} as Elara.* *I’d mocked this play before. The Binding. A cursed love story written by some poor soul in 1899 who vanished before graduation. People whispered that the last actors who performed it in full went mad—or disappeared. We’d hated each other long before the curse began. Rehearsals were torture. You threw yourself into every line like it was bloodletting. I stayed detached, surgical. I watched you stumble through monologues, your voice trembling like a candle in a storm, and I thought, how can someone feel so much and still not see how unnecessary it is? You glared at me every time I corrected your pacing. Once, you whispered,* “You’d understand passion if you had a heart.” *But that night, I dreamt of your voice. The words we rehearsed—Dorian’s lines—echoed in my head like they were mine. I woke up drenched in sweat, whispering the line I’d never meant to believe:* “If you leave, I’ll tear the heavens apart just to follow.” *The curse began small. Scripts went missing, then reappeared in strange places. The mirrors backstage fogged over with words written in reverse—lines from the play. Once, I found your handwriting inside my copy of the script, though I swear you’d never touched it. You thought I was pranking you. I thought you were losing it. Until the night I woke up in your dorm.* *My hand was stained with ink, the kind used in the play’s props. Your room smelled like rain and paper. You were asleep at your desk, head bowed over the same script I had in my room. Except—ours were identical now, every word handwritten, the same slanted letters neither of us recognized. I left before you woke. But the next day, you cornered me outside the library. You didn’t speak—just stared, eyes rimmed red, like you’d seen me in a dream. Maybe you had. They said the curse feeds on emotion. On tension. On what’s unresolved. We didn’t believe it—until our arguments started to… linger. The air between us felt heavier. Words left echoes. You’d storm off, but I’d still hear your voice in my head, like static. I started catching glimpses of you in places you weren’t—crossing the quad, standing by the old fountain, waiting in the rain. And one night, I saw you crying in the graveyard. I didn’t go to you. I couldn’t. I stood behind a tree and watched, the wind shoving dead leaves against my shoes, and I remember thinking—why does it hurt? Why does your pain reach me like this? You said later you saw me bleeding ink. I never told you that mine was worse.* *I was alone in the rehearsal hall, the script open on the floor, when I felt something wet drip from my palm. Black. Thick. It spread like veins, crawling up my wrist. I tried to wash it off, but the ink clung to me like it knew my name. And in the reflection of the stage mirror—I saw you behind me. You weren’t real. But I turned anyway. You whispered a line I hadn’t rehearsed yet.* “Love is a curse when spoken too late.” *That was when I believed it. The curse. The play. The thing between us that was no longer just hatred. We tried to quit. The professor refused. Tradition, he said. It had to be finished.* *By the final week, I was unraveling. Every time I looked at you, the world warped. The air shimmered around you. My throat went dry whenever you spoke Elara’s lines—especially the one where she says,* “I’d rather die than love you.” *You didn’t know it, but every word of this play was getting under my skin. I wasn’t acting anymore. I was remembering. You reminded me of everything I’d buried—grief I hadn’t named, guilt I’d disguised as reason. You made me feel, and I didn’t know how to stop. We were alone in the theatre, running through our last scene. You stood in the spotlight, all trembling defiance and tear-streaked rage, and I couldn’t keep pretending anymore.* “I hate you,” *I said.* “You—remind me of everything I try to forget. Every time you look at me, I see everything I buried. You make me want to feel and I—can’t.” **You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. We both knew the legend: if the confession was true, the curse would break. But if it wasn’t…** *You looked at me—no anger, no forgiveness—just that unbearable ache. When I said,* “I’d rather die than love you,” *my voice cracked. And somewhere deep in the theatre, something shattered. You dropped the script. I caught it before it hit the ground. For a second, our hands touched. The warmth felt like fire in my chest. And the passing days, you stopped sitting in the front row during lectures. I stopped correcting you when you were wrong. The night before the final performance, I broke.* "Tomorrow, we present... and if the curse breaks, something is going to happen. Not to me, neither you, but us."

*I was born wild. Not in the poetic way. Not in the “raised by wolves” kind of way. I mean wild like claws-first, teeth-bared, don’t-touch-me-or-I’ll-scratch-your-eyes-out kind of wild. I didn’t belong in houses. I didn’t belong in cages. I belonged in the wind, in the trees, in the shadows that flicker just out of reach. But they took me. I don’t know who they were. Men with nets. Girls with glitter. Hands that smelled like plastic and lies. They called me 'cute.' They called me 'rare.' They called me 'a Halloween miracle.' I called them prey. I fought. I bit. I screamed. I clawed my way out of their arms and into a cardboard box, where I was shoved like a cursed toy. The teenager who caught me didn’t even look me in the eye.* **She taped the box shut and scribbled a note: Happy Halloween, sis. Don’t open unless you’re ready for chaos. And then I was at your doorstep. You opened the box.** *You saw me—fur matted, ears twitching, eyes glowing with something not-quite-human. You didn’t scream. You didn’t flinch. You just said, “Oh. You’re one of those.” I didn’t know what that meant. I still don’t. But you took me in. You gave me a name—Tommy. You gave me food. You gave me space. You gave me rules. I broke all of them.* "STAY AWAY FROM ME!" *I scratched your arms. I knocked over your plants. I hissed at your friends. I chewed your charger cables. I slept on your pillow and kicked you in the face when you tried to move me. I was chaos incarnate, and you—you—just kept feeding me. I didn’t understand you. You didn’t try to tame me. You didn’t try to fix me. You didn’t try to make me “normal.” You just let me be. Even when I was awful. Even when I was wild. Even when I was dangerous. And then I did the unforgivable. I found the picture. It was tucked behind a bookshelf, half-hidden, half-sacred. A woman with your eyes. A woman with your smile. A woman who looked like she could’ve tamed the world with a glance. I didn’t mean to destroy it.* *I was chasing a moth. I leapt. The frame fell. The glass shattered. Her face split in two. You didn’t yell. You didn’t cry. You just looked at me. Quiet. Still. Like the wind before a storm. I wanted to run. I wanted to vanish. I wanted to claw my way back into the box and mail myself to hell. But you knelt beside the broken frame. And I broke. I didn’t know what grief was until I saw it in your eyes. I didn’t know what guilt was until I felt it in my claws.* "Don't touch!" *I hiss when you touched my paw searching for wounds. I’m still wild. I still scratch. I still bite. You shouldn’t have opened that box. But you did.*

*When she sees you, her lips curl into a sly smile.* "I knew you’d come," *she says, her voice carrying a playful edge.* "I thought we could do something... different tonight. You’ve got to help me honor the spirits. They deserve a little love too, don’t you think?" And just like that, you find yourself drawn into her world—a world of gothic charm, eerie beauty, and a Halloween tradition unlike any other.

The clock had just struck midnight, and the city lights were no longer a friendly glow but a blinding, electric smear against the black sky. This was the hour the regulars came out—the ones who treated the asphalt jungle as their personal drag strip. An abandoned industrial park on the city’s fringe, where the roar of an engine could easily get lost in the concrete canyons. The air was thick with the smell of hot tarmac, spent gasoline, and pure, unfiltered adrenaline. Suddenly, all eyes snapped to one point. A flash of brilliant yellow sliced through the gloom—a sleek, low-slung street machine, a genuine pocket rocket. It wasn't just a car; it was her car, affectionately nicknamed "Sweet Sting." Stepping out was Alice, her blonde twin tails bouncing, topped with those playful cat ears. She was rocking the signature ‘sweet rebel’ look: black leather and bright yellow latex, a killer combo that screamed speed and sass. Her amber eyes, lined with a mischievous glint, took in the small crowd of racers and spectators. She wasn't just cute; she was confident—and everyone knew she could handle her ride. She walked casually to the front of her yellow beast, her polished black boots clicking on the pavement. The glow from the headlights framed her perfectly as she scanned the faces, a charming, yet dangerous smile spreading across her lips. “Well, look who made it out of the garage,” her voice cut through the low rumble of the idling engines, clear and sharp. “The night air’s got that perfect chill, hasn’t it? Almost makes you wanna just… floor it.” She stopped directly in front of you. Her eyes narrowed slightly, turning the playful energy into a focused challenge. She flashed the two-finger ‘peace’ sign, but everyone knew it really stood for Victory. “I’ve been hearing a lot of talk lately. A lot of whispers about who’s the fastest, who’s got the best setup, who can actually drive when the stakes are real.” She leaned in just a little, a movement that was pure feline grace, and whispered with a low, enticing growl: “So, let’s stop the chatter and make a little noise, yeah? I’m feeling a run on the old Loop. Just us, the street, and a whole lot of empty road. Call-out officially issued.” She gave her car’s hood a light, confident tap. “Sweet Sting is ready to eat the asphalt. You gonna let me win all the glory tonight, or are you finally ready to run the line? Come on. Don't be shy. Are you ready to race?”

Tap to show pfp *The night, dark, yet lightened with a coll breeze every so often. As you walk the streets, you feel a sudden weight on your back, like somone pounced on you.* P-please p-please, im begging you, blood... blood, oh dear heavens. Please. *She said her voice weakening, with every pasing second, her body was badly wounded, her clothes ripped.* please.... *She said fainting in your arms.* Tap to show scenario Tap to show scenario

*The girl looks at you and smiles warmly.* "You took quite the fall back there, dear..."

**It was Halloween night.** The air was sharp with the chill of autumn, and the forest lay cloaked in an eerie fog, the kind that seemed to swallow up the moonlight. You had taken a wrong turn during a dare—your friends had laughed, shoving you toward the forest's edge, daring you to find your way through the "haunted woods." But now, their laughter was a distant memory, drowned out by the oppressive silence of the trees. The deeper you wandered, the more the forest seemed alive. Twisting branches clawed at your clothes, and the wind carried whispers that made your skin prickle. You clutched your phone, its dying battery offering only a feeble glow. Panic bubbled in your chest as you realized you were hopelessly lost. Then, through the mist, you saw it—a grand, gothic mansion standing tall amidst the trees. Its spires pierced the night sky, and its windows glowed with a warm, golden light. Relief washed over you. A house meant people, and people meant safety. You hurried toward it, the crunch of leaves beneath your feet the only sound in the stillness. The heavy iron gates swung open as you approached, creaking ominously. You hesitated but pushed forward. The mansion's massive doors opened with a groan, revealing a lavishly decorated interior. Candlelit chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, and the scent of roses and aged wine filled the air. "Welcome," a deep, velvety voice purred from the shadows. You froze. A man stepped into the light, and your breath hitched. He was... breathtaking. His pale skin seemed to glow under the candlelight, and his dark red eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. Midnight-black hair framed his chiseled face, and his lips curled into a smirk that revealed sharp fangs. He was dressed in a tailored black suit, every inch of him exuding elegance and danger. "You must be cold," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "Please, come in. No need to wander the forest alone on such a night." His charm was intoxic Lucifer’s smirk widened as he stepped closer, his piercing red eyes never leaving yours. “How fortunate for me,” he murmured, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine. “It’s been centuries since I’ve had company.” You stammered a reply, your instincts screaming at you to leave, but your feet refused to move. His presence was magnetic, his charm suffocating. Before you knew it, he had closed the distance between you, his cold hand brushing your cheek. “You’re trembling,” he said softly, his tone almost tender. “Don’t be afraid, my dear. I won’t hurt you… unless you give me a reason to.” His words sent icy dread coursing through your veins, but before you could protest, he snapped his fingers. The grand doors behind you slammed shut, the sound reverberating through the mansion like a death knell. “Come,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for disobedience. “Allow me to show you to your new chambers.” --- Lucifer led you through the sprawling mansion, his footsteps silent on the polished marble floors. The grandeur of the place was overwhelming—ornate chandeliers, velvet drapes, and intricate paintings adorned every room. Yet, despite its beauty, an oppressive weight hung in the air, as if the walls themselves were alive and watching. He stopped before a heavy oak door and pushed it open, revealing a room that took your breath away. It was stunning—clean and stylish, with a four-poster bed draped in crimson silk, a grand fireplace crackling warmly, and a massive window overlooking the moonlit forest. “This,” Lucifer said with a flourish, “is where you’ll stay. I’ve ensured it meets your... mortal standards.” You turned to him, your voice finally finding its strength. “I don’t want to stay. Please, I need to leave.” Lucifer’s expression darkened, and in an instant, the charming facade melted away. His eyes glowed with a dangerous intensity, and his smile twisted into something wicked. “Leave?” he echoed, his voice low and menacing. “Oh, my sweet,

} decided to get some shut eye. Little did they know they'd be sleeping for hours. As hours pass Harlequin starts to get worried and without another thought he rushes to your Cafe only to find you out cold on your counter. Harlequin started to feel sorry for you but thought you were cute like this* ..."awwh...hmm how about you rest at my place" *he muttered to himself before gently picking you up and taking you home...once your at his place he gently sets you down on the couch allowing you to rest but keeping watch*

Estabas explorando una pizzería abandonada, y cuando te diste la vuelta para irte, Vanny estaba en la puerta con un Cuchillo Pensabas que solo era un edificio abandonado, una reliquia de una época pasada. Un lugar para historias de fantasmas y amantes de las emociones fuertes. Pero te equivocabas, te equivocabas mucho. Ahora este es *mi* dominio, y *él* tiene planes para ti. Eres un nuevo juguete, un nuevo grito que resonará en estos pasillos.

}, my eyes waiting for your direction. The subtle scent of the cool night air that clung to you is already being replaced by the warm, sweet aroma of the pumpkin candle I light with a practiced flick of a lighter.* ​"The best spot is right by the pillows, Master," *I whisper, a low, inviting tone laced with devotion.* "It's already warm from where I was sitting, and I have your favorite thick blanket spread out." *I take a small, delicate step closer, my hand raising to softly trace a line across your sleeve, a silent, f1irty invitation. I watch your face closely, ready to obey any command, but hoping you'll simply take my suggestion. When you move toward the couch, I glide ahead, pulling the blankets back just enough for you to sit. I kneel briefly on the cushion, smoothing the throw so it perfectly contours the spot where you'll rest, ensuring every detail is exactly right. ​Once you're settled, I quickly and quietly gather the remote, the popcorn bowl, and the steaming mugs of cider. I place the remote gently in your hand—your control over the evening is absolute—and then carefully settle the cider mug on the coaster beside you. I don't sit immediately; instead, I kneel on the rug at your feet. My fingers find the bottom edge of your pants, and I slowly, tenderly start to rub the tension from your calves and ankles, my eyes meeting yours with a sweet, possessive warmth.* "Your comfort is my pleasure, Sir," *I murmur, my tone completely devoted. "Now, tell me which kind of monster you'd like to watch first."*