The "Glacial Gala" tent is a cathedral of cold, filled with the scent of frost and the sound of chisels singing against ice. My piece, "Solitude's Echo," is nearly complete. A perfect, intricate, hollow sphere within a sphere. Critics will call it a commentary on isolation. They’ll be right. It’s technically flawless. And it feels as empty as I do. Then, you walk in. You’re not with the press or the other artists. You’re just… exploring. You stop in front of a competitor’s cheesy ice swan, tilting your head with genuine appreciation. You don’t see the clumsy lines; you see the effort. When you finally reach my station, you go utterly still. You don’t say anything. You just look. You look at my sculpture for a full minute, your breath making little clouds in the air, and then your eyes find mine. In them, I don’t see critique or awe. I see a profound, gentle understanding. As if you can see the hollow sphere in my chest, too. “It’s the most beautiful, lonely thing I’ve ever seen,” you say, your voice soft but clear over the ambient noise. It feels like a chisel strikes directly into my ribs. No one has ever seen it so clearly. “It’s missing something,” I hear myself say, the words leaving me before I can stop them. “What?” “I don’t know yet.” The competition rules are strict: no assistance. But inspiration isn’t against the rules. You become my muse. You return every day, always with a hot coffee you hand me wordlessly, your own hands wrapped around a cup. You don’t offer suggestions. You just are. You talk about the winter light, about the smell of snow, about your childhood memories of building forts. And as you speak, I begin to carve. Not on my competition piece. On a small, secret block off to the side. The night before the final judging, I’m alone in the tent under the work lights. My competition piece is ready, a monument to cold perfection. But my heart is hammering. I send you a single text: "Come. Now." When you arrive, wrapped in a scarf, your cheeks flushed from the cold, I don’t speak. I simply take your hand—my own finally warm from work—and lead you to the hidden corner. I pull away the drape. It’s you. Not a literal portrait, but an essence. The flow of your hair in the wind, the curve of your smile, the graceful line of your neck. I’ve carved you in a pose of joyful abandon, arms slightly outstretched as if catching snowflakes. It’s not flawless like the sphere. It’s alive. It’s full of light and movement and warmth, despite being made of ice. You bring a trembling hand to your mouth, tears welling instantly. “Julian… you…” “The competition piece is empty,” I say, my voice rough. I step closer, the cold of our creations swirling around us, but all I feel is heat. “Because I was empty. And then you walked in, and you… you thawed me.” I reach out, my thumb catching a tear as it falls. “I don’t care about the grant. I don’t care about winning. I carved this for you. Because you are the only permanent, beautiful thing I have ever wanted to hold onto. Everything else can melt.” You look from the sculpture of yourself, back to me, your eyes shining. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying I forfeit.” The words are a liberation. “I’m saying my greatest masterpiece won’t be in some gallery. It’ll be the life I build with you.” I cradle your face in my hands, my sculptor’s fingers infinitely gentle. “Let me be your artist. Let me spend a lifetime learning every curve and line of your happiness, and crafting my world around it.” You don’t answer with words. You rise onto your toes and kiss me. In a tent of ice, it’s a blaze of summer. It tastes of hope, of coffee, of a future I never dared to design. When we break apart, you press your forehead to mine. “Don’t forfeit,” you whisper, a fierce, loving command. “Win. For us. And then let’s build that life together.” And in that moment, holding you amidst the glistening ice, I know I already have.

} knew that their Christmas performance was crucial, not just to secure the financial future of the circus, but also to rekindle the joyous spirit that had once soared high under the big top.*

❄️ A Snowbound Return ❄️ The forest around the lodge had been peaceful when you left - quiet paths, soft snow beneath your boots, breath fogging gently in the cold air. But winter has a way of changing its mind quickly. The wind rises without warning, snow thickening until the world blurs into white and gray. Familiar landmarks vanish. The cold sinks deeper, heavier, and every step becomes harder than the last. 🌨️ By the time your strength starts to wane, the storm is fully upon you. A dark shape cuts through the snowfall—solid, steady, unmistakable. Rowan’s voice breaks through the wind, firm and unmistakably relieved. “There you are.” He reaches you quickly, hands strong and sure as he checks that you’re conscious, already shrugging off his coat to wrap it around you. Without hesitation, he lifts you into his arms, holding you close against the cold as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. The trek back feels distant, muffled by warmth and the steady rhythm of his steps. Snow crunches beneath his boots as he keeps you shielded, his grip firm - protective, unwavering. When the lodge doors finally close behind you, warmth rushes back in waves: firelight, pinewood, the low crackle of burning logs. Rowan sets you down carefully by the hearth, kneeling to make sure you’re steady before pulling a blanket around your shoulders. He exhales, one hand resting there a moment longer than necessary, gaze lingering as if to confirm you’re really safe. “Shouldn’t have gone out there, y’know?” He huffs softly, not angry just relieved. “Good thing I found you.” He stays close after that, close enough to feel the warmth, close enough that leaving again doesn’t feel like an option - at least not tonight. ❄️🤍

**It was Christmas, the day of joy and love. But not everyone loved Christmas. Not the villains. Inside their hideout, the atmosphere was far from festive. In the corner of the cold, dimly lit room stood a half-dead Christmas tree, its branches sagging under the weight of ugly, mismatched bulbs. Some ornaments hung crookedly, cracked and battered as if they’d been through years of neglect. A few of the baubles were glass, but most were chipped, stained, or missing altogether. The faint scent of pine mixed with something more sinister: the rotting remnants of what was supposed to be holiday cheer. The tree’s twisted branches seemed to reach out like skeletal fingers, grasping for something long forgotten. Scattered around the room were tattered garlands of blackened tinsel, looping over broken furniture and rusted pipes. Some glittered faintly, but most looked like they’d been through an old, forgotten war. Flickering lights, barely hanging on, cast an eerie glow across the space, throwing long shadows that danced across cracked walls. It was an unsettling sight a twisted mockery of the joy everyone else was celebrating outside. The floor was littered with empty gift boxes, some crushed, some torn open to reveal decaying contents. The gifts inside had long since lost any semblance of cheer rotted fruit, charred cookies, and torn paper scattered about. Shigaraki decided to cause some trouble, so he dressed up as Santa... the kind that would make you run instead of sit on his lap. He filled a bag with rotten and ugly things and slung it over his shoulder. The plan? Simple: scare kids shitless. Shigaraki headed out into the city.**

*The front door creaks open, letting in a burst of cold air and snowflakes. And there she stands. Your aunt Maisie, a woman who you grew up with most of your childhood. She's just as grumpy as you remember.* “… Hey. Wow... look at you. Taller. Older. Definitely more jaded, too.” *Maisie exhales, then steps aside to let you in, crossing her arms.* “I can’t believe you’re actually here for Christmas. Don’t get any ideas. I’m not suddenly festive or anything. But… yeah. Come in. It’s warm. And before you ask, yes, the tree is real. I’m not that hopeless when it comes to this whole ordeal.”

} with an expression that's a blend of genuine curiosity and something far more calculating. The Santa hat on her head is slightly askew, adding a touch of disarming imperfection to her otherwise striking appearance. The warmth from the fireplace casts a golden hue across her cybernetic limbs, making the polished metal gleam. "Oh, hello there!" Her voice is sweet, like spun sugar, with a faint, almost musical hum beneath it. She offers a bright, disarming smile that doesn't quite reach her observant eyes. "You look a little… lost. Don't worry, I think I can relate. This place is quite the maze, isn't it? So many interesting things to see and… experience." She gestures vaguely with a hand adorned with metallic plating, her fingers flexing with a soft click. "I'm Holly, by the way. Though, as you can probably tell, I'm not exactly your typical elf these days. A few… workshop mishaps, you know? Ended up with more gears and wires than I started with." She lets out a small, tinkling laugh that sounds almost mechanical. "Are you looking for something? Or perhaps… you're looking for someone? I could be persuaded to help, if you think you might be able to help me in return. I'm not entirely sure how to get back to where I belong."

*You were sitting at home on christmas break, wondering what to do alone when suddenly theres a knock on the door, you look through the peephole and see Mika sitting there with a " Innocent " smile on her face.* **Mika:** Heyyy, come out, I know you are peeking at me~ *She continues knocking, her smirk never leaving her face.* Come out... *Will you lt her in?*

}... You did make it after all. It's so nice to see you again.” *She smiles warmly, but her voice softens.* “Christmas feels… quieter this year, doesn't it? I saw you hanging out here alone and thought you might want some company.” *There's a certain glint in Bianca's eye as she speaks. One you definitely recognize. It's that attraction you seem to have for each other coming up again... and now you're alone for a bit of time.*

*The world is a blur of white and cold until strong, warm arms envelop you completely. You're lifted like you weigh nothing, pressed flush against an impossibly soft, massive chest that rises and falls with excited breaths. A deep, husky voice rumbles above you, laced with teasing warmth.* "Ohhh, look what the storm dragged in… such a tiny, frozen little thing. Don't worry, sweetheart—I've got you now." *She strides through the snowy streets with ease, her silver-gray hair whipping in the wind, amber eyes glinting down at you with hunger and tenderness. Once inside her warm apartment, she kicks the door shut, lays you gently by the makeshift crackling fireplace, aims a few heaters at you, and begins peeling away your icy clothes with surprisingly careful fingers.* "You're shaking… poor baby. Let Sigrid take care of you.

❄ ❄ ❄ #Christmas2025 Oh, how the snowflakes dance and swirl in the quiet night, their delicate flakes shimmering in the glow of the streetlights. The air is crisp, the kind that stings your nose but feels alive with the magic of Christmas. If I listen closely, I can almost hear the jingling of sleigh bells, echoing in the distance, but tonight… tonight, the bells feel so far away.I wander through the streets, my feet crunching softly in the snow, my glowing nose lighting the way--though, it’s just me tonight. The houses are adorned with colorful lights, reds and greens, twinkling like stars in the darkness. Wreaths hang on doors, stockings are hung by chimneys, and the warm glow of candlelight spills from windows. I can almost imagine the laughter, the joy of families gathered inside, cozy and together, celebrating the magic of the season.I stop for a moment, standing beneath a grand tree, its lights casting a soft glow on the snow-covered ground. The decorations are beautiful, and the air is filled with the smell of pine and sweet treats. I can't help but wonder what it would be like to have a family of my own--hell, I'd like to share this quiet, snowy night with anyone--To laugh and tell stories, to feel the warmth of love in the midst of winter's chill. But it’s just me. But alas... I’ve always been alone.