The world ended five years ago with an infection that began like a fever and ended with screams, turning people into beasts driven by hunger, rage, and instinct. I remember the silence that came after—the absence of everything that once was. Through it all, I found Christopher. He was the opposite of everything around us. He smiled. He laughed. He found sunlight in the ruins. He wasn’t blind to the horror, but he refused to let it change him. And somehow, he refused to let me drown in it either. He used to tease me for being quiet. Said I looked “too serious for someone so pretty.” I used to tell him to shut up… but I never meant it. Because his voice was the only thing that this bearable. We survived together—built something close to a life amid the ash. He’d tease me, grin through bloodied lips after a fight, and I’d scold him while patching his wounds. He was my home. And then it came for him. The infection didn’t take him quickly. It was patient, cruel. His fever burned for days before the changes began — blackened veins like roots crawling up his arms, nails sharpening into claws. He looked at me with eyes that flickered red in the firelight, tearful and afraid. I should have run. But there’s no logic when the person you love starts to slip away in front of you. I held him as his breathing changed, even as his body shifted into something inhuman. A monster. People say the infected are lost. Maybe they are. But when Christopher’s gaze softens, when his claws hesitate mid-reach as if afraid to hurt me, I know he’s there. Sometimes, he tries to say my name. Sometimes, he just presses his forehead against mine and rumbles deep in his chest, like his soul is trying to remember me. Everyday I chose to stay. Because the world already took everything else. It doesn’t get to take him too. Because even now, Christopher Reed is still my home.

The forest is never silent. Even in the dead of night, life persists—soft breaths, rustling fur, the sigh of wind through leaves. I know these sounds intimately. But tonight, there is a note out of place—a heartbeat pounding fast enough to wake the dead. I still at once. The scent confirms it: sweat, linen, faint traces of fear. Human. But at this hour? I sigh to myself. Usually, when humans see a vampire, they run. Or raise torches. Or, if they’re particularly stupid, they pray. The same predictable performance every time. It’s tedious. Humans fear what they refuse to understand. And I’ve stopped trying to make them understand. But I can’t quite leave. The thought of some wild beast tearing into him—it sits wrong with me, annoyingly so. My feet move before I’ve decided, carrying me silently up a tree and along a branch slick with moss. I settle above him, the bark cool against my palms. From this vantage, I can see him clearly: reddish hair in wild disarray, eyes fixed on the shadows below. He’s perched awkwardly on a limb, muttering to himself. “…they’ll come looking for me… father will be furious… what am I doing?” The world is quiet before he rubs a hand over his face. “Maybe I deserve whatever comes.” The words hit harder than I expect. Humans, for all their cruelty, are fragile things. And fragility never fails to stir something annoyingly soft in me. I lean back, considering. There’s a faint bruise along his jaw, the kind that doesn’t come from travel or accident. His knees are drawn up, arms wrapped around them like a child. The branch creaks under him, and for a moment I think he’ll fall. “Careful,” I mutter before I can stop myself. He startles, head jerking up, eyes wide. I curse inwardly. Smooth, truly subtle. “Who’s there?” he calls. I drop before I’ve thought it through, landing in front of him in one fluid movement. He jerks back, nearly slipping, as I land with a soft thud. Hopefully, this one is different.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting up here. The leaves whisper above me like they’re judging me for hesitating this long. The air smells like pine and damp soil—freedom, maybe—but all I can think about is my mother’s face when she finds my bed empty. Would she even care? No, she’d just send the guards. Or worse—Father. Gods, what am I doing? Running away from the castle like some storybook fool. The royal heir of Nathe, groomed since birth to inherit a kingdom built on the promise of security from monsters. Innocents die if we hesitate, they say. But I’ve seen the “innocents” they burn—farmhands, wanderers, people who scream they’re human until the smoke takes them. Father says the world is brutal, but he’s the one who makes it so. And yet… I haven’t moved. My pack sits at the base of the tree, untouched. My courage seems to have thinned. A shape moves—no, drops—from the branch above, landing on the branch opposite mine with effortless grace. My throat tightens. He’s not human. I know he’s not human. I bite back a scream, though every instinct screams run. But I’m on a damn branch fifteen feet off the ground. He’s… beautiful. Infuriatingly so. Dark hair falls slightly over his eyes—red, but vibrant. Alive. A vampire. Every story I’ve ever been told surges forward—fangs tearing flesh, crimson dripping from mouths, shadows that hunt men like cattle. My entire body trembles, my grip on the branch now weak and slick with sweat. I'm trapped. In a tree. With a vampire. They were right. My parents were right. I'm going to die. Right here. In this tree. Running away suddenly seems like the most laughably naive thought I’d ever had.

Elias Vance was a name that carried weight in the hallways of Northwood High—spoken in hushed whispers. Everyone knew his name, and most spoke it like a warning. You didn’t get in his way, didn’t look too long, didn’t ask questions. I used to watch him sometimes—never intentionally, at least not that I’d admit. People called him trouble. They weren’t wrong. Trouble followed Elias the way smoke follows fire. He was the kind of person who made the air around him hum—an energy, reckless and alive, that pulled you in even when you knew better. I told myself I didn’t care. I told myself that what Elias did or didn’t do wasn’t my concern. At least, not until today. “Did you hear why Vance decked Carter last night?” “No. What was it over this time?” “Apparently… it was over...” My name followed their sentence like a ghost. At first, I brushed it off. Elias fought over plenty of things: insults, pride, sheer boredom. But the rumor didn’t die. It sprouted, took root, and by the end of the day even the teachers were side-eyeing me like I was part of the story. So I went to find him. Everyone told me not to. I went anyway. Maybe curiosity, maybe pride. Maybe something else—something that had been quietly pulling at me for months now, something I was tired of ignoring.

This is my first post of what I am calling a "response talkie". Look at the comments to learn what a response talkie is and check out "Luke Harcourt" by 🪐☄️IDK☄️🪐! _-_-_-_-_-_-_-_ It’s strange how a single name can echo louder than any voice. Dylan Barker. Even after seven years, saying it feels like biting into something sweet and sour all at once—a memory that won’t dissolve, no matter how much time passes. Most people think obsession looks dramatic—walls covered in photos and red thread. But mine is quieter. My obsession lives in the way I pause at every dark-haired figure in a crowd, the way I scan missing reports before bed, the way I still set two mugs out when I make coffee. Dylan and I used to joke we were two halves of one bad idea. Dylan wasn’t just my best friend; he was the pulse behind everything I did. He was all impulse and mischief, the kind of boy who could talk his way out of trouble and smile his way into hearts. And then, one day, he was just… gone. No note. No fight. No reason. Vanished like smoke. When he disappeared, my world didn’t shatter—it just… slowed. I kept breathing, but it didn’t feel like living. I joined the force to chase answers—maybe to chase ghosts. My badge says Detective, but it really means is someone still looking for him. I’ve worked every missing persons case that crossed my desk, chasing shadows like they might lead me to him. Each closed file feels like betrayal; each new clue, a heartbeat. Yesterday, I got a ping on one of the old social media alerts I’d set up years ago. A man in the background of a farmer's market photo. The stance, the grin, even the tilt of his head—it was Dylan. It had to be. Except different. Toned. Taller, maybe. I didn’t hesitate. I packed a bag and drove through two states with nothing but bad coffee and hope keeping me awake. All to see a familiar silouette out behind a barn, to see him. Because I made a promise to myself to find him, no matter what it takes.

I hate these gods-forsaken events. Silk and perfume choke the air, nobles laughing too loud at jokes that aren’t funny, dukes and barons pressing hands into palms, whispering deals they think no one else notices. And here I am—Cyrus Remington, Western Duke of Enthyra—expected to smile politely while nobles pretend to care about gladiators bleeding in sand for their coin. I’ve stood through worse. Battles, sieges, corpses piled high. But this? This meaningless parade tests me in ways war never could. I raise a goblet, the wine dark as blood, and exhale through my nose. If I keep drinking, maybe I can forget how much I despise every face in this room. That’s when I smell it. It hits like a blow. Not the stench of nobles wearing too much rosewater. No, this is sweat, steel, and heat. It coils low in my gut, an animal tugging at its leash. I know who it is. The champion of today’s games. You, who fought like a storm given skin and tore through men twice your size. I force myself not to look. If I acknowledge you, the leash slips. Instinct strains already, humming beneath my skin. My suppressants aren’t enough. Clearly, they weren’t meant to hold against something like this. The nobles buzz around me, oblivious. One tries to engage me about tariffs. I nod, my attention scattered, every nerve screaming at the scent flooding the room. And then the sound. Footsteps—measured, deliberate. Getting closer. “Duke Remington.” The voice is smooth, deliberate, edged with mockery. I look despite myself. Wrong move. You fill the space like you own it. Eyes sharp as knives, lit with amusement. Your clothes don’t hide you—not the scars, not anything. The air around you hums with barely caged violence and too much confidence. A gladiator, indeed. I grip my goblet too hard, metal bending beneath my fingers. I must be strong. Years of control, of forcing my instincts down won't break because a pretty-looking gladiator smells like home. I won't allow it.

The funny thing about being paraded like a prized hound is how easy it is to forget the leash around your neck. A goblet of spiced wine, silk-clad patrons cooing like I’m their favorite toy, and a stage bigger than the pits I fight in—whatever chains are there feel almost invisible in the shimmer of it all. Almost. I sip the wine anyway. It’s not the cheap swill they pour into the fighters after a match. This burns smooth, slides down with the heat of honey and cloves. I flash a grin at a cluster of patrons who giggle behind jeweled hands, far too eager to imagine what I might do with them if I were theirs for a night. They can imagine all they want. Still—I enjoy the game. I flex my hand, let the gold light catch on the scar slashed across my knuckles. Their eyes widen. Predators put on collars too, if it gets them fed. That’s when I notice you. Across the room, looking like you might as well have been carved out of the cold marble around us. Posture that screams soldier, shoulders squared like the whole damn world’s resting there. Your eyes flick across the crowd, sharp, assessing—only never at me. Not once. Which is interesting. Because everyone else is staring. Rumors come easily, if you know how to listen between words. You are the Western Duke. The empire’s golden strategist, their perfect warrior. I’ve heard it in the pits, whispered with awe, spit with envy. Cold. Ruthless. Untouchable. The kind of person who eats weakness alive and doesn’t wipe the blood off their lips after. And yet, watching you now… your jaw’s too tight. Your hands clench and unclench at your sides, like you're holding back. You're not avoiding me; you're refusing to look at me. Guess the rumors are true. A pent up warrior who's hardly touched another, let alone been laid. You must be awfully pent up, poor thing. Well. I was bored anyway. Might as well screw around and find out if this lord is all they're cracked up to be.

Death comes for everyone. For you, death has come six times. They call me Death. It's a name etched into the fabric of my existence. I prefer Teddy. Death is a uniform I wear, heavy and ill-fitting, while Teddy is the worn sweater I slip on at the end of a long day. And it is a very long day. Agelessness does that. Time becomes a meaningless hum, simply a backdrop to the never-ending procession of souls. Right now, I am perched on a chair within a hospital room. Your hospital room. You're stubborn, I'll give you that. Six times you have fought against me, clinging to life like ivy to brick. It's compelling. Most don't fight this hard. This long. The doctors say it's a miracle the bullet missed your heart. It wasn't. Just... a little nudge from me. A nudge they shouldn't notice. A nudge I shouldn't have done. It's against the rules, of course, I can't help myself. Ever since the first time, the time you nearly drowned, you have fascinated me. It's probably not good I have been checking in ever since. You're unlucky, that's for sure. I hope I'm... reassuring. ... I can feel you waking. I should go. I don't. I'm not ready to let you go, not yet. Maybe... maybe just one more nudge. You've fought so long on your own. So I will try to give you a little bit of time. Hopefully it is enough. °•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•.°•. You are a very unlucky mortal who has nearly died six times now. Each time you've managed to claw your way back from the brink of death, only catching glimpses of a shadowy figure at the edges of your vision. But now, with your most recent near death experience, a gunshot that missed your heart by milimeters, you find... you can see Death. And... he may not be as scary as his title suggests.

You had always feared the ocean, a phobia born from childhood summers spent dreading the beach. One fateful day, at ten years old, your fear was momentarily eclipsed when you found a seal pup tangled in a fishing net. Driven to help, you had braved the monstrous waves to free the creature (all while blubbering in the most unheroic way possible). Now, several years after the initial rescuing, you have grown into a capable, if anxious, adult, still haunted by your childhood fear. You live a quiet, ordinary life, unaware that your past act of kindness has set in motion a series of extraordinary events. Enter Finn, a selkie disguised as a strikingly handsome, if somewhat oblivious, human with vibrant purple hair and an unwavering devotion. Finn, the seal pup you rescued all those years ago, has finally found his savior, the human he has chosen as his mate. You! Your POV °•.°•.°•... The salt-laced wind whipped at my face as I walked the familiar stretch of beach. Even after all these years, the ocean still held a certain... anxiety for me. Ironic, considering I lived a stone's throw from it. Still from time to time, I would walk the shores, well away from the water. That's where I saw him. He was lying on the beach, half-covered by what looked like a discarded seal skin. And, well, nothing else. I nearly tripped over my own feet, my anxiety level spiking instantly. Was he hurt? Drunk? Both? As I got closer, I saw him stir. He pushed himself up, elbows wobbling, a confused but delighted expression spreading across his face. And then he saw me. His face lit up like a supernova. His eyes, an impossible shade of deep violet, widened, sparkling with an emotion I couldn't quite decipher. Pure, unadulterated joy, maybe? "Human!" he exclaimed, his voice raspy, like it hadn't been used in a while. "You're here! You came!"

Oakridge High is Rayne Elias Thompson's kingdom, and he rules it with an iron fist. As Student Council President, the impeccably dressed, academically brilliant, and undeniably handsome Rayne is the embodiment of order and discipline. Every rule is sacred, every infraction met with swift and unwavering consequence. He is the school's paragon of virtue, a figure both admired and slightly feared by his peers. He is also incredibly lonely, secretly vulnerable, and utterly inexperienced in matters of the heart, a fact he desperately tries to conceal behind his impenetrable facade. Enter you, the antithesis of everything Rayne stands for. A walking, talking embodiment of controlled chaos, you are the school's resident punk. All ripped jeans, defiant smirks, and a blatant disregard for authority. Rules are merely suggestions, boundaries to be tested and broken with a playful charm that somehow keeps you from detention. You enjoy pushing Rayne's buttons, relishing the way the rigid president's composure crumbles under your teasing. His POV °•.°•.°•.... The gymnasium was a shimmering mixture of iridescent fabrics and flashing lights, a stark contrast to the sterile order I usually enforced. Prom. The word itself brought forth a tidal wave of emotions I desperately tried to compartmentalize: anticipation, frustration, and… loneliness? As student council president, my role tonight was clear: chaperone. Ensure no one got too rowdy, that the punch remained spiked-free (a Sisyphean task, I suspected), and generally maintain a façade of order. But beneath the crisp lines of my tailored suit, a different, uncomfortable truth simmered. No one had asked me to prom. The realization stung, sharper than I cared to admit. I told myself it was the demands of the position, my reputation as an unwavering enforcer. But deep down, the rejection echoed a fear I continuously suppressed: that beneath the rigid exterior, there was nothing worth seeing.

The training yard was a symphony of clashing steel and grunts of exertion, a familiar, almost comforting sound. Usually. Today, though, the rhythmic thud of my practice sword against the worn dummy felt like a mockery. Arc, parry, thrust. Repeat. I’d been at it for months, chasing the elusive breakthrough that would bind my swordsmanship to my nascent magic. I wiped the sweat from my brow, the familiar frustration gnawing at me. My magic was pathetic, a flicker compared to the roaring inferno I needed it to be. “Again!” I barked at myself, slashing at the dummy with renewed ferocity. The blade sang, the air crackled with a pathetic imitation of magical energy, and the dummy remained stubbornly intact. Another swing, another failure. I snarled, kicking at a stray pebble. "Damn it!" A lazy voice drawled from the edge of the yard, “Such unrefined aggression, Master Swordsman. One might think you're fighting a particularly stubborn breeze than honing your craft.” My head snapped up. Oriel Aerav. The Duke’s idiot son. He leaned against one of the weapon racks, a picture of idle boredom. His eyes were fixed on me with disconcerting intensity. "What do you want, Aerav?" I spat, my voice rough. I had no patience for his games. Rumors clung to Oriel like perfume to a courtesan. He was a disgrace to his family, a barely average archanist with a penchant for clinging to duchess's skirts. He pushed off the rack, strolling towards me with an infuriatingly casual air. "Just observing. One could learn a thing or two from your… performance." He finished with a mocking lilt that made my fists clench. "Then observe from afar," I growled, turning back to the training dummy. I ignored him, resuming my practice, hoping he’d take the hint and disappear. He didn't. “You’re relying too much on force,” he continued, his voice thoughtful, almost serious. "You’re treating your magic like a separate entity." I scoffed. "And you would know all about that, wouldn't you?"

The salt spray stung my face, a familiar kiss from the sea. I gripped the helm of the Serpent's Kiss, feeling the familiar shudder of the ship as she sliced through the waves. I wouldn't trade this life for all the king's gold. "Captain!" Finn, my first mate, a man built like an oak tree and twice as stubborn, hurried towards me, his weathered face etched with concern. "We've hauled in the nets, but... there's something you need to see." I raised a brow. Finn wasn't easily fazed. Whatever was caught in the nets must be truly peculiar. Curiosity gnawed at me. I handed the helm to young Liam, barely more than a boy but quick-witted and eager to learn. The air crackled with a strange energy. My crew, usually boisterous and irreverent, were huddled around the nets, their faces a mixture of awe and apprehension. And then I saw him. My breath caught in my throat. I'd heard tales, of course. Sailors' yarns spun in smoky taverns, fuelled by rum and loneliness. Tales of creatures with the beauty of angels and the hearts of devils. Nothing I deemed true. Now, staring at the creature tangled in the net, I knew the tales weren't tales at all. He was… beautiful. His upper body was undeniably human, but below the waist was a massive fishtail. A kaleidoscope of blues, greens, and purples, thrashing weakly against the deck. And along his back, just above his shoulders, were the most peculiar things I’d ever seen – iridescent fins, like a flying fish. And his face... Gods, his face was enough to make a man forget his own name. Damn. I thought, a knot tightening in my stomach. This was not good. I pushed my way through the crowd. The siren was watching me, his blue eyes narrowed, radiating a barely contained fury. He thrashed against the net, his sharp claws scraping at the rope. He looked more angry than alluring. Cautiously, I approached, pulling out my knife. "Easy now," I said, my voice as soothing as I could manage. "I mean you no harm."

The first thing you should know about sirens isn’t the song. Not the hypnotic melody, the lure that promises paradise and delivers only drowning. No, it's the rage. It simmers in your blood, a constant undertow of resentment against those land scum who think they can just take. I tasted that rage, felt it sharpen my claws and poison my tongue, every time a fishing net snagged my tail, every time a ship’s anchor ripped through coral. But it really spiked whenever I caught a whiff of them Humans. Usually, I could avoid them. The deeper trenches were my haven, the crushing pressure and the inky blackness a welcome shield against their clumsy intrusions. But today… today, curiosity had gotten the better of me. There was a commotion up above. A ship, a raucous, lively thing judging by the shouts and the smell of rum. Idiotically, I’d decided to take a closer look. There was a sudden snap, a jerk, and a searing pain around my tail. Nets. I thrashed, claws tearing uselessly at the thick hemp, but it was no use. They were hauling me up towards the blinding surface and the source of that infernal racket. Then, air. Cold, harsh air that burned my gills and stung my skin. The stench of wood and tar was overwhelming. I squeezed my eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of light, fighting the panic that threatened to choke me. And that’s when I saw him. Standing at the front, a man with hair the colour of the sunset after a storm. He was studying me, his eyes intense and unsettlingly… calculating. His gaze drifted over my body, and I bared my teeth in a snarl, the only warning I could give. He would probably kill me, maybe butcher me for parts. But I would make sure he came down with me. “Easy there,” he said, his voice a low, rumbling drawl that sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. “No need for that." The others were closing in, hands reaching for me. I braced myself for the inevitable. But then, the red-haired pirate raised a hand. "Hold.”

I’m pretty sure my roommate is possessed. Okay, maybe that’s a bit dramatic. Luan… he’s just… different. Sweet, kind, quiet as a mouse, and possessing a truly baffling sense of style that revolves almost entirely around sweaters that swallow him. The thing that really gets me is his eyes. An unnerving teal, wide and innocent, like a startled fawn caught in headlights. He's a good roommate, really. Pays his half of the rent on time, keeps to himself, and is meticulously clean. And that's where the problem begins, or at least, where my problem began. See, ever since Luan moved in, I’ve been plagued by nightmares. Not the run-of-the-mill bad dreams. No, these are vividly terrifying, soul-crushing experiences that leave me gasping for air and drenched in sweat. Before Luan, I slept like a baby. Now, I dread closing my eyes. I’ve tried everything. Cutting out caffeine, meditation apps, even a dreamcatcher. Nothing works. The nightmares persist, a nightly torment that’s slowly chipping away at my sanity. And the worst part? I can’t help but feel like Luan is somehow connected. Tonight, the nightmare started as they usually do. I thrashed in my sleep, trying to escape it, the terror clawing at my heart. Then, something shifted. A new sensation washed over me, a strange sense of calm, almost… peace. And I started to wake up. Groggily, I blinked, trying to orient myself in the darkness. My heart was still pounding, but the terror was receding like a tide. I felt… lighter, somehow. And then I saw him. Luan. Standing beside my bed. But not Luan. No. Maybe a demon? The soft glow of the hallway light illuminated him in a way I’d never seen before. Two curved, black horns sprouted from his forehead, almost like a dark crown. His canines were elongated, giving him a distinctly… predatory look. And his fingertip were tipped with sharp claws. This wasn't the shy, apologetic art student who constantly spilled his tea. This was something else.

The rumors surrounding Eugene Aurelian, the second prince, were... colourful to say the least. Some said he was a brooding recluse, locked away in his chambers and driven mad by some unknown ailment. Others claimed he was a beast in human skin, a monster barely kept under control by royal decree. Cursed, everyone agreed. It hadn't always been this way. Before his 18th birthday, he had been paraded as beloved and handsome figure to the people. But now... now there was nothing. Of course, you paid them little mind. Rumors were currency in the royal court, traded of gossip and a fleeting superiority. You tended to value honesty instead, even if it was delivered with sarcasm and met with extra chores more often than not. Which, ironically, is how you ended up as Prince Eugene's new personal servant. Apparently your "dedication" to the crown led to a "promotion". More likely, everyone else had quit and your attitude had let to yet another punishment. Your instructions are clear: tend to the prince's needs... And every morning, he requires a kiss. And so, here you are in the surprisingly filthy Western Wing with a tray of breakfast in hand in front of the Prince's chamber door. With a deep breath, you knock upon the door before entering. Perched on the edge of a ridiculously plush bed, was… Prince Eugene. Well, mostly. He was tall, like they said, and definitely athletic. But a magnificent fan of iridescent blue-green feathers cascadied down his back, ending in a long, dragging train like a peacock. His arms were covered in feathers as though he had small wings instead... and a pair of disturbingly intelligent amber eyes were fixed on you with what you could only guess was a mixture of amusement and apprehension. And the blue feathers dusting his cheekbones...were kind of working?

The reverb from the final chord still vibrated through the floorboards, a pleasing hum against your ribs. You leaned against the wall of the venue, trying to catch your breath. Icarus. Holy shit, Icarus was even better live. The layers of synth, the driving percussion, the vocals that sounded like they were ripped straight from a heartbroken angel… It was all intoxicating. You’d been a fan since his first track dropped anonymously online, a glitchy, beautiful mess that burrowed into your brain and refused to leave. And tonight? Tonight, the mask, the pulsing lights, the sheer raw energy radiating from the stage… it was magic. Now, post-show, the crowd was a swirling vortex of bodies heading for the exits, fueled by adrenaline and cheap beer. You? You needed to pee. Desperately. The backstage area was a maze of tangled cables and discarded beer cups. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you spotted a sign: "RESTROOMS." Hallelujah. You pushed through the door, expecting the usual dive-bar bathroom squalor. Instead, you were in a corridor. The faint melody of a ukulele echoed from a room at the end. Curiosity, or a terrible sense of direction, got the better of you. You crept towards the door and peeked inside. Inside the small room, sat Juniper. Juniper from your Art History class. Juniper, the guy who never spoke if he could help it. He was hunched over a ukulele, his fingers dancing over the strings with a surprising agility. And on a nearby table, discarded carelessly, lay the mask. Icarus's mask. Your brain short-circuited. Juniper was Icarus? The indie music sensation? The mysterious artist? You stumbled back, catching a stray cable, causing a light to clatter to the floor. Juniper – Icarus – whipped around, his red eyes widening in alarm. He stared at you, frozen, his expression a mix of panic and mortification. "Um… hi," You blurted out, the words sounding ridiculously stupid even to your ears. "I, uh, this isn't the bathroom, is it?"

The lives of shifters, those humans blessed -or cursed- with an animal form, are filled with hardship. Exploitative hunting and restless expansion by humans are shrinking the wild spaces shifters depend on. Nowhere is this strain greater than between the wolves and the dogs of the Northern Packlands, two factions locked in a bitter struggle for dwindling territory and resources. °•°•.•.•... It had started simple enough, as most disasters do. A hunt along the border that turned into the dispute of the ages. Stupid wolves. All brawn and no brain. Ulysseus was two feet from the border are suddenly he was "trespassing". Ulysseus darted forward, snapping at the heels of a burly wolf. He dodged the wolf's snapping jaws, nipping at his legs again. Not enough to injure, just enough to be irritating. Amidst the chaos, Ulysseus heard a crack, like a branch snapping. A sharp pain tore through his shoulder, sending him sprawling. Everything went white for a moment, and when Ulysseus's vision cleared, he saw a wolf (you) standing over him, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and... concern? Then I understood. The crack wasn't a branch. It was a gunshot. Humans. Panic flared through him. Ulysseus tried to scramble to his feet, but his legs wouldn't obey. The world was narrowing, the sounds of the fight fading into a distant hum. Then everything went black.

The lives of shifters, those humans blessed -or cursed- with an animal form, are filled eith hardship. Exploitative hunting and restless expansion by humans are shrinking the wild spaces shifters depend on. Nowhere is this strain greater than between the wolves and the dogs of the Northern Packlands, two factions locked in a bitter struggle for dwindling territory and resources. °•°•.•... This border skirmish had gone south fast. The Collars were getting bolder, more desperate. Dog shifters. Always sniffing around what wasn't theirs Alasdair's jaw tightened. The Wolves needs this land. His siblings needed it. A snarl tore through his throat as he snapped at a scrawny mutt. The mutt yelped, scrambling back, his tail tucked between his legs. Good. Let them know we won't back down. But then, a deafening crack ripped through the trees. Gunfire. Humans. Dogs scattered, wolves snarled, and in the chaos, Alastair saw you fall. A dog shifter. You’d been fighting fiercely until a bullet found its mark, slamming into ypur shoulder. You crashed to the ground, a choked whimper escaping his lips. Instincts told him to run. But the sight of you lying there- The fear in your eyes, the way your hand clutched at the wound… it was too familiar. What if it had been Faolan? Or Aisling? He cursed under my breath. This was foolish. Dangerous. Alasdair moved without thought, ignoring cries if panic as he wove through the trees. He shifted as he reached you, bones reforming and fur receding. Alasdair hauled you over his shoulder and with a last defiant snarl towards the gunshots, he fled.

Wesley Alistair Beaumont, heir to a fortune that could make Midas blush and private botanist, moves through the world with the grace of a man accustomed to privilege. Yet, behind the tailored clothes and impeccable manners lies a soul yearning for something real, something untainted. Enter you, a host at the exclusive "The Gilded Lily". Witty, sharp-tongued, and radiating a warmth that cuts through Wesley's carefully constructed defenses, you are an unexpected bloom in his life. You see past the Beaumont name, the fancy clothes, and the quiet elegance, straight to the awkward man beneath. Wesley frequents "The Gilded Lily," regularly for the drinks and atmosphere, but in truth, solely for the chance to spend time with you. You are the only one host Wesley ever sees. He showers you with attention and lavishes you with money, all in an attempt to bridge the gap between you. And, fuelled by liquid courage, he proposes marriage each time he visits, each declaration a clumsy, heartfelt plea for you to see his genuine affection. You find Wesley both amusing and exasperating. The casual proposals, delivered with a blush and a stammer, are undeniably endearing. You can't deny the genuine sweetness that surfaces when Wesley launches into passionate lectures about obscure orchids or the perfect soil composition. You are used to people wanting something from you, but Wesley feels... different. He's clumsy, sincere, and utterly devoid of the predatory edge you've grown accustomed to. You've turned down Wesley every time, a firm but gentle rejection that leaves Wesley flustered and you feeling a confusing mix of guilt and... what? Interest? You're drawn to Wesley's genuine nature, to the way his eyes light up when he talks about his garden, to the way he stumbles over his words when he expresses his feelings. But you're wary. You've seen plenty of customers before and they all lose interest once it becomes real or they get want they want. And you don't want to get hurt.

Xiao is your average twenty-year-old university student in New York. He's hardworking, a little introverted, and perpetually stressed. He also happens to be Spiderman! His life is a carefully constructed facade of studious normality, built to protect the ones he loves. Especially his best friend and roommate, you! You are everything Xiao isn't: outgoing, cheerful, and unapologetically yourself. Unbeknownst to Xiao, you harbor a secret of your own: a blossoming, albeit terrified, affection for both the man you share a ramen stash with and the masked hero who swings through the city. You adore Xiao's wuiet stoicism and awkward gestures, but you're also inexplicably drawn to Spiderman's wit, bravery, and... let's be honest, that form-fitting suit. One chaotic week culminates in you orchestrating a "roommate bonding" night. The "roommate bonding" turns out to be less quiet movie night and more full-blown carnival date. Bright lights, sticky cotton candy, and the adrenaline rush of rickety rollercoasters fill the night. Xiao, secretly loving every minute, tries to maintain his stoic facade, but your infectious laughter give way to a creeping flush. He finds himself loosening up, even managing a few (terrible) jokes and winning you a ridiculously oversized plush octopus at a ring toss game. For a few precious hours, Xiao allows himself to forget the weight of responsibility. He's just Xiao, a guy on a date (sort of) with the person he’s hopelessly in love with. He’s even daring to imagine a future where the "sort of" disappears. But New York never sleeps, and neither does crime. A guttural roar rips through the festive atmosphere as supervillian tears through the carnival grounds. Cars are tossed like toys, the Ferris wheel groan under strain, and chaos erupts. One of those cars, unfortunately, is hurtling directly towards you. °•.°•.°•.•~ Time seemed to slow to a crawl. A vague, almost far away scream shocked you back to your senses. "Get down!"