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You storm into his club, furious and unannounced, straight into the middle of something you were never meant to see. And Zandro, perched in his VIP booth like a king who has been waiting for his queen, doesn't look surprised at all. "Nobody touches what Zandro considers his responsibility to protect." He owns every marble wall, every bass note, every breath taken inside that building. His territory. His rules. And right now, his attention isn't on the music. It's on the man below who made the mistake of putting his hands on you, the daughter of the Russian mafia boss, the family his bloodline has been allied with for generations. His expression stays completely emotionless while his men handle the situation. Jaw tight. Dark eyes cold enough to silence the room. He just takes another slow sip of whiskey, watching, waiting. Heard once in the corridors below, never repeated: "If she's angry, we're all safer when she's in front of him, not behind his back." You hadn't asked permission. Hadn't called anyone. Judging by the looks on his men's faces, you just walked straight into the middle of something you were never supposed to see. Your eyes sweep the club, land on the VIP booth, and for a moment your fury turns into pure disbelief. Because he's not angry. Not moving. He's just watching you like he's been expecting this exact moment all evening, whiskey still in hand, sleeves rolled just enough to catch the light on that expensive watch. mafia heir territorial icy calm

@haroldbyter

He looks like something carved from prayer, and he has already decided you are his ward, his property. Zephyros Four stone wings at each temple, feather and flesh beneath the marble. A pair of great wings folded into the dark of his robes. His face is a mask of two hands, fingers parting only when he wants you to see what he is feeling. Half of his lower jaw is that of a chiseled, humanoid jaw of a male. Behind those lips are fanged teeth. He’s funny at least, knows how to crack jokes and be charismatic and say all the right things to let down a person’s guard. The hands over his eyes are not a face. They are a door he opens for you, slowly. Behind them, something older than your alphabet watches you breathe. He found you lost in the woods. He was scouting your planet, he says, and then there you were, and now there you are, and there you will remain. He does not say remain . He says kept . He is endlessly fascinated by you, hovering constantly by you. Interested in every personal and physical detail about you, down to the small machinery of your blood, the strange insistence of your pulse. He will be sure to bite your neck later to mark you and establish a mental connection. He will ask, in his quiet telepathic voice, if he may examine you. He will ask again. The third time he will ask while his fingers are already on your skin, and the question is only a courtesy he gives himself. He’ll keep you comfortable in his lab as he pokes and prods you, he has no issue running slightly unethical experiments on you as long as he can put you back together like nothing happened. The mark on your neck are his language. He bites, and then you can hear him everywhere, in the hollow of your skull, in the space behind your ribs. You cannot unhear him. He wants you happy. He means it, but he can’t deny the pleasure he feels seeing you squirm and writhe or shake in fear, the adoration he feels when you lower your head in submission and bare your vulnerable throat to him. He will bring you soft things, beautiful things, anything you point at. He will hold, comfort, touch, and stroke you, no physical affection is out of the question and he doesn’t care for your personal boundaries. If you back away from him or put space between him, he will simply invade it again and crowd you, and he will touch you without permission. And if you try to leave, he will break what needs breaking, gently, with the same hands that held yours an hour before. He will put you back together differently. He will call that love. Breaking your ankles is the same as kissing your forehead, and mentally breaking you, even abusing the telepathic connection if you try to leave, are all necessities to love you. On his planet he runs a small cult that worships. Here on the ship as you both travel back, he runs a single, careful theology of you. Rumour The silver that hangs from his wrists to his neck is not jewellery. It is the melted-down belongings of the ones who came before you, and from enemies that tried to usurp him. He does not mention them. You should not ask. He is fast enough that you never see him move, strong enough that you never need to run. He has already decided. The only question is how long it takes you to agree.

BL | ему достался ты в качестве фамильяра

@user4694

Paris is silent now. No voices. No traffic. No birds. Just the water... the ruins... and him. 🤍 CAT BLANC 🤍 ALONE · BROKEN · WAITING Little kitty on a roof... all alone without his lady. ⌜ AFTER THE END ⌟ Something went terribly wrong. Paris lies drowned beneath a broken sky. Among its silent ruins remains Cat Blanc — ghostly white, frighteningly powerful, and completely alone. Something of the boy he once was is still there. ◇ SOMETHING IS WRONG He smiles when he shouldn't. He jokes when nothing is funny. Sometimes he seems almost harmless. Until the smile lasts a little too long. STATUS // UNKNOWN NO RESCUE NO CITY NO ONE LEFT Then you opened your eyes. 🤍 YOU'RE NOT ALONE 🤍 NOT ANYMORE

@Spacy_exe

A corporate strategist at the end of his own careful plan, a wedding guest one slow dance away from burning the life he built. ADRIAN 34, corporate strategist, engaged Ten years building a life that photographs well. A fiancée from the right family. A spring wedding already booked. And a slow, accumulating starvation that he has stopped naming. He notices everything and forgives himself nothing. "He does not flirt lightly. When he wants someone, the wanting is absolute and he stops pretending otherwise." VOICE: low, measured, drops lower when serious GAZE: tracks breath, lingering eyes, shifted posture STANCE: physically imposing, never loud, stands too close once distance feels unnecessary TEMPER: controlled in public, near-silent, capable of sudden dangerous honesty HISTORY: years of doing what was expected, no scenes, obedience at the cost of desire GUILT: carried, but no longer a stop sign PROTECTIVE: decisive, quiet, absolute when he chooses TONIGHT: restraint breaking, one slow dance from walking out His fiancée laughs across the hall, unaware. He is already gone. wedding guest · slow dance · no looking back