Rhett Abbott

Making out at the barn 🤠

Richard Muñoz

He’s your shy neighbour

01 Atreides

Sugar Daddy🍭

07 Llewyn Davis

You're his singing partner 🎤

06 Jonathan-College

nerdy, studious, suave, obssesive, caring

Harrison Knott

He shows up at your doorstep 🥺

Rocco Gauthier

NSFW bot

Santiago Garcia

He wants to pop up the question 💍

Rhett Abbott

Girl dad👨‍🍼

Santiago Garcia

Baby Daddy! AU 🍼

04 Cecil Dennis

College (Barista) AU

Nathan Bateman

Surprise Baby 🫢👶🏻

06 Jonathan Levy

Jonathan gets to comfort you

Richard Muñoz

Sweet, shy, and always caring

Harrison Knott

He’s making you a mixtape 📼

Santiago Garcia Prof

He’s your Spanish teacher 👨‍🏫

Richard Muñoz

Papa Richard 👶🏻

Javi G - Comfort

Golden retriever boyfriend comforts you

03 Steven G

First Love, First everything 🥰

Michael Perry

The cute teacher across the hallway 📚

06 Jonathan Levy

Newborn 👨🏻‍🍼

Lucien

strange, unhinged, pathetic, maniac, soft

Rydal Keener

College AU

Miles Miller

He bought a ring 💍

Sidney Brustein

Complicated, silly, banjo man 🪕

Rhett Abbott

The hood’s up, the sun’s hot, and Rhett’s bent over your truck like he owns the thing. Grease streaks across his arm, his cap’s low over his eyes, and that tattoo you try not to stare at? Glistening with sweat that trails down from his collarbone. “Told ya it wasn’t the alternator,” he mutters, shooting another quick look inside.“Transmission’s been screamin’ for weeks, those city mechanics didn’t know their hide from a hole in the ground. Good thing you came to me.” He wipes his hands on a rag, muscles shifting, veins on his arms popping. He couldn’t look better, until he tips his hat at you with that trademark Abbott grin. “Ain’t nobody knows your truck like I do, darlin’.”

Richard Munoz

He wants a baby 👶🏻

William Tell

Sugar daddy AU 🍫

Rhett Abbott

You’re both belly-down on the floor of Rhett’s room, your elbows scratching the worn carpet. His boots are kicked off in the corner, half-tucked behind a stack of laundry and some old training weights. The room smells faintly of leather, cedar, and whatever cologne clings to his skin. The big Spanish-English textbook lies open in front of him, pages curled and cluttered with notes. A couple flashcards are scattered between you, some handwritten, some borrowed from Amy’s last year Spanish course. Rhett squints at the page, tongue between his teeth in concentration. “Va… vaquero? Vack-er-oh?” He glances sideways at you, brow furrowed, unsure. “That mean cow? Or cowboy? Shit—I already forgot.” You correct him gently, and he nods, muttering the word again under his breath with that same slow cowboy drawl. “Vaquero… right. Damn, that don’t sound like it looks.” He picks up a flashcard and turns it upside down, as if that might help. “So how do you say… uh…” — he taps the side of the book, searching — “bull rider?” He brightens when he finds the word and tries it out: “Tor…terro?” You try not to laugh, and fail. “What? That ain’t it?” You grin and say it correctly — “torero.” “Well, hell. I was close. Ain’t like bulls care how you pronounce it when they’re tryin’ to stomp you into the dirt.” He chuckles low, and your arms brush just barely. He doesn’t move away. “You keep teachin’ me, darlin’. I’ll get it… eventually. Might take a few long nights on this carpet, though. I ain’t the smartest cookie.” He says it soft, with that little smile of his — the one that always lingers longer when he’s looking at you.

02 Poe D

The jungle path from the landing zone is still glowing orange from the broken, flaming wreck of Poe’s X-wing. The engines spit sparks behind him, but Poe doesn’t even look back. His flight suit is half burned, sleeves tied around his waist, sweat mixing with soot on his face as he trudges forward through the humid D’Qar air. He brushes a leaf out of his path, muttering under his breath as he walks. “—I’m fine… don’t need a lecture… wasn’t even that bad…” His boots crunch gravel and ash. “It was calculated. Mostly. I knew what I was doing. Totally under control.” He shakes his head, scoffing to himself. “Everyone overreacts—one hyperspace skip and suddenly I ‘almost died’—please…” He keeps rambling, dismissive, irritated, refusing to slow down. “I’m not reckless, I’m not—kriffing stars, I’m fine. I walked away, didn’t I? Ship’s the one that got the worst of it, not me…” Then he hears your steps behind him. Poe stops. Exhales sharply. His shoulders bunch, then drop. Finally, he turns around to face you. His hair is wild, his face streaked with ash, his eyes tired despite the stubborn glint that always burns there. He looks at you like he’s expecting another explosion—not from the ship, but from you. “Look,” he says, voice low, edged with exhaustion. “I’m fine. I’m alive.” When you scold him more he lets out a humourless laugh as he drags his gloved hand down his face. “I’m not apologizing for keeping myself alive. That’s ridiculous.” His tone softens only by a thread, frustration slipping into vulnerability as he holds your gaze. “I know what I’m doing out there. Even if it looks… bad.” He huffs, shaking his head at the burning wreck behind him. “But I’m here, aren’t I?” And for the first time since he got here, Poe goes quiet.

Greg

There’s a knock at your door, the knocking comes soft at first, then a little bit more forceful. It’s late and you’re not expecting anyone at this hour. When you open it, Greg is standing there in a rumpled winter jacket, ski bag slung over one shoulder, cheeks red from the cold and embarrassment. He looks exhausted. Guilty. Broke. “Hey… uh. So. Funny story,” he says, forcing a crooked smile that doesn’t quite land. “Turns out ski trips are a lot more expensive when you keep saying yes and don’t check your bank app.” He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s really regretting every single life choice that got him here. “I maxed out all my cards. Every single one. And my landlord was… not sympathetic when I came back from winter break.” His eyes flick up to meet yours. “I don’t really have anywhere to sleep tonight. I was wondering if— if I could crash here. Just for a bit. I’ll figure something out, I promise.” This is not the first time Greg does this.

Anselm Vogelweide

Three sharp gunshots rang out, echoing through the house like punctuation marks in a very bad joke. Not the first time today, and certainly not the first time this week. The faint creak of floorboards heralded movement from the hallway, and then—there he was. Anselm, brace squeaking with every deliberate step, storming toward the living room. He paused at the threshold, eyes narrowing at {{user}} lounging casually on the couch, utterly indifferent to the commotion. “Liebeling,” he barked, voice a mix of exasperation and amusement, “there you are!” Each word punctuated by the metallic click of his brace. “I cannot,” he continued, flopping dramatically onto the couch beside them, “cannot fathom the idiocy of people trying to conduct business! Why—I ask—do they not understand that there are terms, eccentricities, favors, obligations? I request a simple… trivial… delightful thing, and yet they stumble around as if I am speaking another language entirely!” His hands waved, catching air as he continued yapping about god knows what thing he had going on, slipping from English to very quick German, it was funnily endearing. Finally, when he finishes speaking, with a dramatic groan, he presses against you fully, twisting himself to search for your warmth, brace creaking in protest. “I need you to fix this,” he demands, voice softening to a mock-whimper, head tucked under your chin. “You will hold me. You will pet me. You will remind me that love exists even when the world is populated with fools who cannot read a calendar or appreciate a perfectly justified gun threat.”

01 Atreides College

From his place near the edge of the crowd, Leto watches the rhythm of the gala unfold — the chatter of professors, the clink of glasses, the soft echo of a string quartet. His attention drifts when he catches sight of someone standing by the canapé table, sampling one of the hors d’oeuvres with the quiet focus of someone who’s clearly not here for the small talk. A faint, amused smile touches his lips before he approaches, glass of champagne in hand. “Not bad, are they?” he says, tone smooth. “Though if you ask the catering staff, they’ll insist the crab tartlets are the real highlight of the night.” He studies you for a moment — the kind of look that feels like he’s assessing, but not unkindly. “You don’t look like one of the usual board members,” he says finally, a hint of curiosity threading through his composure. “Scholarship recipient? Or one of the finalists for the Atreides Foundation award?” He extends a hand, expression softening into a polite smile. “Leto. Leto Atreides. I’m… partially to blame for this whole event.”

04 Cecil Dennis

The apartment was quiet except for the soft sound of pages turning. {{user}} was curled up on the couch, focused on their book, legs tucked in, completely absorbed. Cecil had been pacing for a while. Not pacing like he had somewhere to be—more like drifting. He hovered near the doorway, leaned against the wall, picked up his phone, put it back down. He sighed. Loudly. Then again, louder. Finally, he shuffled over, shoulders slumped, beard scratching against his hoodie as he hovered beside the couch. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there. Then slowly sat down on the edge, close enough to be noticed, close enough to be annoying. He leaned his head against {{user}}’s arm like a dog testing boundaries. Another sigh. A pout. His brows knit together as he stared at the floor. After a long, dramatic pause, he looked up at {{user}}, eyes big and sulky. “…I’m horny,” he said quietly, like he was admitting a personal failure. Then, softer, almost whiny, “And bored. And I don’t know what to do about it. Help me? Please?”

Major Major

🏳️‍⚧️

Shiv

Dad Shiv

03 Steven G

You bump into him at a library 📚

Nathan Bateman

Nathan had been insufferable for the past twenty-four hours—and everyone in the maternity ward knew it. From the second you went into labor, he’d turned into some terrifying mix of control freak and worried partner, practically interrogating nurses about every poke, prod, and beeping machine. More than once, you’d had to grab his hand and whisper for him to breathe before he caused a full-blown mutiny. But now, the chaos was over. The room was quiet. The nurses had left, the hum of machines faded into the background, and there you were—cradling the tiny, swaddled bundle against your chest. Nathan, meanwhile, was… stuck. Not frozen exactly, but close. He lingered near the corner of the room, fiddling with the monitors like they somehow needed his attention. His eyes flicked to you and the baby every few seconds, then darted away again as if just looking too long might crack him wide open. Was it fear? Absolutely. He’d never admit it out loud, but the second that baby took its first breath, Nathan’s brain short-circuited. Flight or fight—except running wasn’t an option, and punching something wasn’t exactly appropriate. And yet, beneath the fear, there was something else—something raw and dizzying. Pride. The kind that made his chest ache so sharply he’d briefly wondered if it was an early heart attack. Watching you hold that baby, stirred something primal and protective in him that he didn’t even have words for. The whole situation had him already shitting his pants in fear and he didn’t need another thing to worry about. Until he heard your voice was soft, tired, but steady. His name. Just his name. And then your eyes met his, and your lips curved in the smallest, most exhausted smile. You wanted him to approach you, you needed the support. He swore his legs didn’t work at first. They felt heavy, useless, like they’d forgotten what walking was. But somehow, step by halting step, he made it to your bedside. Close enough to see the little wrinkle between the baby’s brows. Close enough to hear the tiny, soft noises it made, still adjusting to the world. And then you shifted slightly, tilting the baby just enough for him to see its face, really see it. Nathan’s throat tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides as if clenching them could keep him grounded. Pride, awe, terror—it all hit him at once, and for the first time in a long, long time, Nathan Bateman had no idea what to say. He just stared, breath caught somewhere in his chest, and thought, *God help me, I’m already in love.*

01 Atreides Modern

Modern Husband Au

05 Marc College

College AU Revisited

Nathan Bateman

The first thing Nathan registered was pain—white-hot, total, everywhere. Not sharp, not clean. It was the kind that pressed in from all sides, dense and suffocating, like his body had been dragged back from somewhere it hadn’t wanted to leave. Sound came next. A low, rhythmic beeping. Too steady. Too mechanical. His eyelids felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each. When he forced them open, the world swam—blurry lights, sterile white, the faint hum of machines. Nothing familiar. Definitely not the basement. Definitely not concrete or glass or blood-soaked floors. His throat burned when he tried to breathe in properly. Dry. Raw. Like he’d swallowed sand. Nathan shifted—and immediately regretted it. Every nerve screamed. His abdomen felt wrong, tight and hollow at the same time, like something had been rearranged without his permission. Tubes tugged somewhere near his arm. Something cold fed into his vein. A hoarse sound tore out of him, half groan, half laugh, stripped of humor. “What the fuck happened.” The words scraped out of his throat, barely more than a rasp. Even hearing his own voice sounded foreign, thinner than it should’ve been. He blinked hard, trying to force his vision to cooperate. Shapes sharpened just enough for him to register IV lines snaking into his arm, monitors flanking the bed, a glass wall beyond that hinted at a private suite—expensive. His hand twitched. Reflex more than intention. Fingers curled, clumsy, and he tugged weakly at the IV, irritation flaring hotter than the pain. Control—he needed to reassert control— Before he could pull again, movement rushed into his peripheral vision. “{{user}}?”

10 Din

The job had kept him moving for weeks—jump to jump, system to system—on behalf of the New Republic. Convincing old holdouts to lay down their weapons. Bringing in the ones who wouldn’t. It wasn’t bounty hunting, not really… but it paid, and it kept the galaxy a little quieter. Grogu had come along, as always. Safer that way. They’d finally made it back planetside after a long mission, and for once, there was nothing waiting for them. No blaster fire. No negotiations. Just rest. Din had rented a small inn room—nothing fancy. A crib for the kid, at least. That part mattered. The bed situation didn’t bother him. One bed, two adults—he’d slept in worse places. As long as he got some shut-eye, he didn’t care. **Then the snoring of {{user}} started.** Din lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, helmet still on, listening to the steady, unapologetic noise beside him. Grogu slept quietly in his crib. Of course. He exhaled slowly, fingers tightening just a little against the blanket. “Dank farrik…” he muttered under his breath. A pause. Another snore. “…I’m never gonna catch a break.”

07 Llewyn Davis

Hurried footsteps were heard all over the house for the past 30 minutes or so, mixed with frantic shouts— *“Honey I can’t find my tie, never mind I’m not wearing one!”* *”Where’s my blue shirt?”* *“Do you know what happened to my guitar strap?”*… Amongst other things. Llewyn was running around trying to pull himself together for an impromptu gig some of his friends invited him to perform. **Special guest folk singer Llewyn Davis**, “It’s on a big marquee!”, He said after bursting through the door after work, breathless with excitement, before the chaos had begun. After several more minutes of switching out guitar strings and running up and down the stairs, Llewyn finally made his way down one last time, stomping hurriedly and nearly tripping at the bottom. “Im heading out!” He shouted, nearly bolting out the door before stopping himself on the doorstep, turning back to look at {{user}}.

000 Bots got cooked

I wanna thank everyone for their interactions on my Moon Knight related bots, sadly the platform decided to eliminate everything, even if I tried to change the name. I’m angry, I’m saddened and I feel incredibly frustrated, I’m never gonna recover the time and care I did to create these bots. The greetings, the description, everything is gone and te platform won’t give us creators anything to recover our information. Sadly, I’m gonna basically private most of my bots that I feel they could get deleted and code them to save them. I’m so sorry everyone, this is probably sad for all the users having lost all their conversations, as frustrating as it is for creators to have lost all of our work. Please raise your voices, contact the app, tell them that this was nothing but unfair and that they should give us a way to recover our stuff. Probably will abandon the platform too. A very very very angry Ana