The moment passes too quickly, as always, and Tanim is left hollow and listless in its wake. With trembling hands he lowers Daren’s head to the carpet, smooths the hair from his brow.

No, not Daren. The fantasy passes along with the rage and suddenly the face before him is no longer his lover’s but a stranger’s, unfamiliar beneath the mask of blood and bruises. There are similarities – that broken nose might once have been sharp and angular, those bloody lips thin and sardonic, the hair a pale blond that in the right light might be mistaken for… – but not enough. This man isn’t Daren, just some whore whose name Tanim has already forgotten or never knew.

“Shit,” Tanim gently draws down the dead man’s eyelids over dulled eyes that are blue, not black; he can never get that part right, not completely, and in the end it’s always the eyes that give the strangers away, that stir the spark of anger inside him into a maelstrom of wrath and misery.

“You act as if you didn’t know this would happen,” The note of mockery in the voice makes Tanim flinch and he shakes his head, scrubbing at his mouth with the back of one hand as if to wipe away everything from the last hour; the taste of unfamiliar flesh and semen, of blood and alcohol, the sobs that threaten to vomit up from his throat even now. “Shut up,” is all he manages to growl, a whimper breaking through the words. “And yet you continue to do it,” the voice presses in amusement. “Why?”

“Because it’s not you!” This time the sob does burst forth, a ragged, broken howl as Tanim turns red-rimmed eyes up to his companion. He falters as he meets the others cold black gaze. “It’s never you…” The man leaning against the windowsill only shrugs, clearly unimpressed with Tanim’s outburst, and nods to the broken body at Tanim’s side. “You better clean up soon,” he cautions, “you only rented this room for two hours.”

As Daren turns his head to gaze out the window, Tanim averts his eyes once more to avoid glimpsing the jagged, seeping wound where the back of his lover’s skull has been crushed in.


Or maybe you’re Pompeii, a dead city trapped in time that will only ever be known for the one horrible tragedy that snuffed it out, leaving behind the shells of human beings preserved in their final death throes. Maybe you’re nothing but a ghost town, a reminder of what once was, what has been lost, what can never last. Maybe you’re a reminder that disaster can turn even the rich and beautiful into a wasteland of hardened ash, into hollow cavities where flesh and bone once huddled in fear. People are drawn to your beauty but it’s the beauty born of haunted places, death on display to entertain the living, and they can’t really imagine you ever actually breathed or moved or loved. All they see is what the devastation left behind.


Sometimes I can’t get your scowl off my lips; they curl back over my teeth of their own accord, a grimace of pain, a snarl of back-the-fuck-off, and I can’t tell if I’ll lash out or tear at my own flesh; I just want to be closer to becoming you, this beautiful wreckage of a man, this strange angel who leaves ashes in place of fingerprints; I would burn offerings in my throat for you and ink them into my skin with needle and knife, I would worship you in metal and blood and bruises if you would but bless this pathetic mortal body as your temple.


this is a forbidden love
a sinister love
a cold, cruel, beautiful love
a love that worships with knives
a love that demands sacrifice
a love that covets
a love that crafts
a love that hunts
a love that hurts
an unwilling love
an unwanted love
an unthinkable love
a love that forgives
and twists the blade
a love that mourns
and revels in blood
a love with no name
a love with no rules
a love with no place
but the cell, the basement, the casket

(major spoilers for season 2 in the video)


In this place everything is porcelain and leather and crystal, marble and silk and mother of pearl; sweeping staircases, delicate chandeliers, vaulted ceilings. Everything is the finest, the rarest, the most expensive. Everything is beautiful. Elegant. Superior. Untouchable and untouched.

This is not a home. This is a doll house. This is make-believe. In this place every room is a ballroom and every moment a masquerade. Never let the mask slip. Never speak out of character. A doll has no wants or wishes of its own; a doll is a blank slate. Remember that and you will draw no attention.

Is it no wonder a place like this would raise a beast, not a man? That it would mold a monster who at once craves for, yet chafes against, the collar and leash? Perfection and sterility provide nothing to feed a starving soul, so the soul devours itself to survive.

I don’t belong here. I never did. But I learned to wear my mask well.


It’s your usual fairytale. There’s the prince, beautiful and rich, who loves to be bound and bruised. There’s the stranger at the ball with whom he dances, who sleeps each night in the ashes of the fireplace with a blade in his hand. They fall in love and live happily ever after, until that knife bleeds red as blood on skin white as snow. Then there aren’t enough glass coffins in the world to contain his grief and the prince willingly embraces the needle that will let him sleep, sleep, sleep.