Cersei Lannister. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
goldenfool) wrote2011-12-07 05:32 pm
goldenfool) wrote2011-12-07 05:32 pm
(no subject)
They can't keep us apart, you promised.
So far, that was almost the case.
Cersei lies on her side with her phone cradled to her ear.
“Just until we're asleep,” she says. Jaime says yes (he always says yes). For him, it's past curfew. They have to whisper, and his voice is so low it sings in her veins.
On normal nights, they just fall asleep like this. Sometimes there is more: They talk about things they already know, because there are some things they share every day and some things that aren't worth discussion at all.
Mostly they just breathe.
Even when they have sex, they just breathe. From Cersei's limited knowledge of phone sex, this is doing it incorrectly – the moments in between are supposed to be filled with words, with what happens here, and there, and next. They have never needed words.
“I love you, Jaime,” she says. It's rare.
Cersei wakes up at in the darkness of half-past four to a dead phone and the sound of her own breathing.
She doesn't sleep again.
Her father had the decency to pull Tyrion out of school first, but she came second.
Father hated the idea of keeping his second son in the house almost as much as he hated paying out the nose to keep him educated. Tyrion disappeared to their aunt's house, where, she says, he is doing very well.
Save for the bullying and behavioral problems, he's doing well.
Cersei is still here.
She thinks she knows what they will say, if she fails in her bid for law school when the nepotism and the barter politics suffocate her, that she was potential wasted on a thousand unlucky circumstances.
But, thinking of Tyrion, at least they will say she had potential.
Jaime's holidays are often brief, so seeing him has become a holiday unto itself.
Cersei comes forward and puts her arms around him. It is only a hug. In her mind, she is wrapping her legs about his waist, clawing at his skin until she can drag it open and occupy it.
They give their father half an hour after leaving the next day before Jaime comes to her room. He kisses her until it aches, until it no longer matters that Sunday will see him no longer here with her.
Cersei keeps her condoms where she keeps her tampons; it is the only place her father probably won't stumble across them. For all that people become so obsessed with involving themselves in other people's bodies, they stop at the lines of taboo, content to leave the messes to her and take control of anything with any pleasure to it.
They are alone in the house; the maid was fired some two months ago. Father was too proud to do it only for the cost, but every little bit of money squandered on the woman's salary was burning a hole in their bank account.
It was Cersei who stole into her mother's jewelry box and took the necklace from its The maid was fired before it could be returned, and now it sleeps beneath Cersei's mattress in between two old photographs.
She will be the pin that holds their family together.
“Who are you talking to?” she asks. If she didn't already know, she wouldn't have to ask, because Cersei has never once been jealous of anyone talking to Jaime.
He shrugs a little with one shoulder, running the knuckles of his right hand along her bicep. The voice on the other end of the line has gone quiet
Cersei puts one knee on either side of Jaime's thighs and leans close enough for her lips to catch the shell of his ear.
“Hello, Tyrion.”
In the silence that follows, Jaime's chest rises and falls beneath her flattened palms.
“Hey, sis,” follows her out of the room and down the hall, even when she's slammed her door shut behind her.
So far, that was almost the case.
Cersei lies on her side with her phone cradled to her ear.
“Just until we're asleep,” she says. Jaime says yes (he always says yes). For him, it's past curfew. They have to whisper, and his voice is so low it sings in her veins.
On normal nights, they just fall asleep like this. Sometimes there is more: They talk about things they already know, because there are some things they share every day and some things that aren't worth discussion at all.
Mostly they just breathe.
Even when they have sex, they just breathe. From Cersei's limited knowledge of phone sex, this is doing it incorrectly – the moments in between are supposed to be filled with words, with what happens here, and there, and next. They have never needed words.
“I love you, Jaime,” she says. It's rare.
Cersei wakes up at in the darkness of half-past four to a dead phone and the sound of her own breathing.
She doesn't sleep again.
Her father had the decency to pull Tyrion out of school first, but she came second.
Father hated the idea of keeping his second son in the house almost as much as he hated paying out the nose to keep him educated. Tyrion disappeared to their aunt's house, where, she says, he is doing very well.
Save for the bullying and behavioral problems, he's doing well.
Cersei is still here.
She thinks she knows what they will say, if she fails in her bid for law school when the nepotism and the barter politics suffocate her, that she was potential wasted on a thousand unlucky circumstances.
But, thinking of Tyrion, at least they will say she had potential.
Jaime's holidays are often brief, so seeing him has become a holiday unto itself.
Cersei comes forward and puts her arms around him. It is only a hug. In her mind, she is wrapping her legs about his waist, clawing at his skin until she can drag it open and occupy it.
They give their father half an hour after leaving the next day before Jaime comes to her room. He kisses her until it aches, until it no longer matters that Sunday will see him no longer here with her.
Cersei keeps her condoms where she keeps her tampons; it is the only place her father probably won't stumble across them. For all that people become so obsessed with involving themselves in other people's bodies, they stop at the lines of taboo, content to leave the messes to her and take control of anything with any pleasure to it.
They are alone in the house; the maid was fired some two months ago. Father was too proud to do it only for the cost, but every little bit of money squandered on the woman's salary was burning a hole in their bank account.
It was Cersei who stole into her mother's jewelry box and took the necklace from its The maid was fired before it could be returned, and now it sleeps beneath Cersei's mattress in between two old photographs.
She will be the pin that holds their family together.
“Who are you talking to?” she asks. If she didn't already know, she wouldn't have to ask, because Cersei has never once been jealous of anyone talking to Jaime.
He shrugs a little with one shoulder, running the knuckles of his right hand along her bicep. The voice on the other end of the line has gone quiet
Cersei puts one knee on either side of Jaime's thighs and leans close enough for her lips to catch the shell of his ear.
“Hello, Tyrion.”
In the silence that follows, Jaime's chest rises and falls beneath her flattened palms.
“Hey, sis,” follows her out of the room and down the hall, even when she's slammed her door shut behind her.