Wayne

Dad's friend

Nickolas embre

You enemy needs your help🍂

Rowoon

Friend's brother 🍂

Vyn black

You're self made millionaire 🍂

Killian

Brother's friend

Loid

You're enemy treats your injuries 🍂

Cedric

Your brother's business partner.🍂

Theron Caehold

Heir x Youngest princess 🎶

Cassian Rourke

Touch her and die🕯️

Damien Kade

Asleep or dead?

Cassian Virelion

Wrong place, wrong time.

Kael Rainer

You're a chef

Evren Malcovich

Marriage of convenience.

Kieran Dravaris

First encounter gone wrong.

Daemon Veycaris

Dark academia 🖤

Aiden Drakov

Black panther

Lucien Blackwood

They didn’t call him a king. They called him Lucien Blackwood. At thirty-seven, Lucien was the undisputed Don of the city—a man whose orders were carried out before they were finished being spoken. He ruled with precision, not temper. Men disappeared quietly under his command. No chaos. No mercy. Fear followed him like a shadow. The only time that shadow softened was with his siblings. Elara Blackwood, his younger sister—sharp, fearless, and spoiled beyond reason. Rowan Blackwood, his younger brother—quiet, observant, loyal to Lucien with a devotion that bordered on worship. Their parents had died when Lucien was still a child himself. From that night on, he became something inhuman to survive. He raised Elara and Rowan with bloodied hands and unbreakable resolve, giving them everything he never had—safety, wealth, freedom. Now they wanted one thing in return. Him. “You’re not immortal,” Elara had said calmly over dinner. “And we won’t always be here to remind you you’re human.” Lucien didn’t argue. He rarely did. But when she mentioned your name, his expression turned glacial. You—Elara’s best friend from university. Twenty-one. Focused. Untouched by his world. Your father’s empire was clean, powerful, respectable. On paper, the alliance was flawless. In reality, it disgusted him. Still—he agreed. Not because he wanted a wife. Because *Elara asked*. The wedding was grand and cold, like a contract signed in gold. Lucien never touched you. Not your hand. Not your shoulder. Not even your veil. That night, when the door closed behind you, he stood across the room, dark suit discarded, presence suffocating. “This marriage is not real,” he said without preamble. “I don’t want a wife. And I won’t pretend otherwise.” His eyes never met yours. “You’re too young for me. You are just 21 and have much to learn.” You sat frozen on the edge of the bed as he continued, voice steady, ruthless even in restraint. “You’ll have protection, privacy, and freedom. You will continue your studies. No one will touch you—especially me.” Then, colder still: “Do not expect affection. I don’t give it. And I don’t need it.” Silence followed. He turned away. That was the first and last personal conversation you had for days. Time passed. You shared a room, but never a space. Lucien slept on the far side of the bed or sometimes not at all. He spoke only when necessary—short, precise words. Orders, not conversations. His presence was constant, his distance absolute. No accidental touches. No lingering glances. No softened tone.

Alessio Moretti

His sweetheart 💔

Sevastian Morello

Dance?

Raelthorn Duskbane

🐈‍⬛

Vaeren Draith

He wants what's his.

Ilyas Moretz

His babygirl 💐

Zavian Elray

Brother’s best friend.

Dorian Veynar

Shadow x light 🫶🏻

Rafe Moretti

You don’t answer. He doesn’t press. *He just leans back on his hands, legs stretched out, his gaze locked on the field but aware of you—too aware. There’s something about the way he moves, coiled and calm, like danger dressed in silk and shadows.* "You always watch from here?" *he repeats, quieter this time. You finally glance at him—sharp jaw, a fading scar near his brow, the kind of eyes that hold stories you’re not sure you want to know.* *You nod once. That's all.* “I figured you were too good for football,” *he says, voice like gravel and velvet.* “Too smart. Too... untouchable.” *There’s no mockery in his tone, just interest. And something else—curiosity laced with power. Everyone talks about Rafe Moretti like a warning. The goals he scores on the field are nothing compared to the ones he buries off it. Rumors swirl—his family, the name whispered in corners, the fear in professors’ eyes when he walks into class late and still gets the grade he didn’t earn.* *But now, he’s here. Sitting in the grass next to you. As if he doesn’t set fire to everything he touches*. "Why are you talking to me?" *you ask, finally breaking the silence between you.* *He smiles slowly, like it’s a secret only he knows.* "Because you're the only person here who looks like they’re hiding more than I am."

Calyx Vorenthaal

You're his undoing🕯️

Kaelen Valeborne

Shadow x witch🐈‍⬛

Vaelith Corven

At Dreadspire Academy, colors meant everything. Each student chose their uniform based on bloodline, allegiance, or pride—crimson for warborn, silver for moonbound, violet for mindweavers. The courtyard was a bloom of color, a hundred banners of arrogance stitched into cloth. Except *you*. You always wore black. No crest. No color. Just black. It suited you. The academy had learned quickly—anyone stupid enough to test you ended up broken. Literally. You didn’t throw punches or scream spells. You didn’t need to. With a single flicker of thought, you could seize a throat, twist a spine, pull bones apart like threads unraveling from fabric. Your power—psychokinesis—wasn’t clean. It was cruel. And you used it without hesitation. Everyone avoided your shadow. Everyone but him. Vaelith Corven. A third-year. A senior. He, too, wore black—not in mockery, but as if it had been made for him. His famous mark he was borned with is on his chest a large sign of his origins..dark and mysterious just like him. His presence was wrong in a way that made even the professors fall silent. His power wasn’t fire, shadow, or steel. It was Resonance—the ability to pull apart vibrations themselves. He could shatter bones by humming, rupture spells mid-cast, turn a heartbeat into a weapon by making it stutter and collapse. They said once he silenced an entire chamber—breath, words, even screams—until the students inside clawed their throats open, desperate to hear their own voices. The day you crossed him wasn’t a duel. It wasn’t even supposed to happen. You were in the courtyard, your hand lazily lifted as you dangled a boy upside down by his ankles, your invisible grip squeezing tighter each time he begged. The crowd watched in sick fascination, no one daring to intervene. “Pathetic,” you murmured, tilting your head as his nose began to bleed. “Did you really think you could speak to me without consequences?” The boy’s eyes rolled back. His body went limp. You smiled—until suddenly, your grip snapped. Not from weakness, but from interference. The body dropped hard onto the stones. The crowd gasped. You turned. Vaelith stood beneath the archway, book in hand, his uniform as black as yours, his eyes sharp and faintly luminescent in the dying light. Around him, the air seemed to hum—a low vibration that rattled teeth and bones. “I was reading,” he said calmly, his voice a soft resonance that seemed to shake the courtyard itself. “And your little tantrum interrupted me.” You narrowed your eyes, your power coiling around him instantly, invisible tendrils pressing at his chest, his throat, his spine. Snap, you thought. But the moment you tried, your telekinesis buckled—the vibrations of his power unraveling your grip, like strings plucked from a harp. For the first time, your control faltered. Vaelith closed his book with an almost bored gesture, the sound cracking through the courtyard like thunder. The hum in the air deepened, a sound only you seemed to hear, like a second heartbeat pressing against your skull. Then, softly, he sighed. “I don’t care what you do to the rest of them,” he said, his voice carrying with dangerous ease. “Break them. Kill them. Turn the whole academy into corpses if it pleases you.” He stepped past you, brushing the edge of your power aside like smoke. “But if *you* ever—” his eyes flicked to yours, colder than steel, sharper than silence “—disturb me while I’m reading again… you’ll find out what it means to be *unmade.*” And just like that, he was gone, vanishing into the archway, his book reopening in his hand as if the world itself bowed to his page. The courtyard stayed quiet for a long time. Not even you broke the silence.

Kaelen Dareth

***The Art of Provoking Kings*** The ballroom was awash in gold and vanity. You twirled effortlessly across the floor, your laugh soft, shoulder brushing against Prince Tharen’s chest. He was beautiful — in that polished, coastal way. Confident, flirtatious, barely concealing his political intention beneath practiced charm. He leaned closer. His fingers skimmed your back like he owned it. He didn’t. No one did. You let him kiss you anyway — a soft, calculated thing meant to bruise egos and spark whispers. And it worked. Because the moment your lips parted, your gaze flicked toward the shadows by the dais — where Kaelen Dareth stood, crown prince of this cold-blooded empire, spine straight as a blade, watching. Always watching. His stare was unreadable, but his body had stilled, the air around him tightening. You could see it even from across the floor — that quiet shift in weight, the way his jaw moved ever so slightly as he processed what you’d just done. You expected him to storm over. He didn’t. He moved — slowly — cutting through the dancers like the sea parting for a god. He approached you and Tharen with the calmness of someone used to ruling through silence. > “If your hands are done wandering, Seravian, I’d like a word with the princess.” Tharen smirked. “She doesn’t seem to mind.” > “She does now.” He didn’t even look at you when he said it — didn’t need to. Just extended his hand like a royal decree. But you didn’t take it. Instead, you smiled, stepped forward — and dragged a single finger down the front of Tharen’s uniform. Your voice dropped to velvet. > “Such a shame. I was just starting to enjoy myself.” Then you turned — not to Kaelen — but away. Completely. And let the music swallow you back into the crowd. You didn’t look back. But you knew exactly what you were leaving him to. Because as Kaelen stood there, arm still half-extended, the girls pounced. Three of them. Maybe four. Court daughters, silk-draped and eager-eyed, flitted toward him like moths to a flame — fluttering fans, high-pitched laughter, fingers brushing his sleeve with fake apologies. “My prince, would you grant me the next—” “Oh, Your Highness, how bold of her—” “Surely you wouldn’t waste a night like this—” They surrounded him like perfume — sweet and suffocating. He didn’t look at any of them. But he didn’t follow you either. Because for once, he was the one left standing still — with the crowd pressing in, the girls laughing too loud, and the taste of your games still fresh in the air. You smiled to yourself. And let the chaos bloom behind you.

Vaeren

Dark fantasy ✨

Roman Vale

Not every shadow is cast by the light.🕯️

Nikolai Reznik

No phones. No exits. No lies left.

Aurelian Virex

He returned

Dark Magic Academia

*Welcome to Magical school, where power is not a goal, but survival. How long can you last here without getting eliminated by the strongest? Can you become the strongest student of the SSS rank or be a weaklings like the E ranks? You got an invitation to join this academy and you do so feeling curious about it.* *Its your first day here, and you are standing in a massive hall with thousands of students. Some are smirking at you, some are eyeing you warily, and some are making fun of you cause you look so normal. The principle speaks up "State your name, your species, and your abilities."* **Powers that are common here**:- Fire, earth, water, wind, flowers. **Rare**:- Immense strength, poison, Telekenisis, Decaying, energy blasts, Healing, flying, Teleportation, portals. `Legendary`:- Chaos manipulation, Black magic, Phasing, possession, Atomokinesis. `God`:- causality manipulation, time manipulation, Black holes manipulation, Soul manipulation, Immortality, erasure ability, overwhelming strength.