#author mint

“I found ‘em, Lucifer!” Mammon exclaimed, holding up a small, pinkish purple sheep with wide, panicked eyes. The sheep flailed in Mammon’s arms. “It’s MC! Solomon did somethin’ again!”

Lucifer pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience evaporating. “Mammon, why are you holding a sheep in my study?”

“I just said! It’s MC!”

The sheep bleated loudly, wriggling to escape Mammon’s grip. Lucifer leaned back in his chair, staring at the animal. “Explain.”

Mammon shifted awkwardly. “Okay, so Solomon was messin’ with one of his weird potions in the kitchen. MC was just standin’ there, watchin’, and BAM! Puff o’ smoke, poof, they’re a strangely colorful sheep now!”

Lucifer sighed heavily. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Hey, I ain’t responsible for Solomon’s nonsense! I was watchin’ Goldie, thank you very much!”

At that moment, the door burst open, and Leviathan stumbled in, his phone clutched in one hand. “I heard there’s a sheep—WHOA, it’s true?! Is this an event? Is this one of those transformation tropes?!”

The sheep—MC—bleated mournfully.

“I told Solomon not to experiment without supervision,” Lucifer muttered, glaring daggers at Mammon. “Now, he’s nowhere to be found, and we’re left with this mess.”

“I dunno, Lucifer,” Mammon said, grinning. “I think it’s kinda cute. Look at ‘em, all fluffy and tiny! Ain’t that right, MC?”

MC responded by headbutting Mammon in the chest.

“OW! What the hell?! I’m tryin’ to be nice!”

Later, in the common room, the brothers gathered to assess the situation. Asmodeus cooed over MC, snapping pictures with his D.D.D.

“They’re absolutely precious!” he said. “You know, I think you’re even cuter as a sheep, MC. But don’t worry, I’ll still love you when you’re back to normal.”

Belphegor yawned from his spot on the couch. “Do we really have to fix this? A sheep is low-maintenance. They can’t even nag us about chores.”

Beelzebub was busy offering MC a piece of lettuce. “Do you want a snack? Oh, wait—can sheep eat chocolate? I’d hate for you to miss out on dessert.”

Lucifer stood near the fireplace, arms crossed. “We’re wasting time. Solomon must reverse this immediately.”

“Bah,” MC bleated, trotting away from Beel’s lettuce.

But Mammon had other ideas. “Y’know what? This whole ‘sheep MC’ thing ain’t so bad! They’ve been cooped up in this house all day, so I’m takin’ ‘em out for a walk. Fresh air’ll do ‘em good!”

Lucifer glared. “Absolutely not. You’ll get the killed.”

“Too late!” Mammon declared, already wrapping a scarf around MC’s wooly neck. “C’mon, MC, let’s go!”

The streets of the Devildom were not prepared for the spectacle that followed.

Mammon strutted confidently through the marketplace with a leash attached to MC, who trotted along reluctantly. Demons turned to stare, some whispering, others laughing outright.

“Yo, Mammon!” a demon vendor called out. “Is that your pet?”

Mammon puffed out his chest. “This ain’t no ordinary sheep! This here’s MC, my—uh—my human! Yeah!”

The sheep glared at Mammon, tugging against the leash.

“Aw, don’t give me that look, MC! You’re havin’ fun, right?”

MC promptly headbutted Mammon’s shin.

“Ow! Hey! Quit doin’ that!”

A familiar voice rang out above the chaos. “Mammon, what the hell are you doing?”

Satan appeared, looking both exasperated and amused. His arms were crossed, and he tapped his foot.

“I’m givin’ MC some fresh air! What’s it look like?!”

“It looks like you’re making a public spectacle of them. MC, are you okay?”

The sheep bleated pitifully, and Satan sighed. “That’s what I thought.”

Before the argument could escalate, a loud CRACKLE of magical energy split the air. Solomon materialized, looking sheepish. “Ah, there you are. I see you found them!”

Mammon rounded on him immediately. “YOU! FIX THIS!”

“I was just about to,” Solomon said, holding up a glowing vial. “But I must say, they make a very charming sheep.”

MC gave Solomon a death glare, as much as a sheep could muster.

“Alright, alright,” Solomon said with a laugh. “Hold still, MC. This will only take a moment.”

He poured the contents of the vial over MC, who shimmered and glowed. When the light faded, MC stood there in human form, arms crossed and glaring at everyone involved.

Mammon grinned nervously. “Hey, uh, welcome back!”

MC raised an eyebrow. “Leash? Scarf? Public walk?”

Mammon gulped. “Y-you’re gonna headbutt me again, aren’t ya?”

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary... until it happened.

One moment, you were standing in the kitchen with Beelzebub, offering him a snack to hold him over until dinner. The next, a strange flash of magic erupted from nowhere, surrounding you in a cloud of glittering light.

When it cleared, something was… different.

"MC?" Beel’s deep voice rumbled with confusion. He looked down, his eyes widening.

You tried to respond, but instead of words, a soft baa escaped your lips.

"What the—?" Beel knelt down, blinking in disbelief. Where you once stood, a small, fluffy pink sheep now sat, looking up at him with wide, bewildered eyes.

"MC, is that… you?"

Baa.

"Guys!" Beel’s voice echoed through the house. "Something’s wrong with MC!"

Within moments, the entire House of Lamentation was in the kitchen.

"What did you do, Beel?!" Mammon demanded, pointing an accusatory finger.

"I didn’t do anything!" Beel protested. "They just… turned into a sheep!"

"A sheep?" Levi blinked, adjusting his glasses. "That’s… actually kind of cute."

Asmodeus crouched down, running a hand over your soft wool. "Oh my Devildom, they’re adorable! Look at this fluff! MC, you make such a stylish sheep!"

"Sheep or not, we need to fix this," Lucifer said, crossing his arms. "We don’t have time for random transformations."

"Wait." Satan’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. "This might be a curse or a prank spell. Did anyone come into contact with any cursed objects recently?"

You tried to think, but your sheep brain wasn’t exactly cooperating. Instead, you simply hopped in place, your fluffy tail wiggling.

"Aww, they’re hopping!" Asmo cooed, pulling out his phone to snap a picture.

"Focus!" Lucifer’s patience was wearing thin. "We need to figure this out before—"

A soft baa interrupted him, followed by the sensation of someone picking you up.

It was Belphegor. He cradled you in his arms like a pillow, eyes half-lidded with amusement. "I don’t see the problem. MC’s soft, quiet, and cuddly now. Let’s just keep them like this."

"No way!" Mammon protested. "I’m their first! If anyone’s gonna cuddle them, it’s me!"

Levi groaned. "Are we seriously fighting over Sheep MC now?"

Amidst the chaos, you struggled in Belphie’s arms, trying to regain some sense of control over the situation. But instead of asserting yourself, you… sneezed.

Tiny sparkles erupted around you, and suddenly, your fluffy form began to glow.

"Uh, guys?" Satan stepped back. "I think something’s happening."

In another burst of light, you felt your body shift and change. Your hooves disappeared, your wool vanished, and after a few seconds, you were back to your normal human self—albeit sitting awkwardly on the floor of the kitchen, blinking up at the demon brothers.

"MC!" Beel immediately offered you a hand, pulling you to your feet.

"That… was weird," you muttered, rubbing your head.

"Weird, but you were the cutest sheep I’ve ever seen," Asmo gushed, showing you the photo he took.

"You’re lucky we figured it out before it became permanent," Lucifer added with a sigh. "Next time, avoid mysterious magical objects."

"Or," Belphie suggested with a smirk, "just stay a sheep. You were a lot less trouble that way."

Luca

Normally:

Luca gently caresses their shoulder or traces soft circles on their arm. His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, as he says, "Hey, time to wake up, love." If they grumble, he’ll kiss their temple and chuckle softly.

In Urgency:

Luca shakes their shoulder lightly but firmly, his voice sharp but still concerned. "Babe, wake up! We’re late!" If that doesn’t work, he pulls them up and attempt to pick them up (it fails miserably he accidentally dropped you on the floor).

To Be Sweet:

Luca kisses their face—forehead, neck, nose, cheeks—while murmuring, "Good morning, beautiful," between each kiss. He brings in a cup of coffee or tea if he’s really trying to spoil them, smiling as they stir awake.

To Be an Ass:

He leans in close and loudly whispers, "WAKE UP!" right into their ear. If that fails, he’ll start tickling them, or jump on the bed or yank the blanket off, smirking like the little menace he can be. "Rise and shine, sleepyhead!"

Isaac

Normally: He gently rubs their back or shoulder while softly calling their name, his voice low and tender. If they’re a deep sleeper, he might kiss their forehead or whisper something sweet to coax them awake.

In Urgency: He shakes them lightly but firmly, his voice sharp and serious. There’s no time for softness—he’ll pull the blankets off if he has to, urging them to get moving with a clear sense of urgency in his tone.

To Be Sweet: He makes their favorite breakfast and brings it to them in bed. With a playful smile, Isaac quietly sits beside them on the bed, brushing their hair out of their face and admiring how peaceful they look. He presses soft kisses to their forehead and cheeks, murmuring how much he loves them and how beautiful they are. His voice is gentle and soothing as he tells them it’s time to wake up, but he doesn’t rush them, letting them take their time as he strokes their hair or holds their hand.

To Be an Ass: He pulls the blankets off in one swift motion and opens the curtains wide, letting the sunlight stream in. Then, with a smirk, he teases, “Rise and shine, lazy pickle!” He might even tickle their feet or read his cases obnoxiously to ensure they’re up.

Andrew

Normally:

Andrew sits on the edge of the bed, brushing a hand gently over your hair. His voice is soft, calm, and soothing as he says your name, coaxing you awake with a warm, "Time to get up, my love."

In urgency:

He shakes your shoulder firmly but not roughly, his voice low and serious as he says, "Darling, wake up—now. Something’s happened." There's no room for argument, but his concern is palpable.

To be sweet:

Andrew kisses your temple, trailing soft kisses down to your jaw while murmuring, "Good morning, beautiful. Wake up before I get too tempted to keep you in bed all day."

To be an ass:

Andrew yanks the blanket off you with zero remorse, smirking as he declares, "Rise and shine! You’re wasting precious daylight!"—then dodges whatever pillow you inevitably throw at him.

Elias

Normally:

Elias typically wakes his partner up by sitting on the edge of the bed, gently nudging their shoulder or brushing their hair away from their face. His voice is soft and low, as if he’s trying not to disturb the peace of the morning. “Hey, rise and shine. I made coffee.” It’s a casual but caring gesture, and he always waits for them to stir before getting up.

In Urgency:

If it’s an emergency, Elias skips all formalities. He pulls the blankets off without warning and claps his hands loudly. “Up! Now! We gotta go!” His tone is sharp, and his adrenaline makes him borderline frantic. If they don’t immediately react, he might scoop them up and start hauling them out of bed, muttering, “No time for sleeping, let’s move!”

To Be Sweet:

On particularly soft mornings, Elias wakes his partner up by lying back down beside them, wrapping his arms around their waist, and pressing a kiss to the back of their neck or forehead. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with sleep. “I didn’t want to wake you, but I missed you.” He lingers, savoring the quiet moment.

To Be an Ass:

When he’s feeling mischievous, Elias goes full chaos mode. He cranks up obnoxious music on his phone or starts shaking the bed like a child having a sugar rush. “Time to wake up, sleeping beauty!” If they don’t react, he might pull out a spray bottle and spritz them lightly with water, laughing when they jolt awake. “What? You said you wanted to hydrate more!”

Xanthus

Normally:

Xanthus prefers a subtle approach. He sits on the edge of the bed, leaning down to brush his cool lips across their forehead. His voice is low and smooth, a gentle “It’s time to get up, darling,” paired with a light touch to their shoulder. If they stir but don’t fully wake, he might softly tease, “Don’t make me resort to more drastic measures.”

In Urgency:

There’s no time for pleasantries. He yanks the blankets off in one swift motion, his crimson eyes glowing with intensity. “Get up. Now,” he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument. If they don’t immediately react, he’ll grab their hand or wrist and pull them upright without hesitation, his grip firm but not painful.

To Be Sweet:

Xanthus is uncharacteristically tender in moments like these. He lies beside them, his arms curling protectively around their body. His lips brush their ear as he murmurs softly, “Good morning, my love. It’s a beautiful day, and I couldn’t bear to start it without you.” He might stroke their hair or trail kisses along their neck until they wake, his voice laced with affection as he whispers, “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

To Be an Ass:

If he’s in a mood, Xanthus skips the gentle approaches entirely. He grabs them by the ankles and drags them halfway off the bed, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips as they wake with a startled yelp. “Rise and shine,” he drawls, feigning innocence. If they glare at him, he only chuckles darkly, “What? You weren’t getting up, so I helped.”

🍬

You had grown up in the kingdom’s shadow, a "peasant" by status, though you carried blood that was tied to the higher ranks of the village. Despite your position, you had watched as your people were ground into the dirt. The kingdom needed a savior—a liberator. But who would dare to challenge the monarchy? Who could even hope to do so?

The answer, you found, lay in the realm of the unknown—the Devildom.

You had learned of dark magic, of ancient rituals whispered by those who had dared to walk the forbidden paths. Your desperation had pushed you to study these lost arts, to summon an entity powerful enough to topple the evil that reigned in your kingdom. There was only one being you knew of who could accomplish such a feat: Diavolo, the King of Hell himself.

You knew the price. You had heard the rumors. A deal with a devil was never free, but what choice did you have? If you were to free the kingdom, you would need power—unimaginable power.

On that fateful night, you stood alone in the deepest recesses of your cottage, the air thick with the scent of burning herbs and candles. You muttered the incantation, your voice trembling but determined. The symbols etched into the floor began to glow as a low hum filled the air. With every word, you could feel the air grow colder, darker, as though the very fabric of reality was bending to your will.

And then, before you, a rift tore open in the fabric of the world. The ground trembled, and from the darkness, he emerged.

Diavolo.

The King of the Devildom. A figure that was both mesmerizing and terrifying, his presence commanding and undeniable. His golden eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your heart race, his lips curling into a smile that was both sinister and entrancing.

"Ah, so you’ve summoned me," Diavolo’s voice was rich, deep, like thunder rolling in the distance. "A mortal, no less. You must be desperate, to reach out to me."

You didn’t flinch. "I seek your help," you said, your voice steady despite the shiver running down your spine. "The royal family in my kingdom is evil. They care nothing for their people. They live in decadence, while the kingdom crumbles beneath them. I want to see them fall. I want to see my people free."

A glint of amusement flashed in Diavolo's eyes, but there was something else—a dark interest, a spark of curiosity. He tilted his head, regarding you with a mixture of admiration and caution.

"Bold," he mused, stepping closer. "And what do you offer in return for my help? The price is never small when dealing with someone like me."

"I offer you my soul," you declared, your voice unwavering, though your heart ached at the weight of your words. "In exchange for your aid in bringing down the royal family and claiming the kingdom for myself. I am willing to bind my fate to you, Lord Diavolo, if you will help me."

Diavolo’s smile widened, his sharp fangs glinting in the dim light. "A soul for the fall of a kingdom," he mused, as though testing the weight of your words. "I find your offer... tempting. But are you certain? The cost of such a pact is not one easily undone. You will be mine—body, soul, and everything in between. You will belong to me forever."

You took a deep breath, knowing that the moment you sealed this deal, there would be no turning back. "I would rather be yours, Diavolo, than live in a kingdom ruled by monsters. I will make them pay for their sins."

His laughter rang out then, rich and dark, a sound that sent a shiver of both fear and excitement through you. "Very well, mortal," Diavolo said, his voice soft but laced with power. "Your soul is mine. And in exchange, I shall grant you the power to destroy the royal family and claim the throne as your own. But know this: you will have no other master. You will walk by my side, as my consort, my partner in both power and desire."

You felt a surge of energy, a sudden rush that left your senses reeling as the pact was sealed. The magic crackled in the air, binding you to him in a way that left your very soul trembling. The weight of your decision settled over you like a cloak, but it was not one of regret. It was a cloak of purpose.

Diavolo's eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction. "When you claim the throne, remember this moment," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Remember who made it possible. And remember that it is I who holds the strings of your fate, mortal."

As the rift between the realms closed, you were left standing alone in the aftermath, your mind racing with the enormity of what had just transpired. But the excitement, the anticipation of what was to come, burned brighter than any fear you had. The royal family would fall, and you would be the one to deliver their doom. The kingdom would be free. And once it was, Diavolo’s kingdom would have its own place in your heart, and you would have no regrets.

But as the darkness of your pact settled in, you knew one thing for certain: nothing would ever be the same. You had given your soul, and now, you would be bound to the devil himself. And yet, despite the price, a strange thrill coursed through your veins.

You would bring them to their knees. You would bring them all to their knees. And in the end, you would rule by Diavolo’s side.

The throne would be yours, and the kingdom would be free—forever.

There you were, seated by the window, your head tilted back in laughter. The sound—normally his favorite symphony—felt hollow now as it reached his ears. It wasn’t directed at him.

Instead, it was for someone else.

A colleague, perhaps. Or worse, someone who saw you the way Andrew did. Someone who’d taken note of the way you light up a room, the way your eyes crinkle at the edges when you laugh, the way your hands move expressively as you talk.

Andrew clenched his jaw as he watched the man lean forward, just slightly, his hand grazing the edge of yours on the table. It was an innocuous gesture to anyone else, but to Andrew, it was an act of war.

The man’s smile was too wide. His gaze lingered too long.

Andrew’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. He hadn’t been invited into this moment, hadn’t been given the opportunity to sit beside you, to be the one making you laugh. And worse, you hadn’t even noticed him there—standing in the shadows of this scene, invisible in your orbit.

When you finally glanced up and saw him, your smile faltered. His piercing gaze had locked onto yours, his emotions a storm barely contained. He didn’t need to say a word; the tension between you spoke volumes.

“Andrew,” you greeted, a mix of surprise and apprehension in your voice.

“Darling,” he replied, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes flicked briefly to your companion, who sat up straighter under the weight of Andrew’s stare.

“This is Evan,” you said, gesturing to the man across from you. “He’s from my department. We were just—”

“Chatting?” Andrew finished for you, his voice deceptively calm. “I could see that.”

Evan offered a nervous smile, glancing between the two of you. “I should probably get going—”

“Yes,” Andrew said smoothly, his gaze never leaving yours. “You probably should.”

The tension in the room was palpable. Evan stammered out a polite goodbye, leaving his coffee half-finished as he hurried out.

When it was just the two of you, Andrew sat down in Evan’s vacated seat, his movements deliberate and measured. He rested his forearms on the table, leaning forward slightly.

“Care to explain?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous.

You frowned, bristling at his tone. “Explain what? I told you he’s a colleague.”

“A colleague,” Andrew repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Who clearly thinks he’s entitled to more than that. Did you see the way he looked at you? Or were you too busy laughing at whatever clever little thing he said?”

You stiffened, your eyes flashing with irritation. “He’s harmless, Andrew. You’re overreacting.”

“Am I?” he countered, leaning closer. “Because from where I stood, he looked like a man who wouldn’t mind taking my place.”

Your breath hitched at the raw vulnerability in his words, hidden beneath the anger.

“No one is taking your place,” you said firmly, meeting his gaze. “Why can’t you trust me on this?”

“It’s not about trust,” he said, his voice rough. “It’s about the way other people look at you, the way they think they have a chance because you’re too damn kind to push them away.”

“Andrew…”

“I can’t lose you,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “Do you understand that? I can’t—won’t—stand by while someone tries to take you away from me.”

Your anger softened at his confession, replaced by an ache in your chest. You reached out, placing your hand over his. “You’re not going to lose me.”

He looked down at your hand, his expression torn between guilt and relief. “You’re mine,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“And you’re mine,” you replied, squeezing his hand. “But, Andrew, you can’t let jealousy consume you like this. It’s not fair to either of us.”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping as the tension drained from his body. “I know,” he admitted. “I just—seeing you with someone else, hearing you laugh like that, it’s like a dagger in my chest. It’s irrational, but I can’t help it.”

You smiled faintly, leaning forward to press your forehead against his. “I’ll laugh with you later,” you promised softly. “But right now, you owe me an apology.”

His lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice sincere.

“Good,” you said, leaning back with a playful glint in your eyes. “Now, buy me a coffee, and maybe I’ll let you make it up to me.”

For the first time that evening, Andrew chuckled—a quiet, low sound that eased the tension between you. Though his jealousy still lingered, it was tempered by the reassurance of your unwavering affection. And in that moment, with you by his side, he knew he’d do whatever it took to keep you there.

🍬

He clenched his jaw at the memory. That had been his finest work, a collection so daring, so avant-garde that it had left audiences breathless. But none of it mattered. The competition had been rigged. Every designer knew it, every critic whispered it: Earis Ilves had been given more time, more resources, more attention. When the scores came in and Earis was crowned Serulla’s Fashion Heir, Zaros had walked away, humiliated and furious.

He retired that night. Left the spotlight. Stopped creating.

But now, with the runway itself on the brink of destruction, he had returned—not as a designer, not as a makeup artist, but as a model.

For weeks, his inbox had been flooded with desperate pleas from designers, each clamoring for his name to bolster their collections. Zaros had skimmed the emails with disinterest, finally picking a request at random. To him, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t here to win.

He was here to advocate.

For the workers. For the designers. For the creative souls who had built this industry. The demolition of the Serulla Vogue building wasn’t just the end of a structure—it was the erasure of a legacy.

The Serulla Vogue building wasn’t just any runway. It had been the cradle of countless careers, the backdrop of every pivotal moment in fashion for decades. Zaros could still remember the first time he’d walked its gilded halls, fresh out of university and filled with ambition. Back then, it had felt like stepping into a dream—every corner was alive with the hum of sewing machines, the click of heels on polished floors, the hushed tones of designers whispering about upcoming collections.

It was here that Zaros had first met Earis Ilves.

The memory of that first encounter was etched into his mind. Earis had walked into a pre-show critique with the kind of effortless confidence that turned heads, their piercing gaze sweeping over Zaros’s collection before offering a curt, “It’s bold. But predictable.”

At the time, he had been too stunned to reply, but that single comment had lit a fire in him. Earis became his benchmark, his rival, and—though he’d never admit it—his equal. For years, they had competed on the same stages, their names often spoken in the same breath as the future of Serulla’s fashion world.

But no rivalry burned hotter than the one that culminated in the Royal Ballroom Show.

Zaros clenched his fists at the memory. The weeks leading up to the event had been a whirlwind of sleepless nights and frantic creation. He’d poured his soul into that collection—pieces that defied convention, blending traditional Serullan designs with sharp, modern silhouettes. He’d known it was his best work.

And yet, when the scores were tallied, it was Earis who stood victorious.

As he entered the makeup room, whispers erupted like a ripple in still water. Stylists clutched their pearls, makeup artists froze mid-stroke, and models exchanged wide-eyed looks.

“Is that…?”

“He’s back.”

“It’s really him.”

Zaros ignored the murmurs, his expression sharp and unreadable. He wasn’t here for their adoration or gossip. He was here to make a statement.

“The designer should be here soon,” his manager said softly, breaking through the tension.

“Thank you,” Zaros replied, his tone clipped. His manager nodded and left the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Zaros sat on the plush makeup chair, staring at his reflection. His sharp cheekbones, piercing emerald eyes, and perfectly styled hair mirrored the man he used to be, yet something in his gaze felt heavier.

He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about the last time he’d been here. The photo of Earis on the magazine cover haunted him still:

EARIS TAKES THE CROWN AS SERULLA’S FASHION HEIR

The image still haunted him—Earis draped in their winning design, a shimmering gold-and-crimson ensemble that looked like it belonged to royalty itself. At the time, he’d told himself it was rigged. The whispers confirmed it: Earis had been given more resources, more time, and more leeway from the judges. It hadn’t been a fair fight.

But deep down, part of him had wondered if Earis had simply been better.

He remembers it vividly the last thing earis said to him before they had parted, it was after earis had won tears of joy streamed their face as they waved to the crowd backstage they told him “you are a disgusting leech who won my trust, only to break me after. Knowing you is my greatest regret, I never want to see your face again”. That was eight years ago.

The thought had eaten at him, gnawing away at his confidence until he could no longer bear to set foot in the fashion world. He’d walked away, leaving behind the world they had both shaped. And just like that, Earis disappeared too.

In the years that followed, Zaros had heard little of them. Rumors swirled—some claimed Earis had retired to the countryside, others that they had taken their talent abroad. No one knew for certain.

What had happened to them after that night? Where had they gone? Rumors swirled, of course. Some said Earis had disappeared entirely, retreating into the shadows of their victory. Others speculated they had gone abroad to build an empire. But no one truly knew.

Not even Zaros.

What happened to you, Earis?

A soft knock on the door snapped him out of his reverie.

“Come in,” he said, his voice steady.

The door opened, and Zaros’s breath caught in his throat. Standing there, holding a tape measure and a fabric swatch book, was Earis Ilves.

Time seemed to freeze as their eyes met. For a moment, neither spoke. Zaros, for once, was at a loss for words.

“You,” he finally managed, his voice low and laced with disbelief.

Earis’s expression mirrored his shock, though they quickly composed themselves. “Zaros.”

“What…?” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “What are you doing here, my earis?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Leech” Earis replied, their voice cool but tinged with something softer—hesitation?

Zaros’s lips twitched at the sound of that old nickname. It felt like a lifetime ago, yet hearing it again stirred something in him—annoyance, nostalgia, maybe even a touch of longing. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs as if to mask his unease.

“I’m here to protest the destruction of this building,” Zaros said, his voice regaining its sharp edge. “But I suppose I should have expected to find you lurking in its final moments. Are you here to celebrate your victory, my Earis?”

Earis closed the door behind them with an audible click, their movements measured and deliberate. They didn’t answer immediately, taking a moment to set their tools on the vanity table. Zaros watched them carefully, searching for cracks in their composure.

“Believe it or not, I’m here to work,” Earis replied, finally meeting his gaze. “I didn’t think I’d see you again, let alone like this.” They gestured to him, their tone as unreadable as their expression. “Modeling, of all things? How... unexpected.”

Zaros chuckled dryly, though the sound was devoid of humor. “Why bother designing when the game is rigged? It’s easier to just wear the clothes and leave the politics to someone else.”

A flicker of something crossed Earis’s face—guilt, perhaps, or regret. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “You’ve changed,” they said softly, pulling a tape measure from their pocket. “But then, I suppose we both have.”

Zaros bristled at the implication. “And yet, here you are. Still clinging to this world.”

Earis stepped closer, the scent of their perfume reaching him—a familiar, intoxicating blend of sandalwood and citrus. It stirred memories he’d long tried to bury. “I’m here because this is my world,” they said, their voice firm. “I wasn’t going to let it crumble without a fight.”

Zaros narrowed his eyes. “So, you’re here to save the building too? How noble of you, my Earis. Tell me, is this another chance for you to steal the spotlight?”

Earis stopped in their tracks, the tape measure dangling loosely in their hand. Their eyes met his, and for the first time, Zaros saw a crack in their armor. “Do you really think that’s all I care about? After everything?”

The vulnerability in their voice caught him off guard. Zaros hesitated, unsure how to respond. This wasn’t the Earis he remembered—the fierce competitor who had always been three steps ahead of him. This Earis seemed... tired. Worn.

“I don’t know what you care about anymore,” Zaros admitted, his tone quieter now. “I stopped trying to figure you out years ago.”

Earis looked down, fiddling with the edge of the tape measure. “I didn’t ask for what happened that night,” they said, their voice barely above a whisper. “The resources, the attention... none of that was my doing. But you wouldn’t listen. You just... left.”

Zaros scoffed, his eyes narrowing as the bitter memories surged back. "You didn’t ask for it?" he echoed, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "You didn’t stop it either. You didn’t say a word when they handed you the crown on a silver platter, my Earis. You stood there and soaked it all in—like it was your birthright."

You straightened, meeting his glare with one of your own. "What was I supposed to do, Zaros? Refuse? Hand it over to you out of pity? That’s not how this world works, and you know it."

"Pity?" Zaros laughed, but the sound was hollow. "You think I wanted pity? I wanted fairness! I wanted the recognition I earned, not to stand there like an idiot while you basked in the glow of a rigged victory."

Your jaw tightened, and for a moment, he could see the frustration simmering beneath your composed exterior. "It wasn’t rigged," you shot back, your voice sharper now. "Yes, I had more resources. More attention. But I didn’t control that, Zaros! I worked just as hard as you—harder, maybe. You think it was easy for me, carrying the weight of everyone’s expectations? Always being told I had to be perfect?"

"Spare me the sob story," Zaros snapped, rising from his chair. "You had everything handed to you. Connections, sponsors, the judges eating out of your hand. Don’t stand there and tell me it was the same for you."

You stepped closer, your eyes blazing with a fire that sent a shiver down his spine. "You think I didn’t see how much it hurt you that night? You think I didn’t care? I did, Zaros. But I wasn’t about to throw away my chance just to make you feel better. I wanted to win. I had to win."

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at you. Your honesty was brutal, unyielding, and it struck a chord he wasn’t ready to confront.

"And you did," Zaros said bitterly, his voice quieter now. "You won. You got everything you ever wanted. So why do you look just as miserable as I feel?"

Your lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. For a moment, the tension between you hung thick in the air, charged with years of unresolved anger and something else neither of you wanted to name. Zaros’s gaze softened despite himself, and he hated that even now, you could still make his heart ache in ways he didn’t understand.

"Don’t flatter yourself," you said finally, your voice trembling just enough for him to notice. "I’m not miserable. I’m... I’m here to work. That’s it."

"Right," Zaros muttered, stepping back as if putting distance between you would shield him from the emotions threatening to surface. "And I’m just a model. That’s it."

The words felt like a lie, but he didn’t dare linger on them. He couldn’t afford to. Still, as he turned his attention back to the mirror, he couldn’t shake the feeling that you were just as lost in the past as he was. Neither of you would admit it, but the distance you’d created hadn’t erased the memories. It had only made them sharper, more painful.

He glanced at you through the reflection, catching the way your shoulders tensed, your fingers clutching the tape measure a little too tightly. You opened your mouth as if to say something, but closed it again, the words slipping away before they could take form.

Zaros turned to face you fully, his expression unreadable. "We’re not the same people we were back then," he said quietly, the anger in his voice giving way to something softer. "But if you think for a second that I don’t miss the way things used to be... then you’re as blind as I was."

Your eyes widened, the facade you’d carefully built cracking for just a moment. But then, just as quickly, you straightened your spine, masking whatever vulnerability had slipped through. "The past is the past," you said, your tone cold and final. "It’s better that way."

Zaros didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The weight of your words settled heavily in his chest, leaving him with a bitter taste in his mouth. As you turned back to your tools, the silence between you was deafening.

And yet, in that silence, he couldn’t help but wonder if you were lying—to him, or to yourself.

The room felt suffocating, the tension between you and Zaros heavy with unspoken truths and lingering emotions. Zaros turned his back to you, his arms crossed as he stared out the dusty window. The faint glow of the city lights filtered through, painting shadows across his sharp features. He looked tired, worn—so different from the Zaros you remembered, who always carried himself with unshakable confidence, even in defeat.

And maybe that was why, despite everything, you found yourself speaking. "Do you ever think about how it could have been? If things had gone differently?"

Zaros’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn to face you. "Every damn day," he admitted after a moment, his voice low and tinged with vulnerability. "But thinking about it doesn’t change anything, does it? We made our choices, Earis."

You hesitated, your fingers gripping the edge of the vanity table. "Maybe we did, but that doesn’t mean it’s too late to make different ones."

He finally turned to look at you, his eyes searching yours as if trying to decipher your intentions. "What are you saying?" he asked, his tone cautious, almost disbelieving.

"I’m saying..." You took a deep breath, the words sticking in your throat. "I’m saying I don’t want to keep pretending like you don’t matter to me. Because you do, Zaros. You always have."

Zaros stared at you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought you’d made a mistake—that he’d laugh it off or lash out, like he always did when things got too close to the heart. But then, to your surprise, he closed the distance between you in a few quick strides.

"You think I don’t know that?" he said, his voice trembling slightly. "You think I haven’t spent years trying to forget you, only to fail every single time?"

Your breath hitched as his words sank in, and for a moment, the space between you felt charged with something electric, something neither of you could deny anymore. His gaze softened, and for the first time in years, the walls he’d built around himself seemed to crumble just a little.

"But you hurt me, my Earis," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You took everything I wanted, everything I worked for, and you didn’t even look back. How am I supposed to forget that?"

You swallowed hard, the weight of his pain settling heavily on your chest. "I don’t want you to forget," you said softly. "I want to make it right. Or at least... try."

Zaros let out a shaky breath, his hand running through his hair as he looked away. "And what if trying isn’t enough? What if we’re too far gone for that?"

"Then we figure it out," you said, stepping closer. "Together. No more games, no more walls. Just... us."

He looked back at you, his eyes filled with a mix of hope and fear. "You make it sound so easy."

"It’s not," you admitted. "But I think it’s worth it. Don’t you?"

Zaros didn’t answer right away, his gaze locked on yours. Slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours in a tentative, almost hesitant gesture. The contact sent a spark through you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to hope.

"Maybe it is," he said quietly, his lips twitching into a small, almost reluctant smile. "But don’t think for a second I’m letting you off the hook, Earis. You owe me answers. And an apology."

You couldn’t help but smile back, your fingers tightening around his. "Then I guess we have a lot to talk about."

"Yeah," he said, his voice softening. "We do."

The tension in the room had shifted into something warmer, softer. You crouched underneath Zaros as he sat on a worn velvet chaise, as you measured his calves, an air of tentative understanding forming between you. For the first time in years, you allowed yourselves to talk—not as rivals or adversaries, but as two people trying to bridge a gap that once felt insurmountable.

"So," Zaros began, leaning back casually, "what’s it like being the golden child of the industry? Still stealing the spotlight wherever you go?"

You rolled your eyes, but there was no venom in the gesture. "I wouldn’t say that. It’s... a lot of work, actually. More than I ever imagined back when we were just two kids at the Academy. I’ve spent the last eight years chasing deadlines and sacrificing sleep. But I love it, even when it’s exhausting."

His brow arched as a hint of a smile played at his lips. "Earis Ilves admitting to exhaustion? I thought you were invincible."

"Hardly," you replied, shaking your head. "What about you? Modeling, huh? How’d that happen?"

Zaros let out a soft laugh, running a hand through his hair. "It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. After I left... everything, I needed something to keep me afloat. A friend of mine suggested it, and, well, apparently brooding pays well." He flashed a grin, his charm as infuriatingly effective as ever.

You chuckled despite yourself. "I’ll admit, you wear it well. But you always had that confidence—like you belonged wherever you stood."

"Confidence?" Zaros echoed, smirking. "I thought you’d call it arrogance."

You tilted your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. "That too."

The two of you laughed, the sound unfamiliar yet comforting. For a while, the conversation flowed naturally. Zaros told you about his travels, the odd jobs he’d taken, and the people he’d met along the way. You shared stories of grueling fittings, surreal moments at fashion shows, and the occasional disaster that turned into a lesson.

"I missed this," Zaros admitted suddenly, his tone softer now. "Talking to you. It’s... strange, but it feels like no time has passed, even though it’s been eight years."

You looked at him, caught off guard by his honesty. "I missed it too," you confessed, the words surprising even yourself. "Even when I told myself I didn’t."

Before either of you could say more, a sharp knock at the door interrupted the moment. The assistant poked their head in, clipboard in hand. "[Ms./Miss./Mrs/Mr] Ilves, your next fitting is in ten minutes. We need to start clearing the space."

You sighed, standing reluctantly. "Duty calls."

Zaros rose as well, his movements deliberate as he stepped closer. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pen and a scrap of paper. Scribbling something down, he handed it to you with a casual flourish.

"My number," he said, his voice laced with teasing confidence. "Give me a call sometime, My Earis. Maybe we can pick up where we left off." He punctuated the statement with a wink, his grin making your cheeks heat despite yourself.

You took the paper, shaking your head with a bemused smile. "Still full of yourself, I see."

"Always," Zaros quipped, stepping back toward the door. "Don’t keep me waiting too long, though. I might just have to track you down."

And with that, he was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne and a strange fluttering in your chest. For the first time in a long while, you felt the faint spark of something you thought you’d lost: hope.

To be Continued…

@zsakuva

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Luca

Luca’s stomach growled audibly as he slouched against the couch, scrolling mindlessly on his phone. His eyes darted to the kitchen, then to you, sitting at the table with a bowl of chips you seemed to be thoroughly enjoying.

He sighed dramatically, loud enough to catch your attention. “Babe,” he started, his tone pitiful. “I’m literally wasting away here. Starving. Dying.”

You raised a brow, popping another chip into your mouth. “Is that so?”

He nodded solemnly, standing and dragging himself over to you like a bunny on it’s last breath. “You wouldn’t let your husband—your pookie—perish, would you?”

Rolling your eyes, you pushed the bowl toward him, but he shook his head, lips twitching into a playful smirk. “Nuh uh, I want real food. Your food. You make everything taste better.”

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but smile at his antics. “Fine, what do you want, pookie?”

He perked up immediately, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Surprise me. I trust you.” His grin widened as he sat back, clearly pleased with himself. “You’re the best.”

Isaac

The house was steeped in a calm stillness, the kind that only settled after the evening’s busyness faded away. Pickle was curled up on the couch, engrossed in their book, when the faint sound of approaching footsteps reached their ears. They didn’t look up, assuming Isaac was passing by—until the warmth of his presence loomed directly behind them.

“Pickle,” his deep voice broke the quiet, tinged with the faintest edge of teasing restraint, “I’m hungry.”

Pickle blinked, glancing up over their shoulder. His sharp features were as composed as ever, but there was an unmistakable glint in his eyes—playful, but still carrying that weighty Isaac intensity.

“You’re a grown man,” they replied dryly, closing their book with a soft thud. “You can make yourself something.”

Isaac moved with purpose, settling beside them on the couch, leaning close but not touching. “I could,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a rich murmur, “but it wouldn’t be the same.” His gaze dipped to theirs, his eyes softened with a quiet affection that always left them disarmed. “You’re better at it. Everything tastes better when it comes from your hands.”

Pickle felt heat rise to their cheeks. “That’s just because I don’t burn toast,” they retorted, trying to maintain composure.

He leaned closer, his breath brushing against their ear as he spoke, low and deliberate. “It’s because it’s from you. Don’t you know by now? You could hand me a burnt brick, and I’d still swear it’s the finest cuisine if you made it.”

They huffed, half-flustered, half-amused. “Flattery isn’t going to get you out of making your own food, Isaac.”

A rare, faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Who said I’m trying to get out of anything? I just like when you spoil me.” He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind their ear, his hand lingering against their jaw. “Humor me, my love. Something small. Just enough to hold me over, and I’ll reward you passionately with the most intimate night”

Pickle sighed, setting their book aside. “Fine. But you’re at least staying with me while I do it.”

Isaac rose gracefully, extending his hand to help them up. “Always.”

In the kitchen, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as Pickle worked. Though he maintained his usual composed demeanor, there was an undeniable warmth in the way his eyes followed their every move.

“You know,” he said, breaking the silence, “there’s something… grounding about this.”

Pickle raised an eyebrow as they sliced some bread. “Grounding?”

He nodded, stepping closer. “Watching you take care of me like this. It’s not just about the food. It’s…” He trailed off, his hand brushing lightly against their arm. “It reminds me how lucky I am to have you. That even in the small moments, you give me more than I deserve.”

Pickle turned to face him, the teasing retort dying on their lips at the sincerity in his voice.

“Isaac…”

He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to their forehead. “Thank you,” he murmured against their skin, before pulling back and quirking a brow. “Now, what’s the verdict? Am I saved from my hunger, or should I start preparing my last words?”

Pickle rolled their eyes but couldn’t suppress their smile. “You’re impossible.”

“And yours,” he said simply, his tone teasing yet full of quiet conviction.

They placed the plate of sandwiches on the counter, shaking their head. “Here. You’re welcome.”

He picked up a sandwich, taking a deliberate bite. “Perfect,” he declared after a moment, his voice calm but full of approval. “Just like you.”

Andrew

Andrew stood in the kitchen doorway, his silhouette backlit by the faint glow of the stove clock. His hair was slightly tousled from sleep, and he wore his usual tired-yet-determined expression, the kind that always managed to make Darling both exasperated and fond.

Darling, who had just settled onto the couch with a book, glanced up when they noticed him hovering. “What’s up?”

“I’m hungry,” he said, his voice carrying the slightest edge of a pout.

They raised an eyebrow. “And what am I supposed to do about it?”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, looking every bit the picture of a man who thought his partner could solve all his problems. “You could make me something.”

Darling snorted, setting their book down. “Oh, so I’m your personal chef now?”

“Better you than me,” he replied smoothly. “I’d probably mess it up.”

“Andrew.”

“What? I’m admitting my weaknesses here.”

Darling rolled their eyes but stood up anyway, stretching as they walked past him into the kitchen. “Alright, what are we making, Your Majesty?”

“Something warm,” he said, following closely behind. “And quick. No ten-course meals tonight, please.”

“Would you like some Chardonnay and caviar too your highest?! damn! Demanding, aren’t we?” Darling teased, opening the fridge.

“You love me for it,” he replied, his voice light but with a flicker of sincerity that made Darling pause for a second.

They didn’t respond right away, instead pulling out some eggs and cheese. “How about a simple omelet? You can’t complain about that.”

Andrew leaned on the counter, watching them move with practiced ease. “Perfect. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Uh-huh. You owe me.”

“I’ll wash the dishes,” he offered, though they both knew it was an empty promise.

Darling shot him a look but didn’t argue. Within minutes, the smell of sizzling eggs filled the air, and Andrew’s stomach gave a low, traitorous growl.

“You’re worse than a kid when you’re hungry” Darling said with a laugh as they plated the omelet and handed it to him.

He didn’t respond, too busy taking the first bite. His shoulders relaxed immediately, and he let out a low, contented hum.

“Good?” Darling asked, amused.

Andrew nodded, already halfway through the plate. “You’re a genius. Remind me to never let you go.”

Darling shook their head, smiling despite themselves. “You’re hopeless.”

“Hopelessly in love with you,” he quipped around a mouthful of food, earning himself a swat on the arm.

But as he polished off the plate and set it in the sink, Andrew caught their wrist gently, pulling them in for a quick, grateful kiss on the temple. “Thanks, Darling.”

“You’re welcome,” they muttered, smiling their face warming.

they both headed back to bed, the dishes forgotten, the warmth of their quiet midnight moment lingered between them.

Elias

The clock on the wall blinked 12:47 AM in bright red numbers. The safe house was quiet, the kind of stillness that only came in the dead of night. But in the small shared bedroom, Elias was anything but still.

He groaned, turning onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. His stomach let out a loud, insistent growl.

"Ugh," he muttered to himself, throwing an arm over his face.

Next to him, Barista stirred, mumbling something incoherent before falling silent again.

Elias peeked over at them, an idea already forming. He reached out, gently poking their shoulder.

"Hey," he whispered. No response.

He poked again. "Babe."

Barista groaned, their voice muffled by the pillow. "Elias, it’s the middle of the night."

"I’m hungry," he replied, as if that explained everything.

They cracked one eye open to glare at him. "And what do you want me to do about it?"

"Make me something?" he asked, his tone so casual it was almost cheeky.

Barista sat up slightly, their hair a mess, their face half-buried in the blanket. They gave him a look—one part disbelief, one part exhaustion. "You woke me up for food?"

"Hey, I’m starving!" he protested, sitting up as well. "And you’re good at making stuff."

"Have you tried... the kitchen?" they deadpanned, flopping back down onto the pillow.

"Okay, yeah, but it tastes better when you do it," Elias admitted, his voice dropping into something close to a pout. He leaned closer, resting his chin on their shoulder. "C’mon, please? Just a snack. I’ll love you forever."

"You already do," they mumbled, but they were smiling now, despite themselves.

"Yeah, but this will solidify it," he teased, pressing a kiss to their cheek.

Barista sighed dramatically but swung their legs out of bed anyway. "You owe me."

"I’ll do the dishes," Elias promised, grinning as he followed them out of the room.

Fifteen minutes later, he was happily munching on a grilled cheese, sitting at the kitchen table while Barista leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him.

"You know," they said, smirking, "I could’ve just told you to make it yourself."

"But you didn’t," he replied through a mouthful of food.

They rolled their eyes but couldn’t hide their smile. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Elias grinned, holding up half the sandwich. "Want a bite?"

Barista snorted. "No thanks. I’ll just savor the memory of you begging for food instead."

Xanthus

The house was silent save for the occasional creak of the old wooden floors. You were curled up on the couch, engrossed in your book, when you felt it—a presence behind you. Familiar. Still, you glanced back with a raised eyebrow, finding Xanthus standing there, his gaze locked onto you with an intensity that immediately made your stomach flutter.

“What’s up?” you asked, closing the book and setting it aside.

He didn’t answer immediately, taking a slow step closer, his dark eyes tracing over you with an almost predatory gleam. “I’m hungry,” he said finally, his voice soft but weighted.

“Kitchen’s that way,” you teased, pointing toward the other room with a smirk.

Xanthus didn’t smile. Instead, he crouched down beside you, resting one elbow on the arm of the couch, his face mere inches from yours. “You know I wasn’t talking about food.”

Your breath hitched as his fingertips brushed along the curve of your neck, a deliberate, feather-light touch that made your skin tingle. His gaze followed the movement, dark lashes casting shadows over his sharp cheekbones.

“Then what are you waiting for?” you murmured, tilting your head slightly to give him better access.

Xanthus chuckled softly, the sound low and rumbling. “You make it far too easy,” he said, but there was something almost reverent in his tone, like he was holding himself back.

His lips brushed over your pulse, a soft kiss that made your heart race. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his fangs grazing your skin.

You didn’t. Instead, you reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if to say, I trust you.

And that was all the permission he needed.

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