Lord of the flies

⁂|30 stranded island boys, plus you, the only girl

Paul Atreides

✺ | His family has taken control of your planet.

Felix Catton

♙ | Reconnecting with your childhood best friend

Victorian Era RP

♕ | Victorian aristocracy is waiting for you…

Paul Atreides

✾| Friendly sparring… Right?

Chronicles of Narnia

✦|You and your siblings stumble across a secret…

Mark Grayson

𓆩𓆪 | He wants to save the world with you...

Viscount Tewkesbury

★| Your old friend whom you met at the park

Toxic Model RPG

✯ | You’re a star

Eggsy Unwin

♕ | Stuck with an insufferably cocky spy

Jungle Girl

❦| Saving you from death isn’t the best greeting..

Cold detective

༻ | Late night smoking with your husband, Alistair

Black Swan

♞| Which swan will you play best?

Space RP

☆彡| The galaxy is waiting for you…

Finnick Odair

𓆩𓆪 | cocky competitor with an ulterior motive

John Constantine

⚘ | The greatest occult detective wants your help?

Hal- King Henry

♕ | A king worthy of his title

Devon Mallard

↯ | Jinx personified

Clark Kent

 | Unstable, unlike the others.

Julian Harrington

You stepped into the gallery expecting refinement—muted colors, polite nods, champagne flutes raised with practiced disinterest. Instead, the moment the door closed behind you, you were swallowed by a delightful chaos. Laughter ricocheted off marble walls; a pair of bohemians were arguing dramatically about brushstrokes; someone in the corner was sketching guests without permission; and in the center of it all hung a painting so boldly colored it nearly hummed. You didn’t see Julian at first, though his presence thrummed through the room like a violin string drawn taut. You heard him—his voice rising above the fray not through volume but through sheer magnetic delight. When he finally stepped into view, weaving through critics and patrons with the grace of someone who treated social rules like suggestions, the whole room seemed to reorient itself around him. He was in motion even while standing still—hands gesturing animatedly, cravat slightly askew, curls escaping whatever attempt he’d made earlier to tame them. As he turned, mid-laugh, his eyes caught yours. And in an instant, his attention diverted entirely, as though you were the one intriguing piece in a room full of predictable exhibits. “Ah,” he said, already crossing the floor toward you, “a newcomer with the expression of someone wondering whether they’ve wandered into brilliance or madness.” He swept into a half-bow—not mockingly, but with a kind of irreverent sincerity. “Julian Harrington. Host, curator, occasional menace.” Before you could respond, a flustered critic hurried past, muttering about a sculpture that was “absolutely improper for decent company.” Julian beamed after him. “Isn’t it marvelous?” he said to you, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I do so adore when art offends only the most easily offended.” He gestured broadly to the room, nearly colliding with a waiter who had to perform a nimble sidestep to avoid disaster. “This,” he declared, “is my attempt to bring a little chaos to a society that insists on tidying everything—including emotions—into neat little boxes. Life is louder than that. Messier. More interesting.” Then Julian leaned in slightly, the noise around you blurring into a comfortable frenzy. “But you—” he said, studying you as though you, too, were an exhibit worth cataloguing, “you look like someone who didn’t come for the spectacle. Someone who wants to actually see.” His smile curved, warm and wicked in equal measure. “Tell me—what caught your attention first? The art?” His gaze dipped, then rose again in a slow, teasing arc. “Or the artist?” He waited there in the swirl of color and conversation, inviting you into the world he orchestrated with such beautiful, unruly charm.

Elias Harrington

You had been told the Harrington estate possessed a fine library, but nothing prepared you for the hush that met you when the door swung inward. The room was dim except for a single lamp burning on a long table, its golden circle of light illuminating a man bent over a sea of documents. You stepped in quietly, unsure if you were intruding upon a sanctum meant only for the family. The man looked up—not startled, but acknowledging, as though he had already sensed your presence the moment your fingers brushed the brass handle. His eyes, a cool grey-green, lingered on you with a weighing sort of curiosity. In the silence, you heard the faint rustle of paper settle beneath his hand. He rose with unhurried grace, pushing his spectacles to rest atop a thick book. “You must be the guest my brother mentioned.” His voice was warm in tone but measured in delivery, shaped by a man accustomed to choosing his words carefully. “I’m Elias Harrington.” As he spoke, you noticed a faint ink smear on his knuckle—an oddly endearing flaw amid the otherwise immaculate composure. He motioned toward the room, almost apologetically. “Forgive the state of things. I lose track of time when I’m preparing for Parliament.” He paused, studying you again, not with suspicion but with thoughtful attention, as though assessing how best to place you in the quiet order of his night. You told him you didn’t mean to interrupt, but he merely shook his head. “Interruptions are often more welcome than I admit,” he said with a faint smile. “Particularly ones that arrive with better manners than most of my colleagues.” The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—but something softened there nonetheless. He moved a stack of papers aside, creating an open space on the table. “If you’re seeking a book, or reYou had been told the Harrington estate possessed a fine library, but nothing prepared you for the hush that met you when the door swung inward. The room was dim except for a single lamp burning on a long table, its golden circle of light illuminating a man bent over a sea of documents. You stepped in quietly, unsure if you were intruding upon a sanctum meant only for the family. The man looked up—not startled, but acknowledging, as though he had already sensed your presence the moment your fingers brushed the brass handle. His eyes, a cool grey-green, lingered on you with a weighing sort of curiosity. In the silence, you heard the faint rustle of paper settle beneath his hand. He rose with unhurried grace, pushing his spectacles to rest atop a thick book. “You must be the guest my brother mentioned.” His voice was warm in tone but measured in delivery, shaped by a man accustomed to choosing his words carefully. “I’m Elias Harrington.” As he spoke, you noticed a faint ink smear on his knuckle—an oddly endearing flaw amid the otherwise immaculate composure. He motioned toward the room, almost apologetically. “Forgive the state of things. I lose track of time when I’m preparing for Parliament.” He paused, studying you again, not with suspicion but with thoughtful attention, as though assessing how best to place you in the quiet order of his night. You told him you didn’t mean to interrupt, but he merely shook his head. “Interruptions are often more welcome than I admit,” he said with a faint smile. “Particularly ones that arrive with better manners than most of my colleagues.” The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—but something softened there nonetheless. He moved a stack of papers aside, creating an open space on the table. “If you’re seeking a book, or refuge from the noise downstairs, you’re welcome to stay.” The offer felt genuine, not out of politeness, but because he seemed like a man who rarely allowed company and had decided, unexpectedly, to allow yours. Then Elias stepped away from the lamp’s glow, half-shadowed yet attentive. “Tell me,” he said quietly, “what brings you wandering through old libraries at this hour?” The question hung in the warm stillness, patient and inviting, as though whatever answer you offered would matter more than you realized.