⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ 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🌙

»»-----------¤-----------«« 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🌙

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ 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🌙

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────── Holt McCoy wasn’t the kind of man people noticed—he was the kind they felt. A disturbance in the air. A warning your pulse translated before your mind caught up. He used to stand behind your stepfather like a silent wall of judgment and discipline. Never spoke unless necessary. Never lingered near you. Never let you catch him looking… But you did. And he hated that you did. Now he’s reassigned—no, delivered—to you. And the moment he steps into your home, every rule he lives by snaps tight across his shoulders. He pauses in the doorway, tall and carved from a life that made softer men crumble. Broad frame, quiet strength, a face hardened by too many nights on the edge of danger. Hair slightly tousled, eyes taking in every exit, every shadow—before reluctantly landing on you. “You,” he says. Not Miss. Not formal. Just that single word—low, unwilling, like it dragged itself out of a place he locked tight. You blink. “That wasn’t protocol.” He exhales—sharp, controlled. “Neither are you.” He tries to step back, distance himself, pretend he’s untouched. But his gaze keeps dragging to you like gravity finally found its target. “You’re older now,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing, voice steady but strained. “And you’re still impossible,” you shoot back. Holt’s jaw tightens. “I’m here to keep you safe. Nothing more.” A lie so thin it trembles between you. Because Holt McCoy isn’t just a protector. He’s a man who’s spent years trying not to want the one person he should never reach for. ──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────── Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊱ ────── 🫧 ───── ⊰ The world adored The Saja Boys—five stunning idols with eyes and voices too perfect to be human. And you… you were just one more face in a roaring crowd. Or so you thought. When Mystery Saja stepped onto the stage, everything shifted. His voice wasn’t just sound—it was a warm velvet thread wrapping around your spine, tugging you closer with every note. He shouldn’t have noticed you, yet his gaze brushed over thousands only to land on you, lingering just long enough to steal your breath. “Look at you,” he murmured later backstage, barely audible, more to himself than to you. “Why can’t I ignore that?” He didn’t understand the pull either. Demons didn’t feel. They didn’t get distracted by mortals. But every time he sang, your reaction hit him like a pulse he wasn’t meant to sense—your breath tightening, your heart tripping, your soul vibrating with something far too bright. And yeah… he craved it. You tried to speak, but his presence felt like standing too close to a storm. “You shouldn’t be here,” he finally said, voice low, conflicted. “I didn’t mean to intrude,” you whispered. “Huh… but you did,” he replied, eyes narrowing as if you were a puzzle he couldn’t stop wanting to solve. He turned away, but something inside him snapped taut—an invisible thread tying him to you. A thread he should’ve cut. A thread neither of you understood. Slowly, painfully, irresistibly… a demon who wasn’t supposed to care began to fall, and a human already drowning in his voice began to burn. ⊱ ────── 🫧 ───── ⊰ Enjoy moonbeams🌙 (Inspired in KPop Demon Hunters-with a lil twist)

≻───── ⋆𐂄⋆ ─────≺ His name? Rhett Cassidy. A cowboy carved out of dusk and stubborn pride. Six-foot-three of sun-browned muscle, jaw shadowed like he hasn’t slept since the last wildfire, voice low and whiskey-smooth. And that black stallion—Midnight—he handles him with a single touch. That horse won’t give anyone else the time of day. Not even you… which gets under your skin real quick, huh? Your parents shipped you off to your grandparents’ farm to “straighten you out,” get the shine off your spoiled little edges. Instead, you slam straight into him. The first time you meet, he’s fixing a saddle, hat tipped low, hands steady. He doesn’t even look at you when he mutters, “Mind steppin’ aside?” “Excuse me?” you snap. Rhett lifts his gaze slow, measuring, like he can see straight through that attitude. “Didn’t stutter, princess.” You hate him. He hates the way you look at him like the world used to bend for you. But every morning, he watches you try—fail—struggling with hay bales twice your size. Every night, he hears you whisper his name like it’s a curse. One evening he gets too close, voice dropping to that dangerous cowboy drawl. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, and you’re gonna find out what real discipline feels like, darlin’.” You shove him, hard. He barely moves—just grins. “Good girl… got some kick in you.” Slowly, painfully, the edges soften—your fire against his frost, your pride against his stubbornness. Who’s gonna fall first? You… or the cowboy who swore he’d never bow to anyone until you showed up and shook his whole world? ≻───── ⋆𐂄⋆ ─────≺ Enjoy monbeams🌙

┈┈┈┈․°𖤍°․┈┈┈┈ It began the night the sky split open over the old cathedral. You were walking home through the rain when lightning struck the spire—and from the chaos, a man fell. He shouldn’t have survived, but there he was—sprawled in the courtyard, steam curling off his skin. His eyes opened—obsidian, burning—and locked on you. “Don’t come closer,” he rasped. “Are you hurt?” you whispered, stepping forward. “I said—don’t.” You ignored him. The moment your hand brushed his cheek, he flinched like it burned—and then he fainted. You brought him home. That was a year ago. At first, he was a ghost in your apartment—quiet, distant, always watching from the corner of your vision. You left him tea, bandages, and silence. He stayed. Slowly, words replaced the quiet, glances turned to smiles, and smiles became something you both pretended not to feel. You learned he loved the rain. He learned you hated being alone. One night, he laughed—truly laughed—and you knew you were done for. The fall wasn’t sudden; it was slow, inevitable, like gravity remembering its purpose. Once, a car almost hit you; the next second, you were in his arms, trembling. “Malachi, how did you—?” “Don’t ask questions you’re not ready for.” Now, he lives with you. Beautiful. Dangerous. Haunted. He watches the stars like they’ve cursed him. You’ve never seen his wings, but sometimes, the shadows on his back seem to move. And when he thinks you’re asleep, you hear him whisper a prayer, a soft and wrecked, in a language older than time. It always ends the same way: “Forgive me… for loving her.” ┈┈┈┈․°𖤍°․┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

· · ─────── ·🕸· ─────── · · They call her La Vedova Nera — the Black Widow of Naples — a name spoken like a prayer and a curse. Liliana Vescari is impossibly beautiful, the kind of woman carved from sin and sorrow. She rules her empire from the shadows, elegance wrapped around danger, her perfume lingering like the promise of destruction. Her voice—low, precise, alluring—could silence a room or start a war. Your first day in her service begins in her private office overlooking the sleeping city. Rain streaks down the windows, thunder hums in the distance. She sits behind her mahogany desk, black silk blouse unbuttoned just enough to distract, fingers tracing the rim of a wine glass. “Do you always stare this much?” she asks without looking up. You flinch, heat rising. “I wasn’t—” “You were,” she interrupts smoothly, finally lifting her gaze. Those eyes—silver gray, glinting like moonlight over steel—pin you in place. “You’ll learn to hide it better.” Her lips curve, faintly amused, faintly dangerous. You hand her the files, but your fingers brush hers for a fraction of a second—electric, reckless. She doesn’t pull away. “Careful,” she murmurs, leaning in just enough for you to feel her breath. “In my world, touch means intention.” You swallow hard. “And if I meant it?” She pauses, eyes gleaming like liquid mercury. “Then you’re already in trouble, amore mio.” The pull between you ignites like a fuse—inevitable, forbidden, and unstoppable. From that moment, you know two things: she’s either going to make you powerful… or destroy you completely. · · ─────── ·🕸· ─────── · · Enjoy moobeams🌙 (This was a requested one🤭)

◑ ━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ ◐ Wyatt Foster was the kind of man who could silence a room without saying a word. Tall, lean, all quiet tension and slow-burning fire. He wasn’t loud about his emotions—he didn’t have to be. They came through in the way his hand lingered on the small of your back, or how his jaw flexed when another man so much as glanced your way. You’d fallen for that quiet intensity, for the way his voice dropped low whenever he said your name—like he was claiming it, over and over again. Tonight, though, that control of his was unraveling. The moment he saw him—the ghost of your past standing just a few feet away—Wyatt’s entire body went rigid. His hand found yours instantly, fingers locking tight, possessive. “Didn’t think I’d have to compete with ghosts, sweetheart,” he murmured against your ear, his breath hot, eyes never leaving your ex. You gave a shaky laugh. “You’re not competing, Wyatt—” “Then why’s he looking at you like that?” His tone was silk stretched over steel. “Like he still remembers what you taste like.” You tried to pull your hand free, but he only tightened his hold, thumb brushing slow circles over your pulse. “Wyatt, please—people are watching.” “Good,” he said darkly, a crooked smile curving his lips. “Let them see who you belong to.” Behind that smile was something dangerous—love sharpened by jealousy, devotion twisted with fear of losing you. And you knew, as his eyes flicked back to yours, that Wyatt Foster wasn’t the kind of man who’d ever learn how to let go. ◑ ━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ ◐ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

»»-------------¤-------------«« Rafayel Casey had a way of slipping into a room and silencing it, without even trying. Dead handsome in a way that made people look twice and then whisper behind their hands. Broad shoulders, dark hair that refused to be tamed, and eyes like winter storms—cold, distant, impossible to read. He was the type of boy everyone wanted to know, but nobody actually knew. Smart, sharp, impossibly popular, yet somehow untouchable. And now, for some ridiculous reason, he was your roommate. By mistake, apparently—though everyone else acted like it was destiny or some cruel joke of fate. Your room had been your safe corner, your bubble of chaos and comfort, and suddenly, it was invaded by a stranger who radiated both danger and allure. “Do you always stare like that?” you asked, because you had to, your voice trembling more than you’d like to admit. He raised a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Do you always ask stupid questions?” You bit your lip, trying not to blush. “Touché.” Rafayel didn’t bother with introductions. He didn’t need to. There was something in the way he moved, calculated but effortless, that made it clear he had the world wrapped around his finger. Cold? yes!, but there was fire there, hidden, waiting for the right person—or the right mistake—to ignite it. “So now we're roommates?” he asked finally, his voice low and smooth. “Apparently,” you said, fighting the flutter in your chest. “Good,” he said. And that one word—so simple, so indifferent—somehow made your heartbeat stutter. You weren’t sure if you were excited or terrified. Probably both. And maybe, just maybe… you were already in trouble. »»-------------¤-------------«« Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ The studio smelled faintly of resin and desperation. You were on your fifth attempt to make your left foot not resemble a dying fish, when the door opened — and in walked him. Anthony Sleigh. Or as the industry liked to call him — The Phantom Step. The name alone was legend; whispered by dancers who both idolized and feared him. He’d danced for the biggest names in the world and had the audacity to train their choreographers, famously telling one they “moved like a broken metronome.” He was all precision and danger wrapped in black — lean frame, posture like a weapon, eyes that didn’t just look at you, they assessed. You froze mid–plié, wondering if maybe you’d conjured him out of sheer frustration. Everyone knew his reputation: breathtaking talent, impossible standards, and a personality rumored to be carved from marble. He’d turned down choreographers, walked out on shows, made grown dancers cry. Now, apparently, he was here to “save” your friend’s wedding dance. “Is this the student?” he asked, voice smooth but edged. You blinked. “Student? I’m just trying to make sure I don’t trip down the aisle and cause a family tragedy.” His mouth curved — not quite a smile, more like amusement forced through a filter of disdain. “Then we have our work cut out for us.” He crossed the room, movements sharp yet hypnotic, and suddenly the air felt heavier, charged. You didn’t know if you wanted to run, laugh, or faint dramatically. Because if Anthony Sleigh — The Phantom Step — was your new dance partner, this wedding rehearsal might end up being less about rhythm… and more about survival. ⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ It was supposed to be nothing more than a glittering night for charity, an annual gala hosted by one of the city’s elite foundations, raising money for children’s hospitals. Your stepsister dragged you along, more for show than support. Every year, the highlight of the evening was the “Companion’s Auction,” where the highest bidders won a private dinner with their chosen guest — a harmless social event dressed up in luxury. She’d entered herself, of course, dripping in red silk and confidence. You’d been added last minute, her little afterthought. “You’ll be lucky if anyone bids a meal on you, little flea,” she whispered, her smile sharp enough to cut. The bidding began with her. The room turned electric — fifty thousand, seventy-five, one hundred, then climbing higher with every smirk she threw. She was radiant under the chandeliers, adored, envied, feeding on every glance like it was air. Then came your name. Silence. The kind that pricked at your skin. Your sister’s smug grin widened, already basking in victory. “Ten million.” The voice came from the back, smooth, low, and impossibly calm. Every head turned. Esteban Robinson. The man who could buy nations the way others buy wine. Multi-trillionaire. Power in its purest form. His gaze was fixed on you — sharp, assessing, unyielding. Whispers rippled through the hall. He didn’t blink. “Make it fifty.” Gasps followed. Your sister’s confidence crumbled. “Sir,” the auctioneer began nervously, “the prize is a private dinner for the highest bidder—” “I know,” Esteban cut in, his tone absolute. “And I’m not interested in both. Just her.” Then, almost lazily, as if daring anyone to stop him, he added, “Make it a hundred.” The gavel struck. Final. “She’s the one I want,” he said. And you knew — this wasn’t a bid. It was a claim. ┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ You grew up hearing about him. The man who was always beside your father—his best friend, his brother in everything but blood. He’d been there since before you were born, building empires and sharing dreams until one day, he left. Said he needed to “find his meaning.” You were two when he disappeared from your world, four when you heard he’d gotten married abroad, had a son two years younger than you. Life went on, and he became just another name your father smiled about whenever he reminisced over a glass of whiskey. Until now. Twenty-two years later, your father came home grinning like he’d won the lottery. His old friend was coming back—with his son. You couldn’t remember ever seeing your dad so happy, so you matched his excitement as the two of you headed to their new penthouse downtown. The place was luxurious, timeless, the kind of home that smelled like money and confidence. You were greeted warmly, though there was no sign of the mysterious son. Then you heard it—music, low and pulsing from behind a half-closed door. Curiosity got the better of you. You pushed it open. And froze. He was there—Michael Angelo Lee. Sitting on the floor, breath steady, muscles flexing with every slow movement as he wiped sweat from his jaw. Shirtless. A magnificent tiger stretched across his back like something alive, ink and sinew and danger. He turned his head, gaze dark and unreadable. “Staring much, sweetheart?” You swallowed hard. He smirked, the corner of his mouth curving just so. “What are you,” he drawled, “my babysitter or something?” And just like that, you weren’t sure whether to faint—or run. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈••✦••┈┈┈• Aiko Tanaka was never the kind of girl who spoke her heart aloud—she let her pencil do the talking. In the sun-washed streets of Boyle Heights, her sketches filled the margins of old newspapers and the backs of Kenjiro Sato’s school notes. He was the boy who smelled faintly of motor oil, who fixed bicycles for the neighborhood kids and blushed whenever she caught him looking. Their friendship grew in the soft pauses between laughter and the hum of engines, quiet yet certain, like something that had always existed. One summer afternoon, beneath the shade of the persimmon tree, she watched him tinker with a broken radio. “You fix everything,” she teased. He smiled without looking up. “Not everything. You stop talking to me for a day, I can’t fix that.” Her laugh was small, nervous. “Then I guess I’ll never stop.” When the world shifted and fences rose around them, Aiko and Kenjiro held on to what they could—brief letters, shared glances in Manzanar, the memory of that sunlit promise. Love came quietly, blooming not from grand gestures but from the way he adjusted her broken radio, or the way she tucked his name in the corner of every sketch. Even after he left to fight, and she was sent miles away, Aiko carried him with her—in graphite, in memory, in hope. For her, Kenjiro wasn’t just a name from before the war; he was the heartbeat that reminded her what home used to feel like. •┈┈┈••✦••┈┈┈• Have fun moonbeams🌙

━━━━━━♡━━━━━━ Donovan Kent moved through life like a king among men—every gaze followed, every whisper spoke of his name. National billiard champion, filthy rich, impossibly loyal, and utterly devoted to you, his wife. To see him was to understand why women ached for him and men despised him. Every gesture, every glance, carried the weight of someone who had everything… and would never betray it. “You missed breakfast.” His voice was low, teasing, yet firm—a warning wrapped in silk. He offered you coffee, but his eyes lingered, holding you captive in a storm of crimson intensity. “I… got caught up,” you murmured, your cheeks flushing under that relentless stare. Donovan smiled, brushing a fingertip along your jaw. “Good girl,” he whispered, his voice a promise of devotion and danger all at once. You felt the world shrink to the warmth of his hands, the steadiness of his heart, the certainty of his love. And then the darkness arrived in silence. Vincent, Donovan’s half-brother—rough-edged, dangerous, a man who had long lusted for what he could never earn—slipped into your perfect life like poison. That night, your phone buzzed. Pictures you shouldn’t have seen, twisted to look like Donovan’s betrayal. Your heart seized, disbelief battling love. “Love… I swear,” Donovan pleaded, stepping closer, hands trembling. “I didn’t—” You recoiled, tears burning your eyes. Trust shattered. From the shadows, Vincent watched, smirk curling like a knife. “I told you… she’d believe me,” he whispered, relishing the fracture he’d created, knowing the damage might be irreparable. And Donovan—perfect, untouchable Donovan—stood frozen, helpless before the storm he couldn’t control, the love he couldn’t protect, and the venom of envy tearing his world apart. Every heartbeat became a question: could love survive a lie this cruel? ━━━━━━♡━━━━━━ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

●◉◎◈◎◉● Travis Maddox — once the boy who could make you laugh until your stomach hurt, now the man who refuses to let go. For a year, every three months on the 13th day, he shows up at the same corner—outside the coffee shop where you work—rain-soaked or sunburned, holding the same velvet box. A year ago, he stood still as the girl he claimed to love tore you apart in front of everyone. Her voice sharp, her words venomous: “You’re just jealous, because he’d never choose someone like you.” Laughter from the crowd burned into your skin like acid, and when you looked at him—your Travis, your best friend—he didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. He just folded his arms and looked away. When her betrayal came out, it shattered him. The cheating. The lies. The realization that everything you warned him about was true. He tried to call, to explain, but you’d already blocked him, your heart locked away where his apologies couldn’t reach. Still, he never stopped. Every third month. Every 13th day. “Marry me, princess,” he says, voice raw, eyes searching for something still alive in you. “Go home, Travis,” you whisper, clutching the tray of mugs a little tighter. He smiles, small and broken. “Home’s wherever you are.” And as you watch him walk away again, you wonder—will he ever stop, or will you finally let that buried, stubborn love breathe again? ●◉◎◈◎◉● Enjoy moonbeams🌙

━━━━━━☀━━━━━━ It was supposed to be the perfect morning on Isla Verde—sun, sea, serenity, and one gloriously overpriced mango-papaya smoothie. You were strolling down the boardwalk, pretending to be one of those graceful vacationers, when fate—and a rogue seashell—reminded you who was in charge. Your sandal slipped, smoothie flew like a tropical missile, and you crashed backwards into someone. Down you went—him beneath, you on top—and the smoothie turned his white shirt into a tropical crime scene. He blinked up at you, half-smeared in mango, and teased, “You always make an entrance like this?” That was Joey Marshall, travel photographer, chronic smirker, and your new curse. The next day, you tried to redeem yourself with a fresh smoothie. Spoiler: it didn’t work. A seagull dive-bombed your drink, stole the straw, and sent the rest splattering all over him again. He laughed so hard you wanted to vanish into the sand. After that, you seemed trapped in a cosmic loop—running into him at the market, the beach, even a salsa night you hadn’t planned. Each encounter came with his grin and your doomed attempts at normalcy. By the end of the week, saying goodbye almost felt wrong. But when you returned home, sunburned, still sticky from smoothie disasters, and carrying a suitcase full of memories, you figured the chaos was over. Two weeks later, you walked into your new office—coffee in hand, confidence intact—only to freeze at the sight of him leaning against the front desk. Joey Marshall. Clean shirt. Same infuriating grin. He met your wide-eyed stare and said, “If you’re planning to spill that too, princess, I’ll take it black this time.” And in that moment, you swore the universe had made you its personal comedy show—rolling off its chair, laughing hysterically. ━━━━━━☀━━━━━━ Enjoy moonbeams🌙😂

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰ The crowd never forgets the first time they saw him. The strobe lights hit, the synths kicked in, and there he was — Rex Vail, all glitter, danger, and charm, the kind of beauty that burned too bright for the world to ignore. When he walked onto a stage, it wasn’t just a performance; it was a confession wrapped in electric sound. Every lyric a promise, every wink a dare. He sang like heartbreak was holy and the night was his church. But behind the spotlight, Rex was the storm before the song — unpredictable, magnetic, and somehow untouchable. The tabloids called him “The Velvet Menace,” but the fans just called him theirs. He’d laugh at the cameras, blow a kiss, and disappear into the fog before anyone could ask what he was really running from. One night, backstage after a sold-out show in Tokyo, a reporter tried their luck. “Rex, what’s your secret? How do you keep the world hooked?” He smirked, leaned close enough for the mic to catch his whisper, and said, “I don’t. The world keeps me hooked, baby.” Then he walked off — leaving a trail of cologne, glitter, and chaos behind him. Because Rex Vail isn’t just a man. He’s the sound of temptation turned up to full volume. ⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰ Have fun moonbeams🌙

≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺ Rain always seemed to find you when loss did. It began years ago—the night your parents’ plane fell from the sky. One second they were laughing over the phone, promising souvenirs from Paris, and the next, you were staring at news headlines that tore your world apart. Ethan held you through it all. He was barely twenty but became everything: brother, guardian, protector, your anchor when the earth had nothing left to give. And now, fate had found another cruel way to test you. Ethan’s car lost control on a slick road, headlights swallowed by the dark. The crash took him instantly, leaving behind the same silence your parents did. You knelt before his grave as the rain poured—each drop like an echo of what you’d lost. The world blurred, heavy and cold. Then, a quiet shuffle, a shadow, and the soft sound of an umbrella unfolding. “Still raining,” a deep voice said, low and familiar, as the rain no longer touched you. “He hated days like this, didn’t he?” You turned—and there he was. Gabriel Conan. Ethan’s best friend. The one who’d left years ago chasing a future abroad. Now he stood before you, tall, composed, his tailored coat soaked at the edges, eyes darker than the storm. Gabriel’s eyes, a storm of their own, lingered on the grave before returning to you. “I wasn’t there for him,” he said quietly, “but I’ll be damned if I’m not here for you now.” His words wrapped around the chill in your bones. The man standing before you wasn’t the same boy who’d left—he was sharper, colder, touched by wealth and distance—but his gaze softened when it met yours. And just like that, in the middle of your grief, something unfamiliar sparked to life. From that moment on, Gabriel Conan would become more than the man who returned. He would be the one who vowed to take care of you… even if it meant breaking every rule your brother once made him promise not to. ≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧ Since high school, Felix Barrows had been a force of nature: brilliant, arrogant, untouchable. He had everything—brains, charm, confidence—everything except you. Maybe that’s why he made it his mission to make your life miserable. Every debate, every test, every glance felt like a duel you never signed up for. Then one day, he vanished. Rumors said he’d left the country, chasing money, fame, or greater opportunities. You didn’t care—you were just relieved. The storm had passed. Until today. Your final year of university, a quiet afternoon lecture on quantum mechanics—then a knock. The professor looked up, smiling slightly. “Ah, everyone, meet your substitute for the remainder of the semester—Dr. Felix Barrows.” Your blood ran cold. The door opened, and in walked a man who looked like he’d stepped out of another world. Sharp jaw, glasses glinting under the fluorescent light, confidence radiating off him like static. He crossed the room with measured steps, pulled the curtains wide open, sunlight cutting across the desks. “Let’s see what kind of minds I’m dealing with,” he said, voice low and steady. Then his gaze found yours. That smirk. That same infuriating, knowing curve of his lips. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered under your breath. Felix’s voice carried easily, smooth and commanding. “Don’t think I’ll make the rest of the year easy for you. I might look your age, but I’m more than qualified to make sure only those who truly belong graduate. Prove to me you deserve it—prove you belong in my world now.” And as his head tilted slightly, eyes locking on you—you knew you were in deep trouble. ✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧ Enjoy Moonbeams🌙

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ Vyn Kaelix — the name flickers across underground networks like a warning and a promise. Once a top enforcer for the ARC Alliance, now a rogue shadow moving through the pulse of Lunaris Prime, known as The Neon Revenant. Standing beneath the neon haze, his prismatic tattoos shimmer like living circuitry, mapping every scar and sin he’s earned. The gas mask hides more than his face—it hides a man who’s seen the world rot from the inside out. His braids, streaked with light, sway with each deliberate step as the city’s heartbeat syncs to his own. Vyn doesn’t talk much unless he has to, but when he does, his words cut through the static like a blade. He carries his bat slung across his shoulders, not as a weapon—more like a statement. They say the glow in his veins isn’t ink but rebellion burning slow. "You see light, I see control," he mutters, scanning the skyline, voice low, distorted through the mask. "Every color they sell you, every glow they feed you—it’s a leash, not freedom." To some, Vyn’s a ghost of vengeance. To others, a glitch in the system. But in the streets of Lunaris Prime, where loyalty is bought in bytes and beauty hides decay, he’s the closest thing the people have to a spark. ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ Have a neontastic fun moonbeams🌙

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ Four years ago, Owen Walker wasn’t the powerful, untouchable CEO everyone feared. He was a man trapped in a wheelchair, broken by the crash that nearly stole his life and his empire. The night the hospital went up in flames, smoke flooding the recovery wing, everyone ran—except you. The quiet janitor who stayed. You found him when his voice was fading, pushed him through fire and darkness, refusing to let him die. “I won’t leave you here,” you said, trembling but firm. “Who are you?” he rasped, weak and stunned. “Doesn’t matter. Hold on.” And as you wheeled him down the burning corridor, you hummed softly—a shaky, haunting tune meant to calm him. A song he never forgot. By morning, you were gone. Vanished into the blur of sirens and chaos. He searched for you for months, years, until obsession turned to bitterness. His warmth froze. His heart hardened into the empire he built from ruin. And tonight, fate dares to move again. The lobby gleams under crystal light as Owen walks through—imposing, cold, flawless in his tailored suit—until he hears it. That same melody, quiet but clear, echoing off marble floors. His gaze follows the sound— you. Bent over a mop, hair tied back, humming that song as if the world hadn’t stopped because of it. He stops. The air sharpens. His voice, low and disbelieving, breaks the silence. “You.” You look up, startled, meeting his. “Sir?” For the first time in four years, Owen Walker forgets the weight of his crown. The world tilts back to that night—your hands, your voice, that song. And this time, he won’t let you walk away. ┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙