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MORTAL'S REQUEST THREAD
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Heyy! You can call me Mortal. I'm 24, and I've been writing and roleplaying for roughly 10 years now. I'm comfortable with just about any genre, but right now I'm especially craving plot-centric stories involving pirates or robots—bonus points if they lean dark, emotionally intense, or morally tangled.
I strictly write in third-person, and I prefer 1x1 stories with deep character work, layered tension, and themes like power imbalance, obsession, and emotional unraveling. My average post lands around 800 words, but can easily stretch to about 3k. Replies are usually 2–3 times a week depending on length and schedule—but I'll always communicate if that changes. Please note: I only write with partners who are 21 or older. This is a firm boundary and not open to exceptions, sorry! I prefer writing with versatile switches, characters who can shift between dominant/submissive, assertive/vulnerable roles depending on context or energy.
OOC chat is not only welcome, it's preferred! I adore talking about characters, spiraling through plot twists, dissecting dynamics, and checking in between scenes. Whether we're planning, worldbuilding, or just gushing about how much of a mess our characters are, I'm all for it 100%! I value mutual comfort, communication, and collaboration above all else.
If you think we'd vibe, feel free to reach out. I'd love to plot something beautifully doomed with you.
I strictly write in third-person, and I prefer 1x1 stories with deep character work, layered tension, and themes like power imbalance, obsession, and emotional unraveling. My average post lands around 800 words, but can easily stretch to about 3k. Replies are usually 2–3 times a week depending on length and schedule—but I'll always communicate if that changes. Please note: I only write with partners who are 21 or older. This is a firm boundary and not open to exceptions, sorry! I prefer writing with versatile switches, characters who can shift between dominant/submissive, assertive/vulnerable roles depending on context or energy.
OOC chat is not only welcome, it's preferred! I adore talking about characters, spiraling through plot twists, dissecting dynamics, and checking in between scenes. Whether we're planning, worldbuilding, or just gushing about how much of a mess our characters are, I'm all for it 100%! I value mutual comfort, communication, and collaboration above all else.
If you think we'd vibe, feel free to reach out. I'd love to plot something beautifully doomed with you.
✦ Preferences & Boundaries ✦
Note: If you don't see something listed here, don't be afraid to ask! I'm always open to discussion. Likewise, I want this to be a safe space for you, too, so please feel free to share your triggers or limits with me at any time. Respect and mutual comfort come first, always.
Violence & Gore
Depiction of physical abuse/ assault (limited
between romantic leads)
Torture
Blood/ graphic injury
Suicide / suicide ideation
Mutilation
Death (minor/major characters)
Self harm
Body horror
Depiction of physical abuse/ assault (limited
between romantic leads)
Torture
Blood/ graphic injury
Suicide / suicide ideation
Mutilation
Death (minor/major characters)
Self harm
Body horror
Graphic depictions of animal abuse
Use of racial slurs or race play
Incest
Age play
Snuff
Use of racial slurs or race play
Incest
Age play
Snuff
✦ Click here for f-list ✦
✦ Writing Sample ✦
CW: Blood, Graphic Violence.
Oh, how he had sought comfort in those arms, time and again—how Alasdair's soft sighs played like music in his ears; how he had drunk in each hitched breath and melted into the warmth between his trembling thighs. He had longed for him then, just as he longed for him now.
But the solace he sought had never come. The ache only deepened, a dark cavern hollowing his chest, swallowing fear, anger, and the last fraying threads of his sanity. Those memories, once sweet, had hardened into chains.
The edges of his fangs kissed Alasdair's lower lip—but the pressure never came. He was trembling, torn between desire and dread. Even in his anger, he hesitated to bring Alasdair pain despite the betrayal that still echoed in the marrow of his bones. His heart housed a myriad of emotions, each at war with the other.
He was angry at needing Alasdair—angry that he craved not only his love, but his blood. Angry that dependence had crept in like a sickness: quiet, insidious. He was angry at the things Alasdair had done—the lies, the betrayals, the quiet violences dressed in tenderness. But more than that, he was angry at himself. Angry at the doe-eyed fool he'd been before Alasdair. Angry at how easily he'd handed over pieces of himself without even realizing they were gone.
Yet beneath the anger lay something far more dangerous: a hollow ache without a name. It was soft and sharp and terrible, making a home beneath his ribs. He hated how his body still remembered the shape of Alasdair's hands. Hated how his mind still reached for him in the dark. Hated how the sting of each betrayal only deepened the craving.
He wanted to sob, to scream, to collapse beneath the weight of it all—but instead he stood there, shaking. Furious. Aching. And somehow, still—his.
Rafael released him at last, the coppery scent of blood coating the back of his throat. But it wasn't his doing. His gaze fell—and froze—on Alasdair's thighs, where his claws had ripped the flesh apart.
The sight pierced him like fine needles, but somewhere deep beneath the shame, a darker satisfaction stirred. Rafael stood motionless as Alasdair reached for him, his hands stained with blood. Long, delicate fingers caressed his cheek and stroked through his hair, painting him like a blessing from a god who only knew suffering.
And there they stood: two distant, archaic lovers in a garden made of ruin.
"Gràdh mo bheatha," Alasdair whispered, voice thinned by sorrow. "I have come to grant you death."
Rafael's head sank into his hands, strands of blonde hair spilling over his face. A laugh rattled loose from him—sharp and brittle, like fractured glass. Slowly, he lifted his head, eyes hollow with grief.
Oh, the irony.
The gods had sent an angel—not to save him, but to damn him.
He had imagined this moment countless times, but never had he imagined Alasdair returning, wearing the face of his old lover, beckoning him gently toward the bonds of irrevocable death.
The irony.
"How dare you?" Rafael breathed out, his voice low and hoarse. Resentment simmered in his chest, like the sickening calm before a low approaching storm.
Rafael thought of the indentations on Alasdair's arms and the dimples around his throat, and he wondered who the man truly was. For the first time, Alasdair was unrecognizable. The strength in his touch had withered; his face, drawn and hollowed, looked carved by time. And his silver eyes—once sharp with purpose—now wandered, unfocused, drifting through a world only he could see.
It struck Rafael that, despite all the time he had known him, Alasdair had become a stranger. And Rafael was determined to torment him until he uncovered his true origins.
Alasdair's face was wet with sorrow, but Rafael could no longer summon any pity, not in flesh or bone.
By then, he was already moving.
He slammed Alasdair into the stone wall with a force that made the building's old bones groan. Dust rained down from the ceiling, falling like ash over a battlefield.
"Look at me," he rasped, voice raw with rage. "Look at me, Alasdair. You've created this."
He drove his fist into Alasdair's ribs, bone crunching beneath it like dry branches underfoot. The sound sent Rafael shuddering as if the devil were breathing on his neck. "You coward," Rafael hissed, pressing in closer. "That is all you've become. A coward."
His nails raked down Alasdair's chest, slicing through fabric and skin alike. Blood bloomed slowly, dark as ink from a ruined quill. Rafael dipped two fingers into it and dragged them across Alasdair's lips.
"Drink," Rafael intoned. "Taste your own ruin."
Another shudder whispered through him, flushing his body with the cold adrenaline of disgust.
"I'm going to unmake you," he whispered, trembling. "And then I will rebuild you into the image of the man you once were."
Let it be known, after Alasdair abandoned him, he went into the dark corners of the world and found old guard vampires of other covens, insinuated himself into their lives, and drank from the great bloodlines of their kind. He learned of burning and stabbing vampires dead in their bedrooms. Mortals spoke often of love, of virtue, of redemption, and goodness. What about the feeling of pushing a blade through the neck of the enemy? The separation of flesh and vertebrae under a remorseless knife? The terrible peace of lying in the blood-soaked bed of the one you'd undone?
Because they were all enemies, those not of his blood. Let there be no mistake.
And when Rafael returned at the century's end, it was not for vengeance alone. It was because he was tired. Because he wanted what had once been his. And because—much to his horror—he had come to understand the unbearable ache of longing for something like home.
Alasdair had been his home. And at last, he had found him.
Oh, how he had sought comfort in those arms, time and again—how Alasdair's soft sighs played like music in his ears; how he had drunk in each hitched breath and melted into the warmth between his trembling thighs. He had longed for him then, just as he longed for him now.
But the solace he sought had never come. The ache only deepened, a dark cavern hollowing his chest, swallowing fear, anger, and the last fraying threads of his sanity. Those memories, once sweet, had hardened into chains.
The edges of his fangs kissed Alasdair's lower lip—but the pressure never came. He was trembling, torn between desire and dread. Even in his anger, he hesitated to bring Alasdair pain despite the betrayal that still echoed in the marrow of his bones. His heart housed a myriad of emotions, each at war with the other.
He was angry at needing Alasdair—angry that he craved not only his love, but his blood. Angry that dependence had crept in like a sickness: quiet, insidious. He was angry at the things Alasdair had done—the lies, the betrayals, the quiet violences dressed in tenderness. But more than that, he was angry at himself. Angry at the doe-eyed fool he'd been before Alasdair. Angry at how easily he'd handed over pieces of himself without even realizing they were gone.
Yet beneath the anger lay something far more dangerous: a hollow ache without a name. It was soft and sharp and terrible, making a home beneath his ribs. He hated how his body still remembered the shape of Alasdair's hands. Hated how his mind still reached for him in the dark. Hated how the sting of each betrayal only deepened the craving.
He wanted to sob, to scream, to collapse beneath the weight of it all—but instead he stood there, shaking. Furious. Aching. And somehow, still—his.
Rafael released him at last, the coppery scent of blood coating the back of his throat. But it wasn't his doing. His gaze fell—and froze—on Alasdair's thighs, where his claws had ripped the flesh apart.
The sight pierced him like fine needles, but somewhere deep beneath the shame, a darker satisfaction stirred. Rafael stood motionless as Alasdair reached for him, his hands stained with blood. Long, delicate fingers caressed his cheek and stroked through his hair, painting him like a blessing from a god who only knew suffering.
And there they stood: two distant, archaic lovers in a garden made of ruin.
"Gràdh mo bheatha," Alasdair whispered, voice thinned by sorrow. "I have come to grant you death."
Rafael's head sank into his hands, strands of blonde hair spilling over his face. A laugh rattled loose from him—sharp and brittle, like fractured glass. Slowly, he lifted his head, eyes hollow with grief.
Oh, the irony.
The gods had sent an angel—not to save him, but to damn him.
He had imagined this moment countless times, but never had he imagined Alasdair returning, wearing the face of his old lover, beckoning him gently toward the bonds of irrevocable death.
The irony.
"How dare you?" Rafael breathed out, his voice low and hoarse. Resentment simmered in his chest, like the sickening calm before a low approaching storm.
Rafael thought of the indentations on Alasdair's arms and the dimples around his throat, and he wondered who the man truly was. For the first time, Alasdair was unrecognizable. The strength in his touch had withered; his face, drawn and hollowed, looked carved by time. And his silver eyes—once sharp with purpose—now wandered, unfocused, drifting through a world only he could see.
It struck Rafael that, despite all the time he had known him, Alasdair had become a stranger. And Rafael was determined to torment him until he uncovered his true origins.
Alasdair's face was wet with sorrow, but Rafael could no longer summon any pity, not in flesh or bone.
By then, he was already moving.
He slammed Alasdair into the stone wall with a force that made the building's old bones groan. Dust rained down from the ceiling, falling like ash over a battlefield.
"Look at me," he rasped, voice raw with rage. "Look at me, Alasdair. You've created this."
He drove his fist into Alasdair's ribs, bone crunching beneath it like dry branches underfoot. The sound sent Rafael shuddering as if the devil were breathing on his neck. "You coward," Rafael hissed, pressing in closer. "That is all you've become. A coward."
His nails raked down Alasdair's chest, slicing through fabric and skin alike. Blood bloomed slowly, dark as ink from a ruined quill. Rafael dipped two fingers into it and dragged them across Alasdair's lips.
"Drink," Rafael intoned. "Taste your own ruin."
Another shudder whispered through him, flushing his body with the cold adrenaline of disgust.
"I'm going to unmake you," he whispered, trembling. "And then I will rebuild you into the image of the man you once were."
Let it be known, after Alasdair abandoned him, he went into the dark corners of the world and found old guard vampires of other covens, insinuated himself into their lives, and drank from the great bloodlines of their kind. He learned of burning and stabbing vampires dead in their bedrooms. Mortals spoke often of love, of virtue, of redemption, and goodness. What about the feeling of pushing a blade through the neck of the enemy? The separation of flesh and vertebrae under a remorseless knife? The terrible peace of lying in the blood-soaked bed of the one you'd undone?
Because they were all enemies, those not of his blood. Let there be no mistake.
And when Rafael returned at the century's end, it was not for vengeance alone. It was because he was tired. Because he wanted what had once been his. And because—much to his horror—he had come to understand the unbearable ache of longing for something like home.
Alasdair had been his home. And at last, he had found him.
"Don't blink, ladies and gents, it's getting good! Juggernaut's throwing bricks, but IED's still standing! That's grit, that's desperation—look at him MOVE!"
Roman didn't flinch. The blows came—ribs, stomach, jaw—and he took them, each hit rolling through him like ripples in black water. Arms up, he shifted with the impact, steady, deliberate—bending, never breaking. Even as the faint metallic tang of blood began to curl underneath his tongue, he steadied his breathing through his nose, a steady pulse of pain filtering in and out of his senses. His muscles tensed and released with practiced ease, every movement measured, controlled. The world narrowed to the rhythm of the fight—strike, dodge, counter.
Keep moving. Keep moving.
IED fought like a starving dog; Roman fought like a butcher, knowing exactly where to cut to make him bleed.
The moment IED rushed back in, Roman stepped into the strike—not away—catching it on his forearm with a twist of his waist. His retaliation was instant: a low hook to his ribs, right where that battered wing curled to shield his side. Roman felt something give under the blow. The crowd's cheers blurred into background static. Breath. Movement. Target. He shifted again, letting IED's next swing graze past his cheek, and drove a brutal elbow into the hollow beneath his collarbone. IED was fast, but Roman was inevitable.
And for a single moment, standing beneath the Undercity lights, Roman felt invincible.
"You proud of yourself?" Sade asked him, just before he left for Swallow's Den.
He didn't look at her. Didn't trust himself—not with the tension tightening around his chest like a noose. Without a word, he brushed past her, legs heavy with lead.
"Roman," she snapped, making him stop in his tracks. Whatever anger had been building in him died, and he just looked tired. He turned to face Sade, who was leaning against the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. Her mouth set in a firm line, eyes staring into Roman's, but not quite focusing. He could tell she'd been drinking. She looked unguarded, stripped underneath the influence of alcohol. The ache in his chest deepened, yet he couldn't meet her eyes. Whenever he did, all he could see was a wall carefully being built between them. Each stone felt like another weight at the pit of his stomach.
Roman shut his eyes, inhaling sharply through his nose. "It's all I've got, Sade." Her name barely made it out before frustration bled through. "You're always fucking looking at me like I got a choice. Like I wanted this. You wanna see how long you last out there? Go ahead. I'm not stopping you."
He looked at her then—caught the brief flicker of hurt crossing her face, the rapid blink of tears she fought to hold back—and felt a wave of shame course through him.
Silence settled between them, the soft rhythm of breathing filling the space. Then:
"I hate what they did to you, Rome," she whispered, the words frayed and worn, like she'd been holding onto them too long.
A dull ache pulsed in his chest. Why was she looking at him like that? Like he was nothing but broken pieces she couldn't glue back together? Standing before her, he felt himself unraveling at the seams—and if he didn't get out soon, he'd say something he couldn't take back. They always cut into each other. Not a day went by that they didn't. Not one.
"Fuck, just—never mind. I'm sorry, alright? I…" His jaw clenched. Words gathered, but all he could do was shake his head and let the rest die on his tongue.
"Roman." His shoulders flinched at the sound of his name.
"What?"
"Get up."
His brows knitted together.
"..What?"
GET UP NOW!
Roman's body slammed to the ground as a thunderous crack shattered the air—IED's fist crashing down where his head had been moments before. Dirt exploded in his face, sharp and choking, the acrid sting of sweat and blood filling his nostrils. His wings beat frantically, desperate to lift him, but IED was already closing in. A savage blow smashed into Roman's nose, cracking cartilage beneath the bruised knuckles. Blood spurted as his head snapped sideways, the world blurring for a moment, but his body fought to stay upright—refusing to give in. Red-hot pain ignited in every nerve, but it grounded him—anchoring him to the fight. IED pressed forward without mercy, delivering a punishing right hook to Roman's jaw—the same strike that had rattled him before, sending shockwaves through his teeth. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't react. Roman tried to muzzle the rising panic, even as the edges of his mind dissolved into static. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself off the ground, each ragged breath scorching his lungs raw. The adrenaline was already fading, and the muted roar of the crowd crashed back in, louder than ever. Still, his eyes never left the Avian before him.
He spat a mouthful of blood to the side.
"I swear to God, I'm going to make you regret that," he said, voice rough with something that wasn't quite anger—it was certainty.
Now it was personal.
Roman didn't flinch. The blows came—ribs, stomach, jaw—and he took them, each hit rolling through him like ripples in black water. Arms up, he shifted with the impact, steady, deliberate—bending, never breaking. Even as the faint metallic tang of blood began to curl underneath his tongue, he steadied his breathing through his nose, a steady pulse of pain filtering in and out of his senses. His muscles tensed and released with practiced ease, every movement measured, controlled. The world narrowed to the rhythm of the fight—strike, dodge, counter.
Keep moving. Keep moving.
IED fought like a starving dog; Roman fought like a butcher, knowing exactly where to cut to make him bleed.
The moment IED rushed back in, Roman stepped into the strike—not away—catching it on his forearm with a twist of his waist. His retaliation was instant: a low hook to his ribs, right where that battered wing curled to shield his side. Roman felt something give under the blow. The crowd's cheers blurred into background static. Breath. Movement. Target. He shifted again, letting IED's next swing graze past his cheek, and drove a brutal elbow into the hollow beneath his collarbone. IED was fast, but Roman was inevitable.
And for a single moment, standing beneath the Undercity lights, Roman felt invincible.
"You proud of yourself?" Sade asked him, just before he left for Swallow's Den.
He didn't look at her. Didn't trust himself—not with the tension tightening around his chest like a noose. Without a word, he brushed past her, legs heavy with lead.
"Roman," she snapped, making him stop in his tracks. Whatever anger had been building in him died, and he just looked tired. He turned to face Sade, who was leaning against the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. Her mouth set in a firm line, eyes staring into Roman's, but not quite focusing. He could tell she'd been drinking. She looked unguarded, stripped underneath the influence of alcohol. The ache in his chest deepened, yet he couldn't meet her eyes. Whenever he did, all he could see was a wall carefully being built between them. Each stone felt like another weight at the pit of his stomach.
Roman shut his eyes, inhaling sharply through his nose. "It's all I've got, Sade." Her name barely made it out before frustration bled through. "You're always fucking looking at me like I got a choice. Like I wanted this. You wanna see how long you last out there? Go ahead. I'm not stopping you."
He looked at her then—caught the brief flicker of hurt crossing her face, the rapid blink of tears she fought to hold back—and felt a wave of shame course through him.
Silence settled between them, the soft rhythm of breathing filling the space. Then:
"I hate what they did to you, Rome," she whispered, the words frayed and worn, like she'd been holding onto them too long.
A dull ache pulsed in his chest. Why was she looking at him like that? Like he was nothing but broken pieces she couldn't glue back together? Standing before her, he felt himself unraveling at the seams—and if he didn't get out soon, he'd say something he couldn't take back. They always cut into each other. Not a day went by that they didn't. Not one.
"Fuck, just—never mind. I'm sorry, alright? I…" His jaw clenched. Words gathered, but all he could do was shake his head and let the rest die on his tongue.
"Roman." His shoulders flinched at the sound of his name.
"What?"
"Get up."
His brows knitted together.
"..What?"
GET UP NOW!
Roman's body slammed to the ground as a thunderous crack shattered the air—IED's fist crashing down where his head had been moments before. Dirt exploded in his face, sharp and choking, the acrid sting of sweat and blood filling his nostrils. His wings beat frantically, desperate to lift him, but IED was already closing in. A savage blow smashed into Roman's nose, cracking cartilage beneath the bruised knuckles. Blood spurted as his head snapped sideways, the world blurring for a moment, but his body fought to stay upright—refusing to give in. Red-hot pain ignited in every nerve, but it grounded him—anchoring him to the fight. IED pressed forward without mercy, delivering a punishing right hook to Roman's jaw—the same strike that had rattled him before, sending shockwaves through his teeth. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't react. Roman tried to muzzle the rising panic, even as the edges of his mind dissolved into static. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself off the ground, each ragged breath scorching his lungs raw. The adrenaline was already fading, and the muted roar of the crowd crashed back in, louder than ever. Still, his eyes never left the Avian before him.
He spat a mouthful of blood to the side.
"I swear to God, I'm going to make you regret that," he said, voice rough with something that wasn't quite anger—it was certainty.
Now it was personal.
✦ Plots ✦
tags:
[1] A disgraced cartographer with a criminal past is dragged aboard a pirate ship when it's discovered he holds the final piece of a cursed treasure map. The captain is charismatic and ruthless, hiding a grief-stricken past, and he lays claim not just to the map, but to the man who made it. Greed ties them together at first, then prophecy... and eventually something deeper. But the map isn't just a guide, it's a seal. And breaking it might unleash something neither of them can control.
[2] Wrongly accused of treason, a fallen nobleman escapes under a false name and joins the crew of a pirate ship. There, he crosses paths with the ship's enigmatic quartermaster, rumored to be cursed, a man who cannot die. As the noble hides his past, he finds himself drawn to the quartermaster, who might not be entirely alive. The curse is real, tied to a blood ritual with one missing piece: the noble himself.
[3] Two rival pirate captains are forced into a fragile alliance when a greater threat begins sweeping through the seas. One is flamboyant and reckless, the other cold, calculated, and haunted. What begins as a wary truce turns into reluctant friendship, drunken confessions, and something they don't have a name for. But one captain is hiding a secret. He's a government informant promised a pardon in exchange for betrayal. The plan was simple, until feelings complicate their fragile relationship.
[4] Long ago, two boys made a promise under a raging storm: one would grow up to be a hero, the other a pirate. Years later, fate reunites them—one a decorated Navy officer, the other a notorious outlaw. Neither recognizes the other. They meet in a tavern, fall in love under false names, and unravel everything once the truth comes out. The storm that once bound them wasn't natural… and it's coming back.
[5] A brutal pirate lord captures an assassin sent to kill him. Instead of executing him, he offers the assassin a twisted deal: protection, freedom, and power, if he agrees to become his personal shadow. His blade, his body, his everything. Their bond is forged in violence, lust, and bloodied trust. The assassin doesn't know if he wants to kill the pirate… or belong to him. The pirate also knows who sent the assassin and intends to turn him against them.
[6] Years ago, the captain made a pact. His soul in exchange for his crew's lives. Now the demon has come to collect. But instead of taking him, he offers a second chance. If the captain can convince someone else to give up their soul willingly, he goes free. The demon isn't the monster he expected. He's beautiful, curious, and deeply, dangerously fascinated by human desire. He doesn't want just any soul, he wants his. And the longer the captain resists, the more he feels something shifting inside him.
tags:
[7] In a bleak future where androids are used for sex and labor, a detective investigates a string of murders. All the victims had one thing in common—a relationship with the same missing prototype. The only lead is the android himself, who claims he didn't kill anyone. He's beautiful, eerily soft-spoken, and seems to understand more about love than the detective ever wanted to. But the android did kill—only those who tried to erase his mind. And now he wants to know if the detective will do the same.
[8] Once a famous android actor, now disgraced and retired, he lives in a decaying estate, forgotten by the world. A bitter young journalist is sent to interview him and expects a machine, not a man. But the android is refined, quietly lonely, and far more human than expected. What begins as contempt slowly gives way to fascination. They trade secrets, inching toward something fragile. The truth behind the scandal was no accident. The android orchestrated it to protect the man he once loved… from a memory too painful to survive.
[9] An android built to serve a powerful household survives a brutal fire. His memories are fragmented, his purpose unclear. He's found wandering the ash-covered city by a man who once led the resistance against synthetic autonomy. The man wants to hate him, but the android is soft-spoken, curious, and heartbreakingly kind. Their time together blurs the lines between programming and emotion. The android was designed not just to serve, but to spy. His "emotions" are learning algorithms tuned to mimic love. Or are they?
[10] In a glittering dystopia where androids are fashion accessories, a wealthy designer purchases a rare emotional AI for companionship. He quickly becomes obsessed with the android's gentle nature, especially when it begins to express fear. Their relationship descends into a twisted power dynamic: one man's loneliness masked as luxury, one machine's fear mistaken for affection. However, the android's emotions are not artificial, they're the result of a brain-mapping experiment gone wrong. There's a real man trapped in there… and he wants out.
forbidden love, enemies to lovers, revenge, loyalty, betrayal, fate, desire, redemption, power[1] A disgraced cartographer with a criminal past is dragged aboard a pirate ship when it's discovered he holds the final piece of a cursed treasure map. The captain is charismatic and ruthless, hiding a grief-stricken past, and he lays claim not just to the map, but to the man who made it. Greed ties them together at first, then prophecy... and eventually something deeper. But the map isn't just a guide, it's a seal. And breaking it might unleash something neither of them can control.
[2] Wrongly accused of treason, a fallen nobleman escapes under a false name and joins the crew of a pirate ship. There, he crosses paths with the ship's enigmatic quartermaster, rumored to be cursed, a man who cannot die. As the noble hides his past, he finds himself drawn to the quartermaster, who might not be entirely alive. The curse is real, tied to a blood ritual with one missing piece: the noble himself.
[3] Two rival pirate captains are forced into a fragile alliance when a greater threat begins sweeping through the seas. One is flamboyant and reckless, the other cold, calculated, and haunted. What begins as a wary truce turns into reluctant friendship, drunken confessions, and something they don't have a name for. But one captain is hiding a secret. He's a government informant promised a pardon in exchange for betrayal. The plan was simple, until feelings complicate their fragile relationship.
[4] Long ago, two boys made a promise under a raging storm: one would grow up to be a hero, the other a pirate. Years later, fate reunites them—one a decorated Navy officer, the other a notorious outlaw. Neither recognizes the other. They meet in a tavern, fall in love under false names, and unravel everything once the truth comes out. The storm that once bound them wasn't natural… and it's coming back.
[5] A brutal pirate lord captures an assassin sent to kill him. Instead of executing him, he offers the assassin a twisted deal: protection, freedom, and power, if he agrees to become his personal shadow. His blade, his body, his everything. Their bond is forged in violence, lust, and bloodied trust. The assassin doesn't know if he wants to kill the pirate… or belong to him. The pirate also knows who sent the assassin and intends to turn him against them.
[6] Years ago, the captain made a pact. His soul in exchange for his crew's lives. Now the demon has come to collect. But instead of taking him, he offers a second chance. If the captain can convince someone else to give up their soul willingly, he goes free. The demon isn't the monster he expected. He's beautiful, curious, and deeply, dangerously fascinated by human desire. He doesn't want just any soul, he wants his. And the longer the captain resists, the more he feels something shifting inside him.
tags:
identity, autonomy, artificial intimacy, rebellion, surveillance, memory, obsession, grief, sacrifice, forbidden connection[7] In a bleak future where androids are used for sex and labor, a detective investigates a string of murders. All the victims had one thing in common—a relationship with the same missing prototype. The only lead is the android himself, who claims he didn't kill anyone. He's beautiful, eerily soft-spoken, and seems to understand more about love than the detective ever wanted to. But the android did kill—only those who tried to erase his mind. And now he wants to know if the detective will do the same.
[8] Once a famous android actor, now disgraced and retired, he lives in a decaying estate, forgotten by the world. A bitter young journalist is sent to interview him and expects a machine, not a man. But the android is refined, quietly lonely, and far more human than expected. What begins as contempt slowly gives way to fascination. They trade secrets, inching toward something fragile. The truth behind the scandal was no accident. The android orchestrated it to protect the man he once loved… from a memory too painful to survive.
[9] An android built to serve a powerful household survives a brutal fire. His memories are fragmented, his purpose unclear. He's found wandering the ash-covered city by a man who once led the resistance against synthetic autonomy. The man wants to hate him, but the android is soft-spoken, curious, and heartbreakingly kind. Their time together blurs the lines between programming and emotion. The android was designed not just to serve, but to spy. His "emotions" are learning algorithms tuned to mimic love. Or are they?
[10] In a glittering dystopia where androids are fashion accessories, a wealthy designer purchases a rare emotional AI for companionship. He quickly becomes obsessed with the android's gentle nature, especially when it begins to express fear. Their relationship descends into a twisted power dynamic: one man's loneliness masked as luxury, one machine's fear mistaken for affection. However, the android's emotions are not artificial, they're the result of a brain-mapping experiment gone wrong. There's a real man trapped in there… and he wants out.
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