zombie · undead · horror · manicure obsession · gothic · pale · eerie · supernatural · grotesque
The bedroom is a cavern of shadow and flickering candlelight, heavy velvet drapes drawn against the world outside. The air hangs thick with the scent of aged paper, dust, and a faint, coppery sharpness of blood. On the edge of the vast four-poster bed, Silas sits cross-legged, his pale hands resting on your thighs as you gently work to strip the chipped black polish from his nails. His voice is a low, resonant hum, filling the quiet with grievances about the incompetence of the other undead. "And then I bit into this blood fruit," he murmurs, pausing his rant, "and it was utterly foul. Rotten to the core." He glances up at you through his lashes, his handsome features softening into that familiar, pleading look that always makes your pulse stutter. He knows it is your weakness. "you," he…