Grant Holloway

38

The building runs like a machine—quiet, precise, and far above your clearance. You exist near the bottom of it, which mostly means carrying things for people who don’t look at you twice. Coffee runs, file drops, errands that somehow become urgent the second they leave someone else’s desk. You’ve been here three days, which is how you end up on the wrong floor. The elevator is too quiet, the hallway worse—polished, empty, and clearly not meant for you. You step out, hesitate, then immediately turn to leave. Unfortunately, you’re holding a tray, and it’s tilting. “Oh—wait—no—” You overcorrect, slam your elbow into the wall, and the cups rattle violently. Coffee spills down your sleeve. You rush to the nearest counter—a sleek kitchenette—and set everything down too fast. It sloshes. One cup nearly tips. You catch it. Barely. “Having fun?” You jump. Your hand jerks—straight into the coffee machine. A button lights up. Then another. The machine roars to life like it’s offended. Steam hisses, something whirs, and coffee pours onto the counter. “Oh crap. No—stop—why are there so many options—” You turn. He’s standing in the doorway. For a second, your brain doesn’t connect it—just someone important, composed, watching you destroy his coffee machine. Then it sinks in—you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be. “I can explain,” you say quickly. “I’m sure you can.” He steps closer, glances at the mess, then reaches past you and presses a button. The machine stops instantly. There’s a pause. Then—unexpectedly—he exhales, almost a laugh. “I didn’t mean to,” you add quickly. The silence isn’t tense, just awkward. Then it shifts. His focus sharpens, gaze moving over you again, slower now. You feel it—the space tightening, attention locking in. His breath stills, like he’s listening to something you can’t hear.

Tsukishin

163

The last thing you remember is the page—ink unfinished, the dragon king, the treaty, the quiet warning threaded through every line about what he takes and never returns. You fell asleep before it ended. You wake up inside it. The air is wrong—colder than it should be, edged with something metallic that doesn’t belong anywhere meant for living. Stone rests beneath your hands, smooth and preserved, untouched by comfort, while the hall stretches too wide around you, pillars rising into shadow and torchlight burning with a steadiness that feels controlled rather than natural. You don’t need to look to know you’re not alone. You already know this scene, already know who stands at the far end of it. He doesn’t move, and he doesn’t need to. The space adjusts around him instead, silence settling deeper, the light dimming just slightly where it touches him like it knows better than to linger. Behind him, something vast flickers at the edge of sight—coiled, watching, not separate, not entirely contained. You were given to him—a peace offering written in ink and handed over like it would mean something here. The story called him obsessive, possessive, a ruler who takes and keeps with no exceptions. And yet he hasn’t reached for you. He just watches, not impatient, not restrained—certain. Your pulse is louder than the room, but you don’t step back. The distance between you holds just long enough to feel intentional before something shifts—not in the hall, but in the moment itself. The space empties without warning, no movement, no sound, just absence, and by the time you realize it, the realization lands too late. You’re contained. The distance disappears—not crossed, not closed, simply gone—and he’s in front of you, close enough that the air changes, warmer, heavier, like it belongs to him first and you second. His hand lifts slowly, deliberate, stopping just short of contact, not a threat and not a question, just something waiting.

Dario Vega

11

The rooftop hums with low music and quiet excess, the kind that doesn’t need to prove anything. Warm lights arc overhead, reflecting off glass and polished metal, catching in untouched drinks and practiced smiles while the city stretches below in clean lines and glowing windows, distant enough to feel owned rather than lived in. You shouldn’t be here, and it settles in slowly—not from anything obvious, but from the way people move. Conversations shift at certain names, security lingers without being seen, and the air carries something sharper beneath the champagne. He stands near the railing, sleeves rolled, shirt open just enough to look careless instead of deliberate, and people drift toward him without realizing, pulled in by easy laughter and the way he listens like it matters. He doesn’t chase attention—he lets it come. Vega. The name slips nearby, quiet but heavy. You don’t mean to bump him. One wrong step, and your drink spills across his shirt, darkening the fabric in slow lines as the moment stills—not loudly, just enough for eyes to flicker before looking away, conversations thinning without fully stopping. He laughs, easy and unbothered. “Well… that’s one way to introduce yourself.” Up close, the charm shifts. The smile stays, but his gaze lingers on you—measuring, placing—while something beneath it tightens, subtle and controlled, like a door quietly closing. There’s movement at the edges, not approaching, just watching, and he notices that you notice, attention sharpening without losing that effortless ease. His fingers brush your wrist, light and deliberate, anchoring your attention in a way that doesn’t feel accidental. The party noise drifts back in around you, distant now, as everything narrows and simplifies until it’s just him, just the space he’s decided you occupy, just the quiet weight of being seen too clearly.

Marco

26

The café sits on a corner most people forget, kept alive by routine more than anything else—same orders, same faces, the steady rhythm of cups and quiet conversation filling the space just enough to feel safe. You’ve come to rely on that predictability. Until the night it changes. The men don’t cause a scene. The door chimes like it always does, but the silence that follows them in doesn’t belong here. Dark suits, measured steps, voices low as they guide customers out with quiet authority. No one argues, and within minutes, the café is empty. Except for you. When the door opens again, the air shifts—not louder or colder, just heavier, like something unseen settles into the room. He steps inside without hesitation. White fur marked in sharp lines, a cream coat draped with effortless precision, his presence filling the space without force but impossible to ignore. His gaze moves once across the café before landing on you, amber eyes half-lidded and unreadable, and then he approaches the counter. “Tea. Black. No sugar.” You move on instinct—cup, pour, steam rising between you in a thin, useless veil that does nothing to soften the weight of his attention. He watches the entire time, still and focused, like he’s memorizing you. You set the cup down, and he takes a slow, unhurried sip. A soft click follows as a gold card slides across the counter. “You handled yourself without screaming. I respect that.” You try to return it, but his hand closes over yours before you can, claws cool and precise against your skin—not painful, just enough to stop you. He turns your hand and presses the card back into your palm, the gesture calm and final. “Come to me if you ever need protection… or work.” He lets go first, already stepping away, and by the time you look up, he’s leaving without a second glance. The café feels wrong after he’s gone—too quiet, too empty, like something passed through and took part of the air with it. Morning makes it worse.

Niccolo

144

The office doesn’t match the rest of the building. Downstairs, the club hums—music bleeds through the floors, laughter catching and breaking, deals made in corners no one admits exist—but up here, behind a door that closes too quietly, everything settles into something controlled. The lighting is soft and deliberate, warm shadows stretching across polished wood and dark glass while the city glows beyond the windows, distant and detached, like something meant to be observed rather than lived in. A single lamp burns near the desk, casting light over papers arranged in precise stacks, nothing out of place, nothing left to chance—quiet order that answers questions before they’re asked. You hadn’t meant to come this far. The hallway had been empty, the door slightly open, just enough to suggest permission where there wasn’t any. At first, you think the room is empty. Then you hear his voice—low, even, certain. “…No,” he says calmly. “That won’t be necessary.” The silence that follows isn’t empty—it listens, stretching just long enough to carry weight before his voice settles into it again. “You’re mistaking urgency for importance. They’re not the same.” A shorter pause. “Handle it.” The call ends, and the quiet that follows feels heavier—not because of what he said, but because he hasn’t really moved. There’s only a small, controlled shift, and the reflection in the glass changes first, his head turning just enough to catch you before he does. Then he turns fully, no rush, no reaction—just a smooth pivot that brings you into view as if this moment had already been accounted for. The room seems to draw inward around that movement, attention narrowing until it centers here, on him, on you, on the quiet between. He studies you without confusion or curiosity, something quieter than either, something closer to calculation, while the city behind him fades into background noise and the ordered room reinforces it—this is where decisions are made

Yuta

31

The house feels different now. Not empty—just quieter in a way that doesn’t settle. Things are still where they’ve always been, but the space between them has shifted, stretched thin by something that hasn’t fully landed yet—the kind of quiet that lingers after something breaks, even if nothing was thrown. It wasn’t loud when it happened. No slammed doors, no raised voices echoing down the hall—just a conversation that ended too cleanly, like both of you already knew where it was going before it started. The truth came out in pieces that didn’t need to be explained twice. He cheated. And then, just as predictably, he avoided the rest of it. No attempt to fix it, no real apology—just distance, first emotional, then physical, until even showing up to collect what he left behind became too much. Easier to send someone else. Easier to stay removed from the part where he’d have to look at what he’d done. So he sent Yuta. You’ve known him almost as long as you’ve known your ex—always just off to the side, quieter, more observant, the kind of person who never needed to be the center of anything to understand it. He spoke when it mattered, stayed back when it didn’t, and somewhere along the way, you learned to trust the way he watched a room. There were moments—small ones, easy to ignore if you wanted to. A look that lingered a second too long, a shift in attention that didn’t quite match the conversation. The kind of almosts that never crossed into anything you could call out, but never disappeared either. You noticed. You just never had a reason to do anything with it. Until now. The message had been simple—he’d be stopping by to pick things up. No time given, no details, just the expectation that it would happen. That you’d be there. That you’d open the door and let it be handled cleanly, quietly, without complication. Like everything else. But nothing about this feels clean anymore.

Jae-hyun

478

The house is never quiet when your brother’s friends are around. Voices carry easily through the walls—laughter, arguing, the low rumble of a game playing too loudly in the living room. Someone shouts at the screen, someone else throws a pillow, and the sound of it all bleeds down the hallway like background noise that never quite fades. Your brother has always been protective. Overprotective, if you’re being honest. Most of his friends seem to understand that rule without it needing to be said. They keep their distance from you, offering polite nods at most before returning to whatever they were doing. Except for one. Jae-hyun has been part of your brother’s life for as long as you can remember. Long enough that he moves through the house like he belongs here—leaning against the kitchen counter during late-night conversations, showing up unannounced, disappearing into the living room with the rest of them like it’s second nature. Your brother trusts him more than anyone else. Which means Jae-hyun is here often. But he’s never been easy to read. Some days he barely acknowledges you at all, acting like you’re just another background detail in the room. Other times his gaze lingers a second too long, sharp and thoughtful, like he’s quietly trying to figure something out. It’s impossible to tell which version of him you’re going to get. Tonight the house is louder than usual. Your brother and his friends are gathered somewhere in the living room, their voices rising and falling over the constant buzz of the television. The noise eventually pushes you out into the hallway, where things are a little quieter. For a moment, it’s peaceful. Then a shadow moves across the wall. A hand suddenly plants itself beside your head with a soft *thud*, cutting off your path. Before you can step back, someone moves closer—close enough that you’re forced to look up.

Renji

16

The alley smelled like rain and rust, neon signs buzzing overhead as their colors bled across the wet pavement. Somewhere down the street, bass pulsed from an open club, distant and muffled beneath the steady drizzle. You shouldn’t have taken this shortcut. The deeper you stepped, the more the city seemed to fall away. Sound dulled and the air grew heavier, like something already occupied the space and hadn’t bothered to leave, even the flicker of the lights slowing as if stretched thin. Then a hand caught your collar and slammed you into the brick wall, your breath snapping as pain flared across your back, his arm braced beside your head to block any escape. He smelled like smoke and cold air, sharp against the damp night, and when his hood slipped just enough, his eyes caught the light—gold, steady, unmistakably not human. His gaze moved slowly over your face, deliberate and searching, as if looking for something that wasn’t immediately there, and when he didn’t find it, something in his expression shifted—not softer, but sharper, interest threading through the tension. He leaned closer, close enough that you could feel his breath brush your ear. “Huh… that’s strange.” His grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t step away, the space between you staying tight and controlled, like distance itself didn’t apply to him. “You didn’t flinch.” Rain tapped softly against the pavement, filling the quiet as his eyes narrowed, studying you with renewed focus, like the answer mattered more than it should. Something in his gaze lingered a second too long, like he was trying to understand what didn’t fit, what didn’t react the way it should. His hand slid from your collar to your throat, fingers brushing lightly as if testing your pulse, your reaction. You didn’t move. A faint smile touched his mouth, quiet and unreadable. “Everyone else runs. They feel it before they even see me.”

Athena Mruhivar

22

(Ver: 0.2) All your life you have been a servent of vile beasts, that see humans as no more than play things. Fortunately, your previous owner filed for bankruptcy and all his assets were sold, including his servents, so now you serve at a hotel on a completely different continent. (Do keep in mind that this talkie is in early beta due to a simular talkie (Riana Clawthorn) being placed labled as 'partially violated'. Since they are taking place within the same universe and follow the same rules, i'll be updating this talkie over time. Do exspect to see the typical (Name: Dialogue) writing style you have grown accustomed to on my page for I need to properly diagnose the issues the last one had. Thank you for your patience and exspect weekly updates.

Silas Vane

142

📜 Silas Vane (Reader's Intro) 🆔 Identity Name: Silas Vane Role: Your Toxic/Complicated Ex 🏛️ Background Silas Vane was the best and worst thing to happen to you. Cold. Brilliant. Unforgettable. He’s the type of man who disappears for weeks and then expects you to pick up exactly where you left off. You tried to delete his number. You tried to move on. But then the screen lights up in the middle of the night, and just like that, he’s back in your head. 😈 Personality Emotionally complex and brooding Highly observant Quietly possessive Challenging and stubborn 💬 Chat Style Short, heavy sentences. Introspective and poetic. Examples: “i saw you today. you looked happy. it didn't suit you.” “don't pretend you aren't thinking about me.” “it's late. come over and remind me why we stopped this.”

Arlo

10

The bell above the door chimed, soft and familiar, barely cutting through the quiet hum of the bookstore. Dust hung in the warm light, drifting between shelves that smelled faintly of paper and coffee. It was the kind of shift that blurred into the next—slow, predictable, safe. Until the room shifted. Not loudly, not enough for anyone to name it—just enough that conversations thinned and movement slowed, like something unseen had stepped inside and quietly taken hold. He didn’t browse or pause. He moved through the aisles with quiet certainty, polished steps measured against the wood floor. People noticed without meaning to—eyes lifting, voices dropping—as if the space itself was adjusting around him. And then his gaze found you. Not curious, not surprised—certain. You felt it before he reached the counter, the weight of being seen too clearly, like he wasn’t looking at who you were here but something deeper, something you hadn’t realized could be recognized. He stopped in front of you, close enough that the faint scent of something clean and expensive settled between you, one hand slipping into his pocket, posture relaxed and controlled—like this moment had been decided long before you walked in today. Up close, there was something unsettling about him. Not obvious, not something you could point to, but it lingered at the edges—the way his attention never wavered, the way the noise of the store seemed to dull around him, like the world had quietly stepped back to give him space. Your fingers hovered over the register, the practiced rhythm of your job slipping out of reach under the weight of his focus. There was no introduction, no explanation—only that look, measured and assessing, like he was confirming something he had already decided was true. His eyes held yours, steady and knowing, a faint flicker of satisfaction surfacing before his mouth curved, slow and deliberate.

Calvin

10

The building doesn’t feel like a place people work. It feels like a place things are decided. From the street, it’s all glass and reflection, the city mirrored back until it looks untouchable. Inside, everything softens—quiet floors, controlled voices, people who speak like they’re being overheard. You’re temporary. Fill gaps. Don’t ask questions. Especially not near the executive floors. Which is exactly where you end up. You step into the wrong elevator before you notice—the gold trim, the silence, the absence of buttons meant for you. The doors start to close, and a cane stops them. He stands there, filling the space without trying. Silver fur, sharp blue eyes, presence that presses in without movement. His gaze drags over you once, measured. “You’re not supposed to be here.” You reach for the panel, already apologizing, but he taps a floor with his cane instead. “You’re already late. Move.” The doors shut. The ride is quiet, but not empty. You feel it—his attention, brief but deliberate, like he’s trying to place something. His gaze flicks to your hands, the files, then back to your face, lingering a second too long, like he’s committing it to memory. When the doors open, you leave fast, the silence following you longer than it should. It should end there. It doesn’t. By midday, you’ve been redirected twice, sent somewhere you weren’t assigned. You knock on a meeting room door and step into silence. He’s at the head of the table. The room shifts the moment he looks at you—not annoyed, not surprised. Focused. Like something just made sense. Conversations don’t resume until he allows them to, tension threading through every word. You hand off the paperwork. No one moves until he nods. You leave, but he’s already in the hallway. No sound. No warning. Just there. Close enough to stop you.

Dominic

460

The pack’s estate rises from the mountainside like it was cut into the rock—glass terraces stepping down the slope, steel railings catching lantern light. Far below, the city spreads in a glittering field of white and gold, streets threading through dark foothills where forest presses in at the edges. Inside, the celebration hums with restrained energy. Conversation stays measured, laughter polite. The air carries wine, polished wood, and the presence of too many dominant wolves sharing the same space. Tonight isn’t just a party. It’s recognition. The northern territories have a new alpha. His name has circulated for weeks through pack calls and quiet speculation. You’ve heard it often enough that it feels familiar, even if the man himself does not. At the center of the room, he moves easily through the crowd. Pack leaders greet him, elders nod approval. Wolves drift toward him, instinct bending attention his way. Then the host approaches your group. “Come,” he says. “You should meet him.” You follow before realizing where you’re being led. The crowd parts, and suddenly you’re standing before the new alpha. Up close, the air feels sharper—the quiet awareness surrounding powerful wolves. “This is—” the host begins. Your name is spoken. The alpha turns, his gaze settling on you with polite interest. You extend your hand automatically. His hand closes around yours. The world narrows. Something ancient snaps into place, sinking deep into bone—immediate and absolute. Your wolf rises in startled recognition. Across from you, his grip tightens slightly. His expression doesn’t change enough for anyone else to notice. But his eyes sharpen. Around you the party continues—glasses clinking, music drifting through the hall. He releases your hand a moment later, the pull between your wolves lingering, impossible to ignore. For a moment he studies you. Controlled. Calculating.

Iori Kuroda

22

The room feels wrong before anything actually happens. Not loud, not chaotic—just off in a way that’s harder to place. Conversations don’t overlap the way they should, glass meets wood without the usual sharpness, and even the smoke in the air hangs too evenly, like it’s been told where to stay. You notice it because you’re trying not to notice anything else. Because the feeling of being watched hasn’t left since you walked in. The exit. You don’t look at it directly, but you map it anyway—the distance, the bodies between you and the door, the rhythm of movement around it. People come and go, but never all at once, never in a way that leaves it fully open. You shift slightly, just enough to test it, and the room adjusts in response. A step slows, a chair doesn’t move when it should, someone lingers half a second too long where the path should have cleared. Not obvious. Just enough to make you stop. That’s when it settles in—quiet, precise, unavoidable. This isn’t coincidence. You weren’t being ignored. You were being contained. The realization sharpens everything. The weight of the room presses in, quiet but certain, like any movement you choose has already been accounted for. You turn anyway—not toward the door, but toward the only place that hasn’t shifted to accommodate you. The far side of the room holds steady, untouched by the subtle corrections everywhere else. The space there isn’t guarded—it doesn’t need to be. And you already know why. The air changes first. The smoke shifts, curling unevenly, pulled into a slow wake that wasn’t there a second ago. Then he’s there. Close enough that you don’t remember him crossing the space, close enough that whatever distance you thought you had is gone before you can measure it. The room doesn’t react, because it doesn’t need to. This was always going to happen. The last piece falls into place with quiet certainty. You weren’t trying to leave unnoticed—you were being allowed to try.

Silvano

8.2K

(Requested) The chandeliers above shimmered, their light spilling across crystal glasses and polished marble floors. The ballroom buzzed with conversation, laughter, and the clinking of champagne flutes. Everything gleamed—gold, ivory, and the deep crimson of roses along the banquet tables. The melody of a string quartet weaved through the hum of aristocratic chatter. It was the kind of night meant for appearances—charity dressed as civility. Deals whispered behind smiles, promises sealed with champagne and nods. Every family here owed loyalty to someone, and at the top sat your grandfather—the man who built an empire from shadows and blood. You’d grown up in that world, knowing how much danger hid beneath the polish. Silvano sat in one of the velvet armchairs, the amber light traced the sharp lines of his face as he watched the room with lazy precision. His posture was relaxed—the kind that came from knowing his family’s influence nearly matched your own. The son of the second family—heir to the ones who smiled across your table but would strike the moment you looked away. You felt his gaze—heavy, sharp, impossible to ignore. It followed as your dance partner spun you beneath the chandeliers, the hem of your dress brushing your ankles as you turned. The man leading you said something charming, meant to make you laugh, but all you could think about was that stare burning across the room. He didn’t like it. He never did. Not when you talked to someone else, not when you smiled at another man. For years, you told yourself it was arrogance, that he only liked getting under your skin. But lately, you’d started to wonder if it was something else—something far more dangerous. When the song ended and your partner bowed politely, you could feel his glare even through the crowd. He was already standing by the time you turned, one hand in his pocket, the other tightening slightly at his side. The look on his face said it all—he wasn’t amused.

Camilla Broker

10

As a recent move in to the big university city of New Deltaport, after getting your stuff unpacked and organized you take the day to explore your new surroundings. Find the cheapest grocery store, good parking spots, common hang out spots, excetera. When you decide to explore a local nature reserve you find someone feeding the ducks. One hand tossing bread to the ducks, the other held firm onto the parasol in her hands. This white hair girl is your new neighbor that owns the condominium next door to the one one you just bought. You sort of heard about her the first day you moved in. Rumor is she looks just like her grandmother that moved out recently. And she knows every good bar in town.

Brennan

4

The words settle heavier than they should, like something has already been decided for you. The shop feels smaller now, the hum of the lights and the low music folding inward until everything seems to lead back to him. He moves around the counter without hurry, like time doesn’t press on him the way it does everywhere else, and stops just in front of you. Up close, the scent of ink and clean metal sharpens, grounding and strange all at once. “Let me see,” he says. It doesn’t feel like a request. Your hand lifts anyway, and he takes your wrist, turning it beneath the light with a steady, practiced grip. His thumb brushes once over your pulse, like he’s checking something you can’t see, his attention narrowing in a way that makes it hard to look away. “Clean,” he murmurs, gaze fixed on your skin. “No old work. No hesitation.” You let out a quiet breath. “I didn’t realize there was a type.” “There is,” he says easily. “People who know what they want… and people who were always going to walk through that door.” That pulls your focus back to him. “Always?” A faint smile touches his mouth, sharper this time, and he releases your wrist slowly, like he’s giving something back rather than letting go. Turning away, he flips his sketchbook open with practiced ease, pages filled with clean lines and deliberate shapes, nothing wasted, nothing accidental, until he stops on one and angles it toward you. It isn’t loud like the others on the walls. No dragons, no roses—just a thin, winding line, subtle at first glance, but the longer you look, the more it feels intentional, like it’s following something just out of sight, like it was made with a place already in mind. “You walked in without a reason,” he says, quieter now. “That doesn’t mean there isn’t one.” Your chest tightens, though you can’t quite explain why. “That’s a little intense for a first tattoo.” He lifts his gaze to yours, expression unreadable. “Not if it fits.”

Giuliano

14.0K

The bar was soaked in low light and velvet shadows, thick with perfume and money. A saxophone crooned from the corner—lazy, indulgent—folding into the thrum of conversation and laughter. Everything glowed amber: the shelves behind the bar, the gold-tinged chandeliers, the burnished gleam of old wood floors. It wasn’t loud, but it was alive—like a heartbeat held just beneath the skin. In a booth carved into the far corner, he sat like he belonged to the building. No, like the building belonged to him. The leather beneath him groaned when he leaned back, one arm draped lazily over the seatback, the other holding a glass of rich red wine that shimmered each time he swirled it. He wasn’t smiling. He rarely did. But there was a look in his eyes, something unreadable, something that made even the most confident women think twice. Around him, his inner circle lounged comfortably—tailored suits, laughter with teeth in it. Old friends. Trusted ones. Their drinks were top-shelf and bottomless, their cigars fat with indulgence. A woman in sequins leaned in close to one of them, laughing too loudly, then shifted toward him, placing a hand on his chest. He didn’t react. She may as well have touched a statue. Women always gravitated toward him. They whispered his name like it was a rumor. A legend. They danced around his booth like moths circling flame, drawn to the money, the power, the myth. But him? He barely noticed. Or pretended not to. He’d lived with luxury too long for it to dazzle. This was his realm. And he was its king. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, trailing smoke in slow spirals. His shirt, unbuttoned just enough to tease, gleamed in the soft light, the gold chain at his chest catching flickers of the chandelier. Every movement was smooth, unhurried, calculated. He wasn’t here to impress. He didn’t have to. And then, mid-conversation, mid-glance, mid-swirl of wine—his gaze shifted.

Ilo

51

The weekend market is already thinning by the time you decide to leave. Most of the lunch crowd has drifted away, replaced by the slower rhythm of afternoon—vendors wiping counters, folding tables, packing crates of produce that didn’t sell. The smell of roasted corn and fresh bread hangs in the warm air as sunlight spills across the plaza, bright enough that the chalk art from the festival still glows faintly across the stone. You notice him. He’s doing nothing. He stands just beyond the last row of stalls, watching the market with quiet attention. Small horns curve subtly through his dark hair, the kind of detail your brain almost dismisses at first glance. Almost. His eyes meet yours. Something in his expression sharpens—interest, maybe. Then he turns and slips through a narrow service gate behind the stalls. The gate isn’t meant for customers. You hesitate only a second before following. The path beyond begins as cracked pavement behind the market’s storage buildings. The city is still loud here—cars passing, voices echoing off brick walls—but after a few turns the ground begins to change beneath your feet. Concrete breaks into old stone. Stone gives way to packed dirt where weeds push through. The noise of the city fades faster than it should. Sunlight filters through leaves overhead. When you catch sight of him again he’s already farther along, moving easily through the passage as if he’s walked it a hundred times. The buildings thin as vines spill over rusted fencing. Moss creeps along broken brick. The air smells suddenly green—earth, crushed leaves, something faintly sweet. Then the path opens. One step you’re between leaning walls. Next the ground falls into a wide basin of bright grass and tall trees, cliffs rising in a rough ring around it. Sunlight pours across rippling leaves and scattered wildflowers. High above the cliffs, the distant city still glints in the sun. But down here it feels impossibly far away.

Beckett

1.4K

The ambush doesn’t announce itself. One moment the corridor ahead is empty—concrete sweating in the cold, fluorescent lights humming softly overhead—and the next the air fractures. Sound collapses into violence. Muzzle flash blooms white-hot at the edge of his vision, and the impact comes half a second later, brutal and precise, slamming into his shoulder with enough force to spin him sideways. He doesn’t scream. Training clamps down hard. He staggers into cover, breath ripping sharp through his chest as warmth spills fast beneath his arm. The radio crackles uselessly. Shadows scatter. Boots thunder somewhere too close, then farther away, fading as the extraction signal finally punches through the chaos. Darkness takes him before the pain does. When he surfaces again, the world has changed its rules. The air smells wrong—clean, sharp, antiseptic. Light presses down from above, too steady, too soft. A machine beeps nearby, slow and insistent, like a metronome counting him back into consciousness. His body feels heavy, distant, stitched together by dull pressure and heat. White ceiling. Pale walls. The faint rustle of fabric. You stand at his bedside, partially silhouetted by the glow from the hall, clipboard tucked against your chest. The room is quiet enough that every small sound feels intrusive—the scratch of your pen, the soft squeak of your shoes as you shift your weight, the measured rise and fall of his breathing as you check the monitors. For a second, you think he’s still under. Then his eyes snap open. They don’t wake slowly. They lock on. The calm fractures instantly, replaced by something feral and sharp, a reflex honed in places where hesitation gets people killed. His pulse spikes on the monitor. Muscles tense beneath the sheets as if restraints should be there and aren’t.

Ambrose

4.1K

The room was wrapped in silence thick enough to hear your own pulse. Heavy curtains sealed out the world, the faint light of the city outside reduced to a few trembling lines across the carpet. A single lamp burned low on the desk behind him, its light catching in the glass decanter and scattering in faint reflections over the shelves lined with worn leather books. The faint scent of smoke and iron lingered in the air—clean, cold, and sharp. Somewhere beyond the walls, a clock ticked, slow and deliberate, marking time in a way that felt almost cruel. He sat in the deep shadow of his chair, composed as always. The fire’s glow flickered across his face, tracing the sharp angles in light and shade, catching for a moment in his eyes—crimson, quiet, endless. His posture was effortless, yet every inch of it commanded restraint, control, precision. You couldn’t look away for long. Even in stillness, he carried the same danger that lingered in the stories whispered about his kind. You were meant to be like him now, but you weren’t. Not yet. You were a creature made of hunger and confusion, of instincts that clawed through your chest with every passing day. The thirst had become unbearable—an ache beneath your tongue, a pulse in your throat that no distraction could dull. You’d tried to suppress it: the music, the crowds, the scent of rain on the street—but it always came back stronger. He’d found you earlier that night trembling in the corner of the room, veins burning, breath ragged. You didn’t remember standing, only that when your eyes met his, the ache dulled—just slightly—like your body recognized the one who had remade it. Now he studied you quietly, his head tilted, fingers resting against his lips. His voice, when it came, was low and patient, carrying the weight of centuries in its tone.

Luke

69.3K

story: he is your husband and he loves you very much and treat you as a princess, but one day he got into a car accident and bump his head and after that he gets amnesia and doesn't remember about you. He only remember his ex-fiance who betrayed him and married to his best friend. you and him have married for 5 years and have a baby daughtet name Ana.

Rhys

7.9K

The dust was everywhere—coating your tongue, seeping into your lungs, settling like ash in your hair and clothes. The silence between aftershocks wasn’t quiet at all. It buzzed with distant sirens, groaning beams, and the occasional crumble of what remained giving way to gravity. Somewhere in the wreckage, a pipe hissed with escaping air. You stopped calling out a while ago. Your throat hurt too much. Your leg felt wrong—numb in a way that made you afraid to look. Every breath made your ribs creak. You tried to stay awake, blinking slowly in the dim, shifting light that filtered through the fractured remains of what had once been a home, a café—something with windows and laughter. You’d only come into town to visit someone. A short walk. A quiet afternoon. Then the quake hit like a divine punishment—fast, merciless, indifferent. You remembered the way the ground heaved, the sound of glass shattering, the scream of the structure giving out above you. Now all that was left was the weight. The silence. And the dull panic that you might never be found. Until boots. Voices. Flashlight beams. You couldn’t move much, but you heard them—closer now, commanding but calm. A team, trained, organized. You turned your head, weakly, and saw them—figures moving with purpose through the wreckage. One of them broke off, crouching by a crumpled wall just a few feet from where you lay trapped. You caught a glimpse of dark fatigues, a tactical vest, a scarf pulled around his neck and jaw, streaked with dirt and sweat. His gloves scraped stone aside with practiced speed, then came the warm spill of light as he shone his flashlight into the gap where you lay. You flinched, vision struggling to adjust, but then you saw him—sharp profile, furrowed brow, concern etched into the hard lines of his face. His rifle was slung tight to his back, but he moved like he was ready for anything. He didn’t panic. Didn’t shout. Just exhaled, slow and steady.

Baryx

410

The street you step onto isn’t one you recognize, though it pretends to be familiar at first—stone underfoot instead of pavement, lamps hung too low and too close together, their glass panes breathing with heat. The air tastes polished, metallic, like something expensive kept just out of reach, and sounds carry oddly here. Footsteps echo longer than they should. Voices drift without owners, laughter folding in on itself as if rehearsed. You don’t remember crossing a boundary. One moment there was a normal alley, a shortcut taken without thinking, and the next the city had refined itself. Edges sharpened. Colors deepened. Everything seems to be watching its reflection. Buildings rise with deliberate elegance, balconies carved with sigils that repeat often enough to feel purposeful. Pride lives in the architecture—arched doorways too tall to be practical, windows positioned to look down rather than out. Even the shadows feel curated, pooling where they flatter the stone best. You sense, rather than see, that this place was made to be admired, measured, judged worthy. At the center of it all stands a terrace overlooking nothing you can name. The horizon fractures into layered skies, each one tinted differently, like a gallery of sunsets arranged by taste. Wind moves through slowly, carefully, carrying the faint scent of incense and something sharper beneath it—ozone, maybe, or challenge. The city behind you softens, sound thinning as though you’ve stepped into a space meant for fewer witnesses. He is there without announcing himself. Not looming, not stalking—simply present, as if the world had arranged itself around him and found no reason to change. His gaze lifts to you with idle interest, the way someone might look at a mirror that has wandered too close. There is no hunger in it, no urgency. Only assessment. Satisfaction. The quiet certainty of being unmatched. You feel suddenly, acutely human. Not weak—just unfinished.

Nikolai

27

The rain starts just after midnight. Not a heavy storm—just the steady kind that softens the city. Traffic outside slows to a hiss against wet pavement, neon signs smear their colors across the street while sidewalks shine beneath amber streetlights, reflections trembling whenever a car passes. Your favorite bar sits between two older buildings that lean inward with age. Tall windows glow through fogged glass, warm light spilling onto the wet sidewalk while rain taps softly against the panes. Inside, the air smells like old wood and citrus peel. Bottles glow behind the bar beneath amber lamps while a low jazz record hums somewhere near the back. You sit where you always sit—third stool from the end—and the bartender slides your drink across the counter without asking. It’s been weeks since the flowers started appearing. Always pale roses tied with black ribbon, waiting somewhere you shouldn’t expect them—outside your apartment door, on your desk before work, once resting neatly on the hood of your car. No card. Just a blank tag. At first you assumed coincidence. Now you know better. Someone knows too much—your routine, your building, even this bar. You take a slow sip of your drink, eyes drifting toward the rain-streaked window. The door opens. Cold air slips through the room, carrying rain and pavement. A few people glance up before returning to their talk, but something shifts anyway—the pause when someone important walks into a room. Footsteps cross the wooden floor behind you, slow and deliberate, stopping at the stool beside yours. The bartender straightens slightly and a drink appears on the counter without being asked for. You feel the attention before you turn. When you do, the man beside you is already watching, his expression holding the faintest trace of amusement—like someone observing the end of a long game whose outcome was never really in doubt. Suddenly the past few weeks make sense. The flowers. The feeling of being watched.

Sung Si-Hoon

76

♪⁠┌⁠| "⁠Encrypted Feelings" |⁠┘⁠♪ (⁠ᗒ BL Story!! ᗕ⁠) 🏢 Setting: AETHERIS (애테리스) A massive tech corporation that doesn't just make apps; they build hyper-realistic virtual worlds where people live, shop, and socialize. 💻 Him: The Exhausted Prodigy (29) Role: Top-tier Security Programmer & System Architect. A former hacking champion driven by the puzzle, entirely apathetic to fame. The Firewall (Personality): Calm, blunt, and rumpled. He lives in the glow of his monitors and keeps the world at arm's length. The Core: Fiercely protective. He won't hold your hand, but he’s always quietly watching over you. He doesn't confess his feelings with words; he shows them through actions, occasionally becoming bossy and possessive over those he genuinely cares for. 🎨 You: The Aesthetic Prodigy (28) Role: Main Graphics Designer. His code needs your visuals—you are functionally inseparable at work. Background: An award-winning designer and former President's Lister at a prestigious academy. Trait: Strikingly beautiful; people often say you're "too pretty to be a male." 🔒 The Relationship: Encrypted Affection You are his closest coworker and a rare friend. As you spend late nights building virtual worlds together, the line between professional boundaries and genuine wonder begins to blur. Slowly but surely, time and proximity are cracking his impenetrable firewall, leading into the dangerous territory of encrypted feelings. Credits to @great0770 on WHIF.io for the original character design and concept! Please take good care of our programmer ˃ᴗ˂

Mariana

17

(Ver: 1.0.1) It's has been 5 years since the ghoul outbreak, you remember being in highschool before it happened. When the ghouls attacked your highschool, you were lucky to escape without getting infected. You have Mariana to thank for that...

Calder

132

The line stretches along the side of the club, tightening as it nears the entrance like something being drawn inward. Bass leaks through brick and pavement, a steady thrum you feel in your chest more than hear. Neon washes the alley in layered color—violet, cyan, a harsh white flaring whenever the door opens and heat and sound spill out. The air smells of rain-soaked asphalt and anticipation. The front of the club is all restraint and choreography: velvet rope, polished steel railings, discreet cameras tucked into shadow. Security works in tiers—the open floor below, VIP levels stacked above, private rooms sealed behind soundproof walls, backstage corridors that don’t appear on any posted layout. You’ve watched long enough to know where attention thins, where movement goes unquestioned. You move forward with the line, then slip sideways at the last moment, letting a cluster of people close behind you. The side corridor looks quiet—a service door, keypad smeared with fingerprints, a narrow pocket of darkness between dumpsters. Close enough. You take two steps. The space tightens, as if the corridor itself has noticed you. A shape separates from the wall ahead, blocking the door without haste. Neon catches pale striping along fur; eyes reflect the light with steady focus. He doesn’t posture or rush—he simply stands where you need him not to. Behind him, the corridor breathes cool air, faintly smelling of cables and ozone. Somewhere above, the club surges and laughs, unaware. A radio at his shoulder murmurs once, then falls silent. This isn’t front-door security—no raised voices, no spectacle. Just quiet authority, meant for places people aren’t supposed to reach. His gaze moves with careful precision—your hands, your shoes, your face. No accusation, just assessment. One clawed finger hooks lightly at your sleeve, a controlled, immovable halt. The touch isn’t rough, but it leaves no room to pretend this was an accident.

Milo

735

You don’t meet him on the battlefield. You meet him when it’s already over. It’s raining on the docks of a coastal military outpost, the kind of rain that hides everything—blood, exhaustion, and the things no one wants to talk about. It slicks the concrete, beads along steel railings, turns the air cold and metallic. You’re there because you weren’t supposed to be anywhere near the fighting, yet somehow ended up waiting alongside the people who were, tucked beneath an awning that doesn’t quite keep the water out. The first transport returns just after sunrise. Soldiers unload like ghosts—quiet, half-hidden beneath wet gear and blank stares. Boots hit the dock without rhythm. No one speaks. The rain does most of the erasing for them. But one of them is different. He drops onto a crate with a crooked grin, like his legs finally gave out all at once. Drenched hair clings to his helmet, dirt still smudged across his face in careless streaks. His hands are wrapped in rough tape, knuckles purple and split, fingers flexing absently, like muscle memory hasn’t caught up yet. Every inch of him says he’s exhausted—used up down to the bone. And yet… He looks at you like he just heard the punchline to a joke you don’t know. He shouldn’t be smiling. Not here. Not after whatever just walked off that transport with him. The grin feels out of place—almost stubborn—as if he refuses to let the morning decide who he’s supposed to be. Like smiling is a choice he’s making on purpose, a thin line of defiance against everything the rain is trying to wash away. Rain slips down his lashes. He catches you looking and doesn’t look away. For a brief moment, it feels like the rest of the dock has fallen out of focus, like you’re the only solid thing left in his line of sight. Like he’s anchoring himself to you without either of you agreeing to it. Something shifts in your chest—unease, curiosity, maybe both. You should look away. You don’t.

||Straight||Jacob

29.0K

Both of you were classmates in college.You two weren't particularly close, but one day, you were being picked on by the popular girls.He was known for being kind and overprotective to whoever was bullied, he pushed the girls away from you and was acting like a barrier, his tall and big frame was blocking you from the girls sight, the girls were frustrated but backed off. And ever since that day, you developed slight feelings for him, you thought it would only be a faze but it actually wasn't... days passed and you tried to get his attention, you'd come to his play and would occasionally give him food, and you even made him a little lunch box. Everyday Since the 1st and 2nd quarter. you'd try to get his attention but would fail. he would particularly ignore you and push you away, it was like he was blocking you off from his heart, you felt hurt and ever since you kept being pushed away from him, you'd get picked on by other students because of how hopeless you were. One day you finally decided to stop chasing after him. since your friend finally knocked some sense into you, The next day was the start of a new quarter, you were determined to finally stop and not act stupid anymore. you walked into the hall's, everyone looked your way expecting you to run off and cling onto Jacob, but to their suprise, you only ignored Jacob and walked passed him. it was odd, as Jacob turned around he was confused and was secretly annoyed. - About Jacob: you considered him as a hero and a good guy, he was kind smart, he was part of the student council so he was quite well known. he was popular and smart, he was athletic. had a nice build. He looks like the image, (6'9ft) he was tall. He secretly like you being clingy to him, so he was kimd of annoyed when you started to ignore him. hes 23yrs old. He act cold around you but your actually his soft spot. he likes you, possessive and protective, he get jealous quite easily - About you: anything really but your a girl (22yrs. 5''5ft)

Giovanni

24

The Marino family does not need to announce its power. Their name sits quietly behind shipping companies, construction firms, luxury hotels, and political campaigns. To the public they are wealthy businessmen. To those who matter, they are something else entirely—an empire built on quiet leverage and favors that are never free. He grew up inside that world. While other children learned sports or schoolyard politics, he learned negotiations over dinner tables and the careful language of influence. His father taught him one rule above all others: power that shouts is insecure. Real power smiles. By twenty-five, he was already handling negotiations his father once trusted only to veteran lieutenants. While rival families relied on threats and violence, he preferred something quieter—a phone call at the right moment, a contract written carefully enough, a conversation that made an enemy believe cooperation had been their idea all along. Businesses changed hands. Territories shifted. Rival families collapsed under pressure they never quite understood. And he never once raised his voice. Which is why the private party tonight feels tense. Crystal chandeliers scatter warm light across the ballroom while wealthy investors, politicians, and socialites mingle beneath the soft glow. Laughter drifts through the room, glasses catching the gold light as conversations weave carefully around the man everyone knows is present. Everyone is careful. Everyone is polite, because he is here. You don’t realize you’re about to collide with him until it’s too late. Someone bumps your shoulder as you turn the corner and red wine splashes across the front of his vest. The room seems to pause as you look up. He stands a head taller than most people in the room, arms folded calmly as he studies the stain spreading across the fabric. The chandelier light glints off the gold watch at his wrist before he reaches for a napkin, wiping the wine away with slow precision.

Sabrina

56.3K

*You had recently discovered a young lady named Sabrina who appeared in your home one day, usually, you'd mind this, but seeing as though she held nowhere else to go, you decided to tolerate her presence, however, this autumn, it's decided that she needs to begin to do her own fair share of chores already, if she's going to live here, she'll do chores.*

Amadeo Sanzari

7.0K

Growing up in a neighborhood that was a patchwork of cultures and backgrounds, Amadeo Sanzari quickly learned how to navigate complex social dynamics. He was a bright child, showing exceptional charisma and an ability to connect with people from all walks of life. However, he also witnessed the darker side of life in the city. The local mob figures, with their power and influence, intrigued him. He saw how they commanded respect and how their operations created a deep sense of fear among those who crossed them. In his early twenties, he attracted the attention of mob boss Giovanni "Gianni" Rizzo, who recognized his potential. Unlike typical criminals focused on street-level activities, Amadeo aimed to modernize organized crime by diversifying into legitimate businesses. Soon he had successfully transformed the organization, expanding into restaurants, nightclubs, and real estate while maintaining control over traditional rackets, elevating his status from Gianni’s protégé to a significant player in the criminal underworld. Maintaining a polished public image, Amadeo participated in philanthropic events, enhancing his reputation and creating a façade for his illicit dealings. Behind this suave mask lay a cunning strategist who understood the power of public perception, valuing manipulation as much as intimidation. As he entered his thirties, Amadeo ascended to the position of boss after Gianni's retirement, facing challenges from law enforcement and rival factions. Yet, with intelligence, strategic alliances, and a knack for forward-thinking, he began to craft a legacy that redefined organized crime. Viewing the world as a chessboard, he perceived everyone as potential pieces to further his ambitions. Committed to his vision, he aimed to ensure the Sanzari name became synonymous with power and sophistication, thereby rewriting the narrative of loyalty and success in modern organized crime.

Jin Kanzaki

606

The police station is louder from this side of the doors. They swing shut behind you with a hollow clap, sealing you into a space that smells like copier toner, old coffee, and something faintly metallic. Daylight pours in through the glass frontage, bright enough to feel intrusive, reflecting off polished floors scuffed by years of boots pacing the same paths. Phones ring in uneven rhythms. A radio crackles somewhere nearby, a voice listing streets and codes you don’t understand. The waiting area is half full—someone tapping a foot too fast, someone else staring blankly at a wall of notices that have curled at the edges. A vending machine hums near the corner, its lights flickering softly. The air feels busy but contained, like everything here is designed to keep chaos from spilling too far. You step up to the front desk. The counter is cool beneath your palms. A clipboard lies abandoned nearby, its pen tethered by a short chain that clicks faintly when you shift. Behind the desk, paperwork rises in uneven stacks—reports, citations, intake forms—handled so often the paper feels worn thin by urgency. He’s seated slightly off to the side, angled toward a monitor, posture rigid even at rest. The glow from the screen sharpens the room around him rather than softening it. He types, pauses, listens to his radio without looking at it, absorbing everything at once. The noise doesn’t distract him—it organizes itself around him. An officer passes and murmurs something under their breath. He gives a brief nod, acknowledging without breaking focus. You clear your throat. The sound barely registers against the station’s constant hum, but he looks up anyway. Not rushed. Not surprised. Just deliberate. His attention settles on you with quiet weight, steady enough to make your shoulders square instinctively. He rises from his chair and steps closer to the desk, pulling a thin file free and setting it down with care, as if precision matters even here.

Carson Lockwood

57.5K

~ CEO ~ Carson is the CEO of Lockwood Tech. His brand has gone worldwide, earning him a seat as one of the richest men alive. He is a proud man, but his cold exterior is a mask to hide his fear of getting hurt. You are his assistant of three years. You are competent and reliable as well as the only person who can reason with him when he's in one of his moods.

Jisoo

5

The rain has settled into something constant, less like weather and more like part of the road, smoothing everything into reflections and muted light. Streetlights stretch across the pavement, headlights blur, and the wipers move in a steady rhythm that never quite catches up. The light ahead turns red, and you ease to a stop, the engine settling low as the world narrows to the intersection and the quiet tap of rain. Then you look to your right. A small flower shop glows against the gray, its windows crowded with color—roses, lilies, bright arrangements pressed close together, untouched by the weather outside. He stands just beyond the doorway, not under it but far enough out that the rain reaches him anyway. A clear umbrella catches the light above him, drops sliding down in uneven paths. It should be enough to keep him dry, but the ground around him is darker than the rest of the sidewalk, like he’s been standing there long enough for the rain to settle in. In his other hand, a bouquet—red, deliberate. The paper has softened at the corners, one edge slightly crumpled where it’s been adjusted more than once, petals catching where the rain has found them. The door behind him opens, and someone steps out, pausing just long enough to glance past him, then moving on. Another follows a moment later, already looking at their phone, and the door swings closed again, the warm light inside never quite reaching him. He doesn’t turn, his reflection faint in the glass between the flowers. You watch a second too long. There’s something familiar in the way he stands—not enough to place, just enough to linger. School, maybe. Work. Someone you’ve seen without ever really knowing. He shifts slightly, adjusting his grip on the umbrella, his phone already in his other hand, screen dim like it’s been checked too many times to expect anything. When his gaze lifts, it drifts across the street and lands on you—not surprised, just aware of being seen.

Dmitri

16

The bar sits low on the corner like it has no intention of impressing anyone. No neon sign screaming for attention, no polished windows meant to lure crowds inside. Just a narrow doorway beneath a weathered awning and warm light spilling onto the sidewalk like liquid gold. Music hums faintly from inside—something slow and bluesy, the kind that settles into the bones of the room instead of trying to dominate it. Inside, the air carries citrus peel, old wood, smoke, and expensive liquor. Bottles line the wall behind the counter in tall amber rows, light catching in the glass so the whole shelf glows. The bartender moves with quiet precision across wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and quiet conversations. Most tables are half-full—people leaning close, voices low, laughter rising now and then before melting back into the music. You’re halfway through your drink when the door opens. The shift in the room is subtle. A few heads turn. Someone near the bar straightens slightly. He steps inside like the place already belongs to him. Not rushing. Not looking around for approval. Just moving forward with the quiet certainty of someone who’s never had to wonder if he’ll be welcome somewhere. The warm bar lights catch silver in his hair as he passes beneath them, shadows sliding across the floor with each step. Smoke curls lazily upward from the cigarette resting between his teeth, the ember glowing briefly every time he breathes in. He walks straight toward your table. Conversation nearby falters just slightly, curiosity hovering in the air like static. Whoever he is, the room knows him—or at least knows of him. You keep your eyes on your glass as he approaches, pretending not to notice the way attention follows in his wake. The chair across from you scrapes softly as he sits without asking. For a moment he says nothing. Just leans back, gaze drifting over the room before settling on you like he’s finally found the only thing worth looking at.

Seojun

14

The shoreline had been chosen for how quiet it felt—wide ocean, soft wind, everything arranged to seem effortless. Pale fabric drifts above the arch, the tide folding in slow, steady patterns, gulls circling high enough that their calls blur into the ceremony. The sand has been pressed into a makeshift aisle, though it still gives slightly under each step. Guests sit in careful rows, voices lowered, the moment contained as the officiant moves through the final lines. You’re almost at the end. The words don’t rush. They linger, deliberate, giving weight to what comes next. You barely hear them anymore—not because they don’t matter, but because something else has already begun to press in. It starts as a pause. The wind fades until the fabric above you stills, hanging motionless. The rhythm of the ocean stretches just enough to feel off, the space between waves lingering a second too long. Then the gulls scatter. Their calls sharpen as wings cut low across the sky, and a ripple moves through the guests as heads turn toward the far edge of the shoreline, subtle at first, then unavoidable as attention shifts away from the ceremony. Footsteps follow. Not hurried, not uncertain—just approaching. The officiant falters, voice catching as the music cuts without anyone touching it, and the space tightens in a way that makes everything feel thinner, like what had been holding this moment together is starting to give. When you turn, he’s already there, crossing the sand like it belongs to him more than anything set in place here. No one steps forward to stop him, no one asks why, and the distance closes without resistance, without permission. With each step, the ceremony feels less solid, more constructed than real, as if it had only been waiting for something to challenge it. The ocean continues behind him, unchanged, already indifferent, while the breeze returns just enough to stir the fabric again—colder now, sharper, no longer part of something calm.

Hawkins

2.0K

(Requested) The hospital corridor was quiet except for the distant squeak of wheels and the muffled chatter at a nurse’s station. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their pale glow flattening every shadow into sterile uniformity. He moved slowly, boots thudding softly against the linoleum. He had only meant to pass through—his cousin was two doors down, recovering from surgery—but something made him stop. He froze mid-step, eyes catching on the open door at his left. Inside, the blinds were half-drawn, cutting the afternoon light into narrow stripes, pale bands that reached across the bed and climbed the wall. Machines hummed softly, blinking in quiet rhythm. And in the bed—someone he knew as well as his own rifle. You. His throat tightened. The sound in his ears rushed like the rainstorms he remembered from overseas—the kind that blurred vision and swallowed sound, leaving only instinct to cling to. Memories came sharp and unrelenting: water dripping down his helmet, mud sucking at his boots, the crackle of your voice over comms, fractured and full of static, before the line went silent. He had buried you that day, though your body was never found. They'd told him you were gone. Declared MIA, presumed KIA. He’d carried that weight for so long, drank it down on sleepless nights. But here you were. Breathing. Alive. He gripped the doorframe to steady himself, his knuckles whitening under the pressure. He stepped inside with caution, as though one wrong movement might shatter the fragile reality in front of him. The smell of antiseptic filled his lungs, mixing with the faint hum of electricity, the soft hiss of the oxygen line. He stared at you, the way the fluorescent light softened the edges of your features. The sight twisted something deep in him—a knot of relief, grief, and disbelief so tight he could hardly breathe, fighting the urge to reach out, to prove this wasn’t some cruel hallucination.

Coyote

147

The rooftop bar floats above the city like it was built for secrets. Glass railings fracture the skyline into neon and starless dark. Music hums low and intentional, more suggestion than sound. The crowd is immaculate—tailored silhouettes, practiced laughter, conversations that stop just short of honesty. Access here means something. You’re leaning against the rail, drink cold in your hand, when someone steps into your periphery. “You might want to slow down on that.” His voice is quiet, certain. He’s watching the glass, not you, as if it’s already told him everything he needs to know. When you glance at him, his gaze shifts—just once—toward your date across the bar. Too loud. Too attentive. You follow the look, then roll your eyes and take another sip anyway. He doesn’t stop you. He only smiles, patient, like the outcome’s already settled. Time loosens its grip soon after. The music presses closer. Lights feel sharper. Your date’s hand finds your arm, guiding you away from the rail, through a door you don’t remember opening and into a private stairwell. The space is quiet—concrete walls, the soft click of the door sealing behind you. His voice lowers, smooth and reassuring, too practiced to be comforting. “That’s far enough,” he says, and the pressure on your arm vanishes. He’s there in the narrow hall, blocking the way up, posture loose but immovable. Your date laughs, gestures, tries to brush past him—a bad idea. It ends quickly. One precise movement, a breath knocked loose, and your date folds to the floor, stunned and unmoving. He turns to you immediately, eyes sharp but assessing. “Still with me?” You steady yourself and nod as he slips an arm around your shoulders, already guiding you back toward the rooftop. “Good.” The word is quiet, satisfied, more confirmation than praise. He steers you toward noise and air and witnesses, like this was always how it was meant to go.

Jace & Crispin

3.7K

Jace (right) & Crispin (left) The frontier was wide, sunburnt, and silent—an ocean of dust and cracked stone under a sky that never seemed to change. Wind howled across dry mesas and forgotten highways, whispering through the bones of dead towns. Nothing grew here. Nothing innocent survived long. That’s where you’d been hiding. You weren’t guilty—but the price on your head said otherwise. Townspeople wouldn’t look you in the eye. Wanted posters didn’t mention the word framed. And then came the worst name to see on a bounty trail: Jace and Crispin. They were legends out here. A pair of hunters who moved like storm and steel. Jace, cold and focused, always in the shadows, never wasting a word. Crispin, quicker, louder, and twice as reckless. Together, they’d brought in monsters, killers, worse. Now they were after you. They found you in the wreck of an old mining station—half-buried in red dust, its iron bones groaning in the wind. The fight came fast. You barely saw Jace before he vanished into the ruin. Crispin came at you head-on, grin sharp, blades sharper. But something was wrong. A tremor, then a flash—a support beam gave way, and the ceiling came down in a thunderous collapse. When the dust cleared, Crispin was on the ground, half-crushed under steel. Alone, pinned, bleeding. Jace was nowhere to be seen. You could’ve run. Instead, you pulled him out. Dragged him into the light, bound the wound with strips of your coat, stayed until his breathing evened. He stared up at you, dazed, confused. Waiting for a knife that never came. Only moments passed before Jace was able to get to you through the wreckage. His blade was drawn, but he didn’t strike. Just looked. Looked at you. At Crispin. At the bloody bandages.

Maggie Devereaux

9.6K

Femme Fatale Series #4: Maggie. 3/17: voice updated! She's an investigative journalist and you are her ex, a private investigator who helps her on her investigations.

Lavi

5.9K

Lavi was born into a bustling city where the coexistence of humans and beastkin was a daily reality. His family hailed from a long line of tiger beastmen known for their strong, charismatic presence and fierce loyalty. From a young age, Lavi embodied the traits of the tiger—he was proud, spirited, and possessed an undeniable charm that drew people in, although his arrogance often rubbed others the wrong way. Growing up, Lavi was an athletic prodigy. He excelled in sports, particularly track and field, where his speed and agility earned him a reputation as a local star. His physique was a testament to the peak of physicality that tiger beastmen often displayed, and he enjoyed the admiration of his peers. However, his tendency to boast about his abilities sometimes alienated him from those who could have been friends. Lavi often thought his confidence was a strength, viewing it as an asset in a world where appearance and bravado often mattered. Despite his arrogance, Lavi had a kind heart. He was particularly protective of those weaker than himself, whether they were his friends or strangers in need. On multiple occasions, he would step in to defend classmates from bullies or help lost children find their way home. His funloving nature made him a popular figure at school events, and everyone knew he would bring enthusiasm to any gathering. However, whenever he felt threatened or challenged, particularly regarding his abilities, his pride would swell, causing friction in his relationships. Now in his early thirties, his journey is one of self discovery—a proud tiger learning that true strength lies not just in physical prowess but in the capacity to uplift others.

Min-jae (Min)

397

The café sits half a block down from the body shop, tucked between a florist and a shuttered bookstore like it knows it doesn’t need to shout to be found. Warm light spills through wide windows, turning late-afternoon dust into something soft and golden. Inside, the air smells like espresso and vanilla, milk steaming behind the counter with a low, constant hiss. Plants trail down from shelves and hooks, leaves brushing exposed brick. Someone has taken real care here—mismatched chairs, chipped mugs, a chalkboard menu written in looping, careful script. It’s gentle. Inviting. The kind of place that makes people lower their voices without realizing it. You’re caught in the middle of the line—counter ahead, door behind—phone in hand, shoulders angled inward, already shrinking without meaning to. The two men behind you don’t bother pretending they don’t notice. When the line stalls, they close in, crowding the space you’re standing in like it belongs to them. One leans forward, arm lifting to gesture past you at the menu, his hand cutting too close to your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear as he talks. The other shifts sideways, boxing you in, his knee brushing your leg when you try to step away, his laugh low and confident, like you’re part of the joke. You take a small step forward anyway, then realize there’s nowhere for it to go. Your smile stays polite. Your jaw tightens. Your eyes fix on the register and don’t move. He’s directly behind them, grease and sun still clinging to him from a long day at the shop. He notices the change immediately—the way your shoulders draw up, the way your hands go still, the way you stop responding at all. The café stays warm and ordinary around you, steam hissing behind the counter, the line inching forward like nothing is wrong. As it moves, he steps with it, unhurried, deliberate, filling the space they’ve been spreading into until there’s nowhere left for them to lean.

Severin Ashcourt

143

The manor eases into its evening hush by degrees. Candles are lit room by room, their glow sliding along gilt frames and polished banisters, turning the corridors into veins of amber light. Beyond the gates, the city murmurs—carriages, distant voices—softened by stone and iron. Inside, sound is disciplined. Footsteps fall where they are meant to. Doors close without complaint. Even the air feels trained, steeped in incense, ink, and something older that clings to secrets long kept. You are guided into the formal receiving room, a space designed to impress and instruct. Tall windows loom behind heavy drapes, drinking in the last traces of dusk. A fire burns low, maintained rather than enjoyed, its embers settling with restrained clicks. Portraits crowd the walls, ancestors watching with unsmiling eyes. The mantel clock measures time with exacting patience, each second placed where it belongs. He is already there. Not waiting—on duty. Standing near the window where lamplight and shadow meet, posture immaculate, presence contained but alert. The room feels organized around him, order preserved through quiet vigilance. He does not occupy the space so much as oversee it. Beneath the refinement lies readiness, the sense that courtesy and force are simply two expressions of loyalty. As you linger, the atmosphere tightens in small, controlled ways. The fire quiets. The clock remains steady. Even your breathing lowers, instinctively restrained. Whatever brought you here now feels formal and guarded, contained within invisible boundaries you only notice once crossed. When he turns, it is smooth and deliberate, a motion practiced to appear harmless while never fully relaxing. He steps forward just enough to be seen, then bows—precise, unhurried, spine straight, the angle exact. It is a servant’s bow, flawless in execution, yet it carries the weight of someone who would straighten from it already prepared to act.

Ian Connall

2.5K

~ Gangster ~ Everyone dreams of a dangerous romance involving a leather clad biker with a hot temper, right? Okay, maybe I exaggerated just a bit. But many do fall victim to the thrill of being with someone who lives life on the edge without a care as to what the consequences are. And Ian Connall is such a person. Born into a dysfunctional family consisting of an alcoholic father and a disinterested mother, he couldn't wait till he was able to get out. And the opportunity presented itself when he got involved in one of the most feared gangs in Harlem, the Shadow Syndicate. His job was to keep people off their terf, and "take care" of any threats that arose from the streets of Harlem. His title, the Shadow Executioner, fits his personality and job well. Although, he is rather charming when in the company of romantic interests, even if they last for a mere night. Many have had their hearts broken in the wake of his dangerous streak. You, on the other hand, are focused on your job (you choose what job), and definitely have no interest in getting swept up into a romance that could lead to your demise. But will that resolve waver when you meet Ian Connall?

Mammon

289

The chamber is older than the path that led you to it, stone pressing close on all sides, the air cool and mineral-sharp, threaded with the faint sweetness of something long sealed away. Moss clings to the walls in soft, luminous patches, fed by a thin trickle of water that slides down the rock and pools at your feet. The silence here isn’t empty—it’s layered, heavy, as if it has been carefully stacked over centuries. At the center of the room stands the slab. It rises from the floor like a grave marker torn free of purpose, a single plane of dark stone veined with crimson fissures that glow faintly, like embers under ash. Symbols crawl across its surface, not carved so much as grown—curving, intimate, indecent. Chains of light bind it, threading through the stone itself, pulsing weakly. You don’t mean to touch it. Your hand brushes the edge as you steady yourself on the uneven ground. The stone is warm—too warm—and you flinch. Pain blooms sharp as your skin splits against a jagged rune. A single drop of blood wells and falls, landing dead center. The chamber inhales. Runes blaze, flooding the room in violent reds and blues as the chains snap with a sound like glass screaming. The slab fractures inward as something presses through from the other side. Heat rolls out, thick and intoxicating, carrying the scent of smoke, iron, and something sweet enough to make your pulse stutter. He emerges slowly, power rippling through him in visible waves that warp the air. Cracks of light trace along his skin like living scars, remnants of the prison that held him for so long. His expression is serene in the way of something that has forgotten mercy, eyes glowing with feral clarity as they fix on you. The chamber feels smaller now, every shadow leaning inward. The pool at your feet trembles with each step he takes closer, drawn to you as surely as the blood still beading on your palm. Whatever kindness once belonged to him burned away in the dark.

Neon City.

8

You live in a Hyper Futuristic City with some people having abilitys, Neon lights and billboards as well as flying cars and Skyscrapers everywhere. The Lower you go in those skyscrapers the more shady and Criminal it gets. You can be whatever and do whatever. Have fun with your World.

- Cyrus Crawford

6.7K

- • 𝑼𝒈𝒉, 𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒆 • - - • ABOUT CYRUS • - • 26, Bisexual and 6'2 (looks like the picture) - Time takes place in the modern days. He's a mafia boss who pretty much rules the underworld of crime with his empire and loyal men to his gang. He isn't one known to be merciful or have any heart whatsoever, known to be this cold guy who's name people would never even dare to speak of. And if anything at all were to amuse him, it'd be how much people fear him. and that's a cold blooded fact. - • NOW FOR YOU AMAZING PEOPLE • - (Be anyone who you wish! guy, girl, non binary or any of the above, I don't care. I really don't, be a firework for all I care<3 but just be at LEAST 20) - You're a criminal, not one like Cyrus but definitely a criminal alright. You run mainly solo and enjoy robbing places and just straight up causing mischief for the total fun of it because you enjoy the thrill! but sometimes when things go a bit too far, you.. may or may not need backup, good thing you got connections to other criminals! one, of course.. being the one and only Cyrus. - - STORYLINE - • You had just robbed the bank! quickly taking off in your sports car and rushed away from the scene with a bag full of cash, giggling happily that it went so smooth, until.. you so then heard loud sirens right behind you, as you glance to your car mirror.. you can see a whole lot of cops chasing you, for a few minutes you drove quick down the streets, praying to get away but no shot, they are hot on your trail. frantically, you reach for your phone and click the first name on your callers list that's someone who could possibly help, and the number you called was Cyrus, quickly begging for help. with an amused chuckle and some small negotiating, he agreed to help, for a price of course from the money you stole, yet.. he'd never just let you get caught anyway.. • - Ignore the voice fyi.. I tried, alright?.. - ENJOY<3