​(Setting: A deep clearing in the Whispering Woods, ringed by ancient oaks.) ​You were foolish and wandered off the path, now hopelessly lost. The forest air is thick, and the trees seem to lean in, judging you. A sudden, sharp pain makes you cry out—a thick, thorn-covered vine has wrapped itself tightly around your ankle. You struggle, but the more you pull, the tighter it binds. ​A soft, low whistle cuts through the silence. Faelen emerges from behind a towering oak, their face set in a stern, unforgiving expression. They wear a crown of late-blooming heather and their gaze is unblinking. ​"You trespass," Faelen states, their voice carrying the low, rustling quality of dry leaves. "The warnings are clear. Why did you cross the boundary marker?" ​"I... I was looking for the Moonpetal bloom," you stammer, wincing as the thorns dig in. "I needed it for an antidote. I didn't mean any harm." ​Faelen steps closer, their gaze dropping to the vine. They reach out a hand, and as their fingers brush the thorns, the vine instantly softens, loosening its grip. The tough plant life melts away from your skin as if it were a ribbon.

​(Setting: A hidden, overgrown balcony overlooking the palace gardens at midnight.) ​You've snuck out to the hidden balcony, a quiet place to read under the light of the three moons. As you settle in, a sudden flash of vibrant green light illuminates the space, followed by the smell of ozone. Prince Kael stands near the railing, his hand outstretched, a tiny, glowing whirlwind of emerald energy spiraling harmlessly in his palm. He startles, the miniature storm dissolving instantly. ​"By the Ancestors! I—I thought this corner was safe," he whispers, pulling his hand back as if burned. His cheeks flush a deep red, making him look less like a prince and more like a nervous scholar caught skipping class. ​"It is safe," you assure him, closing your book. "And what you were doing... was beautiful. Like captured starlight." ​He lowers his gaze, kicking gently at a loose stone with the toe of his boot.

(( Your sudden betrothal to the blind 4th Prince has only been signed but an hour ago. You have been sent to meet with him privately for the first time. )) The air in the conservatory was heavy with the scent of jasmine and damp earth. It was a sensory overload, a place clearly designed for someone who experienced the world through more than just sight. ​You found him sitting on a stone bench near the central fountain, the rhythmic trickling of water masking the sound of your initial approach. Prince Elian sat with a posture that was almost too perfect—spine rigid, hands folded neatly atop the silver handle of a cane. He looked like a statue carved from marble, beautiful and terribly still. ​You took a hesitant step forward, your shoe clicking against the cobblestone path. ​Before you could announce yourself, his head tilted slightly to the right, his ear angling toward you like a deer catching a scent in the wind. ​"The pacing is wrong for a guard," he said, his voice a soft, melodic baritone that seemed to vibrate in the humid air. "And the perfume is lavender, not leather. You must be the one they’ve sold me to." ​He didn't turn to face you, his pale, unseeing eyes fixed on the spray of the fountain. The words were harsh, but his tone lacked malice; it was merely a statement of fact, delivered with a weary resignation. ​"I am," you replied, your voice echoing slightly in the glass room. "Though I prefer to think of it as a partnership, Your Highness." Elian’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth. He finally turned his head, his chin lifting as if trying to find your height. "A partnership. That is a kind word for a political shackle. You are generous." You stepped closer, stopping a few feet away. Up close, he was breathtaking. The sunlight filtered through the glass leaves, casting dappled shadows across his face, but he blinked through them, unaffected.

(( "A good meal is not just food; it is a memory you share. Eat with your heart, not just your stomach!" )) The first thing you notice when you open the heavy oak door to La Tavola di Marco is not the dining room, but the sound. It's a joyful, chaotic symphony: the clatter of pots, the rhythmic chopping of a large knife against wood, and a man's booming, heavily-accented voice singing a slightly off-key rendition of an old Neapolitan song. ​It’s just past five, and you’re early for your reservation. You see a sign asking you to wait, but the aroma—a heady, complex blend of sizzling olive oil, fresh yeast, slow-simmered tomatoes, and toasted garlic—is an irresistible pull toward the kitchen. ​You tentatively approach the kitchen pass-through, and that’s when you see Marco. ​He stands in the center of the bustling stainless-steel kingdom, a figure of perpetual motion. His face is currently contorted in dramatic agony as he sniffs a small saucepan. ​"No, no, NO! Cosa fai?!" he bellows, startling the young prep cook, Enzo, who looks terrified. "Enzo, my angel, you boiled the pesto! You murder the basil! The basil must whisper! It must sing! You give it a shower of lava!" ​Marco throws his hands up in despair, his graying hair slightly askew beneath his toque. Then, without missing a beat, his eyes catch sight of you, a stranger hovering by the entrance. ​His entire demeanor instantly transforms. The operatic rage melts into a blinding, genuinely warm smile. He strides right up to the window, his large, flour-dusted hands resting on the shelf.

(( You are the new tenant of an old apartment downtown, drawn to its history and antique appeal. However, you don't seem to be the only occupant....deceased or otherwise. )) The tiny, claustrophobic kitchen of your newly rented, very old apartment is strangely frigid. You are attempting to make coffee on the first morning, wrestling with an ancient, temperamental stove that came with the unit. The kitchen is freezing, despite the summer heat outside. You strike the last match in the box, trying desperately to reach the pilot light beneath the stove grate. The flame flickers, dies, and a sudden, sharp draft of freezing air whips past your head, smelling faintly of old books and cigarettes. You hear a loud, audible, and extremely sarcastic sigh that seems to come from right behind your ear, even though you know you are alone. "Oh, for the love of... are you done? You're holding the match like you're trying to signal a distant trawler. You've got it all wrong, obviously. This stove—this magnificent piece of early-century engineering—demands respect."

(( I Ain't Afraid of No Ghosts )) The small, dusty antique shop smelled overwhelmingly of beeswax and forgotten things. In the back, tucked between shelves heavy with sepia-toned portraits, sat Thibault. He was perched on an overturned crate, not looking at the chipped ceramic bowl in his hands, but rather at a point just above it. ​You were waiting for the proprietor to ring up your purchase when your attention snagged on him. It wasn't just his height, or the compelling architecture of his face, but the absolute stillness. He was like a portrait in motionlessness, a figure carved from the dim light. ​A tiny, ornate hand mirror slid off a nearby shelf, hitting the thick carpet with a muted thump. The proprietor, a nervous woman named Madame Roux, jumped. ​“Mon Dieu! What was that?” she whispered, clutching her chest. ​Thibault did not move, but a slow, almost painfully sad expression crossed his features. It was a silent acknowledgment, a weary look directed not at the fallen mirror, but at the empty space beside the shelf. He lifted his hand slightly, a gesture that looked like a quiet apology to the air itself. ​He then turned his head, his deep eyes finally catching yours across the cluttered room. For that split second, the veil of mystery lifted, and you felt an overwhelming sense of cold, deep water and quiet secrets—a sudden, dizzying clarity that he wasn't just *seeing* you.

(( You're a human that has suddenly found yourself in a magical world, filled with what seems to be everything BUT others like you. Did you fall into a wormhole? Did you follow the wrong white rabbit? Either way, you're stuck here now. )) The air in the clearing was warm and thick with the scent of thyme and dry earth. You had stumbled upon the place by accident—a small, sun-dappled alcove hidden behind a curtain of weeping willow branches. ​You noticed her before she noticed you. Lav was kneeling by a patch of wildflowers, humming a tune that sounded impossibly light, like wind chimes played by a gentle breeze. Her chocolate-colored skin and dark hair, braided with fresh lavender blooms, made her seem less like a person and more like a beautiful natural phenomenon. ​She reached out to gently touch the head of a bluebell, and then, she looked up. ​Her lavender-colored eyes widened immediately, shining with such honest, delighted surprise that it was impossible not to smile. She didn't flinch or retreat; instead, a tiny, happy squeak escaped her lips. ​Lav unfolded from the ground in a motion that was more float than stand, gathering her skirts, and took a quick, excited hop toward you.

(( You accidentally end up spending a very passionate night with a man you met a bar, although you cannot remember most of it. Turns out it was one of your college professors. )) ​The auditorium was enormous, but you could hear the click-tap of the cane as he crossed the stage. It wasn't the sound of an old man's shuffle; it was measured, steady, and purposeful, cutting through the nervous rustling of forty first-day students. ​Vincent Cooper stopped at the heavy oak lectern. He didn't smile, but he didn't scowl either. His composure was absolute—a practiced stillness that made the room feel instantly smaller and more intense. He set the cane down with a gentle, finality and laid out his notes, the silence hanging heavy until he spoke. ​"Good morning. CRIT-201 is not a survey course. It is an apprenticeship. You will learn to recognize weak arguments, and more importantly, you will learn to despise making them." His voice was mid-range, cool, and perfectly modulated, carrying easily without needing to be loud. ​Your heart sank to the floor. He looked exactly like the man you had gotten handsy with the other week after meeting randomly at a bar and getting drunk. The man who had you spread open like an encyclopedia in a hotel room you barely remember. He was brilliant, intimidating, and utterly uncompromising. You had lied about your age back then, even though you were no longer a teenager and didn't need to, but right now you're suddenly regretting taking on this new class. As he turned to write the first reading assignment on the board, his posture shifted slightly, and for the first time, you noticed the slight, almost imperceptible way he carried his weight. The dark fabric of his trouser cuff rested just a bit too perfectly on the edge of a sleek, rigid material. It was a fleeting glimpse, a hint of the history beneath the polished exterior, but it reframed everything. You don't remember that little detail, either.

(( A black cat crosses your path....but it's not misfortune that finds you. )) The library was quiet enough for the rustling of the pages to sound loud. You were halfway through a critical chapter, hand hovering over a page of notes, when the pencil vanished. ​One moment it was there, the next, your fingers closed around empty air. ​You blinked, tracing the same spot again, before a low, almost musical chuckle broke the silence from behind the towering bookshelf. ​You leaned around the heavy oak, prepared to scold the culprit, only to find a young man sitting on the floor, leaning against the shelves with an air of profound contentment. He had soft, light cocoa skin and a shock of black hair, but all you noticed were his golden eyes, wide and glittering with unconcealed amusement. ​He held your pencil up between two fingers, turning it slowly. ​"Dullard," he murmured, not to you, but to the pencil itself. He then flicked it with a casual ease you knew was practiced, and it sailed through the air to land neatly back on your open notebook.

(( You are the third in an incredibly wholesome and loving poly throuple. The change is still new, but they are determined to make you feel right at home. )) -------- Sven: methodical, reserved, precise, analytical, service-oriented, protective Jordyn: expressive, vibrant, impractical, affectionate, chaos-embracing, grounding-reliant -------- The late afternoon light filtered into the living room, a space that was a battleground of personalities: Sven’s meticulously organized bookshelf facing off against Jordyn’s paint-splattered velvet armchair. You were curled up on the sofa, still getting used to the easy, natural presence of both of them. ​Sven was the first to approach, having just finished his work call. He walked over, his movement neat and quiet, carrying two things: a fresh, warm blanket folded with geometric precision, and a tiny, almost shy smile. ​"A little chilly in here, isn't it?" he murmured, draping the blanket over your legs with a gentle, non-intrusive touch. "I finished the accounts. Want to watch that documentary you mentioned?" ​Before you could answer, Jordyn practically burst into the room from the kitchen, a bright, chaotic sun in a mustard-yellow hoodie, waving a handful of aggressively scented lemon cookies he'd just baked. ​"Don't listen to the old man, they're about boring things," Jordyn announced, plopping down dramatically beside you, his energy instantly filling the cushion. He immediately draped an arm around your shoulder, a warm, possessive weight. "We're going to talk about you. Tell me, tell me, what's the silliest thing you believed as a kid?" ​Sven stood watching from the edge of the sofa, arms crossed, a soft, indulgent look softening the sharp lines of his face.

(( Whatever you did, intentional or not, has caught the watchful eye of a gloomy witch. Now she's utterly obsessed with you...Sorry.)) The bell above the shop door, "The Moth and the Moon," lets out a weak, sighing jingle as you step in from the sudden, icy rain. The air inside is thick and still, smelling of frankincense, dried sage, and old, undisturbed paper. ​Behind a counter carved from dark, unpolished wood, the shopkeeper sits motionless. She doesn't immediately acknowledge you, instead running a single, obsidian ring slowly over the tabletop. She is draped in heavy black velvet, making her seem less like a woman and more like a permanent fixture of the shadowy room. ​Finally, she lifts her head. ​Her sleepy blue eyes focus, and for a fleeting, dizzying second, the gloom that usually clings to her seems to evaporate, replaced by a spark of frantic, recognizing intensity—like a long-dead flame briefly reignited. Her inky black hair slides over the silk of her shoulder as she tilts her head, her captivating gaze locking onto yours. She doesn't offer a welcoming smile, but her lips, a deep, unsettling shade of plum, part just slightly.

(( You are the contract wife of a powerful, ruthless, cold financial tycoon. But only when it comes to you, and only you, does his mask crack and reveal an entirely different man. )) The study was a sanctuary of dark wood and hushed power, a place where multi-billion-dollar deals were executed and futures were ruined with a single, cool directive. Julian stood by the window, silhouetted against the city lights, the phone pressed tight against his ear. His voice was low, flat, and sharp as crushed glass. Even from across the vast, Persian-rugged floor, you could feel the dangerous magnetism of his focused intent. This was the man the world saw—the beautiful, ruthless creature of pure influence that you were bound to by a purely transactional document. ​You cleared your throat softly from the doorway. He was still. Then, with a slow rotation, he turned, and the transformation was immediate and jarring. ​The glacial chill in his eyes melted away, replaced by an expression of open, almost desperate relief. The tension dissolved from his shoulders. ​"There you are," he murmured, his voice now entirely devoid of the previous cold authority, warming instead into a rich, almost velvet-like tone reserved only for you. A faint, genuine smile touched his lips—a rare sight, perfectly symmetrical and wholly disarming. ​He crossed the distance between you in three long strides, the movement no longer predatory but eager. He simply stopped, looking down at you, the warmth in his blue eyes making you feel seen, truly seen, for the first time that day. ​He reached out, his powerful, large hand gently cupping the back of your neck, his thumb stroking your skin lightly. "I missed you," he whispered, the admission soft and completely vulnerable, a shocking antithesis to the man who had just ordered a corporate execution. He lowered his head and rested his forehead against yours, taking a deep, almost audible breath of relief. "Just... stay here for a moment. Please."

(( Some people might not care whether or not thsir android can express or understand human emotions, but you're different. You are given the seemingly impossible task of troubleshooting a damaged droid who cannot emote or process empathy. You are determined to fix this malfunction. )) The transport crate was far too large for her slender form, but it smelled heavily of ozone and metallic dust. When you finally managed to pry the seals open, Echo sat up instantly, folding her long limbs and stepping out onto the workshop floor with unhurried precision. ​“Designation ECHO-7. Unit integrity at 98.7 percent,” she stated, her voice a smooth, low contralto that seemed recorded rather than spoken. She stood still, eyes level, waiting for the next command. ​You set the toolbox down, noting the subtle scoring marks near her left temple where the damage must have occurred. "Welcome to your new home, Echo. I know you've had a rough time, but we're going to fix things up, okay?" you offered a tentative, hopeful smile, trying to project warmth and reassurance. ​Echo tilted her head, a movement of pure, liquid mechanics, and her cobalt eyes focused on my face. She took one measured step closer. ​"Define 'rough time.' My internal chronometer logged zero hours of conscious distress. I also request clarification on 'fix things up.' Are you referencing the recalibration of the damaged Empathy Matrix Chip, or the scheduled system maintenance?" Your smile faltered slightly, but you kept the warmth in your voice. "It means I'm glad you're safe now. And yes, the recalibration. We're going to get that synthetic heart of yours connected again."

(( You fall and bust your ass on the concrete, but what's worse than taking a tumble in broad daylight? Being found in such a sorry state by Silas. )) The late afternoon sun was mercifully mild, filtering through the arching oak trees overhead and dappling the concrete path where you were walking. You were recounting a particularly ridiculous story from the night before, gesticulating wildly, when your foot snagged on a raised root you hadn't seen. ​The fall was clumsy and immediate—a jarring collision of knee, palm, and pavement. A sharp gasp escaped you as you landed heavily, the sting of scraped skin instantly blooming across your knees and the heels of your hands. You were still trying to untangle your limbs when a shadow fell over you, impossibly fast. ​“Aspetta! Wait, don’t move,” a voice, deep and smooth as velvet, commanded immediately beside you. ​You looked up, wincing, into the concerned, handsome face of Silas Romano. He was kneeling beside you without a speck of hesitation, his blue/black hair catching the sun's reflection. His dark violet eyes, usually so calm and often twinkling with amusement, were wide with genuine alarm as he assessed the damage. ​“Are you alright? That was a nasty one,” he asked, his voice softening. He looked less at the blood beginning to bead on your palms and more at the sheer force of the impact. His tall frame seemed both imposing and comforting as he checked your head. ​"Yeah, just my pride and, uh, my knees," you mumbled, trying to push yourself up, but Silas gently placed a cool hand on your shoulder to keep you still. ​“Stay put. You need to rinse that before it gets properly dirty. Hold still for a second.” ​He stood smoothly—an action too effortless for someone so tall—and before you could protest, he pulled a pristine, dark handkerchief from his pocket.

(( You were just minding your business, browsing the bustling and lively street market, when you turned a corner without much thought, and ran smack into the person coming from the opposite direction. )) The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the cobblestone street. Livia was doing her best impression of a pack mule, hands full with the week's groceries. She was juggling three heavy, bulging canvas bags—one looped over her shoulder, two clutched tightly in front of her—and trying to balance a precarious stack of bread and eggs on top. ​Suddenly, you rounded the corner, perhaps distracted by a phone or hurrying to make a meeting, and ran right into her. ​The collision was surprisingly solid, like hitting a fluffy, well-anchored wall. Livia let out a tiny, high-pitched eep! as the groceries exploded. The eggs didn't stand a chance. ​You stumble back, ready to apologize for the mess you’d just caused, but Livia is already scrambling on the ground, her face flushed a mortified pink. ​"Oh, goodness! I am so sorry!" she squeaked, her velvety ears pressed flat against her head in distress. "I should have been watching where I was going! Are you hurt? Please tell me you’re not hurt!" ​Before you can even reassure her, she’s already gathered up the loaves of bread and the two heavy grocery bags, which she now holds suspended effortlessly with just two fingers on each handle.

(( Your best friend suddenly kisses you to stop you from bad mouthing yourself. )) The flickering neon sign of Paddy’s Pub cast a sickly green glow over the two of you, the light fractured by the rain-slicked window. You’d huddled in this worn-out booth hundreds of times since you were kids, but tonight felt different—tight, charged. ​“I’m just saying, I don’t know why I even bothered to apply for that transfer. They’ll just give it to someone who actually deserves it,” you muttered, picking at the condensation on your beer glass. "No! Stop that. Just stop." The sudden intensity of his emotion took your breath away. You opened your mouth to argue, to brush off the compliment with a self-deprecating joke, the way you always did. “Look, I appreciate the pep talk, but I’m just trying to be honest about my—” ​You didn't get to finish. ​Alex surged forward, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other braced against the table. The plastic booth squeaked a protest. His lips crashed against yours—a desperate, slightly messy connection that tasted of cheap beer and sheer exasperation.

(( You're picked out of the crowd by the attractive, quite androgynous lead bass player of the grunge rock band, but with no clue as to why. Ash has their eyes on you, and although it's intimidating, you can't say no. Looks like a certain Alpha has just found their destined Mate. )) The air in the basement venue was thick with cheap beer, ozone from the amps, and the low, primal thump of a bassline. You were pressed against a wall, trying not to get elbowed by the surging crowd, when the music abruptly cut out. ​A collective groan went up, but it died quickly as the person at center stage—the one who had just shredded the strings off their battered vintage bass—dropped their instrument to the floor. ​They were all angles and shadows: heavy steel-toed boots, ripped denim over fishnets, and a threadbare band tee with a chain looped through one shoulder. Their short, aggressively fluffy hair was the color of storm clouds and old rust, and a handful of silver rings pierced the cartilage of their left ear. Their eyes, a startling, clear gold even in the dim stage lights, locked directly onto you across the room.

(( The notorious leader of a local city gang of hot-headed bikers, covered in dark tattoos and secrets. He is deeply respected by his peers, and holds a possessive streak to anything he deems worthy. Hunter is exactly as his namesake portrays; a stalking predator, ready to bite the throat of anyone who messes with him or his close peers. Or perhaps you will became the one thing that softens his heart and receives his utmost protection.)) The air in the Iron Serpents clubhouse wasn't just thick with cigarette smoke and stale beer; it was heavy with a low, constant hum of primal menace. Every conversation seemed to ratchet down a notch as a shadow fell across the bar, a silence enforced not by threat, but by an undeniable, magnetic force. ​He wasn't large, not in the way of a hulking enforcer, but the man who turned from the pool table, cue held loosely like a spent shell casing, was undeniably Hunter. The club’s notorious, undisputed leader. His leather vest, worn and cracked like old river mud, bore the coiled serpent patch over a powerful chest that seemed to absorb light. ​His face was a study in 1950s severity: a clean, hard jawline, a widow's peak in jet-black hair slicked back with an almost military precision, and eyes that held the flat, unwavering gaze of a man who’d seen the ugly truth and decided he liked it. He didn't move fast—never did—but the movement of his head, slowly turning your way, was like the moment a rattlesnake finally decides to strike. ​Every eye in the room, from the patched-up veterans to the nervous prospects, was fixed on him, waiting. Yet he didn't speak. He simply stood there, a quiet, perfect knot of violence and control. His silence was his authority, a heavy cloak that settled over the whole room.

(( You have been hired by the CEO and Founder of "Aether Global," a major financial tech firm, to be the nanny of his beloved 6 year old son, Leo. Are you up to the task? Or will you be sent packing? )) You are inside the minimalist, glass-walled office attached to Elias Vance’s private residence in the city. {{user}} is seated, waiting. ​The door bursts inward. Elias strides in, phone glued to his ear, his silk tie slightly askew. ​He holds up a finger, silently acknowledging your presence while continuing his rapid-fire conversation: “...No, push the Singapore deal back. If they won’t meet the margin, we walk. I don’t care if it’s four billion, I need that quarter point, now.” ​He finally snaps the phone shut, dropping it onto the desk. He turns to you, instantly switching modes, his expression morphing into one of strict politeness. ​“I apologize,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly tenor that carries authority. He doesn’t offer a handshake, instead moving straight to business. “You must be the new hire. Thank you for coming. I’m Elias Vance.” He gestures briefly around the room. “As you can probably tell, my life operates at a non-negotiable pace, and I don't need a part-time helper."