wiltf (wips i'd like to finish)

literally throwing things i write here now

[wiltf]

dinner was late tonight.

taash really didn’t give a shit, if they were being honest. but it was worth making a comment or two and watching bellara puff up in a bundle of emotions. davrin joined in, which leant to the effect of watching their resident expert on all things weird blow a casket before realising.

all of which had become something of a norm. except of course, it was sometimes filtered in with well,

okay, brooding, yes. taash expected the brooding, particularly antivan flavoured brooding, while sometimes being served something that always gets a joke or two about being poisoned. if only because it almost seems to offend the brooder, antivan flavoured, because why would he waste good food like that?

yet tonight, dinner being late, where taash must remind bellara, again, they really didn’t give a fuck if it was late or not served at all (come on, bellara, please? hello!), taash can only. stare. really. because the brooder was at one end of the table, and rook was at the other, deep in a conversation with neve.

one that sounded vaguely snobbish, so taash could only assume it was primarily happening in tevene. or orlesian, with the way some words got a bit punched. rook was holding her fork too tight, scowling so hard that taash expected her to spontaneously combust — taash really wanted to comment that rubbing the eyebrows that hard together could seriously start a fire, but.

this was one of the times taash let it rest. well, not really, not at all, because lucanis was starting to stink of brood and ill-conceived feelings (yes, ill-conceived feelings. taash heard the book club use the phrase the previous week, it's stuck in their head).

it was kind of funny, staring at lucanis, and spite was actually quiet. or pissed off. and taash could only really remember the kind of gossip that lace had shared following their weekly meeting, about lucanis and romance novels and something that sounded like lucanis asking for tips.

because it was fucking hilarious, to stare down the other end of the table, where rook and neve were butting heads. hand-waving and getting louder, swearing within earshot of manfred, while neve could only roll her eyes in a way that would have a lesser person cry.

“you’re an idiot, priscilla.”

rook calls neve something that sounds vaguely like. well, taash shan’t repeat such a phrase in the presence of manfred, but it only serves to have neve laugh and look pointedly across the table at.

lucanis?

taash isn’t the only one noticing now, but definitely had long left their subtlety behind in favour of being enraptured by this. whilst emmrich and davrin try to keep conversation going, in a way that only they could, bellara had given up. so had lace. just eyes moving between rook and lucanis, and dinner was late.

dinner. was. late.

“did you two fuck?”

rook chokes on her wine, and taash would not be surprised if spite was the one managing to keep lucanis upright. saving the man from sliding down in his chair.

“no!” they say at the same time.

snap of fingers, and taash can’t stop the next few words. “did spite cockblock you?”

“taash, stop.” / “no, no. no. no.”

a pause. “then what happened? you both stink.”

sometimes, taash remembered the way their mother would sigh over speaking before thinking. always trying to get taash to measure their words, to treat each conversation like a battle, where it was important to assess and strike. this was not one of those times, yet it was definitely like getting a win over rook, with the way she blushes a deep red, and no longer looks at taash.

well, if no one else was going to pry the awkwardness out of the room, taash was going to do it. besides, they knew that they had positively enraptured this end of the table, sans lucanis, from the way davrin was wearing a shit-eating grin and partway to saying something too.

taash stands, looking between the two, who both looks in different states of the same feelings.

“did we cockblock you—by calling for dinner, i mean?”

rook is the first to groan and seemingly turn to liquid, sliding down in her chair until a sound was made, as if she hit the floor.

“there’s your answer,” neve says, returning to eating her dinner, idly picking off of rook’s plate, while.

well, lucanis had bowed out, plate cleared, chair tucked in neatly. pantry door open, so taash didn’t see a need to drag him out to answer for the both of them. this was better than anything they had witnessed with their eyes so far. better than all the steamy scenes lace liked to read while taash was training.

this was so fucking funny, that the laughter from all around the table fills the room, until a hand shoots up from where rook had disappeared to. flipping all of them off, before flopping back to where she had resigned herself to possibly die.

by whatever the hell any of them believed in, taash had never found something as funny as this.

[wiltf]

“you can cook.”

something in lucanis’ tone suggests that his statement should have ended as a question, but perhaps the tilt of his head finished that off first. so, rook snorts in response, shaking her head as she moves one pot to another burner, foot kicking up the door to the oven as she went.

“only when i feel like it.”

plate flipped upside down, as if it were a lid, and the open bag of rice is left unattended to as rook starts to melt butter in a completely different pot.

lucanis dares to only step over the threshold, in only so that he could inch the bag of rice closer to himself. quick hands, as he seals it, now safely tucked back under the counter on the opposite wall.

somewhat amusing, how they all seemed to have the same approach to the kitchen. arguably, bellara was more draconic in not allowing anyone else in the hall itself while she cooked, but rook definitely was staring at him out the corner of her eye.

“what are you making?”

butter stirred, sugar measured from her heart. thankfully, it seemed that lucanis had the freedom to make a face at rook’s back, with how much sugar was poured in. something about the sweets in tevinter hurt his teeth.

“uh… that’s just some vine leaves,” spoon whipped up and waving toward the pot and its upside-down-plate-for-a-lid, "left out the mince meat—mostly because i forgot to buy some—and then i’m throwing some…shit!”

rook pulls the pot she had been stirring in quickly off the flame, moving to another. no stumbles that suggested panic, not a single one in sight. lucanis couldn't remember when he started to lean against the wall, arms folded over his chest, just watching. but there he was, as rook swore up and down in both common and tevene.

“fucking oranges, where did i—oh, here.”

already sliced, pitted, and skinned. thrown into the butter-and-sugar concoction with a small jug of milk and chocolate. and whatever else rook just sniffed, before making a face that suggested it was fine.

and then rook proceeded to pour the remainders of whatever else was lying around on top of the peels, turning the bright orange into a particularly unsavoury brown. more chocolate.

“do you need a hand?”

“no, no, it’s fine. just.. stand there, keep standing there—i think this is chocolate from markham, not carastes—fucker in the market sold me the wrong shit—swear to the maker—“

at some point, lucanis had noted that he had been joined by a couple of curious onlookers. almost all of them enraptured in the way that the dishes were piling up, and he had yet to see what she was going to pull out the oven.

“rook can cook.” emmrich almost sounded impressed, were it not for the way he frowned at the goop of what were orange peels.

“so she says.”

“i can hear you.

“and you probably should refer it more to experimenting,” a huff, as she turns and separates the goopy piles of chocolate, some that were peel and others that were once orange flesh, on a rack. “or just throwing stuff together.”

emmrich is braver than lucanis by a long shot, as he steps completely into the kitchen, tea towel in hand as he lifted the plate to peer in. “and what do you call some of these?”

“dolma. or sarma. or dolmades. whatever, one of my grandmothers is probably going to curse me now. though, i’m cursed anyway, these are also the liar variant—no meat.”

if there’s a conversation that follows, lucanis only pays it half a mind. rook seems to catch the edge of a bowl that once contained chocolate with her thumb, a normal move, for what follows was for her to then run her tongue over the skin there. all while nodding to emmrich’s spectacular vocabulary, maybe, possibly. lucanis doesn’t know.

somewhere between the bowl and her now picking up a spoon, he felt the hairs on his arms stand on end.

rook seems to notice him, as whatever panic she had between the pots had settled, her leaning against a bench. spoon in hand. “you… wanna lick it?”

extended towards him, chocolatey end his way, and he can see that some of it must have still been warm enough to run down the shaft, tip of her fingers.

“the spoon?” waved now, in his vision. possibly. not really.

“ah, no, thank you.”

lucanis does not recall when he took the opportunity to leave, but it was somewhere between the shrug and the spoon ending back in the bowl, and rook holding one of the chocolate oranges above her head. tilted back, mouth open. dropping it in.

maybe she says what the name of the sweet is (poison stings, he mind supplies, something he had seen in vyrantium, a lifetime ago), but spite had begun to smell and think and feel. and well. fresh air was what he needed, even if meant subjecting himself to a knowing smile later.

once the door out had closed, does emmrich sigh deeply, particularly when he notes the way rook seems rather pleased.

“you don’t need to tease the poor man so much.”

she grins then, sliding a finger through the rest of the chocolate on the spoon. “he needs to stop making it so easy, though.” eyes glitter with no mirth, not even a touch, which had emmrich sigh.

only after he popped one of the poison stings in his mouth, chewing through. “priscilla, you may give lucanis a heart attack before we get anywhere near ghilan’nain.”

“oh, pish-posh. his heart is fine.” singsong, roll of the eyes. “but fine, fine. i doubt i’m going to get a chance for anything else, so forgive me this one transgression, professore volkarin.”

[wiltf]

“mercar, you busy?”

at the knock on the door, does the shape under the blankets finally seem to move. slowly, with a leg kicking off the end first, until a hand shoots up to throw a pillow wide. only when there’s a snort from the door does the blanket finally release mercar, bruised and bloodied and bleary eyed.

“andraste’s tits, did you break into a brewery?”

mercar does not give an answer, only a small grunt as basil risks it all to open the curtains. the flood of light does not improve his friend’s mood, in fact it almost has her dive back under the covers, but it was worth it to inspect the current damage done from the local fighting ring.

“you know, i didn’t expect you to win—i mean, i don't think anyone did, really—but damn, mercar, remind me to never be on your bad side.”

idle words that escape him, as he sets about righting the room. picking up a chair here, throwing clothes into the basket that they had cleanly missed. wave of a hand, and any shattered glass that remained floated into a bowl on the table. basil could only ignore mercar so well with his own speech, and hands on hips finally have him turn to face his friend.

“what happened to you?”

as far as he was aware, it was supposed to be a simple smash-and-grab. it was only several hours in did basil find out about the fighting ring, with one particular magister apparently having a fondness for red lyrium and stacking the odds in their favour.

apparently that was until priscilla mercar had been pointed in their direction, and taken a hit or two.

“a knife was pulled on me. i pulled a bigger one in the end.”

from right ear to the corner of her mouth, mercar’s skin had clearly been split open. a somewhat impressive job at possibly stitching it together herself sat before him, but basil was horrified at her handiwork. after all, what use was it living in a city of magic when you still used needle and thread?

“can you at least let me clean up part of it? i promise to leave the… scar,” a grimace, then, when mercar looked annoyed at the idea of healing. “is that all your blood?”

“no.”

“is that all your… rum? whiskey? beer?”

“… no.” there was a pause, before mercar rolled her eyes. “i had to disinfect it somehow.”

“you are an idiot.”

utmost affection, of course, as basil makes his way to the living, breathing brewery, fingers barely touching her skin as the stitches were spat out, but the skin wove together again. leaving a scar, of course, because there was always a part of him that did not doubt she would do something to make sure it stayed next time.

mercar spends the few moments staring at the corner of the wall, going through the motions. her hands move as if repeating the previous night. left, right, sweep of the foot out to catch the ankle. failing that, she’s low enough now, solid punch to the knee.

basil avoids the twitch that almost has her throw an elbow, and he’s done with his handiwork. “tada! you look like… well, you look like you’ve been to the void and back, honestly.”

cups her face now, noting the normally long curls shorn close to the scalp, no doubt for her own protection. tattoos that peek out from old clothing and dried blood needing to be washed. “how much longer are you going to do this, priscilla?”

“for however long it takes.”

[wiltf]

🔞🔞🔞.

nails curl into scorched brick, where the ash stains her palm as priscilla tries to brace herself. romantic, to think that maybe she was following the lines of the marks, finding safety amongst them. but instead, there was something in the way the wing smeared, hand slipping, as lucanis’ hips moved to meet hers.

cheek to cheek. out the corner of her eye, where everything seems to drip, and it’s a momentary distraction in trying to keep the shape of wings that had been burned into this wall. another time, one where she is not folded over him, his back against the brick. knees pressed against her back, and there’s hardly room for any movement, just priscilla tucked into lucanis, tracing a line from where she had reached as far as she could, to smear ash on his shoulder, now. arms hooked around him, drawing thin lines against his skin that were right at home with every other scar.

priscilla didn’t want to move. she wanted to keep pulling those wings back in, she wanted to kiss him once more (and she does, more than once). her fingers find the hairs at the nape of his neck, and lucanis tilts his head back — allowing her access to his cheeks, his jaw, his throat. priscilla knew what this meant for him. so her tongue laves his skin, following sweat that pooled at his collarbone.

each twist of her body was enough to perhaps give that little bit of friction between them, dragging a sigh from lucanis. eyes-that-never-closed were seared shut, pink flush high on his cheeks, lips parted. his name on her tongue as she followed the lines of his shoulders, where those wings had once grown from before. if lucanis so much as breathed, it was shallow. if lucanis so much as looked, it was between lashes almost drawn shut. incredible, she whispers, to protests.

finally, they had parted enough for her to lean back, bracing her back against his knees. hands either side of his head, fingers splayed over mortar, following the lines. folded inwards, back that did not appreciate the burn but eyes meeting his, as he truly never stopped watching.

priscilla’s knees groaned at the angle of her movements, but if she spared a thought to them, she would miss lucanis. his hands that cradled her cheeks, that followed down her own sweat-damp skin to neck, shoulders, elbows. wrists. kiss against the inside, where her skin bore lines of grey from the wall.

small of her back, encouraging her.

caging her just as much as she kept him there, against the now slightly smudged brick. if lucanis wished to, he could still watch the door, just in case. always, just in case. but if he was focusing on the door (shut, locked, tightly sealed), it was between quick blinks. tears or sweat, both were salty as priscilla pressed open-mouthed kisses to his skin, catching them before they had a chance to roll past the curve of his cheek.

not so much faster as more desperate, now. trying to find friction against friction, rising up enough to slide her leg back, so that her thighs no longer seared. lucanis’ fingers were quick, measured, calloused. everything was so precise that it might have made her laugh, any other time, were she to spare a thought at how he was a quick study on touching her. tender fingers that were pleasantly rough. priscilla could feel her right leg begin to twitch as lucanis changed the angle of his hand, palm flat while his thumb worked furiously.

she tells him to wait, please, maker, that’s not fair. two could play at that game, were she capable of not focusing on trying to still her leg. left side of his chest, circling his nipple with her nail, while she all but pawed at his sides. sensitivity that came with spending a lifetime expecting death. priscilla had relished discovering how a featherlight touch could draw all kinds of reactions from lucanis, from a respectful cough to the downright—

lewd. that is how her name falls from him. scattered in between puffs of antivan and the way he pulls her against him. lucanis continues to move, continues to hold them so close that were the fade to fracture, then and there, they may mould into one. she clutches him, scratches him, kisses him, the wall no longer a part of this cage, just the way her arms keep lucanis against her. priscilla is weightless, to the stutter of his hips and the blessings and curses that are murmured against her.

priscilla does not go quietly. tomorrow, she may consider the ramifications of such an embrace so close to where they all break bread. but in the wee hours as it may have been, when it was her own fingers trying desperately to tip her over, does the sweat on her own skin cool. no lamplight, no wall. no marks that peppered her dreams for nigh on weeks now. priscilla lay alone on the chaise, candles long since extinguished, and her hand freed from the front of her smalls.

and with mighty effort, does she smack and kick the back of the chaise, until all she can is whisper a small, “shit.”

[wiltf]

they tell you to stage a run-in.

no room for argument, of course, because they remind you of contracts and timing and drama. do it for the drama. ratings and interest, of course, of course, and you’ve been hearing the concerns getting louder. more frequent. what about the music? has started to become a mantra, as more bands get caught up in the riptide that has pulled you, them, her, in.

all in, barely holding on. music didn’t matter anymore. keiran had yet to stop kicking the wall, just enough to push in the toe of his shoe, but each time he did it, those words followed. this wasn’t about being in a band. this was about drama.

to be fair, even you had started to feel it. part of you wanted to laugh at the cassandra truth of it from all the way back at auditions, when your eyes had first run over the entrants and had seen caller, relentless. pope had expressed concern to you, solely, about perhaps it would be best to skip this season. to not risk it. to keep those lines in the sand.

you don’t know who it was who pushed to stay in — no, you do. you’re lying again. to yourself, always, as you catch the whirl of red hair coming around the corner.

lighter, looking more pink. she hadn’t been given a chance on the bus to dye her hair — or so she claimed. but special attention had been paid to the eye of the hurricane, to keep everything prim and upright and pretty in pink.

yet it couldn’t get rid of the lines, the swelling under her eyes. green around the gills.

jennifer lamb clocks the presence of soft violence, minus their most lawless one, about a generous five steps from where they had been told to wait. and you had spent more than enough time now in and around lamb, a lamb with no understanding of silence, to start to pick up on the little tics. had you done research? no (yes). absolutely no idle video watching and seeing the masks slip in and out with ease. and you’re lying, because was also about the muscles that jumped in her cheek, the frowns, the eye rolls and the way that she just never seemed to stop staring forlornly, like nobody else was watching.

except now, because jennifer had chosen you as the target of a mighty glare, hindered only by the puffiness of someone who had no doubt just been crying. the suggestion from the producer was to get her to admit anything, and for you, the band: for you to tell her to back off. for the drama. ‘put some distance between yourselves that she will ignore’, they said, so easily, so unfeelingly.

your suggestion for a song had been something about marionettes, and seven had agreed far too easily.

“jennifer,” you greet, smiling in a way that always seemed to bother her.

truth be told, you’re not sure why — if anything, there was a perfectly polite exchange here and there during the day, but. she always looked at you like you had done something particularly heinous in another life. keiran had suggested it was probably the ‘sleeping together’ comment, and whilst you wanted to disagree, a part of you knew it was probably true. a great first introduction, in hindsight.

but you didn’t have time for petty jealousy, so the smile remains on your face. pope and keiran mumble out something as well, almost like a ‘hi’ but it was probably just a grunt. would be edited out, no doubt. granted, they had to give the producers something worthwhile, anyway. they could just linger for a minimum of five minutes, but as long as their microphones caught even an essence of a spark, it would be worth it.

apparently. as jennifer just sucks on her teeth and nods, eyes never leaving you. but she knows she’s trapped, and that there was clearly something else going on. five minutes, starting now, you tell yourself, as you cover those few steps to actually be within a reasonable speaking distance. speaking, as if you actually had something to care about (wait, well, you do, but you know that seven didn’t want you swinging a bat at his issue, right now. the producers did, on the other hand).

“can i help you?” tight, clipped, already on edge. it might be easier to bring something to the table for the producers. it might be harder.

you had no real plan for this, because all the questions that had been plaguing you since you had first brought seven in were not meant for television. they were almost too private, and a part of you wanted to respect that — for seven, at the very least. there was something so strange about wielding the power now, to expose and damage, when one of the most intimidating people you had met was barely held together with lash glue and sequins.

but this was for seven, and your spot on the show. “we wanted to talk about… the bus.” and keeping popular and voted and seven. it was all to keep him in line, on track, aiming for the end. “the arrangement we have isn’t working.”

“is this something that we should have both bands discussing, with everyone? or is this something related to me, specifically?” arms crossed, brows all the way up.

she’s still intimidating, even if you were sure that one wrong poke to the side would turn her into a puddle. “it’s about you and seven.”

cameras would be able to catch even the smallest change in her facial expression, but there is nothing minute in how she reacts. inside of the cheek likely being bit, pinching her face. jennifer’s eyes narrow and her hands go to her hips and her eyes fall to her shoes. she’s an open book of longing and regret.

“what part of me and—what about the arrangement? i can’t take it back now, even with other teams eliminated. that’s not how it works.”

truthfully, this line of questioning was completely by the seat of your pants. you only had a few aces up your sleeve, and didn't want to expose this one, not yet. but out the corner of your eye, soft violence’s cameraman gives a clear indication that this was still falling short of the mark.

“i’ve seen your notebook, jennifer. whatever feelings you still have for seven, enough. stop hurting him.”

keiran and pope are two faces that you try desperately to block out, with how their expressions give away everything. were you really the type of person to take a peek? no, not normally. but this had been eating at you, and the longer it went on, the most you just wanted to understand. to put the pieces together so that maybe it would be possible to move forward once and for all.

so you broke that sacred promise. you opened lamb’s ark, of sorts, the barely held together book that was carted around with normally a very high amount of care. duct tape and signatures and photos, glue. sharpie that covered pages and ones that were missing, pushed back in. dates and times and there were several lifetimes, in there, that you had read as quickly as you could under the cover of night.

in your hands you had held polaroids and photos printed on scratched gloss and ink-streaked paper, as if done at home with the utmost care. it was absolutely a goldmine of potential, particularly if shown to the wrong people, and your admission into even having a peek was crossing so many lines. you didn’t want this part to go on air, you didn’t want seven to find out.

you don’t know why you really cared.

jennifer was silent. for the first time since you had first met, even when dressed down and out of performance, it she still carried noise, tell-tale beating that she was still nearby. so hard to ignore and move around, at opposites with people that you had only known to carry their own little suns. jennifer’s noise eclipsed that tenfold, blew the candles out.

yet, now. there was nothing.

“jennif—”

you’re cut off, as a deep sigh leaves her. “whatever you saw in there, don't tell him. please, avina. fuck’s sake just—don’t, okay? please?!”

and you should say, okay.

and you should say, you understand.

and you should apologise, right here and now, for even considering to take a glance at the first page, where there were hearts and their initials and a love poem, seven’s handwriting, still preserved in clear tape and cardboard on the back, just to make sure.

but you shake your head. matching her, sigh to sigh, arms loosely folded across your chest. “you should’ve left when you had the chance.”

[wiltf]

in hindsight, you should’ve seen this one coming.

stupid of you to deny the feeling of pressure all around you, popping in your ears finally just like they did on the plane for the very first time. you know that it was so ridiculous to have ignored this for so long, because whispers and looks always followed.

so when seven shouts as the drinks hit your heads, your ears pop. reality comes slamming in down your back, smelling vaguely of cherry liqueur and beer. it fucking stinks. but it has you jump up, hands trying to catch the ice that had managed to make it under your shirt, blinking through the alcohol and hair. knee hitting the edge of the table and you’re swearing louder than seven, now. stumbling over furniture and instruments and sheets of paper, trying to get a hand on the responsible person.

he beats you to grabbing the front of jesse’s shirt, though. seven’s bandana had slipped out of his hair with the movement of his fist, collecting with jesse’s cheek. these are the little snapshots of thought, of course, that pass through your mind. accompanied, when you are getting a handle on what might just be happening, by a resounding slap. your cheek stings and for some reason you can taste iron on your back teeth.

sense is knocked into you like an etch-a-sketch with a french tip. hard enough to throw your cheek in the other direction, to the now horrified look of iris, jazzy, rowan. seven. if only because the first person to jump into action was devyn, arms around your middle, pulling you back and away from the table. surely no one could blame you for the way you struggled against devyn, nor the way you could feel the rage rise up and curl your lips, when you see who was responsible.

return of the gem. return of the gem and the trail of other two-month relationships that had peppered the last few years of seven’s love life. and well, yours, as someone had wisely decided to pull seven off of jesse. a very bloody jesse, who did little more than glare at you through a slowly swelling eye.

“are you fucking kidding me?”

honestly, your question was more aimed at devyn, who summoned an infinite amount of strength that left you to miserably wiggle, trying to. well. you’re not sure what. flail now, at the very least.

your first instinct was to throw down, but that might’ve just been the cocktail of a bad hookup sticking to your hair and clothes. the second one was to just scream and well. the physical violence was just that much more appealing, despite the appearance of bouncers and the bar manager, and how seven’s league of evil exes just loomed.

devyn finally gives up in holding you completely, settling more for keeping a solid arm across your front. fine, that was fine, because fuck trying to consider anything else right now as you had to try to breathe. focus, and not lose this gig, or your nerve, or well.

fuck the relationship. “limp-dick fucker, the shit was this for?!”

when jesse looks at you, you were surprised by how alarmed they were. as if they didn’t expect you to shout. and well, jesse should’ve been quite familiar with your vocal chords by now, but sheer force of will kept them from greeting the heel of your boot. and not in the way they normally liked.

“you’re cheating on me, you… you bitch!”

the face you pull probably looked much like the one rowan did, at how the attempt at an insult petered out. jesse didn’t know what to say. that made it worse.

“this is about cheating?!”

“so you admit it!”

“you are the biggest shithead i’ve met in my life, and i’ve seen my share of assholes. i’m not cheating—and, who, am i cheating with?!”

gem is the one who shouts and points. at seven, because of course. you wanna snap her perfect little manicure just for the absolute insanity of the situation. also, partially because you think it did actually cut your skin after the slap.

instead, she’s saved by the laugh that leaves you, and continues to do so. the way you have to cover your face, and devyn looks embarrassed for them. “change the fucking record, jesus fucking christ. aren’t you all tired of this yet?

“bill, i’m so sorry about all this. i’ll agree to the share you suggested for this gig. fuck’s sake.”

you shove past gem, and the geminites, because what the fuck. was there a group chat out there? you know you weren’t the most popular with a specific demographic (mainly being the series of relationships that had ended when seven got fed up with the jealousy), but this? this right here? it convinced you that this was a conspiracy. you were in fact an alternate universe of scott pilgrim, but there was no pixie manic dream girl you were willing to risk it all for.

instead, you roll your eyes at jesse, and have to say see you never to the last six months. somehow you hadn’t picked it up, like your sensor hadn’t gone off this time around. convinced you that everything was fine and dandy, and jesse didn’t suddenly realise their idiotic mistake of publicly airing dirty laundry that wasn’t even dirty, just boring. boring and stupid jealous behaviour, that has gem try to reach for you again.

this time you don’t hesitate. solid punch, to the gut. knock the wind out of her, because this had to stop. it had to.

because seven couldn’t meet your eye, as the bouncer finally lets him go. as he shakes whatever alcohol still remained on your set list away — the list specifically put together to celebrate your six months, too. as seven hid behind his fringe, like he did when you were much younger. it was a look many a fan had given a swoon over, when done purposely on stage.

now, however, that was almost a look of shame. shame and something you couldn’t quite place, for the first time in your life. never enough time to unpack that, as you’re getting a warning from the bouncer for the punch, and well.

slapping cash down on the bar, having to walk out, that was just the cherry on the goddamn beer, wasn’t it? so have to make sure you one up it all, with the way you rip the necklace off — a happy three months present — sending it sailing into the middle of a still gaping crowd.

“happy six months, babe. delete my number, and if i see you,” a finger, pointed through the crowd, as your doppelgänger, “again, i’ll fucking kill you.”

[wiltf]

very few times in their lives thus far had seven maintained being the responsible party. he had vlad, having spent the better part of the night as good cop. the specific ringtone, just for the walking lamb, had gone off at quarter to 2, emojis signifying she was still alive. enough gatorade to swim in packed into the walls of the car, because the lamb was always prepared, but in the front seat—

“oh, she’s here?”

jennifer looked like she had definitely spent her afternoon busy, but at least she hadn’t lost her scrunchie between then and now. simply seemed to have taken a new shirt, this one too long, while balancing her heels off her little fingers. with several clicks of her nails on the screen, jen slides into the back without so much as another look at seven’s current—

he doesn’t think about current girlfriend, as he throws the car into reverse. that was just jen talking there, as she would snap and pop gum over the counter and make a complaint or another about his dating life. she never remembered the names — or at least, seven was sure of that. they were just removable fixtures to her. ones she’d squeeze past backstage to get to the mic, never spared a second, never seemed to think he would make it past the first few weeks.

but seven doesn’t think about all that. attentive on the road, eyes not flicking into the rearview, not noticing how jen had her feet up on the seat, boring a hole into her phone, one bottle tucked under her chin. his lip doesn’t curl into a smile, and he doesn’t flinch as his girlfriend, not just current, slides her hand in his.

jen also thought it was hilarious that this one was called gem.

“hey, double-oh, i’m gonna need to get some plan buzzzzz” dragged out too long, never hitting the last note. if only because the voice in the back seems to dissolve into a series of mumbled and furious fucks; flurry of the phone keyboard filling up the space.

seven can see that gem, gem with a gee and an em, gives him a look, the raised eyebrow kind. he’d seen it before, and this time it was going to be different. not stop before the finish line, with a discussion about boundaries and how much he does for jen. that she’s taking advantage of him. that it would be good to get some distance.

this time, the brow lowered slowly. “plan…?” a mumble, one that trails off with realisation. gem’s hand leaves his, and it’s her turn to play at her phone.

looks like jen was right again. local pharmacy, throwing vlad into park. not at all focusing on how jen hops out, pops the boot, pulling out her bag of necessities. shoes, shorts, swapping out for whatever she had walked out in being thrown in the back. seven knows the drill, as he opens the middle console, finding the cash under layers of wrappers and receipts. the rubber band had snapped the first time they’d ended up here, and it was different then. she was in tears, and that was their small profit from the earlier gigs. so seven had tied it into a shitty bow, symbolic of fixing things, and well,

he holds it out the window, now, today. and jen floats by and in. gone in sixty seconds.

gem shifts to look at him. turns herself as much as the belt would let her. “should i expect this often?”

“what do you mean?”

“like… calls in the afternoon to pick her up and take her to—i mean just. are you always going to be running to her rescue?”

it’s the emphasis that punches him. always was a long time, but seven couldn’t see it any different, really. so he blinks, slowly, surely. lets his mind think on a response before jumping the gun. “well, it is jen’s car.”

gem scoffs, like all the others had. rolls her eyes and pinches her lips and lets her hand hover over his on the steering wheel. “seven, you know i don’t mean it like that.” pulls away, carding her fingers through her hair now.

inspecting the ends of her hair, letting that silence grow. muscle in his jaw tightening, as seven can see jen through the window, inspecting sunglasses on a stand. if it wasn’t sunglasses, then it was ice cream flavours. magazines. weird keychains from that one gas station in the middle of nowhere. did it mean something, that in the glovebox right at this very moment, was a collection of all those things. all little mementos from moments like this.

like some fucked up memory box. and seven can’t find himself caring enough to stop a new addition.

with a click of his tongue — twice, thrice — seven starts up the engine. it would let jen know, like it always did, that she was right, again. that it was time to head out, back to hers only after dropping gem off with that promise of talk later (maybe). and here seven thought he might be able to cross that three month milestone for once.

out the corner of his eye, seven watches gem watch jen in the rearview mirror. jen, in her newly acquired shirt and hair in need of some TLC pulled up and out of her face. shorts that have holes along thighs and slides and throwing back plan buzz with a warm gatorade. lost earrings, bruises, grateful sigh.

gem meets him in the mirror, then. seven recalled how before they’d even started hanging out, dating, whatever, she had laughed about how she knew jennifer lamb was part of the deal. with a small dating pool in the specific area of hanging out around bars they played at meant everyone knew everyone. so gem knew, she knew, she knew and yet she was still gripping at the hem of her skirt like she didn’t.

letting out a slow, controlled breath, seven throws the car into reverse, and doesn’t get mad. doesn’t let that little pit open up into how he had tried, how she had known, and how gem had said it was okay. it was always okay. they all had said it was okay, they got it, if they had a friend like that it would be the same for them too.

seven pulls up out the front of gem’s and can’t quite let go of the steering wheel. doesn’t react when gem leans in, just nods. yeah, talk later. because if he looks, well. seven knew how it always went. so they give gem a five minute reprieve to get into her house, before jen fumbles her way into the passenger seat. feet on the dashboard, phone plugged in with the aux cord.

“was it about me again?” she asks, scrolling through their track list.

the headrest greets the back of his head with three solid thumps, before seven takes his foot off the break. “naw, you know it’s always something wrong with me.”

through the crackly sound system, which gets another comment about how this was the next thing jen was saving up for, she says, “you’re such a liar, sev,” as her phone hits the bottom of the cupholder and the window winds down.

end of conversation and seven turns the corner with a very simple thought of end of relationship, too.

[wiltf]

teeny bit of 🔞 but mostly early dating exploration / light humour / lil bit of love with seven and jen

not even the music blaring from jen’s phone manages to cover up his thoughts. try as he might, as their own voices roll over him, tinny and reminiscent of someone accidentally covering the microphone while trying to record, seven kind of wanted to just sink into the leather of the car seat until there was nothing left. little bit of burning shame and also that floaty feeling he was still getting used to. all culminating in his stomach twisting into knots.

“‘m sorry.”

“sev, i told you it was fine.” the leg jennifer had thrown over his was still bopping along to their song, and as he peeks under his arm, he can see the small twists that suggest she was following the choreography, too. “it happens.”

honestly, even he couldn’t tell what kind of noise left him, but jennifer was moving. leaning over and hand on his thigh to brace herself. hand hitting all parts of the car until she seems to find whatever it was she wanted from under the passenger seat. “drink some water, take a breather, and—”

“jen, you’re sounding like—like a doctor, or something. it’s weird.”

the bottle is a little too warm, pressed into the side of his face that she had access too. enough that it encourages him to finally pull his hands away from his head, and try to not completely pass out at the dishevelled jennifer in front of him. his shirt, far too loose of a neck, letting seven stare all the way down into the way the little pendant around her neck was stuck to the still sweaty skin between her breasts. messy and loose hair. she sits back on her heels, somehow not managing to completely fall off balance, and seven just has to curl away. not think about the rose on her underwear, embroidered and familiar.

“you’re too hot.”

pressing his face into the seat, jennifer’s “thank you?” is accompanied with a light laugh, and she’s digging at him. trying to get him to turn over. sitting on the backs of his legs eventually, even though the angle is all wrong and it’s pulling at his hips. which jennifer likely knew, as her fingers start to massage along his exposed skin, from where his pants were still sitting low and shirt was riding up.

“seven, you’re being stupid. who cares if you like… ‘came early’, or whatever. honestly your refractory period is pretty solid so like—”

seven doesn’t mean to cut her off, but he hits a level of incredulity that manages to overshadow whatever embarrassment was still lingering. “what the fuck have you been looking up online, jen? ‘refractory period’?!”

“i’ve been doing research, butthead.” insult accompanied by sharp pokes in his side. “it’s like, i dunno, the time between an orgasm? and well, you’re young—even if you act like an old man—so generally it’s a few minutes and then—”

seven groans, dragging out the “stopppp…” until her laughter dies down. one long pause, before he rolls over again to look at her. “why were you looking this up?” like yeah, of course he had ended up down some sort of wikipedia spiral at some a.m. time, but seven couldn’t deny his curiosity, enough that he finally relented, rearranging limbs and clothes to sit on the backseat now, opposite jennifer.

a jennifer who grinned in that particularly devilish way she did, when some awful and possibly illegal idea crossed her mind. some people may have called it smug, or smarm, but seven leans in to greet the way she loops her arms loosely around his neck, playing with his hair. “i was doing research… and not just porn, either,” she winks, and seven feels his cheeks colour, “i found some pretty cool, like, forums, journal articles—not just sealed section for us, babe! top shelf research shit.”

oh, he remembered those magazines. the sealed sections. the way jennifer had been huddled over them with anyone else morbidly curious on what might be on display for that particular month. and yeah, of course he had read them too, especially once they had hit puberty running. and even his mother suggested that it might be worth having a look, with those far too know-it-all smiles and eyebrows, which in hindsight. okay. maybe he should’ve thought about it instead of brushing it off then, thinking his mum was being ridiculous about it.

but now they were here, in the backseat of her car, not in completely unfamiliar territory, because seven had definitely had her hands down his pants before. but there were some particularly wild stories that came out of those magazines which seven knew he would never forget, and all the facts just faded away.

“you are weird as shit.”

and she laughs and kisses him and bumps his nose with hers. and they’re still figuring it out, really. teeth clicking and nails that cut a little too far, so seven isn’t that concerned about ‘research’, because hell, he’d even spent some time looking stuff up too. not whatever jen had, using specific terms and telling him to stay hydrated, now, you need it more than i do, because he wasn’t a freakin’ weirdo, and he calls her that all over again, as she giggles about some fact she looked up (something about the cardiovascular system affecting his dick and she recommends getting exercise in).

“wanna try again?”

seven makes a hum, back of his throat, but can’t help the way he feels his whole damn face scrunch up. okay, lawless, you got this, you can ask her this. “are you—are you, like…” hand wave, relatively south, “interested? or wet, or… i don’t know the word, stop looking at me like that!”

“are you asking me if i’m turned on?”

he just wanted to cover his face and roll over. again. “i guess?!”

the feeling only rises as there is a drawn out pause, where jennifer’s face goes through several stages of emotions. eventually, it seems to land on a wonderfully pleased if mollified smile; the kind that played around the corners of her mouth, as if she was trying to fight it. “do you want me to tell you what it’s called or—?”

“jennifer, i swear, can you just—”

“i’m kidding! yes, i am very turned on by you—always, duh.” butterfly kisses, over his cheeks, lips, temples, nose, that punctuate her next question: “did you wanna touch me again and see for yourself?”

“i don’t… know. fuck,” and with that, seven lets his head fall back, hitting the top of the seat. “i don’t know what i’m doing right now, and i don’t wanna fuck it up for you, y’know?”

“‘for me’?” is the echo, followed by a snort. “sev, sex involves both of us. that whole ‘two to tango’ shit, y’know? okay, yeah, sometimes more, and i guess by yourself can count technically as well—”

at his raised brows, she waves her hands in an almost apologetic way. “off topic, sorry, but… babe, we’re both in this, and i do want you to feel good as well, okay? one of the few times this isn’t just about me, i know.”

and she’s trying to get a rise out of him. play it off and rib him. it works, of course it does, when seven can’t help the smile. meets her insistent kisses with his own.

“look, i want to christen vlad,” and with the apparent chosen name of her car, jennifer lovingly pats the back of the driver’s seat headrest, “with you, but we don’t have to. we don’t have to have sex—i would rather, like, not fuck right now, and just wait for sunrise, than have you all wound up, okay?”

one day, she would stop jabbing him in the sides for an answer. “okay?” but it was not that day, not anytime soon. “okaaaaayyyyy?” and jennifer is practically crawling over him, getting in his personal bubble (not like she wasn’t already under his skin constantly), poking and prodding for a response that would satisfy her. the grin doesn’t reach her eyes, as there is that tension in her brows, the worry there, for him.

“i still can’t believe you chose that as a name.”

it’s easier to deflect. to hide the fact that seven caught her hands and kissed the tips of her fingers and yeah, he was okay. more than okay. embarrassed and swallowing his feels all the way down into the soles of his shoes, but okay. because jennifer was all relaxed and giddy and pulling his hair free of the headband, peppering whatever skin she could find with those lips of hers.

“my naming choices are spectacular, and you’re just jealous i got an impala first.”

with a shift, he’s back against the seat proper, jen in his lap. seven keeps his hands on her waist, pulling his shirt up, finding warm skin and freckles he’d memorised since the first day he’d seen them. open mouthed kisses along the top of her breasts, following awkward tan lines from a bikini top that wasn’t sitting straight and that one half moon scar just below her collarbone from where she’d fallen from the monkey-bars as a kid. truthfully, seven could’ve just buried his face right there, between her tits, and just stayed a while. breathing her in, feeling the way her body practically hummed under him.

yet in the only moment she pulls her hand away from him, jennifer accomplishes several things in no particular order. with all the practice dedicated from someone used to dressing and undressing in cramped spaces, she manages to not only remove her own underwear, but encourage seven to raise his ass enough to pull his jeans and boxers down. there was also the stretch to the middle console at the front of the car, which was accompanied a frustrated groan when whatever she had been fishing for not being there.

“hold on,” is the grumble, as she twists completely off his lap to move between the front seats now. passenger side glovebox, seven was sure, but well. he was suddenly and acutely aware of the music playing from her phone (track six, blue blooded beard, not the best but it’s why no more team votes were allowed for names), and her ass swaying to it. possibly annoyed swaying, were that a thing, but,

“jen,” and seven swallows thickly, now, slowly. clenched fist on his thigh, angling enough to brush a knuckle against his definitely hard dick. “your—you—mmm, this is a really good look for you, y’know?”

“really?” hair flicks back, and she looks over her shoulder. smug, of course, but that high flush on her cheek betrays her. in particular, when she holds up what she was looking for. “i mean, did you wanna do it this way or…?” and jennifer lets that question hang there, right there, definitely making sure there was not a nearly enough oxygen or blood reaching his brain.

“another time, definitely, get over here—fuck!”

seven manhandles her back onto his lap, and he’s grumbling, he knows. touching and mumbling and kissing, whatever he can find, as her wrist is loose now, slack and rolling a condom down over his dick. mindful of sensitivity, as she says, which definitely has him roll his eyes and seven would have said something about her being a know-it-all, thank you, if jennifer hadn’t decided in that moment to touch herself.

he’s sure he says something like she was too hot, but whether it came out as just a sound was something else. all wrapped up in the way he’s acutely aware that he isn’t moving, uncertain hands that don’t leave her hips, jen doing all the hard work. if seven could think, let alone talk, there was a smart-ass comment on the tip of his tongue about this being a better workout for her than her many attempts at a gym membership. but it doesn’t make it out, his head hits the headrest, and jen. oh, god, jen. takes his hands in her own, holding them there, either side of his face.

forehead to forehead, contact only broken by open mouthed kisses and lips that drag and sweet nothings. seven had learned somewhere along the line — of fumbling their way through crossing a dozen lines about dating a band member — that jen talked a lot. breathless, absolutely, but the words that left her were always so painfully sweet. mostly mumblings to herself, he figured the first few times, because her eyes were screwed shut then, just as they were now, while she kept going. maybe he was never supposed to hear it, but seven couldn’t help himself, watching the way her face shifted with each movement of their hips, how her lips just continued to move with each praise.

and jennifer says, i love you i love you i love you, like it was a prayer. like seven was not fully at her beck and call, caged under her, intertwined fingers and every damn nerve ending on fire. almost weird to consider (and that was the best descriptor he had rattling around in his brain, really). few short months, dating and kissing and fucking and jen had said that all before. smiling and bright and it was always a phrase of hers that would echo in him, days on end.

but that was before, this was now, and seven feels the corner of his eyes prickle. a sniff, and fuck, he thought he was quiet, hadn’t gone still, shit, fuck. fuck! squeezes his eyes shut, but jen hits the brakes, hands releasing his, and,

“sev? seven? holy shit, babe, are you crying?”

seven wants to laugh and blow his nose and isn’t sure what to make of the situation right now, because he can only pull the collar of his shirt up, as if it might swallow him whole. holy fucking shit, seven lawless, you actual idiot. can only sit there, while jen gets off him, moves around — and of course there’s hardly any light coming in through the thin fabric of his shirt, so he can only make out a shape, because fuck!

“why are you crying? did i do something?” tentative hands, barely lingering for more than a beat, thigh, forearm, top of his head. “what’s going on, seven? talk to me.”

swallows the will to try to sass his way out of this, because seven knows jen wouldn’t take that shit lying down. when he’s at least eighty percent sure he wasn’t about to start leaking from the optical area once more, seven pulls his shirt down to find the very, very concerned face of lamb, jennifer lamb, his—

oh, god, it just hit him. he’d never referred to her as his girlfriend before. it was always just seven and jennifer, jennifer and seven. but this was—this was insane, right? to worry about this now? getting all limp-dicked over technicalities when she had just been telling him to get some cardio in, and yeah sure, seven was sure jen didn’t have a problem with a label like ‘girlfriend', right? right?!

“sev, babe, i can see you, like, talking all up in there. i’ll accept a noise to let me know you’re… okay? are you okay?” a vague hand wave to his head, because jen knew him better than he knew himself, and seven was all kinds of scared and sad, and honestly a bit horny, and a little more in love with her than it had occurred to him, as everything in him raced, full throttle.

tongue too heavy to form an actual sentence that made sense, but damn if he wouldn’t try — because seven’s eyes start to get pinpricks again. because he was so fucking in love with her, right now, always, forever (he was so damn sure of it).

“look i just wanna say this, and i mean, i don’t know if you wanna hear it—and i’m sorry for ruining it, ruining now, and your plans, and it’s not just like… fuck. i don’t know what i’m saying.”

seven doesn’t watch the way jennifer’s face no doubt went through a wide variety of expressions, before a very gentle, “do you want me to like, touch you anywhere?” comes from her. still not committed to one spot, but her hands were off, now.

“no, no, i mean, yes, no—fuck! i don’t know!” heels of his palms against his eyes, seven keeps the pressure there until he’s seeing stars and whatever tears threatened to spring from him left.

“breathe… you’re really freaking me out here, dude.”

too much drawn out silence, as seven can’t get a word out and jennifer just sits there. waiting. waiting for him to actually say something that doesn’t sound like he was having a meltdown, third degree. what he wouldn’t give to be able to just turn back time, even a few minutes ago, where he didn’t think about the fact that jen had said she loved him, and he hadn’t spiralled, and maybe she just liked having sex with him—that was a fair assumption, right?

just say it, lawless. just fucking say it. he wouldn’t know the reality until he said it.

“i love you.”

deep breath. head first dive. seven opens his eyes, and repeats himself, for each and every time jen had said those words to him. maybe it was too much, too forceful, too idiotic to assume. but it tumbles from him, broken dam and all that poetic wording normally crammed into the hours dedicated to songwriting.

when seven finishes, it’s all too much to wait, really. wet his lips and wait, wait, wait, for the fragile state of this relationship, whatever it was to her, to just. end. tells himself he’d take it gracefully, bow out and all that, but that’s a lie.

biggest one he’d told himself to date.

jen fidgets, then. twisting earrings and rings and necklaces and the hem of her shirt and it’s her turn to tear up. to get all snotty and arms around his neck and she’s apologising, for hugging him, not asking. laughing about this situation they got themselves into and jen’s million miles a minute sentences crash into his ears — worried she’d hurt him, mostly, but he picks up the thoughts of thinking seven wanted to end it, and that. well. she loved him, too.

madly, badly, always, she says, a kiss punctuating each word; signed, sealed, delivered. the laugh that leaves seven is just as much relief as it is in amusement, at the two of them. the two idiots, now, back of her car, half dressed and sun rising.

and a little more in love than what they started the night as.

[wiltf]

perhaps amma should have considered the loss of feeling in her body as something interlinked with the holes in her mind. she was aware of it, of course, dragged through the shore and goblin gore alike, into the winding hills of a druid stronghold. but that awareness was similar to each breath daring to force more of her innards outwards.

she had yet to truly remove her shirt and inspect the damage, but as she leans against one of the carved statues, amma knows she should have. a finger prods and pokes herself, while the rest lead the conversation. asking for halsin, healer, information not fully divulged. sworn to secrecy, much like how amma swears that her finger should not have been able to press her flesh so far, until it finally hurt.

(gods, was that a kidney missing?)

haphazard armour and leathers, stained in all kinds of muck, hide her away. retrieved from bodies in the nautiloid and along the beach. amma thinks of the pod, and the burn on her thigh that had not healed. she had to take fire to the wound, sear it shut for as long as she could.

wets her lips, but it’s not enough. everything tasted like old iron, and when amma looks up, finally, her gaze meets astarion’s first. heady red eyes, brighter in the shadows of this hollow. watching her, flare of the nose, and he looks away.

were her mind in a better place, amma might have been able to put it all together.

except she agrees to the request - find halsin, now. not just in the stone here, no, towards the goblin camp. a good few days of travel away. back teeth grind, catching the inside of her mouth in the process. that ethel had a few elixirs on her table that would no doubt keep her moving, at least, regardless if her soul still wandered within the flesh.

movement. like a hive mind that came to a decision, action, progression. amma meant to follow, except that stone was cool, and her head felt so hot. a mind that searched, of course, for the source of just where it all came from, calling forth haphazard memories of scalpels and stitches. sometimes it was her own hand, other times it was not.

amma does not remember crumpling to the floor. nor the way in which her skull bounced off of stone, throwing her spotty brain around in the bone and fluid. that would just be a fact, acknowledged and something to move on, when she would awake.

salves and incense drawing her back to life with a hiss. everything itched and amma blindly reaches for the bandages, trying to free herself from whatever druidic healing method she had been subjected to (how did she know? why did she assume? were they not trying to help? her mind asks. she tells her mind to quieten).

“amma, you need to stay still.”

too many hands, too much force. was she blinded? did they not know that it was possibly worse to blind a frightened animal? let alone a wounded one, who had already proven times over that anything was a weapon? amma wants to bite the hands who heal her. amma wants to tear and scream and cry, gods, it hurt. where was she watching from, truly, to be able to somehow know that she was thrashing? was it all a part of her mind, tricking her into thinking she was simply an onlooker — a passerby?

was this a fragmented memory, irony twisting this into the way hands force the centre of her chest down. they do not dip into the ribcage, like she might once have been inclined to. no, these hands follow a shape, ignoring ridges and bumps. trying to force the weave in, and pull—

and pull the rot out.

“let me die.” her voice, yet her mouth does not move. a whisper that contained no fear. “lead me to the fugue plane.”

please please please please pleasepleasepleaseplease!

“you swore an oath to find halsin, and i cannot let you die before you bring him back.”

were they talking to her? was she talking to them? amma only lifts her head enough to slam it back into the stone; how silly that no one gave her a pillow to soften the blow. again, and again, and again, as hands are quicker, and voices are raised. wasted resources, she agrees, whilst she is pinned and strapped to a bed — wait, no, no she was not. there were no restraints on her hands, as when amma rolls her wrist, she cannot feel a buckle nor leather. nor her feet, legs, waist, wherever. most definitely not against her forehead.

strange, so strange. she could have sworn they were were. gods, gods, who did she pray to? who would she seek? amma recites the names, wordless, trying to ignore how she was burning from the inside out. how she finds herself begging at the feet of death — loviatar, mask, talona, shar, kelemvor, jergal, bha—

amma screams. and screams, and screams.

they were regrowing an organ. fuck, fuck, fuck! she could see all now, even as she thrashed and fought and tried to throw all the hands off. sweat and blood, over herself, over them. druids had replaced the few companions who had just walked in the same direction. wyll did not linger back, nor did lae’zel. a shoulder each, and fury in the latter’s eyes. amma looks between them, fast enough that the room spins, and she is not sorry she did not say anything — she was just sorry that she increased the debt.

somewhere along the way, the druids withdrew. at some point, amma was able to bend her knees, straighten her back on the stone. breathe, and not feel like everything might cave in should she hold for a second longer than she should. wiggle of her toes and moving her fingers, and the stone was cool where she had expected it to be warm, as she slid her hands towards the edge, to where she might be able to sit.

“you should have died several days ago, by my estimation.”

amma laughs — then stops. why should she? why was that a familiar statement, that humoured her. everything hurt, as she tries to stand, to keep her spine straight. not to fold on the newly grown nor repaired. meets nettie’s eye, and it was just them, only them.

“where are the others?” voice far too hoarse, but amma would fix that right up, yessir. the pitcher of water was where nettie sat, chair pulled against a table. one step, two, one more for good luck.

“i do not know,” nettie says.

yet she was lying through her teeth, and amma had yet to figure out why people insisted on lying to her. but that was fine, the water was within reach. tin cup, shaky and outstretched hand. sting of nettles, across skin that was still covered in a film of something vaguely minty.

“fuck—! really?!” amma can only stare, now. amazed. skin already mottling around the wound. “why did you save my life, then? to only poison me once more?!”

“they told me about the tadpoles, and had a look at what research halsin had left behind. however, this was after—”

amma doesn’t listen. not really. she did not understand these people; druids had never been her kind of preferential crowd, that much her mind could tell her. so, she does the next best thing, in that amma grabs the pitcher, and holds it to her lips. and drinks, deeply, as water had never tasted so sweet. like a book, with some pages torn out and others written in draconic or infernal or whatever other language she must have known at one point, her mind opens. acknowledges that she would not be capable of flushing her system of a poison in this way. but that was not the intended effect of damn near drowning herself in the pitcher.

as the action seems to stun the woman before her, who clearly had prepared a speech. open mouthed, gaping, as amma drinks until the last drop is gone, with water that spills over the edges cascading down whatever bandages still clung to scarred skin.

“apologies, i was quite thirsty—as you were saying? you know about the tadpoles, i should have died and… then i do not know.”

“you—i—well…” clearing of her throat, and yet nettie had lost the bravado, as in her hand was a vial neatly labelled. no doubt an antidote, intended to be a bargaining chip in this conversation, that much amma was certain of. loosely held, and one quick swipe would secure it.

“someone performed surgeries on you, only recently.”

“yes, i had assumed as much. thank you for regrowing an organ or—” quick press, along skin. possibly half of her liver restored, and it did not feel as if her body was going to collapse from weight. “—two, muscles… bone.”

yet nettie’s brow furrows, trading the antidote for a pencil. “we did not manage such a feat. it was all we could to relieve your body of the infections you carried.” quick words on paper, trying to capture her confusion. “we reset some bones, pulled shards from inside—and i am sorry that we were unable to remove most of the scarring but…”

amma does not wait for the opening, downing the antidote quickly. holding the little glass vial with care, despite herself. despite the need to press in. “what the illithids are truly capable of is far beyond anything imaginable.”

she did not need to finish nettie’s sentence. yet that little tadpole stirs in her mind, proud of itself, for keeping her alive. interesting and unsettling at the same time — whoever had taken the time to consider such a thing was not someone she was sure she wanted to meet.

“i ask you—beg of you—to find halsin. he is far greater a healer than i, or anyone in this grove. i—we—” a pause, a vulnerability. repeating herself as if it might endear amma to the cause, and not acknowledging that she was not going to give up her word.

were her head not throbbing, she might have been offended.

“he cannot fall to them, amma. you cannot let him be infected.”

a snort, despite herself. letting the vial rest gentle on the edge of the desk, and amma is not sure what to do with her hands just yet. whether she would have been given a courtesy to inspect wounds and scars alike. “your druid could have already been infected in the time he was gone, you know. a grim reality you may want to acknowledge soon.”

nettie shakes her head. too sure of herself, but amma. amma does not ponder over such defiance in the face of reality. amma does not consider that nettie may have only been fooling herself. no, amma does not consider that this was categorically a narrative moment, were she within a fairytale. all she does, really, is pull the damp bandages from her skin, wash basin and cloth at the ready to remove balms and salves alike.

bloomed in bruises, and amma only laughs to herself, as new scars interrupt old tattoos, as that deep scar on her chest now sits. a malformed dowsing rod if she had ever seen one. hair piled and tied on her head, fingers that follow the scars that disappear into whatever remained.

“halsin would be able to heal your mind.”

that stops amma, and with a click of her tongue, she responds, “you should not make promises on behalf of a person, that you are in no position to keep.”

“those lacerations are quite deep along your skull, and i presume that the bone had been pierced. halsin can help.”

when amma meets nettie’s eye, it was not the face of someone who should have known better. earnest, defiant, scared. holding the gaze presented to her with no indication that she would back down, but her thoughts were all over her face — scattered yet fearful. the situation should have been rather humorous or light, as amma sat on the bed she had occupied only just before, with only the towel as some form of modesty. clothes neatly folded at the end, and these druids had seen more of her than she could even remember.

nettie does not stop, despite herself. it was almost admirable.

as amma dresses, she speaks, loudly and clearly, without so much as a backward glance. “a word of advice for negotiation, nettie. when someone had already agreed to an impossible task, it generally considered quite gauche to poison them. particularly after you also healed them, which reinforced a repayment in kind.”

“apologies… it has been a stressful time, and i anticipated the worst once your companions revealed that you had all been infected.”

like a delicate little tick tick tick in the back of her mind, does it finally have amma react. sharp twirl, controlled paces, but how her hand hits the desk, or holds the back of nettie’s chair. that was not control. that was nails digging in, grain of the wood bending under pressure. it was amma caging nettie in against that space, furrowed brows and annoyance on her face at the apology.

“i will say this—i may not remember who i was, but my muscles remember much of what i can do. and i will not act on that memory today, nettie, out of the kindness shown by healing me.” deep shaky breath, as amma stares at her own reflection in nettie’s eyes. “but you should show caution for the next person that you swipe at. kelemvor’s kiss can go both ways.”

let go, she tells herself. step back. and her body aches, willing her forward, to show the healer exactly what she meant. but amma can only curse, sweat beading on her forehead, and stands upright. “now, where are the others?”

[wiltf]

🔞 durge / gortash. that one letter about lady jannath taking out her family heirloom got me good.

at the rustle of the curtains, gortash affixes an expectant smile to his face. pleasant and most of all, a face of least resistance, despite the way he watches the silhouette trace the edge of the bed. it would not surprise him if such a woman as lady jannath were to return far earlier than intended. after all, one would only hunt for so long in the city for a painter before returning to retire for the day.

yet the shadow disappears as quickly as it arrived with but a whisper of air. reforming now, with the light of an afternoon sun hiding the form. but it could only hide so much, as gortash’s sigh was punctuated with disapproval. “my dear, we both know the outcome should you be found in here.”

unsurprisingly, he was met with a gasp that no doubt intended to mock the delicate sensibilities of upper crust ladies. widened eyes and a hand covering her mouth, shoulders drawn in. all at odds with the way she crossed to the edge of the bed, in nothing more than a rather heavily jewelled necklace. one that gortash could only hook a finger through, all but dragging her down to eye level.

“and?” amma prompts, as she adjusts to the position, caging him against perfectly plumped pillows and silken sheets. her nails greet the headboard, and gortash was not ignorant to note how she had dug in, daring to crack the wood.

so gortash holds up his other hand; the one carrying the coveted ring.

amma’s reaction is a delight to behold, as those eyes are lost in the jannath’s heirloom. releasing his hold on her, it is a strange notion to watch his fellow dead kin kneel so delicately, pulling the ring from his hand, and sliding it onto her own. holding it up into the sun, not unlike all the other debutantes gortash had watched over the years. how they preened in groups, gossiping with their painted faces and colourful dresses. such passing beauty, wrapped up in the glittering stones.

it would be an amusement to see if amma could move into a society such as that. for her eyes harden and her smile sharpens, wickedly, as she turns her attention back onto him. still that sparkle, one that seemed to pin him as only something to consume, but it was lacking that familiar edge. burning now, something else.

“if i had known that a ring was enough to wet your cunt, amma, i would have thought of this earlier.”

outstretched hand, and amma drops it onto his palm. not denying his statement, settling for pushing herself up, to move to the other side of the room. leave him, to his unfortunately abandoned journals and statements, while she rifled through drawers. shuffling things from side to side, in a manner not unlike the most careful gentleman thief. clearly on a mission, not wishing to give away that she had touched lady jannath’s intimates.

however, gortash was not so ignorant to know what she was looking for, when her knuckles rap along the bottom of drawers, as if trying to find the seal. so, he calls from where he still sat, if only to end amma’s suffering: “i will not ask what you are searching for, but if only because it is in the base of the wardrobe.”

a snort is his answer, as amma closes those drawers, pausing only to decorate herself with more jewels that did not belong to her. perfume sprayed, followed by a gag at one that he was quite fond of himself, before she was crouched before the wardrobe gortash had spoken of. idle taps, no doubt finding that false bottom, and she pries it open.

“what a dirty lady, that jannath is! i would ask who worked the leather, but—”

amma pauses, rustling giving way to her standing. holding in her hand that phallic shape gortash had grown familiar with, the other tightening straps at her hips and thighs. her eager movements give way to sloppy work, one that is still fastening and re-fastening in various places while she walks back over.

not to him, but to the mirror that had yet to be moved from it’s rather useful position. at the edge of the bed, across from him. those fingers of hers seem to work along the leather and wood, twitching tail giving amma away when they disappear underneath. slick fingers, idle thoughts.

“i have oft wondered what it would be like to have a cock. it is not simply enough to change shape into another, as i am limited in choice… but…” turning, to take in her profile. firm hand along the base. “well, perhaps i would like a cock to fuck you with.”

gortash snorts at such a statement, returning to his papers without so much as a look her way again. “after watching you fumble to wear such an instrument, i would not allow you to fuck me with it.”

“even if i were to beg? plead?”

“even if you were to beseech, my dear.”

amma’s laughter tinkles not unlike lady jannath’s. half hidden behind a coy hand, betraying the erotic display that moves towards him. nails drag along the wood, drawing a sound that was so purposeful in bringing a shiver about his spine. gortash persists in his penmanship, with another letter to lavish praise upon the weapons dealer — who too had managed to bring them one step closer to the vault. a pause, and he pulls away from the paper at an ‘e’ as amma slips onto the bed beside him once more.

a charming thought of sending her along, disguised as him, to properly thank the dealer would be entertainment for all involved. of course, there were concerns of an outcome, which had gortash arrange a day for personal thanks instead.

only so much bloodlust that could be contained, between the two of them, and he was oft better at holding his in.

“my calendar is filling up far too quickly,” he murmurs, once he signs off. picks up another, reviewing whatever he had begun before she had arrived, and continuing.

if she reads at his shoulder, amma does not speak up. partially sprawled, with an idle hand that moves up and down the wooden cock. gortash would ask where her mind truly sat, as the frown deepens. was she too, going through the steps? diabolists and plans and a crown, that waited for them in the hells? it was not enough to simply ponder, to question what it was that had her chew the inside of her mouth and frown until words no doubt blurred on paper. gortash was sure to find something to distract the child of bhaal until they were to truly descend, were that the perfect course of action.

however, he so deeply wished to crack that mind open, to understand but also to limit. horror and ichor lingered at his shoulder like a hapless maiden, and gortash had spoken with lord bane at lengths about bhaal’s unpredictable, insatiable daughter.

yet amma finally speaks, with a tinge of those qualities which made her voice sickly sweet. “it smells like you.”

and gortash returns the knowing smirk with his own, almost thankful at the way her mind seemed to twist away. amma lets out a low whistle — appreciative, suggestive. her hands on him and lips at his throat. biting, scratching, bleeding. left hand holding the letters out the way, as he could only afford to rewrite so many.

play the game, of turning in and out. of placing a gentle hand at the base of her tail, where her spine curves, until those teeth sink in too deep. until gortash can return the favour, nails digging into that tender spot, stage left. enough to coax a groan out of amma’s mouth, one that was bloody and sweet. sheet thrown back, writing tools scattered, and his thigh welcomes the heat from her.

new friction, with the leather straps that were between the two of them as well. were it not for the way amma had a handful of his hair, drawing his neck back further and further, gortash may have thought those gears of her mind were turning towards it. ever present threat of death that hung between them, as she ravaged throat and clavicle in a way he had learned to find delicious, until she pulled back.

removing the wooden cock from the straps, amma decidedly props herself beside him on lady jannath’s bed, breasts against his arm. passes the tip between lips and teeth and blood, tongue laving away not unlike how she treated his own cock more than once, until she was sufficiently pleased. and, without that flair for showmanship he had anticipated, amma presses the tip against her cunt, eyes turned downwards, pushing it in.

amma’s sharp inhale against his skin ran cold. gooseflesh rising, as her wrist moved at a controlled speed. as if it would leave him to run cold, when gortash can only encourage those lips to widen, pressing two fingers into her mouth. tongue that works around the digits, never quite letting her mouth shut, as sharp teeth threaten to snap and crack. as gortash’s own cock can only throb at the hard swallow, choke, groan, flurry of noises that leaves her as he presses his fingers in deeper. knees that buckle, heels that dig in, her own hands pressing that delightful wooden cock deeper into herself.

yet gortash cannot give her the satisfaction. frees his fingers from her mouth, despite the teeth that want to hold him. spit-slick grip on his own cock, now, maintaining that heady gaze. fingers slipping further south, to press into an already tender area from lady jannath’s ministrations hours prior. eyes do not move, as if they were only playing a game, of who could hold on the longer here. of who was the stronger, the more willing, the brash.

it gave him an odd sense of satisfaction to find himself the loser.

as at that moment, amma gives him a breathless enver, greeting him in a way that no one else could quite manage. twisting the rules, into her own battlefield, where gortash reacts. replaces her hand with his, as he is on her. sliding the wooden cock free from her cunt, back in place at the straps between her hips. if amma was to complain, he silences her once more, fingers, spittle, his own groan. stretching and lifting and gortash sits over her.

amma, amma, the bhaalist daughter. decayed and decaying and in a bed neither of them owned. sharp nails and sharper teeth, both that draw blood with only a brief touch. this would not be so easy to explain, later, as silken sheets are carrying the gentle rivets that spring from his thighs, yet. gortash does not consider his excuse, not just yet. not when he holds amma in place, and sinks onto wood with a rush of air.

takes his pleasure from her. she is merely a mounting frame for him to ride, with how gortash holds her down. amma may keen and whine, under the thin veil of deceptiveness, as she curls her tail around his cock. begs him, please, enver enver my sweet lord flymm. the name falls from her lips, and nothing amma does is for half measures — she knows to grin, as gortash finds her throat, her own hand wrapping around his.

gortash does not have enough of a mind to hold her at the precipice. can only lean his weight forward, until those breaths comes to a wheeze. where that grin begins to slip, and those eyes of amma’s almost lose their wonder. where they begin to allow fear to set in.

mouths his name as he comes. undone, over her. it hurts, almost, as gortash strokes himself until every part of him simply wanted to pack up and leave. yet amma’s sharp inhale begs him to continue, bruised skin and the lightest touch of lips along the curve of his jaw. at the sparkle, corner of his eye, as she had rescued the ring from the bedside table. laves her tongue over the stone, holds the metal between her teeth.

gortash raises himself from the wooden cock at her hips. kneeling over her, and one day the sight of amma splayed beneath him may do something other than stoke the fire in him. today was not that day, and when had the previous ones ever been either? gortash does not ask himself that, as he does not go to remove the straps on her legs. pushes in, two fingers, sinking into her cunt with a pace that even impressed himself.

“you had better not damage that setting, amma,” he says, voice level. rearranges himself, better angle for his wrist, and amma is moving her hips to meet his fingers. so earnest, fucking herself on his hand. “lady jannath would be most displeased.”

were he to perhaps let her breathe, to not push her through another orgasm, amma might’ve responded. gortash would not have been so fascinated, in how those teeth almost pass through the metal like it was merely bread — meat — and not an heirloom that was their most prized bargaining piece. amma does not scream or claw her way through the sensitivity, even as she arches and drives back into the pillows, hand on him, hand on herself.

only when gortash relieves the ring from it’s position between her lips, does amma speak.

“that ring was on your finger when you touched the lady’s nethers, wasn’t it?” a laugh, open mouthed kisses to the hands that hold her face. “i always was amazed at how she managed to satisfy you, but i understand now.”

licks her lips, licks his fingers clean. amma’s eyes follow the ring as it finds it’s perfect place on his finger once more. as it glides through the air, meeting her cheek. it stings, of course it does, but that groan was not for solely for pain, nor pleasure. a mixture of both, that has her burn for him once more.

“return that necklace to its owner, amma, lest we both be suspected.”

and gortash sits up. slow movements to the edge of the bed, even slower steps to where a basin sat, towel still damp, water no longer warm. wiping himself down, gortash is aware of the way she moves, dropping the straps and wooden phallus with far too much noise. necklace in her hands, as she stands behind him, draping it over his skin.

in the mirror, it does not look unlike a gilded collar.

“be careful, o’banite mine… for it would not take much to bring you to heel, if i so desired.”

amma’s kiss between the blades of his shoulders was so deliberately tender, so gentle, that he does not catch the necklace as it falls. slips at the edge of the basin, the garnet sinking into the cold like a watery red eye — keeping him still, until that rush of magic was deep in his bones. and amma flew away, into the gate’s skyline,

leaving him empty handed, but having yet to deter the curl in his lip, as gortash laughs to himself.

[wiltf]

it was not unusual to have your attention drawn from what remained of a person, the further this investigation went. in fact, you had long since pocketed that little notebook of yours, shifting weight from foot to foot as the orders had come down to wait. truthfully, many of the others had taken the excuse to lean over the balcony only a few steps from you, tapping ash out of pipes. gossiping, arguing.

pointing, at the activity only two landings below.

and of course, you cannot help the draw of it. the pipe that slips easily into your fingers, and even easier between your lips, as names are barely whispered with that shrill edge of excitement. this was supposedly an easier task that required no formal security, or so your fellows said. a fight had broken out, and the flaming fist had been ordered to file in to temper it.

except, with the pile of humanoid remains behind you, it was not longer so simple. you had all stumbled upon some dirty secret, with how lord enver gortash now stood at the front of the factory doors. voice carrying so that you could catch every third or fourth word, but to even drag him out of the keep was telling you more than you were entitled to know.

“y’reckon they’re gonna kick us out soon?”

“word is that they sent a runna’ to someone down in the mermaid. lord gortash’s orders.”

well that was interesting. and also explained how long it had been since you had all received the first halt order. what were the chances that the person who had been told to slip into the blushing mermaid was still alive?

a look out the corner of your eye tells you that was remarkably unlikely.

“how long until they send ‘notha?”

as you exhale, part of you wants to say only a handful of minutes, judging by the pacing from lord gortash. was going to carve his very own trench with the careful steps forward and backwards, which you have no doubt would suit lord gortash just fine. after all, you’d been told this wasn’t even really the main manufacturing site — this was all just a front.

typical fucking wednesday shit, if you were being honest. when wasn’t someone using a warehouse as a front? granted, when you close your eyes and see that gory scene, you suppose most wouldn’t expect the warehouse to double as a butcher’s playpen.

or maybe they would.

you weren’t paid enough to really give a shit, just keep watching out for lord gortash’s face to split in two.

“who the fuck is that?”

did their voice echo, or was that person striding up to lord gortash just perceptive? you aren’t the only one immediately trying to shush, to push the pointing finger down, as two specks of light in the shadows stares up at you all.

whatever they were thinking is lost in how lord gortash opens their arms, greeting their mysterious tiefling friend. leading them, through the door under the landing you stood on, without so much as a passing comment to your captain in charge of the investigation.

“derrick, you dickhead!”

arguments, but the pipes are emptied quickly, stuffed away into pockets before the footsteps on those stairs get louder. lord gortash’s voice arrives before he does with his guest, and you are the only one at attention, hands behind your back. staring straight ahead, but curiosity sits at the edges of your peripherals.

this was lord enver gortash, after all. side by side, with the tiefling who did not seem to blink, and whoever might’ve been the poor sod that was sent running to the blushing mermaid. yet they didn’t look like they had an ounce of blood left in them, damn near close to passing out.

oh, right, the sheer violence. not even five paces from where you stood. on some level, you suppose, that you had reasoned since there seemed to be not much left, you were not really seeing any single person. or their remains.

just the red. red paint? is what your mind supplies, and if you thought of it like that, your stomach managed to stay where it should. after all, the smoke manages to fill your nose, and remove the rusted smell that will haunt you.

if you get a spared look, in truth, you were not sure if you were supposed to hold it. something in the gait, the tail, the set of shoulders. a predator, simply following the trail left behind. for lord gortash seems to fill the air with talk to your captain, his eyes never leaving the way that tiefling treads ever so carefully through the carnage.

“when did you find this?”

a voice that rolls with a hint of an accent you just can’t place, gruff, underused. long fingers and longer nails, that seem to have no issue with separating viscera, as if looking for something specific.

but when your captain looks at you, realisation hits. they were talking to you. “u-uh, we were called here earlier this morning, and were told that when the shift change occurred, this was found. my lor-my lady…?” your voice peters off, as you find yourself trapped by gaze alone.

almost hollow, visibly dark. barest hint of an iris in those eyes, and yet you. you are lost. swimming, to find where there is a flicker in there. part of you can feel that the way viscera is handled is not unlike your mind, gentle, pinched. folded and unfolded. but it is soft, encouraging, that when it ends, you had yet to notice that time had continued to march, leaving you behind to watch the tiefling move a hand through the air.

disappearing into the rafters, as lord gortash is staring at you now. that comforting smile oft greeting you all at the keep now feels cold. disarming in all the wrong ways, yet there is a clap against your back, derrick’s hand meeting you to pull you from the thought. perhaps. you were tired, after all. it had been quite a long day, since first arriving at this scene.

as your captain talks, you can hear a suggestion of going to the tavern. night off, paperwork tomorrow. grisly scene, and all that. and they’re right, when you will your head to look back down at the remains. it was a grisly scene, and the headache you must’ve always had was definitely because of the hard day — you deserve the drink.

did you agree? everyone else chimes in, a careful line of flaming fist moving around the remains, and down the stairs. heavy boots, all in time. even your captain, pulling the poor runner with them. a part of you moves, but it is not your feet.

nor your hands, torso, head. it is your eyes, following how lord gortash calls up to the rafters.

“amma, i sent the rest away.”

and when the tiefling — amma, amma, you had heard that name before — lands, the headache grows. splitting and twisting and pulling at your eyes, wanting to shove them out. heavy tongue and a locked jaw that won’t let you breathe. you were calm. you were afraid.

you couldn’t stop staring into those evil eyes.

“i think we’ve attracted some unfortunate following from waterdeep.”

a grimace is what you would have normally attributed to the twist of lips on the tiefling’s face. on amma’s, amma’s, amma! thinking the name feels like a nail is driving into your ear. bite your tongue, wanting to feel something, but did the muscle even make it between? is that blood from your mouth, or elsewhere? sweat and shit, all that fills your nose.

it was coming from you. oh gods, oh fuck, you want to plead. to fight. sound in your throat as hands work at your armour, pulling it free in parts, lazily dropping it to the floor.

“amma,” lord gortash says, as if such a name did not have your brain feel like it was going to leak through your nostrils, “will you be joining the soiree at lady jannath’s later this week?”

hair and horns and sweat and freckles. deceptive, along the bridge of her nose. so close that you would argue for a scent of iron and brimstone, were it not for the tinge of mulberries. why would you think that? you could not say, both in a literal and theoretical sense, as your shirt was removed.

as the tip of a knife pressed against your shoulder blade. “would i need to be masked?”

lord gortash finally walks towards where you were held, but you knew he would not be your saviour. careful hands that trace the tattoo, committing the symbol to memory. “it may be best, until at least the last hour. granted, i would only need your assistance for a few hours, if you would be so willing.”

your skin. they were cutting into your skin. picking and peeling and slicing you away, letting your bleed and scream in the back of your throat. there is nothing to you, blind feeling and fucking magic holding you upright, as you surely do pass out. come back.

and you are nothing to them, as she speaks. that gravelly voice like it had popped up from the depths of the hells. nails and hammers and piercing your ears, unravelling you almost as much as when the knife finds your sides, your arms. your neck.

you’re dying. “enver, with what would you need assistance?”

“i believe that i promised you such an occasion.” you’re dying, and,

lord gortash, and the butcher. your killer. knife in your throat as you weep and piss and shit and cannot move to let this all happen. blood does not flow but you are sure it does, because where else would it need to be, now, after all this time? lord gortash and the butcher kiss, deeply, biting and sucking and you are dying.

dying, as they are all but fucking in front of you, in front of the remains of the poor fucker you had killed only a day earlier. to draw these fuckers out but oh, gods, you were unprepared. stuck here now; dying here, now.

cursing them to damnation. yourself, for taking the stupid offer from xanathar. for not protecting your mind and knowing the last thing you will see is lord fucking enver gortash, and the bitch whore butcher amma! fucking amma!

pull the knife from your throat, and the darkness of those eyes seizes you. just like the way the knife had found its way into all of you, but now that magic has ended, and your body fails. it bleeds and shits and pisses and weeps, and you want to cuss the both of them out,

but especially that thrice-cursed liar and cheat amity,

as you die.

[wiltf]

🔞 durge / gortash. murder, sex, blood.

“my, my… lord gortash, filling the mouth of an elven maid? the scandal!”

with a flick of his wrist, gortash lowered the papers he had been perusing, noting that where a raven once sat at his desk, was now his dashing assassin. and the maid, who had pulled her lips from his cock, turned as well, at the voice.

clicking his tongue, a tap on the top of the maid’s head brought her back around, before he turned his eyes back. “you were correct in assuming the perks to such a position as this, my lady. who would i be to deny myself access to them?”

devilish smile, slow and careful walk across the stone. not a sound, those supple leathers truly a great gift no doubt, until the chosen of bhaal finds herself beside him. close, that he may feel the heat and iron that no doubt still burned within her, her arm stretched along the back of the lounge, fingers curling in the hair at the base of his neck.

“i take it you have—ah—finished that little job i gave you?”

those nails, sending the slightest shudder through him. gortash lays those papers to the side, eyes meeting hers, wondering if that red rim had grown since. “of course, my lord.” toothy smile, far too pleased with herself. “ready for the next step, however…”

a look down, at the maid. the slow bobbing of her head. “some things may need to reach their climax before we enact that part.”

her fingers never release from the base of his neck, but gortash watches as she leans down. free hand stroking the swell of the maid’s cheek. “what is your name, sweetling? and what brought you to your knees today?”

gortash nods sharply when the maid looks up to him. “melina, milady. and—” another look, this time far deeper, more pervasive. something he had no mind for. “and, i offered myself—”

“truly? enver, you cad, you did not mention that you had such darling maidens ready to be plucked and bruised.”

it is his turn, for his fingers to wind themselves into her hair. a short, sharp tug, combined with the way he grinds her name through his teeth. “amma.” take heed to the warning, despite the way her eyes sparkled at such handling.

amma does not free herself from his grasp. instead, her attention turns back to melina, and there is that knife-edge smile, wavering either way. “lord gortash prefers a little teeth, dear thing.” and at the gasp, as melina does not find gortash dismissing the idea, amma’s nails dig into her cheeks, forcing her jaw open.

and there it is, the barest brush against the underside of his cock. hard ridges of teeth, perfectly angled, not near as sharply defined as amma’s. grazing over them, regardless, and those pinched cheeks forming a tight, wet hole. amma leads the maid’s head, back and forth, in an agonisingly slow pace. melina, meanwhile, was breathing in quick, short bursts, hot against his lower gut. gortash does not meet her gaze, no matter how much her eyes spoke for her. instead, he holds amma’s, winding through the clear thoughts and feelings to catch how her tail disappears under the maid’s dress.

jerky inhale. a tongue that flexes and muscles move in response, trying wetly to react to amma and her devious tail. moaned mouthful, around his cock, that sounds oddly like: “m—milady—”

“shh, little one, i could smell you long before i entered the room. no doubt lord gortash would love to sink into such wet loins, hm? what do you think, enver?”

no time left for him to answer, as gortash finally releases his grip from amma’s hair. an action she returns in kind, before she encourages melina to move back, dark half moons on her cheeks that colour as she stands before him now. a swish, and tail frees from under those skirts, shiny end. a wipe along the back, before amma moves behind the poor maid.

gortash can hear her, as she speaks into the elf’s ears. sweet nothings, a few comments about his cock thrown in there for good measure. thin hands bunch the front of her skirt, as melina moans at amma’s mouth, following the ridge of her ear. skilful hands, that unbutton her shirt and find their way inside. a blush that spills down her pale chest, and gortash knew that such heat was likely only a few minutes from finding its way outwards.

he could only hope this time, perhaps, it would not end on his shoes.

shirt discarded, followed swiftly by the skirt. a simple band, underwear and stockings was all melina stood in, as she stepped deliberately out of her shoes. but it is when amma circles her, teasing away the last few scraps of material that may have given the maid some essence of virtue, gortash’s hand finds his cock. slack grasp, but moving up and down his spit-slick shaft. waiting, for the inevitable.

“oh, enver,” amma is rather wistful, as she traces patterns down the maid’s bare chest, towards the soft curls between her thighs. “you really should share more often, you know? it has been so long since—”

melina gasps, her hand grasping at amma’s arm. an action which does nothing more than have that smile twist into a smirk, hard and hot flash to her eyes. “—well, that.”

“apologies for not inviting you sooner. should this arise again, i will make sure to send you a missive.” with a roll of his eyes, gortash tightens his grip.

it was not entirely within amma’s nature to continue this. nor for him to play the honeypot. and here he sits, assessing, reassessing, while she bats his hand away, encouraging the maid forward again. shaky thighs as amma removes her hand, and knees that find purchase on the lounge either side of his. gortash would not deny pleasures of the flesh, but this plan was beginning to escape him, and that,

that wouldn’t do, even as the maid takes him with a moan of his name.

hands behind her back, tied with whatever remained of her stockings. amma encouraged the arching of her back, pert nipples meeting the air, and continual way in which melina rode his cock. gortash rests his arms along the back of the lounge, and can only savour the way amma plays with her food — skilled fingers against melina’s clitoris, working her in ways that have her convulse and call his name, fighting against the arms that hold her now.

against that hand, that finds her throat. a shame, gortash sighs, as he holds melina’s hips in hand, thrusting up to meet her erratic movements. i quite liked this one, he groans, as amma leans over the gasping maid, to press her lips against his. swallowing all manner of lurid noises. never letting go, as those half moons may match her cheeks, yet they grow deeper, uglier.

“i shall buy you a new one,” amma laughs, and laughs and laughs. all while melina twitches and strains and comes.

once more, as amma’s fingers do not let up. pushing her over the edge until gortash can admit he followed. wet grunt against amma’s cheek, as he murmurs for her to finish it. to let that throat go, and melina falls from his lap with a cry. struggling, against her bindings once more, as those marks on her throat continue to bleed. shivers along her skin, and it could have been the cold stone, or it could have been that realisation, as amma stalked forward.

“oh, sweet melina, the absolute need to work on seduction…”

“w-what?”

a solid kick with her boot, has melina hunch over with a cry. an indication that the next act would take place, which has gortash grunt, tucking himself back into his pants, and move to stand. “amma, the next guard rounds will begin.” and he steps over melina, despite her confusion and plea, to where his pipe sat. “you only have a few minutes.”

“more than enough time, to satisfy myself in more ways than one.”

“wa—wait, please, i don’t understand—milord?!”

“you were an absolute assassin, sent to undermine my power, of course.” deep drag, as amma pulls a short knife from her boot. “the forgiving fool i am, allowed you to attend to my quarters… where you planned to kill me.”

“no no nononono! lord gortash, i would never—”

“we know. but who would question the facts.”

the knife slides through the bindings, and melina goes to push amma away. to fight and scream and plead. defensive wounds, that end with a gurgle, and the shimmer of the lock at the door still holding so not a peep may leave. long inhale, before smoke leaves his lips when amma was done.

“i meant to ask, enver, if i should have dressed her before this,” amma muses, her knife drawing across the skirt, cleaning both sides. “but i do love to watch you talk your way out of these things.”

“your uncanny fondness for a silver tongue may be your undoing yet, my dear chosen. for you know if i were to fall now, i will drag you to the hells with me.”

amma laughs again, all light and airy. soft steps over the body and blood, to take the pipe from his lips. “and when you talk to me like that, all i can think about is shoving that mouth between my thighs and riding you from dusk till dawn.”

her turn to inhale deeply, only to purposely blow the smoke into his face. “but you would not sink to such a lowly task, would you, enver? would not lick and suck and fuck me, even if i begged?”

between two fingers, she holds the pipe back out to him, softly against his lips. gortash parts his mouth, taking it between his teeth, and away from her. only to hold it with his own hand, one last draw, before throwing it to the wayside. ash splays, and with a kick, the side table follows. “what has brought on this particular strain of yours, amma? last i recall, you said—”

“‘no’,” and with a clatter of books to follow, amma pushes him back into the small bookshelf. hard enough that shelving digs into his skin. “i deeply regret my wording, my dear lord gortash. i was not myself that night.”

gortash walks her backwards now, towards his desk. one that once sat pristine, but books and ink clatter, thrown to the floor. papers flutter slowly, as if time itself had slowed down, and then he smells it. sees it, all around them, with a click of amma’s fingers.

other corpses now filled the room, reminiscent of an ambush. arrows buried and necks splayed open. where gortash had thrown ink pots, they now stained black alongside that dark red. the faces were not known to him, nor would he expect them to be. not when he spies the symbol — their symbol — cast onto the wall.

“you always have had that certain attention to detail i deeply appreciate.”

“they will not be able to speak to anyone after death, as well. i made sure of it.”

when gortash touches her face, it is not with affection. an understanding? of course, with that vile and bloody way they had both decided to rule. amma’s eyes all but glitter a horrid red, as he traces lines to where her horns protrude, to hold on tightly, and pull it back. the hiss in response was glorious, as was the exposure of neck. of the way his teeth cut in now, feeling the throb of a pulse under his tongue as he laves his way down.

“we are long past the timeframe i gave you, my dearest. we cannot afford to continue.”

at her long suffering sigh, amma unties the front of her pants, fingers sinking under material before he could argue. “oh, you wound me. but allow me just one more moment, to imagine this was you.”

quick fingers, covered partway by the confines of her pants. a lurid enough detail, that gortash does not admit to enjoying, while he simply watches — such a performance, one that was overly reminiscent of a maiden or two. bitten lips and fluttering eyelashes, that earns amma a scowl, before she dissolves into a laugh. not interrupting the steady rhythm of her hand, nor the wet sounds that fill the space between them, as the maiden gives way to the glower and grin.

“would you like me to—s—sigh—your name, enver, like all those little worms do? to imagine you, as i allow another to fill me?”

and that moan catches in her throat, as her hips rock, trying to free herself from the constraint of her pants. “enver, my sweet, slaving chosen, my ri—ah—right and left hand… do you dream of me, as you fuck all those simpering whores? as they fuck you?”

gortash finds her lips and it is not a kiss, so much as biting and pulling. tugging at her lips and hoping that those violent eyes might close. they do not, as she meets his aggression with her own, bruising and bleeding. harder on her fingers, riding until perhaps they were beginning to cramp. but amma had yet to notice, not as she has that blade in her hand once more, and the final act began.

a soft gasp, from gortash, has her moan. far too loudly, longly, longingly. knife sinking through flesh like butter, careful not to find anything that may cause him to expire too soon. but her cunt could only throb at the thought, as she frees the blade, as red begins to bloom, as her next target was the arm that still held her horn.

short, sharp, and gortash breathes so heavily through his nose. bowed towards her, as amma presses her thighs together. harder now. so close. a few more delicate cuts, here, there, as if she were an artist signing off. and oh, when she held that knife against his neck, do the stars burst behind her eyelids, as she can only continue to drag fingers over far too sensitive flesh.

it is his name she calls. against him, as she drew his blood. gortash focuses on. breathing. blinking. unable to forget just what it was like to have even the smallest knick on his skin sing like the fires of the nine hells. and it twists, into pleasure, in all the ways gortash knew it shouldn’t, as he shakes, and frees her hand from the wet folds he could not see. as gortash licked and sucked at those fingers, tasting her.

“do it.”

amma’s moan almost drowned out the sound of metal sliding through the junction of his neck and shoulder. and amma was so careful, so precise, yet gortash could only taste blood in his mouth, hand immediately pressing against the wound when she pulled free.

“by the dead three, enver, if i did not want to kill you, i would take you now.”

the heady flush could only match the blood that left his skin, no doubt. enough that she dips a finger into the wound at his side, despite his inhale. licks the digit, before that tongue of hers found his cheek, following to his temple. teasing at lines of sweat, to his ear, as those teeth bite and tug. as those hands continue to hold him up, easing him back until the ground came up to meet him with a grunt.

“do not tempt me with your silence, or with bane as my witness, there may not be much left for them to find.”

gortash meets her eye, and does not find the threat there. just that hunger, deep and pervasive, that seemed to turn him inside out. it would lick and suck and eat every part of him, were he to allow her even a moment, so gortash did what he had only perfected: ordered her, with a tilt of his head to the door. last step, and it would do more than cement the remaining steps of his plan.

with him, as the sacrificial lamb, and the absolute as a target.

amma bows, deeply, before her hands form those familiar signs. a break, as if the storms seemed to suddenly rise, blowing open the doors. screaming fills the hallway, chiming in with calls of his name, the familiar sounds of chainmail rustling. disappearing just as quickly at it seemed to have been pulled in through that wind tunnel, as amma moves to the window.

“do not forget, lord gortash, that i demand at very personal tour of your new offices.”

he does not speak, but cannot help the curl of his lip, as a raven takes flight. an exit that gives way to new entrants, who call for him. yet gortash does not answer, fingers loosening just a fraction on the wounds, to allow blood to flow.

to cause that panic and for those cries to reach him. worry and concern and the telltale fear, as enver gortash was stabbed and alive, beneath the symbol of the absolute. what a perfectly painful plan.

[wiltf]

[ a series of carefully pressed and preserved letters, folded neatly inside oddly warm journal, catch your eye. there may be a scent of perfume to them, or it was merely a trick of your senses, as you pull the letters free. quickly thumbing through them, eyes noting the various dates, and the clearly stamped folds. harper communication, here? pain bursts behind your eyes, so you focus on the words, trying to understand. ]

H—

you were right.

there is something in the water.

i have the scent. not much longer now.

— A

J—

i found their enclave. they built it into the banks of the river where that awful statue stands.

in truth, it was surprising to find the quiet worship, but i have seen the way they kiss the feet of their dead god

how they spill blood from bottles of wine, and drink it like even a vampire wouldn’t.

traders are none the wiser here. but i have managed to convince a few of my worship

— A

J—

it has been some time.

i do not know what to say,

other than i am afraid.

— A

H—

i am unsure if they know of the plan, or if i truly managed to convince these wailing women that i am one of them

but they have taken me into the fold, and i now wear the priestess garb

i hear of a silly plan, one that also scares me deeply

it is not resurrection

it, perhaps, concerns me if other divine beings manage the same

i do not believe the water to be thick enough, nor the body to be found but they claim he has spoken of a child, whispered to the others. one to be taken from the decay and bones, made anew

they say it is lost in the reeds of the winding water, waiting to feast

high harper, i am afraid

H—

we should never underestimate divinity

you can taste it in the air here. and it haunts my sleep

perhaps it is all the blood

perhaps it is the child i now hold in my arms.

don’t worry — it is not mine. i have not been touched unkindly.

i do not know how to conceive the idea that they pulled the babe from the blood,

but here she is.

[ there is a small sketch attached, of what appears to be a tiefling babe, swaddled and asleep. even in the strokes on the paper, you can feel a tenderness, care put into the soft lines. compromised, already, you can tell. ]

— A

J—

i don’t have it in me to kill a child.

J— they said their god told me to raise this…

child? spawn? thing?

and the tools they have provided for this

i look at those eyes, and they are clear mirrors.

not a

[ something is furiously scribbled out here ]

i think that we should wait. if others can fight their instincts, surely this child can?

—A

J—

do not ask this of me

you did not do this when you travelled with the others

H—

i do not acknowledge those orders.

H—

if i were to leave, they would know.

[ several sheets of paper are merely scrawls, some featuring smaller drawings along the edges. others are abandoned letters. you can make out references to training, language. the conflict of ending the life of a child to possibly save many. ]

J—

the child does not have a name

they are simply lord or master to the remaining priestesses here

pass on, that we will be moving to G within the next few months

it is time for more formal training

—A

H—

we arrive within a week.

orders?

H—

orders?

J—

follow your feet.

we shall meet each other again.

H—

request for orders?

J—

i know you saw me in the markets with the child

they grow at an unusual rate, as if the planes themselves fight in their skin

the temple has not been reclaimed

other location used

i’m sorry. i miss you

N—

i am unsure if you had been informed prior to the assassination

i was told not to intervene

i did not mean for the passing of

[ it trails off, before featuring an angrier scribble, and some specific words that suggest this letter did not leave its owner. ]

J—

the child speaks. i do not hear the father’s song

J—

last night when i held you, i wish i had cried

i wish i had left with you

but i cannot deny some part of me is connected now

i have lost track of time

J—

i yearn for the sun

your warmth

i can feel myself decaying, from the inside out

but when i look into the face of this child, and see how intently they look back…

i feel it, Jah— [ scratched out name. ]

gods above, if they could even hear me now, under all this filth

i should have taken the blade to both of our hearts

N—

[ a very detailed report follows. it includes a progression of the child’s growth, well into the late teenage years. a rough timeline, and with a spark, you notice the dates align with the deaths of significant populace that were once a part of baldur’s gate, but some even marked through waterdeep and neverwinter. the drawings are detailed, as if staring back at a young mirror, if you were to believe this was once you. arrows align to notations, where the scar crosses your cheek, how your horns had grown. a chipped tooth, a broken nose. along the bottom of the report, it describes capabilities of killing, including preference. drawings of the weapons that lay beside the journal still. and then, in bold letters ]

DO NOT APPROACH

N—

i warned you. i cannot control them in the way you think i can

i saw the blood

the slaughter

i warned you.

J—

forgive me.

[ this letter is an apology for the loss following the death of the grand duke and marshal, curiously. years following the last one, by the way it was phrased. as if the author knew the death would come to pass. compared to the other scattered and abandoned ones in between the rest, you can sense an understanding that they were awaiting death, yet seemed at ease. the way they speak of the slayer that emerged was akin to merely commenting on the weather. stronger letters written across the page, of how they had returned to the temple below baldur’s gate. of how proud they were, of you, despite it all. carefully pressed against this letter is one last, hastily scratched one, accompanied by a small painting. ]

[ of yourself, and you suppose the author. their hand on your shoulder, while you sit. professionally done, as if one might commission a noble portrait for their fine house. ]

J—

should you ever find my body

know that you had my heart

should you ever find my soul

know that i do not hold any regret

her name is amity. my little amma.

she carries in her a part of me, this much i know.

i can hear you calling me sentimental, and a fool. and you would be right

you always were

i am sorry, my love, that i never fulfilled my promise. of living out the years with you in that little home. of raising all those children we swore we would.

i tried my best. i hope i did not fail.

i love you, Jaheira. until the end of time itself

— Amity, the First.

[ the last letter falls free. addressed to you, curiously, never opened compared to the others. and whilst you wish to ponder how these letters had never found their destination, you unfold the last. ]

Amma—

when you were pulled from the reeds, i had planned to kill you and the priestesses.

end this before it started. i was ready to take the leap, on my honour and word.

but you reached for me, and i remember the way those little fingers of yours curled around one of mine.

before you, i had ignored children, in truth. found them loud, disgusting, hard to please.

you were my shadow.

the bhaalists did not argue, as you killed as efficiently as your godly father had before you. you bathed in blood and ate your dinner, read and learned and they let— [ a scrawl, that almost overlaps the previous line. ]

i do not know what compelled them to listen, but it was you who asked for me to live.

i watched you grow well into a woman only a mother as deranged as what i have become could be proud of.

i wish i could have taken you to a place like candlekeep, far from the stone we had become so familiar with. raised you like those spawn that were lucky enough to escape were

i wish you could have met my love.

the whispering of your plans does not evade me, my darling, and my use is long gone. there is nothing left in my skin, aside from decay all of me, i put into you.

you may read this and laugh. you may throw this into the fire. i would not blame you.

my little amma.

you used to hold the end of my robe, as we walked the streets of baldur’s gate late at night, to find you a suitable target to practice on.

you bought me perfume from waterdeep, a passing notion that had you whipped by one of the others. i remember the way it felt, to do the same to her in turn. within an inch of her life, which you swiftly took from her, when i was done

i remember the last time i had seen the sun, and you told me to leave. but i could not abandon you, my sweet daughter, because you had cried.

somehow, i knew then, that no matter the weight you may carry, underneath it all, you exist.

amma. my sweet amma. there is always so much more i could say. yet i will spare you from anecdotes and sentiments. i know you have grown tired of them — i remember the rolling of your eyes once you grew into your horns.

burn brightly. burn gloriously.

love,

— Amity, the First

[wiltf]

silence is broken with a surge of fire.

lost in the screams of ash and other, which has one short, shared look between shadowheart and laz’ael leave her with. well, the odd feeling of charging forward into the woods, a shared goal, surrounded by the bared teeth and shouting of gale, following up the rear.

towards the riverbank, that’s where the smell leads them. just as quickly as the fire had broken, it stopped, drawing the forest to an eerie standstill.

shadowheart only has her knife between her and the long dark. ground teeth, at the though of having lost one of their own so quickly, so foolishly. all for the lives of those in the grove, when their destination lay far beyond that. laz’ael beats her to holding back gale’s spiel, a hand raised behind, the other extending sword to part what remained of plant life.

like a barrier, suggesting that there was more than holy fire on the other side. still burning, in that eerie silence shadowheart had walked through more than once. a path, drawn to the water’s edge, with what remained of smaller individuals — charred, inanimate remains.

“where is she?” laz’ael’s question, vocalised, was always tinged with the meaning of a demand. of an answer to be brought from somewhere, yet shadowheart had already given up on deciding who was meant to answer.

an orb of light fills gale’s hands, as he sidesteps the blue flame and curling remains. crouching, as if debating to reach out and test if it really does burn that deep. shadowheart almost berates him, but leaves those thoughts for the water breaking, holding up her weapon with a practiced ease.

and, it is not the first time that shadowheart felt words fail her. in truth, it would be easier to have played off the confusion, the concern, as a stirring in her stomach akin to lust. later, around a fire, with no doubt a bawdy rendition to follow.

yet the person before them was unknown, unarmed, curled lip and it would be their luck, to stumble upon some lake spirit who was disturbed. it would be their luck, that their hapless leader had been eaten, burned, or otherwise destroyed into nothing.

it would be their luck, for laz’ael to hold her strike, but keep the blade steady. narrowed eyes and flared nostrils. “explain.”

a long look, from the foreign person, to laz’ael. even as gale dares a foot towards the water, hand extended to laz’ael’s blade and the other extended to their unknown. following that hard line of sight, to try to see what she did.

and then, shadowheart realises. in all the ways she possibly had already foreseen, as the mystery walks closer. undeterred by the blade that presses the hollow of their throat, against a series of ridges. long nails, tapping the side, before pushing it away, up and past short horns.

fiend. and only earlier they had been discussing the attraction of others.

“if you kill me, laz’ael, i will haunt you.”

a head that tilts in all the memorised ways. brows drawn together, giving away the anxiety. earrings, that tinkle.

“amma?!”

gale gets ahead, cutting across the same singular word, noun, name, that she had yet to utter.

swish of the wrist, and a, “surprise,” is their only answer. one that finds itself tangled in a shift of magic then, as the little gem on her earring brightens, enveloping her in a blur of dim light.

before them stands the more familiar figure now. shadowheart may attribute it to fatigue, much like any of the hundreds of times she convinced herself it was that, or a trick of the light. amma brushes through them, a curse at the state of her destroyed clothes, a kick at one remaining corpse.

“we must be close to the goblins, if they attempted an ambush.”

“i don’t think an ambush is quite as pressing an issue as whatever just happened here, amma.” surprising herself, as she grabs the other’s elbow, pulling her back.

whilst amma does not try to free herself, the displeasure was all but palpable. “yes, burning all my clothes in an attempt to save my skin was not something i wanted to do, admittedly.”

shadowheart does not allow her eyes to drop. focuses, on the purple tinge she had simply attributed to the touch of drow that flowed through amma. but perhaps, it was the plane, and those brows raise again in a way that shadowheart finds something else to seek out.

“you’re a tiefling.”

“technically, i suppose.”

“and you were not going to mention it, at all?”

finally, amma wrests her elbow free. another look, shared between the three who had surged, headfirst into the woods. heard the cause of fight, feared the fire, and instead had come across her, which shadowheart could only believe was worse, in amma’s mind. and oh, she wished to push forward, to see what the woman was thinking. but her exhaustion would give her away, and amma turns anyway.

it is then, that laz’ael’s muttering cuts through. a range of insults, no doubt, hurled towards the newest secret keeper. a boot collects the side of the recently deceased, and with it comes disturbed ashes. clink of metal, and it is gale who is brave enough to pull a blackened chain up.

“to think, what might have happened for her to have to conceal the reflection of her blood.” idle musings, chain pocketed as gale stands, hands finding the front of his pants and leaving ashy marks behind.

“whatever it is, it poses a risk if we do not know what she really is.” and then, with a dark look, laz’ael takes off, back towards their camp. “she could already be ghaik, and we may not know until it is too late.”

shadowheart feels the pull to argue. to draw laz’ael back, to demand she not do anything rash. to take that sword from her, lest she drive it through amma before they have a chance. one passing look to gale, who can only shrug, for his mind has already left the forest and the riverbank. a calm walk towards camp, leaving shadowheart to look once more into the water.

to expect to see something else emerge from it’s depths.

[wiltf]

“I WISH THAT I COULD FORGET.”

chanted. no meaning to those in the crowd - or maybe there was, with the hands that waved in clear praise and fervour. creating that scenario that connects with at least one person out there, with a cry of heartbreak and a smile that suggests nothing else matters.

pointed fingers, to the sky, the lights,

rising to meet the one that she holds back out, mic in hand, capturing the chanting. rhythmic and ethereal and he.

he is saint seven. arrows that pierce the skin, burrowing within flesh and bone. losing to each and every clap, note, sound. twist, and those carefully crafted lyrics will never leave, not when he thinks that he was right to leave. buried in the technicality of lyric, chord, song. woven together with stomps and claps.

increased range, hitting a damn near guttural cry. hand to chest, eyes clenched. playing that fiddle, that seven always told her to pick up, which the crowd can never resist. they’re the ones that finish the song — the voice that fills the space, as she stands. laughing, swaying, hand at her ear. encouraging them.

three minutes is all it takes for him to turn on his heel. part of seven knows he should’ve been able to stand there longer, when the cameras catch him. hold him, there, keeping the memory alive.

a memory with a soundtrack.

[wiltf]

orion gives you the same old warning about smoking as he always does when you duck out. but you still haven’t figured out if he knows knows, and is ribbing you — or if this is one of the few things he genuinely hasn’t worked out.

same weird thought, that you have every time. like a lil worm, crawling in the space between your ears, while you tap the bottom of the pack. cigarette between your fingers, chilling there like an old friend. hey, it says, when will you actually light me? and you consider that thought for what feels like an eternity.

instead, you’re in the dingy alley, twirling that same cigarette now. up and over your knuckles, a half-hearted apology sent iris’ way. eventually you’ll ditch it, or palm it off to someone who happens to walk by. they won’t remember asking, and you will be able to return, as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.

lighter in your other hand, fished out of your jacket. emblazoned with a four-leaf clover, electric green but not flaring. couple more times. still nothing.

huh. you hadn’t planned for this.

what was it that rowan said? chaos theory? did you hear that right, on the way out? tilt your head, left and right, as you try with all your might to get the shitty lighter to work. maybe this was the work of orion, trying to stop you. and you want to say, orion! let me just bask in the evil that is secondhand smoke!

instead, what you hear is the very unfortunate decrying of a teenager trying to give directions for a photo. you’d know that tone anywhere, because you had employed it more than once on se—some poor individual. snort, then, as you watch the family comedy routine take place. honestly, at this time of night, it would be better for the would-be photographer to step onto the road.

at that moment, your light finally seems to work, burning the tip of your finger. you hiss, shaking it out, lighter and smoke dropping to the dingy sidewalk. well, you were planning on ditching the cigarette anyway, and you swoop down, lighter safely in your hand. thumb following that raised clover like an old friend, when you notice your little accident had attracted the attention of the teenager.

the enthusiasm is half a second of endearing, but you manage to pull apart her words. big fan. leading fan site. maya has a shine in her eye that reminds you of the first time you went to a misfit alley concert, except she’s wrapped up in something not too dissimilar to what you were wearing now — jean jacket, boots, dress. super fan with your damn favourite flower tucked behind her ear.

it’s all sweet and shine. recognise the father — sebastian, cute, couldn’t order to save his life — and indulge in a photo or two. pose, like you hadn’t just burnt your fingers and weren’t about to spend some time ruminating on a certain number’s appearance at your audition. wasn’t about to consider hitting that drunk dial in the next three point five hours.

wasn’t gonna somehow figure out how to walk home, drunk, sad and alone.

you’re a mess. you’re smiling into the lens. fingers in that fucking old rock ’n’ roll pose, tongue out. maya is all squeals and bounces and texts in a flurry. it’s so easy to keep your eyes on her, because there is something in there you are too young to think you’ve lost, but already too old to go back to.

seven second breather, between the photos and the texting. always with that punchy number, as maya talks about the first EP. the first real one, that still contains—

yeah, well, they say you never forget your first.

crack a smile, because sebastian gives you a look. can’t let the man know how much of a shithead sad girl you are, even when maya emphasises about following you on tour — if you win. if chaos theory doesn’t intercept.

if the stars align and you can sleep at night, knowing it’ll be months of—

god, fuck, jen! shut up! talk to the kid!

“we have to get our results first, which—“ hitch a thumb over your shoulder, “i should probably check out.”

“right, yeah. maya, we should go, too.” a nod, neutral, understanding. respect the man, fear the kid.

as the sparkle in her eye doesn’t go, when perhaps, it’s the most shy she’s been. pulling the flower from the tangle of hair, and holding it out at such an angle that it’s something you’re half expecting her to take back.

but she doesn’t, instead you’re pretty sure she damn near collapses when you tuck it right back where it belongs. “definitely suits you better than me, tonight, i think.”

treat yourself like a toddler now, telling yourself to wave goodbye, as maya perhaps suffers a heart palpitation or two. as her father looks on, torn between smiling at the excitement bubbling from his daughter, and just what he might get himself into.

back into the safety of cement and dim lighting and the clover, ridged, safe, under your thumb. chaos theory. perfume and cigarette smoke and chaos theory. carry that mantra with you, back to the waiting room, wondering just how late you might be.

[wiltf]

it was one of the few times iris had seen orion looking un-something. unhappy. uncomfortable. unsupportive. narrowed eyes and hand on chin. blink-and-she’d-miss-it pose of damn near nail-biting. not that he was the only one, standing off in the wings. watching the show like the rest of them, as misfit alley had jennifer — their jennifer — belting out alongside G.

hands in hair. grinding, in a way that had the crowd surge. jennifer bends back, still vocalising, playing out to a camera, while G has their hands on her. not fully practiced, but there was no doubt about the way everything popped and sizzled. it was,

and iris feels her lips twist, wrong. the first and only word her mind supplied, while rowan started to pace. that mile a minute discussion, to anyone who would listen. something about chaos theory. something about cheating. and were it not for the way they continued to watch, in almost horror, as a hand was in G’s hair, pushing them down, there were only a couple of ways to interpret that comment.

devyn and august flank orion, silent in their assessments. which suited iris perfectly fine, letting rowan take up all the air. filling in the gaps between thoughts. swearing, pissing, whining. because the crescendo hits, the sound drops, and she doesn’t have to be a psychic to know what kind of shot would be plastered over ‘the beat’ soon.

image firmly stuck behind her eyelids, as jennifer and G are heaving chests, foreheads against the other. cheers blowing out whatever they had said to each other. separate, after forever and a day, for G to shout out to her. to have her wave and walk and skip and run off stage, thanking, loving, waving at everyone.

and then she sees them. like her band, her friends, are the ones in the wrong. iris would like to say she knew jen better than this, better than the back of her own hand, but there’s a fury there, wrapped under glitter and leather. it’s hidden by the jacket she pulls on, pushing past them all, and out the exit before they can get in another word.

but it’s carried in the stiff shoulders and slap of her boots.

rowan doesn’t know any better. quick and loud and while they all file out, one by one, watching jen throw her shit in a bag and keep moving, rowan can’t help it. hand on her shoulder, pulling her around, as he is yelling. “are you kidding me?!”

“leave it, rowan—” hand in unhelpful hand, iris tries to pull him off. stop shaking her, she wants to say, yet she is shaken off.

“no wonder people think we cheated! you were practically fucking on stage!”

hurricane jen. silence of the lamb. jokes they had since the beginning, for those times when jen had been a single-minded angry girl, in ripped jeans and band-aids on her hands. setting her off in one direction, and watching her explode. devyn had said something only a few months before, about being more concerned than usual with jen. like they hadn’t seen her let off steam in far too long.

on some level, as her lower lip twitches, iris sees it. like a car crash she just couldn’t turn away from. orion might’ve tried to get between the two, safety first, while iris pushes august back but. jen still gets a hand in.

no slap, just a sob. low. from too deep down in her to be anything but honest.

“holy shit.”

only words iris gets out, as jen shoves that finger at rowan’s chest, despite orion’s best effort to keep them apart. “do you think i wanted to do that?!”

she’s arguing, far too fast and far too loudly, finger still jabbing into rowan’s chest. rowan, who tried his damndest now to press for peace, hands in the air, words tumbling out. “jen, jennifer, what—are you o—”

“you made me be the leader! everything i’ve done has been for us! the execs told me i had to, or we’d be in trouble,” too many tears, and that hand finally gets removed, to rub furiously at her eyes. “so yeah, i had to fuck G onstage—”

“—wait, hang on, jen, your mascara—”

“—tissue, orion, where’s the tish—”

“—jen, breathe, hang on, sit, or—”

they’re clamouring now, and iris doesn’t know where to put her hands. where to stand safely. if she should just put some weight on jen’s shoulders to get her down. mostly too, because there was something just so funny about this, about a crowd around one sobbing singer, wiping her nose not nearly fast enough. no, this shouldn’t be funny — maybe later.

“i’ve had to duet with seven, i’ve had to interview with blake! i’m doing the hard shit! so fuck you, rowan! fuck you all for thinking that of me!”

she’s pitchy, hitting that note that fucks with her own ears. hands clamped down on the sides of her head, and jen drops to a squat in the middle of the damn hallway. bawling her eyes out, snotty and gross and iris kind of wishes that jazzy was here. not the first time, and not in that kind of lingering, nostalgic way they all had. but the fact that jazzy was not about smacking some sense into jen, and she always went along with it.

but jazzy wasn’t here, and people were taking notice. iris can’t believe she was going to do this, but the tissues had been retrieved, and subsequently snatched out of orion’s hands. her turn to squat now, shoving at least five of them at jen’s nose.

“get your shit together, lamb.”

channel jazzy. that’s what she was telling herself, as now devyn is like, hey, come on, iris, maybe don’t say that. it’s fine. it was fine. because jennifer fucking lamb was a goddamn prima donna at the best of times, and iris loved her for it. but this was not one of those times — this was something eating her from the inside out.

“yeah, you’re doing the hard shit. rowan can apologise later. but crying in a hallway? are you out of your goddamn mind, princess?” okay, she had to wince at herself there, maybe that had crossed well past whatever jazzy would normally do, but jen was all slow blinking.

big fat tears still leaking out of those eyes of hers, but iris had managed to get her to stop. wiping at makeup, more or less smearing it more than it already had been, but. “you’re the leader. we know that means you have to do some fucked up shit for the rest of us—right, rowan?”

sharp look over her shoulder gets rowan to immediately crumble. “r—right. sorry, jen, i—”

but there’s no time for him to finish that sentence. “so you get up, you wash your face. and we go back to the bus. okay?” and iris asks, “okay?” once more, for good measure, when jen doesn’t say anything.

“yeah, okay, sure.”

“good, now get your ass up, you’re too fucking heavy to carry.”

jen does as she’s told, if only because that look on her face tells iris she’s not sure if she should test otherwise. a mute nod, and into the room they were only half a metre from, their logo on the outside. could’ve avoided this public display, and iris takes devyn’s offered hand to get upright. if there was going to be anything else said, perhaps some part of people’s brains kick in, as some go to follow jen into the room.

just her and devyn, and a very heavy, “holy shit.”

with that, iris finally laughs. the kind of laugh that fizzles out into a note of exhaustion, but for what exactly, she wasn’t sure. “tell me about it. i need a smoke.”