note: not proofread before posting.
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Part One:
“Sweetheart,” he urges me, my wrists clutched in his hands as a lock of black hair falls into his eyes. He is sweating. He is normally composed and arrogant; a jester on a cruel lord’s dance floor, eternally smirking and simpering to a crowd of self proclaimed lords and ladies ravenous for our blood. “Sweetheart,” he says again, and it ends in a whine. He is frantic. The way his nails dig half-moons into my skin excites me. “Don’t. Dont!”
The room we are in is locked. The keyring hangs heavy at his belt. I can hear the other prisoners from the ward banging on the door, inciting each other to open the damn door. This close, I can smell the sweat and fear on him like a rot. He has lost all facade of composure with the silver flint in my hand. The oil pools pungent on the walls, coating everything but the rest of the facility in slick contempt.