[ Once there'd been a boy named Joffrey: narrow shouldered and with green eyes and hair the color of Rapunzel's straw. He was as cruel to Sansa as he was kind — pushing her into puddles on Mondays and stealing kisses behind the the grand oak in the gardens on Thursdays. Sansa had never asked to be kissed by him but bullheaded Joffrey had insisted and when he did it was with more than his lips. He kissed her with his entire mouth and sometimes Sansa feared that if Joffrey had his way, he would swallow her whole.
Never once in all those fumbled encounters, whether his hand had been on her waist or tangled in her hair and threatening to pull, never did Joffrey kiss her the way that Mr. Baelish kisses her now. Slow and careful and lingering. With his lips closed and warm against hers; his breath on her face; his eyes with lids low.
Though he does not speak, his expression says volumes when he finally pulls away, the shadow of him veiling the response that comes from Sansa's eyes. ]
Did I kiss well? [ comes her bashful answer, her gaze lowered and her cheeks burning and her head a wash with dizzy delight. Before he can reply: ] May— may we kiss again?
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Never once in all those fumbled encounters, whether his hand had been on her waist or tangled in her hair and threatening to pull, never did Joffrey kiss her the way that Mr. Baelish kisses her now. Slow and careful and lingering. With his lips closed and warm against hers; his breath on her face; his eyes with lids low.
Though he does not speak, his expression says volumes when he finally pulls away, the shadow of him veiling the response that comes from Sansa's eyes. ]
Did I kiss well? [ comes her bashful answer, her gaze lowered and her cheeks burning and her head a wash with dizzy delight. Before he can reply: ] May— may we kiss again?