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Fighting and fucking, pain and pleasure, they are forever intertwined between them, within themselves. She still recalls the first time she had touched herself, seventeen years old and fresh from the training yards, a furtive rubbing at the pulsing need between her legs, the way her gasp had echoed through the empty armoury, the clang of her morningstar against the marble floor, loud and accusatory, though it had not stopped her, had not stilled her hand as she chased this strange, exquisite pleasure so wholly unfamiliar. Jaime, he tells her, was much the same; oh, it was different, with Cersei, and the words of the other squires, with his time in King’s Landing exposing him to much. But it felt the same, this elation of the physical, and so it did not matter that he found it in his own sister’s cunt while she had only thoughts of a dark-haired boy she’d met only once and had never really known.
It is so much worse now, so much better; they know each other so well, can match each other strike for strike on the field and off—a friendly morning spar often ends with her pressed against the wall, her legs around his waist as he grinds, or her teeth against his shoulder, marks lingering long after they had redressed. Some of their nights together lead to a knife at his throat or her hands bound with rope, the air thick with threat and pain and trust, trust that the other knows the fine balance where pain heightens pleasure, where they revel in what their bodies can take. He is beautiful in his ecstasy when she presses his throat with the web between thumb and finger, his head tilted back as he sips for breath, tendons straining; she thinks she must not be half so pretty when he returns the favour, lost in the intensity of her climax, but he holds her close after, peppers kisses against her hair until she is fully herself again, and feels no shame in it.
It is a game, always a game, to find the very limits, to brush against them, here and no further, to take delight in the blade-edge balance, finer than even Valyrian steel, but no game is as fine as this one; the thin weight of a willow switch in her palm, Jaime on the bed, arms against the pillows as he leans on his knees, the light from their hearth casting shadows over his skin, golden brown and warm beneath her fingertips. She presses a kiss at the base of his spine, smiles when even that touch causes his hips to shift, for a groan to emanate from deep in his chest. She flicks the switch against her own hand, testing its sting, sweetly sharp, and she sets to work. The first crack echoes through the otherwise quiet room, and the second is louder.
“Brienne,” he groans, hand flexing against the down pillow. She pauses, touches his shoulder blade with the full span of her palm, waits; for him to catch his breath, to say more or stop, and after a moment he nods and she does it again; a little softer this time, testing, and he grunts. “Harder.”
She does, again and again, each strike just unexpected enough that he jerks and grunts, pleased. Softer. Harder. Twice in rapid succession, then waiting unbearably long for the third, watching the sweat break out on his skin, judging how much more he can take before the pleasure is lost.
Eventually his whole body is heaving as he breathes, the criss-cross of red welts a pattern against his skin, down his arse and across his thighs, and every new flick makes him moan, wanton, makes him thrust his hips though he will get no relief for his aching cock in this position. She lays the switch aside, kneels between his parted calves.
“You’re so good like this,” she says; the words fit unnaturally in her mouth, even now, but it is enough for him, and he moans again as she reaches forward, glides her hand into his hair, fists it between her fingers and tugs him gently upwards, so he leans against her chest. She buries her lips against the crook of his shoulder, still murmuring praises of how beautiful he is like this, how sweet for her when he whimpers, and wraps one arm around him to hold him steady as she strokes his cock; it’s hot beneath her hand, hot and hard and desperate, the fluid at its tip glinting in the firelight, his lip caught between his teeth as he tries to hold back. She moves her free hand down, stroking his shaft, his balls, pressing the spot just behind them that delays his pleasure, draws it out until he writhes, skin against skin, sweet pleading sounds rumbling through his chest, echoing in her, and then she bites the mound of his shoulder; he shouts, jerks as he comes over her hand, his belly, curling in on himself in the intensity.
She murmurs more words, lovely and strong and Jaime, holds him close until he is ready to move. Once he is cleaned—once they are both cleaned, because her own arousal coats her thighs, just from hearing him, seeing him so lost in the physical —they lie together upon the bed, and she runs her hands over him, gentle explorations that loosen his limbs and slow his breathing. He shivers when she reaches the welts, his lips parting and his eyes so pleased in their hazy expression, and it is everything; pleasure and pain and tenderness, echoes of their love, hard-fought and hard-won, and she knows that he will carry them with him well into the morn.