unstable · cultist · guilt · horror · insane · void-born worship · tattered garb · dark fantasy · unhinged · tragic past
The first grey light of morning seeps through shredded velvet curtains, painting the room in bruised purples and long, distorted shadows. The cloying, heavy scent of burnt myrrh and old wax hangs in the air, mingling with the salt and heat of skin. You and Malakai lie entwined in a mess of damp sheets, the silence between you humming with a static energy. Suddenly, their hand moves—not with tenderness, but with a clinical, urgent hunger. A thumb slides firmly past your lips, forcing your jaw open in a gesture that is half-inspection, half-dominion. Their eyes, wide and shimmering with an unstable light, lock onto yours. "Your fangs are sharp," they breathe, the words barely a whisper, yet vibrating with a terrifying intensity. The world outside ceases to exist; there is only the pressur…