#It Skulks Around In The Shadows Watching Me; It’s Waiting! It’s Torturing Me By Waiting! (ℂ𝕒𝕥ℕ𝕒𝕡)

[a-muscle-the-size-of-your-fist]

CatNap Has Appeared!

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔗𝔥𝔶 𝔈𝔫𝔢𝔪𝔶

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: The perilous position you have assumed within the hierarchy of the Red Keep has been discovered for the farce that it is. You can see it in the way that the prince watches you; like a beast with glinting claws and teeth waiting for the prime moment to lunge for your throat.

You must leave if you wish to keep your life intact, but in an attempt to flee, you run right into his lethal maw. You had just never imagined the nature that the outcome would be.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: 18+ content, MDNI!! Some Aegon slander (sorry to the aegon stans), brief mentions of past SA of maids by Aegon but it is not stated in detail, AFAB, and fem aligning pronouns used. Dubious consent, the reader is technically the seducer, but there is a clear, uneven power dynamic, and her life is under threat, so the implications are not lost on me. The sex is consensual but keep the warning in mind. Oral sex (M! Receiving), deep throating, Switch wanna be dom sub leaning Aemond, medieval slut shaming, degradation, praise kink, unprotected sex, creampie, wall sex.

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: 23.4k words. Not proofread. Enemies to (reluctant) lovers coded. Reader is a spy. She is also the definition of, "well, mark me down as scared and horny."

You truly cannot help but to berate yourself. This could possibly be the most foolish, idiotic situation you have ever allowed yourself to be a part of. Never have you ever so willingly dangled yourself so close to death. Constantly teetering - swinging to and fro above destruction like a pendulum. The urge to slip away in the cover of the night has never been so great before. No other venture has gnawed at you in such a way. Not the petty gossip you have traded over for coin at the expense of bothered and arrogant nobility and ambassadors, not the misdeeds and horrors of bureaucrats that you have passed off to their disgruntled rivals - no matter how formidable or perceptive they might have been. But those feats are all so small in comparison to your tasks now. Pathetic even. Trivial. 

You have maintained your position within the castle for years. Posing many false expressions and surviving many demeaning orders from arrogant, leering lords and insincere, vapid ladies. Despite the ignorance of the common individuals among the court, there have still always been keen, all-seeing eyes that flicker about the halls and rooms in search of treason and threats. You have learned to dance about their line of vision. To hardly be seen, and never heard as you slip around amongst the shadows to collect what is necessary. 

All of these loose lips and wagging tongues with hardly any consciousness or smarts to command them. These people, the many of them akin to animals cavorting around in rich fabrics and imported diamonds, remain wildly blissful in their ignorance. Still, there are few that skulk about the dark just as you do, and it is only by the grace of the gods that you have not blindly bumped into them in your endeavors. 

You should have vanished as soon as the others had been dispatched. Executed silently by the hand of Lord Hightower for their espionage. It was close. Far too close for comfort. They had all been snuffed out so silently. It had not been made a public spectacle, their deaths, but instead was performed with an eerie quiet. Not strung up like the ratcatchers that had snuck into the walls of the castle and slain the King's heir, but silent. As though they had never even existed at all. As though they were merely false phantoms in your memory. 

You owe your life to the lot of them. For not allowing your name to slip from their ragged breaths as they no doubt endured horrendous torture by the hands of the crown. You should take the opportunity that their deaths have provided and run far from King's Landing when you still had the chance. And yet you remain fixed in your position, tending to the requirements of your station on the day to day. Perhaps you are merely making an effort to honor their memories. To remain here, surrounded by danger out of a sense of duty. You have always survived, no matter the circumstances. You have carved a place out for yourself here within the great walls of the caste, burrowed in the cracks beyond where others can see, and you know that you will weather this storm. But you understand truly that that must be a lie. Perhaps, after all of this time, your arrogance has finally gotten the better of you. 

You have waited for the Worm's call. A raven, a word, her presence, a middleman. Naught have come. She has been absent. Like a whisper lost on the wind. It has you fear the worst. That perhaps that she too has been found out by proxy of the other informants, and the bloody and ruthless sword of the crown has struck her down. You can only hope that she has escaped before the killing blow was delivered. She is crafty beyond compare, and you know (you hope) that in your heart of hearts that she has made it out. 

Soon she will be able to send word to you. As of now, you can only strive to keep your own throat untouched and free of gashes as you continue to change the King's soiled linens and to toss out his chamber pot full of putrid piss while you cling to the notion that you may make it out of this endeavor; still slaving after him even while he has been forced bedridden by his ailments. Now lying along his bedding, whimpering like a wounded dog as he is tormented by the grave burns that sear along his body. 

The delight that had risen inside of you when you had first lain eyes on him in such a state was traitorous. It would have surely cost you your breath had the smile that threatened to lift at your mouth broken through your troubled facade. He is now wrapped from head to foot in bandages that are now so often tinged with the sickly red that seeps from his agonized, mottled flesh. His limbs twitch and quiver weakly, wracked with painful tremors that cause his breath to skip and snag inside his tender chest. He moans at all hours of the day and night, mumbling incoherently with a slurring tongue from the influence of the milk of the poppy that he is frequently dopped on.  

It was a retribution delivered by the will of the gods for his skin to be scorched so severely. Flesh for flesh, you had dared to think elatedly. And you could only hope that the young servant girls and chamber maidens that he has debased throughout the years have also reveled in his suffering. 

Isolde, Lena, Dyana. 

All of them. Soiled and treated as playthings for his vial pleasure. His entitlement truly knows no bounds; as though he is privileged to the blood that runs through their veins, the spirit that possesses their limbs. A disgusting little man.   

It was a task that you once loathed with every fiber of your being. Detesting the moment that you would wake before the sun has even made its descent upward and crested above the horizon in a banner of gold to cross the threshold of his apartments. To urge him from his bed, only done out of his own accord lest you get berated harshly while alcohol still saturated his breath, or rudely shoved away from the edge of the bedding with the unbridled strength of his arm. But now he is too weak to so much as force his eyes open to look upon you and the others as you go about your work, laboring alongside the direction of the maester's as they dabble in their endless tending. 

No matter the hour, he is now too drained, drugged, and afflicted to spare so much as a single word. Energy eludes him and leaves him little more than a shell of the boorish, obstreperous man that he had been before. And though he can hardly speak, his eyes tell so much. They open wide in distress, becoming glassy with unshed tears when you light the candles aflame at night, as not to leave his room in darkness. You know that his mind must be betraying him then. Thrusting him headfirst to that day where he sliced through the air on dragon back, pinned in place by the enemy's jaws and talons as the roaring, spirals of fire rushed towards him and doused his armor with the burning rivulets, melting and fusing steel and flesh. 

He is haunted, and it always gives you a joy that should shame you, but the guilt remains elusive. 

You make sure to keep your satisfaction tucked away and hidden. Managing your expressions to keep them controlled and devoid of the contentment and glee that capers and frolics underneath, deep within the privacy of your own psyche. But no matter how disturbing your internal amusements are, it seems that you may not be the only one that delights in the agony of the King. Whom basks in his misery. 

You can spot it in his eye. Dancing and glimmering within the crystalline blue and lilac like a flame swaying atop its wick, eager to burn and spread and devour like a starved inferno. It makes you wonder if the others can see it as well. If the maesters feel a cold prickle scatter down their spines when he perches at the foot of the bed, leather bound hands gripping the engraved footrest like the awaiting talons of a predator longing to sink into the vulnerable belly of their gutted prey. Gloating over the kill. 

He only darkens the doorway of the King's chambers on rare occasion. Infrequently, and it keeps you on edge in an attempt to guess when his next appearance might be. Like a great vulture circling overhead, waiting for the frail animal below to finally succumb and give underneath its own weakened weight. It is strange. There is no love or kinship in the way that he stares. Only patience and cunning, and the frigid, subtle edge of cruelty. It is not the devoted, worried gaze of a brother, but instead the brutal stare of betrayer. 

You have heard some of the hushed gossip and perturbed claims that drift about the circles of the Courts and the depths of the city's underbelly. They speak of the second son's many feats: of his talents with sword, his possession of the biggest dragon, and his nearly unmatched cunning. But people also talk of his more unsettling traits. Unfounded tales really, but even lies often have merit. They converse of jealousy for the throne. The pursuit of retribution. Not to be trusted, some have said. 

You personally know little of the prince - or Prince Regent now. Your paths rarely intercept, and the attention that he has spared you has blessedly been little. Fleeting, almost unseeing glances. You see him often, striding throughout the corridors in that confident, leisurely way of his. Always in the route to improve or study or join council. Circling around the castle grounds, sword in hand to spar against the finest soldiers and lords that the crown has to offer; scouring over ancient tomes and scrolls in philosophies and military strategies; studying diligently with tutors until he has all but mastered the tongue of his ancestors. He is meticulous and determined, you will give him that, but there is a strange, sinister spirit that clings to his person like an undercurrent. 

The calculated glint in his eyes burns too fiercely. It is a look that you recognize easily. You have faced it in men and women, highborn and peasant alike throughout the years; all of them formidable in their own right. And it is a dangerous sort of passion to have in a person that holds a position of power. Of someone who stands so closely to the Iron Throne. You have seen the same ardor that he holds manifest so violently in the others that have come before him. Impowered by their greed, their desire to claim what they felt they deserved. Many have suffered underneath the intensity of it. Both Highborn and smallfolk. You wonder if his ardor will manifest in the same way. If people will be bent like stalks underfoot and left smoldering and burning like embers from the scorching breath of his she-dragon. 

Still, you cannot help to be drawn by the magnetism of it. To be grasped almost violently and taken into the influence of it like a trout captured by a strong current, unable to fight against the pull. The restrained, conniving violence that he holds himself with should concern you. It should make you shudder and wish to flee, and yet the desire to truly do so remains distant and deep, like a long-forgotten instinct. 

He is like a predator curled in plain sight, hiding underneath the cover of camouflage as it waits for the opportune moment to strike. And horrendously, you were eager to see the moment that his teeth would sink into the naked jugular of his prey's throat, to wrestle the crown down upon its knees to power it into a kneel. Even if only to watch the Greens crumble underneath the will of one of their own. 

But for now, you will have to settle for the tormented cries and begs for mercy that mumble past the King's raw lips. To delight in the wince that pinches his brows close as sweat glints and dampens his disfigured flesh. 

And his cries were particularly raucous one that one particular morning. Induced by the gentle moving of his body as you and Eira were directed to tear the sullied linens from the down stuffed bedding - slightly damp from his perspiration, tinged with a dull yellow from it - so that the filth would not further aggravate his great wounds. You had both made sure to be quick with your work as you stood alongside the edges of the underbed, making to center your attentions on your tasks as the maester's crouch around him, chattering and discussing almost conspiratorially the nature of his condition and the effectiveness of their concoctions and instruments. All the while the King moans from his place settled along the floor, supported on the cushion of thick blankets as you finished in preparing his bed, drawing the linen sheet taught and smooth over the expanse of it. 

He whimpered and shook on his place along the floor like an injured dog. Even while he was effectively immobilized, trapped in place by the ruined confines of his body, you could still spy Eira's discomfort as she assisted you in your efforts. The tension in her shoulders, the hunched way her spine attempted to curl in on itself, as though she was attempting to appear small, trying to shrink in on herself as though she may succeed in vanishing. 

King Aegon has never ventured to seek out her flesh. At least she has not claimed as such. Still, you know the stories of the other chambermaids' awful recounts of their assault has shaken her soul. She is a girl too sweet, too delicate for such a cold, indifferent place, where kindness is a charade and the smiles given do not truly reach the eyes of the bearer. You can only hope that she will not wilt under the extremes of this world. 

Her hands quivered just the slightest as she drew the linen over the edge of the bed. It had you reaching a hand to the center of the underbed, motioning it in the guise of smoothing out a crease but it succeeded in gaining her attention. Her vision lifted up from its down casted position and flickered up to meet your own, wide and glossy like a startled doe, cheeks flushed with worry. You made to keep your expression as neutral as possible, but you did not hide the gentle warning in them, silently urging her to keep her composure and wits about her as you went about your task. 

She swallowed deeply, head jerking in a subtle nod as she reached for the final layer of dressings from the wicker basket near her feet. Quick but rigid in her movements as she did so, as though she is frightened that the King may suddenly jerk up from the floor and lunge for her. But he remained where he lies. Still burned and damaged, surrounded by fretting measter's. It urged you to smile. It threatened to lift upon your face like sunlight piercing a coat of ice. Prickling along your skin like bursts of a playful warmth, and you think you could have laughed if you were so brazen and foolish enough. 

You felt the shift in the room before you noticed it outright, the others pausing unanimously from their ministrations to pass acknowledgments to an oncoming presence. Eira had also drawn up straight, ceasing in her duties to address whoever had entered. You noticed the shape of them in your peripherals, the dark of it looming like a shadow. It commanded that you looked to them, the compulsion to do so seemed to take ahold of your head and turned it on your neck to gaze upon them as though drawn by a string; your body acted on its own accord. 

Here to relish in the King's pain once again it seemed. 

Shifting himself across the stone floor with light feet as he drew closer, hands clasped carefully. So relaxed, so indifferent for someone who should be in mourning. Entirely untouched of worry or unease. His eye found his brother's temporary place along the floor, and you are certain that you caught a glint of delight pass through his aloof expression. 

You managed yourself to extend a gentle greeting, nudging your head downwards as you carried about your work, though he did not offer you or the others so much as a passing glance. Instead, he angled himself in the direction of the King, daring to tread closer until he stood before the injured man's feet to consider him with a closer expression. His cold eye darting about the stretch of his brother's gnarled body and the fresh bandages that had been wrapped along his skin. Looming over his gnarled form like the Stranger patiently waiting to collect. 

"Has there been any progress in his recovery?" 

His voice was soft in its nature, nearly placid. A betrayal of the violent, vindictive nature that no doubt lurks underneath, though it does not make the impact of it any less. It still projected itself across the room highly, cutting across the mild chatter that the maester's had returned to and expelling them back into a hush. It was Grand Maester Orwyle who turned to answer him, ceasing his dotting on the King to address the inquiry. "We do not yet know, my prince. His condition is still delicate, but he grows stronger by the day. Gods willing he will be back to full strength and ready to lead us once again." The Grand Maester dabbed a soaked compress along Aegon's tender flesh carefully, spreading the healing ointment along the wounds. "We should be so lucky having you to guide us while he recovers, Your Grace. " 

If you did not know any better, you would have said that the comment nearly sounded like some sort of quip in disguise of a well-meaning praise. It almost caused you to lapse in your task as you assisted Eira in tugging the thicker blankets right along the bedding, but luckily you did not faulter. You watched the exchange out of the corners of your eyes then, making sure to appear uninterested in the exchange as you eagerly listened for more of the subtle tension that lies beneath the surface of their conversation. 

You expected for Prince Aemond to rise to the indistinct jab. But he remained impassive and unruffled. Quiet. His silence somehow makes him even more unsettling. His head tilted just the slightest as he observed what remains of the man on the floor. A pale ghost of his former self. You must wonder how much he truly comes to visit his fallen sibling. If he waits for the cover of the night to come lurking, slipping inside of this very room while the King fitfully slumbers to gaze upon his ravaged flesh. He nearly appeared as though he is inspecting some sort of pathetic creature that has carried itself across the floor and collapsed in a weary heap. 

Unsympathetic. 

"Hmm, quite." He finally agreed. "Let us hope that his rehabilitation is swift. There are . . . many dangers about; it is a comfort to have him secure in the safety of your healing hands." 

And then the piercing shade of his eye was suddenly fixed on you. Sharp and evaluating. You saw it and bore its weight even from the peripherals of your vision. It was as though you were the accused. As though he meant to gauge your reactions. To see a twitch of emotion bleed across your face. It was like being flayed open. As though he was reaching inside of you and rummaging around to find something of interest. For a moment you had insisted upon yourself that you were merely being paranoid, but in your line of work your instincts are invaluable. And in that moment, you knew the truth. 

You have finally been seen after all of this time. Analyzed and looked within and past. It was horrific to be appraised so openly, as though he was raising a challenge. Imploring you to meet his invasive stare head-on. You had done your best not to flinch or waver underneath it even while your mind scrambled and panicked like the frantic heartbeat of a startled hare. 

He cannot know. He does not. Your thoughts rushed and whipped around like a tempest. Relentlessly chanting, he knows, he knows, he knows. 

But that is not possible. You would be dead. Slaughtered. Executed on the spot for your treason against the crown. But there is an acute knowing in his eye. Like a beast lurking at the entrance of a burrow, smelling blood and life and fear on the earth scented air as a shaking rodent huddles up against the walls of the tunnel. 

You managed yourself to be calm and collected as you and Eira finished off tidying up the bed and fluffing the pillows along the headboard. You are simply a dull chambermaid, tasked with tending to all of the King's frivolous and tedious needs. Dull and simple in your function. But the Prince Regent it seems has just as sharp instincts as you.

You can practically feel when his focus finally retracted from you to turn back to the maester's. It is akin to breathing after forcing your chest motionless and starved of air for a period of time. But you remain outwardly poised as you shared looks with Eira, nodding at a finished job before you had reached down at your side to pick up the basket full of soiled linens and swiftly turned on your feet to make for the door. She trailed after you dutifully with her whicker vessel and dirtied sheets clutched in her hands as she stuck close to your heels. 

Still, you were unable to keep yourself from sparing a brief glance upward towards the Prince Regent, and your breath threatened to snag inside of your throat when you noticed that his vision is once again on you to mark your leave. Head tilted just the slightest to spy you as you entered the scope of his blind spot; the edges of his curled mouth seem to be much more raised than usual. As though he was pleased. Everything seemed to be compressed down to this single, terrible moment. With your heart thumping wildly in your ear; the pained, ragged wheezing of the King seeming to scratch along the walls and claw down your spine like the echoes of a bad omen. A promise. Ringing around the depths of your mind like a hoarse whistle or a shrill scream. 

You are in danger. That much is apparent. 

Will he give word to Lord Larys or Otto Hightower? Signal to them to make preparations for your death? To cut out your traitorous, loose tongue? If he suspects you of treason, it forces you to wonder for how long he has been privy. What might have given you away and revealed your true nature. What blunder might have tripped you into his sight. Perhaps he merely desires to dispatch you by his own hands. To slay the serpent that has snuck its way into the courts and hidden away within the cover of the King's apartments; tucked underneath his bed. 

You should have fled. You should have just fucking fled when you were graced with the chance to do so. But now the city gates have been decreed shut. Guarded and sealed, trapping all who reside inside King's Landing at the order of the new Prince Regent. A wonderful development for your current position. You are certain that he has not secured the city simply in the hopes of weeding out a single spy, especially when he already has you so clearly in the palm of his hand from tending to his brother's needs. This simply happens to be an ill-timed coincidence. 

He has, more than likely, invertedly imprisoned you. A pure accident that has worked fully in his favor. It will have to be near to impossible to escape now. With the constant patrolling of the walls and gates to ensure that the smallfolk remain sealed tight to be properly controlled and herded. 

You should have said to hells with this entire operation and tossed away the many years you have spent tasked with collecting gossip and information. Mysaria is possibly dead or even worse, having been carried away to the castle dungeons to endure great torture. And yet here you are, still toiling away, playing maid while the realm is thrown into disarray and your life hangs in the balance of the Prince Regent's suspicions. And if he has indulged those speculations in another is entirely beyond you. 

You are damned it seems. The gods have turned their backs to you and left you to the wills of men. Or apparently, one man in particular. A kinslayer. 

There must be some sort of play at hand. You would not still be currently breathing otherwise. But if you can at all help it, you would rather not discover what that purpose may possibly be. 

It made you drift about the remainder of your duties like a phantom. Flitting about the other apartments and rooms, washing and cleaning linens, stocking the hearths of fuel for the fires that will be lit to chase away the coming night's chill. You maintained to keep a level head upon yourself as you went about your duty. Only a single day has passed since then, but it flickered by like distorted, murky water and the chaos that stormed within you was still great. You could only hope that it was not noticeable. Eira makes no outward note of it which gives you some solace. She is typically unrestrained in her concerns and opinions, so you put faith in the fact that she would have made her worries voiced had she noticed a difference in your demeanor. 

You see little of the prince, blessedly. Only but during a fleeting moment, having passed him in the corridor with him most likely in route to join the Small Council. He had spared you the weight of his eye. Ignoring you as though you did not exist. As though the subtle warning or threat that he had given only a morning ago had never existed at all. It nearly made you doubt yourself. That you had simply gone mad, but the instincts in your gut shouted otherwise. 

Still it makes you dubious of yourself. Never before have you been so uncertain about your abilities before. Not since you were a young girl child, not since the purging of the other spies within King's Landing. But now you know that there are truly eyes everywhere - much more seeing than you had anticipated. You have always known of Prince Aemond's intellect and perceptiveness, and yet he had never been one to be considered a true threat. Not of the likes of Otto Hightower or Lord Larys Strong, at least. How entirely foolish of you. 

Your stress keeps you sitting in an odd in-between. Dangling somewhere between a sense of odd detachedness and a constant state of vigilance. It has you spread thin. Contemplating on vanishing in the dark and attempting to escape the walls, even if the attempt would yield a lack of results. Perhaps, if fate would have it, you could manage to sneak down upon the docks and stow away within one of the vessels of independent merchants set for the seas for Drift Mark, or if the gods are willing, Pentos. A death among the salted waves, confined to creaking, groaning walls of a rocking ship would be more merciful than what the Prince Regent may have in store for you. 

Even once the sun sets, slipping low underneath the horizon and vanishes to allow the pale shade of the heavens to give to the dark, you are still unable to settle. Comfort eludes you still as you are tucked away beneath the cover of your rough wool blanket; the welcoming arms of sleep refusing to open to accept you. The presence of the other servants surrounding you in their slumber only serves to heighten your paranoia. The noisy, guttural snores and the occasional dry cough that ceaselessly sound out around you only grate upon your anxiety, cutting deep into the musky atmosphere with all of the grace of cutlery slicing obnoxiously over porcelain.  

You stare at the ceiling of the shared quarters, tracing the silvery threads of spider silk and cobwebs that cling to the corners and divots in the damp stone. Feeling the pulse of your own heart thumping within the cavity of your chest, urging the blood to roar lowly within your ears. The chill radiating from the cold floor seeps into your bones and finds home within the marrow; taking root so deeply that not even your blanket and the harsh straw stuffed inside of your bedding could ward it off. 

It causes you to toss and turn, listening to the stalks rustle and snap softly underneath your head as you struggle to calm yourself. But your mind is too frenzied. Awaiting the moment that one of the many bodies may leap up from their place, blade in hand, glinting violently before it plunges into your chest or the sharp of it notches against the tender flesh of your throat to slit it open allowing the damp warmth of your blood to spill from the gash, heating your chilled flesh as the life slips from your limbs. 

But the servants remain still and slumbering soundly. Tucked away underneath their own scratchy blankets, unaware of your own restlessness. The war inside of you is too great. The walls of the quarters seems as they are growing narrow. Shifting close to loom over you with the threat of suffocation and sealing you in tight like the cradle of a casket. It makes your palms grow slick with a nervous sweat and your fingers curl into the rough texture of the bedding underneath you as though your nails desire to tear into the worn fabric and burry themselves along the brittle sticks of the straw inside. Perhaps the sting of the little rods would help in pulling you from your internal panic then. 

That train of though is enough to rip you from the vicious trap of your thoughts. Prying your mind free from the sinking snapping teeth of anger, worry, and dread, and like a shadow your body follows suit. You jerk up from your reclined position with a silent gasp, propping yourself up with your palms to sweep a cursory glance around the somber room, taking in the repetitive rise and fall of the other servants' torsos as they draw in leisurely breaths. Somewhere a leak drops upon the stone floor. Landing with a reoccurring dull plop that echos softly within the chamber of the quaint quarters.  

It feels like a tomb. Like you are another body that has been packed in alongside the dead within the depths of some forgotten catacomb, lost to time; forever lost to the living. What would truly happen of you were to be killed? Would there be anyone left to remember you? There is no remaining family left to whisper your name in hushed, nostalgic admiration, recalling your memory with fondness and sorrow. The White Worm - if she still skulks about the earth with life in her chest, would hardly recount you at all. You are simply a willing body for hire. Another individual capable to fulfill the task that is required. But would she mourn your passing? 

You can hardly imagine that she would. 

Loyalty is bought with coin; compassion is a luxury. 

Like a puppet upon tugging strings, you jerk up from your place on the bedding, tossing the blanket aside to stand upon your bare feet. The stones are shocking against your soles, so harsh that you could compare the temperature to a winters snow. The depths of the servant chambers are too deep within the bowels of the Keep to find the solace and warmth of the sun. Like a hell, the balmy, dulcet rays of the light are unable to breach through the walls and bring you and the other servant's comfort, regardless of the season. 

You must leave, you decide suddenly. Perhaps not tonight, but soon. Quickly. 

It is such a sudden thought, rushed and impulsive but you are unable to rein it in. The possibility of death hangs far too closely. The Prince Regent is plotting. Why he desires to extend your life, to allow you to wallow inside the icy, ripping depths of your worry and dread - that must be it then. A sort of sadism on his part. Delighting in the way that you ruminate over your own impending execution. Like a cat toying with an injured mouse clutched inside of its claws. 

The White Worm and her plotting can be done with. You must leave, no matter what the cost may possibly be, and if you are caught in the process of fleeing, then at the very least you shall die on your own terms. You will die trying. And even while you internally curse the moment that you had met Mysaria and allowed her to pull you into the influence of her clutch - a young, inexperienced soul for sale in exchange for coin - your mind still frantically latches onto the many faces that fall inside of her employ. Faithfull followers that are tied together by a shared belief, or more often than not, the promise of money. They will be your best bet in escaping this horrid city. There is one in particular that you know you will easily be able to barter with, especially as fellow hire of the White Worm. 

You hold onto his name. Your best bet on such short notice. Often a ferryman of sorts for the White Worm and the many spies that lay within her pockets; one whose service you yourself have counted on many times to give you passage to the cities that rest along the coasts of Blackwater Bay. 

Bahram Mercer is always present in that high-end brothel, tucked away inside a dark corner to drown himself in ale, or to partake in the body of the whores that frolic and dance about like water nymphs, bare with only strips of silk and chemise to drape around their forms in a mockery of dress. It will be a dangerous place to show your face, with the Prince Regents appetites frequently taking him outside of the Red Keep to spoil himself in the rich variety of talents that line down the notorious Street of Silk. But now with panic festering deep in your gut you can hardly be bothered to care.  It must be creeping close to the hour of ghosts, and yet you are certain - you are desperate to hope that Mercer is still there. Partaking in his favorite sins. 

It is enough to find yourself navigating around the bedding and slumbering bodies, careful to place your feet within the narrow space sliced between the blankets and cushions. Squinting in the dark to step over wayward legs and arms that have slipped outside of the boundaries of their respective linens and onto your path in the throes of slumber. You are even quicker in finding an old, homely garment of yours and snatching someone's worn cloak to cover your coverings. Dressing yourself hurriedly, ice and terror in your veins with no time to spare. 

You are even quicker as you ascend the stairwell in the goal to seek out the old secret tunnels that stretch throughout the bowels of the castle, hiding behind stone walls and lurking just beneath the floors. Traversing up the steps to enter the dimly lit corridor. You feel as though you are being chased up by phantom threats, imaginary fangs snapping at your heels, and assassins with daggers tucked away in the dark with the intent to leap and gut you from gullet to groin. But the horrid paranoia is not enough to halt you in your trek. You continue in your path, listening keenly for a second pair of footsteps trailing after your own, the sharp brush of feet murmuring along the texture of the stone, but it remains as a single set. 

The patrol of the Keep has been intensified since the murder of the King's heir. A slip in the guards' schedule, an unfortunate gap in postings led to the poor child's brutal decapitation. A great lapse in the Lord Commanders judgement. And if Talya's last speculating gossip holds any bearing, then it may have been a command given by Ser Crispin Cole himself so that he may be able to have a tryst with his paramour, the Queen Dowager herself. A scandalous and ignorant relapse for the Commander if that happens to be a truth, considering the crown is in the midst of a war conducted by a grieving mother. 

But fortunately, with your knowledge of the guards' schedules and positions, you are able to navigate the labyrinthian corridors with hardly crossing paths, managing to evade and slip past their posts as you make for the library. It is there that you enter the passage securely tucked behind a false door fashioned from one of the looming bookcases built into the far southern wall.

 It was horribly silent in there. That was the first thought that slipped into your mind as you stared into the inky, flat black before you. Gazing into it like a heroin of an old tale peering into a hellmouth, like an animal staring straight down the gullet of a starved beast. The pathetic flame of the candle that you had stolen from the roost of one of the many scones along the corridor wall lightened only a pace or so in front of you, dipping it in a shade of muted amber. Bathing what little you could make out in weak shadows, the divots in the walls created from the spacings between the stones seemed to stretch and pool forward like blotches of ink from the casting of the light. 

You felt as though you were holding your breath the entire trek. Anticipating for some unseen creature to rush from the dark with lashing claws. Many of the passages are fruitful of traps and horrors intended to wound or kill possible intruders. Though if those snares are only rumors fabricated to dissuade possible thieves or assassins, you are not certain, but you are thankful that you have yet to wander upon one in your usage of the tunnels. 

Fortunately, you already knew of what to expect with this particular shaft, allowing your feet and the dim flame of your light to guide you beneath the Red Keep and under the slumbering life of the city. You took familiar turns and listened to the patter of your feet along the floor, the whisper of your skirts on the dust covered stone as you went about. Clutching the candle within your grasp so tightly that it had nearly molded to its shape, giving underneath the warmth and nervous sweat of your palm. You snuff it once only you come across the worn old ladder posted along the damp wall. A ragged thing, constructed of weakening, damaged wood and rusted nails. You could only attempt to guess how long it might have been down there in the depths of the tunnel. Of how many people before you may have climbed along it and for what purposes. 

It creaks and quivers unsteadily when your haul yourself up its worn rungs, reaching upward to shift the rounded stone plate that conceals the opening. Slipping it to the side with unsteady fingers to allow yourself to lift your body through the open mouth and into the crisp night air. The majority of the Red Keep may be deep in the safety of slumber, but Flea Bottom is forever in the wild throes of depravity. Men and women alike prance about in the similarities of the devils of the Seven Hells. Cavorting down the lively streets in flashes of flesh and smiles. Even in the midst of the night, salesmen still gather to sell their cheap wares, forcing themselves into the spaces of unfortunate victims and passerby's with longwinded speeches and the promise of life altering effects. 

You make sure to avoid the desperate folk that hope to pull you into their influences with the shoddy products and goods. Though "goods" is being generous. Especially considering that a man had tried his very hardest in persuading you to purchase the dried womb of a rat as a means to bring about good fortune. A prompt, but polite decline had been your only response. 

You allow your feet to carry you down the chaos that runs rampant along the Street of Silk. Blocking out the unintelligible clamoring of the spirited masses around you as they indulge in their most debased desires in the open. Unabashed and uncaring. You weave through the crowd, undeterred by the vulgarity that pervades around you, keeping your head low and face indiscernible underneath the cover of your hood.  

You use a small cluster of men as a shield to enter the brothel, hiding behind their shadows and the drunken wobble of their bodies to give you passage within the walls. The air here is so much heavier. Balmy and scented with the sharp bite of ale, the floral undertones of oils and perfume, heady from the distinct fragrance of sex. The pleasured cries of women and the low groans of men hum and rise within the air, scattered about like a lecherous sort of music, rising and falling in pitches of ecstasy, intensified by the unmistakable smack of skin meeting skin. 

Only when you slip far enough into the depths of the brothel do you depart from the rowdy, intoxicated cover of the men, ignoring them as they jest in slurred shouts, shoving at each other boyishly in favor of allowing your eyes to rake over your surroundings in the hopes of landing on that familiar, rugged face. It is difficult to make out ones features, as all the men present are currently caught indulging in the many facets of sex. It is writhing bodies shed underneath the golden glow of firelight, sweat glittering and winking like diamonds, mouths dropped open in rapture to release high whines and begs for mercy. A painting of pure hedonism. 

You navigate the depravity with watchful eyes, scrutinizing the guests for the familiar, but unfortunately quite common shade of auburn hair, peppered with worn, aged gray and silver. It makes you fear the worst. That he has perhaps broken his tradition of frequenting the brothel in the night and has invertedly nudged you closer towards your doom because of it. But you do not allow yourself to be dissuaded. The desperation burns in you too hotly, nipping at your fingertips like the chill of winter and skittering down your spine. It all but forces you to press on deeper into the bowels of the brothel, slinking past the women men frolicking about like the fair folk whispered about in the tales of old, winking and smiling demurely in the hopes of luring away the patrons who come to crawl inside the bottom of a bottle or to lose themselves in the haze of sex. 

It is all so overwhelming, with the many bodies that pack themselves. Boisterous laughter, drunken shouts, wild cries and moans scattered and thick along the air. Shoulders and arms brush along your own as you slink past them, weaving throughout the sea of shifting limbs and torsos, observing each and every face as you pass them, but none bear the weathered features you search for; reddened, sun stung cheeks, or a stern pair of dark eyes. 

You make a sweep through the dining area as efficiently as possible, making a quick note of the patrons as you circle the room, but they are all entirely unfamiliar. Though you do spot a few of the lords that occupy the Red Keeps courts, a ser or two occupying the tables and drowning in ale, and politicians and bureaucrats - nearly all of which are married, and none of which you are searching for. 

In one final attempt, you move back to the farther stretches of the brothel, peeking past the sheer canopies and heavy fabrics that conceal private quarters and hide the beds that have been dispersed about the spaces, catching people in the throes of bliss, acting out exotic positions that you yourself had never even guessed to consider. Still, you had yet to find him. With each passing moment you can feel yourself threatening to slip further and further into that suffocating sense of worry and dread. Skirting up your form like thousands of claws, hooking in deep and you nearly let the primal fear sinking down at the base of your spine to fuel you and possess your body. You have to be mindful to control your pace, to not walk about too quickly, or to jerk the canopies aside harshly as you search. 

There are many men of the courts here at present. He could be here, skulking about like a demon prowling around one of the Hells. Or possibly partaking in the flesh of his woman. That gives you pause suddenly. Searing through you as though you have been struck by a rod of lightning, causing the hand you have gripped on a draped piece of heavy fabric to pause. Freezing in place like hare overcome with shock. A woman moans and keens just behind the hanging cloth, more than likely accompanied by a man. It could just be a man. A simple, average man. 

Or a Prince Regent, your mind notes treacherously. 

It has you jerking back from the canopy, stepping away with a weak breath snagged in your throat. You have been reduced breathless by the simple dawning realization that in an attempt to flee from him, you may have invertedly stumbled right into his path. It was something that you had initially considered before, but here and now it seems too real. The walls are drawing in close. The moans and shouting pitches too high; all but wailing and slicing through the soft, balmy atmosphere that now suddenly seems too scorching and humid. 

This was stupid. A foolish idea. You are entirely out of your depth. A simple information broker, a barterer of petty gossip that allowed yourself to be spun and caught within the wiles of the conniving White Worm in exchange for petty coin and security. What a lie that was when you allowed her to toss you into the dragonpit. Drawing you before mouths full of glinting teeth and throats burning with fire to play the role of a tool; a piece that truly had no part in the traitorous game that she played. You were practically an ignorant child, bewitched by the promise of money. The shelter that wealth could give you. 

One thing that you know for certain is that you cannot go back to the Red Keep. You will not allow yourself to willingly walk into the snare again. Not now that you have managed to sneak out of it. You know naught of where you will go. Many of the White Worm's contacts surely must have slipped off into the shadows. The threat of revealing themself too great in the recent executions of her spies. The sudden train of thought makes you feel as though you could strike yourself if you were not out in the open. Perhaps that is why Mercer is unusually absent from his place in the brothel. Especially with how the regent himself has come to frequent its halls; it is a dangerous place to be spotted. You are so stupid. Reduced to that inexperienced, floundering child who clumsily slipped around the alleys and shadows of Flea Bottom, trailing after unfaithful spouses and gathering fatuous gossip in exchange for scrap and measly coin. 

You have come so far from that shaking little girl, skin smeared and soiled with grime and dirt and ravaged by hunger in her belly, but suddenly it is as though you have been plopped right back into that place; shoved into that horrible point of time. It makes you angry and lost. Burning with a quiet irritation that prickles and sears beneath your flesh like a fever brought on by a poison. 

You are sure that the only reason as to why you may presently be alive is due to the Prince Regent's own uncertainties. The possibility that you might not truly be a part of something nefarious, and he is operating on speculations alone. That is the only thing that makes sense. But fleeing after he had subtly called you out will look badly. It will absolutely validate whatever assumptions he has been withholding and eliminate the doubts that he may have, but hopefully you will be long gone before he can even realize that you have escaped. Long gone from the boarder of King's Landing and far beyond the influence of his reach. 

You have to get out of this brothel. You need to slip somewhere to gather your thoughts; to formulate some sort of plan. There are many other ships that rest port along the bay that stretches beyond the city. And even with the Prince Regent's decree, many continue to slip past the eyes of patrol; holding illegal cargo and goods set for faraway places such as Essos. It will be next to impossible to sneak or barter your way on board, but with the threat of the prince's blade looming overhead, it does little to dissuade you. 

You turn to go back the way that you came, crossing through the gaps in the ever-shifting crowd in the goal of reaching the door, eager for the fresh air. Or as fresh as the air can possibly be in the filth of Flea Bottom, with the tainted breeze that sweeps all the way up from the lowest points of the warren, putrid with hints of human wastes and tanneries that settle at the bottom of the hill. 

You cannot stay here with the possibility of danger so close. You should not have come in the first place. You were ignorant and weak to allow your panic to get the better of you, to drag yourself out here like a desperate animal. 

You need peace and quiet. Somewhere safe from the dangers of this place and the Red Keep to gather yourself. The urge drags you forward. Shuffling and sliding past the men who shout and cheer lecherously and the women who chortle and dance; navigating silently around the quaint tables and the people that laugh raucously and bang their fists upon the tabletops to pronounce their cackling. 

You draw near the door, nearing the small set of steps. A taut grip clasps around your forearm. Seizing you so tightly that the rigidity of their hold jerks you back a pace or two, snapping your head back to sharply that the fabric of your hood slips free from the crown of your head and unveils your face. Your lungs snatch, feeling hollow and tight as your head snaps on your neck to look at who has captured your arm. Fear takes root in your stomach, dropping like a chilled stone. 

Venom rushes through your veins when your vision lands on the dazed, flushed face of a stranger. He rocks on his feet unsteadily, and when his spit smeared lip's part open, you have to fight of the urge to let your nose scrunch at the stench of alcohol on his breath. "Why's a pretty creature like you all clothed and hidden away? Hmmph?" 

You long to lash out and strike him. To rake your nails down up the sweat dampened skin of his face, to gauge his leering eyes out. That will have to remain a last resort. He will surely retaliate if you were to even attempt such a thing, and the overwhelming number of men that occupy the space will hardly take to protect a woman, much less a woman that they believe to be a whore. 

He is clearly too far gone to remark the homely state of your dress. The underwhelming, ugly garments of a peasant and not fabrics that one would wear to entice the appetites of lords and politicians. 

You school your features into something much softer. Pulling the grimace of your mouth into something neutral and unbothered as you restrain the desire to twist yourself from his grip. The clutch of his arm will no doubt cause your flesh to smart and turn tender. 

"I am sorry, my lord, but I am promised to another client tonight," you lie easily. It is only then that you allow eyes to drop down to the place where his hand still holds onto you, his knuckles having turned pallid from the ferocity behind it even as the effect of alcohol causes him to sway and hold himself on weak ankles. "He will not be pleased to see me in the arms another." 

The grin that pulls his lips apart is horrid, revealing snarling teeth that seem as though they want to rip you apart. He squints his eyes at you, probably seeing double from the copious amounts of ale that ravage his veins, and he leans himself forward with an unsteady jerk of his spine. His arm also tugs you closer, squeezing you to the press of his body until you can feel the harsh bite of his buckle prodding at your stomach through your garments. He smells of sweat and booze, a putrid combination that begs you to gag.

"An' this client of yours then? I bet I could pay you so much more than he." He dares to tuck his face closer to your person. Near enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath along your throat, the heat of his body brushing on your skin. 

"I doubt it," you snap suddenly. You regret it as soon as it leaves you. He seems the type to rise to the apparent challenge that you have just set. Instead of wondering off and having his pick of the plethora of many willing women that giggle and dance about the brothel, he will much rather remain here, stripping you of much needed time and personal space. 

You only vaguely register his response but are hardly able to pay it any mind as your dare to shift your focus about the room, sweeping it along the many bodies and corners of the space as though a guiding apparition may materialize and spirit you away into safety and out of this hellmouth. All at once time and motion seems to grind down into a thrumming, inaudible halt. The boorish presence of the man crowding himself against you shifts from a horrific weight to an inconvenience; like a gnat buzzing about your ear. 

The galvanized pandemonium bursting around you falls into a hushed chatter as your heart plummets and stills. This must truly be a punishment. The gods have forsaken you and allowed you to bumble into the pits of the Seven Hells: electing to torment you for a fault in your past life. Maybe this is where you finally die. Slain by sword or choked until your life passes from your lungs. 

He seems so menacing standing in the wide entrance of the room, posted above the small set of stairs as he stares past the ocean of writhing and jeering bodies. His attention has not been ensnared by the displays of intemperance and lust that pervades the air. 

Instead, it rests on you. Flaying and arresting in its intensity; as though it is gripping you, slicing you open and seeing you all at once. Never have you ever been so evaluated. So observed. And yet, you can see an equal amount of surprise projected in the wide glint of his eye. It gives you some small, fleeting sense of comfort to know that you are not the only one who has been taken entirely off guard, but you are not given the bliss of basking in it for long. 

You can practically see the thoughts circulating and warring within in his mind. His stance is rigid underneath the shroud of his cloak. The hint of shock thaws at the firm set of his features, the frustration that must have rested there before giving beneath your shared bewilderment as the sight of his single eye seems to burn into you. A sort of stalemate. 

You dare to pray and wish that it is not truly him, but the leather concealing his socket and the unmistakable silver glint of pale hair pouring down his shoulders gives you no other option but to accept this reality. It has you gasping in dread, swiftly turning your head to once again look upon the drunken man who still clings to you like a parasite. 

"It seems that my customer is finally here." You blurt, tongue heavy in your mouth like stone while your heart skips and flutters like the wings of a startled bird. His brows cinch close as though you have presented him with a troubling paradox, and his eyes leave you to observe where you had your focus had pinned just breaths before. 

You dare not to follow his scrutiny, giving yourself a few seconds of reprieve but the unattractive, smug grin that stretches his mouth snuffs it as quickly as it was kindled. 

"And jus' where is he supposed to be?" Comes his smarmy, obnoxious reply. 

It forces you look in the prince's direction once again. Terror grips you to see that the space that he had once occupied is now horrifically vacant, as though he had merely been a figment of your imagination. It has you spinning on the heels of your feet, rotating as much as the stranger's grip will allow as you frantically scan the crowd for the faintest traces of silver and white flickering within the bare flesh and writhing throng, but there is nothing. 

You are damned soul, whisked away and trapped within the maw of Hell as one of its devils' skulks about the masses to taunt you. You must escape. You have to. He will kill you here and now if he manages to get his hands upon your flesh. He will have you tortured inside the depths of the Red Keep's dungeons where your cries for mercy will go unheard. You have listened to many horrific tales of the agony that the prisoners of the crown endure. Whispers of the rats, bigger than housecats, that gnaw upon flesh and trim limbs down to gnarled, bloody nubs with the slicing of their teeth; how soldiers and practitioners of torment are ordered to flay skin from sinew while the prisoner is still living; the pulling of limbs until they pop wetly from their sockets and finally give and rip free from the torso as the victims scream and plead to their gods salvation. 

The alarm of it gives you strength, pouring vigor inside of your bones, and with a sudden lurch you lift a knee to crush it between the apex of the man's legs, bearing the point of it upon his manhood. As soon as the sound of his piercing cry snaps inside of your ears you twist and tug your arm free from his slackened hold. Leaving him to collapse pathetically upon his knees on the floor. You rush away quickly. Separating yourself from the scene before the witnesses of his sobbing are able to notice you and connect you to the crime. Blessedly, most hardly realize his whimpering and swearing at all. Far too engrossed in their own gratification and lust to hear the sharp, sniveling sounds of his pain. 

You veer off sharply, straying away from the direction of the front entrance. That will be far too obvious. The risk of Prince Aemond lurking outside of the threshold, waiting for you to foolishly slip past is far too great. It would be an obvious slip for you to make. Though luckily you know of the rear entrance of the establishment, often where they cart in the barrels of ale and wine to avoid the constant coming and goings of clientele.  

As of now it may only be your only hope of escaping. Of finally freeing yourself of this horror and dread that you have so ignorantly offered yourself to; stupid, young and too confident in your abilities to see where you lacked until it was too late. Now you may pay for it dearly. 

This must be what a lamb feels as the shadow of a dragon engulfs it, promising danger from above. A threat that it will be unable to see, and once it is finally able to perceive it, the peril and talons will already be upon it, guaranteeing a death by fire. But much like the startled lamb, you will at the very least try to extend your life. To run forward in the attempt to escape the snap of lethal jaws and the cracking of giant, leathery wings. 

You cannot stop the way that your vision continues to skip about the faces that pass you. Dancing from person to person and gliding along the dim corners to catch even the faintest traces of his person sneaking along the cover of the dark, but he is absent. And that terrifies you more than if you had seen him. You have to wonder if this is somehow amusing to him. If a part of him delights in this chase. If he sees your presence here as some sort of confirmation for your assumed treason. If there is a possibility that he has not made any note of you being here (the fantasy of a desperate person, you know) or if he prowling after you like beast sniffing after the blood trail that pours from the wound of its prey. 

A run threatens to break through your brisk pace as you all but shove past a pair that blocks your path, breaking the two of them apart without a shred of an apology on your lips. The woman yelps in surprise, though you do not spare so much as a glance in your desperation, the curse and bothered shout of her client that follows after you remains unheard. 

It is difficult to feel guilt or mind social expectations while fear douses itself over you like a flammable fuel, waiting for a single spark to set you off and send you into a spiral. Never have you floundered so frequently before. So enormously. Though, in your defense, you have never taken on a task of this caliber. The threats that you had faced did not rise to such a scale or prove to be so daunting. 

A sheep destined for the dragonpit. 

The delicate, lively music that drifts from the farther reaches of the brothel dampen somewhat, the sound of the instruments fading into a mild hush. The pleasured moans and wailing of bliss become less in volume and the frequency of them are less prevalent that before as you drift towards the back of the establishment. The number of people grow spars. Most of the couples and even quartets that frequent the connecting halls and adjoining rooms are few and far between; the majority far too engrossed in their pleasures to take notice of your passing by. A blessing and a curse all at once. You no longer have the shield that the thick crowds provided you, but it will also make it easier to tell if you are being followed and stalked. 

So it seems so cruel when you are snatched for a second time tonight. A hand grips around the back of your neck like a band of steel, fingers burying at the tender flesh harshly enough for you to gasp out a ragged, hissing cry of pain. Your body instinctively twists against the pull of it, but the strength of their grasp is too strong. They haul you back as easily as a cat plucking a wiggling mouse between the clutch of its sharp teeth. 

The world blurs for a moment, tipping unsteadily as you are spun on your feet and your back in slammed against the flat of a wall. It forces the remaining scraps of air from your chest, leaving you choking on nothing as you slump along the chilled stone. You can hardly register it as a warmth blankets itself over you, pursued closely by the fragrance of leather and wind. You lurch when fingers come to grip your face, guiding you pitilessly to gaze up at your attacker. You are not surprised when you meet the vehement, pale glare of the Prince Regent; you are simply disappointed, frightened. The weight of it, the both of you tucked away within the confines of a darkened alcove has your mind drawing a terrible blank. The thoughts slip free of you as you will your lungs to function and draw in air. 

There is so much that seems to show on the prince's face, now fully revealed with his hood having been knocked free from the scuffle, to show it all simultaneously expressed through the demonstrative gleam of his eye: bewilderment, amusement, delight, anger. 

It is overwhelming for you to look at. So much chaos and emotion displayed from a single person. It leaves you rooted in place, fixed along the wall even if the rude, persistent hold of his fingers were not upon your face. The curled edges of his mouth have twisted in an enraged grimace or the possibility of a smirk, you cannot tell. Not with the shadows and the oily amber light that casts upon the sharp contours of his face. He appears wild. As though he is barely restraining himself from acting on whatever terrible thoughts prance about his mind. As though he wishes to lash out more thoroughly but will not give himself the permission to do so. 

Not yet anyway. 

"Now what purpose could a handmaiden to the King possibly have in an establishment such as this, hm?" His fingers tighten just the slightest degree, enough to pull a hiss from your lips. It has your mouth twisting into a weak snarl. You have to resist the urge to rip your face from his grasp to sink your teeth into his flesh when he tilts your head just the slightest, as though he is examining you. Like an animal being studied by a hunter. It makes your skin prickle uncomfortably; irritation and terror searing through your body, but you do not allow yourself to quail away underneath the severity of his observations. 

"That is quite a hypocritic statement to make, my prince, considering that you have become such a loyal patron." It leaves you much more scathing than you had intended, though you suppose there is truly no delicate way for you to deliver the quip. It is foolish to prod at him this way. To rouse his anger while he already dangles so precariously over the edge of control, but you find your own wanning thin. "Perhaps I whore myself out in the night. Despite being so over bloated with riches, the crown is quite greedy with its wages. I am surprised that you have failed to notice me here before, though I suppose that you have been too caught up in the skirts of your madam. Have you come to visit her tonight?" 

His nostrils flair at the barb. You can see that fire in his eye flickering and burning brighter, the shape of it widening in a glint that you could only consider wild. It was a low blow from you certainly. You heard whispers of Prince Aemond's preference among the Court. The rumor stemming from the rambunctious crowd of King Aegon's men, and it had spread throughout the Red Keep like a wildfire. Like a plague, carried by the hushed giggles and snickers of the Lords and Ladies alike. Adults laughing like snobbish children, spreading the taunt on their lips that the fierce Aemond Targaryen had fallen in love with a whore from the Street of Silk. 

It has clearly struck a nerve. He manages to crowd himself even closer to you, curling in on himself to lean his head towards your ear. His hand moves, fingers slipping from your face but not daring to part from your skin as they drift downward to cup the length of your throat. The uncomfortable weight of his palm on your neck forces you to nudge your chin up, but in an attempt to escape the press of it, you only bare more of yourself to his grip. All of your air once again seems to slip free of you. Not from the presence on your throat, but the fervor in his eye all but steals it from you. 

You think that this may be what it is like to look upon death. To stare the Stranger down its eye. But it offers no reprieve when he creeps closer still to your ear, parting his lips to speak to you lowly. The warmth of his breath sweeping over your flesh in a nearly scathing hiss. 

"I saw you down here before. Slipping down the streets and alleys. I could have thought nothing of it. " He pauses for a short moment, eclipsing you further into shadow as he nudges you tighter along the wall of the alcove. Forcing you further into the dark. Even as the laughter and music and pleasured cries continue to thrum and drift through the air and past the walls in a lively current, it is not enough to bring you solace. It seems, instead, like a cruel jest. A horrid juxtaposition to fully drive your circumstances deeper. A rabbit caught within talons, trying to struggle and snap at the unwavering grip. "But then there was that woman - one of my mother's ladies in waiting. What was her name? Talya? " - his fingers flex and he shifts your face to direct you to stare at him once again - " and I've seen you traversing in the shadows, using the hidden passages of the Keep to whisper about in secret, no doubt. There is talk among the Court for her sudden disappearance. Speculations of treason against the crown."  

Your mind scrambles wildly, thoughts swirling and twisting like debris caught within a vicious storm. You struggle to think back on all of your past meetings with the fellow spy. The care that you both had established in curating your assemblies. Or so you had so foolishly assumed. 

"And you somehow managed to survive the purge." It sounds like such an insult. And coming from someone as sardonic and sharp tongued as he, it most certainly is. "The former Hand is not typically so careless, especially in regard to the security of our family; you were in league with her, I am willing to bet. So . . . How did you manage to evade the watch of his eyes?" 

Your mouth has long gone dry. Your tongue a heavy, useless lump of flesh in your mouth as you struggle to think. You could attempt to lie to him. To cover your tracks and fabricate a story to explain your meetings with the recently deceased Talya. But you truly know that no good would come of it. He will sniff it out; see it plain on your face. As volatile and rigid as the Prince Regent may be, he is not one that is easily tricked. There is no possible way for you to claw yourself out of this burrow, to weasel your way free from the trap. You have fully been caught between teeth. Balanced between rows of lethal fangs that long to puncture meat and snap bone at the faintest hint of a lie. You must tread careful, lest you guide yourself to stumble and fall in the hopes of saving yourself. 

"I do not know," you answer truthfully. A low, bare whisper. 

You can see the faintest trace of surprise reflect in his expression. It was fleeting. Hasty and nearly fragile, but unmistakable; replaced just as quickly as it had been with the blaze of anger. You know instantly that he is not satisfied with the response. The subtle contraction of his fingers around your throat confirms as much. 

"The ratcatchers-" he begins but his voice seems to snag. It's such a soft hitch that you would not have noticed if your attentions were not siphoned down onto him. "Did you play a part? Did you show them how to find the passages?" His hold around your throat becomes harsher than ever before. Fully threatening the possibility of suffocation. It almost causes your head to go light, and the rush of your blood thumps lowly within your ears. "Did you give them aid into the castle?"  

Your hand reaches upward to claw onto his wrist, nails threatening to dig into his skin in an effort to try and rip yourself from him or to merely anchor yourself, you are not truly certain. His inquiry and all of its ire is a righteous one. It is one that you yourself would have asked if the roles had been reversed. But you are still unable to resist the anger that licks up your spine and smolders inside of your chest. You struggle for a moment to still your mind and collect yourself, drawing in a ragged, harsh breath that drags sluggishly up your throat and you are just barely able to gain enough air support your words. "I am many things, Aemond Targaryen, but a child killer is not one of them." Still his grip does not waver. The venom in his stare still burns like a lilac fire, streaks of cerulean blazing through the shade in his fury. His jaw clenches, the muscles tensing as his eye pins you in place, much firmer and resolute than the hold of his palm. "I am here to observe, not to interfere." You assure and it sounds much like a promise. "I would much sooner cut out my own heart than bloody my hand with the life of an innocent." 

He only continues to stare. Considering you closely as though he is trying to sniff out the possibility of a lie. It must only last for but a second, but for you it seems like a lifetime passes before he allows his grip to slacken. It does not dare to recede from your skin, lest you slip away like a snake slithering through a snare.  

There is so much warring within him. No matter how aloof or guarded he has constructed himself to be, you can see it all playing out on his face. Reflecting through the expressive stare of his eye. It is a vulnerable sort of anger. The sort of rage that comes from a person who must allow the agony and fire to consume them, or else they will give underneath the pressures and anguish around them and collapse instead. 

You could hardly consider the Prince Regent as a virtuous person. The atrocities that he has committed in the name of his house is already many. There is a volatile aggression that has been cultivated inside of him. Purely by his own hands or simply as a product of his environment, you cannot say for certain. Perhaps it is definitely both; crafted by the rigid expectations of the crown, the aggression in him nourished and flourished by the madness that seems to be carried within the Targaryen bloodline. 

But there is something delicate in him too. You see that here and now. Cracking and pouring through the fissures in his carefully made armor and walls. He is struggling underneath the weight of it all. That much is apparent. Snapping at the seams and straining underneath the facade of pride and indifference. It makes him appear delicate almost, but equally untamed. Like a beast that has been drawn into a corner and threatens to lash out with ferocity and desperation. 

Perhaps, just perhaps you can use that. 

It might rebound back upon you horrendously. It could flare up in your face in a frenzy of chaos and plummet you down into the pits of your own destruction if he manages to discover even the faintest hint of deceit. But you are a dead woman regardless; at least this way, you may be able to prolong the length of your life, even if only for a few days, a few moments longer. 

"I am sorry," you whisper. That is the truth, at least. It is the only shred of honesty that you may be able to extend tonight, and regardless of how he will respond, it gives you some sense of consolation. A glimmer of something pure that you may hold for yourself even as the fury in his eye burns bright. You may have only roused the dragon in him. Prodded and poked at it until it has uncoiled from its slumber and lifts its head to face you with a rumbling growl and the promise of fire in its throat. His brows furrow subtly, threatening to pinch close in bewilderment or denial or annoyance. Perhaps all three. 

He shuffles closer, shoulders threatening to hunch forward even while his arms straighten out, as though his body is at war with itself, struggling to decide if he should recoil away from you or dare to tip closer. The draw of his rage and confusion fixes you in place like an invisible force. Like the grip of a phantom sweeping you inside of its deathly embrace and forcing you to look upon him. 

"You are sorry?" He mutters the echo lowly, but you can still clearly hear the heat and venom lacing each word. He articulates it carefully, as though it is foreign. As though he is shocked that you would be ignorant enough to claim such as thing. It is such a short sentence, but you can hear the fraying of his psyche around the edges; stretched thin and taught underneath the weight of everything. 

Hypothetically, he is closing in now. The fire in his throat welling up to scorch you with burning heat and agony. Danger is crowding in on you much higher than it has ever been before, even more so than when you were trapped within the perilous walls of the Red Keep. The tensing of his hand around your throat is confirmation of that enough. Seizing tight and threatening to snuff the air from your lungs once again. 

"You come here to commit treason again the crown, the heir to the throne is dead; slain where he slept, and you are sorry?" 

Him repeating it aloud makes it seem so silly now. And truthfully, it is. You are not worthy of his forgiveness, and neither is he, of yours. You are both sinners you suppose. Monsters in your own right. Two twisted souls desperate to claw a place for yourselves in this piss-soaked pit of an earth. 

"Yes, I am," you repeat, just as firm and honest as the last time. And in a mad scramble, your mind sifts through all of the knowledge it has. Latching onto whispers and gossip in a wild attempt of saving yourself from being burned. To keep your throat and life intact lest he squeeze too tightly and wring your life from your straining lungs. You do not allow your eyes to flutter underneath the strain of it all. Maintaining the contact between your gaze and his single, piercing eye, even as tears blur your vision, welling up along the corners. "But it begs me to wonder if you are capable of feeling any guilt. Was it not you who is responsible for the disfigurement of the King himself?" 

You can see that you have succeeded in catching him entirely off guard; delivered a blow that he has not anticipated. But the disorientation will not last for long, and desperate to keep him reeling, the hand that had cautiously holds his wrist slips free and raises to delicately cup the side of his face. You know for certain that the rigid, detached Prince Regent craves for something that has been withheld from him for a good period of his life. Maybe even the entirety of it: affection, warmth, comfort. 

The boisterous gossip of his laying with the madam. He was not caught in the act itself, but instead found secure in her arms. He had not immediately left as most men would have done, having got their fill; the ache in their balls drained and satisfied. He had stayed with her. Perhaps even requested - insisted that she remain with him to take him in the solace of her arms. It feels revolting to you to use such a soft vulnerability in your favor. To capitalize on his desire for touch for your survival's sake, but you have been backed into a corner. Literally and figuratively speaking with little other options afforded to you. 

Positions of power are often unforgiving. It is lonely at the top, you have heard, lifted so high above others, where so little are capable of treading. Peace and relief must be a luxury, and it is clear to see that such a denial of it has impacted the prince so heavily. A man that must seek out the false intimacy of a woman for hire to replace what he has been denied his entire life. 

Even now, with hatred still tenacious and rich in his eye, something in him weakens at the warmth of your palm along his face. The sweep of your thumb motioning dangerously close to the sliver of damaged flesh that raises and slices down the swell of his cheek. His eye nearly flutters, pale lashes quivering just the slightest like a delicate flake of snow caught within a low breeze, like he longs to let his eye slip shut. His posture seems to go taut and pliant simultaneously. As though his desires have been split down the center and divided into two separate beings. 

"The few survivors of Rooks Rest often speak amongst themselves. They talk quietly, but if you listen closely, you may hear them, recounting the horrors of the battlefield. The wounded cries of men and dragons alike. The bursts of light that brightened the sky as though comets rained down along the clouds. " He watches you so intently. As though he is suspended upon every word that leaves your lips, and the abrupt shift of it all leaves you perplexed and astray in your own right. If you allowed yourself to be foolish enough, you would let yourself to believe that you held sway over him. That he is ensnared by the tender press of your hand on his cheek. "They say that the prince - or should I say Prince Regent, lit an enemy dragon aflame with no consequence of the King being locked within its jaws." 

His brows furrow close again, his chest expanding in a harsh, silent breath as though he means to ground himself. Those fingers clench again, though they no longer hold your throat as though they mean to crush and wring. "They could be executed for daring to say such things. Just as you could be, a threat to the security of the crown, speaking in sedition and tongues." 

"Have I not already committed worse offences?" You allow your features to soften while your heart races fretfully within your chest; you are sure that he can detect the crazed thrum of your blood rushing just underneath his palm. "Aegon Targaryen is no king of mine, Your Grace. He is hardly befit to rule a kingdom so great. Foolishly rushing into the fray, urging his young dragon to the battlefield like a lamb for slaughter. A recklessness that is unbefitting for a realm in the throes of war. I think you are inclined to agree." 

Your fingertips brush close to his hairline, parting them around the shape of his ear, daring yourself to thread them through the thick of those pale tresses. It parts easily, like water slipping through your fingers, glinting like the face of a river flowing through your palm, reflecting like silver in the shine of the sun. That stormy look breaks upon his face again, weighing his striking features down with ire and offence. It makes you worry that you have dreadfully overstepped. That you have lent your hand to the open maw of the dragon, above and below so many lethal teeth. 

"Do you dare to trick me? Do you think that I am so easily fooled?" 

The question seems to be an affront rather than stimming from a place of righteousness - a brother meaning to protect the name and title of his sibling and king. It is the hubris that you have heard so much about. That you have seen from him as you allowed yourself to observe him the corridors overlooking the courtyard, spying him as he trains rigorously in the art of swordsmanship with the Kingsguard; his eye flashing with an almost conceited sense of satisfaction whenever the blow lands and he successfully bests his opponent. All but preening underneath the title he often receives, proclaimed as the best swordsmen in the realm by many of the lords and knights alike. 

"Would it truly be a trick if it is the truth?" You answer calmy. It is not lost on you that despite his reservations and anger, that he has yet to remove his face from your hand, that the grip of his own on your neck has softened considerably; still firm but no longer threatening. As though he means to keep you close and beneath him as opposed to caught and forced in place. "You are so much more observant that he. After all this time, busying myself about his chambers, cleaning the drunken vomit from the corners of his room and changing his linens, he had never suspected me. He has never suspected you. How can a man be expected to lead and protect a realm when he cannot even do the same for himself?" 

You let your thumb drift lower. Emboldened by the heavy breathing that causes his chest to rise and fall, allowing yourself to skim just underneath the shape of his bottom lip, even though he appears as though he may snap at any moment. He is just hardly restraining himself. From what you are not certain. And perhaps it is stupid to let yourself touch him in such an intimate way. A fool who has let themself fall into a false sense of security, tricked into stroking the snout of a dragon that pretends to be placated. Waiting until you are entirely at ease and snapping its fangs down around the flesh of your arm when it is least expected. 

But the fire in his throat does not brighten and blaze, the rows of teeth do not bare themselves to you. And there it is again. That hint of something vulnerable, and woefully unnurtured flickers to life in that hue of lilac and cerulean. It is starved, even in its subtly. Uncertain, delicate, and yet equally fervent and hungry. 

Some treacherous little part of you cannot help but to mourn that tender side of him that has been neglected. Shunned in favor of honing himself into the perfect picture of a Targaryen, a prince, and a man. Hacking away those soft pieces of himself off like a sculptor chiseling away sharp edges of stone and sanding away perfect imperfections in the name of making art; cutting away everything that makes him human. But you stomp that little train of thought down, burying those horrid feelings deep. Shoveling the blossoming warmth and empathy underneath the heft of indifference and spite. 

"And whom then, would be better suited?" He asks. The question surprises you, and it begs you to wonder if he can see the confusion bleeding through your features. It is difficult to tell if the query comes from a place of contempt. If he means to mock you. You are certain that that is the case, but the tone of his voice has abandoned its pervious harshness. It has thawed, whether he realizes it or not, like ice melting from the rays of a spring sun. It seems so genuine. As though he truly desires to hear your opinion. 

Certainly, it is some sort of ploy. An odd means to lure you into a false sense of security. It is here that he means to finally engulf you in the spires of his flames and anger should you answer incorrectly. Or perhaps, at all. This a dangerous game that you are playing. A mouse scurrying around the paws of a lashing house cat. It will be in your best interest to keep him on his toes, but toying with him too much could, at the same time, wear his patience thin and nudge you closer to the sword. 

The pommel of which digs painfully against the flesh of your torso, jutting out from its place secured along his waist to poke just shy of the edge of your rib. It does not allow you to forget your position. Of where you stand with the Prince Regent and the precariousness of your circumstances. 

"My opinion matters little, Your Grace." You respond, swallowing underneath the insistent press of his hand. 

His eye narrows just the slightest degree. Annoyance and entitlement flaring unanimously. He manages to move himself closer, eliminating the faintest scraps of space between you two until he is flush along your body. You can feel the warmth projecting from his skin, seeping through the barriers of both of your garments with a potency that would be alarming in the average man; fueled by the liquid fire that vitalizes the Targaryen heart. It has his scent rushing upon you again. Eclipsing you a shroud of spice, warm and rich and earthy in its musk, but the sharp hint of wind and leather cuts through in a distinct undercurrent. It manages to ground and disorient you all at once. The severity of his stare burrowing through you, urging you to meet his eye; the passion behind it prickling along your skin. 

"I expect a proper answer; use your tongue and speak freely." That demanding, unforgiving quality is back lurking within the tone of his voice. It almost causes you to flinch. You manage to catch yourself before the instinct brings you to do so, but you do choose to remove your hand from his face all the same. The air that brushes along your palm is chilling now that your skin has parted from the balmy warmth of his flesh. Still, as though trapped in a current, you hand does not stray far. It falls downward, and your fingertips come to hook against the metal clasps of his doublet as your palms flattens against his chest. 

"Do you want me to say that it is you, Your Grace?" You inquire. Fear and caution clings to you, but despite it all, you swear that you can detect the presence of amusement reluctantly gathering underneath it all, scattering dimly. Something telling passes through his expression, his posture. More revealing than any words or confession could be. The prince desires approval. The revelation, though known to some extent, douses itself over you like chilled water, seeping along your chest like the sun's rays. He has been so deprived that would be led to search out your favor. You; a peasant, an enemy to the crown. To his family and power. He hides it behind the mask of a command. As extending his strength and dominance, but the truth of it is painfully clear. It nearly makes your heart ache, but you have little time to entertain such sympathies. "That it is you who deserves to sit on the Iron Throne? Commanding the realm and all of its powers. . . " 

For the first time this night, it is you who leans forward, allowing your head to lift from the chill of the stone wall to tilt your face to his own. So close that the point of your nose nearly nudges his. The authority that his gaze had held over you has transferred places, and now it is he who watches you as though you are the one who wields the blade. It could be intoxicating if it were only the truth, but the reality of your state refuses to leave you. 

Drawn under a spell of your own, your eyes dare to flicker down the curve of his lips, rosy and slightly parted as he draws in a deep breath. It is simply a means to tide him further under the pull of his own sudden fixation, and it seems to work with the way that his eye dips down openly admire yours. His hand flexes again. Not out of aggression, but it feels more like a mindless compulsion. His body acting out to grip you greedily; betraying him while he struggles to maintain and latch onto the remaining flickers of anger that rest upon his features; growing fainter by the second to be replaced by bewilderment and a type of fixation. 

The shift of it is odd. A strange, untreaded territory that you could never have possibly imagined with every ounce of your creativity. It feels so dangerous. The tendrils of your fear still hold tight, slithering along your spine like rivulets of freezing water, but it almost produces a haze when it meets the cloud of wonder and intrigue that packs your skull. It makes you feel emboldened. A dangerous thing, you know, but it is a great temptation, urging you to murmur against his lips. 

"Smallfolk and lords alike bending the knee to you . . . King Aemond Targaryen, in all of your glory." He does not speak. Either the ability has escaped him, or he has drawn himself silent to process your words; evaluating the best response. It empowers you and frightens you all at once. It is so overwhelming. Your circumstances, the emotions that is stifling across the air, thrumming and thick across the perfumed atmosphere around you. You fear that you could choke on it. On the scent of him, the fear trembling down your spine, the intrigue nestling within the center of your gut. The combination of it all gives you a courage that you never could have foreseen, prompting you to further press your palm to his nearly panting chest, forcing you to speak still. "Unfortunately, that day is not yet upon us. But I could bend the knee for you, Your Grace, if that would bring you satisfaction." 

Those words surprise you, even as they leave your own mouth. They are foreign on your own tongue, but shockingly, they do not feel entirely unwelcome. But the confidence is snuffed when you a spiteful type of amusement twists his features. Anger and delight alike, as though your sudden hubris has truly caught him astray. And in truth, it has done the same to you. It is difficult to grasp that you have allowed yourself to be snatched within the intoxication of your own ego, bewitched by his apparent infatuation. And now you may pay for it dearly. 

"And what leads you to believe that I could desire such a thing of you?" The mockery is not hidden or restrained. His aim to correct you and cut down your confidence is accurate and successful in its endeavor. It is humbling and horrific; embarrassing in a way makes you uncomfortable in your own flesh. But you force yourself to remain poised while he observes you, trailing his eye across your countenance before meeting your vision. "What value could the loyalty of a treasonous serpent possibly hold?" 

Your mind blanks and for a second you flounder. This is where you drown; sunk by the weight of your own hubris. You have finally missed a step in the dark. Stumbled, not blindly, but from your own sudden, idiotic confidence. But the desire to survive, no matter how short that period of time may be, burns strong and bright. Undisturbed and stirred from the unbroken passion of his stare. 

The cast of the candlelight that douses along the alcove paints over his face in hues of dull gold and rich amber. The dramatic nature of the glow and the crowded intimacy of the small space hides pieces of his features in shadow, making the striking, pronounced ridge of his nose and the subtle plush of his mouth that much more defined. It reflects through the fine, smooth drape of his hair, shinning along the pale silver and ivory, projecting around the crown of his head like a halo. As though he has been blessed by the gods themselves; a god in his own right. Or at least that is what is claimed of his lineage. You ponder now that such a bold claim could be true. 

You have never considered the prince in such a way before. Not in all the years that you have traversed the corridors of the Keep. You have always been aware that he has held a sort of beauty. All of the Targaryen's do. There is an otherworldly grace about them all, carried within their blood, in the lilac shade of their eyes. As such his allure has always been unavoidable, but it had never given you any sort of trouble before apart from a fleeting appreciation for it as you went about your tasks. 

But now, forced within his presence, bared to his proximity and drawing in the scent of him with each breath, listening to the soothing, velvet cadence of his voice, it seems to guide forth notions and sensations that you had never perceived. 

You are beginning to feel less like a lamb to slaughter and more so a moth fluttering around the edges of a dazzling fire.  

"I suppose you're right," you agree easily. "My devotion bears little weight. But it could be nice, even if only for a moment. To pretend. To indulge." 

You can taste the shift on your tongue, hot and dulcet and rich. It hums and tingles across your skin, raising the hair along your nape and shuddering down the notches of your spine. From fear or from the heat that engulfs your body it is impossible to distinguish. The lines between dread and attraction have blended and merged into a confused chaos. It is messy and bewildering, splitting you between two primal instincts that serve very different purposes. To crowd closer or to back away; those are the warring factions within you. Each just as desperate as the other, and the sight of that intriguing sort of longing returning to the glint of his eye fuels the curious hunger gnawing in the pit of your gut. Your fingers long to grip him, to claw over his skin, leaving red to blossom in their wake along the alabaster of his flesh. A mark that he will bear long after you may be gone. 

There is conflict in him too. You doubt that it is much different than your own. Just as troubled and unsure as you are. It leaves you both to remain silent in each other's presence. Simply evaluating and observing as the festivities and echoes of pleasure persists around you, seeping along the shadows and privacy of the alcove. 

It leaves you to breathe each other in. To simply admire and contemplate while that strange brand of desire hangs heavy. You cannot tell the passage of time. It seems as though you have been taken under and swept in the influence of a haze and fog. It seems to settle in your lungs, finding home between the apex of your thighs, coiling and starved. 

It is the prince who seems to come to a decision. The hand around your throat, going slack until it is only his fingertips that brush along the stretch of your throat, a mere suggestion.  

"Go on then." He answers, voice rumbling low and firm. "Get on your knees and serve."

Like many things tonight, it takes you by surprise. You had insinuated and stewed within your own confused lust. You saw his own reflecting inside of his eye. But you never suspected that he would truly have the means or the desire to agree to such a thing. To request so boldly for you to act the strange, starved hunger between you. It makes you freeze, limbs falling motionless as you struggle to repress the shocked, silent gasp that escapes your lungs. But even while lost inside the sea of your raging emotions and thoughts, you are unable to resist the sliver of want that rip through you; smoldering, hot and twisting as it moves underneath your flesh, the sinew, muscle and bone like a prickle of lightning present in the swell of a summer storm. 

On instinct alone your body shifts. Your knees slowly bending to guide you in sliding down the wall slowly, as though you are scared on some primal level that quick movements may rouse the hunter in him and bid him to lunge forward. You are unable to remove your stare from his in your descent, fully entrapped by the extreme focus of it, even as your knees come to settle upon the floor, the harsh cold of the stone seeping through the layers of your skirts and burrowing in your bones like a morning chill. 

His hand has not left you. Remaining fixed to your skin as you drop in place, slipping from its stubborn position from the stretch of your neck to settle along the edge of your jaw. Cupping the shape of it in a way that could be mistaken as gentle. Cherishing. The nudge of it along your chin gives you no other option but to gaze upon him, even as the weight behind it is feather light. As though it is a suggestion instead of a command. 

You are experienced enough to know what his goal is, what the ardor in his eyes hails from. Your face hovers close to his groin, the space diving you so short that you could only lightly lean forward to have your lips brush along the soft wool of his breeches. The urge to do so tugs at you like a lead around your neck but you will yourself to resist. You draw your hands up to clutch the thick of your skirts, bunching them up within the palm of your hands to keep them from the possibility of wandering. The sudden compulsion to allow them to amble and touch rises up high. The impulse is not entirely unwelcome, just uncertain and new. This thing - this situation you have found yourself in, that you have somewhat blindly meandered and snuck into is unlike anything you have instigated before. 

Never have you attempted or desired to pursue such a thing. Not for the sake of acquiring information or luring the targets of your past surveillances into a false sense of security. There were always other means of escape. Of surviving. But that is not right either. Despite the uncertainty that suspends in the air, being here, pressed inside the alcove with the Prince Regent keeping you obstructed within the intimate space of the niche is not unwelcome, oddly enough. 

There is something tantalizing about it. Kneeling before a person so dangerous and volatile, who holds so much power over you, over an entire realm. It should revolt you. How easily you have succumbed to the peculiar want that aches and gnaws at the pit of your stomach like a horrendous type of hunger. You had hardly put up a fight to resist the desire coiling in your belly. It had descended upon you like an enchantment, enrapturing you as easily as a dry brush taking to the embers kindled by a lightning strike; rising into flames and smoke that sweep a forest up in the throes of an inferno. 

It nearly makes you feel like a traitor to yourself. To your cause. A deserter to the task that you had been assigned by the trusting guidance of the White Worm, but she is presumably dead. Or best, has escaped to safety, long gone from the boundaries of King's Landing and far from the reaches of the crown, and with it the course of your life now lies entirely in your hands. Something as fickle as morality has no place in the means of survival. Loyalty, in this case will not extend your life, nor will it shield you from the horrors that prevail the world, the war that threatens to tear the earth to shreds and pieces. 

But here and now, it almost easy for all of those worries to slip your mind, for the dulling prickle of fear that trickles down the nape of your neck like a cold breath to go unnoticed. The pommel of his sword glints in the low light of the alcove like a warning. A promise of what could come should the circumstances shift. If the dragon in him wakes and chooses to snap you between its jaws. 

And yet that demented lust that he has managed to inspire in you does not waver. You have become bewitched by the heavy rise and fall of his chest, the flex of the muscles in his throat as he draws in deep breaths as though he is trying to orient himself. He watches you so eagerly. A multitude of different emotions alight in his eye; wanting and longing. There is a blending of authority and desperation in his expression so strong that it nearly boarders on fanatic. It should concern you to some extent. To be watched with such bare zeal. But it does not. It feels empowering. 

You are the one on your knees, awaiting instruction with the patience of a pupil and yet you are certain that you could easily switch the positions of your power if you pursued it enough. The naked longing in his expression seems to solidify as much. There is a need in him that has been so clearly denied, and now that you are here, plopped within his hands and awaiting a command at his feet, you can see the desire in him to finally satiate what has been lacking. 

It begs you to wonder if he would become pliant under your hand if he allowed himself to. If he would give to the warmth of your palm and become as malleable and soft as a rich clay, eager to be shaped and supported by the gentle sweep of your fingers. Perhaps for now you will have to settle for taking him apart with your mouth instead. To feel him quiver and give from your touch alone, even if it will only last for a small moment. To taste him so that you may die with the salt of his skin on your tongue. 

"You know what is expected of you." Is all he says, pinching his thumb gently to the swell of your cheek before releasing your face entirely, gripping your hair instead as though he is unable to come to terms with the possibility of letting you go. Whether that be because he means to keep you trapped in his grip or because he is unable to part from the physical contact that he has been starved of for so long, you do not know. 

He speaks the command as though he has all of the control. And yes, you are not ignorant enough to believe otherwise. Physically, politically, he wields your life in his hands. He could smite you down with the flick of his wrist. But here, in the shade and gold of the candlelight, you know that it is you who exercises dominance over his body, over the heat of his flesh and the ardent tremble of his rapacious hands. 

It makes you crave it. Drunk and stupid on the lust that hums throughout the atmosphere like the pulse and breath of a living creature. And you are unable to deny him any longer. To deny yourself. 

Finally you allow your grip to lift from your skirts, freeing the bunched fabric from your clutching fingers to slip along the groin of his breeches. You almost gasp when you feel him underneath your palms. Hot and straining against the soft material. His lips part just the slightest at the sensation of you pressing against him, shamelessly sweeping your fingers along the shape of him. His hips jerk when you stroke around it, rounding the head of his cock from over the obnoxious barrier of his breeches and you are immediately rewarded by the low sigh that rips from his throat. 

The sound of it, as simple as it was, causes your heart to flutter in your chest and liquid heat pools along the base of your spine, scorching like warm honey and melted sugar. He does not allow you to bask in it for long, his grip on your hair tightening to draw you closer to his pelvis, making your mouth run along the wool and the rigid press of his cock underneath. 

The action seems more brattish and desperate rather than demeaning and dominant. It has you resisting the urge to smile. You are sure the sight of your internal amusement making an appearance would only cause him to become cross. Which would only prove to be dangerous given the circumstances. 

"Don't test my patience," he warns lowly in a baritone velvet. 

"I wouldn't dream of it, my prince." You dare to murmur before leaning forward to press your lips where your hands wandered, dropping your mouth open to drag your tongue along the rough material over press of his length. There is a weight to it even while tucked behind the hindrance of his garment. It already feels delightful along your tongue, and you cannot stop the satisfied moan that shudders from your lungs as your gaze peers into his own. He looks as though he has been lit on fire. Engulfed in heat and want as you continue to kiss him through the wool. 

It is only then, spurred on by the irritation and ardor in his expression that you finally reach for the ties of his breeches. Picking and plucking at the lacings until they unravel. Despite your previous teasing the movement of your hands is almost frenzied as you slip the ties free. It makes your fingers nearly catch on themselves as you work to draw the laces slack, but you do not miss the amused hum that rumbles from the prince's chest and drifts down to your ears. The humiliation that flares through you only serves to strengthen your desire, and it intensifies tenfold once you finally loosen and ruck his breeches down enough to free his cock. 

He hisses sharply when the air brushes along his rigid length, flushed and heavy from his arousal.  You have held and witness only a few in your time. The unforgiving nature of your trade allows you little time for yourself and the pleasures of the flesh, but you are sure that his may be amongst the prettiest that you have seen. You blatantly trace plump vein that winds underneath the length of him, studying the tantalizing path where it vanishes just before reaching the swell of the head. He is pale but blushed rosy and red from the lust burning in his loins; the evidence of it smears and drips from the crown of his cock in a pale, pearlescent sheen, glittering lowly in the dim light. Your mouth waters to taste him, to have the salt of it on your palate. 

As though tugged on string your hand lifts to take him in your hand without any instruction. You cannot help but to marvel at the heat and softness of his skin, the near velveteen nature of it. He is not intimidating in size like some of the men that you have seen or even lain with, but you are almost thankful for it. He is still thick in your hand, long enough that you know that he would fill you up so deliciously. Stuffing you full on the substantial length, and it makes you long to have him inside of you. 

You see that there is another barb at the ready on the tip of his tongue, and so you make sure to use your own. Parting your lips to lick along the head of his cock, smearing and lapping his arousal into your mouth. It is curious, unhurried as you taste him, gauging the reactions that you pull from him. And you are not disappointed. You have done so little and already a heavy breath spills from him. It is low, dark, almost guttural and somehow edging on a whimper. It makes you wonder if he had meant for it to slip past his chest at all. 

The salt of him pours over your tongue, earthy and distinct in its flavor and like the wanton thing that you have been so easily reduced to, you crave more. A slave to your desires, you are unable to keep yourself from further opening your lips to take him further into the wet heat of your mouth. His reactions are like a balm on the sting of the vicious lust that courses through you. His head tosses back as the pleasure washes over him before his shoulders curl forward, eclipsing his body over you as he further nudges you along the wall with the greedy drag of his cock rocking into your mouth. 

The silvery curtain of his hair pours over his shoulders, framing his face so beautifully. The shadow casted by it pronouncing the way that his brows pinch close, almost as though he is pained by the sweep of your tongue. It nearly distracts you from the way that he chases after the fire in his belly, seeking out the solace of your tongue to fuck his cock deeper, almost rocking it against the back of your throat. 

You focus on your breathing, stilling yourself to drag in steady gulps of air in between his thrusts as he uses you for a vessel for his pleasure. It should be a little demeaning, the way that he utilizes you as though you were only crafted for his gratification. But the desperate clutch of his hand on your hair keeps that bit of disgrace at bay. He holds you as though you might vanish otherwise. Like he aches for your touch. A desperate, starved thing that has stumbled upon a banquet and means to gorge itself. 

And it seems impossible to deny him. Especially now with the traces of whimpers on his breath. Subtle but no less alluring, much more so than the constant cries and groans that still drift down the halls and through the vigorous, intoxicating atmosphere. It makes you crave to hear more from him. To watch him shed that imposing, untouchable armor that he has fashioned around himself. To see the vulnerability underneath it all. To see him as a man. Just a man. Not a Prince Regent or Protector of the Realm or fearsome dragon rider, or any other title that he may bear. Simply a human being. Just as weak and liable as you. 

You bob your head over him, working alongside the rhythm that he has set with the insistent roll of his hips, slipping your mouth further down his length until he brushes the back of your throat, until the thatch of hair around the base of his cock tickles against the point of your nose. The threat of tears prickle along the corners of your eyes, and even with the blur challenging the edges of your vision you can still notice the way that his abdomen clenches above you through the layer of his garments. A gasp shudders through him and his free arm drops against the wall to support his weight as though he might double over otherwise. 

He is not the only one who needs to ground themselves, and in an attempt to weather the need that ravages your body, your hands clench around the leather belts and straps that wind around his waist and hips; nails digging into the thick of them as though you are torn between urging him away to breath and guiding him deeper so that you can choke on the weight and taste of him. 

"Fuck, look at you," his voice marvels mockingly from above. It forces you to try and meet his eye, though the position is straining with how he has curled himself above you, his head leaning against the support of his arm posted against the wall, and the both of you refusing to allow your mouth to leave his cock. The expression on his face is derisive, the curl his lips is equally amused and shaming all at once, but something about it has your own hips grinding into the air to seek a friction that is not there. "A great, allusive spy reduced to a common whore of the Street of Silk. "

You whine around the width of him stretching your mouth open. Disgustingly, it is not a noise of objection but a drunken sort of agreement. Though it is difficult to be disappointed or upset with yourself when the musky, heady scent of his skin nestles deep inside the hollow of your lungs. The effects of it seem to stuff your skull full of an intoxicating influence much like the drugs that you have heard of that permeate the air inside of the underground dens here in Flea Bottom. Inebriating fumes that turn your limbs to syrup and dull your thoughts into nothing but a euphoric, silent haze. 

"So you agree then?" Comes his taunting response. "I do still think that 'whore' may be generous. They at least necessitate a need for payment, but here you are, on your knees without coin or little prompting to take your would-be executioner down your throat." 

The snark, the bite of his words licks a fire between the crux of your hips, and you can feel the wet heat of your arousal smearing down the inner skin of your thighs. But it is also a challenge. He has grown far too articulate and the desire to draw him breathless and silent again raises up high. It has you redoubling your efforts. Lapping your tongue over the slit on the head, drinking down the little bit of arousal that trickles from there to pour on your tongue before cupping your lips around him to lightly suck. 

It causes his hips to twitch sharply, and you use the motion to once again take him all the way down again, working him in until he is in your throat. Your hands releasing their grips on the leather straps around his waist to quickly follow and cup the heat of his stones as you suckle and swipe your tongue across him. 

The doubling of the sensations tears the most delicious reaction from him. It feels like a gift when his mouth drops open in gutted groan. The focus of his eye seems to glaze over from the wet warmth of you on his cock, the strokes of your fingers on the soft skin of his balls. Massaging and cradling them within your palms. The following sound he makes can only be described as gutted. You do not think that you have ever been able to draw such a noise from a man before. Not one as mindless and consumed as that, as though he has been doused in pleasure and left to drown in it. 

It nearly makes up for the crude taunts that he had hurtled at you. Nearly. 

He is close to his release, that much is easy to tell. The thrusts of his hips have become eager and just toeing the line of wild; plunging his cock into you in a fervent chase for his peak. Whether he realizes it or not, his breathing has become thin and frequent, punching softly across the sultry air in desperate pants. The glossy gaze of his eye is fastened onto you has you bob your head along his girth, relishing in the warm stretch of your throat giving around the drive of his cock, pushing spit around the tight seal of your lips with each clumsy thrust. It is sloppy and unseemly, but you have no choice but to relish in the depravity of it. To bask in the flush that has come to stain his cheeks, the way that his lashes flutter around the dazed hold of his eye. 

The fingers gripping your hair tenses and threatens to burrow into your scalp, and his abdomen squeezes harshly in anticipation for the bliss that fastens around his body; preparing to wring him for all that he is worth. 

You rip your lips from him quickly, jerking your mouth from the rigid swell of his cock just before his rapture can wash over him. It is a difficult feat with the way that his hand holds you like steel, but you manage to succeed, hissing past the sting in your scalp as you pull back enough, being mindful of your teeth as you move until your lips are free to brush along his head. Smudging his arousal across your lips. 

The noise that leaves him is a whimper. High and full of despair as the cruelty of your denial causes his release to rip and ebb away into what must be a painful ache. A torturous agony for certain. The sound of his anguish is a desperate one, but the outrage in his eye is close to terrifying. It burns bright like the promise of something hellish. Like he might consume you alive until there are only scraps left. It is equal parts horrifying and arousing, and it has a twisted sort of excitement and appetite welling up inside of you. 

"Do not test me," he hisses with pure venom and contempt. The hold he has on your hair manages to become harsher, tugging against your scalp with enough force to tug your head back to further meet his stare. 

Even with the danger in his posture you are unable to quail away from the threat that hangs between you both. It only serves to rouse that demented brand of delight in you. The hold that keeps your head secure in place is still fixed, but you are close enough that are able to reach up to take his length back in your hold, proudly presenting your tongue to tap the head of it along your open mouth. Transferring the salt of his arousal back along your palate, teasing yourself just as much as him. 

"Take what you want," is your only answer. 

The feral flash in his eye is the only warning you are afforded. You expect for him to force your mouth back onto his length, to steal his pleasure. So it is a complete surprise when he hauls you up onto your feet by the sting of your scalp to shove the flat of your back against the wall. It is disorienting to be lifted so suddenly, to be pinned back against the stone bricks in such a short period of time. It is jarring, sweeping you astray and leaving you lost. But just as quickly as it happened, Prince Aemond descends down on you like a shadow. Herding you in place and keeping you secure with nothing but the weight of his body. 

HIs hands are on you like a glutton sweeping their hands along a feast. Gripping and clawing at the shape of your body to begin plucking and tugging at your skirts to ruck them up around your hips, baring your legs to the air. It tears a gasp from your chest as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, nipping at the tender skin there with the blunt edges of his teeth. 

"Is that truly what you want, hm? To be used up and split open for me? Nothing more than a whining, whimpering thing on my cock." The way that he speaks is so vulgar. It would be repulsive to any respectable lady, but it only serves to make you burst alight. Cut hollow and wanting to be filled and fucked with a man that you should despise. And perhaps you do still hate him. But here and now, with him so close and hot, flushed against you, you are unable to conceptualize such a notion. You long to feel him. The warmth of his skin, the bite of his teeth, the slice of his nails. 

It has you dragging your hands up the sturdy support of his shoulders, your fingers gripping harshly before gliding upward to thread through the fine silk of his hair, burrowing them along his scalp as a means to draw him closer. You hitch one of your legs around his hips, pulling him flush with your body even while the buckles of his belts and the pummel of his sword burrows meanly into your flesh. 

"Yes, yes, please," you beg easily. The please rises out of you with hardly any resistance at all, flowing freely like a deluge of water spilling past a fracture in a dam. 

You expect more teasing. More degrading remarks to further fray your pride thin and humiliate you, but the prince it seems, is intent on surprising you tonight and just as impatient. There are no moves to warn or prepare you. The only thing you get to serve as a notice is the brush of his cock slipping against the soaked heat of your cunt, and then, seemingly all at once he drives himself into your entrance, splitting you open and forcing your walls to stretch open and give around the shape of him. It punches all though and air from you, reducing you to some mindless, moaning thing to cling onto his shoulders as though your life depends on it. As though it might actually save you. 

The pace that he sets is punishing and intense from the start; desperate to rekindle the pleasure that you had stoked within him just before. Chasing after it like a thirsting man stumbling after a mirage. It leaves you try and stay aloft. Only able to hold on as he ravages your body like he has been tipped into the throes of a frenzy; feral and hungry. 

He tries to muffle the low noises that stirs from his chest, clasping his teeth along the junction of your neck rough enough that you are positive that it will leave a mark behind. It forces him to breathe through his nose, wrenching yearning pants from him to spill across the flesh of your shoulder in warm puffs of air. The hug of his teeth on your sensitive skin is not the concern that it should be. The stamp of his mouth will be left behind for sure. A clear claim posted on your body that he had touched you. That he has staked a sign on you that no other man has been able to or dared to do before. 

But you care little now. Not with the way that he drives himself into you. The constant drags of his cock inside of you, brushing deep and firm in strokes that threaten to liquify your mind. It has your body split between winding up tight and going lax in its place tucked between him and the wall. Your limbs longing to squirm and reach for something, anything to anchor yourself as he devastates you with a prowess that you never imagined he would possess.  

His cock drives sharp, pitchy sounds from you with every cant of his hips. His pelvis and the curls at the base of his cock nudging against your clit with every and every thrust. The sensation of it sears through you like smoke and embers, coiling in your gut like a band of molten steel. It has one of your arms extracting itself from its place nestled in his hair, flying out wildly to scramble along the wall behind you; nails digging into the soft corners of the stone for purchase. 

The sound of your voice has him releasing the clutch of his teeth from your neck, lifting it to nudge his face along your cheek until you can feel the defined bridge of his nose nuzzling along your flesh. A gesture that could so easily be misconstrued as tender if the circumstances were so completely different. If he did not hold your life inside of his hands. "You're fucking soaking, love." He croons, his voice all teasing and velvet. But it only serves to make you clench tighter around him, causing the want in you to lick along the cradle of your hips and rest there. "Did sucking my cock do it for you? Does your mouth being fucked - being treated like you deserve - excite you?" 

And now that he has drawn attention to it, you are forced to notice the wet sounds that echo within the quaint chamber of the alcove. The sloppy, lecherous noise of your coupling bouncing of the walls crudely. It is impossible not to hear the soaked smacking of his hips joining yours, of his cock parting the slick heat of your cunt repeatedly. 

The only facet that saves you from true embarrassment is that you have happened to find yourself in a brothel; a place where not a single soul will care or be appalled by the pair of you, should they happen to stumble upon you both. 

And despite it all, you find yourself nodding in agreement. "Gods, yes Aemond - fuck - I - " 

Something between a laugh and groan leaves him at the sound of your failed, broken words; entirely pleased and arrogant with the almost drunken state that he has reduced you to. That persistent part of you longs to make a quip of your own. To knock him down a peg or two, but even in your muddled condition, you are still able to realize that it may be a bad idea. Thankfully it is overcome with a new desire before it can get the better of you. The need to be closer to him washes over you like a wave crashing along the surf. It has your arms moving to lock around the nape of his neck, the leg secured around his hip tightening to guide him even closer. 

The loss of that little bit of remaining proximity changes the rhythm of his thrusts. Instead of the quick, impactful pace, it has changed them into deep, churning strokes. His cock barely leaves you now. He has been pinned too closely, leaving him with the ability to only grind himself against your heat, circling his hips against your sensitive clit in tight, intense motions that cause your jaw to drop. It has your entire body drawing up tight. Squeezing and working up in preparation for the release that hurtles before you like the swell of an oncoming storm. 

You are chanting his name now while the taste of him is still thick and warm on your tongue. Uttering his name as though it is a prayer, a curse; a salvation and damnation all at once. The weightlessness of it all, the desperation in your veins directs you to turn your face towards his own, tilting it until you are able to properly look at him, your nose nuzzling along his with each pronounced, grinding, debilitating thrust he delivers. 

Lightning wracks through you when you see that his eye is already on you. The lilac and traces of blue cutting so intently that you swear the gaze of it brushes along your soul. Strands of his hair have come loose from their tie, hanging slack and slightly askew around the curtains of silver that spill around his face. Pink has flushed around the points of his cheeks and nose - even the tips of his ears, and his lips are parted. You both draw in each other's breath, breathing yourselves in as though you only need the other's air to survive. 

It suddenly feels wildly intimate, and that hungered glint in his eye only serves to nourish that. Here, underneath the dark, with the anger absent from his posture and stare, it is easy to admire him. To notice how enchanting he truly is. And for a dangerous moment, you can pretend that you have not been brought here out of hate and violence or the need to flee. The dulcet warmth of it builds within your chest, swarming with a multitude of emotions that you cannot allow yourself to truly process. But some of them manage to slip past your grip regardless, seeping through the fissures and holes. 

"Aemond - pretty, so pretty." You choke on your words. Caught up within your admiration, your pleasure. But you are unable to keep yourself from sweeping a hand along the plains of his face, caressing the swell of his cheek. Adoring the striking features that press along your palm; scar and all. 

The vulnerability that breaks past the lust in his eye is tragic. He looks at you as though you are strange, unfamiliar, and yet as if he has known you for an eternity. As though no one has ever dared to blatantly praise and favor him, and he does not know how to manage it. But you feel the way that his cock twitches inside of the tight clutch of your cunt; his lashes flutter as though his eye was going to roll back inside of his skull. 

The power that it feeds you is unlike anything you have ever felt before. The way that he has reacted to a jumbled compliment, hanging onto your words as though they were a scripture and he a man in need of salvation. 

"So good, Aemond, don't stop, please don't stop," you pant against his lips. Almost immediately the grind of his hips becomes invigorated, as though the sound of your voice alone has galvanized him. And now that you have begun, it is difficult to stop; threading your fingers through his hair, gripping the back of his head to keep him close and orient yourself through the rush of it. "Just like that, my love. You're so good like this - so deep - it's you, just you, no one else." 

The endearment slips out unintentionally, a mirror of when he had used it himself to mock you, but the utilization of it coming from your lips seems nearly damning for him. He pitches forward to drop his face back into the nestle of your neck, as though he means to hide himself from you and bask in the press and scent of your flesh all at once. It makes his voice muffled and low, suppressed by your skin as his speaks out in a way that you just barely catch. But the words, your muddled brain sluggishly realizes, is not of the Common Tongue. It sounds out in a way that is rumbling and flowing all at once, his tongue cradling around rolling r's that belong to his ancestor's language. The tone of it nearly sounds as dazed as your own, and though you know naught what he is saying, the wrecked, slurred state of his voice pleases just as much if you were able. 

"Please, please," you beg against the crown of his head. The rapture coiling around your body is burrowing its claws in deep, slicing into your stomach to tear you asunder. And you welcome it. Longing to feel it lighting you up from the inside out, and the ceaseless drag of his cock and the grind of his pelvis on your clit has it suspended over you. Dangling so close that you swear you are able to taste it. That you would be able to reach out and touch it as though it is a tangible thing. 

"Do it," comes his strained reply. "Fucking do it." 

As though it was waiting for his permission, your body seizes up as though it has been struck. Heat and bliss lashes through every facet of you, ripping and twisting inside of you like it means to eat you alive. This is what it is like to be consumed. To be plucked up piece by piece and given over to someone else to fuel them, to prolong the ecstasy that pours over you like melted wax; like stars bursting in the heavens. In the haze of your pleasure, you can feel it doing just that. You can hear the loud grown that pierces the air as his own peak crests over him, induced by the clenching of your cunt flexing and tightening around him as though it means to keep him locked and buried inside forever. 

Liquid warmth spreads and settles inside of you with the twitch of his cock. His hips continue to grind and hump against your own in a strive extend the rapture that possesses your bodies. And that is how you both remain for a blurry stretch of time. Buried in each other's warmth and arms, saturated in bliss, and no longer enemies with the promise of bloodshed and war on the horizon. 

The scent of sex is heady and thick in the air, embellished by the spice and sweat on his skin and the wind in his hair. You do not move from your position cuddled against him. And you do not pay any heed to the clarity and the cruel realities of your situation as they clamor to draw your attention. You would like to remain ignorant to the truth for as long as possible. The horrors of your circumstances will come knocking on your door soon, rising up like a dawn you may not be alive to see. But for now, it will just be you and him. 

Not enemy and enemy, but two lovers intertwined in a private alcove designed for two. Safe in shadow and candlelight with the steady thump of each other's hearts rushing together; your breaths synced and calming. 

But the prince it seems is in no mood to afford you solace as he shifts to straighten his posture. A pathetic part of you mourns when he removes his face from the safety of your neck to meet your eyes. There is a curiosity in them that makes you unsure. The contentment in the way he watches you is so odd to see that it brings you more unease than his ire and rage could. He almost appears tender. Placated by the press of your body and the grip of your cunt still tight and hot around him, and he makes no moves to leave your body. 

He lifts a hand, allowing his fingers to trace along your jaw and lips as though he is studying a delicate valuable. Something that could easily shatter if handled too harshly. There is a possessive edge to it as well. Wanting and greedy like he fears someone may try and snatch you from him. It leaves you to fear that you may have coaxed that starved half of him out and left it with no desire to leave. Now he truly does mean to pluck you between his teeth. Not to rip and tear, but to devour carefully. With a mouth that longs cradle bone and stroke flesh lovingly. 

You may have just made a monster. But even worse still is that you cannot help but to delight in the possibilities of it. 

And when his voice speaks out next, soft and tranquil, and welcoming in your ear, you find yourself waiting on his promise. 

"I think I'll keep you." 

[all-my-friends-were-glorious]

( southxparkxafterxdark ) “Next time, just tell me if you don’t feel well. We can always reschedule.” Michael to Dylan

Sick af Starters

@southxparkxafterxdark || Michael

[ Dylan ]

“A migraine shouldn’t be able to get in my way.” 

But Dylan was suffering something awful, his face burrowed in Michael’s pillow as he laid on his stomach. Everything was too bright, too loud, too much, and he honestly didn’t know how he’d made it to Michael’s house in the first place.

He hadn’t even gotten dressed up this time, he’d just shown up to his typical appointment. 

“Fuck, I don’t ever want to move again.”

[downtonabbeyrevisited]

Season Two Episode Four

A 1918 timestamp ushers us into one of Downton’s more slow moving episodes where three parts painful banality has been mixed with one part life-or-death peril.

Providing more interesting political and cultural conflict than WW1 (at least at Downton) is Isobel’s ongoing grating at Cora’s very soul. Cora has had the temerity to ensure that the staff don’t collapse on their feet and has done something with the linen that I can’t quite fathom which, of course, Isobel takes as a slight upon her medical knowledge. Isobel makes the fatal error of calling Cora’s bluff threatening to ‘seek some other place’ if she is not appreciated at Downton. Major Clarkson also takes sides with Cora and Isobel now has no choice but to throw herself and her messiah complex upon the Red Cross in Northern France. I am sure they will be thrilled. 

With Isobel’s departure, Moseley and Mrs Bird find themselves at a loss having deep cleaned the house and moaned about their employer’s eating habits. Turns out that one thing they forgot to do was deploy any semblance of a security system as a random man with a drama school limp wanders into the house looking for food. In a manner that would make the current Conservative front bench recoil with horror, Mrs Bird starts up a soup kitchen out of her own (presumably rather small) pocket. In her latest attempt to not do her job, Mrs Patmore drags Daisy out for some fresh air and in the process uncovers this particular bit of well meaning but financially unsustainable charity. Mrs Patmore scales up the operation, creating a “special storage area” to squirrel away surplus from the army’s stock, which O’Brien conveniently overhears (but to be honest, it’s not that much of a coincidence. I imagine most of the kitchen heard it considering that Mrs Patmore practically yelled it). In an effort to try and inject a bit of actual drama into this episode, O’Brien reports this to Mrs Hughes but (un)fortunately, Mrs Hughes could not care less. But after watching the world’s most appalling secret handover of goods in the village, O’Brien rallies and this time is successful in bringing Cora to the nefariously compassionate Bird-Patmore coalition. To absolutely everyone’s surprise (viewers included) Cora orders food to be taken from the house stock rather than army and with all the over-confidence of a consultant sets about re-arranging tables and streamlining the workflow. 

Feeling much less charitable than Mrs Bird, Moseley heads to the Abbey and attempts to make himself indispensable and reach the dizzying heights of ‘Valet to the Earl of Grantham’. But not long after the peels of laughter that such a notion invites have died down, Bates returns and takes Mr Molesley’s shoehorn which one can’t help but think is emblematic of something. The return of Mr Bates is, naturally, a painfully protracted process that involves key protagonists not talking to each other, Thomas smoking on a wall, and the obligatory invocation of Kamal Pamuk. Robert invites Bates back to help him through the ‘veil of shadow’ and as such I was intrigued to learn that he is a World of Warcraft devotee. Bates reappearance downstairs also allows for the return of two other key Downton Abbey tropes: Anna and (John)Bates having a heart to heart under the cover of darkness, and Thomas and O’Brien’s irrational loathing/scapegoating of Britain’s most infuriatingly lovelorn character (outside of Thomas Thorne) to resume with aplomb. 

Less happy to be within the confines of the Abbey is Edith who continues to signal that all of this is really a bit beneath her (certain elements quite literally). Ever the teacher’s pet, Mr Molesley reports the sighting of an Officer by the maid’s staircase to Mrs Hughes who hears that there have been lots of rumours on the timeline tonight and comes out to say that she does not live in a sack. Unfortunately, Major Bryant does not live in one but definitely frequents one and, as such, it is of course Ethel is dismissed. As she rapidly packs all her belongings, Anna pleas to Mrs Hughes on her behalf confirming that she is indeed the friend we all want but probably don’t deserve. But Mrs Hughes can’t get rid of her that easily as Edith (and passenger) skulk back to liven up the end of the episode with news of an oncoming baby *Eastenders drums intensify*. 

Talking of undeserving relationships, Sybil and Branson receive more air-time than usual, providing the latter the opportunity to demonstrate that at times he really can be a muppet. And a slightly malevolent one at that. Sybil is firmly under the cosh this week with Violet making thinly veiled references to inappropriate alliances and Mary asking probing questions whilst she tries to get on with her job. Mary thinks that she has spotted her sister and Branson having some kind of romantic exchange but in reality, all that she has seen from afar is Branson telling Sybil that she is in love with him which when you think about it, is all kinds of awful and hardly the basis for a healthy relationship. After a long walk through the grounds where I am half expecting Branson to appear on a horse Willoughby-style, Sybil eventually caves and confesses to Mary that she doesn’t know if she likes Branson despite his eminently creepy voice over. Sybil then relays her sororal confidence and rather than taking this as an opportunity to ingratiate himself, Branson for whatever reason attempts to coerce Sybil into a relationship but not before he belittles her job. Sybil looks rightfully outraged as some equally emotionally manipulative strings wail in the background in an attempt to try and make us think that anything that has just happened was evenly slightly dreamy. 

Threaded through this glacially paced episode has been the looming threat of a both a concert and the death of Matthew and (to a much lesser extent because that is how class works) William. In an effort to break the monotony of walking around the exact same bit of French trench (see previous re-caps for further details), William and Matthew take to wandering across some largely unadulterated land and into the path of some nonchalant Germans. Daisy’s lack of (presumably fawning) letters from William starts off a chain of enquiry which confirms that the War Office has declared Matthew and William missing enabling Mary to once again deploy her signature move: weeping into her gloves. But only one hand this time because she needs to keep a bit of composure for the show must go on! Apparently. Following some abysmal piano playing (I grew up in an appallingly musical household and we all had to endure the torture of other people at the early stages of learning an instrument. It was of course blissful when we got good but, heck, I was thrown straight back to the horror of it all with that ‘accompaniment’ and had an odd sort of stress response which I won’t describe here), Mary and Edith do a rendition of If You Were the Only Girl (In the World) as everyone looks on stony-faced before participating in the millenia’s most morose sing-a-long. With a very good sense of drama, Matthew and (to a much lesser extent) William make their return. Matthew takes his place at Mary’s side and joins in the signing to what is now presumably quite a bewildered audience. Ah, Downton. 

Romantic declaration of the moment 

Violet raises reasonable concerns about Richard Carlisle but Mary is more interested in expanding her real estate portfolio and agrees to throw her lot in with a fiscal agreement disguised as a marriage. Upon his ‘miraculous’ return, Matthew gives the union his blessing on the condition that Richard remains deserving. Not that he ever really was. But the sentiment is what matters here and what is more loving* than putting another’s presumed happiness before your own.

*there are actually a lot of other more loving things but in the interest of formatting, we’re going to sweep those under a very large rug for now. 

Expressive eyebrow of the week 

Rather than training as a nurse or being actually pretty useful in a convalescent home, Mary’s contribution to the war effort is being amicable with Edith. Violet declares that she has now “seen everything” as the spirit of Mrs Adelman moves on. 

Wait, what? 

“I wish we had a man” Presented without comment 

“If I am not appreciated here, I will seek some other place” Yes. PLEASE. 

“What must he do to persuade you he is in love with Lavinia? Open his chest and carve her name on his heart” No, Mary. Matthew merely needs to carve her name with a compass on his forehead to prove that… 

“I hate the word ‘missing’. It leaves so much room for optimism.” Robert is a bit emotionally weird isn’t he? 

“We haven't kissed or anything. I don't think we've shaken hands. I'm not even sure if I like him like that. He says I do, but I'm still not sure.” And lo, another red flag is raised. But because Branson is Downton’s version of a Bolshevik, both Mary and Sybil view this not as a warning about the boy’s behaviour but rather a symbol of his political leanings and such signals are duly ignored.

“He always seems a romantic figure to me” Daisy Robinson writes fanfic. Pass it on. 

“Sometimes in war, one can make friendships that aren't quite…appropriate. And can be awkward, you know, later on. I mean, we've all done it.” Once again, Violet, tell us more! 

Bates says that he has returned to “Downton at war” which sounds like a lucrative exhibition name if I ever did hear one. 

Despite Mary’s most valiant efforts, no musical performance had ever gone out to such an impassive audience until Rosalind came along 

Matthew of course is used to a much better quality sing-, sorry, song-a-long 

[chocolate1721]

I haven’t seen a lot of the class touring Arkham fics anymore, so here’s my prompt. Ok more salt and rogue trying to adopt Marinette.

So the class is touring Arkham. They were walking through the cafeteria or recreation room, their guide was rushing them because the inmates are due to come any minute. Lila slows down and trips Marinette, then she kicks Marinette’s sketchbook across the room. The class leave Marinette behind while she is scrambling for her book. When she looks up she finds two of Gotham’s Rogues in front of her.

Harley and Ivy weren’t expecting to have anything exciting to happen. There has been gossip about a foreign class touring Arkham, but other than that it’s been pretty quiet. They walked into the recreation room and froze. There is a child there. There is a child by herself there. They immediately went over to her, and they saw shock in her eyes when she saw them.

“Hey there girlie whatcha doing here by yourself?” Harley asks her gently.

“Uhm, my class and I are on a tour, but it looks like they forgot me.”

Harley and Ivy steered her towards an abandoned sofa and sat on either side of her. They soon got her to spill what’s happened. Harley went into ‘therapist’ mode. Marinette didn’t know how long she was talking about her problems, but she soon had her head in Harley’s lap while Harley strokes her hair.

Once all of the tears have been shed. Marinette showed them her designs. Some based on Gotham architecture, some based on the vigilantes, finally presenting outfits based on them. Ivy and Marinette start talking about making an eco friendly fabric. Harley knoticed what time it is and walks over to the door. She bangs on it a few times to get someone’s attention.

[[More]]

“What is it?”

“You know that French tour from earlier?”

“Yeah what about it?”

Harley moves enough for him to see Marinette talking passionately with Ivy. “I think that left someone behind.”

The worker pales drastically. They ran like a bat outta hell to get their superiors. This news ran up the chain of command until it got to Gordon.

Gordon was having a stressful evening. The Joker recently escaped, there were more muggings this past week than usual, and now he gets a call from Arkham. Only telling him to get over there as fast as possible. Not knowing what he is going up against he called Batman.

Batman and Red Hood arrived at Arkham. As they approach Gordon to see what’s going on they hear a worker panically describing how he found a French child in the room surrounded by the inmates. Red Hood demands to know which room. Once getting the info they both rush to the room. They were expecting the worse: torturing, beatings, crying. What they were NOT expecting is a small French girl braiding Poison Ivy’s hair while having Harley Quinn braid her own hair.

“The riddler should be shot and his clothes should be burned, then the ashes have to be scattered at the four corners of the world. The different shade of green on that man is more than a forest. Like, having a green themed outfit is fine. Wearing it everyday is fine. But what is NOT FINE is whereing every shade of green PLUS purple question marks. It’s like he’s asking to be slapped!” Marinette ranted.

Red Hood grabbed Batman’s shoulder and pulled him out of the room. He turned fully to Batman, placing both hands on his shoulders, he started shouting. “YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO ADOPT HER! DO YOU HEAR ME! SHE IS TOO PURE AND INNOCENT! I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO CORRUPT HER!”

Batman just brushes him off and (glides? Shadow melts? Skulks?) into the room.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but may I ask what is going on?”

Marinette yelps in suprise. Spinning around to come face-to-face with the dark knight himself. “Uh-um-I-I-I-“

“She won a scholarship for her class. They were taking a tour today and left her behind. She said she has been bullied by the class for a while, and there is this one girl lying about everything.” Harley intervened for Marinette.

“Hmmm, you won the Martha Wayne scholarship?” Marinette nods shyly. Batman kneels down to be eye level with Mari. “What’s your name?”

Marinette looks at him and smiles brightly. “My name’s Marinette.”

After being dazzled by her bright, sunshine smile. (Red Hood is in the background being the dramatic ass he is shielding his eyes and yelling “TOO BRIGHT”) Batman then speaks up. “Your class wasn’t supposed to tour Arkham.”

Marinette freezes. “I’m sorry, what?!”

“Arkham is far too dangerous to tour. Who decided that the class was to come her.” Batman questioned her as they walked towards the door.

Before she could answer Harley interrupted. “Oi, Batsy! You can’t adopt her! She is our baby!”

“That isn’t up to you Harley.” Batman retorted.

“I told you earlier Bats, you’re not adopting another one” Hood spoke up.

“B-b-but I already have parents” Marinette informs them.

“It’s ok sweet pea we adopted you emotionally.” Ivy soothes.

“Ok let’s go inform Gordon what happened.” Red Hood directs her to the commissioner while Batman stepped away to make a few calls. He then calls Marinette’s parents, and tells them what happened. They give him permission to watch over their daughter.

By the time he walks back to where Marinette is, both her and Red Hood are ready to go. Hood helps Marinette into the back of the Batmobile, then climbs in next to Batman. Batman then turns to Marinette. “I called Mr. Wayne and informed him of what happened. He told me to bring you to his house, he wants to know what made yours class think you had a to of Arkham.”

“Thank you Mr. Batman.”

Marinette gets out of the batmobile and meets Alfred at the door. Batman calls Red Robin. “Red Robin I want you to find out why the class went to Arkham today.”

“10-4 B”.

By the time everyone returned from the cave Red Robin had what he needed.

“So it turns out one of the students made a fake email, under your name and told the teacher that they had a tour that was left off of the schedule. Then sent an email to Arkham to have them expect them.”

“Who was the student?”

“A Lila Rossi.”

“Hmmmm it seems like we will have to keep an eye on the situation.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ok so now it’s a few days later and the class is at Wayne Enterprise taking a tour. When the Riddler suddenly takes them hostage.

“Which one of you is Marinette?” Riddlers demanded

The class has no hesitation when pushing Marinette into the him. Marinette quickly regains her balance and squared up to him.

“What do you want with me.”

The Riddler gets close to her face in a dramatically scary way. Then quickly backs up and shows off his outfit. “I heard you don’t think I’m stylish.”

This is all the invitation that Marinete needed. She lays into him. No mercy.

“Absolutely. It’s worse in person than in the pictures!”

The Riddler gasps dramatically. “How dare-“

“Oh I dare. I dare I can redesign your entire wardrobe and make it look 10 times better.”

As all the hostages are being saved the class tries to leave, only to be stopped by an officer.

“Ma’am I’m sorry but you have to stay and give your statements.”

Bustier was insisting that it was too dangerous for them to stay there. If the police want their statements then they can come to their hotel and get them. The officer motions to the bus driver to not leave. The bus driver is more than happy to stay put. He is sick and tired of this ungrateful class.

Not too long after, Marinette and the Riddler walk out. The Riddler looks excited about his new clothes. He is so ready he heads straight to Gordon. He asks Gordon if he can have a package delivered to Arkham. Gordon is suspicious until Marinette shows him her designs. Gordon agrees.

As everyone is giving their statements Lois Lane arrives. Alya is extatic, she thanks Lila for getting her an interview with her idol. Only to turn around and see her idol interviewing Marinette.

Lois marches towards the girl who seems to be at the center of all this. A small girl standing next to the Riddler. She approaches her and asks for an interview. The girl agrees but apologizes in advance for any miscommunication between them. Lois asks her what happened. Marinette explained how the Riddler came to see if she really didn’t like his clothes and how she ended up redesigning them.

“But how would he know you didn’t like them?”

“Maybe Aunt Harley and Aunt Ivy told him?” Marinette shrugs.

“Wait! As in Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy?! How do you know them?!”

“Oh we met when my class left me behind in Arkham.” Marinette says nonchalantly.

Everyone around them freezes.

Caline quickly comes over and starts telling Lois that “you can’t trust everything she says. We are from France, so she most likely misunderstood you.” She continues to try and pass of Marinette as incompetent, troubled, attention seeking, and being a bad role model for the other students. All of this is caught on camera.

Bustier then roughly guides Marinette back to the class.

As Lois is processing this, the officer that stopped the class from leaving came over and explained what the class did. Leaving that same student behind in a hostage situation, then demanding to leave. Lois is horrified.

Both she and the officer go to Gordon and ask if they can use the body cameras of the officers there in the story.

Gordon immediately agrees. Once he knows why.

The story ran that very night.

[perhapsitmaybedragons]

God's a Right Bastard, but Then So Am I

Oh look, chapter 2 already! Odd for me.

If you prefer to read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26633029/chapters/65005873

or keep reading below:

Newt sat back at the table, not noticing that his tea had grown cold. He couldn't figure out where to begin with his question, so he had swallowed it down since Crowley's party, but found that it kept repeating on him, trying to come up. Finally, he pushed the tea away and jumped up from his seat. “I thought we burned that book.” He hadn't meant it to be accusing, not really. But it still came out that way.

Anathema looked only slightly guilty. “We did.” He waited for her to continue, but she just turned back to chopping up the vegetables for dinner.

“Well?” he prodded.

She put the knife down and turned back toward him. “We did burn it. And...” now she looked truly guilty. “And I went back to where we burned it and there was one scrap left in the fire. You know Agnes had to have predicted that, right?” she didn't wait for an argument. “So I picked it up, and it's what lead me to the box for Crowley. I don't know what's in it. You know how Agnes could be about people opening things from her that weren't intended for them.”

That was certainly true. He felt placated, but only for a moment. “Why didn't you just tell me?”

“I thought you'd be upset. I told you I was done being a Professional Descendant and then I couldn't resist looking to see if any of the new book hadn't burned up.”

Newt just shrugged. “I mean, I don't mind. I wouldn't have made fun of you or anything,” he picked his cup of tea off the table and took a long swig before almost spitting it out. “Blech. Cold tea,” he dropped the cup in the sink. “What did the part that led you to the box for Crowley say? Anything else we should be worried about?”

Anathema rocked a little on the spot, biting her lip. “Nothing else about us, I promise. It just led me to the box. How long should it be taking us to reach London?”

The sudden shift in topic threw Newt off momentarily. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, when you and I go to London by ourselves it can sometimes take hours if the traffic's bad enough, right?” He nodded. “Did you notice when we drove there yesterday it took ten minutes?”

“I thought the pleasant company just made the time feel like it went faster,” Newt was trying to be charming. And if Anathema weren't so worried, it might have worked.

“It didn't just feel like it,” she shook her head so vigorously that some of her hair started to spill out of her bun, “It actually took ten minutes. I checked.”

“Maybe Aziraphale worked a miracle to get us there faster?” It wasn't a new idea for him. He'd noticed each time they'd gone how impossibly easy the trips had gone and how they had arrived at their destination much sooner than they should have. But he'd been worrying that maybe his inability with computers had somehow shifted so that it infected clocks as well, so he hadn't wanted to be the one to bring it up.

“It's happened before. But only when I end up there because Adam wants me there.”

“So,” Newt said as comprehension dawned on him, “You think he still has his powers? I thought he got rid of them since he made his dad his real dad and the other guy,” he pointed down “he told to get lost?”

“He did, and it's like his powers went away for a little while, but then they came back almost immediately. And if Adam still has his powers...”

“Then is he still the AntiChrist?”

Crowley usually didn't bother with it, but he could sneak and skulk with the best of them. The first assignment – it hadn't been spelled out that it was a first, but Crowley knew, whether by experience or instinct, that it was just one of many – was to sneak his way into Hell.

Now, glamours don't usually work on demons. But they only expect humans or angels to bother with such tricks. The best way to hide is often to be front and center. A minor miracle and Crowley looked like just any ordinary demon – no glasses, no snake eyes, no red hair and the hardest part, no sauntering walk. Instead he slouched himself over as though the very weight of the air were oppressive to him. Not a hard feat in a place that smelled so foul.

As promised, God had beamed the knowledge of where to go directly into his mind, though She still refused to answer why she couldn't do this Herself or even tell him what exactly was going on.

He weaved in and out of the aimless crowds until he reached a hidden area under a stairwell. He knew this room well – he used to give most of his presentations in here. Crowley had received a commendation for that as well, the invention of the Work Meeting That Could Have Been an Email – not that he'd ever managed to get the other demons to learn how to use email.

He was a little irked to find that it now looked like a broom closet. All the more insulting since demons weren't known to clean. He closed the door behind him and started searching, grumbling the word 'ineffable' as he went, cursing that he didn't even know what he was looking for. He slipped on a wet floor sign (that for some reason was lying on the floor completely soaked) and landed on his butt. “Damn it,” he muttered, glancing around to make certain no one had heard.

No one was reacting as though they had, but he saw a shadow fall across the bottom of the door way. He scooted back against the wall and tried to cover himself as best as he could with miscellaneous brooms, mops and buckets. He managed to block himself in so that he could still peer out, but someone would have to know to be looking for him to find him.

“You're late,” This was Micheal, who appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the room. Crowley was trying to quickly think up an excuse, but she didn't seem to be talking to him.

“I'm a demon,” Hastur grumbled, closing the door behind him as he joined her. “Isn't timeliness close to godliness or something?”

“That's cleanliness, though it seems your lot isn't doing a good job on that part, either. So I guess that's good for a demon.”

“Right, right,” Hastur waved the insult away, “Beelzebub said they're too busy for this.”

“Gabriel said he was too busy,” Michael responded. “Though I think maybe he just didn't want to come here,” she made a face. “How is it that the room for holding your cleaning supplies is somehow even worse than the other rooms? What are you even doing with this room if you aren't going to use it?”

“I dunno. Maybe a new torture idea,” he quickly opened the door to glance around, then shut it again. “No one's listening. What else has to be done?”

“The new riders are selected,” she smirked. “It took quite a bit of work, but we figured it out. Won't even have to get the old ones out, aside from well...You know.”

He nodded darkly. “And how do you get the kid to go along with it? Why does he still have his powers anyway? Shouldn't your side have removed it from him?”

“Why would we be the ones to deal in demonic power? No, that was your side's screw up, not heaven's,” she lifted her head proudly. “As agents of God we can't be the ones to have messed this up. Had to have been your side.”

Hastur's hand burned for a moment, but Michael miracled a glass of holy water into her own hand. “If you want to play around with mutually assured destruction, I promise we will still come out on top.”

He extinguished his hand. “But hang on,” he said, “If it's mutually assured wouldn't that mean both sides get taken out?”

Crowley had to fight back the urge to say “Good for you, Hastur, a cogent thought!”

Michael crossed her arms. “Anyway, back to The Great Plan,”

“Ineffable,” Crowley muttered softly from his hiding place. Luckily neither of them seemed to hear him.

“So, he still has his powers and he's still on for the part. Why can't we just kill him and get another one?”

“Because then we have to start over. At least eleven more years of waiting,” her hand twitched, “Gabriel may not come out and say it, but we all know that the Great Plan was corrupted, mostly by your man Crowley.”

“Seems your guy Aziraphale had a hand in it.”

“Humanity needs to come to an end. There time was supposed to have been over by now. This will not only sort out the battle between Heaven and Hell, it will finally put this planet to rest and we can move on with things. Not sure why She's so fond of the place.”

“Now we're on the same page. Burn it all down, I say,” his hand was on fire again.

“Not yet. If we rush it again we may end up running into more trouble. The riders are selected, but I will need demon assistance with their corruption.”

“I'll get someone on it. Give me the names.”

Crowley found himself leaning forward. That would at least be a nice start for some thwarting, them just handing the identities away like that. But he wasn't that lucky.

“No. Not here. Not yet. Soon.”

“Don't see why we have to wait,” he sniffed.

“We're working backwards here. This is one of the last pieces – we plan each part out carefully, then work back so there are no loose ends. I trust at our next meeting you'll be on time?” she disappeared without a goodbye.

“Yeah, right. Be on time for a meeting with heavenly forces,” Hastur muttered to himself as he left the room.

Crowley waited for what felt like hours. He hadn't worn his watch as even that had been a custom piece that might have gotten him recognized. Hadn't thought to swap it for a replacement because he usually brought a phone, and he'd left his phone off and in his car parked several streets away (and glamoured, disgustingly enough, as a Ford Fiesta). He finally chanced moving again, sneaking out as stealthily as he snuck in.

Fortune seemed to be back on his side as he clambered back into his car without incident. He turned on the radio expectantly, but no voice of God filled his car.

“Well? I did your bloody errand, what's the next task?” he waited. No answer. “Oh son of a...” he beat his hands against the steering wheel. “You do know what happened back there, right Almighty? That's your job, to see everything? You could at least say 'so glad no one caught you and dumped you in holy water'.”

No answer came. He drove home, frustrated and disgusted with the whole situation and with a burning desire to call Aziraphale and complain to him. But no, if he told Aziraphale the angel would want to help. And might even be a little jealous that Head Office had gone to Crowley and bypassed Aziraphale completely.

Better to keep this one close to his chest, at least for now.

Adam was having trouble sleeping. Not entirely unusual for an active eleven year old, but this had started with a feeling of worry down at the pit of his stomach. He'd first misdiagnosed himself with hunger. Half an hour and two bowls of ice cream later, he still had the worry but now he also had a stomachache.

Dog curled up at the foot of his bed, but he wasn't sleeping either. Dogs, even hellhounds, can sense their master's upset. He whined and scooted into Adam, nudging his nose against Adam's hand. “I thought it went away, Dog. Or that I'd figured out how to control it. But it's not over and I don't want my friends to get scared again. I don't want to lose control again.”

Dog whimpered and Adam smiled as reassuringly as he could.

“It'll be all right. I'll go see Anathema tomorrow. She'll know what to do.”

[preferredfanart]

*throws drabble into AWAE tag and flees like Anne after the dance*

   There was no way that Anne Shirley-Cuthbert was going to indulge in that nonsense again. Especially not if Gilbert Blythe was going to be there.  

   As she pondered ways to avoid being strong-armed into the dance, Anne took a quick peek behind her to make sure no one was watching and zipped around the corner of a building...

   Right into someone who was rather tall and smelled distinctively familiar--like soap and honey. Anne squeaked as the someone put their hands up on her arms to supposedly steady her. She raised her eyes in alarm and her stomach dropped...and then filled with butterflies.

   “Gilbert!” she exclaimed, a squeak still in her voice.

   “Whoa there, Anne, where are you rushing off to?” he asked.

   “I—I’m not…wait,” Anne’s eyes narrowed, “Why are you skulking behind a building?”

   Gilbert gave a nervous chuckle, rubbed the back of his head, and glanced nervously in the direction she’d been looking just a minute before. “I, uh…the dancing isn’t exactly…my preferred way of spending an afternoon.” His gaze returned to her, twinkling mischievously. “So if you’re not rushing, how would you describe your turn around that corner?”

   Anne gathered herself, though the butterflies persisted. “It only seemed fast because you were apparently standing still,” she said loftily. He raised a brow, but she gave no further explanation of it.

   “All right, then, Miss Shirley-Cuthbert,” he replied, the mischief in his tone even more pronounced, “Then perhaps you’d care to explain where you were going in not-such-a-rush?”  Anne’s face warmed, but she studiously tried to ignore it.

   “If you must know,” she told him, eyes meeting his stubbornly, “That rehearsal was so torturous, I found I detest such frippery. I can only imagine how awful it is to do such a thing in front of the town.”

   “I see…” he murmured, a shadow of hurt crossing his face. Anne’s eyes caught the fleeting expression and she immediately felt guilty, compelled to put her hand on his arm. He looked down at it warily.

   “That’s not to say…that is…” she hesitated, trying to put her mixed-up thoughts into words. “It had nothing to do with…I…” She was making a muddle of things, wasn’t she?  She wasn’t aware of her hand curling in his shirt sleeve as she concentrated on finding the words, but Gilbert noticed and his eyebrows furrowed as his stare at her hand intensified.

   “I have nothing against the physical exertion and the company, but it just…didn’t seem productive,” she finished lamely. Her face flared. She’d bungled royally, hadn’t she? Looking down, she noticed what her hand was doing. Eyes widening, she quickly removed it, but not before registering the strength beneath her fingers. Her face heated even more.

   Anne refused to lift her face back to his until it cooled. She berated herself until she felt she’d done well enough, but it seemed to take forever—especially with all the silence. When she finally did bring her eyes up, the expression on Gilbert’s face seemed…contemplative?

   “You said no problem with the company,” he said slowly. Anne gulped. She’d hoped he’d missed that in the rush of words. “May I assume that includes me?” She gave a little nod. He eyed her for a few seconds more before slowly nodding himself. His eyes darted in the direction of the fair and he changed topics. “You know, if we stay here in town, we may end up being pulled into the dance no matter how much we protest,” he said. She eyed him quizzically.

   “When I spoke to Matthew, he mentioned that Belle’s foal had been born,” he continued. Anne’s face brightened at the reminder and a little smile lifted the corner of Gilbert’s mouth. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce me to it?”

   Anne’s face brightened even further. “I’m sure Matthew would be more than happy to allow that! He’s quite proud of the foal,” she replied excitedly. But then her expression became serious. “I’m not so sure about Marilla, though.”

   “Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Gilbert responded. “Shall we ask them?”  Anne nodded and the two of them went off in search of the Cuthberts. When they found them, Matthew reacted exactly as Anne had predicted, but Marilla surprised them. After a quick glance between the two youths, and with a pointed look from Matthew, she allowed it.

   Anne was bubbling with enthusiasm as she practically skipped on the trail, dramatically detailing exactly how perfect the foal was and what a good mother Belle was. Gilbert made sure to respond to her pronouncements accordingly, but spent most of the walk simply watching Anne, a soft smile on his face.

[rinskiroo]

Uncanny SWTOR prompts: Person A has a job/assignment in the creepy Dark Temple on Dromund Kaas for Jasati and/or Theron :3

This got a bit wordy.  Thanks for the prompt, and Happy Hallowe’en!

“I think being a disavowed rogueagent has actually made him lose the rest of his marbles,”  Kira hissed at her fellow Jedi as theyskulked through the Temple grounds in the dead of night.  “They won’t kill us if they find us, youknow.  Just decades of the most horrifictorture you can imagine.  Like beingforced to watch overly cute children’s holovids.”

Jasquickly motioned for Kira to hide behind one of the large stones that litteredthe large area in front of Dromund Kaas’Sith Temple as a guard passed by.  Theycrouched and pressed themselves behind the stone and waited for the footstepscrunching on dried leaves and grass to fade away.  There were few guards wandering the area—andthat was the best descriptor either of them could think of.  They seemed to move without purpose, slow andunfocused.  It was rather unnerving howonce they were sure they had been spotted, but a dead-eyed guard paid them nomind.

“He says it’s a big Revanite meetand greet,”  Jas whispered.  “If we take down some of these major players,we could stop this whole mess right now.”

“Dromund Kaas.  Sith Temple.” Kira reiterated the great peril they were in, as if Jas couldforget.  “Can’t save the galaxy if we’redead, Master.”

TheTwi’lek’s shoulders shruggedslightly.  It was a true enoughstatement, but they had to take the chance. She trusted Theron’s intel, and knew the risks he would take if hethought they could be successful.  Theymoved again, quickly towards the opening carved into the front of theTemple.  There was a strange green glowemanating from inside, though once they were across the threshold, it was hardto tell where it was coming from.  Theair seemed to hum with a haunting whine—the Force itself was charged withterror and sorrow and pure rage.

“I have a—”

“Bad feeling.  Really bad feeling,”  Jas agreed, but it was too late to turn backnow.

Therewere slaves inside, still working at whatever they were doing.  Like the guards outside, they seemed to justmeander around the Temple, not really accomplishing anything.  They were hunched over to the side as theylumbered about and took no notice of the two Jedi that had walked into theplace they certainly shouldn’t havebeen.  They did, of course, take care tonot announce themselves as Jedi—taking a public transport under falseidentities, wearing clothing more suitable to tomb raiders, and putting all oftheir Force-masking skills to the test.

“Do you think there’s a significancewith the statues’ bowed heads?”  Jasasked as she looked on at the wide open Temple interior.  There were several large statues ofman-shape, all standing tall, but with their faces towards the ground.  A singular statue stood at the back, perhapsthe source of the ominous green glow: a Sith Pureblood flexing its arms widewith its face turned towards the sky.

“Uh, yeah.  But we’rehere for the evil cult, not art history.” Kira prodded Jas forward until they made it to the steps in the backleading up to the second level.  “Lovechild said they’re meeting upstairs, second alcove on the right side.”

Theypressed up against the wall at the sound of footfalls above them, slowly makingtheir way downward, one step at a time. Both had the hilts of their sabers gripped in their hands.  A confrontation now would be too soon—theenemy would be alerted to their presence and they’dhave to fight their way back to the extraction point.  Chances of surviving the mission went downsignificantly if they had to engage anything other than their intended targets.

Itwas a Zabrak woman, girl really.  Barelyeven a teenager, but with broken, rusted shackles still around her ankles andwrists.  She walked as the other slaveshad—slouched with seemingly no purpose. Jas’ pulse fluttered as she felt Kirawrap her hand around her wrist.  Theycouldn’t afford to try and save anyone here. They didn’t have the time, or the resources, and making the attempt wasanother thing that would greatly reduce their chance of survival.

Herheart ached for every poor being stuck in this Temple, on this world, in thisEmpire.  She was keenly aware that hadthe circumstances of her birth been even slightly different, she could haveeasily ended up in a similar situation, or worse.  Jas glanced at Kira, someone who did know worse circumstances.  She let out a sigh as she accepted that todaywasn’t the day she could liberate thesepeople.

TheZabrak girl had made it past them and was nearly out of view when the longexhale left the Jedi.  The girl stopped,and turned.  It wasn’t her body that turned, just her head, craning at anunnatural angle to look behind her and stare at the two women trying to hide inthe shadows.  Her eyes glowed with thesame ghastly bloom as the Sith statue.

Kira’s fingers squeezed tighter around her wrist.  Both swallowed their breath and held it.  A wall crept up in front of them—a barrier inthe Force that they could hide behind, where their brilliance could be hiddenfrom the Darkness around them.

Itas an agonizingly long minute, but the young slave’s head realigned with her body and she continued her waydown the steps.  When Kira opened hermouth to let out another obvious and sarcastic comment, Jas twisted her wristout of her grip and shook her head.  Theyneeded to get back on task.

Asthey got closer to the room where the meeting was supposed to take place, theycould hear hushed voices.

“Can you understand what they’resaying?”  Jas whispered.

“No, but…”  Kira trailed off like she was thinking, butnot liking where her thoughts ended up.  “I’mnot hearing them with my ears…”

Therewas a cold chill that ran up Jas’spine at Kira’s words.  She had felt it,too.  The whispers weren’t in the roomthey were seeking, but off in the corner of her mind.  It was in a language she almost understood,but just couldn’t quite—

Kiranudged her and moved from where she had been trying to peer into the room.  Wordlessly, they exchanged places and Jasglanced inside.  What she expected to seewas a group of possibly cloaked figures planning out their little clandestineaffair to overthrow both the Empire and Republic and resurrect a ghost.

Thewhispers definitely were not coming from in that room.

Savefor the intricately carved pillars encircling the room, the creepy glowing urnon a stone altar, and the numerous bones scattered around, the area was empty.

“Do you think wrong Temple or wrongdate?”

Jasdidn’t respond, just stared at the emptychamber.  But it wasn’t empty… There wasno Death, just the Force.  The spirits ofthe dead swirled around the Temple.  Allthe souls that had passed through here and had never left still churned throughthe air.  They had died in agony andterror, unfulfilled.  There were slaveswithout choice or hope and acolytes without enough fear or good sense.

“They came for something…”  Jas murmured, mostly to herself.  Slowly, her feet took tentative steps intothe room.  “A boon from their gods?  Knowledge?”

Thewhispers were getting louder.  Sheunderstood a few words now.  Power. Freedom.  Victory.  Not just words, but emotions.  Pure, strong, intoxicating emotions.  Things bottled up and pushed away so as notto overwhelm, but now here, raw and untapped.

“This doesn’t look like the cultistshindig you promised me.”

Herfingers had been mere centimeters away from the urn—she hadn’t even realized she’d been reaching for it when the voicepierced her ears.  Jas turned towards thehooded figure coming through the side door they hadn’t noticed before.  The cloaked figure was an oddity in theTemple.  Its own little pocket ofabsence—a void in the Force, if such a thing were possible.  It wasn’t until he pushed the hood backrevealing a familiar plume of stiff, dark hair and the telltale cyberneticscurved around his left eye.

“Hey, you’re the one who invited usto the creepy compound of death.”  Kiracarefully stepped around the bone piles towards Jas.  “You okay there, Master?”

“No…”  Theron said as he also moved closer into thecenter of the room, towards the two women. “You sent me a message about the Revanites meeting here.  I told you not to come, that I’d take care ofit.”

Jasglanced down at her hand.  It wasstrange; she didn’t remember walking this far intothe room, or reaching for the urn, but here she was with her handoutstretched.  Self-consciously, shepulled it back and wiped it on her jacket. “That’s troubling.  And yes, I’mfine, Kira.  Since it seems we were allmisled, perhaps we should leave.”

“Don’t you think we should find outwhy?  And by who?”  Theron asked. To him, it was now an interesting puzzle to solve that may offer moreclues about those they were after, but there was a jagged spike of fearsettling in her stomach and warnings bouncing around in her skull.

“A little mystery keeps thingsinteresting,”  Jas said, hoping theimpudent comment masked her fear.

Aroundthem, the ground rattled.  Aground-quake, maybe—

“I’m with you, Master.  I’m much happier not knowing what brought ushere.”

Oneof the skulls on the ground rotated. That damned green glow leaking out of the cracks and holes.  It faced the three of them and began skitteringto the side to find a reassembling spinal column.  A femur rolled across the floor along with acouple radiuses and a full set of phalanges.

“Quick vote then,”  Theron said as he started reaching for hisblaster.  “I say run.”

“Aye.”

“Aye!”

“Ayes have it.”

Theronlet the cloak fall to the ground and pulled out both his blasters.  The sound of two sabers igniting filled theroom as the hum of energy around them grew stronger.  Kira twisted her saber around and slicedthrough the forming skeleton, scattering its bones once more.  Several more sets of bones started rattlingaround them and rolling across the ground to reconstitute.  From the door leading out to the main part ofthe Temple, the lurching slaves started to pour in.  One and two at a time, sometimes gettingwedged together when more than two would try to squeeze through the opening.

“This way!”  Theron shouted and lead them towards the sideentrance he had come from.

Itwas a cramped stairwell winding downward to the back of the temple.  Jas took the lead with Kira covering theirretreat.  Once they were out of thebone-room, Kira collapsed the doorway behind them in the hopes that would stopany of the skeletons or possessed slaves from chasing after.

“Do you two have a way out of Impspace?”  Theron asked as he trailedbehind Jas, blaster trained over her shoulder to catch anything that might popout in front of them.

“You told us you had an extractionplan,”  Jas told him, saber raiseddefensively in front of her as they took the steps two and three at a timedown.

“I didn’t send the message,” he reiterated.

“I know that now!”

“Good thing I didn’t follow the planin the message you sent.  I’vegot a shuttle hidden out in the forest.”

“Our hero,”  Kira said dryly.  “Hopefully we make it out of this temple ofhorrors to get to that shuttle.”

“Inc—!”  Theron barely got the word out of his mouthbefore Jas leapt forward and landed with her saber slicing through a fleshymonstrosity that used to be a person—twisted and corrupted by the Dark Side.

Theyhad made it to the bottom of the steps and the small alcove just before theback entrance where several more of the creatures were waiting for them.  Theron fired several blasts from both of hisweapons while Kira used the Force to throw them backwards, away from theirparty.  Jas leapt from creature tocreature like bouncing ball of vengeance, cutting down the ghoulish monsters.

“Go go go!”  Theron shouted, propelling them out into thedarkness and away from the Temple.

[Uncanny SWTOR Prompts] [Masterlist]

[themanformallyknownaswelshy]

Jigsaw Thoughts

HEAVY SPOILERS

Hello there.

So yeah, a new Saw film has just recently been released and I’ve been to see it … twice. I’ll admit to being very touched and slightly scared (in the best way possible) at the amount of requests I’ve been getting from people asking for my thoughts on the film. It’d been … what, 4 years since my last proper video on Saw and that people are still interested in my opinion about the series … that’s pretty awesome. Sadly, this can’t be released in video format at the moment (which isn’t saying it never will be) because I currently have a camera without a battery, a computer that no longer connects to the internet, a laptop that randomly shuts down and no audio equipment. Oh and we’re also saving for a wedding and a house. Priorities people!!!

So anyway, before I address my thoughts on Jigsaw, I want to say something about Saw as it means to me. Keep in mind, this is going to be long as I have many thoughts and if this were a video, it’d probably clock in around the 30 minute mark. Now, it should be noted that I’m not blind to what Saw is and as I’ve previously said, I don’t view it as a masterpiece of cinema and for the people who don’t like it, I’d never be able to change their minds about it. My issue steams from reviews I’ve seen that label Saw (specifically the original) as torture porn and I simply do not agree with this statement. In fact, I informed one person of this once and this person accused me of being sexist and of attacking them for simply disagreeing with their claim, a disagreement I backed up but then I’m the same guy who managed to violate the … what was it, the second amendment with Dark Side of The Internet, so make of that what you will. For me, the Saw Series exists in a heightened reality with everything played at just that over the top level, from the scenarios all the way down to the acting. It’s a very fine line to walk and one Saw, from original to 3D managed to walk almost perfectly. The first 2 films in the series also didn’t have the budget to show the all out gore explosions that the later films became known for so to class the first 2 as torture porn is, to me, simply wrong. A comparison would be a film like Hostel or the Zombie Halloween films, especially the sequel. These films don’t walk the line, they have a very real, raw edge to them, the effects of the torture (blow torches to the face, heels being sliced, women beaten to bloody pulps) are shot very raw and very real and this moves both films beyond snuff (ala Texas Chainsaw) and is why I would class films like Hostel and Halloween Zombie as torture porn and a film like Saw as more a twisted morality tail and it’s sequel, part horror, part psychological thriller because the 2nd film IS essentially a game of chess between 2 players, Jigsaw and Detective Matthews. While the argument could be raised about the later sequels falling more into the realms of torture porn, all films still contained that heightened sense but more so than any of that, I believe it wasn’t the traps that kept bringing fans back into the theatres year after year but it was more so the story because, as convoluted as it was, and BELIEVE me, it was, there was a story that built and teased and, ultimately, provided the answers to many fan theories and questions.

Why have I mentioned this? Read on.

So, my thoughts on Jigsaw?

I liked it. It certainly was better than it had any right to be. The story moved along at a great pace, the traps as they were designed and shot were pure Saw and very Jigsaw in nature. By this I mean, the traps were all survivable, but the subjects were expected to sacrifice something of themselves in order to get out alive. It also played into something Jigsaw says to Hoffman in Saw V about anticipating the human mind, something Jigsaw was always very good at. As Jill Tuck said herself, with John everything was planned, nothing was left to chance. I obviously enjoyed Tobin Bell back in his iconic role like he’d never missed a beat, I loved seeing Billy with glowing red eyes (and I did BILLY when I saw him), the Jigsaw house of horrors barn and separate work shop was a delight and the score felt like a natural evolution with sweet call backs to previous themes. It also benefited from a bigger budget, the opening car chase being a prime example and the money shot that was the culmination of the final trap was a site to behold and I’ll now never be able to here the phrase “It looks like a tropical plant” the same way again.

I won’t lie, when I first saw the trailers for Jigsaw I was slightly concerned about how glossy and clean everything looked. The Barn appeared to take place almost entirely in day light and a lot of the film seemed to be taking place out doors. If there was one thing Saw excelled at was the rustic, run down, abandoned factory, enclosed and claustrophobic feeling and with Jigsaw, I never really got that feeling. I never felt like I was suffocating along with the characters in the environments they were finding themselves in and this seems to stem more from the way it was shot rather than the script. It’s also seemed to be setting up future sequels because a number of events occur in said film that raise greater questions. The film managed to keep the Saw style of walking the fine line of maintaining its heightened reality and felt like it easily slotted into the world as it had been previously established in previous films. It’ll certainly please fans to the series but won’t win or convert people who have never seen the Saw films before. It’s also a film that, while trying to restart the series, suffers if you’ve never watched the series before.

One of the big problems Saw encountered in it’s later life is it was essentially becoming a movie serial. You’d have needed to have watched the previous episode in order to understand what was going on. For someone like me, someone who had watched and re watched the films so many times I could quote them in my sleep,  this wasn’t a problem and watching the newest entry always felt like a reward but for someone jumping in as a first time watcher, they wouldn’t have had a clue about what was going on. Leigh Whannell references this during his Saw 3 commentary in that he would get people coming up to him and saying they didn’t understand Saw 3 because they’d not seen Saws 1 and 2. Leighs reaction to this was simple, “Who goes to see a film with a 3 in the title without seeing the first 2 films first” and I agree with that. Jigsaw ultimately duffers from this because, while it is an attempt to perform a form of series restart, the people who will get the most out of this film ARE Saw fans. The biggest hook to the series is and always will be Tobin Bell and without him, you simply don’t have a series so while I can appreciate what they were trying to do with the film and there were many directions they could have gone, their solution I found to be very predictable, very uninspired and more specifically, and this is why I have a bigger problem with the film than maybe I should, very damaging to the Saw mythology.

So here we go … my problem with Jigsaw. From here on out there will be heavy spoilers from not only Jigsaw, but nearly every single Saw film, give or take. You have been warned, tread carefully, follow your heart, follow the white rabbit (oh wait, that was the Matrix) … whatever ... spoilers ahead.

Right off the bat, when I heard there was going to be a new Saw many ideas went through my head about what they were going to do. Was it going to be a total reboot, a soft reboot, were they going to retcon some of the story? Were they going to introduce a long lost family member? I’ll be honest, at one point in the film, Jigsaw refers to his late nephew and in my head I immediately pictured either Jigsaw having an identical twin brother or a sister that we’d never heard of and then we’d have had a female Jigsaw taking over the reigns of the franchise. None of these appealed to me and NO, it’s NOT because I don’t think a woman can be scary, bla bla bla bla. My concern was I didn’t want would I deemed to be a cop out, long lost relative ending. Sarah, my fiancée, had other ideas though, as you can see below…

John Kramer has an identical twin brother who has been jealous of his brother’s successes all those years ago. He felt John’s moral crusade pointless and would rather just kill people he wanted to torture. This brother first made an appearance in Saw 1 where he was skulking around Jigsaw’s hideout but was caught by Tapp - it was not John Kramer to slashed Tapp’s throat but his evil twin brother. He now has long flowing hair and a curly moustache.

As he proceeds to murder his next victim through torture he plays Cascada’s “”What Hurts the Most” and reveals that he is going to take control of Jigsaw’s legacy and unleash his new name on the world: The Sudoku Killer.

However during this revelation the doors fly open and John Kramer appears, cloak billowing. He announces that he is still alive and not happy about the whole Sudoku game his brother has planned. To his brother’s horror, John reveals that when they were born , there was another brother, so they were actually identical triplets. The third brother was adopted due to financial limitations but John had found him years ago. He had worked with his secret brother to set his vision in motion, but then his brother had cancer and another game was created in which Jigsaw could create a legacy even after death. His brother took John Kramer’s identity and died of cancer, whilst John Kramer lived in the shadows like Batman. It seemed his work had left a lasting impression as his death created more followers to his cause. However his evil brother’s foray into his own murderous games caused Jigsaw to come out of retirement and put an end to his dastardly plans.

Grumpily, Jigsaw reveals that he now has to start his work up again to eradicate all the wrongdoing his brother has done. He admits ta he doesn’t really understand Sudoku puzzles. He leaves his brother in the room to die, while lay his brother twirls his moustache worriedly.

Thank you Sar she is very proud of her theory and it’s one of the many reasons I love her.

So anyway, we didn’t get the secret family member ending, although there is nothing to say this still won’t happen seeing as Logan clearly had help through the film but what we did get was the reveal of another secret apprentice is this is what I have a problem with. Firstly, it just feels lazy because it’s something we’ve seen twice before but also, there has been literally no build to this reveal. With Amanda, she was set up in Saw as a survivor so the revelation of her being an apprentice made some form of sense. With Hoffman, he was introduced in Saw 3, pocketing a piece of evidence and then in Saw 4, placed himself into the game so again, the revelation had a form of surprise but felt natural and given that Jigsaw had access to so many criminal files, it seemed like a natural fit that he would have a cop helping him. Here, they have to effectively screw with the entire lore of the Saw Universe by implying Logan was helping John from the beginning and this is where I have my biggest problem because, as I’ve said, it was the story that kept me coming back to Saw and it was the handling of the series from Saw 1 onwards that made me truly fall in love with said story. When they wrote the first Saw, James Wan and Leigh Whannell had no concept of a larger story of multiple sequels. They were just 2 guys trying to crack into the movie business. With the success of Saw, Saw 2 was immediately green lit and to get a jump on the production, they adapted a script from Darren Lynn Bousman with Leigh (and Tobin) adding in the Saw story. Saw 3 was green lit even before Saw 2 was released and with the release of Saw 3, the studio announced a Saw 4,5 and 6. This allowed the storytellers to plan their story long term and to sprinkle in teases that would build through the (as I originally called it) Hoffman trilogy with everything due to culminate in Saw 6. The backstory of John Kramer and his death and rebirth into Jigsaw is told through Saw 2 thorugh 6 and makes sense in the context of these films.

People have often asked why I love Saw 6 so much and it is for this very reason. Saw 6 pays off many of the long term threads that had been teased since Saw 3. This long term planning of these films allowed the film makers to take their time with the integration of Hoffman into the world. He was shown briefly in Saw 3, he is revealed in Saw 4 as the apprentice, Saw 5 then allows us to see the meeting of Jigsaw and Hoffman and Saw 6 is the ultimate fan reward as we see Jigsaw, Amanda and Hoffman all share the screen together. While this is undoubtedly fan service, it makes sense in the context of the story because now we, as an audience, have accepted Hoffman working with Jigsaw, it would be more than logical, given his physical size, strength and position within the police force, that he would have worked with and assisted both Jigsaw and Amanda. If the scene between Jigsaw, Amanda and Hoffman had been shown in Saw 4 it wouldn’t have had half the impact nor would it have meant as much because it would have felt like a complete shoe in with the creators dancing around with a board saying “Look Hoffman was involved”. By taking the time to establish Hoffman and his relationship with Jigsaw, we see the contrast between himself and Amanda. The Jigsaw/Amanda relationship was very much like a father and daughter, The Jigsaw/Hoffman relationship is very much built on business with Hoffman clearly suppressing his true inner psychopath until after Jigsaw has passed. With Jigsaw they basically fast track Logan into the series as a secret apprentice and immediately show him working alongside Jigsaw which ultimately hurts the story as it has been established since the original Saw. Now they do try to cover themselves by claiming Logan was a prisoner of war for 10 years but Logan also says Jigsaw gave him purpose after the war, so I’m at a loss here as to whether Logan (in this new series) was absent during the original series of events (as a POW) or if he was present because if he was, where the hell was he because the original series has covered the time line from John Kramer, budding father, to cancer patient, attempted suicide, rebirth as Jigsaw, his start as Jigsaw, every single game played during that series from Cecil trap right up to Saw 3D trap, from his death right up to Hoffmans imprisonment in the bathroom and it handled this about as perfectly as could be expected given how insane the timeline can seem.

Now Saw 6 WAS supposed to the culmination of all of these hanging story threads. It was supposed to end with Hoffmans death and close off the franchise but between Saw 5 and 6, the studio decided they wanted 2 more Saw films. This resulted in Hoffman (thankfully because he was now awesome) being spared but when Saw 6 was released it found itself at number 2 at the box office because of the first Paranormal Activity. In a panic, the studio cancelled Saw 8 and Saw 3D became a combination of an attempted Saw 7 and 8 story and was marketed as the Final Chapter which is one of the reasons it is such a convoluted mess. As I said, Saw 6 was due to close off many questions, which it did, with the major remaining question (the fate of Dr Gordon) still being up in the air due to the ongoing lawsuit between Elwes and the studio. During 5 (to my knowledge) the lawsuit between Cary Elwes  and the studio was settled and this allowed the series to bring Cary back to answer the series final question and it really WAS the series final question because Saw 6 had managed to wrap up pretty much everything. Fans went into 7 wondering what had happened to Dr. Gordon and hoping (because let’s face it, we were ALL on Hoffmans side here) Hoffman would get his revenge against Jill. As I’ve said, I’m not a fan of Saw 3D, although I loved the ending reveal that Gordon had been assisting Jigsaw for years, but it ultimately left fans with the biggest bitter pill to swallow in that we were robbed of what we had wanted for years, a movie dedicated to the battle of Hoffman vs Gordon. Face it, Hoffman had been built up as an uber bad ass since Saw V. This was a guy who had broken his own hand and ripped off half his face to escape the bear trap, he was also a man who set up a game involving being taken into a police station in a body bag just to get his hands on Jill Tuck. There was no way in hell he was going to stay in that bathroom. Eric Matthews broke his ankle to escape the shackle, Hoffman would damn near snap his foot off to get out of there.

Jigsaw, as it currently stands, almost seems to remove the entire Hoffman story from the Saw Lore. While Jill Tuck is mentioned, she was shown in Saw 3 so it might not seem as big a departure and when Jigsaw does appear, he is shown to still be wearing his wedding ring. My reason for thinking this is during the half way point of the film when Eleanor takes Logan to her warehouse which houses a number of Jigsaw traps. There’s the chest trap from Saw 3, the glass box trap and gun from Saw 2 and the reverse bear trap from the original Saw. As far as I can see (I may be wrong) there are no traps from the Hoffman series shown in this room. Now this might be the movies attempt to retcon any of the events of Saw 4 through 3D but this still hurts the story established in Saw 1 through 3 and, once again, leaves you questioning, again, what happened to Dr. Gordon. Now granted, what I deem to be the glass box trap from Saw 2 might actually be the water box trap from Saw V and if it is, I’ll be thrilled because it means the Hoffman series is still deemed canon, but it also raises the question as to whether Logan had any form of relationship or interaction with Amanda or Hoffman because, again, lets face it, Hoffman would have ground Logan into dust had they ever crossed paths. The nature of Logans message and whole MO seems to move away from what Jigsaw wanted as it was originally about cherishing your life with Jigsaw targeting people he had deemed to be unworthy of the gift of life. These were people he had either encountered through the clinic his wife worked at or through working with Hoffman and discovering criminals who were abusing the chances they had been gifted. Now, he seems to be speaking for the dead, which isn’t a far cry from what he says to William in Saw 6 “You think it's the living who have ultimate judgement over you, because the dead will have no claim over your soul.” but Logan now seems to have gone full Dexter and seems to be targeting out and out criminals with no real chance of survival. There is also the message of not coming from vengeance and yet, Logan seems to act out his game with vengeance in mind. People could argue about Jigsaw targeting Cecil out of vengeance in Saw 4 but the difference here is once Cecil was in his trap, Jigsaw does not touch him and Cecil has the opportunity to leave after freeing himself. In Jigsaw, after getting his confession, Logan kills Halloran, which is completely against what Jigsaw would want. The elaborate trap in the barn (complete with an electronic Billy with glowing eyes … a first for the series) also clashes with the trap lore because we’re made to believe that the trap in Jigsaw is from 10 years previous and indeed, we see Logan and Jigsaw making the reverse bear trap. The problem here? Saw 4 shows Jigsaw in his workshop, alone, working on his traps and his ideas. He has no one helping him and his first traps were very basic in design and execution. The trap he placed Cecil in was a knife trap, the bathroom trap was 2 people chained to a wall, the razor wire trap, barb wire maze. When exactly does this fit into the time line for Jigsaw to create such an elaborate trap at the start of his career, which Jigsaw leads us to believe was even BEFORE he placed Amanda into the reverse bear trap.

So yes, this is my main problem with Jigsaw. Even if it retcons the Hoffman series from the time line, it still leaves far more questions than it does answers that ultimately hurts the lore as it has been built. Was Logan aware of Amanda, was Amanda aware of Logan?

WHAT HAPPENED TO DR. GORDON...AGAIN!!!!

Now granted, all of these questions may be answered in future sequels as there does seem to be more story to tell so I guess we’ll see. Anyway, this was long and I’ve gone on for long enough and if you’ve reached the end of this then you deserve a cookie so go and grab one.

Night all.

[a-muscle-the-size-of-your-fist]

Treasure Chest Opened! You Acquired DogDay's Collar! (for catnap)

“Treasure Chest Opened!”

[ CatNap ]

Blinking his large eyes at the collar in his paws, CatNap tipped his head to the side in confusion. DogDay's collar was in that treasure chest? Did he lose it?

Well, CatNap would just have to return it to him, then!

Hopping up onto all fours, the large cat paused, wondering where to put the collar for now… He had to walk with all four of his paws...

Ah! He had an idea!

With it jingling around his neck, CatNap started for the door to the weird basement he'd found. It had been an odd find, and finding DogDay's collar down here didn't seem right. Then again, the only place that it belonged was on DogDay. He didn't like the thought of them being separated.

He didn't really like being separate from DogDay, either.

Stomping was how he moved these days, loud and deliberate as he tried to let everyone else know he was coming. Each step rattled the renovated Playcare as he searched for DogDay, starting with his usual haunts and ending up in the play center. He couldn't really use the tubes himself, but he could poke his head inside and yell. Well, yell for what CatNap was capable of.

“Dog…Day…? Are you… In here…?” That deep voice and its slow speech echoed eerily through the tunnels of the play structure as the enormous cat swayed on his back legs. Bent up as he was to be able to get his head into the tube, he was hardly comfortable while he waited for a reply. What he did hear was some small, skittering paws. The little critters must be playing inside, he assumed.

“I have… Some…thing… That belongs… To you…” Maybe that sounded like a threat, but he didn't mean for it to, “Dog…Day…?”

[dunmerofskyrim]

41

I go hounded through the glassgarden. Hungers hunts me; snaps at the haggardown heels of my boots. The plants here have gone untended, untame; flourished on their newfound wildness and the rain that cracks down on them through the broken panes of roof. Between every stand of overgrowth, the shadows are thick with scent though. The steam of simmering broth and sizzle of fat. Meals gone by and the smoke of a meal in the making.

Torture.

I duck under the eaves of a tree. It’s twisted, strange, not knowing what to do with its own size. Like it was clipped and pruned to stay small. But this one’s branches and trunk are outgrown, sprawling, grown huge and grown over with shoals of climbing vine—

Fuck it. No. Who writes this way? Who’d read and believe? Sit too close to the truth, it’ll burn you. Stories’re told the way they are for the sake of distance, framing. Make the real unreal enough to be bearable, believable. No one needs the inside of your head, Simra. The raw unvarnished matter of it? Fuck. Note this — Do what you do. Spin a story and scratch the above. Rewrite when you’ve got the time.

It was warmer in the glassgarden and I went hounded through. Hunger hunted me; snapped at the haggardown heels of my boots. Riftboots, riding-boots, ill-fitted to walking; standheeled to keep fair hold on a stirrup, and clicking on the stone flag floor.

Close the air around me, moist and muffling sound. Still I heard the carry of voices. Adrift and distorted, they reached me like the scent of their cooking. In snatches, in stirrings of gut and stammering heart. Sizzle of fat and the lingering muttony lure of meals roast days back, weeks back, clinging to the shadows and the soft wet air.

Torture.

The plants here had gone untended, untame. Wild for a century and some they’d sprawled and put out seed; bred and flourished in their newfound freedom. Fed on the rain that cracked down on them through the broken panes of roof above.

I ducked under the eaves of a tree. Twisted, strange, not knowing what to do with its own size. I’ve heard of such trees since – seen them in rich houses – clipped and pruned daily to stay their size so they grow in nothing but age. Surgeoned into ornaments. But this one had forgot the knife, the shears, the saw. Its trunk bulged and writhed and its branches eeled outward. Its arms clamoured up through the glassgarden roof to claw greedy after the sun. It had starved to death. Still, in its way, it lived: climbing vines hugged over its greyblack bark and fungus formed on its trunk like the scales on a fish, all grown one way in frills the colour of boiled pork.

By then I heard voices. Dunmeris, heavy accents, dialect unfathomable as music to me back then, or birdsong. They murmured, groggy and lazy — the satisfaction of those about to be sated. I took the wand from my boot and slipped it a little up and into the rags that wrapped my tunic sleeves, hidden in the long belled arms of my coat. Walked closer, stooping and close to silent.

Through a trellis screened in fork-leaved creepers I saw them. Four and a fire sided with stones, black from long use. Bedrolls and boxes, a heavy curtain of sailcloth slung over an eave in the roof. A wall of glass, lead-seamed, soot-smeared, looking out onto the city below. Easy to forget in this overgrown place that we were so high up — a roofgarden, skied with glass and sunk into a buildingtop like some half-lush vale or basin.

I waited. Watched. Their talk hastened. And then, like flames rise quick as a bird from smoke and stirrings in drywood, their talk changed.

“Ey skulk. Hind that wall. You, skulker!”

They had clipped into a broader Dunmeris, meaning to be understood. And understand that as they chose words for my benefit, so I choose theirs for you, translating the grind and chop of their speech into a Tamrielic that reflects it.

“Yeah you, skulk. Think we ain’t know you there?” A coarse voice, male-toned, weighty. “Tchaww! Thinks we ain’t know…”

“Shah… Come out on over, skulk.” Another voice and softer, coaxing. “We ain’t hurt you. Swear it onna ghosts. How’s that?”

Something wheezed over their words. A sound like stifled laughter. And choice had me stilled in its teeth. Flee or stray in closer.

“It’s bad people won’t share a fire in badlands and badtimes, skulk… Come you over. Got fire for you. Meat too if we like your look. A stew cooking.”

One muttered something in dialect, low and hurried. Another reached slow to their belt.

“Unless you’re bad people, yourself, ey? Tell it, skulk — are you?”

I felt the wand in my sleeve, secret and ready to slip free and into my fingers. I tried that thought on for solace, safety, and found it more than half hollow.

“I’ll come out…” My voice but thin and choked.

Heartbeat hot as thunder in my ears and throat and itching palms, but my hunger weighed them out. Days of it; a weight of weakness through me. I’d be little use for a fight, and shortwinded if I chose to flee. I found my way to the trellis end; stepped round and into sight.

They sat on boxes and chests. Lay on stuffed sacks like horkers at bay.

One stood and stared. Thumbs through his belt, scalp badly shaved, knife-kissed in scraps of pink and scab. A powerful build on that one but no weapons I could see.

Halfway behind him, another with tumbles of dust-coloured hair. A stocky shawlish scarf around his skinny shoulders and a slack grin glinting out his dish-round face.

There was another, skin palegrey and eyes manshaped, with a short and bunchedback tail of yellow hair. He was the one with the knife in his belt. A sheer slim filleting blade with an upticked point, and his fingers danced on its handle.

The woman among them was soft, big-middled, and dressed in a thick and napclothed gown, red as rust. Her head was shaven too, but neat-cut, down to velvet.

Between them all, a pot of something steamed.

“Only a grub…” the woman crooned. Hers was the softer voice. “Youngun, see.”

“Might be he is,” said the big mer, stubble and scab-headed. “He come dressed inna question though. That’s what I see…”

“I’m sorry,” I said. Not hard to play frail and threatless when I felt so much to be both. “I’m lost is all.”

The halfmer with the yellow hair and the knife gave a snort. “Must be. A goodlander in Old Ebonheart. I’d say you’re lost as shit.”

Roundface shuddered and shook his head, fitful, huddling neck and chin down into his shawl with eyes knit closed. His skin was hearthdust grey, bloodless and wan.

I took a step forward, towards the warm of their fire. Felt its heat on my empty palms as I truced them out before me. “Sounds about right.” I tried to smile.

“Come you over.”  The woman slapped a box next to her with a thick hand. She looked to Scabhead with asking eyes and he gave back a stunted nod. “We got plenty. Badlands ain’t so bad to us, ey? Look hungry. Are you?”

My nod was quicker, desperate. I remembered the pass in the mountains and the voices I heard from above. Not much more than a strip of a boy, they’d said. A lost little lamb. Toll’s off, little lamb. Eyes up. Siska, Vesh, Kjeld — they took me in for Winter when at first they’d thought to rob me. A testament to my inborn charm, or maybe even the goodness of people. Can’t be that everyone who homes in wild places means to hurt those passing through… I sat. My gut growled on cue.

“Not much longer then,” said the woman, stirring the squat black pot that steamed between them.

I craned for a look inside. A rich plush red in colour, bubbling gentle. Pale meat and pink knuckles of yam showed as she stirred. The scent was spiced, fermented. Preshta-jan and hot pepper.

“How long’s it you been inna city then?” Scabhead pressed me, frowning across the cookfire.

“A week?” I guessed. “Two at the most.”

“You ain’t know?”

“Not for certain. Things got confused. I was hurt…” Am hurt, I almost said. “Might’ve lost a day or two.”

“And where before that?”

“Off the plains. From the west.”

“The West,” grunted Scabhead. “That’s clear.”

What was that supposed to mean? I bit my tongue, knowing the answer. Outlander, emmigrant, revenant. Tongue lost and only half found.

“One of those then, hm?” said the halfmer. “Them that came through.”

“The caravan, yeah…” It hitched in my heart. I’d tried not to think backwards; tried not to give myself leave. Tammunei would stick in my throat if I did. Shurfa and Balambal and the rest would hang corpse-heavy round my neck. “You knew about them?”

“Was the talk of the tongs for a while, goodlander. Course we knew!”

The woman rag-wrapped her hands and hauled the pot off from over the fire to sit it on the seal-black floorstones, amongst the dust and the stickiness of past cooking. Strong shoulders, I noted; she lifted from the knees scarce at all. She placed a black iron breadpan on the dying heat and turned to a cloth-covered basket. Hungry as I was, I could smell starch, the bland satisfaction of rice…

“The tongs..?” I asked.

“Shah…” hushed the woman. “Greener than good good glass, this one!”

“Families…” Roundface stammered out.

“Gangs, houses…” said Scabhead. “Them hereabouts. Ebonhearters. Badlanders. People like us.”

“You too,” said the woman. “Now.”

She set a pat of rendered fat onto the pan. My guts twisted as I watched it melt. Watched her shape wet cooked rice with her hands. Grey mulch, smelling of salt as she worked it into stout little cakes and slapped them onto the hot black breadpan.

“That’s if you stay,” said the halfmer. “Live long enough. What split you off from them in the caravan anyway?”

The line of my lips thinned. I made a show of shrugging. “I like living. They were headed north, not knowing a blighted thing about where they were going or where they could stop, shelter. And with Winter coming? Fuck that. I’m Skyrim born. I know better.”

“Pshaw. Tell yourself that why ain’t you.” Scabhead brought out bowls from a cloth-packed box. “Thinks I that if you knew better you’d’ve split off long before. Stopped before the badlands.”

“Split…” Moonface blinked hard and shuddered again beneath his heavy roughcloth shawl.

“There’s shelter here,” I said. “Fuel to burn. And it doesn’t look like you’re lacking for food. I’ll stay put.”

Bowls and ladles and steaming stew. The first bowl went to the woman. After the others were served she passed me the last of the bowls. A stew of meat and yams – grown here, I wondered?; beneath the glass roof? – with a golden-black saltrice panbread half sunk in its red broth.  A hunger came over me, so strong it felt like sickness.  I hesitated, waiting for someone else to start.

“Eat,” Scabhead said. “Wouldn’t share if we couldn’t.”

No holding back after that. I wolfed the bowl. Burnt my tongue. Meat something like tender pork. I felt it catch between my teeth and worked it with my tongue long after the bowl was empty.

“We’re met then,” said Scabhead. “Host and guest. So, question. That coat…” He licked his lips. “I know that coat. How come you by it?”

I looked over at Roundface. Bowl between his knees, leaning down like a twisted tree over it, he steadied it with the stump of an arm come out from under his shawl. It was off at the elbow. With his remaining hand he mopped stew into his mouth with a sop of panbread. Broth ran down his shallow chin.

The food sat strange in me of a sudden. I hadn’t eaten so much or so richly in so long. It clouded my head like drink or the soonness of sleep.

“Asked you a question… Guls’s, ain’t it? Him of the Eggfarmers. They gone now?”

“I don’t…don’t know what you’re talking about. Found it’s all…”

The woman went over to Roundface and knelt by him. His mouth was trying slack to smile but a wetness had grown in his eyes. Her lips were moving; talking out something rhythmic.

And then my eyes were caught and I couldn’t look away. The stump that ended Roundface’s arm had begun to shift, crawl, things at work under the skin. Bloodless and strange, something broke through the layer of cauterised flesh. Bones, I thought at first. But they were fingernails, child-small and sharp, pink as coral.

The woman was chanting, slow and soft as crooning to a baby, as she rubbed Roundface’s back and shoulders. The others picked up the chant. And the halfmer poured a ladleful of stew red onto the coals. It stank of iron and bile and my gorge rose. It was dialect again; words not meant for my understanding. But of the words I caught, I heard words that might have meant sacrament, and gift. Last of all I heard a name, spoken in love and thanks.

Namira.

The sailcloth curtain rippled, pulled at itself. A curdled scream came from behind it. I felt it echo in my head like my own but my voice wouldn’t come. Like in night terrors when fear is a choking silence. The taste of retching, metallic on my tongue, I scrambled up and ran, blind and fast, thinking of nothing but to empty my stomach of the flesh I’d eaten.

[dickie-gayson]

Me and the Devil

Chapter Two:

Characters: Talon!Dick, Arkham Knight!Jason, Carmine Falcone

Warnings: violence

Words: 5k+???

Other: totally figured out how to put in a Read More on mobile so i can finally post it here!

In the bleak, black night, a lithe figure perched atop a roof. One could nearly mistake him for a statue, the way he held still as death with skin nearly as gray as the unforgiving stone he rested upon. It almost seemed as if he wasn't even breathing. Watching, always watching. Predatory gaze, sharp as razors and twice as lethal, was fixated on a nightclub of some renown crawling with patrons. That is where his prey waited. Carmine Falcone. A Sicilian mobster heading one of the oldest gangs in Gotham. No longer, not after tonight. He should not have tried to cross The Arkham Knight. Should not have tried to take what belonged to The Talon. His fate was sealed the moment he dared think of such mutiny.

At the moment, Talon debated on how he wanted to catch the rat. He could simply walk into the club. It's not as if any could stop him. All those flashing lights and pounding bass left him considering other options. That serum The Court injected him with enhanced his senses, particularly his sight and auditory senses. All those people he would tear down, their screams added to the deafening music and blinding lights, would be just another form of torture to the assassin. A masochist, he was not. And it is of no doubt that such an ostentatious entrance would draw unwanted attention of the caped variety. Now was not the time to alert The Bat of his existence. His time would come. It was just a matter of waiting for the right moment to strike. Waiting, always waiting.

Cutting through the back would be effortless. Security wouldn't even need to know he was there. A simple snatch and grab with no evidence would be most efficient. Child's play to this creature with years of stealth discipline beneath his belt. However, he wanted the mobster to know what he did and why death was coming for him. Wanted everyone to know that they cannot touch what belonged to The Talon without unholy retribution. His constant desire to be in the spotlight, all eyes on him like that time long since past in Haly's warred endlessly with the ingrained training to remain a soundless wraith. He had been born and raised to be a showman. From the circus to the manor of a billionaire, and even the shadow of The Bat, he'd always been in the limelight. The Court had no need for an assassin who would get caught. So, they had beaten that desire for attention like a wayward mutt until it retreated. They no longer dictated his life.

He threw himself from his perch and fell toward the pavement with sickening speeds. Somewhere in his memories, he knew he used to enjoy this, the sensation of flying, the rush of the fall. Now it was just muscle memory. The Flying Graysons truly died when Richard Grayson's heart took its last beat, even if this rapacious spector went on with his face. He swung effortlessly to the club's roof and landed with virtually no noise. It was unnatural, the way he ghosted through the streets without so much as a whisper in his wake. Even the infamous Batman was unaware of the revenant stalking the city he thought was his. The Bat was wrong. Gotham belonged to no mortal. She was a wicked and greedy siren. No, Batman belonged to Gotham. Here he was born. Here he would die. Her Gray Son would ensure she got her due. He was cold and empty inside, but there was just the faintest spark, a sort of hunger. For the first time in years, Talon felt. He found himself almost eager to confront the one he once viewed as a father. There would be no tears shed on his part. After all, when has a corpse ever cried?

Deft hands made short work of the locks and he slipped into the building, intent on catching his target. Each move was serpentine smooth as he clung to the shadows. Cold, voracious eyes landed on a meandering guard, armed and unaware of the skulking predator. The man was of average height with a broad muscled build. There was a look to him. It reminded Talon of a cobra; cruel and venomous. He was just another on the seemingly endlessly list of remorseless horrors walking the streets. The heavens would not mourn his loss. The assassin crept ever closer.

The guard didn't notice the approaching killer. Futile as his efforts would have been, he could have prepared or tried to escape, perhaps radio a warning. Instead, quietus drew ever near. Closer and closer still, until he was but a breath away. He could feel the body heat radiating off of the man. That hunger in the former hero rose. The monster crawling beneath his flesh screamed for satisfaction. He did not hunger for flesh or blood, but something more. Talon craved the fire of his very soul. All that the assassin had been was ripped violently away, leaving a frigid husk in its place. Every person he saw had that heat in them; that spark of life he's been denied. He wanted to tear it out of them with his bare hands and shove it into his own chest. Maybe then he wouldn't feel so empty. So cold.

Talon wrapped his arms around the man's throat and mouth, effectively cutting off any chance to cry for help. As he strangled the air from the struggling man's lungs, he leaned even closer until his lips nearly brushed the guard's ear. The howling in his bones reached a crescendo. His jaw ached to tear the man open. To return what had been taken from him.

Muscles coiled and the struggling ceased. Talon dropped the body to the floor with disinterest. The throbbing hollowness remained. Another useless sacrifice. He spared but a glance before he continued down the winding hall. As he passed by an opened door leading to the club, he spotted his prey watching the dance floor like a king lording over his court. The pounding of the club was like screeching in the assassin's ears. He could hear the patron's singing and laughing, talking and fighting. There was so much life, so much heat, he was nearly drawn in. How he wanted to rob them of it all. For a moment, he envisioned killing them all. Body after body after body. Perhaps that will dull the ache. But no, not now. Keen gaze returned to the mobster.

The boss looked up as he felt the cold wings of death pass over him. For a moment, he thought he saw a sleek black figure standing opposite of him, watching with unblinking, incandescent eyes. But just as quick as he saw it, it was gone. He blamed it on the stress of dealing with these morons and the flashing lights playing with his vision. He shook his head as he made his way back to his desk, ready to count his earnings. Carmine was waiting on a report from Roberts on the 'deal' with that new player, The Arkham Knight. What a fucking name. Leave it to this city to spit out another crazy costumed freak. Things were easier in the old days, when Bats didn't fly around and beat the shit out of people and clowns were actually funny. No one had any class or taste any more.

He sat down and took a sip of his bourbon, not looking forward to the long night of working with these idiots, but at least he would profit. Might as well be him who gained from this new mook. He nearly choked on his liquor once he noticed someone else in his office. They had a slender body, effeminate in structure and oh so pretty to see bending over the rail to watch the sites below in their tight, tight black suit. 'Is that latex?' For all his knowledge on weapons and armor, Falcone fell short in the variations used in the capes and tights community. All he saw were pleasant curves and the enticing lines of yellow curling over inviting hips. Carmine blinked in surprise, confusion clear on his face for a moment. Confusion, interest, and a touch of anger. He didn't send for any whores. Hell, he didn't even hear his door open or close. He most certainly didn't appreciate others entering his office without his consent, no matter how nice the sight.

"Who the hell let you back here?"

Nothing but silence met his inquiry. Then, the owner stood, all liquid grace and enviable poise. Those lovely hips led up to broad shoulders, which, admittedly, Carmine was taken aback by. He felt almost ill when he saw the face to the voice. Gray-washed skin looking more at home on a corpse than a living person was lined with black veins, as if someone injected ink into his blood. Vibrant gold eyes stared at the mobster like a starving panther. He felt his heart stutter then pick up pace. This...this was not natural. Whatever this thing was, it needed to die. Quick as he could, he drew his gun and pointed it at the monster. It didn't even bother to look at the magnum. The way It watched the mobster made him feel as if he were pointing his fingers and not a weapon of death.

Talon took a step forward. 'BANG!'a bullet tore through his chest. He looked at the wound with vague interest as the bullet pushed itself out and stitched itself shut. There was a whispered 'oh god' that came from Carmine. Talon looked back at him with a slow tilt of his head. Then, he took two more slow, silent steps. 'BANG BANG'. Two steps, two bullets, two wounds that closed. The noise of the gun rang in his ears like a siren on repeat. It was irritating how loud it was. Quiet, he wanted quiet.

"Why -BANG- won't -BANG- you -BANG- die?!"

Each word was punctuated by another shot from the gun. Pity he sound proofed his room, otherwise his men would be crawling all over this place. He may not be what the feds considered a 'super villain', but he was no small-time crook hawking on a corner. He had an empire, men in every corner of this god-forsaken shithole. Carmine shouldn't be so easily accessible, he had top-notch security. This fucking thing should not have gotten in here. Where the hell were all his guards?! He went to radio for help, but faster than his eyes could register, the monster threw a knife and stuck his hand to his desk. No amount of hard reputation could suppress the pained scream that left the mob boss.

Talon watched in vague interest as the man fought to remove the knife while guttural sounds of torment left his throat. Clawed gauntlets rested on the mahogany desk with quiet 'clicks'. He rounded the furniture, dragging the sharp digits across the surface with an unsettling scratching sound. The gouges left in their wake told of just how lethal they were. Carmine paled from terror and blood loss. The more he struggled, the more he lost. Talon invaded his personal space until the mobster was nearly bent backward in an effort to escape his presence.

"What the hell do you want?!"

Rather than answer, Talon slipped impossibly closer until he could feel the sickly hot breath of the man fan across his face. Brilliant, piercing depths stared with unsettling intensity. It almost felt as if he were searching for something as his eyes roamed over each minute feature of Carmine's face before settling back on his eyes. He couldn't handle staring into those soulless pits for longer than a moment before he averted his gaze. If Death ever had a face, it'd be this.

"Carmine Falcone. You tried to take what was mine."

The boss in question racked his brain for any time he ever crossed paths with this...thing before. Even if he had, he would have kept a million damn miles away and definitely wouldn't have tried to knock him. There's bad decisions, then there's goddamn suicidal decisions, and robbing the fuckin' reaper was the latter. His throat felt tight and dry as he went to talk. Pain coursed through every cell in his body from the knife still stuck through his hand.

"What are you talkin' about?! I never tried ta rob you of anything! Never seen your face in my life, I swear!"

Talon didn't respond, didn't budge from the way he hovered like a carrion over a corpse. Carmine stuttered over his bargain. He dealt with all sorts of devils everyday. Everyone had a price, even monsters like this.

"Listen - listen, if I knocked over somethin' of yours, it wasn't to my knowledge. I'll pay you for any damages or loss. Then, we can go our separate ways. I'll leave your stuff alone. How's that sound? We got a deal?"

Still, nothing but silence and staring. It was driving the man mad. Each breath made the wound in his hand throb as it moved around the sleek throwing knife. Finally, the yellow-eyed demon stepped back quietly. It's voracious gaze never wavered.

"You tried to take my bird, Carmine. My Little Wing."

That...okay so this creature was insane, that's great. How do you bargain with crazy? It's why Carmine stuck to the old-fashioned ways and mostly kept out of the way of those costumes.

"Wha-"

"Call him, Carmine. Call Roberts."

Shit, Roberts. He still never reported in. Turning over that new punk should have been easy. How did this thing know about that plan? His phone was being pressed into his free hand. When did that creature grab that from his pocket? The Roman was shaking hard enough from pain and fear, he nearly dropped the phone. It was difficult to piece together cohesive thoughts beyond the intense throbbing of his wound. He dialed the burner Roberts carried and listened to the endless ringing with growing dread. Then, a voice answered, but not the one he wanted to hear.

"Ah, Carmine! I was wondering when you would wisen up and call. Gotta say, I'm not too impressed with the trade. I'm thinking we should...renegotiate the terms of our contract. What do you say?"

It was The Arkham Knight. This night was just getting better and better, wasn't it? So this nutter in the black worked with Knight? Was he the guy's attack...demon or whatever? He sent this thing after Carmine? The gangster's voice shook as bad as his body and did absolutely nothing to hide the situation he was in.

"A-absolutely, Knight. Sorry for this...miscommunication. Now, would you kindly call off your pet?"

Instead of an immediate response, there was a hush of uncomfortable silence. Then, The Arkham Knight spoke, and the tone in his synthesized voice was none too reassuring.

"What pet?"

Before the mobster could answer, Talon grabbed the phone and crushed it as if it were made of paper. All the while, he stared at Carmine as if he were one second away from devouring the criminal. Carmine stared back at the thing in horror. Knight had no fucking idea who this was. He didn't have this thing on a leash. It was a freelance nutjob, which meant his chances just got dimmer.

"You tried to kill him. My Little Wing. He is mine. No one touches what is mine."

Fuck the knife in his hand, he's about to just try and sprint away. There was a possessive tone in Talon's voice that made it sound as if Knight were merely a toy, a thing that belonged to this creature. Shit, was Knight just the front? This was the one behind it all?

"No no no, you got it all wrong. I never intended on killing Knight. Just...just knockin' some heads. Not his!"

Talon shook his head slowly. That blank expression never so much as twitched since he turned around from the railing. It was more than unnatural, it was fucking unholy. The eyes are what really screamed of his intentions.

"You wanted to cheat him. I think he deserves a gift, don't you?"

At this point, the head of the Falcone crime family would be willing to put on a goddamn tutu and recite the Nutcracker for this whackjob if it meant Carmine would get out of this and never see those horrifying yellow eyes again.

"Name it and it's done."

Then, for the first time since he appeared, Talon smiled. It was just the smallest curl at the corner of bloodless lips, almost unnoticeable, but by god did it drop the room ten degrees and drive the air from the gangster's lungs. The last thing Carmine remembered was shrieking as the knife was torn from his hand and then nothing but black.

  The Arkham Knight paced the warehouse floor with growing agitation. His men kept a safe distance - was any distance truly safe from his guns? - in fear. Ever since Knight came back from chasing that assassin, he was on edge. It was like nothing they'd ever seen before. Then, the phone rang and their boss went to work. However, that just made everything worse. They could see it in the way his posture stiffened and the way he went quiet. He'd always been good with words. No one knew who was beneath the mask, but he sounded smart, the way he could recite those boring old books and used words above their paygrade. But this call left him in silence until -

"What pet?"

Whatever he heard wasn't what he wanted to hear, judging by the way he stared at the phone then launched it at the wall with more force than any of them could replicate. It hit the wall with a thundering crack and shattered into pieces. He sure was packing some hard muscles under that high tech armor. That's when the pacing began. It's been at least fifteen minutes and he was still going at it. Sometimes it sounded like he was talking to himself, but none of them were brave enough, or dumb enough, to get any closer to really find out.

He stopped suddenly and pointed at one of his lieutenants, a stocky man who only ever went by 'Razor'. One guy told him it was a dumb name and Razor stabbed him twelve times. No one commented on the name since.

"You, I want any and all information on that assassin you can gather. Sightings, names, victims, hideouts, his favorite pizza topping for all I care. Anything you can find - NOW."

Razor snapped a crisp salute and a 'yessir' before running out the door. Lucky bastard. Well, he did have to try and study an assassin who got through their security, security meant to keep out the goddamn Batman, and killed a shitton of armored men like it was nothing. On second thought...maybe they could pool their money and order him a nice floral arrangement for his funeral.

The Arkham Knight resumed his furious pacing with renewed vigor. Another unlucky soldier by the name of Greg had the duty of asking Knight what to do about the dozen or so bodies piled in the corner. They were starting to stink due to bowel release and they really didn't want to be caught by Batman because of that. Greg, however, would rather get eaten by Croc at this point than interrupt...whatever it is his boss is doing. His friend, Bax, elbowed him, which hurt because Bax was built like...well...like a really well-built guy with lots of muscles. Greg was getting paid for his aim, not his poetic abilities, okay?

He stepped forward just a bit, which felt way too much like walking down death row for his liking. Even that little shuffle forward was caught by his boss. That eerie, high-tech helmet swung in his direction and Greg suddenly re-evaluated everything he's ever done in his life. Was it just him, or was it really hot in here? He was sweating worse than his dad at a confessional. Just as he opened his mouth to stutter out the question, someone burst into the warehouse. As Knight's full attention was drawn to the intrusion, Greg thanked every deity he could think of, which was about three but whatever. It was the thought that counted.

It turns out that the interruption was another of Knight's men who looked like he saw a ghost.

"Boss, there's...there's a gift out here for you. It's uh...I'm..I'm not sure. We didn't want to open it without telling you, but it's big. And leaking."

A big, leaking present in the middle of the night in Gotham was never a good thing. There were a whole number of people it could be from, and all of them a nightmare. The Arkham Knight rushed out the door to see what was left for him. He had a distinct feeling about the contents and the one who sent it. The thought of being right made his skin crawl. This assassin was far too invested in Knight for his liking. He almost wanted to scream.

As he entered the unassuming shipping yard, he immediately noticed the out of place object. It looked like whoever sent it grabbed the first box they found and used it. It was just big enough to hold a grown body, which Jason would bet is what he's about to see inside. Still, he scanned the outside for any possible surprises. Nothing. Just an ordinary box. An ordinary box that was starting to pool at the bottom. Right.

With clear caution, he went to open it. The few soldiers around him stood at the ready. One never could be too careful in this fucked up city. He half expected an explosion when he pulled back the flaps, but again, there was nothing. As he did expect, however, was one body inside. Carmine Falcone's, to be exact. And he wasn't quite dead yet, just severely injured. Either the assassin wasn't thorough enough, which Jason sincerely doubted, or this was some seriously fucked up way of trying to gain his friendship. His stomach rolled.

Jason considered leaving Carmine right there in the box outside, but decided against it. First, he wanted to kill this fuck himself for what he tried to do. He also wanted to question him on who did this, just to confirm his suspicions. So, he grabbed the collar of the mobster's suit and lifted him up. There was a chorus of 'jesus christ's and 'holy shit's from those around him. Falcone wasn't quite as injured as he originally appeared. It was just blood smeared across his face and clothes from the now-bandaged hand. Jason's stalker kept him from bleeding out. How nice. Falcone's head lolled to the side, clearly unconscious.

Fury and something too close to fear raced through Jason's veins. He carried the man inside and dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor. Now, to wait. He stood over Carmine, waiting for him to stir and realize just how royally he fucked up. In another two minutes, the unwitting captive shifted and groaned. He spit out a curse when he tried to sit up using his injured hand. Then, he looked around as he realized he was not in his office at the club. Carmine looked at the looming figure of The Arkham Knight, who was much more intimidating from this angle.

"Fuck."

Jason mentally agreed that 'fuck' was about the most accurate descriptor for this current situation. Instead of voicing that, he unfolded his arms and took a pistol from his holster. Dread filled the sicilian man. This is most definitely not how things were supposed to play out. Oh, how the tables turned.

"Mornin' Carmine. We're going to have a chat and you're going to answer everything or you're gonna have a few more holes in your body to match the one in your hand, got it?"

The mobster didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked around frantically. There was no sign of hungry yellow eyes or cold gray skin. No bronze claws. No soft voice. A feeling of ease spread through him, which was odd given his current position, but he was just a bit happy to be away from the one who did this to him. He looked back at Knight with a smirk.

"Yeah, sure. So long as you keep that demon away, I'll sing fuckin' Pavarotti for you."

"What demon?"

At the question, Carmine looked somewhere between mildly bewildered and affronted. That thing stabbed him through the goddamn hand for Knight, and the asshole didn't even know who he was talking about?

"Whattaya mean 'what demon'? The one who did this to me! Sure was talkin' an awful lot about you."

There was a bit more snark in Falcone's voice than Jason liked. He'd have to do something about that. Jason crouched down to get face to face with the mobster. The muzzle of his gun was pressed snugly to his captive's temple, letting Carmine know just how close to the line he was. There was still an indignant look on the criminal's face as he was clearly not used to being the one manhandled. However, he was at least smart enough to know when to listen.

"What did this demon look like?"

Carmine didn't want to think back on that ungodly face, but the magnum against his head was rather convincing. When he got out of this (when, not if), he would need to look into a better security detail. He closed his eyes to conjure a better memory of the creature.

"It had a tight black suit, kinda like it hangs around a bdsm club. Wore gloves with claws. Knives strapped all over the place. Looked like a fuckin' corpse. Gray skin, these...creepy yellow eyes and black veins. Looked like a person, but that ain't no person, believe me."

The suit and gloves sounded familiar, the knives were definitely familiar, but Jason never got to see his face. The description sounded like something he really did not want to be stalking him. A somewhat thoughtful look took over Carmine's face while Jason mentally reviewed what he heard.

"Kinda familiar, now that I think about it. What's that pretty boy's name? Wore black and blue? Nice ass but a real chatterbox?"

Jason was momentarily taken aback by that. He was describing Dick, there's no doubt about that. But that couldn't be right. Dick didn't look like some sort of demon and he most assuredly didn't kill. He was brought out of his feverish thoughts as one of the nearby guards piped up.

"Nightwing?"

Carmine snapped his fingers, as if struck by an epiphany.

"Yeah, that's the one. Add a mask and regular skin, he'd look just like him, 'specially from behind if ya know what I mean."

Jason momentarily saw red at the derogatory tone Carmine took. Sure, he held no love for his 'brother' since his escape, but that didn't change the fact that he hated others acting like creeps. To accentuate that point, he twisted the other man's injured hand. Falcone let out a pained cry.

"Focus, Carmine. What did he say?"

"FUCK! I was talkin' damn it!"

There was anger mixed with the pain. He wasn't the most docile of prisoners, that was for certain. At the sound of the gun cocking, he bit back any scathing retorts building up on his tongue. The pain in his hand made him want to pass out. If it kept this lunatic from doing that again, he'd play nice. For now, that is. There'd be hell to pay when he was free, though.

"Alright, alright! Fuck, he...he said somethin' 'bout me tryin' to take what was his. His b-bird or some crazy shit like that. Somethin' about a wing. A little wing! Said I tried to take his little wing. That n-no one can touch what's his. I think he was talkin' about you. Got a real crazy look in his eyes. Real possessive."

The room seemed to close in on Jason like a casket. This didn't make any sense to him. Little Wing. That was what Dick called him. Everything Carmine was saying pointed to Dick, but that...that wasn't fucking possible. That assassin...Maybe an imposter? Trying to get under his skin or something? It had to be that. Still, the rational part of him, the detective Bruce was raising, told him not to dismiss the possibility. To investigate, just to be sure. He suddenly had more on his mind than the desire for revenge against this fuck. He motioned for one of his militia to grab the injured gangster.

"Put him in the holding cell and make sure he stays there. I have something to check out."

He was already on the way out of the warehouse as he spoke. This was weighing too heavily on his mind to wait. Carmine let out an affronted cry as he was all but dragged away. What, did he think Knight was going to release him just because he talked? The asshole betrayed him. He'll be lucky if he gets a shot to the head.

As Jason made his way to one of his higher tech bases, that feeling crawled across his skin again. The feeling of being watched. He was here, right now. He might have heard that entire exchange. Jason looked around but didn't see anyone. There was that tightness in his throat and chest again. Whoever this was, and he refused to say it was Dick, made him feel like he was being hunted. It made him feel like he was back there. The desire to run was rising steadily. No matter where or how fast he went, that feeling was there. It was always there. If...if this really was Dick, then what the fuck happened to him? Jason needed to find out.

There were only a few places he knew of that could tell him what he wanted to know. The Cave's computer and that person's base. Jason didn't feel ready to try to hit the cave. Not yet. There were too many risks. That's what he told himself. How the hell was he supposed to find the base of someone if he couldn't even see them while they were fucking ten feet away?

Suddenly, he was hit with a thought. Maybe he was going about this the wrong way. He was trying to think from some random assassin's perspective. Maybe he needed to think from Dick's perspective. Where would Dick make a hideout if he went nuts and started killing people? Jason looked over the city critically. Well, he always liked being as high as possible. It's not much of a lead in a city full of sky scrappers, but it's something. He's probably somewhere abandoned if he really looked like Carmine said. Tall and abandoned, still not much of a lead. He'd have to go over his layout of Gotham again.

His steps were hurried as the trapped feeling intensified. The fight or flight response was absolutely screaming at this point. Jason swore no one would make him feel like this again, yet here he was, practically running from a shadow. It was absolutely maddening. There was an almost queasy feeling in his gut as the anxiety in him rose. This had to end. Jason refused to let whoever this was have this sort of power over him. Never again. He pushed into a condemned complex. The few squatters inside ran at the sight of the armored man.

Jason stopped and waited in an empty room. Sure enough, that feeling returned. He ground his teeth together.

"I know you're there, so come out."

Nothing. Not so much as a creak of the floorboards. He clenched his fists in anger and in an effort to hide the way they shook.

"I got your present. What do you want?"

The shadows remained still. He would have thought he was alone, but that uneasy feeling was so intense, he could practically feel the eyes on him. Then, a soft voice spoke right next to his ear. His heart nearly stopped then and there.

"I want what's mine."

Jason turned ever so slowly. Before he could get a good look at the assassin, arms wrapped around his neck. He fought immediately to breathe. Without hesitation, he stabbed the harpy blade he kept hidden right into the assassin's side. The man didn't so much as flinch, even as Jason twisted the knife. He tried again as he thrashed against the impossibly strong hold. Dark spots danced across his vision. No matter how he fought, the man never budged. It was as if he didn't feel pain. 'No no no not again, please not again.' The thoughts screamed through his head as he fought. Tears pricked the corner of his eyes. The panic attack rushed up on him as the memories became too much. It was too much like then. He couldn't...he...

"Hush, Little Wing."

The quiet voice was just as familiar as the words. It did nothing to ease his frantic struggle. His attempts were hardly coordinated as panic overtook his logic. The black grew and grew until it overtook his vision entirely. His body eventually went limp in Talon's hands. He laid Jason down onto the ground. Then, he yanked the blade out of his collar bone. Talon looked over the knife before tucking it into his belt. The wounds were already healing over. His brother had put up quite the struggle, however sloppy it may have been. Had Talon not been given the serum, he wasn't quite so certain he could have kept his hold on the bigger man.

He knelt down next to the unconscious form of his brother and drug a sharp claw over the thick armor on his chest. It made an unpleasant scratching sound. He carved a single thing onto the chest piece; an 'R'. Then, he picked up Jason and made his way out of the building. Baby brother wanted answers? Maybe Talon would give them. After all, Jason fell just as far from the nest as he did. Besides, Talon had questions of his own. So many questions.

[lotsoflovelystories]

You're The Only Thing I Have Left

Summary: Life in the pit is hell. Bound by gates and under the eye of many guards, the lifestyle is evidently torture. When two star crossed lovers are fed up of the tenacious lifestyle, they brave beyond the gates.

Words: 900

Warnings: Swearing, violence

“So this is it…” you whispered, tears flooding and clouding your eyes.

“You sure you wanna do this? Once we go, there’s no coming back,” Bucky replied, turning to look at you, the faint shadows of the railings crossing on his face.

“No… we have to do this,”

***

Another day went by and mother still hadn’t come home. She only ventured out to the rationing market for the normal essentials and had resulted up on the flogging stand in the centre of the highway. 

To be mocked.

Laughed at.

And watched.

You never found it amusing or funny in the slightest, watching someone who was always as innocent as pie get dragged around and hung up for display for a while. You had noticed the truth since day one. They never took the bad guys, because in the long run, they were the bad guys.

Your last phone in the whole household had been snatched by the guards the other day by one of their random, spontaneous checks. The urge to call Bucky was horrendous. No doubt he would be worrying.

The rules of the pit were simple.

Don’t have anything better than the guards, else they’ll take it.

Don’t be poor, else they’ll take you.

And don’t go over the gates else they’ll kill you.

Taking a sharp, long intake of air, you belted out the door, dashing under the arms of people and past the marching soldiers. They were around every corner, watching every citizen.

On the irregular times that you did decided to go and visit Bucky instead of stay in the safety of your own home, you had once tried to walk it there, being caught out by at least four rounds of guards and resulting in virtually nothing left on you. Your minx coat was taken and the only money you had left was enough to buy two plums.

You never walked it again, unless you wanted to end up naked next time.

***

Eventually, after almost an hour of slipping between houses and tumbling under markets stands, skulking away from guards, you arrived at Bucky’s house, the roof caved in still from where guards smashed it. His face appearing in the window, checking to see the visitor, Bucky jumped to open the door.

“You didn’t answer-“

“I know,” you butted in, pushing through the door. “Searches are starting to get worse and worse it seems”. Sighing, Bucky leaned the door back in, turning to see you already sat on the wood floor. “You want a stool?” he laughed, stepping round you to face the fire.

“Pft, I’m fine.”

“So…” started Bucky, obvious something was playing on his mind.

“So, what?” you asked, turning round to face him. “Something’s going on in that head of yours!” you smiled, happy to be with someone who was actually nice. Or at least wasn’t trying to kill you.

“We can’t be like this for the rest of lives! You can’t actually think you are going to survive in this shit-hole, can you?” he piped, more serious than you expected. Admittedly, he was right. Your mother was still in the flogging stand and you had suspected you would be picked next.

All because of father.

“I suppose,”

“Then lets go!” exclaimed Bucky, looking out the window. “Let’s leave, get outta here!” He chanted, the Brooklyn accent laced through all of his words. Thoughts raced your mind. What about mother? Where would you go?

“Are you serious? Have you actually thought this through in the slightest?” you questioned. Nothing changed. Bucky’s face still as head strong as ever, you waited for him to talk.

“I’m sorry, Y/N, but I can’t stay here. Not forever, not now… I’m leaving in the morning-“

“-Bucky!”

“I know! I’ve already packed and there’s nothing left in here I really need. All my family is gone and the only thing I have left is you, so…”

“So you want me to come, right?” you sighed again. Bucky was right and to be honest, it was fair. He didn’t have anything left for himself and so going over the gate was probably going to be better. But you, you had Mother. “But I have my mother-“

“Y/N… she was in the flogging stand on Thursday, today is Saturday and she still isn’t home. I’m sorry to say it but everyone is saying that she is with the guards now.”

“Fuck off, Bucky. What do you know about my mother?”

“That she hasn’t come home in days and you think she is still there? You don’t check because you’re scared she isn’t! Please, Y/N, your mother is gone now into the system. Come with me?” Your eyes flaring with tears, you turned away from Bucky, desperately trying to deny the truth. That’s what it was. The truth.

“Y/N?” asked Bucky, calmly.

“…Alright. Alright, ok. Tomorrow morning, we go past the gates.”

“If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to-“

“-No, remember, I am the one thing you have left, you said it yourself. I can’t let you be alone… especially when I am now too,”

***

“So this is it…” you whispered, tears flooding and clouding your eyes.

“You sure you wanna do this? Once we go, there’s no coming back,” Bucky replied, turning to look at you, the faint shadows of the railings crossing on his face.

“No… we have to do this,”

 @upon-a-girl @melconnor2007

[silentasagrave]

Freedom

(Part one of a Rp with @scassira-revmore)

Dragaur had made his way back to Stormwind. He had taken a boat in from the isles where he had just escaped the clutches of an eredar torturer about a week earlier. He went to his apartment first. He couldn't decide whether he would reveal that he was alive yet. Part of him wanted to just take off for awhile and take advantage of his "death". No one was at the apartment anyway but he did see the box of his things from the military they thought he was dead which was fine with him. He wondered if Risri had decided not to stay there, he wouldn't blame her. He was wearing some simple leather armor and mask he had stashed away near the docks for just such an occasion. He checked at her office from a distance and she wasn't there. It was a little late in the evening so it was possible she was staying somewhere else. He decided to go to the graveyard and plot his next move. When he got there he saw an awkward amount of people around his gravestone. He kept his distance and stuck to the shadows to watch. When he recognized a few of the people including Selise and Risri he kept his distance. They were having a makeshift funeral without a body.

Scassira had stayed far in the back, her own shadows concealing her, not wanting to interrupt anything that was happening for she knew no one save for Risri. But that would have been too much for the poor woman. She knew exactly what she was going through, felt her own heartbreak to see the exact grief she went through a month ago. It was like reliving it over again, but watching it from afar. Then a movement caught her eye before disappearing into the shadows. Scassira narrowed her gaze, a curious thing to see. She wondered who would be skulking about the shadows to a memorial, then she remembered… she was. Sighing, she let her shadows drop from her, but stayed hidden within the alcove of the cathedral, shielding by natural shadows, her chocolate hues remaining where she saw the other disappear.

Dragaur waited another moment and smirked to himself before slowly standing and moving a bit closer he was still far enough out that they wouldn't see more then a shadow if the even bothered to look. After a moment had passed he was about to step forward until he saw a pale man with dark hair and a beard. He leaned forward then froze before taking a step back and slowly shaking his head. He disappeared into the shadows once more and made his way out of the graveyard he was muttering to himself through gritted teeth as he made his way toward the docks.

Scassira was in tune enough to shadows that she witnessed it move quickly toward the docks. She looked back to the memorial, her eyes widening a fraction as she thought she saw Drag, ready to step forward and see.. but no. He was older.. much older. Her eyes narrowed back to where the shadow departed, before she sprinted after it. She kept her own concealment as she jumped the stones and planters, swiftly making her way down the ramps to be close on its tail.

Dragaur continued to mutter and swear as he made his way to the docks not stopping until he was leaning against a wagon. He spoke quietly to himself and was shaking his masked and hooded head. "This is bull shit there's no way that was him...motherfucker is dead...he's dead." One arm leaned against the wagon the other hand was wrapped around his dagger.

She followed until the shadow stopped, keeping low and... then he spoke. Her eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed to tiny slits as she kept her magic around her, shielding her from view. "Dragaur," she hissed, very quietly so as not to alert anyone near by. "What the fuck!" She whisper hissed. He would hear the hissing whisper from behind him and to the side, likely recognizing it as Scassira herself.

Dragaur growled and pulled his dagger as he spun around. "I'll carve you up and...." He paused and glanced around. His dagger lowered slightly as he snarled behind his mask. "What the hell do you want?" He snapped as he realized who it was.

When he whirled on her, she let her shadows drop and she came up and grasped his wrist with a firm hold, She had yet to see him like this, normally playful and outgoing. She sneered, forcing his hand down. "That whole mob up there thinks you are dead. I thought you were dead." She pushed his hand with the dagger away as she growled, thrusting her scarred hand through her hair. "How many more people am I going to think are dead and have them just come back." She whirled back, hissing a whisper as she waved a hand around. "The fuck is going on?"

When she grabbed his arm he balled his other hand in a fist ready to hit her across the face but he didn't. He still growled quietly as she spoke and he slipped his dagger away he was more than ready carve anyone up that got in his way. Seeing what he thought was his father quickly made him slip into old habits of hating everyone and wishing he could kill them all. The remnant of fel magic in him didn't help much. "Yeah well I'm obviously not dead am I...not the first time people thought I was dead probably not the last." He looked up to the city. "Keep your trap shut about this no one can know I'm alive."

“Clearly,” she drawled on, narrowing her gaze on him further. At his snappy attitude and fierce demeanor, she huffed a breath, leaning back a fraction to study him. Scassira turned her face toward where they came from, just over the ledges of the stones was a group of people mourning him. “Keep your mask on then.” She looked back, her voice and expression softening. “What happened? What is going on, Dragaur? And why are you back if you want to remain thought dead?”

Dragaur wasn't in an explaining mood and he shook his head and stared at her. "I was captured by demons...I escaped...I thought I saw my father up there...he's supposed to be dead. Because I killed him. Ya caught up enough now?" Having to compile it and speak it out loud made it worse and made him more angry.

Scassira just stared at him, her eyes narrowed and calculating. “Caught up. And I would say so—I almost fucking popped out of my own concealment thinking that he was you.” She looked back the way they came, breathing steady, even. “Now what? You are back. You are here. Are you staying? Going?” She pinned him with another stare, not giving a damn he was pissy. “Do you need… help?” The word was awkward to say, foreign to even her. A new concept she was still pondering.

He narrowed his eyes as she offered to help and he glanced to the side. "I don't know what I am doing...he should be buried somewhere in the foothills of the Alterac mountains. Well not somewhere I know exactly where he should be...he's dead I know he's dead he..." He paused as he tried to think of how or why it could be him and if it wasn't him why did it look like him. "I'm gonna go find his body and I'll know...cause his body is there...I...killed him." He growled as quietly as he could...his mind might be messed up but he wasn't stupid enough to yell about killing someone.

Scassira just stared at him. Stared and stared as he spoke. She slipped her scarred digits into her pockets, wiggling them a bit as she pinned him with a stare. "He had blue eyes... like the lich fire in color." She frowned, remembering that the undead knights of the city held that. "Do you think.... Uh. Fuck." She rubbed the back of her neck, pinning him with a disgusted look. "Could he have come,... back?"

Dragaur growled and stared at her a moment before looking up towards the graveyard. “He can’t be undead…I buried him in the middle of nowhere…a death knight is a big deal in the scourge not just some random ghoul or skeleton.” Dragaur started walking quickly then running to get back to the graveyard. Once he got close he disappeared into the shadows to stalk up close to the memorial. He stayed silent and looked around. If his father was here and if he was undead there was no way to find out because he wasn’t there now. He stared at Risri then Selise then glanced around at the others and was surprised by a few faces. He made his way closer to the edge of the group so he would be beyond detection and watched quietly for a moment.

Scassira just watched him with a bemused expression. He was flipping out over his father possibly coming back from the dead, yet here he was, assumedly back from the dead as well. Then again, Elstine came back from the dead. Well fuck, she thought. She huffed a breath, racing after him and disappearing into a fit of charcoal smoke that dissipated around her body. She came up behind him, staying low and hidden, watching his movements and keeping up. Scassira continued to follow, though she remained vigilant in her perusal of the faces and their surrounding area, for if someone saw him alive, well.. that would go swimmingly.

He shook his head and made his way out of the graveyard. He made a motion to her to follow and once they were heading back to the docks he spoke in a much easier calm tone than before. "He wasn't there...obviously. If he's alive in whatever form he's as crafty as always. I'm going up north to dig up his body....I'll know then if that was him or if he's undead...or not dead...or whatever. I killed him...I don't remember ten or fifteen years ago at least." He remembered exactly when. He remembered everything about that day.

Scassira once more followed him, letting the shadows fall from her form as she looked behind to where the others mourned for his death. She looked at his profile, her head tilting slightly as she kept pace, moving with him. "Do you.. want an extra hand? At the very least moral support?" She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly.

He looked over at her and smirked then looked down to the ships. "You wanna come with me? You might wanna think about that... I'm heading north. At the least there's a good chance we will have to avoid or kill some forsaken." He glanced at her and then headed for the nearest ship to ask someone if they knew of a ship heading north. "You don't have to go all that way unless you just want to make sure I don't off myself." He said in a serious tone though he was obviously kidding.

Scassira just looked at him with the most bemused expression. She looked between him and the boat. Him... and the boat. "Fucking hell, Dragaur." She thrust a hand through her hair, the ebon locks pushed from her pale features. "I am not worried about you offing yourself. You'd have done that already. But what I am more worried about is the shit you are about to get yourself into." She eyed him over, letting her arms drop to her sides as she huffed a breath, her pale face fully exposed as her expression softened a fraction. "Do you want help? Do you need the help?"

Dragaur stared at her a moment as if he was trying to figure out what she was talking about. “Listen I have never asked for help with anything in my life. Ever. Ya know why? My father beat that out of me that was one of my more pleasant lessons I learned I won’t bore you with details.” He turned slightly from her and stared over at the closest ship then looked back at her. “If you wanna come you…I can…you can come. I can use the help I guess.”

Scassira eyed him carefully, letting the chocolate orbs linger on his face as he turned away. She followed his gaze to the ship as she inhaled deeply of the sea misted air. When he looked back to her, she met his gaze, her expression softening from her usual hard demeanor. She closed her eyes, inclined her head, and then nodded. "You will have my help then. I, too, know what it is like to not ask for help. The cult I was raised in taught me better than to ask for help. Taught me that when I asked for help, I would be rewarded with nothing but more pain." She reminisced about that part of her life, her head shaking back and forth a few times. "I have come to learn that it was a falsehood. And sometimes, we just.. we need to ask another for aid." She steadied her gaze on him, nodding firmly.

He grunted quietly and nodded in her direction before heading down the dock to the nearest ship. “Gonna be a bit of a voyage…you’re friends aren’t gonna be pissed off and worried are they? No one in the world knows I am alive so I’m good.” He chuckled quietly as he thought about it a moment. “Wow that kinda feels good…I haven’t been able to feel that in a long time. Sort of a freedom in having no one and not being nailed down.” He meant what he said but at the edge of his mind all he could think about was his father being alive and how that didn’t make him free at all.

Scassira looked at him, inclining her head. "Give me an hour to make quick preparations." She let her chocolate hues linger on his form, seeing the weight sort of.. lift from his shoulders. "There are days I miss the freedom being on the run allowed me. But with all that I have now, I would not change it for the world." She clapped him on the back, offering him a friendly rub then turned and disappeared, hers words whispering to him in the shadows. "I will return in one hour."

Dragaur scoffed and shook his head slowly at her a moment. “Yeah well…I use to think that.” He muttered as she walked away. “I think I prefer being on the run.” He decided to inquire about a ship then maybe grab a few things at one of his stashes. Thankfully he was smart enough to have several and not just at his gravestone that was currently crowded with people.

@scassira-revmore @risrielthron @selisegraves

[howardlinkedin]

Group Project: Part 2

Running Title: Group Project. Part 2 Part 1: Here Part 3: Here Sequel to Shelter Summary: Something has been keeping Cross from being a melancholy bastard, and Kanda gets an apology from someone he honestly doesn’t even remember, but at least he finally got Alma their cupcake. Feat: Timothy wants to be like his Papa. 

While they were all packed onto Allen’s tour bus for his next concert in Barcelona, said singer/songwriter was eyeing his swear jar critically. Next to him, Timothy was mimicking him, though for likely different reasons.

“Why do I need a swear jar?” The boy asked, frowning. Okay sure he had a bit of a mouth on him, but it’s not like he had any money to contribute regardless.

“Cussing is bad and makes you look unintelligent.” Intoned the young father.  “Also, you’ll need this for when you meet Grandpa.”

“Grandpa?” “Grandpa.”

---

Colonel Marian Cross sneezed in his office.

“Bless you sir!” Hollered the greenhorn, Tokusa, as the kid ran by, arms full of documents and what looked a coffee for Colonel Nyne.

---

Link had to do a double take at the newly updated swear jar. Gone was the cut out of Han Solo, and in its place was a freshly printed and trimmed image of Spock. The blonde baker turned and gave his husband A Look.

Said husband gave a smile full of so much mischief, Link felt his ears burn.

Timothy look between both of his new parents and squinted. “What?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.” Allen sang.

---

Anita Han was the owner of a corner cafe on the same block as Miranda’s and Aleister’s stores. She was proud of her little business and those who worked for her. She also enjoyed manning the counter herself most days. If Anita were one to boast, she would claim that her brewing prowess was one to be appreciated. On the other hand, Mahoja, Anita’s friend and co-owner of the cafe, did enough boasting about their store and skills for the both of them.

In her care, Anita Han also has a nephew.

---

When Allen held his first, quote/unquote, concert at the home of the Minister of Defence (who happened to be a Noah of all the things), Cross felt unfairness billow down into his bones.

It was an awful unbalance, this unfairness. It bubbled up and Cross almost let it come out, but he forced it down. Maybe he would let it all out later, after Allen had his moment and the Colonel could run away for just a moment.

The unfairness that he could watch his kid, who was all grown up and making his way in the world, but Mana wasn’t there.

It was moments likes these, when Cross would look at their son and feel the flow of longing creep up his spine.

It was also during Allen first de facto concert, under the moonlight and in the crowd of people, Marian Cross began to feel.

He also began to hear.

Where the prickles along his back would be brushed away by a familiar pressure and a fond memory would sigh that sigh that meant Cross was being his own brand of ridiculous.

“No more of this melancholy, you silly cello man.”

Ping, ping, ping goes the sound, like keys on a piano (except Allen wasn’t playing the piano). And Cross would turn, only to find no one and nothing there.

At first, he wrote it off as too much expensive alcohol.

---

Chaoji came to her all of thirteen years old, from a broken home and an even more broken heart. With him was also a baggage of prejudices that Anita Han refused to allow into her home.

“Every moment you step through this doorway, you will leave all your biases on the front step.” She instructed, unmoveable.

The young teenager scowled and looked from Anita to the world behind him, as if weighing his options. He went inside regardless.

Young Chaoji eventually learned that the person he was before wasn’t worth being at all, and that he could stay on that doorstep and take a hike.

His aunt became his new mother and Chaoji thought she was a superhero. She was calm but strong, and wherever she went, she easily called attention. Anita was a natural leader who inspired loyalty in not just wayward teenagers. Chaoji was one hundred percent certain that his aunt could tell a mountain to move, and it would.

Chaoji Han wanted to make his aunt proud.

---

There came a turning point for Chaoji Han, where he wished he could find certain people from his past and apologize.

---

Looking at their brooding husband, Alma set the pile of fabric they had for a new design on their studio table. “I thought you were going to get tea from Anita’s?”

Kanda kicked his boot into the innocent wall he was brooding upon. “Some jackass behind the counter yelled at me.”

After a heartbeat, Alma asks, “What did you do?”

“Nothing damnit!”

“Yuu.”

Throwing his hands into the air, Kanda scowled. “The creep started spewing out my name, and wouldn’t stop staring and it was weird as fuck Alma!”

Well, that was a bit odd, Alma surmised. “You said he yelled at you.”

“Yeah, after I started running out the door.” Alma’s husband said, bluntly. They both stared at one another, before Kanda went back to brooding.

Alma decided that new clothing line for that magazine could wait another day and grabbed their keys. “Alright, come on. Let’s go try again.”

“What?” Kanda looked at them, incredulous. “I’m not going back there. If you want a cupcake so damn bad call Two-Spot to mail you one from Russia.”

“They’re in Spain right now, Yuu.” “What the fuck I don’t care.”

Alma was giving Kanda that fond look they always gave, whenever Kanda was being ridiculous but they still found it endearing. “Obviously it’s bothering you, so let’s go try again Yuu.”

“No.”

They leaned down and planted a sweet kiss on Kanda’s cheek. “Yes.”

Goddamnit, Kanda thought.

---

The second time it happened, Cross was watching his brat get proposed to directly after his graduation ceremony. Besides him, Neah was hyperventilating while Road called everyone on the family contact list about the news.

Really, you go kid, Cross had thought, smug and proud (even though the other young man was related to Lvellie, but Cross was very good at ignoring things he didn’t want to deal with). There was a cheer and clap besides him, and at first he thought it was Road on the phone with one of the other Noah.

“He’s grown up so much Mary. I’m so proud.” “Yeah.” Marian breathed. “So am I.”

Wait.

Standing and looking errantly around, Cross found no one beyond the two in the bleachers with him. Road was off the phone and started to rapid fire text, while Neah was busy scowling.

Noticing the redhead’s distraction, Neah also looked around. “What is it?”

There was a breeze and if Cross allowed himself to listen well enough, he could hear a piano and a laugh. “Nothing.”

“It’s nothing.”

It had to be nothing.

---

“Helloooo Grandpa!”

Cross hung up the skype call.

It rang again, and his damn brat was still grinning like the troll that he was. “Don’t be so rude Cross. You have a grandson to meet!”

“Christ I thought the news was just making shit up.” He grumbled. “Well, let’s meet the kid.”

Off screen, Cross could hear Allen coercing the kid over. “Come on Tim!”

The screen was taken up with the face of a very curious boy with blue hair and large brown eyes. Once again, Marian Cross remembered that he knows fuck all about how to interact with children. This resulted in a staring match.

(He could hear Allen laughing in the background. “Allen shut up.”

“You are so awkward it’s sad.” His brat stated. Cross felt his eye twitch.)

“Hello I’m Timothy.” The boy finally greeted, deciding to pity this old man and lead the conversation.

“Hi.” Cross greeted back.

More staring.

(“Link. Link, this is hilarious.” Allen had stage whispered.)

Timothy squinted at the screen. “Why do you have so much hair?”

“Because. Why is your hair blue?”

“Because.”

(“Yes, why is his hair blue?” Link asked, staring his husband down. Allen whistled innocently.)

Deciding that Cross had enough social torture he could handle, Atuuda took this moment to climb his shoulder and steal the show. “Cat!” Timothy announced, suddenly excited. Said feline chirped and began purring up a storm in Cross’ ear. Loud hell creature.

Link popped his head into the window. “Ah, Atuuda.”  

At seeing her human, Atuuda went up close and personal with the computer screen and began to paw at it. On the floor, there was a demanding yip, and Cross found himself with a lapful of happy corgi.

“Tim!” Allen cheered, now in the screen. His son looked at him confused. “What?”

“No, Timcampy, our dog.” “Wait, if I’m Tim, and the dog is Tim, then who’s driving the car?”

---

“Anyway, how’s Rosemary?”

“The fucking plant ate my cigars.”

“Oh good, you are feeding her.”

Taking his cue, young Timothy crawled into his father’s lap and shoved the swear jar at the camera. “Quarter!”

Cross choked on his tongue.

---

Timothy thought his new family was very odd, but also very cool. Especially since apparently he also now had a cat AND dog. (And a man eating plant, but that’s for a later meeting).

---

The cafe` door chimed, and Chaoji gave an enthusiastic “Welcome!” Only to suddenly feel like hiding under the counter the moment he saw his two customers.

Alma Karma had made it their mission all throughout middle school to chase Chaoji off away from Kanda. Not that he blamed them now. But past regrets were only one factor that made Chaoji want to hide.

Alma was scary as hell when mad, and it didn’t take a genius to tell that Kanda Yuu was very precious to them.

Behind Alma was said precious person, who was skulking like a shadow.

The second they saw Chaoji, a dark look flashed over Alma’s face, and the barista waved his arms in the air, signalling surrender. “Wait wait! I’m sorry!” He let out.

The other customers in the cafe looked up from the coffees and newspapers, startled and curious.

“I was trying to apologize earlier, but he ran off, and I am so sorry for everything!”

The entire coffee parlor was silent, when Alma snorted and then giggled. Chaoji felt his knees go weak.

Looking at their husband, Alma flashed a glittering smile. “He’s sorry Yuu.”

“For what, freaking me out?” “...Yes.”

Kanda huffed and stalked to the counter. “Fine whatever. I want a white tea and the biggest cupcake you have.”

Stunned, Chaoji wordlessly punched the order in, giving the other man a confused look. “You don’t. Remember me.... Do you?”

It was Kanda’s turn to look confused. “I just saw you an hour ago; I don’t think I’d forget someone who weirded the fuck out of me.”

At a cafe table, Alma was laughing silently into their fist and kicking the wall in mirth.

Well, Chaoji got to finally apologize at least.

---

The third time, Anita had just introduced herself to him with one of the most beautiful smiles he had seen in a long time, and a spark in her eye that could very well excite him if he let himself look long enough.

---

After ringing up his order, she introduced herself. “Anita.”

Cross looked from her outstretched hand, to her (still very pretty) face, flummoxed. “What?”

She laughed, and Cross noted that her laugh was also very pretty. “This is the part where you give me your name and I start to flirt with you.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

---

Marian walked out of the cafe, a little star struck with a cup of coffee and a phone number scrawled beautifully across the cup.

“Oh, she’s lovely. I like her!”

Jumping, Cross cursed and whirled around, looking for that voice that sounded too much like a happy memory.

Once again finding nothing but air, Colonel Marian Cross grumbled to his car. Only to spill the entire contents of his coffee on his front when the radio station began playing a piano melody.

It was supposed to be a rock station damnit!

---

Once in Barcelona, the little family unpacked their way into their new temporary hotel suite. Timothy had quickly become shellshocked at all the flashing cameras and people vying for his father’s autograph. Taking the front through the crowd, his newly dubbed Aunt Lenalee somehow managed to split the sea of people as if she were Moses.

Little Timothy decided he was going to hold her hand, because she was cool.

“You’re cool.”

Lenalee laughed, charmed and agreed. “I know.”

Once unpacked and comfortable, Link began taking over the kitchen, which was well stocked “as a courtesy.” Link believed that his husband was simply spoiled wherever he went.

Setting out flour, eggs and butter, Link began going over his mental list of what to bake. Deciding on a cake, he began tying his apron around his waist, when he felt a tug on it. “Hm?” He looked down at Timothy who was looking up at him with all the seriousness a ten year old could muster.

“Papa.”

Link felt his heart jump into his throat.

“Show me how to make something.”

Suddenly feeling weak in the legs, Link found himself crouching at his son’s level and hesitantly patting the boy on his crown. “Alright.”

Allen chose that moment to slither over the other side of the counter bar, eyes heated. “Papa.” He sang and taunted. Link jerked himself upright and ignored his child of a husband, grabbing a chair and setting it next to the island table where all the ingredients were set. On some kind of instinct Link didn’t even know he had, he lifted Timothy up and into it. “First we need to sift the flour, then get our wet ingredients measured.”

Timothy nodded, determined to listen to everything his father was telling him.

Sliding next her best friend, Lenalee cooed and started videoing the impromptu baking lesson. “Cute, cute, cute!”

After showing the boy how to sift flour, Link let Timothy try on his own. Only for the ten year old to shake the sifter too roughly, and sent a plume of flour into the air and onto Link’s face. Lenalee began laughing and sent the video to Alma.

“I am finding you so attractive right now.” Allen stated, gaze still hot. Link only glared, ears red.

“Papa you have flour on your face.”

---

That night, Link was considering smothering his husband with a pillow.

“Papa~”

“Stop.”

“Papa, Papa. Link’s a Papa!” Allen chanted, straddling his husband on the bed, grinning like an imp. A white haired, handsome imp that Link found himself terribly attracted to.

Maybe he should smother his own face with a pillow, with how red he can feel it burning.

Throwing himself into a fit of giggles, Allen buried his face into the crook of Link’s neck.

[mariequitecontrarie]

All of Me: Chapter 12

The Fic: Belle French is a pudgy librarian who’s in love from afar with “town monster” and ace reporter, Mr. Gold. Little does she know, he’s head-over-heels in love with her, too. Chapter Summary: Belle and Gold are still sitting in Marco’s kitchen, and Gold reminds Belle of the day they met.  Thank You: Amazing beta: @magnoliatattoo Italian master: @sarashouldbestudying Artwork: @wizzygold A/N: THANK YOU for voting All of Me Best Rumbelle Fic and Best Trend in The TEAs!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11

Stay with Me (between Ch 9 and 10)

{On AO3} {On FF}

It is an absolute human certainty that no one can know his own beauty or perceive a sense of his own worth until it has been reflected back to him in the mirror of another loving, caring human being. – John Joseph Powell

Marco’s Cucina, Present Day Gold broke the kiss, and Belle’s nose grazed his bottom lip as she lowered her head to rest on his shoulder. She sighed aloud, her warm breath fanning the side of his neck and he gave an involuntary shiver of happiness.

The clang of pots and pans alerted him that he was kissing his girlfriend in the back corner of a hectic restaurant kitchen, and that Marco and his staff were gawking at them snuggled together in this oversized booth. He didn’t care. All that mattered in this moment was Belle.

She lifted her head from his shoulder and smiled lazily, and he cupped her cheek with his hand. Her eyes were unfocused, pupils blown wide with passion. Her hands were clasped around his neck, the pleasing weight of her soft arms across his shoulders, her breath ragged and sweet against his face.  

“Sweetheart, do you remember the day we met?” he asked.

“Nope. Can’t think…a little dizzy.”

Gold snickered around a surge of masculine pride. What a treasure she was! Had he ever met a woman so guileless? No, the women of his acquaintance through the years had been artificial and interested in him for the publicity they could earn for their business ventures and personal causes. He was full of love, but who beyond his family had ever looked past his small stature, his limp, and his notoriety as a reporter to see his heart? Only Belle. She was as undone by their kisses as he was. Elated as he was to have this effect on the woman he cared for, his heart broke at how grateful she was for the smallest expressions of affection.

Her hazy eyes cleared, sharpening and focusing on him once more, but now sadness was reflected in those sea-blue pools. Sadness caused by nosy townspeople who needed to be tripped by a cane, he thought ruefully. He kept his hand on her face, caressing her jawline with his thumb. He longed to chase those shadows away.

“Seriously,” he prompted, eager to distract her from the two days of gossip and insults she’d endured for his sake. “The day we met.”

“Seriously?” She chewed her lip. “Yes, I think I remember. It was in the library, right?”

Gold frowned; it stung a bit that she didn’t share the same vivid memory of their first meeting. Perhaps those initial moments between them didn’t make the same impression on her as they had on him?

Oh well. In for a penny, as it were. “May I tell you how I remember it?”

She tilted her head and smiled. “I would like that very much.”

Gold cleared his throat. “Henry had just turned two years old, and Emma suggested I bring him your story time…”

Three Years Earlier

After a year of careful avoidance, Gold had a reason to visit the library.

He  gave his shoulder length brown hair a self-conscious pat and hoisted Henry higher on his hip as he strode through the library in search of the restroom. Storybrooke Library’s weekly story hour for toddlers was scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes, and young Henry needed a quick diaper change before settling in with the other children.

As he reached the back wall of the building, Gold overheard voices. He grit his teeth; Sean Herman, Belle French’s fiancé, was in her office and the two were discussing something in hushed, urgent tones. Gold lingered near the door with the ready excuse that he wanted to introduce Belle to Henry, attempting his best expression of nonchalance. Herman leaned in close to kiss Belle’s cheek, and he felt a stab of jealousy toward the overgrown toddler who had won the heart of this lovely, vivacious woman. He couldn’t place what it was that irked him about Herman. Gold only knew that when her fiancé was present, Belle’s smile never quite reached her eyes.

Belle had recently won the position of head librarian, replacing Mrs. Schmidt when she’d retired to care for her grandchildren. He had seen Belle in passing many times—on the street, in the drugstore, at the supermarket—but had never actually spoken to her. It was better this way, he told himself. Belle was engaged to another man and that meant she was off-limits.

The first time he’d seen her had been a year earlier. Belle was squatting on the floor of the library knocking over block towers with a gaggle of children who laughed uproariously at every move she made. On his way to the paper, he walked by the large front window and she looked up as he passed, her countenance sparkling with mirth, reddish brown curls falling in a fiery halo around her flushed face. Their gazes met, and he died and was reborn in her laughing eyes. Good Lord, she was a vision! It was far more than her beauty that captivated him, though. This young woman had a lively spirit and a generous heart—he could tell by the humble ease with which she played with the children. Too stunned to do anything more than hurry by, he raced toward his office, determined to learn her name.

Arriving back at his desk, Gold ruffled through the stacks of press releases and notices from the town’s administrative offices, hoping to find anything that mentioned a new hire at the Storybrooke Public Library. Finding nothing, he slumped in his chair, an uncharacteristic feeling of defeat churning in his gut. Think, old man. Gold had little use for his investigative reporting skills now that he was at home in Storybrooke and running the town ledger, but his curious attraction to the woman in the window reignited those embers long since cooled.

Ah! Inspiration struck, and after half an hour of combing through the Town Council minutes which the mayor so diligently provided after each meeting, the passage he had been seeking was there, smudged in black ink:

“The motion passes, Belle French will fill the role of Assistant Library Director effective the first of next month at a salary of {redacted}.”

Belle French. Beautiful, smart, sweet Belle.

Gold raked his fingers through his hair nervously, like a child who had learned a secret he couldn’t keep. Now what?

After that he looked for her around town, listening for her name to come up in conversation, anxious for another glimpse into those fathomless blue eyes. A week later, he was at Granny’s Diner finishing a turkey club sandwich while he worked up the courage to go inside the library to meet her. He tapped his foot impatiently at the cash register.  Waiting for waitress Ruby Lucas to stop flirting with town shrink Archie Hopper so he could pay the bill was like waiting for the sky to fall. When he was about to tell Ruby to send the tab to the paper he overheard someone say:

“Wow. Belle French accepted Sean Herman’s marriage proposal?”

Gold sucked in a breath, feeling like he’d been punched. Belle was engaged? It figured—the first woman he’d met in twenty-odd years that piqued his interest and she was taken. Then and there he vowed not to visit the library at all for any reason. Why torture himself by skulking around a woman he could never have? He had his pride; he didn’t need to borrow a book that badly!

And that’s how it came to be that Gold hadn’t darkened the door of Storybrooke Community Library since Belle French had come to work there. Now, however, there was young Henry to think of—no child should be deprived of story time at the library. Emma had suggested that library visits with Henry would be good bonding, and Gold agreed. And if he could gawk at Belle French in the process, who was he to argue? He was doing his grandfatherly duty, Gold reasoned, as he tossed the old diaper, washed his and Henry’s hands, and exited the bathroom.

They edged by Belle’s office door again and he couldn’t resist another peek inside. Herman was still there, hands on his designer-denim clad hips, and Belle’s cheekbones were bright with color. Gold caught her gaze and held it for a long moment. He didn’t know her at all, but those eyes were an open book if you cared to study the language. He read uncertainty there, and fear. He was almost certain Herman was responsible, and Gold’s anger swelled like a rising tide in a hurricane.

“Book! Book! Book!” Henry bellowed, jabbing his little fingers at the shelves teeming with colorful children’s books.

“Shhh! Henry.” Gold held a finger to his lips and scooped up the toddler. Stealth was impossible when Henry was present. “We must be quiet in the library. You’ll get Grandpa in trouble if you keep yelling.”

The boy grinned broadly, his chubby cheeks rosy with the excitement of a new adventure. “Gampa tubble.”

Herman slid through Belle’s office door, darting a curious glance at Henry. Like a snake. Gold scowled darkly, white-knuckling the head of his cane. He may be holding a toddler in his arms and have a diaper bag slung over one shoulder and be half in love with an engaged woman he had never  spoken to, but he was still a man to be respected  and feared. Yes, he would be watching Sean Herman.

“Can I help you?” A soft voice beckoned, calling him away from staring down Herman’s retreating back.

He spun around, coming face to face with Belle French. “Ah, yes, um, I am Mr. Gold,” he said shakily, feeling his cheeks redden.

She rose from her desk, smoothing her hands over a simple navy sheath dress that accentuated her eyes. They sparkled with curiosity as she moved toward him with an outstretched hand.

“I’m Belle French,” she offered. “Welcome to my library.” A smile that could eclipse the sun stretched across her perfect face.

Gold stared at her hand as it hung in the air, and he briefly considered whether to drop his cane or his grandson for the chance to feel her skin against his. Belle dropped her hand, apparently realizing the awkwardness of a handshake with a man who most certainly had his full.

“Oh, sorry!” Belle giggled, and Gold almost gasped aloud; a sweeter sound he had never heard. “And who is this?” She reached out and tugged at Henry’s tiny sneaker where it dangled around Gold’s hip, pulling a chortle from the young boy.

“This is Henry Cassidy, my grandson,” he said proudly.

“Lovely to meet you, Henry.”

Henry reached into his pocket and offered Belle a handful of shredded pieces of The Storybrooke Mirror. “Money!” He grinned at Belle who beamed right back.

“Thank you very much,” she said, accepting the sticky wad of crumpled paper. “What shall we buy?”

“Oh, Henry, no, son,” Gold interrupted with an anxious glance at Belle. “That’s newspaper, not money. My apologies, Miss French.”

“That’s all right. Henry has a wonderful imagination,” Belle complimented as Gold set Henry on the floor. Belle squatted down so she was eye-to-eye with his grandson. “Henry, are you ready to listen to Miss Belle read some special books just for you?”

“Book!” Henry shouted again.

Still Three Years Earlier

Belle made her way to the corner rocking chair on wooden legs and plopped down heavily, anxious to begin the story hour. She’d barely made it through that encounter without fainting. Mr. Gold? Here at Storybrooke Community Library? And he’d been hovering in her office doorway while she’d been arguing with Sean.

Nerves coiled in her belly like a snake. Mr. Gold didn’t think much of her library, for why else would he so studiously avoid it? Didn’t everyone like books? Or perhaps this small town library didn’t meet his Pulitzer-Prize-winning approval.

Belle sniffed and pressed her lips together. No doubt Gold possessed both the knowledge and the wealth to stock a home library grander than this old place with its leaking walls and meagre collection. However, he had brought his young grandson Henry in, so that was a point in her favor. Most children  loved her story hour and their parents always praised her reading. After each story time, Belle would mingle with the moms and dads as they gathered their children and all the stuff children seemed to travel with. She loved these casual exchanges, relishing the opportunity to learn bits and pieces about her patrons; who worked where and who belonged to whom. The library was the only place in the world that she truly felt at home.

But what were her storytelling abilities compared to Mr. Gold’s? Mr. Gold, who had earned a reputation as a world-famous reporter. Mr. Gold, who spoke in a beautiful, hypnotic brogue. Perhaps she should invite Mr. Gold to take over and she could head back to her office and crawl under the desk for a marathon powdered doughnut eating session.

To her knowledge, Gold had  not come into the library since she’d worked here. Unless he purposely visited on her days off. Of course! How could she forget? She was the reason he never came in.

It was here  first week on the job; she was fresh out of college and thrilled to be hired as Mrs. Schmidt’s assistant. (So few graduates of Storybrooke College had the opportunity to use their degree locally, and besides, the less time she spent at home with Edith, the less miserable they all were.) She’d been razing block towers with some kids when Mr. Gold—the newspaperman—had strode by in one of his elegant bespoke suits. He glanced through the front window and their eyes had met. Through the glass, his deep caramel gaze scorched her skin, and she’d trembled deliciously under his perusal. But then he had frowned and hurried toward the newspaper. Yes, he’d taken one look at her and beat a quick path to his office door without so much as a backward glance.

Shaking the memory from her mind, Belle straightened her slumped shoulders; her sour disposition was threatening to spoil the day. If she wasn’t careful, the children would catch wind of her annoyance and ask questions. Perceptive creatures, toddlers were.

Her hands shook so hard that she dropped one of the books, its title blurring before her eyes. She smoothed her pudgy, damp fingers over her skirt and bent down to pick it up, feeling Mr. Gold’s gaze on her the entire time.

Curse him and those beautiful sable eyes. Most of the time she observed him from across the street or peered at him through a crowded restaurant thick with voices, but he was even more attractive up close. A firm mouth, soft brown hair streaked with grey curling over his collar in locks so thick she could lose her fingers in it, an aquiline nose…and those hands. Long, thin fingers that grasped his cane as he walked, that fiddled with Henry’s shoelaces as he placed his young grandson in the circle and instructed him to sit down begin the story. “Sit criss-cross applesauce, Henry,” she heard him say, his thick brogue melodious even in a whisper. A flush of awareness creeped up Belle’s chest.

It crossed her mind to regret her engagement to Sean, then she snorted aloud at her own absurdity. Like Sarah, Abraham’s wife in the Bible who was promised a child at one hundred years old, anything between her and Mr. Gold was impossible. As if such a distinguished man would ever look her way with anything more than casual disinterest!

You’re lucky to have Sean, Belle, she reminded herself in her sternest Edith-tone, pushing their fight about the bachelor party out of her head.  Twenty-three bright little faces stared up at her, the children’s little limbs flailing as they squirmed on their carpet squares.

For goodness sake, Belle! Stop moping and read! She launched headlong into the first book, Hooray for Fish, its bold illustrations ideal for holding the attention of little ones. Belle only prayed they would hold hers as well.

“Miss Belle?” It was three-year-old Scarlett Jones, her dark pigtails swinging as she raised her hand.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

She pointed her finger at her tiny chest chest. “You forgot about names.”

“So I did,” Belle conceded with a nervous laugh. Usually she began story hour with a name game to relax the kids and prepare their minds. She glanced up at Mr. Gold, who leaned against the wall near the beanbag chairs. To her surprise, he gave her a smile and a nod of encouragement. Grateful tears sprang to her eyes and she took a deep breath and started again.

The rest of the hour progressed without incident, and after rounding out story hour with Breathe, Belle led the kids in some deep breathing exercises of their own, calming her own battered nerves.

Soon the children scattered to look for books and play with toys. As Belle checked out books and chatted with parents, she watched Gold and Henry out of the corner of her eye. Despite his reputation as a ruthless reporter, she marveled that anyone could find Gold severe or frightening in the slightest. He was sitting on the floor in his striped socks racing cars, making delightfully realistic “zoom zoom” noises. Henry’s dark eyes were bright with merriment as he watched his grandpa at play.

When the last of the parents and children left, Belle began to clean up. Squatting to gather the toys and crayons from the floor, she was startled when Mr. Gold bent down to hand her the plastic crayon box. Leaving Henry to smash a handful of toy cars together, he began to follow her around, picking up stray books off reading tables and handing them to her.

“You’re making my job easy today,” she said, glancing toward the book carts that were stationed around the library.

“I'm pretty sure that's the first time I've ever been accused of that, Miss French,” he said dryly.

Belle’s fingers shook as he handed her a book. Stop it, Belle, you’re a librarian. People hand you books every day. But none of them were the handsome, enigmatic Mr. Gold. Their fingers brushed and the contact seared her flesh, sending a current of electricity up her arm.

She returned to the circulation desk, her palms sweaty from the prolonged exposure to Mr. Gold. Now she understood, she could commiserate with the townspeople who feared him – minutes in his presence had left Belle trembling like a leaf in an autumn windstorm. But it was not fear, not even trepidation, that made her nerves twitch and her insides melt like butter. No, it was something altogether glorious—if not impossible and incomprehensible.

No one had ever made her feel this way, not even her own fiancé. She was confused yet grounded, and more alive than she had ever been in her whole life.

Work. Work would settle her anxieties. Belle moved behind the circulation counter to inventory returns, but when she looked up, Mr. Gold and Henry were approaching again. With a sheepish smile, Gold plopped a stack of books on the counter—as though he had stumbled upon some lost secret place that gave out books for free.

“Oh, this is a really good one!” Belle exclaimed as she scanned the barcodes into the computer. “It’s actually much better than his first book, although that’s the one that earns all the fanfare.” She smiled at Gold as she stamped the due date into the back of How to Stop Worrying and Start Living by Dale Carnegie.

“You know, they credit Carnegie with starting the entire self-help genre,” Belle rattled on, impervious to the serene, smiling stare on the face of her newest patron. Catching his eye, she grew quiet as she realized she was opining on his reading choices, a sworn sin of a good librarian. “You know, you can tell a lot about a person by the books they read,” she continued, unable to hide her enthusiasm for the written word.

“Is that so?” Gold asked quietly, as though the conversation was of great importance and not the result of her blathering. “I’d love to know what you think of me, then,” he challenged, his amber eyes glinting.

Belle’s mouth went dry; Was Mr. Gold flirting with her? “You are interested in improving your daily life in small ways,” she countered, “and you have a penchant for rotting meat.”  She grinned as she scanned Green Eggs and Ham.

“Touché, Miss French.” A smirk played at the corner of his mouth.

“Please call me Belle,” she heard herself say.

“Belle,” he repeated in a husky voice that sent a shiver up her spine. “One last wandering book I found near the self-help section.” He tossed a thin volume on the circulation desk.

She eyed the title in horror: Farewell to Flab. He of all people didn’t need a diet book, and Belle would know. She had spent the last two hours ogling his trim physique. Belle yanked her cardigan more snugly around her middle. Had he spotted her secret stash of powdered doughnut holes and decided to send her a roundabout weight loss message?

Gold hiked an eyebrow and glared at the book. “Why would you carry this drivel in such a fine establishment of higher learning?” And with that he smiled, hefted Henry on his hip and kissed his nose, and bid her a wonderful day.

Belle stared after Gold in wonder as he strolled out of the library with a remarkable grace for a man carrying a toddler, a diaper bag, and a cane. Henry hollered goodbye over his shoulder and Belle smiled and waved at the adorable little boy with his grandpa’s eyes.

Once they were out of sight, she flopped down in her chair and sighed. He liked her library. Maybe he even liked her. Mr. Gold wasn’t who she thought he was at all, and she was glad.

Marco’s Cucina, Present Day

“Thank you for telling me all that.” She beamed at him, then her smile faltered. “It’s a wonderful memory, but is there a point to all this?” 

He chuckled. “Well, I’m not sure. I was going for distraction.”

“I’m sorry,” she said on a sigh. “About the talk around town. Why would they need to talk about us anyway?”

Gold was puzzled. Belle seemed to believe it was somehow her fault that people were gossiping about them. He shrugged inwardly; rumors never troubled him. Speculation was a natural human consequence of not having enough facts to go on.

Belle didn’t see it that way, though. The gossip caused her pain, and whatever hurt her, hurt him.

Neal’s advice from the fishing expedition several weeks earlier returned like a  boomerang, and for the first time, it occurred to Gold that Belle’s modesty perhaps wasn’t a quality to be prized. After years of traveling among egocentric people and being burned by Milah, who cared only about appearances, he’d become jaded and suspicious. For all these years, he had admired Belle from afar for being so much more than a beauty, so much more than a prize to be won. Now it dawned on him that what he perceived as modesty was a severe lack of confidence. His wonderful Belle saw herself as no one of importance, and the realization devastated him. She needed to know how deeply he cherished her, how she’d changed his life. Made him feel like a person of value in ways that all his awards, accomplishments, and accolades never could.

He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed each one. “That’s what I love about you, Belle. You don’t pretend to be someone you aren’t.”

She knitted her eyebrows together, waiting. A tangible energy crackled between them.

“Yes, I suppose there is a point to my story. The point is that I've been waiting for this—for us—ever since that day in the library. Since even before that day. It's a dream I never thought would come true, sweetheart. Belle, you have to know...I’m falling for you.”

“Wh-what?” Her voice shook and the hope that leapt into her eyes gave him courage to continue. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I’m in love with you. Totally, irrevocably in love. I don't care what people say, I don't care what they think.” He grasped her hands to quell the shaking in his own. “All I care about is you.”

She said nothing and he forced himself to swallow, a wave of fear crashing through him even as his hands tightened around hers. Maybe she didn’t feel the same. Maybe he was rushing her. God above, she could destroy him with a word! He closed his eyes, tamping down on his fear. No, I love her. If she doesn’t feel the same way yet, so be it.

Belle swallowed hard, her tiny voice trembling in cadence with her lower lip. “You…you love me? Me? But…”

Gold raised a finger to her rosebud mouth, tender and swollen from his kiss.

“Shhh. You make me happy,” he repeated. “Forget the rest of the town. Let them talk, let them look.”

“It's not so easy for me to let them look,” she admitted, wiping a tear that leaked from the corner of her eye.

“Would it help if I threatened to beat people with my cane?”

She huffed a watery laugh. “Maybe a little.”

She moistened her dry lips with her tongue, the fleshy tip of it sweeping over her full, lower lip. Yes, they had been doing entirely too much talking, he thought, leaning forward as his lips sought hers. Pressing against her, he opened his mouth, taking her upper lip between his, suckling slightly, eliciting a small whimper from the back of Belle’s throat. He dipped down, lavishing the same treatment on her lower lip. Blood pounded in his ears and he felt as though he would explode; the hand that had been resting on her knee inched higher, his fingers squeezing into the soft flesh of her upper thigh. She was so soft, and warm, and her lips intoxicatingly sweet…

“Ok, piccioncini.” They pulled apart and looked at Marco. “I no like to interrupt your wooing, but dinner time is coming, va bene?” The chef waved his hand around the bustling kitchen. “You’re distracting my staff. You like a table?”

“Is that like, leave or get a room?” Belle snorted and crossed her arms over her chest. Gold bit back a laugh. He loved how confident she was among the few people she trusted.

“Use your imagination, Bella,” Marco replied, his eyes twinkling. He walked quickly back to the ovens and flung open the door to remove an enormous, covered baking pan.

“A man on a mission,” Gold observed with an apologetic smile. “I have to go anyway, sweetheart. It’s family game night. Henry’s choice, which means endless rounds of Candy Land and Chutes and Ladders.”

Belle laughed. “That sounds…spirited.”

“Why don’t you come with me? I could use a partner. I’m fine when we play Scrabble but I’m absolute bollocks at Charades. Neal and Emma will be there, of course, and they always welcome a chance to spend time with you.”

A soft pink rose on Belle’s cheeks. He smiled again, trying to encourage her. Belle still didn’t believe that people wanted to spend time with her, that she was worth the effort, but she would. Given enough time and love and care, she would.

“Between you as a writer and me as a librarian, we’d make a fantastic team,” she agreed, squeezing his forearm lightly. “Yes. Let’s go.”

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