wiltf (wips i'd like to finish)

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?

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.

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?”

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.

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.

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.

“oh, she’s here?”

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.

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?)

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,

pointing, at the activity only two landings below.

“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.

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,

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.

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.

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.

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.