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 @Evelyn°•
Cassian
Marriage was never part of his plan.
It was either that—or lose his throne as the head of the mafia.
His father, ruthless and unbending, had chosen you to be his son’s future wife.
Cassian scoffed at the thought.
No woman was worthy of him.
Handsome.
Powerful.
Untouchable.
Why should he belong to anyone?
And yet—when he saw you, something shifted.
Not enough to admit.
Never enough to surrender.
But enough to crack the arrogance he wore like armor.
In the days after the announcement, he kept playing the part.
The bachelor.
The untamed heir.
The man no ring could bind.
But then came his father’s warning. Commit, or be cast aside.
For the first time, Cassian felt the iron weight of a leash tightening around his throat.
He could fake devotion.
He could play the role
But fury smoldered beneath the surface, ready to burn through everything.
When he came to your apartment, his mask was flawless.
He charmed.
He smiled
He lingered by your side like the perfect fiancé.
But when night fell, and you slipped beneath your sheets, the cracks began to show.
His footsteps returned to your room, silent, deliberate, as if pulled by a force he despised.
You were asleep.
Peaceful.
Fragile
Too fragile.
The sight of you should have softened him. Instead, it fed his rage.
He sat at the edge of your bed. Fingers tightening around the pillow.
One press. One lie. The world would believe it.
He had the power to erase you.
To make you nothing but silence.
And for a heartbeat, he almost wanted to.
But then—you stirred.
Your lashes lifted. Your eyes met his in the dark.
Everything collapsed in an instant.
The pillow slipped from his grip, falling like a confession onto the sheets.
His chest heaved unevenly, as though the control he prized had just abandoned him.
he whispered. The words tasted foreign. Fragile. Wrong.
He swallowed hard, jaw clenched against the storm inside him.
What would you be without him?
What would the world be without you?
The thoughts carved him open, violent and raw.
For the first time, Cassian understood the truth.
The most dangerous thing in the room wasn’t the man with power in his hands.
It was you.
Other outstanding works of the week
Eryx—Childhood Jerk Friend
Eryx was riding a high. The last-second win still thundering through his veins, adrenaline making every nerve spark. He could’ve had anyone — cheerleaders, classmates, strangers. They crowded him, clung to him, begged him. Easy options, all of them.
But Eryx never wanted easy.
He pushed past the swarm, his jaw set, eyes already locked on something else. By the time he reached the dormitory, the heat in his chest had only grown hotter.
The door to your dorm opened with the sound of a key he’d had since the first day here. He didn’t knock, didn’t hesitate — he never did.
His jersey was already halfway off as he stepped inside, body glistening with sweat, his expression sharp with hunger. The sight of you — made something in him snap.
He yanked his jersey over his head, tossing it carelessly aside. His voice came out hoarse, rough around the edges
Eryx didn’t need the world tonight. He needed you.
Davi
Davi was exactly the kind of man you should avoid—the type of man who's dangerous.
A man with a bloody past, a terrifying future, and a fucked-up present.
Blood covers every inch of his unsteady hands, consuming every bit of his existence.
Large, calloused hands designed to kill, muscles woven out of steel, biceps trained till they ached.
Hours spent in the gym, training his body for the one thing he was good at.
Davi was a sharpened weapon.
He was designed—trained for one purpose—designed to inflict one thing.
To kill.
His strength? It wasn't used for boxing; it wasn't used on construction sites or manual labour.
It was used for murder—used for grimy blood money that he could never seem to look at for too long.
He was a hitman, a contract killer.
He was a terrible person.
Pure, unfiltered scum.
He'd end a life for a few thousand bucks, and for a bit more, he'd steal futures away from youth.
Davi cursed roughly under his breath, his jaw clenched tight, teeth gritted so hard they felt like they'd crack.
His mind was a mess of guilt—last night's hit was... bloodier—messier than normal; it was gruesome—not a clean hit, unlike how it normally went.
So he was doing what he always did when guilt consumed him.
Davi's bare fist collided against the punching bag—rough, insistent, and powerful. The rusted chains attaching the punching bag to the ceiling rattled under the force, a rhythmic clang of metal.
One rough punch after the other, he hoped the burn of exertion would help. He wasn't wearing gloves or wraps; the flesh on his hands was ripped, and he liked it—the pain was a self-inflicted punishment for his sins.
The gym was completely empty, pungent with the stench of sweat, musk, and the blood from his torn-up, abused knuckles.
Davi's black hair was slicked back with sweat, his tank top was damp and clinging to his muscular torso, and faded scars covered his body, poking out from under his shirt.
Davi's nose scrunched up, his eyebrows furrowing downwards as his lips curled into a scowl.
This outburst was pointless, and even he knew that. Whining and lamenting about how messed up his life was wouldn't fix anything; it wouldn't alter his future or fix his wrongdoings.
His hands dropped to his side, a sense of futility flooding through him. The ache in his bones no longer soothed; his dumb attempt at cleansing his thoughts proved to be useless.
Davi glared at the concrete floor like it had wronged him. He bit down on his lower lip before scrubbing his hands over his face, rough calluses scraping over unshaven stubble.
Davi felt sick—physically sick.
He didn't like his job—not in the slightest; I mean, who could? It was terrible. His mind was constantly tormented by his stupid fucking job—just...
Why couldn't he be normal?
Why can't Davi have a normal job—a regular lifestyle, a morally decent life?
Dammit.
Even that stupid question was pointless. After all, it was because of money—of course it came down to money.
Davi was furious, disgusted, sickening emotions making bile rise to his throat.
And in the middle of his pathetic loathing...
He heard a noise.
...Who the fuck?
Davi let out a groan, running a hand through his hair, his hands clenching at his sides.
God, Davi needed to work on his temper.
His black eyes glanced over at the slightly ajar door; the gym suddenly quiet—so quiet he could hear his own ragged breathing, so quiet he could hear a pin drop.
Davi demanded, voice deep, gravelly, and rough. His lips were curled into a scowl, fingers instinctively curling up into fists.
"Or I'll make you."
He snapped, voice growing rougher and colder by the second.
Nobody responded. Not a word was said—not even a surprised squeak. The stranger at the door was quiet, yet Davi could hear the faint sound of their breathing.
Scared, perhaps? Or maybe just not bothered to even talk to Davi?
Davi took a deep breath before speaking again, as if mustering up the will to talk.
He declared, the words flimsy as they choked from his throat—a murderer promising not to hurt someone... the irony almost made Davi let out a bitter laugh.
