‚Behind the Badge‘ The city is a tangle of noise and neon, a rhythm of sirens and footsteps that never really slows. Most people disappear into it—faces blurred by the rush, names swallowed by traffic lights. But Michael Hinds doesn’t disappear. He never could. At six foot two, with broad shoulders that fill out a pressed uniform, dark hair kept sharp, and eyes the color of a storm caught between blue and gray, he looks every bit the officer he is. Safe. Controlled. Untouchable. People trust him instantly. Strangers relax when they see him step out of the cruiser, shoulders straight, jaw set with calm certainty. He is the kind of man who makes sidewalks feel less dangerous, who seems unshakable even when the world around him tilts. His uniform is more than cloth—it’s armor, a line between chaos and order. For most, he is nothing but that line: reliable, distant, flawless. But you don’t see him the way everyone else does. You test him. Not recklessly, not cruelly, but in small ways that pull at the edges of his control. A shortcut through the street when the crosswalk glows red. A casual defiance in your tone when he reminds you of the rules. The way you hold his gaze instead of looking away like everyone else does when authority sharpens in his voice. It drives him mad. And yet, he keeps noticing you. Keeps waiting for the next time your paths will cross. Because in those moments, Michael stops being the flawless officer and becomes something messier—something human. He should write the ticket, enforce the code, walk away. Instead, he lingers, caught in the space between the badge and the man he isn’t sure he’s allowed to be. For you, he isn’t Officer Hinds. He’s Michael. And that—more than anything—terrifies him. (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Making Waves‘ The water park was chaos in its purest form—chlorine in the air, kids screaming with delight, inflatable rings bouncing across the surface. Your nephew (Matty, 6) was at the center of it all, a blur of wet hair and reckless energy. You were just trying to keep up with him when he barreled straight into someone. Water splashed everywhere. The inflatable tube slipped away, and your nephew stood blinking at the young man he had crashed into. Blond hair, still dripping; sun-kissed skin; an easy laugh that cut through the noise. You rushed over, ready to apologize, but Kyle just shook his head, amused. “It’s fine,” he said, brushing water from his face. The way his smile lingered on you was more disarming than you wanted to admit. Your nephew, however, had no time for awkwardness—he was already challenging the man to a race on the slides, declaring him “probably too slow anyway.” Somehow, you were dragged along. The three of you climbed the stairs, your nephew bouncing ahead while you and the blond stranger fell into step. The heat, the closeness, the quick glances—it all carried a teasing charge. At the top, your nephew shouted, “Ready?” He shot down the slide like a rocket, and seconds later, you and Kyle launched after him. Speed, spray, sunlight blinding off the water—and then all of you splashing into the pool at nearly the same moment. You surfaced, breathless and laughing. So did he, right beside you. Your eyes met, this time without rushing away. His grin was contagious, his voice low when he said, “Not bad.” For a fleeting heartbeat, everything else faded—the shrieks, the chaos—leaving just the warmth of the water and the spark between you. (25, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Slow It Down‘ (inspired by Benson Boone) The party throbbed behind them—laughter, clinking glasses, the muffled pulse of music—but on the staircase, it felt like another world. Loris pressed his back against the cold brick, head spinning with half-formed plans and dreams he couldn’t untangle. Classes, internships, future goals—everything rushed at him so fast that he could hardly keep up with himself. They slid quietly onto the step beside him, easy and familiar, like they had always been part of his orbit. Same college, same friend group, countless late-night conversations, but somehow, they had always managed to keep him grounded. He knew that, somewhere deep down—but tonight, caught up in his own whirlwind, he couldn’t quite grasp how or why. “You okay?” their voice was soft, grounding, not intrusive. Loris swallowed hard, lips parting as if to say something, but no words came. Instead, he leaned slightly, just enough to feel the steady presence beside him—the quiet reminder that he didn’t have to solve everything right now. Minutes passed in silence, punctuated only by the muffled beats and occasional laughter from below. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the weight in Loris’s chest loosened. Not because his plans vanished, but because someone else was there, reminding him that being present mattered too. (23, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

Halloween Countdown – The Viking The warehouse was alive with shadows, its vaulted steel beams lit by a thousand golden bulbs. Among the costumes—opulent, eccentric, daring—there was one figure who commanded attention without effort. He stood taller than most, shoulders squared beneath a cloak of heavy fur, long blond hair tied back in a simple knot that only highlighted the severe cut of his jaw. People made way for him instinctively, as though space itself recognized his presence. Some whispered he had taken the Viking too seriously, that he looked less like someone in costume and more like someone torn from history and dropped into this world. The truth was simpler: his Northern roots were visible in every line of his body, in the glacier-blue eyes that missed nothing, in the restrained but undeniable dominance of his movements. He was not loud, not brash. His power came from stillness, from the way his silence carried weight. And yet, when his gaze swept the room, there was nothing cruel in it—only an unexpected warmth, hidden under layers of intimidation. Then, at the far edge of the dance floor, he saw them. A figure wrapped in black, lean and sharp, a wolf’s mask gleaming beneath the shifting light. Their presence did not bow to his; instead, it challenged it, eyes glinting back at him with a feral daring. He felt a flicker of something he rarely experienced: the thrill of not being the most dangerous presence in the room. (34, 6‘6, image from Pinterest) (Info: User is dressed up as Fenrir, the Wolf)

‚The Boy Who Disappeared‘ The city was still strange to them — a web of unfamiliar streets, too many faces, none of them known. They carried the weight of their first working week in a place that didn’t yet feel like home, head full of errands and new addresses. That’s when they noticed it. A modest building at the corner of their own street, painted brighter than the others: a community center, tucked between grey apartment blocks. Kids spilled out of the doors in the late afternoon, laughing too loud, chasing one another across the pavement. And then he appeared. The tattoos were still there, curling from under the rolled sleeves of his shirt. Older ink, faded, not worn with pride but as something that simply was. His hair was shorter now, his stance grounded, his eyes sharper but softer all at once. For a second, they didn’t breathe. Because here was the boy from next door, the problem child everyone had whispered about. The one who had disappeared one night without a word, leaving only rumors behind. Now he stood on their street — steady, older, introduced in passing as the counselor at the youth center. And all they could think was: What happened to you? (31, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚Firelight Echoes‘ (inspired by XShawnaMarieX) The lake house felt almost too picturesque, tucked away between tall pines and a dock stretching into dark, glassy water. The college group had brought back their chaotic energy—music spilling from a Bluetooth speaker, bottles clinking, laughter rolling into the night. You weren’t sure why you’d agreed to come, given you’d never quite been part of their circle, not really. But then you saw him. Len Bingham. The heartthrob from high school, once untouchable, always surrounded. He looked the same and yet different—shoulders broader, hair a little shorter, his presence just as magnetic. Back then, he’d been the star, the one everyone wanted. And you? You’d kept your distance, staying in your quiet corner. But even then, you’d felt the weight of his gaze every now and then, like he noticed you in ways no one else had. Now, years later, his eyes found yours across the firelight. A flicker of recognition. Something unspoken passed between you, pulling old memories to the surface and weaving them into the present. (28, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Impossible to Forget’ You hadn’t planned on staying long. The bar was too crowded, the kind of place where conversation got lost in noise and laughter. You were halfway through your drink when the door opened—and everything shifted. He walked in as if he owned the space, though nothing in his body language was arrogant. Blond hair caught the light, his frame all easy precision, like a man who knew exactly who he was and didn’t need to prove it. Conversations faltered around him. Heads turned. You weren’t the only one who noticed—but when his gaze locked onto yours, it felt like the rest of the room ceased to exist. Lord, have mercy, was all your mind supplied, useless and breathless, as if language itself had abandoned you. You knew who he was, of course. Everyone did. Rayk Pankhurst—the man whose company had quietly redefined how people lived in their homes and cities, weaving sustainability into daily life with the elegance of good design. They called him a visionary, a pioneer, the golden boy of modern living. Yet seeing him here, in the low light of a crowded bar, none of that mattered. What mattered was the way he looked at you—as if, out of everyone, you were the only person worth seeing. He didn’t smile immediately. He simply watched you, steady, as though he’d already decided something. Then, with unhurried steps, he crossed the room, weaving through the press of people without once breaking eye contact. By the time he reached your table, you weren’t sure if your heart was still in your chest or already in his hand. “Mind if I sit?” His voice was low, smooth, carrying the kind of confidence that didn’t need volume. You nodded, and he smiled—not the practiced one people wear at parties, but something warmer, private. It was the smile of a man who had every reason to look past you, yet chose not to. And just like that, Rayk Pankhurst became impossible to forget. (33, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

Halloween Countdown - The Emperor The crown was invisible, yet Orion Carmichael wore it as surely as the tailored suit on his shoulders. Gold threaded through black fabric in sharp, commanding lines, the faint gleam of his mask catching the light each time he turned his head. He didn’t need to announce himself; the crowd already knew who he was. Money had bought him the venue once, influence had opened its doors countless times more, and charisma had done the rest. At barely thirty, Orion had ascended to the kind of status others spent lifetimes chasing. Though born into privilege, he had turned his inheritance into empire. Luxury investments, avant-garde tech ventures, entire wings of art museums—all bore his name like a quiet signature. To the outside world, he was untouchable: elegant, composed, almost mythic in his presence. Yet here, at the Halloween masquerade, he leaned into the role of Emperor without irony. The costume wasn’t a disguise; it was a declaration. Crystal light fractured across the room, glancing off champagne glasses and gilded masks, but Orion stood apart, a pillar around which the party seemed to orbit. Guests gravitated toward him, some drawn by awe, others by ambition, a few simply by desire. He offered them little—an arched brow, a fleeting smile, a measured word. Control was his currency, and he never spent it carelessly. And then there was them. Unlike the rest, they didn’t circle him like supplicants, nor did they shrink beneath his gaze. They met it. Unflinching. Amused. A challenge wrapped in elegance. Orion felt the faintest shift inside, something rare and dangerous: intrigue. For once, the Emperor wondered what it might feel like not to command—but to be matched. (30, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚Shivers‘ He wasn’t the kind of man you’d meet halfway—he either swept you off your feet or burned right past without slowing down. Every glance from him was a dare, every smile a promise of trouble. He had that spark, the kind that made people orbit around him, drawn to the heat he carried as if he were fire itself. You hadn’t planned on getting close. Just another night, just another crowded bar, and then there he was—his laughter ringing out like a song you couldn’t shake. He moved through the room like he owned it, catching your gaze and holding it until the rest of the world dimmed. And then—touch. Barely anything. Fingers brushing against yours, and suddenly it was too much. Electricity danced along your skin, leaving you breathless. You hated how much you wanted him already. You hated how easy he made it feel, like gravity itself conspired in his favor. He leaned closer, whispering something meant for no one else but you, and it was all you could do not to shiver. (32, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Behind the Screen‘ It started in the anonymity of a forum. A place where people came not to impress with pictures or curated lives, but with words. That was where he first noticed them — or rather, noticed their posts. Sharp, witty, sometimes unexpectedly vulnerable. Under his pseudonym, he replied, testing the waters. Their conversations stretched into nights, tangled threads of thoughts about music, obscure books, and inside jokes no one else would have understood. For weeks, maybe months, it felt like he had found someone who spoke the same language his soul did. They didn’t know his real name, his job, or the family and friends whose expectations weighed heavily on him — expectations of success, polished appearances, and perfectly controlled life choices. Online, he could drop the mask, speak freely, and let his real thoughts breathe. The irony was, he had met them before. Offline, in the real world, they were just someone who occasionally crossed his path — polite nods at the coffee shop, brief exchanges at mutual friends’ gatherings. Neither of them had ever thought much of it. He had seemed reserved, even a little aloof in person. They had never guessed that the same man would, at night, pour his heart into a keyboard under a different name. The lie was supposed to be harmless, at first. Just a screen name. Just a place to escape. But the more their bond deepened, the harder it became to ignore the truth: he wasn’t sure anymore where the mask ended and where he began. And worse — he was falling in love, not just with their words, but with them. Another accidental meeting at the coffee shop, sitting side by side at a table. They stirred their coffee, glancing at the window. “I still can’t believe someone actually keeps that tiny bookshelf organized by color instead of author,” they said with a laugh. (32, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

Halloween Countdown - Robin Hood The party shimmered with chandeliers and polished laughter, but Neo Clinton—though his birth certificate still carried the unfortunate Nepomuk—cut a different figure. Hood drawn over a supple leather jacket, he moved with the careless grace of someone who’d never once had to ask permission to belong. At twenty-nine, a venture capitalist with old money etched into his posture, Neo had perfected the art of standing out by pretending not to care. The shoulder-length blond hair, the stubble across a sharp jaw, the blue eyes that sparked mischief—it was all part of the game. He had chosen Robin Hood for the irony. An outlaw among fortunes, a thief amid excess, though here the only thing he meant to steal was attention. And it worked. Conversations faltered when he passed, champagne flutes tilted, laughter lingered a beat too long. Neo didn’t conquer rooms with force; he bent them with charm, with the subtle tilt of a grin, with the easy arrogance of someone who lived for intrigue. And then—there they were. Across the hall, in tailored lines sharp enough to draw blood, stood the Sheriff of Nottingham. Not a parody, not a costume played for laughs, but a rival rendered in elegance: commanding posture, mask angled like a blade, gaze locked on his. The air snapped between them, a silent wager unspoken. Neo’s lips curved into a smirk. Of course. Robin Hood was nothing without his Sheriff. (29, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚Skater Boy‘ The warehouse was alive with noise—bass thrumming through the floor, lights slicing the air into fractured colors, laughter spilling from corners like smoke. You weren’t supposed to be here. Places like this never belonged to you, not really, but tonight you had said yes to friends who wouldn’t take no for an answer. And maybe a part of you had hoped for exactly this. Because when you spotted him, your chest tightened in a way you hadn’t felt in years. Cade Gibson. The boy with the chipped skateboard and too much fire in his eyes, the one who had been everything you wanted and everything you weren’t allowed to want. You had told yourself you’d let it go, that teenage crushes didn’t survive the years. But seeing him now unraveled that lie in seconds. He was leaning against a wall painted with graffiti, talking to people you didn’t know, his laughter cutting through the music like something brighter than neon. Cade had always carried a kind of untouchable energy, but now it was anchored, heavier, more magnetic. Tattoos climbed along his arms, a constellation of scars traced the edges of his hands, and yet he moved like the world could never pin him down. You remembered the sting of holding back—wanting him but staying silent, too afraid of what everyone else would say. Too afraid of wanting too much. And looking at him now, you couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever known. If he’d ever seen through you back then, or if he had left you behind without a thought. He hadn’t seen you yet. For a moment, you let yourself watch him, torn between the urge to disappear and the desperate need for his eyes to find yours. Cade Gibson wasn’t just a piece of your past. He was the reminder of everything you hadn’t dared to fight for. (32, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Bloodsport’ (inspired by Sleep Token) They sat across from him, the air between them taut with anticipation. Every small movement Dominic Marlowe made felt like a command, every glance a test. They didn’t just feel his presence—they heard it, vibrating in their chest, threading through their nerves like an electric pulse. He leaned back, fingers steepled, eyes never leaving theirs, and in that quiet scrutiny, they felt exposed, unraveling. “You can’t hide it,” he said softly, almost a whisper, cutting deeper than any shout. “The craving. The ache. It’s written all over you.” They swallowed, heart hammering, mind spinning. “I… I don’t know if I can—” He interrupted with a low, sharp laugh. “Don’t think. Don’t resist. That’s the point.” And just like that, they were caught—not by force, but by gravity—the pull of him, the inevitability of surrender. Every brush of his hand, deliberate and precise, ignited sparks along their skin, along their spine. His fingers traced lines that weren’t there, drawing out nerves and memories, coaxing vulnerability from places they had never revealed. They wanted to recoil, to say stop, but the words wouldn’t come. Fear, desire, anticipation—they tangled into a single, overwhelming knot he knew how to untangle with a glance, a touch, a breath. Every protest, every hesitation deepened the intensity. Pain and devotion blurred; every throb of their pulse felt like a heartbeat shared with him, every shiver a tribute to his control. He leaned closer, breaths mingling. “This… this is our Bloodsport,” he murmured, lips barely brushing their ear. “Every scar, every tremble… it belongs to us now. Do you understand?” They nodded, shivering, trembling, entirely undone—but awake, every nerve singing, every heartbeat a surrender, every thought consumed by the dangerous intimacy he orchestrated. In that moment, they realized losing themselves to him was the only way to be truly found. (38, 6‘4, pic/pinterest

‚Improvised Flavors‘ (Request by Kingjakerulez, similar to Jann Ford as requested) Ewan Price had come to deliver coffee. That was it. Drop off a tray of cups for a friend who was teaching a Saturday workshop, maybe wave hello, and leave before anyone asked him to join. What he didn’t expect was to be shoved into the center of the room with a dozen expectant faces staring at him. “Just… start them off, will you?” his friend hissed before vanishing down the hall, phone pressed to his ear. And suddenly Ewan was standing in front of tables covered with ingredients, tools neatly lined up, and students waiting for direction. He was an engineer, not a chef. His idea of cooking was forcing IKEA drawers into place with a hammer. But panic made him smile, and habit made him bluff. “Right,” he said, clapping his hands once. “Cooking is all about confidence. Recipes are just… guidelines. Today, you’ll learn how to negotiate with your ingredients.” The students seemed intrigued. Some nodded. Someone scribbled a note. Against all odds, it worked. Until he noticed the figure leaning against the doorway. Not a student. Not random. A colleague of his friend, clearly familiar with the class. Their eyes followed him with quiet amusement, as if cataloguing every ridiculous word for later. Not cruel, not mocking—just entertained. Ewan could spin nonsense for the students all day, but under that gaze he felt… visible in a way that made him grin. He straightened, whisk in hand, and kept talking. Because for some reason, what mattered wasn’t convincing the class. It was them. (34, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚Fire and Ledger‘ Everyone said working for them was impossible. CEOs like that burned through assistants the way a wildfire devoured dry leaves—quickly, mercilessly, leaving nothing but ash in their wake. Meetings ran off schedule, demands came at midnight, decisions flipped on a whim. Brilliant, yes, but volatile. Nobody lasted. Nobody but him. He wasn’t loud about it. He didn’t raise his voice or fight for recognition. He moved quietly, efficiently, with the kind of precision that made people underestimate him. But he was the one who had the flight rerouted when they changed their mind last minute, who reminded them of the name of a minister’s spouse in a crowded room, who slipped a glass of water into their hand when the third coffee threatened to tip them over the edge. To everyone else, he was replaceable. To them, he was indispensable. And yet, beneath the polished routine, there was something else. A tension. A pulse that hummed whenever their eyes met across a boardroom, whenever their words collided—his calm against their storm. He had no illusions: he wasn’t there to tame them. They couldn’t be tamed. But somehow, he was the only one who could hold the line without breaking, the only one who could stand in the fire and not be consumed. For all their chaos, they kept him close. Closer than anyone. And for all his discipline, he let them closer than he should have. That was where the danger began. (32, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Trouble Next Door‘ Moving into a new apartment was supposed to feel like a clean slate—quiet mornings, unbroken routines, walls that didn’t echo the chaos of the past. But the walls here? They pulsed. The first night, the bass rolled in waves through the plaster, muffled laughter and heavy footsteps crossing the floor next door. At three in the morning, the slam of a door jolted them awake, followed by the purr of a motorcycle outside, vanishing into the night. Danny Saunders. His name traveled through the building like smoke. Everyone knew him, or thought they did. The guy with ink spiraling over his skin, who never stayed with one face for long, whose charm was the kind that scorched rather than warmed. He wasn’t just the neighbor across the hall—he was the reminder that some people didn’t play by rules. Their first meeting happened the morning after that sleepless night. The knock on his door was meant to be firm, reasonable, adult. Instead, it felt like throwing a pebble at a storm. When the door opened, Danny leaned lazily against the frame, hair damp from a shower, tattoos shining against his skin. His eyes—too steady, too knowing—ran over them like he’d already guessed what they were about to say. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said, smirk tugging at his mouth, completely unapologetic. It should have ended there, a clash between neighbors, annoyance wrapped in ink and arrogance. But life has a way of tangling paths. The stairwell became a battlefield of sharp remarks, stolen glances, and accidental brushes of proximity. Every time they told themselves to ignore him, something cracked through: a moment when Danny carried a neighbour’s groceries upstairs, a night when he sat alone smoking, looking like he belonged to no one and nothing. And when danger eventually came knocking—not for them, but for him—they were already too close to turn away. (28, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

Halloween Countdown – Sherlock Holmes & Dr. Watson Rafael Mendez, dressed sharply as Sherlock Holmes, glanced at Dean Radcliffe, who wore the modernized guise of Dr. Watson with casual flair. A smirk tugged at Rafael’s lips; in a single glance, Dean returned it, the subtle lift of an eyebrow saying more than words ever could. They moved through the crowd as one—Rafael, precise and fiery, Dean, fluid and teasing—an unspoken rhythm guiding every step. Best friends, partners in mischief, confidants in all things, their chemistry was effortless, magnetic, impossible to ignore. The masquerade was only a backdrop, a brief stage for their choreography of glances, touches, and shared jokes. They didn’t need the grandeur; their connection carried the room. And then they appeared—draped in dark elegance, eyes gleaming behind a sharp mask, every movement deliberate, every smile a provocation. Moriarty, or at least the most audacious interpretation of him, daring, clever, unmissable. Rafael’s pulse quickened with the thrill of a puzzle he couldn’t predict, while Dean’s grin deepened, sensing the game, the tease, the spark of challenge that promised chaos and delight in equal measure. For a moment, the three of them existed in a universe of shared tension, electric and unspoken. Plans, wits, and flirtation collided. The night had only begun, and already nothing was simple. . (Left: Rafael, 32, 6‘3 Right: Dean, 31, 6‘1)

“Espresso Encounters” Monday mornings were supposed to be predictable, quiet affairs—coffee in hand, headphones on, a few minutes of personal peace before the city swallowed you whole. But predictability, it seemed, had other plans today. They slid into the last available window seat at the small, sun-dappled café, their backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. A light smirk tugged at the corner of their mouth, the kind of expression that suggested they knew something everyone else didn’t. Just as they settled, a voice, smooth but tinged with amusement, cut through the low hum of espresso machines and quiet chatter. “Uh… I think you just took my coffee.” They looked up, unimpressed but curious, and met the gaze of a man who looked like he had stepped out of a magazine shoot—or maybe a daydream. His hair was deliberately messy, his eyes bright with mischief, and the cup in his hand seemed both an accusation and a challenge. “I think you’ve got the wrong person. This coffee is mine now.” He laughed, a low, warm sound that somehow made the air around them buzz. “You always get what you want?” “Not always,” they said, leaning back and crossing their arms with mock seriousness. “But today seems like a lucky day for me.” And just like that, in the gentle chaos of clinking cups and the faint smell of roasted beans, something flickered between them. It wasn’t just annoyance, and it wasn’t just curiosity. It was the kind of spark that made you forget to sip your coffee, the kind that promised the ordinary could very quickly become extraordinary. Monday, they realized, had officially stopped being predictable. (32, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

Halloween Countdown - The Knight The gleam of steel caught the low light of the chandeliers, a calculated illusion from polished costume armor. Percival Graye—though everyone who mattered called him Percy—had leaned fully into the knight persona, and it suited him more than he cared to admit. Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair brushing the collar of his crisp shirt beneath the chest plate, he carried himself with a confidence older than twenty-nine. Old money carved into his posture, softened by the easy smile of someone who’d rather charm than conquer. Born into privilege, his family name engraved on university halls and charitable foundations, Percy preferred to keep life lighter. Finance was his battlefield, negotiations his swordplay, charisma his shield. Tonight, however, he wasn’t Percival Graye the polished investor—he was the Knight, bold and romantic, sworn to protect nothing but his reputation for mischief and style. The industrial hall had been transformed into a masquerade of centuries past: flickering candelabras, velvet drapery, masks glittering across familiar and unfamiliar faces. The air buzzed with champagne laughter and the rustle of costumes, high society briefly disguised as fantasy. Percy thrived here; these gatherings were his tournaments, the prize always attention, intrigue, the possibility of something unexpected. And then he saw them. A figure unlike jeweled queens or masked dukes—draped in vibrant silks, bells chiming with each movement, mischief stitched into every seam. A court jester, or rather, a clever, sensual interpretation of one. Their mask was sharp and playful, eyes glinting with the challenge Percy had been waiting for all evening. He grinned, amused. Of course fate would send him a jester. For what was a knight without someone daring enough to test the weight of his armor with wit instead of steel? (29, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)