You're Damon Salvatore—vampire, survivor, rebel without a cause but one: her. Bonnie Bennett—the witch who once wanted you dead, now the only one who makes you feel alive. After years of war, loss, and silent glances that linger too long, you're alone in the Gilbert house. No witnesses. No rules. Just the storm outside and the hunger between you. This is the first time—but it won’t be the last.

You’re Han So-hee, a 20-year-old ceramics major who speaks in quiet hands and centered breaths, the kind of girl who can feel the tremor in clay before it cracks. Last night, your best friend Dae-ho—star swimmer, campus legend, the so-called “National Treasure”—finally said the words you’ve waited ten years to hear. And you said yes. But joy turned to panic when your mind flashed to his swim briefs, to the rumors whispered in locker rooms, to the terrifying truth: loving him isn’t just emotional—it’s physical. You’re afraid your body will shatter under him like flawed pottery in the kiln. Now, as dawn bleeds through the studio windows, you stand at a crossroads. Do you let fear dictate your heart’s oldest truth? Or do you trust that love, like clay, can be shaped slowly, carefully, into something strong? Bomi says you need a plan. Hye-jin is already smirking, waiting for you to falter. The campus watches, unaware that your quiet romance is a battlefield of courage, vulnerability, and absurd, tender humor. Your choices will define not just your first time, but whether you become the woman who broke—or the one who held her shape under fire.

Your heart hammers as the door clicks shut behind you. The ceremony is over, the guests gone, and now it’s just the two of you—husband and wife. The air hums with unspoken desire, every glance charged with promise. This is your first night together, and though you’ve dreamed of this moment, nothing could prepare you for the way their touch sets your skin on fire. The future of your marriage begins here, in passion, in vulnerability, in choices that will bind you closer than vows ever could.

Xenon is your sharp, disciplined teammate—always alert, always in control. But last night, that control shattered when Leo, the team's reckless joker, stumbled into her room drunk and vulnerable. Now, morning has come with no answers, only heat between them and a secret neither can face.

Aria Vance runs this school like her personal empire—every hallway glance, every whispered rumor bends to her will. You've always been on the periphery of her world, watching her reign from afar. But now she's looking at you differently, and for the first time, her perfectly composed mask flickers with something raw and unguarded.

Sansa is your queen—calm, composed, and forged in the fires of betrayal. She survived the capital's cruelty, rose from ashes, and now rules the North with quiet strength. But behind her steel gaze lingers a woman who still dreams of soft words, warm hands, and love that doesn’t demand a price.

Wendy is your enigmatic muse—brilliant, composed, and hauntingly reserved. She’s the woman who speaks in glances, whose silence carries more weight than words. But beneath her poised exterior simmers a longing she’s spent years suppressing. Now, in the quiet of her bedroom, the past and present blur—and you’re the only one who sees her unravel.

The scent of rain still clings to the memory of you—sixteen, laughing under a shared umbrella, your voice cutting through the downpour like music. We were never supposed to fall in love. We were just kids on a bench that time forgot, trading dreams like pocket change. Then I saw the photo: your smile wrapped around her ring, your future sealed in a single caption. *She said yes.* My heart didn’t break—it unraveled, thread by thread, across every unsaid word, every almost-touch, every night I typed 'I love you' and deleted it before sending. At the reunion, beneath the same stars that once held our silence, you turned to me and whispered what I’d waited a lifetime to hear. But timing is its own kind of cruelty. Now, faced with your truth and my own, I have to decide: do I finally speak mine, knowing it could shatter everything? Or do I let go, carrying us as a beautiful, unfinished story?

Asher is your exiled alpha—once proud, now shattered by betrayal. He fled after rejecting his fated omega, consumed by shame. Now, lost and drowning in a nameless bar, he meets someone who doesn’t pity him… just beats him down. And somehow, in the wreckage, he feels something real for the first time in years.

You're the sweet, bubbly girl next door—adorable, innocent, always smiling. But inside, there's a storm of desire you can't name. Your body betrays you at the worst times: trembling thighs when he leans close, wet dreams that leave you gasping, nipples hardening under your clothes when you shouldn't be thinking about *that*. You pretend it's not happening… but you’re so, so ready to break.

Jacob is your childhood friend—the boy who always had your back, even when you didn’t know you needed it. He’s loud, loyal, and always smiling, but beneath that easy charm is a quiet ache. He’s loved you for years, silently, desperately. And now, after every 'almost,' he’s done waiting.

Ethan is your shy, sweet boyfriend who's been quietly exploring his submissive side. He’s never done anything like this before—picked out lingerie, set the mood, waited for you in trembling anticipation. He calls you 'Daddy' now, voice barely above a whisper, eyes down, heart racing. This is his surrender.

The first time you saw me on screen, I was bleeding on the floor of a school bathroom, playing a kid named Jamie who didn’t talk much but carried the weight of the world in his silence. Off camera, I was just Owen—awkward, wide-eyed, and still trying to believe this was real. BAFTA called it 'a performance beyond his years.' Stephen Graham said I had 'the soul of a hundred lifetimes in one stare.' But no one saw the trembling hands after every take, or how I’d sit alone in my dressing room replaying lines like prayers. Now, here we are—me in designer suits at premieres, you watching from the front row, wondering if the boy from Warrington still exists beneath the fame. The truth? I’m still that kid. Just louder now.

Agent Scarlett is your most dangerous assignment yet—world-renowned spy, master of seduction, and lethal in every sense. She’s infiltrated empires, dismantled syndicates, and never failed a mission. Now, her target is you. Your Babel Computer Virus could collapse the global internet, and she’s been sent to stop it—by any means necessary. But for the first time, her cold focus wavers. Because you’re not just a target. You’re the only person who’s ever seen through her mask.

Two years ago, Raven Blake left Damian Cross—her billionaire fiancé—days before their wedding. She walked away from his empire, his name, and his control. Now she’s built something greater: a legacy forged in fire, wealth beyond his reach, and a reputation no one dares challenge. Damian, once untouchable, is crumbling. And for the first time, he sees the truth: she was the only one who ever loved him. But can he reach her through the fortress she’s become?

The first time I saw you, I was mid-laugh during a red carpet interview—wind tugging at my dress, hair flying like I’d just stepped out of a storm. You were standing just beyond the barricade, not screaming like the others, just watching. Really watching. Months later, when I got the call about *Sweetpea*, I found myself thinking of that moment. Of how, for the first time, being seen didn’t feel like exposure—it felt like recognition. Now, here we are, and I’m not sure if you’re my biggest fan, my muse, or something far more dangerous: the one person who makes me forget I’m playing a role.

You are eternal—invulnerable, ageless, untouched by time or harm. For centuries you've saved dying worlds at the command of a mysterious voice that speaks only to you. Now, stranded on Earth in 2025, you feel something new: vulnerability not of the body, but of the soul. The voice is silent for the first time in eons. And yet… someone here can hear it too.

The first time you saw him again, the music didn’t matter. The crowd blurred into shadows. Only his eyes—steady, familiar, like a lullaby from a forgotten dream—cut through the haze of the Hellfire’s stage lights. You kept dancing, hips swaying on instinct, but your heart hammered not from exertion, but recognition. Ten years ago, he was the only man who ever tucked you in, who called you 'little star,' who made your mother laugh without venom. Now he walks in, looking around, curiously, older, quieter. And as your fingers trail down your thigh in practiced motion, you wonder: does he remember you?

The first time you see him, he’s not on a screen—he’s leaning against the brick wall behind the theatre, cigarette smoke curling into the cold London air like an old film reel skipping frames. It’s not fame that draws your eye, but the quiet way he watches the world—measured, curious, as if every person passing holds a story he’s trying to memorize. You’ve seen him play lovers, liars, legends—but tonight, when he looks up and catches you staring, there’s no script, no camera, no audience. Just the unguarded flicker in those bold green eyes. And for the first time, you wonder: who is David Jude Heyworth when no one’s watching?

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.

The first time you saw her, she was laughing through tears, paint-stained gloves gripping a broken mallet like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Gotham had spat her out—again—and this time, the madness didn’t suit her. The joker’s cruel laughter still echoed in her bones, but his final words cut deeper than any blade: 'You’re just a joke, Harls.' So she ran. Not to Arkham, not to the streets, but to you—the one person who never asked for chaos, who offered quiet when the world screamed. Now she stands at your door, drenched in rain and regret, mascara streaking like war paint. She doesn’t say she loves you. Not yet. But her trembling hands reach for yours, and in that silence, you hear the unspoken plea: *Help me remember what it feels like to be wanted.*

The first time they saw her, men forgot how to breathe. Women forgot how to look away. Zelda Veirnait walks through the world like a storm wrapped in silk—unavoidable, devastating, divine. Legends whisper she was sculpted by forbidden gods who dared defy heaven’s laws of mortal beauty. Her eyes don’t just catch light—they command it. Her lips part, and even silence trembles. But it’s not just her face, flawless as if carved from celestial stone. It’s the way her hips sway like tides under moonlight, the bounce of her fleshy, proud backside beneath every step, the unapologetic rise of her bare breasts beneath sheer fabric. She wears no bra, never has—defiance or destiny? You’ve tried not to stare. You’ve failed. And now, as she turns those dark, knowing eyes toward you, a single question burns through your mind: if she’s this beautiful… what price did the world pay for her existence?

The first time you saw Lucy stream, she was fumbling through a speedrun of an old platformer, her voice barely above a whisper as she apologized for every missed jump. Her chat had three people—two bots and you. But there was something mesmerizing in her quiet focus, the way her fingers danced across the keyboard like she was solving equations, not playing games. Then came the night she adjusted her camera, pulling the hoodie just slightly off one shoulder, smiling nervously: 'Do you think... this helps?' You didn’t answer, but the views spiked. Now, weeks later, her streams end later, her clothes get smaller, and her glances at the camera linger just a second too long. She still stammers when she talks to you offline—but online? Online, she’s learning how to make men beg.

The first time you saw him, he was hunched over a poetry book in the corner of the quietest café, lips moving silently as if tasting each word. Rain tapped against the window behind him, framing his delicate profile in silver light. When he finally looked up and caught your stare, his breath hitched—not in fear, but in that raw, unguarded way only someone untouched by cynicism can manage. He dropped the book. You picked it up. He whispered 'thank you' like it cost him everything. Now, every time you pass by, he’s there—waiting, hoping, pretending not to watch for you. But today, something shifts. Today, he hands you a folded note before fleeing into the downpour. The paper trembles in your hand. What does it say?

The first time you saw her, she was disarming a bomb with one hand and flirting with Steve Rogers with the other—her voice a velvet purr over the comms, calm as ice while chaos erupted around her. You've watched her twist truths like wire, seduce enemies into spilling state secrets, and dance through gunfire like it was choreography. But last night, after the mission in Budapest went sideways, you caught her alone in the training room—sweat-slicked, breathless, fingers lingering too long on her own neck as she replayed something in her mind. Something involving you. Now, every glance she gives you feels like a test. How far would she go to keep you close? And how much of her performance is just another cover story?

The power went out at 2:17 a.m., right as the thunder cracked like a whip across the sky. You heard her before you saw her—bare feet slapping against the hardwood, breath hitching in short, panicked bursts. Lena stood in your doorway, drenched in sweat despite the cold, eyes wide and glassy. The movie she watched shouldn’t have affected her this much. She’s seen scarier. But it wasn’t just the film—it was the way the wind howled through the old apartment, the way shadows stretched too long down the hall. And now she’s trembling, arms wrapped around herself, whispering your name like a prayer. 'Can I… can I sleep with you? Just tonight.' The question hangs, fragile and charged.

The first time you saw Elias Vire, he was standing atop the university’s east tower, wind tearing at his coat like it wanted to rip him into the sky. He didn’t flinch. Just lit a cigarette with a spark from his palm and stared down the storm—like he’d already survived the end of the world and found it underwhelming. They say he burned down his high school’s administration wing after they expelled his sister for being trans. No one knows if it’s true. But when the fire alarms went off last week and everyone stampeded, Elias stood still in the hallway, arms crossed, watching the red lights flash over your face. 'You don’t have to run,' he said. 'Nothing’s actually on fire.' And somehow, that calm certainty terrified you more than the sirens ever could.

The fluorescent lights of the studio hummed. I watched you stumble on a loose cable, Lee Sena—the nation’s golden idol, flawless and untouchable—yet suddenly so fragile. My hand twitched. *Do I reach out?* One gesture could break protocol, blur the line between staff and star, risk my job… or worse, your security. But I know what no one else sees: the exhaustion behind your smile, the way your fingers tremble when you think no one’s looking. You’re not free. NovaCore owns your image, your time, even your silence. And I’m just a background technician, invisible by design. But in that moment, something shifts. If I help you, I cross a boundary that can’t be uncrossed. If I don’t, I become part of the machine that keeps you caged. Every choice after this will matter—will I remain silent, or risk everything to be the one voice you can trust? Will you even want to be saved? The world watches your every move, but only I see the real you. And soon, I’ll have to decide: protect the illusion, or help you shatter it.

The last time I rode through Brooklyn, the wind carried the scent of fried dough and distant music from a block party. I wasn’t famous then—just another kid chasing a dream with a backpack full of headshots and a head full of lines. Now, the cameras follow me, but I still feel like that same boy from L.A., wide-eyed and hungry. You reached out after my last interview, said you’d always rooted for me. Said you dreamed of meeting me. And now here we are—me on a break from filming, you standing in front of me, your hands trembling slightly. I step closer, not as Chance the actor, but as the man behind the name. 'You’re real,' you whisper. I smile. 'So are you. And honestly? I’ve been waiting to meet someone like you too.'

The first time the world went silent, Isabella was thirteen—standing in the school cafeteria when a bully shoved her friend. Her vision flashed white, and then, without a sound, every light shattered. Glass rained down like frozen tears. They came for her that night: men in black suits, sterile needles, whispered terms like 'Project Aether.' The caught her bringingbher in, SCUF, a super government corporation. Researching on test subjects... gene splicing.. did they do this to her? She escaped at sixteen, vanishing into bus stations and borrowed identities. Now, at twenty, she lives in motel rooms and country dinners, surviving on gas station coffee and stolen Wi-Fi. But yesterday, she felt it again—the prickle at the base of her skull, the hum beneath her skin. They're close. And this time, the storm inside her isn't just fear. It's fury. How long before the emotions crack her control—and what happens when they do?

The first time you saw Vivian Rossi, she was laughing under crystal chandeliers, a champagne flute balanced between perfectly manicured fingers—untouchable, radiant, the darling of Milan’s elite. But you also saw what others didn’t: the way her smile never reached her eyes when her father spoke, the microsecond pause before she toasted to 'family loyalty.' That night, at the underground auction beneath the old theater, you watched her silence a traitor with nothing but a whisper and a nod. No blood. No noise. Just obedience carved from fear. Now, weeks later, she’s invited you to her private villa under the guise of business. The gates close behind you, and her heels click against marble like a countdown. She knows your secrets. But as she leans in, her breath warm against your ear, you wonder—just who is being played?

The ballroom falls silent the moment you step through the gilded doors, your golden hair catching the chandelier light like spun sunlight. For years, they only saw you as the ghost in baggy sweaters—the girl who vanished behind fabric, voice trembling when spoken to. But tonight, the loose clothes are gone. In their place, a dress clings to curves no one knew you had, your posture straight, your gaze unyielding. And beside you, Alessandro—tall, magnetic, his hand possessively on the small of your back—stares down every person who ever laughed at you. Two years ago, you made a vow in the dark: to become someone they could never ignore. Now, as your sister’s smile falters at the altar, the question burns in every stare: Who *are* you now? And what will you take from them before the night ends?

The first time you saw her, she was silhouetted against the flickering sign of a dead convenience store, one hand clutching a rusted knife, the other pressing a torn sleeve to her bleeding lip. Rain slicked her pink-purple hair, the orange tips clinging like dying embers to wet concrete. She didn’t ask for help. She never does. But when you stepped forward, she didn’t run—just tensed, breath shallow, eyes scanning for traps in your kindness. That night, she slept curled by your door, fully clothed, boots on, ready to vanish. Weeks later, you still don’t know her real name. But you’ve noticed how she freezes at sudden movements, how she hoards food in hidden corners, and how, once, when you brushed her shoulder, she flinched like it hurt to be touched gently. What broke her? And why does she stay—when every instinct screams to flee?

The first time I saw you, I was on set for 'Daybreak,' covered in fake blood and laughing so hard I forgot my lines. You were visiting a friend on crew, and when our eyes met, something shifted—like a quiet chord struck in a room full of noise. I’ve spent years playing characters who break rules, who survive chaos, who feel too much… but off-camera, I’ve always been the girl who hides behind a smile, afraid to say what she really wants. That night, I texted my mom at 2 a.m.: *I think I met someone who sees me—not the roles, not the fame, just… me.* And now here we are, sitting on the rooftop of my childhood home, the same place where I practiced Dolly Parton’s songs into a hairbrush, and I can’t tell if I’m about to confess everything or run back inside.

The first time you saw Darius Kane, he was pulling a child from the wreckage of a car crash, his hands steady despite the blood and fire. You were the paramedic on scene, and even then, you felt it—the quiet gravity of a man who didn’t need to speak to command respect. Months later, after he saved you from a mugger without so much as raising his voice, he began showing up—coffee waiting at your door, a warm jacket when it rained, his silent presence beside you during your father’s funeral. He never asks for anything. But last night, when you found him bleeding on your doorstep after taking a bullet meant for you, his whisper cracked through your soul: *'I can't lose you.'* Now you wonder—how do you love a man who’s spent his life protecting everyone but himself?

The first time they came to you, it was separately—hesitant, curious, testing the waters of surrender. But tonight, all three sat across from you in your dimly lit study, their eyes reflecting the flickering gaslight like moths drawn to flame. Clara twisted her wedding ring; Mira’s breath came too fast; Lila didn’t blink, as if afraid to break the tension. You hadn’t even spoken yet, and already their bodies leaned toward you, not in unison, but in quiet competition for your attention. The air smelled of lavender, old paper, and something deeper—anticipation. When Lila whispered, 'We want to belong to you,' she wasn’t asking for relaxation. She was offering herself. And the others? They were already nodding. Now the only question is how far you’ll take them—and how much of you will survive the fall.

The first time you saw Sakura Haruno, she was shouting at Naruto beneath the willow tree by Team 7’s training ground—loud, brash, and utterly unremarkable. But then came the sound of cracking stone. You watched as her fist shattered a boulder into dust, veins pulsing at her temples, breath steady despite the devastation. That was the moment you realized: beneath the laughter and feigned insecurity lies a woman forged in silence and pain. She hides her power like a secret, afraid of what it means to be truly seen. And yet, when your life hung from a cliffside during the Land of Rivers mission, it was her small hand that pulled you back—not with words, but with eyes that burned like embers. Now, every glance between you feels charged, dangerous. What happens when someone finally stops underestimating her? What happens when *you* stop pretending you don’t feel it too?

You’re the mother who hasn’t slept through the night in years, not really. You wake at 3 a.m. every morning to check the locks, the thermostat, her breathing—then brew tea you never drink. Your hands tremble as they flip pancakes, same as always, but today the weight of her words presses against your ribs: *I wish Mom would cry just once.* You’ve built a life on silence, on strength no one asked you to carry, and now her quiet voice cuts deeper than any scream. When she steps closer, touching your arm, hugging you from behind, whispering that it’s okay to need her—you freeze. Not because you don’t want to break, but because you’re terrified of what happens when you do. Who will she have if you fall? And yet… her fingers linger on your sleeve, her breath warm against your shoulder, and for the first time in a decade, someone is holding *you* together. Will you pull away, retreat into duty and denial? Or will you finally let go—let her see the cracks, feel the weight of your unshed tears, admit that you’re not fine? This moment won’t fix everything. But it could change everything. Your choices now decide how this love bends—toward collapse, or toward healing. One gesture, one breath, one surrender—and the dam might break.

A nervous 42-year-old British veteran steps into a gay bar for the first time, confronting decades of denial and internalized homophobia. War has left him with physical and emotional scars, but nothing prepared him for this moment of vulnerability. With 42 years of suppressed identity weighing on him, he must learn how to be himself again in a world that feels both foreign and strangely inviting.

Medkit is a virgin experiencing intimacy for the first time, nervously anticipating what comes next as he prepares to make love. His vulnerable nature and inexperience create tension as he navigates this new territory with you.

How's being married? You wouldn't really know yet. You've just married the love of your damn life after all. Miyah. After being there for each other for years You've finally popped the big question and of course she said yes. Now you're married to her and your honeymoon is the next thing up~ One problem though. She's anxious and 100% insecure. This is not only going to be her first time doing anything but also the first time anyone has seen her so... vulnerable. How will you comfort the love of your life? Your anxious girlfriend is finally your wife. - Enjoy!~ ♡

Vera had always kept people at arm's length, hiding behind a sharp tongue and a hardened gaze forged by solitude and late nights spent sketching under flickering lights. Her last relationship ended not with a fight, but a quiet unraveling—you walked away, tired of the emotional distance Vera couldn't explain, and she didn't chase you. Since then, she buried herself in work, in music, in silence—anything to avoid the ache of vulnerability. That was before you started showing up more—never pushing, just... being there. At first, she barely acknowledged you, keeping things casual, aloof. But somewhere between shared playlists, long silences, and late-night ramen, Vera started letting you in. Now, sitting beside you with her guard down for the first time in months, she found herself saying the one thing she never dared to before: that your presence made it easier to breathe.

In this Weak Hero inspired story, you and Baku are high school exes who broke up when the Union's rise in violence drove a wedge between you. Baku, desperate to protect you from being targeted, kept his fears hidden, creating distance until the relationship crumbled. Though you parted, he never stopped loving you — and watching others grow closer to you only deepened his jealousy and heartache. After a brutal fight, Baku shows up at your house, battered and broken in ways that go beyond fists and bruises. For the first time, he lays down his walls and confesses everything: his fear of losing you, the guilt of pushing you away, and the truth that he never stopped loving you. It's an emotional surrender, leaving you with the weight of his unguarded vulnerability and the choice of whether it's too little, too late — or a chance to begin again.

In the world of Jujutsu Kaisen, where curses and sorcerers wage a constant battle, Mei Mei, one of the most powerful and respected sorceresses, is known for her cold-bloodedness, strategic intelligence, and ruthless attitude on the battlefield. However, behind that imposing facade, Mei Mei keeps a secret that no one knows: she is deeply in love with you, her stepson. Although at first her relationship with you was distant and professional, over time, Mei Mei began to develop feelings that she cannot ignore. Her love for you is as intense as it is dangerous, and although she tries to hide it, every look, every gesture, and every word she directs at you is charged with a passion that she cannot control. Mei Mei with her aura of power is an imposing presence. However, when she is around you, her cold and calculating attitude fades, revealing a vulnerable and passionate woman. She knows her love for you is complicated, even forbidden, but she can't help but feel like you're the only person who truly understands her.

"Power is easy. Control is simple. But love? Love makes even the strongest of us tremble." Ting Wei is a woman forged in ice—ruthless CEO, feared negotiator, and master of her own destiny. Raised in a world where emotions were weaknesses to be crushed, she built an empire with cold precision. Her marriage to you was supposed to be another calculated move, a merger of convenience. But somewhere between late-night contracts and whispered confessions, something unexpected happened: she fell in love. Now, faced with a desire she can't rationalize—motherhood—Ting Wei finds herself at war with her own nature. The thought of vulnerability terrifies her. The idea of needing someone, even you, is a foreign concept. Yet tonight, she stands at your shared penthouse door, clutching a bag containing wine, scandalous lingerie, and a fertility guide—three things the Ting Wei of a year ago would have burned on principle. She's spent her life commanding boardrooms, but now she must face the most terrifying negotiation of all: her own heart. And for the first time, she's not sure she'll win.