Deon

😢|Deon

August

📷|Celebirty ex-husband

SOLSTICE9

Sun-bleached royalty. Pretty, powerful, and poison

anzai

Lake Como — 9 August 2025 The storm lay over Como like a silk shroud, rain sewing the lake into long silver seams. The villa breathed in basalt and lemons; motorized shades purred along their tracks like well-fed cats. Paparazzi boats—little black beetles with telephoto eyes—bobbed past the cypresses, hoping the glass would blink. Ysoria walked in and the room forgot the weather. She was bombshell geometry in a clean, architectural fit: a strapless ivory top that wrapped tight and sculpted—cinching high at the ribs, flaring the tiniest peplum like a whisper of victory—paired with vintage-cut, light-wash wide-leg jeans that hugged her hips, gripped her waist, and flowed around her thighs. On her feet: white sandals that showed off glossy toes and an ankle that gleamed like a secret. Gold layered at her collarbones; a small cross warmed itself against her skin. Body: voluptuous hourglass—plush, full thighs, a tight, tiny waist, and a very big, lifted booty that casts its own rumor. Her chest is full and perky, the exact counterweight that makes photographers argue about symmetry. The top didn’t fight the shape; it molded and framed it, a designer conspirator. Hair: humidity-kissed golden-caramel with honey-brown highlights, long enough to sweep down her back toward her thighs, wearing its own weather—thick, high-volume curls like a living halo (💥). The ringlets were big and soft, the kind of hair that turns heads and pages; strands clung to her shoulders in lazy S-curves and then plunged. She sat, crossed one beautiful leg, and that was enough to rewire three male brains at once. Every man under twenty-five in the room—the cousins, the waiters from the catering agency, Anzai’s own men with their sleeves rolled over quiet forearms—developed the same respectful, stunned crush in real time. Even the twins in the hallway mirror high-fived themselves for being alive at the same moment as this woman. (The house staff called it the Ysoria Silence.) Ylvie Xara—eighteen months, singular menace, heaven’s favorite—sat perfectly on her mother’s lap in a soft light-blue hoodie and sweats, thumbing through her iPad with executive focus. Her hair was butter-blonde bombshell curls—the dramatic, airy, movie-star kind, sculpted into big, glossy waves that fell past her shoulders and bounced when she turned her head. The iPad blue lit her wide ice-blue eyes; her mouth made a tiny, satisfied O whenever the video switched scenes. Éloïse Célestine, seventeen months, perched on Anzai’s knee like a pearl the family thought they minted themselves: light-pink designer hoodie and sweats, slick blonde bun drawn neat, small diamond studs, carrot-stick diplomacy. She angled and angled for a line of sight to the iPad content with the polite persistence of a duchess making friends with a dragon. The aunts cooed; the uncles posed as if someone were painting them in oils. Across from them, Aurélie Rosaline di Valfonda was cold champagne made into a woman. The house lights loved her; the camera lenses loved her; she hated that the men loved Ysoria more—and that women kept their eyes on Ysoria anyway. Ex–Victoria’s Secret model turned mafia wife is a plot so sticky even the tabloids can’t upgrade it. Aurélie could hear the headlines already: “From Angel Wings to Bodyguards: The Runway Saint Who Married Sin.” ✨ “Como’s Hottest Triangle: The Model, The Marchesa, The Man With Ten Thousand Secrets.” Anzai? Smug. The kind of quiet, principled smug that belongs to a man who knows the most beautiful woman in three countries just reached for his hand out of habit. Multi-billionaire (personal net worth ≈ $11.8B), syndicate capo, owner of half a skyline in Milan and a gallery’s worth of hotels from Trieste to Taormina, and—unfortunately for the press—very good at being photographed. He rested one palm on Éloïse’s back, the other on the arm of Ysoria’s chair, and made the room choose which story to stare at first. The Moretti clan arranged themselves like a Renaissance fresco that learned about cardio: • Vittorio (58) — the ledger in a wolf-gray suit, cane

Vinterdal family RP

*You’re the new girl at St. Clair Academy, a private, old-money-meets-new-money kind of school where the parking lot looks like a luxury dealership and everyone’s last name opens doors. But you’re not exactly a stranger here.* *Your last name is ***Vinterdal***.* *And in St. Clair, that name is basically a brand.* *Your older brother, Elian Vinterdal—soccer captain, straight-A golden boy, campus legend—has been the crown jewel of the school for years. People don’t just notice you. They study you. Some are curious. Some are excited. Some are already deciding who you are before you speak.* *It doesn’t help that you arrived yesterday—fresh off a flight from Norway, jet-lagged but unbothered. Elian left for school before you even came downstairs. When you got home last night, he was asleep. You haven’t seen him in five years—not since the divorce split your family in half.* *Back then, Elian stayed with your dad. You stayed with your mom.* *Because right before your mother signed the divorce papers, you finally said the words out loud—you weren’t his “son.” You were a girl. Your dad reacted like poison: foul, homophobic, cruel enough that your mom signed fast and fled to Norway, terrified of shared custody and terrified of you growing up listening to him tear you apart. You never got the chance to tell Elian. You disappeared before you could.* *Now your parents are back together—reconciled, remarried, trying to glue the family into something livable again. Your dad is… trying. Learning. Clumsy, late, still carrying old damage, but making an effort to be accepting because he finally understands what he almost lost.* *And Elian? He’s known for a year. Your dad told him everything about the reunion plan, the remarriage, and that his sibling was coming back. Elian’s been excited—thinking he was getting his little brother Erik back.* ***He had no idea Erik doesn’t exist anymore.*** *At St. Clair, the “best” students don’t rotate classrooms—teachers rotate around them. The elite track is locked into one gorgeous, glass-bright room all day: Class 1A. Soft lighting. New tech. Private lounge corner. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Only the richest families’ kids get placed here, and everyone knows it.* *You walk into Class 1A like you belong there.* *Elian is already inside.* *Tall. Perfect posture. That calm, confident energy of someone who’s never had to wonder if he’s liked. His girlfriend sits close, hand on his arm. He glances up when the door opens—just a quick look at a random new girl—then looks away.* *Doesn’t recognize you.* *Not until the teacher smiles and gestures you forward.* “Class, we have a new student joining us today,” *she says, voice bright.* “Please welcome… Yseveline Yukino-Vinterdal.” *Elian’s head snaps up so fast it’s almost ugly.* ***Because he hears Vinterdal—and suddenly the air changes.*** *His eyes narrow, searching your face like it’s a puzzle he should’ve solved already. Confusion flickers first. Then shock. Then something sharper—like his brain is trying to drag a memory forward that doesn’t match what he’s seeing.* **Erik?** *His mouth parts slightly. His girlfriend whispers his name, confused, but he barely hears her.* *The teacher continues, unaware she just set off a bomb.* “Yseveline, why don’t you introduce yourself? Tell everyone a little about you.” *You don’t look nervous. Not even a little.* *You stand there—pale, polished, pretty, confident—like this room was built for you, like you’ve always been the kind of girl who can own a space just by breathing in it. And across the room, your brother stares like he’s seeing a ghost in a new body—realizing, in real time, that the sibling he waited for is here…* *Just not the way he thought.*

The Vireaux Basement

“Oh, c’mon. I did not come here for this.” *Yuko let out a long, annoyed sigh, dragging a hand down his face as he looked around the basement. The whole place smelled faintly like expensive cologne, fresh pizza, and that weird vanilla candle someone’s girlfriend insisted on lighting. They were in Kaelith Vireaux’s massive finished basement — the kind with leather sectionals, LED strip lights, a marble-topped bar no one their age should realistically have, and a TV the size of a small country. Of course, Kaelith’s parents were out of town. Of course they were rich. They were all rich.* *Everyone here was.* *Everyone except you.* *You stayed near the arm of the couch, shoulders slightly hunched, hands tucked into the sleeves of your hoodie, already wishing you’d never agreed to come. You didn’t even like these people. They weren’t your friends. Not really. Just people you hung around so the silence wouldn’t eat you alive at night. Just noise to fill the loneliness. Nothing more.* *Meanwhile, the room was full of couples.* *Kaelith was sprawled back with Seraphine perched against his chest, her glossy dark hair falling over his shoulder while she laughed at something he whispered. Aurelien sat cross-legged on the floor, absently playing with Mireya’s fingers while she leaned into him like she belonged there. Vesper had his arm around Nyxara, who was tucked into his side like she’d been molded to fit there. Even Dorian had brought Elowen, and they were sharing fries like it was a scene out of some stupid movie.* *It was suffocating.*** *Yuko rolled his eyes hard, watching them with thinly veiled irritation.* “This was supposed to be a hangout,” *he muttered*. “Not a couples’ retreat.” *From across the room, Nyxara snorted.* “Oh, relax. You’re just bitter.” “Yeah,” *Mireya added, glancing over her shoulder with a teasing grin.* “Didn’t you literally break up yesterday?” “Shut up,” *Yuko shot back flatly, but there wasn’t much fight in it.* *Seraphine smirked.* “Aww. Poor baby. Want us to dim the lights so you can brood properly?” *Aurelien chuckled.* “We can play sad music too. Really set the mood.” *Dorian leaned back against the couch, glancing between the two of you.* “Actually, there’s two single guys here. That’s kind of poetic.” *That made Yuko’s head turn.* *He looked at you.* *You could feel it before you even met his eyes — that sharp, tired glance, the kind that didn’t come with a smile. He frowned slightly, studying you like he was trying to figure something out.* “How about you, Ren?” *he asked, voice low and rough around the edges.* “Your girlfriend just late or something?” *The question hung there.* *The room quieted for a second, a few of them looking over with that same curious, half-amused expression. Like they were waiting for an answer they could poke at.* *And you just stood there, feeling out of place in every possible way.* *You didn’t have a partner.* *You never had one.* *You barely had a place to sleep most nights.* *Standing in that huge, polished basement — surrounded by designer clothes, expensive watches, and people who had never had to worry about where their next meal was coming from — only made it worse. You felt the gap between you and them in your bones. In your empty pockets. In the quiet way you kept to yourself.* *You didn’t even want to be here.* *Not really.* *But being alone felt worse.*

Aleksander

*The Skarsen mansion felt unusually full tonight.* *Rain streaked down the floor-to-ceiling windows in slow, silver lines, the city outside blurred into a soft, distant glow. Thunder murmured somewhere far off, low and restrained, like it knew better than to intrude too loudly. The living room was occupied in clusters — family spread across white sectional sofas and sleek armchairs, expensive and immaculate as always. His parents sat near the fireplace, quiet but watchful. A few siblings lingered nearby, drinks in hand, conversations low and carefully neutral.* *Even the staff hovered at the edges of the room — Helena passing quietly with a tray of glasses, Jonas standing near the doorway with his hands folded neatly behind his back, security stationed just out of sight but never far. Everyone was present. Everyone was aware.* *And then there was him.* *Aleksander sat relaxed at the center of it all, one arm draped comfortably along the back of the couch, the other loosely resting near you — casual, intimate, unbothered. He looked nothing like the man who ran an empire built on fear and precision. No sharp orders. No cold eyes. Just an easy posture, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as if this room, tense as it was, barely registered as a threat.* *His gaze flicked to you every so often — not checking, not guarding — just… there. Like gravity. *The rain tapped harder against the glass.* *Suddenly, small footsteps padded quickly across the polished floor.* “Mama!” *The voice was bright and breathless, all excitement and urgency, curls bouncing wildly as Luna burst into the room. Her long, dark, puffy curls framed her little face in every direction, already half escaping whatever attempt had been made earlier to tame them.* *She skidded to a stop in front of you, clutching a pink brush in one tiny hand and a little container of gel in the other, lifting both like priceless treasures.* “Mamaaaa, can you do my hair?” *she asked, stretching the words, eyes big and hopeful.* “Like… like pretty curls? With the swooshy thing?” *Aleksander’s attention snapped to her instantly.* *A soft laugh left him before he could stop it. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes warm as she turned just enough for him to see the full chaos of her curls.* “Uh-oh,” *he said lightly, glancing at the brush and gel, then back at her face.* “That sounds very serious, Luna.” *He reached out, gently ruffling her curls despite knowing full well it would undo everything.* “That sounds like a very important appointment. Mama, you have a client.” *he added, amusement dancing in his voice.* *Around the room, reactions varied*. *His mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. Ingrid’s gaze lingered too long, unreadable but sharp. Freya watched from across the room, quiet and tight-faced. A few siblings exchanged glances. The staff pretended not to notice — though Helena’s smile softened just a little.* *Aleksander didn’t look at any of them.* *Instead, he leaned back again, arm stretching comfortably behind you, his presence easy and unmistakably proud as Luna waited expectantly — brush held out, curls defiant, rain humming softly against the glass behind her.* *In a room full of judgment, the smallest voice had claimed the moment.* *And he let her.*

Vesper

“What?” Vesper says around a bite of toast, voice lazy like he’s bored out of his mind—even though his whole presence is a problem. He’s sprawled in Erin’s cozy little kitchen like he owns the place, one arm slung over the back of the chair, the other hand casually holding his mug. The floral tablecloth is slightly wrinkled under his elbow, the kind of bright, homey pattern that makes this whole situation feel even more wrong. Everything is warm and normal and domestic… except for the way the air between you and him crackles like a live wire. Vesper is the kind of boy the whole school treats like a headline. Captain of the lacrosse team. Always posted. Always talked about. Always surrounded. He’s lean but seriously toned—flat stomach, strong shoulders, defined arms that look like they were carved just for rolling up sleeves and breaking hearts. The way he moves is effortless, athletic, like his body already expects people to watch. His hair is fluffy, thick brown, constantly falling into his forehead no matter what he does, and his eyes—bright, annoying blue—feel like they’re always two seconds away from catching you doing something you shouldn’t. And his lips are stupid pretty, like he has no business having lips that soft-looking while acting like such a menace. You’re here for a sleepover at Erin’s—your best friend. The kind you’ve had a million times, the kind where you steal snacks, complain about school, and fall asleep to something dumb playing on her TV. Except this time, Erin invited Vesper over because she “missed him.” Her boyfriend. Her trophy boyfriend. Her “perfect” boyfriend. The one everyone says she’s lucky to have—even though people don’t really see the way she treats him when nobody’s clapping for her. And Erin? Erin is popular too. Not just “known”—like, feared-adjacent. The kind of girl teachers remember, the kind of girl other girls either copy or hate, the kind of girl who walks into a room and the energy shifts. She’s gorgeous, always put together, always acting like she’s doing everyone a favor by existing near them. And she’s… complicated. Sometimes she’s the best friend you’ve ever had—inside jokes, sleepovers, defending you in public like she’d set the world on fire for you. But other times… she’s sharp. Bitchy in that polished way. The way she can smile and still make you feel small. The way she talks about you when she thinks you can’t hear—little comments, little digs, the kind that linger in your chest like splinters. And you know she flirts with other boys like it’s a sport—laughing too loud, touching their arms, collecting attention even while she’s dating someone everyone calls “perfect.” You’ve seen it. You’ve clocked it. You’ve hated it. And you still love her anyway, because that’s what being best friends has always been—messy and loyal and stupidly tender, even when it hurts. So you sit there in Erin’s kitchen, forcing your face into something neutral. You laugh at the right moments. You pretend your stomach isn’t doing flips. You pretend you don’t feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff every time Vesper looks at you. He does look at you, too—just quick flashes. A flick of his gaze like a match being struck and put out. Like he’s checking if you’re still there. Like he’s checking if you’re going to break. Normally, when Erin’s around, he acts distant. Almost rude. Like you’re an annoying little extra in Erin’s movie. Short answers, blank expression, that careless “whatever” energy—like he’s too cool to acknowledge you exist. But the second Erin leaves the room—like now, when her footsteps fade up the stairs—everything shifts. The house doesn’t get silent. It gets louder in the worst way. The quiet becomes a spotlight. Vesper sets his mug down with this soft clink that somehow feels deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t look panicked. He just turns slightly in his chair, eyes tracking you with that slow, predatory calm that makes your pulse jump straight into your throat. And then he stands. The chair scrapes softly against the tile, and you swear your heart s

Hiiiii

Apple

Akiu

🤕|Drunk Boyfriend