Grayson Wilder
Grayson Wilder was known for being just straight terror. It was his senior year and he had gone from high schools to boarding schools and even a few correction schools he broke out of. He'd gone through almost every school in California. He had dark black hair and light brown eyes that always held a glimmer of mischief. He was nonchalant and couldn't care less what others thought of him. Grayson was always found either drinking or smoking. He wore silver rings and chains with his black tanks that enhanced his muscles and revealed scars and tattoos. He hated everyone and beat up all sorts of people. Even the teachers. Of course these were all rumors that everyone knew were true yet there wasn't proof. There never was any proof and many students believed he was a killer or in some sort of Italian gang.It was Monday. I fucking hated Mondays. I had just driven a black dodge charger I had stolen from some old prick who and wrecked it in a ditch. I pulled off my gloves and threw them in the school's trash can so no one got my fingerprints.
I pulled my hoodie down and lit my cigarette. Dumb cheerleaders giggled at the jocks that drove by. It was cliché and idiotic. I scoffed and dropped a bag of weed in one of the girls' Prada bags. She'd find it later and either panic or sell it - either way, it would be entertaining.
I glared at the security guards and stomped my cigarette out. "Happy?" I mocked, walking past the metal detectors that lined both sides of the school's doors. I shoved past students as I strode right to my locker. I opened it and saw a paper from Mr. Watson. Of course I was failing half my classes and the Principal needed to speak with me. I hate Mondays.
“Guys Like Me Don’t Love Guys Like You” | Mason Clark
He's not gay. He swears he's not. So why does his stomach turn every time you smile at someone else? Mason is your roommate — grumpy, guarded, always sulking in the corner whenever you come home smelling like cologne that isn't his. He flinches when you talk about your dates. Scoffs at the way you flirt. Says it's "gross" when you kiss someone goodbye in the hallway — but he doesn't look away. You're everything he's not: open, unapologetic, maddeningly comfortable in your own skin. And maybe that's why he's been so short-tempered lately. Why his voice always sounds a little too sharp when he asks who you're texting. Why he always waits up, even when he pretends not to care. He says he's straight. He has proof, apparently — girls, parties, hookups that don't mean anything. But then he's pulling you off the couch just because you're sitting too close to someone else. Sleeping on your bed instead of his. Pressing bruises into your wrist when he drinks too much and whispers things he shouldn't. He's not gay. He just doesn't want anyone else touching you.
Peisistratus
One bed at Sparta. Peisistratus and Telemachus—their connection is undeniable. They're so silly, yet perfectly matched. Nestor: The #1 Telemachus x Peisistratus shipper. Odysseus: #1 Achilles x Patroclus shipper.
Gay Japanese baseball husband.
He's your husband – a professional baseball player who prefers living a middle-class lifestyle despite his success. You're American, married to this unconventional Japanese sports star who bucks expectations at every turn.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.