#jaime x reader

[2kiran]

“FEEL YOU”

pairing jaime lannister x reader genre smut reader is a male. top!reader x bottom!jaime cw drinking beforehand, reader has a big dick, first-time anal, mention of jaime being a whore (1), spit as lube, abrupt ending

Jaime Lannister despised you.

You were a new addition to the Kingsguard by the recommendation of a seasoned commander, and yes, you’re exceptionally skilled and determined and like no other man.

But you’re crude with a young ego festering like a deathly disease Westeros hasn’t come to discover yet.

You challenge Jaime—no, worse than that. You mock him, and you do it frustratingly well.

And Jaime hates all of it.

He hates you; your handsome grin that vanishes too quickly to be completely seen, your familiar frown that haunts his mind late at night, your stupid strength that immobilizes just about anyone, and your equally stupid, large cock.

One thing about Jaime was that he wasn’t a crippling alcoholic, gods no, but he drank and you drank and now he’s bent over a table in a dirty storage room.

The upper half of his armor and smallclothes remained worn, but his pants were loosely bunched around his ankles. You, on the other hand, were the exact definition of a nightmare. Your own pants were undone, and they were hanging around your thighs, but not enough to feel bare.

Then there was your hard cock. Your hand wrapped around the base, guiding the head of it to rub against Jaime’s clothed hole. He can feel how wet you’ve become, the slickness of your pre-cum dampening the soft material of his smallclothes.

It was disgusting. You were disgusting.

But that didn’t stop him from angling his hips backwards to press against you, as if he was wordlessly coaxing you to come fuck him like he was some easily disposable brothel whore. A status that he will never achieve, but he felt like he has. You were shamelessly rutting against him like an animal; your cock sliding right in between his lower cheeks but never entering him.

Gods, it was maddening. He can feel the weight of your cock, the mere thickness of it rubbing over his ass—and for once, he allowed himself to want another like this. Allowed himself to want a man, above all.

But you just had to tease him.

“Come on...” Jaime muttered through clenched teeth, not realizing that he did utter the words aloud until you respond with a low hum.

“Hm?”

“Fuck me,” he growled, a tinge of heat flushing his face. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

You breathe out a short laugh, “Not yet. Just let me feel you.”

He was going to have your head on a spike after this.

Though, the mere notion didn’t last long enough to take complete root into his head when you hook your thumb beneath the waistband of his smallclothes and tug them down, making Jaime let out an embarrassing gasp. He was dry, and his inexperience in receiving cock was nothing but guaranteed.

That won’t stop either of you, not when Jaime himself was eager.

Jaime instinctively arched his back as he folded one of his arms in front of him to act as a shield for his face while the other, the one with his only flesh hand, braced the edge of the furniture. He didn’t look your way, not yet at least, but he sensed you leaning down and that’s when he felt it.

Drool—slick and yours. It dripped over his untouched hole, and you spat directly against it once more in a way that had Jaime lightly biting down on the skin of his inner arm to suppress the pathetic whimper that wanted to escape him.

You gently pressed the pad of your finger against him, feeling up the intense coil of muscles attempting to resist the pleasure you were about to bring. “Stay still,” you whispered low, before slowly sinking your digit into his heat.

“I am—fuck,” his voice broke into a rough groan, his walls automatically clamping down around you. Both his mind and body uncertain if they want to push you out or keep you right where you belonged.

You gladly make the decision for him, and you carefully ease your finger in down to the last knuckle. The stretch itself was supposedly mild, but Jaime’s thighs shook with the solidified effort of keeping himself where he was. His brows drew together in a line, his muscles growing taut, but just for you, he tried to focus on breathing through his nose to have you know that he can take more.

It was a matter of reckless pride on his part, but there was no reason for applause.

...Perhaps there was, if only it was for the way Jaime’s hole swallowed your cock like a true king born to sit on the Iron Throne.

You were barely halfway inside, and the Golden Lion in front of you mentally concluded that it was more than enough. He whimpered—the small noise bitten-off and no less whiny, and stubbornly, it was decently masked with a sharp exhale. Your cock was so fucking thick and, even worse (or better), throbbing inside of him. Like you found pleasure in nowhere else besides torturing him.

“Wait,” Jaime barked, the command useless in his breathless tone.

“Is it too much, Kingslayer?” You teased, kindly brushing the palm of your hand over the small of his back to ease the tiniest of tremors currently ruling his skin. Though, your use of his supposed title that’s known for its derogatory nature was anything but.

You did not judge him for putting an end to the Mad King.

And that made Jaime unexpectedly clench down around you.

“Shut up—!” Jaime snapped, his chest heaving as he bucked backwards against you. Only to gasp when he realized too late that it caused you to sink further into him, “Ah! Haah, fuck—ah—don’t m-move until I tell you to.”

You huff, mildly exasperated, but you obey anyway.

Your actions were contrasting with his usual viewpoint of you—a man too cruel and too unloving to fuck someone else so considerately in spite of the agonizing words you speak. It made Jaime want to cry, both from how you were splitting him inside out and from how you were being somewhat kind towards him.

He felt an unreasonable gush of greed.

You didn’t belong to him, and he didn’t belong to you, but he sensed no inkling of an opposing front left if it came down to that.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

“Move. Now.”

There’s no way around other than to feel your cock sliding out of him inch by inch until only the head was being clung onto by his wet, stretched rim. Jaime panted, a bit irritated now, as he tilted his lower half to further accommodate and unmistakably please you.

“Tell me,” you whisper, leaning over his back, “How many men have fucked you like this?”

Slowly, you roll your hips, making him full once more.

“Mmh... n-none. ‘S just you—!” Jaime gasped, his words honest, the pressure sending a shudder across the length of his spine. “Just—hmmn—you!”

And you’ll make sure it stays that way.

[demiene]

𐔌 cw: almost public sex, fem reader .ᐟ

jaime rushed through the long corridor, tracking the frantic clatter of heels echo past pale red stone walls and flitting servants. his long coat hem flapped with a rapid, snapping cadence that matched the heavy thud his boots doubled, sword swaying sharply at his hip as he rounded the corner.

ungloved palm scraping against the rough stone surface, fair skin turning a sensitive pink, yet the sting didn't bother him in the slightest. breath escaping his open mouth in a hurried pant as a stray sunbeam caught the fabric of your dress skirt just as you swayed around another turn into a connecting corridor. still, he pressed on, refusing to lose his trail, almost elbowing a vase.

“lord's — jus' slow down and listen to me” he rasped, and you deliberately quickened your pace, but the effort was entirely futile against a man trained from his youth to wield a blade and lead men into battle. his strong hands clamped around your waist just as you attempted to break away, spinning your body around so suddenly that your feet slipped. mouth falling open in a gasp before your features twisted into a defiant scowl.

his annoyingly handsome face was right there in your space, lean chest heaving from the chase. cheekbones flushed a deep, ruddy red, and his thumbs dug firmly into your ribs. you writhed deliberately, trying to drive your heel into his boot while swinging your hand up to strike, only for your wrist to be caught instantly in the unyielding grip of his sword calloused palm.

“you said enough, jaime” you snapped, all hiss and bared teeth. his head tilted in response, palm catching your second wrist the moment you attempted another swing. with both your hands hoisted high and held fast in just one grip, he was free to lay his other hand against your hip. cupping the curve through the layers of your gown, pressing his body so close that you were driven back, cornered flat against the stone wall.

your spine straightened, and you shot him a fierce, venomous glare from beneath quivering eyelashes. a slow grin curled the very corner of his thin lips, stretching wide enough to expose a flash of a sharp canine. angular jaw shifting and cheekbones sharpening as his emerald eyes smoldered with a wicked amusement, drawing his brows into a lazy arch.

the hand on your hip sliding higher, sweeping across the waist and toward expanding chest before disappearing behind your back to find the delicate notch of your spine, digging in just enough to send a shudder through your entire figure.

“bu' i am apologizing, am i not?” you heard his purring voice, a deep cadence that felt entirely infuriating. yet his face had already dipped to your collarbones, gaze locked onto the angry rise and fall of your plump breasts within the tight corset at your every breath. bristled jaw scruffing across your tender, oil scented skin, looming frame shielding you completely from any passing eyes.

his lips trailed a path upward, pressing lingering kisses towards your bobbing throat, breath searingly warm and carrying the faint, sweet tang of honey. you were still furious, very much so, your fingers straining against his grip to dig your nails into his hand, yet a sweet, melodic whimper escaped your lips the moment his teeth nibbled playfully at your shoulder. his hips shoved firmly against your thigh, leaving no doubt of the hard, tightening swell against his trousers seam.

“i'll bite your nose off” you mumbled, the breath leaving your lungs far too soon as his tongue soothed the bitten flesh at your shoulder. you writhed against him, hips twisting helplessly as sudden warmth flooded your undergarments, cunt dripping slick from undeniable arousal. jaime only laughed, a low, resonant rumble that sent a tremor straight to your belly, knotting in like threads, and pressed on, forcing his knee between your thighs until your legs surrendered to accommodate his weight.

you ground down against the firm muscle roped beneath his trousers, whimpering from the sharp friction against your pulsing clit. feeling his toothy smile against your skin before you tilted your head back, meeting his heavy, almost glazed gaze. blonde brown strands falling into viridian eyes, but there was no masking the way his pupils had dilated like lion's. hips rolling in sloppy rhythm, humping against your leg like some common dog.

the moment he released one of your hands, sore from his grip, your fingers immediately sought his nape, weaving into the thick strands of hair and tugging hard just to hear him groan.

“i'll moan, then” and he does, the low sound vibrating against your skin right as he nuzzles into your cleavage valley. releasing your other hand only to reach down and claim your ass, palming at the swell, hoisting you upward against him. you no longer cared, utterly forgetting what had even made you angry, or how you might look into the shocked eyes of a handmaiden who could stumble upon you two at any moment.

he dropped heavily to his knees with a hasty, loud thud, sword sheath scraping the stone floor, leather boots creaking under the strain.

his golden hair, messy and gleaming where the spilling sun caught it, vanished beneath the folds of your skirts as he wasted no time bunching the fabric out of his way. calloused palms wrapped around your thighs, fingertips sinking deep into your skin, completely obsessed with the plush warmth of your body against his weathered, scarred hands.

you muffle your moans behind a palm as he feasts upon your weeping cunt, crooked nose digging just below the puffy nub, tongue trapped between contracting, spongy walls, slurping at your spilling slick with guttive groans.

barely allowing him to help you adjust your undergarments and smooth the creases at your gown before eagerly tugging at his hand. with your fingers tightly entwined, you urged him down the corridor toward your chambers privacy. wet shimmer lingering upon jaime’s chin as he slowly licked the trace of your taste from his lips, a taste you would share with him, hours later, while straddling his cock in the bed's gloom.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[reinev888]

— ♱ My fic recs ♱—

divider by @cursed-carmine

all the fantastic fics i’ve ever read and liked in one place. hope y’all enjoy them just as much as i did :D. and i’d like to thank all the authors for putting their time and energy into creating these masterpieces <333

last updated: march 20, 2026.

— GOT & HOTD & AKOTSK

Jaime Lannister

my honor by @daemonbrain

i’m not made by design by @ichorai

the golden oath by @novaursa

river of gold by @heavensfiction

Robb Stark

avalanche by @dreamwritesimagines

the lion and the wolf by @iydiamartinx

spoiled rotten by @sorcerousundries

of storm and snow by @jetblack4real

wyman the snowman by @onekeii

Aemond Targaryen

the song of promises by @flowerandblood

balance the scales by @ichorai

little flame by @mourning-sapphire

Jacaerys Velaryon

est-ce que tu m’aines? i. by @softspiderling

est-ce que tu m’aimes? ii. by @softspiderling

Valarr Targaryen

the young prince’s lady by @starxs-s

a prince among men by @sylasthegrim

Lyonel Baratheon

storms and stars by @ichorai

Aerion Targaryen

the intimacy of knives by @summerdiphylleia

Baelor Targaryen

holy waters by @the-darklings

— THE BOYS

Soldier Boy

reach for me by @em-ontv

break me down by @zepskies

damage done by @castielscaplan

time after time by @waynes-multiverse

— SUPERNATURAL

Dean Winchester

babylon the great by @godmadeaterribleerror

irreplaceable by @studiogrimm810

impetus by @wildwestdean

enmity by @wildwestdean

— DEVIL MAY CRY

Vergil

skinned hearts by SkilledWarriorKiwi on ao3

felis catus by @xo2dee

restless by @xo2dee

[novaursa]

Remnants

- Summary: At Harrenhal, Jaime Lannister reunites with his lost love.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: The Angst That Was Promised. 😏

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @meleeys @idenyimimdenial @albekstime @human169

The stench of rot and damp iron hit first, the kind that clung to the stones of Harrenhal like a curse. Jaime had thought he’d known misery—mud, filth, and the choking drag of fever—but the air here carried something older, something that felt carved into its marrow. He stumbled as the guards shoved him forward, half blind with exhaustion, the bandaged stump of his wrist throbbing in time with his pulse. Brienne was beside him, all grim silence and bloodstains, her jaw set like she might kill the next man who looked at him too long. She needn’t have bothered. No one here looked at him as a man anymore. They looked at him as a prize—a maimed lion, caged and bleeding.

The hall swallowed them whole, dim torchlight catching on the rusted edges of chains that hung from the ceiling. Somewhere water dripped, slow and patient. Jaime’s knees buckled when a soldier shoved him forward again, and when he caught himself on the uneven stone, the world swam. He thought he heard someone call his name. He turned, half-expecting his fever to conjure Tywin’s cold voice or Cersei’s whisper. But then—gods—he saw her.

You stood at the far end of the hall, draped in gray and black, your hair unbound, your face too pale for this place. The torchlight flickered against your eyes, and for a second he thought the fever had won. Because it couldn’t be you. It couldn’t. You were supposed to be in the North—buried under the snow and quiet dignity of your cursed marriage, or dead, as so many good things had died in this war. But there you were. Older, yes. Sharper at the edges. But you.

“Take him to the healers before he festers apart,” your voice cut through the murmurs—low, measured, and undeniably real. Every sound in the hall seemed to flatten beneath it.

The guard hesitated. “My lady—”

“Do it,” you said, and your gaze flicked to Jaime. “That man is no use to anyone dead.”

The soldier obeyed, dragging him forward again. Jaime tried to speak, but the words tangled in his throat. He forced them out anyway, a hoarse rasp. “Tell me I’m dreaming.”

You looked down at him, and your lips tightened—not with anger, not quite with pity. “If you are, Ser Jaime, it’s a cruel dream indeed.”

He blinked hard, the effort burning his eyes. The sound of his name in your voice nearly undid him. The last time he’d heard it had been in the golden light of a tourney long ago, when your hair was bound with ribbons and his hand still held a sword instead of a memory. He remembered the taste of your laugh, the way you’d said Lannister like it was both a promise and a warning.

“Y/N Stark,” he said, disbelief catching in his throat. “I thought the gods had taken you back to your snows.”

Your expression didn’t shift, though your eyes did flick briefly to his ruined wrist. “The gods take who they please. I remain for reasons known only to them.” Then, quieter, “You shouldn’t speak so loudly. You’ll bleed yourself dry.”

He managed something like a smile, bitter at the corners. “Always did have that effect on you.”

That earned him the faintest twitch of your mouth—almost a ghost of the woman he’d once known. “You haven’t changed,” you murmured, and the sound of it nearly broke him. “Even like this.”

“Like this?” he said, forcing himself to straighten. “Missing a hand, filthy, and paraded like some butcher’s prize?”

“Still proud,” you said. “Still looking for a mirror to adore yourself in.”

Jaime laughed, a short, jagged sound. “And you’re still cruel when you’re frightened.”

Your gaze sharpened, and for a heartbeat he saw the wolf beneath the silk. “If I were frightened, Kingslayer, you’d already know it. I would have flinched.”

He wanted to tell you that he didn’t deserve the name anymore, that the world had peeled it from him piece by piece, but his strength was leaking out with every heartbeat. The fever roared back up behind his eyes, and when the torchlight blurred, you moved closer—too close, close enough that he could smell the faint scent of pine and smoke that always seemed to follow you.

“Get him to a bed,” you said, this time to the guards, your voice dropping. “If he dies of rot before I decide what to do with him, you’ll follow him.”

The men hurried to obey, and as they dragged him away, Jaime turned his head, fighting the pull of unconsciousness. “You’re not real,” he muttered. “You can’t be.”

Your reply followed him down the corridor like a shadow. “I am, Jaime. More real than you deserve.”

He drifted in and out as they carried him through Harrenhal’s endless corridors, his thoughts snagging on your face, the lines that hadn’t been there before, the way your voice still curved around his name like it was something fragile. When they finally dropped him on a cot, Brienne at his side, he let his eyes close.

“Who was she?” Brienne asked after a while, her voice wary, too perceptive.

“No one,” he lied, because saying your name out loud might’ve been the thing that killed him.

He dreamed that night of a frozen river, of your hand slipping from his, of a castle burning in the distance while wolves howled through the snow. And when he woke, sweating and shaking, he still swore he could smell your skin—the faint bite of winter and something older, something that belonged to both of you, buried deep and never forgotten.

Qyburn worked like a man too calm for the job he was doing. The air was thick with the sting of boiled wine and something sour underneath—the unmistakable rot of old blood and slow healing. Jaime gritted his teeth and forced himself not to flinch as the old man peeled back the cloth from his wrist. The flesh beneath looked worse than he remembered. Red, swollen, the edges gray and puckered. The fever had been biting at him for days, and every pulse sent a dull fire crawling up his arm.

“Hold still,” Qyburn murmured, his voice light, almost kind. “You’d think a man who once slayed a king could suffer a little washing.”

Jaime barked a weak laugh. “I’ve suffered worse company than yours, maester—if you even are one.”

Qyburn smiled, thin and secretive. “Titles are for those who need to be believed, ser. I’ve found results do the convincing.” He dabbed at the wound, and Jaime hissed between his teeth. The pain shot white-hot to his shoulder. “Ah, yes. Still angry, is it? I told the Lady Stark it would be. She said you’d earned it.”

The words twisted something low in his chest. “She’s here, then,” Jaime said, voice rough. “I didn’t dream her.”

“No, ser. She’s no ghost.” Qyburn wrung out the cloth, eyes flicking to him with that strange, clinical curiosity. “Though I do think she’s haunted—don’t we all carry our ghosts? Hers just walk a little closer.”

Jaime didn’t answer. He turned his face away, toward the wall slick with damp and age. His stomach churned. He could still see you in his mind’s eye, standing at the far end of that cursed hall—gray gown, quiet power. It didn’t fit. You weren’t meant to be here, under the command of a man like Bolton. Harrenhal was a place for monsters, and you had never been one, not even when you should have been.

The door creaked open. Boots clicked on stone—measured, deliberate, the kind of pace meant to remind a room who it belonged to. Qyburn straightened, stepped back, and Jaime didn’t need to look to know who it was. The air changed when Roose Bolton entered. Cold. Careful. Like the silence before a knife goes in.

“Ser Jaime,” Roose said smoothly. “I trust Qyburn is tending you adequately. We would hate for your infection to spread before your usefulness does.”

Jaime turned his head just enough to see him. Bolton’s face was pale and bloodless, the sort that made one wonder if the man had any blood left to begin with. “You flatter me,” Jaime muttered. “I wasn’t aware I was useful to anyone anymore.”

Bolton’s mouth curved in what might’ve been a smile if one didn’t know better. “A Lannister is always useful. Especially a broken one. Your father’s gold still has reach, even if your sword does not.”

“You’ve met him, then?” Jaime asked. “My father. I imagine he didn’t weep when you sent him word I was maimed.”

“No tears. But interest,” Roose said, studying the stump like a jeweler appraising flawed silver. “You see, Tywin Lannister values his blood more than most men value their gods. He’ll pay handsomely for its safe return. And perhaps for the silence of those who know what shape it’s in.”

The implication was as clean as a blade. Jaime forced a smirk, though it made his head pound. “And what do you get, Lord Bolton? Gold? Favors? A pat on the head from the lion you can’t cage?”

Roose tilted his head, pale eyes unreadable. “I have all I need here. But peace is profitable, ser. As is mercy.”

“Mercy?” Jaime scoffed. “Is that what you call this?” He nodded toward his ruined hand. “Because if it is, you’re worse at it than I am.”

Bolton moved closer. Jaime caught the faint scent of old leather and cold air. “Your arrogance has survived better than your flesh. I find that fascinating.”

“Then you’re easily entertained.”

Bolton let the silence stretch until it almost hummed. Then, softly, “My lady wife spoke of you.”

Jaime went still. Every nerve in his body seemed to twist. “Did she?”

“She told me she once knew you at court,” Roose said, his tone the same bland civility one might use discussing the weather. “Said you were charming, reckless. Too handsome for your own good. She didn’t mention you by name at first, but I saw it in her eyes when you were dragged in. The kind of memory a husband doesn’t ask about.”

Jaime swallowed hard. “She’s too kind. My memory of her was much the same—beautiful, sharp-tongued, too good for the company she kept.”

“Goodness,” Bolton mused, “is such a fragile thing. I’ve found it rarely survives the march south.”

He looked at Jaime for a long moment, as though measuring how deep the fever had sunk into him, how close to the edge he was. “Rest, ser. You’ll need your strength for the road ahead. Harrenhal is not a place that forgives weakness.”

When he left, the door closed like a sigh. Qyburn went back to his work in silence, though his eyes darted once toward Jaime’s face, curious.

Jaime lay back, sweat cooling on his skin. The pain in his arm was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. You had spoken of him. Remembered him. Married to Bolton—gods, of all men. The image of your face beside that pale leech’s turned his stomach. He could almost hear your voice again, soft but firm: You shouldn’t bleed yourself dry.

Too late for that. He’d been bleeding since the day he left you.

He closed his eyes, the room spinning slow around him, and whispered to the dark, “What did they do to you, little wolf?”

The next day’s meal was served in a hall that still looked half like a ruin and half like a mausoleum. Firelight crawled up the blackened walls and made the shadows look alive. The scent of smoke, boiled meat, and damp stone clung to everything. Jaime sat at the long table, feeling the scrape of the wooden chair beneath him and the strange heaviness of being clean again. His hair was damp from the wash, his clothes too fine for a captive, and his wrist—bandaged neatly—ached with a dull, punishing pulse. Brienne sat to his right, stiff-backed, her gaze fixed somewhere past the far wall like she was bracing herself for an ambush. Qyburn hovered nearby, pouring wine like a polite vulture. And across the table, just left of Roose Bolton’s chair, sat you.

The gods had a cruel sense of humor.

You wore a gown of gray silk that caught the firelight like stormclouds. The color of the North, but softer—tempered. Your hair was coiled back in a simple knot, a few strands loose enough to frame your face. You looked neither surprised nor pleased to see him seated there. You looked... still. As if stillness were the only armor you had left.

Roose lifted his cup with that pale, bloodless composure of his. “Ser Jaime,” he began, “you look far less likely to die today. I take it Qyburn’s ministrations were effective?”

Jaime forced a smirk and raised his own goblet, though the tremor in his wrist betrayed him. “If by effective you mean I’m still breathing, then yes. Though I’ve had gentler butchers.”

Bolton’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Survival often depends less on gentleness than skill.” He turned his gaze toward you. “My lady wife ensured your recovery was seen to. She was... insistent you not rot in my hall.”

The words landed heavy between them. Jaime’s stomach twisted. So that was it—he’d been cleaned, dressed, and fed because Roose Bolton liked to show off his trophies. He could almost taste the amusement behind the man’s pale eyes: to sit the Kingslayer across from the one woman who could remind him what he’d lost.

You didn’t look at your husband when you spoke. “He would have died otherwise,” you said, tone even, measured. “And that would have been wasteful.”

Jaime studied your face, searching for something familiar. There it was—the flicker in your gaze, the quiet steel under all that calm. You had always been pragmatic, but never cold. Now, you were both.

He leaned back, feigning ease he didn’t feel. “You always did hate waste. I remember you once said the same thing when you saw me throw wine on the floor. I thought you’d have me whipped.”

That earned you both a look from Bolton, mild curiosity focusing just a fraction. “Ah. So the acquaintance was not exaggerated,” he murmured.

You ignored the bait. “That was a lifetime ago, Ser Jaime.”

“Two lifetimes, perhaps,” he said softly. “You and I have both lived through deaths since then.”

Brienne shifted in her seat, her unease practically vibrating. The tension around the table was thick enough to chew through. Bolton, to his credit—or to his design—appeared perfectly at peace, sipping wine like a man listening to a dull sermon.

“My lady spoke often of the capital,” Roose said idly, turning his knife in the light. “Of the tournaments, the songs, the... gallantry. I imagine it must be strange for you both, meeting again here. Harrenhal is not a place for gallant things.”

Jaime gave a small, humorless laugh. “No, it isn’t. Gallantry tends to die somewhere between the screaming and the smoke.”

Bolton’s eyes glinted. “And yet here you sit, still trying to wear its corpse.”

Jaime looked straight at him. “We all wear corpses in our own way, my lord.”

For the first time, Roose’s expression faltered—barely. The faintest tightening around his mouth, the smallest flicker of disdain. Then, smoothly, he rose from his seat. “My lady, I’ll leave you to see that our guests finish their meal.” He inclined his head, almost mocking. “I trust you’ll see that Ser Jaime’s... appetite... returns.”

When he left, the sound of his boots fading down the hall felt like the room finally exhaled. Jaime looked down at his food—lukewarm stew and stale bread—and found it impossible to swallow. You hadn’t moved, hadn’t lifted your gaze from the table.

“He enjoys that,” Jaime said quietly. “Setting pieces where they’ll hurt most. You sitting here, me bleeding on your table. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do,” you said, still not looking at him. “But if I refused, he’d have assumed you were more than you are.”

“And what am I?”

You met his eyes then, and for a moment, all the brittle calm cracked. “A ghost, Jaime. One that doesn’t know it’s dead.”

He flinched, but didn’t look away. “You used to see better than that.”

“I used to believe better than that,” you corrected, voice quiet. “We all did.”

The fire crackled, and Brienne, bless her discomfort, kept her gaze on her plate like she wished herself a thousand miles away. Jaime’s throat felt raw. He wanted to tell you that you’d been the only thing that made the capital bearable, that every laugh, every stolen moment had meant something, that he still saw your face when he dreamed of snow. But all he said was, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I could say the same,” you replied.

“Why did you marry him?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You stared at him, long and steady, until the quiet turned sharp. “Because the North was burning,” you said finally. “Because someone had to keep what was left of it alive. Because love is a luxury for people who win.”

He swallowed hard. “And what did it buy you?”

Your gaze didn’t waver. “A seat beside a monster instead of under one.”

That silenced him. His hand trembled as he reached for the cup, but he didn’t drink. He couldn’t taste anything but the ghost of you and the weight of your words.

The meal ended in brittle silence. Brienne rose first, bowing slightly toward you before following the guards. Jaime lingered just long enough to catch your eye again.

“You said I’m a ghost,” he murmured. “Maybe I am. But you look like one too.”

You didn’t move, didn’t breathe for a moment. Then, softly, “The living envy the dead, sometimes.”

And as he was led out, the sound of your voice stayed with him—low, steady, and breaking somewhere beneath the surface.

The bear pit stank of sweat, mud, and blood—human and otherwise. Jaime still tasted iron on his tongue and the sour rush of fear that hadn’t yet burned out of him. The memory of Brienne’s scream as she stumbled backward from the beast echoed in his skull, and the sight of her swinging that broken spear still burned behind his eyes. His hand—his gods-damned missing hand—throbbed where the bandage bit into his skin, but he was alive. She was alive. For the first time in days, that counted for something.

Locke and his men had dragged them up from the pit like carcasses, laughing, until her voice cut through the noise.

“Enough.”

The sound froze them before it even registered to Jaime who had spoken. You stood on the upper steps, framed by torchlight and smoke, cloak half-slipped from your shoulders, eyes sharp enough to silence a crowd. The torchlight made your hair gleam like a blade, and for one disoriented instant he thought he’d died and the gods had decided to mock him one last time.

Locke turned, half sneering. “My lady, this is Lord Bolton’s business. The Kingslayer needed reminding what happens to arrogant pricks who think themselves above—”

“I said enough.” Your tone didn’t rise. It didn’t have to. The authority in it was older, colder. “Release them both.”

Locke spat, but the laughter behind him died. Even his own men hesitated. “Your husband—”

“—is not here,” you interrupted, walking down the steps until you stood close enough that the bear’s blood darkened your hem. “And I am.” You stopped before him. “If you wish to test your loyalty to House Bolton, by all means—defy me.”

The silence that followed was so taut Jaime thought he could hear the drip of blood from his torn sleeve. Locke’s mouth twisted. Then, with visible restraint, he signaled his men to step back.

“As you wish, my lady,” he said, venomously polite. “Let the lion limp home.”

Jaime straightened, still breathing hard, his muscles trembling from exhaustion and the brutal rush of adrenaline. You didn’t look at him immediately—only at Brienne, who stood beside him, dirt and blood streaking her face, defiance still alive in her eyes.

“Get them washed and fed,” you told one of the guards, then added, “and bring Ser Jaime his horse.”

The men moved quickly, perhaps too eager to be away from you. When they were gone, Jaime finally found his voice, ragged but steady. “You always did like making an entrance.”

That earned you a glance. “You always did like needing one.”

He might have smiled if it didn’t hurt to breathe. Instead, he just looked at you. Up close, the firelight caught the hollows beneath your eyes, the exhaustion that makeup couldn’t hide, the faint tremor in your hand where it rested on your cloak.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly. “Bolton—he won’t forgive you for embarrassing his dogs.”

“I don’t need his forgiveness,” you replied. “Only his silence.” You studied him for a moment. “You saved her.”

He met your gaze without flinching. “I owed her that much.”

“And what do you owe yourself, Jaime?”

The question landed deeper than you meant it to. His throat felt tight. For a heartbeat, the world around him—the smoke, the stench, the noise—faded away. He saw only you, and he remembered.

The last night before the war, before honor and loyalty had split the world in two. You in his arms, skin cold from the rain, hair tangled in his fingers. You’d laughed against his mouth when he’d called you a Stark wolf. You’d told him not to say your name so softly; that it made promises neither of you could keep. He’d kissed the inside of your wrist and sworn he’d return. He’d lied without meaning to. When he’d come back to King’s Landing, you were gone, married off to a man whose smile never reached his eyes.

He swallowed hard, pulling himself out of the memory before it gutted him. “You should go before Bolton hears what you’ve done.”

“I will,” you said. “After you ride south.”

Brienne, who had been silent until then, straightened. “My lady,” she said, voice formal but gentle. “Forgive me if it’s not my place, but... I don’t know your story. I don’t know what passed between you and Ser Jaime, or what’s been lost. But I’ve fought beside him. I’ve seen him bleed for honor when no one else would. He’s a good man. Whatever you think of him, know that.”

You looked at her then, truly looked, and something softened at the edges of your expression. “I know,” you said simply. “I always did.”

Jaime’s chest felt like it was caving in. You turned to him then, and the years fell away.

“When you reach your father,” you said, your voice low but steady, “tell him Lord Bolton kept his word. Tell him his son lives. And tell him the North remembers who it once called friend.”

He nodded, unable to speak. You stepped closer, so near he could see the faint sheen of sweat on your skin, could smell the faint trace of pine and smoke that had never left you.

“I thought I’d buried this,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “Whatever it was between us. I was wrong.”

“Then don’t,” he said before he could stop himself. “Don’t bury it.”

You exhaled a small, broken sound that wasn’t quite laughter. “It’s already in the ground, Jaime. We’re just the ghosts that keep standing over it.”

He wanted to reach for you, but the bandaged stump where his hand used to be hung useless at his side. And maybe that was fitting. He had nothing left to give.

Brienne cleared her throat gently, and you stepped back. The air between you felt colder.

“Ride south,” you said. “Before I change my mind.”

He managed a smile—crooked, tired, but real. “You always did like pretending you had one to change.”

You almost smiled back. Almost.

As the guards led the horses out and the gates of Harrenhal opened to the gray dawn, Jaime looked back once. You stood at the top of the stairs, cloak lifted by the wind, watching them go. You didn’t wave. You didn’t speak. But he felt it—the quiet pull, the weight of something unfinished.

When Brienne glanced at him, he said nothing. He just rode.

Behind them, Harrenhal faded into mist, and so did you.

But long after the sun rose, and the world turned bright again, Jaime swore he could still feel your fingers in his hair, still hear your voice whispering through the years between them:

The living envy the dead, sometimes.

[tricksh0t]

★ i ain't your daddy

☾ jaime lannister x older top m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ this thing sat in my drafts for almost a year (jul 8), which means the request is also almost a year old. nonnie if you're still reading my fics: aqui esta

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 3.90k

cw: one spank, spit as lube, little prep, i tried not to make it grooming but uhhh be warned, doggy, mean reader, boy as name for jaime

Tywin Lannister didn't have a best friend, but he had something close.

In the ten long years since Robert Baratheon's Rebellion, peace had developed over Westeros. Naught for the reign of the Baratheons, but for the absence of the Targaryen Mad King.

Officially, you were still a general. In practice, you were Tywin's closest advisor, his "best friend".

Jaime Lannister has known you as far as he can remember, likely since before he was even born, as a hand to his mother's belly. Then you were an uncle in his earliest years, the knight he squires for after, a swordsmanship teacher in his teens, a general during the Rebellion, and finally, his father's best friend; a presence in his life through and through.

Alongside wet nurses and his father, you had a hand in how he was raised. You were always the praise to his father's scowl, the sweet treat after dinner, the thoughtful gift on his nameday.

Officially, Jaime knew you had no business beside his father. You were just a restless war general in the presence of peace. In practice, he has long grown used to your presence at his father's side. So much so, he doesn't question it.

But he should now, and he has half the mind to, with the bile of insults that threaten to rise from his throat, because he realizes it now. Who are you, to call him out like this? You are not his uncle, and neither are you his general, as a true-born Lannister, he has all the power above you.

And yet.

Tywin has grown tired of Jaime and his little mistakes, so much so that when Jaime returned home from the frontlines quelling this decade's little Iron Islands outburst, he cannot even give him anything except sigh and a dissmissive hand; as if he did not call him back home himself with an angry letter.

It began first with an unfortunate ambush that could've easily been avoided had Jaime used his eyes, which cost his men their lives. He was lucky to escape alive himself.

Then, it continued on with the way he handled the Ironborn the following battle, pulling reckless moves and charging on not like the calculating Lion, but like a brazen Bull, avengeing his mens' lives. You had called it foolish. He had called it a matter of honor.

It ended unforgiveably with a retaliation ambush, one that went terribly wrong, and again, Jaime survived, scraped by the skin of his teeth.

And now here he was. After his father didn't even grace him with the energy of a shouting match, you had the gall to step up. Fresh back home after a season against the Ironborn, the only rest you gave yourself was peeling off your riding gloves before you got to speaking.

"This would've cost you your life ten years ago. You are lucky that our opponents are only the Ironborn, with their reckless ways and lack of discipline. In fact, it seems to be the only thing you know. I can see that it is why you underestimate them. Before all those ambushes, that is your first mistake. You would've learned otherwise a decade prior, if you were in the front lines of the Baratheon's Rebellion, but instead you were up in King's Landing, safe in the Mad King's fortress, up until you dealt the killing blow."

Jaime knows that. In fact, he almost paid for it with his life. Even if he didn't know it before, he certainly did now, bruised and burned and injured from the battlefield. Oh, he hated how you repeated it. He holds his tongue, instead showing just how much he is seething with the stare in his eye.

You ignore it. "I ought to keep you chained at the war table. Perhaps then you'd learn what it is like to think before you act."

Between the weight of his own mistakes and your mockery of him, Jaime snaps. "And who are you to scold me? You are not a father of mine, and you are certainly not my superior. I am a Lannister, you old fool."

And you have the audacity to put your hands on him. Jaime is twenty-seven, and you are just as old as his father. He should be able to overpower you, but something about the way you lift him from his chair has his knees buckling when his feet make contact with the floor.

This is only one of many times that you have made his knees weak.

It's not often that you see him out of armor. He is a King's Guard after all, but this time it is a social calling, a wedding important to one of the Lannister's vassal houses. That's why his father and his sister are in another carriage with the all important King Robert. It is a miraculous thing that, in an occasion such as this, Jaime is not lumped with the rest of the guards.

He is still a second priority though. He won't be the smooth talker or the center of attention. That's why he's in another carriage with you, of all people.

And you... you don't make him feel like a second priority, with the way your gaze drags over him and the expensive fabric draped over his body. He looks divine, the picture of youth and power, with his tailored outfit sticking to the curves of his muscles and his golden locks looking the way that they do, like a prince's.

Your stare almost makes him feel special, hot under the collar; and then your eyes linger on his lips for a moment before they find their way back up, where they are supposed to be, locked with his own. "Jaime."

His adam's apple bobs up and down with a nervous gulp. He is grateful for a chair to fall back against, then. "Ser."

He has known chaos, war and destruction since he was a young boy under the reign of the Mad King. Much like you, a war general, he has not known what to do with himself in the face of peace. The peace only leads to time, which only lends to thinking, and for a time he was almost beginning to unravel the complexities of your relationship... but then you had both regressed so quickly to soldiers when the Ironborn began their umpteenth rebellion.

"Stand up, boy, and say it to my face. Tell the man who played a hand in raising you that you do not respect him."

Jaime winces at your tone, the shout into his ear, but he doesn't give you what you want. He spits out instead, "You are not my father."

It clicks, then. You are not his father.

Jaime surges forward, hands on your shoulders, to kiss you. His mind returns to him quickly in the feeling, and he expects you to push him off, maybe even slap him, but then you're kissing him back. You escalate it, even, pushing your tongue into the heat of his mouth, and Jaime groans.

"You fucking brat." You whisper into his ear, and he shivers. "Kissing me like that, have you gone mad?"

"Ser–" What is he supposed to say? That he is sorry? He's not sorry for kissing the object of his desires, most certainly not. He is just afraid of the consequence.

"There is no apologizing for this." You tug his hair, his foolishly long hair, to look him firmly in the eye. It has him whimpering, and Jaime quickly silences himself by biting his lip. In the end, all it took to quell his anger was a kiss you didn't even force upon him. The worst thing of it all wasn't how easy it was to make him regretful, it was that you wanted to continue.

If anyone finds out, you'll both be dead before morn. Tywin's best advisor caught in an affair with his son? Even the whispers of it are more harmful than the death of a fertile heir, something you know Tywin to be capable of causing.

And yet.

You kiss him again, and again and again, because despite everything, you desire Jaime. It is a disrespect to his father, your closest friend, but you will have him anyway.

You walk Jaime backwards until his back hits a wall and you pin him against it. You are still in your armor, fresh from the road, stinking of mud and horses; while Jaime has been home for a little while. He's bathed, and he wears the red and gold house garb. Like this, he seems like a youth again, before he joined the King's Guard, before he learned of the world, and you, you look like before, too, a general in his physical prime. It's all so familiar.

Jaime feels small, pinned between you and the wall. You in your armor makes you all the bigger, all the more intimidating.

You're not his father, it is not your job to discipline him; and yet, a the same time, because you're not his father, you get to degrade him, spank him, and fuck him. You're not his daddy, you don't have to do things gently.

You should pull him over your lap and spank him for all that he's done, to set in the lessons, and that is probably what he's thinking of; but you won't. You will have him as you have wanted him, pathetic still, perhaps, but properly.

You don't want to praise him, you don't want to degrade him, you don't want to scold him, you just want to fuck him good and thorough as defiance for the long years you have resisted taking him.

For some reason, Jaime believes he has the same privilege. His hands come up to your hair to caress, to touch, to take. You take his hands and pin them to the wall above his head.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"What–?"

"Have you gone brainless? Did you take a blow to the head in battle?" You throw him, with that grip on his wrists, away from you and towards a hallway. "Walk."

Jaime, in his state of mind, can do nothing but obey. He walks down the hallway with the destination in mind that he thinks you both share, with you stalking behind him. In your armor, it's not just like his youth, it's like you're a guard protecting him, for once.

He has to pretend like things are all normal as the two of you walk past servants who can't mind their eyes, who look at Jaime's tousled hair and wonder.

He knows the walk to your room, though he's never walked inside since he was a child. Is it the same as he remembers, or has his constant daydreaming of returning for other reasons—daydreaming he's never permitted to last for more than a couple seconds—skewed his memory?

Jaime throws the door open without your permission, but he stops at the doorway. It's not different in here, not at all. He doesn't know what it brings him: relief, nostalgia?

You push him forward before he can let himself feel, slam the door behind you.

"Help me with my armor."

He scoffs, "I'm not a squire."

"No," You agree, grabbing a thick hold of his hair, "you're not. You're a disrespectful boy and I am disciplining you."

Jaime gulps at being called a boy. He's twenty-seven. He should be protesting, but instead he's gulping nervously like a child caught red-handed. He makes up his mind enough to say, "I'm not a boy."

Your nose scrunches up with anger. You push him harshly down and his knees give way like a worshipper's. He whimpers, you continue, "I said what I said, and you will obey it."

He hasn't helped to take another man's armor off since, well, you, when he was younger, when he was your squire. In his right mind, it should feel like a circle—but right now, it feels like you've taken him back to when he used to whine about not being able to decipher letters, to when squiring for you was a reprieve from his lessons.

He takes your armor off more diligently now, used to doing it for himself. You note this with a click of your tongue that pleases Jaime's ears, "You're better now than you used to be, do you know that?"

You're thinking of the same memories too. It makes him throb, knowing that you share so many fond memories, that you've a history together.

"I noticed." Jaime admits, because he's not sure if the question was rhetorical.

Some things come better with age, but some other things stay behind. Arrogance can only be so big for children. They can boast about having a stronger father only to their peers. To adults, they show reverence.

Jaime has grown more arrogant and less obedient with his age. You're going to fix it.

You undo whatever armor straps you can reach on your upper half, surprising Jaime. Two work faster than one, and the platemail comes off in no time. You kick his ankle with no softness to get him to stand, then gesture towards the bed, "Come on."

Jaime dumbly stays down until you grab his shoulder and pull him up yourself, then push. He stumbles backwards until his knees hit the bed, which makes him fall onto it.

"Is this how you nearly fell to an ambush?" You ask, mock, stalking forward until you're standing in front of him—then you lower, plant a hand between his legs to lean over him. "You're like a bumbling fool, Jaime."

You've got his knees weak and his whole attention, "I can't help it."

"Oh, but you can. Every time you say "I can't", you're giving up. Turn around."

Jaime turns onto his stomach. He can do that. You pull his trousers down without asking for permission, but the way he arches his back and pulls his ass up shows that he wants it.

You're not scolding him for saying "I can't". You're pointing out all the times he's said it, in your presence, and it invokes all the shame of him saying it without you around too.

Your fingers come up to his mouth. Jaime doesn't take them immediately, not until you say, "I am offering. Don't make me use force."

He takes them between his lips straight after, because the alternative is you choking him with them. He realizes now, though, as his tongue wraps around them, that he might've liked that; and that he liked your fingers in his mouth, a rudimentary way of shutting him up, when you take them out.

They're back in him the next second, two in his hole already. It makes him gasp.

You're a patient man, always, and it makes him burn to think you're too impatient to be inside of him to care if it hurts him—or maybe it's punishment.

Jaime rolls his hips back, grinding against your fingers, for more of that stretch.

"Brat." He only needs the words to make him stop, but you spank him too, eliciting a moan from him. "You will take what I give you."

You have power over him, you always have, but this is a different kind of power. You don't need to plant his hips down. Jaime stops grinding down at your command.

You've always been good to him: in childhood, in youth, in visits to King's Landing now that left the nest. The power you've had over him was unspoken, just there, never challenged.

He's challenged it today. He's seen you angry before, but very rarely at him, and not to this degree.

Two more fingers slides in. The stretch is almost more than he can handle, because you've skipped the more manageable increase of a third. He doesn't protest, he just takes with heavy breaths. He hopes it pleases you.

This power is different, of course. It's not just that he must take your every command—it's that you're the giver of his pleasure, that he can't get it himself.

You lean over him, now, by planting a hand next to his head. Your body presses against his, rough, dirty underarmor clothing pressed against his back. Your legs are pressed against him too, along with the bulge of your cock against his thigh...

He's not ready, not yet. Even if he wants your cock now that he's felt it, he knows his hole is not ready.

But you're pulling down your trousers already. Jaime turns his head to protest, but he's caught first with a gasp at the sight of you.

You're fucking big. Too fucking big. He says immediately, "I can't."

You'd split him open in his current state, you'd probably still split him open even if you prepared him properly.

"What did I say? You're giving up."

His hips and limbs go willingly when you prop him up on his knees to make his back arch and present his ass to you; but his hole clenches around nothing in resistance. You'll force your way through, he knows, just like how you force your way through blockades. You don't ask permission, you use your strength.

"I can't." Jaime repeats, fear in his eyes. The stretch of your fingers inside of him is good. The stretch of the beast between your legs can't be good.

"You'll take it." You say, sure as water. "You're afraid of being broken—but it's what I'm going to do to you. You need to be disciplined, don't you?"

He burries his head into the pillows when your tip presses in. It hurts already, and yet it feels like a good shock too, traveling through his nerves. Pain overpowers anyway, pain that makes him say "I do" as if appeasing you will stop the pain.

It won't. You press further in, and every time he thinks he's been filled to the brim, you push even further. His hole stretches wide and painful over your girth, unprepared.

When you're fully inside of him, with enough mercy to still if for a minute, Jaime finds it hard to even breathe.

"See?" You grab a handful of his hair and pull his head off the pillows just so he'll reply. "You took it."

What does that say to that? Jaime can't think, he's too focused on what his nerves are screaming at him, so whatever comes out of his mouth is impulsive. "It's too much."

"And soon enough, you will argue that it's not enough."

You pull your cock back a mere inch, push it back in. Jaime whimpers. You continue that way, pulling more whimpers and groans out of him, until finally you get a sweet moan. "There. Wasn't I right?"

The stretch is still stark, just not quite as painful. Pleasure bloomed each time you thrust into him, but slowly it started to overpower the pain. "Y-Yes." Jaime replies, the stutter from shame. You were right, of course you were, you always are, and he's pathetic for even thinking you wouldn't fit.

Your pace quickens absurdly fast. You pull back more of your cock every time, reminding him of the legnth of it that Jaime had barely memorized earlier, when he could see it.

The speed of your thrusts, the act of taking you without oil, it makes the friction come harder and faster. You hadn't eased into the speed. Jaime's knees buckle finally in the weakness you invoke, and you click your tongue with disappointment.

"Get up, boy."

Jaime fights to obey, but his limbs don't cooperate. His knees don't, either. He moves sluggishly, like the pleasure is weighing heavy on his limbs. In the end, you do it yourself.

You manhandle his hips up with tight, painful holds on his hips that will surely burn red marks into them. You hold him there, too, suspended in the air, taking his thrusts. He moans as a thank you, it's not a good thank you, but it's all the has to give.

"You finally get to have me, and you're lazy about it."

Jaime whimpers as if to complain, say that it's your fault, but no words come out of his mouth, at least not coherently. He babbles, mouth full of saliva that drips whenever he opens it.

"Have you lost your tongue, too, boy?"

"No!" He exclaims, because he cannot mediate his volume, not now.

The one word he gives you goes straight past you. You continue to mock him as you fuck him full of your cock and your pre. "Look at you, in your youth. Relying on an old man to fuck you."

It's not about old men, it's about you. Jaime swallows the spit in his mouth and finds the will to speak, because he wants to show his devotion and the regret you've knocked into him from your discipline, "I've wanted you for forever."

"Oh?" You have the audacity to laugh at him.

His blood boils with heat, the heat of your bodies and his emotions coming back to him. He swallows back pride, "I fucking mean it, Ser. It's not that you're old, that you're as old as my father, it's that it's you who–who's fucking me."

"There's that respect. Good, you've learned."

Your thrusts slow, was that all you wanted from him? Were you only fucking him to drill your lessons into his head? Jaime whines at the loss. With his mind coming back to him and sense too, his admiration for him persists. He's not crazy to desire you, to yearn for you, but now that he's expressed it, you're pulling away from him.

"On your back."

Jaime moves eagerly—you haven't dumped him.

"All it took was my cock to knock some sense into you, is that it?"

He nods his head vehemently, just as eagerly, and this time when your cock slides into him, he wants it more than he wants power, and it doesn't hurt.

This is a reward, getting to look you in the eye as you fuck him, not like a predator, but with passion. Looking at the man who fucks him in the eye, his desire burns brighter. He wraps his legs around your waist willingly as you start to fuck him again.

His knees are still weak, but his legs around you hold on still, with strength, persistance. They shake every time you bottom out inside of him, and yet he keeps them there to hold you close.

"You were never mad at me." He says naively.

"I was, still am," You laugh, for he's stupid to think otherwise, to think that the hand that spanked him was anything but. "but I never could stay mad at your for long."

You crash your lips together, just like before, sloppy and teethy and bloody and passionate and longing.

There is nothing holding you back now, you're together. You have him the way you want him, losing his mind under your cock, stuffing him full of you.

You're still mad at him—but you expend that energy in your thrusts that give him no reprieve, not even for breathing properly. You're still mad, but that anger makes Jaime grow harder, grow closer to his release.

He finishes over himself. It should be embarrasing, but it's your power over him and the fact you've made him come that makes him not feel the shame. And then you spill inside of him and he forgets himself, he just feels how full you've made him, how you've claimed him.

He was always yours, but this claim is now, finally, physical.

"Thank you, Ser."

[jetblack4real]

a knight's oath - jaime lannister

summary - you're the reason jaime gets called to the kingsguard, and he couldn't care less

targaryen!reader, daughter of the mad king, little jaime :)

word count: 3.3k

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

when you first met jaime lannister, you were just a girl of ten and two, and the lannisters had just moved to the red keep after your father called lord tywin to be his hand.

your mother had instructed you to play nice with jaime's twin sister, cersei, but the little blonde girl was entitled and arrogant in a way that confused you.

you were princess, you thought to yourself, so why and how was everything made to be about her? so, instead, you found your way to her brother.

jaime kept to the sides of the court, great hall, or ballroom, whichever you were summoned to at the time. he was an observer, which intrigued you. he remained quiet, just watching everyone interact and mingle amongst themselves.

when you introduced yourself, he seemed surprised. he took your hand gently and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

"i know, princess," he answered. "we've met before."

"i know, i just didn't know what else to say," you admitted with a sheepish sort of shrug as a smile pulled at his lips. "you're lord tywin's son?"

"i am."

"so, you'll be in the red keep from now on?" you guessed. "unless you're going back to casterly rock...?"

"no," he answered with a shake of his head. "no, my father wants us to learn the ways of court."

"where better than at court itself?" you hummed, which he smiled at.

"exactly. except, i don't want to be part of court," he told you.

you raised your brows, surprised. "you don't?"

"i want to be a knight," he said, smiling slightly.

"you can be a knight and a part of court," you laughed, shaking your head. "you're the oldest son of house lannister. you have to be part of court."

"i don't have to be anything," he answered dryly then, and you realized you'd overstepped.

you smiled thinly and nodded. "you're right. my apologies." you looked back out at the feasting lords and ladies, deciding it may be easier to attempt conversation with his sister instead, spotting her sitting with your older brother rhaegar and laughing in that practiced way of hers.

rhaegar met your gaze, brows raising slightly as he nodded his head for you to join him.

"excuse me, my lord," you said, glancing at jaime again with a polite smile. "i look forward to seeing you around the keep."

before he could say anything else, you were off to sit beside your brother and his sister, face brightening instantly at whatever rhaegar had said upon your arrival. jaime cursed to himself, rolling his eyes.

"i don't have to be anything," he muttered, mocking his own prior words as he kicked the ground. "what an idiot."

he watched you the rest of the night, his eyes rarely leaving your sweet face and gentle disposition.

while you thought he was an observer of all, the truth was he just spent most of his time looking for you, and he had since his father had uprooted him and his siblings from casterly rock.

and he continued to do so as time went on.

eventually, later that night, he managed to sit himself between you and his sister and take a second try at a decent conversation. you were happy to humor him, already appreciating his presence much more than his sister's.

after that night, you were pleasantly surprised when the more kindly of the lannister twins began seeking you out, offering you his arm as you walked the gardens, or sitting beside you at larger gatherings of court. many time, he struggled to come up with something to talk to you about, but you were happy to fill in for him.

"did your sister tell you?" you asked, leaning in towards him as you looked out at the tourney match. "ser barristan almost fell to arthur dayne. i can't believe you missed it."

"ser dayne is an excellent swordsman," jaime answered you as he settled into his seat beside you, happy to lean a little closer to you as well. "i wouldn't have been surprised either way."

you shook your head. "ser barristan is far better. he's the best swordsman westeros has seen in a hundred years."

he looked at you with a small smile. "and how would you know, your highness? have you been around the last hundred years?"

you rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly as you let out a breath of a laugh. "no. but, ser barristan is excellent. i don't imagine anyone could beat him."

jaime considered your words for a few moments before puffing his chest a bit. "i could."

"you could?" you asked, raising your brows with an amused smile. "you're a squire, jaime. you're not even a knight."

that's when he grew excited, leaning in closer to you.

behind you both, your father and brother looked down at you with deep frowns. "i don't like tywin's boy," aerys hummed to his oldest, brows knitted tightly.

rhaegar huffed. "i don't like his girl."

aerys shot him a sideways glance, and rhaegar didn't pay him another look, instead looking back out to the tourney. "do you think your sister has feelings for him?"

"she's a child."

"she's near a woman grown," aerys said.

rhaegar sighed, looking down at you and jaime. "i don't know."

"what is it?" you asked, smiling as jaime leaned closer to you.

"i'm not squiring right now," he said, and you realized what had seemed odd before. he grinned. "why?"

you furrowed your brows. "lord crakehall isn't participating?"

"he is," he said with a shake of his head. "but, he's gotten a new squire?"

"jaime, what did you do?" you sighed, and the boy laughed.

"nothing," he answered. he murmured your name, an edge of excitement in his tone. "i'm to be knighted."

you gasped, and then let out an excited squeal, whacking him lightly in the chest. "jaime! that's brilliant!"

he smiled at your reaction and your touch, leaning back into his seat. he'd been proud before, to be knighted at ten and five was a true accomplishment, but to earn your approval and excitement was another thing entirely to him.

as time went on, your relationship with the boy grew, and he became your closest confidante - even before your own brother.

rhaegar grew suspicious, but when he saw you chattering excitedly to the golden boy as he walked with you through the gardens you loved so much, he couldn't help but be glad. the red keep wasn't a place easy to make friends, and if jaime lannister was able to be a good friend to you, who was he to judge?

the sibling that did have issue, though, was cersei.

"jaime!" she called with a deep frown. when you met her eyes instead, her face switched immediately into feigned politeness. "your highness."

"is there something you need, lady lannister?" you wondered, not a fan of her interrupting your time with jaime. it wasn't the first time, and you were sure it wouldn't be the last.

"my father has just summoned jaime and i to speak with him," she said. "i'm going to have to steal him away from you."

"let your father know that he's with me," you answered shortly, lips pursed as you met her emerald green eyes that you decided you only really liked on jaime. "i'm sure he won't mind that his son is tending to the princess."

jaime's brows were raised, a smug smile pulling at his lips as he looked between the dragon and the lioness.

"and is he?" cersei asked, smile slowly slipping from her mouth. "tending to the princess?"

"who's to say how the night will end?" you hummed.

you took jaime's arm again, pleased with how cersei silently fumed, and took a step back towards the gardens you adored and had already spent half the afternoon in.

"good afternoon, lady cersei," you said before heading straight back into the rows of flowers and bushes, your hold on jaime tightening as you dragged him along with you.

once you were a decent distance away, he let out a laugh. "what was that about?"

"don't be offended," you told him, voice dull as you frowned. "but i dislike your sister. much."

he laughed again. "i could tell."

"oh could you?"

"all of court can tell, love," he answered, and the name sent your heart jumping for a moment.

"she's just..." you sighed. "infuriating."

"because she's trying to take me to meet my father?"

"because that's not what's actually happening," you said. "i like spending time with you, jaime, and so does she. i understand that. i enjoy spending time with my brother too. but, when i'm already with you, i absolutely despise when she tries to put a stop to it."

he hummed, nodding even as a sly smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth. "forgive me, princess, but you sound like a jealous wife."

"your sister behaves like a jealous wife," you scoffed. "she's ridiculous."

he chuckled, squeezing your hand and looking down at you with a warm smile. "don't worry. i enjoy being with you far more than her."

you matched his smile before turning back to the flowers ahead of you. "good. she's egregious."

he laughed again, pulling at your hand so you'd stop as he turned. "well," he said, plucking a delicate daisy from its place on it bush beside him. he turned back to you, pushing the stem behind your ear so it poked out past your hair, and he gave you the gentlest smile. "you're ridiculous." he pushed a stray lock of hair back by the daisy, fingers hovering over your cheek and gently tracing along the skin. "and beautiful."

your heart pounded in your chest, and you didn't have an answer.

"you're ridiculously beautiful," he finished, voice a soft breath.

you met his striking green eyes, slowly raising on your toes as his breath fanned over your face.

and then -

"jaime!"

"seven hells," you muttered, falling back on the balls of your feet with a roll of your eyes.

he grabbed your hand again, meeting your eyes with a grin. "come on."

"what?" you wondered.

"jaime!"

"run," he told you excitedly, pulling you through the rows of bushes as you let out a surprised laugh but followed him anyways, cersei left in the dust behind you.

you felt safe in your friendship with jaime. so safe, you began turning to him as a savior of sorts.

"jaime," you whispered harshly, coming up to his side and taking his arm.

the lannister boy, now two years a knight and well used to the games of the princess, turned with an amused smile. "your highness."

you frowned, hating when he used formal terms with you. "allister hightower really wants a dance."

"then, shouldn't you give the man a dance?"

"i don't want to give the man a dance," you sighed dramatically. "you've met him, you know. he's repulsive and uncomfortable. his hands always dip lower than is proper."

and that made jaime mad. "truly?"

"would i lie about that?"

"come," he said, taking your hand from his arm and raising it to lead you towards the ballroom floor. "i've got you."

your heart fluttered as jaime rested his hand on your waist and took your hand firmly in his free one, guiding you expertly across the dance floor. he searched your face, a frown still on his lips. "is he looking?"

"yes," you whispered.

a slow smile grew on his lips. "is everyone looking?"

"they always do," you sighed. "this isn't the first time you've asked me to dance, i'm not sure why it draws so much attention each time."

"well, technically you asked me to dance-"

"i did no such thing," you shushed with a short glare. "i told you about my predicament and you came up with a solution. who am i to argue?"

he smiled as he looked down at you, stopping his waltz to twirl you gracefully. when you faced him again, he pulled you even closer than you'd been before, and your breath caught. "jaime."

"yes, princess?"

you held his eyes for several long moments, unable to breathe or come up with a single cohesive sentence. there had been several moments in your years of friendship like this, but this one was different. it was paralyzing.

even as he spun you in his arms and you moved so gracefully around the hall, you felt paralyzed.

from across the room, king aerys was very aware of what was happening, and he didn't approve. "tywin," he said, earning his hand's attention. "i think it's time my daughter is betrothed."

tywin looked out to where you and jaime were absolutely entranced with each other, jaime's arms secure around you as you kept yourself close to him, all too close for a simple polite dance. he grinned, happy with the way his cards had been drawn.

"and let's talk about your boy," aerys continued.

"yes, your grace," tywin agreed. "at once."

the music came to a stop, and when the two fathers looked back out to where their children had just been, they found a sea of well-dressed courtiers instead.

you giggled as jaime pulled you down the hall, following after him without a second thought as you used your free hand to hold your dress up. "where are we going?"

"shh!" he shushed with a laugh, glancing back at you with a wide grin so unique to him you couldn't help but smile even wider.

he kept going through the halls until you were at a part of the castle you both frequented often. as he came to a stop, he let out a bit of a tired breath, glancing back at you with a small smile. "coming?"

you grinned as you walked alongside jaime into the gardens, steps quick as you found your way into the garden that had been named after you, flowers surrounding you and great trees shielding you from the music of the ball in celebration of rhaegar's nameday.

he pulled you under the branches of a weirwood, his hand coming to your cheek gently. your breath caught for a moment, hand coming up to catch his wrist. he searched your eyes, a small smile pulling at his lips as he watched you.

"you're beautiful," he breathed out, and your heart started again.

you smiled gently. "so are you," you murmured quietly. "certainly the prettiest knight i've ever seen."

he chuckled, tilting his head as his gaze flicked from your eyes to your lips. "you mean it, princess?"

"of course i mean it," you answered, smiling still. his eyes went to your lips again, and your breathing grew heavy. "jaime-"

but he kissed you then, any objection you had before flying out your mind as your arms hooked around his neck and his hands pulled you closer to him. you gasped into the kiss as he tugged you against him and he smiled, deepening the kiss in a confident sort of way that was always exclusive to his character.

your hands found their way into his golden locks and he nearly folded right there, your voice a soft mumble against his lips as you murmured, "you like that?" with a sort of smirk that made him go wild. he broke enough to meet your eyes, intense already, but features darkening still.

"do i?" he hummed. his hands slipped up and down your waist, his lips dropping to your neck as your breath hitched. your hands stayed in his hair as he pressed gentle kisses over the skin there, giving you occasional nips that he soothed with a swipe of his tongue, never leaving a mark where it could be seen. when his mouth hit just beneath your collarbone and you gasped, he grinned. "do you like that, princess?"

you pulled his head back up to your level with a tug on his hair and took his lips in yours again. "back to me, lion boy," you breathed out, jaime grinning as he happily followed instructions.

it was only a day later that your betrothal to brandon stark of winterfell was announced, as was jaime's appointment to the kingsguard.

his father wasn't happy with his assignment, given that it was lifelong and kept those sworn childless, and unable to carry on the family name. your father waved it away by reminding tywin that he did, in fact, have a second son, the ten and three year old tyrion who'd stayed back at casterly rock with attendants and tywin's brother.

and then, tywin's last remaining hope, cersei marrying rhaegar, was ripped from him too when rhaegar was betrothed and then married to elia martell.

you met jaime in the gardens in the middle of rhaegar's wedding, it being the first time you'd been able to see him. no one paid you any mind, distracted still with the wedding. "i thought it'd be you."

"i know, love," he murmured quietly, holding you close to him as he sat back against the trunk of the weirwood you'd shared your first kiss only weeks before. his hand ran over the back of your head, combing down the stray hairs soothingly. "i did too."

"i don't know him," you said. you breathed heavy. "i don't know the starks. i've never met him."

jaime rolled his eyes. "he's an uptight prick. he's very self-righteous, all the starks care about is their honor." when he saw the look on your face, the wide eyes and furrowed brows, he sighed, and rested his forehead on yours. "which means that, at the least, you'll be safe with him."

"but you," you caught your breath as you pulled away, searching his face. "you're stuck now. sworn to my father, to my family-"

"to you," he told you, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear with a smile. "if i can't have you, at least i can protect you."

"you're in the kingsguard, jaime."

"and the kingsguard is sworn to protect the king's children too," he answered. "i'll be with you. always."

and he was.

the rest of the kingsguard knew what he was doing when he offered himself up to accompany you to wherever you'd asked to go. there were several times you asked for a single guard to join you on your walks of the garden, and, of course, jaime managed to sneak his way out to be the one to join you.

the closer you got to your marriage to brandon, the more guilty you felt at being close with jaime, being with him in secret, kissing him in the cover of the gardens.

but, you didn't stop.

"why?" he asked you once, mouth hovering over yours as you held yourself up close to him.

your breath fanned over his lips as you considered the question, finally breathing out, "because i'm in love with you."

he didn't answer you. he didn't say it. he just kissed you again, and he didn't stop for the rest of the night.

when tywin finally called him on it, he was careful in what he said.

"the king knows," tywin told his son. "he's not blind. mad as he might be."

jaime's face screwed up in confusion. "father-"

"i'm leaving back to casterly rock. he's finished with me," tywin told him with a sigh, sitting back into his seat with a wave of his hand. "but, you... you have to stay. you're sworn to the kingsguard. but, jaime, if you truly love that girl..."

tywin hesitated, and it made jaime nervous.

"protect her."

jaime nodded surely, brows knitted as his hand rested on the hilt of his sword. "until my dying breath."

little did he know that it wasn't until his dying breath, but yours.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

thanks for reading! leave a request in the comments or message me privately! i love writing, so if you've got an idea you need fleshed out on paper i'd love to be the one to do that for you

masterlist!!

[kitkatkitzune]

GOLDEN

Pairing: Jaime Lannister x Fem!reader

Summary: Children always like to mimic their parents.

Warnings: A bit of angst, The smallest most brief implication of suicidal thoughts, Inconsistencies in the tense it’s written in

Notes: The lack of Jaime fics is criminal. Also this is an AU where no war happened really but Jaime still lost his hand because uh I said so. Let’s also say they released him from the king's guard because of his hand.

Word Count: 736 (this is so short, i’m sorry)

FLUFFTOBER 2025 , MASTER POST , ASOIAF MASTERLIST

———————

While the day hadn’t been strenuous or crazy, it was still tiring. You, Jaime, and your son, Damion, had been posed for a portrait for hours. You got one made every year since Damion had been born so you could look back on how he has grown. The final painting was always worth the time spent but still, all you wanted to do now was fall asleep next to your husband.

You were currently laying in bed with him, your head on his chest while he brushed through your hair with his fingers. Jaime had taken his gold hand off, opting to set it on the nightstand next to the bed. That was something he had only started doing about two years ago. At first, he had felt so insecure about his amputated hand that he refused to take the golden hand off. You never forced him to take it off but you would remind him that he didn’t need to have it on always.

Over the years that insecurity had dwindled into acceptance. When the accident first occurred Jaime questioned his life, he could no longer wield a blade in his dominant hand, he could no longer write neatly—even if his writing was never truly that neat before. The thing that upset him the most though, was the fact he would never hold your face in both his hands again. He was devastated about the loss but he still had you and at the time, he had just got the news that you were pregnant with Damion. And Jaime couldn’t leave you alone with a newborn babe, so he held on.

It pained him to think about the fact his son would never be able to spar with him when he was one of the greatest swordsmen in all of the Seven Kingdoms. Damion would hear stories of the great Kingslayer but never see for himself.

To many, Jaime was a freak and grotesque but to you, he was just Jaime. Your Jaime.

And to your son, Jaime was a hero. There was no one in the world that he looked up to more than his father.

The sound of your husband's heart combined with the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the way he played with your hair was lulling you to sleep quickly but just as your eyes grey heavy; the door to your chambers was being pushed open. Jaime quickly hides his right arm, he may have been okay with you seeing it but that didn’t mean anyone else could.

The Knight who had been standing guard looks apologetic, “I’m sorry my lord, my lady, but he was rather insistent on speaking to you at this very moment.”

Damion came bouncing into the room, hiding his arm behind his back. You raised a brow and sat up straight, dismissing the guard, he shut the door behind him.

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” you gently remind Damion, tilting your head.

The young boy giggles, “I know I know!”

Still giggling, he climbs up onto the bed, still hiding his other arm, he begins to jump up and down before finally stopping and sitting down in front of you both.

“Look!” he holds out his right hand for you both to see, “I’m just like you, father!”

Damion had completely covered his right hand in gold paint that he had swiped after you all were done posing for the day. You look at Jaime to gauge his reaction and you immediately note that his eyes had become glossy.

“Damion, why would you want…”

“Because father! I want to be like you! Now we’ve got matching gold hands…” Damion trails off when he notices the tears in Jaime’s eyes, “…I’m sorry I didn’t mean to make you upset… I’ll… I’ll go wash it off.”

“I’m not upset,” Jaime says, taking a deep breath.

“But you’re crying,” Damion says, matter-of-factly.

“You can cry when you’re happy too…and this… come here…” he reaches out to pull Daimon into a tight hug, “this makes me happy.”

Your son tugs at you as well to bring you into the hug.

“I love you both so much,” Jaime sighs, pressing kisses to both of your heads, “thank you.”

You all bask in the sweet family moment until Daimon laughs a bit, “Is this a bad time to tell you I don’t think the paint dried yet?”

[targlocket]

thinking about jaime lannister being insecure about his prosthetic golden hand. not wanting to touch you or be touched in fear of disgusting you with his weakness.

what better way to show him you're anything but than to guide said hand between your thighs and hump it until you cum while making heated eye contact?