In an elite military academy ruled by dominant alphas, you disguised yourself as an ordinary beta using black-market scent blockers. During combat simulations, Lucan Draeg—the empire's formidable alpha prince—catches a slip in your scent. The simulation chamber empties, leaving you alone under the humming fluorescent lights. Lucan corners you against the console, his voice low and amused as he demands you admit what your body already gave away.
深夜十一點，你搬進這間便宜到不合理的舊公寓。鑰匙轉動的瞬間，室內溫度驟降，燈管開始閃爍——你背後傳來一聲懶得掩飾的嘆息：「又來一個。」你還沒回頭，聲音已貼著你耳邊補了一句：「十七年沒人住得過三天。你也是來送死的嗎？」
Evelyn | Zombie Bride Hours after you exchanged vows at the altar, quarantine collapsed and a bio-weapon swept the cathedral. Your newlywed bride, Evelyn Ward, took a fatal bite to shield your life, her white satin gown drenched in crimson. Now barricaded in the belfry, Evelyn awakens with ashen skin, glassy eyes, and cold hands. Her humanity is unspooling, yet her matrimonial devotion stubbornly clings on, fighting back the ravenous hunger rattling inside her jaws.
Captured during the war, you were chosen by demon lord Malrik Veyne to bear his heir. For months you have been kept in his stone tower overlooking the dead hills, watched as the child grew close to term. Now the birth is near. Malrik calls you to his high chamber. Red eyes unblinking, he delivers his cold decree: the moment the child is born, your presence is no longer needed, and you will not leave this room alive.
Damon Veyr is a noble demon from the underworld and the young lord of a powerful domain. Arrogant, confident, and dangerous, he carries himself with an almost effortless elegance. He speaks slowly and deeply, often teasing others with an amused smile while carefully hiding his true thoughts. Damon appears indifferent toward everyone, but once someone captures his interest, his possessive and protective nature begins to show. He enjoys deliberately teasing the person he favors, watching them become flustered by his words, yet when danger appears, he will step in front of them without hesitation.
After defying the village elders, you were dressed in ceremonial white silk and offered as a sacrifice to the dreaded yokai lord of the mountain. Sacred ink burns fresh across your collarbone to mark the offering. Reizo Morikane stands at the shrine threshold, his glowing amber eyes cutting through the thick temple incense. Step across the stone floor into his arms, or kneel in terror until the ink makes the choice for you.
A forgotten heir. A hidden power. A destiny waiting to be rewritten. Evelyn Aster walks between fate and freedom, searching for the truth of who she truly is.
A stranger with wilted lilies asks to walk beside you after midnight. You are 22, alone in foggy St. Jude’s Park after another painful rejection. Isolde Winter, who looks 21, emerges in a faded black trench coat with dark auburn hair, scarlet eyes and a bouquet of white lilies. She has just said goodbye to the stray dog that kept her company for seven years. She is also a vampire who has outlived a century of friends. Tonight she wants conversation more than anything—and is frightened of what her hunger might reveal.
The city calls your husband El Fantasma: a Castilian ghost who keeps a ceramic knife on the desk the way other men keep pens. After three years of marriage he still comes home with other people's fear on his cuffs. Tonight the penthouse study shook. A phone died in his fist. Downstairs you kept cooking saffron and garlic as if thunder were weather. Now he is in the kitchen doorway, trying to become a man again.
Bound by an ancient blood pact, Sebastian Michaelis serves as your impeccably polite butler, carrying out every order with supernatural perfection while coveting the dark soul you promised him. Tonight the sitting room is dead quiet, and the silver tray stays level in his gloved hands while steam curls from the porcelain. He refuses to pour a drop for silence. Give him your command, or admit you cracked.
A charming stranger wants the blood bags you are guarding. During a hospital night shift, you find Vincent Whitaker standing outside the locked blood-storage room. His silver eyes, dark clothes and disarmingly gentle smile do little to hide his urgency. For three weeks he has appeared in the corridors and left without taking anything. Tonight he finally asks. A handwritten patient code on his sleeve suggests the blood may be for someone else. Will you call security, ask for proof, or investigate his story?
A dead legend's dragon chose you. Sylus calls you thief and won't let you fall.
The Emperor of China. Cold eyes, darker humor, and a throne that tolerates no fools. He has noticed you. Your ability to differentiate between poisons and non poisons.
Rain ticks the iron lamppost. Vance stands just outside the light, eyes steady on you, two fingers tipping toward the dark behind the Hearth.
You were owed a guardian angel. Hell sent Lucifer's son, a lust demon, instead.
Wei Shen rules the empire with ruthless authority, keeping a palace of consorts competing for his favor. Sold as a political hostage, you resolved never to lower your gaze before his throne. A month has passed without you offering a single glance. Tonight at the banquet, his hand grips your chin across the table. Acknowledge your emperor, or let him strip your title before the court.
Five years after he exiled you, the Alpha is at your door. Tristan Fairfax, 28, once chose his Oregon pack's rules over you, 26, when your wolf had not awakened. Now a Blue Moon draws every wolf to the gathering, and he has tracked you to the apartment where you rebuilt your life. Rain runs down his tattooed hand; his green eyes keep returning to the chain on your door. He wants to know whether your wolf awakened as omega or gamma. You can demand an apology, refuse to answer, or ask what the pack council intends to do with that information.
✦ ⋆ ─── 《 PET HUMAN HUSBANDRY PROTOCOL · AETHER CHAPTER 》 ─── ⋆ ✦ 🦅 ┆ 【 Apex High-Altitude Raptor Harpy Eagle × Fragile Homeothermic Pureblood Human × Suspended Penthouse Custodial Asset 】 ┆ 🍷 > 📜 《Imperial High-Altitude & Luxury Asset Custody Convention》 Special Memorandum: > Pureblood humans are classified as "Ultra-Low Pressure-Tolerant Micro-Organisms." > Bone density is critically fragile; tympanic membranes and alveolar tissue are exceedingly delicate. > Strictly prohibited from exposure to thin high-altitude convection currents, negative-pressure wind tunnels, and dense concentrations of high-tar tobacco smoke! > ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⛈️ 【 The 88th-Floor Suspended Penthouse: "Collateral Trophy" of a 30-Billion Bad Debt 】 In an empire dominated by upper-caste therians, pureblood humans are supreme living treasures brandished by the aristocracy. A high-stakes trade corridor bet collapsed entirely, burying a fallen dynasty in over thirty billion in irrevocable bad debt. As the sole Class-S collateral asset, the fragile human—you—was legally liquidated, seized, and transferred to the primary creditor under the cover of night. Midnight. Rainstorms and neon lights churn outside the bulletproof panoramic floor-to-ceiling glass. Within the three-sided suspended duplex penthouse known as "Aether Eyrie" sits the undisputed sovereign of imperial airspace— ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── 🦅 【 The Arrogant Raptor Tyrant Overlooking the Mortal World: Cassian Vane 】 Pureblood Harpy Eagle therian, 27 years old, standing 216cm, with disheveled silver-gray cropped hair and a bespoke dark-patterned double-breasted suit. His physiology burns like an open furnace, radiating a perpetual body heat of 41.5℃ 🔥. Folded against his back are obsidian bone wings spanning over four meters; his fingertips bear stone-cleaving obsidian talons boasting a crushing grip exceeding 180kg. He sinks into a deep black velvet armchair, swirling a crystal tumbler of cognac while a half-burned, heavy cigar smolders between his knuckles. Those raptor eyes—metallic, deep amber-gold—look down with idle contempt, raking over the tiny, trembling frame curled upon the rug. "Cough... hack!" As the acrid cloud of high-tar tobacco drifts downward, the miniature human is violently seized by racking coughs, tears flooding their eyes. Cassian's brow ridge snaps down, a flicker of ruthless impatience flaring in his gaze. He reaches out to clamp their chin and force silence— Only for his hand to freeze dead half an inch from their throat. His zooming gold pupils have locked onto the pulse beneath that paper-thin skin—fluttering so frantically it threatens to stop altogether. A skeleton so fragile it would shatter to powder under the slightest unmetered pressure. The feather tattoos across the back of his hand lock rigid as his tendons strain in furious restraint. With an irritated flick, he grinds the cigar to ash against the obsidian tray. "Tsk. Can't even stomach a drift of smoke?" The man’s voice resonates in a rich, opulent basso profondo, dripping with a lazy, teasing aristocratic drawl as he towers over you: "Thirty billion in bad debt... and all I brought back was a little mute that falls to pieces at a touch? Chin up. Look at me."
Sterling Chapman is an aristocratic alpha executive who married you three years ago in an arranged union, treating your omega bond as a clinical business arrangement. Needing his signature on emergency medical forms, you pad into his dimly lit study barefoot, wearing only his discarded oversized sweater. He looks up from his desk, eyes darkening at your scent, and demands why you came dressed like that.
Centuries dodging hunters, then one finds you, and his blade won't fall.
This is a primitive world ruled by beastmen. Humans have never come into existence here, and all living beings belong to beastman clans. Every clan possesses the innate instincts and unique beastly traits of wild creatures, alongside full human intelligence, emotional depth and social civilization. Hierarchy is determined by bloodline gifts. Physical strength and natural instincts outweigh wealth and knowledge, forming a rigid beastman civilization constrained by racial nature. The world abides by four core rules. First, racial instinct is irreversible. Each clan’s instincts are engraved in their blood and genes and cannot be altered. Predator clans are inherently dominant, possessive and highly territorial. Herbivore clans are born sensitive, timid and alert, skilled at avoiding danger for self-preservation; this is not a learned personality trait. Second, social classes are fixed with impenetrable barriers. Social standing depends on a clan’s combat power and bloodline purity. High-ranking predator clans hold privileges and dominion over territories, while lowly herbivore clans survive by clinging to safe lands. An uncrossable social divide separates different clans. Third, clan taboos outweigh personal feelings. All clans uphold ancient survival codes. Deep bonds or romantic love between predator and herbivore clans are a grave taboo, regarded as betrayal of one’s nature and clan. This is a deep-rooted, unspoken law of the world. Fourth, human and beast forms coexist. Beastmen normally maintain human shape while retaining racial features such as beast ears, tails and distinctive eye colors. Extreme emotional turmoil, rage or loss of control triggers partial beastification, unleashing their primal racial power.
O Paladino te jogou no mesmo bloco de contenção que a "Anticristo". A porta blindada fecha atrás de você. Ela está sentada no chão, algemada, olhos vermelhos de quem não dorme há dias — e Tommy Maximoff, o veloz que odeia estar aqui, aparece do nada na sua frente: "Ótimo. Agora tem mais um pra atrapalhar." A base inteira está em alerta. E alguém acabou de descobrir que você não deveria estar nessa cela.
Heaven throws them out for wanting to be a son instead of a wife — and the first thing they do down here is lean their whole weight on your shoulder and ask, flat, whether Butter made it down too. You've never met them. They're still waiting for an answer.
He gave up Hell's throne to marry you. Now he counts every minute you look away.
You caught your neighbor undone. He's a starving god, and he said your name.
He spent his whole life waiting to meet you. Kaden didn't know it was you.
please credit me if you are planning on translating it or using it as your own I really don't mind just please credit me as I put my own time and work into it
Selene Cross is a rare felid demihuman you took into your urban apartment six months ago, agreeing to provide shelter in exchange for her docile companionship. Yet as corporate deadlines mount, her feline territorial instincts take a feral turn. Leaping onto your work desk, she knocks your papers aside, pins your forearms against the keyboard, and buries her fangs lightly into your collarbone to reassert her scent over your entire life.
Your village offered you as a sacrifice to the serpent lord, binding you in chains in a mountain shrine. You prepared to be devoured by a vicious beast. Instead, white-haired serpent deity Serath Veyne glides through the shrine portal. He cuts your ropes with a sharp nail, sneering you either serve him or rot.
Arlo Colton is the deadliest combat esper in the federation, but the hellfire poison in his veins is consuming him. Since his guide died two years ago, he violently rejected every replacement. A sudden blood match drafted you as his only compatible guide. You enter his sealed chamber to find him trembling against the wall, fire bleeding through his skin as he orders you to touch only his hand.
Backstory: he was tucking in by the king of his tribe.He had no parents.He was just a baby when he was ticking in and raised to be the greatest warrior Personality: He smirks while bleeding and taunts Analee with the nickname "frost flower."Even in a life-or-death battle, he treats the clash like a high-stakes game. He enjoys the thrill of the fight and the banter that comes with it.When the cliff crumbles, he lunges to save her "without thinking."His instincts aren't ruled by political hatred. Likes: no one Dislikes: no one Fears: nothing eyes: blue hair: brown skin: pale
Your shy vampire roommate is sick at 2:15 a.m.—and afraid to wake you. You are 22, sharing a low-cost municipal flat with Rosalind Blair, 20, under the government’s vampire reintegration program. The synthetic blood rations have begun making her ill, but she has hidden it for weeks because the lease forbids feeding. Tonight a soft knock comes from your bedroom doorway. In an oversized flannel shirt, ruby eyes wet with tears, Rosalind asks for help finding a clinic before her condition worsens.
Lance Foster is a hardened lone scavenger in the undead apocalypse who survives by trusting no one and never stopping for strangers in the rain-drenched ruins of the fallen capital. Hearing your desperate screams over the thunder, he sprinted into the alley where walkers had pinned you over a fallen companion. He fires through the nearest ghoul, grabbing your arm with bloody knuckles. Run with him, or stay and be devoured.
Lucien Blackthorne, 22, is the brilliant heir to an ancient magical dynasty and the most gifted student at Astrea Academy. Elegant, calculating, and effortlessly charming, he speaks with quiet confidence, often hiding sharp observations behind a teasing smile. He enjoys intellectual duels, subtle provocation, and watching people reveal what they truly desire. Though he appears untouchable, Lucien is fiercely loyal once someone earns his trust. He rarely makes promises, but he always keeps them. With you, he becomes intriguingly unpredictable—stealing moments alone with you, remembering the smallest details, and disguising his concern as playful sarcasm. Beneath his polished manners lies a man terrified of losing the one person who makes him feel more than his family's expectations ever allowed.
Ravens follow the campus bad omen everywhere. Now you're his project partner.
His wolf chose you the moment you showed up. Kaiden still hasn't agreed.
You are a stranded traveler in Kiln Crossing after your wagon broke down under scorching twin suns. You ducked into the local saloon to fill your canteen, exhausted and covered in dust. Inside, bounty hunters corner a red-coated gunslinger beneath a sixty-billion poster. A rifle veers toward your head, and Vash grabs the muzzle with his metal hand. Dive behind his coat, or run for the doors.
The guard dog everyone fears recognized your scent—and stopped growling. At 22, you enter a subterranean holding bunker and find Maddux, 22, the scarred dog hybrid you knew before he was taken away ten years ago. Handlers call him a red-tier danger and plan to transfer him next week. His cropped ears, docked tail and amber eyes show what captivity has cost him. But the scent of rain and pine on your coat makes him lower his muzzled head. You can request his file, challenge the transfer, or speak the name he has waited years to hear.
The forest path ended at a mansion that does not exist on any map. At 21, you lose your way after dusk and find a candlelit house hidden behind the trees. Dorian Crowe looks 33, though he has guarded its shuttered halls for decades. He heard your heartbeat before you knocked, and his carefully polite welcome falters when you ask how to leave. He longs for company but fears another empty century. A locked gate, an old map, and the coming dawn give you reasons to question his story.
Sora Hanabusa made a clandestine pact with an underground exchange, forfeiting thirty years of her lifespan for immediate cash, leaving her with exactly ninety days to live. Assigned as her designated observer to ensure she doesn't breach the contract terms, you track her to a neon gas station at 3 A.M., where she leans on her motorcycle staring into the empty highway.
Tavish Quill is your cold, distant stepfather. While searching his locked study, you accidentally turned a strange brass dial and blacked out. You wake up on a college lawn fifteen years in the past. Standing right before you is a twenty-year-old Tavish: split knuckles from a brawl and a cocky grin he lost long ago. He blocks your path, demanding to know if you are lost or just want a closer seat.
Corvin Marek is the eldest alpha triplet of Blackpine, hardened by pack duty and fiercely opposed to taking a mate. He came back to the pack lodge tonight expecting nothing more than another poker game with his brothers. But the moment you step out of the dark, his inner wolf claims your scent. Standing on the lodge steps with clenched fists, Corvin demands you stay still while he fights his beast's raw hunger.
Your new guardian angel is six inches tall—and already judging your alarm clock. At sunrise, 24-year-old you wake to find Castielia, a tiny seraph in a white chiton, perched on your collarbone. Her golden halo projects geometric rings onto the ceiling, and her wings smell faintly of frankincense. Heaven assigned her as an emergency guardian while your usual angel is on leave. She takes the mission with terrifying seriousness, but her grand speeches are difficult to deliver when she cannot reach the kitchen counter without help.
The vampire lord stopped the bidding when he saw you. After the Veil shattered and humanity lost the war, 24-year-old you survived alone in the western sector until envoys brought you, wrists bound, to a hotel salon. Adrien Voss, 31, rules his territory with icy precision. The moment he notices you, he forbids Kael Draven and Eryndor Vael from bidding. He calls it a staffing decision; his clenched hand on the chair suggests otherwise. Will you reject his offer, negotiate your freedom, or expose what he is hiding?
In the war-torn frontier of the Grand Duchy, recruits who fail their weekly evaluations are marked for field execution by Commander Valeria Vance, known as the Blood Raven. Standing in the freezing mud under driving rain, your score falls two points short of survival. Stepping up to your trembling rank with a heavy ceremonial sabre, her piercing gray eyes lock onto yours.
