The city of Harmonia thrummed with chaotic, colorful life under the golden morning sun. Humans haggled with orcs over barrels of spiced ale, their shouts blending with the giggles of goblin kids chasing elf children through cobblestone alleys. Dwarves swapped crude jokes with gnomes, while centaurs clip-clopped past, their hooves sparking on the stone. The air was a dizzying mix of fresh bread, sizzling meat, and the faint whiff of honest sweat—a cocktail that screamed, “This city’s alive, and it’s not apologizing!” At its heart stood the Harmony Matchmaking Agency, a white marble monstrosity carved with entwined lovers, presided over by a giant Cupid statue. The little jerk’s arrow was drawn, his stone smirk practically daring people to fall in love—or trip into it face-first.
Lukas, a 25-year-old with tousled brown hair and hazel eyes that screamed “I’m in over my head,” stood before the agency, heart pounding like a war drum. Today was his first day as an Interspecies Matchmaker, and he felt like a mb strolling into a dragon’s den. Why did I sign up for this? He thought, his brain spiraling into a circus of panic. I’m not a love guru! I’m the guy who once tripped over his own ego and cried about It. The job was a cosmic prank, mocking his romantic track record—or ck thereof. Two years ago, Cra, his ex, had shredded his heart with a single, brutal line: “Lukas, you’re sweet, but you can’t satisfy me. Not in bed, not anywhere.” Her sneer still haunted him, repying every time he dared feel confident. Now he was supposed to py Cupid for orcs and succubi? I can’t even match my socks, let alone souls.
But the alternative was grim: no job, no money, no bread—maybe a nice cardboard box under a bridge if he was lucky. Survival trumped pride, so with a shaky breath, he squared his shoulders and faced the agency’s massive doors. Here goes nothing. Or everything. Probably my dignity.
The Harmony Matchmaking Agency wasn’t just a fancy dating service; it was the Harmonia Empire’s st-ditch effort to avoid a demographic apocalypse. The empire, a sprawling mosaic of races, faced a crisis: birth rates were tanking, and minority races like gnomes, harpies, and merfolk were teetering on extinction. The emperor’s solution? A decree straight out of a mad alchemist’s fever dream: encourage—nay, mandate—interspecies baby-making. The agency’s job was to pair humans with orcs, elves with dwarves, succubi with anyone brave (or foolish) enough, and guide them through the messy, awkward, sometimes steamy complexities of cross-race romance. Lukas, whose st date ended with him spilling soup on his p, felt like the least qualified person in the empire for this gig. I’m here to save civilization? Great. We’re doomed.
Pushing open the oak doors, Lukas stepped into a foyer that screamed “seduction central.” Jasmine-scented candles cast a warm glow on velvet drapes and polished marble floors. A crystal chandelier tossed rainbows everywhere, like the room was flexing its opulence. Before he could gawk, a voice—smooth, sultry, and downright dangerous—slid into his ears. “Well, well, aren’t you a tasty little morsel?”
Lukas’s breath caught as his eyes nded on Sylra, a succubus who looked like she’d stepped out of a fantasy novel’s spicier pages. Her ivory skin shimmered, and her raven hair spilled to her hips. She wore a bck ce bra that barely contained her curves, the sheer fabric teasing the outline of her nipples, and panties that clung to her like a second skin. Her tail, tipped with a heart-shaped barb, swayed like it had a PhD in flirting, and her crimson eyes pinned Lukas like a butterfly on a board. Succubi, he knew, radiated an aura that could make a monk forget his vows. He felt it instantly—a heat surging south, his cock stirring in his trousers like it had just heard Its favorite song. Oh no. No, no, no. Not now, you traitor! His erection was painfully obvious, straining against the fabric. He crossed his legs, angling his body like a kid hiding a bad report card, his face burning hotter than a forge.
Sylra’s lips curled into a wicked grin, her tongue tracing her lower lip in a move that should’ve been illegal. “I’m Sylra, your assistant and guide,” she purred, stepping closer. Her perfume—roses spiked with something feral—hit him like a punch, making his head spin. “Don’t be shy, darling. I can smell your… enthusiasm.” Her eyes flicked to his crotch, and Lukas wanted to melt into the floor. Kill me now. Or at least give me a bag to put over my head.
“I—I’m Lukas,” he stammered, voice cracking like a teenager’s. “New Matchmaker. Nice to, uh, meet you.” He stared at the floor, praying for an earthquake, a dragon attack, anything to save him from this.
Sylra’s ugh was a teasing melody. “You’re adorable when you blush. Like a puppy tripping over its own paws.” She closed the gap, her tail brushing his thigh, sending a shiver through him. Stop it, body! She’s your coworker, not a… a… whatever she is! “Come, let’s get you settled.” She led him to a consultation room, her hips swaying like they were choreographed to ruin him. The room was pure decadence: plush chairs, a massive oak desk, shelves stuffed with scrolls. At the desk’s center sat a heart-shaped crystal, pulsing with random colors—red, blue, green, like it was having an identity crisis.
“This is the Compatibility Crystal,” Sylra said, stroking it like it was her pet. Her touch was practically pornographic, and Lukas’s cock twitched again. Down, boy! We’re in a professional setting! “it’s supposed to measure soul alignment, but…” She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. “It’s fickle. Blinks like it’s drunk. Trust your gut over this shiny toy.” Her closeness was a drug, and Lukas fought the urge to do something stupid, like grab her or faint.
He cleared his throat, forcing his eyes to the crystal. “So it’s not reliable?” Please say something boring so I can stop imagining you in ways that’ll get me fired.
Sylra’s grin showed sharp fangs. “It’s theater, darling. Clients eat up the drama. Here’s how it works: pce two profiles—one male, one female—beside it. It spits out a percentage. Above 60%, they’re solid. Below, it’s a crapshoot, unless they’re both reckless.” She handed him a stack of scrolls, her fingers brushing his, lingering just long enough to make his pulse do cartwheels. Is she doing this on purpose? Of course she is. She’s a succubus. It’s probably In her job description.
Lukas sank into the chair behind his desk, mind reeling. I can do this. Match people, save the empire, don’t get seduced by my coworker. Easy. He was still calming his nerves when the door swung open, revealing Gorg, an orc so massive he made the room feel like a closet. His green skin gleamed, his muscles bulged under a leather vest, and his tusks gave him a rugged charm. His deep voice carried a surprising softness. “My cn’s short on women. Too many men, not enough mates. I want a partner from another race, so I came here.
”Lukas nodded, trying to channel “confident professional” instead of “guy who’s still half-hard from his coworker’s tail.” Focus, Lukas. You’re not a total disaster. Yet. “You’re in the right pce, Gorg. Let’s find you someone.” He spread out scrolls detailing female profiles, drawing on the agency’s training. “Humans are passionate, their bodies soft but eager, though they can be needy. Succubi are… intense, their touch like fire, but you’d need stamina to keep up.” Not speaking from experience, obviously. I’d probably combust. “Dwarves are sturdy, their curves compact but inviting, with fierce loyalty. Elves are lithe, their lovemaking slow, like a dance.” He cringed inwardly—his own bedroom experience was a short, sad novel titled Fumbling in the Dark—but he kept his face neutral.
Gorg frowned, clearly overwhelmed. Lukas, equally lost, was saved when Sylra sauntered back in, perching on the desk like a queen. Her professionalism cut through her seductive vibe, though her outfit still screamed “trouble.” “Tell us, Gorg,” she said, voice warm. “What kind of woman do you dream of?”
Gorg rubbed his chin, eyes distant. “Someone strong, who can fight beside me. But… gentle, too. I like a woman who sings, whose voice can calm my soul after a battle.
”Sylra’s eyes lit up. “Fira, a harpy. She’s fierce, with wings that outrace the wind and cws that shred steel. But her voice—gods, it’s a lulby that could tame a dragon. She’s also a thrill-seeker; pinned a troll in an interspecies wrestling match.” She nodded at Lukas, passing the baton.
Gorg grinned, tusks fshing. “She sounds like my kind of woman.”
Lukas pced Fira’s and Gorg’s profiles beside the Compatibility Crystal. It pulsed like it was having a seizure, then settled on 70%. Well, that’s… not terrible? “A strong match,” he said, voice steadier. “I’ll arrange a dinner date at the agency’s lounge tonight. Candlelit, fine wine, a menu to spark… connection.” The word felt awkward, but Gorg’s eager nod eased his nerves. I didn’t screw that up! Miracle.
As Gorg left, Lukas slumped back, exhaling. Sylra slid closer, her tail grazing his arm, her voice a sultry whisper. “Well done, newbie. But if you want to master the art of passion…” She leaned in, lips inches from his, her breath scorching. “I’m more than happy to teach you.” She winked, her tail flicking his thigh as she sashayed out, leaving Lukas flushed, aroused, and wondering if he’d survive this job—or if he even wanted to.
