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Syllables and Sounds

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At first, he thinks that he must have misheard.

Jaime rests his cheek on the soft swell of her inner thigh, his tongue venturing past the patch of auburn curls to tease at her outer lips. Her only response is a light sigh and the gentle caress of her cool fingertips, which trail over his brow to tuck a wayward lock of golden hair back behind his ear. 

He moves a bit closer and adds more pressure to his tongue. And the sighs turn to hums as her little hand smooths over the top of his head again and again, fingernails lightly scraping his scalp. She’s sweet and warm and wet, and his cock throbs when he abandons this careful teasing to lick into her with slow, indulgent strokes, filling his mouth with the taste of her. She moans now, the sound low in her throat, but it isn’t quite enough. He wants what she gives him when he’s deep inside her, when he holds her close and she buries her face into his neck and pants his name, again and again and again, crying it out when she comes and then whispering it when he lowers her sated body back down into the pillows. 

When he sweeps the tip of his tongue over the nub above her opening, his left hand reaching up to cup her breast, Sansa throws her head back and utters a soft “J” sound.

He smiles against her, and she says it again.

But then he realizes that he hears only one syllable. She doesn’t exhale on the vowel, extending the “e” sound the way she does when he fucks her. The word she gasps is too brief, beginning on an “j” and ending on a consonant, a nasal tone.

It’s a mistake. He’s been breathing heavily and humming his own pleasure into her soft flesh; it’s surely impaired his hearing. 

(A sour squelch twists at his stomach as he wonders whether Sansa tells herself this same thing when he hisses two “s” sounds into her ear, not her name but close enough, if she wills herself to hear it that way...)

He continues his ministrations, holding his breath in an effort to keep quiet, and then he hears it, too clear to ignore-


Jaime’s emerald gaze flicks up to study her face. If she’s aware of what she’s said, Sansa makes no indication; she keeps her head tilted back, with eyes closed and the tip of her tongue wetting her lower lip.

He begins to suck on her clit; she pulls his hair tight, and there it is again- her bastard half-brother’s name. At once, a barrage of images dance before Jaime’s closed eyes: Sansa’s tiny white hand clutching curls of black instead of gold, Jon Snow’s solemn face relaxed and blissful as he tastes his sister’s sweet cunt, his sister, her brother...Jaime feels his cock swell and his stomach roil all at once, and it’s all too much, too confusing and appalling and enthralling...

As Sansa begins to peak, Jaime shifts his body up over hers and thrusts into her. He catches his breath, the warm wetness enveloping him, and they quickly establish a steady, pulsing rhythm. Sharp wolf-claws cut crescents into his skin, and Sansa gasps a name, his name, two distinct syllables.

Jaime, Jaime, Jai, Me.

The next night, they sink together into the soft mattress, lips on skin and three hands everywhere. Jaime pulls away for air, and Sansa takes the opportunity to dip her hand between her own legs and softly stroke herself. It’s a beautiful sight, but Jaime finds his attention drawn to her face instead. She smiles, the expression coy and very nearly shy, before running the tip of her little pink tongue over her lips. 

She’ll never tell him what she wants, but he knows it all the same. And he thinks for a moment to refuse. Too many questions swirl in his mind- whens, whys, wherefores - his cock stiffens and his stomach turns and he wants to ask, and yet he’s not sure he really wants to know...

But she continues to look up at him through her lashes, embarrassed and expectant and all but trembling with want. And he recalls another night, nearly a moon past, when he’d thrown her up against the headboard and fucked her raw, hard and fast and brutal (a fight, a beautiful battle, that’s often how his sister liked to think of it). He closed his eyes and cried the name, not a murmur through gritted teeth, but a full-voiced moan- Cersei, Cersei, Cer, Sei.

And she did not shrink from him, did not condemn him. She just held him to her breast afterwards, fingers gently combing through his hair, a cool palm rubbing circles into his back. Nothing but assurance, acceptance, more than he ever thought to find, more than he deserves.

So he kisses his way down her body until he arrives where she wants him. And even when she utters the name that is not his own, when she repeats it again and again, he does not shrink from her, does not condemn her.

A Lannister always pays his debts.