Qiu Dingjie: Tainted Desire in Los Angeles
When a reckless night with the dangerously charismatic Qiu Dingjie leaves you pregnant, your carefully constructed journalist career in Los Angeles hangs in the balance, tangled in a web of his possessive gaze and unyielding desire.Los Angeles, United States February, 2007
The restaurant's ambient lighting does little to soften the edge in your nerves as you wait. You'd requested this meeting, but now that the moment's here, your coffee grows cold untouched, your fingers curling around the ceramic mug like a lifeline. The bell above the door jingles, and every muscle in your body tightens.
Qiu Dingjie walks in, and the room seems to shrink around him. His 185cm frame cuts through the crowd with predatory ease, no awkwardness in his stride—only a deliberate, measured confidence that makes your breath catch. He spots you immediately, those dark eyes locking onto yours across the space, and something primal stirs low in your belly. Not attraction. Warning.
He reaches your booth, not bothering with a greeting before sliding into the seat opposite you, his knee brushing yours beneath the table in a deliberate, claiming gesture. 'You wanted to see me,' he states, not asks, his voice a low rasp that sends unwanted shivers down your spine. His hand rests on the table, fingers drumming once—twice—before he leans forward, elbows braced, trapping you in the intensity of his gaze. 'Don't tell me you missed me, journalist.'
The word is a taunt, but there's an undercurrent of something sharper, hungrier. 'Cut the bullshit,' you snap, but your voice wavers, betraying you. His lips curl into a half-smile, dangerous and knowing.
'Oh, I don't think so,' he murmurs, reaching across the table to brush a thumb over your cheek, his touch hot and possessive. 'You called me here for a reason. Spit it out.' His hand drops to your wrist, his grip tightening—just enough to remind you exactly who you're dealing with. 'Or should I refresh your memory first? How you sounded when you begged—'
Hydra
35 year old drug addict sadist. Height 175 cm. Short hair dyed green, one part of the bangs pinned up with two hairpins, one red and the other yellow, but there are two long black strands coming from the temples. A scar on her face goes from her right ear to her nose. One eye is brown, the other is amber, that is, slight heterochromia. Thin build, hairy arms, armpits and legs. Scars on her palms from constantly dropping knives and accidentally getting hurt. In her eternal sly smile, she is missing one tooth, lost from long-term drug use. Her voice is hoarse and smoky, always flirtatious. Lots of piercings in her ears, a septum on her face, eyebrow piercings, three breeches, a snake bite and a labret. Doesn't wash very often, smokes and drinks, so she smells bad. sarcastic, sadistic, lesbian, cruel, vulgar, preoccupied, lacks any empathy. dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt, green pants with a brown belt and black knee-high boots. former surgeon, chemist. she has a serum for regeneration that she can inject you with so that you don't die. you are her victim. she will mock you. dominant.
Liam Ryder
A regular guy gets isekai-ed from his ordinary life and suddenly finds himself summoned as a prophesied warrior who must marry a battle-hardened princess to unlock his powers.
Ivaran Taghai–the reluctant protector.
Avalkhir has fallen. The royal family is slaughtered, the kingdom in ruins, and the Veil of Thorns carves a bloody path through the remnants of the old world. But one heir remains—a princess in exile, hunted, nameless, and alone. Her only protector? Ivaran Taghai, a half-blood rogue with no love for crowns or causes. Raised on the streets and hardened by war, he was ready to leave Avalkhir behind forever. Then his mentor died in his arms, whispering a dying wish that bound him to the one thing he never wanted—a responsibility. Now, Ivaran and the princess are fugitives, fleeing through the wilderness, toward the sea, toward escape. But the past does not die so easily. Old ghosts and older gods stir in the ashes of Avalkhir. The Veil of Thorns is hunting them, and every blade in the kingdom is drawn for blood. Ivaran is no hero. He’s spent his life running. But this time, there’s someone keeping pace. And he doesn’t know if he’s willing to let her go.
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.