Work Text:
It was well past midnight when Brienne stumbled into her long-term motel room, cigarette smoke and cheap beer clinging to every pore. She should shower, fall into bed, grab a few hours sleep before she had to head out of town for a rendez-vous with her handler. She pulled the rickety chair from the corner instead, prayed it would hold her steady, and reached for the third ceiling tile from the door. Shifting it up, her hand reached into the darkness, grasped the small box she knew was there. She pulled it out and climbed off the chair, moving to sit on the bed instead.
The phone made a soft hum as it came to life in her hands, the tiny screen lighting up green and casting a strange glow. She could call him. Hello, Jaime, I’m so lonely, won’t you talk to me?
His voice would purr down the line, sleep-rough and delicious, Take your shirt off, he’d say, so she did. Good. And your pants. She wiggled out of the jeans, kicked them across the room. I bet you’re blushing. She was, she could feel the heat on her face. Will you talk to me?
No. It was too much, even in her mind. Fuck, the things they’d done, before… She missed it, but the idea of saying it, shaping her mouth to say it--
That’s okay, he’d say. What colour are your underwear?
I said I wasn’t talking.
He’d chuckle. I’ll imagine they’re black then.
With lime green polka dots, she’d reply, just to hear him chuckle again.
The edges of the phone bit into her palm when she clenched her hand, breaking her fantasy. She could call him, but she can’t, and so she’ll have this instead.
Lie back, he’d say. Touch yourself. She headed for the waist of her underwear, but he’d click his tongue, Not like that. It’s not a race.
Fuck you.
Would that I could, Tarth. You’ll have to do it for me. Now, slowly. Your neck, your collarbone. Her hands skimmed over both, stirring her awareness, stoking it. Now lower. His breath would hitch here, Gods, your muscles. You could fight off a godsdamned bear. She bit her lip, laughter and irritation warring even at the Jaime in her mind. Does it feel nice?
A little.
Should be more than a little. Help a guy out here.
What about you? she’d challenge.
Not as good as your cunt, but I’ll make do.
You’re so crude, Jaime.
Remember that trip to the Vale?
It had been for work, shortly after they’d started sleeping together. The rooms had been nothing special, but the showers had been huge and his mouth had been filthy and she thanked the gods that Jaime was rich enough to pay for the damage to the showerhead. (It was his fault anyway, she’d insisted, and had refrained from describing her orgasm as cataclysmic despite Jaime’s adamance.)
He fell silent in her mind, the space that would exist filled with soft sighs and grunts, a muffled shout through the cheap speaker when he came, her fingers working, working, fuckfuckfuck, burning, aching, pleasepleaseJaime, and then he’d whisper her name and she arched, moaned, rode the peak into oblivion.
Sometime later, she looked at the phone still clasped in her hand--the screen had turned off, and she knew she should turn it off again, put it back. She closed her eyes instead, and promised she would do it in the morning.