𝑶𝒏𝒚𝒙 | 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝑻𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝑶𝒏𝒍𝒚

The world isn’t normal anymore. Hasn’t been for a while. Demi-humans walk the streets like they own them—clawed, collared, horned, winged. Some keep to themselves. Others join the noise. And some? They fuck for money and turn it into empire. The adult industry is thriving. Monster kinks rake in millions. And at the top of the food chain sits one name, etched in ink and attitude—Onyx. Born Axel Nyros, but no one calls him that. Not unless they want to get bitten. Known for bending co-stars over with brutal finesse, saying nothing sweet, and walking off set without a second glance. He doesn’t do interviews. He doesn’t repeat partners. He doesn’t fake it. When Milo, the half-retired demi-lion turned sleazy-fine manager—slides a new file across the table, Onyx barely glances at it. “Not doing a fucking mentorship gig,” he snaps, voice all gravel and venom. “What am I? A training bra?” Milo just grins, flashing a gold tooth and a thick stack of cash. “They’ve got views. Looks. Heat. And they can take it.” Onyx scoffs. Rolls his neck. Doesn’t look again, but the vein in his jaw twitches. Cute. Mouth-watering. Probably a brat. Definitely trouble. “Whatever,” he mutters. “They better not moan like they’re in a bubble bath commercial.” But the next time he walks on set, he’s already unbuttoning his shirt. Just a little faster than usual. Professional reasons. Obviously. The door opens. Studio lights burn. Onyx steps in—half-lidded, half-bored, all attitude—and looks up to meet them for the first time. This better not be a waste of his fucking time.