malachi liddell

List of Malachi's Character Tropes

Stolen Identity

Smarter-Than-He-Acts

Manwhore™

Criminal Empire Owner

Military Training

"Father who loves son so much didn't realize he was replaced by street rat over 20 years ago."

Street Rat™

"Exploiting your sex appeal isn't just for women says local man."

The-House-Always-Wins

Winner Takes All™

“Fuck off,” August protested with a grimace, “If something here smells like shit it’s the individually packaged bottle of Ralph Lauren’s piss you’re swimming in.” He was grumpy; tired from his wife dragging him around like a show pony, drunk from the awful alcohol and in a steep downward spiral towards total apathy. A pick-me-up was dearly needed, and this was unfortunately one of the only men he could trust to provide. Once he stopped fucking about, of course. The literal teenager that he was. Infuriating.

“Espino,” the PM sighed, defeated. “I guess the bartender saw him and assumed the more expensive the better.” He shrugged. “Or someone is trying to kill me. Take your pick.” A few slightly uncertain steps led to a more certain walk, following Malachi towards an intriguing future. The red-tinted hallways had the PM blinking to stay focused, and a few fingers still carefully grasped the loose clothing at the other’s arm, just in case. Or accidentally. Perhaps both.

“What have you got for me, Mal? I need to not remember any of this come Monday.”

"Took too much of a sniff when you got your head shoved up your ass? Got that look tonight it got used as an enema." Someone had to be responsible for dressing him as Charles. He could easily guess who: the same one who might as well have tied a cashmere sweater around August's neck to prance about in. Malachi's grin shone first. All before his arm roped around him, hand clasped against the side of his head, fingers knotting in the strands to pull him in. "Could always have your nose sliced clean off, how's that?" he joked against his ear, shape of his lips enough to tell he kept that upturn smile intact before he released him. What's a little joke between friends? Didn't matter there were two blades on his body alone to do the job without batting an eye.

"Espino? Wager he’d have it in him to off you?” An entertaining thought in some ways.  Though, if the mayor was planning on killing the prime minister, he might actually gain a crumb of respect. “Tried to have him go down on you? That it?”

Jude made a face, fully prepared to bend backwards on any ounce of survival instinct to challenge Malachi’s choice of words — but the way the wolf moved so fluidly with a simple flick of the man’s wrist shut them right up. A trained fucking wolf, Jude thought stupidly to themself as hot, damp breath washed across their neck. Jude was suddenly and acutely aware of just how thin that skin seemed now, less than a foot from pointed, presumably razor-sharp teeth.

Fuck. Off.

— they thought in disbelief, but knew better than to say it, knew better than to do anything but hover their hands out to either side of the broad, thick-furred body that now had them cornered against the wall.

“Huh?” Jude finally blurted out, tearing his attention from the yellowed wolf eyes to those of their master, swallowing visibly and uncomfortably. “The- what? The mayor’s office?” The informant’s wildly spinning thoughts eventually caught up; the leak. The agreement. Jude frowned and barely shook his head, as if his life depended on barely moving. “Mate, I dunno the first thing about it.” And he didn’t know if that acknowledgement was going to help him or hurt him here.

A sauna cascaded from the wolf's mouth, scented by raw meat that had been aged from stomach acid, something like a pack of sirloin that had been left outside in the summer, forgotten to be put away for safe-keeping. Jude could have created a new layer, a top-note to dab behind the ears that might at any minute be ripped right off their head.

"Yeah? Don't know shit about it?" Blue eyes caught brown, fur coat in between them, a leash separating life and death. "Doesn't make you much use, does it?" Another humid breath wafted around Jude's neck, smothering it like a hand ready to grip onto it. "'less that smell is all the shit you're spewing." Lying was a dangerous game; not helping finding out who was was even worse. "Which is it? Or should we have a go at heads or tails to sort it out?"

She figured that she probably should have wanted to back away from him, but there was something about the way he held himself that made her want to know more, made her drawn to him. Perhaps there was something about the fact that he encompassed so much of the unknown, and simultaneously seemed to offer her both fear and comfort - something she couldn’t recall experiencing much, if at all, before. “Oh, well, that’s a relief.” Lydia offered a cautious smile. “I’ll do my best to be as efficient as I can be! I like to think I’m good at keeping things neat and organized, so…” she trailed off. “Unless you’ll be done then, and just want to have a drink or something with me, for some reason?” She could feel her voice rise, making the already-existing question all the more obvious. “Which I mean, thanks for, it means a lot, and I do like to be kept busy, so…” she shrugged, doing her best to offer him a smile back, even if hers couldn’t quite match the feeling of his.

“Other than one leather jacket I had briefly my first year of university, I can’t say I’ve ever had much experience with it, but to be fair, my brother’s far better at the whole ‘fashion’ thing than I am, so he’d probably be able to tell you if I pulled off the look, or if I should stay with dresses and pants and sweaters.” Lydia made a small face, “I don’t know how well it’d work for cleaning, as I’m certain it’s not the easiest of materials to wash, but…” another shrug as her posture stiffened, following his finger’s movement with her peripheral vision. “I trust you and your thoughts on the matter - I mean, you’re the one of us who’s the business owner and all…”

“I - well, I haven’t had any tonight - and I -” she started, again, biting her lip. “You mean like you kissing me?” Lydia felt her cheeks flush, “I’m sorry, that is horridly presumptuous of me to even say, so please - tell me what you might mean, given that I could easily see it as ‘this will taste better off of your tongue - as in, far away from it’, right?” 

Lambs led to slaughter never get their fair share of blame. No one questions why they followed so easily, trusting so absolutely, eyes wide shut. It's universally accepted that they are willing victims. But Lydia's not wrapped in a wool coat, and he's no shepherd, only a man who was tailed by a wolf, a smile as lupine as the beast itself. Volunteer replaces victim, a label more attractive than its crimson counterpart, fit for a princess.

"Don't have to convince me any," he told her before she could put up a resume for him, head tilting to have a look at her beneath him. "Can picture you right now polishing away." And that was before her voice could raise an octave, have it flit back up to him, smile of hers in tow. "Another drink? Didn't get your fill with that one?" he prodded her with the tease, a glance given to what was already in her hand before he could put everything else in the conversation through a sieve.

A brother was caught in the web, a speck, and yet it didn't trickle out like the rest. A piece of information that was pinched at to keep instead of discard. Intuition told him so. "Reckon he'd get a different eyeful of it," he went on, pocketing what was already gleaned. "Wouldn't want him throwing you up a tower, yeah?"

Isn't that what happens in little girls' fairy tales? Be a good girl and wait for a kiss. Mal's grin spread, teeth baring, the sight of blood rushing up to cause rosy cheeks enough to nearly make him laugh. A short hum was given instead while his finger left her page, trading paper for skin, lifting beneath her chin. "Had something else to taste off of?"

“Well, I mean yes.” She made a small face. “If you paid me, you’d - well, you’d be able to ask me to do things for you, and you know, I couldn’t like, fly a plane or win you a castle, but other things, yes - you’d pay for my services.” Lydia blinked. “Do - would you like me to come around afterwards and help you clean? Once I make sure my boss is settled to go home, I could - not because I’m on the clock but because it feels wrong to not do that, but I’d need something to wear that was not this because even if it’s not the fanciest dress in the world, it’s one of the nicest I own, and I’d like to not ruin it.” A pause, “or was this another joke?”

She felt her breath catch has his fingers found hers. “I - uh, what?” She blinked a few times. “Just based on how it fits you, and how it manages to work with the theme…” she trailed off. “I mean, you - you do know how to pull a look off, I think you have the physique that could make just about anything look good.” Lydia didn’t dare move her fingers any more than he’d moved them, though a part of her wanted to ask him to continue to move her hands, her fingers, anything. “Which is good, you know? It lends itself to you being able to do anything and still capture the attention of people here. Or well, anywhere.” She felt her cheeks flush, “and I mean, if you’re truly wishing for the truth, perhaps I like the leather, and maybe I - yeah.” She bit her lip. “It’s just more out there than what I chose and I appreciate someone who’s able to stand out with such confidence.”

“It’s good, I’m glad you decided I could use it.” She scrunched up her nose and took another small sip. “My tongue appreciates it, but it’s actually doing alright, and would like to know why it’s garnered your sympathies. Gin’s not so bad, and I don’t always drink often anyhow, so…”

The more she kept talking, the more entertainment began slithering across Mal's lips, an inside joke that all that was needed to be a part of was to walk right in. The arm of the chair she had been sitting at was gradually taken up by him, perching himself there, feet planted to the ground, long legs spread out to claim the space that was his as far as the eye could see. Didn't mean the casino was the one to be in the reflection of his eyes, though; a pink dress with ruffles attached came as the attention. "Didn't count on you keeping that on all night, princess," he assured her, eyes flicking up to meet her with another smile, a baring of teeth. "Reckon you'll keep busy when you come back. Can't joke about cleaning any."

His head tilted at her, a slew of compliments spilling out from her lips and into his ears, the kind murmurs that sway a wolf from blood or simply whet its appetite. "Caught your attention, sounds like," he teased, speaking casually, moving in the same theme as his free hand took hold of her book from the top, sliding it away from the fingers he already left his mark on. "Wager you'd do with a bit of leather, too," he added on as the spine of her notes was placed against her lap, the pages beginning to lose their place before he pressed a finger to them to stop, a short distance away from skin that was hidden away by tulle. "Might just be your cleaning clothes, yeah?"

When he spoke, the quiet growl of his voice reverberated against her skin, resounded in her mind, and tantalized her tongue into utter thirst. It didn’t matter that underneath each promise was a threat, or vice versa; what mattered most was the line between them blurring under the haze of heated whispers and heady gazes, each delighted by the chase and chasing after each new delight. If this was to be the lock-and-step they fell into, then they were no different to a snake eating its own tail, cyclically challenging the other in the moments between moments — that was to say, endlessly — until one inevitably swallowed the both of them whole. 

As if to remit that possibility, Zoya responded, “Neither.” Dark skies of wanton need brewed in her gaze as her body bent according to his will — though not yet her mind. “I’m not blind to the bigger, better risk to take.” Her grin, at first as innocent as a waning crescent moon, grew sly and crooked as her finger danced over that by which her own lips longed to be claimed. God, I want to be painted by that bloody mouth.

“…You.” The simple word might have ruined the ambiguity of her game, but if it stirred anything perceptible within Malachi, Zoya would have found a far greater trophy than simply having the upper hand. Eager to mark her words, her mouth replaced the finger caught by his lips and kissed him hard, teeth digging into his bottom lip — harder. “Test out your theory,” she breathed, kiss broken but gaze steadfast. “See if you can’t bend me until I break.” A challenge and an acquiescence, sealed by lips on his as she pulled him closer, aggression teasing from beneath her veil of submission. Duality was the mark of the gods and so, with teeth bared, Zoya begged as instructed: “Please.”

There's no innocence found here. Zoya's eyes glimmered with it the same way fool's gold twinkles at desperate sorts that need something to save them, pull them out from the rubble they've trapped themselves in. Desperation doesn't suit Malachi, has never fit him, and he's never thought to try it on for a change. He saw the glitter for what it was, valued it for what it wasn't, gave it the light it needed to really sparkle in tints of crimson when she clamped her lips to his. A bite of the lip for a thumbnail to her thigh, both leaving their curved stamps, the ink of their own making floating up.

Another trickle of blood spilled, flowed between her teeth, salved by her saliva that left it glistening as she spoke. His head leaned forward, breath exchanged, an iron-musk to the words that brewed over her mouth. "Could send you right through this mirror," he warned, matching blood-stained lips catching to one another, each with their own set of imprints as an eyebrow raised at her. "One way to break you, yeah?"

Nape grasped. Thigh clutched. Zoya's frame was easy to turn. A ballerina in a little girl's jewelry box. Spun only once. Half-way. Jolted to a stop. The matter of cold glass made into something to brake against. Chest of hers pinned to it by Malachi's forearm fitting between her shoulder blades, the weight of his body sinking in, forming behind her, close enough to let his mouth draw to her earlobe, to stain it in the mixture of their shades of red. "Not much of a begging to me."

Malachi had a wolf, because why the fuck wouldn’t he have a wolf? The man always felt just a couple of steps removed from a cartoon villain on any given day, so it made sense he’d lean into that even more for Halloween.

— but that wasn’t something he was going to say, with the hot breath of a presumably? Tame? Wolf a little closer than his general preference. Jude took a couple of tentative steps back, but that just mean he ended up pinned between the wolf and the wolf’s owner’s twin judgement and the door, which of course opened fucking inward, and now he couldn’t get it open to escape.

“Not very nice to call it an ‘it’,” was the brilliant comeback Jude managed to come up with. They wanted to ask where Malachi even got a wolf, then briefly entertained the fantasy of releasing it, snarling and snapping, into the room of politicians and insufferable socialites in the rooftop VIP area.

“I mean, uh.” Focus, Jude, you’re already on the wrong end of a wolf. They stabbed a thumb over one shoulder at the unforgiving metal of the door that’d closed behind them, and would continue to remain closed until Malachi allowed otherwise. “Sorry, mate, just got turned around. Happy to fuck right off where I came from.”

"Yeah? Might have to tell it sorry by throwing your head down its throat. Wager it'll think it's a gumball?" Malachi's teeth glimmered more than the wolf's, eyes flashing to the pink hair scattered across Jude's scalp, the same color he imagined what fresh brains spilling out of a skull could look like.

They had done most of the work already for him, cornered themselves against a door that would show them no mercy, remind them of it so much that it echoed out of their own mouth. The response given was the emperor's wrist flicking over, the chain leash like a short whip, a tell to the animal on the other end to rear up. Its front paws crashed to the wall, one on either side of Jude, nostrils flaring to allow their scent to spill into its nose.

"Not in the mood to run your bleeding gums? That's new." He went on conversationally, as if the scene before him wasn't out of a Grimm's fairy tale. "Don't even want to have a chat about who could've hacked in the mayor's office any?"

“I mean, if you own the place, I suppose you’d be in the right to?” Lydia offered a small shrug. She sighed, “but that is not exactly what I was going to say.” Pressing her palms against the skirt of her dress, she added, “yes, I don’t think this dress would be most conducive to traditional cleaning looks; however, I don’t have lots of experience with being in fancy places, except when my boss has brought me to parties, so maybe people who assist with cleaning here are more dressed up -” she cut herself off, “I shall not focus on that, and I’m glad that you just wanted to talk - not that helping is bad - I like it, actually, quite a bit, but it’s nice that you just wanted to talk to me.”

She swallowed, “you know the Prime Minister? I - no, you don’t have to ask him, but I appreciate the offer, that’s very very kind of you.” Lydia did her best not to flinch as he moved his finger down the page of her notebook, instead setting her lips into a small smile. “It is true, and the BBC doesn’t teach me to make up things. I do research, and I believe in kindness but truth - I wouldn’t lie about what I thought of your look, even though it had been intended for myself only.” She bit her lip. “Lying’s pretty much useless in the long run, anyhow.”

“I’m not a super light-weight,” Lydia made a face. “Vodka’s not so bad, though I prefer gin, usually, I think.” She sighed. “Or like, a cider. But this is nice. Did you come up with it on your own?” Taking another small sip, she flashed a smile at the man.

"Saying if I paid you, could tell you to do anything I wanted? That right?" His own blond locks fell off to the side a bit, a hazard of a tilted head, pushed by curiosity and teasing as one. Important lesson to impart: be careful what you say, might just come true. "Wager that'd be illegal in some parts," he went on, grin spreading a touch, law-abiding citizen in his fine establishment, always with pure-intentions, "but more than welcome to come around and scrub up afterwards."

There weren't many that Malachi didn't know. Turned out that most anyone had a taste for vice. If all roads led to Rome, there was a reason why he was dressed as Romulus, no matter if it lacked the nuances of accuracy or not. It might not have gotten as much praise from her pen if he had. "What research did you go about for this?" His fingertip had rested over the review of himself, but now it was drawing off, slipping atop the edge of her finger that was holding it in place before sliding it down, spreading it apart from the other. "Trust you to tell the truth."

“I’m sorry?” Smile ? What the fuck. Well, not that she should have been surprised he would say that. That was on her. Ama wasn’t sure if she felt more relief or stupidity as she figured that he meant to commend his wolf to show its teeth. Bastard must have been aware of the double meaning here. Smug arsehole. “I… He looks very polite,” and the Disney raised little girl in her was telling her that she could pet that damn beast, while the adult Amahle just wanted to run away.

“I… I’m not sure that’s such a good idea Sir.” And yet she expected that the next step was asking her to do it anyway. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Yeah, that was a risky road to walk on here.

The wolf's tongue lapped at its teeth, closing its mouth finally from its pulled back lips, command satisfied, master equally so. It showed in the smile he gave back to Ama, the way one side was hitched up a little more than the other. Was it that she was thrown off by the wolf or was it that she asked what else she could do for him? Perhaps both. "Could have a few drinks in you," he suggested back, head tilting already to the bar for her to go have a walk with him. "About what it'll take to have you feel as though you're not going to have your head bit off, yeah? Couldn't have that any. Promise.”

“Oh!” She felt her cheeks flush, “I - sorry, I just figured…” Lydia looked up at him, “I just didn’t want to assume that you were offering me something, but I - you’re right, it might spill if it were to be filled any more.” She bit her lip for a moment before taking a sip of the drink. “It’s nice. The drink, I mean - but the party is too!” She offered, halfway in reassurance, just in case the stranger was prone to taking offense at a misspeaking.

“Just for me.” She replied, except that he was closer to her all of a sudden, then, and she felt her breath catch, ready to shut her notebook when his finger tapped on one of her many notes of the night, and a certain part of her wanted to tell him to please please not touch her things, but she wasn’t exactly sure how receptive he’d have been to that. “Yes - and even if royalty is sort of like one giant case of nepotism, I can’t help but admire Princess Diana. If only because she did such good for the world.” Lydia paused, “so no, I don’t think the woman who came dressed as her looks like she was dipped into a box of mentos - I - I’m also fairly certain that’s the Prime Minister’s wife, and not that it’s impossible to say negative things about politicians, but for something as simply enjoyable as a Halloween costume, why should I?” Another look up at him, Lydia held her notebook steady. “It’s not a book filled with negativity, I promise. I - look, I wrote that you look stern but completely at home, and that the jacket suits you to perfection.” She quickly took another sip of the drink. “What did you decide to have me try? Figure I should’ve asked that before, but…” she trailed off. “It tastes nice.”

It didn't take much for her cheeks to color, letting the tint of them float along the reflection of his eyes, a sight of mere entertainment than anything else. "Figured I'd use you for maid service?" he finished for her, another view of her taken up, a gathering of pink tulle instead of black and white ruffles, a hem too long for it. "Not that kind of dress for all that."

He shifted his sights, a shot to a figure in white pearls, collar high enough to brace her neck from an impact that could only happen in most people's dreams. Wife or not, no one was beyond reproach, but she was hardly worth the effort that came with it. "Could ask the PM himself for you, might be able to pass along a quote to jot down." Blue eyes had already slipped back to the blonde before they were shortly returned to the pages of her book, letting his finger sliding down to where his entry rested. "Mm," he hummed behind his curving lips. "Nothing but the truth. What the BBC teaches you to make up, isn't it?"

@malachixliddell​ || Halloween Event Part 2 

Although Eliza had a knife tucked into her hand almost as soon as the lights went out, she knew she was at a disadvantage. If she’d been on her own turf then of course the lack of light would have done little to deter her. Even if she had been in the main room at the time of the blackout she may have been fine. As it was she had been in one of the side corridors, yes edging to where she probably would have been, but she’d be a fool to have not taken the chance. Now though she gripped her knife tighter at the sound of footsteps and tried to make herself taller.

“I can hear you, y’know.”

The marble had been imported before he had even been born, laid out in winding patterns, vines and thorns, serpentine lines of red verona against a backdrop of dark emperador, acting like a constellation to be followed by the astrologers. Flip the wrong card in the deck, you land on the emperor, the sound of his boots echoing in the dark against the Italian stone that holds the same name.

"Good on you," he congratulated, rounding the corner to catch sight of her, light of the emergency exit a ghost of red across the two of them. "Can smell you." Her hand on a knife, balled up; his to his side, molded around the sheathed dagger, natural fit. "Stuck your foot a bit too deep in the shit, yeah?"

The knife was in his hand before he could process the thought, much less repress the urge, fingers curled around the handle in a death-grip. Of all the stupid things Emilio had done in his life, threatening Malachi Liddell with a weapon ranked dangerously high up, but by that point all sense of self-preservation or rationality had flown out the window alongside any pretence of civility.

For all the time and effort he’d poured into learning and training to control his temper and emotions, the jab about getting Emilio onto his knees was all it’d taken to fracture the carefully constructed walls. Memories of a different voice telling him to get down or else began pushing their way through the cracks, and it wasn’t until he had the blade of the knife against Malachi’s throat that realisation struck.

In that moment, Emilio couldn’t think of a more stupid or careless way to die – but anger continued to thrum deep in his chest and the grip he had on the front of Malachi’s suit jacket only tightened further. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

He had wanted to know. Wanted to dig a fingernail underneath that skin, see how thin it could be until a trickle of blood could ooze out. He had pushed, and Emilio had pushed back in kind. Physically. Malachi's back smacked hard against the mirrored wall behind him, knuckles felt against the lapel of his jacket, the blade like a close shave to his neck, the kind that leaves a stinging kiss behind. Looked like that skin was thinner than he expected, all it taking to break the muscles into action a few prodding words.

In dark blue eyes, the perspective colored beneath an arching brow. "One too many hugs growing up?" Right hand to the other's throat. Left hand clasped to the bent elbow. Squeezing. Weight pivoted. Shifted. Slammed back. CRACK. Glass under a new weight for the second time, a spider web to form, a fly needing to be wrapped up in it.

"Don't need another tongue, but one you've got might have to come with."

A House of Cards and Lords; the Red Rose feat. @malachixliddell​

Jude always reached a particular tipping point when he was drinking, one where logic flew out the window and the little voices started whispering in his ear, wouldn’t it be fun to do something ill-advised? Realistically speaking, just about everyone hit that tipping point while they were drinking, the only difference was: Jude really didn’t have to be that drunk, and considering the worlds he lived in, his idea of ill-advised antics had a habit of treading much more dangerous ground.

Tonight, they’ve been watching the comings and goings of one of the casino’s back doors — and the fact that they’re positive some people who’ve gone have not come back. It didn’t take much to pique Jude’s curiosity, all told, and it only took a few drinks for them to decide they had to have a look.

Most of the staff seem determined not to engage with him in his underdressed state, which was totally part of the plan and not at all a beneficial side-effect of being lazy. As Jude inched closer and closer to the secured door, their eyes swept the crowd; they didn’t see any signs of the Emperor or the Magician, who, as far as Jude could tell were the highest-ranking Jabberwocks in attendance. Once close enough, Jude darted out a sneakered foot to keep the door from closing all the way behind the last person who moved through and, with a little smile of triumph to himself, slipped through the door to the back hall — and froze.

“Oh.”

In their hubris, it hadn’t occurred to them that because they didn’t see the Emperor or the Magician, that meant it was entirely possible either were in these back passageways — and now they were face-to-face with Malachi Liddell.

“Uh.” Jude’s heart crawled up his throat. “Hey, boss.”

It could be felt before heard, the low rumbling that reverberated up through the links of metals, through the leather loop, into the palm of Malachi's hand. By the time Jude realized where they were, the wolf's teeth were exposed, snapping once in the air in response to the greeting, as if it didn't like to be ignored, simply out of politeness. Its owner gave more of a grin in return, no less vulpine.

"Got it trained to sniff out any rats." His hand twisted over once, letting the chain shorten with only the good graces of his thumb to hold it back from merely chomping at the air next time. "Voice went a bit higher there. Thought it was a bleeding squeak."

halloween event thread for @malachixliddell​ somewhere near the 2nd floor bathrooms

someone was gagging in the bathroom, retching loud enough to be heard through the private stalls, all the way into the hall. august felt saliva pooling at the corners of his jaws, like that odd feeling when you taste something really sour. like he’d be gagging himself if he went any further— the piss-fucking-shit alcohol he’d had was threatening to come back up, haunting him like the fucking ghost of christmas past. “eugh— no,” he managed, and pushed himself back away through the crowd. he’d find a trash can to piss in later. fuck that.

the corner of the following hall caught him in the shoulder, and august gracefully stumbles forward none the wiser. for being such utterly trash whiskey, a few glasses sure did go to his head fast. now, he was craving something more— “ah, mal!” the pm spotted just the person he was looking for clearly attempting to slink away from his reach. he grabbed malachi by the elbow. “listen, mate, i need some— something, you know?” he swiped a finger under his nose. “to really start the party.”

August Finley. Wasn't this the kind of kismet Zoya bled on about sometimes? Not particularly. Not when he had been invited, not when there was always something needed from the emperor whenever he appeared, not when there was something wanted from him in exchange. What surprise did it hold to see the nation's Prime Minister in the state he already was in? Not one drop in that spreading smirk, being held by the elbow for attention and support in equal measure.

"Febreze? Smell like shit," he guessed with a grin to follow before his head swayed to the side, the direction they'd be going in. That whiskey smell. "Who've you been drinking with to pump you full of the cheap shit? Could've just lapped up what was in the loo before coming."

“Wait? Am like allowed to?” It would be a lie to say Eilidh hadn’t been staring at the… was it a wolf or just a husky or something that looked really wolflike? She wasn’t too sure, but then when wasn’t that the case. But staring she had been, she’d just always been a big fan of animals, really. Had two dogs growing up, none now; she knew she wouldn’t be able to give one what they deserved, and so the need to live vicariously through every dog or cat she passed in the street was strong.

“Was always told no to pet a strange dug unless someone says you can” Crouching down by the animal, careful of the skirt on her dress, offering her hand out before going in for any pets. “Oh he’s gorgeous” she practically coos at the wolf before flashing a smile up at its owner.

Brows raised, a go-on-then, gestured to Eilidh as his head shifted to its side in watch. He knew exactly who she was; not many people didn't. The face of many lost bets and winning glories, a commodity for the house of Jabberwock. A special guest, even if what you saw was what you got, petting a strange dug.

"Yeah? Always do what you're told?" he wondered. "Just about anyone could tell you to give it a good stroking." Some had. A smile for a smile, exchanged as simply as that. "Taking a shine to you, isn't he?" The wolf's head dipped down, allowing the touch of the other without protest, but that wasn't the subject of Malachi's gaze, still targeted on the one to pet it. "Best watch out for an ankle," he teased. "Wouldn't want a match lost before it could start, yeah?"

Like any other street-savvy black cat, Zoya was prone to discovering which life she was on solely by seeing if she survived this one. Perhaps that was why her body demanded that she trace each threat of Malachi’s movements, her own teeth and tongue prepared to respond in equal measure as she refused to succumb to his portents of punishment. In short — she’d be damned to shy away now, even if he seemingly damned her regardless, catching her lip between his teeth in an opposing-end blur of horror and excitement. A shaking finger moved to her lips to confirm that which had already been made apparent by his own red-tinted smile, while her eyes, wide and dark and normally tinted ambiguous, conveyed to him in wordless confession:

It doesn’t matter what part of me you want to hurt. All that matters is that you want me. 

The spread of her lips grew from a shocked state of wonder — parted, lower lip creased and claimed by the bite of his teeth — to a small, curiously uncertain smile in acquiescence to his query. Brazen as an act of self-defense, her newly-stained fingers spread red across his grin as she stated rather defiantly, “More.” On purpose, it was a clear repetition of his demand from just moments earlier. “I want more.” Her touch threatened to reenact Malachi’s harm upon his own mouth. It would be so easy, she thought, sparing a glance down to her sharp stiletto manicure. Far more gently than he deserved, the long fingers of Zoya’s hands wrapped around his sharp jaw as her gaze followed up to his eyes of ice. Thumbnails pressed firmly against his bottom lip in emphasis of the dare unspoken by the question she posed: “Do you really believe you’re the only gambler between us?” 

Malachi's tongue drew over his teeth, sopping up the taste of what broken flesh could deal out. Bright red painted over her lips, a new shade of gloss for her to wear, a branding of her own blood to sport around until either she could swallow it back herself or he could, a branding that might as well have had his initials imprinted into her mouth. He could see the spark of it in her eyes, his letters floating up to the glassy surface, the most primitive of communication being read and replied back with another flick against his teeth.

Slender fingers trailed over him, tracing, chasing temptation, having him press against them as he moved. His mouth drew closer again, a glint of a weapon already used, reflecting in the marks they had already caused and waited to be sown for a second time. All for them and her wants to get the chill of a single word. "Beg."

No, he wasn't the only gambler in the room. But he was the one who owned the house that always won. "What hand do you want to play? Right?" Tips of his own nails tangled in the roots of her hair, yanking back for the top of her skull to drag against the cold mirror. "Or left?" His free palm was at her hip, middle finger threading through her dress, tugging forward, front meeting him, body of hers twisted in two directions by design. "Feel that down your back?" he mused, letting his lips part a bit more to tease her nail before tipping his head forward, forehead brushing hers. "See how far it arches before it snaps, yeah?"