aviary | CLOSED | prompt eight

[ (And, oh, she's a lovely thing. He doubts the fact will ever get old, not so much a novelty as it is a constant pleasure to behold.) ]

No, not half, [ he answers, leaving it to her to interpret his meaning. The truth is there, should she look closely enough: though there is nothing he truly worships, it is to the warbird that he offers his respect. The warbird, at least, has some stake to claim, where — at least in his view — Cersei does not. The warbird is a creature of legend for a reason — for war after war after war, for carnage — where the Light of the West has little to her name but her name. ]

And I'd ask you take something other than my tongue, if you are so keen upon it; it's come in rather useful to me in my lifetime.

[ (To his credit, he forgoes any vulgarities, given her current stance.) ]

[ This body does not belong to her, nor do these clothes or this collar. They are all part of the cage she in which she remains prisoner, the cage which she believes Lord Baelish will free her from if she blesses his hand, if she guides his blade. Give too readily, however, and she will simply see her passed from one cage to another; and the warbird has grown restless in the Light of the West's nest. (She is not a conquerer and neither is her son, and the sooner the warbird may break their bones and suck free the marrow, the sooner whomever hands her the key to such victory will see himself lord of more than just Seven Kingdoms.)

Her chains rattle again, tunefully, as she gives her shoulders a roll, stretching wings that are no longer there, baring more of herself to him. (It is not the first time he has come to call upon her. She understands the worth of this body to him.) ]

Worship me now, human lord. And we shall what part of you I will take and what part you shall keep.

[ Soon enough, he will deliver her the Lannisters on a plate. Not just the Lannisters, but the Kingdoms themselves, for nowhere does he lack strings to pull and nowhere does he not wield influence. His web is one built through years upon years of scheming and the practical application of blood and gold, and it is only a matter of time before it all comes to fruition.

But, for now, he simply offers her a smile as he reaches up to undo the pin at his collar, hands then traveling down bit by bit to undo the stays to his robes as he takes step after step towards the bed. (There's nothing truly sentimental about this act, so he doesn't bother with the pretense.) ]

You are much too gracious.

[ One pretense, then. (He can't quite help himself.) ]

[ The light catches the mockingbird Lord Baelish wears as his collar and the warbird moves swift and sudden down the length of the bed like some magpie drawn by the glint of metal. Her bonds complain with a heavy rattle and then, without warning draw taught against their tether. The noise they make when the chain finally snaps tight is ugly and resounding like the fat toll of a bell. Still, she strains for him, her bare chest arching forward out of the loose confines of her robe, the pale peaks of her small breasts already sheened with some unnatural glow.

Even like this — demeaned as she is, her posture ignoble for such a lofty bird — her voice commands instead of requests and the narrow of her eyes still speaks: you will worship me. ]

Kneel, mockingbird. The warbird still demands your tongue.

As you wish.

[ There's some perverse enjoyment to be had from making love to her like this, with her bound in chains, but he doesn't linger upon it, shedding the heaviest of his robes before climbing up onto the bed, hands settling on her waist as his lips find first her breast, then her belly, then the rise of her hip bones. It's only then that he glances up, a wicked smile curving his lips. (He doesn't usually take these kinds of indulgences, but, well. Who couldn't?) ]

Is this always how you take worship?

[ He doesn't bother waiting for an answer before his mouth follows that trail of red hair down between her legs, a laugh echoing in the back of his throat. ]

[ His mouth is hot and quick upon her and does not hesitate in looking to suckle the sweetness from her human body. It is a voraciousness that marks everything the mockingbird lord does; his smile, his bow, his constant lies, his quickening lord's kiss — they are all symptoms of the hunger that burns deep inside his hollow breast. And it is that same hunger that will make Baelish a true conquerer in the end.

(The thought alone is enough to turn the warbird's own desires into a seething ache.)

Twisting against her bonds, her throat still held fast by the very end of her chain, the whole of her arches, hips leading to find purchase against that silver tongue. ]

I hate this body, [ she hisses through her teeth, the sharp exhalation of air that accompanies the words a mix of frustration and thinly-veiled pleasure. Although the warbird does not say explicitly, the implication hangs between them in the heady air: as much of a prison as her body may be, the pleasure Lord Baelish gives her makes it tolerable (makes it favorable only for passing moment). ] Free me from it. And you shall win your reward.

[ A number of responses immediately spring to life upon his tongue (who will keep my bed warm when you are gone) but he keeps them to himself, humming just once as he continues his ministrations. Cersei would have his head, he knows (and more of him, if she had her way), if she ever found out, and the risk alone is enough to make the act sweet. But then, too, is the pleasure that the warbird takes from it, a demigod at the mercy — though never completely, he is not such a fool as to believe that — of the joys of the flesh.

Each shudder and each twist of her body is enough to send new thrills down his pine, his ardency burning ever more apparent in the way that he kisses her. And yes, he aches, too, but there'll be time for that later on. ]

CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

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