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[unflagging]

[Herein shall there be PSLs and goings-on.

Please exercise caution if you so choose to read this. Flagg being Flagg, I cannot guarantee everything that goes on here will be safe for work or even safe for life.]

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[unflagging]

"If you were no longer of any use to me here, but it wouldn't do to have to you dead. That would be a very good reason."

He stood up, looming over her.

"That boy of yours is after me enough. I'd rather not spur him on with your mutilated corpse."

Not yet, at least. And if half that pair of lovebirds vanished, the other half would be left for the taking. It worked out any which way.

[advancedbosoms]

She looked up at him, craning her neck, tempted to look away or beg or bang on the door again, but too stubborn to do anything but look him on the eye, chin up.

"I can do things," Cordy said. "If you'll let me go, I could agree to all sorts of depravities."

[unflagging]

He stopped, he paused. He leaned down closer to her and set his hands flat against the door.

"Are you offering? Are you claiming that you're bargaining for your freedom?"

Another pause, as he considers her again.

"And here I was, up to this point, prepared to let you go immediately."

[advancedbosoms]

"No you weren't. Spurring Bert on with my mangled corpse and letting me go aren't the same."

Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe. She didn't buy it. He would have teased and maybed and hemmed and hawed and then have changed his mind. It was what people like him did.

"But if you want to let me go, if you want to release me out of the goodness of your heart, go ahead. Open the door."

[unflagging]

He slid back down to the floor with her, since she seemed disinclined to stand. No matter. He hummed a little to himself, tunelessly, the sound of thought. He looked at her, askance, sidelong, and smiling.

"Here's a fun game:" a pause, a beat. "Kiss me. Kiss me and I don't care if it's out of the goodness of your heart or not, but do it with both of us firm in the knowledge that you'll carry it back to him like one might carry a fire nestled in a horn, and then I'll unlock this door."

[advancedbosoms]

Enough for her.

She supposed she should have felt guiltier, or at least more disturbed. But she wasn't horrified, wasn't disgusted, wasn't anything but eager to get herself away and free.

All right. If she was going to kiss him, she'd kiss him, so no complaints could be made that she had half assed it or hadn't done a good enough job. Cordelia scooted closer, raising herself up onto her knees and closer, closer, until she could wrap her arms around his neck, twine her fingers into his hair, eyes on his.

"All right." And she leaned in, close enough that she could kiss him without even having to stretch her neck. "But promise me, first. Swear, on whatever it is that's sacred to you."

[unflagging]

Perfect. Splendid. She seemed so willing, so content to play along. Yes, it was a gamble (or a gambit?) on her part just to get out, to slip away, to escape--such as she could. But she seemed so suddenly willing, so suddenly delighted by this arrangement. He smiled at her, smiling even to the light dancing in his eyes.

"There's nothing sacred to me. Important...perhaps." He slipped his arms around her waist. "But sacred? No." He drew closer. "So I'll swear..." and closer still "...on you."

And he held still then. She was to kiss him, and not the other way around, and that was the word of it, and he would have her hold to it.

"I swear. I swear on you, on your hair and your eyes, on your lips and your neck, on your skin and your hands, on your back, on your tongue, that I will let you go after this one act."

And he waited.

[advancedbosoms]

She kissed him.

Fingers in his hair, drawing him close, drawing closer herself, until their chests pressed together and noses bumped and she turned her head so her lips were on his.

Cordelia closed her eyes.

Soft, at first, lips on his and pressing down--but a moment later, those lips parted, yielding and warm, still tasting faintly of the honeyed, spiced red wine she had sipped earlier.

[unflagging]

In another time, another place, another situation, another set of circumstances, he could have slipped her any number of poisons now--by her own mouth, through her skin. He could have magicked up any number of traps or torments for her to rise up and catch her even now. He could have thrown her against the floor and either taken her or shattered her skull or both, as it pleased him. He could still.

But she was soft--soft, soft. All curves and sweet tastes. Red wine and red lips. Salt sweat and bitter fear and anxiety and panic and anger and sweet wine. He held her a little tighter. She was soft--soft, soft.

And she had given her word and she had kept her half of the bargain. Brave girl. Clever girl. Maybe he'd even keep his half of it.

Maybe.

He kept the kiss longer than one might have wanted it (longer than she might have wanted it? that's up to her, of course). But, not without a parting glance, he nipped at her lip. And now smiled again.

"There. And because you were a good girl and did what I asked--" he brought his left hand, open, between them "--I'll keep my promise too."

He smiled again, wider this time. He closed his empty hand, opened it again, and suddenly the key lay in his palm. (Sleight of hand, a conjuror's trick, scarcely different from the little magic show he'd put on for Lloyd back in the day--and that was a locked door too, wasn't it?)

"Off you go. Fly away, dove."

[advancedbosoms]

She was still waiting for her heartbeat to still when he offered up the key.

What was that? She despised him. Completely and utterly, no question there. And she wasn't the sort to believe that everyone had a kind, warm, gooey center. The world wasn't made of hearts of gold with steel casings. There were bad, bad people and he was one of them.

Brief lapses of humanity, that was all you could hope to get. Moments of kindness between all the instances of cruelty.

She hated him. But, and she couldn't begin to explain why, Cordelia kissed him again. She reached out, she took the key in her hands, and she kissed the horrible, terrible, really genuinely godawful man a second time, eyes open this time and hand still on the key.

[unflagging]

It was unexpected, but not unwelcome. He answered in kind, warmly (warmly as he could, at least). And this time he let one hand slip across her face and over her ear to twine in her hair. His other hand closed over hers, the hand that held the key.

Again, he let it linger and again, when he broke away, he smiled. Broke away, yes, but didn't pull away entirely.

"Now," he whispered almost against her ear, "What brought that on?"

[advancedbosoms]

"There doesn't need to be a reason."

An excuse, because she couldn't begin to explain why she had. You did need a reason. Maybe not for just any kiss, when drunk or with a partner or under the mistletoe, but you needed a reason to kiss a man who was undeniably evil.

And she didn't have one. What did that mean?

Sure, he was attractive. Charismatic, too. So was Ted Bundy.

Run, her brain insisted. Take the key, stand up, get the fuck out of here. Instead, she remained on her knees, feeling the coolness of the key and the warmth of his palm and wondering if she really had gone completely, totally insane.

[unflagging]

He let go of her hand, left her with the key. Keys, locks, doors. Same old same old. Il triello. Some things never change, do they? Keys and locks and doors. Still--he let her hold the key and slipped that hand down to her waist. Still holding her, still too close. He found the curve of her neck under her hair and kissed it.

"You have the key," he whispered. "You're free, as far as I'm concerned. Whether you go or stay," he kissed her neck again, "Is up to you."

[advancedbosoms]

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe people could change. Maybe if she helped him, maybe if she gave him the benefit of the doubt...

No. She had told him herself that she wasn't stupid, so it was time to stop acting like she was.

"You did this," she accused, knowing full well it was nothing but plain old attraction, old as Adam and Eve. "It's a spell."

Despite the accusation, Cordy leaned her head to the side, exposing her throat, too distracted to think about the implications of that particular movement.

[unflagging]

"A spell?" he asked with almost-but-not-quite overblown incredulity, all big blue country-boy eyes. He pressed against her throat, which she so readily offered--but no teeth, no teeth. No, no teeth.

"A spell," he said again, this time while drawing a line of kisses down the length of her jaw.

"Was it words?" A kiss on her throat. "A gesture?" Another. "A line of chalk?" Another. "Was it because you passed behind that altar? Maybe that was it." Three more.

"So you're not locked up anymore. You're just spellbound." And he found her mouth again.

[advancedbosoms]

She made some noise, meant to express indignation that he was making fun of her and to excuuuuse her, princess for not knowing how it was that his magic worked, but he had just made a key appear out of nowhere, hadn't he?

Whatever it was, the sound was swallowed up as he kissed her and she kissed him back as if he were any boy, as if she were any girl.

She took handfuls of his shirt in her empty hand, bunching the fabric and releasing it again, groaning into his mouth out of sheer frustration--as the key slipped from her palm and fell to the floor with a clang, rolling away from her reach.

[unflagging]

And so the key fell ringing to the floor. He heard it fall, heard the musical clanging of metal on stone. So it often went: when one had freedom literally in one's own hands, one so often let it fall--unthinkingly, unaware, one let it fall. It was her own doing. She had had it in her hand and she had let it go. You will reap what you sow.

He caught her shoulders, hooked his fingers just under her shoulder blades, and pushed her against the door--not hard, not roughly, but certainly firmly. Not once did his mouth leave hers--not for any length of time that matters, only for as long as it took to catch a breath and start another kiss.

She knew a little now of his two great loves (call them that, sure). Probably best that she didn't know of the scores of women who, over so many long years, had taken him to their beds.

[advancedbosoms]

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Yeah, the still rational and increasingly annoyed portion of her mind agreed. That's where this is going, moron.

Definitely moronic, definitely should be stopped. But instead, her body decided it made more sense to let him push her to the door, let him kiss her. It decided to bite his lip instead of pulling away, tug on his hair instead of pushing him back, moan into his mouth instead of demanding he stop.

Nothing like making a decision with the full and total realization that you'll hate yourself for it soon.

[unflagging]

Nothing like! Mostly because he was making a decision with the full and total realization that he would not hate himself for it soon. So, therefore: nothing like her situation at all.

He kept her up against the door, but decided (still not hating himself for it!) it would be a better scene all around if he cupped her face in his hands--gently, softly, as a lover might. She can grip and tug and pull and groan and he would hold her gently and admire her soft skin and her soft soft soft hair. No biting here (not yet, at least), but perhaps his tongue dabbled and touched at her lips.

They certainly could have been something. There was no denying that. Especially not now.

[advancedbosoms]

Somehow, the way he was doing that, holding her like that, it was ten times more disturbing than the rest. This man, this man who had talked about dismemberment and murder and dead, crazy wives? Being tender and gentle and caressing her skin? It was twisted.

But apparently, twisted was what she was into right now. Because she didn't ask him to stop, didn't wrench away.

"Tell me," she breathed against his lips. "Tell me you want me."

[unflagging]

"I want you," he breathed in reply. "I want you. Of course I want you." Another kiss. "How could I not? How could I not long for this beautiful, clever, bold woman?" He left off her mouth and slipped kisses now along her neck and behind her ear. "I want you. I want to hold you, I want to feel you move. I want to touch you." Well, he was doing that already. "I want to taste you." A kiss to punctuate that declaration because, well, see above. "I want the scent of your skin. I want the curve of your back. I want to see your eyes. I want you."

I want you to want me. I need you to need me. Not the most opportune time to remember that little ditty but, hey. Chicks dig Cheap Trick.

[advancedbosoms]

Oh, Cordy. That ego was bound to get you in trouble someday. Apparently that time had arrived, because the declaration was enough to make her growl, grab his hips and yank him close, kiss him again.

Okay, so he was bad. She'd already reminded herself of that, lots of times. The other facts needed to be explored.

One, she wanted him. Had been attracted to him for a long time, no denying that.

Two, it was her mistake to make.

Third, he was incredibly old and incredibly powerful, from everything she had learned, and yes, this was flattering in some dark, horrible way.

"Altar," she pulled away to demand. "The floor is freezing."

[unflagging]

Chicks dig bad boys too. That's a truth universally acknowledged.

She pulled away, he pulled her close again. "You're right. It is cold down here."

He collected her gently in his arms and drew her up to her feet.

"Do you think the altar" since that's what she was calling it "will be much better?"

Still, he was pulling her across the floor with him. It might still be cold--he didn't care. It was certainly more symbolic. That much was certain.

[advancedbosoms]

She had been so eager to get out of here. She'd just wanted to be free. Now the key was lying on the floor and she was absolutely not leaving, not for anywhere with a down comforter or mattress. Not for warmth.

Cold was what she deserved right now and that aside, she wouldn't risk anyone seeing her, with him, like this.

She followed along, laughing suddenly, not even sure why.

"Tell me something horrible you've done," she said. "Something really bad. Kicking puppies or, I don't know, blinding an old woman."

A reminder, this time. She felt like she needed to remind herself of all that, of who he was. She was going forward with this, but not with the nice widower he'd pretended to be. With the real, honest to goodness creature he was.

[unflagging]

Now he laughed and trailed his fingers gently across her face, smoothing her cheeks with his thumbs. He smiled and looked into her eyes (and they really were pretty eyes, for all that, it was true).

"I killed a king," he whispered over her, now stroking her hair just as softly as he had touched her face. "I poisoned him in his nightly cup of wine with a poison that burned him from the inside out. It took three days before he died. Will that do?"