nolady | storm of swords!au - king's landing (for serkingslayer)

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jaime

storm of swords!au - king's landing (for serkingslayer)

In spite of her release from prison, Brienne cannot ignore the suspicion there are those who still think her responsible for Renly's death. If only she could plead with them, find a means of making them believe her sincere and true devotion - but to speak up now, inside King's Landing, would mean an accusal of treason against her for certain. For Joffrey is the king here, not Renly, and the Tyrells have secured their futures by serving him instead.

Brienne's loyalty is not so easily won, though she knows she must not speak her true feelings out loud, lest she wind up back in the dungeons from which she has only just been freed. She is well aware that Jaime had placed her there for her own safety, until the truth could be verified. Now, all she can do is what she has been trained to do: to serve, and to fight as a member of the Kingsguard - if not for her king, than for another.

She does not wish to be thought of as any less of a knight here, and it is for that reason she continues to practice, in the early morning hours down by the stables, where there is a clear space and a tree trunk marred by the strikes of her blade as she moves through the forms of her attack. She does not wear her armor now, a thin shirt and a pair of breeches clinging to her ungainly form. The opponent she fights is harmless enough.

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It is difficult, she supposes, to separate the harshnesses of her past with his presence here now, in her present. The days when she was a member of Renly's camp are not that distant in her memory, the favors and gifts all hiding the cruel truth of a game among men to see who would be the first to claim the prize of her maidenhead. But here is he, standing here, telling her that their association would be as much a tarnish on her reputation as she is convinced it would be for his.

She has seen more of him, she believes, than most people who provide fuel to the harshest of rumors have. The truth about what happened with the Mad King - and glimpses, here and there, into the man who earned himself the name Kingslayer. In turn, she does not believe she has been that forthcoming in response, and yet he stands before her and declares her loyal, true.

There are things she has not allowed herself to feel as a knight, weaknesses that would expose her under the eyes of her critics. She would never dream of swooning before a man, presenting herself to anyone in such a manner. The furrow between her brows deepens, and her lips part, but there is no response from him.

She has stood exposed before him once, though those were different circumstances than these, and yet her hands do not betray her by trembling as she lifts them to the hem of her shirt, slowly pulling it free of her trousers and then up over her head. She is no womanly figure to look upon - small breasts, muscular arms and broad shoulders. The shirt slips from her fingertips as she lets her arms fall to her sides, standing in front of him, unblinking.

Jaime isn't certain what she is thinking--she is not someone he can read easily. Her honor, her way of thinking...He knows how to get a rise out of her. That's easy, and trial and error. But just talking, having any idea what to say...

The sweep of her hands, the shirt that comes off, leaving her there before him, startles him into further silence. His eyes widen a little bit, and for all he stared in the baths, he is reluctant now. Not out of any....lack of appeal, but because he worries she still places him somewhere with those who taunt her, if perhaps the best of a bad bargain, or...

Well, as he realized. He does not understand her. But his gaze can't quite pull away. It roams over her, and womanly or not, her body shows her strength, her skill. It is a warrior's body. He takes a step toward her, then falters, uncertain of his own actions, her purpose. Does she want him to touch? Is she challenging him to look her down, to try it and lose his balls as well as his hand? Is it a request, an offer, a taunt, a challenge, a rebuke?

He does not want to misstep--to insult, frighten or disappoint.

He has never been a coward, however, and so, keeping his gaze on hers, light and curious, he asks, "What do you want?"

There is nothing in her stance to reveal her fear, no shrinking away or cowering in the corner or attempting to shield herself. The only hint of hesitancy is in her gaze, brief and fleeting and almost easy to miss if he is not paying close enough attention - and yet she knows that he is, cannot pretend that he is ignoring any one part over another. Jaime Lannister is a man who sees everything.

He takes a step towards her, and she does not yield any ground, lifting her chin slightly as if anticipating. In truth, she has not thought ahead. The first move had been impulsive; the second may be similarly thus.

He is too worldly not to truly understand what it is she means to imply, though perhaps he is in denial. Perhaps he is trying to avoid insult by pretending he does not know. It would be easy for him to make his excuses now, to leave her standing here with more than pride wounded. Should she give him that opportunity? Should she even make it an option?

He is close enough for her to reach for his hand, and she takes it into her own, slowly guiding it up until she can press his palm flatly against the subtle curve of a breast. She may be hard angles and tough skin in certain places, but here she is soft, fair and lightly freckled, her chest rising and falling a little quicker at the touch of his hand.

There are different forms of worldliness. Jaime has watched the games courtiers play since childhood, knows well, yes, the ways of men and women....but he's only ever touched one. Desiring gazes cast his way, he ignored. False as Cersei might be, Jaime loves and loves hard. That isn't something he can say, here and now, though, or admit to the turmoil in his head--the desire to reach out, to pull her close, and the lifetime of restraint, to stay pure in his own fashion.

But she moves, and he doesn't resist, his hand automatically curling to fit around her breast, stroke slowly over her skin, almost wonderingly. She's so soft, and that shocks him somehow, even though he could see it. But, still...this layer of softness, this roundness, is hard to imagine when you have seen her fight, skilled and unguarded and for some reason the vulnerability in the moment, in the touch, in her skin, catches him.

He moves closer, and his hand stays where she has placed it, for the most part, though his fingers drag over that soft skin, slip inward to tease a circle around, then returns to softly cradling, just his thumb stroking, circling her nipple, watching for it to harden, to know his touch pleases.

The breaths that she takes quicken slightly, a sharp intake through her nose and then a subtle hitch in her throat. She swallows down her nerves and realizes that somewhere along the way his hand has moved, shifted over her skin, fingers curving to touch more deliberately instead of the harsh mashing of his palm against her breast. She glances down as if captivated by the sight, but then her eyes lift slowly to his face, the angles of his handsome face.

She responds to that touch in more ways than one, her body drawing taut and trembling under the mere circling brush of fingertips, the nipple perking firm as gooseflesh rises on her arms.

His face is hovering in front of hers in the small space between their bodies, and she leans in, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on her face, close enough for the tip of her nose, broken many times over, to brush his. Still her eyes search his, wide and bright and wondering, and her fingers curl into fists at her sides before flexing outward, open.

The urge is there, to slide fingers through her hair, close the distance that way, kiss her properly, just to see what it's like, but the shift of his right arm, the memory of...why he can't makes him flinch a little internally, cursing his own clumsiness. But she's close enough now that he doesn't need to pull her closer, truly.

She leans and he meets her, tilts his head to let their noses pass, his lips find hers.

It's as achingly gentle as the fingers who still drift over her, wondering, light and easy, teasing touches, not so awkward at this touch as so many others, but still...a touch awkward, from nerves and confusion as well as trying to figure out how to touch her properly with his left hand.

It may not be awkward but it is how she feels, awkward and long-limbed and too ungainly for his tastes - or she perceives herself to be that way, at least. The touch of her mouth to his is as slight and unsure as the rest of it - in this arena, she does not quite know how to handle herself, but she understands the basics. She had once been considered a lady, and it had been hoped she would marry, and the knowledge of how to conduct one's self intimately with a man had been impressed on her.

She had never once imagined it would be Jaime's face before her, his hand touching her, his body pressed lightly to hers.

Slowly, she lifts her hands, one at a time, to cup that face, grasping as she deepens the kiss, instinct guiding her rather than any expertise.

Jaime's breath catches as she deepens the kiss, and, for a moment, he follows her lead, tasting her lightly, tongue teasing against hers. It's different than kissing Cersei, and he's fascinated by that, rather than disappointed. His hand slides slowly up from her breast, tracing over her collarbone, up over her shoulder until he can curl it around the back of her neck, let his fingertips rest against the edges of her short hair.

He's less certain about his other arm, but he shifts it around her--the arm itself works, after all, to pull her a bit closer, feel the press of her against him in new and interesting ways.

His body is strong against hers, hidden strength now. Half a corpse and half a god, she remembers, recalling the moment she had first thought him thus at Harrenhal. Underneath all of that he is still a man, and though she does not know what to do, her body somehow takes over where her mind fails. Her mouth softens, yields against his, losing more of its stiffness.

She feels the slide of his arm, skin against the subtle curve of her lower back, pulling her closer, and she finds all she can do is respond, her lips parting as his tongue sweeps between them, touches hers and pulls back. It is she who initiates as their mouths spar the way their swords do, clashing together and breaking apart.

It's tentative, in some ways, the way he kisses her, but when she adds the more familiar sparring edge, he relaxes somehow--as if this, at least, has established some normalcy in this new exercise. Sparring is something they do well.

He meets the challenge, his tongue warring with hers more skillfully than he can with a sword, currently. His arm tightens more, melding her body against his.

She's harder, tighter than he is used to, but the softness of her presses against him in ways that cause him to stir, begin to harden with interest in that way she presses and softens.

There are things that she has heard about, mostly in whispers, but she has a vague and uncertain concept of what happens when a man stirs to attention, for lack of a better term. Still, it takes her a moment or two of feeling that evidence against her to understand what it truly means, and rather than shy away or blush like an innocent maid, she steps into him, her lean lines somehow fitting to his broader frame.

"Ser Jaime," she murmurs, her already low voice lower still. Her heart gallops in her chest, thundering and unrelenting, as if it means to burst out of her. Her fingertips find the bottom of his shirt, coaxing, beckoning, but falling short of their ultimate intention.

"Just Jaime," he murmurs back, because there's no need for titles here and now and he wants to hear her say his name, properly. Intimately. His lips slid from hers to ghost along her jaw, tasting the salt on her skin and finding that, too, oddly arousing. She's warm from their work in the field, warm and real and he breathes in the scent of her as his fingers slide slowly over her skin, learning her shape, stroking in long, slow movements.

When she plays with the edge of his shirt, he moves to wrap his hand around hers and guide it underneath, pressing it against his skin before he goes back to touching her. He's still too thin from captivity. He knows this, but there's growing strength there, too.

She'd called him Kingslayer to his face, many times over and some besides, before that moment in the baths. There he had asked her to call him Jaime, just once before he'd lost consciousness. He asks her again now and there's a corresponding tightness in her chest as she swallows, nods, making the silent promise to herself as well as him.

"Jaime," she echoes, her fingers curving against the planes of his stomach. He is thinner now, but her hands are still exploratory, still longing, even if they temporarily still when his mouth descends to her jaw and she tips her head back, eyes slowly falling shut. Both of her hands slide up higher, beneath his shirt, over his chest, the fabric catching on the strong bones of her wrist and rising to expose more skin.

"Better." Her touch is so different than what he's known--she doesn't know him, but she's exploring, learning, and that is an entirely different sort of erotic. When she hits a particularly sensitive spot, he rewards her with a moan, lips parting against her skin, teeth nipping gently here and there as he runs his mouth over her neck.

He shifts a little bit, encouraging her further into the room, toward her bed. He's getting stronger, but she makes his knees weak with the way she responds, and he wants more than he can easily have standing here.

There are so many different sensations that she had previously been unaware of - the action of using teeth against skin, for example, instead of lips or trailing tongue. That gentle nip to her throat makes her shudder against him, the tiny pink buds of her nipples drawing into tighter peaks of arousal.

When he moves, she moves with them, not unlike the dance they do with swords, feet shifting across the floor. Her bed is mere feet away - the room is not meager by standards, though it is smaller than some, and it does not take them long to reach. She sits down slowly, her face almost a picture of determination as she reaches for the fastenings on his pants, undoing them slowly, deftly with her long fingers.

Jaime lets her go as she sits, his eyes dark with wanting, but also awed as he watches her undo his pants. His breathing is coming unsteadily, little shivers running over his skin. He reaches his hand to thread through her hair, fingers stroking the loose strands, tangling there, then releasing in slow, steady movements. The fingers are trembling a little, but he takes a breath to try and steady both them and his breathing itself.

It isn't easy.

He wants to say something, to check in, to make sure this--and it's impossible to deny what this is, at this point--is something she really wants with someone like him. He knows it's something she's avoided from others, knows she's had people try to win it simply to brag. He doesn't want to be that sort of a man. The shiver of anger, of betrayal, he's been feeling the last few weeks is also something he's trying hard to push away. It doesn't belong here, with them. No one else should be in this room right now, but somehow...he almost feels unclean, unworthy to be here, to be the one she chooses for this.

Guilt surging a little, his hand slides from her hair, catching her fingers and pausing them. "Brienne..."

She keeps her gaze downward, seemingly fixated on the work her hands are doing, but she finds herself distracted by the tangle of his fingers in her hair, the light movements of his fingers against her scalp. She resists the temptation to lean into the touch and merely hums quietly, a soft sound of approval, even as she pulls the fastenings loose one section at a time, exposing more skin.

Her brow furrows when he stills her hands, covering them with his one, and she finally glances up slowly, her expression confused. "What is it?" Fear slams into her like a barreling crash, and she curls her fingers against her palms, getting the sinking feeling that perhaps this has all been a terrible error in judgment on her part.

The look in her eyes cuts at him deeply, and Jaime falls to his knees at the edge of the bed, hand still holding hers until he's settled. Only then does he let go, hand reaching up to slip through her hair gently as his gaze meets her solemnly.

"Are you certain you want this? With...me?" A twist of his lips, the self loathing plain for a moment. "I am everything that you despise...not the man of honor you deserve..."

He wants her--his cock is aching in a way that is distracting, but he feels so very unworthy.

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storm of swords!au - king's landing (for serkingslayer)

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