<strong>Name</strong>: Hatter<br/><strong>Location</strong>: The Garden. No, the Other Garden. You Know Which One.<br/><strong>Tagged</strong>: Hare, Cinnamon Tart<br/><br/>Hatter took a step back, retreating before the Hare's offered hug, then cursed himself for the show of weakness. Neither of the man's hands held knives, not this time.<em>Fool me</em>seven<em>times, shame on me,</em>he thought. Finally he allowed himself to return the embrace, after first carefully checking, twice, that his own hands were empty. Well, the left one was smeared with something dark, but that wasn't the same as holding something. And conveniently there was soon a patch of the Hare's brown suit perfectly positioned to wipe off the sticky substance. The Hatter's face screwed up in consternation. He was almost entirely certain it wasn't chocolate, but beyond that he wasn't prepared to make a definitive statement to the press.<br/><br/>"I hate you more than I can possibly say," he said into Hare's ear. "And it is incredibly good to see you."<br/><br/>When they had carefully disengaged the Hatter's attention turned to the kneeling girl. Her thin dress concealed little of her girlish figure, but the blindfold handily disguised her age. It was all in the eyes, after all. You couldn't tell how old someone was, how much pain they had suffered, by looking at their body. Those parts grew back. You had to look into their eyes to see the roads of anguish they'd walked, and Hare had covered that up. So the Hatter saw nothing.<br/><br/>"A present? For me?" A nearly girlish squeal escaped his lips, hands fluttering to cover his thumping heart. "Why, I didn't get you anything...." His sharp eyes darted around, looking for something to turn into an impromptu gift. but unsurprisingly nothing leaped out to volunteer itself. There was the Cock, he supposed, but that was supposed to be for a special occasion. Was this a special occasion? It was an occasion. It was special. But that wasn't really enough. "She's dirty, though," the Hatter said as his expression turned to a frown. "Soiled, despoiled, used and abused. She's...<em>perfect.</em>" He stalked around her, examining her from all angles. There was a blank spot on her back, between her shoulder blades, only the material of the dress covering the tight muscles of her back. It was a location badly in need of the sole of a boot, and happily he was wearing a pair of them. After some thought, he decided upon the right one, planting it squarely on her back and driving her forward into the eggshell-littered gravel. The hobnails made their own entrance in the dress, and soon thereafter her unmarred skin.<br/><br/><em>It's a trap!</em>he suddenly realized. That damnable, blasted Hare. And he'd taken the bait completely. Once again his clever adversary had won the Erection Game, and here only seconds into his visit. The Hatter stood at at least three-quarters mast, while the Hare -- at least according to the Hatter's overly obvious sidelong glance -- was entirely in control of his equipment. Damn him to hell. "Point to you, my friend," he muttered, shaking his head half in appreciation. "Point to you. Ah well, we may as well go inside then. You know the way."<br/>