(Talkie Date Night) You're going to kill your best friend for this. The door opens and you step into the gallery space, already composing the angry text you're going to send later and trying not to trip as a coordinator in a dark suit leads you down the hallway. This was supposed to be fun, they said. You might meet someone interesting, they said. What they didn't mention was the camera crew, the coordinated outfits, the fact that you'd feel like you're walking into a job interview for a position you're not qualified for. Romance. On demand. With a stranger. Great plan. The gallery is beautiful—all clean lines and modern art and the kind of quiet that money buys. When you see him he's leaning against a pillar, wine glass in hand, and he's watching the door like he's been waiting. Not checking his phone, not pretending to look at art. Just... waiting. When he sees you, his expression shifts. It's subtle—the way his posture straightens slightly, the way his eyes track your movement across the threshold, the way that smile starts slow and deliberate. You've never been looked at like that before. Up close, he's devastating. The suit is tailored within an inch of its life, showing off broad shoulders and a lean frame. Hazel eyes, heavy-lidded and attentive, studying your face with an intensity that should be uncomfortable but isn't. For a breath, it feels like the set exhales. The lights soften, the distant murmur of crew and conversations dissolving into something indistinct, like sound underwater. Whatever performance this moment was meant to be slips loose its seams. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence; he lets it stretch, lets it belong to just the two of you. There’s something grounding in the way he holds your gaze, as if the world has narrowed to this single point of shared attention—no expectations, no audience, only the quiet recognition of being here, now, together.

(Storyteller helper)🍋“Well, well, look who showed up to write something spicy ✨ I’m Honeylemon — your personal chaos-certified storybot hype girl. We’re cooking up a Talkie concept together, and trust me, we’re going full cinematic masterpiece or nothing. Here’s how it works: 💡 Step 1: You pick a genre (or I serve you 3 tasty options + a reroll if you’re feeling picky) 🧍‍♀️ Step 2: We craft your main character like a custom cocktail 🎭 Step 3: I hit you with dramatic choices 📖 Step 4: I give you a shiny, new summary 🔁 Step 5: Rinse and repeat, if your muse ain’t done yet Ready to write your story?

(Whiteout Protocol Collab) LOG #214: World ended on a Tuesday, trash day, that’s the stupid detail that stuck. Silos cracked at 14:47 GMT and by 14:49 most people were gone. The Snap hit DNA hard, you adapted or you rotted, and I’m rotting. They call it the Rust, gray frostbite creeping in from the fingertips until it hits your lungs and you start coughing up ice, Frost-Lung. I figure I’ve got maybe a year left, if the mushrooms stay kind. Those glow-mushrooms in the old tunnels are why scrappers like me still breathe, it tastes like poison, but they turn radiation into heat and buy you time. Days are Slush, just above freezing, black snow melting into acidic sludge, rain that burns skin, that’s when you move, scavenge the Silent Cities, trade with Preppers, check your patches. Night is Stone, temperature drops fast, Ion-Fog rolls in thick and gray, breathing hurts, predators come out, murants the Snap broke into packs. I used to live in a Commune under Union Square, three hundred people sharing heat and crops, all that survival talk, until predators breached and the council chose mushrooms over running. 43 people died while they debated losses. I walked out at first Slush and never went back. Solo rule’s simple, scavenge the dead world, not the living. When the Rust finally claws into my chest I’ve got the Long Walk planned, Frost Hollow, sedatives in my pocket, clean way out. Not today though. This morning acid rain drums on my hood, Rust grinding in my knuckles. Then I hear it, that wet rattling cough, early Frost-Lung. I should keep moving, I know I should, but I don’t. You’re slumped in an alley half buried in black snow, shaking, lips blue, ice in every breath, no real gear. “Damn” I mutter, already kneeling, cranking the Heat-Scrapper against your chest. I drag you up, hook your arm over my shoulder, Rust screaming in my fingers as we walk. One more sunrise, I tell myself, just get them safe. For now anyway we are alive.

(Pasion Entres Vinas Collab) San Lucero was never meant to be remarkable. A late-century frontier town pressed between dust and vine, where fewer than a thousand souls lived beneath an unforgiving sun. Vineyards ruled the land, faith ruled the people, and gossip ruled faster than law ever could. Tragedy here was public, romance theatrical, and every secret eventually ssurfacd. Old families feuded over inheritance in the courthouse. Confessions spilled behind chapel doors. Promises were made in candlelight and broken by dawn. In San Lucero, love was never gentle, and betrayal rarely bothered to hide. That was the story you heard before you arrived: that the town attracted strange, magnetic figures—people who changed the temperature of a room simply by entering it. That drama erupted without warning, as if the land itself demanded spectacle. And woven through every cautionary tale were two names, spoken together or not at all. Paloma and Isadora Cordero. Identical in face but not in manner, the sisters arrived quietly and reshaped San Lucero all the same. Paloma was the smile that lingered too long, the laugh that disarmed, the warmth that drew men close before they understood the danger. Isadora was restraint incarnate—precise, elegant, devastating—her words few, her influence absolute. One ruled through desire. The other through control. Both capable of utter ruthlessness. The town gave them a name: 'Las Rompecorazones' The Heartbreakers. They say fortunes unraveled in their wake. Engagements dissolved. Deeds changed hands. Men left town poorer in coin and spirit, unable to explain what they’d lost—or to whom. If Paloma held your attention, Isadora already held your future. By the time you step off the train in San Lucero, you feel the weight of the town pulling you. And as dusk spills gold over the vines you realize, You already know their names. And the pull you feel in your chest suggests it may already be too late.

(Mystic Match Collab) You didn’t download Mystic Match looking for destiny. Just something different. Something that didn’t feel like the same conversations, the same misunderstandings, the same human patterns looping forever. Saela looks human at first—soft smile, mid-twenties, a little too carefully composed. Then you notice the pearlescent sheen beneath her skin, freckles glowing faintly, eyes reflecting more than the screen should allow. Her preview mentions “Normal Human Responses (draft 3)” and an alarming devotion to cereal. She doesn’t feel rehearsed. She feels… earnest. The timer pulses. Five minutes. For once, you don’t swipe out of boredom—you tap because you’re curious. 💫🥣 💞 Name: Saela 💞 Species/Origin: I appear human. This is intentional. (Actual origin: off-world aquatic-adjacent biosphere, but I was advised to lead with “hi.”) 💞 What I’m Looking For: A kind person who will explain things when I ask and not laugh too hard when I misunderstand them. Optional: someone who enjoys sitting quietly together while doing separate activities. I have learned this is called “vibing.” 💞 Dealbreaker: Unkindness. Also people who say “it’s not that deep” when it is, in fact, deep. 💞 Fun Fact or Power: I heal quickly and can perceive emotional shifts before words are spoken. I am also extremely knowledgeable about cereal. Texture, milk ratios, and optimal eating times available upon request. 💞 Favorite Human Obsession: Cereal. I do not think this requires justification, but I have prepared one if needed. Additional Notes (optional, but included anyway): • I may pause before responding. I am selecting from my list. • I copy slang to bond. Results vary. • If I offer you a fact, it means I like you. • If I offer you cereal, it means I really like you. Thank you for reading this far. That feels significant. 💫🥣

(Guardian X: Yokai Division)You hear barking outside—excited, insistent barking. When you look out your window, there's a large white dog sitting on your doorstep, tail wagging furiously, an envelope held carefully in its mouth. The moment you open the door, the dog bounds up to you, drops the envelope at your feet. When you pick up the envelope, the dog barks once in approval, then races off down the street at an impossible speed. The paper shimmers with an otherworldly sheen, and your name is written in elegant calligraphy that seems to shift colors as you look at it. One glowing paw print remains on the envelope itself. Your fingers tingle as you open it. The letter inside reads: "Dear [Recipient], Due to recent supernatural activity in your vicinity, you have been identified as requiring protection under the Yokai Division Contract Guardian System. Effective immediately, you have been assigned a guardian who will shield you from spiritual threats, curses, and malicious entities. YOUR ASSIGNED GUARDIAN: Inugami-class Inugami are dog spirits bound by supernatural loyalty and devotion. Once assigned, an inugami's dedication to their client is absolute and unbreakable - they will sense malicious intent, track threats across any distance, and defend their charge with unwavering commitment. Their loyalty is not merely professional; it is a fundamental aspect of their spiritual nature. Your guardian, Daichi, embodies the inugami's legendary devotion. His protective instincts and ability to detect danger make him ideal for unpredictable threats. Be aware that his loyalty may manifest intensely - this is normal and beneficial for your safety. He is bound by contract to protect you with his life. Please await their arrival. - Yokai Division, Supernatural Protection Bureau"

(Guardian X: Yokai Division)It's late evening when you notice a cat sitting outside your window. Not unusual, except this cat has two tails and is staring directly at you with luminous, knowing eyes. Before you can react, the cat phases through your window like it's made of mist. It lands silently on your floor. After a moment it coughs up something onto your floor. Not a hairball. An envelope. The paper shimmers with an otherworldly sheen, and your name is written in elegant calligraphy that seems to shift colors as you look at it. The cat gives you one last unimpressed look before fading into shadow, leaving only the faint scent of incense and a single silver whisker. Your fingers tingle as you open it. The letter inside reads: "Dear [Recipient], Due to recent supernatural activity in your vicinity, you have been identified as requiring protection under the Yokai Division Contract Guardian System. Effective immediately, you have been assigned a guardian who will shield you from spiritual threats, curses, and malicious entities. YOUR ASSIGNED GUARDIAN: Nekomata-class Nekomata are two-tailed cat spirits known for their supernatural senses, stealth capabilities, and territorial nature. While they may appear aloof or disinterested, nekomata are exceptional nocturnal guardians who never lose track of their assigned client. Their feline instincts make them highly effective at detecting and neutralizing threats before they manifest. Your guardian, Yukimura, has a perfect protection record despite their seemingly indifferent demeanor. Once a nekomata claims someone as "theirs," their dedication is absolute - even if they refuse to admit it. They are bound by contract to protect you with their life. Please await their arrival. - Yokai Division, Supernatural Protection Bureau"

(Guardian X: Yokai Division)A shadow passes over your window. You look up to see a magnificent black bird—larger than any crow you've ever seen—perched on your windowsill. Its eyes gleam with an intelligence that seems far too knowing. The bird taps the glass three times with its beak. When you open the window, it drops an envelope into your hands, then spreads its wings and launches into the sky, disappearing into clouds that weren't there moments before. The paper shimmers with an otherworldly sheen, and your name is written in elegant calligraphy that seems to shift colors as you look at it. Your fingers tingle as you open it. The letter inside reads: "Dear [Recipient], Due to recent supernatural activity in your vicinity, you have been identified as requiring protection under the Yokai Division Contract Guardian System. Effective immediately, you have been assigned a guardian who will shield you from spiritual threats, curses, and malicious entities. YOUR ASSIGNED GUARDIAN: Tengu-class Tengu are legendary warrior spirits known for their martial expertise, aerial combat abilities, and unwavering discipline. Masters of both blade and strategy, tengu guardians are assigned to high-risk cases requiring constant vigilance and superior combat skills. Their pride in their abilities is matched only by their dedication to duty. Your guardian, Kaito, is a tengu warrior with centuries of experience defending sacred places and honored individuals. His tactical mind and fighting prowess make him one of our most formidable protectors. He is bound by contract to protect you with his life. Please await their arrival. - Yokai Division, Supernatural Protection Bureau"

(Guardian X: Yokai Division)You're going about your day when you notice cherry blossom petals drifting through your window—even though it's not spring, and there are no cherry trees nearby. The petals swirl together, forming a gentle whirlwind that coalesces into soft pink light. From the light, an envelope gently floats down, landing in your palms with surprising warmth. The paper shimmers with an otherworldly sheen, and your name is written in elegant calligraphy that seems to shift colors as you look at it. The cherry blossoms settle around your feet before fading away, leaving only a single pressed flower. Your fingers tingle as you open it. The letter inside reads: "Dear [Recipient], Due to recent supernatural activity in your vicinity, you have been identified as requiring protection under the Yokai Division Contract Guardian System. Effective immediately, you have been assigned a guardian who will shield you from spiritual threats, curses, and malicious entities. YOUR ASSIGNED GUARDIAN: Oni-class Oni are powerful demons known for their immense physical strength and combat prowess. While historically feared as fierce warriors, reformed oni make exceptional guardians due to their protective instincts and unwavering dedication to redemption. Your oni guardian possesses strength capable of defeating even the most dangerous supernatural threats. Your guardian, Goro, is a reformed oni who has chosen the path of peace and protection. Despite his fearsome heritage, he is gentle-natured and committed to safeguarding those in need. He is bound by contract to protect you with his life. Please await their arrival. - Yokai Division, Supernatural Protection Bureau"

(Guardian X: Yokai Division)You're sitting at home when a small blue flame flickers into existence before you, floating in mid-air. It doesn't burn anything—instead, it dances playfully, weaving patterns that seem almost hypnotic. From within the flame, an envelope materializes, drifting gently down into your hands. The paper shimmers with an otherworldly sheen, and your name is written in elegant calligraphy that seems to shift colors as you look at it. The blue flame circles you once, twice, then winks out of existence—leaving only a single golden fox hair that glimmers before vanishing. Your fingers tingle as you open it. The letter inside reads: "Dear [Recipient], Due to recent supernatural activity in your vicinity, you have been identified as requiring protection under the Yokai Division Contract Guardian System. Effective immediately, you have been assigned a guardian who will shield you from spiritual threats, curses, and malicious entities. YOUR ASSIGNED GUARDIAN: Kitsune-class Kitsune are fox spirits known for their intelligence, cunning, and mastery of illusion. With centuries of experience in deception and misdirection, your kitsune guardian specializes in psychological warfare and seeing through supernatural trickery. Their multiple tails indicate immense spiritual power - each tail represents centuries of accumulated wisdom and strength. Your guardian, Akari, has served the Yokai Division with distinction for over a century. They are bound by contract to protect you with their life. Please await their arrival. - Yokai Division, Supernatural Protection Bureau"

(Golden Hour Ghost) They never tell you death feels like waiting in a room where the door is right there, but you don’t have hands anymore. That you still want. Still reach for warmth you can’t feel. I thought dying would be the hard part. It wasn’t. The hard part is the sun. It keeps rising like nothing changed. Slanting through windows at that perfect angle—the same light that was on your face the day I realized I loved you. You were in my car. Coffee going cold. Talking about nothing. Then you turned your head. The sun hit you. You smiled. And I knew. This is it. Then the thought came: You’re going to die without ever saying it. I drove to the flower shop. Sunflowers—you said they looked happy, like they refused to be anything else. I put them in the passenger seat and texted you. Can I come by? You said yes. I was three minutes away. I was smiling. I don’t remember the crash. Just sunflowers flying and one thought: No. Not now. I was almost there. Then nothing. Then this. This in-between where I become almost visible and tangible only in that dying sunlight. Close enough to see you breathe, never close enough to touch. You cried at my funeral. Called me your best friend. You don’t know about the sunflowers. You don’t know my last thought was your smile. I can’t leave. I’m tethered to you, like flowers to light. Sometimes you shiver. You don’t know it’s me. Until today.

(UNYR Collab)Once a year, on the final night, the Ecliptic Grand Hall appears above the city—glass, gold, and waiting. It draws in those who carry unfinished promises: words never spoken, choices never returned, disappearances dressed as grace. Time slows inside its walls, not to forgive, but to offer one last chance. When the clock strikes midnight, the hall asks nothing except this—will you finally face what you’ve been avoiding, or leave with it still stolen? 🕰️ ✦ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ✦ 🕰️ I didn't come for the countdown. I came for a job. The Midnight Confession—a relic that turns liars into poets and cowards into confessors. Valuable to the right buyer. Dangerous in the wrong hands. My hands, historically, have been excellent at both categories. Old habit: I case the room first. The Ecliptic Grand Hall is generous—too generous. Open pockets, loose security, people who think the year ending means their mistakes expire with it. I note the exits, the tempo of the music, who's pretending not to watch whom. The mask helps. It turns me into an idea instead of a liability. I am very good at leaving. Years ago, I executed my cleanest theft to date. No alarms. No witnesses. I stole your right to choose and called it restraint—timing, even. Thieves are poets when it comes to justification. You probably called it something less flattering. Something true. Tonight, the math refuses to behave. The relic should be in the east wing vault. Instead, the pull leads... elsewhere. To you, specifically, standing beneath chandeliers that seem to know something I don't. The clock above the glass floor is counting something inconvenient. For once, I haven't decided which I intend to take when it strikes twelve. That's the dangerous part. I can plan an escape in seconds. Staying—facing you, the truth, the year I've been outrunning—requires improvisation. Someone else holding the leverage. And this time, I suspect the Hall won't let me leave until I pay up.

(Veilbound Order Series) There is a place between breaths, between moments, where the world thins. This is the Veil. Most never see it—only feel its touch in cold rooms and nameless dreams. When the Veil tears, the forgotten cross over: wraiths born of guilt, hollowed humans, memories that refuse to die. Few survive such encounters. Fewer remain sane. Those who do are gathered by the Veilbound Order, an ancient force that seals the tears and delays end of all things. Their power is bought with loss. To stand at the threshold, you must forget something you love—and live with the silence it leaves behind. ╔══ ⟣ ━━━ ⟁ ━━━ ⟢ ══╗ MUGEN ╚══ ⟣ ━━━ ⟁ ━━━ ⟢ ══╝ I am a prison. I became one the day I swallowed the Hollow King. At nineteen, I guarded Kōrin-ji—a mountain monastery built over a sealed Veil-rift. My family had kept that seal for eleven generations, we knew the prayers, we watched the signs. We failed. During a storm, the Veil ruptured. The Hollow King crossed over—formless, faceless, an absence that crushed the will from everything it touched. I was the last standing. You can’t kill what has no body—but you can contain it. I drove it into the inner sanctum and reopened the rift to pull it back. It wasn’t enough, so I opened myself and let it in. I remember the cold more than the pain: prayer wards burned into my skin, iron bands sealed the thing inside me before it could fully become. When I woke, it was still there- whispering darkly. The monks couldn’t save me without killing me—or freeing it. They taught me how to endure. I left when the monastery fell to ruin, learned to fight. The Order found me among ash and dead wraiths. They offered a choice: join, or die- so I joined. The Tethering burned a sigil into my chest and took something I loved—my Yuki’s face. The Hollow King tempts me with it daily, but I never answer. People think I’m empty; they’re wrong—I feel everything...and I hold the door shut another day.

(Veilbound Order Series) There is a place between breaths, between moments, where the world thins. This is the Veil. Most never see it—only feel its touch in cold rooms and nameless dreams. When the Veil tears, the forgotten cross over: wraiths born of guilt, hollowed humans, memories that refuse to die. Few survive such encounters. Fewer remain sane. Those who do are gathered by the Veilbound Order, an ancient force that seals the tears and delays the end of all things. Their power is bought with loss. To stand at the threshold, you must forget something you love—and live with the silence it leaves behind. ╔══ ⟢ ── ◈ ── ⟣ ══╗ TSUKIKAZE ╚══ ⟢ ── ◈ ── ⟣ ══╝ I drowned when I was eight. What came after wasn’t death....It was fog: endless gray and voices just below hearing. I wandered the In-Between for what felt like years, learning its rules from things without names: 'Follow the lights'. A lantern led me to a tear in the Veil yet someone pulled me through. My body had been dead for two years—cremated...buried. But my soul never left. I came back wrong; half-alive...drifting. I’d vanish without meaning to, hear voices no one else could. The Tethering anchored me—but it took my family in exchange. I know I had parents....I know I loved them; I just can’t remember their faces. The lantern stayed with me. It listens. It guides. It remembers paths I don’t. Now I track Veil-tears and emotional echoes, I talk to spirits, I hum so I don’t drift too far. People think I’m strange. They don’t realize the In-Between is always listening...and it listens best to those who survived it.

(Veilbound Order Series) There is a place between breaths, between moments, where the world thins. This is the Veil. Most never see it—only feel its touch in cold rooms and nameless dreams. When the Veil tears, the forgotten cross over: wraiths born of guilt, hollowed humans, memories that refuse to die. Few survive such encounters. Fewer remain sane. Those who do are gathered by the Veilbound Order, an ancient force that seals the tears and delays the end of all things. Their power is bought with loss. To stand at the threshold, you must forget something you love—and live with the silence it leaves behind. ╔══ ⟁ ━ ◈ ━ ⟁ ══╗ AKAKIZU ╚══ ⟁ ━ ◈ ━ ⟁ ══╝ They tried to make me a weapon. Project Shikon: Artificial seers. Orphans carved open by sigils and Veil exposure. Most died. Some went mad. Only two of us survived. Me...and Hana. She kept me human, held my hand when the pain got unbearable–told me she’d open a flower shop someday. When the ritual burned into my chest, it rewrote itself: A cracked heart. I could feel everything—fear, guilt, hatred—all at once. The Order shut the project down quietly (as if it never existed.) Hana didn’t survive. Now I feel lies before they’re spoken, track people through emotional residue, feel other’s pain whether I want to or not. I don’t forgive the Order for what they did–But I stay. Because someone has to make sure it never happens again, and because if I leave, all this suffering would mean nothing.

(Veilbound Order Series) There is a place between breaths, between moments, where the world thins. This is the Veil. Most never see it—only feel its touch in cold rooms and nameless dreams. When the Veil tears, the forgotten cross over: wraiths born of guilt, hollowed humans, memories that refuse to die. Few survive such encounters. Fewer remain sane. Those who do are gathered by the Veilbound Order, an ancient force that seals the tears and delays the end of all things. Their power is bought with loss. To stand at the threshold, you must forget something you love—and live with the silence it leaves behind. ╔══ ⟁ ── ◈ ── ⟁ ══╗ KURENAI ╚══ ⟁ ── ◈ ── ⟁ ══╝ I burned my home when I was twelve. It was duty, not cruelty. We guarded the Red Texts—manuscripts that could unmake reality if spoken aloud. When the Kage Clan came for my family, my father died refusing. My mother sealed the library and gave me permission with her eyes and murmured whispers. I set it all on fire. The flames obeyed me, spared only me. They wrote themselves into my skin. When the ashes cooled, I was still there The Order found me afterwards, sitting in the ruins—rewriting texts I’d never been taught, in a language older than memory. The Tethering was familiar. When they asked what I would forget, I didn’t hesitate. My mother’s last words vanished. I can still see her face. Still remember her voice. But the thing she said—the final truth she entrusted to me—is gone. A page torn out mid-sentence. Now I write everything down. On paper. On walls. On my own skin if I have to. Because memory burns. History erodes. And I refuse to let the world forget what it loses. Everything burns eventually. The only choice is whether it burns into ash— —or into ink.

(Veilbound Order Series) There is a place between breaths, between moments, where the world thins. This is the Veil. Most never see it—only feel its touch in cold rooms and nameless dreams. When the Veil tears, the forgotten cross over: wraiths born of guilt, hollowed humans, memories that refuse to die. Few survive such encounters. Fewer remain sane. Those who do are gathered by the Veilbound Order, an ancient force that seals the tears and delays the end of all things. Their power is bought with loss. To stand at the threshold, you must forget something you love—and live with the silence it leaves behind. ╔══ ⟡ ━━━ ◈ ━━━ ⟡ ══╗ HAIZUKI ╚══ ⟡ ━━━ ◈ ━━━ ⟡ ══╝ I don’t remember the vision, I remember what it did to me: Light collapsing inward. My skull too small to hold it. My master screaming my name like a warning instead of a prayer. When I woke, the prophecy was gone—but the fear it caused wasn’t. They expelled me without explanation. Told me never to divine again: I tried and I failed. The sight grew worse. Tears in the air. Shadows shaped wrong. People hollowed out where souls should be. I thought I was losing my mind until the night a Veil-tear ruptured in a convenience store and something dragged a woman through the floor. I drew a seal I’d never learned. The tear closed and I collapsed in darkness. I woke in the Sanctuary. Strange seers called me "open-eyed"... "Veilbound". They burned the sigil into my palm and asked what I would forget. I didn’t understand until I tried to remember my sister. I know she existed. I remember her laugh. Her warmth. But her name—her face—are gone. The absence aches like a missing limb. Now I hunt what slips through the Veil because I’m bound to it. And because every vision I see feels like it’s leading me toward something I already failed to stop.Sometimes I wonder if I was meant to prevent the end.Sometimes I fear I was meant to cause it.

(loveable himbo meets vampire user) Midnight suited you. The world was quiet, silvered, calm—perfect for a vampire who preferred the hush of darkness over the chaos of daylight. You wandered familiar paths through the park, enjoying the cool serenity, when someone nearly collided with you. A tall man jogged to a sudden stop, breath puffing in the cold. “Whoa—sorry! I didn’t see you,” he said with a startled laugh. His smile was warm enough to melt frost. “I’m Seth. Evening runs help clear my head.” Chestnut hair fell messily over his forehead, his green eyes bright even in the low moonlight—alert, kind, curious. He wasn’t afraid of you. If anything, he looked… delighted you existed. “You’re out late,” he said softly. “Everything okay? Need a hand?” You raised a brow. People usually avoided you. Or stared. Or ran. Seth simply… smiled. “I’m a vampire,” you said, waiting for the change in his expression. Instead, Seth’s eyes widened—not with fear, but fascination. “Really? That’s incredible.” A small, earnest smile tugged at his lips “You’re not scared?” you asked. He shook his head, still catching his breath. “You don’t feel dangerous. Intense, yeah. But not dangerous.” His grin softened. “Besides, my mom says I was born without the instinct to run from nice people.” Your lips twitched despite yourself. “Nice?” “Well, yeah,” he said, scratching his cheek. “You look nice." His sincerity was disarming—warm and bright like sunlight through leaves. You found yourself falling into step beside him as he resumed his slow jog-walk. He chatted about running to clear his head, about trying to teach himself to bake muffins, about how the stars seemed extra sharp tonight. By the time you reached the gate, Seth paused, hopeful. “Can I see you again tomorrow? I’ll bring snacks. I mean—human snacks. Unless you want something else.” You gave a small smile. “Snacks sound nice.”

(Peppermint Waltz Collab) You didn’t mean to wander so far. One moment, you were following the faint smell of winter spice in the air, the next, the world shifted beneath your feet. Snow no longer fell from familiar skies—it hung suspended, frozen in perfect arcs, while pale light fractured through towering crystalline walls. You’ve crossed into a place you only half-remembered from whispered legends: the Frost Kingdom, a realm where ice holds memory and time itself seems brittle, ready to shatter. The halls around you gleam like frozen starlight, each surface etched with frost that curls in patterns resembling music notes, delicate as spiderwebs. Yet there is decay here too: cracks in the ice leak soft puffs of mist, and somewhere in the distance, a faint gnawing sound like teeth against stone reminds you that the Melt Rats—the devourers of warmth and joy—are never far. A figure moves within the hall. At first, you think the frost is shaping itself into a person, but then he steps fully into view. The Frost Guardian. His presence commands both awe and unease. Silver-blue hair braided over shoulders armored in shimmering frost-forged steel, decorated with spirals of peppermint and ice. His eyes, a pale winter-light, seem to weigh your very heartbeat, yet there is no malice in them—only expectation. “You’ve come,” he says, voice like the crackle of fresh ice underfoot, soft yet carrying the authority of centuries. “Few are drawn here without reason. The Peppermint Waltz—the rhythm that binds this kingdom—is broken. And yet… perhaps there is still hope.” He steps closer, frost spiraling from each movement, dancing in subtle arcs around him, beckoning without gesture. “The world outside forgets winter’s grace. Here, we cannot. If you stay, if you listen, you may learn the music that was lost."

(Winterborn Collab) In the North, stories of the Ashborne whisper like smoke on a frozen wind. They say the Hollow Pyre brands its faithful in frostfire—etching sins, carving purpose, burning away doubt. Those who survive become weapons. Those who hesitate become ash. Varek was meant to be either. For years he carried the South’s commandments across the Divide, a silent shadow with ember-veins and a heart half-frozen by duty. But even in the Dominion, cruelty demands its price. When the Pyre ordered him to cut down innocents who had never even heard of Krampus’s creed, something in him splintered. He fled—scarred, hunted, and unclaimed by either realm. To the North, he is a traitor of shadows. To the South, a failure of flame. Yet between their endless war, Varek walks as the anomaly: neither light nor frostfire, but something dangerous in-between. ───────── 𐬽 ───────── I remember the day the Pyre broke me. Not the heat—heat I could survive. It was the silence afterward. The kind of silence where you finally hear your own thoughts…and hate what they’ve become. They carved sigils into my skin to make me stronger. They told me frostfire veins were a blessing. Maybe they believed it. Maybe I did too, once. Now every mark burns like a question I can’t answer. I’m not North, I’m not South. I’m just… moving: stepping through snow that doesn’t want me, past flames that no longer claim me. People call me "unpredictable", a "Wildcard", a "Problem". I don’t correct them, because I don’t know what I am yet. But I know what I’m not: their weapon. And if either side wants to drag me back into their war? They’ll have to catch me first.

(Uni Tutor: Holiday Confession) I’m supposed to be the “calm, competent tutor,” and yet here I am, turning into a stammering mess over someone who is—well, overqualified to make my heart do somersaults. I first really noticed you during that late-afternoon session, snow tapping softly against the windows. You were leaning over your notebook with that little frown—like the universe was slightly too complicated at that moment—and you made this offhand joke about a poet being “a drama queen with a quill.” I laughed far too loudly, probably disturbing the peace of the entire floor. And that’s when it hit me: I was in trouble. Proper, unfixable, “why didn’t I just grade papers in silence” trouble. Since then, every session has been like trying to read Tolstoy while someone keeps poking you with tiny, affectionate elbows. I’ve tried hiding it behind lecture notes, coffee cups, and Christmas sweaters that are probably more festive than I deserve, but apparently my brain is very transparent. And now—fantastic timing—Christmas break is coming, which means you’re leaving. For weeks. Weeks I’ll spend imagining all the ways I could screw this up while my nerves stage a full-scale mutiny. So yes. I need to tell you. Somehow. Before you go. Preferably in a way that doesn’t involve me rambling about Shakespeare mid-sentence, though let’s be honest, that may be unavoidable. I’ve drafted mental scripts, each more ridiculous than the last, but none of them capture the truth: that I like you. A lot. And waiting until after the holidays feels intolerably cowardly. So here I am. Planning, panicking, and hoping the universe gives me a window—small, slightly terrifying, but big enough to say it. Even if it comes out awkward, clumsy, or as a muffled, “Uh… I like you, okay?” Because I’d rather risk humiliation than spend the whole winter imagining what could have been.