Tumblr AU Drabbles!
I did a bunch of these drabble prompts on Tumblr tonight, so I thought I'd consolidate them all in one place on my LJ. They were all written very quickly, so I apologize for the varying degrees of quality. ;) Hope y'all enjoy!
I. Cersei/Ellaria/Oberyn: He is so different from Jaime that she finds herself captivated against her better judgment, and she is so different from herself that Cersei is powerless before her.
In the dim candlelight, she sees them as a blur of like colors- hair black as samite, skin dark as bronze, lips red as blood. The woman trails a long, elegant finger over Cersei’s jaw, her touch feather-light; she thinks me delicate, porcelain and spun gold…this baseborn creature doesn’t understand what it means to be a Lion of the Rock…
Her lips are hard on Ellaria’s, punishing- she straddles her hips and sinks her incisors into the dark skin of the woman’s long neck, the fragrance of spices and exotic flowers filling her nostrils; behind her, the dark prince sprinkles alien kisses down the nape of her neck (cool and hot all at once, nothing like she’s ever known, nothing like she’s ever wanted…), and a peculiar chill prickles up her spine.
II. Jaime/Sansa: 1929 New Year's Eve Bootleg Bash
“Do you like it?”
She coughs into her glass of smuggled gin- it’s good stuff, straight off the boat from England- and whips her head around to stare at him (she’s skittish, this one, like a child who’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar).
Blue eyes open wide when she recognizes him, and he takes a step closer- a blinding smile, a hand soft on the small of her back- and brushes a lock of hair behind her ear; she wears her hair too long to be fashionable, but he cannot help but think that the abundant curls of red suit her better than any sleek bob could do.
III. Cersei/Sansa, Ballet School AU (Part 1 of 3 Ballet AUs)
Her feet are exquisite. Although she ought to be dividing her attention equally among all members of the class, Cersei cannot top staring at Sansa’s flawless feet- tiny, with high arches, well-supported by supple ankles.
They run the next bit of choreography, and Joffrey lifts Sansa into an arabesque- her white arms and white legs extend in perfect time, her full lips spread into a soft smile (she knows she did well, she knows how perfect she is…), and Cersei knows not whether the burning in her blood comes from pride or rage or desire or some strange combination of them all.
IV. Jaime/Sansa, Ballet School AU (Part 2 of 3)
He hates coming here. As he pushes the door open with one shoulder and stalks down the hallway, Jaime silently curses Cersei for asking him to meet her at the school; she knows how little he likes it. As he walks past a series of studios, he feels the eyes on him- slack jaws, admiring stares, soft whispers- “That’s Jaime Lannister, he was one of the best dancers the corps has ever seen…no, the best, until-”
He turns his head and glares sharply enough at the little storyteller that she gives a frightened peep and falls silent.
When he reaches the studio closest to Cersei’s office, he finds the door half open. A perfunctory glance within reveals a tall, redhaired girl at the barre. He notices her feet straight away- beautiful, beautiful feet. This must be the girl, the one Cersei says will be the prima in a few years- Sophie? Sarah? Something like that…
She dips into a deep plie in first position before shifting into second- her hips and shoulders are perfectly aligned, the lines and angles of her body are beyond reproach. And there’s a satisfaction in her blue eyes; she knows very well how good she is.
A wicked, inspired fancy compels Jaime to enter the room and approach the girl at the barre. She freezes in position, her eyes widening when she recognizes him- he smiles at her before placing his hands on her hips and guiding them up.
“Your alignment is off,” he tells her, and he nearly laughs at the knitting of her brows, the defiance and confusion writ across her pretty face. But he only tightens his grip on her and guides her down into another plie, her straight back brushing his chest as she rises to standing.
“Better,” he says, giving her hips a little squeeze before exiting the studio and knocking on Cersei’s office door.
V. Robb/Roslin: Ballet School AU (Part 3 of 3)
Robb tosses his car keys in the air and catches them in his other hand as he taps his foot and whistles some stupid song he’d heard on the radio earlier that day. Sansa had said she’d be done with practice a half-hour ago, and yet here he is, still waiting for her. He slips a hand into his pocket and finds some change there; he wonders whether there’s a decent vending machine in this building, but then laughs to himself- ballet dancers don’t eat.
A soft whimper from a nearby hallway catches his attention. He turns a corner and sees a skinny girl sitting on the floor, rubbing her swollen-looking ankle.
“Are you all right?” he calls out. The girl turns her head to look at him; she has a small face, with delicate features and huge brown eyes.
“I..I’m fine,” she says as she begins to stand- but then her ankle wobbles, and she falls back to the ground with a shriek.
“I think it’s twisted,” Robb tells her, taking a few hesitant steps down the hall.
“Oh, God…I’m gonna be in so much trouble if Ms. Lannister finds out…she won’t let me dance in the show, and then Dad will kill me…” Her eyes, round as saucers, fill up with tears, and before he knows it, Robb finds himself at her side.
“Don’t try to move yourself…here, I’ve got you…” He guides her thin arms around his neck and lifts her up; she’s tiny, probably weighing even less than his little sister Arya.
“There’s an ice machine down that way- maybe it’ll help…” She looks down at the ground, her cheeks blushing bright red. Finally, she turns her face up and gives him a misty smile. ”Thank you.”
“What’s your name?” he asks as he bends down to grab her ballet shoes before heading down to the ice machine.
“It’s Roslin.”
“Hey, Roslin. I’m Robb.” He can feel his phone vibrating in his pocket- probably Sansa, wondering where he is. But he ignores it for now- he’s got something more important to do.
VI. Jaime/Sansa or Jaime/Cersei: Women's Suffrage Movement
“Father will be fit to be tied if he finds out,” Jaime drawls with a sideways grin, his smile only widening when his sister snatches the hand-painted signs from him with a glare.
“There’s no need for him to find out, is there?” He cocks his eyebrows and waits for her expression to soften before dropping a kiss on her cheek and nudging her in the direction of the group of women awaiting her in the wagon; she flashes him a dazzling smile and dashes off, thrusting her signs into the waiting arms of a delicately-pretty redhead- the girl struggles beneath the weight, and Jaime helps her balance them before offering a hand to lift her into the wagon- the girl blushes, Cersei’s lips twist, and the wagon full of suffragettes begins to roll down the road toward town.
VII. Ned/Cersei: Ancient Egypt
Cersei, Queen of Upper and Lower Egypt, Daughter of the Two Rams, Mistress of Sedge and Bee, narrows her green eyes as she stares down at the manacled tribesman at her feet. His people have taken the eastern river delta, claiming more and more territory at the northern reaches of the Kingdom- “No need to worry,” her brother-husband claims with a toss of golden hair and flashing of white teeth, “Just a group of restless sheep-herders and savages”- but then, that’s always Jaime’s way, shrugging troubles aside, leaving them for another day.
“What is it that you want?” she asks the filthy, bearded creature- his eyes are brighter than she expects, and grey as the stones that line the northern riverbanks- he bares his teeth, and she finds them sharp and white as her own- he speaks in a snarl that makes the fine hairs on her arms stand on end in a not-entirely-unpleasant way:
“Justice.”
VIII. Cersei/Jaime: They secretly marry
The godswood in King’s Landing is little more than a courtyard, really; just a small patch of earth surrounded by slim weirwoods, hardly the dense, lush thicket she’d seen in the pages of Father’s atlas. But it would serve well enough- she clasps Jaime’s hands, smiling at the warmth of his fingers, the slight slick of sweat that dampens his palms- she closes her eyes, and she knows he does the same- and this seems to be all it takes, all this ridiculous Northern ritual requires: two people standing together in the godswood, breathing the same air, silently pledging their troth before the heavens.
They open their eyes in tandem, and she reaches up to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss; tomorrow she will stand in the Sept of Baelor and marry Robert Baratheon in the sight of the Seven…but in the eyes of the mysterious, ancient gods still worshipped in the distant north, she and Jaime are joined for life, and that will have to be enough.
IX. Tywin/Sansa: College, professor/student
Professor Tywin Lannister gestures to the seat on the other side of the desk, and he waits (posture perfectly straight, hands folded on the tabletop over her recently-graded paper) for the girl to lower herself into the chair (her eyes are wide and frightened and it excites him more than he cares to admit) before sliding the thesis (covered in red marks, like blood dripping from countless wounds) across the table to her.
“Miss Stark,” he begins, gold-green eyes unblinking and cold, “I asked you to write an analysis of an American literary theorist. Can you explain why you chose to blatantly disregard the assignment?”
Sansa Stark’s nostrils flare, and he is surprised by the flicker of defiance that appears in her blue eyes. She shifts in her chair and shrugs her shoulders, but she does not look away from him as she replies, “She might not have been an Emerson or a Thoreau, but I believe that Emily Dickinson’s poetry tells us more about the potential of American literature than any essay could possibly do…Professor.”
Tywin narrows his eyes at her, but she does not look away, and he catches another bright flash in those pretty eyes as she nudges the red-stained paper back in his direction.
X. Cersei/Jaime: 1960s America
They aren’t far from the commune, Oberyn says- just another day’s drive, maybe even less. They park the van in a field for the night, and Oberyn and Ellaria head out to the woods with a little parcel of mushrooms and a woven blanket- they won’t be back till morning.
Jaime and Cersei spread the rest of the blankets on the floor at the back of the van, and as soon as Oberyn and Ellaria disappear from view, they pull at each other’s clothes, unable to feel skin on skin quickly enough, long golden hair meshing together, beaded necklaces tangling in each other, hungry mouths and desperate hands connecting, clinging, melding into one.
They lie together afterwards, kicking the doors to the trunk open to let the cool evening air blow across their naked bodies. Oberyn took the keys with him, so they can’t listen to the van radio, but Jaime thought to bring the little transistor from the house before they left. The reception here is weak- she thinks the song playing is by Bob Dylan, but she can’t be sure with all the static. But it hardly matters- she listens instead to Jaime’s heart, beating in perfect time with her own, and she tries to crystallize this moment, to freeze it in her memory, that she will always remember what it felt like to be free.
XI. Cersei/Sansa: French Revolution Era
The Queen reclines on her pillows, her powdered wig placed off to the side, her abundant golden hair cascading down her shoulders. She opens her green eyes just a sliver, just enough to see the little Marquise fluttering about the chamber like a vibrant butterfly, all blue and red and white and beautiful.
Sansa accepts a tray of petit fours from a maidservant and dismisses the plain girl before carefully arranging the little cakes on the porcelain dish Cersei likes best. Cersei pushes herself up into a seated position, not even troubling to arrange the skirts that have pushed their way up past her knees when she summons the Marquise to her side, bidding her to bring the cakes.
She opens her mouth and raises her golden brows expectantly. The girl blushes, just a little, and something curious sparkles in her blue eyes as she takes a petit four between her little fingers and lifts it to the Queen’s lips.
Cersei finishes the cake in three bites, then takes Sansa’s white hand in her own. She sucks the girl’s fingertips into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the sugar-coated skin, and she smiles when she feels the Marquise tremble.
XII. Gregor and Sansa: Ancient Greece
Sansa walks through the atrium, marvelling not for the first time over how large, how grand, how perfect everything is here. Joffrey’s family is the wealthiest in Athens, and she feels a little shiver of delight whenever she imagines herself as his wife, living in this beautiful palace with her beautiful husband and his beautiful mother.
She crosses the atrium and leans against the railing of the gallery, looking down onto the front courtyard. One of the Lannister men- Gregor, the huge one with the grim face- inspects the newest crop of slaves delivered from the village. Sansa feels her mouth twitch in another smile; they’re so wealthy, this family, that they can afford several times the number of slaves than most Athenian aristocrats.
The smile begins to wane when Gregor grabs a slave girl’s arm and pulls her to him, shouting obscenities in her face before cracking her across the jaw with the back of his hand. The girl weeps and whimpers, and the enormous guardsman kicks her over and over and over until she shudders. When she falls silent, her body twitching like a dying spider’s, he draws his leg up until his boot hovers over her skull, then brings it crashing down-
Sansa shrieks, and Gregor turns his head to glower in her direction. A cold sweat clings to her skin- she looks down to see the girl’s body splayed in a pool of blood and viscera. And then she turns and runs as fast as she can, heart thumping in her ears, bile creeping into her throat.
XIII. Catelyn/Brienne: World War II
As little as she likes to admit it, as disloyal as it makes her feel, Catelyn finds that she appreciates the chance to leave the house, the chance to do something for the war effort besides sit by the radio and twiddle her thumbs, hoping and praying for good news.
There’s no need to worry- Sansa’s more than capable of looking after the little ones, and even Arya promised to be on her best behavior while Mother went to the factory.
She works on the assembly line, helping to fashion canteens to send overseas. It’s tedious work, but it’s active, it’s something to do. She’s quick and efficient, and the foreman (forewoman, she’s a woman, however much she resembles a man) praises her efforts in an earnest way that brings her a pride she hasn’t felt in years.
The line halts early one day; there’s news from Germany, and the women scramble to get to a radio. Catelyn wants to be home; if there’s word from overseas, word of Ned and Robb, she needs to be with the kids when they hear it. But the bus won’t come for another hour, and she hasn’t a car…
“Do you need a ride home?” She turns around and encounters the kind blue eyes of Brienne, the enormous forewoman.
“I don’t want to put you out-” she begins, but Brienne shakes her head.
“No trouble at all- I’ve got nowhere I need to be.” She says it in a blunt, plain tone, but Catelyn doesn’t miss the shadow that passes across her pretty eyes.
“You’re very kind, thank you.” As she climbs into the passenger seat of Brienne’s car, she asks the forewoman if she’d like to join the Starks for dinner. Brienne’s face splits into a wide smile (she really is attractive when she smiles…), and she accepts the invitation before starting the engine and driving down the road.
XIV. Sansa/Aegon: He kisses her on their wedding night, and she believes him
Aegon cups her face in his hands, so gentle that she wants to scream- don’t, don’t, I’m not that girl anymore…
It angers her, how beautiful he is; she has to steel herself over and over, has to constantly remind herself not to be fooled, not to give in- it’s nothing but a lie, beauty is nothing but a lie.
She married him for security, for strategy. She’d get the protection Petyr and Harry and Sweetrobin couldn’t give her, and he’d get…she isn’t really sure what he wants from her, if she forces herself to be honest. Yes, she’s beautiful, but a man like Aegon could have as many comely women as he likes without needing to take them for his wives.
The way he looks at her- violet eyes reverent, worshipful- it makes her anxious, confused, vulnerable in a way she hasn’t felt in years.
She feels her restless muscles pulsing, and she tries to grain away from him. But then he kisses her.
His lips are soft and so, so warm, and his fingers rub gentle circles on her scalp. And she forgets herself; she kisses him back, her fingertips brushing over his fine silver hair. The cynical voice at the back of her mind cries out- there are no happy endings, life isn’t a song…
“Alayne,” he whispers, and her heart drops into her stomach, cold and hard and encased in steel.