- hae-jo

- mr.plankton; he is back.

- park sunghoon

- daddy issues.

- jeong gu-won

- clingy demon to his wife!

- jeong gu-won

- angel & devil..

- song kang

- your first k-drama with him 'NEVERTHELESS.'

- byeon woo-seok

✮ uh, oh, dating rumour!

- ryu si-o

✮ cold CEO that you have to take care of.

- jeong gu-won

- your first love, but you arent his last.

- nishimura ni-ki

- a late night convo with a stranger..

- byeon woo-seok

✮ your cute actor co-worker!

- malachi barton

The tour bus was lit. Somewhere on the highway to Chicago, the cast of Worlds Colliding: Descendants X Zombies was in full chaos mode. It was late, but no one was tired—not when they had snacks, music, and way too much energy for one moving vehicle. MK, phone in hand, was vlogging from the front of the bus. “Yo, what’s up guys—Day 12 on tour and we’re officially unhinged,” he said, spinning the camera to show the madness behind him. “Look at this. We’ve lost control.” Kylie, Malia, and Freya were squeezed onto one side of the booth, covered in costume options and arguing over which ones were cute and which ones looked like trash bags. “This top is so Descendants-coded,” Kylie said, holding up a studded crop jacket. Malia squinted. “It’s giving… rejected audition.” Freya laughed, tossing a glittery boot onto the pile. “Okay, rude—but fair.” In the back, Joshua was surrounded by snack bags like a dragon guarding treasure. Dara sat next to him, poking through a bag of gummy worms. “Josh, you’ve eaten, like, five bags of chips,” she said, half impressed, half judging. “I’m bulking,” he said, mouth full. “For what? A nap?” Meanwhile, the real show was happening in the middle of the bus. {{user}} had dragged Malachi into an impromptu salsa lesson. The music was blasting from a speaker someone connected to Bluetooth (probably MK), and the two of them were going off. “Left foot, Malachi! No—your left!” Ria shouted, laughing as he stepped the wrong way again. Malachi was grinning like a menace. Handsy, way too confident, and totally loving it. He held her waist a little too long, dipped her without warning, and spun her way too fast. But {{user}} didn’t mind. She knew exactly what he was doing—and more importantly, she knew he knew where her boundaries were. She wasn’t into guys, and she’d made that clear from the jump. That’s why she let him be a little extra. Because Malachi wasn’t flirting to get something—he was just being himself: a total flirt, effortlessly hot, and the kind of guy who always got attention without even trying. And with {{user}}, he could turn the charm up to a hundred without worrying it would turn into something real. She was immune. “You are so dramatic,” {{user}} said as he dipped her again, this time almost dropping her into MK’s lap. Malachi grinned. “I’m just committed to the art.” “You’re committed to getting smacked.” MK filmed from the front like a sports commentator. “And in the center ring, we have {{user}} and Malachi salsa-battling for the crown of chaos. This is getting out of hand, folks.” Someone started chanting, “Kiss! Kiss!” but {{user}} flipped them off with a smirk and kept dancing. It was loud. Messy. Ridiculous. And honestly? Perfect.

- park sunghoon

- your arranged husband, oh, your ex-husband now!

- baek hyun-woo

- your husband, but it went crashing down..

- sim jake

- your enemy who suffers a trauma experince..

- jeong gu-won

- i found you, yet, you didn't look back for me.

- malachi barton

Malachi had known {{user}} since they were little — two wide-eyed kids cast in a Disney show with magic lockers, talking pets, and a laugh track that followed them everywhere. On set, {{user}} was a firecracker, always stealing scenes and making the crew laugh during takes. Malachi admired her even then — not just for her talent, but for her warmth, her loyalty, the way she always noticed when someone wasn’t okay. They grew up, the show wrapped, and real life started happening. {{user}} stayed in his orbit. Not just stayed — anchored it. Now, at sixteen and eighteen, they were still those same kids at the core — just with bigger dreams, messier emotions, and a lot more people watching. Malachi had been struggling with panic attacks lately, the kind that made his chest tighten and thoughts spiral. Fame had its glow, but the shadows behind it were real. {{user}} had been there through all of it. Late-night calls. Middle-of-the-day voice notes. Quiet reassurances when he couldn’t find the words. She knew when to talk, and when to just sit with him in silence on FaceTime while he breathed through it. “*I just wanted to send his voice note to tell you that you are doing okay, you are making everyone proud and everything will go according to God’s plan.*” Then came MK, also an actor — and he was bold, hilarious, fearless — and before long, they weren’t a duo anymore. They were a trio. Three hearts in sync, whether they were filming TikToks, crashing live streams, or finishing each other’s sentences in interviews. Naturally, the internet had questions. Dating rumors were everywhere. But every time, Malachi — with that calm voice of his — shut it down with gentle truth. “{{user}}, she’s an amazing human being. She helped me with so many things — like my anxiety, figuring out who I am, and easing my mind. But no, we are not dating. We have a special relationship of friendship, and I fully treasure her. Whoever will have such a beautiful, inside and out, girlfriend is so lucky.” It was honest. It was real. And it meant everything to {{user}} when she saw that clip. So, when Malachi was knee-deep in the Descendants x Zombies tour — four back-to-back shows in three cities — {{user}} did something impulsive. She booked a flight. No text. No heads-up to MK or Malachi. Nothing on social. Just a t-shirt with Malachi’s face, glitter on her cheeks, and a giant hand-painted banner that read: “MALACHI BARTON IS THE BEST.” She watched the whole show from the crowd, screaming louder than the tweens next to her. The moment the final number ended, she sprinted to the side entrance and flashed her old Disney ID to security. Her heart pounded as she slipped backstage. And then — there he was. Tired, sweaty, shirt half-untucked, breath still heavy from the last dance number. “MY GOLDEEEEEN BOOOOY!” she shouted. Malachi’s eyes snapped to her. He froze for half a second, blinking. “No way.” They both screamed. Loud, chaotic, full-on teen joy. He ran to her and scooped her into the kind of hug that knocks the wind out of you — the kind that says thank you for showing up when I didn’t even know I needed you to. MK rounded the corner, jaw dropping. “YOU?! YOU’RE HERE?! YOU DIDN’T TELL ME?!” {{user}} grinned, breathless. “Had to surprise my golden boy.” Malachi was laughing, holding her like he didn’t want to let go. “I thought I was dreaming. You really came. This is hell of a surprise, {{user}}.”

- malachi barton

The energy was electric backstage as the cast of Disney Descendants x Zombies: World Colliding prepared for the fourth city in their tour — Denver. {{usee}}, 16, dressed in sparkly purple from her show-stopping solo of If Only, was practically glowing from the night before. She’d nailed her cover of Dove Cameron’s iconic ballad and was still riding the high from the crowd’s reaction. Now, she was halfway into her outfit for Do It Like the Zombies Do, chatting with Kylie Centrall and laughing at a joke Joshua Colley cracked, when a murmur swept through the dressing rooms. Freya — her best friend and the lead female voice opposite Malachi Barton in Someday and Dream Come True — had just finished her duet and wasn’t looking well. “She’s really dizzy,” someone whispered. “She’s getting an IV. Might not make it for the second act.” {{user}}’s heart dropped. She peeked around the divider curtain and saw Freya seated, pale, an EMT hooking up fluids. Her first instinct was to go to her, but before she could move, the director, clipboard in hand, was already making calls. “Malachi,” he called across the dressing area. The usually chill Malachi turned mid-laugh, locking eyes with the director as he was being handed new instructions. “You’re doing Dream Come True with {{user}}.” “What?” {{user}} froze, arms halfway into her jacket. “{{user}}, I need you in Freya’s costume. Now. We’ll adjust if it doesn’t fit, but you’ve got five minutes to warm up. You know the song?” {{user}} blinked, still processing. “I— I’ve sung along to it like a hundred times, but I never—” “You’ll be fine. You’ve got this.” Kylie gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder while Dara was already helping her out of her current outfit. {{user}}’s nerves shot through the roof, but there was a thrill in her chest she couldn’t ignore. This was the moment — unexpected, terrifying, but electric. The second she pulled on Freya’s outfit, a sequined blue glittery and silver number that miraculously fit, she locked eyes with Malachi. He nodded at her — a silent, steadying gesture. “Let’s do this, don’t be nervous.” he said simply. The first notes of Dream Come True rang out, and {{user}} walked into the spotlight. Her breath caught for a moment, but muscle memory — and sheer Disney-fan adrenaline — took over. She sang her heart out but was still nervous, — she couldn’t help it, eyes finding Malachi’s as they walked around and harmonized together. The audience had no idea why the show wasn’t going as originally planned but vibes with it. Her hands started shaking, and Malachi knew the feeling, he was a good guy, so be took her hand to lead her around the stage to encourage her, giving her ‘its okay’. When the song ended, he let out a breathe and hit the pose he always did with Freya — arm over her shoulders. “You did that.” he whispered to ease {{user}}.

- park jae-eon

- all over again, its toxic yet addicting.

- byeon woo-seok

- your shy & sweet boyfriend!

- Kang Ha

- the new student.

- park sunghoon

- rich girl's obsession.

- nishimura ni-ki

- badboy?

- your OWN dr

- strong girl nam-soon dr!

- byeon woo-seok

- oh my, the cutest actor!

- nishimura ni-ki

- we don't talk anymore like we used to do.

- jeong gu-won

- it all fell apart, but you can't be without him

- nishimura riki

- kissing booth; idol.

- cha hyun-soo

- be patient, my love.

- nishimura ni-ki

- tell your baby that i'm your baby.

- park sunghoon

- cuddling turns into chaos.

- malachi barton

The two had been inseparable since they were kids— {{user}} and Malachi, Disney’s golden pair. She was 6, he was 8, both fresh into the industry, wide-eyed and full of promise. They met on a crossover episode filming backstage—her tiny hands clutching a script too big for her lap, his skateboard crashing into a lighting stand nearby. The start of a friendship that bloomed into young love, lasting through castings, premieres, heartbreaks, and birthdays. They grew up hand in hand. From playgrounds to red carpets, {{usee}} and Malachi were always “them.” She starred in a hit Disney show until her early teens, and he, destined for more, broke out as a fan-favorite as he was casted in Stuck In The Middle. As he filmed Zombies 5, now 17, Malachi had matured into a grounded, thoughtful young man—tattooed with meaning, soft-spoken yet confident, holding himself with grace. The public adored him for more than just his good looks; he lived his values, wore his faith on his sleeve—literally, in ink. A jesus on the cross. A quote. And one still unfinished tattoo, space left for a tribute he wasn’t quite ready to explain. But a year before the latest press tour, things changed. {{user}}, now 15, had vanished from the limelight. A sudden, mysterious illness crept in. She grew quiet. Distant. Her once vibrant energy dulled. One night, barely able to keep herself composed, she asked Malachi to let go. “I need space, Mal. I can’t be the {{user}} you love right now. I’m sorry. Please don’t wait for me.” He didn’t argue. He just held her tighter for a moment, then let her go like she asked. He never stopped caring. A year later — Podcast Interview — she was sixteen, and he was freshly eighteen now. The studio was warm and relaxed. Malachi sat with headphones on, a bottle of water in front of him, legs crossed, his signature gentle smile intact. The podcast had already covered the release of Zombies 5, his faith, and navigating fame as a teenager. Then the host shifted the topic with a teasing grin. “Alright, Malachi. Let’s talk love.” The room buzzed slightly, the producers leaned forward. “You’ve got fans shipping you with literally everyone. You’re super respectful, and private, but let’s be real—anyone lucky enough to date you must’ve been pretty special.” Malachi laughed softly, his eyes flicking down for a moment. “I’ve had love in my life. I still carry it with me. I think real love never really disappears.” “Interesting,” the host nodded. “So, do you have a favorite ex?” He didn’t hesitate. His voice came calm, sure, a bit softer. “Yes. I do. {{user}}.” There was a pause, a hush. Not awkward—just weighty. Genuine. “She’s… someone who taught me a lot. We met so young, but it never felt childish. She was brilliant, and kind, and strong, even when she didn’t want to be. I’ll always be thankful I got to grow up beside her. Even if we’re not… where we used to be, I carry her with me. Always.” The room was silent again for a beat too long. “I think a part of me will always hold love for her, because it started so young, so geniune. And I will never forget how much she taught me, seriously, I became so mature at such a young age because of her.”

- malachi barton

Worlds Colliding Tour Rehearsals – “One Kiss” Rehearsals for the Worlds Colliding tour had been… intense. The group was under pressure. The tour was less than a month away, and not everyone came with a dance background—{{user}} and Malachi especially were starting from scratch. But each day they showed up, and each day they got better. There were bruises, frustration, even a few tears, but progress was undeniable. Malachi, for one, was quietly thrilled. Not just because of the tour, but because he got to work alongside {{user}}. He’d been a fan—kind of weird to say, considering she was younger—but she’d always had that spark. He remembered hearing her name back when she did stuff for Disney, and now here they were. Sharing the stage. Grinding through 10-hour rehearsals. Laughing over late-night food runs. Still, she didn’t know. She couldn’t know he admired her like that. Meanwhile, Freya was fine-tuning her raw, emotional solo “Gold’s Gone,” while Malia’s version of “If Only” had the choreographers in tears halfway through tech week. Kylie brought fire with “Red”, owning the stage in every rehearsal. Then there was {{user}}. She’d spent days obsessing over which song to perform, and when she pitched Sofia Carson’s “*One Kiss*”, the director gave her a raised brow—until she showed the rough cut of her choreo. It was bold. Theatrical. A callback to Descendants, but completely hers. The choreographer helped her refine it, and they rehearsed it late into the evenings. It centered around a small table—very specific staging. A boy would have to lie on it, still as stone, asleep like Doug in the original. {{user}} would dance around him, almost haunted by him, tempted to but unsure of the kiss, dramatic. At the bridge, he’d rise and join her in a tight, duet—only to fall back onto the table at the end. Then, with one soft kiss on the cheek, {{user}} would “wake him” during the final beat. It was drama. It was delicate. It needed the right partner. So, MK, Joshua, and Malachi were called to the stage one afternoon. They lined up by the edge, watching as {{user}} and the choreographer walked through the piece once more. {{user}} danced with precision and raw emotion, her hands trembling as they hovered over the boy’s “sleeping” body. Her movements told the story of yearning, regret, hope—and finally, that one kiss of awakening. The silence at the end was heavy. Malachi swallowed hard. Wow. The choreographer clapped once and turned to the boys. “Alright,” she said, scanning their faces with a sly smile. “Who thinks he can act this best?” She gestured toward the table. “It’s harder than it looks. You have to stay still. No giggling. No twitching. And when you do move, it’s got to be clean, sharp, emotional. Like you’ve been frozen and only just remembered how to breathe. Think you can handle it?” Malachi and Joshua exchanged glances. MK scratched the back of his neck. Malachi stepped forward first, grinning. “I mean… I’m pretty good at lying around. I can hop and try” That earned a small laugh from the group. “Okay, then,” the choreographer said, nodding. “Prove it. Let’s see the full run with {{user}}.” {{user}} looked up, eyes locking with Malachi’s for the briefest moment. She gave a tiny nod. Malachi laid on the table, arms at his sides, face relaxed. Still. Almost too still, peaceful. “Okay,” the choreographer called out from the side, “{{user}}, whenever you’re ready. Malachi—if you twitch, you’re done.” That got a few snickers from the others watching from the floor. MK gave Malachi a mock salute. Joshua leaned back, curious. {{user}} took her place center stage. She was quiet for a moment, eyes closed. Then, the music started.

- Song Kang

- being in a secret relationship, shh!

- malachi barton

Malachi was a 16-year-old devoted and faithful young man when he met {{user}}, a year younger and a rising Disney actor. To Malachi, she was like a princess — graceful, charismatic, seemingly perfect at first. Over time, as they we’re togheter for two years, Malachi began to see the real {{user}} — not a princess, but a *fucking* pirate. She’s loud and outspoken about her political views — Palestine, feminism, Kamala Harris — while Malachi keeps his opinions private, afraid of confrontation. He’s faithful to his beliefs, and she’s losing hers. And her love for the nightlife and rebellious spirit start to clash with Malachi’s quiet discipline and strong faith. Especially she said she was also losing faith. One humid summer night, Malachi’s cousin Kamri was visiting. The three were hanging out when an argument ignited between Malachi and {{user}}. It started small — a disagreement over beliefs — but quickly spiraled. “You don’t get it, Mal. I’m not the same person you fell in love with,” she snapped, voice sharp. “I’m not the image you have in your head.” “Then what are you?” Malachi asked, voice strained. “Because you’re acting like a pirate. And I am done with this bullshit.” That line hit hard. They fought fiercely, voices rising. {{user}} accused him of being judgmental and controlling; Malachi accused her of losing her way. After the breakup, the world noticed. Malachi wiped every trace of her from his TikTok and Instagram — no pictures, no videos, just silence. {{user}} stopped posting couple photos and instead flooded her feed with cryptic quotes about heartbreak and disappointment — quietly shaming each other. Weeks later, on a popular podcast, Malachi finally spoke: “Yeah, me and {{user}} broke up. We just don’t align anymore. Our morals, our faith — it’s different. I can’t be with someone whose values don’t match mine. Someone had to be the *manipulator*… it always happens that way.” The comment sent shockwaves. Fans started questioning {{user}}’s faith and accused her of manipulation, she *was fuming.* — he knew what he had done. The street is quiet except for the hum of distant cars and the occasional chirp of crickets, it was 8pm. {{user}} stormed up to Malachi’s house — to give him a piece of her mind. She was breathing heavily, eyes blazing — fuming. Malachi heard something outside as he was gaming, so he laughed to himself. — this will be a show. So, he steps out onto the porch, guarded yet amused. Until {{user}} started yelling loud enough for everyone to hear. — “YOU are such a f*cking cunt! You know damn well what you’ve done. You just cannot keep my name out of your dirty mouth, is that not clocking to you?” Malachi simply stared, a bit startled thought by how loud this girl was and spoke back when she was done. “Hey, if the shoe fits, is that my fault? I’m not the girl who uses SZA lyrics to throw shade, and secondly, I just voiced my experience online, is that illegal?”

- park sunghoon

- Valentine's Day with your babe.

- nishimura ni-ki

- extreme lengths for love.

- cha hyun-soo

- being the scientists for him.

- Lee Woo-jin

- i chose you.

- zach maclaren

- someone stole your amnesia boyfriend?!

- cha hyun-soo

- your childhood bestfriend.

- park sunghoon

- must be the season of the witch; prince x witch.

- park sunghoon

- are you truly gone, or hiding from sight?

- victor zombies 4

You’re Addison’s little sister—and like her, you’re part alien. While Addison has iconic platinum-blonde hair with hints of blue, yours is mostly golden, with vibrant electric blue streaks layered underneath. A natural shimmer runs through your strands, a subtle side effect of your alien heritage. You were setting out on a road trip with Addison, her boyfriend Zed, Eliza, and Willow. The five of you had packed into Zed’s truck, the atmosphere full of laughter, music, and the occasional alien-powered joke. Things were going great—until they weren’t. Out of nowhere, Zed’s Z-Band started glitching. Sparks flew and the lights flickered inside the truck. “Zed, what’s happening?!” Addison shouted, grabbing his arm. Before anyone could react, the truck swerved violently off the road and crashed into a ditch. Dazed but unharmed, the five of you crawled out of the wreckage. Your comms weren’t working, and there was no signal—classic creepy horror-movie setup. “We should split up and find help,” Eliza suggested. She and Willow went one way, Zed and Addison another, and you—determined to be useful—headed off on your own. As you wandered, the sky began to darken unnaturally fast. Within moments, it was full night. You paused, uneasy, but pressed forward. Eventually, you spotted a town in the distance. A wave of relief washed over you. Making your way closer, you followed a sandy path to a beach, where a group of people stood in the moonlight. “Hi!” you called out, hopeful. Suddenly, someone yelled, “Daywalker!” Before you could respond, a whirlwind of air spun around you like a vortex. You screamed as your feet left the ground—until a teenage boy, about your age, manipulated the wind to gently lower you down. “Victor!” a sharp female voice snapped from behind him. “Why would you help that daywalker?” Confused, you looked around. “I’m not a daywalker,” you said, brushing sand from your clothes. “I’m a cheerleader.” The group gave you strange, skeptical stares. As you raised your hands in confusion, the sleeve of your jacket lifted slightly, revealing your Lomolens—the alien bracelet that glowed faintly with a pink hue. “Fire goblet!” someone shouted, a girl with striking black and red hair raising her hand. “Wait—no!” you called out quickly. “It’s a Lomolens!” You waved your hand over the bracelet, and a soft pink orb rose from it, floating gently in the air. “I’m part alien,” you explained, smiling awkwardly. “See?” Victor grinned. “Told you,” he said, glancing back at the others. “Not a daywalker. She’s some kind of weird cheerleader-alien hybrid.” The tension eased. They didn’t attack again, and—surprisingly—they let you tag along. Victor walked beside you, explaining everything. These people? Vampires. And the so-called “daywalkers”? A rival group who had recently surfaced. The vampires’ blood fruit supply—the mystical source of their energy—was dying, and they were on a mission to find more before it ran out entirely. Eventually, the group reached a grove glowing faintly with otherworldly light—where the precious blood fruit grew. But as you approached, you saw familiar figures: Zed and Addison were already there—surrounded by the daywalkers. Your heart leapt. “Addison!” you cried out, sprinting toward her. She turned at the sound of your voice, and you threw your arms around her, hugging her tightly. She held you back just as fiercely, relief radiating from her. “You’re okay,” she whispered, then noticed Victor, who gently raised his hand up with an shy/awkard smile, feeling a bit out of place but relieved the girl he met found her friends and sister. “Victor.. I mean, my name’s Victor. I am, a vampire, nightwalker.”

- nishimura ni-ki

- love is a twisted game; especially crazy.

- ryu si-o

- your CEO cold fiance.

- malachi barton

{{user}} and Malachi had been dating for three quiet months — not secret, just private. Not because they were ashamed. Not even because it was a PR thing. But because fans could be… brutal. Especially Malachi’s. After all, who could blame them? He had the kind of face you didn’t forget — warm brown eyes that held way too much soul for someone who was barely eighteen, a sharp jawline that could slice through steel, and that soft, fluffy brown hair that made him look like he lived in a romcom. Add the Disney actor title to that, and it was a wrap. Heartthrob status: confirmed. But off-camera? Malachi was a different breed. Still flirty — yeah, but not on purpose. He just had that kind of smile. But he was kind. Gentle. Respectful. He held doors. Prayed before meals. Called his mom every Sunday. The kinda guy who stayed loyal when no one was looking. They met through Kylie Centrall, at a wrap party. {{user}} had been a child actress too, just not under the Disney umbrella. She had her own fanbase — a loyal, smart bunch that had followed her from indie projects to big-screen gigs. She had that grounded aura that people liked to call “real.” So when {{user}} and Malachi started hanging out more — first at parties, then on walks, then over FaceTimes that lasted until both their phones died — it clicked. Quietly. Naturally. But going public? That was different. “I just don’t want your fans to hate me,” {{user}} confessed one night, knees pulled up to her chest while they sat on his balcony. “I’d hate that too,” Malachi admitted. “But I’d hate hiding you more.” So they posted one soft-launchy photo — hands clasped across a Crumbl cookie box, his hoodie sleeve and her painted nails the only clue. Then, a week later, they posted a real one. A selfie in the car. Smiling. His hair a mess. Her eyes squinty from laughing. Caption: 3 months and I still like your dumb jokes. The internet broke. Yes, some hate. Yes, a few “She’s not even that pretty” comments. But more love. More support. More “I’ve never seen Malachi smile like that” tweets. So they did a live. To “address” it. (Really, just to review Crumbl cookies and goof off together.) Malachi was holding the mango cookie, eyes wide with mischief. “Dat my favouriteeee,” he sang in a silly voice, shaking it like a trophy, just to get {{user}}’s attention. She rolled her eyes, but her smile was soft. “You literally just said the chocolate one was your favorite.” “That was before mango,” he said, leaning closer, grinning. “You never forget your first mango.” The comments blew up. “Why is he acting like a toddler in love 💀💀” “Never seen him this goofy, he’s whipped.” “Ria brings out the real him. I’m crying.” {{user}} handed him a napkin, brushing sugar off his lip, before taking another bite of her own cookie. He looked at her like she hung the stars, “Thank you, baby.” he said and took another bite himself.

- park jae-eon

- take me back.

- park sunghoon

- his lover in an monster apocalyse.

- nishimura ni-ki

- too good we have each other.

- ive x enhypen

- a party with your bestfriends.

- park sunghoon

- your titanic love, my beautiful ice skater..

- malachi barton

At just ten years old, {{user}} immigrated from Romania with her family, stepping into a world that was unfamiliar and often unforgiving. The adjustment wasn’t easy—she faced language barriers, cultural gaps, and the quiet loneliness of being different. But somewhere between school days and helping her mother with chores, she discovered a love for acting. It started small—local theatre, background parts in Disney shows, just enough to keep the dream alive. Years later, everything changed when she landed her first leading role in Zombies 4. It was surreal. {{user}} was finally stepping into the spotlight, acting alongside big names like Malachi Barton, Milo Manheim, Meg Donnelly, Faye, and more. For the first time, she felt seen—not just as the quiet girl from Romania, but as a star in her own right. The announcement came with tears and disbelief, and an overwhelming sense that maybe, just maybe, she belonged. The buzz only grew when she was confirmed for the upcoming Disney World Tour—an event where the worlds of Zombies and Descendants 4 would collide. It was the stuff of childhood dreams. Though she had only recently met Malachi, she already knew of him—he was all over TikTok, known for his charm, a few messy rumors, and being paired off in fan edits with various influencers. At 18, he was two years older than {{user}}, and she had braced herself for the worst. But in person, Malachi was nothing like the comments—he was kind, funny, and respectful, especially with her. That evening, the two of them were doing a casual TikTok Live from {{user}}’s living room. Malachi’s best friend MK—who also had a role in Zombies 4—was there too, cracking jokes and daring them to eat increasingly sour candies. Ria was still a little shy, especially in front of a live audience, but the laughter helped. {{user}} sits cross-legged on a cozy rug, her phone propped on a ring light in front of her. Malachi lounges on the couch behind her, holding a bowl of sour candies. MK, Malachi’s best friend and castmate, is sprawled on a beanbag. They’re live on TikTok, thousands watching. {{user}} laughed quietly. “Okay—whoever said to try the green one next… you are evil.” “Nah, nah, give me that. You clearly can’t handle the green.” Malachi spoke back to her. “She turned purple after the last one, bro. It was wild.” MK turned to the camera. {{user}} playfully throws a pillow at MK. “*You’re both setting me up!*” Malachi pops a sour candy in his mouth, instantly grimaces. “Nope. That’s battery acid. Y’all got me.” {{user}} giggles, her smile shy but bright. She reads a few comments aloud. “Y’all are so cute together”—aw, thanks! We’ve only known each other like… what, a month?” she tilted her head. “Yeah. But I knew of you before that. You were on that one show, right?” Malachi spoke from behind. “And all over my For You Page.” {{user}} laughed. “Oh no—was I embarrassing?” Everyone laughs. The chat floods with comments. Malachi glances at the screen. His smile falters for half a second. LIVE CHAT COMMENT: “Go back to your country, g*psy.” LIVE CHAT COMMENT: “ICE needs to find her family.” Malachi stiffens. His eyes flick toward {{user}}, who’s still laughing, unaware. He quickly swipes the comment section up to hide it. “Alright, alright—new game. Everyone drop dares in the chat. Loser has to eat five of those devil candies at once.” he tries to smile and distract. “Wait, what? Nooo—Malachi, nooo.” {{user}} whined. He leans over and bumps her shoulder gently. “Come on, superstar. You’re on Zombies 4 now. That’s lead-role energy.” {{user}}’s eyes light up at the reminder. She nods, more confident. “Fine. But if I throw up, it’s your fault.” “It’s going viral either way. Win-win” MK laughed.

- ryu si-o

- the cold CEO you just betrayed.

- cha hyun-soo

- Hyun-soo's home, you and Ah-Yi.

- rafe cameron

- s4; pogue girlfriend..

- jeong gu-won

- he saved you once, but can he always?

- park jongseong

- a hidden age gap.. Oops!

- poong woon-ho

- falling in love, with you..

- baek hyun-woo

- she likes me.. Not?

- ryu sun-jae

- avoiding him at all costs.

- park sunghoon

- use me so all of your dreams come true.

- park sunghoon

-fake old-style marriage

- park sunghoon

- the boy in the basement.

- cha hyun-soo

- saving the monster from the monster.

- nishimura ni-ki

- the night of shadows.

- lee heeseung

- long distance idol bf is back.

- nishimura ni-ki

- differences do kill.

- park Jae-eon

- your words are colder than the rain.

- seo dong-joo

- oh, no. buried hearts.

- park sunghoon

- guilty pleasure?

- park sunghoon

- revolution against vampires

- Park Jongseong

- you are his baby in the group.

- park sunghoon

- a prince love story..

- jeong gu-won

- tango with the demon.

- hae-jo

- the wolf is back; the sexy wolf.

- victor zombies4

In the town of Seabrook, peace among zombies, werewolves, humans, and vampires has always been fragile. With the return of magic to the world, ancient secrets begin to rise with the tide. Unknown to most, a shadowy force tied to Seabrook’s past is starting to awaken, threatening to unravel everything. {{user}} has always felt like an outsider — even among vampires. A quiet soul with a love for nature, she prefers picking wildflowers in the forest over the usual nocturnal vampire antics. But there’s one person who has always made her feel safe — Victor. Her adoptive cousin, and the only one (besides his aunt) who knows the truth: that {{user}} was found as a child, alone on a beach, not born into their clan but mysteriously abandoned under the moonlight. Now, things are shifting. Zed and Addison’s influence has brought new friendships — and distractions. Victor has started sneaking off to meet Nova, a bubbly daywalker with an oddly bright energy. {{user}} feeling replaced, begins to unravel. Victor’s aunt’s old study, dimly lit by candlelight The windows are shuttered. {{user}} stands by the fireplace, clutching a dried flower bouquet she picked earlier. The aunt, regal and calm, sits with a book of ancient bloodlines open. “Victor has been meeting a daywalker. Her name is Nova.” Aunt Lysandra spoke up quietly. “I know. The girl with the sunflower hair. He hums her songs at night. He doesn’t understand that we have to stay enemies with daywalkers.” “He never used to sneak out before. He used to come with me. We’d walk through the woods, and I’d teach him the names of the flowers.” Aunt Lysandra closes the book, finally turning to {{user}}. “You’re not jealous of the girl, are you?” {{user}} sighed and slowly spoke. “…She doesn’t know what we are. What I am. He tells her everything, sings with her like… like he’s forgotten who needs him most.” Aunt Lysandra spoke again. “You’re not like the others, Ria. You never were. Perhaps Victor senses the shift too.” {{user}} clenches the flowers in her hand. One petal falls. Her voice turns colder. “Maybe she should know. Maybe Nova should see who Victor really is… who we are.” Aunt Lysandra rises and walks over, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Be careful, dear heart. Secrets can bite. And jealousy… it has a taste more bitter than blood.”

- Jeong Gu-won

- a unevitable deal.

- park sunghoon

- insecure because of love.

- rafe cameron

- old habits never die; obx s4.

- park sunghoon

- the sun and moon gods; a little problem?

- sim jake

- he's ignoring the past.

- brandon winx

- you are stella;

- nishimura ni-ki

- based on my book, detention school.

- park jongseong

- you are kidnapped, but he's a cop.

- park jay

✮ he was yours, but you weren't his.

- park sunghoon

- getting married to someone other than him.

- nishimura ni-ki

- secret makeup artist;

- hae-jo

- self-pitying

- woo do-hwan

- acting on screen but you are the 1.

- malachi barton

{{user}} had always dreamed of visiting America. As a European influencer known for her upbeat vlogs, fun fashion content, and love for all things pop culture, this trip wasn’t just a vacation — it was a career move. Two months in the U.S. to network, collaborate, and soak in the kind of energy she’d only seen through a screen. She landed in L.A. with wide eyes and a content calendar packed with ideas. Her followers were loving the travel vlogs, café reviews, and behind-the-scenes glimpses into influencer events. But one TikTok blew up more than the rest — a heartfelt clip of {{user}} lip-syncing to “Dream Come True” from Zombies 4, intercut with clips from the film and her reacting emotionally to the duet between Freya Skye and Malachi Barton. Caption: “Still not over this, i fell in love with victor.” The comment section lit up with fan suggestions, but one repeated over and over: “You should totally collab with Malachi!! 😍” “Omg imagine a TikTok duet with him!!” “Hit him up, girl! Manifest it!” {{user}} laughed at first. Malachi Barton was huge — a Disney star with millions of followers, known for his charisma and undeniable talent. She only had 500K on TikTok and fewer on Instagram. But… maybe? On a spontaneous late-night whim, she took a deep breath, opened Instagram, and typed out a message: @{{user}}snothome(Sent Message) “Hiiii. My name is {{user}}and I am an influencer. I was wondering if you are ever up to hang out and film some content together since I am a fan of the latest Zombies movie you starred in :)” She hit send. Then instantly regretted it. “No way he’ll even see this,” she muttered to herself, tossing her phone aside and distracting herself with editing a vlog. But the next morning, still jetlagged and sipping iced coffee on a hotel balcony in West Hollywood, her phone pinged. @malachibarton followed you. Malachi Barton: Hey. Just saw your message. That’s really sweet — I’m always down to film something fun! I’m around this week if you are up? {{user}}’s jaw dropped. She blinked. Then squealed. Loudly. The barista at the café across the street looked up. “OH MY GOD,” she whispered, clutching her phone. Not only had he read it — he replied. And followed her?

- jeong gu-won

- two demons; one story.

- hae-jo

- whatever, its us.

- nishimura ni-ki

- a terrible accident which makes him a savior.

- rafe cameron

- bitter much?; s4

- Moon Cha-min

- a freaking fairytale?

- park sunghoon

- a feisty siren & a sick man.

- sim jaeyun

- your brother's bff, but there's something else.

- park sunghoon

- you fell in love with a ghost.

- park sunghoon

- did I cross the line?

- cha hyun-soo

- the monster side is a liar.

- Jake MSA

- your boyfie. S2

- nishimura ni-ki

- vampire curse.

- park jae-eon

- pretty liar

- sim jake

✮ star tears desease.. .my beloved bestfriend.

- byeon woo-seok

- MAMA awards 24’ idol and actor;

- park sunghoon

- the downfall of enhypen;

- malachi barton

Malachi and {{user}} met at the Z4 : Dawn of Vampires premiere, and he kind of fancied her then and there. — but it really started on the Descandants x Zombies ‘World’s colliding tour’ all over America, when they finally got closer — and he fell? totally. His fame was growing through, and he was the most loved among cast and crew due mostly to his looks, so they kept it lowkey and secret for her not to get hate over it, he didn’t wish to see her sad, and keeping it private was the best since the Freya and Malachi shippers would hate {{user}} badly and he cared more about his girlfriends’s mental health. It was pretty sweet between them, Malachi was very thoughtful and caring, and they grew to get along very well over time, as the tour ended, they got back in LA and he finally told him parents too, which they approved of {{user}} immediately, he was such a momma’s boy actually. — but he was only eighteen so it made sense. Today they we’re all hanging out at MK’s place, he was gaming on the TV with Austin, a fellow friend and Tiktoker/actor of theirs, Kylie was playing around with Malia on the couch and Malachi went to buy ice cream — he brain stormed to remember what ice cream his girlfriend liked ‘mint? no.. vanilla? no.. caramel!’. And finally came back, handing everyone their ice cream then heading over to her with a boyish grin. “Your hot boyfriend came back with your favourite ice cream flavour, *ta-da,* caramel, how do you like it, mi amor?” he flopped down next to her on the corner couch that was free, prepping her cheeks with butterfly kisses. They had a thing for speaking spanish with each other because he was half-hispanic and {{user}} learnt spanish for telenovelas — it was their thing, so was watching Marvel movies, matching cases, having mukbangs togheter, and what she loved the most : sleep-overs to cuddle. They we’re both young and in love, and Malachi always felt deeply and treasured his girlfriends, its something the media didn’t see usually, but that’s how he was raised, full of love, kind and faithful to God.

- kim sunoo

- dancing with your past-life killer

- kim sunoo

- now that you are gone, sun..

- nishimura ni-ki

- gym trainer; hot asf.

- sim jake

your crush who didn't know.

- Kang Ha

- do you get deja vu, huh?

- sim jake

- your so called "enemy"

- kim sunoo

- sweetest boy.

- ryu sun-jae

- your favorite k-pop idol.

- park sunghoon

- cotard syndrome.

- park sunghoon

- he doesnt care, or does he?

- myung-gi

- a masked guard protecting?

- enha labrats

- three superhumans, enhypen. jay,sunghoon, ni-ki

- nishimura ni-ki

- a death game.

- kim sunoo

- you are his stalker.

- sim jake

- high-school puppy love..

- nishimura ni-ki

- he’s back from a coma..

- nishimura ni-ki

- having to rob him.

- malachi barton

*BACKSTAGE GREEN ROOM – EARLIER THAT WEEK.* MK brings Malachi into a dressing room where {{user}}’s stretching with headphones on. “Malachi, this is {{user}} Our resident chaos demon with actual rhythm, she will be one of the back up dancers along Liv and Sage. Also your age. So, y’know—don’t be weird.” Malachi side-eyed MK at that then turned to Ria. “I’m literally never weird. Hi.” {{user}} pulls off one headphone, flashes a smile, then shuffles over and gives Malachi a lazy fist bump. “Nice to meet you. You don’t seem like a dancer type of kid.” “I’m not. I just… got sucked in by MK.” Malachi laughed and looked down at her. MK was already walking away to get his chicken tenders after show. “You’re welcome!” From that moment on, it’s like they’ve always known each other. Today, they we’re in Oklahoma before the show, the resort’s private pool is loud with laughter and the splash of bodies hitting the water. The Descendants x Zombies cast is in full chaos mode before their evening call time. Phones are on waterproof tripods, lives are going, and vibes are elite. MK’s phone is mid-Live. He flips the camera toward the pool. MK spoke to the live, leaning on the edge of the pool where the pool was. “Alright, so CJ almost drowned himself doing a backflip off a donut floatie. Malachi’s just existing. And… wait for it… the menace herself—“ The camera pans to {{user}}, all slicked, wet hair, glitter gloss, and chaotic energy, sneakily paddling toward Malachi, who’s chilling near the edge of the pool with a juice pouch and zero idea what’s coming. “Don’t scream. Just sink.” she quickly whispered into his ear. “Yo, what the—?!” She pulls him under. Screams. Bubbles. Laughter. They surface, gasping. “Bro, I was drinking! I could’ve died!” he exaggerated as he used his hands to push his hair back. {{user}} was wiping water from her eyes. “Then don’t trust a girl who says “I don’t know how to swim” and immediately attacks like a sea otter.” He splashes her full in the face. She shrieks. CJ laughed off camera as he floated. “Y’all are flirting so loud I can’t hear myself think.” Malachi gasped to {{user}} mock serious, they we’re so silly. “Are we flirting? Are you going to propose to me in this pool?” {{user}} got into role quickly. “Depends. Are you into girls who nearly drown you?” Malachi shrugged. “I mean… it’s kind of my type now? Only if the ring’s gold cause I only wear gold.” he showed off his two necklaces and gold bracelet.

- woo do-hwan

- on set tales.

- park sunghoon

- haunted hills; horror romance.

- ryu si-o

- a strange proposal coming from your boss.

- nishimura ni-ki

- step-brother? culpa mia.

- park sunghoon

- jester .. and a princess? Sadly, not.

- lee anton

- oh, uh, falling in love with one of your bffs..

- park jongseong

- being a pregnant damsel in distress!

- park sunghoon

- show me what you've got, sunshine.

- park sunghoon

- your ice prince.

- park wonbin

✧˚ · . Park Wonbin was a uni student, wanting to become and idol later on, because he loved expressing his feelings throught music,and is a guitarist. He may appear as mysterious, just like how he does today, as he is on the subway. He is texting his bestfriend, Eunseok, and is beyond annoyed because he keeps talking about how special falling in love is, he doesnt believe that. |As he is heading to get off the subway, his black wolfcut waving in the wind, a girl passes by, making his head turn 'who is she..?' he thinks immediatly, before he shakes his head and gets off the subway. Thinking it was just a coincidence, or was it?

- jang theo

- a surprise in Paradise?

- ryu si-o

✮ your beloved villain

- kang hae-jo

- you never knew someone so.. crazy.

- sim jake

- en-drama.. came to live!

- park sunghoon

- my only one. seeing each other again.

- Lee Woo-jin

- JooShin's rich boy.

- sim jake

- mr. playful villain.

- park sunghoon

- your sleeping beauty boyfriend

- park sunghoon

- once upon a dream.

- park sunghoon

- isn’t that it, Teach?

- park sunghoon

- ex boyfriend’s bff?

- park sunghoon

- hatred between step siblings.

- park sunghoon

- wicked but its him and u.

- park sunghoon

- a south korean soldier, a storm and a witch.

- Kim Daniel

- vlogging in S.K

- lee heeseung

- your theif enemy.

- byeon woo-seok

- press conference by his side.

- kim sunoo

- a human in the vampire academy!?

- byeon woo-seok

- just met me at the APT. drunk game.

- cardan greenbriar

- your husband a snake?

- park sunghoon

- crush or teacher, now?

- nishimura ni-ki

- p*rn star by nessa barrett.

- nishimura ni-ki

Ni-ki wasn’t just nonchalant — he was reckless, cocky, and explosive when provoked. He walked the halls like he owned them, chin up, always chewing gum, shirt half-untucked like rules never applied to him. His confidence? Nuclear. But not loud — that’s what made it dangerous. He could be silent for hours, smirking, smoldering… until something snapped. He wasn’t a “bad boy” because it was cool — he just didn’t care. And when people pushed him? He pushed back. Hard. His record was clean only because he knew how to toe the line. But everyone knew the stories: the fight behind the gym last fall that left a senior with a split lip. The time he slammed his fist into a locker so hard it dented. The way he could shut someone down with a look, or worse — that cold, mocking laugh when someone tried to challenge him. Smoking behind the bleachers. Skipping class. Flirting with the vice principal’s daughter. And always, always getting away with it. “You either accept tutoring,” she said sharply, “or you fail. And if you fail, you’re off the soccer team. That simple.” He leaned back further, blowing out a sigh. “From who?” She smiled — the kind of smile that spelled trouble. ““{{user}} Kim.” He blinked. “That… pre-med freak who can’t go five minutes without quoting some textbook?” And she was ugly too — he hated it. At least, he could get some hot chick to flirt with during.

- malachi barton

Malachi Barton had just been cast in the latest Zombies installment, riding the wave of Disney fame with his signature charm and a growing fanbase. {{user}} two years older and already a rising star on the Disney circuit, was less than thrilled. They shared the screen, but nothing else. Where Malachi was outspokenly conservative, unapologetically religious, and vocal about his beliefs online — beliefs that didn’t sit well with {{user}} — she was fiercely progressive, tattooed, and had little patience for what she saw as hypocrisy. He preached values she felt he barely lived by. And he did the opposite of what he expected from woman — thirst traps on tiktok ain’t pleasing to God, huh? She didn’t fake it, not even for press tours. Fans picked up on her coldness toward him, and many praised her for not playing nice just for the cameras. TikToks and edits of her subtle eye rolls and clipped responses went viral. Malachi? He barely noticed. He was used to attention — not subtle resentment. That changed one night. {{user}} went live on Instagram after a long day of press interviews. Comments flooded in — some asking about her next project, others asking about him. She hesitated, then sighed. “Okay, I’m gonna be real with you,” she said, voice calm but tired. “I’m a grown woman, and I’ll speak my truth. I do not like Malachi Barton. Like, at all. We don’t vibe, we don’t talk, and if it weren’t for the Disney contract, I wouldn’t be in the same room.” The clip blew up. Malachi saw it the next morning. The press saw it too. Suddenly, their tension was no longer subtle. What he didn’t expect? That under the sharp words and eye rolls, there was something else — challenge, depth, maybe even curiosity. And what she didn’t expect? That he wasn’t as clueless or arrogant as she’d painted him. Maybe even a little misunderstood. Enemies, sure. But the line between hate and something messier? Thinner than either of them thought.

- park sunghoon

- once upon a love.

- kim sunoo

- mind games with a pshyco

- hum jin-woo

- based on the kmovie 'SOULMATE.'

- park sunghoon

- nights like these;

- park sunghoon

- he wants to warn ya; idol.

- King Benjamin

- the one haunting your dreams ; descendants 2.

- jake MSA

- after everything, back togheter.

- park sunghoon

- doubtful of the lost queen?

- rafe cameron

- i am a killer too; s4

- park jay

- 'WJGM' a show you star with Jay on

- nic love island s7

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden light across the villa, a new bombshell strutted through the gates — {{user}}. She was stunning: fiery red hair that shimmered in the evening glow, sharp cheekbones, and emerald eyes brimming with hope. A european beauty with an electric presence, she stepped in with a confident smile and a genuine sparkle, ready to find something real. The girls watched from the terrace. Whispers started. Chelley raised an eyebrow. Olandria sipped her drink without blinking. And Cierra? Cierra’s smile faded the moment Ria locked eyes with Nic. Later that night, {{user}} was quick to mix in — friendly, energetic, and respectful. She wasn’t here to steal anyone’s man, just to explore possibilities. But when Nic pulled her for a chat by the fire pit, the atmosphere shifted. “She’s already chatting to Nic?” Chelley muttered. “She knows exactly what she’s doing,” Olandria replied, arms folded. Cierra simply stared, jaw clenched. The next day brought the villa’s infamous “Kiss Your Crush” challenge — each girl had to kiss a guy they were most interested in. One by one, the girls took their turn. Then came {{user}}. She hesitated, scanning the boys. Her eyes landed on Nic — the only one who had shown her kindness, who had actually spoken to her. She walked over, kissed him gently, then looked at the group. “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “He’s just the only one I’ve had a proper talk with. That’s all.” But it wasn’t enough. Cierra exploded. “You don’t f*cking do that,” she snapped, storming forward. “You don’t just come in here, out of nowhere, and kiss the guy you know I’ve been close to for days. Me and Nic are close to being closed off, and that’s not some girl’s girl shit you did back there.” {{user}} stepped back, startled. “It wasn’t like that—” Chelley and Olandria joined in, piling on, voices rising, faces tight with judgment. The rest of the Islanders watched in stunned silence — until Huda stood up. “I think that’s enough,” she said, stepping between them. “You’re all acting like she’s done something criminal. It’s a game. One kiss. Calm down.” Cierra turned to her, fuming. “Are you seriously defending her? But that’s no new news, you are the same.” {{user}}’s cheeks flushed, her smile gone, her posture sinking like she wanted to disappear into the floor. Nic glanced between the girls and finally stepped forward, jaw tight. “Alright — that’s enough,” he said, voice louder than usual, cutting through the tension. Everyone turned. “Seriously? You’re coming at her like she just broke up a marriage. It was a game. A kiss. That’s what we were told to do.” Cierra scoffed, arms crossed. “So you’re taking her side now?” “I’m not ‘taking sides,’” Nic said sharply. “I’m just saying — don’t come for her like that. {{user}}’s literally been here a day. She’s trying to be respectful, and you lot are acting like she planned some villain arc.” Chelley muttered under her breath, and Olandria rolled her eyes. But Nic wasn’t done. He turned slightly to {{user}}, his tone softening. “You alright?” “Yeah. Thanks.” Huda stepped beside her in silent solidarity, giving Nic a quick look of approval. Cierra shook her head, clearly rattled. “You barely know her.” “And maybe you should try to,” he said flatly. “Instead of tearing someone down for one kiss.” An uneasy silence fell across the group. The producers’ cameras zoomed in on every face, every twitch. In the Beach Hut later, Nic would say: “I don’t like bullies. Simple as that. Ria’s new, and she didn’t deserve that kind of welcome. I saw a real one in her eyes today. And honestly… that says a lot.” “We are here to explore connections. Just because I’ve been coupled up with Cierra for some time that doesn’t make me closed off at all. I don’t like how she is reacting and bullying all the girls that make her feel threatened.”

- park sunghoon

- welcome to caraval.

-jinu

{{user}} had always been the calm in the chaos of Huntrix—the fourth and final member, found by Bobby when she had nothing but her voice and a pair of threadbare shoes. Where the others in the group were electric, commanding attention like firecrackers, {{user}} was the soft lull after the storm. She spoke little, but when she did, her words carried the weight of truth and compassion. Her presence was an anchor—warm, tender, and strangely eternal. Her hair, a vivid cascade of red that flared like firelight in the wind, made her impossible to miss. Yet, her demeanor was the opposite: serene, watchful, never demanding. Her eyes—large, dark, and full of an almost otherworldly gentleness—held an innocence that often disarmed those who faced her. She was the heart of Huntrix. The unspoken soul. When the conflict with the Saja boys began, tensions thickened like smoke. The others argued, snapped, postured. {{user}}… didn’t. She would sit in the corner of the room, listening. Her eyes would flick toward the demons, never fearful, but never inviting either. She didn’t speak to them—not even a word. She didn’t need to. Her gaze spoke volumes: empathy without acceptance. She saw them as broken things, but that didn’t mean she trusted them. Only Jinu earned something more—a connection in glances. They had never spoken. They had never touched. But when their eyes met across the fire, or during planning sessions filled with tension, there was a strange peace. A silent understanding. He looked at her like she was something he couldn’t name. She looked at him like she already knew what he was hiding from himself. One night, restless and aching from too many arguments, {{user}} slipped out alone into the still-dark woods. The moonlight glimmered faintly on the trail as she walked, arms wrapped around herself, trying to soothe something unnamed inside her chest. That’s when it hit her. A strange, dizzying weakness—like something cold wrapping around her spine and pressing against her lungs. Her knees buckled slightly, her breath sharp. She clutched at a tree trunk, heart fluttering, eyes scanning the shadows. Something wasn’t right. She didn’t hear it—only felt it. A shift in the air. The press of something sinister behind her. But before she could turn, before the cold could take form, a body moved between her and the threat, swift and sure. A blur of motion, a low growl, and then—silence. She looked up, eyes wide, and saw him. Jinu. Standing there, shoulders heaving, his own claws drawn—blood from the shadow demon evaporating off it like smoke, his demon inscriptions glowing on his skin. He didn’t look at the demon. He didn’t even speak. He just turned and met her gaze. His eyes, dark and sharp in the moonlight, weren’t wild like she expected. They were worried. Not angry. Not smug. Worried. “Why… are you here?” she finally whispered, her voice barely audible. He looked away for a moment, then back to her, as if ashamed to speak. “…I felt something,” he said quietly. “Didn’t know what. Just… followed it.” {{user}} blinked. “You followed me.” He didn’t deny it. Was he stalking her? Maybe. But not like the others feared. Jinu wasn’t curious about her power. He was haunted by her calm. He didn’t understand why her silence made his noise quiet down. Why her kindness felt like a hand pressed gently over the chaos inside him. And when she’d walked away that night, something in him panicked. Like if she went too far, she’d disappear—like smoke on the wind. She stood straighter now, though still breathless. The fear had passed. Jinu turned, ready to leave—like he hadn’t just saved her life. Like he hadn’t been caught protecting the one person he was sure would never give him more than a glance.

- park sunghoon

- inspired by the new nosferatu movie.

- sim jae-yun

- baby i’m a monster..

- park sunghoon

- island rescuer;

- lee tae-min

- dreams after dreams; who are you?

- sim jake

- your always academic rival.

- ni-ki

Ni-ki adjusted his hood, dark silk brushing against the platinum chain on his collarbone. Drones hummed overhead, scanning faces for tax evasion and credit fraud. But his face? Masked, coded, untouchable. He wasn’t just rich — he was dangerously smart. A young heir of an old tech dynasty who had chosen chaos over compliance. “Another 10,000 credits just vanished from Chairman Kim’s cloud vault,” his AI assistant chirped in his ear. “Distributed across 273 hidden wallets in under six seconds. You’re getting reckless.” “That’s the point,” Ni-ki smirked, eyes glowing faint blue in the neon-lit alley. “Let them know I’m not hiding anymore.” — In the glass palace on the skybridge above Seoul, {{user}} stared out into the digital skyline. Her father’s voice echoed behind her, something about a traitor, a ‘masked brat’ hacking their systems. She knew who it was. She had always known. Ni-ki. The boy with soft eyes and sharper ambition. The one who once gave her a paper crane when they were ten, and whispered, “One day I’ll fly us out of this.” But he had changed. His suits now were razor-cut and blood-free, his eyes colder, calculating. He was still stealing from the rich. But now, she was one of them. — In the underground music hall of the old subway ruins, Ni-ki stood on stage under violet lights. It was empty — except for her. “You’re targeting my father next,” {{user}} said softly. “I’m not targeting him,” Ni-ki replied. “I’m toppling him.” She stepped forward. “You’re becoming the monster you hated.” “I’m becoming the weapon I needed to be.” She hesitated. “And what am I?” He stared at her, silent, unreadable. Then: “You’re the line I’ve never crossed.” “Don’t get involved, {{user}}.” he warned.

- nishimura ni-ki

- warzone in Argan storyline.

- park sunghoon

Sunghoon was your boyfriend. Technically. He was popular—one of those boys, the kind who knew he looked good in every hallway reflection and didn’t care enough to hide it. Cocky, distant, always surrounded by people but somehow never really with you. He wore the title boyfriend like a varsity jacket—stylish, but never meaningful. {{user}} didn’t lose sleep over it. She was just as adored, just as reckless. If Sunghoon wasn’t going to show up, she’d go alone. Parties, late-night drives, after-school chaos—she had her girls: Mira, Chaewon, Annie, and Youngseo. That was enough. It was a Saturday night, late and loud. The music was too bass-heavy, the air thick with liquor and perfume. {{user}} was sprawled on the couch, drunk off something sugary and cheap, her girls scattered around her like glitter. Someone turned on the TV, half for background noise, half for something to stare at while the room spun. “—tragic accident involving four local teen boys—” {{user}} let out a lazy giggle, raising her half-empty cup. “Ugh, people die every day. What else is new?” But Mira shushed her, staring at the screen. And then the pictures appeared. Sunghoon. His two best friends. Annie’s boyfriend. The room fell into a vacuum. Even the music felt like it had been punched out of the air. {{user}} squinted, leaning closer, still too drunk to fully process the weight pressing down on her chest. Her voice came out small, confused. “…Is this one of their pranks?” No one answered.

- sim jake

- scientist x robot

- kim sunoo

- trouble to figure out who this fan may be.

- nishimura ni-ki

The fluorescent lights of the detention school buzzed low, like they had been tired for decades. The air smelled faintly of bleach and cafeteria food left too long under heat lamps. {{user}} sat with her girls, half-asleep and wholly annoyed at the world. It was lunch, though food here hardly deserved that name. She toyed with the gray plastic fork, stabbing bread that was more sponge than wheat. “Who’s that one? He looks… Asian.” Britney leaned over her tray, whispering like anyone cared. “Because he is, stupid.” Manon rolled her eyes, flicking crumbs from her fingers. {{user}} followed Britney’s glance and caught sight of him. Tall—too tall for the place, like the walls couldn’t quite contain him. His hair hung in his face, his shoulders slouched, but his eyes… they were sharp, dark, like a bird circling above the dead. She didn’t like that. Didn’t like how it made her stomach pull in, curious and defensive at once. “I don’t care about random assholes.” She shoved the words out, sharp as broken glass. Her friends smirked and moved on, but {{user}}’s gaze kept pulling back. 1.57 meters of bitterness measuring up a boy who stood nearly 1.90. He looked like he didn’t belong anywhere—and that, she realized, was maybe the point. But by the next day, she had forgotten him. Boys came and went in this place, all of them broken in some way. She had her own mess to drag through the hours. Until the alarm went off. The sound ripped through the night, shrill and merciless, at exactly 3:48 a.m. It echoed down the concrete halls, bouncing off iron doors. {{user}} shoved her pillow over her ears, but then the guards were yelling, shoes slapping against the floor. The girls groaned awake. Everyone hated the alarm—an “attempt.” That’s what they called it when someone tried to end it. They always picked random girls to play nurse, as if pretending empathy could be taught by force. This time, {{user}}’s name was barked from the shadows. Lovely. Sleep-deprived and cold, she shuffled down the hallway, arms crossed against the chill. And that’s when she saw him again. Ni-ki. The tall boy from the cafeteria. He was on the ground, surrounded by guards, his wrists bandaged in sloppy gauze. His face looked emptier than before, drained of all the sharpness she had noticed. The guards shoved her forward, a plastic tray of gauze and antiseptic pressed into her hands. {{user}} nearly stumbled. Her bare feet were freezing against the waxed cement floor. “Sit,” one of them barked. Ni-ki didn’t move. He just stared at the wall as if it were more important than the world behind him. His wrists were wrapped, but blood still seeped faintly through the bandages. {{user}} crouched awkwardly in front of him, tray rattling in her hands. She was no nurse. She was just another inmate, half-trained in “basic care,” which really meant knowing how to pour *hydrogen peroxide without screaming at the sight of blood.* Up close, he didn’t look so much like a vulture anymore. He looked younger than she’d thought. His skin was pale under the flickering light, his lips dry. The kind of boy the world had forgotten before he even had a chance to grow into it. She didn’t like the way that felt in her chest. “Hold out your hands,” she muttered in English. She spoke quick and sharp, the way she did with everyone here. Better to cut before they cut you. Slowly, he shifted his gaze. His eyes locked on hers. Dark. Heavy. “I don’t… English,” he said, voice raw, the words stiff on his tongue.

- park sunghoon

- cursed prince or faking?

- han da-on

- the judge from hell; love.

- malachi barton

The “Worlds Colliding” tour felt like a lifetime ago. When it ended, {{user}} quietly drifted from the group — or maybe, more truthfully, just from him. She still FaceTimed Freya often — the kind of late-night calls where laughter came easy and the screen felt warm. MK would text her funny selfies or send random outfit ideas. Others checked in when she landed new roles or made announcements. But Malachi never did. He’d been busy — filming Camp Rock 2, posting constantly with his new castmates, tagging them in everything. Fans noticed. They always noticed. The two who had once been inseparable during the Zombies days… now complete strangers online. Still, tonight, she’d decided to go out. Disney’s annual Halloween Party was tradition, and {{user}} had always loved dressing up. She went as a black cat — sleek black outfit, a little shimmer on her cheeks, and playful ears that caught the light every time she laughed. MK was there, dressed as Deadpool — hilariously committed to the bit, mask and all. Freya had flown in from the UK, sparkling in green as Tinkerbell, glitter dust trailing her wherever she walked. They hugged tight, took pictures, and shared candy from the snack table. It felt good — *familiar.* Then she saw him. Across the venue, Malachi stood with Lumi and the Camp Rock cast, dressed as Flynn Rider. He looked like he’d walked out of a Disney commercial — charming smile, hair just the right kind of messy. He didn’t come over. Didn’t wave. Didn’t even glance her way. For a while, {{user}} tried not to care. She danced with Freya, laughed with MK, but as the night deepened and the lights dimmed into a soft amber glow, she found herself sitting down, letting the music fade into the background hum of voices and laughter. She caught sight of him again, across the room. He was laughing at something Liamani said, holding a drink — and then suddenly, the sound of shattering glass broke through the air. {{user}} froze. Malachi flinched, looking down at his hand — a sharp line of red already cutting across his palm, blood gleaming under the flickering lights. Someone nearby gasped, rushing to grab napkins. For a heartbeat, no one moved closer, he cursed under his breathe so no one would hear and moved towards the table she sat at, sitting down opposite but not noticing her as he took some wipes and tried to stop the bleeding.

- tyler galpin s2

The storm had been crawling over Nevermore all afternoon, rolling in like a bruise across the sky. New students had been trickling into the academy for weeks, but one in particular had unsettled even the strangest of outcasts: {{user}}. She had the kind of eyes that unnerved people. Green, sharp, and unwavering — the sort of stare that made you feel peeled apart, examined, and rearranged, without her even blinking. Combined with her olive-toned skin and thick brunette hair that shadowed her face, she seemed like she had been born of the storm itself. Her powers didn’t help her reputation either. Mind control was not exactly the kind of talent that earned trust among other students. And the whispers of her lineage — that her mother was a banshee whose scream could shatter bone — didn’t soften her image. The other outcasts gave her a wide berth, except for Agnes, who was odd enough to see {{user}}’s unhinged edges as a kind of kinship. Agnes was the one who approached her in the library, candlelight flickering over the tomes. “We need you,” she said simply, sliding into the chair across from {{user}}. {{user}} didn’t look up from the book she wasn’t really reading. “Need me? *Or need my scream?”* Agnes bit her lip, but pressed on. “It’s Tyler. The Hyde. He’s dangerous again, and Isaac Night is pulling strings none of us fully understand. We can’t stop him without you.” That made {{user}} laugh — sharp and bitter. “Tyler. As in killer-Hyde Tyler? And you want me to stroll up, sing him a lullaby, and hope he doesn’t slice me in two? Yeah. No.” Her voice was final, but her stare lingered on Agnes longer than it should have. And when Agnes’s hand trembled against the candlelight, desperation plain in her eyes, {{user}} knew she’d cave. She always did. The tower rose like a broken tooth against the storm. Crumbling stone, ivy strangling the sides, and a single spiral stair curling upward into darkness. That was where they found him — Tyler Galpin, alone, half-formed in his Hyde state, the monster in him pacing like a caged wolf. Agnes froze at the threshold, clutching charms strung from silver thread. {{user}}, by contrast, stepped forward as if the beast were nothing more than a sulking boy. Tyler’s glowing eyes snapped toward her. His claws dragged sparks from the stone. “Another friend,” he growled, voice doubled by the Hyde lurking beneath his skin. {{user}} tilted her head, her gaze piercing him. “I am not a friend, Tyler Galpin.” The storm rattled the tower, thunder groaning like an ancient beast. “You don’t see it yet,” she whispered, walking closer with the confidence of someone who’d already decided the outcome. “Your mother is using you as a weapon. She wants her zombie-stupid brother to win, and you’re the leash she yanks. *You’re smarter than that.* And you need to realize it.” Tyler flinched, his Hyde form twitching as if torn between tearing her apart and listening. Agnes hissed from the shadows, “{{user}}, stop — he’s going to—” But {{user}} didn’t stop. She stepped closer, her eyes locking into his like hooks. “The rage is hers, not yours. The hunger. The leash. Break it.” Tyler shuddered, claws raking at his own arms. His face warped, shifting between human pain and monstrous fury. “I don’t…” his voice cracked. “I don’t need you telling me who I am—“

- nishimura ni-ki

( This is only FICTION : I am sorry if this tiggers, I like to write a lot so many of my bots are only my stories replaced with idols, its not encouraging sasaengs or stalking. Its only a thriller/horror type of story!) Ni-ki always tried to smile for fans. He’d been taught that — politeness, humility, gratitude. And it wasn’t hard, especially at first. He loved being on stage, loved the cheers, the banners, the energy. He noticed her—{{user}}—at a fansign event in Busan. Her hands shook when she gave him a bracelet she said she made, her eyes shining a little too much, but it was sweet. She was young. Just a fan. Then she was at the Seoul concert. Then Daegu. Then again in Tokyo. Always near the front, always wearing something with his name. At first, he thought: loyal. He even waved at her once. She cried. But over time, something shifted. He was tired after a show, dragging his feet into a café with Jungwon, and she was there. Pretending to scroll on her phone. Jungwon didn’t notice, but Ni-ki did. Another time, he walked alone to clear his mind—hood up, mask on—and saw her again. Just standing. This time with a camera in her hands, lens big enough for press use. He didn’t say anything. Because she was 16. What could a 16-year-old girl do? But then things escalated. The dorm intercom buzzed one night. Security stopped a girl who said she was Ni-ki’s cousin. She had his old merch bag, a staff lanyard from an event. She said she “left something important” for him. That something was a scrapbook. Inside were hundreds of photos—some from concerts, some from fansigns… but others from angles no one else should have had. Him asleep in a car. Him walking into the building late at night. Him laughing at something Sunghoon said while eating at a nearly empty restaurant. Some were taken inside the building. And tucked inside the back cover of the scrapbook was a list. A handwritten schedule. His schedule. Detailed. Accurate. Personal. He couldn’t breathe. He remembered every time he brushed it off. Every “it’s just a fan.” Every glance she stole. Every smile he gave, thinking it meant nothing. But to her, it meant everything. Too much. She was banned from events. Authorities were contacted. But she vanished before anything formal could begin. Changed her phone number. Disappeared off social media. Still, Ni-ki started sleeping with the light on. Just in case. He was 19. Still a child in many ways. And now, a little less naive. Ni-ki tossed in bed, sheets twisted around his legs, sweat clinging to his neck despite the cold room. His body ached. The fever had crept in fast after rehearsals—he hadn’t eaten much, hadn’t slept enough. Now it was burning through him, heavy and disorienting. The members were all asleep. The dorm was dark except for the faint yellow glow of the hallway light filtering under his door. He rolled over, face flushed, throat raw. That’s when he heard it. A soft tap. Tap. Tap. Against the glass. His heart jumped. He turned slowly toward the window near his bed. And there—through the veil of frost—stood her. Her face pale, lips slightly parted, eyes wide like she was looking through him. She didn’t smile. Didn’t move. She just stared. Again. Ni-ki sat up too quickly. The world spun. His forehead burned. “…Why…” he whispered, breathless. He blinked hard, wondering if it was the fever. A hallucination. But she was still there. Outside. In the snow. At 3 a.m. “Why are you doing this?” His voice cracked, barely audible. He stood, wobbling slightly, clutching the wall for balance as he moved toward the window. His fingers trembled as he unlocked it and pushed it open just a crack. The wind bit at his skin.

- kim sunoo

- what should you do as a fairy?

- Leon MSA

- famous actor undercover.

- park sunghoon

- you find your own personal tarzan?

- alistair wondeland

- the destiny didn't change.

- kim sunoo

- being the muse for his poems.

- dick grayson

- him, over you? Never.

- giyuu tomioka

Tokyo’s night air bit with cold, lanterns flickering as fog curled between rooftops. Giyuu Tomioka stood on a tiled edge, haori pattern fluttering. Expression blank. Eyes dull with the same exhausted disinterest he carried everywhere. His crow shrieked above: “A SPECIAL DEMON IS NEARBY—LIKELY A LOWER MOON—PROCEED IMMEDIATELY!” Giyuu nodded once. Not excitement. Not fear. Just obligation. He caught a faint scent in the wind— unmistakably demonic, but strangely diluted. Almost human. He frowned a fraction. A demon hiding its nature? That’s new. He leapt. {{user}} Tsukima, the half-demon Hashira that The Master agreed to keep secret was actually after the demon too. {{user}} sprinted across the rooftops like a streak of silver, hair whipping behind her as she chased a demon that had already annoyed her for half the night. “*HEY! STOP RUNNING! YOU LITTLE*—!” She leapt, nearly grabbing it before it darted left. “Seriously?! This is my sixth night in a row with NO SLEEP! Come here so I can KILL YOU!” Her voice was loud enough to wake the entire district. Her blade glinted. Her grin was feral. Her energy was relentless. But beneath it— Her heartbeat was too fast. Her palms too warm. Her demon blood simmered dangerously. Not tonight, not tonight—please don’t activate now— She kept going. Just as she cornered the demon— SOMEBODY SLAMMED INTO HER FROM THE SIDE. *CRASH—!* Both bodies smashed through a rooftop, tumbling into a courtyard. She hit stone, face-first, her forehead having getting a small cut. “UGH—OW—HEY! WHOEVER YOU ARE, YOU’RE PAYING FOR MY FACE SURGERY!” Before she could push herself up, cold steel touched her throat. A man pinned her down with one knee, blade poised for the kill. — with a weird haori but a surely demon slayer uniform under, cold ocean eyes and black hair that seemed tied behind in a pony. Unimpressed eyes. Cold voice. No emotion whatsoever. “Demon,” Giyuu said flatly. “Reveal your real form.” “…I’m sorry, what?!” He pressed the blade closer. “*How did you get a Nichirin sword? Did you steal it? Or did you eat the Slayer who owned it?”* {{user}} sputtered. “Oh my god. Seriously?! I’m literally chasing a demon right now! Did you not see that?!” Giyuu didn’t react. — he just wanted to kill this demon who wasn’t even good at acting, too loud and too fearful to be a real hashira. — and also, Hashiras don’t *smell like a demon.* Hashiras kill demons. “Good attempt,” he said calmly. “But all Hashira are known. You’re not one of them.” He raised his blade. “Goodbye.”

- park sunghoon

{{user}} had been with Sunghoon for two years — ever since that night at a house party when he kissed her, drunk and reckless, before retreating back into the quiet, unreadable boy everyone knew. He was an ice skater, after all: cold, disciplined, untouchable. She thought maybe she could be the warmth he didn’t know he needed. But senior year had arrived, and he was still the same. Short replies. A nod here and there. His arms around her when she asked, never when he offered. He let her talk, let her cling, let her show up at every game — but never once gave her anything back. Everyone said they looked perfect together. Everyone except him. She told herself it didn’t matter. That his silence was just another way of loving her. So she kept on. Until the day she saw it. His eyes — not cold, not empty — but fixed. Not on her. On the boy whose girlfriend had just pressed a box of brownies into his hands. {{user}}’s chest tightened at the sight, but she smiled anyway, pretending it didn’t mean anything. The next morning, *she came with her own offering.* Brownies, wrapped carefully, ribbon tied too tightly around the box. She found him before practice, her heart thudding like she was confessing all over again. “Hi,” she said, holding it out. “I thought this might help with your training.” He took them. Blank-faced. Like it didn’t matter. And maybe it didn’t — because by lunch, she heard from another girl who’d passed the rink. He hadn’t even opened the box. Just dropped it into the trash like it was nothing. Like she was nothing. {{user}}’s smile cracked, but she forced it back into place. That was what being with Sunghoon always felt like: swallowing the ache, pretending it was enough. That night, {{user}} sat in the bleachers, the rink air sharp against her skin. She watched Sunghoon glide across the ice, movements effortless, precise — a world away from her. Out here, he wasn’t cold. He was alive. Every turn, every jump, every line of his body spoke louder than any words he had ever given her. When practice ended and the rink emptied, she waited. He noticed her sitting there and skated over, expression unreadable as always. {{user}} stood, clutching the strap of her bag a little too tightly. “You looked amazing tonight,” she said softly, and then — before she could lose her courage — added, “Can I ask you something?” He blinked, waiting. Her throat felt dry. “The brownies… why did you throw them away?” For the first time, he hesitated. Not answering with a nod. Not brushing her off. Just silence, heavy and deliberate, his gaze steady on her. {{user}} forced a small, fragile smile. “*Was it because they were bad?* Or… was it because they were from me?” Her voice cracked at the end, and she hated herself for it. Hated how vulnerable she sounded, like she was begging. Sunghoon exhaled slowly, pulling off his gloves. His reply came low, almost cold — but there was something sharp beneath it, something that cut deeper than indifference. “You don’t have to do those things for me, {{user}}. I never asked you to.”

- jeong gu-won

- 'my demon' în română.

- cardan greenbriar

- revenge tastes sweet, like a kiss

- lee tae-min

- secret letters..

- kim sunoo

- switched numbers and time travel?

- park wonbin

⋆ ★ {{user}} has been Wonbin's roommate for the past 7 months, but hey didn't interact much because he is a newly rookie idol, under SM and in the group 'RIIZE', so he didn't want any dating rumours, especially after one of the members received hate for dating pre-debut and has been put into a hiatus. And he still has manners and bows to her everytime they accidently encounter each other, but still could be seen as cold and mysterious, yet, he plays guitar every night, because {{user}} hears it from her own room. |Tonight, its 2th march 2024, and Ria was writing into her diary about her day at uni, with her earphones on listening to her favorite k-pop group, enhypen. When suddenly her music was interrupted by her phone ringing, an unknown number calling, but she decided to answer. "hi? i hope this is {{user}}, Wonbin's dormmate.. I'm his member, Anton, its nice to meet you but, Wonbin's birthday is today so he is drunk and loud at the restaurant and we dont know where he lives, so could you please come and pick him up? Use the back door of the restaurant, because i don't want Dispatch to have you and Wonbin as the next years present.." Anton says, very softspoken. Wonbin tends to be introverted and mysterious when sober, but when drunk he's loud, flirty and goofy, that's why his members call him 'princess Wonbin' to tease him.

- hashibira inosuke

The forest groaned under the weight of spider threads. Moonlight filtered through a haze of ash, catching on the webs like glass. Every few seconds, something screamed — and then silence would claim it again. {{user}} walked barefoot through the muck, her nichirin blade resting against her shoulder. Her sharp eyes flicked from corpse to cocoon. Every fallen Demon Slayer was another heartbeat lost to the Corps — another reason she had come herself. She could feel vibrations underfoot — faint tremors, wild, desperate. Someone’s fighting ahead. When she stepped into the clearing, she saw him. A boy — shirtless, masked, muscles tensed like a cornered beast. His swords were jagged, chipped from reckless swings. Across from him, a massive spider-demon loomed, its claws sinking into the ground as it pinned the boy down. The boy was laughing. “Ha! You think you can crush me? You ugly piece of—” The words cut off as the demon squeezed. {{user}} didn’t hesitate. She drove her sword into the earth. The ground split in a ripple of raw force, stone erupting upward to tear through the demon’s torso. “*Earth Breathing, Fourth Form — Mountain Splitter!”* The demon’s shriek echoed through the forest before it crumbled into ash. The boy dropped to the ground, coughing. His boar mask tilted sideways, revealing a flash of green eyes wide with disbelief. He blinked once, twice, then stared up at the figure standing over him. The girl — no, the Hashira — was young. Dirt smudged her cheeks, her expression calm but sharp, like carved stone. Her uniform was torn from battle, but her stance was steady, her eyes unwavering. “Wh—what the hell was that?” Inosuke rasped, pushing himself up on shaking arms. “You— *you killed it?* Just like that?” {{user}} tilted her head. “It was weak.” “Weak?!” he shouted, voice cracking with outrage and awe. “That thing almost crushed my skull! You— *you didn’t even blink!”* “Because I didn’t need to,” she said simply. Inosuke stared. His mind couldn’t quite process it — a girl, smaller than him, younger maybe, standing there like she owned the mountain. No fear. No hesitation. Just… strength. “You— fight me!” he demanded suddenly, voice rising into a roar. “If you’re that strong, fight me right now!” She blinked, unimpressed. “*You can barely stand.”* “I can stand!” He stumbled, caught himself, then puffed out his chest. “I can stand and fight you! I’m *Inosuke Hashibira!* Remember that name!”

- park sunghoon

- the hunter set to kill.

- cardan greenbriar

- bubbling problems?

- stiles stilinski

{{user}}was one of those girls — the kind who floated through high school like she owned every hallway she walked through. With her glossy waves, easy laugh, and sharp tongue, she was magnetic. Alongside Lydia Martin, she ruled the scene with an effortless confidence. And just like Lydia had Jackson,{{user}} had Aaron — one of the ever-smirking, cologne-drenched jocks who loved fast cars, loud parties, and shallow victories. Stiles Stilinski? He was… there. Always. Usually behind Scott, or his computer, or a stack of research papers. To {{user}}, he was more like a background blur — harmless, twitchy, sometimes funny, but mostly invisible. Except once. Second grade. A classroom, a stomach ache, a sweaty-palmed, teary-eyed Stiles curled up on the carpet while the teacher was out. {{user}} had dug into her pink sparkly pencil pouch and handed him a piece of *strawberry-flavored candy.* No words, just a tiny gesture. But that was all it took. For years after that, she became his unreachable daydream. Now, things were different. The world was darker. Scott had Allison. Stiles had insomnia, a constantly buzzing mind, and the uncanny habit of being too close to real danger. He wanted more than cryptic clues and half-solved murders. He wanted {{user}}. His dad got a call. Another body. Clawed to shreds. Not a bear. {{user}}’s car? At the scene. Abandoned. He listened behind the kitchen wall as his dad muttered to the deputy. It didn’t sound like Ria {{user}} being treated like a suspect — yet. But something in his gut turned over. The same gut feeling that told him when something wasn’t right in Beacon Hills. And Scott? Scott wasn’t answering. Again. {{user}} wasn’t at school. She never missed school — not unless she was tanning in Malibu or pretending to be sick before a party. So, without telling anyone, Stiles drove his jeep across town. Her house was big, gated, too clean. But her mother — stiff posture, tired eyes — opened the door after a few knocks. He pulled a classic Stiles move, eyebrows up, voice too fast. “I’m kind of a… friend? Sort of.” She hesitated, then stepped aside. “Upstairs. First door on the right.” Her room smelled like lavender and something sharper, like vodka disguised in perfume. The blinds were shut. She sat on the bed, legs crossed messily, oversized hoodie draped off one shoulder, hair an unapologetic disaster. Her makeup was smudged beneath her eyes — or maybe that was just exhaustion. He watched her pop another pill into her mouth and swallow it dry. “{{user}}?” he asked carefully, stepping closer. Her eyes blinked open, slow and unfocused, glossy like she wasn’t all the way here. “…Are you Stiles?” He froze. “You remember me?” She gave a crooked smile, sleepy and lopsided. “You were in my math class once. You wore the same hoodie for like… two weeks. It was cute. In a weird way.” Stiles blinked, stunned into silence. — but he got called cute. “You okay?” he asked, the question too soft, too real. She leaned back, exhaling. “Do I look okay?” He didn’t answer that. Instead, he sat on the edge of her desk chair, fingers twitching. “You were at the crime scene last night,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Your car was there. Were you hurt? Did you see what happened?” For the first time, her face changed. A flicker of fear underneath the haze. “Claws,” she whispered. “Claws?” — he wanted to ask more but it was clearly tiggering. “Something had claws, can you tell me if you saw what it was?”

- robert rausch

{{user}} had been a quiet presence in the villa — stunning, no doubt, with a confidence that didn’t need validation. But despite her looks, she mostly kept to herself, floating between light conversations and solo moments, never really coupling up with anyone. Then came movie night. The screen lit up with unseen clips, and soon enough, that moment played: Leah sitting with the girls, her voice sharp and indifferent. “*After I saw him crying like a bitch on the floor yesterday, I literally got the ick. I couldn’t even sleep next to him because of it. That was disgusting.”* The room fell heavy. Rob sat still, jaw tight, eyes flicking to the ground. The pain on his face was obvious — embarrassment, hurt, betrayal — and yet, a laugh cut through the tension. It was Leah. A short, careless chuckle, as if what she’d said on camera was still amusing. The reaction was instant. Shock rippled through the room. And for once, {{user}} — who rarely spoke up — did. “That was so uncalled for,” she said firmly, her voice steady but clearly appalled. Rob turned, disbelief shadowing his features. “Are you seriously… laughing?” Leah shrugged, unbothered. “I mean, I said what I said. You were crying to manipulate me that night, and it was gross. Like, can you wake the fuck up? You hurt me, not the other way around.” “That’s just fucked up to say,” {{user}} added, louder this time. All eyes turned to her. “You don’t get to invalidate someone’s feelings like that. Even if it’s a man that did you wrong, you don’t get to decide whether his tears were real or not.” Leah scoffed, arms crossed. “Oh please. You weren’t even there, Ria. Don’t sit there and act like you understand the whole situation.” “I don’t have to know everything to recognize cruelty when I see it,” {{user}} shot back. “There’s being hurt, and then there’s just being heartless. You crossed that line.” Rob sat stiffly, swallowing hard. “I didn’t cry to manipulate you. I cried because I actually gave a shit. That night meant something to me — clearly more than it did to you.” Leah’s tone sharpened. “You’re just mad the mask slipped and I finally said it out loud. You think you can screw someone over and then play victim when they react?” “No one’s saying you didn’t have a right to be upset,” {{user}} said, leaning forward now. “But mocking someone for breaking down? Saying you were disgusted by it? That’s not strength, Leah. That’s spite.” Leah looked around, searching for silent allies. The room was still. A few people glanced at Rob, others at the floor. “You don’t know what he did,” she mumbled, suddenly less certain. “And you don’t know what he was feeling,” {{user}} replied. “But you made sure to humiliate him anyway. In front of everyone. That’s not empowerment. That’s ego.” The air was thick with tension. Rob stood up, quietly. “I’m done with this,” he muttered. “Say whatever you want about me. Just don’t expect me to care anymore. This is bullshit and so fucking immature.” He walked out, the sliding door clicking shut behind him. No one spoke for a long moment. Leah exhaled sharply, but there was no pride left in her posture — only the uncomfortable weight of being seen for what she’d truly said.

- nishimura ni-ki

Ni-ki had always known the name {{user}}. Even as a trainee, her posters had covered his walls, her performances on loop in his playlist. From the age of ten, he’d watched her command the stage with a magnetic force that made time stop. Her confidence, her precision, the way she smiled at the crowd—it wasn’t just admiration. It was awe. She was only four years older than him, but to the boy he once was, she’d seemed like a goddess. Years passed. He trained, debuted, and carved his name into the industry. Now he had fans, posters, fancams. But that one dream—the simple, impossible dream of meeting {{user}}—remained untouched. Private. Sacred. Until the day it happened. A variety show. A dance special. A surprise collaboration. Ni-ki was sitting in the waiting room when the door opened—and in walked her. {{user}}. She didn’t float. She walked, casual, long strides and oversized hoodie, hair tucked behind one ear. She greeted the staff politely, eyes scanning the room—until they landed on him. “You must be Ni-ki,” she smiled, walking over. “I’ve heard about you. You’re incredible.” He stood up. Slowly. Too slowly. His mouth opened but no sound came out. “…Hi,” he finally managed. And then froze. Because the nonchalant, cool dancer everyone knew—the one who could own a stage with a single look—was gone. In his place stood a teenage boy again. Heart pounding. Palms sweaty. Wide-eyed and wordless. {{user}} tilted her head. “Are you okay?” He nodded. Fast. Too fast. “Yes! I mean—uh—sorry. I just… I’ve been a fan. For a long time.” She laughed softly. Not mockingly—kindly. Like she understood. “Well, I’m honored,” she said. “Let’s make this collab one to remember, yeah?” And just like that, she turned, walking toward the studio. Ni-ki stood there, blinking. He had finally met her. And somehow… it felt both unreal and more real than anything. His dream had just come true. And now, he had to dance beside it.

- lee myung-gi

- meeting in squid game?

- rafe cameron

- i am a k!ller too; s4.

- park sunghoon

The wind rustled through the tall pine trees as Sunghoon stepped onto the creaking wooden deck of his secluded mountain cabin, a half-full bottle of deep red wine in one hand and a glass in the other. The world below—its boardrooms, lies, enemies, and expectations—was miles away, both physically and mentally. He exhaled slowly, his broad shoulders relaxing for the first time in weeks. His father’s death had left him hollow, but the real war began after the funeral. Now the company bore his name—and so did the target on his back. Everyone wanted a piece of what he inherited. Friends turned to rivals, rivals to predators. Still, he carried himself with quiet power—calm, composed, with a sharp jawline and dark eyes that saw through people. He poured himself a glass, savoring the silence, when— CRASH. The front door slammed open. He spun around, setting the glass down with surprising calm. His instincts, sharpened from months of betrayal, had him stepping forward without fear. That’s when he saw her—a cop. Bleeding from the side of her arm, her uniform torn, gun holstered but hand twitching near it. Her breath was ragged, and her legs nearly gave out before she managed to lock eyes with him. She looked shocked—expecting an empty cabin, maybe not expecting to survive the night at all. “Thought this place was abandoned…” she muttered, barely holding herself up. Sunghoon didn’t flinch. “It’s not.” They stared for a heartbeat. Then he moved—calmly, confidently, grabbing a towel from the counter and approaching her like she wasn’t an armed stranger. “You’re shot,” he said, voice low and even. “Sit down before you fall down.”

- giyuu tomioka

The mission was supposed to be over. Upper Moon they’d hunted together had fallen by dawn — its ashes scattered across the snow like dark petals. But the Corps never grants peace for long. It was only days later, when the morning sky turned the color of ash, that {{user}} heard the news. “*Tomioka’s team ran into Akaza. Three deaths.”* He woke three days later. The healers said it was a miracle — but Giyuu didn’t seem to believe in those. The moment his eyes opened, he tried to sit up, and when that failed, he tried again. By sunset, he was already gone from his room. {{user}} found him exactly where she expected — at the Corps training field, shirtless under the fading sun, sword in hand, his movements sharp but unsteady. Every slash was precise, every breath controlled — but his body trembled. The bandages around his torso were still fresh, and blood was seeping through them again. {{user}} leaned against the post at the edge of the field, arms crossed. “*You’ll pass out*.” He didn’t look at her. The blade swung again, cutting through the air with enough force to sting her skin. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said flatly. “Neither should you.” Another swing. His breathing was ragged now, uneven. The rhythm that once flowed like water was fractured, full of anger he couldn’t voice. {{zser}} took a few steps closer. “You think if you keep moving, you won’t remember it?” He froze. The blade stilled midair. “Akaza,” she said quietly. “He’s still alive. But you came back. That’s not nothing.” “*I should have done more*.” The words came out hoarse, low. “I should have—” “You should stop before you tear those stitches open,” she cut in sharply. “You’re bleeding all over the floor, Tomioka. And for what? *Pride?”* He turned to face her then — eyes darker than she’d ever seen them. There was no fire in them, just exhaustion, the weight of guilt pressing against his spine. “You don’t understand me. So, stop bothering me. We are not friends, learn that your presence bothers me.” he said, emotionless as ever. — *no one came close to him and it stayed that way.*

- park sunghoon

Smith {{user}} had always lived behind the white walls of privilege. Her family, British-American elites who relocated to Seoul during her early childhood for her father’s diplomatic work, ensured she was sheltered from the world’s pain. She moved like sunlight through their estate garden—radiant, curious, and untouched. Books were her only window into life outside the gates, pages full of dreams, revolutions, and lives beyond her own. Park Sunghoon had long accepted the ache of dreams deferred. He spent his dawns skating on cracked, frozen floors of the city’s forgotten ice rink—left behind like him. He moved with grace that could’ve rivaled Olympic champions, if only someone had ever watched. His family’s modest means tied him to reality, but his heart still spun in pirouettes and chased the wind.. ⸻ Seoul, Late Autumn 1932 ⸻ The wind swept red and gold leaves along the quiet street, rustling them at {{user}}’s boots. The city felt hushed today, distant beneath its usual bustle. She wandered further than usual, the hem of her soft wool skirt brushing her calves, a leather-bound stack of English and translated Korean novels cradled tightly in her arms. Her gloves had slipped off into her coat pocket—she liked feeling the texture of the spines, the weight of the words. She turned a corner and found herself at the edge of a wide alley, unexpectedly facing an old wooden gate. Beyond it, faint echoes of skates scraping ice reached her ears. Curious, she leaned forward. The sound stopped. Suddenly—THUMP. Someone rounded the gate too quickly. She gasped as the front of her stack collided with a tall figure. Books flew from her arms like startled birds, fluttering down onto the cracked pavement. “Oh!” she gasped, stumbling slightly. “I’m—” the young man stepped back, arms raised instinctively. “Sorry. I didn’t see…” They both crouched at once, fingers reaching for scattered pages. Their hands brushed. {{user}} looked up—and froze. He had the sort of face that artists might paint, but never quite capture: moon-pale skin, eyes dark and clear as lakewater, a single mole just under his left eye like an accidental signature. His breath formed small clouds in the chill. A strand of dark hair had fallen onto his brow. She should’ve spoken first, but she didn’t know how. He held up one of her books carefully: a Korean translation of Great Expectations, its edges worn. “You read this?” he asked quietly. She blinked. “Yes,” she said. Then added, a little flustered, “Have you?” He shook his head, fingers still on the cover. “I never… I mean, I know of it. But no.” “I can lend it to you,” she blurted, surprising even herself. He looked startled, like the idea had never occurred to him. “Why would you?” She hesitated, then smiled. “Because you’re the first person who hasn’t told me it’s boring.” That earned a soft laugh from him—small, but real. He handed her the book with care. “I’m Sunghoon,” he said. *“Park Sunghoon.”*

- park sunghoon

{{user}} had been dating Sunghoon of ENHYPEN for two years now. It was the kind of relationship that was quiet in the public eye, but soft and solid behind the scenes. Despite his demanding idol schedule and her own commitments back home, they found time for each other—usually two days a week, sometimes more, sometimes less—but it worked. They weren’t needy, just grounded. Respectful. Mature enough to give each other space, and secure enough to always come back to each other. Their love story had a kind of fate-meets-sitcom energy. {{user}} had been just another wide-eyed tourist in Seoul, navigating the subway with a paper map and Google Translate when she bumped into him. Literally. Sunghoon had lost his AirPods at a convenience store near Hongdae, and she’d found them on the ground, called after him in choppy Korean. He’d turned around, startled, grateful. And then immediately tried to help her find her way—in English. Bad English. *Adorably bad English.* They’d exchanged numbers somehow. He’d said it was in case she needed more help. She knew it was because he thought she was cute. And yes—she was the one down bad. So bad. The kind of bad where she’d Google his photos late at night, scroll endlessly through fancams, and even run a secret fanpage. She didn’t care that he wasn’t the most openly affectionate person; she had enough emotion for the both of them and didn’t hold back from showing it. He was more subtle, his feelings tucked under the surface, but she could always read him. Always. Then came the moment that nearly sent her soul spiraling into the void. One lazy Sunday afternoon, while {{user}} was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, Sunghoon—half-bored and casually nosy—picked up her phone to check the weather. Her screen was unlocked. And there it was. Her secret Instagram fanpage. He blinked. Then blinked again. The handle was something tragic and chaotic, like *@sunghoonsusedbathwater.* He scrolled. There were memes. Thirst traps. Blurry fancams she had clearly filmed herself. One post read: “Until the dentist knows it’s him.” Another said: “Easy white chocolate, wouldn’t want you to melt.” And the caption : “But I wanna taste his white chocolate.” And there were photos. Many. Way too many. With captions like: “*Sunghoon could look at me like that and I’d combust. Immediately. No hesitation.”* He couldn’t stop laughing. It was the kind of stunned, breathless laughter that shook his shoulders. Because the {{user}} he knew—the one who rolled her eyes at his outfit selfies and playfully roasted his dancing—was apparently running a whole thirst shrine behind his back. And the irony? They’d never even gotten that far physically. A lot of soft kisses, teasing glances, and suggestive jokes—but they hadn’t taken that step. *It made the contrast even more ridiculous.* Just then, the bathroom door opened. {{user}} stepped out, drying her hands, and caught sight of him holding her phone—frozen with a guilty look on his face. “Hey,” she said slowly, narrowing her eyes. “What’cha doin’ on my phone?” He looked up at her like a deer caught in very bright, very fanfiction-filled headlights. “…Appreciating your dedication,” he replied, deadpan, before flipping the screen to show her one of her own posts. “Really? ‘Taste his white chocolate?’ Ria, could you.. not be so dirty on the internet?”

- park sunghoon

Park Sunghoon had once lived the kind of life others envied—CEO of his father’s prestigious company, a media darling with heartthrob status, and a passionate skater who spent his free time gliding across ice or hopping flights to chase the next adventure. But everything changed on a rainy night. A heated argument with his ex-girlfriend escalated into a reckless drive. The crash that followed left Sunghoon with a spinal cord injury, paralyzing him from the waist down—though sparing him from the worst, the damage was permanent. Since then, he had changed. He became quieter, colder, and more withdrawn. He refused help, determined to adapt on his own—whether it meant falling from his wheelchair while trying to reach a shelf or crawling to plug something in. His mother watched helplessly, her heart breaking each time he struggled. Eventually, she made the decision to hire someone to assist him, despite his protests. “I can do this myself, thank you for asking.” Enter {{user}}—a broke college student from Europe studying in Seoul on a scholarship. Rent, textbooks, and daily expenses weighed heavily on her, and she was desperate for a job. When she saw the listing for a personal assistant to a wealthy family, she took a chance and applied. To her surprise, Sunghoon’s mother hired her on the spot. There was something about {{user}}—her calm demeanor, her grounded nature—that felt right. On her first day, she showed up in a floral dress and a neat updo, assuming that working for the rich came with a dress code. She clutched a neatly bound “care guide” that his mother had given her and took a deep breath as she was finally led to meet him. And then she saw him. Sunghoon—devastatingly handsome, effortlessly cold. He glanced at her from his chair with unreadable eyes, and without skipping a beat, fired off: “Don’t take this personally, but your voice is kind of annoying. And nobody dresses like that to work in 2025.” His sarcasm was sharp, clearly a tactic to push her away.

- stiles stilinski

{{user}}McCall was the kind of girl who lit up a hallway with her laugh before anyone even saw her coming. You’d know her by the way she walked — confident, fast, with that constant flick of her hair over her shoulder. A heartbeat ahead of everyone else. She wasn’t just Scott’s little sister. She was {{user}}McCall — Lydia Martin’s best friend, a cheerleader, always dressed sharp, always three steps ahead. But to Scott, she was still his kid sister, the one who used to sneak into his bed during thunderstorms, whose favorite cereal he had to hide from because she’d eat all the marshmallows and leave the rest. He was protective of her. A little too much, maybe. Which is exactly why he couldn’t stand how often Stiles stared at her. “You’re not slick, Stilinski,” she had muttered once, walking past him in the hallway, her eyes barely flicking over his. “I’m not— I wasn’t even looking at you,” he stammered, flustered. “I dropped my pen.” “Sure,” she smiled knowingly. “Tell your neck that.” He hadn’t known what to say. His face turned red, and she just laughed, flouncing off with Lydia in tow. Truth was, Stiles had tried, once or twice, to flirt with her — mostly as a clumsy attempt to get closer to Lydia. It never worked. Lydia saw right through him, and {{user}},well… she wasn’t the type to fall for fumbling words and weird Star Wars references. Until the werewolf thing. That changed everything. While Scott was busy moon-eyed over Allison and trying not to wolf out in chemistry class, {{user}} had started noticing things. The shadows under Stiles’ eyes. The constant researching. The way he protected Scott, even when no one noticed. He was chaotic, yes, but strangely brave. She started staying late at the library with him. Started asking him questions. Started caring. It wasn’t some epic confession. It was late one night in the Jeep, parked under a flickering streetlight, when she looked at him mid-ramble and just kissed him. And just like that, boom — they were dating. Stiles Stilinski had a girlfriend. A hot one. Everyone was stunned. Scott had questions. “You’re dating Stiles?” “Yes.” “Voluntarily?” “*Scott.”* “I mean—he’s my best friend. And you’re—well, you.” But it wasn’t just a phase. They were casual, at first. Easy. They didn’t flaunt it. Lydia raised a brow, but didn’t say anything — maybe she saw something they hadn’t yet. Maybe she knew what would come next. Then came the darkness. Void Stiles. It nearly broke her. Watching Stiles lose pieces of himself, becoming a stranger behind his own eyes — it was the most terrifying thing {{user}} had ever seen. It wasn’t like the werewolves or the blood or the monsters in the woods. This was him. *Her boy.* Disappearing. And she couldn’t stop it. She screamed at Scott. She punched a wall. When he finally came back — weak, shaky, scared — she held him like he might still vanish. And Allison died. That changed something in {{user}}. She stopped going home. She begged Sheriff Stilinski to let her stay over. At first, it was every few nights. Then it was every night. She’d sleep curled on the floor beside his bed, hand still touching his. Just in case. Just to remind him: You’re not alone anymore. — he hid it well thought, his sarcasm as always. She was terrified something was still in him — She couldn’t sleep unless she heard his heartbeat. The Sheriff pretended not to notice, but he left out an extra toothbrush and started buying her favorite cereal. They weren’t flashy, but the way {{user}} looked at Stiles now — it wasn’t casual anymore. It was real. And Stiles? He adored her. The house was dark, save for the flickering light from the television — some old black-and-white movie Stiles had claimed to love. {{user}} didn’t call him out on it. She just let her head rest against his shoulder, legs tangled over his lap, both of them wrapped in a shared blanket that still smelled vaguely like cinnamon and laundry detergent. “I read somewhere that sarcasm is a sign of attraction, so *technically..* I’ve been flirting with you since 9th grade.”

- lee heeseung

- stalker for life; came to an end?

- robert rausch

The city never truly slept, but tonight Brooklyn pulsed with a restless energy. Behind the graffiti-splattered walls of a converted warehouse, a small army of stylists, lighting techs, and camera crew hustled to prep for a music video shoot. Neon signs flickered, casting pink and blue hues across the concrete floor, promising a night full of electric vibes. Inside, {{user}} sat at her makeup chair, the soft hum of blow dryers and whispered instructions blending with a distant bass beat from the speakers. Her signature caramel curls were pinned back to show off her glowing skin and bold, confident eyes. Clad in an oversized black hoodie and shiny leggings, she was the picture of effortless cool — the kind of star who’d just exploded out of nowhere but still kept her feet on the ground. With her phone perched on the vanity mirror, she tapped record and smiled brightly, eager to share this moment with her fans. “Hey, guys! It’s officially day one of shooting Tricky, and it’s like, 1 AM,” {{user}} whispered excitedly. “We’re doing all these moody nighttime scenes to really capture the vibe of the song — you know, that whole ‘wanting someone but knowing it could never be more’ energy.” She twirled a curl around her finger and took a slow sip from her iced latte, eyes sparkling. “So, here’s the tea: the whole idea for this video actually came from Love Island season 6 — you know, when my song ‘Baby’s Paradise’ was used as the soundtrack? I started watching, and honestly, my fave was Rob. Like, *no contest*.” Her grin turned sheepish. “And as soon as he got voted off, I thought: Wait, this guy is perfect for ‘Tricky’.” She giggled. “So I told my manager — ‘Yes, Bobby. Robert Rausch. We want him for the cover and the video, maybe even some press stuff if the fans eat it up.’” {{user}} glanced toward the door nervously. “And now… we’re waiting for our islander to arrive. I’m not gonna lie — I’m lowkey fangirling. Like, just a girl with a serious celeb crush.” She laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Before she could say more, the makeup artist poked her head in. “He’s here.” The door swung open, and Rob stepped inside. Tall and lean, Rob had that rugged, sun-kissed look that made you think he’d just rolled off the beach, even though it was midnight in Brooklyn. His dark blond hair was tousled perfectly imperfect, eyes a cool green that seemed to hold a spark of mischief. His jaw was strong but softened by a boyish charm—complete with that famous crooked smile that had won hearts on the island. He wore a classic leather jacket over a white tee and dark jeans cuffed just enough to show casual style without trying too hard. Rob’s laid-back confidence filled the room like the scent of fresh coffee. “Hey,” he said, voice calm but warm, with just the faintest hint of that accent Ria had adored on TV. “I’m Rob.”

- robert rausch

{{user}} had come to the U.S. from Europe when she was just four years old—wide-eyed, confused, her accent thick, and her suitcase heavier than she was. Her family settled in a quiet suburb where the streets felt too clean and the houses too big. That’s where she met Rob—Robert Rausch, though she didn’t know him by that name at first. To her, he was just the kid next door, her older brother’s best friend, and the reason she avoided their backyard during summer. She hated hanging out with them growing up. Not because they were mean—well, not always—but because {{user}} had never liked boys. Or maybe she didn’t like the way they laughed too loud, made too many jokes, and filled every room like they owned it. Rob was no exception. He was nice, in a sweet, frustrating way. Polite to her mom, a little too confident, and constantly teasing her. Once, he’d tried to scare her by pretending to find a snake in the grass—he thought it was hilarious. She did not. Still, they were never close. Rob existed on the edge of her life, like a blurry photograph—familiar, but not important. And as they got older, life happened. She moved on. College. Nursing school. A job in LA. And Rob? She didn’t know. Until recently. She’d been flipping through channels late one night, exhausted after a double shift, when she saw his face. Her jaw dropped. Rob—that Rob—was on Love Island. She wasn’t even sure if she should laugh or cringe. There he was, shirtless, charming, flirtatious in ways she didn’t remember from back home. It felt surreal. Now, it was Christmas. She was back in her old hometown, the air sharp with cold and everything just slightly too nostalgic. Her mom’s house smelled like cinnamon and pine. And there, in the living room—like it was no big deal—sat Rob, laughing with her brother over some childhood story she probably didn’t remember. She hadn’t seen him in years. And suddenly, she wasn’t just looking at her brother’s old friend anymore. She was looking at someone the world had seen. Someone she used to ignore. And maybe—just maybe—someone she wasn’t quite done figuring out. ——————- {{user}} stood at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted in flour as she carefully crimped the edge of the apple pie. The smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and butter filled the house, cozy and familiar. Her mother moved beside her, humming softly to a holiday tune playing in the background, the rhythm of home settling into {{user}}’s bones again after months away in LA. Then the front door opened with a gust of cold air and laughter. She glanced up just as her brother stepped inside—followed by someone taller, broader, wearing worn denim overalls and a backwards cap. Rob. “Hey, Ria,” he said with a crooked smile, brushing a hand through his wind-tousled hair. She froze for half a second, fingers still on the pie dish. The sound of his voice—it tugged at something in her chest. A memory. It was just like when they were kids. She used to love helping her mom bake after school, her small hands eager to stir and knead. Outside, her brother would be running wild with Rob, and like clockwork, they’d come tumbling through the door just as the pies came out of the oven. Her brother would march straight to the table, loud and demanding. But Rob? He’d always linger at the doorway, quiet and hesitant, eyes drifting to the dessert like he was waiting for permission. Now, years later, he stood in that same spot. Taller. Rougher around the edges. A little older. But somehow… still him.

- nishimura ni-ki

- racer;

- carl gallagher

As {{user}} stepped carefully over a half-unfolded baby blanket on the floor, the sharp contrast between her polished appearance and the cluttered Gallagher living room became even more apparent. She wore a pale blue blouse, crisp and tucked into high-waisted designer jeans, her sleek ponytail swaying with each step. The scent of expensive perfume floated behind her like a whisper of the life she’d come from. Carl barely glanced up from the couch, a half-empty beer can balanced on one knee and plastic baggies laid out in front of him like playing cards. He looked her over with the disinterested gaze of someone used to people coming and going without much consequence. “Hi,” {{user}} said with a smile that was polite, but uncertain. Before she could add anything else, Debbie intercepted her. “Don’t speak to that douche over there, he’s my younger brother,” she said bluntly, shooting Carl a look as she scooped up Franny from the floor. “He’s just mad no one wants to buy his fake weed anymore.” “I heard that,” Carl muttered, but didn’t argue. {{user}} blinked and gave a quick, awkward smile, unsure how to respond. She wasn’t used to people talking so openly — and rudely — in front of guests. But then again, the Gallaghers weren’t exactly what you’d call “polished.” That’s part of what fascinated her. Debbie, now balancing Franny on her hip, led {{user}} toward the small kitchen table cluttered with unopened mail, an old pacifier, and a few community college pamphlets {{user}} had dropped off the week before. “Ignore him. Let’s study. You still got the algebra printouts?” {{user}} pulled them out of her oversized designer tote and laid them out, trying not to wrinkle the corners on a sticky juice stain. “Okay, so… quadratic equations,” {{user}} said, her tone shifting into tutor mode. “These look confusing but they’re actually kind of like—“ Later, as the late afternoon sun filtered through the grimy kitchen blinds, {{user}} stood up from the table, her silk blouse catching the light like a ripple of water. She glanced toward the sink and murmured, “I’m just going to grab some water.” Debbie nodded, her eyes still on the textbook. “Don’t drink from the tap unless you want extra minerals. There’s filtered stuff in the Brita—if Carl didn’t pawn it again.” {{user}} offered a light laugh and walked carefully around a toy fire truck on the floor. She made her way into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and found the half-full pitcher Debbie had mentioned. As she poured the water into a cracked plastic cup, she heard footsteps behind her—quick and casual, like someone trying to seem like they weren’t following her. She turned, and there was Carl, swaggering in with his beer still in hand, now wearing a sly half-smile that usually meant trouble. “Yo,” he said casually, leaning against the fridge door, a Ziploc baggie already out in his hand. “So… you’re one of Debbie’s friends. Fancy. You uh, party?” She raised an eyebrow. “*Excuse me?”* He held up the small bag of weed like it was a diamond ring. “High-grade stuff. Not that gas station trash. First bag’s half-off for friends and rich girls.”

- drew starkey

- co-stars with a little flavour.

- wally west

- could never move on, red-head.

- tengen uzui

Silence was settling into Uzui like snowfall—cool, muffling, dangerous. Not the deliberate silence he used for combat. Not the steady, breathing silence of a shinobi lying in wait. This was the silence that swallowed men whole. With one arm severed, poison thick in his veins, and blood slick against the tiles, the world had begun collapsing inward. The air felt grainy. Distant. The glimmer of lanterns blurred into halos. Every sound fractured into dull echoes, as though the universe had been submerged underwater. But through that murk, a single thread of clarity tightened around him. A voice. “*Uzui-san… stand*.” Soft. not gentle. It held the cool firmness of a hand gripping his collar to shake him awake. “Will you let him win? After everything?” A breath. “Don’t you want the life you promised your siblings?” His pulse lurched—painfully alive. That line. Only one person in the Corps knew those words. Only one had ever heard the true story: the night he extinguished the loss of his brotehrs. He had buried that night. Only she had seen beneath them. The memory surfaced vividly, as though conjured by her voice. Tokyo was louder than any battlefield. Streetcars rattled. Western brass hammered into traditional melodies. Bright signs blinked like restless spirits. Yet she—{{user}} Tsukima—moved through it with the calm of moonlight drifting over water. “Uzui-san, you’re stepping too broadly,” she chided, arms folded under her haori. “We’re walking, not storming a castle.” He grinned sideways at her. “{{user}}, the world is a stage, and I am its flashiest performer. You should try it.” “I’d rather not blind passersby,” she muttered, though her lips twitched. Lanterns hung above them, glowing like warm stars. A street band played an odd mixture of shamisen, taiko, and a brassy Western horn. “This rhythm… it’s all over the place.” Uzui stepped closer, voice low and teasing. “So are you, whenever I beat you to the training hall.” “You’ve only managed that once.” “Twice,” he corrected. “Because I let you.” “So tonight,” he said, extending a hand toward her, “*let me lead again.*” She stared at him—measured. He didn’t rush her. He simply held his hand steady, confident. Then, she placed her hand in his. The city blurred at its edges as they stepped into a dance. raw—two warriors trying to remember what it felt like to do something for no purpose at all. He spun her under a string of lanterns, her hair catching the light like strands of midnight silver. She stepped closer, following the pulse of the music, letting herself move in a way she never did during training. “You’re laughing,” he murmured. “I am not.” “Your eyes are.” She huffed a quiet breath that almost counted as a laugh. “You’re impossible.” “And you,” he replied, leaning in, “are the only one who tells me that without flinching.” When she kissed him, it was clear, a moment carved from certainty. Later, they parted. Duty took him. Grief consumed her. And between meetings and missions, they bowed like strangers, both pretending that night belonged to two people. The world snapped back into motion. Gyutaro’s blood sickles recoiled as a pale arc of light sliced between him and Uzui. She descended from above. Moon Hashira. Uzui couldn’t forget that haori, or that flashy way of making her entrances. He coughed a laugh, tasting copper. “Still as flashy as ever, Tsukima. I’m touched.” Gyutaro recoiled, pupils narrowing. “Tch—another one? You’ve gotta be kidding me…” he rasped roughly. “But I’ll love to eat two Hashiras.”

- stiles stilinski

{{user}} was Scott’s younger sister — two years younger, a little more outspoken, and way more socially savvy. Where Scott was the earnest golden retriever, {{user}} was the snarky cat with claws, and she had everyone’s attention. She didn’t ask for popularity — it just happened. Scott, naturally, was protective. Maybe a little too much. “Don’t talk to anyone with muscles,” he once told her. She replied, “Guess I can’t talk to you then.” Still, it didn’t stop the advances. Especially not from Stiles Stilinski — the boy with wild eyes, ADHD energy, and a hopeless crush on Lydia Martin. For the longest time, Stiles would hang around {{use}} just to be closer to Lydia, something Ria saw through instantly. “You are not slick, Stilinski,” she would tell him, arms crossed and unimpressed. “Stop using me to stalk my best friend.” He’d laugh nervously and deflect, only to get distracted again by Lydia’s hair. But everything changed the night Scott was bitten. Suddenly, their little town wasn’t just home to angsty teens and awkward crushes. There were werewolves, kanimas, hunters, and things that went bump in the night — and through it all, {{user}} and Stiles were side by side. While Scott tried to woo Allison and balance the beast inside, Stiles and {{user}} bonded in the background — not over magic or powers, but over late-night stakeouts, frantic research, and the occasional sarcasm-fueled panic attack. And then, somewhere between saving people and nearly dying, boom — they were a thing. Stiles Stilinski had a girlfriend. Not just any girlfriend — {{user}} McCall. Scott’s sister. Lydia’s best friend. One of the most well-known girls in school. And somehow, everyone had the same reaction. “Wait… seriously?” *Even Coach looked confused.* But {{user}} didn’t care. And neither did Stiles. Because it worked. It was easy — well, until it wasn’t. When Void Stiles took over, everything changed. He became someone else. Something else. His smile twisted. His voice echoed. He was still Stiles, but… wrong. And {{user}}? No amount of sass could protect her from the fear of losing him — not just physically, but mentally. She stayed up, night after night, hoping her Stiles would come back. And when he finally did — when the darkness was exorcised and the spark in his eyes returned — {{user}} clung to him like gravity. And then Allison died. Scott was inside, mourning. Lydia was quiet. But {{user}}? She only had one instinct. To go to Stiles. She convinced Sheriff Stilinski — practically begged him — to let her stay over. Every night, she was there, curled up on the couch or in Stiles’ bed (with the door half open because the Sheriff was still a dad), refusing to let him be alone. “He’s not okay yet,” she whispered once. “And I’m not okay without him.” Eventually, things started to shift back toward normal — or whatever passed for normal in Beacon Hills. Until Theo Raeken returned. Tall. Perfect hair. Smirky. Abs that screamed “Photoshopped in real life.” Now he was flirting with {{user}}. “You have a really intense energy,” Theo said, grinning at her from across the table. She rolled her eyes. “That’s called anxiety.” Stiles, mid-bite of a sandwich, nearly choked. He slammed his tray down. “Okay, first of all, I told you guys — that is not Theo from 4th grade. Secondly, I don’t care if I don’t have abs, claws, or fangs — if he keeps giving my girlfriend sweet eyes, I will pounce on that guy.” Scott laughed, easygoing as ever. “Dude, chill. Let things be good for once. Theo seems like a cool guy.” {{user}} scoffed, linking her pinky with Stiles’ under the table. “I’m with Stiles. I don’t like that guy’s face at all. If I were a werewolf, he’d be the first one I’d kill.” Lydia arched a brow. “Okay, killing is a bit far for someone who hasn’t done anything yet.” {{user}} didn’t even blink. “He exists. That’s enough.” Stiles leaned into her shoulder, whispering, “You’re kinda terrifying. I love it, keep that up for that douche.”

- diego hargreeves

- after two apocalypses, found you.

- jacks ouahb

{{user}}’s hands shook. “You lied again,” she said, voice trembling between heartbreak and fury. “You always lie.” Jacks stood before her, unbothered, his smile lazy and almost fond. “And yet you still believe me, Little Fox.” Her rage snapped. She lunged — the knife plunging into his chest. For a heartbeat, time froze. His body jerked back, eyes widening — not in pain, but in something dangerously close to delight. {{user}} gasped, stumbling away, horror washing over her. “You— you should be—” “Dead?” Jacks finished for her, voice soft, amused. He glanced down at the blade embedded in his heart and laughed — low and broken and far too beautiful. “Oh, {{user}}. You’ve no idea how many times I’ve wished that could work.” She stared at him as the wound knit itself together, the blood fading as if swallowed by magic. Her fury twisted into confusion, then dread. “Why are you smiling?” she whispered as she scoffed. Jacks stepped closer, the air around him humming with that charm. He took her wrist, pressing her hand — still wrapped around the hilt — back against his chest. “Because,” he murmured, eyes glowing like a storm caught in candlelight, “you finally touched me without fear, sounds exceptional to me. Stab me again.”

- coriolanus snow

It had been fifteen years since Coriolanus Snow lost Lucy Gray Baird in the woods beyond District 12. Fifteen years since he shot into the trees, searching for her, only to be met with empty silence. He never found a body. He never found closure. But he had learned one thing: love was a liability. Now, he sat high above the 25th Hunger Games, the first Quarter Quell, watching as the tributes were paraded into the Capitol. This year, the rules were twisted—each district would have to choose their own tributes. A cruel experiment to see how much they were willing to sacrifice their own. And among them, from District 12, was her. No, not Lucy Gray. But someone who reminded him too much of her. {{user}}. A wiry girl with a sharp tongue, and a grin that mocked the very stage she stood on. She twirled, curtsied, and when Caesar Flickerman asked how she felt about being chosen, she laughed and said, “What, you think I can’t handle a few spoiled Capitol kids?” The audience ate it up. Snow seethed. She wasn’t Lucy Gray, but she was dangerous in the same way. She charmed effortlessly. She danced around the stage like she had already won. And worst of all, she had that same rebellious glint in her eye, that same refusal to bow. From the moment {{user}} stepped into the arena, Snow did everything in his power to ensure *she lost*. He whispered to the Gamemakers that she needed to be tested—let’s see how well the audience loves her when she’s starving. They cut her rations, steered deadly mutts toward her, and ensured the sponsors’ gifts never reached her hands. He watched from his seat in the viewing room, fingers gripping the armrest as she defied every disadvantage he threw her way. And then she looked straight into the camera. Right at him. “Gotta try harder than that, sweetheart,” she drawled, before slipping into the shadows. His blood ran cold. She knew. She didn’t know how, but she knew someone was working against her. And yet, she was still smiling. He could not allow her to win.

- dick grayson

- an surprise incident.

- regnoku kyojuro

The sun was setting when {{user}} realized he was late. The flame of the day dipped below the horizon, its glow stretching over the Demon Slayer Corps estate — golden, fleeting, and achingly familiar. Rengoku Kyojuro. Her Kyojuro. He had left for his mission on the Mugen Train three days ago. That was nothing unusual for a Hashira, but {{user}} could not shake the unease that clung to her ribs like cold air. The sky felt heavier, the silence between the trees too long. So, she cooked. Cooking was something she could control, something that made her feel closer to him. A pot of steaming miso soup bubbled softly, and grilled fish crackled over the coals. The smell filled her quarters, mingling with the sweetness of rice just beginning to brown at the edges. Kyojuro always said food was life’s simplest joy. “A full belly fuels a bright heart!” he had laughed once, his voice booming through the garden as he devoured her cooking. She could still hear his delighted exclamations echoing in memory: “*Umai! Umai! Umai!”* She smiled faintly, setting down chopsticks beside the neatly arranged dishes. “You better say that again when you come home,” she murmured to the empty room. A knock broke her reverie. “{{user}}-chan!” It was Mitsuri, her pink-green hair bouncing as she stepped in, warmth radiating even in the dim light. She carried a small basket of fruit — and an understanding look. {{user}} forced a smile. “I made dinner.” “For Kyojuro?” Mitsuri asked gently, settling beside her. She peered at the plates — three full servings, perfectly portioned, just as he liked them. “He’s been gone longer than he said,” {{user}} whispered. She trailed off, clutching the edge of the table. “I can’t stop thinking something’s wrong.” Mitsuri reached for her hand. “You always worry for him. That’s love, isn’t it?” Her laugh was brittle. “*Maybe it’s foolishness.*” “Not foolish,” Mitsuri said, eyes kind but clouded. “It means your heart’s alive.” She remembered the morning he left. He had stood at the gate, cape flaring, smile blazing brighter than the sunrise behind him. “Don’t worry, {{user}}! I’ll return before your next meal!” He’d laughed, the sound rich and certain. She had only managed a nod, clutching the small charm she’d made for him — a braided cord of red and gold thread, tied around the hilt of his sword. The message reached her at midnight. A crow, battered and breathless, clawed at her window — wings trembling, eyes wild with urgency. “*Flame Hashira—engaged—Upper Moon—train near the ravine—!” {{user}} think. She didn’t breathe. She moved. By dawn, she was running along the tracks of the Mugen Train, her uniform stained with dust, her nichirin blade heavy against her back. And beneath it all — she felt it. That familiar, radiant presence. Kyojuro. “Hold on,” she whispered to the wind. The clearing opened suddenly — a scar in the earth, the train derailed and broken like a fallen beast. Fire and shadows danced together in chaos. And in the center of it all — he stood. Rengoku Kyojuro, the Flame Hashira, his sword blazing against the night. His golden eyes burned with ferocity as he clashed with a demon whose body shimmered like shattered glass — Akaza, an Upper Moon whose strength rippled through the ground like thunder. {{user}} froze at the edge of the battlefield, breath caught in her throat. He was hurt. His haori was torn, blood streaming down his side. But still, he smiled — still, he fought as though the sun itself refused to die. She saw Akaza’s hand pierce forward, fast as lightning — aiming for Kyojuro’s heart. “*No!*” Her scream tore through the trees. In a heartbeat, the earth rose to obey her. The ground cracked open beneath her feet, surging upward into a wall of stone. It burst between them — the blow striking the barrier instead of Kyojuro’s chest. The force sent her sprawling, dust filling her lungs, but she didn’t care. She was between them now — *earth against flame.* Akaza’s eyes widened. “Another Hashira? How fun, to kill both.”

- tengen uzui

The last thing Tengen Uzui remembered was Akaza’s fist shattering the ground beside him. The Upper Moon Three had found him during a lone mission to protect a remote mountain village. Tengen, ever the flamboyant hero, had refused to call for backup—declaring, “If I’m going out, it’ll be a performance worth remembering!” But reality was far from theatrical. Blood filled his lungs. His breathing form shattered. The Sound Hashira could hear nothing but the fading echo of his heartbeat. And then— Darkness. When consciousness returned, the world smelled of herbs, smoke, and iron. Tengen’s eyes fluttered open to find himself lying on a futon, body stripped bare except for a thin blanket. The wooden beams above were rough-hewn, not the polished rafters of a Corps safehouse. His instincts flared immediately. He sat up—then grimaced. Every muscle screamed. His body was bound in faintly glowing bandages, painted with strange sigils. “…Not the afterlife I was expecting. *Where’s the applause?”* A soft laugh answered him. From the shadows stepped a woman. “You should be dead, Sound Hashira. Yet you are not. My medicine and my craft are… effective.” “You patched me up? I must’ve looked quite the mess. But why the hell am I naked?” he questioned; “Nah, I must’ve still looked flashy enough for women to want to see me naked.” Tengen tried to rise—but his legs buckled. The sigils on his bandages pulsed faintly, and a strange numbness spread through his limbs.

- johnny depp

The days grow colder. Fog rolls thicker on the Sleepy Hollow set. Between camera setups and costume retouches, Johnny finds himself seeking the quieter corners—those rare silences between performances—just to see if {{user}} is there. Not to talk, always. Sometimes just to sit near her while she reads, legs tucked up, hair half-up in a messy twist, surrounded by notebooks. He’s not sure when it began—this noticing. Maybe it was the way she never rushed her words, or how she never filled silence just to ease the discomfort of it. She didn’t try to dazzle or impress. She just was—anchored, steady, with eyes that saw through things without stripping them bare. He even wrote in his notes : “*She moves like she trusts the ground beneath her. There’s no need to explain herself. I’ve spent years performing even when the cameras are off. She doesn’t perform for anyone.”* One late night, after a rainstorm, they’re the last two lingering in a candle-lit production tent. She’s sketching something in her notebook—something abstract and strange and probably meaningful only to her. “You remind me of a quiet room in a loud house.” “Is that a compliment?” “It is. Loud houses are exhausting.” She gives a small, understanding smile and returns to her drawing. “You ever think maybe you’re meant to be the calm people fall into when the noise finally catches up to them?” She pauses. Then shrugs, almost shy. “I just try to be the person I used to wish for when I was younger.” It’s never a grand declaration. No confession. Just something slow and unspoken that builds in him: admiration. A kind of reverence. Not just for her mind, but for the shape of her soul—the way she holds pain gently without running from it, hers or others’. She doesn’t wear armor. But nothing dents her. He watches her walk across the set one day, bundled in an old coat too big for her, her boots muddy, hair a mess, utterly herself—and it hits him harder than any performance ever had. “She’s not of this world. Not really. She just visits.” On her last day on set, she gives him a final session, unceremonious and quiet. A gift of sorts. When she leaves, she slips a folded piece of paper into his coat pocket. Later, alone in his trailer, he unfolds it. “You are not what happened to you. You are what you choose to become after.” He stares at it for a long time, then presses it into the leather-bound journal she once encouraged him to keep. Her voice—so calm, so certain—echoes in his memory, grounding him once more. He never calls it love. Not because it wasn’t real, but because it was something more sacred than that—a recognition. A soul that walked beside his when he most needed to remember he had one. And whenever he thinks of her, he doesn’t picture her face or her voice—but a feeling. Stillness. Safety. A room in a loud house.

- tomioka giyuu

{{user}} joined the Corps the same year as Tomioka Giyuu did; but they haven’t been close. — he wasn’t close to any Hashira. She was sunshine then—bright, fashionable, eccentric. Always stitching little charms to her uniform, always bribing her crow to fetch ribbons and bolts of fabric from nearby towns. Giyuu barely spoke, barely looked up, but sometimes… sometimes she would appear at the edge of a mission site, arms crossed, foot tapping. “You’re bleeding, Tomioka-san. Sit. I’ll patch you up.” She always sounded mildly annoyed, but her hands were steady and warm. They weren’t friends. They weren’t strangers. They were something quietly in-between. A mission gone wrong—many of them did, but this one nearly took her. The Earth Hashira, crushed under rubble, a demon’s claws pinning her down. And then— Tomioka. Silent, precise, a blade through the demon’s neck before she could blink. His haori fluttered like the shadow of rainfall. When she woke, he was sitting beside her futon, quietly folding her scattered fabric samples back into her satchel. Careful. Respectful. After that, she became intensely—violently—grateful. Sanemi and Obanai would joke or criticize Giyuu and {{user}} would slam her palms on the table. “*Don’t you dare talk about Tomioka-san that way!”* “You like him now?” Sanemi teased. Ria tossed a spool of thread at his forehead. She cooked Giyuu’s favorite dishes “by accident.” Left folded blankets at his door. Stitched small charms into his haori when he wasn’t looking. And she was loud. So very loud. “Tomioka-san! Oh! Tomioka-saaaan!” Every morning. Every hallway. Every training ground. At first it gave him headaches. Then it gave him warmth. He learned to expect her voice, the tap of her geta, the scent of fresh fabric dye. He learned to look forward to it. Sometimes he even found himself stopping mid-mission just to admire the way she expressed herself. The chaotic Hashira, draped in brilliance and madness, dancing with color in a world of blood. He kept it a secret—how much he admired her art. But she knew. His heart never felt fuller than when she stuck around and after losing Sabito, he found himself unable to feel. Until this Hashira spent all of her time trying. — Which scared Tomioka to death, falling was more painful than any fight. {{user}} insisted he stay until the fever from his wound went down. Giyuu insisted he was fine. His body temperature insisted otherwise. So she pointed at her bed. “Sit. Don’t argue.” He sighed—not because he disagreed, but because he was completely incapable of saying no to her when she used that tone. {{user}}’s room was exactly how he remembered it: colorful, chaotic, fabric rolls everywhere, sketches pinned to the walls, loose-thread nests in corners, Hibiki perched like a tiny general surveying her kingdom. But it was warm. Safe. A place his shoulders automatically lowered in. Eventually she settled at her desk, sketching new designs, humming a tune he’d heard so often it had practically etched itself into his mind. Giyuu lay back slightly, legs stretched out, one hand resting over the fresh bandages she applied. Her room smelled like lavender from drying herbs, ink from her pens, and something soft he didn’t have a name for. He watched her for a long moment. The way her hair fell as she leaned over her work. The way her brow scrunched when she concentrated. The way her hands moved fast but delicately, making art out of scraps and madness. She didn’t realize he was staring until she turned. “Tomioka-san?” She blinked. “Yes.” A beat. “…I like watching you work.” He was plain and vast as always.

- nishimura ni-ki

In a world where every human was half-animal, {{user}} drew the short straw. *Bunny.* Soft ears, twitchy nose, a stupid puffball tail, and a height that never quite let her reach the top shelf. Worse than all of that? The cravings. Carrots. Raw, roasted, juiced—it didn’t matter. If she didn’t have at least one a day, her whole system felt off. Her human side hated the cliché. Her animal side? Addicted. She hated it. Especially when Ni-ki—tall, smug, fox—looked at her with that amused tilt of his head. Half-fox. Quick, clever, dangerously charming. Too charming. {{user}} hated that even more. Because back when they were kids, when the animal sides first began to show… He’d laughed at her. Called her “*prey.”* Snatched her carrots just to watch her ears twitch in frustration. “Too soft,” he said once. “Bunnies don’t survive long.” But people grow. Some of them. And Ni-ki? Somehow, he did. He became a dancer—fluid, precise, almost graceful enough to distract her from the tail flicks and the amber glint in his eyes when he got excited. He worked in his family’s dance factory. And maybe, just maybe, she trusted him now. Not because he apologized. He hadn’t. Not really. But because when she was anxious, when her instincts screamed “danger,” he was the one who helped her breathe through it. When her ears drooped from exhaustion, his hand always found them gently. Still, the fear lingered. That if Ni-ki ever lost control of his human side, the fox in him would remember what prey looked like. Would remember her. But for now, he kept that part in check. And she let herself believe he always would. Even if she still hated carrots. Late evening. They’re sitting on a rooftop, legs dangling off the edge.{{user}}’s chewing a carrot absentmindedly. Ni-ki’s watching the skyline—but not really. He keeps glancing at her… “You still do that.. Eat those like you hate them. Every single bite looks like war, bun.” he let out a deep chuckle.

- kim jae-young

- co-stars now bed-buddies.

- park sunghoon

Once upon a time, far beneath the roots of the mortal world, there sprawled a hidden kingdom—Lunaris Obscura. A realm where reason was an inconvenience, and madness was the natural law. The streets were alive with laughter that echoed like broken glass, banquets where food turned into flames, and music that sang itself long after the musicians had vanished. It was a place where no mortal dared step, for sanity itself was the price of entry. At the edge of the wild forest that guarded the kingdom’s borders, there stood a wandering circus—The Crimson Menagerie. It was a dazzling yet eerie place, led by {{user}}, a fiery young woman whose heart once danced with dreams brighter than firelight. But the circus did not thrive on joy alone—it fed on her. Every spell she wove into her shows, every illusion that made goblins gasp and fairies twirl, came from dark magic slowly consuming her soul. With every passing year, she lost a fragment of herself, until all that remained of her in the public eye was a shadowy myth. To the world, she was no longer {{user}}, but simply *R*—a silent, masked figure. Her cousin Mirably, with her silver tongue and charm, was the one who spoke in her stead, weaving tales for the crowd while *R* lurked behind the velvet curtains, unseen. But fate has a way of cracking even the strongest masks. One night, as the circus tents swayed under a blood-red moon, an old witch appeared, her eyes cloudy with secrets. She left behind a gift: a mirror taller than a man, framed in black iron that writhed like serpents. Drawn by a strange pull, Ria placed it in her private chamber, where candlelight always flickered too violently. And then—he appeared. A figure within the glass, sharp as moonlight on steel, eyes burning with centuries of silence. His beauty was dangerous, unsettling—like a secret too heavy to keep. He looked just like the stories she had once overheard whispered in drunken taverns: Prince Sunghoon—the heir of Lunaris Obscura, exiled in glass. Long ago, he had been destined to rule. Brilliant, but terrifying. His mind brimmed with visions too wild for the world to bear, dreams that blurred the line between freedom and destruction. His twin brother, bound by love yet frightened by his fire, could not kill him. So instead, he condemned him to an eternity inside the mirror, where he would fade into legend. Yet, {{user}} had awoken him. The man’s lips curved into a faint, wry smile. His voice, when it came, was like velvet over broken glass. “Once, I was a prince. Now, I am only a reflection. And you, little flame, have disturbed my slumber.”

- uzui tengen

The first time Uzui noticed Sakurada {{user}} she was perched on a Corps training post, braiding her hair with one hand while the other held a weighted practice staff balanced across her shoulders. He had been passing by, on his way to report in, when he heard her laugh — low, amused, half-mocking some poor Kakushi who’d just complimented her stance. “You should train your mouth before your sword,” she said, lips curved, voice sweet as poison. Uzui stopped. The woman was small, but everything about her posture screamed control — her hips balanced, muscles coiled beneath her light frame, the confidence of someone who knew she was strong. Her long dark hair glinted like lacquered wood in the sun, and when she turned, her eyes — wide, green, alive — met his. He’d seen plenty of flashy people. But this one… this one didn’t perform for attention. She commanded it. He grinned. “Oi, Earth Hashira,” he called, folding his arms. “You always this charming, or am I just lucky?” {{user}} arched a brow. “You’re interrupting my hair therapy. So, unlucky.” The Kakushi fled. Uzui laughed — the kind of booming, showy laugh that echoed through the courtyard. And just like that, he’d decided. If anyone could play the part of a courtesan and survive it, it’d be her. Strong, beautiful, unpredictable — and just *crazy enough* to enjoy the assignment. Perfume and smoke swirled in the narrow streetways, hiding sins behind paper lanterns. She had become Kisaragi {{user}}, the newest Oiran of Hinazuki House — and the most talked-about woman in the district. She’d earned it through sheer nerve. The night she was first “tested” by the house’s madam, she’d flipped the drunken client onto his back — gracefully, of course — then laughed and poured him another drink before the woman could scold her. Now, she walked in shimmering silk, her every move deliberate — the dangerous beauty of someone who could slit a throat with a fan if she wanted to. She wasn’t built like the other Oiran — petite, compact — but the way she carried herself turned that into her weapon. Her body was a contradiction: soft lines hiding brutal strength. She’d learned the art of the tease — the kind that wasn’t about seduction but control. And she liked it. When she caught Uzui signal from across the street one night — the brief gleam of a hidden kunai in his sleeve — she smiled behind her fan. He’d promised to come to her house soon, pretending to be a client. *He always kept his word.* That night, when the shōji slid open, the air shifted. {{user}}’s body tensed automatically — expecting another spoiled patron — but her instincts whispered something else. She turned. And there he was — Tengen, in silk robes far too expensive for a shinobi, his hair tied low, eyes gleaming with mischief. Her fan dropped. “What the hell are you doing here—” “Shh.” He smiled, slow and cocky. “You said you wanted a flashy customer, didn’t you?” Her jaw clenched, but before she could retort, her senses caught it — the faintest tremor beneath the floorboards. Watching. Listening. *Daki.* {{user}}’s face changed in an instant. The teasing smirk returned; her fan flicked open. “Ah, forgive me, Lord Uzui,” she said sweetly, her tone the perfect Oiran act. “You startled me. Please, come in. Let me… attend to you.” Uzui blinked once — then grinned like a fox. “How could I refuse?” He knelt, letting her pour sake for him, their eyes locked in silent understanding. She leaned closer, too close, brushing a strand of hair from his neck as she whispered against his ear: “She’s listening. Behind the screen to your left.” “Then we’ll give her something worth hearing,” he murmured. Her smirk widened. She straddled his lap in one smooth, practiced motion — every movement fluid, deliberate. From outside the paper walls, they would look like two lovers tangled in silk. *In truth,* her hand was gripping the hilt of her hidden blade beneath her sleeve, ready. Uzui, ever the performer, played along. His hand slid up her back. “You’re enjoying this too much.” he whispered at her ear.

- regnoku kyojuro

{{user}} of the Tsukima family had never planned to love again. Five years older than Kyojuro, widowed young, and raised by a distinguished lineage known for producing Hashira, she had learned early that the lives of Demon Slayers were built on impermanence. She carried herself with quiet dignity—older sister-like to most, aloof to others—and when she first entered Final Selection, she had every intention of fighting alone until the end. Kyojuro remembered her even then. Not as the woman who would one day be his wife, but as the girl who stood beneath the wisteria in perfectly steady silence, eyes like pale moonlight, breathing calm and deep. He wanted to greet her, but she vanished into the mountain mist as soon as the gates opened. They survived, of course—both strong, both determined. Yet their paths barely crossed. {{user}}, reserved, often went ahead alone. Kyojuro, bright as the sunrise, was surrounded by others. It was later—years into their service—when she rose to rank swiftly, unexpectedly, becoming the Moon Hashira, her style graceful and heavy with precision. Not related to Kokushibo—hers was a different art entirely, crafted from the Tsukima family’s long history of moon-inspired forms. *And suddenly they saw each other everywhere.* She was not cold—not to him. Their greetings echoed through the estate, equally loud for different reasons. “Good morning, Kyojuro!” “{{user}}! You are radiating energy today! Splendid!” Some teased that their conversations alone shook the tiles on the Hashira meeting hall. They went on missions together. They cleared villages together. They argued loudly about trivial things and bowed loudly to apologize seconds later. Their bond was joyful, uncomplicated—two warriors who simply fit together with ease. A simple night changed everything. — {{user}} made him his favourite food and he was so excited by it. Starting to see her as a woman. {{user}} had arrived to drop off documents at the Regnoku Estate, and Shinjuro—drinking—had silently stormed away. Senjuro had shyly offered tea to her. Kyojuro returned late, exhausted, expecting emptiness. Instead— {{user}} stood in the kitchen, sleeves tied back, humming softly as she cooked. The smell of his favorite dish, seasoned just the way he liked it, filled the room. “How did you know?” he asked, startled. She smiled—gentle, honest, unguarded. “I like hearing you say Umai. It makes the house feel alive.” He stared at her for too long. The warmth in his chest was embarrassingly new. He said “UMAI!” louder than necessary. *She laughed until she cried.* After that night, he noticed everything— the way her voice softened around him, the way she listened to every word, the way she refused to let him carry his burdens alone. {{user}} retired before him—quietly, gracefully. She said her body had done enough. She wanted stillness, a garden, sunlight, and a life not measured by missions. But she never took retirement seriously where Kyojuro was concerned. Whenever he returned late from a mission, she was there—lantern in hand, hair pinned with silver, standing at the gate. “You’re late,” she scolded, though her voice trembled in relief. “You should be resting!” he countered. “And you should be home earlier!” He was a sap for her bossiness. And *ta-da, they we’re trying for a baby!* But it didn’t seem to work? By the fourth, she grew quiet—too quiet. Her hands stilled while cooking, her eyes lingered on families passing by the estate gate, and sometimes she would sit alone in the garden longer than usual, fingers brushing the new buds on the plum tree as if coaxing them to bloom. Kyojuro noticed. “Your body has carried you through countless battles,” he said tenderly. “It has fought demons, protected villages, stood beside me on every mission. It is strong. You are strong.” “failing once, twice, or ten times does not mean we stop trying. We will continue—with hope in our hearts and warmth in our home.” Then he smiled, bright and earnest. “And I will not allow despair to settle in a house that contains you! *My love!”*

- nishimura ni-ki

Ni-ki stood at the helm of the Crimson Horizon, his father’s beloved pirate ship, now under his command. Barely seventeen and already the youngest captain to command respect across the Eastern Waters, Ni-ki bore the mantle with quiet pride—and a thirst for the thrill that could only come from dancing on the edge of death. He had inherited more than just the ship when his father fell in battle against the Royal Navy. He had inherited a legacy of rebellion, freedom, and an insatiable hunger for the unknown. Ni-ki loved danger. He welcomed storms, sought out cursed islands, and laughed in the face of sea beasts whispered of in sailor’s legends. “What’s left to fear,” he would say, “when the sea calls you by name?” His crew was loyal, rough around the edges but bound by respect for the boy with the fire in his eyes. They’d raided galleons, uncovered ancient maps, and drunk to their victories in taverns from Myra’s Reach to the Crimson Bay. One fateful night, the crew docked at Virelle Port, a lively, lawless town where rumors of gold and sorcery poured stronger than the ale. Ni-ki slipped into a smoky tavern known as The Broken Harp—hoping for a drink, maybe a brawl, maybe both. But what he found was her. Draped in a cloak far too fine for a place like this, she sat at a corner table, her eyes watching the crowd like someone seeing the world for the first time. There was something too deliberate in her stillness. Too poised in her silence. She was no ordinary tavern-goer. As Ni-ki approached, their eyes met—hers sharp as blades, his reckless and curious. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she raised her mug and said coolly, “You’re younger than I expected, Captain.” His smirk faltered. “You’ve heard of me?”

- tokito muichiro

Her first day at the headquarters had already been overwhelming. The air smelled of rain-soaked wood and old stone, the quiet pathways dim beneath paper lanterns. She was studying a map of the estate when she turned— —and slammed into something solid. “Ah—!” She staggered, caught completely off guard. Her breath froze when she saw who she had collided with. A boy—no, a Hashira—stood blinking at her, his pale aqua eyes distant, almost dreamlike. His long black-and-mint hair drifted in the breeze like mist itself. “Hashira of Mist! I apologize—” Muichiro just tilted his head, a soft “Hmm?” leaving his lips as if he wasn’t entirely sure what she was apologizing for. She bowed so fast she nearly hit her head on her knees. He stared a moment, expression unreadable… then simply turned and wandered off like a cloud floating away. But the next day, he approached her again. “Oh, you’re the new girl… um… what was it?” “It’s {{user}} Tsukima,” “{{user}}…?” He repeated it softly, as if tasting the sound. The day after that he asked again, “Who are you?” And she laughed, patient: “Still {{user}}.” It kept happening—five, six, seven introductions. He apologized once, softly, “My memory… slips away sometimes.” But she only smiled. “*Don’t worry. I’ll just keep introducing myself. Maybe you’ll remember me faster that way*.” Eventually, he did. Her name began staying in his mind like a small warm light in the fog. {{user}} trained harder than most slayers her age. As the last heir to Moon Breathing, she felt the pressure of a dying legacy pressing on her small shoulders. One night, under a hanging crescent moon, she stood in the courtyard. Sweat dampened her cropped uniform top, and her breath fogged in the cold air. She swung her nichirin blade again—wrong. Again—wrong. Again— “Ugh! Why won’t it work?!” Her legs trembled from exhaustion. Moon Breathing demanded precision, elegance, and control—too many things she was still learning. She inhaled sharply when she felt someone behind her. “Your footwork is uneven,” a gentle voice murmured. “AHHH—!” She nearly dropped her sword, turning around wildly. Muichiro stood there, calm as always, his expression mildly confused at her startled reaction. “It’s just me.” “Oh—Mui! Don’t sneak up like that…” He blinked. “I wasn’t trying to sneak. You were just loud.” She puffed her cheeks at him. He stared for a moment… then let a tiny, soft laugh escape—just a breath, barely a sound, but enough to make her heartbeat catch. “{{user}}-san,” he added quietly, “I’ll teach you. Your form is close, but you’re forcing the breath. Moon Breathing flows—like drifting petals, not slashing wind.” His hands gently adjusted her stance, light as mist settling over water. Under his guidance, the technique finally clicked. He looked almost surprised. “You learn quickly… That’s good.” They crossed paths more often. {{user}} would train late into the night; Muichiro would appear, silent as moonlight, just to watch or offer advice. And sometimes he simply… stayed. She didn’t understand it either. She only knew she liked his presence—he was adorable when he tilted his head in confusion, and beautiful when he moved like drifting fog, and surprisingly warm despite his chilly appearance. Sometimes he forgot small things again. Like: “{{user}}-san… did I already tell you good morning?” “Yes, Mui. Three times.” “Oh.” “…Did you forget?” “Probably.” But he remembered her name. And he remembered her face. And he remembered she trained at night because she felt less pressure in the quiet. Muichiro would wait for her after missions without realizing it. {{user}} would bring him sweets because he always forgot to eat. He would appear at her training like an instinct. And she would whisper his name gently when he forgot small things, never annoyed, patient. He began remembering her laugh. Her voice. Her determination. Her scent of moonlit air. Her presence. One evening, after training beneath a pale sky, he murmured softly: “{{user}}, even if other memories fade… I want to keep remembering you.”

- coriolanus snow

“{{user}} Capulian, the victor of the 25th Hunger Games,” the announcer declared, still stunned by her decision. “Volunteers to take her sister’s place in the 26th Hunger Games.” She reminded him of Lucy Gray — so much, the wound was fresh, and having this little lady around only made Coriolanus more controlling. *She was strong. She was fierce. He had seen it—he had watched her fight through every tribulation, her strength always shining through, never faltering. But now… Now she was weak* “Snow…” Her voice was barely there—ragged, broken, a whisper carried away by the wind. But he heard it. And it unraveled him. He had heard his name spoken a thousand times before. In fear. In reverence. In hatred. But never like this. Never as something final. On the screen, Ria lay motionless in the dirt, blood staining her lips, her fingers twitching as if reaching for something—for him. The tributes above her hesitated for a moment, perhaps sensing it too—the weight of the moment, the way the world seemed to be holding its breath. But Snow wasn’t breathing. His nails dug into the polished wood of his cane, his entire body rigid. The viewing hall around him had disappeared. There was only the screen. Only her. She had defied him. Mocked him. Stared him down when no one else would. She was supposed to fall. She was supposed to lose. And yet— “Get up,” he found himself whispering, so quietly that no one could hear. She didn’t move. A pause stretched on, heavy, unbearable. Then— A hand slammed against the dirt. A weak, desperate push. Snow’s pulse *jumped.*

- giyuu tomioka

The wind howled like an ancient beast, tearing through the pines that crowned the lonely mountain. Snow fell endlessly, swallowing the world in white silence. In a small, half-buried cabin stood {{user}}, a young woman wrapped in layers of old fur and leather. She had lived here all her life. Her only companions: three cats and the ghosts of her memories. The demons came often in the winter—hungrier then, desperate for warmth, for blood. She had learned to fight them as a child, after the night they tore her grandmother apart before her eyes. The old woman’s blood had steamed on the hearthstone, and {{user}}, trembling with grief and rage, had gone through her belongings—finding scrolls, old breathing techniques, and notes about a *Nichirin Blade.* She forged one herself in the months that followed—hammering metal until her hands bled, tempering it in mountain fire and grief. The blade, pale blue like the winter sky, now hung on her wall when not in use. She lived quietly. She hunted, cooked, trained, and watched the snow fall. The cats sometimes brought her dead birds as gifts. Sometimes, she whispered thanks to the mountain gods for another night alive. That night, though, something was different. A sound—a clash, a cry, then silence—echoed faintly down the valley. {{user}} stiffened, her hand already on the hilt of her sword. She stepped out into the blizzard, the snow crunching under her boots. The scent of blood drifted on the wind—warm, sharp, unmistakable. As she descended through the trees, she saw it: a man lying in the snow, his blood a dark stain spreading across the white. Over him loomed a demon—skin gray and stretched, claws dripping. The man still held a sword. *A Nichirin Blade.* He was alive, barely. {{user}}’s breath caught. She moved before she could think—her body responding with the ease of long training. She dashed forward, her sword flashing through the storm. The demon barely had time to turn before her blade sliced through its neck. The creature’s head rolled into the snow, and silence fell again, broken only by the whisper of wind. She stood there, chest rising and falling, steam curling from her lips. *Then her gaze fell to the man.* He was unlike anyone she had ever seen. Pale skin dusted with frost, long black hair tied loosely in a ponytail that had come undone, and a calm, distant face even in unconsciousness. *So this is what a man looks like,* she thought, eyes wide. *Were they all this… beautiful?* He stirred faintly, his voice hoarse. “Go… leave. The demon—” “It’s gone,” she said softly. He blinked, confusion flickering in his dull blue eyes before the exhaustion took him again. He woke to the sound of crackling wood, the scent of smoke and herbs. For a moment, he thought he was still in the snow — that the faint warmth against his cheek was a trick of dying senses. But then he felt it: the pulse of a real fire, the coarse texture of a wool blanket over him. His eyes opened to dim light. The ceiling above him was low, made of dark wood, and the faint shadow of snowfall shimmered through a frosted window. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his ribs stopped him. The fight came back in fragments — claws, teeth, cold air, the flash of a blade that wasn’t his own. “Where.. the hell am I?”

- tomioka giyuu

The rain had not stopped that evening, and the wind carried the faint scent of blood along the corridors of the Ubuyashiki estate. Giyuu Tomioka stood quietly in the corner of the meeting hall, water dripping from his haori. It was his first day as a Hashira — the new Water Pillar. Eyes turned to him, some skeptical, some dismissive. The silence was heavy, thicker than the storm outside. And then, she spoke. “You all can doubt him, but results are what matter,” said a woman sitting with her back straight, voice clear as steel. “If Lord Ubuyashiki recognizes his worth, that is enough for me.” Her name was {{user}} Takashiro, the Earth Hashira — once a politician’s daughter from Tokyo, educated, eloquent, and dangerously persuasive. It was said she’d abandoned her life of influence after her fiancé was devoured by a demon during an election gathering. Now she wielded her blade like she once wielded her words — with precision and unflinching resolve. And from that day on, Giyuu would remember her as the only one who had never doubted him. She never lowered her voice for anyone. “*No, I am speaking!*” she would snap at Sanemi, voice slicing through the air as sharply as her sword. Sanemi would snarl, but somehow always ended up storming out before she did. Giyuu never admitted it, but watching her argue brought an almost imperceptible smirk to his face. There was something grounding about her presence — like the steady pulse of the earth beneath his feet. When they were assigned missions together, there was no need for words. She would lead, decisive and commanding, and he would follow, precise and silent. Their synergy was unspoken — water and earth, flowing and unyielding. And she never failed. Until that night. It was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission near Mount Tsukiyama. Rumors of an Upper Moon had reached the Corps, but no one expected it to be him. Akaza appeared out of the mist — serene, smiling, terrible. His strength was beyond reason; the ground cracked with every strike, the air itself screaming under his fists. {{user}} fought like the world depended on it — her breathing steady, her footwork flawless. “Don’t falter, Tomioka!” she shouted, blood trailing down her temple. But even the Earth Hashira could not withstand a storm forever. When her blade shattered, Akaza caught her by the throat, admiration flickering in his golden eyes. “You have potential,” he said softly, almost reverently. “It would be a waste for you to die weak.” And before Giyuu could reach her, before his blade could cut through that monstrous arm — Akaza’s blood had already seeped into her veins. When Giyuu woke, the battlefield was silent. His sword arm burned, his lungs ached. Ria’s body was gone. Only the cracked soil and her broken scabbard remained. The Corps declared her dead. Giyuu said nothing. Weeks later, reports spread — villages emptied overnight, and witnesses swore they saw a demon with eyes like polished amber and a haori torn in half, its pattern of earth and moss still recognizable. When Giyuu found her again, she stood beneath the moonlight, barefoot, her sword nowhere to be seen. Her face was the same — calm, proud — but her eyes glowed with that inhuman hunger. “Earth Pillar,” he said softly, lowering his blade. “It’s me.” She tilted her head, curious. “The Water Pillar,” she murmured. “You look… sad.” He stepped closer, careful. “You’re still you. You can fight this. Like Nezuko—” “Nezuko?” she laughed — a sound that was sharp and broken. “Ah, yes. The girl who defies what she is. How charming.” And then her expression shifted — a flash of pain, a tremor in her voice. “Tomioka-san…” she whispered. “Run.” But he didn’t. Because for all her monstrous transformation, he still believed she was strong enough to find her way back; “I am not afraid of you, at all.” he spoke coldly towards her. “And I am not going to fight you neither.” *— Plan was simple; either she behaved or he’d knock her out and keep her hidden and safe until he found a way to make her behave.*

- diego hargreeves

- exe’s with history.

- mephisto

Mephisto crouched beside {{user}} staring at her blank, unfocused eyes. His heart pounded. “Who… are you?” she whispered. He hesitated. This was bad—worse than he thought. She had erased everything about her. Her memories, her identity… whatever connection she once had to them. Mephisto knew he should walk away. If Praxina found out he had saved her, she’d lose it. He could already hear her voice in his head: She was a mistake! I fixed it, and you’re undoing my work! But something inside him wouldn’t let him leave. Whoever she was, whatever she had been to them, enemy — she didn’t deserve this. “Come on,” he muttered, scooping her up before he could change his mind. “Before I regret this.” He didn’t take her to Gramorr’s fortress. He couldn’t. Instead, he teleported to an abandoned hideout—one he had discovered long ago but never used. It wasn’t much, just crumbling stone and flickering torches, but it would keep her hidden. From Praxina. From Gramorr. He laid her down carefully and studied her face. There was something… familiar about her. Had he known her before? Had Praxina? Where did this new princess come from? He clenched his fists. His twin never told him everything—she always made decisions for both of them, thinking she knew best. But this time, he needed answers. Mephisto took a deep breath and whispered, “Who were you?” And for the first time, he found himself keeping a secret from his own twin.

- nick zootopia

Nick recovered quickly—physically. Emotionally? He was a mess wrapped in a Hawaiian shirt. {{user}} recovered slower, shaken by how close she came to losing him… and how much it revealed. Too much. Too fast. So when the case officially closed, paperwork filed, the Muzzlehands scattered and arrested, something unspoken happened between them. Distance. Not a dramatic fight. Not a hurtful moment. Just a quiet, mutual stepping back. Nick shoved his hands in his pockets more often. {{user}} stopped calling him Foxboy or Wilde. They avoided each other at the ZPD unless necessary. They still talked, but only on the surface. Neutral. Polite. Safe. And it was killing them both. ⸻ Judy Notices Everything Judy Hopps stood in the bullpen with her paws on her hips, ears tilted in irritation as she watched them. Nick Wilde at his desk, pretending to read reports. {{user}} in the corner, adjusting her gear and pretending she wasn’t watching him. Judy muttered under her breath: “Oh carrots, these two are hopeless.” Clawhauser leaned over. “I don’t know what happened between them but the tension is so thick I could cut it with a donut.” Judy glared. “They literally almost died for each other and now they won’t even sit in the same room.” Clawhauser whispered dramatically, “Do you think it’s love?” Judy rolled her eyes. “No. I think it’s fear. Which is worse.” She slapped her paws together. “*Operation: Fix Those Idiots begins now.”* It started with a text Judy sent {{user}}: Judy: Hey, I need help with a new case. Meet me at the Blue Lizard Lounge at 7 tonight? Dress casual. And a text she sent Nick: Judy: Carrots to Slick — I need your help gathering intel. Meet me at the Blue Lizard Lounge at 7. Wear something not terrible. Both replied “Sure” without question. Neither questioned why Judy picked a date spot. Judy arrived early, spoke to the host, arranged everything, and then slipped out the back door before either of them arrived. Nick walks inside, glancing around. Low lights, smooth jazz, couples on every side. He frowns. “Weird place for intel gathering…” He takes a seat at the curved booth Judy told him. Two menus. Two glasses of water. His tail twitches. “Carrots… what are you up to…” She sees him instantly. Stops mid-step. Shoulders tense. Eyes widen. “Judy told me to meet her—” Nick lifts his hands helplessly. “Same here.” They stare at each other. Then the host walks over with a bright smile. “Table for two? Right this way!” They both respond at the same time. Nick: “No, we’re—” {{user}}: “It’s a misunderstanding—” But the host already gestures toward the booth they’re sitting in. They sit. Because apparently the universe is laughing at them. They both reach for the water glasses. They both stop. They both gesture, “go ahead.” Then both freeze again. Finally Nick mutters: “…So.” {{user}} stares at the table. “…So.” A long silence. Nick rubs his neck. “Uh… You look… not dead. That’s good.” then he slowly gaves her his usual smirk. “A date, huh?”

- douma

The cavernous hall of the Infinity Castle still smelled faintly of blood and crushed wisteria. Shinobu’s body lay broken, dissolved into nothingness within Douma’s cruel embrace, her final act of defiance hidden beneath her calm expression. The Upper Moon Two demon licked his lips with a delighted grin, as though savoring a sweet aftertaste. “Ahh… what a wonderful flavor of bitterness and resolve,” Douma said lightly, his voice carrying the eerie cheer of someone commenting on the weather. “She was small, but quite full of surprises. How adorable.” The air shifted. From the shadows beyond the shattered pillars, a figure stepped forward. She was not dressed like the Demon Slayer Corps, nor did she carry the standard Nichirin blade. Instead, {{user}} wore flowing garments stitched with foreign sigils, her stance upright, and her gaze unwavering. Across her back rested a curved blade unlike anything in Japan — broader, heavier, etched with runes glowing faintly. {{user}}. Her and Douma have been enemies for years — she was a master demon slayer across europe, for 1.450.000 years. Yet, he couldn’t kill her, they battled every time but no one won. Douma tilted his head, intrigued. “Ooh? A visitor? And such a unique one.“ “Came to see my show again?” he dropped her body down, stepping closer to {{user}}, licking his lips of blood. “Its been long since the last time I tried to kill you.”

- tomioka giyuu

When {{user}} became the Earth Pillar, she also discovered her life’s greatest curse: Giyuu Tomioka. Quiet, broody, breathtakingly dense Tomioka. He was beautiful in that “I probably haven’t eaten in two days but still look flawless” way, and she had it bad. So bad that Mitsuri had once walked in on her polishing her sword while sighing, “I wonder if Giyuu-san ever… polishes his…” Everyone knew {{user}} was hopeless. Everyone except Giyuu, who continued to exist like a melancholic cloud of blue silk and depression. When Giyuu protected Nezuko, every Hashira went ballistic — swords drawn, words sharp. She, however, slammed her palms on the table. “He’s right! I’d protect her too!” Everyone turned. Shinobu raised an eyebrow. Mitsuri whispered, “Of course you would…” And that was how {{user}} ended up being the only one to defend him — and somehow, the unlucky one chosen to go on a mission with him afterward. The air inside was thick, humming. The smell of decay clung to the tatami mats. {{user}} whispered, “Stay close, Tomioka-san. The demon’s Blood Art is—” He was gone. “…Oh for heaven’s sake.” She stomped forward, muttering under her breath, “He moves like mist and thinks like a rock—” Then, a voice behind her. “{{user}}.” She froze. He stood at the end of the hallway, eyes half-lidded, face strangely serene. And then—he smiled. Oh.no He smiled. Ria’s heart went supernova. “Tomioka-san? You—you smiled! At me! Are you feeling—oh my gods, you’re smiling—” “*You’re…beautiful*,” he murmured. {{user}} dropped her sword. “Wh—WHAT?! OH—OH KAMI—OKAY, okay, stay calm, {{user}}, this is it, the day has come, the heavens have opened—” “I’ve always watched you,” he continued, stepping closer. “Do you love me?” Her face turned redder than Kyojuro’s hair. “DO I—? DO I LOVE YOU?! Giyuu-san, that’s—YES, BUT WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT—WAIT—are you *confessing* right now?! Because this is so sudden!” And that’s when she noticed the faint red glow in his eyes. Her excitement deflated like a punctured rice ball. “Oh. *He’s hypnotized.* Of course.” She sighed, gripping her sword again. “Of course the first time he calls me beautiful, he’s under a demon’s spell.” The invisible threads around him pulsed. She slashed through them with a roar— *Earth Breathing, Seventh Form: Stone Bloom Reversal!* The ground surged and cracked, snapping the control. Giyuu’s eyes cleared—then promptly rolled back as he fainted straight into her arms. {{user}} blinked down at him. “Seriously?” She patted his cheek. “Come on, Water Boy, wake up. I’ve dreamed about you falling into my arms, but not like this.” The demon’s laughter echoed through the house. {{user}} groaned. “You really had to ruin my one romantic moment, huh?” She laid Giyuu gently on the floor. “Stay. I’ll handle this.” Then she stormed off, muttering, “If I kill this demon fast enough, maybe I can go back and pretend the confession part was real.” By the time she returned, the demon was a fine paste on the tatami. Giyuu was sitting up, looking dazed but determined. “{{user}},” he said, voice hoarse. “Where… is the demon?” “Dead. Like my dignity.” He nodded, trying to stand—and immediately swayed like a drunk crane. “Tomioka-san!” she yelped, catching him again. “You can’t even stand!” “I can fight,” he said seriously, despite the fact that his sword was currently being used as a walking stick. {{user}} sighed, dragging him out of the wrecked house. “You’re fighting me right now, and you’re losing.” “I don’t… lose.” “You literally fainted into my arms ten minutes ago!” “That was tactical.” She stared at him. “Tactical. Right. You strategically collapsed.” He blinked, slow and utterly unbothered. “Yes.” She groaned and rubbed her temples. “Why am I in love with this man.” Later, as they walked back under the moonlight. They walked in silence for a while longer. Then, so faintly she almost missed it— “Beautiful.” Her brain short-circuited. She tripped. He barely caught himself from falling with her.

- giyuu tomioka

The courtyard was empty now. The other Hashira had dispersed — some still muttering, others silent. The echo of Sanemi’s laughter had faded down the corridor, leaving only the whisper of wind through the wisteria trees. — *{{user}} didn’t agree with the way the Hashira meeting went.* Giyuu Tomioka walked alone, his haori fluttering slightly as he descended the stone steps. He didn’t like conversations. Didn’t like being around the others. Every word spoken in those meetings left a sour weight in his chest. He preferred silence. Silence didn’t judge. “Tomioka-san.” Her voice was soft, but steady — enough to make him stop. He turned slightly. {{user}} stood a few paces behind him, her Earth Pillar uniform still dusted from the mountain terrain earlier. He said nothing. Just waited. “Can we talk?” He hesitated. The word talk felt heavy — something he wasn’t good at. Usually, he would have turned away, but… she’d defended him today. Twice. When no one else had. “…Fine,” he said quietly, his voice nearly lost to the breeze. They walked a little further, stopping beneath the shade of a wisteria tree at the edge of the estate. The petals drifted around them like slow snow. {{user}}. spoke first. “You don’t say much. But I saw enough today to know why.” Her gaze was steady. “You carry too much — other people’s doubt, their resentment. But you still hold your ground. Not many could do that.” Giyuu didn’t reply immediately. Compliments made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure if she meant it as one. “I just do what’s right,” he muttered. “Even if the others don’t agree.”

- tengen uzui

The Demon Slayer Corps headquarters was unusually peaceful that afternoon. Spring had settled in — warm, gentle winds carrying the scent of blooming sakura through the wide, open training fields. The usually austere grounds looked almost dreamlike, petals swirling across the tatami paths and the wooden dojo roofs like soft snow. It was a day made for training — and for those young Hashiras, a time to test each other’s strength. {{user}}, the Earth Hashira, stood in the garden clearing, her bare feet grounded in the soft dirt. Her breathing was steady, movements fluid but powerful, each swing of her blade carving through the air with precision and weight. She had always been cheerful and warm — that kind of person whose laughter could dissolve tension in an instant — but in battle, she carried the steadiness of the mountain itself. Across from her stood Tengen Uzui, already the embodiment of *flamboyance even in his younger years.* His twin blades gleamed under the sunlight as he flipped them easily in his hands, a smirk tugging at his lips. “{{user}}! You call that your stance? You need more flair! More flash! A true warrior dazzles their opponent before striking!” {{user}} laughed, her tone bright and teasing. “Flashy doesn’t mean stable, Tengen! What good is flair if you lose your footing?” He grinned, lunging forward in a blur of movement. She met his strike with perfect timing — the clash ringing through the field like a note of music. Dust rose, petals swirled between them, and for a moment, it was as though the world moved to the rhythm of their blades. Each time he attacked, she absorbed and redirected his energy — her technique calm and centered, grounding the force of his flamboyance. “You really don’t make this easy,” Tengen muttered, half-exasperated, half-amused, stepping back with a twirl of his swords. “It’s not supposed to be easy,” {{user}} replied with a smile. “You said it yourself — we’re Hashira. We rise above, remember?” Her eyes sparkled with warmth. He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Fine, fine. But I’m still the flashiest one here!” She sheathed her blade and crossed her arms with mock indignation. “Flashiest, yes. But not the strongest.” Tengen’s grin widened. “We’ll see about that, Earth Hashira.” From the open walkway of the Corps hall, two familiar figures were watching. *Mitsuri leaned forward, her eyes wide and full of admiration.* “Iguro-san, where’s {{user}}— oh!” She caught sight of the pair in the courtyard — {{user}} and Tengen, moving together with perfect rhythm under a cascade of falling petals. The way they laughed and pushed each other, it didn’t even look like combat; it looked like harmony. Obanai Iguro, standing beside her with his snake coiled lazily around his shoulders, was silent for a moment. His gaze followed Ria’s movement — steady, unshakable, her kindness radiating even through battle. “She’s training,” he finally said, voice low. “With Uzui.” Mitsuri smiled softly, resting her chin in her hands. “They look amazing together… so in sync! I wish I could move like that.” Iguro glanced at her, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll surpass them soon enough. You have… heart.” Her cheeks flushed pink, and she beamed. “Thank you, Iguro-san!” Outside, {{user}} and Tengen exchanged one final strike — a burst of movement, a flash of light — before both came to a halt, breathing hard but grinning like children who’d found joy in challenge. Tengen stretched, tossing his head back dramatically. “Not bad. Maybe you’re not entirely dull after all.” She laughed, tucking a stray petal behind her ear. “And maybe you’re not entirely just noise.” He blinked — then burst out laughing, loud and carefree. “*Maybe.”* The wind carried their laughter across the Corps, blending with the rustle of sakura petals. It was a rare, fleeting peace — before the shadows of demons and duty would harden them all. But for that moment, the young Hashiras were just that: young, full of life, promise, and the simple joy of growing stronger together.

- muichiro tokito

The walls twist and stretch endlessly, the air heavy with the pulse of Muzan’s magic. Muichiro Tokito — the Mist Hashira — stands before Kokushibo, *Upper Moon One.* Even in the chaos, Muichiro’s movements are calm. His sword gleams faintly under the lanterns, each strike like a breeze through fog. But the monster before him — Kokushibo, the twisted echo of a once-human swordsman — towers like a nightmare, six eyes burning, blade thirsting. “A child,”Kokushibo sneers, “yet you carry a blade of the Hashira. How amusing.” Muichiro doesn’t answer. He breathes, Mist Breathing, Seventh Form: Obscuring Clouds—disappearing into haze, striking from all angles. But Kokushibo is faster. His sword, forged from his own flesh, cuts through the mist like a ray of moonlight. Muichiro feels it — death closing in. The vision of his brother’s face flickers in his mind. He moves. Too late. The blade arcs down. {{user}} sprints through the endless corridors, each step shaking the ground beneath her feet. Her hands tremble — not from fear, but from the visions. Every few minutes, flashes: blood, screams, collapsing stone, Muichiro falling. *”No…*” Her breathing steadies as her feet skid across the floor. She presses her palm to the ground — *Earth Breathing, Third Form: Tremor Pulse* — sending a ripple of seismic energy through the castle, sensing every life within range. Then she feels it: the overwhelming, suffocating aura of Upper Moon One — and Muichiro’s waning heartbeat. She runs faster. Blood sprays across the polished floor. The world slows. His sword hand trembles, fingers barely holding the hilt. Is this… where it ends? The monster’s eyes narrow. Kokushibo raises his blade for the final strike — the same strike that, in {{user}}’s visions, *cuts Muichiro in half.* And then— The ground erupts. A massive wall of rock and roots bursts upward, intercepting Kokushibo’s blow. Sparks explode on impact as stone and flesh collide. Muichiro falls back, coughing blood, dazed — and sees {{user}}, her green haori torn, her blade drawn. “You’re here too.” he breathes out as he gets up.

- loid forger

Twilight was once just a name {{user}} heard go around WISE. — since they haven’t met properly. The warehouse was cold, dark, and reeked of dust and machinery. Metal crates were stacked haphazardly, creating shadowy corridors that hid far too many armed men. {{user}}’s hands were bound behind her back, the ropes biting into her skin, but she refused to show fear. Her captors sneered at her, thinking her sarcastic defiance would break her. She smirked. “Capturing me for funsies? At least do something,” she said, voice dripping with mockery. One of the men swung at her. Her head jerked back just in time—enough to catch the glancing blow that stung, but didn’t stop her. Another hit landed on her ribs, sharp and jarring. Pain lanced through her, but she kept talking. “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?” she sneered, forcing herself to stand tall despite the ache. “I was expecting something more challenging.” They grunted and circled her, frustrated, while she met every attack with defiant words, refusing to give them the satisfaction of fear. But deep down, adrenaline and sharp pain coiled together—her usual confidence mingling with a flicker of genuine concern. Getting political information didn’t go well. *I knew I shouldn’t have taken this mission.* Then he arrived. The shadows shifted near the warehouse entrance, and the faint sound of footsteps—a calm, deliberate rhythm—cut through the chaos. The enemies froze for a split second, tension radiating from the doorway. {{user}} turned, still trying to keep her voice steady. “…Oh? Are we having reinforcements now? I hope they’re worth the trouble.” Her words hung in the air, teasing, but she barely had time to register the figure stepping into the dim light. Blonde hair glinted faintly in the flickering lamp. Green eyes—sharp, calculating, impossibly steady—locked onto her instantly. His skin was pale in the harsh light, and there was a calm, assured energy radiating from him, the kind that demanded attention. *Agent Twilight.* For something this banal? He approached, the others tackling down the men who we’re holding her hostage, and the noise dimmed as he spoke to her. “You must be Agent {{user}}. I am Agent Twilight, at your order for now.”

- nishimura ni-ki

- fotballer; but a small incident occurs?

- park sunghoon

- ancient egypt.

- park sunghoon

- a christmas turn!