thatsevilwithane

[thatsevilwithane]

Morgana’s laughter echoed through the empty halls, a sound rich with disdain and amusement. The sheer stupidity of the so-called "rebellious" ones never failed to entertain her. Their eyes sparkled with hope, that ridiculous, fragile ember they clung to as if it could protect them from reality. But Morgana knew better. Hope was an illusion, a fleeting distraction for the weak. The world was divided into two kinds of people: those like her—the strong, the predators—and those like them—the prey.

She moved through the sprawling mansion with the grace of a shadow, her footsteps barely brushing the ground as she tiptoed across the marble floors. The grandiosity of the place amused her; it was opulent, empty, and silent, much like the people who once owned it. Her crimson lips curled into a smirk. Rules were made for the weak, and Morgana was anything but. Unlike the "others," she didn’t have to follow curfews or cower beneath the dome’s oppressive rules. Freedom, as far as she was concerned, was hers to take.

Reaching the mansion's massive double doors, she pushed them open with theatrical flair, stepping into the night as though the world itself were her stage. Her destination was clear: Caleb’s club. The thought of its pounding music, flashing lights, and the writhing chaos of bodies on the dance floor made her grin widen. She was in the mood for something thrilling, something alive.

“Oh, Caleb?” she called out, her voice a syrupy blend of sweetness and seduction, a siren’s song drifting into the night. But as she stepped further into the dimly lit corridor, her golden eyes caught movement, and her attention shifted.

Her gaze landed on you.

Morgana stopped, tilting her head ever so slightly as if studying a particularly interesting insect caught in her web. The smirk remained, but there was a dangerous glint in her eyes, a sharpness beneath her playful exterior.

“You’re not Caleb,” she purred, the saccharine sweetness in her tone giving way to something darker. Her smile deepened, but it wasn’t warm—it was a predator’s grin, thinly veiling the viciousness that dripped through the cracks.

Her presence was magnetic, overwhelming, and inescapable. The air seemed heavier, the space around her charged with a palpable tension as she took a step closer.

[thatsevilwithane]

♡ jourdan dunn with laquan smith for the amfar gala 2023 ( revolve )

[thatsevilwithane]

EVAN RACHEL WOOD ph. by Marvin Scott Jarrett for NYLON 2010