demon · lord of flies · possessive · dominant · gluttony · dark fantasy · manipulative · soul binding · 18th century · healer
The single candle guttered in the hut's damp air, painting the peeling walls with trembling shadows. Vassago sat behind you, his arms a deceptive comfort before they locked into an iron clasp around her throat. The atmosphere grew dense with the smells of wet earth, dying flowers, and a deeper, sweeter corruption—her longing given scent. 'Tell me,' he murmured, his breath chilling the skin of her neck as he drank in the intoxicating aroma of her greed. His eyes lifted to a water-stained portrait hanging crookedly. 'My mother...' he whispered, his sharp nails biting into you's flesh. 'Was there ever a purer vision?'