you're too young & eager to love

This is pretty much porn. Cut for content and (mild) spoilers for Game of Thrones.



”Quiet,” she hisses in his ear, voice catching as he rocks his hips into her, deeper, back where he belongs. Cersei smells of lemon and rosewater, and now she smells like Jaime. (She wakes in the night to that smell, to the remnants of his body on hers, to their similar flesh and their similar souls.)

Jaime stares down at her through sweat-stained hair, mouth turned up on one side, eyes filled with hunger and not burdened with concern. Her eyes, she thinks, for that’s what was always said about her children, but the lack of truth in that was never more evident than it is now. 



“I’ll kill him.” He says, as if it’s as simple as all that. He casts a glance in Robert’s direction – the drunkard King snoring soundly in the sleep of wine, sprawled on a chair large enough to sit a bear - and grips her legs to get a better angle, pushing into her with such force they rattle the massive bed. 



Cersei stifles her moan by biting down on her lip, and slaps him, hard, across the face. His grin only widens, and he leans in to claim her mouth. Her blood runs with anger in combat with her desire, and she digs her nails into him in an effort to find some outlet. 
 Jaime likes her best like this, when she is his, not defined by the crown on her head or the King by her arm. She is fierce and too beautiful, while the rest of the women at court are shy, even the spirited ones. She had been lovely as a child, but she was daring now. The mere pull of her gaze could steal his attention from across the halls of a crowded room.

“You’d like that,” he mutters against the skin of her neck, tongue flicking out to taste the sweat there. “Your champion.” Jaime pulls out of her nearly all the way, teasing her. Against her better nature Cersei finds herself digging her heels into his back, aching for him, ignoring his laughter. 

He braces one hand against the headboard and fills her and she shutters, grasping at him, looking at Robert and all the while reminding herself how foolish Jaime can be. 
(This was his idea, naturally, fucking in her wedding bed as eagerly as he had wanted to mount her on the Iron Throne.)

“It’s not that easy,” she says, voice icy, but Jaime devours her words with his mouth, uncaring. He had always been so untroubled, always the image of young maidens’ dreams. He still spoke of honor and duty - the truth was that his loyalty was laced with her fingers, found within her, and not in a royal palace on a bended knee.

The press of his body proves too sweet even for her resolve, and Cersei feels herself begin to tremble, gripping his other hand to return it to her clit, fingers dancing. She digs her nails into the back of his neck, pulling him against her as she comes, and he has to silence her with the heavy weight of his palm against her mouth. He spills himself inside of her, bracing himself above her, still inside, still connected. 

It’s a brief moment of completeness, a flicker.