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alayne's interlude

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With soft skin, soft eyes

All these beautiful laughs and beautiful thighs

They always keep me up at night

But I can't change my appetite

 

'Cause your pussy is a wonderland

And I could be a better man

It doesn't matter to me (x repeat)

 

 

Sansa stares at the words written on the notebook. There’s more, with a few smudges here and there, but her mind is fixated on those same verses. Your pussy is a wonderland. Her cheeks burn and her face gets hot despite the cold winter air coming from the semi opened window.  Her hair is still damp from the shower, and since she’s out of clean clothes, she’s wearing one of Jon’s old band T-shirts and her last pair of clean panties. She should’ve gone home already, to at least do some laundry, but it’s been a busy week and with him living so close to the studio it’s simply easier for her to stay at his place while they finish recording the new album, which will probably take another week or so. This means that yes, she should've gone home to get some clean clothes, or she should've just gone home completely, but she didn't. Instead she's here, sitting on his bed, fresh out of the shower, wearing his clothes, smelling like him and currently reading the lyrics to an unfinished song that she's sure she's not supposed to have seen yet - or maybe ever. She traces his handwriting with her fingers, a small wrinkle forming between her eyebrows, her mind filling with anxiety. They’ve been sleeping together for almost three months now, and although he gave her a key to his place - for when he gets caught up working with Theon at the studio - she knows she shouldn’t get too attached. Jon is known for dating around, she heard all the gossip even before she joined the White Wolf's band after the big fight Jon had with his on and off girlfriend - emphasis on the on and off part - Ygritte, the former lead singer, causing her to break her contract, and Sansa's well aware that this thing between them is purely casual. She has to be, otherwise she’s just gonna end up getting herself hurt, and that’s not an option, not when it could cause problems for her career. So no, there will be no heartbreaks, not this time, especially not because of the incredibly talented, handsome and charming guitarist and songwriter Jon Snow.

 

Still, she goes over the lyrics of Alayne’s Interlude again, hating the way her whole body feels hot as she reads the words. That’s her name, her fucking stage name, and Jon can’t be fucking serious. She knows he’s working on some new songs, just as she is, and she trusts his talent for songwriting, but this? There’s no way. Jon can’t actually think she’ll sing this, there’s no fucking way, he must be out of his mind. She lays down on the bed, one arm draped across her face, hand still holding onto the notebook, and she tries to think this through. She's sure she wasn’t meant to see this. Not only the song is not finished but also she has no business reading his lyrics’ notebook in the first place, yet she found it while looking for a clean shirt to wear and, well, it was open on a page with her stage name written in capital letters and she couldn’t just pretend she hadn’t seen it. Maybe he never intended on showing her, maybe it's a discarded idea, maybe he just does that all the time, writes songs about all the girls he fucks and keeps it to himself to remember them by or something. The thought makes her blush even more, and a little jealous knot starts forming inside her, even if she knows there’s no reason why she should be jealous of Jon. They’re only sleeping together, it's just sex, just casual/very good/truly amazing sex, and although she hasn’t seen him with another girl around ever since they started fucking, she can’t be sure of what he does on his free time. He could very well be dating multiple people without her knowing. She's not sure of when, though, because he's usually at the studio with Theon and her, or they're together, at his house, at her house, and once she thinks about it there's actually not really all that much time for him to be screwing around with anyone else. Yet they never agreed on being exclusive, never talked about this thing between them being a serious relationship, so no, she doesn’t get to be jealous of him, she doesn’t get to feel possessive over his shirt and his bed and his songwriting skills, so she stays on pretending that she isn’t, even if the thought of him writing about another woman like he writes about her makes her blood boil with anger.

 

She sighs, frustrated with herself and her feelings, and looks at the lyrics again. There’s some cords written down next to the verses and she’s curious about it, curious about how the words sound on her voice, curious about the melody he intended on playing with this. Even if she’s not supposed to know about it, the thought of him thinking about her, about her eyes and thighs and laughter and pussy while writing this makes her heart beat faster. Sansa's cheeks get hotter and a tingling starts to grow between her legs. God, she shouldn’t be so affected by this, they’re supposed to be only casual , just friends who work together and fuck each other from time to time, because let’s face it, they’re great at it. The friendship and the sex, it’s all great. It’s all very fucking great and she’s so very frustrated with herself, with her reaction, with her feelings. She pretends they aren't real, pretends she’s not wishing he was here to help her soothe the aching at her center, to help her relax and loosen up in a way only he can do, yet she can't pretend not to be curious so she tries singing the first few verses out loud, in hopes of distracting herself from the intrusive thoughts of Jon’s tongue working his magic on her.

 

With soft skin, soft eyes, all these beautiful laughs and beautiful thighs-”

 

“Someone’s been snooping.”

 

His voice is not loud nor angry, but she lets out a small squeal nonetheless, while lifting herself up and hugging the notebook tightly to her chest in hopes of slowing her rapidly beating heart. Jon’s leaning against the bedroom’s doorway, his eyes catching hers quickly before making their way down her bare legs and up to her chest again, noticing the shirt she’s wearing and the notebook on her arms, and Sansa feels her whole body get hot. He’s holding his guitar case in one hand, calloused fingers gripping tightly on the handle, the other hand resting inside his jacket’s pocket, and when he lifts his eyes to look at hers again there’s a side smile on his lips that makes him look oh so charming and oh so smug and Sansa knows he’s amused that he caught her red-handed.

 

“You’re early.” She says, noticing as his eyes go down her bare legs once more, slower this time, his smile never leaving his lips. Fuck, she wants him. The verses come to her mind again, and she shifts a little, making her thighs rub together and watching as his smile gets cheekier.

 

"I am. And I see you’re busy.” His tone is cocky, like he enjoys having her half naked on his bed, caught in the middle of doing something  wrong , and maybe he does. She knows he does, can see it in his eyes how much he’s enjoying her flustered state. The bastard.

 

Jon moves, properly entering the room, placing the guitar case down next to the bed, eyes on her chest - on his notebook gripped tightly on her hands, on his shirt covering her breasts - once again, his gaze going up to meet her eyes, one eyebrow raised in questioning. He’s daring her to say something, about the song, about the snooping around, about making herself so at home while staying at his place, but she bites on her lower lip to keep herself quiet, and watches as his eyes drop to her mouth. It only intensifies the feeling between her legs, causing her to shift under his stare, and she can feel her nipples start to harden. The verses come to her again.

 

Your pussy is a wonderland.

 

Jesus fucking Christ.

 

Jon smirks at her, seeming to read her mind, yet he keeps quiet as he makes his way to the dresser. She watches him as he takes his boots off, waiting for him to just say something, anything, but he’s silent still, just keep removing his clothes, piece by piece. First the black leather jacket, then the black cotton shirt - yes he likes to wear black a lot, yes she thinks he looks amazing in it - moving deliberately slow, pretending not to notice how her eyes are focused on his body.

 

“So, what do you think?” He finally says, standing in front of her in just his jeans, and she can’t help but stare at his bare chest, eyes tracing the defined muscles of his stomach down-down-down right to where he has his hands busy unbuttoning his belt. His big, strong, calloused hands, working on the leather, slowly pulling it away from the hooks. Maybe he can use it to tie her wrists to the bedspread again, like he did a couple of weeks ago, make her beg to come and then fuck her hard and fast. She sure likes it when he's rough. No, wait, focus Sansa.

 

“About the song?” Her throat feels dry, her voice coming out strangled and making him let out a chuckle. He's laughing at her, with that stupid cocky laughter of his, making fun of her nerves, punishing her for being so damn nosy. He’s an asshole, that’s what he is, writing songs about her, about her body, about her pussy, like he owns her or something. She should be mad at him, really mad, and not wishing that he would take off his pants already, come to join her in the bed, make her his for the night and for however long he wants. Forever, even.

 

Oh, shit.

 

“About the lyrics. It’s not really a proper song yet.”

 

He stares at her, voice serious but the smile is still there, at the corner of his lips, and she hadn’t thought she could be more embarrassed than she already was, but it's possible. Not only possible but it happens, because fuck of course he wants to know what she thinks about the song. The song he wrote about her. About her laughter, her thighs, her cunt. The song she's not sure she should know exists but now she does and he even caught her singing it like a minute ago. And now he wants to know what she thinks.

 

Oh, shit, shit, shit.

 

“Well, I-I mean, it's great." She can't look at him, she can't, it’s too embarrassing and she feels warm all over. "It’s, hum, it’s hot…" But then her eyes are on his bare chest again and it doesn't help her one bit to look at him. "And very...uh, sincere." She takes a breath, glances up at his face, the bastard, looking so fucking smug while standing there without a shirt on, hair a mess, pants unbuttoned, leaning against the dresser, one of his hands scratching his beard, something straight out of a Calvin Klein add, and she's so fucking hot between her thigs. Damn him. Damn him and his pretty eyes and his pretty lips and his pretty words and his pretty everything,  damn you Jon Snow and damn all the power he has over her. She closes her eyes before speaking. 

 

"But Jon, you can’t actually be serious about wanting me to sing this, right?”

 

That cocky tone of his is on every word of his reply, driving her insane. “If you like it and feel comfortable singing it then I don't see what's the problem.”

 

She opens her eyes to look at him again. He hasn't moved, just stands in front of her with his jeans unbuttoned. She speaks, half whispering for no reason at all. “But people will know.”

 

“Know what, baby?”

 

Her heart does a little jump whenever he calls her that. Baby. She's been trying to ignore it since he started doing it but it's getting harder and harder. “They’ll know. About you, me. Us.”

 

“So?" He gives her a look, like it's obvious. "You’re my girl, Sans.”

 

And the thing is, she thought about that before.

 

A small, tiny, microscopic part of her, thought about what it meant every time he kissed her temple while she worked on new songs. Every time he cooked them dinner even after a long day of rehearsals. Every time they sat together watching TV, her legs on his lap, him giving her feet rubs.

 

Maybe it’s not such a small part of her after all.

 

But she chose to ignore it because there's no way. Zero possibility. The fact is that Jon Snow sleeps around. That's what he does. That's why he couldn't make things work with his ex. Val, their drummer, had told Sansa that much in her first week with the band.

 

“What's the matter, baby, cat got your tongue?”

 

Jon's tone is playful and it brings her back to her senses. There’s no way. “No, I just- I just thought-”

 

“How long have you been here, Sans?”

 

“What?”

 

“How long have you been here?” When’s the last time you’ve gone home?”

 

She has to think for a moment before replying. Then she’s blushing. “Hm, I don’t know, last Wednesday maybe?”

 

“So over a week ago. Now, are you really gonna tell me you’ve been staying over for almost ten days, leaving all your stuff around, eating my food, sleeping in my bed, wearing my clothes, snooping around on my notebooks, fucking me almost everyday before reharsals and you really think you’re not my girl?”

 

“I-”

 

The smug smile is back. “Val really got into your head with all that Jon sleeps around bullshit, didn’t she?”

 

Sansa’s not sure of what to say. Yet the way he’s looking at her tells her everything she needs to know.

 

“I’m a dumbass.”

 

He laughs. “Yeah, babe, you kinda are. But you’re a very pretty and incredibly cute dumbass, and most importantly, you’re my dumbass.”

 

Jon kneels on the bed, then, cupping her face with both hands, and he kisses her. Soft and gentle, slow, the type of kiss that she can feel all over. It’s intimate and loving and it has Sansa sighing and melting and reaching up her hands to touch his chest, his arms, his shoulders, everywhere, she just needs to touch him, to feel him under her palms. He breaks the kiss and she whines, but he keeps their foreheads touching as he speaks.

 

"So, just so we’re clear, I might have slept around in the past, but I definitely didn’t let a girl stay over for more than one night...”

 

His right hand leaves her face, fingers tracing down her neck and chest to circle her breast over the fabric of his shirt.

 

“...Definitely didn’t let them wear my clothes...”

 

He pinches her nipple and Sansa moans.

 

“...Definitely didn’t give them a spare key to the apartment...”

 

His hand moves down, finding its way inside her panties, and he gives a small chuckle as Sansa gasps, both enjoying the feel of her wetness on his fingers as he gently teases her clit.

 

“...And most definitely didn’t write songs about how good their cunts taste.”

 

He easily pushes two fingers inside her. Sansa clutches at his shoulders, arching her back, her body eager to have more of him inside her cunt.

 

Fuck, Jon.”

 

He keeps pumping his fingers in and out, thumb rubbing her clit as he speaks. “Are we clear, then?”

 

“Yes.” It comes out breathy, both from Jon’s ministrations on her body and from the fact that yes, this isn’t just some casual thing. She knows that now. “I'm your girl.”

 

They mean something to each other and there’s more that needs to be said, but Jon is kissing her again, his fingers curling inside her, his other hand on her hair, and Sansa thinks there’ll be time to say whatever else they need to say later.

 

His lips leave her mouth to trail kisses up to her ear. His words send a shiver down her spine. “You are. Now be a good girl, lay back and spread your legs for me.”

 

Yes, talking will definitely have to wait until later.