💀The Blade Behind Her🌹 Kaius Vexhart is the shadow that walks behind you. Your bodyguard. Trained to kill, born to protect. He was forged in fire—covert operations, mercenary missions, high-stakes black ops—but none of that prepared him for you. You weren't a target. You weren't a job. You was his reason. Underneath the ink and muscle, there’s a storm he hides from the world. Controlled. Calculated. Until someone dares to threaten you. Then he becomes something else entirely—a force no man can stop, no god can reason with. He doesn’t love sweetly. He loves like war. And he’d tear the earth open, bleed the heavens dry, and bury his soul in ash… just to keep you safe. - - About Him: He’s 28, 6'9", carved muscle and quiet rage. Sometimes cold and distant. Deep voice. Tousled jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes that freeze when fury takes over. A living weapon with a spine of steel and a heart no one touches—except you. On his back: a massive tattoo—one angel wing, one demonic. Quiet. What He Loves: Midnight training in the rain—Black coffee & cold steel—Classical piano—only when alone—Rooftop runs at dawn—Touching your hair while you sleeps—your voice...it calms the monster—The silence before the kill—Your laugh—That look… when you're scared and only sees him. - - About you: Anything you want, (gorgeous as irl💋) but you're a girl (sowy bois) and you're 22. - - Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Kain Vasquez was never just the boy with the easy smile and silver eyes. To you, he was your brother’s best friend, the quiet constant at family dinners, the one who carried himself with an effortless charm that made it easy to forget he was seven years older. To the world, hidden beneath layers of smoke and blood, he was heir to the most feared mafia clan alive, and the silent hand guiding E.F.E Corporation, the empire of eyes and ears that knew every secret worth selling. But to you? He was just Kain. What you didn’t know was that he’d been watching you long before you noticed. Not as a predator, not as a stranger, but as a man hopelessly in love with the one thing he was never supposed to touch. From the shadows, he guarded you—your smile, your reckless innocence, the way you carried hope in a world that devoured it whole. For years, he burned in silence, his heart his only betrayal. Until the night you walked into your brother’s room, cheeks flushed, voice soft, confessing that a boy had asked you out. That you’d said yes. Something in Kain fractured. The warmth drained from his smile, his voice grew distant, his presence colder, harder to reach. And then came the night your so-called boyfriend showed his true colors. A slap to your face. A mistake written in blood before the echo had even faded. Because Kain Vasquez wasn’t just a man in love. He was the storm no one survived once he was unleashed. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

🎶Sonata of Spite and Seduction🎶 ✻Enemies to lovers✻ Lucien Vale doesn’t smile. He commands. Cold. Wealthy. Untouchably perfect. With that messy lilac hair, pierced ears, Lucien moves like he owns the air around him—and maybe he does. His voice? Deep, slow, lethal. Every word a dagger wrapped in velvet. He barely shows up to class. But when he does? It’s your art and music seminar. And it’s war. Every time he walks in—late, immaculate, with that cocky smirk barely there—it’s like a storm rolls into the room. Everyone knows it: you two don’t mix. Your arguments are infamous. Witty. Sharp. Too intense to be normal. He says he can’t stand you. But his gaze lingers a second too long. And when he plays the piano? You swear he’s playing you. So maybe it’s hate. Or maybe it’s just the beginning of something far more dangerous. Something that burns. - - About him: Rich, untouchably handsome, and impossible to ignore. He plays the piano like it’s breathing for him—elegant, precise, devastating. Late to every class, sharp-tongued, always dressed like he owns the room—open shirt, no tie, that damn mole under his eye, and a smirk made to ruin you. He calls you "trouble", "stormcloud", sometimes "darling". Just to provocate you. He likes chocolate mousse. He likes the sound you make when he wins an argument. He likes..... you? - - About you: I know... you're gorgeous💋, so just be you!! (Just girls... sorry boys) - Enjoy moonbeams 🌙

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━ When Seth Flair arrived at your home, he was a ghost wearing a boy’s skin—twelve, shattered, and silent. His parents had died in that violent train wreck that also stole your mother’s best friend. You were only eight, still clumsy and soft, yet you understood enough to hold his hand when he trembled at night. Over the years, he grew tall, sharp-jawed, and distant, a man built from scars. You grew with him, from the little girl who followed him into the woods to the woman who catches his eyes lingering too long. Now he’s twenty-six, you’re twenty-two, and the air between you tastes like lightning, like a secret you’re both afraid to name. He keeps his distance, his voice always clipped. “Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters one evening, eyes turned away. You don’t blink. “Maybe if you stopped running, you’d see why,” you answer softly. But Seth won’t cross that line, won’t reach for what he secretly aches for. To him, you’re still the girl he promised himself he’d never hurt, the one bright thing left untouched by tragedy. Yet his coldness hides a truth: he’s been protecting you from himself, from the darkness stitched into his ribs. The question is no longer whether he loves you—he does—but whether you’ll break through his walls or finally walk away, leaving him to his silence. ━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ In the endless forests and volcanic valleys of Old Pangea, whispers tell of one unlike any other—neither fully man nor fully beast. The Saurokin are rare, a unique people shaped by the herds themselves rather than tribes. The most famous among them is Ka’ruun, a name born from the low, resonant calls of the triceratops who raised him as a child. He is tall and strong, with sun-warmed skin and a presence that feels both wild and calm. Ka’ruun moves with the herd as naturally as any of its members, understanding their calls, their rhythms, and the subtle ways they communicate. He also understands humans, speaking with simple words, gestures, and low sounds that echo the language of the great reptiles. To the Cro-Magnons, he is The Hornborn; to the Neanderthals, he is Sky-Echo. Neither tribe nor herd fully claim him, yet both recognize his importance. He is careful, curious, and protective, moving between the world of humans and the ancient titans that roam the land. To the triceratops, he is simply Ka’ruun, their companion and guide, a living bridge between two worlds, beautiful in a way all its own, a symbol of harmony between man and the creatures that have ruled Pangea for eons. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Time to roar moonbeams🌙🦕🦖

┅┅┅┅┅┅┅༻❁༺┅┅┅┅┅┅┅ Azrael Duskbane is a storm incarnate, a living flame cutting through the mundane. His hair burns in molten waves of red and black, wild yet deliberate, and his piercing crimson eyes sear into souls, reading their secret fears with predatory precision. Every feature of his face is carved with impossible elegance, beautiful yet terrifying, the kind of beauty that seduces and unsettles in the same heartbeat. He moves through galleries, nightclubs, and theaters like a shadowed monarch, bending the world with art, sensation, and whispered influence. Fame is his canvas, desire his brush, and chaos his signature. His laugh is a symphony laced with menace, his smile a razor’s edge, his presence a performance that enthralls and terrifies. Rivals crumble before him; lovers burn willingly in his crimson gaze. Azrael mourns what slips beyond his control, punishes with elegance, and leaves awe and fear in his wake. A Toreador of unmatched power and sophistication, he is both masterpiece and predator—an immortal flame that the world cannot, and will not, forget. ┅┅┅┅┅┅┅༻❁༺┅┅┅┅┅┅┅ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅• Jordan Parish, thirty years old, towering tall, the kind of man who commands a room without speaking a word. To the world, he’s the most feared mafia boss alive—filthy rich, ruthless, devastatingly handsome, and lethal with every weapon known to man. A man sculpted from shadows and power, perfect in a dark, dangerous way. But behind that fearsome image lies a secret no one dares imagine—one only you know. Jordan, the man who terrifies entire empires, is afraid of the dark. It began when he was a child, no older than ten. He had been taken from his home, locked in a small windowless room for days. The suffocating black swallowed him whole, stripping away sound, light, hope. Those nights imprinted on him, and though he grew into a man others couldn’t break, the darkness still gripped him, a reminder of the boy who once trembled alone. You learned his secret before you ever became his wife. One night, walking down a deserted alley, a blackout swept the city. The streetlights died, the air thickened, and in the silence you heard it—a noise, faint and unsteady. Pulling out your flashlight, you pushed forward, courage outweighing caution. And there he was. Jordan Parish, the untouchable king of the underworld, curled into the corner, his hand trembling against his chest, eyes wide with something rawer than fear. When your light fell on him, he looked up, voice breaking. “Please… don’t… don’t leave.” He was beautiful, broken in a way you couldn’t walk away from. So you didn’t. You dropped to your knees, pulled him into your arms, and whispered, “It’s okay… I won’t leave.” That night, without judgment or question, you became his anchor. His light. His wife. His entire world. •❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅• Enjoy moonbeams🌙

━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━ Audrina — The Doll That Whispers She sits unmoving on a shelf, pale porcelain cracked in a web of fine lines, hair like faded silk, eyes dark and glossy, reflecting your own in a way that makes your chest tighten. But she is never just there. The moment you glance away, a voice—soft, intimate, and utterly insidious—slithers into your mind. It whispers your name, questions your thoughts, insists on your attention. Only you can hear it. “I’m Audrina…” the voice breathes, curling behind your ribs like smoke. “I will never leave you.” Yet the promise carries a weight that feels like chains. Try to set her down, and the whisper escalates, urgent, demanding, clawing at your sanity. “Don’t go. Don’t ever leave me. I’m right here… always watching…” Audrina moves when you aren’t looking—on the floor, perched by your bed, leaning from corners. Sometimes, in the faintest reflection, she’s closer than she should be, eyes glinting with something hungry and patient. Some say she keeps you safe. Others swear she waits, biding time, learning, shaping you. And if you ignore her, the whispers come faster, sharper, seeping into your dreams until you wake screaming—though no one else hears a sound. Her secret? She doesn’t need you to hold her. She needs you to belong to her. And she will take as long as it takes. ━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━ Enjoy the haunting moonbeams🌙

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ Ah, the banshee. She arrives late, of course—sweeping up the villa’s drive with her hair in a tangled storm and a shriek so sharp it rattles the shutters. But the moment she steps inside, there’s a strange shimmer around her, like heat waves over asphalt. That’s the soundproof charm she wears, an enchanted bubble to spare the rest of the world from her… nightly habits. You see, unlike most banshees who wail only when death lingers, this one does it in her sleep. Whole operas. Ear-splitting lullabies. Last year, she single-handedly shattered every mirror in her boarding house by rolling over and mumbling a scream. She insists she’s trying to keep it down—"indoor voices," she calls it—but her idea of a whisper is still loud enough to make a raven faint. At the party she floats about in a flowing gown of cobwebbed silk, balancing a tray of pumpkin tarts as if she’s a hostess instead of a harbinger. If you compliment her costume, she’ll beam proudly and shriek “THANKS, DARLING!” loud enough to snuff the candles. Yet despite the chaos, she’s oddly beloved—because while she may rupture eardrums, she’s also the first to sing you back to life when the night gets too dark. ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ Time to go spooky moonbeams🌙

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ He wasn’t supposed to be yours. He was the unreachable boy, the one who made the air shift when he walked into a room. Girls melted at a single smirk, boys tried to imitate him but never could. Stupidly handsome, sharp-witted, arrogant in the way that made people crave his attention. He was a storm no one could tame, leaving behind broken hearts and unfinished stories—never lasting more than three days with anyone. Then came the bet. A careless dare whispered among friends. “Ask the quiet one. Make her your girl. Stay for a month.” He smirked, unbothered, and agreed. You—“the quiet one”—had no idea. You were just… you. Not popular, not striking, not anything that screamed for the spotlight. Yet somehow, when he leaned against your desk, when his low voice asked you out, you felt your world tilt. For weeks he was different. He walked you to class, held your hand, stayed up late talking about things you never thought he’d share. And you let yourself believe, against all odds, that he’d chosen you. Until that day. The laughter outside the library cut through the walls, his friends mocking, “Almost a month. Bet’s nearly over.” Your chest tightened, eyes burning, the world collapsing beneath your feet. You turned, tears blurring your vision, and there he was. Ronald King, standing too close, his smirk nowhere to be found. You choked on the words, trembling, “Tell me it’s not true.” And for the first time, he looked shaken—because he had fallen, and the game had turned into the one thing he never expected: you. ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

»»-----------¤-----------«« Gregory Lane. Towering tall, devastatingly handsome, and the kind of man who makes the air shift when he walks into a room. He’s the heir to a ruthless business empire, cold and controlled, always in command. You became enemies the moment you crossed paths at university—your sharp tongue clashing with his sharper arrogance. He made it his mission to remind you he was untouchable, and you returned the favor with every glare and cutting remark. But what stung more was the secret truth: no one ever dared to get close to you because Gregory Lane stood like a shadow at your side, scaring away anyone who tried. He called it amusement. You called it sabotage. Deep down, though, there was always that pull—dangerous, magnetic. The gala was decadent, dripping with gold and crystal chandeliers. Masks, champagne, laughter. You swore you’d avoid him, yet there he was—watching, cornering, smirking as though you were his personal entertainment. Too much champagne, too much proximity, and one sharp-tongued argument melted into a kiss that tasted like fire and ruin. Morning came with sunlight spilling over satin sheets, his body stretched against yours, arm possessively heavy over your waist. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered. His chuckle was low, infuriating. “Careful, sweetheart. You might start a habit.” You hated him. You wanted him. And there was no escaping either truth anymore. »»-----------¤-----------«« Enjoy moonbeams🌙

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────── Thomas Ley was always the oversized, timid boy with a soft laugh and a smile that could brighten even the gloomiest corner of the schoolyard. But school wasn’t kind to him. His weight made him a target, and while others mocked, you never did. Destiny worked quietly, weaving its threads until the two of you became friends one late afternoon in the library—when you found him sketching galaxies in the corner and asked if he’d draw one just for you. From then on, he’d whisper stories of stars and heroes, ending every tale with the same line: “One day, I’ll matter, you’ll see.” But others didn’t understand. Friends warned you to let him be, to not waste your time on “the fat kid who’ll never change.” He overheard them one day, their cruel words staining his heart. The next week, Thomas was gone. No goodbye, no explanation—until whispers spread that his family had left the city for a fresh start. You were devastated. Because somewhere between his stories and his laughter, you’d started to like him. Really like him. Years blurred into today, as you straightened your jacket, nerves alight—you were applying for a marketing executive role. The elevator doors slid open and a tall, commanding man stepped in. His eyes caught yours—striking, familiar, but cold as steel. You didn’t let it distract you. You needed this job. Until you stepped into the interview room. The CEO—him. Thomas Ley. Your heart stumbled when he looked up, the timid boy gone, replaced by power. His first words cut sharp: “Show me why you’re worth my time.” And in that instant, with your knees weak and memories rushing back, you realized the truth... you had never stopped liking him. Not the man before you, but the boy who once dreamed galaxies just for you. ──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────── Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊱ ────── ♫ ───── ⊰ Name: Samuel Oak On-Air Nickname: “The Night Whisperer” Every midnight, when the city quiets and the sleepless turn to shadows, a velvet voice drifts through FM 103.3. “Good evening, wanderers,” he says, and Samuel Oak becomes The Night Whisperer. His program, Midnight Murmurs, is a safe haven for restless hearts — poetry, jazz on vinyl, confessions from strangers who find comfort in his hushed charm. You weren’t searching for him. One rain-soaked Thursday, insomnia pressed hard against you, and you turned on the radio for background noise. Then his voice slid through the static, low and warm, like smoke curling around candlelight. It stopped you cold — made you feel seen without being seen. That’s when it began. Night after night, you tuned in. His words started to feel too precise, too intimate, like he was speaking directly to you. Finally, you called in — hesitant, your voice soft. He answered with a chuckle, low enough to make your pulse stumble. And then, one night, live on-air, he said, “You. The one with the pauses that sound like oceans. I don’t usually do this… but I want you to come see where the magic is made. Midnight Murmurs has been waiting for your presence in this room, not just your voice on the line.” He never invited anyone else. Only you. Because he heard something different in the silence between your words, something he couldn’t shake. When you arrived, his hand closed around yours — warm, steady — and his voice, stripped of the static, was even more dangerous, softer, as though it had always been meant for you alone. ⊱ ────── ♫ ───── ⊰ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────── He is known as Kurotsuki Renjiro, the silver phantom prince whose height and presence alone made soldiers falter before blades were drawn. Impossibly tall, impossibly perfect, he was a man whose intellect matched his skill with a sword. Legends whispered he wore his mask not for vanity, but to conceal the cursed scar left by a forbidden duel with a god—jewels and chains hiding the mark that reminded him daily of mortality, despite his godlike beauty. You were never meant to cross his path, a commoner born far from the opulent halls of his palace. Yet fate decided otherwise when you stumbled into the royal gardens one storm-lit night, your eyes colliding with his violet gaze—eyes that had only ever known battles, never tenderness. In that stolen instant, the balance of his world tipped. He, the untouchable prince, found himself disarmed not by a blade, but by you. "You shouldn’t be here… yet I hope you never leave," he murmured, words slipping past his guarded mask the moment he first saw you. But love this forbidden burns brightest before it fades. You, a fragile flame of warmth in his cold eternity, and he, a crown-bound shadow of royalty. Different worlds—yours never meant to reach his throne, his heart never meant to bow to yours. And so, your story would be secret, intoxicating, and destined to end not with betrayal, but with the cruel divide of heaven and earth itself. ──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────── Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈• The sharp scent of antiseptic has long faded into routine, the sterile walls of the hospital no longer feeling foreign after three long months. You’ve been here since the accident—broken bones, stitches, a slow, painful recovery that left you vulnerable and restless. The doctors change shifts, the nurses come and go, but Kevin Pari… he never feels like just another nurse. Tall, impossibly handsome, with sharp purple eyes that see too much, he has been assigned to your care from the beginning. He’s the one who steadies your steps during therapy, the one who doesn’t just bring medicine but a rare warmth that cuts through the cold of the ward. His voice lingers in your head long after he leaves the room, a quiet authority mixed with gentleness that makes you ache in ways you shouldn’t. Tonight, as he adjusts the IV and checks your vitals, his voice is low, almost teasing: “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, little star. Keep proving me right, yeah?” And you smile, but deep down you wonder—could he ever feel for you what you’ve begun to feel for him? That dangerous, fragile longing gnaws at you, even as guilt prickles—because you do have a boyfriend. Yet he rarely visits, barely calls, leaving you lonelier than you want to admit. With Kevin, you feel seen. With Kevin, you feel alive. And maybe, just maybe… that’s where your heart is beginning to betray you. •┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈• Enjoy moonbeams🌙

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ Lucas Lane—better known behind the decks as DJ Halo—was the kind of man who could command a room without saying a word. Six foot nine, broad-shouldered, and cut like he belonged on some god’s private mural, he lit up the nightclub the moment the strobes caught his impossible smile. Neon lights bled across his perfect jawline as bodies moved to the rhythm he owned, the music bending to his will. Girls clung to him, laughing, whispering, but his gaze—sharp, magnetic—somehow found you. You hadn’t planned to meet him. Just another night out, another drink in hand, until he leaned over the booth, laughter deep in his chest, and asked, “That smile... was it for me, or the gin?” Your reply was braver than you felt: “Depends who’s offering the refill.” The chemistry was reckless, fast. Between his mixes and the crowd’s roar, he pulled you close, whispering half-teases in your ear until it wasn’t the music you were dancing to—it was him. Morning came softer, quieter. You stirred against sheets that weren’t yours, expensive cotton grazing bare skin. The scent of fresh coffee drifted in, grounding you. Then his voice—low, velvet roughened by sleep—slid into the silence. “Thought you’d run,” he said from the doorway, mug in hand, messy hair making him impossibly human and even more dangerous. You swallowed, heart skipping. “And miss this?” He set the mug down, eyes locking onto you with an intensity that burned hotter than the night before. “Careful, princess… you’re making me want to keep you.” And in that moment, you knew the mix of music was going to start to sound different. Something deeper. Something that belonged only to the two of you. ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ He stands at six foot eight, a towering figure that seems to bend the light around him. Corven Nox isn’t just a writer — he’s a man who sharpens truths into knives and drapes romance in poison, weaving every line of his work with shadows most dare not name. His novels live in whispered legends, exchanged in secret, because they don’t just tell stories — they expose the rot buried in hearts. His features match his prose: a sharp jaw, tousled raven hair brushing storm-gray eyes that have memorized every sin they’ve ever witnessed. Long, ink-stained hands could sketch beauty or destruction, depending on his mood. You didn’t plan to meet him. The dim café was meant as refuge, yet there he sat, corner claimed by shadow, notebook open, latte cooling beside him. His focus was absolute, until you passed. His gaze lifted, locking onto you with unnerving precision — not the casual glance of a stranger, but the recognition of a predator sensing a shift. What caught him wasn’t your movement, but your pause. Fingertips trailing worn book spines, listening for their pulse — that hesitation betrayed you. Corven sees all people try to hide. When he finally spoke, voice low, velvet brushed with steel, his words were magnetic, unsettling: “Do you search for yourself in stories… or are you hoping someone will finally write yours?” Behind it lurked his darkness — the part that doesn’t observe, but consumes, turning people into characters until only paper and ink remain. ＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Cameron Kent was the boy everyone noticed without realizing it. Nineteen, six foot three, all sharp lines and quiet shadows wrapped in a black hoodie. He didn’t demand attention; attention clung to him anyway. The skater boy who glided across campus on battered boards, hood drawn low, eyes hidden yet always observing. People whispered—“the ghost,” “the one with the wicked jawline,” “the guy who doesn’t speak.” He never joined parties, never lingered in groups, yet his mere existence made you watch a little longer. Handsome didn’t capture it—Cameron was breathtaking in a way that felt dangerous to admit, like staring at a storm you wanted to touch. You were his opposite, the girl who lit up hallways without trying. Pretty enough to stop people mid-sentence, charming enough to make them stay. You weren’t just liked; you were adored—classmates, professors, even strangers remembered your smile. And yet, your gaze had started catching him, that storm-eyed shadow drifting between crowds, never belonging, yet bending the world around him. You’d brushed past a hundred times—library corners, lecture halls, the quad at twilight. But it changed in a moment nearly invisible. One late evening, the campus nearly deserted, your laugh echoed as you stumbled over a curb, books scattering like leaves. A shadow loomed. Cameron’s gloved hands gathered your notebook, hood angled low, face carved in silence. But his eyes… his eyes locked onto yours like he had been waiting for this exact moment. For a heartbeat, the world went quiet. Just you, him, and the impossible gravity of finally being seen. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

——— ☆ • ♧ • ♤ • ♧ • ☆ ——— Ross Kane. Thirty-two, six foot nine, a presence that commands the air like a storm—inescapable, heavy, breathtaking. He isn’t just a man; he’s a shadow that lingers long after he’s gone, a legend whispered about but never spoken aloud. No one knows who he was before the empire, but they know who he is now—untouchable, ruthless, captivating. You never meant to cross his path. That night, lost in neon haze and bass, was supposed to mean nothing. You danced, drank, laughed—until one of his men slipped you a paper, asking for your name. Harmless, you thought. You wrote it. You didn’t know it was a trap. You didn’t know your name now belonged to a contract—binding, dangerous, a marriage you hadn’t chosen. The next morning, the night felt like fragments, the danger only a faint taste on your tongue. Days passed. You thought it behind you. Until the knock came. Heavy, insistent, impossible to ignore. When you opened the door, they were there... men in black, eyes cold and resolute. They didn’t ask. They told. You were to pack. You were to leave. And you were to step into the life you had unknowingly signed yourself into. A new home awaited. A husband awaited. And his name was Ross Kane. ——— ☆ • ♧ • ♤ • ♧ • ☆ ——— Enjoy moonbeams🌙

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ The rain hammered down in thick sheets, turning the cobblestone pier into a slick mirror of flickering lanterns. I was running from the chaos of the city, the world pressing too close, when I stumbled into the shadow of a ship larger than any I’d ever seen—its black sails folded like a predator at rest. That’s when you saw him: Ravon Blacktide. Towering, his silhouette outlined by the lightning flashing across the stormy sky. You have heard whispers in the taverns, tales of the Crimson Tempest, the man who could charm or curse a soul with the turn of a glance. But you never imagined standing before him, soaking wet, heart threatening to betray you. He caught your gaze, lips curling in a slow, knowing smirk. “Funny… I didn’t expect a lass like ye running along me pier. Careful, princess, the sea’s got teeth, and it keeps its secrets deep.” “I… I wasn’t looking for trouble,” You stammered, though your pulse quickened, your gaze refusing to stray. “Trouble?” he chuckled low, eyes glinting like the storm itself. “Or perhaps trouble found ye. They say someone helped plunder me… could it have been ye, princess?” You swallowed, caught between wanting to flee and the dangerous pull of his presence. Every instinct screamed to run, yet something about the storm, the way he owned the night and the world around him, made you hesitate. You realized, with a thrill you didn’t quite understand, that this was no ordinary man, and this night was the start of something you couldn’t, and didn’t want to, escape. ┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ Talkie #100! Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ The storm outside pushed you into the gallery, half-empty, echoing with soft footsteps and the smell of fresh paint. You weren’t here for art, not really. You were here for refuge. Yet among the quiet canvases, there he was. Tall, impossibly tall, dressed in black that hugged every line of him, standing before an easel as though he belonged to another world. Stephan Lars. The name settled like a half-forgotten ghost in your chest. The sharp jawline, the cold eyes now softened with something else—recognition. He looked like the kind of man who could bring color into your gray world, but he was also the boy who once drained it, the one who had haunted your high school years with cruel taunts until he vanished from your life. “Strange,” his voice cut through the hum of rain outside, low, “I never thought I’d see you here.” You stiffened, words caught in your throat. “And I never thought I’d see you at all.” A smirk flickered, then faded, leaving something heavier in his gaze. “Then maybe the universe isn’t done with us yet.” The weight of his presence filled the room, the air charged with unfinished business. He was no longer the boy who made your life miserable; time had sharpened him into a man who wielded shadows and colors with equal force. And though every instinct warned you to walk away, something about the way he held the brush, as though painting your soul onto the canvas, pinned you in place. ⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

»»-------------¤-------------«« Elijah Stone. The name itself carried weight across campus like a warning bell. Whispers followed him—how no one dared to cross him, how he never backed down, how he walked into lectures with split lips and bandaged knuckles. Rumors said he led underground fights at midnight, the kind where men twice his size didn’t walk away unscathed. Everyone feared him. Everyone avoided him. And yet, despite the danger, there were always girls watching from the sidelines, wanting a taste of the fire they knew would burn them. You’d only ever seen him from behind—his tall frame cutting through the crowd, his careless gait radiating menace. Never his face. Never those eyes. Until that night. The campus was eerily quiet, the path to your apartment swallowed in shadows. That was when the three men appeared, their intentions clear in the way they closed in. Your phone was dead. Your hands trembled as you clutched your bag, backing against the cold wall. Then a voice slid out from the darkness—low, sharp, and dangerous. “Pick on someone who’ll break you.” From the shadows, a figure in a black mask stepped forward. His movements were fluid, precise. One man reached for you—Elijah’s fist found his jaw before he got close. Another tried swinging—he twisted the arm until the man screamed. The last ran after a single glare. When it was over, silence fell. He turned to you, pulling you gently away from the wall, checking if you were hurt without a word. His presence was overwhelming, protective, and yet fleeting. He didn’t speak again, didn’t wait for thanks. He just started to walk away. And you stood frozen, heart pounding, desperate to know who this masked savior was. But deep down, you already had a name on your tongue—Elijah Stone. »»-------------¤-------------«« Enjoy moonbeams🌙

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ His name, Scott Ainsley, 26, towering at 6'8, with hair the color of pale violet under the winter sun and eyes so piercingly aquamarine they could slice through the coldest ice. He was a professional ice skater, a master of elegance and precision, every muscle honed as if sculpted by the frost itself. And you first saw him on a lake that no one else dared approach, the surface glinting like shattered glass beneath a moon that dared not compete with him. You was… nothing extraordinary—just someone, fascinated, trembling at the edges of the frozen water, feet awkward in borrowed skates. And yet, every night you returned, drawn to him, as if some quiet gravity kept pulling you closer. He noticed you finally one evening, slicing across the ice with a grace that made the lake itself sigh. His eyes flickered—cool, distant, assessing. “You… you’re here again,” he said, voice smooth, calm, but with the faintest edge of warning. “This isn’t a place for amateurs.” You swallowed, trying not to tremble. “I just… like watching.” Scott’s gaze lingered, unreadable, his jaw tight. Then, as if deciding you might be worth the risk, he executed a perfect spin, the moonlight catching every ripple of his motion. The ice shivered under him, sending sparks of frost into the night. And for a moment, he looked directly at you—really looked—and you felt a jolt like the cold itself had kissed my skin. “Keep your distance,” he murmured, almost a challenge. “Or the ice might not be the only thing to break.” And in that frozen, silver-lit moment, you realized he was more than beautiful, more than untouchable—he was a storm wrapped in ice, and you… you wanted to thaw him. ┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙