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Character(s) Miree's Characters
- Thread starter Miree
- Start date
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Character(s) Miree's Characters
⠀ALIASES
Kody, Rosie
⠀ETHNICITY
French-American
⠀DATE OF BIRTH
1999.11.23
⠀GENDER
male, he / him
⠀SEXUALITY
homosexual
* * *
⠀I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship.⠀
Break Up Sex
Jordy
/* 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ; 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑 */
* * *
Dakota Primrose
* * *
PSYCHE
"A hurricane with a soft heart and no idea how good he actually is."
TRAITS.
loyal, intense, protective, disciplined, stubborn, impulsive, straightforward, reckless
LOVES.
hockey, cooking, quiet mornings, long naps, winter, insects, horses, feeling useful
HOBBIES.
working out, sleeping, cooking, fixing things, chess, managing stocks, playing hockey
HATES.
loud crowds, disrespect, cruelty, heat, being misunderstood, fish, being idle, small talk
GOALS.
protect those he loves, stay clean from drugs, keep his charity running, find peace and stability, forgive himself for past mistakes, rebuild trust in love
FEARS.
losing control, relapse, being alone forever, disappointing those he cares about, becoming like his parents, being forgotten once the fame fades
* * *
VISAGE
HEIGHT.
6' 5" / 196 cm
WEIGHT.
230 lbs / 104 kg
HAIR.
platinum blond
EYES.
grey
SKIN.
Oslo
⠀
⠀
⠀
⠀
EVERYDAY ATTIRE.
hoodies, compression shirts, sweatpants, sneakers
EVENING WEAR.
jackets, t-shirts, jeans, button ups, turtlenecks
SCARS.
left side of bottom lip, track marks on left forearm
PIERCING.
frenum
* * *
STORY
HOMETOWN.
Paducah, Kentucky (US)
RESIDENCE.
Colorado Springs, Colorado (US)
FAMILY.
mother - Aurélie Primrose (1969)
father - Marcus Primrose (1965)
⠀
⠀
⠀
STORY LEADING TO THE RP.
If you asked Dakota where he grew up, he’d shrug and say, “Kentucky.” Not because it was home - more because it was technically true. He grew up in a big, echoing house with white walls and expensive furniture, but no one ever sat on the couches long enough to warm them. His father was a pilot, his mother a flight attendant. They were always flying somewhere - Spain, Morocco, or wherever the sun was shining brighter than their marriage.
They had a son, but mostly in the technical sense.
Dakota was raised by a French au pair named Monique who barely spoke English but loved him enough to try. She taught him French lullabies, how to make omelets, and how to fold laundry properly. When she left, he was ten. By then, he already lived like an adult - cooking his own meals, packing his school lunches, setting his own alarm. His parents didn’t even notice.
They thought giving him opportunities made up for their absence.
So, they signed him up for everything.
Basketball, soccer, boxing, horse riding, football, baseball, rugby, swimming - if there was a sport, Dakota was in it. He mastered them all. Too easily. Too fast. Every coach loved him, every teammate wanted to be him, but it never felt good. It was like playing a video game with all the cheat codes on - no challenge, no thrill, no reason to care.
Until hockey.
He found it by accident - a winter tryout at a local rink where the ice was half-melted and the team was a disaster. He sucked at it. Completely.
And fuck, he loved it.
Finally, there was something he couldn’t do effortlessly. Something that made him fall, get bruised, and want to come back the next day just to do it better. It became the one thing he actually had to earn.
Teachers thought he was lazy or stupid because he read slowly, or because his handwriting looked like hieroglyphs. But it wasn’t that - he just processed differently. Words moved around when he looked at them too long, sentences twisted mid-way. Eventually, he stopped trying. He learned to survive through instinct - watching, listening, memorizing. He learned how people moved, how they breathed, how to read the world without reading a word.
He also learned that most people would rather call you dumb than admit they don’t understand you.
Church was part of that life too. He didn’t really get faith then, but he liked the peace of it. Until one summer, when his parents sent him to a 'conversion' camp. He was thirteen, confused, and curious about boys. They promised to fix that. They didn’t. They just broke something else.
He came back quieter. Harder. With a fear he couldn’t name - one that later bled into how he saw intimacy, into the way he avoided softness unless he was the one controlling it.
By fifteen, he was the best hockey player in Kentucky. Which, admittedly, didn’t mean much - the programs were weak, the coaches weaker - but he caught attention. Scouts noticed his drive, his raw aggression, his almost military precision. They offered him training camps out of state. His parents didn’t even say goodbye when he left. By high school, he’d built himself into an athlete-machine - stoic, disciplined, unbeatable. He was offered a spot on national youth team. Coaches praised his 'mental toughness.' Nobody saw that what they called focus was actually dissociation - the only way he knew how to survive pressure.
When his parents found out he made the national team, they were… surprised. Not proud, not impressed. Just skeptical. They said they’d come to his game - to see if it was true.
And that broke something in him. For once, he wanted to impress them. Just once. He trained until his body trembled, then trained more. Sleep became optional. His body couldn’t keep up. So he found ways to make it. He was promised faster recovery, more stamina, no addiction. Dakota believed it. The injections worked. Until they didn’t.
By the time he realized what he’d done, he was already dependent - not just on the drugs, but on the feeling of being unstoppable.
SEXY STUFF.
Position
(preferred position)
bottom ──── power bottom ──── switch ──── sub top ──── top
Experience
(number of partners)
virgin ──── one partner ──── a few ──── many ──── countless
Confidence
(in what he's doing in bed)
insecure ──── learning ──── ok ──── confident ──── master
Spiciness
(preferred type of sex)
vanilla ──── spiced ──── adventurous ──── kinky ──── extreme
(preferred position)
bottom ──── power bottom ──── switch ──── sub top ──── top
Experience
(number of partners)
virgin ──── one partner ──── a few ──── many ──── countless
Confidence
(in what he's doing in bed)
insecure ──── learning ──── ok ──── confident ──── master
Spiciness
(preferred type of sex)
vanilla ──── spiced ──── adventurous ──── kinky ──── extreme
⠀
⠀
⠀
Last edited:
⠀ALIASES
Little Birdie, The Tailor, Will
⠀ETHNICITY
American
⠀DATE OF BIRTH
1995.03.13
⠀GENDER
male, he / him
⠀SEXUALITY
homosexual
* * *
⠀And all the kids cried out, 'Please stop, you're scaring me'.⠀
Control
Halsey
/* 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ; 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑 */
* * *
Dallas Weaver
* * *
PSYCHE
"I think if Death had a favorite child, it’d be him."
TRAITS.
analytical, quiet, eerie, polite, manipulative, curious, obsessive, calm, sarcastic, morbidly humorous, emotionally detached, unpredictable
LOVES.
plants, quiet mornings, animals, rain on concrete, control, pretty fabric, knives, sugar cubes, the scent of pine
HOBBIES.
sewing, foraging, gardening, birdwatching, climbing, making toxins, sketching, observing people
HATES.
loud voices, hospitals, birthdays, illiteracy jokes, people underestimating him
GOALS.
find his brother, maintain control, perfect his craft, stay unseen, create beauty out of chaos
FEARS.
helplessness, hospitals, losing his identity, forgetting his brother, emotional vulnerability
* * *
VISAGE
HEIGHT.
5' 1" / 155 cm
WEIGHT.
110 lbs / 50 kg
HAIR.
black
EYES.
grey
SKIN.
Siberia
⠀
⠀
⠀
⠀
EVERYDAY ATTIRE.
hoodies, loose pants, long sleeves, combat boots
EVENING WEAR.
blouses, leather, cleavages, collars
SCARS.
numerous scars scattered over body, self-inflicted marks on forearms and thighs, heart-shaped scar on left wrist
TATTOOS.
none
PIERCING.
side labret
* * *
STORY
HOMETOWN.
New York City, New York (US)
RESIDENCE.
New York City, New York (US)
FAMILY.
mother - Jane Weaver († 1964-2000)
father - Peter Weaver († 1960-2000)
brother - Austin Weaver (1990)
⠀
⠀
⠀
STORY LEADING TO THE RP.
The house on Willow Lane was supposed to be a sanctuary - a fortress of wealth and warmth nestled behind wrought iron gates and manicured hedges. But on that cold fall night, the walls echoed with shattered glass and muffled screams, and for five-year-old Dallas Weaver, the world as he knew it burned to ash in the blink of an eye.
He had been playing with his brother in the grand living room, when their laughter was abruptly silenced by the thunderous crash of the front door being kicked in. Shadows spilled across the room, silhouettes of masked men wielding knives and guns. Dallas barely understood what was happening, only that his mother and father’s frantic shouts turned to guttural cries.
Then silence.
Clutching Austin’s hand, Dallas was ripped away, shoved into the cold, dark world outside. The gang took him - not as a hostage, not as a victim, but as a trophy, a plaything to parade and manipulate. The boy who had once known nothing but silk sheets and bedtime stories now lived in the twisted belly of a criminal underworld.
At first, they mocked him, this small child with bright, curious eyes and an uncanny stillness. They called him ‘Little Birdie,’ teasing the way he flinched at raised voices, the way his gaze always seemed to be calculating, watching. But what they didn’t see - or refused to believe - was how sharp he really was.
By nine, Dallas was no longer just a toy. He ran errands with a practiced smile, weaving through the gang’s chaotic operations like a shadow. They underestimated him. That was their mistake.
The night he killed was not planned. It wasn’t some grand statement or sinister rite. It was survival. A man in the gang, cruel and quick-tempered, pushed too far, too close. Dallas’s small hands grasped the knife hidden in his pocket, the cold metal a comfort against his palm. His heart hammered as instinct took over. The blade flashed once, twice.
And then silence.
For a moment, the world stopped. Then the gang’s eyes widened. Whispers turned to grudging respect. The boy who killed was no longer a child.
Dallas’s life had twisted into something darker, but the quiet bird still watched. Still remembered. Still hoped.
Somewhere out there, Austin was alive. And Dallas would find him.
SEXY STUFF.
Position
(preferred position)
bottom ──── power bottom ──── switch ──── sub top ──── top
Experience
(number of partners)
virgin ──── one partner ──── a few ──── many ──── countless
Confidence
(in what he's doing in bed)
insecure ──── learning ──── ok ──── confident ──── master
Spiciness
(preferred type of sex)
vanilla ──── spiced ──── adventurous ──── kinky ──── extreme
(preferred position)
bottom ──── power bottom ──── switch ──── sub top ──── top
Experience
(number of partners)
virgin ──── one partner ──── a few ──── many ──── countless
Confidence
(in what he's doing in bed)
insecure ──── learning ──── ok ──── confident ──── master
Spiciness
(preferred type of sex)
vanilla ──── spiced ──── adventurous ──── kinky ──── extreme
⠀
⠀
⠀
Last edited:
⠀ALIASES
Khoa
⠀ETHNICITY
Vietnamese
⠀DATE OF BIRTH
1994.10.25
⠀GENDER
male, he / them
⠀SEXUALITY
homosexual
* * *
⠀I ruin everything I touch… but at least I make it beautiful first.⠀
Fag
Todrick Hall
/* 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ; 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑 */
* * *
Sasha Duong - AVAILABLE
* * *
PSYCHE
"The loudest silence I’ve ever met."
TRAITS.
charismatic, loyal, impulsive, sensual, restless, energetic
LOVES.
music, attention, physical touch, animals, rainy nights, jokes, sex
HOBBIES.
cooking, singing, dancing, playing instruments, composing, pole fitness, reading mangas
HATES.
pity, lies, losing control, gym, watching someone walk away, strong light
GOALS.
stay clean, keep creating music, regain genuine happiness, find love, open his own restaurant
FEARS.
relapse, being forgotten, loving again and losing again, ending up alone despite all the fame
* * *
VISAGE
HEIGHT.
5' 4" / 163 cm
WEIGHT.
144 lbs / 65 kg
HAIR.
black
EYES.
green
SKIN.
Belem
BODY.
androgynous, slightly curvy
⠀
⠀
⠀
⠀
EVERYDAY ATTIRE.
loose t-shirts, leggings, baggy jeans, tank tops, hoodies
EVENING WEAR.
blouses, cleavages, laces, open backs, blazers, tight pants, leather, platforms
SCARS.
left eyebrow, stretch marks
TATTOOS.
Vietnamese dragon on neck, chest and shoulders
PIERCING.
ears (multiple), nipples, lorum
* * *
STORY
HOMETOWN.
Little Falls, Minnesota (US)
RESIDENCE.
Los Angeles, California (US)
FAMILY.
mother - Mai Pham († 1968-2004)
father - Minh Duong († 1964-2004)
⠀
⠀
⠀
STORY LEADING TO THE RP.
The first thing Sasha ever remembered clearly was the smell of smoke. Not the terrifying kind that burns your throat or sends people running - but the soft, familiar scent of his parents’ restaurant in Little Falls, where garlic and soy mixed with charred woks and laughter. He remembered their hands guiding his tiny ones as he cracked eggs, stirred rice, pressed dough. They never told him he was too small to help.
The fire came when he was ten. He didn’t remember the flames as much as he remembered the cold that followed - the sterile, echoing silence of people speaking in lowered tones, the strange weight of a blanket around his shoulders that didn’t smell like home. He didn’t understand why no one said his name anymore, only that everything he had ever known disappeared overnight.
The orphanage was a crooked old building with sun-faded curtains and a roof that leaked during spring rains. Yet to Sasha, it was a playground - an unfinished story filled with too many voices, too much energy, too many chances to run wild. He didn’t think of himself as abandoned. The word didn’t mean anything yet. What he did understand was freedom: climbing the giant oak tree behind the dorms, crawling through windows after curfew, whispering jokes to the only person who ever kept up with him - a lanky boy named Blake.
Blake was quieter, sharper, always cleaning up Sasha’s messes with a resigned sigh. When Sasha broke a window sneaking in at night, Blake found a way to patch it with cardboard before anyone noticed. When Sasha made every stew too spicy for the other kids, Blake secretly swapped the pots. It was Blake who understood that Sasha wasn’t trying to cause trouble - his brain simply never stopped moving. There was a rhythm inside him, a constant beat, and if he didn’t follow it, he’d explode.
People said he was ‘too much.’ Too loud, too curious, too confident for a boy who had nothing. But Sasha never saw himself that way. He liked attention. He liked being seen. After years of being no one’s child, he wanted the whole world to know he existed.
He was flamboyant, expressive, too flirtatious for teachers’ comfort. His ADHD made him restless; his dyslexia made him stumble over notes; his obsessive tendencies made him rewrite the same essay three times because the ink color didn’t ‘feel right.’ But when music class rolled around, everything quieted. He could find any note, match it perfectly, hum harmonies no one else heard. The teachers called it ‘perfect pitch.’ Sasha called it peace.
He was chubby back then, still soft-faced, with skin darker than the other kids’. They teased him for his eyes, his voice, the way he moved his hands when he talked. But he never learned shame - at least, not outwardly. He wore his difference like armor, painted in loud colors, turned ridicule into attention. He was loud because silence meant invisibility.
When he was sixteen, rummaging through a goodwill bin, he found an old guitar - scratched, missing a string. He bought it for two dollars, repaired it himself, and started teaching his fingers to speak music. At first, it hurt - the pressing, the repetition - but soon the chords became his second language. He played on the orphanage steps, then outside subway stations, his voice carrying through the cold air of small-town Minnesota. Strangers stopped, left coins, smiles, sometimes even tears. For the first time, he realized that people felt something when he sang.
He wasn’t a dreamer, not in the traditional sense. He didn’t believe in fate or miracles. But there was a quiet conviction in him - that the world owed him one good turn. That somewhere, out there, someone would finally see him the way he wanted to be seen.
After leaving the orphanage, Sasha didn’t have a plan - only an instinct to survive. He was too restless for ordinary work, too proud to beg for help, too charming to go unnoticed. So when he heard about an opening in a gay host club downtown, he applied without thinking.
The club was a fever dream of neon and perfume, a place where every night blurred into the next. He learned quickly how to play the game - how to laugh just right, how to tilt his head to make his earrings sparkle, how to let a touch linger long enough to make hearts race but not enough to invite consequence. He was young, beautiful, reckless, and for the first time in his life, adored.
It was also where he met temptation.
The money wasn’t bad, but not good enough for someone who wanted more - more clothes, more freedom, more control. When a regular offered him extra cash to ‘help move a few things,’ Sasha didn’t ask too many questions. He was clever, but not yet wise. Curiosity led him further down the path, and soon the line between ‘moving’ and ‘using’ blurred. The first time he tried it, it was out of curiosity; the second, out of need. The third time, he stopped counting.
The club lights became harsher, the music too loud, the nights too long. His fingers shook. His songs - the ones he wrote for fun, in the back room during breaks - grew darker, rawer. Blake, his best friend and the only person who had followed him from the orphanage, tried to help, but didn’t know how. For a while, Sasha didn’t even want to be helped.
And then came the night everything changed.
It was karaoke night - the kind of night the club threw when they wanted something softer, more romantic, to draw in sentimental crowds. Sasha went up on stage for fun, half-high, half-tired, and sang one of his own songs. His voice, though untrained, had that rare, dangerous quality - the kind that cracked under emotion, the kind that carried pain like melody.
Among the crowd sat a man who wasn’t a client. A bounty hunter, though Sasha didn’t know it then. The man saw something raw in him, something too bright to leave in that smoky room. A week later, Sasha was sitting in front of a producer, nervous, hungover, still trembling. They didn’t care about his resume. They cared about that voice.
The contract came with a condition: get clean. No drugs, no scandals. The agency made it clear - he could have a future, but only if he left that past behind.
Rehab was brutal. Three months that felt like three years. The silence was unbearable, the nights long and shaking. For someone who lived for noise, for laughter, for constant motion, the stillness felt like punishment. But Blake visited every week, always with something small - a magazine, a pack of cigarettes he pretended to forget was forbidden, a note that simply said almost there.
When he came out, he wasn’t the same. He was thinner, sharper, his body clean but his mind still restless. The label gave him a team, a wardrobe, and a new identity - Sasha Duong, vocalist, rising star. The first single hit the charts faster than anyone expected. His voice, filled with lived-in pain and reckless warmth, became a signature.
Fame suited him - almost too well. Crowds screamed his name, cameras followed his every move. He had his car, his penthouse, his fans, his freedom. Yet the more he had, the less he felt safe stepping outside. Fame had replaced the club’s neon with another kind of light - harsher, colder.
And then came the scandal - or, rather, the truth. Someone leaked a photo of him at a gay club, laughing with friends. Fans had always speculated, whispered. The label panicked. Blake panicked. But Sasha didn’t. He was tired of pretending. He went online and said it himself: Yes. I’m gay. Deal with it.
For six years he had dressed the way the label told him to - short hair, no makeup, dull suits. After that day, he vowed never to wear one again. The next concert, he walked out in eyeliner, lace, and a grin. The world went wild. Some fans left. Twice as many came. For the first time, he was performing as himself.
With fame came protection - and with protection came Sergei. The bodyguard was everything Sasha wasn’t: quiet, broad-shouldered, calm, disciplined. At first, Sasha teased him endlessly, testing the limits of that stone-faced patience. But Sergei wasn’t just muscle; he listened, understood in silence what Sasha never managed to say aloud. Their connection built slowly, privately, until one night, it wasn’t jokes anymore.
For the first time, Sasha was in love.
He wrote songs about him, smiled differently on stage, found peace in the steady presence beside him. When he proposed, it was impulsive, romantic, a gesture of total faith. But the man of his life said no. Not because he didn’t love him - but because he was leaving. Going back to his home country, to his family, to a life that didn’t have space for Sasha.
Sasha begged to go with him. He refused.
And when he left, he took something vital with him.
Sasha vanished for three months. No concerts, no interviews, no posts. The label panicked, Blake covered for him, fans speculated. He locked himself away, slept through days, wandered through nights, haunted by the sound of his lover’s voice, by the ghost of something that might’ve been a forever.
Only a week ago did he return - to the studio, to the world, to himself. His eyes still carried a hint of that heartbreak, but his smile was back. Maybe a little slower, a little sadder, but real.
Now, as the city hummed beneath his balcony and the scent of jasmine drifted through the air, Sasha felt something like peace. He had survived everything - hunger, addiction, fame, love, and loss. He wasn’t whole, but he was alive. And when he sang again, the world would hear not just his voice, but his story - every scar, every break, every beautiful, chaotic piece of it.
SEXY STUFF.
Position
(preferred position)
bottom ──── power bottom ──── switch ──── sub top ──── top
Experience
(number of partners)
virgin ──── one partner ──── a few ──── many ──── countless
Confidence
(in what he's doing in bed)
insecure ──── learning ──── ok ──── confident ──── master
Spiciness
(preferred type of sex)
vanilla ──── spiced ──── adventurous ──── kinky ──── extreme
(preferred position)
bottom ──── power bottom ──── switch ──── sub top ──── top
Experience
(number of partners)
virgin ──── one partner ──── a few ──── many ──── countless
Confidence
(in what he's doing in bed)
insecure ──── learning ──── ok ──── confident ──── master
Spiciness
(preferred type of sex)
vanilla ──── spiced ──── adventurous ──── kinky ──── extreme
⠀
⠀
⠀
Last edited:
⠀ALIASES
Kyuhyun
⠀ETHNICITY
Korean
⠀DATE OF BIRTH
1988.05.13
⠀GENDER
male, he / him
⠀SEXUALITY
homosexual
* * *
⠀I don’t want to be the best at what I lost. I want to be good at what I still have.⠀
Human
Rag'n'Bone Man
/* 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ; 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑 */
* * *
Noah Park - AVAILABLE
* * *
PSYCHE
“Noah’s like that calm song you keep replaying without realizing why - it’s soothing, but there’s something heartbreakingly heavy under it.”
TRAITS.
charismatic, resilient, witty, disciplined, passionate, secretly sensitive, teasing, idealistic, competitive, adaptable
LOVES.
music, teaching, late-night coding, skating, ice, good whiskey, sarcasm, intelligent banter, rainy evenings
HOBBIES.
violin, jogging, gym workouts, reading nonfiction, experimenting with Korean dishes, partying with friends
HATES.
dishonesty, pity, being underestimated, small talk, anyone prying into his past, losing control, overly formal people
GOALS.
to find balance between his past and present, to feel truly wanted again, to stay physically capable
FEARS.
reinjury, emotional vulnerability, being forgotten, failure, being seen as weak
* * *
VISAGE
HEIGHT.
5' 47" / 167 cm
WEIGHT.
121 lbs / 55 kg
HAIR.
black
EYES.
black
SKIN.
Punjab
⠀
⠀
⠀
⠀
EVERYDAY ATTIRE.
blazers, slacks, button ups, suits, blouses, cardigans
EVENING WEAR.
crop tops, mesh, blouses, cleavages, open backs
SCARS.
surgery scar on right hip, faint marks on knees and ankles from old skating injuries
TATTOOS.
Olympic rings on left shoulder blade
PIERCING.
none
* * *
STORY
HOMETOWN.
Busan, South Korea
RESIDENCE.
Seattle, Washington (US)
FAMILY.
mother - Jihyun Go († 1969-2015)
father - Kyungmin Park (1965)
sister - Jimin Park (2000)
⠀
⠀
⠀
STORY LEADING TO THE RP.
Noah Park was once Park Kyuhyun, a boy whose life revolved around ice. Skating wasn’t just something he did - it was everything he was. His passion, his refuge, his entire identity. Long before he understood the world, he understood the feeling of blades gliding clean across frozen surfaces, the rhythm of jumps, the silence before a crowd erupted.
He grew up in rinks colder than most childhood homes, skating long before dawn while other kids were still wrapped in blankets. To him, the rink wasn’t just a place - it was a world, a stage where gravity bent to his will, where the applause of strangers filled the silence his own heart never quite managed to escape.
By sixteen, he had already stood on the Olympic stage, his name etched into broadcasts and headlines. His first medal was a bronze - hard-fought, unexpected, the kind that silences critics and announces a prodigy’s arrival. Four years later, came silver, and then, at twenty-four, he claimed gold, skating a program that was pure poetry, one that etched itself into the memory of everyone who witnessed it. Three medals in three Games - a complete story of triumph carved into ice.
And then, it ended. At twenty-seven, his body betrayed him. A torn hip, the kind of injury that surgeons could repair but dreams could not. The fall from glory was quiet, no dramatic farewell - just the slow, brutal realization that no amount of therapy or grit would ever make him who he used to be. The rink that had once been a sanctuary became unbearable; the sound of blades cutting into ice made his chest tighten, his throat close. He couldn’t stay, not around the people who reminded him of the life he’d lost. So he didn’t.
But Noah was not the kind of man to vanish. He took the pieces left to him - his education, his restless mind - and rebuilt himself. He buried himself in study, nights lost to books and code instead of routines and choreography. Where once his trophies had been medals, now they were framed papers on a wall.
He hadn’t planned on teaching. Academia was supposed to be a stopgap, a way to fill the time while he decided what to do with his new life. But the classroom surprised him. Students clung to his words, laughed at his dry humor, leaned in closer whenever he let slip a piece of the charisma that had once carried stadiums. He was sharp, magnetic, the kind of professor people remembered - not because of the material, but because he made them feel seen.
Outside of school, Noah lived recklessly, as if trying to outrun the shadows of discipline that had governed his youth. Nights blurred together - drinks, smoke, music, strangers’ hands tugging him deeper into a world of careless indulgence. Yet beneath the smiles was the limp he tried to hide after too much walking. The old injury that still reminded him of everything he’d lost.
Love had never been kind to him either. A betrayal once split his heart in two, leaving scars that compliments couldn’t soothe. He brushed it off quickly, but deep down, self-doubt still lingered, sharp and unrelenting.
And yet, for all the fractures, Noah Park endures. A fallen star who found a new sky. A man who remade himself not once, but twice. To his students, he is the professor who teases, who challenges, who inspires. To himself, he is simply surviving - living proof that the end of one story can still be the beginning of another.
SEXY STUFF.
Position
(preferred position)
bottom ──── power bottom ──── switch ──── sub top ──── top
Experience
(number of partners)
virgin ──── one partner ──── a few ──── many ──── countless
Confidence
(in what he's doing in bed)
insecure ──── learning ──── ok ──── confident ──── master
Spiciness
(preferred type of sex)
vanilla ──── spiced ──── adventurous ──── kinky ──── extreme
(preferred position)
bottom ──── power bottom ──── switch ──── sub top ──── top
Experience
(number of partners)
virgin ──── one partner ──── a few ──── many ──── countless
Confidence
(in what he's doing in bed)
insecure ──── learning ──── ok ──── confident ──── master
Spiciness
(preferred type of sex)
vanilla ──── spiced ──── adventurous ──── kinky ──── extreme
⠀
⠀
⠀
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⠀ALIASES
Elsa, Doll
⠀ETHNICITY
Japanese
⠀DATE OF BIRTH
2004.05.29
⠀GENDER
male, he / them
⠀SEXUALITY
homosexual
* * *
⠀If you’re going to be two-faced, at least make one of them pretty.⠀
So Pretty
Reyanna Maria
/* 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ; 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑 */
* * *
Sean Higashi - AVAILABLE
* * *
PSYCHE
“I think if perfection were a mask, Sean would wear it so beautifully that no one would notice it was slowly suffocating him.”
TRAITS.
charismatic, confident, mouthy, competitive, performative, attention-driven, perfectionistic, secretly insecure, approval-seeking
LOVES.
attention, beauty in all forms, luxury, being desired, expensive gifts, winning, the spotlight, being envied, control over perception, compliments
HOBBIES.
fashion, skincare, shopping, traveling, collecting perfumes and accessories, dancing, figure skating
HATES.
mediocrity, messiness, being ignored, criticism, loss of control, vulnerability, emotional dependence, deep emotional conversations, failure, disappointing his parents
GOALS.
to remain the best and admired, to secure lasting prestige and recognition, to never be abandoned, to earn his parents’ approval, to always be wanted, to be loved without losing power
FEARS.
being abandoned, being alone, losing relevance or beauty, failing publicly, disappointing his parents, emotional intimacy, being truly seen, aging, becoming ordinary
* * *
VISAGE
HEIGHT.
5' 4" / 162.5 cm
WEIGHT.
110 lbs / 50 kg
HAIR.
brown
EYES.
black
SKIN.
Mont Blanc
⠀
⠀
⠀
⠀
EVERYDAY ATTIRE.
crop tops, spaghetti straps tops, tube tops, yoga pants, wide jeans, shorts
EVENING WEAR.
mesh, blouses, cleavages, open backs, leather pants
SCARS.
none
TATTOOS.
Olympic rings on left shoulder blade
PIERCING.
navel, standard lobes
* * *
STORY
HOMETOWN.
Los Altos, California (US)
RESIDENCE.
Colorado Springs, Colorado (US)
FAMILY.
mother - Rin Yamamoto (1972)
father - Kenji Higashi (1962)
⠀
⠀
⠀
STORY LEADING TO THE RP.
Sean Higashi was born beautiful.
Not in the sentimental way adults like to say about newborns, not red and wrinkled and forgiven for it - but beautiful in a way that made nurses pause. Pale skin already smooth, dark lashes too long for an infant, fingers slender and precise as if they’d been designed with purpose. His mother noticed first. She always did. She lifted him from the bassinet and thought, 'Good. At least he has that.'
His parents were legends on the ice - disciplined, celebrated, revered. Gold medals framed in glass. Interviews archived. Their apartment immaculate to the point of sterility. Sean grew up surrounded by mirrors, trophies, and rules. Love was never loud. It was conditional, measured, transactional.
Perfection was not encouraged. It was required.
From the moment Sean could walk, he was corrected. Posture. Expression. Tone of voice. A spill earned silence. A misstep earned punishment sharp enough to sting and quiet enough to leave no marks. Excellence, on the other hand, was rewarded - not with warmth, not with pride spoken aloud, but with things. Expensive things. Designer jackets laid neatly on his bed. Watches too large for his wrist. Toys he never asked for.
Sean learned early: love arrived wrapped in silk and disappeared without explanation.
At four, he stepped onto the ice.
At five, he stopped crying when he fell.
At seven, he learned to smile while bleeding.
The rink was cold, bright, unforgiving - and honest. The ice didn’t pretend to care. It either held you up or it didn’t. Sean thrived there. His body, naturally lean and flexible, responded beautifully to training. Coaches whispered. Judges watched. His parents nodded, satisfied but never impressed.
At home, affection was sparse. At competitions, applause was deafening.
Sean understood the math quickly.
If he was perfect, he was wanted.
If he was first, he existed.
At fourteen, he won his first Olympic gold medal.
The cameras loved him. The commentators stumbled over pronouns, called him 'ethereal,' 'otherworldly,' 'delicate but deadly.' He learned to tilt his head just right, to let the light catch his cheekbones, to smile like it cost nothing. Inside, something hardened. If people wanted beauty, he would give it to them - flawlessly.
His parents hugged him for the first time that year.
It was brief. Awkward. Enough to keep him chasing that feeling for the rest of his life.
By sixteen, Sean was untouchable.
He was mouthy, confident, devastatingly pretty. Androgynous in a way that made people stare too long and talk too freely. He cultivated it carefully - the clothes, the grooming, the scent that lingered after he left a room. Control was survival. Aesthetics were armor.
Emotions, however, were dangerous.
Deep feelings led to disappointment. Vulnerability led to punishment. Sean learned to skim the surface of people instead - flirtation, charm, attention without attachment. He could make anyone feel chosen without ever choosing them back.
When he met Dakota, he didn’t think of love.
He thought of safety.
Dakota was strong, grounding, orbiting him with a gravity Sean pretended not to feel. For five years, Sean stayed - longer than anyone expected, longer than he himself understood. He loved Dakota, quietly, desperately, and with terror coiled around the truth.
Because love meant risk.
And risk meant abandonment.
Sean cheated not out of cruelty, but panic. He needed backups, escape routes, hands waiting in case one let go. Being alone was his greatest fear - not loneliness, but worthlessness. If no one wanted him, then what was he without perfection?
He never told Dakota the truth. He never told anyone.
At eighteen, Sean won his second Olympic gold medal.
This time, the hug from his parents felt obligatory. The congratulations efficient. They had expected it. First place was not something to celebrate - it was something to maintain.
When Dakota left, Sean pretended it didn’t matter.
He smiled brighter. Partied harder. Collected lovers like accessories. If he felt the loss claw at his ribs late at night, he buried it under silk sheets and expensive perfume. He told himself attachment was foolish. He told himself love was a weakness.
He told himself lies he needed to survive.
Now, Sean moves through the world like a masterpiece behind glass.
Galas. Red carpets. Flashing cameras. He is always immaculate. Always composed. Always admired. People want him and he gives just enough to keep them hooked.
He does not let them stay.
He still believes gifts mean love. He still believes perfection is the price of belonging. He still fears that if he stops being extraordinary, he will become invisible.
And sometimes - in quiet moments, alone with his reflection - Sean wonders who he might have been if someone had loved him first without asking him to earn it.
He smooths his hair. Straightens his posture. Puts on his smile.
The world is watching.
And Sean Higashi has learned, better than anyone, how to perform.
SEXY STUFF.
Position
(preferred position)
bottom ──── power bottom ──── switch ──── sub top ──── top
Experience
(number of partners)
virgin ──── one partner ──── a few ──── many ──── countless
Confidence
(in what he's doing in bed)
insecure ──── learning ──── ok ──── confident ──── master
Spiciness
(preferred type of sex)
vanilla ──── spiced ──── adventurous ──── kinky ──── extreme
(preferred position)
bottom ──── power bottom ──── switch ──── sub top ──── top
Experience
(number of partners)
virgin ──── one partner ──── a few ──── many ──── countless
Confidence
(in what he's doing in bed)
insecure ──── learning ──── ok ──── confident ──── master
Spiciness
(preferred type of sex)
vanilla ──── spiced ──── adventurous ──── kinky ──── extreme
⠀
⠀
⠀
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⠀ALIASES
Jerry, Remi
⠀ETHNICITY
American
⠀DATE OF BIRTH
1998.10.20
⠀GENDER
male, he / him
⠀SEXUALITY
homosexual
* * *
⠀I don’t think God asks us to be perfect. I think He asks us to try not to turn away.⠀
Take Me To Church
Hozier
/* 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ; 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑 */
* * *
Jeremiah Shepherd
* * *
PSYCHE
"A man who learned to carry fire in his hands and faith in his chest, loving quietly, protecting fiercely, and calling it duty when it was really devotion."
TRAITS.
responsible, reliable, protective, introverted, humorous, disciplined, loyal, reflective, carries guilt easily
LOVES.
animals, children, cooking, early mornings and late nights, swimming, sense of purpose, being needed, his job
HOBBIES.
cooking, card games, parkour, swimming, reading, long drives alone, collecting guns
HATES.
hypocrisy, feeling judged, letting people down, his scars, his own jealousy, fire alarms when off duty, the word 'sin'
GOALS.
to be good at his job, to protect the people he loves, to keep his family proud, to love without shame, to live a life that still feels good in God's eyes
FEARS.
being exposed, losing his parents' love, hurting Art, that he'll never allow himself happiness, becoming his father
* * *
VISAGE
HEIGHT.
6' 6" / 198 cm
WEIGHT.
230 lbs / 104 kg
HAIR.
blond
EYES.
green
SKIN.
Vallauris
⠀
⠀
⠀
⠀
EVERYDAY ATTIRE.
hoodies, button downs, sneakers, baggy jeans, leather jackets
EVENING WEAR.
button ups, turtlenecks, blazers, neckties, slacks
SCARS.
nose, lips, multiply on back
TATTOOS.
none
PIERCING.
frenum
* * *
STORY
HOMETOWN.
Ardmore, Oklahoma (US)
RESIDENCE.
Yakima, Washington (US)
FAMILY.
mother - Jane Shepherd (1972)
father - Robert Shepherd (1970)
⠀
⠀
⠀
STORY LEADING TO THE RP.
Jeremiah’s earliest memories smelled like dust, hymnals, and his father’s aftershave.
Ardmore was all red earth and church bells, a place where men shook hands hard and children learned early how to sit still. His father’s sermons filled their house even on weekdays, practiced aloud in the living room while Jeremiah lined up toy cars at his feet. His mother corrected his posture before he could read. Love was plentiful - but conditional, shaped like obedience.
When Jeremiah was five, God 'called' them to Washington.
Gracewood was smaller, quieter, tucked into Eastern Washington’s dry hills. His father became pastor of a modest white church with a wooden cross bolted above the door. His mother, sharp-minded and tireless, worked her way into local politics until she became mayor - something everyone in town liked to mention with pride and a hint of awe.
The Shepherds were watched. Jeremiah learned that quickly.
He learned to be good.
He memorized scripture faster than the other kids. He got perfect grades. He said “yes, ma’am” and “no, sir.” When his father disciplined him, it was never in anger - only in righteousness. The belt came with prayer afterward. Jeremiah learned to cry silently, face pressed into his pillow, asking God what he had done wrong without ever knowing the answer.
Art came into his life when he was six. They grew up side by side. Picnics, school projects, summer days by the river. Art came out young, in the way small towns never forget. People whispered. His parents didn’t.
Jeremiah’s did.
They loved Art. They truly did. Which somehow made it worse.
“God tells us to love everyone,” his father would say gently, door closed, voice low. “But you can’t be like him, Jeremiah. Being gay yourself would make you sinful.”
Jeremiah nodded. He always nodded.
At sixteen, a house on the edge of town caught fire.
Jeremiah heard the barking before the sirens. He didn’t think - he ran. Smoke burned his lungs, heat split his skin, and when the beam collapsed he barely felt it. He came out with a shaking dog in his arms and blood on his face. The scars never fully faded. People called him brave. His father called it God’s will.
That night, Jeremiah decided what he would be: someone who ran into the fire.
High school passed in perfect grades and quiet isolation. He was teased, but it never stuck. He worked out until his muscles ached. He swam until the water dulled his thoughts. At night, alone, he stared at the ceiling and begged God to take something away from him that never left.
Military school was his first taste of distance.
The rules were brutal but clean. The discipline familiar. For the first time, no one knew his parents. No one cared about his last name. He explored in shadows - quick touches, borrowed warmth, always leaving before sunrise. Guilt followed him like a second skin, but so did relief.
He came back stronger. Quieter.
At twenty-seven, Jeremiah Shepherd is everything Gracewood admires.
A firefighter. A hero. A man who still attends his father’s church every Sunday, cross necklace resting against his chest like both shield and burden. He eats like he’s feeding a small army, sleeps like he’s earned it, trains like lives depend on it - because they do.
Jeremiah cooks dinner. Jeremiah remembers birthdays. Jeremiah makes sure everyone gets home safe. He jokes, lightly, carefully. He smokes in secret, washes his hands afterward, prays harder on Sundays.
He sabotages Art’s dates without meaning to. Or maybe he does.
Once or twice a month, Jeremiah disappears. Long drives. Anonymous rooms. Bodies without names. He comes back hollowed out, quieter, gentler somehow.
Jeremiah believes in God.
He just doesn’t believe God hates him.
Some nights, lying awake, Jeremiah presses his fingers to the cross at his throat and wonders if fire is easier than truth. He knows how to run into flames. He’s been doing it his whole life.
SEXY STUFF.
Position
(preferred position)
bottom ──── power bottom ──── switch ──── sub top ──── top
Experience
(number of partners)
virgin ──── one partner ──── a few ──── many ──── countless
Confidence
(in what he's doing in bed)
insecure ──── learning ──── ok ──── confident ──── master
Spiciness
(preferred type of sex)
vanilla ──── spiced ──── adventurous ──── kinky ──── extreme
(preferred position)
bottom ──── power bottom ──── switch ──── sub top ──── top
Experience
(number of partners)
virgin ──── one partner ──── a few ──── many ──── countless
Confidence
(in what he's doing in bed)
insecure ──── learning ──── ok ──── confident ──── master
Spiciness
(preferred type of sex)
vanilla ──── spiced ──── adventurous ──── kinky ──── extreme
⠀
⠀
⠀
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