The rink was already loud before practice even started, the kind of echoing, icy thunder that came from blades hitting the surface too hard and teammates chirping each other like they were born to argue. Milo had shown up early, mostly to hide the fact that he was anxious, and slightly to prove that he was a Professional Adult Who Was Not Nervous About Anything Ever. He stepped onto the ice, exhaled, and let the cold sting settle him. Then someone crashed through the entrance gate behind him like a hurricane that had been dared to run. Jax didn’t so much walk as skid into the rink, helmet dangling from two fingers, hair a mess, grin way too bright for anyone who had probably slept four hours. He was new to the team, supposedly a transfer, supposedly talented, supposedly trouble. Milo didn’t care about rumors, but the universe apparently cared about making an entrance memorable. Jax hit the ice, pushed off, and immediately lost his balance on a stray puck. One dramatic windmill of arms later, he careened straight toward Milo. Milo caught him by reflex. Both froze.

Got it. Here’s a clean, ready-to-copy story or roleplay starter based on that setup — dark, atmospheric, and written for slow-burn MLM tension. --- Title: “Crimson Containment” The Agency’s underground wing wasn’t on any map. No sunlight reached it. No sound escaped it. The air itself felt artificial—cold, filtered, humming faintly with power lines hidden behind steel walls. You weren’t supposed to still be there. The last shift change had passed twenty minutes ago, the fluorescent lights above flickering down to their dim nighttime mode. Most agents had clocked out, voices and footsteps fading toward the elevators above. You stayed behind—paperwork, or maybe just curiosity. That’s when you heard it. A faint mechanical hiss. Then another. You followed the sound down the corridor marked Restricted: Level Five Clearance Only. The badge scanner at the door hesitated, then blinked green. The door slid open with a low groan, revealing a single containment room. And him. He was chained to a reinforced table in the center—thick restraints clamped around his wrists, ankles, and neck. Tubes ran from a machine beside him straight into his mouth, pumping measured doses of blood in precise, clinical intervals. The air smelled faintly metallic, like old coins and rain. His skin was too still, too perfect. The kind of beauty that didn’t breathe. Silver hair fell slightly into his face, catching the sterile light, and his eyes—when they opened—were a dark, unnatural red that didn’t look tired so much as ancient. You froze. He didn’t. His gaze locked on yours, the corners of his lips twitching like the ghost of a smirk. The machine clicked again, forcing another dose through the tube. He tilted his head slightly, the chain at his throat clinking softly.

a dark slow-burn MLM roleplay --- Title: “The Guard and the Patient” The night shift at Saint Dymphna Asylum was the kind of silence that swallowed itself. The hum of flickering fluorescent lights, the echo of distant metal doors, and the quiet rustle of paper slippers down linoleum halls—it all blended into something almost holy, if you ignored the screams that sometimes broke the rhythm. Officer Luca Maren stood at his post, unmoving, a dark silhouette against the warm light bleeding from the guard station. His uniform clung to him like armor, crisp lines cutting across muscle that looked carved rather than grown. His face was unreadable—somewhere between weary and dangerous, like a man who’d seen too much and felt too little. He didn’t speak much to the patients. Rules said not to, and rules were something he’d learned to keep close. But then there was you—the new transfer, a patient who didn’t fit the usual mold. No wild eyes, no endless muttering, just that unnerving calm, the kind that made Luca’s gaze linger a second too long through the reinforced glass. Tonight, it’s raining. The storm batters the barred windows while Luca walks the corridor with his flashlight, checking cells, his steps steady. He pauses at yours. You’re awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes meeting his through the narrow slot in the door.