Comment fic meme

[gotexchange_mod]

Some members liked the idea of having a kink meme/comment fic meme on got_exchange, especially since the other ASOIAF/GoT kink memes are fairly dead at the moment. (It's only posted on the mod account journal because I don't want anonymous comments on the exchange comm.)

A couple of rules before we start:

- please include the pairing/character (and maybe a short

Comments

Someone Must Protect You, 3/8

[just_a_dram]

She hasn’t asked after him. “Of course he is.” It was not Jon she worried about, after all. “Don’t you have a squire to do this?” she huffs, fighting to pull the breastplate over his head, but he finally takes over for her, completing what she has begun.

“I’ve no need for one: you’ve done such a fine job,” he says, reaching up to chuck her under the chin as if she is a child. “Besides, I don’t know where he is. I lost sight of him.”

Sansa squeezes her eyes closed for a moment. His squire might lie out there in the field, bloody and dying. Or already dead. She opens them to reassure herself that Jaime, however, is alive. “You’re bleeding.”

“You can tend my wounds next if you like,” he drawls.

“I’m not your nurse,” she bites back.

“No? Well then, can I be of service, my lady?” he asks in an unmistakable tone that makes his remark sound crude, particularly since he is peeling layers of boiled leather from his body to reveal his stained surcoat.

She should stalk from his tent at his crude insinuations. She should slap him across his blood smeared face. But, he looks handsome and worn and his green eyes burn with a luminosity that holds her fast. So, instead, she steps forward and presses her palm to his cheek. He is sticky with blood and rough from having not shaved. “I’m glad you’re alive,” she says, unable to hold back her relief.

His eyes fall on her lips. “What are you doing here, Lady Sansa?” he asks again, his voice thick. “Your brother will be missing you.”

She wets her lips before she speaks, “I won’t be missed for hours.” Jaime risked everything to bring her home. Not her brother. Jaime has concerned himself more with her safety than anyone here today. Only, he can’t bring himself to admit anything beyond the bonds of a vow made. “And it occurred to me that I’ve never properly thanked you,” she says, as she feels her cheeks flush. He will take that as an invitation. Perhaps it is.

“Thanked me?” His gaze takes her in from foot to head, lingering in unmasked appraisal.

“For fulfilling your vow. For bringing me home,” she explains, as she draws a red smudge of drying blood across his cheek as she smoothes her thumb over his skin.

“Someone should have told you not to come into a man’s tent,” he murmurs, though she feels his good hand warm in the small of her back, his arm encircling her even as he says it. “Killing makes a man,” he begins, but stops, as her other hand grips tightly to his surcoat, bunching it in her hand, as she draws him forward.

His lips crash down on hers, and for the first time in her life she feels what it is to be kissed and to respond in kind not out of terror or calculation but with desire. This is what she wants. What she has wanted from him from the moment she realized that whatever he had done to her family in the past, this was a man she could trust, upon whom she could rely, that this was a man who loved fiercely. There was more praise in than in honor, as far as Sansa was concerned. She would like to be the focus of that kind of intensity, instead of an echo, as she was to Petyr.

There is nothing composed in the way his mouth slants against hers, and she gasps in shock as his teeth bite hard enough into her lower lip to make her knees almost buckle. He must know enough to realize that it is pleasure and not pain that causes her to cry out, because he does not stop, does not pause before dragging his tongue across hers, bared to him in her astonishment at his forcefulness. She is suddenly abuzz from the tips of her toes to the roots of her now auburn hair, and her only thought is that she must get closer to him.

As if reading her mind, his hand slides lower, dipping below her back to grab her and close the last bit of distance between them with a firm tug. Her head drops to the side as it dawns on her that he has insinuated a muscled thigh between her legs. She scrambles at his surcoat, as his lips find her neck, blazing a hot trail over her pulse that surely beats too fast to be healthy. But how can she calm herself when he rocks her body against his leg until she moans in a decidedly unladylike fashion? The friction causes her eyes to fly shut, even though she would like to look upon him.