#cuntlike

[pixistic]

@cuntlike , ishtar : [ TXT ] : answer me coward

tim [11:32am]: was sleepin

half-truth. he’d been wasted, passed out in his jeans and boots. he scrolls through the missed calls and texts now through a pounding headache. mouth cotton-dry. he can’t tell if it’s the hangover or ishtar.

tim [11:33am]: wats wrong

[lieability]

"oh, a pity party. these are fun." — @cuntlike, as ishtar isil.

university's been the kind of place mari shows up to and forgets herself in. she loses charms, keys, the back end of a bracelet. misplaces her heart, her mind, the answer to last week's quiz. people only know what they can google about her. her friends only know what they see of her. drunken at her first class, slumped through her last, still reading her father's obituary in the library. she's odd, in the way that she's ill, and in the way that everyone but her can see it.

but ishtar's different. ishtar doesn't look at her as if she's got death wedged between her teeth, like she's got blood stained on her hands— she doesn't glance over mari's shoulder (at least, not noticeably) when she decides to google her mother's release date for the sixth time that morning. it's nice. it's kind. it's friendship, or fondness, or something far below and somewhere in between. or, rather, that's what mari's decided to call it.

an unlit cigarette pulls out from behind her ear, lighter flicking to life as tobacco wedges between lips. an imprint of cherry chapstick lingers on the filter, and smoke billows out from an exhale. "you th — think she's doing the pity party, or him?" there's a glance over to where ishtar's staring. a couple, clearly mid-argument, stand in the distance— one half of the equation distressed, the other half of the equation angry, and both parts increasing in volume. a soft huff of a chuckle, and the cigarette slow-drags from mari's lips once more. "my bet's on him. guys like t — to pull that shit. boo-hoo, woe is me, blah-blah ... blah."

[envernus]

for all his years spent in the lowest parts of the lower city itself, he's never once found anything that might lead him to locating the temple dedicated to bhaal. he's made it his business to know the undercellar like the back of his hand and still, the temple remains unreachable, a lair hidden beneath the cloak of invisibility called ignorance. he imagines it like a maw, stretched impossibly open so as to engulf the entirety of baldur's gate and periodically fed by murder and violence often wrought by istar and orin's hands. maws happen to have teeth, and with those it's chewed on and spat out istar far more often than it ought to be normal. though she neither crawls nor drags her feet away from the depths of her haunt on account of her dignity, istar still wears exhaustion like a second skin. she moults whenever gortash gives her shelter.

it's one of those days today. they would have met anywhere else if it wasn't for orin and her shapeshifting so they trade the lower city for gortash's drawing room. his residence is discreet, at a twilight point between the outrageously luxurious and suitably practical, but most importantly it's quiet. it's a place to trade the scent of blood and rust for that of a burning hearth.

she's sat by the fire and is as silent as the room around her. enver rests his hands on the back of her seat, an attempt at gently alerting her to his presence. he's no assassin himself, but his own tendency to walk silently is a habit with decades of life. " you seemed a million miles away just then. " his tone abandons all theatrics. " need me to keep your mind busy, and if so with what? "

@cuntlike / @favoriteache, sc.

[pixistic]

@cuntlike , ishtar:  ❛ your heart is beating so fast right now. ❜

deny, deny, deny.

ishtar’s already gotten her out of her clothes. there was nothing left of her to strip naked. it feels like a show of weakness, though, when caramel flits her gaze to the shoreline where she discarded her cutoff shorts and baby tee in a heap—just to check they’re still there, waiting for her. but she only winds up realizing how far they’ve swam out, where the ocean hasn’t formed its waves yet, just soft ripples of black water. would be mellow if it also wasn’t so… stranded.

ishtar hasn’t blinked in her icy scrutiny of caramel’s body language, looking as she did since they met at the beginning of the summer. like she can’t decide whether to kiss caramel or kill her, and she’d be capable of both, easily. caramel is acutely aware of ishtar’s proximity—their pebbled nipples brush and it aches—so she knows it’s pointless, but she tries anyway, with a wobbly smile, “it’s not — i’m just cold.”

she’s a shit liar. her voice breaks. she’s wet between her legs. and she makes the mistake of glancing toward the shore again, comparing the distance to the depth of the ocean lapping at her tanned shoulders, the gradually tiring muscles of her legs treading the water. under the full moon, bone-white and seeming close enough to graze the top of their heads, caramel’s slight panic is apparent. her cheeks are flushed, her jugular is fat with her accelerated heartbeat.

“should we — go back?"

[scarybush]

she flinches back as if stung, her expression shuttering into something brittle. an old habit, throw the walls up and keep out whatever she can. most of the time she can make herself believe that it works - the other part she’s back to being that desperately lonely girl, hungry for someone to love her for who she is. what she’s done to survive in a world where no one wanted her. “ what do you know about me anyway? piss off. ”

@favoriteache / @cuntlike said : 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙳𝙾 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝚂𝙴. 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴.