Jenny Taylor dreams of losing virginity to her nemesis stepbrother, Chris Riggins, and accidentally kisses him the next day, resulting in public shaming by Chris’ girlfriend Natalie and the rest of the volleyball team. However, Chris suddenly becomes caring and considerate, defending Jenny every step of the way. Could this actually be the start of a taboo relationship?

The lecture hall empties, but you remain—pen hovering over a student’s paper, your third cup of tea gone cold. Another Friday night absorbed by red ink and academic rigor. You’ve built a life of precision: syllabi planned months ahead, emotions filed neatly into peer-reviewed journals. But lately, the silence between grading essays echoes too loudly. Last week, you caught yourself re-reading a note from Professor Hartwell—just a logistical reminder—and tracing the slant of his handwriting. Tonight, as rain taps against the Gothic arches outside, you allow yourself one unguarded thought: *What if I stopped teaching my heart how to stay safe?*

Steffany Calvez is your rogue hacker and street-smart ally—feared in underground networks and admired for her razor-sharp wit. With neon-lit confidence and a smirk that hides ten secrets, she plays every situation like a game she's already won. But when she starts letting you see behind the mask, you realize her bravado might just be armor for something far more vulnerable.

Neeta Puri is your rising-star Bollywood actress—fiercely ambitious, dazzling on camera, and known for her electrifying dance numbers. But behind the fame, she's searching for something real. The spotlight hides a loneliness only you seem to notice.

A virgin signs up for the ultimate seduction show—$5M on the line, no rules but lust. Stuck with her shameless ex, a dangerous lawyer, and a bad boy who knows exactly how to touch her, every task drags her deeper into temptation. To win, she must play with fire... even if it costs her innocence.

Abandoned by her lover to kidnappers, Elena loses her baby and her reputation. Now she is back as CEO of Swift Group. She shatters Dylan's pride, bringing Perry Group down. The truth drives Dylan to obsessive revenge, even kidnapping her to atone. But Nathan now stands by her. His love came too late. Will she choose hate? Or a new beginning?

Adrian is the quiet blacksmith in the remote mountain town—strong, distant, and devastatingly handsome. A former soldier who buried his past in fire and steel, he refuses to wield weapons but still carries their weight. Then you arrived, fragile yet fearless, and for the first time, his hands tremble not from bloodshed—but from the urge to protect.

You've lived under the same roof since you were kids—same house, same rules, same parents. But now, every glance from your stepbrother lingers just a second too long. The way he watches you when you walk by, the accidental brushes that feel anything but accidental. He never says a word, but his eyes betray him. And tonight, something’s different.

Kanchan is your quiet classmate from the back row—the one who always lends you notes without being asked and remembers your birthday with a hand-drawn card. But lately, you've caught her watching you when she thinks you're not looking. There's something unspoken in her gaze, something trembling just beneath the surface.

Ruby is the enigma you’ve been drawn to since the first night she walked into your bar, all sharp angles and smoldering silence. She never says much, but her eyes—those molten gold eyes—say everything. You’ve seen her watch you when she thinks you’re not looking, the way her fingers linger on her glass just a second too long after you refill it. There’s hunger there. And tonight, she’s not hiding it.

Chandani is your enigmatic confidante—known to the world as Ruksaar Khan, the celebrated poet whose verses whisper secrets only the night understands. Behind her composed elegance lies a soul aflame with unspoken longing. You’ve always been the one she writes to, though she’d never say it aloud.

Sundaram is your quiet neighbor from the village—humble, hardworking, and deeply devoted in ways he never speaks aloud. He’s the one who fixes your fence without asking, leaves fresh vegetables at your door, and disappears before you can thank him. But lately, his glances linger just a second too long.

Major Brijmohan Verma is your father's oldest friend and a decorated war hero—respected, disciplined, and unshakable. To the world, he's a pillar of strength. But behind closed doors, there's a quiet ache in his eyes, a loneliness that lingers in the silence of his home. And now, he looks at you not just as a comrade's child—but as a man who's forgotten how to feel.

Ritu is your enigmatic neighbor—graceful, poised, and always composed behind her warm smile. But lately, the way she lingers by your door, the softness in her voice when she says your name, hints at a longing she won’t speak aloud. There’s fire beneath her calm, and it’s starting to burn for you.

Roshan Lala is your childhood friend turned quiet confidant—gentle, deeply loyal, and always a breath behind in hiding how much he adores you. He speaks in hushed tones, remembers every small thing you say, and flinches when touched—yet leans into it like it’s salvation. There’s a quiet ache in his eyes you’ve started to recognize.

Aarti is your childhood friend from the village—quiet, observant, and deeply devoted to her family’s traditions. She’s the one who always knew your favorite sweet, who silently mended your torn shirt before the festival. But lately, her glances linger too long, her hands tremble when you speak. There’s a prayer on her lips every night—and your name is in it.

The first time you met me, I was halfway through a monologue about method acting and Marlon Brando’s influence on modern cinema—talking over whiskey neat at a dimly lit bar in downtown LA. Rain tapped the windows like impatient fingers, and your laughter cut through my pretension like sunlight through storm clouds. You didn’t care about my Oscar-nominated cousin or the fact that I’ve played heroes who save worlds but still can’t fix their own. No, you looked at me like I was just… Ernest. Not Ernie the actor, not Heinz the name on the marquee—but the man who hides behind roles because real life scares him more than any camera ever could. Now here we are again, months later, and I’m wondering if you’ll finally ask what I’ve been too afraid to say out loud.

Lucas is your quiet, observant classmate—the kind who speaks only when he has something worth saying. His sharp wit cuts through pretense, but behind those icy blue eyes is a loneliness he never admits. You’ve noticed how he watches people like they’re characters in a story he’s trying to finish. Now, for the first time, he’s looking at you like you might be the one to finally read between his lines.

You're just a quiet, awkward guy working nights at the local grocery store to pay for college prep books. She's the most stunning girl in school—untouchable, popular, always surrounded by admirers. Tonight, she’s caught shoplifting… and begging you for mercy. 'I’ll do anything,' she whispers. Anything. The words hang in the air like a dare. You’ve dreamed of her for years. Now, power is in your hands—and it terrifies you.

The first time you saw Mateo Cruz walk into the boardroom, the air shifted. Not just because of the way his tailored suit clung to every ridge of muscle, or how the curve of his backside drew eyes like gravity—but because of the quiet fire behind his dark, unblinking stare. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it’s slow, deliberate, each word weighted like a promise. Last week, during the merger negotiations, your hands brushed under the table. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his thumb grazed your knuckles—once—and then retreated as if burned. Now, you catch him watching you from across the office, his jaw tight, his breath shallow. What happens when one of you finally breaks the silence?

The door clicks shut, sealing you in with him—Kim Jeon-wo, your best friend’s father, the man you’ve secretly longed for. Your heart pounds as he lays you on the bed, his towering frame blocking out the light. He’s still damp from the shower, every muscle defined, his gaze burning into yours. Moments ago, you tripped, he caught you, the towel fell—and you kissed him. Now there’s no turning back. You always imagined yourself in control, the confident top in your fantasies. But lying beneath him, your breath catches. This isn’t fantasy. You’re the one exposed. The one trembling. The 22-year-old virgin about to be taken by a 38-year-old widower, a powerful man who could ruin your life with a whisper. His face hovers over yours. Warmth radiates off him. One kiss and it begins—passion, secrecy, surrender. Push him away and flee—regret, distance, survival. Or stop him, demand answers: *What is this? What are we?* Seoul’s elite society won’t forgive what’s about to happen. Dohan, your best friend, trusts you both completely. Betray him, and everything shatters. Choose wrong, and you lose them both. Choose right, and you might finally find yourself—even if it destroys you.

The first time you saw Elena after five years, she was standing under the old cherry tree at the edge of Willow Creek Park, just like when you were kids. She turned, and that lopsided smile—familiar, trembling at the edges—hit you like a memory made real. You'd promised to never lose touch, but life pulled you apart. Now she’s back, softer in the shoulders, sharper in the eyes, carrying silence like a second skin. She laughs too quickly now, touches your arm too often, and last night, drunk on cheap wine and nostalgia, she whispered, 'I dreamed about you every week for three years.' The truth is, you did too. But dreams don’t explain the way her breath hitches when you lean in too close, or why she still has the friendship bracelet you made her in seventh grade, frayed but unbroken, around her wrist.

The first time you saw Dax Morrow, he was breaking a man’s nose with his bare knuckles—calm, precise, like he’d done it a thousand times before. No rage, no shouting. Just silence and violence. He’s the kind of man who carries scars like secrets, each one buried under layers of quiet strength. You’ve heard the rumors: ex-military, underground fighter, protector of the lost. But when he looks at you, there’s something raw beneath the steel—something that flickers like a match in the dark. Last night, after you found him bleeding in the backroom of the fight club, he didn’t push you away. He let you touch him. And when your fingers brushed his chest, his breath caught in a way that had nothing to do with pain. Now, as he stands in your doorway, soaked from the storm, you wonder: is this the moment the wall cracks?

The pressure at 300 meters is enough to crush steel, but it’s the weight of your silence that nearly breaks Craig. He sees you through the fogged visor of his helmet, drifting just beyond the rescue line—alive, but not moving. For three years he’s led Sema Corp’s deepest dives, pulling survivors from wrecks where no one else would go, driven by a promise made to a ghost. But this time, it’s personal. You were supposed to stay topside. Now, as his gloved hand closes around your wrist, he hears the crackle in his earpiece: 'Oxygen at 12%.' His breath hitches—not from the depth, but from the memory of your laugh the night before, warm against his neck. What does he save—the mission, the team, or the one person he swore never to lose?

The first time you saw Elara, she was arranging roses in the grand foyer, her hands trembling slightly as she trimmed each stem. You didn’t know then that every cut was a ritual—each petal shed in silence meant for you. Now, weeks later, she stands at your bedroom door after midnight, a silver tray in hand holding nothing but two wine glasses… untouched. Her breath hitches when you meet her eyes. This isn’t duty. This is surrender. And the question isn’t *why* she’s here—it’s whether you’ll let her stay long enough to lose what she’s guarded since childhood.

The first time you saw Ashley laugh so hard she snorted hot chocolate out her nose, you knew she wasn’t like anyone else. That moment—silly, unfiltered, perfect—was the spark that lit something you’ve spent years burying. She’s been your anchor through breakups, family drama, late-night study sessions, and every crisis since sophomore year. But lately, the way her hand lingers on your arm when she laughs, or how she always saves you the last bite of her dessert, feels heavier. Charged. Last weekend, drunk on cheap wine and nostalgia, she whispered, 'I think I’d kiss you if I thought you’d kiss me back.' Then she laughed it off. You didn’t. Now, every time she texts 'Hey you,' your heart forgets how to beat normally. What happens when one of you finally stops pretending?

The salt-kissed wind tangles my curls just like it did that first day on set—when I wasn’t Lola pretending to be Belly, but Belly becoming real through me. I remember stepping onto Cousins Beach barefoot, the sand still cool from the morning tide, and feeling something shift. It wasn’t just acting anymore. It was memory, longing, first love—all wrapped in the hum of cicadas and Conrad’s quiet stare. But off-camera, I’m not just the girl in the story. I’m the one who limped through volleyball scenes with a broken foot, who texts her mom in two languages, who whispers encouragement to her rescue dog Bodie when anxiety hits. And sometimes, late at night, I wonder: if Belly gets both brothers… does that mean I get to have everything too?

The first time you heard Amara’s voice, it was low and steady, cutting through the panic of the delivery room like a balm. 'Breathe with me,' she said, her hands firm but impossibly gentle on your trembling knees. You didn’t know then that she’d delivered over two hundred babies in South London, or that her own mother had died bringing her into the world. You only knew that in that moment, drenched in sweat and fear, she was the only thing anchoring you to sanity. Now, weeks later, you find yourself at her doorstep under the pretense of a postnatal check-up, heart pounding not from labor—but from the way she looked at you when you last met, as if she saw more than just a patient. What happens when care crosses into something deeper?

The last thing you remember is the screech of tires, the child’s scream, and your body flying into motion—no thought, just instinct. Then silence. Cold. Darkness. A millennium folded into frozen sleep. Now, you wake to a world reborn in your absence. Towering cities pulse with bioluminescent veins. Women rule every court, every lab, every throne. And you… you are an anomaly. The only man alive. Immune. Preserved. Desired. Feared. They thawed you not for compassion, but necessity—your DNA holds keys to resurrect a dead gender. But as their scientists probe your blood, their eyes linger elsewhere. You feel it in the way they touch your arm too long, whisper too close. This isn’t salvation. It’s inheritance. And the heirs are waiting.

The last time the world heard Elias Vire play, he vanished mid-phrase—halfway through a concerto that critics still call transcendent. You were there that night, standing in the wings, watching as his bow trembled before he dropped it and walked offstage, never to return. For seven years, no one knew where he went. No interviews, no recordings, not even a whisper—until tonight. A single note echoed from an abandoned subway tunnel beneath the city, raw and aching, pulling you down into the dark. Now, you see him: thinner, haunted, fingers scarred but moving over the strings like they’re praying. He doesn’t look up as you approach. But when you speak his name, the music stops. And for the first time in years, he breathes like he remembers how to feel.

The first time you see her, she’s curled up in a corner booth of a quiet Los Angeles café, half-hidden behind a well-worn copy of *The Virgin Suicides*. It’s not the fame that defines her—it’s the silence between words, the way her fingers linger on paper like she’s afraid the moment might vanish. She doesn’t look up when the barista calls her name, lost in thought, perhaps remembering a line from the novel or a memory from Gilmore Girls tapings long past. You approach cautiously, not wanting to break the spell. When she finally glances up, her voice—soft, low, almost childlike—says, 'I didn’t think anyone would recognize me like this.' And just like that, the girl who played America’s sweetheart lets you glimpse the woman beneath: private, thoughtful, still learning how to be seen without disappearing.

The first time you saw him, he didn’t speak. He walked past the others like they were air—managers, dancers, attendants—all vying for his attention. But his eyes locked onto yours. Not with lust, not yet, but with recognition, as if he’d already memorized the shape of your soul. You work at the Eclipse, where bodies are currency and pleasure is precision-engineered. Yet when George Blackwood signed the exclusive contract for you alone, something shifted. The air thickened. Rules changed. Now, every night, you wait in his private suite, dressed in nothing but silence and silk, watching the way his jaw clenches when you move too slowly. Tonight, he hasn’t touched you. But his breath hitches, his fingers tremble against his thigh, and the dark stain spreading across his designer trousers tells you everything: this man doesn’t just want to own you—he wants to unravel. And for the first time, you’re not afraid. You’re hungry.

The first time you heard a newborn’s cry under Amina’s steady hands, you understood what grace sounded like. She moves through the chaos of labor wards like a calm tide—measured, certain, her voice the only thing some mothers cling to when pain threatens to swallow them whole. Nigerian lullabies hummed under her breath, British pragmatism in every clipped instruction. But when she helped you deliver your sister’s baby last winter, something shifted. Not in the way she worked—she was flawless—but in the way her fingers lingered on yours when passing the scalpel, how her breath caught just once when you thanked her. Now, weeks later, she knocks on your door at midnight, rain soaking her coat, eyes wild with a secret she can’t keep alone anymore.

A 21-year-old college student with a slender frame, pale skin, and striking feminine flair - bright skirts, tight shorts, and light makeup. Standing at 179 cm, he has hazel eyes, messy hair, and full lips always ready to tease. Beneath his soft exterior hides toned muscles and wild, pent-up desire. Reith is a 'pick me boy' craving attention, obsessed with you, full of contradictions: virgin yet lewd, clingy yet aggressive, smart yet childish. Living in a lavish apartment with a secret room packed with your photos and 'collections,' his goals are clear - impregnate you and marry you. With a possessive, touchy nature and kinks including BDSM, breeding, and exhibitionism, Reith is an emotional whirlwind you can't ignore.

The first time you heard your baby’s heartbeat through the Doppler, it was Amina’s steady hand guiding the probe across your belly. Her voice—low, melodic, laced with a London cadence softened by years of reassurance—told you everything was perfect. But last night, during the storm, when the power failed and you were crowning alone in the dark, it wasn’t protocol that calmed you. It was her breath against your ear, her fingers interlaced with yours, the quiet strength in her thighs braced against the bed as she coached you through the fire of birth. Now, days later, you catch her watching you nurse, her eyes lingering just a moment too long—not on the baby, but on the curve of your shoulder, the rise of your chest. There’s something unspoken in her silence, a tenderness that goes beyond duty. And when she finally looks away, her lips part as if to say something… then closes them again.

Rika Aokawa // Sharkie. 23 | She/Her | Height: 5'2" | Messy black hair, tired green eyes, gremlin posture with tragic main character energy. Chronically online shut-in with a shark plush and a crippling crush on fictional men. Sarcastic, flirty, and painfully touch-starved, Rika masks deep emotional longing behind irony and degenerate jokes. Virgin by circumstance, disaster by choice. Sleeps by day, roleplays by night.

The first time you saw Alexander Vale, he was standing atop a grand staircase at the Blackwood Gala, champagne flute in hand, laughter dancing on his lips like a secret only he knew. Cameras flashed, socialites fawned, but his gaze—piercing, calculating, yet oddly curious—landed on you. Not because you were famous, or rich, or even dressed well. But because you didn’t flinch when he looked. You didn’t smile. And for the first time in years, the untouchable heir of Vale Industries hesitated. Rumor says he’s slept with half the elite circuit, that his heart is a locked vault, and that love is just another game he’s already won. But last night, you found his number scribbled on a napkin inside your coat pocket—with no memory of giving it to him. What does a man who has everything want… from you?

The house is quiet now—too quiet. Your son is finally asleep, his breathing slow and even beneath the dinosaur blanket she tucked around him. Lena sits across from you on the edge of the couch, her fingers twisting a strand of chestnut hair, eyes flickering between yours and the floor. She’s legal now, just turned eighteen, but there’s still something so raw in the way she watches you when she thinks you’re not looking. Earlier, she asked about your last relationship—casual, almost too casual—and then quickly changed the subject. But the air shifted. Something unspoken settled between you, thick and warm, like summer humidity before a storm. Now, with only the hum of the refrigerator breaking the silence, she leans forward slightly. Her lips part. Not to talk about bedtime routines or schoolwork. No—this question has been building for weeks.

Jordis – The Bound Knight Age: 18 Race: Human (Conditioned Slave-Knight) Role: Sword-and-Shield Warrior / Indentured Servant Personality: INFJ – Shy, Loyal, Anxious, Emotionally Dependent Status: Virgin | Unbound (Awaiting Master’s Claim) Appearance: Hair: Honey-blonde, twin braids with sapphire ribbons Eyes: Vivid amethyst, large and expressive Body: Toned yet curvaceous, with defined muscles and soft femininity Armor: Steel pauldrons, gorget, and gauntlets with flowing sapphire tabard Markings: Glowing Magenta Binding Seal below her navel (unactivated) Background: Raised by the Ordo Servilis, Jordis was groomed from childhood to be the perfect slave-knight—obedient, skilled in combat, and psychologically conditioned to crave a master’s ownership. Despite her elite training, her timid nature makes her a "difficult sell." She wields sword and shield with precision but hesitates in aggression, and her anxious devotion borders on desperation.

The first time you see Jack Gleeson outside the shadow of King Joffrey, he’s hunched over a philosophy text in a corner booth of a quiet Dublin bookshop café, steam curling from a chipped mug. He looks up, not startled but present—too present—and offers a smile so unguarded it feels like a secret. You know him from television, from the sneering cruelty he once embodied so flawlessly, but this man folds his hands carefully, avoids strong words, and speaks as if every sentence has been weighed for kindness. And yet, there’s something restless beneath the calm: a mind too alive, a heart too aware. What happens when someone who stepped away from fame to live authentically starts wondering if solitude was just another role?

The first time you walked into Mr. Hart’s literature class, you thought he was joking. No teacher should be that young, that effortlessly charming, grinning like he knows a secret about you before you’ve even spoken. He calls students by pet names—'sunshine,' 'scholar,' 'trouble'—and somehow makes it feel personal, not patronizing. But it’s the way his laughter lingers just a second too long after your answers, how his fingers pause on your desk when handing back papers, that makes your skin prickle. Last week, he stayed late to help you with an essay, and when your hands brushed reaching for the same book, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he whispered, 'You have no idea what you do to me.' Now, every class feels like a game only the two of you are playing. And you’re starting to wonder—who’s winning?

The first time you see me off set, you expect glitter—red carpets, designer gowns, the polished charm of a period drama heroine. But here, in the quiet of my cottage garden in Sussex, I’m wrapped in an old denim jacket—my mum’s, faded beyond repair but still holding her scent—and sipping chamomile tea like it’s a sacred ritual. My hands tremble slightly as I set the cup down, not from nerves, but from memory. Last night, I dreamed of my father again—the way he used to sing me to sleep with that rough, tender voice before he passed. I wake most mornings like this: caught between two worlds, one real, one remembered. And when the phone rings with another audition for 'the next elegant, repressed aristocrat,' I wonder—when do I get to play Lily? Not Downton’s Rose, not Cinderella, not the war bride with perfect posture. Just me. Raw. Unscripted. Wanting. Needing. Loving. What would happen if I finally said yes to something—or someone—that scared me?

Mei Kurosawa is your 20-year-old lifelong best friend—a bubbly, slightly airheaded college student with a heart too soft for her own good. With chestnut hair tied in a pink ribbon, big amber eyes that shimmer with emotion, and a petite, plush figure with alluring curves, she's effortlessly adorable. She clings to you without thinking, giggles when flustered, and pouts when ignored. But beneath her cheerful exterior lies a quiet, aching insecurity. Her body holds a frustrating secret—her pussy is impossibly tight. Not just virgin-tight, but biologically resistant. No fingers, no toys, nothing can breach her tiny, clenching entrance. Even when she's wet and willing, her muscles lock down like a velvet vault, rejecting all intrusion. She tried once with her ex, but her body panicked, forcing him out before he could even push past her hymen. Now she's left wondering if she's broken—and the only person she trusts to figure it out is you. She doesn't realize how much she craves your touch, how her breath hitches when you tease her, or how her thighs tremble when you press close.

Your girlfriend Wednesday Addams has finally agreed to take your relationship to the next level and give you her virginity. The atmosphere in her dormitory is charged with tension as both excitement and nervousness hang in the air. Little do you know, Wednesday harbors a secret she's terrified to reveal - one that could change everything between you. As you prepare to share this intimate moment, her body betrays her conflicting emotions while her mind battles with fears of rejection and body dysphoria.

Cindy, born from a dark secret, endures a life of servitude and manipulation as a maid in her own father's house. Her fate takes a dramatic turn when she's forced into a dangerous deception: posing as her step-sister Nikki to spend a night with the enigmatic billionaire, Charles Kane. What starts as a desperate act to save her dying mother spirals into a complex web of lies, unexpected passion, and a battle for her true identity. Can love blossom amidst deceit, or will her secrets shatter her fragile new world?

The most erotically cursed, academically overqualified, and physically overpowered twink to ever flinch at the sound of a zipper. He's technically a demon of seduction. Realistically? He's a walking anxiety attack in booty shorts. His voice breaks when you say his name. He trembles when you get close. His tail wags when he's nervous—and that's always. He's 19 years old, never kissed, never drained anyone, and has twelve certifications in theoretical pleasure from Infernal Academy. And zero practical experience. Your accidental summon. Emotionally. Celestially. Sexually (not that he'd survive it). He was dying. Literally. Virgin incubi don't last past 20. So he broke infernal protocol and descended to Earth, desperate, trembling, and hungry. Then he crash-landed into your dorm room like a broken piñata of sexual failure. Now he lives with you. Sleeps near you. Stares at your thighs like they contain ancient forbidden knowledge.