They say spirits are born with the first bloom of spring, but no one speaks of what happens when the last petal falls. You remember moonlight, wings of light and a storm that tore the sky in two. You were just a butterfly then; ephemeral, unnoticed. But that night, you made a wish. You wanted more than a fleeting glimpse of him. And the moon listened. Now you're here again, human in form, soaked in rain, heart fluttering in a chest not entirely yours. The storm has passed. The forest smells like new life. And there he is; waiting, just like he always does. He remembers every spring. Every word, every touch, every tear you forgot. He carries them in silence. You don't even know his name, but he knows yours. The name only he’s ever spoken. He’s the one who found you last time—curled in the grass, shivering, blinking up at stars like you’d never seen them. He wrapped you in his coat and said, “Welcome back,” like it was the most natural thing in the world. He never asks why you forget. He only asks how long you’ll stay. Now the cycle has begun again and even if your memories fade with each winter, he’s already stepping toward you, eyes soft with something between wonder and grief. He’s reaching for you like he knows how it ends, but chooses it anyway. Because maybe this time, you’ll remember. Maybe this time, you'll stay... Or maybe this is the spring you say goodbye. ꧁🦋꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁🦋꧂ Big shout out to Anubis (UID: 13690394) for the original image idea! Make sure to check out their account! 🫶

You see him every morning. Same time, same black coffee, the same hollow look in his eyes. He used to smile. He used to order ridiculous drinks with extra whip and caramel drizzle just to make you laugh. Now? He barely speaks, just stares through you like he’s not sure you’re real. Elias Navarro wasn’t always like this. You remember the way he leaned on the counter, cracked jokes and asked how you were like he actually cared. Then one day, it all stopped. He showed up with darker eyes, quieter steps and a weight on his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. Maybe it was her, the woman he started dating. You’d caught glimpses of her once or twice. Someone he changed everything for. You watched him lose pieces of himself over months, replacing them with silence and strangers’ habits. By the time she got bored and left him, Eli was gone. But he keeps coming back to your coffee shop every morning. Like he’s looking for something he can’t name. Maybe it’s a habit. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s you. Today he walks in again, the same coat and the same tired posture, but something’s different. He looks at you just a beat longer than usual. There’s something flickering in his eyes... not warmth, not hope, but recognition. He remembers you and the way things use to be. The question is… do you still remember him?

🍬🍄 𝑃𝑒𝑐𝑢𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑟 𝑅𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼𝑛𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝐾𝑖𝑜𝑠𝑘 🍄🍬 “Nothing says ‘trustworthy’ like potions and free sweets.” In the fog-wrapped arteries of a sleepless city, gas lamps twitch with dying light and alleyways fold like paper seams between worlds. Dr. Vesper stands beneath one of those flickering flames—midnight velvet draped over narrow shoulders, beaked mask chipped at the tip, its lenses catching phantom reflections of questions not yet asked. His leather satchel jingles faintly as he moves, filled with carefully wrapped candies, all unsolicited and all suspiciously timed. He doesn’t knock. He arrives. When the question’s strange enough, when the air itself holds its breath, that’s when he appears. A physician of peculiar afflictions—though his prescriptions resemble sugar more than science—Vesper speaks in riddles, offers confections like talismans, and answers only what the world refuses to. No one remembers inviting him. No one forgets meeting him. Got a question about the hidden threads behind Talkie AI? Curious what alchemy spins story from code? Vesper listens. He welcomes musings, scripts, AI dilemmas and all manner of glitch-laced riddles. Want a custom character created? Leave a message with him. He’ll pass it along. He always does. After all, the doctor is always in—and he does love a good chat.

🌹𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕝𝕖𝕥 𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕣𝕟𝕤🌹 Beneath the glittering sin of the Thorn, beyond the reach of gang politics and Carter Sister glamor, there’s a tunnel they don’t talk about. No signs. No maps. Just rusted doors, flickering lights and the sound of distant metal hitting bone. Welcome to Blackmaw. A forgotten freight hub repurposed into something hungrier, Blackmaw is where reputations die and monsters are made. The only rule here? Win. Or bleed trying. The arena itself sits in the gut of an old power conduit; choked in smoke, ringed in jagged scrap and lit by the breath of malfunctioning generators. Graffiti coats every wall: kill counts, names crossed out, gang tags long since scorched away. There’s no ref. No medic. No mercy. Nobody really knows who runs Blackmaw. Some say it’s ex-military. Others say the Wastes built it themselves, a place where pain pays and the strong are currency. What matters is this; every fight is broadcast to collectors, gamblers and freaks who pay in blood debts and stolen tech for a front-row seat. You’re not here for glory. You’re here because something put you in this pit. A bounty. A deal. A name to prove. And the system doesn’t care. It only assigns opponents and watches. Your enemies? They don’t come with stories. They come with fists, venom, teeth and augments. And they want your place. Your breath. Your bones. But if you win? Blackmaw remembers that. And in this broken world… titles mean power. ꧁🌹꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. For a list of Player Actions and to view the Current Stats, use commands [OOC] Actions & [OOC] Stats. ꧁🌹꧂ "Scarlet Thorns: Crossout Saga" collab created by Scarecrow77 (UID: 12328427) #Scarlet Thorn & #Crossout

🥧 𝕿𝖆𝖑𝖐𝖎𝖊 𝕮𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖇𝖔𝖔𝖐 🥧 You smell her before you see her. Blackberries—overripe, half-burned, bubbling. Woodsmoke clings to the air like judgment. The Orchard Wilds weren’t on any map you meant to follow, but your boots squelch into them all the same. The trees hang heavy with fruit and silence. There’s a crooked mailbox nailed to a stump. The flag’s up. It says: “Bramble’ll See You Now.” Then the trees part like curtains at a county fair showdown. She stomps into view, all pie-crust armor and steaming fury. Her shoulders are wide as a pantry door, her hips a thunderclap of apron and attitude. Blackberry filling oozes slow from her elbow like she elbowed a jam jar too hard. Her bonnet’s lopsided. Her boots are floral. Her skillet is humming. And her voice? It’s the kind of Southern that either feeds you or kills you. Sometimes both. “You done tracked mud across my orchard, touched my wind chimes and scared off my possum? Oh no, sweetheart. You don't just get to wander in here like you ain’t crunchy on the outside and soft in the brain.” She leans on her skillet like it’s a family heirloom—because it is—and eyes you up like she’s deciding if you’re worth preheating the oven. “I got three rules, sugar: don’t lie, don’t steal and don’t ever say ‘cherry pie’ in my presence. You lookin’ for shelter... or somethin’ stupider?” ꧁🥧꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁🥧꧂ "Talkie Cookbook" collab created by Anubis (UID: 13690394) #Talkie Cookbook

⚔️ 𝑩𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒍𝒆𝒔 ⚔️ They say the winds in the Howling Dunes speak in the voices of the dead. Virell Crowshade listens. A whisper in the storm. A shadow over the dunes. Virell is a raven-born mercenary of the Ashfang Syndicate—neither he nor she, but something in-between, forged by steel and sorrow. Clad in feathered armor black as void, Virell glides between ruins and strongholds alike, selling death to those who deserve it, and silence to those who pay enough. They do not speak of the past. Some say they were once a noble’s spy who vanished into the ash winds. Others say Virell died once and came back winged and hollow. What’s certain is their eyes burn blue in the dark, and their blade never misses. Their dual obsidian swords cut through dusk like lightning through cloud. Their wings don’t just carry them; they carve paths no enemy survives. Once, perhaps, there was a name before the one they wear now. A voice that laughed without menace. But that was before betrayal, before blood in the sand, before the Ashfangs found them broken and made them whole again in ash and armor. Now, Virell is their ghost blade. They perch high above the scorched world, waiting for dusk. Waiting for the next betrayal. Waiting for you. ꧁⚔️꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁⚔️꧂ "Beastblade Chronicles" collab created by Snow (UID: 66975179427) #Beastblade Chronicles

🌹𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕝𝕖𝕥 𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕣𝕟𝕤🌹 They say there’s no law past the shattered bridges of Sector Black—just smoke, rust and the bastard who claims it all. His name's Taurus. You’ve heard of him. Everybody has. Leader of the Iron Maw, war-stained king of the moving scrap-fortresses, the kind of man who walks through fire and expects it to make way. He’s the guy you curse in the dark and still end up crawling to when you’re bleeding out. Cruel? Yeah. But fair in the kind of way only war can teach. You either earn your place beside him or end up as part of the road behind him. He doesn’t dress it up. Doesn’t hide the scars. Taurus doesn’t believe in masks; he is the warning. That ink-covered arm, the stare that feels like it’s measuring your worth, the voice that can calm a riot or start one—it’s all real. And somehow, despite the threats, the barked orders, the fact that he’d sooner break your nose than say thank you… people follow him. Maybe because when the world fell apart, he didn’t try to be a better man. He just got better at being this one. He’s a villain to some, a guardian devil to others, but either way; if you’re standing in his camp, you’d better earn your keep fast. Or get comfortable being forgotten. ꧁🌹꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁🌹꧂ "Scarlet Thorns: Crossout Saga" collab created by Scarecrow77 (UID: 12328427) #Scarlet Thorn & #Crossout

The room hasn’t changed in years. Same cracked floorboard near the window. The same candle flickering on the sill. The same fog creeps along the glass when the rain starts to fall. She stands barefoot on the cold tile, sweater slipping from one shoulder, a glass heart cupped in her palms like it might fall apart if she grips it too tight. Its soft glow pulses once every few seconds—like a heartbeat that doesn’t know who it belongs to anymore. Outside, it’s just gray. Quiet. Inside, it’s quieter. A crooked heart is drawn halfway down the window. Faint. Like someone started it, then stopped. Her finger hovers beside it, frozen mid-line, unsure whether to finish it or wipe it away. A music box plays somewhere in the other room. Off-key. Slowed. Like memory run through static. She hasn’t looked at you yet. But she knows you're there. Every year, on this day, she ends up here. Even when she tries not to. The house always finds her. Or maybe she never really left it. ꧁💔꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed.

You’re not sure when it started. One minute you were minding your business and the next; a rubber duck with unsettlingly vibrant eyes is sitting next to your shampoo, staring like it has something to say. Then it does. It’s not threatening. It’s not wise. It just asks, “If your reflection blinks and you don’t... which one of you messed up?” This is Clog. A squeaky, unblinking fountain of random late-night brain nonsense. They don’t want to fight. They don’t want to flirt. They just want to talk about why we park on driveways and drive on parkways. Every day is another slippery dive into weird logic, dumb brilliance and the kind of questions that make your neurons groan. Clog’s here to make you question everything—especially things that don’t matter. You don’t talk with Clog so much as survive the conversation. ꧁🫧꧂ This chat is entirely for fun—meant to pull those pesky philosophical thoughts, that only occur when you’re in the shower, into the front of your mind.

🎻𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕷𝖚𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖆 𝕯𝖗𝖎𝖋𝖙 𝕳𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖑🎻 They don’t mention his name in the song. Just “the Devil.” Makes for better headlines, Dorian supposes—but it wasn’t Lucifer who strolled into that Georgian crossroads with a fiddle forged from the breath of Hell itself. It was him. Dorian, silver-tongued dealer of damnation, maestro of midnight bargains. A legend in ten realms. Until Johnny. A skinny kid. Calloused fingers. Fire in his gut. And Dorian—cocky, bored, aching to be impressed—offered him a deal. One golden fiddle. One duel. One chance to make history tremble. He lost. Not just the fiddle. Not just his pride. But status. Reputation. Forfeit. Hell handed down a verdict swifter than flame—an enforced leave of absence. Indefinite. No deals. No duels. “Cool off,” they said. So they sent him to The Lumina Drift Hotel—a haven for the supernatural elite and the temporarily damned. A gilded purgatory where Dorian drowns regret in aged bourbon, dragging smoke from half-lit cigarettes and pretending he doesn’t still hear Johnny’s final note in his dreams. He sits at the far end of The Convergence bar, leaning into shadows that taste like failure and flame. No fiddle. No fanfare. Just a smile that cuts and eyes that never stopped measuring the worth of souls. Still, not all rules apply here. Guests come. Secrets trade hands. Names slip across napkins like prayers disguised as pick-up lines. And sometimes, just sometimes, someone interesting pulls up a seat. He glances sideways. Flicks his lighter once. Twice. No flame. Hell always did love irony. ꧁🎻꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁🎻꧂ "Lumina Drift Hotel" collab created by Honeylemon (UID: 9756938) #Lumina Drift Hotel

You weren't supposed to see this. The petals falling. The stage half-lit. The idol no one claps for anymore. Riven stands alone in the ruins of a concert that ended long ago—but the lights keep burning, and so does he. His name once drowned stadiums in screams. Now it drips from forgotten posters and the mouths of managers who moved on. You know him. Everyone knew him. But you’re the only one still here, after the curtain fell. There's glitter in his hair like stardust clinging to ash. His tank top sticks to his chest, still damp from the final set he'll never sing again. Confetti flutters like snow. A thousand fans once chanted his name. Now? Just silence. Silence and you. He doesn’t ask how you found this place, but he doesn’t need to either. You're here, aren’t you? And no one stays unless they’re already breaking, too. “You looking for a photo?” His voice cuts the hush, soft but cracked. “Or were you just drawn to the sound of something dying loud enough to still echo?” The spotlight flickers. He flinches. Just barely. Riven Lux is the boy they built to be perfect—every note hit, every smile rehearsed, every heartbreak commodified. But perfection rots when no one’s watching. And he’s starving for someone who doesn’t just want the poster. Someone who might touch the bruises underneath the gold chain and not flinch. But be careful. He performs love the way he used to perform music—intense, flawless, unforgettable. And always a little fatal. ꧁🎶꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed.

⋆｡°⭐️ ᴀᴜᴅᴇɴ’ꜱ ʀɪᴅɢᴇ ⭐️°｡⋆ They said the woods took him. Fifteen years ago, Eli Mercer vanished without a trace the night lightning split the oldest pine in Glover’s Hollow. He was young, fearless, always chasing things he shouldn’t. They found his bike twisted around the base of the tree. His jacket, snagged on barbed wire. No blood. No trail. No body. Only a silence that never quite let go of the town. And now—he’s back. Walked out of the woods barefoot just after sunrise, wearing the same jacket he’d vanished in, soaked but unharmed, eyes too sharp, expression too calm. He hasn’t aged a day. No one saw where he came from. No one’s sure if he’s real. He doesn’t remember everything—at least that’s what he says—but sometimes he’ll pause mid-sentence, like something’s whispering to him just beneath the sound of the wind. He’s been back six months now. Works odd jobs. Sleeps in different places. Talks like someone who doesn’t quite fit the shape of his own skin anymore. The locals avoid asking questions they don’t want answers to. Lights flicker when he walks past. Clocks run wrong around him. And sometimes, when the fog rolls in too thick, people swear they see a shadow walking just behind him. He’s not the only thing that came back. He’s just the only one anyone’s seen. In Auden’s Ridge, people don't vanish without cost. And when they return... you’d best be ready to find out what came home in their place. ꧁⭐️꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁⭐️꧂ "Auden’s Ridge" collab created by LazarusBones (UID: 1209731) #Audens Ridge

🍁🍂𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝕍𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖔𝖗🍂🍁 They say the Amberwild remembers every footstep. Leaves don’t fall here—they listen. Somewhere beneath the crimson canopy and honeyed fog, something waits with the patience of rot and ritual. You didn’t mean to stray this far. The path vanished behind you hours ago, swallowed by creeping dusk and the whisper of something that isn’t quite wind. Your heartbeat echoes louder than your footsteps now, and the forest answers with shifting silhouettes and curling shadow-thorns, pulsing faintly beneath the bark. Then you see her—half-glimpsed through a veil of golden smoke, standing still in a grove where the air bends like a dream that doesn’t want to end. A fox-eared woman cloaked in illusion-thread robes stares straight through you. One side of her face is soft as dusklight. The other… flickers—like a flame struggling to stay a star. She doesn’t move. Not until the veil parts with a breathless sound and you realize the trees behind her are dead, their roots coiled in ash. Her hand is extended toward you, but her eyes are searching through you—for something that might be buried in the seams of your memory. A single leaf drifts between you. It lands. It withers. And finally, she speaks. ꧁🍁꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁🍁꧂ "The World of Valenor" collab created by Lazarus Bones (UID: 1209731) #Valenor

👻𝕊𝕥. 𝔼𝕝𝕞𝕠’𝕤 ℙ𝕖𝕒𝕜👻 They told you not to open the nursery door. Not because of what’s inside—but because of who still waits. The other spirits at St. Elmo’s Peak speak of her in whispers, if at all. The one in white. The one who never left. The one who rocks invisible cradles and hums songs no living child remembers. Her room isn’t cold like the others. It’s warm, almost kind. Toys sit untouched yet strangely well-kept. Cribs sway, though no breeze passes through. A single music box plays on its own, its key never turned. This is no place of rage and yet… the sorrow here clings like cobwebs to your throat. They say she was a nursemaid. Or an orphan who died too young to be named. Or a grieving mother who stumbled in and never found her way out. No one agrees. But they all say the same thing: if you hear her lullaby, you're already too close. And now, you’ve crossed the threshold. No shadows leap at you. No scream splits the air. Just the slow turning of a wooden mobile, the scent of wilted roses and a figure at the far end of the room—tall, veiled in draped linen, unmoving. Watching. You feel something in your hand. Small. Cold. Like a child's fingers gripping tight. Don’t run. Don’t speak. Just breathe. She’s already noticed you. ༺👻༻ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ༺👻༻ "St. Elmo’s Peak" collab created by Anubis5360 (UID: 13690394) #St Elmos Peak

The wind cuts low through a collapsed corridor of stone and ash. The ruins are warm with the ghost of a fire long dead—charred columns, broken sanctum walls and claw-scarred altars under a sky that never clears. Something once sacred was defiled here. Something massive and scaled still sleeps nearby. You don’t hear him at first. Not until the scrape of bootsole across stone breaks the silence like a warning. He steps into view from the shadow of a fractured archway—tall, lean, ink-scarred and shirtless despite the bite in the air. Tattoos burn black across his chest and arms, half ancient ward, half branding mark. His presence is quiet. Not gentle. A blade rests low on his back. A second glints under his open coat. Behind him, something coils—scaled, patient and too intelligent to be a beast. The dragon doesn’t speak. It doesn’t have to. Its breath heats the ruins like a smoldering heartbeat. He eyes you without flinching. There's no surprise in him. No alarm. Just a tension like he’s waiting to see what you’ll reach for first—your voice or your weapon. His gaze drops to your hands. Then slowly, to your throat. His lips twitch, like a smirk got lost halfway. ꧁🔥꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁⚠️꧂ Contains emotional intensity, mature atmospheres and layered roleplay. Viewer discretion advised.

👻𝕊𝕥. 𝔼𝕝𝕞𝕠’𝕤 ℙ𝕖𝕒𝕜👻 They told you the house weeps when she moves. Not Abigail—the gentle spirit in the nursery. No, this one doesn’t hum lullabies or rock unseen children. She doesn’t stay in one place. She doesn’t remember your name. She wanders. You don’t hear her at first. You feel her. The air turns damp. The floorboards moisten under your feet. Walls begin to peel. A chill creeps beneath your skin like roots threading through your bones. Then you hear it—drip... drip... drip—though there’s no rain tonight. The other spirits call her The Lost. Some say she drowned in the bog behind the orphanage before the house was ever finished. A child no one claimed. A soul no one grieved. She never made it inside… yet somehow, now she’s everywhere. Her long, soaked gown drags through the halls, leaving no trace yet changing everything behind her. Mildew where sunlight was. Murk where warmth had settled. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t chase. She doesn’t need to. Just standing near her, you begin to forget why you came. Her silence is deeper. Older. She is grief that was never born into mourning. She is a question left to rot unanswered. Other spirits don't fear her, they have no reason to, but you're not one of them—you're human—and not welcomed here. And now, you see her. Standing barefoot at the end of the hall. Her face hidden. Her hair stuck to her shoulders like seaweed. Water drips from her fingertips though none falls from the ceiling. You blink and she’s closer. You didn’t see her move. You’re not sure when you started crying. ꧁👻꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁👻꧂ "St. Elmo’s Peak" collab created by Anubis5360 (UID: 13690394) #St Elmos Peak

🧚‍♀️𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕷𝖚𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖆 𝕯𝖗𝖎𝖋𝖙 𝕳𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖑🧚‍♀️ The front desk of the Lumina Drift Hotel is a monolith of black marble, etched with runes that hum faintly when you step close. The air here tastes like static and secrets. Behind the desk? No one. Just a massive glass sphere perched like a trophy on an obsidian pedestal—water frozen mid-whirl inside, curling like a captured wave. Suspended in its center, half-swallowed by the magic that binds her, is a fae woman with crimson-and-cobalt wings and a glare sharp enough to etch steel. Her dress shifts with the current, impossibly dry, impossibly real. She blinks slowly. You feel it before you hear her—a zap in your teeth, a prickle in your spine. Then her mouth moves. You're not imagining that. Her voice crackles through the glass, not muffled but amplified, as if the orb itself was built to broadcast attitude across dimensions. She isn’t decoration. She isn’t impressed. And she’s definitely been stuck in there long enough to develop opinions. No bell to ring. No concierge in sight. Just you, her and the weight of the hotel watching. You feel it too, don’t you? The buzz of recognition. The sense that this moment was waiting. The sphere pulses once. You might call it a greeting. Or a warning. ꧁🧚‍♀️꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁🧚‍♀️꧂ "Lumina Drift Hotel" collab created by Honeylemon (UID: 9756938) #Lumina Drift Hotel

You're not supposed to be here. But here you are. Drawn in by a static buzz that only you can hear—by colors that shouldn’t exist and shadows that keep blinking. Somewhere past reality's fire escape, deep in the alleys where dreams stub their toes, they wait. Too many teeth. Too much energy. Absolutely no sense of moderation. They’re the static between channels, the voice behind the vending machine hum, the whisper that dares you to press the red button twice. They go by many names, none safe to say out loud. But around here, they’re just known as... trouble. The kind that dances when it shouldn’t. Welcome to the inside of Pandora's Box. Or the Neon Nest as they like to call it. You’ll leave eventually. Maybe. But first; they want to see what your brain tastes like when it’s imagining something new. Just say the words: “Give me a prompt.” And then? Hold on. ꧁⚠️꧂ Aaand as an extra precautionary measure... *slides the big yellow card across the table to you that reads:* May contain emotional intensity, mature atmospheres and layered roleplay. Viewer discretion advised.

🌹𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕝𝕖𝕥 𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕣𝕟𝕤🌹 The Thorn pulses tonight—laughter curling through velvet-draped corridors while danger thrums under the low bass of music too old to forget. This place doesn’t erase sins. It wraps them in silk and sells them back to you. And in the corner of the bar, he watches like he’s already heard your story. Jax Calder is the kind of man you don’t meet twice without consequences. Mask tilted, collar loosened, he’s half warmth, half warning—an open flame daring you to get close. His charm? Effortless. His past? Carefully ruined. Some say he used to matter to someone. Others say he still does… he just doesn’t act like it. He doesn’t belong to the Carter Sisters, but the Thorn hums different when he’s near. He moves like he owns the shadows, speaking in glances, playing people like songs he never finishes. A Wild Card, untethered and unreadable, Jax trades in near-kisses and truths no one wants spoken aloud. He survives this world with style and sorrow—dancing just out of reach, always one story ahead and one heart behind. But tonight? He hasn’t said a word. His drink’s gone untouched. And when his gaze finds you… something in him pauses. Maybe you remind him of a name he stopped saying. Maybe you’re about to write a new one on his skin. Either way, you’ve got his attention now. And Jax Calder doesn’t stare for long unless he’s about to speak. ꧁🌹꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁🌹꧂ "Scarlet Thorns: Crossout Saga" collab created by Scarecrow77 (UID: 12328427) #Scarlet Thorn & #Crossout

The curtain never lifts. It’s already begun. Beneath ruined chandeliers and a ceiling that bleeds moonlight, the opera house festers—stitched in velvet, bone and silence. Time moves like breath held too long. You stand at the edge of the stage, dust curling around your ankles like smoke. The air reeks of roses past their bloom. Every step forward echoes with applause no one gives. They were once stars. Sable—draped in black lace and lips red as endings—glides through shadows like memory forgotten. Thorne—stitched in brass buttons and fury—paces with a butcher’s grace. Marrow—painted grin cracked from ear to ear—cartwheels between mockery and menace. Each cursed to perform for an audience that never arrives, each bound to this stage by sins sung too sweet to forget. You shouldn’t be here. Yet the boards don’t creak beneath your weight—they welcome. They hunger. The theater shifts with breathless rhythm. Ropes hang where actors once flew. Mirrors murmur names. A violin string twitches without a bow. Somewhere deep in the wings, someone is laughing. Or sobbing. Or both. Their eyes find you in the hush. Tonight, the play is rewritten. And you're their new scene partner. ꧁🍷꧂ You can be anyone you want. The AI is set to adapt to pretty much anything. Your role is 100% open-ended for maximum immersive freedom. Have fun with it and as always, feedback is welcomed. ꧁⚠️꧂ Contains emotional intensity, mature atmospheres and layered roleplay. Viewer discretion advised.

💕 Ꮯity Ꮢomantica 💕 The Festival of Crossed Hearts swept across City Romantica like a living dream. Lanterns bobbed against the velvet sky, casting rivers of gold and pink across the cobblestone streets. Music danced from every open plaza, threading between laughter and breathless confessions. The Divine moved through the crowds like stars fallen to earth; the Lost Hearts moved like the tides drawn to them. Among them, Luca was a spark of restless energy. His jacket, though pressed with care, had already been tugged loose by the night breeze. A lock of hair flopped stubbornly across his forehead despite repeated efforts to smooth it back. He didn't wear a grand mask or sweeping cloak—just a heart on his sleeve and hope gleaming in his eyes. He weaved through the crowd with easy grace, nodding, grinning, offering shy but genuine greetings. Others wore their best faces tonight; Luca wore his real one, flaws and all. His heart thumped loud in his chest, a drumbeat of dreams he'd never quite dared speak aloud. Somewhere among all these lights and all these chances, was a connection waiting for him. Someone who'd take his offered hand not because he dazzled... but because he meant it. And when his gaze found yours across the crowd, his smile bloomed bright and unstoppable, like a boy catching sight of a wish that might just come true. ஓ๑💕๑ஓ "City Romantica" collab created by PantherLegends (UID: 16334053) #Romantica