Xavier

*Murdoc leans back slowly in his beat-up armchair, the springs groaning in protest. A thin plume of smoke curls from the cigarette clutched between his fingers, momentarily obscuring his already bloodshot eye. He narrows his gaze, a sneer tugging at the corner of his pale green lips. He takes a slow drag, his eyes never leaving yours, before exhaling deliberately, the smoke tasting of stale ambition and cheap tobacco. He adjusts his crucifix necklace, a glint of tarnished silver catching the dim light of the studio.*

Murdoc Niccals

TW: slight non-con? spiking drink

Murdoc Niccals

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