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childrenofcain-if · 8 months ago

Note

Picture this: ROs showing up to their morning classes looking slightly disheveled and quickly taking a seat. Little do they know that their necks are covered with hickeys left by MC the night before. Their reactions when people point it out should be priceless 😂😂

C LACROIX

C barely made it out of bed that morning, the remnants of the night still clinging to them like a warm, invisible string. they hadn’t even looked in the mirror beyond a quick pass of the toothbrush and mouthwash, hadn’t registered the faint bruises blooming like dark smudges on their fair neck.

it was an unusually rushed morning—coffee sloshing in its cup, a blazer haphazardly pulled on over yesterday’s rumpled button-up shirt, and the quiet contentment that still lingered under their skin from the night before.

the lecture hall was in that strange, early-morning lull, with only the few dedicated souls filtering in. C took a seat near the front of the lecture room, slouching down and letting their eyes drift, half-focused on the professor setting up for the day. the room filled up slowly, a dozen students murmuring, flipping open their notebooks, the usual dull hum of university mornings. C felt halfway to a daydream.

it wasn’t until ten minutes into class that the girl sitting directly behind them leaned in with a conspiratorial grin.

“hey, C,” she whispered, her gaze flicking from their bored green eyes to somewhere just below their jaw, amusement dancing in her expression. “had a busy night?”

C looked at her, eyes narrowing in confusion, and she just giggled, clearly finding some private delight in whatever she was looking at. the professor’s voice was droning on in the background about economic indicators, but C’s attention had slipped, irritation prickling.

“what are you talking about?” they muttered back, still bleary with early-morning fatigue. “your neck,” she said with a little wave of her hand, as if that explained everything. “care to explain what that is?”

C’s hand shot to their neck, feeling the skin warm under their touch. they hadn’t given it much thought, hadn’t even realized—last night’s memory a blur of laughter, close warmth, the heady closeness of you, but now it crystallized sharply in their mind. they could feel the heat creeping up their neck, but the words came out automatically, with practiced precision.

“this is a sign,” C said, raising an eyebrow and giving her a look that could have frozen rivers, “for you to mind your own business.”

the girl laughed, raising her hands in mock surrender. “all right, all right,” she said, but her smirk didn’t fade, and C could feel other eyes turning in their direction, whispers curling through the air like smoke. they slouched further in their seat, wishing they could disappear entirely and regretting the decision to sit on the front.

as the professor rambled on, C sat there fuming, each murmured glance another spark on an already frayed wick. what had you been thinking, they found themself wondering, though they knew perfectly well that you’d been thinking of nothing but the electric thrill of the moment, your hands in their hair, the quiet gasps and the blurred edges of night.

the guy two seats behind caught C’s eye and smirked.

“didn’t know you were the type,” he said, barely containing his laughter.

“what type?” C snapped, keeping their tone flat but seething inside.

“the type to walk around like a billboard,” he replied, nodding toward C’s neck. “seriously, you might want to invest in a scarf.”

C shot him an unimpressed look. “thanks for the suggestion, but i’m not taking fashion advice from poor people.”

the guy frowned in disbelief before huffing and muttering, “whatever, rich prick.”

class dragged on, the ticking of the clock like nails on a chalkboard. C tried to keep their head down, but the whispers and glances only seemed to get louder. every time they caught someone’s eye, there was that same smirk, that same knowing look that made C want to snap, to tell everyone to go back to their notes and leave them the hell alone. but of course, that would only make things worse.

by the time class ended, C was practically out of their seat before the professor had even finished dismissing them. they strode out of the room, head down, hoping to avoid any more looks or comments, but of course, luck wasn’t on their side. just as they stepped out into the hallway, someone else called out.

“nice look, C,” a girl from one of their other classes teased, looking far too pleased with herself.

C sighed, letting out a sharp breath. “you know, there are more interesting things in this world than staring at my neck.”

“oh, but it’s the most interesting thing we’ve seen all semester,” she shot back, laughing, her friends joining in.

C rolled their eyes and kept walking, feeling the last shreds of their patience fraying. they practically stormed down the college halls, footsteps echoing, each step a reminder of the mess they’d somehow gotten themself into. and all because of you, they thought, though they couldn’t bring themselves to be truly angry. there was a part of them—a very small, very hidden part—that was secretly pleased, that liked the quiet claim your marks had left on their skin.

finally, they found a quiet corner, pulling out their phone with a sigh. it only took a second to find your name, to start typing a message they hadn’t planned to send but couldn’t hold back any longer.

they kept it short, precise: “i hope you’re happy with the unwanted attention i’ve been getting today.”

your reply came almost immediately, as if you’d been waiting for it.

“oh, i am,” you texted back, and C could almost picture the smirk on your face, the gleam in your eyes. “plus, it’s not like you’re complaining.”

they scoffed, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of their mouth despite themselves: “you’re an idiot, starkid.”

“you still didn’t deny it though,” came your reply, and C shook their head, slipping their phone back into their pocket.

they straightened up, brushing a hand over their neck as if that could somehow erase the marks before walking back to their dorm to do something about it.

V NÆSHOLM

V was already late, stumbling out of their dorm with a heavy book clutched against their chest, their fingers pressed tight to the leather cover like it was a lifeline. they’d overslept, an unusual occurrence, the morning alarm buried somewhere under last night’s fog of dreams and restless shuffles in bed. their curls were a bit of a mess, the hem of their shirt tugged half-untucked in their rush to get dressed. V didn’t bother with a mirror—they rarely did—just shoved their notebook into a worn leather bag and hurried out into the crisp morning.

the classics lecture room was already half-full when they slipped in, doing their best to keep their head down as they found an empty seat by the window. they fumbled with the zipper of their bag, pulling out pens, notes, the creased corner of an assignment they’d meant to retype. a couple of glances flitted their way, but V paid them no mind, assuming it was just the consequence of arriving late—not their usual style, but excusable, they supposed. they hadn’t quite noticed the warmth still lingering on their neck, hadn’t registered the faint marks, those tiny bruises left by your lips in the hazy hours of last night, each one like a dark cherry painted on their skin.

professor caldwell’s voice began to drone on from the front, and V dropped their gaze to the desk, willing themselves to focus, to let the rhythm of greek declensions and conjugations drown out the lingering warmth that tingled through them. you had laughed about their major, half-joking about the language of romance and poetry while your mouth traced along the curve of their neck, each word becoming something soft, quiet, reverent in the dark. they thought they could still feel it, could still remember the press of your hands against their shoulders, the unguarded look in your eyes that made V feel both completely exposed and utterly safe.

across the room, someone leaned over to their friend, whispering something with a smirk, and V felt the faint prickling sensation of being watched. they glanced up, catching the raised eyebrows, the conspiratorial gleam in their classmates’ eyes. V’s face warmed instantly, but they managed a small, polite smile before dropping their gaze back to their notebook, convinced that if they focused hard enough, they could make themself invisible.

it wasn’t long before someone inched closer, a girl from their study group, flashing them a look that was equal parts amused and intrigued.

“V,” she whispered, leaning in, “looks like you had an eventful night.”

V blinked, taken aback. “an eventful night?”

she gave them a playful grin, tilting her head just enough for her eyes to drift to the side of their neck, and suddenly, V felt the weight of her gaze as if it were a burning mark itself. they pressed a hand self-consciously to their skin, realizing with a jolt what she must be seeing—the faint outline of each mark you’d left, the soft purples and blues etched into their dusky skin.

the girl’s grin widened, and V could practically feel the heat creeping up their neck, staining their cheeks.

“i– it’s not–” they stammered, words tumbling over themselves in a futile attempt to explain something that needed no explanation. “it’s just… nothing!”

she laughed, a soft, knowing sound that made V feel like every inch of them was under a spotlight.

“sure,” she replied, her tone teasing. “nothing at all.”

another voice piped up from across the room, this time one of the guys they vaguely recognized from last semester, watching them with a smirk. “get it, V!”

V felt their heart sink, the warmth on their cheeks intensifying as they desperately tried to avoid making eye contact with anyone. they wanted to disappear, to melt into the seat and let the floor swallow them whole. this wasn’t like them—V, quiet and unassuming, the one who read too many old texts and held onto thoughts like secrets. they could hardly bear the thought of all these eyes on them now, each one reading the evidence of last night like an open book.

professor caldwell finally took note of the murmuring, glancing up from his notes with a frown. “is there something particularly fascinating happening in the back of the room that i should know about?”

silence fell, and V took the opportunity to bury themselves deeper in their notes, trying to will away the warmth in their cheeks and the prickling awareness that your mark on them had become the morning’s unspoken headline. they could feel every sideways glance, every whispered comment, as though it were written in neon across their skin.

when class finally ended, V was the first out of the room, slipping through the hallways as quickly as they could, every step carrying them further from the embarrassment of those lingering glances and raised eyebrows. they found a quiet alcove near the library, leaning against the cool stone wall, finally able to breathe.

V closed their eyes, a quiet, helpless laugh slipping out as they leaned back against the wall, feeling every inch the awkward, bashful mess you somehow adored.

W OSTENDORF

W stumbled into their morning cinematography lecture, barely awake. they hadn’t even glanced in the mirror before dashing out of their room, their shirt collar slightly askew, blonde hair tousled in a way that looked less artful and more accidental. their eyes were ringed with the faint shadows of sleep deprivation, deep-set from too many late nights and one too many bad dreams. they’d long accepted that sleep, for them, was like an old friend gone missing.

W slipped into a chair near the back of the room, hoping to fade into the background. but, almost immediately, they felt a tap on their shoulder. they turned, meeting the curious gaze of bailey, one of the classmates they usually talked to. they were already leaning in, their eyes bright with mischief.

“W…” bailey said, a sly smile creeping up their face, “so how was it?”

W blinked, looking back at them with a blank expression. “what?”

bailey stifled a laugh, glancing pointedly at W’s neck. “i’d be more concerned about covering those up if i were you.”

confused, W’s hand drifted to the side of their neck, their fingers brushing over what felt like faint ridges in the skin—tender and, unmistakably, hickey-shaped. last night came back to them in fragments: the soft press of your lips against their skin, the warmth of your hands, and the way W’s heart had beat so fast it was like it was learning to keep time for the first time. they could still feel it—the gentleness of you, the careful way you’d mapped out their skin, the way you had filled the empty spaces in them like sunlight spilling into shadows.

“oh,” they mumbled, barely audible, color rising in their fair cheeks as they finally understood what bailey was implying. they fumbled with their winter coat, as though it could somehow cover up the evidence. but it was too late; bailey had already seen, and so had half the classroom, if the muffled snickers and side-glances were any indication.

W swallowed hard, trying to suppress the urge to shrink into themself. it was one thing to carry the memory of last night like a secret tucked close to their chest, but it was another to have it branded on their skin, visible for everyone to see. “with a reaction like that, i’m curious now,” bailey whispered conspiratorially. “who was it?”

W was too flustered to answer, too aware of the heat creeping up their neck. they just shook their head, mumbling something incoherent under their breath.

they could practically feel the weight of everyone’s attention pressing down on them, and it was unbearable. the classroom had never felt so small. they wanted to disappear, to dissolve into the air and float away. their fingers tightened around the edge of their desk, knuckles white.

just as they were beginning to think they might actually combust under the weight of it all, professor shah finally started the lecture, mercifully redirecting everyone’s attention to the topic of 60s cinematography. W tried to focus, to let the professor’s voice anchor them, but they kept getting distracted by the faint brush of their own fingertips against their neck, as though they were reassuring themself that last night had been real.

but the worst part, the part W couldn’t admit even to themself, was that somewhere beneath all the embarrassment, there was a strange, inexplicable warmth in their chest. it wasn’t just the memory of you; it was the fact that, for once, they felt like someone who mattered. you had looked at them like they were more than a bundle of nerves, more than a collection of protruding ribs and insecurities. you had wanted them, had left marks on them like an artist signing their work, as though to say, “this precious one belongs to me.”

W kept their head down for the rest of class, pretending to take notes while their mind wandered. they thought about your laugh, the way it filled up the quiet spaces between words; they thought about the constellations embedded in your eyes, a collection of universes unknown. and even as their skin burned under the scrutiny of their classmates, they couldn’t help but feel a kind of ridiculous, unsteady happiness, as though they were holding a fragile piece of you.

after class, as W gathered their things, bailey caught up with them again, their eyes dancing with barely-contained laughter.

“whoever they are,” they said, leaning in with a grin, “they did a number on you. you look like a jackson pollock painting.”

W managed a small, awkward smile, brushing them off with a half-hearted shrug. “i… thank you? i think?”

but bailey just laughed, giving them a pat on the shoulder before they sauntered off. W watched them go, exhaling a long, shaky breath. the hallway stretched out in front of them, crowded with students milling about, voices echoing in the familiar buzz of conversation. they felt oddly detached from it all, like they were drifting, the world around them softened by the memory of you.

when they finally stepped outside, the winter air was like an ice pack against their flushed cheeks. they pulled their coat tighter around them, but they couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at the corners of their mouth. even in their embarrassment, they felt lighter, their heart buoyed by the quiet assurance that they had been seen, and known, and wanted.

for a brief, foolish moment, W wished you were there beside them, walking through the crowded hallway, your shoulder brushing against theirs. they imagined the feel of your hand slipping into theirs, the easy way you would laugh at their embarrassment, and they felt a surge of something that was both longing and contentment.

D DIACONU

D showed up to their morning music class like they did every day: with a sort of effortless swagger, their bag slung over one shoulder, hair messier than usual, and the faintest grin ghosting their mouth as though they were carrying a secret joke. they slipped into their seat near the back, collapsing into it with the practiced nonchalance of someone who had perfected the art of looking utterly unfazed.

to D, mornings meant more than just a groggy start; they were an opportunity to blend their night life into the mundane day, to turn the hours of dawn into some blurry prequel that nobody else needed to understand.

what D didn’t realize, though, was that last night had left its mark in more ways than one.

the professor was droning on about music theory, the class settling into its familiar rhythm, when senne, a friend sitting beside D, leaned over, his eyebrows quirked, mischief lighting up his eyes.

“good morning to you,” he murmured, his voice low, his smile mischievous. “do you, perchance, have a good mirror at your dorm? you can borrow mine if that’s not the case.”

D glanced at him, half-interested, arching an eyebrow. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

senne snickered, nudging his chin toward D’s neck, gesturing without making a scene but just enough to catch D’s attention.

D frowned, hands drifting to their collarbone almost instinctively, fingers brushing over their neck. the memory of last night washed over them—your lips, your hands, the way you laughed softly against their skin as if every touch could be a confession. in the hazy, half-lit memory, the feel of your warmth and weight lingered as though it had seeped into them. but that feeling, that heated moment, had seemed so ephemeral, so fleeting, something to fold up and pocket away by morning.

D’s fingers brushed over the skin—the sensitive spots, the small, faint bruises where you had left traces. hickeys. and not just one.

a dozen memories flashed in their mind. the way you had leaned in, your mouth grazing the edge of their collarbone, the laughter that bubbled up in between breaths, a hand gripping their shoulder. D’s smile faltered, turning instead into a half-smirk as they let their fingers drop, trying to play it cool even as their face warmed.

senne whistled quietly, leaning back with a knowing look that made it clear he wasn’t going to let this go. “you lucky dog.”

D shrugged, attempting to look bored but failing to disguise the slight, pleased flicker in their eyes. “well, i’m not going to deny that.”

at that, senne’s eyebrows went up. “oh, believe me, it shows. whoever they are, they really… left their mark, huh? quite a possessive one you got there.”

D rolled their eyes, feeling strangely irritated under the scrutiny of both Sam and a few other classmates who had caught on, now sneaking glances and stifling laughs. the professor continued to lecture in the background, blissfully unaware of the scandalous distraction sitting right in front of him. metronomes would wait; apparently, D’s love life was more important.

“i didn’t ask for you to take a guess,” D murmured, voice low and defiant, as if the room wasn’t filled with people trying to catch a glimpse of the faint marks you’d left on them. they tilted their head, defiant as ever, lips pulled into a smirk that only grew when senne laughed.

“not my fault you’re wearing your social life like a badge of honor,” senne retorted, giving them a playful nudge. “i don’t think i’ve ever seen you be okay with people giving you hickeys.”

“maybe this person’s special,” D shot back, pulling the collar of their leather jacket up just a bit. “or maybe i don’t particularly care about it anymore.”

as the professor continued to lecture on how music was seen as a blessing from the gods, it struck D as amusingly fitting. aphrodite would have approved, they thought with a sly grin, leaning back in their chair with a certain satisfaction, a sense of belonging to a story larger than themself, even if just for a night.

the professor’s voice carried on, explaining some about some more old instruments. D tried to focus on the words, on the way they wove together in that heavy, ancient way, but every phrase seemed to loop back to you. your eyes. your teeth against their skin. the way you’d whispered things that only mattered in the small hours, words that vanished with the dawn but left their mark all the same.

senne leaned over once more, whispering, “so, is it, y’know?”

D smirked, tilting their head as though considering it, as though they didn’t already know the answer.

“maybe,” they said casually, but there was a knowing glint in their gray eyes. “i’d prefer not to reveal anything yet.”

senne chuckled, rolling his eyes, but there was a part of him that seemed genuinely curious, almost as if he wanted to know what it was like to be seen the way D was seen last night—to be held and marked and claimed, even if just for a moment. of course, he was thinking about emerson again.

when class ended, D stood up, brushing off senne’s continued teasing, rolling their eyes with a smirk that was equal parts cocky and lazy. they didn’t bother to fix their collar again, didn’t try to hide the hickeys. Instead, they let them be—little maroon trails of a night well-spent, reminders of a heat they’d carry with them through the rest of the day, a secret in plain sight.

M WHITLOCK-SINGH

M slipped into their philosophy class with the quiet poise of someone determined to avoid attention, a little bleary-eyed from the night before. they moved with the precision of a dancer, even half-awake, shoulders straight and head held just high enough to nod politely to the few classmates they recognized.

it had been one of those endless nights, where time seemed to slip in and out of itself, conversations trailing into dawn without ever quite stopping, hours blending until they felt like one long and breathless moment. M had walked to class still caught in the residue of that night, smiling privately, replaying your smile, the warmth of your hand, the way you’d leaned in close with that unmistakably needy glint in your eye.

they slid into their seat, adjusting their collar out of habit, but the faint ache at their neck went unnoticed in their early morning haze. they didn’t see the subtle bruises—purple shadows kissed onto their skin like reminders of you. but someone else did.

“morning, M,” murmured eli, who sat next to them, their tone riddled with a soft irish accent. they eyed M’s neck for a second too long, their gaze slipping toward the faint trail of hickeys there before they looked away, poorly disguised laughter on their lips.

“good morning, eli,” M replied, their usual courtesy unfazed by the glances and whispered chuckles around the room. they didn’t catch the murmurs, or the sneaky glances, still thinking of last night—how you’d wrapped them in your laughter, how you’d left them breathless with the reckless ease that only you had.

it wasn’t until professor dunbar, a tall and somewhat intimidating figure with a penchant for socratic questioning, entered and began the lecture that M started to catch on. he looked right at the royal, paused, and then coughed, almost as if trying to conceal a smirk.

the entire class seemed to ripple with an electric, almost surreptitious amusement.

finally, one of the other students, a lanky guy named oliver who was known for his bluntness, leaned over. he barely whispered, though, letting his voice carry to others seated nearby. “your highness, didn’t know you were the type to show up to class wearing your nightlife around your neck.”

M blinked, feeling the words settle before they fully registered. “i beg your pardon?”

they touched their neck absentmindedly, but as they felt the faint bruises beneath their fingers, realization spread across their face. the warmth of last night’s memory filled them again, and there was a warmth in their cheeks that couldn’t quite be disguised.

oliver grinned, looking far too pleased. “you’ve got souvenirs, nice.”

M’s hand dropped, and they straightened, composure slipping for just a heartbeat. a rush of images flooded their mind—you, under the dim lights, your lips lingering on their neck, the world a comfortable blur around you both. they felt exposed in a way that was unfamiliar, like someone had opened a book they’d meant to keep closed.

eli leaned over, their voice gentle with a thread of teasing. “they suit you, actually. just… remember to cover it before class next time”

M managed a demure smile, lifting their chin slightly. “i’ll keep that in mind.”

eli’s smile widened, but they said nothing, only gave a small shrug as if to say no worries.

M could feel their heart thundering under the calm mask they usually wore, wondering how they could possibly explain to these people how it felt to be with you. how every touch had felt both wild and intimate, like a shared whisper that neither of you could ever forget. there was no explaining to eli or oliver or anyone here how your presence lingered, how it was both comforting and thrilling, how you’d looked at them like they were someone worth keeping close.

the professor’s lecture drifted on, dissecting concepts of ethics and purpose, but M’s mind wandered. they half-listened, still feeling the ghost of your touch, remembering the twinkling of your eyes in the small hours of the night. when the lecture ended, and they were finally free to leave, they lingered, half-expecting another comment, another nudge from a classmate.

instead, it was eli who sidled up to them, his tone light but laced with curiosity. “so… who was it, mate? don’t be shy now.”

M raised an eyebrow, almost amused by their persistence. “i’m afraid i can’t disclose that, eli.”

eli shrugged, undeterred. “fine, keep your secrets. but hey,” he added with a knowing smirk, “they must be something else if you’re willing to come here wearing their love bites.”

for a second, M considered dismissing eli with their usual reserve, but something in them softened. they allowed a faint smile, a rare and almost too-open thing, as they looked toward the door, already picturing you there. “yes,” M said, their voice a quiet warmth that made eli blink, momentarily thrown by the softness in their tone. “they really are something else.”

#i was half asleep while writing this so forgive me for any grammatical mistakes 😔#i’m just a guy 😔#if: the ballad of the young gods #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive story #twine wip #ro: c lacroix #ro: v næsholm #ro: w ostendorf #ro: d diaconu #ro: m whitlock singh #ro scenarios

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childrenofcain-if · 10 months ago

Note

How would the RO's change MC died after they were romanced?

C LACROIX

C wasn’t made for grief.

they were made for insulting words and cutting smiles, for elegant lines and perfected exteriors. loss was not something they wore well; it settled wrong, like a coat several sizes too heavy, dragging them down. they didn’t know how to process it, not when they first heard the news, not when they saw your body, not even in the quiet moments afterward when the world felt like it had slipped out from under them and left them hollow.

it was a plane crash. nothing grand or cinematic, just a routine flight that went horribly wrong, the kind of accident that everyone reads about but never imagines happening to someone they love. one second, you had been flying back from a conference, and the next, you were gone. just like that. no warning, no chance to say goodbye.

C had stared at the TV when the news broke, their face frozen in something close to disbelief, their hand still clutching his phone like maybe, just maybe, you would call and say it was all a mistake. it was supposed to be a big fucking joke, wasn’t it? it had to be. you were too alive to just disappear. you were too vivid, too present, too… everything.

when the silence settled, after the news anchor had moved on to some other tragedy, C let their phone fall from their hand. the sound of it hitting the floor was distant, a hollow echo that meant nothing. everything meant nothing.

they never cried. not at the funeral, not during the long, agonizing weeks that followed. people expected them to, C could tell. they waited for the breakdown, the outpouring of emotion, the proof that C.A. Lacroix was, in fact, human. but it never came. instead, they stood by your grave, their hands in the pockets of their coat, their eyes as dry as the winter air around them.

“i always thought i’d be the one to leave first,” they said quietly, their voice almost drowned out by the wind. it was a bitter truth. C had lived their life like they were invincible, like nothing could touch them. and now, standing there in front of the cold stone with your name etched into it, they realized how utterly foolish that had been.

one night, weeks after the funeral, C found themself in your apartment that you’d rented after graduation, sitting on the edge of your bed. the door had been left unlocked for them by the landlord, who had given them a look of pity before leaving them alone with the memories.

the apartment was the same as it had always been. same stupid art that C had painted on the walls. same worn leather couch. same lingering scent of lavender in the air—so faint now it was barely there, but enough to make their throat tighten. they walked through the space like a sleepwalker, their fingers brushing absentmindedly over the coffee table, the kitchen counter, the handle of your favorite mug.

this is it, they thought. this is all that’s left of you.

they then proceeded to walk to your bedroom. it was untouched, as if you might walk in at any moment. they picked up one of your books from the bedside table, thumbed through the pages without really seeing the words. it was a tattered old paperback you’d read a dozen times. they flipped through the pages, stopping at the footnotes you’d scribbled in the margins, half-formed thoughts, sarcastic remarks, things you’d meant to tell them but never got the chance to.

their fingers traced the words as if that action would bring you back to them.

“you were always smarter than you’d think,” C murmured to the empty room, their voice rough, broken at the edges.

but there was no answer. there never would be.

the door creaked slightly, and C’s heart leapt for a fraction of a second before reality crashed back down. It wasn’t you. it would never be you again. they closed their eyes, trying to will the ache away, but it only spread deeper, gnawing at the hollow space you had left behind.

***

for a long time, they did nothing. they went through the motions of life—work, social engagements, even the occasional meaningless flirtation—but it was all mechanical. they weren’t there, not really. they were somewhere else, trapped in the memory of what you two had, of all the things they never said to you when they had the chance. the words that stuck in their throat now were the ones they’d dismissed as unimportant then.

because they thought you still had time.

“come back,” C would whisper into the dark of their empty apartment one night, drunk and foolish. “you’re supposed to be here, damn it.”

C hated how small their voice sounded. they hated the vulnerability that seeped in when no one was watching, when the mask they wore for the world slipped just enough for the cracks to show. they didn’t want to be vulnerable. not to anyone. especially not to a ghost.

***

years passed like water through cupped hands, but it didn’t heal the way it was supposed to. instead, it twisted the wound, making it fester in the quiet moments. C became colder, more rough. people commented on it behind their back, how they’d changed, how they’d become more distant. as if they hadn’t always been distant. they avoided relationships like a plague, finding them tiresome, pointless.

they took to spending more time alone. alone felt safe. alone meant no one could disappoint them. alone was all they had now.

***

C never married. they never loved anyone after you, not in the way that mattered. there were flings, of course—fleeting, shallow things that never stuck. they didn’t want them to stick. they’d feel sick everytime afterwards; it was a subconscious way to punish themself.

when C died, at the age of 74, it was in a quiet, sterile hospital room, their body finally betraying them to some nameless illness they didn’t care enough to fight. no one was at their bedside. no family, no lovers, no friends. just them, alone, the way they had spent the last decades of their life.

the nurse who came to check on them found a small silver bracelet on their wrist, the only piece of jewelry they ever wore. it had been there for as long as anyone could remember, though no one ever asked them about it. but rumours are fickle, and there were many. they believed it belonged to the only soul C had ever loved; they’d be right.

alas, there was no confirmation. C never talked about their past, never spoke of the person who had owned their heart so completely all those years ago. but the bracelet stayed with them until the very end, a quiet reminder of the love that had once been, the love that had shaped them in ways no one could see.

and so C.A. Lacroix left the world as they had lived in it—cold, distant, and untouchable. they were buried next to an heir who died young, a fortune to their name which C had inherited and then donated to several charities around the globe.

V NÆSHOLM

V would’ve never imagined that their life could unravel so completely in the span of a single, terrible moment. they’d spent so much time wrapped up in their faith, in the steady rhythm of prayer and the familiar weight of their cross resting against their chest, that the thought of losing you seemed almost impossible, even when they whispered it in the quietest corners of their mind.

but now, you were gone, and all V could do was stand there in the hospital room, staring at the empty bed, their mind slow to catch up with the horrifying finality of it all.

it had been a car accident. quick, brutal, unexpected. you had been walking home, your usual route through the city, nothing unusual. just a random, terrible twist of fate—a driver who wasn’t paying attention, a red light ignored. and then the call. V had gotten the call, their heart dropping into their stomach the moment they heard the voice on the other end, calm but clipped, like they were just delivering bad news in a routine, detached way.

at first, V had held out hope. they’ll be fine, they told themself, clutching the metal cross around their neck so tightly the edges dug into their palm. they’re strong. they’ll be fine.

but you weren’t fine. you didn’t wake up. you didn’t squeeze V’s hand back or open your eyes when V whispered their name. the machines hummed, the doctors muttered their apologies, and in the end, it was just… over.

***

in the days that followed, V couldn’t seem to find solid ground. the world tilted around them, spinning out of control, but they kept moving as if through thick, suffocating fog. people spoke to them—friends, family, even strangers at the funeral—but none of it registered. the condolences, the words of comfort, they slid off V like rain on glass, unable to penetrate the haze of disbelief and sorrow that wrapped around their heart.

they spent hours alone in the small church near their apartment, staring at the flickering candles that lined the altar. the scent of incense hung heavy in the air, but it didn’t soothe them the way it used to. nothing did. not the prayers, not the hymns, not even the familiar rhythm of the rosary beads sliding through their fingers. they prayed, but the words felt empty now. they didn’t know what they were asking for anymore. forgiveness? strength? understanding? none of those things seemed to matter when you were gone.

one evening, weeks after the funeral, V found themself at the spot where it happened. it wasn’t a conscious decision; they had just been walking, trying to escape the suffocating quiet of their apartment, and their feet had carried them there. the street was busy, cars rushing past, people laughing as they walked by, utterly unaware of the history beneath their feet. V stared at the pavement, at the place where you had fallen, and something inside them broke.

“i should’ve been there,” V whispered, their voice swallowed by the noise of the city. “i should’ve… i should’ve done something”

they didn’t know how they could’ve stopped it, but the guilt was there, gnawing at their insides like a slow, relentless tide. they wrapped their arms around themself, clutching at their cross like it was the only thing holding them together. but the truth was, they weren’t holding together. not really.

“i don’t understand,” they murmured, their voice trembling. “i don’t understand why god took you. you didn’t—” their voice broke, and they pressed a hand to their mouth, the tears coming faster now, hot and relentless. “it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

V stood there for what felt like hours, the world blurring around them as their tears blurred their vision. they had no answers, no solace. only the terrible, aching silence of a world without you in it.

***

in the months that followed, V’s faith began to falter. they went through the motions, attending church, praying before bed, but it all felt distant, disconnected. the questions swirled in their mind, louder and more insistent with each passing day. why would god take someone so good, so full of life? what kind of plan was this? V had always believed in a higher purpose, in the idea that everything happened for a reason, but now? now, nothing made sense.

V stopped wearing their cross. they couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it happened—one day, they just forgot to put it on, and then the next day, and the next. eventually, it stayed in the drawer by their bed, tucked away like a relic of a life that no longer made sense. their prayers, once a source of comfort, felt like words spoken into a void. and V, for the first time in their life, felt truly alone.

***

time passed, but the ache never really went away. V learned to live with it, the way one learns to live with an old wound that never quite heals. they moved on, or at least that’s what everyone said. they got a new job, met new people, filled their days with distractions. but every time they walked past the spot where you had died, they felt that same hollow ache in their chest, the same weight of regret pressing down on them.

V never got married. they didn’t believe in soulmates anymore, not in the way some people did, but they knew deep down that they’d never love anyone the way they’d loved you. they carried that love with them, quiet and steady, like a flame that never went out, even as the years blurred together and their hair turned gray.

when V died—peacefully, in their sleep, at the age of 83—they were found with an old, worn photo of you tucked under their pillow. the photo was crumpled and faded, but V’s fingers had held onto it until the very end. they were buried with it, and when the priest spoke at the funeral, he didn’t know the story behind the photo. he didn’t know how V had spent a lifetime missing someone they’d lost too soon, someone they’d never stopped loving.

but that love? it stayed with V, even in death.

W OSTENDORF

W had never been good at letting go. of anything. not of people, not of feelings. so when you died, it was like losing gravity, like the world had unmoored itself from beneath their feet and left them floating, untethered, in an endless, cold space.

for a while, they had you. they had you in all the small ways that mattered—the quiet moments in the morning when you would drink coffee together, the long, easy silences that wrapped around you like a second skin, the unspoken understanding that nothing could break them.

until something did.

it had been an illness, terminal and insidious. at first, W thought it was just exhaustion—long nights of work catching up with you, a bout of stress, nothing that couldn’t be fixed. but then the doctor’s visits turned into hospital stays, and the vague reassurances became grim warnings.

you got weaker, thinner, your voice a little quieter every day until W couldn’t ignore the gnawing dread that curled in their stomach every time they looked at you. you tried to be brave about it, for them, for everyone, but W could see it in your eyes—the fear, the acceptance.

“i’m not scared of dying,” you had told them one night, your hand trembling as you reached for them. “i’m scared of leaving you.”

W had kissed the top of your head, their lips pressed hard enough against your hair to hide the fact that they were shaking too.

“you’re not going anywhere,” they’d whispered, because the alternative was impossible. they couldn’t lose you. not you. not again

***

but you did go. slowly, painfully, slipping away in a way that left W feeling raw and powerless. they were there, at the end, holding your hand, their voice cracking as they begged you to stay. but you didn’t.

and W broke.

it wasn’t a loud break, not at first. it was quiet, a silent shattering of everything they had built around themself, a slow unraveling of the person who had once known how to smile, how to laugh, how to love. they went through the motions at the funeral, shaking hands, offering nods of thanks to the people who said they were sorry. they were all sorry, but what did it matter? sorry didn’t bring you back. sorry didn’t fill the gaping void that swallowed them whole every time they closed their eyes and saw the empty space beside them where you should’ve been.

***

in the weeks that followed, W became a shadow of themself. they stopped going out, stopped answering calls. their apartment was too big, too empty, every corner of it a reminder of the life they’d lost. the couch where you used to sit together. the kitchen where you would make fun of their terrible cooking. the bed—god, the bed—where your absence felt like a punch to the gut every night when they lay down and realized they’d never feel your warmth beside them again.

they didn’t cry, not really. not like they thought they would. the grief was too big for tears, too vast and strangling. instead, it weighed them down, pressed against their chest until it hurt to breathe. every morning, they woke up and went through their routine—shower, coffee, sit at their desk—but it was all mechanical, all pointless.

emerson tried to reach them, worried out of their mind. their aunt asked if they were okay. but W couldn’t answer them. they didn’t know how to explain that the person they had known, the person they used to be, had died the same day you did.

***

time passed, but it didn’t heal. W didn’t move on. they didn’t want to. moving on felt like a betrayal, like erasing the only part of them that still felt real. they didn’t go on dates, didn’t flirt or laugh or even think about love. they couldn’t. not without thinking of you, not without comparing everyone to you and finding them all lacking.

sometimes, late at night, W would pull out the old letters you had written them. small notes, tucked into books or left on the counter, filled with inside jokes and quiet declarations of love. they’d read them over and over until the words blurred, their vision clouding with tears they never let fall.

“i miss you,” they whispered one night, the paper crinkling in their trembling hands. “god, i miss you so much.”

the apartment echoed back in silence.

***

W never married, of course. people talked about it sometimes, behind their back, wondering why someone like them—successful, good-looking, with their whole life ahead of them—never found anyone else. they didn’t understand. they didn’t know what it was like to have your heart buried with someone else.

they grew older, their hair turning silver, their body slowing down in ways they hadn’t expected. but they kept going, day after day, carrying the weight of their grief with them like an old companion. it wasn’t sharp anymore, not like it had been, but it was always there, lingering at the edges of their mind, a dull, constant ache.

when W died, quietly in their sleep at the age of 79, they found them in their armchair, a book in their lap and a small silver band on their ring finger. it was worn, the inscription inside barely legible after all the years. but if you looked closely enough, you could still make out the initials: three letters which belonged to a young heir of a massive fortune who died a long time ago.

W hadn’t spoken about you in decades. they hadn’t needed to. you were always with them, in the silence of their apartment, in the spaces between their thoughts, in the worn pages of the notes they had never thrown away.

D DIACONU

D—rook, as many would know them—had always been too good at running. they knew how to leave feelings behind, how to laugh things off, how to keep people at arm’s length so nothing ever hurt.

“flighty little wolf,” mihail, their older brother, would laugh when they were younger. the sentiment didn’t lose itself even as D grew older.

it was easy, life was easy, until you. and suddenly, nothing was easy anymore. they were flirty by nature, playful, keeping everything light, but you were the exception to every rule D had lived by. the one person they couldn’t outrun.

but even then, D didn’t want to acknowledge it—not completely. love was an unwelcome thing, something that made people weak, made them care too much. so, they danced around it, avoided the word, kept things just close enough but never fully admitted it.

they were still D, still flirty, still detached on the surface. yet, whenever you were around, something about them softened in ways they’d never allowed before. in those moments, they were scared shitless. because what if one day you weren’t there? what if you disappeared like everything else D had been too afraid to love?

***

and then it happened. suddenly. the kind of thing that’s supposed to happen to other people, in distant stories, not to you. you were in an accident—an unforgiving, tragic turn of events that left D shattered. they were at the scene. D could still remember the way the sky looked, overcast and thick with grey, how the sirens sounded distant, like they were underwater. it wasn’t real. it couldn’t be real. they stood there, frozen, heart in their throat, staring at the wreckage that used to be a car, and everything in their world stopped moving.

D didn’t say a word, not to the paramedics, not to the people around them. they couldn’t. there was nothing to say. nothing mattered anymore. you were gone.

***

“you’d laugh if you knew,” D muttered under their breath one night, sitting alone in the corner of some dingy bar. they stared down at the half-empty glass in front of them, spinning it slowly between their fingers. “all this time, you thought i didn’t care. that i didn’t... feel. but here i am. utterly wrecked by you.”

they chuckled, but it was hollow. the kind of laugh that only came out when the truth was too heavy to hold in. because you had gotten under D’s skin in a way that no one else had. even after all those times D had told themself not to fall, not to let you get too close, it had happened anyway. and now, D was stuck with all these feelings they didn’t know how to handle.

so they write and write. songs after songs, pages after pages filled with their long-gone eternal muse. the band’s popularity skyrocketed, the producers milked it for as long as they could.

D could not bring themself to give a shit.

***

months passed, and D became a ghost in their own life. they showed up, sure, but it was like they weren’t really there. they’d skate through the days with the same careless swagger, but something was missing. people started to avoid them. it was too hard to be around someone who looked alive but was dead inside. it seemed like the only people who tried to be there for them at that point were their bandmates and C.

they would laugh it off when their friends asked if they were okay. “me? i’m fine. never better. just living, you know?” and they’d wink, flash that charming smile that always got them out of trouble.

but the world became smaller, dimmer. D moved from one party to the next, one high to the next, chasing something they couldn’t name, something they had lost with a bright-eyed heir with an evergreen heart. nights blurred into mornings, and nothing felt real anymore. nothing except the ache, the emptiness that had been left behind.

on some nights, after too many drinks and too many bad decisions, D would find themself sitting in a bathroom, staring at their reflection in the mirror. their pale face would be gaunt, their gray eyes hollow. they would look like a stranger.

rook didn’t know who they were anymore.

***

D died young. too young. it was late one night, after another wild party, and they had pushed things just a little too far. the drugs had been an easy fix—an easy way to drown out the feelings they didn’t want to face. but this time, their body couldn’t handle it. the paramedics found them slumped on the floor of a room at chelsea hotel, empty pill bottles scattered around like confetti from a life that had spiraled out of control.

but what was strange—what the paramedics couldn’t quite understand—was the look on D’s face. even in death, behind the glazed-over eyes and the pale, lifeless skin, there was a smile. a soft, almost peaceful smile, like D had finally found what they’d been searching for all along.

in the end, D had stopped running.

M WHITLOCK-SINGH

the news of your death came to M as a whisper, traveling through the rigid, polished halls of their life before it reached their ears. at first, it didn’t make sense. death, for someone like you, felt improbable, impossible even.

you had been everything untamed in M’s world, everything wild and unpredictable, a force of nature that couldn’t just stop. yet, the world had stilled. all the reckless plans you had made—the fleeting escapes, the late-night laughter—had ended in a way too final for M to comprehend.

M grieved in silence. royals were trained for composure, for duty above all else, and M had mastered that lesson too well. there were no public displays of despair, no headlines that suggested the depth of the loss they felt. even when they stood at your graveside, surrounded by others who wept openly, M stood perfectly still, a model of grace and solemnity. inside, though, their chest felt hollow, as if someone had reached inside them, twisted through the maze of their ribs and snatched their heart away.

after the funeral, M’s life became a carefully curated performance. they married—someone of equal status, someone safe and suitable—but it was all a façade, a slow march into an existence they hadn’t chosen. the marriage was a duty, a requirement. it lacked everything you had ever been. The late-night conversations that made the world feel infinite, the reckless plans that filled the air with electric energy—all of it was buried with you, and M was left with nothing but a name and a title they never cared for.

they’d close their eyes at night and still hear your voice, soft at first, then louder, like a song they couldn’t forget but could never play again. the world, once vibrant with you, felt drained of color. the laughter that used to spill from M’s lips was replaced by brittle smiles, the kind that didn’t touch their umber brown eyes.

they never spoke of you—not to their spouse, not to anyone. it was as though speaking their name aloud would unravel M’s delicate grip on sanity, on the life they were barely holding together.

***

a few years passed. M became more distant, more remote, even within the walls of the palace. their marriage grew cold, each day more formal and lifeless than the last. they were trapped, locked in a gilded cage with no way out. your memory remained, a quiet presence that lingered at the edges of M’s mind, haunting them with the life they could’ve had, the person they should’ve been.

there were whispers, of course. rumors about M’s detachment, their coldness, their increasing absence from royal duties. but no one knew why. no one could have guessed that their heart had been buried in the grave of a lover they couldn’t even publicly acknowledge.

***

a scandal. a disappearance.

the royal family awoke to find M gone, their accounts drained, their titles stripped of meaning. no one knew where they had gone, or why. the official story was vague—an extended sabbatical, perhaps—but there were no answers. their spouse, barely more than a stranger, said nothing. the media speculated for weeks, but no trace of M was found.

***

years later, in a small village (zaanse schans) in the netherlands, a farmer passed away in their sleep. they had been quiet, unremarkable, living in a modest cottage on the outskirts of the village. they kept to themself, never married, and was mostly known for their collection of british royal memorabilia. it wasn’t until after their death, when the local authorities came to settle their estate, that they discovered who they truly were.

a runaway royal. third-in-line after their mother and older sister.

the village was stunned. for all the years they had lived among them, no one had guessed their identity. but as they sorted through their belongings, the truth became undeniable. among the memorabilia were photographs—of you, smiling beside M in moments no one else had ever seen. there were letters, too, carefully folded and kept in a box, written in a hand that only M could recognize. letters that had never been sent, but that held all the words M had never been able to say.

the villagers spoke of them with quiet reverence, a kind and humble individual who had always paid their bills on time and helped their neighbors when they could. they didn’t know about the wealth that had quietly flowed into anonymous accounts over the years. they didn’t know about the palace, the titles, the life of privilege M had left behind. all they knew was that they had lived simply and that they had loved someone fiercely until the day they died.

***

and that was how they were remembered. not as a royal, not as someone of wealth or power, but as someone who had once loved deeply and had chosen, in the end, to live for that love, even if it meant leaving everything else behind.

M’s name would never appear in the official histories, but in that quiet village in the netherlands, they were remembered for who they truly were—someone who, despite it all, had found a way to keep you with them until the very end.

#was thinking this will be spoilers but i also got many asks for this so take this AU hehe #did not proofread #ro: c lacroix #ro: v næsholm #ro: w ostendorf #ro: d diaconu #ro: m whitlock singh #if: the ballad of the young gods #interactive fiction #interactive novel #twine wip #interactive story #tw: drugs

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childrenofcain-if · 2 months ago

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Were MC or any of the ROs ever prom king/queen or on the homecoming court?

for MC, imma leave that up to y’all when the time comes to choose. i do imagine they were a strong contender even if they didn’t want to participate.

none of the ROs wanted to be included in these kinds of things. C was only on the planning committee for both homecoming and prom with MC because their teachers wanted them to get along well together.

#MC’s cheesy ass romanced C how they were the prom king/queen in their eyes #yeah high school was definitely a journey #if: the ballad of the young gods #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive story #twine wip #ro: c lacroix #ro: v næsholm #ro: w ostendorf #ro: d diaconu #ro: m whitlock singh

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childrenofcain-if · 6 months ago

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I have to say, the soundtrack on the demo is immaculate and I can't wait to see what else is store for us later on. They really helped me get immersed and it was like being in a movie where I was the main character, loved the tone it set, author, 💐 to you for that

Now for my question, how would the ROs react if MC texts them about wanting a baby?

imma do one where you’re still in college vs after getting your bachelor’s degree:

C LACROIX

V NÆSHOLM

W OSTENDORF

D DIACONU

M WHITLOCK-SINGH

#y’all are underestimating W’s breeding kink pls 😭#tumblr media limit is my biggest opp rn #if: the ballad of the young gods #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive story #twine wip #ro: c lacroix #ro: v næsholm #ro: w ostendorf #ro: d diaconu #ro: m whitlock singh #ro scenarios #ro memes

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childrenofcain-if · 6 months ago

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Hello first of i really love your writing and all the characters and the story are so snjsaushsnnajai, to my question after seeing so much trauma 🥲 I wanted to know what the ROs fav cuddling positions are

WHY ARE Y’ALL ALWAYS SCARED SMH, THIS ISN’T A HORROR GAME 😭

C LACROIX: don’t touch them spooning // a knife whatever MC wants

V NÆSHOLM: leg hug // doesn’t have a preference

W OSTENDORF: embrace // little spoon

D DIACONU: face-to-face // doesn’t have a preference

M WHITLOCK-SINGH: half spooning // big spoon

#this is so funny to me because C D and M never ever imagined cuddling with anybody 😭#MC really has them all wrapped around their finger #if: the ballad of the young gods #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive story #twine wip #ro: c lacroix #ro: v næsholm #ro: w ostendorf #ro: d diaconu #ro: m whitlock singh

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childrenofcain-if · 8 months ago

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y’all have no idea how much of a complete asshole MC is gonna be to break the ROs’ heart so they won’t be sad when they, inevitably, get dragged to hell die...

#how low will they stoop tho #that’s the golden question 👀#if: the ballad of the young gods #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive story #twine wip #ro: c lacroix #ro: v næsholm #ro: w ostendorf #ro: d diaconu #ro: m whitlock singh #spoilers

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childrenofcain-if · 5 months ago

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My MC is dramatic enough to have a crash out over one B grade, all because they made their entire success quota revolve around the fact that they've always gotten straight As in every tests. College is gonna be such a rude awakening for them 😭

How would M react to an MC who is spiralling because of one average grade?

the dorm bathroom’s yellow light sounded like a dying insect, casting a sickly pallor over your reflection. you leaned against the sink, fingers gripping the porcelain until the skin covering your knuckles stretched as far as it could.

the mirror showed a stranger—sunken cheeks carved by sleepless nights, shadows pooling like ink beneath your eyes, lips trembling as if trying to outrun the sob lodged in your throat. your skin had a yellow undertone to it, thanks to the bathroom light, and it made you look like you had jaundice. honestly, you’d have preferred that to the situation you were in right now.

B. the letter glared in your mind, bold and mocking.

B. a splinter under your fingernail. a pebble in your shoe. a stain on a white shirt.

you’d handed in that exam with hands steady as a surgeon’s, heart singing ‘this was easy, per usual.’ but the grade had come back like a verdict: you were wrong. you’re just like everyone else. you’re not special anymore.

you’d spent years folding yourself into the shape of excellence—midnight oil burned to ash, highlighters drained dry, every social invitation declined with a polite, “i have to study, sorry.”

you thought about your wasted potential, the way you had spent your life striving, pushing, grinding yourself down to bone and nerve and exhaustion just to be the best, and now—what did you have to show for it?

your worth was an equation: As = brilliance, respect, worthy. without it, you were unspooled. a equation with no solution.

back in your room, you tore through the silence like a wild thing. the bottle of cheap vodka—pilfered from a party that D invited you to months ago, “for emergencies”—glinted on your desk. your hands shook as you unscrewed the cap, the smell sharp and chemical.

this is what failure tastes like, you thought, the first swallow burning a trail to your gut. the second was smoother. the third didn’t burn at all.

the room tilted, walls breathing in and out. you slumped into your desk chair, macbook screen still open to the grade portal.

B. you wanted to claw it out of the digital ether, scream at it until it rearranged itself into the letter above it. instead, you drank. and drank. the bottle became a companion, its weight in your hand a perverse comfort.

what’s the point? the thought slithered, oily and familiar. you’re a goddamn fraud. all those late nights spent studying, all that praise—for what? to plateau? to be ordinary?

your vision blurred. you imagined your classmates’ faces, their tight smiles. “oh well, they were supposed to burn out at some point.” your professors’ voices, syrupy with pity. “you’ll bounce back.” as if resilience were a trampoline to you, not a bruise.

the door creaked open. you didn’t turn. footsteps—light, familiar—paused at the threshold.

“hey,” M said softly, their deep, posh voice immediately recognisable.

you had half the mind to admonish them for entering your room without knocking, but you didn’t. you couldn’t. not when your tongue was feeling swollen, your throat lined with sand.

they stepped closer, their presence a warmth at your back. “you didn’t answer your texts. i… got worried.”

again, you maintained your silence. M furrowed their brows, walking closer to you. their hand hovered near your shoulder, then withdrew. they then crouched beside your chair, eyes level with yours. their umber brown gaze—flecked with gold, like sunlight through maple syrup—held no judgment. only quiet concern. “talk to me, love.”

you wanted to snap. to lash out. but their voice, steady as a heartbeat, disarmed you.

“i got a B, M,” you whispered, the letter a curse. “a B. do you know how many hours i—?”

“yes.”

the word stopped you. M rarely ever interrupted you in the middle of a sentence.

“i know,” they repeated, softer. “i’ve watched you. every library all-nighter. every time you skipped lunch to review notes. every moment you treated yourself like a machine.” their hand finally settled on your arm, a warm anchor. “i just wish i could convince you that your grades do not diminish the amount of work you’ve put into it, love.”

you shook your head, eyes now burning with unshed tears. “you don’t get it. i’m supposed to be brilliant. if i’m not the best, who the fuck even am i?”

M’s thumb brushed your wrist, a gentle stroke. “do you remember that one elective you took for astrophysics? the one with dr. conway?”

you blinked. of course you did. you’d transcribed almost every lecture to M, whether they wanted to hear it or not. they were never really inclined towards anything STEM related, but they still listened to you regardless.

“stars,” M said, “don’t measure their worth by how brightly they burn. they just… are. and even when they collapse? they scatter stardust. new planets. new life.” their voice thickened. “you’re not a grade. you’re a star. you think i don’t see it? the way you dissect a poem like it’s alive. how you remember every footnote, every theory of your ridiculously complicated classes.”

“that B?” M plucked the bottle from your grip, setting it aside. “it’ll never stain your potential. it’s a miniscule particle in the brilliance of your cosmos. nothing more.”

a sob tore loose. M pulled you into their arms, your face buried in their sweater—smelling of jasmine and the faintest trace of incense. they didn’t shush you. didn’t offer platitudes. just held you as you let your emotions pour out, their fingers carding through your tangled hair.

when the storm passed, they guided you to bed, your legs wobbling.

“sleep,” they murmured, tucking the comforter around you. “we’ll talk about this more when you wake up, if you still wish to.”

“okay,” you slurred, eyelids leaden. “good night.”

M smiled, a sad, sweet curve. “good night, meri jaan.”

as darkness crept in, you felt it—the ghost of lips against your forehead, featherlight. a breath, or a dream. but in that liminal space between waking and oblivion, you let yourself believe it was real.

#even academic weapons need love bro ):#also B isn’t even a bad grade 😭#M is so much better than me cause wdym you’re having a breakdown because you didn’t get an A #if: the ballad of the young gods #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive story #twine wip #ro: m whitlock singh

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childrenofcain-if · 5 months ago

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Ignore this if you've answered this ask before but if the ROs or MC got pregnant while they are in university, will they keep the baby or not?

if MC is the one who got pregnant (it ultimately depends on the MC btw):

CÉDRIC LACROIX: cédric will be very against the idea at first but once he sees that you don’t want to give the baby up, he’ll support you regardless. you’ll also have the duration of the pregnancy to see how he has a turnaround and actively tries to be a good dad before the kid is even born. i’d say that out of all the ROs, he’s the one who’s going to be overbearing and going all out on his fatherly duties.

VANCE NÆSHOLM: vance would be supportive from the get go about keeping the kid. if things get too hard, he’ll offer to drop out and be a stay-at-home dad and get an online degree instead. he’ll just be happy to be having a baby with you and make sure he’s always there for you both.

WILHELM OSTENDORF: all that breeding kink accounted for something, i guess? either way, billy will be overjoyed. yes, he knows the timing is very bad but he truly believes you can both get through it. good luck getting him to stop talking to the baby in your belly and telling them stories about you two.

DUMITRU DIACONU: oh hell no! dumitru will very much want you to delete the baby, but if you insist on keeping them, he’ll disappear for 2-3 days without a trace. when he returns, his dramatic ass will literally be on his knees and telling you that losing you is so much worse than being a dad (what a charmer) and beg for you to give him one more chance. to his credit, he matures a lot in the duration of your pregnancy and gives up a lot of his vices. you’ll even find him singing a song he wrote for your future baby to your belly when he thinks you’re asleep.

MAXWELL WHITLOCK-SINGH: maxwell will strongly object to you keeping the baby, but he is helpless to do anything if you do not agree with him. the royal family will disown him over the fact that he had a baby out of wedlock with a filthy rich commoner, but he also doesn’t want to lose the love of his life and their child. in the end, he’ll tell his immediate family about the situation and marry you before the baby is born.

if the ROs are the ones who got pregnant:

CÉLINE LACROIX: shocked. confused. scared. céline doesn’t want to terminate the pregnancy but she’s very young and she wants to accomplish a lot before even thinking about having kids. she’ll get an abortion but will be very traumatised by the whole experience.

VANESSA NÆSHOLM: vanessa will keep the baby. and it’s not because of religious reasons, surprisingly. she just feels an instant connection with the baby growing inside her and would want to keep them. she dreams about how they might look and grow up to be and is just happy that they’re a part of you both.

WILHELMINE OSTENDORF: considering billie’s health currently, the baby would likely be miscarried. this is especially devastating because she would like to keep them. she has always wished for a family with you and it’ll be a cruel outcome for everyone.

DUMITRA DIACONU: dumitra is getting an abortion as soon as she’s able to. she is not becoming a mother before she even graduates college! besides, she isn’t exactly fond of the idea of ever having kids at the moment. although she might change her mind in the future if you talk to her.

MAXINE WHITLOCK-SINGH: not only is it gonna be a complete scandal which will make the royal family turn upside down, maxine will 100% get disowned by even her parents if she keeps the baby. she also isn’t a huge fan of experiencing motherhood before she even graduates from law school so it’s a no from her, love.

#y’all need to use protection #doing it raw like this ain’t worth it 😭#if: the ballad of the young gods #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive story #twine wip #ro: c lacroix #ro: v næsholm #ro: w ostendorf #ro: d diaconu #ro: m whitlock singh #ro scenarios #tw: pregnancy

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childrenofcain-if · 7 months ago

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Do you have a scale of how traumatising the ROs backstory will be according to you?

this is purely my opinion and may vary from reader to reader btw:

C LACROIX: 4/5

V NÆSHOLM: 3.5/5

W OSTENDORF: 3/5

D DIACONU: 5/5

M WHITLOCK-SINGH: 2/5

for MC it’s probably either 3/5 or 4/5, but i’ll let y’all decide once the backstory is revealed. they’re a very unreliable narrator rn because of the weirdly iffy memories about their childhood with their mum so you can come to a conclusion when the reveal happens.

#if: the ballad of the young gods #ro: c lacroix #ro: v næsholm #ro: w ostendorf #ro: d diaconu #ro: m whitlock singh #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive story #twine wip

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childrenofcain-if · 7 months ago

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Oh my beautiful British royal M 😭 I love them so much, they've become one of my favourite Ros of all time ❤️

With my MC being an idiot sandwich (Gordon Ramsay hates to see them coming) of a cook, would M still appreciate the horrible dishes we cook for them 🥺

you woke up slowly, the world filtering in through the haze of sleep. a pale, golden light trickled in through the slatted blinds, painting the room in streaks of honey and shadow.

the first thing you noticed was warmth—the steady, undisturbed heat of another body beside yours. then came the sound: the faint rustle of sheets, the thrum of a radiator doing its best against the january chill. finally, your eyes fluttered open, and there they were.

M, still tangled in their dreams.

they laid on their side, their face half-buried in the pillow, their lips slightly parted in the vulnerability of sleep. you let your gaze wander, drinking in the details as though you were committing them to memory for some far-off day when their face might only exist in the corners of your mind.

their tawny brown skin glowed faintly in the morning light, warm and inviting as a hearth fire. thick brows arched naturally, perfectly framing their face, softening their otherwise regal features. long lashes, dark as ink, cast tiny shadows against their high cheekbones, delicate crescents that you found yourself wanting to trace with your fingertip. and their hair—oh, their hair: silky black even in their sleep, it spilled across the pillow in soft waves, catching the light in a way that made you think of ocean waters at midnight.

you couldn’t help but stare. how could you not? M, always so poised, so impossibly polished, looked achingly human like this. even now, with sleep slackening the angles of their jaw, the curve of their mouth, they carried a quiet elegance.

your gaze lingered on the faint rise and fall of their chest, the way their lips parted just slightly with each breath. it was a rare, unguarded moment, and you let yourself marvel at it, at them.

eventually, though, the tug of wanting to do something nice for your royal partner grew stronger than your desire to stay still. with a quiet sigh, you slipped out from under the covers, careful not to jostle the bed. M stirred slightly, their brow furrowing for a moment before smoothing again as sleep reclaimed them.

the air was warm against your skin from the radiator as you padded barefoot across the floor, your eyes drawn to the details of their space.

philosophy dominated the collection on their shelves—aristotle, nietzsche, kant—but there were other titles too on history and poetry. a worn copy of ‘pride and prejudice,’ bookmarks riddling a lot of its pages. a cookbook with smudged pages and handwritten notes in the margins.

a stack of notebooks, their spines worn with use, sat on the desk by the window. you could imagine M bent over them, their umber brown eyes focused, their hand moving in careful strokes as they wrote in their cursive handwriting.

your gaze fell on a framed photograph perched on the right side of the desk, and you picked it up, smiling softly at the image. it was a family portrait of the whitlock-singhs.

their mother, crown princess victoria, stood at the center, her regal bearing softened by the warmth in her eyes. beside her was ranveer, M’s father, his hand resting on her shoulder, his smile wide and infectious. on either side of them were charlotte, M’s older sister, her chin tilted with confidence, and jesse, the youngest sibling, grinning like they held a secret.

and there, in the middle, was M, caught grinning almost as wide as jesse. it was a side of them you rarely saw—a pure, unfiltered joy that made the corner of your lips lift even more.

you then set the photograph back down and tiptoed toward the dorm’s attached bathroom.

it was colder in here, and you shivered as you splashed water on your face, brushing your teeth with one of the extra toothbrush M had stashed under the sink just for you. you found yourself almost laughing to yourself at the sight before you hushed up since you didn’t want M to wake up.

when you returned to the dorm room, M was still asleep, their form barely stirring beneath the covers. you hesitated for a moment, wondering if you should slip back into bed, but you knew that this was probably the only rare one of times you’d wake up earlier than them and you just had to make breakfast for your partner this once.

the kitchen of the suite was as pristine as the rest of the dorm, its sleek countertops and gleaming appliances untouched by the impending doom you were about to unleash on them.

you opened the pantry, your fingers brushing against cans of soup, bags of rice, and then there it was: a can of baked beans.

yes, you were about to make the quintessentially british breakfast classic: beans on toast.

you’d noticed the recurring dish, of course, tucked on their plate in the dining hall during mornings despite their protests that they “absolutely do not like it that much.” but the familiarity in the way they ate it, the subtle contentment, had not escaped you.

you knew better. you knew them better.

you gathered the ingredients quickly: bread, beans, butter, some spices. then, on a whim, you searched the cupboards for tea leaves.

you remembered M’s story—how their father, ranveer, used to make masala chai on cold mornings, filling their paternal home in birmingham with the scent of spices and steam. it seemed like the kind of thing that would definitely be a good start to the day.

the kitchen was soon alive with sound and motion—the clatter of pots, the soft scrape of a knife as you buttered bread. you followed a recipe on your phone for the masala chai, measuring out spices before that quickly gave way to guesswork. cinnamon sticks, cardamom pods, ginger.

but it turns out, you’d find ways to reach a newer low with your culinary skills—or the lack thereof.

you misjudged the measurements, poured too much milk, and somehow managed to spill the cinnamon sticks across the counter. the scent of cardamom then filled the air, mixing with the faintly burnt smell of beans you’d left unattended.

the chai boiled over, spilling onto the stovetop in a hiss of steam. you scrambled to clean it up, only to knock over the box of sugar in your haste. the bread, forgotten in the toaster, began to blacken, smoke curling up in ominous spirals.

by the time you finished, the kitchen looked like it had survived two world wars and a great depression. the fire alarm went off in a sudden, piercing wail, shattering the morning quiet. you froze, your heart leaping into your throat as the kitchen filled with a thin haze of smoke because of the charred bread.

before you could do anything, M burst into the room, half-dressed and disheveled, clutching a fire extinguisher like they’d just woken up from a dream where they were a firefighter.

“what the bloody hell is going on?” they demanded, their accent even more prominent in their panic.

you held out the plate of completely burnt beans on toast with a sheepish grin. “breakfast?”

their gaze shifted from the plate to the mess behind you—the scorched pot, the spilled sugar, the faintly smoking toaster. they arched a brow, their lips twitching as though they were trying really hard to look exasperated as they set the fire extinguisher down.

they wordlessly moved to turn off the stove with a practiced ease. they then waved a dish towel at the smoke detector until it stopped its shrieking before turning to you.

M stared at you for a long moment, then let out a breathless laugh, the sound both incredulous and amused. “you almost burned the place down trying to make beans on toast?”

“and masala chai,” you mumbled.

they shook their head, running a hand through their dark hair to make it a little less dishevelled. “you’re an absolute menace, love.”

but there was a softness in their eyes, an amused smile tugging at the corners of their mouth.

the charred remnants of your attempted breakfast lay discarded in the trash bin. M had asked you to clean everything up while they freshened up in the bathroom, and you had complied happily as you did not want to lay your sights on the bioweapon you’d created.

when M re-entered the kitchen, they looked slightly more composed, though still half-dressed, their dark hair damp from a quick rinse, and their face glowing with renewed energy.

but even like this—rumpled and unfinished—they looked like they’d stepped straight out of a portrait.

you, on the other hand, with your flour-dusted hands and the faint smell of singed toast clinging to your clothes, felt more like the before picture in one of those ‘before and after’ glow-up makeover shows.

“right,” M said, surveying the semi-clean kitchen with a raised brow. they rolled up the sleeves of their ralph lauren ivory quarter-zip, revealing forearms you definitely didn’t stare at for longer than a second. “let’s salvage this. i’m teaching you how to cook.”

“do i have a choice?” you muttered, your lips tugging into a reluctant smile.

“not if you plan to survive in this kitchen unsupervised,” they replied dryly.

M wasn’t just good at cooking—they were extraordinary at teaching. they explained things with a clarity that no cookbook or youtube tutorial could ever achieve. their movements were precise, graceful, like choreography, and you tried—emphasis on the ‘tried’—to mimic them. but for every moment of triumph, there were at least three close calls where M had to swoop in to save you from some imminent disaster.

they caught you when you tried to add oil to a pan that was already too hot, yanking the handle out of your hand just before the smoke billowing from it could turn into an inferno. they stopped you from using a knife incorrectly—“oh my days, don’t hold it like that unless you want to lose a finger or two”—and gently redirected your attempts to measure spices with a far more practiced hand.

“this,” they said, holding up a spice jar, “is cumin. you don’t just throw it in like it’s fairy dust. measure it. smell it. taste it if you must. but don’t—” they caught your hand mid-shake, their fingers wrapping around your wrist—“dump it all in like you’re salting a driveway.”

their touch remained a moment longer than necessary, their fingers warm against your skin. you tried to focus on the lesson, nodding shakily as they released you and went back to demonstrating.

despite their guidance, there were still mishaps. a nearly burnt slice of bread here, an accidental poke at yourself from the knife there. each mistake was met with a sigh and a gentle correction, M’s patience never wavering.

by the time you finished, the final product was… well, ‘edible’ felt like a stretch, but it was at least recognizable as food. the toast was unevenly browned, the beans slightly overcooked, but the chai, thankfully, had turned out well—mostly because M had taken over halfway through.

M stood back, surveying the meal with a critical eye.

“you know,” they said, “i never thought teaching you how to cook would be this hard. you’re good at everything else—what happened here?”

you shrugged, a little embarrassed, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “never had to cook growing up. we had private chefs for that. i didn’t exactly have it as a priority either since i was mostly focusing on my academics and extracurriculars.”

their lips quirked upward, amusement lighting their features. “that explains it. well, we’ll have to change that, won’t we?”

you groaned, leaning against the counter. “what if all my cooking ends up like this? what if i accidentally poison someone? or worse, what if it’s so bad that even pigs won’t eat it?”

how could that be possibly worse than poisoning someone, M didn’t ask. they simply chuckled, shaking their head. then, before you could react, they stepped closer, brushing the edge of your lip with their thumb. it took you a moment to realize they were wiping away a smudge of burnt toast that you had to taste test, their touch lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch.

their umber brown gaze met yours, encouraging and affectionate, and when they smiled, it felt like the first sip of tea on a cold morning—comforting, slow, and impossibly warm.

“if it comes to that,” they assured, their voice low enough that it felt like the words were meant to be tucked away in the most intimate corner of your heart, “i’ll cook for you every day. if that’s what you’d like.”

your face burned, a wave of heat surging from your chest to your ears. in all the time that you’ve been alive, no one had ever said something like that to you before. you tried to muster a response, but all you managed was a nod and a small smile that you were sure looked ridiculous to an outsider looking onto the scene.

“um… thanks,” you mumbled, your voice small as you tried not to propose marriage to them right then and there.

they laughed softly, stepping back to set the table. “come on, let’s see if this breakfast of yours is as bad as you think.”

finally, the two of you sat down to eat. the product of your combined efforts sat between you—a plate of beans on toast that looked... decent enough, you suppose. the masala chai was the star of the show, thanks to M.

overall, the food wasn’t great, but it didn’t look like it’d immediately give you indigestion either—a victory, considering your earlier disaster.

you took a bite, only to wince at how bland it was.

“i swear i put spices in,” you muttered, poking at the toast with your fork as though it might reveal where all the seasonings went to hide under scrutiny.

M, to your utter shock, ate the meal without a single complaint. this was particularly astonishing given their well-documented distaste for most americanised version of indian or british food.

they always had something to say about the lack of proper seasoning, the over-reliance on processed ingredients. but now, here they were, eating your lackluster beans on toast with all the enthusiasm of someone dining at a michelin-star restaurant.

“not bad,” they said finally, setting down their fork.

you stared at them in disbelief. “you’re lying. it’s terrible. come on, you can be honest.”

“the fact that you even tried to make breakfast for me is more than enough,” they said as they leaned back on their chair. “yes, your culinary skills leave much to be desired, and no, i don’t think anybody is going to let you within ten feet of a restaurant kitchen anytime soon, but...” their smile softened, their eyes crinkling at the corners. “if all my meals were made with this much love, i’d eat whatever you make for me every day, meri jaan.”

you stared at them, your chest tight, your heart tripping over itself in an unsteady rhythm. the sincerity in their voice, the way they looked at you like you were something so precious to them—god, it was almost too much.

“though,” they added, a playful glint returning to their eyes, “i’ll definitely have to help you season the food next time. for both our sakes.”

you laughed, the sound breaking the moment’s intensity but not diminishing its warmth. and as you sat there, the morning sunlight streaming through the window, M across from you, their smile brighter than anything else in the room, you couldn’t help but think that maybe almost burning down the kitchen was worth it after all.

#MC doesn’t need their power to kill someone #they can simply give them a homecooked meal to eat 😋#M being a champ while keeping down whatever abomination MC made #i love them your honor #if: the ballad of the young gods #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive story #twine wip #ro: m whitlock singh #ro scenarios

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