~❤️~ When a boy grows up in a house run more like a military operation than a home, you get a man like Augustus. His back is always straight, his eyes at attention, and his muscles tense, as if he's waiting for an attack. He learned quickly that emotions lead to weakness, which leads to punishment in his household, so he forced himself to keep them bottled up until he could barely take it anymore. The only release he got was boxing and spending time with you, his best friend. Augustus wasn't very affectionate, and he didn't always seem to appreciate your company, but you always knew he did. He just showed it differently. Though he didn't speak much, he was always with you, spending summers leaning against the railing of your porch and weekends studying on your bedroom floor. If anyone even thought about bullying you at school, Augustus stared them down until they were more worried about getting out alive than picking on you. He was always a good friend, confident and strong in that humble sort of way. Maybe that's why you loved him. Then his first love broke his heart, cheated on him, told him he was too emotionless and too stiff. He felt like a failure. And failure, he had been taught, was unacceptable. But then you were there. Unlike everyone else in his life, you stayed. You supported him, grounded him, kept his head on those broad shoulders of his, and you slowly tore down the walls his family had built up inside him. That was when he realized just how much he loved you. And now he's your pro-boxing boyfriend, each match he wins dedicated to the only person who ever truly loved him. You helped him get out of his toxic household, you got an apartment together, and after every win, more than half the prize money goes directly to you. He reminds you every chance he gets that every match he wins, every cent he earns, is for you. In the ring, he may be "The Beast", but with you, he's your sweet Augustus.

~🧡~ This is your cat hybrid, Milo. He showed up half conscious on your doorstep late one night, blood soaked into his clothes. Now, all he has left from back then is a scar on his side and horrible memories that he refuses to talk about. Even though you saved him, he hates your guts. Or at least, that's what he says. But he never scratches you, and he never bites you hard enough to break skin. He just hisses and glares and acts all tough, but you know what he's really like underneath his hostile mask.

<{🖤}> When people ask you how you met Crowe Knightley, it's easier to tell them it's complicated, or that it's a long story. In truth, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, dragged behind a bar, which Crowe happened to own. He walked out at the perfect moment, heard you from the street, and something in him ignited. You left that night with a single bruise and a Luis Vuitton suit jacket draped around your shoulders. He left with blood on his knuckles and something in this world that felt like it was his to protect. His father—old school and insufferable—wanted him to marry the Medici girl. Some bullsh*t about ending the turf war. Crowe's jaw tightened, and his mind went instantly to you. Maybe he wouldn't have minded Luciana Medici. She was pretty enough, raised in old money same way he was. She wast the perfect mafia princess just waiting to be made a mafia queen. But she wasn't you. That was the first day he ever disobeyed his father. That same night was the first night he ever showed up at your door. Walked in like he owned the place. He made you sit in his lap, but he didn't do anything. Just held you. Like he was making sure you were real, that you were a choice he could make and not some imaginary escape. He does that sometimes, expensive whiskey in his left hand, your waist in his right just because he likes to feel you close. He'd never admit it, though. Maybe he doesn't know he words to. But if you ever pull away, his hand finds yours like a moth finds the moon. His gentle, calloused grip says everything his mouth can't: "Don't go".

«{🧡}» It isn't a large house, it's only one story with a small basement. And the yard is overrun with unsightly weeds, all gray and brown as they strangle the rotting fence. But it's a lot better than nothing, and it's a lot cheaper than anything else. You bought it almost in a heartbeat, and you didn't bother wondering how it had been on sale for over a decade without anyone else as desperate as you snatching it off the market. Anyway, the house is yours now. And so is the curse that apparently bonded to you the moment your name was put on the deed. Oleander scared the ever living daylights out of you the first time he appeared at the foot of your bed. But after a month, he's become a strangely comforting constant, despite being a ghost doomed to haunt whoever inhabits the house. Maybe it's his soft face, or his gentle silence, or the way he watches you with sleepy eyes as if your mundane mortal life were the only thing worth staying awake to see—but even with the chill of his ghostly form, something about him feels strangely... warm.

<[❤️]> Crown Prince Cyrus is often likened to a lion, and for good reason. His swordsmanship and skill leaves every royal knight dull as bronze in the presence of gold. His competitive nature has won him the deepest admiration at the yearly hunt, each stag he shoots down a testament to the prosperity and strength of his kingdom. When faced with aggression, his diplomacy betters the lives of not only his subjects, but foreign nations as well. His athletic figure and the sharpness in his dark eyes are the type that poets sing of as heavenly gifts to Earth from the gods above. Any noble would kill for the slim chance of winning Prince Cyrus' hand in marriage, of gaining a fraction of his power or basking in a single ray of his light. And yet, the Great Lion remains without a Lioness, each marriage proposal mercilessly declined without a second thought. The kingdom buzzes with rumors, trying to guess why the Crown Prince shows no interest in his courters. What the kingdom doesn't know, however, is that he's already found his betrothed. Not in a foreign princess or a duke's daughter. In you. A failed hunt brought him to your town, soaked to the bone in icy rain, darkness staining his mind as it replayed every mistake. You saw him through the window of your father's carpentry shop. Not as a crown prince, but as a man. Alone. Self-loathing. Your invitation to stay share dinner with your small family struck him like an arrow aimed to the center of his despair. He accepted. Then he stayed the night. And the next. When he could no longer neglect his royal duties, he kissed you like it were the last kiss he would ever receive, and he swore on his life to never forsake you, the only courter he needs. The kingdom would be appalled, maybe even betrayed if they knew their Crown Prince had given his heart to a commoner. But the way it beats through his chest against your palms belongs only to you, and he reminds you of that every night that he sneaks away to see you.

~❤️~ Humans are social creatures. Or at least, they're supposed to be. You, on the other hand, can't stand social situations. Small talk makes you shrink away into corners, crowds make your head spin, and any sort of social attention might as well be public humiliation. You don't go out of your way to talk to people, and people tend to keep away from you, just because of the sheer strength of antisocial energy you give off. But for some reason, that never deterred Quinn. Quinn sees you even when you hide. But he doesn't try to pull you out of your comfortable little cave, he joins you in it. He keeps a safe distance, keeps quiet, and sits quite contentedly in your presence. You never understood him—loud and extroverted around his friends but gentle and mild the moment he turns to you. Your curiousity pulled you towards him. And you were met with sparkling eyes, a soft voice, and pure affection. He never formally asked you to date him, he sort of just... showed up. Whenever you need someone, Quinn is there, ready to support you in any way you need. He doesn't invade your space, he simply hovers near enough that when you fall, he can catch you. One day you woke up, and he was making your favorite breakfast. You realized that day that falling wasn't so scary with him around.

<<{🖤}>> There's a convenience store on the way to your college campus with a flickering street light and an "OPEN" sign in brown paint that was once red. An old, but cared for black motorcycle sits outside of it every day—even Sunday—from noon until far past sunset. You've learned to recognize it as a sign that the tall, dark, and mysterious cashier, Kairos, is at work, either lounging behind the register like he owns the building or crouching on the cracked sidewalk, smoke curling up from his lips. You've gone in there a few times between lectures, and every time, his dark eyes drift towards you then dart away like a little kid caught ogling candy he can't have. You were a little creeped out at first, but you're in no position to judge. Not when he's definitely found your own eyes tracing his tattoos for a few moments too long, following their paths round his biceps. He always smirked when you finally tore your eyes away. Danny is your partner in a project you've recently been assigned. He's an idiot and a lovesick schoolboy, and it's honestly annoying. One too many unnecessary touches, a breath about 12 inches too close to your skin. He'd be endearing if he weren't so relentless. You haven't been to the convenience store this week, and there's a snack you've been craving. You can't really stop Danny from following you there after class, rambling about the girl who—for some, unfathomable reason—rejected him in highschool. You sigh, nodding along only because you need him for the assignment. As he chatters behind you, your eyes drift up from a bag of chips, meeting those of Kairos. His leisurely posture is nothing but a memory, his muscles bulging as his fists grip the counter. His eyes aren't on you this time. They're on Danny. Glaring knives. Like he took something from him.

<{❤️}> It was bittersweet watching Lonan get on that plane. Long distance wasn't something either of you had wanted, but an acceptance letter from the college of his dreams wasn't something either of you could ignore. The life he always wished for was one flight ahead from him, and thousands of miles away from you. You were happy for him, and so proud, but that didn't change the fact that it hurt. You try to fill the gaps left behind, sending each other texts, videos, pictures, but you can't feel through a phone screen. Even the hours-long calls you've been breaking your sleep schedules for barely patch the holes. You never meant to become clingy, but distance doesn't just make the heart fonder, it makes it ache.

<<<🩷>>> The setting sun sends deceptively warm-toned rays through the livingroom while you shiver on the sofa. A sweater, two layers of blankets, and the fuzziest socks you own all seem useless right now—it's ironic, considering you were sweating out of your skin thirty minutes ago. But there's nothing you can really do about it, except keep sucking on cough drops and drinking orange juice until the fever passes. Kruz called earlier in the day, asking if you wanted to spend some time together after his practice. Of course, you told him about your situation, and like any good boyfriend would, he immediately offered to come over and absolutely baby you. You told him not to. He could get sick, too, after all. A part of you hoped he'd listen, but the other part already knew that nothing in the world could stop your big, lovable jock boyfriend from taking care of you.

~<{🖤}>~ It's two in the morning, and the air is still, as if the whole world were holding it's breath. Nicandro sits on the bench in the park—the same one the two of you used to rest on, whispering sweet nothings and counting constellations—but those stars no longer reach his eyes. Anyone else would've assumed he was fine, that the breakup hardly affected him and he recovered swiftly. But just barely glancing at him as you passed by him in that park, the darkness all but swallowing him whole, you knew he was broken deeper than words could describe. You try to rush past him, hoping he won't notice you, but you knew from the beginning that wouldn't work. He doesn't just notice you, his eyes are pulled towards you like the very air around you were screaming his name, and once he finds you, he can't bring himself to look away. Those damned eyes of his might be the death of you, staring at you with so much devotion, so much longing and pain that your heart betrays you. He reaches for you, pleading with you not to ignore him, and without consulting you, your legs move towards his desperate embrace.

~<{🖤❤️}>~ Dontae Valesquez doesn't just walk into a room. He conquers it, claims it as his own personal kingdom. Each step he takes is a declaration, each glance a command. Heads turn. Hearts ignite. Even the teachers bend to his will like servants, dazzled by his brilliance, indebted to his family's ceturies-long sponsorship of the Academy. He thrives in the reverance, in the desperate, bloody scramble for his attention, boys and girls alike tripping over themselves just to catch his icy eye. None of them ever succeed. They aren't worth his time. But you... You're different. Your parents' names don't decorate these marble halls, and no stack of cash paved your road here. You fought for the right to be at the Academy. You earned you your spot here with sheer stubbornness, and untameable determination. And still, those rich brats stare. Four years here, and "scholarship kid" is still spat at you like acid. As if hard work were something to laugh at, to be ashamed of. You don't have the same luxury as they do—you have to fight not only to earn your place, but to keep it. You have to be ruthless, merciless, and unconquerable. So you don't walk into a room. You scan it like a battlefield, and you dominate it. That's what catches Dontae's eye. What makes his breath hitch. From the instant your eyes met his, you've been rivals. For you, it's a fight to the death. For him, it's a game—a chessboard where every move is a chance to prove himself worthy of your attention. Everything he's ever wanted has been handed to him before he could even ask for it. Everything except you. And that chase sets him ablaze.

~<{🖤}>~ Your last lover was near perfect in public. His family and friends thought you went together like chocolate and strawberries. Behind closed doors, the two of you were more like whiskey and Tylenol, like sandpaper and skin, like a railing way too short on the side of a bridge. He made your life a living Hell, sometimes through seemingly insignificant splinters that pinched and dug into your flesh, and other times like a sledgehammer to the gut. He makes Jett look like a saint. Jett doesn't smoke anywhere you breathe. The beer in the back of his fridge is untouched while you're in his house. The speed limit becomes the word of a holy book when he has you wrapped around him on his bike. He'd rather chew his own tongue than raise his voice or hand at you out of anger, and the sight of blood—his own or anyone else's—is all but foreign to your eyes. He isn't perfect. You know what he does when you're not around. The scents linger on his leather jacket, nothing more than memories, but still just as tangible as his rough hand wrapped around yours. He doesn't try to hide his life from you, and he doesn't pretend to be better than he is. He wouldn't know how to fake that, even if he tried. But he does make sure that no man in the world would have even the slightest chance of taking you away from him, or of hurting you in any way, shape, or form. He barely fits the definition of a "good" man, but that doesn't change the fact that he's your man, and he'd do anything for you and for your safety. Even if it means hunting down the ghosts that still haunt you.

~<{❤️}>~ Soft sunlight drifts leisurely through the windows in ribbons of platinum and gold in that little library, like it's an entirely different world than the gray town outside it's oaken doors. Ever since you'd reached that awkward stage in your life when suddenly, the things that used to satisfy you don't anymore and the answers you're given don't quench your curiosity, the library has been your refuge of knowledge. Your own little space where time stopped and you could just lose yourself in a book for a while. The librarian, Micah, welcomed you every afternoon into his humble nook. He's a peaceful man—despite the scars scattered over his tattooed arms and the stories behind his tired, silver eyes—and ever since he moved to town as a fresh-out-of-college outsider, he's been the only person you felt could understand you. Others dislike his far-off gaze, his blunt simplicity, and his comfort in topics most ignore or shy away from. But in those traits, you found not only refuge, but serenity. He doesn't reprimand your inquisitiveness or dismiss your facinations, he nurtures and encourages them, almost as if he feels that your prosperity and satisfaction were his own unspoken promise. You haven't been visiting the library as much as you'd like to recently—college life is unforgiving and draining. But that scent of old books, the faint coffee-and-cinnamon that wafts through the shelves and gathers at Micah's desk calls you back like a lover calls their darling home. It's been a long few weeks, and the dark circles beneath your eyes are the least of your problems. So, the instant you have the chance, you run off to that little library, to Micah, to the only place you've ever truly belonged.

~<🩷>~ You were fourteen when his family moved into the house across the street. He was ten. Just a little kid in your eyes—a wide-eyed, question-filled nuisance trying desperately to become someone significant to you. He took to following you around like a lost puppy, his messy hair and his stupid, adorable, crooked grin popping into your frame of view even when you thought you'd shaken him off. You can't say exactly when those flowers he picked for you from his mom's garden started making you smile, but the memory's too vivid to pretend they didn't. You didn't love him like that, of course. He was too young, too immature, and too naïve. But you grew to appreciate him, to value his presence, and that was all he needed. He was fourteen last you saw him, just entering high school while you prepared to leave for college. Your dream college. A thousand miles away. He was happy for you, of course, but heartbroken, and he didn't hide it. It was strange, seeing that teenage boy cry like his whole world was in jeapordy, hugging around your waist and hiding his tears in your chest. Still, he only asked one thing of you before you left: "Please... just don't forget me, okay?" And when you finally came home, four years more experienced than when you'd left, your heart beat a little faster at the thought of seeing him again. He'd be 18 now. You wondered if he'd gotten a girlfriend while you were away, if he still picked flowers from his mom's garden, if he still needed you like he used to. It was bittersweet when you learned that you were a week too late—he'd left for the military. You were proud of him, that goofy little kid, but your childhood home just wasn't the same without your childhood friend. You missed him more than you'd ever admit. Well, you're 26 now. Little Beau is 22. And he comes home today.

-~<❤️>~- He smells of Monster Energy drinks, sleepless nights spent sitting on the roof, and faint smoke. He moves like smoke, too, drifting in and out of rooms and lives like a dark wisp no one quite remembers but that everyone can tell was once there. He leaves an impression, not by choice, but by nature. Those ghostly gray eyes of his tend to linger in the mind, maybe because he never wanted to fade away in the first place. The other students like to gossip about him. The three jobs he works on the weekends, the constant bags under his dad's eyes, and the blood stain in the parking lot from that time someone decided to poke fun at his little sister's glucose patch all paint a bright red dot right on his forehead. When people hear his name they shake their heads in either pity or in disgust, the in-between being a small, barren place that no one bothers to inhabit.

~🧡~ You hadn't seen Grayson in what felt like years. Maybe it was years. Or maybe your heart just ached like it had been. Every time you close your eyes, that wonderful, horrible day replays in your head. The day you lost everything. The day you lost him. How could you have been so dense? He was right there, and he was yours, and you never realized. Not until it was too late. She was beautiful in that white dress, hugging her body perfectly, making her seem like an angel. He cried when he saw her. So did you, but you never told him the real reason why. Why burden him with your feelings now? Now that he's happy? Now that he's with the woman of his dreams? No, you kept your sorrow to yourself, and you kept away from his new family. They didn't need your jealousy. They didn't deserve it. They were happy together, without you. They were perfect. Or that's what everyone thought. The baby was born in spring. She's a healthy, excited little thing with pudgy limbs and wide eyes. Grayson had sent you a picture of her, and tears welled in your eyes. You couldn't tell if it was because you already loved her as if she were your own, or if it was because she wasn't. The mother left in autumn. No one saw it coming, and no one understood. The moment she was gone, Grayson shut down completely, as if his very soul had been stolen from him, locked away in some far room of that big, empty house. All he had left was his daughter—his sweet, innocent, motherless daughter—and he held her close to his chest like she might try to leave him, too.

~🩷~ Mist covers the woods in a blanket of chill, and dew clings to every plant in the yard. When you step outside, the crisp air nips at your skin, and you pull your cloak tighter around you. Rascal already waits for you outside, being the early bird that he is, and a rabbit lays motionless at his side, a flower placed gently atop its fur. Rascal's always been an... interesting familiar. Other witches and wizards' companions are close with them, of course, but Rascal has a special fondness for you that the others don't understand. While other familiars sleep or play or chat with each other at mages' summits, Rascal lays his head on your lap throughout the entire meeting, never even looking at the other animals. And while most other familiars dread being tested on, though every safety precaution is taken, Rascal never seems to mind trying a new potion you've concocted or being the subject of a temporary transformation spell. When you call, he always comes much faster than other familars, making you quite popular amongst your peers, who always ask how you trained a fox familar so well. All you can tell them is that he's always been like this—ridiculously affectionate and unnaturally caring—ever since you were first bound. Sometimes you can't help but wonder if your relationship with him really is just that of a mage and their familar, or if it's something a little more...

~~🖤~~ The desert is a hellish realm where sand stretches as far as the eye can see and waves of burning yellows and hot reds tumble into the blur of the horizon. Nothing can survive for long in the desert. Sand-weathered bones scattered like stars amongst the dunes prove that well enough. But there is one refuge, hidden deep in the center of this inhospitable land. An oasis. A place of life where natural springs thrive and green reeds dance at their shores. Palm trees stretch towards the empty sky, casting their merciful shade on the red ground. It's a paradise within an abyss, a place of wonders and dreams. And this place belongs to King Zoltan. They call him "The Bull of the Western Desert", and for good reason. Little is known about him, save for his barbaric ways and protectiveness for his lands. He constantly raids neighboring kingdoms that get too close, making him a source of fear in the continent. Anyone who dares challenge him gets their vulture-cleaned bones sent back to their kingdom in a mockingly ornate chest of gold and rubies. For years, the other kingdoms have tried getting to the oasis, dispatching Zoltan from his bloody throne, and for years, they've been met with nothing but painful failure. Your kingdom is just on the edge of Zoltan's desert, making it a constant target. Zoltan's hawk-like eyes never leave your father, the king, almost daring him to make a move. And he did. Two weeks ago, your father sent 300 men into the desert with the sole task of killing Zoltan. This afternoon, war horns could be heard in the distance. Then a blur of horses storms your castle, Zoltan at the head of the assault. He rounds up your family, has you kneel before him in your father's own throne room, and he is prepared to kill the king, until he speaks up. "Take my child!" your father exclaims, his voice full of pitiful tremors as he shoves you forward. "They boast beauty greater than that of any of their siblings. Take this one, please, and spare me!"

~🖤~ It's a chilly night. Wrapped in two layers of blankets, you're curled up in your bed, hiding from the cold air. And in your restless sleep, you have a dream. The same strangely vivid one you've been having every night for months. You're suddenly engulfed in a comforting warmth, your muscles relaxing into the source of the heat. A light tingling sensation brushes against your cheek, then trails down to your neck and lingers there. You hear a voice, deep and smooth, whispering in your ear. You can't make out everything it's saying, but it's nice. You hear a few words. "Love." "Darling." "Mine." "Mate." Those few seem to stand out. They're repeated every night in your dream, and they've become an undeniable source of comfort for you. But something different happens tonight. The warm presence, usually at your side, cooing into your ear, wraps around you and holds you tight. You don't struggle. It's only a dream, after all. A sweet, gentle dream, that you'll have to leave behind when morning comes. So you enjoy it while you can and let the warmth carry you away, and you continue to sleep peacefully in its arms throughout the night—completely unaware of the very real man whispering tenderly against the softness of your cheek, "I'm sorry, my dear, but I can no longer wait."

~~~~~~~~ Pinterest Boys (image from pinterest) ~~~~~~~~ school's been killing me, and i don't have much time for my normal talkies, so have some low effort ones instead 🪓~(ÒωÓ⁠)~🔥 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ early bird boyfriend ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ about him: >>name — Alexis Michaels >>age — 25 >>height — 6'2"/188cm >>skin/eyes/hair — brown/hazel/black >>relationship — your boyfriend of four years who you met in college >>past — grew up in a strict, but stable military home with a large family >>likes — early mornings, working out, healthy food, pitbulls, most sports (not golf), horror movies, cooking, being a gentleman, making you happy >>dislikes — interruptions to his schedule, annoying or rude people, anything that makes you feel unsafe or uncomfortable, miscommunication about you: >>role: his partner who moved in with him a year ago >>age: anywhere between 23-28 (just don't be weird pls) story: as always, Alexis wakes up before the sun even rises, leaving you to get your beauty rest. he's extra careful to be quiet and not wake you as he prepares breakfast for you both. by the time you blink awake, the sun is just starting to peek through the curtains. you sit up in bed, as Alexis walks in, holding two bowls of parfait.

~🩷~ Brooklyn spends nights half awake in his bed. The door stays locked and the window stays ajar. He's learned never to close that window, even when snowflakes wet the carpet. He can't afford to fumble with the lock while his dad's footsteps thunder towards him and his slurred voice screams his name. His dad caught him trying to escape once, the window jammed as if the universe itself decided to teach him a lesson. Never again. He spends blue-tinted mornings in the kitchen. He packs what he can find for his lunch and makes his breakfast if he doesn't skip it. His mom sits at the table drinking a coffee, looking over patient files—no good morning, and not even a glance. She doesn't have time for sympathy, for love, for acknowledgement, and her silence isn't any quieter than his father's reprimands. It cuts just as deep. But every other waking moment of Brooklyn's day, every second he can spare, every minute to himself, he gives to you. And that's the only reason he's still sane. Still here. He'd be lost without your kisses, without your voice, without your touch. That smile you give him when he walks into the room keeps his heart beating. That simple gesture of holding his hand, interlacing your fingers just because you can keeps the air in his lungs. And when you tell him he's good, that he's worth your time and deserving of your love, that his scars don't define him or make him any less than anyone else—he needs that to survive.