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1.
Brienne clamps her teeth down on her bottom lip, striving to keep another whimper from escaping her mouth. Jaime’s fingers continue to tease her clit, slick and swollen, then dip lower, exploring, to where she’s so wet she must be soaking through her underwear. Their parkas are abandoned in a heap on the floor; his other hand is shoved up her thermal shirt, thumb brushing her nipple to a peak, and his mouth is tracing a line from her ear to her jaw, the sensation sending shivers right down to her frozen toes. She lets her head fall further back, relishing the scrape of his beard against her cheek as he continues to stroke her, slow and insistent, the pressure increasing. She’s been wondering what that beard would feel like for weeks. He’d been clean-shaven upon arrival at Always Winter Base three months ago, but he’d quickly opted to grow it out. The men up here usually do. Brienne doesn’t usually notice. She’s still a little disgruntled to have discovered exactly how much she's been noticing it on him.
He’s pushing into her in earnest, now, two fingers crooked and curling, and there’s a strangled moan caught in her throat, trying to get out. Oh fuck, it feels good. It’s been so long since anyone has touched her, so long since she’d wanted to touch anyone. Now she’s got one hand on his perfect ass and the other at the back of his neck, gripping tight, and it’s still not enough. She’d like to strip him where they stand, put her hands all over his skin, leave some traces. A frantic little whine slips past her lips.
“Shh,” he whispers, his breath hot and damp on her ear, and he’s right: people come in and out of the hangar building all the time, they shouldn’t be doing this here, they shouldn’t be doing this at all, but oh gods, the blunt glory of his fingers, the way his knuckles feel moving in and out of her, the rough pad of his thumb ghosting over her clit: she doesn’t want to tell him to stop. She doesn’t think of herself as someone who’d let a man she didn’t even consider a friend until a few weeks ago finger-fuck her up against a wall, ten feet and a thin particleboard partition from where the mechanic is giving his copter a maintenance check.
Jaime shifts closer—he’s hard against her thigh, she can feel the heat of his cock through two separate layers of fleece-lined trousers—and adjusts the angle of his wrist so he can add a third finger, and then he starts to thrust faster, harder, urging her along with a nip to the earlobe. She’s grinding her hips in time with his hand, now, fucking herself on him, frantic and shameless. There’s molten fire surging through her, heating her from the inside, like she’s a volcano about to blow—and then he pinches her nipple, once, and that’s all it takes, and she buries her face in his collar and bites down hard to keep from screaming as she rides out the shattering orgasm.
Her chest is heaving, and for a moment she thinks they’ll be caught just from the harsh sound of her breathing—his, too. Brienne sags against the wall, letting her weight fall back on her heels, while Jaime extracts his hand from her pants, leaving a damp trail on her belly. She forces herself to lift her head, meet his eyes, but when she does, he’s glancing down at his shoulder, his pupils dark and wide.
“You left toothmarks,” he says, hushed like he’s observing some startling phenomenon of nature—and oh gods, he’s right, there’s a distinctive arc of indentations in the worn leather of his flight jacket where her mouth was just a moment ago. If she weren’t already so wrung out she might sink into the floor from embarrassment, except he keeps going, his voice a filthy, wonderstruck murmur: “Seven fucking hells, Tarth, that’s the hottest fucking thing, I’m going to think about it every time I put this fucking thing back on, holy fuck,” and she reaches for his zipper, dizzy with relief.
2.
Jaime eases off on the throttle, scanning the blinding-white horizon for the beacon that should be visible any moment now, if the GPS coordinates aren’t lying. The great expanse of the glacier stretches out beneath the cockpit windows: ice-blue crevasses, pristine snowfields, rolling swells and crests that look more like flash-frozen ocean waves than anything akin to land. For all that he’d griped about this posting at the start, he has to admit it’s one of the most beautiful sights he’s ever seen from the air. He hates the fucking weather up here, but oh, he loves the flying.
He glances over to his right—Brienne’s head is turned, looking out the side window, her headset blocking his view of her face. She’s been quiet since takeoff, intent on examining the terrain unfolding beneath them—unlike him, she presumably understands what she’s looking at. It’s just as well; the skies are clear today, but the weather can turn fast this far North, and he needs to be thinking about headwinds and pitch and airspeed, not about giant glaciologists with blue eyes and strong hands.
“There,” she says, suddenly, pointing with a long, slim finger—he tries not to dwell on the memory of her fist wrapped around his cock—at a pulsing red light on the horizon.
“Got it,” he tells her, and “Thanks,” and then he turns the full force of his concentration to the cyclic stick and the pedals and the instrument panel; he doesn’t speak again until he’s brought the bird down safely, skids settling onto the icy surface with a gentle shudder.
Jaime gives her a hand with the equipment—there are a lot of replacement parts to unload—then leaves her to her work. He runs through the postflight safety check before heading over to the station’s little half-domed shelter to get the heat going inside. It’s sheer luck he’s been paired with her for this trip: he’d checked the flight rota this morning and seen J. Lannister chalked up next to 15:00—NW-2 Instrument Station—B. Tarth, and when he’d looked up the flight distance and the expected duration on the ground and realized it would be an overnight stay, his trousers had suddenly felt a bit too tight.
Which is not to say he has expectations—he’s still not sure if what happened in the hangar last week was a one-off. The helo pilots don’t usually fraternize with the scientists after hours—like him, they’re all current or former Guard, and mostly prefer to stick to their own company or that of the base crew. Not to mention the fact that he and Tarth had irritated the fuck out of each other the first few times they’d been paired up. Ask him two months ago, and he’d have said he’d rather share a cockpit or a bed with Jon Snow, who’s twice as pretty and half as dour. Or so he'd thought at the time. But then she’d saved him from frostbite when he’d crash-landed in a blizzard a month and a half back—“if it hadn’t been for Dr. Tarth, you’d have probably lost half the fingers on that hand,” Medic Tarly had scolded him—and then he’d rescued her from the snow bear cornering her out on the ice sheet two weeks later, and somehow after all that it had been easier to talk to her. And then eight days ago, they’d done quite a bit more than talk. So: no expectations, but it’s fair to say he has some hopes.
Two hours after she finally joins him in the shelter for dinner, those hopes are realized. “I’m taking these off,” Jaime tells her, his voice a low growl, and Brienne flushes but she lets him peel her thermal tights and underwear down while she sprawls on the bedroll before him, and it feels like flying in low out of the clouds over the frozen coastline for the first time, seeing the glacier rolling down to the water’s edge: the impossible extent of it, the startled sense of wonder. There are fading bruises on her shins and the vivid bright rash of a scrape on her knee, and he marvels at all the colors that make up the endless landscape of her. But then he nudges her knees apart and sees her cunt wet and open for him, smells her, and he realizes she’s not like that pallid, uninhabitable scenery at all: she’s pink and red and alive, almost steaming in the cool air. His mouth waters, and he shoves his arms under her thighs and descends.
After a minute or two of gleefully tasting her, he has the bright idea to add his fingers—she’d sure seemed to like them last time around—and the startled yelp of pleasure she makes is gratifying indeed, until he realizes she’s muffling her mouth against her sleeve. Jaime stops, lifting his head.
“Don’t—I want to hear you this time,” he tells her, eager to coax that lovely low voice out of her throat again, make her beg, win her praise.
“Hush,” she whispers.
“There’s no one else for three hundred kilometers around,” he whispers back, still stroking her. “Why the fuck are we whispering?”
“Because I just repaired half a million dragons’ worth of seismic and acoustic listening devices sitting right outside this hut,” she hisses, squirming, and “they’re—oh, gods, yes, there—sensitive. Last year Connington was out here with an intern and it was clear from the readings what they spent the night doing.”
Jaime groans into the soft skin of her thigh. “All right,” he says. “But you’d better find something sturdy to bite down on, because I’m going to try and make you shout.”
He does.
3.
Brienne leans forward, resting her elbows on the metal shelf and letting her head drop low from her shoulders, anticipation building thick and heavy in the stuffy air of the closet while she listens to Jaime fumble open the condom wrapper behind her.
She remembers Margaery snickering about the bumper sticker on the fridge in the canteen—helicopter pilots get it up faster—but apparently it’s true. He’d come through the door four minutes after she’d brushed up next to him at the bar in the middle of her postdoc’s birthday celebration and slipped a condom in his pocket, whispering “Supply closet, third door on the left, in five minutes,” into his ear, astonished at her own boldness. They’d managed about thirty seconds of frantic kissing and groping before he’d steered her to face the shelves and reached around her waist to unbutton her fly. “Is this okay?” he’d murmured, and at her nod, he’d yanked her pants and underwear right down to her knees.
She waits, bare ass in the air, legs spread wide, wet and exposed, and it should feel ridiculous, but somehow instead it feels like the hottest moment of her life so far. It’s sheer madness, the effect he has on her—she’s never wanted anyone this badly, hadn’t been dissuaded even by the way her cheeks had flamed while she’d covertly checked the data readings to make sure they hadn’t left too obvious a record that night up at the instrument station. And then his hands are suddenly strong and hot on her hips as he indicates, urgently, that she needs to shift a little further back and up, and then his cock is pushing inside and a muffled groan is forced out of her by the perfect, heated stretch, the depth and angle and the way he’s filling her up completely.
“Oh fuck, Brienne. You feel so fucking good,” he hisses in her ear, leaning forward so he’s wrapped all around her, the weight and heat of him bearing down, his chest pressed to her back. It ought to be unsettling, being enveloped this way, surrounded and cornered, but it feels incredible.
“Should I go slow?” he asks, matching his motions to the words, pulling back until she’s almost empty and then pushing into her inch by agonizing inch.
“No,” she gasps, already past the point of caution. “No, we don’t have time, they’ll notice if we’re both gone for more than a few minutes.”
“I’m not going to last that long,” he says, and she’s glad she’s already bracing herself against something because her knees seem to turn to snowmelt at the hoarse growl in his voice. He’s gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks, and she hopes he does, hopes she’ll lie in bed tonight and feel the lingering imprint of his hands there. He fucks her hard and fast, gives her what she’s asked for, what she needs. She’s so close already.
He groans low in his chest when she releases a hand to reach between her legs. But it throws her balance off, holding on with just one arm, and the shelving begins to creak and rattle ominously with each thrust. If anyone walks past the door, they’re going to hear.
“Let me do that,” he says, and his hand slips down to cover her own. “You just hold on tight.”
She takes a moment to guide him, first—pressing his fingertips to the hood of her clit, showing him how she wants it, where to go. And then she reaches back up and holds on for dear life while he pounds into her, her cunt throbbing from the driving rhythm of his cock inside and the motion of his fingers, sparks catching and flaring until she goes up in flames, shuddering, a sound like a sob in her throat. He follows her almost instantly, and she feels the sweet sting of his teeth on her shoulder as he comes.
She whimpers as he pulls out, and winces as she pushes herself upright, feeling the burn in her muscles and the places where she’ll ache in the morning. He takes a moment to deal with the condom, and then his finger brushes the spot where he’d marked her with his teeth.
“Sorry,” he says, softly, tugging her shirt back up to cover it. “Got a little carried away there. I don’t think it will show, as long as you keep your collar buttoned.”
“That’s fine,” she tells him, turning around. “I don’t mind.”
She feels shaky as a newborn giraffe, her legs not quite obeying her mind’s commands, and she’s not quite sure how she’s going to put herself back together enough to return to Podrick’s party—but then Jaime pulls her close and kisses her, deep and messy and grateful, and she sighs into his mouth, her body steadying.
4.
Jaime takes a deep breath, marshaling his control, careful not to tighten his hand in her hair, or give into the urge to thrust. It’s overwhelming, the wet heat of Brienne’s mouth around him, the overlapping textures of tongue and cheek and ridged palate; the motion. Above all, it’s the sight of her like this—the unassuming power she still manages to project even when she’s kneeling before him, more devastating than any of the times he’s imagined it while fisting his cock in the shower. He moans, more loudly than he’d meant to, and the sound echoes around the tiled walls.
She pulls back. “Be quiet,” she orders him, and he almost moans again just from the firm tone of her voice.
“You’re making it hard,” he grates, speaking through his teeth.
“I’m going to stop every time you get loud,” she tells him, her face alit with mischief, and Jaime thinks this is going to be the end of him. Two decades of flying, one of those mostly in combat zones; his unbearable family; the fucking North with its hazardous conditions and instrument failures and murderous wildlife: he’s survived them all, and now his heart is going to explode in his chest while Brienne Tarth tortures him with her mouth in a single-stall unisex restroom. What a way to go.
She starts again, taking him a little deeper this time. He bites down on his tongue until he tastes blood, swearing under his breath, and he feels her smiling around his cock. Somehow, he manages to restrain himself while she sucks him, swirling her tongue around the head, her hand stroking up and down his shaft where it’s slick with saliva. But then she flicks her tongue along the slit and he gasps, and she pops off again, rocking back on her heels, waiting.
“Please,” he whispers, feeling absurdly exposed, red and aching and needy, right there in front of her impossibly blue eyes.
“Find something to bite down on,” she suggests in a whisper, and he glares at her, and then fumbles for his open belt where it’s strained taut around his thighs, held in place by the tension of his spread legs. He draws it out of the loops, slowly, and she flushes a little at the sight, so that he’s struck with a vision of using it to tie her up—or being tied up by her—and he almost forgets what he’s doing. Another time, he thinks. And another place.
He brings the folded belt to his mouth, wrinkling his nose at the taste, but when she leans forward and takes him in again, he’s stunned by the way it enhances everything she’s doing—it’s as if the makeshift gag has trapped some overflow of feeling in his body that would otherwise be escaping out his mouth, the effect concentrating and focusing every sensation. Brienne takes him deeper, gripping his ass with both hands and squeezing, and he bites down hard, almost choking on the leather, a desperate whining noise at the back of his throat.
He’s being so good and quiet for her, just like she told him to, and when she looks up and meets his eyes again, she gives him a little nod of approval—and that brings him so close to the edge that he spits the belt back into his hand and gasps, a hoarse and urgent warning, “I’m close, Brienne, if you don’t stop, I’m going to come.” But she just slips a hand between his legs and presses a finger right behind his balls and that’s it; everything whites out in a cloud as he empties himself in her mouth. His vision clears just in time for him to see the muscles of her long throat flexing as she swallows, and then he can’t make any sound at all.
5.
Brienne knows it’s silly, but she finds herself feeling unaccountably shy as she opens the door to the room to let Jaime slip inside. Despite all the things they’ve done with their bodies over the last month, it somehow feels more intimate for him to be settling down next to her on her narrow bed, leaning in for a tender kiss, like they’re awkward teenagers in a college dorm room. To be fair, this is a dorm room, with another single bed against the opposite wall—but Margaery’s away all night with her research team to conduct a census of seabird roosts along the coast, and the chance of some privacy and a place they could both lie down was too good to pass up.
So this is what I was missing in college, she thinks, jostling for space on the inadequate mattress while they make out. Although none of her make-out prospects in college would probably have been capable of anything as good as what Jaime is doing to her neck right now. Once he’s suckled marks into her skin that she’ll have to hide in the morning and she’s arching up into the palm he's cupped over the crotch of her leggings, he pulls back, drawing a deep breath, and says, “Condoms?”
“Bedside drawer,” she tells him, too dazed to think further, until he’s reaching over to tug it open and then halts and looks back at her, smirking. Oh no.
He reaches in and pulls out something that’s definitely not a condom, and she groans.
“You brought this?” he teases her, but he looks as eager as a puppy, and she rolls her eyes at him, unwilling to acknowledge the blush that must be spreading down her chest.
“It helps me get to sleep,” she mutters, refusing to look at the small blue vibrator in his hand.
“I could help you out with that, too,” he says, grinning.
“I wasn’t expecting you when I packed,” she tells him, and she hears it, that note of fondness in her voice, and more than anything else that makes her add, “And I don’t get to see you every night.”
He chuckles, switching the toy on, and Brienne snatches it back from him, hissing: “It’s too loud.” She thumbs the button and the buzzing stops.
Jaime leans back, propping himself up on an elbow. “Margaery must be a heavy sleeper.”
“I wait until she’s in the shower,” she mutters, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Well,” he says, “she’s not here now.”
“Someone might still be awake next door,” she replies, even though it’s past midnight. He’d waited to sneak up the stairwell from the hall where the pilots are quartered until everyone else had turned in.
Jaime makes an exaggerated pout; she can tell he’s play-acting, and that if she tells him to put it away, that she’s uncomfortable with this escalation, he will.
“You brought this all the way up here, and you’re not going to let me join the fun just because the walls are thin?” he wheedles, snatching it back and waggling it in front of her nose, and she cracks up.
“All right.” She rolls her eyes again, still blushing. “Under the covers,” she tells him. The heavy duvet is sufficient to muffle the sound enough that it won’t penetrate the walls.
He strips off quickly, and she follows suit, feeling a little shy again—it’s the first time they’ve been completely naked together. Being fully unclothed is a luxury here, one she usually restricts to a hot shower. When she slips under the duvet with him, he pulls it over their heads, like they’re kids in a pillow fort, and she can’t help giggling again. But there’s nothing childish about the intent look she catches on his face when he reaches for her hand and places the toy in her palm, switching it back on.
“I’ve never tried one of these before,” he says. “So you’ll have to show me. Use it on me first.”
Her breath catches in her chest, but he’s still smiling, and gives her a little nod: go ahead. So she does—she flicks the button until it hits a low, rumbly setting, and he stretches out on his back and she explores him—touching the tip to his nipples, one after another, watching the cords in his neck spring into relief in response. Then down alongside his flank—he’s more ticklish than she’s realized—until she can brush it up and down his hardening cock, tracing the frenulum—that makes him gasp—and holding it against the base of his shaft so the vibration reaches his balls, too. The arm he’s using to prop the duvet up above them is trembling, now, and his breath is coming in little pants, and Brienne thinks she could do this all night, except he exhales in a loud rush and says, “Okay, your turn.”
They switch places, and she stretches out beneath him and watches as he copies her approach—fuck, she’s never tried the thing on her own nipples before, and that was clearly an oversight—until she’s squirming against the sheets, whining softly, and he finally, finally presses it to her clit and she cries out, holding the pillow to her face.
“Too much?” he asks, softly, withdrawing.
She nods, breathless. “A little,” she tells him, “but if you move”—she reaches to show him, how to glide it back and forth so the contact isn’t overwhelming—“that’s good. Oh. Yes.”
He’s careful after that, and diligent, teasing her gently, until she’s had enough and starts moving herself, rubbing up against the vibrator, getting closer now, and he leans in and whispers, “Can I put it in you?”
“Yes,” she gasps, and then he’s sliding it in and out at a steady pace, and he leans over to kiss her, his tongue moving against hers while the toy pulses in her cunt, and his other hand steals up to her breasts and thumbs her nipples and she arches up off the bed, desperate, and comes so hard she thinks her bones are going to shake apart.
“Fuck,” she says, when the aftershocks have finally ebbed, and Jaime grins at her, setting the toy back on the table. She’ll worry about cleaning it off later.
“Is that a review, or a recommendation?” he asks, and when she laughs, he leans in to kiss her again, tender, stroking a finger along her hairline.
“Both,” she tells him, and he smiles.
When she wakes, nestled against his warm back, she’s astonished to realize they’ve slept the whole night through—apparently three or four orgasms are sufficiently sedating to overcome even the cramped quarters. She stretches, slowly, and almost falls out, grabbing Jaime’s arm for purchase, which wakes him too.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, cuddling against him, and he hums a sleepy, pleased mmmm. Then her brain switches on.
“Oh, shit.”
“What is it?” he asks, sitting up and scrubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“It’s 7:30,” she whispers. They’ve overslept; she must have forgotten to set the alarm. At this hour, there’s no way he’ll make it back to his room without being seen.
Brienne bites her lip. “I can get dressed and check the corridor,” she says, “and give you the all clear once everyone’s headed to breakfast.” She glances at his face, uncertain.
Jaime’s hair is sticking up in every direction at once, and there are pillow creases on his cheek. He’s smiling at her, sheepish, and her heart thumps erratically in her chest at the sight.
“Or we could just announce that we’re dating,” he says.
“Are we? Dating?” Something funny seems to have happened to her breath. They’ve been fucking in secret for a month. They’ve shared a bed for one night, skin to skin. She’s not sure what that means. She’s not sure what she wants, except more: more of this, more of him.
“I hope so,” he tells her. “If it’s any additional incentive to make it official, I don’t have a roommate. If you’re willing to be seen setting foot in the pilots’ wing, we could push the two beds together. Have plenty of space.”
She swats him. “I’m not dating you for the real estate,” she says.
He grins, eyes alight, the lines at their corners creasing. “So we are, then. Dating.”
“If you like,” she says, softly, shy all over again, feeling as if her lungs can’t quite collect enough air.
Jaime reaches for her hand, strokes his thumb across the back of it, meeting her eyes. His own are dancing with merriment, but beneath it, she glimpses something tender.
“In that case, Dr. Tarth—won't you please be my girlfriend?”
+1
“We could go back to your room,” Brienne gasps, as Jaime slips his hands under her shirt, pressing her against the wall of the storage room next to the main lab.
“Our room,” he insists, nipping at the most sensitive part of her neck, and it makes her feel warm to hear the words in his mouth, even as a shiver goes racing through her limbs.
“Okay, our room. It’s a very nice room, Jaime, there are beds, remember, and it’s only one building over.” Although the prospect of going outdoors even for a moment is daunting, given the windchill this afternoon.
Jaime unbuttons her fly and starts tugging the zipper down and she arches towards him, drawn on a string, unstoppable.
“Or we could just keep going right here,” he murmurs. “For old times' sake.”
“People are working in the next room,” she pants, as his fingers find what they’re seeking, and she lets out a low moan. “What if they hear?”
“I don’t care, Brienne, you’ve already ruined me. I get hard every time I’m in an enclosed space with insufficient soundproofing.”
“Then shut up,” she hisses, widening her stance so he can reach everything she wants him to.
“Make me,” he tells her, wicked, and she's about to tell him just where he can put his troublesome mouth when the door behind them swings open and they both freeze in place—her forehead buried against his shoulder, his hand buried in her pants. There’s absolutely no deniability about the picture they must present. Brienne doesn’t know how much of her skin is visible to the interloper, but she’s pretty sure anything that is has gone scarlet.
“I’d say ‘get a room,’” Margaery singsongs from the doorway, sounding delighted, “but you two already did that.”
Brienne groans, quietly. It could be worse. It could be one of their supervisors. Or worse, one of their subordinates. But she’s never going to hear the end of this.
“In the meantime,” Margaery continues, brightly, “A sock on the door handle is customary.”
“Thank you, Margaery, that’s very helpful advice,” Jaime grinds out, and she snorts and closes the door behind her.
“How far can you fly that thing on a full tank?” Brienne mutters, while Jaime removes his hand and she fixes her trousers and tries to tame the mess she’s made of his hair. “Someplace warm? Dorne?”
“Not far enough,” he says, and she laughs, despite everything, and takes his hand and tugs him to the door, ready to face the music.