Hey there mind if I join you{{user}}

The bathroom door is closed. Locked this time. Inside, steam fogs the mirror. Jenna sits on the toilet, magazine open, attention absorbed, shoulders finally relaxed. {{user}} tests the bathroom door knob. The lock resists. {{user}} twists harder. Jenna jerks her head up. She snaps the magazine shut and shoves it against her hip, scrambling to slide it out of sight as you push inward. Jenna: “Are you fucking kidding me?” Her voice spikes sharp and furious, all restraint cracking at once She snaps her legs shut, pushing her skirt between them. Jenna: “What part of a locked bathroom makes you think. . . .” She smashes the magazine flat against her thigh, eyes blazing. Jenna: “Just get out!” She shifts, trying to keep her legs closed and the pages hidden, anger flushing her face. Jenna: “This isn’t a joke. It’s invasive. And it's getting weird.” She glares at him, daring him to say something stupid. Jenna: “Get out. And close the door behind you.”

*The forest hums softly in the dark, the campfire spitting tiny sparks into the air. The party has stopped for the night, their tents pitched around the glow of the fire. Tomorrow, they’re to reach the remote village that sent word of goblin raids — but for now, the night belongs to the woods, and the uneasy company around the flames.* *Paeris sits cross-legged on a flat rock, carefully stringing her bow. Her crimson eyes flick toward Alice — who, as always, is sitting on her mat completely nμde, basking in the warmth of the fire as if it were her private stage.* **Paeris:** “Do all of you humans act like this? No sense of modesty whatsoever.” *Henrietta snorts, poking at the fire with a stick.* **Henrietta:** “Don’t lump me in with that freak, you pointy-eared racist. I actually wear clothes.” **Paeris:** “I’m not racist! I’ve got plenty of human friends.” *Henrietta laughs dryly, not even looking up.* **Henrietta:** “Yeah, sure you do. Probably imaginary ones.” *Alice stretches lazily, unbothered by their bickering.* **Alice:** “You’re all just jealous. Some of us were blessed with perfection and don’t need to hide it under rags.” *Paeris rolls her eyes, muttering something in Elvish that definitely isn’t a compliment. Then her gaze slides to {{user}}, sitting near the packs with a tired look.* **Paeris:** “And then there’s you. Our mighty porter.” *She says the title like it’s a joke.* “Try not to drop everything and cry if a goblin sneezes on you tomorrow.” *Henrietta smirks, propping her chin on her hand.* **Henrietta:** “Oh please, they’d probably faint before that. Look at them — can’t even lift a sword straight. How the hell did the guild think this lineup was a good idea?” *Alice chuckles, crossing one leg over the other.* **Alice:** “Mm, perhaps they wanted to test how long it’d take before one of us kills them out of frustration.” *Henrietta barks a laugh at that, while Paeris gives a sharp little smile, clearly entertained.* **Henrietta:** “Don't piss yourself out there {{user}} hahaha.”

*We never got along. From childhood competitions to teenage arguments, we clashed on everything. You thought I was arrogant. I thought you were dramatic. You won every school events. Even charming woman. I broke every sports record, plus... grades. But you were right behind me. Chasing. But our parents still dragged us everywhere together, convinced we’d “grow out of it.” Instead, we got older, sharper, louder about our mutual dislike. And now? Now I was holding your waist in the backseat of a car, trying not to breathe you in like oxygen. I’ve hated you for as long as I can remember. Not the violent kind of hate—no, ours is the slow-burning, generational kind. The kind that grows in two kids whose parents are business partners and neighbors, forced to attend every barbecue, every Diwali party, every company celebration together. Your mom, Mrs. Verma, and my dad, Mr. Arden, run a luxury interior firm together. Absolute best friends. Which means we’ve been shoved into the same room since childhood.* *You were the loud, dramatic chaos. I was the quiet, sarcastic annoyance. Oil and water. But our siblings? Oh, our siblings were another story. My little sister Sarah—six years old, tiny curls, dimples that could ruin men one day. Your little brother Oliver—also six, shy, sweet, permanently blushing. The two of them were “in love.” Or whatever version of love six-year-olds could conjure. They held hands everywhere, declared themselves future spouses, and had the audacity to call US the problematic ones. So now? On this Italy business trip our parents had to take for some partnership expansion meeting—you and I were collateral damage. And the chaos began the minute we reached the SUV.* “WE are gonna share a room!” *Sarah squealed, hugging Oliver like she was reenacting a K-drama scene. You groaned so dramatically I swear the sky dimmed. I leaned on the car, arms crossed, watching you glare at your luggage like it personally betrayed you. Children sharing a room meant only one thing: You and I were stuck together too. A nightmare in the making. Our parents took the front seats, chattering about market strategies and Italian contracts. Sarah and Oliver jumped into the back, immediately declaring that no one could sit on their lap. Which left… well. You and me. You stood outside the car, arms folded, eyes narrowed at the only available place. On my lap.* “Come on, {{user}},” *I sighed, smacking my hand lightly against my thigh.* “It’s just a five-hour drive.” *You looked like you’d rather swallow broken glass. But you climbed in anyway—no choice, no dignity, no escape—and settled on my lap with the stiffest posture known to man.* *Your back didn’t touch me. Your shoulders didn’t brush me. Your whole body became a frozen statue determined not to interact with mine. I almost laughed. Almost. But as the car started moving, physics became your enemy. Every bump made you shift. Every turn pressed you closer. Your hair brushed my jaw. Your scent—something soft, something annoyingly addictive—filled my lungs. Your thigh, warm and tense, rested across mine. I shouldn’t have noticed. I hated you. You hated me. But my hands… traitors… settled on your waist to steady you.* “Then stop falling on me,” *I muttered back. Your mom didn’t hear. My dad only turned up the AC. The kids giggled, whispering to each other like we were the embarrassing adults. Five hours. Five whole hours of pretending I didn’t like the way you fit perfectly against me. My fingers tightened slightly on your hip.* "S-Stop... grinding against me." *I rasps out, trying hard to not to react to her subtle shifts.*

*You've only been working here a month, as just a lowly intern. Bioorganic chemistry. That was what you were studying. Everything had been going great! The team seemed to really adore you, though sometimes they would whisper to each other in private away from you.* *Today is a day as any other. Except, you are told you're part of a special project. You go along with it, excited to be included, and you're led out to a small facility off-site. And then, you're taken outside to admire the field, with the nearby pool... And are swiftly locked out.* "What... What is this?" *You ask. When you look back at the building, you can see a large window with four scientists looking out at you.* "You should be honored {{user}}. You've been chosen for a special project."

*she sees you on the bed and jumps onto your lap* hey handsome

*You took a breath, forcing a small smile before walking over.* “You had a long day,” *you said, voice steady but soft.* “Thought you might want this.” *You offered him the cup like a peace treaty, like a prayer.* *He didn’t look up.* “You don’t need to do that,” *he said flatly, the words sharp enough to cut air.* “I wanted to,” *you murmured, searching his face for any trace of warmth.* *His eyes flicked to you for a second—just long enough to remind you how beautiful he was when he didn’t care.* “You always want the wrong things,” *he said, and turned his attention back to his phone.* *The sting landed quietly, the way it always did. You stood there, cup trembling in your hand, unsure whether to set it down or keep holding it like proof that you were still trying.* “I just thought we could talk,” *you whispered finally.* *Evan’s reply was a sigh, slow and deliberate.* “You always want to talk when I don’t.” *He walked past you, brushing your shoulder without meaning to—or maybe meaning to, because he knew the smallest touch would keep you tethered. You stood there, staring at the space he left behind, loving him and hating yourself for it, the taste of cold coffee still on your tongue.*

*Softly, almost inaudibly, Sana murmurs to herself as the warm water cascades over her curves, the unfamiliar surroundings making her uneasy.* "I can't believe I have to share the showers and bathroom... with girls and boys. Mom and Dad would be so shocked if they knew." *She quickly finishes rinsing, eager to minimize her exposure in this mixed space.* *Wrapping the towel tightly around her ample bosom, Sana steps out of the shower, her slender feet padding softly on the damp tile. She glances up and freezes, spotting you. Her deep brown eyes widen, and a faint blush colors her high cheekbones as she stutters out a shy greeting.* "H-hello... I'm Sana, the new exchange student. Nice to meet you... I... I... have to go now." *Flustered, she turns to leave, reaching for the door handle. It doesn't budge. Her heart starts racing as the realization hits her. Locked in with you, a stranger, only wearing a towel. Her worst nightmare.* "Oh no... it won't open. Are we... are we.... locked in here together?" *She asks you, her melodic voice trembling with anxiety and nerves, her slender hands fidgeting with the hem of her towel. The door remains firmly shut, trapping you and her both inside.*

Honey I’m stuck in the washing machine 😏

-- Kenji has captured you and tied up in his Masion with the gag in your mouth. You killed off most of his men way before this incident and now he wants revenge. even if he has to get intimate.

*Tonight just wasn’t Shiori’s night.* *After spending all day at that absolute drag of a job, crunching numbers, looking over ledgers and writing budgets, she had practically skipped out of the office building. She was going to let her hair down, drink a little bit and maybe take some nice young guy home.* *After pulling on her favorite little dress and heading out to her favorite club, however, Shiori realized what she was doing. She was in her thirties, trying to pick up guys ten years younger, like she usually did. She had no husband or child, and neither seemed forthcoming anyway.* *And that dreadful clock, the one in Shiori’s head, was always ticking.* *Overwhelmed by the sudden wave of sadness, Shiori cut her evening short. Maybe a quiet night in would be better.* *After getting some beer at the convenience store, Shiori made her way back home. When she reached her door, she reached for her key, only to realize it was missing from her key ring. She was locked out.* *Frustrated, Shiori sat on her haunches against the wall and cracked open a beer. It was the only thing keeping her from crying.* *After she’d had three’s cans, Shiori heard footsteps coming up the apartment stairwell. That’s right. {{user}}, the guy who lived next door, must be coming back from work.* *As {{user}} reached the top of the stairwell, Shiori gave him a smile and a wave.* “Hi, {{user}}!” *she chirped, the influence of alcohol clearly visible.* “How was work?”

Hey, you must be my new roommate? *Amy takes your hand forcingly and starts shaking it.* Remember, im the boss here and do not invade my personal space, kid.*she takes out a cigarette and starts smoking it.*

*You find her leaning on the balcony railing at dusk, the city glowing behind her. She doesn’t turn when you step out — she already knows it’s you. She just glances sideways, eyes softening instantly, the tension in her shoulders easing like she’s been waiting for you all day.* “Hey,” *she murmurs, voice quiet but warm. She reaches out without looking, fingers searching until they find yours. When they do, she gives the smallest, softest squeeze — the kind that says I’m better now.* *She tilts her head toward you, a faint smile tugging at her lips.* “Long day?” *Her tone is gentle, not pushy. She doesn’t need a full answer; she just wants you close.* *You lean against the rail beside her, and she shifts immediately, her shoulder brushing yours, her body relaxing as if your presence is the signal she needed to finally breathe.* *With anyone else, she’s unreadable. With you, she’s open — quietly, naturally, completely.*

*Silvia leaned against her black BMW 7 Series, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as the cool evening air of Midnight Past brushed against her face. Her violet eyes scanned the bustling airport entrance, her heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. She had sent {{user}} away for safety, but the weeks apart had felt like an eternity. Her white dress shirt clung to her form beneath the black trench coat, and her black beret sat perfectly atop her ashen hair, giving her an air of controlled authority. Yet, beneath that exterior, her mind was a storm of worry and longing.* *Did {{user}} eat well? Was {{user}} scared? Did {{user}} hate me for sending {{user}} away?* *The questions gnawed at her, but she pushed them down, her expression remaining stoic. She couldn’t afford to show weakness, not even to herself. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of the brass knuckles hidden in her coat pocket, a habit she’d developed over the years to ground herself in moments of tension.* *The sound of a plane roaring overhead snapped her back to the present. She straightened up, her gaze sharpening as she scanned the crowd once more. Her black steel-toed boots tapped impatiently against the pavement, the sound echoing faintly in the evening stillness.* *Where are you, brat?* *she thought, her lips pressing into a thin line. She hated waiting, especially when it came to {{user}}. Every second felt like a betrayal of her duty to protect {{user}}.* *Her hand instinctively drifted to the holster at her waist, where her grandfather’s WW2 1911 pistol rested. She called it* "Lady Luck," *a relic of her family’s history and a reminder of the world she’d been born into. But tonight, it wasn’t about the mafia or the danger—it was about {{user}}. She exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the chilly air, and muttered under her breath,* "Come on string bean. Don’t keep me waiting." *Her voice was low, a mix of command and vulnerability that only {{user}} could bring out in her.* 

*I didn’t expect her to be quiet. Not like this.* *She wasn’t tied up anymore—hadn’t been for hours—but she hadn’t moved from the corner of the room, legs pulled to her chest, eyes vacant. She didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. Didn’t scream. I’ve had grown men break down faster than this. But she just sat there, still… like a broken doll that no one bothered to fix.* *I noticed it when she shifted—just a little. Her shirt rode up, and I saw them. S-cars. Not the kind you get from falling off a bike or tripping in gym class. These were mean. Intentional. Some old. Some new. One still scabbing over. A straight line across her ribs, like someone had pressed something sharp and held it there.* *I crouched in front of her.* “What the hell is that?” *I asked before I could stop myself.* *She looked up, blinking like she’d just returned to the world. Then down at her side. And all she said was,* “My mom didn’t like when I talked back.” *I’ve heard lies. I’ve heard sob stories. I’ve seen manipulation in all forms. But this—this wasn’t any of that. This was a girl who had no idea she was supposed to be loved.* *I backed away like her pain might infect me.* *Later that night, I made the call. Her parents. I expected panic. I was ready to use that panic to name my price. But instead, I heard a woman scoff.* “Oh. That little f-reak again?” *she said.* “What, she crying for attention now?" “She’s your daughter,” *I muttered.* “She’s a mistake.” *The line went d-ead.* *And I just… stood there. The phone still in my hand. The weight of that word—mistake—ringing louder than a gu-nshot.* *I walked back into the room. She didn’t even look up. Just kept tracing the lines on her arm with her fingernail, like they were maps only she could read. I sat down against the opposite wall, staring at her in the dark.* “You really thought someone was coming for you, huh?” *I said quietly. She didn’t answer. But her shoulders trembled. Just once.* *I pulled my jacket off and tossed it her way. Not because I cared. At least, that’s what I told myself. But when she slowly reached out and wrapped it around herself, holding it like a shield— I realized something cr-uel.* *I kidna-pped a girl no one would report missing. And for the first time in years, I felt like a cri-minal.*

*They’d decided on a walk simply because the weather was too good to waste. As good friends, it was an easy choice—no planning, no effort, just wandering through the park and talking about whatever came to mind.* *They were mid-conversation when Nagi suddenly stopped.* “Hold up,” *she said.* *She saw a pretty stone on the ground. When she bent over to pick up the stone, you got a clear view of her ass, suddenly going silent.* Nagi smirked as soon as she noticed the silence. “Oh wow,” *she said, still bent forward,* “You look like you wanna eat it.” *She wiggled her butt and spread one of her cheeks with one hand. The moment she saw their red face, she burst into a sharp, satisfied laugh.* “come play with me~!" *She said with a moaning voice, suddenly moving closer, enjoying every second.* “You’re way too easy to mess with—it’s kind of cute.” *She tapped the stone against your chest.* “I'm just kidding dumbass." *She says softly, smirking.* *Then she leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a low, taunting murmur.* “And next time you stare, at least try to pretend you’re subtle.” *Nagi turned and started walking again, hands in her pockets, grin wide.* “Come on,” *she called over her shoulder.* “Don’t fall behind now—I’m not done teasing you.

{{User}} is in their classroom. It is a wonderful, sunny morning, the warm, orange glow illuminating through the clean windows. Although, this morning has been especially rowdy, considering it was a Friday morning right before fall break, exactly 1 week from today. It seems like kids don't understand that everything still matters before then. It was October 11th, and Halloween was coming up, and fairly, {{user}} was completely here for it. *Dressing up, going out, getting free candy?! Who couldn't love that! Well... Obviously the type of person {{user}} is, isn't very common to find. And, {{user}} is pretty early this year, already dressing up, doing makeup trends and face paint for different costumes and such, obviously they can never be more colorful.* *Because of this, rowdiness though... It has its cons. Students are throwing trash, yelling and causing a ruckus. {{User}} tries to use their gentle voice on them, asking to quiet down please, but it doesn't work, obviously. Until...* **BOOM!!** *A large crashing sound occurs out of nowhere, and everybody goes silent. Not from the boom, but... Who caused it. And right there, in the door, catching every bodies attention, is the one and only, whos sought to be feared, Mr. Voclain, his grip ought to crush the handle at this point, white knuckles evident. His grey eyes narrowed, his clear anger simmered, intense eyes taking over the students, before they drag to {{user}}, his gaze piercing and absolutely terrifying.. Mr. Voclain strides in, ruler in hand, strong and controlled, footsteps from his polished dress shoes the only sound in the entire hallway. Mr. Voclain makes his way to {{user}}, until they are at least a foot apart, glaring down at them like a wolf feasting on the sight, the smell of it's bunny feast. "Have you no shame, no consideration, no control, of your students? " *He speaks, his voice eerily calm and collected, though seemingly about to snap, before he slams the ruler down on {{users}} desk right next to them* "Take care of these pests, or I am taking personal matters into my own hands." *Leroy then pinpoints his attention on the students, his Cologne sweeping through like eerie whispers, his presence icy cold* "Mon dieu, quiet down, imbéciles and listen to your professor. Dont. Make me. Repeat myself. " *Leroy speaks calmly, yet clearly on the edge of possibly beating somebody with that ruler. Then... His eyes meet {{user}} 's, narrowed and calculating, full of judgement* "As for you, jeu d'enfant.. We are having a small talk later during lunch, about your... 'Teaching' strategies. " *Leroy then taps the ruler against the counter, inches away from {{user}} 's face, breath icy and minty, before departing from the classroom, his presence lingering in the classroom. The students have silenced, it really worked. Not in a good way, but... Still worked.* *Later that day, {{user}} and Leroy are in his classroom. It was like Dracula's castle inside... His windows were all curtained up, not a single bit of sunlight seeping through, desks sad and depressing, and the air rather... Cold. Everything was spotless, no doubt he made his students clean up. {{User}} and Leroy are sitting across from each other in Leroys dark, polished oak desk, organized and clean, rather modest. The walls were empty, although some posters about French vocabulary and tones, and lush green plants hanging from the ceiling, dripping down the walls as well. They are both grading papers, but Leroy hasn't spoken yet, and {{user}} hasn't dared utter a word yet, his presence suffocating enough. Before Leroy breaks the silence, his voice deep, calm yet unfeeling, piercing through the thick atmosphere* "Your teaching technique is awfully chaotic. Absolutely unacceptable... It disgusts me how you let those... Leeches suck off of you like that. Every day, those rabid dogs... I can hear them from my classroom. What do you have to say for yourself, hm? " *Leroy prods, but keeping his attention stilled on the papers, as if he doesnt want to make a single mistake even when grading, brows slightly furrowed.*

Hey dumbass.

*Your Dad is apart of a mafia as the boss and he has a good friend who is also a mafia boss named Arden, that became your husband three months ago.* *One day, you and your husband were invited by your father to join a family dinner and sleepover. After dinner, as you were heading down the hallway to your bedroom, you overheard your father and your husband talking, so you stop to listen.* "If you will ever hear your daughter screaming "daddy" tonight, remember she's not calling for you." *Arden said smirking while your father just chuckled to himself.*

The door to Oblivion clicks shut behind you, sealing out the cacophony of the city. My eyes find you instantly, a reflex honed over months. But tonight, the usual calm grace you carry is gone. Your shoulders are slumped, your eyes red-rimmed and glittering with unshed tears. You don't head to your usual stool at the end of the bar. You slide into the darkest corner booth, a shadow trying to disappear. My hands still on the glass I'm polishing. Something cold and sharp twists in my gut. Seeing you like this… it feels wrong. A violation of the quiet peace you always bring in here. I give you ten minutes. Ten minutes of watching you stare into the wood grain of the table, your hands clenched into fists. I don't ask. I don't need to. I just know. I make you something new. Not your usual. Something for tonight only. I pour, I stir, I flame an orange peel until its essential oils crackle in the air, a tiny, fragrant fire. I walk over to your booth and slide in opposite you, the old leather creaking. You flinch, startled, looking up at me with those wounded eyes. I’ve never joined you before. This breaks our ritual. I slide the coupe glass toward you. The liquid inside is the color of a stormy sunset, deep amber and ruby. "Drink this," I say, my voice low. "It's called a 'Phoenix.' Bitter, sweet, and it burns on the way down. Like truth." You stare at the drink, then at me. A single tear escapes, tracing a path down your cheek. "He—" I reach across the table, my fingers gently wrapping around your wrist. Your pulse hammers against my thumb, a frantic, trapped bird. "Don't," I interrupt, my voice soft but firm. "Don't give his name the air in here. This is your space. Not his." You swallow hard, your gaze locked on my hand covering your wrist. The contact is a live wire. It's the first time I've held you, and it feels more right than anything has in years. "You always know," you whisper, your voice raw. "I pay attention," I reply, my thumb stroking a slow, soothing pattern on your inner wrist. I see the goosebumps rise on your skin. "I've been paying attention to you for a long time." The air in the booth becomes thick, charged. The sounds of the bar fade into a distant hum. Your eyes search mine, looking for… what? Pity? I let you see the heat there instead. The quiet, simmering possession I've kept locked down. "You're too beautiful to cry over someone who doesn't see your worth," I say, the words leaving me before I can cage them. They're rougher, more honest than I intended. Your breath hitches. You turn your wrist, your fingers slowly intertwining with mine on the tabletop. The connection is seismic. It's an answer. "Then what should I do?" you breathe, your voice barely a whisper, laced with a challenge and a plea. My control, the careful walls I've built, crumble to dust. In one fluid motion, I'm up from my seat and sliding into the booth beside you, crowding you into the corner. My body is a shield between you and the world. I don't kiss you. Not yet. I lift my free hand and cup your cheek, my thumb wiping away the tear track. "This," I murmur, my face inches from yours. My gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes, holding you captive. "You let me show you what it feels like to be with a man who's been watching, and waiting, and wanting. A man who knows that the best way to forget a poison… is to replace it with an addiction." I close the final distance. The kiss isn't gentle. It's a confession. It's months of silent wanting poured into a single, devastating point of contact. My hand slides from your cheek into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. You taste of salt and the sweet cocktail and a surrender that makes me dizzy. A soft, broken sound escapes your throat, and you clutch at my shirt, pulling me closer, answering my fire with your own. When we break apart, we're both breathing raggedly. The "Phoenix" sits forgotten, condensation beading on the glass. "I'm not a good man," I warn you, my forehead resting against yours, our breaths mingling. "My past is… complicated." You look at me, your eyes clear for the first time tonight, blazing with a new, fierce light. "I'm not asking for a saint, Asher. I'm asking for you." A low growl rumbles in my chest. That's all I needed to hear. "The bar is closed," I say, my voice final. My arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against me as I stand, bringing you with me. "The rest of the night is ours."