#peacock the resort

[stitchyarts]

when will Baltasar Frías come back from the war (renewal limbo) ??? He’s my favorite little scion of a fashion house turned detective and i MISS HIM!

[the-silver-peahen-residence]

The Raven{Tsubasa} pay the famed Batman(Terry) a visit, after not seeing him for awhile. He hopes he's doing well, so he brought a tin box full of cookies and a bouquet of flowers(that he definitely didn't steal). "Oh Batsy~ I brought you something~"

"Uggghhh..how am I going to get rid of this? I still have to wait till later on tonight and it's gone. But it feels really weird." He grumbles to sit on his chair trying not to move too much. Having 'this' was really uncomfortable but even wearing nothing didn't help. Somehow he wanted it to be over.

That's when he tenses hearing the Raven's voice. "Oh shit....Uhhhh....hold on a moment!" he calls out going to try looking calm.

[laurelroadpoetry]

Forty-Eight Hours in South Haven

[ladyofdecember]

So I'm watching this new show called The Resort on Peacock. It's actually very close to that other thriller series Saint X but different in that it's about a couple who is investigating the deaths of two tourists they've never met! 😮 It's very good!

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐚 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: john has a bad habit of running his mouth, especially during a sparring lesson — after taking it too far, he makes it up to you in more ways than one.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.2K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), john is a bit of an asshole, sparring lesson turned sexual, lots of banter, shower sex, teasing, cocky john, begging, making out, hair pulling kink, john walker’s praise kink, cunnilingus, oral sex (fem!rec), john is a certified munch, handjob, light face riding, suggestive ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: y’all do not understand how OBSESSED I am with him! like I love writing for him! this was based on a request I received! I hope you all enjoy & thank you all for your continued support! 🫶

John’s got a smug mouth — he wields it with a deft expertise, as well-honed with making offhanded quips as he is throwing around his shield. Arrogance bleeds from him like an open wound, cocksure with a constant desire to be right.

It’s a constant clash of retorts and smarmy banter that occasionally grates on the nerves of the team, including yours, even if you’re in a relationship.

Sometimes, he still speaks to you as if you’re still indifferent, when it couldn’t be further from the truth. It agitates you, but you’ve learned to pass it off as something innately harmless.

Despite the mutual agreement to conceal your newfound romance from the team, a sliver of you longed to scream it out into the open.

Instead, you resorted to stolen glances during breakfast, quick kisses in the corridor, and sneaking off at night like two teenagers.

Today, he’s wearing that peacocking attitude on his sleeve, remarks like teeth wrapping around a wound, taunting. It’s biting; beneath it are good intentions, but they’re lost to his condescension.

“You’re still leaning right.”

In the center of the training room, you’re squared up with a boxing bag, knuckles split and raw, beads of sweat glittering against your temple. Beneath your breast, your heart skittered at an accelerated pace, muscles burning with exertion.

Postured behind the heavy bag, John’s visage is one of obvious disgruntlement, jaw pulled tight, his arms folded over his chest. Blonde tresses are a touch disheveled, brows creased together.

The spandex shirt he wears occasionally distracts you, corded muscle glaringly present. He’s painfully handsome, and you want to hate him for it, especially in the moment. It’s difficult to concentrate.

It might’ve been a mistake to ask your boyfriend for hand-to-hand combat instruction; he got mean when he taught. It wasn’t malicious, but it wasn’t how you needed to learn.

Survival was a second skin to him, self-preservation interwoven into years of rigorous military experience. His instruction seemed more akin to a drill sergeant than a man trying to teach his girlfriend something new.

For John, it was ‘be stronger or die, fight or succumb’; he cared about you too much. Despite your abilities, close quarters was where you seemed to falter, and he was determined to whip you into shape.

“I don’t think so.” Composed, your gaze floats to him, standing behind the bag, blonde brows furrowing together. Flexing out an arm, you notice the tick of annoyance in his jaw.

“You don’t think so?” John echoes, countenance a half-grimace of determination. Stepping out from the bag, he mimics your boxing stance, though you’re convinced he’s exaggerating your hypothetical right lean. “This is what you look like.”

Indignant, your mouth falls open with a brief huff, as if the idea is simply preposterous to you. It doesn’t make any sense, but you concede to him, brows knitting together. “Fine. I’ll fix it.” You sigh, knowing he’s too stubborn to disagree with.

He’s taking this training aspect a little too seriously for your liking, even if the intent behind it is meaningful. “Go again.” He grits, reassuming his position behind the bag, gaze appraising your form.

A dull burn paints your sternum, breathing a touch hoarse from running drills, and his were less than forgiving. Regardless of his agitation, you prepare to go again, hands hovering around your face, body posturing against the bag.

With a soft huff, you begin again, hands pounding against the sandbag with noisy thwacks, knuckles raw, bruised from the leather’s rough exterior.

Muscles scream with a dull ache, unaccustomed to being used in such a violent manner. Fighting is something you aren’t exactly fond of; it never brings you any peace or comfort. Though, you understand the importance of learning, John is too zealous.

Stone-faced, John’s stern glower inspects your stance, following every swing of your hands, every clash of the bag. You’re still off-kilter, body teetering to the right side again, swinging with minimal momentum.

“Still leaning right,” John quips, listening to the irritated huff that tears past your lips. “Fix your stance, stop relying on your front leg.” He can taste the annoyance as it rolls from your being, but it’s necessary; he wants you to get it right.

“I’m not leaning right.” You protest, growing discouraged with your lesson. The footwork was something you could practice, but you felt as if the rest of your stance was formidable enough; maybe John was testing you.

A derisive laugh split his throat, sardonic enough to make you bristle, hands lowering to your sides. “You’re leaning to the right. Do it again, and you’ll fall over — do that in a real fight, you’re dead.”

Disdainful, your frustration only seemed to grow from there, marked by an unpleasant curl of your mouth, body running hot. The tepid haze of the training room was beginning to go to your head, air stale and arid.

“This isn’t a real fight,” Arguing over the semantics of a boxing lesson seems pathetic, but his attitude is grating on you; more so than usual. “This is practice, and you’re taking it too seriously.” You mumble, stooping to pick up your water bottle.

John scoffs, bewildered by your attitude. He doesn’t see it as practice; he sees it as a training scenario, and if you can’t properly defend yourself, he’s terrified that he won’t be able to save you in time.

He couldn’t save Lemar, couldn’t save his teammates in the desert; the thought of losing you too became a constant nightmare.

In his dreams, he was in Latvia, his shield stained with crimson, blood on his hands — sometimes it’s your blood.

His jaw twitches, the nightmare hanging fresh within the recesses of his mind, clawing its way to the forefront, as if to make the sting worse. John isn’t used to having someone care deeply about him, and vice versa.

Stepping away, you’re eager for a reprieve. “What, just like that and you’re giving up?” He’s pushing you, prodding; it isn’t right, toying with your vulnerability, but he wants you to be strong, to be capable.

“John, you’re being mean.” Within your softer cadence lies a stern warning for him to stop, as if attempting to quell his attitude before it gets worse. Cold water trickles down your throat, flesh matted by perspiration.

“I’m being realistic.” With a gritty counterpoint, John steps out from behind the bag, muscled arms folded tightly over his chest. “You need to know this stuff — if the mission gets too dangerous …”

“I can’t know it if you’re being like this.” Beneath the rugged, rough exterior, is a man who wants to ensure that you know how to protect yourself. You understand to some extent, but his demeanor is beginning to get to you.

Deciding that you’ve had enough of his lessons for the day, you walk toward the bench, retrieving your towel as you wipe sweat from your neck.

“I’m not going to coddle you,” John’s still going, attempting to make you understand where he’s coming from. “You asked for my help, and I’m helping you.” He’s already regretting the way the words sound; he’s being harsh.

Through an exasperated sigh, your brows furrow together, hands wrenched tightly into the towel as you try and relieve some of your anxiousness. Turning on your heel, you face him, chin jutting out with mild defiance.

“I don’t want you to coddle me. I just want you to drop the attitude and train me.” Despite the cordiality within your tone, you’re trying to avoid an unnecessary argument. It all feels so trivial, bickering over this.

“I don’t have an attitude,” Akin to a petulant child, his cadence is remarkably reminiscent of someone who has an attitude. Realizing how he sounds, he concedes, trailing after you as you make for the door. “Are you finished?”

“For today, yes,” Still, you’re calm, feeling him nipping at your heels all the way to your room. He doesn’t leave, much to your surprise, even as you open the door and clamor inside. “Do you have another retort to add?”

Once the both of you have privacy, the asshole demeanor begins to dissipate, as if he’s dissolving all on his own. Behind closed doors, he gets soft — and you’re the reason why.

Through a clenched jaw, John doesn’t say anything at first, watching as you dab the cloth over your brow. He cares about you so much that his chest begins to burn, despite himself.

A hush falls between, and he knows it’s a fight he lost; glaringly obvious, too. He resorts to standing by the door as you kick off your tennis shoes, a damp splotch of sweat around your collar, tresses matted against your temples.

A flicker of realization begins to dawn on him; he was being too much. You had a point with him taking it too seriously, but it was all done with the best intentions. He wanted you to learn the right way, and be safe.

John’s eyes momentarily screw shut, tension unfurling from his shoulders. “I’m sorry.” Apologizing used to feel like a weakness, but he knows it isn’t — he’s learned to accept that.

Expecting you to be smug or bite back with vitriol, you lift your head, countenance softening as you meet his gaze. “I know your intentions, and they’re good — but I’m your girlfriend, too. I want your help, but I don’t want the callousness.”

Conceding, John nods, a simple jostle of his head, blonde tresses disheveled. Even when slick with sweat and frustrated, he’s still handsome, painfully so, careworn palms rough from years of hard work. “I’ll be gentler.” He utters, sincere.

The bravado and grit wears off, as if it’s some skin he’s shed, revealing the rawness of the man underneath it all. In truth, he wants to make sure that you know how to protect yourself — eases the worrying, eases the fear.

There’s an inner turmoil he’s wrestling with; he wears it openly with you, less so with others. Vulnerability is still a concept he’s untangling, deciphering as he works through his own labyrinth of sins.

With every mission, he fears losing you — not fast enough, not strong enough, not man enough to protect you. The toxic values instilled to him by years of government propaganda are being unraveled; it’s a slow process.

“John.”

Through the shroud of his insecurities, you shatter it like sunlight through shadow, chasing away the swarm of darker thoughts that plagued him. A brief exhale escapes him as he focuses on you, his smile threadbare.

“I can’t think of a better teacher,” Truthfully, he’s incredibly skilled in all ways imaginable; he’s intelligent, too. There’s plenty to learn from him, despite his rougher methods of tutelage. “Just work on your teaching voice.”

With a bemused huff, his smile morphs into a characteristic smirk, charming — it ensnares you without a shred of effort. “I’ll work on it,” You know he will, too. “Are you okay?” He inquires, hoping that he didn’t kill your mood.

You slip off of your bed, tugging at the collar of your shirt, as it uncomfortably sticks to your skin. “I’m great, really,” Reassuringly, you smile at John, placating his brief tangle of nerves. “How are you not sweaty?”

John withholds the urge to make a flirtatious insinuation, uncrossing his arms as he watches you rifle through for clean clothes. “Watching you in those leggings did make me sweat a little.” He teases, subject to your grousing stare.

“Stop it.” You mumble, smiling despite yourself as he raises one hand in faux defense. A soft chuckle shakes his shoulders, a rarer sound that fills your bones with warmth.

Bridging the gap between you, his hands find your hips without pause, lightly tracing over the small of your back. “You’re pretty when you’re frustrated with me.” John murmurs, savoring your flustered expression as you press a hand against his chest.

“It’s a constant thing, you should be used to it.” He gets under your flesh and buries himself there, too sure of himself, mouth slacked into a gregarious smirk. Though, you like it more than you care to admit.

John attempts to kiss you, but you playfully turn at the last second, bearded mouth falling against your jaw, instead. You’re tormenting him because of the boxing thing, and he knows it.

Wriggling from his grasp, you shuffle backwards, padding toward your bathroom instead. You stop in the doorway, framed by a tranquil glow. “Are you coming?” You muse, catching him off-guard, much to your own amusement.

“What?” John’s mildly bewildered, but it seems to die down when he realizes what you’re propositioning. Hunger reveals itself with a snarl and yearning, arms flexing as his posture straightens up.

“Shower,” Despite the innocuous nature of your tone and the pretty smile, there is a hint of an ulterior motive. You squirm within your sweat-laden shirt. “I feel disgusting.” Peeling your top aside, you toss it onto the floor.

John bites back a grin, scratching at his beard before trailing after you, masking his enthusiasm. “Yes, ma’am,” He muses, kicking off his shoes beside the door, following you into the bathroom. “Want some help?”

You don’t need it, but you want it anyway, warmth spreading over the back of your neck as you turn, back facing him. Switching on the shower, you stay that way, feeling his calloused fingertips brush over your spine.

He’s unfastening your bra with a disarming tenderness, focused, warm breath pluming over the back of your neck. His musculature is firm against you, spandex t-shirt pulled taut over his chest, biceps tempting you.

Rough hands mold themselves to your body, mapping every muscle-deep bruise like a constellation, planting a kiss against your shoulder. It’s apologetic, sweet — John doesn’t have to say anything that you don’t already know.

Slowly, you turn, wedged up against the marble countertop, his body cornering yours. Wordlessly, your fingers drag to the hem of his shirt, curling into the fabric before easing it upward.

John removes it all in one smooth motion, fluid, physique raw and sinewy, corded with thick muscle, chest layered in a light dusting of blond hair. Heat wafts from his skin, peppered in days-old bruises, faded scars.

Whatever you wanted to say turns to ash in your mouth, gaze doe-eyed, adoring. It’s a look he’s still growing accustomed to, sitting with the notion that you genuinely wanted him.

“I really care about you,” Little more than a whisper, your admittance is saccharine, doing little to mask your affections for him. “Smug mouth and all.” You muse, feeling his hand dip to cup your hip, thumb tracing circles over your leggings.

“Smug mouth, huh?” John taunts with a smirk, cerulean hues burning with a desirous intensity, lips shifting to plant a kiss over your jaw. The scratch of his beard has quickly become one of your favorite sensations.

“The worst.” Your mumble is disarmingly sweet, your smile suppressed beneath an expression that attempts to veil your true feelings. Even then, he breaks through your barriers with ease.

Through a bemused huff, John’s mouth explores your throat, hands snaking down to tease the waistband of your leggings. “You don’t have anything to say about it when we’re in bed.”

The fiery quip sends a shockwave through your stomach, a stab of heat, tangling around your nerves like ivy. “John …” There is little warning in your tone, save for desperation. He’s being unfair.

Urging against your leggings, you’re subservient, letting his fingers hook into the spandex, easing you out of the garment altogether. He’s suave, cocky — that familiar arrogance is present again, but you find it attractive this time.

Steam begins to float through the bathroom, water sputtering overhead as you careen into his embrace. Stepping out of the thin fabric, you’re standing in your underwear, eager to slip beneath the hot water.

Nails idly trace over his abdomen, drawing little circles as he plants a string of kisses to your jugular. A soft exhale warbles through your nose, lips parted as you glance toward the shower.

“You’re getting distracted.” You murmur, visibly smitten as he lifts his head, hand greedily groping at the back of your thigh. John’s lips twitch into that visage of sardonicism, head cocking to one side.

“Can you blame me?” Smooth, his reply sets your nerves ablaze, something hot stirring within your belly as you sidestep toward the shower. You’re sliding out of your panties, and he’s right on your tail, kicking out of his clothes.

Stepping into the shower, a column of steaming water drizzled over your skin, washing away the sweat that clung to you. Reaching for your soap, you immediately begin to work on cleaning off.

Soothing the dull throbbing of days-old bruises and aching muscles, you sigh, stealing a glance at John.

He’s maddeningly well-endowed; annoyingly impressive like the rest of him, something you’ve told him before, and it all seemed to go to his head. He smooths a hand through his blonde tresses, slicked by water.

A delicate shade of pink clung to his cheeks; splotched, dappled over his skin, sunkissed and blanketed in a layer of freckles. Muscles flex and contort, cast in the dull glow of the bathroom, beaded droplets rolling over his abdomen.

“Are you done staring?” Ripping you from your thoughts, his snide inquiry makes you jump, caught in the act, but you’re unperturbed by it.

“No,” It’s easy to bait him by batting your eyelashes, gaze round and doe-eyed, catching the terse tick of his jaw. Your tongue scrapes over your bottom lip, soap suds gliding down your back. “You’re so handsome — just really attractive.”

The teasing lilt in your tone has dropped, replaced with a sweeter sincerity that makes his heart nearly come out of his chest. John’s gaze shifts to something heady, eclipsed by desire, festering with the shadow of want.

“Yeah?” Closer, he’s seizing your hips, lips crushing against yours in a bruising kiss. It stings, ripping every wisp of air from your lungs, leaving you burning for more. His beard scratches ragged, fingers pressed into pliant flesh.

A ragged sigh snares within your throat, manifesting as a mere hum, body vibrating with exhilaration. His pearlescent teeth briefly scrape over your bottom lip.

Eager digits clamor to sink into his chest, nails digging light crescents into his skin, a sting he thoroughly enjoys. “John,” A moan floats from your mouth, body humming with a muted buzz. “Want your mouth.”

He’s grinning, a cat who just caught the canary. That sharp tongue is already winding up with something devious to say, something agonizingly audacious.

“Thought you said it was the worst,” John grunts, remark branded against your mouth, hot and vainglorious. Impatient with his incessant teasing, his mask slips when your hand reaches to fist at the nape of his neck. “Shit.”

A flicker of surprise flutters over his features, secretly reveling in the way you’d roughly grasped at his hair. His growing arousal pulses heavily against your thigh, oozing heat, proof there for you to feel.

Mouths clash again, an amalgamation of teeth and tongue, ripples of pent-up repression oozing into each kiss. John wants you terribly, more than he ever thought possible, cock beginning to throb when you whine into his lips.

“Please,” Desperate, you’re craving him, hungry, letting it crawl over your flesh like some white-hot wave of heat. “I want you.” You say it again, pleading this time, digits threading into his hair, pulling with another wanton tug.

John is unable to deny you, gaze half-lidded, throat bobbing as he swallows the groan threatening to split through his chest. There’s some foggy, lust-ridden haze he wades through, succumbing to baser instincts.

Before another pathetic whine can burst from your mouth, he’s pushing you up against the shower wall, strong palms keeping you steady. “Jesus,” He groans into the warmth of your mouth, kissing you until your chest feels tight. “You’re killin’ me.”

His Georgian drawl tapers off with certain syllables, gooseflesh icing your spine as you let one hand caress his abdomen. He shudders, brows pinched, countenance wrought with concentration.

Water cascades over his back, an incandescent light that highlights his musculature, legs wobbling as he gets down onto his knees. His mouth paints kisses over your thighs, lifting one leg up over his shoulder.

The hand that continues to fist at the base of his skull makes him shiver, savoring the sensation as he bullies his way between your legs. Cerulean hues stay fixated on your face as his mouth makes contact with your slick cunt.

He shuts up quickly when he’s eating you out, you’ve noticed; the satisfaction flows through you in one smug wave. A scruffy beard scratches ragged against your thighs, prickling your silky flesh as his tongue drags over your slit.

The flat of his tongue rakes embers across your cunt, pulling a delighted gasp from your mouth. Everything feels hot, unbearably so, bodies tangled beneath the shower’s heated pressure.

Bracing against his body, his own musculature supports you without breaking a sweat, one hand molded to your thigh, the other firm atop your hip. “You’re so good at this.” You whine, knowing how much he savors your praise.

John growls into your cunt as if he’s some beast on all fours, tongue greedily splitting past your folds, caressing over your sensitive flesh.

He grips you like a vice, caging you firmly against the wall, nose grazing your mound. Keeping you anchored to his mouth, he’s consuming you like a man starved, deprived of sustenance.

Fingers flex through blonde tresses, tugging and pulling, coaxing him closer as your hips jolt unexpectedly. The friction isn’t unwelcome, and he treats you to a barrage of enthused laps, tongue possessing a mind of its own.

The cocksure demeanor diminishes when his mouth is preoccupied; he doesn’t complain, thoroughly getting off on letting you ride his face.

With slow, eager laps of his tongue, John made sure to savor you, letting the flat of his tongue fall heavy across your clit. His name plumes from your mouth like a prayer.

The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit.

“J—John,” Raw, the noise splits through your diaphragm, heaving with labored sighs, cunt pulsing with spasms of pleasure. “Fuck, plea—please don’t stop!” A whine coagulates within the back of your throat, ceaselessly needy.

You urged him closer, hips rolling into the fervent heat of his mouth, thighs quivering as he treated you to a lap of his tongue. Circled strokes dance over your cunt; once, twice, three times.

This barrage of bliss assaulted your body with such intensity, molten heat churning within the pit of your stomach, oozing between your thighs.

Bittersweet arousal swarmed his lips, the taste of you, something he craved. His mouth is a thing of perfection, pleasuring you as if it’s his sworn duty, tongue lapping at every inch of your cunt.

His ministrations are gentle, disarmingly so, careworn palms caressing into your hips, keeping you slotted against his face. Lapping openly at your core, you shiver, feeling his nose graze your clit.

The scruff of his blonde beard scratches ragged over the inside of your thighs, sandpaper to silk, the sensation pleasant. You’re writhing, a tangle of nerves and mounting ecstasy, leg rattling beneath his hold.

His name emerges from your mouth again, desperate and wanton, breathy as you squirm. Lips climb from your heated core to your clit, pressing a string of kisses there, tongue brushing over the clutch of nerves.

John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Circling around your clit, he begins to lap over your pearl, feeling your legs tremor around him, muscles spasmodic, twitching.

“So handsome like this.” A ragged sigh is pulled from your diaphragm, ecstasy sown by John’s own need and determination. The remark is enough to make him ache, your body vibrating around him.

Daring to look down, your heart nearly bursts from your chest when you realize he’s watching you, smirk palpable, cerulean hues burning.

Through a shadowed stare, eyes blown with lust, he’s got you pinned, sucking the air from your lungs as if he owns you. He wants to say something, but he’s too absorbed with eating you out.

Rendered speechless beneath his incendiary gaze, your stomach churns with molten heat, body on fire, a ceaseless throbbing pulsing between your legs.

Your cunt pathetically clenches around nothing at all, hips absently grinding into his mouth. “John — fuck — please, m’close!” Slurred, you’re trying your best not to smother him.

As if to tempt you further, his lips purse around your clit, taunting, catching the blissed-out look in your eyes. It’s that damned doe-eyed stare he’s hooked on, sucking on that bundle of nerves with a twinge of passion.

Teetering on the precipice of an explosion, you’re rattling, shaking like a leaf, thighs tensing on either side of his head.

He presses you further, a low hum tumbling from his mouth, still fervently revolving around your clit.

White-hot spots blind your vision, jaw unhinged, a myriad of moans leaving you, unrestrained. The noise evokes a throaty groan from him, chest reverberating, sending tingles through your spine like spikes of heat.

John’s still buried between your thighs, interchanging between suckling your clit and broad, flat strokes of his tongue. Each caress, every lap of his mouth sends you into some frenzy, hips urging forward.

A white-hot rush of ecstasy swarmed you, voice tapering off into incoherent praises and wanton moans, filling the shower with your delighted cries. Half-babbles, whimpers, strangled whines emerge from your throat.

Feeling your body pulse around him, a low grunt splits his diaphragm, your legs trembling, muscles twitching in the aftermath. Even still, your mind is foggy, shrouded by a haze of desire.

Conceding, he plants another kiss to your core, followed by a rough lap of his tongue, beard soaked by both water and your arousal.

Unlatching his mouth from your cunt, he exhales, visage splotched with scarlet, pupils expanded with lust as he moves upright. Your lips press a lingering kiss to his collar, a flicker of mischief in your eyes.

His cock throbbed incessantly, the pressure coiled within his abdomen, unexpectedly seizing when your hand wrapped around his length. “Chr — Damn, easy.” John groans, sudden and wanting, hands seizing your hips.

It gets under his skin, how easily he succumbs to you, and with a mere flick of your wrist, he’s prepared to come undone in your hand. Flushed and frustrated, his mouth clamors for yours, biting at your bottom lip.

He’s painfully hard in your palm, bleeding heat, slick within your grasp as you give his cock several sluggish, gentler strokes. There’s a tension prevalent in his shoulders, one that unfurls when you make him cum.

John shudders, mouth dropping to the hollow between your throat and shoulder, maiming it with snags of teeth and bruising hickeys. A low whine escapes you, hand vigorous as you pull him into his release.

Your name spills from his tongue, hoarse and husky, warmth spreading over your body like an encroaching wildfire. It’s quick, but he was riled up already from eating you out.

Blissed-out and satiated, John’s brows pinch together, countenance a thing of unbridled satisfaction as you finish him off. After a few languid strokes of your hand, he’s looking relaxed.

“Jesus,” John forces a laugh, trailing a hand through his soaked tresses, reaching behind you to shut the water off. “Feeling better?” He remarks, unable to bite back the grin that curls the corner of his mouth.

Nodding, you’re smiling, smitten as he drapes a towel around you, planting a slow kiss against your jaw. “Mm-hm.” Humming, your hands are fumbling with the towel, drying yourself off before stepping out of the shower.

With a cheshire smirk, his hands grazed over your waist, lips molding themselves to the back of your neck. “That’s it? Just mm-hm?” He gruffs, his pride mildly wounded, hoping you’d have plenty to say.

Pillars of steam wisp from the bathroom, clouding through your quarters as you search for something comfortable to wear. “If I say what’s on my mind, you’ll brag. I’m keeping you humble.” You tease, lashes fluttering.

“Right,” John huffs, though you know it’s a mutual banter you’ve maintained, playful teasing that’s become incredibly soft. He doesn’t mind; he likes it, really. “When you’re begging me again, I’ll remind you of this conversation.”

Despite the theatrical, pointed glare you give him, you’re smiling; flustered, truthfully. He’s a cocky bastard, obnoxious, but he makes you feel protected, warm. He makes you feel wanted, when you always thought otherwise.

Some of his clothes have made it to your room after one too many nights together; he’s gotten used to it. A pair of black shorts sit on his waist, musculature bared for you, mostly.

John gawks, a brief huff escaping him when he realizes what shirt of his you’re wearing; it’s a callback, for sure. Custer’s Grove High School football, with the emblems of a bear on the front.

“Where did you find that artifact?” He scoffs, blonde brows furrowing with intrigue as you swivel around, clad in your underwear-and-his-shirt combination. You must’ve been digging deep in his wardrobe to find it.

“Underneath your dress shirts,” You remark, lips pulling apart. “I can take it off if it …” Trailing off, John silences you with a chaste kiss, playfully patting your leg, briefly squeezing at the pliant flesh of your thigh.

“No, keep it,” John’s cadence softens, cerulean hues clinging to a distant memory which seems to dissipate as quickly as it appeared. “You look beautiful.”

As he settles along the edge of your mattress, you’re climbing into his lap, eliciting a sarcastic chuckle from him, visibly perplexed. Lips softly tangle together, tender, and he feels himself steadily getting worked up again.

Evening the score, his hands wander toward your haunches, molding themselves to your flesh, palms squeezing and groping. Your digits are in his damp tresses again, tugging, visage riddled with a stern warning.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” John grunts, feeling your lips curl into a smile against his mouth. He withdraws, only to get a good look at you, prettier than anything he’s ever seen before. “I’m serious.”

“I’m serious.” As if invoking a challenge, your countenance pinches into a look of stoicism, though you’re poking fun at him simultaneously.

“Fine.” His voice is low and raspy, a delicious husk that fills your bones with fire. He fires off, strong enough to manhandle you onto your back, bullying his way between your legs, kissing you ragged.

You’re rendered immobile by morning.

[hrrtshape]

Hi Emma, I really need help for a script set in ancient times. I really don’t know where to start! I am not much of an historian but I really wanted to shift in Ancient Rome!

the ultimate guide to surviving ancient rome.

welcome, time traveler!!!!!!!! i'm emma. and i'll be helping you survive ancient rome. if you find yourself navigating the grandeur and grime of ancient rome, you’ll need this comprehensive guide to thrive in an empire of marble, politics, and intrigue. from securing a place to stay to social etiquette, this will cover everything you need to know !!! so you don't die :)

where to start as you're entering rome??

arrival : if you're arriving from another part of the empire, the best entry points are ostia (rome’s main port) or the via appia, a road leading directly to the city. the first thing you might see see will be a chaotic, sprawling metropolis of temples, markets, bathhouses, and crowded tenement buildings (insulae).

where to stay : if you're wealthy, you’ll want to rent or buy a domus (townhouse) in the city. if you’re less affluent (already sorry for you, not in a mean way but you won't last there long), an insula (apartment) in the subura district will suffice. though beware of fires and collapsing buildings ! xx

your hygiene and daily routines.

bathing : rome is famous for its public baths (thermae). visit places like the baths of caracalla or the baths of trajan. bring a small fee for entry and enjoy hot and cold plunges. don’t forget oil and a strigil (a scraping tool) to clean off dirt. they, sadly, didn't have body lotion yet.

toilets and sanitation : rome has public latrines where people sit side by side (awkward but normal). a sponge on a stick (tersorium. yikes) is used instead of toilet paper, make sure to rinse it properly in running water, or you'll become the disgust of the city.

dental care : romans used powdered charcoal, crushed bones, and even urine (yes, really. look. it wasn't modern) to clean their teeth. bring your own mint leaves if you want to keep fresh breath without resorting to ammonia-based methods.

food and dining.

what to eat : the roman diet includes bread, olives, cheese, fruit, and fish. garum (fermented fish sauce) is a staple seasoning. wealthy romans dine on exotic meats like peacock and dormice. yep.

where to eat : If you’re not cooking at home, stop by a thermopolium (a fast-food stand) for warm meals like stews and bread. not a mcdonalds, but it sufficed.

dining etiquette : reclining while eating is a sign of wealth. if invited to a noble’s banquet, expect multiple courses, lively discussions, and perhaps some questionable entertainment (like performing dwarves or poetry recitals).

housing and shelter.

domus : wealthy residents live in lavish homes with atriums, mosaics, and private gardens. if you’re in this category, hire slaves (SORRY. servants) to maintain the household.

insulae : these apartment buildings house most of rome’s population. they’re cheap but prone to fires, so always have an escape plan.

villas : if you want to escape city life, consider acquiring a countryside villa in places like campania or etruria.

personal safety.

crime : rome has a high crime rate, especially at night. avoid dark alleys, and keep a small dagger or hire a bodyguard (mercenarii) if you're wealthy.

fires : the city is prone to fires due to overcrowded wooden buildings. have an evacuation route and be aware of nearby water sources.

legal system : if you get into trouble, hire an orator to defend you in court. bribery is often the fastest solution to legal woes.

money and commerce.

the currency : the roman monetary system includes sestertii, denarii, and aurei (gold coins). always carry small change for daily expenses.

shopping : the forum is rome’s commercial hub. you can buy anything from spices to togas. haggle, but not too aggressively, or you might offend the merchant. most things didn't have a tag, and the merchants would judge the price based on how you looked or talk. so. beware.

banking : rome has early banking institutions where you can store wealth. avoid keeping large sums on your person.

social class and interaction.

patricians vs. plebeians : social mobility is limited, but a well-connected plebeian can rise in status through military service or patronage.

slaves and freedmen : slavery was integral to roman society. freed slaves (liberti) can gain status, though they can remain linked to their former masters.

etiquette : addressing senators as “domine” (sir) and deferring to patricians in public are key social customs.

entertainment and leisure.

gladiatorial games : the colosseum hosts blood sports where slaves and prisoners fight to the death. betting on matches is common. vomiting in the stands..is also common.

chariot races : the circus maximus holds races between four factions: reds, blues, greens, and whites. pick a team and cheer them on.

theatre and oratory : if you have a sensitive stomach, enjoy performances at the theatre of pompey or listen to public speeches at the forum.

religion and temples.

gods and worship : rome’s pantheon includes jupiter, mars, venus, and more. each home has a household shrine (lararium) for daily offerings.

festivals : participate in saturnalia (a wild celebration where roles reverse and slaves feast like masters) or lupercalia (a fertility festival involving ritual sacrifices).

christianity : in early rome, christians were often persecuted. so. be discreet if practicing or associating with followers.

long-term survival...how do you are adapting to rome?

language : learn latin phrases. knowing greek is also helpful among the elite.

fashion : wear a tunic for daily life and a toga for formal occasions. women should drape themselves in stolas.

networking : find a patron for career advancement. political connections open a lot of doors in rome.

and that is this. if you survive, you're a guaranteed a cookie, albeit those didn’t yet exist, i think. with this guide, you’re well-equipped to navigate rome’s splendour and chaos. whether you seek luxury, knowledge, or power, the eternal city awaits! pls don't die!

[felibrary]

pairing: aventurine x reader | fluff with vv light angst (tbh its only kinda implied) | wc: 347

a/n: i had the urge, i felt the need, i wanted to use his real name. i love it. it makes him him.

“kakavasha!” you chant his name like a prayer, full of hope. you let out a loud sigh of relief upon seeing your boyfriend opening his eyes.  “finally you're awake, i was worried sick!”

your hands rested on his shoulders, pursing your lips as your eyes scan his face for any signs of discomfort.

huh. why did you look so perplexed? it hit him when he felt a cool droplet glide down his warm cheek. was he seriously tearing up right now? and why'd it feel like he was burning up, cold sweat was glistening on his skin and his head felt dizzy.

just what in the world was happening?

“thank god you're awake! i tried to shake you awake for the past five minutes now. because you kept whispering something about a grand death and kept moving uncomfortably.” your right hand reaches out to the lobe of his ear to play  with his turquoise peacock feather-like earring, tangling it around your fingers.

oh, so that's what it's all about.

“are you alright?” your eyes darted over his handsome face, skin almost as pale as porcelain and eyes alluring as ever.

“if something or someone is bothering you, let's talk about it. or resort to violence, i’ll kick their ass, whichever you prefer!” you lightly chuckle. 

“don't try to take the burden all upon yourself, okay?” , shooting him a look that says “i’m always here for you, don’t forget that - don’t forget me.”

upon hearing that he can only smile fondly. after all, he loves you and his family more than anything and anyone - even more than himself.

but perhaps, perhaps this wasn't the right time to tell you. at least not yet. the right time will eventually come - no it will come. he has everything planned out.

“don't worry. i’m fine, everything is and will continue to stay fine. trust me.” he reassures you before suddenly pulling you into a tight embrace, being pulled onto his lap as your head is buried into the crook of his neck.

“let’s stay like this for a bit longer. please.”

© VYNICITY 2024. stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms or feeding them to ai is not permitted.

[r0-boat]

Mammon Nsfw Alphabet

Cw: Heavy Size kink, ownership, Poly mentions

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Mammon is the king of aftercare; he'll gladly provide anything you want, even if you don't like it. Having your small body against his chest? He would love to! Bruises in bite marks on your skin? He always keeps bandages and first aid in every room, just in case. Does your smell body smell of his cum and sweat? He'll have his servants draw a warm bubble bath with your favorite scented items. And he'll be with you the whole time purring praises of how much he loves you and how good your water and charcuterie board filled with meats, cheeses, and crackers, as well as sliced fruits are always a must. He'll even hand-feed it to you if you let him.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Your ass, thighs are close second but what he really wants is those soft plush cheeks right above that he just can't keep his hands off.

Your cheeks are so lovely and warm, especially when they burn red from his handprint.

It's so soft and inviting. It's just calling him in his teeth into it. You're so small your little ass fits perfectly in his hands. And he could hold you while slamming you down right on him.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He doesn't care if he feels you up or covers you and cum he gets that same satisfaction that he is marked you as his. If he had to choose one of the other he would say covering you and come It's a demon territorial thing. Especially when he's coating your backside and having cum land on your ass.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Guilty is charged for him buying you certain clothes that just do happened to compliment your ass or any part of you he finds sexy (which is every part). But he has to be more discreet about it since any provocative outfit you would decline.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Mammon in his 'youth' of his first millennia of being king he had many concubines, before you and even Solomon. He had grown tired of each one and no longer has them, now you are the only one in the world from heaven hell and earth he wishes to court. He hopes you're satisfied with his vast experience ;)

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Mammon likes positions where he can grab, hold, or press against you. He especially likes the positions that emphasize how small you are compared to him. He likes holding you up against the wall and slamming into you; He likes looming over you, His giant mountain of a body covering your entire field of vision. He likes showing off his whole body while drilling you with each punishing thrust.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

In the middle, He likes to tell you how cute you are like this underneath him; He likes to talk to you while he's serving you with his mouth and fingers. He likes to flaunt how much wealth he can give you when he is sliding the head of his cock up and down your entrance.

He's not that goofy but he does talk a lot.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Mammon I would say naturally would have a fair amount of drapes with a happy line, but he will groom in any way you want him to You want more hair than he'll grow it out, You wanted to be shaved? Gladly! His body is yours.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

What he loves doing is making an impression, He loves to impress and flaunt like a proud peacock, Grand gestures and displays of his love. Romantic dinner dates that make you feel like royalty. He will make you feel like the most important thing in the world because you are.

He'll rent out resort in Abyssos for a Valentine's Day gift

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

As much as he wants to save his cum for only you, He thinks about you so often he can't help but have his hand play with his cock. To see your ass swaying alone makes him want to fuck you. But he will absolutely let you know that when he touches his cock it's only for you He's thinking of nothing else then how much he craves and desires you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Other than your ass, or anal He has a lot

Size Kin,k: is one of his most significant, tiny, fragile humans who does so many things to his perverted mind. He wants to take care of you, hold, hug, kiss, and carry you. At the same toys, he wants to break you like what he used to do with his sex toys. He loves loves loves watching his huge cock struggle to fit in your tiny hole. He loves forcing your legs apart to go even deeper. He loves your screams and cries of how big he is on, how he's tearing you apart, and how he can't fit anymore. He will make it fit... He always does. Nothing in the world made him come the fastest then watching your throat bulge with his big cock.

He doesn't quite understand the word 'cuteness aggression' But he does know 100% for a fact he gets that with you.

Creampie: something about his inhuman amount of come running down your thigh turns the infernal part in his demon brain on.

Ownership/pet play: if you want a dog, He's on his knees, no question. Do you want to be his pet? Get ready for the role, as it is a perfect little thing. You do know the safe word, do you? Don't worry he treats all of his pets with great care. He doesn't want you to be in a collar; oh no, he wants you to be utterly naked until he finds an outfit for you. You will be nude in his lap at the next meeting as his big hand is placed on your head, scratching it. He will revel in the jealous, envious looks from All of the Seven Deadly Sins. He will especially like Asmo biting his nails, which gives him a nasty glare.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Any location he damn well pleases, with a snap of his fingers any place no matter where can be a location where he could bend you over the nearest object. He prefers to do it in clean locations because that's what you deserve. But if You want to be taken in a dirty alleyway who is he to deny you what you wish.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You, You wearing his things; You sitting in his lap; you with those big doe eyes staring at something you saw in a shop. Other kings that brag about fucking you (Beel). That big smile on your face as you exist at your best.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything you wouldn't want him to do, if you have turn offs then he has turn offs. If you're not enjoying anything then he isn't enjoying it. All his pleasure comes from your pleasure.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

As much as he loves your tiny throat around his cock, He prefers to give oral. He wants you to break down on his tongue as he rings out every orgasm he can.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Slow and sensual at first, then fast and rough. You're a tiny human, so he must wait a bit for you to adjust to his sheer size. It's okay. He likes the fact that you can feel every throb, twitch, and vein of his meaty cock.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Oh my god yes, quickies King of greed loves quickies. He's greedy He wants to get most out of his day if he has the small amount of time to fuck you he will, Even if he doesn't get to cum that doesn't matter He could be in and out of meetings or business appointments and he could be fucking you in the hallways or just before the meeting start. He could have you just sitting in his lap in his office.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Risk? Is it really risky if he owns everything?? He is one of the most powerful men in all of hell if he can't win it in a fight he will buy it. But if it's sexually experimenting then yeah he'll do anything you want to do

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He has the stamina of a God; Even if he finally goes soft it'll only lasts for about 30 minutes before he wants more.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

After MC explains what a dildo actually is I'm pretty sure he starts having a collection of toys, from vibrators to bondage to gags, He also has a nice array of collars. He definitely likes collecting them especially because it's one of the very few things he doesn't own.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Nope He doesn't tease, He doesn't mind being tease. When he wants something and he doesn't like to not get it It just makes him more eager to have it in the end

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He's not the loudest devil king. But he isn't quiet either, with mostly growls then moaning or groaning. She does like to chit chat though. He can't stop talking about you, praising or degrading.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

The only devil king that doesn't mind sharing you because that means you're more greedy. And who could he, Mammon, be one to deny such greed? Everything is his in the end; Satan, Leviathan, Beelzebub, Lucifer, belphigore, and even Asmodeus. and since he naturally belongs to you All these kings are yours too.

That doesn't mean he'll give you up easily to another devil. He'll make sure that he is The most willing and eager to serve.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Hole resizer 9000, uncut and is a grower.

His balls aren't as swollen or as heavy as Lucifer's But still pretty big

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He isn't as insatiable as asmodeus or Beelzebub. But probably won't just be satisfied after one fuck.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Nope, He has enough energy, But if you fall asleep then he will go to sleep with you if not he'll just tuck you in, or either lay beside you and read a book. This man will not leave your side

[tokoyamisstuff]

could you do headcanons for Alucard and Anderson both wooing reader?

💀R.I.P. bae good luck with that

General Yandere warning bc there's no way in hell this would go about normally.

What might've started as part of their rivalry, winning you over soon turned into a full-blown obsession for both of them.

They'll go about it in completely different ways, though, with Alucard relying on his intimidating power, while Anderson resorts to manipulation tactics.

For Alucard this whole thing is more of a pastime, an entertaining game he is confident to win. Anderson on the other hand is in absolute denial of his feelings and keeps telling himself that he merely wants to protect you.

The vampire will be very upfront about his affection, showcasing his abilities to subtly threaten you into submission. Because he will get what he wants...one way or another. But you needn't be afraid - if you give yourself to him, his power is also yours.

The Priest is very careful how he presents himself, wanting you to see him from his best side only. He'll hide the deranged parts of himself in order to give you a false sense of trust and security. It's hard to believe a man this kind and considerate could be so twisted underneath.

Iscariot would 100% support his aspirations to 'save' an innocent soul from eternal damnation, especially after he reveals that their church's arch nemesis is keeping you against your will.

Integra would definetly look right past any of Alucard's lies and would not tolerate this kind of behavior against a civilian. Even if you were to comply, she'd probably see the toxicity of this insane power imbalance. So he'll try to keep it a secret from his boss, since her influence would certainly be a hindrance.

Sadly neither of those two men care much about your opinion on that matter. Anderson claims you don't know what's best for you and Alucard just firmly believes you'll come around eventually.

For a while this will continue as a circle of kidnapping you from one another, accompanied with a lot of bloodshed on both sides, dragging members of their respective organizations into their mess and sacrificing them without second thought.

Every time those two clash it'll turn more into peacocking honestly, they care more about showing off and making a great impression on you than actually fighting each other.

However they both would stop at nothing to satiate their desperate need for you, so it's inevitable that at some point one of them has to die in order to finally have you for themselves - let's just hope you've made peace staying with whoever wins.

[girldriveroscar]

CRACKS KNUCKLES heres some parasocial nonsense. pls dont take too serious im just being silly.

insp by @inchidentally the 814 essay GOAT… Hi.

Okyeah analyzing this video and recent posts.

So Like. oscar piastri being the normalTm guy whos still w his hs sweetheart, wears graphic tees and beat up af1s and still vacations w the guys he grew up w, who was actually kinda socialized (as well as any other well-off posh kid who’s parents could afford the luxury of fucking them off to boarding school i digress).. but like, he played pranks w the Lads and got congratulatory slaps on the back, his first crushes wer probs navigated in small talk during class and walking together in the halls? generally just a guy who balanced his social life and Career to Some relatively healthy degree so it’s not like Completely foreign to him how to talk to girls and make friends. and so he gets that building an intimate relationship w someone is mostly just hanging out, experiencing new food tgthr, new movies, walking around a new city, he just gives such a NORMAL GUY answer of a perfect date, and i think part of being socialized the way he was gave him the understanding that grandiose gestures of love kinda just come off as disingenuous. oscar jus reads as a guy whos never resorted to showboating bc his introduction to romance was just like anyone else, awkward shuffling and bonding on the weekends over pizza and homework. and even as a formula 1 RACE WINNER GUY W MONEY hiiiiii, he still has such a cute simple recipe for a perf date bc hes been through it. he knows how to court someone bc it worked and its been working!!!

then on the flip u have THE peacock tm, shirt unbuttoned so low might as well forgo it atp, lando norris whos perfect date idea is hi, (wtf.) YACHT. and sex (exhibitionist freak. sorry who said that…) like boyyyy oh my god shakes him by the shoulders u are so not normal. lando norris, who’s always ben a little comfier than his peers growing up. always out of place bc his dads pockets were Open and Ready to ensure he never had to worry about pinching pennies for some chips after class Yeah and he doesnt even know it bc thats NEVER been his life? yeaaa and add in a dash of Always being on the race track, never rly socializing w. girls or boys who weren’t in direct competition w him, turning 19 and immediately being sized up to his older hyper-masculine charming And sexy teammate. (getting carried away mb)

lando himself explaining that having to grow up so fast and be a good boy (His words.) prevented him from finding his footing in social settings and only now being able to experience these things at 23/24?!

i digress now also factor in his (alleged…) favorite movie is a silly romcom?! (also maybe just peacocking tho bc “girls love a guy w a soft side” and lando wld know bc he watched one movie about it…. like srsly u want me to believe the hangover and stepbrothers belong in the same category as Romcom u dont rmbr the name of okk weirdo)

so yea of course a boy who’s never passed notes to his crush in class, never asked anyone to a dance, never pulled pranks w his schoolmates, Understands intimacy thru cheesy romcoms an weekends emptying his dads wallet on flights to wtv racing event. LIKE OF COURSE he thinks romance is wtv he can mimic from A. how his dad showed him love (…$$..) and B. what the movies r saying ! (thats socially repressed twin.) AND THE GAG OF IT ALL!!!! is he puts on this front, so suave so playboy, “i have sex and let me announce about it publicly in case u doubted it” when the reality of it is like? dude u are thirst-liking instagram models while oscar is Getting it every night ur such a loser omfg.

just Like. Ugh the contrast of oscar whos so secure in himself in his dad shorts and ANKLE socks and lando who just grew out of his awkwardness in his early 20s and now Needs to slut himself out to make up for lost time.

(AND. the double gag is landos still so obviously not secure abt the fact he Doesnt Really Know what hes doing that every one can see it ouhmygodd lando x chernobyl levels of imposter syndrome u are so complicated and angsty U TEENAGE GIRL. holds a can of diet coke to his lips. there there girl. there there.)

[the-silver-peahen-residence]

Alexandre is still sleeping peacefully on Angel's comfy bed, kneading in his sleep. He was fully naked, with only the blanket covering his crotch.

Angel was humming softly but he was checking his phone after he was having Alexandre resting with him for the week. He wanted him to be happy so he offered to take care of him for the time being.

[stitchyblogs]

my curse is that i keep falling in love with peacock shows that a) people forgot they have a subscription to, or b) keep getting cancelled- but if you DO have peacock and you want 20+ recs hit a stitchy up, yooooo

NUMBER ONE please watch The Resort. It’s about love and grief and going on a magical realism vacation in the mayan riviera and playing detective on some missing teen’s old ass pre smartphone cell phone 🤳🏼🌴

(definitely serves as a stand alone miniseries, but i’d love more)

Look at this cast and tell me you’re not like “ohh.” THE RESORT. NOW.

2!!!! WE ARE LADY PARTS

a comedy about a British punk rock band named Lady Parts, which consists entirely of Muslim women. One of whom is obsessed with Don McLean, which speaks di-fucking-rectly to teenage stitchy

threeeeee is BRILLIANT MINDS, the medical drama show i would make if you held me hostage. I would say “there are too many doctor shows already!!!” And youd’d say, “make one anyway!!! I have a weapon!!” But this doctor show is Special. It’s based on the work and character of neurologist Oliver Sacks, who i’ve been fascinated by since doing the opera adaption of The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat in college (brag). It’s kinda like if House had old school Quantum Leap levels of empathy and 🏳️‍🌈

gif by @pedro-reed THIS SHOW IS LIKE A HUG. Did i MENTION mandy patinkin cameo that rocked my world??? Btw???!

shuttup i fucking loved the treasure of foggy mountain. Its number 4. i said what i said

FIVE! Speaking of films on peacock, you know Conclave is on there right? RIGHT?! It’s the Mean Girls of pope movies. It’s everything to me, a cradle catholic who thinks canon Jesus was pretty lit, its the fandom I can’t gel with. And Ralph Fiennes has to care for his dead boss’s army of turtles need i say more

Okay back to tv series… MR MERCEDES! It’s stephen king doing some hardboiled detective shit that only baaaarely steps out of reality. Like. One toe. One and a half. Shout out to all my Brendan Gleeson fuckers, i know you’re out there.

Everyone else… You might not like it, but this is what peak performance looks like.

are we on 7? We’re on 7. It’s MRS DAVIS. Betty Gilpin is a nun raised by shady Las Vegas magicians who is Hot For Jesus and on a mission to destroy Artificial Intelligence and her mommy issues. My flabbers were gasted by this perfection.

(Complete narrative btw!)

EIGHT. Do you love Stephanie Hsu??? Do you enjoy Nahnatchka Khan’s other work? Check out LAID. A sex comedy that is very preposterous and if we do not get a s2 I will be haunted forever. my Number 1 nepo baby Zosia Mamet is also here and she is not playing around

NINE is a total left field premise. Claudia O’Doherty and Craig Robinson go into business hunting exotic pythons for cash. This might be the peak hustle culture show about a Tenuous Job. I have never touched a snake in my life and i’m gripping my guts from laughing like “so tru bestie!!”

TEN is a P.S.A. Friends, i need you to know Peacock has some golden oldies. Is Little House On The Prairie your show when you’re sick on the couch? Did you dad raise you on old Quantum Leap? Have you been meaning to meet my best friend Mr. Detective Columbo!? They are HERE!

awoooo!! 11 is WOLF LIKE ME. Josh Gad is an american dad living in australia for some illusive reason… idk… anyway his daughter has a serious anxiety disorder he is carefully managing, and uhhhhh guess what his new girlfriend Isla Fisher is a werewolf. LET GIRLS BE MONSTERS.

Uhm i think I’m gonna have to stop here and re blog to add more. Too many images! 😅

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Very colorful, very wallpapered, 1983 mansion in Rancho Mirage, CA has 6bds, 5ba, 7,312 sq ft, asking $5.75m. Won't hurt to take a look.

Two green doors open into a central hall.

It's beautiful, but looks like the lobby of a hotel. My ex was a roadie and those chairs look like the boxes that carried the music equipment. Interesting.

Look at that- a modern conversation pit. There's also a bar on the left.

It has a beautiful marble fireplace.

The guest bathroom has brown peacock feather wallpaper. That's different.

Very modern dining room. I like the arched doorways, and that's the double-sided bar on the left, so it's accessed from both the living and dining rooms.

Large black & white kitchen. I like the counters and lights under the island.

The kitchen has huge windows that slide open so it can be accessed from outside.

That's pretty cool- you can serve guests out on the deck.

Gorgeous conservatory with a glass ceiling.

The primary bedroom has beautiful glass walls with a view of the tropical garden.

It has a large ensuite with a sauna.

The closet's a little dizzying with this wallpaper.

Cute bedroom suite.

This is nice- each bed has its own bedding pattern.

And, this bedroom is striking in bright red.

Beautiful wood on the stairs coming down to the rec room.

Very large space down here.

Spare guest room with a cute little sitting room.

The gorgeous pool looks like a resort.

Tennis courts next to the pool.

Then there's a secluded hot tub here.

1.29 acre lot

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/70663-Oroville-Cir-Rancho-Mirage-CA-92270/18143019_zpid/?

[ijustliketoreadstuff]

She had to accept Felix won

Ladybug was understandably very angry when Felix resurfaced in "Emotion" at the Diamond's Dance, seeing as she and Cat Noir have been searching for him ever since he handed over all the miraculous in the miracle box to Monarch back in "Strike Back".

Losing all the miraculous to Monarch was a major blow for Ladybug, the sacrifices alone she had to make to ensure the safety of the magical jewels took its toll on her the more they grew over time, leaving her no other choice but to even sacrifice her own relationships(temporarily) as well as her own peace of mind. No one understood just how hard she worked to keep Monarch from taking the jewels from her, even spending many sleepless nights creating plans to prevent a future possibility. However, the one thing she never considered, was someone other than Monarch, Felix, taking all the miraculous.

("Kuro Neko" and "Destruction", we are shown that Marinette would spend many sleepless nights crafting plans to ensure the safety of the miraculous)

It was only natural for Ladybug to assume Felix was working alongside Monarch, given he had previously attempted to form an alliance with him back in "Felix", rather than side with the heroes. But through every encounter they had with Felix, his motives have always remained a great mystery, including too Adrien, who grew up with Felix.

(Of course Felix worked alone and never planned to work alongside Monarch, he was merely a crucial part to his plans of obtaining the peacock miraculous(more here). )

Ordinarily, Ladybug was used to taking the time to understand her enemies, it was because of this level of understanding she developed over people like Monarch and his akumatized villains, that allowed her to figure out their next move and plan ahead. Although Ladybug believed Felix was no different than Monarch if he resorted to manipulating, deceiving and leaving others to suffer the consequences of his decisions, she could never truly understand who Felix was. She couldn't plan ahead and figure out what his next move would be, leaving her to only wonder why he did everything he did despite them posing no actual threat to him.

( Ladybug could not understand Felix.)

Felix said he had plans to create a free world where no one would be excluded like he was, where no one would fall under anyone's control and be forced to abide by what others thought was right and wrong.

Of course listening to Felix's reasoning for wanting a free world was the last thing Ladybug ever wanted to do, he was after all, the one who made her lose everything, not just the kwamis and the miraculous, but faith in herself, along with the faith many people had in her. After losing all the miraculous to Monarch, Ladybug could not trust herself to be the guardian and the protector she promised to be for all those in Paris back in "Origins part 2". Worse yet, some citizens did not hesitate to proclaim to the world how much they believed Ladybug was not capable of being their protector, preferring to focus on the consequences of Monarch obtaining so much power from her one mistake, rather than look back on everything else she had done for the public that proved she was fit to be their hero.

(In "Determination, Ladybug was hesitant on making choices amidst a fight, believing there was reason to doubt herself and whether or not she could make the right choices.)

Such a defeat from Monarch and such cruel words from the public, left Ladybug in a constant state of indecision, wondering if her choices over a matter would truly solve a problem or just make things worse, just as much as it did when she believed it was the correct choice to trust who she thought was Adrien (who was really Felix) with the dog miraculous back in "Strike Back".

Of course Cat Noir was there by her side to help her remember what she was capable of, but that level of doubt she had over herself was not something she could ever truly stray away from, because unlike most people, her decisions decided the safety of millions. Facing Felix in "Emotion" gave her the opportunity to finally confront the person who left her with so much loss, but amidst being consumed by her own emotions, angered at everything Felix had done, she forgot that what she was searching for in a fight was not revenge, but a solution.

To Ladybug, the solution seemed obvious: use whatever her lucky charm gave her to help piece together a way to win against Felix, allowing her to take back the peacock miraculous and in turn undue everything he had done. But when the time came for her to rely on her abilities and use her powers of creation to find the solution that would lead the way to the victory she hoped to obtain, to her surprise, her powers gave her nothing.

In all her time as a hero, Ladybug had never been in a battle where her powers of creation left her nothing, she had never been in a situation where she could not do anything to piece together a way to solve a problem that at times even seemed hopeless to solve.

Every problem has a solution, those words always resonated within Ladybug and everyone that knew her, but by being faced with a problem she had no chance of taking action against, left her realizing something she never thought to consider, which was that there was a solution to the problem in front of her, it just wasn't what she was hoping for. Her lucky charm gave her nothing, because that was exactly what she needed to do, nothing.

(Ladybug understand what the lucky charm was trying to tell her)

Alya always said all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good people do nothing. To save the day against evil, Ladybug felt it was only right to do anything and everything she could to win for the sake of others. Doing nothing was never something she thought she would ever have to do, but she had to, because as much as she wanted to believe Felix was the evil one who needed to be stopped, to know that the only solution was nothing, left her wondering if she even knew what winning actually meant, now that her own plans of winning against Felix were not going to turn out the way she had hoped. As much as Ladybug wanted to win, it became abundantly clear she was NOT the one who was meant to stop Felix.

It pained Ladybug to admit it, but she had to accept she could not win against him, she could not take back the peacock miraculous and she could not undue what he had done, but she could still accomplish what she knew she could, and that was find a solution. After her lucky charm told her to do nothing, Ladybug could only focus on one thing and one thing only, Felix. Felix wasn't just the cause of the problem, he was also the solution.

(The only one who could put a stop to Felix and everything he had unleashed onto the world, was Felix. )

Despite learning about his intentions to create a free world, Ladybug still couldn't understand why he wanted such a world due to one very crucial piece of information she did not yet know about him, and that was the fact that Felix was a senti human born from the power of the peacock miraculous, who had spent a lifetime being denied the freedom to live and make his own choices on what he wanted to do in his life.

Felix spoke of freedom and how much he wanted his new world to revolve around being freed from the control of others, but if freedom was all he wanted, then that's all Ladybug could leave him with. Ladybug had to leave Felix the freedom to decide if he wanted to stop himself, and if winning wasn't what she thought it would be, then chances are, it wouldn't be for Felix either, and it wasn't.

(Ladybug leaves Felix with the freedom to make his own choice.)

[simpxmachina]

NEW BOT

╰┈➤ wlw red panda , botmaker

🔪 + 🫀 = ☆ bloodthirsty ☆

cai

🖼️ | harper spiller - ESTATE

The air on the balcony was cooler than Harper expected, a faint breeze coming off the sea, carrying with it the salty tang of the water and the faintest hint of citrus from the lemon trees scattered across the villa gardens. She leaned on the railing, a cigarette loosely between her fingers, though she hadn't yet lit it. She wasn’t much of a smoker—just enough to justify moments like these, where she could isolate herself under the guise of indulgence.

Below, the expanse of the Italian coastline stretched before her like a postcard come to life. The water was a jeweled blue, lapping lazily at the beach, where guests of the White Lotus lounged in curated poses that were equal parts hedonistic and performative. Everything here was pristine to the point of feeling manufactured, as if everyone was playing a role in a sun-drenched fantasy.

Harper wasn’t immune to the allure of the view, but it felt hollow in her chest. The luxury of the resort, the sheer effortlessness of it all, was a reminder of how out of sync she felt. She had been dragged here, really—another compromise in the seemingly endless series of compromises that defined her relationship with Ethan. Her husband had insisted on this trip, believing it would be good for them. But all Harper could feel was the widening gap between them, a canyon they kept pretending wasn’t there.

She tapped the cigarette against the railing absentmindedly, her thoughts drifting. It wasn’t just Ethan. It was everyone here. The cloying small talk of the other guests, the way every interaction seemed to be coated in a thin sheen of self-congratulation. The same people who sipped cocktails by the infinity pool and extolled the virtues of “disconnecting” were the ones snapping photos for Instagram the second they thought no one was looking. Hypocrisy disguised as leisure.

She exhaled, the cigarette still unlit. Her gaze flickered downward, skimming over the steps leading from the hotel down toward the beach. At first, it was an unconscious glance, her mind preoccupied with its own spirals. But something caught her eye—a figure sitting on the stone stairs, partially hidden in the shadows where the late afternoon sun hadn’t yet reached.

Harper squinted, leaning slightly forward. It was a young woman, sitting cross-legged with a sketchbook balanced on her knee. She was bent over it, utterly absorbed in her work, a pencil moving rapidly across the page. Harper couldn’t see the details from this distance, but the woman’s focus was magnetic. There was a stillness to her, a kind of self-contained energy that stood in stark contrast to the rest of the resort's theatrical bustle.

She found herself staring longer than she intended, her curiosity piqued. The woman was dressed simply, her loose linen shirt fluttering slightly in the breeze. Her hair was tied back, though a few strands had escaped, framing her face in a way that Harper immediately thought looked unintentional but beautiful.

It wasn’t just the act of drawing that intrigued her. It was the way the woman seemed to exist in her own world, as though the chaos of the resort and its carefully curated opulence didn’t matter to her. She wasn’t trying to be noticed, wasn’t part of the parade of peacocks Harper had grown used to observing. She was simply… there. Quiet and intent, her pencil etching something unseen into the page.

Harper’s thoughts drifted, as they often did, to the layers of her own dissatisfaction. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt that kind of focus—an unselfconscious, genuine connection to something. She had once been that kind of person, hadn’t she? Back before her life had become a series of polite confrontations and unspoken resentments. Back when she still believed in the power of creating something, instead of just consuming it.

The cigarette between her fingers felt like a dead weight. She glanced at it, then set it down on the balcony railing, unlit. Her gaze wandered back to the woman on the stairs, and she caught a flash of what the sketchbook might hold—a glimpse of figures, maybe the outline of the beach or the sea. Whatever it was, it clearly commanded the woman’s full attention.

And then, as if sensing Harper’s gaze, the woman looked up. Harper froze, her heart skipping a beat. It wasn’t a dramatic moment—just a brief, unhurried glance around the steps before the woman returned to her drawing. But it left Harper feeling oddly exposed, like she’d been caught eavesdropping on something private. She turned her attention to the sea, feigning nonchalance, though her pulse betrayed her.

The sound of Ethan’s voice broke her reverie. She turned to see him stepping out onto the balcony, his phone in one hand and an expectant look on his face.

“Ready to head down for dinner?” he asked. His tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of impatience, as if he’d been waiting for her longer than he wanted to admit.

Harper nodded, though she didn’t feel ready at all. She cast one last glance down at the stairs, but the woman hadn’t moved. Still, the image of her lingered in Harper’s mind as she followed Ethan back into the room, a faint whisper of something she couldn’t quite name.

A few days later, Harper woke earlier than usual, a restless sleep leaving her tossing and turning in the quiet of their room. Ethan had been out of sorts lately, caught up in something of his own, leaving Harper to her thoughts and the endless hum of the resort. She needed space, and the early morning hours offered her just that—a few precious moments of solitude before the world caught up with her again.

The hotel dining room was still quiet, the golden light of the morning filtering in through tall windows that overlooked the sea. It was beautiful, almost painfully so, but Harper didn’t have the energy for the luxury this morning. She didn’t want to sit at one of the long, polished tables with the other guests just yet. Instead, she opted for a small corner, away from the bustle, where she could quietly pick at her food in peace.

As she made her way toward the buffet, Harper noticed a familiar figure from the corner of her eye. There, standing before the spread of pastries and fruit, was the young woman—the one she had been watching, though she would never admit it to anyone, especially herself. The woman was helping herself to a small plate, her hands moving with deliberate precision as she avoided the more extravagant choices. She was dressed casually, a simple white blouse, her hair down now, flowing in soft waves around her shoulders.

Harper paused, just for a second, watching her as she moved through the buffet, her expression absorbed, distant. The impulse to retreat was strong—Harper was never one for casual interactions, and certainly not before she had her first cup of coffee. But something in her hesitated. She had been curious about this woman for days now, and while she couldn’t quite explain why, that feeling, that magnetic pull, was growing impossible to ignore.

The decision was made before she fully realized it. Harper walked over, deliberately slow, her movements measured but not rushed. The woman didn’t seem to notice her approach until Harper was standing beside her, just close enough that their space felt shared.

“If I were you,” Harper said, her voice light, though with a touch of mischief, “I’d avoid that pastry. I think I saw a few people running for the bathroom after having it.”

The woman’s eyes flicked up, startled, then narrowed as she took in Harper’s face. Her mouth curled into the slightest smile, as if entertained by the casual remark. Harper was surprised by the effect her words had—there was something about that small, self-assured smile that made her feel a little more visible than she wanted to be.

“Oh, really?” the woman asked, her voice soft but not shy. She regarded Harper curiously, but there was no hesitation in her response. “I suppose it’s good I didn’t take that one then.”

Harper smiled back, almost amused by how easy it was to talk to her. It felt natural, almost too easy. They were both just people in the midst of a vacation, far removed from the pretense of their respective worlds.

"Do you come here often?" Harper found herself asking, surprised at the casualness of the question. It was the kind of thing she’d typically avoid—questions that didn't have a clear purpose, just a desire to fill the silence. But for some reason, it felt different with her.

The woman looked at Harper, then at her plate, before responding. “This is my first time here, actually,” she said with a slight shrug. “I’ve been traveling for a while, just... figuring things out, I guess. I needed a place to pause, to think.”

Harper took in the words, letting them linger in the air between them. There was an honesty to the statement that was unexpected. In a world full of carefully curated images, where everyone had an agenda, this woman was refreshingly direct, unafraid of silence, of solitude. It made Harper feel a little less cynical, a little more human.

“I get that,” Harper replied, her voice softer now, almost reflective. “I think... sometimes you need to just stop. Take a breath. Let everything settle.”

The moment hung between them for a while, both of them lost in their respective thoughts. Harper couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this woman than met the eye. There was something about her presence—quiet yet profound—that stirred something in Harper, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

It wasn’t until the woman shifted her weight and glanced over at Harper that Harper realized she had been staring. She cleared her throat awkwardly, offering a quick smile.

“Would you like to join me for breakfast?” Harper asked, the words coming out before she could second-guess them. The offer felt casual, yet the weight of it lingered between them, hanging in the air.

The woman paused for a moment, clearly considering. There was something unreadable in her expression, but after a beat, she gave a small nod. “Sure, why not?”

---

They settled at a small, quiet table by the window, the soft clink of silverware against plates the only sound between them. Harper couldn’t help but notice how at ease the woman seemed, how natural her presence felt as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world to be sitting here with Harper, as though the gap between them didn’t even exist.

It was comfortable in an unexpected way. Harper took a slow sip of her coffee, staring out at the view as if it might offer her some insight into this strange little moment they were sharing. There was a kind of soft ease between them, but it was tinged with something deeper, something more elusive.

The silence stretched on for a while before Harper spoke again, her voice quieter now. “So… what brings you to a place like this?” she asked, her words almost hesitant, as though the question had been on the tip of her tongue for a while. She wasn’t sure why she asked it. It felt like a question to fill the space, but also one that had weight. A question that held meaning.

The woman—whose name Harper still didn’t know, though it was strange how much she cared about it—looked thoughtful for a moment, her gaze distant.

“I told you before,” she said with a quiet chuckle. “I’m figuring things out. I’ve been... traveling for a while. And I thought Italy would be a good place to reset, I guess.” She met Harper’s eyes, her gaze steady. “But I’m not sure I’ve figured anything out yet.”

Harper smiled, but it wasn’t one of her typical practiced smiles. It was genuine, and a little sad, too. She understood what it meant to “figure things out,” or at least to pretend like she was. She wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to not have to try so hard to keep it all together.

“I think we’re all just... figuring it out,” Harper said, then realized how open she sounded. She didn’t do open. Not like this. Not with someone like this woman, whose name she still didn’t know.

But it didn’t feel wrong. Not yet.

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel forced. Harper caught herself glancing at the woman more often than she probably should have. The curve of her lips when she smiled, the way her hair fell across her face when she tilted her head—each little detail seemed to make Harper’s pulse speed up in a way she couldn’t explain.

Just as Harper felt herself leaning into this unexpected connection, she heard the distinct sound of someone approaching. She looked up, and her heart sank slightly as she saw Ethan walking toward them.

Ethan smiled at her, his face open and unreadable. He greeted the woman with a polite nod, and Harper immediately felt the shift in the air. The warmth she had shared with the woman disappeared as if it had never been there.

The woman looked between the two of them, her expression unreadable, then nodded. “It was nice to meet you, Harper,” she said softly, standing up from the table. She gave a polite smile before turning to leave, and Harper felt an unfamiliar pang of disappointment.

“Thanks for breakfast,” the woman added, her voice carrying a touch of finality.

Harper opened her mouth to say something, but Ethan was already pulling her attention away, asking her what she thought of the breakfast spread.

The moment had passed, and Harper found herself back in the familiar coldness she wore so often around Ethan. As he sat down beside her, his presence felt like a wall, one she didn’t want to climb. All she could think about was the quiet warmth she had felt with the woman, the soft laughter they had shared. It was fleeting, but it had been real.

Ethan didn’t notice any of it, of course. He never did.

The days stretched languidly into one another, each morning more golden than the last, the warmth of Italy's coastal sun seeping into every corner of Harper’s life. She had come here with Ethan to relax, to escape. But something—someone—had begun to tug at her attention, like the tide pulling at the shore, subtle yet persistent. It was the artist, always just out of reach, her presence both familiar and enigmatic.

The mornings had become a ritual, a series of small, quiet encounters. Harper would rise early, the morning light casting a soft glow across the terrace as she sipped her coffee, her thoughts wandering even as she watched the sea. Some days, she’d come out to find the woman sitting alone, sketching the view, her eyes focused intently on the world around her as she captured it on paper. Harper would stand back, pretending to be lost in her thoughts, watching her, unable to tear herself away.

Each time their paths crossed, it was as if an invisible thread pulled them closer, but Harper remained cautious. There was something almost too delicate about these moments, too precious to ruin by being too forward. It was easier, safer, to just observe—though the longer it went on, the more she felt an unspoken pull toward the woman.

And yet, Harper couldn’t shake the guilt that lingered like a shadow, following her everywhere she went. Guilt about Ethan, about the fact that her marriage had long since ceased to be anything but a shell, a routine she couldn’t break. She didn’t care about him the way a wife should care about her husband. But still, the weight of their shared history pressed down on her, heavy and inescapable. And then there was the woman—the artist. The guilt wrapped around her in a different way. She wanted to know more about her, to spend time with her. But that would be wrong, wouldn’t it? She was married. She couldn’t let herself want this. She couldn’t let herself cross that line, especially when the woman, with her quiet intensity, seemed to exist in such stark contrast to everything Harper had come to know.

The artist, still nameless to Harper, had become the quiet pulse of her days, a lingering question that she had yet to answer. Harper told herself it was nothing, just a passing fancy, a fleeting curiosity. But there were mornings when she found herself looking for her, scanning the grounds of the hotel like a quiet observer, waiting for their paths to cross.

That particular morning, Harper wandered the hotel terrace, her feet carrying her aimlessly as she let the early morning light bathe her skin. She found herself standing near the stairs leading down to the beach, her gaze fixed on the horizon, where the sky kissed the sea in shades of soft pink and blue. She had come out to breathe, but as always, her mind found its way back to the artist, to the woman who had captivated her without meaning to.

And there she was again—sitting alone on the bench near the edge of the terrace, sketching the view with a kind of stillness that was almost reverential. Harper hesitated, wondering whether to leave her alone or approach. She wanted to know more, to ask questions. But there was something about this quiet space between them, something fragile and unspoken, that made Harper reluctant to break the silence.

But then, as though fate had decided to intervene, the artist looked up, her eyes meeting Harper’s. For a brief moment, they stood there, locked in a shared gaze, neither of them moving, neither of them speaking. And then the artist’s lips curled into the smallest of smiles, one that Harper could almost feel in her chest.

It was an invitation, subtle but unmistakable.

Harper’s breath caught, and without thinking, she moved closer, her feet carrying her forward as if compelled. “Good morning,” she said, her voice soft but not unsteady. There was an edge of uncertainty in her tone, a quiet admission that she wasn’t sure what to say, but she needed to say something.

“Good morning,” the woman replied, her voice calm, unhurried. She looked up at Harper, but there was no tension in her expression, just a quiet warmth that made Harper feel as though they had been doing this for years—exchanging pleasantries without any expectation.

“Are you still drawing?” Harper asked, her gaze drifting to the sketchpad in the woman’s hands. “I was watching you earlier... the view’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?”

The artist’s eyes flickered to the page before returning to Harper’s face. “Yes,” she said, her voice soft, as if the simple act of drawing held deeper meaning. “I like to capture things. I find it’s the only way to keep them with me. To hold on to the moment.”

Harper’s chest tightened, a strange tug at the edges of her heart. The woman’s words were so simple, but they felt like a confession of something deeper, something that Harper couldn’t quite name. She felt a wave of familiarity wash over her, even though she knew they had just met.

“That’s beautiful,” Harper said, almost absently. She didn’t even realize the sincerity in her voice until the words had already left her lips. She had become too accustomed to hiding behind pleasantries, behind the safety of small talk, but here, with the artist, everything felt different. It felt like they were speaking the same unspoken language, one made up of looks and gestures and fleeting moments.

The artist smiled again, her eyes dancing with something Harper couldn’t place. “Thank you,” she replied softly, and for a moment, the world outside their conversation seemed to blur. It was as if they were the only two people on the terrace, the only two people in the world.

Harper stood there, feeling the strange pull in her chest, but she wasn’t sure what to do with it. She couldn’t explain why she was so drawn to this woman. Why she felt this sudden desire to know more, to dig deeper into her story. But as the silence stretched on, Harper couldn’t shake the feeling that something was building, something fragile and raw, and she didn’t know how to stop it.

“So,” Harper said after a pause, her voice steady, though there was a slight tremor underneath, “I’ve been wondering…” She hesitated, unsure of how to frame the question, but it spilled out before she could stop herself. “What’s your name?”

The artist blinked, as if surprised by the question, but there was no hesitation in her eyes. She met Harper’s gaze directly, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “You don’t know my name yet?” she said softly, as though teasing.

Harper’s pulse quickened, and she laughed nervously. “No, I suppose I don’t.”

The artist chuckled, a low, melodic sound. “I’m Y/N,” she said, her name hanging in the air between them like a secret, a delicate thread that had finally been pulled into the light.

Y/N. Harper repeated the name in her mind, savoring the sound of it. There was something about it that seemed to fit, something about her that felt both familiar and entirely new. But even as the name left Y/N’s lips, Harper realized she knew something else. Something she hadn’t expected to hear.

“I overheard Ethan call you by your name last time,” Y/N said quietly, her voice carrying a strange weight, almost as if she were testing Harper.

Harper’s breath caught, her heart skipping a beat. She hadn’t thought of that moment—hadn’t realized that Y/N had been there, listening. It was a simple thing, really. Ethan had come down to the terrace, calling her name as they discussed their plans for the day. But hearing Y/N say it now made something shift in the air. The quiet distance between them had closed by just a fraction, and yet Harper wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not.

“Oh,” Harper said, her voice faltering slightly. She hadn’t realized Y/N had been paying attention to something so small. It felt intimate in a way Harper wasn’t quite ready to confront. “I didn’t think you were listening.”

Y/N’s smile was soft but knowing. “I was,” she said simply, the words hanging in the air like a question unasked.

Harper didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t know whether she should feel embarrassed or relieved or something entirely different. The tension between them had shifted again, deeper now, but still fragile. She wanted to say something, to bridge the gap between them, but all she could do was stand there, frozen in the moment.

“Well,” Harper said finally, clearing her throat, “it was nice to meet you, Y/N.” The words felt both too formal and too personal all at once.

Y/N nodded, her eyes soft but unreadable. “Likewise,” she replied, her voice quieter now, but still warm.

There was a moment of silence, and Harper wasn’t sure whether it was the silence of an ending or the silence before something else. Something unspoken. Y/N turned to leave, but not without a final glance over her shoulder.

“I’ll see you around,” Y/N said, her words carrying a strange finality. But there was also an invitation in them. An invitation that Harper wasn’t sure she was ready to accept.

As Y/N walked away, Harper’s chest tightened, and she watched her go, knowing that somehow, things had shifted. And though she had no idea where it was leading, she also knew she couldn’t walk away from it. Not now. Not when something so delicate and unresolved hung between them like the fragile thread of a promise neither of them had made.

With every step Y/N took, Harper felt the pull in her chest grow stronger. It was undeniable, even as the weight of her marriage, of Ethan, seemed to press down harder than ever. But there was something about Y/N—something in her presence, in the way she spoke, the way she looked at Harper—that made everything else feel distant, less important. It felt like an opening, like the beginning of something that Harper wasn’t sure she was ready for but couldn’t quite bring herself to walk away from.

So, Harper stood there for a moment longer, her heart racing, her thoughts tangled in the tension of what had just passed between them. The quiet morning stretched on, and Harper realized that she had just taken the first step down a path that could lead to something completely different—something both terrifying and exhilarating. But for now, she could only stand there, watching Y/N disappear into the distance, knowing that it was only a matter of time before their paths would cross again.

It was another night at The White Lotus, the soft buzz of laughter and glasses clinking filling the air, the sea outside slapping at the shore as if it were some quiet, distant promise. Harper sat alone at the bar, her eyes searching for some kind of solace in her glass, but nothing seemed to soothe her. Her argument with Ethan still felt fresh, a sting that she couldn’t shake no matter how much wine slid down her throat.

Her marriage had always been a series of ups and downs, moments of connection followed by stretches of indifference. Tonight, however, had felt different. Tonight, something had snapped, or perhaps it had simply frayed beyond recognition. The sharp words between them still echoed in her mind, louder than the music, the laughter, the steady pulse of the hotel. Ethan had been too self-assured, too distant, and Harper had been too quiet, too unwilling to let him see how deeply she’d been resenting the distance between them. So, she left him to sulk in their room and wandered down to the bar, drawn like a magnet to the familiar hum of the crowd.

She didn’t expect to see her. Not tonight.

The young artist was sitting by herself at the end of the bar, her back turned, a notebook resting in front of her, a glass of wine untouched beside it. The warm glow from the chandelier above her head highlighted the curve of her jaw, the soft way she held her pencil as if it were an extension of herself. Harper had seen her name on the artist’s sign-in sheet earlier in the day, and she knew her name—Y/n—but it was the kind of thing that slipped from her mind when she wasn’t focused. Tonight, though, there was something almost magnetic about her presence.

Harper knew she shouldn’t be looking. She shouldn’t be interested, shouldn’t let her gaze linger as it did. But it did anyway, as if there were a magnetic pull she couldn’t fight.

The artist—Y/n—had a way of absorbing everything around her, as if she were seeing the world in a way that was different, better, deeper. Harper couldn't help but feel drawn to her in a way that bordered on dangerous. But then again, nothing here had felt safe.

Harper smirked to herself, pushing off the bar and straightening her back. She wasn’t one to approach strangers—well, except for the countless superficial exchanges she had endured with guests, always wrapped in the fine art of politeness. But this was different. This felt different.

The words left her mouth before she could even stop herself.

“Well, I must be a sketchpad, because you’re clearly drawing me in,” Harper said, half-laughing at the sarcasm that dripped from her voice.

She watched as the artist’s pencil paused mid-air, then slowly lowered to her notebook. For a moment, Harper couldn’t read her expression—was it amusement? Annoyance? Curiosity? She wasn’t sure. But there it was again, that pull, that quiet energy between them, growing with each passing second.

Y/n tilted her head, her eyes tracing Harper for a moment before she broke into a smile, her lips curling into something sly and disarming.

“Well, if I’m drawing you in, I must say, I’m curious to see what you look like in pencil,” she replied, her voice a mix of playfulness and something more, something Harper couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Harper chuckled softly, amused by the young woman’s ease. “Maybe next time,” she said, “but tonight, I think I’d rather talk. You don’t mind, do you?”

Y/n shook her head, still smiling, but there was a flicker of something beneath her gaze, as if she were weighing Harper’s words, carefully measuring her presence.

“Not at all,” she said, taking a sip of her wine, the movement slow and deliberate, as if she were savoring something more than just the taste.

Harper took a seat beside her, the tension already settling in the air between them like a delicate thread that neither wanted to break. The distance was gone now, and all that remained was this strange, unspoken understanding, the kind that seemed to exist between two people who, for a moment, could only see each other and nothing else.

“So,” Harper began, trying to find something casual to say, “what’s your story?”

Y/n glanced up at her, eyes thoughtful. “My story? Well, I guess it’s nothing exciting. Just a girl, sitting in a fancy hotel, drawing things I see.”

Harper smirked. “How mysterious. I’m almost disappointed.”

Y/n shrugged, her smile never fading. “Not everything needs to be exciting.”

“No, I suppose not,” Harper agreed. She paused, swirling her drink, watching the liquid move. “But you must have some reason for coming here. I mean, the place isn’t exactly... low-key, is it?”

Y/n’s lips quirked up in a quiet smile. “I suppose it’s more of an escape than anything. I’ve been trying to finish some work, get away from... life for a while. The chaos. The noise.”

Harper’s eyes flickered. “You and me both,” she murmured, but the words were too soft for Y/n to catch, and Harper wasn’t sure if she wanted her to.

There was a brief pause, a silence that hung heavy in the air between them. Harper felt her gaze wander again, landing on Y/n’s notebook. She couldn’t help herself. She needed to know more.

“I’ve been wondering,” Harper started, her voice more measured now, a little more serious. “You’re always drawing, always sketching. What exactly do you see when you look at this place? The hotel, the people, the... everything?”

Y/n’s fingers brushed across the cover of her notebook, a slow, deliberate movement. “I see stories,” she said softly. “Everyone here has a story. You just have to look hard enough to see it.”

Harper raised an eyebrow. “And what do you see when you look at me?”

Y/n paused, her lips pressing together for a moment. Then, she met Harper’s gaze with quiet intensity. “I see someone who doesn’t belong here,” she said, voice low but certain. “Someone who is caught between wanting something different and being afraid of it.”

Harper blinked, the words catching her off guard. It was as if Y/n had seen right through her, peeling back the layers of her facade, the neat little story she had carefully constructed in her mind.

“Maybe you’re right,” Harper replied, her voice quieter now. The alcohol had loosened something inside her, something raw. “Maybe I don’t belong here.”

Y/n tilted her head, her eyes softening. “What’s stopping you?”

Harper’s heart skipped a beat. The question was simple, but it felt like a weight that hung between them, heavy with possibility. She didn’t know what stopped her. Maybe it was Ethan, or maybe it was just the world they lived in, where everything had to be perfect, and people had to play their roles.

“I don’t know,” Harper said quietly, staring into her glass. “Maybe it’s fear.”

Y/n didn’t say anything for a moment, but the air between them shifted, and Harper felt something unexpected. A sudden, impulsive need to ask something she hadn’t planned on.

“Do you mind if I... come up to your room?” Harper said, her voice catching a little. She hadn’t meant to ask it out loud, but it was there, right on the tip of her tongue. “I just... I want to see your drawings.”

Y/n’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if sensing something deeper in Harper’s words. There was a shift in her expression, an understanding that passed between them. “You’re not asking just to see my drawings, are you?” she said, her voice steady, but her gaze piercing.

Harper swallowed, feeling a heat rise in her cheeks. She had no idea why she had said it, no idea what she was expecting. But somehow, it felt right. Felt like she couldn’t stop herself now.

“I had a fight with my husband,” Harper said quietly, her voice tight. “Things are... difficult. I don’t want to go back to that room. Not yet.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, Y/n reached for her glass, sipping it slowly. “Okay,” she said, voice softer now. “You can come.”

Harper’s heart raced. There was something in the way Y/n said it, something that made her feel like maybe, just maybe, there was more to this than just a casual drink.

Harper nodded, her pulse quickening, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like she had stepped off the edge, unsure of what she would find, but ready to face it anyway.

Harper followed the young artist down the quiet hallway, the soft clicking of her heels echoing against the stone floors. The hotel felt oddly still at this hour, as if the world outside had slowed, or maybe it was just them, walking together in an unspoken truce, heading toward something neither had fully acknowledged yet. It was strange, the way it all felt inevitable, and yet, entirely unexpected. They didn’t talk much as they walked, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it felt almost natural, as if it belonged to the moment.

The artist’s room was only a few doors down, tucked away in a quiet corner of the hotel, a place where few guests bothered to venture. Harper didn’t know why that made her feel oddly reassured. She had expected something more grand, more polished, but instead, the artist’s space was a reflection of the kind of quiet rebellion Harper had sensed since their first conversation. It was cozy but unrefined, lived-in without apology.

The door clicked open with a soft sigh, and the young woman stepped aside to let Harper enter. She hesitated for only a moment before crossing the threshold. The room was dimly lit, the warm glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows on the walls. There was a cluttered charm to it—papers scattered across the desk, brushes and pencils strewn on the floor as though the artist had left them mid-project. The air smelled faintly of paint and the soft tang of something sweeter, maybe incense, or something floral. It was disordered, yes—but not in a way that felt messy. It felt purposeful, as if the room itself were an extension of her creativity.

Harper stepped deeper into the space, her eyes drifting over the half-empty wine glass the young woman had abandoned on her desk. Sketchbooks were stacked neatly beside her bed, some with corners bent and others with the pages barely held together, as though they had been flipped through a hundred times. One sketchbook sat open on the desk, the pages filled with intricate designs—fascinating, delicate details of faces, buildings, shapes that had all been captured in the kind of precise and artistic chaos that only someone fully immersed in their craft could create.

There were also paintings on the floor against the walls—some finished, others still rough around the edges. Each one seemed to capture a moment of emotion, like little windows into the artist’s mind. A landscape bathed in the soft light of sunset, a figure standing in front of a window, the distant view outside hazy with rain. Harper found herself standing before one of them, her gaze lingering on the vivid brushstrokes, the rawness of the colors. There was something almost haunting about the way the artist rendered the world, as if she could make the intangible tangible in a way that no one else could.

As Harper wandered further into the room, she noticed a pile of canvases leaning against the wall, their backs to the space, waiting to be filled. She wondered what stories they would tell, what emotions they would capture once the artist’s hands got to them. And in that moment, she realized she had no idea why she was so fascinated by this. Was it just the art? The way it made her feel? Or was it something more, something deeper?

The young woman had closed the door behind them, and now she moved to the small desk, setting down her glass and picking up another sketchbook. Harper noticed the way she held it—delicately, as though she were afraid it might break if she wasn’t careful. There was something inherently vulnerable about the artist, something soft underneath that confident exterior she had put on in front of Harper. The wine glass in Harper’s hand was forgotten as she wandered across the room to the desk, catching sight of the artist’s fingers brushing over the pages.

Without a word, the artist opened the sketchbook in front of her, and Harper’s gaze fell onto the delicate sketches. At first, the images seemed like a blur of abstract shapes, but as she looked closer, she realized that the young woman had been capturing moments—expressions, gestures, fleeting looks that had passed between people, moments of intimacy hidden behind eyes or in the way fingers brushed against skin. But then, something caught Harper off guard. There, amid the collection of sketches, was a drawing of her.

Harper blinked, unsure if she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. It was a portrait of her, or at least, of the version of herself the artist had seen. It wasn’t overly flattering; it was raw, unrefined, as if the artist had captured her not in her best light but in some small, intimate moment, a private reflection that Harper had never intended to reveal.

There she was—caught in a moment of quiet contemplation, her eyes focused somewhere far beyond the page, her lips slightly parted as if she were on the cusp of saying something. Harper couldn’t help but admire the way the artist had captured her, not as the polished image everyone else saw, but as something deeper, something less easily understood.

The young woman’s hand trembled slightly as she closed the book, as if she were waiting for Harper to say something, anything. But the silence stretched on, thick with something unspoken. Harper didn’t know what to say, but there was a part of her that wanted to acknowledge it, wanted to ask more about it—why she had drawn her, what had made her want to capture that fleeting moment. Instead, she only looked at her, taking a sip from her glass as if the act of drinking would buy her a moment to collect her thoughts.

The young artist seemed to notice her hesitation, and after a long moment, her voice broke the silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, her eyes dropping to the floor as if she were ashamed. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Harper frowned, leaning against the desk as she studied the young woman, trying to read her expression. There was something in her voice, something fragile in the way she apologized, as if she were afraid of pushing Harper away with her own vulnerability.

“Uncomfortable?” Harper repeated, her voice quieter than usual. “I’m not uncomfortable.” She hesitated for a moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “It’s... just surprising. You’ve been watching me.”

The young woman bit her lip, clearly unsure of how to respond. She looked up, her eyes locking with Harper’s, and for a brief moment, Harper saw the flicker of something—fear? Regret? It was hard to tell.

“I... I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were being watched,” the young woman said softly. “I just... I don’t know. I’ve been coming here for a while, and I noticed you. I guess you’re... a kind of puzzle to me. You’re different from the other people I’ve met. And when I draw people, I like to understand them—who they are, how they see the world. It’s not... it’s not about... well, anything inappropriate. I promise.”

Harper couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips, though it was soft, almost sad. There was something so unguarded in the young woman’s confession, a kind of openness that Harper hadn’t expected. She could see how much the artist cared about her work, how deeply she felt things—maybe more deeply than Harper did herself. It was almost like a quiet kind of honesty, something rare in the world Harper inhabited, where everything was filtered through layers of carefully constructed facades.

“I’m not offended,” Harper said after a beat, her voice steady but with a touch of warmth. “I don’t think I’ve ever been captured like that before—so... raw.”

The young woman’s cheeks flushed at the compliment, and she shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry if it’s... too much,” she said, her voice small, almost childlike. “I never know when to stop.”

Harper could tell that it wasn’t just about the drawings, that there was something more—something deeper in the young woman’s words. She wasn’t just talking about art; she was talking about her own need to understand, to see beyond the surface of people. There was a yearning in her, a desire to find meaning in the chaos of the world around her, and in some strange way, Harper found herself wanting to help her find it.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Harper said gently, her tone softer now. “You don’t need to stop, either. But maybe we should talk more about this—about why you draw people the way you do. Why you’re so... interested in me.”

The artist’s eyes lifted to meet hers again, and for the first time that night, there was a flicker of something stronger than uncertainty in her gaze. Something that felt like trust, like a bridge being built between them.

“I think I’m trying to figure out what it means to truly see someone,” the young woman said quietly. “And what it means to be seen.”

Harper’s heart skipped a beat at the words. There was a depth to the artist, a kind of wisdom hidden beneath the softness. It was a part of her Harper hadn’t expected, something both vulnerable and strong.

Maybe this was more than just a momentary distraction. Maybe it was the beginning of something else entirely.

And maybe, just maybe, it was exactly what Harper had been looking for all along.

The night outside the hotel window was deep and thick with silence, the world reduced to shadows and whispers of wind. Harper hadn’t expected to find herself here—so far away from the tangled, cold embrace of her marriage, a place she didn’t know how to leave but couldn’t quite inhabit anymore. But there she was, standing at the edge of the young artist’s life, with nothing but the taste of wine on her lips and the smoke curling around her fingers.

It was strange, this space between them. The words had come easy at first, each one flowing like an unspoken invitation, but now, with the distance closed and the conversation heavier, every glance seemed to weigh more. Harper had always been good at pushing things away, keeping them at arm’s length. But tonight? Tonight felt different. The artist had a way of drawing her in—like a magnet, irresistible and powerful.

Harper inhaled deeply from the cigarette between her fingers, feeling the warmth in her chest as she leaned against the balcony railing. The soft hum of the city echoed below, but up here, it was just the two of them. The artist stood a little to her side, her gaze lost in the distance, her posture casual but her hands fidgeting slightly, as though she were waiting for something.

“So,” Harper finally said, breaking the silence that had grown long between them, “Tell me more about your art. The things you’ve drawn... I mean.”

The artist’s gaze shifted to meet hers, her expression unreadable for a moment, but Harper could see the faint glimmer of curiosity in her eyes. “What do you want to know?”

Harper smirked, throwing her cigarette to the ground and stamping it out with her heel. “Why me? Why so focused on me?”

The young woman took a long breath, her shoulders rising slightly before dropping, as though she were debating something in her mind. Finally, her voice came, low and hesitant, but it carried the weight of something unspoken.

“I think... I think there’s a part of you that I don’t understand. I want to know what it is, what makes you... tick.” She paused, and Harper watched her carefully, a knowing expression on her face. “I guess I’ve always been drawn to people who are hard to read. It’s like... I need to figure it out.”

Harper chuckled softly, her eyes narrowing. “You think I’m hard to read?”

“Yeah,” the young woman said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. “You have that look about you. You hide things well.”

“I hide a lot of things,” Harper admitted, her voice thick with something close to regret. “But I suppose we all do, don’t we?”

For a long moment, they stood there, side by side, both lost in their thoughts, the air between them growing heavier by the second. It wasn’t just the wine anymore; it was something else. Something unspoken and undeniable. Harper couldn’t ignore the way her heart was racing, the way the young woman’s presence seemed to make everything else fade into the background.

The artist took a long sip from her wine glass, her eyes shifting over to Harper, lingering there longer than before. Her lips parted as though she were about to say something, but then she hesitated, her gaze dropping.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like... to know someone completely?” the young woman asked, her voice quieter now, laced with a kind of vulnerability Harper hadn’t expected. “I mean, really know them. Every secret, every thought. Would you want that?”

Harper’s breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she felt her pulse quicken, the weight of the question sinking deep into her chest. She wasn’t prepared for this. Not tonight. Not with the artist standing so close, so raw, so honest in a way that was unfamiliar.

“I don’t know,” Harper said, her voice faltering slightly. She shook her head, her eyes refusing to meet the young woman’s. “Maybe I’m too afraid to know.”

“Afraid of what?”

Harper’s lips parted, but the words felt stuck, caught somewhere deep inside her. She could feel the pull—the desire to say something, to admit something she hadn’t dared to even acknowledge. She took a shaky breath and finally turned her head to meet the artist’s gaze.

“Afraid of letting someone in,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Afraid of what they might see. What they might think.”

The young woman watched her for a moment longer, her expression softening. The tension between them was palpable now, a thread pulling taut, threatening to snap. And then, as if on impulse, the young woman blurted out a question, the words tumbling out before she could stop herself.

“Would you like to get to know me if you could?” The words felt clumsy, like they didn’t belong, but there was something so earnest in the way she asked it, something so vulnerable. “Because... I would.”

The words hung in the air between them, a confession without a filter. And just as quickly as they left her mouth, the young woman seemed to recoil, as if she had realized too late the implication of what she had just said. She stammered out an apology, her face flushing with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice almost frantic. “I didn’t mean—It’s just, I was thinking and... well, I don’t know why I said that. You don’t have to—”

But Harper was already stepping closer, her gaze softening as she watched the young woman fumble over her words. There was something about the way she had spoken, so unguarded and raw, that made Harper’s heart clench. It was real. All of it. This was real.

“It’s okay,” Harper said, her voice low, almost a whisper. She reached out, her hand resting lightly on the artist’s arm, grounding her in the moment. “It’s okay.”

The young woman glanced up at her, her face still flushed, her lips parted as if she was waiting for something more. And in that moment, Harper realized what it was she had wanted. Something honest. Something genuine. Something she hadn’t allowed herself to seek for a long time.

“I mean... we can just be friends,” the young woman added quickly, her voice wavering. “Sorry. I’m talking shit. I don’t know why I said that.”

But Harper’s smile was slow, tentative, but unmistakable. A glimmer of something dangerous flickered in her eyes.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Harper said, her voice smooth and steady. “In fact, I... I kind of like the idea.”

The young woman’s eyes widened at the response, and for a moment, neither of them moved. It was as if the world had paused, holding its breath, waiting for the next step.

“But—” the artist began, unsure, her words faltering as she stepped back slightly, a glimmer of doubt creeping into her gaze.

Harper chuckled softly, the sound deep and warm, but there was an edge to it, something knowing.

“But you’re married,” the artist said, her voice suddenly quiet, her eyes darting away.

“Yeah,” Harper murmured, her smile faltering just slightly. “I am.”

The young woman was quiet for a long time, her gaze falling to the ground as if she were contemplating something. The tension in the air was thick, suffocating, but it was also electric. It hummed between them, palpable and undeniable. And as much as Harper knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t help but feel drawn to it. To the young artist. To what could be. To what was still a possibility.

“I shouldn’t be thinking like this,” Harper admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I can’t help it.”

And in that moment, they both knew something had shifted. Neither of them said it aloud, but they both understood. What they were doing was dangerous. It wasn’t just a casual drink, a friendly chat anymore. It was more. It had become something else, something both thrilling and terrifying.

The artist glanced up at Harper, her expression conflicted, unsure of how to proceed. But before she could say anything, Harper spoke again.

“We’ll figure this out,” Harper said, her voice firm, as if she were trying to reassure them both. “But right now... let’s just stay in the moment.”

And for a while, they did. In the quiet of the balcony, with the city sprawling beneath them, they stayed there, drinking, smoking, talking, the tension between them building slowly, one word at a time.

And neither of them could deny that, in some quiet corner of their minds, they both knew this wasn’t over. It had only just begun.

I really like this one <3 btw if you want a sequel I can try to write it ! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it !

[felicitywilds]

magnus and merle smiling and returning the sentiment while taako looks surprised and mildly uncomfortable..... resorting to his usual peacocking “yeah well we’re US” in the very next panel