originallutece | nysa overflow;

[So, here's the thing: it's quiet here. Oh, the environment is perfectly lovely, yes, Rosalind can certainly appreciate that, and she quite enjoys the warmth of the water as she sticks her bare feet in, but really, the main draw? Is that it's empty. She's had more than enough of crowds lately, and so to get to bask in a secluded little spot is bliss.

It's also a bit warm, which is why (being alone) she's conceded to at least removing her jacket and vest. Her boots are off, as are her stockings (which is a bit risque in 1909, but it's not, thank god, 1909), and all in all, Rosalind is enjoying not being quite so dressed up at the moment. She'll be stiff and imposing all day long, but it's nice to have a few minutes in which she doesn't have to be.

Which is why, naturally, someone comes along.

She stiffens at the sound of footsteps, jerking to pull her feet out of the water and shove her skirt back down, but when the figure comes into view--]

Oh. It's you.

[Well. Never mind, then.

That's not a bad it's you. Rather the opposite, in fact: she settles down as she catches sight of him, because there's little point in being fussy. They spent an evening cuddled up together; it's hard to get worked up about mild modesty after that.]

I honestly don't know if I ought to reintroduce myself after that silly hallucination or not.

[i really wish i had a rosalind version of MOM HOLY FUCK b/c that's what I'd put here now if I did

Because mom, holy fuck, Rhys is suddenly 100% more interesting.]

How? With what? How on earth did you install it yourself-- what materials did you use?

[The retort is crude, but not unappreciated; Rosalind's startled into an amused smile.]

Not quite, but the spirit of the message was conveyed. Have a name, or shall I continue to think of you as the man who enjoys beaches and overly aggressive men as much as I do?

What kind of technology?

[A bit of a sore subject, then, or at least something she's self-conscious about. Hm.]

Show me.

[A beat, and then, a sardonic little smile on her face:]

Please. You saw my double. I want to see how close you can approximate his voice.

[And then, before he can call her out on dodging that question:]

Naturally it's curiosity fueling me. But I wouldn't dismissing it with mere.

[He's lucky he's not shaking that finger in implicit scolding of her behavior; she'd be a lot less amenable towards it if so. As it is, she looks doubtful, though amused.]

Really. And whom did you disguise yourself as?

Edited 2017-11-22 23:35 (UTC)

[She gives her one last lingering look, unimpressed by her doubt, but whatever, it is what it is. Rosalind watches the dragons as they come near. For the time being, they're ignoring Angel; Rosalind is what they're interested in, Rosalind and her bloody torso.

Their pace picks up. She's just standing there, and they're too stupid to think it's a trap; they imagine her easy prey, and yet as the first opens its jaws to bite at her--

--she disappears.

And reappears, four feet back, closer to the pen. The dragons start at that, but they're not so easily deterred; with a snarl they rush forward, and Rosalind disappears again, reappearing closer to the pen-- again and again, until she's in the pen proper and the dragons are frustrated beyond reason, snarling as they chase her inwards.]

Now, if you please--

You're far more appealing.

[To the dragons. Because she's bloody. Yeah. That's absolutely what she meant.

Rosalind teleports away on that note, going to stand by the side of the pen. Aranea's got to do this next part by herself; she's not going to risk getting bitten by a dragon who doesn't know you're only supposed to attack the proper bait.

Luckily for her, they are intrigued by Aranea. The boldest one is starting to trot, drool pooling in its mouth as it stares up at what clearly is some kind of bloody snack. The others, encouraged, start to follow; soon Aranea's got three dragons eyeing her up.

Time to run, hm?]

[Absurdly, stupidly (sentimentally, and oh, she hates that part of herself), Rosalind is quietly pleased when he laces their fingers together. It's a moment of sweetness amid the overwhelming filth; it's a false assurance that surely means nothing at all, but that she latches onto gratefully as he spills down her throat. Her fingers grip his tightly as she moans, keening for how he forces himself down her throat again and again. She can just imagine how they must look, his cock thick and hard and leaving an outline against her throat, and god, what she wouldn't give for an outside perspective--

But then he's finishing, and that demands all her attention. Rosalind shudders in relief and pleasure both as he convulses in her mouth, throbbing for each wave of orgasm that hits him. He pulls out quickly enough that it leaves her mouth sticky, come and saliva mixing and dripping over her lips; Rosalind shoves the back of her wrist against her mouth hastily the moment he leaves her, swallowing the mess at the same time.

And then that's it. He sits beside her, his appearance regressing and his gaze amused, and it's such a contrast from the heat and noise of before that she's left a little stunned in its wake. She blinks at him once, twice, her blue eyes wide and her chest rising and falling as she pants--

--and then she gets a hold of herself. Her eyes go hooded and her expression falls into sardonic amusement rather than stunned pleasure. Pushing her fingers through her mussed hair, she tips her head in wry acknowledgement, her mouth quirking into a slight smile (she can still taste him on her; she has to resist the urge to lick her lips).]

I think I've rather an idea. Though you'll notice I'm not running for the hills just yet.

[Because really: while he's overwhelming, that's no bad thing. She can't say she's displeased with the past half hour. Far from it; she's all but soaked through her panties in eagerness, and though her throat is sore and her jaw aches terribly, she's not nearly ready to call it a night.

She can take a break, though. For a minute. She's riled up enough she can't wait more than that, but she'll let them both catch their breath. Rosalind turns slightly, legs curling under her and one elbow resting against the couch as she shifts to face him more.]

All this, and you still haven't gotten my clothes off yet.

[Her gaze wanders over him, her smile growing as she drinks in the view.]

I hope you're as good as giving as you are getting, Bigby. You owe me two.

[One, because she's going to come within a minute of him touching her and she knows it, and so two, because she won't stand for him only having his mouth on her for a few minutes.]

Edited 2017-11-26 21:34 (UTC)

[There's an awful lot of information being left out here, Rosalind knows. She can hear the gaps in her story, and she wonders what information fills them. Who was Joffrey marrying, then? And what had this Ramsay done, that he deserved such a fate?

(He did deserve it, she has no doubt. Cold Sansa might be, but sadistic she is not).

Rosalind watches her for a few more seconds, speculating privately, before saying:]

. . . one was shot. Of mine, I mean. He took a bullet to the face, though it was not at my hand, to my eternal disappointment. I would have dearly liked to be the one to slaughter Jeremiah Fink. And the other . . .

[She smiles faintly.]

A massive drill. Right--

[She slides her fingers under her ribcage, just above her stomach. Oh, yes. Comstock had died horribly, gurgling and choking on his own blood, gasping his shock as he'd reached up towards the people whose lives he'd destroyed.]

I've been told revenge brings no relief, but I found it quite satisfying. And if either of them wake, I'm more than ready to revisit their deaths upon them.

Edited 2017-12-30 22:25 (UTC)

intro log; the egg and I

rhys; intro log

bigby; intro log

angel; intro log

ardyn; intro log

ardyn "i'm not a villain at all no really ros" izunia

angel;

aranea; the one with dragons

bigby; it was the heat of the moment

sansa; a happy fun conversation between ladies