dohaeras | open post/cont. threads etc

[ The sad truth is: Aemond would have flourished on Dragonstone. Miserly and cold though it is, for a Targaryen who loves the beasts it is a kind of heaven, unlike the rest of Westeros where the septons quietly disapprove of Targaryen customs and dragons at large. But he is not welcome there, never has been, and chafes at his lot as quietly as he can.

A little spite, violence, and entitlement is what compared to no sense of belonging?

His throat works, the brush of Daemon's fingers evoking more purring moans as Aemond closes his eyes properly. It's the only time he's obedient aside from perfunctory politeness toward Alicent, as is her due as his mother; for no one else would Aemond let them guide how he gives head, hair stinging at Daemon's grip (perfect), and lips rubbed a shining red that stands out in the wan sunshine and superfluous candles. His hand on Daemon's thigh switches between his legs to cup his balls as he sucks him down, trying to work him over completely while not choking.

Luckily, he's a diligent student in all his lessons. ]

[ Aemond would understand the true heat of Dragonstone, Daemon knows it. Cold with its freezing sea air, it's not as damp as Driftmark, the citadel so high astride the volcano— its great heart of molten rock and fire warming them, like a giant dragon's egg.

Theirs. A colony of Old Valyria, cut away from the mainland and its rural, dull ways.

Tension coils deep in him, wound tighter and tighter by Aemond's efforts. His breath becomes more shallow, and he feels sweat at the hairline at the back of his neck. It's true— Rhaenyra does not have time nor inclination for acts like these, as she did when they first married. He doesn't begrudge her, she is on her sixth pregnancy and he's not about to put her on her knees in such a state anyway, but fuck it feels good to do this.

Daemon still doesn't fuck into his face, but he begins to push his head down just a little harder when he bobs, holding him for an extra second here or there, until he holds him for longer— pulling him off after, petting his hair, pressing the end of his cock obscenely against his lips in a vulgar caress. ]

Good at that, [ he whispers. ]

[ Aemond acquiesces that hold when it keeps him here or there, nose brushing silver curls or lips rubbing under the flare of a crown as Daemon is indulged. He gets his first few deeper breaths when Daemon decides he wants to comb through Aemond's silky hair and see his cock rubbing over swollen, pretty lips: understandable, he thinks smugly.

The praise makes him shiver, throbbing in sympathy.

His fist takes over the job of stroking him, loose then tight, slow then fast, alternating to the grip in Aemond's hair as he focuses on making a show of himself. He laps at the slit and occasionally dips down for an obscenely wet suck and a Mmm, but that's only half his devious plan: his middle-finger extends to rub up behind Daemon's balls and see if it feels as good for him as it does for Aemond (he about came the first time a lad showed him), generously mouthing at his cock in case he protests.

Daemon was right, he does want everything. ]

[ There's a hint of a groan now and again on his exhales as they grow rougher, and yes, he is looking at Aemond's pretty mouth and how good it looks next to his hard cock. Now there's a sight worth committing to a tapestry. They'd have to weave in gemstones, not just in Aemond's eye, but rubies on his wet mouth and the slickest parts of his aching cock.

Ah— ]

I didn't know just how greedy, [ Daemon says, laced with a chuckle. ] But you're mad with it, aren't you? You can't think of anything else but me.

[ He doesn't protest, nor yank Aemond's hand away; external prostate stimulation is no unknown act, and not an uncomfortable one. Daemon is not overly interested in bottoming, overall - it feels good, those questing fingers, but not better than fucking his cock into something. When the itch captures him, he finds he prefers women and their fingers or instruments— his Laena was the best, powerful, taller than him, as adventurous as any man and so strong out of necessity to control Vhagar.

(Huh, there's a thought.) ]

Give me your hand.

[ Might be a little mad, he doesn't know. After lodging a sapphire in his skull everything else ranks low.

He angles Daemon's cock slightly away from his lips and offers up his other hand, mildly anxious as to whether he misstepped but obeying the request anyway. There's no other choice when his knees ache on the thin rug of the maester's office and he can't rise in a hurry.

Aemond asks, ] Uncle? [ and waits for instruction. ]

[ They all have a touch of it— or is that just the way they're meant to be?

Daemon takes the offered hand, pressing his thumb against his palm just to feel him for a brief, strangely sensual moment, before he pulls it up to his mouth and sucks Aemond's index and middle fingers into his mouth. Bent forward enough to facilitate it without hunching over unattractively (priorities, even while unraveling).

He keeps his gaze on his nephew's remaining eye as he does it, wetting them, tonguing them, letting him feel light scrapes of teeth. The angle is too different and too shallow to offer any clues about whether or not Daemon has dedicated any time to learning how to suck a cock, but he doesn't have any qualms about putting things in his mouth.

When he releases him, he guides Aemond back down to let him switch hands, giving him wet fingers to touch him with, though he keeps hold of his wrist. Controlling, intent on showing him what he likes, moderate pressure, just there. It'll get him off faster, which is helpful for getting the fuck out of here before the maester wants his office back, but not great for the future potential of fucking Aemond again and leaving him raw and sore tomorrow. But there are other things. ]

Like this.

[ Oh, a tutorial. Once he (ah, the view is nice) realises he's being taught, he resettles his knees and gets comfortable for the show Daemon puts on, every pass of his mouth over Aemond's fingers making him harder in his leathers. They twitch when he feels teeth, soft breaths parting his lips; he pays attention to where Daemon positions his hand, the press of his fingertips, and takes over as he goes back to sucking his cock, immersing him in tight heat to help with Aemond's ... tutoring.

He gets to work like Daemon is a dragon he wants to conquer (he is), enthusiastically sinking down to the places he liked before, relaxing his throat to take him deeper, pairing that with the pressure of his fingers.

Daemon might as well have said Dohaerās, newly the focus of Aemond's education. ]

[ It's very gratifying— not just the dual points of stimulation, but the doubled layers of what's going on here; being pleasured by Aemond, and instructing him at the same time. Getting exactly what he wants, and knowing how desperate his nephew is to devour all of this information and keep it stored away to memorize, and improve on. All for Daemon, and their mutual sexual fervor.

One hand around Aemond's wrist, the other kept in his hair, Daemon guides his head up and down, and keeps his questing fingers so that he can't press back any further than where Daemon likes. He maintains it even when it's clear that Aemond is a lightning-quick learner and doing exactly what he wants, that he doesn't have to keep hold of him. It's just too good to be using him this way. ]

Good boy, [ is a hissed whisper, and Daemon feels a twitch through his spine, making his posture shift. Ah.

Quick, now, he moves Aemond's head back and down onto his cock faster, then lets him take over in favor of holding more of his hair, almost too tight, while he's unable to stop from rocking his hips in short snaps before he spills, hot and pulsing, a harsh groan ripped out through clenched teeth. ]

[ Sex with secrets, that's what it is. Trusted with Daemon's preferences, Aemond is mindful never to push further than what his uncle allows and lets him feel the pleasure build to a crescendo while his own jaw grows weary and aches, spit shining all down his chin from the drool and precome. The grip on his wrist feels like a connection more than anything else, he doesn't feel any way about it other than proving he's deserving of seeing Daemon break down.

He gets to, and more. Good boy draws out a whine that he will never admit to.

Aemond swallows down come and the salty burn has his eyes stinging but he isn't about to shame or insult his uncle by letting it hit the floor, or worse still spitting it out. His hair is a wreck, free and fluffy in Daemon's fist, and Aemond is moaning around the length buried down his throat as his hips buckle in sympathy. When he can pull away he gasps and coughs, turning his head to drag down breaths. He tips his head back and looks up at his uncle, used and kneeling before him with a smear of come on his lips that he licks off as an afterthought, one violet eye dark with arousal and the other sparkling, as ever. Proud of himself. ]

[ It crackles and sparks and burns him, pushing tension to a breaking point and then shattering, draining it out of him in sweet pulses, and leaving him dazzled and light and looking down at Aemond and his ruined, proud face.

Lovely.

Daemon lives, for a brief moment of time in which no other thoughts manage to congeal in his post-orgasmic brain, in a world where this is daily life, and Viserys has ever behaved as a proper Targaryen, and he gets to pet this boy's cheek before the contended face of his lady wife and all their silver-haired children.

The hold on Aemond's hair becomes a clutch around the back of his skull. ]

Come here so I can taste myself in you.

[ There's little encouragement he needs, although in his fevered earnestness he stumbles up from his knees and catches himself on the edge of the table beside Daemon, the momentum carrying Aemond forward into a kiss all impatience and desire with the taste of Daemon on his tongue, for once not asking permission while his mind is clouded with a red haze. He slides a hand up a tunic to grip at the shoulder and takes a breath, or else risks suffocating himself (he might do it, if it meant a release from the deep-set ache in his body).

Wound up, Aemond is dangerous in his own right, but the insistence in him softens at the edges ... with effort. ]

[ Daemon kisses him and holds him close, sweeping into his mouth with clear ownership, letting him feel how much he's still wanted even though he's already hit his peak. Good boy, and he's rewarded with a silent affirmation that he's not someone to be cast aside once used. (This time.)

He can feel how needy Aemond is, his whole form like one taught nerve, and he pets through his nephew's hair while he presses his other hand to his cock trapped in his leathers, rubbing firmly. More rewards, for reeling himself in and not just rutting against Daemon madly, though he can tell he's on the verge. ]

Just as you should be.

[ Tasting of Daemon's seed. More kisses and heavy touches until he pulls both hands down and begins to put himself away and redo laces, though he stays close, the backs of his knuckles brushing up against Aemond's body. ]

What are you thinking about, right now?

[ He grips the table either side of Daemon, crowding him in without forcing his weight. Unwilling to let him leave (as if he could stop him). Every brush of knuckles is a torment after being petted like that, wound up so hair sticks to the corner of his mouth and his depth-perception is a little ruined by how light-headed being hard is making him, needing to tilt his head to watch Daemon's busy fingers like the personal insult they feel like. ]

That if you don't get me off I'm going to rip this fucking rock out of my head and make the next servant I see wear it.

[ Temper, temper, an undercurrent he bites out even as he behaves. ]

[ Frustration is beautiful on Aemond, all fiery and bristling. Daemon would like to see him really, truly mad, not just irritated or spoiling enthusiastically for a fight. He imagines that it's magnificent to behold, and will still be so even after in another twenty years once he's matured and tempered himself— because of course he will; Aemond is too clever to fall into real madness.

Daemon laughs softly and dips his head in for a light, teasing kiss, still working on himself. It's not comfortable standing around with his cock out while he's still got everything else on, alright. ]

It wouldn't look half as pretty on anyone else.

[ Still a bit funny that Aemond could go and command Vhagar, then get absolutely rocked by a littler boy with a knife. Kids do the damnedest things.

Breeches seen to, Daemon returns to palming him through his own, one against the hard line of him and the other wrapping around to squeeze one globe of his behind, pulling him in so they're leaning together body to body. ]

Will getting off satisfy you?

[ A breath parts his lips when flattered, some of the tension easing as it cuts through the angry bees in his mind and settles something always striving for that praise. He leans into the caresses, chin tipping down as he shakes his head and bites his lip to stop anything more than muffled moans slipping free. It's too damn hot with his hair fanning out, undone, sweat sticking to his temples and to his cock inside his clothes which might soon be ruined if the stance he takes to arch into Daemon's hand is any indication. ]

... No.

[ Because he will still want Daemon again, later, and again and again, and he knows he can't have that (is quite certain Daemon would tire of him eventually if he made himself a permanent fixture) but he damn well deserves everything for being the smartest, the best with a sword, the rider of the largest dragon, and he hates that he can't have it. It's unfair. He could excel himself in every subject known to man, wildling, and dragon, and it ultimately means nothing (burning everything down seems like a good idea, sometimes) because every fucking answer is always No.

He's going to come if Daemon keeps pace, no matter the cloth between them. ]

[ Who can say when Daemon's passions could fizzle out? In the succession of his lovers, are there actually any he's cast aside, or have they left him, through death or through fear of his recklessness? Would he not maintain for as long as possible, too demanding of the world to ever waste passion where it blooms, no matter its morality?

One never knows which strings stay tied 'til death. ]

Then this must not be the end. [ His mouth brushes against his nephew's, still touching him, encouraging him to rut up against him into his hand, fully intent on ruining his clothes. In Valyrian, finally, ] Give me that fire of yours right here between my hands, dragon.

[ Unexpected as Daemon's response is, his words on both accounts do the trick faster his hand. Aemond nudges into the kiss until a jolt of pleasure has him tipping forward, forehead pressing to his uncle's neck with a near-startled groan. The shuddering wave that hurtles through him has Aemond muffling his cries on Daemon's shoulder so as not to draw any maesters near, hands flying to his uncle's sides as he holds on while ruining his breeches and trying to inadvertently shove him against the table. Dragon, he's called, and he cleaves to every part of the fond compliment.

He pants harshly in the crook of a neck, a tremble in his knees and arms as he tries to stay upright in the golden aftermath and not crush Daemon in place. His own little fantasy has him picturing a bed in which they are naked and he can kiss every inch of Daemon from his fingers to his ribs, just for the pleasure of feeling him naked against his own skin. They belong together, he's sure, if not on how. His mind is a fog around every part of the world around them. ]

... Come to me tonight. Early. [ Some time where it's not clandestine but thrillingly normal. Aemond kisses his way up to an ear, voice husky with release and filthy, sweet promises. ] Make an excuse to come fuck me in my bed where I've thought about you since I was sixteen.

[ No raven need deliver the message this time. ]

[ He'd have liked to get Aemond's cock out, feel him properly, or even bend him over this stodgy desk and get fingers in him (Daemon doesn't get on his knees for anyone, no offense kid), but there's something wonderfully satisfying about this, sending him to pieces and making him such a mess, feeling him go wild fully clothed and pressed near in the contained circle of his arms.

Daemon licks his mouth gently, teasingly, stealing breathless shudders until Aemond is whispering in his ear, filthy and desperate. He squeezes his ass.

Maybe he will.

(Sixteen, so young, and they'd not seen each other then; did Aemond sit stewing in memory of Driftmark until his blood flowered, and then found himself haunted with memories and fantasies of a dragonrider who could handle him? Beautiful.) ]

Never enough, [ he says in a murmur, reflecting on their predicament, still petting up and down his spine. ] Which rooms are yours?

[ There are so fucking many people in this godsdamn castle rn, shit. ]

[ People would tell him growing up that he was the image of young Prince Daemon, especially once his hair grew long. It was somehow a compliment and after he read up more on his uncle he was rather pleased by the comparison, but it's starting to feel embarrassing how closely everything aligns; he didn't choose his rooms, after all. ]

Baelon's chambers, my brother is at the end of the wing.

[ The princes' corridor, as it's been known to him, with Aemond in the traditional second-son's rooms. Doubtless Daemon will be very familiar.

Although he enjoys being groped and pawed at there's a moment where he looks around for his eye-patch then gets sidetracked by how messy his hair is. He drops a dutiful kiss on a cheek and steps back with languid movements to try combing his long, tangled silver mane into submission, finally able to stand without support, and while his breeches feel disgusting the leather blessedly lets no one know what's happened within. If Extremely Ruffled and Ravished were a look ...

His gaze remains on Daemon. ]

You had best leave here first, it won't be such of a surprise if they catch me.

[ Whereas a lot of wtfing and snooping might happen if Daemon is seen in such a place. He gives him a shrug as if to imply No offence. Also, ]

Someone will be missing you soon.

[ It's not like people question where Aemond is, his presence isn't that overbearingly obvious when absent, whereas when his uncle isn't around everyone acts like they took their eye off the Balerion in the room. ]

[ Huh, he really should have figured it'd be his old quarters. That is funny, though at least it means Daemon knows just how to get there without being noticed. He sees to his own hair, not as badly in disarray as Aemond's but still the victim of some desperate clutching, and has the audacity to look fine— though maybe it's just an illusion, because people so often expect Daemon to look disheveled or blood-soaked anyway. Regardless, he finishes up and takes a moment just to look at him.

Whatever he searches for (or finds?) he doesn't say. ]

Until next time.

[ An escape—

And a day, in which Daemon hasn't yet been missed openly, but only because everyone knows how busy he has the potential to be, in King's Landing, and cross-checking his current position out of simple curiosity would be a pain. There are a hundred moving parts to his daily life on Dragonstone, and a hundred more here. He sees his wife, and he sees the commander of the City Watch, and he attends a meeting with the dragonkeepers who are agitated that Caraxes' unconstrained presence is riling up the younger dragons still kept in chains day to day, he visits his brother.

Ruinous, still. Daemon made the choice to stay with Rhaenyra, committing to their children and supporting her refusal to return to the Red Keep because she had no one else to support her. He understood— she was besieged and loathed, was attacked by the queen in full view of the traveling court, and there is no doubt that she, and her children, would not have been safe there, even with Viserys' support, increasingly weak as it's been. Yet there's always been a part of him that's burned about it; he wants to be here to protect his brother, even though he can plainly see he'd be so waylaid by these people he wouldn't have been able to.

It is heartbreaking enough that he spends much of the late afternoon with his youngest children; Aegon and Viserys, silver-haired and barely aware of what's going on, and Joffrey, who is young enough to have known no other father besides Daemon. The servants are used to his presence, close household as they are, and it's possible for anyone passing by through the courtyard below the guest wing to hear Daemon sing old fairy-stories as he paces by the windows, son named for his brother in his arms.

And then, perhaps, is sneaking time. ]

[ Once Daemon leaves, Aemond puts his head in his hands and lets out a stifled noise of frustration at himself. He determines not to waste his day pining after his very married uncle and strides out of the maester's office alone as if he had every right to be in there.

The rest of his afternoon is spent in the training yard testing new squires, the atmosphere jovial and focused when Ser Cole turns up and teaches them a counter to a new move. Swords clashing for so long draws the wandering gang of Aegon and his cronies who, while laughing at everyone, start cheering on Aemond at his brother's direction, leading to a shout of "For the Red Keep, Aemond!" from Aegon (and everyone hears For me, for the rightful heir, the firstborn son). He wins his bout to whistles and is in a good enough humour to be absorbed into Aegon's gaggle as they make their way to a parlour for the evening, the pat on his back from his pleased brother meaning more than he lets show.

Away from the adults, the twenty-somethings have their own little dinner party on informal couches and floor-cushions, with Aemond reading quietly as he puts his feet up and half-watches the variation of knucklebones that Aegon is trying to win. Oddly spiced pasties are brought for everyone to taste (both princes gag), the girls are instructed to dance by Aegon and the other boys so their pretty skirts swirl, and everyone gets a little too merry on wine.

Aemond leaves early as exhaustion from the night before takes hold at last, leaving his book balanced on his brother's face where Aegon is calling him boring.

It's overwhelmingly quiet in his own rooms. The main antechamber's table is still covered in various philosophy and history books, quills stuffed in the mouth of a statue of Balerion paperweight atop inky sketches of saddles; no one has touched this area. The servants would not dare. Beyond the curtains, in his bedchamber, the fireplace has been lit and its simmering glow illuminates the stone figurines above the hearth (carved by his father's masons, Sunfyre and Dreamfyre with Vhagar in the middle) as well as a stray fang lost when Vhagar was eating a bull that sits in the middle of Aemond's bedside table amidst other eye-patches and a pile of scrawled notes from Aegon sent at all hours by harried servants.

He calls for a bath, stews awhile. By the time he's dry and wearing fresh cotton breeches for bed, he barely reads half a chapter of his book — The Purpose of Theology and Individuation — before he falls asleep with it still in his hand.

Entirely, and accidentally, forgetting Daemon and the invitation from earlier. ]

[ Aemond's now, Daemon's before, and Baelon's before that— a direct line to instill the tradition, as before that, Aenys had too many children and no order to any of it. Some of the best and most discreet hidden passages can be slipped through to these chambers, and he remembers them— larger in his mind. Gods, how time moves.

Does he even make it, or is he pulled away by duty, by guilt, by disinterest? Is nostalgia enough, through ornate lattice panels, to satisfy his curiosity from afar?

Hard to say. There's no proof one way or the other, but Aemond has been losing sleep because of Daemon for a while, and he does paint a pretty picture there. Perhaps if he looked hard enough he'd find fingerprints on his books and notes (saying what about his wife, you little pricks?), and perhaps his dressing gown over the screen near the false wall was on the other side when he left that morning, but there's nothing conclusive.

Aemond is a man and a boy at once. Someone has to make decisions about his health.

In the morning, there's talk of Prince Jacaerys and Lady Baela being escorted outside the keep by their father— not in any of the deep dark places that Prince Daemon used to frequent, but a respectable, if humble tavern, to eat and watch the bards, and everyone finds it very romantic (and very responsible, and there's no talk of the young lovers being busted by dad on an escape). Everyone takes breakfast in a hall nearer the kitchens, and Daemon has young Viserys again, sitting with him on a bench and playing a game with him and his nurses. ]

[ Aemond wakes and washes, the fog of sleep carrying him half-into his clothes before he remembers, and oh fuck. Shit. Hurriedly shrugging on a shirt to go and check the hidden (of course Daemon would have known them) passageways into his chambers, he searches for any sign of a note and wanders back in confused, turning full-circle for a sight of a scrap of paper — anything.

A servant walks in after knocking ... all is as it should be.

A sinking feeling lodges in his throat, then his gut, a stone that won't be dislodged as he considers the alarming reality that his uncle has lost interest just like that. That's ... not fair. Anger builds on a bedrock of offence and he asks the help whether anyone called on him last night after he retired, told No, my prince, which only sours his mood even further. No one is there to see the pink cloud his neck and cheeks but he feels like a fool of the highest order. Gods be good, it galls to know Aegon has more damnable experience with this sort of thing and would be able to advise him if it were not Daemon and Aemond were actually capable of even hiding that fact, were he to seek his brother out, but he's too hot-tempered and, anyway, it's all crystal clear (it's all Rhaenyra, the centre of everyone's world, so why bother?). He fell asleep, yes, but still. Still. Not a single fucking note? What was he supposed to do, he stresses as he paces his room, read the man's bloody mind and know exactly what he wanted in that office? Furious, snapping at the bewildered servants as he hauls on his armour for the training yard and stalks through the corridors to ... the wrong breakfast room, he feels his patience thin even further.

By the time he's redirected to whatever picturesque hall everyone agreed upon without him, he looks grim enough that even Aegon doesn't comment and simply pulls an Uh oh face as he leans around him to snag some bacon and an apple. Aemond doesn't waste a glance on the table (on him, sitting there with his preferred family) before cutting off Alicent with, "I'll be in the yard."

"Aemond, are you well? Did you not sleep —?"

"I said I'll be in the yard!"

On his heels, he hears Aegon mutter, "Anyone want to take bets on how many kneecaps will be getting sent to the maesters today?"

Aemond goes exactly where he said he would, barks for someone to spar with in lieu of Cole, and take his anger out on some very alarmed squires. Half an hour in he has broken a nose and slit a young man's thigh to the bone, spitting bland apologies as they are carted off and new opponents are found for a thunder-faced prince prowling for new faces he can actually afford to hit. ]

[ Perhaps, if Daemon were someone else, and Aegon wasn't a menace to all things living, the elder Hightower abomination might say, Why would he leave a note, if there was a chance I might find it instead of you?

Rhaenyra finds it in herself to wrench her focus away from being fondly exasperated at her husband's babytalk antics to commiserate with Alicent about boys and their moods, and even Helaena finds herself nervously (does she have any other way?) charmed by Prince Daemon, who agrees to allow his boys spend time playing with Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, even though she leans over and tells him, No witches, not yet.

On the balcony looking over the yard, there's a flash of white and blue— Rhaenys, but only for a moment, coming out then back again, ushering Rhaena away from observing too much unseemly bloodshed; what a horrible sport for a young lady to be so indifferent to, what in seven hells does Daemon expose her to on that rock? (Well.) She is replaced, then, by a figure that gives up leaning back on the balcony wall, moving instead to rest his forearms on the parapet and stare openly at Prince Aemond and the puddles of blood his paid actors are leaving behind.

They aren't actually allowed to hit the prince that hard. Daemon remembers well; it's this sort of training that left him so easily turned on his arse by Criston Cole at tourney. Simpler times. He deserved the embarrassment, then.

Like a gargoyle, or perhaps one of the many carved dragons at Dragonstone, Daemon silently watches, expression unreadable. ]

[ He catches sight of Rhaena and ignores her, only glancing back over when the blonde hair is swapped for another's — which he definitely didn't see, no, the balcony is cursed. His next opponent provides some sport but Aemond doesn't play fair and once he side-steps a swinging blade he brings the pommel of his sword down hard between the lad's shoulders, eliciting a shriek of raw pain as a body hits the floor. Cole, finally having had his fill of Aemond's bad mood, barks that's enough and for the prince to leave until he can control his temper.

He has to cross the yard and walk by Daemon up the stairs in order to get back in the castle. It's done with Aemond's gaze fixed on the ground and a swift step, hair streaming behind in a hurry as his skin crawls with anger. ]

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