[got] fic | A Stain In The Sand (Jon Snow/Sansa Stark)
Title | A Stain In The Sand
Fandom | Game of Thrones
Characters/Pairing | Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Word Count | 675
Rating/Warnings | M/Incest
Prompt | From midnightblack07, post-battle sex (at the Game of Thrones kink meme). My first tentative foray into this fandom. Eek.
The bodies have yet to be cleared from the battlefield as he makes his way up the curved stone of the grand staircase, breath heavy. A symptom of the raging sword fight as much as it is the inevitable blood loss, he leans his weight against the ornate balustrade.
Pauses a moment to draw his thoughts together. Frayed cotton threads that have escaped all means of his usual control.
He looks up and she is there then. He had not heard her approach. Her fingers are pressed to her lips, eyes bright with tears she will not allow herself to shed.
At least, he thinks, not in front of him. And perhaps not ever.
He imagines a puff of air, little more than a whisper soft oh… as her gaze drops to his fingers, limp by his side and coated, glove-like, in the slick slide of his own blood.
His unruly hair spills across his forehead. Veils his lowered lashes as he counters the image of her, precise and picture perfect, with his own dishevel.
She is before him in seconds. Hands ghosting over the place where the stiff material of his tunic has been shredded.
The sword of his enemy will wear his blood tonight. It is not the first time.
They are neither naive enough to believe it will be the last.
She tends to his wounds with a detached calm. Averts her gaze pointedly as he removes the necessary layers of armour and clothing.
But her hands shake as she threads the needle in preparation. Her tangible fear a paradox of sorts that he wishes she no longer felt the need to cling to, all fingernails and teeth and frantic desperation to keep him at arm’s length.
They are all that is left of the Winterfell he once knew. The knowledge of it heavy on shoulders that slump.
“Sansa…”
But her name is lost in the empty space that exists between them now. A no-man’s land filled to overflowing with things they no longer speak of.
And if her fingers linger on the thick bandage for a beat or several, he does not allow himself to notice.
The screams of the fallen, man and beast alike, echo, drum-like, inside his skull. A haunting soundtrack on repeat as she cleans the remnants of his own life-blood from his battle-hardened fingertips.
“Jon Snow…” A whisper against his skin. Little else.
Nothing more.
And maybe the syllables of her name, falling from his lips, had registered within her after all.
He swallows around a reply. Watches her watching him instead and keeps the myriad words he wants to say locked up. Tight.
“Jon Snow…” Again, as her fingers, trembling, carve a straight line down the centre of his rib-cage. He follows them ‘til his chin is on his chest. The porcelain of her skin cutting a dramatic contrast against his own.
Night and day. Day and night.
The juxtaposition is oddly fascinating, he finds.
Ask him later and he’ll want to admit that it was he who kissed her first. He is not entirely convinced that this is the truth. Her fingers fist in the tangled hair at the nape of his neck and he forgets to remember from then on.
The taste of her, sweet like honeyed apples and spun sugar, fills the back of his throat. And if her careful needlework tears open in that moment, he does not feel it.
And he does not care.
It is rougher than he’d imagined it could ever be. And he has imagined this; many times over. She is ferocious in her desire and the sounds of the battleground still bleed through him. The combination is staggering, he thinks. Lifts her to high on his hips as her ankles lock, hold her in place.
She is heavier than he remembers. A woman by now, well and truly.
He considers it no more completely than that. They do what they do and when it is over she leaves him be.
He thinks he’d been waiting for that inevitable ending all along.
Fandom | Game of Thrones
Characters/Pairing | Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Word Count | 675
Rating/Warnings | M/Incest
Prompt | From midnightblack07, post-battle sex (at the Game of Thrones kink meme). My first tentative foray into this fandom. Eek.
The bodies have yet to be cleared from the battlefield as he makes his way up the curved stone of the grand staircase, breath heavy. A symptom of the raging sword fight as much as it is the inevitable blood loss, he leans his weight against the ornate balustrade.
Pauses a moment to draw his thoughts together. Frayed cotton threads that have escaped all means of his usual control.
He looks up and she is there then. He had not heard her approach. Her fingers are pressed to her lips, eyes bright with tears she will not allow herself to shed.
At least, he thinks, not in front of him. And perhaps not ever.
He imagines a puff of air, little more than a whisper soft oh… as her gaze drops to his fingers, limp by his side and coated, glove-like, in the slick slide of his own blood.
His unruly hair spills across his forehead. Veils his lowered lashes as he counters the image of her, precise and picture perfect, with his own dishevel.
She is before him in seconds. Hands ghosting over the place where the stiff material of his tunic has been shredded.
The sword of his enemy will wear his blood tonight. It is not the first time.
They are neither naive enough to believe it will be the last.
She tends to his wounds with a detached calm. Averts her gaze pointedly as he removes the necessary layers of armour and clothing.
But her hands shake as she threads the needle in preparation. Her tangible fear a paradox of sorts that he wishes she no longer felt the need to cling to, all fingernails and teeth and frantic desperation to keep him at arm’s length.
They are all that is left of the Winterfell he once knew. The knowledge of it heavy on shoulders that slump.
“Sansa…”
But her name is lost in the empty space that exists between them now. A no-man’s land filled to overflowing with things they no longer speak of.
And if her fingers linger on the thick bandage for a beat or several, he does not allow himself to notice.
The screams of the fallen, man and beast alike, echo, drum-like, inside his skull. A haunting soundtrack on repeat as she cleans the remnants of his own life-blood from his battle-hardened fingertips.
“Jon Snow…” A whisper against his skin. Little else.
Nothing more.
And maybe the syllables of her name, falling from his lips, had registered within her after all.
He swallows around a reply. Watches her watching him instead and keeps the myriad words he wants to say locked up. Tight.
“Jon Snow…” Again, as her fingers, trembling, carve a straight line down the centre of his rib-cage. He follows them ‘til his chin is on his chest. The porcelain of her skin cutting a dramatic contrast against his own.
Night and day. Day and night.
The juxtaposition is oddly fascinating, he finds.
Ask him later and he’ll want to admit that it was he who kissed her first. He is not entirely convinced that this is the truth. Her fingers fist in the tangled hair at the nape of his neck and he forgets to remember from then on.
The taste of her, sweet like honeyed apples and spun sugar, fills the back of his throat. And if her careful needlework tears open in that moment, he does not feel it.
And he does not care.
It is rougher than he’d imagined it could ever be. And he has imagined this; many times over. She is ferocious in her desire and the sounds of the battleground still bleed through him. The combination is staggering, he thinks. Lifts her to high on his hips as her ankles lock, hold her in place.
She is heavier than he remembers. A woman by now, well and truly.
He considers it no more completely than that. They do what they do and when it is over she leaves him be.
He thinks he’d been waiting for that inevitable ending all along.