when the basis for their sexual congress ran contrary, when Tywin steered the direction of their coupling, there was absolutely no reluctance to be found. These were moments of spontaneous passion, sparks of frenzied need, whenever and wherever the mood struck. Not that they were any less intimate when they took their time, just that his methods afforded a particular dissociation.
Sansa had discovered that the more layers of fabric between them and the less profit from decorum the encounter required, the easier it was for Tywin to forget his uncertainty. And his desires were not vague, not in the least. When he led their game, Tywin preferred rough sex, and, as luck would have it, in those same times, Sansa preferred to be held down and fucked so thoroughly she could still feel his presence on her and in her three days later.
Occasionally their compatibility shocked even them.
He could invest everything he was feeling in their feral bouts of fucking because he did not have to discard his armour - his clothing.
His control.
But at the bedroom doors, at the knowledge he would willingly dispense of his security, the switch became a physical trait. Sansa could see the moment Tywin's hesitation ate his confidence. Even more striking was the fact the shift did not diminish him in any way; he wanted her, he yearned for her contact - the strain of his erection against his trousers never lessened.
And yet he feared it. He was terrified of something beautiful, and the vulnerability she had witnessed since they met was only visible because he allowed her to see it.
It would be a slow and continual process, she knew, but Sansa was there for the duration - to see this man to resolution, and beyond. Because, along with the thrill of healing, she had spent six months discovering a genuine fondness for her Mr Lannister. Especially since her Mr Lannister granted himself the chance to be rid of that trepidation and become stronger for its loss.
And she most certainly admired that strength.
Oh, he remained prone to pettiness and displays of bitter spite, to which she would never become angry. He was still a creature coming to terms with sharing his life after decades of self imposed of loneliness. And, as with most everyone on the planet, he needed space to deal with those adjustments. She needed those times as well.
…this was not one of them.
Sansa walked the room in a wide arc, circling the bed until she faced the foot, faced him. Tywin was resting on a mound of pillows, his upper body slightly elevated and in perfect line to watcher approach. Her slow saunter was met with a restless stir and eyes that, even at a distance, visibly ignited at the sight of her. She could burn alive in that man's stare, preferred to.
But Sansa was not without a means to kindle a rare fire, too.
Sansa had found that Tywin thrived on litany. So her kissing him not only became a thing of greeting and parting but of thanks and simple serenity. She kissed him for no reason, just to lay her hands along the sides of his neck, to lean her breasts against his chest, and to demonstrate that the art of touch had more facets than sexual gratification. Not that she shunned that particular variance, not at all. More so, she found herself enjoying Tywin's companionship overall. The longer they shared space, the easier it was to navigate both his moods and his penchants.
And he hers.
He had told her once, as they lay naked in the dark of early morning, that he'd never taken a woman to his bed, never taken a lover since the death of his wife. He had bedded women - escorts with business exclusivity that rivaled that of her own - although never in the sanctum of his homes, never for long, and never with his clothes all the way off.
Commerce to sate a need, he'd said. After which he simply moved on with life until the need required another transaction.
At his confession, Sansa should have felt a kind of smugness - she had been permitted where others had only been paid to sniff around - but, in the end, it just made her heart ache for him. How lonely an existence. His abrasive nature was understandable when you pieced together the magnitude of personal loss and emotional neglect.
Yet, as she kneeled and crawled her way to the center of the bed where he lay, as she carefully straddled his legs and watched his head tilt back and his chest expand with a deep, satisfied breath, Sansa knew that kind of damage could indeed be mended. As her fingers traveled paths up his thighs, over his hips to reach his torso, she knew this wounded man could heal.
She splayed her fingers outward to provide a path for her thumbs to follow, tracing the lines where his pectoral muscles curled into his sternum. Tywin groaned a noise that licked of torment, but pressed himself into her caress all the same. Reciprocating that same trembling fortitude, Sansa inscribed her pride onto his skin with her touch.
And as she stretched herself along him, slithering against him skin-on-skin, her nipples trailing from his belly to his sternum, his chest rising again, this time lifting her in accordance, but still not deterring her wander; as she wriggled up his body, her own body strategically lingering in places, encouraging the man to squirm; as her mouth opened and her tongue dragged along the ridge of his chest, over the hard bump of his nipple - teasing there, nipping there, sucking and lapping and dragging away from there - the sensitivity of it all buzzing along the line her tongue made, only to leave the rest of him panting.
And as her mouth kissed its way up the tower of his throat, down the rail of his jaw, to the place where she only had to breathe to make him hard. A sanctum of skin so keen to her touch, the first time she suckled there, Tywin came hot and plenty in her hand; as she licked him there, only once, barely connecting with a flick to make him squirm, Sansa rose to her knees, settled back to sit on his pelvis, and waited for him to calm.
She was wet, slick against the coarse hair around his groin. She seeped sin and glided the length of his cock. When he thrashed like this, begged her, not with bend of his words but with the buck of his body, Sansa felt truly alive. Beyond alive, above living, like she had consumed the sun and bore its energy. Inside she felt warm and bright and full of power - almost too much, though, almost overwhelmed by it - until she lifted herself higher.
Every touch that lit along his frame, every shift her body made against his skin, and she would watch the long road of his torso. His chest would rise with the breath he was gulping, his back arching as though to pull in more air, and the plane of abdominal muscles would tense and bunch in before pulling back to a severe hollow below his rib cage. Sansa could appreciate the intricate beauty in that cascade of strength, could feel the pull and sway of it along her inner thighs.
Taking his cock in her hand, pulling back his foreskin she teased him at her entrance, dipping the head just inside to give him a taste; to share the heat that made her in these times, that burned for him within her. When he could take no more, he knew how to tell her what he needed.
Her aim was not to tease him, not at all - well, not entirely - but to try and blend care and passion with a genuine sense of safekeeping.
And it worked, to a degree.
Tywin placed trembling hands on her thighs, moved them in little lines and growing circles to her hips and her waist, up the soft definition of her ribs to cup the handfuls of her breasts. He took his time, gently squeezing and weighing and pushing them together. He used his thumbs to pebble her nipples, then paired his index fingers to pinch and tug the tight flesh, making her gasp. When her hips started to move, stroking her heat against his cock, he sat up slightly to worship her breasts with his mouth - lipping kisses along the sensitive skin underneath, nipping and suckling at the hardened tips.
His hands roamed, his mouth remained occupied, and Tywin's fright lay scorched to ash by the wayside. He no longer needed to crutch himself so completely on solitude, Sansa was all he needed - all he wanted - to keep him upright.
Trust is a tremendous step for anyone, particularly for those with substantiated reasons to doubt, and a step that should never come easily. But when empathy is persistently and consistently bestowed in earnest, conviction can sometimes manage to flourish. Together they had created a malleable seduction that met the spectrum of their needs, from comfortable to fuckable.
The latter of which they employed currently.
Rising high to create room, Sansa reached for his prick, stroking the taut skin of his erection as she pressed the leaking head to part her labia, sliding it from her clit to notch snug at her opening. Then, as his bruising grip on her hips encouraged her occasional rise and insistent descent, she worked her lover into the tight heat of her body.
She sat, hilted on his cock, the tip pressed against her cervix with just enough force to elicit a pleasant discomfort, goading the tension inside her, the kind that made her bones itch. She liked to saviour these first moments, how he made her feel full and whole - pieces fitting together in a place that would never be thought of as empty until arousal for him steeped into her veins and made her hunger for a physical slake.
When he could stand no more of the stillness, he breathed her name. She smiled. She squeezed him inside. With a practiced flex, her pelvic floor contracted, feeling as though it were tugging his cock deeper toward her womb.
When he could stand no more of the teasing, he groaned her name. Tripping over the syllables while his fingers explored more of her skin. She moaned. She moved over him. With a practiced lift, her greedy cunt begrudgingly let slip its bounty. Bereft only long enough to tempt his hands, to feel them dig harder into her hips. His touch pleading, willing her to abide gravity.
She did. She always did. Taking him to the root once again, tipping forward at the hips to massage her clit against him.
This was the build. Tonight would be played to her rhythm, and she always started slow. Always placed gratification as far away as possible; always paced them both one step behind it, mindless in the wake of the best kind of insanity. That welcomed madness allowed for their mouths to kiss and suck and lick and explore, allowed their hands to knead and scratch and pull and soothe.
Sansa laid over him, churning her hips, alternating between curving inward and running parallel, each one a steady cadence that sheathed and unsheathed his prick with the most delicious friction.
Tywin laid under her, moving his hands with a learned tenacity that echoed a kind of wonder. Each palm slid to her back and dragged from her shoulder blades down the line of her spine to her arse cheeks. Where he curled his fingers and used the leverage to spread her wide, taking advantage of the lewd exposure and allowing him to plumb her innermost heat.
His cock would pull back, fall nearly away, only to shove back in and distend her with an ache she audibly cried out for. Nothing had felt like this before. Tywin made her body crave for his in a manner that should have scared her.
It did, but it didn't. Just as her presence worked to dissipate his fear of touch, his presence worked to wipe away her fear of becoming dependent.
Perched on his cock, her body arched over his torso like a living wave, her hair swished about their faces like a jostled curtain. A man like Tywin Lannister was never meant to look small, yet with her hands anchored on his chest and her eyes peering down to the glitter of his - the only sight of him her thick auburn hair afforded - Sansa understood how a man like that could glory in her shadow. She did in his, of course, in the times when he arched above her, made love to her, fucked her senseless. It was a surrender of sorts that left neither of them anywhere near defeated.
Hovering, their faces so close she could taste the sweet arbor wine he partook of after dinner in the air they shared, Sansa felt emboldened by a sudden urge to see him. With a practiced flick of her head and a helpful brush of her hand, Sansa's hair spilled to one side. It pooled like silk beside his face and allowed the dim firelight to paint his features in relief - a glow of gold highlighted in near white where it refracted off the sweat he'd earned thus far from their endeavours.
He looked... she smiled. He looked caught somewhere between smug satisfaction and pure disbelief.
"Tywin…" She said, whispered into the tiny space in which they existed, and watched his eyes widen and his mouth slack in the pleasure.
His name played between them not as a personal address but as a declaration of intent.
She kissed him then and he moved beneath her, grinding against the linens and inside the woman above him. Her tongue drove into his mouth in the same manner his cock drove into her cunt: a concession to possession and the feral want to capture him at the same time, to pull and hold him inside. There was no choice in their acts, nothing cognizant or decisive, simply a need to seek completion.
The way he growled on her lips caused the her body to tighten. The way he left the middle finger of one hand to slip into her quim along with his length caused her blood to burn. The way every digit of his other hand hooked for purchase along her nape and the at the base of her skull caused her anticipation to slip to gratification. The way his inhibition shattered as he whispered filthy truths and promises…
The tightly bound coil that had settled low in her sex seized at the apex of its limit.
Its breaking point.
For a less than a heartbeat the world stopped, then seemed to bend at the edges. Colour faded, sound clouded to a buzz, and even the moody firelight became far too big. And just as white dots started to pattern her vision, actuality slammed back into place at a delirious speed.
Sansa came and the energy inside her surged as she cried his name this time, loud and unbidden. A gush of wet coated his groin - a tremendous dividend for the investment of his efforts - and she shivered around him, reduced to wispy moans as the last of the those bright waves rippled through her.
He held her flush, full weight atop his frame, her head tucked alongside his as her shoulder nudged his chin, and it was exactly the bliss he wanted. This was no burden. And he continued to thrust, fucking her, finding everything he needed to be content right there inside her. But when lust and trust crashed into helpless desire, forcing his need beyond the clasp of any form of control, Tywin held her like iron as his hips arched higher, driving into the slick welcome of her body.
Her name escaped his throat a wavering groan as he both fell apart and was remade, his seed rushing in volleys to fill the space he touched so intimately.
She didn't move save for the scratching of her fingernails, the air in her lungs, and squeeze of her cunt. He liked her there, a second skin and a blanket of reassurance.
Their heartbeats evened out as their breathing began to match, and there, she felt it, just there along her ribs on either side, the evidence her diligence and his acceptance were paying off. Tywin was petting her, but, unlike the self conscious exploration during their love making, these were innate lines drawn with lazy drags of his fingers.
They didn't move from their sweaty maze of limbs.
Just kept touching.
His cock slipped out of her hot and wet, and the world was getting hazy. She could fall asleep like this, and in the final frames of her coherence, Sansa knew she had no desire to change the man she covered like a shroud; Tywin could never be other than what he was. Her desires rested firmly in the want to challenge him - and herself by proxy. Sansa wanted not to tip the balance of his life but to dare shift its center and cultivate a new equilibrium.
Manipulation was an ugly word, a selfish word, when tied to emotional grooming. And yet, manipulation was an altogether beautiful word when both parties were aware; when each person understood the gambit and encouraged a singular outcome.
Anyone can manipulate a mental state; from acts of intimidation to displays of tears, they were all common and all played on the conscience. However, it takes a special pair, one side willing and one side skilled, to shape a better life by hand.
...
..
.