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Having dinner with his father was certain to drive Jaime to reckless behavior. An hour or more of being subjected to Tywin Lannister’s cold, censorious assessment in an establishment of impeccable taste and refinement always sent Jaime itching to wipe his mouth on the tablecloth or eat his peas with his knife.
He never did anything of the sort, of course, just sat there fuming, toying with his wine glass or his dessert fork until his father admonished him for fidgeting, the overpriced meal slowly turning to lead in Jaime’s stomach.
Once upon a time Jaime would have gone from one of these obligatory dinners straight to his twin’s apartment, and burned up his humiliation and anger at his own weakness between Cersei’s thighs or in her sweet mouth. When marriage had made Cersei ill-disposed to his unannounced visits, Jaime had turned to clubs, flirtations which he’d never allowed to go anywhere, and drugs. When he’d discovered the reason Cersei hadn’t liked him coming around any more – less to do with her husband, more with how carefully she’d timed visits from her various lovers – for a while Jaime’s life had been all work and drugs, of various kinds and degrees of effectiveness.
Jaime had managed to pull himself back from the brink just in time. Then there had been nothing much for him except work and food and sleep. He had lived his life wrapped in cotton wool.
Upon first meeting her, he had not anticipated that Brienne, of all people, might unwrap the muffling layers, reach in, and touch him. But she did. She did.
Brienne was in the kitchen when Jaime came in, barely resisting the urge to slam the door and fling his keys on the hardwood floor as hard as he could. She was in her pajamas, drinking a glass of water, as though the world were normal and innocent and good, not populated by wretches like Jaime, who had fucked their own sisters for years and still trembled before their fathers.
Brienne turned at the floorboards’ creak, her gaze incredible, impossible, clear blue on Jaime’s face. She knew better than to ask how it had been. She had met Tywin Lannister twice. Neither encounter had left either her or Jaime with warm and fuzzy feelings. Brienne could see that Jaime was in a cold fury, and so she waited, her arms crossed over her chest, leaning the small of her back against the counter. Waited for him to speak or act, give her a sign of what he wanted. What he needed.
Jaime didn’t trust himself to speak, though he knew what he wanted. He’d been thinking about it off and on starting with the salad course and ending with the espresso he’d choked down at the conclusion of the meal. At one point Tywin had asked him why he had that ridiculous smirk on his face, and Jaime had nearly confessed he was thinking about how quickly he could get back to his girlfriend, his lover, the tall ugly woman with the astonishing eyes Tywin never referred to by name but only as ‘that woman,’ so she could strip him, Jaime, naked, and spread his legs, and shove a well-lubed strap-on up his ass.
Imagining the look on Tywin’s face had caused Jaime to nearly choke on a mouthful of fish. His father’s monologue had become a litany of Jaime’s shortcomings after that, and even Jaime’s most persistent daydreams had lost some of their remembered savor.
Jaime strode up to Brienne, giving her just enough time to uncross her arms before he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and kissed her.
Not a ‘hello’ kiss, not an ‘I missed you’ kiss. A hungry, wet, open, wanting kiss. Brienne hesitated for only half a second before she correctly identified the flavor of the kiss, opened her mouth, and leaned into it, folding her arms around Jaime, drawing him close, her open palm pressed against the small of his back spreading warmth through him. Jaime pushed her back against the counter in his haste. She moaned when the sharp edge dug into her back and she felt Jaime already hard, desperate for her.
He briefly considered pulling down Brienne’s pajama pants and fucking her right then and there, knowing she’d let him, she wouldn’t begrudge him that brief selfishness. Trusting that Jaime would take her to bed after he’d expelled some of his anger against his father (the world, himself), and lick and caress and suck on her till she pulled his hair and moaned his name in a way which always made him want to say ‘love’ and ‘grateful’ and ‘Brienne.’
Jaime tore his mouth from hers before the urge to rip off her pants and press her against the counter, despite how painful it would be for her lower back, got the better of him. “Brienne,” he murmured, already breathless. “I need it.”
She blinked, eyes moist and kind and questioning. Then her lips shaped a soundless ‘oh.’ Jaime was not prone to euphemism, and if he used it now, he was desperate to forget himself for a little while.
Brienne pressed her lips together. For a moment Jaime was certain she would argue with him, but she nodded, seeing something in the tautness around his eyes, the set of his mouth, which told her how badly he needed this.
The first time she’d taken him like that had been after an argument about his recreational drug use. Jaime sometimes thought of the strap-on Brienne wielded as a tubular plastic drug he indulged in only occasionally. It was certainly addictive, and Brienne had demonstrated quite a talent for topping him, when the mood struck.
Jaime was not in a playful mood now. He was angry and filled with disgust at all the things he wanted to say to his father yet never quite mustered the courage. Had it not felt so incredibly fucking good, Jaime would have considered spreading for Brienne a self-inflicted punishment, a sort of penance.
It felt really fucking good, though.
He undressed and sat on their bed while Brienne took off her clothes and strapped on the purple toy in the bathroom, still too shy to do that in front of him. She no longer cowered or tried to hide it when she stepped out of the bathroom, though. Jaime could tell Brienne still felt vaguely ridiculous. Normally he might have teased her until she forgot to be self-conscious.
Jaime was also in no mood for a lot of teasing or foreplay. He looked Brienne over slowly, relishing the surge of something darker than mere desire as blood rushed up her chest, her long neck, to her face, while his eyes swept over her heating, freckly skin. He smirked at her, half a challenge and half a reassurance, and stood and climbed up onto their bed, positioned himself on his hands and knees, his back to her.
Brienne’s voice was hesitant, the first snowflake of winter falling. “Jaime…”
“Brienne.” Jaime bowed his head, curved his long back like an arch, offering himself to her. “I need you.”
Brienne exhaled loudly behind him.
She would never admit it, but Jaime could hear her swallow and begin to breathe heavily, fancied he could almost hear her blood course more quickly, the sweat begin to roll down her armpits at the sight of him like this, all long and lean and tight, in complete trust and surrender. It drove him insane when Brienne let him take her like this, he always had to stop himself from going quite as hard as he wanted, seeing her kneel for him. Jaime experienced the black-blooded thrill of the certain knowledge that, for all her gentleness, her tender care, her consideration, in Brienne’s lizard brain right now a voice was screaming at her to take him and fuck him till he whimpered.
He smiled a small, private, triumphant smile to feel Brienne’s hands tremble when she touched him, caressed his hips and sides, almost patting him for reassurance, while the bed dipped behind him where she knelt. Jaime spread his knees wider, put his weight on the balls of his hands, and waited, breathing through his nose, making himself relax, thighs first, then hips, pelvis, stomach. Deep breaths. He was still mostly hard from his anger and their kisses in the kitchen, and grew harder still when Brienne used her fingers to open him and lube him up.
Jaime let his mouth fall open and sighed as he started to move, back and forth, just a little, in slow rhythm with her fingers, keeping himself poised and ready yet relaxed. They had danced to this tune before.
Brienne took her time, pulling herself back from that edge past which everything was savage, heedless want. Reckless. She would be reckless like Jaime wanted, but never to the point of causing him actual harm. Not just to his body. Jaime never would have been able to relax, not truly, no matter how much he wanted this, had his trust in Brienne not transcended everything else in his life, every other attachment, every past sordidness. Even more than the fact that she had stolen into his heart and mind before he had even noticed, her trusting him and he her had made the two of them possible, in spite of his occasional cruelty, her initial and enduring insecurities.
Brienne withdrew her fingers and wrapped her arm around Jaime’s waist, pulling him closer. He felt the strap-on pressing into him, not yet demanding to be let in, just there, letting him experience that first instinctual jolt of panic and let it pass. Brienne stroked his cock with her free hand, sure as he had taught her, as she had learned with him. Jaime squirmed a little, rubbing himself on the fake cock, thrusting into Brienne’s hand. He was good and ready, and well past impatient.
“How?” Brienne’s voice wavered and nearly broke, she couldn’t have managed more than that one small word. Jaime’s mood had infected her as well. She could barely wait for him to grant her permission.
“Hard.” Jaime’s voice was as clipped and breathless as Brienne’s, why the hell did people ever need to speak at all? His fingers shook like an old man’s when he touched Brienne’s hand on his waist. “Hard. I want you to.”
Brienne stroked his cock some more, rubbing her thumb on the drooling tip, a yes, a thank you, an expression of mutual want. She grasped Jaime’s hips and angled his body slightly, pleasure at her strength and gentleness shooting through him. Then she was pushing, pushing, and Jaime’s body seized up without his permission, tried to close itself. He gritted his teeth as he commanded his muscles to relax, and after a few long, burning seconds they did.
Despite Jaime’s express wish, his command, Brienne eased them into it, gradual and slow, until her thighs were flush with Jaime’s. He made his grip on the sheets relax and wriggled against Brienne, for he did not trust himself to speak.
Brienne got the message and shifted her hands on Jaime’s hips just a little, so she could grip rather than hold and support. Her breath escaped her in a short, sharp sigh, a grunt almost, on her first stroke. On the second, Brienne was already panting, her thighs making wet, smacking noises on Jaime’s sweat-slicked skin.
Jaime kept his eyes closed and tried to take deep, steady breaths, though he knew it was pointless. This was a scramble, a mad dash, neither of them was going to last long. Jaime knew the words, the proper medical jargon which explained what he was feeling. That did not help him grapple with or understand how he felt so stretched and filled and whole, how Brienne’s body careered into his, making him shake and rock back and forth while she drove into him, how she narrowed down his world to breath-robbing pleasure and bright light in the dimness behind his eyelids. Jaime didn’t need to understand it, even though just enough of his usual, sarcastic, conscious self was present to consider that men who never let their women take them like this were blind, rutting fools.
He was Brienne’s, he belonged to her, and she took him and rode him like his sole function in life was to make her feel powerful and joyous. Her big hands slid a little on Jaime’s sweaty hips as she pulled him back, into her thrusts, and pounded him, really pounded him, so he thrummed and almost ached and stretched, stretched for her, so the slap of Brienne’s thighs on his buttocks filled the room.
Brienne leaned forward, a seismic shift inside Jaime, her sweat dripping on his back, in his hair, and snaked one of her hands around to stroke him again. She was so heavy, Jaime had to bend lower, rest his elbows on the bed and his forehead on his balled fists. He was completely in Brienne’s power as she rested her torso on his back. Her hand on his cock was sure and merciless.
It was all too much for simple moaning. Jaime could scarcely breathe, Brienne’s nipples hard and sliding against his back, her grunts in his ear telling him how close she was. Jaime could barely move under her, but he bucked into her as much as he could, so she gasped and lifted off him a little. As his focus narrowed and narrowed to a single bright spot, Jaime saw, fleeting before his mind’s eye, Brienne’s face on the many, many occasions he had pushed her to that same place, driven and drawn her out, taken her and made her feel helpless, protected, wanted. No place else on earth.
Jaime couldn’t even say Brienne’s name when it ripped through him, wordless, breathless yet nearly screaming, certain he would not sit or walk or get hard ever again, and not caring a whit. He was still clenching, his arms collapsed under him and his face mashed into the mattress, when Brienne cried out, beyond words her own self, and grabbed Jaime’s shoulders, pulling him into her last, few, ragged thrusts. Jaime was terribly tender by then, but he let his thighs relax and fall open completely, let Brienne use his shoulders for leverage, because he knew she really wanted to grab his hair so his head snapped back and was holding herself in check even at this extreme moment. So he let Brienne thrust into him again and again and grind herself on the nub inside her, until she made a sound like a big kitten and folded down on top of him, boneless, watery, done.
Being pinned under Brienne made it difficult to breathe, but only for a moment, for she was pulling away, grabbing a fistful of sheets and dragging herself off Jaime. She flopped down next to him and lay in his blind spot, the heat coming off her warming Jaime all down his side, Brienne’s gasped breaths evening out slowly. Jaime closed his eyes and let himself float on a soft, milky expanse, adrenaline released, endorphins dancing and sparring in his bloodstream, most of the anger and frustration he had brought back from his outing draining out of him, through the tips of his fingers, his toes, his spent cock, gone.
“Your father is an asshole.”
Jaime was certain he had fallen asleep and dreamt it, but a blink at the bedside clock told him no time at all had passed and Brienne had truly spoken. She had never expressed an opinion on his father before, letting Jaime rant and joke about Tywin to his heart’s delight, never venturing what she thought.
Jaime turned his head so he could see Brienne. She lay half on her side and half on her back, her long, muscular limbs relaxed and heavy with satiety. She was flushed from nipples to eyebrows, the strap-on jutting up at an angle, her blue eyes trained on the bedroom ceiling in idle abstraction, as though she were watching white clouds sailing by. She had spoken with utter calm and authority, no attempt to offer facile pity, no self-righteous anger on Jaime’s behalf.
Brienne’s eyes on him assailed Jaime with the rare, unconquerable conviction that he did not deserve this woman and never would, no matter what he did or how hard he tried. He suspected that the balance of what they each merited would never be squared, a fact as solid as their two bodies and the crowded air between them, the sense-memory of her inside him.
“I’m sorry,” Brienne said, though she did not sound sorry. Merely polite and level-headed and trying to be fair to the last. “I know it’s not my place to say. But he is.”
Jaime wanted to cup her cheek and caress her flushed, ugly, wonderful face. Kiss her and push her legs apart, slip his fingers inside her and make her cry out in pleasure. He did not move, just kept watching Brienne. She held and returned his look, steady and caring and unashamed.
“I know,” Jaime said finally. “And yes, he is.”
Velcro produced its distinctive ripping, bliss-wrecking noise as Brienne took off the belt with the strap-on. The mattress dipped as she drew closer to Jaime’s inert body. She touched his thighs and ass, her hand atremble. Barely daring to breathe, wondering if she’d overstepped a line after all.
Jaime was bone-tired, his muscles like sourdough, the wash of endorphins in his bloodstream the only thing keeping a stress headache at bay. His asshole was sore, and he was certain sitting would indeed be a chore tomorrow and maybe for a few days after that.
Brienne’s shoulder was close enough as she leaned over him that he hardly needed to move, so Jaime gave it a peck before turning his head away again and closing his eyes. He lifted his arm, the one he wasn’t feeling too lazy to stop lying on, so Brienne would know no boundaries had been violated between them. Brienne’s sigh of relief whipped past his shoulder as she molded herself to his back, a bulwark of flesh keeping him safe, and Jaime shifted a little so they were pressed together from heel to shoulder. Brienne’s arm slid under his, across his chest. She prodded his jaw gently with her fingertips, and he smiled and lifted his head just enough to let her put her hand under his cheek, a broad, bony, sinewy pillow. Jaime’s fingers encircled Brienne’s thick wrist, her pulse still cantering in his hand. What would I do without you? he wanted to say, didn’t say it. Might say it one day, if he ever suspected Brienne didn’t already know, she had forgotten, she needed to hear him speak the words. Brienne was warm and solid behind him, her breath in Jaime’s hair a soft and fragrant breeze, a reassurance, the steady ebb and flow of whatever was the opposite of alone.