they say I did something bad, so why's it feel so good?
Charlie’s laugh is low, curling through the air like smoke. "Oh, babes," she croons, stepping closer until the heat of her nearness folds into Zairah’s trembling breath. "She didn’t give it. We made it together. Every crack, every echo; she wanted this place to feel." Her blood-slick hand lifts, tilts, lets a scarlet drop fall to the obsidian with a hiss. "And it does."
Zairah’s questions tumble out like loose pearls, and Charlie catches each one in her smile, bright and wolfish. "Sometimes alone," she admits, voice honey-thick, "sometimes not. Depends what needs spilling." Her fingers ghost down her throat to where her pulse flutters, and her blue eyes gleam in the dim light. "What you feel after..." A pause, delicious and deliberate. "That’s the point, darling girl. You don’t know until you’ve bled for it."
Her fangs flash as she leans in close, her breath a mix of spice and iron. "And yes," she purrs, "sometimes we drink. Sometimes we don’t. Dygra doesn’t care who takes it—only that it’s wanted."
What follows blurs in heat and noise, a story told in breathless fragments rather than words. Blood singing in veins. The crash of glass and laughter. Weapons clattering to the floor. Sins confessed against stone and skin. In the Rage Room, satisfaction wears many shapes: fury unbound, desire untethered, creation born from ruin.
By the time the fires gutter low and the temple stills again, its halls are heavy with the perfume of sweat and smoke, of secrets newly made. Somewhere, a bowl lies empty, and two women leave the room changed—sated, stained, and smiling like they’ve learned something holy.
~FIN
Zairah’s questions tumble out like loose pearls, and Charlie catches each one in her smile, bright and wolfish. "Sometimes alone," she admits, voice honey-thick, "sometimes not. Depends what needs spilling." Her fingers ghost down her throat to where her pulse flutters, and her blue eyes gleam in the dim light. "What you feel after..." A pause, delicious and deliberate. "That’s the point, darling girl. You don’t know until you’ve bled for it."
Her fangs flash as she leans in close, her breath a mix of spice and iron. "And yes," she purrs, "sometimes we drink. Sometimes we don’t. Dygra doesn’t care who takes it—only that it’s wanted."
What follows blurs in heat and noise, a story told in breathless fragments rather than words. Blood singing in veins. The crash of glass and laughter. Weapons clattering to the floor. Sins confessed against stone and skin. In the Rage Room, satisfaction wears many shapes: fury unbound, desire untethered, creation born from ruin.
By the time the fires gutter low and the temple stills again, its halls are heavy with the perfume of sweat and smoke, of secrets newly made. Somewhere, a bowl lies empty, and two women leave the room changed—sated, stained, and smiling like they’ve learned something holy.
~FIN
Hella golden retriever energy. Small unrefined horns made of ruby. Regular spade-shaped tail.
