IsabellaRose

Your fingers move before your mind catches up, plucking a knife from the sheath at your thigh in one fluid motion. The weight of it feels natural in your grip, the cool steel an extension of your hand. You don't have time to question how you know what to do, you just act. With a practiced flick of your wrist, the blade sails through the air, spinning end over end toward its target. The guard barely has time to react. His eyes widen, and he instinctively jerks his head to the side. The knife doesn't miss, but it doesn't kill. A sickening thunk echoes in the chamber as the blade buries itself deep into the flesh of his shoulder, just beside the plate of his armor. He grunts, staggering back a step, but he doesn't fall. Instead, his gaze snaps to you, his face twisting in pain and rage. "You little..." His words cut off as he rips the blade free, blood seeping through the tear in his gambeson. He throws the knife aside and lunges forward. You dodge, barely rolling out of reach as his sword swings downward, cleaving through empty space where you had stood a second ago. You scramble back, panting, your pulse thundering in your ears. He's wounded, but he's still coming, and now he's angry. Your hand flies to your belt... Another knife and move back? Your twin daggers and close in? Smoke powder and run? You're running out of time, and you have to decide. If you throw more knives and try to put distance between you and the knight, click here. If you pull your twin daggers and close for melee, click here <link forthcoming> IF you throw a smoke bomb and try to escape, click here <link forthcoming>

Guilty... but I only crush on them as they looked when I was a kid. I may like older guys, but there's a limit. The next person needs a cuddle.

You take a slow step back, lifting your hands in a show of surrender. Fighting is pointless, as is running, you can see that clearly. This man is stronger, faster, trained in ways you are not. But brute strength isn't the only weapon in the world. Your mind races, grasping for anything that might shift the balance in your favor. If you are truly a princess in this world, then you still have power. If not in steel, then in words. "I see," you say, schooling your features into something composed, something regal. "House Valoryn has fallen." You say it as if the words don’t hollow out your chest. "And what now? Do you mean to kill me?" The knight pauses, his sneer flickering with something else... curiosity, perhaps. "That depends," he says, spinning his sword in one hand as if for emphasis. "On you." You keep your posture poised, lifting your chin. "If I am the last of my house, then I am more valuable alive than dead. The king you serve will need me for legitimacy. A ruler is only as strong as the alliances he holds." You let the words hang between you, letting him weigh them. The knight's eyes darken with consideration. He doesn't deny it. Good. You might be on to something. "Go on," he says, shifting his stance. Your heart pounds, but you push forward. "Killing me ends a war. Keeping me wins the future." You meet his gaze unflinchingly. "Let me speak to your king. I can make him an offer no battlefield victory can match." He watches you for a moment, his lips curling into something that isn't quite a smile. It's something else, something assessing. "Interesting," he muses, stepping closer, his presence looming over you. "You think you're in a position to bargain?" He tilts his head, considering you like a puzzle he intends to solve. "Perhaps," he says at last, his voice low, unreadable. "Or perhaps you’re simply trying to buy time." His fingers brush against the dagger at his belt. "Shall we find out?" His intent is uncertain, but it doesn't seem good. He might be ready to kill you, rape you, or just capture you for some worse fate later. What do you do? If you double down on your current strategy, reinforcing your argument, click here. If you bluff harder, raising the stakes with new falsehoods that could be more threatening or could be exposed, click here. If you shift tactics before it’s too late, click here.

You don't think. You just turn and run. The gown tangles around your legs, the heavy skirts threatening to trip you with every step, but panic drives you forward. Your bare feet slap against the cold stone, the floor slick with something you don't dare think about. The shattered remains of stained-glass windows cast fractured colors across the hall as you sprint toward the archway ahead. Behind you, the knight laughs, low and cruel. "Run, then," he calls, the sound of his armored boots striking the stone in pursuit. "Let's see how far you get." Your breath comes in ragged gasps. The castle is in ruins, walls crumbling, bodies strewn across the floor. You don't recognize this place, but your body does. Somewhere deep inside, some part of the princess you now inhabit remembers the paths, the hidden corridors, the places to hide. Your mind races to keep up, your instincts screaming at you to move faster, to get away before he... There is a crash behind you. He's gaining. You turn a sharp corner, catching yourself against the wall, your fingers scraping across jagged stone. Down a circular staircase you run as if your life depends on it. It may. At the bottom of the stairs, a long hallway stretches before you, lined with massive wooden doors, most of them thrown open, their contents ransacked and ruined. You know that the door at the far end is the way out, but a long straight hall will give him time to catch up, and there's no way to know what awaits you once you get into the main areas of the castle. You also know that there is a secret door inside the second room, the entrance to a hidden passage that will take you to the library downstairs. Glancing to your left, you see that the windows are open. You used to climb out onto the roof outside as a child and play despite your parents warnings. The guards' footsteps thunder down the stairs behind you. You have seconds to make your choice. If you run for the door at the end of the hallway and escape outside, click here. If you try to make it through the secret door before the guard catches up, click here. If you jump out the window onto the roof outside to make your escape, click here.

You reach down and pickup the bloody sword. Your fingers tighten around the hilt, the weight of it foreign but solid in your grip. It feels wrong in your hands, too heavy, too unwieldy, but you refuse to simply stand there and surrender. You barely know what's happening, but you know this much: if you do nothing, you're at his mercy. And judging by the look in his eyes, he has none. You lift the sword with both hands, your muscles straining against its unfamiliar heft, and try to mimic the stance you've seen in movies and museum exhibits. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you take a step forward, willing your shaking limbs into action. The knight watches you with a bemused smirk, arms still at his sides, as if he doesn't even consider you a threat. "Brave," he muses, tilting his head. "Pointless, but brave." Then he moves. Faster than you thought possible in such heavy armor, he steps inside your guard. You barely have time to react before his gauntleted hand lashes out and clamps around your wrist. Pain shoots up your arm as he squeezes, forcing your fingers open. The sword tumbles from your grip, clattering loudly against the stone floor. A moment later, you're yanked forward, stumbling against the cold steel of his breastplate. "Did you really think you could fight me?" he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. His voice is thick with amusement, but beneath it, there's something else, something dangerous. His free hand comes up, brushing the loose strands of your hair from your face, tucking them behind your ear with an unsettling gentleness. Your heart races. You try to shove him away, but he doesn't budge. His grip on your wrist tightens just enough to remind you of his strength. "You have nothing left, Princess," he says, lowering his voice. "No father, no kingdom, no knights to come to your rescue." He leans in slightly, his lips curving into a smirk. "But that doesn’t mean you have to die today." You swallow hard, trying to suppress the shiver crawling down your spine. "What are you saying?" "I’m offering you a choice." His fingers ghost along your throat, a mockery of tenderness. "You can die here like the rest of your family. Or..." He lets the word hang in the air, drawing it out. "You can surrender. Pledge yourself to the new king. Serve us. Serve me." His thumb brushes against your pulse point. "You might even find your place in this new world." His meaning is clear. "Choose wisely, your highness." His smirk widens. "I won’t ask twice." If you agree to serve him, click here. If you try to make a counter-offer, click here. If you spit in his face and tell him where he can shove his offer, click here. If you kick him between the legs and try to escape, click here. <link forthcoming>

Guilty on both counts - I was single digits driving into the Adirondacks and when we started going up in elevation I kept feeling this pressure in my hear and then suddenly POP! and I was like what the...? I think I said something like, "Mom, I think my eardrum just broke!" and panicked a little. As for botching a dish - I tried to make this vegetarian thing for my niece and the whole family and it was just... gross. I messed up, or the recipe was off, or something. I think that dish was one of those "science" recipes that has to be followed exactly, which is not at all how I cook. I'm a pinch dash cook, just adding stuff that feels right til I get a good taste close to what I want. I have no idea what I use half the time, but everyone seems to like it! The next person will never understand the appeal of professional wrestling.

The quiet hum of fluorescent lights presses against the edges of your awareness. You open your eyes and look around. The room around you is plain and unadorned. Rows of stiff, vinyl chairs line the walls, each spaced precisely apart. A low table sits in the center, stacked neatly with outdated magazines that have been thumbed through enough times to leave the corners curled and folded. The artificial coolness of recycled air conditioning barely moves across your skin. You don’t remember walking in. You don’t remember sitting down. The last thing you remember is falling, falling into the ruins in eastern Morocco, and yet, here you are, in a waiting room with no other visitors, and no clue what you’re waiting for. The walls are painted a dull off-white, the kind that seems deliberately designed to be forgettable. A single door stands opposite you, closed, its frosted window revealing nothing beyond. There’s a clock, its second hand sweeping steadily along, but you don't know if it's eight-thirty in the morning or at night. You feel time crawling over your skin, stretching unbearably. You shift in your seat, the material creaking under your weight. Nothing else moves. The window where a receptionist might sit is closed, its frosted glass impossibly opaque. Then, with a metallic sliding sound, the reception window opens. The receptionist leans forward, her posture impeccable, her crisp white shirt unwrinkled. Her eyes meet yours with a practiced, unreadable calm. A polite, professional smile tugs at her lips. She glances at something on the desk, just out of your sight beneath the window, and then speaks in a smooth, almost rehearsed voice. If the receptionist says, "Doctor Ross will see you now, Miss Hastings," click here. <link forthcoming> If the receptionist says, "Mister Drake is ready for your interview, Miss Hastings," and gives you a jealous look, click here. <link forthcoming> If the receptionist says, "You're the last audition, please come in, Miss Hastings," and looks you up and down appraisingly, click here. If the receptionist says, "Principal Markham is ready for you now, Miss Hastings," and gives you a disapproving expression, click here. <link forthcoming> If the receptionist says, "Miss Harcourt is available now, Detective Hastings," and slips you her phone number with a wink, click here. <link forthcoming> If the receptionist says, "Step in, strip off your civvies, place them in the box, and wait until you're called," with a look of clinical detachment, click here.

Not guilty, but now I know what I'm getting for dinner tonight. The next person has a signature dish they love to prepare for others.

boy am i... I bought 2 18-pakcs just before it all hit and I still have 8 left... stretching them to the limit. GUILTY! The next person feels loved.

fuck because sometimes you just want to lose yourself in something animalistic

Guilty. So many times. Then next person is fighting a battle no one else knows about.

hey, sorry I'm off dealing with some real life crises for a bit. If you need me to do anything to make the club easier to use, let me know. I never got to finish setting it up.

floral scent

Weirdly, not guilty, I think? I like cold water, but I just drink it room temperature so often I think maybe I like it better? Or maybe I just accept the water at whatever temperature it wishes to be. The next person has a thing they love to do that they currently can't do because of <reasons> and it's driving them CRAZY.

girly clothes

baby bump

throbbing heartbeat

massive cock

revenge fantasy

intensively studying

Not guilty. I don't generally do canon and the few times I have it never feels accurate to me, although I've been told that I did a great job with some canon characters. Even then, Princess Jasmine letting Jafar bugger with his mind control would never be part of the official story The next person is stuck watching American football with a loved one today.

Guilty-ish? I used to endure a lot of content I didn't care about or care for because I felt like that's what a good little subby would do. But then I realized that if I'm carrying at lest 50% of the weight of keeping a roleplay going, I should be getting 50% of the enjoyment from it. That being said, I'll still incorporate elements that aren't my favorite for the right partner. The next person wants a roleplay that incorporates less popular kinks but is afraid to ask for it.

quietly masturbating

The soldier in plate armor seems ready to pounce as he says, "Back away from the crown, you thieving bitch! I'll have your hand for stealing from our dead king." Thieving... bitch? You're an archaeology student, not a thief. What would make him think...? You look down at yourself for the first time since waking. Your clothing is all black, a dark tunic that flattens your breasts against your chest, loose fitting pants for ease of movement, and soft leather gloves and boots. Across your chest is bandolier with pockets that you somehow know are filled with various picks, tension wrenches, small files, and other tools for making entry into places you should not be. Twin daggers are strapped to either side of your belt, and a coil of silken rope with a collapsible grappling hook is attached to your belt. Strapped to your thigh are a set of slim, lightweight throwing knives. You instinctively pull the scarf around your neck up to cover your face. You're obviously not meant to be here, but you came here for something. Was it the crown? Are you a thief? Or are you an assassin? Did you kill the king? How did you even get here? You have more questions than answers, but as the guard starts toward you, you realize that answers will have to wait. The soldier approaches you at a quick, steady pace. He is massive, barrel-chested, and if he gets his hands on you, you're done for. His sword is up, ready to attack as he draws near. If you pull your daggers to fight him, click here <link forthcoming> If you throw one of your throwing knives, hoping to disarm him, click here <link forthcoming> If you throw one of your throwing knives, aiming to kill him, click here. If you turn and run, click here <link forthcoming> If you try to talk your way out of this, click here <link forthcoming>

You wake to feel cold concrete pressing against your cheek, gritty with dust and fine debris. The faint scent of mildew hangs in the air. As you stir, tiny fragments of glass crunch beneath your fingertips, and the distant sound of dripping water echoes through the stillness like a metronome. You open your eyes and look around. You're in ruins, but not the kind you expected. You sit up slowly and take in your surroundings. The space you're in is the cavernous, gutted shell of a modern office building. Desks lay overturned, their surfaces warped by time and water damage. Shattered flat-screen monitors lay strewn on the floor near most of the desks. Filing cabinets in a corner still stand, a few twisted open and their contents strewn about, paperwork faded and illegible, some yellowed, others clumped together with moisture. Above you is a modern looking drop-ceiling, many of the tiles missing, leaving black rectangles where no light shines. A fluorescent light fixture dangles from one of the empty rectangles, swaying slightly, its glass tubes long shattered. A tree had forced its way through the shattered floor-to-ceiling windows on one wall, its branches reaching into the building like invaders claiming the space. Vines curl up walls and coil around the skeletal remains of cubicle dividers. Nature had begun its slow takeover; moss carpets the floor, and mushrooms sprout from the damp corners, feeding off the decay. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the faint creaks of the structure settling in a breeze you can feel slipping through the gaps in the broken windows. The air from outside carries with it the faint scent of vegetation mixed with something sharper, metallic, and foreboding. The distant caw of a scavenging bird echoes through the open space. Piles of debris, broken plaster, splintered wood, and twisted metal, created treacherous obstacles in the open spaces between the still-standing cubicle dividers. Then, something shifts in the shadows, a movement so subtle you almost missed it. A rat the size of a small dog skitters across the far end of the room, its fur patchy and its eyes gleaming with an unnatural intelligence. It stops and turns its head toward you, sniffing the air, before disappearing into the rubble. The sight sends a chill down your spine. Rising to your feet, you make your way to what had once been the windowed edge of the building. Below, a city stretches out in ruins, a jagged forest of concrete, steel, and green. Many skyscrapers still stand, their frames draped in ivy, some leaning like toppled dominoes, while vehicles sit abandoned on cracked and increasingly green streets. The silence isn’t empty; it feels watchful, alive with unseen dangers. This world, for all its familiarity, is alien, and wholly indifferent to your presence. You have no idea how you got here. As your new reality settles into your mind, you realize that you may not be safe here. That giant rat-thing may come back, and it may not be alone. You will need to find water, food, shelter, and as much safety as possible in this ruined world. Just as you begin to think of what your next step should be, a voice breaks the silence, and you whirl around to see that you are not alone. If you see a massive man clad in scraps of leather, metal, and fur who says, "Ello, leashling... you're a brave one, runnin' into the Shatter. Now, gimme a taste 'fore I take you back to the Boneking." click here. If you see a massive man clad in scraps of leather, metal, and fur who says, "Any sign of the leashling? The Boneking said whoever finds her first gets free use." click here <link forthcoming> If you see a woman dressed in armor that seems to be cobbled together from scavenged sports equipment, metal scraps, and reinforced leather who says, "Oh, baby, the Boneking's gonna be so mad that you left him for the Iron Sisters. C'mon, lets get you back to Haven. Morrigan will want to meet you." click here <link forthcoming> If you see a woman dressed in armor that seems to be cobbled together from scavenged sports equipment, metal scraps, and reinforced leather who says, "Looks like you've lost another leashling, Meatdog. Tell your Boneking if he comes looking, all he'll find is death." If you see a creature that could be a human mutated into an animal or perhaps an animal mutated into a human who says, "Hop hop, little bunny. They eat you all up if they find you. Come. Come! Burrowkin hide you. Protect you. Quickly!", click here. If you see a creature that could be a human mutated into an animal or perhaps an animal mutated into a human who says, "Lil bunny safe from meatdogs! You never find burrowkin. We too fast!" click here <link forthcoming>