“Since I loudly declared my arrival, I don’t see how they could’ve missed it ..” The answer to his sister’s ridiculous question is given with a grin, brow quirking as fingers pull at the tie that has spent all day choking him - much like their father’s (and the world’s) expectations. Keys are fished from his pocket and tossed atop the nearest counter, green eyes glinting with an amusement the lion can’t quite hide as they travel the length of the kitchen. It should irk him to see Cersei reduced to such chores, should flame the fire that was so well stoked upon Robert Baratheon’s death to life once more - but instead, the freedom such a thing allows sends his heart singing, a melody of absent shackles that thrums through his veins.
“You worry too much.” Arms slide around the curve of her hips, lips pressing the faintest of kisses against the shell of her ear and Jaime’s smile grows all the wider. “Just yesterday the woman with the blue door was telling me I just had to try the strawberry icing she was putting on the dessert she had for you…don’t tell me….” Brows furrow in a frown as he steps back slightly, shifting until they’re face to face and the feigned look of despair that slides so easily across golden features is more than palpable. “ .. you trashed it, didn’t you?”
Emeralds so much like his own stare back at him and the Lannister’s chest aches - both with desire to cradle his sister in his arms and the need to strangle the supposed righteousness from their father’s very shoulders. The idiot Baratheon’s death should have meant Cersei’s freedom, should have finally delivered her from every foul hand that fate had ever dealt… but Tywin Lannister was very much still alive and luck, it would seem, did not often quickly strike twice.
Teeth catch at a plump mouth, nose brushing the barest of touches against the crown of golden curls. Suburbia is nothing more than another gilded cage when it comes to his sister and Jaime will do everything in his power to help her escape once again from another’s clutches, but the hour is already late… and murder is best planned with a warm cup of coffee. “Say what you will about the people here and the gods awful taste they have in lawn gnomes.. but there’s one good thing to come from this.” Palms press against her back, pulling them together ever closer as if in attempt to meld them into one. Both golden haired and green eyed - too much alike to possibly determine where one or the other begins… and the laugh that laces his next words is evident through ever syllable whispered into curls. “ … Father will be caught dead before he comes to visit you here.”
Her brother was reckless, most dangerous much like a double edged sword. You worry too much, and you worry too little. Does he not see that his lack of concern only forces her hand– someone must take responsibility and where as he obeyed she had been destined to rule. And with that came frown that turned otherwise beautiful features sour. And just as easily it melts as he lays down the first touch to her skin. It feels like a lifetime ago since she’d been in his arms– but when a soul longed for its mirroring piece, a few hours could feel agonizing.
❛Perhaps you might still be able to salvage it and share share it with her.❜
There’s a certain tint to her voice as it airs, a challenge, do you dare cross her? Her judgement had never been impaired by foolish emotion, no, she wasn’t like Jaime in the sense that he was guided solely by his need for validation, following society and the expectations it bestowed upon him. To her it had always been easy, she’d been the strongest of the two, she’d been the one who listened without needless fidgeting. Men and their cocks are most easily distracted. Just now he goes to unknowingly prove her point as he craves for her. He almost bleeds into her like two splotches of ink. That’s what they were though-- a twisted, fucked up, Rorschach test. Do you see a moth or a violent crime of passion?
She’s responding to his kisses without much thought given to it, like an instinct it has been carved in her at birth. Tracing the path along his back, overly conscious of where each vertebrae belonged. She’d kissed them all, counted them a thousand times over, her brother was a thousand times the man her father thought him to be. His spine could not be broken even by a tyrant that forces her grip upon the fabric to tighten in anger. Her words come out with spite.
❛And I will be caught dead before I let him. He’s humiliated me, Jaime, reduced me to a pitiful stereotype of a grieving widow.❜
Quick to anger, her hands snake their way to the front of his shirt where she pushes him, hard like he were the sole cause for her suffering. He’s pulling on her, his grip ever so strong and his eyes, oh his eyes, they’re almost enough to calm the ocean that is her rage. He looks so much like her boys.