ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ— THE BURNING GOD ( accepting! )

❝    The  plan  is–    ❞  Chapped  maw  hinges  wide  open  only  to  snap  shut  again.    @icaryan  pulls  from  him  the  weakest  sort  of  responses,    he  thinks,    because  he  knows  right  now  his  face  is  telling  on  him.    Cheeks  the  color  of  spilled  blood,    mottled  and  ruddy  and  boyish,    puff  with  antagonized  air,    exhale  a  slim  bit  of  irritation,    but  he  is  still  all  fitful  movement.    Stiles  flaps  their  hands  uselessly  by  their  sides  in  half  of  a  shrug  as  if  to  both  relent  and  reject  her  point.    ❝    The  plan  is  not  stupid,    Lydia.    Lydia?    ❞

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ— A STUDY IN DROWNING ( accepting! )

Fairy  wine  paints  his  mouth  the  color  of  ichor,    a  sharp  contrast  to  the  inky  glitter  splashed  across  his  eyes  and  on  the  highest  points  of  his  cheekbones.    Fractals  from  the  winter  moon  dappling  their  chambers  through  the  open  balcony  doors  reflect  off  the  bleed  of  that  glamour  and  color  his  wife  sat  astride  him  in  little  flecks  of  silver.    There  is  a  cold  breeze  that  pours  into  the  room,    but  the  High  King  feels  only  Jude  pressed  against  him  and  the  sweet  buzz  of  alcohol  limning  his  consciousness.

❝    Darling  Jude,    ❞  purrs  her  husband  against  the  pulse  in  her  throat.    She  tastes  like  sweat  and  steel  and  bitter  berries  and  everything  they  could  possibly  crave.    Cardan  presses  the  heel  of  his  hand  against  her  spine,    insisting  that  she  follow  his  descent  to  recline  vertically  in  the  chaise  she’s  seen  fit  to  accost  him  upon.    They're  certainly  not  complaining.

There  is  a  knife  tucked  against  one  of  her  thighs;    Cardan  feels  it  when  she  parts  both  around  his  hips  and  rolls  herself  against  him.    The  threat  of  that  blade,    and  her  wanton  movement  in  their  lap,    drags  a  whimper  from  their  throat.    His  sharp  teeth  bare  against  her  jugular,    though  it  is  not  the  same  sort  of  danger  that  she  promises;    Cardan  wouldn’t  bother  with  frightening  his  Queen.    Instead,    they  wind  their  fingers  in  the  strands  of  hair  falling  against  her  back  and  kisses  along  her  jaw.

❛❛ you don't seem to like it when we talk. ❜❜

❝    wait.   there's something here,    ❞    howl says,   stepping out of the shadow from which he's been watching @icaryan for the past five minutes.   he says it like he's not a prime candidate for the 'something' he's warning her about.   but he gives off no sense of danger in the way he approaches,   his long sleeves dangling at his sides so that they almost brush the ground.   since the night has fallen,   it's rather difficult for him to see.   he assumes the same must be for her,   too,   which is why he lets his heels tap along the ground so that she can hear him coming closer.

gesturing vaguely ahead of her,   he waggles his fingers.   a thin sheen appears in the air,   like an invisible wall that separates the two of them from whatever something is out there.   on the other side appear glints of light.    ❝    i suppose whatever is gleaming back at us must be it.   i think it's awfully curious that this happens to be here.   something like this doesn't happen to present itself unless there is some unfamiliar aspect to the strangers here.    ❞    he turns to the woman now.   really,   it is terribly dark,   and he'd rather like to see her.   but he wouldn't rather she see him.    ❝    is there something strange about you,   then ?   answer quickly.   i don't have all day.    ❞

.゜––   starter call.  /  𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐. ✨

          — — this was his homeostasis: he is a zero to everyone’s asymptote.

          it takes no psychologist to discover the discordance in his structure; it takes no sociologist to define the distortion in his movies. and it does not take a mathematician to count the number of victims crushed under the weight of his ‘empire’.

          his structure comes with the weight of baited breath and sinister smirks; his victims span from trifling thieves to malicious murderers. draven is a disease that is counted with bloodstains on noxian ground. 

          he is not a wave; he is the tide, bellowing with harsh tones and loud laughs as he enters the small town. thirty-four minutes ‘till sundown and just five seconds before his eyesight is distracted away from the horizon and instead to a glittering – almost glowing – woman to his right. he halts, lips layering into a coy smirk as his voice rings true: 

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