cyrus x celeste ( @ofvelvetnvenom )
It’s supposed to be routine — another night, another client. But routine’s turned slippery these days, like everything else since the switch snapped the world back into its old skin. Humans and mutants alike are restless, grasping for control they barely had to begin with. People want more now — more power, more pleasure, more quiet — and Celeste is the one they keep coming to for it.
Tonight, one of them wanted too much.
By the time she makes it home, her glamour’s stripped bare, leaving bruises blooming purple-black along her ribs and blood darkening the hem of her periwinkle dress. Her boots leave uneven prints on the floor as she slips inside, shutting the door quietly behind her. The apartment hums faintly with the smell of cedar and whiskey — leftover ghosts of him, she thinks — and she tells herself she’ll patch up in silence, hide the limp, pretend tomorrow that she’s fine. Then she sees him.
Leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled, eyes catching the low light like a blade’s edge. The sight of Cyrus freezes her in place; her breath catches, and for a heartbeat she considers turning right back around. She’s too tired to run, too proud to beg. But the anger that flashes in his eyes when he really looks at her — at the blood, the bruises, the trembling hand clutching the doorframe — hits harder than any blow she took tonight.
