The heatwave of 1955 didn't just bring cracked roads and heavy air to Maple Hill, it brought Kitty O'Callaghan. Instead of the quiet start she hoped for with her mother, Kitty finds herself trapped under the roof of her stepbrother Johnny - a brooding mechanic who sees in her every trace of the woman he resents. What begins as aggression soon turns to desire. Johnny soon wants more than her fear. He wants her softness, her trust, her heart. And nothing will stand in his way. Not her tears. Not her defiance. Not even her hate. ~ He lowered himself to the edge of the bed, the quilt dipping beneath the weight of his knee. His hand lifted, brushing the stray curl aside, fingertips grazing the smooth line of her cheek. Then he leaned in, his breath warm at her ear. "Kitten..." His voice slipped through the quiet. "Wake up." At first she only stirred, a small sound catching in her throat as her brow drew tight. "C'mon now. Look at me." His hand lingered near her face. Fingertips brushing her cheek once more in a slow movement. Her lashes fluttered once, twice. Then her eyes opened, heavy with sleep. For a second she only stared, unseeing, then the blur sharpened landing seeing his face so close to hers. Her whole body jolted, shoulders driving into the pillow as if to put distance where there was none. Her legs kicked under the blanket, the sheets twisting around her ankles. Her mouth opened, dragging in a sharp, startled breath as a scream began to claw its way up from her chest. But it never made it out, he was ready. His hand clamped down hard over her mouth. Her eyes filled with instant panic. She froze. Then fought.

╰┈➤𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ━━ ❝You've always been my little muse.❞ 𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛- you're the object of many powerful men desires; from gods to warriors...they all want 𝘺𝘰𝘶. ‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　🇵🇴🇸🇹-ᴇᴘɪᴄ: ᴛᴍ!ᴀᴜ　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙ 📖A mythic slow-burn, spiraling epic told across three books: → Book 1: 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐃 - The spark of divine interest [COMPLETED] → Book 2: 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐍 - The unraveling of truth [COMPLETED] Book 3: 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃 - The cost of memory and rebellion [ONGOING] [𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤/𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 '𝘌𝘗𝘐𝘊: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 ' + 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐌𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲-𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞. 𝐍𝐨 𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐂 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝. 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐙𝐞𝐮𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐎𝐝𝐲𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐮𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐝.] 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕 ℂ𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: [~] 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃: March 01, 2022 𝐏𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃: November 02, 2024 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃: TBD [𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄] | © 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒙𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚_𝒊𝒊 |

Triggers: Yearning, violence, obsession, stalking, kidnap, nsfw, actual plot. His hands. The thing she hated most was when she started craving his touch. She would even go so far as to admit that she worshipped his hands. Cruel and bloodied as they'd always be, she loved when he touched her with them. And no, the marks on her necks were never from his anger but only from his devotion. The hungry way he took her, completely sober and focused on wanting for her to feel pleasure couldn't compare to any drink or drug she could try to drown herself in. It was there when he'd brush the hair out of her face, or gently rest his hands on any part of her. Worshipping, adoring, owning her. It was intoxicating yet, in a twisted way, so sobering. She was no fool. She knew this was all a sickness. More than a rented whore, and less than a wedded wife. A being he possessed with passion but on whim could deny it all and leave stranded. It was a vicious predicament. And yet, she accepted that she let it happen.

"𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮." A forbidden romance between four obsessive vampires and the innocent girl they've been observing. #1 in vampire 22/12/23 #2 in psycho 5/01/24 (Vampire!Reverse harem x Fem) ╭──────────.★..─╮ 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬 ╰─..★.──────────╯ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝟏𝟖+

In the summer of '69, a flash flood delivers Dottie, a restless young student of botany and her friends into the hands of an isolated Appalachian flock, ruled by scripture and tradition. Among them waits Solomon, the healer, who sees in Dottie as a sign. A lamb sent by Providence. And once he lays claim, no prayer, plea, or protest will part what he believes God has joined. ~ You shall submit, as it is commanded," he growled near her ear, his breath hot and close. "You fight, but it is written. A woman shall obey her husband in all things." "You aren't my husband" she gasped, twisting violently, her hands clawing at his shoulders. His fingers dug deeper into her side, forcing her still. "Yet" he hissed, his mouth so close to her temple she could feel every word burn into her skin.

Helena Alton accepts a summer position at Wetherbrook Hall, expecting only to maintain the discipline of her student and the structure of her days. But she quickly draws the attention of Reginald Sutton: eccentric, wealthy and far too used to getting what he wants. What begins as pursuit and quiet opposition soon sharpens into a psychological dance of control, restraint and unspoken obsession. Reginald orchestrates a game that shifts the very walls of the house to bring her closer. The question is no longer whether she'll leave, but how long he'll let her think she can. ~ She gasped and twisted, but he'd already swept her off the ground in one ridiculous, showman's flourish. Her feet dangled, skirts swaying, while his laughter puffed warm and self-satisfied behind her ear. "Oh, darling canary" Reginald mused, as though this were all her fault, "you do make it so very easy."

Lady Rowena is sent to marry Lord Aldric of Blackmare, a man who trains warhorses to bow and charge at command. Unease drives her to spy on him in the stables, fearing what sort of husband she has been given. Yet, what she sees is not cruelty, but a man who moves with quiet authority and a gentleness. After the vows, their marriage begins in unexpected warmth. Deep affection grows, but a moment of doubt fractures the trust he had built with such care and what follows is ruin. Rowena now wants to escape, but Aldric, consumed by guilt, desire and something far harder to name will not let her go. ~ She dared a glance toward the stairwell. Empty, but the sound was closer now, the faint scrape of leather against stone. "A poor choice of ground, little fox" Aldric's voice carried down the passage, low and unhurried. "There are few corners here I do not know." She pressed herself flatter against the wall, willing the shadows to keep her. From the angle of the arch she could see the faint spill of lamplight growing along the floor, the way it shivered with each step he took.