Lilith Mars Forrester (they/them) and Blake Forte (he/him) belong to my WIP, Madame A’s Retreat for Spellworking.
No sickness or whump. Just a snippet with character vibes.
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It was late afternoon, and Lilith had just found Blake in the library. He was cradling a leather-bound book in both hands and his back was slightly arched as he sat in the green-and-orange chair that he’d re-established as his designated ‘reading’ spot ever since his return. Lilith would have liked to scoff at his audacity, but had to admit that the tangerine tinge of his hair, and the dark tones that wove through most of his clothing choices, suited the aesthetic of the upholstery. He and that chair looked like a painting.
Unluckily for him, Lilith believed in a firm rift between the art and the artist. Blake and that chair and that book might all look beautiful together, but they knew the bullshit behind the visuals.
They walked right over to him and slapped the book out of his hands.
Its covers collapsed together and it flipped onto its back side before landing on the floorboards with a thunk.
"Hey!” Blake screamed. “You made me lose my page, asshole."
"Page sixty-nine," Lilith snapped. "Same page you've been ‘reading’ for the past two weeks."
Lilith half-expected him to say something snarky about Lilith looking over his shoulder often enough to notice that he never turned any pages.
“I’m a slow reader.”
“The other day, you had your book upside down. For an hour!”
If Blake had been flustered, it only lasted a couple of seconds before his face corrected itself.
“It’s page sixty-nine,” he shrugged. “It’s the same both ways.”
“Oh, shut... up,” Lilith murmured, trying not to think too hard about the fact that Blake was, infuriatingly, right.
Blake folded his arms.
“So, what are you actually thinking about all day?" Lilith planted their hands on their hips and tilted their head so aggressively that their whole body leaned to the side. "While you're staring a page, pretending to read? What’s going on in that head of yours?"
Blake shrugged. "I don't know. Chickens with bras on? Did you want something from me, Lilypad?"
Lilith almost physically retched in repulsion. Giving out nicknames was one of their proudest talents, and they sincerely hoped this wasn’t a case of their own medicine tasting terrible. “Okay, hate that. Knock that off this instant.”
Blake shrugged as if he couldn’t give a shit whether or not this conversation progressed. Or whether or not Lilith lived or died.
“What’d you want?” he repeated.
“I wanted to ask you what you came back here for!” Lilith gestured all around them, at the books and the leather and the gentle streams of sunlight that fanned out across the floorboards. It all seemed aggressively at odds with Blake’s icy presence. “Hmm? You’re not here to improve your skills. You’re not here to make friends. So what the fuck are you here for, Blake?"
Blake’s lips curled just a little. He leaned back into the armchair and propped a couple of fingers under his chin. It made Lilith bristle whenever they were reminded of the serene, commanding presence that Blake was capable of exuding; like his body was a golden statue, and he was surrounded by plastic imitations.
“Well?” Lilith asked, emphasising that their questions were not rhetorical.
They were pissed off enough that they genuinely wanted answers out of this guy. They’d have been lying if they denied being vaguely curious, too. Something had held Blake’s attention elsewhere for two solid years, and suddenly he was back at Madame A’s retreat, acting as though he’d never given a shit about anything or anyone in his life.
“What is it then? Are you here purely to make the rest of us miserable?”
"You flatter yourself, Lilypad."
"Okay, this is your last warning. Call me that again and I'll -"
Blake snorted. "This'll be good."
Lilith ground their teeth. Even if they could think of a suitable threat, Blake was going to dismiss them anyway. It was thankless work, arguing with this guy. It was better to scrunch your annoyance up into a little ball and store it somewhere within yourself.
"Blake.” Lilith lined up the tips of their fingers on each hand and pressed them together. “You've got Rex picking up the slack for you on the pairs project. You’re mean to Astrophel...”
“When have I ever been -?”
Lilith parted their hands, demanding to be allowed to finish. “You haven't cooked for us on any of your designated nights. You don't even hang out with us after lessons.”
"Fuck’s sake, is this what you're upset about?” The ghost of a smirk crept over Blake’s face. “That I won't come to your tedious Doctor Who marathons?"
"If you would just give Capaldi a chance - hmph." Lilith stroked their hands through the air to calm themself. "Blake.”
“Lil....”
Orion, give me strength.
“...lith,” Blake finished, his face the picture of forced innocence. The picture of a smug shithead.
Lilith exhaled. “Forget about hanging out with us. Forget about the dinners. No one missed your ‘plain pasta with salt’ anyway.”
“Harsh.”
“But stop. Taking. Advantage. Of. Rex,” Lilith said. “The only reason Madame A brought back the pairs projects is because there’s an even number of us this year. Thanks to you. Which means the extra work you’re dumping on Rex is double your fault.”
“You don’t give Rex enough credit.” Blake’s tone was disarmingly sharp. Accusatory, even. “If she had a real problem with me, she’d tell me herself. In fact, didn’t it occur to you that maybe she prefers not having to work with me? Do you think I didn’t see those looks all three of you gave each other when Madame A set the pairs?”
Guilt spilled over from the pot of emotions bubbling in Lilith’s gut. Had Blake really just made a series of good, morally impressive points?
“So. How about you shut up, leave me be, and stop trying to be everybody’s hero?” Blake looked nauseated, as though the word ‘hero’ had tasted like petrol on his tongue.
The guilt was abruptly washed away in a tide of anger. The least useful of the emotions, and the very last one you should bring into a conversation with Blake Forte.
Lilith turned away. For a few seconds, they were fully intent on just walking out of the library and leaving Blake’s words hanging, untouched, in the air. But before they could get through the door, they turned back around.
“Fuck you.” They wished their tone hadn’t been so gentle and matter-of-fact. They might as well have just told Blake that the weather was nice today.
But they were still kind of relieved that they’d said it.
Blake had just leaned down to pick his book up from the floor. “Hey, Forrester, remind me - what page was I on, again?”
Edit: HI HELLO can random blogs stop reblogging this? My blog contains kink content and the way this post is spreading is making me very uncomfortable.
Make assumptions about my OCs based on their appearance!
(sorry for the reposting shenanigans. I’m having formatting issues on my phone and my laptop, which is why the images are stacked instead of arranged in a square.)
Their names are (in the same order as the images):
Rex (she/her)
Blake (he/him) - please imagine with one blue and one brown eye.
Lilith (they/them)
Astrophel (he/him, or any neo pronouns).
Also here's the Picrew maker link. It’s a really fun one!
Assumptions:
“Astrophel is a good friend”
“Blake plays guitar (or wishes he did)” (Part Two)
“Lilith was bullied into being/looking ‘normal’ as a kid”
