𝗚ᴜɪᴅᴇ 𝗧ᴏ 𝗗ᴇғʏ 𝗜ᴍᴘᴜʟsᴇ [ 𝙼! 𝙾𝚖𝚎𝚐𝚊 𝚡 𝙼! 𝙰𝚕𝚙𝚑𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 ]
ＣＨＡＰＴＥＲ 1
'I'm in love with a fairytale
Even though it hurts
'Cause I don't care if I lose my mind
I'm already cursed'
ғᴀɪʀʏᴛᴀʟᴇ ʙʏ ᴀʟᴇxᴀɴᴅᴇʀ ʀʏʙᴀᴋ
༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚 arrived at the Levine estate not with ease, but with an agitation so unusual that even the household clocks seemed to tick louder than usual.
Servants hurried through the corridors carrying pressed garments, polished shoes, silver hair combs, and trays of tea no one had the leisure to drink.
Curtains were drawn wide in hopes that fresh air might temper what years of physicians, incense, and expensive remedies had failed to subside.
Inside the uppermost chamber of the east wing, where the eldest son of the house had spent nearly all his life, the atmosphere was already heavy.
A maid scarcely crossed the threshold before pressing trembling fingers to her temple.
"Forgive me- forgive me, young master-"
She bent, caught herself against the wardrobe, and another servant quickly took the comb from her hand.
"Stand upright, Liza," said Lady Estelle Levine, though even her own voice lacked aswell.
"You have endured far worse than this."
"i apologize, my lady," the girl whispered faintly, face pale as linen.
M/n stood near the tall mirror, shoulders stiff while a valet struggled to fasten the final clasp of his waistcoat.
The boy, still young enough that excitement softened the line of his jaw, kept glancing toward the door every few moments.
"Must the collar be so tight?" he asked quietly, fingers hovering near his throat.
"It feels rather as though I am being fitted for burial."
His father, Lord Maverick Levine, standing several steps away with visible effort, gave a short breath that might have been amusement as if he was not already struggling beneath his cravat.
"One ought not to compare a formal introduction to a funeral, my son." Lady Levine shot her husband a glance before stepping forward herself, though only briefly, to straighten the silver pin upon M/n's collar.
"You are to make a favorable impression," she said, trying for calm.
"The daughter of House Valmere has been spoken of as exceptionally smart, quiet, delicate, and excellent manners. A child with admirable upbringing." M/n's eyes brightened despite his nervousness.
"Will she remain long?" M/n's eyes was filled with childish hope. One that his parents wish to not discourage.
"That," Lord Levine said dryly, already loosening his gloves,
"depends...just remember to breathe steadily."
"I always breathe."
"Unfortunately, yes."
A servant at M/n's side swayed. Another caught him before he struck the floor.
"Take him outside," Lady Levine ordered at once. The chamber door opened briefly; fresh air rushed in, then shut again.
Even Lord Levine himself lifted a hand to his brow.
The Levine bloodline had long been infamous for commanding pheromones, an inherited dominance so potent it had built alliances and frightened rivals in equal measure.
Yet what stood before them now was something far less manageable: strength without training, power without shape.
And their son, for all that unnatural force, looked only anxious.
M/n lowered his gaze.
"Do you suppose..." he began carefully,
"that she would dislike me at once?" His mother's expression softened despite her discomfort.
"My dear, there are many who fear what they do not understand. That does not make you unworthy of kindness."
"But if she cannot stand near me?" Lord Levine answered before sentiment could settle too deeply.
"Then we endure another disappointment and seek another solution." Lady Levine frowned.
"Must you phrase everything as though negotiating livestock?"
"I am phrasing it as a father who has already lost two footmen before noon." Another servant, adjusting M/n's sleeve, suddenly inhaled sharply and stumbled backward.
"Water," Lady Levine ordered.
"No-no, I am well-"
"You are spiraling," Lord Levine observed. "That is not generally considered well." Despite the commotion, M/n's eyes returned again and again to the mirror.
His reflection looked almost unfamiliar dressed so carefully. Dark coat fitted perfectly, hair brushed until it grazed his scalp, gloves untouched and white. Like one of the young noblemen from the stories he kept stacked by his bedside.
He had read enough novels to know how such meetings ought to unfold. He had imagined it often enough that morning felt almost miraculous.
"A lover..." he murmured under his breath. His mother heard.
"What was that?" He flushed instantly.
"Nothing, Mother." Lord Levine did hear that. His mouth twitched.
"Books again." Lady Levine sighed.
"You have given him too much literature and too little company."
"I had not realized books were capable of causing this much...Delusions." M/n straightened.
"Is optimism improper?"
"No," said his father. "Merely dangerous when unsupported by experience."
"I see..."
The carriage from House Valmere arrived shortly before noon.
The girl was younger than M/n had expected. small, carefully dressed, ribbons pale against neatly arranged curls. Her mother guided her gently by the shoulders as they entered the receiving parlor prepared especially for distance and ventilation.
Every window stood open.
Two servants remained near the far wall in case assistance became necessary. M/n entered under his parents' watchful eyes. He had never before stood opposite an omega.
The sight of someone unfamiliar, someone meant specifically to meet him, sent visible nerves through him at once.
His hands tightened behind his back. The little girl curtsied delicately.
"It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Lord M/n Levine." Her voice trembled, though whether from manners or early discomfort none could yet tell. M/n bowed too quickly.
"I- the honor is mine. I had hoped..." He faltered, remembered himself, then tried again. "I had hoped the journey here was not troublesome."
"Not at all, my lord." For one hopeful moment, it seemed possible.
Lady Levine exchanged a glance with her husband. The girl smiled faintly.
M/n, encouraged, offered the small carved chess figures placed nearby.
"I was told games ease introductions."
"Oh-yes, I should think so." She reached forward.
Then paused.
Her hand lowered.
A faint line appeared between her brows. Her mother noticed it first.
"Clarisse?" The girl blinked. Then Her breathing shortened.
"I feel rather..." Lady Levine stepped forward instinctively, then stopped herself, knowing proximity would worsen everything.
M/n immediately stepped backward.
"I beg your pardon-was I too near?"
"No, it is only..." Clarisse tried to smile again, but her complexion had already drained.
"A little warm, perhaps-"
She did not finish.
Her knees gave way, her mother gasped. The servants rushed forward. One caught the child before she struck the floor.
"Clarisse!"
"Open the doors wider!"
"She requires air!"
M/n stood frozen. The room moved around him in urgent voices and lifted hems, but he heard very little after the sound of her body collapsing.
The child was carried out swiftly, her mother pale and distressed, insisting it was nothing grave, merely weakness from travel, but the lie was awfully spelled out. Obviously spelled out.
M/n did not wait to hear the rest. He turned and left before anyone called him back.
Up the staircase, down the corridor, to the only place that keeps him save and offers him solace
The door shut behind him harder than intended. For the first time in years, he hated the room. He tore off one glove and threw it toward the chair.
"I did not even touch her," he whispered. His throat tightened painfully. Below, distant voices continued like muffled ghosts.
"I did not even touch her..." The first tear came before he noticed it. Then another. Till his lips let out a sob.
He sank to the floor beside the window, shoulders shaking with quiet grief.
All the stories he had read had never once mentioned this part. The part where one's very presence ruined the beginning before it could become anything at all.
A knock came eventually.
"M/n?" He did not answer. Then her mothers gentler voice through wood and distance:
"My dear... may I enter?"
"No." his voice came broken.
"You must not think yourself monstrous." His laugh came out small and miserable.
"Yet monsters-I think, have at least the courtesy of warning before they ruin things."
"You ruined nothing."
"She fainted before we even got to know each other!" That nearly broke her outside the door.
Inside, M/n pressed both hands over his face.
"I wished only..." His voice trembled harder now. "Only to speak with someone." Lady Levine rested her hand against the door.
Only silence remained. Heavy, old, and helpless.
And inside that room, M/n cried for the first meeting he had waited his entire life to have, and lost within minutes.
༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
𝗬𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 had taught M/n Levine many things. though not, perhaps, in the order life intended.
He learned first that silence had many varieties.
There was the silence of morning, pale and harmless, when sunlight entered his chamber in long strips and dust floated like idle thoughts. There was the silence of servants entering only when summoned, each trained to hold breath before approaching him, each measuring time in careful minutes before dizziness forced retreat. And there was the silence that came after rumors reached the estate.
He had become accustomed to that last silence.
At eighteen, he was no longer the tearful child who had once believed companionship might arrive if only he dressed properly enough, spoke politely enough, hoped earnestly enough.
Hope, he had learned, required accommodation from others.
And others seldom remained long enough to offer it.
He had also learned that refinement did little to soften fear.
By all outward appearances, M/n had become exactly what his family's name required: composed, articulate, elegantly mannered, and possessed of that particular grace noble houses cultivated as carefully as vineyards.
Yet beneath the polish remained the same difficulty no physician, scholar, nor desperate arrangement had solved.
His scent still refused obedience. No practice had weakened it. No phermones exercise had subdued it. No private tutor sent in discreet confidence had lasted longer than three visits.
And so the city spoke.
The little prince who could not govern himself.
The heir whose presence unsettled servants.
The young alpha hidden behind curtains because his scent became uncontrollable.
Time had not improved gossip; it only twisted it into different narratives.
Some said he enjoyed it-Which was not true at all-that he prolonged his confinement because he delighted in the effect he had upon others.
Others whispered that madness ran quietly through the Levine blood, and that he remained hidden not for courtesy, but because society would not tolerate seeing what he had become.
One rumor claimed he practiced commanding servants simply to watch them falter.
M/n had heard enough versions that eventually they ceased offending him.
He'd rather read all the books in their library than to listen to the fruitless rumors about him.
And because of that, books remained kinder than anything will evebe. be
Books asked nothing out off him.
Within them, young gentlemen crossed continents, loved recklessly, argued with the antagonist, and found themselves understood by improbable companions who saw beyond inconvenience.
He read them all.
And afterward, he returned them carefully to their shelves, fully aware such stories could only occur in fictions.
If companionship did not arrive, he had long since decided solitude would suffice.
At luncheon, the house was particularly quiet.
The dining hall stretched long and formal, its chandeliers catching pale afternoon light, its polished mahogany table vast enough to host a gathering that never occurred.
Only three seats were occupied.
M/n sat near the center, while his parents, as always, sat at the far end.
The distance had ceased to offend him years ago. It had simply become the carefully curated routine.
No one raised their voice; conversation at that distance was inconvenient enough that silence often proved more practical.
And honestly? M/n rather preferred it.
He cut neatly through roasted pheasant, his attention lowered, posture impeccable. Across the impossible length of polished wood, he could see his parents speaking to one another in tones too low to carry. Occasionally his mother glanced toward him. His father did as well, though less subtly.
M/n noticed, Though he continued eating.
A servant approached his side only briefly to refill water, already pale before the task was completed.
By the time dessert arrived untouched, his parents had ceased speaking. M/n finished swallowing, dabbed his lips with linen, and prepared to excuse himself.
"Father. Mother. If you will allow me, I thought I might return to the-"
"M/n."
His father's voice cut cleanly through the hall. M/n stopped to look at him. There was no irritation in Lord Levine's tone, but neither was there room for immediate escape.
He walked up to his father. He halted at the usual distance, far enough that neither parent needed to lean away.
Lady Levine looked at him first, softening what Lord Levine clearly intended to make formal.
"You have grown intolerably difficult to summon at meals." M/n inclined his head.
"I had believed the luncheon concluded."
"It had," said his father. "Until now." That usually meant unpleasant matters.
M/n clasped his hands behind his back. Lord Levine studied him with that same expression he wore when discussing contracts, inheritances, and unfortunate necessities.
"You're eighteen." M/n blinked at this.
"I am...aware."
"Then you are also aware that your eighteenth year is not decorative." His mother intervened before the conversation sharpened too early.
"What your father means, dear, is that certain expectations may no longer be postponed indefinitely."
M/n's brows lowered faintly. He already disliked where this was moving. Lord Levine continued.
"You are the eldest son of this house."
"Yes."
"The lineage must proceed."
M/n stared. For a moment he wondered if his father had momentarily forgotten whom he was addressing.
"I beg your pardon?"
His mother gave a patient breath.
"It is time, M/n, that we begin considering your future with seriousness."
"My future," he repeated carefully,
"has thus far consisted chiefly of avoiding fainting incidents."
"And yet even fainting incidents," said Lord Levine, "do not exempt a man from inheritance now, does it?" M/n almost laughed, but did not.
Instead he looked between them.
"You cannot be suggesting-"
"We are suggesting exactly what you think."
Marriage, huh?
M/n's expression shifted into something between disbelief and exhausted amusement.
"With whom?" Lord Levine leaned back slightly.
"That remains to be determined."
"don't you think it's a little...ambitious?" Lady Levine pressed fingers lightly together.
"You need not look so alarmed."
"I am not alarmed, Mother. I am merely curious whether my intended shall be introduced wearing a physician at her side." His father exhaled through his nose.
"Your wit arrives late but unwelcome." M/n lowered his gaze briefly, then lifted it again.
"With respect, Father... you have attempted this before."
"We are aware."
"And every such attempt has ended with apologies and failure. Won't it be the same as any other?" Even Lady Levine could not deny it.
M/n spoke quieter now.
"I cannot govern what should already obey me. You ask for marriage as though that difficulty has ceased to exist."
His father's tone sharpened, though not cruelly.
"We ask because difficulties do not dissolve by being politely acknowledged."
"And if the woman collapses before introductions?" Lady Levine answered this time.
"Then she is not the correct one." M/n's mouth thinned.
"Or perhaps there is no correct one." Something unreadable passed between his parents. Then Lady Levine, after the smallest pause, said:
"There may be another answer before that conclusion need be accepted."
That made him look at her properly. She continued.
"I have heard of someone." Lord Levine gave a look that suggested he still disliked the arrangement even while tolerating it.
"A name has reached us repeatedly," she said, "with unusual consistency." M/n waited.
"A man called Anatole Blanchard." The name settled strangely in the room.
Lady Levine continued:
"He instructs young alphas and omegas alike in conduct, restraint, composure, and bodily discipline." Lord Levine added dryly:
"He has built an absurd reputation for succeeding where physicians fail."
M/n frowned faintly.
"A tutor?"
"An etiquette instructor," said Lady Levine.
"For pheromones?" M/n asked.
"For impulse," she corrected. M/n considered this. He had heard of etiquette schools, certainly. Institutions where posture mattered nearly as much as inheritance.
But for him?
His skepticism showed.
"And this instructor imagines he can accomplish what no one here has managed?" Lady Levine's expression held something curious now, almost cautious interest.
"They say he has tolerated students no one else would accept." Lord Levine folded his arms.
"They also say he is insufferably strict."
"Well, strictness has not yet killed anyone yet" said Lady Levine. M/n looked away briefly, toward the long windows where pale afternoon gathered.
Another attempt.
Another person to cause harm to.
Another person asked to stand near him and endure what others could not.
He should have refused at once. Yet the name lingered.
Anatole Blanchard.
There was something oddly severe even in the sound of it.
"And if this fails?" M/n asked quietly. Lord Levine answered without hesitation.
"Then at least failure will no longer be due to our inaction." A harsh answer, but an honest one.
His mother softened it.
"If it succeeds," she said, "you may at last stand beside others without causing any dizzy spells." That struck deeper than he expected.
Because that, more than marriage, had always remained impossible enough to hurt. M/n lowered his eyes.
"When do I leave?" His mother smiled faintly.
"Tomorrow." That startled him enough to lift his head again.
"Tomorrow?"
"We have delayed enough years already," said Lord Levine. M/n almost protested, but stopped.
Tomorrow. Beyond the estate. Beyond his walls.
Toward a man whose name already sounded difficult.
And though he did not yet know why, the thought unsettled him far more than marriage ever had.
༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
𝗕𝗬 late afternoon, the room that had once belonged to M/n's childhood now resembled less a prison and more the chamber of a young gentleman expected by society to eventually step into public life, though only in appearance, for the old habits of isolation still clung to every corner.
A silver brush lay upon the vanity beside gloves chosen carefully.
M/n stood before the mirror, fastening the final button of his dark coat with fingers that betrayed none of the unease gathering beneath his composed exterior.
He did not know what to make of the arrangement into which he had been placed.
An etiquette instructor. A stranger with a reputation polished to sound entirely believable.
Anatole Blanchard.
The name still sounded like something from the spine of a difficult French volume one admired more than understood.
M/n studied his own reflection and found himself unconvinced.
He'd last about 10 minutes at best. If one were generous, perhaps twelve.
He had endured tutors before, scholars, private instructors, physicians disguised as men of refinement, even one stern retired clergyman who claimed discipline could be achieved through scripture.
None remained long enough to test theory.
Not because M/n lacked manners.
Quite the contrary actually, his manners had been sharpened by confinement until they were borderline immaculate.
He had been a well-behaved child because there had been so little else available to become.
Yet adolescence had introduced a cruelty no amount of proper upbringing could soften.
Heat cycles
The word alone was enough to activate a sour memory. The years in which his body had decided restraint was not a choice.
During those periods, the house changed. Servants no longer approached the upper corridor unless summoned twice.
Meals were left at distances measured with absurd precision. Windows remained open even during the rain.
Even standing near the corridor outside his room could leave others nauseated.
His scent, already difficult, became nearly intolerable then. thick, overwhelming, impossible to contain.
He had wanted desperately, almost childishly, to be ordinary.
He lowered his hands to the vanity and looked down. What he wanted had always been embarrassingly simple.
A conversation that lasted more than a couple of minutes.
Instead, every teacher who might have offered something resembling friendship had eventually become another name lost to discomfort.
Even his parents endured him in measured doses.
The thought lingered unpleasantly until the door behind him opened. He looked up at once.
Lady Estelle Levine entered with her usual elegance intact, though slightly diminished by caution.
"Are you prepared?" she asked, stopping near the threshold first before deciding how much nearer she could safely venture. M/n gave a small nod.
"As prepared as uncertainty permits." Estelle smiled faintly and approached further, carefully, as though negotiating invisible weather.
"You're pale."
"So are you."
"This Is the cause of my make-up."
"Then I guess the brand of your make-up would be 'M/n Levine'?" She laughed softly despite herself. Coming near enough to adjust the fold of his collar, she asked,
"Are you nervous?"
M/n met her eyes through the mirror. He nodded again.
"Deeply I am. "
"that's understandable."
"I remain unconvinced this shall differ from every previous attempt." Estelle's fingers smoothed his shoulder.
"You underestimate novelty."
"I believe I estimate disappointment accurately."
"That," she said, "is precisely what you said before Monsieur Darrow."
"Monsieur Darrow lasted seven minutes."
"That's because he was asthmatic."
"Mom, he arrived claiming he has mountain lungs." Estelle failed to suppress another laugh.
"Still, Do not dismiss this one too quickly." She circled him, checking details no servant had survived long enough to perfect.
"You have said that of every tutor."
"Yes," she admitted lightly, "and yet I continue to be hopeful because motherhood would otherwise become unbearably dull." M/n turned slightly toward her.
"What precisely has this man accomplished that has made you place so much faith in him?"
Now her expression sharpened, not with defensiveness, but confidence.
"Anatole Blanchard has corrected sons of noble houses whose fathers had already surrendered them to scandal."
"That...sounds completely exaggerated."
"It is true. He teaches manners, he teaches discipline. You also possess many things," Estelle said dryly, "Though control is not consistently among them." M/n sighed.
"I like to possess it more than you know." Her tone softened at once.
"I know." His fingers moved restlessly now, touching one another. A habit whenever thoughts grew difficult.
"What if he cannot bear it?" he asked quietly. "What if he lasts less than the others? What if I inconvenience him before introductions are complete? What if this becomes merely another carriage journey wasted upon optimism?" Estelle's gaze met his in the mirror.
Then she said gently:
"We shall not know unless you arrive." M/n watched her reflection carefully.
Then after a pause, noticed his mom's complexion.
"You look unwell."
"I am perfectly-"
"No, you look pale." M/n gave a long, resigned sigh.
"The bathroom is free if you intend to deny obvious suffering only briefly." That ended the debate. She pressed fingers to her mouth and turned immediately.
"I despise how observant you have become."
"You raised me indoors. There was little else to do." She reached the bathroom before dignity entirely abandoned her. The sound that followed confirmed what both already knew.
༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
𝗠/𝗡 looked back at the mirror. Even after all these years. Even now as they stood outside the manor. The carriage waited below the steps, horses already restless.
Estelle remained at safe distance, handkerchief pressed discreetly over nose and mouth.
"Do your best," she called. M/n adjusted one glove.
"I will..." She lifted her handkerchief slightly and said with hopeful determination:
"Perhaps next season I shall see you introducing your wife at luncheon." M/n nearly choked on nothing. His smile turned visibly strained.
"Yes. Perhaps." The carriage door opened. He entered quickly, grateful for wood and distance.
As the wheels began their motion, he leaned back and watched his mother grow smaller beyond the glass, hand still lifted despite discomfort.
Then the estate gates passed. And for the first time in some months, thought arrived faster than scenery.
Marriage.
It remained an abstraction. A thing people insisted upon He could etiher take it or leave it. If truth were permitted, what he wanted was embarrassingly lesser.
A friend.
One conversation uninterrupted by dizzy spells.
If this Anatole Blanchard truly possessed some miracle of discipline, then marriage remained secondary. Friendship alone would feel miraculous enough.
The city passed in glimpses. Stone streets and houses, carriages like his move along side them, ladies beneath parasols giggling and looking like gems, gentlemen crossing avenues with practiced haste.
He resisted staring too openly, though the temptation was childish. By the time the carriage slowed again, another estate stood before him.
Smaller than Levine Manor, yes, but only in comparison.
Elegant rather than grand. Its architecture severe in proportion, refined without extravagance.
Not a school, a residence-Or perhaps both.
M/n stepped down once the coachman opened the door.
"Thank you." The coachman bowed.
Ahead stretched a garden so carefully tended that even hesitation seemed unwelcome upon its gravel path.
Everything in the garden was tended to, the wild bushes were shaped with grace and perfection. It felt strangely appropriate for a man whose reputation centered around control.
M/n approached slowly and nervously. He always visited his instructors or teachers with his mom-or his dad if he's in the mood. But this was the first time he'd ever visited alone. Only him. And that settled a grappling knot in his stomach, absurdly aware that he had never been particularly skilled at introductions.
He rang the bell.
The wait felt immediate and far too long at once. When the door opened, the servant who greeted him nearly forgot how to breathe upon seeing him-or rather, upon taking the air surrounding M/n.
The reaction was immediate.
Hands rose halfway toward nose and mouth. The servant visibly inhaled wrong. M/n stepped back at once.
"My apologies."
"N-no- no, sir-"
The servant clasped both hands over mouth now, blinking hard.
"Please- forgive me- follow me, sir..." M/n nodded quietly.
He kept careful distance while following through polished corridors lined with muted portraits and unnervingly ordered silence.
Even here, his scent arrived before comfort.
The servant walked stiffly, clearly enduring each breath through determination alone. At last they stopped before a massive door.
The servant knocked once. A voice answered from within.
"Come in."
The servant opened the door. And there, for one suspended moment before stepping inside, M/n felt every nervous thought gather at once.
Because beyond that threshold waited yet another person he might disappoint.
Or perhaps, impossibly-by some miracle-
The first who would not move away.
༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊♛┈⛧┈┈•༶
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