OPEN | prompt three | PAIN

[wrens]

prompt three | P A I N dressing-room style. start your own thread. tag others. wash, rinse, repeat. open to all.

 

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[swelter]

[ And do you love me?

Sansa knows better than to ask; she's already been given his answer. She had made sure to wring it from him in those last few days before the Eyrie, when the stops grew more frequent and the hours driven each day grew less and less. It had been less than a week but for Sansa it had felt like an entire lifetime laid out before them — a string of anonymous hotel rooms, of aliases they forgot as soon as they'd been written in motel ledgers. Rolled down windows and desert swelter and a suitcase each.

He'd told her then, out in the desert. Told her and then buried that truth along with her name and her red hair.

(Everything in life is tragedy. All that varies is whether you give or you get, whether it's a papercut or a large, gaping hole.)

Sansa leans forward to press her mouth against his cheek, to feel the way his breath loses its pattern and becomes something else. Something she made. ]

I know, [ she says instead of asking. ] Remind me.

[regimes]

[ Remind me, she says, and his mouth finds hers, his frame shifting to cover her with its shadow.

They had spent a lifetime out in the desert, without names and without attachments to the worlds they were moving between, dust at their heels and nothing in their possession save a single car and the contents. They won't ever have that sort of simplicity again. Still, he kisses her as if to reclaim it, fervent in a way that is almost childish.

(Everybody wants to be loved. Petyr Baelish is no exception.) ]