Eleonora For The Writing Prompts!

eleonora for the writing prompts!

Eleonora: letter, confession, affection

“I love you.”

That the words had formed in his brain was not unexpected; that they slipped from his lips was something like death.

It was the act that did it, the height of passion ruining his comprehension. She was tangled beneath him, long limbs wrapped around his slim frame, face pressed against his neck. He briefly hope that she had not been able to hear him with the sound of their sex but that was dashed when she pulled away, staring up at him with fear in her eyes.

Petyr paused, held her gaze for a moment before casting his down. He felt he was wilting above Sansa, felt weak, felt regressed, and that would simply not do. He pulled away her completely, leaving her exposed on the bed, the room suddenly cool around them.

“W-what?” The word seemed to hover in the air around them and he could not stand to hear it. Standing he kept his back to her not wishing for her to see is eyes, see the manifestation of his weakness that was permanently etched upon his chest. He fumbled for his dressing gown, sliding into it, wrapping it around himself like one would armor.

“Forgive me,” he said, staring into the distance as he pushed his hair back in a nervous effort to keep his hands busy. He heard the rustling of sheets behind him, felt her reach out to him in the distance. He could still feel the words in his mouth, could still taste the awfulness in them, the absolute truth, and his self-hatred only grew.

“I just — I don’t know what to say.” In that moment she saw her for how young she was; he pitied her. Closing his eyes in the darkness he drew in a deep breath.

Sansa continued talking, her voice far too light for the room. “I’m not upset. I—don’t know how to respond, is all. Love?” Her voice almost cracked at the word and it was too much to bear. He started to pace, the rushes loud against his feet, never once looking at her.

“I should go,” he said, thinking out loud yet again. And yet that would not solve it, the words would still linger between them, tainting everything he had build. They had been part of his fantasies, but like so many things in his fantasies they were not meant to be dragged into reality, at least not yet. That he did so was a testament to that fact that he had not yet fully succeeded in becoming the man he wished, that he had not yet killed every trace of his obvious need, his romanticism. How foolish he was! How had he let this girl do this to him?

He looked at her then. In the darkness her eyes were huge, contrasted with the pallid hue of her skin. He thought of her repeating that to someone, that Myranda might hear, and dread coursed though him.

“That was for you alone,” he said, with perhaps more force than was necessary. Sansa flinched just a bit, concern etching what he could make out of her features.

“Of course,” she responded. Was it affection he heard there? Was it just a mask, her using his techniques to pacify him?

“I mean it, Sansa.” He let an edge creep into his voice, desperation rushing through his veins. He stared her down until she turned away, nervous.

“You can trust me.” Her voice was soft, as pathetic as his own had been moments before. A sense of calm overtook him and he uncurled his hands from the fists he just now realized they were in.

“Good,” he moved forward her, caught her chin in his hand and forced her to stare at him. “I would hope you would not let me down.” It was a threat, coated with something like real affection, and he felt it with every fiber of his being.

She nodded against his hand, her eyes open and honest in the dark, and at last he was at ease.

Tags

petyr x sansa game of thrones