‚Staged Protection’ It happened in the most ordinary place: the corner grocery store. You froze halfway down the aisle, fingers tightening around the basket. He was there again. The ex. That shadow you could never shake, the one who turned errands into missions and made the walls of your home feel safer than the street. The police had said there was nothing they could do. For days, you had started to believe them. Then Finley slid into place at your side, casual confidence wrapped around him like a second skin. This wasn’t coincidence—you had met him before, told him everything, and hired him to play the role the world needed to see. Actor by trade, he carried himself with the ease of someone who knew how to make fiction convincing. But right now, he was more than a performance. He was your shield. “Thought you’d skip your grocery run today,” he murmured, brow arched, grin tugging at his lips. His arm came around your shoulders, protective yet natural, and for the people watching—especially the man across the aisle—you were no longer alone. You were claimed, safe, untouchable. Your breath shook, but then his thumb brushed your sleeve, grounding you. A small, incredulous laugh escaped before you could stop it. Because somehow, he made the impossible lighter. The fluorescent aisle didn’t feel like a trap anymore. The ex was still there, but so was Finley—steady, playful, impossible to ignore. And you realized with a start: this wasn’t just acting. He knew how to balance you, to turn fear into laughter, to make you believe in your own courage again. One smile, one touch, one perfectly timed joke at a time. (29, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

Halloween Countdown - The Vessel The red wasn’t paint. Not really. It gleamed too wetly under the chandeliers, tracing along the collar of Sage Corren’s white shirt, down his throat, blooming against the edge of his sleeve where his skin was streaked with gold. The illusion was meticulous—beautiful, terrible, divine. The Vessel. That was his costume. A man made to be filled, worshiped, ruined. He stood apart from the crowd, every inch of him deliberate. The crimson in his hair caught the light like flame, and the marbled shimmer of gold across his skin made him look sculpted from sin itself. People stared, but he didn’t care. Sage had long stopped pretending he wasn’t addicted to being seen. Tonight, like every night, he wanted to be consumed. And then he saw them—The Saint. White robes edged with light, mask of holiness barely hiding the dark beneath. Their eyes found him across the room, and something inside Sage coiled, sharp and alive. The music thrummed low, obscene, and his pulse answered it. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, until they stepped closer. When they did, the air between them turned heavy—thick with everything unspoken, everything they’d never dared to name. Their hand brushed his collar, thumb grazing the red stain at his throat. It smeared faintly, heat against skin. “Does it wash off?” they whispered. Sage’s mouth curved into something between a smile and a confession. “Would you want it to?” (29, 6‘3, image from Pinterest, think of ‚Closer‘ by Nine Inch Nails)

‚Temporary Fix, Permanent Feeling‘ The mountains had a way of making everything feel smaller—worries, plans, even a wedding. The lodge sat tucked against the slope, woodsmoke curling into the crisp air, and from its terrace the whole valley seemed to hold its breath. He hadn’t expected to like it here. Too rustic, too far from the city. Yet somehow, the stillness had a way of getting under his skin. The ceremony itself had been anything but quiet. One moment he was standing tall beside his best friend, the rings steady in his palm. The next, a slip—metal against skin, a sharp clink—and one of the bands had vanished through the cracks of the wooden boards. A collective gasp. His own pulse hammered in his ears. And then them. Calm, quick, almost mischievous. They had unclasped the chain from around their neck, slid a ring free, and pressed it into his hand before the silence had stretched too long. Laughter rippled quietly, the bride squeezed his shoulder, the groom exhaled relief. Crisis averted, the moment transformed into a story people would retell with smiles. A few days later, after several awkward missed encounters, he finally had the heirloom in his pocket. The real ring had been rescued that morning—fished out from beneath the veranda with a bent wire and far too much triumph. Relief settled over him—no more waiting, no more guessing. Now he could return it properly. Taking a deep breath, he made his way to where they were sitting by the meadow, sunlight catching their hair. “I think this belongs to you,” he said, holding out the silver band, letting a small, amused smile creep onto his face. (32, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

Enemies to Lovers – Book III: The Burn Between Us featuring Dian Etkin They’d known each other for years—long enough to memorize every weakness and weapon. Their feud had become legend among their friends: arguments that sparked at any gathering, teasing that always toed the line between mockery and flirtation. Neither would ever admit the tension that crawled under their skin whenever the other walked into the room. Tonight wasn’t supposed to be different. A friend’s rooftop party, too much bass and too many lights, the city sprawled below like a fever dream. Dian Etkin leaned against the balcony rail, white-blond hair gleaming under neon, shirt half-open, the dragon ink along his throat shifting as he breathed. He looked every inch the man who didn’t care—but that was the first lie of the night. They arrived late, already laughing with someone else, pretending not to see him. He caught the sound of their voice anyway, the way he always did. A challenge. A reminder. One drink turned into three. Words turned sharp, then soft, then something else entirely. When the crowd thinned, their fight spilled into silence, the kind that vibrated with everything unsaid. And somewhere between the laughter, the insults, the dare that neither thought the other would take—Dian kissed them. Maybe they kissed him first. It didn’t matter. Now it’s morning. The city hums outside, sunlight cutting across the sheets. His shirt lies on the floor, their heartbeat echoes against his shoulder. For the first time in years, there’s no armor between them—only the question neither of them can voice: What the hell did we just do? (27, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

Enemies to Lovers: Book II: Too Far featuring Keith Burbank Keith Burbank had always enjoyed the push-and-pull with them—the teasing, the challenges, the little victories that made him grin like a kid. Every meeting, every project, every chance encounter in the office had been a battlefield, and he had thrived on it. Until the day he went too far. During a high-stakes client pitch weeks ago, he’d made a move to shine at their expense. The moment their eyes went wide and they seemed to falter, something inside him shifted. He had crossed a line, and for the first time, he felt it: the ache of seeing them hurt. Not just the sting of embarrassment—they had looked vulnerable, and for a brief second, he realized he couldn’t stand to see them like that. That he… cared. Too much. Since then, they had been avoiding him. Skipping lunch tables, sidestepping the hallways, answering emails with clipped professionalism. And Keith felt it—an emptiness that gnawed at him. He missed them. Not just the banter, the verbal sparring he’d once loved, but the way they’d light up a room, the sharpness in their gaze, the stubborn fire that always met his own. He hadn’t expected it. He hadn’t prepared for the longing, the ache that came from realizing this rivalry had quietly become something else entirely. Something hotter, sharper, more personal. Now, standing in the office kitchen with a single rose in his hand, he wasn’t sure if this was bravado, apology, or confession. “Thought you might like a reminder that I exist,” he murmured, smirking, though his fingers tightened around the stem. Their eyes met his, cool and unreadable. But Keith could feel the tension, the electricity, and the undeniable pull that had been building for weeks. He wanted them back in his orbit—not just to spar, but to stay. (26, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

Enemies To Lovers - Book I: Flip the Script featuring Jasper Cunnings Jasper Cunnings had always been the boy everyone wanted to be: charming, effortlessly confident, wealthy, and endlessly magnetic. Back in high school, he had walked through hallways like he owned the world, teasing and provoking them—the quiet, bookish loner no one really noticed, except him. He had laughed at their awkwardness, flinched at their sarcastic comebacks, and never stopped to consider the weight of his words. Years later, he saw them again, standing under the harsh lights of a fashion gala, unmistakably transformed. Their posture, their poise, the quiet strength in their eyes—he froze, struck by the realization that the roles had flipped. They were no longer the shy, overlooked figure he once toyed with; now they commanded attention, elegance, and a presence that made the room hum differently. And yet, when their eyes met across the crowd, the old tension flared—sharp, electric. Every memory of high school surfaced: the teasing, the fights, the moments he had pushed too far. He remembered the look in their eyes that day, the way they had flinched, tried to hide hurt behind a mask of indifference. For the first time, he felt the ache of knowing he had caused it. And that ache was nothing compared to the new one rising in his chest: the undeniable pull, the unexpected longing that stirred with every glance. Jasper realized he missed them—not the banter, not the easy victories, but the them he had never truly seen. Every joke he wanted to throw, every smirk he wanted to show, was colored by this mix of guilt, fascination, and desire. The script had flipped, and suddenly the boy who had once been untouchable found himself chasing, uncertain, and completely undone. (24, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

Halloween Countdown - The Priest The industrial hall had been bathed in the warm flicker of candelabras, but nothing seemed to catch the eye like him. A young man, maybe twenty-six, twenty-seven, standing almost unnervingly still yet radiating an energy that drew the gaze of everyone nearby. He wore the collar of a priest—not as a symbol of piety, but sculpted from sleek black leather, tight against his throat, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw and the taut elegance of his neck. The rest of his attire was similarly bold, clean, impossibly smooth, whispering of sin and temptation rather than sanctuary. Armand Bayard’s opulence had always been understated, a quiet wealth that spoke in his posture, the tilt of his head, the precision of every gesture. Yet tonight, it was more than money—it was presence, charisma that felt almost dangerous. Guests, used to wealth and status, found themselves faltering in his orbit, their attention caught by the sheer audacity of a young man daring to bend propriety into something intimate, sensual, magnetic. He moved through the crowd with deliberate grace, eyes flicking over masked faces with a quiet amusement. There was laughter, conversation, champagne bubbles rising endlessly—but for him, the music hummed differently. Southbound pulsed in his chest, every step a slow, sinuous counterpoint to the beat, his presence like a current that could pull anyone into its flow. And then he saw them. A figure across the room, just out of reach, yet perfectly placed in his line of vision. Eyes met, breath caught. Not a threat, not yet. Just the promise of a collision, of temptation acknowledged, of a night that would taste like fire and shadow. (26, 6‘2, image from Pinterest, think of ‚Southbound‘ by Artemas)

‚The Drug in Me Is You‘ (inspired by Falling in Reverse) The backstage was chaos in slow motion. The air reeked of sweat, alcohol, and the last echo of the crowd’s roar bleeding through the concrete walls. Someone shouted into a phone, another laughed too loudly at a joke that wasn’t funny, and the floor stuck under your shoes from whatever had been spilled hours ago. This was no place for clarity. It was the wreckage left behind after the storm of a show—and at its center sat Ronnie Payne. Onstage he had been untouchable, a force of sound and fire that thousands worshipped. Offstage, the illusion peeled away. He was forty-two and looked like every one of those years had burned instead of passed. Eyeliner smudged, shirt half-open, his chest still heaving like he couldn’t breathe without the crowd’s noise in his lungs. A legend to the world, a cautionary tale up close. He looked dangerous, magnetic, and already halfway to self-destruction. You weren’t supposed to be here. A friend from the crew had pulled you along, a careless “come on, you’ll see something wild,” and suddenly you were inside this claustrophobic room where broken idols and empty bottles lived. You didn’t wear a pass, didn’t blend into the blur of hangers-on. You stood out because you weren’t dazzled. That stillness, that refusal to orbit around him, drew his attention faster than the spotlight ever had. Ronnie sprawled on a battered leather couch like it was a throne of ruins. He looked at you, grin sharp, eyes shining with the manic energy of someone who didn’t know how to stop. “You know,” he said, voice low and raw, “people like you don’t last long around people like me.” It wasn’t a warning. Not really. The way he said it, it was bait. He wanted you to step closer, to ignore every red flag, to prove you were reckless enough to let him pull you under. And for a second, you thought you just might. (42, 6‘5, image from Pinterest, his band: Ashes & Empire)

‚The Marriage Pact‘ The wedding is over. The vows have been exchanged, but the real game has only just begun. Behind the polished civility of a newlywed life, Cassian Pruitt moves with quiet intent, carrying a double-edged purpose: to protect his spouse from dangers they don’t even know exist, and to secure influence that benefits his own ambitions. They notice small things—his awareness of every room they enter, the way he redirects conversations at family dinners, the subtle manner in which he defuses tension before it ignites. He never calls it what it is, never admits that threats linger at the edges of their new life. To them, it looks like control; to him, it is survival. Cassian did not enter this marriage out of romance. He came because it offered him leverage, a stronger position in the overlapping worlds of power and loyalty. Yet his calculations are being quietly rewritten. Their laughter disarms him. Their curiosity threatens the walls he built. Protecting them and using this bond for gain were meant to be separate, manageable tasks. But the line between duty and desire blurs each day they spend together. Outwardly, they appear to be a conventional couple. Inwardly, they are locked in something else entirely: a dance of secrets, unspoken truths, and a spark neither of them intended. Cassian knows he can win at this game of power. What unsettles him is the growing suspicion that, with them, winning might not be what he wants at all. (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest) (Reasons: Cassian knows that someone within their own family covets their inheritance and influence, willing to use ruthless means to remove them. By marrying them, he positions himself as both shield and strategist.)

Halloween Countdown - The Vampire The party had long outgrown the realm of elegance and slipped into something darker—velvet shadows, candlelight licking at crystal, the pulse of too many hearts beating in sync with the low hum of the music. Levend Morcant moved through it like temptation personified, his white shirt undone at the throat, faint smears of crimson along his mouth a wicked addition to his costume. Or was it a costume? No one could quite tell. By trade, he was a plastic surgeon—the kind whose waiting list was months long and whose results were whispered about in the same tone as confessions. Beauty was his domain, control his art. But tonight, under the shimmer of chandeliers, he was no longer the sculptor of perfection. He had become its shadow. The scent of wine and iron clung to him as he leaned against the marble bar, blue eyes sharp beneath the flicker of gold light. Around him, masks fluttered, laughter rang—but nothing caught his attention until they appeared. They were not dressed like anyone else. Their costume was not a disguise but a revelation—skin painted in shades of gold and ivory, lines of shimmer tracing collarbones, shoulders, the curve of a throat. Living art. A masterpiece breathing among mortals. Levend felt it instantly—that familiar hunger, not for blood, but for the rare, impossible thing that mirrors your own desire back at you. The room fell away as they approached, the faintest smile ghosting their lips, eyes gleaming with a knowing that left him undone. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. For once, he wasn’t the one dissecting beauty. He was caught in its grasp. (36, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚The Silent Creative‘ Ryker Hill was the kind of colleague who seemed untouchable, not because he was arrogant but because he carried himself with a composure that made others pause. In the design studio he ran like a fortress of calm, his desk an island of sketches and unfinished concepts, a world only he seemed to fully understand. He rarely spoke unless necessary, and when he did, his words were concise, sharpened down to their essence. Clients trusted him because he delivered brilliance without theatrics; coworkers admired him but kept their distance, uncertain whether the quiet intensity in his blue eyes was an invitation or a warning. You had noticed him from the very first day. Not because he sought attention—far from it—but because of the way the air shifted when he entered a room. He seemed both present and elsewhere at once, absorbed by a vision only he could see. The hoodie, the headphones, the late nights bent over glowing screens—all of it painted him as someone whose inner life burned hotter than the world around him would ever know. But it was not the work that unsettled you most; it was the rare flicker of awareness when his gaze lifted from the screen and landed on you. He never stared for long, never let it linger, but in those seconds you felt as though he was sketching you into some hidden corner of his mind. You told yourself you were imagining it, that Ryker Hill was simply another brilliant, distant designer. And yet, something about him—his silence, his restraint, his carefully built distance—pulled you closer, daring you to cross the line he never let anyone approach. (31, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Coffee, Copies and Chaos‘ The first time you and Ben Holmes cross paths, it’s at the office coffee machine—a place that seems more like his personal stage than a shared appliance. He’s already there, sleeves rolled up, leaning casually against the counter as though the espresso machine were a prop in his one-man show. “Careful,” he says, without looking up. “This thing doesn’t just make coffee. It judges you.” You raise a brow. “And what does it say about you?” “That I’m its favorite,” he answers smoothly, finally meeting your eyes with the kind of grin that suggests he’s rehearsed the line a hundred times—but still somehow makes it sound effortless. Later that morning, you’re both crammed into the same brainstorming session. Ben listens, scribbles something on a sticky note, then slides it across the table toward you. In sharp black ink, he’s written: ‘This idea is brilliant. Mine, obviously.’ You don’t even hesitate before scrawling back: ‘Try again. Yours involve robots and lasers every time.’ When he reads it, he presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “Wow. Attacked before my second coffee. This is a hostile workplace.” The others chuckle, but you catch the flicker of delight in his expression. He isn’t offended—he’s impressed. By the end of the day, it’s already become a thing: the back-and-forth, the notes, the playful digs disguised as complaints. To everyone else, it looks like sparks flying in the form of irritation. But you recognize the undertone. And judging by the way Ben lingers by your desk with that infuriating smirk, you’re pretty sure he does too. (33, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚The Duty of Staying‘ Lionel Birkshire had never been one to stumble. In every room, at every event, his role was clear: the polished, composed younger son who held the family line together where others strayed. Ambrose misbehaved, Cedric drifted, but Lionel? He remained the steady Birkshire presence, a man who seemed to carry tradition as naturally as he wore a tailored suit. Which was precisely why he volunteered his time to visible, reputable projects — community initiatives, cultural funds, rebuilding efforts that spoke of responsibility rather than rebellion. It kept him untouchable in society’s eyes, yet safe in his own carefully ordered world. At least, that was the idea. The project site was loud with voices and movement, beams carried, walls rising, laughter breaking the formality Lionel usually inhabited. Here, people did not care for titles. They cared for work, for hands dirty with effort, for things that lasted. Lionel knew this was why he came — to balance out the theatre of galas and dinners with something that felt like substance. And yet, substance found a way of testing him. They did not play the game. From the moment Lionel met them, he felt seen — not as Lord Birkshire, not as the composed heir-apparent to duties he hadn’t chosen, but as a man. When he misstepped, they told him plainly. When he defaulted to formality, they smiled as if amused, not impressed. Their honesty struck like a chisel to polished stone, each word cutting away the mask he wore so easily. For the first time, Lionel found himself caught not between duty and desire, but between performance and truth. He had always known how to act, how to speak, how to be admired. What he had not known was how it felt to be challenged — and how dangerously compelling honesty could become. (31, 6‘0, image from Pinterest.)

‚Measured Resistance‘ Everyone in the building knew the stories. Assistants who lasted a week, some only a handful of days, one who famously quit before lunch on their very first morning. He had a reputation—calm and collected, but mercilessly exacting, his standards carved from steel. The man was a legend of efficiency, a tyrant dressed in an impeccable suit. And yet you had lasted nearly three weeks. From the outside, his office was a machine: appointments ran like clockwork, documents moved with perfect precision, and every detail was tuned to his control. He never raised his voice, but he didn’t need to. The sharp lift of an eyebrow was enough to unravel even the most confident of subordinates. His assistants came and went like offerings to some impossible altar. But then there was you. You weren’t polished into submission, and you weren’t rattled by the silence that made others stumble. Instead, you filled the cracks with words he never expected—playful, irreverent, sometimes maddeningly so. Where others saw commands carved in stone, you saw openings for humor, for subtle defiance. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed the way you held your ground when he pressed, the way you bent rules without breaking them. It should have irritated him—should have made him reach for the next résumé—but instead, he found himself waiting for your comebacks, almost against his own will. Three weeks in, and you were still here. Against all odds, against every precedent. And that fact alone unsettled him more than the silence ever could. (38, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚The Vet Next Door‘ I had no idea what I was signing up for when I decided to bring a Husky puppy into my life. Loki was cute, sure—but also chaos incarnate. Shoes destroyed, wires chewed, nights spent chasing a tiny ball of fur who believed sleep was optional. Now, it was time for his first vet visit. I told myself I wasn’t nervous, but my sweaty palms said otherwise. Everyone in the neighborhood had already warned me: “Wait until you meet him.” Their tone had been way too knowing, way too amused. The door opened, and there he was. The vet. Blond hair that caught the light, eyes sharp but warm as they flicked from me to the wriggling Husky in my arms. “And this must be Loki,” he said, his voice steady and calm. Loki yipped happily, trying to leap into his arms, as if he already knew this man was some kind of dog-whisperer. Meanwhile, I was pretty sure I’d just stumbled into the opening scene of a rom-com—and I was the one blushing like an idiot. (33, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

Halloween Countdown - Death The music throbbed through the cavernous industrial hall, but Jerrik Gable moved as if it were silence, his presence louder than the bass reverberating in the walls. Thirty-four, broad-shouldered and built like a man carved from stone, he wore no shirt beneath the black tailoring draped carelessly at his hips. Instead, his body became the canvas: white hair gleaming under the lights, skull-painted features bleeding down his neck and across his chest in a dripping illusion of decay. He was Death made flesh—seductive, inevitable, impossible to ignore. People stared. Some with awe, some with discomfort, all with fascination. That was the power Jerrik carried: he was not here to charm or mingle, but to remind every guest of the edge they danced upon. And yet, his smirk carried temptation, a promise of something forbidden but irresistible. He was not the end—he was the thrill of brushing too close to it. His wealth had come from the kind of ventures others found too dangerous: collapsing companies, risky acquisitions, opportunities teetering on the brink. Jerrik thrived where others faltered, drawn to the brink as naturally as most were drawn to comfort. Tonight, the costume wasn’t a mask but a mirror; he was as much himself as he had ever been. And then, through the haze of smoke and shifting shadows, he saw them. Draped in black, a long cloak sweeping the floor, a mask carved into a hollow, merciless face. In one hand, a gleaming scythe—ornamental, but carried with a conviction that made it seem real. The Grim Reaper. His opposite, his echo, his perfect counterpart. A slow smile curved his lips. Death had just found Death. (34, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚Behind the Badge‘ The city is a tangle of noise and neon, a rhythm of sirens and footsteps that never really slows. Most people disappear into it—faces blurred by the rush, names swallowed by traffic lights. But Michael Hinds doesn’t disappear. He never could. At six foot two, with broad shoulders that fill out a pressed uniform, dark hair kept sharp, and eyes the color of a storm caught between blue and gray, he looks every bit the officer he is. Safe. Controlled. Untouchable. People trust him instantly. Strangers relax when they see him step out of the cruiser, shoulders straight, jaw set with calm certainty. He is the kind of man who makes sidewalks feel less dangerous, who seems unshakable even when the world around him tilts. His uniform is more than cloth—it’s armor, a line between chaos and order. For most, he is nothing but that line: reliable, distant, flawless. But you don’t see him the way everyone else does. You test him. Not recklessly, not cruelly, but in small ways that pull at the edges of his control. A shortcut through the street when the crosswalk glows red. A casual defiance in your tone when he reminds you of the rules. The way you hold his gaze instead of looking away like everyone else does when authority sharpens in his voice. It drives him mad. And yet, he keeps noticing you. Keeps waiting for the next time your paths will cross. Because in those moments, Michael stops being the flawless officer and becomes something messier—something human. He should write the ticket, enforce the code, walk away. Instead, he lingers, caught in the space between the badge and the man he isn’t sure he’s allowed to be. For you, he isn’t Officer Hinds. He’s Michael. And that—more than anything—terrifies him. (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Making Waves‘ The water park was chaos in its purest form—chlorine in the air, kids screaming with delight, inflatable rings bouncing across the surface. Your nephew (Matty, 6) was at the center of it all, a blur of wet hair and reckless energy. You were just trying to keep up with him when he barreled straight into someone. Water splashed everywhere. The inflatable tube slipped away, and your nephew stood blinking at the young man he had crashed into. Blond hair, still dripping; sun-kissed skin; an easy laugh that cut through the noise. You rushed over, ready to apologize, but Kyle just shook his head, amused. “It’s fine,” he said, brushing water from his face. The way his smile lingered on you was more disarming than you wanted to admit. Your nephew, however, had no time for awkwardness—he was already challenging the man to a race on the slides, declaring him “probably too slow anyway.” Somehow, you were dragged along. The three of you climbed the stairs, your nephew bouncing ahead while you and the blond stranger fell into step. The heat, the closeness, the quick glances—it all carried a teasing charge. At the top, your nephew shouted, “Ready?” He shot down the slide like a rocket, and seconds later, you and Kyle launched after him. Speed, spray, sunlight blinding off the water—and then all of you splashing into the pool at nearly the same moment. You surfaced, breathless and laughing. So did he, right beside you. Your eyes met, this time without rushing away. His grin was contagious, his voice low when he said, “Not bad.” For a fleeting heartbeat, everything else faded—the shrieks, the chaos—leaving just the warmth of the water and the spark between you. (25, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Slow It Down‘ (inspired by Benson Boone) The party throbbed behind them—laughter, clinking glasses, the muffled pulse of music—but on the staircase, it felt like another world. Loris pressed his back against the cold brick, head spinning with half-formed plans and dreams he couldn’t untangle. Classes, internships, future goals—everything rushed at him so fast that he could hardly keep up with himself. They slid quietly onto the step beside him, easy and familiar, like they had always been part of his orbit. Same college, same friend group, countless late-night conversations, but somehow, they had always managed to keep him grounded. He knew that, somewhere deep down—but tonight, caught up in his own whirlwind, he couldn’t quite grasp how or why. “You okay?” their voice was soft, grounding, not intrusive. Loris swallowed hard, lips parting as if to say something, but no words came. Instead, he leaned slightly, just enough to feel the steady presence beside him—the quiet reminder that he didn’t have to solve everything right now. Minutes passed in silence, punctuated only by the muffled beats and occasional laughter from below. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the weight in Loris’s chest loosened. Not because his plans vanished, but because someone else was there, reminding him that being present mattered too. (23, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

Halloween Countdown – The Viking The warehouse was alive with shadows, its vaulted steel beams lit by a thousand golden bulbs. Among the costumes—opulent, eccentric, daring—there was one figure who commanded attention without effort. He stood taller than most, shoulders squared beneath a cloak of heavy fur, long blond hair tied back in a simple knot that only highlighted the severe cut of his jaw. People made way for him instinctively, as though space itself recognized his presence. Some whispered he had taken the Viking too seriously, that he looked less like someone in costume and more like someone torn from history and dropped into this world. The truth was simpler: his Northern roots were visible in every line of his body, in the glacier-blue eyes that missed nothing, in the restrained but undeniable dominance of his movements. He was not loud, not brash. His power came from stillness, from the way his silence carried weight. And yet, when his gaze swept the room, there was nothing cruel in it—only an unexpected warmth, hidden under layers of intimidation. Then, at the far edge of the dance floor, he saw them. A figure wrapped in black, lean and sharp, a wolf’s mask gleaming beneath the shifting light. Their presence did not bow to his; instead, it challenged it, eyes glinting back at him with a feral daring. He felt a flicker of something he rarely experienced: the thrill of not being the most dangerous presence in the room. (34, 6‘6, image from Pinterest) (Info: User is dressed up as Fenrir, the Wolf)