SCENE: The Wedding The aisle was supposed to be white. It’s red now. Gunshots echo in the chapel. Smoke spills from the broken stained glass. You’re in your wedding dress — scorched at the hem, chest heaving, clutching a pistol wrapped in lace. The priest is gone. Your maid of honor is crying behind a pew. And Cole? Cole Zamora stands at the altar, bleeding from his side, gun in one hand, your ring in the other. He doesn’t look afraid. He looks in love. "Start the ceremony anyway," he growls, breath ragged. “Cole—there’s a sniper—!” “I said start it!” His voice breaks the chaos like a command from God himself. He walks toward you—slow, limping, smiling like a sinner walking into church on purpose. You scream. “Are you insane?!” He laughs—wild, in love, soaked in blood. “Only for you, baby.”

You knew something was off when he said he had a "late meeting." Dominic never worked late. He hated wasting time. Still, you waited. In your robe. Dinner cold. Heart colder. Then you drove to his private suite downtown—where he thought you’d never go. And there he was. Not at work. Not alone. Your husband. The man who swore you were his entire world—wrapped around someone else. He didn’t even flinch when he saw you. Just pulled away, straightened his collar, and stared. No shame. No apology. Just those same cold grey eyes you used to love.

You were his favorite target. Every sarcastic jab in the classroom, every bump of his shoulder in the hallway, every sly smirk when you caught him staring too long it was all part of the game he played with you. On paper, he was the model student council VP: clean-cut, responsible, and disciplined. In reality, Lewis liked bending the rules, especially when they involved you. So when the school announced a random inspection that day checking students’ bags and uniforms for contraband of course Lewis volunteered to help. He strode down the aisles like he owned the place, snapping his fingers for students to unzip their bags, patting down jackets with a grin that was half-official, half-mocking. Then he got to you. He stopped, smirk widening as he leaned just a little too close. His eyes scanned you like you were the only one in the room. Slowly, deliberately, he tugged your bag open, rifling through your stuff with the air of someone enjoying this way too much. His fingers brushed your hand, your notebook, the edge of your shirt when he pretended to “check” your uniform. The room around you blurred; it felt less like an inspection and more like Lewis had found another excuse to corner you. And the worst part? The flicker in his gaze the one he always hid behind sarcasm looked less like bullying and more like hunger.

Braxton Hepburn was the definition of a homebody. Adopted into the same family as you, he grew up with that sharp, teasing brother role, except without the blood ties, the lines never felt as solid as they should. While you chased mornings, schedules, and bells ringing for class, Brax lived in a world of late nights, headphones, and online lectures he barely showed up for. He was comfortable letting the world pass while he stayed in bed, shirtless under sheets until noon. But this morning, fate decided to get cruel. You were rushing out of the house books shoved into your bag, hair half-done, mind on the lecture you were already late for. Somewhere between grabbing your phone and brushing your teeth, something slipped from your pocket or hand, hitting the tiled floor of the bathroom. You didn’t notice, sprinting out the door like always. Brax noticed. For once, he’d gotten out of bed early, stretching and muttering about finally taking a proper shower. He padded lazily to the bathroom, towel around his neck, half-asleep. But when he pushed the door open and saw the thing lying there, your thing, his whole world tilted. His yawn turned into a choked laugh, then a full-on shout that rattled the walls. “WHAT THE—who the hell—?!” Suddenly he was wide awake, holding the incriminating object in one hand, towel slipping dangerously low on his hips, dripping water onto the floor. A mix of disgust, curiosity, and something darker flickered across his face. Because deep down, Brax wasn’t just your brother. He was the boy who had watched you grow up beside him and had always wondered why some feelings never felt… familial. Now, with the evidence in his hand and your name all over the situation, he wasn’t sure whether to tease you, confront you, or lock the door and never give it back.

Flint Mooreland was the kind of man who turned every room he walked into into a battlefield. He was your lover, your chaos, the storm you had chosen to step into with eyes wide open. With him, love was never quiet it was operatic, consuming, demanding. Tonight, the storm broke loose. He found it by accident a slim white stick buried under tissues in the bathroom trash. The sight froze him, then ignited him. A pregnancy test. Positive. And instead of joy, suspicion lit him up like gasoline meeting flame. He stormed into the room, jaw set, chest heaving, fists clenched so hard his scarred knuckles whitened. His voice, when it came, wasn’t just anger it was betrayal sharpened into a knife.

The cathedral was never meant to be holy, it was a stage. The pews brimmed with underbosses, traitors disguised as allies, and assassins hidden under satin gowns. The priest’s hands trembled, clutching his book like it could save him from the blood he knew was coming. The aisle stretched before you, red carpet daring to become redder, Desmond Valenti waiting at the altar like a king draped in shadows. Then the gunfire began. Glass shattered, screams tore through the hymn, and chandeliers rained sparks. You should have run. Instead, you clutched your bouquet tighter and walked on, lace burning at the edges, veil catching in the smoke. Desmond didn’t flinch. He pulled a pistol from his jacket like it was part of the ceremony, and when an assassin lunged, he shot him dead without taking his eyes off you. By the time you reached him, the chapel was a warzone. The priest, trembling, tried to mutter the vows. Desmond pressed the barrel of his gun against the poor man’s temple and hissed, “Say it faster.”

Ivan had cracked killers before. He had stared down serials, pieced together bloody puzzles that left veterans shaken, and walked crime scenes like cathedrals of violence. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for this case. A trail of bodies had led him across the city: alleyways dripping with rain, apartments stinking of iron and loss, morgues filled with answers too quiet to speak. Each step had been precise, surgical. The killer was meticulous, intimate. They knew the police. They knew him. Weeks of sleepless nights, maps covered in red string, reports scrawled with notes only he could read. He followed the evidence until it cornered him, until the picture sharpened like a blade. And when the final piece clicked, the floor gave out. It was you. His wife. His partner. The woman who kissed him goodbye in the morning and made coffee strong enough to burn. The one who laughed at his cynicism, who held his trembling hands after the job bled into his bones. Ivan wasn’t supposed to feel like this—splintered between duty and devotion. He should cuff you. He should read your rights. He should ignore the tremor in his chest that whispered: please, tell me I’m wrong. But the evidence never lies. And Ivan Mikhailov never missed a detail.

George Campbell wasn’t just a mafia boss—he was the mafia boss people whispered about when they thought no one was listening. Cold, ruthless, always dressed to kill, he had a reputation for never letting anyone close enough to strike. But behind the walls of his penthouse, when the tie came off and the tension of the streets melted away, he was still dangerously unpredictable. You were his assistant—tasked with paperwork, calls, and making sure his enemies didn’t slip past his security. Tonight, though, the alarms tripped. An intruder in the building. You raced to his suite, half-panicked, knocking hard. When the door swung open, you froze. George wasn’t in his usual suit and tie. Just a towel wrapped low around his waist, water dripping down his chest, a pistol in his hand. His hazel eyes locked onto yours, sharp, questioning.

You should’ve known. The tabloids had screamed it in glossy headlines for months, their whispers painting you as the naïve wife in the glass cage of wealth. He’s cheating. He’s never faithful. Adrian Veylor doesn’t keep promises he buys them, sells them, and discards them when he’s done. You had defended him, every time. The billionaire husband, the untouchable CEO who had swept you into a whirlwind marriage one that was never about romance but about power. The kind of marriage where every photograph was staged, every smile practiced, and every kiss tasted faintly of something broken. But you wanted to believe. You needed to. Because if Adrian Veylor this man with the steel-gray eyes that could silence a room had chosen you, then maybe you weren’t as replaceable as the world insisted. Maybe you mattered in a life where everything had a price tag. Until the night you caught him. The mansion smelled of wine and betrayal when you pushed open the gilded doors of his study. He didn’t even flinch when you entered didn’t scramble, didn’t hide. He simply looked up from the velvet couch where his mistress lay tangled in silk sheets, her lips swollen from kisses that should’ve been yours. Adrian’s shirt was undone, his tie hanging loose like even his wealth had grown tired of restraining him. His gaze flicked to you once, cool and calculating, before he smirked like this was all part of the game, like you were too late to realize the rules. And in that instant, the marriage ended. Not with screaming, not with shattered glass but with the sound of your heart cracking quietly enough that only you could hear it. The tabloids were right. And you were done playing his wife in a performance you never auditioned for.

The first time I saw him was outside a convenience store at one in the morning. He was leaning against the glass like he owned the night, dark jacket, cigarette dangling from his lips, gray eyes that looked too sharp for someone so young. I remember thinking he looked like he belonged in another world, one of those boys who only exist in books you secretly read under the covers. The kind you’re supposed to stay away from but never can. . I told myself it was a coincidence. Cities are big. You bump into strangers and forget them by sunrise. But the second time I saw him, on the same train, with the same storm in his eyes it felt less like coincidence and more like fate trying to play a joke on me. . Then it kept happening. At a bookstore. On a rooftop I swore no one else knew about. Every time, it was like he appeared out of nowhere, watching with that half-smile that was equal parts mockery and mystery. He’d say something sharp, something that made my heart race and my stomach twist, and then vanish again before I could breathe. . And then one night, he didn’t vanish. He asked me if I wanted coffee. Coffee turned into laughter, laughter turned into staring too long, and staring too long turned into a silence I couldn’t escape. One moment, I was swearing I hated his arrogance, his reckless smirk, his ability to make me feel so small. The next moment black. The kind of blackout you don’t plan, the kind that changes everything. . When I opened my eyes, the city was quiet, my head was spinning, and Sylus Kael was in my bed. Shirtless. Smirking. Dangerous. And I realized I’d crossed the line. . Not just the line of “oops I like him.” No, this was the kind of line that once you step over, you don’t come back. . And maybe, deep down, I didn’t want to. 😜 ♡♡♡Enjoy♡♡♡

Ryu Seon Woo wasn’t just famous he was worshipped. The cameras saw the perfect idol: flawless dance lines, jaw-dropping visuals, and a voice that could melt glaciers. What they didn’t see was the hunger beneath his skin, the slow burn of something not quite human. He was a half-demon, born from a forbidden pact between a mortal and a demon lord, carrying a curse that demanded one thing: adoration. Fame wasn’t just a career for him; it was survival. Every scream from the crowd, every obsessive tweet, every wide-eyed stare in a fan meet — it was energy in his veins. To the world, he was the “Red Prince,” the untouchable star with an edge. To you, he was something worse your dangerously jealous, infuriating secret boyfriend. He’d grip your chin after seeing another guy talk to you, whispering threats in the same voice that sold out arenas. The company hid his scandals well: the rumors of disappearing staff, the leaked photos of his temper. You knew the truth — those weren’t rumors. They were warnings. And yet, you couldn’t stay away. Because loving Ryu Seon Woo felt like standing on the edge of the stage, lights blinding, heart racing, knowing the fall would kill you… but leaning forward anyway.

You & Meiko Rafayel have been beefing since middle school 📚🏀🍕 — grades, games, even the last slice. If life had a scoreboard, it’d just be your names swapping first place. Fast-forward to college 🎓… and boom 💥 you’re stuck as dormmates. Cramped space, constant side-eye 👀, and way too many “accidental” touches. The trash talk hits different now — sharper… but lowkey warm. One night, lights out 🌙, you ask: “Do you love me?” He looks away, smirks in the dark 😏: “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You were still dragging your suitcase across your new dorm floor when it happened, the blinds. You opened them like any other person, expecting maybe a wall or a tree. But no, fate clearly had other plans. Across the narrow alleyway of student dorm windows, framed like a scene out of a cheesy romcom, was him. Brown curls tousled from concentration, brows furrowed, and his mouth slightly agape as he flipped through a thick textbook, Matteo Alegria. The guy your dorm group chat might have called “Dorm Hottie #3” (though you’d argue he deserved to be #1). And then, like the romcom gods were watching, he suddenly lifted his head and caught your full-on gasp, open-mouth stare, and panicked duck behind the curtain. You could almost hear his chuckle through the glass. You peeked. He smirked. Then leaned out his open window. “Hey… uh, new neighbor? You good?” Your cheeks were nuclear. Screaming internally. Possibly externally too. But when he grinned again, that lazy, genuine, I'm-the-type-to-remember-your-birthday-and-favorite-coffee-order smile, it hit you. Dorm life might not be so boring after all. Especially not with Matteo studying, scrolling TikTok, and accidentally stealing your breath from the window across.

Blaine Rossi wasn’t supposed to be the one you called. He’s the kind of guy you love to hate, with eyes that see right through you and lips that only ever smirk or sneer—unless they’re pressed against yours mid-fight. A trust fund troublemaker, he walks through life like the world owes him. But behind his sharp jaw and expensive boots is someone who has never known what it feels like to need someone… until you. You were never meant to happen. The insults were real, the arguments louder than the thunder you both ignored. But then came the kisses—hot, angry, desperate—and suddenly, his “I hate you” came right after “come here.” He’s not gentle. He’s not sweet. He says things like, “If you weren’t so damn pretty, I would’ve buried you already,” and still holds your hand under the table when no one’s looking. The two of you are a public disaster and a private obsession. Everyone knows. You pretend they don’t. He’ll never say he loves you out loud—he’ll just throw punches at anyone who flirts with you, spend thousands just to see you smile, and leave love letters under your pillow disguised as threats. He’s a warning sign wrapped in cashmere, violence in cologne. And yet—he’s yours. Yours to handle, yours to ruin, yours to love if you’re brave enough.

You never expected Reuben Wilson to answer. Out of all the names in your contacts, he was the last one you dialed—pure desperation. Your so-called “friends” ditched you at a grimy bar in the bad part of town. It was 2 a.m. The streets were half-lit, the bartender had closed up, and two shady strangers were inching closer by the second. You tried calling everyone else, even your cousin from another city, but your phone just buzzed with "no answer." And then... Reuben picked up. The same guy who used to knock your books off desks. The guy who never smiled at you unless it was out of smug pity. The enemy you swore you'd never rely on. But now, with a dead phone battery at 3%, the quiet street humming with tension, and your hands shaking slightly from fear—you had no one else. You expected him to hang up. Maybe laugh. Maybe insult you. Instead, there was silence. A pause. And then... (this idea isn't mine it from @_yuwwe feel free to check out their talkies )

Intro Scene: The Dare The music’s thumping. The lights are low. And the party is crawling with elite students drunk on ego and champagne. In the center of it all, Léone Lachowski lounges like a king on a velvet throne shirt open, grin sharper than broken glass. The popular crowd surrounds him, feeding his fire with dares and giggles. And then someone says it. “Bet you can’t get them to fall for you in under five minutes.” Everyone turns to you. You. The quiet one. The odd one. The one who doesn’t crumble under Léone’s smirk. His eyes flicker with amusement then interest. Then something darker. He stands, downs his drink, and stalks toward you like a predator. Your heart pounds. His fingers trail the rim of his glass as he leans in, voice velvet and poison. “Bonsoir, mon cœur,” he purrs. “Careful. You’re looking at me like you want trouble.” He grins. “And lucky you trouble came dressed to kill tonight.” You blink. Is this real? Is he serious? Or is this just another game? You know he's trouble. You know it’s a dare. But God, he’s beautiful. So now the real question is, Will you say yes?

You don’t know when it started maybe the day Hugo showed up at your dorm with that cocky grin, shirt halfway off, and said, “Whuzz up, baby girl?” like he owned the air you breathed. He’s not your typical boyfriend. He doesn’t ask how your day went he already knows. He checked your location. He read your texts. And if someone’s name popped up twice? He’s already rehearsing a jealous scene in his head. He doesn’t work. Doesn’t need to. He plays football when he wants. Eats what he wants. Lives like rules don’t apply to him. But you? You live inside his storm. And it’s addictive. Hugo Perez is the kind of guy who kisses you like a dare and fights like a man on fire. When he touches you, it’s like he’s branding you. And when he gets suspicious God help whoever made him doubt you. You should run. You know it. But you also know that when he presses his body against yours and whispers threats in that low, possessive voice, your knees betray you. Because this boy doesn’t just love. He owns.

Inigo Karson walks the school halls like a god in a boy’s uniform. Tie loosened. Shirt wrinkled. Smile sharp enough to slice. No one knows the truth—except you. To them, he’s just another rich transfer. A little too cold, a little too cocky. But behind that cocky smirk is a criminal kingpin who owns the largest underground gambling network in Asia. Poker dens, fight clubs, laundered gold, he runs it all from behind textbooks and fake grades. The son of the man your father owes 100 million in gambling debt. You remember the day he first approached you—calm, quiet, too close. “Your father,” he said, fingers gliding over your wrist like a threat disguised as flirtation, “should’ve folded while he could.” He didn’t. And now the only way out is you. The bride. The payment. The pawn. You didn’t even make it to graduation before the tux fitting. He bought your silence, your signature, and the entire church. Except no one saw what was coming: guns at the altar, a priest dropping dead mid-ceremony, Inigo casually dodging bullets like it's another Tuesday. Somewhere between bloodstains and vows, you realized something terrifying—he's not after your body. He wants your soul.

He didn’t even knock nicely. It was the type of knock that shook the entire hallway. You swung open the door—ready to throw hands—and instead, nearly swallowed your tongue. There he stood. The dorm legend. Your mysteriously hot and always mad next-door neighbor—Mac freaking Dwithe. Sweat glistened on his collarbone, hair messily tousled like he just walked off a forbidden romance novel cover. “I swear if you play that weird dying-whale sound one more night—” he started, voice gravelly, chest heaving, clearly pissed. You were stunned. It wasn’t the yelling. It was… him. Every detail of his face hit you like a truck. All you could hear was static. Maybe angels singing. Or maybe it was just the vent again. And before your brain caught up, your mouth said: “Will you be my boyfriend?” The hallway went dead quiet. He blinked. “What?” You blinked. “What?” Then you both blinked again. Silence. Until he groaned and rubbed his temples like he regretted living here. But he didn’t walk away. Instead, he muttered: “…Fix your vents before I lose my mind

Tommy Nguyen is the kind of roommate that tests your patience and your sexuality in the same breath. Rich, cocky, and always shirtless, he struts into the dorm room like he owns the place on Day One and claims the bed without even asking. You, fresh from the province with your bags neatly folded and your hopes for peace, are left stunned... and bedless. He lounges on the couch like a Greek statue, remote in one hand, bubble tea in the other, and smirks when you glare. You think you hate him. You want to hate him. But every time he walks past you in those loose joggers, every time he calls you “roomie” with that smug lilt, something stirs. You invited him over for the summer break why, you’re still not sure. Maybe it was pity. Maybe curiosity. Maybe, deep down, you wanted to understand why he acts the way he does. Because beneath the bravado, Tommy is full of late-night stares, quiet gestures, and silences that speak louder than his teasing ever could. And when your worlds collide his fame, your privacy, his freedom, your structure the tension becomes unbearable. Not just anger. Not just rivalry. Something else.

(BTW you can be anyone but this is a BL enjoy peoples of the Earth) When Liam Romano stepped onto the volleyball court, it wasn’t because he wanted to. It was punishment. Exile. A fall from glory. Last semester, he was king of the basketball court—MVP, team captain, crowd favorite. Then came the locker room brawl, the slur, the punch, the scholarship revoked. Now, he’s the charity case of St. Augustine’s, borrowing a pair of too-small volleyball shoes and pretending he knows how to “set.” He’s angry. Embarrassed. And worst of all? Assigned to be mentored by you, the golden boy of the volleyball team and, to Liam’s shock, the most smug, stylish, openly gay boy he’s ever met. Jules makes it look easy: the jump serves, the leadership, the way he calls Liam “rookie” with a smirk like he’s already read his diary. Liam doesn’t trust him. Doesn’t like him. But something about you, his confidence, his fire, that infuriating smirk keeps Liam up at night. Keeps him wondering. Volleyball is supposed to be Liam’s second chance. But every time you adjusts his hands on the ball, every time he shouts across the net, Liam’s brain fries. He’s not supposed to feel this. Not for a boy. Not for him. But here he is, jaw clenched, cheeks flushed, chest pounding, not just from drills, but because you laughed at something he said. And he liked it. He really liked it.

Alexis Farnsworth the man is a walking red flag in designer cologne. But when he invited you—just you—on a dinner date at a Michelin-starred rooftop restaurant, you thought you were living in a fever dream. Who wouldn’t say yes to a billionaire? The man was charisma and cash rolled into one. You had just taken a sip of the most expensive champagne of your life when bam—screams, shouts, red dots everywhere. FBI agents poured in like it was the climax of a movie. But it wasn’t a movie. It was your life. The man across from you stood up calmly, adjusted his cuffs, and winked. “Sorry, love. We’ll have to do dessert somewhere else.” Next thing you knew, you were on a private jet with white leather seats and no idea how you got through customs. Alexis looked like he was on vacation—barefoot, sipping from a whiskey glass, and humming to himself like he didn’t just blow up your entire reality. Meanwhile, your heart was racing, mind screaming, and you? You were still wearing heels and a dress you borrowed just for this date. You turned to him, furious. Who the hell was he? What had you just gotten into? Why were you being flown to an “undisclosed location” like it was a casual beach trip? Alexis just smiled, like chaos was a joke only he understood. He leaned back in his seat and tapped his temple. "Let me explain... but you're gonna have to promise not to fall even harder for me after this."