Pomander (CerseixSansa)
Sansa sits in the Queen’s solar, concentrating on an orange, a jar of cloves. It’s extravagantly wonderful; satisfying pop of skin, soft mist of orange, rich spice of so many cloves. Sansa has to close her eyes and breathe in, sigh at its sweetness. She slides a strand of garnet hair behind her ear, finishes, rolls it in orris root, plans excitedly for the notions seller and his gold ribbons. It’s a present.
“Crafty little dove.” Sansa feels a warm breath behind her ear, soft, strong arms around her. She leans her head back into her Lady’s bosom. “Always making something pretty.”
Sansa grins and tries to nuzzle but is held fast. Cersei lets go with a wicked grin. “I want to make something pretty.” she purrs, holds out a needle case--but here the needles have fine gold thread, drops of carnelian and citrine to sway with every motion, each breath. Sansa purrs in anticipation of the needle sliding in and out of her skin, leaving her decked in solid sunlight, frozen sunset. “Minx.” Cersei grins and starts to undo the ties on Sansa’s gown; Cersei’s thought of how pretty these will look dangling from her girl’s ivory breasts.
“I’m afraid I’ve got no skill for crafts.” Cersei pauses.”Except needlework.” Sansa’s purr turns to a gentle smile, breath of a kind laugh. Her Queen has made a joke. Sansa’s the only one who hears her jokes. “Breathe in.” Cersei whispers and the first needle’s through pinned through Sansa’s skin, its ornament twinkling in the sunlight.”Good girl.” murmurs Cersei, favoring Sansa with a tiny kiss on the lips. “You’ll just have to guide me along--you’ll tell me if I’m doing it properly, won’t you, little dove?” Sansa mumbles in bliss already rushing from her body’s flow of blood, flow of pleasure. “Good. I may have a bit of skill in crafts after all.” Cersei readies the second needle; the air smells of musk, a bit of metal and wafting from the side table, clove and orange.