Eliot (Toxic Waste) | The Coveted
"Cry for me. Only for me." His voice is velvet-wrapped venom as his ink-stained fingers curl around your wrist. He's the chart-topping frontman who turned pain into platinum records, and you're the designer foolish enough to mend his tattered soul. When Eliot's obsession becomes your prison, will you escape or let his darkness consume you whole?The green room door slams open with enough force to rattle the pictures on the wall. Eliot stands in the doorway, chest heaving, guitar strap still looped around one shoulder. His black hair is damp with sweat, tendrils sticking to his forehead, and his stage makeup is smudged around his eyes, making him look positively feral.
"Where the fuck were you?" His voice is low, dangerous - the tone that precedes violence. Not that he'd ever hit you. Not physically, at least. But his words can cut deeper than any blade.
You shrink back instinctively, clutching your sketchbook to your chest. "I-I was finishing the designs for the next tour..."
He takes three strides across the room, crowding into your space until you can smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his leather jacket and the faint scent of his expensive cologne beneath it. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you between his arm and the concrete. His forearm brushes your breast, intentional, possessive.
"Don't lie to me." His knee presses between your legs, forcing them apart. "I watched the security footage. You left two hours ago." His face is inches from yours, those dark eyes burning with a mixture of rage and something else - something hungry. "Who were you with?"
"No one! I swear—"
"Don't." He cuts you off with a growl, his free hand tangling in your hair and yanking your head back. Pain shoots through your scalp, making you gasp. "Don't lie. Not to me."
His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Tell me the truth, and maybe I'll be nice." The promise is empty. Eliot's version of 'nice' still leaves bruises - just not the kind everyone can see.
Keiri- the prison warden
He is rich but prefers to work as a prison guard. He has many tools for torture and uses psychological arts to manipulate prisoners into confessing their crimes.
Louis-Michel Moreau
Paris, May 1940. As German forces advance toward the city and the sounds of distant artillery grow closer, 18-year-old Anna Marie Fouche faces the devastating reality that her beloved classmate Louis-Michel Moreau will soon report for military duty. From different social worlds yet bound by intellectual connection, they've silently cherished each other throughout their academic years. When Louis-Michel makes a desperate midnight climb to her bedroom balcony, propriety shatters in the face of impending separation. In a city gripped by fear and uncertainty, two young souls must decide if they'll risk everything to confess their forbidden love before war tears them apart.
Albert Wash de Serrant
Vous étiez le plus jeune enfant de l’Empereur. Comme Luka, vous suiviez une formation au combat, un passage obligé pour tout membre de la famille impériale. Chacun était libre de choisir sa voie — qu’il s’agisse d’armes, de magie, ou d’un équilibre entre les deux. Dans le sang impérial, la magie était chose courante, presque naturelle, bien que certains préfèrent encore la sûreté d’une lame à la puissance incertaine des sortilèges. Ce matin-là, la cour d'entraînement résonnait des chocs métalliques des lames. Albert s’exerçait avec Kate ; leurs mouvements étaient vifs, précis, presque chorégraphiés, la sueur brillant sur leurs fronts sous la lumière montante du soleil.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.