(A/N): Well, to be blunt I've been having quite a lot of trouble inspiring myself to write as of late X_X

The main reason I'm against chapter-based fics is that they require the writer to remain in a persistent mood to write for the fandom. While I still love TES like no tomorrow, for the past few weeks I've been enjoying different fandoms – namely Dishonoured and New Vegas - and as a result I've been unable to return to writing up for it!

So, while I go through the slow and arduous process of writing up the second chapter of Destiny, I give you a bit of classic Shadowfang filler - with more Dishonoured! (Strange how I'm in a Dishonoured mood, considering that 90% of my play-time's been New Vegas as of late O_o)

Now, probably my very favourite level in Dishonoured would be Lady Boyle's Last Party. The concept of infiltrating a masquerade to hunt down your target is beyond awesome, and I still have fun today using alternate means to deal with my target!

However, I don't quite recall where this particular idea came from... Mind you, Lady Boyle does look rather pretty! Read on for a strange retelling of Corvo's fateful mission where he's faced with an entirely different challenge at the ball!

... Been a while since I've written something like this ._.

WARNING: Severe spelling errors, language, awkwardness, a terri-bad ending, peculiar portrayals of intoxication, posh tossers, minor gore and poorly written lemon ahead! (A brief scene, you'll probably see it coming!)

Reprieve

She stood out like Kingsparrow Island upon the thrashing seas, the dazzling light of its vigilant tower forever spinning.

Probably the first mistake made by Lady Boyle on this particular cold, plague riddled night was to hold a bustling party where any stranger with intentions of malcontent could slip in just by putting on an opulent accent. The second was just overly convenient - a guessing game for the identically dressed trio of siblings.

The sisters were practically asking for their deaths.

If the ranting of the spoon-fed patrons was anything to go by, it was all part of a tedious old tradition that the Boyles often held - one growing increasingly stagnant with its constant repetition. Rest assured, being able to openly ask every baron and dame around for tips on who was who certainly beat being forced to coax it out of hapless guards at dagger-point.

Less pain for everyone involved that way.

Corvo Attano - disgraced Lord Protector – mingled within the crowd as wine was poured, food was sampled, deals were made, smooches were shared, and money changed hands amongst land owners and brewers. It'd been half a year since he'd last seen the life-style of Dunwall's nobility; some things never seemed to change, no matter how bleak or bright the present was.

A swaying pair of masked drunks stumbled past him, waving towards their friends. "Daryl, drinks?" a cat-masked woman howled, the subtle slur of a tipsy youth filling her words like the thick froth of a foamy ale. The older man in question rose a glass in salutations, sloppily hovering it under a spewing fountain before swaggering over and offering it to the lady and her comatose companion with an exaggerated bow. The cat-girl guffawed dorkishly, hiking up her mask and sipping at the drink with crimson lips.

"Here, hold this." She motioned to a grim-faced doorman – a City Watch Guard with a strangely pronounced under bite. Begrudgingly he held her damp wine glass while she fixed her slanted mask, no doubt wondering what sort of court martial he'd get for beating her head in with a truncheon.

The City Watch was employed in full force at the party. Some of the guards were privately owned by the richer, higher profile nobles the guest list had to offer, but the presence of official government troops all but confirmed the Regent's influence at the Boyle estate. However, while Corvo may have been a one man army, blessed - or perhaps cursed - with the uncanny powers of ancient magicks, he'd prefer to get through the day without causing too much of a commotion. The entirety of Gristol's City Watch could easily come down on him if he so much as sneezed a tad bit too loudly, and after all: he didn't want to spoil everybody's drinks.

And so he remained by the door, doing his best to fit in to the busy-body scene as he stood in wait for an opportunity to strike. His stare remained fixed at the main stairway, forever yearning for the trio of Boyle sisters to descend from their chambers and grace the party with their presence.

And for one, their last appearance.

It must've been an hour, 'less his months in Coldridge Prison had desensitized him to the passage of time completely. The nobles never seemed to stop drinking and eating, continuing to discuss the most mundane things as if they were a refined experience – the weather, troubles getting there, the latest fashion tips. Guests may've been entering through the main door as a trickle, yet the party was slowly building up into a full-scale flood. Corvo awkwardly tried to slip into a conversation, like an ignored child between two pram-pushing mothers.

"I assure you, it was Tyvian Red." A lanky gentleman clothed in the plainest of clothing reassured, the long beak of his mask wiggling with every vowel. He swirled his drink with an epicure's grace – he was a proper connoisseur, that's for sure. "Tyvian White tastes like swash."

His friend – a hen-masked fellow – clucked and chuckled, ignoring a small spillage as he spoke. "Says our native from Serkonos, eh?"

The beaked bloke snickered dryly, clinking their glasses together dully. "Oh, quiet down and drink Reiley."

Corvo turned back from the duo to face the staircase, considering whether or not to make another lap of the estate. He'd already gained a feel of the layout before he'd even 'officially' entered the premises, but an itching feeling that the Guards may've been piercing his veil remained ever present and willed him to move – wasn't it strange that he'd been standing still for so long?

Mind you, it'd be weirder if he was taking laps.

Although plenty of herded drunks were on their sixth already.

With a weathered back sore from excessive leaning, Corvo heaved himself to his full height and made his way through the crowd. Squishing past close-shoulders and gently whispering apologies as he slipped through the middle of heated conversations, he eventually found a small pocket of salvation where he could walk with the posture of a normal human being. Curiously he gazed up at the stairs once more; it was practically a nervous flinch he'd adopted after such a while of waiting.

Down the purple path of the drawn out staircase descended a trio of women, their ornate outfits and unique masks differing only in colour; proud red, calculating black and virgin white. No doubt the queens of the masquerade were at last showing theirselves - the Boyles had finally arrived. Obscured by the crooked grin of his own crafted visage, Corvo's lips tightened in consideration.

Esma Boyle, White Dress.

The Lord Protector had already skulked around the individual rooms of the three siblings, combing through every pearl, every letter and every follicle of hair to clarify his target. Esma Boyle was the middle child of the trio, bearing no tales of talent or mystery shared by her elder and younger. No doubt it made her an easy target for the Regent's influence - forgotten women tended to adore the attention of men, no matter how weasely or base.

He didn't know if it made him sickened, or pitying.

It wasn't as if the world would miss her. He very much doubted her end would even be noticed unless she fell from a chandelier or drowned herself in the punch bowl before a legion of eyes. Corvo would make it quick, quiet and clean - as he always aimed for. Cracking his wrists, he prepared to ford his way through the river of patrons that blocked him from his destination.

A shrill voice sent a shudder through his spine, filling him with the briefest stab of fear. "You there!" a drunkard called, stumbling over to Corvo's side and roughly patting his shoulder. Corvo gestured to himself reservedly, hoping for the love of the whales that the fellow had the wrong person. It was that middle-aged man apparently named Daryl from moments before, whose grinning teeth were clear through his generic farmyard animal mask. "Yes, you! Have you had a drink yet, friend?"

Corvo shot a glance at the stairs, spotting the red and black sisters making their way towards one of the many lounges the estate had to offer. He claimed that he didn't drink due to the potential health issues, yet that brought an air of irritation to the nobleman. "Nonsense, noooonsense!" Daryl howled, slapping his new friend's back even harder while trying to drag him away. "A fine drink puts hairs on your chest, boy! Come on!"

The middle child almost seemed lonesome as she stood at the landing, surveying the crowd of colleagues for a group to talk to like a forgotten wolfhound pup. Craning his neck to keep an eye on her, the Lord Protector assured Daryl that he'd join him for a drink soon. Of course, that only strengthened his resolve. "Later? With plague and all, I doubt there'll be a later!" he laughed loudly, turning to a guardsman for his support. The guard remained at his station, doing his best to ignore the commotion like anyone else would. "Come, come. It's easy. With me!"

Begrudgingly the assassin accepted Daryl's demand, taking a glass filled with ice-cold alcohol offered to him by the nobleman. Taking a step back Daryl turned to address the crowd, yet save for the single person before him no one else in the lobby seemed to be paying attention to his ramblings "To the health of our gallant and... Responsible Lord Regent!" he toasted, raising his glass proudly - a gesture that Corvo unenthusiastically returned. As Daryl leant back and downed his drink, the Lord Protector instantly turned and left without a moment's pause, leaving the drunkard none the wiser.

Glass in hand, Corvo made his way through the main hall towards the isolated Boyle. She seemed to be looking directly at him, yet the unsettling blankness of her ivory-faced mask completely shrouded her expression. The crowd finally thinning, Corvo bowed his head to the day's host.

Esma Boyle crooned her head in measurement, "Hello there." she purred gently, trying - and failing - to stealthily examine the powerful man before her. Corvo raised his chin with confidence, politely offering the fresh beverage clasped in his hand to the young woman before him. "Oh, it wouldn't be proper..." she whispered conspiratorially, a tone of cheekiness and rebellion clear in her voice. Her gloved fingers took hold of the damp drink, tightly squeezing Corvo's digits flirtatiously. "... But what's wrong with that?"

Timidly she adjusted her mask, revealing a sensual pair of lips glistening with a thin seal of balm. With a peculiar combination of feminine grace and tipsy poise, Esma Boyle took a measured sip from the chilled drink. "Mmmmm... Delicious." she exhaled with satisfaction, teasingly licking at the sticky white froth with the tip of her tongue. Corvo offered to hold the glass for her, yet with a gesture of thanks she placed it down on a vacant coffee table - right next to a collection of coasters. "I'm sure that has something to do with the dashing gentleman before me." she smiled warmly, her glistening pearl-white teeth matching the purity of her clothing. Corvo dismissed her compliment politely, suggesting that the credit was due to the brewer for its fine flavour - she simply smiled at his words. Esma flicked his chest playfully, prodding her finger against his muscles. "No need to be coy, sir!"

Corvo forced a well-rehearsed chuckle at her comment, consciously ignoring Esma's inquisitive stare and touch - she wasn't entirely drunk, but it was good enough. Warmly he complimented the facilities the Boyles had to offer, lauding the decorations, refreshments and company of the estate. Her reaction was dripping with want, yet within her words sat a strange amount of genuine honour at his approval. "Why thank you. I only hope my hospitality is efficient." Esma began. She'd gradually moved closer, mere inches decreasing to centimetres separating the two. "Although, of course... A fine young man such as yourself deserves the finest comfort the Boyles can offer."

The Lord Protector hummed deviously, letting her tracing finger explore his front. He daringly asked if he could take part in the 'finest' comfort she could offer; a girly, refined giggle punctuated her thoughts as her slender digit retreated in surprise. "Hmmmm... I like the way you think, handsome." she admitted, taking hold of Corvo's hand within the comforting caress of her own. "I'm feeling fuzzy around you, and it isn't the drink." she mumbled, tracing the Lord Protector's knuckles with tickling gentleness. She whispered huskily, "... Would you perhaps like a personal tour?"

With a noble air about him Corvo offered his elbow, the snap of his feet punctuated by the clack of his boots about the white stone floors. Lady Boyle certainly found amusement from his display, and obediently took hold of his vacant limb. "It's not too far." She reassured giddily, resting against the marble-carved arm of her new friend. "But we don't want to get lost, do we?"

Oh heavens no, that would be a disaster.

Neutrally shrugging, the assassin began to slowly stride in near-perfect unity with the woman by his side. Party goers looked on, mouthing comments to those few who were still sober enough to decipher their tongue. Corvo couldn't help but notice the lack of reaction in Lady Boyle, who continued to speak despite their onlookers. "How I love parties." She sighed joyfully, squeezing the Lord Protector's arm to catch his eye. "I'm glad that everyone can be here, you know – especially the handsome men!"

To feed an ego, perhaps?

An insatiable hunger?

Corvo stuck to the high-born laugh; it seemed to work regardless of the situation, although the intoxication of his host probably contributed to that moreso. By the stairway a middle-aged guard frowned with barely stifled contempt, bowing his head to the Lady Boyle and her catch of the day. "Milady." He grumbled with a thick Gristol tinge, glaring at the felon before him with a dubious glint in his eye. "… I hope you're enjoying yourselves."

Reaching outwards Corvo pushed the door open for the Lady, gesturing for her to enter ahead of him. Reluctantly she released him from his clutches, her arms folding protectively around her chest. The sudden sense of vulnerability quickly gave way to affability. "Such a noble gentleman!" she giggled, slipping through the doorway quietly. Her man for the night followed suit, glancing at the guardsman as he gently closed the door. "To think they say chivalry is dead."

It wasn't dead, Corvo reminded, but rather a rarity in such harsh times. Why embrace such a foolish and life-shortening creed when Dunwall had oh so little time left on its ticking clock? The nobles adored their lavish parties and partook in their carnal desires at such great rates merely due to pragmatism; a common realisation that one should make the best of what sparse time remained. Lady Boyle tilted her head in consideration, the thickness of the walls dampening the frivolous party to a mere muffled beat.

"Well then, come on!" Esma teased, hopping up the first set of stairs with near cat-like grace. Corvo caught sight of her swaying hips as she walked; she spotted his gaze twice as fast, prompting her to smile to herself perversely. Anton Sokolov was certainly right – the Lady Boyle had the finest posterior this side of the ocean. She spoke up a tad bit louder to tear him from his daze. "I hear the fun is all upstairs."

The fine oak steps creaked with his weight as he moved to meet her, a smirk of amusement hidden by his haunting guise. Once again he offered his arm politely – it wasn't right for a lady of standing to walk on her lonesome, so he told her. "Mmmm…" she acknowledged warmly, her attitude remaining unchanged. Giddily she took hold once more, nuzzling his arm gently like a mewling newborn. "Oh, how spoilt I am."

With slow and graceful steps mimicking the most noble of walks, the duo began to ascend the spiralled stairs; one part slowly, one part eagerly. "I've never felt such a strong man before." She purred dreamily, glancing up at the mysterious gentleman beside her. "Are you a knight clad in armour, by any chance?"

Corvo assured her that he could be anyone she wanted – feeling a tad bit nauseated in how he was selling himself out. Even if it was nothing but a façade, he couldn't help but feel that such a devious method of stealth was wrong. "I was right about you." She chimed, all sorts of naughty images treating her mind's eye. "I've got a feeling that the next few hours are going to be breath-taking."

Aye, you could say that.

As if for comfort the assassin groped at his blade, the marvel of a balisong resting snugly within the folds of his longcoat. He doubted the guards would be checking on her for the rest of the day – the convenience was just lovely. In a single movement he kept his feeling hand going, hiding his intentions and brushing Esma's digits in one fell swoop. Corvo steadily moved the conversation onwards, the moonlight of Dunwall's lifeless night piercing the windows of the stairwell. "My personal life?" Lady Boyle echoed his question, prompting him to nod. After a brief pause of consideration she shrugged her shoulders, giggling to herself warmly. "Waverly is in black."

It was a contagious chuckle, and Corvo couldn't help but return it. He rephrased the question, assuring that he simply wished to talk about her – Esma Boyle. There was an awkward moment of silence, as if she honestly didn't know what to say in response. "… Oh." She settled on dully, only to realise that the handsome young man before her would surely want more. "Well… I'm the middle child…" she began, her tightly gloved fingers drumming onto the firmness of Corvo's bicep. "I… Like to drink from time to time…" she continued, her shrouded eyes darting from left to right to try and avoid the soulless gaze of the assassin's mask. "… I believe that's it."

That couldn't be right.

Surely she was a complex woman herself behind closed doors? The Lord Protector had killed many a colourful character – the Regent had an entire rainbow of underlings supporting his cause after all. She shook her head dismissively, "You're a sweet man, you know…" Esma leant against him, resting her head upon the side of his towering shoulder. "But there is nothing else to say. My sisters are the miracles; Waverly is such a bright young girl, and Lydia? – the most talented fingers this side of the Empire!"

Cynicism and self-doubt gave the locale a distinct reek, prompting a confused silence between the lady and gentleman. Timidly Boyle slipped free of Corvo's grasp, moving forward a few steps and making for a door with the clop clop clop of heels and the jingle jangle jingle of jewellery. In complete silence she dug into her pockets, procuring a key and solving the lock. "… W-Welcome to my lair, brave knight!" she announced eagerly, her lovely and joyous tone returning once more as if it'd merely lost its way for a bleak moment.

A brief pursuit led him to an immaculate bedchamber, the rolling carpet and ornate furniture bearing the distinct designs of noble architecture. There was a distinct lack of white however – it made Esma stand out all the more against the blackness of the night. Either the party had ceased or the walls were excessively thick, for beyond the occasional firework the room was completely silent.

He was the one with the knife.

Yet for some reason, he felt all the more vulnerable.

Lady Boyle stared out of the black portal, her hands clenching onto the drawn curtains. "Perhaps you'd like to save a princess, handsome knight?" she suggested to Corvo, who stood like a confused wolfhound by the doorway. Esma pulled the curtains closed, the moonlight sieving through the costly fabric to cast the room in a calming shade of brightness. "Or win a lady in a courageous duel…?" she continued in thought, pivoting on her foot and leaning against the window frame with a peculiar combination of elegance and longing. "… Or perhaps you'd like to be captured by a devious young witch?" she purred, plotting all sorts of fun for them to partake in. "Oh, so many ideas!"

His purpose clear, Corvo silently held onto his weapon's hilt and paced towards her – every step feeling increasingly stressful, as if the young woman bore an Overseer's music box. "Hmmm…" Esma hummed, twiddling her fingers childishly as the looming figure stalked ever closer – to think that she felt no threat from the supernaturally gifted murderer before her. "I figure you a dominant man…" she teased, to which Corvo chuckled dryly. Esma stood up and paced towards him, the gap between the Lord Protector's hidden blade and Lady Boyle's virgin neck closing with every moment. "You've got the sculpted arms of someone who can hold people tightly."

She was a better detective than most professionals.

There were inches before them, almost a full foot difference in terms of height. The assassin slid his weapon from its sheath, the motion slow and soundless. Esma tilted her head quizzically, "Any ideas, sir?" she asked earnestly, bowing her head and fiddling with the straps of her mask to free her face of its burden.

It was time.

In an instant Corvo stepped forward, wrapping an arm around her waist and poising the blade by her spotless back. Esma yelped with confusion, stumbling against her killer as her mask cluttered to the freshly-polished floorboards. "W-What's the matter?" she gasped, pressing her hands against the man's chest. Corvo glanced down at the woman, his indecision barely shielded by the form of his mask. "… You're eager, mmm?" Lady Boyle giggled, autonomously stroking his front.

It was strange how much a mask hid about a person, even if it was carved to mould their shape. With well-kept locks and sparkling ceruleans serving for eyes, Esma's striking visage caused Corvo to falter. The gorgeous woman's features were frightfully soft; the look of a true noble girl rather than a working one. Yet something sat – barely hidden – behind that image of grandeur, as she clung onto him with need and desperation.

Just what was the tale behind Esma Boyle?

The knife remained at its deadly angle, its razor tip tickling the fabric of her celestial blouse and freeing the smallest of threads from their tightly-packed form. "Well, you've seen me sir." Esma whispered, her gentle palms begging to caress and feel her catch's chiselled jaw. Her fingers clumsily trailed along his necromantic visage, hunting for whatever it was that secured it so tightly. She snapped to the frozen lenses of the mask, a chill of fear shocking through her spine. "… May I have the privilege?"

His sword arm at last faltering, he slipped the weapon away as he reached for her feminine hand – guiding it with tenderness and care fresh in his mind. It'd been an eternity since he'd felt the hands of a woman so intimately – eternity and a half. Esma smiled awkwardly, flexing her digits for purpose "I'll take that as a yes."

The technological wonder clattered to the ground within moments, sitting alongside the plain chalk of Lady Boyle's discarded mask. Esma exhaled in wonder, the haze of a tipsy mind's eye preventing her from linking a name to the face. "… I said you were handsome." She mumbled, tracing the tips of her fingers across the rising stubble of the towering man. Esma chuckled dryly, taken aback by Corvo's sudden silence. "… Sorry if that insulted you – handsome is far too little!"

How long it'd been since another's touch was neither a pinch nor punch.

The Lord Protector returned her compliments with unrivaled haste, the flushed red of the flattered noblewoman impossible to miss against the purity of her clothing. "P-Please, no need to be so kind!" she clumsily stuttered, her exploring touch continuing its campaign as if it were a separate entity entirely. "I'm just pointing out the obvious."

Corvo frowned with disapproval, his arms awkwardly hanging by his side. He murmured to the young woman softly, questioning her demure reaction to his truest of compliments. Her fingers stroked at the grooves of the Lord Protector's past smiles, tracing the lines of lovely days long gone. "You can call it childish… But I want people to be happy, you know." She admitted, her lips parting slightly with wonder as the trail of Corvo's overworked chin prickled against her digits. "Yet, there's only one thing I can give."

Sex.

To improve the lives of others, and to make others happy, she sold her pride – and her body.

She tapped at his cheek, leaving the smallest of indentations against the hairy, squishy flesh. "I've been seeing one man in particular." She sighed with the slightest of monotone, expecting a saddened reaction from the one she was tending to. "Now now, don't feel under-appreciated handsome." Esma purred teasingly, an unprecedented dryness and displeasure sitting in her throat. There was a bitter emptiness in the woman before him, and it pained him to see her hide it behind a wall of flirtatiousness. "… He's oh so powerful… One of those men 'up there'"

An uncharacteristic grimace plagued her sensual lips for the merest of moments, a memory of pain and agony flashing within her mind's eye. "Ever since he – Lord Boyle – met his end…" she spoke, autonomously unloading her anxieties and despair upon the man before her. Her finger work hastened, leaving its past gentleness behind "… I have a name to maintain, as boring as it sounds."

Her white fingers fell still, pressing against the Lord Protector's features like a vice tightly clenched. "To protect the family name…" she mumbled, her eyes gazing through him with an almost comatose mist about them. Corvo's palms opened awkwardly, his bickering heart and brain preventing him from holding her close. Esma's voice was a mere whisper, her lips barely moving to assist her words. "… That's all that matters now, no matter the cost."

Because in the end, the Surname is what matters.

The Surname is the tale they tell.

Isn't it?

Esma's hands released Corvo from their prison of admiration, falling to her chest shyly. Quietly she took a step back from him, the distance accompanying a sudden chill between them. "…I-I mean, look at it!" she announced proudly, assuming the façade that so many had fallen for – in bed and out. "The Boyle Estate!"

The Serkonian could see through her intentions from a mile off, and his concern and curiosity were culminating at an unprecedented rate. He folded his arms defensively, trying to bring her back to the subject. "I thought we were admiring the room, not me!" she smiled, the tugged corners of her mouth trembling with uncertainty and obligation.

Frail fingers fumbled at the subtle bumps of her collar bone, feeling for the familiar touch of the plainest of pendants. An unassuming beige and shape, Corvo had only just noticed it swinging upon her neck. He inquired about it plainly, prying for connections. "This?" she tugged, squeezing the curio within her fist. "… N-Nothing… A family trinket…" Esma defended, that painful forced smile sending despair through them both. She held it up for the briefest of moments, desperate to dismiss his attention. "I mean look at it…"

The necklace's slender links seemed far too short, leaving it close and tight across her neck – a choker, only in bound chains. The Lord Protector pushed on – surely it was made for a child? "It was mine." Esma muttered hastily, "Mother… Could never tell us three apart…"

That wasn't right, and she knew Corvo could tell. The pendant was still shining with freshness – it couldn't have been any more than a year old. Just who was the trinket for, in that regard?

Why did she have it with her?

And why was she lying?

Her lack of response brought a sense of frustration and irritation to Corvo's voice, as he spoke her name firmly. He assured her that he only wished to help her, and that he was more than willing to help claw away at the crushing weight of isolation atop her chest. He'd spent so many days shut off from the world - the only social contact being the cruel bullwhip of the torturer's lash.

He knew her pain oh too well.

The Lady Esma Boyle stared at him longingly, the pleading twinkle of watering eyes casting a needy glow upon her features. Shakily her fingers twiddled, motioning over her necklace "… You could…" she murmured huskily, her tongue running along her dry lips.

Her head lung low like a wandering weeper, Lady Boyle slowly returned to him – her tender fists clenching ever more tightly to that crude pendant with every uneven step. Without warning she reached outwards, pushing Corvo back with a sudden nudge: weak, yet so unexpected that the assassin easily lost his footing and fell onto the chamber's titular bed. Esma's jaw remained firmly shut, as she clambered upon the sheets and crooned over her catch's helpless form.

What was she doing?

Corvo made to stand, yet Boyle quickly coiled her frail hands with his; the hands of a backstabber; the hands of a throat snapper. "… Let's just forget everything…" she croaked, straddling the supine form of the young man. Esma mirrored his frown, her flirtatious tone non-existent. The woman gently nuzzled her nose against his, "Please…" she begged, her digits dwarfed by Corvo's own. "… Just for a bit…"

She kissed him; a sloppy, forceful kiss of a woman trying her best to please another. Again and again she planted kiss after kiss, her hips swaying urgently as the assassin was smothered in smooches. "Y-You hurt inside, don't you?" Esma mumbled airily, the Lord Protector too disoriented and aghast to reply – or resist. With deliberate slowness she freed his wrists from her clutches, her finicky hands admiring the firmness of his collar. "No one trusts you…" she massaged, her sensual touch conveying her need. "… People are always wondering how to get rid of you... Once your time is up."

How right she was.

"Please…" she repeated warmly, her caressing and stroking breath tickling over his neck wantonly. With the erotic sound of brushing fabrics, Esma pulled herself to a seated position – her dainty fingertips fiddling and twiddling with the gentleman's collar. Corvo protested with concern, taking grasp of her elegant palm tightly – she simply shook her head. "Let me…" she whimpered, her trembling hands easing with his supportive touch. The Lord Protector begged for an answer, and earned a gentle giggle in response: "Nothing's worse than a sad face on a handsome young man."

And so he agreed.

They both needed this.

Esma bowed her head in thanks, her graceful locks drooping over her nervous expression. The Lord Protector slowly reached for her trim front, and with a murmur of content began to strip the Lady Boyle. "Y-You don't need to say anything…" she stuttered, each mute pop of buttons exposing more and more of her soft, succulent flesh. "I'm… Just here to make you feel better." She continued, her body seeming to be as red as her cheeks. An alien sense of embarrassment filled her in the presence of a man who cared – she was far too used to stoic swings

Corvo shuddered with exposure, the warmth and weight on his lap contrasting to the chill of his heaving chest. Adding their tangled clothing to the clutter, Esma awkwardly leant towards him – her nudity hot and shaking with anxiety. Comfort overwhelmed the insecurities as the Lady Boyle pressed against her catch, her pert breasts cushioning Corvo's front. Soon enough those priceless kisses returned, selling away the pain of before for pure lust and desire in its stead.

The noblewoman's hands explored the tones of the assassin's powerful back – the lustful touch of his exotic skin now free from the confines of his cloak. Lines of strength quickly delved and crossed with trails of wounds; scars and healed tissue from injuries long gone. Corvo tightly clenched onto the woman's waist, exhaling awkwardly as she climbed the rungs of his ribs - and traced the map of his spine.

Everyone had scars; outside and in.

She could practically feel his impatience pressing against her, the young man - like her - increasingly eager to begin. Esma rested by the nape of his shoulder, a low whisper brushing against his ear. "I think we should move…" the noble suggested, nosing at Corvo's strong and powerful neck. Awkwardly he complied, adjusting their position upon the gargantuan mattress they lay on. Eventually, the Lord Protector was propped up by the head of the bed - the Lady Boyle taking her mount once again. Esma couldn't help but smile at his lost expression, amused by his fluttering eyes and rising breaths as she sat upon his neglected manhood. "I hope you're comfortable."

Gripping onto his firm shoulders, the Lady Boyle clumsily began to grind and push against Corvo's stiffened need, their mingling liquids hastening and easing the process as a makeshift lubricant. It was clear that the assassin was far less experienced than she, yet in her knowledge sheer desire was more than enough to get a man moving - and how she loved it when men were animalistic. The stranger's length now slick with want, she at last met his drooling tip with her sex.

A swift intake of breath evolved into a low, drawn out moan as Esma drew him further and further within the embrace of her entrance. After what felt like an age he was deep within her folds - the sensation of every twitch and tremble from his dripping length tickling at her from within. Corvo's silence was to be expected - she'd certainly put him on the spot, hadn't she? With greed and yearning evident in her grasp, Esma began the slow and arduous journey of rising from her current position. Having grown accustomed to his presence inside her, she felt a strange sense of emptiness as his heat and familiarity slowly pulled out of her body. At the very end of Corvo's lonesome length, she plunged back down to his comfort and company. "You... Aren't going to make a lady do all the work, are you?" she teased, her movements slow and sensual to squeeze the most exquisite groans of lust from the man she straddled.

Like a commanded guardsman longing for his leader's approval, Corvo loyally sat upwards to meet the Lady Boyle's ample bosom. Needily he clutched onto her curvaceous rear, the softness of her body driving his senses haywire. Awkwardly he began to move to a rhythm, the perverted slap of flesh against flesh garnering an approving moan from the woman upon him. "That's it..." she chuckled femininely, affectionately embracing him in an almost guiding manner "G-Good". The warmth and wetness of her body was caressing for the assassin, teasing him and sending constant surges of pleasure down his spine.

The perfect antidote for a pair of plagued minds.

Every time their bodies met - the smash of their hips to a rising tempo - a different feeling seized him. Yet every time it was enjoyable, and he could tell from the fluttering of her eyelids that Esma was as pleased by this as he was. Esma gazed into his eyes wantonly, her expression glazed with the sheer satisfaction she felt - something Corvo was sure he mirrored to the letter. Her curling locks bobbing, her breasts bouncing, her breaths rising with the measured pace of an experienced lovemaker, the Lady Boyle began to pivot her waist to squeeze more and more pleasure from the man she straddled.

Eventually she leant against his shoulder once more, tears of joy and euphoria gracing her cheeks with an adorable glimmer as her body shook with Corvo's brutal and lustful strokes. There were no words to express her amusement and admiration for the young man's dedication and strength - so few men were willing to go all out. Her hips bucked back and forth whilst her arms coiled around his body, her manicured nails digging into his back for a good purchase.

Smooching and kissing his neglected ear, she whispered to him with that lovely huskiness filling her tones. "You're... Whimpering." she slurred, her flushed cheeks emphasising her beauty and innocence. Corvo hadn't even noticed, his parched throat dripping with hunger and bestial need. Awkwardly he bowed his head, suckling on the lady's exposed neck - to stifle his noises, and to taste her brilliance. A girly giggle sent a strong vibration throughout Esma's body, rubbing against the assassin's length ecstatically. "How cute."

He was showing no signs of slowing, nor was Esma; her quivering walls squeezing against his need - begging him to fill her with his contribution. Yet despite these signs, she seemed blissfully content as she continued to ride him without concern. The Lady Boyle met the worried Lord Protector with an affectionate kiss upon his starved lips, the vibrations of groans channeling through the tickling dance of their flicking tongues.

Corvo knew the feeling that seized him, but it wasn't something particularly familiar. The characteristic tightness filled his body, his back arching as his release came. In five spurts of pleasure and ecstasy, their liquids mixed within the white-stained walls of her sex. Esma fell limply against him, her head resting against his chest as a trickle of his seed slid down her thigh, escaping from where they were joined.

Their bodies spent and their needs fulfilled, Esma Boyle nuzzled close against the welcoming nape of the Lord Protector's damp and sweaty collar. Shuddering, gasping breaths filled the chambers – like a poorly organised orchestra eager to please a cheering crowd. The bliss and euphoria soon dwindled in exchange for a peculiar dosage of calm and tranquillity – the intriguing effect of forgetting one's troubles for but a moment's reprieve.

Esma heaved for breath, the timid comfort of her womanly bust massaging Corvo's chest with every inhalation. "T-That…" she stuttered dryly, quietly licking her lips and swallowing the mix of his and her saliva to wet her throat. "… I think we needed that…"

Corvo didn't quite know when it started, but he found himself locked into a longing stare with the woman atop him. Esma returned it with similar thoughts, a twinkle of admiration fitting her visage. "… I like being with you, sir." she admitted, squeezing his biceps tightly. The Lord Protector autonomously flexed his muscles in response, strengthening her grip. "I feel… Content..." the Lady Boyle sighed, the flames of fear and unease forcefully stomped out for the moment. "… Don't you?"

His murmur certainly sounded like confirmation, although a single utterance of the word "yes" was more blunt. Esma smirked with amusement, muffling a brief giggle – barely. Pulling her close within his powerful, protective embrace, Corvo suggested that the pair get some sleep. Her compliance was clear as she snuggled up close, curling up within the man's shielding arms. "You know best." she exhaled, warm breath caressing his flesh - glad to have someone else to rely on for tonight. Esma knew what the repercussions could be for their liaison, but it mattered little - they had tomorrow after all.

And that would've been it.

That could've been it.

Damn it, that should've been it.

A lovely little ending, to a lovely little time.

But how could he sleep?

He still had a job to do.

How did he get here? How had he been dragged from a peaceful, noble life within the white walls of Dunwall Tower, to the grime of the underworld - through blood and guts and dirt and tears - to the bedroom of a woman he'd been ordered to kill?

When had he thrown away his humanity, and allowed himself to be used by a party he'd rather have no part in to destroy the remnants of a crumbling old empire from within? Why did he force himself to traverse the many streets and blocks of Gristol for throats to slit, and friendships to destroy?

He hated this.

He didn't want any part of it. He wanted it to end - for all of this violence, all of this insecurity; plague, elixir, rats, intrigue - right now. Why did so many people have to die on the road? Why did his blade need to be drenched in the claret of so many people?

Corvo squeezed Esma tightly, enjoying her warmth like a starved survivor - how long had it been since he'd touched someone in such a way? When did his hands stop being instruments of protection and familiarity, and instead become tools of war and death?

Esma fidgeted, her cute button nose wiggling in discomfort as she slept - she felt safe in his presence, and in some ways he felt the same. Corvo enjoyed being with her; another soul being used by the players for their own barbaric ends. The assassin grimaced in disgust - just how long did the Lady Boyle have left until she expended her use, and the regent tossed her to the hounds?

She knew it as well.

Cruel death awaited her, no matter how she played her cards.

The bed creaked as Corvo leant over her lithe form, reaching for his coat and procuring the cure to all of their ills - his blade, folded neatly within its hilt and snugly secure within his pockets. The Lord Protector pulled Esma close, nuzzling her neck and partaking in her womanly scent. She awoke in confusion at the noise, only to notice the closeness of the handsome young man. A soft giggle faded away as she fell back to slumber, her gentle fingers massaging his front familiarly.

With a bitter set of clicks the weapon unfurled, its sharpened point tasting the air once more. Esma Boyle would die, at his hands, as he'd always planned. If anything it was a service to the loving woman - she'd earned an escape from the cruelty of the world.

He kept telling himself that.

Esma's heart beat at a calm pace, her pulse a quiet drone against the dead silence of the night. The party still roared below, yet none would know of the events that transpired within the Lady Boyle's chambers. Corvo could feel their chests in unison - subtle thumps matching, as their bodies had been one.

He raised his blade, its edge mere inches from the unspoilt flesh of her luscious spine.

He wanted to say goodbye.

But that would mean looking her in the eye.

The blade pierced her.

A shrill, sharp gasp of pain filled the air - Esma's eyes shooting open as the foreign object stabbed further into her body. Corvo held her tightly, pushing harder as the warm trickle of her blood stained the sheets. Her lips trembled in confusion - her tense shoulders slowly relaxing as her racing heart began to fall. Their rhythm was lost, the mere tones of her life blood fading away. Esma Boyle squeezed him needily, clinging on Corvo like an innocent young girl and her doll - a content curl filling her lips as her eyelids fluttered closed.

Just how long was left until he was sold out by his masters?

Would he be granted salvation?

Regardless, he was gone an hour later.

X

Beauty was a strange thing.

That wasn't the first thought that came to Guardsman Keith's mind as he overlooked the crime scene, but it was certainly the only one that meant anything. It was hilarious to consider, but after so many hours of so many days seeing the warped sights of a twisted Dunwall he'd become far too accustomed to death to give it a second thought.

So while the nobles grieved and wallowed over the demise of the fair Lady Boyle, he and his superior officer continued to investigate the scene on a freezing winter morning. The covers sat snugly around Boyle's nude frame, her expression content with the fate that she had met.

It was almost serene.

A pool of blood – almost perfectly circular – stained the elegant sheets with a cruel crimson. If that was anything to go by, there was no struggle: whatever had happened, she was probably unaware of it.

Or she welcomed it with open arms.

"… Verdicts?" Keith's young sergeant mumbled after a considerable pause, taking off his ornate helmet and tugging at a loose curl of hair. The guardsman signalled for the officer to follow him, navigating pass the bed – through strewn clothes and lingerie – to the wind-swept curtains of the open bay window.

Keith rested a palm against its well-painted frame, letting the icy morning winds whip at his hairy face freely. "Came in – or out – through here." He gestured, his eyes following the ground before meeting the smiling visage of the deceased. He shuddered, focusing on his leader to try and brush aside the ugly sight. "Did his thing, pissed off."

"A thief perhaps?" his boss suggested, slapping his helmet back onto its respectful spot and tipping its brief brim forward. The head-wear always seemed to be too large for officers – Keith couldn't help but wonder how they could shoot straight with such impairments. "It's the way I'd go… N-Not that I'm a thief or anything, mind you."

A dry chuckle came from the two of them; the day was bitter, and they needed something to lighten the mood. "Nothing's been stolen." The veteran pointed out, prompting his leader to shake his head in disbelief – in all honesty, he was hoping it would be as simple as a shiv-armed street urchin with a nervous disposition. "No draws unturned, no cabinets left open. If he was a thief, his haul would be smaller than my pay packet."

"Perhaps he chickened out?" the noble said with the slightest of smirks, yet a shake of Keith's head said it all. Pulling out a cigar, the sergeant offered a smoke to his elder. After a lazy refusal, the nobleman bit off its end and fumbled through his pockets for an unbroken match. "So nothing at all?" he mumbled, the disinterest in his voice betraying his devotion. Striking a light with a sharp flick, he began to puff smoke. "Had to be an assassination then." He settled, prompting his underling to shrug his padded shoulders. "In and out, quick."

The curtains lapped at the air, like the drooping tongue of a lazy canine. "Mind you, one thing was taken sir." Keith noted, glancing to the doorway to spot a tall, prim and proper woman clad in shady black – taking a statement just like every other party-goer had; standard protocol. Waverly Boyle seemed to show little remorse for the passing of her sibling, her eyes circled by the tugging weight of sleep deprivation; she likely dreaded the loss of business over the loss of life today. There'd been rumours of her anxiety and insecurity as of late, fearing that armed men were on her tail – perhaps she was right; perhaps this was a miss? "She gave the body a look; last respects, you know?" the veteran soldier continued, folding his arms. "Something was gone."

Watching his commander smoke started to fill his taste buds with a craving for good old fashioned tobacco, yet he quickly tossed his cigar to the floor and stomped it out – grinding the tip of his boot for what felt like an eternity. "… Yeah?"

"A family trinket," Keith confirmed, furrowing his brow in contempt "usually sat on her neck. Would barely pull a penny at the flea market though; nothing of note." The sergeant sneakily booted the butt under the Lady Boyle's bed, leaving nothing but a small charred mark as a sign of his indulgence.

If one thing was for certain, the sergeant clearly wished the he hadn't put his fag out, raising his eyebrow in thought at the words he'd just heard. Awkwardly he flexed his fingers, balling them into firm fists before releasing the tension. "Any idea why anyone would filch a bit of junk, and leave all the jewellery?"

A shrug was expected, yet it certainly wasn't wanted. "You know as well as I do, sir." Keith grumbled in irritation, leading his leader away from the cynical scene. "But I'm sure he had his reasons".

Everybody did.

And as if that mattered.

Because either way, it had been Lady Boyle's last party.

X

(A/N): There aren't words to express how utterly disappointed I am with how this fic turned out. What felt like a clear idea at the start turned into a wall of bland text with absolutely NOTHING happening! X_X

I feel like George Lucas making the prequel trilogies here!

Well, I hope those who got this far enjoyed this. For my first story written during my A2-Levels, you'd assume I'd give myself a break but... Ugh ._.