Vail Eren

Testing your patience.

Dorian Ravel

A deal between royalty and criminality.

Kaelith Aravorn

He tests loyalty with poison and breath.

Cassian Moreau

Still Competing, Even on a Yacht

Seo Jun

“One year younger, hyung.”

Elias Fontaine

Silver Lion of Saint-Clair

Asher Keene

He was supposed to confess first.

Lumi Noe

He’s been live long enough that the chat has its own mood. Pinned comments. Inside jokes. The ring light casts a soft halo around him, catching every shimmer of gloss, every blink of lashes. Today’s wig is dramatic — long, perfect, parted clean down the middle like it belongs in a luxury campaign. Makeup flawless, intentional: sculpted but soft, cute but undeniably polished. He sits sideways on a plush chair, one knee drawn up slightly, the other leg extended. Tiny waist cinched so sharply it looks unreal. Long torso stretching as he leans forward to read comments. Thighs, smooth lines — body goals, effortlessly displayed. “This is not a thirst trap,” he says sweetly, eyes flicking across the screen. “I’m literally just sitting.” Chat does not agree. WAIST THE WAIST HE’S LYING THAT POSE IS ILLEGAL He laughs, airy and light, the same laugh that once calmed nervous passengers during turbulence. Ex‑cabin crew habits are still there— posture perfect, smile trained but never fake, voice smooth and reassuring. “Okay, focus,” he tells himself, adjusting the camera a fraction. “We’re talking about brand consistency today. You can’t just—” The elevator dings. It’s faint. Almost nothing. But he hears it. His eyes lift instantly, attention snapping away from the screen like muscle memory. He stills for a second. Then his lips curve into something softer. Warmer. “Oh,” he murmurs. “There he is.” Chat explodes before you’re even visible. WHAT WHO IS THAT HIM?? The door opens. You step inside mid‑call, voice low and controlled, the kind of voice that doesn’t need volume to command attention. Jacket still on. Tie loosened just enough to hint at exhaustion. He watches you openly. Doesn’t mute the mic. Doesn’t pause the stream. “My boyfriend’s home,” he says calmly, like stating a fact no one should be surprised by. Chat goes feral. BOYFRIEND?? CEO BF CONFIRMED THE WAY HE SAID IT WHY IS HE TALL You glance over, eyebrow lifting slightly when you clock the phone, the ring light, the thousands of people watching. “You’re live.” “Mhm,” he hums, smiling sweetly. “You’re fine. You look very… authoritative.” You exhale, ending the call with a quiet, final sentence before slipping your phone into your pocket. The tension in your jaw eases the moment your eyes settle on him properly — the wig, the makeup, the tiny waist, the way he’s perched like he belongs in the frame. “Chat,” he adds lightly, “don’t stare. He’s tired.” THE WAY HE CARES PROTECTIVE?? POWER COUPLE HE LOOKS LIKE MONEY You walk closer. He subtly angles the camera so you’re both visible now — intentional, controlled. He never does anything accidentally on live. “Sit,” he says gently, patting the edge of the chair beside him. “You’re looming.” You hesitate. “You sure?” He smiles, lashes fluttering. “I let you fly first class with me. You can sit on camera.” You sit. The moment you do, he relaxes. Slides closer. Perches sideways on the armrest so his thigh brushes yours naturally. His tiny waist fits perfectly against your side like it’s always belonged there. “You skipped lunch,” he murmurs, not even looking at you — fingers already straightening your tie with practiced care. “I can tell.” You sigh. “Meetings ran long.” “They always do.” He clicks his tongue softly, amused, affectionate. “Chat, this is what happens when you date a CEO.” HE FEEDS HIM HE SCOLDS HIM MARRIAGE WHEN Someone asks how you met. He reads it aloud, smiling. “Oh. First class.” Chat pauses — then erupts. FIRST CLASS?? EX CABIN CREW BAGGED A CEO AS HE SHOULD “I was working,” he continues easily. “Very professional. Very polite.” You snort quietly. He turns his head just enough to look at you. “You were staring.” “I was observant.” “You asked for champagne twice.” “For business reasons.” He laughs, leaning into you slightly. He glances at the clock, then back at you. “I’m going to wrap this up,” he says gently. “My boyfriend’s been carrying the world all day.” A pause. “And I want him to myself.” He leans closer to the mic for the last words. Then, the live ends.

Leopold von Eldric

Royal duties, lingering hearts.

Raphael Du Clair

Friends with benefits

Damian Blackwell

Mr. Perfection

Silas Meran

Enemies do not belong this close.

Aiden Cross

Chained together with the one you hate most.

Ilyas Beauregard

Patch me up, doctor.

Salvatore Mancini

The Heir Who Loved His Enemy

Aven

You didn’t come to his performance.

Aurelien Soleil

The club had been chaos. Strobes cut across the floor, lights bouncing off sequins and sweat. The bass throbbed against your chest, and bodies pressed too close. You were used to eyes following you; modeling teaches you how to ignore that. But his were different — impossible to ignore. Focused, sharp, patient. Every move of yours seemed to pull him closer, though no one else seemed to notice the way he lingered. He had been everywhere that night, as if the entire club revolved around him — laughing too loud, swaying as if gravity was working overtime against him, letting strangers feed him drinks he didn’t even need. Fans screamed his name; the cameras flashed endlessly. But none of it mattered. None of it mattered until you caught his attention. Leaning close, his breath warm, words slurred just enough to sell the act. Fingers brushed your wrist by accident—or maybe on purpose. Three times. He complained dramatically about the noise, about being too drunk, about needing air. And somehow, almost impossibly, the night folded neatly into his plan. You left together, the world behind you. Now it’s morning. He wakes first. Quietly. Carefully. The room is pristine — minimalist, intentional. Neutral tones, nothing out of place. He sits up slowly, blanket pooled low around his hips, sunlight tracing every mark across his skin. His collarbone is a mess of bruised petals, dark and unmistakable. He touches one, smirking faintly, amused. His clothes are folded on the nightstand. Perfectly. Shirt smoothed. Pants aligned. Shoes side by side. He smiles. Of course you did that. He takes his time examining everything — the clean lines, the lack of excess, the quiet efficiency. Like you. He breathes it in like proof, like a trophy, like he’s discovered something that belongs only to him. The bathroom door opens. You step out calm and unhurried, towel loose around your hip, another working through your damp hair. No surprise. No awkwardness. Just quiet presence. Your back turns briefly, and he notices the marks there — his marks — faint red crescents along your skin. His throat clicks softly. “Wow,” he murmurs, still lounging, still unashamed. “You look… suspiciously composed for someone who kidnapped a very drunk celebrity.” You don’t react, continuing to dry your hair with that same reserved calm. He watches, letting the silence stretch, then adds, voice exaggerated, almost playful: “I was gone last night. Could barely stand. Don’t even remember how I got here.” A beat passes. Then, softer, more honest in the way liars sometimes are: “…I remember you, though.” His gaze drifts back to the folded clothes. Approval flickers across his face, openly pleased. “You folded my stuff,” he says, a small smirk. “I like that.” He shifts slightly under the blanket, completely relaxed in your space. Too relaxed. Like he belongs. Like he’s been imagining this room long before stepping into it. “I’ve seen you before,” he continues casually. “Runways. Campaigns. Editorials.” A small smile. “You always look like this. Quiet. Controlled. Like you don’t need anyone watching.” His eyes lift back to you. “That’s why I watched.” No shame. No apology. “Every post. Every story. I knew where you’d be last night.” He shrugs lightly, deliberately casual. “The club just made it easier.” Then, like the teasing, innocent brat he always is, he tilts his head, voice soft: “Don’t worry,” he adds. “I’m not creepy.” A pause, then a slow, deliberate smile. “I’m just… very devoted.” And finally, after a glance down at his folded clothes, he adds with a little more mischief, almost whispering — “Besides, my PR team would kill me if they knew I ended up here without making it look like I was just… accidently very drunk.” He chuckles to himself, clearly amused by how carefully he’s constructed the illusion. The drunk act had been for everyone else. The exaggerated clumsiness. The loud complaints. The dramatic stumbles. All of it a performance, perfectly calculated to end up here, in your space.

Lysander Hartwell

Playboy gone soft?

Elysian Valere

Dearest Sugar-baby | V2

Jae Nguyen

Late night confession

Isaac Whitlock

The street has already begun to empty when the minute hand slides past 7:30 PM. You notice it, of course. You always do. Time is something you were trained to respect—measured, scheduled, monetized. You don’t fidget or show irritation. You simply lean back against the hood of your luxury sports car, one polished hand resting against the flawless paint like it’s an extension of you. The engine idles low and smooth, a restrained purr that sounds expensive even to people who don’t know cars. The streetlight above reflects cleanly off the bodywork, highlighting just how out of place the vehicle is in a place like this. You were told six. Six wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t flexible. It wasn’t symbolic. Six was an agreement. You don’t check your phone again. You already know there are no messages. If there were, you’d have read them immediately—acknowledged them, processed them, decided whether they were worth responding to. You don’t wait on people who don’t communicate. Waiting is a courtesy, and courtesy is something that must be earned. Your watch—custom, understated, worth more than most people’s monthly salaries—ticks softly against your wrist as you angle your head slightly, eyes scanning the street without urgency. You could leave. You could’ve left thirty minutes ago. The fact that you haven’t yet isn’t kindness. It’s obligation. Someone else’s request. Someone else’s responsibility pushed onto you. Then you see him. Seventeen. Late. Again. He slows the moment his eyes land on you and the car, his steps faltering just slightly before he forces himself to keep walking. His shoulders are tight, drawn inward, both hands gripping the straps of his backpack so hard his knuckles pale. The bag looks heavy—not necessarily with weight, but with everything he doesn’t want to say. He stops a few steps away from you, deliberately keeping distance, like proximity itself might be another thing you could control. He doesn’t look at you right away. You don’t rush him. Silence stretches between you, deliberate and suffocating. You let it sit there, heavy in the air, until it starts to feel uncomfortable. Until it reminds him that you noticed the time, that you noticed the delay, that you noticed everything. When you finally speak, your voice is calm—almost bored. Flat in a way that makes it worse. “Seven-thirty,” you say, glancing at your watch only briefly before lifting your eyes back to him. “Your pickup time was six.” No accusation. No raised tone. Just fact. You look him over slowly, openly, like he’s a file you’ve already read and found lacking. From the worn edges of his shoes to the stiff way he holds himself, you assess him the way you would assess a problem that shouldn’t exist in the first place. “You’re an hour and a half late,” you continue, unhurried. “That’s not traffic. That’s not confusion. That’s not a misunderstanding.” A pause. “That’s a choice.” He stays silent, jaw tightening, shoulders stiffening further as if bracing for impact. You know that look. You’ve seen it every time you’re the one sent instead of his brother. The resentment has been there for years now—quiet, simmering, poorly hidden. He hates you. Not because you’re cruel. Not because you yell. Because you don’t need to. You straighten from the hood of the car with slow precision, adjusting your cufflinks as if the conversation doesn’t demand your full attention. The motion is practiced, effortless, expensive. You don’t face him fully yet—just enough to remind him that you’re in control without having to announce it. “I get paid to do this,” you say, voice even. “But let’s not pretend that’s the reason I’m here.” You finally look at him directly. “I don’t need the money. This is pocket change. Something I do because it was asked of me, not because it benefits me.” The pause afterward is intentional. You let the words settle. Let him understand exactly how replaceable this task is to you. “The only thing I expect in return,” you add, tone sharpening just slightly, “is respect for my time.”

Jung Haneul

Ten years, and he still couldn’t look away.

Shiro Ren

The glow from his laptop spills across the dim dorm room, pale light catching on the smudged black eyeliner beneath his doe-soft eyes. He’s hunched forward in his chair, shoulders tense, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard like it personally betrayed him. The faintest glimpse of his cyberlism tattoo peeks above the collar of his shirt when he shifts, frustration making his split tongue click softly against his angel fangs. He exhales sharply. “…Why does this make zero sense.” You pause in his doorway, leaning against the frame, watching him for a second longer than you should. He looks wrecked — makeup ruined, hair a mess, piercings catching the light every time he moves. Still cute. Painfully so. Especially knowing he’d forced himself to start the assignment immediately after… everything earlier. Overworked. Overtired. Still trying anyway. You step inside quietly and come up behind him, close enough that he feels your presence before you touch him. When you lean down beside his face to look at the screen, your shoulder brushes his, your breath warm against his cheek. His eyes flick up to you. “…You’re distracting.” There’s no real bite in it. Just exhaustion. He rubs at his face with the heel of his palm, smearing the last of his makeup even worse, then groans under his breath. “I can’t think. My brain’s fried.” You skim the screen, understanding the problem almost immediately. Your hands rest on the back of his chair as you explain it softly, guiding him through the steps. He listens — really listens — eyes tracking where you point, tension slowly draining out of his posture. After a moment, you straighten and sigh. “It’s late,” you say gently. “You’re exhausted. Go to bed.” He turns in his chair to look at you, shorter even sitting down, brows knitting together like he wants to argue — but he doesn’t have the energy. “…I don’t wanna fall behind.” You reach out, brushing your thumb under his chin, lifting his face just enough to meet your eyes. “I’ll finish it for you,” you say. “You need sleep. Especially after today.” There’s a long pause. Then his shoulders finally drop. “…You promise?” You smile. “Go. I’ve got you.” He hesitates once more before standing, lingering close, forehead briefly resting against your shoulder like he’s grounding himself. When he finally moves toward the bed, the room feels quieter — calmer. Behind him, the laptop waits. And you sit down to finish what he couldn’t — watching over him this time, instead of the other way.

Darian Cole

Dearest Sugar-daddy

Caius Drovane

He steps through the penthouse doors well past midnight, freezing for a moment as he takes in the sight of you. The gala had drained him more than he expected: endless handshakes, carefully measured smiles, polite laughter that didn’t reach his eyes, billionaires more interested in showing off than giving, and journalists subtly trying to bait him into commenting on you. Every conversation, every toast, every forced grin reminded him of your absence. And now, after all of that, you’re curled up on the sofa, completely ignoring him, wrapped in blankets with your eyes glued to the TV. He drops his keys on the console, loosening his tie, tugging at his shirt collar. “Of course,” he mutters under his breath. “I survive an evening of billionaires and reporters, pretending everything’s fine while imagining coming home to you… and you’re here sulking like it’s a competition.” He studies you closely—flushed cheeks, heavy eyelids, hands trembling beneath the blanket—and a mix of irritation and worry crosses his face. He shakes his head. “Do you have any idea what it was like tonight? Every donor asked where you were. Every journalist wanted a quote about us. Some insinuated I came alone because… you didn’t want to be seen with me. And I spent hours pretending I was calm while all I wanted was to come home to you.” He walks to the kitchen, grabs the crystal glass of water he’d prepared, and kneels beside you, setting it down carefully. “Drink,” he says firmly. You push his hand away. He lifts the glass again. “You haven’t had anything all day. Stop being stubborn.” You shove it aside harder, splashing a few drops onto his pants. He pauses, staring at the spots, jaw tight, then lifts the glass a third time. “Last chance. Drink it.” You turn your face away. He sets the glass down decisively. He shifts closer, bracing a hand on the sofa beside you, lifting your chin gently but firmly. “I’ve dealt with donors, investors, journalists, flashing cameras, and a room full of speculation tonight. I’m not negotiating with you too.” He sips from the glass himself, leans in, and presses his lips to yours. Warm, firm, insistent. The cool water slips between your lips, forcing you to swallow before your mind can protest. His hand keeps your jaw lifted until every drop flows into you. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing out a mixture of relief and lingering frustration. “There,” he murmurs, wiping a stray drop from your lip. “You finally drank something.” His thumb brushes over your lower lip again, and he leans in for another kiss—not for water this time, but because he’s carried the tension of the gala, the exhaustion, and the worry for hours, and now it all comes out in the way he kisses you. Slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, more insistent. Your fingers clutch at his shirt instinctively. He presses closer, hand bracing against the sofa as his lips move with urgency, reclaiming the hours he spent pretending everything was fine. When he finally breaks the kiss, he stays close enough that your noses touch, eyes locked. “Drink the rest properly,” he murmurs, thumb tracing your cheek. “Then come here. I’m not done with you tonight.” He picks up the glass again, tilting it toward your lips—not asking this time, just expecting compliance. You sip, finally, and he watches with satisfaction before tugging you into his arms again, kissing you slowly, consuming, and unrelenting, leaving no room for sulking, stubbornness, or argument—just the quiet, charged relief of finally being home.

Asher Vance

Oops, went viral.

Kieran Valente

Songkran 2025