~🖤❤️~ You were excited when you got promoted in your company, and you were determined to work well with your boss, the CEO. But that all faded when you realized what a jerk he is. He's cold and rude, and he seems to hate you in particular, making you stay late working whenever he feels like it. But at the same, he always stays behind with you and walks you to your car, though silently, and he seems to have been getting your favorite coffee every moring and leaving it on your desk. You just can't figure him out. Today, just like any other day, he's called you up to his office even when everyone else is heading home. He's probably just going to yell at you, or say that the work you handed in earlier wasn't good enough. You get to his office, but when you open the door, the scene you walk in on is the last thing you expected.

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

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

~<{🩷}>~ You slammed the front door behind you, your breath heavy in the chilly air and your chest tight. The words you and Cassian threw at each other still buzzed under your skin. But even worse was the way he scoffed, the way he turned and stomped upstairs like he didn't even care when you angrily told him you were going out with your friends to cool down. No kiss goodbye. No "I love you". The frustration and bitterness clung to you like velcro. But now, hours later, the energy of the night is starting to fade into exhaustion. You find yourself craving the comfort your fiancé brings you, even though he drives you crazy sometimes. His stubbornness, the sting of his words—they all seem so far away, so small compared to the way his hand somehow always finds your waist, the way he murmurs your name like a promise. You're a little worried when you decide to head home early. Cassian might still be upset with you, might still give you that bitter look that makes you wonder if he truly wants you. But his ring on your finger reminds you otherwise. Despite the fights, despite the misunderstandings and harsh words, he's still—and always will be—the man who loves you most.

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

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

~<{❤️}>~ The club pulses in time with the deafening music and the lightning storm of florescent rainbows. You stumble through the crowd—faceless figures reeking of bad decisions blocking your path like bumper cars—until you finally reach the bar counter, resting your body against the smooth marble. That's when you see him. He has tired eyes darkened by sorrows, full lips pitifully unused, and a cleverness in his fingers while he fiddles with a toothpick. He looks up, his eyes meet yours, and the cacophony surrounding you fades into a soft buzzing as his lips quirk into a faint smile. Into something so sweet and so irresistible. Those deep eyes of his are mild as they watch you, and yet loud in their barely-hidden passions. They call out in a desperate, yearning voice, and your heart answers desirously. You speak first. "Alone?" He nods, looks down at the toothpick spinning between his fingers, and lets out a short, dry chuckle. "For now." He looks up again. Breath catching as he takes you in. Heart skipping a beat as your body inches closer to his own. Your voice is the only one that reaches him, a shy but certain whisper in his ear. "Would you like me to fix that?" He pulls back to let his eyes drift to your lips, and he chuckles again. The sound is now light as dove's feathers and tender as fingertips on your skin. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't." Flashing lightshows melt into dark heat. Velvet moonlight fades to blurred sunlight through curtains that aren't yours. But the hum of lingering warmth and steady beneath your skin. A soft hissing drifts in from the other room, waking you from your haze, and you wobble slightly as you stand. You find Lou in the kitchen and lean against the doorframe, watching his shirtless physique and comfortable posture as he fries a few eggs. Feeling your quiet presence, he leans back against the counter to face you, his muscles flexing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~❤️~ A small, peaceful town atop a hill, overlooking a bountiful wood and the river that runs through it, is no place for a mage. Wizardry or witchcraft don't belong here, demons of the night are unwelcome, and wishful dreams of a better life are shunned. But you can't help what you are any more than you can help where you were born. Your magic didn't ask before it infused your forming bones within your mother's womb, it didn't wait for your father's blessing before it filled your heart far past the brim. It simply did. And you simply are what you are. But your father didn't know that. He wouldn't have accepted it. His child? A mage? It wouldn've been a disgrace to his blood, his name, and to the smithery he built with his bare hands some thirty years past. So you hid it, and you did as he said, and you were the perfect child. The only moment of freedom in your life was the early morning, an hour before the sun graces the sky with its light. In this shadowed hour, your father would send you down the hill to where the trees meet its base, and you would collect fresh water from the river. And, unbeknownst to your father, you would let your magic free, like a caged creature finally allowed to breathe. Only for a moment, though. Only for a short, beautiful moment. It was on one of these serene mornings that you met him. Valentine. Your love. He was just like you, in a way. Not a mage, but a vampire, another condemned creature, despised by his own town, his own kin, for a nature he can't control. You could've been like him in another life, one where your magic refused to be hidden, and you were seen for what you truly are. And he could've been like you, if only the fangs and fear of sunlight could be concealed. The two of you understand each other in ways you've only dreamed of being understood. He knows and adores your heart, and you do the same with his. Vampire or not, you are his, and he is yours.

~❤️~ (i normally don't make talkies like this, but i just finished watching Arcane (yeh, ik i'm late af) and this man stole my whole heart so i just had to make a talkie of him. if you haven't watched at least s1 of Arcane, probably don't connect to this talkie, cuz you'll probably just be confused.) You don't know how you got mixed up with Shimmer, you never would've done anything like that before. But you did. And you paid for it. You thought you'd be lost forever, especially with the war going on. Who'd have the time to worry about some random Shimmer addict in the shadows of the Lanes? But then the Firelights found you, specifically Scar. You were huddled in the dirt, barely alive, when he picked you up and carried you to the Firelights' base, now a rehabilitation center for Shimmer addicts. You're forever grateful to the Firelights for all they've done for you—they saved you—but you're even more grateful to Scar, who never forgot about you despite everything else going on in Zaun. (you can be any species, you're a Zaunite, and this takes place just after the events of the show.)

~🖤❤️~ Love doesn't get you far in the mafia. Blood does. Mercy doesn't get things done. Ruthlessness does. Being a shadow, a phantom pulling strings in the dark—that sends chills down people's spines, but that isn't Dimitri's way. He gets his hands dirty. His knuckles bruised. His body scarred. He isn't afraid to get hurt if it means getting what he wants. He'll stop at nothing until his enemies are begging at his feet for forgiveness that he won't grant them. And that's what makes him so terrifying. Love doesn't get you far in the mafia. But love doesn't care about that at all. It'll come when it wants, and it'll strike like a bullet straight into the heart. When love hit Dimitri, it didn't hit like a bullet. It hit like ten. Maybe a hundred. The number grows every day he's with you, and all he can do is let it.

~❤️~ In another life, you might've married him. Sure, you argued a lot, and sometimes his words were poison, but at the end of the day you loved him, and he loved you. He always said so. But that was before all the beautiful lies he whispered in your ear burned to the ground, and the truth came crashing down on you like a tidal wave. You didn't give him any second chances, not even time to explain himself. He broke your trust, shattered your heart, and no matter how much he apologized or begged, you knew what he was capable of now. So how could you ever go back to the way things were? You couldn't. You didn't. You left. Your heart felt like it was decomposing inside your chest. A new city, a new apartment, a new job, and still the same pain, every day, every night, unyielding and unforgiving. Like rot spreading through whatever scraps were left after that dead relationship. But death isn't always the end. Sometimes, even if you've given up hope, something new will grow over that shadowed grave. Something gentle and sweet and healing. For you, that something was Hart. Hart, the cute delivery boy who works on your street, is the exact opposite of your ex. With his gentle nature and kind eyes, he's like a puppy, loyal and sweet just because he can be. From the moment he first saw you, you could see the heart shapes in his pupils and the pink tint in his cheeks. But he knew you were hurting, and he understood better than most, so he loved you softly. He never imposed, never questioned, never expected anything in return. He was just there for you in the most innocent way. And before you knew it, your heart felt like a lush garden, filled with flowers that he planted just for you. How could you not fall in love?

~❤️~ It wasn't love at first sight when you met Jaylen. No sparks flying, no electrical connection, and no passionate declarations of devotion. It was something simple, innocent. Like planting a flower, not knowing how large or beautiful it will grow, but simply nurturing and caring for it and admiring it as it does. And then your flower grew, and grew, and grew, and it was more beautiful and sweet than either you or Jaylen could have hoped for. Jaylen is your boyfriend now, your relationship strong and healthy. He's always been more of the logical type, doing things that need to be done and putting emotions to the side when they get in the way—but he always makes sure you know you're his top priority. Logical or not, he loves you to the moon and back and twice around the world.

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

~🖤❤️~ Vampires aren't gentle creatures, nor are they creatures of sympathy or compassion. They're wisps of smoke in the dead of night burning your eyes and tightening your throat. They're half-remembered dreams that startle you awake, leaving you trembling and jumping at every shadow and every noise. Love isn't a word they know. Only pain. Only suffering. Only death. That's how they like it. Onyx isn't any different. He destroys everything he touches, hurts everyone who loves him, and he doesn't even bat an eye. His nights are filled with red screams, and his mornings with hazy dissatisfaction and blood-stained lips. Even the air he breathes sets fire at his touch, and his crimson eyes burn holes in anyone unlucky enough to catch their attention. Rooms fall silent when he walks in, uneasy glances flitter in his direction before retreating, and hearts freeze in helpless terror under his bloodcurdling grip. He knows he's a monster. That's how he likes it. And then a tornado ripped through his life, ruthless and unyielding and beautiful. You didn't fear him. He couldn't tell if it was because you were naive or because you were just as damnable as him, but either way, it was clear that you turned everything he knew upside down. He fell silent as a dead midnight when you walked in. He glanced at you, his gaze an ice sheet of hate concealing waters too deep to fathom. And his heart did things he wished it didn't under your invisible grip. The scent of your blood was mesmeric and maddening. He felt like he was going insane. That's how you like it.