wiltf

[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.

#infamous if #oc: jennifer lamb #ch: seven lawless #post: fanfic

[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.

#infamous if #oc: jennifer lamb #ch: seven lawless #post: fanfic

[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?”

#bg3 #oc: amma #ch: healer nettie #post: fanfic

[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.

#bg3 #oc: amma #ch: enver gortash #post: fanfic

[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.

#bg3 #bg3 spoilers #the dark urge spoilers #oc: amma #ch: enver gortash #post: fanfic #again pre-game

[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.

#bg3 #bg3 spoilers #oc: amma #ch: enver gortash #dark urge spoilers #post: fanfic

[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

#bg3 #oc: amma #post: fanfic #bg3 spoilers #dark urge spoilers

[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.

#bg3 #oc: amma #ch: laz'ael #ch: shadowheart #ch: gale #post: fanfic #technically no spoilers

[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.

#infamous if #oc: jennifer lamb #c: seven lawless #post: fanfic

[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.

#infamous if #oc: jennifer lamb #c: sebastian holland #c: maya holland #post: fanfic

[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.”

#infamous if #oc: jennifer lamb #c: iris de luca #post: fanfic

[wiltf]

infamous server prompt

25. “does that feel good?"

🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞🔞

somehow, always somehow, seven was the one against the wall. again, happening often enough that he wanted to justify that it wasn’t always like this. an argument that wants to bubble up, except it is completely lost in the fog of how jennifer kisses him, teeth finding his lower lip, tugging.

with a groan, seven finds her hips, fumbling with the material to find skin. something. anything. she’s warm under his hands, as he follows the tightness of the bodysuit high up and over her hips, until his fingers brush low. an action that definitely earns him a breathy chuckle.

seven interrupts whatever snarky comment she had for him. because a noise leaves him, her hands going south this time. fingers splayed, dragging down his chest. matching the circles he drew against her, thumb pressed just so. he hated these stupid bodysuits. he loved how she was pulling at the buckle of his pants.

jennifer’s lipstick was barely hanging on, when she pulls back. palming him, and seven kind of hated how his body responded. like he hadn’t been touched the same way since they—hm. not thinking about that. trying to focus instead on jennifer. jen. jen and her hands and the sound his zipper makes. jen and how her hips continue to move against his fingers, the slightest shake in her knees.

jen, and her comment about dry cleaning being needed later.

“you’re so fucking weird,” he laughs, groans, moans. not enough of his pants pulled down, but she’s stroking his cock.

his head hits the concrete behind him, and seven moves his hips, just enough, as she shimmies his jeans and underwear down. a small prayer of thankfulness that it wasn’t cold in the room, or seven was sure he might’ve shrivelled up immediately. but that thought is followed by one that is tense and half expecting jen to walk away from him. fucking around with him. wanted to see how he would react.

and then, she drops to her knees. heavy look, the kind that made him definitely feel like he was on fire. when jen was settled, she didn’t hesitate. encouragement, with her hands on his ass, pushing seven forward, tip of his cock just against her lips. every movement painfully slow, and as jen takes him in her mouth, a guttural groan leaves him.

head falling back against the wall, seven feels himself be spread just a little, a hand finding a way between his legs to stroke his balls. strange, welcome, hot. has him twitch upwards, into her hot mouth.

wet, slick sounds fill the air, coupled with seven’s groans of ‘fuck’ and ‘jen’ and maybe a ‘goddamn’. lost into nothing as she moves her head to a perfect rhythm, back and forth, no signs of needing air drastically apparent. encourages his hands in her hair, which really doesn’t help his situation at all, not when he twists red locks between fingers and pulls. he could feel it. a shift in the world. sliding his eyes shut.

at times like this, seven was sure someone was going to find them. a camera, someone from one of their bands. a manager. and that thought probably does it for him, really. reminds him of fucking in the back of bars, and the way jen would rock on his hips.

it took everything not to shove himself further down her throat. jen continues, pumping him through with her free hand, the other having moved to holding him steady. not the longest time on record, and something that may have been an apology tumbles from his lips. everything was twitchy and hyperaware, like a live wire had gone off in his brain. sparking down his back, not making him want to move.

jen was nothing if not efficient, with how she neatly packs him away, back into his underwear with a little kiss, jeans zipped, belt done up. by the time he was even remotely aware, she was upright, smoothing out her hair, clearly impressed with herself.

“holy shit.”

licks her lips, shiny and smeared. bodysuit in disarray, barely covering herself, knees the telltale sign of being down. there’s a tear in her fishnets. he doesn’t remember that. but seven does remember pushing off the wall, his hands pulling at her. kissing her, roughly, tasting himself and that same old two dollar lipstick.

seven groans her name, walking her backwards now. into the other side of the hallway. they had already been pushing a few minutes of peace, of filling an echo chamber that clearly told the next person to come down they were fumblefucking.

in one hand, seven holds her chin. bruised lips. lipstick smeared and mostly gone. his knee between her thighs, and she’s grinding. not breaking eye contact, as fingers go to where there were hidden zippers and buttons.

“seven,” she says, as if this was a few hours earlier, on the bus. telling him to fuck off. not grinding on his leg and palming her own breast. “i forgot how you tasted.”

a lie. they both knew it. just like how he lied about not thinking about her, hands wrapped around his cock and working himself some nights. fine line between loathing and lust. lower half of jen’s suit was looser now, and as seven lets her down, no hesitation on her part from stepping out of it.

he tears her fishnets. an action that gets him a shove in the arm, a ‘fuck, seven!’, and it’s his turn to drop. seven doesn’t tease like she does. keeps her thighs apart, before sliding one hand behind her knee, lifting it over his shoulder. jen was just as loud as he remembered. and that heel that dug into his shirt and skin was just as hot.

he is kissing and pressing and tracing with his tongue, sinking his teeth into the skin of her thigh. holding her gaze as he sucks her clit. jen, jennifer — no, just jen — has her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him so close, pulling so tightly.

letting her mouth run. “you’ve gotten good ah—at this, y’know.” a comment that might’ve held some weight to it, had she not started to bend at the waist, as seven replaced his tongue with fingers.

one, then two. turning, brushing along the inside. thumb working hard as a third finger joins. stretching her, and seven was at least ninety percent sure that the shudder that ran through her was at least one orgasm. “just good?”

a tease, a challenge. something jen apparently didn’t want to contest, not when his fingers pick up their work, thumb replaced by mouth once more. all attention on her clit, playing her so lovingly, wringing every little movement and feeling from until her voice went hoarse. seven doesn’t let up, not at all, even as her heel digs into his back with far more effort — something he had complained about, one night, which resulted in a mild suggestion of a strap-on.

seven remembered that night really well.

jen doesn’t let him keep going. scrambling at his head and shirt and pulling him up. it’s not a kiss so much as almost breaking their noses, moaning against his lips. “fuck me,” she demands. “seven, i want you to fuck me.”

why did he even let her do his pants up? they both knew this was going to happen. but there’s a blink, and his belt is undone. another, and his pants aren’t down nearly as far. his cock in her hands, her hips in his, and they really were. fumbling. fucking. in the hallway of this hall, any sort of vague music from either side perhaps just a fever dream.

the wall gives him purchase to hold her there, as they’re not so much moving as just grinding. fingers on her clit and teeth at her neck. her thumb presses against his adam’s apple, catching the way he swallows. hair pulling, crushing kind of grinding, as seven comes, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

jen follows after a few more furious rubs at her clit. her head hits the wall, loud enough to probably concern him. or should have, will do, once the edges of his vision make it back to technicolour. blurred and bright and they’re sweating. disgusting. heaving chests and seven kisses whatever skin he can find.

“how was that?”

wobbly knees as he lets her down, and jen just. laughs. runs a hand through her hair before grimacing. not quite able to bend down for the lower half of her bodysuit, which seven finds himself helping her into after tucking himself away. a hand on his shoulder, and jen snorts.

“i know you can do better than that, but.” a shrug, as seven stands, bringing the material up her legs with him. “not bad.”

“don’t be a dick.”

“don’t rip my stockings next time. they’re fucking expensive.”

seven somewhat falls against the wall beside her then. it’s weirdly cool, as opposed to when he was against it. standing there beside her, as she fixes the last few buttons, before leaning back too. staring up at the overhead light, seven can’t stop the way his lips twist.

“‘next time’, huh?”

“don’t push it.”

#infamous if #oc: jennifer lamb #c: seven lawless #post: fanfic

[wiltf]

at perhaps the third shout of frustration, seven had enough.

book snapping shut, shuffling past avina, he is moving down the bus. and were it not for the continued and growing sounds from the room at the end, seven might’ve been more. mindful. okay sure, he was watching out for any instruments left out, but that jacket underfoot wasn’t one of theirs. did he purposely step on a few cds, which gave a satisfying crunch? no. not at all.

at the door of the backroom, seven gives one look at where pope was lying on the nearby bunk, clearly also annoyed. and then he knocked. loudly. thumping at the door until there was muffled swearing getting closer.

and,

well,

seven had some regrets.

the door slides open, and whilst he would like to say he met the wild-eyed look of jennifer first, flustered and hair a mess. and then he would’ve liked to say that the next thing he noticed was strewn about clothing, shoes, and other bits from what looked like show preparation. seven in fact noticed none of this, and by the sounds of things, neither did pope.

“what?! i’m busy. have you seen orion?”

tangled red hair, pasties, fishnets. jennifer clearly didn’t give a shit, or maybe she didn’t even realise, because she was still waiting on an answer. “well?” extends a hand, and seven didn’t even notice the heeled boot, until it hit the doorframe. “have you seen orion?”

each word drawn out, and seven. well, he knows he was probably going red, ears burning as he pulled his eyes up. loud swallow. “uh—you’re loud.”

eyebrows shoot up, and when she crosses her arms. seven turns his head, watching as pope seems to go through several stages of grief and interest.

“right, well. anything else? have you seen my manager?”

“no.”

on some level, seven did wonder if this was intentional, standing there the way she was. out the corner of his eye, the shoes are thrown over her shoulder, hands land on her hips, and. she’s assessing him, in that all too familiar way. realisation dawning, as jennifer seems to look down.

back up at him. “seven, you used to eat me out in bars, you know i have a dimple on my ass, and you’ve seen my tits before—this is a tour bus, get over it.”

pope explodes with laughter, devolving into barely contained snorts. all of which seems to magically summon her manager now, appearing over his shoulder. seven doesn’t jump, of course, while orion hands a suit bag over, resolutely looking jennifer in the face.

“this was hung up beside rowan’s bunk.” perhaps, if seven had the capability in that moment to respond, he would pick up the somewhat disappointed tone. “thank you!”

one more look, door slamming shut. laughter still coming from beside him, and seven turns to be almost face to face with orion. a cool and collected expression, one that might have suggested such a thing was a normal occurrence, or that perhaps,

seven was in the wrong.

door slides back open, and jennifer is pulling one arm through the suit, while the other holds a brush. wordless in the way they worked together then, orion doing the zipper and tidying the material around her back, while the brush is pulled quickly and furiously through her hair. moving through the disorganised bus with ease, as there are boots pulled from the cupboard beside rowan’s bunk, jennifer only stopping after a few feet to pull on one, then two.

she’s zipped up, stepping out of the bus, hands pulling down the front of her bodysuit to readjust. orion disappears wordlessly after her, brush placed on the counter beside the exit, with the door closing behind them.

at the click, the illusion is shattered. seven buries his face in his hands, as keiran hurries down from the other end, avina following, questioning. what was that? what happened? why is pope laughing? head swivelling so fast between seven and pope, that keiran’s head was surely going to pop off. avina’s hand is gentle on seven’s arm, insistently trying to pull his hands away.

“what happened?”

when seven relents, exposing his no doubt red face, he gives pope a very firm look. “not a word.”

“sure, chief,” pope chuckles, a sarcastic salute to drill the point home, as keiran starts shaking the bunk now. wanting answers.

ones that seven knew he wouldn’t be able to fully prevent pope from telling, as he sent one last look into the room behind him. and stormed back over to his now-cold spot on the lounge, pen in hand, book open to a blank page. all of this bravado fails him at the last second, as his forehead hits the table, and seven lets out a groan of, “shit.”

#infamous if #oc: jennifer lamb #c: seven lawless #post: fic

[wiltf]

infamous server kiss prompt time

38. The ROs face is scrunched up by something you said so you kiss them on the cheek and that turns into a kiss on the lips.

there was something about the face seven makes, that is all kinds of nostalgic and something new. you’re different now, of course, several years removed from heartbreak and tears and fights, but also there has been a tour bus and two page spreads and—

“when did you write this?”

thumbing through your notebook. the one you hadn’t shown anyone since, well. yeah. maybe there is something to be said, about how instead of going to therapy for a few years, you wrote a lot of angry and sad and regretful songs, and have now let the said object of those songs read them. so you lean back on the tour bus couch, mindful that there may be a lurking producer, and just.

watch. seven is engrossed, to say the least. you’re still not certain either of you have quite addressed every single issue, but this is. work. right? work and battle of the bands related nonsense and also you’re trying. you’re goddamn trying and your heart is in your throat and you’re so open right now,

and he’s chewing on his lower lip, just like you remember. one hand holding a page, slowly moving back and forth, while his free hand is tapping out the rhythm. seven always used to be able to find that little bit you were missing, sliding into that space freely. your missing puzzle piece.

are you gonna cry? is it too late to snatch your notebook back?

do you like. kiss again?

“sooo—“ swallow. that was too loud in your ears. nails digging half moons on your knee. “i mean, you can see how old some of this shit is, i mean—“

“you wrote most of this after that—“

“—night? yeah. there’s other stuff in there but y’know. free therapy.”

it’s the look he gives you, which quite frankly. arguably. seven can’t talk. you know for a fact that out of the two of you, you actually do have a therapist. who is on call! you just haven’t handed over your notebook to be analysed.

while you’re busy drawing a sharp circle around the half moons, you struggle to look up. honestly, realistically, you don’t know how much of this is true, or how much you both are being produced. there is still something authentic, sure, right there in his hands. and those eyes of his are something you very easily get lost in, like all the time. except there had been negotiations, arguments. fans writing in. reconciliation very plainly expected, which led to another hole in the wall.

in more ways than one.

but it’s. it’s seven. it’s the scrunched up nose, and those big ol’ eyes. they’re only a fraction more watery than yours, because this is a show and you are being produced and you’re sure you still smell of stale cigarettes and craft beer. last night’s shirt, but transported through time. this was just another day, lucky number seven. all those years ago.

when you lean in, it is for you. it’s not for the rave reviews you’re sure this will get. not for a photo on the cover and your name being echoed. seven’s cheek is soft and warm and it’s just. him. cologne and that same detergent his mum has been using since the dawn of time. you are fifteen and twenty and twenty-fucking-seven. you should pull away, open your eyes. apologise.

noses bump. seven has turned, and you peek out from under your lashes when his lips — chapped, soft, familiar — press against yours. you have spent too long thinking about his lips on yours once more. in fact, you wrote some very specific songs, you’re saw he’s seen, about those lips of his.

you hope he does it for the same reason you do. the kiss is chaste, and you don’t pull away. not yet. this might all be a dream, the kind that would definitely have you hit that speed dial for 1800 therapy time.

it’s been hours. it’s been seconds. seven pulls away, that same scrunched up face of his, coloured a soft pink. and it’s your notebook back in your hands, a mumbled thanks that might’ve also, actually, been sorry. and he’s up, pushing open the door of this little room, and he’s gone.

leaving you to figure out what to do from here.

#infamous if #oc: jennifer lamb #c: seven lawless #post: fanfic

[wiltf]

rowan shouldn’t have been the one to find you, but he does.

careful with his movements now, while the glass makes that funky crackling noise under his shoes that would normally itched your brain just right. but the bottle in your hand, held against your head, has long since gone warm.

and you’re mad. sad. hurt, sore, scratchy throat and bottled rage and you want to scream all over again, yet you don’t know if you have it in you anymore. it all left you, all that real, raw feeling, when seven slammed the door behind him.

you’re an asshole and a shithead and the worst person in the world. voting no didn’t count for shit and you’ve lost your fucking other half.

so rowan walks in where he shouldn’t have. crouched down where seven would normally be. invading that space like on a whole other level. don’t open your eyes, don’t look at him, there’s mascara fucking up your tears and if you look, you’ll say.

nothing, really.

“jen, i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry.”

bite down that bile. that angry, broiling bile, that wants to tell him to shove his apology up his ass. grind your back teeth as you finally spare a look out the corner of your eye.

fuck, you think. my contacts. all messed up from all the eye rubbing you’ve been doing. somewhere in the back of your head now probably, just floating there. gotta fix that. gonna hurt in the morning.

maybe there’s something on your face, with how rowan settles now, rocking back on his feet until he’s landed, pulling his knees against his chest. still looking at you. can’t make out his face because you can’t see for shit, and seven had your spare contacts and glasses in his jacket, and he’s fucking gone, and you’re out here, crying your goddamn eyes out and—

breathe, girl, breathe. gotta treat yourself like a fucked up horse. in through the nose, out through the mouth.

“i—i just… it’ll work out, i know it will.” with the way he says it, it’s like he’s trying to convince himself. but he voted yes, and you voted no, so guess who threw his hat in the wrong ring. “we’ll get our shit together and smash out some new songs, revamp ourselves. relentless caller to—two point oh.”

“he chose that name. we need to rebrand.” god, you sound like shit. croaky and hoarse but it gets the message across. “can’t use his fucking name.”

“i mean… you came up with it too, right?”

something in the way rowan says that, like it is a harmless question. sure, hell, they both came up with the name. jennifer and seven, off to take over the goddamn world. scared shitless at sixteen by some telemarketer with perfect timing during a horror movie marathon. but it’s that niggling, itching thought. bubbling over. “kick him out the band, steal his name? was that the plan?”

“jen! you know that’s not true!” arguably, that shock was real. but you can’t see it, so who’s to say.

“could’a convinced me.” god, warm beer is gross. matches everything else about you. so much mascara on your hands. eugh.

“i am so sorry, seriously, i didn’t—we didn’t think he would take it that hard, i mean, he had to have known it was gonna happe—”

you don’t quite recall throwing the bottle, just seeing it shatter into a million pieces as it hits the brick fence. sway to your feet, and you are. a shithead. an asshole. a bitch and a liar. you are the worst person in the world but you stare down at rowan, in that moment, and sure. your heart was broken into more pieces than that bottle, and you’ve spent the last few hours going over it all in your head.

but,

“don’t. you fucking. dare.”

“hey, jen, come on—“

“no, rowan. don’t you dare say that shit to me. what we did to him? what we did to seven? i will never forgive myself for it. so you better take that back, and you better make this shit,” a point now, to the finger he’s sporting, with that goddamn logo staring up at you, “worthwhile. or i am done.”

because, as you turn, you remember. it’s the way it all came down, drowning out your ears. how they tried to convince you, really tried. how your voice appealed more, and how you were more palatable. seven was too hit and miss and people wanted you, not him. a mix of pleasantries and backhanded compliments.

the party stopped somewhere between the screaming and the crying. people had long since filtered out, and those who remained were sitting in awkward drunk silence. watching you, as you stumbled through, throwing back a red cup of something that burns all the way down. two — no, three — more beers.

you’re gonna drink and maybe litter on the way home. and cry and wail and sing at the goddamn top of your lungs. tempted to stand under his window with a boombox that you don’t have.

the beer tastes gross. you manage to rub one of your contacts back around. but your feet carry you home, because someone has to be sad and responsible. and your key clicks in place, no one else is home, but there’s that stupid keychain he bought you, and it’s his posters on your walls, and his shirt that you sleep in.

and you think you deserve this, this fucked up reality where you won’t be able to really ever leave it behind.

after all, you may have voted no. but you never considered walking at the first suggestion.

#infamous if #oc: jennifer lamb #c: rowan hart #post: fanfic #semi-charmed life played while i wrote this lmao

[wiltf]

you’re five minutes into filling in the headline with a pen, when your phone buzzes.

twice. three times.

and you are determined to ignore it, because you are. not stubborn, but insistent. researching. intently reading the necessary magazines and were in fact busy studying the local lineup, thank you. definitely, absolutely, not being stubborn and ignoring your phone.

god, you can’t even convince yourself that you’re not being a dick.

phone flipped over, and there are too many notifications for the shit brick to deal with. clogged up and awkwardly glitching over each other, but the lil rain cloud is still apparent. stupid lil icons and stupid lil messages and you’re opening them anyway, because you’re a dick and a sook and plant your cheek on your desk, holding the phone in front of your eyes.

threatening to go cross-eyed.

ah, fuck it. phone rings, screen turns on, and you look like shit. it takes about five rings for seven to pick up, and he looks equally fucked up. bleary-eyed, cheek on desk. a line in his forehead that doesn’t look right.

you’re not sure what to even say.

“so.”

“so.”

who said it first? second? god. shit. fuck. girl, help. you barely showered and your hair is still damp and you can still remember the way he held you. the way you literally broke rule number one of being in a band.

but on the other hand, you totally got why fleetwood mac was able to produce the music it did. would that also be a dick move to write — y’know what, thought for later.

right now, you’re just holding seven’s gaze, until he’s sinking his teeth into his lower lip and. he’s in the same way. you know that look — you know that look — and it’s all about reaching through the screen and kissing him and going back in time and shaking yourself and towelling down your hair and hanging up and,

and,

you bite the bullet. “how’s your morning been?”

“bit cold when i woke up…”

yep, that was a really noticeable wince from you. well you didn’t mean to run out. you panicked! a normal reaction. totally normal for someone who blurred that line of friendship and sexual (and maybe romantic?) because she had a big dumb mouth and he had a big dumb—

hm. no. stop that train of thought. “seven, i just—”

“we can go back to before, if you want.”

it was always wild to you that people thought seven was cool and calm. he had those big baby doe eyes that gave far too much away, especially when they were turned on you. got you doing all kinds of stupid shit growing up, because seven was. is.

“i don’t think i know how to. only so many friendships survive seeing each other naked.”

you mean for it to come off as a joke. it doesn’t land. sure, you’d seen each other in whatever over the years but there was a difference between outright seeing that like last night. and touching. and kissing. and putting your lips on him the way you did.

“jen, do you—do you not want to—”

loud swallow. adam’s apple bobbing. the bruise is visible, the one you left there. but his eyes are going red and you’re torn between it all. because you fucking loved last night and you got all those fantastic feelings rushing through you and it was seven but then you woke up and realised. you fucked up. you crossed that line and you don’t know how to go back because he looks like he’s gonna cry and your hormones were sitting right there with you. going crazy.

“i fucking love you, dude,” you say, all thick and heavy and his lips were looking a lil bruised too. goddamn. “i shouldn’t have… i ruined it.”

because you were horny and in love and riding off a high from the last gig and seven was there. always just in reach. and you’d noticed him from day one but something about last night just. “i shouldn’t have asked you to fuck.”

“saying like i didn’t want to.”

you snort, despite the situation. “yeah, you made that pretty obvious.”

his turn, corners of his mouth jumping just a fraction. “i meant what i said last night, too.”

“i know.” pause, before you exhale. sit upright. “me too.”

“i know,” seven says in a way that is definitely threatening on repeating yourselves into a cycle of ‘me too’s. and last time you did that, it got very close to a few tears and wails and throwing yourselves at each other.

actually,

“what are you doing now?”

puff of air that hits the curls across his forehead. “honestly? was gonna spend all day thinking about calling you, so that’s as far as i got with planning.” there is that slip of a smile now, all sexy and cute and tempting you through a crackly screen.

but you know. that underneath it, in the corner of it, was that anxiety you felt. it’s not quite gone from your chest, and the regret is still heavy. it’ll probably keep you up at night for far too long, because it’ll be that little worm in the back of your mind, about whether you should’ve crossed that line.

“wanna come over? i have new face masks and like four bags of popcorn going out of date soon.”

“you always know how to treat me right.”

seven is all a blush high on his cheeks and curls framing his face in all the right ways. looking at you like he had last night. maybe you’ll talk about it. maybe you’ll put it into a song. put those words in a bottle and throw it into the ocean.

“see you soon?”

“always.”

man, you were so fucking in love with him.

#infamous if #oc: jennifer lamb #c: seven lawless #post: fanfic

[wiltf]

rain doesn’t break until they’re around the threshold of the camp.

and it is beautiful.

amell is captured in the seared taste across her lips — sweet ash, as catapults meet their feet across the bridge. running, as fast as they can. met by survivors who cry foul play, their words lost in the screams of stone falls and their fellow man down below. but for one moment,

catch of breath. hood pushed back. sweat and blood and rain, sweet and soft rain upon her brow. it does not burn in the rivets that have formed down her cheeks. salves applied, magic saved for combat, and in truth. amell does not want to leave it behind.

thunder carries them up the tower. hairs on her arms stand up, as she points her staff and sends that lightning forward. eventually, it is knocked from her hands, so she reminds the darkspawn why they insist on removing a mage’s hands.

burning of decayed flesh. a smell that she refuses to allow in, even as there are screams, arrows. brick that falls and amell is,

flying.

rain on her face.

accompanied with the last fading thought that it was still just,

#dragon age #oc: briseis amell #s: invitis canibus venari #post: fanfic