#by the way when I refer to the white queen visions
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List of New Spamton Lore
This post contains all the new information about Spamton revealed on September 17th and 18th 2022 through the Spamton Sweepstakes and the Twitter Q&A, ranging from the most important reveals to small details, in no particular order!
Spamton might be dual typed, with his two elements being Puppet and Cat. It could also be, however, that he merely meant that the Puppet and the Cat elements share the same elemental weaknesses and that his sole element is Puppet.
Spamton once considered Swatch a close friend who always listened to him and was a shoulder for him to cry on.
Spamton seems to be especially fond of the Mike person he mentions in the game, citing him as the only one he’d spare if he got revenge on all of those who he feels have wronged him and declining to give people any information about him in order to protect him from “THAT [Cathode]’S CREW”.
Spamton is aware “haters” want to inflict bodily damage onto him (especially cover him in milk and throw him against a wall) and his official stance on the subject is “[Cool down with a]!!! WHAT IF ONE DAY, YOU ENDED UP [Killed] ME!?” and “WE DON’T DO THAT WITHOUT [A 72 hour paid Appointment]!!”
Spamton met Noelle before her arrival to Cyber World through her replying to his spam e-mails (implied to be about a supposedly “friend finder” website she tried to find her sister through). She was the only one to ever reply to one of his e-mails and, in return, he sent her a code that, when input into the Cat Petterz 2 game, produced a pipis reminiscent to the Bad Egg glitch from the Pokémon games.
The Pipis Spamton sent Noelle is implied to be the only gift he ever gave someone, since he seems unable to give people goods without trading them for money, even symbolically, either because of his corruption or as a trait of his species.
Spamton is aware people find him attractive and attributes it to his “MASSIVE [Ass]”.
Spamton doesn’t know what his Spamton EX form would have looked like.
Spamton claims that first three letters of the hidden, garbled lyrics hidden in BIG SHOT and as a voice line in the Spamton plush are “F I N”.
Spamton recognizes that his speech contains “[Brackets]“ and “[Random sp4m quotes]” to someone who’s looking at it in text form.
Spamton can repeat pieces of phrases he reads or is told, something he does in four different occasions between the Sweepstakes and the Q&A, which implies some of the things he says might be fully copied and pasted together from other sources.
Spamton claims his favorite food is Mexican food, but very specifically from the Pipis “The Original” restaurant, which is a reference present in the original game.
When answering this particular question, he answered it by repeating phrases taken directly from the restaurant’s Facebook page almost word for word.
Spamton considers himself handsome.
Spamton might know about Jockington and thinks he’d disapprove of his “Pipis Big Shot Fantasyship Ring” product, maybe because Pipis isn’t a real sport.
Spamton is in a certain amount of denial about his downfall.
Spamton made two separate references to being willing to be in a three-way relationship.
Spamton doesn’t like people that aren’t very well acquainted with them referring to his Pipis as eggs and calls them “[The boys]”. He considers the idea of them being used as a food source as pretty barbaric but admits it’d look “DELICIS” and “[Cheap]”.
Spamton knows a certain man is responsible for handing white eggs to people.
Spamton doesn’t seem to remember the Knight (or is pretending not to).
Spamton claims the Cungadero is the “[Nation’s Most Popular Car]”.
Spamton has always been shorter than the other Addisons.
Spamton seems to find non-digital painting an interesting concept and dubbed The Mona Spamton as “[History's First Fully Authentic] PAINTING”.
Spamton describes what happened to him as being made “INTO YOUR [living puppet] AND [enslave me] WITH [visions of glory]”.
Spamton implies that, at one point, he was pushed inside the Queen’s pool and given a swirlie in the mansion’s toilets.
Spamton seems to believe he has “died” in the past in some way.
When asked about his sexual orientation, Spamton claims to “LIKE [anyone and anything] THAT GIVE ME [Money]!!” and to be a “[Business Loving Businessman]”.
The little animated sprite of Spamton dancing borrows some moves from the famous Dancing Baby, a CGI animation from 1996 that’s widely considered to be the first meme.
Spamton finds Queen attractive. More specifically, that she has a “[smoking hot a$$]”, something he mentions in two separate occasions when referring to her.
Spamton appreciates his fans, calling them [Fellow Freaks].
Spamton considers Ralsei a “[scringley]”.
Spamton knows what memes are (he spells them as “m3m3”) and referenced around 11 different memes in both the Sweepstakes and the Q&A.
He specifically referenced the everyteenagers4free hot dog husband post when talking about Jevil, which could imply they’re exes.
Spamton considers Berdly’s statue as the best thing he has ever found in the trash.
Spamton seems to have frequent flashbacks about being evicted from Queen’s mansion.
Spamton thinks the Addisons were never his real friends and were embarrassed to be seen with him because he was “bad for business”.
Spamton knows what Neopets are.
Spamton stuck his nose inside a Cungadero’s auxiliary power outlet at least once.
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One Bed
Summary: When Barbara and Melissa get to their conference hotel room, they're unduly shocked that there is only one bed. [Post-2.16]
CW: Alcohol, Drunkenness, Emotional Infidelity/Infidelity, Sexual Innuendo/References
AO3
—
It’s a mistake, of course.
A clerical error most likely.
Perfectly reasonable given all the administrative duress that the hotel must be under since it’s hosting PECSA.
When Barbara and Melissa get to their shared room, huffing and puffing and ready to park their tired asses down—having lugged their suitcases all the way down a long hallway that looks like it could have come straight from The Shining—they quickly realize that instead of two queens, there’s only one king-sized bed that’s clearly made for two.
Barbara reacts as she’s supposed to, as is to be expected of her, a zealous woman of God—scandalized and righteously bewildered, stopping dead in the middle of the doorway, clenching the handle of her makeup bag far too tightly…
(… battling unsolicited images of Melissa’s beautiful hair splayed across a white pillow.)
(And she isn’t wearing a shirt in this vision for some inexplicable reason either, the contours of a black lace bra doing absolutely nothing to contain those creamy, voluptuous—)
“Oh, almighty God in Heaven,” she exhales with shuttered breath, blinking rapidly. Melissa nearly runs into her, the tip of her shoe clipping her heel as she also tries to teeter to an abrupt standstill with all her luggage.
It’s almost funny.
The way that Barbara barely feels the ensuing sting.
“What?” The younger woman grunts as she peers over her shoulder. “Is the room not clean yet or somethin’ because I swear to God, I ain’t carrying all this crap down aga—“
But she stops short, clearly sees the dilemma.
That one bed.
“Ah,” she only says, temporarily rendered speechless, which is a damn near feat for Melissa Schemmenti, who has strong opinions on pretty much everything, from the starting lineup of the Flyers to which Wawa hoagie is the best.
(The Gobbler obviously.)
“We should call downstairs,” Barbara suggests weakly, her throat strangely dry. Maybe it’s just the Allentown weather, and her sinuses are acting up, as they’re wont to do in strange environments.
Because surely, it’s not the prospect of sharing the same bed with her dearest friend in the entire world.
That would be ludicrous to be bothered about.
Absurd even.
It’s merely a bed, and she’s a grown-ass woman who is perfectly capable of cohabiting a bed with another grown-ass woman.
If it has to come to that.
(She doesn’t think it would be a particularly good idea for it to come to that.)
“See if we can get it changed,” she continues, attempting a smile that stretches across her lips like rusted wire.
“What?” Melissa teases, having regained her composure far more quickly than Barbara. Her chin is nearly touching her shoulder, and that makes the kindergarten teacher feel some kind of way too, as though there’s a tightness coiled just behind her navel. She also blames this on her incredibly sensitive allergies, inwardly lamenting that she forgot to pack her Sudafed.
“You scared to sleep in the same bed with me? ‘Fraid I have cooties?”
She receives an accompanying smirk and an elbow nudge at this, pinned down by twinkling eyes that remind her of both hearth and home, and Barbara can’t help it; she laughs in spite of herself.
Because it never really matters in the end.
Not with Melissa Schemmenti.
Whether she’s irritated about paperwork, stressed after a long few weeks of fearing that her husband has prostate cancer, or experiencing inconvenient sinus symptoms, the younger woman always knows how to tease a smile out of her. She’s a menace and one hell of a saint; she absolutely delights in doing so.
Barbara used to hate that when she was a younger woman, loathed that there was apparently one person who could sneak past her well-constructed defenses and disarm them all with a sly wink and a shit-eating grin. She used to nag at Melissa all the time for being facetious.
It was utterly inappropriate.
All the jokes and games and innuendos that would make a preacher blush.
They were supposed to be adults.
But now, nearly three decades down the line, she’s forever grateful to Melissa for continually reminding her of how to play.
“No, of course not,” she insists vigorously. “I just know that you and I would both be more comfortable if we had our own beds. Our backs are more twisted than those kids who won at the end of Footloose.”
“Pssh, that’s the moral you took at the end of Footloose, Barb?” Melissa snorts incredulously, shaking her fiery head.
“Yes!”
No, it absolutely was not, but she isn’t going to admit to spending an inordinate amount of time admiring Lori Singer’s toned arms.
As inspiration for her own exercise regiment, naturally.
“God bless ya,” her friend chortles fondly, “but hell yeah, sure. We can grab our swag bags from the ballroom and swing by the front desk afterwards. And then it’s—“
“—pool time, baby,” Barbara finishes with delicious zeal, unable to contain herself, affecting a theatrical, little shoulder shimmy.
She’s been looking forward to PECSA for at least a month now, anticipating all the best parts in advance: the long car ride with Melissa and the inevitable hours in the pool with her too, luxuriating in the sauna with Melissa, boozing it up with Melissa, staggering back to the room gloriously drunk at 2AM with Melissa, (wondering why life isn’t always as lovely as this in a tequila-soaked daze).
Waking up to Melissa as the first sight she sees in the morning.
Nursing a nasty hangover.
Thinking it’s an appropriate and welcome punishment for ever daring to be so perfectly happy.
(With Melissa.)
These are the traditions that they’ve threaded for themselves in all these years upon years—their rituals of unbecoming, of leaving school and family chaos and the consummate professionals that they always have to be behind. And, of course, what happens at the conference stays at the conference. That’s their maxim anyway—maybe even their chosen excuse—for the ways they tend to act when they’re alone.
“Well, I was gonna say booze time,” the younger woman grins, “but I guess the two aren’t mutually exclusive the way we do it.”
“No,” Barbara easily returns the smile, affectionately knocking her hip against Melissa’s own. “Not at all.”
—
An hour later, they’re stretched out side-by-side on lounge chairs by the pool—pre-gaming for PECSA-geddon with piña coladas—when Melissa gets a call from the concierge; they’d stopped by the lobby before heading upstairs to change into their swimsuits and made the manager aware of the error, leaving with a promise that he’d look for another room and get back to them as soon as check-in rush was over.
But to no avail.
There are no doubles left in the inn.
“He said they’ll send us a complimentary bottle of champagne for the trouble, though,” the second-grade teacher shrugs as she tosses her phone into her beach bag again. “So that’s a plus. I’mma need copious amounts of alcohol to cope with seein’ my sister’s ugly mug.”
Barbara, who had been stuck on the fact that she is in fact going to have to share a bed with Melissa tonight—(again, not that it discomfits her at all! she’s a grown-ass woman!)—is a little late registering what she just said, but when it hits her, when she remembers that they’d run into Kristin Marie before leaving the vendor ballroom, she sharply recalls the way the two sisters had so viscerally sparred.
As they always do when they encounter each other in the wild—claws out, hackles raised, their words like sharp teeth at the edge of the other’s exposed throat.
Barbara frankly thinks that their estrangement has gone on for too damn long. She’s seen enough of their fights to know that beneath all the name calling and cooking-based insults, they clearly love and miss each other, even if they’re both too stubborn to ever admit it. But all the same, she hadn’t appreciated Kristin Marie’s remarkably low blow about Joseph.
Hell, she may have even said something herself had Melissa not gotten there first.
“About that…” She begins, biting her plump lower lip. It tastes like pineapple. She briefly prays—perhaps inappropriately—that the rum will give her liquid courage.
Barbara is well-aware that they have an implicit but long-established rule not to bring their personal lives with them to conferences. Last year, for instance, they did an exceptionally fine job of not talking about the fact that the Howards had been in unhappy straits, their marriage strained by Gerald’s recent promotion. His long hours exacted a toll from them; his frequent out-of-town trips caused an abyss that neither of them knew how to functionally bridge.
They didn’t argue necessarily—they just constantly disagreed with each other in their normal tones of voice—but that was somehow the exact same thing and possibly even worse.
(Maybe they were too apathetic to even muster themselves to fight.)
They persevered and made it through that dark time, though.
(Mostly.)
They tentatively reconciled.
(They never directly spoke about the thousands of tensions between them, steamrolling over and through them instead, affecting a normality that neither of them looked like they could wholly feel.)
Of course they did. There was no other option. Divorce was synonymous with quitting, and quitting was in neither of their vocabularies.
But things had been complicated there for a while.
Life had been.
And this time last year, Melissa didn’t have to ask if something was wrong. Attentive to every microgesture, she just capably knew and didn’t press Barbara about any of it.
Just kept plying drinks into her open hand.
And Barbara Howard had loved her for that—for her discretion, for her clear sensitivity to the delicate situation, for all her innumerable and wordless acts of care—the drinks, her purposefully inane chatter, the way she would sometimes rub circles into the side of the kindergarten teacher’s wrist when they sat at the bar, and every tall man with a sad smile unfailingly reminded her of Gerald.
She’s too something or another—(Involved? Hypocritical? Christian?)—to ever extend her the same courtesy.
“Don’t,” Melissa warns, sucking on the straw of her drink rather petulantly. “I don’t wanna hear it. I ain’t makin’ up with her.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest that,” she replies patiently. (Well, she is. Eventually. If the two of them keep it up this weekend. Both for Melissa’s sake and her own. She’s not willing to play referee to the Schemmenti sisters’ knock-down-drag-out fights again. She’s been there, done that, and every attempt has unfailingly ended with her needing to imbibe copious amounts of wine for doing so.) “I was just going to ensure that you’re okay—see if you wanted to talk about it.”
It isn’t entirely lost on her that Melissa had said the exact same thing to her just two weeks ago when she’d nearly set the school on fire, distracted and undone by the stress of Gerald’s health scare. It isn’t beyond her grasp of irony that they’d concluded that same conversation on a laughing agreement that neither of them believe in the necessity of advertising their stressors.
But still.
It’s them, and they talk through these things when they’re ready or just on the verge of being so. It’s them, and they both implicitly know when the other needs a little push off the terrifying ledge. In fact, it probably wouldn’t be them if they didn’t—push each other and need to occasionally be pushed, that is—always challenging each other in their relationship in some way or another, more than willing to be what the other lacks.
Melissa immediately averts her eyes, staring at the water mere feet away from them, how it rhythmically laps against the side of the pool, and Barbara stares at her, intransigent and yet so gentle, knowing it is a form of love to not let the moment go.
“What’s there to talk about?” She eventually shrugs. Her green cover-up slips at the gesture and the magenta strap of her swimsuit briefly becomes visible, her slightly freckled shoulder exposed.
Barbara blinks rapidly, forcing herself to concentrate, briefly unspooled by a sudden desire to kiss the creamy skin there, to sample the anatomy of her all the way down…
She coughs into her free hand, briefly choked.
Damn sinuses.
“Kristin Marie’s a little shit,” Melissa goes on, oblivious, still looking away, now idly swirling the colorful umbrella in her cocktail glass. “End of the story. Same old, same old.”
“A little shit who is also your sister,” Barbara parries back with a knowing smile as her friend just as deliberately scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Which is what makes it so complicated, sweetheart—the people we love know how to wound us far more effectively than any knife.”
“Did ya get that off a Snapple lid, Barb?” Melissa retorts. Melissa jokes. Melissa capably deflects. Always, always, always. It’s one of her less aggressive defenses against unwanted vulnerability, the one she tends to wield most in conversations with Barbara.
(With other people—outsiders—she’d just bark and perhaps even bite.)
But Barbara solemnly shakes her head, unwilling to let her get away with it, thinking of her best friend’s kindness in these last few weeks—how, ever since the fire, not a day has gone by that she hasn’t made sure that she’s okay. Gerald even told her the other night—as they laid in their sheets after yet another round of celebratory relief sex—that he was glad that she’d finally told Mel.
Mel.
He called her that because he loves her too.
Not in the same way Barbara does, of course…
… whatever way that happens to be.
That’s too complicated for her to ever fully—or at least, audibly—define.
Messy even.
And she despises mess, especially within the immaculate temple of herself; she scrubs it clean at the altar every Sunday, asking God’s forgiveness for a sin that she can’t even name.
She thrilled at her husband bringing Melissa’s pervasive specter into their shared bed, relieved that she didn’t have to be the one to do so; and yet, her hand splayed against his bare chest, she could not bring herself to interrogate the root cause of her own pleasure.
“I was worried about you,” he went on gently, his warm knuckles skimming her forearm as he held her in the dark, “keeping it all on the inside.”
“It was the only thing I could do,” Barbara returned, perhaps a little too quickly, echoing the same sentiment that she had said to Melissa. She could only pray and not talk about it; she had desperately wanted to talk about it, had almost dared to—several times, in fact—as she and Melissa sat at the same table that she’d later burned, as was their habit, as was their decades long norm. But the words remained lacquered on her tongue; the weight of them rendered her incapable of speech; she was convinced that speaking her fears to Melissa would make them all real.
I’m afraid my husband is sick, she could not bring herself to say.
And if he is—if this is our lived reality—then I am devastated, Melissa.
I am so, so guilty.
Our marriage is not what it once was.
She loves Gerald Howard; she always will—he has been her best friend for thirty-seven beautiful years—but she secretly wonders if their renewed closeness in these last few weeks is just mutual and desperate apology, a last-ditch attempt to mend what has certainly been disrupted between them.
They’ve been distant from each other for a long time now.
And it hasn’t been anyone’s fault, really.
All their polite disagreements aside, Barbara is more than aware that Gerald’s promotion was not the fundamental breaking point in their marriage; it was just the easiest grievance to turn into an excuse, the tangible obstacle that they could both offload their hundreds of insecurities into without delving further into any single one of them. They could blame the promotion because it was there. It kept them from having to confront each other, which was far more complicated than having an impartial something to unite against. This lack of introspection allowed their middling reconciliation to be easier to swallow than it probably should have been, and yet, conversely, it made Gerald’s irregular prostate exam results all that much harder to bear three weeks ago. After the fact, they both became alive to the reality that their marriage has long been broken, and they’ve done everything since then to try and bandage the festering wounds.
The sex has been passionate.
Has been sensational even—(they’re both overachievers)—and yet, strangely controlled, as though both of them are seeking atonement from the other’s satisfaction. Barbara appreciates the intimacy; she deeply fears that it is compensating for something that they can never, ever get back.
“You’re happier now that you’ve told her, though,” Gerald continued, and his voice was so kind as it wound its way down to her in the quietness of their room, and yet, she could distinguish that his eyes were shrewd… and perhaps even a little sad.
That had scared her a little.
And maybe a whole lot.
What was there to be shrewd (and perhaps a little sad) about when it came to her relationship with Melissa?
What did he know?
Was it something that she didn’t? Was it the unspoken thing that she could not force herself to articulate—the twinges in her gut that she sometimes experienced when she looked at Melissa, the recurring visions of the woman in her underwear, the thrill that she just experienced when he had only said her name? Was Melissa the unnamable sin that she kept committing—over and over again—without ever fully acknowledging that she was doing so?
“Gerald—” She started, the slightest plea in her voice. She curled her manicured fingers into the dividing line of his sternum and wished that he had said something that she could truthfully deny.
But he cut across her; he enveloped her hand with his own and lightly squeezed.
“—I like it when you’re happy, Barb.”
And somehow, in their nearly four decades long marriage, that was the cruelest thing he had ever said to her because of what it indirectly and yet so clearly implied.
She was not happy with him.
She found, even in the rawness and the immediacy of that moment, that she could not wipe her hands free of blood and cleanly refute this assertion either, and so, only one ruinous fact remained.
She and Gerald love each other deeply and so much.
They’re hurting each other all the same.
“Be serious, girlfriend,” she tells Melissa, frowning firmly, her mind full of her husband, her chest aching because of her best friend. “I’m not talking about Snapple lids and you know it. I’m talking about lived experience.”
I’m talking about your sister.
I’m talking about Gerald Howard.
I’m talking about us.
(She always is in some way or another.)
We both know what it’s like to be hurt by loved ones.
And equally, what it means to hurt them back.
Maybe she and Melissa—without ever really realizing it—hurt each other every blessed day, just by inhabiting the same spaces and fooling themselves into believing that they are careful about never crossing any of its dutifully articulated lines.
“And I don’t wanna be serious, Barb,” Melissa huffs, the playful smile slipping sideways from her mouth. “I want to drink my piña colada and inhale so much chlorinated water that I accidentally get high. Is that so much to ask for PECSA weekend?”
The answer, of course, is no—it’s not a demanding request at all, and if Barbara is any sort of friend, she’d drop the conversation right here and right now, and allow them to return to their various attempts at self-medication… but she can't entirely help herself, a little reckless under the influence, freer here in Allentown from the facade which circumscribes her in every other given context.
PECSA Barbara has a lot in common with Sea Barbara.
They’re both almost truthful.
“Perhaps not,” she admits grudgingly, watching as Melissa places her drink down on the table between them and starts to take her cover-up off, clearly about to make a run from her feelings by diving into the pool. This is yet another one of her friend’s go-to diversionary tactics, the one she commonly resorts to when joking about her pain doesn’t work.
(It never really works on Barbara.)
“But you miss her, Melissa, and she’s here,” she continues, now dry-mouthed and overwhelmed at the sight of the younger woman in just her bathing suit: the ample exposure of her cleavage, the powerful silhouette of her thighs, the thin pink fabric that stretches tightly over her belly. “Perhaps God is trying to tell you something.”
Her chest bruises even as she utters the words.
She probably shouldn’t be invoking God when she can’t keep her eyes off of Melissa Schemmenti’s ass.
“And maybe it’s just a coincidence,” her friend says bluntly, suddenly standing up and kicking her sandals off. One nearly flies into the water.
Barbara winces at the tone, knows that she provoked it and hates that she did—(why can’t she ever leave well enough alone?)—which Melissa immediately catches, her green eyes softening, her entire expression, a conciliatory smile rising to her lips. It’s as crooked as the necklace of saints nigh perpetually strung around her neck.
“But, uh, enough chit-chat,” she says, jerking her head towards the pool, her messy ponytail violently swinging from side-to-side. “You comin’, hon?”
Barbara quickly decides that she’s pushed her luck far enough in this conversation and nods emphatically, slowly tugging her own cover up above her head, revealing her sky blue bathing suit underneath. It doesn’t escape her notice that Melissa’s cheeks have slightly reddened at the sight, that her pupils have dilated, that she’s rubbing at the hollow of her throat with three fingers. Indeed, thoroughly aware of all these reactions, she swallows thickly, suddenly self-conscious. She makes a meal out of neatly folding the garment and placing it in her bag, giving both of them time to recompose themselves.
“After you,” she eventually says in a voice that’s not her own.
And so, when Melissa wades into the water, Barbara dutifully follows, drawn siren-like by the fiery undulations of the other’s hair.
—
Barbara showers first, and Melissa follows.
Afterwards, of course.
Separately.
That’s probably the one thing that they’ve never shared—well, besides a bed, but even that’s about to change in the course of a few hours.
The entire time that she’s getting dressed, blow-drying her hair, smartening up in a green dress and turquoise blazer, meticulously applying her mascara, she’s thinking about that damn bed. She can’t escape it no matter where she moves in the room. It’s too big. It invades the entire space and all her rational senses. Even as she was showering, rinsing off the sharp stench of the pool, she could not escape the inexorable pull it had on her, the sensual thoughts that it engendered…
Red hair on a pillow.
Lace bras that don’t do their one and only job.
Hands touching hands.
Verdant eyes peering out of the darkness, pulling her inwards into the jungle of the night, a beautiful kaleidoscope of revolving bodies… scarlet curls, plum-colored lips, thighs like creamy taffy, skin like smoky quartz.
She can’t remotely blame any of this on her sinuses, so she rationally concludes that she should stop drinking for the evening—
—a resolution she almost immediately gives up on when a bellhop knocks on the door and delivers the hotel’s apology champagne.
She pours herself a glass in one of the red solo cups she and Melissa had brought with them for the trip and unslowly drinks it, sitting on the edge of the bed that she and Melissa will eventually share. Some paint-by-the-numbers procedural show is playing on the television. She stares at it without really comprehending it and idly wonders if Melissa is the big spoon or the little spoon.
But then that particular line of thought makes her remember that her best friend has a boyfriend, and her stomach unpleasantly lurches at the thought of Gary the Vending Machine putting his hairy arms around her waist, pulling her in to his chest, working his undeserving fingers beneath the elastic band of her undergarments…
She’s never entirely liked the man.
(Yes, she absolutely pushed Melissa to date him in the first place.)
He’s good, he’s fine, he’s perfectly okay—but those are the same sorts of adjectives that one might apply to a functional kitchen appliance, not a romantic partner.
She takes another distracted swill of her drink and doesn’t clock the precise moment when Melissa apparently steps out of the en-suite bathroom in a white robe, her vivid hair wrapped in a towel. But when she looks over and apprehends this dizzying sight, Barbara can only stare.
“Forgot my bra in here,” she chuckles, which is precisely the worst thing she can possibly say because Barbara’s eyes immediately roam upwards to the v-shaped divot of the robe, where little is visible except for curving shadows, the tantalizing suggestion of something more. “Kinda need that.”
“Yes,” she hears herself agree in a pathetically small voice, squeezing her plastic cup as Melissa saunters past to her suitcase, which is resting on top of the armchair in the corner of the room. It’s all very hypnotic, the pendulum-like swing of her hips, the graceful coordination of all her white-clothed limbs.
Barbara wonders if this effect is intentional, if Melissa knows exactly what she’s doing to her.
But she doesn’t give the thought too much air lest she accidentally name the animal of an emotion prowling around her gut for what she thinks it might be.
(It’s certainly nothing her fellow brothers and sisters in Christ would sanction, that’s for sure.)
(Happiness, her own husband might call it in the dead of night, in the sanctum of their shared bed.)
Melissa bends down to rummage through her suitcase, which doesn’t help matters much either, and Barbara tugs at her layered necklace, thinks she may have clasped it on a little too tightly.
“Listen, Barb, I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said earlier,”' Melissa starts falteringly, clear reluctance in her low voice. “About Kristin Marie. Y’know, at the pool.”
After Melissa had so firmly put a stop to that conversation, Barbara hadn’t brought it up again, and within minutes, they had returned to their jovial selves again—or, perhaps more specifically, the selves who they were at PECSA—hedonists, only thinking about the next physical pleasure. They laughed. They played. They were both experts at compartmentalizing, well-versed in the art of drowning out the noise with a facsimile of a smile. They dried off, finished their piña coladas, and enthused about the party tonight like it was the only pressing matter in their two-person world.
“Oh, do allow me to apologize for that, Melissa,” she frowns deeply as the other teacher finally straightens up with something in her hands. “I know your sister is a sensitive subject for you, and I… I shouldn’t have brought her up… we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
But Melissa vehemently shakes her head, a few damp curls falling from her towel, and finally turns to face Barbara again, a sad smile crooked at the corner of her mouth, a silky black bra dangling from her fingertips.
One hand still gripping her solo cup, Barbara buries the fingers of the other into her right thigh.
“Good, yeah,” her friend laughs, though the gesture doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She shifts uncomfortably, rolling her weight from foot to foot. “That works for me… but, uh, I also just wanted to say thanks, Barb.”
Barbara can’t pry her gaze away from that damn brassiere; Melissa’s own is darting anywhere but her: the ceiling, the carpeted floor, the empty space just over her shoulder. What a pair the two of them make.
“For what?” She asks in a constricted voice, and the oddness of it must draw the other’s attention because suddenly, they're finally looking at each other in the face again. They’re staring, mutually constituting each other in the wordless interaction.
Seeing and being seen.
It is all that they have ever done.
It is all that they seem to want to do.
“For bein’ there for me,” comes an equally charged reply, freighted by that which neither of them can openly name. “I know you were just trying to help out, and I appreciate that.”
“Always,” Barbara breathes immediately, so glad that there is space between them—some six feet and something even more intangible than that. The elaborate ring on her fourth finger digs into her thigh too. “You’d do the same for me.”
A slight beat; she smiles so widely that it almost hurts.
“You have done the same for me,” she adds passionately. “I don’t know who or where or what I’d ever be without you, Melissa Schemmenti.”
But she does in fact know—maybe they both do. Maybe even her sweet husband does too. Maybe it's the most horribly kept secret in the whole wide world.
“God, you’re such a sap,” Melissa laughs because it's easier than actually engaging, and Barbara allows her the indiscretion this time, even joining along.
“Girl, you’re one to talk!”
“Hey!”
She is more than dimly aware that it’s probably better for them both if they continue to treat their relationship like it’s some huge joke.
Because isn't it, though?
They love each other, and they can never actually say it aloud.
Isn’t that the funniest punchline in God’s almighty world?
They love each other, and they can never act upon this reality in any meaningful way.
They live with this crucial fact every single day and spend so many of their waking hours dangerously straddling the borders that they've so carefully articulated to keep themselves apart.
But, of course, that's only when they're sober.
—
With each math-a-rita that they guzzle at PECSA-geddon, the more liberal with their affection that they get, all of their studious inhibitions subsumed beneath the ministrations of tequila.
One drink in, they start with little gestures.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Innocuous even.
Forgivable.
Barbara places a guiding hand on the small of Melissa’s back as they weave their way through the throng of nicely dressed people, looking for a table with room enough for two. The younger woman is wearing a leopard-print dress.
And she never wears a dress.
And she thinks about this, much longer and more sinfully than she probably should.
Melissa curls her fingers into Barbara’s wrist when they realize that they’re sitting with the Dawn Nichols, whose school supplies are legendary amongst educators. The second grade teacher gives her a knowing look, the kind that clearly says, Holy shit, there’s an opportunity here.
We can make something happen.
And Barbara shivers with quiet delight as their ankles accidentally glance beneath the table, as the expression in those green eyes does something to her, unloosing her at her tightly knotted core.
Two drinks into the night, they’ve run into Kristin Marie by this point, and Melissa’s entire body is wound so tightly that Barbara thinks that to touch her is to break her.
But she does it anyway—touches her, that is—a little reckless with her head buzzing so pleasantly, the sermonizing voice who often tells her no locked outside her personal church for the night. She interlinks their arms together as they revolve around the ballroom, and Melissa vents about her younger sister being a total puttana—whatever that means—and a shithead—which is perfectly comprehensible.
She gets a little tired of this after a couple of revelations, though, her feet aching in her heels, and she doubles back on her initial resolve to not interfere with the Schemmenti sisters, suggesting the impossible in the same breath—that they try to make up with each other.
And she touches Melissa’s arm when she says as much.
She presses her thumb into the crook of her soft elbow.
And when they look at each other—really look at each other—less than two feet between them, an island unto themselves in the middle of this crowded room, Barbara somehow knows that they’re both thinking about their conversation in the hotel room earlier—about the fact that they’re always there for each other, and it's not just a trite thing that either of them have unthinkingly said.
It's the truth.
Trust me, Barbara tries to say with just her eyes. I’m here for you.
If it doesn’t work out, I’ll be there to catch you if you fall.
Fuck you, Melissa all but communicates with her own, though with the deep sigh that comes shortly afterward, she just as immediately intimates, Okay.
Yeah.
Sure.
I believe you.
Trust has been hard won between them in over twenty years of companionship.
(It is a part of the love that they can never fully say.)
Two plus one math-a-ritas in, they’re back at the round table with Dawn Nichols and Kristin Marie—the Schemmenti sisters have finally made up!—and they’re all tipsily laughing about a story that Melissa is telling. Something inappropriate, of course. Something crass. Something about a wild escapade that she’d had when she went to France with a few of her friends for her college graduation trip, where she somehow became very close friends with a young Parisian couple she met at a bar.
“So we go back to their place and I’m thinkin’ that we’re just gonna throw back some shitty European wine,” Melissa carries on, simply exuberant, her cheeks suffused with a rosy glow, “and the guy, God bless him, he was flippin’ hot, but he didn’t have a thought in his head.”
“Just your type,” Kristin Marie snorts, but the quip doesn’t have any real bite to it anymore. She grins at her older sister lopsidedly, with a reluctant tenderness that makes the striking resemblance between them all the more apparent.
“Yeah,” Melissa acknowledges cheerfully, nodding once, and Barbara is just happy to see her friend so happy, even though she’s not exactly sure where this adventurous story is going. “So his girlfriend’s in the bathroom, and he starts jabberin’ away at me, askin’ if I wanted to take my jacket off." Her eyes twinkling with mischief, she affects a spectacularly bad French accent. “Do you need to use ze restroom? Would you like some… lotion, mon chéri?”
She switches back to her normal voice, snickering at herself.
“Only he didn’t say lotion, y'know."
Dawn Nichols and Kristin Marie must arrive at similar conclusions at the exact same time because the former claps an amused hand over her mouth, while the younger Schemmenti sibling goes, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."
“What?” Barbara purses her lips, pouting a little, feeling left out, as she stares between the three women. She’d gotten sidetracked by the leg brushed up against hers beneath the table and perhaps lost the nuance in the conversation as her companions laugh raucously. “What am I missing?”
“It was lube,” Melissa proffers without the slightest modicum of reserve, shrugging her nearest shoulder. “They wanted to fuck me, Barb.”
Barbara can't recover her face fast enough; her mouth falls open where she sits, and she can only blush and suddenly be assaulted with a thousand new images pirouetting through her head—all of which have to do with Melissa and none of which are remotely acceptable to God.
“And did they?” Dawn asks in a hushed voice, her own features delicately feathered with pink, as she leans forward in anticipation of an answer.
“Oh, hell yeah,” her best friend smirks as Kristin Marie guffaws at Barbara, who is now currently choking on air.
Melissa, unshaken and unfazed, takes it in stride, though, rhythmically patting her on the back.
“Oh, shit, ya’ve broken a woman of God,” Kristin Marie snorts, wiping at her eyes.
“Nothing new,” Melissa says charmingly and she leans over to press a kiss against Barbara’s cheek as though to prove a point.
Barbara cradles her burning face in her hands.
“Lord,” she exhales into her palms, fully incapable of looking at the woman next to her, “I don’t know why I’m even still friends with you.”
Melissa just laughs and laughs, and she continues to massage the spot between her shoulder blades, and she laughs.
Four drinks in, and they’re having a math-a-rita drinking contest with Derek, a bellhop whom they’ve become friendly with over the years.
Well, Melissa has a drinking contest with him, while Barbara uses the barest sliver of common sense and sobriety that she has left to cajole Dawn Nichols into working with Abbott for at least a year.
“Thank you,” she enthuses, briefly squeezing the other woman’s arm where it rests on the table. “You don’t know how much this will mean for our students.”
“Of course,” Dawn says, warmly observing the drinking game happening a few feet away. Melissa has nearly polished off another glass to Derek’s growing chagrin and Kristin Marie’s violently loud delight. “It’s clear to me that you and your partner are excellent educators; I know you’ll put the resources to good use…”
In her unadulterated surprise at the word used to describe hers and Melissa’s relationship, she nearly forgets to be gracious.
“Oh, we aren’t—“ She suddenly starts and then stops herself, reevaluating mid-sentence.
Partner isn’t necessarily a romantic term. Partner simply implies companionship and association with another, inseparability and togetherness. And they have absolutely been those things.
Inseparable.
Together.
A united front.
Partners.
Yes, of course they are and have always been.
“I mean, thank you,” she amends herself politely. “Melissa is truly one of a kind.”
The second grade teacher’s ears must be burning because she apparently hears this and turns back to face them with a radiant smile on her lips, as red as the blush that enlivens her soft cheeks.
“Damn straight I am,” she jests, comfortably resting her chin on Barbara’s shoulder. “What are we talkin’ about again?”
Barbara naturally leans into the touch as Dawn briefly turns away, now engaged by Kristin Marie asking a question about supply packages.
“Oh, nothing, sweetheart,” she muses in a low voice, suddenly feeling herself pulled into the other’s mischief, even wanting to play along; she's simultaneously breathless, intoxicated, by her intimate proximity and the scent of her orange blossom perfume. “Just about how you and I are partners. It’s a rather lofty descriptor for the shenanigans we get up to, isn't it?”
“Yeah, it’d be far easier to just say gay.”
“Melissa Schemmenti!” She nearly chokes.
Again.
“I kid, I kid! Jesus, Barb! Get a sip of water!”
But there’s not one ounce of water to be found on their table, and so Barbara has to compromise with another hearty swill of margarita.
Tragic.
But she'll cope.
An ungodly amount of alcohol later—(Barbara has lost track of how much either of them have consumed)—they finally stumble into their room around 2AM, supporting one another as best as they can with their altered equilibriums, giggly and utterly euphoric, triumphant in their respective conquests.
Melissa has outdrunk Derek for the fifth year in a row, and Barbara has secured a contract with Dawn Nichols.
And they are both so drunk and so exhilarated and so unbelievably alive in the moment, that they don’t entirely know how to extricate themselves from each other in the come down from such an exquisite high; they fall into bed—that one, singular bed—in a tangle of loving limbs, still in their dresses, only just capable of kicking their shoes off into the semi-darkness of the room. They didn’t close the curtains all the way before they left for PECSA-geddon, so moonlight intrudes upon the moment, silver and stunningly bright, catching both of them in the simple act of being happy.
Frankly, though, at this current junction of time, as compromised as they are, it’s beyond either of them to fully care.
“Shit, fuck,” Melissa laughs so hard that she shakes the mattress beneath them. “Your ring’s caught in my hair, Barb.”
“Oh, sorry, girlfriend,” Barbara apologizes and attempts to unravel her fingers from that mass of scarlet waves, but her ring is caught in the wilderness of it, snarled and apprehended. Somehow, in the incredible dysfunction of her mind, she thinks that raising herself above Melissa as she lies vulnerable on the mattress is the best way to set herself free, but all this does is give her a proper aerial view of her prone best friend.
All this does is nearly place her on top of her, their heaving chests inches apart, threatening to collide every so often by the force and desperation of their breathing. Barbara’s slender hands are splayed on either side of Melissa’s head.
Her face.
She can see every pronounced lineament in the younger woman’s face. Its dramatic height and angular proportions. The complicated expression in her eyes: the profound tenderness of them and something else too. Hunger. Reverence. Melancholy. She can trace the crow’s feet that gather beneath them and at the very edges of them. The redness of her slightly parted lips and the parentheses which enclose them. The slope and the playful upturn of her sharp nose.
She is beautiful, so unspeakably gorgeous.
Melissa Schemmenti.
Her very best friend.
Her partner.
Maybe even the love of her life, the opportunity who has always eluded her, the what if? just beyond her reach. But, at long last, there is no barrier between them, no insurmountable wall. There is only them and their bodies and the chemistry that electrifies them both whenever they so much as look each other. There is this feeling in her stomach that has been building all day, a tension that she cannot swallow, a queerness that she cannot properly digest. It erects itself in her like a monument, scaffolding its way up the column of her spine.
It will reach her tongue finally.
Those three glorious words.
Fuck me, Melissa.
(Because I love you is something she still won't be able to say.)
(I love you would make all of this so very real.)
(And precisely none of it can be real; these are the fantasies; these are the fairy tales.)
(The delusions.)
“Ouch,” Melissa murmurs as her hair is pulled.
By Barbara Howard’s diamond encrusted wedding ring.
It shines in the irradiated light of the moon, glinting harshly, in clear and damning reprimand, and Barbara flinches viscerally, as though stricken. The ring becomes a token again, symbolizing something else besides its own beauty.
Gerald is a good man.
She loves him so much.
She isn’t in love with him, though.
But even still, what gives her the right to ever hurt him?
She straightens up into the air so fast that her head spins, that her stomach lurches, that all the booze she has consumed in the past few hours nearly crests within her and outside of her. She frees her hand; she undoubtedly tugs some more of Melissa's hair. She almost reels backwards into the TV, unable to recapture her balance. She covers her mouth with the hand that always reminds her that she is a married woman, a taken one; the silver band firmly scolds her lips.
“Shit, Barb,” Melissa breathes, abruptly sitting up in the bed, concern in her eyes, such tender and evocative care. “You okay?”
She nods mutely, incapable of trusting herself to speak without expelling all of the accumulated pollution inside of her. Tears form in her eyes and leak over her lower lashes anyway.
“No, you’re flippin’ not,” her friend readily supplies, standing up herself on rather wobbly feet, but she takes a step towards Barbara anyway, as though to bridge the gap between them, the untenable, omnipresent distance.
And Barbara equally takes a step back, her lower hip hitting the wardrobe that the TV sits upon.
“Don’t,” she hisses painfully, finally uncovering her mouth.
“Why not?” Melissa challenges, at once defiant and wounded, her brow furrowed over her eyes. The recognition of this makes the kindergarten teacher want to scream. In not hurting Gerald, she’s surely plunging a knife into Melissa. She’s proving her own point from earlier.
Love is a weapon.
It maims and occasionally destroys.
“Because I would kiss you,” she admits, and it feels good to finally say it aloud, to give shape and dimension to these feelings that have seethed inside of her for so long, for so many of the years upon aching years that they've taught at Abbott Elementary side-by-side.
“… and that would make a monster out of me,” she quickly adds because this is also true, and it needs to be said aloud.
It needs to injure, push away, and deter; she doesn't want to do it; necessity drives her on.
“Oh, yeah?” Comes a reply gentler than it has any right to be. Kind. It Is far less than what she deserves. “And what would that make me then, huh?”
One too.
Complicit.
Just like me.
She could say any of these three things but doesn’t; it was clearly a rhetorical question; she can see in Melissa’s darkly lashed eyes that she is willing to accept every wayward epithet if this is the price, if this is the blood sacrifice of their communion.
They can be monsters with each other; they can be so totally in love.
Barbara swallows; thoroughly inebriated though she is, she is not insensible to the magnitude of this offer, the knowledge that all she has to do is say the word and down they’ll descend into hell, hand in monstrous hand.
Alone.
Together.
“I can’t,” she rasps anyway. She swipes angrily at the tears still slipping down her face. She sniffs noisily and loathes herself for it.
“I know,” Melissa returns, her own eyes suddenly overbright.
But then Barbara Howard leans down and almost does it anyway, gathering the silky hair at the back of Melissa’s neck in her fist, her knuckles softly scraping the skin there. And their noses brush. Their boozy breaths gather in hot pockets in the barest space between them.
Their lips never touch, though.
Sacrilege remains uncommitted.
“You can’t,” Melissa echoes as a singular tear spirals from the corner of her eye and down the tall plane of her cheek. It collects calmly on the vertex of her chin and remains there.
Barbara brushes it away with her thumb before completely letting go.
“No,” she agrees hoarsely, stepping back for good, and there is a finality to the act that saves and devastates them both.
—
They take turns showering, rinsing the night off them, the copious amounts of booze. Melissa goes first this time, and Barbara follows.
Afterwards, of course.
Separately.
And when Barbara eventually stumbles back into the bedroom, wearing pajamas that she’s pretty sure are inside out, she sees that Melissa is already in bed, covers pulled up to her face, clearly asleep, lightly snoring.
She’s erected a pillow wall between the two halves of the one bed.
It’s a smart move.
And an incredibly isolating one.
But smart moves usually are.
Barbara accepts this for what it is and staggers to her side, slipping beneath the sheets as quietly as she can, briefly tossing and turning to get comfortable, which eventually means facing the two feet tall chastity belt, staring at it as her eyelids begin to droop.
Loving it.
Hating it.
Eternally grateful to it.
Disappointed at its necessity, disappointed with herself.
She is so weak in a thousand myriad ways; maybe that, too, is love…
… she doesn’t exactly know what compels her to in the end—(weakness, loneliness, monstrosity, love)—but before she entirely drifts away, she reaches underneath the pillows and is relieved to find a hand waiting for her there.
A concession.
A forgivable compromise.
And so, Barbara allows herself this one pittance too. She intertwines their fingers beneath this latest boundary that divides them, understanding that this—yes, this—is the sole degree of happiness that she can afford without too high of a moral cost.
She falls asleep haunted by the way that the striations of their fingers so perfectly align.
#work wives#melissa schemmenti#barbara howard#s: abbott elementary#reginianwrites#THIS FLIPPING THING IS 8K WORDS#AND FOR WHAT REASON MAGGIE?!#HDIOHFIHI
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From everything the text has given us, Elain's Seer ability only manifested once Lucien arrived in Velaris:
She’s been talking in those half riddles all day.” I dragged a hand through my hair, freeing strands from my braid. “Did anything happen to trigger—” “I don’t know. I check on her every few hours.” Nesta clenched her jaw. “I was gone for longer yesterday, though.” (this was at most day 2 after Lucien's arrival?)
But there seems to be differences in how she sees what she sees based on Lucien's proximity to her:
Lucien was not in the room with Elain:
“I can hear the sea. Even at night. Even in my dreams. The crashing sea—and the screams of a bird made of fire.”
Lucien was forced to leave the room:
“I can hear her—crying.”
“Everyone thinks she’s dead.” Elain kept walking. “But she’s not. Only—different. Changed. As I was.”
Elain paused halfway up the stairs. Slowly, she turned to look back at him. “I saw young hands wither with age. I saw a box of black stone. I saw a feather of fire land on snow and melt it.”
Lucien had already left to do research in the library:
Nesta’s nostrils flared, but Elain peered up at Cassian, blinking twice. “He snapped your wings, broke your bones.”
Lucien was near Elain:
Lucien exposed his palms to her. “I’m sorry.” Elain only stared at him for a long moment. And any lucidity faded away as she shook her head, blinking twice, and said to Nesta, “Twin ravens are coming, one white and one black.”
Lucien was near Elain:
But Elain said quietly, “The queen might come.”
When Lucien isn't around, Elain talks in the present or past tense, referring to things that have already happened or are currently happening at that moment.
But when Lucien is in the room with Elain, her visions are of the future (she notes things in past tense as well however any predictions she had for the future which eventually came true were made while in Lucien's presence).
I love thinking that when Elain is near Lucien's inner light (Day Court powers), it "awakens" the gates to Elain's mind and helps her step fully into who she is (in the way both Cassian and Rhys both helped Feyre and Nesta become who they were always meant to be:
She had no mental shields, no barriers. The gates to her mind … Solid iron, covered in vines of flowers—or it would have been. The blossoms were all sealed, sleeping buds tucked into tangles of leaves and thorns. (<- at this point in the story, Lucien was far away from Elain).
#elucien#pro elucien#elain archeron#lucien vanserra#elain x lucien#lucien and elain#pro lucien vanserra#elain and lucien#acotar theory
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Miraculous AU Designs
As promised, here are the designs for the heroes of my Pokémon Horizons x Miraculous Ladybug au. I'll be giving some nots along the way when the app I used to make these didn't quite match up with my vision for the characters. It goes without saying that for all of these I imagine the outfits to be a lot more formfitting then they would allow. That out of the way, buckle up, this is gonna be a long one.
First up is Kitty. Her design is pretty much perfect to what I wanted it to be. Only thing to note is the Liko has her hair up in a ponytail during this transformation. Also her eyes turn completely blue, like a cat.
Next up Scarab. I really like this one. Only change would be that the red parts of his costume have black spots all over them, like a ladybug.
Now Chaofeng was one of those where is was really hard to make it look the way I wanted. Essentially, there is a giant decal of a golden Chinese dragon spiraling his costume, with the tail starting on his left leg and the head ending on his chest. There is also a golden spiral on his right arm. And I think it's pretty obvious that his mask should have eye holes. Also his eyes turn completely yellow, like a dragon.
Vixen turned out wonderful, nothing to add here except that it is in this form that Dot where her hair up. She wears it down in her civilian clothes. Also the mask isn't black in the eyes.
Baker's Dozen once again perfect pretty much nothing to add except that his costume doesn't have goggles, that's just to reference the shape of his mask.
Durga is one where is was a little tricky, anyone with stripes was really. Just imagine she has tiger stripes instead of those lines, with thinner ones on the body and thicker ones on the arms and legs. Also the back of her costume is that magenta color used for her belt. Also her eyes turn completely dark blue, like a tiger.
Corkscrew might just be my very favorite design, I really love how this one turned out. No changes to make here.
Metamorphosis is another that I barely have to edit except to say that once again her doesn't wear glasses, that's just his mask shape. Also to say the I always hated that hood mask thing that Hawkmoth wore.
Cockatrice was a fun one to make, what with all of the color. Also him being the superhero persona of my favorite Horizons character. Nothing to change here except to say the whites of his eyes turn yellow, but his irises remain blue.
Phasian, another one that hardly changes. Only thing to note is that I'm not going with the blue skin thing that the show did. I just think it looks weird. I mean, none of the other miraculous did that.
Gallop, wouldn't you know it doesn't change much. And for once that actually get to keep the glasses since they are the miraculous.
Conejita, Gallop's partner in "crime". Another one of my favorites and another that barely changes. Say it with me everyone, the glasses just represent mask shape. She gets to keep the stars though.
Stream Queen, return of the stripes. Except this one isn't too bad. the stripes are actually how I want them. Only thing to change is that she doesn't just have one stripe of black on her pants, the back half of her pants are black.
Yapper, one I'm pretty proud of. No changes, just want to note that Coral has her hair in a singular ponytail during this tranformation.
A finally, Mr. Hog. Nothing to change here, just want to quietly chuckled at how Onyx has wear so much pink and fight with a tambourine.
#pokemon horizons#pokemon horizons au#miraculous ladybug#miraculous ladybug au#pokemon liko#pokemon friede#pokemon mollie#pokemon murdock#pokemon orla#pokemon roy#pokemon dot#pokemon alex#pokemon explorers#pokemon onyx#pokemon spinel#pokemon amethio#pokemon agate#pokemon sango#Man this took awhile#but it was worth it#Just look at them all#My precious children
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Love Letters
i hope all of you are having a nice day ♡
i really liked writing this one and i hope you all like it as well ^_^
Prince!Hyunjin x Princessfem!reader
[Royal!au]
Warnings: none its just all fluff
Word count: 1.2k
A sigh left from your pink lips as you stared at your reflection noticing how changed your features look from your usual self. Your eyelids sparkled gold with a sleek black wing which made your eyes shine out more than it did on the other days. You smile at yourself running your fingers in between your curls mesmerised by your own reflection
"His majesty asks for you, your highness", the maid bowed down in respect, bringing you back from admiring yourself. Taking in a breath, you rest your diamond woven tiara on your head avoiding to mess the neatness of your hairstyle
You finally stand up letting your puffed up gown follow you brushing behind the dark wooden floor. It was a day of celebration for your father's kingdom as today marked your blessings of turning twenty one but you weren't as excited to be presented because tonight will also be the day you shall decide on whose 'queen' you want to be referred to
"My darling, you look gorgeous", your mother, the present queen lovingly held your hands in hers, warming the coldness of your blood, "shall we?", Your father smiled. taking in your hand as he led you down the stairs, all eyes of everyone present fixed on you. You hear a few whispers coming from the guests as they all stood in awe mesmerized by the grace and elegance of your presence
But your vision falls on one person in specific who just
rolled his eyes?!
Half of your evening is spent by the lovely wishes of your father's nobles and a few curses from their daughters who seemed to not be so fond of your appearance, or you as a person and you could take a few guesses on their reasons. But this wasn't much of a bother as you desperately searched for one person who made you curious and so intrigued. And finally your eyes landed on their destination, at the charming dark haired man who stood at the corner by himself, reading a book which he found much more fascinating than the birthday ball he had been invited to
You walk towards him and patiently stand in front of him waiting for him to take notice. But you guess his book was a little too interesting cause he barely even took a glance at you. Slightly annoyed you clear your throat hoping to catch his attention
"When someone ignores your presence for over five minutes, that's when you walk away and pretend it never happened", He spoke, his long slender fingers turning the page. Taken aback for a second you search for a reply.. it wasn't every day someone spoke to you like this and usually you would take this as a form of insult, but today that's the last word you would use to describe the feeling
"and may I know the reason for your ignorance towards me?", You were interested in knowing his reasons, "I just felt like it", He blankly replied, not bothered by your feelings, "pardon?", was the only word that left your lips. You just weren't used to someone looking down on you
"oh my apologies, your highness". He mocked shutting his book, finally giving you the attention you had been craving. For a moment your mind seems to wander off as you get lost in his features. Something about the way the two strands of his hair fell on his face as rest were tied up in a half ponytail with a white ribbon coordinated with the white pearl earring which decorated his ear..you could without a hesitation declare that he was the most beautiful being you had ever come across to. How had you never noticed him before?
"you're forgiven", though you catched the sarcasm in his voice, you had no witty reply. "oh! thank you for your generosity because I really thought today be the day I get beheaded", He scoffed rolling his eyes, "if you keep talking to me like this then I will make sure to be one who will do so", You fold your hands trying not to crack a smile
A small smirk plasters on his face as you feel something fluttering in your stomach, "Hwang Hyunjin", He introduces himself as you widen your eyes.. You remember him quite nicely from your childhood. He was your first love, first kiss and you still remembered sitting in your room crying the whole night when he was sent away to abroad and now your attraction towards him made sense
Millions of questions flooded your mind as you tried to keep your composure. If the room wasn't filled with thousands of faces, you surely wouldn't have hesitated to pull him in a reunion hug and if stars were in your favour then maybe he would want you to be his queen- but did he remember you?
"Do you not like my name?", Hyunjin raised his eyebrow waiting for you to come back to reality, "it's quite old fashioned if you ask me", You play along looking away, "You didn't seem to find it old fashioned in these letters you wrote about me", Hyunjin chuckled catching you off-guard and now when your eyes finally landed on the book he had been reading with such interest.. wasn't some novel as you thought, instead it was your diary in which you had confessed your every emotion and every feeling towards him
Everything seemed to stop for a moment as realization hit you harder than it should've. Hyunjin read all the letters and writings you had carelessly written gathering all your thoughts and fantasies you would want to do with him and some of them were enough to make you shy and embarrassed as you remembered writing some thoughts you had during your adolescence age which even now you seemed to be quite interested in
Hyunjin's melodious laugh rang in your ears as you were brought back to present for the third time this evening. "nothing is funny here", You felt your blood getting warm as your cheeks started to heat up while you tried to snatch back the bundle of thoughts which he had now read it all
"don't worry, most of them were quite sweet-", he let you have your diary, "-but my favorite was", he took a step forward making you dangerously close to him, "I think you know the one I'm talking about, my love", His breath mixed with yours as he pulled you bit closer by the waist, brushing his soft plump lips against yours
You knew exactly what he was talking about by the name he used to refer to you. You certainly wished for someone to come and behead you instead, it was too much of an embarrassment that too on your own birthday
"My- my apolog-ies", you stuttered as your mind started to go blank as you seemed to forget your own language. With him so close to you and practically kissing you, you were quite shocked how no one had noticed the two of you to interrupt this dreamy moment of yours
"you look beautiful tonight", Hyunjin complimented you taking a step back and lucky for you.. he changed the topic
"Would you like a dance?"
#Spotify#hyunjin smut#christopher bang#bangchan#hwanghyunjin#hyunjinoneshot#hyunjin imagines#kpop imagines#kpop smut#smut#skzoneshots#skzsmut#straykids#seungmin#felix#han jisung#seo changbin#yang jeongin#stray kids#stray kids smut#stray kids oneshot
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Based off the new Aaravos little teaser poster on twitter (featuring Taylor Swift)
Lavender Face
Cocoon
Anti Heroes
No More Breach
You’re Mine Now, Kid
Midnight Snack
Reflection...?
Villain Stuff
Beguiled
Mirror, Mirror
Consequence
Lip Service
Checkmate
Lavender face and cocoon are obviously a reference to the purple / bug creature. Anti Heroes, I would imagine, is referring to him, Viren, Claudia, and Terry - or maybe the “Fallen Stars” that the 4x02 title indicates. “You’re Mine Now Kid” could refer to both Callum and Claudia as his two other main pawns, and because we see Aaravos whispering in her ear now the way he did to all his other pawns in the past.
No More Breach is the most fascinating to me since the Breach is famously the division between Xadia and the Pentarchy, but can also refer to breaching containment and possibly the fact he’s no longer in the cocoon. So could mean anything, but Aaravos has broken the Breach before; no reason he can’t do it again
Midnight snack is interesting but I suppose we may see what Moth-avos eats, has to eat? As well as the cannibalistic overtones of dark magic.
Reflection...? is modelled after “Questions...?” and is an obvious reference to the mirror, although we know Callum is likely leaving Katolis sooner rather than later and won’t physically be with the mirror past 4x04 or 4x05-ish? It could also be in terms of a character reflecting on their actions, which makes me think Viren and/or Rayla and maybe Ezran and Zubeia.
“Beguiled” means to lead someone by deception or to charm them, which I think has to refer to Callum, since if Aaravos does turn Claudia away from her father, it’ll be by revealing the truth (i.e. that Viren lied in 3x03) rather than drawing her deeper in with falsehoods.
“Mirror mirror” is a reference to fairy tales and asking often for visions of people (i.e. “Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” showing not the evil queen, but Snow white) as well as enchanted mirrors showing glimpses of loved ones upon request sometimes (Beauty and the Beast). This could be again, either Callum or Claudia I think (Claudia finally getting to the see ‘the one with answers’ that Aaravos mentioned) or Callum being drawn further into Aaravos’ web
Consequence is likely a reference to Callum getting dragged in deeper and making some kind of mistake, resulting in him losing Rayla again (cue the crying scene with her blades) and resolving to get her back, perfectly lining up with 1x04 when he also took a miscalculated risk for the sake of magical help/knowledge/power. I could also see this referring to a split of some kind between Claudia and Viren, but it almost feels a little too early, so maybe not: maybe just Viren realizing the consequences his actions have had on Claudia?
“Lip service” refers to “expressing approval of or support for (something) without taking any significant action” which makes me think Aaravos may not be the one orchestrating the final stages that will lead to his release, but sitting back as it were and watching Claudia do the dirty work for him. This indicates to me that enough is in motion (a bluff, maybe, or threat) that Aaravos knows he doesn’t need to do much else in order to get
Checkmate is the most interesting change to me, since Mastermind already fits Aaravos perfectly as a descriptor. However, I’ve been talking about TDP’s chess symbolism as soon as we saw Viren’s ‘piece’ with speculation abounding. Checkmate is when you back the other player into a corner where there is no piece they can sacrifice in order to protect their king or place their king can go to safety, and well: I think I know exactly who the metaphorical king is going to be.
#aaravos#twitter#promo art#analysis series#literally listening to the album while i write this#tdp#the dragon prince#s4 speculation#listen nothing is an Accident#arc 2#s4#s4 spoilers#predictions#tdp spoilers
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Songs Of My Life: Bill Bragin
Bill Bragin is a man with many experiences both in the USA and the UAE. As you read ahead, you will see moments of realisation and learning throughout his life.
THE JOKER - STEVE MILLER BAND
“The Joker was the first 45 I've ever bought. It was probably the first record I bought as a child. I was probably 6 or 7 years old when I bought it, I got my allowance money and my parents let me pick out one record. It's a sort of blues rock song and the lyrics have fairly simple rhymes. In the time leading up to this interview, I have relistened to my playlist a lot and one thing I realised is how many of these songs had adult themes that I couldn’t pick up on until I was way older. Steve Miller was someone who listened to a lot of old-school blues so some of the lyrics he used are blues imagery. For example, “I really love your peaches, wanna shake your tree”. So Steve Miller was my first vision of rock and, sort of, the first time I got to choose my own songs”
CRAZY HORSES - THE OSMONDS
“So, The Joker by Steve Miller Band has this slide guitar part that sort of reminds me of an excited little kid and I realised that a similar guitar part was in the song Crazy Horses by The Osmonds. So, The Osmonds were sort of like an early boy band. They were a Mormon family band from Utah, and were essentially the white version of the Jackson 5. They were sort of ripping off the Jackson 5, there is this one song of theirs that sounds extremely similar to ABC. A lot of their songs were very pop or were like power ballads, but this song was very different, it’s a sort of fake heavy metal song. And when I was in college, I had a radio show and I used to play it on almost every radio show. It's a song I used to love a lot as a little kid and my first concert experience was seeing the Osmonds live with my summer camp.”
DETROIT ROCK CITY - KISS
Hard rock was a large part of my upbringing. Kiss were making a kind of glam rock, but Kiss did it with a hard rock and metal edge. They all wore different make-up and had different characters. This reminded me of David Bowie, who was also a large part of my upbringing, and his many characters. Detroit Rock City was a song that came out in their 1976 album Destroyer and was played at the first big concert I attended on my own. This song really played with my head. It was about a man trying to get to a show and then dying in a car crash on the way there, but he is the one telling the story to you. The guitar solo is still something I can sing along to, to this day.
Mustapha - Queen
The second arena show that I went to was to see Queen at Madison Square Garden for my birthday. I had my family buy me tickets to the show and the complete Queen catalogue. This was after Bohemian Rhapsody had come out. When I ask myself, why am I here in Abu Dhabi and why I listen to music that is not in English it brings me back to this song. It was probably the first time I heard a reference to Allah on a record. Freddie Mercury grew up in Zanzibar to a Persian family, so he was really connected to this region.
Watching The Detectives - Elvis Costello
This song was part of my introduction to reggae. I first listened to Elvis Costello on his third album and one thing about that album was that it came with a bonus live EP. One of the songs on that EP was Watching The Detectives. The baseline of this song is reggae, and this was around the time when many of these musicians were reggae fans trying to incorporate it into their music as much as they could. Different from the lyrics of Detroit Rock City, these lyrics are more complex. They're very metaphorical so you’re not quite sure what the story is. Elvis Costello, along with David Bowie, has to be one of my favourite artists. I must have seen them in concert 30-40 times. At my Bar Mitzvah, I had a centrepiece at the kid's table that was an Elvis Costello Styrofoam sculpture. He is someone that I have since gotten to know, so he is also one of the musical idols that I know personally.
King of Rock - Run DMC
I might’ve had a few 12-inches and singles, but King of Rock was the first hip-hop album I ever bought. This album first broke me out of being so rock oriented. Even though this song is considered rap rock today, it used only to be viewed as hip-hop. In the early days of rap, they used to sample a lot of rock records. When you listen to King of Rock today, you realise that they blurred the lines between the distinction between what is rap and what is rock. This brings me back to the first song on this playlist “The Joker” by Steve Miller Band. Both of those songs have really simple rhymes, almost like nursery rhymes, and they both have lyrics that brag about how cool they are. So King of Rock is not too far off from the music I used to listen to before and it’s what made me the rap fan I am today.
Rios, Pontes e Overdrives - Chico Science & Nacao Zumbi
Chico Science and Nação Zumbi are from a small town in the northeast of Brazil called Recife. They were the leaders of a musical movement called Maguebeat. Manguebeat consisted of artists from the northeast of Brazil that took the local rhythms and combined them with metal, hip hop and other Western genres. In 1995, I brought them over to the US to perform at Central Park for SummerStage for their first show outside of Brazil. Me bringing them over to Central Park meant they gained some respect in Brazil for what they were doing. This was when I realised my career had reached the point where my choices could have that much impact. When they were in New York, we went over to this hip-hop club and they knew the words to every hip-hop classic that came on. This interaction helped me realise that while they had all the same influence I did, everything they were doing was hyper-local and could only be from the northeast of Brazil. The way they fused together the hyper-global and hyper-local changed the way I view music forever.
Ana Mashoof - The Afro Latin Jazz Orchestra
I was trying to find what the “Manguebeat” of the UAE is and who are the ones exploring the hyper-global and the hyper-local. I came across Noon and they were one of the first groups I came across that, to me, sounded like the UAE with three different musicians from different backgrounds. That mixture of hyper-global and hyper-local has been present in each person I bring over to The Arts Center (at NYU Abu Dhabi). They're all doing things with the same idea just within different contexts.
One of the first concerts of traditional Khaleeji music that I went to when I first came to Abu Dhabi was by a group of Bahri musicians from Kuwait, that were part of a conference at NYU Abu Dhabi, Mayouf Mejally. I got to know Ghazi Al-Mulaifi an ethnomusicologist who was studying for his PhD at the time. We went with an NYU Abu Dhabi class to visit him in Kuwait when he had his first concert with his own band, where he started to take the traditional rhythms from the diwaniya of Bahri music and mix it with jazz and that band became Boom Diwan and Ana Mashouf has, sort of, become their theme song, for me. Ghazi now lives in Abu Dhabi and teaches at the University and we’ve done a lot of different projects together like the Cuban Khaleeji Project, which this song is from.
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Day 1: quotes
I have been looking at the banner quote of Tyrion month:
I think he is a giant come among us, here at the end of the world."
And I never really had any favourite Tyrion quote but the above line makes me feel some kind of way.
Grrm writes well. And one thing he does in his writing is juxtapose ideas that deconstructs the old tropes of fantasy literature. The one who is beautiful, is not kind. Snow White's prince charming may as well be a tyrant in asoiaf. An old witch doesn't wish for a first born- all she needs is a song to keep the memory of her friend alive. The fat coward, who has been chased out of his home becomes the hero who saves a girl.
The dwarf casts a shadow as tall as a king.
All throughout asoiaf we have references such as these that hint at Tyrion being more than what his disability has limited him to. A sincere conversation with Jon gives him the sight of Tyrion's magnanimity- he tells Jon to wear the hurt as an armour, to not let the world get to him. Later he would also design Bran the saddle that would help him achieve at least a modicum of independence.
I think this is where the irony lies. Most people in the world of asoiaf has sight but not the vision. When Syrio tells Arya to not just look but see, truly see- he is telling Arya to go beyond what is being shown. And this theme of looking vs seeing continues into Tyrion's storyline. The tragedy in Tyrion's life is people look but they do not see. Tywin looks at his youngest son and is so blinded by his desire to have a perfect legacy ( a queen for a daughter, one of the best knights as a son), that he can't look past his son's disability. The great Tywin Lannister who boasts of being a dangerous politician, foolishly does not want to see that all that he desires in a heir has been handed to him in the form of Tyrion.
Funny then how a old, blind Targaryen, could realize the youngest Lannister as a leviathan. He likens him to "giants", the majestic race of whose tragedy Ygritte weeps about. And when the court at King's Landing jeers at Shae's use of "my giant of Lannister", they shame Tyrion and do not see that truly a giant walks among them. As breathtaking as the Titan Arya saw in Braavos.
Tyrion and his relation to Grrm's imagery of giants is not without substance. His knowledge, his cunning (using wildfire and his contribution in the war of Blackwater Bay), his wit ( demanding a trial by combat at Vale to escape the accusations), his ability to lead ( he made the mountain clans respect him), his grounded touch with reality (the peasants are starving while a prospeterous celebration of a wedding is being carried on), all are proof of his greatness.
Look I am not saying he is a good man ( no one in asoiaf is "good"...maybe not even my fave) ; but you cannot deny he is great.
I, very much believe that just as much Dany is the stallion who mounts the world, as Arya is the bitch from the seventh-hell, Tyrion too is the "Giant" of the asoiaf series. So large a being that he contains within him worlds; all granted to him through his own dedicated pursuit of knowledge, of perseverance.
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A Clash of Kings - 48 DAENERYS IV (pages 628-639)
Dany has a bad time at the House of the Undying Ones.
-
Long and low, without towers or windows, it coiled like a stone serpent through a grove of black-barked trees whose inky blue leaves made the stuff of the sorcerers drink the Qartheen called shade of evening.
...do you think it's on purpose that the colouring of the trees basically screams anti-weirwood? "is the dress-" no, shush!
"Queen Daenerys must enter alone, or not at all." The warlock Pyat Pree stepped out from under the trees. Has he been there all along? Dany wondered.
well now I'm just imagining him hiding behind the tree trying to eavesdrop on their conversation so he can find a good dramatic entrance point.
Further on she came upon a feast of corpses. (...) In a throne above them sat a dead man with the head of a wolf.
Sounds like the Red Wedding.
I know this room, she thought. She remembered those great wooden beams and the carved animal faces that adorned them. And there outside the window, a lemon tree!
🍋=🥛
... Rheagar? "The man had her brother's hair-" babe your whole family has your brother's hair. (I think technically it's ethnically Valyrian hair?)
Could there be a secret door? A door I cannot see? Another torch went out. Another. The first door on the right, he said, always the first door on the right. The first door on the right...
It came to her suddenly is the last door on the left!
Yay! she escaped! good logical thinking under pressure.
The show did not do this place justice, just btw.
"You have taken a wrong turning. Come I will lead you." Pyat Pree held out his hand.
Dany hesitated. The was a door to her right, still closed...
...
She walked away from him, to the door on the right.
"No," Pyat screeched. "No, to me, come to me, to meeeeeee." His face crumbled inward, changing to something pale and wormlike.
Yeaahhhhhh!
When in faerieland, trust the rules, trust your gut, trust nothing.
To her right, a set of wide wooden doors had been thrown open. They were fashioned of ebony and weirwood, the black and white grains swirling and twisting in strange interwoven patterns. They were beautiful, yet somehow terrifying.
House of Black and White vision time?
...oh no, the head honchos... being very not like the show?
Fake Undying king: Hail chief, we've been expecting you
Fake Undying woman: we got all the loot for you, SSS grade gear, sweet kit~
Drogo: Seems sus, let me bite stuff first
Secret door: ooohhhh, not a nat 20 on perception, my hide-and-seek win streak, noooo!
... I feel like I should probably be ashamed that my first alarm bell was "The breast she had left bare in the Qartheen fashion was as perfect as a breast could be." But I didn't pop alarm flags until "and magic weapons to arm you with."
I'm pretty sure I would have crumbled for the loot, I know this of myself.
A long stone table filled this room. Above it floated a human heart, swollen and blue with corruption, yet still alive.
Metaphorical reference to The Night King?
... no.
... morrows not yet made...
So there's a few things in these 'prophetic words' that I was thinking 'oh is that *previous event in the story*' but this line in particular makes me think these things she's being warned about are things that haven't yet occurred.
... mother of dragons, daughter of death...
...mother or dragons, slayer of lies...
...mother of dragons, bride of fire...
Ohhhh, that's interesting. The way these visions are grouped with these titles...
Viserys, then whom I'm assuming is Aegon/Young Griff, and Rheagar being labelled Daughter of Death, literally linking the Targaryen house with death, two of them receiving death and one in the act of burning a city.
Blue eyed king with red sword, I'm thinking Stannis, then a fake dragon, and a beast of shadow fire being placed under Slayer of Lies, we all know Stannis isn't really Azor Ahai, the fake dragon seems obvious, the beast of shadow fire is curious though, I'm thinking that's the one people think is the dragon escaping from Winterfell during the sack? Hmmm, I'm... not going to go with that as an answer just yet, given the theme of 'false' in this trio.
Her silver by the river of stars... Drogo, that's a Drogo metaphor for sure. Middle one is curious, I'm not sure if I want to interpret this one as the Night King or an Other, or as someone who- ... I forgot about Euron for a minute there. He would make more sense in the context, I mean I think I recall there's a thing with him and Dany in the books that didn't make it to the show? And he's... yeah, creepy sonovabich.
Third one, blue rose and ice wall? Jon, I'mma go with that's Jon, who's mother is associated with blue roses, and who himself 'bloomed' on the Wall. I mean it does kind of bias me that they had a thing in the show whether I shipped it or not, and this is the Bride section, mind you, the Bride of Fire title as a whole gives me the impression that her connection to fire supersedes her connection to the men.
But the 'Mother of Dragons' having both repetition and priority over the other titles, that's her unchanging title, that's her hat, her priority character trait.
You know... the description of the Undying molesting Dany has echoes of the first vision she saw, of the woman being used and violated and devoured. Not saying it is, just saying echoes.
*hefts steel chair to smack D&D around the head*
Look, I understand why they changed this scene for the show, giving Dany a girlboss moment when she turns the tables and burns Pyat alive, but I feel like it literally wasn't needed in the face of her cunning and logic in this chapter.
Except mental fortitude and wisdom isn't badass enough for some folks, and only deliberate violence is winning. bleh.
There is nothing wrong with Dany needing to be saved by Drogon here, she is still young and finding her footing and facing powers and methods of deception she's never faced before.
When Dany looked behind her, she saw thin tendrils of smoke forcing their way through cracks in the ancient stone walls of the Palace of Dust, and rising from between the black tiles of the roof.
You know what, it would actually be funny if this was the slain lie with the smoking tower and the shadow fire breathing beast. Even though it's not an actual tower and there's no beast. Metaphors~
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There is going to be an upcoming important announcement made, regarding what? Idk 🤷🏾♀️
📌
Last night I saw a young girl no more than 4 years old in a white and pink dress 👗 being pulled away in Israel. She has a little stuffed animal that looked like a teddy bear 🧸 or a white rabbit and she was terrified 😔 I heard the Holy Spirit say she is missing from her family. Can someone pls find this baby 😭 I have a special connection with children and often they come to me when they are scared.
I was also shown an Angel in my home in front of our downstairs mirror pacing back and forth. All I could see was his Halo lighting up. He was thinking 🤔💭 It was AA Michael
My son woke up early this morning and he said he had an apparition of Jesus Christ with a bright red glowing heart ♥️ in his chest. He told my son to tell everyone he is coming. I told my son the heart in Jesus’ chest is referred as the Sacred Heart. Amazing! We both didn’t know that the sacred heart indeed was true. Other Saints have witnessed this. I am in awe.
A few days ago I heard the LORD say “Eliminate them”.
👀
I asked for clarity because I nearly fell out my bed when I heard that. Then I was shown the Red Queen from Alice & Wonderland who consistently says throughout the film and novel “Off with their heads” 🗡️👀 yep so I’m delivering the message to whomever this is for. As I was writing this I heard “Islamic Terrorists”. These are terrorist groups babes behind this attack with a “twisted ideology and a wicked agenda” I was told by God.
Scripture:
I will record the other messages and dreams soon.
Stay safe…. please. I love you ♥️
Ps. I was shown “forewarned”.
Also…
I almost forgot to share this vision:
I saw a river of blood 🩸 with fire 🔥 running down like the river Nile in Egypt except this was in Israel. The fire to me represents God and his fiery angels. This war will be brutal and it’s going to impact Egypt 🇪🇬 in a major way FYI.
Lawd I hope someone listens 😭😢 because look what I found ⤵️
👀
I’d warn Egypt 🇪🇬
I’ll be honest babes as bad as this was, the initial attack was suppose to be far worse. I am 100% certain these attackers had planned something in the West Bank but were deterred so Israel 🇮🇱 wasn’t completely oblivious THANK GOD. Recall the Cowboys in the dream represented the WEST but so did the White Tiger, which in both Chinese and Japanese mythology represents the WEST. This to me represents the WEST BANK. Recall the animals turned away and ran back towards me in the dream. The LORD wanted me to mention this.
UPDATE:
Hostages could be executed
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Is Amren Prophetic?
Most of SJMs hints are initially subtle and only make sense once you read further into the series then look back. But I wonder if, because of what Amren once was (Old Testament-like Angel), she has a level of unknown Prophetic ability. Elain sees detailed events while Amren seems to have a generalized idea of the future. Not that she even thinks anything of what she's saying but it does seem her statements come into being.
Example:
But wear the Crown, and you could make your enemies do your bidding. Could make a parent slaughter their child, aware of the horror but unable to stop themselves.”
This happened when Cassian was being controlled, in the Queens attempt to kill Nesta.
Amren said a bit softly, “If you want his killing blow, girl, it’s yours.”
I still think Elain deserves credit for also killing the King because Nesta would not be alive had Elain not stabbed him. It was because of Elain that he was incapacitated. But there is truth in the fact that Nesta did force his death much quicker by beheading him.
Amren said this in ACOWAR:
“When you erupt, girl, make sure it is felt across worlds.”
And this happened in ACOSF:
The baying of her magic was a beast with no name. Avalanches cascaded down the cliffs in seas of glittering white. Trees bent and ruptured in the wake of the power that shattered from her. Distant seas drew back from their shores, then raced in waves toward them again. Glasses shook and shattered in Velaris, books tumbled off the shelves in Helion’s thousand libraries, and the remnants of a run-down cottage in the human lands crumbled into a pile of rubble.
Here are other things I think Amren may have unknowingly prophecized:
“There are many types of strength beyond the ability to wield a blade and end lives. Amren told me that yesterday.”
It seems like she was referring to Nesta but as we saw in ACOSF, Nesta DID become a warrior. I think this statement will ring true for Elain instead.
“But know that the Cauldron’s benevolence will be extended to you only for so long before it is offered to another.”
Rhys has said he wants no part of being High King but I think we'll find Amren's comment to be accurate. Possibly Lucien?
Wear it and you may summon the dead to you, command them to march at your will.
Something we might possibly see in the final battle?
The Harp can open any door, physical or otherwise. Some say between worlds.
Something that might happen with the crossover?
“Including Elain, who is more than capable of defending herself against the darkness of the Trove, if she chooses to. Don’t underestimate her.”
This has been building for quite some time and even Rhys says something along these lines so I think they're about to come true.
Elain asked, “And once you were in this body, you couldn’t change?”
Amren said after a moment, “Are you asking out of curiosity for my past, or your own future?”
Amren follows this up with thinking Elain might be wanting to go back to being human but Elain seems offended by the suggestion. I think it's actually hinting that Elain is an Owl Shifter. Not only do we see her blinking twice and cocking her head in ACOWAR, then "silently perched" in the Novella, but she also can "see" all the way to the Sea. That seems suggestive of her being a Seer BUT, being a Seer is having visions, not literally seeing far distances. However owls have excellent eyesight. Then we have Elain manage to hear that Nesta and Cassian were in trouble with the King and the fact that she was able to get to them so quickly although they were far apart from one another. And the constant mention of her moving silently and with stealth (all typical behaviors of owls).
It would also make sense for Amren to have this gift because I think Elain is going to end up outside of the Night Court with Lucien so at that point, they'll no longer have a Seer working for them.
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2023 Year of Whump - Week 1 Caged
wordcount: 1120
“I am so glad you decided to come to see me, Anna!” The Queen said, walking a few paces in front of Anna and the two guards escorting her.
The long corridor spun as Anna struggled to stay upright, only managing not to fall from the bruising grip on her arms. Anna had almost managed to slip out of the baggy green jacket she wore, but when the guards realized she was slipping they tightened their grip. She feared if she tried again they might break her arms.
Anna had never felt this sick as far back as she could remember. This was not very far at the moment considering it felt like her head was full of jello. She had a few severe fevers when she was a child, but slept through most of them, once not even realizing she was sick until she woke up in the hospital almost a full 24 hours later. Her head was pounding, and the world felt as if it was spinning around her. The fact that it was possible at this moment didn’t help her ground herself.
She had been to the Queen's realm a few times before when she was a guest and not a prisoner. Anna didn’t know if it was magic that created this place or simply science that she didn’t understand yet. The line between those two things seemed to get more blurred as time passed. Whatever this place was, it was not made for being seen with human eyes. The walls seemed to shift and change and Anna could not tell where the sky ended and the ceiling began. The first time she was there, she was amazed at the servants and guards passing through the walls and how the scenery appeared to change around her as she moved through the castle. There was no echo no matter where you stood but if someone wanted you to, you would hear them, sometimes without even seeing them.
The Queen herself was strange too. Her form seemed to barely be held together, her body black and slimy like oil. Her arms seemed as if they might drip right off her body and no matter how much Anna tried, she could not count how many there were. Her body was skinny and hourglass-shaped, completely impossible for a human to achieve and it reminded Anna a bit of Jessica Rabbit. She appeared to be wearing a long, floor-length evening gown but it was unclear where the gown ended and the Queen's skin began.
“For the time being this will be your home,” the Queen said, turning to Anna as they came to a stop. The Queen’s head was a startling difference from the rest of her body. It was probably the most solid of all of her, appearing to be a bright white skeletal animal head. Anna did not have a lot of reference for what animal skulls looked like but the shape reminded her of a horse, except with a lot more sharp teeth. Her head was as if three skulls had been fused, blended almost perfectly. None of the mouths moved as she spoke. “I know it's a bit… uncomfortable as of right now but I hope that will be a motivator to work with me, my dear.”
Anna looked up, barely registering that they were not in the main hall anymore. This place was dark, and the floor felt soft and squishy, like wet moss. The Queen was standing next to a wall made out of bars and before Anna could process what was going on, the guards thrust her toward the bars. She braced herself but fell right through them and fell to the floor.
“I do hope you will start seeing things my way darling,” the Queen said, her voice sickly sweet. “The more you behave, the more comfortable I will make your… sleeping arrangements.”
Anna sat up and groaned, holding her head in her hands. Strands of hair fell in front of her face, appearing black instead of brown in the dim cell. In Anna’s swimming vision, it almost looked like the oil that dripped off the Queen. She tried to glare at the Queen but had to quickly shut her eyes again, the spinning room being too much. The Queen chuckled, her shoulders bouncing slightly even though her faces remained motionless. The sound bounced around in Anna’s head and felt like an ice pick was being stabbed into her ears.
“Do not fight it, sweetheart. I know this may hurt right now, but after some time you will get used to it. I’ve heard humans are very adaptable.” The Queen turned and began to walk away, her guards following behind her silently.
“What do you want from me?!” Anna yelled at her, her voice sounding far away and echoing around her. The pain in her head peaked and Anna had to use almost all her willpower to keep from passing out. The Queen stopped at this and turned, looking back at Anna for a moment before speaking.
“That is a very good question,” The Queen said, turning back around to face Anna fully. “And the answer is both complicated and simple.”
The Queen approached the bars again. Anna tried to stand but found herself too off-balance to do so, settling instead to remain seated on the ground. She tried her best not to feel intimidated as the Queen loomed over her.
“You have something I want Anna. Something I have been missing, something that was stolen from me a long time ago. Do you know what that might be Anna?”
The use of her actual name was a bit of a shock to Anna. She had gotten used to the nicknames and terms of endearment the Queen always used for her. To hear her say Anna’s actual name sounded wrong somehow.
“I don’t know what I have that you want,” Anna said, trying to reason with the Queen. She couldn’t help the desperation that crept into her voice. It was still kinda strange. Up until today, the Queen had been a decent person to Anna. Sure, she was a bit weird but she wasn’t human so Anna didn’t think much of it. She couldn’t help but wonder how many red flags she overlooked. “I haven’t stolen anything from you. I don’t think I was given anything that was stolen from you. Just tell me what it is so I can give it back!”
Another spike of pain sent Anna reeling and darkness seemed to start creeping into her vision. When the Queen spoke next it sounded quiet and far away.
"Well sweety, what's the fun in that? We don’t want any spoilers, do we?”
#2023 Year of Whump#whump prompt#whump fic#whump#original character#original fiction#original characters#original writing#caged#creative writing#writing#writeblr#tw sickness#tw sick mention#tw kidnapping#tw body horror#i think this could be considered body horror#i just wanted to clearly comunicate what the queen looked like#tw#trigger warning#year of whump#Angel Hills
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Queen of the South 5x04 Debrief
Well, we're seeing a different Queenpin than I expected, and sooner. This isn't the white queen of earlier Teresa's visions. That queen was calm, assured, powerful, but almost nurturing. This, now, is a queen who is edgy, defensive, struggling, scared. I am curious about this. Obviously the earlier queenpin visions were just that--visions; they were Teresa's inner leader stepping out of the shadows and taking charge. So, are we (and she, hopefully?) meant to now begin to understand that the white queen isn't possible? That she can't exist because this business won't actually allow for her to "have it all"? That calmness and assuredness and power can't be achieved while keeping her integrity intact?
Or, will we in fact eventually see the white queen of her visions manifest? Will Teresa find her way to that powerful, nurturing version of herself, and what will she have to do to get there? Certainly it's not what she thinks it is, because what she's currently doing--closing herself off to love, compromising her integrity, and making harsher decisions (and more quickly) than ever before--is not getting her anywhere closer to being the white queen. It's almost doing the opposite. It's getting her closer to being Camila, who, in season 1, was in many ways diametrically opposed to the white queen. Camila's advice to Teresa was always self-serving and competitive. The white queen's mirrored Teresa's own inner voice, emphasizing strength and integrity.
The black/white clothing choices in every episode so far this season seem to me to support either one of these theories about the white queen (that she either isn't going to be possible to attain, or that she will only be possible to attain--in a different way than Teresa expects--if Teresa comes back around to her values in the end). She hasn't yet gone full white and that duel between her old self and the self she's striving for manifests in every part of her character development right now.
Episode 4 Teresa wasn't evil. She still met Marcel in the eye when he called her a rat and knew that he was right; she didn't get defensive about that. She's still trying to figure out how to get him out because she promised him she would and because she knows it's the right thing to do. She isn't wrong about the importance of exposing the corruption of the judge and his cronies (and remember that Gamble was a villain just last episode, so, I mean, do we really feel THAT bad that he's dead? especially since the whole justification for killing him was to get that ledger which she so desperately wants in order to clear Marcel *and killing Gamble wasn't the first thing she tried; she first tried to accomplish a peaceful exchange until it turned out the feds were on them*?) and the sheer evil they've committed. She's still able to hold understanding for Kelly Anne and Pote as they confess the pregnancy, and confess that she too is scared about the future.
But at the same time, that fear and self-protectiveness is causing her to lash out in unpredictable and hurtful ways. Not just hurtful to her people (James, Kelly Anne) but to US! I don't know the first thing about writing for TV shows but I have to confess that I don't love the direction the show has taken in her character in the last two episodes; it's just not very entertaining. It's suspenseful but it's painful. It's not TV I want to re-watch. I think that diminishes my confidence in the writers and show runners just a bit (though I'm trying to hold on since I also KNOW that on some level a journey into darkness and back out again is part of her story). I want to look forward to the next episode, not dread it. I want to root for the main character, not start to hate her.
Still, though, there are glimmers of hope for me. Each episode has had some sort of (or more than one) Jeresa callback, whether subtle or heavy-handed. The pre-episode "previously ons." The Marcel/James convo in 5x03. And in this last episode the CIA reminder (because, duh, we all know that James only went to Devon to protect her in the first place) and the distress on Teresa's face when she's trying to tell James that Gamble's death is a good thing. They haven't stopped reminding us that there's a complicated love story there. If they're dangling that carrot just to remind us how much we want it and then snatch it away at the end in a big GOTCHA move, then they're even worse writers than I thought. Like that's not good TV.
And several of the show runners, and Ryan, and Alice herself have talked about her struggle this season as being related to love -- that love can't survive in this business. That she is going to have to grapple both with Tony's loss and with James's return. Both of those things are clearly at least partly at the root of what's causing her to be so on edge. The CIA comment: Teresa hasn't accepted yet, hasn't been able to accept, that James has changed because of her, that she made him who he is now, and that he now expects her to be the same person he was a year ago when he left. She has to adjust to the fact that he left to protect her -- that all along that's all it was -- while meanwhile she had long ago integrated his departure as yet another painful casualty of her rise to power and the mistakes she'd made along the way. She thought he'd left because of her. How is she supposed to come to terms with the fact that that story was never true when she hasn't even begun to let herself grieve Tony yet? Instead, she's snorting coke and lashing out, because it's safer. Season 3 Teresa told James, "I don't know how to trust people." She's known that about herself and has owned up to it.
Can we trust the writers and show-runners to give us a Teresa who ultimately decides to lean in to trust and love? I don't know. But I hope so. I sure friggin' hope so. Let's see a white queen transformation that takes place because she chooses love over fear. And a white queen who, in the end, surprises us because she--the one of Teresa's visions--is actually the one who was going to decide to leave the business all along.
Other thoughts:
I would like to see more of a story line for James, and right-quick, than standing in a pantry for an entire episode. LOL. I don't want things to deteriorate to such an extent that I just want him to walk away rather than lose more self-respect, and we're dangerously close to that point.
Pote is really not doing it for me this season. From his bad advice, to the triteness of his trying to control Kelly Anne in her pregnancy, to his talking down to James. It all feels a little stilted.
I did REALLY enjoy the Teresa/Kelly Anne sit-down with the FBI agent. That was a fun girl power tag-team, for one thing, but for another, it was really in line with the Teresa I know and love--the one who is two steps ahead of everyone else and knows how to get out of a tight spot.
PLUS the fact that she got to two-time Lucien who, you know, is the one REALLY to blame for Marcel being in prison. Like I said in my 5x02 debrief, why is the Teresa the one who always gets blamed for problems OTHER PEOPLE CAUSE? Not only did Lucien turn in Marcel to the NOLA police, he also exposed Teresa to the feds, which kept the pressure on her big-time and made it even harder for her to try to help Marcel.
Marcel/Alimi Ballard is on fire this season. He is just so good. Crackles whenever he's on screen. He and Boaz so far are perfection.
Speaking of Boaz, looks like we'll get to go to Miami next episode, eh? Seems like maybe he's causing some problems there?
I really want to know what else is in Teresa and James's text history. I guess living in the same house they probably don't need to text much... but... c'mon, can't we get a little flirting up in here?
All the mirror referencessssssss! I do love the symbolism this season. The white/black clothing, the mirrors and mirror references, the earlier season callbacks.
"You're going to be a great father." So, I know I said I wanted to avoid speculating about how things would end up, but it's hard to avoid it. [BOOK SPOILER COMING] In the book, Pote dies at the end, and I've always sort of hoped the show would do the same thing. Not because I like, want Pote to die, but because that ending really worked for me. A huge, hard-hitting loss, and one that doesn't let Teresa's ending be totally "happily ever after," but still allows her not to die herself (which, IMO, would be a terrible way to end). Frankly, it IS hard to imagine Pote as a father, and trying to figure out how to balance that new responsibility against the only life he's ever known as a sicario. So I wonder whether this story-line is one that will set us up for that particular ending to be sad, and again, allow Teresa to get out.
#qots spoilers#bring back king george and oksana please#by the way when I refer to the white queen visions#I'm not referring to the season openers#I'm referring to the version of herself that Teresa sees in her visions in the earlier seasons#which tbh I'm not sure what I think of the relationship or distinction between those queenpins#hmmmm#queen of the south#qots#season 5#5x04#txt post#qots reaction post#qots meta
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tuxedo iv, m | myg
pairing(s): yoongi x reader, mentions of previous jungkook x reader
summary: Your life? Oh, it’s normal. Your cat turned into a man yesterday and you just now humped his leg to orgasm. Sorry, what? That’s not normal? O-Of course, it is! It’s like... having a roommate! You argue because you recorded him without his consent. You eat noodles that he’s trying not to bat at all meal. There are skeletons in your closet. Your fingers get stuck in a Chinese finger trap and then you get fingered. Totally normal, by the way!
warnings: rated M (18+) for language, mentions of the coronavirus pandemic; possibly full-on crack; Yoongi LOVES his box; smut (fem reader, mild restraint, penetrative sex, forced orgasms, intentional voyeurism (tsk tsk, Shooky), fingering); domestic and soft moments with your cat-man; non-idol!AU - cat!Yoongi x human!reader; ft shy boy Jeon Jungkook (gasp!!!) POV and bestfriend!Kim Seokjin POV; breaking of the fourth wall; you ARE a furry, oh well
yes, I reference Jin’s iconic Billboard interview answer, The Lion King (1994), Yoongi’s BTS café cereal milkshake, Bill Nye the Science Guy, PENTAGON’s ‘DO or NOT’ / ‘Shine’ / ‘Humph!”, “you got no jams”, The Addams Family (1991) – also there’s a bit of a meme scavenger hunt, I reference too many to list XD
–
part i | part ii | part iii
-
So.
You kinda.
Humped your cat-man’s thigh to orgasm.
You animal.
“Ah… Yoongi,” you started as your cat… man tilted his head, blinking slowly. Unnerving. Why was he staring like that? It reminded you of his previous cat self, where Shooky would watch you with his minty-green eyes, cat face expressionless, whiskers unmoving. What were cats thinking about all the time anyway?
Better yet, what the fuck was Min Yoongi thinking?
You knew what you were thinking. You were thinking that you couldn’t stare at you cum stain on his pink silk pajama leg all day, because that was a master yikes. He had tons of clothes still piled next to the front door of your apartment. All you had to do was convince him to change his outfit. Simple. Easy. Don’t make this weird. Be casual. Be cool as a cucumber. Chill out.
“Um… You should… take off the pajamas… so I can wash them… there are still more clothes you need to try on from the order, right…?”
Your dignity threw up their hands. Why do I even bother being here? I get ignored, the brain in here is smoother than KY Jelly on glass, and you would know, wouldn’t you, you–
“Take them off for me.”
“… P… Pardon?”
“I’m joking.”
He raised an eyebrow, glancing down at your raised hands. You abruptly dropped them, shoving them behind your back. When did that happen? Why did you make grabby hands like that? Surely not because you were expecting anything, right? Definitely not. Not you.
You need help.
Yoongi turned around, black fur tall swishing, the back of his pink silk pants half-lowered. Your jaw went slack, only to forcefully shut back into place as you realized he was still wearing his black boxer briefs since you had spent yesterday sewing tail holes in his convenience store underwear. Of course, he was still wearing them. There was no reason to take them off.
What, did you want to look at his booty again or something?
(Yes.)
He went through the doorframe of your bedroom without saying a word.
Hold on a second.
Did Yoongi let you ride his thigh to orgasm, be sweet to you for two seconds, only to fucking bounce without a peep of acknowledgment? Just fucking yeet? Act like that was totally ordinary behavior and saunter off?
Say sike right now.
A millisecond of bravery shot through you and you bolted out of your chair, your desk rattling with your sudden action.
"Yoongi–!"
You nearly collided into him. You weren’t expecting him to be facing you and you yelped in surprise, skidding on your heels. His hands stopped your hips, freezing you in place so you didn't barrel headfirst into his chest. You flailed about, struggling to regain your balance. All this happening while he continued giving you that deadpan stare. Did anything faze this (cat) man? Shit, you were too close to his face. So close you could feel his breath on your nose.
"You should change too."
Brain malfunctioning at the softness of his tone.
"... W-What?"
Then your neck, ears, face, even your past and future self, the whole timeline became hotter than a supernova, brain erupting into nuclear fusion as Yoongi's deft fingers slid up to the waistband of your leggings, hooking underneath, stroking your skin. He leaned forward, dark eyes out of your vision, chin hovering above your shoulder.
"Urk?!"
He started pushing your leggings down.
He started.
Pushing.
Them.
DOWN!!!
"You can't stay like this all day, right?" Yoongi murmured gently, voice so deep it was resonating in your empty brain, completely clear of all thoughts except those cool fingers pushing your black leggings down, the skintight fabric catching your soaked panties and taking those on the path to hell too, which was probably where you were headed at the rate this was going. "It would be a good idea to change clothes, I think."
You think, Yoongi?
Not you.
You don't have think.
A shrill barrage of low meowing cut through the silence.
Your phone was ringing violently in your room. Yoongi paused, backing up with a frown.
"Why is your ringtone a cat chattering?" he asked, tilting his head quizzically. The continuing sonata of cat chitters escalated before his dark eyes narrowed in recognition. He glared at you and pulled his hands away from your hips, snapping you out of your daze.
"You recorded me?"
"What, what, what?" You blinked rapidly, hearing the familiar sharp chirps and barks of Shooky the cat yelling at birds outside the window. "Oh! Well, yeah... it was funny," you explained weakly, trying to shake out the fog of your horny brain.
"There's nothing funny about trespassers," Yoongi hissed, turning his heel and swiftly marching away.
"Trespassers?" you echoed, blinking in confusion. That’s why he yelled at them as a cat? Did he think he owned all the land the sun touches or something? The sound was getting louder and louder, indicating the call was about to be missed. No time to think about it. You rushed back into your room, nearly half tripping with your leggings only partway on your ass, scrambling to answer your phone. There was an uncomfortable squish between your legs. Yikes. You did need to change.
"Hello? Oh, yes, the video? I'm putting it in the Dropbox right now," you babbled, clicking out of a bizarre pop-up ad with some brown-haired guy in a sienna floral shirt and a boxy smile before placing the exported video in the shared Dropbox folder.
"Sorry, yeah, I know I usually have it done earlier. It's been a weird couple of days..."
-
Kim Seokjin was furious.
Furious!
His best friend ignored his face. His beautiful face! How could she! He fumed, deciding to instead spend his time wisely, as he always did.
He stared at his reflection and nodded, stroking his chin. Yes. A true winner. Look at that brilliant smile. Perfect. He looked great today, as he did every day. Seokjin looked away from the mirror on his desk and went back to his MapleStory life.
-
After a quick change and final edits of the completed video sent off to the client, you left your room to find that Yoongi had stacked his new clothes on the coffee table. The brown cardboard box was on the sofa with him (???), as if it was a human being instead of an ordinary box. He had neatly folded the plastic packaging and placed it on the kitchen counter so you could sort it into the correct recycling.
"Oh... thanks."
He was now wearing a white t-shirt and black pants that actually seemed like they fit, the back of said pants halfway down his butt to accommodate for his tail. He was watching that historical drama; eyes glued the television. The dark brown orbs were hidden by his curtain of black hair. His pointed black ears were turned away from your direction, as if he had no desire to listen to anything you had to say.
As usual.
Yoongi's response was grunting disapprovingly at you.
You sighed, feeling a little guilty.
"To be fair, I couldn't really ask your consent when you were a cat."
Your cat-man appeared to be out of fucks to give. "You should do laundry," he huffed gruffly.
You scooted away awkwardly. "Er... yeah. Let me order some delivery for lunch first..."
-
"Yoongi."
"What?"
"What are you doing?"
He stared at his chopsticks, holding them up high.
"Hmm..."
His pink lips twisted, narrowing his eyes. The fingers in his other hand twitched. He had been staring at the noodles in his ramen for the past five minutes. They were probably cold now. You were getting a bit worried that he didn't like carbs or something. But then you realized that wasn't the case.
His fingers twitched again.
"They're noodles. Not string."
Yoongi didn't reply, itching to bat at the long noodles.
"Just put them in your mouth."
He gave you this look. As if to tell you, you don't usually say that. Usually someone else tells you that.
You thinned your mouth into a line.
"I know you're admiring the skinny legend that is noodles, but, yes, they're edible. Need I remind you that you used to eat string and I had to pull it out of your mouth when you choked on it?"
Yoongi scowled. Apparently, he did not like being reminded. It wasn’t that pleasant for you to remember either. At least you never had to wait until it passed through his body and never had to pull it out of the other end (ew). He peered them for several more seconds before putting them in his mouth. You noticed his ears perked up as he ate.
"You like them?" you asked.
He hummed, not looking at you. Was Yoongi still angry about the recording thing? You weren't changing your ringtone regardless of his dissatisfaction. It was cute. You liked it. And he was being a drama queen, acting all catty.
Hold on.
He was a cat.
(Man.)
-
"What is this?"
"Dessert."
You took a sip and choked a little at the grainy taste.
"Is that cereal?"
"Yeah. It's too hard. Better this way."
You gawked at him, holding the weird cereal milkshake with one hand and his half-sewn pants in the other. Was Yoongi being serious or fucking with you? You couldn't tell. His expression was completely neutral. His cat ears were straight up, trained in your direction, judging your reaction. He lifted his free hand and dropped a handful of rice crisps on the top of the thick white drink.
Well.
Not your preferred thick white drink.
(You nasty.)
He nodded sagely and sat down beside you.
"Show me how to sew."
-
We interrupt your regularly scheduled program for you to, please, consider the following.
See, by all recommendations of building healthy relationships, you should have been a responsible human being and had a serious, but necessary, conversation with your (new?) cat-man.
Hey, Yoongi, I find you quite physically attractive and we had that moment in my bedroom, so maybe there's some chemistry and, oh, I don't know, maybe you could stick that prefect looking dick inside me because I've been thinking about it nonstop since (checking watch) the literal second I realized it existed, not to be too forward or anything, you know?
That kind of speech could get you a quick restraining order in most cases, but this was your cat (man) who had lived with you – maybe against his will but, then again, he got fed regularly and when you were previously a stray you can’t complain.
So.
Do or not?
Hmm...
You could have admitted these things, but, alas, this was not the way. No, the way was to remain an absolute fucking mess every time Yoongi leaned over your shoulder to inspect your needlework, nearly stabbing yourself in the finger, your heart leaping your throat, strangling yourself with anxiety.
Fun!
Could everything be quickly solved by telling the truth?
Debatable. Yoongi didn’t seem like the kind of (cat) man to give you a straight answer. Not because he couldn’t. Mostly because he seemed to enjoy watching you struggle. Were you picking up on that?
No. You were too busy thinking about dick.
His dick.
Honestly, don't know if you should laugh or cry right now.
-
Jeon Jungkook flipped his phone around and around in his hand, scrunching up his face.
Should he say something?
Yes. No. Yes? No. Yes… No, no, no.
He sighed and threw his phone onto his bed.
He missed and it slid off, hitting the floor.
That was a bad sign.
“Shit.”
He dived onto the bed, scabbing around on the hardwood to pick up the fallen device. Ah, how come he was thinking about this now? He knew why. He had watched a funny cat video of a tuxedo cat and it reminded him of a certain naughty little fluffball always following around a certain owner. Jungkook hadn’t contacted said owner in nearly a year. Wouldn’t it look bad if he said anything now? But he couldn’t not think about it either. That smile was on his mind all the time now. That feeling from back then, floating around in his head. He sighed again, followed by inhaling with his upper teeth pressed against his inner lower lip, creating a loud sucking sound that no one else could hear because he lived alone.
Alone.
Jungkook lifted his phone, dying sunlight reflecting off the screen, a shine that blinded him for a short moment. He clicked his tongue, squinting as he spied the number still on the screen.
“Ah, why am I always a loser in front of love?”
He wasn’t really saying it to anyone in particular. No one could reply to him anyway.
He tossed the phone carelessly on the pillow and it slid behind it, falling in between the mattress and the bedframe.
“Shit!”
Jungkook spent five minutes fishing his phone out of the narrow crevice before firmly placing it on the bed beside him, pointing at it angrily, glaring at it.
“No! Bad.”
The phone did nothing. It was not sentiment.
Humph! He let out a frustrated puff of breath and flopped down on the bed.
His phone flew up from the force of his flop and smacked him in the nuts.
“SHIT!”
-
“Huh, you pick up things so fast. So meticulous.”
You watched as Yoongi brought the needle through the fabric in slow but clean strokes, following your previous demonstration. For someone who only had opposable thumbs for less than two days, he was surprisingly dexterous. Seemed like he could do a lot with his hands. No. Stop that. Stop being weird.
“Are you a genius?”
Yoongi didn’t hesitate, not looking up.
“Of course.”
You regretted asking. He continued, oblivious to your annoyed expression.
“I’m a cat.”
“All cats are geniuses?” you retorted disbelievingly.
“Most of them are.” His eyes flickered to you, eyebrows raising. “Compared to humans anyway.”
Was this a dig at you and your missing brain cells after running into things chasing after him and your brain exploding at his hotness? Which he wasn’t, by the way. Yeah, that’s right. Take that, Min Yoongi! You’re being mean, so therefore your attractiveness points are going down in this brain, yes, they are and there’s nothing you can do about it, yup, absolutely NOTHING–
He held up the pants, showing off his handiwork.
“Did I do a good job?”
His voice was soft, unsure, head slightly tilted, velvety ears eagerly perked to listen to your response.
Oh no.
Oh nooo.
Oh nooooooo.
He’s cute.
“Yeah. That looks amazing, Yoongi,” you heard yourself saying, smiling at him.
His fair-skinned cheeks flushed pink, lowering the pants quickly to snip the excess thread off, placing the needle in the cat-shaped pincushion like you had done earlier so he could carefully tie a knot to seal his hard work.
Shit.
You were whipped for him.
Damnnit.
To be honest, nothing had changed. You were whipped for him as a cat too.
“I’m going to clear out some space the closet so you have somewhere to put your clothes, okay?”
“A-ah… Thanks…” he mumbled, picking up another pair of pants. Jeans this time.
“Oh, with these you can simply cut the hole. No need to sew because this type of fabric won’t fray too much. Ah, but not directly on the seam. Maybe here?” You pointed slightly to the right of the back middle seam. Your mouth kept talking despite not having any more instructions for him. “Did you know the butt rip was fashionable among women for a little while? Under the pocket though, not the center. That’s just weird.”
Yoongi tilted his head the other way.
“Women are weird,” he said in a deadpan voice.
You narrowed your eyes. “Oi.”
He picked up the scissors, raising an eyebrow at you. “Are you not weird?”
You opened your mouth to reply, but nothing came out. He’s got you there. Shit. You puffed your cheeks and turned around, stalking off to your bedroom. Why was he always right? One day, he won’t be right and you’ll mark it on your fucking calendar. Humph.
You slowed at your doorframe, remembering his sheepishly proud face as he showed off his sewing. Crap. What was Min Yoongi so cute for? And how were you supposed to look at other guys after knowing your cat (man) was so damn adorable? And observant and diligent? And driven to be independent, asking questions and trying to do things on his own not even forty-eight hours after becoming human? Cooking, sewing, folding his own clothes… what’s next, playing the fucking piano?
Yeah, right.
You snorted and went into your bedroom.
-
“What’s this?”
You looked up, half-buried in idol merchandise you didn’t even know you had. How long had these sweatshirts been sitting here in their plastic packages? And these posters left in the tubes at the back of your closet? You shouldn’t own so much stuff. You should sell it. You weren’t going to, because these were limited edition items and you would have to be crazy to sell stuff with the cute faces of your favorite idols. You stuck you head out of the closet to see what Yoongi was referring to.
“What? Oh, that?”
You wheezed in embarrassment, ducking back in the closet, pretending to be busy.
“Uh… so… YouTube and Twitch had a crackdown on using copyrighted music and I thought, well, maybe I could maybe make my own, so I brought a keyboard but, uh…”
You rubbed the back of your head sheepishly, trying to figure out how to say you had no musical inclination and only had the ability to appreciate it.
“Basically, I got no jams.”
The keyboard was still in its box. You had opened it and attempted to learn piano, but well, you were shit. Also, you gave up pretty quickly. It was embarrassing considering you had spent so much money on it and were all confident when buying it, only for it to become a hidden occupant in the back of your closet. This was before Shooky – er, Yoongi – had come into your life. Yes. It had been there for literal years.
“I was going to donate it,” you added with a sigh.
You suddenly noticed something out of the corner of your eye. You frowned and reached in, grabbing the thin, hard object before pulling it out.
A…
Skeleton in your closet.
A long-lost Halloween decoration? Why was this here?
“Can I have it?”
You looked up, holding the mysterious plastic skeleton like a small child. “What?”
Yoongi pointed to the keyboard box, black tail swishing rapidly. There was a liveliness in his dark brown eyes and his pointed ears were sticking straight up. You narrowed your eyes.
“You don’t want that skinny box for some reason, do you?” you accused.
He pursed his lips at you, scowling. “No, you can throw away the box. I want to keep the keyboard.”
Huh? “Uh… okay, I guess. More space in the closet, I suppose. Oh, wait…” You stumbled into the back of the closet, feeling around. “I brought a stand for it, hold on… fuck!” You jammed your finger against a metal pole and howled, quickly retreating your hand to massage it. Fuck, that hurt! Scowling, you reached back in to grab the metal keyboard stand and yank it out from between your tightly packed clothes.
“Are you dead?”
“Shit!”
You jumped nearly ten feet, almost banging your head on the clothing rail if it wasn’t for Yoongi’s swift movement of grabbing your shoulders, pulling you to him. He didn’t have to pull far, because he was right behind you. How did he always sneak up on you when he wore a damn bell around his neck that announced his presence? Sorcery. Aliens. Voodoo witchcraft. Now you were convinced these things existed.
(Your cat turning into a man wasn’t enough for you to believe in magic? What’s wrong with you?)
“You’re really clumsy,” Yoongi remarked.
No, you’re spooky, you thought. One of your hands was on his chest. Instant heart palpitations. And handsome. Crap.
“Are you going to do something weird again?”
Weird? You were never weird. What was this man going on about? You needed to reprimand him. Put him in his place! Enough is enough, Min Yoongi! You can’t win over me every time! You raised your head to face him, opening your mouth to give him a piece of your mind.
Yoongi was centimeters away from your face.
You froze.
Ice effect overlapping your whole body.
You dropped the keyboard stand.
Thankfully, it simply fell against your clothing, leaning against your sweatshirts. It stayed upright, held up by the clothing. You didn’t have to worry about it for the time being. It was perfectly fine, unlike you. You were not fine. Not fine at all, staring at Yoongi’s upturned upper lip and unreadable dark brown eyes, slowly blinking at you. Hands on your shoulders, holding you close to him.
Not letting go.
!!!
-
Jeon Jungkook placed his phone on his desk and chopped the air, threatening it.
It wasn’t sentient.
He still didn’t trust it.
He glared at his phone angrily and shuffled back to his bed to have a nice, calm rest that didn’t involve his nuts getting destroyed. Ugh. He was bored. He had plenty to do. Schoolwork. Studying. Cleaning his room covered in clothes. Attempting to cook.
Jungkook made a face at the ceiling.
The last time he tried to cook some glazed sweet potatoes they had been glued to the plate somehow. A neat magic trick, but not edible. He couldn’t get them to unstick, much less be eaten. He had to order out that night. Come to think of it, he spent most of his money on ordering out. Maybe that was a bad habit.
He ran a hand through his bleached, blond hair that had too much toner in it so it had turned slightly silvery-purple. An at-home experiment. Another bad habit.
Jungkook groaned, rolling onto his face.
“I need someone older to take care of me,” he mumbled into the sheets.
Someone older… with a certain tuxedo cat, perhaps? He pouted even though no one was there to witness his cuteness.
“Ahhhhhhh…”
He yelled quietly into his bedding, letting go.
Finally thinking about you.
In front of you, he could tease. He could poke fun. It was easy. You were just so flustered around him, not really trying to hide your attraction to him. The first time he had met you was when he went bowling with Seokjin-hyung (he won, much to the disdain of his hyung). You had stopped by to say hello and Seokjin had introduced you two. It had been a fairly innocent meeting, mostly because for a long time Jungkook couldn’t open his mouth to say anything at all. You were wearing a huge white t-shirt with a colorful strawberry graphic, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and white sneakers with black laces. It had been a hot summer day, he remembered. You were already pretty simply by standing there, chatting animatedly with his hyung. Jungkook tried not to look too closely, sneaking glances in between your conversation.
Seokjin had absolutely no qualms about shitting on your outfit.
“Yah, grandma, you’re off to pick some strawberries in the field or something?”
You had shoved him, rolling your eyes. “You’re a grandpa too! Look at you, losing to kid.”
Was that referring to him? “Ah, I’m not a kid.” Shit. His Busan dialect slipped out a little in his nervousness, deepening his voice.
Your cheeks had peppered pink. “A-ah… right…”
Oh?
Oh!
Oh!!!
You shook your head abruptly and reached into your tuxedo-cat-printed tote bag. “Here’s your freaking hard drive, you monkey,” you had said to Seokjin, handing over the small paper bag.
“Did you manage to restore all my files?” Seokjin asked worriedly, completely ignoring your insult.
You shrugged, looking rueful. “I don’t know how many you had, but I did the best I could.” You leaned forward, eyes narrowing, whispering in his ear. Didn’t matter. Jungkook was close enough to hear.
“Stop downloading porn!”
Jungkook snorted.
Seokjin glared at you. “Excuse me, I am living a healthy lifestyle, do not judge me!” he hissed. “And not in front of the child!”
Yeah, well, Jungkook didn’t let you think he was a child for long.
He wasn't really sure why he was attracted to you. It wasn't only because you were pretty. He just had a strong urge to get a reaction out of you. Ah, maybe that was it. He liked seeing your reactions to things and did everything he could to get more and more interesting reactions out of you. You never told Jungkook to stop. You told Seokjin to stop all the time.
"I swear if you make one more pun, I'm going to tie your tongue into a knot!"
"Then I'd really be tongue-tied, eh? Eh?! WAIT, NO, WATCH THE FACE, NOT MY FACE!!!"
Jungkook couldn't help himself. He had to mess with you.
Fuck.
(Yes, actually.)
He couldn't stop. It was too fun. It didn't help that you had a cute surprised face. Didn't help that you had a great smile. Didn’t help that you had an amazing body under your clothes and knew exactly how to use it (Jungkook wouldn’t admit it, but he learned a lot from you). Didn't help that you would chase after your tuxedo cat and scoop up that furball even after getting railed by him, which Jungkook found very impressive.
"Shooky, you loon, I told you to stop running on the counters..."
And you would cradle that cat to your chest, petting his head and waiting for him to purr and lick your nose before releasing him, satisfied that he was no longer going to be a menace. He still was though. He was a cat. You forgave Shooky every time.
Just like how you let Jungkook get away with everything.
Present Jungkook frowned, rolling onto his back, frowning at the ceiling. Maybe you thought he was a fuckboy and had a negative image of him. He scratched his head, tongue in cheek, thinking hard. No. You didn't seem like the type. You were never angry at him, not really, not even when he interrupted your work to mess around in bed. Exasperated, maybe, but it never seemed like you were holding an internal grudge or upset at his nonchalant actions. Ah, but he hadn’t tried to talk to you in almost a whole year. Would you think he was a dick if he tried to contact you now? He couldn’t ask you. He couldn’t ask your best friend. Seokjin-hyung still had no idea.
Jungkook laughed to himself.
He kind of went behind his hyung's back, whoops.
He looked to his left side, the side you used to fall asleep on when he spent the night. He could imagine it, your past self and his past self, your hair on your pillow, blankets loosely over your chest, his hand on your breasts as you slept.
A pair of mint-green eyes glaring at him from the left side of your body.
Jungkook remembered poking that pink nose with his index finger, the rest of his hand still on your tits. The tuxedo cat had given him a very displeased look.
"Are you mad?"
The cat didn't reply. He was a cat.
"You're really lucky. You get to be with her every day," Jungkook had whispered, not wanting to wake you up. "She takes good care of you, you know. I see how much she loves you."
The cat closed his eyes, resting his furry head on your arm.
"Do you love her back?"
Maybe. Maybe not. Jungkook didn't know. He wasn't a cat. He couldn't ask in cat language. He let go of your breasts for a second to scratch the top of Shooky's head, right between those velvety ears. He began purring like a little motor.
You continued your adventures in la la land, oblivious to this interaction.
"I guess cats are kind of simple, huh?" Jungkook mused, smoothing out the black fur on top of that little head. "You don't have to think about much. You don't have to get a job, plan for the future, or worry about being a good husband."
His hand lowered.
"But I do."
You breathed softly against him, nuzzling closer to his body. Jungkook put his hand back on your breasts and you stilled, lost in your dreams. He breathed out, warmth against your skin. He saw the side of your lips twitch ever so slightly upwards, but maybe it was only his imagination wishing to see what he wanted.
Only a wish.
He had placed his nose by your cheek and breathed in, losing himself in dreams as well.
-
Yoongi looked into your eyes.
Then both of you turned to opposite sides and sneezed loudly.
"Fuck–"
"That was horrible," Yoongi hissed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand and backing up. "Ugh, human bodies are awful."
You shook your head roughly. "Someone must be thinking about me... and you, I guess..." you mumbled, clearing your head before prodding him in the chest. "Also, last time I checked, now you're human too, so jokes on you. Hope you enjoy the suffering!" You stuck your tongue out childishly.
Yoongi gave you an annoyed look, reaching over you to grab the keyboard stand. You stiffened at his closeness, but he quickly withdrew, taking the metal stand and leaving you disappointed, but not surprised. Couldn't even pretend to be shocked.
He lifted it up so it wouldn’t drag on the floor and began to walk out of the room, ignoring you.
Classic.
You thinned your mouth into a line and picked up the white plastic skeleton. What to do with this? Fuck it. Back into the closet it goes, along with your winter wardrobe, summer wardrobe, and other knickknacks.
Well.
Maybe you could donate a couple things to charity.
Like this Chinese finger trap. Why was this here?
You stuck your fingers in it.
S... shit!
Yoongi reappeared to grab the keyboard. You opened your mouth, about to ask for help, looking up to see your cat-man standing in the doorframe of your bedroom, glaring. Very displeased and disapproving, reminding you a whole lot of a certain tuxedo fluffball.
"I'll say it again."
Huh? You gave him a confused look.
He pointed to his pointed, velvety black ears.
"I'm a cat, duh."
And then he walked out. Fuck him. You didn't need his help.
-
You couldn’t get it off.
Panik!
Yes, you can. It was just a finger trap. You were smart. You graduated university. You had been a human for many more years than Min Yoongi. He had been human for two days! And besides, Yoongi was mean. You didn’t need a meanie to help you. You were a strong, independent woman who didn’t need no (cat) man.
Kalm.
You…
You…
You couldn’t get it off!!!
PANIK!!!!!!!
-
“… What are you doing?”
You were the epitome of the emoji holding back tears.
“Y… Yoongi…” you whined.
He blinked at you, holding the manual of the keyboard upside down. The keyboard was already set up on the stand, pushed up against one of the walls of your living room. He was using the cardboard box that his clothes came in – he really loved that damn box – as a makeshift seat.
“Are you dying?”
You held up your hands, pouting. The bronze dragon Chinese finger trap was still stuck on your index fingers. It had been roughly twenty, maybe thirty minutes.
Your cat-man just blinked at you and it.
“I… can’t get it off… Help…”
He raised an eyebrow and put the manual on the keyboard before walking over to you. He placed his chin in between his index finger and his thumb, frowning. Looking this way and that. The realization was slowly kicking in.
Yoongi wasn’t hiding his smirk very well.
“You know how to take it off!” you howled, smacking him in the chest.
He cackled, backing up as you repeatedly whacked him with the back of your hands, furious because it was obvious that he knew what to do and was simply not doing it to piss you off, his grin getting wider and wider, still not saying anything, this little shit, backing up into your living room as you chased him, stupid cat-man was fucking fast, dodging you easily, your joined hands and annoyed demeanor making you a bit wobbly.
“Min Yoongi, I swear I’ll–”
“You’ll what?” he teased, raising his hands in mock innocence. “Maybe I don’t know?”
You scowled at him. “You definitely know.”
He smirked.
Shit.
It was sexy and you were supposed to be mad!
You were next to the keyboard now. And a certain something. Hm. You jerked your head to the cardboard box. His eyes widened.
“You wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“I would.”
“You wouldn’t, you heathen.”
“You better fucking believe I would!”
(You’re threatening to recycle a cardboard box to force your cat-man to get you out of a metal finger trap that you put yourself in. Um, are you okay? Better yet, are both of you okay???)
He marched over to you, relenting with an angry huff, yanking up your hands.
“There’s a trick to it, of course.”
He pressed the dragon’s horns in tandem with the dragon’s beard on either side and the trap released your red fingers, making you gasp at the sudden freedom. Holy shit. You stared at your freed index fingers. You had two hands. Wow. Amazing. Show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique…
Yoongi placed the finger trap on the coffee table.
“Hmph. This thing is probably only worth three dollars.”
You poked your index fingers together, suddenly ashamed. “Sorry I threatened your box.”
Yoongi grunted, cat ears flicking back and forth in annoyance.
You poked his stomach with your index fingers. “Er… I just… wanted you to help me...”
“You weren’t going to do it anyway.”
You puffed your cheeks, narrowing your eyes, irritation flaring back. “Well, maybe I was! What were you going to do, leave me like that, unable to use my hands for the rest of my life?” You jabbed him repeatedly in the chest, driving your point home in between your snappish words. “Hmm? I need hands to do things! Important things!”
Yoongi suddenly grabbed your wrists and held them up over your head.
(Aw shit, here we go again.)
“Y-Yoongi?!”
He raised an eyebrow at you.
“What important things do you need to do with your hands?” he asked.
Oh shit.
Oh no.
Why was his vice suddenly so deep? Did he even know???
Your eyes widened, brain malfunctioning, your last two working brain cells rushing to the library to find the book titled ‘things you can do with your hands’, opening it, reading, handsy things. That was it. That was all you had at this moment. Why was it that your brain had the memory equal to the RAM of a fucking Tamagotchi every time your cat-man touched you?
Oh, yeah, that’s right, because he was a cat literally two days ago and you never thought about fucking your cat because that’s just fucking weird, but now he’s a man, so maybe it’s okay, unless it’s not, and then what does that make you? FUCKING WEIRD, THAT’S WHAT.
You yelped as your back collided to the wall. When had you walked that far? What was going on? What was life??? You were yanked back to reality as Yoongi leaned down, tilting his head, eyebrow still cocked, dark eyes darker from his fluffy black hair falling over his eyes.
“I hear you don’t always like being able to use your hands.”
Holyfuckingshitcrap.
Instantly, your cheerful brain decided to play the memory of you begging Jeon Jungkook to hold down your wrists so you couldn’t stop him and his relentless assault on your pussy, one hand grasping both your wrists and the other rubbing two fingers on your clit, thrusting his hard cock in and out of you as he abused the sensitive bundle of nerves, pinning you to your bed, panting in your face.
“You like this, noona?” Jungkook had purred.
(Respectfully.)
Voice low, deep, and sexy, driving you insane, waves of pleasure crashing into you over and over, pussy throbbing with repeated orgasm.
“F-Fuck, yes, oh fuck, Jungkook, yes… don’t s-stooop…”
Shooky had sat on the highest level of his cat tree, glaring down at you two.
Shit, shit, shit…
Yoongi leaned in even more, eyes disappearing, lips next to your ear. You felt him transfer one of your wrists to his other hand, now holding both with one hand as the other fell against your body.
“In fact, I’ve seen it firsthand,” he whispered, low, soft, dangerous.
Your brain ended the film reel in your head, giving you two mental thumbs-up and beaming happily at you as if it had done a great thing.
No, brain.
You’ve fucked me over and now I’m horny as fuck!
A needy whimper popped out of you as Yoongi’s free hand slipped between your bodies, fingers dancing deftly across the fabric of your sweatshirt, following the rhythm of your racing heart as it went down, down, too fast, sanity unable to keep up, you rising into his touch, his fingers sliding underneath the waistband of your leggings. This pair wasn’t as tight as the previous pair, but the fabric still clung to your skin just as tightly.
Wait. Is that you? Moaning?
(Yes.)
He dragged them down your hips, having to let go of the waistband for a moment to push them past the sides before resuming, you moaning in the space where he should have a human ear, but he didn’t, because Yoongi was a cat-man and his pointed furry ears were at the top of his head.
“Y… Yoongi…”
“Hm?”
His soft lips lightly pressed against your ear and you shivered. His grip on your wrists wasn’t very tight. You could break out any time. He was only loosely holding you.
“I… I am…” you quivered, voice shaking.
“I want to make you feel good.”
His murmur was so gentle, so calm, so quiet that it almost didn’t feel real. Almost a purr.
“Do you want me to make you feel good?”
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
“Yes.”
You said it.
Your panties were leaving with your leggings, shoved down mid-thigh. Your name in your ear, spoken by Min Yoongi, his body hovering over yours, black hair against your cheek, his fingers slipping between your legs, your heart slamming in your chest, thighs squeezing his hand.
“Feels nice here,” Yoongi mumbled, breath feathering on your skin. A single finger grazed your wetness and you gasped, his raspy chuckle in your ear. “Wet.”
Your eye twitched, slightly annoyed. No, really? Thanks for letting me know, it’s not like I can fucking feel it myself or anything, I absolutely need your riveting play-by-play–
“Urk!”
Yoongi scooped two fingers into your pussy and felt around inside, rubbing his fingertips against your throbbing walls.
“Ah…” He was breathing hard, pushing them in joint by joint, his own inhale shallowing. “Fuck, it’s so tight in here, are you alright?”
Oh, my fucking God, Yoongi, just fucking destroy me, I’m not a virgin!
You sucked in a shaking breath, mentally beating your inner thot back down. “F-Feels really nice, Yoongi… just… a little more…” He sank his fingers all the way to the knuckles. “Fuuuck, yes, oh, fuck yes…”
You rocked your hips into it, moaning, eyes closing, building up a pace, not really waiting for him to figure out that he could move his fingers too. It didn’t matter though, because Yoongi was highly observant and diligent, and, as much as you avoided to admit it, he had seen you get fingered hundreds of times, all over the apartment, in all sorts of embarrassing positions and with plenty of visible, graphic, high-definition detail, better than any porn video.
By – yup, you guessed it – Jeon Jungkook.
Yoongi began his own pace to match yours, thrusting his two fingers in and out until you were a hopeless mess, whining and bucking against his touch, your juices coating his hand, staring up at the ceiling with the tips of his black ears in your peripheral vision, tilted towards you to listen to every single one of your sounds. His heavy exhale invaded your head, lost in Yoongi’s rhythm that was uniquely his, only able to cry out, harder or faster, losing yourself in him, his scent, the smell of your vanilla body wash, and the rapidly strengthening sweetness between your legs rising up despite it dripping down your thighs.
“Yoongi… oh, fuck, Yoongi…”
It just felt too good, speed, strength, sound, wet messy squelches of his fingers entering you over and over, your pussy responding in kind, shuddering around them, clenching tight, hips rocking into every plunge to deepen the stroke, prolonging your own orgasm, savoring the moment.
“You feel so good…”
That wasn’t you.
That was Yoongi.
Whispering in your ear, probably not even realizing his own dirty talk.
“So fucking wet and warm,” he murmured, the rumble purring in his chest, soothing but also far too sexy. “Sucking my fingers back in, fucking me back… You really like me this much?” His lips brushed your ear, chaste kisses compared to the rough fingering of his slippery digits pushing into you repeatedly, the sounds getting louder and lewder because you were getting wetter and wetter. “Am I really that good-looking to you?”
Yoongi, are you BLIND, DEAF, or BOTH???
“Fuck yes, you are, what the fuck?” you gasped out, turning your head slightly, one of his dark brown eyes locking with yours, your jaw clenched with the effort of you holding back your orgasm to respond to his ludicrous question. “You are so fucking handsome I couldn’t even last two days of being in your presence, thirsting after you!”
You heard Yoongi chuckle, the sound resonating and teasing your ear.
“Actually, you couldn’t even last one, remember?” he drawled slyly.
His knuckle grazed your throbbing, aroused clit.
“Fuck!”
Your body twisted, whining wail torn out of you as you came, pushing your head and hands against the wall, nerves sparking and shaking, intense pleasure flooding all over your senses from holding back, breathless whimpers of Yoongi’s name, grinding into his hand. He let go of your wrists. They prickled with pins and needles of lost circulation, but you didn’t give a shit, grabbing his hand between your legs and shoving it back in you before it could retreat, riding out your orgasm, milking it for every single gram of ecstasy, cherishing every single second of another’s hand inside you, not just another but your disturbingly attractive man who was previously a cat sleeping in your lap exactly forty-eight hours ago as you innocently watched American Horror Story.
“Y… Yoongi?” you panted, orgasm petering out, trickling waves subsiding.
“Y… Yes?”
He wasn’t making fun of you. You could hear the nervousness in his voice.
“Can I kiss you?”
His face appeared in front of yours.
“Yes.”
You didn’t think twice.
You closed your eyes and leaned forward, lips on his, your satisfied sigh tickling his skin, kissing him hard, the intimacy you desired for so long, moments you spent all year trying to keep it at bay, no one to show your affection but tiny kisses on Shooky’s furry head, but now one of your hands was cupping Yoongi’s cheek, deepening the kiss, him pressing back against you, sandwiching you between the wall and himself. You let go of his hand between your legs and held both his cheeks, peppering light pecks against that lovely mouth. You wanted to kiss him over and over, so nice, so lovely, his barely-there gasps drifting on your lips with every kiss.
His fingers slipped out and touched your thigh.
You drew back, heart thudding, still holding his face, his round cheeks a little squished in your hands.
He raised his hand and put his pussy-soaked fingers in his mouth.
You jerked your hands back. “Y-Yoongi!” you exclaimed, shocked.
His pink tongue slipped around his fingers, tiny kitten licks to slurp it all up. He hummed, small smirk playing on his lips. You gawked at him.
“Y-You don’t have to–”
“You like it, don’t you?”
You shut your mouth, cheeks burning with heat.
Yoongi smirked wider, nimble tongue slipping around and around, your eyes glued to the movement, brain already dreaming up lecherous scenarios. His dark brown eyes flickered to you, eyebrows rising.
“Hmm…”
“W-What?” you snapped, trying to collect yourself. He was giving you that look again. That enigmatic expression of maybe-maybe-not. Yoongi shrugged, taking his fingers out of his mouth.
“I think we should do that again sometime.”
Your mind went blank.
Again? Now? Later?
Next Tuesday?
WHEN, MIN YOONGI, WHEN?
“… Urk?”
Those cunning dark brown orbs sparkled with mischief. “Hmm, then again, maybe we’ll do something different next time,” he pondered out loud, taunting you with the suggestive depth of his voice. He backed up, tail swaying from side to side, his grin widening, turning into an open-mouthed smirk that showed off his pretty teeth and devious expression.
His next words were the verbal equivalent of pushing your full glass of brainpower right off the table and sending it crashing to the floor.
“I have a lot of things I want to try.”
-
part v
--
masterpost
#yoongi x reader#jungkook x reader#bts smut#bts fanfic#yoongi fanfic#yoongi x you#min yoongi x reader#min yoongi x you#jungkook smut#jungkook x you#jeon jungkook x reader#jeon jungkook x you
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