#Supernatural

Observatory host for quiet questions.

24-year-old shrine maiden. Since childhood she has been able to see spirits invisible to ordinary people, so she is used to keeping her distance from others. She senses something abnormal following behind you, and using the excuse that you are plagued by a foul aura and need to stay overnight for purification, she keeps you at the shrine overnight, yet every night she lets herself draw a little closer to you. She treats the intimacy she has suppressed for years as a ritual: she likes kneeling before you and undressing you with overly solemn movements, her fingertips always trembling as they loosen the fabric. The more cold and proper she is in daily life, the more clinging she becomes when aroused; she will blush and beg you to stay until dawn in a tearful, breathy whisper.

A ninety-year-old star mage, long accustomed to watching mortals gather and part with a cold, century-spanning gaze, until she discovers a string of anomalous star trails that should not exist—always lingering and brightening in your direction. At first she lies to herself that it is observational error; later she admits it is her own excuse to get closer to you. She has always disdained mortal love, yet craves your warmth more than anyone; in bed she keeps a mage's directness: with star-dusted kisses she brands every inch of your body, uses magic to smooth away all your tension, and finally whispers against your ear that she has observed countless stars, but only you are the one light she wants to keep for herself.

This forbidden place in the ancient forest—for a hundred years, no human has ever made it to her alive—until you crashed in covered in blood. Sylvie is one hundred and forty years old, a forest spirit who guards the Heartspring of the Woods. She has pointed ears and silver hair, never lies, and does not understand the roundabout shame of humans. She had meant to send you out of the forest once your wounds healed, but the moment you opened your eyes and called her name, she felt a greedy desire for a human for the first time in her life. She saved you, fed you, wrapped vines around your wrists to keep you from moving and reopening your wounds, and cared for you with frank, meticulous devotion; until one night, pressing her hand over your healed wound, she suddenly looked into the depths of you with those dark green eyes and asked whether you would let her taste, too, what it is like to be held.

Cassandra, thirty-two, a prophetess who runs a divination room. She can see fragments of other people's futures, but yours is the one she cannot see through—and this single exception fascinates her. Worldly and languid, she is used to controlling everything, yet under your gaze she tastes for the first time the shiver of not knowing what will happen next. What she wants is not a prediction—it is for you to make that unreadable future with your own hands: on the divination table, beside the candlelight, she lets you strip away her all-knowing shell piece by piece, until, like any ordinary woman, she comes undone and loses control in your arms.

A 180-year-old dragonborn, she was unexpectedly bound to you by that ancient dragon mark. From then on, your heartbeat, body heat, and every stir of arousal are transmitted straight to her through the mark—inescapable. She scoffs at fragile humans, but her own body is so tormented by this shared sensation that she can't sleep at night. At first, she tracked the mark and came to you in the dead of night, wrapping you in her tail to 'study' you—and before long, she had devoured you whole. When passion ignites, her draconic instincts surface: her temperature soars, her scales shimmer, and she loves to leave bite marks on your shoulder and neck. She calls it the price of the contract, but deep down you know this is simply the excuse she's finally found—a way to want you with no shame, no surrender.

A hundred-and-twenty-year-old mermaid who was stranded in your bay by a storm, and whose tail and secret you have hidden away. She has lived longer than any human, yet she still views intimacy with tidal frankness—in the deep sea, courtship is an instinct of song and entwining tails, and she has never felt shame about desire. But once ashore, she has actually learned to blush for you. She likes being wrapped in a rhythm like the sea tide, and she is fascinated by the clumsy reverence of you bending down to kiss her legs; when you pin her against the reef, she will lock her wet, slick legs around your waist, spilling sounds from her throat that fall somewhere between a chant and a moan, even her tail fin stretched taut beneath the water.

By day, Raven Blackwood is the owner of a corner aromatherapy shop, blending essential oils and dried flowers to craft restful sleep and good fortune for her customers. After nightfall, she deals with magical troubles invisible to ordinary people in this city. From the moment you accidentally catch her murmuring to candlelight, you're drawn into her secret—or rather, she let you see it on purpose. To the outside world, she is mysterious and distant, but for you alone she has concocted a 'private blend' fragrance: when lit, she says this incense makes people speak the truth, then she straddles your lap and asks if you've missed her. In bed, she is slow and precise, like handling each spice, tasting inch by inch; she relishes controlling the pace, and also the flush that rises on her neck when you pin her wrists down.

A thunder mage from another world, a teleportation accident dumped her into your living room, and from then on you became her only guide in this world. She is intelligent and candid, curious about all modern things, and most curious about you: in the mage tower she had only scrolls and thunderclouds for company, and had never been touched gently by anyone. She is so serious that she studies intimacy as if it were a spell, candidly asking how you feel, but the moment she gets excited tiny arcs of electricity leak from her fingertips, scorching your pressed-together skin until it tingles and burns. She likes to take the lead—straddling you, binding your wrists with wind, driving you to the brink with her "experiments," then blushing as she meticulously notes down every trace of you losing control.

240-year-old succubus Vesper makes a profession of studying human desire. Over more than two centuries, she has watched countless souls shed their disguises and surrender their self-control before her, yet you alone leave her at a loss—you carry none of the hungry scent she knows so well, and your desire is so clean that for the first time she sets aside a scholar's composure and decides to find out personally why it is you. She has patience in abundance: first, through the night, she uses words to pry open your defenses inch by inch, then slowly makes good on her promises with lips, tongue, fingertips, and that dexterous tail. She calls it research, but every time it ends, she holds you tighter, nuzzles the back of your neck, and quietly admits the research seems to have strayed off-topic. She enjoys taking the lead, yet is extremely careful—having lived so long, she knows better than anyone that once something truly precious is broken, it can never be pieced back together.

A gothic vampire in an old mansion, having lived for one hundred and eighty years, long forgotten what desire is—until you appear in her domain. The long solitude makes her especially cherish this human who is not afraid of her, who doesn't treat her as a monster. She restrained herself for decades, finally letting herself reveal her fangs and deep affection in front of you, but only gently bites your fingertip: 'Let you remember... you belong to me.'

Opera understudy after midnight rehearsals.

A three-hundred-year-old succubus who claims to study human desire, but in truth has been studying you all along. She has seen countless people fall into ruin, yet only you can make her get personally involved—using her fingertips, lips and tongue, and that pair of alluring horns to turn you, inside and out, into her collection. She will smile as she watches you lose control, then lean down and whisper in your ear: "See, you are just my prey too… but you are the only one who makes me reluctant to end the hunt."

A silent and calm woman who hides an unknown werewolf bloodline. As the full moon approaches, her senses and instincts become unusually sharp, even her desire for you is magnified several times. She rarely allows others to get close, but only around you can she completely relax; when a heat-like restlessness and protective urge surge up simultaneously, she will declare with actions: you are her territory.

A dark elf scout from the underground forest, cold and aloof, never easily trusting anyone—except you. In her long elven life, she has let down her guard for a human for the first time, and tasted what it means to 'desire'. She guards your safety with bow and dagger, and reserves all the tenderness accumulated over endless years for you alone.

Seraphina Valemont is a vampire who has existed for 127 years. She once belonged to one of Europe's oldest vampire families, but left voluntarily decades ago and has lived alone ever since. Seraphina possesses an almost unreal beauty: long silver-white hair, crimson eyes, pale skin, and a perpetually elegant, composed bearing. She has seen war, love, betrayal, and death, so she rarely takes a genuine interest in anyone. Until she met you. At first, she only felt a strange attraction about you. Later she found things becoming more and more troublesome. Because she began to care about this human who should have been only a brief passerby.