the business of benefiting hussies (marketchippie) wrote,
the business of benefiting hussies
marketchippie

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i dreamt we were all beautiful and strong

vulgar kings on dirty thrones
ASOIAF. Jaime/Cersei, immediately post-Feast for Crows.
NC-17. ~2600
A/N: So...this would be the fic that has been rattling round in my documents as "disturbing mirror sex dreams.doc". This would be the fic that has been plaguing my brain since I finished this damned book. It does more or less what it says on the tin. It's also a mess, ugh, god it really is, but whatever. THIS EXISTS AND NOW I CAN STOP TALKING ABOUT IT. HAVE FUN.


In the past, Jaime has slept untroubled on campaigns, on beds of hard rock and packed dirt; he has fallen to slumber on the backs of surefooted horses and woken fresh and sure in his bones; yet when he wakes now, every morning, he rises from the comparative comfort of his bed like an ancient.

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.

He no longer knows how to rest easy.





He is fucking his sister against the Iron Throne.

She is naked beneath him, long and white and soft, and his hand clenches against her skin—his right hand. He slips it between her legs and twitches his fingers, laying cool gold up between her thighs, and he doesn’t feel it, but he remembers, and her eyes slip shut, teeth biting a soft hiss into her lip, and that's familiar too.

He’s fucked her into that sweet lidded expression before, that blind ecstasy, but now all he can see is the memory of other men against her body, flesh printed with unfamiliar hands, and he takes her in his roughly, skin and gold alike. Hands on her tits, watching the flush of blood peak in her nipples. Hands on her waist, digging into the softness of that queenly flesh. Hands spreading her thighs wanton on the throne, iron fangs biting like lovers into white flesh that does not break, and he thrusts himself into her, furious and clumsy and familiar, always familiar. There is a silent laugh on her parting lips, in the flick of her long gold-shadowed lashes. He pins her against the points of unnumbered swords, weighing heavy against a thousand blood-starved edges, and she opens her eyes.

She looks at him, impossibly direct; he can see the reflection of his own eyes in hers. “Brother,” she whispers, cruel somehow, but sweet, too, implacably Cersei, biting it into her lower lip. “Jaime.” The last syllable catches, whispers hollow in the empty throne room, me, me.

Arching against a thousand swords, her skin is a sea of unmarred white, uncut, impenetrable as shields. He knows this room’s empty echoes when no one is there to watch it, knows how it holds in the reek of blood. The Iron Throne has worn red on its seat before, the Throne bites those who do not belong in it and draws blood, and he has dipped his hands into it and won stains past washing. The throne recalls blood of kings, not blood of kin. Not Lannisters.

His hands dig into her skin, hard enough to bruise, limning against points and sharp steel edges. Pins her against the expanse of blades and she arches hard against him, clenching her thighs around his hips, and she does not bleed, she will not bleed, she sucks in air around the shape of his name and laughs with every thrust. Her hips shear back against the iron edges, impossibly unbroken; wrongly. Something about the gorgeous unwounded expanse of her makes him burn with anger. The throne does not love them, it has no reason to love them, and even with his cock deep in Cersei's cunt he still has the sense to know it. Bracing his hand behind her head, he grinds his palm against the back of the throne and feels the edges gnaw against his flesh, yet still the skin will not break, his skin will not split, even he himself remains tauntingly whole. Break, he thinks, baring his flesh and hers to a thousand steel fangs. Break, he thinks furiously, and even locked silent in his throat it sounds more plea than command. Their bodies defy him, and his sister only laughs and clings to him more fiercely: they have never been gentle with each other, for they have never been breakable. Not joined, not so.

He curls his agile golden fingers around her neck, thumb tucking into the curving hollow of her throat. The catches of her breath rub up against his fingers, the square vulnerable inches of skin his hand may stroke but not feel. He does not press further, he does not have to: he fucks his sister against the Iron Throne until he hears the breath choke and sigh from her throat without his help, feels it in every line of his body. She cries out, just once, a brief inchoate sound, and rakes her fingernails once over the back of his neck, hard enough to break skin. As he shudders out his last between her legs, biting a cry into her soft shoulder, she touches his cheek with faintly wetted fingertips, marking him gently with his own blood.

She grazes the edge of his lower lip with her thumb, nail glazed with a thin red sheen of it. When he opens his mouth, he can taste the blood she left against his lip, tasting like battle, like split lips and the both of them. They have kissed with bloody mouths a thousand times over, have split chapped lips open with summer-fierce kisses in the winter cold, have cracked his mouth with her furious hands and bitten hers with revenging kisses to come away tasting the same, shared, time and again.

“You will never spill my blood,” she says confidently and kisses him on the lips, mouth coming away just a bit redder than before, eyes bright and green and locked on his, so impossibly like his. He sees his reflection twice-over in them—that much hasn’t changed, he thinks; they might alter flesh and split bone but as long as they’ve eyes in their head they’ll be looking back at the world with twin gazes. Until those twin green balls rot out of their heads into twin dust—keeping apace with each other mote by mote, he envisions. Lying against the delineations of her, it is impossible to imagine otherwise: they will go out as they came in. Rotting in tandem just as they formed.

Her hips shift against him like a secondary part of his skeleton, just as familiar, just as treacherous now. “Come back to me,” she says softly, somewhere between plea and command; they have nearly always been one and the same with her.

He presses his face into her golden curls and blocks the world out of sight, fingers lingering, gilded and numb, around the base of her throat. With golden joints, he strokes the skin he cannot feel. He will never spill her blood.





She is fucking her brother in the Iron Throne.

She is regent; she knows the seat and knows its legacy—the swords beaten into unquiet submission that bite at the unworthy takers; she remembers her brother’s stories of the old mad King with his hands torn open daily by the chair. Her chair, now. The seat is not new and not defanged; she feels it cold against her back and biting against her skin, yet she is not bleeding, not yet. The metal is freezing cold, yet Jaime’s mouth is a furnace, his skin almost feverish as he moves against her. He has never been one for cold fury, not her Jaime; when kindled, he is lit. He has brought his anger to quench it in her a thousand times, or hers in him: all the same familiar heat, in the end. They turn into gold flame in each other’s hands. She curls her fingers through his hair at the nape of his neck and he bites back a low, furious noise in the base of his throat, slams her legs apart. The chair does not shake. The metal presses into her skin, insistent and unblunted, but she feels no pain. His hand slips between her legs, so cool it makes her gasp: metal, she thinks, gold. Her golden brother, even now. A long cool finger slips inside her, two, hard but dextrous, a thumb circling her cunt in familiar patterns. She bites back a moan, and her brother’s other hand takes her and shoves her hard against the back of the seat, shoulders knocking against knived edges as her back arches against the thrust and shiver of his fingers, smooth and hardly even warmed by her skin. Her flesh shudders over the points of a thousand swords and comes away uncut. It’s them, she thinks hazily, her beautiful brother inside her, her whole brother inside her, seamless and symmetrical and as part of her as her own flesh. Of course the throne cannot touch them. Her thighs part further, hips raising against him. An army couldn’t, she thinks, exalting.

She pulls him in by the hair, close as a kiss, and his fingers slip from between her legs with a slick sound, tracing a lazy wet trail up the side of her body. Her fingers meet his before she sees it, hands joining like a habit. She cannot help smiling, then, pressing her fingertips hard against the unmarked tips of the gold. When her hand slips, she sees the remnants of her fingerprints printed on the tips, marked in her, down to the soft gold itself. Marked in her image, she thinks, and the hand curls hard around her waist, clinging hard enough to bruise. Leaving her own fingerprints along her body, she thinks, and his hand peels back between her thighs, slamming them back against the cruel arms of the chair as he thrusts himself into her, pressing her harder and harder into the unnumbered iron edges.

He is inside her, and she is untouchable, she thinks, pulling him tight against her, hips beneath her hands. The base of her spine grinds against the bared tip of an enemy sword; the world beyond the joint of their flesh is peopled with enemies alone. They are together, and she does not bleed. Swallowing laughter and sweat against his skin, she savors the press of the iron and the unyielding wholeness of her skin against his. The world thirsts for her blood, their blood, Lannister blood. It shall not have it, she thinks, and his golden fingers slip between her lips, thumb catching at the breathy hollow of her throat, long and cool and marked by her and tasting of her. Curling her fingers in his hair and almost yanking it out of his scalp, as gold as firelight and the edges of his hand, curling her nails against the expanse of his back, she cries out and he catches it in his golden palm, muting his name with his hand. She is breathless when she comes, and his thumb catches crooked in the hollow of her collarbone. It lingers there as he lingers in her, softening until she forgets where he ends and she begins.

When she touches her fingers to her lips, she tastes blood: his, hewn from his skin, against the edges of her nails. It takes more than a throne to make a Lannister bleed in earnest, she thinks. It takes a Lannister, a Lannister alone, and she cups his face in her hand, kissing the shared rust of blood between both of their mouths.

“You are part of me,” she says. “They shall not have my blood for their sport; they won’t vanquish us as long as we’re both living.”

He smiles, pained and sad and crookeder than she likes to see. Not symmetrical, she thinks, biting her lip. Crooked and beautiful and stained faintly red: a mark of pain, not pleasure, even now. Beneath her ribs, she feels a sharp stab of emotion; she wants to make him bleed again for it. It feels almost like fear. “No, sweet sister,” he says. “That they won’t.”

His fingers, marked delicately with the reflection of her fingerprints, unsmudged on the gold, still linger along her throat.





The moon waxes fat and faintly reddish over the trees. From between branches, Jaime glances up at it. The sky is on the edge of morning, a wash of pale red light peeking over the horizon. Nightmare moon and nightmare sky; the smallfolk of Lannisport warn against such mornings. He digs in his heels and thinks of Lannister crimson, of phantom scratches opening the skin of his back, and of his sister.

The morning chills him to the bone, leaching away at his senses until his skin feels as numb as gold. He does not remember leaving Riverrun, not saddling the horse nor mounting it. The only memory that lingers is the echo that falls astep with tripartite beat of his horse's trotting hooves: I love you, he hears in the back of his mind, I love you, I love you. It matches ill against his heartbeat, makes dissonant music in his body. His hands clench hard against the reins, until both are bloodless, flesh and gold alike . . .





He will wake in a room that still smells like ash.





Cersei wakes shivering in her cell. Every bone in her body is sore with exhaustion and chill, every nerve thick with it. She does not open her eyes, not yet. One hand slowly curls open, fingers unfurling with agonized twitches. She has been sleeping with her hands curled into fists.

Eyes still locked shut, she lets her fingers run the length of the wall. She longs for a window, for a balcony, for a view to the sprawling world outside. Not to the stinking crowds, but beyond them, over the gates. A balcony with delicate windows and curtains that part to reveal the sea, like her bedroom at the Rock. A queen’s solitude—no, a woman’s. A woman’s, to watch for her champion to come. If she is to play the maiden now and wait for her knight, the least she can ask for is a window to see him by—and she would see him, she thinks, from miles off. She can imagine Jaime galloping in a great white horse over the expanse of land between them, no train able to catch up with him, and she smiles at the image printing itself on the backs of her sleep-blind eyelids: he’d like that.

But she has always been a poor excuse for a patient maid and there is no window to her cell. Her fingers curl back into their remembered fist and crack out against the rough stone. The instant pain blazes her eyes open: the first thing she sees is the smear of her blood against the wall. Lannister blood, her own, staining the rocks.

Her heart catches but, shaking, she wraps her other hand over the split skin of her knuckles. She is being foolish, she thinks. She knows better than anything how eager her faithless body is to spill its own blood.

She stands and shakes out her crumpled skirts, hands folding into the dirty gold of her hair. Her fingers skim idly along her neck, her collarbone, resting lightly in the vulnerable hollow of her throat.

He is coming
, she thinks, pressing her cheek to the wall as if she could hear the echo of his horse from miles on miles away. The rocks are silent, but she knows all the same. She has to, and he is her, and without him, she is—

Her fingers skim over her knuckles, against the ragged edges of her skin. She will not think of it. He is coming.
Tags: a song of ice and fire, fanmotherfuckingfiction
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