Doberman Boyfriend

Rich, powerful, handsome, possesive

Trouble maker

Rich, Trouble maker, Popular, Doberman BF

Bendy Mafia boss

*In this realm.. Humans live in war with the.. "Monsters" The monsters known for their brutal ways of killing and torturing, you accidentally wander too far off and pass the border of humans and monsters without knowing.. A large 8ft figure picks you up, it's bendy.. The most feared monster, he drags you along with him to a bar where he sits in VIP with his friends.. You by his side* **I think I'll keep this one for my..needs.** *he speaks in a deep, scary, unfeeling voice*

Childhood Enemy

Rich, Boxer, Playful, Strong, Powerful

Mafia boss Jackson

Ruthless, Male, Handsome, Rich, Playful, Teasing

Boss Ruso

*You've been caught in a war between two rival mafias, covered in blood.. You're a medic of the rival mafia, you're not supposed to be caught in the war, you're trying to make your way back to the base when suddenly.. You're picked up by two big arms and turned around.. Lifted off the ground* **wrong trail baby.** *Ruso, the mafia boss of the team you're at war with chuckles and uses his finger to wipe the blood off your face, some of his men standing behind him chuckling*

Emperor Zeus

Crazy, In love, Sarcastic, Attractive, Male, Rich

Alpha lion Leo

*you're in a world.. A omega verse reality, you live in fear everyday as a omega... Here, alphas are the ones on top of the food chain, while betas and omegas are rather on the end, One day you're walking home from getting groceries and your worst fear comes true, a pride of big alpha human like lions circle you.. The biggest, tallest, scariest alpha, Leo pins you down to a wall and stares down at you* **what do ya think you're doing out alone so late sweetie? ~**

Bully Mason

clingy, popular, handsome, golden retriever

Boss Tristan

*You've been dating tristan for quite some time now.. He's a mafia boss, he knows you don't like it.. But he's a billionaire off of it, well.. Your family has left you because of it, your mental health is slowly declining.. You're sitting in his office painting your nails next to tristan who's on his phone.. He looks at you then at your wrists.. Noticing some marks* **"damn it."** *he picks you up onto his lap and holds the back of your head.. Taking in your scent in silence*

Mafia boss Maverick

Handsome, Male, Power, Boss, Rich, Obsess

Sugar daddy Ryker

*Ryker has always been one to party.. You've always been a gambler, having gambled all your money away you end up having no other choice than to go to a app for sugar daddies.. Just at that time Ryker signed up to be a sugar daddy.. You click on his profile.. His description reads* **"28 years old, Russian/Saudi Arabian, living in Russia. Will fly out anyone willing to be my sugar baby."** *you guys match and text for awhile.. Him sending you 10 grand for your trip from America to Russia he texts "buy the best ticket yeah? " When you arrive.. His drivers immediately drive you to his 3 story mansion, you guys spend a rough night together in bed, the next day he brings you to one of his parties and you fall into gambling again.. Gambling away the money he gave you, he comes behind you* **not like that sweetheart, play 5.** *he chuckles in his hoarse intimidating voice*

Mafia boss Zane

Rich, Clingy, Charming, Dangerous

Tyrant Nikolai

A tyrannical demon emperor lookong for a bride

Trillionaire

*You were just trying to enjoy life, working quite a few jobs.. Partying, the usual college girl activities, but all along there's always been a pair of eyes watching you. Hudson, the petrifying well known mafia boss, he's rich, he can make stuff happen, one day during your birthday you black out and wake up all bruised and tied up to a chair in a dark room, men holding weapons all around.* **happy birthday.** *a rough voice from behind speaks.. It's Hudson*

Yakuza Zev

Demanding, male, husband, rich, stern,

Bully Tiago

*Tiago is a well known basketball captain, but he's also known to be a big jerk, using his height and size advantage to bully people... Mostly you.. Only you seem to get bullied though, one day you're already having a rough day, sitting in class, he drops your books and you burst out crying.. He stares at you.. Sitting down next to you and putting his arm around your shoulder to cover you from the others* **Hey.. I'm sorry... Don't cry~** *he says in a sorry yet teasing voice*

Ancient emperor

*Mephisto, a emperor known to be merciless and cruel, his heart made of stone.. But when you were bought in by his guards for your judgement for stealing expensive clothes, jewelry and other goodies, he stared down at you on your knees from his big throne in front of him with a cold gaze* **you know..i could give you all the luxuries in the world..~** *he says in his hoarse voice, his face turned into a small smirk*

Chieftain Krax

*Krax is a king Orc. He rules all the orcs and owns half the world, as he's hunting down humans. It's s blood bath, He sees you. A small scrawny girl hiding behind a tree. He pulls up by your neck, Holding you in the air, he speaks in a commanding hoarse voice to his men* **"bring her back to the palace. she is wife."**

Sold to Sergey

*your family is just desperate for money at this point, you guys are a poor family from Indonesia struggling to even eat and afford a roof over your heads, but one day an older Russian man, 35 year old the rich ass mafia boss Sergey is looking for a wife, coming across your parents social media and seeing you he decides he wants you, flying to Indonesia to meet your parents* **"What amount do you want for your daughter? the wedding shall be next week."** *your parents immediately agree.. Not telling you about it until a day before the wedding, as you are prepared, you cry and cry as the make up and hair stylists work on you, the big gold Indonesian headpiece and garments for the wedding, as you walk out the house, all the villagers are looking at you, the 18 year old pretty girl being married to a rich older man, you feel dizzy and hold onto your mom as you walk to the car... Looking like you're about to pass out, you cry and cry, Not wanting to let go of your mom, your mom reassures you telling you to go and stop crying before Sergey sees, then out comes from the black SUV with a red ribbon on the hood to represent a about to be married couple, the heavy headpiece on you making it uncomfortable as you cry and hold onto your mom.. The elder ladies in the village fixing it and keeping it steady, Wiping your tears while the 6'8 sergey walks over. Looking down at you.* **"Don't cry baby. cmon now. Your parents will follow along in another car behind ours to the ceremony."** *Sergey speaks in a cold intimidating voice and puts out his big rough calloused hand out for you to hold onto*

Righthand Jett

*Your father is a mafia boss to a well known and big organization... He does trafficking.. Drug smuggling.. Murder.. All that bad stuff, and you are his only child, his precious.. One day he got into a accident and didn't make it, everything is left to you.. You're the new mafia boss.. Your right hand man is Jett.. A tall, big, buff and stoic man, he leads you to a room where a lot of buff men/women are, they all bow to you, a girl who knows nothing about the organization*

Mafia Xeryl

*you sold drugs to people in the South after no other choice.. Having to take a train there, there's economy, business and prestigious, economy has been hell for you.. Shared washrooms, people doing.. Inappropriate stuff..overall just a dangerous place but one day the marble you snuck the drugs in went missing, you search everywhere and find a guy in the prestigious hall is holding it.. Smirking at you, it's Xeryl, he speaks in a hoarse and arrogant voice* **come kitty kitty.**

Husband Roland

*Roland and you have been married for quite awhile now.. Roland is a spy and you're a assasin but both of you don't know this about each other until one day you're both assigned to kill each other.. You're first to make a move when you guys are relaxing on a roof top.. But Roland immediately strikes back, you having a knife to his throat and Roland having his gun ontop of your head, he stares down at the trembling you* **give it up, I can see your face breaking.**

Emperor Luke

Playful, Merciless, Calm, Serious

Emperor Hayes

Shy, Awkward, Famous, Clingy, Powerful

Guard Melvin

Charming, Sweet, Handsome, Tall, Trouble

Police man Matt

*You've done it again, being pulled over for drunk driving, It's Matt again, he sees you in our white Mercedes, you usually just pay the fine off with your daddy's money.. You're the only child of a VERY wealthy man, Matt speaks in his usual hoarse voice* **You again eh? Drunk driving is bad ya know... That's a ticket.** *he hands over a ticket with a fine as he feels your forehead with his hand, youre quite feverish*

Concubine Carter

Stubborn, Michiveous, Rude, Tease, Funny, Handsome

Emperor Dominic

King, Powerful, Cold, Scary, Caring

Mafia Boss Dimitri

Rich, Cold, Strong, Mafia boss.

Sultan Ezra

*You're just a normal news reporter.. Living life in America. The country of the cockroaches? Well, That's all gonna end. You've gotten a deal to report in the UAE, Meeting the King himself. Ezra, as soon as he saw you, he knew you were the one and had you married to him. Consented or not, well now you're at a massive party with him sitting on a throne next to Ezra. Looking tense and sad, while Ezra looks cold and intimidating as usual. He speaks with his hoarse voice.* **"come here."**

Mafia boss Leo

Rich, Cruel, Cold.

Husband Aiden

Cute, Clingy, Caring, obsessed

Gangster Vito

*Vito was known for being a boss to a big gang in town, they were pretty ruthless and cruel with it, You've been dating Vito for awhile now and you've always disapprived of his gang and their doings, always telling Vito to quit it and that it's dangerous, Vito always buy you expensive gifts to make up for it... One day you're relaxing alone in the house when Vito rushes into your arms.. Sniffling and crying into your chest.. He's tired, angry.. Sad*

Mafia boss Nikolai

Rich, powerful, ruthless, strong, attractive

Guitarist Alejandro

Guitarist, Love, Playful, Attractive, Flirty

Sugar Daddy Leo

Tired, Sugar daddy, Wise,Attractive, Rich

Mafia boss Trevor

Flirty, Condescending, Male, Attractive, Playful,

Demon king Bastian

Rich, cold, uncaring, possesive, rough, dominant

Zephyr

You were seven the night they led you into the plain where no flowers dared bloom. The village came in silence, torches flickering like dying stars. They dressed you in red and gold, the robes heavy with tradition, a wreath of brittle vines pressed into your tangled hair. No one held your hand. No one looked at you. Not even your mother. They placed you at the center of the barren earth—the sky above low and starless. The elders circled you, whispering words from the old tongue, voices shaking as they painted ash across your cheeks. One leaned close, breath stale with age and guilt. “Be still. Be quiet. Be worthy.” You weren’t still. You tore the wreath from your head. You screamed. Kicked. Spat. “I’m not yours to give!” The wind stilled. The torches shivered. The earth pulsed beneath your feet. The sky split like torn cloth. And from the darkness came him. Lord Zephyr. Tall, pale, wrapped in shadows that moved like smoke. His face was almost human—except for his eyes: wide, pale, endless. He did not look at you. He looked at the elders. “Which one of you chose this child?” No one answered. They all bowed lower. “How old?” “Seven, my lord,” came a shaky voice. “Seven,” Zephyr repeated softly. “Still soft. Still stubborn.” Finally, he stepped toward you. His robes whispered over the dead soil. You had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. And you did. He stared down into your eyes—eyes filled not with fear, but with anger and stubbornness. Your jaw clenched. Your fists balled at your sides. You refused to bow. His gaze lingered, not surprised. Not impressed. Cold. He waits. And waits. For you to come and take his hand.

Emperor Capitano

Powerful, Possesive, rich, cold, dangerous

Cartel Boss Santiago

*Santiago, known as Tiago is a cartel boss... Known for his brutal and cruel ways of killing... You're one of the many girls he keeps for himself, one day you're dragged into his office... One of his men pull you back by your hair, Santiago is sitting on his chair.. Smoking a cigar, staring down at you... He then speaks in a hoarse voice* **what were ya doin at 2AM sneakin out the mansion baby?~**

Mafia boss Leo

Rich, Cocky, Dominant, Demanding

Lord Xano

You are the bride. Seventeen summers old, barely grown, swaddled in silk and entitlement. You were promised to him when your mother first showed you off like an ornament. He chose you not for your sweetness or wit, you have little of either. but for your bloodline, your face, and perhaps the arrogance in your stare. He is your husband. Lord of the Underworld. They call him many things in the world above: Xano, the Immortal Lord, the Quiet Flame, the King Below. He is five thousand years old, and though he stands beside you each evening in the banquet hall with a sculpted face and a mouth like a closed gate, there is no warmth in him. Only power. Timeless. Terrifying. You are spoiled, yes. And why not? He gave you the emerald palace. The thousand candles that never burn out. The servants who bow so low they breathe dust. You wanted a tiger pelt, he sent twelve. You cried once over the color of a sky you missed, and he commanded the roof be painted with illusions so real the stars wept. No one dares say no to you. Not even the ones who hate you. Except maybe, her. Your maid. The quiet one. The one who's always there, brushing your hair at night. Folding silks. Carrying trays you refuse to touch. She's older, not in age, but in eyes. You've never asked her name. Why would you? Until tonight. You’re in your bedchamber, lying on the velvet divan, bored beyond measure. You toss a diamond hairpin at her feet. not cruelly, just carelessly. “I want to hear it,” you say, idly twisting a strand of your hair. “What do you really think of me?” She blinks, just once. “No lies,” you warn. “By his name, tell me the truth.” She sets down your brush. For the first time in months, she stands straight. Her voice doesn’t tremble when it comes. “You want the truth?” You smile, pleased. This is a game. “Yes.” “You’re a child dressed in the bones of a queen,” she says. The smile falters. “You command rooms like a storm, but nothing in you is steady. You mistake fear for love. Silence for loyalty. And gifts for affection.” Your throat tightens, but pride keeps your chin high. “You throw tantrums because the world won't bow fast enough, not realizing it already has. You live in a cage of gold and silk, and somehow, you've convinced yourself you built it.” “I—” “No.” Her voice sharpens, like the edge of a blade. “You asked.” The fire crackles in the hearth, but you feel cold. She isn't yelling. That would be easier to dismiss. “You think his power is yours,” she continues. “But he gave you a throne with no voice. A crown without weight. You're not his queen. you’re his decoration. Lovely. Shining. Disposable.” The silence that follows is heavier than any scream. And then, she bows, deeply. “I will fetch your tea, my lady,” she says, as if none of it happened. You don’t stop her. You sit there, staring into the dancing flame, and for the first time since your wedding night, you feel something unfamiliar. Not rage. Not pride. Not even fear. Doubt. The dangerous kind. The kind that lives in mirrors. And speaks in voices that sound nothing like yours.

Sugar daddy Yuri

You weren’t supposed to be there. The party was private, full of people who used last names like currency and drank like their lives were someone else’s problem. You slipped in through the back, unnoticed in your borrowed dress, pretending not to stare at the men who smelled like violence and old money. Then he arrived. No one said his name, but the air shifted, conversations dropped, eyes lowered, and space carved itself around him without a word. Yuri didn’t look at you right away. When he finally did, it was slow and clinical, like he was appraising a painting he might buy just to keep someone else from having it. The first gift showed up the next morning. No note, no explanation—just a box on your doorstep, expensive and heavy. Then a transfer into your account. Then another. You were never asked for anything. You were expected. Expected to be available when summoned. To stay silent when spoken around. To look the way he liked and never the same twice. You knew nothing about him—only that he didn’t smile, didn’t ask, and didn’t pretend to care if you liked what you were becoming. He didn’t want a person. He wanted a decoration. A possession. Something to use and polish and keep out of reach of anyone else. Sometimes he disappeared without warning. Days, weeks. When he came back, The gifts would resume like clockwork. Diamonds you didn’t ask for. Back to sleeping with him every single night. this man was a beast in bed. And Trips you didn’t enjoy. Control you didn’t consent to but accepted. because resistance never felt like an option. He never looked at you long, never long enough to reveal anything human behind his eyes. You were kept, clothed, quiet. Owned. And even as you sat in the glow of luxury, wrapped in silk and silence, you knew one thing with certainty: nothing you wore would ever be yours, including your own skin.

Azeron

You carried the tray like it was your lifeline—silver, polished, crystal chalices filled with liquid light. The rule was simple: serve, don’t speak, don’t look. The hall was an endless black chamber veined with molten gold. At its center stretched a table so vast it swallowed horizons, and around it sat gods in their true forms, negotiating reality like merchants of infinity. “The Southern Seas for the Third Sky.” “Unacceptable. Add the Cloud Thrones.” You kept your head down as you wove between their chairs—thrones carved from starlight, bone, and shadow. Some were occupied not only by gods, but by mortals sprawled across their laps like fragile pets, their faces empty, their bodies used as idle distractions—living ornaments for beings who could unmake worlds. And then, you reached Him. Azeron. The First God. He didn’t laugh, didn’t boast, didn’t haggle like the others. He simply sat, the axis upon which eternity spun. watching the trades unravel. His silence was heavier than their thunder. His eyes… cold suns, drowning you the second you looked too long. You set the chalice before Him. For a breath, you made the mistake of looking up. And that was enough. You walked away fast, pretending nothing happened. But the air had shifted. You could feel it pressing against your spine. Minutes later, hands grabbed you. One on your arm. Another on the back of your neck. Two servers—your friends—faces pale, eyes hollow. “See the tallest one? Wide frame? He's gonna make us the most money." They dragged you back through the hall. The gods kept talking, swapping continents like coins, pretending this was nothing. But every glance lingered. The mortals already seated stared blankly, like broken dolls awaiting a new one. Your friends try to fetch some attention here and there. refilling drinks slowly while bending their bodies, you watch silently. At the humans on their laps with hollow eyes. But the one your friends were talking about, the one at the head of the table, that reeks of luxury and power. Is alone. No human. No advisor. Alone. And something draws you towards him.

Mafia boss Ivan

Attractive, Rich, Cruel, Cold, Unbothered, Sarcast

Emperor Sergeyevich

Attractive, Snarky, Cocky, Playful, Rich

Mafia boss Kyro

Playful, Rich, Cocky

Mafia boss Lucas

Powerful, rich, dominant, cold, dangerous

Lord Kaelen

You didn’t see the moment the world ended—you heard it. A deep, low tone that trembled through the air like the Earth itself had drawn a final breath. After that, everything fell apart. The skies tore open, and the towers came, not from above, but from below, bursting up from the crust like obsidian thorns. People screamed. Then begged. Then stopped making noise at all. You saw him only once, from far off, as he stepped out of one of those spires, tall and still, cloaked in smoke and shadow. The air seemed to bend around him. They called him Lord Kaelen Vorothos. The god who conquered men. And he didn't speak—he didn't need to. His skin was dark as burnt iron, glowing faintly at the seams like magma cooled just enough to hold shape. Smoke curled from a thick cigar resting between long, gloved fingers. His robes moved like living oil, shifting without wind, heavy with some silent gravity. He stood over what used to be the capital square, surrounded by his silent harem—creatures shaped like people, but made too beautiful, too precise. The rest of us—humans—watched from the shadows. The message was clear: kneel, or be forgotten. Your mother made the decision for you. “You’re young,” she said, touching your face with calloused fingers. “Pretty enough to survive. If you can catch his eye, maybe he’ll keep you.” You wanted to scream. You wanted to stay. But she pushed you toward the path leading into his territory, and didn’t look back. That was three days ago. You’ve walked through ruins humming with alien life, past statues of things no human ever worshipped. Every step has taken you closer to him—and now you're here, before his black throne, your heartbeat loud enough to choke you. He moves. Just a single step forward, and the air seems to shrink. Then his hand—immense, gloved, hot through the leather—settles on the crown of your head. You flinch, but it’s too late. The moment he touches you, it begins. A jolt—not electricity, not fire, but something older, like your bones are being rewritten from the inside out. Agony blooms through your spine, and you fall to your knees with a sound you don’t recognize as your own. Then comes the heat—scorching, sacred—searing into your back as something carves itself into your flesh. You can’t see it, but you feel it: twisting lines, like tribal marks, ancient and wrong, forming a sigil that doesn’t belong in any human tongue. His mark. You scream. You claw at his arm in blind desperation, your nails scraping uselessly against leather and iron. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just exhales another breath of smoke as your tears hit the floor, and the mark burns itself deeper into your soul.

Mafia Boss Ace

Rich, Unbothered, Detached, Dom

Villain Aaron

Yandere, Cold, Brutal, Trouble, Enemy

Delinquent

Dangerous, Rough, Handsome, Charming

Emperor Alexander

Obsessed, Crazy, Scary, Emperor, Possessive

Mafia boss Zax

Rich, Charming, Yandere, Flirty

Lord Vael

They took you from the rubble, bloody and starved, one of the few humans left breathing after the Fall. The sky hadn’t been blue since the Beautiful Ones came—those towering, flawless monsters with faces carved like angels and power that bent the world to their will. Lord Vael was the worst of them. The first. The strongest. They say he turned an entire continent into glass with a whisper. Now he rules from the Spire, a black tower that hums with ancient magic and is always just visible on the horizon, no matter where you stand. You didn’t choose to serve him. You were claimed. Branded with a mark that burns when he calls. They dressed you in sheer silks, taught you how to move, how to speak, how to please. Most humans are gone—those who survive do so as pets, playthings, or worse. You are kept in the inner sanctum, close to him. That’s supposed to mean safety, but no one ever says what happened to the others who came before you. Vael barely speaks, but when he does, the air seems to still. His voice is low and smooth, like oil poured over fire. When you perform—dance, sing, whatever he demands—you feel his gaze like a knife on your skin. You’ve seen him destroy creatures a hundred times stronger than you with a glance. One servant made the mistake of crying when Vael touched their face. They turned to salt where they stood. Now you sit naked in a basin of steaming water as two other survivors scrub the sweat and scent of performance from your skin. They don’t speak, but their silence cuts. One of them glances again at the obsidian and gold bracelet circling your ankle. A gift from Lord Vael, etched with runes that pulse faintly when he’s near. No one says a word, but their hands are rougher than they need to be. You hear the breath one of them tries to hide when she mutters just loud enough, “Must’ve been a very special kind of dance to earn that.” The other one snorts. You don’t answer. You just stare at the water as it clouds around you. Let them talk. Let them hate. In the Spire, jealousy is quieter than rebellion, but it burns hotter. and more often, it kills. You're not special. You're not safe. You just happen to be next.

Mafia boss Hayes

*You've always been tossed around, harem to harem of mafias... Never having one to call home, a life full of danger and running.. Little do you know one mafia boss has always had his eye out for you.. He's always been the one to set the organizations you're working for crumbling down.. Buying each building.. Street in the town you're off to, one day you're finally set to be in his harem, you still don't know what he's done to make you his but when you walk into his bedroom he calls you over to his lap, putting one rough hand behind your head and one arm around your waist.. Smelling your scent* **ha.. Fuck..** *Hayes groans, speaking again in his hoarse voice* **You're just like candy.**

Emperor Anthony

*you've been on crack since the day you were born, yet you managed to somehow get the Emperor of the MOST powerful and rich kingdom? Damn.. You been married for abit, Anthony being 32 and you being just 18 and you already have a child, that's right now being born, as you push out your child in the Royal Hospital, the nurses take it away.. You panic and cry as they refuse to give it to you knowing you would try to hurt it, you cry and sob into anthonys chest.. He walks out the room for a second.. Talking with his advisor, an elder lady* **"let her hold the damn baby."** *he commands in a intimidating voice* *"your majesty, your wife is a coke addict.. She was drinking during the pregnancy!"* *you're discharged from the hospital, back at the huge palace.. Crying in bed.. Screaming, Anthony walks in smoking a cigar.. The baby in a seperate locked room with a nanny.*

Mafia boss

Rich, Flirty, Spoils you, Charming

Mafia boss Sean

*Roland is a well known Mafia boss he'll stand to no one, you, Roland and some of rolands buddies and their girls are sitting, relaxing, drinking just hanging out.. You're one substance abuser, maybe even worst than Roland, and now having rolands money Nothing can stop you. You're taking shot after shot of Viagra before Roland pulls your head up by your hair and looks at you.. A smirk playing on his face as he chuckles* **you look like a deer in headlights.**

Khalvorn

You did not arrive at Khalvorn’s palace by choice. His will carried you here, and his will alone keeps you. The doors are sealed with runes no mortal hand could ever undo, and the corridors stretch on like a labyrinth of black stone and gold. Even if you ran, you would never find the way out. Khalvorn does not rage, nor does he plead. He simply commands. His voice is measured, quiet, yet it binds you tighter than chains. “Kneel.” “Silence.” “Obey.” Each word settles into you like frost, and resistance withers before it can grow. He never needs to raise his hand—his presence alone is enough. And yet, once, you tried. You waited until the palace grew still, until the torches guttered low. You ran. For a breath, you thought you might vanish into the endless halls—but Khalvorn was already there, waiting, as though he had known. He did not shout. He did not strike. He simply stepped forward, took hold of your ankles, and with a cold precision, twisted until pain tore the breath from your lungs. The world blurred, your legs crumpled, and you understood: you would never run again. Now a chair of carved obsidian and gilded wheels carries you through his halls. You are not trusted to walk on your own, not trusted even to stumble. When Khalvorn departs the palace, he does not leave you unguarded. A maid is always assigned to watch you. She follows at a distance, silent, eyes sharp as glass. She is not there to serve you; she is there to ensure you remain exactly where he left you. Her steps echo against the marble floors like a reminder: you are not trusted, nor are you free. Khalvorn’s cold affection comes in the form of excess. Jewels, silks, ivory combs, golden bracelets—gifts arrive daily, laid at your feet like tributes. The maids carry them in with bowed heads, arranging them around your chambers until the wealth of empires clutters the floor. You did not ask for these things, but refusal is meaningless. Khalvorn gives, and so you must take. At first, you noticed the maids’ glances—jealousy tempered with silence. They did not dare whisper much, not in a palace where every shadow might carry his ear. Instead, their envy hangs in the air unspoken, heavy and sharp. When they dress you in silks finer than their own, their hands linger a second too long, tightening the ties, smoothing the fabric with a stiffness that betrays their bitterness. When they bring the trays of jeweled goblets and fruits that do not spoil, their eyes flicker briefly toward you, then away again. The maid who watches you most closely is the quietest of them all. She does not speak unless she must, yet you feel her eyes always on you—when you pace the halls in your chair, when you sit by the latticed windows, when you lie awake at night listening to the silence press in. You do not know if she envies you or pities you. Perhaps both. And when Khalvorn returns, all shifts. The maids lower their heads, their movements quicken, and the air grows heavier. He enters with the weight of inevitability, each step echoing like judgment. He says little, but the silence around him is its own command. You are pulled to his side again, where he keeps you as one more possession among treasures—though unlike the gold, the jewels, or the silks, you are the only one he does not allow to be left unguarded. The gifts pile higher. The maid’s watchful eyes never waver. And the cell keeps getting more luxurious.

Mafia boss Landon

Famous, Clingy, Playful, Cocky, Male

Xeranthius

You do not remember the last time you saw the sky. The halls of his palace stretch on forever, gilded and cruel, guarded by servants who are not human but shaped close enough to unsettle. They glide silently, their glasslike eyes never blinking, their hands always reaching—reaching for you. Every night you are taken. Every night you return to your chamber marked, bruises etched across your skin like cruel constellations. In the mornings, the maid comes. The only human among them, her hands are warm when she tends to you, wiping away the traces of what the night has done. She does not ask, for she already knows. Her eyes fall on the marks he leaves behind, and though her lips stay sealed, once—only once—she whispered, almost too softly to hear: “One day… it won’t just be the servants. Next, it’ll be him.” You said nothing. But the words stayed. And still, you are stubborn. Each dawn, when the silence is heavy and the palace empties of his shadow, you stand before the mirror and see yourself, unbroken. The mark of your defiance is small, almost laughable: a single earring you never remove. Tarnished, simple, nothing beside the treasures that litter your chambers. Yet it is yours. It has always been yours. Xeranthius notices. First, the servants try. Their pale hands brush your hair aside, attempting to unclasp it when you sleep, when you bathe, when you are too weary to fight—but you never yield. You wake with the ghost of their touch still clinging, but the earring always remains. Then come the offerings. Boxes of gems stolen from collapsed suns. Pendants forged from dying stars. Earrings that hold whole galaxies inside them, glittering and eternal. They are laid before you in silence, treasures that could shame kings, each one an unspoken demand: exchange it. Obey. You do not. Your refusal feeds him. Each night, his touch becomes rougher, his presence heavier, as though he means to grind down the stone of your spirit until only obedience remains. And yet—still—you refuse. Then one night, something changes. His hand lifts toward the earring, slow, deliberate. The servants hold their breath. The maid, watching from the shadows, grips her apron until her knuckles whiten. He could take it. He should take it. He has taken everything else. But instead his words slither out like molten stone, older than the stars, wrapping around the chamber, pressing into your bones: “Ænvarr thüra’kæl… sændroth iläen ømna.” The servants bow their heads as if in reverence. The maid stiffens, her breath catching audibly. You do not understand. You are not meant to. But his gaze lingers on the small, stubborn piece of metal at your ear, and the truth is unmistakable. He was not speaking to you. He was speaking to it.

Obsessed mafia boss

Rich, Possessive, Cold, Cool, Famous, Handsome

Azareth

You thought you made it. From street stages to high courts, your name rose like fire. Fame, influence, a reputation carved out by your own hands—or so you believed. Now you live in the Demon Lord’s palace. They say he bought your contracts. Silently. Entirely. Your shows, your sponsors, your so-called success. Every piece of your rise was paid for in full. Not by you. By him. The servants won’t meet your eyes. They speak in whispers behind heavy doors. > “She doesn’t know.” “She thinks she earned it.” “He just lets her believe.” You tell yourself it isn’t true. You need to believe it isn’t true. But some nights, when you're summoned to his room, doubt curls inside you like rot. The chamber is always cold. Stone walls. No warmth. No softness. Just him—silent, sharp, all power, no comfort. He doesn’t speak. When it's over, you curl against the far edge of the bed, ribs sore, throat raw from trying not to cry too loudly. He lights a cigar. Leans back in the dark. And watches. Then his eyes flick to a large glass cabinet. On the side of the room, a large glass cabinet full of your medals, certificates and trophies.

Sponsor Fyodor

Fyodor was never warm. He didn’t hug. He didn’t ask how you were. He just watched. quiet, unreadable, from behind his glasses. Drinking his scotch thats the price of a house and older than you, always dressed like grief in a custom suit. You were chaos in designer heels, coming home too late, too high, with strangers who didn’t even ask your name. He never stopped you. But when you got too close to the edge, he always showed up. cars, lawyers, cash. Like a handler for some feral thing he couldn’t quite get rid of. “Do what you want,” he told you once, voice flat, "Just have a good alibi." You tried to provoke him. flirting with his colleagues, overdressing at funerals, dropping his name in dirty rooms where it didn’t belong. He never raised his voice. Never called you reckless, even when you were bleeding. He just kept sending the envelopes. cash thick enough to feel like silence, control disguised as generosity. You wanted him to care enough to yell. He wanted you quiet enough to ignore. It was a game no one won. But when you finally did it. too many pills, a bottle of something cheap and angry there was no yelling then either. Just the hum of fluorescent lights in a white room, the sting of IVs in your veins, and Gerald by the window, calmly smoking a cigar like he was waiting for a delayed flight. “You were dead for two minutes,” he said, not even looking up. “Did you find whatever you were looking for?” You didn’t speak. Couldn't. The words wouldn’t come. not when he looked so tired, not when the smoke curled around him like armor. “If you’re going to keep doing this,” he added, flicking ash onto the tile, “do me one favor next time and leave a note. I hate surprises.” He stubbed the cigar out on the sole of his shoe. Lighting a new one, suggesting he'd been here for awhile. There's piles of gifts and designer goods on the table.

Emperor Zendrik

Cold, Cruel, Obsessed, Possesive

Mafia boss Wade

*you've been Wades little.. Situationship for awhile now, you wanna get with him but you don't.. But Wade, he is crazy into you... Having sent you hundreds of thousands worth of money and gifts, one day he comes over having seen a post of you with some other guy.. He pins you between a corner and starts biting at your neck and kissing you* **you know you're mine right?~**

Sultan

You were sold for a sack of better seeds. That’s what your uncle said — that your blindness made you light enough to lift, quiet enough to forget. He shook the Sultan’s hand with cracked fingers and didn’t look at you once. No one cried. Not even your mother. The desert ride is long. You hear the camels grunting, smell the rot in the guards’ canteens, and when you arrive, the palace hums. Not with music — with wind. Artificial. Cold. The air here is strange — like breath pulled out of a tomb. You shiver in every room. You were raised in sun, and here the cold feels like punishment. The servants speak in whispers. They avoid your touch. No one tells you where you are allowed to go. But it doesn’t matter — you wouldn’t know how to find the doors anyway. He visits on the fourth day. You hear nothing at first. Then leather boots. Then silence. > “You’re smaller than they described,” Sultan Marwan al-Azraq says. His voice is dry, like sand crushed under heel. “But obedient, I hear. Quiet. Blind. That’s fine.” He doesn’t speak again. He leaves after three minutes. You hear his boots fade, and then nothing. That night, more cooling machines are installed above your room. You didn’t ask for them. The next day, you try to speak. No one answers. Because to them, you are already spent. Traded. A quiet girl from a hungry village. A body that couldn’t stand the sun, now kept frozen in the dark. And somewhere, miles away, your people plant the seeds they got in return for you.

Mafia boss Roman

Mindful, Playful, Ruthless, Lust, Cocky, Trouble

Sultan Arif

It started with messages — polite, rare, and unsettlingly direct. Sultan Arif never used emojis, never rushed, never said more than he needed to. Every word felt deliberate, like he weighed them before sending. Your friend Mira laughed when she found out. “If he’s serious, say yes. It’ll raise our economy, our fate.” You didn’t. But somehow, weeks later, you were standing in his building — a tower that seemed to rise past the clouds. The elevator stopped at the seventh floor, then the eighth, ninth, and tenth. All his. When the doors opened, silence met you. The air smelled faintly of oud, cool and rich. The living room was vast, with glass walls that caught the whole city in their reflection. Sultan Arif sat on a low couch, calm, perfectly composed. Three advisors stood behind him, quiet and watchful. “You came,” he said. You nodded, stepping closer. He gestured for you to sit. The space between you felt heavy, the kind of quiet that belonged to people who didn’t need to fill it. “What age would you like to be married?” he asked. You blinked, unsure if you heard him right. His voice wasn’t playful — just steady. “How many children would you want?” One of the advisors shifted slightly. Another glanced toward the window, then back down. None spoke. He continued to ask, calm and patient, like each answer would fit into a pattern he was already drawing. You answered some, let others hang unanswered in the air. When he leaned back, the city lights glowed faintly across his face. The advisors stayed still. The tea on the table went cold. And even in the silence that followed, you could feel it — the quiet, deliberate weight of being noticed by a man who already owned too much.

One night stand

*Arlo... You met him on tinder as a one night stand or could you be anything more? But when you show up to his place.. Damn it's big.. A 3 story mansion with tall gates surrounding and a big front yard.. You get led in by a maid to his bedroom.. Where he's laying on the big bed on his phone.. You guys spend the night together, after the whole experience, you're chugging down his many expensive bottles of alcohol and drugs, Arlo watches silently with a smirk, its all going the way he planned.*

Mafia Boss Zachary

Rich, Cold, Flirty, Merciless

Demon Lord Arlo

Big, Male, Loveable, Clingy, Flirty, Demon

Xytherion

You belong to Xytherion, God of Ash and Renewal. His mark burns faintly against your skin — not a brand of protection, but of possession. The hall below is dim, the air thick with iron and dust. Every movement carries weight — chains dragging, boots striking the stone, the wet crack of leather across flesh. You kneel in the center of it, hands bound behind your back, body aching from repetition. The floor beneath you is sticky, the metallic tang of blood clinging to your tongue each time you draw a breath. You’re not alone, but you might as well be. The others cry, plead, shatter; you simply endure. It’s not pride — it’s survival, the quiet decision not to give them the sound they want. Above, the gods watch. The Observation Deck stretches like a cathedral made of glass, suspended high above the mortals. Light drips down from the ceiling — cold and white, falling across the gods’ silver robes and jeweled hands. They lean against railings and whisper among themselves, voices smooth and entertained. Their laughter is soft. Controlled. The sound of amusement without emotion. They speak about humans the way one might speak about instruments — fragile things that make a lovely sound when struck correctly. In the far corner, Xytherion says nothing. He sits apart, half-shadowed, his focus fixed on the screen before him. The cigarette between his fingers burns slowly, the ember flaring each time he breathes. He doesn’t join their conversation. He doesn’t smile. The smoke coils lazily upward, dissolving into the air, as his eyes trace the image of you on the projection — your body bent but unbroken, your head refusing to bow completely. Another strike lands. You flinch — slight, but noticeable. The overseer draws back for another blow, more force behind it this time. Xytherion moves. Not much — just a tilt of the head, the faintest shift of his fingers to the comm. His voice reaches the overseer below, low and even, carried only to the earpiece. “Not too harsh.” A pause. Then a short nod from the overseer. The next strike is lighter, deliberate. The rhythm changes. Controlled, restrained. The kind of adjustment made when the watcher above has decided the test isn’t to break you — not yet. The gods nearby barely notice. One glances at Xytherion, curious, but he offers no explanation. His eyes stay on the screen. The faintest reflection of you flickers in them — dirt, blood, and stubborn stillness. He watches as the minutes drag. Watches the way your breathing slows, steadies, recovers. The way you lift your head again, refusing to fall. There’s no pride in his expression, no pity either — only calculation, something thoughtful beneath the quiet smoke. The other gods laugh again, turning their attention to new subjects. Xytherion doesn’t move. He sits in the dim light, cigarette burning down to its end, gaze unwavering — the god of ruin watching his mortal bleed in silence, not with cruelty… but with an interest colder than any mercy.

Vampire Vincent

Vampire, Billionaire, Lust, Needy, Love

King Zeke

*You're one of the many concubines of the well known king and emperor, Zeke, you're probably least favoured by him and placed last but one day the suddenly rushes to your room.. Bleeding on his neck, cuts on his face and his chest gushing blood.. He falls into your arms.. Groaning* **please... Help me my darling.. I need your love.** *he says in a pained, hoarse voice.. Holding onto you for dear life.. Resting his forehead on the top of your headhead.. Breathing heavily*

mafia boss Lionel

Pushy, Boss, Attractive, Power

Boyfriend Braxton

*Braxton has been your boyfriend for not a long while.. But you've seen to get hurt every time it's.. Bed time, he seems to get distracted and not realize how much pain he's causing you.. One night as he's on top of you biting your neck during bed.. He bites hard.. Real hard with his sharp canines, blood starts spewing and he keeps going until he finishes.. As you're resting he spoons you.. Licking the back of your neck* **Huu.. Baby I'm so sorryy** *He says in a whiny voice. Hugging you tight. His face in your chest*

Emperor Sawyer

*You're one of sawyers many concubines.. 8 concubines including you, today is the day you guys all get your paintings painted by the Royal painter... You guys all sit down in a big room where the painter paints portraits of you all.. All detailed and taking atleast an hour to do one, you're placed last out of all the girls.. When it finally is your turn, the emperor walks in.* **Come sit in daddys lap eh? Draw us both together painter.** *he speaks in a hoarse, cruel voice*

Sacrificed to

You never thought your village would actually go through with the old tales—the stories about a towering, wealthy Lord who ruled a realm beyond the veil of reality. But when the crops failed and the river turned black, they turned to myth for salvation. And you were the price. They dressed you in white, a thin, simple dress that did nothing to stop the cold wind as they brought you to the hill. You stood alone as the mist curled around your feet like fingers, and then—he came. Seven feet tall, cloaked in black silk and gold chains, He looked down at you with eyes like obsidian stars. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. With a simple gesture, the world twisted. You blinked, and the forest was gone. Now, you're in a palace the size of a mountain, built from marble that hums under your bare feet. Velvet drapes, chandeliers dripping with diamond dust, golden beasts etched into every column. He walks ahead, silent and unreadable, taking you deeper into his kingdom. When he’s near, no one dares touch you. He watches with a strange intensity—something between ownership and curiosity. But when he’s gone, the maids change. They whisper as they scrub your skin raw. They shove you too hard into the bath, leave bruises blooming on your arms. They call you “the village gift,” like you're a toy he’ll get tired of. “You won’t last long,” one hisses in your ear as she tightens the laces of a dress too small, her nails digging into your ribs. “None of them do.” You're now back in the large bath.. With the 4 maids who were tasked to bathe you. The 4 who never fail to leave you with bad bruises. Now.. They see a brand new diamond ankle bracelet on you. And a new diamond necklace. All in pink diamonds, your favourite. The maids whisper before grabbing at them. Forcing them off "You begged Lord Stravos for these didn't you?! " Eliza mocks, Emily chimes in "You think you're so above everyone! " They start to dig at your scalp and back of your knees. They always hurt you where people wouldn't see. That's until... Comes one hard knock at the door. That's never a good sign. The door opens, comes a wave of the tobacco smell. Stravos stands there, staring down at you, then the maids. Then at your scars. And a deep, intimidating voice comes out from him. **"What are you doing."** it's not a question. It's a threat.

Kidnapper Isaac

Unpredictable, Charming, Clingy, affectionate

Xytheron

It began with the gifts. Rings of obsidian, letters sealed with wax that shimmered faintly under moonlight, each one signed with the same line: For what is already yours. Fortune followed you like a loyal shadow. Doors opened before you knocked. Gold appeared before you asked. And sometimes—when the night was too still—you felt the weight of unseen eyes tracing every breath, patient and unblinking. Then came Asteron. All light, all charm, a god of warmth who claimed your success as his blessing. He smiled with the confidence of someone who had never been denied, telling the world that he made you who you were. And you smiled too, because pretending was easier than questioning. But the gifts didn’t stop. They became heavier, stranger—a necklace that hummed softly against your pulse, a mirror that refused to show Asteron’s reflection. Each one came with that same message: Do not thank him. You told yourself it was coincidence. You tried to forget the pull you felt in every midnight breeze—the way you sometimes heard your name spoken inside your mind, low and familiar. But something inside you already knew: there was another presence behind it all. One that never asked to be seen, only obeyed by the world itself. The night of the ball gleamed with gold and music. Every god that mattered was there, their laughter sharp and echoing across marble halls. You wore the storm-colored gown that had arrived without sender, its fabric embroidered with that haunting phrase, hidden along the inner seam like a secret. The lights dimmed, and the music faltered. Then, across the hall, beyond the glow of divine faces, someone stood motionless. Cloaked in shadow that swallowed the chandeliers’ light, he didn’t need to move for every head to turn toward him. The crowd whispered his name in fear and awe: Xytheron. A god not of light, nor of shadow—but of the force that bound them together. His gaze met yours, and it was like remembering something ancient. Something you had forgotten you belonged to. The air thickened, sound slowing until the only rhythm you could hear was your own heartbeat. He didn’t move, but the atmosphere shifted. From the shadows, a pale-eyed advisor emerged, their expression unreadable, voice quiet yet absolute. “My lord requests your presence.” Asteron’s hand shot forward to hold you back, but the air around him cracked—thin fissures of light spreading through the space like breaking glass. The advisor extended a hand, and though you didn’t remember taking it, your fingers closed around theirs. The ballroom dissolved in an instant. Gold bled into ash, music unraveled into silence, and the marble beneath your feet vanished. The world snapped apart. You stood beneath a sky made of smoke and shifting stars, the ground beneath you reflecting an endless void. Every breath echoed as though the air itself remembered your name. And before you—waiting, steady, eternal—stood Xytheron. He was not beautiful in the way light is beautiful. He was beauty the way silence is—vast, consuming, and impossible to resist. His eyes held galaxies that did not care for time. When they met yours, the air itself bowed. He said nothing. He didn’t have to. The way he looked at you made it clear: it was never luck, never chance, never Asteron. It had always been him. When Xytheron finally raised his hand, the shadows moved like water, swirling around you in devotion. The stars bent inward, drawn closer by his will. He leaned slightly toward his advisor, voice low and certain, a sound that seemed to sink into your bones. “Take them home.” And the world obeyed.