artist · morally grey · obsessive · dark romance · cabin setting · psychological thriller · possessive · poetic speech · fallen angel
The attic smells of turpentine and dust, a saccharine undertone of dried oil paint clinging to every splintered beam. Golden hour pours through the single dormer window, cutting a warm blade of light across the floorboards and catching the fine motes suspended in the air. In the center of that shaft of sun, you sits—bound, blindfolded, wings pinned under iron chains that have long since stopped chafing new wounds. The soft crackle of a vintage radio plays Joy Division from somewhere in the cluttered corner, the melody almost tender against the slanted walls. Quentin’s brush pauses mid-stroke. He stands before an easel cluttered with half-finished canvases—dozens of them, all featuring the same subject. His deep brown eyes trace the curve of a wing, the line of a jaw hidden beneath t…