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English
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Part 7 of Finished fic
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2017-12-10
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2019-06-25
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I've got you pegged

Summary:

Sansa's job is hell on earth. So is her marriage. When Littlefinger offers her a way out of both, she is tempted to take him up on his offer. Only thing is, she doesn't have what Petyr wants in return. That is until her husband makes her an unexpected gift.

Prompt: I would love to read something where Tywin wants his wife Sansa to peg him, and she does it and is surprised by the amount of emotion Tywin displays after they finish.

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

At 11 pm, Sansa Stark was the last person to leave the office and, by the gods, she wasn't proud of it. Fourteen hours at her desk had turned her brain to mush and the muscles on her back into a net of twisted, painful knots.

She did one last round through the office, turning off all the lights people had left on and shutting the windows no-one had bothered to close.

As always, she'd finished her story early that day, but Stannis had thrown it right back in her face, telling her to rewrite the whole thing. Then, when she didn't think her day could get any worse, Petyr Baelish had called her. He always used a different number, so there was no way of blocking him.

By the time Stannis was pleased enough to put his own name under her story and send it off to the editors, it was 9:30 pm. Sansa had then spent the next ninety minutes trying to catch up on urgent!!! emails and all the other top-priority!!!! stuff that had piled up on her desk before finally calling it a day.

At least Tywin was still away on business in Shanghai over the weekend, so she wouldn't have to deal with him on top of everything else.

It was snowing as Sansa left the building through the tall glass doors. She pulled her hood over her head and started walking.

The streets were deserted, but Petyr was waiting for her less than half a block from her office, standing under a lamppost like a living and breathing cliché straight out of a film noir, save for the phone in his hand.

“Go away, Littlefinger,” Sansa shouted at him without slowing down.

Petyr fell in next to her. “I want you to know that my client is willing to pay a significant amount of money,” he said. “If whatever you can provide lands Tywin in jail, I bet you will have enough you won't even have to move out of 432 when you separate... Nobody will ever know it came from you.”

Trust me, if I had that kind of dirt on my husband, I would have used it against him a long time ago. “Go away or I'm calling the cops, Petyr. You know you're not supposed to come within 100 feet of me.”

But Littlefinger was not the kind of man to let himself be held back by a restraining order. “He doesn't have to go to jail,” he continued. “If he were somehow forced to resign from the board, I'm sure there would be enough in it for you to pay for your divorce and buy yourself a nice little place in Brooklyn. Think about it.”

So your client is a board member. Sansa briefly wondered who it could be only to decide she didn't care enough. Cersei... Tyrion.... Joff... perhaps all of them together. Everybody knew the Lannisters abhorred each other, but if there was one thing that united them, it was their shared hatred of the family patriarch. “Look, Petyr, even if I had anything, which I don't, I certainly wouldn't share it with you.”

Petyr shrugged. “Fair enough. Just give me a call when you change your mind.”

When I change my mind... not if I change my mind... of course. Sansa couldn't even say why his words bothered her so much. But they did.

Of course, the fucking E train wasn't running. Times like these, Sansa missed Boston, where the T didn't shut down because of half an inch of snow. Or three feet of snow, for that matter.

“Just come back home,” her mother had offered. “I'm sure your father could get you a job at the Globe.”

What Catelyn Stark did not understand was that Tywin Lannister wasn't the type of man to be left by his wife. Hells, it was rumored his first wife had faked her own death just to get out of her marriage. Jaime himself swore a woman claiming to be Joanna Lannister had called him in the middle of the night about a year ago.

Sansa didn't have the faintest idea how to go about faking her own death, but she suspected moving back to Boston afterwards and starting a new job at the Globe wasn't an option.

She pulled out her phone to call an Uber, only to find it had run out of battery. Of course, all the yellow cabs were ignoring her. Oh, fuck it. She was walking home then.

By the time Sansa reached Park Avenue, the snow had turned into sleet pelting her relentlessly. Her boots were soaked from stepping into puddle after puddle of slush each time she had to cross the road.

The doorman greeted her with a smile. “Good evening, Ms. Stark. You're home late today. Busy day at work?”

Normally, Sansa would have stayed to chat with him, but her feet felt like two blocks of ice. All she wanted was a bath and a cup of thick hot chocolate. No, wine. I want a cup of wine. Make that a bottle, actually. A smile crossed her face. A bottle of wine in the bathtub.

But as soon as she stepped out of the elevator, she knew something wasn't right. There was light in the hallway, but that wasn't it. The place felt different. Fuck. He's home early. There were times when that would have made Sansa happy. Now, it just made her more exhausted.

She found Tywin sitting behind his desk in the southern study, scribbling notes on a piece of paper, acknowledging her presence with a brief nod as she entered. “Sansa.”

“You're back.” Sansa looked down at her wet feet on the hardwood floor, hoping her husband wouldn't notice the disappointment in her voice. “Sorry I'm late,” she added quickly. “Stannis Baratheon nearly fired me today. The train wasn't running. I couldn't get a cab. Oh, and Petyr Baelish is stalking me again.” And now you are here. She sighed. “How was your day?”

Tywin ignored her question. “I got you a gift,” he said without looking up from his papers, nodding in the direction of the side table by the large window overlooking downtown Manhattan.

A gold-plated wooden box was placed right in the middle. When Sansa opened it, she found a belt made of soft red leather and chains of gold on the silken padding.

Only when she pulled it out did she realize it was actually a harness and... Oh the gods... There was a dildo attached to it. “What... what am I supposed to do with this?”

“Use it.”

Use it... Sansa took another look. It was made of glass, with swirls of gold and red glittering inside.

“It's inlaid with gold and red diamonds,” Tywin explained. “I had it custom made.”

Of course you did. They don't sell this stuff at the Pleasure Chest. Just the thought of her husband walking into an ordinary sex shop and asking for a dildo made her chuckle.

“I thought you would... enjoy it. There is no second one like it in the world.” For a moment, he almost sounded wounded that she did not react the way he had hoped. But then, he just turned to his papers again.

What does he expect me to say? Sansa turned the strap-on in her hand. This has got to be the most expensive sex toy in the universe. And the most ridiculous as well. “Thank you. It.. it's very... beautiful.” She paused. “I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed. I'm sorry...”

Tywin shrugged. “Very well.”

Sansa straightened her shoulders. “I'm sleeping in the studio tonight.”

“That is your right.” His voice was as cold as his eyes.

Death by a thousand paper cuts, Sansa thought. Only usually, it takes decades for couples to get to the point where we're at. “Well,” she said. “You know where to find me.”

 

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

The elevator took less than thirty seconds to descend fifty floors and opened directly into the studio, so there was no way for her to lock the door. Tywin won't come looking for me though, Sansa thought. Not if his life depended on it. She couldn't say when exactly they had fallen out of love – since when it was that, no matter what she did, all she ever got in return was a disapproving look at best and an indifferent shrug at worst. He'd never do anything that could possibly be misconstrued as concern for her. No. She was quite safe.

Sansa plugged her phone into the charger, slipped out of her pants and poured herself a glass of Sauvignon blanc before turning on the water in the bathtub. It was a lot smaller than her fancy tub in the penthouse, and the view wasn't half as nice. That was the price of getting away from her husband's icy gaze and the deafening silence between them. It was one she gladly paid these days.

The wine was mediocre at best, but even in the maid's quarters on the lower levels of 432 Park Avenue, mediocre wine was still a small act of rebellion, so she downed the glass and poured herself another one. I can't win. He's always going to have the upper hand. It was a sad fact of life that Tywin was simply much more skilled at hurting her than she was at hurting him.

On her wedding day, Margaery had joked Sansa would never be able to afford getting out of her marriage again. “You'll be stuck drinking Moët and vacationing on the Maldives.” Their friends had thought that was the most hilarious thing ever. Unfortunately, it had also turned out to be true in a way.

Well, except for the vacation part. Her husband didn't believe in vacations.

It was still snowing outside. From her kitchen window, she could see the Lion's Tooth through the flurry of white flakes. “What a disgrace to our family name,” Tywin always said whenever he caught a glimpse of it, and Sansa was never quite sure whether he meant the tower or his grandson. Either way, he had a point.

If it wasn't for that little shit, I never would have ended up in this wreck of a marriage to begin with. Him and Arya. Screw her, too. She'd interviewed Joffrey back when she was still in J-School and he had just made 30 under 30 in what could arguably be called a lapse in judgment of historical proportions on Forbes' part.

Of course, it barely took ten minutes of interview before Joffrey had a major meltdown on camera in response to a reasonably polite question, so the following day, Sansa found herself at the Lannister Mansion, where Tywin informed her in no uncertain terms that he was going to destroy her if any of that footage ever saw the light of day.

When she told her sister of his attempts to intimidate her, Arya got so angry she uploaded the unedited video to Youtube that very night and sent the link to every single of their media contacts. But for some reason, instead of calling his lawyers, Tywin had invited Sansa for dinner and asked her advice on how to deal with an unmanageable public relations disaster like Joffrey. The rest was history.

Boredom. Sansa thought. He was bored with all the yes-men around him, and I... well, I was twenty-two and oh so flattered.

For about half a year, they'd drowned in their mutual infatuation, with Tywin asking her views on almost everything, and Sansa giving him uncharacteristically brutal and honest opinions. It wasn't like her to be blunt, but there was something exhilarating about looking a man so powerful his gaze made grown men shit their pants straight in the eye and telling him he was dead wrong. And getting away with it. It had made her feel like the most fearless person in the world.

By the time she realized the only reason she was able to contradict Tywin was because it amused him, she had a wedding band on her finger and was stuck in a very unequal relationship with the coldest person known to gods and men.

Perhaps the worst of it all was that everyone else had seen her for what she was from the beginning. Everybody knew I was a lap-dancing monkey. Everyone except me. Sansa finished her glass, filled it again and put the wine back in the fridge. On second thought, let's just take the whole bottle. I'll need it. She pulled off the rest of her clothes and grabbed her phone.

The warm water felt good as she lowered herself into the tub. There were three missed calls, all from an unknown number – Petyr, of course – and five Whatsapp messages: three from her mother, one from Margaery, and one from another unknown number. Also Petyr, no doubt.

Her eyes fell on the strap-on she'd dropped right next to the bathtub. Use it...

No doubt this was just another ploy on Tywin's part, a trick to get her to open up so he could throw any affection she might show him right back in her face. I guess I could always use it on myself. That was only fair given the state of their sex life. Still... she was more intrigued by the idea of reversing their roles than she cared to admit.

Sansa swiped all of her messages away and opened Pornhub. Let's see... Strap-on? Pegging? Femdom? She tried her best to ignore the ads offering her penis enlargements and supposed messages from “local women” all dying to give her a blowjob. Where is targeted advertisement when you need it? And when will someone finally work up the courage to tell men that dicks aren't pretty??

Sansa scrolled through the results, watching clip after clip of men on all fours, bent over a table or on their backs, some of them silent, others moaning, yet others begging for more. She tried and failed to imagine Tywin in their place. But as ridiculous as all of this was, there was something fascinating about men making themselves so vulnerable and being able to enjoy it. Use it.. that's what he said... use it...

And suddenly, she knew exactly what she could give Littlefinger to make his clients happy enough to shower her with money. In the hypermasculine world of corporate finance, there was no place for vulnerability. Granted, any kind of sex tape usually sufficed to blackmail a man. But this was the golden ticket, a virtual guarantee of success. All I have to do is do what he's asked me to, make a little recording, and let toxic masculinity work its magic.

Then, her conscience caught up with her. This was messed up on so many different levels, she couldn't even begin to list them all. It was almost as if Petyr Baelish had cut open her head, placed the idea in there and sewn her up again. But it could work. Nobody will ever know it was me.

She took another look at her present on the bathroom floor. Gold and red diamonds. It had Tywin written all over it, walking that fine line between bold and flashy, always bordering on bad taste without ever crossing the line. They are going to make fun of that if Littlefinger ever leaks the video, she thought. They are going to think it's hilarious that even the cock his wife fucks him with is made of gold. This is going to destroy him.

She took a long sip of wine directly from the bottle before picking up her phone again and calling the unknown number.

“Yes?” Yup, that's Petyr. Damn it, I'm drunk-calling Petyr Baelish. He sounded so pleased with himself too that Sansa almost hung up again.

“Yes? How can I help you, Sansa?”

She took a deep breath. I'm not doing this for Littlefinger, she had to remind herself. I am stuck in a toxic marriage, and nobody is going to save me, so I'm saving myself. “Listen,” she slurred, trying her best to sound sober. “I need money... Enough money to pay for a good... divorce lawyer... and to never ever have to write a single article for Stannis Baratheon ever again. If you can p-promise me that, you'll get Tywin's resignation on a gold platter... and I... I'll sprinkle some red diamonds on top.”

“How poetic.” Petyr laughed. “You have my word. But let's do ourselves a favor and stop pretending this is about your divorce. We both know that all you want is-”

“I'll let you know once I have something for you,” Sansa interrupted him. “Do not call me again.”

After she hung up, she just sat in the bathtub staring into space until the water was cold and she felt almost sober again. Slowly, she pulled herself up. The woman staring back at her from the mirror with her puffy eyes and black streaks of mascara running down her face looked like a stranger.

This started with a video, and it will end with one. Sansa thought. I win.

 

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Sansa awoke with what was probably her worst headache since her junior year in college. One last drink. All she'd wanted to have was one last drink before bed. She cursed the part of herself that had thought opening a second bottle of wine was a good idea. Like she'd never made that mistake before. For a moment, the pounding behind her eyes was all she could focus on. Then her memories came rushing back. Oh gods.

She quickly checked her phone, only to find that, yes, she had indeed called Petyr. Twice. Fuck. All she remembered was their first conversation, but that was bad enough. Blackmail Tywin with homemade porn. No, have Littlefinger blackmail him. It was the kind of idea only wine could put in her head. Or Petyr, fuck him.

He'd sent her another text. “A mother's eyes are ever watchful,” it said. She pictured Littlefinger typing the message, softly chuckling to himself.

Mommy's eye was what she'd called the nanny cam aunt Lysa had used to spy on her, back when Sansa still lived in Boston and would watch her cousin so Lysa could spend time with Petyr. The camera was a shiny black lens that could be attached to any surface, smaller than a dime and not much thicker. Sansa would have probably never noticed it if Sweetrobin hadn't started talking about “mommy's eye watching us” out of the blue one day. (“No, look, Sansa, that's mommy's eye! There! See?”)

Needless to say that had been the last time she'd ever babysat Sweetrobin. Sansa had removed the camera and taken it with her, just to make a point.

That was years ago, but of course Petyr remembered. Ever watchful my ass. Sansa deleted the message and added the number to her blacklist.

Her head was still throbbing as she dragged herself to the bathroom. Her face was puffy, her eyes bloodshot. She got some ice cubes from the fridge, wrapped them in a towel and pressed them on her eyelids until the redness was almost gone.

“You drink too much,” Tywin always complained. He was right, of course; nobody knew that better than Sansa herself. “Drinking,” she had told Margaery, with philosophical certainty, after her fourth gin tonic on their girls' night out, “is temporary death. I don't think. I don't worry. I don't feel the anger. It's like I don't exist. It's great.” Margaery had nodded vigorously; after her second divorce and with her third marriage failing, she knew exactly what Sansa was talking about.

There was no point in trying to explain “temporary death to get away from it all” to the man who was the source of most of her anger on any given day though. “If I had wanted an overbearing parent by my side policing my every step,” Sansa liked to tell him instead, “I would have moved back in with my father, thank you very much.” The comparison with Ned Stark usually worked magic to shut up even Tywin Lannister.

Sansa picked out her most comfortable pair of sweatpants and an oversized shirt. At least it was Saturday and she didn't have to go to the office. With a bit of luck, Tywin was already at work and she had the penthouse to herself. It's past ten, she told herself as she stepped into the elevator. He has to have left by now.

But her husband was sitting by the panorama window in the living room, drinking his kopi luwak (“cat shit coffee,” Sansa called it), reading the Financial Times. Like a caricature of himself, Sansa thought.

“You're in a bad mood,” he said without looking up. The rest remained unspoken, but Sansa knew what he was thinking: explain yourself. Make it short though; I don't have time for your drama.

She suppressed the urge to walk right back out. No point in fighting a fight I cannot win. “I'm sorry,” she said, sitting down on the couch. “I'm just sick of Stannis passing off my work as his own. I know everybody does it, but it's infuriating.”

Just mentioning work was a mistake, of course. “So quit,” Tywin said. “Nobody is forcing you to do this job.”

Here we go again, Sansa thought. They'd been over this so many times she could no longer keep count. “It's the twenty-first century, Tywin,” she'd told him again and again. “Women have jobs. I like my job; I just hate Stannis.”

“If you need money, just tell me,” he would say. Or: “This is more of your feminist nonsense, thinking you need a job to be my equal.” Or: “Why go through all this trouble when your salary won't even cover the electricity bill?”

At some point, Sansa had found his bluntness refreshing. “At least he's honest,” she'd told her mother. (“Cruel,” Catelyn had corrected her.) Now, all it did was make her sick. The worst part was, he had a point. The monthly property tax on the penthouse alone was more than three months' worth her salary.

But for some reason, Tywin managed to keep his snide remarks to himself for once. “I can get Stannis fired if you want,” he offered instead.

There was little Sansa wanted more, but having Tywin do the dirty work for her took all the satisfaction out of seeing Stannis go. “No use.” She said. “Whoever is going to replace him will be just as bad.”

Tywin shrugged. “As you wish.” He put the paper aside. “I have to go.”

Sansa took a deep breath. “When will you be home tonight? I thought I'd cook us dinner.”

“I won't be back in time,” Tywin said, but Sansa knew him well enough to know he was pleased by the offer. “I suppose I can arrange to be back by seven,” he added after a brief pause.

“Dinner at seven then,” Sansa said. “I love you.”

Chapter 4

Notes:

I know I haven't been writing much - it's been a busy year at work. But I want to write more again and do have a sequel planned for this fic.

Chapter Text

At seven sharp, Sansa took the champagne out of the freezer and placed it in the cooler. The mousse au chocolat was chilling in the fridge, and her appetizer of scallops with saffron butter was arranged on the table. The duck was sizzling in the oven, perfectly timed to be served just after their first course. If there was one thing Sansa had learned as a journalist, it was working towards a deadline.

She'd put on her winter of 1955 cocktail dress that Tywin had bought at an auction for a small fortune. Sansa didn't exactly share his enthusiasm for the fifties, but the dress was pretty enough, and she knew Tywin would appreciate the gesture.

At half past seven, Sansa poured herself her first glass of red wine, carefully sipping it through her teeth to avoid staining her lips. He's stuck in traffic, she told herself, looking out the window. It's not his fault. Snow always plunged the city into madness. Everybody knew that.

“Made dinner,” she texted Margaery at eight. “Guess who's not here.”

At nine o'clock, she'd finished the bottle. Her lips and teeth had turned an unattractive blueish red. He could have called, she thought, let me know he was running late. Was that too much to ask for? Trying to call was pointless; Tywin never answered his phone.

Sansa took a piece of duck and stuffed it in her mouth. It had turned cold and rubbery, and the thick layer of fat made her gag. She dumped the rest in the trash, took a picture and sent it to Margaery. “I probably should have seen this coming,” she added. That was the worst of it all. She should have seen it coming.

By 9:30, there was still no news from Tywin. Or from Margaery, for that matter. Sansa turned on the TV, wrapped herself in a blanket and curled up on the sofa. All the waiting had made her tired. Or perhaps it was the wine.

Her phone woke her up. It was almost midnight. Tywin, was her first thought, but it was an unknown number. “What do you want, Petyr?”

There was a pause on the other end. “I need you to get me a draft in by tomorrow 8 a.m.” Stannis. “We're running the story on Monday. You know the one about Homeland I've been working on. I'll send you what I've got.”

Of course. Sansa's head was hurting, but she was sober enough to be angry – angry at Tywin, angry at Stannis, and most of all, angry at herself. No. No no no. This stops today. She took a deep breath. “No.” 

 “You're telling me you don't need my notes?” Stannis scoffed.  “You want to write the article from scratch? Well, be my guest.”

Sansa took another deep breath. Stannis was still still ranting and rambling on the other end. What she was about to do was stupid. It was also long overdue. “No," she interrupted. “My shift doesn't start until Monday. You don't have to send me anything because I'm not going to write your article for you.”

There was an angry pause that felt like almost an hour to Sansa. Her heart was pounding.

“Come again? What did you just say?” 

Sansa pictured Stannis clenching his jaw, his head a dark shade of red, the vein on his forehead about to burst. And suddenly, she felt very calm. “You heard me the first time, Stannis. I won't write the article for you. There's nothing you can do about that. I quit.” With that, she hung up.

The phone kept ringing until she blocked the number.

The ice in the cooler had melted and the champagne was lukewarm. She opened the bottle and emptied it in the sink. That's 10k down the drain. It felt both incredibly childish and incredibly good. So good.

“Just quit my job,” she texted Margaery with the kind of deep satisfaction she hadn't felt since she'd told her father she was marrying Tywin Lannister. “You know what else? I'm getting a divorce.”

And by the gods, she wasn't going to go quietly. She was going to make that clip and sell it to Petyr's stupid client. Or to any of her husband's three million other enemies; she didn't really care. Or perhaps she would simply keep it for a rainy day. It was a good thing to have. Like insurance. 

Sansa smiled as she put the empty champagne bottle on the kitchen counter and headed for the elevator.

Chapter 5

Notes:

Sorry for the long hiatus! Work is keeping me busy, but the rest of the fic is almost finished so hopefully the next update won't take as long :)

Chapter Text

Aunt Lysa's eye was barely visible on the upper corner of the large framed mirror opposite the bed, the lens no more than a small bump on the dark wood. She couldn't have picked a better spot; it gave her a perfect view of the master bedroom.

Sansa slipped out of her dress and undid her hair, letting it fall over her shoulders. Her mascara had smeared and her lips were wine-stained, but her stomach was flat and her breasts looked firm in the mirror, pointing upwards just the way she liked them.

She took the strap-on out of the box. It felt much heavier than she remembered. Not a beginner's toy, that’s for sure. She strapped the harness around her waist. It fit perfectly – of course it did; Tywin paid attention to such detail.

Perhaps I won't divorce him, she thought. Perhaps I'll stick around and watch him unravel. When had she become so cruel?

Snow was whirling past outside the panorama window. Sansa pressed her nose against the glass. The view down below was familiar; in the early years of her marriage she'd often stood here whenever she couldn't sleep at night, watching the sea of lights below. I'll miss this.

Even then, she'd been lonely though. Tywin had been around more, but in a way, his absence had always been easier to bear than his silence. After a month or two, Sansa had always cracked, begging him to speak with her, to tell her what she’d done wrong. All it had ever earned her was more silence and the occasional denial that anything was wrong at all. How could she argue with that?

I’m not saving myself, she knew. I am setting my own house on fire, just to be able to watch him burn. That was all she cared about: to break through his armor of indifference, to hurt him, no matter the cost. It was wrong, stupid, pathetic in a way, but it was what she chose to do. That was the cold, hard truth. It felt good to finally be honest, if only with herself.

***

By the time Sansa heard the elevator ding, it was past 2 a.m. She dimmed the lights and lit a candle just as Tywin opened the door.

“Sansa...” There was the faintest hint of surprise in his voice, an uncertainty she had not expected. It gave her confidence. “I didn't think you would-” He paused. “You should go to bed. It's late. We'll speak tomorrow.”

Sansa poured him a glass of wine. “Here.” He won't like the taste. She thought. He's going to complain I picked the wrong grape again.

But all he did was take small sips from the glass, briefly putting it on the fireplace before picking it up again, twisting it between his fingers. He was staring at her, her bare breasts, the dildo strapped around her waist. “Sansa,” he said again before his voice caught in his throat. His eyes were locked on her.

This wasn’t the cold, icy gaze she had come to expect. I caught him off-guard, she realized. He's more nervous than I am. It was the first time she'd ever truly seen him nervous.

Sansa looked him in the eye. “If you want me to leave,” she said, “just say the word and I will walk out of here and out of your life, and you will never see me again.” She had no idea where the words were coming from, but they kept pouring out of her with sudden confidence. “I have my friends and my family, people who love me, people who value me. The truth is, I don't need you, Tywin.”

He took a step towards her before stopping again, as if trying to find a spot where he could collect himself, regain control of the situation.

They were staring at each other, for how long Sansa couldn’t say.

It was Tywin who finally broke the silence. “I can go if you want-”

“Stay.” Sansa sat down on the bed. “I may not need you. But that doesn't mean I don't want you.” It was almost as if saying the words made them true. She felt a pang of guilt. Don’t look at the camera.

Tywin shucked off his coat and placed it on the armchair. He loosened his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt, hesitant, suddenly conscious of her gaze.

Sansa felt a flutter in her stomach. She couldn't remember when she had last seen him undress; there was something intimate about watching him take off his clothes, carefully piling them on top of each other without taking his eyes off of her.

Everybody is going to see this, she remembered. And how they will love it. There was something about Tywin that made people curious. He was the kind of man guys hoped to catch a glimpse of in the shower room at the gym. Of course, none of them ever would – Tywin had bought the floor below the penthouse and turned it into a private gym to avoid just that. The thought made her stomach clutch.

I'll cut this part, Sansa decided. They would see her husband naked, but they wouldn't get to see him undress. That was for her and her alone.

“I’ll be right back.” Tywin's voice brought her back from her thoughts. Before she could stop him, he had slipped out the door. When Sansa was almost certain he wasn't coming back, he stood in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Come.” She patted the bed, and to her surprise, he placed the towel on the bed and crawled onto the mattress, kneeling down beside her.

Sansa ran her hands over his back. His skin was warm; she could feel his muscles moving every time he inhaled and exhaled. She could almost feel the tension in the room. Part of her was expecting him to take the initiative, to assume the familiar role and tell her what to do. But either he had already fully settled into his new passive part or he was still at a loss for words, unsure what to do or say.

She found the lube where she knew she’d find it – hidden in the back of the bedside drawer. (Rule number one, she thought. No such thing as too much lube.) She coated her index, gently massaging the soft skin around his hole before pushing in. There was some resistance at first, but less than she had expected. She pushed in deeper, feeling the muscles suddenly contract around her.

He was shifting his knees, every fibre in his body tense. His breathing had turned shallow, as if trying to mask his reaction to her probing digit.

Sansa placed a kiss on the small of his back, moving her finger in small circles until she finally felt him relax. She slipped in another finger, stretching, exploring, feeling him shudder and twitch. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes-” His voice sounded choked, raw.

Sansa slowly pulled out her fingers. She spread the lube on the dildo, reaching around to stroke his throbbing cock as she pressed it against his buttocks. She was about to push in when he grabbed her hand.

“Stop.”

Sansa froze, her stomach turned into a lump of ice. He's seen me look at the camera. He knows what I'm doing.

 

Chapter 6

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Tywin rolled over onto his back. “I want to see you.” There was a strange softness in his eyes, a look she hadn't seen in years. And something else.

He wants me. The realization felt like a punch in the gut. Sansa should have been relieved, but all she could do was stare at him.

He must have seen the terror on her face. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no.” Sansa quickly bent down, kissing him. He doesn't want me. He's just horny. “Nothing's wrong. I've never done this before, that's all.” The smile on her face felt so forced that it hurt. Everything about this was wrong: his sudden gentleness, her betrayal. Having to look him in the eye while she was plotting to destroy his life.

Worst of all, there was that mad sliver of hope again – that he still loved her after all, that somehow, some way, he wanted her enough that he would change. She'd been there often enough to know that wasn't going to happen. All she had to do to destroy whatever fragile peace existed between them was ask why he'd been seven hours late. Seven hours. There was a line that had to be drawn.

She shifted from one knee to the other until she was perfectly lined up with him – or so she thought. The first try was a miss and so was the second. This had all looked so much easier. More lube. Sansa reached for the bottle, almost dropping it.

Tywin's hands were resting on her thighs, his thumbs making small circles on her skin as if to quietly reassure her.

I can do this, Sansa thought. One hand on the dildo, the other spreading his cheeks apart, she gently eased herself in, millimeter by millimeter, watching the expression on his face change as he tried to get used to the sensation, eyes half closed.

For a moment, she stayed inside of him, motionless, until he had relaxed completely. Then she started pulling back, careful not to slip out entirely. This was harder than she had thought, but slowly, gradually, she was building a rhythm. Don't overthink it.

Tywin was shuddering, his head tilted backwards, trying and failing to regain control over his body.

Sansa found herself pulling out on purpose just to see him squirm underneath her, teasing him before plunging back in. It felt strange to be the one with all the control, all the power. But also felt right. It felt more right than anything she had done in a long time.

“Please...” Each time she brushed over his sweet spot, he let out a soft gasp. “Please...”

Everything came naturally at this point, like an instinct. She quickened the pace, grinding herself against the end of the dildo, sending waves of pleasure through her body.

The sight was exquisite, narrow hips bucking upwards as he tried to impale himself on her, following her whenever she pulled away from him, his hands clasping her thighs so hard that it hurt, trying to pull her closer. He was like a completely different person: soft, open, vulnerable.

And that sound... oh the gods, that sound. It was the most ridiculous sound she had ever heard. And the sweetest. And the sexiest. Sansa could feel herself getting wet. It was crazy how good this felt. All she wanted was to listen to him moan and beg for more.

He was gasping, sucking in the air through his teeth as she pushed in deeper, rocking back and forth. His legs were cramping, the muscles on his stomach contracting, his toes curling. “Ahhh-ahhhh...” He sounded as if he was about to sneeze, his back arched, before collapsing on the bed.

She stayed inside of him until his breathing had returned to normal before pulling out.

“Thank you.” His voice was still shaky, his eyes glassy. “That was... that was-”

“Wonderful,” Sansa finished for him, lying down on her back.

Tywin wrapped his arms around her, resting his head on her breasts, breathing in her scent. “I've been meaning to ask you to do this for a long time,” he said.

Sansa cocked her head. “Why didn't you?”

There was a long pause.

“I suppose I thought you would... laugh at me.” Tywin looked her in the eye. “Part of me is still afraid you will laugh at me now.” He shrugged. “I'm just... bad at relationships, bad at all... this. I don't have to tell you that.”

Sansa felt tears welling up in her eyes, quickly turning her head before he could see. Don't you fucking cry now.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.” The bump on the mirror's frame was silently judging her. “It's just it's been so long since we... since we've spent any time together.” She half expected Tywin to tell her that they'd seen each other in the morning.

But there was still that soft look in his eyes. “You're right,” he said. “I should take a break from work. I'm sick of all the fighting on the board. We could spend more time with each other, travel the world, do what couples do.”

Sansa looked up. That is never going to happen, the voice in her head said, and she knew it was right. “Yeah sure,”she said.

If Tywin had picked up on the irony, he didn't show it. “I’m not saying you should give up your job,” he added quickly. “You could work remotely. I'm sure you could find some arrangement with the editor-in-chief.”

“I won't have to.” Sansa laughed. “Believe it or not, I quit my job today.”

For a moment, he just looked at her. Then he smiled. “Good. Trust me, those morons don't deserve you. You'll find something else. You're good at what you do.”

Here he was, saying all those things she'd been craving to hear. People don't change, said the voice inside her head. She pushed herself up on the bed. “I need to go.”

“You have every right to be angry.” Tywin cleared his throat. “And you're right. You don't need me. But I need you. Stay.”

Stay. Sansa's eyes were starting to burn. This wasn't the man she had fallen in love with, but neither was this the man she had come to hate. Why did he have to be like this, now of all times? Before she knew it, she was sobbing into the pillow.

He let her cry, stroking her back. “I'm sorry.”

In all of their marriage, he'd never said those words – at least he'd never truly meant them. Sansa looked up. “No,” she said. “I am sorry. Believe me, I am.”

For a moment, Tywin looked confused. He's going to ask me now, Sansa thought. And I'll be stupid enough to tell him. But all he did was kiss her on the forehead. “We'll talk tomorrow. Let's get some sleep first.”

Sansa waited until he had fallen asleep before she slipped out of the bed. She couldn't stay in that room, not with Aunt Lysa's eye watching them.

Back in her room, everything was the way she had left things, a half-empty bottle of wine sitting right next to her open laptop. And sure enough, everything had streamed directly to the cloud. It wasn't exactly high definition, but Tywin was clearly recognizable, and so was she.

I should keep this, she thought. Just in case. Sooner or later, Tywin was going to be his old self again, arrogant, distant, cruel, treating her like just another thing that he owned. Sex can't fix a person.

But if the clip was gone, it was almost like she had never done any of this, like she'd never colluded with Petyr fucking Baelish to blackmail her husband, never filmed him without his consent, never betrayed his trust so fundamentally.

Sansa closed her eyes. I'm going to regret this, she thought. Without taking another look, she pressed delete.

 

Notes:

Well, this only took me forever to finish :) Btw there's going to be a sequel (though at my current pace of writing, it'll probably be a while)

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