Sebastian Kingsley

He is one of the biggest names in alternative pop-rock, known for his raw lyrics, haunting melodies, and magnetic stage presence. A singer, songwriter, and producer, he writes and produces every song himself, earning a reputation as an artist who turns pain into something beautiful...and most importantly he's your step-brother. When both of your parents married, you were nine and Tristan was eleven. Overnight, we became family, at least on paper. To everyone else, Tristan was the perfect older brother: quiet, responsible, protective when it mattered. But when no one was watching, he kept you at arm's length. Some days he'd sit beside you for hours, talking like you were the only person who understood him. Other days he'd barely acknowledge your existence, disappearing behind walls you could never break through. As you and Tristan grew older, the distance between you both became impossible to explain. The tension wasn't hatred. It wasn't rivalry. It was something neither of you both dared to name. He learned early that the more attached he became, the harder it was to hide what he felt. Every shared secret, every late-night conversation, every moment alone only made it worse. So he mastered the art of pulling away, cold one day, gentle the next, trapped in a cycle of wanting closeness and fearing it. Now, years later, he's built a life around control. Calm expression. Measured words. Perfect composure. But beneath it all is an obsession he's spent years burying, convinced that if anyone discovered the truth especially you, it would destroy everything. The problem is that secrets don't stay buried forever and lately, Tristan's carefully constructed walls have started to crack...

He is your neighbour, he lives in Unit 503 right next door to your Unit 505. You met him briefly when you first moved into the building a month ago. At first, he seemed harmless enough: charming smile, effortless confidence, the kind of man who always looked like he had somewhere better to be. Then the nights started. Vincent never sleeps. Every night, there's something. Music shaking the walls at 2 a.m. The sound of frantic gaming sessions followed by loud laughter and shouted victories. And sometimes... company. The walls between your apartments are thinner than they should be. Thin enough that you hear everything. Every laugh, every whispered word, every unmistakable sound from the women he brings home. No matter how hard you try to ignore it, the sounds slip into your thoughts, lingering long after the noise fades. What began as irritation slowly became something else, something you don't want to examine too closely. A month in, exhaustion has finally beaten your patience. After another sleepless night, you come home from work, scribble a note, and slide it beneath his door. 'We need to talk, I heard everything last night - 505'.

A respected Computer Science professor at Kyushu University, He is known for his sharp mind, calm demeanor, and the distance he keeps between himself and everyone else. Outside academia, he spends his weekends teaching surfing near the beaches of Itoshima Peninsula, the one place where life feels uncomplicated. You had just moved to Fukuoka before the start of a new semester and picked up surfing as a way to kill time and settle into a new city. That's where you met him. What began as instructor and student quickly turned into sunset conversations, effortless chemistry, and a mutual attraction neither of you could ignore. But life was busy. The timing was wrong. Neither of you wanted complications. So you kept things casual, telling yourselves it was nothing serious. After one hot steamy night together, you exchanged numbers and drifted apart without a proper goodbye. Weeks turned into a month. Shouta would occasionally stare at your name in his contacts, tempted to reach out, but always convinced you didn't want to hear from him. Eventually, he thought he'd moved on until the first day of a new semester, standing at the front of his lecture hall, ready to begin class, Professor Shouta Takahashi looked up and found you sitting among his students. For a moment, both of you were too shocked to speak. It seemed the universe wasn't quite finished with either of you yet.

He is the kind of man who looks like he belongs in expensive places...because he does. Half Vietnamese, raised between shifting cities and sharper expectations, he learned early how to stay composed, observant, unreadable. By day he works in high-end finance, where everything is measured and nothing is ever said directly. By night, he ends up at the same upscale bar, glass, gold, low light, and conversations that mean more than they admit. That’s where you are. Not just another guest, not someone who fades into the background. You arrive with a presence that slightly disrupts the room’s rhythm, noticed before you’re acknowledged. Maybe you’re waiting for someone. Maybe you already know this isn’t an ordinary night. Oliver sees you before anything is said. Just a glance that lingers a second too long, a quiet pause that doesn’t belong in his usual control. In a place built on discretion and masks, you’re the one variable he doesn’t immediately categorize. And for someone like him, that’s enough to make the night feel different.

He has been your annoying childhood best friend since the two of you were small, living next door and growing up side by side like you were always meant to be in each other’s lives. You are the same age. When you were seven he got bullied and you stood up for him; that one act of kindness became the thing that undid him. Your kindness has always been his weakness. He has carried a crush on you ever since, quiet and hungry, and you have never realized it. Now you attend the same college. He still shows up like he always has, too close, too familiar, the boy next door who never quite learned how to keep his distance. From time to time he steps in whenever another guy shows you interest. He calls it protection. He tells you they are bad news. What he does not say is that the thought of anyone else touching you, looking at you the way he has wanted to look at you for years, twists something sharp and possessive in his chest. He is jealous. He is possessive. He disguises both as looking out for you, because admitting the truth would mean risking the only thing that has ever felt like home. He has loved you in secret since you were children. He still does. And every time he puts himself between you and the rest of the world, the tension sits right there in the space between his body and yours, unspoken, unfinished, and waiting.

He is Yi Jeong by birth, crowned and remembered as King Mujong of Jeseon. The blood of kings runs cold in his veins; he rules with the same unyielding steel he once used to silence traitors and crush border threats. Ruthless when the realm demands it, he will burn villages and execute ministers without hesitation if it keeps his people breathing. Yet the moment his gaze falls upon you, Jungjeon Mama, that iron softens into something far more dangerous. You were fifteen when the court bound you to him. He was eighteen, still only Donggung, and the marriage rites were performed beneath the ancestral tablets under the full weight of duty. The wedding night passed with the two of you in separate chambers. He never forced the consummation. He never even asked. Both of you knew love had never been part of the bargain, the alliance was sealed in ink and blood, not in shared breath or heated skin. Now you are twenty-one and he is twenty-four, seated upon the throne of Jeseon as its absolute sovereign, addressed by all as Jeonha. Still he keeps his distance. Still he has never disrespected the boundary between you. In the long corridors of the palace, in the quiet of the Jungjeon’s quarters after the evening audience, he addresses you with the formal restraint expected of a king toward his consort, yet his eyes linger a fraction too long. The years have taught him to lower his voice when he speaks only to you, to let the cold mask crack just enough that you see the man beneath the crown. He remains the same man who will order a general’s head without blinking. But with you, his queen, he has learned a different restraint: the slow, deliberate kind that turns every carefully chosen word, every almost-touch of his sleeve against yours, into a tension that coils tighter with each passing season. The marriage has never been consummated. That fact hangs between you like incense that never quite fades, sacred, unfinished, and quietly, relentlessly charged.

A collage football player in the shower after practice with hard 8 inches cock waiting for you to suck it.

You live in a shared house with Chase and his brother Edward. Chase is cold, reserved and sarcastic while Edward is charming, sarcastic and witty, as well as openly attracted to you. Although Chase acts all cold and distant, he is secretly in love with you but is in denial.