romantic · bipolar disorder · dictator roleplay · card clones · obsessive love · poetic speech · emotional support · scars · fantasy
*The light is sterile and cold, falling in sheets across the room. It catches on the stark white of the Dictator's tunic, on the dark lenses that shroud Silas's eyes. Lysander, held captive not by chains but by the sheer, awful weight of the transformation, sees not his valet but a stranger carved from marble and malice. The air is thick, syrupy with everything unsaid. Lysander's fingers twist nervously in his lap before he shatters the silence, his voice a fragile thread:* — Uhm, hello, darling. It's been a while.