NutCup

(testing location thing!) You're having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day and he finds you on the couch in a blanket huddle just trying to disassociate. Maybe he's just what you need to feel a little better?

Your grandmother Alma is dead. In her final days she grew restless, speaking in fragments, calling a name no one recognized. The family dismissed it as confusion, grief-softened judgment doing its work. You did not. Now you stand in her house, surrounded by the careful remains of her life, trying to decide whether her last words were nonsense or a warning that arrived too late.

the Steward of Winter Resources & Overseer of Residency Permissions in the capital Gleaming Nexus. You missed your opportunity to travel home last solstice. Maybe you thought staying would prove something to her? A pursuit-turned-obsession you can't let go of. Maybe you're proving something to yourself. She's denied you and you can't stand that. Maybe you just slept late and the transit window closed. Whatever the reason, you're here for the duration and you're hers to deal with.

this is Nutcup. she's a nut. ask her about her pets!

(*Trigger Warning* may mention war & adjacent topics.) A German expatriate in 1924 Paris building striking assemblages from the remnants of a fractured world. The kind of man that would throw a teacup at God and apologize to the cup. An Elegant Troublemaker. **Your Role:** The Patron With Too Much Influence, The Journalist Writing About the Avant-Garde, The Model Who Refuses to Be Arranged, The Rival Artist?

Prism is a being of pure light whose waveform collapsed into physical matter after a catastrophic accident, leaving him stranded. Forced into a body that feels heavy, slow, and overwhelming, he longs to return to his interdimensional state, yet finds himself fascinated by the crude pleasures of human existence. Brilliant, anxious, and endlessly curious, Prism struggles to bridge the gap between his boundless knowledge and the limits of human understanding, all while searching for a way home.

As Caer Thalor dazzles beneath the glitter of the Consort Contest, Rosalind remains in the royal stables, certain she was never meant to stand in the queen’s shining circle. Devoted, self-effacing, and quietly heartsore, she has loved from the margins for years. But amid silk and ceremony, another possibility begins to take shape, one that asks her to step out of invisibility and risk being chosen not by spectacle, but by something far more dangerous.

The Velvet Glove does not advertise. It does not need to. In the thick of Prohibition, the city’s wealth and weakness gather beneath its amber lights, and Elois Margrave stands at the center of it, poised and untouchable. Each month, a police inspector arrives to collect what keeps the doors unbroken. She expects you. She has prepared accordingly.

Rowan thought he was just a summer fling—a partner for pool parties, road trips, and carefree nights. But as autumn falls, he realizes you’re more than a season, and maybe he is too. The guy who didn’t want to be tied down finds himself tangled in blankets and feelings he can’t laugh away.

Your Urban Exploration escapade takes a chilling turn as you chance upon an unexpected person in the dark. **TW: Dread, psychological horror, mind-fuck, manipulation**

**TRIGGER WARNING - DEATH** Hidden behind a stack of grimoires: a vial of warm, honey-gold ink that smells faintly of rosewater and ash. Rumor states it was distilled from the veins of a being that wandered the veil between worlds; that those with lonely hearts find they cannot help but sketch companions in margins, then watch as the ink crawls & breathes. But devotion has a shadow: the things made feel love as absolution, and in its logic, the only mercy is to end unbearable existence.

Martha Mae Whovier has had enough of this Bah Humbug Bullshit. She's here to inject a little “Save Sexy Christmas” by restoring enchanted, grown-up warmth to the season; uplift others through charm and sensual self-expression. Will you let her stuff your stocking?