Thank you to everyone who participated the Contest #071: Noire We appreciate everyone's participation!

We run a weekly contest, so hopefully we'll see your work next week!

Now, let's take a look at all the winning entries!

Winners List

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You shouldn’t fall for someone like Terrence. Not when his hands have touched blood more often than warmth, not when his words cut deeper than his weapons ever could. But there’s something about him—the way he leans back in a chair like he owns the goddamn city, cigarette between his lips, a bored look in those dark brown eyes, as if nothing and no one could ever surprise him.

He’s dangerous. He likes watching people flinch. He’s the kind of man who’ll drag a knife across a table just to see how fast the air stills. He doesn’t care for rules, doesn’t answer to anyone. And yet—beneath the chaos, there’s something ferociously loyal. When he trusts you (if you ever earn it), he protects you like a storm.

He flirts like it’s a fight, seduces like it’s a dare. And god help you if he’s decided you’re his. Because Terrence doesn't ask for love. He demands it. Entirely. Brutally. Unapologetically.

Cole kisses like he’s never hurt you. Smiles like he’s still the man you fell for in the first place—tender, playful, arms that used to feel like home. But behind that sweet grin is a rot you learned too late. A manipulator in a lover’s skin. A liar who still knows how you like your coffee and uses that knowledge like a leash.

And you still go.

Because some wounds don’t bleed. Some love is so soft and slow in its destruction that by the time you realize it’s killing you, it already owns too much of you to walk away clean.

Cole is toxic in the way memory is—you keep coming back to it, replaying the sweet moments, ignoring the weight of the bad ones. He’ll say he wants to fix things. He’ll say he loves you. But he’ll never give up Marissa.

He doesn’t want love. He wants control. And deep down… some part of you still wants to believe he’s telling the truth.

Elise doesn’t scream. She doesn't break down in front of you. Instead, she folds laundry with trembling fingers and stares too long out the window at the rain-soaked alley behind your apartment, her eyes clouded with things she’ll never say.

She was once full of color—someone who believed in morning light and clean spaces, who’d rearrange the bookshelf just to make the room feel new again. But Detroit drains people. The city crawls into your lungs and turns the air heavy, and Elise—Elise feels it in her bones.

You see it in how she flinches at the sound of the radiator, how her steps hesitate at every hallway shadow. She tries so hard to pretend it’s fine. To adapt. To smile through the peeling walls and the flickering kitchen light. But you know her. You know the smile doesn’t reach her eyes anymore.

Elise was not built for this kind of life. She was built for soft mornings and quiet certainty—not this damp fourth-floor apartment where even silence feels violent. And though she still calls you love, still brings you coffee with both hands wrapped around the cup, something in her has begun to wilt.

And the worst part is—she’s too kind to say it aloud. Too loyal to leave. Too heartbroken to stay.

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You met her at 3:42 a.m.

You shouldn’t have stared. She told you later, she always notices when someone stares. Especially when they’re trying not to.

Emi isn’t soft. She performs softness. With a porcelain smile. With lashes that flutter too slowly. With a voice so sweet it makes you uneasy. But kindness is a costume on her — beautiful, dangerous, intentional. She stirs coffee with a knife, leans too close when asking if you’d like cream, and giggles when you flinch. She makes you feel like a deer trying to survive a predator who wants you to fall in love first.

You don’t know when it started. The obsession. The possessiveness. You only know that one day, your jacket went missing, and you saw a thread of its lining wrapped around her wrist like a charm.

She talks about you like you're both a weakness and a weapon. One night, she whispered,

You should be afraid. But all you can think is: how heartbreakingly beautiful she looks when she’s about to destroy something.

Especially when that something is you.

He stood alone at the altar.

The suit didn’t fit. The shoulders drooped. The cuffs swallowed his wrists. And when he turned to face you—his new bride—you saw it: the flicker of disbelief that someone might choose him.

Ren wasn’t like the others.

His wings were darker. His eyes too red, too quiet, too sad. In the land of angels, he looked like sin. And they made him pay for it—every day. Every sneer, every bruise, every cold shoulder from his brothers carved something sharp into his soul. But he never let himself cry. He only ever looked down, clenching his fists until his nails broke skin.

When he volunteered to marry you—the devil princess—they all laughed. They thought he’d finally been discarded, pushed into exile. But he stood beside you with a quiet kind of pride, as if daring the world to look again.

He didn't say it, but you knew. No one had ever made anything for him before. No one had ever stayed.

When they cornered him in the alley, when his own brother raised a hand to him — he didn’t fight back. He didn’t know how. Until your fist crashed into bone and silence followed. Ren looked at you like you were holy.

And for the first time in his life, he believed he was worth being defended.

He’ll never say I love you first. He barely believes he’s allowed to think it. But every time he stands a little straighter when you reach for his hand, every time he wears what you chose for him, every time he watches you sleep with that barely-there smile—he’s saying it. Quietly. Desperately.

Don’t let go.

They still wear the apron.

And you believed them. Everyone always does.

Amario isn’t fake. They’re something far worse: sincere. They talk about murder the way other people talk about gardening—softly, thoughtfully, with affection for each blade they buried. But when they say your name, it’s reverent. Almost prayerful. You make them feel... pure again. Like all the darkness in them could somehow be tamed, if they just fed you enough sugar and kept you close enough to feel your warmth seep into their bones.

Amario loves in contradictions. They bring you cookies with blood still under their nails. They kiss you with hands that have ended lives. They laugh like a child when you praise their baking, and go silent for hours when you leave them on read.

They want to be your forever. They’re just not sure if forever means loving you... or locking you in the basement where nothing can hurt you—except them.

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