Phantasm
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Summary: Sansa wears many masks; this one is the most painful. Jaime/Sansa.
For asoiafkinkmeme, prompt: Mommy!kink. Jaime lacked a mother figure during his formative years, and now, in his middle age, he's experiencing some regression angst. Fortunately for him, the maternal instinct comes very naturally to Sansa, and she's more than willing to help.
Phantasm
She doesn't know when it started -
"Stop fidgeting or I'll send you to the Maester. This needs to be wrapped." Sansa scolds him with exasperation and tugs at the cloth over his shoulder for emphasis. The scuffles occur far more frequently than is acceptable for a man in his position, she reminds him daily. He pays as much heed to her scolding as he would a mosquito and instead continues with his own obstinate remarks. The young woman keeps a tight smile on her lips and focuses on her work instead of Jaime's rants and excuses.
- or perhaps it's always been this way.
"Tell me one of your Northern tales." He murmurs once she finally finishes and they sit together at the end of her bed, atop its thick furs. Sansa recognizes the ruse; Jaime is indifferent towards any dismissal and will not give her time to herself. She's proven correct a moment later when she offers no reply; Jaime only pushes the cloth from her lap to give himself room. She barely holds in her annoyance as the man invites himself into a position beside her, head in her lap.
When he looks up at her with his wide, determined eyes, Sansa knows this is not a battle she will win.
Sansa knows the role she is expected to play -
Sansa's hands find their way onto her lap to rest beside Jaime. One hand strokes his face, the other his hair as she whispers Old Nan's tales with fond nostalgia. A warm, wistful expression colors her features as she looks down at her companion, voice soft and musical as she elaborates, surprised she still remembers the stories at all. The tales come to life as easily as they did when she was a child, vivid fantasies dancing off her lips, eliciting images and feelings believed forgotten.
Jaime’s boredom overcomes his sense before she's even halfway through, his attention diverted like a child’s in the presence of a gift. His hand plays at the skirts pooled around her on the bed, pulling them up and exposing her thighs.
"Jaime. . ." She warns as she stops her tale and turns her attention to his mischief.
- or perhaps it's no longer "playing" - for either of them.
The man looks thoroughly roguish as he meets her eyes, but he is not forceful. Stubborn, with a tinge of lust, most certainly, but what she recognizes most is an earnest desire for her approval.
After all - it is a mother's duty to be firm, but also kind and welcoming.
Sansa leans down and offers him a chaste kiss on the forehead as her only response. Anything more would break the illusion.
Jaime loves her thoroughly and absolutely -
Her consent releases Jaime’s dam of patience and his fingers immediately find their way to her bodice with almost vicious impatience. Before he can tug at it, an act she’s grown to expect, Sansa stops him - she refuses to permit the continuation of that particular bad habit. Instead she works at the ties with her fingers as calmly as she can with Jaime's lips playing at her newly-exposed shoulders and neck, and then down and down as she removes her clothes, exploring her body.
Sansa urges him forward with welcoming strokes, and draws him close, to warm her in the chill, as she assists him with his breeches and removes his shirt.
She never returns his kisses, but not out of lack of desire.
- even if it is not Sansa he sees.
It is Sansa who leads their bedding, who guides Jaime. He expects her to be firm, to command, but as tolerant as Sansa is of Jaime's will, she will not change who she is. Instead, she prefers to instruct him, and Jaime is only too eager to learn. The firmer she is in her lessons, the more he wants her; Jaime only needs to be shown once what she enjoys.
The moan she makes is so high it resembles a squeal and Sansa must bite her lip to not draw her guards into her chamber.
He no longer calls for "Cersei" when he finishes -
Long after they've exhausted themselves - deep into the depths of the night, when the bugs chirp, the night birds hoot, and the wolves call - Sansa rests beside Jaime. She holds him in her arms protectively as he leans his back into her, their hands clutched, and kisses his cheek with her earlier distance, soft and affectionate. They are not Sansa’s kisses; they are the kisses of the woman Jaime wants her to be.
- yet, somehow, their schism is wider than ever.
Summary: Sansa wears many masks; this one is the most painful. Jaime/Sansa.
For asoiafkinkmeme, prompt: Mommy!kink. Jaime lacked a mother figure during his formative years, and now, in his middle age, he's experiencing some regression angst. Fortunately for him, the maternal instinct comes very naturally to Sansa, and she's more than willing to help.
Phantasm
She doesn't know when it started -
"Stop fidgeting or I'll send you to the Maester. This needs to be wrapped." Sansa scolds him with exasperation and tugs at the cloth over his shoulder for emphasis. The scuffles occur far more frequently than is acceptable for a man in his position, she reminds him daily. He pays as much heed to her scolding as he would a mosquito and instead continues with his own obstinate remarks. The young woman keeps a tight smile on her lips and focuses on her work instead of Jaime's rants and excuses.
- or perhaps it's always been this way.
"Tell me one of your Northern tales." He murmurs once she finally finishes and they sit together at the end of her bed, atop its thick furs. Sansa recognizes the ruse; Jaime is indifferent towards any dismissal and will not give her time to herself. She's proven correct a moment later when she offers no reply; Jaime only pushes the cloth from her lap to give himself room. She barely holds in her annoyance as the man invites himself into a position beside her, head in her lap.
When he looks up at her with his wide, determined eyes, Sansa knows this is not a battle she will win.
Sansa knows the role she is expected to play -
Sansa's hands find their way onto her lap to rest beside Jaime. One hand strokes his face, the other his hair as she whispers Old Nan's tales with fond nostalgia. A warm, wistful expression colors her features as she looks down at her companion, voice soft and musical as she elaborates, surprised she still remembers the stories at all. The tales come to life as easily as they did when she was a child, vivid fantasies dancing off her lips, eliciting images and feelings believed forgotten.
Jaime’s boredom overcomes his sense before she's even halfway through, his attention diverted like a child’s in the presence of a gift. His hand plays at the skirts pooled around her on the bed, pulling them up and exposing her thighs.
"Jaime. . ." She warns as she stops her tale and turns her attention to his mischief.
- or perhaps it's no longer "playing" - for either of them.
The man looks thoroughly roguish as he meets her eyes, but he is not forceful. Stubborn, with a tinge of lust, most certainly, but what she recognizes most is an earnest desire for her approval.
After all - it is a mother's duty to be firm, but also kind and welcoming.
Sansa leans down and offers him a chaste kiss on the forehead as her only response. Anything more would break the illusion.
Jaime loves her thoroughly and absolutely -
Her consent releases Jaime’s dam of patience and his fingers immediately find their way to her bodice with almost vicious impatience. Before he can tug at it, an act she’s grown to expect, Sansa stops him - she refuses to permit the continuation of that particular bad habit. Instead she works at the ties with her fingers as calmly as she can with Jaime's lips playing at her newly-exposed shoulders and neck, and then down and down as she removes her clothes, exploring her body.
Sansa urges him forward with welcoming strokes, and draws him close, to warm her in the chill, as she assists him with his breeches and removes his shirt.
She never returns his kisses, but not out of lack of desire.
- even if it is not Sansa he sees.
It is Sansa who leads their bedding, who guides Jaime. He expects her to be firm, to command, but as tolerant as Sansa is of Jaime's will, she will not change who she is. Instead, she prefers to instruct him, and Jaime is only too eager to learn. The firmer she is in her lessons, the more he wants her; Jaime only needs to be shown once what she enjoys.
The moan she makes is so high it resembles a squeal and Sansa must bite her lip to not draw her guards into her chamber.
He no longer calls for "Cersei" when he finishes -
Long after they've exhausted themselves - deep into the depths of the night, when the bugs chirp, the night birds hoot, and the wolves call - Sansa rests beside Jaime. She holds him in her arms protectively as he leans his back into her, their hands clutched, and kisses his cheek with her earlier distance, soft and affectionate. They are not Sansa’s kisses; they are the kisses of the woman Jaime wants her to be.
- yet, somehow, their schism is wider than ever.