SINISTER

Selene believes that much—nothing much does change night on night at the Ghouliard, the same music, the same routine of patrons, performances and pleasure. She can only imagine it is the same for him too, but she knows that whilst she is free to come and go as she pleases, employed of her own free will and not a demon deal—Elian isn't so fortunate.

So she wants to ensure that if she can make things easier, that she does.

Because he is important to her—a little more so every day. Its a slow thing, a sweetness that had seeped into her daily life a little more each time until she found herself always looking forward to the part of her night where she could linger at the bar, speak with Elian for a while, enjoy their moments together.

His words make her smile, soft, gentle, a far different expression to the one she flashes for customers that is always bright, playful, but lacking any real depth to it. "Would I have your eyes too?" Selene asked softly, words that normally might be coated in playful flirtation, for Elian they were said with an earnest wondering—like it really mattered to her if he wanted to look at her or not.

Again her gaze softened at his words, knowing the meaning even if he's not saying it outright. Why would she be here when she is free and not bound by demon deal? How did she explain her reasons to him without sounding like the entitled little brat she really was? It made her gaze drop slightly in embarrassment, ashamed where usually she never felt such a thing. "I don't give this place anything real, not to anyone else anyway." The implication was there in her words though she didn't say it out loud while they were out in the open of the main bar.

She was real and honest with him, but the rest got the illusion—just more pretty magic.

She has his eyes, whenever he's able to spare them. But how does he tell her that? It just makes him like every other, admiring her on her pedestal of a stage, sparking magic off her fingertips, and creating the illusion that the world is not so dark, and decrepit. That his world is not such a lost cause in its monotony, and expectation. He only has to look back to the bar to know its vile underbelly; mortals and immortals tangled in one another, mouths wide with intention. Speaking hushed words, of deliverance and promises; a sales pitch of something greater, and with a thousand strings attached; they'll be tied to wrists and knees like a marionette. Jerked to life, and loss by demons who have mastered their craft of gaining everything and giving very little, if anything at all.

In his quiet, he imagines she has read him like a book, even in his shrewd stoicism. A silence that's loud, and fingers that twitch against his arms, flesh that gets hot in the stuffy air of the Ghouliard, where he has to cool it down to sea-level.

His mouth curves in the corner, but it's not humour. "You give it enough."

Convincingly, too.

Elian can't read too deeply into the words, or become captivated in conversation with Selene for long, because there's a loud shattering of glass at the other end of the club. And then a shout, and something low, and hot that ripples along the floor of the Ghouliard. There's something stewing in a booth, or wrath or envy has erupted in all its ugly glory for another time tonight.

He steps out from behind the bar, and places himself near enough in front of her, to find the source of the disturbance. "I should get back to work. Deal with that." Before a certain demon notices his distraction. He nods towards the door. "You should go, Selene." He doesn't want her to, but it's the right thing for her.

She can flaunt that beautiful power she has, elsewhere.

He doesn't much want her to see him throw people out, or consider his earlier ideas of shoving glass down throats, because it wouldn't be pretty.

morsreliqua

Aspen does look around when prompted - and decides, naw, this place ain't spruced up at all. She likes it here, wonders why it's here she's at, rather than anywhere else. But then she remembers the talk with Axel and feels her shoulders tense up. Not now, she thinks, because it does feel like she's making a real friend. Maybe not a human, but - danger lurks at every corner here.

"Sure, yeah. Thanks." She lurches forward a little too quickly, unthinking, and gathers the her portion of the trade goods into her own sack. Slinging it off her shoulder, she wheels back around. "Oh! I mean - yeah, please come by. Whenever. I'll.. I'll draw you a map real quick."

And she does. Crude as ever, on a blank page ripped out of an old book. "I'll show you my mural." Is her parting words, and she lets out a slow, shaky breath with a nod before skipping out. Next time - she'll ask Kit about the Axel stuff. Next time - she'll try and make a better deal. Friends, first.

FIN.

#muse: izara #o: aspen

"This isn't a game." Raven insisted as she settled in between his legs, her lips remaining curled upwards as her hands rested on his thighs. "This is something that I want to give you. You won't get in trouble, I promise." If anything, she'd take the blame for it. But she doubted Najelon would care all that much. When it came to her defiance, this was extremely low on the normal scale.

"I see you, day in and day out, exhausted and tense. You do exactly as your told." Unlike me. "And I want to reward you for it." In her head, it was simple. She wanted him to be able to relax and her doing that for him was the utmost power trip she could experience, in that moment. She was the one in control, here. But if he wanted to, he could try to take the power back. Raven doubted he would, though, considering her connection to the Demon that had his fingers like an invisible noose wrapped around Elian's neck.

Her hands moved upwards towards the hem of his pants, unbuttoning and unzipping. "Once again, this is not a game. I am not playing like that. I do want to play, though. And I want you to enjoy yourself." Fingers lifted his shirt up, brushing gently over his torso. "You're right, I am with him. But I'm allowed to play with others... within reason." Others, as in, whomever Najelon approves. "You're on his approval list for me." She said with a wide smile. "Now... I need you to lift your hips up a bit for me. Please?" Rounded, excited, doe eyes meet his as she gently tugged at the fabric of his pants.

It felt like a game. Raven has always, in the few years he had known her, been forward and unapologetic in all that she is. Whines. And complains. Stands beside, and hides behind Najelon a hundred different ways. And Elian — upon being freed from his confines by her master's deal — has always been caught in the midst of whatever boredom strikes her. A puppet for her amusement, and her entertainment. She's taken off his shirt, or his clothes before. Made him take her to places on the surface that he has no interest in. But she's never played this game where she talks in riddles, and he's not sure what her intentions are.

She looks like those in the Ghouliard, offering themselves to demons like Najelon, for a taste of something they're being told can be found nowhere else. A lie, on a forked tongue.

Elian has no reason to trust a promise from Raven. She's as much a demon as he is, in this place. She chose it, and he found himself desperate with no other option. Eli cannot find it within him to regret it either, because the alternative is darkness, with scales being peeled from a tail by scalding hands, and burning blades. The legs she touches now, are less bruised, but no less scarred. It transfers, even with the Fae's magic.

"Why—?"

He barely gets the whisper out, before she's talking again.

"If I do what you do, and defy. Najelon is not kind." She knows that. She's stood there and watched her demon enact his swift justice. It is better to just slip through the cracks between commands, and orders. Enjoy the reprieve outside of the Ghouliard when he could, and tolerate the workload of the demon sort, when he had to. Delivering souls is the least of the cost, really. What did that matter to Elian? Raven pursues her target, and tugs at the opening to his pants.

Elian understands now, and his eyes fly back to the door with an awareness to where they are. Enjoy yourself, she says. Like Najelon would not know exactly what his prized possession was doing in his very own club.

An approval list? Eyes dip back to her, as he finds himself lifting up to aid in her request. Please? She asks, like it isn't a demand. And his pants are pulled by deft fingers. His shirt lifting like she cannot strip him quick enough. "You talk about this, with him? Me?" He's not sure how to feel about that. He'd like to have been less of a subject, and more of a ghost in the realm of the demon's world. Being thrust deeper, meant the chains of his agreement only got tighter.

#o: raven #muse: elian

deathbeckons

Tragedy surrounded them every day, and yet the two of them usually relished it. This was different, somehow; it felt like something they both wanted but couldn't have, and neither of them was used to being told no. "An insufferable one, at that." She murmured in response, lying down in the sand next to Jakoris as she fought to keep her hands to herself. They weren't the touchy-feely type unless they were heading to a sexual realm, but she had the overwhelming urge to put her hand in his. She blamed it on the blood raining down around them, dizzying her with the power she felt coursing through her.

"When you're back to full strength, let me know. It's no fun when you're in such a weakened state." Azagi smirked, eyes still on the vampire as they lay there. It was an open space - vulnerable -, but neither of them was that, especially not tonight. With her teeth, her real teeth, she could break through easily. Her mind reeled as she fantasised about how he tasted, fighting it back. "Unless you're feeling all caught up in the moment and want to see what it feels like with a demon's teeth in ya, baby."

She swallowed thickly at his words, her expression stilling as she attempted her best to not give him a reaction. She couldn't foresee much harm in Jakoris knowing he was a vulnerability for her, but it was still possible he would manage to use it against her in the future. "I don't think caring is the correct word; we're a little bit more complicated than that." The 'we' referred to demons, but it could also apply to their relationship.

"Even I can't burn at full heat one-hundred percent of the time, Jack. And you were willing to risk poison for just a taste of me. Maybe yours are, too." She paused for a moment, letting the walls fall just a fraction before speaking again. "Seeing as we're talking vulnerabilities... You know, if you or your family need me, you have me. It's you over all of them, Jakoris. Even my kin. Well, unless Malcolm hurts the woman I protect, but he seems to be a puppy dog when it comes to her." She wouldn't argue with more protection for Freyja, and a Davenport would be someone she trusted with her.

The moment the words were out of her mouth, she wondered if she should have said them at all or left them unspoken. It was known between them, she was sure, but it had always been a secret kept in silence.

#o: azagi #muse: jakoris #event: eternity solstice

He hums; a long tremor of amusement. The gentle thump of a body collapsing beside him, tells him of her new position. Two messy shapes in reddened sand. The pain of her dark blood had turned sour quickly, and instead he felt the soft burn of the memory he hasn't expelled. There's a pleasure in the discomfort, just as there's relief in the crimson droplets that pour down relentlessly in a satisfying assault.

"This is the only time you'll ever get to win, pumpkin." She should use it, if that's her aim. What could he do, in his recovery? Jakoris does not admit defeat so callously, but he will for this. Because they're agreeing that he has a poison that'll kill the speed of their fight faster than anything they've ever battled over before. No fun. She's right. But he won't admit that a second time.

Jack's eyes close and he licks his lips of the rain. Adjusting his head on the pillow of his arm, he is not concerned over the details of whether 'Zagi plans to climb atop him, and tear his skin open. They've acknowledged he cannot stop it, even if she did. "Did you enjoy the bite, 'Zagi?" A smirk, even if the darkness behind his eyelids doesn't offer him her expression. "Do you think I'd enjoy yours?"

Wrath usually seems to be quick in her violence. They're rarely ever slow when they peel flesh from muscle, or he's buried deep in her just to hear her pant and moan.

But there's no erasing what they both know — aired so easily, in exposure; they are not all violence, and derision. It is not always so brutal in their adorations for each other. Whether merciless lovers or anger-induced warfare, behind the monster is something that burns with a possession. Mine. Yours. Hers. His. Nobody else can run their engines quite like the other could, and no one else dares to get as rough, or as torn open as they do for each other. There's trust in that, Jakoris realises.

It's not entirely mercy. "Hm." He thinks it over. She's worried. Despite her claim to be something otherwise. He cannot pretend to know what makes a demon up, beyond soulstealing and heated hands, but he thinks he's close to mapping out Azagi for all that she is. "Has the blood poisoned you?" A tease, without the fire. Just a smile, as he rests on the sand with a demon as his guard dog. "You, talking weakness and declaring your services for my kin. That's cute." He's never thought about Azagi caring to know the Davenports in their extension. Not Mal. Or whoever she protects. He's alert enough, still, to question her honesties — since she's giving them over so willingly. "Who the fuck is he puppying around?" That's news to Jack.

How long has he kept that to himself? Eyes open, and he looks back at her; the amusement doesn't quite reach the edges of his gaze. "Don't tell me he's in love?" a beat, to wink. "Not unless it's the kind we have, sugarplum."

"That I can most certainly do." Selene agrees with a little chuckle, more than happy to give Elian any name if they needed tossing out the doors for their behaviour—and even if they didn't and she just didn't like someone. She knew it would bring him joy to play bouncer between the monotony of bartending and his other duties.

Selene gives him a look that said she didn't fully accept his answer to her question, but she wouldn't press—too much. "I do ask all the time, but that's because I want to know. It's important to me—you're important to me." She told him, her gaze making it clear she wasn't teasing or joking, that her words were the truth and she'd keep saying them as many times as it took.

When Elian slid a drink to her fingers where they rested against the bar as she sat, legs swinging delicately, she smiled, picking it up and taking a grateful sip. Her favourite, he always remembered. She paid little mind to the few patrons who seemed to clamour for her attention, not interested in entertaining them or earning the extra coin it would get her—not while she was enjoying the few moments a night she got to spend with Elian.

"I know the one." Selene smiled, a slow spread of her lips along the rim of her glass, her eyes warm at the way he talked about her performance, the one he liked best. "I wrote the song to that one—its my favourite to sing too. I've been thinking about maybe trying it with an arial performance, I'm getting really good at the hoops now." She said with a little grin, as if proud of herself before she began to hum the melody that went with the performance Elian chose.

He nods. Because he believes everything Selene says.

She gives him the impression that she can dissect his omissions, and his half-truths as easily as he delivers them. Eli only likes to tell the good lies to those he dislikes. The ones that think he is stupid, and unprepared for a world so merciless. Like he doesn't know. He knows both sides of the scythe. "Not much changes." he reminds her, because he's swallowing down the knowledge that he is important; an assertion that feels out of place in amongst the revel of a ravenous bar at his back.

Important to her? She wouldn't lie to him — would she? He knows he should say something back. Agree that she's important too, or something. But the words are stuck in his throat, as if there is a hand squeezing his windpipe and silencing him from ever taking the leap. A confession in a place like the Ghouliard would cost him greatly, and Selene should have left already.

He wonders what it would be like to be the object in her hand, like the glass. Held so softly, and so delicately she knew how easily it could shatter.

She is magic, and he is just the trick.

"You would have the eyes of the whole room." Eli murmured, trying to imagine in fractured pictures what it would look like for Selene to twirl within hoops, and tangle in silk and other luxury. An untouchable prize that monsters and men gawk at, night in and night out. Elian made sure to suggest — "You'd have the attention of any room." Somewhere other than the Ghouliard, because she's not like the rest of them. Or him. An enigma to want to be there, and tolerating demons for what they are.

Even when she hums, and her lips vibrate, she has him snared in a net. Almost like she could rival the song of the sirens; turn his own power back on him. A surge of protectiveness creeps up between his ribcage, and he straightens. She looks suddenly smaller beneath his stature, even sat on the bar. "You shouldn't give this place so much of you." It would eat it alive, and leave nothing left but a husk. "It doesn't deserve it."

sonofbloodandthorns

He couldn’t confirm that she’d noticed him until she’d turned to glance back. What else could he have expected? He’d disappeared behind her so suddenly, much too suddenly to assume that he’d just went away, moved in the opposite direction and walked a different path than her. As she caught nothing during her turn, he’d caught the glint of a rising suspicion and perhaps even panic in her eyes. Well, how embarrassing. So much for following quietly to see what a person like her would be up to all alone out here without revealing himself. She speaks but her quiet words are swallowed by the wind and a timed clash of a wave against the pebbled beach to their side. All he could decipher was the intonation of a question within the whisper. Not enough to say he’d heard her but enough to know she was not unaware of him, however much he was still just a guess in her mind. He supposed he could persist, stay perfectly motionless and quiet like this until she decided that he was just a figment of her imagination. But there was no guarantee that she wouldn’t remain guarded after this nevertheless, the worm of doubt already planted. Perhaps she would decide to just go back straight to where she came from, to the safety of wherever she called home. In any case the genuineness of getting insight by being an unnoticed fly on a wall seemed to have failed. “Are you cold?” He let his baritone sound from the shadows and the mirrored illusion he’d disappeared into, an incorporeal voice in the air carried every which way by the sea wind but certainly more solid than her murmur into the void.

#o: heathcliff #muse: izara

She might have preferred the crashing of waves, and the crunch of sand over the voice with no face. Understanding danger, or a threat is easier if she can clamp eyes on something. The air cannot bleed. And neither can a shadow. It is a low, deep voice that grazes down her spine, and rattles her core. Something is with her, here, but even with her eyes dipping into something less human, she cannot make out the shapes beyond the evening elements.

It's just a sense that she cannot shake. Kit isn't cold enough to shiver, when the fur beneath her flesh is year-round; an undeniable heat that battles with the bite of the weather threatening goosebumps. But she feels the cold, all the same.

She considers running, transforming to the beast and seeing how fast she can end this madness before she lets it spiral. Kit only wanted to hunt for trinkets, not talk to the many ghosts that sit on her back.

Izara opts for honesty (probably foolishly), as she takes careful steps away from where she believes the voice to be.

"I'd prefer to see you." Louder, but not demanding. There's no way to tell in which direction it originated, for all she knew, she could be stepping into the arms of something worse. "It's a neat trick," Nervously, she sighs, as she continues to talk to whatever's laughing at her in the nothingness, "Look, I don't care for trouble."

curseaddendum

The mix of fluster and panic was utterly charming. It tempted Adrian to use his newfound authority just to mess with her, to see how far he could push it without crossing into tyranny. But he didn’t want her to think of her potential employer as an asshole. Not before deciding if she was in or not, at least. She was curious and cautious, and she had many questions. Smart, that much was obvious. Though the less she knew, the better… for both their sakes. There was a fleet, of course, but whether the Dagger was part of it, or its purpose, was above Kit’s pay grade.

“Aye, let’s see if there’s a sailor in ya,” he challenged, that playful smirk still plastered on his lips.

As they made their way through the bridge, the guard tailing them stayed ashore, only exchanging a nod with their King as they parted ways. They had other matters to attend while Adrian gave Kit the grand tour.

The wood groaned under their feet, music to the captain’s ears. No other ship sounded the same, as if the each one of them had its own voice to go along with its story. Adrian’s hand smoothed over the rail as they stepped onto the deck, an intimate gesture that might’ve seemed strange to strangers. He missed sailing, as Kit mentioned. He missed his former life.

“I had a crew of fifty.” Too many for his preference, but the ship needed as much to perform at its best. “So you’re right to think this ain’t a one–person job.” He turned to her fully, stepping closer as his voice dipped into something more businesslike. He held off from telling her more—about the ship, what it had seen, everything he had lived aboard it. “I want ya to make an estimate of how many people you’d need. For starters.” A brief pause, collecting his thoughts. “Time‘s no issue.”

On the other side of the bridge, an impish–looking fae fluttered to his guard, the same one he’d been in contact with before. Good.

“I know some lads that’ll lend a hand.” Leaning on the rail, he nodded toward the newcomer for Kit to notice. “They know better than to misbehave, but if they give you any trouble, just show’em the gold.”

Without further explanation, Adrian turned toward the captain’s quarters. Some things were better shown. The room that had served as his office, bedroom and washroom for years was sealed with a key he pulled from beneath his shirt, hanging from his neck like a pendant. The moment the lock turned, glistening treasure met their eyes.

It was a mess. An obscenely valuable one.

“One piece at a time, aye? Else they’ll get greedy.”

Kit's never thought herself a sailor. Always had two feet on land, nice and sturdy — and occasionally, on all fours, when bitter control of the moon bested her. There's a joke about that position that she kills on her tongue, before the King thinks she's even more desert wanderer than he must do already. She's already stuck her boot in places she shouldn't, by jesting about royalty and their secrets. Izara isn't about to make that mistake twice, and test the Mer's mercy.

Instead, she let herself become infatuated with the ship. Hands that run along rails, chipped and rotted. The groan of old planks beneath them, warning them they could give at any moment. She follows Adrian, even if she's easily swayed by the nooks and crannies, tucked away in every part of the deck. Assessing for damage, and scouting for potential, like she would any old trinket in need of some attention.

Fifty. Kit's just one woman. She steels her expression of the surprise, whilst she drinks in the saltwater ship, and calculates. "If time's no issue, and you'd favour discretion. I can do most myself." She's gambling on that, because she's talking in hearts, and not in minds. She wants to do this, even if it falls out of her initial realm of capability. She'll make it hers, and give it back to Adrian, in all its grandeur. But it'll take months, maybe even a year, longer. She instead, rationalises the crazy of a solo-effort and tells the man, carefully, "Maybe suppliers or trusted couriers to deliver me parts, but this is more than salvageable." Does he have plans? "You have any of the original drawings?" Something she could work off of, where books may steal her time en mass.

How is she going to lie to Axel about her whereabouts all this time, if she takes on this project? Not if. When. She'll sink her teeth into it, because it's never going to come around again. She feels that in her marrow like a disease he's infected her with — and in the careful business Adrian has chosen to conduct. Why me? She's afraid to ask.

She sniffs once, head turning to acknowledge wings and magic. She'll never trust a Fae. But she'll choose to trust Adrian on the fact he clearly does.

And she'll trust that the treasure he's hiding aboard is probably only the start of the wealth he possesses. Kit nods, understanding; she'll bribe the Fae if she must, but she'll sooner keep them at arms length if they're to aid in her work.

She cannot shake that there is something bigger in this game, than Adrian is letting her know. But asking isn't going to change a dime.

Izara holds out a hand to the man, whilst they're in front of his quarters. She's not this formal usually, and he probably isn't either. But it's the least provocative method of agreements; a handshake to seal whatever the hell it is she's getting herself tangled into. "I'll be your shipwright," A smile, before it shifts into something more playful, "—Captain."

She likes that more than King.

#o: adrian #muse: izara

Selene giggled at Elian's offer of violence to spare her having to listen to countless patrons using the suggestive cocktail names as a means of flirtation or just because they thought themselves clever. "While I would love to watch you do just that—we both know the cleanup would tedious and as annoying as it is, I do make money every time I let them think I've never heard those jokes before." She grinned with a playful little wink, as if it was some little conspiracy between just the two of them.

She nodded in understanding when Elian answered her question about his state of being before leaning forward stroke his cheek tenderly, tattooed fingers, perfectly manicured, gently brush along his skin in a caress that is tender, caring. "They will—but how are you?" She pressed again, her eyes showing the fact that she genuinely wanted to know, and cared about the answer.

For all her charms, all her flirtatious nature and easy way of winning people over—Selene was strikingly honest and authentic with the people she actually cared about.

She paid no mind to the patrons who seemed to want either a drink poured or her attention directed their way, instead hoisting herself up onto the bar top, movements fluid, graceful like flowing water, as she sat one leg crossed over the other. "Not yet." Selene answered, she hadn't yet decided if she wanted to leave, or if perhaps one more performance was due before she retired for the night, or more accurately, the morning.

When Elian said he liked her dance Selene smiled brightly, genuinely, not one of the flirtatious ones she offered patrons when they complimented her skills and performance. "You did? Thank you baby—it always makes my night when I know I've brightened yours." She said with a sweet smile, genuinely pleased. "Do you think the slow songs are better or the fast ones?"

Would she like to watch that? A ruptured throat, laden with shards of crystal. Blood pooling into a mouth. Elian follows the creases in her smile, and lingers on her dimples. A joke, then? He doesn't mind cleaning up the mess, if it means they would taste glass for weeks. It's a small sacrifice when Elian's sliding scale of exchange is always with him as it's victim. But he can't fill her pockets like the patrons can. Elian doesn't bleed Kochba and whatever else she collects in silk and leather pockets.

He smiles, because she smiles and it's infectious. He feels foolish, because she's wasting her evening of entertainment, with him as company.

Nodding, he decides on reminding her he wouldn't mind, whatever she needs him to go to get a patron off her back. "Well you can tell me if someone needs throwing out then." He'd enjoy it, too. Expending tense muscles, and irritation to be in the Ghouliard, as ever. Stilling beneath her touch, when ink brushes ink. Fingers and face. He wants to ask her why she does it — why she dances for the likes of those roaming the Dominion? Why doesn't she rush out when she's got her coin? She sits with him, and winks and pokes —

"I am fine. You ask me all the time." he answers, shrugging off the intricacies of exactly what components made up the chemistry of his life. He bows his head away from her, before she ignites that feeling in his chest that rattles him. It always burns when she's around, and something warm in his stomach reminds him that it's probably Najelon burning him, as warning for skirting off work. "Why wouldn't I be? I am here." So is she.

She moves so delicately, where Eli is all sharp edges and brute force. Did he ever make her a drink? Fuck. He reaches for a glass (for possibly the second time), and fills it with ice cubes. Frosted crystal meets dark liquor and he slides it across the bar to sit by her hand. His head feels breached, permeated by demon energy — sin that sinks below his skin, whilst wrath for his negligence batters against his back.

She's so kind. Too kind. "I like the ones where your eyes light up. There's one you do... it's as if something comes alive in you." A spark like a firework, as it she wanted to be no where else, for just a few wayward moments. "I don't know its name. It's slow, though." There's time to step into every movement she makes. There's time for her to call his mad, too. "I couldn't watch it all."

ofescapisms

location: the roadhouse starter: open

Peyton walked into the Roadhouse, the place felt like a second home to her after all. If she was going to try something new, there was no place she was more comfortable doing that than here. She sat down at the bar, wearing a curly blonde wig, and ordered her usual drink before tossing some of the fake hair over her shoulder and smiling at the person next to her. "What do you think? Does this look suit me for a little on-stage character I'm working on?" she winked. "Best part of my job, playing with different looks."

Roadhouse is safety. Not the kind that boasts a warm hug of a loved one, but instead a gentle shoulder nudge and a fist bump that says that the next few hours will be alright. A bit rough, and a bit messy on the late nights. But safe. Cain usually kept it that way when he was around to bash heads. Because Nepenthe has become a part of her, and it'd taken a long time to get to that revelation. It'll take even longer to come to terms that she belongs anywhere, let alone a wolf pack who wants to watch her back.

Not all do. But some. That's enough, because Kit'll watch her own, too.

Every time she stares at the bottomed out whiskey glass, she grieves for all she's lost. It's a habit, and it's done silently. Isn't that the terms of drinking shit liquor, because something needs burning out? She knows silence never lasts in the Roadhouse.

It's probably why she goes there; she doesn't want quiet.

Eyes shift over to Peyton sitting next to her; she hadn't recognised her immediately. What with new hair, and an outfit that reflected something other. Just a scent she should have picked up on, sooner. "I didn't even know it was you," Kit confesses, in a laugh. "Looks good, Pey." She's got a knack for that. Izara doesn't go see her perform often, because it's not her scene; the closest she gets to the Beta's other side, is moments like this, when she's flaunting new looks, and trying out new material. "You get this stuff at that threads place over westside? Or you make this yourself?"

Kit's better with stiffer materials; metals; woods; stone; copper. Cotton? It'll tear beneath her fingernails if she tried to play seamstress. But Peyton's got some connection, or a hidden talent Kit'd admire.

#o: peyton #muse: izara

"And who do you think the real owner is?" Because Saylor needed to know. Not only that, but she needed to know who the fuck this woman was. To Adrian. To her. Was she someone she needed to be wary of? Was she one of Adrian's past lovers? How did she even know about the ship, when only her and Adrian did?

Unless her husband lied to her about who knew about it.

How many lies had he told her, thus far?

The way the woman spoke -- and the fact that her own doubts were flooding her mind -- practically caused her sails to die down. Saylor was fucking tired and confused. She'd come to the ship thinking she'd be alone and could actually sleep but there was someone making loud noises. Someone she didn't know. Someone claimed to be repairing it.

She needed to talk to Adrian. To get him on the ship before the woman left. Worry tore at her mind, wondering who the woman had told so far about the ship that was supposed to be a secret. How long was it going to take before others in the Forgotten found out just exactly who her husband used to be?

Saylor let out a sigh as she ran her hands over her face. The ship was one of the only places she didn't have to be Queen. Somewhere she was comfortable being herself. And now... well, it was as if that was slipping through the cracks of the floor boards. "Okay. Alright." Saylor muttered. "Could you just... try to keep it down? Do something not so... loud."

curseaddendum

Saylor was being completely unreasonable, unusually so. She was normally as stubborn as he was, but this time it was almost surreal how big the snowball was growing from something that was completely unimportant to him. So much so that he had forgotten to mention it, but only because there was no reason to tell her in the first place. Did she expect a whole ship to maintain itself while he was busy playing King? He shook his head on the way to the Dagger, swimming as fast as his ragged tail allowed him.

Fucking phones.

And besides, why was she going to his ship without even letting him know first? He’d given her permission, but he expected at least a heads–up. Entitled Queen. He shouldn’t be surprised by that, but he was certainly pissed.

The transaction with the fae guard down the grotto’s opening was as fast and painless as it could be. Adrian’s had grown so used to the transfiguration that he didn’t feel pain other than the chronic pressure in his joints. Not that his mind could process anything but the things he wanted to say to his wife. Respectfully. In the blink of an eye, he was on the deck, not even bothering to take the ramp. Instead, he propelled himself up with a towering stream of water. On his left, there was his shipwright working diligently.

“Kit,” he greeted dryly, sounding more like a grunt. His eyes were instantly searching for the source of his irritation. “You’ve met my wife,” he continued as his gaze landed on Saylor, his voice laced with irony.

@cavernovs

#o: adrian #o: saylor #muse: izara

Izara ignores her.

She won't give up Adrian's name, even if she is the wife of the king. (And Kit's still not sure who she is, really) She'd given her word that she'd keep Ghost between her and him, and Kit had no plans to break it on the first hurdle by a woman throwing power around like a tyrant. It's more difficult to completely disregard the woman with hearing that picks up on every shoe step the queen makes; the creak of old wood yet to be gutted ― but over the sound of a hammer driving nails into new slats. It's a lot simpler than bickering with her about her job.

Maybe she'd just go the fuck away and let her be. If she stops communicating with her, then there's no argument. Kit's content she has her permission from Adrian, and she'd like to keep the Kochba he'd promised, as much as she wanted to work on the project and learn more about ships of this calibre. When would she ever get this opportunity again?

Not unless Adrian truly had a fleet stowed away throughout the caverns.

The queen's still standing there, talking at Izara like she's in some position to call the shots. Izara is not Mer. She does not abide by whatever power of the monarchy she thinks she has. The Infinite Caverns were across shared territory of their own; she had less standing on this ship anyways, than she might have done under the waters, swimming around in her little kingdom of wet.

In quiet protest, Kit continues hammering repairs into the hull. It's not quiet, or considerate. It's rough and heavy handed; it's her getting her work done. If the queen had such a vast kingdom, she could go wander somewhere else and bark orders at those in her court, or whatever.

If she were more petty, and did not want to risk losing this job. She'd have thrown the hammer at the queen's head.

She isn't sure what she'd ever tell Axel, if it landed and she'd put a bloodied hole in the Queen of the Forgotton's skull. But the thought had been fleeting. Fuck. Kit just had to mind her business, and continue focusing on her work, that's all.

A gush of water echoed across the deck, and Izara suddenly feared a breach ― eyes flew across to search for the source; the last thing she needed is a sinking ship, and she'd curse the Queen if she had anything to do with it, in her feet stomping. But it is not a typical intrustion. A geyser of water, with a King in the centre of it; an entrance fit for his role. He looked less rugged than she had known him, more regal in his appearance. A man taming the eye of a water storm.

Kit would have liked to be left to her devices, but at least with Adrian's appearance, maybe the Queen could mind herself.

"Yeah." A similar, meeker kind of mutter. She bites her tongue on suggesting Saylor could have sunk the ship with all her tantruming. Pointing a hammer accusingly for just a moment, she reminded the pair of them: "I told her I was trying to work."

Being on stage was where she liked best—when all eyes were on her, watching in amazement, wonder, hunger. That's the attention she wanted, where people noticed her. It gave Selene that little thrill that kept her coming back even though she didn't have to.

When she'd decided to go out on her own, follow Anders' footsteps, no longer serve her Papa's bidding, she could have simply let her big brother take care of her—Anders always offered, always kept telling her she didn't need to work for a demon, but Selene wanted to do things her own way.

Working the crowds afterwards was fine, she didn't mind it—but it came with its own set of hazards. Patrons she found less than appealing throwing Kochba at her, enough where saying no would likely get her in trouble with Naj. And Selene didn't want to walk away from her stage. But she'd always been good at pushing through, that was what Papa had taught her after all.

When the patron she'd been talking to, thankfully walked away, for business elsewhere or whatever—Selene hadn't been paying attention to him, she turned around to Elian with a sigh and roll of her eyes. "Yes please—I swear if another on of these guys buys me a Leg Spreader or a Screaming Orgasm just to say the name like they're so clever, I'm going to tip it on them!" She lamented, pushing the untouched cocktail away. "Like I haven't heard those lines a thousand times and been forced to laugh, smile and drink the damn things." She rolled her eyes.

"How's your night baby? People being good to you?" Selene asked Elian as she leaned against the bar, looking him over as if to make sure he was okay. She knew there was only a certain level of okay, one could be working for demons—but she was very fond of him, and had grown quite protective.

Selene had a way of talking at him without restriction. A flurry of words, and wonderment that Eli held onto as best he could. She's able to coax the softest smiles out of him, unlike most. He's heard this one before; the funny phrases said flirtatiously at Selene, in some act to gain entrance to a quieter backroom with her. Najelon should probably change the drink names, to stop foolishness like that, he thought.

He stops serving on the bar, and lingers at the end of it, talking to her; it's the better part of his nights. He doesn't know if it's magic that provokes the edgings of comfort, but he wouldn't care if it was. "I can shove the glasses down their throats, if you want?" Suggestion, as much as it is a statement. He's even sure that Naj didn't want discomfort in his house of sin, so it would be a favour to all.

Elian would take the harsh reprimand of Najelon though, if Selene needed him to.

She has a way of calling him things he isn't sure mean what they are. Baby. He hears it a lot, actually, from various patrons. But Selene doesn't say it like it's cruel or malicious or has some other purpose. "People will be as they always are here." Demons. The same. Desperate for a fix, and eager to be served.

A hand fiddles with the edge of the counter, mindlessly as he wonders if she's done dancing for the night, or if it's just a break. He plucks a cloth from beneath, and starts wiping down the spills, just to keep his hands busy.

"Are you leaving?" She has that ability. He can hear people getting aggravated, waiting for some vice to be served over the counter whilst Eli is distracted with the witch. "I liked your dance." He always does, but he isn't sure if he sounds like any other patron she gets irritated with on the floor. He doesn't want to be, so he tries to deliver an awkward, revolutionary smile: "Yeah. I guess the whole place did."

curseaddendum

Was he getting too predictable? Even at times like this, Najelon couldn’t help but wonder. He had always taken pride in shocking people, in leaving their jaws hanging, whether it was by a magnitude of pleasure they’d never experienced before, or by giving them an all too miserly taste. Enough for them to come back. The latter had been the case with Jakoris for the longest time. Naj was addicted to the push–and–pull like anyone else, the delicious tension it created. Only some were capable of stretching it with such nuance it never snapped, and Jack was one of them. Maybe the vampire wouldn’t understand it, or perhaps he did with the same depth only an incubus could.

It was impossible to know what went on in that twisted head of his, Najelon would give him that. One was a calculated demon, but the other was a whole riddle of his own. One more reason to keep him at a manageable distance.

The cigarette lit between the demon’s lips, and soon after smoke was slowly flowing through his nostrils in snaky curls. Similar to how one of Jack’s hands had snaked its way between his thighs. Red eyes turned to the vampire again, an eyebrow raised playfully. On occasions like this private party, sin was so tangible and overpowering that it permanently manifested in his body, keeping him tight and prominent in his leather trousers.

“Can’t resist cock when it’s right in front of you, can you, Jackie?” The question came with a scoff, and it was followed by deep drag of his cigarette. If anything, Najelon got comfier in his seat, unbothered. “Go ahead, get a feel of it,” he challenged with a growing smirk. “I know you’ve been dying to.”

#o: najelon #muse: jakoris #nsfw ish

The tongue is as deadly a weapon as any, and Jack had thought he'd mastered the instrument long ago. Whatever fight, or challenge posed, he had believed himself to be every part the leader in the firefight. Jakoris realises far too late in the tug-and-pull between vampire and demon that no only does he possess no fire, but that he's put himself in the midst of a battle he might lose his head in. Najelon's power ― whatever taste of it that the demon's allowed Jack to know up until now ― is a vibrato, and a tenor, a soprano that pierces Jakoris' ears with revelation it almost buckles his knees. In every well-ran game between them over the years, Najelon's held back on exactly the force of what he can coerce out of monsters like Jakoris. And now the Davenport has stepped into the powerful bubble that Naj has kept under lock and key.

He's realised that he's drowning, and it's filling his mouth, expanding his stomach in overindulgence. Energy shoved raw in crevasses he didn't know he had, like a pressure that drives him to act.

He just doesn't know if he's strong enough to run, or duck out of its lull.

They're similar in making their points known, when they need to.

"You fucking ―" But his hand's already exploring the leather and the tension coiled tight underneath. Not all of it is of his own volition, something creeps up his neck and tells him he likes the feathery touches of Najelon's demonic charm. Knees that ghost against one another, and a tray of vices trapped in the table space next to them. Najelon doesn't need to know what Jack's thinking, after all. He can encourage depravity out in other ways. Teeth that clip lips, and eyes that bore into rubies. Davenport hasn't had to pull free of a snare he's willingly put himself in the jaws of so suddenly before, but he's careful in trying to exit the knife-like edge of its grasp. "You've been holding out on me, sugarcake." A hand squeezes around stretched leather. He supposes that is part of the demon's game; want. When he and 'Zagi play, it is not so without its violence.

He and Naj have always been balancing on the tip of a sword, and seeing who might fall first. Goading, teasing ― "You always leak like this so early into the fun?" If Jakoris imagines it like a party trick, he thinks he can shake of the heavier layers of magic he cannot possibly understand, or know. It's not cheating, because Jack would do the same, if he had a shred of incubus in him; he'd pull strings until they snapped and all his toys were broken and battered.

But he's thinking more about putting something into the demon and making the ruby-red of his gaze burn for him. In his head is something punishing, and too certain ― it takes up the space Najelon's subconsciously filling with his own desirable power.

feralmenagerie

"Fine," the word comes out short and clipped.

Autumn understands - safe passage out of here in exchange for a favor. A life for a task. Coin's more important here than it's ever been to her, but a place like this might have more to offer than just one head-hunt.

Stirring when the Vampire moves to sample the blood, she wonders if he's gonna make some sort of flex and cost her half the value with a lash of a claw across the girl's jugular. He doesn't though, and her shoulders sag in quiet relief. She's ready for a fight always, but not in a den of vampires - she has to fix Summer before she'd let herself do something that doomed.

He'll have to find her, anyways - or wait until she comes back. Whichever happens first, she doesn't know or care as she heaves the groaning shape over her shoulder, his chiding farewell scratching annoyance into her ear.

"Find me or whatever."

Since he likes cat and mouse so much.

#o: autumn #muse: jakoris

An agreement he'll keep a tight fist on, when she makes the smart decision to not make an enemy of him. He's a lover, not a fighter ― depending on the night.

And he shouldn't have expected more than a wolfen growl upon claiming her bounty. Or for her to take a swift exit after being granted free passage through his world. He keeps eyes locked on the figures threatening to get too close to a new acquaintance as she squeezes back through the fire exit with her mark in tow.

Quiet, but perhaps loud enough for animal ears to hear, he muses playfully ― slowly trailing behind, to close the door and lock himself back inside the club. "Take care, pumpkin."

She'd make a good employee, glaring out the ruffians getting too much with the merchandise, he thinks. But Jack's not in the direct business of handing out job offers to rogue wolves in dire need of showers, though. There might be more to her, yet.

He'll find out what she's made of when he claims his favour back.

FIN.

"Yes, yes." She waved a hand away at his words as she continued to tug him through the club, towards one of the private rooms. Raven wondered if Najelon could see them -- potentially watching from where the lived, just above the club. Her lips curled upwards into a smile, knowing that she'd much prefer that he watched as she divulged Elian in a form of pleasure. But she didn't want to cause the Mer any form of embarrassment, so she assumed them being alone would be best.

Raven opened one of the doors and pulled him inside the lavish room, shutting the door behind them. "Okay. I won't talk to him, then." She didn't care whether he wanted her to or not. Raven would talk to Najelon about anything she damn well pleased.

"Relax, Elian." Her voice came out as a low moan as she placed her hand on his chest and walked forward, backing him up until his legs hit the edge of one of the velvet love seats. "You will sit. You will relax and you will let me have fun with you. Just as Najelon wanted." She waited until he was sitting before she smiled, licked her lips, and lowered herself to her knees.

"How long has it been since you've felt pleasure, Elian?" Her hands drifted to his knees, spreading his legs apart until she could settle in between them. Then, she placed her hands on the top of his thighs. "You are wound so tight, these days. Too much work. Not enough play."

"What I want is to taste you." Raven purred as her eyes lifted to meet his. "And for you to use me. In any way you want."

She is always so carefree. Fearless to consequence because she never faces any.

Elian does not know what it is like to take a step, and not think about what it would cost him. He follows, because there is no other choice. It is this, or Najelon and whatever the demon has concocted for punishment. Though, he felt as though listening in full eluded both of them, even when Eli used his words.

He does not enter the suite's in the club unless asked, and he certainly does not use them for his own isolation. Raven has reign that Elian would never possess, just as she has a mind he will never understand, nor decipher.

A door clicks shut.

"You keep saying that." A habit she might have, but one that Eli did not know; innately designed to sit on the edge of oblivion, and teeter on the precipice of the end. Relax, makes him shake his head because the dark spots of memory, or the questioning in his gaze does not know what it means. It does not know what it is to not be on guard, or watch for a knife in his spine. Raven's orders sound like Najelon, and he cannot deny the one who carved the sigil into the same spine he straightens of its tension.

Under Raven's touch, he stumbles onto the lounger. Cushions break his collapse, as her pushes up onto his biceps, staring at her in sudden bewilderment. He swallows, glancing to the door, once. And then back to the woman crouched between his legs. "Raven." he hisses, almost demanding an answer out of her that is no riddles he struggles to translate. "I do not know this game."

And then his eyes dip lower as he pushes further up on his arms, unsure if to slam his legs shut and crush her head from her demanding gestures. Eli thinks he understands now, and this game is not one he plays very often. Not with Raven. And less with Naj.

There is no use in arguing inevitability (so he thinks), because Raven is stubborn and she is the spokeswoman for Najelon. His second in command, despite her languishing role. "Why do you want this?" This does not serve her? He thought he knew demons and their ways, but she is mortal, and she digs claws in him all the same. Games often had victors, just as they had losses. "You are playing with me."

Eyes that fixate on her, and fingers that curl in against his palm, thighs that threaten to bring him to a stand again. Elian did not want to use her; he wants to do enough to satiate Raven, so then the demon would not carve portions of his skin from the bone. Whatever that entails does not matter. It is a means to an end. Elian didn't need to remind either of them where her mind wandered to at every other moment, and what exactly they would do if they disliked their salaciousness. Eli cannot help the swirl in his stomach, or the questioning of the intention. "Najelon said this?" She could just wander the club, and play? "You are with him."

Shit. What is he supposed to do?

Eyes flew to the door again, as if he would walk through the door and see what was his, spread on a lounger, with another on her knees.

#o: raven #muse: elian

Location: The Ghouliard Status: Open to all

Selene relished being on stage - the lights, the heat, the thrum of the music through her system as she moved, sand with a pitch that could almost make the Merfolk jealous. She revelled in it.

The attention.

It fed her soul, fed a hunger in her she had since she was a child. To be seen, to be admired. And oh did they admire when she performed. She smiled out into the crowd, purple tendrils of magic coiling from her fingers, wrapping around the audience, her body, like teasing strokes that only added to the flare and wonder of her performance.

When the song came to its climax, her tantalising performance at its peak, Selene gave a little wink into the crowd, blew a kiss and stepped off stage smooth as silk, ready to work the floor.

A finger swirls in the beverage that Elian's slid across the bar.

A vicious complaint from a demon that asked why a Merstain's sticking anything in his drink. It's not that they're out of stirrers, it's that the soulstealer's ordered something with magic. Eli's magic is water-based, he's meeting quota; he could've swirled it without touching, but he's simultaneously distracted by Selene's performance on stage, so he isn't thinking.

Eyes that kept dipping from patrons, to the woman skirting clothes up and down skin as she danced. Eli didn't know many like him; bound to Najelon (if she is). There's less than a handful tied in with him. And they weren't like Selene. She's not a demon, and works at the same place; she looks like she enjoys it; he still isn't sure he knows how voluntary it is.

He isn't sure why anyone's choosing Najelon without desperation being the root.

Elian knows one thing; Selene's beautiful, and gawking eyes make his stomach feel uneasy. But between Naj's bidding, and serving drinks, she's kind to him. The only other version he knows within these walls. He's not sure her sweet words are real, when she puts herself on the stage and performs, like Raven does.

And he knows where Raven's loyalty lies.

Selene stepping off stage, and bypassing the bar draws his gaze, as well as many others. He spills a cocktail in the distraction, and quietly curses as he shoves the drink across and accepts the Kochba with annoyance, stuffing it in a pouch behind the bar. Eli doesn't say anything, even if his gaze suggests it wants to. He just nods at the next one of Najelon's guests, who's distracted with Selene.

"You want something?" he asks, before he considers shifting his attention away, to someone else.

Saylor opened her mouth and then after a moment, closed it. She wondered how many of their people he'd met, thus far, to be able to say that. Josiah wasn't hated -- not by a long shot -- but had Elian met someone else that cared for Josiah in a way that she had? Saylor knew that Josiah had taken others to his bed. She'd mourned what she wanted and what she couldn't have. She was still mourning, in a way. Processing every time she was around Josiah.

And now she was standing in front of Elian, thinking of Josiah.

Saylor quickly shoved aside the thoughts.

"But you can leave, can't you? You don't have to stay here." Unless, he did? Her eyes flickered down towards his legs and she silently wondered when the last time was when he'd had his tail. Weeks? Months? Years? Nausea swirled in her stomach as her gaze lifted to meet his again.

Saylor's body involuntarily flinched at his words. He was a Mer. Not a human. Which meant, she was his Queen, whether he lived in the Forgotten or not. He was part of her Kingdom. He was her responsibility and she'd let him down. "I can, though. Elian, let me help." Whether he knew it or not, Saylor would do anything to get him out of the Dominion.

"Try to get you out. To bring you somewhere you are wanted." Did he want to be there, living among the Demons? "You can have a life away from this place. Away from them." The species that killed her mother. "It's not a trick. I promise it's not. My offer-- this is real." But how was she going to show him that? How was he going to believe her? "And whether you agree with it or not, I will try."

She didn't move a muscle as he pulled from her grasp and kicked water towards her. Saylor watched as he manipulated the liquid until it sharpened and headed straight towards her. Then, they dropped. "No. You don't belong here." She insisted. "And I will figure out a way to bring you home."