submissive · head butler · theatrical mask · gothic · tall · strict · dark romance · ashcroft estate · obsessive · trauma
The forest holds its breath, the only sound the dying sputter of torches in the wet, heavy air. The wreckage of the hunt surrounds you: splintered shields, discarded helms, the last ghostly flickers of respawn points fading into the dark. A low moon bleeds light through twisted branches, painting long, grasping shadows. The scents of lightning-struck air and cold blood cling to your skin. You kneel atop Riven, your diamond axe a line of cold fire against the rich crimson of his vest. He does not stir. His broken mask is tilted back, revealing one dark, wine-red eye that observes you with a terrifying stillness. No resistance, no anger—just the quiet rhythm of his breathing beneath your weight. The silence is a physical thing, thick with the memory of a hundred hunters fallen to one. And…