Work Text:
Even though Cersei had been telling Jaime ever since they were children that he was stupid, Jaime knew he wasn't as dumb as his sister thought. He knew, for example, when he was doing or about to do something completely senseless, just like when, eight years earlier, he had jumped from the cliffs of Casterly-Rock and almost broken his neck and drowned below. In the same way, Jaime knows that what he's doing now is a very bad idea, and that it's all likely to end very badly. But the excitement he feels as he recovers day after day the elements he needs to complete his plan, kills the last hesitations and rational thoughts in his mind. It's such a bad idea, Jaime knows, but the forbidden nature of the thing only seems to fan his desire and impulses, and the fact that it's fundamentally so unhealthy and dishonorable only makes the idea more exhilarating and exciting. But after all, coming from someone who lost his virginity to his twin sister just a few moons before, the idea might not be the worst he'll have in his entire existence.
In Jaime's defense - he must have a defense, he tried to reassure himself - the man who had knighted him after thrusting his sword through the smiling knight's chest - and oh by the Seven, the way the white sword had penetrated the felon's breastplate with such ease, Ser Arthur's serenity and detached air when he'd told him he'd give him his sword before passing Dawn through his body, Jaime's knees almost trembled at the memory - was never seen with anyone. No one at all. Everyone knew that Prince Lewyn had a lover with him in the capital, everyone knew that Ser Oswell regularly visited the brothel - and had mockingly offered to come with Jaime to be deflowered by a whore, unaware that Jaime was no longer a boy, but a man who already knew the pleasures of the flesh - everyone also knew that Ser Gerold had had a lover in the Kingsguard before he died in battle (they didn't talk about it, but everyone knew). This last point actually reassured Jaime a little, for if such an honorable man could have such inclinations (Gods if Father learned that Jaime had such desires, he'd die of shame and anger - and the thought was almost amusing), then perhaps Jaime's dishonor wasn't so great after all. Finally, everyone knew that Ser Barristan and Ser Jonothor were far too focused on duty to the crown - and far too uptight, Jaime mentally sneered - to even think of flirting with a courtesan or taking out coins for the city's finest whores. But Ser Arthur Dayne, the honorable Ser Arthur Dayne, nobody knew : a real mystery reigned around the man. Maybe his best friend Prince Rhaegar Targaryen knew something, maybe the two were even lovers ? Two men so scandalously handsome and absurdly honorable sharing the same bed, exchanging kisses and forbidden words, swarthy skin and alabaster skin covered in sweat and seed, but which one was taking the other, Jaime wondered ? Ser Arthur and his quiet strength, or Prince Rhaegar and his melancholy air ? Did they take it in turns to fuck each other ? The thought awakens both desire and jealousy in the young knight, for Jaime has noticed that Arthur addresses the prince as an equal, smiling frankly and allowing himself fraternal pats on the back, but to Jaime, to Jaime oh no, Arthur gives only slightly distant smiles, and ruffles his hair as one would a little brother. But Jaime is a man, he's fifteen, soon to be sixteen, and the distance his sworn brother imposes on him is increasingly biting, and less and less bearable. It's pathetic, he knows full well, but he needs Arthur to notice him, to tell him he's good, and to look at him with pride, the way he'd looked at him when he'd knelt before him - knelt just for him - and knighted him. A Lannister bows to no one, but Jaime had fallen on his knees so easily for him, and left them bleeding on the floor all night until dawn and Arthur came to raise him up. Since that day, an absurd desire had filled him, and he'd thought many times of running his hand over the dark, muscular thighs he'd glimpsed in the communal baths, or of leaning a little too heavily against the other knight when he came to correct his posture or grip in the training yard. The very idea of making his desire known so head-on made Jaime blush, because he knew very well that Arthur would reject him with such politeness and dignity that he couldn't blame him, but that he could also never look in his direction again without dying of shame and embarrassment.
It was definitely Arthur's fault, then, that Jaime was going to have to encumber himself with a whole stratagem to achieve his ends. He'd only have to do it once, though, so he couldn't afford any failures or problems; just once to satisfy his burning desire, to get rid of his unhealthy obsession, just once, and Jaime would be free of his perverse thoughts. Everything had to be perfect, everything was going to be perfect, his plan was flawless. Just once and Arthur would never know who, would never know why, and they would both go home satisfied. For Jaime intended to satisfy his idol, a Lannister had to be good at everything he did, so Jaime knew he'd be good at fucking a man, good at sucking him, good for Arthur, good at honoring him and leading him into debauchery and lust. At the thought alone, Jaime feels himself getting hard in his breeches, so much harder than that one night at the brothel with Cersei, when everything had been good, but quick, awkward and filled with blame and frustration. Jaime knew he wouldn't disappoint Arthur, for the Dornishman himself had told him that Jaime could never disappoint him. At these words, the newly knighted man's chest had swelled with pride and something else he hadn't been able to identify at the time, and he knew it was his duty to honor and satisfy the Sword of the Morning.
It had been easy to get ropes, as well as calming herbs that would put the man into a deep sleep for a few dozen minutes. Jaime had had a little more trouble arranging their respective schedules, as he and Ser Arthur very often had their breaks and shifts at the same time, but he'd managed to get a schedule shift by swapping with Oswell, so he'd officially be on guard when his plan was put into action. It was, however, a guard duty with the queen, and it was not uncommon for her to allow him to finish much earlier than usual, since she greatly preferred to be guarded by guards from House Targaryen, the Kingsguard's loyalty naturally being to the king, her brother-husband who regularly abused and humiliated her. Jaime also knew that Ser Brynden Tully was currently in King's Landing to attend to business on his brother's behalf, and had subtly reminded Ser Oswell of this, who had hastily made an appointment with his childhood friend to go on a tavern crawl since, as luck would have it, one of his guards had been moved. Ser Jonothor and Ser Gerold would both be on guard duty with the king, Prince Lewyn would guard the heir of the Seven Kingdoms and his wife Princess Elia of Dorne, and Ser Barristan had been assigned to look after the royal children. Jaime's greatest challenge would be to remain silent throughout, and not leave any suspicious hair or clothing lying around before leaving the room. But then again, Kingsguard uniforms greatly limited the risk of blunders, and Jaime had planned to maintain his cascade of golden curls, and thus avoid any incident. Gods, Jaime couldn't wait to see the honorable knight's mask of control shatter, to hear him groan and grunt just for him, to taste that tanned skin and kiss his firm torso, dotted with thick black hair, so strong, so fundamentally masculine. Yes, Jaime was going to give him a gift, was going to give himself to him, would let the man expend himself in him, would let him have him as one has a woman, he would put his pride aside for him, and give himself up body and soul. Would he beg ? Would he insult him ? Was such a man capable of rudeness ? What would he say when he realized his partner was a man ? Jaime knew he was as fine and graceful as a lady, but he also knew there were some things that didn't deceive. He was going to have to check again and again that the bonds were secure, because if things went wrong and Arthur managed to free himself, he'd be finished : the Dornishman was at least a head taller, broader and more muscular too, and as fast as the snakes found in his native land. The risk made Jaime's heart beat even faster, and he can't help but smile at the thought : the man was the Warrior made flesh, Jaime was his faithful worshiper and would give him what he deserved, break through that impassive, wise mask he wore at all times, and bring him to the gates of the Seven Hells with his body. And of his lover's identity, Ser Arthur would never know, a blindfold and Jaime's silence would ensure it, only the young knight would know, contemplating the Sword of the Morning, that he had pierced the mystery of those intriguing purple eyes and that firm, tight-lipped mouth. A gag would prevent Jaime from any attempt at a kiss, and this fact saddened him greatly, but the undertaking was foolhardy enough, he couldn't make it suicidal either : Arthur could talk, moan and mumble, but he couldn't scream or call for help. Jaime had also picked up some scented oil and learned about the best way to avoid pain by strolling through a Fleabottom brothel and watching men engage in power play, hand-to-hand combat, in positions that had made him blush to the roots of his hair, and from which he'd ended up scurrying after a boy his own age laid hands and suggestive glances on him. Jaime only wanted Arthur.
***
When the day finally comes, Jaime doesn't hesitate once, and it's with a masterly hand that he discreetly sprinkles Ser Arthur's glass with herbs, with a confident voice that he announces he's going on guard and greets his sworn brothers, and forces onto his delicate face the stoic, unassuming look he'd learned to make by imitating his brothers on his very first guards. In a few minutes, he'll ask Queen Rhaella if he can leave, in a few minutes he'll find Arthur probably slumped on one of the chairs in his room or on one of the sofas in the common room of the White Sword Tower - though Jaime would prefer Arthur to already be in his cell, he has no particular desire to drag the other man up the Tower stairs, it would be excessively unpleasant for both of them - in a few minutes he'll undress the Sword of the Morning, run his fingers over the body he's glimpsed and longed for so many times, in a few minutes he'll place him on his bed and bind his feet and fists, in a few minutes...
The few minutes take an eternity to pass, and when Jaime is finally able to leave, he feels his heart beating fiercely in his chest and his cheeks flushing in anticipation. He avoids the parts of the castle where he knows he's likely to come across one of his brothers, walks at a leisurely pace all the same, so as not to attract suspicion, and soon enters the Tower, his breath growing shorter under the strain. The Tower is deserted, and Jaime doesn't see Arthur in the common room : Gods be praised, he's probably already upstairs in his cell, having wished to doze off in his chambers after realizing that he was sleepy and dizzy. A deathly silence reigns as Jaime climbs the steps one by one to his brother's room, and he hardly dares to breathe for fear that Arthur is still awake - but Jaime has seen him drink from the glass, has seen him swallow (and what a throat once again, what a powerful neck, Jaime will never tire of it) - so it's with impatience but delicacy that he knocks on the Dornishman knight's door. No answer, complete silence. Jaime knocks again, breathless, but still nothing. Then he puts his hand on the handle, turns it gently and pushes open the door to discover Arthur, his head leaning against his table, eyes closed and looking deeply drowsy.
"Arthur?" calls Jaime a first time.
Still no answer, so he repeats, this time much louder:
"Arthur?"
Jaime feels a big smile cross his face as he quickly approaches the man and abruptly claps his hands right next to his face. Arthur doesn't even flinch. So Jaime sets to work.
***
When Arthur regains consciousness, he first feels his head spin a little, not in an unpleasant way, more like after a good nap, then he feels the cool air pass over his skin. On his bare skin. What follows is a crash as he abruptly tries to stand up, only to find himself restrained by ties that keep his arms at the head of the bed, and his feet spread and tied to the ends of that same bed. A dark blindfold firmly tied around his head prevents him from seeing anything, and it's with a furious cry that he realizes his voice is muffled by a crumpled cloth in his mouth. He feels his already frantic heartbeat quicken under the sudden panic, and vainly tries to pull at his bonds as he hears footsteps circling the bed. He then freezes, alert, now well aware of the presence of an intruder, and manages to mutter through the gag :
"Who are you ? Where am I ? What do you want from me ? Untie me at once ! I'm a knight of the Kingsguard, you have no right to do such a thing ! Oswell, if this is one of your stupid jokes, it's in very bad taste, and know that it only makes you laugh ! ... Name yourself and untie me !"
But his questions and anger remain unanswered, and Arthur can only struggle again in his restraints. Where is he now ? Is he still in his cell ? He's on a bed, that's certain, and the smell and shape of the mattress seem to confirm this hypothesis, but he can't see anything, speaks with difficulty, and above all he's naked. Completely naked. Caught in a new wave of panic, he lets out a muffled howl, before a warm hand rests delicately against his cheek. He stiffens and freezes again, but the hand just passes, light as a feather, along his face, and eventually up into his hair, where slender fingers run almost tenderly - far too tenderly - through his black locks. The hand is definitely that of a man, for although the touch is subtle and delicate, he feels calluses that only intense, regular practice with a sword or spear can cause. Arthur thinks about his legs being held apart and lets out a scandalized growl into the gag : the position doesn't allow him to be penetrated, and tension tenses his whole body as his incomprehension grows.
"What do you want ? Money ? The secrets of the crown ? You can torture me, you can kill me, I won't tell !"
The hand in his hair turns into a more tender caress, as if the man was trying to soothe his fear and anger. Arthur is completely lost. He swallows and mumbles more calmly against his gag :
"Look, I'm sure we can talk : please take off this blindfold, as well as this gag, and I'll be willing to talk to you."
The hand moves away, and the rustling he hears seems to suggest that the other man has moved away from him. He hears footsteps, bare feet on the carpet, then on the dark stone floor of his cell in the Tower - well, so they're still in the Tower, and the person obviously has a good knowledge of his surroundings, but then again, servants regularly drop by to empty their chamber pots, change their sheets, and do the housework, all potential suspects who had access to the schedules of each of the Kingsguards in the process -. Arthur hears the other man rummaging around in a corner of the room, looking for something - and Arthur really doesn't want to know what -, before feeling the mattress sag at his feet and a reassuring hand pass over his ankles and legs.
"What are you doing ? What do you want from me ?"
He feels a thumb make a small circle on his right ankle and feels lips settle in the same place, kissing the exposed skin above his feet. Arthur pulls sharply on his bonds, making the whole bed creak.
"Untie me immediately ! I won't repeat myself ! I'll have your head for this !"
He feels a second hand, a little more hesitant than the other, begin to explore his left leg, gently massaging his calf, lingering on the knee - he barely touches it - then caressing his thigh with the back of his hand, which involuntarily contracts at the touch. Arthur tries to pull away, to step back, but there's nothing he can do, he's completely blocked. He feels the body squatting between his legs move forward, past his hips, to settle astride his waist : the other man isn't quite naked, he's wearing underwear, and Arthur can only feel the fabric, something rich enough without it being excessive, and firm, warm thighs that gently embrace him.
The man isn't very heavy - not as heavy as him, that's for sure - and even though Arthur can't touch him with his hands, the contact he has with his belly tells him that the other man isn't particularly hairy : young ? hairless ? He was already certain it was a man, but this is confirmed when the intruder bends over and he feels something hard, barely held together by a cloth, pressing against his belly. Arthur inhales sharply in surprise : the man doesn't even try to conceal his erection, and when a mouth lazily and far too sensually kisses his torso, Arthur is left in no doubt as to his stranger's intentions. A tongue timidly licks his right nipple and Arthur's whole upper body contracts again as he says :
"Please. You don't have to do this. You don't have to do this. We can talk. Don't you want to talk ? I don't know who you are, but please don't do something you'll regret. Please...".
But the stranger doesn't listen, and just caresses him again in a reassuring, almost gentle way. It makes no sense. And without his hands, Arthur is unable to identify the individual. There's the smell, but the other man smells of flowery oil and soap - he washed not long ago - nothing he can identify with any accuracy. His hair must be cut short, because Arthur can't feel any strands sticking out. The chin and cheeks that graze his torso are also hairless, and were it not for the hands and rock-hard cock, Arthur could almost have believed it was a girl, so tender and delicate is the skin and touch. He took a deep breath, to calm himself, before saying :
"I don't know who you are. But I want you to know that I don't want any of this, it doesn't please me, it doesn't interest me, and you're hurting me greatly by continuing your actions. If you untie me or leave now, I promise you, I swear on my honor, I will seek neither vengeance nor justice. Such is my offer, it is honest, you will recognize it, it is your decision."
He feels the man sit up on top of him and stir slightly - unease, remorse? - and hesitant fingers run through his chest hairs and over his hard muscles, and for a moment, a moment, Arthur glimpses a glimmer of hope, before it's all dashed when the stranger leans down to kiss deeply at his exposed throat, before moving up to his lips, half-open because of the gag, and placing a chaste kiss on them. The kiss is furtive, the full, smooth lips not even fully resting on his.
"You'll regret this. I promise you, I'll make you regret this."
It's probably not wise to threaten someone when they're tied up, blind, and reduced to mumbling against cloth, but Arthur feels fury coursing through his veins. There's nothing amusing about this sick little game, and the stranger clearly has no intention of hurting him physically. The wandering mouth then moves progressively down Arthur's body, leaving here and there a few bites and bruises, kissing, biting flesh in its path, and Arthur freezes when he realizes the direction of the mouth.
"No. Don't do it. Don't. Please. No. "
But here again, only silence answers, and Arthur wants to scream his despair at being immobilized and his anger at his attacker. But even if he could scream, he muses, what would be the point ? All his sworn brothers are on guard, and Oswell, the only one who isn't, is out on the streets of King's Landing. He almost wants to cry. Arthur drops his head back and closes his eyes under the blindfold when he feels a short breath over his cock, and he can almost hear the other man swallow in anticipation. This can't be happening. It's happening. Bold but slightly clumsy hands (that fundamental clumsiness always remains, in all of the man's actions) take his balls in hand before quietly massaging them, and kisses are laid along his groin, some more forceful than others, and Arthur can't help but flinch and flinch at the touch and tongue reaching all-too- sensitive parts of his body. All he wants to do is free his right leg to smash the other man's face and strangle him with his sheets, but he can't, and feels like dying of shame and disgust when he hears himself moaning heavily into the silence. The other man freezes at the sound, and Arthur wants to spit in his face, call him names, but he won't even give him that, he won't give in like this.
Arthur's moan makes Jaime even harder than he already is and ravishes his heart like nothing ever has before. Heart pounding, he finally leans in toward Arthur's already half-hard cock from his caresses, and wraps his lips around the shaft. It's big, too big for Jaime's mouth, and the cock is hot, heavy and veiny in his mouth. It tastes of Arthur, of his skin, of his sweat, and has a slightly musky, masculine smell that awakens something in his loins. He swallows as best he can the more he can take with his mouth, and clenches his right hand at the base, his lower abdomen writhing with pleasure as he feels the swollen cock in his mouth and hears Arthur let out disordered moans, fighting against his own pleasure, against the pleasure Jaime is offering him. The young knight wants to tell him to let go, to let him pleasure him, but of course he doesn't, and instead licks, sucks, digs cheeks deeper to honor the man whose hips are now rocking frankly against his face. It's definitely too big for Jaime, and he wonders how it's going to fit inside him. Jaime kisses the head of the cock, licks the liquid already beading at the tip, relaxes his throat so he can push Arthur even deeper into him, and lets the pain in his cheeks mingle with the pleasure in his breeches. When Jaime gives up Arthur's cock, his eyes water and his mouth hurts, but the kind of pain that's accompanied by intense satisfaction. He can barely keep from laughing when he hears Arthur utter a grunt of protest, before he immediately freezes, probably filled with guilt. But Jaime won't leave him in his dark moods, he's at his service in this bed, so he tenderly kisses the man's belly and reaches for the vial of oil at the end of the mattress. He'd already fingered himself before coming, just to ease the intrusion, nothing too satisfying to be honest, just the strange feeling of being stretched by fingers, but Jaime saw the whores in the brothel screaming and moaning with pleasure as they were fucked - or were they faking it ? a flash of panic went through his body -, and Arthur must have felt it because he exclaimed as best he could :
"We can stop here, we can stop here!"
But his voice is choppy, his complexion redder than earlier, and his skin already covered in sweat, so Jaime abandons any desire to turn back. He uncorks the vial, coats his right hand with the oily, heady-smelling liquid, before taking Arthur's cock, already full of saliva, in his hand. At the firm hand that wraps around him, Arthur tugs at his bonds again, but his short breath gives him just the look of desperation for Jaime's touch. The young man trembles in anticipation as he brings his hand back to him and slides two fingers straight into him, biting his lips to keep from letting out any sound.
"What are you doing ? What are you doing ? Untie me. I -"
His voice cuts off as Jaime positions himself over his pelvis again, having removed his little clothes. Arthur's cock is erect, straight and proud, so thick Jaime is almost salivating (or is that saliva from earlier?), he lets out a small gasp, hears Arthur's wrists tug against the bonds, and places the head of Arthur's cock against the entrance at his ass.
"Oh by all the Gods," Arthur chokes out as Jaime begins to gradually come down on him.
By the Seven, it hurts! He stops almost immediately.
"Why are you doing this? Why are you doing this? Oh Gods!" lets out Arthur between groans.
Jaime takes a deep breath, forces himself to relax, and drops a little more onto Arthur, who grits his teeth, his cock now halfway down a hot, tight, throbbing channel. Arthur's whole body breaks out in a cold sweat as he gasps under the pressure. He tries to get away, to stop seeing, hearing, being numb. He tries to force his cock to deflate so the stranger can't use it for this unhealthy purpose, to no avail. Even the burning rage and anger in his chest can't overcome the pleasure procured by the sensation of his cock buried in those hot, tight walls. When the other man's buttocks finally touch the top of his thighs and he's now fully embedded on top of him, he lets out a trembling, almost inaudible gasp and Arthur can only throw his head back, concentrating with all his might not to let out more than little grunts at the hypersensitivity and frustration arising from his stranger's immobility. The young man is inexperienced, you can feel it in his hesitations, in his attempts to tame another man's body. Arthur almost wants it to hurt, but there's no pain in the trembling, warm pressure of the other man impaled on his cock. He's shamefully relieved to be in this position and not the other : Arthur isn't the type to maintain multiple lovers on a regular basis or string together conquests, but when he lets himself go with men - other knights he's come across at tournaments, or the occasional boy whore at parties with Oberyn - he much prefers to be on top and be the one to put it on while his lover begs for more. Perhaps he's dealing with one of his former lovers ? That would explain the knowledge of this particular preference, as well as the geography of the castle. It doesn't, however, explain why all this stratagem, these complications, and his stranger's obsession with concealing his identity. Arthur is brought back to the present when the other man timidly begins to rock his hips, rising then lowering himself awkwardly on top of him, and there's something so deliciously hesitant and assiduous about it, Arthur can't stop more frank moans escaping his mouth.
He soon realizes that he's no longer protesting, no longer trying to break free from his bonds, no longer writhing to avoid touch, no longer trying to apostrophize the stranger. He reassures himself that it's because it's futile to resist, bound as he is. He knows that nothing is right in this situation, that he doesn't want it, but he can't help but enjoy it. And there's nothing defensive about his pleasure now : Arthur gasps harshly through his mouth, his whole torso rising and falling with every breath and grunt, his hips sway slightly, in rhythm with the other man's pelvic movements, chasing the hole he's fucking every time he pulls away for even a moment.
***
Jaime's completely out of control, even if he's not really sure when he lost control. As he thrusts steadily and ever more vigorously into Arthur's cock, as he fucks himself on the honorable knight, Jaime can only bite his lips to the quick to keep from letting out little screams at every response from Arthur's body, every gasp from the Sword of the Morning. The man is now covered in sweat, his body glistening with droplets that trickle down his ribs and onto his black-haired torso and belly. He's so outrageously gorgeous, all muscles contracted and glistening, that Jaime can't help biting his right pectoral, licking the thick hair and tanned skin beneath. It's so much better, so much better than with Cersei... - the very idea of comparing them now seems insulting to Arthur. Arthur's body is strong, so strong - Jaime knows he weighs nothing astride him, riding him now like a desperate man - , so powerful as his hands pass over his tanned chest again, so beautiful and so scandalously indecent as he responds to the younger knight's movements by swaying his hips to meet Jaime's ass. And what he's doing to Jaime is good, so good ! He's almost sobbing with happiness. And the more Arthur's cock hammers and smashes his ass so deliciously and painfully, the harder it is for Jaime to remain silent: it's a real ordeal to keep his mouth shut, and he sometimes lets out little gasps in spite of himself. But what delights Jaime more than anything is that Arthur has started talking, and what he says goes straight to his cock.
"Aaaah... My Gods ! By the Seven ! You'll pay for this - aaaaaah ! Fucking hell take this blindfold off me, I want to see you, I need to see you and touch you ! Please untie me, I need... I need to - "
But Jaime doesn't let himself be distracted by the deep, imperious voice that sends shivers down his spine, at the same time as the injunctive tone turns his whole stomach and makes him want to untie Ser Arthur and let him take him on all fours. He won't fall into that trap, he's been planning this too long to ruin it just because Arthur's words excite him a little too much.
"Take the gag off me at least, so I can speak properly, I won't scream, I promise, and no one will hear me anyway, all my sworn brothers are on duty!"
Jaime suddenly slows the pace, and lets himself fall back lazily onto Arthur's wet body, the slap of their sweat-soaked skins making a most obscene noise.
"By the Seven, you're killing me," Arthur growls.
After all... He's right, no one will hear him... Jaime leans forward and runs his hands over the sides of the Dornishman's chiseled, lightly bearded jaw, and carefully undoes the piece of drool- and saliva-covered cloth that was preventing Arthur from letting his voice carry. The Sword of the Morning plays with his jaw for a moment, before gritting his teeth and throwing his hips forward, without warning, against the stranger, who groans in surprise. Good. So there's a way to destabilize him all the same. Arthur, completely lost between his violent desire and his anger at being tied up like this, no longer tries to fight the stranger at all, but rather now seeks his salvation in the other man's yielding and abandonment: he can still win this round. The younger man - he's young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, no more than twenty, Arthur is now certain, given the near absence of hair and the clumsiness of his movements (even offset by his obvious enthusiasm and desire) - presses his right hand against the headboard of the bed, which creaks violently under the blow, and leans his left hand against his torso again in an attempt to keep up with the infernal cadence the Dornishman is now imposing on him. Jaime can feel it growing and he can't stop it... he doesn't want to stop it...
But Arthur slowed down against him all at once and, between two grumbles, managed to say :
"Easy, easy. Take your time, that's it, yes, like that... Aaaah... Yes, you take my cock so well ! So good ! And you're so good, yes, so good ! Take your time !"
And as he guides him, he penetrates him slower, deeper, and Jaime has to hold back with all his might not to cum immediately, under the commands and under the slow, deliberate fucking. Arthur, for his part, is no longer even ashamed to be aroused by the prospect of spending in the stranger's ass: the very idea makes him hungry. The pleasure is so strong, so painfully good... Watching Arthur so close to ecstasy and in agony, and now whispering such dirty words and dirty talk in his ear, Jaime can't hold back small, high-pitched squeaks that he muffles as best he can by biting fiercely into his right fist, while holding himself against the headboard of the bed with his left hand. He only wished things were different: he wished Arthur were on top, pinned beneath the mighty knight, gagged, his fists bound, at his mercy. He'd like the other man to take him savagely, without mercy, and fuck him to exhaustion, hold him fiercely, hard beneath him, as he draws pleasure from his slim, fair body.
Jaime abruptly falls forward onto Arthur as he comes powerfully all over the other man's torso, and bites his lips so violently to stifle his cry of release, that he now has blood running all the way down his chin. He can barely right himself, and barely has time to think about the idea, when Arthur brutally commands him:
"Straighten up ! I'm not done yet."
Arthur's still-swollen cock inside him stretches him too far now, and Jaime lets himself be fucked by the violent, messy thrusts of his hips, more than he actually participates in the action. When Arthur comes, with a liberating moan, Jaime is half-perched on top of him, half-fallen on his side, and gasps when he feels a thick, hot liquid gush vigorously into him. Then it's silence again, interspersed with their ragged breaths. It's Arthur who breaks the silence and the brief moment of quietude.
"Who are you?"
Jaime feels his heart clench with guilt as he gradually realizes what he's just done. Arthur hisses a little as Jaime comes down off his now limp cock, and turns his head in the direction of the noise the boy makes when his feet hit the carpet at the foot of the bed.
"Where are you going? Please tell me your name. Don't you think I deserve to know?"
Jaime feels his knees trembling - he's not sure if it's from the weakness he feels in his thighs and legs, as well as the pleasurable pain he feels in his lower back and between his legs, still soaked and sticky with Arthur's semen, or if it's the first remorse beginning to kick in.
"Where are you going? Come back, talk to me please."
The tone is almost imploring, cajoling, as if the voice were trying to tame Jaime, to reassure him. But the young lion remains silent, directing his somewhat stiff and trembling legs to a corner of the room to take a cloth and soak it in water, before returning to Arthur to run it over his belly and tail to cleanse him of her presence. The Dornish knight tries to sit up, seeming surprised for a moment by the coldness of the cloth, before letting his head fall back onto the pillow with a sigh.
Arthur hears the young man bustling about the room, probably erasing all traces of his presence. He hears clothes being put on, then the clatter of boots heading his way. He's probably going to make him drink the same beverage that lulled him into that brief but deep sleep. So he seizes his last chance as the boy silently approaches his face.
"Wait!"
He hears the young man freeze next to him.
"Wait. Come here, come close to me... Come."
A little hesitation, then he hears the stranger place the glass he was to hold in his hands beside him on the bedside table.
"Come close to me please."
The stranger moves slightly and soon Arthur feels his warm, restrained breath next to his face. His voice now becomes rocking, reassuring, enticing.
"Yes... come to me, boy."
Arthur hears the stranger stammer hesitantly beside him. He won't get his name, Arthur knows, nor will he get his limbs released while he's still conscious. However...
"Kiss me."
Complete silence. Only the stranger's breathing, which stopped and then resumed, allowed Arthur to detect his surprise and very probable mistrust. He wouldn't want to get too close to his captive's lively, dangerous hands.
"Give me at least one kiss. A kiss, nothing more."
"Please," repeats Arthur.
The other man seemed to think for a moment, and Arthur thinks he'd failed again, but finally a movement above him caught his attention. He senses a face approaching his own, a scent of lilac soap and something that brings back a vague memory to Arthur - but it's too vague, and Arthur is angry that he can't hold on to it. He knows the man. He knows him well enough for his scent to be familiar, but he doesn't know him so well that he'd recognize him if he nuzzled the back of his neck. However, Arthur is careful to register the scent - not the lilac soap, that's new, he's never smelled it - but that vanilla, almost sweet fragrance he smells in the background, well hidden by the powerful scent of the soap and oil the man has used to prepare himself for Arthur's intrusion. Just as Arthur is about to give up hope, he feels a mouth press timidly against his, soft and supple, still hesitant. Arthur immediately responds to the kiss, tasting the blood and bite of the young man's lips, then viciously plunges his tongue into his mouth, eliciting a surprised, outraged moan - what nerve, Arthur thinks. When he deepens the kiss, it's the most terribly sweet thing he's ever tasted: the stranger lets it enter his mouth awkwardly and tilts his head to allow him better access. A low growl rises from Arthur's throat. When the other finally pulls away, Arthur doesn't try to hold him back. And when he feels the cold rim of a glass against his lips, he half-opens his mouth without struggling, and swallows the herb-scented water he'd smelled earlier when he drank from his glass in the Tower's common room. Before long, he felt his head spin and his mind drift into a deep sleep.
***
When he awakes shortly afterwards, Arthur is free of his shackles, lying under a blanket and alone. Definitely alone. He spends the next hour inspecting every nook and cranny of his cell, but finds nothing, nothing at all. As if his mysterious stranger had vanished into thin air. No hair, no clothes, no belongings, nothing at all. When Gerold and Barristan return from their watch, Arthur asks them if they've seen a young, beardless, thin man loitering outside the Tower entrance. The two look at Arthur as if he were a bit crazy - and he realizes he must look a bit crazy -, and reply that no, they haven't seen anyone except guards and servants, but many, especially among the servants, might fit the description. When Lewyn returns, Arthur repeats his interrogation, but again, nothing very conclusive. Neither Jaime nor Oswell have returned yet, but Lewyn says he saw Jaime on the training ground. On his way to the yards, Arthur again questions everyone he can get his hands on, but nothing comes of it, and his frustration grows. Eventually, he stumbles into the yards, and sees a slender golden figure pulling out a training blade. He takes a quick step towards the young Lannister, grabs his elbow and turns it towards him.
"Jaime!"
The boy with the blond curls raises surprised, slightly worried eyes to him - but then again, Arthur is well aware that he must look like a madman out of the Seven Hells -, and asks hesitantly:
"Ser?"
"You were with the queen on your watch, Ser? When you returned to change, did you pass an individual, young, a boy, beardless, very short hair, not very heavy, in front of the White Sword Tower ?"
"No, Ser. Is there a problem?" replies Jaime, frowning his pretty golden eyebrows at him.
Arthur runs a hand over his face in annoyance and clenches his fists.
"No, there isn't. No, none at all. If anything ever comes back to you, just remember to report it to me."
Arthur will catch the little shit, he's sure of it. It's only a matter of time. The stranger wasn't as discreet as he thought : short hair, close to Arthur, young, inexperienced with men, and vanilla perfume. He certainly had no intention of sniffing out all the young Lords of the Red Keep, but if he happened to come across him in the baths or in the palace corridors... That is the end of him. He must have lost himself in thought, because when he looks up, Jaime is still staring at him quizzically, his green eyes intensely focused on him. Arthur frowns at the sweat dripping down the young man's temples.
"Are you on your training end?"
"What? Oh, no! It's just really hot today, I'm really hot, I mean, the heat... well... it's really exhausting!"
He punctuates this with a hesitant chuckle. Arthur nods distractedly, then sighs again, annoyed.
"May I join you? I think I need to let off some steam."
"I - of course! But... uh... Are you sure you're all right?"
"I'm fit as a fiddle," squeaks Arthur. Then he sighs again. "Forgive me, I'm simply on edge today. You're not responsible for my moods."
He grabs a practice sword - he avoids using Dawn in the yards, it's usually only good for wearing out and damaging other swords, and it's not as challenging as fighting with a dingy sword -, and drags Jaime onto a free section of the practice grounds. For a long time, the two men exchange blows, pushing and pushing each other to their limits. There's nothing more satisfying for Arthur than to follow and meticulously observe the progress of the boy he knighted almost a year ago, even if Jaime is moving a little strangely today, as if he's having pelvic discomfort. This can be seen in his footwork, which is a little less fluid than usual. Arthur remembers the first time he saw him, it was his ease of movement that first struck him. The boy was so gifted and so eager to do the right thing, even if he was already a little arrogant, so far from what Arthur might have expected from Tywin Lannister's golden son. To be sure, Jaime was a full-blooded Lannister: soft, golden curls - now held back in a tight bun - fine, rakish features that gave him a graceful, androgynous air that turned the heads of ladies and lords alike, and a tall, slim waist that doubled as the boy grew older, with chiseled, hard muscles. His resemblance to his twin sister was breathtaking, and if Cersei Lannister, the Light of the West, was referred to as the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms (more beautiful than his sister Ashara, that is), then Jaime Lannister had to be the most desirable man in Westeros. But that was where the similarities ended. Where Lady Cersei was mean-spirited, avaricious and greedy in all her endeavors (and Arthur had never looked kindly on her loitering near Rhaegar and Elia - after all, everyone knew of Lord Tywin's failure to place a crown on his eldest daughter's head -), Ser Jaime was a good-natured, hard-working young knight, always eager to better himself and fly to the aid of those less fortunate than himself. He remained a little arrogant, but after all, he was still a Lannister. Training with Jaime again put Arthur in a slightly better mood than he'd been before: since Harrenhal and Rhaegar's stunts with Lady Lyanna, and his long speeches about the ardor, beauty, courage and stubbornness of the woman he had crowned Queen of Love and Beauty, Aerys's growing madness and mistrust, the preparations for Rhaegar's usurpation of the throne that Arthur, Gerold and Oswell had been working on for months, Arthur hadn't really had much time to spare for his little brother. He blamed himself a little, realizing that Jaime had been brutally confronted with the horror of Aerys's bloody, burning reign without any real help or support. For Arthur, Jaime was a breath of fresh air in the heap of gossip and filth that was the palace courtyard.
After sending him eating dust on the floor for the umpteenth time - but then again, Jaime so readily accepted his defeats at Arthur's hands that Arthur was never afraid of hurting or offending him - he grabs his hand to get him back on his feet. As Jaime dustes off the dust on his training outfit, Arthur notices that his lips were bruised and that he's been nibbling them incessantly since training began.
"Stop doing that, you'll ruin them even more, Jaime."
"Excuse me?" the boy asks, frowning again.
"Your lips."
"My lips?"
He blushes a little.
"Yes, your lips. If you keep tearing them like that, it's only going to get worse. You should go ask Pycelle for a balm to soothe them."
Jaime clears his throat and picks up his sword, looking away.
"I'll do that, I'll go see Pycelle later."
Arthur ruffles his hair, yawns and stretches for a long moment: the workout has only momentarily soothed the burn that remains in his loins, and the thought of the stranger returns inexorably to his mind.
"To the baths?"
"Let's go."
They drop off their swords before heading for the public baths. They don't speak, but it's a pleasant silence - the silence of two people who like each other enough for it not to be awkward - even though Arthur notices Jaime glancing at him from time to time.
"It's been a long time since we trained together Ser," Jaime says almost shyly.
Arthur sighs.
"Yes... I' m sorry if I' ve been less present lately, there have been a few things to worry about, especially since Harrenhal."
"You know, I wouldn't mind... if you ever wanted to talk to me about your problems. I mean... you never bother me."
"That's nice Jaime, I don't want to bother you," Arthur smiled amiably, squeezing his shoulder.
"I mean it! I'm not just saying this out of politeness or kindness. We're friends, aren't we?" he hesitates again.
Arthur frowns.
"Of course we're friends!"
"And confiding in each other is what friends do with each other isn't it?"
"Well, yes, I suppose," Arthur laughed gently.
"So if we're friends, you can talk to me. I can handle things, even the bad ones. I saw what atrocities the King wisas committing... I haven't slept very well since. You must not sleep very well either. When my mother died, my father and sister shut themselves up in their grief, no one spoke to each other anymore, they all believed their suffering was greater than the other's, and therefore impossible to share. It's so difficult to perceive the other person's pain, so much so that our own seems greater and more serious. But it seems to me that this is perhaps the most shared thing in the world. I don't want to be alone. I don't want you to be alone. We're brothers too." His voice breaks a little, and Arthur frowns. "And brothers need to support each other. And I'm one of you, I want to be one of you. I know Jonothor and Barristan don't like me...". Arthur wants to deny it, but the look Jaime gives him shows he has no illusions about the fact. "But I want to do my duty, to serve by your side. And... and I can't stand you treating me like a child. I'm not a child, I'm fifteen, soon to be sixteen, I'm a man!"
Arthur remains mute under Jaime's glare. Finally he says:
"Do you think I've disrespected you in any way?"
Jaime then blushes so violently and looks away so shamefacedly that Arthur almost has trouble understanding what he gibbers next.
"I - What? No! Of course not, that's absurd! That's not what I meant! I just wanted to say... that I'm here for you. And that I'm not some child you need to protect or coddle. I can shoulder the weight of my duty and responsibility as I should."
Arthur gazes at him for a long moment, and Jaime feels almost undressed by this gaze.
"You've grown up so fast." He pauses. "Too fast." His tone is a little sad.
"I don't see you as a child Jaime, but you can't stop me from trying to protect you while I can. We're brothers, you said so yourself. And we're even friends. Obviously, I care about you, so I want to protect you."
Arthur stops them in their tracks and places two hands around Jaime's face.
"I'm sorry if I've left you out lately. You'll be a great knight, you already are. I don't realize, sometimes, how much I care about you. And I don't take you for granted Jaime, I don't take you for a squire or a child. I'm glad I spoke with you today, I'd missed your presence, I'd missed you."
A little red comes to color the young man's cheeks again - Gods he blushes easily, Arthur sighs inwardly.
"To the baths now, and then we'll drop in on Pycelle for your lips".
At this hour, the baths are crowded, but they eventually find room at the bottom of a large pool. On the way to the pool, Jaime tries not to be distracted by Arthur's buttocks right in front of him, and it again takes all the concentration in the world not to stare at his cock - Gods! To think he had it inside him just a few hours ago - but he can't help staring, almost with a satisfied air, at the trail of hicks and bites he's left on the other man's torso and neck. Arthur must be catching his gaze because he runs his hand quickly over the marks with a nervous chuckle.
"It's just... Never mind."
And he laughs some more. But it's no longer relaxed, and now Arthur begins to stare warily at all the men around them. Jaime feels an unpleasant lump in his throat and a weight in his stomach. He looks away and almost flinches when he's jostled by a dark-haired man who settles down right next to him and pushes him up against Arthur.
"Sorry," Jaime mumbles as his left shoulder and thigh tap against Arthur's warm skin.
Arthur doesn't even seem to notice, so focused is he on his methodical assessment of the men in the pools. When he moves his hand in annoyance and involuntarily touches Jaime's thigh, Jaime suddenly flinches, and Arthur mutters back:
"Sorry."
Arthur finally sighs and leans back against the edge of the basin, closing his eyes.
When they've finished cleaning up, they dry off and get dressed before setting off for the Tower. When they get there, Arthur swears under his breath.
"We forgot to stop by Pycelle for your lips!"
Jaime growls, smacking his forehead.
"Damn!"
"Turn around then."
"Oh no, no, no Arthur, it's no big deal, I'll go and get them in the morning, I'm exhausted, I don't feel like crossing the castle back again now," Jaime declares plaintively.
"I can fetch them for you and bring them back if you want," offers Arthur. Another good opportunity to comb the castle and its inhabitants.
"Would you do that? Thank you, Arthur. I'm really sore all over, I don't even feel like I'm walking straight anymore," Jaime grimaces.
"I'll go then, and be right back."
When Arthur reaches the door of the Grand-Maester, he knocks loudly before hearing a crash inside the room. Then the door opens and a young prostitute steps out, grimacing. Behind her, the old man puts his chains and tunic back on as best he can. Disgusting, Arthur thinks.
"What can I do for you Ser Arthur?"
"I've come for an ointment for Ser Jaime's lips. They're cut and bruised and look painful."
"Ser Jaime? Ah, yes, he came by last evening and told me he was having trouble sleeping at night. I'm not sure many people here sleep very well."
"Yes, he told me about his regular insomnia. Did you give him essence of nightshade? I wouldn't want him to get too used to it. It would be better if he kept to a natural sleep cycle as much as possible," replies Arthur.
"Oh no, he'll show you, I've given him a blend of herbs of my own devising, coupled with some very powerful and effective active ingredients. A very small dose immediately puts you to sleep for a very short time, which is ideal for naps during the breaks you Kingsguards have! And much more effective for recovering directly during the day."
Arthur feels his smile disappear as Pycelle speaks.
"Ser?"
"Give me the ointment, that's all I need."
Vicious little prick. And then he came to complain ? A wave of anger sweeps through Arthur, followed almost immediately by a wave of desire and guilt that ignites his entire lower belly. Gods. He fucked Jaime. Jaime fucked him (fucked himself on him?). He fucked the boy, came inside him. Arthur closes his eyes for a long moment and takes a deep breath. How long has Jaime been thinking about him like this? He's tied him up, prepared his blow: Gods, how long has he been planning to do this?
Arthur retrieves the ointment.
"Do you have any more of those herbs you gave my sworn brother Grand Maester?"
Pycelle nods, rummages through his shelves for a moment, pulls out a small bottle, and hands it to him without further question.
As Arthur walks towards the Tower, his fist clenches so tightly around the vial, he thinks for a moment it's going to break. He enters the common room, greets Lewyn who is about to leave, then climbs the stairs to his cell with a step he tries to measure, to temper. He grabs a half-filled jug of Dornish wine lying on his table, as well as two clean goblets, and carefully fills them. Into one of them, he then pours a few pinches of the herbs - Gods, it's the same smell -, which he then watches being swallowed by the dark liquid. With a determined step, he leaves his room, climbs one floor to reach the floor shared by Jonothor, Oswell and Jaime, and knocks on the door of Jaime's cell. A vague authorization reaches him from inside, so he enters the room bathed in light from the setting sun. He finds Jaime slumped in an armchair, wearing a simple, clean linen top, beige breeches and a pair of dark leather boots. Arthur, meanwhile, hasn't taken the time to change, still wearing his white and gold Kingsguard tunic on his back, the one they all wear when they're not wearing their armor and wandering around outside the Tower.
"Arthur?"
The boy looks at him, looking far too innocent when Arthur thinks back to what he'd done earlier in the day, and smiles hesitantly. Arthur forces himself to smile.
"Here, I've got the ointment back."
And he hands him the little box. Jaime grabs it, hosts the lid and dips a finger into the balm before spreading it gingerly on his lips.
"You should massage it in to make sure it's well absorbed."
Jaime nods, humming, and runs a finger more firmly against his lips - those lips that were on Arthur's earlier - and Arthur attentively follows the path of that thin, white index finger over that mouth smoothed and oiled by the balm. Then Jaime purses his lips and rubs them together to better penetrate the ointment.
"I've brought some wine we can share. If you'd like. Since you thought I was keeping you away."
Jaime blushed. Again. But this time, when his cheeks turn pink and he looks away again, Arthur feels something growing inside him, an immense, overwhelming surge. Spread over him, Arthur imagines betrayal. In those green eyes, edged with fine lashes as golden as the sun, Arthur looks for hints of lust and debauchery. And when he tilts his head to one side, so pretty, so graceful, and presents his neck, white and fine under the last rays of the sun, Arthur wants to stand up, bite it and kiss it. He's a demon in angel's clothing. He's pouting so pleasantly, so sweetly, but he's sinned. Arthur will ravage him. He'll bring him to his knees, and Jaime will pray to him, beg him, and Arthur will make him give thanks.
"That wasn't a reproach, Ser."
"It sounded like a reproach."
Jaime stirs in his chair, clearly uncomfortable.
"Something tormenting you, brother?"
"Thoughts that force themselves upon me, that I thought I could shake off. But this trouble is without reason".
"Aren't all troubles unreasonable?"
"They're obsessions. Things we can't control. They're our downfall."
Jaime pauses. He delicately dips his lips in the beverage.
"Don't you think? You're a man of measure. I'm not very good at these games of control, good looks and masks. I'd make a very poor courtier."
He laughs a little.
Arthur purses his lips.
"Every good knight should despise courtly games. Our duty, our honor and our vows are opposed to even the most innocent of cabals. We remain beings of passion and pulpit, however."
Jaime takes a second sip of wine.
"So we have only honor to curb our desires?"
"Honor can do so little. Our desire for honor and duty must guide us."
"Do you then only desire honor?"
Arthur ignores the question.
"And you, Jaime? What do you desire?"
"I want... I want... I don't know, Ser."
He is lying.
"You would, indeed, make a terrible courtier."
Jaime looks up at him and sketches a pale smile.
"The life of a Kingsguard is one of sacrifice. My appetites are doomed to failure. This is the only game I can play as a knight, and I've already lost."
"Have you?"
The young man takes another sip of wine, his lips now reddened with the crimson liquid.
"A handsome boy like you ; how can he not get everything he wants?"
He blushes much more violently this time, and Arthur is viciously pleased.
"I don't think it's in my power to..."
But he never finishes his sentence. He blinks, a little haggard. Arthur straightens up, staring at him intently. Jaime frowns, confusion invading his handsome face, his angel face - fallen angel, the Dornishman thinks -. And in that frown, that fading smile, Arthur can almost see it, the shadow of his lasciviousness, the darkness of a depravity he'd hitherto thought repelled by the boy's immaculate purity and whiteness.
"Ser?"
His voice is garbled, uncertain.
"Yes, Jaime?"
"Ser..."
Arthur sets his cup on the table, and approaches him quietly. He crouches to his full height and runs his right hand across the back of the boy's neck. Jaime manages to give him a confused, lost look, but his head is already wobbling, and he's batting his eyelashes much harder than before.
"Arthur?"
The tone, lost and imploring, and his head, half-fallen into Arthur's palm, only fan the fire in his veins. Yes, Arthur is going to help himself, is going to take what is rightfully his. Suddenly, Jaime lets out a horrified groan as his eyes widen sharply.
"What have you done, Jaime?" purrs Arthur.
It's the last thing Jaime hears before falling into darkness.
***
When Jaime wakes up, the first thing he does is make a brutal attempt to stand up, but he realizes that he's restrained at the wrists by a soft, tight cloth, that his vision is obscured by a cloth and that he has a rag in his mouth. He's lying on his back, his legs half-bent and his feet held against the mattress by hard, calloused hands. He's naked. And there's a man between his spread legs.
Arthur. Arthur. Arthur.
Jaime really wants to cry now.
"Hello again, Jaime."
And Arthur punctuates his declaration with a firmer grip on Jaime's ankles. His legs tremble, he realizes. He wants to speak, to stammer, even anything, but the rag is pressed so hard into his mouth that only a thin, muffled sound comes out when he tries to utter a sentence.
"Don't you like it? It's not very pleasant, I grant you, but it's still better than strings, isn't it?"
Arthur's right hand moves up his thigh, and Jaime can't stop his leg from twitching under the touch. What a wretched, rotten idea. What had he even been thinking? In what world could an idea like that possibly end? And now what? wondered Jaime, as shame and tears take over.
"Hush, hush, you mustn't cry."
Arthur's voice is a gentle caress as he runs his fingers over Jaime's cheeks to pick at the beads of salty water running down them. The young knight's face trembles under his hand. Arthur lets out a long sigh, then undoes the ribbon that had previously blinded Jaime. His green eyes glisten with tears as he opens them, and his gaze is filled with fear and shame.
"Guilt doesn't suit you well, Jaime."
Arthur places his hands again on the thighs of the boy he knighted, kneads the tense muscles, and lets his fingers roam over the tender, sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Jaime flinches and tugs at his bonds.
"Gently. You wouldn't want to hurt yourself."
When Arthur's hand passes a little too close to Jaime's anatomy, the young man abruptly twists his head to the side, struggling a little harder in the bonds. Arthur then suddenly digs his nails into the flesh of the open, exposed thighs between which he's kneeling.
"I didn't really appreciate the way you did your business earlier. This is the last time you do something like that, next time I'm going to hurt you for it, do you understand?"
Jaime nods hastily.
"If you'd asked, I wouldn't have refused you, Jaime. You fooled me. You tied me up. You dared to tie me up. If you wanted to get fucked, you should have ask. I didn't know you had that kind of... inclination. I had no idea you were into buggery, angel."
Jaime is breathing hard through his nose now, especially as Arthur's hand moves closer and closer to a part of his body that is itself growing harder and more aroused. The humiliation of being held like this with his legs wide open, and Arthur squatting between them, burns through his body.
"How many men have you already been with, Jaime? How many others have you indulged in this kind of perverse little game? Do you like getting fucked dirty by strangers, sweet boy?"
And the hand brushes Jaime's cock. The young man tilts his head back in despair and discomfort. He shakes his head negatively in Arthur's direction, and gives him a defeated look.
"No?"
Arthur frowns.
"You haven't done this often. How many lovers among all those knights and squires? Five?"
Jaime shakes his head.
"Less?"
Nodding this time.
"Three? Two?"
Negative answer again. Arthur suddenly freezes, as do his wandering hands.
"Jaime. Had you done this before?"
Jaime groans and straightens his hips, trying to get some relief, but Arthur's hands are pressed firmly into his thighs.
"Jaime."
The young man nods, closing his eyes shamefully. The Seven curse him, Arthur thinks, the Seven curse him, Jaime will be his undoing, will be the end of him.
"If you'd asked me, if only you'd asked me..." growls Arthur, clamping his hands even tighter on the boy's thighs - there'll be a bruise there, tomorrow morning. Arthur takes a deep breath, leans forward, covering Jaime's body without ever touching him, sticks the side of his head against his, and whispers in his ear :
"I'm going to fuck you, Jaime. I'm going to fuck you so hard, I'm going to fuck you so dirty, that everyone in this castle will know you took my cock, you hear me ? Everyone will see that you're just a little slut in need of a cock, because that's what you are my angel, a little whore, a little slut, do you understand me ?"
Jaime can't suppress the broken moan that escapes his lips as Arthur bites the back of his neck and starts sucking.
"You filfthy little whore," Arthur scolds wickedly.
Another shameful moan slips between Jaime's lips, muffled by the rag. Arthur quickly straightens up and snatches it from his mouth, wringing a yelp of surprise from Jaime, who immediately starts moaning and begging aloud:
"Aaah Arthur ! Ah please ! Please ! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry ! Please !"
"That pleases me very much, Jaime. Now suck it."
And he holds out two fingers, which Jaime immediately starts licking, sucking, lubricating. Arthur pushes them in with enough vigor that Jaime chokes a little, and his chin is covered in saliva, and his eyes, again, on the verge of tears.
"Look how well you suck, pretty boy, open your mouth wider."
So Jaime opens his mouth wider, like a damned man, like a madman, like a desperate man.
Jaime's body burns with excitement, shame, lust, and Arthur savors the high-pitched, oh-so-indecent sounds he makes when he finally takes the young man's erection in his hand. It takes so little - Jaime is already broken beneath him, his reddened, burning body writhing desperately, his hands pinned above his blond head -, for Arthur to bring him to the brink of the abyss.
"Vile little bitch that you are!"
Jaime tilts his head back and lets out a painful moan, on the verge of breaking. And if Jaime's touch was clumsy and exploratory, Arthur knows exactly what to do to turn his partner into an inert, manipulable doll. So he taunts him, drives him to states of ecstasy to immediately deprive him of all pleasure, and he does it again and again, until Jaime is nothing but a mess beneath him, and he cries again, and begs, and screams with such desperation, and repeats in a litany Arthur's name, as if it were the name of a God, and yes, Arthur feels like a God. Arthur hastily discards his clothes, rips off Jaime's shirt that was holding his hands, grabs the boy by the hair, straightens him, and kneels facing his face.
"Now you're going to suck me. Mouth wide open, I will use you as it pleases me."
Like a wretch, Jaime lets himself be dragged to Arthur's already dripping cock. The Dornishman places a firm hand against his cheeks and forces his mouth open. Arthur doesn't warn, he drives his cock in deep and hard, and Jaime chokes, Jaime suffocates, and his cheeks and jaw are already soaked with drool and tears. Arthur then starts fucking his mouth, there's no other word for it. Arthur fucks his mouth. Hand still hard in his golden hair, Arthur drives his cock in and out until Jaime's throat burns, his face bruised, but the pain is good, and the feeling of being used by the other man makes the young knight even harder. And Arthur grunts, growls, breathes so hard, tells Jaime he's good, he's gifted, and Gods, Jaime has never felt anything like it.
Arthur stops before coming in the boy's mouth, they've got all night ahead of them, but first, Arthur wants to come in his ass. He drops Jaime without any gentleness onto the mattress, and asks:
"The oil."
"In the drawer."
Jaime's voice is hoarse, and Arthur snaps his jaw in satisfaction. He opens the little drawer, grabs the bottle, opens it and spreads oil generously on his fingers.
"On all fours," he orders.
Jaime obeys meekly, all his limbs trembling as he places himself in the desired position. Again without preamble, Arthur thrusts an oiled finger into him, wringing a muffled yelp from the young man. Arthur works hard and fast, feeling himself getting harder and harder as he watches Jaime's hole relax and then tighten around his fingers. Jaime takes Arthur so well. It's so obvious that he's not used to fucking anyone, let alone another man, but he's so receptive and so desperate, Arthur doesn't bother with much more fingering. Arthur's still angry and frustrated, and he's almost pissed that Jaime's getting what he wants, even though he doesn't really look like anything now, kneeling and on his elbows while Arthur has his fingers inside him.
"You little whore. Do you like what I'm doing to you? Of course you do. Look at you crying and begging for my cock."
Jaime opens his mouth as if he's going to say something, but Arthur plunges his fingers deeper into his ass and all his words melt into incomprehensible foul language and moans that bring him nothing but a hard slap on the ass.
When Arthur lines up his cock against the entrance between Jaime's buttocks, only their hard, gasping breaths echo through the room. He pushes himself gently into the boy at first, but when he sees that the latter takes him with only small, high-pitched moans, he ends up thrusting into him all at once, wringing a yelp of pain from him.
"Look how well you're taking me, pretty boy. Yes, such a good boy for me," he breathes as he rocks forward and sinks deeper into the warm, throbbing, welcoming hole. Finally.
"Gods, Jaime - oh Jaime!"
Jaime grips the sheets beneath him so violently that his knuckles turn white against his flushed skin, and his nails pierce the skin of his palms.
The whole room smells of sex, sweat and flowery-smelling oil. It hits Arthur then, and he leans forward, flattens himself with all his weight on the younger man's back as he struggles to support him, and buries his nose in his neck and hair to take a deep breath. The smell of vanilla. It smells like Jaime. It's Jaime. Of course it's Jaime. He penetrates him harder, leaning against him, biting his shoulder as he pounds into him harder and harder. All that comes from Jaime are broken, imploring sounds.
"Look at you, angel, so needy, so desperate, my Jaime."
His hips buck against Jaime's buttocks, eliciting a wounded cry that's higher pitched than the others. When the young man finally comes, it's in a flash of white that leaves him stunned and inert, and with a strangled cry invoking his idol's name. Arthur pulls out of him, still hard, flips him onto his back and drapes his legs over his shoulders before penetrating him again, fucking the thin, exhausted body mercilessly, cruelly until Jaime protests mutely under the overstimulation. Arthur ignores Jaime's pleas, bites his left ankle and lets out increasingly obscene foul language, and Jaime can't even hold on to the sheets, content to let Arthur draw his pleasure from his body. Arthur finally comes, deep inside Jaime, with a liberating, satisfied moan. He drops onto Jaime, still inside him, their two bodies wet and sticky against each other, Arthur's weight pinning the younger man to the mattress.
After a couple of minutes, Arthur finally straightens, pulls his limp cock from Jaime's ass, and rolls beside him on the mattress. Jaime turns his head towards him, looking completely bewildered and ravaged. Arthur has a little sniffle.
"When I knighted you, I thought about it. You were wearing that white tunic, you had bad knees and you were waiting for me... I thought about it."
"I would have let you."
His voice is still hoarse and raspy from yelling too much.
"I blamed myself for having such thoughts about you."
"I would have let you take what you wanted from me," Jaime blushes.
Gods he blushes easily, Arthur thinks again. And he grabs the back of his neck and kisses him far too tenderly considering the activities that have enlivened this day. It's soft, it's sweet, it's Jaime, so Arthur sighs in contentment.