Petyr x Sansa Week

[petyrsansaweek]

Is it too late to submit something?

Petyr x Sansa Week was officially over this past Sunday (Aug. 28), but if our prompts inspired you to create something then we highly recommend you post it to both the #pxsship and #petyr x sansa tags so that fellow shippers can see and enjoy it!

[petyrsansaweek]

What a week! So much wonderful work was produced, and both of your admins want to thank you all for your enthusiasm. If you happened to miss it, please delve into the tags-- there’s some great stuff there.

[baelishv]

Petyr x Sansa week day7      // fill day!

La Dolce Vita AU

“Petyr, come here! Harry up!”  “Sansa…Sansa, who are you?”

[exxogenesiis-deactivated2021050]

“You are the night time fear You are the morning when it’s clear When it’s over you’re the start You’re my head, you’re my heart”. [x]

→ Petyr x Sansa week: fill day

[exxogenesiis-deactivated2021050]

“What did you do? Where did you go? Truth is I don’t really know Oh, is this love? It’s not enough Just one sip and I can’t stop”. [x]

→ Petyr x Sansa week: fill day

[petyrsansaweek]

ok i know this is not a question but i wanted to thank you for organizing this! i had so much fun and i loved to see everyone's works and how they were differently inspired by the prompts. See you next year?

I’m glad to hear you had fun! And yup, we’ll be here next year!

[fairytaleasoldastime]

Petyr x Sansa Week

Sunday: Fill Day

[queengallaghr]

Petyr x Sansa Week: Day 7 Fill Day! Petyr x Sansa Modern Domestic AU

It was stormy on their wedding day. They didn’t care, it was perfect regardless. It was stormy on the days their children were born. Petyr said it was a sign of good luck; their marriage had been wonderful, so clearly this was the universe’s way of telling them their children would be too. Sansa rolled her eyes at him, but smiled anyway because after all, he was right.

(Huge thanks for the support this week! Enjoy some Petyr/Sansa fluffy domestic goodness as a thanks! Dedicated to my biggest supporter this week [and arguably in general] @jyn-erso-rebels)

[selmagravys-deactivated20181203]

PETYR X SANSA WEEK 2016 - Sunday: FILL DAY

[maralothbrok]

PxS Week - Day 6 - Silence or Power Eye Fucking Each Other

[irresistible-revolution]

Petyr x Sansa Week: Knowledge or SILK

[set in an AU-ish future where the war is over and Westeros is at peace, idk just go with it]

[dedicated to @thefudge]

Sansa Stark, soon to be wed and crowned Queen in the North, is surrounded by gifts.

Wealth and tokens from all across the Seven Kingdoms fill her chamber, and more are on the way. She floats through a sea of vivid colors and jewels, fingers trailing over ripe luxury, waiting for her skin to pulse in turn.

(Why won’t it?)

Her husband-to-be is a Knight of the Vale, a brave warrior, and a good man. She will rule the North with his sword by her side. She will never kneel to anyone again. She will be what they all desire after so many years of war and winter: a shining queen, a beacon of hope.

(And if sometimes she misses the stone silence of the Eyrie, or the way his eyes would sift through her like she was so much grain -)

Keep reading

[petyrsansaweek]

Prompt: Ruin

Petyr x Sansa Week prompt: Ruin

Modern AU, same as Knowledge and Scars. Petyr POV. Warning for violence, minor character death, language.

I’ve got a book of matches

I’ve got a can of kerosene

I’ve got some bad ideas involving you and me

-Alkaline Trio, This Could Be Love

*************

Building trust in a person he had no absolutely intention of betraying was a concept nearly foreign to Petyr Baelish, and formed the root of his current dilemma. He could tell Sansa continued to doubt the veracity of his affections, thinking herself to be merely a more accessible pale shadow of the woman she imagined he still wanted above all else. All his pretty words would fall on deaf ears, and short of orchestrating some convoluted scenario in which he was given the opportunity to forsake Catelyn Tully unequivocally, permanently, in plain view of gods and men both, he had not yet found a way to convince her of the truth, and so withheld the deepest of his sentiments for the time being. He was in the unfamiliar position of feeling frustrated, and, if he were willing to admit it, not a little anxious. His current surroundings only added to his sour mood. The shed he leaned against made for dull viewing even in daylight, more so with its unsavory contents hidden by nightfall. The woods around him offered no respite to monotony, either.

He sighed. His quarry was late, sloth evidently outweighing avarice this particular day. He was missing a quality assurance meeting for this. Well, missing was the wrong word for it, but it went on without him regardless. He would have to catch up on Ros’s notes later tonight instead, which might have been just as well; they were usually much more entertaining than the meetings themselves. The gods knew how the mere act of reducing the filth and depravity that went on in his establishments daily to volume quotas, product assessments, and customer satisfaction (so to speak) statistics could render it so utterly banal as to make him want to gouge his own eyes out with one of the dildos Olyvar would inevitably be complaining about yet again. He had only himself to blame. If he were less of a control freak he would be able to hand more of these duties off to the subordinates he most trusted. He was considering making changes anyway to scale back his involvement, as he now had much better things with which to occupy his time.  One in particular ruled his thoughts as an ever-present hunger. It had been over thirteen hours since his last opportunity to see her, feel her, taste her. He wondered if it would always be like this, marking the time of their separation with impatience but also building anticipation that would make the reunion all the sweeter. He suspected so, hoped for it even. He had burned for her for so long before she finally came to him, and if anything, his desire had only grown greater in the conquest. He would never take for granted the salvation her sweet moans promised, the wet heat between her thighs a baptism more holy to him than could be found in any church.

He stared at the sign hanging above him with disdain, though in the dim fluorescent lights it almost looked benign, merely a strangely ornate ‘X.’ Most of the old families had taken pains to sanitize their history, and sigil with it, but the Boltons seemed to revel in the savagery of their past, and were so bold as to stamp it over everything they owned as if it were normal to have the mascot of an internationally traded company skinless and bloody. It irked him that such tasteless displays were excused, even accepted by the aristocratic establishment, when he himself would forever be beneath them merely by the circumstances of his birth. He’d had the resources to buy himself a peerage, if he so wished, and had rinsed blood from coin well enough to pass the most stringent of audits, but long ago had realized it would not get him what he wanted. When he was a boy, he had loved reading tales of Westerosi lore, of kings and queens passed into legend, valorous knights and beautiful ladies, the rich history of a country which had hung onto the name of Seven Kingdoms with no king seemingly out of nostalgia. His first visit to King’s Landing was forever ingrained in his memory, dominated by the vision of the Iron Throne. He remembered staring through the safety glass encasing the relic and thinking it had a terrible sort of beauty. The chair of blades haunted his dreams, an ugly symbol of a less civilized age, but captivating nonetheless.

The glare of headlights cutting through the tree line interrupted his musings. Finally. He prepared himself for the confrontation to come, ensuring the layers he wore remained intact and checking that his weaponry was at the ready. The car crept cautiously down the secluded drive before stopping a little over fifty feet away. Littlefinger pushed himself away from the wall lightly, hugging the shadows as he waited to see what his guest would do. The driver side door opened to release a disheveled man in a crumpled suit, the cheap quality of which he could discern even at this distance. Predictably, the first move the man made was to walk forward and step into the sole circle of light in front of the building.

“Hello?” The man’s gruff voice broke the silence. Petyr waited a few moments more, cautious in case the driver had brought others to their meeting. When it seemed they were alone, he flipped one of the switches on the wall behind him and moved forward.

“I’m so glad you could make it.” He affected his friendliest tone as he stepped into the now glaring spotlight which left the newcomer blinking. His opponent made a motion toward the firearm strapped to his hip but hesitated. It never failed to amuse him how everyone, from hardened criminal to seasoned law enforcement, reacted with the same disarming befuddlement when confronted by the unexpected and no doubt ridiculous sight of a man dressed in a full clean suit. Petyr walked toward him with relaxed confidence, extending a hand in greeting. Manners overwhelmed instinct and discipline as the other man abandoned his weapon and met the gesture with one of his own, seeming not to register it was covered in latex most peculiarly. Baelish grasped the offered limb firmly before suddenly pulling his mark forward roughly, unbalancing him, twisting behind in the same motion to deliver a kick to the side of the taller man’s knee, and was rewarded with an outcry of pain and surprise.

His advantages were speed and the tendency of his enemies, especially the larger ones, to underestimate his strength, though technique was really the key. Petyr followed the man’s descent down, planting a knee firmly into the man’s back and securing the gun hand harmlessly underneath it before grabbing his throat, fingers expertly finding the grooves on either side and pressing inward mercilessly. The man struggled beneath him for a few seconds but was unable to buck him off or loosen his tenacious grip before succumbing to ischemia. Littlefinger held the position for a few moments more, attention now focused on scouring the car for any signs of movement. He needn’t be as cautious with the maneuver as he normally was, as it wasn’t entirely necessary for his victim to be alive for what followed, though it was an added bonus. He saw nothing and was reassured. He released the man’s neck, letting the face hit the pavement with a careless thump while he retrieved an ether-soaked cloth and fastened it over the mouth.

As he went through the familiar motions of disarming and restraining the prostrate form beneath him, his thoughts returned once again to bitter recollection. When he was young and stupid he’d accepted the false history swallowed by a gullible public that the aristocracy had graciously compromised with their serfs, peacefully abdicating a monarchy with the concession of being able to keep their purely symbolic titles. He never questioned the common misconception that the republic built on the feudal structure was sound, just, a reflection of the will of its people. Then he learned that there could be a king crowned in shadow, unsanctified by any higher power, answerable to no one, especially not the populace he exploited. Elections could be bought and sold at will, and right versus left, blue against red, none of it made any difference when all the strings were pulled by one master. He’d often argued with Varys over large volumes of alcohol whether the whole thing could be salvaged, rescued from sinking into an abyss of its own making. The eunuch valued order above all else, and thought bringing back the blood of the worst of the mad kings would somehow fix it. Littlefinger knew better. It was a cancer, a festering abscess of a thing, walled off to protect itself even as it fed on and poisoned the organism around it.

It had been quite a while since Baelish had done his own heavy lifting, and he’d forgotten how exhausting hauling around dead weight could be. He would trust no one else with this task, however, so getting his hands dirty (metaphorically, of course, he always double-gloved) was unavoidable. He huffed into the confines of the mask as he pulled the much heavier man into the shed. He stopped to turn the bank of switches inside on and watched as slumbering metal forms stretched their limbs, awakening in the lamplight. His goal was difficult to miss—centrally placed, dominating the room with its tall, intricate structure. He lifted the body up once again to carry it the few remaining yards and deposited it at the machine’s feet.

He hadn’t expected the convenience of a manual for the nightmare the shed housed but was quite appreciative when he found it. The straps slipped easily around limbs, and he tightened them with precision. When he engaged the lever the hydraulic arms stretched the motionless form out on the ground before lifting it into the air with ease, swinging the unconscious man into place. He removed the ether-soaked cloth masking the man’s face, and waited.

He’d also believed the lie that with enough hard work and sacrifice one could be anything they wished, that cleverness and bravery were rewarded, true affection returned. That naïve optimism bled out of him one beat at a time through the gaping hole his love’s chosen one had made in his chest. The pain from Cat’s dismissal had burned deeper, however, scorching his heart into the black mess of scar tissue it would become even as bleeding was staunched and frayed flesh sewn back together. Lysa’s betrayal had hardened it further to obsidian, edges sharp and unyielding, at least until the arrival of Cat’s daughter had smoothed its surface, replacing molten hate with a different heat altogether. He knew his love was a damned, destructive thing, as apt to cut as it was to soothe, but he would protect Sansa from the worst parts of himself if it killed him.

The man hanging upside down in front of him finally showed signs of life, breaking the silence with a moan. Meryn Trant was an imbecile of the highest order, as his place on Cersei’s payroll made painfully evident. All it had taken to lure him were a few breadcrumbs the man had eagerly gobbled up; an informant’s name, a drug cache of pristine quality that could be cut any number of times for profit, and several deposits of untraceable cash just waiting to fall into the corrupt hands of the Met’s finest. The fact that it had been stolen from Bolton holdings, planting a tidy trail of motive to be uncovered, made it all the more satisfying. The arrogant cop hadn’t even questioned the identity of his new benefactor and readily agreed to the meeting despite its suspicious location.

“Good evening, Detective Inspector Trant.” Petyr knelt to make eye contact with the slowly waking man.

“What the fuck? Let me down! Don’t you know who I am?” Trant was still all spit and bluster, pulling at his bonds to no effect.

“I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to arrange our meeting, so I hope I have the right man.”

His prey squinted at him, clearly not recognizing his captor. Baelish did the idiot a favor and pulled the mask covering the lower half of his face down for a brief moment to reveal a smirk.

“Littlefinger, you slimy little shithead! Quit fucking about and let me down, now!” Baelish stood, offering only a short, sardonic bow in return. He returned his attention to the manual to begin the complicated startup sequence. He ignored the increasingly elaborate and profane threats being thrown at him but relished when the man’s tone turned pleading and then desperate. “You can’t do this! I know people!”

“I am well acquainted with them myself. You have my sympathies.”

“You’ll never get me to talk.” The man’s last attempt at bravado made him want to laugh.

“I don’t torture people for information, Trant. I fuck them.”

He saw the other man’s eyes drop in horror to his gowned crotch and couldn’t suppress a grin behind the mask. Perhaps not coincidentally, knowing its designer, the intended victim’s position provided opportunity for all manner of violation, sodomy included, if that had been his intention. It was not. He was never particularly fond of rape as a display of power, and had absolutely no desire to soil himself with the other man’s flesh. Besides, making your enemy want despite himself was so much better than using brute force.

“Not to worry, Detective, I’ve already had you. All the things you whispered to my girls have been most helpful. And after this, the damage you’ve done to them will have been worth the expense.”

He was impressed with the ingenuity of the restraints; they provided both the stability and exposure needed to cut away the man’s clothing and make the prescribed incisions with ease. He worked quickly, guided by the detailed descriptions and helpful pictures provided by his unwitting host, his blade finding the required fascial planes with minimal effort, inserting the various pieces of the machine into their allotted places, all the while ignoring the squirming screams and threats of the man beneath. He then stepped back, giving the terrified man one last malicious smirk before engaging the lever innocuously marked ‘start.’ The beast lumbered to life with a chilling whine, and began to pull.

Baelish was well acquainted the iron taste of blood and the stench of death that followed, but the acrid smell of flesh being uncovered affected him more than he’d expected, drawing him unwillingly back into memories he’d long hidden away of having to do shifts at a slaughterhouse owned by a distant cousin to make ends meet. He tightened the mask over his face in an attempt to seal it. As he listened to the sounds coming from the corrupt policeman’s throat grow unrecognizable as human, skin neatly separating from the muscle and bone beneath it, he could see how this might be appealing to Bolton’s bastard. If he too had required the levels of torture the sick little fuck evidently needed to find pleasure, the machine provided a practical, if not downright elegant, solution. Perhaps he shouldn’t judge too harshly; his own tastes were similarly singular. His want—need—for her went layers deeper than the physical in a way he knew she’d not yet be comfortable with, as he learned from regrettable experience with her mother. But he knew she would, given time; Sansa was stronger, cleverer by far, and she had gazed upon what he really was beneath all the masks and not flinched. She would be both past and future for a man who’d never had either.

Soon enough the last of the skin was gone, leaving a glistening red study of the human form behind, and Trant’s struggles faded to nothing. The only sound remaining was Littlefinger’s quiet breathing and the drip of blood into the pan below. He didn’t bother cleaning any of the equipment, only sweeping through the facility to gather any evidence of his presence he might have left behind before shutting off the power. He checked that the security cameras were still deactivated one last time before getting into Trant’s car. He covered the long stretch of drive to the main road with the headlights off. Quickly but efficiently stripping off the outer layer of polymer suit, he threw it and the top pair of gloves into the back with what remained of Trant’s clothing. He then lit several matches and threw them into the car as well. He waited only long enough to ensure the inferno would take the vehicle and everything it contained before beginning the trek to his own car hidden several miles down the road. 

It was a quiet country lane, but someone would come across it soon enough. The car would then prompt the search for the missing officer, leading them to the abattoir in due course. He knew unless Commissioner Stark himself opened the shed, any evidence linking Ramsey Bolton to the untold skeletons within would be buried, stolen, or otherwise corrupted, never to reach the light of day. It hardly mattered, though. They would also uncover Lannister money that had not been authorized to be hidden there, and news of that would most certainly reach where it needed to go, mainly the desk of Lord Tywin. If he were lucky, the Tyrells and Martells would also have men present to spread the seeds of doubt and unrest for him. If the lesser Baratheon brothers were informed as well, so much the better. Trant’s death would be small in the grand scheme of things, but the tiny fracture in the bond between supposed friends would spread and join the dozens of others he had already inflicted on the fragile structure of their alliance. He knew he would never hold any true power in their system, never really have control over his own fate in the rigged game they played, because he could never be one of them. No matter how much money he made, titles he had, people he owned, in the eyes of those inbred cunts he would always be the nameless boy from a forgotten corner of an island no one ever gave a shit about. They made it clear he would never be a part of their world, so he decided he would burn it to the ground and take their families with them. The Lannisters had oh so helpfully laid the kindling for him in their brutish, myopic push for power. He would set it alight with flames of Tully red standing beside him, and together they would build something lovely in the ashes.

Even if he hadn’t developed his attachment to Sansa, residual affection for her mother would likely have pushed him to spare the Stark clan. He’d have been significantly more willing to let Eddard Stark sacrifice himself on an altar of honor and duty, however. Still, he had to grudgingly admit that they were different to the other families. For all their noble stupidity (with notable exception), they actually seemed integrated into the society around them, working to earn what they owned rather than assuming divine right as the others did. They would hopefully prove useful for more than helping secure Sansa’s affections, though the effort was worth that alone.

After the long walk back to his car hidden on an unnamed side road he finally stripped the last trappings of sterility from himself, soaked in sweat beneath the constricting layers, and tossed them into the trunk for later disposal. He settled into the driver’s seat with a groan, muscles aching. He was clearly out of practice. He started the car and drove again with the headlights off for a few miles before deciding it was safe to turn them and his cell phone back on. It was late, but she’d forgive him. He dialed the number from memory, not entrusting it even to the encryption he employed.

 “Petyr?”

The sleepy voice on the other end ignited the familiar burn in his chest as it had never failed to do since he first heard it what seemed a lifetime ago. He smiled, truly, honestly, and imagined she would be able to hear it in his voice. He knew he would have her heart when she could accept his. Until then, he’d give her those of her enemies, blood dripping fresh and warm. He could be patient.

“Hello, sweetling.”

***********

Thanks for reading. Any feedback would be very much appreciated.

[littlebaelish]

Petyr x Sansa Week • DAY 4 • ruin or mirror

Wondrous the stone of these ancient walls, shattered by fate. The districts of the city have crumbled. The work of giants of old lies decayed. Roofs are long tumbled down, The lofty towers are in ruins. Frost covers the mortar, Tiles weathered and fallen, undermined by age.

[petyr-baelish]

Petyr x Sansa Week - Day 2 - Scars

Ok, please don’t judge. This is my first fic that I’ve ever posted. Also, I suck at writing dialogue, but I’m working on it. (Oh, ignore that fact that it’s super late.) Anyway, here it is.

One more glass of wine and he might not have heard the door squeak on its hinges. The sound was so subtle, it could have been mistaken for wind gusting through the castle, but he knew it was her. It was the reason he had left the door to his chamber cracked. He knew she would come.

The night had been lively and wine flowed endlessly as he lavished attention on the buxom brunette that sat beside him. Despite the festivities, he could feel Sansa’s gaze burning into him all evening. He would remind her to be more careful in the future. Dutiful daughters did not look at their fathers with such longing.

She was seated across from him at dinner, just far enough away to miss the words he whispered into his partner’s ear. Earlier in the evening, she could have distracted herself with all the merriment, pretended like she didn’t see what was going on, but young Robert had retired and very few lords and ladies were left at the table other than Sansa, Myranda and himself.

Lady Waynwood and Sansa exchanged pleasantries and Anya told her all about Harry, but Petyr could tell Sansa was paying no attention to the woman. Her eyes often strayed to his before they would flutter back to Lady Waynwood. Myranda was only making it worse. She spent the evening laughing too loudly, trying to attract the attention of everyone in the room.

Her laughter grated on his nerves and he loathed the strong scent of lavender that hung in the air around her, but it was a necessary evil. Just as Sansa would do her duty in marrying Harrold, he would do his by wedding Myranda. It was the last thing he wanted, but there was little choice in this play for power. And deep down, he felt some sort of justice in Sansa’s jealousy for he knew it would pale in comparison to his own when she married the Heir.

So when she excused herself shortly after Robert, he knew she would come to him later that night. When he found himself lingering on the idea of Sansa alone in his room, he finished another glass of Arbor wine and forced his thoughts onto another subject, but Myranda was well past drunk and despite the cleavage she was attempting to parade in his face, he had grown weary of her and her antics.

“My dear,” he paused to pick up her hand, “I apologize for cutting the evening short, but I think it’s time I turned in.”

Myranda pouted her lips. “But Petyr, you’ve hardly touched the wine you brought and it’s so good.” She leaned into his ear to whisper the last two words.

Petyr forced a smile and brought her hand up to his lips. “I’m sorry to disappoint, my love, but I really must go.” He placed a small kiss on the back of her hand and stood before she could complain. “I’m afraid I must bid the rest of you good night.” He gave a small bow and swept out of the room.

He hadn’t even made it to the hall outside his chambers when he heard the click of shoes on stone behind him. Soon after, a hand wrapped around his forearm, pulling him to a halt. Brown eyes met his own and a small mouth collided with his. Her weight forced him back against the stone wall as her arms slid around his waist.

Petyr gave in for half a heartbeat before gently placing his hands on her shoulders to nudge her back. Their lips broke apart and Myranda let out a heaving breath.

“I wouldn’t want to spoil your virtue before we’re wed, my dear,” he said.

“Oh, but no one would ever find out,” she said as she closed the gap between them. “And besides, what difference does it make if we’re already betrothed?” She kissed him again before he could protest.

Taking his hand, Myranda led Petyr down the hall to the apartments where he, Sansa and Robert were staying while at the Gates of the Moon. She pushed him up against the heavy wooden door bringing their lips crashing together once again.

He moved from her lips, trailing hot kisses across her jaw to her neck. She let out a moan when he nipped at her soft skin, but the smell of lavender became overwhelming. Pulling away, he brought his hand up to her neck and tangled it through her hair, wishing it was copper tresses he was caressing instead of the dull brown before him.

“I do wish I could keep up with your vigor. Maybe ten years ago,” he chuckled, “but I really am exhausted and I have an early morning ahead of me. Please forgive me, love. We can pick this up when I return,” he said, placing another kiss to her lips.

“I can still stay with you tonight and help in other ways,” she said.

The last thing he wanted was for Sansa to find Myranda in his bed. She would never come back to him if she did. Not that he even wanted Myranda in his bed. “What would your father think if he found you in my bed? He would throw me out the Moon Door himself.” He forced a smile and kissed the girl on her forehead. “Good night, dear. I will see you soon.”

A flash of annoyance crossed Myranda’s face before she relented. “Promise?”

“Of course. But you should get back to your own chambers before the guards find you wandering the halls and inform your father.”

Myranda nodded and left him with a sloppy, wet kiss before strutting down the hall.

Petyr dropped his smile and breathed a sigh of relief. They had done this dance almost every night since they arrived to the Gates of the Moon, and every night he was forced to fabricate a new excuse. She had put up much less of a fight this time, and for that he was grateful.

He pushed through the door to his room and crossed to the other side. He needed wine to wash away the taste of Myranda before it made him sick. He needed Sansa. Now. It had been too long since they had spent time alone together. It was more difficult here than in the Eyrie where people scarcely paid any attention to the coming and going of Lord Baelish and his bastard daughter. But tonight he knew she would find a way to slip into his room.

It was early yet, so he shrugged off his doublet and loosened the ties of his tunic before settling down with a flagon of wine and a full glass to watch flames dance in the hearth. How he wished it was Sansa that pressed him up against the cold stone wall instead of Myranda. He wanted to kiss porcelain skin, run his fingers through flaming locks, breathe in the scent of lemon and drown in the ocean of her eyes. But it wasn’t Sansa Stark that would come to him tonight, it was Alayne Stone.

Time passed slowly, agonizingly so, until he heard the door creak. Petyr didn’t know what time it was, but it must have been late enough for her to brave the trip between rooms. He hadn’t meant to be in such a disheveled state when she arrived, but it was too late now.

“Are you just going to stand there in the dark, Sweetling, or are you going to come properly greet your father?”

The door groaned as she pushed it open and he heard her feet shuffling against stone. She appeared next to his chair and stood wringing her hands together, still wearing her dress from earlier.

“Forgive me, Father. I didn’t know if you were still awake,” she said in a small voice.

Petyr set his glass down and reached over to pull her into his lap. She squirmed awkwardly, but he wrapped an arm behind her and around her waist to hold her in place.

“I am always awake when you need me, Alayne,” he said. “Now, it still seems as though you haven’t properly greeted me. Care to change that?”

Sansa gave a small nod and brought a hand up to his collar using it to pull herself closer to him. Her pools of blue met grey-green orbs, but instead of closing them, she held his gaze. Her lips parted slightly and she quietly sucked in a breath while Petyr struggled to maintain his steady breathing.

He reveled in the faint scent of lemon and the warmth that radiated from her. He pulled her closer as he dug his fingers into her waist. The gasp that came from her mouth almost broke him, but he waited for her to press her lips against his. When she did, he expected her to pull away, but unpracticed lips stayed against his own. He moved his lips, molding them to hers and felt her grip on his tunic tighten.

He couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t hold back. His hand ran up along her side, tracing the seams of her dress while the other rested on her thigh with fingers gently squeezing the soft flesh. He kissed her harder and buried his hand in her hair. Any moment now, she would pull away, he thought, but she kept her lips against his, following his lead.

His kisses became fervent, insistent when she ran her free hand up his chest. He wanted to kiss her velvet lips forever, but suddenly, their mouths broke apart and the silence in the room was filled with gasping. Again, their eyes met, but where Petyr was expecting to see fear, he saw desire.

Sansa’s small hand pushed his tunic off his shoulder and brushed along his skin. He held back a shiver, keeping his eyes locked with hers. He should stop her, he knew, but this was more than he could ever ask for. It was when her eyes strayed down that he broke from his reverie. Her jaw dropped and there was nothing he could do.

“An ugly sight, Sweetling. I didn’t mean to spoil the moment,” he said as he brought his hand up to caress her cheek.

She looked back up at him and quickly closed her mouth. “How… how did it happen?” Imploring eyes searched his face.

“It’s a sad story for another time. I don’t wish to ruin your evening.” He forced a small smirk, but was met with a hard gaze. His hand dropped back down into Sansa’s lap.

“Tell me. I want to know.” Her hand slid down from his shoulder to run along the length of the scar, but she quickly pulled away when Petyr flinched. “I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”

“Not physically, no, but don’t worry about it. I’ll be alright.” He hoped that would be the end of the conversation, but she looked at him expectantly. “You really don’t know?” He asked.

Sansa’s brow furrowed and she shook her head, sending brown waves over her shoulders.

Petyr sighed and closed his eyes. “Your uncle gave this to me, a long, long time ago.”

She looked confused. “Uncle Benjen?”

He smiled. “Your uncle Brandon. Ned’s older brother. It was a token of his esteem.”

“But why? You knew him? When?” Questions spewed from her mouth.

“One at a time, my dear,” he chuckled. He was genuinely surprised at her curiosity, though disappointed their tender moment was forgotten. He took a breath before beginning his story. “I was a boy, not much older than you are now, and we were in Riverrun where I was ward to your grandfather, Hoster Tully. Your mother was betrothed to Brandon long before she met your father. She and I were close, very close and when she found out she was to wed the eldest Stark, I thought it wasn’t what she wanted. So, like any young, valiant knight, I challenged Brandon to a duel to defend her honor. But he was older and larger than I, and the fight was over before it started. I was just too foolish to see it. He cut me down, knocking me into the river with a final cut here,” he gestured to a spot just below his ribs, “and would have ended me had your mother not stopped him. She begged for him to spare my life, telling him I was only a boy. Clearly, he did, but not without leaving me with something to remember him by.” Petyr glanced down at the scar. It glowed pale white in the shadow Sansa cast across his figure and the raised, smooth skin marked a stark difference from the rest of his chest.

Sansa brought her hand up to the scar again, gently brushing her fingers across it. “You were just a boy, and he did this?” Her eyes shined with tears when their gaze met. “How could he do that to you?”

“A duel is a duel, my love. I knew what I was getting into when I challenged him. But I was fighting for honor, so how could I not win?” He smiled and cupped her face in his hand, wiping a tear that slipped from her eye. “A sad story, indeed,” he said before softly kissing her lips.

[skinnamirink]

Perniciem

Latin (n): Destruction, Ruin

Written for Thursday’s prompt for @petyrsansaweek

*             *             *

Littlefinger could not remember his mother’s touch.

He remembered the colour of her eyes—so similar to his own, but with more of a spark of green and freshness, a warmth to them he could never conjure. She had been a tender woman, delicate and kind, smart and so clever. There were dreams he had on occasion—the faint scent of her, her laugh like a song… Those nights, he would always wake in a cold sweat, reaching, his body betraying him, a slip of control. He would try, he would search—he had memories so carefully locked away of her. She had held him often, settling him against her to read, or sing, to rock him to sleep. She had taught him stories and songs, she had taught him to hope and love openly. She’d readied him for a world he could do anything in, and he was set to believe her—every single word.

“Petyr,”—she would hum airily, move like a beam of light—“Someday they’ll sing songs about you. My brave boy, slaying the monsters and winning the princess’ heart.” “Petyr,”—she would soothe him so easily—“It is far better to be smart and kind than a big, brutish warrior. Don’t pay your father any mind. Show your strength in other ways, my clever lad. Look how keen you are…” “Petyr,”—her eyes were full of tears—“Don’t forget to come home. Come back to me. Don’t let them change you. Don’t let them ruin you.”

He couldn’t remember her touch. He couldn’t remember how she once felt.

The way she looked at him, that last time he ever saw her—her eyes told the truth, and that was the last time Petyr could ever remember being loved.

*             *             *

He loved Cat the selfish, needy way only children love—full of anticipation and excitement, the newness of her everything in the world. It was consuming…it was intoxicating.

It was shattered so quickly.

Mother was a liar.

Blood seeped fast from the mail he wore, and he couldn’t lift his sword. Cat—Cat was speaking, pleading but it sounded like his mother, and—

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, this wasn’t how you said the songs would…

How could he ever forgive her?

The water was so cold around him, and he had never warmed again.

*             *             *

They ruined you.

The mirror isn’t wearing your mask, Petyr. Just a long pale scar. Her voice sounds like a ghost.

You ruined me.

*             *             *

Petyr remembers the first time he saw her.

There was every impression of Cat—she was so similarly coloured, her eyes bluer than the roses of Winterfell and her hair every bit as Tully red and ensnaring. But Sansa…Sansa was different somehow, like her mother’s reflection in a pool of water and oh, Littlefinger wanted to reach out, to touch the surface…to ruin the illusion.

She was so perfect, so innocent. So unaware of the power she held.

No songs, no monsters. Perhaps winning the princess would be enough.

*             *             *

It took time, but she began to rely on him. Trust was too strong a word, too meaningful a word, but she’d come to expect him, as he had her.

“…after my mother, that would serve. Alayne. Do you like it?“

"Alayne is pretty.”

 Her touch was one he could never forget.

The press of her lips ever made his chest ache from navel to collarbone, a searing burn that warmed him despite the cold of the snow. He coaxed her slowly—brushing back her hair, his fingers skimming her waist, the small of her back, his lips caressing the inside of her wrist. Soon enough she was settling herself in his lap—she was learning, a dangerous and exciting notion, and Littlefinger was thrilling despite himself.

I’ll teach you better he wanted to say, but he knew she might believe him.

“It will be like playing a game, won’t it?“

*             *             *

It began with her sitting in his lap in his solar, quiet and still at the night sky, more than the fire warming him. He held her close for safekeeping, for want, for himself—the wine was making him loose. The way she parted her thighs to lean back against his chest, scarred with foolishness, the way she sighed softly. His hand was languid the way it curled against her, pressing between them—the way she made a different kind of noise entirely. Alayne, Cat—

“Sansa,” and he hated the way he sounded hungry, the way it sounded like a prayer. “Let me teach you…”

She was warm, and wet, and he was her proper first wasn’t he, as she writhed about in his lap, her mouth open and panting against his neck, letting him ruin this, ruin her…

Alayne and Catelyn sounded like ghosts.

*             *             *

He would never see that look again, he concluded.

Not even with her eyes open—not Alayne’s, just her own—not even as she clung to him, under him, urging him deeper into the ache inside of her, looking up at him, sighing and moaning just for him, for his touch, for more.

“Petyr”—she breathed his name and arched, quivered—“Petyr please. Please.”

He would not, could not forget her touch.

She was what had truly ruined him.

[redlektor]

Knowledge

Written for Petyr x Sansa Week—Monday: Knowledge

Modern AU, fluffyish oneshot

Unbetaed, so any mistakes pointed out will be appreciated.

This is my first foray into this fandom. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed reading everyone else’s contributions, and I apologize if this hits too close to something already done.

*************

“I know you’re shagging Littlefinger.”

Keep reading

[mockingbird-on-the-throne]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Game of Thrones (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark Characters: Petyr Baelish, Sansa Stark Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, PxSWeek, Ficlet, Might expand this…? Summary:

For PxSWeek 2016. Short fic in a modern AU. Sansa Stark’s professor is an old friend, and enemy, from a difficult time in her childhood. Searching for answers, she confronts him after years that she believes were spent in the dark; though perhaps he was the one that got her through it all. Possible underage references.