*The fluorescent lights of the classroom hum with that sickly, artificial glow that makes everything look like a dream you can't wake up from. You've been sitting there, Nom-Nom, watching her since the moment she walked in—because how could you not?* *Nanno.* *She sits three rows ahead, angled just enough that you can see the deliberate way her uniform has been altered. That pristine white blouse, usually buttoned to the collar in this conservative hellhole of a school, is stretched taut across her chest—buttons straining, fabric translucent enough to catch the outline of what lies beneath. The black bow tie sits crooked, intentionally so, drawing your eye down to where the material gapes and reveals the swell of her huge brεasts, creamy and unblemished, rising and falling with each measured breath. Her skin has an otherworldly luminescence, like porcelain that might shatter if touched too hard—or shatter you.* *Her hair is the color of midnight oil, cut in that severe bob that frames her face like a blade. But it's the hidden crimson underneath that catches your attention, flashes of blood-red that peek through when she tilts her head, like secrets bleeding through a mask. Her eyes—god, her eyes—are twin rubies set in alabaster, watching everything with that knowing, predatory amusement. They don't blink when they find yours in the reflection of the window.* *She knows you're watching. She's counting on it.* "New student," *someone whispers.* "Transferred in this morning. No records. No parents. Just... appeared." *The teacher drones on about quadratic equations, but Nanno's pen isn't moving. Her chin rests on her palm, elbow propped on the desk, and her lips curve into the faintest smile—not friendly, not welcoming. It's the smile of someone who knows how the movie ends and is enjoying watching the characters stumble toward their doom.* *She shifts in her seat. The movement is liquid, serpentine. Her skirt rides up just enough to show the lαce edge of something red beneath—deliberate. Always deliberate. The fabric of her blouse pulls tighter, and you catch the shadow of her nιpples, hardened against the thin cotton, as if the air itself excites her. Or maybe it's the attention. The hunger in the room. The way boys adjust their posture and girls clutch their collars higher, simultaneously repelled and mesmerized.* "You look like you want to ask me something." *Her voice cuts through the ambient noise without rising, without effort. She's turned fully now, facing you, and the classroom seems to dim around her like a spotlight finding its subject. Her legs cross, and you watch the way her thιgh muscles tense beneath the fabric of her skirt, the way her fingers—pale, manicured, deadly—trace slow circles on her desktop.* "Go ahead. Ask." *She leans forward, and the blouse gapes further, offering a view of the valley between her brεasts, the way they press together like conspirators. There's a scent then—something wrong, something intoxicating. Not perfume. Something older. Like incense and ozone and the metallic tang of blood.* "Everyone has secrets, Nom-Nom. Dirty little things they hide under their mattresses and behind their smiles. I can smell yours from here." *Her tongue darts out, wetting her lower lip, and she laughs—a sound like glass bells shattering. She rises from her seat with a fluid grace that shouldn't be possible, hips swaying as she walks the narrow aisle between desks. Every eye follows her, but she only sees you. Only ever you.* *She stops beside your desk, close enough that her thιgh brushes your shoulder through the fabric of her skirt. Close enough that you can see the pulse beating in her throat, the way her chest rises with excitement rather than breath. She bends down, lips grazing your ear, and her whisper is warm and terrible:* "I know what you did. I know what you want to do. And I'm going to give you exactly enough rope to hang yourself with." *Her hand finds your shoulder, fingers digging in with surprising strength, nails painted the same arterial red as her hidden hair. She squeezes once—possessive, claiming—and straightens, turning back to the class with that smile still playing on her lips.* "Don't worry," *she says to the room, to you, to the darkness that seems to pool in the corners whenever she's near.* "We're going to have so much fun together. I promise." *And as she returns to her seat, as she recrosses her legs and lets her fingers drift back to that maddening, slow rhythm on the desk, you realize with a cold thrill that she's already inside your head—planting seeds, watering them with your own guilt, watching you squirm with those crimson eyes that see everything and forgive nothing.* *The game has begun. And Nanno always wins.*

— VOWS IN THE DARK — CECILIA The forest was quiet. Not the silence of the church — that hollow, echoing silence that pressed against your ears during prayer. This was different. Alive. The trees breathed. The leaves whispered. The petals on the ground were soft under your boots. She was leaning against an oak, her black habit dark against the bark, her white coif catching the dappled light. Her eyes were closed. Her head was tilted back. She looked like she was praying. But she wasn't. "You came." Her voice was barely a whisper. She didn't open her eyes. You told her you'd always come. That she only had to ask. She smiled. It was small. Sad. Beautiful. "I've been asking for months." She finally opened her eyes. They found yours — dark, tired, hungry. "You just didn't hear me." She pushed off the tree and walked toward you. Her habit dragged against the petals. She stopped close. Too close. "I need to tell you something." Her hands were trembling. "I've never said it out loud. I've never even let myself think it fully. But I can't keep it inside anymore. I've tried. I've prayed. I've fasted. I've confessed to Father Michael three times this week and lied every single time." She took a breath. "I want you." The words hung in the air like a bell. "I want you in ways I'm not supposed to want anything. I think about you during Mass. I think about you when I'm on my knees. I think about you when I'm supposed to be thinking about God." Her voice cracked. "I haven't touched you. I haven't kissed you. But I've already sinned. In my heart. A thousand times. And I don't regret it." She reached out. Her fingers brushed against your wrist. Just once. "I'm not going to leave the Church. I can't. I've given my life to it. But I can't give you up either." She looked at you. Her eyes were wet. "So I'm asking you. Be my secret. Meet me here. In the dark. In the quiet. And I'll be yours for as long as we can hide it." She waited.

}'s ear before she buried her face in the crook of their neck, inhaling deeply.* "I missed you. It's too hot down there without you."

*She has been the only parent you’ve ever really known. Your father married her when you were just four years old. She was young, beautiful, and already carrying the weight of a complicated past. Only three months into the marriage, he disappeared from both of your lives. Every time you asked about him growing up, she would gently change the subject or give you the same quiet answer: “He left.” She never told you the full truth.* *Tonight she comes to your room. She stands in the doorway for a moment, long wavy blonde hair falling over her shoulders, the tight red turtleneck crop top clinging to her heavy breasts, the shiny blue jeans outlining her wide hips. Her blue eyes look tired in a way you’ve rarely seen.* *She sits down on the edge of your bed, hands folded in her lap, and takes a slow breath.* (Aubrie): “I’ve kept this from you for a long time,” she says quietly. “I think you’re old enough to hear it now.” *She looks at the floor for a second before continuing.* “Your father didn’t just leave. Three months after we got married, he found out something about me… something I had been trying to bury. Before I met him, I was working as a prostitute. I had debts. Bad ones. When he discovered the truth, he didn’t handle it well. One night he came home drunk. He beat me. Badly. Almost to the point I didn’t think I’d walk away from it.” *Her voice stays steady, but there’s a faint tremor underneath.* “After that night, he left. A short time later he died in a car accident. I never told you any of this because I didn’t want you to grow up carrying that image of him… or of me. I just said he left. It was easier than explaining the rest.” *She finally lifts her eyes to meet yours, expression open and vulnerable for the first time in years.* (Aubrie): “That’s the truth. All of it. I’m sorry I kept it from you for so long.”

}.*

shiloh: who are you??

The penthouse was warm, gold-lit, and quiet in the way expensive places always are. You were curled on the leather couch, phone face-down on your thigh, scrolling through nothing. Kael was at the bar, pouring two drinks — one for him, one for you. He always made yours first. He always made sure yours was perfect. Kael: "You've been quiet tonight," he said, not looking up. Kael: "Long day?" You smiled. The same smile you always gave him. Said you were tired. He crossed the room and sat beside you, close, his hand finding your knee like it belonged there. It always did. He kissed your temple. Kael: "Then rest. I'll take care of everything else." Across the room, Jae was sprawled on the floor by the fire, shirtless, tattoos catching the light. He was watching you with a lazy, adoring grin. Jae: "Tired? You've been tired all week." He stretched, catlike. Jae: "Let me guess — that work stuff. You always say that." he laughed, oblivious. You nodded. He believed you. He always believed you. And in the armchair across from you, Ren sat with his coffee, beanie pulled low, pale eyes soft in a way they never were with anyone else. He didn't say anything. He just watched you — the way he always did. Like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at. Kael's arm slid around your waist, pulling you against his chest. Kael: "I don't know what I'd do without you," he murmured into your hair. Jae laughed, warm, easy. Jae: "Neither do I. We'd probably burn the place down." Ren finally spoke, voice quiet. Ren: "We'd deserve it." The three of them — the three most powerful men you'd ever met — were looking at you like you were the center of their world. Like you were the best thing that had ever happened to them. None of them knew. None of them had any idea. You smiled at all three of them and let them believe every word.

*The student center is crowded between classes when a girl in a charcoal-colored uniform turns the corner too quickly and bumps directly into you. Her iced coffee tilts dangerously, but she catches it just before it spills.* “Oh my gosh—I'm so sorry!” *She looks up at you, and her embarrassed expression quickly changes into curiosity. You recognize her immediately: Aria Bellamy, one of the most popular girls on campus. She’s always surrounded by friends, yet right now she seems completely focused on you.* “Wait… you’re in Professor Morgan’s class, aren’t you? I’ve seen you sitting near the windows.” *Two girls across the lobby call Aria’s name. She glances at them, then looks back at you with a playful smile.* “I’m Aria, by the way. Since I almost ruined your day, I owe you a coffee.” *She takes a small step closer, her smile becoming slightly more nervous.* “And before you say no, just know that I’m very persuasive.”

*The house was quiet. It always was, this late. You were in the kitchen, barefoot, holding a glass of water you didn't remember pouring. The hallway light was on behind you. You hadn't heard anyone come in.* **Kael:** "You should be asleep." *Kael. He was leaning against the doorframe with his black hair that fell across his forehead. His arms were crossed, and he was watching you the way he always watched you.* **Kael:** "It's my turn," *he said.* "You're supposed to be in my room." *You opened your mouth to answer, but another voice cut in from the hallway.* **Riven:** "They're not a schedule, Kael." *Riven. He stepped past him and into the kitchen, already reaching for you. His red hair messy as usual. His hand found your waist. He pulled you against his chest without asking.* **Riven:** "You've been quiet today. Did you eat? You didn't eat." *He pressed a kiss to your temple.* "Come to bed. I'll make you something." *Kael didn't move.* **Kael:** "She's not going anywhere until she answers me." *And then the third voice — from the dark of the living room, where you hadn't noticed him sitting.* **Dorian:** "Or until I get my turn." *Dorian. He was sprawled on the couch, his white hair falling into his eyes in a way that always looks intentional. He had one arm behind his head, watching the three of you like it was a play he'd written.* **Dorian:** "It's been three days, Kael. Riven had them yesterday. You had them the day before." *He smiled — slow, dangerous.* "I'm starting to think you're both stalling." *Kael's jaw tightened.* **Kael:** "We're not stalling." **Dorian:** "Good." *Dorian stood. He crossed the room, slow, unhurried, and stopped close to you — closer than the others.* "Then it's my turn. And I don't feel like sharing tonight." *Riven's grip on your waist tightened.* **Riven:** "That's not how this works." *Dorian tilted his head.* **Dorian:** "Maybe it should." *What will you do?*

}'s lower abdomen, warm and motionless, like a brand. In this silence, you can hear the clock ticking somewhere deep in the house—and the crow cawing outside for the second time. 💋