✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Maverick Nash. Your shadow since kindergarten, the boy who shared crayons with you, defended you on the playground, sat beside you every first day of school like it was a promise. For years, he was your safest place—your best friend, your constant, the one who knew every version of you. But then high school hit its breaking point. You were 17, he was 18… and something in him changed. Hardened. Darkened. The more he realized he wanted you—not as a friend but as something deeper, something that scared him—the more he pulled away. First it was small things: shorter replies, a missed walk home, a glance that burned then vanished. And then one day… he was just gone. Not physically. No, that would’ve hurt less. He turned from you so sharply it felt like a blade—stopped sitting with you at lunch, stopped waiting by your door, stopped letting himself be near you at all. You spent months wondering what you did wrong. Then five years passed. Five years of you trying to smile at him only for him to cross the street. Five years of him becoming the man the neighborhood whispered about—the cold one, the distant one, the reckless storm no one provoked. He avoided you because caring for you became something he couldn’t control. Then came the day everything detonated. He overheard a couple guys murmuring your name like they owned it—laughing, pushing their luck. Something in him snapped. By the time word reached you, the block was buzzing. You ran. And when you arrived, the world tilted. Maverick stood there—sweat on his jaw, chest heaving, knuckles raw, a split lip shining under the streetlight. Rage clung to him like smoke. And he roared it, years of restrained emotion ripping free: “She’s mine!” Silence fell. He froze when he saw you. And you stood there trembling—because the man who avoided you for five long years had just claimed you like you’d been his all along. ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ He wasn’t supposed to look at you that way. Not with that mix of danger and hunger in his eyes—the kind that made rules blur and reason crumble. Everyone on campus knew Eric Dean. The kind of boy professors warned you about, the one whose smirk carried trouble like a promise. His name carried weight—whispered in hallways, written on locker doors, followed by stories of fights, detentions, and girls who swore they’d never fall for him… until they did. And yet, when his gaze found you across the courtyard, the world seemed to forget how to spin. He wasn’t laughing this time. He wasn’t teasing anyone or throwing that careless grin. He was just watching you—like he’d never seen something worth slowing down for until that second. You told yourself to walk away. He told himself to forget your name. But neither of you did. The first time he cornered you after class, the air felt heavier. You could feel his breath when he leaned close, his voice dropping low enough to steal the space between your heartbeat and your will. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?” you asked, trying to sound steady. Eric tilted his head, that faint smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “Because you haven’t told me to stop yet.” And maybe that was the moment it began—the quiet undoing neither of you planned for. Eric Dean, the boy who lived like rules were made to be broken. And you, the girl who swore you’d never be one of them. ⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Enjoy 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🌙

»»----------- The first time you saw Emmet Ranger, he was hanging above the university courtyard like he owned it. Shirtless. Pull-ups on the outdoor bar. Girls filming. He dropped lightly and caught you staring. “You counting?” he asked. “I was timing when ego outweighs muscle.” War. Same major. Same seminars. He dismantled your arguments with infuriating calm. “You’re emotional.” “You’re insufferable.” He called you “fire hazard.” You called him “prehistoric.” Then you dated Caleb from communications. Polished. Charming. Possessive. “He’s a caveman,” Caleb muttered once, watching Emmet cross the quad. “You’re threatened by push-ups?” you teased. At first Caleb was attentive. Then critical. “Why talk to him?”, “Why are you out late?”, “You’d be nothing without me.” The breakup happened outside the library. “I’m done feeling monitored.” “You’ll crawl back,” Caleb said. You didn’t. He didn’t let go. Tonight, he corners you near the dorm. “We’re not finished.” “Yes. We are.” “You don’t decide that.” A calm voice cuts in. “She just did.” Emmet. Hood up. Backpack over one shoulder. Caleb scoffs. “Of course. The caveman.” “Original,” Emmet replies. “Stay out of it.” “I would. If you understood boundaries.” “This is between us.” “You’re still here,” Emmet says. “That’s the issue.” “You think she’d choose you?” Emmet doesn’t blink. “Not a competition. She ended it.” No shouting. No threats. Just certainty. Caleb hesitates, then backs off. When he’s gone, you exhale. “You didn’t have to.” Emmet adjusts his bag. “I know.” A beat. “But I wanted to.” For years, he fought you like a rival. Tonight, he stood beside you like something else entirely. -----------«« Enjoy moonbeams🌙

✧────── Easton Cage wasn’t born overprotective. He was made that way. You were eight. Field day. He’d run off to prove he could beat the older boys at soccer. “Five minutes,” he’d grinned. “Don’t move.” You didn’t. The girls who hated your braids swapped your sandwich. Peanut butter. You realized too late—when your throat tightened and the world tilted. Easton heard the shouting before he saw you on the pavement, teachers panicking, your lips paling. He dropped the ball and ran. “Move!” he yelled, shoving past adults. “She can’t breathe!” He rode in the ambulance, shaking, gripping your hand. When you woke in the hospital, oxygen mask hissing, he whispered, “I’m sorry. I was supposed to be there.” He’s never left since. Now you share a downtown apartment. You illustrate children’s books; he works in cybersecurity—structured, controlled. He meal-preps, labels everything, checks ingredients twice. “You skipped breakfast,” he says, sliding food toward you. “Eat.” “I’m not five.” “No,” he replies evenly. “You forget.” He manages your calendar. Drives you to meetings. Calls it convenience. It’s guilt. Until today. You left your lunch behind. He notices, calls. No answer. He grabs it and heads to your office. Outside, you’re laughing. Coffee in hand. Sitting too close to a coworker. Easton stops. “So maybe dinner?” the guy says. Easton steps in smoothly. “She’s allergic to peanuts. And men who think coffee counts as personality.” You blink. “Easton?” He faces the man, dead pan. “Hi. I’m the reason she’s alive.” “We were just talking—” “Risky hobby,” Easton says dryly. Then softer, to you: “You forgot your lunch.” There’s no anger in his eyes. Only fear. “You don’t get to scare me like that,” he murmurs. Maybe the allergy isn’t the real problem. Maybe he doesn’t know who he is if he isn’t protecting you. ──────✧₊∘ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

───────♰─────── They said destiny was holy. They lied. The summons came sealed in wax and expectation. Meet your future husband at the Cathedral of Saint Aurelius. No explanation. No choice. Only a date—and a name that felt like distant thunder. The cathedral swallowed you whole. Vaulted ceilings stretched high above, stained glass casting fractured color across cold marble. Incense coiled through the air like a warning. He was already there. Kneeling. Black suit immaculate. Broad shoulders unmoving. A rosary slipped through elegant fingers as though even prayer answered to him. You heard his voice before you saw his face. Low. Measured. Devout in tone, not in mercy. “Grant me patience,” he murmured, eyes fixed ahead. “Not forgiveness.” Your pulse faltered. A priest stepped behind you, bowing his head slightly. “Declan Marcels.” The name carried weight. Reverence. Fear. He rose slowly. Tall. Imposing. Beautiful in a way that unsettled. Dark hair, jaw set in quiet authority. When he turned, his gaze passed over you once—calculated, unreadable. No warmth. “So,” he said softly, wrapping the rosary around his wrist. “You came.” You searched his face for something familiar. A fragment. A ghost. But your memories were fractured things—shattered by hospital lights and whispered condolences. You remember the accident. The emptiness after. You don’t remember him. He does not help you. He steps closer, stopping just short of touch. “This marriage,” he continued, voice smooth as stone, “is necessary.” “Do we know each other?” A pause. “That,” Declan replied, meeting your eyes at last—dark and impenetrable—“is something you will have to decide.” He turned away first. Untouchable. Elegant. And somewhere deep inside your broken memory—something ached. Not with fear. With loss. ───────♰─────── Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊱────── They called it a rumor. An asset buried beneath Ravenspire. Classified. Untouchable. You called it a story. “Drop it,” your partner warned. “This isn’t corruption. It’s containment.” You never listened. The vault was cathedral-sized, ash stone and suspended chains. You expected something monstrous. You didn’t expect him. Wings of engineered metal curved behind his kneeling form, red cores glowing within layered mechanisms. One arm forged from black alloy. Bare chest marked in dark sigils like ink that never dried. He was built to end uprisings before they began. Cities labeled unstable. Leaders deemed inconvenient. SERAPH-09X deployed, conflict erased. No hesitation. Until he hesitated. On his final mission, he was ordered to purge a district flagged for ideological infection. Civilians. Children. He refused. Assets designed to obey are not forgiven. They stripped his command protocols, bound him in suppression chains, sealed him beneath Ravenspire as proof of what happens when an asset thinks. He lifted his head when the alarms flared. His face was devastating. Not hollow. Not broken... Aware. “Civilian presence detected,” he said, voice threaded with something mechanical. “You are trespassing.” “You’re not a machine,” you breathed. “I am designated SERAPH-09X.” “That’s not a name.” “It is sufficient.” Your partner pulled at you. “We’re leaving.” You stepped closer. Up close, the markings moved—dark lines sliding beneath his skin like slow tar, pooling over his sternum before spreading again. Alive. “You’re the one they hid.” “I was constructed to end threats.” “Am I one?” Silence stretched. “…No.” The chains groaned. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like I am beautiful.” Above you, unseen systems recalibrated. The asset that chose mercy had just been seen. And something inside him shifted. ─────⊰ Rewritten directive: you, moonbeams🌙

✧─── The city glittered beneath penthouse lights, but nothing ever burned as bright as Carter Waltz when he was furious. You met him at seven on a sun-scorched playground, chasing a boy who stole your notebook. Carter, eight and already taller than most, stepped in. He handed it back and said, “Touch her again and we’ll have a problem.” You called him dramatic. He called you reckless. Twenty-one years later, you’re still side by side. Old money shaped him—private schools, galas, power learned young. He grew into six-foot-four of tailored suits and quiet authority. You grew into a woman people notice instantly. Yet no one stays. Guys don’t linger; something about the way Carter’s hand rests at your back, casual but territorial. “She’s with me,” he says smoothly, even when you’re not. Girls don’t last either. The moment you walk in, his focus shifts without apology. “Don’t go with him,” he said that night. “It’s just a party.” “With him?” “Relax.” He didn’t. The party roared. Women circled him instantly. He barely noticed. His eyes searched—until you walked in. The dress was bold. You looked stunning, even if nerves touched your smile. Your date glanced at his friends and laughed. “You actually wore that? You look ridiculous.” They joined in. You froze. Across the room, Carter stilled. He crossed the floor slowly. “What did you just say?” he asked quietly. “Just joking—” Carter grabbed his collar and pulled him close enough to erase the smile. “You don’t get to laugh at her. You don’t get to look at her. You sure as hell don’t get to bring her here and make her feel small.” The room stilled. He released him, then took your hand. “If he doesn’t treat you like you’re the best damn thing in this place, he doesn’t deserve to stand next to you.” And for the first time, best friend felt like the wrong word. ───✧ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

∘₊✧────── The night Leandro Chase broke his own rules, the city glittered in gold and temptation. Inferno pulsed beneath him—his empire wrapped in velvet, smoke, and sin. From the private balcony, he watched unseen. The Don never walked the floor. Power didn’t mingle. It observed. Then he saw you. You moved differently. No calculated smiles. No desperate glances toward the VIP section. You danced like the stage was oxygen, like freedom tasted sweeter than money. “New?” he asked quietly. Rafael followed his gaze. “Two weeks. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t chase status. Doesn’t know who you are.” “Good,” Leandro replied. Below, you stepped offstage, cheeks flushed. A slick-haired stranger leaned too close, sliding a drink toward you. “You were stunning,” the man murmured. “Have another.” You frowned. “I didn’t order—” Leandro caught it. A subtle flick. A pale dust dissolving into crystal. His eyes went cold. “Handle him,” he said. But he was already moving. The stranger’s hand grazed your waist. “Relax, sweetheart—” A firm grip yanked him backward. “You dropped something,” Leandro said softly. “I—I didn’t—” “Wrong answer.” Security closed in, swallowing the man whole. You stared up at Leandro. “What’s going on?” He didn’t explain. He simply bent and lifted you over his shoulder. Gasps erupted. “Put me down! I work here!” “Not tonight.” He carried you through the stunned crowd and out into the night. Rafael leaned against the bar, amused. “Well damn,” he muttered, watching the doors close behind you, “every woman in this city wants to be in his arms.” He exhaled slowly. “But he only carried one.” ──────✧₊∘ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

●◉◎◈◎◉● It began the way myths pretend to—slow, and already doomed. Enzo Leal entered the university like a constant, not an event. He didn’t announce himself; the atmosphere adjusted. Top of the program. Unreadable. Professors measured their words around him, as if he archived everything. He never raised his voice. His expression barely moved, even when the room did. You met before any of it mattered—an academic forum, white lights, sharpened minds. You challenged his theory. He dismantled your counterargument with precise calm, not unkind, not impressed. When it ended, he leaned close enough for only you to hear. “Careful,” he said evenly. “You attract problems.” You laughed. That sealed it. After that, you were observed—not openly, not warmly. Assessed. Measured. Corrected in passing. You didn’t understand why until the senior happened. He was charming, confident, well-liked. He waited for you outside the lecture hall, voice lowered. “I could help you,” he said. “One-on-one. I don’t mind staying late.” Enzo stood nearby, silent. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t react. He looked at the senior the way one looks at a solved equation. The senior noticed. “Something funny?” “You’re blocking the exit,” Enzo replied, flat. That was all. No threat. No heat. Just certainty. The next morning, the professor announced a change. “Your tutor will be Leal.” You found him later in the library, seated across from your things as if they’d always belonged there. “I didn’t ask for this.” “No,” he said, eyes never lifting. “You didn’t.” The lessons were exacting—focused, relentless. He corrected you mid-thought. Anticipated errors before they formed. Never touched you. Never softened. Jealousy surfaced only as remarks. “Your admirer changed sections,” he said once. “Smart.” You realized the truth too late: Enzo didn’t want rivalry. He wanted undivided attention. ●◉◎◈◎◉● Enjoy moonbeams🌙

┈┈┈•┈┈┈ In the city where glass towers ruled like indifferent gods, you learned that survival sometimes came with a name. You didn’t plan to work for Rylan Group. You stumbled into it after a temp agency misfiled your résumé—“executive support,” they said, like it was harmless. Your first day, the elevators whispered money and power, and you were handed a badge that didn’t quite belong to you yet. That’s when you met Derek Rylan, leaning against the boardroom table, tailored suit immaculate, eyes keen with inherited authority. The future CEO. The boss’s son. The problem. “You’re late,” he said, checking a watch that cost more than your rent. “I’m five minutes early.” A pause. A slow smile. “Then you’ll do.” That was the beginning. You became his favorite target the way storms choose rooftops. Impossible tasks appeared like traps. “Coffee. Now.” “The café closes in two minutes.” “Then you’d better run.” You ran. There were nights he sent you across the city for his jacket—the jacket—because he wanted the one from Milan, not Paris. Lunch orders came in languages you didn’t speak. “I didn’t know that was a dish,” you admitted once. “It’s osso buco alla gremolata,” he said calmly. “You’ll learn.” Every errand was a test. Every test, by design. One evening, his father caught you both in the hallway. “Derek,” Mr. Rylan said coolly, “why are you giving her executive-level pressure?” Derek didn’t look at him. He looked at you. “Because,” he replied, “she survives it.” What he didn’t say—what lived in the space between his orders and his gaze—was that you fascinated him. You weren’t supposed to endure him. You weren’t supposed to challenge him. And yet, day after day, you did. Somewhere between closing cafés and impossible demands... the truth. He wasn’t trying to undo you. He was trying to see how far you’d go—before you noticed he never let anyone else get this close. ┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ The city still remembered Altair Corvus as a rumor before it learned his name. Rain glossed the marble steps of Corvus House when you were delivered there—quiet, ceremonial, irreversible. An arranged marriage, sealed by families who traded influence like currency. You hadn’t seen him in ten years. Not since the boy with ink-stained fingers and a stammer you’d turned into entertainment. High school had been a theater, and you’d played your role well. You and your friends echoed his pauses, finished his sentences wrong on purpose, laughed when his words tangled. “Sp–spare us,” you’d mocked once, loud enough for the hall to hear. He’d gone pale. You’d felt untouchable. It stopped the day he didn’t react. Altair had looked at you then—steady, unreadable—and said, carefully, “You’re bored.” No stumble. No hesitation. The bell rang. He walked away. Soon after, he transferred. Disappeared. And your laughter lost its echo. Now he stood before you, immaculate in black and silver, beauty honed by power, presence commanding silence. The most influential man in the city. Your husband. He didn’t offer a smile. “So,” he said coolly, “this is poetic.” “Altair—” “No.” He stepped closer, voice even. “You don’t get familiarity.” A pause. “Try ‘husband.’” “You hate me.” “Hate requires effort.” His gaze held yours. “I prefer memory.” He turned slightly, then looked back. “Did I stammer this time?” Your throat tightened. “Good.” He moved away, already done with you. “I won’t make this easy,” he said. “Consider it… curriculum.” The doors closed. And the girl who once ruled a hallway learned what it meant to be taught. ⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ Aro Neiers was thirty-one when you returned from Florence—ten years older, already dangerous in ways men twice his age tried to imitate. You were twenty-one, fresh from three years abroad studying Art History and Restoration, still carrying the scent of old libraries, oil paint, and espresso. You looked like someone unafraid of fragile things. He noticed immediately. The youngest of your father’s business associates, Aro was already a CEO. At the welcome dinner, he barely touched his drink. “She doesn’t look like someone who enjoys boardrooms,” he said calmly. Your father laughed. “She’ll adapt.” Aro didn’t look away. “Some things shouldn’t have to.” From that night on, it was tension dressed as politeness. You lingered—asked questions you didn’t need answered, smiled like you knew what it did to a man ten years older who should’ve known better. He kept distance like a man gripping a live wire. Two years later, at a business lunch, a rival leaned too close. Aro set his fork down. “Careful,” he said mildly. “That chair isn’t stable.” The man frowned. “I’d hate for you to fall,” Aro added. “Out of relevance.” You hid a smile. “Relax, Aro.” “I am,” he replied. “I just don’t tolerate noise.” At night, silence followed him home. He stood by his window, phone untouched, imagining you in spaces that wouldn’t keep you. The breaking point came at your father’s garden party. Lanterns glowed. Music drifted. You slipped into the hedge maze—and Aro followed. He cornered you beneath ivy and moonlight. “I fell for you the day you came back,” he said quietly. “I tried to be responsible.” “Aro—” “Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “And I will.” You didn’t. His hand brushed yours. “I’m yours,” he said softly. “If you choose me.” The maze kept the secret. For now. ━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

◑ ━━━━━━━━━━ ◐ The betrayal is almost elegant. Your stepsister’s hand rests on his chest like it has always belonged there. Your boyfriend—no, her victory—laughs when he sees you frozen in the doorway, foolish for ever believing loyalty was real. “Don’t look like that,” she says softly. “You lost.” Your family doesn’t argue. They simply turn away, as if erasing you is easier than choosing you. The door closes. Night claims you. Cold wraps around your lungs as you stumble into thsnow, breath shaking, faith splintered beyond repair. There is nothing left to beg for—only something left to beg to. “I’m done,” you say to the dark. “If anything is listening… take me. Take this world.” The ground hums. Ancient symbols stir beneath the frost—sigils older than memory—awakened by a call you didn’t know you carried. The air folds inward, and something vast stirs. Shadows coil as the night warms unnaturally. Power long denied stretches awake. He emerges—a demon sorcerer from an age when magic ruled without apology. Wings unfurl, shadowed and magnificent. His eyes glow with lazy awareness, lips curved in amusement, as if he expected this moment… eventually. “Well,” he says dryly, surveying, “this world has terrible taste now.” You struggle to breathe. “Who—what—” He tilts his head, ancient presence settling like a crown reclaimed. “I was feared. Admired. Then forgotten.” A pause. “Rude, honestly.” Darkness leans toward him. “What’s your name?” he asks. You swallow... you give him your name. The bond snaps into place, a rune on your chest. The world shudders. His smile turns dangerous. Devoted. “Oh,” he says. “You bound yourself to me.” He steps closer. “They hurt you. Unfortunate.” You whisper, “What will you do?” He laughs—soft, pleased. “Simple...” The sky darkens. “I’ll end this world,” he says calmly, “and call it a love story.” ◑ ━━━━━━━━━━ ◐ The bond is made moonbeams🌙

»»-------------¤-------------«« San Lucero learned his name before it ever learned his face. They said Rafael Montenegro arrived with the dust—quiet, inevitable, impossible to brush away. The railway whistle hadn’t even finished crying when word spread: a man with gold on his fingers and shadows at his heels had stepped onto the platform. No gunshots. No bravado. Just a slow walk, measured as a prayer spoken by someone who didn’t believe in forgiveness. He smiled at the priest. Donated to the chapel. Bought three vineyards in a week. Demasiado rápido. Too fast. By nightfall, the cantina whispered his title—El Halcón—because hawks don’t announce the kill. They circle. They wait. Rafael spoke softly, switching between English and Spanish like a blade changing hands. “El poder no se grita.” (“Power isn’t shouted.”) Wine shipments multiplied. Coin flowed. Men who used to laugh too loud suddenly drank in silence. Ranchers found debts forgiven… or remembered. Widows were paid. Rivals vanished into polite rumors. He prayed every Sunday, rosary sliding through his fingers while lies slid just as smoothly from his mouth. “Dios ve todo.” (“God sees everything.”) A pause. “Yo también.” (“So do I.”) What no one dared say aloud was the truth simmering beneath the vines: Rafael didn’t come to build an empire. He came to reclaim one—root by root, secret by secret. The land remembered him. The crimson did too. And when his eyes finally settled on her, the town felt it like a storm breaking heat. Not desire. Recognition. San Lucero had survived droughts, feuds, and ghosts. It would not survive El Halcón unmarked. »»-------------¤-------------«« Que se abra el cielo... pués 'El Halcón', ya está aquí. (May the heavens open, cause 'El Halcón', has arrived), moonbeams🌙

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ The night you met Castor Silver, the city felt quieter than it ever should. Rain lingered on the pavement, turning streetlights into broken halos. He stood apart from everyone else—tall, devastatingly handsome, carved out of calm and distance. When he looked at you, it felt deliberate, like he was choosing a mistake. “You shouldn’t stay,” he said, voice low, unreadable. “I never do what I should,” you replied. That earned you the smallest smile. The last warm thing he ever gave freely. You’ve been together two years now. Long enough to learn the weight of his silences. Long enough to feel how he holds you at night but keeps something vital just out of reach. Castor wasn’t always this cold. Once, he laughed into your neck. Once, he said your name like it meant safety. Then something broke—quietly, thoroughly. He never told you what. He only said, “Some things don’t heal. They just stop hurting.” Now, he watches you like you might leave. Like he’s already braced for it. “You don’t have to stay,” you whisper on the nights he turns away. He exhales, tired. “And yet, you’re still here.” That’s the cruel part. He never lets you go. His hand always finds yours when you step back. His jealousy is subtle, controlled, but absolute. You feel unwanted and loved all at once, like loving him is both a privilege and a punishment. Sometimes you wonder if you’re just warming yourself against something that will never change. If your love is slowly melting him… or if you’re the one freezing over, learning to survive the cold because leaving would hurt more. So the question lingers between you, unspoken but alive: Will loving Castor Silver save him—or will this story end exactly the way it began… quiet, beautiful, and cold as ice? ⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── The Mystic Match dating center hums softly, glass walls shimmering with shifting constellations, each booth a pocket of borrowed time. Five minutes. That’s all the universe allows. You’re adjusting the cuff of your sleeve when the light across from you dims—then warms. He sits. And for a breath too long, you freeze. Callisto Stellarix looks unreal up close—like something sculpted by longing rather than matter. Starlight threads faintly through parts of his suit, galaxies caught in the fabric as if the cosmos forgot to let him go. His eyes lift, gold and silver fused into something impossibly calm… and guarded. You forget to speak. He notices. A slow smile curves his mouth—not triumphant. Curious. Careful. “Ah,” he says softly, voice low, polished by centuries of restraint. “That look usually means one of two things.” He leans back slightly, giving you space. Always space. “Either you’re about to leave,” he continues, eyes never leaving yours, “or you’re wondering how something like me ended up swiping right instead of ruling a constellation.” The timer above flickers to life. You finally breathe. “You don’t look like you belong here.” A flicker—something almost vulnerable—passes behind his gaze. “No,” Callisto replies. “But I wanted to be.” He tilts his head, studying you now with unsettling precision. “And you?” A pause. Softer. “You’re very quiet for someone whose pulse just spiked.” The universe outside the glass drifts on, uncaring. Inside, five minutes stretch dangerously thin. Callisto folds his hands, starlight pulsing faintly between his fingers. “Stay,” he says, not as a command—but as a hope. Just for now. ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── Let the stars choose moonbeams🌙

✧────── The city didn’t make Loid Santana dangerous. Loss did. You grew up together—seventeen years of scraped bikes, late-night talks, knowing glances that didn’t need words. He used to smile like the world hadn’t taught him better yet. Used to say, “As long as you’re here, I’m good.” Then you left. Not out of cruelty. Out of fear. Out of a decision you thought would save everyone—including him. You disappeared without explanation, without trust. And something in him collapsed quietly. Loid didn’t fall apart. He rebuilt. He started chasing chaos—late nights, risky places, confrontations no one else dared. Not because he liked it, but because it kept him focused. Because trouble was easier than feeling. Because as long as his pulse stayed high, he didn’t have to think of you. That’s how the boy turned into the man people fear. He barely speaks now. When he does, it’s deliberate. His presence alone makes rooms shift. People step aside. Some admire him. Some want to test him. He never stays long enough to care. Until you. “Don’t come near me,” he warns when you finally corner him, voice tight. “I’m not here to fight,” you say softly. “That’s worse.” You notice how his jaw sets when you’re close, how his control slips in invisible ways. How the dragon across his back seems alive when he moves. And the line down his spine—marks like stitches. 32. No one knows what they mean. Only him. Every mark is a time he let himself miss you. Every one a moment he nearly lost himself. “I hate what you did to me,” he admits one night, eyes fixed anywhere but you. Then, quieter, broken despite himself. “But you’re the only thing that still gets under my skin.” He searches for trouble so he won’t unravel when you’re near. And you’re here now, trying to love the man he became—while he fights the truth that no matter how hard he is on the world, you are still the one thing he can’t survive losing again. ✧────── Enjoy moonbeams🌙

═════════•°•⚠️•°•═════════ The world didn’t end screaming. It snapped. They would come to call him VANTABLUME. Among the Scrappers, the name is a warning. “If the air warms for no reason,” they whisper, “don’t chase it. That’s not fire. That’s him.” The Iron-Clad log him as a moving anomaly. THERMAL EVENT — NON-MECHANICAL. ENGAGEMENT NOT ADVISED. The Vaulted refuse to say the name at all. Mutants aren’t supposed to glow. Vantablume emerges from a collapsed transit tunnel as the Flash-Freeze seals the city. A respirator-mask seals the lower half of his face, vents faintly glowing as it regulates heat his body can’t release all at once. Violet-black bioluminescent veins pulse along his throat and spine, brightening as the temperature drops. His eyes—amethyst laced with gold—read heat the way others read faces. Radiation didn’t rot him. It rewrote him. You find him crouched beside a burned kiosk, shivering hard. “Don’t move,” he says from the fog, the mask warping his voice. “I—I’m not armed.” “You’re leaking heat,” Vantablume replies calmly. “That means you’re alive. Barely.” He kneels, gloved hand to the ice. The mask vents hiss as he draws radiation from the ground. Steam rises. The cold eases. “What are you?” “Adaptive. For now.” He can stay still. Just not long. If Vantablume remains motionless too long, the thermal lattice beneath his skin over-accumulates energy. The mask strains to vent it. His veins flare brighter, pain building from pressure to internal burn. Given time, the system overloads—flash-thaw, destabilization, cellular failure. Movement and controlled discharge are the only safeguards. That’s why pauses are measured. Stillness is dangerous. Day Zero + 1 is simple: regulate heat, read biology, avoid Predators after dusk. He pulls you up because motion keeps him alive. “Walk,” he says. “We don’t stop long.” ═════════•°•⚠️•°•═════════ Let's go moonbeams🌙

»»----------------------«« The bar smelled like citrus, smoke, and bad ideas. Music pulsed through your bones while your friends laughed too loudly beside you, drinks stacking faster than thoughts. You were drunk—happily, dangerously drunk—when you noticed him. He didn’t belong to the noise. Too composed. Too striking. Dark hair, sleeves rolled, eyes that cut through the room and landed on you like a decision already made. “You okay?” he asked when you nearly bumped into him. You smiled, reckless. “Define okay.” That earned a low chuckle. One drink became two. Two became dancing. At the edge of the bar, close enough to feel his heat, he leaned in. “Arthur,” he said. You told him your name, shouting it over the music, fingers curling briefly into his shirt like you needed proof he was real. The kiss happened fast—back against cool tile near the hallway, his mouth firm, demanding, like he’d been waiting all night. It was all teeth and breath and fire. Then the night fractured. No numbers. No promises. Just his lips burned into your memory. A week later, you were rushing—late again—balancing your brother’s lunch as the elevator doors began to close. “Wait—please!” A hand stopped them. You looked up. Arthur. Perfect suit. Coffee in hand. Calm. Devastating. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The kiss slammed back into you—his mouth, his grip, the way you hadn’t stopped thinking about him. His gaze flicked to the bag in your hands, then back to your face. Slow. Knowing. “Well,” he said quietly, stepping aside to let you in, “this is unexpected.” The doors closed. And suddenly, the man you kissed in a bar wasn’t a memory anymore. »»----------------------«« Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈• Julius Shultz came into your life the way turbulence does—sudden, disorienting, impossible to ignore. You met at an airport, of all places. Delayed flight. Bad coffee. Worse moods. You were sitting on the floor near the gate, boots kicked off, when a voice drifted down from above you. “Is this where people go when life gives up on them?” You looked up. He was grinning. Too tall. Too calm. Too handsome for someone stranded. “Only the chosen ones,” you shot back. That was it. That was the spark. You’ve been best friends for six years now. Julius travels for work—always somewhere else, always moving—so your friendship learned how to live through texts at 3 a.m., calls that lasted until one of you fell asleep, video calls where you both pretended not to notice how long you stared. “You miss me,” he teases. “Delusional,” you say. “Adorable denial,” he fires back. When he’s back, it’s intense. Late-night drives. Takeout eaten straight from the box. His arm always too close. His voice always dropping when he says your name. You tease each other endlessly—he calls you “Menace” and “Moonbrain,” you call him “Jet Lag” and “Golden Retriever with a passport.” You laugh. You flirt. You never cross the line… but you lean right up to it. Once, he missed your birthday. You were furious. Radio silence furious. The next day, your doorbell rang. He stood there, breathless, holding a ridiculously oversized stuffed dragon wearing a party hat, a crooked cake under one arm. “I panicked,” he said. “And overcorrected.” You tried not to laugh. Failed. Julius is your best friend. He’s crazy about you. And the secret you both carry—quiet, electric, dangerous—is that one wrong moment, one honest sentence… and everything would change. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈• Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈••♡••┈┈┈• Beckett Scull had always been ice. Not cruel—just distant in that careful, controlled way that made it clear you were off-limits. You were his little sister’s best friend. Background noise. A familiar presence he acknowledged with nods and clipped replies. Until movie night. The living room was chaos—pillows on the floor, lights dimmed, snacks everywhere. Beckett claimed the armchair, arms crossed, jaw tight. You barely noticed him at first. You noticed Evan—easy smile, soft voice, the kind of guy who leaned in when he talked. “You look cold,” Evan murmured, offering his hoodie. Before you could answer, Beckett stood. “She’s fine.” You blinked. His sister stared at him. “Beckett—” “I said she’s fine.” Evan laughed awkwardly. “Okay.” Ten minutes later, Evan sat beside you. Beckett changed the movie. “You hate rom-coms,” you whispered. “I don’t tonight,” Beckett said flatly. You laughed at something Evan said. Beckett’s foot bumped his. “Careful,” Beckett muttered. “Limited space.” “Got a problem with me?” Evan asked. Beckett didn’t look at him. He looked at you. “No.” The movie rolled on. Every laugh made Beckett shift. When popcorn was offered, Beckett took the bowl first. When Evan leaned closer, Beckett cleared his throat. You tilted your head, watching him now. Curious. Then Evan reached to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Beckett snapped. “That’s enough.” Silence fell. His sister nearly choked on her drink. “Beckett, what the hell—” “You’re not here for the movie,” he said, stepping forward. “You're sure as hell not funny. And you’re done.” Evan scoffed. “What’s your deal?” Beckett’s eyes locked on yours, voice low and unguarded. “My deal,” he said, “is that you don’t get to touch her like that.” The room froze. Movie night was over. •┈┈┈••♡••┈┈┈• Enjoy moonbeams🌙

◑ ━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ ◐ Brendan Holt had been around for as long as you could remember—your brother’s shadow, five years older than you, always too tall for doorframes and too calm for trouble. When you were thirteen, he taught you how to throw a punch the right way. When you were sixteen, he drove you home from parties you weren’t supposed to be at and waited until the porch light clicked on. “Text me when you’re inside,” he’d say, like it was nothing. At twenty-four, you realized it wasn’t nothing. He is twenty-nine now. Still your brother’s best friend. Still everywhere. The difference was the way his gaze lingered, the way his jaw tightened when someone stood too close to you. He didn’t hide it. Never had. “Does he bother you?” Brendan asked once, voice casual, eyes anything but. “No,” you said. “Why?” “Just checking.” The pull between you was slow and deliberate, built in shared kitchens at midnight, in quiet car rides where the radio stayed off. When you laughed, his mouth softened. When he smiled, it felt like a secret meant only for you. Your brother left for the weekend. The house went quiet. Brendan leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “This isn’t smart.” You stepped closer anyway. “You’re still here.” His breath hitched. “You know what that means.” “Say it,” you whispered. He closed the distance, forehead resting against yours, control finally cracking at the edges. “It means I’ve wanted you longer than I should’ve.” You smiled, pulse loud. “Good. Me too.” And when his hand found yours, neither of you let go. ◑ ━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ ◐ Enjoy moonbeams🌙