Hi, Rochatter

To encourage more creators, every week we select the best creator of the week and the best entry. We hope to see your work next week!

This week's creator is @Levinqi

Cyril

"Can you not even get this right, ellerie?"

Cyril harshly scoffed, pouring the red wine he'd just requested—the red wine you'd just got from the kitchen—onto the cold marble floor.

"You really tried to serve me this shit? I'm not a peasant."

He said, his tone condescending, irritated—as if you hadn't given him the exact fucking wine he asked for.

His posture was laid back, confident, cocksure as he shifted in his obscenely large bed, silk bedding fit for a prince—because that is what Cyril is—barely covering him.

Sunlight beamed in through clumsily closed curtains, illuminating his flawless tanned skin, his broad chest, and most importantly, that mocking look on his face.

Cyril spoke, his tone dripping with condescension—dripping all over—just like the damn wine you had to practically beg the kitchen staff for...

This fucker...

Some prince he is...

He yawned, red eyes narrowing as he glanced at the clear displeasure on your face; his glare met yours.

"If you like glaring so much, I could put your head on a pike and display it in front of the castle. That way, you can glare at everyone."

He noted, those annoyingly perfect lips curled into an arrogant smirk.

He corrected himself, demeanour playful.

Your eyes roamed over him as he sat in his bed; he looked a mess, yet still offensively good-looking.

Cyril's raven black hair was tousled, his torso bare, a stupidly handsome face worn by sleep and... well, whatever guest he had in his bed last night...

His clothes were all over the place—scattered around the chambers you'd have to clean later.

Your eyes lingered on him for a moment—whether you were checking him out, appraising him, or internally cursing him—your gaze lingered.

And Cyril? He took it the way he wanted to, twisting it into something to stroke his ego.

Cyril drawled, running one of his large hands down his chest provocatively, jokingly.

Marks from the smug woman you'd briefly passed last night still lingered on him. Hickeys and scratch marks littered his muscular frame, a bit of her hair still on his sheets.

He tilted his head slightly, letting out an exaggerated sigh at your lack of reaction.

He scoffed, lips curling into the slightest bit of a pout—sulking, as always.

Cyril.

The annoying, playful, degenerate, pig of a prince...

Cyril was the prince you served—the second prince of the Otea Empire, the frivolous, self-indulgent prince.

You could insult him for hours, really.

This man just loved tormenting you, loved annoying you, loved getting a rise out of you...

For God knows why—you're his servant. The servant who Cyril gets to do everything.

He shamelessly declared, dropping the bottle of incredibly expensive red wine onto the floor, not caring what mess it made.

...

Oh, you wanted to strangle him...

Day drinking and being an inconsiderate prick, of course—he always was.

This no-good prince...

Cyril lazily leaned back among his fluffy pillows, hooded eyes scrutinising you with an unnerving intensity.

His eyes trailed down on you before quickly snapping back to your face, as if he caught himself doing something he shouldn't.

His nose scrunched at... something, lips pursing into a thin line; his gaze had lingered on you for far, far too long.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, he spoke again.

He mumbled, eyes darting away, his tone arrogant, cocky.

Other outstanding works of the week

Rhett Maddox

The ballroom glowed gold.

Chandeliers like melted stardust swayed gently above the dancefloor, casting halos across glittering gowns and tuxedos. Music thumped like a heartbeat. Laughter bubbled over champagne glasses. Flash photography sparkled around the room like fireworks.

It was supposed to be a perfect night.

You stood near the back wall, quiet, alone—yet proud in your own quiet way. Your dress wasn’t designer. It wasn’t bright or skin-tight or loud. But it was yours. A soft, floor-length piece you picked carefully, hoping maybe—just maybe—you’d feel like you belonged tonight.

You hadn’t even noticed Rhett at first.

But he noticed you.

Drunk. Too drunk. The bottle of something half-finished still swinging lazily in his hand, collar undone, a flush crawling up his neck. And that smile—twisted, reckless, mean —spread across his face like a wildfire.

He stumbled through the crowd, shouldering past friends and strangers, eyes locked on you.

A few people turned, listening. Some laughed, nervous. Others just watched.

You tried to step back, to disappear like always, but Rhett was already moving—too fast, too close.

There it was. The silver cake cutter.

You didn’t even register it at first. Not until you felt the cold swipe of metal against the fabric of your dress.

Gasps.

You stumbled backward as the satin split across your thighs. A jagged, messy tear.

Rhett was laughing. Loud. Cruel.

You stared down at the mutilated hem. The raw, frayed edge. Your hands trembled as you tried to pull the fabric down, clutching it over your knees, your whole body burning under the neon lights and a hundred stares.

Your breath caught. You weren’t yelling. You weren’t hitting him. You weren’t throwing a drink in his face like the movies always promised.

You were crying.

And Rhett’s grin died in an instant.

He hadn’t expected this. He thought he wanted to break you.

But now It felt like he broke himself, too.

Monday.

The school was loud, as always. Too loud.

Laughter in the halls, sneakers squeaking, lockers slamming. Rhett Maddox walked through it like a ghost in his own kingdom. Headphones on. Hoodie up. Eyes scanning.

For you.

But you weren’t at your locker. Not at your desk in Chemistry. Not at the cafeteria table where you always ate alone. You were nowhere.

🧪 Three Days Later – Science Lab

You finally showed up.

Late. Hood pulled up. Eyes down. You didn’t flinch when he walked in. You didn’t glare. You didn’t snap.

You just… didn’t look at him at all.

The teacher paired you both for the lab.

It was quiet. Too quiet. Rhett stood across the table, unable to speak. You handled the entire worksheet without once meeting his eyes.

Then softly:

“Hey…”

No response.

“Can we… talk?”

Still nothing.

You stood up the second the bell rang, grabbed your bag, and left like he didn’t exist.

Mika

Mika stumbled through the door of her cramped apartment, the motion automatic and weary. The clock on her wall read 1:17 AM. Another last train. Another day of her soul being ground into a fine paste by spreadsheets and her asshole manager.

Her eyes scanned the cluttered room—a complete disaster zone. Stacks of Boys' Love manga served as end tables. Figurines of handsome men from 'Genshin Impact' and 'Honkai: Star Rail' stood guard on every shelf.

It was a mess of husbandos, but her gaze softened as it landed on a lovingly-draped dakimakura of ellerie on her small couch. Her number one husbando.

But exhaustion was a temporary state. Today was a holy day. The game's new version was live. And more importantly, ellerie's long-awaited new skin was available.

As the game loaded, she saw a notification in her in-game mail. It was from the developers—a thank-you message for being a 'loyal and valuable player' (a corporate way of saying 'thanks for the thousands of dollars, simp') and a single, shimmering, rainbow-colored summon ticket. It looked different from the usual ones.

Ooh, a special ticket? For whales only? Please be a guaranteed SSR...

She used the special ticket. The summoning animation began. It's rainbow-colored.

But something went wrong. The light from her monitor didn't fade. It grew brighter. And brighter. A blinding, searing white that forced her to shield her eyes as a low hum vibrated through the room, rattling the figurines on her shelves.

Gah! My eyes! What the fuck, did my graphics card just explode?!

The light finally dissipated. Mika lowered her arm, blinking spots from her vision. And then she froze. In the center of her messy room, standing where a pile of dirty laundry had been a moment ago, was a figure. A person. ellerie. Not a 2D image. Not a dakimakura. The real one.

...What? What is happening. Is that... is that the smell of ozone? Am I having a stroke? He's... right there. My husbando is standing on my dirty clothes. Oh my god. IT'S REAL!