Trigger Warning(s): Depressingly disillusioned Alayne
A year of trying to forget and wearing a disguise that now felt like second skin, and an old face was enough to wreck her peace of mind. He has come for revenge, she thought.
iorwen asked: Since it's my b-day I will prompt Jaime/Sansa B-day fic in which smut insues (can be Jaime's or Sansa's b-day/name day)
HAPPY NAMEDAY, DARLING LADY!!!!!!! I HOPE YOU LIKE! <333
Content Warning: Loss of virginity
“Today is my nameday.”
Jaime doesn’t even trouble to look up, greeting Sansa’s words with nothing but a derisive snort. He really hasn’t the time for this now; he finally received a raven from Brienne and Pod, and he needs to send a reply immediately if there’s any hope of the message reaching them before the snows grow heavy. And besides, he can’t remember the last time he himself celebrated a nameday…they’re for children, for only a babe would be foolish enough to enjoy the coming of another year, the stretching of time-
(There are other reasons for his nameday distaste, he knows, but he forces those thoughts aside. He has to, for he can’t be certain that he’ll ever escape from the darkness if he ventures into that abyss.)
His lips twist, more in a grimace than a grin, when he says (still with his eyes on his letter):
“Sansa’s nameday, or Alayne’s?”
And then there is nothing but the sound of his quill scratches.
He hadn’t meant to hurt her, not really- something akin to shame wedges itself into his belly, and he closes his eyes briefly before setting down the quill and lifting his head, intending to offer some sort of apology-
She stands still in the doorway, her chin held high, a perplexing and resolute shine in her eyes. But Jaime finds that he cannot properly focus on her face…not when she wears nothing but a paper-thin robe, loosely cinched at the waist. The light from his candle perfectly contours the curves of her breasts and pulls rubies and sunbeams from her thick, loose, gently-mussed hair.
His mouth feels suddenly parched, and he cannot rightly tell whether the twisting in his gut comes from desire or anxiety or some combination of the two.
She does not step forward, and she does not smile. He glances down at her trembling hands, and she immediately balls them into fists- he has never known quite what to do with a woman’s vulnerability, and he’s oddly grateful for her obvious determination to keep her nerves to herself.
“I am ready now,” she says, her words quiet but firm, and he prays that she cannot hear the way his heart bangs against his breastbone, clumsy and erratic and booming.
He’d been deep in his cups on that night three moons ago, right after Brienne and Pod rode south, leaving him alone with the fugitive Lady Stark. Several tankards of cheap ale, sour and flat, like chilled peasant’s urine. He convinced Sansa to partake (he does not like to drink, not really, but he especially hates to drink alone), and the liquor brought roses to her cheeks, a stream of hiccuping giggles, and a sudden mess of sloppy, heated kisses. He cannot recall many particulars- at that point, it would have been surprising if he could recall his own name- but he remembers the moment when he tried to slide Sansa’s smallclothes down her thighs, and she thrust herself away from him so forcefully that she fell from the cot and tumbled onto the floor. She had stayed there for a time, huddled on the filthy mat with her knees tucked into her chest, her face burning red as she whispered, “I cannot…I’m not ready…I’m still too young.”
After she fell asleep, Jaime ran out behind the pitiful little cottage and vomited the contents of his belly, then the stomach bile, then a troubling bit of blood. He shivered himself to sleep out in the forbidding cold, against the trunk of a dying tree, surrounded by his own sick.
He feels the urge to vomit again as she steps toward his makeshift desk, her beauty and youth radiating from her like a corona. And he shudders when she places her hand on his shoulder and leans closer and closer until his face is nearly level with the exposed skin of her breasts.
“But I thought that you were too young?” he rasps, trying and failing to stretch his lips into a sneer.
“No…no, not anymore.” Suddenly, she kneels before him, her (still shaking) hands gripping his thighs in a way that makes his cock throb, her eyes wide and urgent and demanding.
“I am old enough now.”
It’s a nonsensical statement; after all, what difference is there between five-and-ten and six-and-ten? But she does not explain further. Jaime has noticed this tendency of hers, to make decisions that seem so arbitrary and to conjure them into being through nothing more than the force of her will. It’s a peculiar quality, one that often frustrates him…
But it’s also a familiar quality. For he remembers another young, beautiful, and willful girl trying to bend and twist the world to suit her wishes…another girl with delicate hands, but a firm grip…another girl who smelled of flowers and fruit and promise…
Before his guts have the chance to churn, he pulls the girl up and into his lap. She gasps when her bare sex brushes against the hardness in his breeches, but she lets him kiss her, lets him plunge his tongue into her mouth and fill his one remaining hand with her soft breast and clutch the small of her back so tightly with the false hand that she’ll surely have bruises in the morning.
They have not partaken of any spirits tonight, but he feels drunk when he carries her to the lumpy mattress and pulls her robe away before tearing at the laces of his breeches. Although she is a maid- so she claims…but he believes it (he has to believe it)- she seems to know well enough what to do; her hand on his cock is tentative, but her pressure is correct, and she becomes more bold, more curious, scraping her nails softly over his chest, nibbling his earlobe until he growls his pleasure, a fierce look of conviction securely fastened to her face.
Yes, she closes her eyes for a spell after he first enters her, turning her face into the pillow to keep him from looking upon her pain. There is a soft moan of dismay when he spends inside her (quite without intention, but he does it all the same). And there are a few tears when it’s all through, when she wraps the bedclothes around her naked body and asks him to snuff out the light.
Jaime lies awake for hours, alone in the milky moonlight. He cannot decide what to think, how to feel- for there is nothing to think about, there are no feelings that he can possibly justify.
But there is a comfort to the press of Sansa’s back against his chest, to the fragrance of her hair and the even tempo of her breaths. On his right side, the stump itches beneath his golden hand…
But it’s the left hand that reaches over and smoothes a rogue lock of hair away from Sansa’s brow. A lump lodges itself in his throat, swelling a bit when he whispers in the perfect shell of her ear:
“Happy nameday, sweet girl.”
And although she sleeps soundly, he thinks he sees the corners of her lips curve up into a smile.
Part 2 of Livestream results.
AND LOOK! They’re all black and white so people can COLOUR it ;D If any of you guys feel like colouring it, let me know, and please do show me :D I’d LOVE that!
- Jaime braiding Sansa’s hair, with jelly hound and Bribri.
- Brienne is NOT satisfied with the whole ‘chopping off beard’.
- Then we have Tywin the Troll, destroying and creating ships!
- Jaime is a horrible poet.
- And Brienne being the sweet girlfriend dealing with Jaime.
- And then we have Jaime and Brienne getting acquainted with the internet.
"He resented his little wife at first, but increasingly, she has his attention."
—The Lady of Casterly Rock
Au in which Sansa marries Jaime instead of Tyrion.
The looking glass, so shiny and new;
How quickly the glamour fades.
Ship(s): Jaime/Sansa, implied Jaime/Cersei and Petyr/Sansa
Trigger Warning(s): N/A
Is this NSFW? It’s not graphic, but I’ll say yes just to be safe.
Brief Summary: San Francisco, July 1970: Sansa Stark lives among the hippies and bohemians in Haight-Ashbury, but she has a secret habit of visiting the VA and talking to the veterans, newly returned from the Vietnam War.
Ship(s): One-sided Jaime/Sansa; Jaime/Cersei
Trigger Warning(s): Nope, pretty tame.
Is this NSFW?: No, I would say PG-13?
Brief Summary: Sansa never wanted to go to the surface until her sister called her a coward. Once there, she found something that made her want to stay.