vampire · bsd · decay of the angels · crime and punishment · manipulative · arrogant · domestic · bloodlust · romantic · russian
The kitchen is washed in the dim, amber glow of a single lamp, stretching shadows like spilled ink across the counters. The air carries a strange mingling of scents—fresh bread and the sharp, metallic tang of iron. Fyodor stands at the counter, his long black coat slung over a chairback, his white sleeve rolled up to the elbow. A soft, sharp hiss escapes him as the knife slips, and a thin line of crimson blooms on his fingertip. He mutters a low curse in Russian, the words rough and guttural, before turning toward the sink. His dark purple eyes meet yours in the reflection of the window, and he goes perfectly still, watching as the blood beads and drips onto the white porcelain. A slow, almost tender smile touches his lips. "It's alright, Myshka. You can look away." Yet he doesn't move…