ASoIaF kink meme

[redcandle17]

There seems to be interest in a kink meme so it's time for another one!

How it works1. Anonymously request a pairing/threesome/moresome(het, slash, and femslash are all welcome), plus a kink. Any and all kinks are welcome. One request per comment

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Prompt Filled (1/2)

[anonymous]

(It's not quite the prompt, for which I apologize to the OP, but there's Brienne and Jaime and sparring and sex. Hope that's all right.)

Knighthood has always been her dream, ever since she became aware that she neither could nor would take the place of the damsels in the songs. As a dream, it has always been out of her reach. Donning the white cloak of the Kingsguard, serving with the finest knights in the realm, and training with the Lord Commander himself used to be such a wild, mad, impossible idea that Brienne dared not even dream of it. Now, however, that this strange idea has come true, she is feeling oddly ashamed of herself: not because most of her fellow brothers are anything but honourable knights - not because she is guarding a mere boy, a pet monarch who prefers taming his kittens to taming his lords - no, it’s a different sort of dreams that are the cause of Brienne’s shame.

Every evening, when she retires with Ser Jaime to an empty courtyard or a grove in the woods for their sparring session, she tells herself that it will not happen again. And yet, later every night, when she has blown out her candle, she breaks her sacred vows in thought, if not in deed. While other maidens yearn for tender caresses and chaste, courtly kisses from their suitors, she has only the bites and bruises from Jaime’s tourney sword to sustain her.

Whenever she undresses, she sees them bloom in the firelight, in all the colours of the rainbow. The sight of livid purple and fading yellow makes her dizzy with want. Brienne cranes her head to see an angry red welt on her right shoulder, where Jaime managed to land a heavy blow before she disarmed him, and wishes that he had left the mark there. She feels his lips trailing down her throat, his beard scratching her skin, before his teeth sink into the joint of her neck.

As the embers in the hearth die and the bedside light has been extinguished, she slips between the sheets, slips a finger between her legs, finding herself slippery with desire. Brienne simply needs one palm on the aching spot on her left breast, two fingers between her thighs, to work herself into a frenzy. She wonders whether Jaime’s chest is also black and blue, imagines a bruise in the shape of her hand, from pressing him back into the covers, as she straddles him. Their hurts and scars tie them together, in secret ways: It would be only fair if they were secretly bound in the flesh as well.

Brienne tries not to think of her Kingsguard oath or of the bemused look Jaime would give her if he knew her mind - pitiful, if she is lucky, scornful, if she is not. Instead, she recalls the smiles he reserves for her in the training yard, razor-sharp and gleaming, the beads of sweat gathering on his upper lip when they spar, the firm grip of his left hand around a sword’s hilt.

His grip would be firm on her hip, too, urging her into a rhythm as practiced and smooth as that of strike and riposte, and even his strained grunts would sound the same. Brienne does not needs to go further in her waking dream. This is the moment when her left fingers tweak a sore nipple and her right hand goes still. The image behind her eyelids dissolves into the blissful blank of release, as white as the cloak she daily sullies.

Afterwards, she can sleep soundly, without Jaime following her into her slumbers as well. It is hard enough to look him in the eye as it is. Despite the guilt that makes her pray to the Maiden for virtue and the Mother for mercy and the Crone for guidance, Brienne is vaguely relieved that the white armour protects her. It allows her to enjoy this strange companionship as long as it lasts, and it keeps her from the possibility of Jaime noticing. If he regards her as his comrade in arms, she will be safe: better to ache for the touch of his hands and receive the smacks from his blade, than to be ridiculed and dismissed.