[ M ] give up any thought you had of being free

This is probably among Branwen's stupider ideas, but she can't always be perfect. And, admittedly, she's perhaps had a bit too much to drink and a few too many suspicious herbs. One can hardly blame a girl for wanting to live a little, especially when said girl is a wandering soul with nowhere to put down roots. She gets bored, and then she gets...stupid. The potent combination of whatever she's imbibed tonight has a particularly addling impact on the logical thinking part of Branwen's brain.

She's actually not certain how she'd gotten from the bar to where she is right now, sitting on a hill overlooking a secluded little cottage, dark and quiet for the night. But she is certain that she wants inside that house. It looks well enough kept up that she has convinced herself in record time that there's the valuables to snatch, and maybe some more booze to swipe.

Ever-so-stealthily, Branwen slinks down the hill—but that's the easy part. Creeping around the building, she pokes her head up to sneak glances through the windows, and picks one that she's pretty sure is on the opposite side from the bedrooms. She's pretty sure about a lot of things right now. "Ohhh, where's my key—" she stage whispers to herself, rummaging in the flowerbeds, and then— "found it." Clutched in her fingers is...a rock. Branwen, who is ordinarily much smarter than this, doesn't give her idea a second thought before she's throwing the rock through the window.

"Shhh," she hushes the shattering glass, and then giggles as she hauls herself up and over the window frame. By some stroke of luck, she manages to land within eyesight of a shelf of liquor, and Branwen beelines across the room for it, clumsily snatching a bottle with little care about what it is. It isn't until she spins around to take in her surroundings that she realizes she'd cut herself on the glass, and she's managed to leave bloody footprints across the floor. "Whoops," Branwen snorts to herself, lifting the bottle—now also smeared with her blood—to her lips.

WE DIE IN THE END

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For once in his life, Killian had decided to actually stay home for the night. Most of the time he was out and about during the witching hours; charming women, drinking liquor with who knows what else, proving (in his eyes, at least) that he was the biggest, baddest, buffest guy in the whole bar. In all honesty, Killian didn't like being at home during the evening hours, probably because of some repressed childhood trauma but he never thought about this - it's a thing of the past now! He lived in the present and didn't much care for the future, either, if that wasn't obvious with his less than stellar choices in life. Viva la vida loca or something like that.

So he had curled up in his bed, convincing himself that the reason he didn't go out and party tonight was because he was feeling under the weather. A little sicky. Maybe just a cold. Some small part of his brain that he often also ignored wished that he had some kind of slave woman to be by his side and take care of him when he felt like this. The man heaved a large, dramatic sigh.

Crash!

Totally sober, Killians reflexes actually performed well, and unlike his drunken counterpart that spooks at least three seconds after actually being exposed to the scare. The raining of glass falling upon the wooden floorboards made him lunge towards the sound, bolting down the hallway and to the room. Once at the frame of the door, he looked inside and saw none other but a ridiculously drunk woman who clearly thought herself to be as silent as a ninja. From his location, he hadn't been noticed yet.

He smirked.

She began to move towards his liquor cabinet, and his lips peeled back silently over his fangs. Tiptoeing on his paws, Killian carefully positioned himself behind her, though where the window was no longer behind her. He inhaled a breath to ready himself before he lunged forward, a foreleg pressing into her throat with his massive body pinning her to the wall.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he questioned rhetorically with a growl; his mouth right next to one of her ears.

Branwen doesn't even manage to make a full turn away from the counter before she's being crashed into, bullied up against the wall by a body that is much larger than hers. The bottle falls from her clutches and shatters on the floor, and she coughs—a little too dramatically—against the sudden pressure at her throat. His growl beside her ear should be terrifying, but she just squirms sluggishly, a shiver rolling down her spine. "You'rereallytall," she breathes on a rush of air, her voice coming out slightly hoarse and definitely slurred.

If her assailant looks long enough at her face, he'll be able to see her pupils blown wide, nearly eclipsing her eyes of color entirely. In addition to her blatantly obvious state of drunkenness, Branwen's behavior is clearly being heavily impact of some kind of drug. If she lives to see the morning, she very well may not remember the events that led up to it.

"Nice house," she adds after a moment, because apparently she's reached the announce-every-thought stage of her inebriation, and for some stupid reason, none of her thoughts are currently worried about the really angry dude pinning her against the wall. Her glazed eyes are darting around the room, taking in what parts of it she can see around his shoulder—which admittedly, isn't much—and her nostrils flare to suck in a breath around his hold, and— "holyshityousmellreallynice."

WE DIE IN THE END

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She dropped an expensive bottle of his wine, and it fell to the floor; glass shattering and the sweet, delectable liquid splattered up the side of his legs and on hers as well. A wave of it's scent wafted up to him, tantalizing him and he could definitely use a glass - or the entire bottle - at this point.

And he had only had seconds of interaction with the thief.

"You will be replacing that," he stated as he pressed into her, anger roiling beneath his skin as he very quickly ran out of what little patience he possessed.

"You'rereallytall," she breathed, and if he wasn't so pissed then he maybe would have laughed.

"Nice house," came a second later, followed by her sniffing him like some kind of seasoned pork chop. His ears pressed against his skull. Her voice was obviously slurred, and he grimaced as he sized her up as much as he could in the darkness. She didn't seem to care too much about the fact she was pinned against a wall by a big guy she didn't know, in a house she didn't own, stealing shit that wasn't hers. He had to give it to her - she had balls, even if she wasn't drunk.

Kinda hot.

"Yeah, and it's mine, so what the fuck are you doing in here?" he hissed back at her. He had to admit, it had been quite some time since he'd been this close to a woman, let alone a pretty one. However, he tried not to think of that - not right now. He had a hand that could take care of whatever tension that arose from this interaction later. Right now, he needed to throw this thief out to the curb. "That was expensive wine you just wasted," he grumbled then, green eyes glancing downwards and he tsked at the state of his fur.

Her eyes roll lazily to the side, peering over her shoulder at the new pile of broken glass on the floor. Somehow, she manages not to point out that it's his fault she dropped it in the first place, so she won't be replacing anything, thanks. On second thought, that's way too many words to verbalize right now anyway, which is probably why she holds onto them.

While her assailant is likely trying to figure out what the fuck to make of her—which, fair, as she's being royally awful right now—Branwen huffs a little impatiently, finally returning her impetuous stare to him when he demands to know her reason for being in his house. Well. It's kind of obvious, isn't it? "Welllll," she drawls, a sure sign that nothing particularly wise is about to follow, "I mishplaced my wine, an' you seem to have more 'n one guy needs so..." Branwen shrugs shamelessly, offering a toothy smile that's somewhat less endearing than the one she wears when she's sober.

"Was it? Oops..." She giggles a little and bites her lip, barely withholding the urge to tell him it didn't seem very expensive. Somewhere, beyond her heavy state of inebriation, there's a little bit of her self-preservation left. Enough to make her say something that many would consider to be the dumbest thing to leave her mouth tonight, "'m sure I can make it up to you somehow."

WE DIE IN THE END

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She was so obviously, disgustingly drunk that Killian almost didn't know what to do with her. Arguing would get neither of them anywhere, and he knew well enough that you couldn't reason with this level of intoxicated. But despite this, Killian was intent on providing her with some consequences to her actions, even if it meant he had to wait for the booze to thin in her blood. He hardly paid any attention to her as she drawled about whatever excuse her dumb mind could come up with, and his ears flicked only when she mentioned misplacing her own wine, and that he could easily give up some of his as he had excess.

An idea popped into the back of his head, one he would plot to carry out later, should she manage to live through his other plans for her. She would learn that this was not more than one guy needs - at least not a guy like him.

She bit her lip, giggling as he watched her eyes roll leisurely inside their sockets. Jesus christ, he thought as she offered exactly the last thing he wanted right now.

"I'm sure I can make it up to you somehow." her heavily implying that her body could get her out of this mess was so amusing that he barked a laugh; despite how pissed off he was at this intrusion, at the same time he couldn't blame her. He had the best wine he could afford, and admittedly he didn't have very secure measures installed on his home to keep wolves like this out. If anything, he was lucky that it was some drunk pretty girl and not a skilled thief intent on obtaining his possessions to the point of blood being spilled.

Killian shook his head, deflecting the offer. He was a bad guy, but he didn't stoop to the level of taking advantage of girls when they couldn't coherently consent. He liked it more when they were sober and not giving up their body - the rush of chasing them that way was much more fun. This was just... sad, as he watched her try to shift into a more sultry position.

He didn't allow her to move that much though, and each wiggle that she attempted was met with his body bearing down on her even more. His green eyes sparkled in the dim light as he schemed on what he would do with her. He only hoped she wasn't from some noble family who would come looking if she was gone too long... he'd just have to make sure he didn't keep her for longer than necessary.

"Somehow is right," he replied, his voice dropping to a growly whisper and he snagged her ear with his teeth. As if implying that yes, she would be giving her body to him. But then he pulled away, repositioning himself so that he could shove her towards the hallway and away from his liquor cabinet. "Bedroom, now," he demanded, allowing the arousal he was denying himself to trickle into his tone as he pushed at her again to get her ass moving.

He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from cackling on what he intended to do.

rated M for sexual themes

It's not often that Branwen makes a fool of herself, but tonight is a spectacular exception to her rule. She likes a good bit of fun, a dangerous game here and there, but in the morning, she'll only see this night for what it is: sloppy. Currently, however, she is nothing short of wildly amused, inappropriately aroused, and not at all as concerned about her current predicament as she ought to be. If she dies young tonight, at least she'll die happy.

His voice drops, sending a shiver rippling down Branwen's spine, his teeth nipping at her ear only serving to excite her even more. This is way more entertaining than stealing his booze, she has to admit. The herculean stranger pulls back enough to give her a shove, and she squeaks her surprise, swaying a little before she balances herself. "Tch, bossy," she chides playfully, but she allows him to herd her down the hall. A trail of bloody footprints follow in her wake.

Maybe he'll forgive her for the mess if she gives him the ride of his life.

WE DIE IN THE END

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Rated M for more sexual themes

Her small hips swayed as he pushed her towards his bedroom, and he hid the roll of his green eyes. This was too easy. However, her squeak made his ears pivot forwards; the sound pulling at his loins yet he had to cage the beast for now. She comments on his bossy tone, but all he does in return is flash his teeth. Idly, he wondered what she was like sober, if this was her drunk. Some say the truths come out while intoxicated - was she the same? Or perhaps she was more demure? The thought of her being reserved and embarrassed of her antics tonight aroused him more than anything else she'd done yet. And again, he pushed those thoughts to the side.

He didn't care about the bloody trail at the moment - it was easy enough to hire some desperate maid who needs to earn a few coins to clean it up for him in the morning. It wouldn't be the most outrageous scene they've found in his home anyway. Lowering his massive head, Killian pushed at her rump again as they passed through the rooms doorframe, and again, towards another door--

and again--

and again--

and again, shoving at her smaller body relentlessly until she was inside of the closet, with any resistance met with indomitable strength. If she protested, he didn't utter a word until the door was shut on her drunken face.

"Sober up, then we'll talk about how you're going to make this all up to me," he sneered through the wooden door, followed by a low snicker. While she may have thought he was an easy target to steal from, she had unintentionally opened up a huge can of worms that would never, ever be empty so long as Killian O'Connaill lived.

He herds her down the hall like a border collie chases a sheep, into a room—across the room. At this point, Branwen begins to protest, albeit only as well as an extremely inebriated woman can manage to do so. When she's shoved unwillingly past the door frame into a small, dark room, she snarls and tries to whirl on him. It's sluggish, and by the time she turns, the door is already slamming shut an inch in front of her nose.

His muffled explanation through the door has her shrieking indignantly, throwing herself against the wood with an audible thump; Branwen is past the point of words, and settles for having an absolute tantrum. There's a familiar swell of panic at being shut into the dark, and the coherent parts of her that remain are grateful her captor cannot see the tears streaking down her face. It's only when she's fully exhausted herself that Branwen slumps against the door, and lets the haze of the drugs and alcohol take over, finally falling silent. Somehow, she ebbs into sleep.

---- time skip to morning ----
She has no idea what time it is. Or where she is. Branwen's head is pounding as consciousness returns to her; she finds herself heaped gracelessly on a wooden floor, neck craned at an awkward angle and a hip aching. She groans softly and stretches, only for her toes to hit an entirely too-close wall. One eye cracks open warily, but when no sunlight glares back, she opens the other. It's unnaturally dark, and her nostrils flare; where the fuck is she? Branwen scrambles to her feet, her breathing picking up, and doing so allows a sliver of light to spill in from beneath the door she'd apparently been laying against.

It does little to calm the staccato of her heart.

She fumbles for the handle, finds unsurprisingly locked, and rattles the door in frustration. Her paw smacks loudly against the wood, her voice sharper and stronger than she feels right now, "hey asshole! Open this fucking door right now and I'll let you keep your balls." She is not usually so uncouth, but while she cannot recall everything about the night prior, she knows she's already well past pretending to charm him. That, and panic is closing in around her in suffocating waves.

She needs to get out.

WE DIE IN THE END

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While she thought of this all as a game, that attitude immediately changed once the woman was forced into his closet without a chance to escape. Her howls, screams and kicks from behind the solid door was like music to his ears. He remained there until the thuds finally stopped, until he heard her intoxicated, exhausted body slump against it and slide to the ground.

After a few minutes of waiting, he deduced that she had finally passed out. He smirked, and then walked the three feet to climb into his bed and get what rest he'd be able to manage until eventually, a morning in which he knew would be immensely eventful arrived.

-- time skip --

"Hey asshole!"

Killians eyes flashed open, and immediately darted to his closet. An eyebrow raised as a threat was given, and he unapologetically laughed loud enough that he knew she'd be able to hear him. Limbs stretched as he worked the sleepiness from his muscles and bones, and he rolled over onto his back casually, taking his time and not having a care or even a thought that she would possess some form of PTSD from being locked in a tiny little space.

"Not with that BAD-ittude," he responded back, thinking himself witty for such a remark. He rolled the other way now, hanging his paws up in the air and letting his head drape off the side of his bed to look upside down at her residence. "I only let good girls out of their cells, and liquor thieves aren't very good, are they, doll?" a yawn overtook him then, spreading his jaws wide before his teeth clicked shut.

"So, what do I get out of freeing you, hmm?" the kidnapper mused, and brought a paw closer to his face to inspect his toenails.