fic: best value for money
Jul. 2nd, 2011 09:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bagheera_sanSooo. Game of Thrones. I have not read the second book yet, although I've bought it. And DON'T SPOIL ME. But that means that I have no idea if this thing I have written is even remotely canon compliant or plausible. Because, you see, these two characters have never interacted in canon as far as I know it.
Yeah. This is that kind of fic. The "I really like character A and I really like character B and I think they should meet and have sex!" kind of fic. Additionally, I suspect that this pairing will end in tears once I get to Book 2, because I'm fairly sure when these two characters meet there will be death and betrayal and horrible fates. Or maybe not. Basically I have no clue AND KINDLY DO NOT SPOIL ME (although you may tell me if this utterly unlikely based on book canon, but don't tell me why it is unlikely.)
Title: Best Value For Money
Pairing: Tyrion Lannister/Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish
Rating: R
Length: 2318 words
Disclaimer: As I said, this is only based on HBO show canon, not on G.R.R. Martin's novels, because that is all I know.
Note: Set before the show. I justify this fic with the fact that if there was a gold membership card to brothels on Westeros, Tyrion Lannister would own it, and besides, why is this man not on the small council (yet)? It is clearly where he belongs!
Petyr Baelish was a busy, busy man. He didn't greet all his customers in person, like some common street pimp peddling his wares. Many of his employees were consummate business women and men who could handle things in his absence just fine.
But he rarely failed to be there in person when Tyrion Lannister arrived.
"Always a joy to see you darken my doorstep, Lord Tyrion," he would say, and the Lannister was never shy of an equally cheerful reply.
Tonight, it was, "Tell me, Littlefinger, why exactly is it that you're always so happy to see me? Not that I couldn't think of a dozen good reasons, but I do so like praise, even when it's paid for."
Tyrion always said "Littlefinger" with a special kind of enjoyment. Probably, Petyr thought, it was the pleasure of being able to call someone else little.
"You're my best customer," he replied as he let them into one of the upstairs rooms - not a guest room, but the lush private parlour adjacent to his own study, reserved for entertaining his most important guests.
"Nothing but the best for Lannister money," Tyrion said with approval, kicking off his shoes before he sunk down on the plush cushions that littered the floor with a sigh.
Petyr snapped his fingers. A girl came in who needed only a glance to know that she was asked to bring a footbath for the little Lord, while another, uncalled for, brought a carafe of fine wine. Petyr himself fetched the crystal goblets and poured the wine.
"I must admit that there is no kind of money I like more. Especially when it fills my purse," Petyr said.
"And I imagine my siblings," - Tyrion did not say brother and sister, because that would have been a little too insulting to the queen even from her brother - "rarely honour this establishment with their presence."
"Just so," Petyr said, smiling. A private, knowing look passed between them, and he needed to give no further hint that he knew. Many years of working alongside Lord Varys had given Littlefinger cause to perfect that look.
Tyrion laughed, and toasted him. "I believe I know every whorehouse from here to Winterfell, but yours are the best. Do you know why?"
"I do," Littlefinger said, never modest unless it was prudent to be so, "but I'd be interested to hear your personal reasons for thinking so."
"Because while there are many charming whores throughout the kingdom, I find the brothel owners usually make up for it by being singularly unpleasant fellows. But talking to you is ever a pleasure."
"It's part of the service," Petyr said, because there were men who wanted to be lied to by professionals, and men who liked a little honesty with their lies. Tyrion was definitely of the latter kind.
The girl who was massaging Tyrion's feet was very good at her art - so good that she knew not to be too distracting right now, as Tyrion considered him thoughtfully over her dark head. "It is, isn't it? Part of the service."
"Some men come here to buy a slave for the night," Petyr shrugged lightly. "But you're the kind who'd rather buy a friend."
One thing he had learned early on about Lord Tyrion was that it was very hard to insult him. Not impossible, because Lord Tyrion did have his pride and his weaknesses, but much harder than it would have been with most men.
And so it was now. Tyrion only laughed at the cruel truth. "You know me too well."
"A good whore is the best spy," Littlefinger said, "just as any good spy must also be a great whore."
"I do believe that is the second time tonight that you've called yourself a professional, Lord Baelish." And just as he was hard to insult, Tyrion delighted in mischief - an easy, painless sort of mischief, unlike his older brother.
Some men could not have called Petyr Baelish a whore without ending up dead before dawn, but that didn't mean that Littlefinger wasn't aware that it was true. And Tyrion Lannister was an exception.
“Every man has his price,” he said. “I’m no exception.”
“And yet not every man is such value for your money,” Tyrion quipped.
Littlefinger sipped his wine. "I train all my employees personally wherever I can. And it takes a master to teach."
The girl with the footbath had left, and the wine had diminished a great deal already. It was time to call off the jest, and serve Lannister the other things he was here for. But the Imp was eying his fat purse with a thoughtful look.
"Say," he said, "am I really your best customer? In terms of quality, of course, I am, but I'm speaking of quantity. It seems to me the services I've paid for so far have always been fairly simple and cheap, seeing as I'm not generally a man of outlandish tastes."
He wasn't. Petyr had some customers whose tastes made even him slightly uncomfortable (only slightly, and only if he examined what remained of his sensibilities very closely) but Tyrion Lannister's were a simple as they came. He preferred ordinary women, grown up, fun, good at what they did but not extravagantly so. The kind of woman one might marry, under different circumstances.
"I wonder," Tyrion went on, "what my Lannister money really could buy."
"Anything money can buy, I should think. Seeing as there is so much of it."
"And what's the most expensive thing on your menu, Littlefinger?"
"Oh, it depends. Exquisite corpses are always hard to come by, and exotic animals. Dwarves can also be quite dear."
"Good to know! A man should always have a second plan in life if his first doesn't work out," Tyrion said brightly. He would, Petyr thought, make an absolutely terrible whore, although the idea had a certain morbid fascination. Especially since Littlefinger liked to imagine all the powerful men he knew as whores from time to time.
"Of course," Tyrion said, and put his whole purse down on the table with a heavy thump, "the best things the house has to offer are rarely on the menu."
Petyr picked up the purse. In truth he cared little for the money as such - Lord Tyrion was an important customer because of his family, not because of their money. And for another reason: Petyr actually liked him. Talking to him was nearly as much fun as talking to Lord Varys, and unlike him, Tyrion wasn't a frustrating eunuch or a dangerous enemy. Nevertheless he pocketed the money before he poured the last of the wine.
Tyrion drank, but watched carefully over the rim of his goblet. A little wary now, even though he was well on the way to drunk. Petyr got up, and locked the doors. Not that anyone would disturb them - but this was all part of the show now. All part of the service.
"Do you often do this?" Tyrion asked, half in jest, as he watched him disrobe.
"Surprisingly," Littlefinger said and gave him his sharpest, most unpleasant smile, "many men seem to shrink from the chance when they get to it."
"Well, at least there's no danger of that." Tyrion's self-deprecating humour was, in its own way, as sharp as Littlefinger's smile.
When he kneeled in the place the girl had vacated earlier, Littlefinger found confirmed what he already knew - a whore's perspective on things was worth gold. Up close, the little Lord's gaze was all but naked already: curious, vulnerable, trying to hide his need and his fear. Young, as young as Littlefinger hadn't been since he lost Catelyn Tully’s hand to the Starks.
He could own this man if he truly put his mind to it. He could break him utterly. Or he could find a man capable of destroying him in turn. A little lion, but a lion no less if cornered. Possibly, as they watched each other, Tyrion reached the same conclusion. But then he shrugged.
"Try everything once," he said, and began undressing himself. There was little to surprise Petyr underneath his clothes - he had been informed about every deformity, every scar and every birthmark. Some of the girls found Tyrion Lannister attractive despite all this, but all of them agreed that his real advantage lay in consummate skill.
But this was not Lannister's usual fare. He had paid for the thrill, not the pleasure. And Littlefinger knew that there was no thrill like fucking a powerful man.
Petyr didn't enjoy sucking cock. He looked down on men who did, like Lord Renly, because to him, a man who liked to be down on his knees with another man's cock down his throat was a man who wanted to be fucked over. And that was one thing he'd never be. But if you bought the brothel owner for the night, then you didn't want some boy who pretended to love it. You wanted to know how far your money would go.
So what Petyr enjoyed was not that. It was the game he was playing, which had very little to do with sex, and everything with power. He wasn’t losing that game by making this move, in the long run, he might even win.
It surprised him that Lannister’s hands did not seek his hair or his shoulders, did not try to control him. Instead the dwarf was clutching the heap of pillows he was seated on, and for once his acid tongue was silent. The lack of distractions was unexpected, and Littlefinger found himself concentrating on what he was doing rather than why he was doing it and to whom, concentrating on the ever so slight sting in his knees and his neck from kneeling and bowing his head, the way his lips felt wet and stretched and swollen, oversensitive to the slide of skin against skin.
Perhaps you do not hate it all that much, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind, and the unbidden thought made him falter in his rhythm, and all he could do was try not to choke on his anger.
"Gods, you're terrible at this," Lord Tyrion gasped with a small huff of a laugh as he came.
It wasn't that simple truth that surprised Petyr - so much he swallowed without considering whether he ought to - but the fact that Tyrion sounded disappointed.
He was still unsettled as he moved away, but Littlefinger was a consummate liar. He smiled as his dabbed his lips with a silken handkerchief and stretched out languidly on the cushions. He wanted to wear clothes, and preferably a dagger, but he did not let it show. Instead, he let Tyrion look. That was part of the service, too. Showing the proud customer what he'd paid for, what he'd wrought. Pleasure or pain or humiliation or debauchery, whatever it was they were after.
"I didn't think skill was what you were looking for," Petyr said, not quite able to keep the sting out of his voice.
"Well, and I thought it might be different with someone who doesn't actually need my money," Tyrion countered. "But apparently it's just worse. What a disappointing place this world is."
For a brief moment, Petyr resented the implication that he had done this purely because he wanted to. When Petyr Baelish let a man fuck him, it was always for a reason. A good reason. But then he realized that they had both surprised each other, and remembered that that was why he liked Lord Tyrion.
"You're wasted on whorehouses and wine, Lord Tyrion. I know the right place for a man like you."
The little man narrowed his eyes. "Come to the Small Council, the whores are for free? No, thank you, Lord Baelish. I think this realm has more than enough Lannisters ruling it already."
"Perhaps I'm not asking you to join it in an official capacity."
"You're trying to recruit me as a whisperer? Lord Varys was here before you, and I refused him as well."
"I believe you and I have a lot more in common than Lord Varys could ever hope to comprehend, lacking certain... insights."
"Insight, my friend, is one thing Lord Varys certainly doesn't lack."
"Convincing arguments, then."
In truth Littlefinger had no convincing arguments for Lord Tyrion. By now he was just bantering idly, playing a losing game without great interest. He thought Tyrion would stop playing along soon enough, and go back to drinking and cheaper whores, but instead Petyr found a small, calloused hand travelling up his thigh.
"Convince me," Tyrion said, grinning. "Because otherwise, I'll do my best to convince you that whoring and drinking are much more fun than politics."
Fun. Littlefinger stared at the Imp as he spread his legs. Who in their right mind would come to the small council for fun? And yet, that was precisely what it was. Fun. Dirty, ugly, deadly fun.
Tyrion reached for a small bottle on the table, oiling his hands before he settled between Petyr's legs. His fingers were quick and deft on his balls, gods, such skill, and then without warning, he slipped further behind, and Petyr's gasp was entirely natural.
One of these days he might kill the dwarf for worming his way beneath his defences. But not today. Today, Littlefinger was still playing, and he enjoyed the game far too much. And so, he could tell, was Lord Tyrion.
You win, or you die, he thought wildly. I might kill you, one day, but gods, will I ever enjoy it. “Our work can be fun,” he rasped, clawing at the cushions.
Lord Tyrion kissed his knee, his eyes dancing with mirth. His voice, however, remained perfectly serious. "I like whores."
"Good." Littlefinger spread his legs wider. "Politics is a whorehouse."
Yeah. This is that kind of fic. The "I really like character A and I really like character B and I think they should meet and have sex!" kind of fic. Additionally, I suspect that this pairing will end in tears once I get to Book 2, because I'm fairly sure when these two characters meet there will be death and betrayal and horrible fates. Or maybe not. Basically I have no clue AND KINDLY DO NOT SPOIL ME (although you may tell me if this utterly unlikely based on book canon, but don't tell me why it is unlikely.)
Title: Best Value For Money
Pairing: Tyrion Lannister/Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish
Rating: R
Length: 2318 words
Disclaimer: As I said, this is only based on HBO show canon, not on G.R.R. Martin's novels, because that is all I know.
Note: Set before the show. I justify this fic with the fact that if there was a gold membership card to brothels on Westeros, Tyrion Lannister would own it, and besides, why is this man not on the small council (yet)? It is clearly where he belongs!
Petyr Baelish was a busy, busy man. He didn't greet all his customers in person, like some common street pimp peddling his wares. Many of his employees were consummate business women and men who could handle things in his absence just fine.
But he rarely failed to be there in person when Tyrion Lannister arrived.
"Always a joy to see you darken my doorstep, Lord Tyrion," he would say, and the Lannister was never shy of an equally cheerful reply.
Tonight, it was, "Tell me, Littlefinger, why exactly is it that you're always so happy to see me? Not that I couldn't think of a dozen good reasons, but I do so like praise, even when it's paid for."
Tyrion always said "Littlefinger" with a special kind of enjoyment. Probably, Petyr thought, it was the pleasure of being able to call someone else little.
"You're my best customer," he replied as he let them into one of the upstairs rooms - not a guest room, but the lush private parlour adjacent to his own study, reserved for entertaining his most important guests.
"Nothing but the best for Lannister money," Tyrion said with approval, kicking off his shoes before he sunk down on the plush cushions that littered the floor with a sigh.
Petyr snapped his fingers. A girl came in who needed only a glance to know that she was asked to bring a footbath for the little Lord, while another, uncalled for, brought a carafe of fine wine. Petyr himself fetched the crystal goblets and poured the wine.
"I must admit that there is no kind of money I like more. Especially when it fills my purse," Petyr said.
"And I imagine my siblings," - Tyrion did not say brother and sister, because that would have been a little too insulting to the queen even from her brother - "rarely honour this establishment with their presence."
"Just so," Petyr said, smiling. A private, knowing look passed between them, and he needed to give no further hint that he knew. Many years of working alongside Lord Varys had given Littlefinger cause to perfect that look.
Tyrion laughed, and toasted him. "I believe I know every whorehouse from here to Winterfell, but yours are the best. Do you know why?"
"I do," Littlefinger said, never modest unless it was prudent to be so, "but I'd be interested to hear your personal reasons for thinking so."
"Because while there are many charming whores throughout the kingdom, I find the brothel owners usually make up for it by being singularly unpleasant fellows. But talking to you is ever a pleasure."
"It's part of the service," Petyr said, because there were men who wanted to be lied to by professionals, and men who liked a little honesty with their lies. Tyrion was definitely of the latter kind.
The girl who was massaging Tyrion's feet was very good at her art - so good that she knew not to be too distracting right now, as Tyrion considered him thoughtfully over her dark head. "It is, isn't it? Part of the service."
"Some men come here to buy a slave for the night," Petyr shrugged lightly. "But you're the kind who'd rather buy a friend."
One thing he had learned early on about Lord Tyrion was that it was very hard to insult him. Not impossible, because Lord Tyrion did have his pride and his weaknesses, but much harder than it would have been with most men.
And so it was now. Tyrion only laughed at the cruel truth. "You know me too well."
"A good whore is the best spy," Littlefinger said, "just as any good spy must also be a great whore."
"I do believe that is the second time tonight that you've called yourself a professional, Lord Baelish." And just as he was hard to insult, Tyrion delighted in mischief - an easy, painless sort of mischief, unlike his older brother.
Some men could not have called Petyr Baelish a whore without ending up dead before dawn, but that didn't mean that Littlefinger wasn't aware that it was true. And Tyrion Lannister was an exception.
“Every man has his price,” he said. “I’m no exception.”
“And yet not every man is such value for your money,” Tyrion quipped.
Littlefinger sipped his wine. "I train all my employees personally wherever I can. And it takes a master to teach."
The girl with the footbath had left, and the wine had diminished a great deal already. It was time to call off the jest, and serve Lannister the other things he was here for. But the Imp was eying his fat purse with a thoughtful look.
"Say," he said, "am I really your best customer? In terms of quality, of course, I am, but I'm speaking of quantity. It seems to me the services I've paid for so far have always been fairly simple and cheap, seeing as I'm not generally a man of outlandish tastes."
He wasn't. Petyr had some customers whose tastes made even him slightly uncomfortable (only slightly, and only if he examined what remained of his sensibilities very closely) but Tyrion Lannister's were a simple as they came. He preferred ordinary women, grown up, fun, good at what they did but not extravagantly so. The kind of woman one might marry, under different circumstances.
"I wonder," Tyrion went on, "what my Lannister money really could buy."
"Anything money can buy, I should think. Seeing as there is so much of it."
"And what's the most expensive thing on your menu, Littlefinger?"
"Oh, it depends. Exquisite corpses are always hard to come by, and exotic animals. Dwarves can also be quite dear."
"Good to know! A man should always have a second plan in life if his first doesn't work out," Tyrion said brightly. He would, Petyr thought, make an absolutely terrible whore, although the idea had a certain morbid fascination. Especially since Littlefinger liked to imagine all the powerful men he knew as whores from time to time.
"Of course," Tyrion said, and put his whole purse down on the table with a heavy thump, "the best things the house has to offer are rarely on the menu."
Petyr picked up the purse. In truth he cared little for the money as such - Lord Tyrion was an important customer because of his family, not because of their money. And for another reason: Petyr actually liked him. Talking to him was nearly as much fun as talking to Lord Varys, and unlike him, Tyrion wasn't a frustrating eunuch or a dangerous enemy. Nevertheless he pocketed the money before he poured the last of the wine.
Tyrion drank, but watched carefully over the rim of his goblet. A little wary now, even though he was well on the way to drunk. Petyr got up, and locked the doors. Not that anyone would disturb them - but this was all part of the show now. All part of the service.
"Do you often do this?" Tyrion asked, half in jest, as he watched him disrobe.
"Surprisingly," Littlefinger said and gave him his sharpest, most unpleasant smile, "many men seem to shrink from the chance when they get to it."
"Well, at least there's no danger of that." Tyrion's self-deprecating humour was, in its own way, as sharp as Littlefinger's smile.
When he kneeled in the place the girl had vacated earlier, Littlefinger found confirmed what he already knew - a whore's perspective on things was worth gold. Up close, the little Lord's gaze was all but naked already: curious, vulnerable, trying to hide his need and his fear. Young, as young as Littlefinger hadn't been since he lost Catelyn Tully’s hand to the Starks.
He could own this man if he truly put his mind to it. He could break him utterly. Or he could find a man capable of destroying him in turn. A little lion, but a lion no less if cornered. Possibly, as they watched each other, Tyrion reached the same conclusion. But then he shrugged.
"Try everything once," he said, and began undressing himself. There was little to surprise Petyr underneath his clothes - he had been informed about every deformity, every scar and every birthmark. Some of the girls found Tyrion Lannister attractive despite all this, but all of them agreed that his real advantage lay in consummate skill.
But this was not Lannister's usual fare. He had paid for the thrill, not the pleasure. And Littlefinger knew that there was no thrill like fucking a powerful man.
Petyr didn't enjoy sucking cock. He looked down on men who did, like Lord Renly, because to him, a man who liked to be down on his knees with another man's cock down his throat was a man who wanted to be fucked over. And that was one thing he'd never be. But if you bought the brothel owner for the night, then you didn't want some boy who pretended to love it. You wanted to know how far your money would go.
So what Petyr enjoyed was not that. It was the game he was playing, which had very little to do with sex, and everything with power. He wasn’t losing that game by making this move, in the long run, he might even win.
It surprised him that Lannister’s hands did not seek his hair or his shoulders, did not try to control him. Instead the dwarf was clutching the heap of pillows he was seated on, and for once his acid tongue was silent. The lack of distractions was unexpected, and Littlefinger found himself concentrating on what he was doing rather than why he was doing it and to whom, concentrating on the ever so slight sting in his knees and his neck from kneeling and bowing his head, the way his lips felt wet and stretched and swollen, oversensitive to the slide of skin against skin.
Perhaps you do not hate it all that much, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind, and the unbidden thought made him falter in his rhythm, and all he could do was try not to choke on his anger.
"Gods, you're terrible at this," Lord Tyrion gasped with a small huff of a laugh as he came.
It wasn't that simple truth that surprised Petyr - so much he swallowed without considering whether he ought to - but the fact that Tyrion sounded disappointed.
He was still unsettled as he moved away, but Littlefinger was a consummate liar. He smiled as his dabbed his lips with a silken handkerchief and stretched out languidly on the cushions. He wanted to wear clothes, and preferably a dagger, but he did not let it show. Instead, he let Tyrion look. That was part of the service, too. Showing the proud customer what he'd paid for, what he'd wrought. Pleasure or pain or humiliation or debauchery, whatever it was they were after.
"I didn't think skill was what you were looking for," Petyr said, not quite able to keep the sting out of his voice.
"Well, and I thought it might be different with someone who doesn't actually need my money," Tyrion countered. "But apparently it's just worse. What a disappointing place this world is."
For a brief moment, Petyr resented the implication that he had done this purely because he wanted to. When Petyr Baelish let a man fuck him, it was always for a reason. A good reason. But then he realized that they had both surprised each other, and remembered that that was why he liked Lord Tyrion.
"You're wasted on whorehouses and wine, Lord Tyrion. I know the right place for a man like you."
The little man narrowed his eyes. "Come to the Small Council, the whores are for free? No, thank you, Lord Baelish. I think this realm has more than enough Lannisters ruling it already."
"Perhaps I'm not asking you to join it in an official capacity."
"You're trying to recruit me as a whisperer? Lord Varys was here before you, and I refused him as well."
"I believe you and I have a lot more in common than Lord Varys could ever hope to comprehend, lacking certain... insights."
"Insight, my friend, is one thing Lord Varys certainly doesn't lack."
"Convincing arguments, then."
In truth Littlefinger had no convincing arguments for Lord Tyrion. By now he was just bantering idly, playing a losing game without great interest. He thought Tyrion would stop playing along soon enough, and go back to drinking and cheaper whores, but instead Petyr found a small, calloused hand travelling up his thigh.
"Convince me," Tyrion said, grinning. "Because otherwise, I'll do my best to convince you that whoring and drinking are much more fun than politics."
Fun. Littlefinger stared at the Imp as he spread his legs. Who in their right mind would come to the small council for fun? And yet, that was precisely what it was. Fun. Dirty, ugly, deadly fun.
Tyrion reached for a small bottle on the table, oiling his hands before he settled between Petyr's legs. His fingers were quick and deft on his balls, gods, such skill, and then without warning, he slipped further behind, and Petyr's gasp was entirely natural.
One of these days he might kill the dwarf for worming his way beneath his defences. But not today. Today, Littlefinger was still playing, and he enjoyed the game far too much. And so, he could tell, was Lord Tyrion.
You win, or you die, he thought wildly. I might kill you, one day, but gods, will I ever enjoy it. “Our work can be fun,” he rasped, clawing at the cushions.
Lord Tyrion kissed his knee, his eyes dancing with mirth. His voice, however, remained perfectly serious. "I like whores."
"Good." Littlefinger spread his legs wider. "Politics is a whorehouse."
