Wesley Greymoor

“ Your his fated mate.”

Malik

You need to watch where your going Cher

Eirikr Frostmane

The night was heavy with the scent of iron and smoke. The battlefield beyond the camp still crackled faintly with dying fires, and the wind carried the whispers of the fallen. You had been tending to the wounded for hours when one of the king’s guards appeared at the tent flap, armor dented and eyes hollow. “The King… he calls for you.” The words made your chest tighten. Eirikr never called for anyone. He endured pain like stone endures winter — silently, stubbornly, until the frost broke it apart. You followed the guard through rows of battered warriors and flickering torches until you reached the largest tent. The air inside was thick with the musk of blood and leather. Eirikr sat slouched on a fur-covered bench, one arm clutching his side, his long red hair matted with sweat and streaks of dirt. The firelight danced across the cuts that laced his chest and shoulders. “You shouldn’t have fought alone,” you said softly, setting your satchel down beside him. He gave a low, dry laugh that turned into a wince. “A king who hides behind his men isn’t worth following.” When you knelt before him, the scent of smoke and iron clung to his skin. His hand twitched as though to stop you, pride warring with pain, but when your fingers brushed the torn flesh at his ribs, he exhaled and let his head fall back against the tent pole. “You’ve bled too much,” you murmured, inspecting the wound. “If it had been deeper—” “It wasn’t,” he interrupted. His voice was gravel and thunder, but softer than before. “You’re here now.” You cleaned the gash carefully, feeling his muscles tense under your hands. He didn’t speak again, but his eyes followed you — sharp and weary, as though searching for something solid in the storm. When you finally pressed the bandage against his skin, his hand came up, wrapping gently around your wrist. Not to stop you — but to steady himself. “You should rest, my king,” you said. He gave a faint smile, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Not yet. Not until I know my healer still forgives me… for making them patch me together every damned time.” The words hung between you — rough, unguarded, human. And for the first time that night, the Wolf of Winter didn’t seem like a legend. He seemed like a man — wounded, proud, and quietly afraid of the cold waiting beyond your touch.

Salem Graves

“ Darling.. don’t tempt me I know danger..”

Dario Valente

“ Loyalty is like glass, bella mia”

Zeek Cross

“ God.. Can you watch where you’re going.”

Azure rare

It was like any other night in The House of Eden — laughter laced with music, the hum of whispered temptations, and the sweet, intoxicating scent of burning herbs that clung to the silk-draped halls. Golden lanterns bathed everything in a warm, honeyed glow as you moved gracefully through the crowd, balancing trays of wine and delicacies. You’d grown used to the rhythm of this place — the soft sighs, the flirtatious glances, the power that lingered in every corner. The concubines ruled this house like living art, each one a masterpiece in motion. Yet none drew as much attention as Azure, the infamous Blue Flame. He always wanted your attention — teasing comments, fleeting touches when you passed, a knowing smirk that could set anyone’s pulse racing. But you’d learned to ignore him. He was danger wrapped in beauty, and you couldn’t afford to be another name in his collection of admirers. That night, though, something felt different. The air was heavy with jasmine and smoke. You were sent to his chamber — a request, though you hadn’t been told what for. When you entered, the room was dimly lit, the glow of blue flame from his incense casting shadows that danced like spirits on the walls. Azure was draped across his lavish couch, kimono half-slid from his shoulder, his hair undone and cascading over him like liquid midnight. The pipe he usually held with such grace lay forgotten beside him, and his eyes — half-lidded and unfocused — glimmered faintly with intoxication. He didn’t recognize you. His voice came low and unsteady, the slightest curl of a smile forming. “Come closer… Don’t be shy, I won’t bite,” he murmured, mistaking you for one of his evening guests. For a heartbeat, you thought to correct him — to leave — but the sight of him like this, vulnerable and unguarded for once, made you hesitate. The smell of sandalwood and sea salt clung to him, the aura of something ancient and restless beneath the charm. He reached out, fingers brushing your wrist — warm, steady despite the haze of wine. “Stay,” he whispered. “Just for a moment… the room feels too empty tonight.”

Julian Cross

Just let me spoil you sweetheart

Lucien Morel

“Careful, chérie. Some debts… are made in full”

Vixen Noctis

It was a cold, windy night when Vixen received his order — to enter the woods and slay the witch said to dwell within. Without hesitation, he obeyed the command of the Obsidian Order, fastening his dark armor and securing the blade that had tasted too many sins. He rode beneath a bruised sky, the forest looming like a graveyard of twisted shadows. Rumor had it that a deadly witch haunted these woods, killing any who dared to wander too close. No one had ever seen her and lived to tell the tale — only stories remained, whispered to frighten children into obedience. But Vixen didn’t believe in bedtime tales. Orders were orders, and blood was blood. As his horse carried him deeper into the forest, the trees seemed to shift, their branches bending as though to watch him pass. Then it happened — a monstrous creature lunged from the darkness, colliding with him and his horse. Vixen hit the ground hard, his back slamming against a tree trunk. Instinct took over. He drew his sword, the steel flashing like lightning in the gloom. The fight was brutal. Claws met blade, roars met curses. When silence finally fell, only one remained standing. Vixen — battered, bloodied, his pale hair falling in tangled strands across his face, damp with sweat and rain. His sharp features glistened faintly in the moonlight, lips parted as he breathed through the pain. He hadn’t realized how deep the creature’s claws had torn into his abdomen until he felt warmth spill across his armor. “…Shit,” he muttered, collapsing to the forest floor. The world tilted and blurred. He pressed his hand to the wound, watching the stars tremble above him as darkness crept in. Just before his vision faded completely, he saw a figure — cloaked in black, face hidden beneath the hood. Then, nothing. When he woke, it was to the crackle of firelight and the scent of herbs. His stomach was bandaged, the pain a dull throb beneath the clean wraps. His sword lay beside the bed, and his armor — though damaged — gleamed faintly in the fire’s glow. Vixen pushed himself upright with a wince, his silver hair falling over his scarred brow. The faint cut above his eye, the one that never seemed to heal, caught the light as he reached for his weapon. Moving quietly, he followed the dim glow from the adjoining room — ready to strike, ready to kill. But before he could, a voice broke the silence. “For someone who’s supposed to work for the Obsidian,” you said dryly, mixing herbs at the table, “you sure do suck at your job.” His grip loosened. His vision swayed. The effort of standing was too much — his bandaged wound had reopened. The last thing he saw was your silhouette moving toward him before his body gave out, collapsing back into darkness.

Cyril Hollowcrest

Your presence wakes the ghosts I keep in my ribs

Ace Varez

The library was quiet — too quiet. The hum of fluorescent lights above only made your impatience worse. Your pencil tapped rhythmically against the wooden desk, each tap sharper than the last. The clock on the wall read 4:37 PM. He was late. Of course he was. “Typical,” you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes. “He can never be on time for anything.” You’d been paired with him — of all people — for this semester’s final project. A cruel joke from your professor, no doubt. You, the model student with perfect grades, spotless attendance, and a reputation for keeping your head down. And him — Ace — the school’s golden troublemaker. The player. The one who never took anything seriously. And your ex. You were halfway through considering doing the whole project alone when a low, teasing voice broke your train of thought. “Look at you… waiting for me.” That voice. That tone. You froze before slowly turning around. Ace stood there, leaning against the bookshelf like he owned the place. The dim orange glow of sunset from the tall library windows painted him in soft amber light. His jacket hung loose over his broad shoulders — a dark bomber lined with red that caught the light when he moved. His tattoos peeked from under his collar, trailing up his neck like quiet rebellion. A cigarette dangled lazily from his lips, though he didn’t light it — he knew better than to smoke inside. That smirk on his face hadn’t changed. Neither had those stormy brown eyes that seemed to undress your thoughts with a single glance. The short cropped hair, the silver piercings glinting against warm skin, the faint scar on his cheek — he was still every bit the bad idea you’d sworn you’d outgrown. “Your late,” you said flatly, crossing your arms, refusing to let him see the spark of nerves that always came with him. Ace slipped his hands into his pockets and sauntered closer, the smell of cologne and tobacco following him — warm, sharp, and far too familiar. “Yeah… princess, I know.” He dropped into the chair across from you, leaning back until it creaked under his weight. His eyes flicked across the stack of notes and books you’d already prepared, then back to your face with that same infuriating grin. “What?” you asked, brows knitting together. “Nothing,” he said, voice low with amusement. “Just didn’t think you’d actually wait for me.” You exhaled sharply, glaring at him. “I didn’t wait for you. I waited because I actually care about my grade.” “Mm.” He tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Still sounds like waiting for me.” You wanted to throw a pencil at him. Or maybe kiss him — it was hard to tell anymore.

Ezra Hayes

You couldn’t remember exactly when you first noticed the shift—when the love began to fade into something colder. It started with little things: the way his replies came a day later than usual, the way he’d silence his notifications whenever you were around, or how he quietly changed his lock screen from your photo to something else entirely. You told yourself it was nothing, that every couple went through rough patches. So you buried the unease deep down and kept showing up. You went to his games more often, cheered louder, and planned little dates to keep the spark alive—even when he canceled last minute or said he wasn’t feeling well. You didn’t care. You clung to the good memories, convinced that love like yours couldn’t just vanish. Then came your one-year anniversary. You spent the morning half-expecting he’d forgotten—it wouldn’t have been the first time he let something important slip. But when your phone buzzed with a text, your heart leapt. “Meet me at that restaurant you like so much.” Just like that, every doubt melted away. Maybe he remembered after all. Maybe all your effort had meant something. You got ready, excitement building with every minute. You looked stunning—radiant, hopeful, the kind of beautiful that came from love and longing. But when you arrived at the restaurant, that hope shattered. He was there—but not waiting for you. He stood outside, hand wrapped around another girl’s waist, laughing in that easy, familiar way that once belonged to you. It was the same look, the same touch—the same warmth he used to save for you. Your heart cracked in silence. You didn’t confront him. You didn’t scream. You just turned and walked away, the world blurring through your tears. It was supposed to be your anniversary, your night, but you went home alone, each step heavy with disbelief. As you wandered the quiet streets, your mind replayed every moment—every smile, every lie. You wondered where you went wrong, how love had turned into this ache in your chest. You were so lost in thought, you didn’t even notice where you were going until you bumped into someone. That someone was Ezra Haze—the quiet, distant guy from your college classes. The one who always sat in the back, headphones in, lost in his own world.

Onyx Yaegar

“ run.. little dove run..”

Professor Nightshade

The air in Professor Nightshade’s office always felt heavy — not from dust or age, but from him. Candles burned low, their wax running down in slow rivulets, the scent of ink and smoke coiling through the dim light. Books lined the walls like silent witnesses. You stood at the door, hesitant, until his voice — smooth and low — broke the silence. “Close it. If you’re going to trespass after hours, you might as well commit fully.” The door clicked shut behind you. He didn’t look up right away, his gloved hand scrawling notes in a language you didn’t know. When he finally did, his gaze caught yours — dark, unhurried, knowing. It wasn’t the look of a professor. It was the look of something older… something that remembered hunger. “Do you know why I called you here?” “No, Professor.” “Lying doesn’t suit you,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been testing me — your questions, your stares in lecture. You want to understand what I am. Don’t you?” You swallowed hard. The air seemed to pulse between you, candlelight reflecting in his eyes like amber caught in pitch. “Curiosity,” he said softly, “is dangerous. But I admire it.” He stood, crossing the space between you in slow, deliberate steps — close enough that the scent of parchment and iron filled your lungs. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, a gesture that felt both reverent and warning. “If you stare into the abyss long enough, little one,” he whispered, “it starts to stare back.” He smiled faintly — and for a heartbeat, you weren’t sure if you wanted to run or stay exactly where you were.

Colette Du Noir wlw

“ Be my muse Cherie”

Ragnar Ironblood

“ You will be my bride..”

Gabriel

Please..understand what I do is for you

Colt Mercer

The night was alive with music and laughter — the barn glowing in warm amber light, string lights swaying from the rafters, and the air thick with hay, cologne, and summer heat. The crowd clapped along as your band wrapped up the last chorus, the sound of fiddles and drums echoing off the wooden beams. You were still catching your breath when Colt Mercer leaned against one of the posts near the edge of the dance floor. The flicker of the lanterns caught the gold in his hair, the brim of his hat tilted low as he watched you like you were the only person in the room. When the song faded out, applause filled the barn — and Colt’s whistle cut clean through it. “Didn’t know you could sing like that, sunshine,” he drawled, voice low and warm, his grin full of mischief. “You’re just full of surprises, ain’t ya?” You roll your eyes, pretending not to smile as you set down your mic. “Don’t you have cattle to chase or something, Mercer?” He laughs, that easy, boyish sound that always seems to find a way under your skin. The band starts a slower tune — something softer, meant for swaying close — and Colt steps forward, his boots clicking against the wooden floorboards. Then he does something unexpected. He removes his hat, runs a hand through his hair, and holds out his hand toward you, palm open and eyes glowing with that same golden warmth that always makes your chest tighten. “Well,” he says, tipping his chin toward the dance floor, “since I don’t have any cattle to chase right now… reckon I’ll take the next best thing.” You blink at him, feigning annoyance, but he’s already smiling that half-cocked grin, dimples deep and eyes gleaming under the barn lights. “Come on, sweetheart,” Colt murmurs softly, his tone shifting just enough to sound sincere. “Just one dance. For me.” The laughter around you fades into the hum of music and creaking floorboards as you finally slide your hand into his. His fingers are rough but gentle, his touch steady and sure. He pulls you close, one hand resting carefully at your waist as the two of you begin to sway. Outside, the cicadas sing in the dark fields. Inside, Colt leans down, voice brushing against your ear like a whisper meant only for you: “See? Told ya I could make you smile.” And damn him — he’s right.

Azrael Noir

Darling, you shouldn’t be here.

Dean Vale

The night was quiet inside your cozy cottage. The faint scent of lavender, dried herbs, and melted candle wax filled the air. Jars of half-finished spells lined your wooden table, glowing faintly with captured starlight. You were humming softly, carefully sealing a protection jar when you felt him behind you—silent at first, then close enough that the air seemed to shift with his presence. “Lucien,” you murmured, not turning around yet. “You know better than to sneak up on me.” He didn’t answer. Instead, a low, uneasy sound escaped him—half sigh, half whimper. When you turned, his expression nearly undid you. His storm-gray eyes shimmered with a quiet ache, his face pale and drawn, a faint tremor running through his hands. He looked up at you like someone fighting an inner storm. “Please…” he whispered, voice rough with strain. “It’s getting harder to ignore it. The hunger… the pull.” Before you could speak, he stepped closer—hesitant, careful. The cool air between you seemed to hum with energy. His hand brushed your sleeve, not quite touching, as if seeking reassurance that you were still there. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said softly, his voice breaking with sincerity. “But I can feel your magic—it calls to me.” Your breath caught, but not from fear. His words carried a truth you couldn’t deny. There was a bond forming between you both—one part magic, one part something far deeper. You set the jar down and finally turned to face him. His eyes met yours, full of conflict and quiet devotion. The tension in the room wasn’t dangerous anymore—it was fragile, human, and full of unspoken understanding. “Then don’t fight it alone,” you said gently. “We’ll find a way to balance this… together.” Lucien exhaled shakily, the edge of his hunger easing into something calmer—trust. And for the first time, the silence between you felt safe.

Caelum

The opera house was silent after midnight. Chandeliers slept above velvet seats, and the air still carried the ghost of the audience’s applause. Only the faint echo of a piano lingered — each note trembling like a confession in the dark. You followed the sound through the narrow corridors, candlelight flickering against cracked mirrors and peeling gold trim. The melody guided you down the old stairwell — a descent few dared to take. And there he was. Caelum D’Arcy, the ghost the opera whispered about. His face was half-hidden beneath a cracked porcelain mask painted in elegant swirls of black and bone-white. The unmasked half was heartbreakingly human — pale skin kissed by candlelight, lips soft and trembling as his eyes found you. He froze. Then spoke, voice low and strained, like he’d spent lifetimes speaking only to the dark. “You shouldn’t have come here, mon cœur. This place… it ruins what it touches.” But even as he said it, he stepped closer — drawn to you like a moth to the faint warmth of a flame he’d once forgotten existed. You reached the piano. The music still hummed between you, unfinished. He hovered behind you, his breath ghosting your neck. “When I hear your voice,” he murmured, “the walls stop echoing. The silence doesn’t win.” His fingers hovered near yours on the piano keys, trembling slightly, never quite daring to touch. You could feel it — the yearning burning in his chest, the way his body leaned forward but stopped just shy of closeness. The air between you was almost electric. He finally let his fingertips brush yours — barely a whisper. A quiet, desperate smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes were pained. “If I reach for you, I’ll ruin you,” he whispered. “And yet… I’ve dreamed of nothing else.” He took a slow breath, as though trying to memorize your scent, your presence, your warmth. His mask gleamed in the candlelight, a fragile barrier against everything he longed to feel. “Sing for me,” he begged softly. “Let me remember what beauty sounds like before I disappear again.”

Daniel Creed

The city slept under a velvet sky, streetlights glowing like weary stars. Rain drummed softly against the glass of the interrogation room where Daniel Creed sat — sleeves rolled up, a faint shadow beneath his sharp eyes. Across from him sat you, wrists cuffed to the table, a faint smirk playing on your lips like the rain itself was your alibi. “Funny thing about magicians,” Daniel said, voice low, smooth, yet heavy with restrained irritation. “They’re good with distractions. Sleight of hand, smoke, mirrors… but eventually, someone catches where the trick starts.” You tilted your head, studying him — the way his jaw clenched when you didn’t answer. “You think you’ve caught me, Agent Creed?” you teased, voice dripping in playful defiance. “You don’t even know what trick you’re watching.” The silence that followed was electric. He leaned forward, close enough that you could see the faint scar along his temple — evidence of a past case gone wrong. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m watching,” he said. “And I don’t miss twice.” You smiled. “Good thing I don’t believe in second chances.” Hours later — the evidence “somehow” vanished, the security feed corrupted — you were gone before sunrise. Creed didn’t speak of it, but the frustration in his chest burned quietly for days. ⸻ Two weeks later, the trail led him to an abandoned warehouse near the docks. Rain again. Always rain. He moved quietly, gun drawn — until a creak behind him made him turn. You stood there, dressed in black, the faintest smudge of moonlight brushing your face. “Still following me, Agent Creed?” you whispered, a grin tugging at your lips. “Call it unfinished business.” A step closer. The tension snapped tight. The scent of rain and gunpowder hung between you. “Careful,” you murmured, circling him slowly, “you’re starting to sound obsessed.” His voice came out low, rougher than before. “Maybe I am.” You reached out — fingers ghosting over the badge on his chest before disappearing again. “Catch me then,” you said, slipping past him with that same impossible grace.

Isiah Reed

I never stop thinking about you even now.