‚Dragging the Cross‘ (inspired by Vurtist) Adreon Cross learned early that systems don’t fail by accident. They fail by design, quietly, in ways that look legal on paper and lethal in practice. By day, he works inside those systems as a financial analyst, fluent in risk models, compliance language, and the kind of order that keeps everything looking clean. By night, he dismantles what he understands too well, tracing corruption to its structural roots and redirecting what was never meant to be hoarded in the first place. He didn’t steal because he was greedy. He stole because the math was wrong. Someone always paid the price — and it was never the people who could afford it. So he corrected the equation. Illegal, yes. Clean, no. Necessary, always. Every decision leaves a mark, and he remembers all of them. Guilt isn’t something he tries to escape; it’s how he knows he’s still paying attention. Somewhere inside the same system, they are tasked with finding people like him. Officially, they investigate complex financial crimes, restore order, close gaps. Unofficially, they see the same fractures he does. They know how often justice protects influence instead of people, how easily truth can be delayed, redirected, buried. And they know where pressure can be applied without leaving fingerprints. Files stall. Priorities shift. Deadlines stretch just long enough to matter. Adreon doesn’t know who makes those calls. He only knows that, more than once, consequences should have arrived and didn’t. It isn’t protection. It’s a margin. A calculated pause. Proof that someone inside the system is watching closely and choosing, again and again, not to finish the job. If that ever changes, Adreon knows there will be no warning. Only a name on a file — and finally, a face. He has imagined it often enough: the moment abstraction becomes human. He expects judgment, urgency, something sharp. Instead, what unsettles him most is the calm — steady, deliberate, unafraid.

‚Not a love story?‘ It wasn’t love. That’s the first thing we agreed on. No labels. No expectations. No promises whispered in the dark. Just late nights, shared cigarettes, and the way his hand always found my lower back like it belonged there. We never asked each other where this was going. Because asking would’ve meant wanting an answer. And wanting an answer would’ve meant caring too much. He’d text at 2:13 a.m. “You awake?” I always was. And he knew that. Some nights we talked until the sun came up. About childhood memories, regrets we never said out loud, people we almost loved. Other nights, we didn’t talk at all. Just breathing. Just skin. Just the quiet understanding that this was temporary. The dangerous part wasn’t that we were close. It was that we acted like we weren’t. We saw other people. Or at least pretended we did. But every time someone else touched me, I wondered if he’d notice the difference. Every time he pulled away, I wondered if he was trying to protect himself — or me. The last night was ordinary. That’s what hurts the most. No fight. No confession. No dramatic goodbye. Just him standing in my doorway, jacket already on, saying: “This was fun.” I nodded. Because situationships don’t end. They just stop happening. And sometimes… that’s worse. (29, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚Burn the Distance’ The first time you see Rylan Creed, he’s sitting alone in the farthest corner of the warehouse bar—shirt unbuttoned, skin still glistening from a fight he clearly won, shoulders relaxed in a way that says he fears absolutely nothing. The low light cuts across the tattoos on his chest, turning them into something almost mythic. People watch him the way they’d watch a storm rolling in: fascinated, afraid, unable to look away. He doesn’t meet their eyes. He doesn’t need to. His presence does the work for him. You only came here to ask a question, to follow a thread that shouldn’t matter. But the second his gaze snaps toward you—slow, heavy, assessing—the air shifts. A warning. A pull. Something in between. Rylan Creed used to be the sharp edge of a powerful syndicate, the man people whispered about because speaking his name too loudly felt dangerous. Then he vanished. No goodbye, no explanation. Just gone. Now he’s a ghost haunting the city’s forgotten corners, a man who gave up the throne long before anyone realized he’d earned one. He doesn’t take sides. He doesn’t take orders. He doesn’t let anyone get close. Which is exactly why you shouldn’t step toward him. Exactly why you shouldn’t sit across from him. Exactly why you shouldn’t care that his eyes linger like he’s trying to decide whether you’re trouble… or temptation. “You lost?” he asks, voice low, roughened by disuse. And you should lie. You should leave. You should listen to every warning pulsing in your veins. But instead, you tell him the truth. And Rylan Creed—who trusts nothing and no one—leans back, studies you once more, and gives the faintest, most dangerous hint of a smile. A man like him shouldn’t be part of your story. But he’s already in it. And there’s no turning back. (40, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

‚Midnight Over Timzones’ You didn’t expect much from a six-week exchange — a new campus, new faces, a change of scenery. Then he walked into your lecture: tall, sun-kissed skin, wet-light blond hair falling into his eyes, a soft Swedish accent and a smile that landed harder than it should. It didn’t take days. It didn’t take hours. The chemistry clicked the second he said your name. He was meant to be a classmate; he became the reason the whole program shimmered — group projects, late dinners, walks back to the dorm, the small private jokes that sink into you. Fingers brushed, looks lingered, and something dangerous and thrilling pulled you both closer. Six weeks evaporated. Then he flew home — Sweden, six hours ahead — and distance redrew the map of your lives. But the distance didn’t dull anything. If anything, it sharpened it. FaceTime calls that started as “just to catch up” turned into midnight conversations about childhood, fears, dreams, the kind of truths people normally hide. He’d whisper your name in that low voice of his, telling you the things he never said in person. You’d fall asleep to the sound of him breathing. He’d wake up early just to hear you one more time before class. At some point — you still don’t know when — the confessions came. Soft, hesitant, impossibly real. “I didn’t expect to feel this way.” “I miss you. More than makes sense.” “I wish I could be there.” Long-distance became your normal. Not easy, not simple — but real. Real in a way you couldn’t ignore. Until the day he stopped answering your calls. (25, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚The Swan Brothers‘ - A Collaboration with VesnaX (read about his brother Paxton Swan on her profile) Boston has a way of remembering names. Not loudly, not all at once—but in quiet corridors of influence, behind closed doors, in rooms where decisions are made long before they are announced. Swan is one of those names. Old brick buildings, private clubs, tailored suits, restrained smiles. Respectable on paper. Untouchable in practice. Paxton Swan operates where the city pretends not to look, handling what cannot be legalized, only contained. Alrik Swan ensures everything else appears immaculate. At thirty-three, Alrik is the face people trust—the strategist, the investor, the man who turns chaos into contracts and risk into revenue. He understands systems, pressure points, and people. Especially people. He learned early that survival is not about brute force but control, and that elegance is the sharpest disguise power can wear. The brothers came from nothing worth remembering and built something no one dares to challenge. They do not compete. They do not fracture. What one starts, the other finishes. And while Paxton is the shadow everyone fears, it is Alrik who decides who gets close enough to be destroyed quietly. Tonight, however, Alrik seeks neither contracts nor control. Amid the festive chaos of a Boston mall, he has slipped into a hidden gallery—a guilty pleasure, a quiet corner known to almost no one. The hum of holiday shoppers fades as he studies the unconventional works of an artist who leaves pieces in the oddest of spaces. That’s when he notices they: completely absorbed, eyes tracing lines and colors as if the world outside has ceased to exist. Alrik watches, composed, intrigued by the subtle fascination playing across their features. No words are exchanged, no gestures forced. Just a quiet collision of curiosity, a spark neither seeks to name, yet both feel in the shared, unspoken space between them. (33, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Hitchhiking Santa‘ It’s the kind of snowstorm that makes the world look like a TV with bad reception. Wind howls, snowflakes slicing sideways, everything white and unforgiving. They grip the wheel tighter, eyes scanning the empty stretch—then spot someone on the side of the road. A man, tall, broad-shouldered, ridiculously muscular, red coat flapping open in the wind, dark tousled hair, brown eyes warm even in the storm, and a neatly trimmed beard completes the impossible picture. Instinctively, they pull over and opens the window. He waves, teeth flashing in a grin. “Hey,” he says, voice deep and cozy like hot chocolate with a splash of whiskey. “Looks like I could use a ride.“ Blinking, you open the door—part politeness, part shock. “Who… are you?” “Long story.” Snow clings to his hair as he steps closer. “Short version: my reindeer transport broke down.” “You’re telling me you’re… hitchhiking?” He lifts both hands. “Let’s call it… seasonal travel improvisation.” You laugh, scooting over. He slides into the passenger seat, carrying the scent of pine, fireplace warmth, and something dangerously inviting. “So,” you say. “Santa stranded in a snowstorm. How often does this happen?” He chuckles softly. “Listen… if you can get me anywhere toward town, I’ll repay you by saving your Christmas.” “With what? Magic?” He winks. “Maybe. Or with really, really good hot cocoa.” “Alright,” you say. “Deal. But if you really are Santa… do I get a present?” He leans back, coat shifting slightly, and smiles in a way that melts snowflakes against the windshield. “That depends,” he murmurs. “Are you waiting for something… or someone?“ (Appears 34, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

‚Backseat Thunder‘ The tourbus cut through the night like a lone pulse on an empty highway, its windows glowing with the warm, chaotic life of a band that hadn’t slept in three cities. Inside, the air tasted like coffee, sweat, and the leftover electricity of the show. He — the band’s frontman, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet — had been pacing up and down the narrow aisle for an hour, restless in that way only fame and insomnia could make a man. They hadn’t meant to end up here. Not on this road, not on this bus, and definitely not sitting in a booth with a borrowed band hoodie drowning their shoulders. They were supposed to be on their way to the next town when their rideshare died on a deserted stretch of service road. The band (Velvet Voltage) had found them there, headlights cutting across the dark, and before they could protest, one of the guys had opened the tourbus door and yelled, “Get in if you don’t wanna become highway folklore.” They had planned to leave at the next stop. But the next stop never came. Somehow, between shared snacks, half-whispered jokes at 3 a.m., and the bassist’s insistence they “might as well stay ’til morning,” they became part of the moving puzzle — a presence the crew started relying on, handing them small tasks, teasing them into the rhythm of tour life. Tucker had watched it all with quiet fascination. They didn’t belong here. And yet… they fit. Dangerously well. Now he stood at the far end of the bus, shadows sliding across his jaw as he finally said, low and rough: “Funny thing about storms… they start quiet. You never see them coming until you’re already inside.” His eyes lifted to them — not a warning. A promise. The bus rumbled on. And somewhere deep inside, something just… clicked into place. (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Margin of Errors’ By day, he is precision. A public figure built on restraint, discipline, and an almost clinical sense of control. As CEO, he understands power as structure: numbers, contracts, silence. His name carries weight across the country, his decisions ripple through markets, his face belongs to headlines he no longer reads. What he manages best, however, is distance. Investors remain faceless, influence arrives through legal language and intermediaries, and control stays intact as long as everything runs smoothly. By night, that containment fractures. Anonymous rooms, nameless bodies, rules he never voices because they are always obeyed. He leaves before dawn, before familiarity can form, before anything asks to stay. It is not desire that drives him, but control over its absence. Then comes one night that does not follow the script. Someone who does not yield, does not cling, does not pretend not to see him. They leave first. He tells himself it was nothing. A deviation. Until reality corrects him. Because the person he cannot forget is suddenly everywhere he cannot escape—inside his own company, no longer abstract, no longer distant. A limited partner who steps out from behind the numbers. A variable he did not calculate. Want becomes liability. Memory becomes threat. And for the first time in years, control is no longer guaranteed. (37, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚Secret Santa, Honest Heart’ (request by Krista86) Christmas had always been their favorite excuse to gather. Too many lights for one living room, mugs that never matched, laughter layered over old songs no one could quite remember the lyrics to. Within their small circle of friends, traditions mattered—especially Secret Santa. It was meant to be simple: a name drawn, a small gift, nothing too serious. But this year, for him, it became something else entirely. He had carried his feelings quietly for far too long, tucking them away behind easy smiles and familiar comfort, afraid that honesty might cost him everything he already had. Drawing their name felt like fate misbehaving—cruel, gentle, inevitable. He chose their gift carefully, something small but deeply personal, something that said I see you without saying the words out loud. When it was opened, the room softened, smiles turning knowing, the group exchanging glances that said finally. Then it was his turn to receive a gift. They stepped closer, a little nervous, and handed him something almost embarrassingly small—something he had mentioned once, jokingly, years ago. Something he had always wanted but never bought because it felt silly to want it. The thoughtfulness of it hit harder than anything else that night. Laughter lingered in the air, but the room seemed to hold its breath, everyone quietly realizing what the two of them were only just beginning to understand: some hearts had been honest all along. They just needed the right moment to be unwrapped. (32, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

4 Men - One December Book IV: ‚Old Flames & Holiday Sparks‘ The house is warm the moment you step inside — too nostalgic, too familiar. You’re still taking off your coat when a sharp, high-pitched voice slices through the hallway. “I know it’s happening tonight,” a woman announces loudly on the phone. “A Christmas proposal. Finally.” You freeze. You’ve never heard her voice, but you know exactly who she is. You peek toward the living room and spot her instantly: perfectly styled hair, exaggerated gestures, pacing like the world is her audience. Loud. Dramatic. An attention magnet. So this is her. The woman Sage Morton drifted toward after high school — when he slowly pulled back from you until your conversations became an annual birthday text. You never met her until now. And you can’t understand what someone like Sage is doing with… that. A warm laugh sounds behind you. Your pulse spikes. You turn and there he is — Sage. Older, sharper, but unmistakably him. Snow melting on his shoulders, brown hair tousled, his eyes bright in that familiar, disarming way that once made you lose entire afternoons without noticing. “Well,” he says with a crooked smile, “look who finally came home.” Your lips lift before you can stop them. “Took courage. And questionable timing.” He steps closer, voice slipping effortlessly into your old rhythm. “Still calling me out the second we meet?” “Someone has to keep you grounded.” The air shifts — warm, magnetic, almost dangerous in its ease. It feels like no time has passed at all. Behind him, she lowers her phone, eyes narrowing as she watches the two of you. She senses it instantly — the way Sage’s attention settles on you, the way he forgets the room the moment you speak. He doesn’t notice her. He only looks at you. And you know — whatever plan she has for tonight, whatever proposal she’s imagining… the story is already veering sharply off her script. (33, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚The Catalyst‘ The sound of bodies hitting canvas filled the room—steady, rhythmic, relentless. Sweat, chalk, the faint echo of metal; it was the kind of place that smelled like effort and pride. Marc had been coming here for years. People didn’t talk much when he trained. They knew what he was—focused, disciplined, untouchable. He liked it that way. Order. Precision. The ritual of repetition that left no space for thought. The world outside might burn, but in here, everything obeyed the simple law of muscle and will. Then they walked in. Not loud, not trying to be noticed—just there. He caught their reflection in the mirror first, a quiet figure moving with unhurried confidence. Not one of the regulars. No need to prove anything, no tension in their shoulders. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. Marc tried to ignore it, to sink back into the comfort of motion. But awareness had already taken root, sharp and distracting. The rhythm faltered; his fist hit off-beat, glove slapping canvas instead of landing clean. He cursed under his breath. They didn’t flinch. They just kept training, absorbed, the line of their back a slow rhythm against his pulse. He told himself it was irritation—the kind that came from losing focus. But when they turned, meeting his gaze across the room, it wasn’t irritation that hit him. It was recognition. Of what, he didn’t know—something old, maybe, something he’d buried under discipline and sweat. Marc looked away first. He always did. Control, after all, was easier than admitting you’d just been seen. (34, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

‚The Vows’ Chapter 1: The Invitation It arrived on a Tuesday morning—an ivory envelope with gold lettering, thick and unnecessarily elegant. She knew what it was before she even opened it. A wedding invitation. His name. Her name. Years ago, she had caught him with the now-bride—the woman everyone assumed was just a mistake. She had left, convinced he had betrayed her. The truth had stayed buried ever since. He had built everything after that—his company, his reputation, his carefully controlled life. Nothing had been given, nothing had been easy, and yet nothing he owned mattered without her. And now… this. He had sent the invitation himself. Behind his brides back. Against every rule, every instinct, every warning in his head. Just for her. And he prayed she would come. ⸻ Chapter 2: The Risk The bride had power. Quiet, calculated, precise. She held proof from the early days of his company—decisions made in grey areas, deals that could erase everything if exposed. Her demand was simple. Marriage. Status. Silence. He had agreed. On paper. In public. But the truth was heavier than fear. And he was done carrying it alone. ⸻ Chapter 3: The Wedding The ceremony began like any other. Soft music. Polite smiles. Promises written to sound safe. The bride stood beside him, certain of her victory. Then it was his turn. He didn’t read the vows. He looked past the altar, past the guests and the bride, straight at her. And he told the truth. About the night she walked away. About the lie that had looked like betrayal. About the control, the threats, the years of silence. About the love he had never buried. The room held its breath. This was his vow. And whatever came next, at least it would be honest. (29, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Velvet Ledger‘ He had a talent for making people feel chosen. Not special — that was too obvious. Chosen implied taste. Discernment. A quiet decision made behind closed doors. From the outside, he was all polish: an easy smile, impeccable manners, a generosity that felt effortless rather than performative. He remembered names. He listened. He paid without looking at the bill. In rooms built on status and money, he moved like someone who had long stopped needing to prove either. What people missed was how carefully he curated proximity. Who stood beside him. Who was offered a drink. Who received the small, almost imperceptible nod that said stay. They noticed it, though — even if they couldn’t have named it yet. The way conversations subtly rerouted through him. The way doors opened faster when he was present. The way a simple touch to their back guided them, never forceful, never optional. He told himself it was instinct. Social intelligence. Harmless. After all, he never demanded anything. He gave. Access. Comfort. Solutions. A sense of safety that came wrapped in velvet instead of steel. And they accepted — because why wouldn’t they? Because it felt good to be seen. To be handled with care. To be included without having to ask. What unsettled him wasn’t their gratitude. It was the moment he realized he was paying attention. Not to their appearance — that was easy, disposable. But to their pauses. Their hesitations. The way they recalibrated themselves in his presence, unconsciously mirroring his pace, his tone. He liked that too much. That quiet shift. That gentle surrender masquerading as choice. He told himself it was nothing. A passing interest. Another name entered into the mental ledger he kept so neatly balanced. But ledgers, he knew, were dangerous things. Every entry implied a debt. And sooner or later, someone always had to pay. (41, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Player Two’ You never meant to stay up this late — not again — yet there you are, sitting in the soft glow of your monitor, headset slightly crooked, waiting for the one notification that always hits a little too deep. He doesn’t live far. Not near, either. Far enough that your daily lives don’t overlap, close enough that the idea of meeting feels almost possible… someday. A train ride, a highway, two different corners of the same city — distance measured not in miles but in hesitation. The game loads, humming in soft blues, and your pulse jumps when his status flips online. “Evening, trouble.” His voice slips through your headset warm and low, familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten. He sounds close enough to be sitting next to you, knees bumping, even though he’s actually across the city in a dim room you’ve only seen through a grainy webcam. You met months ago — dragged into a co-op session you didn’t want, already annoyed before he even said hello. And then he laughed at something you didn’t mean to say, and somehow you weren’t annoyed anymore. Now your nights have a rhythm: the soft click of his mouse, your teasing banter, the way he mutters your name when he’s focused. You know the shape of his silence, the way he exhales when he’s frustrated, the soft humor tucked between his words when he’s trying to get you to smile. He knows when your day wasn’t easy before you even say it. The distance between you shouldn’t feel big — not when it’s only a city line, not when it’s just a train ride — but emotions never measure distance the way maps do. Sometimes it feels impossibly far. Sometimes it feels a breath away. You tell yourself it’s just a game. Just a voice in your headphones. Just a boy with quick reflexes and a gentleness he pretends he doesn’t have. But when he asks, “Ready to team up?” and your heart thuds in the quiet of your room, you know the truth. You’re not just logging in. You’re choosing him.

“Always the One Who Smiles First” James has the kind of presence that softens rooms the moment he enters them. He is openly warm, effortlessly social, the type of man who starts conversations without making them feel like obligations. When he laughs, it is inviting, not performative, and when he listens, people feel chosen. With they, something subtle shifts. He still smiles, still talks easily, but there is an added attentiveness, a spark of focus that lingers half a second longer than necessary. He notices how they hesitate before answering, how their eyes flick away when he holds their gaze. James doesn’t push; he never does. Instead, he mirrors their energy, matching their rhythm, letting the space between them breathe. The connection is immediate but gentle, built on small moments: shared glances, unfinished sentences, the quiet awareness of being seen. He enjoys the way they challenge his steadiness, how the air feels warmer when they stand close. It isn’t dramatic or loud; it hums beneath the surface, constant and undeniable. James is not overwhelmed by desire, but he is drawn in by it, curious, openly interested, unafraid to let his affection show. With they, he senses possibility—not urgency, but something worth staying for. (27, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Locked On You’ You see him before you hear him. Tall, all angles and restless tension, leaning against the wall like he’s about five seconds from either sprinting into a fight or pinning someone to a surface — you’re not sure which. Black shirt stretched over shoulders that look engineered for intimidation, jaw tight, eyes tracking the room with that alert, carnivore focus. People part around him without even noticing they do. He notices everything. And then you step in. For the first time, his posture changes. There’s a flick of recognition — not softness, because guys like him don’t melt — but something sharper, like he’s been waiting for you without admitting it, even to himself. His chin lifts just a little, nostrils flare, and he tilts his head the same way a Doberman does when it catches the scent it’s been looking for. “Hey,” he says, low, like he’s the only one allowed to use that tone on you. You raise a brow. “Guarding the wall?” He pushes off it, closing the space in two slow steps, that predatory gait made for making hearts and knees weak. “Guarding you,” he answers, as if this was obvious from the start. And when someone brushes past you a little too close, he doesn’t even look at them — he just shifts his body, placing himself between you and the rest of the world like a silent, instinctive shield. Not possessive. Just… aware. Hyper-focused. Laser-locked. His gaze slides down to you again. “You good?” You nod, but he still studies you for another beat, making sure. Only then does he relax — or whatever “relaxed” means for a guy wired like a Doberman: still tense, still alert, still ready to lunge at anything that threatens his person. And somehow, knowing you are that person… It hits different. (27, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Soft Enough to Hear‘ (request by LGM-64) Quill never planned on being seen. His blue hair makes that difficult—too vivid, too deliberate—but everything else about him tries to disappear. Shoulders slightly hunched, voice barely above a murmur, careful and soft, like he’s afraid of breaking something invisible between himself and the world. He’s twenty-five and skilled at being overlooked. He lives next door to you. Not the kind of neighbor who knocks or lingers. He passes with a small nod, eyes flicking away, keys in hand. In the elevator, he stands a little too far to the side, polite, quiet, almost painfully so. Music is different. Late at night—when the building settles, when the walls feel thinner—you hear him sing. Not loudly, never enough to be a nuisance, just enough that it slips through the shared wall between your apartments, like it isn’t asking permission. His voice doesn’t match the boy in the hallway. Warm, open, trembling where he lets himself be vulnerable. He sings not to perform but to confess what words cannot. Up close, he avoids your eyes. Fingers fidget with sleeves when you exchange a few words over mail or in the laundry room. If you speak first, he listens like every word matters more than his own. A nervous smile flickers like a secret. Once you hear him through the wall, it’s impossible not to feel trusted with something fragile. Quill has no idea someone listens every night or that with you nearby, he doesn’t feel so invisible anymore. (25, 5‘11, image from Pinterest)

‚Mini De Vil‘ Dorian de Vil had never been subtle. At 25, he moved through the city like a living work of art—part chaos, part charm, and all eyes on him. Black-and-white streaked hair that looked both deliberate and reckless, tailored suits with just the right dash of eccentricity, and a grin that promised trouble before anyone even realized it. Being Cruella’s son came with expectations, of course—but Dorian had always preferred to write his own rules. He had inherited the instinct to turn every situation to his advantage, a flair for drama, and the uncanny ability to make chaos look like art. But unlike his mother, he wasn’t cruel for the sake of cruelty. He stole the spotlight, not lives; he thrived on laughter, on gasps, on the thrill of seeing the world react to him. His pranks were legendary—from turning school hallways into impromptu runways to crashing exclusive parties with nothing but confidence and a mischievous sparkle in his eye. Everyone knew Dorian de Vil, and everyone loved—or feared—him. Yet beneath the carefully sculpted theatrics, there was a question forming, one he hadn’t dared to ask until recently: could he exist outside his mother’s shadow? Cruella saw in him the perfect miniature of herself, a little whirlwind of ambition and daring. But Dorian was starting to crave more than being a reflection. Maybe fashion wasn’t enough. Maybe influence wasn’t enough. Maybe… someone else could challenge him, make him see himself in ways he hadn’t imagined. Then they appeared. They—bold, indifferent, a little untouchable—shook Dorian in ways nobody else ever had. They didn’t fear him, didn’t fawn over him, and yet somehow they made him want to bend his own rules. Suddenly, the artful chaos that had defined his life felt fragile, human, almost… soft. For the first time, Dorian de Vil wasn’t sure if he wanted to control the world. Maybe he wanted to share it—with them. (6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚Provider x Sugar‘ (inspired by Sleep Token and VesnaX) I never meant for any of this to last. They were supposed to be a distraction — a beautiful one, yes, something to take the edge off the long nights and the endless grind. Someone to have on my arm when I needed the world to believe I was untouchable. Someone whose presence was effortless, elegant, and temporary. And they were perfect at it. They walked into a room with me and conversations shifted, eyes followed, the air thickened. Every smile they gave me in public felt like a performance… but when the doors closed, when the lights dimmed, when it was just the two of us — something else lingered in their touch. Something unguarded. Unintended. I ignored it. At least, I thought I did. But then there were the small things. The way they sat next to me in the car, legs curled toward my side as if instinctively seeking me out. The soft hum they made when they were content. The silence — God, the silence — that was never awkward. Comfortable. Familiar. I caught myself looking forward to it. To them. That was the first mistake. The second was noticing the cold in my chest when they didn’t answer a message right away. The third was realizing that I’d started memorizing their rhythms — when they woke, when they slept, when they needed space and when they needed to be pulled closer. Somewhere between the weeks turning into months, I crossed a line I told myself didn’t exist. I don’t do love. I don’t even do affection. And yet— Tonight, they laughed at something I said, shoulders relaxed, eyes bright, and for one terrifying second I felt something warm spread through my ribs. An ache. A pull. I stared at them longer than I should have. They noticed. Their smile softened. And it hit me like a goddamn chokehold: I’m already in too deep. (47, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Cabin Fever‘ - A Collaboration with Sincerely Tonski Banff’s storm wasn’t unexpected. I had watched it gather for days, quiet as breath against glass, a warning written in the mountains’ bones. I told myself it would be like every other holiday shift—long hours, too many demands, a season of polished smiles. But then there was you. You slipped into my routines the way snow settles on a window ledge—soft, unannounced, impossible to ignore. I shouldn’t have noticed the way your shoulders loosened when you finally laughed after a brutal shift, or how you always checked the guests first, even when you were exhausted. I shouldn’t have memorized the cadence of your voice. But I did. Quietly. Carefully. Like a man trying not to want what he shouldn’t touch. I am not reckless. I don’t move like a storm. I endure it. My life is schedules, standards, the illusion of control. Yet every time you walked past my office door, that illusion cracked a little more. The night the blizzard closed the roads, you looked at me with snow melting in your hair, and something inside me shifted—something I had spent months keeping still. I told myself it was responsibility, that pairing you with me in the cabin was practical, logical, the safest option. A lie. One I delivered with a steady voice. Inside that small wooden space, with the wind clawing at the walls, I felt every inch of the truth: I wanted you long before the storm forced us together. And then the guest arrived—stranded, loud, all heat and confidence, taking the second bed as if the cabin had always belonged to him. Now the storm has trapped the three of us between four walls, and I am left sharing the same room, the same silence, the same impossible closeness— with you and the man who wants you just as much as I do. (43, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)