#just a disembodied pair of khakis | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lainelannister · 5 years

Text

So as I mentioned earlier today...I did some #MeToo-inspired re-writing to an old modern AU of mine, “Slayers and Stones”. You’ll find the edited version below- I’d love any feedback anyone can provide! If you’ve read the old version, I’d love to hear if the edits are working for you...and if this is your first time reading, those responses are also super valuable!

Her father calls her into his study early in the morning, a rare smile on his serious face as he passes her a laminated name badge. “Your internship begins tomorrow.”

Sansa looks down at the red-and-gold tag. The Lannister Inc. logo emblazoned across the top, her pseudonym (“Alayne Stone,” she likes the sound of it well enough) in bold font below, and beneath that...

“Marketing and PR?” She cannot keep a dark frown from pulling at her lips; Lannister Inc. has a top-notch corporate analysis program, and she’d hoped that she might have a chance to experience it first-hand...

But of course, this isn’t strictly a learning experience, is it?

“It’s the best place for you. You’ll be privy to every nasty rumor that passes through that place, which is very, very useful to us.” Ned Stark still wears his smile, but it has yet to reach his eyes- corporate espionage is not attractive to him, and if not for Jon Arryn’s urging, she doubts that he’d be encouraging her to do this in the first place.

“Besides, the PR department handles press releases, events, parties...it would be the most fun for you, love.”

Sansa grinds her molars together at that; she may have graduated cum laude from Bryn Mawr with plans to start at Harvard Business School in the fall, but in her father’s eyes, she’ll always be that giggly, vapid seventeen year old, throwing a tantrum because another girl wore the same dress to the prom.

But she just smiles back and nods. “I’m sure you’re right, Daddy. I’ll go and do my best.”

“That’s my girl.” And in spite of her annoyance, Sansa feels a flush of pride at her father’s affectionate words, and she eagerly steps into his open arms and lets him hug her tight.

“You’ll fit right in over at Lannister. They’ve got a thing for blondes.”

Sansa glares at her brother, who leans casually against the doorframe of her bedroom. She reaches up to run a self-conscious hand through her newly-highlighted hair; auburn curls now shine strawberry-blonde, and she has yet to become used to it.

When she doesn’t answer, Robb steps into the room and crosses his arms over his chest, a bright smile on his handsome face. “What are you planning to wear?”

“That.” She gestures to her closet door, where she’s hung the sensible pantsuit that her mother gave her right after graduation- “Classic, good for interviews,” Catelyn Stark had said.

Robb plucks at the fabric before shaking his head in distaste. “Sansa, I’ve been to Lannister Inc. You can’t wear that...you’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

It’s not like her brother to pay attention to women’s fashion; the novelty of the conversation is enough to hold Sansa’s interest. “It’s a high-powered corporation. You’re telling me that the women don’t wear business suits?”

“They do...but not like that.” She’s starting to understand his implication, and her cheeks blush, just a little.

“Then what should I wear, Robb?”

To her surprise, her brother opens her closet door and begins to rifle through her clothing. It’s a comical sight, and she laughs.

“You seem to know your way around a girl’s closet. Do you pick out outfits for Jeyne, too?”

He makes some retort, but his head is buried deep enough in the closet that she cannot make out the words. Finally, he re-emerges, passing her a set of hangers and a pair of shoes.

“There. That’s what you should wear.”

Sansa huffs an incredulous breath through her nose- her brother has selected a black cocktail dress, short and tight. The other hanger holds a fitted black blazer, and the shoes are four-inch stiletto heels.

“What, is Lannister, Inc. an elaborate cover for a fancy prostitution ring?”

Robb rolls his eyes and smirks before heading to the door.

“Fine, don’t listen to me. But you’ll go there tomorrow, and you’ll see that I was just trying to help.”

When Robb leaves, Sansa evaluates her options. And with a beleaguered sigh, she places the sensible pantsuit back in her closet.

When she arrives at the skyscraper that houses Lannister Inc., Sansa realizes that Robb was completely correct. There are more svelte, leggy blondes here than there are at Conde Nast, everyone dressed to the nines. And not just the women; every man here looks like he walked off the set of a GQ photo shoot. She thinks for a moment of the lax dress code at Stark Incorporated: her father’s worn Frye boots, Robb’s polo-and-khaki uniform, Theon’s leather jacket. The comparison makes her giggle under her breath.

After a brief meeting with Kevan Lannister, the head of HR (an older, somewhat stern man, but pleasant enough), she’s ushered into the office of Genna Frey, the director of marketing. She takes a seat beside a handsome blonde man who appears about her age; her heartbeat skips when he smiles at her and asks her name, but the excitement quickly abates when he continues to speak, and she realizes how dreadful, pompous, and unpleasant he is. She makes a mental note to stay clear of this one ( Jeffrey, was it?) and turns her attention to the heavy-set, no-nonsense woman behind the wide mahogany desk.

The tasks she sets for the interns are very menial at first: archiving press clippings, calling publications to follow up on print deadlines. Sansa is a good listener, always has been, but even her best efforts at eavesdropping reap few results. She returns home each evening with dread building in her stomach, for she hates to look at her father and Uncle Jon night after night and tell them that no, she still hasn’t learned anything new. Failure sits heavily on her shoulders and keeps her awake deep into the night.

And yet she forces down coffee after coffee (even sneaking the occasional Adderall from Arya’s medicine cabinet) and throws herself into the work. Tedious as it is, she strives to surpass the other interns, and when Ms. Frey lectures her co-workers, holding up Alayne’s work and declaring, “This is how you document. I don’t want to see any more half-assed shit from you people, I want to see this ,” she blushes as brightly as she does at her father’s praise.

Finally, at long last, Sansa receives a reward for her hard work. There’s a meeting scheduled with the senior executives to discuss “the family matter”, and Genna invites her to come along and take notes.

(She does not invite Joffrey into the closed-door session, in spite of his Lannister blood, and Sansa feels a sudden admiration for Genna’s value of talent over nepotism.)

Sansa is, of course, well acquainted with the PR disaster that has befallen Lannister Incorporated. In fact, it would not exist at all without Ned Stark and Jon Arryn; they gained knowledge of the story from an executive at the Baratheon Corporation, and they’ve installed Sansa at Lannister to report on the fall-out.

Goosebumps prickle up and down her arms as she takes a seat beside Genna. The CEO is not present- in the weeks since she started here, Sansa has never once seen the mysterious Tywin Lannister, and she finds herself imagining him as a disembodied head surrounded by smoke, like the Wizard of Oz. But Kevan is here, along with CFO Petyr Baelish, Junior Vice President Tyrion Lannister, and Senior Vice President Jaime Lannister.

Everyone at the table appears tense, but as she looks at the man seated directly across from her, she thinks that she’s never seen a person more drained and empty-looking than Jaime Lannister.

She’s noticed him before, of course, sauntering down the hallways in his perfectly-tailored Italian suits, golden hair neatly combed back, tall and confident and devastatingly handsome. The junior associates whisper his legend in the break room and by the water cooler- he’s a ruthless, predatory raider, known for crushing smaller companies beneath his feet and pillaging the spoils. “The Slayer,” they call him in tones of hushed reverence. She’s watched with distaste as assistant after intern after associate tries to flirt with him, only to be rebuffed by a distant smile and words of cool courtesy. He’s only spoken to Sansa once, asking to borrow a pen and Post-It. But he winked at her when he handed the pen back, and she’s sure that the smile she gave him in reply was every bit as insipid as the ones she’d seen from all those other silly girls.

But now he does not look at anyone. He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes as Tyrion catalogues the leaked information. And it is, as Genna would say, an absolute shitstorm. The former junior vice president, Cersei Lannister, had listened to some extremely bad advice and made an absurd, careless power play for the company. Her illicit dealings and failed investments cost Lannister Inc. millions of dollars, and reports of her questionable character and distasteful personal life brought shame and derision upon the mighty Lannister dynasty.

Tyrion concludes his report by informing everyone that Cersei has been removed from public view and will be unable to do any more harm to the family or the company.

“Where is she?”

Jaime’s voice rings out rather more loudly than is appropriate, and no one can bring themselves to look at him.

(Sansa thinks of some of the more salacious rumors that Jon Arryn has drummed up about Cersei Lannister and her handsome brother, but Uncle Jon has always had a flair for the dramatic...)

“It doesn’t matter, Jaime...”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” He turns on his brother, emerald-green eyes flashing with rage, and Tyrion, usually so poised and glib, actually appears a bit frightened.

But the moment passes quickly, and the younger Lannister brother speaks in as even a tone as he ever does.

“I mean that we need to distance ourselves from her, for the sake of the company. Any outward show of support would make us all look weaker...but if she’s just the bad egg, that’s something that could happen to any family. She’s an embarrassment, and we need to acknowledge that.”

Suddenly, Sansa feels a discordant twang in her stomach at the coldness of it all. Yes, Cersei Lannister is a class-A fuck-up, but she’s still their sister, still one of them...and to just abandon her like that...

Her voice sounds strange in her ears, as though it belongs to someone else. “But she’s your sister.”

Every head whips around to stare at Sansa; Genna’s face glows red with rage as she mutters, “Alayne. Be quiet.”

“What was that, Miss Stone?” Tyrion asks.

She knows that she should shut up, that she must shut up. But the words fall from her lips of their own accord- “She’s family...how can you just hide her somewhere and...and throw her away…?”

“Alayne. Go get my Starbucks order and leave it on my desk. Now, ” Genna seethes.

As she rises from her chair, trying and failing to keep from shaking, she happens to glance across the table. Jaime Lannister watches her, beautiful eyes unblinking and intense.

And then his lips curve into a smile.

When she arrives at work the next day, Sansa finds herself immediately re-routed to HR. Her stomach sinks; she hasn’t told her father about the disaster of yesterday’s meeting, and she has no idea how she’ll explain getting fired...

But Kevan Lannister barely even speaks to her before directing her to a conference room. “Go in, please,” he says.

She mentally steels herself for an apoplectic Genna or a sneering Mr. Baelish, but she finds herself face to face with Brienne Tarth instead.

Sansa took an immediate liking to Jaime Lannister’s executive assistant; she rejects the couture that is the office standard in favor of loose, comfortable suits (“Probably buys them at the Big and Tall Men’s Wearhouse,” one of the catty, pretty office drones once snarked), and she gives off an undeniable air of competence. She’s calm, collected, capable, and discreet, and Sansa considers these qualities far more valuable than any pretty facade.

“Please sit down, Miss Stone,” Brienne says, gesturing to a chair. Sansa sits and waits for the other woman to continue.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve just been promoted.”

“Oh! Congratulations,” Sansa replies, and Brienne’s pretty blue eyes crinkle in a grin.

“Thanks. It’s a great opportunity for me- I’ll be a junior associate in the Boston office.”

“Then you’re leaving?”

“Yes, I move at the end of the week. And that’s why I’ve called you in.”

“Oh?” Sansa lifts a brow in surprise, while her insides jiggle in a hopeful dance- maybe I’m not getting fired...oh, thank God...

“The thing is, this all happened really suddenly, and HR’s been so backed up lately that they haven’t really had time to deal with new hires. Finding a replacement for me will definitely be a long process, lots of interviews...I’ve been with Jaime for five years, and he’s...very particular.”

“Of course.” Five years, that’s a long time...but it makes sense, he obviously relies on her so much...

“Anyway, until we can find someone he’ll like, we need a person to sit at that desk and answer his phones and manage his calendar. It will be a lot more hours than what you’re used to, at the same intern pay rate, so I completely understand if you don’t want to take on the added responsibility-”

“You want me to be Jaime Lannister’s assistant?”

She must be quite a sight- eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar- because Brienne laughs brightly before nodding.

“He asked for you specifically. Will you do it?”

Sansa thinks of the locked folders on the company drive, filled with information only available to the top executives and their assistants- she imagines having access to Jaime’s calendar, intimate knowledge of the second-in-command’s comings-and-goings...she begins to salivate, and she swallows it down.

A red-gold ponytail bobs up and down as she eagerly nods.

“Oh, yes. Thank you.”

She should have known better. Sansa curses herself for her naivety; just because Jaime gave Brienne the password to the locked files doesn’t mean he’ll hand it over to a twenty-three year old intern he’s barely met. She lets herself wallow in disappointment for a few brief moments, but then forces the feeling aside- there’s got to be another way. She’ll just bide her time; she’s good at being patient.

And so she fields phone calls and handles his e-mail correspondence and schedules meetings. The scheduling is by far the most interesting part of the job; he’s on the board of numerous organizations, and every night is a different gala, a different opening night, a different photo op.

She’d seen his picture on Page Six that morning, taken at a heart-disease benefit the evening before. He wore a tuxedo- he’s even better-looking in a tux than in a suit- and stood with his arm wrapped around his date’s narrow waist: Margaery Tyrell, the heiress to Highgarden Communications, beautiful and striking in Alexander McQueen. The Lannister PR machine desperately wants New York to believe that Jaime and Margaery are romantically involved, but when she considers that she must always arrange for a separate car for Margaery at the end of these events, Sansa thinks it rather unlikely.

Maybe he’s gay, she thinks to herself as she returns from the dry cleaner and enters Jaime’s vacant office, hanging his tux on the door and placing the newly-shined dress shoes beneath it. He certainly dresses well...and Margaery’s gorgeous, but he’s definitely not sleeping with her...

She crosses the room to water the little tree in the corner; Brienne schooled her carefully in the care and keeping of the plant.

She bends over to tip the watering can toward the back of the tree, and she does not hear the door open behind her. When she stands upright, she locks eyes with Jaime, who watches her with a peculiar expression.

“I think it has enough water. You’ve been very thorough.” Sansa nods and places the watering can down as Jaime furrows his brow, gesturing to the tuxedo.

“Where am I going tonight?”

“The opera, Mr. Lannister,” she replies, taking a small step toward the door, in spite of the fact that he’s directly blocking her path.

“Fuck, that’s right.” He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand and sighs. “Which one is it?”

“’La Boheme’,” she replies.

“Hmm. I haven’t seen that before.”

“It’s beautiful,” Sansa volunteers with a soft smile. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“You like opera?”

“Yes.” She’s nearly at the door now, but he still hasn’t moved- she’s near enough to catch the scent of his cologne- musk and sandalwood- and her mouth begins to go dry... snap out of it, you’re being an idiot...

“Duly noted.” He grins at her, pivoting his body just enough to give her space to slide through the doorway, but not enough to keep her from brushing her chest against his arm as she tries to pass. “I’ll get you tickets next time.”

“I..I would like that very much. Thank you.”

When she closes the door behind her, Sansa falls into her chair and presses her palm to her heart. She scowls at the quickness of the beats and restrains the urge to smack her head on the keyboard over and over again.

It’s nearly midnight, and she’s completely alone. She’s sure of it- even the cleaning people have left for the weekend. Still, her eyes dart about anxiously as she retrieves the zip drive from her purse and plugs it into her computer. It will work...it has to work.

Bran had been surprised, when she approached him to ask about computer hacking. “I hack into gaming sites, Sansa,” he’d sighed with exasperation. But the same principles must apply, she imagines- she adjusted the codes, tweaked the infrastructure on her own computer, saved it all to the drive. And now she’ll be able to get into the locked files and secure her father some information far more valuable than the Cersei Lannister gossip.

Her toes tap and her fingers twitch with exhilaration- this is it, this is it, I’ll really prove myself now...

So engrossed is she that she does not notice the door behind her swinging open, not until a low voice echoes through the empty office-

“Still here, Alayne?”

She shrieks, whirling her chair around. Jaime stands in the doorway of his office, tie loosened and shirt untucked, a tumbler of scotch in one hand.

But no, I saw him leave for the museum gala, I called the car and got his tux...when did he have time to come back? When I was in the bathroom, maybe...God, I should have checked his office first, stupid, stupid, stupid...

She tries to push her self-loathing aside long enough to answer his question. “Yes, Mr. Lannister. Just trying to finish up the agenda for the next board meeting before the weekend.”

“I appreciate your dedication,” he drawls with a smile. “But can I persuade you to take a break?”

He opens the door to his office wider and gestures to her to enter. She hastily closes the open windows on her computer and complies, shutting the door behind her.

“Do you like scotch?” he asks. She doesn’t really, but her brothers and uncle are fond of it, and she knows she can hold it down when necessary.

When she nods, he fills another tumbler from a crystal carafe and hands it to her. “It’s good, smooth. Aged seventeen years.”

She takes a sip, trying not to wince at the burn of the liquid as it courses down her throat.

“Thank you.”

He sits on the sofa at the corner of his office and nods pointedly to the space beside him. As she lowers herself down, he removes his tie and tosses it on a side table, unfastening the top few buttons of his shirt. Sansa fights to keep from staring at the glimpse of his chest left exposed...she takes another sip and regrets the squeakiness of her voice when she asks,

“Why aren’t you at the gala?”

Jaime replies with a dry laugh. “I’m not in a very festive mood tonight.” His eyes darken a bit, and Sansa is reminded of the calls she’d forwarded to him that day from the private investigator. They still won’t tell him where she is, he has to hire his own detective...it’s insane.

She finds herself unable to keep the sympathy out of her expression when she nods. His gaze sharpens, but his tone remains calm and still.

“So, Alayne. Are you enjoying yourself here?”

“It’s a great opportunity for me. I’m learning a lot.”

“And what is it that you want to do? What’s your big career dream?”

Sansa answers with more candor than she originally intended. “I want to go to business school, then become an analyst. And eventually, I want to run a company like this one.”

“Not exactly like this one, I hope,” he sniffs derisively. “But you’re ambitious...everyone loves ambition here. They eat, sleep, and shit ambition.”

He refills her glass before she has time to protest, and the hard set of his jaw prompts her to change the subject.

She’s an easy conversationalist, and she turns the talk to music, art (he has an impressive collection), higher education. He makes her laugh with stories of his undergrad fraternity days at Yale, recommends business schools (he went to Harvard himself, and she bites her lip to keep from revealing her acceptance and inundating him with questions). And he keeps the liquor flowing, until Sansa drops her heavy head onto the back of the sofa, just a hairsbreadth away from his shoulder.

“May I ask you something?” She looks up at the clean profile of his face and breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of peat and alcohol and expensive cologne.

“Whatever you like.”

“Why did you ask for me? When you were picking an intern to help you, I mean. Why me?”

He reaches for her tumbler, and she relinquishes it. After placing both his glass and hers on a nearby table, he reclines back against the sofa and runs a hand through his thick golden hair.

“It was what you said in the meeting that day. About family...there are plenty of ambitious people around here, like I said. Lots of smart people and driven people, but there aren’t a lot of compassionate people.” He props his elbow on the back of the couch and leans closer; she can feel the warmth radiating from his body, and she inches nearer...

“What you said...it was very human of you. And that’s fucking refreshing.”

Their knees are touching now; if she moves her head just a fraction, her brow will fall against his. She sees the prickling of stubble along his jawline, the way his eyelashes become light at the tips. A lock of her hair falls across her face, and he reaches up to smooth it back behind her ear.

“You’ve got a lot of red in your hair,” he comments, twisting the strands around his finger. “Very pretty.”

So, so tacky, a cutting voice reverberates at the back of her mind. Powerful executive trying to get into his young assistant’s pants...he honestly couldn’t be more cliche if he tried.

His mouth barely hovers over hers at this point. And she’s not sure whether it’s defiance against those bitter voices coursing through her head or simply a total lack of fear (a middle-aged guy acting inappropriate with an intern, even in this day and age...that’s just sad), but she figures that she has nothing to lose.

She tilts her chin up and brushes her lips against his. Jaime cups her cheek in his hand, and the way he kisses her- soft, patient, gentle- stokes a fire in her belly, sending tingles up and down her limbs and between her legs.

Jaime’s tongue teases at the seam of her lips, and she opens her mouth for him willingly, knotting her fingers in his soft hair. He massages her tongue with his, and when he wraps a strong arm around her and eases her down onto the sofa cushions, she’s almost embarrassed by the ease with which her legs fall to either side, giving him unambiguously-direct access.

“Oh-” she sighs when she realizes that he’s settled his hips into the space between her thighs, his mouth lavishing attention on her neck, kissing and biting and sucking (enough to make her whimper and writhe, but not enough to leave marks- won’t have to break out the concealer, at least....).

It’s all moving along at an alarming pace, and the sensible side of Sansa, the one that regularly talked Arya down from her more fantastical flights of fancy and stopped Mya and Jeyne from becoming the subjects of especially-vicious high school gossip, urges her to slow things down-

“Mr. Lannister,” she begins (not very convincingly- she doesn’t actually want him to stop, although she knows it’s the right thing to do)-

“Jaime,” he pants into her skin, his tongue dipping into the groove of her collarbone. “It’s Jaime.”

“Jaime,” she repeats- it’s a good name to whisper nearly breathless, a good name to sigh- she imagines herself screaming it as she comes, and she spreads her legs wider, quivering with anticipation.

(And the practical part of her slinks into the wings, completely forgotten for the time being.)

Her nimble fingers slide between them, unfastening the buttons of his shirt. Her hands roam over the perfectly-contoured muscles of his body, and she’s momentarily distracted by the thought of the personal-training appointments Jaime’s had her schedule for 4:30am every day. “Who gets up that early?” she’d asked Kevan’s assistant Joy after sharing this story at one of their impromptu mid-afternoon coffee breaks. Joy had replied with a smirk, rolling her green eyes as she muttered, “Someone with something major to prove.”

He fingers the hem of her camisole, and she helps him pull it up over her shoulders, nearly surprised by her own lack of hesitation- she hasn’t been touched so intimately since she broke up with Harry almost a year ago, she should probably be more reluctant, more shy...

But the way Jaime presses his face into her chest and softly kisses the tops of her breasts...the way he mouths her nipples through the thin cotton of her bra...the deft way he reaches beneath her to pull the hooks open- nothing like Harry at all.

“You like that, don’t you?” he breathes as he scrapes his teeth over her left nipple. She pulls his hair tight and whimpers in response, and he laughs, taking one breast in each hand and pushing them together until he can suck both nipples into his mouth at once.

She lets out a little peep of objection when he releases her breasts, but then his lips trail lower, skimming over her stomach, tongue swirling into her navel. He lifts her skirt up and slides his fingers over her through her underwear, and she digs her nails into the leather of the sofa.

When he replaces his fingers with his mouth, kissing her through her boy-shorts, she growls his name low in her throat, surprised by her own abandon. The tip of his tongue teases at her clit, and the warmth, the soft pressure, the friction of the fabric- she reaches down to grip his shoulder, scratching at the golden skin, while her other hand kneads her own breast.

“Oh, please...” she begins, but soon interrupts herself with a sigh of delight as he catches her underwear in his teeth and pulls them down her legs. Jaime peppers soft kisses on her ankle, the inside of her knee, all up and down her inner thighs before spreading her folds and licking into her.

He’s slow and patient in his exploration, taking his time to discover the way she likes to be touched. When he curls his fingers inside her just so, his tongue softly massaging her swollen outer lips before resting flat on her clit, she finds herself moaning just the way Harry always wished she would, bucking her hips up and feeling her wetness pool over his fingers and his lips.

He kisses his way back up her body and then captures her mouth- she licks her own release from his lips and tongue. She can feel him pressed against her belly, and she quickly unbuckles and unbuttons until he’s in her hand, hot and hard. Sansa kisses along his jaw and takes his earlobe in her mouth as she begins to stroke; her other hand pinches his nipple, and he grabs her hip tight and releases a breathy trail of obscenities.

Then she brings her hand to his face and looks him in the eye, those gorgeous cat’s eyes, set in this laughably-perfect face- “The Slayer”, they call him, he has no soul, no conscience...but would a man with no soul care so deeply for his disgraced sister? Would a man with no soul place such a premium on compassion, on “human” behavior?

She kisses him again, hungrier than before, as she rubs the head of his cock against her. He moans into her mouth- “Alayne”, and she tries not to feel a prick of sadness- and his hips start to shift-

“Do you have a condom?” she thinks to ask him, just in time. His brows knit together, and she’s blessedly able to stop herself before she rolls her eyes. There’s something strangely vulnerable about him as he leans down to retrieve his wallet from the back pocket of his pants and fishes within until he finds a Trojan.

“Not sure how long this has been there…” he begins, trying to sell the curve of his lips as a gesture of good humor...but he’s fragile in a way she can’t quite understand, and she chooses to be merciful.

She takes the rubber from him and tears the package open with her teeth, sprawling flat on her stomach to apply it with her mouth.

Once this crucial task is complete, she guides him into her and lifts her knees to her chest, savoring the deep thrusts, the hard grip of his hands on her thighs.

Jaime lifts her legs so that her ankles rest on his shoulders, and he lowers one hand to caress her, turning his head to kiss the side of her calf. She comes again, even harder than before, and when he slides out of her, she wraps her hand around him and pulls off the condom before raining kisses over his shoulders and neck and chest until his ejaculate leaks over her fingers, pooling in the spaces between.

They do not move right away, content to stay coiled around each other, exchanging leisurely kisses with generous tongue. Sansa starts to truly consider what she’s done- this man is her father’s rival, a top executive in the company that Stark Incorporated is trying to destroy.

And these facts shouldn’t make her want him more. That’s childish nonsense...but there’s an appeal here that she can’t deny, can’t ignore. Between the leather and the sandalwood and the musk and the scotch and this powerful, beautiful man sucking on her lower lip-

But then she remembers the red zip drive conspicuously plugged into the side of her computer, and she pulls away.

“I should finish up and go home,” she murmurs. He does not object, but he keeps his arms around her as she tries to put her clothes back on, slowing down the process with his kisses and touches and wicked insinuations.

After she slips her top back on and wraps her hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a deep kiss, he whispers, “Come home with me. I want to fuck you in the back of the town car-” He brushes his lips beneath her ear- “-and in the elevator-” His stubble scratches at her collarbone as he moves down- “-and in every room in my apartment.” He gently squeezes her breast, and she shifts closer, nearly sitting in his lap-

But then she stops. She pulls away and stands, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt.

“Not tonight,” she replies with a soft smile. He looks disappointed, but when she reaches down to brush an errant lick of golden hair out of his eyes, she can feel him smile against the thin skin of her wrist.

“We ought to clean ourselves up,” she says, watching as he tucks his cock back into his pants and crosses toward the closet. He drops a kiss on her shoulder as he passes her, opening the closet door and retrieving a clean white dress shirt.

“Very sensible, I’m sure.” He slides the shirt over his arms, and the fabric clings to his sweat-dampened chest as he fastens the buttons.

Before she loses her wits entirely, Sansa hastens out the door, shutting it behind her.

She gathers her things quickly, shuts off the lights, powers down her computer (but not before ejecting the zip drive and slipping it back into her purse).

Jaime emerges from his office a few minutes later in perfectly-clean clothes, briefcase in hand. He approaches her, graceful steps putting her in mind of a lion stalking its prey. When he closes in on her, his arm firmly wrapped around her waist, her lower back pressed against the desk, she feels that she wants to be ravaged and savaged and ripped apart. Of course, she reflects as she observes a thin scratch on his neck, courtesy of her sharp fingernails, I’d be able to give plenty of my own back, too.

“Will you let me drive you home, at least?” he asks, and she forces her head into a vehement shake.

“No, thank you. The cabs are lined up around the block at this hour.” She tries to straighten her posture, but he holds her fast against the desk. Just one more, she thinks as she pulls his face down to hers, the force of the kiss pushing her up onto the desk, her leg rising to wrap around him again-

A clatter of metal, and they both look down- she’s knocked her stapler and tape dispenser onto the floor. They separate, and she leans down to retrieve the supplies. When she stands back up, Jaime places a thumb on her lips, just a gentle pressure.

“Good night, Alayne,” he whispers before turning on his heel and heading toward the elevator bank.

She waits by the window until she sees his town car pull away. Only then does she leave; she opts against taking a cab, choosing instead to walk the thirty blocks to her parents’ townhouse.

Sansa strolls out to the river park, walking along the water that frames the west side. She slips a hand into her purse and closes it around the zip drive. And then she thinks.

Regardless of what just occurred between them (a #MeToo moment waiting to happen...she’s ashamed of the flippant nature of this thought, at the ease with which she left her own complicity out of the equation), Jaime seems to be a decent person. And Genna is decent in her way, and Kevan and even Tyrion...is it fair, is it right to help her father tear their company up like this? The information she’s stolen has the potential to obliterate Lannister Inc.... Can she...will she...?

She rests her hand on the railing that separates the pathway from the water below. The little red drive nestles in her fist, and she loosens her fingers-

But instead, she returns the drive to the inner pocket of her purse. Shutting the bag with a resolute zip, Sansa continues on her way home.

#my fics #jaime x sansa #modern au #fanfiction time travel #rewriting my stories from 7 years ago #you know #like you do

10 notes · View notes