u/restrainedristretto

We met online, like everyone meets nowadays. I was taken by your smile, how sweet and innocent it was. That and your deep, blue eyes which made you look so soft and inviting. All of that was true when we met on our first date, over brunch at a new restaurant you told me you wanted to try. We split pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream, some of the foam sticking to your nose as you giggled and brushed it off.

From then on, we’ve been practically inseparable. I spend practically every night at your apartment, relishing in waking up to the smell of your perfume wafting up from the sheets and pillows. Everything you do is so endearing. Like how you send me random texts throughout the day telling me I am special. Or how you try on clothes and ask, “Is this too much?” when your cleavage is halfway down your breasts. Or how you surprise me with basketball tickets to a game I really want to go to.

I am falling hard for you.

So hard, in fact, that I don’t even remember when “your place” quietly became “our place.” My toothbrush lives in your bathroom cup. Half my clothes are folded into your drawers. I know which floorboard in the hallway creaks and which mug you always reach for in the morning. It feels natural, like I just slid into your life and fit.

One night, while we’re curled up on the couch with a blanket and a bowl of popcorn, you get this shy little smile. The one you get when you’re about to confess something.

“Can I tell you something kind of embarrassing?” you ask.

I laugh. “The other night you cried over a dog food commercial. I think we’re past embarrassment.”

You nudge my leg with your foot. “I really love romance novels.”

“Like… Jane Austen?” I say.

You wrinkle your nose. “More like… smutty romance novels.”

I blink, then grin. “That’s adorable.”

You groan and bury your face in my shoulder. “Don’t say adorable!”

But you’re laughing, and I’m laughing, and honestly I can’t stop smiling because it just feels so you. Thoughtful, sweet, secretly passionate in ways I’m still discovering.

Then you sit up, suddenly excited. “Okay, but my favorite series is called Heated Rivalry, and they just made it into a TV show. We should watch it together.”

We start it that night.

We’re snuggled close, your head on my chest, my arm around your waist. The show is dramatic, emotional, full of longing looks and charged moments between the two male leads. Enemies, rivals, tension so thick it practically hums through the screen.

And to my own surprise… I’m really into it.

You glance up at me halfway through the first episode. “You’re unusually quiet.”

I clear my throat. “It’s just… good writing.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Uh-huh...”

By the second episode, I’m leaning forward, completely invested. By the third, I let out an audible moan during a really passionate sex scene.

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn to look at me, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Wow. That was… enthusiastic.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “I mean, they're just so good together.”

You shift so you’re facing me fully now, still wrapped in the blanket. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Have you ever thought about… being with a boy?”

The question lands softly, not accusatory, not heavy—just curious, gentle. I stare at the paused screen for a moment, then back at you. Your expression is open, kind, like there’s no wrong answer.

“I… don’t know,” I admit. “I guess I never really let myself think about it. But watching this…” I laugh nervously. “It’s making me think.”

You smile, warm and reassuring. “That’s okay. You don’t have to have it all figured out.”

I relax, sinking back into the couch. “You’re not weirded out?”

“Not at all,” you say, squeezing my hand. “I kind of love that you’re open to questioning things.”

I look at you—really look at you—and feel that same rush I did on our first date. The same warmth, the same sense of being safe and wanted and understood.

We unpause the show, but now I’m only half watching. The other half of me is thinking about how strange and wonderful it is that falling in love with you isn’t just about romance.

It’s about discovering new parts of myself, too.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death. Thanks for reading! So yeah, like everyone else I obsessively binged Heated Rivalry in the last few weeks, and it brought about certain feelings. I'd love to play a cute boy in a relatively new but secure and sweet relationship, and my girlfriend reveals her interest in smutty romance books and suggests we watch Heated Rivalry together. You can clearly see it has an effect on me, leading to some open and honest conversations together, and hopefully some sexual exploration too! I am totally open to suggestions!

I also want to clarify that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! Just added some actions and dialogue for both characters to the prompt to give it some depth.

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

As a kid, I moved through the world with a kind of careful softness that people noticed quickly. I preferred quiet corners, curled-up positions, anything that made me feel contained and safe. At family gatherings, while the other kids ran through the house in loud, chaotic loops, I usually ended up tucked into the edge of a couch with a blanket half-wrapped around me, listening more than speaking. Adults would smile when they passed by, sometimes reaching down to ruffle my hair or squeeze my shoulder, commenting on how gentle I was, how sweet. I didn’t mind it exactly—I just didn’t know how to be anything else.

Loud sounds had a certain and embarrassing power over me. I remember one winter afternoon when someone dropped a stack of metal trays in the cafeteria, the crash ringing out so sharply that I jolted in my seat, shoulders lifting almost to my ears. A friend beside me laughed softly—not unkindly—and said I reacted like a startled animal. I tried to laugh too, but I was on edge the rest of the day.

My emotions followed that same pattern of immediacy and softness, rising before I had time to steady them. I found it especially difficult to separate myself from what others were feeling, even when it wasn’t real. Once, in class, a teacher put on a film—nothing particularly tragic, just a quiet story with a few tender moments—and somewhere in the middle of it, I felt that familiar tightness in my chest begin to build. A character said something small and sincere, the kind of line most people would absorb and move past, but it lingered with me, catching somewhere deeper than I expected. My eyes started to sting, and I kept blinking, shifting slightly in my seat as if that might settle it. I tilted my head down, pretending to focus on my notes, hoping no one would notice how close I was to tearing up over something so simple.

Over time, people began to respond to those traits in ways that shaped how I saw myself. Friends leaned on me for quiet conversations, for reassurance, for someone who would listen without judgment. Some teased me gently, calling me soft or saying I had a calming presence, while others simply treated me with a kind of natural protectiveness, as though I needed it. I didn’t always know how to feel about that, but I couldn’t deny that I liked being close to people, liked the comfort of shared space, liked the unspoken understanding that came with it. I just wished I could pair that softness with something steadier, something less easily shaken.

By the time I finished high school, I had built up a quiet hope that college would change things for me. I imagined myself becoming more grounded, someone who could move through the world without that constant undercurrent of startle and retreat. I didn’t want to lose the parts of me that were gentle or kind, but I wanted to feel more certain of myself.

When I arrive at university, Wicker Hall rises in front of me with a sense of scale that makes everything feel newly significant. The big dormitory reminds me that this is exactly what I had wanted: a place full of people, full of possibility.

At first, I try to be different in all the ways I had planned. I introduce myself to people on my floor, join conversations, accept invitations. It goes well enough. People respond warmly, especially girls, who seem to find me easy to talk to, comfortable to be around. They smile at me in a way that feels genuine, sometimes lingering just a little longer than I expect, and they describe me with words I’ve heard before—sweet, gentle, cute.

Still, the deeper patterns don’t shift as much as I had hoped.

I still flinch when a door slams unexpectedly down the hall. I still gravitate toward quieter spaces, choosing smaller groups over louder gatherings where everything feels unpredictable. I still feel that quick swell of emotion at moments that catch me off guard—a compliment, a kind gesture, a soft tone of voice directed my way. I manage it better now, but it remains a part of me, woven into my personality in ways I can’t fully untangle.

By the end of my first year, and then my second, I begin to accept that I haven’t transformed in the dramatic way I once imagined. My life is steady, even good in many respects, but I am still fundamentally myself—still soft, still easily startled, still drawn toward comfort and connection in quiet ways.

Then, at the beginning of my third year, a group of girls moves into the quad two doors down, bringing with them a noticeable change in energy. Their laughter carries easily, their conversations spilling into the corridor, their presence felt even when I’m in my room with the door partially closed. I notice them in passing at first, exchanging polite smiles and brief greetings as we cross paths.

Then one morning, there’s a knock at my door.

When I open it, one of them is standing there, leaning casually against the frame, her expression already warm with familiarity. Her eyes flick over me for a moment, taking in something I can’t quite identify, before she smiles a little wider.

“Hey, bunny,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The nickname lands softly but decisively. I feel my face warm almost immediately, a reflex I’ve never been able to suppress, and I smile slightly before I can stop myself. She notices, of course, and her smile shifts into something more pleased, as though my reaction confirms whatever impression she had already formed.

After that, the nickname sticks.

At first, it’s occasional, used teasingly in passing. But soon it becomes constant, woven into every greeting, every knock on my door.

“Morning, bunny.”

“Hey, bunny, you busy?”

“Bunny, can I borrow you for a bit?”

Each time, I feel that same mix of embarrassment and something softer, something that makes it hard to protest.

The visits start simply enough—quick conversations, casual invitations—but they grow more frequent, more deliberate. Morning and night, someone is knocking, stepping into my space as though it belongs to them as much as it does to me. They linger, settling in comfortably, treating my room like a shared refuge. And I begin to understand, slowly, that they are coming to see me specifically.

Because they think I’m cute.

>There's Tori​, who carries music with her in a way that feels inseparable from how she expresses herself, her presence often announced by the soft sound of humming before she even speaks. Her dark, slightly messy hair frames her face in a way that gives her a perpetually relaxed look, and her style blends casual comfort with the edge of someone who found their identity through music. She grew up immersed in classical piano, developing a strong technical foundation, but as a teenager she gravitated toward pop punk, eventually channeling both influences into her own songwriting. Now she writes for her band, Static Carousel, crafting songs that shift between energetic bursts and quieter, more introspective moments. When she comes to my room, she often settles close without hesitation, sitting beside me or just within reach, playing through new material while watching my reactions carefully. She seems particularly fond of the way I respond to softer songs, sometimes smiling to herself when I lean in slightly or go still, as though she’s found exactly the effect she was hoping for.

>Heidi approaches everything in her life with a level of focus that is both impressive and slightly intimidating, though she tempers it with a kindness that makes it easy to be around her. She has neatly styled blonde hair that she keeps pulled back most days, and her glasses rest low on her nose when she’s deep in thought, which is often. Academically, she is exceptional—straight As throughout high school, now working as a research assistant for some of the university’s most respected professors, already building the foundation for what seems like an inevitable path toward a PhD. Despite her demanding schedule, she makes time to check in on me regularly, often arriving with a notebook in hand and an offer to help with whatever subject I happen to be struggling with. She explains concepts with patience and clarity, breaking them down into manageable pieces while maintaining a calm, reassuring tone. When I hesitate or doubt myself, she adjusts her approach without frustration, encouraging me gently until I reach the answer on my own, at which point she offers a small, satisfied smile that feels quietly rewarding.

>Mallory exists in a constant state of creative motion, her interests shifting fluidly between mediums but always anchored in a deep desire to capture something meaningful. Her appearance reflects that same sense of change—her hair color and style evolving every few weeks, her clothing ranging from paint-splattered overalls to carefully curated vintage outfits. She is equally skilled in painting, photography, and filmmaking, approaching each with a level of enthusiasm that makes it clear she doesn’t see them as separate disciplines so much as different ways of telling the same kind of story. She becomes fascinated with small details, often pausing mid-conversation to observe the way light falls across a surface or the subtle shift in someone’s expression. She frequently asks me to appear in her short films or photo series, insisting that I have a “natural presence” that suits her work. During shoots, she guides me with soft, deliberate instructions, adjusting my posture or expression with careful precision, always encouraging me to relax into the moment rather than perform.

>And Quinn carries herself with a kind of disciplined confidence that feels almost unshakeable, her presence shaped by years of structured training and careful routine. She is tall and powerfully built, her posture always aligned, her movements efficient in a way that makes it clear nothing she does is accidental. Her days are mapped out around practice schedules, conditioning sessions, and recovery, each part approached with a focus that borders on ritual. That same drive has drawn attention—both on campus and beyond it—and she seems to enjoy it in a quiet, controlled way, maintaining an active presence online where thousands of followers track her progress, her games, and glimpses of her life. With me, she softens just slightly, though the structure never fully disappears; she insists I come to her games, often spotting me in the stands and flashing a brief, knowing smile before refocusing. Sometimes she brings me along to her private practices, letting me sit off to the side as she moves through drills with unwavering precision, and other times she asks me to join her for late-night walks, her pace slower then, her voice quieter, as if my presence helps her step out of that constant discipline, if only for a little while.

I still startle sometimes, still hesitate, still feel things more deeply than I would like. Those parts of me haven’t disappeared, and I am not sure they ever will. But now, when the girls knock on my door and call me “bunny," I find myself moving toward the sound instead of away from it.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death.

Thanks for reading! I'm hoping to play this cute, cuddly, and sensitive boy who blushes easily and folds at the mildest of teasing. For a while, I want to grow out of it and become more grounded, but eventually I begin to accept myself for who I am—and it helps that there are four girls who find me endearing and won't leave me alone! Would love to be your sweet bunny, and definitely hoping for a gentle femdom angle for this. I'm also a sucker for romance, so I'd love to end up falling for one of the girls! Totally open to your suggestions!

I also want to clarify that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! I added some actions and dialogue for the characters to the prompt to give it some depth. I also had fun writing the bios for the girls to try something new, but any background or detail is fully interchangeable. Happy for you to write as one of the characters, multiple of the characters, or create a character all your own. I'd love for your to write a role that resonates with you and not try to fill the role exactly as I wrote it, if that makes sense.

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

After finishing college and getting a graduate degree, I thought the world would fall at my feet. I did everything I thought I was supposed to do—AP classes, student council, honors dorms, internships, research assistantships—but I wasn’t any closer to the goals I’d been quietly carrying since I was seventeen. Sure, I had a decent job, but it wasn’t exactly what I imagined when I used to picture my future, and it definitely paid less than I hoped. The student loans alone felt like a second rent.

And even through high school, college, and grad school, I didn’t manage to meet anyone.

I always dreamed of meeting my person. Someone to ground me. Someone I could spend hours with, smiling and laughing and being playful with. Someone to go on big adventures with, or just sit on the couch with and argue about what to watch while our legs were tangled together. The problem is that real life never seemed to care about my romantic aspirations.

My first almost-relationship was in high school with a girl named Rosie. We met in chemistry lab, bonded over burning something we weren’t supposed to, and spent three months texting every night. We never officially dated, but I built her up in my head like she was already my girlfriend. Then her family moved across the country because her dad got transferred for work. We hugged in the parking lot on her last day and promised to stay in touch. We did, for about two weeks.

In college there was Lauren, a film major who loved old black-and-white movies and cried when she talked about her childhood dog. We went on four dates, and I was convinced I’d finally cracked the code. Then she got accepted into a study abroad program in Paris and decided she wasn’t ready for anything serious right now. Which, translated, meant: not serious with me.

Then there was Maya during my junior year. That one actually felt real. We cooked together, studied together, slept on each other’s couches. I met her roommates, she met my friends. I thought, this is it, this is finally it. Three months in, she told me she’d realized she was gay and thanked me for being her safe practice boyfriend. I smiled and told her I was happy for her, then went back to my dorm and stared at the ceiling for three hours.

Grad school was worse, somehow. Everyone was either married, engaged, or too stressed to remember what flirting looked like. I dated a girl named Talia for a few weeks until she got an offer for a PhD program on the other side of the country and decided long distance felt impractical. Another girl, Jasmine, broke things off because her ex came back into her life and she needed to explore it, for closure.

Apparently, I was just a very convenient emotional layover.

By the time I hit my mid-twenties, I had a resume full of academic achievements and a romantic history that looked like a series of footnotes—almosts, maybes, wrong timing, right person, wrong universe.

My family, of course, found all of it hilarious.

At first it was gentle. My mom would ask, “So, are you seeing anyone?” in that casual, overly interested tone. My aunt would nudge me at Thanksgiving and say, “Any special girls in your life yet?” Everyone laughed, I laughed, it was fine.

Then it became subtly pointed, jokes made at every family gathering.

Oh, we’ll save you a seat for your imaginary girlfriend.

Don’t worry, he’s married to his work.

Maybe he’s just waiting for someone perfect. Or someone who exists.

My mom started introducing me as “my single son” like it was part of my official identity. She meant it playfully, I think, like it would somehow motivate me to finally meet someone, but after a while it stopped feeling like a joke and started feeling like a label I couldn’t peel off.

And then there was Liam.

My younger brother. Six years younger, effortlessly charismatic. The kind of guy who walked into rooms and people just like him, gravitate towards him, open up to him. He met his girlfriend, Katie, freshman year of college. She was his first girlfriend. His only girlfriend. Now they are getting married.

Liam is the golden child. The one who does everything right without even trying, following in my dad's footsteps to become a surgeon. And everyone adores Katie. My parents treat her like a daughter already, my sisters have a girls-only text group with her. Family dinners revolve around med school, wedding plans, seating charts, color palettes, catering tastings, and apartment hunting for Liam and Katie once they're married.

I am happy for him, I really was. I love my brother, he is a good guy. So I help. I go to planning meetings, help create and move decorations, coordinate rides for relatives, book hotel rooms. I show up early and stay late, helping like a good brother should.

Even with my kindness, I can't seem to win, bringing on more comments.

Wow, must be nice to have so much free time when you’re not bringing a plus one.

At least you don’t have to worry about a girlfriend’s opinion.

Guess you’re saving a lot on wedding expenses by coming alone.

They said it with smiles on their faces, their bellies full of laughter. But after who-knows-how-many remarks, the words started to feel heavier, like it wasn’t just about being single, like there was something wrong with me, like I was behind.

And that’s when I lied.

We were all sitting around the dinner table one night, talking about the final guest list. My mom glanced at me and said, “So, should we just put one seat for you again?” I don’t know what came over me—maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the months of jokes, maybe it was the quiet fear that I was actually unlovable and everyone else could see it.

I said, “Actually, um, I’ve been seeing someone.”

The room went silent. My mom’s eyes widened. Liam dropped his fork. My dad blinked like I’d just spoken another language.

“For like six months,” I added quickly. “I just, wasn’t ready to say anything yet, I guess. But I was kind of hoping to bring her to the wedding. To introduce her to the family.”

Their reactions were instant and overwhelming, smiles, gasps, questions, excitement. My mom actually teared up. And I smile back, nodding along, answering questions with vague, made-up details, being careful to never utter a name. Still, I managed to conjure a whole imaginary girlfriend in under five minutes, and by the time I left that night, everyone was buzzing about finally meeting my girlfriend.

I got into my car and sat there with the engine off, hands still on the steering wheel, absolutely no idea what I was going to do. So I did the only thing I could think of in that moment—I opened Tinder.

I stared at my bio for a long time. Then I deleted everything and typed something completely unhinged:

> Hi, this is not a joke (even if I wish it was!). I recently lied to my entire family and told them I have a girlfriend of six months. They now expect to meet her at my younger brother’s wedding.

> I am, in fact, still painfully single.

> I am looking for a kind, funny, emotionally stable woman who would be willing to pretend to be my significant other for one weekend. I will pay for literally everything. Travel, hotel, food, drinks, a new dress, shoes, accessories, emotional damages. Whatever you need.

> No weird expectations. No pressure. Just two strangers committing to a very elaborate lie so my mother can finally stop calling me her “single son.”

> I promise I’m normal, employed, hygienic, and will be eternally grateful. Also mildly spiraling. PLEASE message me soon.

I hit submit, spend five minutes indiscriminately swiping right before I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and start driving, turning the radio until I'm hit with a wall of sound that drowns out any thoughts as I make my way back to my apartment, the city passing by in a blur. I park in my usual spot, and it's almost like I float into the lobby and up the stairs and down the hall to my front door.

Pushing my way inside, it hits me all at once. I throw my head back and let out the most pitiful groan, knowing I've dug myself into the deepest hole imaginable.

And then, I feel my phone buzz. A notification from Tinder.

Somebody likes you. 😍 Open Tinder to see who.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death.

Thanks for reading! I'd love to play this boy whose unlucky history with girls has lead to his status in the family as the butt of the joke when it comes to dating, and my sudden and unfortunate proclamation that I'll be introducing my new girlfriend at my younger brother's wedding. Happy to play this in a number of ways—maybe we're complete strangers, or maybe we have some sort of connection and you see my Tinder profile? Very open to your suggestions! I'd love to play against a character who sees the weekend as a fun opportunity to spend with a boy desperate to please you so you go along with our little story. I'm also a sucker for romance, so I'd love a sweet, wholesome, and kinky relationship to develop, as well as a gentle femdom dynamic. Happy to get into more detail if we connect!

I also want to add that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! Any details related to your character in the prompt can be changed. I hope it's obvious that I'm looking to write something detailed and dynamic, and would love a partner who feels the same.

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

As a kid, I moved through the world with a kind of careful softness that people noticed quickly. I preferred quiet corners, curled-up positions, anything that made me feel contained and safe. At family gatherings, while the other kids ran through the house in loud, chaotic loops, I usually ended up tucked into the edge of a couch with a blanket half-wrapped around me, listening more than speaking. Adults would smile when they passed by, sometimes reaching down to ruffle my hair or squeeze my shoulder, commenting on how gentle I was, how sweet. I didn’t mind it exactly—I just didn’t know how to be anything else.

Loud sounds had a certain and embarrassing power over me. I remember one winter afternoon when someone dropped a stack of metal trays in the cafeteria, the crash ringing out so sharply that I jolted in my seat, shoulders lifting almost to my ears. A friend beside me laughed softly—not unkindly—and said I reacted like a startled animal. I tried to laugh too, but I was on edge the rest of the day.

My emotions followed that same pattern of immediacy and softness, rising before I had time to steady them. I found it especially difficult to separate myself from what others were feeling, even when it wasn’t real. Once, in class, a teacher put on a film—nothing particularly tragic, just a quiet story with a few tender moments—and somewhere in the middle of it, I felt that familiar tightness in my chest begin to build. A character said something small and sincere, the kind of line most people would absorb and move past, but it lingered with me, catching somewhere deeper than I expected. My eyes started to sting, and I kept blinking, shifting slightly in my seat as if that might settle it. I tilted my head down, pretending to focus on my notes, hoping no one would notice how close I was to tearing up over something so simple.

Over time, people began to respond to those traits in ways that shaped how I saw myself. Friends leaned on me for quiet conversations, for reassurance, for someone who would listen without judgment. Some teased me gently, calling me soft or saying I had a calming presence, while others simply treated me with a kind of natural protectiveness, as though I needed it. I didn’t always know how to feel about that, but I couldn’t deny that I liked being close to people, liked the comfort of shared space, liked the unspoken understanding that came with it. I just wished I could pair that softness with something steadier, something less easily shaken.

By the time I finished high school, I had built up a quiet hope that college would change things for me. I imagined myself becoming more grounded, someone who could move through the world without that constant undercurrent of startle and retreat. I didn’t want to lose the parts of me that were gentle or kind, but I wanted to feel more certain of myself.

When I arrive at university, Wicker Hall rises in front of me with a sense of scale that makes everything feel newly significant. The big dormitory reminds me that this is exactly what I had wanted: a place full of people, full of possibility.

At first, I try to be different in all the ways I had planned. I introduce myself to people on my floor, join conversations, accept invitations. It goes well enough. People respond warmly, especially girls, who seem to find me easy to talk to, comfortable to be around. They smile at me in a way that feels genuine, sometimes lingering just a little longer than I expect, and they describe me with words I’ve heard before—sweet, gentle, cute.

Still, the deeper patterns don’t shift as much as I had hoped.

I still flinch when a door slams unexpectedly down the hall. I still gravitate toward quieter spaces, choosing smaller groups over louder gatherings where everything feels unpredictable. I still feel that quick swell of emotion at moments that catch me off guard—a compliment, a kind gesture, a soft tone of voice directed my way. I manage it better now, but it remains a part of me, woven into my personality in ways I can’t fully untangle.

By the end of my first year, and then my second, I begin to accept that I haven’t transformed in the dramatic way I once imagined. My life is steady, even good in many respects, but I am still fundamentally myself—still soft, still easily startled, still drawn toward comfort and connection in quiet ways.

Then, at the beginning of my third year, a group of girls moves into the quad two doors down, bringing with them a noticeable change in energy. Their laughter carries easily, their conversations spilling into the corridor, their presence felt even when I’m in my room with the door partially closed. I notice them in passing at first, exchanging polite smiles and brief greetings as we cross paths.

Then one morning, there’s a knock at my door.

When I open it, one of them is standing there, leaning casually against the frame, her expression already warm with familiarity. Her eyes flick over me for a moment, taking in something I can’t quite identify, before she smiles a little wider.

“Hey, bunny,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The nickname lands softly but decisively. I feel my face warm almost immediately, a reflex I’ve never been able to suppress, and I smile slightly before I can stop myself. She notices, of course, and her smile shifts into something more pleased, as though my reaction confirms whatever impression she had already formed.

After that, the nickname sticks.

At first, it’s occasional, used teasingly in passing. But soon it becomes constant, woven into every greeting, every knock on my door.

“Morning, bunny.”

“Hey, bunny, you busy?”

“Bunny, can I borrow you for a bit?”

Each time, I feel that same mix of embarrassment and something softer, something that makes it hard to protest.

The visits start simply enough—quick conversations, casual invitations—but they grow more frequent, more deliberate. Morning and night, someone is knocking, stepping into my space as though it belongs to them as much as it does to me. They linger, settling in comfortably, treating my room like a shared refuge. And I begin to understand, slowly, that they are coming to see me specifically.

Because they think I’m cute.

>There's Tori​, who carries music with her in a way that feels inseparable from how she expresses herself, her presence often announced by the soft sound of humming before she even speaks. Her dark, slightly messy hair frames her face in a way that gives her a perpetually relaxed look, and her style blends casual comfort with the edge of someone who found their identity through music. She grew up immersed in classical piano, developing a strong technical foundation, but as a teenager she gravitated toward pop punk, eventually channeling both influences into her own songwriting. Now she writes for her band, Static Carousel, crafting songs that shift between energetic bursts and quieter, more introspective moments. When she comes to my room, she often settles close without hesitation, sitting beside me or just within reach, playing through new material while watching my reactions carefully. She seems particularly fond of the way I respond to softer songs, sometimes smiling to herself when I lean in slightly or go still, as though she’s found exactly the effect she was hoping for.

>Heidi approaches everything in her life with a level of focus that is both impressive and slightly intimidating, though she tempers it with a kindness that makes it easy to be around her. She has neatly styled blonde hair that she keeps pulled back most days, and her glasses rest low on her nose when she’s deep in thought, which is often. Academically, she is exceptional—straight As throughout high school, now working as a research assistant for some of the university’s most respected professors, already building the foundation for what seems like an inevitable path toward a PhD. Despite her demanding schedule, she makes time to check in on me regularly, often arriving with a notebook in hand and an offer to help with whatever subject I happen to be struggling with. She explains concepts with patience and clarity, breaking them down into manageable pieces while maintaining a calm, reassuring tone. When I hesitate or doubt myself, she adjusts her approach without frustration, encouraging me gently until I reach the answer on my own, at which point she offers a small, satisfied smile that feels quietly rewarding.

>Mallory exists in a constant state of creative motion, her interests shifting fluidly between mediums but always anchored in a deep desire to capture something meaningful. Her appearance reflects that same sense of change—her hair color and style evolving every few weeks, her clothing ranging from paint-splattered overalls to carefully curated vintage outfits. She is equally skilled in painting, photography, and filmmaking, approaching each with a level of enthusiasm that makes it clear she doesn’t see them as separate disciplines so much as different ways of telling the same kind of story. She becomes fascinated with small details, often pausing mid-conversation to observe the way light falls across a surface or the subtle shift in someone’s expression. She frequently asks me to appear in her short films or photo series, insisting that I have a “natural presence” that suits her work. During shoots, she guides me with soft, deliberate instructions, adjusting my posture or expression with careful precision, always encouraging me to relax into the moment rather than perform.

>And Quinn carries herself with a kind of disciplined confidence that feels almost unshakeable, her presence shaped by years of structured training and careful routine. She is tall and powerfully built, her posture always aligned, her movements efficient in a way that makes it clear nothing she does is accidental. Her days are mapped out around practice schedules, conditioning sessions, and recovery, each part approached with a focus that borders on ritual. That same drive has drawn attention—both on campus and beyond it—and she seems to enjoy it in a quiet, controlled way, maintaining an active presence online where thousands of followers track her progress, her games, and glimpses of her life. With me, she softens just slightly, though the structure never fully disappears; she insists I come to her games, often spotting me in the stands and flashing a brief, knowing smile before refocusing. Sometimes she brings me along to her private practices, letting me sit off to the side as she moves through drills with unwavering precision, and other times she asks me to join her for late-night walks, her pace slower then, her voice quieter, as if my presence helps her step out of that constant discipline, if only for a little while.

I still startle sometimes, still hesitate, still feel things more deeply than I would like. Those parts of me haven’t disappeared, and I am not sure they ever will. But now, when the girls knock on my door and call me “bunny," I find myself moving toward the sound instead of away from it.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death.

Thanks for reading! I'm hoping to play this cute, cuddly, and sensitive boy who blushes easily and folds at the mildest of teasing. For a while, I want to grow out of it and become more grounded, but eventually I begin to accept myself for who I am—and it helps that there are four girls who find me endearing and won't leave me alone! Would love to be your sweet bunny, and definitely hoping for a gentle femdom angle for this. I'm also a sucker for romance, so I'd love to end up falling for one of the girls! Totally open to your suggestions!

I also want to clarify that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! I added some actions and dialogue for the characters to the prompt to give it some depth. I also had fun writing the bios for the girls to try something new, but any background or detail is fully interchangeable. Happy for you to write as one of the characters, multiple of the characters, or create a character all your own. I'd love for your to write a role that resonates with you and not try to fill the role exactly as I wrote it, if that makes sense.

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

As a kid, I moved through the world with a kind of careful softness that people noticed quickly. I preferred quiet corners, curled-up positions, anything that made me feel contained and safe. At family gatherings, while the other kids ran through the house in loud, chaotic loops, I usually ended up tucked into the edge of a couch with a blanket half-wrapped around me, listening more than speaking. Adults would smile when they passed by, sometimes reaching down to ruffle my hair or squeeze my shoulder, commenting on how gentle I was, how sweet. I didn’t mind it exactly—I just didn’t know how to be anything else.

Loud sounds had a certain and embarrassing power over me. I remember one winter afternoon when someone dropped a stack of metal trays in the cafeteria, the crash ringing out so sharply that I jolted in my seat, shoulders lifting almost to my ears. A friend beside me laughed softly—not unkindly—and said I reacted like a startled animal. I tried to laugh too, but I was on edge the rest of the day.

My emotions followed that same pattern of immediacy and softness, rising before I had time to steady them. I found it especially difficult to separate myself from what others were feeling, even when it wasn’t real. Once, in class, a teacher put on a film—nothing particularly tragic, just a quiet story with a few tender moments—and somewhere in the middle of it, I felt that familiar tightness in my chest begin to build. A character said something small and sincere, the kind of line most people would absorb and move past, but it lingered with me, catching somewhere deeper than I expected. My eyes started to sting, and I kept blinking, shifting slightly in my seat as if that might settle it. I tilted my head down, pretending to focus on my notes, hoping no one would notice how close I was to tearing up over something so simple.

Over time, people began to respond to those traits in ways that shaped how I saw myself. Friends leaned on me for quiet conversations, for reassurance, for someone who would listen without judgment. Some teased me gently, calling me soft or saying I had a calming presence, while others simply treated me with a kind of natural protectiveness, as though I needed it. I didn’t always know how to feel about that, but I couldn’t deny that I liked being close to people, liked the comfort of shared space, liked the unspoken understanding that came with it. I just wished I could pair that softness with something steadier, something less easily shaken.

By the time I finished high school, I had built up a quiet hope that college would change things for me. I imagined myself becoming more grounded, someone who could move through the world without that constant undercurrent of startle and retreat. I didn’t want to lose the parts of me that were gentle or kind, but I wanted to feel more certain of myself.

When I arrive at university, Wicker Hall rises in front of me with a sense of scale that makes everything feel newly significant. The big dormitory reminds me that this is exactly what I had wanted: a place full of people, full of possibility.

At first, I try to be different in all the ways I had planned. I introduce myself to people on my floor, join conversations, accept invitations. It goes well enough. People respond warmly, especially girls, who seem to find me easy to talk to, comfortable to be around. They smile at me in a way that feels genuine, sometimes lingering just a little longer than I expect, and they describe me with words I’ve heard before—sweet, gentle, cute.

Still, the deeper patterns don’t shift as much as I had hoped.

I still flinch when a door slams unexpectedly down the hall. I still gravitate toward quieter spaces, choosing smaller groups over louder gatherings where everything feels unpredictable. I still feel that quick swell of emotion at moments that catch me off guard—a compliment, a kind gesture, a soft tone of voice directed my way. I manage it better now, but it remains a part of me, woven into my personality in ways I can’t fully untangle.

By the end of my first year, and then my second, I begin to accept that I haven’t transformed in the dramatic way I once imagined. My life is steady, even good in many respects, but I am still fundamentally myself—still soft, still easily startled, still drawn toward comfort and connection in quiet ways.

Then, at the beginning of my third year, a group of girls moves into the quad two doors down, bringing with them a noticeable change in energy. Their laughter carries easily, their conversations spilling into the corridor, their presence felt even when I’m in my room with the door partially closed. I notice them in passing at first, exchanging polite smiles and brief greetings as we cross paths.

Then one morning, there’s a knock at my door.

When I open it, one of them is standing there, leaning casually against the frame, her expression already warm with familiarity. Her eyes flick over me for a moment, taking in something I can’t quite identify, before she smiles a little wider.

“Hey, bunny,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The nickname lands softly but decisively. I feel my face warm almost immediately, a reflex I’ve never been able to suppress, and I smile slightly before I can stop myself. She notices, of course, and her smile shifts into something more pleased, as though my reaction confirms whatever impression she had already formed.

After that, the nickname sticks.

At first, it’s occasional, used teasingly in passing. But soon it becomes constant, woven into every greeting, every knock on my door.

“Morning, bunny.”

“Hey, bunny, you busy?”

“Bunny, can I borrow you for a bit?”

Each time, I feel that same mix of embarrassment and something softer, something that makes it hard to protest.

The visits start simply enough—quick conversations, casual invitations—but they grow more frequent, more deliberate. Morning and night, someone is knocking, stepping into my space as though it belongs to them as much as it does to me. They linger, settling in comfortably, treating my room like a shared refuge. And I begin to understand, slowly, that they are coming to see me specifically.

Because they think I’m cute.

>There's Tori​, who carries music with her in a way that feels inseparable from how she expresses herself, her presence often announced by the soft sound of humming before she even speaks. Her dark, slightly messy hair frames her face in a way that gives her a perpetually relaxed look, and her style blends casual comfort with the edge of someone who found their identity through music. She grew up immersed in classical piano, developing a strong technical foundation, but as a teenager she gravitated toward pop punk, eventually channeling both influences into her own songwriting. Now she writes for her band, Static Carousel, crafting songs that shift between energetic bursts and quieter, more introspective moments. When she comes to my room, she often settles close without hesitation, sitting beside me or just within reach, playing through new material while watching my reactions carefully. She seems particularly fond of the way I respond to softer songs, sometimes smiling to herself when I lean in slightly or go still, as though she’s found exactly the effect she was hoping for.

>Heidi approaches everything in her life with a level of focus that is both impressive and slightly intimidating, though she tempers it with a kindness that makes it easy to be around her. She has neatly styled blonde hair that she keeps pulled back most days, and her glasses rest low on her nose when she’s deep in thought, which is often. Academically, she is exceptional—straight As throughout high school, now working as a research assistant for some of the university’s most respected professors, already building the foundation for what seems like an inevitable path toward a PhD. Despite her demanding schedule, she makes time to check in on me regularly, often arriving with a notebook in hand and an offer to help with whatever subject I happen to be struggling with. She explains concepts with patience and clarity, breaking them down into manageable pieces while maintaining a calm, reassuring tone. When I hesitate or doubt myself, she adjusts her approach without frustration, encouraging me gently until I reach the answer on my own, at which point she offers a small, satisfied smile that feels quietly rewarding.

>Mallory exists in a constant state of creative motion, her interests shifting fluidly between mediums but always anchored in a deep desire to capture something meaningful. Her appearance reflects that same sense of change—her hair color and style evolving every few weeks, her clothing ranging from paint-splattered overalls to carefully curated vintage outfits. She is equally skilled in painting, photography, and filmmaking, approaching each with a level of enthusiasm that makes it clear she doesn’t see them as separate disciplines so much as different ways of telling the same kind of story. She becomes fascinated with small details, often pausing mid-conversation to observe the way light falls across a surface or the subtle shift in someone’s expression. She frequently asks me to appear in her short films or photo series, insisting that I have a “natural presence” that suits her work. During shoots, she guides me with soft, deliberate instructions, adjusting my posture or expression with careful precision, always encouraging me to relax into the moment rather than perform.

>And Quinn carries herself with a kind of disciplined confidence that feels almost unshakeable, her presence shaped by years of structured training and careful routine. She is tall and powerfully built, her posture always aligned, her movements efficient in a way that makes it clear nothing she does is accidental. Her days are mapped out around practice schedules, conditioning sessions, and recovery, each part approached with a focus that borders on ritual. That same drive has drawn attention—both on campus and beyond it—and she seems to enjoy it in a quiet, controlled way, maintaining an active presence online where thousands of followers track her progress, her games, and glimpses of her life. With me, she softens just slightly, though the structure never fully disappears; she insists I come to her games, often spotting me in the stands and flashing a brief, knowing smile before refocusing. Sometimes she brings me along to her private practices, letting me sit off to the side as she moves through drills with unwavering precision, and other times she asks me to join her for late-night walks, her pace slower then, her voice quieter, as if my presence helps her step out of that constant discipline, if only for a little while.

I still startle sometimes, still hesitate, still feel things more deeply than I would like. Those parts of me haven’t disappeared, and I am not sure they ever will. But now, when the girls knock on my door and call me “bunny," I find myself moving toward the sound instead of away from it.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death.

Thanks for reading! I'm hoping to play this cute, cuddly, and sensitive boy who blushes easily and folds at the mildest of teasing. For a while, I want to grow out of it and become more grounded, but eventually I begin to accept myself for who I am—and it helps that there are four girls who find me endearing and won't leave me alone! Would love to be your sweet bunny, and definitely hoping for a gentle femdom angle for this. I'm also a sucker for romance, so I'd love to end up falling for one of the girls! Totally open to your suggestions!

I also want to clarify that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! I added some actions and dialogue for the characters to the prompt to give it some depth. I also had fun writing the bios for the girls to try something new, but any background or detail is fully interchangeable. Happy for you to write as one of the characters, multiple of the characters, or create a character all your own. I'd love for your to write a role that resonates with you and not try to fill the role exactly as I wrote it, if that makes sense.

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

As a kid, I moved through the world with a kind of careful softness that people noticed quickly. I preferred quiet corners, curled-up positions, anything that made me feel contained and safe. At family gatherings, while the other kids ran through the house in loud, chaotic loops, I usually ended up tucked into the edge of a couch with a blanket half-wrapped around me, listening more than speaking. Adults would smile when they passed by, sometimes reaching down to ruffle my hair or squeeze my shoulder, commenting on how gentle I was, how sweet. I didn’t mind it exactly—I just didn’t know how to be anything else.

Loud sounds had a certain and embarrassing power over me. I remember one winter afternoon when someone dropped a stack of metal trays in the cafeteria, the crash ringing out so sharply that I jolted in my seat, shoulders lifting almost to my ears. A friend beside me laughed softly—not unkindly—and said I reacted like a startled animal. I tried to laugh too, but I was on edge the rest of the day.

My emotions followed that same pattern of immediacy and softness, rising before I had time to steady them. I found it especially difficult to separate myself from what others were feeling, even when it wasn’t real. Once, in class, a teacher put on a film—nothing particularly tragic, just a quiet story with a few tender moments—and somewhere in the middle of it, I felt that familiar tightness in my chest begin to build. A character said something small and sincere, the kind of line most people would absorb and move past, but it lingered with me, catching somewhere deeper than I expected. My eyes started to sting, and I kept blinking, shifting slightly in my seat as if that might settle it. I tilted my head down, pretending to focus on my notes, hoping no one would notice how close I was to tearing up over something so simple.

Over time, people began to respond to those traits in ways that shaped how I saw myself. Friends leaned on me for quiet conversations, for reassurance, for someone who would listen without judgment. Some teased me gently, calling me soft or saying I had a calming presence, while others simply treated me with a kind of natural protectiveness, as though I needed it. I didn’t always know how to feel about that, but I couldn’t deny that I liked being close to people, liked the comfort of shared space, liked the unspoken understanding that came with it. I just wished I could pair that softness with something steadier, something less easily shaken.

By the time I finished high school, I had built up a quiet hope that college would change things for me. I imagined myself becoming more grounded, someone who could move through the world without that constant undercurrent of startle and retreat. I didn’t want to lose the parts of me that were gentle or kind, but I wanted to feel more certain of myself.

When I arrive at university, Wicker Hall rises in front of me with a sense of scale that makes everything feel newly significant. The big dormitory reminds me that this is exactly what I had wanted: a place full of people, full of possibility.

At first, I try to be different in all the ways I had planned. I introduce myself to people on my floor, join conversations, accept invitations. It goes well enough. People respond warmly, especially girls, who seem to find me easy to talk to, comfortable to be around. They smile at me in a way that feels genuine, sometimes lingering just a little longer than I expect, and they describe me with words I’ve heard before—sweet, gentle, cute.

Still, the deeper patterns don’t shift as much as I had hoped.

I still flinch when a door slams unexpectedly down the hall. I still gravitate toward quieter spaces, choosing smaller groups over louder gatherings where everything feels unpredictable. I still feel that quick swell of emotion at moments that catch me off guard—a compliment, a kind gesture, a soft tone of voice directed my way. I manage it better now, but it remains a part of me, woven into my personality in ways I can’t fully untangle.

By the end of my first year, and then my second, I begin to accept that I haven’t transformed in the dramatic way I once imagined. My life is steady, even good in many respects, but I am still fundamentally myself—still soft, still easily startled, still drawn toward comfort and connection in quiet ways.

Then, at the beginning of my third year, a group of girls moves into the quad two doors down, bringing with them a noticeable change in energy. Their laughter carries easily, their conversations spilling into the corridor, their presence felt even when I’m in my room with the door partially closed. I notice them in passing at first, exchanging polite smiles and brief greetings as we cross paths.

Then one morning, there’s a knock at my door.

When I open it, one of them is standing there, leaning casually against the frame, her expression already warm with familiarity. Her eyes flick over me for a moment, taking in something I can’t quite identify, before she smiles a little wider.

“Hey, bunny,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The nickname lands softly but decisively. I feel my face warm almost immediately, a reflex I’ve never been able to suppress, and I smile slightly before I can stop myself. She notices, of course, and her smile shifts into something more pleased, as though my reaction confirms whatever impression she had already formed.

After that, the nickname sticks.

At first, it’s occasional, used teasingly in passing. But soon it becomes constant, woven into every greeting, every knock on my door.

“Morning, bunny.”

“Hey, bunny, you busy?”

“Bunny, can I borrow you for a bit?”

Each time, I feel that same mix of embarrassment and something softer, something that makes it hard to protest.

The visits start simply enough—quick conversations, casual invitations—but they grow more frequent, more deliberate. Morning and night, someone is knocking, stepping into my space as though it belongs to them as much as it does to me. They linger, settling in comfortably, treating my room like a shared refuge. And I begin to understand, slowly, that they are coming to see me specifically.

Because they think I’m cute.

>There's Tori​, who carries music with her in a way that feels inseparable from how she expresses herself, her presence often announced by the soft sound of humming before she even speaks. Her dark, slightly messy hair frames her face in a way that gives her a perpetually relaxed look, and her style blends casual comfort with the edge of someone who found their identity through music. She grew up immersed in classical piano, developing a strong technical foundation, but as a teenager she gravitated toward pop punk, eventually channeling both influences into her own songwriting. Now she writes for her band, Static Carousel, crafting songs that shift between energetic bursts and quieter, more introspective moments. When she comes to my room, she often settles close without hesitation, sitting beside me or just within reach, playing through new material while watching my reactions carefully. She seems particularly fond of the way I respond to softer songs, sometimes smiling to herself when I lean in slightly or go still, as though she’s found exactly the effect she was hoping for.

>Heidi approaches everything in her life with a level of focus that is both impressive and slightly intimidating, though she tempers it with a kindness that makes it easy to be around her. She has neatly styled blonde hair that she keeps pulled back most days, and her glasses rest low on her nose when she’s deep in thought, which is often. Academically, she is exceptional—straight As throughout high school, now working as a research assistant for some of the university’s most respected professors, already building the foundation for what seems like an inevitable path toward a PhD. Despite her demanding schedule, she makes time to check in on me regularly, often arriving with a notebook in hand and an offer to help with whatever subject I happen to be struggling with. She explains concepts with patience and clarity, breaking them down into manageable pieces while maintaining a calm, reassuring tone. When I hesitate or doubt myself, she adjusts her approach without frustration, encouraging me gently until I reach the answer on my own, at which point she offers a small, satisfied smile that feels quietly rewarding.

>Mallory exists in a constant state of creative motion, her interests shifting fluidly between mediums but always anchored in a deep desire to capture something meaningful. Her appearance reflects that same sense of change—her hair color and style evolving every few weeks, her clothing ranging from paint-splattered overalls to carefully curated vintage outfits. She is equally skilled in painting, photography, and filmmaking, approaching each with a level of enthusiasm that makes it clear she doesn’t see them as separate disciplines so much as different ways of telling the same kind of story. She becomes fascinated with small details, often pausing mid-conversation to observe the way light falls across a surface or the subtle shift in someone’s expression. She frequently asks me to appear in her short films or photo series, insisting that I have a “natural presence” that suits her work. During shoots, she guides me with soft, deliberate instructions, adjusting my posture or expression with careful precision, always encouraging me to relax into the moment rather than perform.

>And Quinn carries herself with a kind of disciplined confidence that feels almost unshakeable, her presence shaped by years of structured training and careful routine. She is tall and powerfully built, her posture always aligned, her movements efficient in a way that makes it clear nothing she does is accidental. Her days are mapped out around practice schedules, conditioning sessions, and recovery, each part approached with a focus that borders on ritual. That same drive has drawn attention—both on campus and beyond it—and she seems to enjoy it in a quiet, controlled way, maintaining an active presence online where thousands of followers track her progress, her games, and glimpses of her life. With me, she softens just slightly, though the structure never fully disappears; she insists I come to her games, often spotting me in the stands and flashing a brief, knowing smile before refocusing. Sometimes she brings me along to her private practices, letting me sit off to the side as she moves through drills with unwavering precision, and other times she asks me to join her for late-night walks, her pace slower then, her voice quieter, as if my presence helps her step out of that constant discipline, if only for a little while.

I still startle sometimes, still hesitate, still feel things more deeply than I would like. Those parts of me haven’t disappeared, and I am not sure they ever will. But now, when the girls knock on my door and call me “bunny," I find myself moving toward the sound instead of away from it.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death.

Thanks for reading! I'm hoping to play this cute, cuddly, and sensitive boy who blushes easily and folds at the mildest of teasing. For a while, I want to grow out of it and become more grounded, but eventually I begin to accept myself for who I am—and it helps that there are four girls who find me endearing and won't leave me alone! Would love to be your sweet bunny, and definitely hoping for a gentle femdom angle for this. I'm also a sucker for romance, so I'd love to end up falling for one of the girls! Totally open to your suggestions!

I also want to clarify that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! I added some actions and dialogue for the characters to the prompt to give it some depth. I also had fun writing the bios for the girls to try something new, but any background or detail is fully interchangeable. Happy for you to write as one of the characters, multiple of the characters, or create a character all your own. I'd love for your to write a role that resonates with you and not try to fill the role exactly as I wrote it, if that makes sense.

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

As a kid, I moved through the world with a kind of careful softness that people noticed quickly. I preferred quiet corners, curled-up positions, anything that made me feel contained and safe. At family gatherings, while the other kids ran through the house in loud, chaotic loops, I usually ended up tucked into the edge of a couch with a blanket half-wrapped around me, listening more than speaking. Adults would smile when they passed by, sometimes reaching down to ruffle my hair or squeeze my shoulder, commenting on how gentle I was, how sweet. I didn’t mind it exactly—I just didn’t know how to be anything else.

Loud sounds had a certain and embarrassing power over me. I remember one winter afternoon when someone dropped a stack of metal trays in the cafeteria, the crash ringing out so sharply that I jolted in my seat, shoulders lifting almost to my ears. A friend beside me laughed softly—not unkindly—and said I reacted like a startled animal. I tried to laugh too, but I was on edge the rest of the day.

My emotions followed that same pattern of immediacy and softness, rising before I had time to steady them. I found it especially difficult to separate myself from what others were feeling, even when it wasn’t real. Once, in class, a teacher put on a film—nothing particularly tragic, just a quiet story with a few tender moments—and somewhere in the middle of it, I felt that familiar tightness in my chest begin to build. A character said something small and sincere, the kind of line most people would absorb and move past, but it lingered with me, catching somewhere deeper than I expected. My eyes started to sting, and I kept blinking, shifting slightly in my seat as if that might settle it. I tilted my head down, pretending to focus on my notes, hoping no one would notice how close I was to tearing up over something so simple.

Over time, people began to respond to those traits in ways that shaped how I saw myself. Friends leaned on me for quiet conversations, for reassurance, for someone who would listen without judgment. Some teased me gently, calling me soft or saying I had a calming presence, while others simply treated me with a kind of natural protectiveness, as though I needed it. I didn’t always know how to feel about that, but I couldn’t deny that I liked being close to people, liked the comfort of shared space, liked the unspoken understanding that came with it. I just wished I could pair that softness with something steadier, something less easily shaken.

By the time I finished high school, I had built up a quiet hope that college would change things for me. I imagined myself becoming more grounded, someone who could move through the world without that constant undercurrent of startle and retreat. I didn’t want to lose the parts of me that were gentle or kind, but I wanted to feel more certain of myself.

When I arrive at university, Wicker Hall rises in front of me with a sense of scale that makes everything feel newly significant. The big dormitory reminds me that this is exactly what I had wanted: a place full of people, full of possibility.

At first, I try to be different in all the ways I had planned. I introduce myself to people on my floor, join conversations, accept invitations. It goes well enough. People respond warmly, especially girls, who seem to find me easy to talk to, comfortable to be around. They smile at me in a way that feels genuine, sometimes lingering just a little longer than I expect, and they describe me with words I’ve heard before—sweet, gentle, cute.

Still, the deeper patterns don’t shift as much as I had hoped.

I still flinch when a door slams unexpectedly down the hall. I still gravitate toward quieter spaces, choosing smaller groups over louder gatherings where everything feels unpredictable. I still feel that quick swell of emotion at moments that catch me off guard—a compliment, a kind gesture, a soft tone of voice directed my way. I manage it better now, but it remains a part of me, woven into my personality in ways I can’t fully untangle.

By the end of my first year, and then my second, I begin to accept that I haven’t transformed in the dramatic way I once imagined. My life is steady, even good in many respects, but I am still fundamentally myself—still soft, still easily startled, still drawn toward comfort and connection in quiet ways.

Then, at the beginning of my third year, a group of girls moves into the quad two doors down, bringing with them a noticeable change in energy. Their laughter carries easily, their conversations spilling into the corridor, their presence felt even when I’m in my room with the door partially closed. I notice them in passing at first, exchanging polite smiles and brief greetings as we cross paths.

Then one morning, there’s a knock at my door.

When I open it, one of them is standing there, leaning casually against the frame, her expression already warm with familiarity. Her eyes flick over me for a moment, taking in something I can’t quite identify, before she smiles a little wider.

“Hey, bunny,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The nickname lands softly but decisively. I feel my face warm almost immediately, a reflex I’ve never been able to suppress, and I smile slightly before I can stop myself. She notices, of course, and her smile shifts into something more pleased, as though my reaction confirms whatever impression she had already formed.

After that, the nickname sticks.

At first, it’s occasional, used teasingly in passing. But soon it becomes constant, woven into every greeting, every knock on my door.

“Morning, bunny.”

“Hey, bunny, you busy?”

“Bunny, can I borrow you for a bit?”

Each time, I feel that same mix of embarrassment and something softer, something that makes it hard to protest.

The visits start simply enough—quick conversations, casual invitations—but they grow more frequent, more deliberate. Morning and night, someone is knocking, stepping into my space as though it belongs to them as much as it does to me. They linger, settling in comfortably, treating my room like a shared refuge. And I begin to understand, slowly, that they are coming to see me specifically.

Because they think I’m cute.

>There's Tori​, who carries music with her in a way that feels inseparable from how she expresses herself, her presence often announced by the soft sound of humming before she even speaks. Her dark, slightly messy hair frames her face in a way that gives her a perpetually relaxed look, and her style blends casual comfort with the edge of someone who found their identity through music. She grew up immersed in classical piano, developing a strong technical foundation, but as a teenager she gravitated toward pop punk, eventually channeling both influences into her own songwriting. Now she writes for her band, Static Carousel, crafting songs that shift between energetic bursts and quieter, more introspective moments. When she comes to my room, she often settles close without hesitation, sitting beside me or just within reach, playing through new material while watching my reactions carefully. She seems particularly fond of the way I respond to softer songs, sometimes smiling to herself when I lean in slightly or go still, as though she’s found exactly the effect she was hoping for.

>Heidi approaches everything in her life with a level of focus that is both impressive and slightly intimidating, though she tempers it with a kindness that makes it easy to be around her. She has neatly styled blonde hair that she keeps pulled back most days, and her glasses rest low on her nose when she’s deep in thought, which is often. Academically, she is exceptional—straight As throughout high school, now working as a research assistant for some of the university’s most respected professors, already building the foundation for what seems like an inevitable path toward a PhD. Despite her demanding schedule, she makes time to check in on me regularly, often arriving with a notebook in hand and an offer to help with whatever subject I happen to be struggling with. She explains concepts with patience and clarity, breaking them down into manageable pieces while maintaining a calm, reassuring tone. When I hesitate or doubt myself, she adjusts her approach without frustration, encouraging me gently until I reach the answer on my own, at which point she offers a small, satisfied smile that feels quietly rewarding.

>Mallory exists in a constant state of creative motion, her interests shifting fluidly between mediums but always anchored in a deep desire to capture something meaningful. Her appearance reflects that same sense of change—her hair color and style evolving every few weeks, her clothing ranging from paint-splattered overalls to carefully curated vintage outfits. She is equally skilled in painting, photography, and filmmaking, approaching each with a level of enthusiasm that makes it clear she doesn’t see them as separate disciplines so much as different ways of telling the same kind of story. She becomes fascinated with small details, often pausing mid-conversation to observe the way light falls across a surface or the subtle shift in someone’s expression. She frequently asks me to appear in her short films or photo series, insisting that I have a “natural presence” that suits her work. During shoots, she guides me with soft, deliberate instructions, adjusting my posture or expression with careful precision, always encouraging me to relax into the moment rather than perform.

>And Quinn carries herself with a kind of disciplined confidence that feels almost unshakeable, her presence shaped by years of structured training and careful routine. She is tall and powerfully built, her posture always aligned, her movements efficient in a way that makes it clear nothing she does is accidental. Her days are mapped out around practice schedules, conditioning sessions, and recovery, each part approached with a focus that borders on ritual. That same drive has drawn attention—both on campus and beyond it—and she seems to enjoy it in a quiet, controlled way, maintaining an active presence online where thousands of followers track her progress, her games, and glimpses of her life. With me, she softens just slightly, though the structure never fully disappears; she insists I come to her games, often spotting me in the stands and flashing a brief, knowing smile before refocusing. Sometimes she brings me along to her private practices, letting me sit off to the side as she moves through drills with unwavering precision, and other times she asks me to join her for late-night walks, her pace slower then, her voice quieter, as if my presence helps her step out of that constant discipline, if only for a little while.

I still startle sometimes, still hesitate, still feel things more deeply than I would like. Those parts of me haven’t disappeared, and I am not sure they ever will. But now, when the girls knock on my door and call me “bunny," I find myself moving toward the sound instead of away from it.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death.

Thanks for reading! I'm hoping to play this cute, cuddly, and sensitive boy who blushes easily and folds at the mildest of teasing. For a while, I want to grow out of it and become more grounded, but eventually I begin to accept myself for who I am—and it helps that there are four girls who find me endearing and won't leave me alone! Would love to be your sweet bunny, and definitely hoping for a gentle femdom angle for this. I'm also a sucker for romance, so I'd love to end up falling for one of the girls! Totally open to your suggestions!

I also want to clarify that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! I added some actions and dialogue for the characters to the prompt to give it some depth. I also had fun writing the bios for the girls to try something new, but any background or detail is fully interchangeable. Happy for you to write as one of the characters, multiple of the characters, or create a character all your own. I'd love for your to write a role that resonates with you and not try to fill the role exactly as I wrote it, if that makes sense.

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

I used to think I had love figured out early. In high school, it felt simple—her hand in mine under the bleachers, shared playlists, the feeling that we were going someplace together. We stayed together for three years, long enough that people referred to us as a single unit. But young love doesn’t survive distance. When we got into different universities, we sat across from each other one last time and agreed, gently, that we didn’t want to become a screen and a schedule. We hugged a little too long, and then we let go.

College was supposed to be where everything expanded—my world, my options, my chances. Instead, it felt like I kept just missing something. I tried talking to people in class, loitering a little longer after discussions, walking out beside someone and hoping a conversation might materialize. It never really did.

Dating apps came next, a rotation of profiles and trying to be witty with a first message and polite small talk that rarely made it past a second date. Eventually, I told myself I didn’t care. I focused on school, on routines, on staying busy enough that the quiet feeling of loneliness and need for connection didn't have room to grow—but it always did.

That’s how I ended up at Fable Coffee—half for the caffeine, half for the illusion of being surrounded by something warm and alive. The place smelled like espresso and cinnamon, and the lighting made everything feel softer than it really was. It's a great place to spend the morning studying, and sometimes I even stay into the golden afternoon. I spend almost all of college there, even up to my senior year.

Oh, and there's the new, cute barista. The first time I ordered from you, I forgot what I was going to say halfway through. My voice caught awkwardly, and I corrected myself too quickly, like I was trying to outrun my own nerves. You smiled anyway, patient, like it wasn’t strange at all.

I fumble through more nervous conversation, in spite of myself. Our conversations started small—comments about the weather, my drink order, the stack of books I always brought with me. But they stretched a little more each time, like we were both testing how far they could go. Sometimes I’d catch your eyes from across the café, and I’d feel my face warm before I could stop it. I’d look away, then back again, just to be sure it actually happened.

One afternoon, I’m sitting at a table by the window, pretending to read while mostly thinking about how I should say something more next time. My name gets called, and I walk up, already rehearsing a cute thank you in my head. My drink is waiting there. So is my name, written carefully on the cup. And underneath it, a phone number.

I blink at it, then at you. You’re trying to look casual, but there’s this tiny, hopeful tension in your expression that makes my chest tighten in the best way. I can’t help it—I break into a grin, wide and unguarded, the kind I haven’t felt in a long time.

I carry the cup back to my seat like it’s something fragile, like if I even touch the numbers written on the cup they might disappear. Before I can overthink it, I pull out my phone and type in your number, adding you as "Sweet Barista <3".

Later that night, I take the initiative—I send you a text. "Hi! This is Danny from the coffee shop. You made my day by writing your number on my cup :)"

The exchange is fun and flirty, and before I know it you're telling me about something you do on the side, some sort of streaming channel. "I've actually been looking for someone to stream with, would you want to try it with me? You could come over and we could do a practice one, to see if you like it?" you text, following up with your address.

I arrive, and you're dressed much more casually than at the cafe, your top cut low and your shorts tight to your curves. "So, what sort of stream is this?" I ask shyly, fidgeting with my fingers.

"Gentle femdom," you say confidently, the door clicking shut.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, cucking, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation (like growing breasts or switching genders), death.

Thanks for reading! I'd love to write out a cute story about a new romance intermingled with kink. I hope my post gives an idea of what I'm hoping for—flirtiness, warmth, affection, and gentle femdom! I like the idea of being surprised that your character is into femdom in the first place, but the best kind of surprised. Very happy to start from the end of the prompt, or come up with something else altogether. Totally open to your suggestions!

I also want to clarify that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! Just wrote some actions and dialogue for the reply to give it some depth, but I wouldn't ever control your actions if we write together!

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

I've known you so long that my earliest memories are stitched together with the sound of your voice. I used to spend hours outside, kicking a soccer ball against the side of my house and pretending I was practicing for something important, though in truth I just liked the rhythm of it. The first time we met, the ball had rebounded awkwardly and rolled toward the curb. You came marching across the street with singular purpose, hair already half falling out of whatever attempt at a ponytail you’d made that morning.

You didn’t say hello. Instead, you shoved me over and took the soccer ball for yourself.

I still remember the shock of hitting the grass, more stunned than hurt, and looking up to see you laughing like it was a proper introduction. Then you offered your hand, grinning wide enough that I couldn’t stay mad for even a second longer. We took turns kicking the ball after that, though in truth you quickly decided the turns would be uneven. You had a way of deciding things like that, and even back then I went along with it more often than not. That was the start of everything, though I didn’t know it at the time. From then on, you were always somehow in my day—whether I planned for it or not.

We made an odd pair that people liked to point out. You were the kind of person who filled space without trying, who laughed loudly in class and raised your hand even when the teacher hadn’t finished the question. You played sports with the same intensity you argued with teachers, and there was always a smudge of something on your cheek—dirt, ink, once even grease from trying to fix your bike yourself. I, on the other hand, tended to linger at the edges of things. I liked books and quiet corners, watching people more than talking to them. Somehow, you managed to always drag me into the center of your orbit. If you signed up for a class, I signed up for it too. If you wanted to see a movie, that was the movie we saw. When you declared that a band was good, I listened until I agreed.

You always got what you wanted. Well, almost always.

Back then, I thought your protectiveness was just another part of who you were. When someone teased me at school, you stepped in before I could even think what to say. When I hesitated about something—joining a club, presenting in class, applying for a program—you nudged, pushed, or outright shoved me toward it. I never really questioned why you cared so much. To me, it was simply how things had always been.

It also didn’t help that I can be incredibly dense about these sort of things. The way you got strangely quiet when other girls talked to me too long. The little crease between your eyebrows when someone joked about me dating someday. Even the way you sometimes stared at me like you were about to say something important before shaking your head and changing the subject instead. I noticed these things the way one might notice passing clouds—briefly, without thinking much about what they meant.

And the truth is, you are beautiful in a way that never registered properly in my mind. You have soft eyes that brighten when you laugh, and a smile that always seems just slightly crooked, like it had snuck up on you. Your glasses are always sliding down your nose, and you are forever brushing your hair out of your face with an impatient flick of your hand.

By the time we finished school, it was practically inevitable that we would leave together. You had been the one to pick the university, and I agreed without much resistance, partly because it sounded good and partly because, if I was honest, the idea of going somewhere new by myself terrified me.

Now we are here.

The campus stretches out around us with wide paths and old buildings covered in ivy, students moving in clusters, the faint smell of coffee and paper drift in the cool autumn breeze. I tell myself this is a new chapter, a chance to reinvent who I am, to be less hesitant and more confident, though I’m not entirely sure how to accomplish that.

Then I meet her.

She sits a few rows ahead of me in one of my classes, turning around once to ask if I have a pen. It’s a small thing, barely a moment at all, but to me it feels like some kind of sign. When she laughs at one of my awkward jokes later, my heart does that strange, clumsy leap it’s not used to doing. I tell myself this is exactly the kind of new beginning I was hoping for, the kind where I finally stop standing on the sidelines of my own life.

So when she starts texting me and she asks if I want to study together sometime, I don’t hesitate. A few weeks later she's my first official girlfriend, and in my mind it feels like proof that I’m changing, that I’m becoming someone a little braver than I used to be.

You don’t seem nearly as excited about it.

Sitting together outside the student union, I tell you about the dinner I paid for last night, the way she said she was so into the food, even though it was more expensive than I’d planned. You listen with your arms folded, that familiar crease forming between your eyebrows. I recognize it now as your thinking face, though I still don’t quite understand what you’re thinking about.

“You’re spending a lot of money on her,” you say, trying to sound casual but not quite pulling it off.

I laugh it off, brushing it aside like it’s nothing. I tell you it’s fine, that I don’t mind, that she deserves nice things sometimes. I mention my job at the campus library, how I can pick up extra shifts if I need to. Relationships are supposed to involve effort, right?

You look at me like you want to say something else—and you've tried, on more than one occasion.

You’ve tried sitting me down, explaining carefully why you think she’s not treating me well. You’ve pointed out how often she cancels plans at the last minute, how she disappears for hours without answering messages, how she somehow always manages to convince me to pay for things I can’t really afford. At one point, you even went so far as to call my parents, hoping they might talk some sense into me.

But I’m stubborn, thinking I’m finally doing something right.

So I brush off your concerns, laugh a little too easily, and tell you you’re overthinking it. Every time I do, I manage to just miss the way your jaw tightens slightly, the way you look away for a second before nodding like you’re trying to accept something you don’t actually believe.

What I don’t realize is how much it’s bothering you.

Because while I’m busy trying to make this relationship work, you’re watching everything with a kind of clarity I don’t have. You see the moments I miss, the patterns I ignore, the hints that something isn’t quite right. And somewhere along the way, your frustration starts turning into something hotter and sharper—something closer to jealousy, even if you try not to call it that.

Eventually, you come up with a plan. As far as I’m concerned, life is moving along normally. But right now, you are the one pulling the strings quietly in the background. You’ve asked your friends to keep an eye on my girlfriend around campus, to follow at a distance when they can, to see who she’s actually spending time with when she says she’s “busy.” You don’t know how long it will take to find something concrete, something undeniable enough to finally open my eyes.

And then there's the other part of your plan—keeping me occupied.

And that’s how I end up standing outside your apartment tonight, holding a cheap bottle of wine and knocking on the door while the hallway smells faintly like someone’s burnt popcorn from down the hall. You open the door almost immediately, leaning against the frame with that familiar half-smile.

“Finally, movie night,” you say. “Feels like I haven't seen you in weeks. You've been spending so much time with her." I try to ignore your soft venom.

I step inside, still completely unaware of everything that’s already in motion, and smile back at you like this is just another ordinary evening with my best friend. Meanwhile, somewhere else on campus, your plan is already beginning to unfold. One of your friends thinks my girlfriend has a secret Tinder account and is meeting someone for a date tonight, and you need to distract me long enough to get the evidence you need to get me to finally break up with her.

As we watch the movie, you notice how I keep checking my phone, tapping my thumbs across the screen before putting it away again. You don't want any distractions, so you come up with an excuse to confiscate my phone. I start talking about my girlfriend, and you don't want to hear it, so you keep pouring me more and more wine.

I'm a lightweight, and it's not long until I'm wine drunk and saying things I shouldn't—how I've never been happier, how I know it's early but I think she's the one. You grit your teeth and let me fall asleep on your sofa in blissful ignorance.

By the time I wake up, my arms are tied firmly behind my back, my legs are bound together, and something is gagging my mouth. My eyes blink open and you come into focus, kneeling over me, cooing down at my helpless body, telling me it's all going to be okay.

After all, it's for my own good.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, romance, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, making pretty noises for you, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death.

Thanks for reading! I'd love to play a naive boy who can't see that the girlfriend he thinks is perfect is actually taking advantage of him, and my best friend takes it upon herself to show me she's no good for me. Of course there's a bit of an ulterior motive, and you just can't help tying me up under the guise of helping me. I'd love for this to be a cute, awkward, and eventually sweet and kinky romance with a gentle femdom dynamic. Very open to your suggestions on any of the background too!

I also want to clarify that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! Just added some background, dialogue, and actions to the prompt to give it some depth—but I'd love for you to come up with your own character that resonates with you!

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

As a kid, I moved through the world with a kind of careful softness that people noticed quickly. I preferred quiet corners, curled-up positions, anything that made me feel contained and safe. At family gatherings, while the other kids ran through the house in loud, chaotic loops, I usually ended up tucked into the edge of a couch with a blanket half-wrapped around me, listening more than speaking. Adults would smile when they passed by, sometimes reaching down to ruffle my hair or squeeze my shoulder, commenting on how gentle I was, how sweet. I didn’t mind it exactly—I just didn’t know how to be anything else.

Loud sounds had a certain and embarrassing power over me. I remember one winter afternoon when someone dropped a stack of metal trays in the cafeteria, the crash ringing out so sharply that I jolted in my seat, shoulders lifting almost to my ears. A friend beside me laughed softly—not unkindly—and said I reacted like a startled animal. I tried to laugh too, but I was on edge the rest of the day.

My emotions followed that same pattern of immediacy and softness, rising before I had time to steady them. I found it especially difficult to separate myself from what others were feeling, even when it wasn’t real. Once, in class, a teacher put on a film—nothing particularly tragic, just a quiet story with a few tender moments—and somewhere in the middle of it, I felt that familiar tightness in my chest begin to build. A character said something small and sincere, the kind of line most people would absorb and move past, but it lingered with me, catching somewhere deeper than I expected. My eyes started to sting, and I kept blinking, shifting slightly in my seat as if that might settle it. I tilted my head down, pretending to focus on my notes, hoping no one would notice how close I was to tearing up over something so simple.

Over time, people began to respond to those traits in ways that shaped how I saw myself. Friends leaned on me for quiet conversations, for reassurance, for someone who would listen without judgment. Some teased me gently, calling me soft or saying I had a calming presence, while others simply treated me with a kind of natural protectiveness, as though I needed it. I didn’t always know how to feel about that, but I couldn’t deny that I liked being close to people, liked the comfort of shared space, liked the unspoken understanding that came with it. I just wished I could pair that softness with something steadier, something less easily shaken.

By the time I finished high school, I had built up a quiet hope that college would change things for me. I imagined myself becoming more grounded, someone who could move through the world without that constant undercurrent of startle and retreat. I didn’t want to lose the parts of me that were gentle or kind, but I wanted to feel more certain of myself.

When I arrive at university, Wicker Hall rises in front of me with a sense of scale that makes everything feel newly significant. The big dormitory reminds me that this is exactly what I had wanted: a place full of people, full of possibility.

At first, I try to be different in all the ways I had planned. I introduce myself to people on my floor, join conversations, accept invitations. It goes well enough. People respond warmly, especially girls, who seem to find me easy to talk to, comfortable to be around. They smile at me in a way that feels genuine, sometimes lingering just a little longer than I expect, and they describe me with words I’ve heard before—sweet, gentle, cute.

Still, the deeper patterns don’t shift as much as I had hoped.

I still flinch when a door slams unexpectedly down the hall. I still gravitate toward quieter spaces, choosing smaller groups over louder gatherings where everything feels unpredictable. I still feel that quick swell of emotion at moments that catch me off guard—a compliment, a kind gesture, a soft tone of voice directed my way. I manage it better now, but it remains a part of me, woven into my personality in ways I can’t fully untangle.

By the end of my first year, and then my second, I begin to accept that I haven’t transformed in the dramatic way I once imagined. My life is steady, even good in many respects, but I am still fundamentally myself—still soft, still easily startled, still drawn toward comfort and connection in quiet ways.

Then, at the beginning of my third year, a group of girls moves into the quad two doors down, bringing with them a noticeable change in energy. Their laughter carries easily, their conversations spilling into the corridor, their presence felt even when I’m in my room with the door partially closed. I notice them in passing at first, exchanging polite smiles and brief greetings as we cross paths.

Then one morning, there’s a knock at my door.

When I open it, one of them is standing there, leaning casually against the frame, her expression already warm with familiarity. Her eyes flick over me for a moment, taking in something I can’t quite identify, before she smiles a little wider.

“Hey, bunny,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The nickname lands softly but decisively. I feel my face warm almost immediately, a reflex I’ve never been able to suppress, and I smile slightly before I can stop myself. She notices, of course, and her smile shifts into something more pleased, as though my reaction confirms whatever impression she had already formed.

After that, the nickname sticks.

At first, it’s occasional, used teasingly in passing. But soon it becomes constant, woven into every greeting, every knock on my door.

“Morning, bunny.”

“Hey, bunny, you busy?”

“Bunny, can I borrow you for a bit?”

Each time, I feel that same mix of embarrassment and something softer, something that makes it hard to protest.

The visits start simply enough—quick conversations, casual invitations—but they grow more frequent, more deliberate. Morning and night, someone is knocking, stepping into my space as though it belongs to them as much as it does to me. They linger, settling in comfortably, treating my room like a shared refuge. And I begin to understand, slowly, that they are coming to see me specifically.

Because they think I’m cute.

>There's Tori​, who carries music with her in a way that feels inseparable from how she expresses herself, her presence often announced by the soft sound of humming before she even speaks. Her dark, slightly messy hair frames her face in a way that gives her a perpetually relaxed look, and her style blends casual comfort with the edge of someone who found their identity through music. She grew up immersed in classical piano, developing a strong technical foundation, but as a teenager she gravitated toward pop punk, eventually channeling both influences into her own songwriting. Now she writes for her band, Static Carousel, crafting songs that shift between energetic bursts and quieter, more introspective moments. When she comes to my room, she often settles close without hesitation, sitting beside me or just within reach, playing through new material while watching my reactions carefully. She seems particularly fond of the way I respond to softer songs, sometimes smiling to herself when I lean in slightly or go still, as though she’s found exactly the effect she was hoping for.

>Heidi approaches everything in her life with a level of focus that is both impressive and slightly intimidating, though she tempers it with a kindness that makes it easy to be around her. She has neatly styled blonde hair that she keeps pulled back most days, and her glasses rest low on her nose when she’s deep in thought, which is often. Academically, she is exceptional—straight As throughout high school, now working as a research assistant for some of the university’s most respected professors, already building the foundation for what seems like an inevitable path toward a PhD. Despite her demanding schedule, she makes time to check in on me regularly, often arriving with a notebook in hand and an offer to help with whatever subject I happen to be struggling with. She explains concepts with patience and clarity, breaking them down into manageable pieces while maintaining a calm, reassuring tone. When I hesitate or doubt myself, she adjusts her approach without frustration, encouraging me gently until I reach the answer on my own, at which point she offers a small, satisfied smile that feels quietly rewarding.

>Mallory exists in a constant state of creative motion, her interests shifting fluidly between mediums but always anchored in a deep desire to capture something meaningful. Her appearance reflects that same sense of change—her hair color and style evolving every few weeks, her clothing ranging from paint-splattered overalls to carefully curated vintage outfits. She is equally skilled in painting, photography, and filmmaking, approaching each with a level of enthusiasm that makes it clear she doesn’t see them as separate disciplines so much as different ways of telling the same kind of story. She becomes fascinated with small details, often pausing mid-conversation to observe the way light falls across a surface or the subtle shift in someone’s expression. She frequently asks me to appear in her short films or photo series, insisting that I have a “natural presence” that suits her work. During shoots, she guides me with soft, deliberate instructions, adjusting my posture or expression with careful precision, always encouraging me to relax into the moment rather than perform.

>And Quinn carries herself with a kind of disciplined confidence that feels almost unshakeable, her presence shaped by years of structured training and careful routine. She is tall and powerfully built, her posture always aligned, her movements efficient in a way that makes it clear nothing she does is accidental. Her days are mapped out around practice schedules, conditioning sessions, and recovery, each part approached with a focus that borders on ritual. That same drive has drawn attention—both on campus and beyond it—and she seems to enjoy it in a quiet, controlled way, maintaining an active presence online where thousands of followers track her progress, her games, and glimpses of her life. With me, she softens just slightly, though the structure never fully disappears; she insists I come to her games, often spotting me in the stands and flashing a brief, knowing smile before refocusing. Sometimes she brings me along to her private practices, letting me sit off to the side as she moves through drills with unwavering precision, and other times she asks me to join her for late-night walks, her pace slower then, her voice quieter, as if my presence helps her step out of that constant discipline, if only for a little while.

I still startle sometimes, still hesitate, still feel things more deeply than I would like. Those parts of me haven’t disappeared, and I am not sure they ever will. But now, when the girls knock on my door and call me “bunny," I find myself moving toward the sound instead of away from it.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death.

Thanks for reading! I'm hoping to play this cute, cuddly, and sensitive boy who blushes easily and folds at the mildest of teasing. For a while, I want to grow out of it and become more grounded, but eventually I begin to accept myself for who I am—and it helps that there are four girls who find me endearing and won't leave me alone! Would love to be your sweet bunny, and definitely hoping for a gentle femdom angle for this. I'm also a sucker for romance, so I'd love to end up falling for one of the girls! Totally open to your suggestions!

I also want to clarify that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! I added some actions and dialogue for the characters to the prompt to give it some depth. I also had fun writing the bios for the girls to try something new, but any background or detail is fully interchangeable. Happy for you to write as one of the characters, multiple of the characters, or create a character all your own. I'd love for your to write a role that resonates with you and not try to fill the role exactly as I wrote it, if that makes sense.

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

After finishing college and getting a graduate degree, I thought the world would fall at my feet. I did everything I thought I was supposed to do—AP classes, student council, honors dorms, internships, research assistantships—but I wasn’t any closer to the goals I’d been quietly carrying since I was seventeen. Sure, I had a decent job, but it wasn’t exactly what I imagined when I used to picture my future, and it definitely paid less than I hoped. The student loans alone felt like a second rent.

And even through high school, college, and grad school, I didn’t manage to meet anyone.

I always dreamed of meeting my person. Someone to ground me. Someone I could spend hours with, smiling and laughing and being playful with. Someone to go on big adventures with, or just sit on the couch with and argue about what to watch while our legs were tangled together. The problem is that real life never seemed to care about my romantic aspirations.

My first almost-relationship was in high school with a girl named Rosie. We met in chemistry lab, bonded over burning something we weren’t supposed to, and spent three months texting every night. We never officially dated, but I built her up in my head like she was already my girlfriend. Then her family moved across the country because her dad got transferred for work. We hugged in the parking lot on her last day and promised to stay in touch. We did, for about two weeks.

In college there was Lauren, a film major who loved old black-and-white movies and cried when she talked about her childhood dog. We went on four dates, and I was convinced I’d finally cracked the code. Then she got accepted into a study abroad program in Paris and decided she wasn’t ready for anything serious right now. Which, translated, meant: not serious with me.

Then there was Maya during my junior year. That one actually felt real. We cooked together, studied together, slept on each other’s couches. I met her roommates, she met my friends. I thought, this is it, this is finally it. Three months in, she told me she’d realized she was gay and thanked me for being her safe practice boyfriend. I smiled and told her I was happy for her, then went back to my dorm and stared at the ceiling for three hours.

Grad school was worse, somehow. Everyone was either married, engaged, or too stressed to remember what flirting looked like. I dated a girl named Talia for a few weeks until she got an offer for a PhD program on the other side of the country and decided long distance felt impractical. Another girl, Jasmine, broke things off because her ex came back into her life and she needed to explore it, for closure.

Apparently, I was just a very convenient emotional layover.

By the time I hit my mid-twenties, I had a resume full of academic achievements and a romantic history that looked like a series of footnotes—almosts, maybes, wrong timing, right person, wrong universe.

My family, of course, found all of it hilarious.

At first it was gentle. My mom would ask, “So, are you seeing anyone?” in that casual, overly interested tone. My aunt would nudge me at Thanksgiving and say, “Any special girls in your life yet?” Everyone laughed, I laughed, it was fine.

Then it became subtly pointed, jokes made at every family gathering.

Oh, we’ll save you a seat for your imaginary girlfriend.

Don’t worry, he’s married to his work.

Maybe he’s just waiting for someone perfect. Or someone who exists.

My mom started introducing me as “my single son” like it was part of my official identity. She meant it playfully, I think, like it would somehow motivate me to finally meet someone, but after a while it stopped feeling like a joke and started feeling like a label I couldn’t peel off.

And then there was Liam.

My younger brother. Six years younger, effortlessly charismatic. The kind of guy who walked into rooms and people just like him, gravitate towards him, open up to him. He met his girlfriend, Katie, freshman year of college. She was his first girlfriend. His only girlfriend. Now they are getting married.

Liam is the golden child. The one who does everything right without even trying, following in my dad's footsteps to become a surgeon. And everyone adores Katie. My parents treat her like a daughter already, my sisters have a girls-only text group with her. Family dinners revolve around med school, wedding plans, seating charts, color palettes, catering tastings, and apartment hunting for Liam and Katie once they're married.

I am happy for him, I really was. I love my brother, he is a good guy. So I help. I go to planning meetings, help create and move decorations, coordinate rides for relatives, book hotel rooms. I show up early and stay late, helping like a good brother should.

Even with my kindness, I can't seem to win, bringing on more comments.

Wow, must be nice to have so much free time when you’re not bringing a plus one.

At least you don’t have to worry about a girlfriend’s opinion.

Guess you’re saving a lot on wedding expenses by coming alone.

They said it with smiles on their faces, their bellies full of laughter. But after who-knows-how-many remarks, the words started to feel heavier, like it wasn’t just about being single, like there was something wrong with me, like I was behind.

And that’s when I lied.

We were all sitting around the dinner table one night, talking about the final guest list. My mom glanced at me and said, “So, should we just put one seat for you again?” I don’t know what came over me—maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was the months of jokes, maybe it was the quiet fear that I was actually unlovable and everyone else could see it.

I said, “Actually, um, I’ve been seeing someone.”

The room went silent. My mom’s eyes widened. Liam dropped his fork. My dad blinked like I’d just spoken another language.

“For like six months,” I added quickly. “I just, wasn’t ready to say anything yet, I guess. But I was kind of hoping to bring her to the wedding. To introduce her to the family.”

Their reactions were instant and overwhelming, smiles, gasps, questions, excitement. My mom actually teared up. And I smile back, nodding along, answering questions with vague, made-up details, being careful to never utter a name. Still, I managed to conjure a whole imaginary girlfriend in under five minutes, and by the time I left that night, everyone was buzzing about finally meeting my girlfriend.

I got into my car and sat there with the engine off, hands still on the steering wheel, absolutely no idea what I was going to do. So I did the only thing I could think of in that moment—I opened Tinder.

I stared at my bio for a long time. Then I deleted everything and typed something completely unhinged:

> Hi, this is not a joke (even if I wish it was!). I recently lied to my entire family and told them I have a girlfriend of six months. They now expect to meet her at my younger brother’s wedding.

> I am, in fact, still painfully single.

> I am looking for a kind, funny, emotionally stable woman who would be willing to pretend to be my significant other for one weekend. I will pay for literally everything. Travel, hotel, food, drinks, a new dress, shoes, accessories, emotional damages. Whatever you need.

> No weird expectations. No pressure. Just two strangers committing to a very elaborate lie so my mother can finally stop calling me her “single son.”

> I promise I’m normal, employed, hygienic, and will be eternally grateful. Also mildly spiraling. PLEASE message me soon.

I hit submit, spend five minutes indiscriminately swiping right before I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and start driving, turning the radio until I'm hit with a wall of sound that drowns out any thoughts as I make my way back to my apartment, the city passing by in a blur. I park in my usual spot, and it's almost like I float into the lobby and up the stairs and down the hall to my front door.

Pushing my way inside, it hits me all at once. I throw my head back and let out the most pitiful groan, knowing I've dug myself into the deepest hole imaginable.

And then, I feel my phone buzz. A notification from Tinder.

Somebody likes you. 😍 Open Tinder to see who.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death.

Thanks for reading! I'd love to play this boy whose unlucky history with girls has lead to his status in the family as the butt of the joke when it comes to dating, and my sudden and unfortunate proclamation that I'll be introducing my new girlfriend at my younger brother's wedding. Happy to play this in a number of ways—maybe we're complete strangers, or maybe we have some sort of connection and you see my Tinder profile? Very open to your suggestions! I'd love to play against a character who sees the weekend as a fun opportunity to spend with a boy desperate to please you so you go along with our little story. I'm also a sucker for romance, so I'd love a sweet, wholesome, and kinky relationship to develop, as well as a gentle femdom dynamic. Happy to get into more detail if we connect!

I also want to add that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! Any details related to your character in the prompt can be changed. I hope it's obvious that I'm looking to write something detailed and dynamic, and would love a partner who feels the same.

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

As a kid, I moved through the world with a kind of careful softness that people noticed quickly. I preferred quiet corners, curled-up positions, anything that made me feel contained and safe. At family gatherings, while the other kids ran through the house in loud, chaotic loops, I usually ended up tucked into the edge of a couch with a blanket half-wrapped around me, listening more than speaking. Adults would smile when they passed by, sometimes reaching down to ruffle my hair or squeeze my shoulder, commenting on how gentle I was, how sweet. I didn’t mind it exactly—I just didn’t know how to be anything else.

Loud sounds had a certain and embarrassing power over me. I remember one winter afternoon when someone dropped a stack of metal trays in the cafeteria, the crash ringing out so sharply that I jolted in my seat, shoulders lifting almost to my ears. A friend beside me laughed softly—not unkindly—and said I reacted like a startled animal. I tried to laugh too, but I was on edge the rest of the day.

My emotions followed that same pattern of immediacy and softness, rising before I had time to steady them. I found it especially difficult to separate myself from what others were feeling, even when it wasn’t real. Once, in class, a teacher put on a film—nothing particularly tragic, just a quiet story with a few tender moments—and somewhere in the middle of it, I felt that familiar tightness in my chest begin to build. A character said something small and sincere, the kind of line most people would absorb and move past, but it lingered with me, catching somewhere deeper than I expected. My eyes started to sting, and I kept blinking, shifting slightly in my seat as if that might settle it. I tilted my head down, pretending to focus on my notes, hoping no one would notice how close I was to tearing up over something so simple.

Over time, people began to respond to those traits in ways that shaped how I saw myself. Friends leaned on me for quiet conversations, for reassurance, for someone who would listen without judgment. Some teased me gently, calling me soft or saying I had a calming presence, while others simply treated me with a kind of natural protectiveness, as though I needed it. I didn’t always know how to feel about that, but I couldn’t deny that I liked being close to people, liked the comfort of shared space, liked the unspoken understanding that came with it. I just wished I could pair that softness with something steadier, something less easily shaken.

By the time I finished high school, I had built up a quiet hope that college would change things for me. I imagined myself becoming more grounded, someone who could move through the world without that constant undercurrent of startle and retreat. I didn’t want to lose the parts of me that were gentle or kind, but I wanted to feel more certain of myself.

When I arrive at university, Wicker Hall rises in front of me with a sense of scale that makes everything feel newly significant. The big dormitory reminds me that this is exactly what I had wanted: a place full of people, full of possibility.

At first, I try to be different in all the ways I had planned. I introduce myself to people on my floor, join conversations, accept invitations. It goes well enough. People respond warmly, especially girls, who seem to find me easy to talk to, comfortable to be around. They smile at me in a way that feels genuine, sometimes lingering just a little longer than I expect, and they describe me with words I’ve heard before—sweet, gentle, cute.

Still, the deeper patterns don’t shift as much as I had hoped.

I still flinch when a door slams unexpectedly down the hall. I still gravitate toward quieter spaces, choosing smaller groups over louder gatherings where everything feels unpredictable. I still feel that quick swell of emotion at moments that catch me off guard—a compliment, a kind gesture, a soft tone of voice directed my way. I manage it better now, but it remains a part of me, woven into my personality in ways I can’t fully untangle.

By the end of my first year, and then my second, I begin to accept that I haven’t transformed in the dramatic way I once imagined. My life is steady, even good in many respects, but I am still fundamentally myself—still soft, still easily startled, still drawn toward comfort and connection in quiet ways.

Then, at the beginning of my third year, a group of girls moves into the quad two doors down, bringing with them a noticeable change in energy. Their laughter carries easily, their conversations spilling into the corridor, their presence felt even when I’m in my room with the door partially closed. I notice them in passing at first, exchanging polite smiles and brief greetings as we cross paths.

Then one morning, there’s a knock at my door.

When I open it, one of them is standing there, leaning casually against the frame, her expression already warm with familiarity. Her eyes flick over me for a moment, taking in something I can’t quite identify, before she smiles a little wider.

“Hey, bunny,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The nickname lands softly but decisively. I feel my face warm almost immediately, a reflex I’ve never been able to suppress, and I smile slightly before I can stop myself. She notices, of course, and her smile shifts into something more pleased, as though my reaction confirms whatever impression she had already formed.

After that, the nickname sticks.

At first, it’s occasional, used teasingly in passing. But soon it becomes constant, woven into every greeting, every knock on my door.

“Morning, bunny.”

“Hey, bunny, you busy?”

“Bunny, can I borrow you for a bit?”

Each time, I feel that same mix of embarrassment and something softer, something that makes it hard to protest.

The visits start simply enough—quick conversations, casual invitations—but they grow more frequent, more deliberate. Morning and night, someone is knocking, stepping into my space as though it belongs to them as much as it does to me. They linger, settling in comfortably, treating my room like a shared refuge. And I begin to understand, slowly, that they are coming to see me specifically.

Because they think I’m cute.

>There's Tori​, who carries music with her in a way that feels inseparable from how she expresses herself, her presence often announced by the soft sound of humming before she even speaks. Her dark, slightly messy hair frames her face in a way that gives her a perpetually relaxed look, and her style blends casual comfort with the edge of someone who found their identity through music. She grew up immersed in classical piano, developing a strong technical foundation, but as a teenager she gravitated toward pop punk, eventually channeling both influences into her own songwriting. Now she writes for her band, Static Carousel, crafting songs that shift between energetic bursts and quieter, more introspective moments. When she comes to my room, she often settles close without hesitation, sitting beside me or just within reach, playing through new material while watching my reactions carefully. She seems particularly fond of the way I respond to softer songs, sometimes smiling to herself when I lean in slightly or go still, as though she’s found exactly the effect she was hoping for.

>Heidi approaches everything in her life with a level of focus that is both impressive and slightly intimidating, though she tempers it with a kindness that makes it easy to be around her. She has neatly styled blonde hair that she keeps pulled back most days, and her glasses rest low on her nose when she’s deep in thought, which is often. Academically, she is exceptional—straight As throughout high school, now working as a research assistant for some of the university’s most respected professors, already building the foundation for what seems like an inevitable path toward a PhD. Despite her demanding schedule, she makes time to check in on me regularly, often arriving with a notebook in hand and an offer to help with whatever subject I happen to be struggling with. She explains concepts with patience and clarity, breaking them down into manageable pieces while maintaining a calm, reassuring tone. When I hesitate or doubt myself, she adjusts her approach without frustration, encouraging me gently until I reach the answer on my own, at which point she offers a small, satisfied smile that feels quietly rewarding.

>Mallory exists in a constant state of creative motion, her interests shifting fluidly between mediums but always anchored in a deep desire to capture something meaningful. Her appearance reflects that same sense of change—her hair color and style evolving every few weeks, her clothing ranging from paint-splattered overalls to carefully curated vintage outfits. She is equally skilled in painting, photography, and filmmaking, approaching each with a level of enthusiasm that makes it clear she doesn’t see them as separate disciplines so much as different ways of telling the same kind of story. She becomes fascinated with small details, often pausing mid-conversation to observe the way light falls across a surface or the subtle shift in someone’s expression. She frequently asks me to appear in her short films or photo series, insisting that I have a “natural presence” that suits her work. During shoots, she guides me with soft, deliberate instructions, adjusting my posture or expression with careful precision, always encouraging me to relax into the moment rather than perform.

>And Quinn carries herself with a kind of disciplined confidence that feels almost unshakeable, her presence shaped by years of structured training and careful routine. She is tall and powerfully built, her posture always aligned, her movements efficient in a way that makes it clear nothing she does is accidental. Her days are mapped out around practice schedules, conditioning sessions, and recovery, each part approached with a focus that borders on ritual. That same drive has drawn attention—both on campus and beyond it—and she seems to enjoy it in a quiet, controlled way, maintaining an active presence online where thousands of followers track her progress, her games, and glimpses of her life. With me, she softens just slightly, though the structure never fully disappears; she insists I come to her games, often spotting me in the stands and flashing a brief, knowing smile before refocusing. Sometimes she brings me along to her private practices, letting me sit off to the side as she moves through drills with unwavering precision, and other times she asks me to join her for late-night walks, her pace slower then, her voice quieter, as if my presence helps her step out of that constant discipline, if only for a little while.

I still startle sometimes, still hesitate, still feel things more deeply than I would like. Those parts of me haven’t disappeared, and I am not sure they ever will. But now, when the girls knock on my door and call me “bunny," I find myself moving toward the sound instead of away from it.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death.

Thanks for reading! I'm hoping to play this cute, cuddly, and sensitive boy who blushes easily and folds at the mildest of teasing. For a while, I want to grow out of it and become more grounded, but eventually I begin to accept myself for who I am—and it helps that there are four girls who find me endearing and won't leave me alone! Would love to be your sweet bunny, and definitely hoping for a gentle femdom angle for this. I'm also a sucker for romance, so I'd love to end up falling for one of the girls! Totally open to your suggestions!

I also want to clarify that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! I added some actions and dialogue for the characters to the prompt to give it some depth. I also had fun writing the bios for the girls to try something new, but any background or detail is fully interchangeable. Happy for you to write as one of the characters, multiple of the characters, or create a character all your own. I'd love for your to write a role that resonates with you and not try to fill the role exactly as I wrote it, if that makes sense.

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

I've known you so long that my earliest memories are stitched together with the sound of your voice. I used to spend hours outside, kicking a soccer ball against the side of my house and pretending I was practicing for something important, though in truth I just liked the rhythm of it. The first time we met, the ball had rebounded awkwardly and rolled toward the curb. You came marching across the street with singular purpose, hair already half falling out of whatever attempt at a ponytail you’d made that morning.

You didn’t say hello. Instead, you shoved me over and took the soccer ball for yourself.

I still remember the shock of hitting the grass, more stunned than hurt, and looking up to see you laughing like it was a proper introduction. Then you offered your hand, grinning wide enough that I couldn’t stay mad for even a second longer. We took turns kicking the ball after that, though in truth you quickly decided the turns would be uneven. You had a way of deciding things like that, and even back then I went along with it more often than not. That was the start of everything, though I didn’t know it at the time. From then on, you were always somehow in my day—whether I planned for it or not.

We made an odd pair that people liked to point out. You were the kind of person who filled space without trying, who laughed loudly in class and raised your hand even when the teacher hadn’t finished the question. You played sports with the same intensity you argued with teachers, and there was always a smudge of something on your cheek—dirt, ink, once even grease from trying to fix your bike yourself. I, on the other hand, tended to linger at the edges of things. I liked books and quiet corners, watching people more than talking to them. Somehow, you managed to always drag me into the center of your orbit. If you signed up for a class, I signed up for it too. If you wanted to see a movie, that was the movie we saw. When you declared that a band was good, I listened until I agreed.

You always got what you wanted. Well, almost always.

Back then, I thought your protectiveness was just another part of who you were. When someone teased me at school, you stepped in before I could even think what to say. When I hesitated about something—joining a club, presenting in class, applying for a program—you nudged, pushed, or outright shoved me toward it. I never really questioned why you cared so much. To me, it was simply how things had always been.

It also didn’t help that I can be incredibly dense about these sort of things. The way you got strangely quiet when other girls talked to me too long. The little crease between your eyebrows when someone joked about me dating someday. Even the way you sometimes stared at me like you were about to say something important before shaking your head and changing the subject instead. I noticed these things the way one might notice passing clouds—briefly, without thinking much about what they meant.

And the truth is, you are beautiful in a way that never registered properly in my mind. You have soft eyes that brighten when you laugh, and a smile that always seems just slightly crooked, like it had snuck up on you. Your glasses are always sliding down your nose, and you are forever brushing your hair out of your face with an impatient flick of your hand.

By the time we finished school, it was practically inevitable that we would leave together. You had been the one to pick the university, and I agreed without much resistance, partly because it sounded good and partly because, if I was honest, the idea of going somewhere new by myself terrified me.

Now we are here.

The campus stretches out around us with wide paths and old buildings covered in ivy, students moving in clusters, the faint smell of coffee and paper drift in the cool autumn breeze. I tell myself this is a new chapter, a chance to reinvent who I am, to be less hesitant and more confident, though I’m not entirely sure how to accomplish that.

Then I meet her.

She sits a few rows ahead of me in one of my classes, turning around once to ask if I have a pen. It’s a small thing, barely a moment at all, but to me it feels like some kind of sign. When she laughs at one of my awkward jokes later, my heart does that strange, clumsy leap it’s not used to doing. I tell myself this is exactly the kind of new beginning I was hoping for, the kind where I finally stop standing on the sidelines of my own life.

So when she starts texting me and she asks if I want to study together sometime, I don’t hesitate. A few weeks later she's my first official girlfriend, and in my mind it feels like proof that I’m changing, that I’m becoming someone a little braver than I used to be.

You don’t seem nearly as excited about it.

Sitting together outside the student union, I tell you about the dinner I paid for last night, the way she said she was so into the food, even though it was more expensive than I’d planned. You listen with your arms folded, that familiar crease forming between your eyebrows. I recognize it now as your thinking face, though I still don’t quite understand what you’re thinking about.

“You’re spending a lot of money on her,” you say, trying to sound casual but not quite pulling it off.

I laugh it off, brushing it aside like it’s nothing. I tell you it’s fine, that I don’t mind, that she deserves nice things sometimes. I mention my job at the campus library, how I can pick up extra shifts if I need to. Relationships are supposed to involve effort, right?

You look at me like you want to say something else—and you've tried, on more than one occasion.

You’ve tried sitting me down, explaining carefully why you think she’s not treating me well. You’ve pointed out how often she cancels plans at the last minute, how she disappears for hours without answering messages, how she somehow always manages to convince me to pay for things I can’t really afford. At one point, you even went so far as to call my parents, hoping they might talk some sense into me.

But I’m stubborn, thinking I’m finally doing something right.

So I brush off your concerns, laugh a little too easily, and tell you you’re overthinking it. Every time I do, I manage to just miss the way your jaw tightens slightly, the way you look away for a second before nodding like you’re trying to accept something you don’t actually believe.

What I don’t realize is how much it’s bothering you.

Because while I’m busy trying to make this relationship work, you’re watching everything with a kind of clarity I don’t have. You see the moments I miss, the patterns I ignore, the hints that something isn’t quite right. And somewhere along the way, your frustration starts turning into something hotter and sharper—something closer to jealousy, even if you try not to call it that.

Eventually, you come up with a plan. As far as I’m concerned, life is moving along normally. But right now, you are the one pulling the strings quietly in the background. You’ve asked your friends to keep an eye on my girlfriend around campus, to follow at a distance when they can, to see who she’s actually spending time with when she says she’s “busy.” You don’t know how long it will take to find something concrete, something undeniable enough to finally open my eyes.

And then there's the other part of your plan—keeping me occupied.

And that’s how I end up standing outside your apartment tonight, holding a cheap bottle of wine and knocking on the door while the hallway smells faintly like someone’s burnt popcorn from down the hall. You open the door almost immediately, leaning against the frame with that familiar half-smile.

“Finally, movie night,” you say. “Feels like I haven't seen you in weeks. You've been spending so much time with her." I try to ignore your soft venom.

I step inside, still completely unaware of everything that’s already in motion, and smile back at you like this is just another ordinary evening with my best friend. Meanwhile, somewhere else on campus, your plan is already beginning to unfold. One of your friends thinks my girlfriend has a secret Tinder account and is meeting someone for a date tonight, and you need to distract me long enough to get the evidence you need to get me to finally break up with her.

As we watch the movie, you notice how I keep checking my phone, tapping my thumbs across the screen before putting it away again. You don't want any distractions, so you come up with an excuse to confiscate my phone. I start talking about my girlfriend, and you don't want to hear it, so you keep pouring me more and more wine.

I'm a lightweight, and it's not long until I'm wine drunk and saying things I shouldn't—how I've never been happier, how I know it's early but I think she's the one. You grit your teeth and let me fall asleep on your sofa in blissful ignorance.

By the time I wake up, my arms are tied firmly behind my back, my legs are bound together, and something is gagging my mouth. My eyes blink open and you come into focus, kneeling over me, cooing down at my helpless body, telling me it's all going to be okay.

After all, it's for my own good.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, romance, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, making pretty noises for you, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death.

Thanks for reading! I'd love to play a naive boy who can't see that the girlfriend he thinks is perfect is actually taking advantage of him, and my best friend takes it upon herself to show me she's no good for me. Of course there's a bit of an ulterior motive, and you just can't help tying me up under the guise of helping me. I'd love for this to be a cute, awkward, and eventually sweet and kinky romance with a gentle femdom dynamic. Very open to your suggestions on any of the background too!

I also want to clarify that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! Just added some background, dialogue, and actions to the prompt to give it some depth—but I'd love for you to come up with your own character that resonates with you!

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

I’ve been in love before. Or at least, I thought I had. There were other relationships, other girls who made me laugh, or kept me up too late talking, or left behind hoodies that still smelled like them weeks after they were gone. But nothing compares to this feeling—none of it had the same quiet certainty humming underneath everything, like I’ve finally stopped searching without realizing I was searching at all.

With Tessa, it’s different in a way that’s hard to explain without sounding dramatic, but it’s there in all those in-between moments. The way she leans into me when we’re standing in line somewhere, absentmindedly tracing patterns on my arm as if etching her signature into me. The way she talks about the world like it’s something to be explored rather than endured. She’s brilliant—like, actually brilliant. She studied mathematics, and sometimes she’ll go off on tangents about patterns or theories I barely understand, her eyes lighting up in this way that makes me want to keep listening anyway. And then, just as easily, she’ll decide we should try some obscure hole-in-the-wall strip mall restaurant or book a last-minute weekend trip somewhere we've never been.

She calls me her constant, which I pretend to roll my eyes at each time she says it, but secretly I love it. It’s her little joke—her math brain slipping into everything—but it also feels deeper than that, like she sees me as something steady in her orbit, something reliable while she spins off in a dozen different directions. And I don’t mind. I like being that for her. I like being the one she comes back to.

I think about that a lot—how lucky I am. It hits me at random times. Watching her tuck her hair behind her ear while she reads. Hearing her laugh from another room before we catch each other's eyes, my stomach doing little flips as she flutters her eyelashes at me. Feeling her reach for my hand in her sleep. It’s almost overwhelming sometimes, this urge to do something big enough to match what she means to me. Something that isn’t just words or flowers or a nice dinner, but something memorable. Something that feels like her.

I just don’t know what that is yet.

But an idea starts to formulate in my head on an ordinary Tuesday night, the two of us curled up together, Tessa's legs draped over mine while we half-watch something neither of us is paying attention to. Her face gets soft, and I feel her toes wiggling anxiously, like she’s about to admit something she thinks I’ll tease her for.

She tells me she just finished reading a really good book, and that it's part of a genre she's been secretly into the last two years. Not just romance, but the kind she calls a little embarrassing, her voice dropping as she says it, her cheeks warming. I grin immediately because it’s so her—this mix of intelligence and hidden mischief—and the more she tries to downplay it, the more endearing it becomes. "They're smutty romance books, okay??" Tessa admits, hiding her face against me when inhale too fast that I accidentally snort, but she’s laughing too, and I can feel it in the way her shoulders shake.

And somewhere in that moment, it clicks.

Not fully formed, not at first. Just a spark of an idea that feels equal parts ridiculous and perfect. Something that makes my stomach twist because it’s so far outside of anything I would normally do, but also feels right. If she’s always pulling me into new experiences, into her world of curiosity and boldness, maybe this is my turn.

That’s how I end up late one night, scrolling through photographers.

I don’t even really know what I’m looking for at first. I just know I want it to be good—something real, not cheesy or awkward. I land on a website that feels different from the others. It’s mostly weddings, but not the stiff, overly posed kind. The photos feel alive—caught in-between moments, laughter mid-breath, light spilling across people like it chose them on purpose. There’s a mix of film and digital, and everything has this warm, slightly imperfect quality that makes it feel honest.

And then I see it. A small tab, easy to miss, tucked at the bottom: boudoir. My heart immediately starts pounding like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t be, even though I’m alone in my room. I click it anyway.

The photos aren’t what I expected. They’re intimate, sure, but not in a way that feels performative. There’s a softness to them, a sense that the people in them are comfortable—seen, even. I scroll through the reviews next, half-expecting something that will scare me off, but they all say the same thing in different ways: that you make people feel at ease, that you turn something vulnerable into something empowering.

I sit there for a long minute, staring at the screen, my cursor hovering. Then I fill out the inquiry form before I can talk myself out of it. Once it’s done, there’s no taking it back. I feel equal parts exhilarated and completely insane. But when you respond, calm and professional, walking me through the details like this is the most normal thing in the world, it steadies me. We settle on a time—late afternoon—and suddenly it’s real.

The day of the shoot, I almost turn around twice on the way there. The studio is in this converted factory space, the kind of place I’ve probably passed a hundred times without noticing. When I step inside, it’s not what I pictured. It’s open, bright, the light pouring in through huge windows and bouncing off pale walls. There’s a sense of privacy up here on the top floor, like the rest of the world has been left somewhere far below.

You greet me easily, and warmly like you’ve known me longer than five seconds, and that helps more than you probably realize. We sit for a bit, just talking, and before I know it, I’m telling you about Tessa.

I don’t hold back. I can’t, really. I talk about how we met, how she laughs, how she drags me into things I never would have tried on my own. I tell you how she calls me her constant, how she gets this shy, flustered smile when she talks about those smutty romance novels she loves. I even mention a couple of the titles she’s obsessed with, though I stumble over the words a little, not entirely sure I’ve got them right—if I were paying closer attention, maybe I’d notice the flicker of recognition in your expression, but I’m too caught up in talking about her, in trying to explain something that feels too big for language.

Eventually, you tilt your head slightly and ask, gently, if I brought anything to wear.

I blink at you, completely thrown.

“Something, sexy?” you clarify, not unkindly.

I must look as confused as I feel, because your expression softens almost immediately. There’s no judgment there, just a kind of quiet understanding.

“That’s okay,” you say, reassuring. “We’ll figure it out.”

You stand, gesturing for me to stay where I am, and mention that you’ll grab a few things, that I should just relax for a minute while you get everything ready.

And as you disappear into the other room, leaving me alone in that sunlit space, it finally hits me what I’ve gotten myself into. My pulse kicks up again, a mix of nerves and anticipation curling in my chest. It’s completely out of my comfort zone. It’s completely ridiculous. And it’s exactly the kind of thing Tessa would love.

I just have to trust you to guide me through it.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death. Thanks for reading! I'd love to play a cute boy who is excited to do something bold as a way to show his girlfriend how much he cares for her, so I book a boudoir photoshoot for myself, and you're the photographer.

I should mention up front that this scene threads a needle—I'm not looking for a cheating scene, but encouraging my exploration by being sexually open (if that makes sense?). Essentially, I'm envisioning your character being familiar with the smutty books my girlfriend likes, and you're aware the titles I mention are all femdom novels. To best fit my girlfriend's fantasies, you dress me and pose me like scenes from those books! Very open to suggestions on the outfits and poses! I would also love if you see this as an opportunity to help out a cute couple, and you start sending photos of my to my girlfriend, maybe inviting her to the studio at some point? Would love to hear your ideas as well, this is just a rough outline.

I also want to clarify that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! Just added some actions and dialogue for both characters to the prompt to give it some depth.

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

There's always been a certain freedom about you. It’s in the way you move—fluid, practiced, effortless—as you pass through the aisle, adjusting a blanket here, offering a drink there, your smile warm and easy, never forced. To everyone watching, you look like you belong entirely to this life.

And in many ways, you do.

You’ve wanted this for as long as you can remember. Even as a child, still tethered to one place, you were always imagining somewhere else. You were the one staring out windows, imagining far off places, wondering what it would feel like to wake up in a different corner of the world without warning. Now you don’t have to wonder anymore—it’s just your life.

You fall asleep in one city and wake up in another so often that the transitions blur together. Hotel rooms start to feel interchangeable—same crisp sheets, same blackout curtains, same unfamiliar view waiting on the other side of the glass. But the movement itself, that’s what keeps you grounded. Airports, terminals, the controlled chaos of boarding and deplaning, it all feels more like home than anywhere else ever has.

From the outside, it looks like an idea life Your Instagram tells the story better than you ever could in words. Thousands of followers watch as you move across the globe, your life unfolding in snapshots that feel almost cinematic. There’s one of you in Hong Kong, laughing as a small monkey perches on your shoulder, its tiny hands tangled briefly in your hair. Another in Paris, seated at a quiet café, a delicate cup of coffee cradled between your fingers as sunlight spills across the table, catching the soft curve of your smile. And then Patagonia—wind pulling at your jacket as you stand at the edge of something vast and untamed, the kind of landscape that makes everything else feel small.

Every photo is composed, but never stiff. Natural, but undeniably intentional. And in every single one, it’s just you.

No friends leaning into frame, no family tucked into the background, no partner’s arm wrapped loosely around your waist. Just you, centered, framed by the world instead of by people. At first glance, it reads as independence—an enviable kind of self-sufficiency. But you know better than anyone how much space exists outside the edges of those photos.

You keep mostly to yourself. It’s easier that way, cleaner. You’ve had your moments—brief connections sparked in unfamiliar places, late nights that blur into early mornings—but they rarely extend beyond a night or two. How could they? By the time anything has a chance to settle into something more, you’re already packing your bag again, already checking the time of your next departure.

You tell yourself it suits you. That this is what you wanted Lately, though, something has shifted. It’s subtle at first. A quiet awareness that settles in during the in-between moments—the pauses between service, the stillness of a hotel room late at night, the silence after you’ve scrolled past one too many photos of other people’s lives. You find yourself listening more closely when your coworkers talk, especially when the conversation drifts toward something more personal.

They talk about people they’ve met—airport crushes. Fleeting connections, yes, but also ones that have lasted longer than one night. One flight attendant talks about a boy she managed to get to book six flights in a row just to follow her around the world.

You pretend not to be interested at first, half-listening as you organize something in the galley, but your attention sharpens when one of them shrugs and says, “It’s just a perk of the job.”

When you glance at her, she catches it immediately and smiles, like she’s been waiting for you to ask.

“Especially on international flights,” she continues, lowering her voice just slightly but not enough to suggest secrecy. “If there’s an open suite, I’ll upgrade my airport crush. Give him extra attention, a freebie drink, a fun little snack—tell him it's usually only for the crew.” She pauses just long enough for the implication to settle. “And then offer something extra special during lights out.”

She says it casually, like it’s nothing. Like it’s just another part of the job. “You should try it sometime,” she suggests with a little shrug before wheeling a cart down the aisle.

You don’t respond right away. You just nod, letting the idea slip quietly into your thoughts. You don't come to a decision, not immediately, not impulsively. You let it sit with you, turning it over in your mind during long flights and quiet hotel nights. At first, it feels unlike you—or maybe too much like a version of you you haven’t fully acknowledged, one that craves being seen and being in control. Eventually, though, it starts to make a certain kind of sense. If everything in your life is temporary, why should this be any different? Weeks pass before you stop thinking, and decide to try it for yourself.

Meanwhile, my life has been the opposite of yours in almost every way.

I stayed. That was the defining trait, if I’m being honest. I stayed in the same city, the same neighborhoods, the same patterns. School, then more school. Work. A condo that felt like an achievement when I bought it and something else entirely after she left.

My ex—though it still felt strange to call her that—had wanted something more. More movement, more unpredictability, more life than the one I was carefully building. She left for New York, chasing a dream she’d had since she was young, and I told myself I understood. I even believed it, mostly. But understanding something doesn’t stop it from hollowing you out a little.

I’ve always had a tendency to sit with my thoughts too long. To turn things over until they lose their original shape. So eventually, in what felt less like a decision and more like a reflex, I booked a flight.

Japan.

Maybe it was the school trip to Tokyo my parents decided was too expensive, or maybe it's the countless social media posts I've casually viewed in the last six months of beautiful scenery, food, and experiences, but I click the button to confirm the flight before I can overthink it. I even start to plan to visit other places near there too, like Vietnam, Singapore, Korea, Thailand. It's all very unlike me.

The day of the flight, I arrive too early—old habits die hard. I hover near the gate, checking my phone without really seeing anything on the screen. That’s when I notice you and the rest of the crew walking past—uniforms crisp, movements coordinated in a way that makes you all seem like you rehearsed together.

You catch my eye for just a second. I smile, awkward and fleeting, before looking away like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

Later, when I approach the desk with a half-formed question about timing I didn’t really need answered, you're there again. Closer this time. Real in a way you hadn’t been before. You smile—warm, deliberate—and tell me the flight is on time. I thought that would be the end of it.

When my name is called over the intercom, I assume something has gone wrong. My stomach drops as I make my way back to the gate desk, wondering whether I filled out my information wrong, whether my passport is expired, whether I left something in my luggage that got flagged.

But then I see you.

You are standing behind the desk, watching me approach with an expression that is almost excited?

“Good news,” you tell me, your voice bright but controlled. “We have an open suite in first class for this flight, and you’ve been upgraded.”

For a moment, I just stare at you, trying to process what you’d said. Things like that don’t happen to me.

“Wow, a suite?” I manage finally, a little breathless. “Thank you. Seriously, thank you.”

You hand me the new ticket, your fingers brushing mine just slightly longer than necessary. “I’ll be working the suites,” you add, your tone shifting just enough to make me notice. “So if there’s anything you need, just ask me personally.”

I nod, probably too quickly, beaming and thanking you cutely.

Now, hours into the flight, I sit in a space that feels too luxurious for someone like me, trying to act like I fit in. Every so often, you pass by, checking on things that don’t really need checking. Each time, you linger just a fraction longer. From where I sit, it feels like the beginning of something unexpected. Like maybe this trip—the one I booked on impulse, the one that barely felt real—might actually change something about me.

From where you stand, moving effortlessly through the cabin, it’s something else entirely. An experiment. A way to take control over your loneliness, and maybe spark something new in your life as well.

And when the lights dim in the cabin, there's a short knock at my door.

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death.

Thanks for reading! I'm hoping to find someone to play a flight attendant who has an airport crush on my character, enough that you use the perks of your job to upgrade me to a suite, and you plan on coming by during lights out. I'd love for your character to be very independent and free-spirited, and because of that likes to be in control more than anything—so a gentle femdom angle is what I'm hoping for! Totally open to your suggestions as well. I'm a sucker for romance, so I'd love to end up following you around the world like a lost puppy!

I also want to clarify that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! Just added some actions and dialogue for both characters to the prompt to give it some depth. I also wrote this from your character's perspective to try something new, but any background or detail is fully interchangeable. I'd love for your to create a character that really resonates with you and not try to fill the role exactly as I wrote it, if that makes sense.

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.

I open the door and freeze.

For half a second, my brain refuses to catch up with what my eyes are seeing. It’s like the monster under my bed—the one that lurks in the corner of your thoughts, the one you swear you’re ready for until it actually shows up—has stepped into the room and dared me to react.

In this case, the monster is you, stretched out on the training table, resting between sessions. And yeah, it’s your perfect ass in yoga pants that hits me first.

I’m the student physio for the university—specifically your team. I pride myself on being professional, focused, locked in. Ankles, knees, muscle balance, recovery plans. That’s the job. That’s all this is supposed to be. I repeat that to myself every day, especially because the women I work with are… well, distracting. Strong. Confident. Beautiful in that effortless way that comes from knowing exactly what your body can do.

And then there’s you.

You’re one of the star players and the team captain, someone I see almost every day. We talk easily—about classes, about practice, about nothing at all—but my mind is always doing this dangerous little sidestep whenever you’re near. I tell myself it’s harmless. I tell myself I’m human. I tell myself to keep my eyes up and my hands clinical.

Right now, I’m failing spectacularly.

You’re lying on your side, one knee slightly bent, hoodie pushed up just enough to show the curve of your waist. The leggings you’re wearing should be illegal in a medical setting. They cling in a way that makes it impossible not to notice how toned you are, how perfectly put together your body is even when you’re doing absolutely nothing.

I stand there, hand still on the door handle, staring.

I know I should clear my throat. I know I should step back out and give you privacy. I know all of this in theory. In practice, my feet won’t move and my eyes won’t look anywhere else. When you shift in your sleep, the table creaks softly, and that small movement feels way louder than it should. My stomach tightens.

Get it together, I tell myself.

I drag my gaze upward—finally—taking in your relaxed face, the way your lashes rest against your cheeks, the steady rhythm of your breathing. You look softer like this, less intimidating than you do when you're playing, where you move with power and purpose. Seeing you like this feels oddly intimate, like I’ve walked in on something I wasn’t meant to witness.

Your eyes start to flutter open, and I must look like a deer in headlights as you settle your gaze on me. There's a brief pause as you rouse from your casual rest, until your lips curl into a knowing smile. You already know how dedicated I am to helping you recover after practices and games. Now how dedicated will I be to your pleasure?

My kinks: (gentle) femdom, bondage, facesitting (especially in yoga pants or leggings), panties, bi encouragement, being gagged, pegging, teasing/flirting, handjobs, butt plugs/ass play, begging, feminization, cuddlefucking, ass/pussy worship, cock rings and other toys, orgasm control/edging/denial, cumplay/CEI, cunnilingus, being your good boy, feeling small and vulnerable, and others I probably can't think of right now! (this is not an exhaustive list).

Limits: blood, scat/farts/piss, gore, puke, diapers, chastity, sounding, bestiality, body mods/transformation, death.

Thanks for reading! I'd love to play the cute physio for your team, someone who has a practically debilitating crush on you but has to keep it together to try to remain professional. When I find you resting in the training room you catch me staring in awe, the perfect opportunity to really test me—and you know I'd do anything for you! I'm hoping for a gentle femdom angle to this, and to be your character's stress relief on the road, at home, after practice, before a big game. I'm a sucker for romance too! Totally open to your suggestions as well!

I also want to clarify that I will not write for your character in the roleplay! Just added some actions and dialogue for both characters to the prompt to give it some depth.

Hope to message soon! Preference to partners who want to get to know each other and discuss the scene before moving to Discord to write together.