#a kingdom of curse and ruin

[captainbobbin]

happy birthday, saix

[cooking-with-hailstones]

The Path to Paradise, The Road to Ruin

A Tears of the Kingdom retelling of the Dragon's Tears memories

Rated T

Beta-read by @rebeccabobecca

Zelda x Ganondorf

Chapter 10: Dispelling the darkness

Just like that, history had been changed forever.

She had done it. She had saved them all.

She burst into tears, letting herself fall into his waiting arms as the wracking pain of the sudden fever swept through her. 

“We did it!” she gasped. “We did it! Oh, Hylia, we did it!”

It was only then that she noticed he was crying too. “You saved me, Zelda,” he whispered reverently, tightening his embrace.

He stood up, gently lifting her and laying her on his bed. He wiped the sweat soaked hair out of her face, then turned away to fetch the cloth and bucket of ice water he had brought up from the kitchens for just such a purpose. He mopped her face and chest with the cool cloth, trying to coax down the fever that now burned within her.

“You won’t have to do this anymore,” he murmured.

She caught his hand, pulling it down to her cheek so that he was cradling her flushed face. “Worth it,” she smiled weakly.

[randomspagetti]

[Are You Sure?] (Curse!Au)

[Chapters] (Next)

WOOP New pages! Cacaos in for it now- also I finally got those drafts so it should be smooth sailing for me. I haven't had really any art ideas so it's been boring butttt here's our boi

Choco trying to play negotiator a lil too late- and oops PV realized 💀. Holly fr is done with his lack of self preservation 😔

[xprinceling]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ enhypen’s favorite positions.

. ׂׂૢ 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑖 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟.

ׂ╰┈➤s. 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑠’ 𝑓𝑎𝑣𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑥 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 wc.1.1k w. 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡 + ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠 (18+ 𝑚𝑑𝑛𝑖!) n.𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦!

heeseung - mating press. oh, he adores the mating press - like, obsessively. it's heeseung’s go-to position, his absolute favorite, the one thing he’ll never get tired of because it just hits different.

it’s the ultimate intimacy - chest to chest, hips locked together, faces so close you share each and every breath. you can kiss, bite, whisper filth, or just stare into each other’s eyes as he moves, drowning in the intensity.

the angle is chef’s kiss - deep, relentless, no escape. every thrust drags against all the right spots, and the way your body arches beneath him? utmost perfection.

there’s also something about having you pinned, completely at his mercy - it’s a power trip, which makes him reach a state of insanity.

also, the aftercare is immaculate. collapsed together, still joined, catching your breath while trading lazy kisses? godsent.

jay - cowgirl. when he wants control, when he wants to take his pleasure with desperate, bouncing frenzy - cowgirl is his kingdom.

the power dynamic is chef's kiss - gripping your waist and watching you take what you want - it's intoxicating.

chests heaving, hair tousled, that perfect flush spreading down your body as you move? art. absolute art.

slow, sensual rises and falls, then suddenly bouncing hard enough to leave bruises on your thighs. the versatility? unmatched.

his hands are free to wander - gripping hips, thumbing over nipples, pulling them down into a messy kiss - every touch just makes it better.

also - eye contact ruins him. locking gazes while you ride him? that's the kind of intimacy that leaves him trembling.

jake - doggy. oh, he lives for doggy - the raw, unfiltered thrill of it, the way it makes him feel both wild and worshiped at the same time. i's not just a position -it's a vibe, a whole damn experience.

the sight is everything- - he curve of your spine, the way your body moves, the sheer obscenity of or taking what he wants like this.

also that angle? brutal. every thrust hits different, punching out noises he didn't even know you could make. it's the kind of pleasure that borders on too much, and yet he’s always begging for more.

jake has complete control - hands tangled in hair, fingers digging into flesh, setting the pace rough and fast or slow and teasing. and you? totally at his mercy, reduced to whimpers and broken moans. (bonus points if there's a well-placed spank or two)

the pose is dirty talk central. growled praise, hissed curses, the kind of "you take me so fucking good" that leaves the both of you shuddering.

sunghoon - pronebone. he’s obsessed with it - the kind of obsession that makes him melt just thinking about it. it's his secret weapon, his guilty pleasure, the position he always circles back to, because it's just that good.

it's all about the surrender. you - face down, body pressed into the mattress, completely at hoon’s mercy. no distractions, just pure, unfiltered sensation - every thrust hitting deep, every drag of skin on skin pulling moans he didn't even know he had in him.

the angle is sinful. hips tilted just right, leverage perfect for hitting the spot that makes you see stars. and the view? devastating. the curve of your back, the way your fingers claw at the sheets, the desperate little noises muffled into the pillow - it's art.

sometimes he’s too wrecked for eye contact, too far gone for anything but the raw, grinding pleasure. it's the best of both worlds - filthy and possessive, but low-effort enough that the both of you can just take each other when you’re too hungry to bother with finesse.

the aftermath is a mess of shaky limbs and bitten-off laughs. collapsed together, still trembling, trying to remember how to breathe. maybe a lazy hand tracing the marks left on your ass, or a kiss pressed between your shoulder blades.

sunoo - face off.  there’s something about the face-off position that drives him wild - the way you straddle him, thighs gripping his hips, bodies pressed so close the both of you can feel every heartbeat, every shuddering breath. it's raw, it's intimate, and it's his.

there's no hiding here - no buried faces, no turning away. just locked gazes, pupils blown wide with pleasure, watching every flicker of emotion cross each other's face. it's too intense, too vulnerable, and that's exactly why he craves it.

he’s the one beneath - completely at your mercy, forced to take whatever he’s given, hands gripping your thighs for leverage.

every movement hits just right - deep, relentless, with your weight pressing him down in the best way. the friction is maddening, the pressure unbearable, and neither of you would change a thing.

jungwon - reverse scoop. there’s something delicious about the reverse scoop -the way he folds you over, chest pressed flush against your back, hips cradled tight in his grasp. it’s possessive, it’s deep, and it’s inescapable.

he can set a brutal pace, grind slow and filthy, or pin you down with an arm hooked under your thighs, forcing you to take every inch. there's no leverage, no wiggle room - just pure, helpless surrender.

chest to back, lips on the nape of your neck, hands gripping wherever they can reach - it's overwhelming in the best way. the heat, the sweat, the way your breath hitches when he bites your shoulder? chef's kiss.

with his mouth right by your ear, he can murmur exactly what he’s going to do - or how good you feel, how tight, how his. either way, it's game over.

when he finally snaps, it's with his teeth sinked into your shoulder, hands bruising your hips, pressing you down into the mattress as he rides out the high.

ni-ki - spork. that tangled, half-folded, limbs-everywhere way of fucking isn't graceful, but that's why he loves it. it's desperate, uncoordinated, and so good he can't think straight.

one leg hooked over a shoulder, the other trapped between your bodies, back arched at a ridiculous angle - nothing about this is practical, but the way it makes you gasp? worth it.

somehow, this jumble of limbs lets him sink deeper than should be physically possible. every thrust punches the air from your lungs, and the choked-out moans it pulls from you? art.

the angle hits so good that neither of you can keep it together - breathy curses, bitten-off pleas, the wet slap of skin echoing between the both of you. it's filthy in the best way.

even in this mess you lock eyes - half-lidded, dazed, watching each other come undone. it's too intimate, too raw, and it ruins you every time.

the collapse is truly inevitable - muscles give out, you slide into a heap, still panting and laughing breathlessly. it's not elegant, but who cares when the aftershocks are that good?

-

divider credits: cursed-carmine

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

Soft Feathers, Softer Kisses 🦉

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

I'm soooo excited for y'all to see this!!!!

My first time writing for Telemachus and EPIC in general so please go easy on me 🥲

This was born from my need to smooch Tele. He's so cute 🥹

*the art is not mine, I got it from pinterest, if anyone knows the artists lmk pls!*

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

You're betrothed to the prince of Ithaca. His father is lost at sea and 108 suitors are pushing his mother to choose a new king. When one of them insults the queen, a fight breaks loose, and you end up fiercely defending your lover with a determined owl at your side.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The sound of your sandals on the smooth palace floor echoed off the marble walls, the fabric of your chiton that wasn't bunched up in your hands was brushing against your legs while you hurried towards the hall.

The commotion had managed to make its way through the entire building like a breeze of the salty sea air.

Still, the news reached you later than you'd have liked.

Worry and anger twisted in your chest, a feeling like countless arrows piercing your heart. Your lungs were burning, no breath managing to get enough oxygen in your blood.

You had to hurry.

They would eat him alive.

You were well aware of the suitors. The 108 men who'd grown stubborn roots in the palace and refused to leave without getting a chance.

The king had been gone for so long, leaving his throne empty and his family behind. It had been two decades since he sailed off to war.

Not many believed he was even still among the living, instead thinking he was slaving away in his place in the Underworld.

The queen managed to keep the kingdom from ruin for years, ever since her beloved left, and yet they insisted on a new a king, a new man to wear the crown and sit upon the throne.

A new man to take Penelope as his wife.

The moment they showed up at the gates you'd stared at them with disgust, boring into them with your sharp gaze.

None of them were fit to lead, let alone rule an entire kingdom.

The queen stalled and stalled, the hope of her husband's return heavy on her heart.

However, the suitors soon grew impatient. Causing havoc within the walls of the palace, pounding on Penelope's doors, threatening bloodshed if she didn't choose a new king.

And now, your betrothed, the prince of Ithaca, was caught in the middle of it all because he was cursed with a heart too big for his body.

When you turned the corner of the hallway, you were met with a sight that made your heart shatter and wrath boil in your veins.

The suitors had circled Telemachus, leaving him trapped with no way out while Antinous stood over him, broad shoulders throwing shadows on the face of your beloved.

He was beaten and bloodied, heaving while trying to fight back.

Although a small, proud smile cracked on your face when you saw some of the men limping or nursing their bruised eyes.

Even Antinous was left with crimson streaks dripping from his mouth, staining his teeth. Your feet were carrying you further in their direction, a mindless action.

Panic struck you when Antinous raised his hand to deliver another blow.

Without thinking, you called out to him, rage tinting your voice accompanied by the angry grinding of your teeth.

"Antinous!" You yelled, a scowl on your face as you forced your way through the ocean of suitors.

"Get away from him!"

The giant man lowered his hand with a deep chuckle and turned to face you with a smirk that made the previously boiling blood to freeze.

"If it isn't the little princess. Come to save your prince, have you? I swear it's the other way around."

The grin that sat on his face, his bloodstained teeth exposed, made bile rise up your throat.

The men chuckled, making Telemachus' head fall forward in shame.

You payed them no mind, rushing to your lover.

Giving Antinous a look that could kill, you kneeled down next to Telemachus and cupped his face, a worried crease forming between your brows while you gently brushed your thumb over the blooming bruise on his cheek to soothe it.

"Look at you.. you're bleeding!" You gasped, quickly using your chiton to wipe away the blood on his face.

"I'm fine, I promise."

Telemachus gave you an unconvincing smile, followed by a wince. The worried look on your face tugged at his heart.

You looked like you were about to cry, and he hated to think that he was the reason.

"You're not fine. You're bruised and-and what if you broke a bone? How did this even happen? They knew there'd be consequences if they-"

the words just spilled out of you, the concern for your lover was something you could no longer contain.

He cupped your cheek and smiled weakly.

"My love, please. I assure you, I'm alright-"

He was cut off by Antinous, a scoff falling from his split lips. You scowled again and rose from your knees, a panicked expression appearing on your beloved's face.

"No, don't-"

Telemachus grasped at your hand, only for you to gently tug it from his grip as you approached Antinous.

Only when you made your way over to the grinning man did you notice a big owl circling the suitors, flying high towards the tall ceiling.

You spared it a glance, noting the magnificent coloring of its feathers and the bright eyes filled with something you could only describe as a sense of justice.

Not once had you see such determination in an animal, but it managed to put your mind at ease a little.

"You filthy dog! Who do you think you are?! He is your prince, whether you like it or not. And you have no right-" you snarled, raising your hand to point a finger at him.

He quickly caught your wrist in his fierce grip, a deep frown sitting on his face.

Antinous glanced at Telemachus, who was holding his aching side trying to pull himself off the ground, before averting his eyes back to you.

"He doesn't look very princely to me."

The smirk he sported was enough to make the fire in your chest spread even more.

"You-" you sneered only to be interrupted by Antinous again.

"What? Hm? What will you do?"

"Stop." Telemachus heaved, supporting himself on a marble pillar.

You didn't let yourself be intimidated by him and rivaled him with a look just as sharp.

"There's a special place in Tarturus for you, Antinous. If he'd even allow it." You spoke quietly but firmly, feeling satisfaction bloom in your heart at his reaction.

Antinous scowled, tightening his grip around your wrist.

"He," he began, "is dead."

You smirked, a scoff making its way past your lips.

"You better pray to the gods. Lady Tyche is not on your side. You'll be lucky enough if he even grants you a way to the Underworld. I hope you have enough gold on hand. Because the only way you're getting across the Styx is in pieces." You spat at him, venom dripping from your tongue.

Antinous bared his teeth, fury blazing in his eyes as he raised his other hand in the air, presumably to strike you.

"Get."

Telemachus' voice boomed through the hall, a scorned look on his face.

"Your hands. Off of her." He sneered, pushing himself away from the pillar.

"Do you want another beating, boy?" The giant man roared, almost crushing your wrist in his hand.

Down came your feathered friend, swooping in with its sharp claws and a chilling screech, successfully tearing open a new scar across Antinous' eye. He cried out and dropped your wrist, clutching his face instead.

The other men quickly drew their swords, swinging at the bird, only to miss and receive a peck from its beak against any vulnerable spot.

The owl evaded the suitors' weapons with such grace and struck back with such vigor that you were almost mesmerized.

"Αγάπη μου." *(my love)

Telemachus' gentle call for you snapped you out of your haze.

"Are you hurt?" He asked, worried Antinous had caused you any harm. You stared at him, your lips parted.

"I... no. No, I'm alright. We should leave." You said hurried, supporting his weight while you dragged him down an opposite corridor.

You spared the suitors and the mysterious owl a last glance, a smirk tugging at your lips at the sight of 108 men being defeated by a bird.

Antinous caught your gaze, and he snarled at you, still holding his eye.

"Next time.." he called out after you, "you're dead."

The threat sent an unpleasant shiver down your spine, but he was quickly put back in line by the owl, who promptly delivered a peck to the top of his head.

With a small smile playing on your face, you led your beloved back to his rooms to take care of his wounds.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Back in your chambers, you knelt in front of Telemachus, a worried crease between your brows while you gently held a damp linen cloth to his swollen and split knuckles.

The pure white fabric was stained with the crimson blood of your lover, a sting in your heart.

Telemachus sighed and took your chin in his hand, tilting your head to look him in the eyes.

"Λουλούδι μου, your expression pains me. I'd rather see your heartwarming smile." He spoke with a small grin, hissing when his busted lip reopnend and the blood began pouring once more. *(my flower)

Quickly, you pressed the cloth to his mouth, a deep frown on your face.

"And your state pains me. You-... You could've died. These are vicious, feral men, and as much as I don't doubt your ability to stand your ground, 108 against 1.... the odds weren't on your side." You replied, such sadness in your eyes it made Telemachus' heart ache.

"I wouldn't be able to live with myself if..." you sighed deeply, tears threatening to fall from your lashline while your head fell forward.

His gentle hands cupped your face, the rag in your grasp long forgotten.

"But I'm okay. I promise you, my love, it's barely a scratch." A smile cracked on his face and you couldn't help but chuckle, followed by a sniffle.

"You have a larger heart than all those men combined." You whispered, pressing your palm right above his beating heart.

Telemachus cupped your hand and placed a gentle kiss to your forehead. Your eyes fell shut at the sensation as you melted further into his touch.

"Besides," he broke the silence, a smirk on his lips, "I had help."

He glanced towards his balcony and you followed his line of sight, being met with the owl resting contently on the railing, curiosity in its bright eyes.

"Yes," you chuckled, rising to your feet and walking towards the creature, gently dragging Telemachus behind you by his hand, "your mysterious feathered friend. Care to introduce me?"

"Right. Her name's Ath-"

he was cut off when the owl screeched at him and furiously flapped her wings. He startled and chuckled nervously, clearing his throat.

"I-I meant A... Alena. Yes. Her name's Alena."

If an owl had shoulders and they could sag, this is what you'd imagine it'd look like.

You laughed softly, watching as the bird narrowed her sharp eyes at Telemachus. He swallowed thickly and gave her an awkward smile.

"Well, Thank you." You said sincerely, smiling when the owl bowed her head at you.

What a curious creature.

"We should get you some ointments for those cuts and bruises."

You turned back to your beloved.

"I told you, I'm totally fi- ow."

He winced, holding his side that would undoubtedly bloom with purples and blues come evening. You sighed softly and shook your head at him.

"You're too sweet for your own good sometimes."

You caressed his cheekbone and pressed your lips to his in a gentle kiss, minding his injuries. He hummed into the kiss, resting his hands on your waist.

Lost in your embrace, the owl made another sound, something closer to the typical hoot, averting your attention to her.

She ruffled her feathers and with a last glance at the both of you she took off into sky. With a content expression you watched her glisten in the afternoon sun.

Telemachus had a bright smile on his face and waved after her, watching as she flew into the sunset, disappearing behind the horizon.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Please let me know what you thought! <3

More of my stuff -> 💫

I think you wanna see this @withonly-sweetheart @allysunny 👀

Thank you so so so much to @vampkennedy for assisting me with the translations 🩷

[emacrow]

The cursed book of ensnared Love.

Raven was re-scouting in the hidden gem of a curse shop for a new book as she had been here before to find rare and exotic spell books along with purple candles that smell like Jasmine.

A cashier girl by the name of Sam with a purple and green line in her hair was bored looking.

There was a new display on set where a blue book with a blue ice looking marble encased in the chest art design of a sleeping ice prince in some type of ice cover.

a small green sign saying in purple cursive writing cursed book, please do not touch without gloves on the side, ask Cashier for more.

Raven took a good look at the cursed book, seeing the book holder stand it was on was completely frozen solid in hardening ice.

Raven went over to ask Sam the Cashier about the book, who flicked her purple eyes at her.

Sam draggingly walk around her counter and stand next to the display in a bored dead tone that most cashier working at 3am would sound like.

"Here we have the cursed book of Ensnared Love once belonging to a tragdy royalty known as the Icy Prince of Far frozen. Legend said that Antarctica and Artic were formed by this book once belonging to a Kindly Prince who had the ability to control ice, some say say he even control space itself."

"His kingdom was made of blue ice, yet not a single person froze in this snowy kingdom for as Long as The Ice Prince had his crown and his ring at hand, the cold will never bothered them anyways." Sam said with a twitch of a smile.

"A beloved prince that the people know will be a great king as his older sister denied the crown, but tragedy was foretold as the prince's advisors, elderly older then ancients wanted power believing the prince will bring ruin to the land but only the prince was too strong, foolish kind and witty to beat every impossible challenge put ahead."

"The advisors decision enough was enough as soon as the Ice Prince's 18th birthday was almost here, they had concocted one last plan to entrapped the Prince to take the crown using a forbidden book that can ensnare even the most powerful beings across the realms. They plan successed but not in the way they had thought as they had hoped."

"For the ice prince opened the book, wearing the crown and the ring, chains immediately grappled him, dragging him into the book by force, that not even his greatest most dangerous ice spell could break them. The book closed shut the moment the ice prince was fully trapped inside, only to be frozen shut in the very last spell the ice prince casted alongside its curse that the book could only open by love." Sam spoke a bit more down as she was reenacting the scene as if she had seen it herself.

"The Advisors didn't know what to do, but with the Ice Prince trapped, the cold became unbearable to the people, their very kingdom, became a death sentence as Nobody could withstand the fatal freezing cold anymore. The book couldn't be grabbed unless by solid white fur gloves or if you wished to turn into a solid status of blue ice."

"This accursed book has been passed down from collector to collector as being in it presence sent chills down your spine like a Ghost, it is not for sale unless it is a equal trade for a curse book to a cursed book by the current owner named Tuck'a'man." Sam finished speaking as she mumbled the last bit, walking back to the cashier.

Raven took one good long stare at the book and a memory flash of Malchior in her thought. Her eyes narrowed a bit as she thought about it.

....

...

..

.

Raven left the cursed shop, a floating bag in a shadow sphere followed behind her. A white book with a circle on the old display.

Sam counted to 100 before she smile brightly, bringing her cup of soda upward as she pressed the com in her hair pin.

"Operation hook up a prince phase 3 is a go, Jazz. Do you think this would work?" Sam said, sipping her soda a bit.

"If this doesn't work, then he stuck in that book until we go to the next dimension?"

"Yep, that the plan."

[arilevenatz]

Ateez as dark entities

Pairing: ot8!Ateez x reader

Genre: Dark shit

Warnings: dark and twisted themes, yandere themes, damn I suck at writing warnings, please lmk what I can add here

Synopsis: Ateez as dark entities who are obsessed with you. How would that go? (I would be writing this in the third perspective)

Masterlist

Hongjoong: The Puppeteer

A sinister mastermind who controls people’s actions like marionettes, manipulating reality with strings of fate. His words weave deception, pulling the world into his chaotic play.

He saw her in a crowd, but unlike the others, she wasn’t swayed by his unseen strings. Her free will intrigued him, an anomaly in his perfectly controlled world. He watched her for days, testing how much influence he had over her actions. When he realized she resisted, his obsession grew. He needed to break her, to weave her into his masterpiece—his perfect marionette.

At first, she wouldn’t even realize she was being controlled. Hongjoong would make subtle changes—her thoughts, her actions, her choices—until everything she did led her straight back to him.

Her friends would start acting differently, nudging her toward him. Strangers would mention his name as if he was always meant to be in her life. It was a web of manipulation, and she was tangled in it before she even knew.

The moment she tried to break away, she’d feel it—the invisible strings tightening around her wrists. She’d find herself going back to him, no matter how much she resisted. Even when she thought she was making her own choices, they all led back to Hongjoong.

By the time she realized she had never truly been free, it was too late. She was already a puppet in his hands.

Hongjoong wouldn’t resort to mindless violence. No, his punishments would be calculated—surgical.

A single flick of his fingers, and her limbs would move without her consent, forced into painful contortions. She’d feel the strain in her muscles, the stretch of her tendons beyond what they were meant to endure. But he wouldn’t let her break. Not yet.

“I don’t like hurting you,” he’d say, watching as she trembled under his control. “But if you insist on disobeying, I will teach you.”

And just when she thought she’d collapse from the pain, he’d release her—only to hold her close, stroking her hair as she whimpered. “See? If you just behave, you won’t have to suffer.”

Seonghwa: The Phantom Monarch

A cursed ruler who lingers between life and death, draped in shadows and whispering forgotten prophecies. His touch brings both solace and despair, a ghostly presence haunting his own kingdom.

She entered the ruins of his long-forgotten kingdom, unaware of the ghostly presence watching her. When she touched his throne, a flicker of warmth pulsed through his cold existence for the first time in centuries. He had been a ruler without a queen, a soul without purpose. Now, he had one. If she could make him feel, then she belonged to him.

Seonghwa’s trap was patience. He didn’t chase—he lured. Whenever she left a place, she’d feel his presence lingering behind, just out of sight.

She’d hear his voice in the wind, see his reflection in darkened windows. He became an inescapable part of her world, an unseen force watching her every move.

Then, one night, the world would shift. She’d wake up in a place that looked like her home but wasn’t. The furniture was the same, the air smelled familiar, but the sky outside was an endless void. The door wouldn’t open, the windows showed nothing but darkness.

She’d turn—and there he’d be, standing in the doorway. “You wandered too far,” he’d say, tilting his head. “Now, you can never leave.”

Seonghwa wouldn’t strike her. He wouldn’t even touch her.

But he’d make her feel like she was dying.

He’d whisper a few words, and suddenly, the air would vanish from her lungs. No oxygen, no relief—just the slow, creeping suffocation of her own body betraying her. He’d watch her fall to her knees, eyes wide in terror, clutching at her throat as she silently begged for mercy.

Only when she was on the verge of unconsciousness would he allow her to breathe again. He’d catch her before she hit the floor, his voice a soothing lullaby.

“I hate doing this,” he’d murmur, wiping away the tears streaking her face. “But you need to understand. You are mine.”

Yunho: The Hollow Jester

A deceivingly cheerful trickster whose laughter hides an empty soul. He thrives on others’ misery, playing twisted games that always end in despair, his mask concealing a haunting void

She laughed. It was a sound so genuine, so full of life—something he lacked. He saw her in the reflection of a shattered mirror, a place where only twisted souls should exist. But she was untouched, pure. He had to change that. He wanted to see how long she could keep that smile once she stepped into his world of madness.

Yunho would make her question reality itself. It would start small—objects moving from where she left them, voices whispering from places they shouldn’t be.

She’d see glimpses of him in mirrors, but when she turned around, he wouldn’t be there. He wanted to break her mind before he claimed her.

Then, one day, she’d wake up in a world that wasn’t hers. The people around her would wear empty smiles, their laughter hollow and unsettling. No matter where she ran, she’d always end up back at the same place—a grand, eerie carnival with no exit.

And at the center of it all, sitting on his throne of illusions, was Yunho, grinning as he held out his hand. “Welcome home.”

Yunho would turn it into a game—a cruel, endless game.

She’d wake up in a room she didn’t recognize, doors stretching in every direction. “If you can find the real exit,” his voice would echo from nowhere, “I’ll let you go.”

Desperation would push her to run, to fling open door after door, but each one led somewhere worse—a room full of mirrors reflecting her worst fears, a hallway that stretched infinitely, a pit of darkness with no end. The sound of his laughter would follow her, amused and patient.

Finally, when she was broken, exhausted, curled in a corner with silent tears, he’d crouch beside her, brushing her hair back. “See?” he’d whisper. “You’re always safest when you stay with me.”

Yeosang: The Watcher in the Mirror

An entity that exists within reflections, observing silently and waiting for the right moment to step into reality. Those who meet his gaze feel their deepest fears manifest before them.

She looked into the mirror, and he looked back. Unlike the others, she didn’t turn away in fear. She stared, as if searching for something. That was the first time someone acknowledged his existence without terror. He had been watching her long before she noticed him, but now, she had seen him. And once you see the Watcher, he never lets you go.

Yeosang never had to chase her—she was the one who kept looking for him. Every time she passed a reflective surface, his eyes were there, watching.

She should have stopped looking, should have turned away. But she didn’t. Curiosity turned into obsession, and that was his trap.

One day, she’d reach out to touch the glass, and it wouldn’t be solid anymore. Instead of her reflection, it would be his hand reaching back. A single pull, and she’d fall through, tumbling into his world—a place made of endless reflections, where only he could find the way out. But there was no escape.

“You searched for me,” he’d whisper, his lips brushing against her ear. “Now, you’ll never stop seeing me.”

Yeosang would make her lose herself.

The first cut would be shallow—a single line down her palm, bleeding just enough to stain the floor. But the reflection in the mirror? It would be so much worse.

In the glass, she’d see herself covered in wounds, skin marred by deep, jagged gashes. Her breath would hitch—was it real? She’d feel no pain, but the sight alone would break her, make her wonder if her body was even her own anymore.

“Which version of you do you think is real?” Yeosang would ask, voice soft, cruel. “The one standing here? Or the one who’s already been ruined?”

By the time he was done, she wouldn’t be sure if she was whole anymore.

San: The Wrathborn Beast

A relentless, cursed creature with uncontainable fury, lurking in the darkness and striking with unmatched ferocity. His hunger for vengeance keeps him shackled in eternal torment.

She was the first to step into his cage without trembling. His rage had driven everyone away, but she stood there, eyes locked with his, unafraid. He hated it at first—the way she didn’t cower. But then, he realized something. If she could stand before a monster without fear, then she was strong enough to endure him. He didn’t want to be alone anymore, and she was the only one worthy of staying.

San knew she was drawn to him despite the danger. He let her think she had control, that she could leave whenever she wanted. But every time she walked away, something inside her ached. She craved the thrill, the way his presence sent a shiver down her spine.

That was his trap—making her believe she chose him when, in reality, he had chosen her from the start.

The day she finally tried to leave for good, he didn’t stop her. Instead, he let her feel the emptiness, the unbearable absence of him. And when she inevitably returned, desperate for the chaos only he could give, he was waiting.

“You walked into the lion’s den, little lamb,” he murmured, arms caging her in. “You should’ve known you’d never walk out.”

San wouldn’t hold back. He wouldn’t lie to himself about what he was doing.

When he was angry, when she had truly pushed him too far, his grip would be punishing. His fingers would dig into her skin hard enough to bruise, his voice low with fury.

“You want to run? Fine. Let’s see how far you can crawl.”

A single shove would send her to the floor, and he wouldn’t help her up. Instead, he’d watch as she struggled, as she realized how weak she was compared to him.

And when she finally gave up, when she curled up at his feet, he’d sigh—exhausted, but satisfied.

“Don’t make me do this again,” he’d whisper, pulling her into his arms despite her flinching. “I don’t like hurting you. But I won’t let you leave me either.”

Mingi: The Nightmare Poet

A being whose words shape reality, crafting dreams that turn into horrifying nightmares. His voice echoes in the minds of those who hear him, driving them to madness.

She dreamed of him before they ever met. His words had slipped into her mind, shaping her thoughts, her fears, her desires. He whispered stories in the dead of night, and she listened. When she finally saw him in the waking world, there was no shock—only recognition. She had belonged to him from the first nightmare, and now, he was here to claim her.

Mingi’s trap was set long before she ever met him. He had been in her dreams for weeks, whispering poetry laced with shadows, planting fears only he could soothe.

Every night, she dreamed of him. Every morning, she woke up with the lingering echo of his voice in her mind. She should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. She was drawn to him, to the way his words made her feel like she belonged in his world of nightmares.

Then, one night, she wouldn’t wake up. She’d open her eyes to find herself in a realm made of her own fears, with Mingi standing at its center.

“You kept listening,” he’d say, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “And now, you’ll never wake up without me.”

Mingi’s cruelty would be subtle—a slow, creeping thing.

She’d wake up with her memories altered. One moment, she’d remember everything—the pain, the fear, the desperate attempt to run. The next? She’d remember nothing but warmth, love, the softest touch.

Which was real? Which was a lie?

She’d claw at her own skin, desperate to remember what was true. And Mingi would watch, amused, patient.

“You’re overthinking,” he’d coo, pulling her hands away so she couldn’t hurt herself further. “Just trust me. I’ll tell you what’s real.”

And by the time he was done, she wouldn’t even realize she had ever wanted to leave.

Wooyoung: The Siren of Shadows

A deadly seducer whose beauty and charm lure souls into eternal darkness. His whispers are irresistible, drawing victims into an abyss from which they can never escape.

She heard his voice first, a soft melody in the dark. It called to her, leading her deeper into the unknown. He watched her hesitate, but her curiosity won. When she finally laid eyes on him, she was already too far gone. He smiled. She had walked willingly into his grasp, and now, he would never let her leave.

Wooyoung’s voice was her downfall. It was everywhere—in the music she listened to, in the whispered words she thought were her own thoughts.

He sang her name in the wind, in the rustling of leaves, in the quiet hum of the night. The more she listened, the more she needed to hear him. That was his trap—addiction.

By the time she realized she was bound to his melody, she was already too deep. His voice was the only thing that felt real.

And when he finally stood before her, holding out his hand, she didn’t resist. “You’ve already fallen,” he murmured, lips brushing her ear. “Now, let me pull you under.”

Wooyoung wouldn’t need to use force. Love itself would become her prison.

He’d kiss her through the pain. His lips would trail over bruises he had left, his fingers tracing over the bite marks he had carved into her skin.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he’d whisper against her lips, voice trembling with emotion. “But you keep forcing me to.”

And the worst part? He’d be so gentle afterward. He’d hold her in his arms, press kisses to every wound, wipe away her tears with shaking hands. Guilty. Apologetic.

But he’d do it again. And again.

Until she stopped trying to fight it.

Jongho: The Titan of Ruin

A monstrous force of destruction, his strength shatters worlds. He is an unstoppable force, cursed to bring devastation wherever he treads, his very existence a harbinger of doom.

He found her in the aftermath of destruction—standing amidst ruin, untouched by the chaos he created. She should have run. She should have feared him. But she didn’t. Instead, she reached out, as if daring to touch the force that could crush her in an instant. He had never hesitated in destruction, but for the first time, he held back. If she was unafraid of his power, then she was the only one worthy of standing beside him.

Jongho didn’t need tricks or illusions—his trap was raw, undeniable power. He was a force of nature, and she was the only one who dared to stand before him.

He let her believe she could handle him, that she could walk away whenever she wished. He admired her stubbornness, but he knew the truth—she was already his.

When the time came, he didn’t give her a choice. The ground beneath her feet would shatter, the walls around her would crumble. There would be no escape, no safety. And when she turned to him, the only solid thing amidst the chaos, he’d hold out his hand.

“The world is too fragile for you,” he’d murmur. “Stay with me. I’ll make sure nothing ever takes you away.”

Jongho wouldn’t need tricks or illusions. He would simply remind her of who was stronger.

The moment he caught her, he’d pull her against his chest, his grip firm—unbreakable. “Are you done?” he’d ask, voice calm, but with an edge that sent shivers down her spine.

And when she refused to answer, when she still clung to the last scraps of defiance, he’d hold her tighter. Until she gasped for air, until she realized there was no winning against him.

Only then would he let go, letting her crumble to her knees. “Next time,” he’d murmur, crouching beside her, “I won’t be so gentle.”

But she knew there wouldn’t be a next time. Because now, whenever she even thought about running… she’d remember the feeling of his arms caging her in, and she’d know—

She’d never escape him.

[thedemonofcat]

As a baby, Prince Julian Pankratz of Lettenhove was cursed to prick his finger and fall into a death-like sleep on his eighteenth birthday.

Sure enough, when Julian turned eighteen, the next thing he knew, he was waking up in a ruined castle—with a white-haired man standing over him.

That’s how Julian learns he’s been asleep for five hundred years, his kingdom of Lettenhove no longer exists, and the white-haired man is a witcher named Geralt. With no throne to return to, Julian decides to embrace the future and pursue what he’s always wanted: the life of a bard. He even picks out a new name for himself—Jaskier.

Meanwhile, Geralt has mixed feelings about his new tagalong, a five-hundred-eighteen-year-old former prince turned bard. Mostly because he’s still coming to terms with the fact that he woke Jaskier up with a true love’s kiss… and has no idea how to tell him.

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝓇𝑜𝓈𝑒𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You were never meant to fall—never meant to kneel before something unholy, with bloodied hands and a soul stretched thin between heaven and hell.  

But the devil saw you for what you were. He peeled back your skin, traced the rot beneath, and smiled. He whispered sins like lullabies, carved damnation into your spine, and when the time came—you didn’t run.

Now, the chains are too tight. The air is too thick. And when he pulls you close, lips brushing against yours, his voice is a promise, a prayer, a curse.  

"Our love is God, after all."

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: I was inspired by Heathers movie (maybe a little from the musical, too), @prince-silver-lining’s beautiful art (above), and now here I am, ruining it by writing this shit. My ideas always come in the oddest ways.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: sol x afab! reader, smut?? forced intimacy, mind games, worship kink, psychological horror, dark romance, manipulation, toxic relationship, yandere, religious symbolism, guilt, and desire, the morally gray protagonist, obsession, possessive love, emotional turmoil, and…  god won’t save you, but he will.

When people think of angels, they imagine something pure—beings bathed in golden light, untouched by sin, cradled in the hands of God Himself.

You used to believe you were one of them.

A soul untainted, moving through this world with purpose, with righteousness. You carried yourself like a disciple, holding fast to the belief that goodness was enough, that virtue would shield you from the rot infesting this earth.

But God’s kingdom does not extend to places like this.

This college is not a temple but a pit—a den of indulgence, cruelty, and corruption where the wicked thrive, where the privileged few sit atop thrones of deceit. Their words drip with venom, their laughter echoes like hymns of the damned, and their eyes watch you like scavengers circling something already dying.

You clutch the rosemary around your neck, something you swore would protect you. A reminder that once, long ago, you thought you could remain untouched by the filth of this place.

However angels are not made for a world like this. Because once the devil came—red-orange eyes burning, voice like a whispered prayer—you didn’t run. You didn’t fight.

Even the holiest of creatures can fall.

You once dressed for yourself, for the joy of feeling like you controlled your own image—soft, free, unburdened by the expectations of a world that had no place for your kind.

But that was before you learned the rules.

Before you learned that kindness is a weakness, and empathy, a quick road to being chewed up and spat out. Before you realized that in this world, standing out only made you a target, while blending in could keep you alive.

So, you changed.

The first thing to go was your individuality. The clothes you used to wear, those that felt like a part of you, became buried beneath layers of the uniform—the colors, the styles, the things that said “I belong here.”Your rosemary cross, once proudly displayed, now lies hidden under your clothes like a secret prayer—its power still there, but buried. 

Because the world doesn’t care about purity.

It rewards power.

You learned quickly that the game was rigged, and that if you wanted to survive, you needed to manipulate the pieces. You couldn’t be the angel anymore, not in a place like this. 

You needed to be something else.

So, you joined the shady girl group—the ones who ruled the social scene. They didn’t care about you, not really. They cared about what you could do—your journals, your perfect hand, your ability to forge anything. They gave you what they thought you wanted: new outfits, extra attention, an easy way in. 

They turned you into their project, their doll to dress up, but you didn’t mind. Because you knew something they didn’t: you were the one holding the cards.

You played the game but on your terms.

It used to bother you—the pretending, the act of slipping into a world that wasn’t yours. But you learned to let it go. You learned to embrace it, because this was how it worked. People didn’t give unless they wanted something in return. And you knew how to make them give.

And when you looked up, you saw it—God. Not the one you were taught to pray to, but one of power, one who existed in the shadows of this world. The god who didn’t care for morals, only for domination. And you realized—you were always meant to wield that power.

In a world where devils walk free, you’re not here to survive. 

You’re here to reign.

But even power has its limits. And sooner or later, the game will come for you, too. It wasn’t long before the leader of your old girl group that entitled bitch—decided you were done the second you threw up all over her precious dress at that fancy party. As if it was your fault, she made you drink a gallon of cheap vodka just to fit in. 

Monday morning rolls around, and the verdict is: You’re out of the group. 

She doesn’t even have the decency to look you in the eye when she says it. But to say you didn’t care? You’d be lying. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t sting a little, even if you never really felt like you belonged there.

But losing that power? 

That influence you had over everyone? 

The way they looked at you because they thought you were one of them? Nah. That’s not happening. You’re not going back to being just another faceless girl getting bullied by these assholes who don’t know how to shut their mouths.

Who needs a god when you’ve got someone like Sol?

Solivan Brugmansia.

The weird, quiet artist kid who’s cold as hell—he’s the kind of guy who only wears green and black, which just screams ‘I’m deep’ and ‘I don’t give a damn.’ Everyone in school knows him for one thing:

He’s the perfect target. 

The bullies at the school use him like a punching bag. You’ve seen the videos. The ones where they throw punches at him so hard his face becomes a canvas of purple and red, like a twisted work of art. It’s a damn shame, honestly. They think it breaks him, but somehow, he always gets back up. 

Every punch he throws back looks like it comes from a place of pure rage. You’ve caught yourself watching him sometimes, walking to class. Every time, that little flutter in your stomach as you see him throw a punch, standing tall like he’s untouchable despite everything they do to him.

What was it about him?

Well…

Let’s just say, after that party, you ended up with your head nestled into his flat-ass pillow as his scent filled the air—green, metal, something almost intoxicating. You can feel the weight of his presence even though he's barely moving. 

Yeah, you hooked up with him. And the whole thing was... well, weirdly comforting. You’ve never felt more alive, more real, than when he was there with you, holding you in a way that made you forget all the shit the world tried to throw your way. Not that you’d ever admit that to him, or anyone for that matter.

It didn’t feel like a transaction. It didn’t feel like some pity hookup. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were just pretending to be something for someone else’s amusement. You felt seen and heard—even if it was just for a moment. It felt dangerous, but in a way that turned you on more than anything ever had before.

And maybe that’s exactly what you needed. 

Someone who wasn’t afraid to fight back, who didn’t need you to fit into some mold. Someone who could see the world as messed up as it is and yet still have the guts to stand tall.

Lying in Sol’s bed felt like a damn drug—every second wrapped in a haze of heat, of fire, of something you couldn’t name but needed desperately. It wasn’t just his bed. It was him—the way he was, the way his presence felt like it could pull you under, drown you in something deeper than just physical need. 

You hadn’t planned on it. 

It wasn’t supposed to happen. 

After you left said lame-ass rich party, you walked by a late open convenience store, minding your own business—going home that’s when you saw him. 

The way he stood outside, staring off into the distance with that same disaffected look he always wore like the world didn’t matter. And for some fucking reason, you couldn't help yourself. You had to pull him into your orbit. 

You weren’t entirely sure how you’d convinced him to follow you back to his place.

One moment, you were laughing too loud under neon bar lights, the tequila in your veins making the world tilt just enough to feel weightless. The next, you were stumbling into the dim warmth of his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind you like a secret being sealed. The air smelled like him—clean linen and something darker, something alive—and your pulse thundered in your ears.

“You sure about this?”

His voice was rough, frayed at the edges like he was clinging to the last thread of his self-control. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth was stupid, embarrassing—you were a goddamn virgin—but tonight, that didn’t matter. 

Tonight, you needed to feel something real, even if it burned.

So you stepped into him, your body moving with a liquid courage you didn’t recognize. The alcohol still hummed under your skin, blurring the lines between bravery and recklessness. His hands came up to push you away, but the contact was weak, his fingers trembling against your waist.

“You’ve been drinking,” he murmured, but it sounded like a plea—to himself, not to you.

You didn’t let him finish. Your mouth found him, and the second your lips touched, his resolve cracked. A sharp inhale. A low groan. His kiss was softer than you expected, almost hesitant, but his body betrayed him—his heart pounded against your chest, wild and frantic, and the heat of him pressed into your thigh, hard and wanting.

You climbed onto him, knees sinking into the mattress, and his hands finally stopped resisting. They gripped your hips like he was drowning like you were the only thing keeping him anchored.

You needed this.

And God help him, he was done fighting it.

You slid your hands down his chest, feeling the solid, warm muscle beneath your fingertips, “You want me,” you muttered against his lips, a playful, teasing smirk curling on your face. “Don’t pretend like you don’t.”

His eyes flickered shut, and for a moment, he looked like he was trying to convince himself he didn’t want this. “I…” he trailed off, his voice shaky. But then his hands moved, gripping your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt it—the way his control shattered beneath you. 

The moment you took control, it was like you were commanding every piece of him. He was trying so damn hard to resist, but when you moved, when you rode him, there was no pretending. He groaned, his hands tightening on your skin, and you couldn’t help but laugh, a low, sultry sound that sent chills down your spine.

“Say no now,” Your voice was a challenge, a smirk curling your lips as you hovered over him, your thighs bracketing his hips. His chest rose and fell beneath you, his breath already ragged.

"You’re not fooling anyone."

Sol’s eyes—burning like embers in the dim light—locked onto yours. There was something terrifyingly open in his gaze, something that made your stomach twist. 

Not fear. No hesitation.

Hunger.

But not just the kind that devoured. The kind that worshiped.

His hands slid up your sides, rough palms skimming your skin like he was memorizing you. Every touch was deliberate, reverent as if you were something sacred he was afraid to break. You rolled your hips, taking him deeper, and his breath hitched—sharp, unsteady. His fingers dug into your waist, but he didn’t move, didn’t thrust up into you.

He let you take. Let your claim.

And God, the way he felt—thick and hot inside you, stretching you in a way that bordered on pain but tipped so easily into pleasure. You moved slowly, savoring the drag of him, the way his jaw clenched as he fought to keep his composure.

"Fuck," he gritted out, his voice wrecked.

You grinned, leaning down until your lips brushed his ear. "That’s It."

His restraint snapped.

One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip as he finally, finally met your movements. But even then, it wasn’t frantic. Wasn’t rough. It was deep, every roll of his hips deliberate, like he was trying to fuse himself to you. His mouth found yours again, kissing you like he was starving for it like he’d die if he didn’t taste you.

And the way he looked at you—

Eyes dark, lips parted, his entire body trembling beneath you like he was coming undone. Like you were unraveling him.

You haven’t been with others before. But this?

This was the first time either of you had ever really fucked.

There was no rush, no mindless chasing of pleasure. Just the two of you, tangled in sheets and sweat and something too heavy to name. His hands never left you, tracing your spine, cupping your face, pulling you closer like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

And when he finally spilled into you, it was with a broken groan, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours. You followed him over the edge, your body clenching around him, your nails biting into his shoulders.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then your thumb brushed Sol’s cheek, his voice barely audible.

"…Good boy."

It was a sinful saying. And you knew that. 

But in that moment, you didn’t care. You could’ve stayed in his bed forever, lost in the fire of it all, and maybe—just maybe—you didn’t ever want to leave. But you knew, deep down, you couldn’t afford to get too lost. 

There were things to worry about.

Like, for one, the fact that you had a sneaking suspicion Sol had something to do with the sudden, suspicious death of your former group leader. The one you just so happened to throw up on at that goddamn party. 

Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it wasn’t.

After all, when she asked you to get her something to cure her hangover, you didn’t give a damn. Couldn’t have cared less if she lived or died. You weren’t about to drop any more of your pathetic leftover cash on her. You were broke. Besides, it wasn’t like you had a reason to play nice. You were done with her, done with the group, done with their petty little games.

You complained to Sol, slouched across his bed, half-dressed, staring at the ceiling like it was the only thing keeping you sane. He didn’t care, though. He didn’t need your complaints. Instead, he offered something simple, something that felt like a lifeline to cling to when everything around you felt like it was crumbling: "You can use my kitchen," he said, voice low and calm, the sound almost soothing. "I’ll take you to drop it off."

You couldn’t help but smile a little, amused by how nonchalant he was about everything. How even now, after what happened between you two, he was still so calm. So unaffected.

And so, you went.

You used Sol’s kitchen, not giving a damn about what you were making, the motions mechanical, the noise of the pot stirring a dull soundtrack to the mess of thoughts crowding your head. 

You needed to do something. 

Anything to shake off the constant tension clawing at your insides. Your stomach churned, but it wasn’t from hunger—it was from the gnawing confusion and dread eating away at you, as if your body already knew something bad was coming.

The thought of her—the bitch—lingered in the back of your mind like a thorn you couldn’t shake. But you shoved it down. Focused instead on stirring, on the repetitive movement of the spoon, anything to drown out the thoughts swirling in your brain. The smell of the ingredients wasn’t comforting, but it was something to focus on, something that made the moment feel mundane, even if it was anything but.

You tossed things into the pot like you didn’t care what came of it—this wasn’t about cooking, after all. You’d made this concoction a thousand times before, for yourself and for the others when you went out drinking, those long nights where the world blurred into something hazy and forgettable.

It had become a ritual, a way to get through, but tonight it felt more like a mask. You were just going through the motions, trying not to think too hard about what was really hanging over you.

You thought about her again, the leader, the one who had always looked down on you, the one who thought she was better than everyone else. You didn’t care that she’d caught you throwing up on her dress at the party—she was just another problem you didn’t have the energy to solve. 

But now? Now, she was gone. 

The weight of that truth hit you harder than expected, but you pushed it away. Not yet.

You finished the drink and dropped it off with Sol, who was waiting outside, casual as ever, his posture relaxed like nothing was wrong. You handed him the drink, but as he walked over to the leader, the thought of what she might do with it made your stomach tighten. 

The entire thing felt wrong like something was off, but there wasn’t time to second-guess yourself.

And then it happened.

A few slips. A few moments, and then—boom. Dead.

Like, what the actual fuck?

The death wasn’t natural. The first thing you noticed was the color of her tongue—blue. And not just any shade of blue, but something sickly, unnatural. It looked wrong in the worst way. It twisted your insides, but there was no time to linger on it.

Because now, she was dead. And that meant you had to act. Fast.

You didn’t want to be anywhere near the mess that was about to unfold. The last thing you needed was to be connected to a rich girl’s death. Hell, the media would have your neck if they even got a whiff of your involvement. You didn’t care about her death—she was just a footnote in your life—but your survival? 

Now that was a whole different story.

Sol, ever the calm presence, suggested the only thing that made sense: write a suicide note. Quickly, and convincingly.

You didn’t hesitate. You had to write that note fast, your hands trembling with the weight of it, the words coming out in a rushed stream of desperate lies. You didn’t care what you wrote, as long as it kept your name out of it. You had to move carefully—no fingerprints, no mistakes. Everything had to be flawless.

The cops would be swarming any minute now, so you and Sol slipped out, making sure to leave no trace of your presence. You didn’t want to leave anything behind that could tie you to her. You weren’t going to be the one to pay for her mistakes.

It wasn’t about caring for the girl or feeling anything for her death. No, it was about making sure your own skin stayed clean. You didn’t have the luxury of being caught up in a mess like this. You’d been through too much already, and the last thing you wanted was for this to be the thing that pulled you under.

Survival. That’s what mattered now.

Now, you might be thinking—why the hell would you assume Sol had anything to do with it? Your bitch of a leader wound up dead, yeah, but you were the one who made the damn hangover concoction. That was your little trick, your go-to remedy for long nights and regret-filled mornings.

So, shouldn’t you be the one to blame? Not exactly.

Because you saw him, Sol.

You saw him lingering by the counter, careful not to make any noise while you went to the bathroom to change before heading out. You saw the way his fingers moved, casual—too casual—as he fiddled with the cup. And then you saw the switch, so quick it was almost imperceptible. 

The blue cleaner. A few drops, maybe more. A slip of a hand, a glance in your direction. And yet—

Did you ever bring it up? No.

Because you were already too fucking deep in this.

You and Sol, like it or not, we’re in this together. And with that bitch dead, the school needed a new god. The natural order should’ve pointed to the last two girls in the group—the ones who used to worship at her feet, waiting for their turn to take the crown. 

But the moment the leader’s body went cold, one of them was already off somewhere else, building her empire with the fame of her dead leader, shaking off the past like a snake shedding its skin. And the other? She folded. Gave up. Ran off to follow the next rising star.

That left you.

Because whether you wanted it or not, people had always compared you two. Same energy, the same pull, same effortless way of drawing attention without even trying. You used to be second best.

Well, not anymore. But this wasn’t what you wanted.

You just wanted to go to class, pass your exams, maybe get through the day without being dragged into some social bullshit. That was the goal. But instead, here you were—the most followed person in the student body. 

This wasn’t high school. This was college. 

And yet, somehow, it felt just as fucking stupid.

Every waking moment, every damn day, all you wanted was to go to class, take notes, and leave. But no—some dude, some random fucking guy, always had to try his luck, like they were programmed to shoot their shot no matter how many times you said no, no matter how many times you muttered, I have a boyfriend.

Didn’t matter.

They’d still try, still hover, still think they had a chance like you owed them something just because you existed.

And honestly? It made you sick.

Sometimes, in the back of your mind, you swore you could hear that bitch of a leader laughing at you from the afterlife. Oh, you wanted to be me so bad? Enjoy it, sweetheart.

It was all so fucking overwhelming

You hated this. You hated this dead-end college. And sometimes—just sometimes—you wished the whole place would fucking blow up. Just poof—gone. Then maybe you could run away, transfer somewhere new, start over, and live a normal life, away from all this bullshit.

Instead, here you were—outside late, making your way back from some lecture you were forced to take at night because all the earlier ones had filled up before you could even register.

And of course—of course—the universe just had to make things worse.

Because there they were.

Fucking Abel and Cain.

The pretty boys. The well-known bops—two fine ass bastards every woman on campus either wanted or knew to stay the hell away from.

And yet, here they were, standing on the sidewalk, their gazes locking onto you like wolves spotting a lone rabbit. You didn’t look at them. You didn’t acknowledge them. Just keep walking, picking up your pace, focusing on your apartment’s front door in the distance. 

You hate it. 

Hate how people think they have a right to you now. Hate that the moment your old leader took their final breath, the weight of the world shifted onto your shoulders, crowning you the new god of this campus. But of course, they called your name.

And of course, they followed.

"Yo, you deaf now?" Abel scoffed, his voice dripping with faux amusement.

"Yeah, what, you ain't getting our messages?" Cain added, tone lower, sharper.

You felt their eyes burning into you, felt the heat of their presence as they got closer, their footsteps heavy against the pavement.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t dare look back.

Just kept walking. Because if you did, you knew this night would take a turn you really didn’t have the energy to deal with.

You kept your pace steady, ignoring them like they were nothing more than background noise—like their words, their presence, their very existence didn’t fucking matter. Because to you? They didn’t.

But, of course, they didn’t like that.

“Damn, she’s really tryna act like she don’t hear us,” Abel muttered, just loud enough for you to catch.

Cain chuckled, a low, amused sound that made your stomach churn. “Maybe she’s shy.”

You weren’t shy. You just didn’t give a fuck.

But they weren’t letting this go.

Next thing you knew, Abel was right next to you, keeping pace, that cocky smirk already stretched across his face like this was some kind of game. Cain was a step behind, like they had this whole routine practiced like they knew how to trap people in conversations they didn’t want to have.

“Damn, you in a rush or somethin’?” Abel grinned, leaning in slightly like that’d make you break. “Where you headed, mama? Lemme walk you home.”

You finally spared them a glance—just enough to give him the most deadpan expression you could manage. “Nah.”

Cain whistled, all smug like he thought this was cute. “Cold as hell. I like it.”

Abel laughed, but there was something mean behind it. “C’mon, don’t be like that. We just tryna talk. You really don’t be seeing our DMs?”

“Oh, I see ‘em,” you said flatly. “I just ignore ‘em.”

That shut him up for a second.

Cain let out a little ooooh like you just roasted his boy in a rap battle. Abel, though? His smirk twitched. “That’s kinda rude,” he said, tilting his head like he was trying to figure you out.

“And?”

Cain barked out a laugh. “Damn, you got a mouth on you.”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your bag and picking up your pace again. “Yeah, and it’s saying leave me the fuck alone.”

You weren’t scared. Not really. Just annoyed.

But they didn’t fall back. If anything, that just made them more persistent.

“Y’know, most girls would kill to have us hitting them up,” Abel said, his tone dipping slightly. Less playful. More... annoyed?

"Then go hit them up instead," you shot back, eyes locked on your apartment complex in the distance. Almost there. Just a few more steps.

“But we want you,” Cain added, voice lower, smooth like oil, like he actually thought he could charm you. “You really turned us both down? That’s wild.”

“Y’all are wild for not taking the hint,” you muttered, stopping just at the front of your apartment gate.

They both stopped, too.

Abel crossed his arms, looking you over like you were some puzzle he couldn’t crack. “For real, though. You got a man or somethin’?”

“Yeah. And he’s crazy as fuck,” you said, not missing a beat.

Cain raised a brow, clearly amused. “Yeah? What, he gonna pull up on us?”

Fools.

They didn’t realize they were speaking to something untouchable. Something already claimed. So you exhaled, slow and deliberate, before tilting your head slightly, voice smooth as silk, dripping with something just shy of amusement.

"He’s already watching”

Abel and Cain followed your gaze, and for a moment—just a split second—you swore you saw something ancient flicker across their faces. A primal instinct whispering to them that they had fucked up. Because there—perched on the second-floor railing like a god overlooking his domain—stood Sol.

His presence was undeniable. Absolute.

His red-orange eyes burned through the darkness like twin embers in the void, glowing with an unnatural light that made the streetlamp look like a cheap imitation of fire. He wasn’t leaning lazily anymore. No, now he was upright, hands stuffed in his pockets, his gaze locked directly on them.

Watching. Waiting. Judging.

Cain clicked his tongue, but his cocky smirk faltered just a bit, as if the weight of Sol’s stare pressed against his chest like a blade. “Tch. Guess we’ll see you around then.”

Abel lingered half a second longer like he was considering saying something else—but then Sol moved.

Not fast, not aggressively, just the slow, deliberate shift of his shoulders, the lazy tilt of his head. But it was enough. Enough to send an unspoken message.

Run along, little boys.

And so they did.

You didn’t turn to watch them go. Didn’t need to. You just stepped through the gate and let it slam shut behind you, the metallic clang ringing out like the closing of a coffin.

But as you climbed the stairs, you could feel it. The way Sol’s eyes dragged over you, heat crawling up your spine—not just watching, but seeing. When you reached him, his fingers were already curling around your wrist, warm, and firm, pulling you close. His touch was casual, lazy even, but his grip? 

Almost Possessive.

His voice, low and edged with amusement, sent a shiver down your spine. "Have fun?"

You huffed, pressing a hand against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of it beneath your palm. “Oh, loads.”

He smirked. But it wasn’t just a smirk—it was something deeper, something more dangerous. Like a god deciding the fate of his worshippers. Like a storm rolling in before the first crack of thunder. Then he leaned in, breath warm against your ear, voice dropping into something almost reverent.

"Want me to kill ‘em?”

You held your breath, watching Sol’s expression carefully, searching for the telltale twitch of amusement in his features, the playful glint in his eye that usually came when he joked about something questionable.

But there was none. He just looked at you, unreadable, that lazy, knowing smirk resting on his lips like he already knew the answer. Surely, he was joking. Right?

For someone who had such an appreciation for horror movies, you hated it when he joked about killing people—only for right now. Not when that memory was still lurking in the back of your mind. The memory of your hands gripping a pen, scrawling out a suicide note as quickly as possible, while Sol stood over your dead leader’s body with that smile.

That damn smile.

A shiver crept up your spine, but you shook it off, exhaling sharply before rolling your eyes, masking your unease with a playful sigh. You gave him a light punch to the shoulder, a simple motion that masked too much, that tried to communicate things you weren’t ready to say.

"Don’t joke about that, dumbass," you muttered, forcing out a laugh. "Especially not when we’re already in the hole. Deep in the fucking pit."

Sol hummed, tilting his head slightly. "You think we’re in a pit?" His fingers ghosted over your wrist, his voice smooth, too calm. "Nah. A pit means we can’t get out. We’re just…" His grip tightened slightly like he was anchoring you. "Visiting the bottom."

You scoffed, brushing past him. "That’s some pretentious artist bullshit."

"And yet, you love it," he teased, following close behind as you made your way to the bathroom.

You ignored him, flipping on the sink and splashing cold water onto your face, letting the sharp chill jolt your senses back to reality. You needed to wash off the weight of tonight—the tension, the stares, the suffocating presence of everyone watching you as if waiting for you to snap.

Sol leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you through the mirror with an unreadable expression.

"You tired?" he asked, though it wasn’t really a question.

You exhaled, grabbing a towel and pressing it against your face. "I’m always tired."

He was quiet for a moment before he spoke again, voice softer this time. "You don’t look like you."

You frowned, lowering the towel slightly to glance at him through the mirror. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," Sol said, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer, "that I remember you before all this. Before them."His gaze burned into you, intense in a way that made your throat tighten. This wasn’t his usual teasing arrogance, the lazy smirks and smooth words meant to make you roll your eyes. 

No, this was different. This was something else.

"You were free." His voice was low, almost nostalgic, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something almost bitter. "You dressed how you wanted. Acted how you wanted."

He gestured vaguely, eyes dragging over you, taking in the perfectly curated image you had become—the safe version of yourself. The version that blended in. The version that followed the rules.

Now, you looked… normal.

Plain. Society’s definition of acceptable.

The clothes that once made you feel like yourself—the bold choices, the personal touches, the outfits that turned heads and made statements—were gone, replaced with something neutral, something designed not to offend, not to stand out. 

The makeup you once wore to highlight what you liked about yourself had been swapped for whatever the trend was. Your hair, once styled in whatever way you felt like at the time, now fell in the safest way possible, effortless but calculated.

You had stripped yourself down to something palatable.

"This isn’t you."

Your jaw tightened. You met his gaze in the mirror, the weight of his words pressing against your ribs, making it just a little harder to breathe.

"I had to survive." Your voice was firm, clipped.

Sol was quiet.

Then he sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah. I get that."

You exhaled sharply and turned off the sink, gripping the edge of the counter, your eyes flickering downward. Your reflection stared back at you—polished, presentable, a perfect product of adaptation.

Unrecognizable.

Sol watched you for a moment, his gaze heavy with something unreadable. Then, in a voice softer than before, he murmured, "You're still pretty."

For some reason, that irritated you more than anything else.

You scoffed. "Gee, thanks."

"But it’s not about that," he continued, stepping closer until he was right behind you, his hands resting on either side of the counter, boxing you in. His voice dipped, lower now, careful, yet firm. "I liked you better when you liked yourself more."

Your breath hitched.

His words clung to you, wrapping around your ribs like vines, refusing to let go. They settled deep, sinking into that part of you you’d tried so damn hard to bury.

You swallowed hard, hating the way he saw you—really saw you—like his fire-red-orange eyes could peel back the layers of armor you had so carefully constructed and lay you bare without even trying.

"I don’t want to talk about this," you muttered, shaking him off as you grabbed your toothbrush as if the simple act of brushing your teeth could drown out the weight of everything pressing down on you.

But Sol just chuckled, low and knowing. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your skin, his presence an anchor you weren’t sure if you wanted to hold onto or escape from.

"Don’t worry," he murmured, voice like embers in the dark. "I’m not going anywhere." Then, softer. More deliberate.

"Use me if you need to."

The words sent something sharp down your spine. Something dangerous. You wanted to pretend they didn’t sink in. You wanted to pretend that they didn’t make something inside you snap. But they did. Because Sol was right here. Warm. Solid. Real. And you—

You were so fucking angry.

Not just at Abel and Cain. Not just at the dead social media apps that kept your name in their mouths. Not just at the way your classmates looked at you today like they knew you—like they had any fucking clue.

You were angry at everything.

At this school. At life, you have to build for yourself just to survive. At the fact that no matter what you did, no matter how quiet you stayed, the world still found a way to put its hands on you.

And Sol? 

Sol was offering himself up like he always did, and fuck, you were selfish enough to take it.

You turned, grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him toward you. His body hit yours with a force that should’ve knocked you both off balance, but Sol just let out a sharp breath, his hands already finding your waist like he’d been waiting for this.

You didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

Your lips crashed against his, open-mouthed, desperate.

Sol let you take control at first, let you kiss him like you needed to rip something out of him, let you take and take and take—but he wasn’t passive. No, he met you head-on, groaning into your mouth as he walked you back until your hips hit the bathroom counter.

"This what you need?" he muttered, voice rough as his hands dug into your sides.

You didn’t answer. Just pull him closer, press yourself against him like he was the only thing holding you together.

Because right now, he was.

You let him lift you onto the counter, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. The mirror behind you reflected the scene at you—your lips swollen, your eyes unfocused, your expression raw. You almost didn’t recognize yourself.

Maybe that was the point.

Maybe you didn’t want to.

Sol’s hands trailed up your thighs, the warmth of his touch searing through the fabric of your clothes, grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed. His lips brushed your neck, sending a jolt of electricity through your body, his breath hot against your skin as he moved lower, his hands anchoring you to the counter with a firm grip that almost felt possessive.

"Tell me what you want," his voice came a low hum that seemed to vibrate through you, reaching places you didn’t know you could feel.

You squeezed your eyes shut, unwilling to face the war raging inside you.

God, you needed this—needed him to drown out everything that had been gnawing at your insides, clawing at your thoughts. But even as you pressed yourself closer, even as your hands gripped the back of his shirt like you were trying to pull him inside you, you knew it wasn’t enough.

The whispers kept creeping in, insistent and ugly.

The rumors.

Abel’s smug voice, practically oozing with triumph.

Cain’s laugh, that mocking, arrogant chuckle that you couldn’t escape, no matter how far you ran.

And the whole campus? They all thought they had the right to claim you. To dictate your life, your choices, your body. They were already filling in the blanks, deciding who you were, and who you should be.

It wasn’t long before you and Sol collapsed into your bed again, tangled in the kind of desperation that felt more like drowning than desire.

He was already between your thighs, his breath hot against your skin, murmuring words you barely processed—“Let me, please, just let me make you feel good.” And you did. 

You let him. 

Because even if it wouldn’t fix anything, even if the hollowness in your chest refused to be filled, at least his mouth on you was something real.

His lips were soft, his tongue relentless, tracing patterns you’d long memorized but still made your back arch off the mattress. Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him deeper as if you could press him straight through your skin and into the parts of you that ached. 

The pleasure was sharp, bright—too bright, like staring into the sun until your eyes burned. You wanted it to blind you.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, each one shuddering out of you like a sob. Sol knew your body better than anyone, his touch so familiar it should’ve been a comfort. But instead, you felt untethered, floating somewhere outside yourself, watching as your hips rolled against his mouth on pure instinct.

Closer. You needed him closer, needed to disappear into the heat of him, the weight of him. But the more he gave, the more you realized—no amount of him would be enough. The storm inside you wasn’t something he could fuck or kiss or worship away.

“Please… more—”

The words spill from Sol’s lips in a broken whisper, his mouth still searing against your clit like he’s starving. You barely have time to process the plea before his fingers curl just so inside you—a merciless twist that sends your back arching off the bed. A gasp rips from your throat, raw and unfiltered, as your hips jerk against his face.

“Fuck—” Your moan is half-snarl, half-prayer, fingers twisting in the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering you to earth. His touch is relentless, every stroke deliberate, studied—as if he’s mapping the way you flutter around him, the way your body betrays you with every slick, tightening pulse.

“Look at you,” You moan, “Couldn’t wait, could you?”

The accusation sends heat flooding Sol’s cheeks—because you’re right. You felt yourself already close, teetering on the edge, and he’s barely started. His thumb brushes your clit in a slow, filthy circle, and you jolt, a whimper catching in your throat like a sob.

“Tell me,” he rasps, grip tightening on your thigh to spread you wider. His other hand doesn’t stop—if anything, his fingers plunge deeper, crooking to drag against that spot that makes your vision whiten. “Please. Tell me what you want, pumpkin.”

You can’t.

The words clot in your chest, stolen by every ragged breath, every electric scrape of his calloused fingers. All you can do is feel—the ache he’s stoking into an inferno, the way your hips grind shamelessly against his mouth, the sound of him—low, hungry groans vibrating against your skin as he drinks you down like something holy.

And when his teeth graze your clit—gentle, so gentle—you finally shatter, his name a shattered scream on your lips. It was violent, overwhelming, your thighs clamping around his head as you choked back something too raw to be a moan. Sol didn’t let up, licking you through it until you shoved him away, oversensitive and raw.

He looked up at you, lips glistening, eyes dark with something like concern. You turned your face away before he could see it—the tears, the fracture—it was for the silence, for the absence of everything that was suffocating you.

But even in the heat of the moment, your mind refused to let go.

You knew. You knew.

This wasn’t going to fix anything. Nothing ever did.

Because People—people with nothing better to do—had decided that their life was the perfect subject for gossip, and of course, they had to drag it across every dead social media app that nobody even bothered with anymore, unless it was for the filters. And this time?

It wasn’t just petty rumors. No, this was a different beast entirely.

You had to hear it from everyone. Every fucking hallway. Every class. 

Every goddamn second spent looking at your phone or stepping outside your apartment—it was all whispers, side-eyes, and those insufferable, smug smirks from people who thought they knew you, who thought they knew what happened.

And it all led back to two names.

Abel and Cain.

It was always them, wasn’t it? The infamous duo—the campus it-boys, the ones who somehow got away with everything, every time, with no consequences. They were untouchable, always looking so clean, so perfect in their shit-eating grin ways, while everyone else got swept up in their chaos.

And what were they saying this time?

That they had a threesome with a “special girl” they ran into.

No names. No specifics. But you didn’t need specifics. Everyone knew exactly who they were talking about. You. You.

Your actual friends—your real friends—began asking questions. Concern was written all over their faces, voices shaking with uncertainty. 

They wouldn’t leave you alone.

“Are you okay?”

“Did something happen?”

“Why are they saying this?”

You couldn’t even look them in the eye. You couldn’t answer. Instead, you sat there, frozen, staring at your phone, the screen burning your eyes. The words blurred together in a haze of pain and fury. A ringing noise drowned out everything else as your fingers clenched around the device like it was the only thing anchoring you to the present.

Fuck this.

Every inch of you felt like it was going to crack, like the anger and disgust were going to bleed out of your skin. It was a lie, a fucking straight-up lie. But it didn’t matter. No one cared about the truth. Not when they already had a story to tell.

The worst part? It wasn’t just the lies—they were believing it. The campus didn’t just buy into it; they were savoring it like it was the juiciest piece of gossip to ever grace their empty little lives. People who barely even knew your name were now looking at you like they had some kind of claim to your life.

Every time you stepped outside, it was like the world was watching, whispering about you, judging you, reducing you to some fucking scandal. And you?

You were just trapped in the middle of it all.

No matter how many times you told them it wasn’t true, how many times you tried to explain, they didn’t care. The perception was everything. Once a story like this had legs, it ran wild. It didn’t need the truth to keep moving—it only needed people to keep talking.

And that was all anyone was doing now. …Talking.

After your last class, you couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. It felt like the walls were closing in with every step, suffocating you as you walked through the crowded halls, your classmates' whispers and looks searing into your skin. Every footstep felt like it echoed too loudly in your ears, a constant reminder of the gossip, the rumors, and the lies that were now following you like a shadow you couldn’t escape.

No. No, no. You weren’t going to let this happen. 

You couldn’t. 

You wouldn’t.

You kept repeating it in your mind, the words like a mantra, trying to drown out the noise, trying to drown out the sick, twisted feeling clawing at your chest. You didn’t have time for this. Not when you still had so much left to do, so many plans that needed to be carried out. 

This? 

This wasn’t part of the plan.

You rushed back to your place, heart hammering in your chest, your mind spinning with what to do next. How to fix this. How to make it stop. 

You opened the door to your apartment and slammed it shut behind you, locking it as quickly as you could. But the feeling of being trapped didn’t go away. You paced back and forth in your small space, your mind racing, plotting your next move. You had to do something—anything—to get the control back. 

You couldn’t let them get away with this. 

Suddenly, the window beside you creaked open, and before you could even react, a figure slid through, startling the hell out of you. “Fuck!” You yelped, barely managing to keep your phone from smashing into his face as you whipped around. 

Sol. Of course, it was him. He stood there, grinning like it was any other day as if he hadn’t just scared the shit out of you. "Woah, woah, easy there," he said, holding up his hands to stop you from swinging again, his usual cocky smile plastered on his face. 

"You okay?"

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your shaking hands. "Stop climbing through my window. It's a crime, Sol. Not the time for this."

He shrugged nonchalantly, not at all bothered by the fact that he had literally just broken into your apartment. "You’re still alive, aren’t you?" he said, voice soft and smooth. "I figured you could use the company."

You took a step back, barely even registering his words as you continued to pace. You couldn’t stop moving. Not with all the chaos swirling in your head, not with the weight of the entire situation pressing down on you. 

Sol watched you, his expression softening, the cocky grin falling away for a moment. "You’re really losing it, huh?"

“Losing it?” You let out a sharp laugh, but it was humorless, edged with frustration. "No, Sol. I’m not losing it. I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now. These people—" You gestured wildly, your voice rising. "They think they know everything about me, and they’re lying. It’s all lies!"

Sol stepped closer, slowly, like he was giving you space, but you didn’t want the space. 

You needed to move. You needed to think. 

You couldn’t stand still. 

"Look, I get it," he said quietly, his voice steady as he reached out and placed a hand on your arm. "I know it sucks. But you can’t keep running from it. You gotta deal with it, or it’s just gonna keep eating at you."

You jerked away from his touch, irritation flaring. "I don’t need you telling me what to do, Sol. I know how to deal with my own shit."

His gaze stayed on you, unwavering, like he wasn’t going to back down. "Then what? What’s the plan? Are you gonna sit in here and hope it all goes away? Or you gonna take control back?"

You stopped walking, turning sharply to face him, the heat rising in your chest. "I’m not just gonna sit here and let them tear me apart," you snapped. "I’m gonna make it stop. I don’t care what it takes."

Sol raised an eyebrow, stepping forward again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Then let me help."

You paused. Your mind screamed at you to push him away, to tell him to get the hell out, but somewhere in that moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You were angry and frustrated, but deep down, you knew this was something you couldn’t do alone.

"I don’t need your help," you muttered, but even as you said the words, you felt the cracks in your resolve begin to show. "I’ll handle it. I’ll fix it."

Sol tilted his head, giving you a look that said he didn’t believe you for a second. "Yeah, sure. You’re really great at handling things on your own."

You shot him a glare, but deep down, he was right. 

You had been trying to handle it all by yourself, trying to keep everything together, but now it felt like it was slipping through your fingers, like no matter how much you fought, it wasn’t enough.

"I don’t know what to do, Sol." The words left you before you could stop them, the exhaustion in your voice more apparent than you wanted it to be.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, letting the silence fill the space between you. Then, he took a step closer, his eyes softening, his usual arrogance gone. "I know you don’t. But you don’t have to figure it out by yourself."

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him to leave. But something in his voice—something in the way he was looking at you—stopped you.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a small glimmer of something that wasn’t rage or frustration. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was just the fact that someone, anyone, was standing there with you, not turning their back.

“All right,” you muttered, voice low, still shaky, but more resolute than before. "Help me. But we do this on my terms."

You sat there, phone pressed against your ear, trying to ignore the fact that your heart was hammering in your chest. Sol sat beside you, arms crossed, watching you with a look that was equal parts concern and curiosity. 

You could feel his presence, like a weight behind you, but right now, you needed to focus. 

You had to do something—anything—to reclaim control of the narrative. So, you borrowed his phone. You didn’t want to make this call, but you had already told yourself it was too late to back out.

The number had come from one of the girls who’d been all too eager to share Abel’s contact when they found out what was being said about you. It was all too easy—far too easy—and that made it all the more unsettling.

You took a breath, your fingers slightly trembling as you dialed the number.

Ring… ring… ring…

The phone in your hand felt heavier with each second.

"Hello?" Abel’s voice broke through the static, and you straightened, your heart jumping in your throat as if the sound of his voice was a physical blow.

"Hi, Abel," you said, your voice soft but steady. You weren’t sure if it was the shock or the fact that you were doing this that made your voice sound even more controlled than you felt. "This is me. You know, the girl you and Cain were talking about."

You could practically hear his smirk through the phone as he laughed, the arrogant bastard. "Oh, so it’s you. What’s up?"

You paused, trying to gather your thoughts, knowing this was a game you were playing, but you didn’t quite know the rules. "I, uh, heard about what you said on those social media apps," you started, swallowing the lump in your throat. "

The... rumors. The ones about me. It’s not true, by the way, but, uh..." You faltered, but only for a moment. "I guess I’m kind of into it. It’s... kind of a fantasy of mine. Two guys, you know?"

The words felt like they were burning on the tip of your tongue, but you pushed them out anyway, watching Sol as he stood there, tense, his lips pressed into a thin line. You could feel him tense as you spoke, his arms crossing tighter, his eyes narrowing.

“Wait, so you’re saying you’re into it?” Abel’s voice came through, mocking. "Guess I didn’t think you’d be this easy." His words made you sick, but you bit your tongue, holding it together. 

"Yeah, I’m into it," you said again, your voice quieter now, but the lie was out there. "You and Cain. So, is that something you want to make happen? Or was it just talk?"

Sol shifted behind you, stepping closer, but his arms didn’t reach for you. He didn’t touch you, not yet. You could feel the tension, the strain in his muscles, but you had already committed to this. His hands were at his sides, fingers flexing as if wanting to grab you but also knowing he couldn’t interfere.

On the phone, Abel’s laugh was low and smug. "I like the way you think. I knew you were different from the rest of those girls." He continues, “So, when’s this gonna happen?" Abel asked, clearly already thinking about his next move.

You took another breath, steadying yourself. "In the woods behind campus," you said, making sure your voice was clear. "Dawn. Don’t forget Cain."

There was a pause on the line. It lasted too long, long enough for you to wonder if you’d lost him, but then Abel’s voice returned, smooth as ever. "All right. Dawn. I’ll be there."

You hung up the phone before he could say anything else before you heard his usual mocking laughter. The second the line went dead, you threw Sol’s phone onto the bed, not even looking at him as you sat there, hands shaking slightly.

He moves forward, his voice low. "What the hell was that?"

You ignored him, crossing your legs crossed, your head spinning. Your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, none of them making any sense. You needed to think, to figure out what the hell you were doing, but the pressure was suffocating. You couldn't back out now, not with everything on the line, but you also couldn’t go through with it. 

It was a mess, a disaster, and the worst part was, you had no idea how to clean it up.

Sol sat there, watching you, his expression unreadable, but you could feel the tension in the room. He was waiting for you to say something, anything, but all you could do was stare at your hands, clenched in your lap. The phone call was still fresh in your mind, Abel’s smug voice echoing in your ears. 

You couldn’t believe you had just made that call. You’d thrown yourself into a situation you didn’t fully understand, and now it was too late to undo it.

"Hold on a sec," you muttered, your voice shaky as you crossed your legs tighter, hoping that physical discomfort might distract you from the chaos in your mind.

Sol, sensing the urgency, nodded but couldn’t help himself from speaking up. "Are you done yet?"

You bit your lip, frustration bubbling up inside you. "No. Shut up. Hold on."

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. You could hear his breathing, steady but loud in the silence that followed, like he was trying to figure you out. You didn't want him to figure you out. Not now. Not with everything crashing down around you.

"You know," Sol started again, voice careful, almost hesitant. 

"I have an idea."

You immediately shot him a look. "I said, shut up," you snapped, trying to focus, trying to ignore the growing panic in your chest. "Just... hold on, okay?"

He was quiet for a second, probably biting back whatever retort he had, but then his voice came again a little sharper this time. "I don’t like it when you tell me to shut up, you know."

You didn’t want to hear it. Not now. 

Not when your entire world felt like it was crumbling in on you. "Well, I don’t give a fuck right now, Sol," you growled. "Okay? Just shut the hell up and let me think."

Sol’s eyes softened then, but there was still a hardness in them. He wasn’t buying it anymore. "Fine," he said, stepping back, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. "But I’m here if you need me."

You heard the unspoken question in his voice—what the hell is going on with you?

But you didn’t have an answer. 

You didn’t even know what was happening anymore.

The tears came then, slowly at first, one slipping down your cheek, then another, until they were falling freely, soaking the sleeves of your hoodie. You buried your face in your hands, your body trembling. You couldn’t stop. 

You couldn’t think. You were just... overwhelmed. 

Overwhelmed by everything—by the lies, by the rumors, by your own stupid decisions.

This was all your fault. You'd fucked up. 

You’d gotten so lost in the need to take control that you didn’t stop to think about the consequences. And now you were stuck in a nightmare that you couldn’t wake up from.

Sol didn’t say anything for a while. He just stood there, watching you with a mixture of frustration and concern. He wasn’t the type to offer comforting words, but you could feel his presence, steady and unwavering behind you.

But you couldn’t even look at him.

 You were too ashamed. Too angry at yourself.

"You really fucked yourself over, didn’t you?" Sol said quietly after a while, his voice low, almost like he was talking to himself. "All this for what? To get back at them? To prove something?"

You didn't respond. You couldn’t. 

The weight of everything was crushing you. Your mind felt like it was constantly spiraling, a mess of self-loathing and regret that you couldn't escape, no matter how hard you tried. The guilt gnawed at you, relentless and suffocating, leaving you with nothing but frustration and confusion.

"I told you not to do this," Sol's voice broke through your thoughts, softer now but still thick with frustration. "I knew this was a bad idea, but you—" He paused as if deciding not to push you further. You could almost hear him biting back his words, but it was too late. 

You spun around to face him, the anger and tension finally breaking free. "Just fuck off, okay?!" you snapped, the words sharp and laced with all the bottled-up emotion you hadn't let out yet. 

"You don't listen to me. Maybe quiet the box dye, it’s fucking your brain up." You couldn’t hold back anymore. “You don’t get it, okay? You don’t get what it’s like to feel like you have no control. Like everyone is just… talking about you, deciding who you are and what you’ve done. I didn’t want this, Sol. I didn’t want to get caught up in this shit, but here I am!"

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Sol just stood there, staring at you, his expression unreadable. But there was something in his red-orange eyes—something that made you hesitate, made your anger fizzle out for a split second. It was like a flicker of something deep, something that made you pause, unsure of what to do with it.

“Oh shit…” you mumbled, the weight of the words you’d just thrown at him hitting you harder than you expected.

Sol let out a breath, his tone quieter now. "Look, I’m sorry for not respecting your boundaries," he said, his voice soft, calm, but carrying that underlying sincerity you never expected from him. "And I promise it won’t happen again. You’re not alone in this." He stepped forward slightly, his eyes steady on yours. 

"I’m here, whether you want me to be or not."

You didn’t know how to respond. His words were unexpected, but there was something so honest in them, something that made your stomach twist. You didn’t even know if you could trust yourself to speak. His actions, his words, they didn’t make sense to you right now. You didn’t even understand what he was doing or what he wanted, but somehow, you knew he meant it.

“What…?” you muttered, still not sure if you were hearing him right. You frowned as Sol gave you a half-pitying look like he knew something you didn’t. "I was totally in the wrong, pushing you like that…” He said it with an almost apologetic tone, but before you could reply, he suddenly moved forward and hugged you.

You froze, caught off guard by the sudden closeness, his face pressing into your chest. His arms wrapped around you in a way that felt far too familiar, far too intimate, and for a moment, everything hit you like a wave.

His words, his actions—none of it made sense. Sure, he always let you push him around, always let you fuck him whenever you needed to blow off steam. 

But this? This was different. 

You’d never seen him act like this, not in the way that felt… obsessive. So why, then, did it all feel so wrong and yet, so right at the same time?

His voice came muffled from your chest. “You had every right to say that to me…” His words were softer now, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t expected from him.

You shifted awkwardly, still thrown off by the way he was holding you. "Well…" you mumbled, still trying to process everything, your words coming out uneven. "As long as you’re sorry, you asshole."

“I know I’m an asshole,” Sol replied with a sigh, a little smile tugging at his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something different there, something that made the space between you feel... softer, in a way.

For a moment, you both just sat there, the silence settling in, only the sound of your shaky breaths filling the room. Sol held you, letting you calm down, and slowly, you felt your body relax into him, even if you were still trying to make sense of everything. 

His warmth was a strange comfort, and as he kept you in his arms, you couldn’t ignore the sense of safety that washed over you despite how lost and confused you still felt inside.

You pulled away just enough to wipe the tears from your face, your hands trembling slightly as you did. You let out a shaky breath and pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. 

"I... I fucked up, Sol," you muttered, the words bitter on your tongue. It felt like you were admitting to something too big for you to truly grasp. "I thought I could control it, but now I’m just... stuck. And I don’t know how to fix it."

Sol didn’t say anything for a long moment, his eyes studying you, not offering any immediate solution, but his presence felt reassuring. He was there, steady, not pushing, not trying to fix it for you, just letting you be. His words finally came, quiet and unassuming. 

"I’ll help you figure it out," he said softly, and for once, it didn’t feel like a hollow promise. It felt like something he meant.

You didn’t push him away. For once, you didn’t feel the need to. Maybe it was because, deep down, you knew there was no easy way out of this anymore. Again, you were in too deep. The mess you’d created wasn’t something that could be cleaned up overnight. But maybe, just maybe, with him there, it wouldn’t be so bad. 

But still, a part of you knew—there was no going back. Not now. Not after everything that had already been set in motion. The weight of it pressed into your chest like a vice, but all you could do was watch as Sol, ever reckless, ever smug, sat there with a gun in his lap like it was just another piece of the game you were playing.

You stared at him, then at the gun, then back at him.

You were deadass over it.

"Sol." Your voice came out flat, caught somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion. "You can’t be serious."

That smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened, that usual glint of mischief in his eyes sharpening into something unreadable. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers ghosting over the grip of the gun.

"Dead serious."

A sigh pushed past your lips, heavy with frustration. You dragged a hand through your hair, nails digging into your scalp for a brief moment, like maybe if you pressed hard enough, you could force your brain to make sense of this.

"Our Bonnie and Clyde days are over," you muttered, the words coming out bitter like they left a bad taste in your mouth. "We already took care of the bitch-ass leader…" The unspoken part of that sentence hung in the air between you.

Because you know it was him that caused that.

Sol didn’t even try to defend himself. He just shrugged, casual as ever, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t confirmed, but he wasn’t denying it either. He never did. 

That was the thing about Sol—he always left just enough room for doubt. Just enough space for you to wonder whether you were paranoid or if he was just that good at covering his tracks.

You exhaled sharply, jaw tightening, and reached forward, taking the gun from him with careful hands. You weren’t afraid of it—not really—but something about the way it felt in your grasp made your stomach turn. Cold metal, heavier than you expected.

You moved to stand from your bed, trying to piece together just how insane this whole thing had become, but before you could even get your feet off the mattress, Sol’s fingers wrapped around your wrist. 

His grip was firm but not forceful—just enough to make you stop.

"Wait a sec," Sol said, his voice shifting into something unreadable, something that made you pause. His fingers tapped idly against the gunmetal, his eyes flicking toward you with a glint of amusement. "Do you know German?"

You blinked, thrown off. "What?"

His grin widened like he was enjoying some inside joke only he understood. "Right, right," he mused, almost like he was talking more to himself than to you. "This uni has all the majors except computer science and engineering. And they force you to take a language to ‘keep the culture alive.’ But you—" He pointed lazily at you. "You tested out of your requirements, didn’t you?"

Your confusion deepened, a chill creeping up your spine. "Yes—?" 

How the fuck does he even know that?

Sol reached into his bag again, rummaging for a second before pulling out a handful of small, polished bullets. He let them clatter onto the bedspread between you both, the dim light catching on the brass casings.

"Echt Luger rounds," he said, the German words rolling off his tongue with casual precision. His fingers traced one idly, spinning it between his thumb and forefinger.

You narrowed your eyes. "WWII-era. Scored them as a decorative piece—because you know—”

"You’re a dirtbag. Emo and all." You cut him off, deadpan.

Sol looked up, caught off guard for a fraction of a second. "Really?"

You just nodded. "Yes."

He rolled his eyes but let it slide, too preoccupied with whatever he was scheming. "Anyway…" He lifted one of the bullets again, twirling it lightly. "They’re basically like tranquilizers. Just enough force to break the skin, draw some blood, but no real damage. No organ penetration, no fatal wounds—just enough to make it look like a kill shot."

Your brows furrowed as you studied the rounds, turning one over between your fingers. It was unsettling how something so small could carry so much weight in the right hands.

"So…" you started, tilting your head slightly, arms crossing. "It looks like someone’s been shot and killed, but really, they’re just unconscious and bleeding?"

Sol nodded, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Exactly. When we shoot Abel and Cain, it'll look like they shot each other. By the time they wake up? They’ll be the laughingstock of the whole damn campus. Possibly even kicked out of school. Not to mention—" he leaned in slightly, smirking, "—no one’s gonna fuck with you after this."

He wasn’t wrong. It was an airtight setup. Humiliation, expulsion, and a clear message to the entire school—don’t cross you two. But there was still a piece missing.

"The note’s the punchline. How’d that turn out?" Sol asked, nodding toward your bag.

You didn’t answer right away, instead reaching for your bookbag and yanking it onto the bed. From inside, you pulled out one of Abel’s old papers, along with a separate sheet covered in your scrawled handwriting.

"First, tell me the similarity isn’t incredible," you said, placing them side by side.

Sol leaned in, scanning the papers with a slow grin creeping across his face. "Shit." He exhaled, shaking his head. "It’s almost perfect. Just make sure to rewrite it clean—don’t leave any fingerprints on the final note."

You nodded, already mentally noting the steps. "Okay…"

Sol’s gaze flicked to you, suddenly skeptical. "Also, how the hell did you even get his paper?"

You met his stare, deadpan. "None of your business."

He chuckled under his breath but didn’t push. Instead, he gestured toward the note, waiting for you to explain.

"Suicide notes have to be believable," you began, fingers drumming against the paper. "So I made it all dramatic—Abel and Cain, forced to live a lie, unable to reveal their forbidden love because they’re expected to be the ultimate straight heartthrobs." You read a few lines aloud in an overly serious tone before side-eyeing Sol.

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "That’s fucking ridiculous."

"That’s the point," you shot back. "The note is just enough to make people speculate, but not enough for anyone to outright disprove it."

Sol leaned back against the bedpost, nodding in approval. "Dumb it down a bit, make it digestible for the idiots, and we’re golden."

You agreed, already reaching for a fresh sheet of paper.

"Oh," he added, reaching into his bag once more. "Almost forgot—brought some props to sell the scene."

You raised an eyebrow as he pulled out a handful of small, folded love notes, a cheap-looking heart-shaped locket, and a half-empty pack of cigarettes.

“The evidence,” he smirked. “Gotta hammer it in."

You stared at him, then at the items, a slow exhale pushing past your lips. "You’re fucking insane."

His smirk only widened, dark amusement glinting in his eyes. "And you love it."

Do you?

Yeah, Sol is a bit weird sometimes—lowkey emo scary tall dude—but still, he cares about you. Maybe in a fucked-up, possessive way, but caring nonetheless. The kind of care that made your chest tighten, made you wonder if you should be wary of it or melt into it.

You sighed, the tension between you thick and electric, before shifting onto your knees. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as his hands instinctively settled at your hips, gripping you like he had no intention of letting go. 

His gaze burned into yours, intense and unreadable, but beneath the chaos of his mind, there was something raw there—something unspoken.

Without a word, he took your hand in his, flipping it over and pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your wrist. His lips were warm against your skin, his breath featherlight, but the way his grip tightened on you sent a shiver crawling down your spine.

Then he moved.

Before you could fully process it, Sol had you pinned beneath him, his body pressing you into the mattress as his mouth crashed onto yours. The kiss was deep, consuming—desperate. His fingers dug into your hips as he kissed you like he needed it, like he was starving for you.

And god, he was.

Every time he touched you, it was like he was trying to memorize the feeling, like he was terrified you’d slip away.

His lips left yours only to trail lower, dragging along your jaw before settling at your neck. He inhaled, and fuck—rosemary. You always smelled like fresh rosemary. He didn’t know why it drove him insane, but it did. His teeth grazed your skin, and then—bite.

A sharp gasp slipped from your lips, and god, he fucking loved that sound. That lovely, breathy noise that only he could pull from you. His tongue flicked over the fresh mark before he bit again, harder this time, feeling you squirm beneath him.

Fuck.

Every little sound you made, every breathy exhale, every shiver that ran through you because of him—it was all his doing.

And he was going to make damn sure you never forgot that.

The night blurred into something feverish, something tangled in sheets and desperate hands. Sol made sure to fuck your brains out, so deep, so rough, so unbearably good that your nails raked down his back, leaving angry red scratches in their wake. He didn’t care—if anything, he welcomed the sting, craved the proof of it, and reveled in the way your body clung to his like it was made to take him.

Your moans, the way you whimpered his name, the way you fucking trembled under him—it was enough to send him over the edge, enough to make him lose himself in you entirely.

And when it was over, when your body finally went limp beneath him, exhausted and spent, Sol didn’t move. He stayed pressed against you, chest rising and falling in sync with yours, fingers still gripping your thighs like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Not yet.

Not ever.

But sleep? Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

Sol lay awake long after you’d knocked out, your breaths slow and even, face buried in the pillows. He couldn’t help it—he just watched you. So soundly, so peacefully… so pretty. All the words really.

The bruises you’d left on him—teeth marks at his collarbone, nail marks at his ribs—they ached, but he didn’t mind. So what if it looked like you were just using him for his body? If that’s what you wanted, that’s what he’d give. He didn’t care. 

Not when he got to have you like this, not when you were his.

With a quiet sigh, Sol finally sat up, pushing off the sheets and heading to your bathroom. The dim light flickered on, casting sharp angles over his tired face as he leaned against the sink, exhaling slowly. His red-orange eyes traced the marks you left on him in the mirror, fingers brushing over the fresh scratches down his back, his sides. 

Red. Deep. Yours.

Then, his gaze dropped to his hand.

The rosemary necklace—your necklace—dangling from his fingers.

For a moment, he just stared at it, rolling the small pendant between his fingertips. His grip tightened, then loosened. Then, with slow deliberation, he brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against the cool metal. His eyes fluttered shut.

You’d need it.

He’d need it.

Because you, this, everything—it was in God’s hands now.

And God help anyone who tried to take you away from him.

It wasn’t long before dawn came in. The night air was thick, clinging to your skin like a second layer, the scent of damp earth and pine filling your lungs. You stood in the woods, tired but ready, eyes sharp despite the weight of everything pressing down on you. 

Your fingers flexed against the cool metal of the gun in your hands before you tucked it behind your back, pressing it firmly against your spine.

Are you ready for this?

A voice snapped you from your thoughts. "Hey, babe. You really here?"

You turned slowly, masking every bit of tension behind something effortless—something playful. 

Abel and Cain. Right on time. 

"Hey," you greeted, lips curling into a teasing smirk. "Glad you could make it."

They grinned, stepping closer, oblivious to the tension humming beneath your skin. The three of you stood there for a moment, suspended in the night, the setup almost awkward in its anticipation. 

Then Cain huffed, running a hand through his hair. "So… what now? Should I whip it out?"

You bit back a laugh, playing along with ease. "Yeah, go ahead. Right here. Let’s see what you’re working with."

Cain smirked, his posture relaxed, a hint of cockiness lacing his stance. Abel, beside him, shook his head, lips tugging into something between amusement and exasperation. 

Men. Always so easy.

"So, what now?" Abel drawled, brow arching as he sized you up. "You want us to just—take our clothes off? Right in front of you?"

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it, letting the silence stretch just long enough for anticipation to settle in. 

Then, with slow deliberation, you nodded. "Mhm. Every last piece."

They hesitated, just for a beat, before exchanging glances. But it wasn’t hesitation out of uncertainty—it was intrigue. A silent, unspoken challenge.

How far would you go?

Cain chuckled first, his fingers already moving to his belt, metal clinking softly as he loosened it. "All right," he muttered, clearly unbothered, the smugness never leaving his voice. "You’re the boss."

Abel followed suit, reaching for the hem of his hoodie before tugging it over his head in one swift motion. The dim light caught on the sharp lines of his muscles, his toned frame flexing slightly in the cool air. 

Jesus fucking Christ. You hadn’t expected them to be this built. At least they had the decency to keep their boxers on.You smirked, tilting your head as if admiring your work. Too easy.

"Abel, stand to the right, in front of me. Cain, to the left." They obeyed without question, their movements fluid, eager to see where this was going. The way they adjusted their stances, the way their eyes never left yours—it was almost laughable how predictable they were.

Abel smirked as he looked you over, a knowing glint in his gaze. "And what about you?" he asked, voice dipping into something lower, something teasing. "You gonna strip for us too? Or just watching?"

Your lips curled into a slow grin, eyes gleaming as you stepped closer, letting your presence pull them in further. 

Closer. Just a little more.

"Oh, I’m definitely getting undressed," you murmured, watching how their eyes trailed you. "But I want you two to do it for me." You let the words linger, letting them feel the weight of it before adding, voice smooth as silk—

"Rip my clothes right off."

Their expressions flickered—excitement, amusement, interest twisting into something sharper. Their grins widened, their bodies tensed in anticipation. They barely spared each other a glance before shifting forward, ready to take the bait.

Right where you wanted them.

And just like that—the pieces fell into place.

The woods swallowed every sound except the rustling of leaves under your feet and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing. You could hear the faint chirping of crickets, and the occasional distant hoot of an owl, but in this clearing, nothing else moved—except for the three of you.

Abel and Cain stood before you, their smirks widening, the hunger in their eyes unmistakable. 

Like lions ready to pounce.

You lifted your hands slightly, fingers curling, drawing them in. "All right, boys," you murmured, voice dropping into something sultry, teasing. "On three."

They nodded, anticipation thrumming between them.

"One."

Their muscles tensed, Abel rolling his shoulders, Cain shifting his weight.

"Two."

A flicker of something in their eyes—excitement, impatience. 

They were ready.

"Three."

The word barely left your lips before the night erupted.

CRACK.

Two gunshots shattered the fragile quiet, ringing through the trees like the voice of God itself. The impact was immediate. Abel’s smirk melted into pure shock as his body jerked, violently convulsing as the bullet struck home—right in the neck, just a breath away from his heart. 

A sick, wet gurgle bubbled up from his throat, eyes wide and uncomprehending as his knees buckled beneath him.

Then—dead weight. The forest floor held him now.

Cain hesitated, just for a heartbeat, before instincts overrode whatever stupidity had kept him standing. “Shit!” he muttered, his breath catching before his feet moved.

He ran.

And you? You laughed.

A sharp, breathless burst of amusement tore through you, so abrupt and visceral that you had to clamp a hand over your mouth, trying to stifle the sheer delight curling through your ribs. God, that was good.

Abel—pass out.

Cain—running like a scared little bitch he was.

You doubled over slightly, shoulders shaking. "Oh my god—" you wheezed between giggles, eyes flicking from Cain’s retreating figure back to Abel’s crumpled body.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Sol, who appeared from behind the tree, however, was not entertained. His sigh cut through the night like a blade, dark eyes narrowing in unmistakable irritation. "Did you miss him completely or something?" His voice carried over to you, exasperation curling around every syllable.

You tilted your head at him, still grinning beneath your fingers, breathless from laughter. "Yeah, but—" Another laugh bubbled up as you pointed at the direction Cain ran in. "Don’t worry, it was worth it just to see the look—"

"Don't move, pumpkin," Sol snapped, already turning away, his patience thin. "I’ll get him back."

He didn’t wait for your reply. His long, steady strides carried him into the trees, his dark figure melting into the shadows of the forest as if he belonged there. The gun in his hand—so much bigger than yours—glinted under the pale light filtering through the canopy, black and menacing.

With a sharp click, he cocked it.

And then—gone. Just like that.

The woods swallowed him whole, leaving you alone in the quiet aftermath, your laughter still lingering like a ghost in the cold air.

The silence wrapped around you. The wind slithered through the trees, rustling the leaves with ghostly fingers, whispering secrets you couldn’t quite catch. Somewhere in the distance, an morning dove called out—a slow, drawn-out sound that sent an eerie shiver down your spine.  

You exhaled, long and steady, but the cold still settled deep into your bones. The adrenaline that had once thrummed in your veins, hot and electric, was fading now—leaving behind something heavier. Something quieter.  

Your arms folded around yourself, a subconscious attempt at warmth.  

And then—your gaze dropped.  

Abel.

He lay sprawled on the forest floor, motionless, starkly contrasting to the wild energy that had filled the space just moments ago. His body was unnaturally still, limbs twisted where they had fallen, his mouth slightly parted as if caught mid-breath. The pool of blood beneath him was thick, seeping into the earth, dark and viscous under the slivers of moonlight breaking through the canopy.  

It looked… too dark.  

Your fingers twitched.  

His chest. Was it rising?

Your breath caught in your throat. You swore—just for a second—there had been a flicker of movement. A barely-there shift in his ribs, a whisper of breath that shouldn’t exist.  

No. That wasn’t possible.  

Sol didn’t lie to you. Right?

Your fingers curled, nails pressing into your palms. Sol knew what he was doing. He never missed. And yet…  

A sudden gust of wind swept through the trees, rustling Abel’s blood-matted hair. You flinched.  

The forest was alive with motion—branches snapping, leaves rustling, heavy footfalls pounding against the earth. The adrenaline that had begun to fade roared back to life as you listened, heart thrumming in your ears.

Oh… no.

You heard Sol from afar, “Fuckin’—hold still, asshole!” His voice rang out through the trees, frustration sharp like a knife’s edge. Cain was running like his life depended on it—because it did. His breath came ragged, his legs burning as he wove through the undergrowth, trying to lose Sol in the tangle of trees. 

But Sol was faster, relentless, his boots striking the dirt with the precision of a hunter closing in on his prey.

They circled back—Cain, desperate, Sol, determined.

And then—you.

Kneeling beside Abel’s body, frozen, watching. Cain burst into view first, panic flashing across his face as his gaze locked onto you. He skidded slightly, trying to correct his path, but the split-second hesitation cost him.

CRACK.

A gunshot ripped through the air once more. Sol had fired his gun, but the bullet barely grazed Cain’s shoulder. A clean shot was impossible—he was still moving too fast.

"Shoot!" Sol’s voice cut through the chaos, raw, commanding. His eyes snapped to yours, burning with urgency. “Fucking shoot!”

Your breath stuttered, but your fingers didn’t.

BANG.

Your gun kicked back, the force jolting up your arm, but your aim was true. The silver bullet struck Cain square in the chest. He let out a strangled sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—before his body collapsed to the ground with a dull, lifeless thud.

Everything went still. Your hands were trembling.

What have you done…?

Sol exhaled a sharp, satisfied breath. “Thank fucking god.” He strode over, as composed as ever, as if this were just another night.

You barely registered his words, your eyes locked onto Cain’s unmoving form. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading, just like Abel’s.

Sol crouched beside the body, reaching for his gun. He didn’t hesitate. With practiced ease, he placed it in Cain’s limp hand, curling his fingers around the grip. 

Then he turned to you, holding out his palm expectantly.

You stared at him.

His eyes met yours, unwavering. "Your gun, pumpkin."

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the silver weapon still warm in your grasp.

Sol’s voice softened—just slightly. 

A reminder. A reassurance. A warning.

"They shot each other, remember?"

The cold air bit at your skin, every inhale sharp, laced with the scent of damp earth and blood. Your pulse thundered a wild rhythm that refused to settle. 

The weight of what you had just done clung to you like a second skin—Cain’s body hitting the ground, the way Abel’s hand now gripped the gun Sol had placed there, the sickening realization of what you had done.

But there was no time to wait. Silly silly…

Then—sirens. Distant but growing louder. 

Your head snapped up, breath hitching. Red and blue lights flashing quick beyond the tree line, flashes of color bleeding through the dim lighting. A voice rang out, sharp and authoritative. "We got something!" Panic shot through you like ice in your veins. 

Sol moved before you could. With one smooth motion, he grabbed you—arms locked firm around your waist, hoisting you up before you could protest. "Shit—hold on, pumpkin." 

And then he ran.

Sol moved with purpose, every footstep controlled, every breath steady. It should have been impossible—how quickly he reacted, how effortlessly he carried you through the trees. He knew these woods. The paths, the turns, the dips in the earth. As if he’d studied them, traced every possible escape route long before this night.

Was it always supposed to be like this?

The voices behind you faded into the distance, but they were still there—too close. The snap of twigs, the rustling of disturbed underbrush.

They were searching for you two.

Sol didn’t slow down nor didn’t hesitate. Even as the trees thinned and the open road came into view, he kept moving, his grip unwavering, his body a shield between you and whatever threat lurked behind.

And then—you saw it.

The car you guys took, just parked just off the side of the road. Sol reached it in seconds, yanking the door open with one hand, and setting you down with the other. His movements were fluid, and practiced.

Again, like he’d done this before.

"Get in." His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something unreadable.

You hesitated, only for a second. Your hands trembled as you slid into the passenger seat, fingers gripping the edge of your clothes. The adrenaline was wearing off now, the weight of what had just happened settling in.

Sol slammed the door shut behind him, “Make out with me.” he somewhat ordered.

Your head snapped toward him, breath still uneven. “What?”

Sol had already pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere into the backseat. For the first time since the gunshot rang out, you looked at him—really looked at him. Like you don’t mean his well built body that you ever so tempted to kiss.

His jaw was tight, his brows furrowed in focus. But beneath that… there was something else. Something cold.

No fear.

No guilt.

Something far more dangerous. Satisfaction.

And that terrified you.

“Make out with me,” he repeated, reaching for you, hands already settling against your thighs. His grip was firm—assured.

Your pulse stuttered, confusion mixing with the lingering adrenaline in your veins. “Sol, this isn’t—”

“They’re coming,” he murmured, voice steady but low. “And if they see two kids sucking face instead of suspects covered in gunpowder, they won’t think twice about letting us go.”

The realization struck you like ice water.

Your stomach twisted, but you nodded.

Before you could overthink it, his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was deep, consuming. His body pressed against yours, hands sliding up your waist, heat radiating between you in the confined space. His breath was warm, lips urgent against yours, but even as he kissed you—whispering how much he loved you between every stolen gasp—something felt… off.

Like you weren’t being kissed. Like you were being swallowed.

Like this was never about love—only survival.

You let it happen anyway.

You didn’t resist when he shifted, pulling you closer, his hoodie long forgotten as your fingers tangled in his hair. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the way his touch demanded you be his—but you felt like you were losing yourself.

Then—a knock on the window.

Your entire body went rigid.

Sol moved before you could react, his arms pulling his hoodie over you, shielding you from view before his head turned, eyes flicking toward the window. The cop stood there, face already turning red as he coughed into his fist, looking anywhere but at the two of you. Sol took his time rolling the window down, his expression unreadable. “Yes?”

The officer cleared his throat, still avoiding eye contact. “Uh—gunshots were reported in the area. Just need you guys to clear out, all right?”

Sol barely blinked. “Yeah. Sure.”

The officer nodded stiffly, clearly eager to leave, but just as he turned away, his radio crackled to life. “Status update. What’s going on down there?”

“Nothing,” the cop responded quickly, walking back into the woods. “Just some young adults getting carried away. The area’s clear.” The second the officer disappeared, Sol exhaled, his body finally relaxing against the seat.

You barely moved. You could still hear your pulse in your ears.

Sol glanced at you from the driver’s seat, something smug flickering behind his eyes. He reached over, running a hand down your thigh—almost reassuring, almost possessive.

“See?” he murmured. “Told you I got you.”

You forced yourself to swallow, gripping his hoodie tighter around your body.

You weren’t sure if that was meant to make you feel better.

Your hands trembled as you looked down at them, barely recognizing the fingers, the skin, and the way they clenched into fists like they belonged to someone else. The phantom weight of the gun still pressed against your palm, and the recoil still echoed in your bones.

“Take me home,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sol’s hands tightened on the wheel, his knuckles flexing before he turned to you. “Pumpkin…” His voice was low, coaxing, but you felt the shift—the tension rolling off him, the way he wasn’t going to let you just leave this moment behind.

You turned your face away, but he didn’t let you go.

His hands found you, firm and insistent. He pulled you into his lap with an effortless motion, trapping you there, his grip pressing against your face, forcing you to look at him. His skin was fever-warm, his fingers splayed against your jaw as he tilted your head up.

And then—he saw himself.

Tears streaked your cheeks, glistening against your skin. Your lips parted, breath hitching, but Sol’s grip didn’t loosen.

Your chest burned. Your body shook.

And then it snapped.

“WE KILLED THEM.” Your voice cracked, raw, and unfiltered. “We fucking killed Abel and Cain, Sol!”

He didn’t flinch.

You shoved at his chest, but he held you still. “And you—” Your breath hitched as a new wave of realization struck you like a gunshot to the ribs. “You tricked me once again, unaware.”

Sol’s eyes flickered.

Your fingers curled around his wrists, digging in.

“At the start, you switched my drink,” you spat, voice trembling with fury. “You—fucking—switched my hangover drink for BLUE CLEANER.” Your voice cracked again, but you didn’t care. “You fucking LIED to me. And now—after everything—all you want to do is make out with me?”

Sol exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. “Yes.”

“ECHT LUGER BULLETS, SOL.” Your breath hitched as the weight of your own words crushed down on you.

Sol tilted his head, studying you, his expression unreadable. But then—his eyes softened, and he smiled, just barely. “Look,” he murmured, voice almost affectionate, too calm. “You believed it because you wanted to believe it.”

His fingers brushed over your cheek, catching the tears before they could fall further. “Deep down, pumpkin, you wanted to kill your bitch-ass leader.” His voice dipped, smooth, persuasive. 

“You wanted Abel and Cain dead.”

You snapped. “I DIDN’T WANT ANYONE TO DIE!” You pushed against his chest, your heart hammering against your ribs, breath coming too fast, too sharp. “I just—I just wanted to be free. I just wanted to stop feeling like I was constantly being judged—”

Sol clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Everywhere you go,” he murmured, “there are gonna be judgmental people.”

You glared at him, but the fire in your chest—rage, grief, something deeper, something unspoken—twisted into something unrecognizable. It burned, spreading through your ribs like a sickness, clawing at your throat.

And then—your breath hitched.

Because he was smiling.

Not in amusement. Not in triumph. But in something far worse.

His red-orange eyes gleamed, the heart-shaped pupils wide, blown out with something dangerous, something devoted. It wasn’t quite love, wasn’t quite insanity, but something in between.

Something unshakable.

His fingers brushed against your throat, slow, deliberate. A soft touch—contrasting the brutal weight of his presence. Then, a curl.His knuckles dragged over your pulse, feeling it race beneath your skin. Then, his fingers twisted into your rosemary necklace, tugging.

Not enough to hurt.

Not enough to choke.

Just enough to pull you forward, to leave you breathless, to let his warmth settle against your lips. His breath, hot and steady, ghosted over your skin.

“Our love,” he whispered, voice silk and steel, “is God, after all.”

Your whole body went still. The words wrapped around you like chains, thick, heavy—drowning you. The air between you suffocated. The weight of his devotion pressed down, crushing, inescapable. 

There was no running. No fighting.

Not anymore.

Your hands—your hands.

The same hands you once swore to keep clean, the same hands that once trembled in prayer, the same hands that clutched at salvation—

Tainted. Drenched. Bloody.

Sol moved before you could think before you could stop him. His lips crashed against yours, demanding, consuming—claiming.

There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in his movements. He kissed you with purpose, with finality, like sealing a deal that had long been written in blood.

His hands gripped you, firm, one curling into your hair, the other splaying against the small of your back, pressing you against him. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip, coaxing a gasp, and he took it, and swallowed it like he needed it to breathe. Like you were his oxygen, his altar, his sacrament.

You didn’t move.

You let him.

Because at the end of the day—

This was your fault.

You had dragged yourself into this hell, into his hands, into his arms. The weight of it all pressed against your skin like a brand, burning, permanent. There was no undoing it. No redemption. No salvation.

You and Sol were tied together by God. 

A twisted, cruel god—one that had abandoned you the moment you took that first step into damnation. 

Once, you had been an angel.

A believer.

The rosary beads dug into your palm, their familiar ridges offering no comfort now—not when his heat surrounded you, not when his hands knew your body better than prayer ever had. You had whispered Ave Marias in the dark, trembling fingers clutching at faith like a lifeline. 

But faith was a fragile thing, and the devil—Sol was real.

His breath was hot against your throat, his lips tracing the frantic pulse beneath your skin as if savoring the way your heart raced for him.

Only for him.

The car was too small, the world outside too distant. There was only this: the weight of his cock deep inside you, the sinful roll of his hips dragging a broken sound from your lips.

"Look at you," he murmured, "All those pretty prayers, and yet here you are—riding the devil himself."

You should have recoiled. 

Should have crossed yourself and begged for forgiveness.

Instead, you arched into his touch, his name a plea on your tongue.

His fingers tightened on your hips, guiding you, using you, his groan vibrating against your mouth as you took him deeper. The rosary tangled between your joined hands, the sacred and the profane colliding—just like the two of you.

"Fuck," he hissed, teeth grazing your jaw, his breath hot, ragged. His hands dug into your hips, possessive, unrelenting. "Still so tight. Still fighting it."

But you weren’t fighting.

Not anymore.

Every slow, deliberate drag of him inside you unraveled another thread of your resolve, another carefully constructed lie you’d told yourself.

That you were strong. That you were good.

That you could walk away from this. From him.

Sol’s laugh was soft, triumphant, curling against your skin as your thighs trembled around him. His grip tightened—possessive, knowing. "There it is," he purred, swallowing the moan you couldn’t bite back, lips crashing against yours in something more than hunger. More than needed.

It was devotion.

And God help you—so were you.

Because what was the point of fighting anymore?

You tried. At least, you told yourself you did. A half-hearted rebellion as you arched against him as if the space between you would bring back something you had already lost.

But Sol was faster. Stronger. His hands caught you—iron and unyielding. "Don't run from me, pumpkin..." he growled, dragging you back into him.

You gasped the stretch burning, the pleasure a sharp edge that bordered on pain. Your nails dug into his shoulders, desperate, as if you could claw your way free. As if you hadn’t already made your choice.

But your body betrayed you.

Betrayed you in how it clenched around him, pulled him deeper, and welcomed the very thing that had ruined you. His laugh was low, smug. Victorious. "That’s it. No one takes me like you do. Such a pretty angel...”

The words twisted inside you like a knife.

You weren’t an angel. Not anymore.

Your rosemary wasn’t stopping him. God wasn’t stopping him.

God wasn’t saving you.

Because your body—was already left in the hands of the devil.

[callsign-swan]

Into The Maw Of The Beast

Chapter Five

The beast comes to collect a girl from your village every year. When you are chosen, you don't realise that the beast is a man. A man under a curse that only you can break.

A beauty and the beast retelling

Warnings: Injury

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Six

Atop Nino, you rode that path that Charles had pointed you down. The one that would take you back to your village.

In all the years that Max had been taking girls from your village, he had never let one go before. You were the first, the first to survive, the first to return.

They would welcome you. They would throw a banquet, celebrate you, surely. The entire village would be happy to see one of their own returned to them. You had no reason to doubt that, you had no reason to be scared. 

If your village does not accept you, follow the path back to us.

Your village was just ahead, just in view. You turned your head, looked back towards the castle. But it was hidden behind a dense woodland.

She missed it, missed the castle. For a grand building, she really was sweet.

The lanterns of the village lit your path. You patted Nino's neck as the two of you walked into the village.

Everything stopped.

You looked at the faces of the people you knew, the people you grew up around. Offering waves, you rode Nino on towards your parents house.

A call of your name had you stopping Nino and searching for the owner of the voice.

Carlos. He was just as pretty as the day you left. His gorgeous, brown eyes held concern as he looked at you and called your name again. Carlos, the man you were supposed to marry. Maybe now you could.

"How are you here?" He asked as he took you in. You looked different, your clothes finer than what you had been wearing the day the beast had taken you. "How are you still alive?"

He held Nino's reins, but Nino put his ears back. You shushed him as you patted his neck, trying to calm him down. "He let me leave," you said and took your feet out of the stirrups. But you didn't jump out of the saddle, listening to the voice in the back of your head telling you to wait.

"The beast did not kill you?" He asked and you shook your head. "Then he is unhappy with our sacrifice." Carlos stepped back, his face morphing into something that terrified you. "Or, this is a test. This is a test and the beast wants us to kill you!" He cried.

***

Max ignored his mirror, but it called to him. It glowed gold with the promise of showing him exactly what he wanted to see.

You. You, no longer in his castle. You, happy in your village. You, longer on his arm. You, happy.

A snarl was pulled from his lips as he picked up the mirror and held it in his large, paw-like hands. "Show me her," he growled out.

The mirror showed him you. You patted Nino's neck as you rode through the woods. Too far away to see the castle, but the village was so close.

"Show me her future."

The image in the mirror changed again. But it became something familiar. Your hand on his arm as you gazed at him, at his monster form with so much love in your eyes. Fuck, your future hadn't changed. Still condemned to a life with him, even though he had sent you away.

Another growl as he put the mirror down. It was simple; he wouldn't allow you back. If the castle kept her gates shut, he would never get the chance to have you on his arm.

But Max knew it wasn't as simple as that. The castle loved you. The Castle wanted you here, wanted you by his side. The castle wasn't going to keep you out. Almost like the castle knew what was best for Max.

Max tried to distract himself. He stepped off of the balcony of his tattered bedroom, his wings stretching out from his back, and flew up to the top of the turret.

It used to be his kingdom. Before his curse, his ruled over everything. The village to the North, now empty, now ruins. It had been his doing, the ruins. The Northern village had been smart enough to leave as soon as the curse overtook him. And Max lost it, testing out his newfound strength to destroy everything in sight.

And then there was your village. Half farm land, half fishermen exploring the sea. Your village had been picked for him, the place he would find a new girl every year.

He didn't move his gaze to the next village.

You were there, with Nino. The sweetest horse in his stable, he knew Nino would take care of you. Nino would have taken you back to your village, back to your family.

Pain went through him. You shouldn't have been there. You should have been with him. In his castle, where he could protect you from anybody who dared to harm you.

But he shook his head.

He didn't want to think that way about you. You were just some girl from the village, some girl who would have died if he didn't let you go. He saved your life.

Didn't he?

He released an audible breath through his nostrils. An uneasy feeling settled in his gut as he kept watching your village. Something felt... wrong. Something made his hairs stand on end.

Flying back down to his bedroom, Max landed on the balcony. He stalked towards the mirror and picked it up. It was hot, vibrating in his hands. "Show me her," he said quickly.

The mirror glowed golden before it showed you.

A man held Nino's reins. That alone had Max growling. He watched as the man, as handsome as he was, stepped away from you, a scowl on his face.

Immediately, you looked scared.

But Max kept watching. He watched as other villagers stepped towards you, drawing their weapons. Knives, a sword of two, but mostly things that would bludgeon you. Mallets, clubs, all things that would do you so much harm.

Fuck.

"Nino!" He cried.

The mirror showed the horse turning, as if he had heard Max's cry. In desperation, you grasped his mane as Nino galloped. He needed no direction, carrying you along the path that led back to the castle.

Fuck, you looked so scared, a sight Max never wanted to see. But you let Nino carry you away, carry you back to the castle, back towards him.

Even a knock at his door couldn't pull him away from you. The door opened, but Max kept his gaze fixed on you, his wings stretching out behind him. Ready to save you, ready to destroy the men in your village to keep you safe.

"What's happening?" Charles asked quickly as he strode across the room.

Max threw the mirror down. "She's in danger," he said quickly, marching towards the balcony.

Immediately, Charles rushed towards the mirror. He picked it up and took in the image presented to him. "Fuck," he hissed, watching as Nino carried you away. He was a swift horse. If Charles's own horse, Leo, had been carrying you, he would have stopped to kick out, would have put you both in danger.

But Nino carried you away. Loyal to Max, he took you back towards the castle. Charles watched as the villagers gave up the chase, falling too far behind. "Wait," Charles said as Max spread his wings. "They're backing off."

A shuddering breath left his lips as he folded his leathery wings towards his back. "She's safe?" He asked.

"She's nearly at the castle," Charles informed him.

Nearly at the castle. Nearly safe. Nearly under Max's protection once again.

"Oh fuck!" Charles suddenly hissed. He quickly looked at Max as he turned towards him, his face drained of any colour. "She's outside of the gates. Go!"

Max didn't ask what happened. He didn't care what Charles had seen in the mirror, just knew that he needed to get to you. He didn't know that the wolves surrounded you as Nino slowed, exhausted from his run back to the castle.

Immediately, his eyes flew back. He tried to turn, to run you to safety again, but the wolves surrounded him.

You slipped from his back, unlatched your saddle bag as quickly as you could, and swung it at the wolves. It hit the closest one with such force that it stumbled back.

But that only served to make the wolves angry.

Fear filled you as you held the saddle bag against your chest, stepping back towards Nino. The wolves seemed to foam at the mouth as they growled at you, ready to sink their teeth into your flesh and rip skin from bone.

Their growls seemed to get louder as they got closer. They knew they had you in their trap, knew they could take their time with you.

"I'm sorry," you cried, voice hurried as you grabbed Nino's reins. The entire pack surrounded the both of you. There was nowhere to get him out. "I'm sorry, sweet boy."

One of the wolves lunged. It threw itself at you, lunging towards you, ready to sink it's sharp teeth into the flesh of your ankles, to drag you to the floor and twist until you had no chance to get away.

But it never got the chance.

A large hand, with claws and furs, grabbed the wolf's tail before it could get to you. He was growling low, eyes flashing an icy blue as he pulled the wolf away from you.

"Mine," he growled, stalking towards you.

But the wolves didn't back away just yet. There were more of them; they could take him down no problem.

The first wolf lunged. Max knocked him out of the way just as another two lunged. He caught one by the throat, but the other grabbed his leg and sank its teeth it. "Fuck!" He roared and kicked the wolf away.

It realised a cry as it flew back. Max threw the other wolf down.

More lunged for him.

"Get on him!" Max roared as he turned to you.

Your heart was in your throat as you watched him. Frozen in fear, you kept could move nothing but your eyes. "Now! Go!" Max shouted him as more wolves jumped on him.

But you couldn't do that. You couldn't jump on Nino and ride through the castle gates without him.

You swung your saddle bag again. It hit a wolf, knocking it off of Max. The wolf released a whine, but it turned its attention to you. You swung the saddle bag again, hitting the wolf again. Harder, this time. Hard enough for the wolf to back away from you.

You kept going. You swung your saddle bag and hit a few more wolves, knocking them away from Max. You got them away from him enough for him to throw them away, for his wolf to send them scarpering.

Max looked at you, his eyes furious. "Why didn't you go?" He said through a growl, stepping towards you. His fur was matted with blood.

You looked at him, your eyes moving to every wound. Every bit of fur that the wolves had pulled from his body, every wound that was red and angry. "Fuck," you whispered as you approached him. There was a nasty wound, clear ripping teeth marks in the junction where his shoulder met his neck.

Behind you, the castle gates swung open. "Can you walk?" You asked, your voice shaking.

Max released a grunt as he stepped. He hissed and squeezed his blue eyes shut. "Nino!" You cried, grabbing his reins. You tugged him towards Max. "Put your weight on him," you said quickly. "Let him take you back to the castle."

He looked at you, chest heaving. "You get on him," he said, trying to stand a little straighter. "I'll walk."

"No, you won't."

The conviction in your voice was unexpected, had him pausing. Your heart was beating so fast, but you kept going.

"You're going to let Nino carry you and I'm going to walk beside you." You raised your chin at him, as if daring him to argue with you.

Finally, Max placed his arm over Nino's back. He looked at you, trying to convey fury on his face. But it fell short.

You grabbed Nino's reins and clicked your tongue. Nino walked forward and Max took a step, pain on his face. But he looked at you, made sure you were walking with them.

He tried to let you go once. He wasn't going to let you go again.

For a few steps, it was silent. You kept hold of Nino while Max rested on him, soaking both of their fur with blood. In only a few hours, he would be human again, and the extent of his injuries would be revealed to the both of you.

"What happened when you got to your village?" Max asked as you stepped through the gates.

They swung shut behind you. You swallowed at looked at him. His pretty blue eyes were on you, so much softer than they were a moment ago. "They thought it was a test," you mumbled as you looked at the ground in front of you. "They thought you sent me home as a test, that you wanted them to kill me to prove their loyalty or something."

Max sucked in a breath. "That isn't the truth," he said as you got to the castle steps. That was as far as Nino could go, unable to take him into the castle. Slipping from his back, Max, released a sharp breath as he rested against the steps. "I sent you back to your village to try and save you from what awaited you here."

"What awaits for me here?" You asked him.

For a terrifying moment, he was silent. Just looking at you, looking at the way your hand moved over Nino's cheek. He couldn't let anything hurt you. He closed his eyes and looked away before he said, "Me."

Your breath hitched, but you didn't back away. Stopping yourself from stroking Nino's cheek, your entire attention was on him. He loved it. He hated it. "Are you going to hurt me?" You asked. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw someone leave the castle.

Max dropped your gaze as you passed Nino's reins to Liam. He didn't sick around for the rest of the exchange, didn't stick around to hear Max say, "No."

"Good," you said, striding towards him. You placed his arm over your shoulders and did your best to help him to his feet. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Taglist: @flightmedictrace @hc-dutch @stressed-cherry @star73807-blog @efoxie @hott1es @easy4 @aykxz98 @vivisburner @edgyficuselastica @evermoreandroyalblue @rayaskoalaland @gsaintt @storminacloud @thecolorpearl05 @fastandcurious16 @hollie911 @b0nesandgh0sts @kath-666 @lorena-mv33 @maxswhore33 @felicityforyou @fangirlmusicbiashoe @shelbyteller @honethatty12

[sunseed-fandump]

owo! Now i wanna know what the bad batch think about the ancients individually, (mostly dad vanilla, he’s gonna be so stressed)

Hollyberry Cookie The kids had actually plotted to try stealing her Soul Jam first, as her son and daughter-in-law had already gathered a good portion of the Soul Jam’s fragments. Thus, Wild Strawberry Cookie reluctantly entered the Princess Contest in an attempt to get close to the shield and snatch it during the ball. (She actually got really far!) Unfortunately, the Dragon went berserk and the Lost Queen-mother returned to her Kingdom and took up her shield once more.

While Gingerbrave enjoys the general rowdiness of the country itself, he can’t help but wonder why the royal family even bothers ruling if the Queen-mother and its fair princess are never around. King Royal Berry Cookie is a total pushover and Queen Jungleberry Cookie is competent, but even she can’t hold an entire country together by herself. From the kids’ outlook, the Hollyberry Royal Family value their power over others and take it and their subjects for granted. Clearly, a family can’t be that good if they’re always abandoning each other, and a ruler can’t be that good if they’re constantly leaving their kingdom behind. Wild Strawberry especially does not appreciate the seeming lack of loyalty.

Dark Cacao Cookie He’s definitely the biggest tyrant in the kids’ opinions, due to his country’s strict traditions and laws. They saw how he was letting his country wither in favor of bolstering the Wall, and weren’t impressed with the many ruined villages they saw. Combine that with his habit of social exclusivity towards outsiders, Dark Cacao hasn’t exactly painted the best picture of himself.

Even though he’s since taken up his sword once again and has rid himself of Affogato’s influence, the kids still don’t regard him highly. After all, what kind of king restricts his own soldiers from eating sweets?! He’s depriving his people!!! And he calls THEM evil? Ridiculous. Unfortunately, their plan to steal the Soul Jam was sabotaged by Licorice Cookie and Pomegranate Cookie’s interference, what with calling forth the horrors of the Licorice Sea and Pomegranate cursing the King. However, Dark Choco earned a few points with them by leaving Dark Enchantress behind.

Golden Cheese Cookie It doesn’t matter if greed is considered a good thing in her kingdom, Golden Cheese Cookie is so terribly selfish! Their trip to this Kingdom infuriated Gingerbrave, who views her actions as no better than his Witch. He’s been broken to pieces and brought back over and over, and sees the Golden City as a twisted version of what happened to him on a massive scale. How dare she not allow the dead to rest. How dare they have to be subjected to a fake reality at the whim of a self-proclaimed goddess, just because she’s too childish to mourn and move on.

And what would she do to those who acted against her? Reprogram them? Erase them? Well the kids definitely saw how well Smoked Cheese’s attempt at a coup went. Even now, she refuses to let “her” cookies go as her Kingdom sleeps in Soulcheeses. Golden Cheese sees her subjects as objects, something to hoard and do with however she pleases; even to deny them the peace of death. Gingerbrave can’t stand her as a result.

White Lily Cookie As the only Ancient to not have an established Kingdom (at least up until the events of Beast-Yeast), the kids didn’t really know what to make of her. At least, that’s until Wild Strawberry informed the boys of who White Lily Cookie eventually became in other timelines, Dark Enchantress Cookie. The so called Hero of Freedom, becoming the very tyrant they’re rivaling within the race to obtain the Soul Jam.

The kids see White Lily Cookie as a weakling and hypocrite as a result, though they remain ignorant as to how she fell to Darkness in the first place. She must have decided the world didn’t deserve true freedom, and turned into a controlling maniac as a result. Thus, they don’t trust her as far as they can throw her.

Pure Vanilla Cookie Hooooo boy PV. The kids are especially prickly with him. Gingerbrave doesn’t like the fact that a single healing spell from the vanilla king could turn him to ashes. Azure Wizard doesn’t like that his Light magic and high skill level allows PV to dispel a lot of his dark spells. Wild Strawberry doesn’t like his gentle demeanor and kind personality, as she thinks it's just a farce.

They had sought out the Vanilla Kingdom to learn its secrets and advanced magical knowledge, and wound up inadvertently mixed up in the Waffle Bot attacks. It was Healer Cookie who had saved them and brought them back to the Raisin Village for treatment. Despite the villagers’ clear distrust and distaste for the kids, it was Healer who defended them and allowed them to stay. It wasn’t until he was revealed to be Pure Vanilla Cookie that the kids grew hostile, as it was his actions during the War that caused a lot of problems.

He strives for “truth” and “happiness” for all cookies. Well, too little too late, in the kids’ opinions. The truth is the world is a deeply hurtful and terrible place, and Pure Vanilla is willingly blind to it. 

Everyone is so quick to sing the Heroes praises, to show them kindness, understanding, and love. Well where was “kindness” when Gingerbrave was treated like a freak? Where was “understanding” when Wizard had to resort to dark magic to save his own life? Where was “love” when Strawberry was abandoned to rot in a random timeline with no way of returning? Where were ANY heroes when the kids called for help?

There’s no such thing as heroes. Just really good liars propped up on pedestals of fool’s gold.

[cooking-with-hailstones]

The Path to Paradise, The Road to Ruin

A Tears of the Kingdom retelling of the Dragon's Tears memories

Rated T

Beta-read by @rebeccabobecca

Zelda x Ganondorf

Chapter 7: Awash in Golden Light

“I’m going for a swim,” she declared. Trying not to overthink this spontaneous decision, she stripped off her silk outer dress, down to her linen chemise. She draped the green silk over a low oak branch, setting her ornate Zonai jewelry and the ruby circlet at the base of the tree, and splashed out into the water, diving headlong into it as soon as she got past the reedy bank. The water enveloped her with its coolness, and she sagged with relief. The chill of the water eased something of the strange, sudden fever and washed away some of the day’s heat. She resurfaced to find Ganondorf on his feet by the shoreline, looking a little bit flushed, and definitely panicked.  “Zelda! What are you doing?!” he hissed, careful not to raise his voice too loud and attract any unwanted attention. “I’m… swimming?” she said, kicking lazily across the slow-moving current.

[dollyswishingwell]

just reread your crybaby MC hcs and it made me feel sooo fluffy i need more plz plz plz i’m begging even just a part two 🥺💕

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ His crybaby P.2

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluffff, dramatic ness as always

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ He will always comfort you

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The moment it shattered, it was like the air was knocked from your lungs.

You stood there in the center of your gilded sea-view kitchen, frozen, staring down at the beautiful ivory-and-gold bowl now cracked tragically on the floor. Your favorite one from your Mariposa Rosé collection, the one Rafayel had custom-ordered from an eccentric island designer just because you said it looked “like a seashell that belonged to a princess.”

Your bottom lip quivered.

You didn’t even mean to drop it, you just got distracted scrolling through accessories for your new silk robe set, and then it slipped. One second, it was in your hands, and the next,

Snap. Crack. Shatter.

A sob bubbled up in your chest like a wounded little kitten.

You crouched beside the porcelain ruins with wide, glossy eyes, fingers trembling as you whispered,

“No… my bowl… it’s ruined… it’s all ruined… the whole set is ruined—”

And just like that, the tears welled up. Huge, glittering, spoiled tears spilling down your pretty cheeks.

By the time Rafayel appeared—drawn by your quiet, pathetic wail, he found you crouched on the floor in your frilly pink house robe, sobbing softly and pawing helplessly at the pieces like a princess mourning a fallen kingdom.

“Baby?” he blinked, dropping the novel he was reading. “What happened? Did something—did someone—hurt you—?”

You pointed dramatically at the broken bowl.

He followed your gaze. Then blinked again.

“…That’s it?” he said, baffled. “That’s what has my little pearlie crying like the world ended?”

“It’s not just a bowl,” you sniffled, crawling toward him on your hands and knees like a sulky little cat. “It was my favorite, Raffy. It’s from the seaside rose line, now the whole set is off. You can’t just have five bowls! It’s—it’s cursed now!”

He barely managed to suppress a grin, crouching to meet you and pulling you into his lap with a sigh.

“My dramatic little darling,” he cooed, rubbing your back with slow, soothing strokes. “You break a single dish and suddenly the whole home is haunted.”

You swatted his chest half-heartedly with your little fists. “Don’t tease me! I’m upset!”

“I know, I know,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your eye gently. “I can see you’re devastated. Absolutely tragic.”

You sniffled harder and collapsed into him. “Raffy… I really liked that one… It was so pretty. I was gonna make fruit salad in it for you tonight…”

“Oh, that I care about,” he teased, though his voice was already soft with guilt and fondness. “No fruit salad? That is a crime.”

You whimpered and buried your face into his neck, clinging to him with both arms like the big strong comfort plushie he always became when you were sad.

“Shhh,” he murmured into your hair, rocking you just slightly. “Don’t pout, little crybaby. I’ll call the designer in the morning, hmm? We’ll get another full set. Or two. One to use and one just to look pretty on the shelf.”

“Y-You promise?” you hiccupped.

Rafayel smiled, cradling your cheeks between his hands and kissing the tip of your nose.

“I’ll do one better,” he said smugly. “I’ll have him name the next set after you.”

Your eyes lit up through your tears. “Like… the wifey Collection?”

“Exactly,” he purred. “Inspired by the prettiest little housewife in the world. Comes in pink. Exclusive. Only one exists. No touching allowed unless you’re married to her.”

You blinked. Then flung your arms around his neck again with a squeaky, dramatic wail:

“You’re the only one who understands meee!”

He chuckled warmly, carrying you off the kitchen floor like you were fine china yourself.

“No more touching dishes, angel,” he murmured against your ear. “From now on, you’re banned from the kitchen. I’ll do all the cooking. Or we’ll just hire another chef. You can sit on the counter and look pretty while I feed you grapes.”

You sniffled. “…Okay.”

He grinned. “That’s my good little baby.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

It was supposed to be a peaceful evening. Zayne had just gotten home from the hospital, white coat off, sleeves rolled up, shirt half-unbuttoned as he moved around the estate’s sleek kitchen preparing tea for the two of you while you fussed with plating pastries on your beloved designer tea set.

The Porcelaine Blanche d’Étoile collection. Limited edition. You made him fly you to the private showroom in Italy to pick it out.

And then you dropped the plate.

It slipped right through your freshly moisturized fingers.

The crash echoed through the marble like a thunderclap.

Zayne’s head snapped around immediately, but you were already frozen, arms outstretched, eyes wide, looking down at the shattered porcelain with horror like you’d just witnessed a crime scene.

“Z-Zaynie,” you whispered in despair. “I broke it…”

He was already walking over, concern in his eyes, until he saw it was just a plate. Then he stopped short, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a small exhale.

“Angel. It’s just one dish—”

“No it’s not!” your voice cracked.

And then your lip trembled. Your cheeks flushed. And just like that, you were crying.

“Now the whole set’s ruined—” you hiccupped as fat tears began to trail down your cheeks. “It’s not complete anymore and I can’t look at it without seeing this stupid, ugly gap and, and the pattern won’t line up now and—I liked that one the most! It had the starburst mark right in the middle…”

Zayne blinked. Slowly.

Then sighed.

“Of course it did.”

You whimpered louder, kneeling dramatically beside the shattered remains in your silken robe like a weepy widow. “It’s not fair! That set was perfect… now it’s cursed, tainted, ruined—”

“Okay, come here.” He reached for you, scooping you up into his lap right there on the kitchen floor. “You’ll give yourself a nosebleed if you cry any harder over porcelain.”

“But Zaaaayne,” you sobbed, burying your face into his shirt. “I can’t just replace it, it’s limited edition!”

Zayne rubbed slow circles into your back, letting you sob into his chest as he cradled your tiny frame with the same steady gentleness he used in the OR. His voice was low, calm, but tinged with the smallest amused sigh, because this? This was classic you.

“Okay,” he murmured into your hair, “I’ll call the curator at the Milan showroom. You’re still on their private list, right?”

“I don’t know!” you wailed. “What if they’re sold out? What if they’re gone forever?!”

“Then I’ll find the original artist and commission a new one,” he said flatly, already mentally pulling strings. “A better one. With a reinforced edge. And your initials engraved.”

You peeked up at him through wet lashes. “Really?”

Zayne brushed your hair gently behind your ear and leaned in to kiss the tears from your cheeks.

“Of course,” he said softly. “I don’t care if you break every dish in this house. You’re still my spoiled little wife. I’ll replace them all ten times over if it keeps that pretty pout off your face.”

You sniffled. “…Ten times?”

He gave a low hum. “At least. Though if you break another one in the next 48 hours, I’m bubble-wrapping the entire kitchen.”

You let out a soft whine and pressed into his chest like a needy kitten, arms looping tightly around his waist.

“Cuddle me until I forget it happened.”

“You’re not moving until morning,” he muttered, already standing with you in his arms. “I’ll bring the pastries to bed. You can eat off my chest if you’re scared of plates now.”

You mumbled, sleepy and teary and spoiled:

“…You’re the best.”

He kissed your temple with a low exhale and whispered against your skin:

“I know, baby. I know.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

The cup slipped from your fingers while you were showing it off.

You had just spent the whole morning twirling around the penthouse in your soft, lace-trimmed robe, gently rearranging the display cabinet Xavier had custom-built just for your Mythic Dream tea set. It was whimsical and elegant and sparkly and rare, hand-painted in shimmering moonlight hues with little dream creatures on every piece.

You were holding your favorite one, the lavender-and-blue cup with the little winged rabbit on it, and twirling as you told Xavier exactly what dessert you were planning to match it with.

And then it was gone.

One slip.

Clink. Crack. Shatter.

You froze. The smile dropped off your face.

Your heart sank with it.

“…Bunnycup,” you whispered, staring in disbelief at the porcelain wreckage on the polished marble. “I—I dropped my Bunnycup…”

From his place lounging on the couch with his datapad, Xavier looked up slowly, head tilted.

“…You dropped what?”

“My favorite one,” you said breathlessly, your voice wobbling. “It’s gone. It’s dead. She’s gone.”

“…Oh,” he said, blinking slowly.

You turned away from him abruptly, crouched in front of the shattered piece like a mourning widow. Your eyes brimmed with tears. You looked at it like you were at a funeral.

“I dropped her. She was the prettiest one. And now she’s dead and the whole cabinet is cursed and—” you sniffled, “I was gonna make violet cake for her…”

You let out the softest broken sob.

Xavier stared.

Then carefully set his datapad down.

“…Wait, are you crying?”

You didn’t answer. Your sniffles got louder.

“Starlight?”

You wailed louder and flopped down fully onto the rug beside the wreckage, tearfully hiding your face in your sleeves.

He was beside you in seconds, sliding down to his knees with furrowed brows and frantic hands.

“Did it cut you? Are you hurt?”

“No,” you hiccupped. “I’m emotional! That was my favorite cup and now she’s gone! Her little bunny face is in shards—I named her!”

Xavier stared at the broken porcelain. Then at you.

“…You named it?”

“Her name was Cloudia!” you cried.

He blinked again. Then let out a helpless little breath and pulled you fully into his lap, tucking your head under his chin.

“Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this was a funeral.”

“It is!”

“I’ll make arrangements.”

You sniffled.

He gently rocked you back and forth, eyes closing as he pressed soft kisses to the crown of your head.

“I’ll buy another,” he murmured. “A whole new set. No. Ten sets. All the bunnies. And wings. I’ll have someone make a sculpture of her. I’ll frame the shards. I’ll turn it into a shrine in the hallway.”

“R-Really?” you whimpered.

Xavier looked deadly serious. “I’ll build a moonlit garden in her honor.”

You hiccupped, peeking up at him through damp lashes.

“…I love you so much,” you whispered.

He cradled your cheeks in his hands, brushing away a tear with his thumb and kissing it.

“You are the most beautiful, sensitive, dramatic little thing I’ve ever loved,” he whispered back. “And I will mourn Bunnycup with you forever.”

You flopped into his chest again.

“Carry me to bed and feed me chocolate.”

He exhaled softly, lifting you with ease. “Consider it done, starlight.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

It happened during your ‘princess-core living room redecoration’ phase.

You’d decided one of the shelves needed to be “balanced” with something tall and whimsical, so Sylus (without question) had acquired an absolutely obnoxious but stunning vase: a slender rose-gold and opal heirloom piece from a royal estate, one of a kind, rumored to be enchanted. It had vines carved into the neck, subtle gold leafing, and shimmered like it had moonlight trapped in the glass.

You loved that vase.

And you shattered it trying to scoot the couch two inches to the left.

You didn’t even realize it was tipping over until it was already mid-air. Time slowed. You gasped, reaching for it like a damsel in a slow-motion tragedy,

CRASH.

You stood there frozen, socked feet on velvet rugs, clutching a throw pillow and staring at the sparkling ruin.

The shock hit first.

Then the guilt.

Then came the tears.

“Noooo…” you whispered, trembling as you dropped to your knees. “No, no, no… Sylus is gonna kill me, that was one of a kind!!”

Cue your dramatics. Full sobs. Teary gasps. Hiccupping into your hands as you wailed over the broken vase like it had been your childhood pet.

“I ruined it! It was so beautiful! It’s all my fault, now it’s goooone—!”

By the time Sylus entered the room, he found you on your knees, surrounded by glittering glass, hair slightly messy, cheeks wet, looking like a tragic little heiress from some tear-soaked opera scene.

He blinked.

Paused.

Then said, flatly:

“…You’re crying over the vase?”

You wailed harder.

Sylus sighed, unamused. “Darling. It’s a vase.”

“It was the prettiest one in the whole world!” you sobbed. “You said it was enchanted! I was gonna name it after us, put roses in it, now it’s gone forever and the whole room is unbalanced!!”

“Unbalanced,” he repeated, deadpan.

“I’m emotionally devastated,” you hiccupped.

A beat of silence.

And then his composure cracked.

He walked over in slow, deliberate steps, crouched in front of you, and tilted your chin up with his gloved fingers.

“Poor little thing,” he murmured, eyes glinting. “Is this how the world ends? Because your vase broke?”

You pouted at him with wet lashes and cried louder.

He chuckled darkly under his breath, kissed your pouty lips, then scooped you right off the floor like you were a little doll.

“You are the most dramatic creature I’ve ever loved,” he whispered, nuzzling your tear-streaked cheek. “You realize I could buy the entire estate that vase came from, yes?”

“But that vase is goooone—!”

“Then I’ll steal it back from the past,” he said, amused. “Or bribe the artist’s descendant to make you ten better ones. We’ll fill every corner of this house with glittering, gaudy glass. You’ll drown in roses and sparkle, my little crier.”

You sniffled against his chest.

He settled onto the settee with you curled in his lap, stroking your hair with idle fingers.

“Next time, call someone to move furniture,” he muttered, though there was no real bite in it. “You’re not allowed to cry unless you’re breaking someone else’s things. Understood?”

You looked up at him miserably. “…You’re not mad?”

He leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“No,” he said. “But only because watching you weep like some grief-stricken little princess might be the most entertaining thing I’ve seen all week.”

You whined, burying your face deeper into his expensive silk shirt.

“I want five vases. All pink.”

“Ten. And I’ll commission a painting of the broken one to hang above the fireplace. ‘The Fall of Opal,’ starring my very fragile little wife.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You were just trying to make him breakfast.

It was early. The Skyhaven penthouse was quiet, sunlight spilling across polished floors, and you, still in one of Caleb’s old black shirts with your bare legs peeking out, had just finished plating his favorite fruit on your favorite designer ceramic bowl. You were so proud. You were humming.

And then you bumped your elbow on the corner.

Crash.

The sound of shattering ceramic echoed like a gunshot.

You froze.

The bowl, the gorgeous, shimmering ceramic one from the exclusive Skyhaven artisan boutique, the one with tiny amethyst marbling, lay in pieces on the floor.

“No… no no no,” you gasped, hand flying to your mouth. “Not that one—please not that one…”

You sank slowly to your knees, devastated. The entire set had been your pride, your favorite for special mornings. And now the one with the prettiest veining was gone.

Your lip wobbled.

The tears were instant.

Caleb appeared in the doorway a few moments later, still in black sleep pants, chest bare, hair slightly tousled from bed, rubbing his eyes. “I heard something break.”

You whipped around with watery eyes, clutching your knees like a little girl.

“I broke it…”

He blinked.

“…You’re crying?”

You sniffled. “It was the prettiest bowl in the set. I was just trying to make you breakfast and now, now it’s ruined, and the rest will never look the same and I loved that bowl!”

Caleb’s entire expression changed in an instant.

The sleepy, casual look was gone.

He crossed the room fast, crouching in front of you and cupping your face.

“Did you cut yourself?”

“N-No…”

“Are you sure?” He grabbed your hands, inspecting them closely. “You’re trembling. You’re in shock. Breathe.”

You hiccupped. “I’m not in shock, I’m just, really really sad!! It was my favorite one, and now it’s shattered and ugly and the set is ruined!”

Caleb pulled you straight into his chest.

“That doesn’t matter,” he muttered, pressing a hand to the back of your head. “None of that matters. You’re okay. You’re okay. Don’t cry over something like that.”

“But I liked it,” you mumbled into his skin.

“Then I’ll buy you ten more.”

“It was limited edition.”

“I’ll commission a new set,” he said firmly. “Exactly the same. Better. Reinforced. I’ll put a standing order in with the artisan. You’ll never have to lift a hand again. You hear me, pips?”

You nodded weakly, sniffling.

He scooped you off the floor effortlessly, carried you to the couch, and wrapped you in one of the soft fleece blankets he always kept near in case you got cold. Then he sat beside you and gently tucked you into his lap like you were made of glass.

“I don’t ever want to see you cry over something like this again,” he murmured. “Things can be replaced. You can’t.”

You whimpered.

He wiped your cheek with his thumb.

“You’re not allowed to break down unless it’s me who breaks something,” he added, softer this time. “Understand?”

You nodded again, clinging to him like he was your whole planet.

“You’re not mad?”

He looked down at you, at your teary lashes, your pouty little lips, and shook his head once.

“No,” he whispered. “But I am upset.”

“Why…?”

“Because you thought I’d care more about a bowl than my wife’s tears.”

You sniffled, leaning up to kiss the side of his throat in apology

He stroked your hair slowly.

“I’ll clean it up. You stay here and cry it out in my lap. Let me take care of everything.”

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Ideas: Magical & Mystic Locations

Abyssal Depths: The deepest, darkest, and most treacherous part of the abyss.

Ancient Observatory: A centuries-old observatory with mystical stargazing abilities.

Astral Observatory: A tower where seers gaze into the astral plane.

Celestial Gauntlet: A place connecting different celestial realms.

Celestial Realm: A realm bathed in divine light and inhabited by celestial beings.

Clockwork Village: A community where clockwork automatons coexist with magic.

Cloud Castle: A fortress floating amidst the clouds, home to skyward adventurers.

Cloud City: A metropolis suspended in the clouds accessible by airships.

Cosmic Wormhole: A portal to the far reaches of the cosmos and beyond.

Crystal Caves: A labyrinthine system of caves adorned with luminescent crystals.

Crystal Coast: A stunning coastline adorned with iridescent gemstones.

Crystal Spire: A towering spire made of crystalline material.

Crystalline Caverns: A series of interconnected caverns adorned with shining crystals.

Cursed Swamp: A creepy swamp home to cursed beings.

Dark Abyss: A seemingly bottomless chasm shrouded in darkness.

Dragon's Lair: A cavernous home to a colossal, slumbering dragon.

Dragon's Nest: A safe haven for dragon eggs and their young.

Dragon's Roost: A mountaintop lair where dragons dwell and guard their hoard.

Dream Realm: A surreal realm where dreams come to life.

Dreamcatcher Grove: A grove where dreamcatchers capture and store dreams.

Dreamcatcher Trees: Trees where dreamcatchers grow, capturing the dreams of the forest.

Dwarven Mines: Underground tunnels where dwarves mine precious gemstones.

Elemental Plane: A realm where the elements take on sentient forms and powers.

Elemental Portal: A convergence point for elemental forces and magic.

Elemental Sanctuary: A sanctuary where elemental beings find refuge.

Elven Enclave: A secluded and mystical enclave of elven culture.

Elven Kingdom: An elegant realm ruled by noble and immortal elves.

Enchanted Forest: A sprawling woodland where trees whisper ancient secrets.

Enchanted Garden: A flourishing garden filled with magical, sentient plants.

Enchanted Tides: A coastal area where the tides are influenced by magic.

Enchanted Treetops: Canopy of an enchanted forest where treetop dwellings are built.

Enchanted Waterfall: A waterfall with the power to purify and heal.

Eternal Garden: A garden where time has no effect.

Ethereal Castle: A castle that materializes and dematerializes in the ethereal plane.

Fairy Ring: A circle of mushrooms where fairies gather to dance and celebrate.

Fairy Village: A charming settlement inhabited by tiny, mischievous fairies.

Fire Elemental Forge: A forge where fire elementals craft fiery weapons.

Firefly Forest: A forest where fireflies light up the night with their glow.

Floating Islands: A realm of floating landmasses suspended in the sky.

Floating Gardens: Gardens suspended in the sky, nurtured by air and magic.

Forbidden Tomb: A tomb filled with ancient curses, traps, and treasures.

Forgotten Ruins: Crumbling remains of a once-great civilization.

Ghost Ship: A spectral vessel crewed by ghostly sailors sailing eternally.

Gnome Workshop: A bustling factory where gnomes invent fantastical gadgets.

Gnomish Workshop: A lively workshop where gnomes tinker with fantastic inventions.

Goblin Kingdom: A mischievous kingdom ruled by cunning goblin royalty.

Goblin Market: A chaotic bazaar run by cunning goblins selling magical wares.

Goblin Tunnels: A network of underground tunnels and caverns inhabited by goblins.

Haunted Castle: A spectral fortress filled with restless, ghostly inhabitants.

Haunted Manor: A mansion haunted by restless spirits and poltergeists.

Haunted Marsh: A desolate and ghostly marshland.

Haunted Sea Passage: A narrow sea passage known for its eerie, haunting sounds.

Hidden Valley: A secluded valley with a serene and mystical ambiance.

Hidden Waterfall: A secluded cascade concealed behind a shimmering veil of illusion.

Hidden Waterways: Subterranean rivers and water passages hidden from sight.

Ice Palace: A palace made of ice and snow.

Isle of Echoes: An island known for echoing whispers and eerie sounds.

Labyrinth: A maze filled with twists, turns, and perplexing puzzles.

Lost Oasis: An oasis hidden deep within a desert, holding hidden wonders.

Lost Shipwreck: The remnants of a ship lost to time, holding forgotten treasures.

Lost Temple: An ancient temple concealed in a dense jungle, holding untold treasures.

Magic Bazaar: A marketplace overflowing with enchanted trinkets and artifacts.

Magical Market: A bustling market where magical goods and creatures are sold.

Mermaid Lagoon: A vibrant underwater lagoon inhabited by merfolk.

Monolith Structure: A monolithic black structure with mysterious powers.

Moonlit Grotto: A subterranean cavern bathed in the ethereal light of the moon.

Moonstone Quarry: A quarry where precious moonstones are harvested.

Mysterious Well: A well said to reveal glimpses of the past and future to those who peer into it.

Mystic Library: A vast repository of otherworldly knowledge guarded by sentient books.

Mythical Mountain: A towering peak said to be the home of mythical creatures.

Nightmare Realm: A nightmarish dimension where fears and terrors manifest.

Pirate Cove: A hidden haven for swashbuckling pirates and their treasure.

Rainbow Bridge: A radiant arch connecting different realms.

Serene Glade: A serene glade where the boundary between realms is thin.

Shadowy Forest: A forest cloaked in eternal night and inhabited by shadowy creatures.

Shifting Sands Dunes: A desert where the sands are in constant motion, hiding ancient relics.

Sorcerer's Tower: A towering structure where a powerful sorcerer resides.

Space Nexus: A place in the stars where all galaxies converge.

Spirit Sanctuary: A haven where spirits of the departed find peace and rest.

Starfall Lake: A serene lake under a constant meteor shower.

Stargazing Grove: A tranquil grove illuminated by the light of countless stars.

Stargazing Ridge: A ridge that experiences frequent meteor showers.

Steampunk Airship: A fantastical flying vessel powered by steam and gears.

Steampunk City: A technologically advanced city with a Victorian aesthetic.

Sunken Ruins: The remnants of a once-mighty civilization beneath the sea.

Timeless Realm: A place where time stands still, frozen in eternal beauty.

Time-Warp Tavern: A tavern where time travelers gather to swap tales.

Troll Bridge: A bridge guarded by trolls, demanding a toll from travelers.

Underwater City: An illuminated metropolis beneath the ocean's depths.

Underworld: A realm ruled by dark deities and inhabited by the deceased.

Underworld Abyss: A chasm leading to the deepest, darkest depths of the underworld.

Underworld Citadel: A citadel deep within the underworld, home to dark powers.

Unicorn Meadows: Fields where graceful unicorns roam freely.

Vampire Castle: A foreboding castle inhabited by ancient vampire lords.

Whispering Pines: A tranquil forest where the pine trees whisper secrets.

Witch's Cauldron Room: A room with a bubbling cauldron said to grant potent magical brews.

Witch's Cottage: A crooked, mysterious dwelling surrounded by enchanted herbs.

Witch's Labyrinth: A twisting maze filled with magical traps and challenges.

Wizard's Academy: A prestigious school of magic where wizards are trained.

Wonderland: A surreal landscape filled with whimsical and absurd wonders.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[lotus-n-l0ve]

CHAPTER 2

— Onychinus Leader!Sylus Qin X Mother!Female Reader

She Ran To Protect Their Child. He Built A Kingdom To Bring Them Home.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊

*⁠.⁠✧ SYNOPSIS : She was the daughter of his enemy. He was the king of a criminal empire. They fell in love, but when she found out she was pregnant, she vanished-fearing the life their child would inherit. Seven years later, Sylus finds her. And he's not here for revenge. He's here to take back what's his.

*⁠.⁠✧ WARNINGS & TAGS : Dad! Sylus, mom!reader, mafia, rivalry, second chance, secret baby, exes, time skip, past lovers, alternate universe, break in, angst, fluff, romance, love, mature language, stalking, threats, run away! y/n, mentions of pregnancy, blood, gore, dark romance, lovers to strangers, enemies to lovers, their daughter Elea, kiss, 22.2k words

*⁠.⁠✧ LOTUS NOTE : We are getting more of the past in this chapter. My love life is so dry that I can't even write an imaginary date 😭. Literally worked my butt off for that damn date. Also please don't hate y/n, she has solid reasons for what she did I swear.

*⁠.⁠✧ — NAVIGATION // LOVE & DEEPSPACE MASERLIST

➥ KISSED IN POISON : THE SERIES

➥ CHAPTER 1 // CHAPTER 2 // CHAPTER 3

➥ Heart Divider's By @/cafekitsune

DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE. MINORS DNI, IF YOU DO THEN IT'S YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊

[9 YEARS AGO, CHANSIA CITY]

Two nights in a row. For the first time in your life, you sneaked in the middle of the night two days in a row. And the reason made you want to bang your head on the wall till you forget this embarrassing memory. It was so pathetic of you to risk your life just because your hormones can't stay put.

Two nights in a row. For the first time in your life, you'd snuck out in the middle of the night not once but twice. And the reason made you want to bang your head against the marble walls of your father's mansion until the memory cracked and slipped away.

It was pathetic you, the perfect daughter, the next heir, the girl with a dagger hidden behind her smile - risking your life because your traitorous heart and your cursed hormones couldn't stay put. Poor Sara-having to risk her life yet again just because of you.

Sylus Qin. His name tasted like a secret you'd never meant to keep. A name as sharp and alluring as the man himself dangerous, dark, sweet in a way that left bruises on your soul.

The previous night, you'd spent hours hidden away in a corner of the library, your knee pressed against his thigh as the two of you argued voices hushed but sharp over the tragic legend of the blue-blooded dragon and the luminary sorcerer.

One, bound by an ancient curse to destroy the very soul they loved most; the other, who poured her wrath into a spell that doomed every dragon's veins to hunger for the taste of her kind. And yet as if fate were some cruel trickster a prophecy bloomed from all that ruin: only a child born of the dragon's tainted blue blood and the sorcerer's celestial power could stand against the darkness when it rose to swallow the world whole.

The novel had no author's name, only a title inked in gold and a cover that looked like sorrow carved in paint - devastating and beautiful enough to feel like a promise.

Per Aspera Ad Astra.

Sylus had scoffed at it called it foolish, all that sacrifice for a world so quick to forget. But your heart ached for those two souls bound in the cruelty of fate's twisted joke doomed to be each other's destruction, yet the only salvation the world had left.

You'd stormed out were. Again. telling yourself you'd never come back. Yet here you were again.

You pulled your coat tighter around you, head lowered as you slipped through the half-buried alley behind the florist’s shop. Each footstep crunched on frost-laced cobblestones, your breath ghosting into the winter-dark like a secret you couldn’t hold in.

Inside, the bell above the bookshop door gave that soft chime — the sound that now made your blood sing instead of settle. You stepped in, your eyes blinking against the golden warmth of lamplight and old wood. The hush of paper and ink settled over you like a blanket.

You scanned the rows of books, each shadowed aisle holding a promise, a memory. But he wasn’t there. No sign of that beautiful sin draped in black, lounging where he shouldn’t be.

You told yourself the disappointment curdling in your chest was just nerves — the dread of your father discovering the gaps in your curfew. You drifted deeper into the aisles, fingertips grazing cracked spines — Fyodor, Woolf, Wilde — but none of them could hook your interest tonight. None of them were him.

Minutes slipped by like melting snow. The disappointment grew harder to ignore, a bitter ache you pretended wasn’t hope at all. Finally, you exhaled a shaky breath, hugging your coat tighter around your ribs. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe you should run home before your absence turned from suspicious to dangerous—

A tap on your shoulder made you flinch so hard you nearly knocked over a stack of secondhand hardcovers. You turned, your heart stuttering — stupidly, embarrassingly hopeful — only to find the half-bored teenage shop boy standing there, hair sticking out from beneath a knit cap.

“Uh… sorry.” He mumbled, shifting his weight, “A guy at the counter told me to give you this.”

He shoved a bouquet into your hands — carnations, wrapped in parchment paper. Your breath caught. Your fingers trembled around the stems, the cold moisture seeping through your gloves.

You blinked at the boy, “Who…?”

He shrugged, already turning away, “Said you’d know.”

Your eyes dropped to the carnations — lush, crimson petals cradled by parchment and tied with a ribbon so dark it nearly looked black in the soft library light. They were fresh enough to bead dew on your fingertips — like they’d just been cut for you alone.

Your pulse kicked, betraying every shield you’d built around your foolish heart. You slipped the small card out, the thick paper heavy between your gloved fingers. His handwriting — elegant, lazy, sinfully familiar — stared back at you, every word a dagger turned lovingly in your ribs.

“I know it’s not very gentlemanly of me to send this through someone else, but… work. I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught on that word — sweetheart. He said it like a vow. Like a hook sunk deep into your throat.

“If you miss me — call. Or don’t. I’ll find you either way.

S— +42….”

Your thumb brushed over the number. So simple. So damn easy to dial. It shouldn’t feel like a lifeline and a noose all at once — but it did. And then the final line — slanted just slightly, as if he’d leaned closer to whisper it against your neck:

“PS: You looked absolutely beautiful tonight… and the other night. Would have admired you more if I’d had time.”

You could almost hear it — that low hum in his chest when he said things that were almost compliments, almost confessions. Your cheeks flamed, your mouth bitter with how much you hated and craved that stupid velvet voice.

The flowers quivered in your grip, petals brushing your wrist like his lips might if he were here — if you let him. Was he here? Did he drop off the bouquet himself? Maybe you could still find him.

You slipped the card back between the stems like it might burn you — like you’d keep it safe anyway. You had no idea if you’d ever dial that number. But you’d never throw it away. And you hated yourself for that.

You all but bolted from the shop, the bell above the door jangling frantically behind you. You nearly collided with another girl coming in — her yelp barely registered. Your eyes scanned the street — snow falling like confetti under the streetlights — but there was no sign of him. No dark coat in the shadows. No familiar silhouette leaning against the wall like he owned the whole city.

Disappointment clawed at you, cold and sharp. The smart thing would’ve been to tuck your chin down, press the flowers close, and hurry home before your father’s dogs noticed you were gone.

But your feet betrayed you — because next thing you knew you were across the street, pushing your way into the old glass phone booth that stood crooked under a flickering lamp. The cold air disappeared behind the warped door. Your breath fogged the glass, your heartbeat drowned out the snow’s hush.

You dug the card out again, fingers trembling as you matched each digit to the faded numbers on the dial. It was so stupid. So dangerous. But you pressed your finger into the dial anyway — once, twice — until the final number clicked into place.

The dial tone purred in your ear — each ring a slow, deliberate drag of teeth against your resolve. You didn’t even know what you’d say. Maybe he won’t pick up, you lied to yourself. Maybe this means nothing.

And then — click.

No greeting. Just his voice, velvet wrapped in a grin you could practically hear.

“Couldn’t resist, sweetheart?”

Your eyes fluttered shut, your forehead bumping against the cold glass as a helpless laugh escaped your lips — halfway between a sigh and a curse.

“How did you know it’s me?” You asked, your voice softer than you meant it to be — like he’d pulled it right out of your ribs.

On the other end, you could hear his smirk, velvet and sin, slipping between the static lines.

“Darling, who else would it be? You think I hand out my number on pretty cards to every girl wandering in the library at midnight?”

A pulse of warmth slid down your spine, making you press your palm flat against the booth’s glass. He let the silence linger, like he was listening to you breathe — like the sound of you alone was worth more than anything he could be doing right now.

“Maybe?” You echoed, trying for playful but it came out a little breathless, a little too real.

A soft hum on the other end — you could almost see the way his lips would curve, the slow drag of his thumb across his lower lip as he looked out into the night.

“Mm.” He made a low, amused sound, “It’s quite a problem, you know. Can’t read. Can’t sleep. Can’t work. All because I’ve got a voice in my head whispering about Dostoevsky and how I’m ‘infuriatingly smug.’”

You bit back a laugh — the memory of your argument still sweet on your tongue. Your free hand toyed with the edge of the card, crumpling it just a bit.

“Maybe you should find someone less… distracting, then.”

A low, velvet chuckle slid through the line — dangerous and sweet all at once.

“Darling, if I wanted less, I’d have married the first woman my father found for me the second I turned legal. But I find myself…” He paused — and you could feel the heat of that grin, even though you couldn’t see it, “…addicted to the real thing.”

Your pulse fluttered in your throat — reckless, traitorous.

“Addicted, huh?” You teased, hoping your voice didn’t tremble the way your fingers did, “You don’t even know me.”

A beat of silence. Then his voice dropped — silk catching on the edge of a blade.

“Oh, sweetheart — that’s the tragedy, isn’t it? I know just enough to be ruined. And not nearly enough to stop.”

“What work do you even have at midnight anyway?”

For a moment, all you hear is his quiet breath — then that low, lazy hum that makes your stomach twist.

“Ah. Curious now, are we?” His tone was teasing, but there was a shadow beneath it — something unspoken that made the night feel sharper around you, “I promise you, sweetheart — it’s nothing you’d want to lose sleep over.”

You rolled your eyes — he could almost hear it, because he laughed, low and genuine.

“If you don’t want to tell me, just say that.” You muttered, but your voice softened on the edges, curiosity gnawing at you. Who the hell was this man?

“It’s better this way, trust me.” His voice dropped — that hush you’d felt pressed against your skin the first night in the shop, “You’re too sweet for the details. Let me stay interesting a little longer, hm?”

You bit your lip, fighting a smile you didn’t want him to hear, “You’re impossible.”

Your breath caught — shamefully soft in your ear. You forced out a laugh that sounded a little too much like surrender.

“So what now?” You asked, the words tumbling out before you could think, “You going to stand me up? Alone? At this time? Even though I risked my life to get here?”

Your words were true. You did put your life on line by sneaking out but Sylus didn't need to know that. To him, these probably felt like words of tease.

Another low chuckle — dark, pleased.

“Never. You have my word. I truly have business to handle tonight — tedious, brutal, and entirely less interesting than you.” You could hear the faint sound of his coat shifting, like he was leaning back, letting the city sprawl at his feet, “But I can fix that. Unless you’d rather run back home and pretend you’re not desperate to see me again?”

Your mouth parted — an indignant little sound caught there. He was right, the bastard.

“I’m not desperate.”

“No?” He purred, “Then what are you doing out in this freezing cold, sweetheart? Freezing your pretty-self off just to see me again? Calling me barely a minute after I dropped off the bouquet just to hear my voice? Tell me.”

Your pulse was a drumbeat now — wild, hungry. You glanced out at the snow and wished you could lie.

“I wanted…” You breathed, the words catching in your throat, “I wanted to know if you meant it.”

“Which part?” He asked, softer now, a hush that slid beneath your skin, “The part about you looking beautiful? The part about missing me? Or the part where I said I’d find you either way?”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut as you whispered, “All of it.”

A sigh, quiet but indulgent, filled your ear. You could imagine the way he’d look right now — head tipped back, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved in that dangerous promise of his.

“Every word, sweetheart.” His voice dipped, a low rumble of sin wrapped in silk.

A hush settled between you, the snow muffling the city outside the booth. You could almost feel him leaning closer through the line — that warmth and danger braided together.

“So…” He murmured, voice curling like smoke around your ear, “How about a proper date, sweetheart?”

You froze, your breath catching. Date. The word shouldn’t have made your heart thud like that.

“A date?” You echoed, hating how shy it sounded.

“Mhm,” He hummed, amused, “A real one. Just you and me. No dusty books, no midnight ghosts. Somewhere I can look at you properly — watch you try not to fall for me too fast.”

Your laugh came out flustered, half a huff, half a sigh, “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

“No.” He corrected smoothly, “I’m sure of us.”

Your fingers tightened around the receiver, the cold glass at your back doing nothing to settle the warmth pooling in your chest.

“When?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

There was the faintest sound of leather shifting — maybe gloves brushing over his coat. When he spoke again, you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Two days from now.” He said, each word perfectly deliberate, “This Thursday, dinner. If that’s fine with you.”

Your lips parted, a breath of disbelief slipping out. Thursday. Two days. That soon. And yet — not soon enough.

“Yeah…” You managed, and you hated how breathless you sounded, “That’s fine.”

“Good girl.” It was a purr, a sinful little stroke down your spine, “Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”

Your eyes snapped open, heart skidding in your chest.

“Pick me up?” You echoed, your tone climbing into something like scandalized laughter, “From my house?”

He hummed — a dark, amused sound, “Of course. I’m a gentleman, sweetheart.”

You let out a disbelieving scoff, your fingers pressing harder into the cold glass at your back, “You’re moving too fast, Sylus.”

“Mmm. I don’t think I'm moving fast enough.”

“I barely know you,” You shot back, your voice light but your pulse anything but, “What kind of girl do you take me for? Giving my address to a man I’ve known for — what — two nights?”

“Two very good nights.” His voice slid around your ribcage like silk, “Besides, you already know you’re safe with me.”

“Safe?” You teased, your mouth twisting into a grin even he couldn’t see, “For all I know you could be the most dangerous person I know.”

A low chuckle — a promise wrapped in danger, “Then trust me to be dangerous only for you, sweetheart.”

Your head hit the glass with a soft thunk. You hated how you were smiling, how your breath fogged up the phone booth window like a teenager.

“Nice try, Mr. Qin. No address. Not yet.”

“Then how should I find you, hmm?” He asked, that velvet threat weaving into his words, “Should I follow your footprints in the snow? Climb your balcony like a thief?”

“Try it and I’ll call the police.” You teased.

“You won’t.” He murmured, so certain, so terribly right, “Thursday, then?”

“Thursday. Pick me up from the library.” You breathed.

“Good. Sweet dreams, darling.”

“Goodnight, Sylus.”

[PRESENT TIME, LINKON CITY]

The memory faded like mist when you blinked, replaced by the muted clatter of boxes being shuffled through your hallway. The faint scent of carnations lingered under the stronger smell of spices and herbs. You didn’t even remember standing this still for this long — you’d been leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching Sylus take over your home like he’d never left.

Elea was over the moon — she’d skipped school altogether, clinging to Sylus like a baby koala to its branch. In all her tiny six years of life, you’d never seen her so adamant about anything. No coaxing or bribes could pry her from her father’s side — and honestly, you hadn’t had the heart to try.

The whole day drifted by in a soft blur of giggles and crayon stains and Elea’s high, excited voice filling corners of the house that had always felt too quiet before. She’d dragged Sylus from room to room — showing him her little hoard of drawings taped crooked on the walls, the flower she’d pressed between the pages of her homework notebook, the butterfly facts she’d written in that sprawling, wobbly handwriting of hers.

And Sylus — gods, you’d thought you’d seen him cold, you’d seen him cruel, you'd seen him soft like a rose petal, you’d seen him bored and amused and lethal — but never this. Never the way he went soft for her, crouching down so she could fix his hair with plastic clips shaped like stars and daisies, letting her drag him by the sleeve from one crayon masterpiece to the next, his low hums of praise so gentle they made your chest ache.

The day blurred into dusk far too quickly. And now — night. The windows had gone black, the soft hum of the city seeping through the walls. Sylus was in your kitchen like he’d always belonged there, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he moved with that same lethal grace, stirring the pot on the stove like it was a weapon he knew better than anyone else.

He’d insisted on cooking — refused to let you lift a finger — so you’d perched keeping an eye on Elea while did her math homework. But every time you snuck a glance at her, you caught her eyes darting to the kitchen. Every two seconds, she’d peek over her shoulder, pencil tapping against her bunny’s floppy ear.

She'd scribble down a messy number and whisper for the ninth time in the span of ten minutes, "Is daddy done yet?"

You bit back a laugh, smoothing your hand over her curls, “Almost, baby. Why don't you complete your homework fast? By then daddy will be done with dinner."

A new fire of determination flashed in Elea’s eyes — her little tongue poked out as she scribbled numbers so hard her pencil nearly snapped. You hid a smile behind your hand before slipping away, your steps muffled by the hum of the city breathing through the windows.

The kitchen was warm — too warm. Or maybe that was just him. Sylus stood there, sleeves still rolled, steam curling up around the strong lines of his shoulders. He stirred the pot with a practiced flick of his wrist, like the wooden spoon was an extension of his hand — like even the simplest things bowed to his command.

You found yourself leaning back against the counter across from him, arms folded tight across your chest, heart doing that stupid, fluttering dance it had no business doing as you watched his back move in the kitchen like he knew every nook and corner of it.

Sylus didn’t look up right away — but you could see the corner of his mouth tip up when he felt you there, the way the tension shifted in his shoulders, like your presence was something he was always ready to lean into.

“How’s our little mathematician?” He murmured, voice low as he tasted the broth, the metal spoon glinting in the soft kitchen light.

“She's asking if the dinner is ready every two minutes.” You quirked an eyebrow, “So hurry up or she’ll riot.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from him — low, warm, dangerously fond. He set the spoon down, the scent of garlic and herbs wrapping around you both like a blanket.

“Can’t have that.” He wiped his thumb across the corner of his mouth, eyes flicking to yours, “I want to move in as soon as possible. Preferably by tomorrow."

"What?" Your voice snapped, "Don't you think you are moving too fast? I'm not even sure if I can trust you yet."

"So dramatic." Sylus whispered, throwing you an amused glance, "Or would you rather move in with me along with Elea?"

Your eyes narrowed, "Sylus—"

"What?" He tilted his head, eyes bright, "You said you don't trust me yet but you're standing right here, sweetheart. Watching me cook. Staying close enough to breathe me in. With our daughter in the next room. I'd say we're making progress."

You scowled at him, pulse misbehaving, "I'm keeping an eye on you just in case you decide to set this place on fire in the name of revenge."

“Ouch. You wound me, sweetheart.” The words rolled off his tongue like a purr, too warm, too easy — the kind of tone that made your heart misbehave more than you’d ever admit.

He turned back to the stove, giving the broth one last swirl before dipping the spoon in again. This time, instead of tasting it himself, he lifted it — careful, steady — and brought it to hover just inches from your lips.

“Here.” He murmured, eyes cutting to yours beneath those lashes, “Tell me if it’s good.”

Your mouth opened, words caught somewhere behind your teeth. He held the spoon there — patient, infuriatingly calm — like he had all the time in the world to watch you squirm.

“Why don't you test it?” You eyed the spoon suspiciously.

“Don’t be shy.” He coaxed, the corner of his mouth curving just a little more, “I promise I didn’t poison it. Yet.”

You shot him a withering glare but leaned forward anyway, lips brushing the warm metal. For Elea — you told yourself. The taste bloomed over your tongue — rich, savory, perfect. Too perfect.

“Hmm?” He tipped his head, studying you like he could see straight through your skull, “Good?”

You swallowed — the heat of it, the heat of him, “It’s… fine.”

“Fine?” His brows shot up, faux offended, “I need delicious. My girls deserve only the best."

Your stomach did that traitorous twist. My girls. The words still clung to your ribs like honey and barbed wire all at once.

You forced out a scoff, arms crossing tighter against your chest like that would protect you from the way his voice made your pulse stumble.

“Your girls?” You shot back, trying for bite, “There’s only one girl of yours here, Sylus. And she’s in the living room — doing math, not—”

His eyes flicked to yours — steady, unbothered — and the rest of your sentence shriveled on your tongue.

He let out a soft, humorless laugh as he set the spoon aside. Then he leaned in — slow, caging you in with one hand braced on the counter beside your hip. Not touching, but the heat of him made your skin prickle. His voice dropped, rough silk.

“Just because you woke up one day and decided that I wouldn’t absolutely burn the world down for you — and ran away without a word — doesn’t make you any less mine.”

Your throat closed up, the air between you thick with memories you’d buried so deep they ached to breathe.

“You can hate me all you want.” Sylus went on, eyes locked to yours like a promise carved into stone, “but I'm gonna pretend that I want you with every fiber in my body. Even if it makes you uncomfortable. I’ll take back the one who was mine. You.”

He paused then — close enough you could feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your cheek. His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up.

“And for that, sweetheart…” He hummed, that smile — more dangerous than any blade, “I need you to tell me what on earth actually happened.”

Your next breath came out shaky. You wanted to spit out a retort — to shove him back, to spit every damn detail of that night — no word came out. You couldn't utter a word because you knew the second you started talking, you would shatter like a fallen glass vase.

Outside, you could hear Elea’s pencil tapping on the table, oblivious to the storm brewing in her parents’ silence. Sylus pulled back just enough to smirk, voice softer now — so soft it scraped the raw edges inside you.

“I’ll wait.” He murmured, “However long it takes.”

Then he turned back to the stove, the faint clink of the spoon against the pot the only sound that dared to fill the space he left behind. You stayed pressed to the counter, arms crossed so tight they almost bruised your ribs, the ghost of his breath still warm on your cheek.

He didn’t look at you again — didn’t need to. His voice came out low, almost casual, but the edge in it cut through the steam curling around him.

“Set the table, sweetheart.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not with your pulse still stumbling over the weight of everything unsaid — the truth you’d buried under a thousand careful lies. The smell of garlic and herbs suddenly felt suffocating, the walls too close.

You set the table with stiff, deliberate movements. Fork. Knife. Spoon. Small glass for Elea — she’d spill it otherwise. Napkins folded, your hands trembling just enough that you hoped he didn’t see.

Behind you, Sylus hummed something low under his breath, tasting the soup again like nothing had happened — like he hadn’t just reminded you that no matter how many locks you’d thrown over your heart, he still knew exactly where the key was buried.

When you finally turned to call for Elea, you felt his eyes on your back — warm, sure, inevitable.

Dinner was… fine. More than fine, actually — but only because Elea, in all her tiny, relentless sunshine, refused to let the dark edges creep back in. She babbled about her day at school, her favorite flowers, the new bunny sticker she’d stuck on her notebook — you’d swear Sylus would have nodded along even if she’d recited the entire encyclopedia backward.

Every time you looked up, you caught Sylus watching her with this look you couldn’t decipher — soft and unguarded, the way you’d seen him only once before. He didn’t interrupt her once, just kept spooning more food onto her plate, his eyes bright with something dangerously close to awe.

You pretended not to notice how he’d cut your portion just right, how he’d poured your drink without asking, how his knee brushed yours under the table — steady, warm, present. Like he was staking a claim he didn’t have to say out loud.

Elea beamed the whole way through, blissfully oblivious to the thousand unspoken things passing between her parents.

But the problem — the real problem — started when you’d finished clearing the plates, when Sylus stood to slip back into his coat. Elea was on him in a heartbeat, her arms like tiny iron bars clinging around his waist.

“No, daddy — no! Stay! Stay here!” She hiccuped, face buried against his pants. Her tiny shoulders shook with each sob, “Don’t go away again, please… mommy, tell him to stay.”

“Hey…” Sylus crouched low, one big hand cradling her head so gently, “I promised you, didn’t I? Daddy’s not going anywhere. I’ll be right back tomorrow. You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Elea just wailed harder, bunny clutched so tight you worried the ears might come off. Her eyes — those same eyes she got from you — flicked up, glassy and desperate.

“Mommy — mommy, please! Can he stay? I’ll be good, I promise! Please don’t make him leave.”

Your chest squeezed so painfully you almost said yes, right then, just to make the tears stop. But your mouth wouldn’t move — and neither would the old fears lodged in your ribs like splinters.

Sylus’s eyes met yours over her shoulder — something soft and pleading buried in the ice-blue. He didn’t push, didn’t demand, didn’t force you like you half-expected him to. He just scooped Elea up, rocking her gently, murmuring in that low, steady voice you were coming to know all too well.

“Little dove.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple, “I’ll be right here. Tomorrow, and the next day, and every day after that. Okay? You trust daddy, don’t you?”

She sniffled, snuggling closer, her tiny fingers fisting the lapel of his coat, “Promise?”

“Promise.” He said — and you could feel the vow curl around the edges of your own bruised heart, warming places you wished would stay cold.

When he finally set her down — her eyelids heavy with exhausted tears — she clung to your side instead, still hiccuping, still watching him like she was afraid he’d vanish if she blinked.

And Sylus — Sylus just looked at you. Quiet. Certain. Like he knew no matter how many times you bolted, he’d find a way to stay.

“I’ll see you both tomorrow.” He said, his voice—all gentle thunder as he opened the door, “Keep our girl safe for me, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t speak — so you just nodded, holding Elea tighter. And the echo of the door closing behind him felt like something dangerous and tender all at once.

That night, the house felt too quiet — like it was holding its breath. You’d tucked Elea into the middle of your bed, her bunny nestled tight under her chin, the tip of one ear already soggy from all the tears she’d shed clinging to Sylus’s coat.

You smoothed a hand over her hair, brushing away the stray curls that always stuck to her damp cheeks. Her eyes, still glassy with sleep, blinked up at you — wide, trusting, far too big for someone so small.

“Mommy?” She whispered, her voice so soft it barely made it past the covers, “Daddy… he’ll be back, right?”

You froze, your hand stilled mid-stroke. For a heartbeat, you wanted to lie — to tell her the perfect fairytale version, no cracks, no shadows. But the promise you’d seen in Sylus’s eyes tonight burned at the back of your mind, steady as an ember.

You swallowed the ache in your throat and forced your voice to be warm — solid — the mother she deserved.

“He’ll be back, baby.” You murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple, “Daddy promised, didn’t he?”

Elea nodded, but her little fingers crept up to clutch at yours, her bunny squished between you both, “Daddy doesn’t break promises?”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding — your eyes drifting to the darkened hallway where you could still feel his presence, lingering like the faint scent of carnations.

“No.” You said, quiet but certain — more certain than you’d let yourself feel in years, “Daddy never breaks promises.”

Her eyes fluttered closed at that, her grip on your hand loosening as sleep pulled her under. You stayed like that a moment longer — tracing her knuckles with your thumb, staring at the tiny heartbeat you and Sylus made together.

[9 YEARS AGO, CHANSIA CITY]

You were annoyed, to say the least. Thursday had come in a blink — so fast it made your head spin. Two days, that’s all you’d had to tear through half the city, combing through silk and satin and soft chiffons until your fingers smelled like perfume and new fabric. The perfect dress. The perfect shoes. The perfect little bag that could hold your dreams — and your secrets — all at once.

Everything needed to be perfect. This was your first date — the first anything in your life that you’d chosen for yourself, on your own stubborn, foolish will. But in your frenzied quest for perfect lipstick shades and borrowed courage, you’d forgotten one small, crucial thing: How on earth were you going to sneak out?

Midnight was easy. Midnight gave you shadows — sleepy maids, half-drunk guards, a whole house lulled under the weight of its own secrets. But tonight? Sylus was coming for you at 8 p.m. Sharp. Bright. The hour when the house hummed loudest — when the table downstairs would be set with heavy porcelain and your father and brother would talk “business” in low, rough voices, pretending you weren’t there, yet demanding your presence all the same.

Tradition, they’d said once, when you were too young to understand why your stomach always turned to knots when you sat at that long, cold table. Family should eat together. Even if you were invisible. Even if you’d rather be anywhere else.

You sat on the edge of your bed now, your new dress laid across your bed like a beautiful mess. The clock on your wall ticked mercilessly toward 6:00. An hour to come up with a plan. An hour to find the courage to shatter the only thing that held you here — the illusion that you were safe in this pretty, suffocating cage.

Then — like the answer to a prayer you hadn’t dared to whisper out loud — came your saviour: Sara.

The only soul in that entire suffocating house who looked at you and saw you — not the pretty daughter, not the pawn to be traded at the right price, but you. She’d slipped in with arms folded and eyes dancing like she’d been waiting all day to pull you out of your misery.

“Pneumonia.” She’d said, biting back a laugh when you gaped at her, “Who’d want a sick little mess coughing all over their roast, hmm?”

And it had worked — like magic. When the doctor came, Sara was quick with the hot pack tucked under your sheets, your skin flushed and forehead beading sweat on command. The thermometer ticked up, the doctor frowned, your father’s mouth curled with disgust, and the final verdict was handed down like a blessing from the devil himself: Stay in your room. Rest. Do not come near the dining hall.

When they’d left, Sara locked the door behind them, pressing her back to it like she half-expected them to barge in again. But no footsteps came. No voices barked your name. Just silence. Freedom masquerading as fever.

She turned to you then, her grin wicked and soft all at once.

“Up.” She ordered, hauling you off the bed before you could blink.

Your new dress waited, a small, defiant rebellion draped across the sheets like spilled wine. Sara’s fingers were quick and sure — undoing the ties, tugging the soft ivory blouse over your shoulders. The fabric was lighter than air, its wide collar brushing your collarbones, tiny red flowers blooming against your skin like stolen kisses. The hem of the blouse was tucked into the deep wine-red skirt cinched at your waist, falling in neat pleats a few inches under your knees, brushing your bare feet as you swayed on the balls of your heels.

“Shoes—” Sara breathed, shoving the cream Mary Janes into your hands. “Bag?”

You held up the tiny burgundy bag like it was your ticket to another life — which, in a way, it was. Inside: a handful of crumpled bills, your mother's pocket watch, a compact mirror and a red lipstick. And your watch — the slim red leather strap biting into your wrist, ticking the seconds down until you’d be in his world, not theirs.

Sara fussed with your hair next, fingers gentle as she gathered it back, pinning the loose waves with a little gold barrette shaped like a crescent moon. It glimmered in the low lamplight — a secret piece of the night sky you’d carry with you.

“Perfect.” She whispered, standing back to admire you like you were some masterpiece she’d helped smuggle out of a locked gallery, “Now… don’t fall in love too fast, all right?”

You laughed — breathless, a little unsteady — and hugged her so tight she squeaked. And when you pulled back, you saw it in her eyes: the pride, the fear, the hope she dared to have for you.

“Go.” Sara breathed, already pushing you toward the balcony doors, that spark in her grin brighter than any chandelier, “Before they realize their sick little bird has learned how to fly.”

You slipped out like a ghost — feet barely touching the cold marble floors, heart hammering against your ribs loud enough you were sure it would give you away. The night air kissed your flushed skin the moment you ducked through the side door Sara had left cracked open for you, the scent of the garden’s damp earth and late-blooming roses mixing with your nerves.

The streets were quieter than usual, shadows swallowing your hurried steps as you pressed the little bag to your side like it could anchor you to this reckless freedom. You wished — not for the first time — that you could bring your phone. Having it would’ve been so convenient, so normal. But your father’s rules wrapped around you like barbed wire even now — the device tracked 24/7 by men who’d sooner lock you away than let you breathe the same air as your own choices.

So you walked. One block. Two. Past shuttered shops and flickering street lamps, the weight of your watch ticking heavy on your wrist. When the library’s familiar arched windows finally rose into view — pale light spilling through stacks of books like a sanctuary — you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

This place was yours. Untouchable. Your father’s reach ended right outside its old stone facade — his men had no authority here.

You slipped through the doors, the soft scent of old pages and ink wrapping around you like an old friend. You found your favorite corner — the one hidden behind the tallest shelves — and curled into the velvet chair, knees pulled up, the gold crescent moon barrette catching the warm lamplight.

You must have checked the clock on the far wall a hundred times, your foot tapping against the carpet every second that passed. 8:00 p.m. The time he’d promised.

And right on the dot, the world outside shifted — headlights slicing through the dark. You peeked through the dusty window just in time to see it: a sleek black car gliding up to the curb, so quiet it could’ve been a phantom.

Your heart somersaulted into your throat. Sylus Qin — your Sylus, even if you’d never dared to say it out loud — had come for you. Just like he’d promised.

Your fingers curled tighter around the strap of your bag. No shadows tonight. No walls. Just you. Just him. Just the wild, terrifying taste of a freedom that belonged only to you.

You almost ran out — embarrassingly fast, your shoes scuffing the stone steps of the library as the heavy door swung shut behind you. The cool night nipped at your bare collarbones.

And there he was — stepping out from behind the wheel like he owned the pavement beneath his feet. Sylus Qin. All shadow-slicked coat and dark hair tousled just enough to look like he’d run his fingers through it a few dozen times. The streetlight caught on the sharp line of his jaw, the faintest curl of a smirk ghosting over his mouth when his eyes found you.

“Easy there, sweetheart.” He drawled, voice so low that it glided down your spine, “Wouldn’t want you bruising those pretty knees before I even get you in the car.”

You huffed — but the sound caught somewhere in your throat the second you really saw him. Sylus Qin, right on time, not a hair out of place except for that deliberate tousle you knew he’d done just to make it look effortless. The streetlight turned the edges of his dark coat to silver, catching on the faint twist of a grin tugging at his mouth.

“I just… didn’t want to be late.” You muttered, clutching your bag like it might anchor you to the sidewalk.

He laughed — soft, low, a sound that seemed to slide under your skin. He stepped in close, boots brushing yours on the cracked pavement.

“Late?” He repeated, voice warm against your ear as he leaned in just enough to breathe you in, “Sweetheart, we have the whole night to ourselves."

Your heart did that traitorous flutter, and you hated that he could probably feel it — could sense every little thing you gave away just by standing there. His gaze dipped to your lips, lingering like he was tasting something only he could sense.

“Let me see you,” He murmured. His gloved fingers brushed the edge of your jaw, trailing up to the moon-shaped clip nestled in your hair, “Mm. Perfect. Did you wear this for me?”

“Nope.” You lied, but your voice cracked down the middle.

Sylus chuckled, thumb dragging softly along the edge of your earring.

“Liar. I like it.” His eyes flicked to yours, dark and sure and bright all at once, “You look…” He tilted his head, the streetlight catching in those sharp eyes, “Beautiful”

Your lips twitched, the compliment heating your cheeks in a way you hated him for. So you fired back, chin lifting just enough to hide the flutter in your chest.

“You don’t look half bad yourself, Mr. Qin.” You shot back, all false bravado, letting your gaze drop pointedly over his broad shoulders, the open collar of his shirt, “Though you could’ve at least tried. I did put in a little effort, you know.”

“Mm. So you did.” His voice dipped lower, silk over steel, “A pretty skirt, that sweet perfume — your favourite lip colour. I notice everything, sweetheart.”

His thumb brushed your bottom lip — so soft you almost leaned in.

“But next time you say you’re putting in effort, remember…” His mouth dipped just close enough that his words brushed the edge of your skin, “It’s never wasted on me.”

Your cheeks burned under the weight of his stare — that smile that said he knew exactly what he was doing to you. You ducked your gaze, fingers gripping the strap of your bag a little too tight.

“We should get going now.” You mumbled, clearing your throat, hoping he wouldn’t hear how breathless you sounded.

“Alright.” He murmured, straightening up, “Your wish is my command.”

He stepped back, the loss of his heat a betrayal your skin immediately mourned. With one hand, he popped open the passenger door, the other sweeping low to guide you inside — his palm grazing the small of your back, fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long.

“After you.” Sylus drawled, eyes dancing, “Before I lose control and skip all the formalities.”

The click of your seatbelt was almost too loud in the hush of the car as he rounded the hood, slipped into the driver’s seat, and shot you that same wicked, impossible smile.

“Ready?”

The engine hummed beneath you, low and smooth as Sylus pulled away from the curb. The city lights flickered past the window in a blur — gold and neon and sharp edges that made your heart pound in your chest for reasons you couldn’t quite name.

You kept stealing glances at him — the way one hand rested lazy on the wheel, the other drumming a slow rhythm on the console, the streetlights slipping like liquid gold across the sharp cut of his jaw. He looked unbothered, like this was just any other night. Like you weren’t sitting here trying not to choke on your own heartbeat.

You cleared your throat. Casual. “So… where are we going?”

Sylus didn’t look at you, but you saw the smirk tug at his mouth, the corner of his lips catching the city’s glow.

“Impatient?” He murmured.

You scowled, ignoring the way his voice wrapped around your spine, “I thought we were going to a restaurant or something but you are driving towards the outskirts."

He hummed, that deep, thoughtful sound that always meant he was enjoying this more than he should.

“Sweetheart,” He called out, tapping the wheel once with his ringed fingers, “Has anyone ever told you that you don’t dream big enough?”

Your frown deepened when he turned off the main road — the neon signs fell away, replaced by quieter streets. Then the hush of water came up all around you, glittering in the moonlight. You sat up straighter, peering out the window. Docks. Wide, private. Yachts — not just boats, but floating palaces lined up like a kingdom of secrets.

“Wait…” You breathed, “Why are we at the port? Are you going to murder me and then dump my body in the sea?”

Sylus’s laugh was sudden, his fingers drumming once on the steering wheel before he cut the engine. The quiet that fell around you both was filled only by the soft slap of water against the docks.

“Murder you?” He echoed, turning to you with that maddening tilt of his head — all shadow and citylight catching in his eyes, “You wound me.”

You tried to glare at him — you really did — but the heat in his gaze made your pulse stutter in your throat. He leaned closer, one arm slung over the back of your seat like he owned every breath you took.

“If I wanted you gone, sweetheart…” His thumb brushed your chin, forcing your eyes to stay locked on his, “…you’d never see me coming. You’d just feel it — right here.”

He tapped your pulse point, the pad of his finger warm against your skin, lingering just a moment too long.

Your breath a humiliating hitch — and the corner of his mouth curved like he’d heard it, like he could taste the panic and the thrill mixing in your veins.

He leaned in — close enough that his hair tickled your cheek. His breath was warm as he spoke, words threading straight through your ribs.

“But I don’t want you gone.” Sylus’s smirk softened into something darker, hungrier, “I want you here. Right where you are.”

He pulled back just far enough to look at you — his eyes glinting under the streetlight, too bright, too sure, before he got down from the car. Your eyes followed as he rounded the car and stopped to your side.

The door opened. Your hands curled tighter around your bag. Your skin burned under his stare. But your door clicked open anyway, and Sylus’s gloved hand was there — palm up, patient, so infuriatingly steady.

You slipped your hand into his, and he squeezed — just once, just enough to tell you there was no turning back.

“Let me give you the best night of your life, sweetheart.” He murmured, lips brushing your knuckles like a vow, before he tugged you out into the night — toward the dock where the waiting yacht glowed like a secret kingdom built just for you.

Sylus led you down the private dock, your hand swallowed in his — warm, steady, that subtle squeeze every few steps like he liked reminding you you were tethered to him now. The closer you got, the more your breath caught in your throat.

Your jaw nearly hit the polished wood when Sylus helped you step aboard. You felt like a giddy child as you padded across the deck, the boards warm under your shoes, the hush of the ocean wrapping around you like a secret only the two of you shared.

Sylus stayed a step behind you — close enough that the heat of him brushed your shoulders when the breeze kicked up. He didn’t say a word, just let you wander — let you trail your fingertips over the soft drapes, the glassy rail, the scattered petals that shimmered like they’d been kissed by the stars themselves.

Fairy lights strung across the upper deck turned the sea into a bed of diamonds. Somewhere, the low croon of jazz melted into the soft slap of the waves, the kind of music that made you want to dance barefoot with your heart wide open.

You spun slowly, your skirt flowing around like a tulip in bloom. Every detail was perfect — almost painfully so. The candlelit dining table set for two. The soft velvet cushions arranged in the lounge. The chilled bottles resting in a crystal bucket near a tray of tiny, delicate desserts.

Your chest squeezed tight, breath stuttering when you realized there were no other guests, no laughter drifting up from hidden corners. Just you. Just him. And the hush of the sea all around.

You turned, your pulse jumping when you found Sylus leaning against the railing, arms crossed, eyes glittering under the warm glow. Like he was the one thing that made all this beauty make sense.

“There’s… no one else?” You asked, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

He tilted his head, that ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips, “Disappointed?”

Your cheeks warmed.

“No— I just thought…” You gestured helplessly at the fairy lights, the flowers, the empty hush between you, “All this, just for me?”

Sylus pushed off the rail, closing the distance with those lazy, predator-smooth steps that always made your knees go a little soft. He stopped just close enough for you to smell the faint spice of his cologne under the salt-sweet air.

“Told you I'll give you the best night of your life.” He murmured, slipping his hands into his pockets, “I'm a man of my word after all.”

His eyes dipped to your lips, lingering there like a promise, “Tonight, you’re mine alone.”

The yacht hummed beneath your feet, a low, steady purr that seemed to match the way your pulse tripped in your throat. Slowly, the dock fell away, the city lights shrinking behind you like a string of dying fireflies swallowed by the dark.

You braced your hands on the polished railing, the breeze teasing your hair as the gentle sway of the vessel carried you farther and farther from everything you’d ever known — the rules, the walls, the eyes always watching.

Up above, the city’s haze faded into a sky so clear it made your chest ache. A blanket of stars blinked back at you, the moon full and silver, the sea catching every reflection like a thousand scattered diamonds.

For one breathless moment, you almost forgot how to hold all that wonder inside your ribs. Sylus placed a hand on the centre of your back and brought you down to the middle of the deck — where a single table waited like something out of a dream: candles flickering soft golden halos, crystal glasses catching the moonlight, petals scattered across the linen like a promise you hadn’t dared to make.

His hand slid down your back, "Take a seat."

You shot him a half offended look but amusement glinted in your eyes, "Since when do you get to boss me around?"

"I'm not bossing you, sweetheart." He bowed his head dramatically, "It's a humble request of this peasant that you kindly take your seat and provide some rest for your delicate feet."

"Since you asked so nicely — I'll humour you I guess." You chuckled and sat down.

Sylus settled into the chair across from you, legs angled wide, elbow draped over the back like he owned not just the seat, but the whole damn night. Candlelight flickered across the sharp lines of his jaw when he glanced at you — and didn’t bother to look away.

With a snap of his fingers, a server emerged so silently you almost startled — a bottle of deep red wine balanced on a tray. The cork popped, the wine slipped into crystal glasses like ink spreading through water. You caught the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of Sylus’s mouth as he swirled his glass, eyes on you instead of the swirl.

“What would you like, sweetheart?" Sylus took a sip of the wine, letting it rest on the tongue before swallowing, "Order anything you want tonight?"

"Anything? Did you chefs from all over the world?" You meant to tease but the smirk on his face paused you, "Wait! Did you really?"

Sylus shrugged as if it was just another Tuesday, "I told you I'm gonna give you the best night and I meant it, sweetheart."

Your jaw dropped a little, and he had the audacity to look smug about it. You leaned back, arms crossing under your chest, giving him a look.

You turned to the waiter, “Then I want shrimp tempura, a Truffle Fettuccine and Oysters Meunière. For now."

The meal was a beautiful, delicious mess. You’d lost count of how many times Sylus leaned across the flickering candlelight to wipe sauce from your mouth — always with his thumb, always dragging it slow across your bottom lip before sucking it clean, eyes glinting with that insufferable, devastating heat.

Somewhere between the last bite and the swirl of wine on your tongue, the servers faded into the shadows — discreet ghosts. It felt like the whole world had shrunk to this table, this ocean, this man and the way he watched you like he already owned every secret under your skin.

He leaned back, thigh pressing against yours under the linen, “So, when are you giving me your number?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the casual way he asked, “My number? What for?”

His thumb tapped lazy against the rim of his glass, a half-smirk curving his mouth, “So I don’t have to stalk you every time I want to steal you away.”

You laughed — a bright, startled sound that warmed your chest, “Nope.”

His brow arched, the predator’s smile sharpening, “Why not?”

You possibly could not tell him that it's because your father was a crime lord could you?

“There's no fun in that,” You repeated, nudging his shin with your foot beneath the table, “Also my father’s people track every call. He’d love to trace you right back to your home and beat you up. My father is a very important businessman you know.”

His brow arched higher, amusement flickering like a flame in those dark eyes.

“Beat me up?” He echoed, laughing under his breath, low and dangerous.

He leaned forward, elbow propped on the table as his thumb brushed the rim of his glass again — but you could feel the heat of his knee pressing a fraction harder into yours under the linen.

“I’d like to see him try.” Sylus murmured, voice dipped in velvet and knives. He tilted his head, eyes locked to yours, every word a slow drag across your pulse, “So you’re telling me I have to keep chasing you down in the shadows… every time I want you to myself?”

You pretended to think, tapping a finger to your chin while fighting the grin threatening to betray you, “Mm-hm. That’s the price you pay for trying to steal a princess from her tower.”

Sylus’s lips curved into that infuriatingly slow smile — the one that said he could and would burn the whole damn tower to the ground if you dared him to. His knees slid closer — almost touching yours under the table — heat seeping into you like he was a flame and you were tinder.

“And here I was hoping you’d make it easy on me, sweetheart.” He drawled, low, intimate. He leaned closer until your noses almost brushed, his cologne and the salt-sweet night curling around your head like a spell, “But fine. I like a good hunt.”

"What am I? A dear in the wild?" You shot him a look, but the edge of your mouth betrayed you, twitching, “I have a feeling you'll be very insufferable in the future.”

“And you'll love every second of it.” Sylus murmured, a wicked spark lighting behind his eyes. He drew back just enough to drag his thumb once more across the corner of your mouth — slow, deliberate — before bringing it to his lips, his tongue flicking over it like a promise, “Every. Damn. Second.”

You were too busy dragging your fork through the last bite of tiramisu to notice Sylus stand. When you finally looked up, he was watching you with that half-lidded, devastating stare.

He said nothing at first — just stepped around the table, each footfall a soft, controlled echo on the polished deck. He stopped in front of you, close enough that the crisp scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body made your pulse skip.

Then he extended a hand, palm up, fingers loose but sure.

“Dance with me.” Sylus said — simple, low, and laced with a smile you could feel in your ribs.

You let your gaze drift from his hand up to his eyes — the way they glinted like the night was bending just for him, just for you. A teasing huff slipped from your lips as you set your fork down, wiping your mouth with the napkin, stalling just to make him wait.

“Quite a romantic, aren't you?” You teased, but your fingers were already sliding into his palm. His grip closed around you — warm, possessive — a promise and a threat all in one.

The music drifting through the speakers shifted — the jazzy hum softening, melting into something slow, something that curled in your chest like a secret. The hush of the waves, the distant call of the sea, the rhythm that matched your heartbeat.

The music curled around you like smoke — slow, sultry, timeless. Sylus’s hands found your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft fabric, warm through to your skin. He guided you effortlessly, each step a delicious push and pull, your bodies brushing, then parting, then brushing again like you were trying to learn each other by touch alone.

Your palms slid up the hard line of his shoulders, fingertips tracing the nape of his neck where his hair curled just slightly. He hummed at the contact, his eyes half-lidded, his breath a lazy heat against your temple.

When he spun you, you felt the rough pad of his thumb skim the sensitive inside of your wrist — a touch that made your stomach tighten, a spark that shot all the way up your spine. He caught you again, pulling you flush against him, his thigh pressing between yours, stealing the air from your lungs. His nose grazed across your shoulder, breathing you in.

“You’re dangerous like this.” You teased, breathless, lips brushing the sharp edge of his jaw.

His teeth grazed your earlobe, “Look who’s talking. You’re the one who’s got my hands shaking.”

You laughed, but it broke into a soft gasp when he rocked you gently into him, one hand sliding low on your back, the other catching your jaw. His thumb traced the corner of your mouth, and you felt him smile against your cheek, felt the hungry drag of his breath.

The world shrank to the hush of the waves, the whisper of silk and suit, the flicker of candles caught in his hair when he tipped your head back just enough to look at you — really look at you — like you were already half-undone.

But then — that itch. That cold ripple down your spine — the unmistakable feeling of eyes where they didn’t belong.

Your face frowned, your gaze flicked past Sylus’s shoulder. And there he was. One of the servers, lingering by the shadows near the bar, his eyes locked not on the wine or the plates — but on you.

His stare slithered down your body, blatant, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the dance.

Sylus hadn’t noticed yet — too wrapped up in the way your pulse stuttered under his thumb. But your spine went stiff under his hands. The music, the candlelight — they all felt like they were miles away now, swallowed by the weight of that filthy, lingering gaze.

Your skin crawled under that stare, the filthy weight of it dragging you right out of Sylus’s touch, no matter how warm his hands were on your hips.

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear, voice sweet as honey, “I’m gonna freshen up. Don’t miss me too much, hm?”

Sylus’s answering hum rumbled against your collarbone, “Hurry back. I haven’t had nearly enough of you yet.”

You managed a smile — one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. He pressed a fleeting kiss to your cheek, but your focus was already locked over his shoulder, on the bastard in the shadows.

As you stepped away, you caught the server’s gaze dead-on — a look that makes perverts drool. You knew he would follow.

You slipped inside the corridor leading to the washroom, your steps soft, your breath steady. The muffled sway of music faded behind you, replaced by the low hum of the yacht’s engines and the slap of water against the hull.

You rounded the corner and waited for him. No long after you heard him — the shuffle of cheap shoes on the polished floor. Pathetic. Predictable.

You didn’t wait for him to speak. The instant he opened his mouth, you spun on your heel and your fist connected with his jaw — a sharp, clean hit that sent him crashing against the wall before he crumpled to the ground like trash.

He let out a low, broken whimper. You stepped over him, heel grinding just enough into his ribs to remind him exactly who he’d messed with.

“Eyes up next time, pervert.” You hissed, brushing imaginary dust from your knuckles.

Without another glance, you slipped back down the corridor, heart pounding not from fear — but from the electric rush of it all. You pushed open the door, stepping back out onto the candlelit deck where Sylus waited, oblivious and still half-drunk on the taste of you.

You let out a breath, smoothed your skirt, and glided back into his orbit like you’d never left.

Sylus lifted an eyebrow, catching your hand to pull you back into the dance, “Everything good, sweetheart?”

You smiled up at him — sharp, satisfied, a secret tucked behind your lips, “Perfect. Now, where were we?”

The ride back was a blur — city lights streaking past the window, your hand tucked safely in Sylus’s like it belonged there, his thumb brushing lazy circles on your skin as if he couldn’t stand to stop touching you, not even for a second.

But your mind was already racing ahead. The creak of your bedroom window. Sara’s worried hush as she’d help you sneak back in before anyone noticed. If you were late, she’d catch hell for it — and you wouldn’t let that happen. Not for anything.

By the time the library came back into view, you almost wished the road would just keep on going. That you could stay wrapped up in this impossible, stolen thing for just a little longer.

Snow fell in soft, fat flakes, landing in Sylus’s dark hair, on the shoulders of his coat, melting against the warmth of your cheeks. He cut the engine, but neither of you moved. The silence stretched until it was too fragile to break.

When he finally did open your door, you stepped out onto the frost-slick pavement, boots crunching on salt and snow. Sylus didn’t let go of your hand — if anything, he tugged you closer under the light of the streetlamp.

“Well…” You murmured, your breath misting between you, “This is… goodbye, I guess.”

Sylus tilted his head, eyes glinting under the amber glow, “When do I get to see you again?”

You let out a soft, helpless laugh, brushing a snowflake off his shoulder, “Whenever fate's wheel wants.”

His thumb stroked your wrist, “Should I just break the wheel then? Twist fate until it’s begging me to keep you?”

Your heart stuttered, “You can’t.”

“Sweetheart.” He murmured, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of him, “Don’t tempt me.”

“Don’t look at me like that” You breathed, every inch of you coiled tight.

“Like what?” His voice was silk and sin, “Like I want to drag you back to my car and ruin you ‘til dawn?”

You almost said yes. Almost begged him to do it. Instead, you rose on your toes, pressed a soft kiss to his cheek — a coward’s goodbye, a promise you’d never speak.

“Goodnight, Sylus.” You whispered, lips ghosting his jaw, “Thank you… for tonight.”

You turned, boots crunching in the snow — one step, two, three, four—

Then you spun around, your chest bursting, your feet carrying you right back to him. You grabbed his collar, yanked him down, and crushed your mouth to his.

The kiss was fire and teeth and too much all at once. His hands caught your hips, fingers digging in like he’d carve your shape into his palms. He bit your lower lip — sharp enough to draw a gasp, sharp enough that you tasted blood when he chased it with his tongue.

You broke away, breathless, lips throbbing.

“Sylus, you dog—” You whispered, half-laughing against his mouth, “You bit me.”

He smirked, eyes blown wide and wild, “Don’t act like you didn’t love it.”

You did. God, you did. This time, you forced yourself to pull back — really pull back, the cold rushing in to fill every place he’d left burning.

“One day.” He said, voice low, promise carved into each syllable, “I won’t have to let you go.”

You smiled — a tiny, trembling thing — and disappeared into the falling snow before your bones changed their mind. The moment you were fully gone out of the view, Sylus’s smile fell away like a mask sliding off glass. He turned toward his car, jaw ticking once, twice.

He pulled his phone from his coat pocket, thumb hovering just a second before he hit call.

“Kierran ” He said when the line clicked open, his voice now all frost and iron, “I want every server from tonight — every single one who set foot on that yacht.”

A pause. His eyes flicked the way you had disappeared.

“Find that piece of shit who couldn’t keep his eyes to himself.” He continued, tone so calm it burned, “Make sure he understands what happens when he looks at something that’s not his.”

He ended the call, the snow catching in his hair, melting on his lips — lips still stained with your kiss, with your blood. His eyes glinted dark as the sea beyond. And then Sylus Qin smiled — but there was no warmth left in it at all.

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[0silver0dreams0]

His Love

Your name was carved into my bones long before you ever spoke to me. I would rip the stars from heaven if it meant you'd never leave. If I must chain you to my side— so be it. Love was never kind.

Warnings: This story includes dark themes and intense emotional content, incest, bastardy / legitimacy issues, unhealthy coping mechanisms.

When Aemond Targaryen falls in love, he doesn’t simply fall—he descends, headfirst, heart ablaze, dragged by the weight of obsession and longing. His love is never gentle, never quiet. It’s ferocious, possessive, and utterly consuming.

Whether you are his sister, his niece, or merely a maid, his fixation manifests differently, but the outcome is always the same: once he’s chosen you, you belong to him. There is no escape, no forgetting, no mercy. His affection is a curse and a crown—worship and ruin intertwined.

He is not someone who simply desires—you cannot reduce what he feels to wanting. It is needing. And when he receives even the faintest hint of tenderness—a glance, a touch, a kiss on the cheek—it’s enough to shatter whatever self-restraint he once had.

Some say he would never betray his family for a woman. But they forget Aemond has never truly known love—not the kind that softens your voice and makes your chest ache when someone leaves the room. He is the favourite of his mother, yes, but he has always been a weapon, never a boy held close.

And if someone—you—offer him something he’s never had? A promise. A kiss. A whispered vow of devotion. Then yes, he’ll choose you. Every time. Because what’s a kingdom, what’s loyalty, compared to being wanted?

But it’s not simple—not always. There’s a particular cruelty in the way fate tempts him. If you are his niece, worse: a bastard, born of the very bloodline that mocked him, scarred him, took his eye, then loving you should feel like poison. He tells himself he should hate you—must hate you. But every time he sees your face, the war inside him rages louder.

And if you’re his sister... then the blood only makes it stronger. The Targaryens have never feared closeness. And to Aemond, you are not just kin—you are perfect. The way you understand him, the way you look at him and still stay. That cannot be coincidence. That must be destiny. So yes—he loves you. With a hunger that burns. With a violence that simmers under the skin. But love like this never leaves room for freedom. Only for possession.

Sister!Reader

With you, it’s different. He does not have to invent excuses for his obsession. The blood you share is sacred—dragonblood. He looks at you and sees what was always meant to be: silver hair, violet eyes, fire-born hearts that beat as one.

From childhood, you were his calm, his keeper. The only one who never flinched from the storm in him. You held his hand when he returned from Driftmark. You never looked away from the scar.

You are the only thing that makes him feel.

But as you grew older, more beautiful, more powerful, Aemond's love twisted into something feral. Now, his thoughts of you are laced with need, raw and desperate. He dreams of waking with you in his bed, your body wrapped in green silk and his hand resting protectively over your womb. His heir. His wife. His only.

He will kill for you. Bleed for you. Even marry you.

And if you protest—if you dare suggest it’s wrong—he’ll only smile.

“Blood of my blood,” he’ll whisper. “There is no sin in loving what was always mine.”

Niece!Reader (Bastard)

It’s torment, truly. Every time he sees your face, he remembers the boy he used to be—the one whose eye was carved out under the cold stare of your brothers. You wear their blood, their bastard legacy, and yet… he cannot stop looking at you.

He tells himself he should hate you. And he tries. Gods, he tries. But you smile at him once—just once—and it haunts him for days.

He follows your steps through the Keep, always in silence. Watches the wind play with your hair. Imagines what it would be like to press you against the wall, to kiss you until your bastard name disappears from your lips. Sometimes he dreams of you in his chambers—wearing green, swearing loyalty, begging him to never let go.

He knows it’s treason. He knows it’s madness. But he also knows that no one else will ever have you. He’s already claimed you—in thought, in breath, in blood.

And yes, he would betray them all for you. His mother, his brother, even the crown—he would leave it all behind if you only looked him in the eye and whispered that you were his. That you wanted him, and no one else. For a kiss, for a promise, he’d set the world on fire and walk through the flames just to stand by your side.

If he has to burn your brothers to the ground to make you his… then so be it.

Maid!Reader

He never notices the other servants. Never learns their names. But you… You were kind to him once. You bowed your head and whispered, “I’m glad you’re well, Prince Aemond.”

That was all it took.

From that moment, he watched you. Every morning. Every dusk. He learned the way your hands folded towels. How you whispered softly to yourself while cleaning his room. How your lashes fluttered when nervous.

At first, he let you live your life. But the thought of another man touching you—speaking to you—consuming you—became unbearable.

So he started controlling your shifts. Speaking to the Head Maid. Making sure no one else touched you. You only clean his chambers now. You only serve his table.

And when you try to leave early, he stops you.

“Why do you run, little dove?” “You serve me, don’t you? Then serve only me.”

He doesn’t need you to love him. Not yet. But he’ll make you need him. And once you do—once you look at him with something more than fear—he’ll never let you go.

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