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Thirsty

Summary:

“Brienne,” Jaime whispers, “Why does kissing you feel like I’ve downed five shots of tequila and immediately followed-up by riding a tilt-a-whirl?”

The odd expression on Brienne’s face shifts, somewhat, to a familiar bashfulness. ”I--that’s my fault.”

Notes:

This started as a tumblr ask about a fic where Brienne is a magical creature. I posited that it would be interesting if she were something that's usually beautiful and seductive. EyriScrye encouraged me, and Brienne the succubus was born!

This is absolutely a silly fic. I cobbled together some succubus lore and omitted what didn't suit my aims. Don't look too hard, or it'll fall apart. There's also some slapdash urban fantasy worldbuilding sprinkled throughout. The goal was really to make Brienne the most uncomfortable and principled succubus and have Jaime be massively into her in a way that has nothing to do with her ability to seduce men. Then some kinda magicky smut.

It's complete, and I'll post the next part in a day or two! Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 1: I & II

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

I.

Margaery has an electric pink martini in her hand and is giggling in Brienne’s ear.

“This place is a feast,” she says, holding her drink aloft in a solitary toast, “Sometimes, just this once, the internet didn’t lie to us.”

Brienne sighs, “It’s very noisy.”

“And very, very filled with sexually frustrated humans.” Margaery thinks she’s whispering, but the words are nearly shouted in Brienne’s ear. She sways a bit, causing Brienne to slide to the left in their booth to avoid potentially being covered in booze. “The air is electric with it. Can you feel it, Brienne?”

“You know I can.” 

It’s a war of attrition with no victor; she’s both factions, and a push in either direction results in a loss. Brienne has become quite adept at walking on a razor’s edge--never satisfied, but never ravenous. 

She isn’t like Margaery, who enjoys playing the game.

“Why do you sound pissed off?”

They’ve had this conversation before; inebriated, Margaery forgets.

“Because I don’t like this,” Brienne replies, “Another martini and you’ll be sticking your tongue down some guy’s throat and dragging him into a back alley.”

“I’m scoping out women tonight, actually.”

That’s no better. “Great, you can take her to the restroom without getting in trouble.”

Margaery giggles and sips her drink. Brienne picks up her own rum and cola and sips along. Another lime wedge would’ve been nice.

“Brienne,” Margaery rests her cheek against Brienne’s solid shoulder, “Why do you give yourself so much shit over this? It’s not like we’re vampires, leaving bloodless corpses in alleys in Flea Bottom. That was all over social media this morning.”

“I saw,” Brienne replies dryly. The vampire clans were always scuffling with one another, and innocent bystanders got caught in the crossfire.

“So what’s the big deal? It’s just a kiss or some heavy petting. Humans are lusty animals, and feeding on dreams has to get old.” Brienne feels her shrug. “Even if I take someone home, as long as I go easy, they’ll sleep an extra hour and just think they have a little hangover.”

“It’s...dishonest.”

Margaery laughed at Brienne, good-naturedly, the first time they met and called Brienne the most principled succubus she’d ever met. Brienne had just moved to King’s Landing and was shocked at the number of magic users and non-humans and in the city. Hedgewitches peddled their potions at farmer’s markets, and there seemed to be a community meet-up group for every magical being she could think of. She met Margaery at one such meet-up; she was not only Brienne’s first friend in King’s Landing, she was the first person Brienne met who was like her.

Now, over a year later, they were the most unlikely of roommates.

“It’s not like back in the dark ages where we were hunted, or that awful period where non-humans had to carry around special identification. You look human; you act human. How is skimming a little energy off the top dishonest?”

“Because you’re taking something from them.” 

“It’s a trade; you’re giving them pleasure, and they’re giving you energy.”

The truth was more complicated, but it was hard to tell someone as beautiful as Margaery. Brienne was shy and tall and not terribly beautiful--she was the exact opposite of every description of a succubus. As a girl, when Brienne came to understand her nature, she asked her father if a curse had been placed on her. Her father seemed to have a new girlfriend every season, even if Brienne rarely met them. Perhaps one was a jilted sorceress?

But, no--Brienne’s mother was beautiful, seduced her father, and fell deeply in love instead. From the stories her father told, Brienne knew she’d never find that; she wasn’t meant to.

Margaery is already scanning the crowd; there’s a pretty girl with long auburn hair, dancing to the electric beat of some pop song, arms in the air. Her dress is rose pink and flares when she spins. The group around her must be her friends; they seem a bit younger than Brienne, closer to Margaery’s age.

“Go on,” Brienne nods in the direction of the group, “I’ll be fine.”

“Brienne, come with me.” Margaery peels her hand off the table and tugs. “It’ll be fun; there’s no reason to sit here alone. You have options.”

Not like you do. 

“I’m fine, really.”

The girl with the auburn hair might kiss Margaery, might call a rideshare and take her home. They might wake up, limbs entangled, and Margaery will feel that sated, complete feeling that Brienne finds so elusive. It’s a feeling more heady than the alcohol running through her veins. It’s a feeling Brienne could get addicted to--a feeling she should find irresistible.

Margaery looks skeptical. “If I text you at three in the morning, will I find you in some twenty-four hour diner choosing drunken, lonely people to send dirty dreams?”

Brienne smiles, but there’s an edge of self-deprecation to it,  “A girl’s gotta eat.”

“Seven hells, Brienne, there’s better food than that.”


Margaery knows Brienne well because those strange, interminable hours before dawn find her doing just that. The diner is on the Street of Flour, just a few blocks from her apartment, and is run by a guy everyone just calls Hot Pie. Brienne doesn’t know his real name; she’s not sure anyone does.

The pancakes are amazing. Brienne always half-wonders if Hot Pie enchants them; she knew a baker who did that back on Tarth. The woman did something to the bread to make it extra delicious and everyone would queue up on Saturdays to buy it.

“You’re here again,” Hot Pie says when he comes to her booth. He doesn’t bring a menu.

“I am.”

“Pancakes and sausage?”

Brienne just nods.

There’s a few other patrons scattered in boothes. Margaery prefers the hectic milieu of bars and nightclubs, but Brienne’s always been introverted. The heart of the issue isn’t her appearance--there’s men and women who would be into her if she presented herself the right way. It’s more that she’s painfully shy and can’t do what is needed. 

Anonymity is so much simpler. 

The neighborhood is asleep around her; their dreams, and their desires, tug at her mind like dozens of little strings. It’s a hunting instinct, one ingrained in her. Her mother felt it, as her mother before that. She’s meant to choose a person, entrap them in a snare they mistake for a dream, and drain them. It’s less obvious if done over a number of nights, but she’s heard stories of succubi going overboard and killing their prey. It’s hard to assign blame since the person usually dies in their sleep. There was a famous case, once, of a succubus who killed her husband in a bout of hedonism because she wanted his fortune. Instead, she’d gone to prison for murder.

Brienne used to resent her needs, wishing to be anything else but as she was, but she’s discovered an enjoyment for giving people pleasurable dreams. It’s a craft that Brienne has a knack for, and sometimes it helps a person work through something. Margaery solicited Brienne’s help when her brother Loras was convinced Renly wasn’t interested in him. 

“I’m shit at the dream thing,” Margaery had pleaded, “and Loras is my brother. I don’t want to make Renly dream about banging him. I mean, I want them to bang because seven hells , Brienne, the pining, but I don’t want to orchestrate it.

“So you want me to?”

“Your dreams are so good,” Margaery replied, “and scorching. Feel free to take a big drink, too. If Renly’s zapped in the morning, it’s his punishment for jerking Loras around.”

It wasn’t quite like that. Brienne had known her own crush on Renly was fruitless the moment she made him dream of Loras. Renly loved Loras; he just hadn’t been ready to admit his feelings. They were together, and the sight made Brienne happy.

Brienne eats her pancakes and sausage and lets her mind wander, following the threads where they take her. A few dreams will be enough for a week or so. She’ll be a little tired, still, but she’ll manage, and the dreamers won’t be affected. 

King’s Landing is filled with lonely people; Brienne tries to forget that she is among them, and that no one is dreaming of her.


The redhead from the bar is named Sansa Stark. Margaery asks if she can bring Sansa to lunch and shopping with them next week, and Brienne has no reason to refuse.

You’ll like her, Margaery texts her, And she already knows the truth!

You told her? Brienne texts back. Margaery never told her flings the truth of her nature. She also wasn’t inclined to visit the same source twice, until now, apparently.

Nah, Sansa could just tell.

Sansa is as charming as she is lovely. Brienne isn’t much for shopping, but she enjoys the company and holds all Sansa and Margaery’s bags as they move their way through the outdoor mall near the boardwalk. The two of them walk arm-in-arm, and Brienne can’t help but smile. She doesn’t even feel like a third wheel.

“Are you not going to buy anything?” Sansa asks her.

“I don’t need anything,” Brienne replies, “All I really do is go to school, study, and get dragged around by Margaery.”

Sansa giggles, “What are you studying?”

“Oh, um, I’m getting my master’s in physical therapy.” Something where she can help people but doesn’t involve peering into their heads too much. 

Sansa convinces Brienne to buy some bath soap she never splurges on, and the retail therapy does boost her spirits. They eat lunch at a place overlooking Blackwater Bay that serves a fusion of Essosi cuisine.

“So,” Sansa leans into Brienne while they wait for their orders, “You’re like Margaery.” 

Everyone knew someone who wasn’t human or had magic of some sort. Brienne doesn't necessarily mind people knowing she’s a succubus, but she’d prefer to tell them herself. None of her cohort at school knew, but it just hadn’t come up.

“How can you tell?”

“I’m kinda like a…” Sansa scrunches her nose, and Margaery coos at her, “a magic detector, I guess. I can sense that you’re not human.”

“Sansa told me she knew before we even left the bar,” Margaery adds. “It was pretty refreshing, actually.”

“King’s Landing must overwhelm you,” Brienne says.

“Nah,” Sansa replies, “I have two brothers and a sister who are wargs, so I’m used to being around stuff like that. My little brother’s vague prophecies are more disturbing, honestly.”

“I’d never considered telling someone,” Margaery lowers her voice, “but Sansa didn’t mind at all.”

Sansa’s cheeks turn a bit pink, “You’re no different from me. Well, aside from the fact that if you get overzealous I’ll end up feeling like an empty toothpaste tube.”

Margaery’s smile is an affectionate, abashed one Brienne’s never seen. “I was worried,” she admits, “Brienne was the last person who told someone, and it didn’t go well.”

“What happened?” Sansa asks.

Hyle. Brienne decided to be upfront on their fourth or fifth date. “He told me there was no way someone who looked like me could be a succubus.” 

Margaery rolls her eyes, “They didn’t go out again, obviously,”

Sansa gives Brienne a sympathetic look, “I’m sorry.”

“He was an utter prick, ” Margaery continues, “Who says we all look a certain way? That’s bullshit.”

Brienne smiles against the rim of her water glass. “It’s no loss. He wasn’t very good anyway.”

 

 

II.

“You have to put yourself out there, Jaime. You haven’t been on a date in two years.”

“There’s a reason for that, Tyrion,” Jaime replies, “and the reason is I don’t want to.”  

He’d given Tyrion better, more detailed explanations over the past few months. I’m taking some time for myself, and It’s not a good idea to jump back into a relationship so quickly. Jaime’s last one ended in a rather spectacular dumpster fire. His brother, much like their sister and father, didn’t easily accept answers they disagreed with. 

Tyrion was the only member of his family who Jaime liked and who was supportive, even in his own overbearing way. It makes Jaime more tolerant.

“You look,” Tyrion gestures at Jaime’s entirety with a wave of his hand, “like that, and you waste it. If I looked like a statue of the Warrior, I’d fuck so many women I’d need one of those vigor potions the Red Priestesses sell in Flea Bottom.”

“Yeah?” Jaime arches his brows, “Then you’d end up their thrall and forced to sire demon shadow babies. Or you’d get cursed and turned into an ass. Or your cock would stay hard for a week, and you’d make a very awkward trip to the hospital.”

Tyrion laughs, “I don’t know, I could work with that last one.”

“You seem to manage fine enough with the assets you have.”

“Gold dragons work wonders,” his brother replies, “ and I’m funny.” 

There’d been a brief period a few years ago, when Jaime first stopped working for his father, where he’d been Tyrion’s roommate. The parade of women, human and magical, coming through his brother’s door had Jaime looking for his own place as soon as he could. Tyrion’s thirtieth birthday party and the vampire orgy had been the last straw.

“You’re certainly something,” Jaime replies.

Tyrion’s sigh is heavy, like Jaime has given him the greatest disappointment. Then, he takes a drink of his vodka martini. It has a blue cheese-stuffed olive inside, and Jaime has never seen the appeal. “There’s a group of women at the bar over there. Go introduce yourself.”

They’re on a rooftop bar with sleek patio furniture where the drinks are up-charged for the atmosphere. Twinkle lights stretch from one side of the space to the other, but they don’t provide much illumination. Beyond the bar, the highrises of King’s Landing stretch into the night sky. 

The group Tyrion’s referring to have their backs to him, so all Jaime can see are the tops of their heads--auburn, brown, and a blonde so pale it looks white in the lights. The blonde on the end is an entire head taller than the other two.

“Why?”

“Because they look young and easy to get into bed,” Tyrin grins. “Thirsty, right?


Tyrion likes to have a good time, and to him that means drinking.

In the spirit of it, Jaime orders a pint of saison from a brewery in Oldtown. It tastes like coriander and orange zest and quenches his thirst on the warm summer evening. He orders a second pint. Beer gets to him quicker than hard liquor and being nearly forty hasn’t helped his tolerance. Tyrion keeps telling him he needs to drink more, but last time his brother made that claim, he rang Jaime's doorbell holding a bottle of barely-legal, electric green liqueur from Asshai that made Jaime hallucinate dragons in his living room.

There was a lot of weird shit in King’s Landing, but there’s definitely no dragons in his living room, or anywhere else. Jaime saw dragon eggs as a boy in Lannisport, but they had to be some knock-off the fortune teller was trying to pass off as authentic.

Anyway, that was his brother’s idea of a good time.

Once the second pint is half-gone, Jaime is buzzed enough to consider his brother’s suggestion. All three of the women are still seated in a line at the bar. Two of them giggle frequently, an airy and feminine sound that echoes in the night. The taller woman laughs less frequently, but it’s a much lower, richer sound. Jaime finds the more he drinks, the more he wants to hear it. She turns her head, sometimes, and he catches glimpses of her in profile.

Tyrion leans in, “Which one are you gawking at?” 

“None of them,” Jaime replies.

“Bullshit. It is the brunette in the middle? Is she your type?”

Instead of answering the question, he blurts, “I’m gonna do it.”

“Shit, really?” His brother claps him on the back. “Go get ‘em, tiger. Or maybe ‘lion’ would be more appropriate? Anyway, you’ll nail it.”

What Tyrion never seems to realize is that Jaime is a disaster at flirting. If the woman doesn’t fall for his looks, he’s utterly fucked. Nevertheless, he slides onto the stool next to the brunette and orders two fingers of a whiskey he likes that’s made near Winterfell. The first touch of it on his tongue is a delightful burn.

Liquid courage.

The brunette and the redhead look in his direction, while the blonde stares at her drink, features hidden behind the fall of her hair.

“Did you come over here to hit on us?” the brunette asks. She’s objectively stunning--soft brown eyes and a grin that, for some reason, makes the hair on Jaime’s arms bristle. It feels a bit like staring into the enclosure of a predator at the zoo.

“My brother back there,” Jaime gestures with his thumb over his shoulder, “is trying to get me ‘back in the game.’ Feel free to roast me; I only came over to shut him up.”

It’s nearly the truth. It’s also freeing to throw the game on the first pass.

“That’s an oddly endearing pick-up line,” she holds out her hand, and Jaime shakes it. “I’m Margaery, and that’s Sansa. We’re dating, so your brother chose poorly.”

“I’d relay that, but he’d ask you for a threesome. You don’t want to hear that.”

Sansa makes a dramatic gagging noise, but Margaery smirks, “It’s like a two-for-one sale. Too bad I’m stuffed.”

Jaime looks down the bar; the blonde is still as a statue. Margaery glances to her, then back to Jaime, and her grin turns predatory. “You should talk to Brienne; she’s single, and I have it on good authority that she’s thirsty.”

Brienne turns her head and says, “Margaery.”

“What?” Margaery snaps back, “You won’t do it yourself; I’m just trying to help you.”

Sansa pats Margaery’s arm, “You wanna dance before we head out?”

“Of course,” she waves, “Have fun, Brienne!”

When they're gone, Jaime moves two stools closer. He can feel Tyrion’s eyes boring into the back of his head.

“You’re the tallest woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Thanks, I never noticed.”

“Stand up; we should compare heights.”

“You know, I’d like to drink in peace,” Brienne sighs heavily, “so you don’t have to sit here.”

“Don’t condemn me back to my brother just yet. I’m Jaime.”

Jaime holds out his hand, but Brienne doesn’t hold out her hers. “Please ignore Margaery. She means well, but it’s…”

“Overbearing?” Jaime finishes.

She nods, “Yeah.”

“I know the type.” 

He sips his drink; Brienne watches him closely. It feels like he’s being studied. Jaime isn’t shy, so he looks back. He wouldn’t call Brienne beautiful; her cheeks are broad and covered with freckles, and her lips are too full to be called pouty. Her nose has definitely been broken at least once. Regardless, her astonishingly blue eyes paint over everything. There’s a gravity to her gaze--like Jaime is a moon caught in her orbit; he can’t look away. 

“You’re staring at me,” she mumbles, breaking eye contact. A red flush rises from her chest, visible from the scooped neck of her tank top, until it reaches her cheeks.

“You were staring right back,” Jaime counters.

“Well,” Brienne turns her head further away, “n-now I’m not.”

Jaime laughs, “Let’s call it a draw.”

When Brienne looks back, her brows are scrunched in a stubborn line. “Fine.”

“Two of the three women my brother goaded me to hit on are dating. Let me guess; you’re married?”

She snorts, “No.”

“Studying to be septa?”

Now, she outright laughs, “Gods no, that would be--they’d never take me.”

“Are you particularly sinful, my lady?”

Brienne only smiles this time. “Maybe that’s it.”

“Murderer, then?”

“No,” she glances away, “I’m too careful for that.”

The statement perplexes Jaime, but he doesn’t pry. After all, he doesn't know Brienne. He sort of wants to fix that. “Bothering three random women who clearly weren’t here looking to pick up guys should backfire. My brother doesn’t need his behavior enabled.” 

“Probably not, no.”

“Nevertheless, would it be inappropriate if I asked you to get coffee with me?”

“N-no, it wouldn’t be.” Brienne looks to where Margaery and Sansa are twirling one another. He swears a look of sadness flickers in her eyes “Not now, though; I always make sure they get home safely.”

“Ah, you’re that friend. Me too.”

Jaime holds up his drink, and Brienne taps hers against it.


It takes over a week for their schedules to align. 

Jaime and Brienne text back and forth. It’s nothing too deep, just small talk about food and movies and King’s Landing. He learns scattered facts--Brienne grew up on Tarth, she’s in grad school, she wants a pet but got a plant instead and learned she can’t keep green things alive.  

The texting occurs enough that it gives Tyrion ample time to roast Jaime over the fact that he, allegedly, grins like a man half-crazed at his smartphone.

Tyrion’s laughing when he asks, “Did she slip a love potion into your drink?” 

“Don’t be rude to her.”

“I wasn’t,” Tyrion waves his hands in surrender, “It’s just that you spoke to her for ten minutes, haven’t met her since, and look like you’re about to shop for a damned engagement ring.”

“No, I fucking don’t,” Jaime snaps.

“Whatever you say, brother dearest. When are you meeting this literal mountain of a woman?”

“Saturday at two.”

Tyrion cocks his head, “That’s an unsexy time for a date. Are you doing to fuck her in the park while people walk their dogs?”

“What? No. I--I’m not--afternoon coffee is neutral. I don’t want her to think I’m trying to get into her pants.”

“You are, though.”

“I’m not.”

“The end goal of dating is fucking. You may not be thinking of it now, but you will be.”

The remaining days until Saturday crawl by, and Jaime is decidedly not thinking about it.


Jaime lets Brienne choose the venue. He’s really, really not trying to appear creepy. He’s already half-afraid he’ll seem too excited to see her again, and Brienne will think he’s clingy. 

Brienne chooses a cafe on a ramshackle street of shops mostly catering to magical things. The storefront is a quaint house that looks like it was whisked away from some pastoral village.

Much stranger things have happened.

The interior is equally charming, with it’s mismatched furniture and stained glass table lamps. Shelves line the walls, covered in magical knickknacks for sale. Jaime spies three dragon eggs on one shelf; they remind him of the ones he saw as a child.

A girl with cropped, silver hair who can’t be any older than eighteen sits behind the counter. When she sees Brienne, she rises from her stool. “Brienne, I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

Sheepishly, Brienne replies, “I got busy with school.”

“I told you that you would.”

“Dany, that’s not divination; that’s just obvious.”

The girl, Dany, laughs, “It's a fortune telling joke. You’re supposed to find it funny. Who’s your friend?”

“That’s Jaime.” His name comes out in an odd tone. 

Dany holds out her hand, and Jaime shakes it. “I’m Daenerys. This was my mother’s shop, but now I do my best to keep it running. If you buy a dozen cookies, I’ll read your fortune for free.”

“Can’t beat that deal.”

“She’s goodl,” Brienne says, “Tea leaves, palm-readings, prophetic dreams.”

“It runs in the family.” Now that Dany is closer, Jaime sees her violet eyes. People of Valyrian descent made the best mages and soothsayers.

Brienne orders lattes and pound cake with berries and cream, chatting with Dany while she rings the order up. She seems quite different in this atmosphere; her laugh has the same low timbre he found so enthralling at the bar, but now Brienne seems relaxed and more verbose. 

Jaime doesn’t particularly care about the fortune telling, but he does order a dozen oatmeal raisin cookies. He’ll eat them in front of Tyrion because his brother hates raisins and will make a stink about their inclusion in cookies.

“Those are the best ones,” Brienne says.


They talk the entire afternoon, long after the pound cake and a second round of lattes are gone. They talk until Jaime wants to reach across the table and take Brienne’s hand. They talk until Brienne’s expressions, the way she tucks her hair behind her ears and chews on her lip when she’s thinking, are burned into Jaime’s mind. 

They talk until Jaime knows, with absolute certainty, that he wants to kiss Brienne.

Jaime won’t do it--not yet, not until he knows he won’t fuck it up, not until he thinks he’s earned the chance. 

The cafe gets busier, but Dany’s gaze flickers to Brienne and him more than once throughout the afternoon. Once, she raises her pale brows at Jaime like she thinks he can up his game. Jaime knows he looks like a man who can, but it’s all an illusion.

“I had fun,” Brienne says when they’ve lingered overlong, “I haven’t...I haven’t talked that much in a long time.”

“Do Margaery and Sansa not let you get a word in edgewise?”

Brienne smiles, “Something like that, yeah.”

“We could, um,” Jaime stumbles, scratching the hair at the back of his neck while he thinks, “We could go to dinner next time. Or lunch. Or this again.”

“I’d like dinner. Somewhere quiet. I don’t like bars.”

“Me either,” Jaime replies, “Dinner it is, then.”

They’re nearly to the door when Dany calls out and moves from behind the counter. “Wait! Your cookies and your fortune.”

“Thanks,” Jaime takes the brown box; it’s tied with a lavender ribbon. “I don’t need the fortune, though.”

“It’s part of the deal. Hold out your hand.” 

Jaime can’t help but obey. He expects Dany to read his palm, but she simply holds his hand and closes her eyes. When she speaks, it’s quiet enough that only Jaime will hear. 

“Soon, a dream will come to you.”

“That’s quite a generic fortune.”

“Shut up; I’m not through.” Dany opens her eyes, and her purple-eyed glare is withering. “When it does, you should tell Brienne about it. You’ll be embarrassed, but do it anyway. It’s important.”

“....Okay.”

Dany’s next words are even quieter, “There’s something Brienne doesn’t say, even though she’ll very much want you to know.”

“Is that part of the fortune?”

“No,” she replies, “that’s me being a meddling friend.”

Some nights later, Daenerys’s fortune comes to pass, and Jaime dreams.

Notes:

Next time, Jaime and Brienne go on another date, and Jaime gets a contact high!

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