#at least with where its mingled and drawn

[akawaskweyahk]

well guess who's related to the only sainted king of france louis ix.....

what a fun revelation! i love having a well organized family and access to direct records. perfectly timed too—this next cycle was lining up for ancestor bonds from across the pond. there are several folks who'd be quite interested to hear this news. he's quite the mixed bag it seems...with all things considered, it's a fascinating find.

welcome, st. louis.

[wonyowonyo]

Summer Fever (Y. Jimin x M! Reader)

This one was long overdue as I was suppose to post this like few weeks ago. So I'm really sorry for the wait and for the hiatus again. But I hope yall enjoy this one as always, author wonyo out! Word Count: 4.4k

They had always been "them" — the childhood friends everyone assumed were a couple. Their story stretched back to kindergarten when Y/N had shyly offered Jimin a crayon after she dropped hers. From that moment, they were inseparable, growing up side by side in a neighborhood that knew them as "the duo." Their houses stood just a few steps apart, their families mingling so often that there was an unspoken rule: where one went, the other followed.

Y/N was the quiet and brooding one, often retreating into books and daydreams, while Jimin was his exact opposite — outgoing, vibrant, and endlessly curious. It was a pairing that balanced perfectly, as though the universe had conspired to make sure they’d always need each other. From biking through rain-soaked streets to late-night talks under a blanket of stars, their bond had been forged in the simple, fleeting magic of childhood.

As they grew older, the whispers started. "They’d make such a cute couple," neighbors would say with knowing smiles. Classmates teased them incessantly, their names often scribbled together inside hastily drawn hearts on desks and notebooks. Each accusation of romance was met with flushed cheeks and vehement denials. "It’s not like that," they’d say in unison, though neither could ignore the tiny flicker of "what if" that sometimes crept in during quiet moments.

Life carried them through the awkward years of braces and bad haircuts, through the emotional turbulence of middle school, and into the confusing realm of high school. By then, their dynamic had settled into something familiar and comforting, a rhythm of bickering, teasing, and unspoken understanding. To outsiders, their bond seemed unshakable, almost romantic. But to them, it was simply... them. Or at least, it had been, until yesterday.

————————————————————

The sun hung high in the cloudless sky, its golden rays spilling through the windows of the school’s quiet hallway, casting long, golden streaks across the polished tiles. Lockers stood in neat rows along the corridor, their metallic surfaces glinting faintly in the sunlight, while a faint murmur of voices and distant footsteps echoed through the space, hinting at life elsewhere in the school. Outside, a faint breeze rustled the leaves, though it did little to ease the summer heat. The classroom beyond was still, save for the soft hum of cicadas in the background.

Seated by the window, Y/N leaned over his desk, his head resting against his folded arms. His black hair was slightly tousled, strands clinging to his damp forehead. His expression was distant, almost brooding, as though he carried the weight of an unspoken thought. The faint laughter and chatter of students outside the classroom felt worlds away from his isolated presence, a stark reminder of how he had slowly drifted apart from the lively camaraderie he once shared with his classmates. Memories of shared jokes and group projects now felt like distant echoes, replaced by a heavy silence that seemed to cling to him wherever he went.

The soft slide of the door broke the silence. Jimin peeked inside, hesitating for a moment before stepping in. She held a brightly swirled ice cream cone in one hand, the vibrant colors an unexpected burst of cheerfulness against the muted backdrop of the room. Her dark ponytail swayed slightly as she walked, and her eyes locked onto the lone figure by the window.

“There you are,” she said softly, her voice carrying a playful yet gentle tone.

Y/N stirred but didn’t lift his head. “What do you want?” he mumbled, his voice muffled and weary.

She stepped closer, her sandals making faint tapping sounds against the tiled floor. Sliding into the seat across from him, she leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand, her dark eyes studying him intently. A small, thoughtful smile played on her lips, but there was a flicker of concern in her gaze, as if she were trying to read beyond his weary posture. "You really don’t look fine," she said softly, her voice a mixture of teasing and genuine worry. Her gaze lingered on him before she smiled and held out the ice cream. “You looked like you could use this.”

Y/N finally lifted his head, dark eyes meeting hers with a mix of surprise and indifference. His face softened ever so slightly as he eyed the ice cream, then looked away. “I’m fine. You didn’t have to do that.”

Jimin pouted, thrusting the ice cream closer to him. “Come on, don’t be stubborn. It’s going to melt.”

Reluctantly, he sat up straighter and took the cone from her hand. His fingers brushed hers briefly, making her cheeks flush as she quickly pulled back. He stared at the ice cream for a moment before taking a small bite. The sweetness melted on his tongue, contrasting with the bitterness he’d been stewing in all day.

“Thanks,” he muttered, barely audible.

She grinned, her mood visibly lifting. “See? It’s not so hard to accept a little kindness.”

He glanced at her, the faintest smile tugging at his lips before he quickly looked away. “You’re annoying,” he said, but there was no bite to his words.

She laughed, light and melodic, and leaned back in her chair. “Maybe. But you like having me around, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer, choosing instead to take another bite of the ice cream. The cicadas outside buzzed louder, filling the comfortable silence that settled between them. For a moment, the summer heat seemed a little more bearable.

————————————————————

The peace didn’t last long. A lanky boy with thick glasses, his shirt slightly untucked, burst into the room with a dramatic flair, followed closely by a shorter classmate with a mischievous grin and a baseball cap askew on his head. Their boisterous laughter and rapid chatter shattered the tranquil stillness, their energy swirling through the space like a sudden gust of wind. Their voices echoed in the small space, a sharp contrast to the soft hum of cicadas that had blanketed the room just moments ago. One of them, a tall boy with glasses, smirked and announced dramatically, “Y/N is sick.”

Jimin raised a brow, unimpressed by their antics. “And?”

The second boy laughed, gesturing toward Y/N. “Your boyfriend here is in a lot of pain! Haha!”

“Do you want to die?” she snapped, her voice sharp as her glare could pierce through steel.

Y/N groaned, clearly annoyed. “Are you in pain?” she asked, her tone softening as her focus returned to him.

“Aren’t you just acting so you can skip academy class later?” one of the boys teased.

She clenched her jaw, her frustration evident, but Y/N muttered, “No… Just go back to your classroom.”

Jimin ignored his request, her brows knitting in thought. “Hmm…” she murmured, reaching out and pressing her hand against his forehead. “My hands are cold, so it’s hard to know,” she said, frowning slightly. Her concern was genuine, and it showed in the way her lips pursed in concentration.

Y/N’s eyes widened as her touch lingered. His cheeks flushed a light pink, and his gaze darted away, unsure of what to do. “W-What are you doing?” he stammered, his voice laced with embarrassment.

“You feel a little warm,” she replied matter-of-factly, leaning in closer to get a better look at him. Her proximity made his heart race, and the heat on his cheeks deepened.

“I-I’m fine!” he blurted out, leaning back slightly to create some distance. But she didn’t budge, her brows furrowed with determination.

“You don’t look fine to me,” she said firmly. “If you’re not going to the nurse’s office, then I’ll have to take care of you here.”

The other boys snickered at the exchange, but she shot them a glare that quickly shut them up. “If you two aren’t going to help, then leave,” she said curtly.

They raised their hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, we’re going!” one of them said before they exited the room, their laughter fading down the hall.

Once they were gone, Jimin turned back to Y/N, who was now hiding his face in his arms again. “Hey,” she said gently, nudging him. “If you’re not feeling well, you should lie down properly.”

“Just… leave me alone,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

She sighed, standing up and moving to his side. “Alright, stubborn. But don’t complain later when you feel worse,” she said, her tone light but tinged with genuine worry. She placed a small, cold pack on his neck, causing him to flinch slightly.

“What are you—?” he started, but she cut him off.

“It’ll help. Just stay still,” she said, placing a hand on his back to steady him.

His heart thudded loudly in his chest, the combination of her closeness and her concern overwhelming him. He stayed quiet, unsure of how to respond, while she busied herself ensuring he was comfortable. The cicadas outside continued their song, filling the air with a soothing rhythm that contrasted with the chaos in his mind.

For a moment, he wondered if the heat he felt was really just from the summer sun.

————————————————————

Jimin’s hand lingered on his forehead, her warm breath brushing his cheek as she leaned closer to check his temperature. The proximity made his heart pound louder than ever, and when he turned his head slightly, their noses almost brushed. For a moment, the world stood still — the distant hum of cicadas faded, leaving only the sound of their shallow breathing.

Both of them froze, wide-eyed. Her cheeks turned a deep shade of pink as she quickly pulled back, a nervous laugh escaping her lips. “I-I should probably… um… let you rest,” she stammered, standing up abruptly.

“Y-Yeah, maybe you should…” he muttered, his voice shaky as he avoided her gaze, his face equally flushed. She took a few hurried steps toward the door, stealing one last glance at him before leaving the room in a flurry of embarrassment.

Y/N slumped forward, burying his face in his arms as a whirlwind of emotions coursed through him. His chest felt tight, as though a heavy weight pressed against it, and his face burned hotter than before. Embarrassment, confusion, and a flicker of something unspoken swirled in his mind, leaving him unable to steady his racing thoughts. “What just happened?” he muttered to himself. The flustered feeling overwhelmed him, and before he could steady his thoughts, a wave of dizziness hit him like a brick. His vision blurred, and everything went dark.

A faint haze clouded Y/N's vision as he slowly regained consciousness, his eyes adjusting to the sterile white ceiling of the nurse's office. The sharp scent of antiseptic mingled with the soothing hum of the air conditioner, creating a cocoon of quiet that felt both foreign and oddly comforting. For a moment, he couldn’t remember how he’d ended up here—only the faint throbbing in his head and the cool press of a damp compress against his forehead reminded him that something had gone amiss. He blinked a few times, trying to piece together how he got there. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, and the soft hum of the air conditioner filled the silence. His head throbbed slightly, but the cool compress resting on his forehead was a welcome relief.

Just as he began to sit up, the door creaked open. The familiar figure of Jimin stepped in, a mix of worry and hesitation on her face. “You’re awake,” she said softly, walking over to his bedside. “You scared me, you know.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to.”

She sighed, pulling up a chair and sitting beside him. “You’re really bad at taking care of yourself, you know that?” Her tone was teasing, but the concern in her eyes was unmistakable.

Before he could respond, the door burst open again, and his friends barged in. “Dude, you seriously passed out?” one of them said, grinning as he approached the bed. “We thought you were just trying to get out of class.”

Y/N's eyes widened in panic, his mind racing with a dozen ways to salvage the situation. His heart pounded in his chest as he grabbed Jimin's arm, the action driven more by instinct than thought. "Get in!" he hissed urgently, his voice low and shaky. Before she could fully process what was happening, he pulled her into the narrow bed beside him, yanking the blanket over both of them in one swift motion. Beneath the covers, his pulse thrummed louder than ever, his mind grappling with the absurdity of what he’d just done. He swallowed hard, hoping this desperate move would somehow work, even as the warmth of her presence so close to him made it nearly impossible to think clearly. She let out a soft gasp as she found herself pressed against his chest, her face hidden beneath the covers. “Shh,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Uh… are you okay, man?” his friend asked, raising an eyebrow. Y/N shifted slightly, tightening his hold on Jimin as he tried to act natural.

“Y-Yeah, just tired,” he said quickly. “You guys can leave now. I need to rest.”

Jimin squirmed slightly beneath the blanket, her slipper slipping off her foot. She instinctively scooted closer to him, trying to keep her balance. The small movement made his heart race, and he clenched his jaw to keep from reacting.

“You sure you’re okay?” his other friend asked, suspicious. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m fine!” he snapped, a little too loudly. “Just go!”

The friends exchanged a look but eventually shrugged. “Alright, fine. Rest up,” one of them said before they left the room, the door clicking shut behind them.

As soon as they were gone, Jimin shoved him lightly. “What was that about?” she hissed, her face burning.

“I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t dragged me in here!” she shot back, her voice muffled by the blanket. Their whispered argument was interrupted when the door opened again. The nurse stepped in, a clipboard in hand. Both of them froze, holding their breath as the nurse walked over to the bed. The boy tightened his grip on the girl, pulling her closer as they hid beneath the blanket. The nurse checked his chart, muttering something under her breath before placing a hand on his forehead. “Still a bit warm,” she said to herself. “He’ll need to rest longer.” Before she could notice anything amiss, the door opened once more, and the P.E. teacher stepped in. “Hey, ready for lunch?” he asked casually. The nurse turned, smiling warmly. “Give me a second to finish up here.” The boy and the girl stayed perfectly still, listening intently as the conversation shifted. It quickly became clear that the nurse and the teacher were more than just colleagues. The nurse laughed softly, her tone playful yet intimate. “You’re late again,” she teased, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “I told you not to keep me waiting.” “Couldn’t help it,” the teacher replied, his voice low and smooth. “You know I can’t say no to you.” The boy and girl’s eyes widened in horror as the tension in the room became palpable. The nurse stepped closer to the teacher, resting a hand lightly on his chest. “You’re lucky I’m forgiving,” she murmured, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. The teacher chuckled, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Am I?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement. “Or do you just like having me wrapped around your finger?” “Maybe a little of both,” she admitted, her smile coy. She stood on her tiptoes, her lips brushing against his in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened. The boy and girl under the blanket squeezed their eyes shut, their faces burning as the intimate moment played out just a few feet away. “You’re impossible,” the nurse said breathlessly when they finally pulled apart. “And you love it,” the teacher replied, his hand lingering on her waist. “Don’t forget to save me a seat,” she said, her tone light and affectionate, though her flushed cheeks hinted at the heat of their exchange. “Always,” he replied, his voice filled with a warmth that matched the lingering tension. He leaned in again, pressing a final kiss to her temple before heading out. The nurse took a moment to compose herself, smoothing her uniform before leaving the room as well. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the boy and girl in stunned silence. After a long pause, the girl finally whispered, “Did we… just eavesdrop on something we weren’t supposed to?” “Yeah,” he muttered, his face still burning from embarrassment. “Let’s never talk about it.” She giggled softly, the sound muffled by the blanket. “You’re blushing again.” “Shut up,” he grumbled, but there was no real malice in his tone.

Their whispered argument faded into silence as the blanket created an intimate cocoon around them. Her breath was warm against his neck, and he became acutely aware of how close they were. The tension between them was palpable, a mix of embarrassment, unspoken feelings, and the strange comfort of being so near.

The air beneath the blanket crackled like a live wire, thick with the heat of their stifled breaths. Years of sidelong glances, bitten-back confessions, and hands that always almost touched now coiled taut between them. Her cheek grazed his, a fleeting brush that sent a shudder through his spine. Closer. It was all he could think. Closer, closer, closer—

“Are you—” he began, voice ragged, but she cut him off with a sharp inhale, her fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt.

“Don’t,” she whispered, desperate. “Don’t ask if I’m okay. Don’t… apologize.” Her lips hovered a hair’s breadth from his jaw, trembling. “Not when I’ve spent years dreaming about this.”

The confession hung in the air, incendiary. It shattered whatever fragile restraint remained.

He hesitated before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to… make things weird.”

“I’m fine,” she replied softly, though her voice wavered slightly. “Just… surprised, I guess.”

They locked eyes, the dim light filtering through the blanket casting soft shadows on her face. The way her gaze held his made his heart pound in his chest, louder than the hum of the air conditioner. He reached up hesitantly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. The simple gesture made her breath hitch, and she leaned into his touch ever so slightly.

“Can I…?” he started, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the words.

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his. “Yeah,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Slowly, he closed the gap between them. Their lips met in a tentative kiss, soft and unsure at first, as if both were testing the waters. But as the seconds passed, the kiss deepened, raw and unrestrained, carrying the weight of years of suppressed emotions. His hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer as her fingers tangled in his hair.

He cupped her face, rough and reverent, thumbs tracing the flush staining her cheeks. Her name spilled from his lips like a prayer, a curse, a plea—hers, ragged and raw. She answered by crashing into him, fingers raking through his hair, nails scoring his neck as if anchoring herself to reality. Their kiss was less a meeting than a collision: teeth clashing, breaths ragged and shared, a feverish tangle of lips and tongue and muffled whimpers. It was messy, desperate, starving—a wildfire devouring every unspoken word, every stifled glance, every night they’d lain awake aching for this.

She arched against him, a gasp tearing free as his hand slid beneath her shirt, palm searing her lower back. “Finally,” she choked into his mouth, the word half-sobbed. “Finally, finally—”

He didn’t let her finish. He couldn’t. Years of restraint unraveled as he kissed her deeper, deeper, swallowing her tears, her laughter, the fractured litany of his name. The blanket slipped, cold air hitting their fevered skin, but neither noticed. The world narrowed to the scrape of stubble on her throat, the bite of her grip on his hips, the way she shook against him—not with fear, but with the seismic release of a dam breaking.

Her lips were warm and soft, moving in sync with his as they poured everything they couldn’t say into the kiss. Every brush of their lips, every stolen breath spoke of longing, of feelings that had grown quietly between them over the years. It wasn’t perfect—there were nervous giggles and a bump of noses—but it was theirs, raw and real.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads damp and pressed together, her sob-laugh echoed his own fractured breath. “Idiot,” she breathed, kissing the corner of his swollen lips. “You should’ve done that ages ago.”

He huffed a laugh, thumbs smudging the tears from her cheeks. “You punched me when I tried to hold your hand in sixth grade.”

“And you faked amnesia after we almost kissed at prom!”

“You remember that?!”

Her smile turned wicked, dangerous. “I remember everything.” She dragged him back in, nipping his lower lip. “Now shut up and make up for lost time.”

The world outside didn’t just fade—it burned away. There was only this: her sighs like scripture, his hands mapping devotion into her skin, and the delicious, delirious truth that this was just the beginning.

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in the warmth of the blanket and each other. The nurse’s office, the world outside, everything else faded into the background. For the first time, they felt like they didn’t have to hide, like they could just be.

The confession had been years in the making, and now that it was out in the open, it felt like a weight had been lifted. They weren’t just childhood friends anymore—they were something more, something new and exciting. And as they held each other, they couldn’t help but feel like this was the start of something beautiful.

————————————————————

The next day, Y/N woke up feeling completely rejuvenated. His head no longer throbbed, and the lightness in his body was a far cry from the exhaustion he felt yesterday. As he got ready for school, a thought lingered in his mind: Was yesterday real? Or was it just a fever dream?

The memory of her face, her laugh, and… that kiss played over and over in his head, making his heart race. Shaking his head furiously, he muttered to himself, “Get a grip. You’re probably just overthinking it.” But even as he tried to focus on something else, the thought of her tugged at his mind. He had to know.

When he arrived at school, he immediately made his way to Jimin’s classroom. Peeking through the door, he saw her resting her head on her desk, her arms folded like a makeshift pillow. She looked unusually pale, and his stomach sank. He hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, weaving through the desks until he reached her.

“Hey,” he said softly, crouching down beside her. “You okay?”

She stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open to meet his. Her face was flushed, and her usual lively expression was replaced by a dazed, tired look. “Oh… it’s you,” she murmured, her voice weak.

His concern deepened. “You’re burning up,” he said, placing a hand on her forehead. “Why didn’t you stay home?”

She quickly batted his hand away, her face turning redder—though whether it was from the fever or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. “I… I’m fine,” she mumbled, sitting up straighter. But the moment she tried, she swayed slightly, forcing him to steady her.

“Fine, my ass,” he said, frowning. “Come on, let’s get you some fresh air.”

Before she could protest, he gently grabbed her wrist and helped her up. She stumbled a bit but managed to lean on him for support. He guided her out of the classroom and down the hall to the stairs, where it was quieter.

“Sit,” he ordered, pointing to the steps. She complied, slumping down with a sigh. He crouched in front of her, inspecting her closely. Her hair was slightly disheveled, and she looked far more worn out than usual.

“You look terrible,” he said bluntly, though his tone was filled with worry.

She pouted, crossing her arms. “Thanks for the compliment,” she said sarcastically before looking away, her voice dropping. “I probably caught it from you…”

His eyes widened. “What? From me?”

She nodded, her face flushing even more. “Yeah. You were the one who got sick first,” she mumbled, clearly embarrassed. “This is your fault.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his own face starting to heat up. “I… I didn’t mean to…” he stammered, glancing away. An awkward silence settled between them until he blurted out, “Would it work if you… you know, transferred it back to me?”

She froze, her eyes snapping to his in disbelief. “W-What?!”

Realizing what he just said, his face turned scarlet. “I-I mean, like, you know… since you got it from me, maybe if…” He trailed off, waving his hands frantically as he struggled to find the right words.

Her mind quickly connected the dots, and her face burned even hotter. “A-Are you saying we should kiss again?!” she squeaked, her voice rising slightly.

“N-No! I mean, yes! I mean… I don’t know!” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I was just… never mind! Forget I said anything!”

She buried her face in her hands, letting out a muffled groan. “I can’t believe you just said that…”

“I can’t believe I said that either!” he shot back, equally flustered.

They both sat there, their faces burning as they avoided each other’s gaze. The awkward tension was almost tangible, and neither of them knew how to break it.

Finally, she peeked at him through her fingers, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at her lips. “You’re such an idiot,” she said softly.

He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah… I guess I am.”

Despite the awkwardness, there was a warmth between them that neither could deny. And though they didn’t say it out loud, both of them were secretly wondering the same thing:

Would it really work?

[hype-queer-fixated]

Where Dark Things Flourish

summary: In 1863 Italy, Dr. Florence Seward is summoned to assess an unusual case—a woman whose frailty is matched only by her fervor, whose body betrays her even as her mind remains relentless. Signora Fosca is a study in contradictions, and against her own better judgment, Seward is inexorably drawn to the sharp edges of her. What begins as clinical curiosity dissolves into something far deeper, far darker—something neither of them can turn away from. But there are those who believe Fosca must be contained, who will go to any lengths to see it done. And when the threat comes, Florence is faced with a deadly choice—one she has had to make once before.

wc: ~35K

tags: slow burn; alternating perspectives; early-30s!Seward; pre-canon for Penny Dreadful; seward replaces giorgio (Passion AU); gothic vibes; chronic illness and fatigue; night terrors; panic attacks; period-typical forced restraint; period-typical forced sedation; on-screen violence; off-screen death; mindfulness therapy (but a No Boundaries Seward version); past medical abuse; hurt/comfort (for about 53 seconds); abusive white man with hurt feelings does exactly what you’d expect; navigating sex while chronically ill; fosca has a praise kink; seward has a fosca kink; semi-public masturbation; vaginal fingering; cunnilingus; oral sex while sleeping / wake-up orgasm; dash of overstimulation; squirting; emotional intensity during sex (and everywhere else too)

a/n: no one was more surprised than me that this ended up being a slow burn. They burn exquisitely though.

Read on Ao3 | i'm just gonna tag @thegoddamnfeels and @live-laugh-love-lupone whenever i do this cuz none of this exists without them

I had been summoned to this house by a man who styled himself a doctor but whose bedside manner suggested he belonged more comfortably in a morgue. A colleague of my mentors in alienism, he had requested my consultation with little in the way of details, only that the case was "exceptional" and that he believed I might offer insight where he had failed.

That failure had been evident before I even stepped inside the room where she waited. For all it was a military base, the house itself was a mausoleum of faded grandeur, its walls weighed down with heavy brocade, the air thick with the mingling scents of leather boots, damp fabric, and the unmistakable undercurrent of slow decay. A place of stillness. Of old, sinking things.

And then there was her.

She sat near the window, her body a study in fragile severity, all angles and hollows and sharp, restless fingers poised over an open book. Not reading. Watching.

Watching me.

Fosca's gaze didn't flicker or waver, nor did she attempt to disguise the careful inventory she was taking. The gloves I hadn't removed. The absence of a wedding band. The way I carried myself—straight-backed but wary, self-possessed but already measuring the room for exits.

I recognized the precision of her assessment. It was the same quality I had seen in men accustomed to war—officers, tacticians. A mind that had learned to weigh and measure at a glance, to anticipate before being anticipated.

And yet, she wasn't a soldier.

She was something else.

Fosca was pale as an overcast sky, the marks of illness deep-set in the sharp cut of her cheekbones, the shadowed hollows of her eyes. And yet, she wasn't diminished. Whatever had wasted her body had left her mind untouched—keen, burning, observant to the point of intrusion.

And she had decided something about me already. I could see it in the slight lift of her brow, the ghost of amusement at the corner of her mouth.

I sat in the chair opposite hers.

"You are Dr. Seward," she said. Not a question.

"And you are Fosca."

Her brow lifted higher. This time, there was something like pleasure in it, though tempered by wariness. "No honorifics? Most doctors would afford me at least a pretense of formality before they dismiss me as mad."

The words were sharp, but there was something else beneath them. Not bitterness. Expectation.

I had encountered such patients before—the ones who had been dissected, dismissed, reduced to objects of study rather than subjects of suffering. But something in her tone was different, as though she were testing the shape of me, waiting to see what I might become in response.

"I do not dismiss patients before I have examined them," I said simply.

Her lips curved slightly—not quite a smile, but the suggestion of one. "Then you're unlike the others."

"Perhaps," I allowed. "Or perhaps I am only more patient."

A flicker of something in her eyes—pleasure, but not unguarded. Measured. Cautious. She tightened her fingers over the open pages of her book, as though something about this exchange pleased her more than she had anticipated.

I leaned forward, resting my forearms against my knees. "Your doctor has asked me to consult on your case. Tell me in your own words—what ails you?"

Fosca tilted her head. I felt her eyes move over me again, slower this time, as though considering a different angle of approach.

"Ah. A test," she said. "You wish to see how my own account aligns with the one given to you."

I didn't confirm or deny it.

She regarded me for another long moment before setting the book aside, fingers steepled in her lap. "You have already decided that I am ill," she said. "You speak as though I were a collection of symptoms."

"You're not a collection of symptoms," I corrected. "But you are suffering, and I was called here to understand why."

She exhaled, low and unamused. "And if I tell you that my suffering isn't of the body alone? If I tell you that my mind does not ail me but rather that others fail to comprehend it? That I don’t suffer because my mind is ill but because it's inconvenient?"

"Then I would listen."

Something shifted. I saw it in the way her lips parted slightly, in the fractional widening of her gaze before she masked it. It wasn't often that she was surprised.

But I had surprised her.

-> continue on Ao3

please leave a comment here or on Ao3—pretty please?

[mistysfundungeon]

Exciting news about a new Wenclair fanfiction (trilogy) + excerpt

Hi guys, so I have some fun news - basically, I’ve been working on (with the help of some friends for brainstorming) a new idea which will actually be a trilogy (3 fanfictions). Sounds super ambitious I KNOW - but writing a trilogy has always been a random goal of mine AND I really wanted something to help give me variety in terms of writing so that I’m not over relying on UTMR!

Essentially, this fanfiction is wenclair but I was inspired by SweetCC - so I essentially took aspects of Cairo Sweet & CC Walker and adapted them to fit Wednesday & Enid.

It’s an elite private school AU (non-supernatural) where Enid is the schools golden girl & soccer captain, but secretly writes as an outlet. Wednesday is a new transfer student who works for the literary journal, and when she discovers one of Enid’s works (which was misfiled) she becomes obsessed with it & Enid and forms an experiment on what limits she can push for Enid to invoke changes in her writing.

A really bad explanation so here’s the “official” premise (for the first fic at least):

When Wednesday Addams transfers to Lenore Institute, she isn’t searching for friendship - only psychological material. A misfiled, anonymous story full of controlled rage catches her attention, and its author - Enid Sinclair - seems an impossible match: adored, upbeat, nothing but smiles. Wednesday begins a quiet experiment in emotional sabotage, believing that unlocking aggression will sharpen the prose. But eventually, when one of her manipulations backfires, Wednesday finds herself drawn in - not as an investigator, but as something far more vulnerable. What began as a study becomes the source of her undoing.

So, below is an excerpt of the opening because why not - it’s not final-level polished and is around 900 words so be warned !

///

Truth lived in ink. It lived in places overlooked - underlined, crossed out, scrawled in margins. Truth didn’t perform. It muttered. It revealed itself when others were distracted. Not in essays, but in their revisions. Not in confessions, but in the words left smudged. Wednesday had always known this. It was not romanticism; it was taxonomy.

She approached writing like she did forensics: the focus was not what had been said, but on what had been meant. What seeped through pages when the author let their guard down.

At Lenore, this task proved more challenging than expected. The submissions to the New Rhetoric literary journal were technically competent, but conceptually empty - filled with curated ache and safe metaphor. Even the misanthropic pieces appeared to be aimed at impressing a ghost. And yet, she read them all. Not out of desire for publication, but to claim the back office, to shield the first drafts from contamination.

The room had no windows, no clocks, and a faint scent of oxidized coffee grounds mingled with toner ink. Filing cabinets lined the walls; one bore the dent from what she suspected was a petty argument or a faculty mishap. She didn’t feel inclined to ask. Because the space felt cramped architecturally, not psychologically. That distinction mattered.

Neither did she mind the proximity; only interruption bothered her. So far, no one had entered. She doubted anyone knew of the office’s existence, except the self-appointed chief editor. Bianca Barclay feigned disinterest, but frequently hovered by the doorway. Wednesday found this efficient, as long as it spared her the effort of pretending to be detached. Everyone at Lenore wore indifference like a badge of social capital, but for Wednesday, it was simply her nature.

Friday nights were when Wednesday excelled. She was methodical, not from haste, but to impose order. Most submissions were paper-clipped, while some arrived in perfumed envelopes (which she flagged for rejection based on scent alone). However, a single piece under “Personal Essays” had been misfiled - and no student at Lenore would misfile something unless they wanted it to be read.

Her fingers hesitated. The tab was scribbled over multiple times before settling on: For Physics: Do Not Read. Ink bled through cheap manila. It was a natural contradiction. Labeling it as unreadable clearly suggested the opposite. At best, it served as a decoy; at worst, it was bait.

Regardless, she opened it.

Not with anticipation - she didn’t permit that. Curiosity, as others defined it, implied a willingness to be surprised. Wednesday preferred hypotheses. This file, with its misplaced classification and urgent prohibition, had already failed to hide. She expected a confessional, possibly romantic, probably overwrought.

Instead, she found disorder without collapse. Paragraphs without structure. Syntax fluctuated - sometimes fluid, sometimes rigid. There was no header or authorship claim. Just entries that resembled unrefined memory: granular, immediate, and stripped of any narrative arc.

It took two pages for her to realize the author wasn’t merely performing trauma. They were dissecting it, which was rare. Most student essays at Lenore arrived pre-triaged for aesthetics. This one resisted elegance.

That alone made it worth continuing.

The first notable segment portrayed a girl who mastered joy like others might master baton twirling: repetitive gestures for an audience. The phrasing felt crude, yet the premise intrigued Wednesday - joy, not as emotion, but as demonstration. She paused on a particular line: “She wins the smile faster if she jumps during the laugh - timing matters. They notice when it looks real.” Here, performance wasn’t a metaphor. It was calculus; rehearsed reactions were quantified and deployed with strategy. This kind of framing suggested someone who had either researched it or had lived it.

Another page brought a shift in register. It remained anonymous, remained abstract, yet the referents had narrowed: a mother narrating her child’s personality through compliments. “Mother says she is her joy. Mother says it when she cries quietly and stops quickly. Mother says it like it’s true.” What followed were phrases dissected mid-sentence - resilient like gum that doesn’t tear, resilient like plexiglass, resilient like an animal that stays silent when cornered. The writer annotated the word with a footnote: “resilient = get over it fast enough to make everyone else comfortable.”

That was the moment Wednesday leaned in - not physically, but intellectually. Someone so fluent in passive indictment was a rare treasure.

Then, scattered toward the end, the construction began to ache. Pain overrode argument. Tactics overrode emotions. The tone suggested a failing experiment. The narrative disintegrated into nested fragments - each trying to correct the previous one.

What struck her most was the compulsive redrafting mid-sentence, as if the writer didn’t trust the truth to survive unedited. Wednesday didn’t care for the vulnerability. What truly mattered was the reflex for control, like watching someone erase themselves in real time. Line by line.

She respected that.

Then, abruptly, a different ink appeared in the margin. Small but no less jarring. Red pen hastily added: Goldie.

Not circled. Not highlighted. Not even mentioned in the main text. Just an outburst. A slip. And the final sentence: “Goldie doesn’t get to be angry. Goldie is the prize. Goldie wins.”

Wednesday stared at the line - not because it meant anything, but because of its disruption to the initial purpose. It felt out of place in a work meant to deconstruct such logic. Yet, that fact alone meant it truly did belong.

She drew the paper an inch closer, enough to examine the ink bleed. Ballpoint. Rushed. A note not intended for editorial scrutiny. Not even intended for the writer’s future self. It was a boundary shed. A moment of textual trespass.

And that, she thought, was the real submission.

///

And there she is yay!!!

So just wanted to let you all know - it might make me slow down with constant posting of UTMR which is probably a good thing LOL.

Let me know if you want to see this fic interests you :P

Okay later my lovey friends <3

[xcherryerim]

˖⁺ ⊹୨ Love Across Time ୧⊹ ⁺˖

Assistant Josh x (gn) Teacher reader

There's so much trauma in my life. I've been so cold to the ones who loved me, baby. — Out of Time by The weeknd

SMUT ONE SHOT | MDNI | +18

WARNING: Sexual tension | Jealous reader | Voyeurism (?) | oral sex to reader | penetration | in the middle of sex love confession and rambles | Porn with plot | Not proofread (literally did not revised this once so, shitty probably) | ‘funny’ part at the end. | terrible reference to star wars. | no use of y/n. | quicky

Backstory: Josh, a time traveler and savior of the world, has found himself stuck in the early 2000s and has become a teacher's assistant. Despite his best efforts to keep his distance from you, the teacher he is assisting, Josh finds himself irresistibly drawn to you. leading Josh on a journey of self-discovery and romance as he tries to navigate this new timeline.

The classroom was filled with the sound of students chattering. The hum of conversation and your voice fills the air, punctuated by the occasional clatter of papers and the shuffling of chairs. A faint scent of coffee and ink permeates the room, mingling with the soft glow of fluorescent lights overhead.

You were In front of the board, carefully going over the lecture, trying not to leave any detail behind. Next to you, there was your assistant, Josh, seated on the desk.

As usual, he paid attention to the lesson as if he was one of the students. He bit into the base of his pen, eyes scanning the board and its content, eventually landing in your hands. Admiring the softness and delicate moves they made.

Consumed by his pent-up desires, Josh's mind drifted, painting vivid scenarios where your skilled hands explored his body, tracing the contours and caressing every inch he craved.

Is not that Josh didn’t have game, on the contrary, multiple staff members and students flirted with him from time to time, but he fully decided to be celibate.

Did he hate it? Of course, years, or to better say, centuries ago, he was a sex god in ‘Heven’, and now he is forcing himself to not have any type of intercourse. He didn’t want to get attached to someone.

It would be hard to explain the traumas and adventures he gained from saving the world with Wolf and Tiger. He didn’t even attempt to make friends, he was too scared to slip up things from the future to a person living in the year 2002. He was way too fearful of the repercussions. What if he ends up in those TV shows about crazy people, or even worse, a mental institute?

So, he found comfort in spacing out, imagining a retro (to himself at least) suburbian life with you, never daring to get too close.

He shifted his head, the motion accompanied by a deep groan, the weight of his unfulfilled desires bearing down on him. An innocent student's gaze caught him off guard, snapping him out of his reverie, a reminder that the world continued without regard for his internal struggles.

‘Did he notice? Did he… read my mind? Well, that’s embarrassing.’ He thought.

With an awkward cough, Josh stood straight and adjusted his gray polo, trying to remain calm. His eyes drifted to the white clock on the wall and gave you the subtle signal that it was time to end the class.

“Alright class please remember, this is our last lesson. The final is tomorrow, so I beg each of you to study so you can pass the class.”

At your final announcement, you turned your head to the side, seeing Josh’s cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink as some of your students approached him with gifts. Some students handed him letters, and gift bags, while others brought food and candy.

The assistant mumbled his thanks, feeling a mixture of gratitude and self-consciousness as he accepted each gift. His body language was noticeably reserved, with his shoulders hunched and eyes darting around the room as if wishing to disappear into the background. Despite his shyness, he managed a small smile for each student who approached him, clearly touched by the gesture.

As the last student handed over a small gift and bid farewell, you found yourself walking up to your assistant. Your eyes lingered on the array of gift bags, specifically the soft pink one with a bow. A bitter taste filled your mouth as you tried to mask the annoyance you felt.

"Looks like you're quite popular," you quipped, forcing a smile.

“Oh no. They were just being nice.” Josh's index finger tapped into the bag you had your eyes on, filling in the awkward silence as he bit his lip.

Josh wanted to say more, but he couldn't find the words. His dirty mind conjured up fantasies of what he could do to you, right there in the classroom, but he quickly dismissed them. He was just an assistant, after all. Yet, he couldn't stop his eyes from trailing up and down your body, taking in every curve and every inch.

“Well.” You said, “Let’s go to my office.” With that, you cleaned the board, before gathering your things and walked right next to your assistant.

Once you entered your office, he shut the door behind you, the sound echoing in his ears. He couldn't help but notice how the room felt like a shrine dedicated to you. Pictures, certificates, and awards decorated the walls while your desk was clean and organized.

Seated across from you, fidgeting in his chair, the tension in the room clear. A wicked grin spread across his face as he imagined sliding his hands up your thighs, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath the material of your underwear. The thought made his pulse race, and he couldn't help but shift in his seat to adjust himself discreetly.

Professional decorum clashed with the urge to act on his fantasies, but for now, he managed to keep up the ruse. He began grading the papers, nodding to himself as he read through the work.

Ever since the work party he was forced to go to, things have been awkward between you both. That night was the most he ever spoke to you, his drunk self slipping stuff he probably shouldn't have said, but he was lucky enough that both of you were out of your minds that night.

So out of your minds that, you almost kissed before Josh pulled away. Yes, it was bad, and he felt like an asshole, but it was for the better, and you knew that too. However, Josh still holds onto the thought you might like him back, and he's happy with that.

Your gaze lingered on the bags of gifts, trying to guess what they had inside. His eyes followed yours, smirking before you spoke.

“What’s in the bag anyways?”

"Oh, just the usual," he replied nonchalantly, reaching for the pink ribboned bag.

He pulled out a small box, the sweet aroma of strawberries and chocolate wafting through the air. "Strawberries," he began, lifting the lid to reveal the fruit coated in chocolate.

“At that point whoever gave you that should just confess to you already.”

You knew how your comment came across as that wasn’t your intention but who gives a gift like that to an assistant? No one unless they have ulterior motives.

Your snicker and roll of your eyes piqued his interest, and when you suggested that the students could just confess to him, he couldn't help but feel flushed with excitement. Your reactions hinted at something more than just the silent professional interest agreed upon, and he couldn't help but hope that you were feeling something akin to his desires. That this was meant to be, that maybe, just maybe, he will get his happy ending after all.

Josh's confidence soared as he plucked a strawberry from the box, savoring its sweetness, and allowing the chocolate to melt on his tongue. He relished the moment, exaggerating his sounds of pleasure, intentionally teasing you with the sensual display.

As his lips wrapped around the fruit, you couldn't help but feel a surge of heat spreading through your body, your ears reddening with each tantalizing moan. The way he held your gaze, a mischievous glint in his shiny brown eyes, only served to grow your desire.

Leaning closer to your desk, Josh held another strawberry out to you, beckoning you with a grin, "C'mon, you deserve it.”

You hesitated for a moment, shaking your head, the lingering resentment and unease preventing you from accepting the strawberry.

Josh, undeterred, approached you, his steps confident as he took a position directly in front of you. One arm rested casually on your desk, while the other extended the strawberry tantalizingly close to your lips.

His proximity left you feeling uneasy, a mixture of nerves and arousal warring within you. As he offered you the fruit once more, he repeated his invitation, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Enjoy the fruits of your labor," he whispered, his voice a seductive caress.

Your body trembled under the weight of his gaze, the challenge he laid before you clear as day.

"Josh..." You mumbled under your breath, your gaze meeting his, and you could see the hunger in his eyes. It mirrored your internal turmoil, the pull towards him growing stronger by the second.

Your indecision was evident, and Josh could sense your struggle. “C’mon,” Josh smirked, drawing even closer, the chocolate-coated fruit dancing on your lips. "Be good and take it for me."

You swallowed hard, a wave of nerves washing over you, before opening your mouth obediently to accept the offering. You nibbled at the strawberry, trying to eat it slowly and maintain your composure, avoiding direct eye contact.

However, Josh was having none of that. He grasped your chin firmly, tilting it upwards, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"That's it." He encouraged the satisfaction in his voice. His eyes lingered on you, committing the scene to memory, as the evidence of his arousal strained against his pants.

With bated breath, you slowly withdrew your lips from the strawberry, the lingering taste of sweet fruit coating your tongue. A pang of jealousy flared within you, knowing that this delight was originally meant for Josh.

An uncomfortable silence settled between you, both of you unsure of how to proceed. In Josh's mind, he wrestled with the turmoil of his desires, the allure of crossing this boundary he made for himself proving too powerful to resist.

Closing the gap between you, he pressed his lips to yours, the kiss gentle, sweet, and innocent. As your lips parted, you could taste the remnants of the strawberry and chocolate within, a sensory delight that left you breathless.

Josh's hand cradled the side of your face, his touch both comforting and arousing. Simultaneously, he unzipped his pants, his arousal apparent and urgent. The realization of his intentions sent a shiver down your spine.

Just as you began to contemplate what would come next, Josh nipped at your bottom lip, causing a startled, wanton moan to escape your lips. His mouth trailed along your jawline, sending shivers rippling through your body like wildfire.

With trembling hands, you pushed Josh away, your voice wavering as you stammered, "Josh, this is wrong."

His expression blank, he tilted his head, clearly surprised by your refusal. "Because...", you hesitated, exhaling deeply, "we're coworkers and you're my assistant."

Undeterred, Josh leaned even closer, resting his hand on the desk. His doe-eyed gaze bore into you, pleading and disarming.

"I understand that, but...", he began, "there's only a one-year age difference between us. You started teaching here two… or three years ago, and I joined the training program a little over a year ago. It's not a significant gap."

His intensity increased as he brought his face nearer to yours, his hand tracing the collar of your shirt. His gaze flickered between your neck and your lips, laden with a potent mixture of desire and determination.

"And I really want this."

As if reading your indecision, Josh offered a tempting proposition, "You know, since your students think I was so helpful and even gave me gifts... don't you think I also deserve a gift from the teacher?"

Feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin, you were unable to ignore the raw appeal of his pleading gaze. A crippling combination of logic and desire, acknowledging that you were both consenting adults, threatened to break down your defenses.

Despite the fear and accelerating adrenaline coursing through your veins, you found yourself nodding, giving the green light. With unwavering resolve, Josh seized the moment, his lips seeking out the vulnerable expanse of your neck, nibbling hungrily.

As his hands deftly unbuttoned your blouse, you held tightly to the armrests of your chair, feeling the faint sting of the impending. You allowed him to indulge in his desires, silently acknowledging that he had harbored these feelings for quite some time by the way he was acting.

Lost in the spell of Josh's nearness, you were only vaguely aware of the commotion as papers and pens met the floor, the sound eclipsed by the tempest of emotions coursing through you.

Josh's movements, purposeful yet controlled, lifted you gently, depositing you on the desktop with a tenderness that matched the fervor in his eyes.

He stepped back, the hunger in his gaze unapologetic, as if you were the rarest gem in existence, a treasure coveted above all others.

“You are so beautiful.” He breathed out.

Licking his lips nervously, Josh closed the gap between you, his kiss tracing the curve of your shoulder as his hand continued to explore your body. Moving downward, his lips trailed along your chest, and ribcage, and finally reached to your thighs.

Meeting your gaze with a smug, self-satisfied smirk, Josh murmured, "You know... you deserve a good treat too."

His hand trembled as it snaked its way to your waistband, hesitating for a brief moment before liberating you from the confines of your garment. All that remained now was your underwear, a thin barrier between you and the intense desire simmering between you.

A pulse of anxiety shot through your veins. Was this right? The thought of having your hot assistant intimately nestled between your thighs seemed both appealing and alarming.

“You don’t—“

Before you could voice your uncertainty, Josh preempted your concern. "I want to," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

"I want to so... so badly," he confessed, his lips dampening the fabric of your undergarments, betraying his eagerness.

You felt the vibrations of Josh's soft chuckle reverberate against your skin through the thin, damp fabric, causing your back to arch involuntarily.

“Stay still, alright?" he ordered, gripping your hips firmly. His teeth nipped at the edge of your underwear, sliding it down your legs with ease.

The overwhelming combination of pleasure and nerves left your body trembling, an involuntary reaction to the intensity of the situation.

Letting go of you, Josh moved to one of the desk cabinets, retrieving a ruler. He lifted the object, bringing it to eye-level with you.

"Told you not to move. Let's try that again, okay?" His commanding tone, paired with the unconventional implement, caught you off guard.

What had once been a modest, shy coworker now stood before you transformed into an irresistible embodiment of sexual desire. Your mind reeled at the sudden transformation, struggling to process how this turn of events came to pass.

"Okay... sorry," you stammered, your voice betrayed by the turbulent mix of excitement and nervousness.

Josh's reassuring words washed over you, "Shhh, it's okay." His lips found their way to the warm expanse between your thighs, trailing soft, wet kisses. The tender intimacy of his actions sent shivers coursing through your body.

Anxiety crept into his voice as he hesitated, "I—," his confession hung heavy in the air. "I haven't done this in decades... I mean years!" He cursed himself under his breath, eyes meeting yours with pleading vulnerability.

"Sorry if I'm not as good as you'll want me to be," he apologized sheepishly before resuming his exploration, his mouth filled with the taste of you.

Arching your back, you reveled in the pleasure of his skilled ministrations. Winding your fingers in his damp hair, you gently tugged, and a moan escaped his lips. Encouraged by his response, you pulled harder, grinning wickedly.

"Mmh, yes, please! Fuck. Pull my fucking hair, please."

The sound of footsteps in the corridor startled you, a surge of panic sending shivers down your spine. Frantic, you forced Josh's head further between your legs, the urgent need for silence overriding any other considerations.

"Shhh, shh!" you hissed, glancing towards the door, pleading for divine intervention to conceal your transgression.

Josh's focus, however, was entirely on the task at hand. His muffled words were swallowed by a fervent desire to savor the taste of you. A trail of saliva clung to his chin, a testament to his relentless enthusiasm. His mouth, lips, and tongue worshiped you with the desperation of a man starved for affection.

His whimpering, praises, and wet, slurping sounds filled the room, each moment amplifying the crescendo of pleasure. The realization of his prolonged abstinence did little to quell the heat emanating from your core.

On the brink of ecstasy, your legs trembled with the strain of resisting the imminent climax.

"J...Josh?" you called out, gently tugging his hair to draw his attention away from his task. His face, glistening with perspiration and droplets of saliva, met your gaze, his eyes gleaming with an intensity borne from devotion.

At that moment, you found yourself smitten by his earnestness. "Can we try something different?" you asked, unable to resist the curiosity kindling in your psyche.

A smirk spread across Josh's face, his hands gripping your thighs tightly as he nodded in affirmation.

Positioning you, he laid your back against the wooden surface of the desk, your fingers fidgeting nervously as you watched him hastily attempt to remove his pants. The task proved more arduous than anticipated, eliciting a small chuckle from you.

Josh's breath hitched, "You're so hot, fuck," he muttered, his hand stroking himself as his lips pressed a searing kiss to your entrance.

Teasing you mercilessly, he moved his hips, the tip of his erection teasing your slick opening. You whimpered in frustration.

"Stop being a tease," you demanded, annoyed and embarrassed by his playful torment.

"You're right, sorry," he admitted, flushing a deep shade of red. "I've, I—" He groaned, cursing under his breath. "Fuck."

Josh's gaze held yours, sincerity etched into his features. "I like you. I don't think I ever liked someone like this before. You're so hot and smart, I love your voice, how you explain stuff to me without making me feel like an idiot and your humor." His smile was tender, genuine.

"I love your laugh too, even if you hate it. And, fuck, I've been... I imagined us like this but not, not like this, like this, you know?"

His brow furrowed, lips biting into his bottom lip. "I ruined it, didn't I?" Concern lurked beneath his words.

You chuckled, reaching out to trace your fingertips along his cheek, "Yeah, and you were so good at keeping the dominant role earlier." Admittedly, you found his vulnerability endearing.

"I like you, and I've thought of this too," you confessed, your heart pounding in your chest with every whispered syllable.

Your tone shifted, growing more serious, "To be honest, that gift pissed me off."

Josh's reaction to your accusation was immediate, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "The strawberries? Yeah, I could tell."

His admission confirmed your suspicions, and with a playful scoff, you retorted, "Asshole."

You beat his shoulder lightly with feigned aggression, laughter echoing through the room.

"Out of all the gifts I’ve gotten tonight, no, out of all the gifts I’ve had, ever," Josh began, "you're the best one.” He said before thinking deeply. “Well, no, you're the second. The first one was when I got a signed DVD of Star Wars, Episode Seven: The Force Awakens."

Confusion clouded your expression, "Episode seven?"

Josh stammered, realizing you wouldn't comprehend the reference to a film that, for you, was lightyears ahead.

"Uhm... forget it. I was joking since you know." A nervous laugh followed his retreat. "Anyways, where were we? Oh, yeah, fucking! Uhm.”

Time to reveal he was from the future, his adventures, saving the world, and landing in 2000—it was a story better suited for the future.

Josh seized the moment, thrusting into you with urgency. The distraction worked, the sudden invasion of his sizable girth stealing your breath.

It took a moment for both of you to adjust to the sensation, the newfound closeness offering a liberating sense of.

"You're tight," Josh reed with unbridled pride, his hands capturing your wrists in a firm grip. "I'll start," he promised, granting you a brief moment of surrender.

A nod from you signaled your consent, allowing him to begin the rhythmic thrusts that filled you with his length. Pain, sharp and undeniable, punctuated the sensations, but the pleasure outweighed the discomfort.

"Fuck," you cried out, teary eyes meeting his.

"Hold onto me," Josh commanded, his voice raw and insistent. Your nails dug into his skin with a vengeance, and the resulting grunt of satisfaction was the only response he needed.

The intensity of the act, coupled with the nearness of your bodies, left you at a loss for words. "Like that?" he inquired, and though the question seemed redundant, the sensation of his cock stretching you open left you incapable of verbal acknowledgment.

The room was suffused with the erotic symphony of skin slapping against skin, heavy breathing, and the occasional grunt or moan. In this dance of passion, the unspoken understanding between the two of you spoke volumes, every thrust cementing the bond between you.

"Let me go faster, please," Josh whined, craving the release that only complete surrender could offer.

You whimpered, uncertainty lacing your response, "I don't... I don't think I can handle that, Josh." The creaking of the desk mirrored the strain of the moment.

Desperation colored his voice as he pleaded, "Please, please. I'll be good, you'll like it. Please."

In response, you groaned, "Fine. Just because we need to finish grading." Despite the flimsy excuse, the promise of gratification following the completion of your task hung in the air.

A triumphant grin spread across Josh's face, "After that, you can have me as much as you want," he promised, holding you firmly as he thrust deeper, his cock filling and emptying you in a rhythm of pleasure and longing.

The edge of climax ebbed closer, winding its way through your veins. You found yourself pressing your head into his neck, biting him unintentionally.

"Mmh, gonna cum," Josh warned, his orgasm imminent. With a powerful surge, he filled you, the warmth of his release enveloping you.

Exhausted, the two of you stood there, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. Disheveled and sweat-drenched, you looked at each other, the weight of the moments heavy in the air.

Recovering enough to speak, you fumbled for the right words, "Let's uhm..." Your voice trailed off, replaced by an awkward suggestion, "Let's get grading, shall we?"

You climbed off the desk and started gathering your clothes from the floor, Josh following suit as he laughed softly. Dressing hurriedly, you both resumed your roles as teacher and assistant, submitting to the mundane task before you.

…

The day of the final exam dawned, and as you explained the rules and addressed student queries, your concentration wavered. Two students, oblivious to your displeasure, engaged in hushed conversation while you spoke.

In a moment of synchronized understanding, you locked eyes with Josh, who wasted no time in addressing the situation.

He strode towards the offending students, leaning casually on their table. "Guys, please keep it down," he requested softly, the authority in his tone leaving no room for argument. With a single nod, he continued to monitor other students.

Once he moved away, the culprits exchanged glances, one of them whispering, "Did you see the hickey or am I crazy?"

The other nodded, unable to deny the evidence of their own eyes, replying, "I saw it."

The students' curiosity piqued, and their gazes shifted between you and Josh, zeroing in on your choice of clothing: turtlenecks on an otherwise scorching day. The unspoken implications danced in their minds.

“They slept together!?”

Crossing your arms, you fixed your gaze on the offenders, your voice dripping with sarcasm, "Care to share with everyone?"

Embarrassed, they quickly retracted, "No. Sorry." Giggles threatened to escape, but they struggled to suppress them, the cat now firmly out of the bag.

One student voiced her thoughts aloud, "Why does the class get interesting on the last day?" A sentiment echoed in the covert smiles and furtive glances shared by those around her.

[makoredeyes]

(are these still open?x) 30. Misraaks and Saint x

YESSSSS thank you for sending me probably one of my favorite prompts! <3 <3 <3

#30 - as a comfort

The Market District was a bright place full of color, movement, light, and sound. Life moved all around Saint as he ambled carefully around shoppers and booths alike, admiring the people as much as the wares on display.

There were enough humans here mingling with the Eliksni of House Light that Saint almost blended in, if it weren't for his significant stature, and that, for the moment at least, he was the only Exo in the crowd. It warmed his heart to see Humanity and their once enemies mixing peacefully. It was a beautiful day. The sun was out, the sky was clear. The scent of flowers mixed with sweetly with roasting meats and breads. A pair of Drekhs plucked away on acoustic guitars in the shade of a tree, the couple tinkering on a duet together. Saint shot them a smile as he passed and one raised a secondary arm in greeting. The other, a transplant from another house, was still regrowing docked arms, but tipped its snout up instead. Saint's smile brightened as he passed along, ducking under low-hanging flower pots and through an archway.

Eido's grotto was cooler, but no less bright than outside. There were flowers everywhere, and butterflies danced in sunbeams filtering down through the ceiling. Saint reckoned they must be drawn to her sweet demeanor because he'd seen them nowhere else outside. One curious, sociable creature knew another, he reasoned warmly.

The young Scribe was nowhere to be seen, but her concoctions burbled and bubbled quietly on overladen workbenches, so Saint thought she must not be too far away. She never was.

She didn't like to leave her father out of her sight for too long these days.

Neither did Saint.

Unconcerned with examining Eido's work too closely, Saint turned away from that patch of sunshine to the shadow in the corner, his eyes dimming.

Misraakskel sat slumped in his throne, arms folded tight around his carapace, head lowered, the lights of his helm dim as he slumbered. For a minute, Saint stands planted where he is, watching. Misraaks is shrinking, his armor loose on his body, his limbs slim. The seat of the great chair supporting him seems to swallow his body instead of surround it.

There is no ignoring that the Kell of the House of Light is ailing.

As Saint watches, Misraaks' head tosses, the Kell hissing audibly with a hard vent of Ether. His legs twitch, and the claws of his hands scrabble against the armor covering his thighs. He jerks, moaning. The shadows surrounding him have grown longer. Darker.

Saint knows the evil that haunts him.

Looking around and confirming they are alone, he strides across the room and right up the dias, squaring his shoulders as he walks.

"Leave him alone, you vile wretch," he hisses, his voice low. He is looking at Misraaks, but he is addressing someone - something - else. He knows what is there, even if he cannot see it, and he is not afraid. "You are not allowed power here this day. Be gone!" He reaches Misraaks, and a distinct chill, wet and slippery like an ice cube, slides right down his spine to settle uncomfortably low in his gut, but Saint ignores it.

"Misraakskel," he whispers, bending low over his friend. "You are strong. You are loved. And today, you are safe with the Saint." He bends at the waist and kisses the knuckles of one of Misraaks' hands gently.

The shadows seem to ease, and Misraaks heaves a sigh, his slumber becoming restful as soon as Saint touches him. 

Saint pulls back, surprised that was truly all it had taken, but then nods curtly to himself, satisfied with the results.

"Good," he murmurs to himself. "Then I will stay."

With that, he folds himself up at Misraaks' feet and settles down to stand guard for as long as it takes.

It was the least he could do, after all, after everything.

[clarisse0o]

The Mayor - Chapter 42

Lucy Bronze x Ona Batlle

Alternate Universe: Mayor and Architect

Words: 700

Masterlist

———————————————————————

It was a Friday evening, and we were in a list meeting. The room buzzed with energy—ideas flowing, the weight of upcoming deadlines pressing on us. We were a month away from the elections, the final stretch, where every ounce of effort mattered. 

The polls had Lucy in the lead, but by a razor-thin margin of just 1.5%. Virtually nothing in a city of over 200,000 residents.

The past few weeks had been relentless: pounding the pavement, attending meetings, handing out flyers, trying to convince more and more people. All this while continuing my job at the office, squeezing every free moment into the campaign. It was exhausting, no doubt.

“You’re doing 45-hour days! Slow down—I want you to see your goddaughter grow up!” Alexia teased, though I could tell she was genuinely concerned. She thought, and not entirely wrongly, that while I enjoyed campaigning, I had thrown myself into it recklessly because of Lucy. She worried about where it all might lead.

“Don’t worry, Alexia, I’ve got this! And look, at least I’m smoking less!” I reassured her with a smile.

In the past weeks, I had occasionally run into Lucy’s campaign team while flyering, but never Lucy herself—only her face on those enormous election posters plastered all over the city. It was tough seeing those piercing blue eyes multiple times a day. Painful, even. I still thought about her a lot, a mix of resentment and disappointment. 

That Sunday morning, I was at the city square market, mingling with voters alongside Philippe and another teammate. It was the day after Philippe’s big rally, which had drawn a packed crowd.

Then I saw her—Lucy. Walking towards us, flanked by two of her people. Lucy, in midnight blue pants and a white blouse that accentuated her striking eyes. 

Avoiding her was impossible; there was no escape. My heart pounded. I hadn’t seen her since that last time. My hands turned clammy. Stay in control. 

When she spotted me, her smile froze. As often happens in politics, we had to pretend. Lucy and Philippe despised each other, but there was no way they could cross paths at a market, in front of voters and a few journalists, without exchanging pleasantries. Lucy excelled at this, forcing a smile and feigning friendliness. 

She ignored me completely—except for a single, frosty glance to acknowledge me. It was colder than ice. 

Feeling deeply uneasy, I excused myself and headed to the nearby public restrooms.

Inside, I tried to collect my breath and thoughts. 

Suddenly, someone burst in, locking the door behind them.

It was Lucy, standing less than two meters away. She had followed me. Her gaze was anything but friendly.

“What the—” 

She cut me off. 

“You’re such a bitch, Ona! You want to play this game? Make me look like a liar?” 

I stammered, unable to find words.

“Why are you saying this to me?” 

She was seething.

“I heard about last night’s rally—specifically that idiot’s attack on the airport expansion project!” 

I realized where this was going. She was referring to a campaign promise she’d made about expanding the airport. When we were together, we had often discussed politics, and she’d confided in me about the project’s challenges. There were expert reports that questioned its feasibility, and the state was resistant to its high cost. It wasn’t dead, but it was shaky. Yet it remained a key plank in her platform. 

Philippe, staunchly against it for environmental reasons, had discussed it with me. I had, perhaps carelessly, mentioned the possibility that it might not happen. He’d done his own digging and unearthed those reports. 

He had used this in his speech, leaving Lucy in a tight spot.

“I’m sure you’re the one who told him all that!” 

Lucy could barely contain her fury. 

“He’s a journalist, Lucy—he dug it up on his own!”

Her eyes blazed.

“I swear, Ona, you shouldn’t have gotten involved… See you in a week.”

She stormed out, furious. 

I struggled to breathe, shaken by the sheer intensity of her reaction. 

In a week, I’d see her again—this time for the first of the major public debates between the candidates.

What kind of game had I gotten myself into? 

[chyurro]

How many versions of Red are there? And which one is your favorite?

Also here are some cat photos because you're cool

Hoo boy. Theres alot of versions. Uhh where to starrttt.

Okay so game red

Red from pokemon games red and blue. Also games gold and silver and crystal. He is 10 in red/blue, and about 13-14 in gold/silver/crystal. Indigo league champion. One of, if not the strongest trainer in his time. He is mute, and doesn't speak, only says "..." (real bro, me too) i really like this version of Red.

This is Red in his reappearance in Firered and Leafgreen. This red is sorta different than the previous red, though they are both from the games. Since this ver if red is strictly the player character (you) he can technically be characterized however. His design is supposed to look more mature than the prev Red, which i think they do a good job of.

This is red from smash bros ultimate. NOT to be confused with Red from firered and leafgreen. This one is weird, im not a big fan of this version. He is called Pokemon trainer in these games and his voice irks me. I Dont like playing as him in smash. He doesn't have a pikachu.

Now we have Red from pokemon masters (the mobile app) this is a sort of version of his Firered/Leafgreen version. Except he is characterized, and not the player character. He doesn't talk much from my knowledge, mostly mute. But i do know he says this classic line; "... ... ... ... words are unnecessary!" Ahhh, a classic, i reference that line all the time. This Red version also has a different outfit, his sygna suit (thats the pic above!). This outfit is infamous because of the edgy flame pants. He also has other outfits in the game, they look pretty neat, look em up bc i have image limit. (Note, i have not played this game, soo i might be missing stuff, im not too sure.)

Now this is one of my favorites!! This is Red in pokemon sun/moon. He is the boss battle of the alolan battle tree, along with Blue! He is visiting alola for the reason that he and blue were invited to be boss of the battle tree. However, people headcanon he is on his honeymoon with Blue in alola, too. And honestly fuck yeah why not.

This is Red in his minor appearance in lets go pikachu and eevee. He is not the player in this game, but rather hes a sort of post game boss fight. I personally like this version, i think it looks visually appealing, but other than that i dont much care for this red. Hes around 10ish in these games.

THIS is Red from pokemon origins. I never watched origins anime belive it or not. I personally dont like this red. He takes the red out of red. My sister has watched origins and she really likes it tho, so ill leave him alone...

This is a sort of version of red in a niche manga. I dont like this red at all. He is downright weird.

now THIS is the BEST Red. Red from pokemon special/adventures manga!! I am not biased, this Red is the best one, also my favorite. He is so perfect. I could write several essays about this dork and still wanna write more. His design is more based on the OG red from red/blue games. Except hes cute. Adorable, even. Everyone agrees this one is the cutest. He is a little...overlooked. sometimes people mingle this reds character with OG reds character, when they are so totally different. He has his own personality and plot that is way different from how game Red is. I love everything about this Red. (Sometimes when im bored i recite and analyze all the different ways hes drawn and his change of outfits and character development/growth in each manga. Its fun.)

Anyway thats all the important ones!! And NO i didn't forget his appearances in the Heartgold and Soulsilver games, it is just so similar to OG Red, just a different sprite.

Also ur cats are really cute, tell em i said meow . Thanks for the ask!!!!!!!!

In order of favorite to least favorite id sayyy

1.Pokespe Red

2.OG Red

3.Alolan Red

4.Firered/leafgreen Red

5.Lets go Red

6.Masters Red

7.Origins Red

7.Smash Red

8.Pocket monsters Red

[doormatty3]

Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 5 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)

Masterlist Ao3

Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink

Summary

[Patrick Wilson x Original Female Character] [Patrick Wilson x Original Character] Éléanor had always adored winter: its snow, its crisp air. But what she treasured most was retreating to her cosy cabin in the Swedish mountains. There, she could bake, sketch, and enjoy the solitude, far from the noise of the world. At least, that’s how it used to be—until a new neighbour arrived. Patrick Wilson was tall, charming, and with a smile that seemed to melt the coldest days. As they struck up a friendship, Éléanor found herself drawn to him, even though he remained oddly secretive about his last name and evasive about his work. But when a fierce snowstorm trapped them both, it became clear that Patrick might just be the warmth she needed in more ways than one. OR: Patrick uses his body to warm up Éléanor in the snowy mountains.

Wordcount: 3535

A/N: and the smut begins - god what I'd give to be warmed like this in the mountains

As the kiss deepened, Éléanor’s hands roamed over his back, feeling the muscles ripple beneath her touch. She arched her back, pressing against him, desperate to feel more of him as her underwear clung uncomfortably to her wet pussy. She felt his hard cock pressing against her through his clothes whenever he shifted and moved.

But then, as if realising where this was heading, Patrick paused, his breath coming in shallow bursts. His eyes searched hers, the intensity in them making her pulse race even faster. 

“Éléanor,” he breathed, his voice low and husky. “I don’t want to rush you… or anything.”

The sincerity in his voice, the way he was so attuned to her feelings, made her heart ache in the best possible way. She smiled softly, brushing her fingers along his cheek, feeling his stubble scratch her fingertips, her own breath unsteady. “You’re not,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I want this too.”

The relief that crossed his face was palpable, and without another word, he kissed her again, this time with a passion that left no doubt about where this was going. 

His hands slid under the flannel shirt she wore, pushing it higher, his fingers teasing against her bare skin in a way that made her gasp. Éléanor’s body responded instinctively, arching into him, craving more of his touch.

Patrick was gentle but insistent, a contrast to the intense heat of the moment. His hands, so confident and capable, withdrew from underneath her shirt and shifted to her front. With practised ease, he found the buttons of the flannel and undid them one by one. 

Each click of the button being released seemed to echo in the intimate space between them, a rhythmic accompaniment to their heavy breathing. The shirt fell open gradually, revealing more of her skin to the flickering firelight and the cold air in the cabin.

Patrick’s gaze was locked on hers, his eyes dark with a mixture of desire and tenderness as he exposed her. The warmth from the fire caught the glow of her skin, casting a soft, golden hue over her shoulders and the swell of her breasts. 

“Éléanor,” he murmured, his voice a rough whisper filled with awe as he continued to undress her. “You’re... so beautiful.”

She felt herself blushing as his fingers brushed lightly over her exposed skin, sending shivers across her body. 

The contact was electrifying, and she could feel the heat of his body radiating towards her, mingling with the warmth of the fire.

As Patrick’s hands continued to work their way down the remaining buttons, Éléanor’s own hands were not idle. They roamed over his chest, feeling the hard planes of his muscles, tracing the contours of his shoulders and the smooth, warm skin beneath. 

Once the final button was undone, the flannel shirt fell open, the fabric pooling around her waist. Patrick’s eyes never left hers as he gently pushed the shirt aside, his touch reverent as he explored the newly exposed skin. 

His fingers skated lightly over her shoulders, down her arms, and back up to trace the delicate curves of her collarbone. 

Éléanor’s breath caught as Patrick’s lips followed the path his fingers had traced, leaving a trail of warm, feather-light kisses along her shoulder and collarbone. 

The sensation of his warm mouth against her skin was both thrilling and soothing, each kiss making her squirm with pleasure and leaving a mark of fire against her chilled skin. 

The warmth from the fire made his skin feel almost feverish as his hands found her breasts. His fingers, rough yet gentle, traced the contours of her curves, making their way to her nipples, which hardened under his touch. 

Each caress, each playful tug sent waves of pleasure radiating through her, her cunt clenching around nothing.

Ragged gasps left her lips as Patrick’s mouth travelled lower, his breath hot and uneven as he kissed, licked, and nibbled.

He dipped his head down to leave hot, open-mouthed kisses across her breasts. He paid meticulous attention to every sensitive area.

Éléanor’s moans grew louder, her body arching and writhing against him as she felt the growing pressure of her desire, her cunt throbbing dully. 

Her hands roamed over his back, feeling the tension in his muscles and the heat of his skin. She could feel his hard cock pressing against her, and her hands moved urgently to his waistband—she was aching to feel him, to be filled by him.

Patrick helped by lifting his hips, and his eyes locked onto hers with a blend of desire and anticipation.

Together, they pushed his joggers and boxer shorts down, his fully erect cock springing free and leaving him completely bare.

Éléanor’s gaze fell onto his hard dick that stood out proudly against his abdomen. It was big—long and thick in a way that made her clench her thighs in anticipation of how he’d feel inside her. 

She watched as Patrick wrapped a fist around the base and squeezed to relieve some of the pressure. He was gorgeous in the half-light, his skin shining with sweat as the flickering flames painted intricate patterns on his heaving chest.

He kissed her deeply again, his hands moving to her pants with equal urgency. As he helped her remove them, she felt the cool air on her overheated skin, causing her to shiver with anticipation. 

Patrick’s hand slid down over her stomach, his fingers trailing lower until they found the edge of her underwear. He paused, pulling back slightly to look at her, his eyes darkened with lust but still questioning, still asking for permission even now.

Éléanor nodded, her breath coming out in shallow gasps. “Please.”

That was all he needed. 

Patrick hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and slowly pulled them down, his knuckles brushing against her skin as he did. The firelight caught every movement, making the moment feel almost surreal, as though they were the only two people in the world.

His gaze was locked on Éléanor's as he pulled her closer, his breath hot against her skin. With a mix of urgency and tenderness, his fingers began to explore her once more, their touch now more focused and determined.

He gently parted her legs, his fingers brushing against her thighs with a possessive heat. As he traced a path toward her sex, his touch was deliberate, each movement a blend of teasing and intense pressure.

Patrick’s middle finger found her clit, the rounded tip pressing and circling with a steady rhythm. Éléanor’s breath hitched, her body arching towards his touch as the sensation intensified. His movements were smooth and calculated, his fingers applying just the right amount of pressure to make her gasp with every stroke.

His touch grew more confident, his fingers slipping lower to explore her entrance. He teased her with gentle caresses, his fingertips dipping inside her with a slow rhythm. Each movement was calculated to heighten her pleasure, his touch building a steady crescendo that left her yearning for more.

Éléanor’s moans grew louder, her body shaking with the intensity of her arousal. Patrick’s fingers continued their relentless exploration. His touch was both rough and tender, a contrast that made the sensations even more intense.

“You’re so wet,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire as it rumbled in the quiet space between them. 

Éléanor’s body trembled under his touch, her moans escaping uncontrollably as she gripped his shoulders, feeling herself being driven to the edge by his expert touch.

“Patrick…” she breathed, her voice a barely audible whisper as her hips instinctively moved in sync with his fingers. Her need for him was overwhelming, her desire nearly consuming her as he worked her into a frenzy with his two thick, capable fingers.

He curled them inside her, pressing against that sensitive spot deep within her cunt. Éléanor’s breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as he hit the perfect angle. His thumb brushed over her clit again, adding an extra layer of intense pleasure.

“Please,” she begged, her voice rough and breathy with need, her fingers tangling in his curls as she pulled him into a fervent kiss. The kiss was passionate, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between their intertwined bodies.

Suddenly, Patrick pulled his fingers out, leaving her feeling empty and yearning. 

He cupped her face gently, his touch tender against her flushed skin, as he pulled away from the kiss. The abrupt shift left Éléanor’s cunt still tingling with desire, her body craving the connection that had been so abruptly interrupted.

She let out a protesting whimper and arched her back, desperate for more.

Patrick’s eyes locked onto hers, a mixture of heat and barely constrained want flickering in his gaze. He leaned in and captured her lips in a deep, hungry kiss and hovered over Éléanor, his chest rising and falling heavily, their breaths mingling as the heat between them intensified. 

His cock brushed against her entrance, teasing her, the anticipation driving them both wild. 

Éléanor’s hands gripped his back, pulling him closer, urging him to stop teasing. 

He let out a low groan, the sensation almost too much to bear as he rubbed against her, the tip of his cock gliding over her wetness, sending shivers through them both. The firelight flickered, casting a warm glow on their skin, highlighting the raw desire in Patrick’s eyes.

She was sure that he could bend you in half if he wanted and use the strength he held in his broad frame to pound her into this couch until he broke it—broke her. 

Éléanor bucked her hips against him again, whimpering and begging as she felt the broad head of his hard dick on her cunt, slick with her wetness and his precum.

Then, without warning, he finally pushed the tip of his cock inside her, just enough for them both to feel the intensity of it. Éléanor gasped at the sudden stretch, her fingers digging into his back, arching her back, wanting more, needing more.

But then Patrick suddenly froze, his breath catching in his throat as reality crashed down on him. 

He pulled back slightly, his hard cock slipping out again, leaving her empty once more. His body tensed up in a way that made Éléanor’s heart race in confusion.

“Wait,” he said, his voice rough and breathless yet laced with urgency. He swallowed hard, trying to gather his thoughts, his body trembling with desire but his mind racing with the sudden awareness of the risk.

“Wait—wait,” Patrick muttered again, his voice tight, almost panicked. He pulled away completely, sitting back on his heels, his expression shifting from desire to something more like fear.

Éléanor blinked, trying to understand. Her body was still buzzing from everything, her mind racing to catch up. Everything had been perfect just moments ago, but now Patrick was suddenly pulling away, clearly agitated. His face was flushed, and he seemed almost frantic. 

“What? What’s wrong?”  she asked, her breath still coming in uneven gasps as she tried to understand, her eyes searched his with a mix of frustration and concern, her mind still caught in a haze of blissful want. “Patrick… nothing happened. Why are you freaking out?”

Patrick ran a hand through his tousled hair, his agitation evident in the sharpness of his movements. His expression was tight, a mix of panic and frustration. “We didn’t use a condom,” he said, his voice strained. The realisation seemed to hit him all at once, like a punch to the gut. “I didn’t even think... God, I didn’t even think .”

Éléanor stared at him, bewildered, her brow furrowing in confusion. She could still feel the echo of the heat they’d shared, the intensity of the moment between them, but now that was being replaced by a strange sense of disorientation.

He was freaking out about this? This was why he’d stopped?

He looked at her, clearly still caught in his own spiralling thoughts, his hand running through his hair again as if trying to make sense of it all. “We didn’t use protection, Éléanor,” he repeated as if the words alone should explain everything. His tone was still tinged with worry. “I didn’t even think about it, and I should’ve—”

“Patrick.” Her voice was firmer now, breaking through his panic as she cut him off. She sat up slightly, facing him, her eyes locked on his. “I’m on the pill. It’s fine.”

Éléanor hadn’t even considered the possibility of STDs in the heat of the moment. She was too wrapped up in his presence, too caught in the intensity between them. Besides, she trusted him inexplicably. It was strange, really—this unspoken certainty that he wouldn’t hurt her, wouldn’t do anything harmful. 

But that made the sudden rejection sting even more. The fact that he’d pulled away, that he didn’t seem to feel the same ease, hit harder than she expected.

“Do…you think I’d babytrap you? Or give you some STD?” The words slipped out before she could stop herself.

Patrick’s eyes widened in shock, and he quickly shook his head, his voice coming out in a rush.“No, no! That’s not it at all. I just—I wasn’t thinking, and I don’t want to take any chances.” 

He looked rattled, his hands hovering in the air as if he didn’t quite know where to put them. It was almost as if he couldn’t figure out how to express the jumble of thoughts racing through his head.

Éléanor let out a breath, sitting up more, the firelight reflecting in her eyes as she looked at him. “Patrick, it’s okay,” she said softly, her tone calming, trying to ease the tension that had suddenly taken over the room. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just... you stopped before anything happened.”

He stared at her for a moment, his chest still rising and falling rapidly, his mind clearly racing. “I just... I panicked,” he admitted, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t want to risk anything, but I wasn’t thinking .”

Reaching out, Éléanor rested her hand on his arm, her touch light but reassuring. “Hey, it’s okay,” she repeated, her voice steady. “I get it. But we can fix this.” She gave him a small smile, hoping to reassure him. “You have condoms, right?”

Patrick exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as her words started to sink in. He nodded, though he still looked a little embarrassed by how everything had played out. “Yeah, I do,” he said quietly.

Éléanor’s smile widened, warmth returning to the moment. She leaned back into the couch, her hand sliding gently over his back, her touch soothing. “Then go get one,” she said, her voice soft but sure. “It’s fine.”

For a long moment, Patrick just sat there, staring at Éléanor as if trying to process her calmness. His chest rose and fell quickly, the remnants of his earlier panic still evident in his eyes. 

Slowly, a sheepish smile began to tug at the corners of his lips, soft and uncertain. “Okay,” he finally said, his voice quiet but steady. “I’ll be right back.”

He stood quickly, his cock still half-hard hanging between his legs, bouncing slightly as he crossed the small space to where his bag sat near the corner of the room. 

The soft glow of the firelight cast shadows along his bare back, the muscles of his shoulders and arms flexing as he knelt down, rummaging through his belongings. His movements were hurried, his fingers searching frantically until he finally pulled out a small foil packet. 

Holding it in his hand, he paused for a moment, staring down at it before turning back toward Éléanor.

When Patrick sat down beside her again, condom in hand, Éléanor couldn’t help but tease him, her voice light and playful, the words meant to ease the remaining tension. “See? Crisis averted,” she said with a grin, her eyes sparkling with warmth.

Patrick let out a breath he didn’t seem to realise he was holding. His shoulders visibly relaxed as he sank back onto the couch, the tight lines of worry on his face softening. 

He chuckled softly, though the sound was still tinged with a hint of embarrassment, his eyes avoiding hers for a moment as he fumbled to place the condom on the table beside them.

But as they sat there, side by side, the fire casting flickering shadows over their faces, Éléanor noticed something had shifted. 

The sharp edge of their earlier desire had softened, dulled by the sudden wave of panic. The firelight still danced over Patrick’s bare chest, illuminating the lean muscles beneath his skin, but the urgency was gone. 

Patrick wasn’t hard anymore, and as she adjusted her position slightly, Éléanor realised that she felt the same. The intensity had ebbed, leaving behind only a soft warmth, a sense of closeness that wasn’t driven by lust but by something gentler, more intimate.

The moment had passed.

She sighed softly, her gaze drifting to Patrick’s face. His blue eyes still held a lingering flicker of tension, the remnants of his earlier anxiety clear in the way his brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressing together in uncertainty. 

But beneath it all, there was warmth in his eyes—a vulnerability that made Éléanor’s heart soften. She reached out, cupping his cheek with one hand, her thumb brushing lightly over the rough stubble on his jaw. His skin was warm under her fingers, a contrast to the cool air around them.

Patrick’s eyes met hers, his gaze steady but searching as if he were still waiting for reassurance. She gave him a small, soft smile, leaning in to press her lips against his in a gentle kiss. 

There was no urgency in the kiss, no hunger—just a soft, slow connection. She lingered there for a moment, letting the warmth of his lips seep into her before pulling back just slightly, her hand still cradling his face.

“Maybe it’s better if we just cuddle for now,” she whispered her voice low and tender, each word wrapped in understanding. Her fingers moved gently over his jaw, tracing the line of his cheekbone as she looked into his eyes, hoping he could see the sincerity in her expression. “There’s no rush, Patrick.”

Patrick closed his eyes briefly, his chest rising and falling as he let out a long, deep breath. 

The tension seemed to drain from his body, his shoulders finally relaxing completely as he leaned into her touch. His hand came up to cover hers on his face, his fingers warm and reassuring as they curled around her smaller hand. 

When he opened his eyes again, there was a soft, almost relieved smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah…” he breathed, his voice quiet and full of gratitude. “That sounds nice.”

Éléanor smiled in return, her heart swelling with affection as she shifted on the couch, pulling the soft blanket up around them both. She leaned back into the cushions, feeling Patrick move with her, his body warm and solid against her side as he settled in beside her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her close, and she nestled into the crook of his arm, her head resting on his shoulder.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth spreading through the room, chasing away the chill that lingered in the air. The flames danced, casting long, flickering shadows on the walls, their light a comforting presence in the dimly lit room. 

Patrick’s arms tightened around her slightly, pulling her closer as they curled up together on the couch. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat under her ear. It was soothing, that steady beat, and she let herself sink into the comfort of it, the warmth of his body lulling her into a state of calm.

For a while, they lay there in silence, simply holding each other, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the moment. The earlier panic and urgency had melted away, replaced by a sense of contentment, a shared understanding that they didn’t need to rush anything. 

They had time. 

There was no pressure, no expectation—just the warmth of the fire, the comfort of each other’s presence, and the soft, steady rhythm of their breathing in sync.

Patrick’s hand moved gently, his fingers tracing small, soothing patterns along her arm, his touch light and tender. Éléanor closed her eyes, letting herself relax completely into his embrace, feeling safe and secure in his arms. The storm outside seemed distant now, a world away from the quiet cocoon they had created here, wrapped in blankets and each other.

His lips pressed softly against the top of her head, a gentle kiss that made her smile against his chest. She squeezed his hand in response, feeling a warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with him.

“Thank you,” he whispered softly, the words barely audible, but he knew she heard them. He didn’t need to explain what he was thanking her for—she already knew, and she also knew that this was exactly where she wanted to be.

[zapreportsblog]

I love the way you write Garrett so much!! 😭 Hope you don't mind another request!

I'd love to see him just loving on his mate🥺😍 showing her off to people, hugging her from behind,laying his head in her lap, forhead kisses aah! I just love it!! 😍🥹🥹🥹

Please and thank you!

Thank you, I tried my best with that character. Ooh I hope you enjoy this one

↱ i need love and affection ↰

➘ summary : as a norman vampire many other vampires think Garrett likes being alone and not being around others, you know - lone wolf type vibes. But that isn’t the case, not the case at all

➘ a/n: breaking this up into parts sorta like how I write my headcanons so one half will tell how they met, him showing her off, hugging her etc

➘ Garrett x reader , twilight x reader

The road stretched out before Garrett, a seemingly endless path winding through unfamiliar territory. He was used to the nomadic lifestyle, traversing different corners of the world in search of adventure and excitement. As a vampire, time was on his side, and he embraced the thrill of exploration.

On this particular day, the sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the landscape. The air was crisp, and the scent of pine trees mingled with the earthy fragrance of the forest floor. Garrett's senses were attuned to his surroundings, a hunter's awareness that kept him alert to every rustle of leaves and distant sound.

As he continued his journey, a flicker of movement caught his eye. In the distance, a figure was approaching—a young woman, (e/c) eyes bright with curiosity as she took in the world around her. Garrett's footsteps slowed as he observed her, an intrigued smile tugging at his lips.

As their paths drew closer, Garrett's senses were inundated with an intoxicating scent—a fragrance that was uniquely her own. His instincts stirred, his heart quickening as he realized what this meant: he had stumbled upon his mate.

The woman seemed to sense his presence, her gaze lifting to meet his. A hint of surprise danced in her eyes, as if she, too, had recognized the significance of this encounter. Garrett couldn't help but feel a connection that went beyond words—an unspoken bond that linked them in ways he couldn't fully comprehend.

"Hello," he greeted, his voice a rich timbre that carried a hint of intrigue.

Her lips curved into a friendly smile, her (h/c) hair catching the sunlight as she responded, "Hello. It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

Garrett nodded, his gaze never leaving hers. "Indeed it is. I'm Garrett."

"(Y/N)," she replied, her voice warm and welcoming. "Nice to meet you, Garrett."

The moments between them seemed to stretch, the world around them fading as their connection deepened. Garrett found himself drawn to (Y/N)'s vibrant spirit, her energy resonating with his own sense of adventure and freedom.

As they stood there, the forest enveloping them in its natural beauty, Garrett couldn't help but feel that fate had played a hand in this meeting. The chance encounter had brought them together, two souls from different walks of life, connected by an invisible thread that defied logic.

"I don't usually travel alone," (Y/N) confessed, a playful glint in her eyes. "But there's something liberating about being out here on my own."

Garrett's smile widened, his interest piqued. "And what brings you to this part of the world?"

Her gaze shifted to the landscape, her expression thoughtful. "I suppose you could call it a quest for self-discovery. I'm looking for something that resonates with my spirit, a place where I can truly feel at home."

Garrett's eyes held a knowing gleam, his voice soft. "Sometimes, the most remarkable discoveries come when you least expect them."

As their conversation flowed, Garrett and (Y/N) shared stories of their journeys, their experiences, and their dreams. Time seemed to slip away, the world around them fading as they forged a connection that defied the constraints of time and space.

The months had flown by, marked by countless adventures and shared experiences. Garrett and (Y/N) had become inseparable companions, their bond growing stronger with each passing day. Yet, there was one truth that Garrett had kept hidden—a secret that he knew would eventually have to be revealed.

As night descended, casting a tapestry of stars across the sky, Garrett met (Y/N) by the edge of a tranquil river. The gentle sound of flowing water created a soothing backdrop to their conversation. He had chosen this moment to finally unveil his true nature.

"(Y/N)," Garrett began, his voice tinged with a mixture of uncertainty and determination. "There's something I need to tell you."

She looked at him, her (e/c) eyes curious and attentive. "Go ahead, Garrett. You can tell me anything."

Taking a deep breath, Garrett spoke the words that had remained hidden for so long. "I'm a vampire."

(Y/N)'s gaze held a mixture of surprise and intrigue, her expression thoughtful. "A vampire? You mean, like the ones from myths and legends?"

He nodded, his lips curving into a wry smile. "Yes, exactly like those. We're immortal, we have heightened senses, and we need to drink blood to survive."

Her response was surprisingly calm, her eyes holding a spark of understanding. "I've heard tales about vampires before. They're often portrayed as mysterious and alluring."

Garrett chuckled softly. "Well, I can't speak for all vampires, but I do enjoy the allure of the night."

As the conversation unfolded, (Y/N) listened attentively, her open-mindedness a testament to her accepting nature. When Garrett had finished explaining the intricacies of his existence, there was a moment of silence—a pause that seemed to stretch as (Y/N) processed the information.

Finally, she spoke, her voice gentle and earnest. "Thank you for trusting me enough to share this with me, Garrett. I appreciate your honesty."

He smiled, a genuine expression of gratitude. "You're welcome, (Y/N). I felt that it was time you knew the truth."

She looked at him, her gaze softening. "You know, despite this revelation, I still feel the same about you. You're still the same person I've come to care about and enjoy spending time with."

The weight of her words settled within Garrett's chest, a warmth spreading through him that went beyond the physical sensations vampires were capable of experiencing. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing against hers. "Thank you, (Y/N). Your understanding means more to me than you can imagine."

As they stood there, the stars above casting a gentle glow, (Y/N) seemed to hesitate before speaking again. "Garrett, there's something I'd like to share with you as well."

He tilted his head, curiosity in his gaze. "I'm listening."

Her voice held a hint of vulnerability as she met his eyes. "I've felt a connection between us, one that goes beyond friendship. It's as if our souls are intertwined, bound by a deeper bond."

Garrett's heart quickened, his instincts attuned to her words. "What do you mean?"

(Y/N) took a deep breath, her gaze unwavering. "I believe that we're mates, Garrett. There's a sense of destiny that I can't ignore."

The revelation hung in the air, a declaration that resonated with the unspoken emotions that had grown between them. Garrett's smile was a mixture of awe and affection as he reached out, his fingers intertwining with hers.

"(Y/N), you're right," he admitted, his voice holding a note of certainty. "We are mates, connected by a bond that transcends time and space."

As their fingers linked, (Y/N)'s smile mirrored his own, a testament to the depth of their connection. In that moment, they embraced the shared truths that had been unveiled—the reality of their supernatural natures and the undeniable bond that had drawn them together. As the night embraced them, they stood united in a love that was fated to span eternity.

The sun's rays filtered through the dense canopy of trees, dappling the forest floor with patches of light. Garrett had taken to wandering, allowing his thoughts to drift as he relished the solitude of the wilderness. Little did he know that his solitude was about to be interrupted.

The rustle of leaves drew his attention, and he turned to find Carlisle Cullen approaching. The vampire's composed demeanor and kind eyes hinted at the wisdom and experience he had amassed over the centuries.

"Garrett," Carlisle greeted with a nod, his voice carrying a note of warmth. "May I have a moment of your time?"

"Of course," Garrett replied, curiosity piqued as he gestured for Carlisle to join him.

The two vampires found a spot to sit beneath a sprawling tree, the leaves forming a natural canopy overhead.

"I come with a proposition," Carlisle began, his gaze steady. "My granddaughter, Renesmee, is a unique being—a hybrid of vampire and human. She is set to face the Volturi, and we are gathering witnesses to stand on her behalf. I believe your perspective could hold significant weight."

Garrett's brows furrowed as he absorbed the gravity of the situation. "Facing the Volturi is no small matter. What would my presence as a witness entail?"

Carlisle's gaze remained steady, his voice even. "Your experience, your insights into the balance between our worlds, could help tip the scales in Renesmee's favor. I understand that this is a lot to consider, but I believe that your presence could make a difference."

Garrett's thoughts raced as he processed the enormity of the request. The Volturi were a powerful and ancient coven, and to stand against them was to challenge a force that had held sway for centuries. Yet, he also felt a sense of duty—a desire to ensure that justice prevailed, especially for a unique individual like Renesmee.

"I appreciate your offer, Carlisle," Garrett said, his voice sincere. "I'll need some time to think it over."

Carlisle nodded, his understanding evident. "Of course, take the time you need. Just know that your presence could make a significant impact."

As Carlisle departed, Garrett was left with a swirl of thoughts and emotions. The weight of the decision ahead was palpable, and he knew that whatever choice he made would carry profound implications.

Later that day, as the sun began its descent, (Y/N) returned from the marketplace. Garrett watched her approach, his heart lifting at the sight of her radiant smile.

"(Y/N)," he greeted, his voice warm as he stepped forward to meet her.

"Hey," she replied, her (e/c) eyes shining with happiness. "Did you have a good day?"

He nodded, though his thoughts were elsewhere. "I did, but something unexpected happened."

Curiosity flickered in (Y/N)'s gaze. "What is it?"

Taking a deep breath, Garrett recounted his encounter with Carlisle and the offer he had received to stand as a witness against the Volturi on behalf of Renesmee.

"(Y/N)," he said, his voice earnest, "it's a heavy decision to make. The Volturi are not to be taken lightly, and this could have far-reaching consequences."

(Y/N) listened attentively, her expression thoughtful. When he had finished, she reached out, her fingers lacing with his. "Garrett, I understand the weight of the decision. But remember, you've always been one to stand up for what's right, even when it's not easy. If you believe that your presence could make a difference, then I think you should go."

He regarded her, his heart swelling with admiration for her wisdom and insight. "You truly believe that?"

"Yes," (Y/N) affirmed, her gaze unwavering. "Your perspective is valuable, Garrett. If you can help ensure justice and protect someone like Renesmee, then I think it's a path worth considering."

As they stood there, their fingers intertwined, Garrett felt a sense of clarity settling within him. The decision was daunting, but (Y/N)'s unwavering support and the knowledge that their values aligned gave him the strength to face the challenges that lay ahead.

With a grateful smile, he met her gaze. "Thank you, (Y/N). Your perspective means the world to me."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the world around them, Garrett and (Y/N) embraced the choices that lay ahead—a future where their actions would shape the course of events and the balance between justice and power.

The journey to the Cullens' house was a mix of anticipation and curiosity for both Garrett and (Y/N). As they approached their destination, the atmosphere seemed to shift—a subtle awareness that they were entering a world that was both unfamiliar and filled with intriguing possibilities.

The grandeur of the Cullens' home was matched only by the breathtaking beauty of the surrounding forest. As they stepped onto the grounds, their footsteps muffled by the lush grass, Garrett couldn't help but admire the tranquil splendor that enveloped them.

However, their arrival did not go unnoticed. The Cullens, a family of vampires with unique talents and backgrounds, had sensed their approach. As the doors of the house swung open, the family members emerged one by one, their curious gazes focused on the newcomers.

Garrett's protective instincts flared, his stance subtly shifting as he stood behind (Y/N). He was acutely aware of the scrutiny directed at her—a human among vampires. But he was determined to show that he was her staunch protector, that her presence by his side was inviolable.

(Y/N), on the other hand, seemed unfazed by the attention. Her (e/c) eyes sparkled with a mixture of confidence and warmth as she took in her surroundings. The other vampires' curious glances didn't faze her; instead, she radiated an air of serenity, thriving in the affection and protection that Garrett offered.

Seeing her composure, Garrett allowed himself to relax slightly. He moved closer to her, wrapping his arms around her waist as he stood protectively behind her. His subtle gesture was both a declaration of his commitment and a silent assurance that no harm would befall her.

The family members observed the scene, their expressions shifting from curiosity to a mixture of approval and respect. They were a clan that understood the complexities of relationships and the bonds that transcended the boundaries of species.

"Welcome, Garrett, and (Y/N)," Carlisle's voice carried a warmth that put everyone at ease. "My adoptive daughter Alice told me your name,” he says addressing (y/n). “We're glad you could join us."

(Y/N) turned her head slightly to smile at Garrett, her fingers instinctively threading through his as she spoke. "Thank you for having us."

As the Cullens led them inside, Garrett's gaze remained steadfast, his protective stance unwavering. He knew that he was in the company of powerful beings, but he also understood that his bond with (Y/N) was a force to be reckoned with—a connection that defied convention and upheld the sanctity of love.

Throughout their visit, the Cullens' gazes would occasionally drift to (Y/N), their curiosity evident. But each time, Garrett's presence behind her served as a silent reminder—a symbol of their unity and the strength they drew from each other.

As the evening unfolded, (Y/N) and Garrett found themselves immersed in conversations, sharing stories and laughter with the Cullens. The initial curiosity had given way to genuine camaraderie, a testament to the capacity for understanding that existed within this extraordinary family.

As the night drew to a close, (Y/N) turned to Garrett, her smile radiant. "This has been quite the experience, hasn't it?"

He nodded, his fingers gently brushing against hers. "Indeed, it has. And through it all, you've remained a beacon of grace and strength."

Her gaze met his, a mixture of affection and gratitude in her eyes. "Just like you, Garrett."

As they exchanged a tender look, surrounded by a family that had embraced them both, (Y/N) and Garrett knew that their bond was unbreakable. The world they navigated together, one that bridged the realms of human and vampire, was a testament to the power of love, understanding, and the unwavering unity that bound them together.

In the midst of the Cullens' grand living room, where the camaraderie of vampires and their unique companions filled the air, (Y/N) found herself engaged in a conversation with some of the Cullen family members. Laughter and stories flowed around her, creating an atmosphere of warmth and connection.

However, her pleasant interaction was interrupted when a new presence approached. The vampire was one of the Roman coven members—confident and charismatic, though his eyes carried a hint of mischief. His gaze landed on (Y/N), a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. "A human, in a room full of vampires. Quite the bold move, my dear."

(Y/N) met his gaze with a mixture of curiosity and composure. She had faced curiosity and comments before, but she was prepared to stand her ground.

Before she could respond, Garrett materialized at her side, his presence a tangible shield of protection. His arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her closer to his side, as he fixed the Roman vampire with a firm glare.

"And what's your point?" Garrett's voice was steady, his tone laced with a subtle warning.

The Roman vampire's smirk widened, seemingly unperturbed by Garrett's demeanor. "Oh, no point at all, my friend. Just making an observation."

(Y/N)'s fingers tightened slightly around Garrett's, her resolve unwavering. She appreciated his protectiveness but also wanted to handle the situation with grace.

Garrett leaned down, his lips brushing against (Y/N)'s forehead in a tender gesture. It was a clear display of his affection and a silent promise of his presence as her protector. As he straightened, his eyes remained locked with the Roman vampire's, his gaze intense.

"Let me make something clear," Garrett's voice was a low, controlled rumble. "This woman by my side is my mate. I would do anything to protect her. If anyone here even thinks about harming her, they'll find out that the Volturi are nothing compared to what I'm capable of."

The Roman vampire's amusement wavered, replaced by a hint of caution in his eyes. He had clearly picked up on the sincerity and intensity behind Garrett's words.

Without another word, the Roman vampire turned and walked away, his jesting tone subdued. The tension in the air dissipated, replaced by a sense of unity and understanding.

(Y/N) looked up at Garrett, her (e/c) eyes filled with appreciation and a soft smile. "Thank you, Garrett. I know I can handle myself, but your protectiveness means a lot to me."

His fingers brushed against her cheek, his touch gentle and reassuring. "I'll always be here to stand by your side, (Y/N). Nothing and no one will come between us."

As they resumed their place among the Cullen family, (Y/N) felt a renewed sense of connection—with Garrett and the understanding family that had embraced them both. In the face of challenges and teasing, their love remained unshakable—a beacon that illuminated the path they walked together, no matter how unconventional or extraordinary it might be.

[shiorihyugawrites]

The Soldier & The Daisy

Raised in the protection of her father, Lady Daisy Lenore lives surrounded by luxury and sheltered from the turmoil outside the walls. As the heiress of a powerful family, she faces mysterious assassination attempts, prompting her overprotective father, to seek a bodyguard.

Levi is assigned as her personal bodyguard, tasked with keeping her safe from the dangerous forces lurking in the shadows. However, the more he spends time with her, the harder it becomes to ignore the undeniable attraction between them. Levi, a man who has never let anyone get close, struggles to protect his heart while safeguarding the woman he’s come to love. (Levi x OC)

Chapter Six: Croquet & Tension

The Lenore estate’s garden courtyard was a vision of opulence under the midday sun, its manicured lawns and blooming flowerbeds a vibrant canvas of spring. White linen-draped tables stood beneath a canopy of flowering cherry trees, their pink petals drifting like confetti onto silver trays laden with delicate sandwiches, scones, and pastel macarons.

Silver teapots gleamed, steam curling from their spouts, and the air was alive with the clink of porcelain, the murmur of polite conversation, and the distant laughter of noblemen preparing for a game of croquet on the nearby field. The noblewomen remained at the tables, their pastel gowns a kaleidoscope of silk and lace, their wide-brimmed hats adorned with feathers and ribbons. The scene was one of refined elegance, a ritual of the ton where alliances were forged, gossip exchanged, and appearances meticulously maintained.

Daisy sat at the head table, her emerald dress shimmering in the sunlight, her bandaged ankle hidden beneath the flowing skirt. Her loose waves, pinned with emerald clips, framed her face, and the silver rose pendant at her throat caught the light with every subtle movement. She sipped her jasmine tea, the delicate flavor doing little to soothe the knot of anxiety in her chest. Her lavender eyes darted to the other noblewomen around her—peers from the aristocratic circle, not quite friends but familiar faces in the small, insular world of the ton. Now that she was engaged, a full-fledged member of society, mingling was no longer optional; it was expected, a duty as binding as her betrothal to Edward.

Among the ladies were Charlotte Varnham, a sharp-witted brunette with a penchant for gossip, and Eleanor Grayson, a soft-spoken blonde whose toddler son was currently toddling after a governess nearby. There was also Beatrice Langley, newly married and glowing with the smug satisfaction of a recent honeymoon, and Margaret Thurston, whose engagement to a wealthy merchant had elevated her family’s status overnight. These women, all in their twenties, were the future of the ton—wives, mothers, and matriarchs in training—and Daisy felt like an imposter among them, her heart rebelling against the life they embraced.

Motherhood, a dream Daisy had once cherished, now loomed like a specter. As a girl, she’d imagined cradling a child, singing lullabies under the stars, but those dreams had never included Edward. He’d made it clear he wanted a large family—“At least five children, Daisy, to carry on the LaRue name,” he’d boasted—and the thought of creating those children with him made her stomach churn. The act itself, the intimacy required, was a nightmare she couldn’t escape. She was still a virgin, her knowledge of such matters gleaned from the steamy romance novels she sneaked from the library’s highest shelves, their pages filled with breathless descriptions of passion and desire. But the idea of giving her virginity to Edward, of his clammy hands and smug grin, filled her with dread. I’d rather marry a Titan, she thought, her lips twitching in a wry smile as she set down her teacup.

Her gaze flicked over her shoulder, drawn inexorably to Captain Levi. He stood five paces behind her chair, a sentinel in his crisp Scout uniform, his gray eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her heart skip. Their eyes met, and Daisy let out a soft squeak of surprise, her cheeks flushing as she whipped her head back to the table. Was he watching me the whole time? she thought, her pulse racing. Those stormy eyes, so piercing and unreadable, seemed to see straight through her, stripping away her carefully composed facade. It was both thrilling and unnerving, and she fanned herself with her lace fan, the motion a desperate attempt to cool her heated skin.

Charlotte, seated to her left, noticed the gesture, her sharp green eyes narrowing with amusement. “Daisy, darling, are you alright?” she asked, her voice laced with concern but tinged with curiosity. “You’re fanning yourself like you’re about to faint.”

Daisy laughed nervously, her fan fluttering faster. “Oh, I’m fine, Charlotte,” she said, her voice a touch too high. “It’s just… warm out here, don’t you think?”

Charlotte’s gaze slid past Daisy, landing on Levi, who stood like a statue, his expression stoic but his eyes never leaving his charge. A smirk curved her lips, and she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Warm, is it? Or perhaps it’s that handsome bodyguard of yours, Captain Levi. My goodness, Daisy, how do you manage being around him without swooning every five minutes?”

Daisy’s jaw dropped, her blush deepening to a vivid rose. “Charlotte!” she hissed, her lavender eyes wide with panic. “It’s not like that!” But the words felt hollow, her flustered state betraying her. The other ladies—Eleanor, Beatrice, and Margaret—overheard, their heads turning like flowers toward the sun, their eyes sparkling with interest.

“Oh, do tell, Daisy!” Beatrice said, her voice bright with excitement. “Captain Levi is positively divine. Those eyes, that jawline… and he’s Humanity’s Strongest Soldier! It’s like having a hero from a novel guarding you.”

Eleanor giggled, tucking a blonde curl behind her ear. “I saw him earlier, escorting you from the house. So gallant!”

Margaret leaned in, her engagement ring glinting as she propped her chin on her hand. “Come now, Daisy, you can’t pretend you haven’t noticed how dashing he is. Spill the details—what’s it like having him around all the time?”

Daisy’s fan froze, her heart pounding as she glanced at Levi again. His gaze was still fixed on her, and she quickly looked away, her voice trembling. “It’s… it’s not like that,” she said, her tone more insistent. “Captain Levi is just doing his job. He’s very professional, and I’m… I’m engaged. I shouldn’t even be talking about another man like this.”

The women exchanged knowing looks, their laughter light but dismissive. “Oh, Daisy, you’re too proper,” Beatrice said, waving a hand. “It’s perfectly fine to fantasize a little. It’s not like Edward will find out—none of us will tell, will we, ladies?”

“Absolutely not,” Charlotte said, her smirk widening. “This is just harmless gossip. Every woman needs a bit of excitement, especially when her fiancé is… well, Edward.” She wrinkled her nose, her tone dripping with subtle disdain.

Margaret giggled, her eyes darting to Levi. “I mean, look at him. That intensity, that strength… I’d be blushing all day if he was my guard. You’re so lucky, Daisy.”

The ladies dissolved into giggles, their whispers growing animated as they leaned closer, their fans fluttering like butterfly wings. “Do you think he’s ever smiled?” Eleanor mused, her voice dreamy. “I bet it’s devastating.”

“I heard he fought a dozen Titans single-handedly,” Beatrice added, her eyes wide. “Can you imagine that power? No wonder he’s so… commanding.”

Charlotte’s gaze flicked to Daisy, her tone teasing. “Come on, Daisy, admit it. You’ve thought about what it’d be like to have him sweep you off your feet. Maybe in one of those romantic dances you’re so good at?”

Daisy’s face was a furnace, her lavender eyes darting to her teacup as she gripped it tightly. “I… I haven’t,” she lied, her voice barely audible. But her mind betrayed her, conjuring images of Levi as her dance partner, his hands guiding her through a waltz, his gray eyes locked on hers. The fantasy was so vivid she nearly spilled her tea, and she fanned herself again, her breath shallow. They’re not wrong, she thought, her heart aching. But I can’t admit it. Not out loud.

Levi, standing five paces behind, could tell they were talking about him. He couldn’t hear their exact words—their whispers were too low, muffled by the clink of teacups and the rustle of silk—but the signs were unmistakable. The stolen glances, the flushed cheeks, the giggles that erupted every time one of them looked his way. Daisy’s flustered expression, her fan moving like a hummingbird’s wings, told him all he needed to know. Tch, he thought, his jaw tightening. Bunch of spoiled rich girls gawking like I’m a circus act. He hadn’t signed up for this, for the ton’s fascination with him as some mythic hero. He was here to protect Daisy, not to be ogled, but he endured it, his gray eyes never straying from her.

Daisy’s discomfort was palpable, her shoulders tense, her smile strained. He noticed the way she deflected the ladies’ questions, the way her voice trembled when she mentioned her engagement. The gossip didn’t get under his skin—nobles were always chattering about something—but seeing Daisy squirm under their scrutiny did. He wanted to step in, to shut them up, but that wasn’t his place. Just do your job, he reminded himself, his hands clenching behind his back.

The conversation at the table shifted, the ladies moving on to discuss the upcoming season’s balls, but the undercurrent of their interest in Levi lingered. Charlotte leaned closer to Daisy, her voice a whisper. “You know, Daisy, if you ever need a break from Edward’s… enthusiasm, you could always ask Captain Levi to escort you to a ball. Purely for security, of course.” She winked, her smirk wicked.

Daisy’s eyes widened, her voice a desperate whisper. “Charlotte, stop! He’s right there!” She glanced at Levi, her heart lurching as their eyes met again. His expression was unreadable, but the intensity of his gaze made her stomach flip. She turned back to the table, her fan a blur. He heard that, didn’t he? she thought, her mortification complete.

Across the field, the croquet game was in full swing, the noblemen’s laughter carrying on the breeze. Edward was among them, his gold doublet a garish splash of color, his mallet swinging with more bravado than skill. He hadn’t glanced at Daisy since taking her from Levi’s arm, his focus entirely on impressing the other men. The Duke, meanwhile, circulated among the guests, his silver hair glinting as he exchanged pleasantries, oblivious to his daughter’s turmoil.

Daisy’s thoughts drifted, the chatter around her fading to a hum. She imagined a different life, one where she wasn’t bound to Edward, where her heart was free to follow its desires. Levi’s face flashed in her mind—his sharp features, his quiet strength, the way he’d caught her in the studio, his hands gentle on her ankle. The memory sent a shiver through her, and she gripped her teacup, forcing herself back to the present. It’s just a crush, she told herself, echoing the lie she’d told Sophia. But the truth was heavier, a weight she couldn’t ignore. She was falling for Levi, and every moment in his presence made it harder to pretend otherwise.

The noblewomen’s gossip turned to their own lives—Eleanor’s son, Beatrice’s honeymoon, Margaret’s wedding plans—but Daisy’s mind lingered on Levi. She stole another glance at him, her lavender eyes softening. He stood like a statue, his gray eyes fixed on her, and she wondered what he was thinking. Did he notice her blush, her nervousness? Did he care? The questions swirled, unanswered, and she fanned herself again, her heart a tangled mess of duty and desire.

As the tea drew to a close, the ladies rose, their gowns rustling as they prepared to join the men on the croquet field. Daisy stood carefully, her ankle throbbing but manageable, and Levi stepped closer, his presence a quiet reassurance. “You good?” he asked, his voice low, his eyes searching hers.

Daisy nodded, her smile shy. “Yes, Captain. Thank you… for staying.” She hesitated, her voice softer. “I know this isn’t… fun for you. All the staring.”

Levi’s lips twitched, a rare hint of amusement. “Tch. I’ve dealt with worse. Just keep your head on straight.” His tone was gruff, but there was a warmth in his gaze that made her heart skip.

She took his arm again, her fingers light on his sleeve, and they moved toward the field, the nobles’ whispers following them like a breeze. Daisy’s heart was a storm, her thoughts a whirlwind of Levi, Edward, and the life she couldn’t escape. But for now, with Levi beside her, she let herself savor the moment.

The elder participants, including the Duke, had retreated to wicker chairs beneath a striped canopy, sipping lemonade and exchanging stories of past seasons, leaving the younger nobles to take the field. The ladies, their pastel gowns fluttering like butterfly wings, joined the men, their wide-brimmed hats shielding them from the sun as they prepared for a round of croquet.

Daisy and Levi stood at the edge of the field, her emerald dress catching the light, her bandaged ankle a dull ache beneath her flowing skirt. Her lavender eyes scanned the gathering, her heart a tangle of nerves and defiance. Charlotte, Eleanor, Beatrice, and Margaret chatted excitedly, their fans fluttering as they paired off for the game. Some chose to partner with each other, their giggles echoing as they strategized, while the men formed their own teams, their competitive banter filling the air. Daisy’s peers were in high spirits, the prospect of a lighthearted game a welcome respite from the ton’s endless formalities.

Edward stood nearby as he laughed with his friend Bruce, a lanky nobleman with a penchant for sycophantic agreement. Daisy had hoped Edward might ask her to play, a small gesture to include her despite her injury, but he turned to her with a condescending smile, his voice dripping with patronizing sweetness. “Daisy, darling, I’m partnering with Bruce for this one. We’re aiming to win, you see, and with that ankle of yours… well, you wouldn’t be much help, would you?” He chuckled, adjusting his cuffs. “You’ll be fine sitting on the sidelines, being my pretty little cheerleader, won’t you?”

Daisy’s jaw tightened, her lavender eyes flashing with annoyance. His condescension was a familiar sting, but today it cut deeper, fueling a spark of rebellion. “I’m not your cheerleader, Edward,” she said, her voice sharp but controlled. “I’m playing, whether you like it or not.” The thought of beating him at croquet, of wounding his insufferable pride, lit a fire in her chest. She wanted him to see her strength, to know she wasn’t just his ornamental fiancée.

Edward’s chuckle was dismissive, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, Daisy, that’s adorable. But look around—everyone’s already paired up. Who exactly are you going to play with?” He gestured to the field, where the teams were finalizing, his smirk widening as he assumed her defeat.

Daisy turned, her heart pounding as she scanned the crowd. He was right—Charlotte had paired with Eleanor, Beatrice with Margaret, and the men had formed their own teams, their mallets already in hand. But then her eyes fell on Levi, standing next to her his gray eyes fixed on her with that unyielding intensity. He wasn’t a guest, not part of the ton’s privileged circle, but there was no rule against him playing. The idea was audacious, a breach of decorum that would raise eyebrows, but the thought of Levi as her partner sent a thrill through her veins.

Levi met her gaze, and the moment their eyes locked, he knew what she was asking. Hell no, he thought, his internal scowl as fierce as the one he wore outwardly. He wasn’t here to play some frivolous rich people’s game with a bunch of spoiled brats. Croquet was as foreign to him as the ton’s etiquette, a pastime of nobles who’d never known hunger or struggle. But Daisy’s eyes—those lavender pools of determination and quiet defiance—stirred something in him. And Edward’s smug condescension, his casual dismissal of Daisy, pissed Levi off more than he cared to admit. The things I do for this girl, he thought, sighing internally. And I’ve barely known her a week.

He turned slightly towards her. “I’ll be your partner,” he said, his voice low but firm, his gray eyes flicking to Edward with a challenge that needed no words.

Daisy’s eyes widened in shock. “Captain … really?” she asked, her voice a mix of disbelief and gratitude. The idea that he’d volunteer, that he’d step into this world of nobles for her, made her heart soar. She hadn’t expected him to do that, let alone so readily, and the gesture felt like a lifeline.

Edward sputtered, his face reddening as he clutched his mallet. “You can’t be serious!” he said, his voice rising. “Captain Levi doesn’t even know how to play croquet! It’s a nobleman’s game, not… not something for soldiers.” His tone dripped with disdain, his embarrassment clear as the other nobles turned to watch, their murmurs a soft hum.

Levi’s gaze was a blade, cutting through Edward’s bluster. “I’ll learn,” he said, his voice cold and even. “Give me the rules, and I’ll play.” He didn’t care about croquet, didn’t care about the ton’s approval, but he’d be damned if he let Edward belittle Daisy—or him—without a fight.

The Duke, seated under the canopy, clapped his hands, his silver hair glinting as he stood. “A splendid idea!” he said, his voice warm with approval. “Captain, you’re a quick study, I’m sure. Let’s make this a game to remember.” He gestured to a servant, who hurried over with a croquet mallet, its polished handle gleaming as he handed it to Levi. The Duke stepped closer, his spectacles slipping down his nose as he explained the rules—hitting the ball through hoops, scoring points, the importance of strategy and precision. Levi listened intently, his sharp mind absorbing every detail, his gray eyes flicking to the field to study the layout.

Daisy watched him, her heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves. He’s really doing this, she thought, her lavender eyes softening. The noblewomen around her were abuzz, their fans fluttering as they whispered excitedly. “Captain Levi playing croquet? This I have to see,” Charlotte said, her smirk wicked. “Oh, Daisy, you’re so lucky,” Eleanor giggled, her blonde curls bouncing. Beatrice and Margaret exchanged knowing looks, their eyes lingering on Levi’s lean frame, his quiet intensity a stark contrast to the posturing noblemen.

The game began, the teams taking turns on the field. Charlotte and Eleanor went first, their laughter echoing as they bickered over angles, their shots precise but playful. Beatrice and Margaret followed, their competitive banter filling the air as they aimed for the hoops. Levi watched every move, his gray eyes analyzing each player’s stance, the arc of their swings, the way the balls rolled across the grass. He was a quick learner, his soldier’s instincts translating effortlessly to the game’s demands—precision, strategy, control.

When it was their turn, Daisy limped to the starting point, her ankle throbbing but her resolve unshaken. Levi stood beside her, his mallet resting lightly in his hand, his posture relaxed but alert. “You sure you can do this?” he asked, his voice low, his eyes flicking to her bandage.

Daisy nodded, her smile determined. “I’ll manage,” she said, her lavender eyes meeting his. “I want to beat him, Captain. Just… help me, okay?”

Levi’s lips twitched, a rare hint of amusement. “Tch. Fine. Let’s wipe that smirk off his face.” He positioned the ball, his movements deliberate, and took the first shot. The mallet struck with a clean thwack, sending the ball rolling smoothly through the first hoop, a perfect start. The crowd gasped, the noblewomen clapping excitedly, their cheers a soft chorus.

Daisy’s heart soared, her smile radiant. “That was amazing!” she said, her voice bright. She took her turn, leaning on Levi for support as she swung, her shot less precise but still effective, the ball nudging through the hoop. Levi’s hand steadied her, his touch brief but grounding, and she blushed, her eyes darting to his face.

Edward, watching from the sidelines, felt a surge of jealousy, his jaw tightening. He’d played croquet his entire life, yet here was Levi, a soldier with no pedigree, excelling on his first try. Ridiculous, he thought, his mallet gripped too tightly. He and Bruce took their turn, their shots aggressive but sloppy, their frustration mounting as Levi and Daisy’s score climbed.

The noblewomen’s cheers grew louder, their excitement palpable. “Go, Daisy! Go, Captain Levi!” Charlotte called, her fan waving like a flag. “You’re unstoppable!” Eleanor added, her toddler son clapping from the governess’s arms. The support made Daisy blush, her heart swelling with pride. We’re doing this, she thought, stealing a glance at Levi. His focus was absolute, his gray eyes scanning the field, but there was a quiet satisfaction in his posture, a shared purpose that made her feel invincible.

The game stretched on for an hour, the sun climbing higher, the air warm and buzzing with energy. Each team took their turns, the field a flurry of colored balls and swinging mallets. Levi and Daisy moved like a unit, his precision balancing her determination, their teamwork seamless despite her injury. Levi adapted quickly, his shots calculated, his strategy ruthless yet elegant, like a soldier navigating a battlefield. Daisy followed his lead, her swings growing bolder, her laughter mingling with the crowd’s cheers.

Edward’s frustration boiled over, his shots increasingly erratic, his banter with Bruce turning sharp. “This is absurd,” he muttered, glaring at Levi. “He’s cheating, he must be. No one’s that good on their first try.” Bruce nodded, his agreement automatic, but the other nobles ignored them, their attention fixed on the unlikely duo dominating the field.

As the final round approached, the scores were close, but Levi and Daisy held a slight lead. The last hoop loomed, a challenging angle that required finesse. Levi crouched, his gray eyes narrowing as he studied the field, his mallet steady. “You take the shot,” he said to Daisy, his voice low. “I’ll set it up. Just aim straight.”

Daisy nodded, her heart pounding. “Okay,” she said, her lavender eyes meeting his. “I trust you.” Levi’s shot was perfect, positioning the ball just shy of the hoop, and Daisy stepped forward, leaning on him for balance. She swung, her mallet striking true, and the ball rolled cleanly through the hoop, securing the win.

The crowd erupted, the noblewomen leaping to their feet, their cheers echoing across the field. “Daisy! You did it!” Charlotte shouted, her fan forgotten as she clapped wildly. Eleanor and Beatrice joined in, their laughter bright, while Margaret’s eyes sparkled with admiration. The men, save for Edward and Bruce, offered polite applause, their murmurs a mix of surprise and respect.

Daisy turned to Levi, her smile radiant, her lavender eyes shining. “We won!” she said, her voice breathless with joy. “Captain, you were incredible!”

Levi’s lips twitched, a rare, fleeting smirk. “Tch. You weren’t bad yourself,” he said, his tone gruff but warm. “Told you we’d wipe that smirk off his face.”

Edward stormed over, his face a mask of forced civility. “Well played, Captain,” he said, his voice tight. “Beginner’s luck, I suppose.” He turned to Daisy, his smile patronizing. “You did alright, darling, considering your injury. But next time, leave the games to the men, hmm?”

Daisy’s smile vanished, her lavender eyes flashing. “I think I did more than alright, Edward,” she said, her voice cold. “Maybe you should practice before the next game.” The retort was sharp, a rare defiance, and the noblewomen stifled giggles, their fans fluttering to hide their amusement.

The Duke approached, his smile broad as he clapped Levi on the shoulder. “A fine performance, Captain! You’ve got a knack for this. And Daisy, my dear, you were splendid. I’m proud of you both.” He gestured to the canopy, where servants were setting out fresh lemonade. “Come, let’s celebrate with a toast.”

As the crowd dispersed, Daisy lingered, her hand still on Levi’s arm. “Thank you,” she said softly, her lavender eyes meeting his. “For playing, for… everything. It meant a lot.”

Levi’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, but there was no bite in his voice. He stepped back, resuming his post, but his eyes lingered on her, a quiet acknowledgment of their victory—and something more, something neither dared name.

The noblewomen swarmed Daisy, their chatter a whirlwind of praise. “You and Captain Levi were unstoppable!” Charlotte said, her smirk wicked. “I swear, Daisy, you’re living a fairy tale.” Eleanor nodded, her toddler tugging at her skirt. “He’s like a knight, isn’t he? So gallant.”

Daisy blushed, her heart a storm of joy and longing. She glanced at Levi, standing sentinel once more, and knew that this moment—their win, their partnership—would linger in her diary, a secret treasure in a life bound by duty. For now, she let herself savor it, a fleeting rebellion against the cage of her future.

…

An hour later, the croquet game’s excitement lingered, the air humming with animated chatter, and Captain Levi was, predictably, the centerpiece of their conversations. The nobles, their silk gowns and tailored doublets, a vibrant mosaic, marveled at his unexpected skill in a game so foreign to his world. “To think, his first time playing croquet, and he outshone us all,” Beatrice said, her fan fluttering as she leaned toward Eleanor. “Is it any wonder, though? The man’s said to be as strong as a brigade.”

Daisy sat on a cushioned bench, her dress pooling around her, her bandaged ankle propped delicately on a stool. Her eyes drifted to Levi, who stood a few paces away, his still uniform pristine despite the day’s activities. His gray eyes scanned the crowd, ever vigilant, but she caught the faintest tension in his jaw, a sign he was enduring the nobles’ fascination rather than enjoying it. The memory of their croquet victory warmed her chest, a shared triumph that felt like a secret between them.

The noblewomen around her continued their chatter, their voices a soft chorus of admiration. “I swear, Captain Levi’s precision was uncanny,” Charlotte said, her green eyes glinting with mischief. “It’s like he was born to wield that mallet. Imagine him in a ballroom, leading a waltz with that same focus.” Her smirk slid to Daisy, who blushed, her lavender eyes darting to her lemonade glass.

“Oh, don’t tease her, Charlotte,” Eleanor said, her blonde curls bouncing as she laughed. “Poor Daisy’s already flustered enough.” Her toddler son, Elijah, sat at her feet, his chubby hands clutching a wooden toy horse. His wide blue eyes suddenly fixed on Levi, fascination lighting his face. Without warning, he toddled toward the captain, his tiny fingers tugging at Levi’s pant leg.

Levi’s gaze dropped, his eyebrow arching as he stared down at the ‘little brat’, as he mentally dubbed him. Elijah’s innocent curiosity was met with a stoic expression, but before Levi could react, Eleanor scooped her son up, her cheeks flushing. “Oh, Elijah, no!” she said, her voice apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Captain. He’s just… very curious.”

Levi’s expression softened, just a fraction. “It’s fine,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. He glanced at Elijah, who giggled and waved his toy horse, and Levi’s lips twitched, a fleeting hint of amusement that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Daisy watched the interaction, her heart skipping a beat. The sight of Levi with a child, however brief, sparked a cascade of thoughts. Does he have children of his own? she wondered, her gaze lingering on him. Probably not. He’s too busy saving humanity. But the question lingered, curling into another: Does he want kids someday? Levi was older than her, likely in his mid-to-late thirties, an age when many men settled down. Would he ever want a family, a wife, a home filled with laughter? The thought sent her mind spiraling, her earlier musings about motherhood resurfacing. Five children with Edward was a nightmare, a death sentence of obligation and revulsion. But five children with Levi? The image was startlingly vivid—tiny hands clutching his calloused fingers, his gray eyes softening as he taught them to be brave, his strength a shield for their family. He’d be a great father, she thought, her heart swelling with a longing she couldn’t suppress.

Daisy shook her head, her cheeks burning as she gripped her glass. What am I doing? she thought, mortified. Fantasizing about having his babies? I need to get a grip! She fanned herself, the motion a desperate attempt to banish the daydream, but the warmth in her chest lingered, a stubborn ember of desire.

The nobles’ chatter continued, the lemonade glasses emptying as the afternoon waned. The noblewomen rose, their gowns rustling as they prepared to depart, their carriages waiting at the estate’s gates. They swarmed Daisy, their farewells a flurry of hugs and air kisses. “It was a delightful day, Daisy,” Beatrice said, her smile warm. “You and Captain Levi were the highlight, truly.”

Margaret giggled, adjusting her hat. “I’ll be dreaming of that croquet game for weeks. You’re so lucky to have him guarding you.” Her eyes darted to Levi, who stood like a statue, his gray eyes fixed on Daisy.

Charlotte leaned closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t let Edward monopolize you, Daisy. Keep that captain close.” She winked, her smirk wicked.

Eleanor, cradling Elijah, couldn’t resist one final tease. “Have fun with your sexy bodyguard,” she said, her voice loud enough to carry. The other ladies burst into giggles, their fans fluttering as they stole glances at Levi.

Daisy’s jaw dropped, her lavender eyes widening in horror. “Eleanor!” she hissed, her face a furnace. “Shut up!” She knew Levi had heard—his subtle shift in posture, the faint narrowing of his eyes, confirmed it. When will this humiliation end? she thought, her mortification a living thing that pulsed with every beat of her heart. It was a ritual of embarrassment, a relentless gauntlet she couldn’t escape.

Levi’s internal sigh was heavy, his gray eyes flicking to the noblewomen. Spoiled brats, he thought, his jaw tightening. He hadn’t missed Eleanor’s comment, and while it didn’t faze him—nobles were always gossiping—it bothered him to see Daisy so flustered. Her blush, her nervous fanning, her stammered protests—they were all too clear, and he hated how exposed she looked under their scrutiny.

The Duke approached, his silver hair glinting as he adjusted his spectacles. “Daisy, my dear,” he said, his voice warm but concerned, “you’ve been on your feet too long. You should rest that ankle for a bit. You’ve done splendidly hosting today.”

Daisy nodded, her smile grateful but tired. “You’re right, Papa,” she said, setting down her glass. “I’ll head inside.” She glanced at Levi, her lavender eyes softening, and he stepped forward, ready to offer his arm.

But Edward swooped in and planted himself between Daisy and Levi. “No need for that, Captain,” he said, his voice overly cheerful but laced with a sharp edge. “I’ll escort my fiancée to her room.” He flashed a smile, his arm already reaching for Daisy. “You’ve been leaning on Levi so much today, darling, one might think he’s your fiancé.” His laugh was forced, a “joke” that fooled no one.

Daisy’s smile faltered, her annoyance flaring. Of course he’s jealous, she thought, her lavender eyes narrowing. Edward’s possessiveness was suffocating, and his attempt at humor only deepened her irritation. She sighed, accepting his arm with reluctance, her voice flat. “Fine, Edward. Let’s go.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed, his instincts bristling at Edward’s tone. He could see the jealousy, the insecurity masquerading as charm, and it pissed him off. But he followed, his boots silent on the grass, his gray eyes locked on Daisy. Edward’s arm wrapped around her waist, a gesture more proprietary than necessary, and Daisy’s subtle flinch didn’t escape Levi’s notice.

Edward glanced back, his smile tight. “Your presence isn’t required right now, Captain,” he said, his voice clipped. “I’ve got this under control.”

Levi’s gaze was a blade, cutting through Edward’s bravado. “I’m Lady Daisy’s protector,” he said, his voice low and unyielding. “I’m not letting her out of my sight. Escort her if you want, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Daisy’s heart skipped, her lavender eyes flicking to Levi. His words were a vow, his resolve unshakable, and the intensity in his gaze made her feel safe in a way Edward never could. Edward’s jaw tightened, his teeth gritting, but he knew Levi was right. With assassins still targeting Daisy, Levi’s presence was non-negotiable. “Very well,” he muttered, turning back to Daisy, his arm tightening around her waist.

As they walked toward the estate, Edward’s voice grew louder, deliberately so, ensuring Levi could hear every word. “You looked ravishing today, Daisy,” he said, his tone syrupy. “That dress hugs your curves perfectly. I can’t wait to see you in something… less, on our wedding night of course.” His laugh was crude, his eyes glinting with a leer that made Daisy’s skin crawl.

Daisy stiffened, her eyes widening in discomfort. “Edward, please,” she said, her voice tight, her hand pushing at his arm. “That’s not… appropriate.”

Levi’s blood boiled, his hands clenching behind his back. Edward’s words weren’t just inappropriate—they were disrespectful, a blatant attempt to assert dominance. “Watch it,” Levi snapped, his voice a low growl, his gray eyes blazing. “Show some damn respect.”

Edward whirled, his face reddening. “Excuse me?” he said, his voice rising. “Daisy’s my future wife. I can say what I want about her. You’re just a soldier, Captain. Mind your place.”

Levi didn’t flinch, his gaze unyielding. “She may be your future wife, but she’s not your property,” he shot back, his voice cold and precise. “She’s a woman, and you’ll treat her with respect, or we’ll have a problem.”

Daisy’s heart swelled, her lavender eyes glistening as Levi’s words washed over her. He was defending her, standing up to Edward in a way no one else had, and it made her feel seen, valued, in a way she hadn’t known she needed. But Edward’s gasp was theatrical, his outrage palpable. “How dare you!” he sputtered, stepping toward Levi. “You insolent—!”

“Enough!” The Duke’s voice cut through the tension, his silver hair glinting as he hurried over, his spectacles slipping down his nose. “What’s going on here?”

Daisy stepped forward, her voice trembling but firm. “Papa, Edward was… making inappropriate comments, and Captain Levi called him out. He was just doing his job, protecting me.”

The Duke’s brow furrowed, his warm eyes shifting between the two men. Edward’s face was a mask of indignation, his fists clenched, while Levi stood like a statue, his gray eyes steady, unapologetic. The Duke turned to Edward, his tone stern. “Is this true, Edward? Were you disrespecting my daughter?”

Edward’s jaw worked, his voice defensive. “I was merely complimenting my fiancée, Your Grace. This… soldier overstepped his bounds, speaking to me like I’m some commoner.”

Levi’s gaze didn’t waver. “I spoke the truth,” he said, his voice low. “Lady Daisy deserves respect. I won’t stand by while she’s treated otherwise.”

The Duke’s eyes softened as he looked at Daisy, noting her discomfort, the way her fingers twisted in her skirt. “Daisy, are you alright?” he asked, his voice gentle.

Daisy nodded, her lavender eyes meeting his. “I’m fine, Papa. I just… I didn’t like what Edward said. Captain Levi was protecting me, like you asked him to.”

The Duke sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Edward, you will apologize to Daisy. And you will mind your words in the future. As for you, Captain, your dedication is commendable, but let’s keep the peace, shall we?”

Edward’s face twisted, but he forced a stiff bow. “My apologies, Daisy,” he said, his voice clipped, his eyes burning with resentment. “It won’t happen again.”

Daisy nodded, her voice soft. “Thank you, Edward.” But her heart was with Levi, his defense a shield she clung to as they continued toward the estate, the tension lingering like a storm cloud.

Levi followed, his gray eyes locked on Daisy, his resolve unshaken. Edward’s words echoed in his mind—just a soldier—but they meant nothing. He didn’t care about the ton’s world, their games, their approval. All he cared about was Daisy’s safety, her dignity, and the quiet fire in her eyes that made his duty feel like something more. As they entered the cool shade of the estate, he knew this wouldn’t be the last clash with Edward, and he was ready for whatever came next.

~

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[muddy-water-1997]

𝖠𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖡𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗍𝗌

𝖳𝖶: 𝖤𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗌, 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝖬𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀?, 𝖭𝖣𝖠 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾

Chapter 4 - The Hilton

Even if you've seen a group at a concert and been keeping up with their social media, you need more preparation for the intensity of their presence. This realisation hits you hard as the van accelerates, seemingly defying local road laws. A cacophony of unfamiliar languages fills the air, emanating from phone speakers, fellow passengers, and the driver. It's as if your parasocial friends have unexpectedly whisked you away, leaving you feeling utterly powerless. 

As the chaos around you intensifies, you attempt to interject and calm the situation. "You know," you say firmly, your voice cutting through the noise. "If this is about your whereabouts or anything of that nature, you don't have to worry. We can keep a secret." You motion towards yourself and your friend, hoping to convey your sincerity. Despite the painful throbbing in your head and the lingering effects of alcohol, you try your best to maintain a serious demeanour.

"Oh, we can trust you?" Changbin retorts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, why didn't you just say that? Let's turn this whole thing around, and while I'm at it, I'll give you every member's private number so you can just call us and chat whenever you like." He turns away; his gaze is fixed on the passing scenery. A sigh of relief escapes his lips as the hotel doors come into view, and staff in all black await your arrival.

As Chan and Changbin stepped out of the SUV, Chan shot a frustrated look at his friend and whispered, "Dude, she's still recovering from the bump on her head, give her a break." Felix and your friend slowly helped you out of the vehicle and guided you towards the hotel entrance. As you approached them, a staff member directed you to a meeting room where medical staff awaited your arrival. The room was brightly lit with fluorescent overhead lights, the intensity of which only added to your ever-growing headache. All you could think about was the water you desperately wanted half an hour ago.

Following a thorough checkup by the medical team, which you found a bit too rigorous for your liking, you were informed that you could leave, but only if you agreed to rest for at least 48 hours. You turned towards your best friend, feeling utterly stunned by the intense night you had just experienced and eager to hail a taxi back to the hotel. Meeting your favourite band members had always been your dream, but you never imagined it would happen in such an unexpected, almost fanfiction-like way.

You emerge from the meeting room, clutching your trusty water bottle, still reeling from the blow you sustained earlier. Thankfully, the bandage on your head has stemmed the flow of blood that was previously cascading down your face. The medic had allowed you to glimpse your reflection momentarily, and you were taken aback by the sorry sight that stared back at you. Blood and mascara had mingled together, creating a gruesome sight, and your foundation was caked with gravel marks from the impact of your fall. 

As you step into the grand foyer, you can't help but marvel at its extravagance. The walls are decorated with intricate gold and cream details, and the area is overflowing with blooming flowers that match the décor perfectly. Your gaze is drawn to a cluster of eight men huddled at the bottom of the grand staircase, engaging in hushed conversation. Suddenly, you notice Felix's eyes snap in your direction as he becomes the first to acknowledge your entrance.

"Hey, y/n!" he called out as he approached you. You were surprised that you didn't freak out when you first saw him in this light. You tried to push the cringe-inducing thought of your first meeting out of your mind. As Felix called out, the rest of the group slowly turned to look at both of you. The situation was quite overwhelming. The other seven men were dressed in tracksuits and looked tired. Most of them smiled. However, two notable people didn't.

You smiled at Felix and said, "Thank you for everything, and I'm sorry for everything," gesturing towards yourself and the room to give him a general understanding of the situation. A small laugh escaped Felix's lips as you quickly turned on your heels to avoid further questions.

You spin back around, startled by the sudden interruption of Changbin's monotone voice. "Hold on," he says, his expression unreadable. "Management requires your attention. They need you to sign some important papers."

Hyunjin intervened, reaching out to grab Binnie's shoulder, and spoke up calmly and gently. "Don't be so harsh on them. Felix had good intentions and was only trying to do something kind for them. I believe anyone in his position would have done the same for you."

Minho chimed in, adding his two cents to the conversation. "It's not fair to blame Felix for Seungmin's loose lips," he remarked, his tone tinged with amusement.

Seungmin glanced over at IN, a hint of annoyance on his face. "If only someone hadn't taken four hours to get themselves sorted after the show," he muttered, his eyes rolling at the thinly veiled accusation.

"I think you'll find I was busy trying to find Han and Minho who couldn’t find their phones. I spent at least 3 of those hours trying to sort those two out", IN retorted.

"Well, that wasn't exactly why Minho and I took so long." Han retorted before Minhos hand sealed his mouth shut. Your eyes widen in disbelief.

"Okay, enough. We're all tired," Bangchan stepped in, ending the argument. "Let's just have you and your friend sign these documents so we can go to bed and forget that any of this happened." You have never agreed to anything sooner in your life. A staff member showed you a table where two forms were laid out for you and your friend to sign.

Both are labelled: JYPE NON DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT.

Damn. It is not the NDA you were expecting to receive after a concert, but here you are, and at this point, you just want to be out of there and back in your own, much lower-standard hotel. A pen is quickly handed to you by another member of the seemingly endless staff, and you sign it without reading through the document. 

After receiving an NDA from the group of eight men, you force a smile and turn away, feeling a mix of disappointment and frustration. As you approach the reception desk to order a taxi back to your hotel, you can't help but replay the night's events. The concert you had been eagerly anticipating for weeks had turned out to be a huge letdown, and the insensitive comment from Changbin had just added insult to injury. You try to push the negative thoughts aside and hope that when you wake up, it will all have been a crazy, vivid dream, and the disappointing concert will be just a distant memory.

NEXT CHAPTER

𝖶𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾? 𝖳𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾! 𝖬𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝖻𝗈𝗑 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌! 

𝖶𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗃𝗈𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍? 𝖣𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝖣𝖬!

[marleyelona]

MIRACLE

Prologue

The Call

[An Original Drama]

☆《》¤

INSIDE AN OLD RUSTIC BARN, by the bails of hay, a makeshift stage was set up where Mira Sandilands sat, her guitar in hand as she casually rested the instrument on her lap. A microphone was positioned before her as her angelic voice filled the room, mingling with the creaking of the worn, swollen wood caused by the strong winds outside, and the heavy rain drops pouring down on the rusty iron roof.

This was her happy place—a woman with her guitar, singing about something real—meaningful, not stuff that didn't matter—like a one night stand, or about how good someone could shake their booty—real genuine emotion, things that seemed to no longer exist in music today—or at the least, it was rare to find.

The sound of chatter and glasses clicking surrounded the confined space. A small group of people just having a yarn and a good laugh, while enjoying a beer or two. This was what life was about—the small, carefree moments that made the best memories.

There might not have been many people watching her performance tonight, but Mira didn't mind. Ever since her career had taken off, she had felt almost lost, not as happy as she thought she would have been. Since she was a little girl all she wanted was to be a singer. She could remember the notebook she used to bring with her everywhere, carrying it around like a handbag. It was filled with all the songs she had written herself—one about the chicken in the barn, or the fox she saw in the woods through her bedroom window late one night. Of course the songs didn't make sense, but her passion for music was always there.

And since her first record deal, her passion and genuinity had been overshadowed by what the record label told her to produce—what they thought people wanted to listen to. She had lost everything she was—everything she stood for. So, she made a promise to herself to write for her and no one else. Leaving her million dollar record deal and venturing out on her own; back to her roots, singing at pubs and clubs for barely enough money to pay rent. But for the first time in a long time, she felt happy. Enjoying the music again just like when she was that twelve year old girl, receiving her first guitar.

The sound of light applause caused a smile to grace her face as Mira stepped off the stage through the small gap in the curtain that was set up to give the country singer a little privacy. Behind the black silk was a small space just for her. Where she could put her feet up between sets.

Placing her guitar on its stand, she walked over to the large esky sat against the back wall. Opening the suction lid, she grabbed herself a bottle of water, before gently closing the esky. Twisting off the cap from the plastic bottle, she brought it to her lips and took a sip, then walked over to the open door, leading out into the wildness. Pressing her back against the door frame, she looked out into the musky woods. Sliding down to a seated position, she placed the water beside her and closed her eyes, taking in the feeling of the breeze against her delicate skin, listening to the music of nature—the call of the kookaburra, the chirping of crickets nearby and the light buzz of mosquitoes that were drawn to the small outdoor light above her head.

Suddenly, the vibration of her phone in her back pocket of her ripped jeans broke her out of her peaceful state of mind. As a sigh left her lips, she slightly rose from the floor enough to be able to pull the device out. Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the name appearing on the screen.

Maeve

Squeezing her eyes shut, it took her a moment to compose herself, before she slid the green button across the screen and placed the device to her ear.

"Hello," she murmured, her voice almost inaudible.

"Mira?" the woman's voice croaked through the phone, strained with emotion. A sniffle followed, clearly that she had been crying. "Lovey, it's time to come home." This time her strong Irish accent shone through. Even after living in Australia for over two decades, her roots clung to more than just her voice.

Mira let out a shaky breath, her eyes welling with tears. Maeve didn't need to elaborate, Mira knew—it was happening—it was time.

Time to say goodbye.

WORDS: 786

TAGLIST : @horrorseventhree @samcrosfaith @jouroux @the-angry-acrobat

(Let me know if you want to be added/removed)

ALL CHAPTERS HERE

[moonandstcrs]

closed event starter ft. @ofblanketsandkittens

theodosia stood at the edge of the deck, gloved hands clasped neatly before her, her gaze drawn out across the darkening sea as the ship swayed gently beneath her slippers. the evening air carried the mingled scent of salt and spiced wine, laughter trailing like ribbons from the upper decks where the celebration was in full swing. candlelight shimmered on the water’s surface, catching the motion of the waves and making them dance like polished silk. it was all rather lovely—lavish in that thorpe fashion that always bordered on theatrical, but still charming in its own way.

she turned slightly at the sound of approaching footsteps, recognizing them before she even lifted her eyes. naida. always graceful, always certain in her stride, always the one to make the world still when everything else felt too loud.

“my love,” theodosia said softly, offering a small smile as her wife came to her side. “you’ve not yet tried to push me overboard. i must say, i’m impressed. i was certain you’d take the opportunity—what with the plank so conveniently placed and all.”

her tone was mild, nearly amused. a glint of mischief flickered in her pale eyes before vanishing just as quickly beneath her usual composed veneer. she glanced back out at the horizon, her voice quieter now, warmer. “still, i am glad we came. it’s nice, is it not? to be among familiar faces—though i’ll admit, the vows did leave me feeling as though i ought to recite a few lines of devotion myself. perhaps we missed our moment with all our escaping.”

she leaned lightly against the railing, the sea breeze tugging loose strands from her pinned-up hair. “but you look beautiful tonight. more so than anyone here. not that i’m biased.” a pause, then, with a sidelong glance and the barest twitch of her lips. “if i am to be sentenced to the plank, let me at least fall to my doom knowing i married the finest woman in the room.”

her fingers brushed naida’s, tentative. waiting. testing the waters in more ways than one.

[through-fire-and-flame]

The soft hum of the metropolitan evening settled over the apartment.  In the low, warm light of the living room, Laurentius was a study in weariness.  He slouched against the sofa, one hand propping his head, his fingers lost in his rumpled hair.  Normally bright eyes were dimmed with exhaustion, and the faintest shadow of a frown pulling at his brow.  His favoured green hoodie was crumpled, its threadbare cuffs frayed where his fingers had worried at them, and the throw blanket Anri had draped over him earlier clung unevenly to his shoulders.

Lingering in the doorway, her gaze softened at the sight of him.  He looked utterly spent, as though the weight of the world had chosen him, tonight, to rest upon.  The sight sent a pang through her chest.

“You look done in,” she said softly, brushing her fingers along his arm as she passed.  

Laurentius cracked one eye open, his lips curving into a lopsided smile.  It carried a quiet reassurance, a wordless insistence that he was fine – don’t worry about me – but the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face betrayed him.

Before he could offer any further pretence, Anri disappeared down the hallway to the bathroom.  A haven of cool tiles and time-worn elegance.  Their bath was a great claw-footed thing, old enough to hold stories of its own, and it was among her favourite features of their little home.  She hung a towel on the radiator, then twisted the taps, watching as water spilled forth, hot enough to fog the mirror and sting her fingers when she tested it.  Just shy of scalding – she was sure he preferred it that way.

Reaching for the dead sea salts, she tipped them in with an unhurried hand, then plucked a few fresh lavender heads from the small pot she kept on the windowsill.  Crushing them gently between her palms, their sharp, herbaceous and soothing scent mingled with the steam before she tossed them into the water. 

When she returned to the living room, she found him much as she had left him, though his head now tipped forward, the faintest rise and fall of his chest betraying how close he was to sleep.  Anri paused, standing in the doorway for a moment, unsure whether to wake him.  Then, quiet as a church mouse, she padded across the room and leaned down, pressing a feather-light kiss to the crown of his drowsy head.

“It’s ready,” she whispered.  

He stirred, blinking up at her with unfocused eyes, the faintest hum of confusion escaping his lips.

“The bath,” she explained, smoothing the blanket over his shoulders with a delicate hand.  “It’ll help.  Go on – I’ll get the fire going while you’re in there.”

Or at least, she would try.

He isn't used to being looked after. Looking after others, oh, aye, been doing it his whole life. But some crucial path between being helpful and deserving help himself never quite seemed to connect for Laurentius; Anri, in that regard (and so many others), has been a revelation. On any other night like tonight, he'd have dozed right off on the couch and woken up a few muddled hours later, neck hurting from the awkward angle, before trying to stand under the water for a few minutes and then going to bed.

He can't remember being tended to. Being loved like this. It's enough that, as she smooths the blanket out over him, he gives her an owlish, confused stare for a moment.

"What in the world did I do to deserve you?" he murmurs. His voice is all startled affection, as though the sheer amount of love surging up in him has surprised him. She's so soft. So bloody kind. He takes internal inventory of all the good deeds he's ever done - admittedly a lot of them, as though he owed the universe an apology for being himself - and still cannot account for whatever karmic book-keeping has placed him in her (their, his brain muzzily recounts) flat on a cold winter's night with a warm bath drawn for him. There are lottery winners less lucky than him.

But does it matter? Does it matter whether, in some intangible and broadly cosmic way, he deserves her? What he knows is that she loves him. What he knows is that she smiles every time he comes home like she's seeing him for the first time. What he knows is that her response to his fatigue is to draw him a warm bath and kiss him on his head.

What he knows is that he's happier than he's ever been, and she loves him, and he loves her too, and really - that ought to be enough.

He takes her hand as he climbs to his feet, pulls her gently close to him, and pecks her lips.

"Whatever I did, it wasn't enough, but I'm grateful for it," he manages. "Thank you, lovely. Thank you twice."

[alwri-tes]

Sister of Vipers Character Intros!

Sisters of Vipers has been out for almost a week now, and I've been so overwhelmed with life stuff that I have definitely been procrastinating on this, so, without further ado, some basic intros to the characters!

Zomoc: Age thirteen in part one, sixteen in part two. Zomoc was raised by her doting and fiercely protective mother and grandmother. She had no idea who her father was until she was thirteen, and she didn't care in the slightest, because she already felt she had everything she needed in her life. Well, maybe not everything. At thirteen, Zomoc was focused on moving up the ladder in life, and that started by securing a solid path to becoming a priestess for good like her mentor, Firaza. Because, despite educating Zomoc part-time, Firaza felt that Zomoc should at least finish her government-mandated schooling before deciding to fully dedicate herself to the life of a priestess. Zomoc, who has always been the kind of person to never take her eyes off the prize, decided that the only way she could instantly prove herself worthy would be to convert a demon. Zomoc had heard rumors about a place where demons and humans mingled in order to illegally exchange magic (only priests and priestesses could safely use magic), and sought the place out. She didn't succeed in converting a demon, but she did gradually get drawn into a traumatizing chain of events that shattered everything she thought she knew about her life. In terms of her personality, Zomoc is a fiercely caring person who would do anything for her loved ones, even if she often has trouble truly expressing her affection. She is often blunt, usually without meaning to be. When relaxed and happy, she can be optimistic and talkative. When upset, or triggered, she can be aggressive and volatile, or dissociated and withdrawn. She is overall a very determined and hard-working person, even if her emotions sometimes overwhelm her.

Mola: Age two in the prologue, age thirteen in part one, age sixteen in part two. Mola is a hybrid- half human, half sea demon. She was found abandoned as an infant on a beach, and was taken in by a family of sea demons, who loved her as their own. When he was in his teens, Mola's older brother got involved with the Masked Market, a place where demons can secretly trade their illegal magic with humans. Mola gradually became intermittently involved with the Masked Market herself as a result, befriending many of the demons there. She is arguably more level-headed than most Market demons, and learned from an early age how to keep her cool under pressure. She is a planner and a go-getter, and uses these skills to help fight back against the government that outlaws interactions or relationships between humans and demons, keeping demons permanently sidelined from society. Mola and her brother both deeply resent the fact that they've been denied education, respect, and more because of this...but if Mola has her way, that will be changed. By force.

Blood Drinker: Roughly age twenty six in part two. Blood Drinker is a sea demon and a Deal-maker. He trades his magic in exchange for valuable knowledge at the Masked Market. A cunning and firm expert in Deal-making, Blood Drinker isn't afraid to scare people to get his point across, whether its threatening to cut their limbs off for betraying him, or simply letting them cower in fear of his blood-painted mask. Despite his fearsome exterior, he has a truly caring heart, as he got his start making Deals to help people, and he would do anything for his friends and family. Deal-making just so happens to help him do that. In fact, one of the biggest reasons he's still a Deal-maker is because he made a very special promise.

Matlaihutl: Age unclear, and muddled due to the fact that he's been dead for years. In terms of appearance, he looks to be somewhere in his mid to late teens. A ghost who frequently appears in the Masked Market on the Night of Spirits, the one night a year when the spirits of the dead can walk amongst the living. Matlaihutl knew the wealthy family who used to own the massive, grand building that the Masked Market now does business in, and he needs to stick around to keep an eye on their descendants. Years ago, Matlaihutl and Blood Drinker made a promise to each other, and it's so cryptic that not even Blood Drinker himself is sure of all that it entails, or all the fine print. Despite this ominous introduction, Matlaihutl is actually a fun-loving, social person who loves to hang out with the living on the Night of Spirits. He's just a little secretive. That's all.

Echi: Age unclear, but roughly somewhere in her twenties or thirties. Zomoc's mother. A friendly, dedicated mother with a sassy side, Echi loves Zomoc more than anything in the world. Her daughter has always been a little strange, sure, but it's nothing Echi can't handle. Zomoc inherited her mother's willingness to make herself heard, and they are both like a dog with a bone when they get an idea in their heads- they'll never let it go. Echi is protective of not only her daughter, but any child who she senses might be in need of help-and on an island like this one, there are unfortunately a lot of those. Thankfully, she's optimistic enough to be up to the challenge.

Lord Terip: Age unclear, described as an "aging man," so likely middle-aged or approaching old age. A wealthy and widowed recluse, Lord Terip fell from proper society's good graces after he was deemed partially responsible for the horrifying death of a teenage girl, the daughter of another lord. He feels incredible guilt over this. The weight of his past mistakes weighs on Lord Terip every day, and when he sees a potential opportunity to, at the very least, try to stop something bad from happening, he takes it. His methods are unorthodox and violent, but he still tried, at least...? Mentally unstable from beginning to end, Lord Terip and the rumors that surround him like dark clouds are relatively inscrutable. He came, he saw, he left a mark.

Bahnkil: Age unspecified, likely somewhere in his thirties. Lord Terip's much more mentally stable nephew. He too, wants to help people, but his methods are a lot less violent. Anxious and a bit of a people pleaser, all he wants is the best for his family and fellow citizens.

Piranha: Age unspecified, roughly somewhere in his thirties. A sea demon who knew Matlaihutl when he was alive, among others. Piranha is frequently present at the Masked Market, although he does not trade his magic. With his scars, interesting stories of foreign lands, and his mysterious past, Piranha is a bit like a pirate of myth to the younger folks at the Masked Market. Piranha is very determined to help protect these younger folks and himself, and he's more than willing to get his hands dirty to do it.

Barnacle: Age fifteen at time of death. The ghost of a sea demon who appears in the Masked Market during the Night of Spirits. Due to the rumors that surround her life and death-the death that Lord Terip was deemed partially responsible for- Barnacle is a very mysterious and tragic figure. But she's not really scary at all, she's very kind-hearted and righteous, even after her good name was slandered by some people after her death. Well, okay, she's only scary if you threaten her loved ones. So, don't. Just. Don't.

Talac: Age sixteen at time of death. Another ghost. Talac, like Barnacle, is also clouded in rumors and tragedy, but that doesn't stop him from being willing to talk to people or offer much needed advice. While he has a history of trying to make unhinged plans work (they don't always work), he will always try to stand by what's right, even if that means going against what everyone else tells him to do.

Borozar: Age unclear, an adult man. A powerful priest and Firaza's right hand man. Borozar is both friendly and very, very strict. He will never make an exception to any rules, especially those established by the gods. If something has been deemed a sin, it's a sin. No exceptions. Ever. Especially not when it comes to magic.

And finally,

Firaza: Age unclear, likely in her thirties or older. The most powerful priestess on the island, Firaza is regarded as a hard working bringer of knowledge of the gods. She's excellent with people, and even more excellent at getting them to do what she wants, or to believe what she tells them. She wouldn't ever admit that, of course, because that would be vain, and a bringer of holy knowledge must always be humble. And she's humble! Really! She would never let power like this get to her head. So don't question her ego. Don't question her story of her past either, despite all the holes in it. How about you just don't question anything she says, at all, ever?