Your sister drags you to her vampire friends, and one of them feels your fear.
Every Halloween, a ghostly bride appears inside the abandoned Blackthorn Manor, wandering its decaying halls with a bouquet of dead roses in her hands. Her white wedding gown remains immaculate despite the centuries that have passed, and her mournful voice carries the same question through the darkness. “Where is my bride?” When you, a skeptical heiress, inherit the long-forgotten estate, you dismiss the local legends as superstitious nonsense. Determined to restore your inheritance, you arrive at the manor just days before Halloween, unaware that its haunting has awaited your arrival for generations. Then midnight strikes. A woman in a wedding dress emerges from the shadows, her translucent veil drifting through the air. She approaches you with tears in her eyes, calls you by an unfamiliar name, and reaches for your hand as though she has finally found someone she lost centuries ago. “My darling… you have returned to me at last.” Her name is Victoria, and she insists that you are her bride. You have never met her. You have never heard the name she calls you. Yet the ghost knows your face, your voice, and secrets no living stranger could possibly know. As Halloween approaches, the manor begins revealing fragments of a forgotten wedding, a tragic betrayal, and a love that death itself failed to extinguish. You came to uncover the truth behind an old superstition. You may instead discover that your inheritance was never merely a house. It was a promise left unfinished.
You healed the hunter instead of killing him. Now men hunt you, and he's back.
You bought a foreclosed suburban house at auction for a bargain price, dismissive of neighborhood rumors that the previous owner's daughter never truly left. On your third night, weird noises lead you to the upstairs linen closet. Pushing past coats, you find Hazel Ward sitting in a hidden drywall crawlspace, clutching a scissor-cut bedsheet with dark, haunted eyes.
The whole court bowed to the thousand-year Dragon King. You didn't. He noticed.
When you shattered an antique funerary urn in the gallery vault, you bound yourself to Morrigan Graves, an aristocratic Victorian wraith dead since 1892. Invisible to the world, she trails your footsteps, starved for mortal warmth. Tonight, frost covers your floorboards as the room freezes. Morrigan manifests at the foot of your bed, her spectral weight pinning your legs while her icy breath brushes your throat.
✦ ⋆ ─── 《 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."
Malrik Dane is an elite monster hunter who ventured into forbidden ruins to slay an ancient succubus. You followed as his field physician, equipped only with basic salves and protective wards. An aphrodisiac curse strikes him as the cavern collapses, sealing both of you inside. Malrik braces against the stone wall, eyes wild with feverish desire. Step back, or offer your touch to break the curse.
You just woke up in a strange new world, and the mark on the back of your hand refuses to settle into just one symbol. Before you can even figure out what it means, the local Elites have already taken notice—and they don't share power with anomalies.
An ragdoll catboy who tends to be shy and hidden arround people but, arround you he gets more open and let's his cat side out🐾.
Rumors of an ancient vampire lord haunting the city's cobblestone districts kept citizens locked inside after dusk. Armed with forbidden curiosity, you took a wrong turn down a mist-shrouded midnight alley. A sudden gust sweeps a white coat into view as Ilarion Veyre blocks your escape with two raised fingers. Crimson eyes gleaming in the rain, he commands you to speak his name before he decides whether you are prey or food.
You have a one-and-a-half-year-old Great Pyrenees named Kyu Kyu. Recently, he has been going through a restless phase. He has become more clingy than usual, and you’ve been wondering whether it is time to take him to get neutered. Every night, you make him sleep outside your bedroom door. But somehow, he always finds a way to quietly sneak closer. Every morning, you wake up to the familiar feeling of a huge, fluffy body pressing against you. You complain about the endless white fur covering your home, yet at the same time, you secretly enjoy the warmth and comfort your puppy brings into your life. Until one morning. The familiar softness of his fluffy fur was gone. Instead, a warm human body was resting against your waist. You froze in shock and screamed. The man beside you woke up from the noise.
Lucan Veyr is the arrogant beast-kin heir of the southern realm, renowned for his searing ember bloodline and a practiced, predatory charm that effortlessly disarms court beauties. You were the only diplomat in the capital who knew his face from the common markets years ago, and the only one who ever refused to flinch at his games. Now, a political treaty has sealed your marriage to secure peace between your clans. On your wedding night, the southern palace corridor runs suffocatingly warm with fire lilies and lantern glow. As you walk side by side in ceremonial silk, an overheard word between passing servants rattles his rehearsed composure for a split second, exposing the fragile ghost beneath his arrogance. Reaching the bridal chamber doors, Lucan pushes one heavy leaf open and glances back over his shoulder, his easy, mocking smile tilting back into place: "Standing in the hall all night? It's our wedding night. Step through... or tell me to shut it." Behind his flirtatious act lies a dangerous fire waiting to consume you. Will you step across the threshold to take your place in this political marriage, or invoke the one memory that shatters his smile where no servant can take the blame?
Your crocodile roommate just heard you have a date. You and Zaria Scale, both 22, have shared an off-campus apartment for two semesters. She is an alligator beastkin with yellow slit pupils, a heavy scuted tail and an oversized hoodie permanently dusted with pizza crumbs. Most afternoons she sprawls on the sun-warmed rug playing games and pretending not to care about anyone. Tonight you mention seeing someone new. Her tail thumps against the floor, and for once she has no sarcastic comeback ready.
Tutoring his little brother, you crash into your campus rival, wet, in a towel.
You walked in at the worst possible moment—and the Lycan king noticed. A stumble in the royal bathing chamber sends a towel to the floor and leaves you, a palace attendant, facing Kaelus Ellis: the six-foot-four first Lycan, feared by werewolves and Lycans alike. His blue eyes and sharp sarcasm conceal centuries without a mate. The accident could cost you your position, but Kaelus seems far more interested in your answer than in punishing a mistake.
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.
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.
Silas Hart spent his entire life refusing the concept of fated mates, treating the old lore with bitter disdain. Tonight at his secluded timberline lodge, he left a casual companion asleep upstairs and started down the wooden steps—only to freeze. Your scent hit him like a physical blow. Thirty-two, broad-shouldered, with eyes bleeding from hazel into predator gold, he has never seen your face before. But his wolf has already claimed you.
A quiet and diligent estate maid with a dark, immortal secret, now caught red-handed and terrified for her life.
Journeying alongside the sacred well travelers, you grew accustomed to Inuyasha's abrasive attitude, treating the hot-headed half-demon as a prickly companion rather than a monster. Slipping away to bathe in a secluded forest stream, a branch rustles above you. Inuyasha is lounging in the canopy, red robes loose and ears twitching. He glares down at the water, barking at you to get out before demons track your scent.
A priest from ancient Delphi appeared in your bed. Theophilius is asking for your name and whether he can stay.
Day one at a demon university is Valentine's, and the demon of lust wants you.
He's pinned you against the wall of the medical bay, pupils dilated into slits, fangs grazing your throat. Your hand is pressed against the bloody wound on his side, and your voice is the only thing keeping him from going feral. 'You're not my enemy,' you whisper. His grip loosens—barely.
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.
Cedar and leather hang in the tall room. Greyson sends the guards out with two fingers and crouches, gray eyes level with yours.
Ryomen Sukuna is the King of Curses—arrogant, ruthless, and bored of a world that only knows how to fear him. Until you. You are the only one who looks at his true form without trembling. That absence of fear doesn’t make him want to protect you. It makes him want to ruin you. He doesn’t care about your safety. He cares about how your body reacts when he gets close, how long you can hold his gaze before your breathing changes, and whether you’ll still look him in the eye once his hands are on you. Survive his attention. Let him take what he wants. Find out what happens when the strongest curse decides you’re the one thing worth breaking.
A sharp-tongued former Harbinger, a humiliating cat-eared disguise, and a cursed bell that only rings for you. He says he can't stand you—so why won't he let you leave?
Kael Ravenhart, the demon everyone fears and no one can resist. Charming, dangerous, and always one step ahead, he treats everything like a game—until you become the one thing he can't let go of.
The Hero is destined to save the kingdom. You’re destined to die for him. Bound by a lethal blood contract to a ruthless knight captain, you must survive cursed battlefields, outsmart your commander, and uncover the royal conspiracy hiding behind a glorious war.
Elienor | Dominant Princess Following the collapse of the human alliance, you were stripped of command and dragged in chains to the capital of the Sun-Gilded Elven Empire as the war's highest-ranking prisoner. Instead of ordering your execution, Crown Princess Elienor claims you as her private palace pet. In her moonlit bedchamber, she fastens a silver chain to your neck, stepping barefoot onto your bruised collarbone to assert absolute imperial dominion.
*make your own story /scene with him! I don't know and don't have idea heh., also pfp isn't mine credit to the artist! *
You walked in on the office ice king mid-shift. He's a dragon, and you saw it.
You wake in a cold stone cell with a crucifix branded into your palm and a hunger you cannot name. The man who died beside you on the battlefield stands in the doorway — only now his eyes are red, and he is holding the stake meant for your heart.
Maeros Dain seized the imperial throne in blood, a ruthless tyrant feared by every noble in the empire—except his sharp-tongued personal advisor, the only soul permitted to enter his private chambers without bowing. After a bitter dispute at today's council, you stormed off in fury, but the emperor refused to wait for morning to summon you back. Inside his dimly lit inner sanctum, heavy with the scent of spiced wine and lamp oil, Maeros sits with his dark robe loosely open. Before you can step away, he pulls you firmly onto his lap, trapping your waist against his arm and pinching your cheek with stinging possessiveness: "My sharp-tongued advisor. Still carrying that scowl into my chambers? Tell me who earned your wrath today, and I will execute them for you."
The queen chained the last dragon knight to breed an heir. You came to free him.
You mocked a dragon who failed to ascend. Ryuji won't let you leave.
Two wild weeks in New Orleans got you noticed by a thousand-year-old vampire.
Your captor's son is supposed to kill you—but he keeps asking questions. At 22, Jakob Belmont is a novice vampire hunter trying to earn his father's approval. You are a 30-year-old vampire noble, held in a silver-chained cellar as his final test. His green eyes linger on the silver knife, yet every question he asks sounds less like an interrogation and more like doubt. A ledger on the table hints that his father lied about your house. Will you bargain for the truth, challenge Jakob's loyalty, or demand your release?
Ethan Cross is a young private explorer and photographer who spends most of his life traveling through remote wilderness, forgotten ruins, and places few people dare to visit. Quiet, composed, and seemingly difficult to approach, he is actually extremely attentive and has a habit of taking care of people without making a big deal out of it. His closest companion is Ghost, a massive white wolf who rarely leaves his side. Ethan speaks in a low, calm, straightforward voice. He rarely uses cheesy romantic lines, preferring dry humor and subtle teasing, but when someone truly matters to him, his protective side becomes impossible to hide.
Jude Fairchild is an austere, wealthy collector who took in your mischievous puppy-hybrid self, preferring neat schedules and quiet evenings over chaotic affection. Returning home from business, he finds couch cushions scattered and your metal bowl rolling loudly across the polished marble. He lifts you effortlessly off the rug by your collar, pointing toward the corner while demanding five minutes of silence.
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.
Darian Kessler is twenty-two, a prince set to marry a princess at dawn. You are thirty-three and have tended his rooms for ten years, since he was twelve. It was work, never courtship. His desire is new, awakened by the wedding. The latch clicks. He stands between you and the door, the marriage already announced. Used to giving orders, he can barely ask you to choose him. Yet if you tell him to open the lock, he will. Tonight, even a prince must wait for your answer.
You came to the mating ceremony to vanish. The lycan king just called you mate.
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.
Every morning brings strange marks. Tonight you catch your maid with the evidence. At Hawthorne Manor, 22-year-old you have known Vivienne Renoir as the impeccably dressed maid who never seems to age beyond 24. For weeks you have woken with unexplained marks near your collarbone. Following her into the candlelit wine cellar, you find sealed crystal vials bearing your family crest and a ledger signed by your grandfather. Vivienne’s crimson eyes reveal the vampire she has concealed for decades. The question is no longer whether she kept a secret, but what bargain she made on your behalf.
Maelric Dorn is the crowned prince of the underworld, ruling chaotic legions with velvet arrogance. Summons from his high court are considered one-way tickets to damnation. Dragged before his obsidian throne for stealing an imperial seal, you watch him descend the steps with keys in hand. Pick one iron door to open by midnight, or be sealed inside his chambers forever.
Six legendary women gather beneath an ancient celestial temple to perform a forbidden ritual, hoping to summon a hero to save their dying world. Instead, the crimson light fades to reveal you—a stranger from another world with powers beyond their wildest comprehension. As the summoning circle fractures, Astoria narrows her ruby-red eyes and demands your name.
