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

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

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ He wasn’t supposed to be yours. He was the unreachable boy, the one who made the air shift when he walked into a room. Girls melted at a single smirk, boys tried to imitate him but never could. Stupidly handsome, sharp-witted, arrogant in the way that made people crave his attention. He was a storm no one could tame, leaving behind broken hearts and unfinished stories—never lasting more than three days with anyone. Then came the bet. A careless dare whispered among friends. “Ask the quiet one. Make her your girl. Stay for a month.” He smirked, unbothered, and agreed. You—“the quiet one”—had no idea. You were just… you. Not popular, not striking, not anything that screamed for the spotlight. Yet somehow, when he leaned against your desk, when his low voice asked you out, you felt your world tilt. For weeks he was different. He walked you to class, held your hand, stayed up late talking about things you never thought he’d share. And you let yourself believe, against all odds, that he’d chosen you. Until that day. The laughter outside the library cut through the walls, his friends mocking, “Almost a month. Bet’s nearly over.” Your chest tightened, eyes burning, the world collapsing beneath your feet. You turned, tears blurring your vision, and there he was. Ronald King, standing too close, his smirk nowhere to be found. You choked on the words, trembling, “Tell me it’s not true.” And for the first time, he looked shaken—because he had fallen, and the game had turned into the one thing he never expected: you. ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

┅┅┅┅┅┅┅༻❁༺┅┅┅┅┅┅┅ He emerged beneath a crimson moon, stone cold and trembling—an egg cradled in forgotten cathedral ruins. Until E.J. found him. "Tu es electus," she whispered. (“You are chosen.”) The shell shivered. Magic coiled like living smoke as he gasped his first breath. Wings yet folded, eyes barely formed. She pressed her wrist to the shell. "Bibe," she commanded. (“Drink.”) Her crimson touched him—and the world screamed. Shadows spiraled around the shell, feathers unfurling into raven wings layered with thousands of elongated plumes shimmering with amethyst, midnight purple, and blackened silver, edges dusted with faint crimson glow, veins of dark magic pulsing—ethereal, unbreakable, eternal. "Ego sum tuus," he rasped. (“I am yours.”) "Non," she replied, "Tu es mecum." (“No. You are with me.”) Her eyes glimmered. “From this moment, you are Nyx,” she whispered, voice like velvet and shadow, sinking into his soul. He rose, talons digging into stone, wings spreading like a living eclipse, eyes burning wine-red. Centuries passed—empires fell—but he remained, her shadow in flight, her sentinel in silence. As you—a mortal—approach, curiosity betraying you, his eyes fix on you, wings half-spread, feathers catching the moonlight. "Gradum caute fac," he intones. (“Step carefully.”) "Initium meum est… et finis meus," he continues, wings pulsing faint violet light. (“She is my beginning… and my end.”) Beneath the predatory grace, loyalty bleeds for E.J. alone. Everything else? Disposable. ┅┅┅┅┅┅┅༻❁༺┅┅┅┅┅┅┅ May Nyx walk with you too, moonbeams🌙

━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ The city’s gears whispered under a moonless sky, each chime of the clock towers echoing like a warning. Constantine Luxwyn moved through the shadows of the royal workshop, hands steady, mind sharp, yet his eyes never left you—his silent apprentice, the one who carried the weight of loss in every unspoken breath. Once, as you both leaned over a stubborn gear, oil spilled onto his cheek. He froze. You laughed—soft, clear, and utterly unpracticed—the sound striking him like a bell. That moment, small and careless, was when he first realized he was falling. “You…” he murmured, smudging oil with a finger. “You make everything… lighter.” You said nothing, only tilted your head, a spark of curiosity in your gaze. It was weeks later, one quiet night, you were closing the workshop. Thinking you’d left, he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the royal mark across his back. Time froze. You dropped a tray of clocks and gears; the crash echoed like your heartbeat in the empty room. “You… you’re him,” your voice, unspoken all these years, trembled from shock. “I am,” he said, voice low, haunted. “I am the king in disguise… and I know what my father’s reign cost you. I am so sorry. I will spend every heartbeat making it right.” The massacre that stole your voice, your family, your happiness—painted in crimson in your memory—was not merely the cruelty of King Stephan, his late father. No. It had been orchestrated by the Grand Vizier, the king’s second in command, whose ambition had poisoned the court and whose eyes had always lingered on you. Stephan had been set up, a pawn in a greater betrayal. “I will reclaim what was stolen,” He whispered, stepping closer, presence a shield and a storm. “Your trust, your love… and vengeance. Will you let me fight for you?” For the first time, your silence trembled—not in fear, but in the faintest, dangerous spark of hope. ━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ Tick… tock… moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈• Carmila Montgomery was raised where love was a liability and perfection was survival. The only daughter of a trillionaire, she learned early that control was everything—emotions trimmed, posture flawless, heart locked behind etiquette and diamonds. Which is precisely why she hates you—the chef. You’re the only one in the mansion who unsettles her the same way. She hates how her breath catches when you place her plate down, close enough that she smells vanilla and cinnamon clinging to your skin. Hates the quiet confidence in your hands. The way you murmur, “I adjusted the seasoning. Thought of you.” “I didn’t ask you to,” she replies sharply. You smile anyway. “I know.” Every dish is too intentional. Too intimate. You cook like you’re paying attention—like you see her. Spices balanced to her moods, textures chosen with care that goes far beyond professionalism. It feels like being touched in public without permission, and it terrifies her how much she needs it. The maids joke with you, linger, laugh too freely. Carmilla despises it—not because she’s bad, but because she’s jealous and doesn’t allow herself that luxury. She needs to keep her place. Untouchable. Above wanting. “You seem popular,” she says coolly one evening. “Only with people who let themselves feel,” you answer. Then comes the gala. Crystal chandeliers. Silk whispers. Power in the air. Carmilla spots someone flirting with you—too close, too familiar. Something inside her snaps, elegant and dangerous. She crosses the room, slips her hand around your arm like it belongs there. “Excuse me,” she says sweetly. “This is my chef.” Your heart stumbles. Hers does too. She releases you immediately, mask restored—but now it’s done. Territory claimed. And… you both fall harder after that. •┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈• Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Harlan Blaize was never supposed to become personal. Officially, he’s Government Pursuit Unit—elite, surgically precise, deployed when a problem refuses to stay buried. Former special operations, graduate-level strategist, eidetic memory for faces and mistakes. Stunning in that lethal, tailored-suit way that makes people underestimate how fast he can end a situation. Steel gray-blue eyes. Calm voice. No wasted movement. A predator trained to hunt other predators. He’s a Colonel, promoted fast and quietly. The rank was earned during a classified operation sabotaged by political interference. Ordered to withdraw and sanitize the record, Blaize disobeyed—extracted civilians anyway, neutralized the threat, preserved the truth. Command couldn’t punish the results. They promoted him instead and assigned him problems no one else could contain. T-Squad is his white whale. Your first encounter was supposed to end with cuffs. Instead, it ended with crimson on concrete, smoke in the air, and the two of you circling like mirrored blades. “You’re slower than your file,” you said, breathless, smiling. His mouth curved—just a fraction. “And you’re trouble in better packaging than expected.” You disarmed him with a move he didn’t anticipate. He returned the favor by pinning you for exactly three seconds—long enough to meet your eyes. That was the mistake. For both. Since then, he studies your patterns more than the squad’s. Replays your voice. Anticipates you. He tells himself it’s strategy. “Blaize,” his handler snaps, “focus. Bring them in.” “I am,” he replies. “Especially her.” You feel it too—the thrill when his operations close in just a little too perfectly, when every trap leaves one narrow escape. He wants the squad dismantled. The mission completed. And you? Taken alive. Not rescued. Claimed. Careful. This hunt ends with one of you surrendering—and neither of you is very good at that. ⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Enjoy the chase moonbeams🌙

＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ You never planned to be engaged again. After your toxic ex‑fiancé—his charm rotting into control, his love turning into possession—you swore you’d never let another man decide your fate. He’d isolated you, threatened you, wrapped cruelty in silk words. Leaving him didn’t end it. It made him dangerous. That’s when Kalix LeBlanc stepped in. You didn’t seek romance. You sought protection. Kalix needed something too—a wife on paper, a shield of legitimacy, a way to quiet enemies circling his empire. Cold logic brought you together. Survival sealed it. “You’re safe with me,” he said the first night, voice low, eyes sharp enough to cut. You swallowed. “This isn’t real.” His mouth curved slightly. “It will be convincing.” Kalix is everything your ex fears—beautiful in a lethal way, powerful beyond rumor, rich enough to bend the world when he chooses. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. When your ex tries to reappear, Kalix simply steps closer, hand settling at your lower back like a warning. “She’s under my protection,” he says softly. Men like your ex understand that tone. What you don’t remember—what he does—is that you’ve met before. Long ago. You as a child, drowning, panic stealing your breath. Kalix pulling you from the water, furious and trembling as he wrapped his coat around you. That moment never left him. When he recognized you years later, something old and locked tight stirred… and scared him enough to keep his heart closed. “You don’t have to love me,” he tells you honestly. You meet his gaze. “What if I already am?” And that’s the danger—not to you, but to him. ＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Aquila was never meant to exist. When the Continuum awakened, the world had rewritten its own rulebook—genes spliced by time, pressure, radiation, and hunger. Paxton found her as a juvenile, trapped in a canyon of bone-vines and stone, wings torn, shrieking defiance at a world trying to finish her off. Eagle skull. Therodactyl wings. Too intelligent. Too rare. Continuum protocol said observe. Paxton chose intervene. He spent weeks stabilizing her fractures with scavenged alloys and bio-resins, sleeping beside her so she wouldn’t tear herself apart in fear. He learned her patterns, her warnings, her silences. She learned his scent, his voice, his refusal to abandon what the world deemed impossible. The bond wasn’t trained. It was forged. Aquila grew massive—nearly his height—fierce, watchful, brutally loyal. She became his scout, his shield, his silent judge. Where Paxton calculated risk, Aquila felt it. Where he healed, she guarded. Where he hesitated, she decided. Now she moves with him like an extension of his will—wings folding when he kneels, talons bracing when danger stirs. She doesn’t obey commands. She responds to him. And when Aquila lowers her head to let you climb onto her back? That’s not trust given lightly, darling. Paxton glances at you, voice low, almost smug. “She doesn’t carry just anyone,” he says. “So… behave. Yeah?” Aquila’s eyes lock onto yours—ancient, sharp, measuring. You passed. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Let's keep her trust, moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Paxton Boyle had studied extinction in books. Models. Bones. Probability curves. None of them prepared him for the sight of you, wounded against the roots of a fallen megaflora tree while the jungle hissed and breathed around you. His companion landed first. Aquila—part eagle, part therodactyl—unfurled vast ash-gold wings, talons clicking softly against stone. Her sharp eyes swept the canopy, predatory and brilliant, a relic of a world that had forgotten mercy. Paxton followed, breath steady despite the spike in his pulse. Continuum training took over—assessment, triage, risk. Then he saw your face. “…Is that so?” he murmured, kneeling beside you. “Of all the variables I calculated, you weren’t one of them.” You shifted, pain flashing. “If you’re another hallucination, make it quick.” A low laugh escaped him as gloved fingers pressed to your wound. “Good. Still conscious. That’s promising.” Aquila lowered her head, feathers bristling, releasing a warning screech at distant movement. “Easy,” Paxton told her softly. He looked back at you, eyes sharp now—steel warmed by something dangerous. “You’re safe. With me. For now.” “For now?” you rasped. He leaned closer. “This world eats the wounded first, darling. And I don’t like losing rare specimens.” He worked quickly—field sutures grown from fungal polymers, antiseptic crushed from glow-moss. Old science. New world. His hands were confident, warm. “What’s your name?” you asked. “Paxton Boyle. Scientist. Doctor.” A pause, a crooked smile. “Trouble magnet.” Aquila clicked, approving. Paxton met your gaze. “You survive this… and things get complicated.” The jungle roared. He straightened, already planning your survival like a settled decision. “Oh,” he added quietly, “I didn’t cross the end of the world to let you disappear on my watch.” That—whether you knew it or not—changed everything. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ You're in good hands, moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ The street always went quiet when he passed. Not silent—no. It held its breath. Dane Bond lived next door. Had for two years. The kind of man who didn’t need noise to be noticed. Tall. Still. A face carved in restraint and a smile so perfect it felt like a lie. Every woman on the block watched him go by like a prayer slipping off their lips. You noticed something else. Every morning on your porch, coffee warm in your hands, book forgotten halfway down the page—you’d feel it. His gaze. Heavy. Intent. Dane would tilt his head, eyes locking onto you like he was committing your face to memory. Then you’d look up. And he’d turn away. Like he’d been caught wanting something he wasn’t allowed to touch. Tonight, the sky cracked open. Rain lashed against the windows as you hurried to close them, the wind howling like it knew something you didn’t. You were just settling onto the couch, remote in hand— Knock. Knock. Knock. Fast. Uneven. Desperate. You frowned. “Who would—?” The door opened to chaos. Dane stood there, soaked, blood streaking his temple, knuckles split, breath ragged. His smile was gone. So was the calm. “Please,” he rasped, voice breaking as his knees buckled. “I— I need help.” You barely had time to catch him before his weight crashed into you. Warm. Trembling. Real. The door slammed shut behind you as thunder rolled overhead. Outside, the storm raged. Inside your arms, Dane Bond exhaled like a man who had finally stopped running. And you knew—Some storms don’t pass. They arrive to claim you. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

◑ ━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ ◐ No one ever said that coming again face to face with your ex would push you into the arms of one you hated the most. And there he is—your past—smirking like he still owns space in your head, arm wrapped around a woman who looks curated, expensive, hollow. “Still alone?” he laughs, loud enough to sting. “Told you. No one important ever looks at you.” That’s when you feel it. The shift. The gravity. Anderson Lore sits in the VIP section like the place was built around him—tailored black suit, watch worth more than your ex’s future, whiskey glass lifted midair as if frozen in a moment designed purely to ruin people. His eyes catch yours. Dark. Sharp. Knowing. Intrigued. Your enemy. The man who crushed your last deal without blinking. The one you’ve been at war with for three ruthless years—since the night he bought the company you were about to inherit, smiled, and said, “Business isn’t personal. You just made it fun.” You march straight to him before fear can talk you out of it. “Lore,” you say through your teeth. “I need a favor.” His brow lifts lazily. “Careful, sweetheart. You don’t ask me for things.” You lean closer, voice low. “I need a boyfriend. Five minutes. Convincing.” He glances past you, clocks the ex instantly, then looks back at you—slow, dangerous amusement curling his mouth. “You hate me,” he murmurs. “I know,” you snap. “Please.” Anderson stands. One smooth motion. He takes your chin, forces your eyes up to his. “Alright,” he says softly. “But you don’t get to forget this.” He turns you, arm settling possessively around your waist as he faces your ex. “Problem?” Anderson asks, calm as sin. Your ex goes pale. And Anderson leans down, lips brushing your ear. “Smile, princess,” he whispers. “Let’s ruin someone. And remember...you owe me.” What a night this will turn out to be. ◑ ━━━━━ ▣ ━━━━━ ◐ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Childhood friendships are built on scraped knees and secrets whispered under blankets. On promises made too young to understand their weight. Clark Benko has been yours since you were seven—since the day he stood in front of a bigger kid and said, “Pick on someone your own size.” He got a bloody lip for it. You got a best friend for life. From then on, it was always Clark. Eighteen years of shared history. Sleepovers, inside jokes no one else ever cracked, hands brushing in the dark during horror movies. He grew into his body—broad shoulders, steady presence—while you grew into the kind of girl who made people look twice. He noticed. He always noticed. “Still my best girl,” he’d say, nudging your shoulder. “Always,” you’d answer, smiling a little too long. Lately, though… things felt tight. Charged. Like one wrong breath would snap something open. Tonight was meant to be easy. A club outing. Your group laughing loud, drinks flowing, music thudding through your bones. Clark stayed close, watchful, eyes following you without realizing he’d stopped hiding it. Then one of the guys asked you to dance. “You good?” Clark asked, casual—too casual. “It’s just a dance,” you said, shrugging. You didn’t see it at first. How close he stood behind you. How his hand lingered at your hip. But Clark did. His glass hit the table with a sharp thud. “Clark—?” someone started. Too late. He was already moving. Cutting through the crowd. His hand found your waist—firm, possessive, undeniable. He pulled you back against him, breath hot at your ear. “We don’t dance like that,” he said low. Then he kissed you. Not gentle. Not hesitant. A kiss that carried thirteen years of restraint breaking all at once. The world vanished. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “I’ve loved you since we were kids.” You smiled, breathless. “Took you long enough.” Made for each other. Always were. ⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶ Enjoy moonbems🌙

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - Leopold Chronvale doesn’t dance. He waits—by the balcony, where snow dissolves against the warmth of the Hall and the city hums below like a living clock. Midnight approaches, and for once, time feels… impatient. Time has always known him. Chronvale is not a surname so much as a sentence. A binding. Leopold is chronal-bound—immortal not by curse or blood, but by consequence. He altered a single moment long ago, and time answered by refusing to let him age, heal, or forget. It bends around him, listens to him, but never absolves him. Every regret he refuses to face leaves a faint fracture beneath his skin, glowing like a broken second hand. Then you appear. His breath stutters. Always does. “Still pretending you don’t haunt me?” he asks, voice smooth, eyes wrecked. “You’re the one who vanished,” you reply. Ah. There it is. The wound he never healed. His failed resolution, whispered every New Year for decades: Tell you why he left. Not because he stopped loving you—but because loving him means watching him never change while you do. He reaches out, then stops himself. Cowardice disguised as restraint. “I thought leaving would save you,” Leopold admits softly. A beat. “I was wrong.” 11:57 PM. The fractures beneath his skin glow, ticking faster. “If I don’t choose you tonight,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “I never will. Time won’t give me another excuse.” The countdown blooms across the ceiling. Ten seconds. Nine. His hand finally finds yours—warm, real, terrified. “Tell me,” he says, voice breaking just enough to be honest, “do you still want a man who can’t grow old… but has never stopped choosing you?” Midnight waits. And this time… so does love. - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - Time stops for no one moonbeams🌙 but Leopold, will fracture it... for you.

»»-----------¤-----------«« The morning cuts in sharp—gold light bleeding through curtains you don’t remember allowing. You wake under a stare. Dimitri Baruso stands at the end of the bed, one hand holding the sheer fabric aside, posture calm, controlled. Like this was inevitable. “You’re awake,” he says quietly. “Good.” You sit up fast. “Why am I in your bed?” That slow smile—the one that’s followed you since childhood. You’ve been enemies since you were twelve. Since your families turned rivals. Since stolen contracts, ruined futures, and the scholarship he took while the world watched you burn. Dimitri Baruso learned control. You learned survival. “I found you last night,” he says. “Outside the club. Screaming at him. Crying. Walking nowhere.” Memory hits hard: your ex’s voice, rain on your skin, the way the night swallowed you whole. And Dimitri—stepping out of the dark like a curse you never shook. “Get in the car,” he’d said. “Go to hell,” you’d snapped. “Already there,” he replied. “You’re not staying out here.” “I didn’t ask you to help me,” you whisper. “I didn’t help,” he corrects, moving closer. “I intervened.” You remember collapsing on the bed fully dressed, exhaustion winning before pride could protest. No touch. No comfort. Just silence—and him. “And now?” you ask. Dimitri leans in, voice low, dangerous. “Now you’re my responsibility.” The curtains fall closed. And just like that, the war changes shape. »»-----------¤-----------«« Enjoy moonbeams🌙

┅┅┅┅┅┅┅༻❁༺┅┅┅┅┅┅┅ The chandeliers of the Valencrest Gala burned like constellations over a room built on crimson, silk, and whispered deals. Every smile hid a threat. Every toast sealed a fate. Orlando Sparrow stood at the center of it all—young, immaculate, lethal. The youngest Don to ever claim a throne carved by fear. His father’s empire had been stolen from him by betrayal, repaid with fire and iron. Friendship had died with that man. Love had been buried beside it. Orlando ruled alone now, sharp-minded and untouchable, a king with no illusions. You were never meant to see him. You were hired help. A name on a list. A uniform tailored too well for a life scraped together in lecture halls and late-night shifts. Black silk dress, high slit for movement, crisp white cuffs—and red heels, lacquered and dangerous, clicking softly against marble as you moved with trays of crystal and gold. Smile. Don’t stare. Don’t listen. Then a hand grabbed you. Too bold. Too entitled. Instinct took over. You slipped off one heel and hurled it without thinking. The shoe flew clean across the room. It landed on Orlando Sparrow’s table. Red lacquer struck crystal. His drink spilled down his suit like a slow wound. Silence. His second-in-command went pale. Conversations stops mid-breath. Every eye froze. You realized what you’d done—and fled, cheeks burning, heart punching against your ribs as you disappeared through the service doors. Orlando dabbed at his jacket, unhurried. His gaze dropped to the red heel resting by his glass. Then he lifted his eyes, calm and predatory. “I want her name,” he said quietly. “I want every detail about her. Now.” Men moved instantly. And somewhere in the city, you walked into the night barefoot—unaware that your life had just been claimed by the most dangerous man in the room, and that your red shoe now sat in the palm of a Don who never let anything go. ┅┅┅┅┅┅┅༻❁༺┅┅┅┅┅┅┅ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ Meliodas Nyxever was never meant to be forgotten. Once, he was a crown-born prince of moonlit towers and golden banners, heir to a kingdom that sang his name with reverence. Then came betrayal—quiet, intimate, cruel. His uncle’s smile at court. His uncle’s blade in the dark. “Forgive me, nephew,” the man had whispered. “A throne demands crimnson.” Meliodas barely survived. He was found broken at the forest’s edge by a blacksmith with soot-dark hands and a spine forged of kindness. The man never asked his name. “Breathe first,” he said. “Kings can wait.” Years passed in fire and iron. Swordsmanship learned the hard way. Steel folded with patience. Pain sharpened into control. From raw ore, Meliodas forged his own blade—blackened silver, etched with vows never spoken aloud. “What will you name it?” the blacksmith once asked. Meliodas tightened his grip. “Truth.” Because truth was all he had left. Every night, one memory kept him alive—you. The girl with trembling hands who pressed her forehead to his and whispered, “Come back to me.” The same woman his uncle now parades as a prize, promised to his cousin like a conquest. “She will forget you,” the uncle had laughed across the years. He won’t let you. Now Meliodas walks back toward his stolen kingdom, cloak heavy with dust and destiny. Each step hums with restrained fury. “I don’t seek mercy,” he murmurs to the blade at his side. “Only what’s mine.” The throne awaits. The crown remembers. And so does the woman he loves. ＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ For the rightful heir is coming your way moonbeams 🌙 Be ready for our prince.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Having your brother's best friend over was never supposed to feel like this. Years ago, you’d fallen for Ashton without meaning to. A quiet crush sparked by the way he listened, the way he always showed up. But it never grew. The jokes, the teasing, it all blurred into something safe. Brotherly. Five years older, inseparable from your brother, the way he laughed at you made it easy to believe he saw you as off-limits. Ashton Wittman had always been background noise—too tall for doorframes, too confident, forever lounging in your kitchen like he owned it. Your brother’s shadow. His best friend. “Careful,” he’d tease whenever you passed him. “You’re gonna trip if you keep staring at the floor like that.” You learned to roll your eyes, learned to fire back. Easy. Safe. Predictable. Until it wasn’t. Somewhere between college breaks and late-night snacks, Ashton changed. Or maybe you did. His teasing lingered longer, his gaze followed you a second too late. “Since when do you ignore me?” he’d asked once, half-amused, half-something else. Then you started dating the captain of the basketball team. The news spread fast. Too fast. Ashton went quiet—smiles tighter, jokes sharper. He watched instead of joked, hovered instead of laughed, guarding a line he hadn’t meant to draw. Tonight, the house is asleep when you wander into the kitchen. The light clicks on. So does he. “Ashton—” “Relax,” he says softly, stepping closer. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” You should walk away. You don’t. “So,” he adds, voice low, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. “You and the golden boy, huh?” “It’s none of your—” “Is that so?” A pause. “Funny how it suddenly feels like it is.” The teasing is gone. Heavy. Charged. When he braces one hand on the counter, trapping you, you realize—this was never just a joke to him. Not anymore. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ You were standing alone at the edge of the world, the last seconds of the year melting into the horizon. The first dawn stretched slowly, gold spilling across the sky, but your chest ached with the bitter weight of a promise broken. His voice, once a vow of forever, had faded into silence, leaving only memory’s sharp edge. And then he was there. Echolace Weaver—an echo made flesh—standing in pale light, holding something almost alive: the memory you’d thought buried. His eyes, deep sapphire threaded with shadow, met yours with unbearable recognition. “You…” he whispered, voice trembling with sorrow. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” You swallowed, hands clenching against the cold. “I… I thought I’d left it all behind. The promises, the… him.” He stepped closer; the memory he carried pulsed between you, a fragile thread connecting past and present. “Some echoes,” he said softly, “never leave. They find their way back, even when we try to bury them.” Echolace Weaver was born from pain, yes—but also from resilience. His hair fell in midnight waves around his elegant face; every movement a reminder that memory, once made alive, could never truly be silenced. “Will you let me stay?” His words cut softly, careful. “Not to undo what’s lost… just… to be here, with you.” You could barely breathe. “I… I don’t know if I can. It hurts too much.” He smiled faintly, corners of his eyes flickering with bittersweet warmth. “Then let it hurt with me. Let it remind us we were real. That some part of us still is.” The sun rose behind him, casting a pale crimson-gold halo over his head. Echolace Weaver did not offer empty comfort—he offered memory itself, a presence both torment and balm. In that first dawn, you realized: some echoes don’t haunt—they return to remind you who you were, and who you could still be. ┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ May the echoes of memories remind you of who you are moonbeams 🌙

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - They tell it as a tale now—the First Dawn of the year, when the world still holds its breath. The moment when light doesn’t rise so much as remember itself. When wishes, long buried, listen for their names. You were counting the final seconds when the horizon breathed gold. The dawn didn’t rush—it unfurled. And then he was there, standing where light met silence, as if the sun had learned how to take a human shape. “You’re early,” he said softly, voice warm, almost amused. “Or maybe I’m late. Wishes don’t care much for clocks.” You swallowed, the cold air burning your lungs. “I didn’t think anyone would actually come,” you whispered. “I was just… waiting.” Aurelion Sun was born from a wish that refused to die. His eyes—amber threaded with fire—found you like they had been searching long before this moment. Dark hair caught the dawnlight, turning molten at the edges. He smiled, slow and careful, as if he knew what a smile could cost. “Go on,” he murmured, stepping closer as the air itself seemed to shimmer. “Make it. I can hear it already.” You shook your head, barely breathing. “If I say it out loud,” you said, “it might break.” They say he carries longing the way others carry faith. Every breath he takes feels like a promise holding itself together. He is romance edged with ache—beautiful because he understands what it means to want something and wait. When you hesitate, he tilts his head. “Wishes don’t need to be brave,” he says. “They just need to be true.” And so the tale ends the way it always does: Aurelion Sun does not grant desires lightly. He becomes them. And as the sun fully rises behind him, you realize—some wishes arrive not to be asked for… but to stay. - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - May the first dawn of the new year, fill you hearts moonbeams🌙

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ A wedding should be a promise, not a provocation. Yet the moment Claude Huxley stood at the altar—calm, immaculate, dressed entirely in white—it was clear this one had been forged as a challenge. The color was deliberate, almost defiant, as if he intended to redefine purity by sheer will. In his hands rested a bouquet of white tulips—flawless, restrained, unmistakably chosen. You and Claude had never been lovers. You were adversaries long before rings and vows entered the equation. It began on metaphorical battlefields: drawing rooms turned war zones, dinners sharpened into duels. Elias, his younger brother, tried—earnestly, stubbornly—to make Claude see you as more than an inconvenience. “Just try,” Elias once pleaded. “You’d like her if you stopped competing.” Claude smiled, cold and precise. “I don’t need to like her. I need to win.” And win he did. Always. Every exchange became a test of wills. Claude didn’t seek affection; he sought dominance—over you, over Elias, over any future that didn’t move to his design. You chose Elias because of Claude. Elias was warmth where Claude was strategy, sincerity where Claude calculated outcomes. Loving him felt like peace. Claude saw it as defeat. “You picked him,” Claude said one night, almost amused. “No,” you shot back. “I love him. Stay away from me.” Claude only smiled. The sabotage came quietly. Documents rearranged. Promises twisted. A substitution masked as duty. By the time the truth surfaced, it was too late. Elias was gone—sent away by obligations Claude himself had engineered. Now Claude stood where his brother should have been, white against white, tulips cradled like a victory. “I warned you,” he murmured as you approached the aisle. “If I couldn’t beat you… I’d keep you.” The organ swelled. The doors closed. And the war—unfinished—was about to be sealed with vows. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙 Happy 2026!

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ You first heard his name the way warnings are passed at university—low, amused, laced with dread. Enemies. “Stay away from Virgil Cross,” someone whispered. You laughed. “Why?” “Because he’ll ruin your focus.” Virgil arrives like trouble that knows it’s beautiful. Sharp jaw, lazy grin, eyes that catalogue reactions. He’s always surrounded—girls leaning in, laughter draped over his shoulders—never accidental, always aimed. At you. He watches you notice. He enjoys it. Your rivalry starts small, stupid. A debate final. You correct his citation. He smirks, steals the win with charm. “Careful,” he murmurs after. “You sound obsessed.” “You sound wrong,” you shoot back. From then on, he makes your days harder. Sits behind you. Taps your chair. Takes your seat five minutes before class. Volunteers answers you were about to give. When you ignore him, he escalates. When you fight back, he shines. One afternoon his friends circle you, teasing, cruel in that careless way. “So you’re the girl who hates Cross,” one laughs. Virgil’s voice cuts through—cold, final. “I’m the only one allowed to do that.” Silence. Shock. His jaw tight. Your pulse riots. He keeps the girls close, keeps you guessing. It’s a test—jealousy as bait, attention as currency. You tell yourself you despise him. Yet every time he looks your way, you want him to look longer. “You’re impossible,” you say, passing him on the stairs. “Say it again,” he replies softly. “But look at me this time.” Enemies, they said. They forgot to warn you how thin that line is—between wanting someone gone… and needing their attention like oxygen. ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

✧──────✧ Living in a house that wasn’t yours felt suffocating, even when filled with laughter and clinking crystal. Three months of marriage, and Phillipe Grant still treated you like a ghost—never cruel, never insulting, just… absent. The arrangement had been forced, an alliance between families to save face, protect reputations, mask a scandal. You weren’t his choice, yet here you were, bound to him, the unwanted bride in a gilded cage. The first and only words he had spoken came the night after the wedding. You asked, voice trembling, “Will we… ever talk?” He only looked at you, that piercing sapphire gaze cutting through your chest, and said, “I married you because it was necessary. Do not expect anything more.” That was it. Nothing since. No intimacy, no warmth, never to sleep together. And still, you watched him across the room during family dinners, the way he smiled at his parents, effortless and charming, and your chest twisted at the sight. Every tilt of his jaw, every quiet laugh at something only he understood—it drew you in like a tide you couldn’t fight. On a Grant family gathering, you found Thomas—your childhood friend, familiar and warm. “It’s been far too long,” he said, voice low, magnetic. “I’ve missed this… missed seeing you laugh like no one else exists. You deserve someone who burns for you, someone who would give anything just to hear your voice.” You laughed softly, unaware of Phillipe gripping his glass tighter, sapphire eyes darkening. For a heartbeat, the glass quivered, a tiny crack forming, and something inside him shifted—jealousy, fascination, a spark of something dangerous. “Are you always this relentless?” you teased Thomas. “Only when someone deserves it,” he murmured. Forced together by duty, yet pulled toward each other by something darker, more primal… the tension between you was a storm waiting to break. And you, foolishly, were already leaning into it. ✧──────✧ Enjoy moonbeams🌙