#orintash

this was this scene pretty sure

Orin watched him pace from where she perched on the table, watched him fill his glass twice more over, watched him drain each drop, watched his wistful gaze wander to the empty air, watched his frustration grow. ‘You struggle and sweat,’ she observed, reclining back onto the table as he stared down at the plans, his stress palpable. ‘Whimpering at the thought of your tyrant-Lord’s rage.’ ‘It’s not…I need to speak to’—he made a strange noise of frustration, running a hand through his hair—‘She would have a solution, she would say something clever and veil it in poetry, make my fucking brain work with all of her magic.’ Orin could hear the footsteps of his question coming with the growing stagger in his step and the shake in his hands. When he reached for the last of the whiskey, clutching the bottle in hand this time, swirling the liquid as if it would contain his answer there, she knew it was inevitable.  Because Father had given Orin a gift. ‘Do it again,’ he pleaded, face overcast with grief, his voice straining under the weight of it. ‘Become her again. Bring her back.’ It wasn’t the same when he asked for it, when he whined for it. ‘No.’ ‘Become her again. You taunt me with her image, you slip into her skin as you so clung to her shadow in life…do it this once when I ask it of you. Bring her back, Orin.’

I have been swayed to the side of Orintash by wondering, "What if Gortash was a woman though?" (Answer: I would be extremely horny about it.) Soo here's 5k words of dubiously consensual sex, under-negotiated kink and the toxic yuri I never knew I wanted.

Tired of pacing the room, glaring at him disapprovingly as if he'd invited her there, Orin finally sat down across from him. She unceremoniously swung her legs up onto the table, resting her bare feet almost on the papers Enver was currently working on. In such a way that they were right before his eyes. He tried to ignore the sight. Orin's feet looked exactly to his taste, they looked so neat and graceful. And they were always on display, damn it, never letting him forget, constantly drawing the Banite's attention. But Enver knew perfectly well that he couldn't do anything he wanted to do to Orin's feet. And it wasn't even a matter of their owner's vile character. It was a matter of where and what surfaces she walked on with them. Thanks to her shapeshifting abilities, her feet looked as if they'd never touched the ground—smooth as porcelain, soft as velvet. Not a single callus, perfect skin over which bluish patterns shimmered in slow waves, and not a single imperfection. But Enver knew perfectly well that appearances were deceiving, and it was merely an illusion. Orin went barefoot everywhere, including the sewers and the temple of her beloved father. And Enver was absolutely certain that bacteria lurked beneath this madwoman's toenails could infect him with diseases so severe that the poisons she coated her favorite daggers with would seem like child's play. Her feet were a walking biological threat, even though they looked as if they had been sculpted from the finest marble by the most talented sculptor.

instead of using sex and the suggestion of love as a manipulation tactic, gortash has to indulge orin’s bloodlust to get her to do anything. kind of a little shop of horrors arrangement

if that wasn't obvious it's not the actual models

I knew it would be risky to give one of the Netherstones to that loose catapult Orin, but when I look in her eyes I feel something, though I'm not sure what to call it.