What he says next is completely unintelligible and might not have even been uttered in the common tongue. Feeling her do that is one thing, seeing— He’s going to die. She’s going to kill him and he is going to die in this bed, and the Westerlanders that followed him northward are just going to have to figure out shit on their own.
The fingers of his lone hand fist in the furs as he relaxes into the pillows once more.
BRIENNE OF TARTH
Ah, the pride again. Pride and a desire to see just how unintelligible he can get when she moves her mouth to his cock, tentative but determined. She's heard men brag about this, like it was something they took and she likes the idea that it's something to give, instead. It feels less like something shameful and more like another piece of trust.
It's also quite foreign, and she wonders if any women enjoy it for its own sake rather than what she's found to be pleasing about touching Jaime: enjoying his reactions.
JAIME LANNISTER
Isn’t he supposed to be the prideful one? And yet here he is, moaning loudly in response to the feel of her lips around his cock without a single prideful thought dedicated to how desperate he must sound to whoever is unlucky enough to hear him through the walls. (Which they undoubtedly can. He isn’t quiet.)
Cersei didn’t enjoy doing this. He didn’t force her to, but she made a show of getting down on her knees and sucking him off when she wanted something of him that he was hesitant to agree to. A way of putting herself in a position she didn’t enjoy to get him to do something he didn’t enjoy doing. He was always weary of her perching at his feet, afraid of what she would ask of him this time, and he is deeply ashamed of how well her manipulations worked on him.
Brienne isn’t manipulating him. There are no clever machinations behind her actions and he’s certain she wouldn’t force herself to take him into her mouth if she hadn’t wanted to do it. She has to know he would never demand that she perform some sexual act that he enjoyed if she didn’t find some enjoyment of her own in it, right?
She isn’t skilled, but much like how very not beautiful she is, skill and lack of experience doesn’t matter. It matters that it’s her and that she’s the one doing this to him. Love tints everything from the way a person appears to the way their actions resonate, and what she’s doing to him right now is no exception.
BRIENNE OF TARTH
If she were skilled, he'd probably worry. But rather than paying him attention with any instruction other than her learn-by-doing touch and listen for happy sounds she's mostly exploring. She has a crude thought about it that makes her think she should add a few prayers to her nightly routine, but: very little has ever come to her naturally. Not beauty, or grace, or sociability. But skill, she knows, can be practiced.
Oh, Maiden—er, Mother? One of the Seven forgive her, choose amongst yourselves…
Her hands sweep over his belly and his thighs, and she uses one to help her out after she gags herself and splutters a little, though again—it's not something she feels much shame over because it's an action she can learn to do better.
Seven help her. Brienne sits back, letting her hand and eyes linger on him. She savors the sight, happy enough to see if he stops her from finishing him with her hand like last time. And just as happy if he doesn't, considering what a lovely show he's putting on for her.
JAIME LANNISTER
She sputters and Jaime nearly shouts from the pleasurable shock of sensation. What they’re doing is so... so juvenile in its innocence, in the simple exploration of it all, and it shouldn’t be this good.
But it is. It very much is, and Jaime peers up at her from beneath hooded, darkened eyes to take in the sight of her near him, hand still upon him, eyes locked on his—
Jaime would have let her finish him off with her hand if he weren’t suddenly overcome with the need to be joined with her. He surges up without warning, up on to his knees as he moves to plant one on either side of her and push her back onto the bed. The angle is awkward and this bed is not the giant one in his pavillion that they can sprawl out on in every which way, but he doesn’t care. Let their legs dangle. Let them be too close to the foot of the bed.
Claiming her lips, he kisses her hungrily as he reaches down between them to help guide himself into her.
BRIENNE OF TARTH
The shift catches her off guard, as she was anticipating only words. But her gasp of surprise is delighted and she moves with him and kisses him back eagerly. The awkwardness barely registers in her mind as they shift just enough to keep their oversized bodies on her bed meant for the smaller-statured northerners.
Luckily enough they're both plenty flexible and stronger than that. Brienne feeds off of his sudden urgency, sparking her own so that she's wrapping her legs about his hips while her arms encircle him. Her hips twist as he presses himself into her, and it's her turn to be loud again as a guttural sound drags from her throat, wordless and pleading. Unconsciously, her blunt nails scrape at his back, grasping without trying to hold.
JAIME LANNISTER
Jaime rests his weight on his knees and his maimed forearm, freeing his left hand to fondle her breast as he fucks her. Neither of them make it a silent affair, Jaime’s noises just as loud as her own, senseless and reckless with abandon.
It doesn’t take long for him to tip over the edge, teeth pressing into the spot where her neck meets her shoulder that he had been tonguing while mad with bliss.
BRIENNE OF TARTH
Within the structure of Westerosi society, Brienne has always been careful of just how much she is: too big, too unladylike, too loud, too everything. But Jaime has always drawn her out, brought her anger and her shame and her physicality to the surface. It's no different here, where he draws beastial sounds and ugly faces from her with his own body.
She doesn't follow him over, but she picks up where he starts to falter when he bites her, instinct making her rock against him as he finishes. It's good in a different way, satisfying somewhere else in her body, in her heart. She ceases when bonelessness takes him over, but doesn't move to shift him off of her. Instead, she floats in this space of recovery, holding him close until he comes to.
JAIME LANNISTER
Jaime shutters against her, mindless for a few minutes that feel like lengthy, languid years full of whitehot bliss to him. He has the presence of mind as he slowly comes back to himself, at least, to lightly tongue and kiss the mark he hadn’t meant to leave upon her skin. (A mark he knows she isn’t going to protest him leaving.)
He doesn’t roll off her, nor does he withdraw from her. Jaime raises himself up on his forearms, enough to see her face, and smiles at her. Lovingly.
BRIENNE OF TARTH
She can't help but smile back, a little shy, and brush his hair out of his face.
"All right?" She asks quietly, in a near-whisper as if there's someone else here she might disturb. As if they hadn't just been loudly fucking without abandon.
JAIME LANNISTER
“Very,” he answers, leaning forward to kiss the tip of her nose. “And you?”
He didn’t pull out. She told him before that she was fine with him finishing inside her whenever he pleased, but he wants to be sure it was okay. That she hadn’t minded. That she wasn’t just okay with him doing that, but that she wanted him to. For her. That she wasn’t just catering to his needs above her own.
BRIENNE OF TARTH
If he has any doubt remaining he need only pay attention to the way her legs are still wrapped around him.
"Yes." A breathless and immediate reply, accompanying her smile widening from the kiss and her head nodding eagerly. "I like—" she trails off, but for once she doesn't curse herself for being so poor with words. "I'm glad you stayed."
Such romance. So florid! Wow.
JAIME LANNISTER
It’s romantic enough and would charm the pants right off his soft, idiotic ass if he wasn’t already free of them. Her half formed words — I like — make him grin, as does her giving voice to him remaining when it had been clear before that she hadn’t intended on him staying with her tonight.
Jaime kisses her properly, softly and slowly, letting the moment drag out.
“I’m glad I stayed, too.”
BRIENNE OF TARTH
Maybe there's something to be said for a lack of poetic overdramatic declarations, then, when it comes to this thing between them. If Jaime asked for her hand, she'd have to turn it down. If Brienne told him out loud that she never wanted to be apart from him again, it would take wrong in her mouth when what she wants is action when inaction is so easy right now. In a story, they would run away together. Maybe to Tarth, maybe further.
But then they wouldn't be them.
Brienne kisses him back, languid and loose. She lets him lead the way and she relishes the ache in her hips the same way she does the bruises he'd left on her ribs, and the mark on her neck.
"Even if we hadn't…even if it was just staying." She likes being around him. It was hard, but she liked telling him about her troubles, too.
JAIME LANNISTER
“If we hadn’t had sex?”
It will never not amuse him that this woman, who pointblank asked him why he wasn’t defiling her can shy away from putting what they’re doing to words. To any sort of words. She’s a delightful contradiction.
He kisses her for it, a quick press to her lips.
“I would have been delighted to have just stayed. But this— having sex, that’s good, too.”
BRIENNE OF TARTH
She flushes a blotchy pink, sniffing her irritation instead of glaring at him. Difficult to glare when you're also suppressing a wry smile. Hard to be mad at a man still cradled between your thighs who presses sweet kisses to your mouth.
"Stop that," she chides him, and fails to keep the corners of her mouth down.
JAIME LANNISTER
“Stop what?” He asks in his best innocent voice. “Stop calling what we’re doing for what it is? ...well, actually no, saying that it’s just sex wouldn’t be accurate now, would it? Not now. Not knowing what we both now know. We’re not just having sex.”
Jaime brushes the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “It’s making love.”
BRIENNE OF TARTH
His words brush a little too close to something real and terrifying.
Instinct takes over at the barest hint of making a jape of her, and though she's far removed from it in years and in caring, Brienne scowls at him in earnest. She resists the urge to shove him off of her, though, resists responding in fear and anger as best she can. The scowl wavers as she does so, her whole face wavering against that bone-deep fear and the echoes of wounds inflicted by cruel men. Men who wanted to control and hurt her for sport.
She clamps her jaw down, too, so that she doesn't say something harsh. Her mouth feels suddenly dry and her throat too constricted to form words anyway.
JAIME LANNISTER
He is much too adept at reading her scowls. It’s like her own private language that only he and Pod seem to be fluent in. (And Bronn, to a degree, for some ungodly reason.)
Jaime frowns, combing back over his words in search of what he might have said wrong or blundered over. Perhaps he shouldn’t have feigned innocence, but nothing he said was said in jest, especially not at her expense. He is a wisecracking asshole, it’s true, but the days when he would make her the butt of his jokes are long gone.
“Brienne... If that’s not what you want to call it, we don’t have to.”
BRIENNE OF TARTH
She's holding her jaw so tightly still, shaking her head as if somehow it will communicate no it's all right or no don't pay attention to me or no please just go back to joking because it's easier when you're sharp.
She doesn't want him to think he's done something wrong, but she feels frozen. Motionless and unable to push forward, which is the exact opposite of the way Brienne does things. But by the Seven she doesn't want to hurt Jaime by accident anymore, not even to protect herself.
Her thumb sweeps back and forth against his shoulder blade, incongruous to the rest of her rigid body language and the way her face is crumpling. All of the irritation is gone, and she's no stranger to fear or the conquering of it but that's when she has various kinds of armor on. Here, she's bare to him in every way that matters.
"I'm sorry," she ekes out, scrunching her eyes shut like an infant who thinks shutting their eyes will hide them from the world too.
JAIME LANNISTER
“No,” he dismisses, shaking his head as he finally shifts, grunting as he slides out of her. He doesn’t move off her, though, remaining on his knees, hovering over her. “No. Don’t apologize. I may not know everything about what you’ve been through, but I do know that you’ve been through something,” or a series of somethings, “that’s affected the way that you view being with me. That it makes it a struggle for you in some way. I am not judging that, nor am I asking you to apologize for it.”
Jaime moves off her then, shifting to sit beside her in a crouched position. “I’m a patient man, Brienne. I don’t mind being patient and giving you time.”
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17 -- DONE
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