Difference between revisions of "Logs:Tayte's Lucky Day"

"If he was going to do something, he'd have done it by now." Tayte and H'vier were arguably half right when they said that. G'laer's designs on H'vier were longer term; he was still struggling with the matter of Reisoth. If H'vier were Havier and not a dragonrider, it would be easy. But he isn't, and it wasn't. Tayte, he might've let off the hook entirely, only... On turnover they fought. He and Oli fought. They almost never fight. And they fought because of her. It made the wounds fresh all over again. He couldn't take it out on H'vier; he certainly couldn't take it out on Oliwer, but Tayte? What was she to him? Nothing. It was worse that Oliwer cared about her. Even if he cared about everyone, he cared about her.

He'd been patient since turnover, waiting for his ideal moment. And this was it. He saw her friend leave her at her door. He saw she was sobbing and that meant vulnerable, and probably distracted. She wasn't much of a threat to begin with, but G'laer never turned his nose up at an advantage, no matter who the opponent was.

He tried the door. Unlocked. He knew once he was in, things needed to move swiftly. He needed to get to her before she screamed.

When she heard the sound of the door, she started to turn from where she leaned hard against the loveseat, "Havi," her voice was a mixture of relief and something else. Something he couldn't readily identify. But it didn't matter.

Three... she turned. He moved.

Two... her eyes bulged and she drew breath.

One.

He was on her, twisting her, clapping a large hand over her mouth, his other arm wrapping facilely around her neck. This wasn't for fun.

He knew he could make it all over in a matter of moments; but she didn't deserve something so swift, and something (besides Teisyth whom he'd already shut out) nagged at him.

Besides, she was the Weyrleader's bitch; one of them, anyway. It had to look like an accident. He'd come prepared, but this would take time.

The first step was over in a matter of seconds. He loosened the hold when her body went limp in his arms. It was easy then to bind and gag her. With her secured to the headboard, he could afford to take his time. He handled his instruments with care. Each was put carefully to its purpose, and soon the deed was done.

The drawer unlocked.

He pulled a bottle from her stash and popped the top. That's as far as he got before he heard the moan. He brought the bottle with him to the bed. Her blue eyes blinked confusedly first then widened with terror. He didn't do these things for that look, but it would be a lie to say there wasn't a part of him that liked it. Only now there was a part of him that hated the part that liked it. That was new and it gave him pause, but only for a moment.

He sat on the bed next to her, tilting the bottle to sniff at the contents. "Your lucky day. A good whiskey. You might even enjoy the first bit of this, even if you certainly won't enjoy the last." That's when the tears started and the muffled sobs and what he could only assume was begging. "You made a choice, Tayte. Or would you rather, here at the end of your life, I call you Kaytee?" That made her cry harder. "Now, I'm going to remove your gag and you're going to have a drink. Several drinks. And if you scream, it's going to hurt a lot before you go. Do you understand?" She didn't nod, but he assumed that was because she was so consumed with panic.

When he pulled the gag down, he was ready with the bottle and his hand followed the booze, covering her mouth and waiting until she swallowed. Her lips moved against his hand; he'd sort of expected that. An attempt to bite or fight back or something. But instead there were muffled words. Words that sounded enough like-- he had to take his hand away. She got them out and sobbed. He stared.

"It might be his."

He swallowed. Felt sick. Couldn't look at her for a long moment.

Then he put the gag back and got up, taking the bottle with him. He drank, and paced. And paced, and drank. Then he set the bottle on her nightstand, and returned to the bed.

"He will never know. Do you understand me? You won't see him again. You won't speak to him. You won't go anywhere near him. If your child needs something, you will come to me. Do I need to tell you the consequences if you choose to do otherwise?"

She nodded and then shook her head. Yes, she understood. No, he didn't need to tell her the consequences. He moved to the things he'd brought, and took them to the door before returning to the bed, undoing the binding on her hands and leaving her to deal with the rest. Then he left, without another word. Everything had changed in that moment. Everything.

It was too much.

When it was over, Teisyth wanted to know what happened. G'laer wasn't sure when or how she'd got through his block this time, but he didn't care. She always did. His mind might as well be an ever-changing labyrinth with the way they played this war game. To the victor, the spoils. He told her.

« A baby! » She was the only one who was excited.

Fuck no, we can't get him a baby gift.

She was disappointed. The rest? The violence? His dark need? That was just a part of him; her G'laer.