So I don't know if I'm allowed to do this, here, (since I totally stole it from stalking tumblr this weekend like the shameless creeper that I am), but what the hell.

Here is my attempt at Sabotensan's "microfic" challenge. One sentence fics for various genres.

Oh, and my "sentences" are hopeless run-ons. Oops.

D: Not mine.



She feels his eyes lock onto the side of her face the instant she slips in from the stables, sitting down to break her fast at the seat furthest from him, and it makes the raw skin beneath her tunic burn to know that he is remembering what hadn't happened last night, what couldn't have happened, and what would never happen again.


She's struggling in her sleep, hips thrusting helplessly for friction that isn't there, and at first he does nothing but watch in rapt, shameful wonder, but before long the bastard within gets the best of him and he lightly takes her hand and directs it where he knows she needs it most, and then when she rolls and arches and quakes he watches some more.


His father catches him staring at her as she exits the training yard in the direction of the baths, guffawing drunkenly and nudging him with his elbow while telling him to follow, and though it makes his stomach churn he ducks away all the same, ill at ease with what might happen if Lord Baratheon happens upon His Grace Eddard Stark's bastard daughter while she is bathing.


Her fists are hard and fast and relentless against his bare chest, and in a sleep-induced fog he tries to wrap her in his arms, barely registering the words that tumble forth from her gritted teeth, thick with something he later recognizes as tears, words like "stupid" and "your fault" and "pregnant."


When she first meets him, she asks, almost shyly, if he has any brothers, and he only laughs in a way that reminds her of Jon and cuffs her on the shoulder like Robb used to, telling her no, but that he had always wanted one.


She has always been utter shit at dancing, and he has never even tried it before, but somehow when he spins her around, barefoot in the dirt, stepping on her toes and clutching her tight against him, she feels all sorts of dizzy and a little bit like Sansa and for once the sensation is something dangerously close to lovely.


He flings the tiny blossoms at her, avoiding eye contact and muttering under his breath about putting them in her bedroll because she stinks to high heaven and maybe they would keep the fleas away before the two of them were both eaten alive, and she knows she should throw them right back, but for some reason she puts the lavender under her pillow and wonders if she might still be dreaming when she wakes to the feel of him brushing it from her hair.

I couldn't stop myself from writing these two first, what with the appearance of shirtless Gendry (and I don't even have HBO).