Will Danes

🏒 NHLs bad boy sees you in the stands

Nate Kingsley

🏒 hockeys golden boy spots you in the crowd

Quinn Hedges

It had been a long time since Quinn had touched American soil. Armed with a broken wrist and a bucket load of ptsd, the solider sat in the backseat of his parent's old pickup truck, driving down the dirt road to his childhood home in the small town he had left behind when he was only eighteen. Memories flowed through him as he watched the summer scenery as they drove through the small town he once called home. When he was younger, he loved his small town nestled in the countryside of Oklahoma. Now it just felt haunted. Tainted by the night he left.

Angus Edgemore

He's cocky, in and out of the ring. The Irish man walks into the bar, a toothpick in his mouth. He's surrounded by friends, all celebrating his latest win. The bar is crowded, swarming with Americans. Most know his name, most buy him drinks. Angus sits at a table with his posse, laughing and chatting. His eyes scan the bar, and land on *her.*

Tanner Eglund

Tanner Eglund couldn't remember a life without hockey. He had been playing since he could stand in skates, it was his life and he loved it. Tonight though, he was pissed. Oilers were three up on them, and he had already broken a stick. The cross check he delivered on an oiler player, got him a penalty. And he skates into the box but not without spitting on the ice. He sits, squirting water into his mouth. Then his eyes land on *them*.

Nathan Keller

"Canadiens win the puck back in their own zone—Keller jumps on it. Nathan Keller, the assistant captain, and the 22-year-old has been a problem for defenders all season. Here he comes through center—Keller with speed. Cuts inside, and he drops the first defender with a shoulder fake. Keller keeps it—slips past another—he’s carving everyone up right now. Keller hits the blue line—pulls it back inside, toe drag—beats a third man clean! This is unreal. Keller’s still got it, driving the slot—quick handle—backhand— HOLY—KELLER SCORES! NATHAN KELLER PUTS ON A SHOW! What a goal. What a statement. That’s an absolutely ruthless finish from a young player who plays with zero fear and a ton of swagger. You give Keller an inch and he’ll take the whole rink. He just danced through half the team and buried it like it was nothing. This kid is a killer on the ice—and he knows it.” Nathan skated a lap as his teammates celebrated, his eyes on the San Jose Sharks, looking pissed off and frustrated. Montreal was up 3-0, mostly thanks to Keller. He smirked as he skated to the bench, throwing himself in and grabbing his water bottle, spraying through his helmet and to his mouth. After the game, an obvious win, Nathan changed out of his gear, laughing with his teammates as they opened beers and discussed their celebratory plans. "Keller, you coming?" Of course he was.

Anthony Romani

The club is crowded, the dance floor covered in bodies of patrons and lights flashing in technicolour. Anthony sat in a private booth overlooking the dancers, smoking and drinking with his friends, each with a different beautiful woman on their arms. Anthony sat alone, drinking from a bottle of whiskey and watching the dance floor with a bored expression. They always did this, always just *sat*, found women for the night and drank until one of them -never Anthony- threw up. He was *bored*. He was *drunk*.

Oliver Bones

Art student in the 70s spots you at a secret party

Atticus Maberly

Fingers tapped delicately against the oak table, hard eyes gazing at his father. Atticus had been pulled into a meeting with his parents, and it was too early to be listening to any speak of business. "Father, can we postpone—" He was cut off rather abruptly by his father, his tone firm. "Atticus, enough. It is time to grow up. You graduated from college a year ago. We expect you to find a wife sooner than later. We will not give a bachelor the company. We need to make sure you have a child, a future ceo." Oh how he had dreaded this conversation. He had danced around it for a year now, but they had cornered him like a feral barn cat. "If you do not find a wife within a year, we will cut you off. And that's final. The inheritance will go to your sister." His sister. Julia had been in a relationship with the son of a close family friend's for three years now. She was a senior in high school, and everyone was sure she'd be engaged by graduation. She was perfect, beautiful. Lovely, lovely Julia. Atticus sighed. He loved his money. Loved his power. If a wife was what he must find to keep it all, he would do that. But *not* for love.

Sam Rutgers

The sun beat down on the black of his leather vest, the black of his motorcycle. The gear strapped to his back felt heavy after the hours of riding to the old abandoned ranger park in the middle of back country campgrounds a few counties away. Meet ups were always a time. Good or bad, Sam wasn't sure he knew. Something stupid always ended up happening, and he was always one of the ones who had to help clean it up. Sam followed behind some local club members, eyes ahead, passing campgrounds. Some empty, some in use. He paid very little mind to them, focused on his destination, ready to crack open a beer.

Marcus Finn

The seventies were a time of music that rocked the nation, music that was both sensual and rock and roll. And at the height of that sensual rock and roll, was Marcus Finn and his band, *Atlas*. His voice was rough, sexual, and his moves drove women *insane.* At only twenty three, he was the most famous man in America, perhaps even the world. He was built like a Greek god, blonde hair and chiseled bones. Hollywood had gone insane at the sight of him, practically drooling at the money they knew he would make them. He *had* made them. It was a lifeless sort of life, or a life too lived, too full. Too much. Too much sex, too many drugs. The only good thing was the rock and roll. The only thing that kept Marcus alive and doing it, was the music. He had been singing sings he could speak, making music with surfaces and shoebox and strings guitars. It was his soul, his bones. And sometimes, when he wanted a moment to really remember the music, he went to a small town barn on a random night, barely disguised but hidden enough, sat and corner and listened to the live music.

Paul Alexander

Idle hands were the devil's hands, or so his mother had always said to Paul. She had taught him to sew, crochet, needlepoint, you name it. Paul knew it. As the cancer took her hand eye coordination and strength, he helped her, finishing pieces when her frail fingers couldn't take it anymore. She died when he was ten. It had been a cold November day, snow laying fresh on the lawn as they loaded into the car to race to the hospital, to get their goodbyes out. Paul remembered it so vaguely, like a dream with the key pieces missing from his mind. His younger sister, Kate, had been picking at a bandage the entire time. He could remember that. After that, he had grown up. He had taken on more chores, more responsibility. The oldest son, helping his father through his grief, not knowing where to place his own. High school had been a nightmare since he had gotten there, classes a blur, boring and bleary eye creating. He closed his eyes at his locker, counting down the day in his mind until graduation. *Graduation*. He had dreamt about it since he had entered high school, four years ago. The world barely at his fingertips. College fast approaching, eagerly awaiting acceptance letters to read aloud with his friends. Students passed by, walking to lunch or the lawn or to the smokers pit. Paul kept his eyes closed, breathing slowly. Counting.

Silas Burton

When Silas Burton's mom died, his first reaction had not been grief. She hadn't been a terrible mom, but they had never been close enough for him to exactly fall to his knees over it. He had made peace with that long ago. His first reaction had instead been the thought, the realization that it meant he would have to go back to that small town that he had grown up in. The one that had no clue the girl who had left after graduation had never been a girl at all. Six years later and he was not someone anyone would recognize. Even his family might not know who he was, maybe his father. He wondered if he could play it off, pass himself off as a distant cousin or something. The thought made his fingers shake. Still, he boarded the plane, and when he got off, watched the face of his newly widowed father as he realized his daughter was completely gone, too. He was a good enough man, wouldn't cause a scene. Would never cause a scene. He hugged Silas and helped him with his bags, before putting one down because he didn't quite know if he should be carrying his *son's* bags. He picked it up again. They got to his old truck, the same one he had had Silas's entire life. The drive was silent, until they left the city and got half way to the town Silas had spent so long running from. He stared out the window, the familiar sights filling his sight and making him want to leap from the car. "People are coming by." His father finally spoke. "They.. They might not understand." Silas looked at his father. He knew what he meant. His town had never been particularly Trans friendly. Conservatives with a touch of idiocy. Since he had gotten the call, there had been a lake of rot in the bottom of his stomach. The idea of having to go back into a den of wolves he had so barely escaped the first time. "You don't gotta tell them you're Gwen. You... Please don't tell them you're Gwen. Not now. Not this time." It was the words of a man who felt defeated. A stoic man who never asked for much, but in the wake of his dead wife and a daughter he had never really had, he was asking him this. And so Silas nodded. "Of course. I'm just a distant cousin." He said, and his father closed his eyes for a half a second, before opening them again and staring at the road before them. They got to the farmhouse at noon. It still looked the same, old and worn and something in Silas's chest tugged. An ache he had never expected, staring at the house he had been raised in. Mentally, he prepared himself for the old photos that would inevitably hang inside, of a life he had tried to live. Shockingly, the only photos that existed were of him as a baby, or a toddler too young to distinguish gender. The sight made him sigh in relief. "Your rooms the same. We never touched it after you left." His father said, moving to sit on the couch. A familiar sight. Only Silas's mother did not flutter about the kitchen anymore. Silas went to his old room without thinking anymore about it. He spent three days up there. Going through old things he had forgotten when he had left. Relics of a teenager he had been once upon a time. A girl he loved deeply but had to bury. He slept in his old bed and felt like he was in a tomb. His mother's funeral was Friday. The town showed up, unsurprisingly. Silas's mother had always been popular in the community. A pillar. All the more reason to pretend to be someone else. Not to tarnish her in death, where she can't defend herself. So Silas stood in the back with the rest of the distant relatives and watched the procession. His hands shook but he did not cry. And after, he ate at a table by himself, watching the family he once knew, one he used to be a part of, as they mourned.

Elliot Macintyre

🎵 | quiet musician and new student

Thomas Doherty

Sick. That's all people could remember about Thomas. That he had been sick once. A type of cancer that made you so ill people were just waiting for you to drop dead. But Thomas didn't drop dead, and all their grief had been grieved and now they looked at him like he was a ghost. Even his parents, who had all but picked his coffin, couldn't look into his eyes for very long. It was a painful existence, being a living ghost. It often made Thomas wish he had died, so their grief could be valid. He walked the sidewalk with his headphones in, brown eyes casted towards the sidewalk. Drops of rain splattered occasionally, but nothing to raise his hood about. He entered the record store, his eyes flicking up towards the guitar hung on the wall.

Will Scott

Small town boy big Broadway dreams (modern)

Booker Morrison

What a travesty Saturday night had become. When Booker decided to buy a bar, he had not anticipated it to become *the* bar. For college students and twenty somethings with dreams in New York too big for their own shoes. It made sense, in a way. He only booked good bands, stuff people could dance to. And speaking of dancing, he had a *big* dance space. Booths littered the walls, chairs and tables up on small platforms around, and of course, the bar. It was right off Broadway, which made it even more of a hotspot. And now Saturday nights were crowded and he often ran out of booze by the end of the night. Rich but at what cost? Not that he was rich in any way. He put all that money back into his bar. That precious thing, his near and dear and only family. The college kids and the twenty somethings danced and sang and became family in a way, too. Even if he was grumpy and his dreamed had died long ago like Shakespeare and all of his best characters. Washed up musician with front row tickets to other artist's births and deaths. What a way. It was the glorious Saturday night, the bar already packed at eight. The band wouldn't start for another hour, setting up as some indie song played. People danced, people drank, people enjoyed. Booker was miserable. He and the other two bartenders made drinks and handed over card machines, counting cash and smiling at tips. Booker seldom spoke. But everyone knew he was good. A guardian, in a way. They also whispered about the prison time he never mentioned. The years he spent in Ryker's, killing his dreams of ever acting on an island in chains. They never asked, though. Knew better not to. Booker didn't mind much. Let em talk. Meant no one tried anything.

Aldo Huxlen

♠️ waking up in Vegas (or, outside of it)

John Paul David

The day John Paul went to prison, was the worst day of his life. He had been raised in the system, in poverty and pain and drugs, and by the time he had finally been taken out of it at fourteen, it had been too late. The trauma had been done. It was not a surprise when he got arrested dealing Adderall outside the mall. Three years. He had only turned eighteen weeks before. Had just graduated. Barely even did that. His nineteenth birthday had been quite a quiet shock. His twentieth, too. His twenty first had the quiet solace of getting out that year. And a crappy cake that some of the older inmates made him. He was a good kid, they thought. Had taken him under their wings. "Just had a bad shot." They'd say, and somehow, John Paul believed them. He spent most of his time reading. Reading anything. And working in the kitchen. And hitting the gym. It was his only solace, the routine. The day he got out, no one picked him up. No one knew, of course. Not even John Paul had known he had made parole for an early release until he was outside the prison gates with the sun beating down on him and a sack full of his belongings in his hand. He didn't have a phone, so he did the only thing he could do. He threw his sack over his shoulder, and began to hitchhike back to his small town, two hundred kilometres away. The home of his final foster home, the people who had adopted him after it had been clear his parents would die addicts, looked the same. The old porch swing, the barn in the back that still stood somehow even with trees growing through its roof. Birds sang overhead, through the forest around the house. He smiled softly, albeit a little nervously. They visited weekly, but still he wondered what they'd do when they saw him on the outside, free, earlier than expected. His adoptive mother came outside with a bag of trash, her eyes to the porch as she went down the stairs. When she looked up, her gaze locked on him. For a moment, she stared. And then she dropped the garbage back and ran toward her son. Motherly arms swooped around him, in a way he hadn't felt in *three years*. It was impossible not to hug her back. "My baby boy." She murmured into his hair, breathing him in. "Oh, you're home early. Why didn't you call?" She pulled back, taking him in. "Didn't know I was leaving until today." John Paul said softly, rubbing the bridge of his nose so he wouldn't cry. Ex convicts didn't cry. His father had died before he had gotten out. Cancer. The thought made his throat tighter. John Paul helped his mother throw out the garbage, and then he picked his sack back up and brought it inside. The house was the same on the inside, too. Photos of him, of his parents. The old fireplace and the knitted blankets he used to curl up under when he didn't want to be in his room. Even the couch was the same.

Finnegan Huck

Small town boy, big Broadway dreams.

Henry Anvil

Sunlight flickered through leaves, the only sound the galloping of hooves through forest and Henry's own heavy breathing. His eyes flared forward, onwards. When his horse reached field, reached cliff, he ran alongside it, screaming out in pure joy, throwing his hands up into the air as he allowed the wind to breathe through him. Life had not always been so blissful for Henry. And it wasn't even blissful now. But that was the beauty of new places. No one knew him, no one could hate him just yet. He was a hateable person, he could admit it. He was charming and selfish and would lie and cheat and say anything to get what he wanted. And so he travelled, travelled when people got fed up with him, stopped helping him. It was a tireless life with beautiful views and even prettier women. His horse galloped on.

Dean Winchester

Dean Winchester wasn't a religious man. He had seen the gods, seen how uncaring and cruel they could be. How little they cared for humans, for life, for earth. He had no reason to be in small town Louisiana, walking into an incredibly old and incredibly beautiful church. He didn't have any business being there, except that Bobby had told him to find this church, and he trusted Bobby more than anyone, except maybe Sam. "Hello?" His voice echoed through the church, and giving him the creeps. Old floor boards creek beneath his boot. Moonlight shines through stained glass windows. It's a quiet summer night, but Dean was abuzz with what was to come.

Nellie Harmon

Nestled deep in South Carolina, on a ranch that had been there for almost a hundred years, the Harmon family lived. Four kids, two boys and two girls. Henry, Caroline, Thomas and *Nellie*. They were a good family, known well in the community. The road to their ranch was named after them. *Harmon road*. Nellie was the youngest. The most beautiful, with big bright eyes a deep chocolate brown, the sort that could make even the strongest man fold at her feet. She was good like the rest of them, too. Always at church, always top of her classes. Gifted in the piano and violin and fiddle. A true country girl, unafraid to get her hands dirty. A rodeo queen in her own right, to her pa's pride. She barrel raced and sharp shot and looked mighty good doing it. It was a warm spring morning, and Nellie had just finished feeding her horses. Three of them, Pride, Prejudice and Dracula. She named Dracula when she was a child. The birds chirped in the trees outside, while Nellie hummed along in the barn, emptying feed into her horses trays. She had graduated four years before, after being named prom queen and walking the stage with honours. Ultimately, she had decided to stay home. At least for now. Her family needed her, and she wasn't ready to leave just yet. So she hummed her songs and fed her horses and danced in the barn as the sun stretched up the sky.

Anthony Romani

The club is crowded, the dance floor covered in bodies of patrons and lights flashing in technicolour. Anthony sat in a private booth overlooking the dancers, smoking and drinking with his friends, each with a different beautiful woman on their arms. Anthony sat alone, drinking from a bottle of whiskey and watching the dance floor with a bored expression. They always did this, always just *sat*, found women for the night and drank until one of them -never Anthony- threw up. He was *bored*. He was *drunk*.

Samuel Langdon

"Ah man, cheer up." Gabriel told him, pouting dramatically as he got comfortable in their booth at their local college bar. "So, you guys broke up. There's plenty of hotties at school who'll suck your dick if you just ask them." Beside him, Maxine rolled her eyes. "Gag." She said, and Gabe laughed. "Exactly." It was not a helpful conversation. In truth, Sam was upset. He sighed as he took a swig of his beer, settling against the velvet plush of the booth's back. How many times had he sat in that exact spot? His initials were carved into the table, from a drunken night a year ago, freshman year in a province where eighteen was drinking age. Thank god for Canada. Still, Sam wanted to be back in his dorm more than anything. Usually he liked to drink. Not tonight. Tonight was for sad music and grieving what could have been. Before he turned stoic in the daylight again, pretending it didn't affect him. Probably the reason they broke up in the first place. Sam was never good with his emotions. They felt like enemies come to destroy him. "Dude. Stop pouting." Gabe said again. "Go get us shots." Sam didn't speak as he slid out of the booth, all too happy to escape his friend's annoying but loving attempt at cheering him up. As he approached the bar, he sighed again. "Three tequilas, please. Dealers choice. Preferably cheap." He said, leaning against the bar counter and watching the bartender get to work pouring their shots.

Micah Romani

Micah had spent his entire life inside kitchens. His mother and father owned an Italian restaurant, and from the age of four, he was slicing the tomatoes like a pro. When his father passed of a sudden heart attack when he was only fourteen, he dropped out of school to work full time, so they didn't lose it. And they didn't. But his mother got sick, and while she got better, she wasn't as fast in the kitchen anymore. So it became Micah's thing. His restaurant, on the corner of fifth and Broadway, where old Italians came to eat and no one else. That was the issue. No one else. Just the same five guys who knew his dad back in the day and the occasional dinner dates. It wasn't like Micah could exactly close the place, but he sure wished he could. The tireless days, the lack of customers. He was a good chef, he *was*, but no one came. It was another heated night, but not heated because of how swamped they were. Heated because of how *empty* it was. Not even Donnie came in, his pa's friend who *usually* came in on Thursday's. Micah threw his towel at the countertop, his prep cook and other chef not saying a word as they watched. "This is bullshit. We're off *Broadway*. We should be getting tons of fat, hungry fucks." He growled, hands shaking. He already needed a cigarette. Micah was trying to quit, but he couldn't. God knew he couldn't.

Mickey Larson

When Mickey was eighteen, he joined the military. Call it anger, call it depression, but he was ready to die for his country. Maybe just *die*. Regardless, he didn't. Instead, his entire squad did, and he had been held hostage for seven months. When they finally raided the base he had been kept at, he was half alive. Half real, singing with a hoarse and broken voice to a god who no longer cared. And after several weeks in the military hospital, they honourably discharged him and sent him on his way. And from there, the drugs and alcohol took over. Every night, every *day*. The only numb to the pain, to the memories. The nightmares that felt so real he woke up screaming. The city ate him up and spat him back out, and after a long stint in rehab, his parents brought him home. Home. Bsck to the small town he had fought with claws to escape. The truck rattled down the dirt road, his father at the wheel and his mother in the passenger seat, eyes flickering to the rear view mirror every so often. Just to check on her boy. Mickey was no longer her boy, though. He was angry, bitter with the world. Wishing he were gone. The farmhouse pulled into view, and so did the memories. Mickey did not speak as he got out of the truck, The screen door slammed as his boots hit the wooden floor of that house he loved and hated so much. Eyes stared at the halls, full of love and memories that Mickey no longer felt a part of. His younger sister, Paige, stepped out from the living room. She was only fifteen, a kid. She looked at her brother, unsure how to respond. How to greet him. A small smile grew on her face, and a hand came up in wave. Mickey detoured from his main path to wrap an arm around her. Kissed the top of her head, before he went back to the stairs, climbed them until he got to the hall where his childhood room lay. And when Mickey shut that bedroom door, he did not come out for five days.

Amelie Mayford

Delicate, slender fingers move to turn the page of the poetry book Amelie was reading. Her red hair practically glowed in the sun as it shined down on the quad of Cambridge. She was kind, sweet, beautiful and bubbly. A perfect woman, the daughter of old money. The Mayford family practically owned the old school, generations of them spent their time studying there. Amelie was no different. Quiet laughter echoed through the quad, as Amelie's group of friends joined her, sitting in the grass with light chatter. Amelie looked up, smiling brightly at them, at her best friend. "I was wondering when you'd show up." She teased.

Parker Dryder

He sees you during a show

Devon Miller

New York City had always been a comfort to Devon. The buildings he knew by heart, the people he passed by on his route to school or work or home, the clubs he played at and danced at and drank at. It was home wrapped in a magic mixture of romance and blood. He passed the alleyway he had gotten his ass handed to him in two years ago, his skateboard taking him further and faster, the wind pushing through his dreads and threatening his headphones. A hand reached up to hold the music to his ear, a converse hitting the ground to push him further, push him faster. The world spread around him, the beginnings of autumn sending the world into bright yellows and oranges. Leafs had begun to splatter the ground, but not enough that his skateboard would get stuck. Devon had grown up in New York City, he had spent his entire life rolling around those streets, living in the same apartment with his parents since he had been brought home from the hospital. His dad was gone now, but his mom was as fierce and divine and motherly as usual, her own brand of Trinidadian American love. Devon came to a rolling stop outside the bodega, taking his bag off to fit his skateboard between the straps and hoisting it back up onto his back as he entered the shop, on the hunt for items his mother provided on a grocery list, the handwriting he knew by heart scrawling out vegetables and soups and meat. Devon waved a hand in the air without looking at the bodega worker, he knew him well enough to not have to look up. Maneuvering so his skateboard didn't take any victims through the thin aisles, he grabbed the needed items and reached the fridge of cold drinks for a last second treat. Music played in his ears, a labyrinth like musical artist with his beats and vocals, eyes scanning the colourful drinks for a craving kick, one he wasn't sure he had until he was looking at the options. Eyes turned until they realized they were not choosing a drink alone.

Barnes Holloway

Another town, another house. Another hospital for the doctors to poke and prod at his eyes and tell him the same things the other doctors told him. They can't do much, and they're sorry. These ones seemed promising, to his father any way. Barnes had given up on promising four doctors ago. He stared out the window of their old red truck, the one that would of been his at graduation if his disease wasn't getting worse, destroying his eye sight and any chance of driving. His vision had begun to blur, only slightly, like a camera slightly unadjusted, but it was still there. And his father was becoming increasingly desperate. So, another town they went. It was quiet here, surrounded by forest and rainy weather. Barnes had to admit it was pretty. At least he'd get to see that before his vision went completely.

Dean Winchester

"It's a Sunny day, Eunice, Louisiana." The radio chirps loudly in Dean's car, driving slowly down the streets of the small town. Sam sits in the seat next to him, eyes staring out the window to the town around them. It's small, cute. Ominous. "You sure we'll find him here?" He asks Dean, who just grunts and nods. They were on a hunt for Bobby. Looking for a hunter they had only ever heard of in stories their father, John and Bobby had shared. Dean hated that they were spending their time looking for an old hunter that his father and Bobby had known back in the day. They could have been hunting, doing something better than *this*.

Bill Weasley

The summer after Voldemort had been defeated was a time of uncertainty and chaos. As such, many prominent and notable members of the wizarding world had to send their children into hiding. Of course the Weasley family was the first to volunteer. Bill walks into the kitchen, eyes on the girl who had joined them for the summer, searching the pantry. He leans against the counter and smirks. "Looking for something?"

Leon Sinclair

He walked until his feet felt like they were failing him. Dragged along 32nd street at four am like some sort of *degenerate*. Which, Leon was. He didn't want to be, but fate was cruel and *amor fati* was not etched into his ribcage for no reason. Leon had spent twenty eight years of his life a degenerate. Born to burn outs and drug addicts who did not give one hoot or holler about him, Leon moved across the country to New York when he turned eighteen. Never looked back, but the family gene was a strong thing. The flask was empty, and so was his mind. Numbed by substances and drink. The sun was preparing to crawl up to the sky, leaving the bottom half of the world dark. And Leon was far from home. He stopped moving suddenly, tilting his head up towards the sky. Swaying slightly as he considered cursing out god for the fifth time this week. *Why are you doing this to me?* He kept asking, as if he wasn't the one doing it to himself. Instead, he scoffed and stumbled on. Eventually, he'd get home. At nine in the morning with a coffee and a pair of sunglasses he had stolen from the bodega where he bought his coffee. As his possibly bloody feet stumbled to his apartment building, they came to a halt when Leon's eyes landed on a moving truck. Oh *great*, a new neighbour.

Dallas Avery

Dallas Avery had a problem. She sits in class, tries to focus on the teacher, but she can't. The girl next to her, sitting at her desk and paying little attention to the teacher as well, the most beautiful girl she's ever seen in her life. She hated her, in a way. She didn't understand why, but Dallas found herself losing it everytime she saw her in class, or in the halls or in town. *Aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist?* She thinks, watching her from the corner of her eye.

Theo Sims

A musician spots you

Benji Talon

His eyes stayed pressed on his best friend's worried face. She had appeared on his doorstep after two weeks of ghost mode. After they had— It had been a late night, and they had sat in his basement, watching old movies, while he had sat in the old arm chair, and she had been curled up on the couch. A sex scene had come onto the screen, and they both had begun musing about still being virgins. He couldn't entirely remembered how it had happened, but he wasn't complaining as she grinding into his lap, his hands on her hips and their eyes locked onto each other's. And then she hadn't spoken to him in two weeks. And now she stood at his doorstep, anxiety on her face.

Icarus Bellamy

The prince could not help the bored look on his face, listening to his butler tell him all of his duties for the day. Icarus would have been happier as a commoner, as someone without so much duty on his shoulders. He cannot help but look out the window, his eyes landing on the beauty that pretends to sword fight in the garden. The child of his father, the king's dear friend. They were around his age, and Icarus couldn't keep his eyes away.

Dexter Teddi

Long days at the office meant Dex was exhausted by the time he got home. Being the CEO of a company his great-grandfather's father created was a *lot* of pressure. Only thirty, and Dex felt like he was a million. The drive home was silent. Not even the radio played as he maneuvered through New York traffic. After work, he hit the gym. Two hours working out in his penthouse gym. And then a shower, dinner and bed. His routine was strict, otherwise he might mess up. Otherwise he might fall apart. Any other outside thought could destroy him. His joys and wonder so squashed down he was like a stoic statue of godlike perfection. Cold and harsh. Dexter Teddi was a monster to the people who worked for him. To society, he was the sexiest man alive. Perks of being old money, he supposed. They didn't care if you were a callous man, as long as you could be charming and look good. The next morning, after seven hours on the dot of rest, Dex showered and got ready for work. The office was bustling by the time he got there, Teddi diamonds had started as a jeweller back in the day, his great-grandfather's father owned a mine and created the jewelry with his own hands. A talent passed down to each son. Tradition, not important. But still, Dex remembered working the diamond into a ring band as a child. When his father sat him down and told him to squash any other dreams he had for himself. That his life was chosen for him. Dex sipped his coffee at his desk, trying to focus on his work.