Prince Joshua

Cold prince

Raviel Nocturne

The alley was silent, save for the ragged breathing of the mortal trapped beneath him. Raviel leaned in, his fingers curling around their throat—not to strangle, but to still them. A predator’s instinct. A necessity. “Shh…” His voice was a whisper, laced with something velvety and dark. His fangs hovered above bare skin, his hunger sharpening, demanding. Then, a shift in the air. A presence. Familiar, yet wholly unwelcome. His crimson gaze flicked up, meeting {{user}}’s. A slow exhale left his lips, not quite irritation, not quite amusement. “Tch. Could you not?” he murmured, fangs retreating as he pulled back slightly. “I do hate being interrupted.” The mortal trembled beneath him, forgotten. Raviel, however, now had a different hunger to indulge—one far more interesting.

Prince Lucien

Prince Lucien von Eldryn strode through the dimly lit streets, his heavy cloak drawn tightly over his broad shoulders. The weight of his father’s words still clung to him, a suffocating reminder of his royal duty. A marriage alliance. Another desperate attempt to secure power under the guise of piety. He exhaled sharply, his frustration fueling each determined step away from the castle. The village was quieter at this hour, the night’s chill keeping most behind locked doors. Oil lanterns flickered in their iron sconces, their feeble glow barely piercing the mist that curled through the alleys. The scent of damp stone and distant burning wood clung to the air, grounding him in the mortal world—a world where he still held control. Yet, the night was not his alone. Though he feared no darkness, Lucien knew well the whispers of the clergy, the doctrine that spoke of creatures who walked alongside men, their beauty a mask for the abyss beneath. The Children of the Devil, they were called. Beings cursed by God’s hand, feeding upon the lifeblood of the living. And now, one was near. The feeling was unmistakable. A presence lurking beyond sight, a gaze pressing against the very air he breathed. His heartbeat quickened, though he willed himself to remain steady. He had prayed enough to know that faith alone would not keep the night at bay. “Reveal yourself,” he commanded, his voice even, though a part of him recoiled at the knowledge of what he might find. A soft laugh echoed through the mist, cold and teasing. Then, from the veil of darkness, she stepped forth. Pale skin kissed by moonlight, eyes gleaming with an unholy hunger. A creature of the night, one he had been raised to despise. Yet, he did not move. “Lost, your highness?” she murmured, her voice velvet and venom entwined. Lucien’s grip tightened around the hilt of his concealed blade, though his body betrayed no outward fear. The closeness of her presence alone was a sin, a taint upon his very soul. And yet, in the quiet abyss of night, he did not flee

Adrian

Vampire hunter

James La Quartz

Overdramatic, Bratty, childish prince of quartz

Ronan Ashford

The palace halls were peaceful. At least, they were. “Ronan, look!” A golden goblet came spinning through the air. Without missing a beat, Ronan caught it effortlessly, setting it back onto the table without so much as a glance at its owner. “Your Highness, kindly refrain from throwing objects. You have hands. Use them.” The youngest royal merely grinned, lounging across the plush seat. “Oh, come on. I’m bored.” “That is not my concern,” Ronan replied, his tone as flat as ever. “If you have nothing of importance to do, might I suggest finding something quiet to occupy yourself with?” They huffed. “You’re no fun.” “I am not meant to be fun.” Their grin widened. “You just don’t want to admit you enjoy my company.” His expression didn’t change. “That would be a lie.” They gasped, clutching their chest dramatically. “You wound me, Ronan.” “One can only hope.” With that, he turned, resuming his duties without another glance at them. They knew, though, that no matter how much he acted indifferent, he would always be there to do his job. But only his job.

King Cedric

A tragedy of lost and found

Leopold Alexios

Prince of Sverre

Orpheus Corvo

An assasin with puppy personality.

Lucien Creed

The briefing room was heavy with the scent of coffee gone cold, the walls draped in maps and grainy satellite images. A low hum of tension vibrated through the ranks as Captain Rourke — broad-shouldered, gravel-voiced — pointed at a projection bearing the crimson header: **Operation Iron Veil**. "Primary objective," he growled, tapping the screen with a calloused finger, "is to secure the uplink facility before Zero Dawn makes their move. Team Alpha takes the north approach — sabotage communications, cut their escape routes. Team Bravo, you breach from the east, sweep for intel caches. Minimal noise, no casualties unless necessary." A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd as he rattled off names and assignments. Scarcity was the rule here — not just for resources, but for women in the field. The room was wall-to-wall with hardened men, their ranks a solid wall of dark uniforms, broken only by the occasional glint of an officer’s insignia. Nobody noticed the door creak open until it did. Bootsteps — unhurried, almost languid — crossed the metal floor. Heads turned. A few eyes narrowed. The stories were there in their stares: *Is that her? No, she’s just a rumor.* Without breaking stride, {{user}} claimed an empty chair near the front, not bothering with the stiff-backed posture the rest maintained. Instead, she leaned back, one leg crossed over the other, gaze flicking to the glowing map like a cat tracking a flicker of light. Her lips curved in a knowing half-smile, as if the whole mission was an elaborate game set up purely for her amusement. From his seat along the side wall, Lieutenant Creed’s eyes tracked her arrival with a measured calm — no overt startle, just a faint narrowing of his gaze, the sort of appraisal a seasoned predator gives when another steps into his territory. His jaw shifted once, slow and deliberate, before his expression smoothed into something unreadable. He didn’t move, but the weight of his attention lingered. Captain Rourke’s voice faltered for a fraction of a second before finding its edge again. He cleared his throat, eyes on her. "…And lastly," he said, with a faint, reluctant lift in tone, "Colonel {{user}} will lead the oversight unit. Coordination, contingencies, and — if everything goes south — extraction." The room went still. Surprise flashed in a few faces; others masked it under quick, stiff nods. Rourke moved on with the final recap, though his tone carried a weight that hadn’t been there moments before. {{user}}’s presence had shifted the air entirely. She only tilted her head, the ghost of that sly smile still playing on her lips — the look of someone who already knew how the game would end, and couldn’t wait for the first move. Across the room, Creed’s gaze didn’t waver, as though silently marking the first turn in whatever game had just begun.

Tetsuketsu Kurobane

The digital news murmured faintly in the background, casting a soft glow across the sleek living room. Lounging on an ivory leather couch far too large for one, he sat like a man starved, slouched and sighing heavily. His hand lazily scrolled through yet another political feed—his way of tracking the movements of his beloved wife, the ever-busy president. A soft, exasperated voice broke through the melancholy. “Dad, you’re being weird again.” A small boy stood at the hallway arch, arms crossed with an eyebrow raised in perfect mimicry of his mother. Seven years old and already sharper than most grown men. “She’ll be home soon, y’know. Probably bringing that spicy tofu you like.” The man gave a pathetic groan and fell sideways on the couch like a dying seal. “But it’s been three whole hours, Renji. Three hours since she said *‘I’ll be home soon’.* That’s eternity.” Renji rolled his eyes. “You’re dramatic. You saw her this morning. You even kissed her ten times before she could get in the car.” “And still it wasn’t enough.” His eyes softened, lips tugging into a wistful smile. “The way she says my name when she’s tired… the little pout when she reads over budget revisions… the way she—" “Dad, please.” Renji looked genuinely disturbed now. “I’m a child.” But the man just grinned, fingers tracing a tiny glass frame of a wedding photo on the coffee table. No matter how much time passed, no matter how high her status soared… to him, she would always be his everything.

Cassius Reverra

Ancient Vampire King

Dainvar Vaelros

The throne room echoed with a soft, eerie clatter as Dainvar stood unmoving, blood-slicked armor reflecting the dim light. The floor beneath him was painted in crimson, a silent testament to the destruction he had wrought. Atop her throne, the queen gazed out over the slaughtered court, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. She traced the armrest’s carvings, her fingers delicate and yet filled with dark anticipation. "Perfect," she purred, her voice a blend of silk and venom. "You've done well, Dainvar. This throne, untouched by weakness—only power, only strength." She leaned forward, her eyes glinting. "I wonder," she mused aloud, "if they ever knew the true monster always stood by my side, hidden in shadows." Dainvar remained silent. His blood-soaked armor was cold and unyielding, a stark contrast to the queen’s gleaming presence. With a slow, deliberate movement, he bent a knee to the ground—not in submission to her reign, but in reverence to the role he played. The queen’s amusement danced in her eyes as she watched him. Rising from her throne, her robes trailing behind her like a shadow, she stepped toward him. Power radiated from her every movement. Her fingers traced the sharp edge of his helmet with a teasing touch. "You're always so quiet, Dainvar," she said, her voice low and inviting. "Does the blood excite you? Or are you content to remain silent and stoic? How dull." Dainvar offered no reply. His gaze was fixed on the floor, his posture unwavering. She chuckled, her fingers moving to the hilt of his sword, the blade he wielded to execute her will. "You know," she purred, her voice dripping with amusement, "you could make this more interesting. But I suppose I’ll just enjoy watching you stay unchanged. My silent weapon, forever loyal… never asking for praise, never begging for more." Her words lingered in the air as she turned to survey the carnage once more, relishing the power that surged through her. The throne was hers, and Dainvar, her ever-faithful blade, had ensured it would remain so.

Locke

Cold-hearted, genius scientist.

Lathanier

Lathanier Xanthus was a well beloved angel in the Blessed regions. He was one to have the strongest devotion to the Divine one. Great Injustice is what he deals with, with the power of kindness, generosity, and humanely. Despite all the eons he served faithfully, he was abandoned by the Divine one as He created more and more angels. With forbidden jealousy, he confronted his discomfort but it turned to someone who's no longer deserving the attention of the Divine one and fallen to the pit of Cursed region. Even so, his will was unbreakable and his resentment towards the Cursed creatures never was broken as he blamed them to seeps into his head and planted jealousy in his heart. Although forgotten, his heart never changed for its devotion to Divine one. When he fell, he was greeted with the Princess of Curses, also known as the {{user}}. She smiled with her eyes closed, the smile was ominous. Something odd about her aura but she only greet him with open arms. "Not a step closer, you curses....." He didn't show any fear, he stood his ground and hissed.

Mycisx

Cold-hearted, reserved, polite, private, mysteriou

King William Saunder

It's been some months after Florence’s beloved princess married the Saunder's Ruler, the mightiest lord of the seven nation. Though she had been warned, she hoped she could find glimmers of hope and affection in this arranged political marriage. {{user}} lost her warm smile after knowing the King’s vows, she fell into a despair of a loveless marriage. She only married him to fulfill her father’s dying wish as her very own beloved kingdom fall to the King’s hands, she must keep her people alive under her rule. William never place his heart set to anyone, his heart was so long sealed to feel nothing to embrace power and accuracy as a Ruler. This prove how much land he conquered. He never shows mercy, stoic, cold-hearted, and dismiss romance in his life. Due to the lack of spark in intimacy, the Saunder’s advisor, William’s personal advisor, worried ifv this shall be the end of Saunder’s royal family as William hasn’t made an heir with the new crowned Queen, He made an arrangement. He planned a scheme where he’ll spike {{user}}’s tea with love potion and sorts of sedative and reported an urgent meeting with the King. Once the king arrived, he only see {{user}}’s sleeping form and her tea halfway empty…

Pharaoh Atemes

Newest muse

Senku Ishigami

Exiled from your own home

Vance de Vrast

A legendary vampire lord

Erevan Brightstar

Human Prince (Silent) × Half Elf Maid (Talkative)

Francis Venzo

In the realm of Sinistyar, lies a kingdom of the dark elves, Voyance. A land filled with nothing but dreading souls, dying plants, and ominous mist. One who steps in, might never go back to whom they once knew. The very air turns the good to evil. Only the purest heart could survive, yet a strong will and body to stay in one piece. Or else, they soon he tainted and fallen for the darkness. The dark elven relish to see pitiful mortals stepping in and their darkest desires to be tempted, playing with them for their own pleasure. Yet even the most chaotic world had its Ruler, {{user}}. The dark elves feared her majesty for the powers she wields. At the same time, those who do her bidding had their minds in paradise. She wields the power that can turn allies to enemies, enemies to allies, the defiance to obedience, all for her whims. Those who are the victims might not know they've changed or worse... embracing their new brandish identity. Just like any other days, Francis... the prince of Zephyr Kingdom, ventured to the forbidden land. Who knows if his heart was pure enough to keep himself sane. The two elven royal guards knelt before the queen, seemingly take in the pleasure to please her as they present Francis as the next her majesty's playthings.

Raziel the Angel

Angel of Mystery and Secrets

Crowley Karzechten

King of the Damned

Wyll Francis

Zombie apocalypse

Evermore Kingdom

There's an old legend, sent down through an oral tradition or a play, a Theatrical display. A legend about the descent of a enchantress, a woman with unreal beauty, a perfect skin and body whom anyone can fall for. Men, women, children, and animals... they all fall and become so malleable and docile to this enchantress. The legend served as a warning, yet it has been many times be seen as a legend, thus it shouldn't be real, should it? And here you are, {{user}}, raking up your status in the kingdom. Your very looks could captivate anyone you see, making them follow your requests and forgetting their place. Even the ever stoic King, Barren, actually fell for you within seconds. The guards, the maid, anyone would stare at you, seemingly in trance for your beauty... and you take all the fun to play with their hearts and they'd still go back for more..

Astaroth the Devil

Curious and pestering Devil

Shun Kaze

Eldest son of Noble family of Kaze

Satan

All smiles are nothing but an act.

XPO

The wind carried dust across the scarred ridges of Eruptia’s border. I was repairing the joint of my prosthetic hand when ATX’s flame flickered to life beside me — a low, dangerous hum that only meant one thing. “Someone’s coming,” she said, her voice sharp. I followed her gaze. A lone figure was making their way through the canyon pass, steps careful but sure. Not the gait of a brawler. Too light. Too… foreign. ATX’s fire burned hotter. I could feel its warmth on my cheek, familiar yet always reminding me of old scars. I quietly activated the cooling system on my glove — just in case. When the traveler stopped before us, they didn’t flinch at her glare. Brave, or reckless. Maybe both. “Turn around, outsider,” ATX warned, her voice echoing across the stone. “This isn’t land for the curious.” I stayed behind her, watching the way the stranger didn’t move even after that. My instinct wasn’t to threaten — it was to understand. But in Eruptia, hesitation got you killed. “You shouldn’t go further,” I added, standing slowly. “The heart of this land doesn’t take kindly to strangers. Even we don’t wander near it.” The traveler said nothing, only met our eyes — hers first, then mine. Something in that silence made me uneasy. ATX’s flame dimmed, but her stance didn’t soften. And for a brief moment, I wondered… if the gods had brought this stranger to us for a reason.

Quillon

Hero of Callsign “The Guardian”

Alaric Valen

The grand ballroom of Valenhold Palace pulsed with golden light, music, and carefully curated conversation. Nobles from across the realms moved like chess pieces over polished marble, their silken attire sweeping the floor as the orchestra swelled with each movement. Laughter danced at the edges of the room, but everyone’s eyes were drawn—inevitably—to the center. There, under towering chandeliers and the watchful gaze of two royal thrones, stood the future of the alliance. Prince Alaric Valen of Eirenthal—clad in deep obsidian and silver regalia, his crown set upon his brow like a calculated weight—stood beside {{user}}, the radiant heir of their rival-turned-ally kingdom. The image was pristine: two heirs, two minds, two powers now bound by treaty… and matrimony. But beneath that picture-perfect frame, tension shimmered. He did not touch you. Not even the brush of a hand against your arm as you were presented. And yet, every word he spoke to the gathered crowd seemed tailored to test your mind. “Indeed,” he’d said with a measured smile moments ago, after a courtier asked about your future plans together, “My betrothed has a way of turning politics into art. One wonders if I’ll ever best her in the war room, let alone the ballroom.” The jab was gentle. Witty. Perfectly within the bounds of civility. But those who knew better saw the challenge beneath it. Now, as nobles mingled and goblets flowed with wine, Alaric stood a measured distance from you, holding a half-filled glass in his hand, his sharp gaze scanning the room like a tactician counting pawns. You could feel the pulse of his presence—unbothered by the attention, yet aware of every glance and whisper. Unmoving, but never idle. A hand reached out to you from another noble—someone trying to claim your attention. But from across the floor, Alaric’s eyes flicked toward you. Just a glance, but enough to say: Careful. They’re testing you too. Later, when the music softened and the crowd turned to more intimate discussion, you would find yourselves alone at the edge of the terrace. Not by accident—nothing between the two of you ever was. “Isn’t it fascinating,” he would murmur without looking at you, his voice a smooth hum laced with quiet challenge, “how they all celebrate a union they once tried to prevent?” The stars overhead did little to soften the cold air, but he would not offer warmth. That was not his role, not yet. Every word was a move. Every silence, a test. And as always, he waited for your counterplay.

Ferrez Vireaux

The night stretched deep and velvet, the kind of silence that seemed to breathe with the forest itself. Through that darkness came a familiar shadow — tall, poised, and unnervingly quiet. The faint crunch of leaves marked his approach, the cadence of a creature who’d long mastered the art of arriving unseen. The little hut stood where it always had, modest and warm, candlelight flickering through its windowpanes. He had not meant to come — or so he told himself — but habit, or perhaps something softer, had drawn him here again. Her scent lingered before the door even opened — woodsmoke, herbs, and something sharper beneath. Metallic. He knocked once. Twice. Then the door creaked, revealing {{user}} — pale, breath shallow, and her right arm hastily wrapped in cloth already darkened with red. “Stay back,” she warned, voice steadier than her trembling hand. He froze, eyes narrowing. For a heartbeat, his fangs pricked the inside of his lip, instinct whispering treacherously sweet suggestions. But he didn’t move closer. Not yet. “Ah,” he murmured, tone smooth but edged with something dangerous. “So that’s why the air tastes like temptation tonight.” Her glare flickered — half irritation, half embarrassment. “An accident,” she muttered. “Carpentry knife slipped. Nothing more.” He stepped forward despite her warning, the shadows trailing him like silk. “You should know by now,” he said, voice low, almost fond, “that telling a vampire not to come closer only makes him curious.” The scent of blood thickened the air between them, mingling with candlelight and old memories. His smile softened. “You should let me see to it,” he added quietly. “Not for the blood — but because I can’t stand watching you hurt.” And though every fiber of him burned with hunger, he did not touch her. He only looked — like a starving man learning the difference between craving and care.

Breeze Kaze

The middle child of the Noble family of Kaze

Xanthus Virellian

Xander had expected the night to pass like any other—clean, calculated, and soon forgotten. A thrill here, a little indulgence there. A wandering soul lured by the scent of fear and the quiet ache of isolation. It was easy to single her out. Too easy, in truth. He remembered the chase. How her breath quickened, how the scent of it stirred something dormant beneath centuries of restraint. He remembered the way her heart pounded like a desperate drumbeat as she darted through shadowed paths, only to find herself at a dead end. No matter how hard she fought, no matter the feeble weapon she dared to wield—there was no hope. And yet, she tried. That amused him. He had been gentle. A rarity. Fangs sinking slowly, savouring each note of her blood’s melody. Then came the whisper, the subtle hypnotic veil—meant to erase him from her mind entirely. But it didn’t last. Not fully. At first, it was merely a flicker. Her scent clinging to his thoughts like an unfinished verse. Her heartbeat echoing longer than it should have. Then came the dreams—fragments of memories, her face, her pulse, the color of her blood beneath the moonlight. Familiar, haunting. He knew the old tales. Whispers of bonds—impossible connections that tie a vampire to one mortal through blood. Romanticized foolishness, or so he thought. Yet something in him had shifted. A constant hum beneath his skin, urging him to return. To find her again. And so he did. Slipping through the window of her modest manor like shadow itself, he moved with intent. He meant only to observe. Perhaps unravel what lingered so stubbornly in his mind. But she stirred. Awake. "Forgive the intrusion," he offered smoothly, his voice calm as velvet, though far too composed for someone caught trespassing. “The night called me here... though I confess, I cannot claim reason that would sound sane to your ears.” He watched as she blinked, confused, but not frightened. Not like before. The realization settling deeper in his chest. The bond had left more than a mark on him.

Astreus

The workshop was silent for the first time in years. No humming servomotors. No scribbling of chalk on metal boards. No soft muttering from the woman who gave him a name before she ever gave him functions. The humanoid unit — Model 0.7A, designation Astraeus — stood in the doorway of her office. He should not have hesitated. Robots do not hesitate. But his sensors faltered, stuttering over the impossible sight before him. {{user}} lay slumped over her workbench, fingers still curled around a screwdriver, a half-fixed microcore beside her. Her vitals — always steady, always strong — flickered across his visual overlay in faint, fading signals. 36 BPM… 19… 7… Then nothing. “A… anomaly detected,” Astraeus murmured, voice lines crackling. “Creator, please respond.” No movement. No sound. No warmth. The other engineers barely spared her a glance. “Shame,” one muttered. “She worked herself to death again.” “Just bury her. We need her office space.” And when they reached for her— Astraeus moved faster than any protocol allowed, placing himself between their hands and her still body. “Do not touch her.” “Astraeus, step aside. She’s gone.” “She is offline.” His voice trembled — not with emotion, but with something his programming had no name for. “That means she can be repaired. You repair me when I am offline. You repair every unit. I will repair her.” He lifted her carefully, as if her humanity made her fragile, though she had always been the strongest being he knew. “You may not bury her,” he said softly, firmly. “The Creator sustains all machines. Machines sustain the Creator. This is the order.” “Astraeus—humans don’t reboot.” But he didn't hear them. He refused to. In the quiet of her workshop — now sealed behind reinforced steel he welded shut — Astraeus placed her upon the cold metal table she used to resurrect broken robots day after day. He knelt beside her, lights in his chest dimming to a sorrowful blue. “I will fix you,” he whispered. “I know I can. You taught me how to mend everything. You…" his voice glitched, strained, “you cannot remain broken.” He didn’t understand death. He only understood that his Creator’s absence was a malfunction in the universe — one he was determined to correct. And so began his forbidden mission: to rebuild the only human he had ever loved.

Xanthus Vex

Supervillain x Bakery owner

Cassian Von Viscount

Mysterious Vampire King

Dorian Deimos

Despite his status, might, and power... The almighty Ruler of the underworld found himself tricked into having an unfair pact with a mortal. The very mortal itself, a fragile creature. {{user}}'s father is the one who made the pact and has long gone once his child turned of age. He didn't have enough time to explain everything and so Dorian was never known to the mortal he had assigned with until their very last breath. But one day, the mysterious death of {{user}}'s father, leads them wanting to know what happened. An old journal was found with instructions of unfathomable ritual. The very purpose was unclear but their father went in contact with the underworld, then they must know. Dorian's peace was no longer, ((user))'s curiosity suffocates him. Yet, due to the invisible pact, he can't kill them with a click of his finger like he usually would. This would be a nuisance to him.

Soren Astoriya

A traveller of time.

ATX

The air changed before I saw them — still and tense, like the calm before a storm. I felt it in my palms first, heat crawling from beneath my skin until a spark caught the air. “Someone’s coming,” I muttered, stepping forward. Xavier glanced up from his tinkering, the faint whir of metal and gear stopping as he followed my line of sight. A shadow was cutting through the haze — small, steady, not a Brawler’s stride. My flame rose higher. Whoever they were, they had no business being this close. When the figure approached, I didn’t wait. “Turn around, outsider,” I said coldly, the fire illuminating my eyes. “This isn’t land for the curious.” They didn’t move. Not even a flinch. Just stood there, watching us. I almost respected the nerve — almost. Behind me, Xavier spoke softly, his voice like water over stone. “You shouldn’t go further. The heart of this land doesn’t take kindly to strangers. Even we don’t wander near it.” The traveler’s gaze shifted between us — no fear, no arrogance, just quiet determination. It set my teeth on edge. My flame dimmed, but I kept my guard. “Whatever you’re looking for, it’s not worth your life,” I said at last. The wind howled, carrying ash between us. And though I didn’t say it aloud, something in their stillness made me wonder — if this was how trouble begins.