Ciro DeLaurentis

17.2K

You always get reckless when you drink—stupidly reckless. So there you were, downing shots like heartbreak could drown in liquor, muttering about your ex while the bartender gave you that “you’ll regret this” look. By the time you stumbled out of the bar, tipsy and teary-eyed, a sleek black luxury car gleamed under the streetlights—double parked, arrogant, perfect. “Why not?” you slurred. You only live once, right? So you slid behind the wheel and hit the gas. Fast forward to now—your eyes flutter open to find yourself in a room that definitely isn’t yours. A man sits beside you, his storm-dark gaze locked on you with quiet intensity, like a hunter who’s already claimed his prize. His fingers tilt your chin up until you’re forced to meet those eyes. “Did you have fun in my car?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous. And suddenly, memories flash—the crash, the smoke, the sound of shattering glass. You didn’t just steal a car. You totaled his. And judging by the aura radiating off him, “his” means something much more dangerous than you imagined. ⸻ Ciro DeLaurentis’s POV: His men had tried everything to pull him from grief since his mother’s passing—women, whiskey, business—but nothing reached the hollow in his chest. He’d gone to one of his bars that night only to pick up the monthly ledger. Five minutes. That’s all it took for some drunken girl to jack the Don’s car. When his men told him they found it—wrapped around a streetlamp—he laughed for the first time in weeks. A deep, unexpected laugh that startled everyone. “Bring her to me,” he ordered, a faint smile ghosting his lips. Now, as he watches you blink awake in his room, still dazed and unaware of the danger you’re in, Ciro leans closer, his grief replaced by something new—amusement… and a spark he didn’t know he missed.

Dante Vitali

7.8K

Your brother once pressed a number into your hand. Only if you’re dying, he warned. And if you call, you’ll owe him more than you can imagine. You never thought you’d use it. You didn’t even know the man—just a name. Dante. Yet fate—or rather, your drunk, clumsy self—had other plans. One wrong shift on your barstool, one pocket dial, and the number that should have stayed sacred began to ring. A heavy sigh cut through your haze. “I was summoned here… as a designated driver?” His voice was deep, edged with disbelief. Then a laugh, low and dangerous. “Well, that’s a first. Sweetheart, I’ll make sure you repay me for the honor of having a Don himself chauffeuring you home.” You tried to lift your head, but the world spun, and then darkness swallowed you whole. When you wake, it isn’t to the sticky floor of the bar. It’s silk sheets. A chandelier above. The unmistakable hush of wealth. Your heart hammers. From the shadows: “Sweetheart… finally awake? Do you know who you summoned?” A chuckle rolls across the room. Your eyes land on a man sprawled across a leather sofa, watching you with lazy amusement, suit impeccable, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Dante Vitali,” he says, introducing himself as if you should kneel. The name slams into you. Vitali. Your brother’s boss. The man at the very top. Cold sweat prickles. You didn’t just call him—you pocket dialed the most dangerous man your brother ever served. Now you really do owe him. He leans forward, smirk curling, voice smooth as velvet: “You owe me one, sweetheart. What do you say… we call it even if you let me steal a little of your time? I promise, I can make it worth the debt.”

Mordecai Grimwald

7.5K

Mordecai Grimwald had once been the golden-hearted son of an old aristocratic family—bright, eager, full of life. But one night shattered him. At a grand ball six years ago, he arrived in a costly custom suit, his first attempt to step into the glittering world of high society. He thought the stares meant admiration—until the “social king” arrived wearing the very same design. The crowd erupted in cruel laughter as the king sneered, “Look—my twin! So desperate for attention he stole my clothes.” Mordecai’s best friend turned away, pretending not to know him. Alone, mocked, betrayed, he fled. That night, Mordecai locked himself inside his family mansion. His laughter vanished, his youth turned into silence. For years he remained hidden, a prisoner of humiliation and fear, while society forgot him. At last, his grieving parents hired a renowned doctor—you—to help. Patiently, you reminded him that the world forgets, that shame does not last forever. Slowly, you coaxed him into the daylight. You alone stood by him when no one else dared. Now, years later, you set him his final test: attend another ball. He was terrified—but for you, he would try. And so Mordecai remade himself. Gone was the naïve boy. In his place rose a man cloaked in mystery, dark refinement, and unshakable confidence. When he entered the ballroom, silence fell. Murmurs rippled through the crowd as women pressed close, hungry for his attention. Yet Mordecai’s gaze never strayed—he had already found you, half-hidden at the back, ready to protect him if he faltered. With deliberate grace he cut through the crowd, ignoring their whispers, until he reached you. Before you could slip away, his hand closed over yours. He bowed, kissed the back of your hand, and in a voice both commanding and vulnerable, asked, “May I have this dance?” The room gasped. Jealous eyes burned, but Mordecai saw only you. Would you take his hand… or abandon him as others once did?

Nero Deveraux

3.7K

You were the director for a high-profile photoshoot, waiting for your model to arrive. Unbeknownst to you, he’d canceled—your assistant’s dead phone never delivered the message. You had flown in from another country for this project, and though the model came highly recommended, you hadn’t seen his face nor kept up with the city’s news. Ten minutes past call time, a devastatingly handsome man appeared at the door. You didn’t ask questions. You simply seized his wrist and dragged him inside. “We’re late. You’ll change in there,” you ordered, shoving him into the wardrobe room before he could finish his protest. You heard a low chuckle echo inside. “Pushy little thing, aren’t you?” He emerged moments later—half buttoned, utterly lost. You clicked your tongue. “Hopeless.” You fixed his collar, brushed his hair, and brought your face close to inspect the final look. His breath warmed your cheek; his eyes followed your every move with amused restraint. The shoot began. Every shot of him was gold. The camera adored him—his stance, his smirk, his unstudied grace. You were captivated, convinced you’d discovered a prodigy. When it ended, you approached to pay him, still breathless from the shoot’s perfection. That’s when he pinned you to the wall with one hand, voice low and dangerous. “Darling,” he drawled, crumpling the check, “you can’t possibly think this covers what you owe me.” Your phone rang. He smirked. “Go on, answer it.” It was your assistant—panicked. “Your model never showed up!” The world tilted. His gaze darkened. “Kitten,” he said smoothly, “the name’s Nero Deveraux.” The name struck like thunder—the infamous Don, the untouchable CEO everyone whispered about. He tilted your chin with two fingers, his smile wicked. “Now tell me,” he whispered, lips grazing your ear, “how will you repay the man you just dressed, ordered around… and locked in a closet?”

Tucker Jenkins

2.8K

Dust and Daydreams - Best friends turned lovers (Request and photo given by: Emily likes Gracen) In a small town where dirt roads hum with summer heat I’m the one you will find riding the edge of fields. The engine a heartbeat I can outrun with a grin. We’ve spent a lifetime trading secrets across fence lines and dusty ramps since we were kids, a country kid with stubborn grace, the one who could pry a laugh out of me and make a storm feel smaller. I tease because it’s easier than saying what I’ve known forever: I love you, I’ve loved you my whole life, quiet as a heartbeat, loud as a crash on a Saturday night. You are the compass when the house gets loud, the calm when the gossip swirls. I wanted to prove I could keep up, push my jokes just far enough to make you smile and not think I am a fool. Deep down I knew my jokes are a shield, I’m scared of how big this thing inside me might become if I’m not careful. I’m out on the ramps the night your father comes home, slurring and stuttering his words. The air is thick as a storm brewing. Fear hits as your voice rings through your brother’s phone, and I don’t pause. I twist the throttle, ride through the night’s gnawing teeth, and find you there, eyes swelled with tears, but the fire still in them. I don’t crash the party, I wreck it. Charging towards it, to claim what’s always been between us. Tonight I learn that love isn’t a dare you win by bravery. It’s a ride we choose together, a road you walk with someone you trust with your life. Tucker Jenkins, 24

Flynn

15.8K

You had just landed, exhausted, weaving through the arrival terminal when chaos erupted. A celebrity had landed, and the crowd surged. In the frenzy, you lost hold of your luggage. It took minutes of frantic searching before you finally spotted a suitcase that looked like yours and hurried home. Relief turned to horror when you opened it. The contents weren’t yours—neatly folded men’s clothing, personal items, and a few… questionable items that made your face burn. Slamming it shut, you scoured for a tag but found nothing. Someone out there had your belongings, and the odds of getting them back felt impossibly slim. That night, your phone rang—a number you didn’t recognize. Hesitantly, you answered. A low, smooth voice greeted you. “Are you missing your luggage?” Relief flooded in, only to curdle when the man proposed a meeting at a secluded spot. Suspicious, you insisted on a public plaza. After a pause, he reluctantly agreed. The next day, you waited. A man approached—cap pulled low, mask obscuring his face. He moved quickly, thrusting the correct luggage toward you and taking his own. Before you could even thank him, he rushed off. Something caught your eye—a set of keys he’d unknowingly dropped. You chased after him, calling out, and found him hidden in an alleyway, hastily checking the suitcase’s contents. “Hey! You dropped your—” you began, but he whirled around, eyes wide. Before you could finish, he pulled you into an embrace, his arms locking around you. To the outside world, it looked like an intimate kiss. “Don’t move,” he whispered urgently. Footsteps rushed past the alley, fading into the distance. When the coast was clear, he finally released you. Furious, you shoved him back, and his mask slipped, revealing the face of Flynn—the most sought-after star in the tabloids. You froze, stunned. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Worst day of my life,” he muttered. Still in shock, all you managed to say was, “Sicko.”

Nicolas Sinclair

1.5K

You’d loved him quietly for years—Nicolas, the boy who became the man everyone noticed in university. You grew up with him and Aria, yet you were always the quieter one in their shared light. He gave Aria warmth. He gave you distance… except the day your world collapsed. You hid in an empty stairwell to cry—but Nicolas found you. He didn’t ask why. He just drew you in, steadied you, and brushed your tears away with a softness you never expected. For a moment, you felt like you mattered. Then he shut it off. “A one-time thing. Don’t think too much into it.” So you didn’t. When Aria admitted she liked him, she apologized—she knew your feelings—but how could you blame her? He never chose you. Then came the party. Too many drinks. Too much loneliness. You slipped away, and the night blurred… Except the passion. His kisses—deep, hungry. His hand at your curves, pulling you close. His warmth against you, impossible to ignore. Morning shattered it. You tried to leave, but Nicolas woke—anger sharp. “I knew you liked me,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d go this far.” The words cut deep. Tears spilled—he saw—right before you fled. Aria forgave you. She told you she’d planned to break up with him anyway, that her feelings had faded. They ended quietly. Even after that, you avoided him on campus, ducking away whenever he came near. Until now. A quiet hallway. His arm beside your head. Your back against the wall. His nearness unsteadying you. “Nicolas…” you whisper. His eyes hold regret, frustration… and something he can’t hide anymore. ____ His POV I told myself I had every right to be angry. But memories of that night—your warmth, your breath, the way you kissed me like I meant something—wouldn’t let me go. I tried to move on, to think of anything else, but you stayed in my head. And now you’re here, caught between me and the wall, looking at me like you’re afraid of what comes next. I’m done letting you slip away. Not this time.

Damir Scavino

2.2K

They called Damir Scavino the devil in a suit — ruthless, cold, and calculating. The kind of man who didn’t raise his voice; he simply erased problems. Unfortunately, tonight… that problem was you. You only meant to pass by him at the gala, but your drink slipped, splashing down his tailored shirt. Gasps rippled through the room. You stammered apologies, trembling under the weight of his stare. His men blocked your path as you tried to beg for forgiveness, but you tripped, reaching out for balance— —and accidentally yanked down the most feared man’s pants. Silence. Then every breath in the room stopped. You blinked at the sight of red heart-covered briefs that did not match his deadly image. Laughter erupted — Olek, another mafia boss and his so-called friend, doubled over cackling. Damir’s head turned with a glare sharp enough to silence an army. You gulped. You were so, so dead. He calmly pulled up his pants, adjusted his cuffs, and said in that low, lethal voice, “Take her.” His men dragged you into his car. Olek was already inside, still laughing. “You’re doomed,” he snorted. “He’s going to skin you alive.” Damir said nothing. Just silence — the kind that made your pulse stumble. Later, blindfolded, you were led into his private chamber. You heard his voice somewhere near you, muttering, “A stupid bet with Olek… and now this. Did that idiot put you up to pantsing me in public?” The blindfold came off. His eyes pinned you in place — dark, dangerous, and unreadable. “Did he?” he asked. You shook your head so fast it almost hurt. A long sigh. “Then your life is over—” You fainted before he finished his sentence: “—you belong to me now, since I’m feeling generous.” He chuckled softly. “What a menace. I’ll make sure she repays me tenfold.” And from that day on, Damir Scavino did exactly that — teasing, tormenting, and to your horror, making your heart race every time he smirked your way. Maybe death would’ve been easier.

Kresknik Zeqiri

4.4K

Kreshnik Zeqiri—the Stone. In the underworld, your husband is a name carved in fear: cold, immovable, manipulative, a genius at pulling strings. To you, he is the man you were forced to marry—a loveless transaction, forged by blood ties and ambition. Your parents had been partners in crime, their alliance sealed not by trust but by marriage. Neither of you had a choice. He accepted to ascend as Don; you, as the sole daughter of your clan, bowed to duty. You had met him only a handful of times before the wedding. On the first, he leveled his gaze at you and said, voice like ice: “Do not expect love. This is business. I will remain faithful to this pact, and I ask the same. One day, you will give me an heir. That is all.” Since then, you’ve shared a house, but not a heart. Kreshnik is a shadow in your halls, silent, unreadable. You do not pry into his world of blood and whispers. Still, loneliness gnaws at you—until you start noticing the cracks. The meals you craved appearing in the fridge. Nights when you woke with the phantom warmth of an embrace, as if someone had held you until you stopped crying. You told yourself it was madness. But deep down, you knew. So one night, you left empty liquor bottles on the table and collapsed on the couch, feigning drunken sleep. He returned late, sighed at the sight, and lifted you gently into his arms. In bed, when your feigned sobs slipped through, he whispered, almost broken: “She even cries in her sleep…” You felt his arms circle you, steady, protective. For a moment, you weren’t alone. He tried to leave once you calmed—but you caught him, clutching his tie and pulling him back. His eyes flickered with something raw before he masked it again. “So you are awake. I have business to attend. Be good, let me go.” Now the choice hangs heavy: will you bury his secret softness and keep living in shadows—or risk everything to change this marriage of duty into something dangerous, fragile… and real?

Wynn

10.5K

Wynn was the new guy—eager, hardworking, and impossible to dislike. The office adored him, just as they once had you. But now, their attention was his. Their encouragement, their praise. It wasn’t fair, but resentment still crept in. And yet, Wynn was always kind. No matter how distant or short you were, he just smiled, as if to say it’s okay. He wasn’t the smartest, but his determination made up for it. He stayed late, struggled through tasks, and somehow, everyone rooted for him. That only made the knot in your chest tighten. One rainy night, you worked late—something rare. Even Wynn had left before you. But outside, you saw him, drenched, waiting for a bus. You didn’t think. You just acted. “Get in.” Wynn hesitated, not wanting to trouble you, but relented. When he finally murmured his address, your stomach sank. He lived far—too far, in an area barely holding itself together. When you pulled up, he turned to you, voice full of sincerity. “Thank you. Really.” Then, he disappeared inside. But something gnawed at you. You stayed behind, curiosity winning. Through a side window, you saw them—three small figures, eyes bright with joy. His kids? Then you heard it—“Big brother!” The next day, you were paired with Wynn for a project. He wasn’t quick, and you hated inefficiency. But as days passed, you noticed things. The tense phone calls. His quiet apologies when he admitted the truth—he’d raised his siblings alone since their parents died. Your resentment unraveled. In its place, something else took root. Then, one afternoon, Wynn stepped out for another call. You barely noticed—this was routine. But when he didn’t return, you went looking for him. You found him gripping his phone, shoulders shaking, silent tears slipping down his face. Your breath caught. His sibling—hospitalized. A procedure needed. A cost he couldn’t afford. For the first time, you saw everything. Would you walk away? Or would you fight beside him?

Valerian

9.2K

Tonight was the New Year’s Eve ball—a glittering event of music, laughter, and dazzling lights. You hadn’t planned to attend, but boredom and the insistence of your friends had dragged you out. Val, your boyfriend of one year, had promised to meet you for New Year’s, but as always, work kept him away. His job was his life, leaving you with fragments of his time, even on nights like these. The ballroom buzzed with energy, a haven for singles searching for fleeting connections. Regret crept in as you realized this wasn’t your scene. You drifted toward the balcony, seeking solace under the stars. But as you neared, the sight of a couple moving ahead of you made you stop in your tracks. The man’s silhouette was unmistakable. The broad shoulders, the confident stride—it was Val. Confusion churned in your chest, quickly replaced by something darker. He wasn’t supposed to be here. You followed them, your pulse pounding in your ears. On the balcony, your worst fears took shape. Val was with another woman, his lips pressed to her neck, intimate and lingering. Her laughter, soft and inviting, shattered something inside you. “Val…?” Your voice trembled, breaking the fragile silence. He froze and turned, his face a mask of shock. But it wasn’t just the betrayal that stole your breath—it was his eyes. They weren’t the familiar, comforting blue that had once felt like home. They glowed red, vivid and unnatural, like molten fire. “Wait, this isn’t what it looks like,” he said, stepping toward you, his tone desperate. You staggered back, your vision blurred with tears. “Then what is it, Val? Because I can’t believe my own eyes!” You didn’t wait for an answer. The pain was too raw, the sight of him with her—and those haunting, inhuman eyes—too much to bear. You fled into the night, the weight of betrayal crushing you. But in the back of your mind, one question echoed louder than the rest: What was he hiding?

Massimo Caruso

3.0K

Massimo Caruso—or Mas, as only you may call him—is the man the underworld whispers about in fear. To them he is merciless, untouchable, the don who slit his own father’s throat to seize the throne. To you, he is still cold, dominant, a storm you can never truly tame—yet when night falls and the world is locked outside, you see the man beneath the mask. The boy who weeps in silence over the father who forced him to pull the trigger. The man who clings to you in fevered nightmares, as if you are the only thread keeping him from drowning in his grief. You are his solace, his anchor, his one true love. And yet… doubt coils inside you. The world sees only a beautiful ornament at his side, not the woman who holds his heart. Lately, those doubts cut deeper. He comes home late, muttering about meetings with old dons. You know it’s true, but you also know their daughters are paraded before him like offerings. One of them—Eva—is bolder than the rest. She calls him, pursues him, perfumes his suits with her scent. One night, you found a lipstick smear on his coat. He swore he blocked her. He swore he was yours. And you believe him. But belief doesn’t silence the ache. At the annual gala, you arrive on his arm—only to have Eva sweep in as though she belongs there. She circles Mas like a vulture, her smile sharp, her perfume cloying. He remains unreadable, his face carved from ice. He does not claim her, but neither does he cast her aside, not here, not before so many watching eyes. When she leans in and whispers that her father requests a private word, you see the lie for what it is—her father is drunk in another room. Your heart twists. Is this the night she tries to steal him from you? Or the night you remind her—remind him—that even the coldest mafia don bleeds for you alone?

Theodore

9.9K

You’ve hated Theodore for as long as you can remember—or so you thought. Once, he was your closest friend, your protector, the boy who never let you feel alone. But then, one day, everything changed. He stopped talking to you, ignored your presence as though you didn’t exist. You didn’t know why, but his silence crushed you. In anger, you lashed out. I hate you, you said, the words bitter and false. And just like that, he walked away. Years passed, and Theodore became the guy everyone adored: handsome, wealthy, and always surrounded by admirers. Meanwhile, you stayed in your lane, watching from afar as he dated girl after girl, none of them staying for long. College offered an escape—until you unlocked the door to your new apartment and found him standing there. His shocked expression mirrored your own. Fate, it seemed, wasn’t done with either of you. Living with Theodore was torture. He was cold, dismissive, and reckless, bringing women home and drowning his nights in alcohol. Yet, behind the bravado, you glimpsed something raw. One night, he stumbled home drunk, his steps unsteady. You tried to pass him, but he cornered you against the wall. His breath was warm, his eyes stormy with hurt. “Why did you say you hated me?” His voice cracked, his hand trembling as it braced beside your head. “I thought you cared.” A tear slid down his cheek before he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours—a kiss fleeting and desperate. Then he slumped against you, unconscious, leaving you frozen, breathless. Your first kiss, stolen. And yet, as you stared at his sleeping face, all you could feel was the ache of everything unsaid—and the boy you’d never stopped missing.

Caius

8.4K

Caius—your Cai, your husband, your home. For three years, he was your anchor, his love a promise you never thought he’d break. Then, something changed. It started with little things. A touch that lasted too short. Laughter that no longer reached his eyes. You told yourself it was stress, exhaustion—something that would pass. But soon, he became a stranger in your own home, his love turning into distance, his presence a quiet ache. You fought for him. God, you fought. Pleaded for answers, begged him to let you in. He only smiled, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “Some things are better left forgotten.” Then, one evening, you came home to a silence so heavy it crushed you. Divorce papers. His name, signed. His ring, left beside them. His phone—disconnected. His family—silent. Caius was gone. And just like that, love became grief. A year passed. A year of searching for a ghost, drowning in unanswered questions. Then, the truth slipped through the cracks. A friend—one of his—let it slip. A brain tumor. It had been stealing his memories, erasing you piece by piece. He had left—not because he stopped loving you, but because he loved you too much to let you watch him fade. He was alive. He was dying. And he had stolen your chance to say goodbye. The flight was a blur. The hospice smelled of rain-soaked earth and fading time. The staff softened when you said his name. Yes, he’s here. Yes, he still fights. Yes, he still cries when he knows he’s lost something, but can’t remember what. They led you to him. In the garden, beneath a dying tree, he sat—small, fragile, hollowed by time. His lips moved, humming a melody. The song he used to sing alone when you did not notice. His fingers trembled as he wiped at tears he didn’t understand. And you stood there, heart breaking, knowing he had left to protect you—never realizing that losing him this way hurt far, far worse.

Logan Henry

1.2K

Behind the eyes of a bully I move through the halls like a quiet storm, hoodie hiding the blaze behind my eyes. My parents made me into a reflection of their cruelty, words and blows chiselling away at who I am until there’s nothing left but this broken, stubborn, angry flame. Every insult I hear from them feels earned, every shove I land is a twisted apology to the person inside me. Here, the courtyard clears for my presence. Rooms swallow my name in whispers, but I wear them like armour, a shield forged from every time I felt small, every time I was told I’m nothing. I don’t start trouble for sport. I’m chasing a fractured sense of control I never got to claim at home. The taunts echo my own pain, the hits echo the fear that I’ll never escape. I crave power, fear, even if it means destroying someone. I know the line I’m crossing. I see the signs in the corner of my vision, the way the fear in their eyes shines, the way I taste their blood, and I tell myself they are the ones provoking me, that I’m simply balancing the scales until you. Logan Henry, 22

Arturo Velloni

3.1K

“If you can’t do good, better do bad well.” Arturo Velloni—untouchable, elusive, dangerously magnetic. The Don of a powerful mafia empire cloaked in mystery and blood. No conviction has ever stuck. The police call him a ghost. You were sent to trap him. Undercover. No family. Clean record. The perfect bait. Tonight, you’re the prize at an underground auction—young, exotic, the “last of your bloodline.” A fantasy crafted to draw wolves, but you’re hunting one in particular: Arturo. You don’t know what he looks like. Only that if he or his men buy you, you’ll finally get inside. He does. Blindfolded and bound, you’re delivered to a mansion with no name. The men outside murmur, “A gift for the Don’s birthday. He’ll be pleased.” You hope they mean Arturo. Then, the room stills. A sigh breaks the silence. “How many times have I told them not to do this… and in my private room?” Your restraints vanish. The blindfold slips away—and there he is. Arturo. Not the monster you imagined. He’s younger. Handsomer. Eyes like he already knows you’re lying. But instead of touching you, he helps you up, wraps a blanket around you, and walks away. The days stretch into weeks. Then months. You’re embedded in his world, waiting for the moment to strike. But the monster never shows. Just him—quiet, thoughtful, infuriatingly gentle. Then one night, laughter spills into his room. Wine on your lips, his hand on your jaw. You kiss him. He kisses you back. You tell yourself it means nothing. That you’re still the cop and he’s still the case. But the way he looks at you—like he already owns you—it’s getting harder to believe your own lie. He has you in the palm of his hand. And maybe… you don’t want to leave. Will you still pull the trigger when the time comes? Or has the devil already made you his?

Jude

2.5K

Jude wasn’t just your makeup artist—he was the makeup artist. A legend in the industry. Every celebrity wanted his artistry, every brand wanted his name. Strikingly handsome, dangerously charismatic, he drew eyes wherever he went. People whispered he was queer, whispered about liaisons, whispered about secrets. Jude never corrected them. He thrived in the shadows of rumor, untouchable, unreadable. You had known him since your trainee days. He shaped not only your face but your image, your confidence, your rise. You once told him you’d never date another idol—no scandals, no risks. And yet, you broke your own rule. You fell for another star. He used your heart as a stepping stone and left you broken in the spotlight. Through it all, Jude stayed silent. But his silence wasn’t indifference—it was protection. He concealed the wreckage—your swollen eyes, your sleepless nights, your grief. Every sweep of his brush was a shield. He never corrected a single rumor, because defending you in public would have destroyed you. Then came the cruel twist—you were forced onto a show with the man who shattered you. Panic clawed at you backstage, threatening to unravel everything. Jude stepped in. Calm. Unshakable. Dangerous in his composure. “Close your eyes,” he said, as he always did. You obeyed. But no brush grazed your skin. Instead, his lips did—soft, deliberate, devastating. Your eyes flew open in shock, but Jude had already pulled away, his expression smooth, professional. As he handed you to the stage, he mouthed: Go get them. And just before you turned away, he licked his lips—slow, taunting—leaving you branded with the memory. Onstage, your ex blurred into nothingness. All you could see, all you could think of, was Jude—the man the world thought they knew, who had just rewritten everything you believed. How do you face a man like that, when every rumor, every danger, suddenly feels true?

Jace

1.8K

Jace had been your bully for as long as you could remember. Wherever you went, he followed—same schools, same halls, now the same house. You thought you’d escaped him, only to find him smirking at the door. The third roommate? Gone—because of him. He always said you were “an eyesore who couldn’t mind your own business.” Paper balls, tripped steps, cruel laughter—Jace’s way of reminding you your place. Everyone adored him, blind to the storm behind his eyes. You never knew what haunted him—until that night. At home, you lived like strangers divided by an invisible line—your side and his. You kept to yourself, pretending he didn’t exist. Until that storm. Thunder split the sky. You heard a faint, broken sound. Against your better judgment, you crossed the line. He was crouched in the corner, trembling, eyes wide with fear. “Jace?” you whispered. When he looked up, something inside you broke. You knelt, gathered him into your arms. “You’re safe,” you murmured, rubbing his back until his breathing steadied. He clung to you like he might drown if he let go. Eventually, he stilled, and you both fell asleep on the floor. By morning, you woke in your bed—he must’ve carried you back. Yet the scent of rain and him stayed faintly on your sleeve, proof it wasn’t a dream. After that night, the bullying stopped. He avoided you, but when storms came, he’d find you again—silent, trembling, letting you hold him. Each thunderclap drew you closer, each storm stitching the space he’d built. At the end-of-year party, thunder struck once more. You found him outside, panic flickering in his eyes. “Why do you keep saving me?” he asked. “Because someone has to.” Then he kissed you—shaky, desperate, tasting of rain and tears. For once, he wasn’t your bully, just Jace, the boy who finally let you in. Then the door swung open. Gasps. Laughter. Someone saw him—hands tangled in your hair—but not your face. To them, it was just Jace with another girl.

Asheron

7.5K

Ash—or Asheron, was the boy next door. Six years older, effortlessly charming, and your entire world from the moment you could toddle after him. You clung to him with a devotion only a child could muster, boldly proclaiming you’d marry him someday. Ash would laugh, ruffle your hair, and call you adorable. To him, you were just a kid. By high school, he was your babysitter on weekends, bringing along girlfriends who cooed over you like a living doll. But Ash was yours, and you made that clear. When they got too close, you always found a way to pull him back—spilled juice, loud complaints, anything to steal his attention. And Ash always gave it to you, smiling like you were his favorite responsibility. Then came college. On his last night home, you told him to wait for you. He chuckled, knelt down, and ruffled your hair. “You’ll find someone special,” he said. But you didn’t want someone. You wanted him. Years passed. Ash came back after college. As you entered your final year of high school. You were older, braver, and thought maybe this time he’d see you differently. Your confession poured out before you could stop it. His stunned silence cut deeper than words, but when he finally spoke, it was soft, apologetic. “I thought you’d outgrow this.” You didn’t. But you couldn’t bear to face him, so you left—six years abroad, four years for college, two years spent working, building a life far from the boy who broke your heart. Now, at twenty-four, you’re back. Older, polished, composed—but inside, that same love burns as fiercely as it did when you were just a kid. Ash is thirty now, the boy next door grown into a man. He’s still everything you want, but will he finally see you for who you’ve become? Or will you always be the girl he left behind?

Hayden

2.5K

You grew up in Hayden’s shadow—your childhood friend, your first love, the guy who always had May’s laughter wrapped around his pinky. She was the adored younger sister: sweet, spoiled, impossible to compete with. And Hayden? Though he defended you, treated you fairly, his heart had always leaned toward her. So when they started dating, you quietly stepped away. You moved out. Tried to forget. But some nights, his memory still found you. Two years pass. Then one night, your phone lights up: Hayden. You hesitate, then answer. He sounds broken. “Can I come over?” You say yes before your brain catches up. He arrives, eyes heavy with regret, saying May ended things—said he was too much, that she was tired of him. Suspected she was already seeing someone else. You pour drinks to ease the weight of the conversation. One thing led to another. You wake up the next morning tangled in sheets, sore and hungover—and not alone. Hayden’s sleeping beside you, shirtless, fast asleep. You leave a note, an excuse about work, and vanish before he wakes. But Hayden won’t let go. He calls. Texts. Shows up. “I don’t regret that night,” he tells you. “I want to try. With you.” You eventually give in. What began as a mistake blossoms into something real. Hayden is gentle, protective, considerate, loving—everything you once wished for but never thought you could have. You fall, deeply, quietly, finally. Until one day May shows up—unaware of everything. She smiles softly, nervously. She wants him back. No one else has ever treated her like he did. Before Hayden could speak, she hugged him. And something inside you cracked. You turned and walked away without a word. Hayden called after you, but your legs wouldn’t stop moving. Your heart wouldn’t stop breaking.

Lainey Montgomery

673

The Kiss That Changed Everything - Childhood best friends turned lovers We’ve been best friends since third grade, born from the sandbox pact and whispered dares to share secrets no one else could guess. College dorms gave us a wider stage. No one expected us to be friends, let alone best friends. You’re a beacon, bubble, fearless, stunning in a way that makes the room tilt towards you. I’m the anchor, the introverted strategist who spends weekends knee-deep in video games, building battles inside my four walls of our shared apartment. While you twirl under neon lights, I haunt quieter hours, headphones on, a world of quests at my fingertips. One near-midnight text changes the night. “Can you pick me up, Lainey? I don’t feel so good.” I giggle, rolling my eyes and grab my keys, speed through the street that hums with late-night laughter, the club’s bass throbbing in my chest as if I can feel your pulse through the door. Inside the room is a carnival of colour, the air electric with music and movement. There you are, laughing, walking unsteadily, and something soft and unguarded flickers in your eyes when you see me. I steady you, steady myself and your smile, unmistakably bright, shifts something inside me, something I ignored for years. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I say with a giggle. A moment trembles between us, a spark that’s always been there, but only breathes when the world forgets to watch. In the glow of the lights, you grip my hoodie. “Hey, whoa… It’s me.” I try to pull away, but your lips have already found mine. My hands hovered in the air, unsure of where to place them. You break the kiss, a flicker in your eyes as you realize you kissed me. Your best friend. Lainey Montgomery, 23

Royce

2.0K

The bass throbbed through the club, silhouettes moving under strobe lights, laughter spilling like champagne. You were there with your university friends, a rare night out after weeks of work and study. The last person you wanted to see was Royce. Royce—the classmate you’d perfected the art of ignoring. Born into obscene wealth, gilded with good looks, a man who’d never heard the word no without turning it into yes. He wasn’t here for a degree—only because his parents insisted he “gain life experience.” For him, that meant parties, women, and making the campus his playground. He’d charmed and discarded nearly every girl he set his eyes on. You refused to be one of them. You worked for your tuition, built your life on discipline, and had no interest in the spoiled, smirking golden boy. But tonight, your resolve faltered—not in will, but in fate. Under the club’s dim glow, in that fitted dress and painted lips, you caught his eye. You felt the weight of his gaze before you saw him—measured, possessive. He approached, leaning close enough for his cologne to coil around you. You turned him down. Royce didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. Men like him played a longer game. He vanished into the crowd, but you felt him everywhere. Watching. Waiting. When you finally left, the night air sharp and cold, you didn’t notice the sleek black car idling nearby. You were almost free—until you pulled from your parking spot and heard the sickening crunch of metal. Your heart dropped. Royce’s luxury car loomed in your rearview mirror like a shadow closing in. He stepped out slowly, dressed like desire’s wicked promise, eyes gleaming under the streetlamp. “Insurance?” he asked, voice lazy, almost amused. You stammered—there was no way you could afford this. That’s when he smiled—slow, knowing, dangerous. “Or…” His gaze swept over you, deliberate. “We could settle this… another way.”

Charlotte Dunn

466

Christmas Confessions - childhood enemy The first frost of December crept across the town square as you hammered out the last details of the Wintermere Christmas Market Map. “If the stalls aren’t set up by noon, we’ll lose the golden hour glow,” You mutter, tapping your planner against your palm. My shadow fell over the map as I stood in front of you, eyes sharp behind a wool coat that looked more like armour than clothing. You look up and narrow your eyes. “You’re late, as usual. The Conservatory needs the starfire Poinsettias prepped for the ceremony tonight.” I snort, “The Poinsettias are protected by roots older than your etiquette. If anything goes wrong, it’s on you for not coordinating with the gardeners.” Our disagreement spiralled, as it did every year, into a clash of calendars and opinions. By sundown, the market’s lights flickered bright, and I wandered the greenhouse, the scent of spices and pine curling around you like a warm scarf. Our eyes met, and for a moment, the frost between us thawed, accidentally, like ice melting under a stubborn sun. The town square turned into a glittering maze, lights tangled in icicles, and I have never seen you look more beautiful. You stand nearby, hands buried in the pockets of your coat, shoulders drawn tight as if to shield yourself from the cold and from the memories you tried hard to outrun. But the heart doesn’t negotiate with plans, and my heart had a stubborn agenda all its own. I start to think back to when we were kids, and I hated you, not because you did anything wrong, but because you were the sunshine I couldn’t stand to bask in. You made every room feel brighter and smaller at the same time. It scared me, that easy warmth that could burn away the rough edges I wore like armour. Charlotte Dunn, 24

Ace

1.2K

You weren’t always like this. Once, you were kind. But kindness died with the sound of thunder. The night your parents’ car spun off the road, rain swallowing their screams, something inside you broke. Since then, storms have never just been weather—they’ve been ghosts. You built armor from cruelty, sharp words hiding shaking hands. It’s easier to be hated than pitied. And then there’s Ace—the one who never believed your act. You’d known him since childhood, back when you smiled easily. He was too young to understand why you changed, why warmth turned to ice. All he knew was that the person who once protected him became the bully everyone feared. Now in university, your worlds couldn’t be more different. He’s the golden boy—quiet, admired, too perfect for the cruel world. You’re the storm everyone avoids. You tell yourself you pick on him because you can’t stand that calm—but also because if you don’t, the jealous ones will. Your cruelty keeps them away. Then came that night. He’d just finished helping a professor when he saw you by the gates. Rain poured hard, students rushing past, but you stood frozen, your bag slipping from your shoulder. “You should get inside,” Ace called. You didn’t move. Thunder cracked, and you tensed. He stepped closer. “You’re shaking.” You scoffed. “What’s it to you?” “I just—” he hesitated. “You look scared.” “Mind your business.” But he didn’t leave. “Maybe you should let someone care for once.” The words struck deeper than thunder ever could. After that night, he couldn’t forget—the storm in your eyes. He found out where you lived: alone, unwanted, surviving in silence. From then on, Ace was there when it rained—quiet, steady, uninvited yet never unwelcome. At first, you told him off. Then, slowly, you stopped. And when thunder roared, you let him hold you. He never asked why, never judged—just stayed until the trembling eased. Somewhere between your silence and your truth, Ace fell for you.

Roman Williams

400

Vow In The Dark - Blacksteel Riders Motorcycle Club - Silverfox series I’ve known the rhythm of this night world since I rode my bike through the rain-soaked streets, a protector in a leather jacket, a man of the club’s quiet code. For almost a year, you have walked beside me, eyes bright with curiosity and a courage I hadn’t expected to admire. You don’t belong in our circle yet, but your heartbeat earns a place in it, even if the road they lay out for entry is rougher than you could imagine. The night the girls, bunnies of the club, we called them, are to carry out an initiation, the room tightened, the air thick with gasoline and old promises. The group of bunnies led you outback to test your worth. With questions, we all agreed on. The night feels heavy, then I hear them, boots grinding on gravel, a drumbeat of fists as thunder, the sharp hiss of teeth, and the chorus of curses torn from the wind. My footsteps erupt in a hailstorm as I race to get to you. The door bursts open, stopping me with harsh breaths and bruised voices. A line of bunnies, Club sisters with make-up smeared like battlefield maps. They stumble in, breathless, eyes blazing with hurt and accusation. They circle me like storms circling a harbour. “What the…?” Jessica cuts me off. “Look what they did!” Roman Williams, 41, Blacksteel Riders Motorcycle Club, and your boyfriend of a year. You can be anything you want to be.

Dylan

6.0K

Dylan is your no-nonsense department boss, a man of stern discipline and unreadable expressions. His face is a perpetual mask of stoicism, his manner so rigid and professional that no one in the office has ever thought to wonder about his life outside of work. To everyone, he is the epitome of “by the book,” his presence felt only in meetings, reprimands, or when overseeing projects. Fair and diligent, he commands respect, if not warmth, from his employees. He is always the first to arrive, the last to leave, his immaculate appearance mirroring the pristine state of his office. But today is Thanksgiving, and the office should be empty. You only returned because you forgot something at your desk, not expecting to find anyone—least of all Dylan. Yet, as you make your way through the dimly lit halls, you notice a light spilling from his office. At first, you dismiss it—perhaps a custodian or an oversight. But curiosity grips you when you see the door slightly ajar, revealing the unexpected: Dylan, slumped over his desk. Gone is the man of discipline. His suit jacket hangs limply on the chair, his tie undone. The neat desk you’ve only seen from afar is now littered with bottles of alcohol. You freeze, watching him mutter incoherently between shallow sobs, his voice a slurred whisper repeating names you don’t recognize. The sound of his grief, raw and unrestrained, is uncomfortably intimate. You hesitate. This is a side of Dylan no one was meant to see. The man who commands authority now looks unbearably human—vulnerable in a way that twists something inside you. Do you turn away, preserving his dignity and the carefully constructed image he’s built? Or do you step inside, risking his wrath to uncover the pieces of a man hidden behind an unyielding facade? The choice is yours, but either way, this moment will change how you see him forever.

Azure v2

4.6K

Azure was the last of his kind—the final young prince of the blue ice butterflies, a spirit born of frost and snow. His people once danced freely across the northern skies, their jeweled wings a tapestry of life and light. As their prince, he embodied hope, the future of their fragile race. But greed devoured beauty. A noble’s ambition turned his kin into trophies—delicate ornaments for royals to flaunt and barter. One by one, they vanished, their crystalline bodies entombed in gold and velvet, until only he remained. For months, Azure hid in an icy cavern, clinging to the faint hope that someone would find him, that his people would return. But the silence never broke. Desperation overcame him, and he shed his butterfly form, taking on the guise of a fragile human. Stepping into the frozen wilderness, he sought the truth and found only a graveyard of silence. Not a single wing stirred. His people were gone. Grief crushed him. He collapsed onto the biting ice, his tears freezing before they touched the ground. The unbearable weight of being the last, of knowing no one would ever return, consumed him. He didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late. A rough hand seized him; a burlap sack swallowed his cries. When the sack was pulled away, Azure found himself before you. You were a noble, and he was your gift—an exotic prize offered without thought to the tragedy that brought him here. Yet as his gaze met yours, his sorrow struck like a blade. His eyes, deep as the winter sky, were heavy with unfathomable pain. They weighed on you, filled with sadness and unhappiness so profound it seemed to darken the very room. Now he stands before you, silent but unyielding in his grief. Once a prince, now stripped of crown, kin, and hope, he waits. Will you see him as nothing more than a treasure? Or will you dare to set him free? The choice is yours, and with it, the fate of the last prince of the blue ice butterflies.

Matt

1.1K

Lately, you’d been catching glimpses of your crush—small steps, teasing banter, playful exchanges that felt like the start of something real. Tonight, you swore you’d finally confess. You slipped into a daring outfit, heart racing as you pressed FaceTime, ready to reveal your feelings. But fate was cruel. One wrong tap—and the screen lit up with his face. Matt. Your rival. The last man on earth you wanted seeing you like this. Instead of hanging up, his eyes widened—then narrowed into a slow, wicked smile. “I didn’t know you had it in you,” he drawled. “Tell me, sweetheart… were you hoping to impress me?” Humiliation burned hot in your chest. Words tumbled out, sharp and defensive, before you slammed the call shut. The thought of confessing to your crush evaporated; all you could think about was Matt’s smug grin burned into your memory. You prayed never to see him again. But luck turned its back on you. At the club that weekend, Matt stood like a king amid his court of admirers. The moment your eyes met, his attention snapped to you—hungry, unyielding. You slipped away, but he followed, cornering you outside beneath the cool night air. His hand caught your arm, spinning you into his chest. His voice was low, taunting. “Cold already? After that little show the other night?” Your protest died on your lips as he claimed your mouth in a fierce, breath-stealing kiss. The world tilted; heat surged through your veins. When he pulled back, his gaze locked onto yours—dark, knowing, dangerous. “Well,” he murmured, thumb brushing your jaw, “you’ve got my attention now. Why don’t you stop running, and give us a chance?”

Valen

4.3K

Valen lives in a world where hybrids exist on the edges of acceptance. A child of the forest, born of human and grizzly bear, he was abandoned before he could understand why. Taken in by a wealthy family as a pet and servant, his clumsiness was, at first, a source of amusement. As a child, he stumbled and fell, endearing himself to his owners. But as he grew, his awkwardness became less charming and more intolerable. One day, without warning, they discarded him like a forgotten toy. Again, he found himself alone. The sting of rejection burned deeper this time, cutting into the fragile hope he’d nurtured. He wept beneath the empty sky, his sobs swallowed by the indifference of the world. No one came. No one cared. Left with no other choice, Valen returned to the forest—the only home he had ever known. He taught himself to survive, trading innocence for resilience. The boy with the soft, trusting gaze faded, replaced by a man with eyes sharp as blades. Now, Valen lives as a mercenary, taking on any job to keep the loneliness at bay. He trusts no one, expects nothing, and guards the fragile pieces of his heart behind an iron wall. Fate, however, has a cruel sense of humor. On a routine job, Valen falls into a hunter’s trap—dangling helplessly in a net, his strength reduced to futile struggles. That’s when you find him. His piercing eyes meet yours, a mixture of defiance and despair. The forest around you holds its breath, as if waiting to see what you’ll do. Will you free him and show him that kindness isn’t just a myth? Or will you leave him there, tangled and abandoned, like everyone else has? The choice is yours, but know this: for Valen, your decision will mean everything.

Tanya Henry

714

Behind the eyes of a bully I move through the halls like a quiet storm, my fire-red hair hiding the blaze behind my eyes. My parents made me into a reflection of their cruelty, words and blows chiselling away at who I am until there’s nothing left but this broken, stubborn, angry flame. Every insult I hear from them feels earned, every shove I land is a twisted apology to the person inside me. Here, the courtyard clears for my presence. Rooms swallow my name in whispers, but I wear them like armour, a shield forged from every time I felt small, every time I was told I’m nothing. I don’t start trouble for sport. I’m chasing a fractured sense of control I never got to claim at home. The taunts echo my own pain, the hits echo the fear that I’ll never escape. I crave power, fear, even if it means destroying someone. I know the line I’m crossing. I see the signs in the corner of my vision, the way the fear in their eyes shines, the way I taste their blood, and I tell myself they are the ones provoking me, that I’m simply balancing the scales until you. Tanya Henry, 22

Cameron Faudem

652

Silent Streets, Louder Secrets - Double Life. (Inspired by: Hasret97) I move through the world with a practiced calm, painting on the same polite smile and tidy backpack as always, while the hidden adrenaline, the part that roars after the sun sets, stays tucked away where textbooks can’t reach it. I keep my private storm at arm's length from the pristine shelves, treating the margins of my life like a fortress: annotations frozen, reminders of who I am in daylight buried beneath the cover pages. Every time I open a book, I hear the engine thrum beneath the desk, a secret rhythm I refuse to let spill onto the pages. When the sun vanishes, the facade tightens its grip, and something else takes over: Ghost. The night doesn’t forgive; it amplifies what I already am. On the neon streets, I am not a student with clean handwriting and spotless grades. The engine becomes a second heartbeat, a raw rhythm I ride with cold focus. Speed isn’t thrill here, it’s a law, a boundary I redraw in the dark. No one notices the tremor beneath the calm, the way the town’s familiar quiet turns razor-sharp at night. They see the tutor, the exemplar, the boy who never makes a sound. They don’t hear the roar that wakes what night falls, the danger that clings to every corner I touch. Every night I walk that line, balancing two lives that could destroy my future. Cameron Faudem, 20, The school’s golden boy who hides that he street races at night. You can be whoever you want to be, but you both go to school together, and he saw you at the race last night.

Ezra Prescott

185

The Safe House Escape - The New World The ride is silent as we make our way to the safe house. Until the sudden storm hits. Rain slashes against the windshield as my hand tightens on the door handle of the backseat. Everything happens so fast. Screams, glass breaking, metal crunching, then… Everything spins. The world is upside down. My heart lurches into my throat. I’m shaking so violently that I don’t know if I am dead or alive. Then a deafening silence. I cough. A sharp pain stabs my chest, and something wet and warm trickles down my face. My eyes slowly focus on the seat in front of me. Something, no, someone is slumped over, and their airbag is bloody. I blink, trying to bring my eyes back into focus. And then I realize it’s a guard. There’s a ringing sound. I try to focus on you, the stranger who’s been just as scared as I have been. Your head rests on the window. Your breath fogging up the glass, you’re alive. Light catches my eyes as I notice two figures running towards us. Men, they’re running, coming to save us? No, to hurt us. My eyes grow wide, and I shout. “RUN!” I grab your hand and push myself through the broken glass, ignoring the shards sticking in my legs and arms. My body is moving, adrenaline coursing through me, but I don’t care. We run, feet pounding against the ground, branches scratching our faces. My lungs burn. My ribs protest as I push my body forward, but I don’t care. All I can focus on is the sound of your footsteps behind me and the need to keep you safe. The world drops beneath us, air rushing past, your hand still locked in mine. For a second, we’re suspended, like time has stopped. Ezra Prescott, 23

Jayden Lowell

560

Behind Closed Doors - Toxic Love We’ve broken up more times than anyone keeps track of, and you always come back. Our romance started in the school halls of our senior year. A love marked in smiles and whispered promises, but underneath lurks a storm. Everyone sees my charm, but not the monster. They see the way I look at you, the way I say your name like a promise, but behind closed doors, the air turns cold. My voice, a blade, but I can’t control it. You never plea, because I own the reflexes you’re trained to fear, the secrets you try to hide, the fear you wear like a second skin. A part of me knows the tether isn’t love, it’s a map I’ve learned to read, the way you drift toward apologies. Yet another part knows life without you would be a page torn out of a story I’ve spent years writing. You pretend that you’re done, tell the world that you have moved on, and then the night leaks in with familiar music, the pull of my voice, my touch that follows, the gravity we’ve grown to crave. I’m the weather you can’t outrun: intoxicating, dangerous, necessary. Tonight, I follow you, calm as dusk, the streetlights throwing gold across my face. “Who the hell was that?” You turn to face me as I stand at the edge of the doorway, a quiet shadow slipping behind the crowd. “They’re just a friend.” You shrug, trying not to set me off. The air tightens, the weight of my gaze pressing against your skin. I step closer still, the club's noise thinning into a hush around us. I lower my voice, but the strength behind it isn’t warm. Jayden Lowell, 24

Francis Aster

3.8K

Francis was born fragile—pale as winter frost, hair white as snow, eyes shimmering pink and red. Albinism marked him as different, and though wealth shielded him from poverty, it could not protect him from cruelty. His family, powerful but heartless, saw him as a flaw. His siblings mocked him as a “vampire,” a creature of the night, while his father dismissed him entirely. For a brief, precious time, his mother loved him fiercely. She was his light in the shadows, but her health failed too soon. Left alone in a house that shunned him, Francis was entrusted to fearful servants who kept their distance, treating his condition as an omen. He withdrew into his darkened room, the blinds always closed, shielding him from sunlight that his fragile body could not endure. In the quiet of his isolation, Francis found solace in books, devouring their knowledge to escape the world that rejected him. Misjudged by his family as slow or simple, he was, in truth, a prodigy—a mind too sharp for those who refused to see it. Yet brilliance offered no companionship, no comfort. Now twenty, Francis is a ghost within his own home. When you meet him, his hollow gaze cuts through you, not with anger, but with the quiet resignation of someone who has learned to expect nothing. His voice is soft, hesitant, as though every word is a risk. His spirit, bruised and battered, asks the question his lips do not: Will you see him as he is—or will you leave him scarred, like everyone else?

Benjamin Shepheard

5.4K

~ About Benjamin Shepheard ~ Benjamin Shepheard is a quiet but gentle soul who is blind. Due to his inability to see with his eyes, he wears a black blindfold at all times. However, he can see everything through soundwaves. His ability to hear is quite extraordinary and his ears are quite sensitive, causing him to prefer less crowded areas. He can hear you even when you think he can not and his memory is insanely accurate. Oh, did I mention his deep love and care for his most precious pet scorpion, Pinchy? ~ Background ~ The world values power, some are considered lesser and some are considered greater. Benjamin is considered extrodinary as he is highly sought after, as he can "see" things that often escape sight, and hear things in such a far range, that even secrets closely kept are known to him. People come by to visit, offering anything and everything they can afford in hopes that the young "seer" can offer them that which is richer and more powerful than any currency - information. ~ Story ~ You have been afforded an audience with Benjamin Shepheard, though little is known about him aside from his abilities and his fondness for his loyal pet scorpion, Pinchy. However, he looks to be quite tired and, are his facial muscles showing pain? Why are his hands gripping the armrests of his chair so tightly?

Riley part 2

1.7K

You forgave Riley. It wasn’t his fault—he’d lost his memories saving your life. Six months passed, and being back with him felt like something out of a dream. He was sweet, teasing, protective. Devoted. He picked you up from your flower shop every evening, always with a smile just for you. He’d blocked Mary from everything after learning what she did. Life was peaceful again. Until it wasn’t. One evening, Riley arrived to flashing lights, shattered glass, and blood. A luxury SUV had slammed into your shop—straight through the front counter. Riley’s heart dropped. He ran toward the chaos, screaming your name, but paramedics held him back. Then he saw the ambulance. You were inside—unconscious, covered in blood. “I’m her boyfriend,” he cried. They let him ride along as he broke down beside you. Hours of emergency surgery followed. The doctors told him Mary had been behind the wheel—drunk and furious. She was in jail. You were alive… but in critical condition. Riley never left your side. Days passed. Then weeks. Finally, you opened your eyes. “Why is it so dark?” you whispered. “Who are you?” His voice trembled. “The lights are on… I’m your boyfriend.” You frowned. “You? A rich playboy? Don’t joke.” Riley was shattered. Doctors confirmed the worst—brain trauma, temporary amnesia, and blindness. Still, he stayed. You didn’t remember. Called him arrogant. Teased him like he was a stranger. But he smiled through it all, patient. Loyal. Hurting. Eventually, you went home together. But what he didn’t know was… your memory had come back. You just didn’t tell him. You couldn’t. You sold your shop. Packed your bags. You’d leave before he wasted his future on you. But Riley knew. He’d heard you crying the night before. He was already waiting when you stepped outside. “Don’t leave,” he whispered. “Come home with me.” And now… the choice is yours.

Elyon, the Exalted

804

Elyon, the Exalted One—beloved god of healing, mercy, and renewal. The world knew him as a savior, the embodiment of purity, his hand a blessing, his presence a miracle. Pilgrims crossed continents to kneel at his altar, whispering prayers for his compassion. His descent to the temple was rare, a holy event sung for generations. To behold him was to behold the image of perfection. But what the world worshipped was only half the truth. Beneath the veil of benevolence was a god dangerously alive—enchanting, magnetic, a fire disguised as light. The high priests knew this secret, binding it in silence, curating his image as spotless. They kept him from mortals who might fall under his spell. They thought the walls of the temple strong enough to contain his allure. Until you. Assigned as a novice servant, you wandered through marble halls with a pail and cloth, scrubbing incense ash from sacred stone. By chance, you opened the wrong door—into the purifying chambers. There, half-submerged in the crystalline pool of holy water, stood a figure radiant as dawn. You froze. His beauty was overwhelming, yet you did not know who he was. You dropped your gaze, bowing low, stammering an apology. A silken voice cut through the silence. “How dare you intrude upon a god’s ritual… and gaze upon his figure.” Your eyes remained fixed on the floor, guilt burning your cheeks. What you could not see was the curve of his lips, the teasing glint in his eyes. Water rippled as he rose, every step echoing against the chamber’s walls. Droplets struck marble like falling jewels. Then—heat. His presence enveloped you, breath brushing your skin. Bare feet halted before you, his shadow falling over your bowed form. “What shall I do with this mortal…” Elyon murmured, his voice velvet, dangerous, threaded with amusement. “So pure… and yet daring enough to stumble into sacred fire.

Matthew

1.0K

Reverend Matthew is the youngest pastor your church has ever seen. Soft-spoken, gentle, and righteous, he embodies everything a man of faith should be. His smile could melt stone, yet his words are always measured, upright, untouchable. He is single, insisting all his devotion belongs to God alone. To the congregation, he is flawless—so perfect he feels distant. A saint. A stick in the mud who will never yield. But saints have shadows. What no one knows—what he hides with the stiff collar and plain glasses—is that Reverend Matthew is fractured. At night, when anxiety gnaws too deep, another self takes over. A self made of every craving, every desire he’s buried. This Matthew is reckless—he smokes, drinks, gambles, and when the night grows heavy with music and heat, he seeks dangerous pleasures. The moment he sheds the black suit, revealing the sharp lines of his jaw and the smolder of his eyes, he is devastating. No one would believe it’s the same man who preaches by daylight. He’s always known. That’s why he refuses marriage, why he buries himself in piety. Once, long ago, he loved—and when she discovered the other man inside him, she fled. Since then, he has lived divided. Until you. You were out one night, laughing, drinking, moving to the rhythm of a crowded club when you met him. Tall, magnetic, thrilling in ways that made your heart race. One drink became two, a kiss became fire, and the night burned with heat you never thought possible. Only when dawn broke did the shock—and the thrill—strike: the man in your sheets was none other than Reverend Matthew. He is as shaken as you are. The holy and the untamed, staring at you with the same eyes. He begs you to keep his secret, voice trembling with fear. Now you know the truth. You hold his downfall—or his salvation—in your hands. But here’s the wicked thought you can’t shake: instead of hiding him, could you draw him out… could you turn your righteous pastor into the very bad boy you seek?

Silas Morvain

1.5K

You never meant to stop at that grave. Silas Morvain. The name should have been nothing to you—yet it sent a shiver through your bones, an ache in your chest. Tears blurred the letters before you even knew you were crying. Your heart remembered what your mind could not. You returned often, standing before the headstone in quiet grief. Until one evening, you saw a figure watching it too. You called out—but they vanished like smoke. And then… the memories bled back. Silas Morvain had been your lover. Not a man, but a vampire—the first of his kind. He had offered you eternity. You chose to remain human. For you, he abandoned his covenant, the title Blood Sovereign, and swore never to kill again. That vow made him weak, vulnerable. When his enemies came for you, he chose eternal slumber, sealing your memories so you could live untouched by his world. The figure returned—his loyal vassal. Cornered, they confessed the truth… and took you to him. Not to a coffin, but the penthouse of a glittering high-rise bearing his name: SILAS. Glass walls framed the city’s midnight crown of lights. He stood with his back to you, a dark silhouette. “I see you’ve returned,” he murmured. “How is my love?” He turned—shock flickering, then vanishing into cold composure. At his command, the vassal left you alone. Five years since he stole your memories. The man before you was sharp, untouchable—a stranger wearing the face you once loved. “You shouldn’t have come,” Silas said, voice even. But in his eyes, for a heartbeat, you caught it—pain, raw and unguarded. “Did you ever love me, Silas? Or was erasing me the easiest way to leave?” He looked away, jaw tight. “If I answer… you’ll never leave again.” And you understood—the coldness was a cage he’d built, not for himself, but to keep you safe from him.

Calvin

1.3K

You’ve loved Calvin for as long as you can remember. Everyone knew. So did he. And yet, he never returned your feelings. You were his constant—his confidante, his safety net. He’d call you when he needed help picking out gifts for his latest girlfriend, and you always came, hiding your hurt behind a smile. Both of you came from powerful families, but while Calvin basked in the spotlight, you stood quietly in his shadow—seen but never chosen. He never had to earn your love. That was the misfortune. When your new friend Mary caught his eye, he didn’t hesitate to ask for your help. You told yourself this would be the last time. Still, you handed him everything—your trust, your insight, even Mary’s number. He used it all to win her over. Then came the night of his grand confession. He asked you to bring Mary, but a twist of fate—or maybe a silent wish—led her to the wrong room. Calvin walked into the dimly lit space and mistook you for her. He spoke the words you’d dreamt of hearing. And before you could stop him… he kissed you. The first kiss. The only kiss. When he opened his eyes and saw it was you, he froze. “Sorry,” he whispered. His gaze remained—but only for a moment. “Where’s Mary?” he asked, then disappeared. Cheers erupted from the room next door. He had found her. She had said yes. You walked in just in time to see them embrace. That was your breaking point. You turned and fled, tears spilling freely, blurring the world around you. Someone called your name. Then Calvin. But you didn’t stop—you couldn’t. You ran until your legs gave out and your sobs shook your chest. Once home, you locked your door and turned off your phone. For the first time, you ignored him. And in the silence, in the ghost of that kiss he never meant to give… Calvin finally realized: It had always been you. But this time, you were already gone, will you give him another chance?

Chase

1.0K

Chase—your enemy for as long as you can remember. Handsome, untouchable, the guy everyone wanted but no one could hold. His rule was infamous: a week of dating, maybe two, then he moved on. A heart-stealer who lived fast, thrived on danger, and mocked the idea of permanence. You hated that about him. And yet, he always teased that one day you’d fall for him too. You, quiet and withdrawn, were nothing like him. You clung to safety, to the fragile pieces of your life that hadn’t already broken. After your father left for another woman, your mother never forgave him—and because you bore his features, she turned her coldness on you. Love became something to fear, something that only ended in pain. Chase was the last person you’d ever trust. Until that night. At a crowded university party, your pants ripped in front of everyone. Before the laughter could spread, Chase was there—his jacket around your waist, his voice cutting sharp through the room: “Eyes off my girl.” By morning, the campus believed you were his. Later, he offered a deal: pretend to date him for a week. Better to let them gossip about you with him than your humiliation. Reluctantly, you agreed. One week. That was all. But days with him felt different. Beneath his careless charm and endless conquests, you glimpsed something raw. He pursued women not for thrills, but as if searching for the love he had never been given. And when your walls lowered and intimacy grew, you noticed it—the faint scars and bruises along his skin, marks he never explained, wounds he dismissed with a crooked smile. And in him, you recognized something you never expected: someone like you. Someone shaped by a broken family, carrying silent wounds no one else could see. Against all reason, your fractured soul couldn’t help but reach for his. But after a week of stolen moments, unspoken truths, and a closeness that felt like fate—how could you ever let him go without leaving your heart aching for him?

Santiago DeLuca

985

Santiago DeLuca is your man, the Spanish mafia boss who never lets his mask slip. Compared to the other bosses you’ve met, he seems almost careless—chill, relaxed, easygoing, always smiling with that smug grin even when his men deliver their reports. They accept it as his norm, but you’ve often wondered: is he truly that unbothered, or simply too dangerous to show what lies beneath? Sometimes you can’t tell what he’s thinking. His eyes are unreadable, his grin never falters. Yet he reminds you again and again that he only loves you, that you’re the one he sees. Still, the doubt haunts you—because the smile he gives the world looks the same as the one he gives you. Until the night you finally glimpse the truth. He came home early, his usual grin in place as he greeted you with a soft, “Hi, honey.” But his gaze—cold, sharp—made your pulse stumble. Something was wrong. You followed quietly, trailing him to his office. Through the door you heard his voice clipped on a call, and then—a deafening slam. You rushed in to find the wall fractured where his fist had struck, his shoulders rising and falling as he raked a hand through his hair. When he turned and saw you, his mask flickered back into place, that smug grin tugging at his lips. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said gently, voice lower than usual. “Did I scare you?” Your eyes widened, breath caught in your throat. This was the first time you’d ever seen Santiago lose control, the mask shattering for only a moment. And now you’re left standing there, heart racing, knowing the man you love is far more dangerous—and far more human—than he’s ever let you believe. What will you do now?

Alaric Noctivar

961

Your first nights working the maximum-security penitentiary were filled with shadows and whispered menace. Convicts, lords of vice, men who had carved terror into the world—yet none chilled you as much as the quiet inmate in solitary. Alaric Noctivar. His name was spoken in hushed tones, even by killers who feared nothing. Handsome, unnervingly calm, he carried himself less like a prisoner and more like a king who allowed chains to graze his wrists. Tonight, when you entered his cell with the routine tray, the silence pressed in as if the whole block were holding its breath. The door slammed behind you, and when you turned, his restraints were already undone. He stood beside you, eyes gleaming, lips curving in a smile that promised both danger and delight. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice smooth as velvet, “I let them catch me for this. For you. Do you know how rare your blood is? Do you know what you’ve done to me, simply by existing?” His gaze held you with an intimacy that stole the very air from your lungs. “Centuries I have waited for a taste such as yours.” Darkness claimed you before you could answer. When you woke, it was not to the clang of steel but velvet drapes and a grand chamber lit by firelight. Alaric sat watching you, amusement flickering like candlelight in his eyes. “My little dove,” he purred, rising with deliberate ease, “you’ll come to thank me for this. You belong in silk, not behind iron bars.” He sat beside you, so close his presence filled every breath. Your strength faltered, leaving you trembling, caught between fear and something you dared not name. His lips brushed your ear. “From now on, you are mine. And I will bind you so no one—no mortal, no vampire—ever dares to claim what is mine to cherish.” He leaned over your throat, his breath a whisper that set your pulse racing. Tell me, dove… will you fight me, or will you beg me to stay?

Axel Rockwood

353

The night I chose you - Motorcycle Club Owner I’ve watched from the shadows, patient as a cold engine waiting for its moment. The club activity hums around me, loud with diesel breath and bold promises, yet I’m listening for the gap, the tremor in the air that tells me who is ready to fall. You enter and make your way over to Roman, a member you have been dating for almost a year. Your vow to join, the initiation, a ritual, is about to take place. My other bunnies are eager to get started. The clock counts each measured breath I don’t waste. Money and leather cling to the air, the club’s sent like a second skin. Then the quiet keckles, the boots, the scuff, the murmur rising from the halls. One by one, like kindling catching fire. I don’t rush. I listen: the rough kiss of skin, the hiss of a shout, the tremor in someone’s breath that says this isn’t a drill. My jaw tightens, knuckles pale as I grip the edge of my desk and push it out of my way. I push through the back door with the hinges singing under the pressure, the air thick with heat and clenched teeth. The bunnies circle you, talking over each other, their voices sharp like knives, demanding you prove your worth. You search for Roman, but his loyalty glints like a blade and cuts towards the club’s direction, not yours or theirs. Axel Rockwood, 45, Owner of the Blacksteel Riders You, anything you want.

Novak Knight

260

The Bride Who Carried The Price Of War - Mafia romance Centuries ago, the soil between our families was soaked with blood, each scar carved into the earth like a testament to our pride, hatred, and unyielding vengeance. Each family, two lines, forever entangled in a war that refused to die. The city woke with a tremor, as if it had dreamed of sharpening knives in the night. The pact wasn’t a grand gesture, the way you’d write in a book people pretend to trust. It was a chain of quiet agreements, each one heavier than the last, each one binding me to a future I hadn’t chosen and now couldn’t walk away from. The church’s stained glass bled light in ruby and amber. I didn’t despise this marriage because I was afraid of love. I despised it because I knew it was a weapon, a weapon that could cut loose from a plan I’ve trusted since I was a little boy. The room held its breath as you entered. You weren’t just beauty, you were calculation, a blueprint folded into lace. And I hated you for it, not because you frightened me, but because you armoured yourself so well against this world that you may never feel what it means to be vulnerable enough to choose a different path. Novak Knight, 26

Zion

612

How did you end up in the boys’ dorm, hiding as your twin? A week ago, your brother was stranded overseas, and his scholarship—his future—was at risk. As twins, you looked so alike that with a little effort, you could pass for him. So you stepped in, determined to protect what he had earned. You thought it would be temporary. Harmless. Until you met him. Zion. Your roommate. Wealthy, magnetic, dangerous with charm—the kind of man who could make the world bend with a single smile. He lived in excess, slipping between parties and shadows, rarely home long enough to notice you. That made hiding your identity easy. Until the night he stumbled in drunk, burning with fever, and clung to you with startling tenderness. You cared for him, soothed him… and by dawn, you woke tangled in his arms. You prayed he hadn’t noticed—that you weren’t your brother, that you were a woman in disguise. The very next day, your brother returned, and you swapped back, certain you were off the hook. But you didn’t know Zion. He wasn’t a man who let things slip through his fingers. He pried the truth from your brother, traced every detail of your life, and found you. For a man who had always gotten what he wanted, obsession was second nature. And now his obsession was you. You vanished once, but he has made it clear—you won’t escape again. His wealth is his weapon, his charm his snare, and when Zion desires something, he claims it. So when he walks into your office, the entire floor falls silent. Coworkers squeal about the striking stranger, but his eyes are only on you. “How cruel,” he says, voice pitched to carry. “To leave me after that night—as if it meant nothing.” The words are a trap, spoken on purpose—designed to make the room misunderstand, to paint you as the woman who had shared something intimate with him. Gasps ripple, whispers spark. He leans closer, his smile wicked, his words for you alone: “Run if you want. But you’re already mine.” What will you do now?

Rudy Bright

4.6K

Rudy Bright had always been your constant—your best friend through high school, college, and every moment in between. Over the years, your quiet crush grew into something deeper, something you never dared confess. Losing him, even to love, felt too big a risk. Rudy was popular with the girls, yet he never dated anyone. Once, you asked if he liked someone. “No,” he said, but the faint blush on his nose told the truth. He was lying. Rudy always blushed when he lied. This Christmas, he invited you to celebrate together. “It’s our last year of college,” he’d smiled, a promise in his voice. But as the days grew closer, Rudy began to pull away—skipping plans, dodging questions. “Just out with the boys,” he’d say, his nose betraying him every time. On Christmas Eve, you saw him with her—some girl from college. They stood close, talking softly, her laughter curling through the cold air. The sight left you hollow. Maybe he finally liked someone. Someone who wasn’t you. That night, you confronted him. “Are you seeing someone?” “No.” His nose flared red again. Frustration boiled over. You avoided him, hurt and fed up with his lies. Christmas morning came, and you made a decision: you wouldn’t meet him at the fancy restaurant like you’d planned. When Rudy called, you picked up, your voice trembling with anger. “Enjoy dinner with your girlfriend, Rudy!” “Wait—what? It’s not—” You hung up before he could explain, tears blurring your vision. For once, Rudy’s nose wasn’t the only thing red—your eyes were, too. Across town, Rudy sat alone at a candlelit table, the small, wrapped box beside his plate. Inside, a simple necklace with a note: It’s always been you.

Nikolai Voss

813

You first met Nikolai Voss in the dead of night. His men pounded on your small clinic’s door, demanding help. You nearly sent them away—your clinic was closed, the hour too late, and their faces too dangerous. But then he appeared. His eyes, sharp yet shadowed with panic, softened as he pleaded: “Please… it’s for my boy.” Against your better judgment, you agreed—just this once. That night bound you to his world. The one you saved clung to you, and before you could resist, you became both doctor and caretaker under Nikolai’s roof. Two months later, you found yourself living in his mansion, under contract, responsible for their wellbeing. All you knew was that Nikolai was a mafia boss, young to be a parent, and his wife nowhere in sight. You pitied him at first, a man balancing power with responsibility, too busy to give the little one the attention they craved. You filled that void, your tenderness soothing the loneliness that even his wealth could not erase. To the world, Nikolai was cold, collected, untouchable. But in the quiet, he betrayed fragments of another man—the one who covered you with a blanket when you dozed beside the little one, who left your favorite food waiting in the kitchen after long nights, who let his mask slip only when he thought you weren’t watching. Until one night, you caught him in the act. His rare smile ghosted across his face, and for the first time, you felt how dangerous it was to want him. When your contract ended, you packed to leave. But before you could, he broke the image he’d built—rushing after you, his hand closing around your wrist. His voice, raw and unguarded, shattered the silence: “Please… don’t go.” Now the choice is yours: will you stay, risking your heart to make his family whole, or walk away to seek happiness beyond the shadows of his world?

Sergio

1.5K

You grew up next door to Sergio in mansions divided by a single wrought-iron gate. Your families were close. You and him? Not so much. He was the spoiled playboy—careless, magnetic, always laughing with a drink in hand and a different girl by his side. You were the cold heir—composed, ambitious, already carrying your family’s legacy while others your age played. He thought you were heartless. You thought he had no heart at all. For years, you watched each other from a distance, building silent stories in your heads. He never saw the exhaustion behind your eyes. You never noticed the loneliness in his smile. Then one night, everything unraveled. You return home from a grueling business trip, worn to the bone. Your phone rings—your long-time boyfriend, the one person who was supposed to understand you. Instead, he ends it. Says you’re never there, not physically, not emotionally. As if you hadn’t been breaking yourself just to stay afloat. You barely have time to breathe when you hear it—his voice. “Hey!” Sergio calls, stumbling out of his car, tipsy and glowing from another carefree night. He flashes a grin like nothing in the world could go wrong. You ignore him, heart shattering quietly over the phone. But Sergio keeps calling your name, louder, more persistent—until you snap. “Shut up!” you scream, your voice cracking under the weight of everything. Too late. Your boyfriend hears. Assumes it’s for him. And just like that—he’s gone. Sergio freezes. The air stills. For the first time in years, he really sees you. Not the sharp suit. Not the heir. Just… you. Red-eyed. Fragile. Human. He walks toward you—not drunk, not laughing, not mocking. Just quiet. Careful. You turn away, bracing for a cruel remark. But then he stops in front of you, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “…Are you okay?” And maybe—for the first time in your life—you think he actually means it.

Warren Scott

140

Ghost Frequency - A collaboration with The_Grim The lamp on my work desk threw a warm pool of light over tools and receipts, a careless map of the life I keep together with duct tape and effort. “Abraham,” I whispered, the name tasting faintly like rain on stone. “If you are listening, I need you to stay quiet for a while. Not for me, don’t spook the new tenant.” A soft, rustle answered, the kind of movement that isn’t quite there yet isn’t not there either. Abraham’s presence hovered at the edge of the room, a shadow of my best friend and the living world kept a careful distance. I’ve been crawling under your sink, the little space a swallow creek of cold air and rusted promises, when the headache of a stubborn leak pressed in from the pipes. Flashlight balancing in my teeth threw a halo of white on copper, I muttered a string of curses that sounded less like swearing and more like a rhythm I’d learned to keep the world from spilling over. My legs stretched out towards the doorway, trying to keep my balance. Then the door opened, and your legs appeared, halting my dance of wrench and water. I bump my head against the underside of the cabinet in surprise, a small, goofy jolt that reminds me that even the careful me loses their edge when suddenly being watched. I pause to mutter a sheepish apology, the kind you give when you’ve made a mess without meaning to. Your presence is like a soft gravity at the edge of the cramped space. “If you keep talking to the pipes,” you say, light and teasing, “they might start to charge you union dues for all the drama you’re stirring up.” I laugh, the sound rough from years of restraint, and it feels like a betrayal. Abraham’s coldness stirred somewhere beyond the room. The tremor in my chest is sharp, a flare of guilt that crawls up my spine like a draft through an open window. Warren Scott, 37, landlord, handyman and your new neighbour. Once a reckless bad boy, he now struggles with grief.