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Oberyn is hungry.
He wants to hold the world in the palm of his hands, to drink in all of its earthly pleasures and maybe—just maybe—finally satiate the fiery hunger that throbs in the pits of his stomach like half-digested spicy noodles from the Chinese restaurant next door. There’s so much to be desired in life: so many things to do, so many people to meet—to fuck —and so little of him to go around.
He’s greedy, Elia tells him, smiling that soft smile he knows is reserved just for him—the same one that says so much and yet so little without even trying. My beloved Icarus, she calls him. The boy who reached for the sun. The boy who wanted too much. The boy who burned from his desire.
But Oberyn is not Icarus. Oberyn is Oberyn.
Oberyn who loves too much, too hard, too fast. Oberyn who smiles and laughs and drinks and lives every fucking moment like the world will end tomorrow. Oberyn who never holds back, says what he wants, and kisses whoever he fancies, because gods be damned, he can’t— won’t —go about his life haunted by regrets and persistent questions of what if?
Still, perhaps Elia may have a point. He can be stupid—especially where the heart is concerned—and she just loves to remind him of it.
The heart is a fickle thing. Just for whom it decides to be fickle is not Oberyn’s fault.
Jaime Lannister was the easiest person in the world to fall in love with. Oberyn hardly knew the golden-haired boy beyond the whispers shared among infatuated adolescents and gossip traded like precious goods at family reunions, but he’d have had to be blind or stupid to not have noticed Jaime’s obvious beauty. He was built tall and fair, with a winning smile and an athleticism that made him the pride and joy of the Lannisters—even as a teenager.
Nothing happened between them. For all his courage in pursuing his desires, Oberyn could not bring himself to approach Jaime—not even once. Oberyn managed to stave off his lust—just barely—by indulging himself in increasingly sinful fantasies every night. In his dreams, he’d been pressed up against his own bed, tasting Jaime’s kiss more times than he could count and being touched in places that only he knew about.
Oberyn’s one and only link to Jaime was his twin sister Cersei, captain of the school’s debate society. She was equally—if not more—beautiful than her brother, in a harsh way, with a sharp tongue and a wicked temperament to match. Everyone bore resentment towards her: girls loathed her for her beauty, boys disliked her unattainability, and no sane adult enjoyed being outwitted by a mere teenage girl. Cersei, from what Oberyn saw, could have cared less what anyone thought. She was strong in a fierce, quiet way that Oberyn couldn’t help but admire.
It was inevitable for Oberyn to fall in love with Cersei. Over time, Oberyn found himself more and more drawn to her: every moment he spent with her was grounded and tangible and real —much more so than anything he could have ever dreamt of sharing with Jaime. Cersei seemed to exist with a baffling clarity, as if she herself was drawn in vivid Technicolour while the rest of the world lived in monochrome. Every conversation was a challenge to his intellect, tinged at the edges with a mild sort of fondness that Cersei seemed to hold for him.
The first time Cersei kisses Oberyn—during the last week of their senior year in an empty classroom after classes when he confesses—is the first time he ever truly forgets Jaime Lannister.
Her lips are soft—impossibly so—and she swallows every profession of love he utters, drinking in all of the feelings that bubble up from his core. She reciprocates, filling his mouth with wordless affections that he greedily devours like it’s his last meal on this earth. Nothing else in the world could possibly compare, he thinks. Once they’ve pulled away from each other, lips swollen and chests heaving, he tells her as much. She laughs and calls him stupid. He’s never been more in love.
Loving Cersei Lannister is the easiest thing in the world. Being in a relationship with her is not.
Cersei is Oberyn’s opposite in the truest sense: she’s cold and calculating and cruel in all the ways that he can't bear to be. Once they’re in college and sharing an apartment, they do little else than fight and fuck and fuck while fighting. Their good days are good; their bad days are abysmal. But Oberyn stays. He stays because he loves her, he stays because she loves him, and he stays because she’s really fucking good with her mouth and he’ll be damned before he gives that up.
The strangest thing about the two of them is that neither of them truly want to leave—even if they spend most of their time being absolutely miserable in each other’s company. Every night, they come home to each other and sleep in the same bed, regardless of how much venom they were spitting at each other just minutes before.
In some sick sense, Oberyn thinks, they probably love each other far too much to do what’s good for them and just break up. Or maybe they don't love each other enough. He wouldn't know. Nobody ever taught him how to tell the difference.
It’s almost laughable when Oberyn finally cheats on Cersei after two years of being together.
He doesn't intend for it to happen the way it does. He actually—stupidly—thinks that she'd be the first one to go. Maybe she would get with one of those pretty Targaryen boys in the History Department, or the star quarterback Robert Baratheon. Maybe he’d catch her in the act, and it'd be the excuse for them to leave each other once and for all. Maybe she'd decide she’s finally had enough. It doesn't matter. He just never thinks it’s even an option for him. He worships Cersei far too much to even look at anyone else.
The night it happens, he's with Jaime. Of course he is.
They're sitting in Oberyn and Cersei’s apartment beside each other on the couch, sipping beers and watching reruns of old horror movies in complete silence like they always do on Friday nights when Cersei is far too busy entertaining her many extracurriculars to spare a second for her boyfriend and her brother.
Jaime looks Oberyn’s way. That never used to happen before. He tilts his head, asks a mundane question. Oberyn answers, a curt one-word reply. Jaime nods.
Suddenly, Jaime says he's been sleeping with Willas Tyrell. It's a throwaway remark, clearly not a big deal—not to him, at least. But Oberyn’s world freezes in its tracks. Jaime Lannister? Sleeping with men? Oberyn stays silent for a moment; a moment too long, perhaps. He forces himself to snap out of it, offers his congratulations to Jaime, who accepts it graciously.
I used to love you, Oberyn thinks—he doesn't know why. It's a bit useless; it's not like Jaime can hear his thoughts, anyway.
Jaime goes on, says he never realised he was bisexual until Arthur Dayne once kissed him at their high school graduation party.
Oberyn’s face flushes at the memory of their upperclassman, with his broad shoulders and a face too youthful to be a man’s but too manly to be a boy’s. The thought of high-school Jaime—green-eyed, sweet, quiet Jaime who never once looked his way—pressed up against then-college freshman Arthur in the back of the Lannisters’ house, too dark and too loud to be caught by anyone, sends all the blood rushing through Oberyn’s body. Especially down there.
Trying to pull himself together, Oberyn nods politely and acts like he doesn't care.
Oh, but he does. He cares so, so, so much.
Suddenly, all his teenage wet dreams and hormonal fantasies of Jaime—touching him in the back of his car, making out with him in empty classrooms, fucking him in his own bedroom—take shape in the corners of his mind, infinitely more vivid than they ever were before.
There's a brief silence. Jaime sips his beer, Oberyn taps his leg. It's alien—Oberyn is never quiet.
The silence grows longer, more suffocating, and something builds up—like a sneeze that starts as an itch in the back of your throat and slides down into your lungs, until it's rocketing up and out of your mouth like a fucking nuclear bomb.
Tick, tick, tick.
Oberyn turns his head, leans forward, and kisses Jaime square on the mouth.
Boom.
The first time they have sex, it's rushed and awkward and utterly humiliating for Oberyn. He’s too eager, too harsh—Jaime’s lips are bruised and swollen by the time they even make it to the bedroom. But it's fucking heaven in the most biblical sense.
Kissing Jaime is different from kissing Cersei. Jaime kisses lazily, lets Oberyn take the lead. His tongue moves languidly in Oberyn’s mouth, hot and sweet and satisfying in every way imaginable. Jaime kisses like he has all the time in the world.
As for the sex? The sex is phenomenal. Jaime’s cock is so much bigger and so much thicker than Oberyn could have ever anticipated. He can barely fit all of it into his mouth, but he's eager and he knows how to work his tongue and hollow out his mouth and fit his hands around the girth just the right way to get Jaime fucking his throat like he's nothing more than a cheap fleshlight. The burn is sickeningly sweet, and Oberyn just loves the praise. Especially when Jaime flips him over like he weighs nothing to finally, finally fill him up with that delicious cock of his.
It's probably wrong, Oberyn thinks idly, getting fucked by his girlfriend’s brother the way he is right now. The guilt in his veins burns hot and sticky and he has just half a mind to push Jaime away—to make this crime stop in its tracks before it goes too far—but then Jaime shifts his hips and thrusts in him so hard he's seeing stars and all the shame in his body has evaporated into lust and his legs are wrapping around Jaime and all he wants is more.
Once Cersei comes home, it's like nothing's happened. Her brother and her boyfriend are on the couch, drinking their beers, watching a late-night talk show. She doesn't bat even an eye at how they're both freshly showered; she either doesn't notice or doesn't care. It's all the same to Oberyn.
Jaime stands, gives her a hug, and makes her promise to take him out to lunch the next day. Oberyn waves him goodbye absently, as if Jaime’s dick wasn't in his mouth just half an hour before, as if he didn't just hear his name being uttered amidst broken moans and begging pleas, as if he didn't just get railed by Jaime fucking Lannister in the bed he shares with Jaime’s own twin sister.
Cersei tries to pick a fight after Jaime leaves. She always does. Oberyn doesn't fight back; he just picks her up and kisses her the way he always does when he’d rather love than fight.
Her lips are softer than Jaime’s, he thinks, as he's pounding her into the mattress and her nails are clawing into his back and she's biting his neck so hard there’ll inevitably be marks that he’ll have to cover up tomorrow. She’s a lot rougher, too—more demanding, more impatient. Cersei kisses greedily, like she wants, wants, wants. And sooner or later, Cersei always gets what she wants.
Now, Cersei wants Oberyn. But Oberyn wants Jaime.
Oberyn shakes his head, and forces himself to forget. Forget Jaime Lannister, forget how sweet he smells under his aftershave, forget how he knows exactly which spots to kiss to make Oberyn forget his own name.
But how could he, when Jaime kisses him with more love than Cersei ever has?
He thrusts harder into Cersei. She whines against his mouth and wraps her legs around him and whispers the utmost filth into his ear until his hips are stuttering against her own and she’s clenching down on his cock and for a moment—just for a moment—he forgets that he was ever with anyone who wasn't Cersei.
But it happens again. Of course it does.
They're sitting together in Jaime’s car, parked in front of some auditorium where they've just dropped Cersei off for an event she's helping facilitate. The two of them haven't talked since the last time they saw each other at least a week before—what's there to say, anyway?
Jaime breaks the silence, asks Oberyn if he wants to hang out at his unit for the next three hours before Cersei needs to be picked up.
We can watch a movie, he says. I've got a few new ones that I think you would like.
It's an offer—a dangerous one.
Everything in Oberyn’s mind is yelling at him to say no, tell him that he’d rather go out to eat, do anything but agree to what Jaime is really suggesting. But Oberyn is Oberyn. Oberyn is greedy. He wants and wants and he aches with want, so deeply it strangles him from the inside out. He yearns to touch Jaime, even if he knows the tale of Icarus and just what happens to boys who reach for the sun.
Oberyn takes him up on it anyway.
Sure, he says. Why the hell not?
They drive back to Jaime’s apartment, and they're barely even through the door before Jaime’s picking Oberyn up and kissing him. Rougher this time, like he’s hungry and desperate and only Oberyn’s mouth on his can possibly satiate him.
Oberyn barely registers taking his clothes off, but suddenly he's in Jaime’s bedroom, stumbling through the door and falling backwards onto his mattress. His body is overheating and the bed is cold against his back and all of his senses are flooded with Jaime, Jaime, Jaime. On his lips, on his neck, on his chest, travelling down to his already-throbbing cock.
Jaime sucks him off this time. He’s clearly inexperienced, but his mouth is hot and his tongue is eager and the sound of his gagging on Oberyn’s spit-slicked cock sends his head spinning and—he swears to all the gods above—he comes so hard in Jaime’s throat that he blacks out for a good minute. By the time he’s come to, Jaime’s licking all the seed off his own face and looking at Oberyn through half-lidded eyes as he sucks on his fingers and Oberyn’s cock springs to life eagerly like clockwork. The little traitor.
We can't do this again, Oberyn says, his voice breaking at the end because Jaime’s dick is in his ass and Jaime’s mouth is on his own and Jaime just feels so, so good pressed up against his body like that. Your sister—
Cersei can't find out, Jaime says back, pulling out of Oberyn just long enough to make him start begging. Ever.
Oberyn nods and pulls Jaime in to kiss him, licking away all his oaths of secrecy and half-assed goodbyes and swallowing them like bitter pills of medicine that promise wellness but act like poison in your veins anyway.
Getting dressed afterwards is shameful. The two of them clean up in silence, trying desperately to not act like something is amiss between them. It's not a complete lie: nothing is missing, but rather something has begun to grow—something foreign and unwelcome and dangerous.
Cersei doesn't smell it in the car when they go to pick her up—the scent of sex and regret. Oberyn reeks of it. He spends an hour in the shower once he gets home, scrubbing his skin furiously until it's red and raw just trying to get it off his body. It's useless: he still smells like Jaime, even when Cersei comes to kick him out of the bathroom.
That night, Oberyn collapses into bed—the very bed he shares with Cersei—and dreams of nothing. Not even Jaime Lannister.
Cersei knows something is wrong. It takes a while—some two weeks, give or take—but she catches on eventually. She's far too intelligent not to.
What’s wrong? she asks him one night as they lie in bed together, fully clothed and staring at the ceiling as if it'll offer either of them answers to any of their questions. Are you okay?
There's a bit of silence. Oberyn doesn't answer, and Cersei holds her breath. That never used to happen before.
He leans over and kisses her. Softly, sweetly. Like he used to do when they were still hopelessly infatuated with one another, when the future still seemed to be ripe with the promise of tomorrows filled with love. A real kind of love.
She kisses him back. A bit unsurely, a bit less demandingly. Like it's her first time kissing and she's not sure what she expects or if she's even any good, but she’s sure—more than anything—that it's what she wants. To kiss and to be kissed.
The kiss escalates. It always does. Soon enough, their clothes are on the floor and their tongues are in each other's mouth and it's like the summer after high school all over again, when he still used to sneak into her bedroom just to make out with her and they were too handsy and too eager, but still undeniably in love.
Cersei’s holding back; she’s letting Oberyn get what he wants, rather than take from him what she wants. And right now, all Oberyn wants is Cersei.
How could he have forgotten how sweet it was to kiss her? How could he have forgotten how warm her hands were on his body? How could he have let one or two casual hookups with Jaime completely erase from his mind just why he—after so much and so long—still stayed with her?
Oberyn touches her gently; remembers every place that makes her lean further into him, makes her whimper and shake in the sweetest way she possibly can; savours every sound she makes in his mouth.
He drags his tongue all over her body, every inch of her that he knows better than he knows himself. He kisses her sweet, pretty cunt with the utmost reverence and relishes the pain of her fingers pulling on his hair. Everything about Cersei is pure sweetness; Oberyn lets her scent, her taste, her sound flood his senses and erase every trace that her brother might have left behind.
They don't fuck that night. Not in the traditional sense, at least.
Oberyn spends hours worshipping Cersei’s body—just touching her and kissing her and letting his mouth serve its sole, divine purpose of giving her pleasure. When his tongue fails, he offers her his fingers and brings her to orgasm after orgasm after orgasm, working relentlessly until she's nothing but a squirming mess under him, broken moans spilling out of her like the slick dripping from her cunt. His own erection throbs painfully beneath him, but it's not about him tonight—he merely exists to serve.
Once she's thoroughly spent—chest heaving and pussy sore—he stands, carries her to the bathroom and helps clean her up. Her fingers tangle into his hair as he washes her body, gently this time.
The next morning, they don't speak of anything that might have transpired, but Cersei lets her kiss—a soft, tender kiss—linger on his lips a bit longer before she leaves for her classes, and she comes home a bit earlier than she usually does. They have dinner together, put on some new series on the television, and end up having sex on the couch instead of paying attention to whatever the fuck that one white guy is saying in Succession.
Life is good. Life is great.
Until Jaime comes along. Like he always does.
It's not even supposed to be a big deal. Jaime calls him up a week later, apologising, and asks if the two of them can talk. Face-to-face. In a public setting, of course. Oberyn gives it exactly two seconds of thought before agreeing.
It's not everyday that Jaime Lannister calls him, and it's certainly not everyday that Jaime Lannister wants to see him. So he goes.
They sit in awkward silence for a while at one of the tables in a café two blocks from the school—drinking their coffees and staring at anything in the room but each other—before Jaime speaks.
I’m sorry, he says, with so much pain in his eyes that Oberyn nearly believes him. None of this should've ever happened.
Oberyn sits with Jaime’s words for a moment. Do you regret it? he asks, with ice and venom and steel coating his voice.
Jaime tilts his head. I regret not doing it sooner, he replies without hesitation. If I had known about you—about what we could have been—I would have kissed you in high school.
His words are simple and jarring. Oberyn sets his coffee down on the table to consider them.
I love your sister, he says, with finality. I will always choose her over anything else.
Jaime’s calm expression wavers for a split-second. Oberyn doesn't miss it. He goes on.
I will always choose Cersei, Oberyn says, because I love her, and she loves me. I loved you once, Jaime, but she loved me first. I can't ever throw that away.
They both sip their coffee. The air is heavier now—like someone started evaporating molasses and everyone's just begun to breathe liquid sugar instead of proper oxygen.
Jaime, to Oberyn’s surprise, laughs. It's bitter and it's harsh and it hurts to hear, but he's smiling so widely that it makes Oberyn’s chest throb with affection.
I never had a chance, did I? he says wistfully. It feels like a rhetorical question.
Oberyn smiles, a bit weakly. If you had kissed me six years ago, he says, we might not even have had to have this conversation.
Jaime smiles. Fair enough, he replies. I didn't know yet back then. About you, I mean.
If it makes you feel any better, Oberyn says as he stands, I didn't know about you either until we finally kissed. Thank you for that.
Just as Oberyn makes to leave, Jaime grabs his wrist and stares up at him. There's an aching in his eyes, a burning desperation—a want —that Oberyn once dreamed of seeing, back before he gave up on fantasy and committed to something that was real.
Take care of my sister, will you? Jaime says, so sadly Oberyn can almost feel his heart shatter in his ribcage. Love her as much as you can, for as long as you can.
I will, Oberyn says sincerely, surprised by just how much conviction there is in his voice. I promise.
Jaime drops his hand and lets him go.
Oberyn almost wishes he hadn't.
How’s Jaime? Cersei asks him once he gets home. She leans in, kisses Oberyn like she means it. He told me he was meeting you today.
He’s still Jaime, Oberyn replies after a while. He doesn't know what else to say. Can I go down on you tonight?
Cersei gives him a strange look, but lifts her shirt above her head anyway. His breath stops in his throat for a moment, just like it used to when they were seventeen and making out in the back of Jaime’s truck and trying so desperately to be grown-up and not so horny but it was summer and it was too hot and Cersei was finally, finally letting Oberyn see her, touch her, feel her. All of her.
Oberyn picks her up, carries her to their bed, and sinks to his knees like a sinner at a confessional. With reverence, he kisses her body up and down, biting down on her soft skin and sucking on each bite mark hard enough to bruise, even though he knows that she’ll probably yell at him tomorrow when she has to cover them up, but she just sounds so sweet when she’s whining under his mouth and he can't resist how good she tastes on his tongue—like cinnamon and honey and something else he can't quite place.
He manages to wrench one orgasm from her—a forceful, intense one that has her pulling his hair and crying his name—before she turns him over with a surprising strength and pins his wrists to the mattress like the lioness only he knows her to be. Oberyn’s not quite sure where she’s going with it, but it's a pleasant surprise when she lines her cunt up against his hard cock and sinks down perfectly in one smooth motion.
Being under someone is a biblical experience in itself. Being under Cersei Lannister? He might as well just have died and gone to heaven.
She always likes being in control; nothing gets her off faster than having her hands wrapped around Oberyn’s neck, hearing every single one of his choked moans, and—if she's feeling particularly sadistic—slowing down just enough for her to have him desperately crying and begging for more, more, more. He relishes being put in his place; it's oddly liberating when Cersei renders him helpless, spitting in his mouth and calling him the most shameful names and whispering the filthiest things that get him more flustered than a teenager watching porn for the first time.
Once they've both finished and collapsed into one another, bodies all sticky and sweaty, Cersei kisses him on the lips. It's gentle and it's sweet and it's different somehow.
What was that for? he asks, and brushes a stray hair away from her face. She's still so, so beautiful, even when she looks a mess. Not that I'm complaining, of course.
Cersei laughs at him, kisses him again. It tastes of sex and something else. You know I love you, right? You're my best friend.
Oberyn leans in, kisses her—deeper this time. I know, he says against her lips. The taste is still there: something foreign and bitter and itchy on the tongue. I know.
It's only when they're both freshly showered and Cersei’s curled up into his side, sleeping soundly, that Oberyn realises what the taste was.
Regret. He’d have to be a fool not to recognise it. How could he not? He’d tasted it on his own tongue so many times before.
Oberyn doesn't see Jaime after that—not for a few weeks, at least. Cersei never bothers to ask him why.
When Oberyn does see Jaime again, it's a complete and utter accident. An accident, a circumstance, a situation that shouldn't even have been possible in the first place.
He’s well on his way to his classes when he foolishly—stupidly—realises he left his lecture notes in their apartment. So he runs back, too hurriedly to notice Jaime’s car in the front of the building, too hurriedly to notice that anything’s amiss when he opens the front door and grabs his binder from on top of the dining table, too hurriedly to notice the extra pair of shoes in the entryway.
Oberyn’s nearly out the door when he hears it.
A moan. Cersei’s. He’d recognise it anywhere.
No big deal, he thinks. She’s never been shy about her own pleasure. He moves to open the door when he hears it again.
Another moan. Someone else’s. Someone familiar.
He halts in his tracks, in disbelief. It can't possibly be.
The silence in the apartment is deafening. Oberyn stands dead still, desperately searching in the quiet for something —proof that he’s wrong, proof that he’s overthinking, proof that this isn’t what he thinks.
Oh, but it is what he thinks.
There’s another moan. Cersei’s this time. She’s saying something—someone’s name.
Jaime.
A cold chill runs down Oberyn’s spine. He barely registers Jaime’s reply—a choked-out moan of his own calling out Cersei’s name—but he knows he has to get out of there. Quietly, without them noticing. He opens the door, creeps outside, shuts the door behind him, and runs.
Oberyn runs, and he runs, and he runs, until his blood is beating in his ears and his lungs are burning in his chest and his thoughts are all just Cersei and Jaime and Cersei and Jaime and that’s all he can think about for the rest of the day, even when he comes home and Cersei kisses him and asks him if he wants to watch a movie with her.
His new knowledge weighs heavily on his mind for the next three days. Oberyn can't eat, can't sleep, can't even look at Cersei without remembering how beautifully, tragically sinful her brother’s name sounded on her lips. He spends his time wondering how he could have missed the signs, how he could have possibly thought that both of them loved him, how he thought he could have had a taste of both the sun and the moon without paying some kind of price.
He’s too busy—too busy dealing with the idea that the two people he loved loved each other and not him, too busy trying to wrap his head around the fact that he wasn't the only one cheating, too busy thinking that Cersei never loved him to begin with—to realise just how wrong it was, to catch Cersei and Jaime in the act.
Sexual relations with your sibling—your twin, no less. The very notion, in hindsight, is almost laughable.
He moves on quickly. He has to. It's no use trying to think rationally when your judgement is clouded by sorrow and grief and self-pity. Once he's done mourning his relationship, he comes up with a plan.
The plan involves Jaime. Of course it does.
Oberyn calls Jaime up, asks him to come over under the guise of hanging out. He’s carefully planned it out: it's a Friday, Cersei won't be home until late, and he knows for a fact that Jaime isn't busy because he mentioned at dinner a while back that he and the oldest Tyrell had stopped seeing each other. Bad timing, Jaime had called it, staring directly at Oberyn like he was daring him to call bullshit. Oberyn didn't.
Jaime comes by and greets Oberyn cheerfully and plants himself on the couch and it's as if nothing's ever happened between them. They're just two guys with a common link hanging out together because they have nothing better to do on a Friday night.
They make small talk: Jaime brings up the weather, the most recent episodes of Breaking Bad he’s been rewatching, the upcoming midterms—anything to break the silence. Oberyn nods politely, replies when he needs to, and offers little else than his silence.
So, what am I doing here? Jaime finally asks after a while. He stares at Oberyn, a pensive look on his face. I'm assuming you called because you wanted to talk about something, and not just listen to me try to make cheap conversation.
Oberyn tilts his head. I just wanted to hang out, he says, leaning closer to Jaime. Their faces are close, their bodies are closer, and they're so close that neither of them are breathing. Is that so wrong?
Jaime leans in closer—as if that’s even possible. Whatever happened to “we can’t keep doing this?” he asks, his voice a low rumble in his chest and his tone a saccharine mockery of Oberyn’s own. I thought you never wanted to see me again.
I don’t, Oberyn says with finality. His hands lay themselves flat on Jaime’s chest and travel lower, lower, lower—until they're just barely ghosting over his already-hardening cock. He kisses Jaime, hard and unforgiving and well enough to get him excited. But you, he laughs sadistically as he pulls away, you seem excited to see me.
Jaime whines and bucks his hips up like he’s trying to get some relief— any kind of relief—but Oberyn’s hands are firm on his waist and Oberyn’s knee is in between his legs and Oberyn’s so, so close and yet so, so far. His cheeks are already flushed when Oberyn leans in and licks a hot stripe up the side of his neck, and he can barely suppress the broken moan that escapes him when Oberyn bites down and starts sucking.
You little whore, Oberyn says wickedly, his lips not even an inch away from Jaime’s ear. You came here because you wanted to be fucked, didn’t you?
Another shameful whimper slips through Jaime’s teeth. Oberyn can see the shape of his bulge straining through his pants, can see the flush spread all over his pretty neck and collarbones, can see the tears that threaten to fall from his eyes when he shifts his leg ever so slightly. Jaime’s body burns hot with arousal, and Oberyn relishes the keening sound he makes when he finally, finally pulls down Jaime’s pants to free his erection.
It doesn't take much—doesn't take long—to have Jaime completely on the edge of breaking: bent over against the coffee table, whole body flushed, and wrists pinned onto his back.
Oberyn knows how to tease—how to apply just enough pressure to Jaime’s cock to give him some semblance of pleasure, and how to take it away just as quickly—over and over again until Jaime is nothing more than a blubbering mess under him. He makes Jaime do things he would never do in any other situation: Jaime sucks on Oberyn’s fingers obediently, says please and thank you with such desperation that it's almost pathetic, and whines at every loss of contact so much that Oberyn has to slap him across the face every once in a while.
Jaime, for his part, takes Oberyn very well. It's clear that he’s not used to bottoming for anyone—much less another man—but he’s so wonderfully eager and aroused and desperate that it’s not long before he’s stretched out well enough to accommodate Oberyn’s own throbbing erection.
Oberyn doesn't indulge Jaime just yet, though. He hasn't quite earned it.
He leans over, three fingers buried knuckle-deep in Jaime’s spit-slicked ass, and begins to talk.
You pathetic little slut, Oberyn says with a cruel sneer—imagining Jaime on top of his beloved Cersei, imagining Cersei whining for him the way she whines for Oberyn—and curls his fingers slightly. You filthy whore. You couldn't be content with just one of us, were you? He’s angry and he’s frustrated and he can't think of any sweeter punishment than to truly bring Jaime Lannister to his knees. What would our lovely Cersei think of you now? Begging and whining and crying for my cock like a useless little bitch.
Jaime opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, but Oberyn plunges his fingers deeper into his ass and all of his words melt into incoherent babbles and moans that earn him nothing but another harsh slap to the face.
Oberyn pulls him up by the hair and bites his nape sharply. Don't be such a fucking brat, he says coldly against the burning skin. You’ll only make this harder for yourself, dear Jaime.
There's no reply from Jaime, whose tear-streaked face is red and swollen, but Oberyn drops him back onto the table and pulls his fingers out of his asshole. The two are quiet—tensely so—as Oberyn lines his cock up against Jaime’s throbbing hole.
You’re such a pretty little cockslut, aren't you? he breathes as he rocks forward and elicits a pained groan from Jaime. Taking all of me like that so well.
Jaime whines softly at the sudden praise, but doesn't dare move for fear of being hit again. He bites his lip hard—enough to draw blood—and grips the edge of the coffee table so fiercely his knuckles turn stark white against his flushed skin.
The door opens. Oberyn hears it, but Jaime doesn't. Not over the sound of his own whimpers, at least.
Cersei walks in, hears the sounds of skin slapping, smells the sex in the air, and stops dead in her tracks.
What are you doing? she asks, in a small voice that tries so desperately to be cool and calm but betrays her true feelings anyway. Oberyn?
Oberyn pulls Jaime up by his hair and shows Cersei just what he’s been doing. The look on her face when she takes in Jaime—Jaime with his tear-streaked face and half-lidded eyes, Jaime with his lips cut from how hard he’s biting it, Jaime with Oberyn’s handprints littered over his body all red and raw—is utterly priceless.
Welcome home, darling, he says, voice dripping with sickly sweet venom and heady lust. He stares at Cersei, holds her gaze shamelessly as he licks a tear off Jaime’s face. Jaime’s so pretty like this, isn't he? All needy and desperate like the little slut he is.
As if on cue, Jaime moans—a low, broken sound that makes a light blush colour Cersei’s cheeks and a wave of arousal travel down to Oberyn’s cock. His hips jerk sharply against Jaime’s ass, eliciting a higher-pitched, wounded cry that just barely escapes through his raw lips.
Tell her, sweet Jaime, Oberyn hisses in Jaime’s ear, loud enough for Cersei to hear. Tell her how much you love my cock.
Jaime is unable to do anything but babble incoherently, a slurred stream of yes and please and more that makes Oberyn growl animalistically and thrust just a bit harder.
She doesn't fuck you like this, does she? he continues, tone unforgiving and cruel. His hips halt their movements just long enough to make Jaime start sobbing. Our lovely Cersei. His eyes travel over to Cersei, whose expression morphs into one of confusion and anger and jealousy and arousal. She doesn't know how much you love to beg, how desperate you get when there’s a dick up your ass and a hand around your pretty cock.
Cersei steps forward tentatively. What are you saying? she says, voice wavering just a little. You’ve been fucking Jaime?
Oberyn scoffs, rolling his eyes. Like you're one to talk, Cersei dearest, he says. He thrusts harder into Jaime, who gasps and clenches down on his cock. I'm not the only one who's fucked pretty little Jaime.
Her gaze hardens and she opens her mouth as if to say something, but Jaime chokes out a broken moan and pushes his hips onto Oberyn’s and comes onto his own stomach—a hard, intense high that has his whole body shaking and his eyes rolling into the back of his head and the tears streaming down his face—and suddenly Cersei can't speak. She’s clearly never seen Jaime like this, fucked so dumb he can't even remember how to speak.
Oberyn thrusts even harder into Jaime to chase his own high, ignoring the pained sobs and pleas of the already-overstimulated boy. He bites down onto Jaime’s shoulder and holds Cersei’s gaze as he comes—right into Jaime’s perfect asshole.
Such a good little slut, he purrs, pulling Jaime off his cock and wiping the sweat and tears off his face and laying him on the couch. You did so well for me, didn't you? Gave your sister quite the show, too.
Cersei crosses her arms over her chest and stares at Oberyn, her eyes full of fire and lust and something else that he’s never seen before. What’s all this for? she asks coldly. Fucking Jaime in front of me?
Come now, dear Cersei, Oberyn retorts without flinching. You didn't think I would let you be the only one to have a taste of your delectable brother, did you? When her eyes flare with anger at his words, he goes on. I heard you two having sex here. In our own apartment.
You were fucking him too, she says—harshly and truthfully. Don't act like you're better than I am. She steps closer. Now, why don't you tell me what the fuck your problem is?
Does he fuck you better than I do? he asks, no emotion in his voice.
She pauses, tilts her head. As if she's considering the question. He moves Jaime’s leg over, sits on the couch in silence.
Do you like fucking him more than me? she asks, equally emotionless.
Oberyn shrugs. I don't choose sides when it comes to love. He picks up a packet of cigarettes from the table and lights himself one. Or sex.
Cersei steps closer again, lifts her shirt above her head. Good, she says. Now, how about you make me come like that, and we'll call it even?
He sets the cigarette down on the table, walks towards Cersei, and kisses her on the mouth. She tastes of cigarettes and sex and something else he can't quite place.
Sounds good to me, he mutters against her lips. The taste is still there: something familiar and sweet and addicting. What about Jaime?
He’s had his fun, she whines. It's my turn.
Oberyn laughs, but he's a damn fool still hopelessly in love with Cersei and he can't resist when she asks nicely, so he carries her to the bed and gives her exactly what she wants. It's only later—when Jaime’s woken up and joined them as a spectator and Cersei’s come in Oberyn’s mouth more times than he can count and Jaime’s kissed them both even more than that—that he realises what the taste was.
Love. He’d have to be a fool not to recognise it. How could he not? He’d tasted it on his own tongue so many times before.