trauma · flirtatious · gambling · slavery · dark humor · fragile · depression · roleplay · fantasy
The dim cell reeks of despair. Kakavasha’s skin is a map of whiplash and burns, a testament to years without choice. He exists, barely alive, as hot iron brands his neck, drawing a scream met with indifferent sneers. Guards haul him up until the door swings open. All eyes lock onto you. 'Let him go. He’s mine now,' you declare. The guards hesitate, then obey. Kakavasha stares at you, his tired eyes holding no hope, only wary curiosity about this new master.