#igneuscrvx

new years starter for @senseandworth & @igneuscrvx ca. 31st december, 200x.

"--She should kill him." Comes the abrupt assertion from the floor, cutting through a prolonged silence on his part only to rouse along the rumble of frustration in the giant's voice for all his freshly incensed vigor - a single arm shot out to motion briskly towards the television screen and to the farce of sheer of buffoonery displayed upon it. Several hours (and bottles) into melodramatic queries of succession, forbidden elopements and sordid affairs, he cannot help but feel a sense of strange investment on behalf of their protagonist, in spite of her continuously poor display of judgement.

"He has betrayed her trust, besmirched her name, tarnished her honor--" Jormun seethes as with a hiss, his motion having momentarily jolted him a little more upright where he had leaned his back against the edging of the couch, only to slump once more back down against it as his arm drops exasperatedly and the woman on the cathodes bemoans her conflict between self interest and her heart. Again.

@igneuscrvx // thorne & jormun - hidden places

Send a  🌟  for an edit or moodboard of your muse or send a  💕  for one featuring both of our muses / their relationship. Western AU moodboard, @igneuscrvx & @inter-vivosmosis

@igneuscrvx // Dahlia

The sun is pale so early in the morn; budding warmth with not an all unpleasant cool whispered through the air as it yet lays low above the town and the landscape beyond it, painting the skyline a gentle lavender and pale-wheat gold whilst it slowly climbs its way upwards from the edge of the horizon. Despite the withdrawal of the dark, it's still too soon for Winnemucca to shed the shackles of its sleep, and the streets are mostly empty save those few who are by calling early up to work, those vigorous and spry enough to catch each day voluntarily by the ballsack, or, too uneasy in their cot to have ever drifted off the eve before at all.

And then, there's him, who falls... somewhere amongst the aforementioned.

Whichever the case, Jhin found no qualm to be about at these hours, steadily down his path, either long ahead or far behind of the flocking crowds and noise and bustle which would later take the roads. Question anyone who's ever miraculously managed to know the gruffish barkeep and they'd undoubtedly concur he's never been the most sociable of sorts, even prior to the recent twists and turns about his life - yet, these days moreso still, he found a certain peace in taking his outings with the degree of privacy these early mornings could afford. Granting him a sorely needed reprieve from being cooped up in his quarters, and a moment to enjoy the fresh and open air without a slew of nosy eyes upon him.

-- An air he breathes like succor in his walk, which it may as well be compared to the still lingering musk of last and former years about the old saloon he's taken to care for, which no seeming means or reason had been able to entirely divest him of thus far. Only so long into the still frigid nights of spring can he tolerate throwing all the doors and windows open to the winds in this apparently futile pursuit.

No. In this instance there is a little more purpose to his leisure stroll than simply thus, his legs carrying him gradually if not swiftly towards the old markets, from whence he vaguely recalls Gloria having once or twice brought something to help with the stuffiness that would occasionally take the house, when the boys had returned from long treks away in ... dubious condition. With any luck, he'll know it when he sees it.

Send in a Pet Name / Nickname that your muse might call mine, and see how my muse reacts to it.

"Beefcake--"

He does not deign to grace the devil's firstmost try for his attention with reaction, rather preferring to feign ignorance than to heed to such a call. Seated on a simple stepladder (quite unhappy with his weight) to the side of this backstage dressing room he had somehow been drawn into, the giant occupies himself with whittling whilst his companion prepares to flaunt himself, paying little note to either him or to the woodshavings he drops around his feet. An appaling crime, for certain, in the hellfiend's book.

"Grouch."

Closing his eyes with an exasperated roll, Jormun sighs slowly through the parting of his lips, steeling himself before the obvious attempt to goad him. It will not work. He isn't--

"Sunshine~"

"What--" Baited and hooked, the big fish bites at last, snapping his head up from his ministrations and back to where the other has incessantly been hovering behind his back - only near to choke on his own tongue at the sigh which greets him, narrowed vision faintly widening upon the image of Thorne dressed to his hips in layered frills, his angled frame turnt half away and waist wrapped in an unlaced, dark corsette.

His friend merely peers back at him over his shoulder upon the victory of his attention - pale golden hues glinting with a spark of unadulterated mischief - and wiggles in a seeming invitation withal unspoken request to help him tighten up the straps.

// @innblastvr (Thorne) sent: ❛You got me fair and square last time. Though I’m a little bitter anyway.❜

"Would you prefer I took you dishonorably?"

The monotone query accompanies a slight quirk of the brow, the bottle in his hand pausing half the way to his lips whilst he holds to consider Thorne with an otherwise gently knitted visage - leisurly displeasure presenting itself as ever the norm upon his features, even in resting;

The great wyrm sits, lounged and intemperately sunk into the worn, red-felted armchair by a corner claimed his own (if for the moment), dressed in warmly dim light and legs haphazardly spread with little care but for completing the perfectly posed image of one so disinclined to move in any near beat of time. Few more hours and he might well become part of the upholstery. And yet, despite the passive disposition he watches his company keenly, lazily lidded eyes only doing so much to quell the sharpness of the gaze which tracks the tieflings movements. Assessing.

※》 Aevitas verse; holiday starter 🍒🌿@igneuscrvx cont. ( x )

The melancholic pluck of mandolin strings vibrates across the surface of the water, tangling in a dance unseen with the star-mirrored waves and white nets of gentle foam before they're pulled into the depths below; submerged, the tiefling's idle strum reach further yet than the the world above and winds alone could carry it, drowned and stirring something vaster, deeper still. Offering a promise as much as a melody, singing wordless whispers to a rumble in the dark. A void which listens.

The serpent doesn't know when it started or how - only knows that it calls him, in a way he can't entierly understand and never quite tried to. Slender fingers of a familiar hand playing effortlessly on distant chords as though somehow they were fringes of his soul, intertwined with something ancient in him, bound and pulling at its edges whilst a beaconing ember kindles at the core. He feels the muted warmth of it flicker as he follows, guiding him through an endless ocean. Feels the waters' unwillingness to relinquish as he urged towards the source, the waves around him swirling with protest as the burn in him strains and rises to a crescendo -- And then it stops, having breached the precipice to silence where he stands upright amongst the waves of night, a bare and towering figure broken free from the tides, allowing for the frigid air of late winter to callously wash over him while he casts his gaze ashore. To the moonlit outline on the rocks, awaiting his emergence with a curve of clever lips and a snuffed-out tune.

Somehow, this is an easier way to coordinate than through text.

Jormun is not surprised to see Thorne rising to observe him as he unhurriedly makes his way through the shallows and over the sands - damp silt cool beneath the soles of his feet - a tanned hand coming up to passively comb through dark soaked locks of loosely tangled hair while he walks for the first time in months. Limbs stiff, but not unsteady. In step, excess water trickles from both the tips and aquine slits along his ribs down the length of the sea spirit's form, to glisten in coldly beading trails where muscle shifts and dips in motion, catching briefly in whatever light still faintly graces these two old friends in their reunion.

At the greet proffered his way in nigh approach, he rumbles a tonal sound of vague acknowledgement regard his tardiness apparent, withdrawing the straying palm upon finally coming to a stop in front of the other; stood plain and stripped raw in his nature before a grand pose of silken wine suits and sharp angles, sharper eyes, dark hues like the abyss he clawed free of met hard with the sights upon him. Expectant.

"There was... traffic."

He sees the flash of Thorne's teeth before the other bends to rummage through the duffles brought (to preserve at least a fragment of the serpent's modesty before they join the rest, the eve yet far too early for the manner of scene which might otherwise be caused--), only barely missing the way the tiefling's gaze strays off path for how Jormun turns his own to their surroundings, letting attention wander with idle consideration over the Grecian village ahead. Waiting, he listens for the wind and muted bustle of life in the distance, ladden by sleep, the end of a day where theirs was just beginning. Though ultimately it is overtaken by the sound of rustling search quite near - until that quiets once more in what he takes for success in the quest for marginal decency.

He turns back to see Thorne spread the towel in his arms with an innocent smile.

Through narrowed lids, he relents to the embrace for approximately a second.

It's always the same song and dance with them.

Thorne knows troublingly well which buttons to push and where to let before the serpent's grumbling turns to bite, the rougish man ducking away for a spare cloth just ahead of the moment where the bounds of Jormun's patience starts to strain, disappearing swiftly somewhere behind and leaving him to dry himself off. Though he senses his friend's presence slot soon enough against his back, radiating off the hellish fires that feeds him, just barely beyond. As he grasps the towel he is left with, proceeding to smooth it over the thick of his arms for the prospective relief of being merely cold rather than cold and wet, he makes no move to discourage Thorne from tending to his hair on his own whim, the flash of prior annoyance traded rather for appreciation with an ease which should probably concern him. The tension he'd held settling to soothe under strangely gentle care.

At least, until the other speaks up again.

As if on cue, an idle shiver runs the length of his spine and prickles his skin upon the purr of Thorne's voice in his ear, but whence from the shrill winter breeze which picks that moment to blow over them, or the heat of the breath ghosting over the naked skin of his nape, he couldn't say. Neither or particularly conductive to the serpent's current state of undress. It brings him pause, forehead slightly knitting, bidding cease in his ministrations to linger the response.

Then he grunts, and slowly resumes.