Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13588686.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_&
      Related_Fandoms, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Jon_Snow
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Alternate_Universe_-_Lady_Escapes
      with_Nymeria, Alternate_Universe_-_Robb_Lives, Dark_Jon_Snow, Ambiguous
      Sansa_Stark, Jonsa_Kink_Week, Blood_Kink, Post-Battle_Kink, Half-Sibling
      Incest, Alternate_Universe_-_Post_ADWD_Timeline, Alternate_Universe_-
      Book_Canon_Ages
  Series:
      Part 4 of Jonsa_Kink_Week
  Collections:
      Jonsa_Kink_Week
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-02-06 Words: 1298
****** for you, i’ll bloody my hands ******
by ayuminb
Summary
     She likes to see him bleed as much he likes to make their enemies
     bleed.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
She finds him after that first battle – the first of many.
 
They'd finally retaken Winterfell, after months spent traveling the North,
rallying the banners. What remains of their forces on this side of The Neck,
while Robb leads the bulk of them in razing the Westerlands – seeking revenge.
Their brother, that believes them all dead, should be receiving a raven soon.
Of their success – his sisters' and brother's success in reclaiming their home.
 
But that is a thought for later. Now – now Sansa follows him to his old
chambers, needing to be near. Like she’s been since reuniting at Castle Black,
always near, letting his presence comfort her as only Arya and Lady do now,
only… differently. Since the very moment he’d wrapped his arms around her,
lifting her off the ground with the strength of his embrace, whispering her
name right into her neck—that memory still makes her shiver. The rumble of his
voice as he called her name, then, how still makes her tremble when he calls
her now.
 
"Sansa."
 
She’d caught naught but a glimpse of him during the gruesome battle, beating up
the man who’d dared claim himself the Lord of Winterfell while their brother
waged war against the Lannisters in the South to death. He’d been furious and
relentless and Sansa knows most of that had been due to the rumors that had
reached Jon’s ears before the brothers of the Night’s Watch betrayed him.
Rumors about Arya. Then he’d stood up and let the wildlings that chose to
follow him clean up the rest. Then he’d turned around, made sure she and Arya
were there, before giving out more orders to what remained of the household, to
prepare their chambers – and he’d walked away.
 
And here she stands, wavering at the doors of his chambers, Lady butting her
head against her shoulder. Jon – he turns slowly to look at her, hands pausing
in unlacing his doublet. He’s sweaty and bloody and with bits of gore still
stuck to his exhausted body. Sansa worries he’s severly hurt, though he doesn’t
look in pain; then she worries he might not be hurt enough, because then – then
she won’t be able to stop herself. This pull that confuses her, thrills her and
leaves her in a heady state every time she entertains the idea of indulging it.
 
Like now.
 
Sansa hesitates only a second before stepping into his chambers. Lady waits at
the threshold, her direwolf rarely leaves her side since reuniting with her;
same as Ghost, always shadowing Jon’s steps since his death and resurrection.
They leave them alone now, Ghost getting up slowly from his place on Jon’s bed
and walking out; not far, they settle just outside the wooden doors. Sansa
takes a deep breath before closing them, then turns back around to face Jon.
 
His look is almost that of a man starving.
 
“You should leave,” he says, but does not stop her approach; his hands twitch
at his side. “Sansa.”
 
“No.”
 
She is well beyond the point of lying to herself, of denying – this longing for
Jon, so she stops. She’s tired of the war raging within her mind; in an
entirely bold move, she pulls his doublet off him, pushes it down his arms and
onto the floor, then his shirt and finally gets a clear view of his well-toned
chest – the blood, it had managed to seep through his clothes. There, among
purplish bruises and the gore that’d slipped under his shirt, she can see he
had acquired an injury. Painful to look at, Sansa cannot understand how it
doesn’t bother him. Jon, though, lately it’s as if very little truly bothered
him. Except when it comes to her, to their family.
 
When her fingers wander close to the bleeding gash on his side, much too close,
he snaps into action, seizing her hand and trapping it against his ribs. His
skin is hot, or perhaps she’s just cold; nowadays it’s hard to say.
 
“I don’t want to get blood on you.”
 
There’s something dark lurking under the soft whisper of his words, a warning.
The low rumbling piercing her senses, sending heat spiraling throughout her
body. Truly, madness must’ve taken over her, otherwise she’s no other
explanation for this sudden bout of defiance that propels her to snatch her
hand back and place it over his wound, letting the blood seep through her
splayed fingers. A part of her knows she should leave, lest something else were
to happen; another part, the bigger part, actually wants it to happen.
Desperately. Sansa is mesmerized by the stark contrast of his blood against her
pale skin, how it feels as it runs burning paths over her hand and down her
wrist; she presses harder, watches him shudder, hears him growl, yet isn’t
exactly expecting him to push her up against the wall near his bed.
 
There’s sweat and blood and dirt and gore all over his bare chest and arms and
back and once, once upon a time, Sansa would’ve recoiled in disgust but now.
Now she grabs the back of his neck with her free hand, pulls him into a kiss
that might scatter his thoughts is she tries hard enough, she thinks. Now – she
presses tighter into him not caring about the state of her gown as it rubs
against his skin. Lets the desire consume her, all-encompassing, feels the heat
pool between her legs and whimpers.
 
Jon hisses as he breaks the kiss, licks along her jaw until his lips brush the
shell of her hear; he growls. “This isn’t right, sister.”
 
“Half-sister,” she corrects, as if that would make this any better, any less of
a sin.
 
He pulls away only enough to fumble with her skirts—good, she doesn’t think she
would’ve been able to say the words, to urge him along—tugging them up until
they’re bunched around her hips. And then he hoists her up, encourages to wrap
her legs around his waist and oh, right there, feeling him hard between her
legs and pressed closely, that’s a she’s wanted now.
 
Sansa moans a little louder with every roll of his hips, feels a little less in
control as the tension builds. And we’re not, we’re not—oh. The blood of his
wound runs down her leg, where the inside of her thigh it’s pressed to it; it
shouldn’t, shouldn’t excite her so, but still her own blood hums at the sight,
the feel of it. Her hand drags up his side, over his ribs and chest, leaving a
trail of red in its wake.
 
Then a jolt of pleasure sweeps over her, and she whimpers. “Jon.”
 
He groans, deep in his throat and strokes her folds once more before delving
his fingers inside her. “Fuck, Sansa.”
 
They make a mess of their remaining clothes, blood and dirt staining every
piece of fabric they touch, smearing on their skin—she gasps, digs her nails
into his shoulders and Jon groans as he pushes, pushes, pushes until he’s fully
sheathed. There’s a little bit of pain, as she’s been told there would be the
first time, but mostly indescribable pleasure – and that isn’t something she’s
been told about. Nor is the feel of being stretched, the intensity of being
full. And then Jon moves, shallow thrusts, slow, then going a little faster and
soon she’s been pressed against the wall supporting most of her weight –
another thrust, his cock goes deeper and harder and faster, Jon, Jon, Jon.
 
“This isn’t right,” he whispers again, and she knows this. “Sansa…”
 
Gods, she knows – but when Jon licks at her fingers before leaning in for a
kiss, the taste of his blood lingering in her tongue, well. Sansa really,
really, really doesn’t care.
End Notes
     the second paragraph won't make much sense, because there's like a
     multichap worth of info missing. this is essentially just a spin-off
     of another fic i've got in progress, that's not posted yet. but, bear
     with me.
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