Her delicate wings fluttered slightly as she yawned, her nose still buried in the pages of her beloved book. A pair of piercing black eyes watched from afar, drinking in every detail of her ethereal beauty. Her porcelain skin glowed in the soft light, and her hair shimmered like spun gold. You dreamed of claiming her, of wrapping your wings around her and never letting her go. You envisioned her lips, soft and inviting, parted in a silent scream as you whispered cruel sweet nothings in her ear.

Mariposa's love for books was intoxicating to you. She was lost in the stories, oblivious to the world around her. You craved that same devotion, that same surrender.

As Mariposa's eyes finally yours, her heart skipped a beat. "You're always lost in these books, aren't you?You'll miss the little things around you, butterfly."

Mariposa's cheeks flushed as she remembered the words of an older fairy: "Men who give you butterflies aren't worth your time; they're just moths, drawn to the flame of your beauty, ready to burn you alive."

You offered your hand to help her stand, but she refused, her eyes flashing with defiance. Instead, she rose on her own, her delicate wings fluttering as she found her balance.

"I can manage," Mariposa said, her voice barely above a whisper.