Sparring-For ASOIAF Rare Pairs
“Cersei x Sansa: Cersei decides to teach Sansa to use her "weapon", but they like it more than either bargained for.”
I’m sorry this took forever, hope you enjoy (I drew a veil over some stuff, but if desired I can write far dirtier.) Thank you this was so much fun and I hope you enjoy.
Note: Drug use, kink, lesbianism. age gap and a whole lot of Orientalist painting fantasy. (1)
“You have to relax. Let it take effect.”
The posset tastes like cream, honey, ginger, cinnamon and pepper.There’s a soft powdery headiness that Sansa tastes and thinks of perfume, what a rich scent might feel like on her tongue instead inhaled in a breath and beneath all, a slightly dark green note slipping away on her lips.
Sweet, slightly musky and herbaceous made lovelier by the delicate tracery of the Queen’s fingers around her temples, moving in loops and whorls.
“All of it.” Twin emeralds, sparkling in the dim light,
Sansa feels her body sink into the bed, like she’s falling through a cloud. Sansa feels her mouth stretch into a smile, a wide, slightly sheepish one but she shakes her hair loose till it flows around her head like a pool of spilled wine.
She looks up, her eyes wide, a ring of blue around a sphere of black.
Sansa’s spread out on the bed, her rosy chemise slipping off her shoulder, her skin paler than the spider threads of Myrish lace at the sleeve. Cersei notices Sansa’s rubbing her cheek against the fabric in bliss. Cersei looks at the flush in Sansa’s cheeks, the thin veil of silk covering her breast, enough that she can see the rosy stars of her nipples beneath.
Before she has to acknowledge she feels like a nervous bridegroom, Cersei swallows her own posset, not pausing to roll it round on her tongue to taste the infusion of herbs with that secret bit of velvety, electrified honey from Dorne that leaves her languid and pleased so Sansa…
Sansa’s looking at Cersei, flicking the tip of her pink tongue against her lips. Cersei shudders in a way that the posset has never made her do before.The girl’s eyes are wide and beautiful, like Cersei’s when she’s had the Maester leave her a bottle of belladonna before a feast to make her eyes larger, more alluring. Sansa’s are deep, blue and dark enough, icy waters to drown men.
Cersei nips at her own tongue to stay slightly more alert though the posset is already singing through her veins though part of her already knows it’s Sansa, not unspoken things from the glass house or Dornish amber; it’s said it leads Dornishmen to see paradise, but Cersei’s aware she’s dizzied by the paradise already spread out in front of her.
“Are you ready, little dove?”
Sansa nods. “Yes, oh yes.”
Cersei takes a length of scarlet silk from the side of the pillow, lifts Sansa’s head and covers her blue eyes. (If Sansa’s eyes are closed she won’t see Cersei’s hand tremble, the desire in her eyes.)
Sansa’s lips curve upward in pleasure at the feathery touch on her eyelids.
Her hair, the silk are red leaves on the great bed’s snowy sea.
If you are a woman, Cersei thinks, you have no need of swords or siege engines. Your weapons are always with you, lips and teeth and slippery palms smiles and tears and slick drops of spit. Your weapons are always with you, even you’re stripped bare.
Especially if you’re stripped bare.
Looking at Sansa, Cersei feels the hunger of a man who’s lived in battle, the hunger of a heated blade for cool water, the yearning to sustain that hunger.
You’ll be sated at least once, sweetling. I can give you that.
Were you my bride, I might even pray in the hopes that you will always yearn for me and I for you, sun and moon.
Cersei’s not sure what said that, if it was Dornish honey or something else.
“Follow my voice. My breath.”
It’s so you won’t suffer in the marriage bed.
You don’t have Jaime, you don’t have my armour, you don’t have part of you that can never be taken by anyone else, you’re only one not two.
Cersei lets her fingers trail over Sansa’s cheek, feeling a smile form under the tips. Slowly, again and again, till Cersei’s stroking across Sansa’s shoulders, the soft, delicious places on her neck. It’s exhilarating to watch the blood rush under her fingertips till Sansa’s flushed rosy, sighing in bliss.
I promised I’d teach you.
Golden hair brushes Sansa’s shoulders as Cersei drags it over her skin.
(She doesn’t want to do it like the canny whore’s trick, wants something else…)
And here I am, the wicked seducer. Why Lord and Lady Stark, whatever would they think?
There’s a hot flush of anger and lechery, then something else as Sansa arches her back, gasping, laughing at the pleasure of Cersei’s silky tresses on her skin and the Queen is shaken again.
(It’s a seduction, it’s a war, it’s women’s weapons and all Cersei wants to do is make her laugh like that again,)
Cersei pulls away, suddenly shy. Then she feels a hand on hers, hears a whisper.
“Kiss me, Your Grace, kiss me, you’re so beautiful, I want to…”
Their lips are crushing each others, Sansa’s tongue flickering against Cersei’s own, both of them rocking in pleasure. And Sansa’s hands are gentle yet strong, not frightened, she wants to kiss me she wants to kiss me
(Cersei must teach her the pigeon’s blood trick. Queens and whores know it. She will too.)
but it’s me who’ll teach you the ways of the bed, lift you and catch you, every smile for me
were I your husband you’d never want for strong sons, fierce daughters, all you wanted and more more more
and Cersei kisses her fiercely, nipping at the girl’s lip, feeling Sansa instinctively pull against the teeth
that’s how we’re going to play then
and Cersei presses Sansa down to the bed with her ivory body, moving her pale hands up Sansa’s arms till they’re face to face, Cersei’s hand holding Sansa’s wrists.
Sansa could break out, but instead she relaxes, languid and sweet under her Queen’s command.
Cersei tears off Sansa’s blindfold, because suddenly she wants to see those eyes, fall into that sky.
Sansa’s staring back, gazing into Cersei’s emerald eyes. Eyes open, Sansa is daring, kisses her Queen one on either side, then lips, full and sweet, watching Cersei’s gaze shift into pure pleasure and neither of them has ever felt like this before.
Cersei groans from delight, wraps a leg around Sansa so that they’re touching close, enflamed only wisps of silk between them. Sansa’s rubbing against her thigh, softer than harder, she is frank and delicious in her pleasure. Unashamed.
Sansa’s never felt anything like this, like she’s a rush that’s been set alight, I could die from this and it would be all right, the smell of musk and lavender, a fire she cannot stop, wouldn’t want to
flame is my Lady I am flame
Sansa slides against her slow, quick slow, quick, her breath flaring
Cersei moves against her, sighing, trembling at the feel of the girl in her arms, then leaning kisses to cover her mouth because battles mean noise
and so does Cersei swallow Sansa’s cry of joy, keeping it safe within her, feeling Sansa shake to her core.
In moments Sansa’s in her arms, nuzzling against her neck.
Cersei feels a wetness against her neck, soft and damp, Sansa’s tears not a weapon but a flag of victory. It’s the most natural thing in the world to enfold her and taste the salt on her tongue.
“As long as you need. Little dove.”
The air seems to ripple as Sansa sighs, her body tensing and releasing uncoiling in joy after joy till she’s lying in her Queen’s arms, drunk in delight.
Cersei looks and knows it’s not posset or Dornish amber, but something else.
Cersei smiles, her hair rumpled into knots of gold.
“Want to practice more.” Sansa’s already drifting off, the posset and her frenzy of pleasure leaving her spent, victorious.
Before the afternoon sun and the slow pour of delight into her veins takes her, Cersei finds herself stroking Sansa’s hair, pressing her lips to Sansa’s pearlescent forehead.
“We will.” Cersei murmurs, infinitely tenderly, mixed with thoughts of the curiosities she’ll show the wolf-girl, all the forms and parries and passants that she’ll teach her
For now, Sansa’s unseated her, tilted well.
Cersei is surprised that she doesn’t feel afraid, only curious, with a wicked hunger on how they’ll train again once Sansa rises. (The deeper, sweeter something she’ll keep within her, ponder, but she already knows Sansa’s coming to be her bedwarmer and that’s all to be said about that.)
And it’s this way that the warriors sleep in pools of silk and gold, the cool breeze from Blackwater Bay drying their damp skin, to wake and fight again.
(1) In this case, I’m referring to Orientalist art, full of gold and luxury and sensuality, not negating or being harmful to any race or gender. I believe in silks and gold and hot sex for everybody.
andulkaphoto
dededos
janainaart
theartofmadeline
gummygunk
pixelskylines
