A Multi-Fandom Adult Theme Comment!Ficathon
Welcome to Adult Theme Comment!Ficathon!
I was supposed to do this ficathon ages ago, but real life kept being difficult. But it's here now, so let's get started, shall we?
( Read more... )
I was supposed to do this ficathon ages ago, but real life kept being difficult. But it's here now, so let's get started, shall we?
( Read more... )
a/n: alright, alright, I really couldn't help myself.
Every day Sansa thinks about jumping out of her tower window.
She hides in the halls, she hides behind Margaery's skirts, like a little girl with her mother. Or much older sister. Margaery is close enough to her in age, but she seems - not through any knowledge or specific, defining attributes, but in the ghost of everything she does - to be far, far wiser than her years, and far, far more mature than her body. Sansa feels like a child with her hand in hers, like a fragile little thing.
A bird, the Hound had said. A dove, Queen Cersei had said. Margaery only smiles, and says nothing.
She scorns her in public even, glances away like Sansa's presence occasions not a single care, or tiny shred of interest. It is a mask, though, it must be a mask, a farce designed to shine suspicion off her own pale face and onto those that keep Sansa's company in the light of day. Margaery only knows her in the dark, only speaks to her in hushed whispers and telling touches up in down her sides, light and fragile like the wings of a frightened butterfly, in the quiet shadows of the Godswood.
Sansa is a woman wed now, and her matrimony to Tyrion Lannister must needs lead to the end of any interest displayed toward her affairs by the Tyrell family. Her worth is in her ties, and if she cannot be used to tie the Starks to Willas, she cannot be used at all. Useless, Margaery had said, in such an amused, conspiratorial tone on that first night, that it had sounded less like deliberate cruelty, and more like a joke that only the two of them were in on.
Sansa is in on it. She's just not sure she understands it.
Sansa is a woman wed, but she is also still a maiden, and Margaery seems to take great pleasure in the fact of that. She lies Sansa flat against the ground below the Heart tree, spreads her out and gives her things, and takes and takes and takes everything - but not her maidenhead. "I am incapable of it," she'd said, in explanation. "Isn't that such a shame?"
"No," Sansa says, because she shakes like a leaf, because she is terrified in these hours, terrified of Margaery's sweets voice and sweet hands and the things they make her feel - but she is never afraid to speak her mind, because she is never rebuked for it here. Margaery even seems to enjoy her doubts and protestations. "To lose it to any other than my husband would be disgraceful." She repeats someone else's words in her own voice, and even as her belief in them wavers, in the way her whole world wavers daily, and only barely avoids cracking apart, she tries to say it with conviction.
She wants to be strong, if only in the dark.
Margaery's laugh tinkles through her ears, ghosts warm breath against the curve of her throat. "Never," she says, pressing a kiss to Sansa's shoulder, dragging the soft pads of her fingers up Sansa's thigh, "you could never be without grace."
Every day Sansa thinks about jumping out of her tower window. Every day Sansa thinks about the night before, thinks about the Godswood, thinks about Margaery. Every day Sansa waits.
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