[ BLOOD ]: sender walks into receiver's room covered in blood.
x / nonverbal prompts. accepting.
He couldn't remember the last time it had come down to this, where the denial of blood had dragged him so far into the abyss of hunger that sanity itself began to fray. His reflection in the mirror was already unrecognizable: skin stretched too thin, veins spidering beneath the surface like ink bleeding through fragile parchment. His eyes burned a shade to bright, the crimson glow of hunger pulsing against the pallor of his face. He looked less a man than a shadow wearing his skin, a creature caged too long.
Then suddenly, a soft sound broke through the silence - a breath, a step at the doorway - and the thin thread of composure wound tight around him slowly began to splinter. He gripped the porcelain sink until his knuckles paled, jaw locking against the rising tide of instinct that roared in his veins. But the sound of them was there and it was unbearable; so close, so living.
His fist lashed out before thought could catch it. Glass shattered, a violent chorus ringing sharp, scattering broken fragments across the tiled floor. The mirror broke into a web of fractured faces, each shard catching a different silver of his monstrous self. Blood welled quickly from his knuckles, sliding in rivulets down his wrist, painting the porcelain with thin streaks of red. The scent hit him like a blow. He dropped his head forward, lungs dragging ragged breaths as the hunger screamed louder.
"Don't." The word rasped from him like gravel, his voice raw and broken at the edges. His shoulders trembled with the effort to keep himself rooted, to not turn toward the warmth in the doorway, but fuck, was it difficult. "Don't come closer." til pain flared white-hot, desperate for anything to anchor him in place.