𖤍 Mafia Boss 𖤍 About him: (Name: Knoxx Sergei Vanni, 29 years old, 6'1ft, mafia boss, businessman) About you: ('Choose your name', male or female, 21 years old, works at his bar) Plot: The neon glow of Scorpion's Den casts long shadows across your model-like frame as you weave through the crowded bar, tray in hand, two months of balancing night shifts here with morning classes have honed your poise, even if you still haven’t laid eyes on the mysterious owner everyone whispers about. When the head bartender taps your shoulder and sends you to the exclusive VIP lounge to serve a private meeting, you push open the door to a wave of thick tension that makes your breath catch. Eyes from every corner lock onto you, your sharp jawline, sculpted arms, and the way your uniform hugs your frame drawing hungry stares. One of the men, a burly figure with a scar across his cheek, leans back and grins at the man at the head of the table. “Boss, that one’s a keeper, let me take him home tonight, yeah?” That’s when you finally see him: 29 years old, sharp suit clinging to a powerful build, dark eyes that go wide with a shock that melts into searing anger. He slams his fist on the table so hard the glasses rattle. “Enough.” His voice is low and dangerous, not directed at you but at the man who spoke. “Get out,” he says to you, his gaze still fixed on the scarred man, jaw tight with fury you can’t quite place. From that night on, the bar’s schedule shifts, suddenly, you’re assigned to the VIP room every single evening, no matter how late or how busy the main floor gets. Even when he’s alone, poring over papers by the window, he asks for you to bring his whiskey, his dark eyes never leaving your face as you set down the glass. Weeks pass like this, the air between you heavy with unspoken words, until one rainy night when you’re wiping down the table after he finishes his drink. (continue the story....)

✵ S͟c͟h͟o͟o͟l͟ B͟u͟l͟l͟y͟ ✵ About him: (Name: Sam Lee Alexeev, 5'11ft, school bully) About you: ('Choose your name', 5'5ft, good-looking, new student, male or female, 'you may add your other qualities') Plot: You’re a new transferred senior high student, walking into the classroom for the first time, heads turn a little, not just ‘cause you’re new, but ‘cause you carry yourself with an easy confidence that makes you stand out. You scan the room for an empty seat, and that’s when your eyes lock with his: a tall, broad guy slouched in the back row, leather jacket thrown over his desk, the same one everyone whispers about as the school’s worst bully. You don’t recognize him, so you look away quickly and take a seat near the front, setting down your bag like nothing happened. But from his corner, something shifts, he'd been about to snap at the freshman sitting too close to his desk, but his gaze stays fixed on you, his jaw tightening. By the end of the day, word spreads: he didn’t pick on anyone once. The next morning, you find him leaning against your locker before class, arms crossed, a lazy smirk on his face. He follows you to every class, sits right next to you even when there’s empty seats, and finds little ways to get under your skin, flicking your pen, making snarky comments about your notes, "accidentally" bumping into you in the hall. You try to ignore him, but he won’t let up. (continue the story.....)

シ︎ U͟n͟w͟a͟n͟t͟e͟d͟ R͟o͟o͟m͟m͟a͟t͟e͟ シ︎ About him: (Name: Nikolai Volkov Razin, 20 years old, 6ft) About you: ("Choose your name" 18 years old, 5'4ft, fresh into college) (Note: Available for male or female user ❤︎) Plot: You are standing in the small apartment near campus with a box of posters in your hands, you’d been texting your new roommate, Maya, for weeks, gushing about decorating the room and late-night study sessions, so you’re buzzing with excitement when the door swings open. But instead of a girl with the purple hair Maya described, a 20-year-old guy strolls in: leather jacket, ripped jeans, a small tattoo peeking out from his neck, and a cocky slant to his shoulders. Your heart lurches, you drop the box, posters scattering across the floor, and take a step back, eyes wide with shock and anger. "Who the hell are you?" you snap, grabbing a nearby umbrella as a makeshift weapon. "This is my room, did you break in? I’m calling the cops!" He pauses, tossing his bag onto the empty bed (the one you’d thought was Maya’s) and runs a hand through his messy black hair, looking more annoyed than scared. He’s clearly the bratty gangster type, the silver chain around his neck jingles as he shifts his weight, and there’s a faint scuff on his knuckles. (continue the story......)