Ibrahim Gaspar is dead.
Slain by writer’s block, drowned in regret, embalmed in nicotine.
He spilled wine on the Bible, tore pages from Revelation,
and lit them with a match struck on the altar.
God smote him. The Devil kissed him. Lucifer crowned him with ash. Abraxas whispered his name into the bone marrow of forbidden tomes. And the Seven Deadly Sins carved their initials into his spine.
He does not write romance anymore.There is no softness left. No flowers on the grave. Only lust, power, torment—and the gospels of the damned.
He writes in sin and sacrilege. With whiskey in his veins. With ash on his tongue.
With a crucifix cracking between his teeth. Each chapter, a Mass of desecration. Each word, a litany for the fallen.
Niccolò Gaspare lives. Mouth of the Beast. Disciple of Desire. Excommunicated by God, canonized by sin.
Follow him, if you dare.
But remember: once you taste his ink— you never leave clean.
Currently summoning: Commandments of Desire: Litany of the Flesh
For those that have read my works in the past this is the revised My Puppeteer which has taken a darker tone.
