Petyr x Sansa Week

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

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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.”

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