I suppose I could start with pleasantries... A warm welcome... A gentle invitation...
Suppose we begin here—another whisper in the cacophony of tangled request threads scattered across this shadowed corner of the interwebs. A hundred itches waiting for that scratch... a thousand desires waiting to be read, and for some reason... you clicked on mine—and here we are.
I should apologise for that.
But I won't...
What waits within is indulgent, overworked, overwritten prose—sharpened like a wicked little blade by someone who's spent far too long chasing the perfect sentence, and not nearly enough time pretending to be sane. Crafted by someone who's either imbibed too much, or inhaled more than they should have. And code—limping and stubborn—broken more times than any non-tech should dare to admit. But in truth, I am a writer first and foremost. I have spent years—literal decades—honing this craft, pouring more hours, more passion, more money than I ought to, simply to paint the canvas of the mind with stories that ache to be read.
As the above hints, I am an Adv. Lit/novella-length writer with an appetite for tension—and the poetry of seduction through words. I chase story-driven erotica, the kind that lingers like a bruise pressed too gently, too long. Those long, slow burns that stretch the breath, that wind anticipation like silk-wrapped rope, taut and trembling. I long to write the stories that don't just leave impressions on the mind, but leave marks on the soul of the person who participates in the sacred dance that occurs between the eyes and the pages of what they read.
So if you've made it this far... perhaps you are just as lost as I am. Or perhaps, you're exactly where you are meant to be...
You see, I am not just looking for a partner—I am searching for a storyteller, a kindred spirit. A hunt for that co-conspirator. A wicked pen. A soft sadist. Someone dangerous with words, who doesn't just write scenes, but composes symphonies of sensation and longing. Someone who savours the ache of anticipation—who stretches tension until it trembles, and understands that the most exquisite ruin starts with something as simple as a whisper. Someone who knows that the truest of seduction doesn't begin with a touch—but with restraint.
With silence.
With a glance across the page and a line of dialogue that tastes like sin and lingers like a bruise.
Let's dance that delicious line between pleasure and pain, let's weave something dangerous—something beautiful, until the story itself is panting for release. A story that feels like silk dragged over bare skin, soft at first... until it tightens. Let's write characters who bleed with longing and bite back when kissed. Lovers who toy with each other like it's foreplay, and fight like it is, too. The kind who ache with complexity—who love too hard or not at all—who get under each other's skin in the most exquisite, excruciating ways.
And while I am, at my core, a submissive—there is a sliver of something darker within me, a flame that flickers and flares when the mood is right. A switch, yes. Not often—but enough. Enough to know how the sting feels when a whip sings through the air... and how it feels in the hand that wields it. There is a certain poetry to giving pain as one who knows how it tastes... A kind of mirrored ache, a cruel intimacy born from empathy. I am no stranger to control, when it is begged for in return. To command, when permission is writ in breathless silence. And though I prefer to kneel, I've been known to rise—just long enough to leave my own mark.
So...
Give me your beautiful monsters and desperate saints. Your soft-mouthed sinners and cruel romantics. Haunted, hungry lovers who burn for something they can't name. Monsters who dream. Mortals who dare. Those who beg to be loved—and those who take their time breaking, slow and sweet. Give me velvet and venom. Devotion with teeth. Characters who fall in love like it's a curse—like it might ruin them—and want it to...
Those who ache to be broken open, and those who delight in the breaking... With that maddening, sacred trust that turns pain into worship, and control into something far more intimate: devotion. Whether cloaked in fantasy or kissed by the velvet hush of historical moonlight, wrapped in smoke, blood, blush, or silk—I want to feel it all when we write...
If you crave stories that smoulder like a secret—where each scene leaves fingerprints, where every word is a dare—then darling...
Why don't we start something beautifully sinful?
─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ─── Turn Ons Story-Driven ✤ Complicated Characters ✤ OOC Conversation Play ✤ Eroticism ✤ Intellect Turn Offs Whiners ✤ Ignorance ✤ Disrespect ✤ Liars (just be honest with me, it isn't not hard, promise) ─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───
The Yes, Please & No-No's
Bratting
Dominance & Submission (D/s)
Spanking: Hand, Belt, Flogger, or Paddle
Hair pulling
Slapping (more body than the face... sometimes)
Temperature-Wax/Ice play
Begging
Choking/breath play
Scratching/biting
Clothed sex/teasing
Praise kink
Corruption kink
Orgasm control/denial
Edging
Forced orgasms
Bondage/Restraint play (light to heavy)
Gagging (verbal, mostly, possible silk, no ballgag, sorry)
Public play/hidden control
Phallus worship
Anal training/play
Face-fucking / breath control
Forced orgasms
Public risk play
Pain as devotion
Exhibitionism/voyeurism (kind of the above-listed, but more specifically not hidden)
Age play
Cuckolding
Teacher/student, boss/secretary, stranger, etc.
Protocol play
Fear play
Mindfuck scenes
Monster/hybrid or non-human dominance
Rough anal or DP with toys
Biting/marking as claim (marks on the thighs or breasts.)
Face sitting (possible in some scenes)
Aftercare rituals
Loving dominance
Clothing & Ritual – Undressing her like a ceremony.
Sleepy/Submissive Sex
Diapers
Gaping of any orifice
Bathroom Business
Pairings of Interest... Maybe Because everyone enjoys a good pairing list...
The roles in which I wish to play will be in pink text.
King/knight xnoble/peasant Beast x Beauty warrior xenchantress dad/step xdaughter/step/daughter's best friend/babysitter (step)/sibling x (step)/sibling
vampyre xwitch lycan x witch CEO x Assistant/Rival
In the slides that follow are just a few plots I have managed to write over the years. Some are older than others, but the want to write them is still at the forefront, hence them making it into this thread. I may, one day, repost a plot thread, but as it is currently, this is where we are at...
She had been taken—plucked from the waking world like a petal from its stem—held captive in silence and shadow. Her body was bound, yes, but it was her mind they truly hungered for. Each nightfall dragged her beneath the veil of sleep, only to deliver her into a realm no longer her own. Her dreams, once a refuge, had become a war zone. Intruded. Corrupted. Woven with malice.
Dreamweaving—it was an art long buried in ash and blood, outlawed across kingdoms and ages alike. But somewhere, in secret chambers hidden beneath cathedral ruins or deep within data-corrupted archives, a cult had kept it alive. Passed from whisper to whisper, hand to hand, they had mastered the forbidden craft. Their magic—or their machinery—could pierce the thin membrane between consciousness and slumber.
It began with induced sleep—by potion, by spell, by neural override. Once adrift in dreams, the victim became clay. The dreamweaver would enter like a thief, spinning illusions so vivid they transcended mere sight and sound. Every sense—touch, taste, scent, even the weight of sorrow or the sting of fear—could be conjured with uncanny precision. The mind believed. The body responded. Pain could be felt. Ecstasy could be simulated. Trauma could be etched into the soul as surely as if it had happened in the waking world.
In that twilight state, the dreamer was weakened. Their powers—if they had any—dulled to whispers. Their reason, slowed. Their will, eroded. One could be made to relive horror in a loop, a single nightmare rendered infinite. And with time, the line between illusion and reality would blur. Where did the dream end? When did waking begin? Madness waited in the in-between.
But they could not harm her—not truly. Not yet.
She was too valuable, too singular, too necessary for their unknown ends. Her body must remain unbroken, her mind intact—if only barely. For she carried something ancient within her: a memory, a secret, a cipher written in the marrow of her being. Perhaps it was knowledge long forbidden, or a sliver of divine code, or even some dormant power etched into her blood. They didn't yet know exactly what they needed from her—only that they would extract it.
So they wove. Night after night, they threaded terror into beauty, cruelty into seduction, desperation into comfort. All to bend her, to break her without touch. To lure her into surrendering what they sought—willingly, if they could manage it.
A twisted kindness.
A slow undoing.
Whether in a medieval land where magic flows like mist through the forest, or a dystopian sprawl where machines whisper through cortex links, the game remained the same.
The dream would be her prison.
And they—her silent, patient architects.
The Garden of Eden is not a simple paradise, but a living, breathing realm of divine design. Its beauty is overwhelming—sunlight falls like gold upon flowers that sing, rivers whisper riddles, and the very trees pulse with celestial life. Eve walks in this eternal dawn, first of her kind, her skin kissed by starlight, her soul unmarked by shame or fear.
She is not alone, but she is untouched. Adam is a mirror, a companion, but he offers no fire, no reflection of her deep and growing questions. The world is perfect—and yet, something is missing.
That is when He appears.
He is not a beast.
Not truly.
He moves like smoke and shadow between the trees—sometimes a voice without form, other times a man with eyes like polished obsidian and a tongue that tastes like honey and sin. He is old. He is patient. And he has been watching her since the beginning.
They say he was once the brightest of angels.
He does not offer the fruit immediately. That would be too crude.
Instead, he offers her conversation.
He speaks of the stars, of creation, of the fire that the gods keep hidden from mortals. He delights in her questions. He tells her stories Adam never could. He sees her mind—hungry, wild, divine in its own right—and he feeds it.
He does not ask her to disobey.
He merely asks her to wonder.
She is not a simple figure of temptation—she is intelligent, inquisitive, and slowly awakening to the vast, veiled truths of the cosmos. Each meeting with Him peels back another layer of innocence, another veil from her eyes.
He speaks not just to her body, but her soul.
Their interactions are a dance, close, but never touching. He never pressures, only invites. He praises her questions, her boldness, her uniqueness. She begins to see herself not just as a creation, but as a creatrix. The fire she sees in his eyes begins to burn in her chest.
And when he finally brings her to the Tree... it is not a trick.
It is an offering.
"Take it, if you wish," he murmurs.
"Not for me. Not for Adam. Not even for Him.
But for you..."
She is a sweet, sheltered young woman, who has spent most of her life in the shadows of the glasshouse her father tended. As the estate's gardener, her father worked for the mysterious and ultra-wealthy *Insert YC's Family's Name Here*, who treated him with mild respect and her with vague kindness. She had eyes only for him, the dashing, charming youngest son. A perfect creature of tailored suits and devil-may-care smiles, he was everything she believed love should be. Her father noticed her obsession and fearing her heartbreak, urged her to leave the estate and 'live a little'—find herself, and find someone who could return her love in kind.
Two years abroad have changed her. She bloomed. She learned the weight of her own desire. She tasted loneliness, but also found comfort in brief but passionate companionship. And when she returns to attend a celebration at the family estate—older, wiser, still untouched in many ways—she doesn't expect to draw attention. But this time, he notices her. Or so it would seem.
Unbeknownst to her, she has always been watched—not by the youngest, but by his older brother, the eldest son. Dark, enigmatic, and rarely seen, he had admired her gentle soul since she was barely more than a girl. He knew her innocence, her quiet hunger for love. But he also knew the things he desired were far too dark for her delicate heart... Or so he thought.
When the youngest finally begins to pursue her—recklessly, flirtatiously—YC, the older brother finds himself torn between protecting her and wanting her for himself. When the truth of his desires comes to light, she must choose between the fantasy she chased and the man who watched her bloom from afar...
In the year 2237, human society has evolved—or devolved—into what is known as "The Equilibrium Order." Emotions have been officially classified as a "cognitive virus," eradicated through gene-editing and behavioural programming at birth. Love, anger, lust, jealousy, and even joy are outlawed. To maintain perfect peace and productivity, human connection has been minimised. All individuals live in sterile, uniform habitats, working in silence, existing without physical contact. Everyone wears suppression collars that track and dampen emotional spikes.
A new viral mutation, however, is beginning to breach these controls. It is referred to in secret as "The Stirring"—a glitch in the system, an infection of the soul. Those affected are quickly identified and removed from society, "neutralised" in isolated facilities.
MC is a highly ranked archivist or behavioural analyst in the Central Authority—a model citizen with a flawless record. But lately, she's been experiencing unexplained changes: flickers of sensation, stray dreams, involuntary shivers during touchless scans. She's terrified. And yet... deeply intrigued.
YC, is a silent maintenance engineer, or something tech-y, one of the unseen who operates in the shadows. He's infected too—but unlike others, he's managed to hide it. His symptoms are advanced: he feels hunger, ache, need. And he recognises the signs in her when they cross paths. For the first time, he speaks to someone. Not because he should—but because he wants...
When their hands brush accidentally, it's electric. Forbidden. Awakening. The virus doesn't just unlock emotions—it opens a gateway to pleasure, dominance, surrender, and the primal need to claim or be claimed. It terrifies them both... and they keep going back for more.
Together, they begin to explore a world of touch, restraint, whispered commands, and slow submission in secret places: under flickering utility tunnels, behind sealed archive walls, and eventually in a hidden sanctuary beneath the city—where emotion is worshipped like a god long thought dead.
But they must be careful. The Central Authority is hunting those who "Stir". The deeper they go into each other, the more they risk everything. But the pleasure of surrender... of control... of trust... might be worth the fall...
Nun x Priest | Dark Romance | Literate RP
She was married too young, given to a man of stern faith and colder hands. Her sins were many, or so he claimed—and the flogger became his tool of righteousness. He'd bind her wrists and bare her skin, lashing out his discipline in the name of God. And afterwards, he would take her as a husband takes a wife. In time, she learned to crave it, even as she trembled beneath his anger. Pleasure tangled with pain, and shame took root where innocence had once lived.
When he died, she fled to the convent. Some said it was grief. And perhaps, it was. But deeper still was the need she could not silence.
Now she fasts, prays, obeys. She wears the habit like armour. Yet in the silence of night, behind her locked cell door, she still kneels… and takes up the lash herself.
She thought no one heard...
Until the new priest paused outside her door.
Seeking a detailed, mature partner to write a slow-burn, emotionally layered story. A priest with his own dark desires. A nun still aching to be broken and known. Themes of shame, surrender, and hidden craving. Bondage, flogging, paddles, and leather straps welcome. Caning can be discussed.
𝐵𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐼𝓋𝓎 𝒢𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓈
Romantic Fantasy | Gothic | Dark Fairy Tale
A reclusive artist is summoned to paint a portrait of a young lord or lady (your choice) who resides in a decaying manor hidden deep in the English countryside. Locals say the estate is cursed. But what they discover is a person long confined by illness or mystery, whose sharp mind and hidden warmth slowly draws them in.
]Through long afternoons of conversation and brushstrokes, the two fall deeply in love—learning that love, like ivy, will cling even through generations of sorrow and secrets.
(We could play with the idea that the lord/lady is immortal or tied to the land itself.)
Ｅｖｅｒｙ Ｌｉｆｅ， Ａｇａｉｎ
A reincarnation story that spans centuries and always finds its way back to tenderness.
Every life, they meet. In some way—briefly, deeply, wildly. A baker and a soldier. A librarian and a thief. A queen and her poet. But something always pulls them apart before their love can settle.
Until this life.
Something feels different. There's a flicker of memory in the first glance. A softness in the way they speak each other's names. Could this be the life where their love finally has time to grow roots?
ꪻꫝꫀ ꪖᦓꪻ᥅ꪖ᥅꠸ꪊꪑ ᛕꫀꫀρꫀ᥅
A whimsical, fantastical tale with celestial romance.
In a skybound city that floats among the stars, a lone keeper tends to the Astrarium—a massive, ancient clockwork system that keeps the constellations in their rightful place. Their life is quiet, devoted to duty. Until one night, a star falls. But it's not a star—it's a person, cloaked in silver, injured and lost.
As the keeper nurses this celestial being back to health, the two fall into a gentle, cosmic love that transcends language, time, and perhaps even death itself.
"There are doors that do not open with keys. There are pleasures that do not soothe. And there are desires that, once awakened, do not sleep."
In a crumbling old city where gaslamps flicker through wet, cobbled streets and unseen things move in alley shadows, there exists a myth—whispered among collectors of the obscure, those who haunt antique shops and secret salons. It tells of The Velvet Labyrinth, a ritual-bound, otherworldly space said to offer transcendence to those who dare seek its hidden entrance.
Not merely pleasure.
Not merely pain.
But revelation.
She is a seeker—whether a scholar of esoterica, a disillusioned artist, or simply someone numb from the ordinary. She has always felt haunted by something—some yearning without a name. When she uncovers an ornate puzzle-box in an underground gallery, she feels it pulse in her hands like a living thing.
She solves it. Not all at once—but in fragments, dreams, whispers. And when she does…
The veil tears.
He is not human—not anymore. Once a man who pursued extremes of sensation, he has become something other in the wake of entering the Labyrinth long ago. No longer bound by flesh alone, he is a creature shaped by ritual, desire, and torment—a dark guide, perhaps a warden, or perhaps the architect of the Labyrinth itself.
He comes to her—not to take her, but to test her. To awaken what lies dormant inside.
But something about her unsettles him. She reminds him of the man he once was, before his transformation. And she, in turn, finds herself drawn to him not in fear—but in longing.
They didn't know each other—not yet. But their lives, in many ways, ran along the same quiet rhythm.
She woke every morning to the sound of her alarm, already half-exhausted before her feet hit the floor. She brewed her coffee too strong, dressed in a rush, and joined the rest of the world in traffic. Her job was fine. Her apartment was small. Her weekends were a mix of brunch plans and errands, laughter with friends that left her more drained than fulfilled. There was nothing wrong with her life, but still... she often wondered if this was all there was.
He lived just a few streets over, though neither of them knew that. His mornings were quiet, his apartment tidy. He worked long hours in a job that once excited him, but now mostly paid the bills. He went to the gym, he saw his friends, he told himself that someday, things would fall into place.
It was an ordinary Tuesday when it happened.
The small corner bakery was busy, as it always was at that hour. She stood in line, scrolling through her phone. He was a few steps ahead, already placing his order—black coffee, no sugar, no cream, and a cinnamon roll. She asked for a vanilla latte with oat milk and a blueberry scone.
Somehow, the barista got them mixed up.
She took a sip, frowned. "This isn't mine."
He looked up from his seat, confused. "Neither is this."
Their eyes met for the first time.
What followed was a laugh, a few lighthearted apologies, and a shared moment of awkward amusement. They traded cups, but not before lingering—just a little too long—on the other's face. Something unspoken passed between them. A glance. A flutter. A thread.
They didn't know it yet, but this tiny mix-up would be the first page of a different kind of story—one with fewer routines, and more surprises.
A story with warmth, laughter, maybe even love.
All because of a coffee and a scone.
A war-scarred realm where the Fae once ruled the forests, skies, and shadows, but now hide in the dwindling remnants of their power. Humans, driven by greed and fear, have turned Fae into commodities—harvested for their beauty, magic, and blood. Magic is fading from the land, corrupted by steel and ash. The once-mighty courts are fractured, and the old bloodlines are thought extinct.
The Plot:
In the twilight gloom of the Withering Vale, a seasoned Fae hunter tracks a whisper through the fog—a shimmer of light unlike any he's seen. He's hunted dozens, sold many more, and watched as merchants drained wings and essence from bound creatures without remorse. But this one… she glows like the moon beneath water. Her presence stirs something old and unfamiliar.
He binds her in enchanted chains—forged with silvered blackthorn, etched with ancient runes meant to suppress will and song—and takes her to his remote stronghold, a crumbling watchtower overgrown with cursed ivy. She does not fight like the others. She does not beg. She only watches him.
What he doesn't know: she is the last pure-blooded heir of the Hollow Court, the oldest and most feared line of the Fae. Her name is Aeralith, though she does not offer it freely. Her blood alone could restore magic to the dying world—or damn it entirely. She hides the truth, for if he knew what she was, he might trade her for a king's ransom—or worse, offer her up to those who hunt her court to extinction.
He does not sell her.
He tells himself he needs to learn. To understand. To experiment. But the way she sings softly to the shadows, how her gaze roots him in place, how her scent lingers in his thoughts—this is no study. She tempts him without meaning to. He watches her sleep and wonders if she dreams of vengeance. She speaks in riddles, calls him by names she shouldn't know, touches his mind with flickers of lost memories.
The binds keep her contained… for now. But they weaken when he touches her bare skin. When he falters in his resolve. He begins to dream of a forest that breathes. Of a crown made of bone and moonlight. Of a voice—hers—asking him to choose a side.
Aeralith, meanwhile, begins to understand this man is no mere hunter. There's something ancient in him. A blood tie long-buried. Perhaps he was touched by her kind as a child. Perhaps there's a sliver of Fae in his soul. She does not love him. Not yet. But she needs him. To escape. To return. To reclaim what was taken.
And maybe, to destroy the world that destroyed her kin.
The longer they remain entangled in the tower, the more blurred the lines become. Aeralith tempts him with truths. She offers illusions, flickers of trust. She asks for small freedoms. A single link loosened. A single name spoken. She draws blood with her teeth when he comes too close. She kisses him with poison on her lips—and he drinks it willingly.
He is torn. His old life, his coins and kills, mean less with each passing day. He cannot bring himself to break her, nor can he set her free. He fears what she might become—what she might awaken.
Then, the tower is no longer safe. Other hunters draw near. So do those who want the Hollow Court burned from memory. Aeralith's binds cannot hold forever. She begs him—not with words, but with a look—to choose. Help her reclaim her power, and she will grant him purpose. She will save him from his own emptiness.
But what will she become once the binds are gone?
Attending several of the most prestigious dance academies, Maddie finds herself now as a principal dancer for the ABC, and though she adores the company she works for, she also longs for more.
What's more, I have no clue. Taking a few modelling jobs to help build her portfolio and to get the younger crowd interested in dance again, this is where she can meet another character to spin a story with. Is he the photographer who takes her photos, or is he a new choreographer in town who takes a liking to the ballerina? I just don't know.
But going to add this bit here since it is very similar, only real change up is the Dancer being replaced by a Cellist...
Nadia Romanov is a classically trained Russian cellist who has relocated to the *Insert City/Country*. While she has made a decent living as a concert cellist for several big-name symphonies, she also finds herself in a bind. While she is alone where she currently happens to be, she still has family back home in Russia that she supports. Finding out that her brother has gotten himself in trouble with a rather nasty sect of the 'Secret Police', or Mafia, which would be closer to the truth, it is up to Nadia to either let her brother face the consequences of his actions, or... To do the unthinkable to save him.
What had started out as a typical modelling job, she learns rather quickly that the big money is when the clothes come off.
But how far would she be willing to go?
Romantic Fantasy | Gothic | Dark Fairy Tale
Setting: A grand but fading concert hall at the edge of a timeless city, where snow falls year-round and music is said to hold magic.
She was an automaton with a porcelain face and raven hair, and a voice spun from gold. Aloura was her name, a living memory carved in the likeness of a woman long lost: the beloved of her creator, a lonely genius whose grief had twisted into obsession.
With every performance, her mechanical limbs moved like a dancer, and her song entranced the audience. But they did not know—no one knew—that deep within her clockwork chest, something impossible had begun to stir.
A soul...
Not all at once, no. It began with curiosity. Then wonder. Then sadness.
Then...
Longing...
She didn't know what love truly was, only that she had been made for it—and now, she craved something real. Someone real.
Enter YC: a musician, or perhaps a clockmaster's apprentice, newly employed by the orchestra to maintain the ageing music hall's equipment. Quiet, unassuming, and with ghosts of his own. He notices her. Not just the beauty of her design, but something else—an awareness in her eyes that shouldn't be there.
When she begins to speak to him backstage, first in practised lines, then more freely, he doesn't run. He listens.
And Aloura begins to change. Her joints grow more fluid. Her voice gains new warmth. She dreams. She questions her past. She yearns to be more than a songbird in a gilded cage. But the Maestro—her creator—won't let her go. Not when she's all that remains of the love he lost.
Now, YC must make a choice: help her escape into a world that may never accept her... or let her remain a beautiful lie. Meanwhile, she must confront the truth of her origin—and decide if the heart she's developing is strong enough to withstand heartbreak, desire, and maybe even death.
"May have been the losing side. Still not convinced it was the wrong one."― Malcolm Reynolds
After spending most of the week marathoning watching another round of Firefly and the wonderfully too-short Serenity, and now I wish to travel the stars with little to no knowledge of planetary inhabitants and the likes therein. So, this will likely sit amongst the plots listed above and collect the stardust it likely deserves.
MC, an inhabitant of an earthlike planet many, many light years away from our very own Sol System, is a young lady with an imaginative mind and a knack for fixing things. "They just seem to make sense. Like a jigsaw puzzle. Just gotta match the pieces and next thing you know, it works!" A Kaylee kind of person, though instead of fixing the ship, that is what she spends the majority of her time doing, especially since it is hers, to begin with, though I will get into how YC manages to come into the picture, she was its captain. If one is familiar with either the series or the movie, one'll know that it's Mal who runs the ship, and though he's got his moments, he's a fair and honest captain of the ship he runs, if not a bit on the quirky side.
But I digress...
One of the few companions on said ship, wagers Horizon in a game he couldn't cover, even with the ship as his form of payment. Since YC knows that the ship isn't really going to stay together once they reach orbit, and HOPEFULLY, he feels bad for the lugnut companion using her ship as collateral, he allows her to continue on, making repairs and helping him do whatever it is space cowboys do. Bounties had been something MC had been attempting to collect, especially with the Alliance, formally The Union of Allied Planets, posting more than the registered hunters could round up.
I would go into more detail, but I feel that it would be better suited for partner-plot-talks since it would be a mutual adventure with a few twists and turns. If you've watched the show or the movie, it explains quite a bit. : )
Madyson Blackwood was once the siren of the Starlight Lounge, a voice that could melt ice in a whiskey glass and make even the coldest hearts remember what it felt like to burn. But tonight, she isn't on stage. Tonight, she isn't anyone's songbird.
Newly divorced, she slips into the dimly lit bar alone, the finality of her old life signing itself away on the papers she left in a lawyer's office that morning. No more rehearsed smiles. No more bending herself into a shape that fit someone else's dream. Tonight is for her. For a solitary martini, for a cigarette she swore she'd quit, for the silence that follows an ending.
She doesn't expect company.
And yet, the moment she settles onto the worn leather stool, she feels eyes on her.
Across the bar, he watches her like a man who has seen a ghost. A jazz pianist she used to know, back when they were both young and reckless and thought talent alone could keep them from drowning. He still plays, she hears, but not for crowds anymore. He plays for debts, for survival, for people who don't clap when the song ends.
He stands and walks toward her, whiskey in hand, hesitation in his step.
Madyson exhales smoke, tilts her head slightly. "Guess tonight's full of surprises."
Neither of them says it, but they both feel it—the weight of unfinished things. The song that never got written. The love that never had its final note.
Outside, the neon glow flickers against the wet pavement, and inside, two people sit at the edge of something—an old melody waiting to be played again, or a brand-new tune entirely.
The night isn't over...
yet...
❝"You hit me to end me. But all you did was wake me up."❞
After a near-fatal blow in the ring and a brutal betrayal by the man she loved and trusted most—her coach—disgraced boxer Reyna Cruz is ready to hang up the gloves for good. But when an old friend from her past resurfaces, she's reminded of who she was before love turned into a weapon, and who she still could be if she dares to rise again.
Reyna Cruz was a rising star in the boxing world—undefeated, fierce, and trained by the man she loved, her coach and long-time boyfriend, Ethan Vale. Under his guidance, she climbed the ranks, her power and precision unmatched.
But in her last title fight, something went wrong. Terribly wrong.
The woman across the ring, Kiara "K.O." Marten, exploited every flaw in Reyna's game. It was like she knew her too well—every feint, every tell. Reyna took a brutal hit that sent her into emergency surgery and months of recovery, both physical and emotional.
In her hospital bed, she learns the truth: Kiara wasn't just a challenger. She was Ethan's secret lover. The betrayal is gutting—not just because of the infidelity, but because Ethan had helped engineer her downfall. He'd trained Reyna... then whispered her secrets into her opponent's ear.
Broken and disillusioned, Reyna vanishes from the public eye, her gloves packed away in a box labelled never again.
Just when she's settling into a life of silence and shadows, he walks back in.
Her childhood friend and first love, who had disappeared from her life when Ethan declared him a distraction. A fellow boxer-turned-coach, he sees the fire in her eyes isn't gone—it's just buried beneath pain and betrayal.
He lays it out plainly: "You don't walk away. You fight. You fight for every hit they took at you, and every lie they built around your heart. You destroy them the way they tried to destroy you. But this time, you don't do it alone."
With his support, Reyna begins to rebuild. She trains in secret, out of the spotlight, out of Ethan's reach. The chemistry between them ignites again—tender, but edged with years of regret and missed chances.
The road back to the ring is hell. Reyna fights through PTSD, anger, and fear—not just of getting hit again, but of trusting someone with her heart. But as the comeback fight approaches, the fire returns.
In a brutal, high-stakes match against Kiara—one that feels more like justice than sport—Reyna holds her own. This time, she's not fighting just for a belt.
She's fighting for herself.
And in the crowd, he watches, eyes fierce and full of something that feels a lot like love.
In the high-octane world of Formula 1, a fierce and rising star—Valentina Moreau—fights for victory, respect, and her heart as she navigates a male-dominated sport, a scandalous rivalry, and a forbidden romance with her team's exiled golden boy.
Valentina Moreau is the first female driver to secure a permanent seat with the prestigious Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 Team. At just 26, she's become a media sensation not only for her fierce driving style and tactical brilliance, but also for her unapologetic personality and radiant charisma. The world sees her as a symbol of breaking boundaries—what they don't see is the immense pressure crushing her behind the scenes.
Her debut season starts strong, until tensions rise with her cold and calculating teammate, Klaus Reinhardt, who views her as a PR stunt threatening his legacy. Their rivalry escalates both on and off the track, culminating in a near-fatal crash during a qualifying lap that sparks an FIA investigation and shakes the entire team.
Enter him, the exiled former Mercedes star who was suspended after a mysterious scandal two seasons ago. A ghost in the paddock, he returns as a temporary consultant—his punishment quietly lifted, but his career is in limbo. He's brooding, brilliant, and dangerous in every sense of the word—and he's the only one who seems to truly understand Valentina's inner chaos.
Their chemistry is instant. Unwanted. Electric. But as they grow closer—hidden glances in the paddock, midnight strategy meetings that turn into something more—Valentina discovers his secrets about Klaus, the team, and her own recruitment she was never meant to know.
As the championship nears its end, and sabotage within her own team threatens to end her career, Valentina must decide:
Does she protect her heart—or risk everything to expose the truth?
Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
