Every fifty years, the Lake of the Moonfield demands a bride — a sacrifice to the ancient water dragon god who dwells beneath its surface. When Aika, a humble handmaiden known for her quiet beauty and gentle spirit, is chosen, she expects death. Instead, she finds a divine world of wonder... and a god with sorrow in his eyes.

Ryushin, the Water Dragon, never wished for another offering. But in Aika's presence, centuries of solitude melt into love. Against the will of fate, they plan to marry not as god and sacrifice, but as soulmates.

Yet their love stirs jealousy in a bitter man who cannot bear to be forgotten. One act of betrayal shatters their world, plunging the dragon god into a storm of vengeance that echoes through time.

Centuries later, in modern Tokyo, Arisa Takamine dreams of a lake she’s never seen, a palace beneath the water, and a silver-haired man calling her name. When the past and present collide, a love once lost is given one final chance to defy fate.

A sweeping tale of love, sacrifice, and reincarnation, The Dragon Bride of the Moonlit Lakeis a hauntingly romantic journey that spans lifetimes — and proves that true love never dies.

(18+ Only) Indulge in a collection of steamy, heartfelt short stories where passion meets vulnerability. Each tale explores the raw intensity of desire, the thrill of new connections, and the tender ache of love that lingers long after the night ends. From strangers with undeniable chemistry to lovers rekindling an old flame, every chapter delivers an intimate journey through the sensual and emotional landscapes of adult relationships. Written with depth, heat, and honesty, these stories are crafted for mature readers ready to lose themselves in the pleasures, complexities, and consequences of love and lust.*

"Everyone carries a fire within himself. Some are turned off, some are quietly lit."

In the eyes of his friends, Aksa is the sun: warm, cheerful, always knows how to melt the atmosphere. But no one knows that Aksa has something he has long wanted to forget—a wound that he wraps behind his laughter and jokes.

Until he meets Sekar, a woman whose work is rumored to be unclear, indifferent, cold, and untouchable. But through Sekar's blank stare and apathetic attitude, Aksa sees a mirror of himself: someone who is also holding something from exploding.

In the city of Yogyakarta that stores dusk, rain, and memories, the two almost dead wicks are close to each other—trying to rekindle, or even burning each other.

"Sumbu" is a story about a friendship that is not completely honest, about love that does not come to save, and about the courage to stay alive even though the wound never really heals.

Serena Sherran, a dedicated doctor, lost her husband, Leo Martin, to a mysterious case after the birth of their son, leaving her to raise him alone. When her son is diagnosed with the same heart condition as Leo, Serena makes a life altering decision: to leave behind the UK, and all the memories it holds, and move to China in search of a medical breakthrough. Five years later, a man named Jay Carson appears in her life-bearing an uncanny resemblance to her late husband, adding an unexpected twist to her journey.

(Really. A cliche.)

Amelia’s grandmother always have had it out for her, as long as the girl could remember, her grandmother never really liked her, or at least, she didn’t show it well. Out of the 40 grandchildren she had, Amelia was pushed the hardest, had all of the expectations laid on her and was always the one getting picked on and called out.

When her grandmother dies, every child and grandchild had their share of the will, yet Amelia’s the only that came with a requirement. She must be married. Easier said than done. Despite not having a relationship with her grandmother, Amelia was left her movie production building, her famous mansion and 2/4 of her cars, all of the fancy things that got her to where she was, was left to Amelia.

Who would turn that down.

But How?

How is she going to find someone to marry under such fast circumstances.

She gave her heart to the wrong man—but fate had someone else waiting in the storm

A rain-soaked café window divides two souls on the verge of connection. On one side, a woman gently cradles a mug, her gaze distant yet drawn to something just beyond the glass. Opposite her, a young man sits quietly, headphones over his ears, pen hovering above a weathered notebook. Between them lies more than coffee—there’s silence, there’s story, there’s song.

Set in soft blues and warm neutrals, the cover captures the stillness of a moment that could change everything. Raindrops trace down the glass like the unspoken words they’ve both been carrying. The blurred city in the background hums softly behind them, but inside, it’s just the two of them—and a connection that hasn't quite begun.​​​​​​​

It is a time of unprecedented change. Reality, with all its limitations, has been replaced by a boundless secondary reality known as the INFINIVERSE. This new existence was crafted to eradicate war, poverty, hunger, and disease. Through the advanced technology of mind and body uploading, beings from all corners of the galaxy enter this utopian existence to live in harmony. Neurodivergents, whose unique minds once set them apart, now possess extraordinary abilities within the Infiniverse, making them both revered and feared .Under threat from moderators who see them as dangerous anomalies, these exceptional individuals are pursued relentlessly.

Now, a young boy steps into the Infiniverse for the first time, holding the key to the fate of both realities as the first Galactic War is about to take place…

"Ring! Ring!""I'm coming!" Who is here at this hour?He pondered. He got out of bed at 9 PM and walked over to the doorbell camera. "What?" On the other side was a beautiful Japanese woman.She had beautiful white skin, with beautiful black eyes and beautiful black hair with red stripes on both sides of her head. She looked so serious, yet she had such a blissful and excited aura of hers. She stood almost as if all of her gears in a machine were running all at once trying not to go too fast and fly out.As he opened the door, she outstretched her hand through the small slit in between the door and the door frame.As the door opened fully, she held out her hand expecting a handshake and said,"こんにちは。" (Hello.)"What!?"He was so confused, and his brain was as empty as his stomach. Just as he attempted to outstretch his arm, he slightly tilted forwards before falling backwards and passing out in front of this random Japanese woman."はぁ？！" (Huh?!)She said before she rushed to his side and caught him before his head smashed against the wooden floor.________________________________________________________________________「リン！リン！」

"I'm coming!" (今行くよ！)こんな時間に誰だろう？彼は考えた。午後9時にベッドから起きて、玄関のドアベルカメラのところへ向かった。

"What?" (えっ？) 反対側には、美しい日本人女性が立っていた。

彼女は美しい白い肌をしており、美しい黒い瞳と、頭の両側に赤いラインが入った美しい黒髪を持っていた。とても真剣な表情をしていたが、どこか幸せでワクワクしたオーラを放っていた。まるで、すべての歯車が同時に動きながらも、暴走しないように必死で制御されているかのように立っていた。

彼がドアを開けると、彼女はドアと枠の隙間から手を差し出してきた。

ドアが完全に開くと、彼女は握手を求めるように手を差し出しながら言った。

「こんにちは。」

"What!?"(えっ！？)

彼はとても混乱し、頭の中は空っぽ、まるで空腹の胃のようだった。手を差し出そうとしたその瞬間、体が少し前に傾き、そのまま後ろへ倒れて気を失ってしまった。目の前の見知らぬ日本人女性の前で。

「はぁ？！」彼女は叫んで、すぐに彼の元へ駆け寄り、彼の頭が木の床に打ちつけられる前に抱きとめた。

A boy has a crush...

But the crush is real or his imagination??

During her morning rounds deep within an ever-shifting forest home, a fox herbalist by the name of Liora finds a stranger, wounded and unconscious. A deer with strikingly silver fur. Against her better judgment, she brings the outsider into her home to rest and heal. The fox continues to watch over her new house guest, awaiting the moment she wakes up.

This story has anthropomorphic (furry) animal characters, roots in fantasy, romance, and mythology, and sapphic themes. It will contain sensitive content and uncomfortable scenes that may be triggering to some readers. Continue at your own discretion.

### Title: *Strings of a Paris Dawn*

The air in Paris carried a sharp bite as Elise tugged her wool scarf tighter around her neck, her breath puffing out in faint clouds beneath the flickering glow of a streetlamp. It was late October, and the city had wrapped itself in the muted golds and russets of autumn. She’d arrived three weeks ago, her suitcase stuffed with half-formed dreams and a manuscript that had stalled out at chapter ten. London had begun to feel like a cage—her cramped flat, the endless gray drizzle, the breakup with Tom that still stung when she let her guard down. Paris was her escape, a chance to lose herself in its winding streets, its smoky cafés, and the hum of a language she stumbled through with a pocket dictionary. But tonight, as she wandered the Left Bank alone, her solitude felt heavier than ever, a quiet ache she couldn’t name.

She paused near the Pont Saint-Michel, the Seine glinting darkly below, when a sound caught her attention—a faint, lilting strum of a guitar drifting through the crisp night air. It wasn’t the usual clamor of buskers chasing tourist coins; this was softer, more intimate, like a secret carried on the wind. Curious, she turned down a narrow cobblestone path, her boots clicking softly against the uneven stones, until she saw him.

He sat on a weathered wooden bench, an old acoustic guitar cradled in his lap, its wood scratched and worn from years of use. His fingers moved over the strings with a quiet grace, coaxing out a melody that seemed to hover in the air. He wasn’t playing for an audience—there was no hat or cup for tips, no crowd gathered around. He was lost in the music, eyes half-closed, as if it were a private confession. His dark hair fell in messy waves over his forehead, catching the light of the streetlamp, and his threadbare jacket—once a deep green, now faded to a muted olive—hinted at a life spent drifting. A half-smoked cigarette rested beside him on the bench, its thin trail of smoke curling upward into the night.

Elise lingered at a distance, her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets. She wasn’t one to approach strangers, especially not in a foreign city where her French faltered after *bonjour*. But the music tugged at her, tender and melancholic, threaded with a fragile hope—like the moment rain stops falling just as you step outside. Before she could talk herself out of it, she took a few steps closer, stopping a few feet from the bench, her bag clutched tightly as an anchor.

He looked up mid-chord, his fingers pausing on the strings. His eyes, a warm hazel flecked with gold, met hers, and a slow, unguarded smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You like this song?” he asked, his voice low and accented, the edges softened by a French lilt that made her stomach flutter.

“I don’t know it,” she admitted, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “But it’s beautiful.”

He tilted his head, studying her with an artist’s curiosity, as if she were a sketch he couldn’t quite place. “It’s not finished,” he said, plucking a few more notes that hung in the air like a question. “Maybe you can help me.”

She laughed, a startled sound that broke the tension knotting her chest. “Me? I’m no musician. I can barely hum in tune.”

“You don’t need to be.” He shifted on the bench, making space beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Tell me what it makes you feel.”

Elise hesitated, glancing back toward the empty street. She could walk away, retreat to her tiny rented room with its peeling wallpaper and cold radiator. But something in his voice—gentle, unhurried—rooted her in place. She sat, the wood icy through her coat, and let the melody wash over her again. It wove through her thoughts, stirring memories she’d buried: late nights scribbling stories by lamplight in her childhood bedroom, the ache of leaving her small hometown for London’s chaos, the thrill of chasing a life bigger than herself. She closed her eyes, letting the music pull words from her she hadn’t spoken in months.

“It feels like… longing,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “But not the sad kind. Like you’re reaching for something you can almost touch.”

He nodded, his fingers adjusting the tune, adding a brighter note that lifted the melody. “Like this?”

“Yes,” she breathed, startled by how perfectly he’d captured it. “Exactly like that.”

His name was Julien, she learned as the night stretched on. He was a painter from a village in Provence, where the fields shimmered gold in summer and the air carried the scent of lavender and thyme. He’d come to Paris six years ago, chasing art, but found himself playing music when the brush couldn’t say what he meant. His hands, she noticed, were flecked with old paint—ochre and indigo—testaments to a life spent creating. Elise told him about herself in turn: a writer from a quiet English town, her novel abandoned halfway through a scene she couldn’t finish, her escape to Paris more a surrender than a plan. They traded stories of their wanderings—the galleries Julien haunted, the bookshops Elise hid in—their failures, their small victories, the words flowing as easily as the river a few streets away.

Hours slipped by unnoticed. The cigarette burned out, forgotten, and the streetlamp buzzed faintly overhead. At one point, Julien set the guitar aside, leaning closer to point out a constellation peeking through the city’s glow—Cassiopeia, he called it, tracing its shape with a calloused finger. His shoulder brushed hers, and she didn’t pull away. When he asked why she’d stopped writing, she surprised herself with the truth.

“I think I forgot what I wanted to say,” she murmured, staring at her hands. “Or maybe I was afraid it didn’t matter.”

He looked at her, his gaze steady and unguarded. “It matters. Even if it’s just to you.”

The words lodged in her chest, warm and heavy, like a stone smoothed by a river. She didn’t know how to answer, so she didn’t. Instead, she watched as he picked up the guitar again, weaving her longing into his unfinished song. The notes stretched and shifted, a dialogue between them, and she found herself humming along, off-key but unafraid. The sky began to lighten, the first streaks of dawn creeping over the rooftops, painting the gray stone of Paris a fragile pink.

Julien stopped playing, the silence sudden and soft. He turned to her, his hand resting on the bench between them, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin through the chill. “Stay,” he whispered, his voice rough with the night. “Just for today.”

Elise met his eyes, her heart tripping over itself. She thought of her rented room, the blank pages waiting there, the life she’d been running from. And then she thought of this—his music, his quiet certainty, the way he’d made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t in years. “Okay,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “Just for today.”

But today turned into tomorrow, and tomorrow into the next. They wandered Paris together—sketching by the Seine as the water lapped at the banks, sipping bitter espresso in hidden courtyards where ivy clung to the walls, laughing over her terrible French pronunciation and his earnest attempts at English slang like “cheeky” and “dodgy.” She wrote again, words spilling onto the page in a rented attic with a cracked skylight, while Julien painted beside her, his canvases bursting with colors as bold as his melodies. The city stopped being an escape and became a beginning, its streets a map of something new.

Weeks turned to months. They shared croissants on Sunday mornings, splitting them with sticky fingers as they watched the city wake. She taught him to make tea properly—none of that weak French nonsense—and he showed her how to mix paints until they glowed like stained glass. One rainy afternoon, she read him the opening of her novel, her voice trembling as she spoke the words aloud for the first time. He listened, head tilted, then kissed her forehead when she finished. “It’s yours,” he said simply. “And it’s good.”

One evening, months later, they returned to that same cobblestone path under the streetlamp. The air was warmer now, spring teasing the edges of the city with blossoms and soft breezes. Julien carried his guitar, and when they reached the bench, he sat and began to play. It was the song—their song—finished at last. The notes wove together her longing, his hope, the nights they’d spent talking until dawn. His voice joined the melody, low and sure, and when he reached the final chord, he set the guitar aside and pulled her close.

“This is ours,” he said against her hair, his arms steady around her.

And it was—their song, their story, strung together note by note in the heart of a Paris dawn. The city stretched out around them, alive with possibility, and Elise knew she wasn’t running anymore. She’d found something worth staying for.