It’s all fun and games until Liefeld draws your favorite character
Hello, friends! I decided to crosspost my old ASOIAF stuff over to AO3, in the sporadic project of “let’s put my stuff on AO3”, and in the meantime, figured I’d bring them back here as ~gifts. It has been a while, but every now and again the world just needs to drown in Cersei/Jaime, and what am I here for if not for that.
- lily of the field
(c. their ~teenage years)
She plucks up a greave, and the golden cage of the armor rattles and clanks. Sitting herself on the edge of the bed, she pushes her skirt up over her knee—the familiar curve of ankle to calf to thigh bare; he could trace it in the air but he’d rather take it in hand. Slipping her ankle into the encasement of armor, she points her foot toward him. It’s too big for her—of course it is; while their faces have kept themselves matched, their bodies have grown in opposition—but it sets off the curve of her white leg perfectly. She tilts up her chin: a champion, herself, already.
- we have lingered in the chambers of the sea
(c. the first time Cersei comes home as queen)
The sea carries stories wherever it touches. They say on the Iron Islands some women mate with squids and bear tentacled children; they say the peasants of Riverrun bear scales beneath their smallclothes if you care to look; they say in Lannisport that there are women in the waves with seafoam tits and sea-singing voices, that ships dash themselves against rocks for their beauty, and looking at Cersei submerging, anyone would believe the myths.
- my heart is a kingdom
(c. the morning of Cersei’s wedding—or, you know, as ADWD gave me, the “I fucked Jaime” morning that is slightly different from all the other “I fucked Jaime” mornings of Cersei’s life.)
The bone-deep warmth she feels begins to work its way to the blood under her skin. She turns on her stool, brushing her skirts and letting her hands linger over her thighs. Jaime is leaning against the door, long and lazy. His white cloak is clasped with a gold lion’s-head pin, jaws clasped in a snarl at the base of his throat. He is not wearing his gorget, and above the lion’s golden teeth, she can see his throat, can watch the motion of his Adam’s apple with the rise and fall of his breath, and loves it, loves knowing what he sees and instinctively what he feels, feeling her own breath quicken and her own flesh heat under his gaze. He looks to her as she feels: as if he’s swallowed the sun.
- vulgar kings on dirty thrones
(or: the fic once known as “disturbing mirror sex dreams.doc”, what will always and forever be my brand of sufficiently upsetting affc catharsis)
He has grown weary in these bones, this broken set of limbs, yet he persists in dragging them around. A Lannister is meant to be gold down to the marrow, the smallfolk of Casterly Rock would joke (not quite disbelieving), but he knows that’s a lie, now: he saw the inside of himself when they hacked off his hand, the fresh open end of the joint hanging close to his face for a week, and he’s red mess and broken white inside all right, just like the rest of them. This body is a betrayal, these lines he knows, and it no longer knows how to sit easily. Beneath his clothes he wears the bruised marks of Ser Ilyn’s swordplay like badges, but that’s not what makes him wake stiff and sore with open painful eyes when morning comes.
All of these are ~1-2K. Bite-size, featuring, sometimes, exemplary biting.
Enjoy! Read safely! If you’re reading outside, don’t mistake the wind for your sister’s fingers—you should be able to tell the difference!!
tumblr sj jokes seem like something dane cook would laugh at
now think about yourself