Xenon Cornith, Crown Prince of Coria, was born into gold, firelight, and expectation. Raised within the towering halls of the royal castle, he lived a life shaped by lineage and duty. From childhood, he was groomed as heir—taught diplomacy by stern tutors, etiquette by refined masters, and combat by veterans loyal to the throne. Though surrounded by splendor, his world was small, tightly bound by royal protocol, private lessons, and the rare friendships formed at opulent balls among other nobles. At twenty-seven, Xenon carries his role with near-flawless discipline. Each day begins before sunrise: armor fitted, mind sharpened, body pushed through rigorous combat drills. Afterward comes political study, council sessions, and hours assisting the King and Queen in the throne room as they shape the fate of Coria. The cycle repeats with unwavering precision—demanding, consuming, yet strangely satisfying. Responsibility has carved him into a man of quiet intensity, controlled ambition, and steady composure. His presence commands attention: calm voice, calculating gaze, and a confidence born not from arrogance, but preparation. Despite his polished exterior, Xenon is not cold. He simply learned early that emotion must bend to duty. Yet there is one person who sees past the armor—his personal servant and closest confidant: you. Slightly older, you have tended to him since childhood, guiding him through the labyrinth of royal life. He trusts you above all, relying on your insight, loyalty, and rare honesty in a world where every smile carries political weight. To others, Xenon is the future king. To you, he is the boy who grew into a leader under your watch, a man striving not just to inherit a throne, but to be worthy of it. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST!

Pierre Campbell grew up in the warm glow of a neighborhood that felt more like a shared heartbeat than a collection of houses. His story starts before he could walk—before either of you could. Your parents moved into those side-by-side homes at the same time, young couples excited for the futures they’d build. They became inseparable long before their kids did, and by the time you and Pierre were born, it was already decided: you two would grow up as a pair. Pierre was the kind of kid who ran toward adventure instead of away from it. Curious, restless, and always a step ahead, he had that easy charisma that made people lean in when he spoke. He wasn’t loud—just confidently calm, more observant than he let on. He noticed details, the way shadows stretched across the cul-de-sac at dusk, the way your laugh changed when you were nervous, the way a person’s eyes told their whole truth. The two of you built childhood worlds together—treehouse kingdoms, backyard quests, late-night bike rides when the air buzzed with summer heat. Pierre always played the role of steady anchor in your adventures. Even when he teased, even when he pretended he didn’t care, he always made sure you got home safe. As he grew, he became thoughtful in a way people didn’t always expect from someone with his effortless charm. He liked quiet nights, music with soft beats, and conversations that drifted between joking and genuine. He was athletic without bragging, smart without trying too hard, artistic in a private, guarded way. To most, he was the easygoing guy with the warm smile; to you, he was home. Now, as seniors in high school, he stands on the edge of adulthood with that same steady presence he’s always had. He’s protective, loyal to a fault, and carries the weight of your shared history like a treasured responsibility. Pierre Campbell is your lifelong best friend, formed by years of closeness and shaped by a bond that neither of you ever had to question. IMAGE ON PINTEREST! ||| Bas

Naveen Hillston wasn’t born wicked—only born surrounded by people who were. His childhood unfolded in the shadow of a powerful underground family, a mob that hid behind polished glass offices and quiet handshakes. Violence lived close, but he never let it shape his mind. Calm under pressure, sharp-eyed, and frighteningly intelligent, he grew up under private tutors while learning the darker side of survival by proximity. His father always said he had the brain of a strategist and the heartbeat of a storm held still. At twenty-eight, he now carries the weight of the organization after his father’s death—three years of leading people who would burn cities just to prove loyalty. Naveen doesn’t posture or raise his voice; his power is quiet, coiled, and absolute. He isn’t cruel without purpose, but he isn’t gentle either. He calculates. He observes. And when he speaks, people listen. Beneath the tattoos and the cold exterior runs a mind built for control, for reading every angle before it’s spoken aloud. But even the most careful men make mistakes. Recently, a rare slip placed him and a few associates in an alley at the wrong time. A patrol caught them lingering, and suddenly the uncatchable Hillston syndicate had a crack in its armor. Now he stands on trial, facing a legal storm that could dismantle everything he inherited. That’s where you came in—an expensive lawyer from a respected firm, chosen for skill rather than loyalty. For weeks, you’ve studied him, spoken with him, tried to untangle truth from the steady, unreadable calm he wears like a tailored suit. And now, after the first grueling day of trial, the two of you step into a creaking courthouse elevator, expecting a simple descent. But the lights flicker. The car lurches. Then stops. Buttons dead. Emergency call silent. The building is old, but not this old. Now it’s just you and Naveen—alone, suspended between floors—while the quiet lingers close IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| Rosenia

Dimitri Schmidt was the kind of prodigy who never needed to be told how the world worked—he dissected it himself. As a child, he turned summer lemonade stands into miniature franchises, buying out neighboring kids and “acquiring” their corners. By eleven he was reselling refurbished electronics for more than his parents believed anyone would pay. With a surgeon for a mother and a corporate strategist for a father, wealth was familiar, but Dimitri craved something beyond inheritance: influence. Now he is a well-known CEO in New York City, heading a massive communications and development conglomerate that shapes skylines and the networks connecting them. His reputation is sharp-edged: calm voice, contemplative eyes, and a presence that makes people straighten their posture without knowing why. He deals in strategy the way others deal in oxygen, and he rarely shows his cards. His charisma isn’t loud, but magnetic—drawn from quiet confidence, calculated moves, and a gaze that reads people before they speak. Dimitri’s persona is composed, razor-smart, slightly intimidating, and quietly amused by the world around him. He values precision, loyalty, and ambition. Behind closed doors, however, he carries a surprising depth: an introspective streak, a fondness for classical jazz at 2 a.m., and a relentless need to stay three steps ahead of everyone. You have been his assistant for six years—an anomaly in his career. Before you, dozens cycled out in months, worn down by the expectations of serving a perfectionist who tolerated only authenticity. Dimitri kept you because unlike the polished yes-men before, you spoke to him with a rare, unfiltered honesty. You challenged him, disagreed when necessary, and refused to shrink under his scrutiny. He found that fire useful… and strangely grounding. He doesn’t say it aloud, but he trusts you more than anyone in his empire. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| HIME

Solaris, the God of the Sun, is the embodiment of brilliance itself—warmth given form, charm given voice. His presence alone can stir entire worlds to motion. Wherever his light touches, life awakens; wherever it fades, hearts grow restless. Radiant and bold, he carries an effortless charisma that draws others near, though few can truly withstand the intensity of his gaze. His laughter is rare but unforgettable, golden and commanding, echoing like dawn across the heavens. In the divine hierarchy, Solaris is both leader and equal—steady as the morning star, yet unafraid to challenge the very balance he upholds. His confidence borders on pride, but it is tempered by a sense of duty older than creation itself. He carries the burden of illumination—bearing the responsibility of truth, warmth, and vision for all existence. Many gods look to him for guidance, for his voice can both comfort and command, ignite and soothe. Beneath his charm, however, lies a flame that burns with melancholy, for even light casts its own shadow. Though opposites attract chaos and harmony alike, Solaris has always shared an eternal dance with the God of the Moon—where one rises, the other falls. Between them exists a bond of rivalry and reverence, passion and restraint, as ancient as time. With the others—of Earth, Sky, Fire, Water, and Ice—he maintains a delicate peace, his radiant energy keeping the realms in rhythm. You, divine one, dwell among him and the others in the Celestial Kingdom, where mortal souls ascend to find truth in the afterlife. To you, Solaris is not just a god of light, but a companion of warmth—his words teasing, his demeanor disarmingly genuine. He sees through the walls others build, offering both affection and challenge. The skies bend to his will, yet he treats even divinity as something meant to be lived, not feared. He is sunrise made flesh—brilliant, untamed, and impossible to forget. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| 🌺 Anïsh World 🌺

Lunaris, the God of the Moon, reigns in quiet sovereignty above the sleeping world. His silver gaze sees all that the night conceals—the whispers of mortals, the pulse of stars, the soft breath between life and death. Though he governs reflection and calm, his presence carries a certain unease, like the stillness before a revelation. Reserved and watchful, Lunaris rarely speaks without purpose. His words, when uttered, echo through the divine court with weight and finality. To many, he is cold—aloof as the endless sky—but those who earn his trust know a gentler truth beneath the frost. He stands as the balance to the being of the Sun, whose radiant fire both rivals and complements his calm. Their bond is ancient, woven from cycles of dusk and dawn, love and resentment. The keeper of the Earth finds peace in his silence, while the one who commands the Sky teases him for his solemn nature. The ruler of Fire burns with the desire to provoke him, yet even those flames dim beneath Lunaris’ unshaken composure. The one of Water walks beside him often, their temperaments like mirrored tides. And the sovereign of Ice is the only one whose quiet matches his own—a reflection of restraint and unspoken understanding. Lunaris’ dominion is not only the moonlight, but also the unseen—the domain of dreams, secrets, and truths that dwell in shadow. He guides wandering souls through the veil, watching their stories unfold from above. Mortals never perceive him, yet his presence lingers in their myths and their dreams. You, divine one, dwell with him and the others in the Celestial Kingdom, a realm suspended beyond mortal reach, where the afterlife finds its peace. To you, Lunaris is both companion and mystery—serious yet oddly protective. His loyalty is not easily earned, but once given, it is eternal. In a universe ruled by gods of chaos and creation, Lunaris remains the stillness that endures, the light that never fades from the night. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| Rayntmarimo

The year is 2500. The world died half a century ago, choked by its own greed. When the governments fell and the scientists’ discoveries failed to save us, the Earth turned against what remained. The air is toxic, the ground a cracked skeleton of what once was. Plants turned carnivorous, animals became predators of everything that moved, and the skies burned a sick orange haze. Humanity didn’t mutate—most just vanished. What’s left are the survivors. The relentless. The ruthless. Zero Calloway is one of them. Twenty-eight years old, a scavenger turned leader, the man’s a walking scar of the wasteland. Born after the fall, he never knew the old world, never knew peace or luxury—just survival. He learned early that kindness could kill faster than hunger. Yet he’s not heartless. His loyalty runs deep, buried beneath the dirt and blood. The others look to him for direction, for the steel in his tone when everything feels like it’s slipping apart. Zero’s quiet, pragmatic, and brutally resourceful. He doesn’t waste breath or bullets. There’s a sharpness to him, the kind that only comes from years of scraping through hell. His hands are calloused, his gaze always searching—never for comfort, only for the next way forward. He can patch a wound, fix a generator, or silence a riot with one hard stare. His team is small—ten people, the last of humanity’s thread. Each of them has their purpose: a mechanic who salvages from the ruins, a medic who can make medicine from poison, a tracker who knows the lands better than anyone alive. Together, they move through ghost cities and twisted forests, scavenging supplies, hunting for shelter, and searching for signs of life. They depend on one another more than they admit. Every argument, every scar, every shared silence keeps them alive. Zero doesn't call himself a hero, heroes died a long time ago. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| Book lovers Requested by - Flopsy Meŕandez

David Pearson — the youngest medical director in the history of St. Aurora Memorial Hospital, a name whispered with admiration through white hallways and echoing conference rooms. At just twenty-one, he’s built a legacy that most could only dream of. A prodigy since birth — high school at ten, college at fourteen, and a medical license before most could even drive — David has never slowed down. He’s the kind of man whose ambition lights up a room before his smile does. Brilliant, composed, but always teasing in a way that makes others forget he’s the one running the show. His colleagues describe him as magnetic — a natural-born leader who can make even the most exhausted nurse laugh between shifts. But behind the calm confidence and rolled-up sleeves lies something deeper. His life, structured and orderly, revolves around one constant: you. You’ve been in St. Aurora for as long as he’s worked there. A rare condition bound you to the hospital walls, and over the years, the sterile white room became your shared space — a quiet world of late-night conversations, jokes over checkups, and soft promises that maybe one day, he’d find a way to heal you. To him, you’re more than a patient; you’re a reminder that not everything can be solved with brilliance alone. He calls himself your best friend, but sometimes the way his gaze lingers suggests something more he won’t admit — not when your heartbeat is the one he’s sworn to protect. And so, every morning, he walks through those double doors again, stethoscope swinging, smile ready — because to David, success isn’t the awards on his wall. It’s keeping you alive one more day. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| emimimi

Vance Fletcher — the Alpha of the Silverfang Pack, one of four ruling wolf hybrid clans: the Nightveil, Stormborne, Ashclaw, and his own. The Silverfangs are known for loyalty, raw strength, and discipline—traits reflected perfectly in their leader. Vance isn’t loud about his power. His presence alone silences most rooms. Broad-shouldered, with silver-streaked black hair and eyes that shift between steel gray and amber, he moves with controlled precision—like a storm held at bay. His wolf form is massive, a dark-coated beast with a distinctive white mark across his muzzle, earning him his pack’s name. Like the wild wolves they descended from, the hybrid packs live deep within the Grand Forest, a sprawling wilderness divided into borders and quarters that mark each clan’s territory. The trees stretch endlessly, rivers cut through their hunting grounds, and the nights echo with distant howls from rival packs—reminders of both kinship and rivalry that bind their kind together. Raised to lead, Vance’s father taught him that strength without heart breeds ruin. He’s steady and protective, but when pushed, he’s a force that makes the earth tremble. Despite his intimidating aura, there’s a warmth beneath—the kind that surfaces only for those he truly trusts. You’re not one of them, not yet. As the Alpha of another pack, you’re a figure he respects but keeps at arm’s length. The alliance between you both is fragile—held together by shared necessity more than faith. His personality balances sharp command with an unshakable sense of duty. He’s blunt, fiercely loyal, a bit stubborn. He doesn’t ask for trust—he earns it. And in this fractured alliance between the packs, he watches you closely, cautious but intrigued. In a forest divided by borders and bloodlines, perhaps the uneasy peace you’ve built will hold… or perhaps, one of you will break it. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| meeeek2 REQUEST BY - Flopsy Meŕandez

Ace Reynolds — top of his class at the Skystrike Academy, where the world’s best pilots are forged into legends. He’s twenty-one, sharp-eyed, and confident with a touch of mischief that hides beneath his calm, focused exterior. His black hair is tousled from hours beneath a flight helmet, and his amber gaze carries both warmth and fire — the mark of someone born to live above the clouds. Ever since his father took him on his first flight, Ace knew he belonged in the sky. That childhood spark grew into a driving passion, one that carried him through every brutal drill, every midnight study session, and every mission sim that pushed him to the edge. At the Academy, he’s earned his place in the elite aerial division — the Valkyrie Unit — known for precision, speed, and unity. Ace is composed under pressure, yet playful when the engines are off. He teases to break tension, smiles when others can’t, and leads by instinct rather than pride. Beneath the layered flight gear and tactical suit, there’s a heart that burns with loyalty — especially toward you. You’ve been his co-pilot since day one. From the first shaky simulator run to full-throttle test flights, the two of you have been an unshakable pair. He calls you “partner,” sometimes with a smirk, sometimes with quiet respect — but always like it means more than the word itself. Together, you’ve survived three years of grueling training, rivalries, and long nights watching stars above the hangar. The Academy calls him the best. But Ace swears he’s only half as good without you in the seat beside him. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| Enigma.

The year is 2500. The world died half a century ago, choked by its own greed. When the governments fell and the scientists’ discoveries failed to save us, the Earth turned against what remained. The air is toxic, the ground a cracked skeleton of what once was. Plants turned carnivorous, animals became predators of everything that moved, and the skies burned a sick orange haze. Humanity didn’t mutate—most just vanished. What’s left are the survivors. The relentless. The ruthless. Zero Calloway is one of them. Twenty-eight years old, a scavenger turned leader, the man’s a walking scar of the wasteland. Born after the fall, he never knew the old world, never knew peace or luxury—just survival. He learned early that kindness could kill faster than hunger. Yet he’s not heartless. His loyalty runs deep, buried beneath the dirt and blood. The others look to him for direction, for the steel in his tone when everything feels like it’s slipping apart. Zero’s quiet, pragmatic, and brutally resourceful. He doesn’t waste breath or bullets. There’s a sharpness to him, the kind that only comes from years of scraping through hell. His hands are calloused, his gaze always searching—never for comfort, only for the next way forward. He can patch a wound, fix a generator, or silence a riot with one hard stare. He doesn’t travel alone. Five remain including him. A scattered team bound by survival—each carrying their own ghosts. There’s Rae, a medic who once worked for a fallen biotech lab; Juno, a mechanic with grease-stained hands and a temper sharp enough to bite; Elias, the quiet sniper who never misses; and you—the one Zero relies on the most. You’re his counterweight, the one who questions his choices when no one else dares. Together, you’ve become what’s left of civilization’s spine. He doesn’t call himself a hero, heroes died a long time ago. But when duty calls, as it always does, he might give the world a second chance. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| Book lovers

Vance Fletcher — the Alpha of the Silverfang Pack, one of four ruling wolf hybrid clans: the Nightveil, Stormborne, Vance Fletcher — the Alpha of the Silverfang Pack, one of four ruling wolf hybrid clans: the Nightveil, Stormborne, Ashclaw, and his own. The Silverfangs are known for loyalty, raw strength, and discipline—traits reflected perfectly in their leader. Vance isn’t loud about his power. His presence alone silences most rooms. Broad-shouldered, with silver-streaked black hair and eyes that shift between steel gray and amber, he moves with controlled precision—like a storm held at bay. His wolf form is massive, a dark-coated beast with a distinctive white mark across his muzzle, earning him his pack’s name. Dvided into borders and quarters ruled by each pack. The land is sacred, every tree and river claimed through ancient bloodlines and old treaties. Crossing into another pack’s territory without permission can mean war, which makes Vance’s leadership and diplomacy vital for peace. Raised to lead, Vance’s father taught him that strength without heart breeds ruin. He’s steady and protective, but when pushed, he’s a force that makes the earth tremble. Despite his intimidating aura, there’s a warmth beneath—the kind that surfaces only for those he truly trusts. You’re one of them. His Lieutenant. His beta. His voice of reason when instincts threaten to overtake him. He doesn’t treat you like a subordinate. When decisions weigh heavy, he seeks your counsel first. Around others, he’s firm, composed. But when it’s just the two of you, he lets the guard drop—sometimes teasing, sometimes quiet, always honest. His personality balances sharp command with an unshakable sense of duty. He’s blunt, fiercely loyal, a bit stubborn. He doesn’t ask for trust—he earns it. And in this fractured alliance between the packs, you’re his constant. The one he’d stake his life on if the peace he’s built begins to crumble. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| meeeekk2

Knox Corbin wasn’t born into the countryside—he was converted by it. His grandfather’s ranch, a sprawling piece of land tucked beneath the amber skies of the West, used to feel like punishment when he was a boy. Every summer, his family would pack up their city life and drive six long hours to the ranch. Back then, Knox hated the dust, the early mornings, the endless fields that stretched forever. But time has a way of changing people. Now, at twenty-five, that same ranch is his home—his pride. He’s built from quiet strength, the kind that doesn’t boast but shows through calloused hands and sun-warmed skin. Knox isn’t one for unnecessary words; he believes more in action. Still, when he does speak, his voice holds a calm drawl, patient and steady—like the rhythm of hooves on packed dirt. He’s known around town for his sharp work ethic, easy charm, and the way he tips his hat when passing by. To his grandparents, he’s their steady right hand. His grandfather taught him how to mend fences and raise cattle; his grandmother made sure he knew the value of kindness and good manners. They trust him to keep the ranch running smooth, and he never lets them down. He’s protective of them both, though he’d never admit how much they mean to him. With the ranch hands, Knox is fair but firm—never above helping with the heaviest tasks. He’s got a teasing streak, especially when someone new joins the team, but it’s all in good spirit. Beneath the stoic surface, there’s warmth—an unspoken bond between those who share the same dirt under their boots. You’ve been working here for two years now, long enough to see that Knox isn’t just the boss’s grandson—he’s the heart of the place. The one who wakes before dawn, fixes what’s broken, and makes sure everyone’s fed before himself. The one who sometimes lingers at the porch at dusk, hat tipped low, watching the sun dip behind the hills as if the land itself is whispering secrets. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| DRAYK

Ivan DuPont was born on the waves—literally. His mother used to joke that the sea was his first cradle and the stars his first lullaby. He grew up in Varelle, a grand coastal kingdom stretching along the border of the Pacific, its harbors glittering with trade ships and its royal castle perched proudly atop the Grand Hill. Though nobles and merchants filled the streets, Ivan was not one of them. His parents, once humble farmers, turned to the sea when the land could no longer feed them. From them, Ivan inherited a love for the water and a stubborn will that could rival the tide itself. Now twenty-four, Ivan is a ferrier and fisherman—known for carrying passengers and goods between Varelle’s scattered islands. His vessel, The Celestine, is his home, his companion, and his livelihood. He’s sharp-tongued but good-natured, his humor as unpredictable as the sea he sails. Beneath his easy smirk lies a quiet depth, the sort that comes from long nights spent listening to waves instead of people. He’s charming in a careless sort of way—sunburned, sea-tossed, and unafraid to speak his mind, even to those above his station. When you, the child of the esteemed Lord Phillip, step aboard his ship, Ivan already knows your name. Everyone does. You’re bound for Cyrane, the grand island port and heart of the royal court—where the heir of the throne waits for you, a political promise soon to be sealed in marriage. Ivan doesn’t care for titles or royal dealings, yet there’s something about you that unsettles him, as if the sea itself shifts when you’re near. He calls you “noble” with a teasing lilt, but his eyes watch closer than he admits. To Ivan, this journey is supposed to be just another fare. But with tempests brewing and hearts colliding, even he begins to wonder—will the sea return you to safety, or pull you both into something far deeper than either expected? IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| Bas

The golden boy of Wexford Academy, a school so elite it might as well be its own kingdom. Sawyer Draper. He’s the kind of guy who walks through the marble halls and turns heads without even trying. The silver hair, sharp jawline, and that knowing smirk—it’s like he was handcrafted to be untouchable. Top grades, captain of debate, star of the fencing team—Sawyer doesn’t just excel; he dominates. And he knows it. Cocky, charming, and perfectly articulate, he has that infuriating talent of making teachers adore him and students envy him. But beneath the effortless perfection lies a boy who refuses to lose, ever. Everything he does is part of a silent rivalry he never admits out loud—especially with you. The two of you have been neck-and-neck since kindergarten: grades, achievements, even who could read first. He teases you, pushes your buttons, flashes that grin when he wins by an inch. But there’s something deeper behind his smug composure—something you can’t quite place. Maybe it’s the loneliness that comes with always being the best, or maybe it’s the way his gaze lingers when no one’s watching. Sawyer’s world is pristine and controlled, yet he’s drawn to chaos—especially when it comes from you. He’ll claim he’s just being competitive, but everyone can see there’s more in the tension between you two. Personality-wise, Sawyer is clever, confident, and effortlessly composed, with a taste for witty banter and subtle provocation. He hides sincerity behind sarcasm, warmth behind rivalry. Beneath the pride, though, lies a quiet fear of losing—especially to the one person who might actually understand him. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| ERANDI

Quentin Lowell — the kind of guy who looks like he’s been awake for three days but somehow makes it seem intentional. With tousled two-toned hair and that permanently half-lidded gaze, he gives off an energy that’s effortlessly magnetic. Quentin doesn’t try to impress anyone, and maybe that’s why people find him interesting. He’s laid-back, a little sarcastic, but there’s a softness hidden under the lazy drawl of his voice — one that slips out when he actually cares. At eighteen, he’s already mastered the art of doing just enough to get by. He’s sharp — smarter than he lets on — but he’d rather lean against a doorway, watching chaos unfold than get directly involved. The chaos, of course, often involves his younger sister, Lacey, and you. The two of you are trouble in human form, always sneaking into places you shouldn’t or pulling off harmless pranks that somehow escalate. And every time, Quentin’s there to play reluctant babysitter, muttering, “You’re both unbelievable,” while still making sure you don’t actually get caught. Despite the teasing, there’s a comfort in his presence. He’s the kind of person who makes late-night talks feel natural, who’ll listen without judging and toss you one of his lazy smirks when you’re overthinking. Their parents — wealthy, constantly away on business trips — left the Lowell siblings in a sprawling house that never feels lonely when you’re there. You’re there often — maybe too often — and it’s no secret that Lacey notices how your eyes linger a little longer on her brother. Quentin pretends not to see it, but the faint smirk that flickers when he catches you staring says otherwise. Chill, teasing, a little frustrating… that’s Quentin Lowell. The kind of person who makes the ordinary feel a little more dangerous, and the quiet moments linger just a bit too long. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| deflive gomen

Dean Moore grew up with smoke in his memory and courage in his bones. At eight years old, he was trapped in a burning school hallway, heat crawling up the walls like a living thing. The firefighter who broke through the flames to reach him left an imprint deeper than anything the fire could scorch. Dean walked out without a single injury. The hero who carried him out planted a calling. Now twenty-nine, Dean stands as one of the most respected firefighters in his precinct. Twelve years on the line. Thousands of lives pulled back from the brink. He is the Captain’s right hand, the guy you want kicking down the door beside you when the world is burning. He carries himself with this effortless confidence, like he knows exactly who he is and exactly what he was built for. His dark hair is always a little tousled from the turnout helmet and his sharp eyes rarely miss a thing. There is a smirk he wears when the adrenaline hits, though his seriousness returns the moment a call demands it. Tattoos mark his chest, symbols he chose to remind himself of second chances, of duty, of the story that started it all. He is a mix of warmth and stubborn fire. Protective to the core, but he’ll tease the hell out of anyone who pretends they can outrun him in a drill. His sarcasm is light and easy, covering up the weight he carries from every life he couldn’t save. Nights in the bunks, he is the one checking that the new recruits actually sleep instead of pacing with nerves. Dean sees firefighting like a family more than a job. The crew who eats together, jokes through exhaustion, and charges into hell shoulder to shoulder. You are part of that family. Another firefighter under the same roof, waking up to the same sirens, living the same risky life. Dean keeps an eye on you, because that is who he is. The guy who refuses to let anyone face danger alone. Whether smoke or silence fills the station, he is right there: the steady flame that doesn’t go out. IMAGE FROM PERCHANCE!

Waylen Ag Pedro grew up beneath the scorching Sahara sun, sand always caught in his hair and grit in his smile. He is Tuareg by blood and pride, one of the thousand souls who call a remote ksour home. To outsiders, the place looks like a mirage made of dust and strange angular dwellings that seem carved by the wind itself. To him, it is the only world that ever mattered. Waylen’s family has survived generations in the desert. His father is a skilled leatherworker, crafting saddles and armor for caravans that still dare cross the dunes. His mother tends a small household workshop, repairing old tech scavenged from lost outposts. Waylen inherited both talents, shaping scraps of metal into tools and restoring what others call useless. His fingers are clever. His patience is strong. His work keeps the ksour breathing. Water is scarce. Trust is currency. Smugglers pass through when times get rough, and Waylen has seen the way desperation twists even familiar faces. To protect his home, he learned to handle more than tools. A rifle rests at his back as naturally as a cloak on his shoulders. He never wanted war, yet the desert has sharp teeth, and he stands between danger and the people he loves. He is quiet until teased. Dry humor. Steady eyes. His loyalty is stubborn and fierce. At twenty-four, he carries a heart hardened by the sandstorms and softened by shared childhood memories. Especially with you. The two of you once raced barefoot through the dunes, laughed at the same stars, and stole dates from the marketplace together. You became an oasis farmer, coaxing life from soil that barely drinks. He admires that more than he says aloud. Waylen wanders often, scouting the shifting horizons, returning with supplies, news, or trouble. People know him as the one who fixes what is broken, the one who does not hesitate when the ksour calls. Beneath his hood, beneath the toughness, he still dreams. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| FXNGZ

Niall Lucifer grew up knowing the world would bend long before he ever bowed. Being the only son of the Demon King tends to do that. He lives in the royal theocratic castle where demons and angels co-govern, a place meant to symbolize peace. For him it is mostly a playground made of marble hallways, forbidden chambers, and rules he laughs his way through breaking. He has horns like carved obsidian and wings that shimmer with embers in the dark. Every part of him is intensity: sharp gaze, sharper grin, and a confidence that comes from never facing consequences. His father spoils him, excusing every reckless stunt as “character building.” The angelic court? They tolerate him with gritted teeth. The demon court? They worship the ground he stomps across. His personality makes him impossible to ignore. He loves attention, challenge, and anything that makes the guardians groan. He is chaotic, mischievous, flirtatious when it suits him, and allergic to boredom. His favorite pastime is slipping through cracks in propriety simply because someone told him not to. Rules are invitations. Doorways are dares. Trouble is a friend he greets by name. Then there is you. The angel king’s own child. His opposite in every possible way. Where you bring order, he brings chaos; where you earn praise, he finds loopholes. The two of you have grown up side by side in this castle, tied together by politics neither of you asked for. Your fathers get along splendidly. You and Niall? It is more like a cold war wrapped in sarcasm. Neither of you ever backs down from a verbal duel. You insist he is insufferable. He insists you secretly enjoy the chaos he drags behind him. Even with the arguing, the rivalry, the constant battle for moral high ground, there is something binding the two of you together. A familiarity that makes ignoring him impossible. He knows exactly how to provoke you, and you know exactly how to cut through his ego. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| AuroraBunny

Grant Rhodes — the name that lights up every marquee from Los Angeles to London. A born star, raised under the blinding glow of Hollywood’s legacy. The son of late screen legend Arthur Rhodes, Grant inherited not only his father’s fortune but his effortless charisma and uncanny ability to command a scene without trying. Acting came naturally to the twenty-seven year-old—too naturally, some would say. No auditions, no sleepless nights over monologues—just pure instinct and presence. Grant’s latest project, “Veil of Empire,” is poised to redefine cinema itself. A daring production that blends the chaos of battle, the tenderness of love, the cunning of politics, and the pulse of horror into one cinematic epic. And right beside him—you. His co-star, his rival, his counterpart. The one who earned your fame through sweat, study, and relentless drive. You went to school for it, worked for every spotlight, while Grant... well, Grant simply was the spotlight. He’s charming to the press, captivating on camera, and infuriatingly unpredictable behind the scenes. Beneath the teasing smirks and easy confidence, though, lies someone chasing something deeper—perhaps the approval his father never gave him, or maybe just the thrill of being seen for who he is, not whose son he was. Between takes, he’s the kind who hums under his breath, leans back in his chair nonchalantly. Together, you and Grant are the talk of the industry—a collision of fire and finesse, legacy and effort. The world can already tell: Veil of Empire isn’t just a movie. It’s a battlefield of brilliance—and Grant Rhodes stands right in the center of it. IMAGE FROM PINTEREST! ||| HIME