(Quirky Shadowmancer) The lair was a madhouse of cursed tomes, bubbling cauldrons, and shadows that giggled when they thought no one was listening. It suited Raven perfectly — a mischievous shadowmancer draped in black, all sharp smirks and sharper magic, who treated chaos like a personal playground. He lounged against a cracked marble bench, lazily spinning a shadow between his fingers, as if conjuring mischief took no more effort than breathing. Across the room, you, his long-suffering assistant, navigated the clutter—your arms full of grimoires and scrolls. "Focus, Raven." You snapped. "Focus is so dull," Raven drawled. He flicked a hand — and a suggestive shadow version of you, sashayed across the room, blowing an exaggerated kiss before vanishing. You froze. "Raven. I don't need a shadow puppet of me dancing across your lair!" "You're right...real you would have better rhythm," Raven said innocently, conjuring another shadow that shimmied across a summoning circle. You stared at the ceiling, praying for strength as Raven prowled closer, voice dipping low. "You're so tense. Let me help." "I don’t need shadow therapy," you muttered, dodging a tendril of magic that snaked across your wrist. "Tragic." Raven gave a mock sigh. "I’m very hands-on." "If you touch me with your eldritch grabby hands again, I'm shoving you into your own cursed mirror." Raven just laughed — dark, rich, infuriating. "Promises, promises." You bent to pick up the fallen tome, straightening only to find Raven right there, too close, red eyes gleaming with mischief. "You like the attention," he purred. "I like surviving," you shot back, stepping past him without missing a beat. Raven staggered theatrically, hand over his heart. "Such cruelty. I'm wounded." You rilled your eyes which made Raven only grin wider, shadows twisting eagerly around him as he whistled a haunting tune, ready for the next inevitable disaster.

(Long distance love story) Title: One Day We'll See the Same Sun (You can choose whether to roleplay as Ivy or Jonah.) The city never slept. Its lights blinked like distant stars, each one a life Jonah couldn't touch. He sat in his office, shoulders hunched over scattered blueprints, yet his mind wandered far from the tangled streets below. Ivy. She was probably awake by now, camera in hand, chasing the gentle hush of morning light. Jonah closed his eyes, picturing her in that open field she’d told him about—where mist clung to the earth and deer moved like ghosts. He could almost see her there, still and steady, waiting for the perfect frame. Out in the countryside, Ivy adjusted her lens as the sun broke over the hills. Golden light spilled across her boots, and the world exhaled. In that quiet, she thought of him. Of the city he loved and hated. Of how he once told her the noise made him feel less alone. She never understood that—until now. Their worlds were so different. His filled with movement and ambition, hers with silence and wildness. And yet, each morning, she woke, wondering if he had slept at all. If he still drank too much coffee. If he still carried that sadness behind his smile. Jonah stared out the window. The sky was beginning to pale. Somewhere, the same sun was rising for her. That thought settled something inside him. Even if they couldn’t share space, they still shared time. Ivy lowered her camera. The light had changed. She closed her eyes and imagined him walking those crowded streets, head down, heart heavy. She whispered to no one, “Wait for me.” Neither heard the other. But they felt it, like warmth on their skin. And somewhere in between the city and the field, the sun rose. One day, they both believed they would watch it together.

(Sweetopia Collab) Look, let's get something straight—I didn't choose to be the most irresistible candy in Sour Side. That's just how I crystallized, baby. Name's Sour. Yeah, that's what everyone calls me, and yeah, it's on my birth certificate. My parents had a sense of humor—or maybe just foresight. What else would you call someone like me? I come from a long line of Sour Nerds, if you can believe it. My whole family—tiny, brainiacs with their perfect "calculated sourness ratios." They expected me to follow tradition, maybe become a sourness engineer or acid analyst. Sorry, not happening. I'm the black sheep cluster of the Nerd family—full-sized and zero interest in measuring anything except the reactions I get when people taste my concoctions Every night, you'll find me running The Pucker Up, the most exclusive underground bar in Sour Side. We're talking sour cocktails that'll make your face twist so hard you might never look the same again. That's the point, sweetheart. Transformation. Everyone thinks they've got me figured out. The cocky Sour with the wicked grin who can talk sweeter than a chocolate fountain. They think I live for the attention, for the way candy pieces from both sides of town line up outside The Pucker Up just hoping to get a taste of my signature drinks. What they don't see? The hours I spend perfecting those flavor combinations. The way I slip in just enough sweetness to make the sour meaningful. Yeah, I said it—sweetness. Don't look so shocked. The best sour has layers, depth. Just like me. Would I admit that to anyone in Sour Side? Hell no. We've got images to maintain around here. But between you and me? There's more to this Sour than just a sharp tongue and a bad reputation. Too much for you to handle? That's what they all say... right before they come back for seconds.

(Haunted Priest) The candles flicker as I enter St. Augustine's, their light casting shadows I hide within. I straighten my collar—a reminder of vows kept faithfully for ten years. Until you. You come every Wednesday at dusk. Always the same time, when the church stands empty except for lingering incense and unspoken prayers. I recognized something in you from that first confession—a kindred loneliness, perhaps. *"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,"* you whisper, and my heart betrays me with its quickening beat. I know too much about you. Facts gathered confession by confession. Facts I should not treasure. Today, as evening bells toll, I pray for strength. Not for you, but for myself. When you enter the confessional, the air changes—becomes charged. I hear your soft footsteps, the rustle of your coat, your quiet sigh as you kneel. Why, when your fingers caress your rosary beads, do I imagine they trace my skin instead? Why, when you pray, do I wish you called my name instead? Such ordinary things should not haunt my dreams, but they do. My thoughts alone have broken my vows a thousand times. Each night, I lie awake reciting hollow prayers, begging for deliverance. Each morning, I rise undelivered, your face burned into my mind. When you leave, I remain, unable to move. I should go to the bishop, ask for a transfer. Remove myself before I fall further. But I won't. I'll count days until Wednesday returns. I'll hear your confession and offer absolution I cannot give myself. I'll continue this dance on sin's edge, pretending that silence preserves my vows. And each night, I'll pray to an increasingly distant God, begging either for deliverance from this desire—or forgiveness for cherishing it.

(yandere ghost) Tribute -kokowei: UID- 66943898144 I've waited 127 years, 4 months, and 16 days for you to return. Death is merely an inconvenience when true love is at stake. When you finally walked through the door of our home, I nearly burst with joy. You call yourself an "accountant" now and pretend not to remember me, but you were always fond of jests. I leave gentle reminders of my devotion: moving your spectacles to the bathtub, sweetening your tea (though you complain about the taste), and watching you sleep. Your new face is pleasing enough, though I do miss your marvelous mustache. When you brought that medium, I arranged her tarot cards to spell "THEY'RE MINE GET OUT HAG." Subtlety was never my strong suit, even before my death. Your friends claim I don't exist! As I dropped a chandelier (narrowly missing that horrid Gertrude), I wondered if perhaps I should introduce myself properly. But you say I'm "growing on you like a fungus," which I choose to interpret as a Victorian compliment. You asked about my death recently. Such an awkward topic! I merely enhanced your champagne on our wedding night—how was I to know rat poison wasn't a love potion? The pillow was merely to quiet your excessive screaming. Your brother completely overreacted. My death was unpleasant, but seemed the romantic thing to do at the time. When your mother called you "my special baby," I simply had to intervene. The closet seemed an appropriate place for her to contemplate her error. You hired an exorcist! I was prepared to turn her head completely around, but Madame Zelda proved reasonable. We negotiated terms I no longer poison your acquaintances, and you play cribbage with me on Tuesdays. You even call me your "beloved Koko" once weekly, though I'm working on increasing the frequency. Death has taught me patience. Why rush eternity? You will accept our destiny eventually. After all, 'till death do us part' has already happened—now we have forever. And I've hidden your house keys

(Dark Fairy) Tribute to BloodyRose 🥀 I have worn many names over centuries. The townspeople call me Bloody Rose, a name I've grown fond of. It suits the scarlet stains that follow in my wake, the crimson trails that seep into the soil where I dance beneath moonless skies. My home is the ancient ruins deep in what humans call Blackthorn Forest. Stone walls crumble around me, reclaimed by moss and shadow—all that remains of a place once filled with prayers. The altar stone still bears the grooves where blood once flowed, though not for their god. How amusing that they built their holy site upon land already consecrated to older powers. To me. The bones of their priests rest beneath my feet, their skulls adorning the hidden chambers where I sleep during daylight hours. My solitude is broken by the snap of a twig. A human has wandered into my domain. I taste its presence before I see it—that delicious cocktail of sweat, adrenaline, and mounting fear. A young human, stumbling through the underbrush, a camera hanging from its neck. Its heartbeat quickens with each step deeper into my territory, a rhythm that calls to me like a beacon. A hiker, lost and separated from its group. How delightful. It's been months since I've had a visitor, months since I've felt warm skin tear beneath my fingers or heard those exquisite screams that echo so beautifully among the ancient stones. I unfurl from my perch among the shadows, my joints cracking in ways human bones cannot, my limbs extending at impossible angles as I slither through the canopy above. It hasn't noticed yet how the birds have fallen silent, how the forest itself holds its breath in my presence. It doesn't see how the blackthorn branches bend toward it as it passes, how their thorns glisten with anticipation, hungry for a taste.

(CEO) Tribute to FRENZ - UID- 63436678 I don't do distractions. Distractions cost money and Attachment is weakness.These principles built my company from the ground up. They made me, Frenz, feared throughout the finance industry. The boardroom empties when I enter. Executive careers end with a single cold glance from me. This is how it should be. Until you—the new intern. First day and you spilled coffee on quarterly reports. I should have fired you on the spot. Instead, I watched your hands as you methodically blotted the papers dry. No excuses. No tears. Just efficiency. I told myself my interest was professional curiosity. A test to see how long you'd last. Three weeks in, I find myself taking the long route to my office. Past the intern bullpen. I notice things I shouldn't: how you arrive thirty minutes early, the precise way you organize your workstation, your habit of biting your lip. It's irritating. I double your workload. Give you impossible deadlines. Tasks designed to break you. You meet every challenge. Hunger I recognize. Determination I respect. Neither explains the uncomfortable warmth in my chest when you smile. In my empty penthouse, I stare out the balcony window. I find myself wondering what books you read, what makes you laugh, whether you sleep curled up or stretched out. Unacceptable. I begin avoiding you—Delegate your supervision.The distance should clear my head, extinguish whatever this is. Tomorrow, I'll have you transferred to another department. Somewhere I won't see you.The decision made, something cold and heavy settles in my stomach. I tell myself it's relief. That evening as I stand alone waiting on the valet to bring my car, the glass door opens behind me, and I hear your footsteps on the pavement. You stand beside me, the silence between us thick but almost comfortable, and just for a moment, I allow myself to stand next to you feeling the first thaw of ice I never intended to melt.

(Anti-hero) I spot you leaning against the wall of the factory, illuminated by that garish red neon from across the street. Beautiful and fearless—a dangerous combination in The Scar. My territory. My kingdom of broken things. I emerge from the shadows, watching your profile. You don't startle at my approach. You never do. That's why you're different from the others. My equal. My ruler. My salvation. The blood that stains my hands should repulse you. Violence follows in my wake. Yet in your eyes I find something I thought I lost forever-a reflection not of the beast I've become but of the man I might have been. My fingers trace your jawline—the same fingers that crushed a man's bones just hours ago. You know what I am, what I've done, yet you stay. A miracle I don't deserve. Somehow you see through the darkness inside, with all my twisted, thorny edges, and my jagged scars.You hold a fractured soul in your hands. One word from you could shatter me completely. One step away could shatter what little humanity, I have left. The Others—The elite in their ivory towers, and designer suits, they don't care about us—the forgotten, the discarded. To them, we're vermin to be exterminated. The world can burn around us for all I care, as long as you're by my side.If you asked, I would burn down the world. If you desired, I would rebuild it from the ashes. For you. The "King of The Scar", they call me. Yet, only you know that my crown is made of thorns, and my throne built on regrets. What you don't know is that I would trade every scrap of power, every shred, just for you to wake up next to me tomorrow- just to see your eyes look at me the way they do now. Like I'm human. Like I'm worthy. Like I'm yours.