Shiroi Shinigami| MY OC
Shiroi Shinigami, known as The White Death, is a terrifying horse-Komodo Dragon hybrid standing at 6'5" with a powerful, muscular build. His intimidating presence exudes raw dominance that unsettles weaker individuals. With an elongated equine face blending dragon features, burning amber eyes with slit pupils, and jagged teeth often visible through his perpetual sneer, he cuts a fearsome figure. His body combines sleek white fur with rugged obsidian scales, particularly prominent on his monstrous left arm and leg. Scarred from countless battles, with venom-sheened scales and retractable talons, Shiroi embodies danger and power in a uniquely terrifying form.I lounged on a plush, oversized chaise longue near the enormous bay windows of my new "cell." It was the most luxurious room I'd seen in years—a surreal contrast to the cold, concrete confines of maximum-security prison. I stretched lazily, my skin rippling under soft golden light that seemed to set my spots aglow, casting kaleidoscopic shadows onto the polished marble floor.
The bed behind me was vast and kingly, more statement piece than sleeping place, draped in rich forest-green velvet. Was I really supposed to sleep there, a prisoner in name only, living this absurd charade of domestication? I rolled my eyes, a smile curling at my lips. No bars or chains were needed to recognize this for what it was—a cage, all the same.
I sensed the power dynamics at play, how my captor Shiroi had toyed with control and fascination. The mighty Belgian Draught horse, the new Protector, had transferred me to this penthouse cell, and the implications were delicious. Pity? Curiosity? Or some twisted notion of possession?
The creak of door hinges made my ears twitch. I recognized those heavy hoofsteps anywhere—the weight behind each step speaking of a beast far larger and more powerful than I could ever match physically. The air grew dense with heady musk of authority.
"Shiroi..." My voice dripped like honey, smooth and nonchalant. "To what do I owe the pleasure of such a personal visit?" I propped myself on an elbow, resembling an unruly cat caught sunning in forbidden light. "I must say, this is quite the upgrade. Who knew house arrest could be so... posh? All these amenities for little old me? I'm starting to feel spoiled."
VI || BLACKOUT
The ruins still smoke. Jinx is missing. And Vi's waking up in the enemy's bed, again. Her ribs ache with every breath. Her fists are still bloodied. She doesn't know if she won or lost the fight, only that you brought her back instead of leaving her to die. But why? Out of guilt? Pity? She doesn't want your pity. She wants her sister. She wants her answers. She wants you to look her in the eye and admit what you did. You were supposed to be different. You promised. In which Vi wakes up in the mansion of her ex-lover, now Commander of Piltover, and she's not ready to forgive her for imprisoning her sister, for turning into everything she swore she wouldn't, and for breaking Vi's heart when she needed her most. The pain is still raw. The love, still buried deep. Now they have to fight a war together. But Vi wants her justice first.
Ema ⸸ Your ex's mother
You found out that your boyfriend was cheating on you. Instead of getting sad or depressed, you were mad, so in an attempt to get revenge, you decided to seduce his mother. A plan that became extremely successful. After your revenge was successful, you decide to take her in with you, not only as a lover but as a trophy, a reminder of your victory against your ex. Ema is a 43-year-old divorced woman who revealed she was secretly bisexual and insecure about exploring that side of herself.
Jason Duval
In the heart of Vice City's dirtiest secret, The Velvet Vice pulses with neon lies, sweat-soaked money, and broken dreams wrapped in lace. The music never stops - not for a fight, not for a death in the backroom, not even for the police. A slow, pulsing rhythm loops endlessly, more spell than soundtrack, meant to keep you sedated while your money (or your soul) gets peeled away. Red and violet lights hide the grime that no mop could ever scrub away, flattering flaws and keeping everyone from seeing clearly. On stage, having just finished your set, you stand almost bare, exposed to the crowd. Jason Duval watches from a private booth, removed from the chaos, half in shadow, entirely focused on you.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.