It’s 2 pm in the middle of winter. Brienne is a burrito of thick blankets and a heating pad, dozing but not quite asleep as the cramps prevent her from it. They’re the horrible kind, pulsing around her pelvis, radiating to her back, and making her legs feel like she's been doing squats for three hours nonstop. Her periods are rarely so debilitating, but sometimes a lot of stress comes her way and it will hold the period back, and delayed periods? They come back with a vengeance.
She’d been busy the past two weeks with maid of honour duty for Sansa’s and Margaery’s wedding, but yesterday Brienne’s two stupidly attractive best friends finally married each other. As the tension released, the floodgates opened, and here she is now, curled up on a Monday afternoon, taking full advantage of Westeros’ mandatory provision for menstrual leave. Hurrah for representation and humane labour laws. Boo for periods.
She feels the room grow dark. Sometime later, she is roused by a weight on the other side of the bed.
“Hey, you,” Jaime says, still in his dress shirt and slacks. “How do you feel?” He offers her a mug.
Her mouth is dry. She takes the mug, expecting water, but Jaime’s brewed her some warm lemon and honey thing that he swears up and down can cure every illness known to mankind. She sips, and when she’s certain it’s not scalding, she gulps down half the contents. “Like crap, thanks for asking.” She sets down the mug and lies back down, burrowing even deeper into the blankets, becoming one with the bed.
“What do you want for dinner?” he asked, his hand carding through her hair.
Brienne doesn’t want dinner. She wants all the painkillers in the world, one big orgasm as a chaser to the meds, then she wants to sleep properly. She pulls the blanket over her head and mumbles exactly that from underneath.
Jaime goes quiet for approximately three seconds, then he says, “Well, that can be arranged.”
Brienne throws the blankets back, immediately regretting exposing her arms to the cool air as gooseflesh pebbles her skin almost painfully. “What?” she demands to Jaime’s back as he saunters into the bathroom.
His head pops out the doorway. “I said, that can be arranged. If it helps, it helps.” She hears him root around in the bathroom, and then he returns with the dark red towels he stole from his father when he moved out of the family estate and into her apartment, as well as a strip of ibuprofen. He dumps the towels on the bed and hands her the medication.
Brienne takes two. Her bladder is now properly awake, too, so she tiptoes over the cold parquet and towards the bathroom. She does her business—peeing, emptying her menstrual cup and putting it back in, brushing her gross-tasting teeth—and when she re-emerges, the air is warmer. Jaime must have turned the thermostat up at some point. The middle of the bed is lined with Lannister crimson towels, a splash of red over the white sheets. She would laugh, but her insides are twisting themselves into knots, cramps and nerves and, when she sees Jaime in his boxers sitting on the edge of her bed, a wave of arousal so strong she’s sure that he can now sheathe himself in her in one smooth stroke like an erotic novel hero.
She walks to him. He looks up, grinning wide, crow’s feet crinkling by the edges of his eyes. He looks at her that same way, often enough without the grin but the same warm eyes that seem to almost revel in the sight of her.
“So,” Brienne begins.
“So,” Jaime echoes, his grin softening as he waits for her, always putting her comfort first when it comes to sex. “How do you want to do this?”
Brienne looks at the bed, the arrangement of pillows and the red towels like an altar. “I’ll just…” She gets on the bed, reclining over the pillows with her hips right in the middle of the towels. She placed the heating pad, still powered on, to rest under the base of her back. She holds out her arms, then. On cue, Jaime crawls over her, resting his weight on her. She gasps at the warmth of his skin.
Jaime kisses her and she twines her arms around him, pressing him tighter to her, him and his body that runs too hot for summer nights but an absolute blessing in winters. He is solid but pliant in her arms, nibbling and sucking and licking at her lips and jaws while slipping a hand between them, finding the juncture of her legs, eliciting a loud moan that he swallowed with his mouth.
There are too many sensations to count. His weight, his warmth, his erection pinned between them, the friction of her underwear under his hands and over her clit, the truly expensive-feeling towels under her and how they almost burn her skin with every undulation of her hips, the pain, still there but distant, now, his lips—
Brienne’s inventory is cut short when Jaime pulls back. He hooks a finger under the waistband of her underwear and pulls it down, down, his knuckles tracing a burning line over her leg, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. He looks at her pussy, then, frowning.
“What’s wrong?” Brienne asked.
Jaime pauses. “I expected more blood, that’s it.”
Brienne laughs, then biting her lip to stop because it makes the cramps worse. “I forgot to not put the cup back in. Let me just—”
“You know, I’ve always wondered how the damn thing work. Tell me what I need to do.”
Brienne stared. “Are you sure?”
“Wench, I put Tywin Lannister’s towels on the line. I am very certain I want to do this.”
Brienne shrugs, leaning back on the pillows. There’s no dissuading Jaime when he’s like this, and it’s not like she’s opposed to having his fingers in her. “Put your thumb and forefinger in and get ready to pinch— ah, yes, like that, just— Jaime —just try to find the stem, follow it—yes, you touched the cup, just pinch the bottom to release the suction—good, now pull it out slowly and gently— mmh ,” she whimpers, at the end, at the emptiness left behind as Jaime pulls the cup out. He carefully places it to the side and looks down to between her legs, where a bit of blood has spilled from the cup and a little more blood ooze out of her. His lips turn downwards in a small moue of disappointment.
“What?” Brienne asks, sighing as she does so.
“There’s still not that much blood. I thought it would be, well.”
“Red Wedding? It would be, if I hadn’t emptied the cup just now.”
“If it helps, I’m sure some more will ooze out in time. That’s how it works. Now, can you just…” she trails off, gesturing at her rapidly cooling middle and legs. The twisting and coiling are returning, now, like a monster is raking its nails inside her womb. She stretches her legs farther, locking the joints. The pain always makes her want to curl up, but she knows out following that instinct only makes it worse.
He gets back down between her legs. “Of course,” he says, and then he put his mouth on her.
She bucks. Her hands fly to his hair, pulling him in. He laps at her, and this time, unlike many other times, he doesn’t draw it out, knowing she needed the release soon, a brief respite from the pain, and indeed it is. The warmth spreads out, her curling and moving like how heated metal expands and bends, the pain being pushed back once more, and then he puts his fingers in her, two of them, easily sliding in as blood and juices mingled for pumping as his tongue goes around her clit. She sobs and whimpers, so close, but not yet, something is missing, then Jaime adds a third finger and makes a movement inside her as though beckoning her pelvis up, and a hoarse shout escapes her as she feels her pussy squeezing around his fingers, pleasure exploding and flooding her senses, down her toes and to her fingertips.
Brienne wrenches Jaime’s head back by his hair and he looks up at her, his eyes glazed, blood and juices coating the lower half of his face and it hits her then.
He isn’t merely helping her.
He finds this arousing, too. Somehow, he likes tasting her blood, and nothing of this turns him off. The opposite, even, looking at the tented boxers and the slight dark stain on it. Throwing one hand over her eyes, she breathes, in, out, trying to shake off the hypersensitivity as she basks in the afterglow.
Then, she holds out her other hand and it’s like he fell into her embrace, a furnace by his own rights, hard and unyielding, gentle and obliging, all at once, and it takes them no time to get his boxers off and his cock inside her—yes, it really doesn’t take much effort to slide in. A distant part of Brienne remembers fuck, condoms, then she discards it. She’ll take the morning after pill, later, because what matters is Jaime, rutting into her, fast and careless. He talks ceaselessly into her collarbone, sweet nothings and filthy pleas and her name, “Brienne Brienne Brienne—”
Brienne slips a hand between them and gathers some slickness on her fingers before she moves the hand to cup his buttocks, one slick fingertip circling his opening.
He grunts and then begs her, “Please, Brienne, please—”
So she did.
Her forefinger enters her, one joint, two, and he loses his words. He grunts, now, all animal, and when she angles her finger just so, he spills in her, his cum and her blood and the slickness of her juices, all into one, and though it does not bring herself over the edge, there is a warmth to it, a pleasure gentle and steady as he grows limp atop her and soft inside her.
Brienne kisses Jaime’s temple, unwilling to move. Unable, even. She knows at some point they will have to get up and clean up after themselves, but right now she is all contentment.
It’s Jaime who moves first, propping himself up on his elbows and looking at her. “Cramps still hurt?”
Brienne blinks. “No,” she says. “No, not really.”
He grins, his teeth stained red, his beard all crusted blood. He looks positively feral. “Good,” he says, then he kisses her.
He tastes like salt and copper. She feels something stir inside her, pleasant, curious. When they break apart, she says, “You know, it can last up to two days. Tomorrow morning, I won’t empty the cup before.”
Jaime kisses her again, hard. When he pulls back, he sees her with mirthful eyes. “Good. We’ll use all our red towels, and if we run out, we’ll get Tyrion to steal more.”
This time, she doesn’t hold back her laughter. It doesn’t hurt anymore.