I suppose I could start with pleasantries... A warm welcome... A gentle invitation...
Suppose we begin here—another whisper in the cacophony of tangled request threads scattered across this shadowed corner of the interwebs. A hundred itches waiting for that scratch... a thousand desires waiting to be read, and for some reason... you clicked on mine—and here we are.
I should apologise for that.
But I won't...
What waits within is indulgent, overworked, overwritten prose—shapened like a wicked little blade by someone who's spent far too long chasing the perfect sentence, and not nearly enough time pretending to be sane. Crafted by someone who's either imbibed too much, or inhaled more than they should have. And code—limping and stubborn—broken more times than any non-tech should dare to admit. But in truth, I am a writer first and foremost. I have spent years—literal decades—honing this craft, pouring more hours, more passion, more money than I ought to, simply to paint the canvas of the mind with stories that ache to be read.
As the above hints, I am an Adv. Lit/novella-length writer with an appetite for tension—and the poetry of seduction through words. I chase story-driven erotica, the kind that lingers like a bruise pressed too gently, too long. Those long, slow burns that stretch the breath, that wind anticipation like silk-wrapped rope, taut and trembling. I long to write the stories that don't just leave impressions on the mind, but leave marks on the soul of the person who participates in the sacred dance that occurs between the eyes and the pages of what they read.
Willingly...
So if you've made it this far... perhaps you are just as lost as I am. Or perhaps, you're exactly where you are meant to be...
You see, I am not just looking for a partner—I am searching for a storyteller, a kindred spirit. A hunt for that co-conspirator. A wicked pen. A soft sadist. Someone dangerous with words, who doesn't just write scenes, but composes symphonies of sensation and longing. Someone who savours the ache of anticipation—who stretches tension until it trembles, and understands that the most exquisite ruin starts with something as simple as a whisper. Someone who knows that the truest of seduction doesn't begin with a touch—but with restraint.
With silence.
With a glance across the page and a line of dialogue that takes like sin and lingers like a bruise.
Let's dance that delicious line between pleasure and pain, let's weave something dangerous—something beautiful, until the story itself is panting for release. A story that feels like silk dragged over bare skin, soft at first... until it tightens. Let's write characters who bleed with longing and bite back when kissed. Lovers who toy with each other like it's foreplay, and fight like it is, too. The kind who ache with complexity—who love too hard or not at all—who get under each other's skin in the most exquisite, excruciating ways.
Give me your beautiful monsters and desperate saints. Your soft-mouthed sinners and cruel romantics. Haunted, hungry lovers who burn for something they can't name. Monsters who dream. Mortals who dare. Those who beg to be loved—and those who take their time breaking, slow and sweet. Give me velvet and venom. Devotion with teeth. Characters who fall in love like it's a curse—like it might ruin them—and want it to...
Those who ache to be broken open, and those who delight in the breaking... With that maddening, sacred trust that turns pain into worship, and control into something far more intimate: devotion. Whether cloaked in fantasy or kissed by the velvet hush of historical moonlight, wrapped in smoke, blood, blush, or silk—I want to feel it all when we write...
If you crave stories that smoulder like a secret—where each scene leaves fingerprints, where every word is a dare—then darling...
Why don't we start something beautifully sinful?
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ─── Turn Ons Story-Driven ✤ Complicated Characters ✤ OOC Conversation Play ✤ Eroticism ✤ Intellect Turn Offs Whiners ✤ Ignorance ✤ Disrespect ✤ Liars (just be honest with me, it isn't not hard, promise) ─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
The Yes, Please & No-No's
Bratting
Dominance & Submission (D/s)
Spanking: Hand, Belt, Flogger, or Paddle
Hair pulling
Slapping (more body than the face... sometimes)
Wax play
Temperature play
Begging
Choking/breath play
Scratching/biting
Clothed sex/teasing
Praise kink
Corruption kink
Orgasm control/denial
Edging
Forced orgasms
Bondage/Restraint play (light to heavy)
Gagging (verbal, mostly, possible silk, no ballgag, sorry)
Public play/hidden control
Phallus worship
Anal training/play
Face-fucking / breath control
Forced orgasms
Public risk play
Pain as devotion
Exhibitionism/voyeurism (kind of the above-listed, but more specifically not hidden)
Age play
Cuckolding
Teacher/student, boss/secretary, stranger, etc.
Protocol play
Fear play
Mindfuck scenes
Monster/hybrid or non-human dominance
Rough anal or DP with toys
Biting/marking as claim (marks on the thighs or breasts.)
Face sitting (possible in some scenes)
Aftercare rituals
Subspace & domspace exploration
Emotional vulnerability kink
Loving dominance
Clothing & Ritual – Undressing her like a ceremony.
Sleepy/Submissive Sex
Diapers
Gaping of any orifice
Bathroom Business
Pairings of Interest... Maybe Because everyone enjoys a good pairing list...
The roles in which I wish to play will be in bold text.
King/knight xnoble/peasant Beast x Beauty warrior xenchantress dad/step xdaughter/step/daughter's best friend/babysitter (step)/sibling x (step)/sibling
vampyre xwitch lycan x witch CEO x Assistant/Rival
In the slides that follow are just a few plots I have managed to write over the years. Some are older than others, but the want to write them is still at the forefront, hence them making it into this thread. I may, one day, repost a plot thread, but as it is currently, this is where we are at...
"The two most important days in your life are the day you are born... and the day you find out why."
― Mark Twain
When a young woman makes a deal with a demon, one expects her to keep that promise. What if that promise was made by a witch Back in the days when magic wasn't so popular and usually the one who practices such a talent would find themselves tied to a tree, not unlike that of the ever-famous "Tree Huggers", only this time, the Holy Men would set the torches a wee bit too close. The point of this Halloweenie Plot is simple. Little Red Riding Hood and Rumplestiltskin had a baby, and this wee nugget was the spawn of that blending.
Scarlet Hammond had been the daughter of a local healer who had passed during the birthing of Scarlet, or so the rumours had suggested. Instead of the wee babe being tossed out into the snow, she had been placed into her aunt's care. Only the true reasoning behind the demise of the babe's mother had been known to one person, and she had prayed to take that secret to her grave if she could.
Elora Hammand had been gifted with the rare talent of magic that had been nurtured by her mother before her. Time passed, and her talents grew, and eventually, she began to use her gifts to heal others in need. From a small cut to birthing a babe, Elora knew which herb would best suit whichever situation. Her own mother had gotten mixed up with a wife who had accused her of husband seduction, and I do not need to go any further to explain what happened afterwards, but it's the same old cliche that would befall all those blessed or cursed with the gift of Magic.
Lo and behold, Elora is desperate to save her mother from the 'Hot Date with a Stake', and she delves into a branch of the arts that no White Witch dares to contemplate practising. Stumbling along with the spell, rather clumsily as the entity she manages to summon whilst looking down her nose at the book tricks her into a contract of sorts. One that she willfully jumped into in order to save her mother's life. Think of this demon as a Rumplestiltskin who wanted her firstborn child for his own kind of a deal. (I will go into more details via actual plot talks if this thing manages to get any interest. )
After making such a deal with this creature, Elora used the time she had, which was most definitely ticking, to begin to work on how to either break the deal or a loophole through it. When she found it, the only person she told had been her sister. Olivia had been against it from the moment the loophole had been uttered, but given the fact that Elora had done what she had to save their mother's life, she could not fault her for trying to save the life of her unborn child.
Making the promise to keep her secret until it was time and to keep the wee babe hidden from the demon that would collect on the child's eighteenth birthday, Elora was able to commit to her plan.
The Plan:
When Elora dies, bringing life into the world, she also works her last spell. A cliche love spell if you will and this is where it gets a bit tricky and starts to sound a bit like Red Riding Hood:
Scarlet's red cloak is enchanted by magic, not only because her mother had blessed it with her witchy mojo, but because the fabric itself had been made with thread from special wool that had been blessed, yadda, yadda, not really important. The Important part was, the demon couldn't sense her when she was wearing it, which gave the lass a wee bit more time than otherwise not wearing it. Here's the kicker, YC, should one attempt such a plot, would be the lad that would be her "true love". <-- sorry, eye-rolled at that. But of course, there's always that romantic side where homeskillet dashes in and saves the wee lass from some monster.
Fun Fact: He's a monster too.
Demon-boy finds out about the witch's plan because they always do and curses YC in order to make himself seem more attractive. Actually, it was more or less bait to make Scarlet offer herself in order to save the lad from a Fate forced upon him by her family's actions. Is he a were-peep? Is he a vampire? That part is up to you.
The only question is: Will she succumb to the demon, or will she aid in breaking YC's curse?
Anyway, I think that's all I have for this now. I had more to write, but it seems like a bit much, even for an avid reader. Thanks for reading if you did, and feel free to contact if there's an interest.
And this, my dear reader, is where I shall end my dear Scarket's story.
For the rest is still waiting to be written...
"It may be a man's world, but men... are easily controlled by women."― Ashly Lorenzana
A Cinder-Snow tale where a young princess is raised without a mother. The King takes it upon himself to remarry to provide a mother for the daughter he already has and to gain an heir in need of making.
Raised by a man whose time had been spent more in the company of nobles and councilmen, Elspeth filled her days with hiding from her Nurse and getting underfoot of those who worked in the armoury. After befriending one of the squires, soon to be young Knights, the dear Princess sweet-talks her father into letting her train. With the smooth-talking aid of the Knight, adding that it would at least make the Nurse a happier creature were the energy of a young lass be used, the King had been won over, and the training began. Her father had left the kingdom of Insert Kingdom Name Here to negotiate peace with another bordering land that had decided to grow a little big in the breeches. This did not go as well as one would have hoped.
With the King out of the picture and our new Queen at the helm, she allows her hatred of the little Princess to take the lead. Banishing her to the guard's barracks instead of allowing her to keep her rooms in the castle, dear Elspeth tries to make do with what she has been dealt.
For the time being...
With the help of the guards still loyal to her father and by rites, Elspeth, will she be able to retake the throne that had been stolen out from under her? Will the Evil Queen manage to win the heart of the Huntsman/Prince and seal the Fate of the king?
Will Elspeth Prevail?
"Before you die, experience the love of a writer, poet or painter. If you're lucky enough to be an artist's muse, they will immortalize you." ― Soledad Francis
Basically, there is a teensy-tiny part in the Bridgerton series, (if you've seen it, you'll know the scene I am referring to, if not, it does not matter), and it pertains to the 2nd son, Benedict away at "The Art Academy", if they said the name, I was not paying attention which is a shame since I've watched the series in its entirety more times than any sane person should admit.
Here's the plot thought:
MC, is a model for this university. Not only is she simply a model, but she wishes to hone her craft as any other man who attends. The problem therein lies within her sex. Women were not allowed to attend universities or practise any sort of academic path without causing some sort of scandal, so they were, therefore, meant to dress prettily, learn how to sing and play the pianoforte and breed. That was it. Women were not worth all that much to the aristocratic society, and some of the women trapped within were smart enough to at least attempt to escape it. If a love match were unavailable when they 'came out in society' and deemed themselves spinsters on purpose, they were free. The majority of ladies were not so lucky and had their marriages arranged for them.
MC, had been lucky enough to have her debut and escape unwed so she could follow her own dreams, not that anything would come of them at the time, but there had always been that glimmer of hope.
While having parents who were in Society, she too, had been obligated to attend functions and the like, even if she were a permanent fixture upon the wall. Masquerades had been her favourite functions to attend, as it had been less likely for some to notice her as her face would be covered.
Something about the mask, as she had often posed nude with only a mask on her face to hide her true identity, of course, (because they all do and somehow it works. Go figure).
Anyhum, YC comes along and spies her sitting in his seat one afternoon, having arrived to class a bit early, and the interrogation and romance would begin. I have a few more thoughts on how this would go, but I think playing it out with another would be much more fun.
A fun scene that keeps playing in my head is a surprise meeting of the two at a Society ball where he learns her true identity of being a Lady, despite the provocative situations they would have likely found themselves in at this point.
Of course, she would tell him the truth of who she was, but would it have mattered? He would have been more focused on her beauty, her bosom, her bum, or whatever to truly care who she was and what they had done. Would he be honourable and give up his rakish ways and marry this spinster whose virtue he did not know he had taken until the blood of her maidenhead was on his member?
I am just rambling at this point, but I will close with... Does the Rake Honour the Spinster? Or does he take his liberties and leave?
"May have been the losing side. Still not convinced it was the wrong one."― Malcolm Reynolds
After spending most of the week marathoning watching another round of Firefly and the wonderfully too-short Serenity, and now I wish to travel the stars with little to no knowledge of planetary inhabitants and the likes therein. So, this will likely sit amongst the plots listed above and collect the stardust it likely deserves.
MC, an inhabitant of an earthlike planet many, many light years away from our very own Sol System, is a young lady with an imaginative mind and a knack for fixing things. "They just seem to make sense. Like a jigsaw puzzle. Just gotta match the pieces and next thing you know, it works!" A Kaylee kind of person, though instead of fixing the ship, that is what she spends the majority of her time doing, especially since it is hers, to begin with, though I will get into how YC manages to come into the picture, she was its captain. If one is familiar with either the series or the movie, you'll know that it's Mal who runs the ship and though he's got his moments, he's a fair and honest captain of the ship he runs, if not a bit on the quirky side.
But I digress...
One of the few companions on said ship, wagers Horizon in a game he couldn't cover, even with the ship as his form of payment. Since YC knows that the ship isn't really going to stay together once they reach orbit, and HOPEFULLY, he feels bad for the lugnut companion using her ship as collateral, he allows her to continue on, making repairs and helping him do whatever it is space cowboys do. Bounties had been something MC had been attempting to collect, especially with the Alliance, formally The Union of Allied Planets, posting more than the registered hunters could round up.
I would go into more detail, but I feel that it would be better suited for partner-plot-talks since it would be a mutual adventure with a few twists and turns. If you've watched the show or the movie, it explains quite a bit. : )
Attending several of the most prestigious dance academies, Maddie finds herself now as a principal dancer for the ABC, and though she adores the company she works for, she also longs for more.
What's more, I have no clue. Taking a few modelling jobs to help build her portfolio and to get the younger crowd interested in dance again, this is where she can meet another character to spin a story with. Is he the photographer who takes her photos, or is he a new choreographer in town who takes a liking to the ballerina? I just don't know. But going to add this bit here since it is very similar, only real change up is the Dancer being replaced by a Cellist...
Nadia Romanov is a classically trained Russian cellist who has relocated to the *Insert City/Country*. While she has made a decent living as a concert cellist for several big-name symphonies, she also finds herself in a bind. While she is alone where she currently happens to be, she still has family back home in Russia that she supports. Finding out that her brother has gotten himself in trouble with a rather nasty sect of the 'Secret Police', or Mafia which would be closer to the truth, it is up to Nadia to either let her brother face the consequences of his actions, or... To do the unthinkable to save him.
What had started out as a typical modelling job, she learns rather quickly that the big money is when the clothes come off.
But how far would she be willing to go?
A war-scarred realm where the Fae once ruled the forests, skies, and shadows, but now hide in the dwindling remnants of their power. Humans, driven by greed and fear, have turned Fae into commodities—harvested for their beauty, magic, and blood. Magic is fading from the land, corrupted by steel and ash. The once-mighty courts are fractured, and the old bloodlines are thought extinct.
The Plot:
In the twilight gloom of the Withering Vale, a seasoned Fae hunter tracks a whisper through the fog—a shimmer of light unlike any he's seen. He's hunted dozens, sold many more, and watched as merchants drained wings and essence from bound creatures without remorse. But this one… she glows like the moon beneath water. Her presence stirs something old and unfamiliar.
He binds her in enchanted chains—forged with silvered blackthorn, etched with ancient runes meant to suppress will and song—and takes her to his remote stronghold, a crumbling watchtower overgrown with cursed ivy. She does not fight like the others. She does not beg. She only watches him.
What he doesn't know: she is the last pure-blooded heir of the Hollow Court, the oldest and most feared line of the Fae. Her name is Aeralith, though she does not offer it freely. Her blood alone could restore magic to the dying world—or damn it entirely. She hides the truth, for if he knew what she was, he might trade her for a king's ransom—or worse, offer her up to those who hunt her court to extinction.
He does not sell her.
He tells himself he needs to learn. To understand. To experiment. But the way she sings softly to the shadows, how her gaze roots him in place, how her scent lingers in his thoughts—this is no study. She tempts him without meaning to. He watches her sleep and wonders if she dreams of vengeance. She speaks in riddles, calls him by names she shouldn't know, touches his mind with flickers of lost memories.
The binds keep her contained… for now. But they weaken when he touches her bare skin. When he falters in his resolve. He begins to dream of a forest that breathes. Of a crown made of bone and moonlight. Of a voice—hers—asking him to choose a side.
Aeralith, meanwhile, begins to understand this man is no mere hunter. There's something ancient in him. A blood tie long-buried. Perhaps he was touched by her kind as a child. Perhaps there's a sliver of Fae in his soul. She does not love him. Not yet. But she needs him. To escape. To return. To reclaim what was taken.
And maybe, to destroy the world that destroyed her kin.
The longer they remain entangled in the tower, the more blurred the lines become. Aeralith tempts him with truths. She offers illusions, flickers of trust. She asks for small freedoms. A single link loosened. A single name spoken. She draws blood with her teeth when he comes too close. She kisses him with poison on her lips—and he drinks it willingly.
He is torn. His old life, his coins and kills, mean less with each passing day. He cannot bring himself to break her, nor can he set her free. He fears what she might become—what she might awaken.
Then, the tower is no longer safe. Other hunters draw near. So do those who want the Hollow Court burned from memory. Aeralith's binds cannot hold forever. She begs him—not with words, but with a look—to choose. Help her reclaim her power, and she will grant him purpose. She will save him from his own emptiness.
But what will she become once the binds are gone?
YC, a man with an air of mystery, someone who is both deeply intellectual and emotionally guarded. He lives his life with purpose, yet something seems missing—maybe it's joy, maybe it's the spark of genuine connection. His world is structured, predictable, and though he is successful in many aspects, there is a quiet longing that remains unspoken.
Their paths cross when she offers him something unconventional: the gift of time. She is a free spirit—an artist, a poet, a dreamer. She lives for the beauty in fleeting moments and seeks to paint them with every breath she takes. She wants to invite him into her world for 30 days—a month of no strings, no commitments, only exploration. Each day, she will show him a new piece of life, a new experience, a new way of seeing the world, all without the constraints of expectations or future obligations. He will step outside his rational mind and into the canvas of the present, where only the now matters.
As the days pass, they will unravel each other's stories through art, music, poetry, and quiet moments. He will teach her about structure and control, while she will teach him about surrender and letting go. They will live in the delicate tension between what could be and what is, knowing that, like all beautiful things, their time together is destined to end.
The question remains: What happens when a heart too cautious meets a soul too wild? Will they find something timeless, or will they simply be two fleeting moments in the grand scheme of the world?
MC: An artistic soul, perhaps a painter, photographer, or poet, who lives with a sense of unrestrained passion. She's fiercely independent yet deeply empathetic, seeking to inspire and evoke deep emotions in others. She knows how fleeting time is and wants to share that truth with someone.
YC: Reserved, intellectual, and possibly jaded by life's realities. You're successful but emotionally closed off, unsure of what it means to truly live in the moment. Through your time together, you'll be challenged to let go of the rigidity of your existence.
A young witch who abandons her coven when she falls in love with a Christian soldier. War has plagued the country, taking her love with it, and upon receiving the latest news, their side was not winning. The Spring Solstice was upon them, and going against his wishes, she participated in a ritual with the coven who had never truly released her.
The question remains: What happens when a heart too cautious meets a soul too wild? Will they find something timeless, or will they simply be two fleeting moments in the grand scheme of the world?
..A troubled soul in need of guidance and forgiveness. What sins has she committed? To be discussed. The point is, the sweet Father is the one who will either use her guilt to manipulate her to do things she wouldn't normally do or to blackmail her should the sins be worth the payout.
Is she an adultress who repents due to the guilt she feels for her actions? Had it been a physical, virtual, or even a mental encounter that had taken place?
Is she a pure soul who has a roommate who brings home a different man/woman, or several every night and not very quiet about it? Tired of the constant noises coming from all parts of her home, she seeks out her long-time Priest for advice... Should she move?
In the year 2237, human society has evolved—or devolved—into what is known as "The Equilibrium Order." Emotions have been officially classified as a "cognitive virus," eradicated through gene-editing and behavioural programming at birth. Love, anger, lust, jealousy, and even joy are outlawed. To maintain perfect peace and productivity, human connection has been minimised. All individuals live in sterile, uniform habitats, working in silence, existing without physical contact. Everyone wears suppression collars that track and dampen emotional spikes.
A new viral mutation, however, is beginning to breach these controls. It is referred to in secret as "The Stirring"—a glitch in the system, an infection of the soul. Those affected are quickly identified and removed from society, "neutralised" in isolated facilities.
MC is a highly ranked archivist or behavioural analyst in the Central Authority—a model citizen with a flawless record. But lately, she's been experiencing unexplained changes: flickers of sensation, stray dreams, involuntary shivers during touchless scans. She's terrified. And yet... deeply intrigued.
YC, is a silent maintenance engineer, or something tech-y, one of the unseen who operates in the shadows. He's infected too—but unlike others, he's managed to hide it. His symptoms are advanced: he feels hunger, ache, need. And he recognises the signs in her when they cross paths. For the first time, he speaks to someone. Not because he should—but because he wants...
When their hands brush accidentally, it's electric. Forbidden. Awakening. The virus doesn't just unlock emotions—it opens a gateway to pleasure, dominance, surrender, and the primal need to claim or be claimed. It terrifies them both... and they keep going back for more.
Together, they begin to explore a world of touch, restraint, whispered commands, and slow submission in secret places: under flickering utility tunnels, behind sealed archive walls, and eventually in a hidden sanctuary beneath the city—where emotion is worshipped like a god long thought dead.
But they must be careful. The Central Authority is hunting those who "Stir". The deeper they go into each other, the more they risk everything. But the pleasure of surrender... of control... of trust... might be worth the fall...
She is a sweet, sheltered young woman, who has spent most of her life in the shadows of the glasshouse her father tended. As the estate's gardener, her father worked for the mysterious and ultra-wealthy *Insert YC's Family's Name Here*, who treated him with mild respect and her with vague kindness. She had eyes only for him, the dashing, charming youngest son. A perfect creature of tailored suits and devil-may-care smiles, he was everything she believed love should be. Her father noticed her obsession and fearing her heartbreak, urged her to leave the estate and 'live a little'—find herself, and find someone who could return her love in kind.
Two years abroad have changed her. She bloomed. She learned the weight of her own desire. She tasted loneliness, but also found comfort in brief but passionate companionship. And when she returns to attend a celebration at the family estate—older, wiser, still untouched in many ways—she doesn't expect to draw attention. But this time, he notices her. Or so it would seem.
Unbeknownst to her, she has always been watched—not by the youngest, but by his older brother, the eldest son. Dark, enigmatic, and rarely seen, he had admired her gentle soul since she was barely more than a girl. He knew her innocence, her quiet hunger for love. But he also knew the things he desired were far too dark for her delicate heart... Or so he thought.
When the youngest finally begins to pursue her—recklessly, flirtatiously—YC, the older brother finds himself torn between protecting her and wanting her for himself. When the truth of his desires comes to light, she must choose between the fantasy she chased and the man who watched her bloom from afar...
She leads a quiet life by all appearances—professional, composed, untouched by chaos. But beneath her polished exterior lies an ache she doesn't speak of. A recklessness. A craving.
Not for love, not for companionship... but for freedom. The kind that comes when control is willingly handed over, not taken.
Then, the invitation arrives...
A black envelope, sealed in red wax. No name. No return address. Just the embossed emblem of a snake coiled around a mask, and a card inside with a message written in sinfully elegant calligraphy:
"You have been chosen. One night only. No obligations. No names. Only permission, only desire..."
She should have thrown it away. She should question how they knew her. But the card trembled in her hands like it knew something she didn't...
The Society is spoken of only in whispers. An invitation-only sanctuary for those who understand that true submission is not weakness, but worship. That dominance, when wielded with care, can strip away everything except the truth beneath the skin.
The masquerade is hosted in a grand, candlelit mansion just outside the city. Velvet drapes, domed ceilings, music that seeps into the soul. Guests arrive in elegant attire, masked, anonymous. Voyeurs and players. Some come to watch. Some to kneel. Some to command.
"Participation is never required. But indulgence is always welcome..."
And when she locks eyes with him—a tall, masked figure whose presence alone makes her pulse stutter—she feels something awaken. He does now speak at first. He simply offers a hand.
No demands. No promises. Just the invitation to step beyond the edge of her carefully ordered life... and fall...
She had been taken—plucked from the waking world like a petal from its stem—held captive in silence and shadow. Her body was bound, yes, but it was her mind they truly hungered for. Each nightfall dragged her beneath the veil of sleep, only to deliver her into a realm no longer her own. Her dreams, once a refuge, had become a war zone. Intruded. Corrupted. Woven with malice.
Dreamweaving—it was an art long buried in ash and blood, outlawed across kingdoms and ages alike. But somewhere, in secret chambers hidden beneath cathedral ruins or deep within data-corrupted archives, a cult had kept it alive. Passed from whisper to whisper, hand to hand, they had mastered the forbidden craft. Their magic—or their machinery—could pierce the thin membrane between consciousness and slumber.
It began with induced sleep—by potion, by spell, by neural override. Once adrift in dreams, the victim became clay. The dreamweaver would enter like a thief, spinning illusions so vivid they transcended mere sight and sound. Every sense—touch, taste, scent, even the weight of sorrow or the sting of fear—could be conjured with uncanny precision. The mind believed. The body responded. Pain could be felt. Ecstasy could be simulated. Trauma could be etched into the soul as surely as if it had happened in the waking world.
In that twilight state, the dreamer was weakened. Their powers—if they had any—dulled to whispers. Their reason, slowed. Their will, eroded. One could be made to relive horror in a loop, a single nightmare rendered infinite. And with time, the line between illusion and reality would blur. Where did the dream end? When did waking begin? Madness waited in the in-between.
But they could not harm her—not truly. Not yet.
She was too valuable, too singular, too necessary for their unknown ends. Her body must remain unbroken, her mind intact—if only barely. For she carried something ancient within her: a memory, a secret, a cipher written in the marrow of her being. Perhaps it was knowledge long forbidden, or a sliver of divine code, or even some dormant power etched into her blood. They didn't yet know exactly what they needed from her—only that they would extract it.
So they wove. Night after night, they threaded terror into beauty, cruelty into seduction, desperation into comfort. All to bend her, to break her without touch. To lure her into surrendering what they sought—willingly, if they could manage it.
A twisted kindness.
A slow undoing.
Whether in a medieval land where magic flows like mist through the forest, or a dystopian sprawl where machines whisper through cortex links, the game remained the same.
The Garden of Eden is not a simple paradise, but a living, breathing realm of divine design. Its beauty is overwhelming—sunlight falls like gold upon flowers that sing, rivers whisper riddles, and the very trees pulse with celestial life. Eve walks in this eternal dawn, first of her kind, her skin kissed by starlight, her soul unmarked by shame or fear.
She is not alone, but she is untouched. Adam is a mirror, a companion, but he offers no fire, no reflection of her deep and growing questions. The world is perfect—and yet, something is missing.
That is when He appears.
He is not a beast.
Not truly.
He moves like smoke and shadow between the trees—sometimes a voice without form, other times a man with eyes like polished obsidian and a tongue that tastes like honey and sin. He is old. He is patient. And he has been watching her since the beginning.
They say he was once the brightest of angels.
He does not offer the fruit immediately. That would be too crude.
Instead, he offers her conversation.
He speaks of the stars, of creation, of the fire that the gods keep hidden from mortals. He delights in her questions. He tells her stories Adam never could. He sees her mind—hungry, wild, divine in its own right—and he feeds it.
He does not ask her to disobey.
He merely asks her to wonder.
She is not a simple figure of temptation—she is intelligent, inquisitive, and slowly awakening to the vast, veiled truths of the cosmos. Each meeting with Him peels back another layer of innocence, another veil from her eyes.
He speaks not just to her body, but her soul.
Their interactions are a dance, close, but never touching. He never pressures, only invites. He praises her questions, her boldness, her uniqueness. She begins to see herself not just as a creation, but as a creatrix. The fire she sees in his eyes begins to burn in her chest.
And when he finally brings her to the Tree... it is not a trick.
It is an offering.
"Take it, if you wish," he murmurs.
"Not for me. Not for Adam. Not even for Him.
But for you..."
"There are doors that do not open with keys. There are pleasures that do not soothe. And there are desires that, once awakened, do not sleep."
In a crumbling old city where gaslamps flicker through wet, cobbled streets and unseen things move in alley shadows, there exists a myth—whispered among collectors of the obscure, those who haunt antique shops and secret salons. It tells of The Velvet Labyrinth, a ritual-bound, otherworldly space said to offer transcendence to those who dare seek its hidden entrance.
Not merely pleasure.
Not merely pain.
But revelation.
She is a seeker—whether a scholar of esoterica, a disillusioned artist, or simply someone numb from the ordinary. She has always felt haunted by something—some yearning without a name. When she uncovers an ornate puzzle-box in an underground gallery, she feels it pulse in her hands like a living thing.
She solves it. Not all at once—but in fragments, dreams, whispers. And when she does…
The veil tears.
He is not human—not anymore. Once a man who pursued extremes of sensation, he has become something other in the wake of entering the Labyrinth long ago. No longer bound by flesh alone, he is a creature shaped by ritual, desire, and torment—a dark guide, perhaps a warden, or perhaps the architect of the Labyrinth itself.
He comes to her—not to take her, but to test her. To awaken what lies dormant inside.
But something about her unsettles him. She reminds him of the man he once was, before his transformation. And she, in turn, finds herself drawn to him not in fear—but in longing.
Before she was the tyrant, she was Princess Iracella of Hearts—a radiant soul with a laugh like music and roses in her hair. Wonderland knew her as a dreamer, a girl who spoke to flowers and danced under moons that changed colour with her mood. Her heart was vast and soft, a rare thing in a realm ruled by oddities and cunning.
She was to inherit the Throne of Hearts, but unlike her mother, the former Red Queen, bitter and cold, Iracella wished to rule with empathy, with art, with poetry.
But Wonderland is not kind to gentle things.
It begins when a stranger arrives—a man from beyond the Mirrorveil, where time runs straight and rules are real. A war-torn soul who stumbled into Wonderland through fractured dreams or cursed magic. Unlike the natives of the realm, his mind is tethered to logic. To him, her world is absurd. And yet—he is enchanted.
By her.
He teaches her restraint, strategy, and power. He challenges her softness with hard truths. And slowly, something grows between them—delicate, then intense. He becomes her advisor.
Her lover.
Her undoing...
But he harbours secrets. A bitter heart. Perhaps he was sent to conquer her world. Perhaps he lost someone to chaos and sees Wonderland as the enemy. Or perhaps he simply cannot stand to see power in hands so innocent.
In trying to make her stronger, he breaks her.
He whispers that kindness is weakness, that the people mock her behind painted smiles, that betrayal grows in gardens she once nurtured. He watches her crown grow heavier. Watches her hands tremble. Watches her roses grow redder.
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