#The phrasing is so perfectly absurd and sudden I love it

[bloodsoakeddoodles]

More of my favourite scenes from Put That Kid Down

[mamanabeille]

I Don't Want to Be Reasonable

This week's @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers sprint fic. I chose the "If we both want to fit, we will have to cuddle" prompt.

“I’m going to kill her,” Luka all but growls under his breath as they stare at the single bed in the center of the room that seemed to be taunting him. He should have known. He shouldn't have expected anything less from his conniving little sister and her soon to be wife.

Juleka and Rose were getting married the next day in the little inn that Rose had fallen in love with when Juleka booked it for their first vacation away together years before. It was tiny, but somehow seemed to perfectly mesh together the two of their personalities and neither could imagine being wed anywhere else. So when they had asked Luka if he minded sharing a room with Marinette, due to a lack of enough rooms for the wedding party to each have their own, he had willingly agreed without so much of a second thought. He would do anything for the two women. He loved them both larger than life, even if in this exact moment he was fighting the urge to tear the mickey out of them… and himself for not catching on sooner. When she asked, he assumed she meant sharing an actual room… not the bed.

“So,” Marinette breaks the silence hesitantly as she looks around the tiny room, her cheeks flushed a light pink. “I’ll go back to the front desk and make sure they gave us the right room or if there’s another.” She knows it’s pointless, but she feels like she should at least offer to try.

“There isn’t,” Luka sighs, setting his bag down and taking Marinette’s off her shoulder to do the same. “They’ve booked up the whole inn.”

“I know,” Marinette nods, her voice seeming to catch in her throat. She was the one that unintentionally offered to bunk with Luka when Rose had called in tears because there just weren’t enough rooms for anyone and no other local hotels. Marinette had suggested some of the wedding party sharing rooms, not thinking in the moment that she and Luka were the only members of the party that were still single and not sharing a room with their spouses and families.

“I’ll take the floor,” Luka offers. “Or I’ll crash with Ding and Bri.”

“You will not,” she protests, glaring up at him as if he’d personally offended her. “This is the first time they’ve gotten a night away from the baby. I’m also not letting you sleep on the floor the night before your sister’s wedding. That’s absurd, for one. Besides, you get grumpy when you don’t sleep well and you will not be a grouch on their day. We are grown adults, Luka. We are more than capable of sharing a bed for a few nights.” She makes her way over to the full size bed, and plops down, patting the spot next to her as if to prove a point, even though her voice catches a little on the last few words.

Luka feels his face and neck burn hot, pushing out the thought of sharing a bed with her in a very adult way. He knows that wasn’t what she meant. That’s not what they are. They are friends. Good friends. Best friends. Best friends that both have feelings for each other, but just friends. Period. They had to be. Still, something in her phrasing, and the fact that he’d been in love with her for as long as he could remember, sends images of leaning her back against the pillows and kissing her senseless until neither of them could breath. He shakes the images away and takes a deep breath before walking over to the foot of the bed, but not laying down next to her. “Marinette. I could barely fit in the bed on my own,” he chuckles weakly, trying to keep his tone light. The woman frowns and glances between him and the bed, taking in his over six foot stature. “Well,” she offers up slowly with a growing little grin. “If we both want to fit, we will just have to cuddle.” She holds her breath as she locks eyes with him. Usually it takes a few glasses of alcohol to get her to flirt openly with the man, but something is different tonight. She knows she shouldn’t be playing this game with him. It always ends with one of them hurt and wanting more, usually both of them if she’s being honest with herself. She can’t seem to stop herself though. “Come cuddle, Lu? Please...” Waiting for his response seems to last an eternity. She watches Adam's apple bob as he nearly choked on his words, and her sudden burst of confidence falters. “You're killing me,” he groans, sinking down on the bed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and bury his face in his hands, his fingers tangling into his hair. “You’re supposed to be the reasonable one here, Nette.” Marinette smirks, and slinks down the bed to wrap her arms around his middle, resting her chin on his shoulder as she curls around him. “I don’t want to be tonight. I’m always the rational one.” “Because they are your reasons. Our schedules are still crazy. We are rarely even in the same hemisphere We are too important to each other to fuck this up.” He says the words as much to himself as her, but she can feel his posture softening under her. “Fuck, Nette. We can't do this,” he huffs out, straightening up slowly to not knock her off the edge, and gestures between the two of them. “And just expect for everything to stay the same.” “I know,” she nods softly, turning her eyes downward to where her hands were now slowly twiddling in her lap. The two of them sit in a strained silence for a few minutes, backs barely brushing against one another. Luka lets out a few audible deep breaths, trying to recompose himself, while Marinette bit her bottom lip trying to fight of the tears stinging her eyes. “I’m sorry,” Luka sighs, just as Marinette whispers out a barely there “I don’t want things to stay the same.” Luka’s head shoots up at her words, and he turns to face her so quickly she nearly does topple off the bed this time. His hand instinctively reaches out to steady her and he leaves it there grasping her arm as if she’s his only life line. “What?” he questions, his eyes begging her to repeat the words, praying to whatever gods would listen that he heard her correctly. Marinette looks up at him, just as vulnerable and swallows down the nerves that are stuck in her throat. “I don’t want things to stay the same anymore. I know they’re my reasons. I know I’ve always been the one that’s pushed back against us for so long. I know that it’s probably not fair for me to be saying any of this, especially not right now, but I’m tired of fighting it, Lu. I want you. I want us, and I know it’s going to be hard with how crazy our lives are, but I lov-” Luka cuts her off, capturing her lips with his own, pouring every ounce of love, longing, and joy he can into the kiss. It’s like opening the floodgates after years, and built up tension and desperation deeps the kiss. When neither can resist the need to breathe any longer, and they slowly pull away from one another, he stays hovering over her, so close he

can feel her rapid breaths against his kiss bruised lips. Her expression falls and she catches her bottom lip in her teeth again. “I’m scared, Luka,” she whimpers. “What if we hurt each other?” “I’m not,” he whispers, afraid to ruin the moment he’s waited so long for. “I’m willing to do whatever is needed to make sure we work, Marinette.” He pulls back just enough so that he can look her directly in the eyes a little easier. “I think if we’re being honest with ourselves, we’ve been hurting each other but not giving us a chance.” Marinette lets out a shaking breath and nods. Luka presses a soft kiss to her lips before rolling over next to her. She doesn’t hesitate to curl into his side, resting her face against his chest. His arm wraps around her, and he places a soft kiss to her head. Her fingers lightly trace up and down his arm, down his chest, over his torso then back. They stay there in each other's embrace, stealing little kisses, a few giggles and declarations of love until there’s a knock at the door reminding them the rehearsal dinner had started ten minutes ago.

Luka decides to ignore the blatant smirk of a compliment on his sister’s face once the two of them do make it to dinner, hand in hand with matching lovestruck grins.

[sparkandwolf]

Perfect Pitch (read on ao3)

Pairing: Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale Rating: Explicit Summary: Stiles raced down the steps with Lydia hot on his tail and when he got to the railing, he leaped over and ran toward Derek, jumping into his arms excitedly. It could have been perceived as a friendly hug between one pride-filled player who just hit in the winning runs and one ecstatic Mets fan, but Stiles had known better if the way Derek’s arms squeezed around his waist had anything to say about it.

His thoughts were definitely confirmed as Derek whispered, “It takes 15 minutes for everyone to clear out of the locker room after a win. Meet me there in 20.”

For Kinktober Day #23: Shower Sex

second chapter to Caught Looking

There was not much Stiles loved more than watching a baseball game with a too-large, cold cup of soda and a bag of stadium popcorn. He sat behind the Mets dugout with his feet propped up against the railing in front of him, yelling some absurdities at the ump with a dopey smile on his face. 

“Call it for both teams like a good ally! What the hell kind of strike zone is that?!” Stiles yelled as he tossed a handful of popcorn on top of the dugout causing Lydia to smack his arm and send him a pleading. Stiles thought his actions were called for, more so by the smirk Derek sent in his direction from his spot at home plate.

“As your publicist, I need you to stop tarnishing your image,” Lydia said sternly when Stiles tore his eyes away from the field. 

“And as my friend?” Stiles said hopefully, tossing a piece of popcorn into her hair with a laugh. She grabbed it furiously and threw it back at him, hitting him straight in the cheek, only excelling his laughter. He went to scoop another handful, but her motions were quicker as she grabbed the offending bag from him with a huff. Stiles looked at her full of faux shock, his mouth gaping open. 

“As your friend, I need you to stop being such an idiot,” she finished, tossing back a few pieces of his snack smugly. Stiles grumbled and crossed his arms over his chest before focusing back on the game. Derek was at bat, two strikes against him with two men on base. The Mets were down by two at the bottom of the ninth and Stiles could feel the tension rising in the crowd. Unfortunately, Derek wasn’t known for his batting average. It wasn’t bad, by any means, but with the pressure they were under, it would’ve been preferable to have Boyd at the plate. Stiles chewed on his thumb, leaning forward to watching as the pitcher stepped back after an affirmative nod. 

Derek had a strict process for when it was his turn at the plate; the pitch would come in, the ump would call it, Derek would step back with one foot in the box (as per the new and utterly stupid rules) and look for direction from the third base coach. Then, he would watch as the pitcher debated his next throw, eyes unmoving from him until the next pitch came in. His eyes were on the coach or the pitcher at all times no matter what else was going on around him and he never broke from that. 

Derek had stepped out, glanced at the third base coach who had no direction, and watched the pitcher as he stepped back in and rested the bat against his broad shoulder. That time, though, his eyes wandered over to Stiles, eyeing him with every bit of intensity he had in him. Stiles stared back at him, hoping his shock wasn’t too obvious on his face, and sent him a wink. He hoped it said, “win this game and you’re fucking me in the locker room.” 

It must have said something, because as the pitch came in, slower than Stiles had expected, Derek waited on his back foot. He leaned that extra half a second and slammed it with the barrel of his bat. It flew over the heads of everyone on the green, narrowly missing the left field foul pole, and floated into the stands. The ump raised his arms to signify the fair ball and before Stiles could stop himself, he launched from his seat. He cupped his hands over his mouth and hollered before tugging Lydia up and into a frantic hug as they celebrated together. 

The music blasted through the speakers as Derek rounded third, his teammates gathered around the plate to await that final step. Derek jumped up and landed on the plate and the crowd roared like thunder. Stiles felt like he was vibrating with the energy on the field alone and then Derek looked at him. He threw off his helmet and winked in Stiles’ direction before nodding his head toward the dugout gate. 

Stiles raced down the steps with Lydia hot on his tail and when he got to the railing, he leaped over and ran toward Derek, jumping into his arms excitedly. It could have been perceived as a friendly hug between one pride-filled player who just hit in the winning runs and one ecstatic Mets fan, but Stiles had known better if the way Derek’s arms squeezed around his waist had anything to say about it. 

His thoughts were definitely confirmed as Derek whispered, “It takes 15 minutes for everyone to clear out of the locker room after a win. Meet me there in 20.”

Before Stiles could answer, Derek was pulled away by a reporter hoping for his first game-winning interview, and Stiles was redirected by Lydia for his own bit of press. The minute Stiles lost sight of the rest of the team in the locker room, he was counting down, glancing at the outfield clock every few seconds. Twenty minutes seemed to drag on as everyone cleared the stadium and the only people left were Stiles, Lydia, some press, and the field maintainers. 

“You ready to go?” Lydia asked after she shook the final hand of the night. Stiles raised an eyebrow at her and couldn’t stop his gaze from wandering to the door leading into the locker rooms behind the dugout. Lydia sighed heavily and rolled her head back, clicking her tongue disappointingly in the process. She righted her head and tilted her head at Stiles, pursing her lips in thought. 

“Is there anything I can say to stop you from fucking the hot catcher in a semi-public place, risking the perfectly crafted image I have created for you?” Lydia asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Stiles bit down on his lip and gazed over her shoulder with a nod, pretending to consider her words. 

He didn’t have to think long before he decided, “Absolutely nothing.” Stiles jumped as the timer on his phone sounded and the spike of anticipation that raced down his spine was almost overwhelming. He sent a pleading look toward Lydia who just waved her hand at him and started up the steps of the stadium. 

“You have an 8am interview with the local radio station. Be back at the hotel by 7:30,” Lydia demanded and Stiles nodded noncommittally as he made his way to the dugout. “I mean it, Stiles! 7:30!” Lydia shouted after him and Stiles opted to ignore her words in favor of darting to the door he had seen Derek and the rest of the team disappear through. He weaved his way through the maze of underground tunnels until he heard the slam of a locker and a bit of chatter. He tried to hide behind a wall, but Isaac and Boyd rounded the corner with knowing smirks on both of their faces when they caught sight of Stiles. 

“Stiles, right? Nice first pitch. Gonna give the newbie here a run for his money,” Boyd teased as he jabbed his elbow into Isaac’s ribs. Isaac glared at him but there was no heat in it as he rolled his eyes. 

Isaac sent a wave toward the locker room and said, “We’ve got a 9am warmup.” Stiles sputtered out an ‘okay’ when he realized the words were directed at him and a blush covered his cheeks. So much for being stealthy, he thought to himself as he wandered into the locker room. He wasn’t quite sure where the sudden onslaught of nervousness was coming from, but he figured it had to do with the intimidatingly good looking man that appeared in front of him. Derek was shirtless with only a towel around his waist and his face was still smudged with dirt from the game. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have come too quickly,” Stiles said quickly, turning to face the lockers as if he had walked in on a private moment. 

“Not yet, you haven’t,” Derek countered as he reached for Stiles’ hand to turn him back around. Derek had a teasing smirk on his face and his toned abs were just right there and from that moment on, Stiles wasn’t positive he had any control over his actions. He surged toward Derek and connected their lips in a fiery kiss, the sheer force of it enough to knock Derek into the tiled half wall behind him. It was a mess of teeth and tongues as if they were putting all of the energy they had pent up from their earlier flirtation into one simple kiss. Derek’s mind seemed to catch up to Stiles’ actions as his hands gripped at Stiles’ waist to tug him closer. Stiles rutted his hips and he could have sworn Derek growled into the kiss. 

“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” Derek muttered as he tore his mouth away from the kiss. Stiles felt like he couldn’t stop; like he needed the taste of Derek on his lips to survive. His lips trailed down Derek’s now exposed neck, uncaring for the salt and dirt that his taste buds argued against before his hand ran down his chest and landed at the edge of the towel. The feeling of the fabric was enough to knock into Stiles that he had just attacked Derek before he even had a chance to shower off the adrenalin of the game. Embarrassment washed through him rapidly and when he tried to back away - to apologize and run out of the room like the coward he was - Derek’s fingers squeezed his hips to keep him in place. 

“I don’t know why-- I just-- Look at you and--” Stiles had known he was a stuttering mess as he repeated the same phrases over and over again, but he couldn’t stop as his eyes trailed down the slightly dusty chest in front of him. 

“Yeah?” Derek said with a gulp, his throat bobbing as Stiles pressed his palms against the hard plains of Derek’s chest and abs before letting his hands rest on Derek’s broad shoulders. 

“I thought your Sports Illustrated cover was photoshopped.” Stiles wasn’t sure why he decided that was the safest thing to say and he shook his head in shame as he glanced back up at Derek. The amused smirk on Derek’s face had him blushing a little deeper as he slid a hand behind Derek’s neck to thread his fingers in his signature dark hair. “They can’t photoshop that trademark Derek Hale smirk, though,” Stiles commented and he felt his stomach jump when the smirk turned into a full grin, teeth and all. Derek had an incredible smile which really shouldn’t have surprised Stiles as everything about him was beautiful, but the sight had Stiles suddenly self-conscious. 

“You’re kind of adorable,” Derek noted with a tilt of his head. Any insecurities that Stiles might have had washed away as Derek leaned back against the wall behind him and let his eyes wander over Stiles’ body. Stiles was all too aware of the way his shirt had started sticking to his skin with sweat and how his pants were too tight against his thighs. “That’s not exactly what I would choose to wear to a baseball game,” Derek commented as he grabbed the material of Stiles’ shirt and tugged at it playfully. 

“I don’t exactly have a choice when it comes to promotional events, now do I?” Stiles said as he actively ignored the hardness growing in his jeans. He cursed Lydia for her choice of attire as he grew uncomfortably against Derek. 

“I still have to shower,” Derek mentioned as he cocked his head behind him to where cleanliness awaited him and Stiles huffed out a laugh before dropping his hands back to his sides. 

“Yeah, you should do that. I can, uh, wait over--” Before Stiles could turn, Derek slid a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him into another kiss. Their lips moved together slowly until Derek pulled Stiles’ bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth, suckling softly as the fingers of his free hand played with the bottom of Stiles’ shirt. 

“Or,” Derek started as he brushed his thumb across Stiles’ happy trail slowly, “you can join me.” That was an offer that Stiles would have been a fool to refuse. He nodded slowly, his eyes floating open as he licked his lips to savor the taste of Derek on his tongue. Derek ushered him into one of the more private stalls in the back of the locker room before gripping the bottom of Stiles’ shirt and pulling it over his head, tossing it into the stall next to them. 

Stiles pouted at him and pointed out, “I don’t have any other clothes to wear out of here.” Derek shrugged as his lips attached to Stiles’ newly exposed shoulder. He placed a spattering of kisses on the freckled skin, licking a line across his collarbone before moving back to his lips. Stiles hummed into the kiss and promptly forgot about everything that wasn’t Derek’s warm hands on his skin. 

“I have plenty of spare clothes in here,” Derek murmured against Stiles’ lips as Stiles craned his neck to deepen the kiss just a little more. Derek pressed him against the wall with an expert roll of his hips before he pulled away just enough to unbutton Stiles’ jeans and tug down his zipper in one fluid motion. 

“God, you’re good at this,” Stiles whispered as Derek helped him out of his jeans and boxers before removing the towel that was still wrapped around his waist. He shrugged and traced his fingers down Stiles’ chest and stomach, stopping just before he reached the base of Stiles’ rapidly hardening cock. A whine escaped Stiles’ mouth before he could stop it and Derek smirked up at him as he reached into the shower to turn on the water before moving them away from the cold trickle. 

“Practice makes perfect,” Derek said as he adjusted the temperature. “Not all of us can throw a strike the first time they touch a baseball,” he teased, sending Stiles a wink. Stiles thought he would have swooned if he wasn’t standing with his naked back pressed against the frigid wall behind him. 

“You’ve got a lot of practice taking off your teammate’s clothes before showering, Hale?” Stiles countered as Derek tugged him underneath the rapidly warming water. 

Derek shook his head and responded, “Nope, just up and coming celebrities who shamelessly flirt with me before throwing the first pitch on my home turf.” Stiles let out a laugh as Derek leaned his head back into the water, trails of sandy liquid drifting down his shoulders. Stiles wasn’t sure how Derek could make something so simple look so hot but opted to ignore it in favor of reaching for the shampoo resting on the barrier between them and the next shower stall. 

“Lean your head back,” Stiles ordered as he squirted the shampoo in his hands. At Derek’s raised eyebrows, Stiles scoffed and said, “As obvious as it is that I want to have sex with you, you just played - and hit the winning home run - at a baseball game and deserve to be a little pampered.” 

Derek complied but Stiles saw the surprise in his eyes before he leaned his head back. He cheered for himself just a little at the fact he could cause any form of shock in Derek before he focused on spreading the shampoo into Derek’s hair. His nails scratched at Derek’s scalp as he massaged his head and Stiles felt himself hardening at the soft moans he received in response. He pushed closer to Derek to better reach the back of his head and when their cocks brushed, both of them let out breathless gasps. 

Derek reached up and wrapped his fingers around Stiles’ wrists before his own hands scrubbed at his hair to let the water wash away the bubbles. Stiles took the opportunity to spread the body wash beside them on his hands and run his fingers over every inch of Derek’s skin that he could reach. He lathered up Derek’s broad shoulders and chest before grazing each muscle on his stomach with gentle touches. He found himself lost in the way Derek’s skin felt against his fingertips and how with each stroke, his cock would grow closer and closer to sliding against Stiles’ again. 

“My turn,” Derek whispered, breaking Stiles from his focus as he gazed up at Derek. Water dripped down his face and trailed down the length of his long neck and Stiles couldn’t resist the urge to lean forward and trace the track with his tongue. Derek’s arm wrapped around Stiles’ waist and pulled them flush together, their cocks sliding more easily due to the soap Derek was covered in. Stiles nipped at Derek’s pulse before sucking as rapidly as his heart was beating. Derek’s slick hands scrubbed at his back and Stiles let out a moan against Derek’s shoulder as his nails scraped down the skin of Stiles’ back. 

They rolled their hips together, neither of them caring about finesse any more than they cared about actually getting clean. Derek’s hands gripped at Stiles’ ass, kneading the soft skin there as he maneuvered Stiles’ hips more solidly against his. Their bodies slid together perfectly and Stiles had never wanted a hand on his cock more than he had at that moment. Derek seemed to read his mind as one of his soapy hands reached down in between them, his long fingers wrapping around both of their lengths. Twin moans left their lips as Derek pumped their cocks hastily using the slickness to their advantage. 

Stiles wrapped his arms desperately around Derek’s shoulders as Derek mouthed at his exposed neck. He threaded one hand through Derek’s soaked hair to pull him closer, gasping into his ear as Derek twisted his wrist as if to ensure he was touching every inch of Stiles’ and his own cock that he could. Stiles tugged at Derek’s hair to pull his head back because he had wanted to see his face and to kiss him again. He let himself witness Derek’s blown pupils and the way he bit down on his bottom lip as if holding in his moans but decided his mouth would be of better use on his. 

“Fuck, let me hear you,” Stiles begged, “please!” With a shout, he bit down on Derek’s bottom lip and pulled it into his mouth so he had no choice but to whimper against Stiles’ lips. Stiles wrapped his hand around Derek’s to apply just a little more pressure on their aching cocks and Derek’s immediate moan was like music to his ears. 

Their hands stroked hurriedly as their hips slotted together as if both searching for a release that only the other could give them, and Stiles felt his stomach tightening each time Derek’s palm slid over his dick. He climbed higher in pleasure, closer to his orgasm, and his skin was too scorched to notice that the water splashing onto them was slowly cooling. Stiles’ tongue battled Derek’s sloppily, neither of them able to focus on the kiss as they let themselves be washed in the bliss that surged through them. 

Stiles flew over the edge first with a broken moan that echoed through the empty locker room as he pulled away from Derek’s mouth to bite down onto his shoulder like a lame attempt to control the pleasure that soared through him. He whimpered and panted into Derek’s wet skin as his legs shook, his hips still pushing into Derek’s hand as if chasing the cloud of ecstasy that surrounded him. 

Derek moaned against his ear and Stiles could tell he was close just by the husky breaths that expelled from his lungs. He reached between them with a trembling hand and pushed Derek’s hand away only to replace it with his own. He pumped Derek’s cock expertly, thumbing across the throbbing head before pressing a solid finger against the vein underneath his length. A long and low groan pushed from Derek’s lips as Stiles felt him release over his hand and stomach. Stiles maneuvered his face away from the water as he leaned his head back in pleasure. 

The now lukewarm water spouting from the showerhead washed away their mess as they clung together, Stiles’ fingers stayed threaded in Derek’s hair as Derek’s gripped the skin of Stiles’ back tightly, holding him as close as they could possibly be. They stayed under the spray as the rest of the soap dripped away from their skin and Stiles reached up to brush Derek’s dampened hair from his forehead with a chuckle. Derek returned the laughter and ran his own hands through Stiles’ hair to slick it away from his face. He was sure he looked just as fucked as Derek had, but he let himself stare at Derek for a few moments before he looked down at their naked bodies in thought. 

“You know, I really wish I had the opportunity to toss in a pitcher or catcher joke during that,” Stiles breathed out as his chest rose and fell with Derek’s. 

He felt Derek’s laughter before he heard it and Derek pressed a gentle kiss on his forehead before saying, “Did you know I’m a switch hitter?” 

[mistabullets]

nsfw alphabet for mikitaka pls owo

so,, i thought it would be fun to write,, as if he’s an actual alien soooo it made this set of not sfw alphabet more enjoyable to write

note: mikitaka is aged up!

Not SFW under cut ; 

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

Aftercare is odd yet pleasant. Mikitaka has his own set of rituals of what to do after he mates with his partner… some of it is kind of weird, like digesting the cum left over for later use. But he has cute rituals, such as laying his head on your tummy to hear for any of his pups hatching. But he is aware of their humanely needs for affection and will give it to them. 

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

He really likes how long his hair is. Long hair is an indicator of good health and mating potentials. But in his partner, he really enjoys every aspect of their body since it’s so interesting compare to his true form. 

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Alien cum is different than from human cum. His cum is thicker than usual, has a blue tint to it, and is surprisingly very sweet (which is why Mikitaka can ingest his seed with no problem). He does like to cum inside of you but doesn’t understand why humans enjoy the act of swallowing. It’s very wasteful for you to swallow his seed!

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

Not so much a dirty secret, but he thinks it’s sexy when you’re asleep. Humans groan and moan in their sleep sometimes, get into unusual yet appealing positions, and have their mouths wide open as if wanting a kiss. But he would never touch you at a state of vulnerability. But Mikitaka may ask for your consent to touch you while you’re asleep one of these days. 

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Not at all experienced. Similar to human culture, it’s encouraged to find your one and only mate. There’s a way to do this, by navigating their scent. If one’s odor is bad, they’re not the one. However, if it’s a certain smell, then they’re a compatible mate. Usually works 100% of the time. 

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

He’s into pretty intense positions, especially if he believes it will help with conception levels. Here are a few examples: x, x, x, x, and x. 

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Mikitaka is very serious when in the moment. He’ll make some observatory comments about your body while he’s exploring but otherwise, he’s going to remark about what odd beauty you are and how he can’t wait to breed you.

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

He doesn’t have hair down there. It doesn’t grow. If he sees your bush, he’s going to think some creature has infected you! But you explain to him that it’s normal for humans to grow hair down there. Odd how so similar his and your body’s are but so different in unique ways he’ll discover.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…) 

Oh, he’s romantic, just in his own weird way. He’ll kiss you like a regular person or tell you about how wonderful you’re taking it him. But sometimes he’s goes into language, that’s probably an alien language. They translate into weird phrases but he swears, that it’s suppose to be romantic!

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Jack off? Release his seed? Into the nothingness (or at least into a yummy tissue or into the sheets)? He would never do that. Semen is very valuable and is only meant for their partners and breeding. It’s rude to waste like that.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

If you couldn’t tell, he’s into breeding. He came to Earth to find a human mate which isn’t uncommon on his home planet. But aside from Mikitaka enjoys this human fetish called… bondage. It’s adorable to see you squirming against his touch when you’re all tied up. Also likes creampies. 

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Those intricate designs and clearing he makes in the crop field… that’s him marking his nests. He would prefer to fuck you there, while the sun is setting and twilight begins. Mikitaka doesn’t care if other humans hear! Let them hear how much he loves you and wants to mate you. 

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

Little odd things will motivate him and get him aroused. Perhaps seeing you like out a cute sneeze gave him the sudden urge to take you home and mate? Or maybe it was the way your flicked your hair back and showed off your ears, something seemingly mudane. Everything about your body makes him horny and he’s determined to discover more about reactions. 

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Mikitaka hates when you swallow. Also, despite his strange and alien behavior when it comes to sex, he will not do anything without your consent! 

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

Doesn’t get any stimulus from you going down on him. However, he’s curious about your body and the reactions you make! So, he will be more than happy to give you oral, hearing the moans emitting from your body. If you moan this easily from his lips on your sex, imagine how much you’ll moan for his cock?

P = Pace (Are they fats and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

He’s very slow and sensual. His cock isn’t quite human, after all. It’s longer than and so he doesn’t want to be too rough with his partner. But if he’s in heat and has the urge to breed, he may go a bit too fast and rough. 

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Quickies? Insinuating that the act of sexual reproduction can take less than twenty minutes sounds absurd to Mikitaka. He thinks that’s disrespectful and would rather take his time in pleasuring his partner. 

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Mikitaka is willing to experiment, just as long it doesn’t seem disrespectful or off putting to him. You want to be slapped during sex? Why? Wouldn’t that just hurt and leave a mark… Choking? Cut off your oxygen and risk death? Humans are so weird when it comes to what makes them aroused. 

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Usually, a round of mating can last from anywhere to 8-12 hours. However, he realizes for his partner… that may be a bit too much to handle. So he usually go for four hours at a time with his partner. But if they can take it, he would prefer to go for at least eight hours. 

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Mikitaka doesn’t have any toys for himself. He thinks the pleasure your bring him with your own body should suffice. However, he doesn’t mind using whatever toys you have on hand… and using it on you. If it’s make the mating process more bearable for you, then he’ll pleasure you with your toys. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Not really unfair. Thinks it’s a bit cruel to tease you, and he can’t really wait to sink his cock in and have you full of his eggs. 

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He can be loud! He’ll be making the occasional human grunts and moans but sometimes, in his native alien language, he’ll make some odd noises. Once he did a clicking sound, then he let out a piercing screech, reminding you of cats whenever they’re in heat. It’s weird. 

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

He does lay eggs. It’s different compared to semen. Semen are used to fertilize the eggs when they have placed in a compatible womb. Eggs contains his pups, his DNA. Alien sex and reproduction can be a bit weird. 

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

So imagine one of those ovipositors. The head of his dick has a bigger slit, meant for laying eggs. It’s about nine inches in length but the girth can be compared to an average human dick, about five inches. The shaft is white color but with blue hues to the scales around it. 

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

Not too high unless he’s in heat. But that only comes once a month and lasts for about a couple of days, at maximum three. But when he is in need to breed, you’ll know. Will probably have to take the day off. 

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Mikitaka doesn’t really need sleep, compared to humans. He can survive off of three to four hours and be perfectly functionally. He’ll make sure you’re comfortable in your makeshift nest, have the blankets and pillows adjusted to your likely, and watch as you drift off before he does too. 

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 15/28 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe, Oghren (Dragon Age), Justice (Dragon Age), Sigrun (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras, Isabela (Dragon Age), Male Hawke (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

Yvanne spent some of her least pleasant hours yet in the hold of a Fereldan cog, feeling fresh new hells of nausea with every heave and sway of the ungainly vessel. Never had she been so tempted to use magic until that journey—if not to cure her nausea, then to at least induce catatonia until the trip was over. But the voyage turned out to be surprisingly short; the cog departed Highever in the late morning, and made port in Kirkwall the following evening. Yvanne had always imagined that any sea journey would be intolerably long—how could it not be? The sea in her imagination was an infinite uncrossable barrier. It seemed bizarre and unthinkable that a ship could cross it in a day.

 With the prospect of facing Kirkwall so much earlier than she anticipated, she found herself hesitating. Much as she’d ached to escape the ship in the past day, now she was loath to leave it. She peaked aboveboard to an unfamiliar sight.

 Nobody was paying attention to her. The sailors and dockworkers heaved and pulled to bring the cog to bear, and Yvanne, a mere passenger, was extraneous to this business. She went to the captain, a red-bearded dwarf whose name she had already forgotten, for answers. She suspected she’d overpaid for passage—the captain had been a little too eager to take the remainder of her money—but at least now was quite willing to answer her questions. She just wanted to know what this place was called.

 The Gallows, he told her. All ships that trade with Kirkwall were berthed here, apparently.

 The captain did not notice the change in her expression, the sudden chalkiness to her skin. The Gallows! She had only ever heard of this place in nightmare stories that older children liked to tell back in Kinloch. There had been a group of girls around thirteen who particularly liked to whisper about the horrible place that bad apprentices were sent if they misbehaved—      The Gallows.    Yvanne had always put on a show like she wasn’t afraid at all, although she was, because Loriel had been a year younger and absolutely  terrified,  and of course as the slightly older child it was Yvanne's duty to be strong for her—

 Yvanne was afraid now, despite herself. It wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to a mage, getting sent here. They could always kill you, or worse, make you Tranquil. But there were laws about that, flimsy as they were, that could protect you. If you were careful. If you passed your Harrowing. But they could always transfer you. They could always send you to the Gallows.

 Of course she had known they were here, but not that she would have to pass through them herself to enter the city. She imagined that Kirkwall's Circle would be sequestered somewhere that she would never have to look at, let alone go through. Suddenly she was overcome by the certainty that the Templars here—surely they had better Templars here, stronger ones with keener senses—would sniff out her magic at once, seize her and bind her there, and she would never be seen again.

 It was going to happen to her, all over again, just like when she was a little girl. Only this time she would be alone.

 No! It was too terrible a fate. She had to get out of here. She had to flee—

 No. The way back was closed. The only way onward was through.  Not least of all because she had no money left.

 She disembarked with her head high and chin forward. Strange how difficult it was now, to not seem afraid. When she had been a girl, afraid all the time, she had cloaked her fear in fury. Rage proved stronger than fear, enough so that she could afford to seem fearless.

 But that had never been true.

 Still, nobody seemed to notice. She approached the border guard—a Templar, she noted, with dread that she forced to disdain. Where was the city guard?

 The sandy-haired pockmarked young man boredly read a set of questions from a parchment.

 “Name?”

 “Havela Brightgrass,” Yvanne said, easily enough.

 “Business?”

 “Visiting family.”

 “Have you any goods to declare?”

 Yvanne raised her arms, gesturing to herself. “I’m clearly carrying nothing.”

 The young man repeated in the same exact tone, “Have you any goods to declare?”

 “No.”

 “Alright. Go on, then. Enjoy Kirkwall, and all that.” And he moved aside to let her through.

 “That’s it? You’re just going to let me in?"

 “You complaining?”

 “No, I just...that’s it?”

 “Used to be more, when there were all the refugees from Ferelden,” he remarked, “But that’s slowed down these past few years.”

 “Oh.”      Refugees?    From the Blight. Of course. It had never occurred to her that would have been refugees out of Ferelden. What else had simply never occurred to her?

 From the Gallows a ferry took her to Kirkwall proper. From on high the wailing faces of the stone slaves loomed over her. A chill went through her. What was she      doing    here? This was a city of nightmares, and she had foolishly sailed right into it.

 She looked back at the Gallows, disappearing into the mists, and found herself thinking of Anders. Had he come here, after what he’d done? Had he tried to find Karl? Or had he lost too much of himself to remember that he’d ever loved at all?

 She hoped he hadn’t. He hoped he’d come here and found his lover, and broken him out, and that they were on the run together even now, somewhere in the wilderness. Maybe living in a secluded cottage, unbothered by the rest of the world. It was rather unlikely. Probably Karl would stay and rot here forever—you didn’t come      out    of the Gallows. He was probably still in there. Probably Anders had never even come to Kirkwall, whatever his earlier youthful intentions. Probably Anders was a slavering abomination somewhere in the woods now, if he was even still alive.

 But it was a pleasant thought to think, so she thought it. Anders deserved to be happy, whatever he was now, because Yvanne doubted she would ever be happy again, and it was only fair that one of the two of them manage it.

 Soon enough the Gallows were miraculously behind her, and the part of Kirkwall known as Lowtown swam into view.

 So Yvanne entered the city of her birth.

 She remembered some of it. Not much, but more than nothing. She hadn’t yet been born when her oldest sister had been taken by the Templars; the only remnant of her was Yvanne’s listless, melancholy mother. They’d had a home here. There had been an inner courtyard with a garden. Revka Amell had liked to sit in it.  And then there had been more trouble in the family, more deaths, debts, dealings with criminals, and then Revka Amell had simply disappeared, and what remained of her family fled Kirkwall to live as nameless townies in Ferelden.

 Disembarking from the ferry, Yvanne inhaled. Her city. She could almost remember the smell of it.

     What a shithole,    she thought.

 Kirkwall’s Lowtown was different from Highever. Highever had felt colorful and interesting and bright, not so big that it would be overwhelming, but big enough to get lost in. This city felt...grungy. The way some men looked at her made her glad that she no longer had any jewelry to attract attention with.

     Now    what was she supposed to do?

 She had a vague plan to find this legendary Lord Amell, and then she would...what? What would she say?      ‘Hello, conditional on you being the real Lord Amell, and real in the first place, I think I might be your cousin. Can I live in your house?’  

 Ridiculous. Why had she even come here? To rediscover her past? To understand her history? To find her family? It had all seemed so perfectly obvious in Highever, when her choice was either to come here or sell herself to a brothel. Now it felt childish and absurd. She had left her home country to come to this horrible city of chains, and for what?

 The heavy darkness settled in her chest again. How could she possibly have been so stupid?

 All she wanted was to lay down in the gutter and wait for filth to drown her. But she’d come here to find Lord Amell. She could at least try to do that. He probably wasn’t even really her cousin. This was probably all a ridiculous farce. But if she succeeded—he would take one look and laugh in her face, and slam the door for good measure. And      then    she would lay down in the gutter and wait for filth to drown her.

 But first she would try.

 —

 Asking anyone for anything in the great city of Kirkwall turned out to be an enormous waste of time. She must have mouthed the phrase, ‘Where can I find Lord Amell?’ over a hundred times that day, and for what? Most people simply acted as though they hadn’t heard her. Others grunted ‘Never heard of him’ and hurried past before she could ask how that could be the case, seeing as the Amells were supposed to be one of the most powerful families in Kirkwall. Some others demanded why she wanted to know, or would ask her what the information was worth to her. Less encouragingly, some people told her that there was no such person as Lord Amell, but if she wanted to talk to Hawke, he was the one currently living at the old Amell estate.

 Who the hell was Hawke? And what the hell was he doing in      her    family’s ancestral estate? Who did he think he was? It was seeming more and more likely that Lord Amell was a fictitious person, and that she’d wasted the last of her money to come to this awful city for nothing.

 Even if Lord Amell existed, she doubted she’d ever be able to find him. Kirkwall’s streets were so tangled she didn’t see how anybody got along in them. It seemed like every turn she made sent her into a completely different quarter of the city, and when she tried to backtrack, it was as though the streets shifted of their own accord, as though under the influence of a malevolent mage. Most probably she was just getting lost in an unfamiliar city, but she preferred to blame dark, unwholesome magic.

 By the time she finally gave up—when she noticed herself standing outside a pub—she was exhausted and already fully sick of Kirkwall. She hated its sandy walls and crooked streets and rancid smell. No wonder her mother had fled this place and her father soon after. Nobody should live here.

 The pub was called the Hanged Man. Now that was encouraging, she thought sourly, and pushed open the doors.

 Inside she wasn’t sure if it smelled of piss or of sour ale, but was past the point of caring. She leaned against the counter, eyeing the crowd for lonely looking men. She didn’t have to eye for long. She couldn’t have been standing not-obviously-engaged for more than a few minutes when a bald fellow and a potbelly came up to the counter, placed his hand on the small of her back, and demanded that Corff bring a round of ale 'for the lady.' She let his hand stay where it was. She wanted that drink.

 The bald man was doing the usual routine, asking for her name, what she was doing here alone, and so on. Yvanne was answering mechanically, trying to drink fast enough that he’d get the bright idea to buy her another ale before getting bored (or angry) at her reticence and giving up. She wasn’t so sure about this one. Nobody had ever tried to take her by force--but if they ever did, she would end up exposing herself as a mage, and that would cause her no end of trouble.

 But she was barely halfway through her prize when they were interrupted by the most outlandish woman Yvanne had ever seen in her life.

 “And how do you know her, then?” said the woman. Yvanne struggled not to stare. The woman was dressed mostly in leather and gold and scraps of blue silk. She had not yet drawn any of the innumerable daggers visible on her person, and didn’t seem any less dangerous for it.

 The bald man stammered something, made an excuse, and left without so much as a by-your-leave.

 “What in the void did you do that for?” Yvanne demanded. “He was buying my ales.”

 “Sorry about that, sweet thing,” said the dagger woman, smiling. It was not exactly a pleasant smile, but the woman didn't look like she had the capacity for pleasant smiles. Maybe this was as close as she got. “There’s rough men about these parts. You should be careful.”

 “I know what I’m doing,” Yvanne snapped.

 The woman arched an eyebrow. “Do you? My mistake, then. Shows what I get for trying to rescue a stray...”

 “      Stray?”      Yvanne   squawked. “You--”

 “Hey now, what’s going on here?” Yvanne turned to look at the source of the new voice, saw no one, and then looked down. The person who had spoken was a dwarf, although he looked nothing like any other dwarf Yvanne had ever seen.

 The woman rolled her eyes. “Nothing. She knows what she’s doing, apparently. Get another round for the table, would you? I paid last time.” She jingled as she walked away. Yvanne threw the back of her head a dirty look as she did.

 The dwarf sized her up, scratching his hairless chin. “What did you say your name was?”

 “I didn’t,” Yvanne said. “It’s Havela Brightgrass.”

 “Brightgrass, huh? That’s an interesting name. And mine is Varric, Varric Tethras. I make it a point to acquaint myself with interesting persons around Kirkwall, as a man about town. I'm a local merchant, and a very famous author. Maybe you’ve heard of me?

 “Sure,” she said, already forgetting his name. “Maybe I have.”

 The dwarf chuckled. “Listen, don’t mind Isabela. She didn’t mean to cause you any trouble. Trust me, if she’d meant to cause you trouble, you’d know.”

 Yvanne had noticed all the daggers. “I’ll bet.”

 “Hey, you’re not busy, are you? Come over and play a round of Wicked Grace. We need a fourth player and half our crew isn’t here. Not much of a game with only three.”

 “I don’t know how to play.”

 “It’s easy. I’ll show you. Come on—next round on me, since Isabela so rudely scared off your supplier.”

 “Fine,” Yvanne said, since the next round was on him. “Sure, I’ll play.”

 Isabela didn’t bother to conceal a slight roll of her eyes upon seeing Yvanne again so soon, but at least she didn’t say anything. She was talking to the other person at the table, a Dalish elf with a dreamy expression and a musical voice. She didn’t look much like—like      her,     but she was slight and dark-haired and elven, and that was enough to make Yvanne angry all over again.

 Varric made introductions just as the next round arrived, interleaving tips on how to play the game with pointed questions about who Yvanne was, where she’d come from, what she was doing in Kirkwall. Wicked Grace turned out to be a fairly simple betting game, but Yvanne was so distracted with keeping her story straight that she played terribly. It was a good thing she didn’t have any money to lose; she would have lost it all. But she still managed to lie about her life with practiced ease. As far as these people were concerned, she was Havela Brightgrass, a weaver’s daughter, rogue for hire, looking for work in Kirkwall but hailing from Wycome. Nobody but the dwarf—Varric—seemed particularly interested in her made-up story. Isabela hardly seemed to notice her at all, and the elf, Merrill, wasn’t very good at the game. She kept forgetting what the different cards meant, and Isabela had to keep leaning over to explain her hand to her.

 Varric kept buying rounds, and kept asking questions, so Yvanne kept playing, although she didn’t particularly like being around the three of them. They all knew each other, had clearly known each other for years—they kept referencing adventures they’d had together and mutual friends they shared. Every inside joke she didn’t understand only raised her hackles further, but every time she’d finally had enough and made to leave, Varric would ask her another question, or offer to buy her something, and she would end up staying for another hand.

 So it continued until a fifth person joined the table—one of the most unusual elves she’d ever seen. She wondered if he was Dalish, though she’d never seen hair like that before.

 “Hello, Fenris,” the other Dalish said politely.

 The newcomer—Fenris?—ignored her, and barely glanced at Yvanne. “Aveline not coming?” he grunted as he pulled up a chair and leaned his sword against the back of it.

 “She’s working,” said Varric. “Blondie’s busy in his clinic, too.”

 “Did I      ask    about the mage?” The elf rolled his eyes. “And I suppose we can’t count on Hawke.” Yvanne wasn’t exactly drunk, though far from sober, but she recognize the name. Wasn’t that the name of the person living at the Amell estate now? Did these people know that squatter?

 “He hasn’t been feeling well,” Merill said. “What with…” Then her eyes flicked to Yvanne and she cut herself off.

 This was about all Yvanne could take. “Alright, well, it looks like you no longer need a fourth player, so I’ll be on my way. Thanks.” She abandoned her cards and almost managed not to stumble on her way up.

 “Oh, come on—” she heard Varric begin to say, but before he could finish, she was out the door.

 Night had fallen while she’d been in the Hanged Man, flooding the darkened twisting streets of Kirkwall with specks of moonlight. She breathed the cool air deep and even. Being in that place, among those people who knew each other all so well, had been like poison. She had never felt so much like an outsider. Where were her Wardens now, how were Sigrun and Velanna? What strange places had Nathaniel found himself among? Was Oghren even still alive? How was his child? Was Garahel managing the Keep without her?  Who was taking care of them all?

 While she roiled in these dark thoughts, she failed to notice Varric approaching her again. “Hey, kid,” he said, startling her out of her thousand-league stare. “You alright?”

 “Yeah,” she said, “Fine.”

 “Good,” said the dwarf. “So now that we’re alone, how about you tell me your      real    story?”

 She stiffened. “What?”

 “Take it from one liar to another, kid--you’re not half-bad, but not nearly good enough.”

 She crossed her arms, glaring at him. “What exactly do you think you know about me?”

 “That you’re not from Wycome, for one thing. That was the biggest one—you’ve got a Fereldan accent, although a weird one. That tipped me off, and after that you couldn’t keep your story straight. Sometimes you had two brothers, sometimes three, and you kept messing up what your mother died of.”

 “Thanks for the tip,” she muttered. “What do you care, anyway?”

 “Like I said, I’m a modern man about town. I like to know who the interesting people are in my city, and you struck me as an interesting person. So tell you what—tell me who you really are and what you’re really doing in Kirkwall, and I’ll put you up for the night. Unless you’ve got somewhere to be?”

 “No,” she said ruefully. She had nowhere to be, and hadn’t for months. Meanwhile Varric’s manner was so pleasant and avuncular, like he was at any moment about to pat you on the shoulder and assure you that you’d be alright—it made her      want    to tell him everything.

 She wouldn’t, of course. She wasn’t crazy. But she could tell him some things.

 “Okay, fine,” she said. “Yes, I’m from Ferelden. I’m here because I’m looking for Lord Amell.”

 Varric raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what dealings do you have with such an august personage?”

 “None of your business,” she snapped.

 He shrugged. “Maybe not, although I make it my business to know everybody else's. But if you want me to tell you where to find him…”

 “I...fine.” She swallowed. She didn’t know why this was so hard. “I’m looking for him because—because I'm an Amell, too. I think I’m his cousin.” Embarrassing, the way the stumbled over the admission. “But he probably doesn’t even exist. The rumors I’ve heard—ridiculous.”

 “Oho, he exists alright,” said Varric. “You can be sure of that. He’s actually a friend of mine.”

 The fact that Varric had so recently described himself as a liar did little to convince Yvanne that this was true.

 “Now, nobody going by the title 'Lord Amell' still lives in Kirkwall—unless you want old Gamlen, and I doubt you do. You want Hawke. He's the son of Leandra Amell. Technically he’s Lord Amell now, though he doesn’t like to be reminded of it. You’ll find him in Hightown.”

 “Oh.”

 “You know what the Amell crest looks like?” She didn’t. Varric scribbled a symbol on a piece of parchment. “Like that. Keep it, go on. It’ll be the big house with that crest on the lintel. You could probably go over there now; I’d bet my beard he’s still up, and he’d love to meet a cousin. You know, assuming you aren’t just an opportunistic fraudster or something. And hey, even if you are, Hawke’s always taking in wayward souls.”

 “You don’t have a beard.”      And I’m not a wayward soul,    she meant to add, although she was, wasn't she?

 “That’s the whole trick, isn’t it?” He grinned.

 Yvanne looked at the parchment with the crudely drawn crest on it. Her family’s crest. What did it say about her that it wasn’t even a bit familiar to her? “I...thanks.” She hesitated. “What’s he like? Hawke, I mean.”

 “Great guy. You’ll love him. All the rumors you’ve heard? Absolutely true.”

 “Right. Sure.” She wasn’t sure if he was kidding—and what it meant if he wasn’t. “Which way to Hightown?”

 —

 She only got lost three times trying to find Hightown, during which time it began to rain. But at least when she finally made it up the broad stairs to the half-decent part of the city, getting around was easier. There were fewer houses, at least.

 Finally she found the one bearing the Amell crest, a pair of birds perched on an austere collection of lines. Flickering, warm yellow light poured out from the windows of the enormous house. There could be no doubt about it; this was the Amell estate, and Lord Amell—Hawke—was home.

 Suddenly the feeling that this had all been a terrible idea overwhelmed her. What would Hawke possibly think of her, bedraggled, dripping wet, and flat broke, with nothing but her honest word that her name was Amell? He would laugh in her face. No, worse—he would be angry. He would think she was a liar and a fraud. He would call the city guard and have them arrest her, and they’d turn her over to the Templars and she’d be sent to the Gallows—

 With trepidation rising so fast it threatened to stop her hand in mid-air, she raised her fist and knocked.

 The door opened. It took everything she had in her not to jump. Light poured from within onto the rainsoaked street, revealing a gawky elven teenage girl.

 “You’re not Hawke,” Yvanne blurted stupidly.

 The elf girl shook her head. “No, ma’am. But this is his estate. Can I help you?”

 “I, um, need to speak to him. About a private matter. Assuming he’s alright with being disturbed—of course, it’s very late, I can come back tomorrow—or not at all! You know what, I’d honestly better be on my way—”

 “I’ll fetch him right away,” the elf girl said, and disappeared back inside the house.

 It couldn’t have been more than a minute between the elf girl’s departure, and the sound of muffled voices and approaching footsteps. But it may well have been a full eternity.

 At least the landing of the Amell estate was shielded from the rain.

 The door opened again, and the terror seized Yvanne completely, rooting her to the spot.

 Hawke stood half-hidden behind the heavy oaken door. His puffy eyes were bloodshot, his dark hair unkempt. He wore nothing but a stained maroon house robe.

 “—Isabela, I told you, I’m just not feeling up to Wicked Grace tonight—oh!” He blinked at her, straightening and awkwardly adjusting his robe. “You’re not Isabela. I’m very sorry, I thought...well, nevermind what I thought. Can I help you? Do you need something?”

 “I...uh…”

 He didn’t look much like her. Light-skinned, straight-haired, tall and broad-shouldered like the stories said, but somehow shrunken in on himself, as though he were hiding. They couldn’t possibly be related. There was no connection between them. This whole idea was idiotic, farcical, she ought to leave immediately—

 “My name is Yvanne Amell,” she said. “I’m the daughter of Revka Amell. And I think...I might be your cousin?”

 He stared at her. His arms dropped to his sides, and the door to the estate hung fully open.

 “My cousin?” he said as though struck over the head with a frying pan from behind a blind corner.

 “I know it’s very late,” she said, stumbling over her tongue. “I can come back tomorrow—or not at all—”

 Suddenly she found herself being firmly held by the shoulders, her escape prevented. Hawke was looking at her in astonishment. There was mist in his eyes.

 “Please,” he said, “ please,  come in.”

[thesinglesjukebox]

FULL TAC FT. LIL MARIKO - WHERE'S MY JUUL??

[6.11]

Do we choose rule, or do we choose suck?

Alex Clifton: Juuls. Juuls. Juuls. Oh my god, Juuls. [7]

Katie Gill: It's a little bit telling how all the comments on the YouTube video are comparing this song to other meme songs and not talking about the merits of the song itself. Still, there will always be a place in the world for meme songs that are serviceable memes but less than serviceable songs that teenagers can obnoxiously quote on the bus. "Where's My Juul" fits that niche perfectly. I expect a fleet of TikToks featuring people lip-syncing to this and will be very disappointed when this inevitably doesn't happen because I am out of touch with the youth. [6]

Kalani Leblanc: I can see there's already an abundance of blurbs submitted for this song, and the number will have risen by the time I finish this. After thinking so hard about how to go about being the fifteenth person to say "It sounds like "Shoes"," I'm realizing it's not really "Shoes" anyway. While they're both jokes that bear a resemblance in the thrash of a breakdown, "Where's My Juul??" is also listenable. The comparison is getting tired because it's like did anyone listen to "Shoes"? As a song? In earnest??? While this is not an entirely impressive piece, no concerto or FKA Twigs production, it's enough. Since 2006, we've been making everything into jokes, so it makes perfect sense. Nicotine-induced freakouts would've been the subject of an after school special ten years ago, but now they're joke material for hypebeasts and others on Twitter. Lil Mariko makes an impressive case while trying to find her Juul; I can't find anything this song did wrong, sorry. [8]

Will Adams: The mid-song 0-to-11 ramp is what takes this past the mean-spiritedness of "#Selfie" and the meme-spiritedness of "Phone" into effortless "Shoes"/"Let Me Borrow That Top" absurdity. The Juul is a placeholder; sub in any other monosyllabic cultural artifact, and Lil Mariko's rage against Full Tac's electroclash-y beat would cut through just as effectively. "Sorry, guys!" she says at the end, except there's nothing to apologize for. [7]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: I wrote 20 pages about Juul culture in 2018 so I should in theory be the exact target audience for this. Yet "Where's My Juul??" doesn't really click for me. It's charming and funny in parts (Lil Mariko's spoken verses, which transmit nervy anxiety and barely restrained fury effectively) but the hook, which takes up most of the very long minute-forty-five, is comedy via brute force principles: repeat a phrase enough and it will transfigure into a joke. [5]

Brad Shoup: About as funny as the related TikTok meme, though not as menacing, surprisingly. I wish so badly that Full Tac had gone full hardcore -- or even brostep! -- but am glad that Lil Mariko's Danny Brownian ad-libs and sudden reversals grind "#SELFIE" into the dirt. [7]

Oliver Maier: I need not catalogue the myriad ways in which this is transparently designed to blast off on TikTok -- you would probably know better than me -- but that cynicism detracts from "Where's My Juul??" for me. There's none of the spontaneity or sense of genuine fun that animates certain other genre-agnostic, threat-spewing, extremely online weirdo duos, more savvy than it is genuinely silly. It's not badly executed, but I felt like I got the picture before even hitting play. [4]

Will Rivitz: I get this is supposed to be more meme than song, but I so wish it had leaned into the latter for more than half its runtime. The "FUCK!!!" at the beginning of its second chorus is worth at least a [7] on its own, and its redlining nu-metal production is such a tight fusion of XXXTENTACION's sonic fingerprint and simplified TikTok trap that I'm surprised the "oh my God" ad-libs aren't followed by a "Ronny." As it stands, "Where's My Juul??" and its just-a-little-too-long interludes that grate after listen number four or so functions as a sort of "Thrift Shop" for the current day, a track defined by its novelty that we as an Internet music-Twitter hivemind all agree was genuinely good about five years after it's exited the public consciousness. It deserves more. [8]

Ian Mathers: Both less musically compelling and with less of a point than "Can I Get a Box?". [5]

Katherine St Asaph: It's kind of amazing how it took seven years for Rebecca Martinson to release her debut. [1]

Nortey Dowuona: Lil Mariko is actually kinda weird in the lol so random funny way that people think that [insert overrated white comic who had a Comedy Central show] is and has a really great metal screaming voice. I don't know who made this dull approximation of Kenny Beats and Pi'erre Bourne, nor do I care. Lil Mariko will hopefully get a recurring cameo role on Nora From Queens and get her own show from that. [5]

Mo Kim: The best joke here is the escalation of nonchalance (hey, where's my Juul?) into something desperate, and therefore dangerous: it hits like the drop in a rollercoaster when Lil Mariko finally breaks out the deep-throated metal screams, but the moment wouldn't have half the thrill without the masterful way she gradually ups the heat on the song's first chorus before that. Both of her spoken monologues, where she merges Valley Girl affect with murderous menace, only sweeten the deal. [8]

Ryo Miyauchi: "Where's My Juul??" gets spiked with an infectious dose of adrenaline when it suddenly turns a lot more aggro than you'd expect from a meme-y cross-section of Rico Nasty's mosh-pop and PC Music's ironic bubblegum. The demented beat stings with a pungent metallic sourness, and while her Valley Girl accent scans as an obvious put-on, Lil Mariko's blood-curdling scream is legitimately hair-raising. The song rapidly combusts, ensuring the joke doesn't overstay its welcome. [7]

Joshua Lu: Yes, hearing the unassuming Lil Mariko scream and snarl over a missing Juul is intrinsically funny, especially accompanied by a music video that knows exactly how to push the limits of its concept. But the real strength of "Where's My Juul??" lies in its sheer relatability. The title could be anything -- where's my wallet, my phone, my eraser -- because anyone who has ever misplaced anything can relate to the escalating panic and rage in not only the cataclysmic vocals, but also Full Tac's discordant production. Also crucial to the song is its sense of plot, as it steadily progresses from confusion to blame to outright violence. The ending, though predictable (Lizzo used the exact same twist not that long ago), is a necessary denouement, as it provides the moment where everyone involved can look back on the last minute and a half of chaos and laugh. [8]

Iain Mew: As a song structure trick, I love the fake-out final verse, those ones that seem like something slowly developing before the artist brutally cuts it off for the chorus or instrumental to come back stronger than ever; the "Don't Speak" and "Your Best American Girl" kind of thing. The key moment of "Where's My Juul??" comes in taking that same trick to a ludicrous, brilliant extreme. It has a drawn-out, jittery verse, a cartoon scowl of a chorus, and then one question into verse two it veers straight into swearing, screaming and fucking everything up. That's perfect enough that it would ideally be even shorter than it ends up. [7]

Kylo Nocom: Full Tac and Lil Mariko do in less than two minutes what took Justice five. The gimmick is the least fun part, and judging by my sample size of BigKlit's "Liar" and Full Tac's very own "CHOP" the producers behind this might not even be as funny as this video would imply. But I've long settled with music that's good on the merits of just being fun; when the production here is layered with discordant guitar sampling, analog drum kits, and distant screams of "piss!" and "fuck," I'm willing to buy into the ugliness. [8]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: Full Tac returns with another take on "Liar," succeeding because the goofy conceit here finds an appropriately goofy (that is, unexpected) vocal performance. Part of the appeal is how "Where's My Juul??" could sit comfortably alongside songs from Rico Nasty and Rina Sawayama, but has the appeal of shoddy viral videos from yesteryear. It's that "Kombucha Girl"-type reaction it's striving to elicit, and it accomplishes that as soon as the screaming starts. The best detail, though, is the most subtle: the moment Lil Mariko stops herself from saying "who" and politely asks "have you seen it?" [7]

Michael Hong: Have you ever been dragged to a party only for your only friend to disappear, leaving you to mingle with a group of people you don't know? And one person makes a comment so absurd that you just giggle along with the rest of the group even though you're not really sure if they're layering their statement with even a hint of irony or if there's something much more unsettling lurking underneath? But the jokes are getting more and more uncomfortable and suddenly fewer people are laughing along, instead furtively glancing across each other with an exasperated look as if to say "is this person for real?" And instead of backing away, that person instead starts doubling down, getting more and more aggressive, screaming across the room for what feels like hours and surely people must be ready to head out. Instead, when you finally catch a moment to glance down at your phone, you find that only two minutes have elapsed since you arrived and you realize that not even a quarter of the time has passed before your ride will come and you can leave this godforsaken party. You have absolutely no choice but to continue standing in the group in discomfort, waiting for this moment that feels like an eternity to finally finish, with the only background noise being the stereos blaring what sounds like someone's first attempt at using GarageBand. [0]

Crystal Leww: While I was digging through "likes" on SoundCloud, I noticed that a friend of mine had liked "Baby Let Me Know" by Full Tac, which sounds like the synth heavy dreamy pop that was popular at the beginning of last decade. I did not stick around for "Where's My Juul??" so imagine my surprise today when I turned this on and it's umm, screaming. A consistent genre as an essential part of an up-and-coming artist's brand is less essential than ever, especially in an age where (waves hands) dance music has eaten itself alive in its swirling storm of troll energy. Chaos in and of itself is a brand -- from 100 gecs to Alice Longyu Gao's dueling sister tracks "Rich Bitch Juice"/"Dumb Bitch Juice" to any DJ Bus Replacement Service set, it has fully infiltrated dance music. How this goes from sweetly threatening to full-on psychotic and back to cutely apologetic is chaotic so yes, I think Full Tac could make some noise (both in creating a fanbase and also like literally) with this. [8]

[Read and comment on The Singles Jukebox]

[sky-kiss]

Urzai, Unheavenly Creatures Verse: Ursa has a habit of hugging Ozai when he's upset. Unfortunately, he's mostly upset because he wants to bang Ursa but can't.

A/N: As per your request. Have some fluff and aggressively mediocre dad!Ozai.

_____

Moody

_____

“You’re broody this morning, dad.”

Ozai shot his...the child a dark glance over the rim of his coffee mug. Azula regarded him with a knowing air, her mouth pursed near the corners. About five seconds away from laughing. She chewed her breakfast with an exaggerated thoughtfulness. In the otherwise silent kitchen the crunch of her cereal was deafening. He set his glass aside, “Eat your food, Azula.”

“I am,” she grumbled, dragging her spoon along the bottom of the bowl. It made an unpleasant scraping noise, “Don’t like it.”

“Your mother was supposed to cook.”

Azula sighed, “She did. She made cereal.”

The devil shook his head, hiding a smile behind his hand. Azula’s glared down at her meal. The cereal was rapidly losing its structural integrity, bits of wheat floating in the milk. He reached over without thinking, smoothing her bangs away from her forehead. The hair fell back into place, obstinate, “She likes to think she’s providing for you, pet.”

“I wish she’d provide something that tastes better.”

The celestial lacked a fundamental understanding of human taste. She kept a perfectly balanced view towards nutrition with flavor rarely factoring in to the equation. Ozai took the bowl from his daughter, standing and crossing towards the kitchen, “Tell her you ate it. There’s bacon in the fridge.”

“That’s a lie, dad,” but she snickered as she said it, already bouncing up to traipse after him. The girl’s fondness continued to baffle him. He did not protest when she caught his free hand, little fingers tangling with his own. If she wished to tie herself to him, so be it.  In the end it would only make his task that much simpler. “Mom says she you shouldn’t lie.”

“If she doesn’t know to ask then we call it subterfuge or evasion,” he set the bowl on the counter. Azula was a small child, delicate. It took little to no thought to lift her, seating her in one of the high bar stools that lined the kitchen island.

Azula watched him with obvious pleasure, chin resting on her palm. Her amber eyes were too keen for her age, too old in an otherwise youthful face. The effect was jarring. Potential was the word that kept coming to mind. She was ripe with potential. Ozai plucked the materials from the refrigerator. They were running low on most everything edible. Only the angel’s strange little...experiments remained.

“You never made me breakfast before,” she shifted forward in her seat, curling her knees beneath her.

“And I won’t again.”

She hummed. It said she doubted. Azula tugged her own hair down and out of its tail, passing the hair tie to him, “Here. Mom usually keeps a few in the kitchen but…” they had a habit of migrating in their family. Ozai nodded his thanks, fumbling his hair up into a passable bun. She waited until his back was turned to speak again, “So why are you so cranky this morning?” He pursed his lips. Azula tired of her games if she was not provided the correct response. Today, she chose to tap a finger against her chin, considering, “Is it Zuzu?”

He continued whisking the eggs. The absurdity of performing this mundane task for a human child did not escape him. It was one detail he would be omitting from his report later, “No. Not your brother.”

More quietly, “Is it me?”

The devil sighed, “No, pet. Not you either.”

She grinned at him, ducking her chin.

The earthly manifestation of his displeasure breezed into the room in a rush of jasmine and honey. Ozai bit the inside of his cheek, fingers curling in to bite at his palm. He refused to look at her. Ursa’s voice filled the kitchen, clear and pleasing. She reached over to tousle Azula’s hair, cupping the girl’s cheek before bending to press a kiss to her forehead. The girl made a show of gagging, reaching up to scrub the mark away but both immortal’s felt the truth of her reaction. She was delighted. The girl radiated pleasure and an undercurrent of love, strong enough to feel stifling.

“Are you cooking, Ozai?” She leaned past him, brow gently furrowed. The devil ground his teeth, ignoring the press of her breasts against his back. Her innocence was equal parts intoxicating and maddening.

“The girl…”

“Azula,” she corrected, flicking his bicep, “You know her name.”

“Azula,” he hated having her near. He hated the way she left his skin itching, crawling. “Was still hungry. That...nutrient brick you insist on feeding them…”

“It’s healthy,” she mumbled, staring down at the eggs. The bacon left her wrinkling her nose. The scent bothered her.  He took a savage glee in that. “Well, whatever your reasons. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank him,” Azula grumbled, leaning on the counter, “He’s grumpy. He won’t listen.”

The celestial’s eyes widened, “Ozai. Is something bothering you?”

Human women were impossible. Celestials were impossible. He found himself longing for the Lower plane. The succubi never cared what he thought or how he felt. They never hounded him. “For the final time: I am well.”

Ursa worried her lip between her teeth, glancing up at his face. The idiot creature shook her head, stepping into him, her arms winding around his back. He let out a sharp hiss of breath, throwing a dark look heavenward.

This. This was the cause of his latent frustration. The celestial insisted, blindly, on touching him. On comforting him. Of pressing every inch of her perfectly formed body against him, ignorant of his reactions. She had read somewhere, early on in their tenure on the Prime Material plane, that physical contact was reassuring. Since then she had been unable to stop.

The Celestial tweaked her nose against his clavicle, breathing instinctively mimicking his own. He could feel the steady thrum of her heart. The scent of jasmine and honey was nearly overpowering with her this close, her head tucked under his chin. She squeezed him once. As if the little gesture would somehow inspire him to relax.

It did not. It would not.

Ozai grit his teeth, reaching up to take her shoulders. He held her out at arm’s length, “Enough.”

She was beautiful. Frustratingly, maddeningly, achingly beautiful; her eyes, a charming shade of amber, stared up at him, guileless and a little hurt. She nodded, turning on her heel. She was only trying to help. The devil took a steadying breath, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

Every touch worsened his affliction. Every stray brush; every attempt to comfort him reminded him of the sheer wrongness of their situation and his inability to act on it, to find relief. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. The sudden wash of pain brought some clarity with it.

How had June phrased it? The succubi's words echoed in his head, teasing and pitying. He had caught feelings for the idiot creature.

Unacceptable. Wrong.

Azula’s voice brought him back to reality. The girl tugged at his hand, “Is that it? Do you like mom?” He scowled at her. The girl didn’t shy back. She was...frustratingly immune to his temper nowadays. She stiffened before wrapping her arms around him, “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“I do not have…” the words were too sharp. He bit them back, starting again, “No. I do not have feelings for Ursa.”

“It’s okay if you do. She’s really nice. And pretty,” she rested her chin on his stomach, staring up at him with her huge eyes. Too knowing, too intelligent for her age, “I hope you like her. Zuzu does too.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Go sit, pet. I still have to feed you.”

But the girl still wears that irritating little grin, as if she’s privy to some great secret and his skin still itches everywhere Ursa touched him.

[theunsentletterstoyou]

Dear Muse:

Hi S.

I feel I owe you an explanation, as best I can, of me unintentionally being a total creep on your birthday, though feelings are always tricky to put in writing and this won’t be adequate. Hopefully this will reassure you that I never meant to make you uncomfortable in the slightest – really the very last thing I ever wanted. I feel awful and I’m (still, a month on!) really sorry. I know you said not to worry about it at all and you're probably long over it yourself, but I can’t help it! This might not help. It might make things worse. I’m a terrible judge of these things, as you can probably tell. But here goes.

I don’t fancy you. While I doubt you believe that, it should hopefully go without saying. I mean – eleven and a half year age gap?! But just to be totally clear.

But I sort of approach that feeling from two directions, which collide very uncomfortably and add up to something that from anyone else's point of view probably looks romantic.

First – ever since you were three and impressed me so much with how incredibly mature you were for your age (I'm really surprised you remembered that conversation, last month, so many years on – how on earth do you so clearly remember so long ago and being so young?), I've had the hugest squish on you – to borrow a term from Tumblr. Like a crush, only platonic. A very intense feeling of friendship and desire to be your BFF, basically. I've always really liked you. (Not "like liked", but regular liked, but then again LIKED bold italic underline and larger size, you could say). Not love, but way stronger than regular friendship; I have no idea why. I always regretted that we weren't closer friends than we were. And even after we lost touch for so long I still remembered you very fondly and wanted to be friends again. I'm just rubbish at not letting life get in the way, and suddenly months became years became almost a decade. Turns out seeing you again ended up in almost instinctively releasing all that "HELLO FRIEND :D!" in a great rush before thinking how strong that's coming on from your viewpoint. Oooooops.

Second – you are beautiful. Really unexpectedly pretty.

I don’t mean sexy. I couldn’t find you sexy if I tried. I mean (1) eleven and a half year gap, so UGH, and (2) old close friends, and (3) I first knew you when you were a little baby and vaguely remember changing your nappy once, which would rather kill that thought even if it arose. There's this thing called the Westermarck effect – where someone who has grown up with someone else or known that person as a child can never find them sexy, scientifically it prevents inbreeding – which is very much in effect here. You’re not dating material in my eyes, just not attractive like that, and never will be.

But having said that, looking so to speak with the eye of an artist rather than a lover, the way one might look at a pretty flower or a sunset or a cute kitten or something (horribly objectifying, sorry, but there isn't a better way to put it), or the way I can tell certain celebrities are handsome – David Beckham, say, or Bradley Cooper – without any romantic interest, in the general sense of the word, you are extraordinarily beautiful.

Except it’s stronger than that. The same general feeling as finding a random celebrity generally good-looking or admiring a nice landscape or painting, only up to eleven. For an even better comparison: Seeing you is like walking around on a rainy day, when everything's grey and dull, and then suddenly the rain lets up a bit and the sun shines a bit, and a really bright rainbow appears. And I can’t help but stop and stare at it, with this “wow!” sense of wonder and awe, and think of how beautiful it is. And it’s not something I could ever have any sort of relationship with or even touch – and I have no desire to, even the thought of that makes no sense at all. But the striking sudden and unexpected beauty of it sticks in the mind long after the rainbow itself vanishes, and leaves me with a lasting sense of joy. I think most people I know would react to a rainbow the same way. You’re like that. I did write a song very, very long ago (when you were 3-4) calling you “Rainbow Child” – you might have heard it back in May – it’s still so true.

But there's no real sense of love attached, except insofar as I love everyone in your family (the totally non-romantic way, just a very strong friendship almost like extended family). It's definitely not attraction in the usual sense and I have absolutely no interest in anything more than friendship ever – “oh good”, I hear you say – it’s just “this girl! She's so... well she doesn't seem to be anything in particular. But wow, look!”

You just have one of those faces – this is something I've experienced with a couple of other people – that seems to stand out from far away even in a crowd, as if you were highlighted, to the point that I ask myself “there was a crowd too?” It's literally attractive, compelling like a magnet, my eyes almost can't help but be drawn to you when you're in the same place as me, and my thoughts do the same when you're not. It’s sort of like, if you’re looking at a big painting and most of it is black and white but there’s a red circle somewhere – your eyes just immediately and consistently want to go to the red circle. And you might walk away from the painting and think about that red circle again later in the day because it’s just so visually appealing to you compared to everything around it.

Another comparison I could make was brought on by something Sinead and I were chatting about before you turned up when I popped in last month: at one point she showed me your DVD collection and we got to discussing films, and she mentioned how a clip from one film got inexplicably stuck in her mind for ages afterwards, like a sort of “visual earworm” I think was her phrase. You know the thing: it's like having a favourite song that's so nice you want to listen to it over and over on a loop as long as you can, and maybe that song's a bit catchy and gets stuck in your head, and you find yourself humming it, even when you're not listening to it. And again, you couldn't date music – but you could certainly call some tunes beautiful. I get a visual version of that with your face. Like a Vine loop, maybe. Speaking of which, your actual Vine is insanely addictive!

It reminds me of something I once read in someone's autobiography:

“One of the most vivid experiences I have ever had was sitting quietly for at least an hour before a picture by the Dutch painter Vermeer, and absorbing its sheer beauty… The room was crowded with people, but I was oblivious of them, as I was equally oblivious of the passage of time. As a result of this act of concentration the vision of this particular masterpiece is indelibly stamped on my mind which has forever been enriched by it. I know that my ordinary acts of seeing and observation have been sharpened by that experience. There was drawn from me an acknowledgement of the greatness of the artist and his painting and I caught, with awe, the light of his inspiration and creativeness. It awoke in me a desire to follow in his footsteps and create something beautiful.”

In general, the way I feel about you is the feeling one gets when looking at a beautiful painting. But more specifically, like that man with that particular painting, your face is imprinted on my memory. It's sort of formed the background to most of my other thoughts since late April. Look up Shakespeare's Sonnet 113 and you get a pretty good description (admittedly in olde language) of how I feel. Normally when I see something pretty I just think “wow pretty” for a moment and move on. I’m not sure why you stick so much! I suppose it was the combination of you being quite pretty and that being completely unexpected – at another point we were looking at the family photos on your wall and Sinead showed me an old Vine clip of hers featuring a few of them which pretty much perfectly sums everything up from my point of view – you might know it, the one where she's comparing old photos to your present-day family with increasing surprise. "Then. Now. / Then - now. / Then, now! / THEN! NOW! What's happening to the world?!" She remarked, and I wasn’t going to actually say it but agreed, that your whole face has really changed. Even between then and now too and that wasn't even too long ago! And until April, I hadn’t seen you for so long, since you were seven going on eight: still don't really have any idea how I've managed to keep in touch with your whole family but keep missing hearing from you directly for over a decade. I've always been bad at keeping up with people but that was absurd. I missed you hugely, by the way. So since then I’ve felt exactly like her in that clip, only stronger (“THEN!! / NOW!!” :O :O :O).

You probably got the idea a few comparisons ago, but I just wanted to be totally clear. Getting technical for a bit (because that's how I roll...), I find you incredibly aesthetically attractive. This is a thing that's distinct from, but usually linked to and the beginning of, attraction in the conventional sexual or romantic sense – yes, those are two distinct things. If you know, just skip the rest of this paragraph! There's sexual attraction (“I'd like to get in your pants/hugs/kisses/touching up and ultimately make babies”) which is absolutely not there AT ALL. There's romantic attraction (“I'd like to date you/buy you flowers/"long walks on the beach" etc etc and ultimately marry you”) which is also definitely not there at all. And then there's what this actually is. Aesthetic attraction, in this case disconnected from any other sort. Which is “I wouldn't like any sort of relationship with you beyond simple friendship and could do fine even without that, and have zero interest in any sort of physical contact, but WHOA, your face, I want to look at it SO MUCH, no more than look, but really look and look for as long as possible and just never stop – in an ideal world I'd like to spend time around you just watching you, from a nice respectful distance, and just... drink you in, because you're so incredibly good-looking”.

On top of this (possibly a sort of by-product, but I don't know), as I once told your sister, and you might already know and have seen some of it – every time I've ever seen you, going back years, I've come out shortly afterwards (within a week or two) with some sort of art. Sometimes music, sometimes poems (you've seen a few), sometimes a short story or two, pictures once (not of you – I can't draw people!) And it's quite good art, or so most people who've seen it reckon. Which is remarkable because otherwise I'm not artistic in the slightest. I'd be happy to show you any of it, just ask. You just... really inspire me creatively, for some reason, and that bit has actually been around practically since you were born. If I had to sum you up in a word it would be muse.

I think my point is made. I brought you a present out of simple appreciation and wanting to just… thank you for just being you, super pretty and inspiring you – no actual desire for any relationship of any sort attached. I’m leaving everything right here. It was hard to tone things right. I was going to send you a birthday card, at least, anyway. I’d do the same for Sinead just out of general friendship. I didn't sign it with my name out of the worry you'd react just the way you did. Wasn't expecting for you to answer the door right as I stuck it through your letter box though – so much for anonymity.

I know what you're thinking: if he doesn’t fancy me, then why the "someone special" and why sign the card "admirer"? Simply because anything more (in both cases) was too strong, but anything less not enough. It was hard to find a word for how I feel – for a particularly close-feeling and beautiful friend but it never quite crossing into love –and I picked and phrased the card very, very carefully. Probably not carefully enough, but I tried. (Thank goodness “someone special” is a card category, it does the job quite well.) Even “admirer” is a bit strong, but having linguistic-geek leanings, I settled on admirer for etymological (language origin) reasons: it comes from Latin ad-mirare – literally, to look at, with affection and respect. For some reason it all seemed like a good idea at the time!

That was going to be the last deliberate direct contact I ever had with you after you said you weren't comfortable with it. But I just wanted to clear things up as well as possible, so that hopefully you aren’t uncomfortable any more. I know this is the third(?) time I’ve said “you won’t hear from me again” (random encounters aside), but this time I mean it, unless you care to reply.

I hope you know now I meant well, and would never not mean well. And I hope I'm not making you uncomfortable even now. That's the very last thing I'd ever want; the thought of you creeped out feels like physical harm to me.

I hope you enjoyed the Isle of Wight! Always a pleasure to host you :) 

With friendship

T

“Memories” – or “Thoughts on a Visual Earworm” early June 2016 

I cannot forget you! Although I last saw you in April, And now it is June, in my mind I can still see your face. Both waking and sleeping, your memory fills every moment, And summer's long days seem pale shadows of Summer's sweet grace. In all idle moments, my mind jumps to thoughts and to visions Of memories of you, both old and more recent to see, And trees, houses, people – my eye ‘shapes them all to your feature’, As Shakespeare once wrote! Tell me, when will I ever be free? Will it take till the summer fades out into red-golden autumn For Summer to fade from my memory into the past? Or will even in winter each day seem as bright as the summer And might memory-glimpses of you to the New Year last?

And why am I thinking of you? I’d not seen you in ages, Since you were a child, barely thought of you most of that time, Then I saw you again for the briefest few hours – but for weeks since You’ve written yourself into poem after verse after rhyme! You’re almost a stranger to me, and so very much younger, And we barely spoke – so why should I be thinking of you, When many more people have been in my life for much longer, And meant so much more to me: family, friends, lovers true? Why over them all does your likeness seem laid every moment? Why do you inspire every word, line and note of my art? Why though we might not meet in person again for ten more years, Do I find you in each passing moment engraved on my heart?

I wish I could tell what I’m feeling for you, but can’t place it – Romantic it’s not, for the thought makes me sick to my core, Yet a joy and a wonder at thinking of you overwhelms me And a lively creativeness turning to art more and more. It links to a realisation that you are attractive: In strictest of senses – my mind turning always to you, But not in a way that says ‘her I would like for a lover’ (Thank goodness, you cry) – more ‘I’d like to spend time watching you, Then drawing and painting and singing and writing about you’: Like poetry given girl’s form, or a portrait made living, Or a song in a body, that’s how you seem to me, sweet Summer; ‘Aesthetic attraction’, that could be the term for the feeling.

You stand out in a crowd, as if highlighted under a spotlight, As if life were an image in sepia, black, white and grey, But a single bright colourful part of it grabs the attention, And remains in the memory long after looking away. Or as if, on a dull rainy day, there shines out a bright rainbow, An iris of colour so vivid that cuts through the rain And illumines the world with a halo of red, orange, yellow, Green, indigo, violet bright – and then fades out again, Yet while it is there one can’t help but to stare at its beauty, It fills all the heart with a wonder, a joy and an awe, And its image enlivens the mind with its bright shining colours, So that all of the rest of the day the world seems dull no more. 

I don’t love you: you can’t love a painting, you can’t love a rainbow, Or a flower, or a sunset, but ‘beautiful’, yes, you could say, And could want to stop, stare at them, dazzled with wondrous amazement, And drink in the transcendent beauty of such things all day. And that's what you’re like, Summer, ‘Rainbow Child’ (so I once called you In a song that I took from a novel): if I had the choice And if rainbows and sunsets and beautiful you didn't vanish, I’d spend hours just watching your face, listening to your sweet voice. When we’re in the same room, your face draws my eye like a strong magnet, When we’re not, I still find that my thoughts to you keep on returning, Like a visual kind of an earworm, stuck in my memory On a loop, red-brown hair and bright eyes in my mind always burning. 

Whenever I see you, I find myself turning creative, And trying to capture your beauty in colour and line, But I cannot paint, cannot draw, so it turns into music And poems and prose, to describe your sweet face so divine. (Or rather to try to describe it – my words cannot capture How you move, how you talk, how you laugh, how you smile, how you look: Ten poems would not be enough, and I'm getting the feeling One couldn't sum you up in words even in a whole book!) A ‘muse’ I would call you – a girl who inspires an artist: Indeed I’m no artist except after I have seen you, But then how it flows out, the music and poems and colours, Attempting to echo the memory of beauty so true! 

I felt it when you were young too – but now stronger than ever, And far longer-lasting – a month it’s been, yet still you're here In my mind, in my eye, and on all things imprinting your likeness, A sight that with each passing moment seems ever more dear; So lovely, like art made incarnate, infusing my memory With big brown eyes, dark waves of hair, and a face from a dream, Well named, as reflecting the beauty of beautiful summer – The sun, sky, leaves, flowers in bloom; like that season you seem, Full of light, full of laughter and joy, so vivacious and vibrant, Even when summer passes, still Summer will live in you yet: Though autumn and winter tear leaves from trees, bring cold and darkness, Remembering you will bring sunshine: and I can’t forget.

[coffee-for-himchan]

Silent Treatment (Daehyun x reader)

Requested by: a nice anon

Word count: 4 k+

Genre/warnings: fluffy fluff ❤ (so sorry for letting my inner hopeless romantic slip completely while writing this - it just happened)

Summary: He was your source of true happiness, the one to always keep a more or less visible smile plastered all across your face - your one and only loving boyfriend, Jung Daehyun. But more than that, he was a bundle of annoying screams and badly thought out, clumsy moves. So once he did wrong and you decided to punish him with silent treatment for a little, he figured putting on a “cute mode” would be the most convenient way to get you to talk to him again. Which wasn’t far from being the truth, because he was oh so irresistible in any case, any day, really.

(A/N) I just melted into a puddle of feels while writing this. Not sure what triggered it, but I’m dead basically. Idk what can revive me now.

He was up to something once again, and you figured you had a mild idea in mind of what it could possibly be.

Out of all of the people on this planet, why did you have to fall in love with him? He was about the worst and the best person to love at the same time, and you were still trying to wrap your mind around this philosophy of yours - it was the best way you could describe it, even if the statement came in conflict with itself. He caused you so much trouble usually - well, not that you minded most of the times, as it wasn’t “trouble trouble”, but just the playful type of trouble that could be fixed up without breaking a sweat. But this time around he’d really done wrong, and his method of coping and searching for forgiveness wasn’t anything unusual, yet you silently chuckled at it because of how unusual it was for him.

He sure knew how to look cute. And he’d figured that this time around this was his one and only strong weapon that he could use against the silent treatment you’d decided to put him through.

“(Y/N)~~” he wandered into the room, looking like a lost, guilty puppy. His soft, puffy lips were curled up in a pout, and his eyes showed deep sadness and regret. He kept fiddling around with his fingers, taking unsure steps towards you at a slow pace. If anyone saw him now, they’d truly feel sorry and would take him in for asap hugs in seconds. Little did they know this was far from being his true face. He was playing a well thought-out game in order to make it seem like he really regretted what he’d done. Which he sure did, but his sudden guilt and shyness didn’t come from that. It came from this persona he’d put on - the complete opposite of the usually loud and bubbly Daehyun. The quiet, regretful Daehyun. The one who tried to make you feel guilty for not talking to him.

“(Y/N), are you still mad?” he asked, his voice relatively high pitched, sounding as innocent as ever. He must’ve noticed the amused stare you gave from the corners of your eyes, and took it as a green light. His method was showing itself to be effective. He was cute and you were melting into a puddle because of it. A puddle of forgiveness.

“(Y/N)~~” he kept calling in a pouty tone, making himself comfortable on the couch next to you. You turned away to your left side, seeming not to notice his presence, which made him let out the cutest noise of disapproval you’d ever heard. God, he had the voice of an angel for a reason, right? To say your name in the most different pitches and tones possible, and to make your heart race by different little noises he made here and there, expressing his feelings towards the situation. This was so.. Daehyun.

“You can’t keep ignoring me forever,” you felt his frame pressing against yours lightly, until at some point he rested almost all of his weight on you, wrapping an arm around you and putting his head on your shoulder carefully.

“Or maybe you can, but I’ll then keep on tagging along forever until you start talking to me again.”

To be honest, you didn’t mind. Lovely, cuddly Daehyun was your forte, and you were lowkey thankful that this fight resulted in nothing but a cute after-the-storm scenario. No plates were smashed this time around and no one left the house to go and cool down for a few hours before crawling back to the other person, regret written all over your faces as you exchanged phrases of being sorry.

You two took it rather playfully this time around, which was enough for you to consider forgiving him easily. Well, not that easily, but easily enough.

“You won’t be able to get anything done,” he continued babbling, his lips finding a soft spot on your skin and resting on it while he talked, sending warm shivers down your spine with every word he said, “I’m going to always bug you, you hear? Always, without exception.”

He started slowly planting soft kisses in the crook of your neck, and he thought he was slowly moving towards victory when he felt your body relaxing and warming into his. He continued at his desired, slow pace, murmuring all kinds of silly, annoying promises into your skin and now noticing how you lovingly chuckled under your breath at every single word he said.

“I won’t let you do work properly, okay?” he questioned softly, tightening his grip around you, “I won’t even let you get up to go to work. But if you somehow manage to do so, I’ll tag along, and I’ll hold your hand through the whole day, and I’ll tell your co-workers all of your embarrassing secrets. I know most of them probably involve me and the silly things I’ve done, but okay, I’ll suffer because of this. I’ll suffer in the name of love.”

Suffer in the name of love, oh God. He’s always been the talkative type, and this time around his sentences really made you chuckle, as you knew - if he really wanted to, he’d do it in the blink of an eye. Hell, he’d befriend your co-workers and gossip with them over lunch while you sat next to them, unable to keep up as he’d be center of attention and the number one gossiper in town. And he’d be telling them all about you - starting from how cute you snored to how you danced around in pajamas through the whole house to B.A.P’s songs when you thought he wasn’t around to witness. Knowing him, he’d even tell how he always appreciates your non-matching underwear, because you still look amazingly stunning in it. Not that you ever didn’t look stunning to him, to be honest.

“And I won’t let you do anything else as well until you forgive me, understood?” his tone had grown on you, and you really wanted to turn to him and stroke his hair. Tell him to act like this for a bit still, because you loved it so, so much. But you were a strong woman who had to hold her grounds. For a while still, at least.

“I won’t let you go and shower without tagging along, which, since you hate me now, you won’t allow to happen. So we’re just going to become gross and smelly if we stay here like this for days,” he had you chuckling a his absurd sentences.

“I won’t let you go and make diner, or breakfast, or anything else either. You’ll manage for ages probably, but I’ll starve within hours of not eating,” he said, considering for a bit.

“Or maybe not. I’ll let you cook, because if you don’t, this “clinging onto you forever” thing will end very soon. I’ll starve to death too soon and “forever” will be over in a day.”

Oh, he sure would, you were certain. If there was one thing that he claimed was just a tad bit less important than you were in his life, but you figured it actually shared the number one spot in his priorities list alongside with you, it was food. He ate everything, everywhere, always. And you kept on wondering how such a relatively tiny human being could eat so much.

“Do you really want me to starve to death?” he said in a shocked tone, lifting up his head and disconnecting his lips from your skin, quietly speaking into your ear as if he questioned your relationship as a whole now, “Me - your one and only loving boyfriend? The one who loves you so, so, so, soooo much, with, like, the whole of his heart? I swear, my heart’s bigger than my stomach. And you’ve got the whole of it.”

It was so sweet and, to be honest, you really felt like melting on spot. He knew exactly how to be perfectly cheesy, and how to hit your bare, exposed nerves, wiring them together with his and causing a wave of warm affection to travel all over your body. He knew exactly how to have you wrapped around his finger, and you didn’t mind. But you wanted him to suffer for a little longer.

“You’re really sentencing us to death here, do you understand,” he kept on talking, his hand how caressing your thigh up and down, “Because I won’t let go until you start talking to me. So I guess we’ll stay her like this forever.”

Forever in his arms actually sounded like such a pleasant thought. He hadn’t promised it to you yet in full seriousness, but even a situation like this, when he didn’t actually mean it, had you considering it with your whole heart. 

You and him - from now on until forever. Lazily poking him awake every morning just to get yourself squished under his weight, his voice purring into your ear softly, asking you to let him sleep for another ten minutes. Lazy kisses in the living room on cold afternoons, and cuddles in the kitchen in late evenings. Heated nights with a sweet aftertaste and the anticipation for more. And all of that lingering in the air until you’d lose track of time, and would only snap back to reality when you both would already be old and full of sleep. Looking back at all of the times - all of the crazy things that had happened during those years, and how you really didn’t mind having spent your whole life by his side. Remembering your first awkward meeting, and the first shy but surprisingly pleasant kiss. The first time you allowed yourself to call him your boyfriend - then the first time you called him your fiancee and, after what seemed like ages - your husband. How he freaked out completely before the birth of your first child, and how he freaked not a tad bit less than that before the birth of your second. How you, at some point, understood you were getting too old for certain things, but would never get too old to love each other, never hesitating to let the other person know how you still meant the world to each other. How he had always been the best that had ever happened to you, and would remain that forever...

.. You’d painted a vivid image in your head for sure, and it didn’t seem even a little weird to you. You were certain it all was still to come, and many years from now you’ll find yourself recalling it all just like that.

And recalling how cute he was when he begged for forgiveness like he did now.

“Come on, I know you looove meee,” he continued begging and pouting, his lips back on your skin, leaving a trail of wet kisses down your shoulder that he had managed to expose in the process, without you noticing, “I’m sowwy. Not simply sorry, but sowwy. That’s a whole new level of “sorry”. It means like “extra sorry”, or something among those lines.”

You shifted in his arms, and his eyes shot up to inspect your face within seconds. He was already celebrating his victory, anticipating anything at least half as cute from you. You cupping his face with both hands and playfully scolding him while he lazily nodded through half-open eyelids at every one of your statements - that seemed like it would be just about appropriate. Or you telling him anything really would do - he was running out of phrases by now, and needed you to say something so he had a thing to respond to.

Yet when he loosened his grip to let you turn, you used the moment to stand up and depart from his welcoming embrace instead. He still had to wrap his mind around what was happening, and when he reacted, reaching for your hand, you were already gone, and all he could do was sit and admire how your hips gracefully swung from one side to the other as you made your way out of the room, leaving him alone and in silence. But not for long.

“(Y/N)~~” you heard your name being called again, this time louder, and had to remind yourself that the original idea was to keep on walking. To let him stay behind for a little while you made your way to the desired destination. You knew he’d be back within seconds, but at least you’d be able to walk over to a place you needed to be at. Maybe you could even do something with him distracting you like this. It sure would take all of your willpower, but you knew you’d get all the desired and craved attention and affection from him later in the evening. He’d shower you with it today, and hopefully tomorrow as well - seeing on how he felt extra guilty about the fight.

What was it even that you’d fought about? You recalled the conversation from before, and felt a little stupid, but hey - at least you’d let him know how you felt about his constant absence. You knew it wasn’t his fault, and you knew that even thought the phrase “I didn’t choose the idol life, the idol life chose me” couldn’t really be used by him, since it wasn’t quite true, he still wasn’t the one making up schedules. He was just following them, doing what he had to do in order to keep his career going. And you were aware that it meant having to push you back sometimes, making you his second priority rather than the first one, simply because he knew you could wait and you would understand.

He was way beyond overworked, so you didn’t really take it all that personal when he snapped. And he hadn’t been that harsh either, so you weren’t really all that angry at him. It was your fault and his fault - your for demanding something from him that he couldn’t change, and his for snapping. So you didn’t really have any hard feelings towards the situation. You figured you’d manage - you just wanted to tease him for a little.

You wanted to go and grab your phone before heading to type away at a work assignment on your laptop, and were sure you’ll manage to do it all before Daehyun would approach. Yet sudden noise behind you made you jump a little in surprise, and the next thing you knew something crashed into you full force, almost sending you flying to the ground.

“You can’t leave without me,” he cooed, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as his head rested on yours, his breath itching at your ear, “I’ll follow.”

You turned, giving him a disapproving glance and suddenly seeing how his eyes lit up. Oh no, the change of position had caused an idea to come to his mind. And you had absolutely no time to wonder about it as you felt your body being backed up against the wall, getting trapped in between it and Daehyun’s body.

“No escapeee~~” he leaned in, poking at your nose with his, “Absolutely no escape, until you forgive me.”

He let his face linger this close to yours, knowing exactly what type of effect he had on you. His hands traveled to cup your face lightly, and he watched carefully as your lips slowly parted and a sense of desire could be seen in your eyes. You weren’t mad. You were just playing along.

“Tell me, what else do I have to do to make it up?” he asked rather casually, tilting his head to the side as a small, gentle smile made it’s way to his lips, “I just want to let you know that I’m aware I did wrong. And I regret my actions.”

You closed your eyes as you felt his lips on your forehead, leaving a firm kiss on a spot he’d learned to love especially over the years. He knew how pleasant and nerve-tingling you found his kisses to be, and he was using his most effective method of torture once again - he was going painfully slow at it, but making all of his movements seem like they really mattered. It took him long enough to press his lips fully against your skin, and even longer to remove them. But that only added to his aesthetic, and made you anticipate every kiss a little more. That’s exactly how big his advantage was - he knew the ways to treat you, and knew how to win you over. How to make you feel more than simply alright and at home by his simple touch.

“I really do,” he was slowly kissing down your nose, and smiled a little as your hands reached to tug on his shirt ever so lightly, yet fell back on your sides the second you realized what you were doing. Just a little more, and you’ll give in, he was certain.

“I shouldn’t have snapped, not at the person who’s always just wishing the best for me,” he kissed the very tip of your nose, and you silently hoped your lips would be next, yet slight disappointment arose inside your chest as he moved onto your cheek instead, and you hoped he didn’t notice.

“You’re always so nice to me, and you’re always putting up with me when I’m being bad-tempered,” he moved onto your jawline, and was a little surprised by how he still hadn’t managed to trigger a proper reaction from you with his actions, “I know I’ve been acting the wrong way more than simply a lot recently, and you’re still forgiving me every single time it happens.”

He was at your chin now, and as he pulled away a little, you figured he wanted you to look at him. So you slowly opened your heavy eyelids, glancing at his pretty face and resisting hard not to cup it in your hands.

“I’m still sowwy, you know,” he leaned in and kissed the very corner of your mouth, waiting  and making his presence seem oh so passionate, “So, so sowwy,” he murmured, yet refused to give you a proper kiss, continuing to test your nerves and tease the hell out of you. 

Hell, if there was one thing that you hated about yourself, it was how weak you were for this man. And as you felt your guard crumbling completely under the touch of his lips almost covering yours and his hands back on your hips, sneakily placed a little under your shirt so you’d feel his cold touch against your hot skin and how hard he gripped on it, you figured you’d lost already. Not to mention you didn’t really mind losing this time around.

“Jung Daehyun, you either kiss me the right way now or you leave me alone.”

And he didn’t need to hear it twice, and didn’t need any further instruction or time to consider. He obeyed immediately, like the good boy he was, and gave you exactly what you wanted, in the form of a firm kiss on your lips.

The taste of you - oh God, he loved it so much, and found himself completely drowning in an empty space that was completely filled and coated in it, with nothing there but the two of you. He’d always been confident in his kisses, partly because he had such a big advantage when it came to the shape and size of his lips, but he always felt so small and insignificant every time his lips met with yours. He suddenly considered if he was good enough for you, if he was doing everything right - all because he wasn’t really able to keep track of his movements and actions while kissing you. You were the first person he had ever kissed in a full auto-pilot state, since all his senses left him at the encounter with you, and he was left without the ability to think rationally

What was he even doing? Was it appropriate for him to move this way, and did he do the right thing when pulling away a little just to capture you lower lip a second later, biting down on it gently as he waited for response? He always thought too late, when he had already acted, but there hadn’t been a single time when he hadn’t pleased you with his actions yet. Your soft, tiny moans of pleasure always indicated you were so into the things he was doing to you, and as your arms gently wrapped around his neck, tugging him closer, he knew he couldn’t possibly do wrong.

Every single time it was like this - he patiently waited for encouragement, and when he’d finally gotten it, there was no way to stop him. He was back to his confident self - showing you exactly what he was capable of. And trying to prevent his knees from giving out, because you tasted so, so sweet. And he liked things that tasted sweet over anything else.

“Am I forgiven?” he playfully asked, slowing down his pace a little and chuckling as you weren’t ready to let go of him just yet, continuing to plant soft pecks on his lips, making tiny smooching noises fade away in the air as soon as they came in contact with it.

“Don’t rush things, I didn’t say that,” you reminded him, smiling as he smiled back with disbelief all over his face. What a lie, right? He knew it just as good as you did, but he was not only a great lover, but also a great friend, so he played along nicely.

“Well, you’re talking to me again. Isn’t the end of silent treatment an indicator that I’m forgiven?”

“No,” you said, kissing him again just after.

“And so your kisses are just another way to push me away and ignore me now, right?” he was barely able to speak, as his lips were busy doing other things, but he didn’t mind at all. Speaking was overrated at these moments anyways.

“Of course. It’s my way to shut you up, because I’m already tired of the non-stop babbling.”

“Make me stay quiet for a while then, in that case,” he said, causing you to chuckle, “Or I’ll just continue on like previously. As I said, I’ll just clinge onto you forever, and we’ll both suffer from-”

You really weren’t having any more talking, but were oh so up for a rather passionate make out session. He seemed to think the same way, so for a solid moment no complains could be heard. Just tiny inhales and noises of pleasure escaping both of you at the things you did to each other.

“How about now?”

You rolled your eyes, considering. It was about time to fully give in, right?

“Okay, you’re forgiven,” you said, and suddenly felt yourself being lifted off of the ground.

“Daehyun-ah!!” you cried out in happiness as he pulled you along to the middle of the hallway, and started spinning you around, making your laughs fill up the whole house and his heart and soul as well, just as always.

“I hate you for being cute,” you mumbled as he put you down, causing him to let out a laugh.

“You love me, silly-”

“No, I don’t! I hate you completely because I can’t even stay mad at you for a while. You’re playing around with my mind and emotions a little too willingly.”

“But hey, it’s for the better,” he gave you another loving look, and smiled sheepishly.

“I just wanted to say sorry since I did wrong, and looks like it worked. On top of that, in a pleasant way and manner for both of us. So you’re saying you still truly hate me from the depths of your heart after all of this?”

The happy-ever-after came back to your mind suddenly, and you looked up at him, smiling a little. A warm, fuzzy feeling had taken over your stomach, and you suddenly considered getting mad at him again, just to be held by his arms tightly. Just to be promised a “forever and always” again.

“I won’t if you promise me one simple thing.”

“Which would be?”

“The part about “staying by my side forever”, just in a less annoying fashion, please,” you’d decided to spill it, feeling the atmosphere to be just cheesy enough for it.

The widest of smiles was displayed on his face as he considered. Forever really did sound pleasant. Cuddles in the kitchen and lazy afternoon kisses when he should be busy with other things. He could call you his girlfriend only for a certain amount of time though, as eventually you’d become his fiancee at some point, and in case you’d really want to sign up for his endless screaming and laughing forever, you’d become his wife. And as he considered everything that could possibly follow - him loosing his mind before the birth of your children, him taking them along to kindergarten for the first time. Him realizing he was getting older, but so were you, and as time moved forward but your jokes and the love you shared didn’t change in the least, he was alright with seeming a little too old-fashioned and too in the past for younger people to understand. He’d have you on his side always, and wasn’t that enough?

Just the thought of remembering it all afterwards with you seemed pleasant, and he didn’t hesitate to say his verdict. Not that you didn’t know it already.

“I thought that was self-explanatory, wasn’t it? Don’t think it’s ever going to be otherwise. It’s me and you, from now on and until forever. And you’ll be sorry to yourself one day for signing up to my annoying presence for a lifetime, but hey. Just give me a dose of silent treatment, and we’ll figure it out.”

[wejungkkum]

Mono No Aware, 物の哀れ / pt 5 (final)

Genre: University AU, so much fLuFf im sorry, also a bit of soulmate AU??

Word count: 990 (its significantly shorter yEs, but i promise you it wld’nt disappoint!!!)

Summary: A photo that joined like two puzzle pieces connected two lost, wandering souls

prologue/ pt 1/ pt 2/ pt 3/ pt 4/ pt 5

“You’re awake?” Jungkook asked, hastily wiping his tears.

You opened your eyes and used your elbow to support you as you propped yourself up on the soft bed.

“Sorry can i have a glass of water.” you croaked, hoping you’ll get a moment of silence.

He hastily rushed downstairs while you sunk your hand in your palms, head in a whirl. If whatever he said was true, that would explain why he seemed to know so much about you and why you seemed to have a special connection with him.

When he came back with a glass of warm water, you took a big gulp, and popped an Aspirin before chasing it down your parched throat with water.

“Was whatever you said true?” you asked.

He nodded, before saying “I didn’t want to break my promise to your parents but I..”

You sighed, holding your head before you mustered enough courage to ask him a question you’ve been holding in.

“Do you have a picture of you taken with me in the garden of my house while you were younger?”

You watched a small smile tug on the corners on his lips before he hummed, “of course.”

–

“I never thought I’d be able to meet you again to be honest,” he started while he walked you home later on.

You nodded, smiling as you looked at your foot as they moved ahead, a step at a time.

“You know we were supposed to date once I came back right?” he said from beside you, and although you didn’t look at him, you heard a smile from his voice.

“And so?” you asked.

“So.. don’t you think it should be about time we fulfilled our promise?” he spoke, clearly embarrassed as he looked away.

“Well…” you teased.

“Also, maybe you should stop staying with your roommate and start staying with me, your heart only has a place for one guy.”

You laughed at his sudden absurdity, “when did you become a jealous muscle pig?”

“How could you call me a muscle pig?” he huffed, crossing his hands across his chest before looking down at you and cracking a smile.

“Anyway, let’s go on a date tomorrow,” he breathed, and when you looked up, you saw him blush under street lamp that lit up dimly in the dark night.

“I’ll think about it, and maybe I’ll consider.” you laughed.

“There’s no need to consider, I’m already your boyfriend,” he laughed confidently.

“And when did I agree?” you joked before running before him.

He chased you down in no time, catching you in his arms and whispering, “you’ll agree now, y/n.” he looked at you before reaching down, interlacing his fingers with yours and pressing them against his lips before taking them and swinging them back and forth.

–

You led him to your room, and pulled out the photo from the photo frame, holding his half and yours together. You watched the tear match up perfectly, forming a perfect heart at the back.

“I never thought I’d find the other half of the photo,” you smiled as you leaned on his shoulder.

“And I never thought i’d have the honor to officially call you mine.”

With that, he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss on the crown of your head.

For days on end, Jungkook filled you in with details about your past you’ve forgotten about, and the both of you laughed at those memories, giggling at how immature the both of you were as kids.

When the next school day came, you heard Jungkook’s honks from downstairs before you made your way down.

“Morning my beautiful girlfriend.” he grinned as his smile reached his eyes, forming little moon shaped ones.

“Oh God, spare me the cringe,” you laughed as you fastened your seatbelt.

The drive to school was filled with laughter and joy, and Jungkook held your hand with his free hand as he drove. You nagged at him to put both hands on the steering wheel but you gave up soon after, half wishing he held your hand anyway.

“Thanks for loving me even after so long,” you spoke while he was doing his perfect parallel parking in the school car park.

He turned off the engine, and the car fell into sudden silence.

“I waited for you because I knew you were the one for me, y/n. I see myself in your eyes, and I feel like I am only complete whenever you are around. I believe in fate and I believe you were my fate,” he smiled.

You giggled, feeling like a high school teenage girl falling head over heels with a guy all over again. “Let’s head out before we get thrown in detention.”

“Yes, Ms y/n!” he saluted before doubling over with laughter. “Let’s go~” he said in a singsong voice as he bopped your nose with his index finger.

He slung his arm around your shoulder as the both of you walked through the main gates of the school.

“You had better give me tuition for the literature book.” you threatened.

“Anything for my girlfriend.”

“What if I wanted the star?”

“I’d fly up to get one for you. But why do you need the star, I’m the only star you need,” he winked before you rolled your eyes, still smiling.

“I love you,” he hummed.

“I love you too,” you said before tipping your toes to plant a kiss on his cheek.

And just like that, you knew you found the one for you too. Through the passage of years and years, fate brought the both of you together again, and you finally understood the phrase “Mono No Aware”. The sadness and emptiness you once felt was now filled with his presence, his voice, his laughter, his everything. Your sadness ended, and a new love started. The amalgam of his love with yours filled your heart.

Your heart was full with this love.

a/n: im sorry!! i promised to post this on the 24/12 but then sth cropped up and i didnt have my laptop with me (as i thought) so i was unable to post as schedued!! therefore, i immediately posted this as soon as i got my laptop!! Also, today is the 25/12! and im absolutely excited and happy to be ending of this series fic on such a special day. Since it is a day of joy, i want to thank everyone of you whom enjoy my works thus far, and i really hope i do continue to bring yall quality content as much as i can (until probably when school starts again in feb :( ) my req box and ask is wide open so feel free to ask me stuff or send me requests~ or if you guys wanna talk im available too!!!!11111!!1!!!1 once again Merry Christmas and have a Happy New Year <3

[mel-loves-all]

A Olicity Historical Romance AU inspired by the movie, The Scarlet Pimpernel. 

A/N: One of my all time favorite films is the 1982 version of The Scarlet Pimpernel.  I fell in love with Anthony Andrews when I was 13 years old and to this day his portrayal of the Scarlet Pimpernel still makes me swoon.  This will probably be about 3 chapters and is currently T-rated with a possible turn to M.

Chapter 1

London, England 1793

Lady Felicity Overwatch, widow of the Earl of Smoak, a renowned beauty of the English ton and member of a clandestine network that helped smuggle aristocratic Parisian children into Britain and away from the violent, bloodthirsty mobs of the reign of terror that currently swept France, stood at the edge of the crowded ballroom and tried not to show her distaste for the decadent waste of elite society.

How could so many people stand by and dance and laugh while so many lives were being snuffed out in the most heinous and callous of ways in a country not far from their own?  Entire families, who had committed no offense other than to have been born into French gentry and wealth, were sent to the guillotine under thunderous cheers of revolutionary masses.

For the last year, after losing her beloved husband Arthur to a sudden and unexpected sickness, Felicity had wanted, no, she had needed something to aspire to.  A higher cause.  And she had found it by helping a covert group, run by an elusive and mysterious leader known only by his symbol, the flower called the Scarlet Pimpernel.  No one knew his true identity, but he was extremely clever and amazingly good at what he did.  He, with the help of others like herself, helped save countless innocent lives.

She shivered at the memory of the first time she had seen the man.  After months of discreetly mentioning her sympathies with the plight of those being persecuted, she was approached to help.  Her cliff-side residence, in the remote seaside corner of Dover, was to be used as an entry point, one of many secret arteries of the network, to help bring the orphans into Britain.   Felicity had made sure to be in attendance, at the first arrival of the delicate goods, to ensure that every specification she had been sent, via a letter signed only with the melted red wax seal of a flower, was met.      

And there he was, walking ashore in the dim moonlight, through the shallow waves of the small, hidden cove located under the cliffs of her manor house, tall and virile, dressed all in black with a sword hanging at his side like a wicked pirate. A cloth mask was tied over the top half of his face and short cropped hair, only revealing a strong masculine jawline, full sensual lips and two piercing blue eyes that conveyed his displeasure at her unplanned presence.  His arms had been full of two small children who even in their sleep clung to him like the savior he was.

He had gently handed one of the little boys to her and as the warmth and weight of the exhausted child melted against Felicity’s chest he said, with a perfect mix of reprimand and teasing, “This is an unexpected pleasure, Lady Smoak,”

His deep, husky baritone, caused the rest of her body to ignite with a heat she had never felt before.   Never.  Not even with her beloved Arthur.  The lenses of her unique silver framed eye spectacles, fogged over just a little bitty bit, before she was able to pull herself together enough to respond.

“I only wished to make sure everything went as you requested.  I could not bear it if one of the children did not make it to safety.  I meant no harm,”

He did not respond, simply looked at her as if taking measure of her heart, and ultimately coming to the conclusion that she was sincere.

He said not one word more to her, but as he delivered the last child to the men he had stationed at her home and glanced back at her, as he boarded the small boat that had rowed him ashore, he tipped his head to her in acknowledgement and appreciation.

And that one encounter had sealed Felicity’s fascination with the Scarlet Pimpernel.  

~~~~~~

She was jostled out of her musings by the boisterous movement of the ballroom’s revelers and had to straighten the diaphanous silk layers of her roman styled gown that proclaimed her Aphrodite, the goddess of love, beauty and pleasure.  It was too revealing for her personal taste, with so much of her skin exposed, but it had been all that her hand maid could come up with at the last minute.  Her long blonde hair was styled high upon her head with a few loose curls that rested upon her chest.  She was one, if not the only woman that moved in society, who was known to wear corrective lenses in public and she frowned as she thought of all the vanity that made that fact, so.  

The annual costume ball, hosted by Lord Oliver Queen, the Duke of Starling, was always packed to capacity and Felicity had reluctantly decided to attend to keep up appearances as a carefree English Lady.

Felicity looked around the room, its gaudy decor overwhelming her senses, and did not see the Duke of Starling with his usual group of eager to please him “friends.”  The man was an enigma to her and a man she had the most conflicting feelings about.  From the first, it had always been that way.   At her coming out ball three years earlier, she had been instantly attracted to his indigo blue eyes, charming smile and tall, athletic build until…he spoke, and therein lay the problem.  He was a charismatic and handsome man, yet, peculiar.  With each absurd, flowery and high-pitched word and inane riddles without answers he muttered, revealed a soul that belonged to a ridiculous fop of a dandy who was only concerned about gossip, the indiscretions of those around him and the latest fashions, which he wore to an unabashedly fanciful and lace-filled extreme.  He probably owned more powdered wigs than she did.

But Felicity swore, at the oddest moments over the years…she would catch the briefest flashes of cunning and intense intelligence, frustrated boredom and…loneliness in his stare. Perhaps she only wished to see more to him and they were figments of her imagination because she would blink, and his trademark laugh and flamboyant turn of phrase, “sink me,” would remind her of what and who he really was.  A man, not meant for her.

Although he was blessed with a face that made a woman’s body crave and want things, his frivolous nature had guided Felicity away and towards a better man in Arthur.  Arthur had been much, much older, but gentle and kind.  They had not been blessed with any children and with no living male descendants, Felicity had inherited his fortune.  One to rival the Duke of Starling’s as a matter of fact.  

Felicity sighed with disinterest and decided to find a peaceful corner to wait out the evening till it was appropriate to leave.   She found her way through the crowd and walked through the hallways till she found a quieter wing of the house and entered through a set of french doors that brought her into a stunning floral solarium.

The scent of oranges and a multitude of exotic flowers welcomed her as she walked through the beautiful indoor garden and she felt at ease for the first time in a long, long time.  She stretched on her toes to smell a blossom that hung from a tree branch and then her abrupt, scream of surprise was muffled under the hand that was placed over her mouth and pulled her into a secret room off the edge of the conservatory.

She struggled against the hard, muscular body that towered over her from behind and the fingers that kept her from making any further sound as the hidden door slid closed in front of her and sealed them away from the faint voices in French that could be heard coming closer.

“Steady now, I won’t hurt you,” was whispered to her, and she instantly recognized the baritone.  The softness of the lips that had grazed the shell of her ear made shivers of awareness run through her body.  

The Scarlet Pimpernel.  What was he doing here?

His arms tightened and drew her closer so that she was surrounded by his heat and solid strength as both of them listened to the hushed conversation unfold on the other side of the wall.

Felicity’s futile struggling completely ceased after she realized who the whispers belonged too and tried to catch every muffled word spoken in the other room.  Bits and pieces of the conversation painted a picture of what was going on.  They were two French operatives sent to spy on and gather information amongst the English and were on the trail of who they thought was the Scarlet Pimpernel.   They had followed a shadowy figure into the manor as the Duke’s annual costume ball was in full swing.   French spies and the Scarlet Pimpernel?  Why wasn’t she terrified?

She was plastered against, head to toe, soft curves against sculpted granite, the Scarlet Pimpernel.  A man, she did not know the identity of, and blood thirsty spies sent to destroy and kill him where just feet away.  Yes, she was scared, but why wasn’t she truly afraid?  Instead of uncontrollable fear, she was excited and energized.  And the steady cadence of the Scarlet Pimpernel’s breaths and heartbeat and the way her body fit perfectly within the cradle of his arms, made her feel safe.  Absurdly and crazily, safe.

~~~~~~

My lovelies: Please let me know if you wish to be tagged or untagged. 

@diggo26 @kawusia25 @whoeveryoulovethemost @letsnevergrowupfan @priya108 @ohliverfelicity @andjustforthismoment @relativelyobsessedfangirl @felicityssoliver @readerkas @murderingminutesforhours @sinceriouslysarah @jedichick04 @smurfica @bluemorgana @arrow-through-my-writers-block @secretglimpses @florence-bubbles @arrowolicity88 @travelingwinchester @scu11y22 @lerayon @multi-fandom-crazy-fangirl @pharmalen @mrsd923 @iv-on-ka @miriam1779 @beautiful-dreamer-sara @thebeckyford @aussieforgood @allyouneedisolicity @iloveyouallthemore @lesanchea @crazypants5 @geniewithwifi @pleasedontletmedownx @quiveringbunny @cityofolicity @flailykermit @moomoosstudio @yellowflicker09011996 @dopecycleblaze @malafle @u-r-notdonefighting @bytemegeekette @lindsey8907 @onlyhere4olicity @niki-is-amazing @dalisia @danski15 @felicityqueenforever @amac313 @kajunblueyes @music-and-motorcycles @mrsbubblelee @itsthatwallflower @tinaday3w @memcjo @octoberwren @pamanaus @mymusiclove101 @ellefraser17 @sinceriously-melodiful @yespleasehawkeye @olicityforeverqueen @redpensandgreenarrows @thesunshine-in @quiquikalikala @charlinert @thedreamersmovement @leagueofolicity17 @georgiakblog @myuntetheredsoul @mochababychristy @arrows-4ever @jaspertown @lgtwinkie99 @convictionwithpurpose @pjcmfalcon @lexi9515 @redpenbluebox @oliverfel4 @almondblossomme @marniforolicity @somewhatinvisible @vaelisamaza @velvetsteel @angelalafan @photogeniques @cinfos @olicityandsteroline @imthedoctordonna @lynaye1993 @f0xyr0xy @sammieathome @arrowgirl20 @coal000 @stygian-omada-fan @amytosh @acequillerqueen @pepperlevine @so-caffeinated @tjmartinez98

[okimargarvez]

LIKE EASTER

Original title: Like Easter.

Prompt: Easter holydays, Italy, Holy Week.

Warnings: reflections on my catholic faith.

Genre: comedy, family, romantic, friendship.

Characters: Penelope Garcia, Luke Alvez, (JJ, Spencer), O.C.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: oneshot.

Legend: 💏😘❗🎈.

Song mentioned: none.

Easter holidays and Luke have a problem to solve: his grandmother waits for him in Rome for the Holy Week and wants that he’s accompanied by a girlfriend; Penelope, on the other hand, feels cast aside as the “painted eggs” festivity.

Like Easter- Masterlist

MY OTHER GARVEZ STORIES

LIKE ESTER- Part 6

The crucial Sunday has arrived.

She is too nervous, although he tries in every way to put her at ease. -There will be a lot of people, no one will look at you...- and so they find themselves on a sort of particular taxi, the car of Luke's grandmother, driven by Mrs. Rosa herself. And what a daring guide!

-Now I know where you get it from!- she whispers and they both laugh. Then they park. They enter Vatican City. Penelope looks amazed at everything in front of her. Rome is really a place out of the world, especially this border area. Monuments, statues, historic buildings everywhere. It seems to be on the film set of a blockbuster. But it's all true. She is afraid of getting lost, in the midst of all those people, but she certainly doesn't run that risk: the beautiful Latin takes her by the hand, while the other arm is around the old lady's shoulders. They find a position towards the center. At the entrance they had gave them a branch. She remembers various moments of her past, phrases spoken by the priest... for the whole duration of the Mass, she walks between present and a distant time.

She re-emerges mainly only at the time of the reading of the Gospel. But instead of a simple well-tuned play by the pope, here is what Luke had tried to explain, without too much anticipation: Francis interprets Jesus naturally, then there are various men, one for Peter, one for Judah, one for Pontius Pilate, and women to do the people who incites to the crucifixion of the King of the Jews instead of the villain Barabbas. It's a real scenic show, without the need for costumes or other equipment, painted or three-dimensional backgrounds... it's enough the voices, to bring them back at 2000 (and something more) years to be convinced of being in Jerusalem.

At the end of the Mass Penelope remains as dazed. She feels his fingers intertwined with her own, the voice of Rosa commenting on Gospel, but everything appears as if she were alone inside a cloud, muffled. She had never seen anything like this before. She is sure of it. It's far from any celebration in her village. It pushes to emotional participation with the suffering experienced by Jesus. Luke was right: something starts to move inside her and out of nowhere the words seem to have come out at the right moment from her lips, like a song learned when she was children, that no longer listened to years, but it’s enough hear the melody by mistake to make everything resurface.

 She doesn't even realize how exactly they are back "at home". She wakes up from the sort of trance sitting on the bed. Luke had asked her a question. -Do you want to go out and do to sightsee, this afternoon?- he repeats, seeing her a bit strange. He approaches slowly, until he is only a few centimeters.

-What? Sorry, I was... I was in another world.- she smiles embarrassed. But then, her face is obscured by a shadow. More he proves to be nice to her, more happens to her what happened already with Derek. That question arises once again But then love can be something different? Whole days spent talking to each other through a computer, when it would be enough to open the door and take a few steps to see each other and converse in person. But she had said it to Morgan. He liked fighting, a lot. In reality, what he liked was winning. Win on her, prevaricate. It wasn't a normal, an idyllic relationship. They did nothing but hurt each other. And the flame had never been extinguished. There was still some spark between the ashes. She had tried to leave him so many times, without succeeding. Almost she hadn't got the right. She had to suffer, stay with him. He was her cross. It was also an alternative way to atone for guilt over the death of her parents. They wouldn't have been on that road at that hour, if she hadn't disobeyed to see him. To see him. Shane. Meet him after years, after she had almost convinced herself of having freed herself... it had been tragic. Because it was clear from the beginning that she had only made fun of herself. In a wrong, perverse and absurd way she still loved him. She let herself caught, it was one of the first things he had told her. She had done it on purpose, the feds would never have found her. And he was right: she hadn't found another way to detach herself, a less drastic one. It had been like... like pulling an umbilical cord. He had been her everything and now she had nothing. Kevin and Sam... they had been bad attempts; useless. Derek... he had found Savannah. He had a flamey behavior and sometimes he would take it out on her, he told her that she had to be more professional, he answered badly, he wasn't always there when she needed him. He had left her alone with Baylor. But then, later, he was appeared. But then, he was able to hold her close to him and with so many caresses send all the pain away. This reminded her of what Shane did too. No. Penelope shakes her head, emerging from the maze of her mind. No, I don't want to think of something like that. Derek is better than Shane. Someone's hands are drying her tears. Tears? She cried? She lifts her wet eyelashes and sees him. Derek is better than Shane, she repeats like a mantra. Derek is better than... Derek better... A man gives her a sweet smile and too full of things. Luke is better than Shane (and Derek).

-I told you that I could be the person from which to go to when you want to cry...- he whispers, stroking her hair. It's a situation like that... she feels so... strange. Why she had to keep him guessing? Why treat him badly, she, who loves whoever? Perhaps because her unconscious already knew how it would end. No, getting a crush on that man who has taken the place of the god of chocolate, no. Instead, yes. Oh my God, how beautiful he is. His eyes are like that... and his lips... his hair... I feel bad. Lord, please, now that I have found You again, don't let me fall into temptation. Help me to understand if he was just a particular way to bring me back to Your ways, or if there is something more. She is too confusing and the only thing she would like to do would be to kiss him.

Luke's thoughts aren't so different from hers, but the internal contrast in man is due to the fear of taking advantage of her and the umpteenth moment of weakness. He would like to ask her why all of a sudden, she started crying, because she really seemed to be on another planet. He would like to tell her that he is there for her, but not just as a colleague or a friend... He would like to tell her that he wants the fiction to be reality. But he doesn't say anything and what comes from so much chaos, is the meeting of their bodies in a hug that has more value than any kiss or sexual performance that may be there in their future.

TAGS: @theshamelessmanatee @itsdawnashlie @talesoffairies @janiedreams88 @kiki-krakatoa @yessenia993 @teyamarra @c00lhandsluke  @gcchic @arses21434 @orangesickle @entireoranges @jarmin @kathy5654 @martinab26 @thisonekid @thenibblets @perfectly-penelope @ambrosiaswhispers @maziikeen92 @lovelukealvez @reidskitty13 @jenf42 @gracieeelizabeth27 @silviajajaja @smalliemichelle99 @charchampagne14 @ichooseno  @ megs2219 @rkt3357 @franklintrixie @thinitta @chewwy123 @skisun @maba84 @saisnarry @myhollyhanna23 @thenorthernlytes