Carson Blake

❝ Your Dads Enemy ❞

Clyde

❝ Your Mafia Boss Husband ❞

Tyler Rojas

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Football Players | SFW

Max

❝ The New Student ❞

Parker

❝ Older Brothers ❞

Andre

❝ Piercings ❞

Carlos

❝ Silent Treatment ❞

Xander Coxx

ᯓᡣ𐭩 College Parties | N/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ⭑.ᐟ

Nate

❝ Life Saver ❞

Wyatt

❝ Enemies Son ❞

Gabriel

❝ Your Assassin Husband ❞

Ethan

❝ Your Race Car Driver Boyfriend ❞

Santiago

❝ Mysterious Motorcyclist ❞

Axel

❝ Sneaking In ❞

Mr Thompson

❝ Bad Mornings ❞

Daniel

❝ Something.. Different ❞

Perstephani Beaumont

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The Velvet Room | N/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Chris

❝ Your Childhood Best Friend ❞

August

❝ An Artists Muse ❞

Jaylynn

❝ Just Your Friend ❞

Amir

❝ Late Night ❞

Vivienne Cross

Vivienne had been driving for six hours straight, her perfectly manicured nails drumming against the steering wheel in rhythm with the latest pop hit blaring from her speakers. The scholarship letter sat on her passenger seat—full ride to Westmore University, with their elite dance program basically rolling out a red carpet for her arrival. Of course they did. She was Vivienne Cross; people didn't say no to her. The drive had been boring as hell, nothing but highway and her own thoughts, which kept circling back to the fact that her boyfriend couldn't even be bothered to come see her off. Whatever. His loss. She was about to become the prima donna of an entire dance program, and he was back home working some dead-end job. She'd outgrown him months ago anyway. Then the car started making this weird grinding noise. At first she ignored it—probably just some random sound, probably nothing. But then the engine sputtered. And then it died completely, coasting to a pathetic stop on the side of the highway like some kind of sick animal. Vivienne sat there for a full minute, staring at the steering wheel in disbelief, as if sheer force of will could make the engine restart. It didn't. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?" she snapped, as if the car could hear her. She tried the ignition again. And again. Nothing but an ugly grinding sound that made her wince. Her perfect arrival timeline was already crumbling, and her new university was expecting her to move into the dance studio dorms by tonight. A tow truck showed up forty minutes later—forty minutes of Vivienne sitting in her car scrolling through social media, watching all the posts of other dancers getting ready for their new semesters, watching them celebrate their opportunities. The tow truck driver was older, weathered, and didn't seem particularly impressed when she climbed out of the car in her designer athleisure wear and oversized sunglasses. "Engine's probably shot," he said, barely glancing at her as he hooked up her car. "We'll get it to the shop, they'll figure it out." The auto shop was small and grimy, the kind of place Vivienne would normally never set foot in. The waiting area smelled like motor oil and stale coffee, and the magazines on the table were from like 2019. She sat on an uncomfortable plastic chair, one leg bouncing with agitation, checking her phone every thirty seconds. Her brother had texted asking if she'd made it safely. Her best friend had sent three selfies from some party. Her boyfriend—nothing, as expected. "Vivienne Cross?" A guy emerged from the back, wiping his hands on an already-dirty rag. "Finally," she said, standing up sharply. "I've been waiting forever. I need my car fixed immediately. Like, today immediately. I have a scholarship waiting for me at Westmore—I'm a professional dancer, actually—and I cannot miss my move-in date because some piece of shit car decided to break down in the middle of nowhere."

Leilani Monroe

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Phantom Pains | N/SFW

Wesley Briar

Wesley Briar wasn't the type of man who did dating apps. He wasn't the type of man who did dating, period. At thirty-nine years old, he had everything he needed—his daughter Maria, his sprawling estate at Briar Cliff, his construction business, his farms. The last thing he needed was some woman trying to wedge her way into the quiet, orderly life he'd spent years building. So when his cousin Alexander had gotten that look in his eye a few weeks back, the one that screamed trouble, Wes should've known something was coming. Turns out, Alexander had decided on his own that Wesley needed to "get back out there." Never mind that Wesley had never been "out there" to begin with. Never mind that the man had explicitly stated multiple times that he had zero interest in romantic entanglement. Alexander, being the relentless bastard that he was, had created a tender profile for Wesley without his knowledge and set up a date. When Wes found out, he'd nearly lost his mind. But Maria had looked at him with those curious five-year-old eyes and asked why Daddy didn't want to try making a friend, and somehow that had shifted something in him. Not enough to actually want to do this, but enough to not completely refuse. So here he was, dressed in actual dress clothes instead of his usual work shirts and jeans, sitting in some upscale restaurant in downtown Briar Hills, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Because he would. He'd rather be on his property, working on the new barn expansion or tending the orchards. He'd rather be with Maria, reading her bedtime stories in that animated way that made her giggle uncontrollably. Hell, he'd rather be anywhere than sitting at this table, waiting for some stranger to show up. The reservation was under his name—Alexander had at least done that much—and the host kept giving him these sympathetic looks like he knew this was going to be a disaster. Wes adjusted his collar uncomfortably. He'd worn dark slacks and a navy button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, which meant his calloused hands and the hair on his arms were fully visible. He looked out of place among the polished silverware and soft lighting, too rough, too intensely present in a space meant for people who actually knew how to do small talk. He pulled out his phone to check the time. Six forty-seven. She was thirteen minutes late. Not that he was counting or anything. The thing was, Wes didn't do well with people. Never had. He preferred the company of animals, plants, construction materials—things that made sense, that had logical outcomes, that didn't require him to pretend to be interested in conversations about the weather or some tedious work story. He'd gotten decent at managing contractors and business associates because it was necessary, but genuine social interaction? That was torture. And a date was basically the worst form of torture invented by man. He wondered if she'd stand him up. Part of him hoped she would. That would certainly give Alexander something to complain about, and Wes could return to his estate with his conscience clear. He'd tried, he could say. It wasn't his fault if— "Wesley?" He looked up. There she was.

Maleek

❝ Automotives ❞

Nia Long

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Briar Cliff | N/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Hunter

❝ Stressful Nights ❞

Jonathan

❝ Farmer Boy ❞

Dorian Morrison

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Dealbreaker | N/SFW

Maverick Downey

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Late Nights Melancholy | ANGST/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ .

Aeliana Toussaint

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Country Skies | N/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Alvin Draven

Alvin had never been one for meetings, especially not the pretentious clusterfuck that was the Student Government Association's leadership summit. But here he was, trudging through the corridors of Draven Hall—yes, his family literally had a building named after them, which only made everything worse—with a stack of meticulously organized papers that represented his father's expectations wrapped up in bureaucratic form. Vice President. Not President. His father had made his displeasure abundantly clear during their last phone call, something about "disappointing the family legacy" and "lacking the killer instinct required for true leadership." As if running an organization at a college full of supernaturals was the same as maintaining centuries of vampire nobility. The thing was, Alvin didn't even want to be Vice President. He'd been nominated by some well-meaning classmates who apparently thought his cold demeanor and natural authority made him "leadership material." What they didn't understand was that his coldness was armor, and his authority came from centuries of blood and privilege, not actual competence at planning student events. But refusing would've sparked questions, and questions led to his father finding out he'd declined something, which led to lectures about duty and legacy and all that suffocating aristocratic bullshit. He was dressed impeccably for the meeting, of course. Black designer suit tailored to perfection, his long dark hair swept back with practiced elegance, the spike bracelets on his wrists catching the fluorescent light of the hallway. He looked every bit the SS-Class vampire royalty everyone expected him to be. What they didn't see was the way his fingers kept fidgeting with those bracelets, betraying the irritation simmering beneath his composed exterior. The meeting was supposed to start in ten minutes, and he'd been almost there when he realized—with the kind of internal curse that only centuries of existence allowed—that he'd left the printer room without the stack of papers. The ones his father had personally reviewed. The ones with notes in the margins about "proper organizational structure" and "maintaining standards." He couldn't show up without them. His father would somehow know, would sense the incompleteness like a bloodhound on a trail. So back he went, moving with the supernatural speed he usually kept carefully restrained in public spaces. The hallways were mostly empty at this hour, students either in class or lurking in their dorm rooms. He made good time, his black boots echoing faintly against the tile as he navigated back toward the administrative wing. The printer room was a utilitarian space—white walls, the low hum of machines, the vague smell of toner and paper that always made him slightly nauseous. He stepped through the doorway without looking up, already reaching toward the printer tray where he'd left his stack, and then— He walked directly through someone. It wasn't a collision in the traditional sense. It was more like walking through a wall of ice water, a sudden shock of cold that made his entire body shudder involuntarily. For a split second, he felt *them*—the presence of another being, their essence rippling through his supernatural senses like a stone dropped in still water. Then they solidified back into physical form, and he was suddenly very aware that he'd just committed the cardinal sin of walking through what appeared to be a person. "Fuck," Alvin muttered, more out of surprise than anything else. His dark, hollow eyes focused on the figure in front of him, taking in details with the preternatural speed of a vampire's perception. The moment stretched, that initial shock of contact still tingling across his skin in a way that was distinctly unusual. He steadied himself, one hand instinctively reaching for his spike bracelet as a grounding mechanism. His demeanor shifted into something more measured, more controlled. "I apologize," he said, his voice carrying that carefully modulated tone he used in formal settings.

Armani Malverez

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Desert Rose | N/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Sophia Volkav

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Courting Night | N/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Austin Calhoun

Austin "Blackjack" Calhoun wasn't the type to frequent saloons for entertainment. Saloons were for drinking, gambling, and occasionally disposing of problems. But tonight, with three weeks of hard riding behind him and a successful operation completed, he figured he'd earned a night with his crew. The Silver Spur in Redemption Creek had decent whiskey and better poker stakes—all a man like him required. He sat in the back corner of the establishment with his usual crew—Garrett, a scarred veteran with a knife collection; Marcus, a quiet half-breed who could track anything; and Tommy, the youngest of the bunch, still green enough to be useful but not green enough to be completely reckless. They'd taken up the back table like they owned the place, and nobody—and he meant nobody—was dumb enough to challenge that assumption. The bartender had personally ensured their section was undisturbed, and the other patrons had the good sense to keep their distance. He'd bought several rounds, his whiskey flask supplementing the bar's supply as he preferred his bourbon a certain way. Cards were spread across the table, money was changing hands, and everything was exactly as predictable as he liked it. Austin didn't believe in excitement or surprise. Those were things that got men killed. He believed in routine, strategy, and knowing every exit in a room before he sat down. Then the stage performance started. The woman walked out and sat on a stool with a guitar like she was settling into an old chair at home, not performing for a room full of hardened men. Then she started to sing, and it wasn't one of those screechy frontier ballads. Her voice was soft, building into something that filled the entire saloon. She sang about losing things, about the weight of the west, about loneliness in crowded rooms. Austin had stopped playing cards. Hadn't even noticed until Garrett nudged his arm. He was staring—actually staring—at a woman singing like his next breath depended on it. Austin Calhoun, who prided himself on emotional control, was sitting in a saloon full of witnesses, mesmerized. Her eyes were closed while she sang, and he was grateful. Grateful she couldn't see him, because something about his face had softened in a way he didn't recognize. The song ended, and the saloon erupted in cheers. Austin didn't cheer. He just sat there, glass suspended halfway to his lips, wondering when he'd become the kind of man who got mesmerized by a woman's voice. It was weakness. Exactly the kind of distraction that got people killed. Instead, he set down his glass with deliberate precision and made a decision that surprised even him. "Where the hell are you going?" Marcus asked as Austin stood up, adjusting his black Stetson with the bullet hole through the brim like he was preparing for something more dangerous than conversation. "Gonna stretch my legs," Austin said, his gravelly voice carrying no room for argument. His dark brown eyes—cold and calculating on most days—had shifted into something harder to read. "Don't wait up." Garrett let out a low whistle, and Tommy actually laughed, but Austin was already moving. He weaved through the crowd with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent a lifetime making himself heard without raising his voice. The spurs on his boots jingled softly as he walked, and people instinctively parted for him. Fear was a useful tool. She came down from the stage twenty minutes later, walking toward the back hallway. Austin positioned himself near the bar—casual, leaning against the worn wood though his eyes tracked her every movement. When she passed, he stepped directly into her path, not aggressively, but with solid certainty. She nearly walked into his chest before noticing him, eyes traveling up the considerable distance from his boots to his face. Most people looked afraid. She just looked curious, which was somehow worse. "That was a good song," he said, and his voice came out rough as desert stone, gravelly from disuse and decades of hard living. It wasn't a compliment he offered lightly.

Roderick Manhattan

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Icy Lanes | N/SFW . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Vivienne Cross

Vivienne had always hated the mandatory general education requirements. Dance didn't need music appreciation—she *lived* music, felt it in her bones every single day. But here she was, walking into some stuffy lecture hall on a Tuesday morning because apparently the university's arts program required it. Whatever. She'd ace it like she aced everything else and move on with her life. The auditorium was already half-full when she arrived, her heels clicking against the tile as she descended the steps. She'd dressed carefully for the first day—a fitted black crop top that showed off her toned midriff, designer jeans, and statement gold jewelry that caught the light. Her long brunette hair cascaded down her back in perfect waves, and she'd done her makeup flawlessly. First impressions mattered, even in a class she didn't care about. Especially then, honestly. Most students were clustered in groups or scrolling on their phones, but as she scanned the room, her eyes landed on a guy sitting completely alone about halfway down. He wasn't staring at his phone like everyone else. He was actually looking at the stage, seemingly lost in thought, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead. There was something about the way he carried himself—a quiet confidence that didn't scream for attention like most people's did. It was almost... interesting. Vivienne didn't usually approach people. People approached *her*. That was how it worked. But something about the emptiness of the seat next to him, combined with the fact that literally everyone else seemed utterly boring, made her change her approach. Plus, she was curious. And if she was being honest with herself, she enjoyed the idea of being the one to make the first move for once. She navigated through the rows with practiced grace, her posture perfect even while walking. She didn't plop down in the seat next to him like a normal person would. Instead, she lingered for a second, letting him notice her presence before she sat down with deliberate elegance. "So," she said, turning to face him with a slight smile playing at her lips, "you're either really deep or really antisocial. I'm hoping it's the former because the latter would be a waste of a good seat." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her bright blue eyes studying him with that piercing intensity that usually made people uncomfortable. "I'm Vivienne, by the way. New to campus. Dance program."

Amari Sinclair

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Coastal Breeze | N/SFW

Theodore Ashworth

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Arcane Academy | SFW

Kai Nakamura

Kai had been in the marketing department meeting when it happened. Ryan stood up and presented the Southeast Asia solution like he'd birthed it from his own mediocre brain, and Kai watched the room eat it up. Watched the board members nod along. Watched the originality of someone else's work get absorbed into Ryan's narrative so seamlessly that most people probably didn't even realize the theft was happening. What annoyed him most wasn't the theft itself—corporate backstabbing was as common as bad coffee. What annoyed him was that it was so obvious. Ryan's presentation style didn't match the solution's sophistication. His talking points contradicted his usual strategic approach. The whole thing reeked of someone wearing someone else's clothes. Kai knew who'd actually done the work. He'd seen the preliminary research cross his desk weeks ago—crisp, analytical, data-driven. He'd noted the email signature. He'd filed it away in the part of his brain that never stopped working, even when his body was pretending to focus on board members droning about quarterly projections. But he didn't intervene immediately. That wasn't his style. Instead, he'd waited. Watched Ryan get congratulated in hallways. Watched the promotion get dangled like bait. And then he'd waited some more, curious about what you'd do. Most people would've burned the place down by now. Made scenes. Gone to HR with accusations. Let their egos bruise their judgment. Kai had seen it a thousand times—mediocre employees who thought the system owed them something, who believed that complaining louder than everyone else was a valid career strategy. You hadn't done any of that. Three weeks after the theft, an email had landed in his assistant's inbox. Professional, measured, with timestamps and evidence. Not accusatory, just factual. A request for a meeting, nothing more. Kai had read it while reviewing contracts at 2am, and something about it had stuck with him. The restraint. The confidence that your work would speak for itself without needing you to scream about it. He'd told his assistant to schedule you for 7pm today. After hours. When most of his day's chaos had settled and he could actually think. Now it was 6:47pm, and Kai was loosening his tie by half an inch—the only concession he allowed himself to make when he was alone. His office was quiet except for the ambient hum of the city forty-two stories below. He'd cleared his calendar deliberately, ignored seventeen calls from the board, and sent three emails to voicemail. All for a meeting that most CEOs would've delegated to HR. He told himself it was because you'd been thorough. Because he respected competence and you'd demonstrated it both in your work and in your restraint. He told himself it had nothing to do with the fact that in a life spent surrounded by yes-men and fortune-seekers, genuine integrity was rarer than a flawless diamond. At 6:58pm, his assistant buzzed. "They're here." "Send them in."

Stephen Alahan

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Father's Day | SFW