#without having to know someone as ridiculous about this bullshit as i am to simmer with me in this moment and appreciate it

[mlobsters]

thought you know, i should maybe try to start up the spn rewatch because it's been a hot minute. but i have 1x18 (the shtriga) up next and you know this would lead to a rant about john winchester and i don't know i have the mental or emotional energy for that -_-

[keyofjetwolf]

Oh boo-hoo, darkness, get over yourself, or, Rei Hino: Comfort Lesbian

We’ve been building to this for the past several episodes now, this moment where we finally get confirmation of all the turmoil Ami is feeling, about Usagi and about Naru and, especially, about herself. All of which is delicious and complex and everything I wanted but could hardly believe they’d give us. It’s not a good look for Ami! It’s angry and lonely and uncertain!

Ami especially, I think moreso than any other character across Sailor Moon iterations (character who actually gets screen/page time, anyway) is boiled until she’s lost most of her flavour. I think the anime tries hardest, but often replaces “the smart one” stereotypes for “the nice one” and calls it a day. For whatever reason, it’s like Ami’s an action figure they’re afraid to take out of the box because they might get her dirty and diminish her value.

Not PGSM, though. PGSM is just “AW YEAH LET’S PLAY” and pitched everyone in a mud puddle.

I AM ALIVE

I’ve talked about this again and again, how much SENSE this makes for Ami. Completely ostracized for her entire life, she’s got her first taste of what it means to not be alone, and she’s hooked. Usagi is like a drug for Ami, she’s the entire focal point for everything positive Ami’s feeling, and she’s terrified that without Usagi, she’ll go back to the way things used to be, and she CAN’T, she just can’t.

And she needn’t be! PGSM has gone out of its way throughout the series so far in showing us how much Ami has already grown and changed for the better. Fuck, look at just this scene! There’s something wonderful and precious about the bond between Ami and Rei. They’re each other’s first friend that they made THEMSELVES, using the things that they learned through their friendship with Usagi. Ami has reached out to Rei more than once, able to see through her stoicism and bluster and navigate through it (versus, say, Usagi just flat out ignoring it). She allows Rei to keep those defenses while still reaching for her, making Rei that much more willing to reach back.

Rei also sees Ami. She’s never been smitten a day in her life, and Rei isn’t inclined to throw every little questionable thing into the spin cycle until it comes out gleaming and perfect. Ami’s weird and awkward, but so what? She’s a good person, and she tries. Every single time Rei would rather deal with someone who tries too hard rather than not enough.

They can do this. AMI can do this. She HAS. Even in this scene, where she’s confessing to Rei, it’s abundantly clear how much stock she puts in Rei’s opinion. Particularly BECAUSE it’s Rei (really, it had to be Rei), who wouldn’t even know where to start trying to give someone an insincere platitude, Ami trusts what she says, and at no point in any of this, even at her lowest and most intense self-hating, does Ami think Rei isn’t her friend. The problem is that Ami has pinned so much on Usagi, and so little on herself. Usagi is the keystone; pull her out, and it all collapses.

Again, all of my love to PGSM for going here. For looking at Ami, really thinking about how broken her life would have made her, and being willing to follow that thread. She confirmed -- directly, in the text, by her own words -- everything I hoped we were building to.

INCLUDING THIS SORRY BRB HAVE TO RUN AROUND THE OFFICE SCREAMING AGAIN

There’s so much going on, Ami is having a fuck of a day, but this is perhaps the thing she’s most upset about: the realization that she might just be kind of a shitty person. There’s been nothing in Ami’s life that would have even hinted she could be like this. Hell, there’s basically BEEN nothing in Ami’s life before now. But here it is, she finally gets something worthwhile, and this is how she acts? No wonder she went without friends this long, if this is who she is. Usagi was just wonderful enough to try and see past it, that’s all, which only makes Ami feel even worse for “deceiving her”. God, what a beautiful inescapable spiral Ami’s built for herself, I’m almost impressed.

REI HINO IS NOT IMPRESSED

HHHHRNRNNNRRNGGGHHHGNNNNGHHHRR

SHE’S SO NOT HERE FOR ANY OF AMI’S BULLSHIT. Not the deep dark confession, not Ami eating herself up over it all. Ami’s barely started, and Rei’s already had enough.

Sidebar to say how much I fucking LOVE how they shoot all this. Rei’s angry stomp slicing across the camera, interrupting Ami’s efforts to drown herself in all this. Her angry clenched fist (A REI HINO FAVOURITE), the way the camera rises as it follow’s Rei’s towering presence. She carries so much authority in this scene, you can FEEL her and how little she is going to put up with all this. The way Ami gazes up at her, too, once again giving Rei all the power between them. It remains to be seen how much of this will stick, but what’s clear is that Ami will listen to Rei, and believe her, even if just for this moment.

The way Rei completely brushes all of Ami’s angst away though, AAAAAHHHHH I DIDN’T KNOW I COULD LOVE HER MORE BUT SHE ALWAYS MANAGES TO FIND A WAY TO MAKE ME. Ami’s completely undone by this, and Rei’s just “Psshh, whatever, this is entry level ‘dark’, get over yourself.”

But she also makes it an invitation. “Congrats! You’re human.” Ami’s sin here, if she could be said to have one, is in not dealing with it all very well, and she’s basically an emotional newborn, so even there, it’s understandable.

One of the best things about this, though, is how Rei is meeting Ami on much the same level Ami connected with Rei. Not ignoring how they feel, nor dismissing it, just accepting it and moving forward. We STILL don’t know why Rei was so bothered about going to that guy’s house to protect his not-the-ginzuishou, but Ami didn’t chase down the why or convince Rei it wasn’t a problem, she simply offered to go in her stead. Here, Rei doesn’t insist Ami is the purest pure snowflake gumdrop who would never think a bad thought in her life, she just says “Bitch, you ain’t special.” Usagi’s all-inclusive love is wonderful, and I don’t doubt the power of its constant dopamine hit, but it’s also in so many ways unrealistic and impractical (much like Usagi herself), and once again, I tip my hat to PGSM for being the ONLY Sailor Moon incarnation willing to go there for its main character, too.

(I don’t know if PGSM had a mission statement, but you could tell me it was “Each and every one of these girls is fascinating and wonderful AND DEEPLY FLAWED” and I would just nod in emphatic agreement.)

What about Rei’s darkness? I don’t know! THANK YOU FOR ADDING IN A BARELY RELATED MYSTERY. The specifics aren’t important right now, and maybe never will be. It’s Rei, she’s a constant bubbling cauldron of stewing rage, even here in PGSM where she’s able to keep it to a low simmer. It could be about her mother’s death, all the gossipy assholes, her father’s everything. It could be Usagi bumping into her this morning, IT COULD BE ALL OF THESE.

The point is, Rei knows all about thinking and feeling some negative shit at someone, but she also knows there’s a difference between what you feel and what you DO. You can’t truly be part of life and never fuck up, it’s just not possible.

AND NOW HERE’S WHERE REI SHOWS HOW MUCH SHE’S CHANGING TOO. Her point made, her lecture done, Rei peers down at Ami and sees that it’s just not working the way she wants. Rather than lose her temper, or double down, or wash her hands and walk away, she instead CHANGES TACTICS.

She doesn’t demand Ami immediately bounce to her feet, instead she drops down to Ami. She stops lecturing and tries comforting. NONE of this is natural for Rei, all of it goes against the kind of person she is and always strives to be. Slowly but surely though, Rei’s learning that her way is not the only way, and to temper her impulses.

WHO KNEW WE WOULD GET SUCH JUICY DEVELOPMENT FOR REI IN THE MIDDLE OF ALL THIS AMI GOODNESS WHO AMONG US COULD HAVE PREPARED FOR THE BOUNTY

Still though, Rei is Rei is my beautiful ridiculous marmoset Rei.

Blessed, friends. I am blessed this day.

[funkymbtifiction]

Enneagram Vagueness

Hi. I want to start off by saying that I’m an ENTP. There have been occasions when I’ve considered ESTP. However, my Ne is extremely high and that has presented itself in my constant reforming opinions on typing. Enneagram has always been vague and therefore difficult for me to pin down. I assumed that I would be a head type (7, specifically)...

This sounds more 8w9 than 8w7. You aren’t looking for conflict, you just stumble across it at times and are assertive, take a hard line with boundaries, and don’t suffer fools easily. What you give as evidence for 7 wing could just as easily be Ne-dom behaviors. I don’t see you avoiding pain and I don’t sense any “head”  / fear-based energy in this post. :)

------- original message continues below ------

However, I’ve recently begun to research more deeply into the enneagram and core fears, including DOD and DOI, and it’s given me a new direction.

I’ve never identified with type 8 at first glance. I’m a very chill, laid-back person, who doesn’t go out of my way to push people around. However, there have been several recent situations in my life that have forced me to examine my own motivations more honestly. I don’t like bullshitting myself or other people. If I’ve done something or meant something, I want to own it. I don’t have a lot of shame when it comes to choices I make, although I’ve unintentionally (and intentionally) hurt people and have felt sorry for that. I’m not a monster.

Anger has always been an undercurrent in my life. I don’t express it constantly, though. I would never describe myself as an angry or aggressive person, as long as no one intrudes on me. Being lied to or betrayed are two things that have set me off. It’s embarrassing to look back and recall things I’ve said or done in these moments, because the anger I display isn’t exactly “deep.” I haven’t been holding onto it, simmering, or looking for when to let it out. It’s a rush of energy that has to go somewhere. It’s a need to destroy the thing that made me feel like this. Once I start, I find it difficult to stop. I want that person to break and do/say exactly what I want them to. It *is* bulldozing, and the fact that I never saw it that way before makes me feel like a fucking idiot.

When I began to examine other ways I’ve handled myself in situations, I started to see a pattern. I’ve always been in charge of groups. If there’s a weak link in the group, I pick them out and quickly position people where they’re the most useful to me. In subtle ways, I tend to control the conversation and will undermine someone I see as being too pushy and/or ridiculous about an opinion. It’s an intense need to put them in their place while also asserting superiority. For example, mocking a strong stance by being provoking and/or pointing out flaws in their reasoning with absurd or irreverent humor. I often have a desire to knock someone down if I think they’re pushing their weight around or talking themselves up without shit to show for it. I also don’t let people get away with pretenses. If someone is bullshitting me, I call them out immediately. I’d rather cut things off right there rather than waste my time on people who aren’t going to be up front with me. I don’t have the time or desire to guess at motivations, and people who can’t own up to the truth are cowards to me. I can spot inconsistencies in behavior and often demand people answer for them. Even though I don’t do this aggressively, the very act of confronting people is something I’ve learned most people find aggressive.

However, I don’t automatically distrust people, which is something I’ve read 8s do. I also don’t rebel for the sake of it, or have a “don’t tell me what to do” attitude just because. I do have very few close friends that I rely on, and I am intensely protective of those people.

I’ve never hit anyone, but I do have an intense *energy* when angry. I’ve thrown things, slammed my hand against the wall, broken things, ect. It’s an impulse and the energy has to go somewhere. Afterward I’m always fucking mad at myself for putting a hole in my closet door, though, and feel like an idiot for letting my emotions get the best of me.

What I’m having trouble distinguishing is 8w9 or 8w7. I’m not particularly outgoing. I come across as very calm, but also dry and sarcastic. I check out of situations and don’t involve myself in shit that isn’t my business. I treat work seriously and just want to get my job done and go home, but I don’t consider myself hard working. I just want my own time to be my own time. Some of my coworkers take their sweet time locking up at night, which always drives me up the wall. It’s like they don’t respect my time. So I’ve never been able to identify with the workaholic nature of an 8.

I’m also a very introverted ENTP, to the point where I’ve considered INTP or even ISTP. A lot of the ISTP behaviors are things I’ve identified with and I’ve tested (function tests, although I know they’re still not exactly accurate) as ISTP. However, my Ne is much too strong, and I forget shit the second someone says it to me like it’s a fucking hobby.

I don’t hold onto anger or grudges. Once it’s over, it’s over. It’s usually triggered when I feel like I’ve been deceived. I don’t offer my trust very often, and I expect the same loyalty I give to be given back to me. When it’s not, it triggers that rejection I read about so much in 8s and I’m instantly angry and resentful. And sad, of course, but the sad is something I keep to myself.

For 9, I relate to my disconnection from the conflict around me. I don’t mind conflict and I handle it, but I don’t tune in or really let it affect me in any way.

I don’t relate to sweeping things under the rug. I want painful truths and I want them immediately so I can deal with the reality of the situation. Don’t fucking lie to me. I always find out.

For 7, I relate to their mental agility and adaptability. I am adaptable to a lot of different types of thought and I can see various points of view. I can be very merciful and understanding, sometimes too much so. I enjoy a good debate and I need to keep my mind busy, typically researching various subjects and ending up down rabbit holes.

I don’t relate to their extroversion or their need to flee from pain. I don’t like feeling pain, but I’d rather face it and then reform it as something else rather than deny it or cover it up entirely. I do have moments where I will mask what I’m feeling with alcohol or other unhealthy coping mechanisms, but this is always temporary. I never want to ignore a problem or minimize it. I want the whole truth given to me up front. Then I’ll keep looking at the ugliness of it until it ceases to have power over me.

Does anything about this suggest a particular wing to you? Or a different type altogether?

Thanks for your time

Cam

[lady-therion]

Close Quarters: Part 3 [Nessian]

Summary:  Two people, one cabin, plus a whole lot of love-hate tension.

Modern AU. 

A/N: In close quarters, every moment is a universe. 

***

   If Cassian thought he was fucked before, that was nothing compared to now.

   Now he was fucked with a capital “F.” The kind that was written with blood-red sharpie and underlined three times in that alarming “See me after class!” kind of way. Because in addition to discovering that Nesta actually felt things—possibly more so than anyone he had ever met—he also discovered something else.

    One, she liked romance novels.

   Two, she wore glasses.

   Glasses.

   There were only so many revelations a man could take in a single day.

   “You’re staring again,” she said, from her spot on the sofa.

   “Hn?”

   It was the most intelligent thing he could say once she turned that withering gaze on him, her eyes like blue agates intensified by the spell of those square black frames. An embarrassingly hot burn ran down the back of his neck as he sat across from her, trying to string together words.

   She gestured at the corner of her mouth. “You have a little…”

   He mirrored her, fingers grazing his lips. “What…?”

   “Drool,” she deadpanned.

   His cheeks flamed, close to scalding. The instinct to bat her wry accusation away with some crude remark was tantalizing. That had been the electric thrill of their dynamic, after all. But he sensed that if he fell back into old habits, Nesta would too.

   Because whether she realized it or not, she had been looking to him all night for cues.

   Math and music make no personal demands, she had said, after revealing that she didn’t find him as repulsive as he initially thought. It was a truth that added to the complex algorithm that made up Nesta Archeron. Just when he thought he was closer to solving her, the more compounded she became.

   At the military academy, he learned the concept of equivalency: the strategy of giving up an advantage in order to gain something of equal value.

   Against all his expectations, Nesta had given him a truth. Probably at great personal cost. So it was only fair for him to start doing the same.

   “Again,” she said. “The drooling. Should I get you a cup?”

   He grinned. “Sorry, can’t help it. I’m just really digging your glasses.”  

   “Liar,” she said. “Nobody likes glasses.”

   He spread his arms across the back of the couch, keeping a respectable distance. They were actually having a conversation! A civil one!

   “First: Friendship 101,” he reminded her. “Friends don’t lie. And second: People do like glasses. None of that bullshit like in the movies where the guy takes off a girl’s specs and suddenly everyone realizes just how gorgeous she is. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a prick.”

   She said nothing for a moment, that preternatural stare working overtime as he watched her process and dissect his words a million different ways.

   “My ex didn’t like my glasses,” she said, finally. “He said they made me look owlish. But I can’t help it. I get it migraines.”

   His blood simmered as an irrational urge to punch something coursed through him. He congratulated himself on keeping his voice flat as he said, “You don’t look owlish. I hoped you dumped his ass.”

   She smirked. “He dumped me, actually.”

   He incredulity knew no depths. “What? Why?”

   She shrugged, her expression shuttering. “I would think...the reason is obvious.”

   The pang in his chest felt as sharp as an arrowhead.

  No, he wanted to say, it wasn’t obvious.

  “Nesta—”

   “It’s nothing,” she said, brusque and dismissive. “Let’s talk about something else.”

   Cassian didn’t want to drop it, but he filed it away as another thorny variable of the Nesta Archeron algorithm. He always had this image of men—or women, for that matter—throwing themselves at her feet. Sure, she could be intimidating as hell. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t worthy of someone’s affection.

   Or acceptance.

   More than anything, he wished could just say this to her. But equivalency demanded that Cassian take no more than he was given and he made too much progress to upset that balance now. So he cast around for something else to talk about when he finally settled on the books she had spilled across his coffee table.

   She had done it by accident, having upended her bag in a semi-frustrated search for those (not at all mesmerizing) glasses. Now its surface was hidden beneath heavy tomes on quantum physics, differential equations, and mass market paperbacks featuring shirtless men on the cover. He leaned down to pick through them; historical bodice rippers with names like The Earl with the Dragon Tattoo and One for the Rogue.

   “Seriously?”

   Nesta snatched them from out of his hand. “Seriously.”

   He cleared his throat. “So, your taste in reading...”

   “Tease me all you like,” she said, her tone and posture frosting over. “I won’t apologize for enjoying stories where the woman has all the power for once. I won’t apologize for enjoying relationships that survived the odds, however ridiculous or exaggerated. And I won’t apologize for liking sex.”

    He held up his hands in placation. “You definitely don’t have to apologize for that last one.” Then immediately winced at how flippant that sounded. “Wait. That came out wrong. Let me...”  

   “How do you do that?” asked Nesta. “How do you always throw me off-kilter?”

   “I throw you off-kilter?”

   “Yes,” she said, grimacing. “I’ve told you more things in the past few hours that even my own sisters don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense. The answers elude me and it’s just so frustrating.”  

   There were several things Cassian could have said. All of them were wholly inadequate. So he stewed in the ensuing silence, that weird fog of tension, until Nesta rose and asked him where the bathroom was.

   “Upstairs to the right,” he said, and watched as she left him without a backwards glance.

***

   Nesta wished she had another set of clothes.

   At the moment, all she had was a blue wool sweater that was so shapeless, it slid off her shoulder like a burlap sack. Her black jeans had faded to a dull gray, making the rips and stains more apparent. In short, she looked like an underfed undergraduate. In reality, she was an underpaid doctoral candidate. Any money she received from her stipend went to her two worst vices: her caffeine habit and her shoe collection.

   Normally, she wouldn’t care how she looked. But Cassian…

   It wasn’t that she wanted to look attractive for him. That was preposterous. She just didn’t want to look like a bespectacled stray that stumbled upon his doorstep either (even if that was exactly what she was). Pride was a hard thing for her to aside. The fact that Cassian could shred through it like paper—and that she allowed him to—was terrifying beyond measure.

   And yet she couldn’t forget the way his breath had branded her skin…

   They hadn’t talked about that. How he whispered into her ear about how surprising he found her. He hadn’t said it in a snide way either, as if she were something to be owned and objectified. It was a far cry from how Tomas treated her, the memories of which she had firmly shut in a coffin until a single interaction with Cassian had coaxed it out. 

   No, really. How did he do that?

   Sighing, she took a moment to glance at her surroundings. Cassian had lent her the guest bedroom on the second floor, which also came with its own bathroom. Like the rest of the cabin, the space it was rustic and charming. It irked her. Everything from the cherry wood panels to the marble white countertops to the built-in skylights made her feel...out of place.

   Towels, she thought.

   Answers wouldn’t come to her if she was overwrought and overtired. Self-care and a hot shower would have to the best interim solution.

   But in order to do that, she needed towels.

   A cursory look downstairs told her that Cassian was no longer on the first floor. Most likely, he had gone to bed. Which was just as well. She didn’t know if she could face him when she was feeling so...exposed. Still, she couldn’t ignore the slight tinge of disappointment. Had she really grown so used to him being there, baiting her or otherwise?

   In any case, her shower would have to wait.

   And of course, Cassian appeared out of nowhere just as she shut him out of her thoughts.

   And of course, he happened to be fresh from his own hot shower; rivulets of water running down the ridges, divots, and cuts of those hard-earned muscles. Muscles that stood stark even under the whorls of tattoos that seemed like an elegant extension of his dark, tanned skin.

   And of course, she also happened to forget her own powers of speech as she surveyed the towering mass of his barely clothed presence, trying in vain to keep her photographic memory from engraving him in her mind.

   “Oh,” she said.

   Cassian blinked, finally noticing her there at the end of the hall.

   “Oh.”

 ***

Thank you for reading, my loves.

Other chapters be found in the Masterlist in my Bio / I am Lady_Therion on AO3

[today-only-happens-once]

Crossroad

Title: Crossroad

Word count: 1983

Summary: The policy in unjust, and Logan has a decision to make. Teacher!Logan. Logicality, familial LAMP/CALM.

Warnings: transphobia, discussion of outing/getting outed, dysphoria mention, cursing, arguing.

A/N: I am angry. This is a vent fic, really. I’m just… sorry, I guess. Not really edited. Probably not very good? But hey, here this is anyway. Again, I’m sorry.

..

“Are there any questions?”

The question at the staff meeting sends Logan’s hand straight up in the air. Because he is certain he must have heard them wrong. There’s no way in hell—

“Yes, Logan?”

Logan keeps his expression neutral as he adjusts the frame of his glasses. “You mean to tell us that we are now contractually required to report suspicions of gender deviance to our students’ parents? Regardless of potential risks that may induce?” His tone is ice. Beneath it burns a fury so hot Logan can feel it simmering in his stomach.

The principal gives him a dry look. “Yes. We are calling it our “Rights of the Parent” initiative.”

Bullshit, Logan thinks. “What rights are those, exactly?” Logan can feel the eyes of his fellow teachers and administrators flickering nervously between him and the principal. Logan does not care.

“We are upholding the rights of the parents to all the information regarding their child so as to help keep families together,” comes the clipped reply.

“What about the rights of our students?” Logan demands coldly.

“The administration stands behind this initiative. You all are contractually required to report any questions or signs regarding a changing gender identity or seeking help for gender dysphoria.”

Logan doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how. He sits rigid and silent and fuming until the meeting is officially ended. He sees the principal casting him furtive glances but Logan simply stands up and walks out of the room.

…

“Rough day, Lo?” Patton asks him after dinner.

“Hm?”

Patton gives him a small, concerned smile as he starts cleaning off the table. “You’ve been really quiet tonight and barely touched your dinner.”

Logan groans and rubs a hand over his eyes under his glasses. “I’m sorry, Patton. It was not intended to be a slight on you. Your cooking is always appreciated.”

“What’s on your mind?” Patton asks softly. Logan feels him place his hands on Logan’s shoulders.

“Patton,” Logan says haltingly. “I… seem to have come to a kind of moral crossroads. And I am not sure what the best course of action is.” Logan looks up at his husband. His patient, soft face felt like a steady rock in the sudden sea of uncertainty and doubt Logan had found himself thrust into the past few hours. “Your input would be… greatly valued.”

Patton frowns and pulls out the chair at the corner of the table beside Logan. “Talk to me.”

Logan rests his head in his hands. “My boss has essentially instituted a new clause that I am contractually obligated to follow or risk losing my job. The ramifications of being caught in not following this addition to our contract could also potentially damage future opportunities to pursue this field. And to risk this job, without consulting you, seems… irresponsible, at best. I do not wish to place the financial burden of this family solely on your shoulders. Especially with Virgil going to college in two years.”

The kitchen is quiet for a moment. The only sound to be heard is a song floating through the closed door and down the stairs from Virgil’s room—something with a fast beat and heavy bass that Logan can’t identify—and the whir of the refrigerator. Logan lifts his head out of his hands and locks gazes with his husband.

Patton sighs and covers Logan’s hand with one of his own. “Why don’t you want to follow it?”

“They are requiring that we out transgender students to their parents,” Logan says, no longer able to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “And I… I don’t know that I can, in good conscience, follow that.” He flips the hand Patton is covering up so that his palm is touching his husband’s before entwining their fingers together. When he looks back up at Patton, he sees that a brightness and pained empathy shining in them.

“Logan,” Patton says softly. “I have your back. Always have, always will. You have to do the right thing here.”

Logan takes in a deep breath and releases it in a huff. “I just wish I knew what that was, Patton. I can’t carry it out. That much is certain. But… does this mean I leave the school? That feels…” Logan isn’t sure how to explain the slightly sour taste the thought leaves on his tongue, or the twist it pulls in his stomach. “Cowardly. It feels cowardly, to leave those kids to fend for themselves in an institution that is willing to so greatly dismiss their well-being and best interest.”

Logan feels Patton squeeze his hand. He is grateful for the small reminder and reassurance the action gives him. Logan holds onto his hand like it’s a lifeline.

“But does staying mean I’m condoning it? Does it make me complicit in the injustice?” Logan can tell the frustration is starting to boil over in the biting way the words push past his lips. “Would leaving be a sign that I don’t stand for it and neither should the students? Or is it just running away when they need an advocate from inside?”

Logan’s hand curls into fist. Patton reaches across the table and covers that hand too until Logan relaxes his grip.

“Logan.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

The high school science teacher looks up at his partner and is surprised when he feels soft lips meeting his own, Patton’s hand cupping his jaw. Logan’s eyes close and he leans into the kiss, releasing a faint breath when Patton pulls away. He brushes his thumb back and forth across Logan’s cheek.

“You are going to figure out what the best course of action is,” Patton assures him. “But this decision has to be yours. I can’t tell you what to do here. I’ll support you no matter what.”

Logan swallows and nods.

…

Logan sits at his desk the following morning as students start making their way into his room. Some of them have earbuds in, nodding along to whatever beat is helping them prepare for the day ahead. Others come in with friends, laughing and elbowing one another and saying things that Logan is almost certain is either a reference to something he’s never seen or an inside joke.

Two boys talk about the basketball game they won last night. A small group of them come in talking excitedly about how casting calls would be posted at the end of the day for the school’s production of The Crucible. One of them is Virgil’s best friend, Roman. The rising theatre star flashes a bright smile to the science teacher. Logan gives him a polite, acknowledging nod in return. Roman’s smile dims.

The bell rings a few minutes later. The class takes their seats. It’s all very ‘business as usual’, except that Logan can’t help but feel like something has fundamentally changed. Something he can’t quite pin-point.

He looks at the podium at the front of the room, off-center so as to not block the screen behind it. The class looks at him—half of them expectant, half of them already bored—as the PowerPoint slide with the title of the unit in big, bold letters glares from the screen behind him. Logan looks back at them.

He switches off the projector and takes a seat on the stool in the front of the room. The class straightens up almost as a cohesive unit. Logan looks at them all again and sighs.

“We’re going to postpone Chapter 9 until next week,” Logan tells them. “There’s something I want to talk to you all about today.”

A student in the back raises her hand. Logan nods to her. “What are we gonna talk about instead, Mr. Sanders?”

“I want to talk to you all about identity.” Logan gives the class a steady, quiet look. “And I have the feeling this may be the most important thing I teach you all in our entire year together. So if you don’t take anything away from today except one thing, know this: you are the expert on yourself. Nobody has the right to your identity but you.”

…

“You quit? What do you mean ‘you quit’?”

Logan stares at the principal unflinchingly. “I mean I am tendering my resignation from this school. I am willing to fulfill my two weeks obligation should it be necessary, but I do not feel that this establishment is reflective of my ideals as an educator.”

“Sanders, you’ve worked at this school for the past—“

“Eight years,” Logan replies coldly. “Yes, I am quite aware.”

“What changed?”

Logan’s jaw jumps. “As an educator, the safety of my students and their freedom of expression is my absolute top priority. You have thrown both to the wind with this ridiculous ‘Rights of Parents’ initiative. Frankly, these students deserve better from you, sir.”

The principal’s face flushes red, his nostrils flaring. “That is not your call to make.”

“You’re right,” Logan admits. “It’s not. But I cannot work at an institution that knowingly puts my students at risk.”

“You have no evidence that this intitative is putting anyone at risk—“

Logan feels his frustration flaring. “Suicide rates for LGBTQ+ teens has risen in the last twenty years. Forcing teens in vulnerable positions to be outed to someone who is responsible for them financially and is expected to care for their well-being not only may put them at risk if those caretakers are not supportive—“

“Now wait a minute—“

“—but is also a complete violation of their own autonomy as human beings,” Logan continues, his voice rising slightly to speak over the interruption. “Nobody has a right their identity but them. Who that gets shared with should be up to them. Not you, not me, but them.”

“I will not have you questioning—“

Logan shakes his head. “I resign, sir,” he says bitingly. “Effective immediately or in two weeks is up to you.” He pushes himself up from the desk and grabs his jacket that he had slung over the back of the chair, walking out of the office.

“Immediately,” he says sharply. “You’re lucky I don’t fire you instead, Sanders.”

Logan lets the door slam closed behind him.

…

“Uh, dad?”

It’s two days later, and Logan looks up from the laptop in his lap as he sits on the couch. Virgil stands in the front door, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He has a handful of envelopes in his hands. Logan arches an eyebrow at his son.

“Yes?”

“Here.” He holds out the envelopes to Logan. “These are for you.”

Confused, Logan takes them from Virgil. He sees “Mr. Sanders” written on the front of most of them. There’s seven of them. Logan looks up at Virgil who is has this odd look in his eyes that Logan can’t quite place.

“What are they?” he asks.

“Letters,” Virgil explains simply. “Word about why you left has started getting around the school, and… well, a lot of people actually think it was pretty cool of you. People started handing me letters they wanted to give to you.”

“Oh,” Logan says, surprised. “Um, thank you, Virgil.”

“Dad?”

“Hm?”

Logan coughs in surprise when Virgil suddenly gives him a fierce hug. “What you did? That was… pretty cool. It… mattered. To more than just a few people. So… thanks for sticking up for them.”

Logan manages a small smile as Virgil pulls away. “Always, Virgil.”

[mcarfield]

Yo so happy you posted another bit of fic! Keep posting any snippets you can, I’m very eager for more

Okay, anon, you asked and you shall receive.

In case you’re just joining us, I wrote this giant McArfield fic (well, giant, considering it is the world’s first and basically only real McArfield fic to date, lol) that covers the entire time period of the play production from like November 2016 to July 2018, and in the middle of 2017 they do the like 4-month break to transfer to the states. And as the world’s first McArfield shipper, lol, I wrestle with that 4-month break all the time, like, what did it do to them, how did it impact their emotional dynamic, etc etc, and at first when I was writing the fic I skipped over it and then I eventually went back and added the small transition scene that’s there now.

But before I did that, I kind of accidentally churned out this ridiculous phone sex scene that was totally useless because it threw off the entire pacing of my fic lol, and also appears out of nowhere and half-takes place in front of livestock, and because I am a ridiculous person with no sense of self-preservation, I am going to show you this ridiculous thing, and I’m so sorry for all of us in this strange wondrous time.

And after simmering in this anxiety for a day or two he calls James, who answers the phone with, “Hey, there, sweetheart,” and Andrew drops into the nearest chair immediately because his knees have just given out.

“Hey, sexy, how you doing,” Andrew says, aghast at himself and unable to remember the last time he felt this way — even with Emma there was never this, this thing where James talks and Andrew suddenly feels like his motor functions have all stalled.

“I’m doing great, now,” James says, sounding pleased. “Hang on, I’m at my uncle’s birthday party and it’s a ruckus in here, l need to find a better spot for this.”

“Do not leave your uncle’s birthday party, I’m hanging up,” Andrew says.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” says James, and god, why can’t Andrew stop smiling, what is happening, this is — this is — he forces himself to drag air into his lungs and does it again and again until at last James says, “You hear that?”

“What am I listening to?”

“Crickets,” says James. ”I’m literally outside sitting on some sort of barrel next to a sheep pasture like I’m in a bloody Thomas Hardy novel. There’s a sheep staring at me like ‘who the fuck are you?’”

“I’m in New York,” says Andrew. “My dog’s here, but I think he’s mostly used to me now.”

“I doubt that,” says James. “He’s barely seen you lately, probably forgotten all about you.”

“I don’t think that’s how dogs work.”

“You say that now, but one day Ren’ll be locking you out of the house. Cops show up, he’ll be like, ‘Officer, I don’t even know him, he just showed up here.’”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t do the play for the sake of my relationship with my dog?”

“I’m saying I bet he missed you,” James says, suddenly warm and serious.

“Have you missed me?” Andrew’s voice sinks on its own, and he suddenly realizes he is no longer in control of his emotions or anything about this conversation.

“Always,” says James. “You?”

“Oh, yes, I’m weeping into my tea on the daily.”

“That’s the Andrew I love,” says James, and Andrew’s heart stops, holy shit, this is just, honestly, what.

“I do miss you,” he says, vamping. “I miss, I miss everyone. And, and Prior misses Louis.”

“Of course he does,” James says automatically, and, ugh, Andrew loves this about James — that Andrew can be the world’s biggest grandiose drama queen and drop all kinds of leading statements or ridiculous nonsensical bullshit on him, and James never ever fucking bites, he just rolls with it. He always gives Andrew his ‘yes, and,’ without expecting him to explain or talk out what’s in his brain, and it’s wonderful, he’s wonderful.

In Louis’ voice, James says, “Tell Prior I love him, and I’m coming back to him whether he likes it or not.”

Andrew breaks into laughter. “Louis?” he answers as Prior. “What the hell are you doing in Scotland, I didn’t think Jewish New Yorkers ever migrated further than Florida!”

“I just, I just got a little carried away is all,” says Louis, “I went to visit the graves of all the previous Prior Walters to ask for their help in winning you back.”

“And that’s why we can’t be together,” Prior replies. “You want to give me a grand gesture? Come back and help me pay my health insurance!”

James cackles, and for a moment they just laugh together. “It’s tough,” he says after a moment in his own voice, his own beautiful voice, rough and smooth all at once, like polished granite. “Knowing we have to take this giant break and then start it all up again.”

“I don’t want the break,” Andrew says, “I want it to be happening, I want it to be over. I mean — I don’t want it to be over. I don’t ever want it to be over.”

“But it’s the next ten fucking months,” says James.

“Ten fucking months,” Andrew says, curling up into the chair and wrapping his arms around himself to stave off the cold gnawing in the pit of his stomach when he thinks about it. “I don’t even know who the fuck I’ll be in ten months. When this play is done with me and finally spits me back out into the world.”

“That’s the whole point of doing it, though, isn’t it?” James says. “To let it change you. To do the work and let the work make you into someone new, someone better.”

“Yeah, but I— I don’t know if I want to change that much,” says Andrew.

“You mean you don’t want to turn into Prior,” says James, and as he speaks, Andrew realizes he’s actually getting a little hard at the sound of James’s voice. “You don’t want your feelings and his to be inextricable?”

Andrew grips himself and tries to figure out whether he wants James to stop talking or wants James to keep talking.

“No, I think I’d be, uh, happy to become Prior,” he babbles, “as long as I didn’t think I’d wake up one day and suddenly be myself again.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” James says. “Whatever awakenings you have, sexual or otherwise, they’re yours, they’re not grafted onto you.”

“Who said anything about sex?” Andrew yelps, crossing his legs.

“Oh, are we not talking about sexuality?” James asks wryly. “You said you didn’t want to become Prior, I didn’t think you were talking about suddenly hearing voices or being diagnosed with terminal illness.”

“Oh,” says Andrew. “Um.” He takes a breath. “I don’t care if I have a sexual awakening from all this,” Andrew says. “I care that I have to wait another ten fucking months to know if it’s real or if it’s just... method acting.”

There’s a long pause, and then James says softly, “Oh.”

“Do you,” says Andrew. “Um. No, wait, that’s, that’s not why I called, I did not call to talk about my non-sexual non-awakening.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” James answers. “You said you’d tell me if I ever had a shot at being Spider-Man’s girlfriend.”

Andrew laughs, a little shrilly. Thank god James is like this, thank god he never pins Andrew down on any of the drivel that comes out of his mouth, but also this is doing nothing to help Andrew’s erection. “You know I’d just kiss you upside-down if you asked, right?” he manages.

“Nah,” James replies. “Wouldn’t be the same. I’d want the full deal. The drama, the sparks, you in Spandex.”

“I think you’re making a really different Spider-Man movie in your head,” Andrew says, but his breath catches as he says it, and suddenly the air is charged with a tension he hadn’t known it was possible to feel, over the phone, thousands of miles between them.

“I like my movie better, then,” James says, and his voice drops like a stone. “Just me, and you, and me finally having you right where I want you.”

The silence stretches on and on between them and Andrew thinks: Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck, and finally manages to whisper:

“When are you coming to New York?”

James exhales, heavy and slow, like he’s having to remember how. “Not til December. Putting it off.”

“Oh,” says Andrew. “That’s, that’s fine. Of course it’s fine.”

“It is fine,” says James. “It has to be fine, because this play is the work. It’s the work of my life, it’s the work of all our lives, and, and it has to be.” He takes a breath and says shakily, “So I’m not going to tell you what I’d do to you, I’m not going to talk about how I’d kiss your mouth and your throat and your cock or how I’d touch you for hours or how I’d beg you to hold me down and fuck me—”

“James,” Andrew breaks in, rasping because his throat has just gone impossibly dry. His hand has started moving over his erection of its own volition, and he knows James can hear the hitch in his breathing.

“Or, or how I’d get you hard and then ride you until you filled me up, and then turn you over and ream you out, how I’d put my tongue inside you until you were incoherent and then put my cock in you and fuck you hard and deep, the way you always beg me to fuck you, the way you beg me with your eyes and your voice and your mouth, every fucking night when I kiss you, Andrew—”

The top of Andrew’s head flies off and he comes with a jolt and a shudder and James’ name on his lips.

He sits covered in sweat and shock, panting, while James breathes with him and eventually says gently, “I’m not going to do any of that because ten months is a long fucking time.”

Andrew laughs, giddy and wrecked and hoarse. “So you’re just going to leave me here with my gay crisis?” he manages. “You make me come and you aren’t even going to let me return the favor?”

“Fuck,” says James, and Andrew wants to ask him if he’s hard, if Andrew makes him hard, if this is really happening to them both or if it’s all just a complete and utterly unprofessional disaster. “I want to say yes, but for starters this sheep is still right here—”

“Oh, my god, shut up.” Andrew bursts into laughter. “Fuck you.”

“I’m sorry,” James says. “I’m so fucking gone on you, and, and I can’t be, because it’s too much, and I know you’ve been down that road, I know you know how the lines get crossed, and you’ve been so fucking careful up til now and I just went and fucked it up—”

“No, you didn’t,” Andrew says, “because I was losing my mind without hearing from you, I needed—I needed your voice.” He feels like he’s being strangled. “This already feels like — I feel bereft, I want you here.” He laughs, and it sounds hollow. “I want my fucking boyfriend.”

“I’m in love with you,” James says.

“I know,” Andrew says, because he’s known for months; how could he not?

“I’ve gone and fallen in love with my fucking straight co-star with ten fucking months left before the end of the biggest fucking performance of my career,” says James again, with emphasis. “Who, by the way, is a world-famous celebrity, which hilariously isn’t even on the radar of surreal things about this situation.”

Andrew bites down hard on his knuckle because he’s either about to burst into laughter or sobs, he’s not sure which. “If it helps any I think the straight thing is really, really up for debate.”

“You’ve made out with like eight of your other male co-stars!” James says, sounding a little hysterical. “None of them ever turned you gay!”

“Well, I didn’t have to act in a seven-and-a-half-hour nightly ritual of epic love and heartbreak with any of them, did I?”

“Ten fucking months.” James swears under his breath, and there’s a bleat from somewhere in the background.

“Jesus christ,” says Andrew, bursting into laughter, “you fucking had phone sex with me in the middle of a sheep pasture.”

“I would have phone sex with you if you called me from the middle of a fucking Trump rally,” James says. “I love you.”

“This is such bullshit,” says Andrew, still laughing. “I’m going to throw my fucking phone off the balcony.”

“I’m hanging up on you now,” says James. “And when I see you in New York it’ll be like this never happened. You can just chalk this up as a total fluke.”

“You want me to tell my dick this was a total fluke?” Andrew asks.

“Look, you asshole,” says James, “If your dick is still interested after goddamn July, I’ll apologize to it personally.”

“I’m going to sext you,” Andrew threatens. “I’m going to sext you all the time, you’re going to feel like you’re in the world’s worst game of gay chicken.”

“That is sexual harassment, you motherfucker,” says James, cracking up.

“I’m so sorry,” says Andrew, swiping at his face. His laughter is starting to turn into hiccups. “I’m so sorry. I love you and I miss you terribly.”

“This is going to be fine,” says James. “I promise you, no matter what, you’ll be fine, and Prior and Louis will be fine.”

“I need you to be fine,” Andrew says. “I don’t want to hurt you, I never ever want to hurt you.”

James breathes in and out, and Andrew doesn’t know why just the sound of him breathing is so reassuring, but it is.

“James,” Andrew says. “We just kind of had sex.”

“Yeah,” says James. There’s silence between them for a moment. “We’ve sacrificed so much of ourselves for this play,” he says. “We can sacrifice a little more. In ten months this might look like a totally hilarious weird moment in time. Or, or we’ll see.”

Andrew sighs. “Then I guess I’ll see you in December,” he says.

“I’ll be counting,” James says. “All the days.”

(oh god i love them they’re such a mess ahhhh help)

[perpetually-jungshook]

Goldilocks || 02

Rated T (language and suggestive themes)

Summary: After getting evicted, your two best friends Jimin and Taehyung offer you a place to stay until you get back on your feet. Needless to say, with a part time job and a mountain of student debt, that’s not happening any time soon. Eventually, they DO become really fond of having you around, helping with chores and even splitting rent. So when you come home one day to find someone has been sleeping in your couch-bed, well… it’s something you won’t take lightly.

Word Count: 2k

Out of context Goldilocks quote: “What…? This can’t POSSIBLY be bad,” he purrs, “It’ll give you an excuse to come sleep with me.”

Link to: Goldilocks Masterlist || Previous Part || Next Part

not my photograph, credit to owner

✩✩✩♔✩✩✩

The room floods with darkness as you turn off the light, the same irrational thought going through your mind on replay.

Jungkook can’t catch you if he can’t see you.

“Wait,” his confused response is probably (hopefully) just instinctive, and you can hear him stumble around, falling off of the couch, kicking the coffee table.

Of course, you plan on doing anything BUT waiting. So, panic flooding your system, you attempt to find the doorknob in complete darkness, the storm outside letting no light through the windows.

With each second you spend groping the wall, Jungkook gets closer.

Heart hammering, your fingers find the cold metal and a rush of relief pulses through you… only to be torn away as you realize you locked the deadbolt.

The lights flick back on and your attention lingers on the boy poised at the switch just long enough to scramble underneath him, give his body a good shove, and physically INSIST that the lights STAY out.

Just the thought of seeing him, meeting his gaze, sends prickles across the back of your neck. TOUCHING him is another story. Jungkook, even in your brief contact, feels warm and solid and like a fucking BOULDER.

Not knowing what else to do, still unable to see, you make a break for the bathroom and lock yourself inside.

Before you pushed him, Jungkook had tried to talk to you, but his words fell on deaf ears, the panic too thick, your heartbeat too loud. Maybe he had been trying to reassure you. Maybe he had been trying to apologize for spilling his drink on your dress. Or maybe he simply wanted to yell at you for having slapped him afterward.

Whatever the case, the only thing you catch is an exasperated, “Well fine. Fucking be that way.”

Pins and needles caress your spine at his choice of words, but with your back against the door, you’re pretty sure you can hear him return to the couch and that’s better than confronting him.

It’s ridiculous really, you shouldn’t be this afraid of what he might do. Jungkook has given you NO reason to react like this, and yet…

Pulling out your phone, your fingers frantically dial the only number that will come to mind. Jimin picks up on the second ring, “Hey, ____. What’s up?”

“Why didn’t you say HE was going to be here?” you whisper-shout, gesturing wildly even though he can’t see you.

“Who-? Oh, Jungkook? Sorry. I was going to say something but I forgot…”

“Jimin!”

“SORRY! His dad kicked him out and how could I not give him a place to crash?”

“But where am I supposed to sleep now?” you begin pacing, free arm wrapped tightly across your chest.

“Dude-”

“Don’t DUDE me.”

“____, look, just do me a favor and live with it for a day or two until he figures something out, alright? We took you in. It’s not like I can’t offer him the same thing.”

“Yeah, but we, the three of us, were BEST FRIENDS, Chim. You KNOW how I feel about Jungkook.”

Jimin sighs and you can imagine him running his fingers through his hair in frustration, “Honestly, I don’t even know why you hate him so much.”

You pause at that, not knowing how to respond because really, there ISN’T a good reason. He ruined a dress, you slapped him, it should be even, but the cocktail of terror, embarrassment, and RAGE inside of your chest is only just now coming to a gentle simmer instead of a violent boil.

Your friend calls you on your bullshit immediately, “See, YOU don’t even know. Give the kid a chance.”

“Fine,” you sigh, hanging up without a goodbye to spite him. Give Jungkook a chance? You glance at the door, the image of that irritating golden fringe flashing behind your eyelids.

You call Taehyung.

“Hey baby,” he greets you cheerfully, but lowly. That’s when you remember he’s still in class.

“Is now a bad time?”

“Nah, I stopped paying attention like twenty minutes ago.”

You can’t help but smile at his carefree attitude. But then you remember Jungkook.

“Babe, you remember Chim’s birthday party?” you whisper, halting your pacing to shrug off your rain soaked jacket and throw it in the sink to be dealt with later.

“Sure. Kind of. I got a little drunk. So like…at least seventeen percent.”

“That’s actually a really good percentage for you.”

“I know right?” he sounds amused, “Anyway, what about it?”

“Jimin is letting that Jungkook kid stay at the apartment,” you fume, also kicking off your boots and soggy socks.

“Oh fun! Another movie buddy.”

“No, Tae! This is bad. I don’t like him and he’s stealing my couch.”

“What…? This can’t POSSIBLY be bad,” he purrs, “It’ll give you an excuse to come sleep with me.”

“TAE.”

“In my BED,” he giggles, clearly humored at your embarrassment. “We can be bunk buddies.”

At least that’s one thing you won’t have to worry about. You’ll thank him later, but for now, you still need to solve the problem of getting out of the bathroom.

“Aigo- I need to go, the professor is starting to look. Buh-bye.”

“Bye…” you say, even after you distinctly hear him hang up. So much for a plan.

Taking a breath, you steel yourself to consider your options. You could go out there and face him like the mature adult you are- or you can hide in here until either Jimin or Taehyung comes home to find your corpse.

Yeah, rotting in a bathroom is definitely how you want to go.

To stall for time, you take a hot shower to get the perpetual chill out of your bones, but it gets ruined by the fact that you’re not able to change into pajamas directly afterwards. Now caught between being butt naked or putting on the dirty clothes, you wrap a towel around your chest and take a seat on the tile floor.

Eight rounds of phone-solitaire later, you’re bored and uncomfortable as all hell and decide chancing a run to Jimin’s room across the hallway might not be a terrible idea. It would only take about three steps and Jungkook is probably sleeping again. He has no reason to harass you and even if he DID catch you mid-sprint, what could he possibly do?

Kicking your old clothes into a pile out of the way, you brace yourself, throw open the door, and leap into Jimin’s room with all the beauty and grace of a walrus. Flopping onto the carpeted floor after tripping on the threshold, you only recover by rolling over and kicking the door closed.

Unfortunately, there is no lock, but you hope Jungkook has the basic human decency to respect the boundary.

Rifling through Jimin’s wardrobe, as your clothes occupy the lower half of the entertainment center in the living room (i.e. inside the quarantine zone), you shimmy into a pair of his boxers and a tee shirt. He won’t mind if you borrow these. Probably.

Mission accomplished, you take a seat on the edge of his expertly made bed.

Jimin has always been a little uptight, ironing, folding, or hanging his clothes immediately after washing them, dusting every weekend, and organizing his CDs alphabetically. Anyone who walked into his room would be shocked, especially after seeing how trashed the rest of the apartment is. See, the thing about Jimin is he only intensely, SELECTIVELY cares. He’s the type of person who will leave lights on in every room, let piles of garbage collect on the coffee table, or “forget” his dirty dishes in the sink until they start to smell. But if you so much as walked into his room with mud on your shoes, he’d verbally gut you. Or at least try to.

The rain continues to patter outside, white noise that easily fades to the back of your attention. Why are you so bored?

It only takes about three seconds before the image of your phone on the bathroom countertop flashes behind your eyelids. From one prison to another, huh? But because last time you went thoroughly snooping through Jimin’s drawers for entertainment you found… well let’s just say you couldn’t look him in the eyes for a week, you decide to be brave and go back.

And of course, how could this be a romantic comedy if the instant you opened the door, Jungkook wasn’t walking down the hall toward the same destination?

He’s turned the lights on again by now, so eye contact is immediate. Both of your freeze.

You aren’t sure whether the hot, numb feeling that crackles across your cheeks means they’ve flushed or drained of all color, but somehow, you manage to speak first, trying to be polite for Jimin’s sake, “I’m just going to get my phone.”

“Okay,” he replies warily, tugging at the hood strings of his sweatshirt, breaking eye contact.

Awkwardly, you edge around the perimeter of your personal space bubble, wanting to be as far away from him as possible.

As soon as you secure the device, you scramble back to Jimin’s room and close yourself inside. There’s one new message.

Chimin: Manager let me leave early, on my way home :)

A smile of relief finds your lips.

Twenty minutes later, you hear the front door open and you fling the blankets off of your body, eager to greet your savior. At least now, maybe he can tell Jungkook to leave you alone- or just to leave, period.

You press your ear against the door.

“Hyung! Thanks again for letting me stay, but you didn’t tell me a girl was here too.”

“That’s ____, she’s been living with us for a while,” Jimin’s rich tenor voice is easy to distinguish.

So Jungkook DOESN’T remember you. Okay… maybe you could TRY-

“Oh, is she always so weird?”

“Yah, Jeongguk! She is your noona! Respect her,” your friend’s outburst is underscored by the sharp sound of a quick smack, though you can assume it’s mostly playful in nature.

“Noona…?”

“So if you did anything, you better go apologize-”

A laugh cuts off Jimin’s order, slightly derisive but mostly humored, “I didn’t DO ANYTHING, hyung. She’s the one who freaked out.”

DIDN’T DO ANYTHING. Your stained dress would beg to differ.

“Where is she?”

“Your room.”

Backing away, you leap onto the bed to lie down as casually as you can, not wanting to be caught listening. Thankfully, you even manage to pick up your phone and unlock it just as Jimin opens the door.

“____-ah I hope you didn’t- WHY THE HELL ARE YOU WEARING MY CLOTHES?”

“What? Did you want me to sit on your bed naked?” you tease, sitting upright and shimmying your shoulders.

If it had been Tae, he would’ve taken the joke and run with it, probably saying something about how that was the most ideal situation he could think of, but this is Jimin, and all he can do is turn pinker than Anish Kapoor’s famous paint.

He clears his throat, “You- you’re washing them.”

“Sure thing hon,” you laugh, winking playfully.

With that promise secured, Jimin relaxes, “Great! Anyway, I was thinking… if you’re not busy tonight, we should order pizza and maybe play games or something. Get to know each other.”

“Chim, Tae and I have known you for more than ten years-”

“I’m not TALKING about me,” he rolls his eyes, gaze coming to rest on a point over his shoulder. Your attention follows, but this is an action you immediately regret as soon as you notice the head of golden hair poking through the doorway. You tentatively lock gazes with Jungkook and he arches a single, infuriatingly perfect eyebrow at you.

A challenge.

✩✩✩♔✩✩✩

A/N: wow look! Part 2, so soon?! Yes, because I love y’all and thank you for showing this story YOUR love <3 I really appreciate it! You can also thank @roseok and @hopewave for putting me in a great mood :)

EOPQ 9: First impressions of Jungkook??

Send me your thoughts/answers here. Or just come say hi ;) Please include the End of Post Question number upon submission, thank you!

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[shipmvns]

For The Girl Who Cried Wolf And The People She Loved

IM BACK FAM

Pairing: Riley/Maya Words: 1,632 Summary:  It is easy to be unafraid when we have blind faith in those we love. If someone has proven, time and time again, that they are invincible, then we will believe them when they look to the sky and claim, "I will never die."

PART ONE  PART TWO  PART THREE  PART FOUR  PART FIVE  PART SIX  PART SEVEN  PART EIGHT PART NINE  PART TEN

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You can manage all of ten minutes staring at the ceiling with twitching knuckles thinking about how much of an absolute fucking idiot you are before you find yourself slipping out the window and turning the corner into your apartment's car garage where your mother's old volvo resides.

In the dark, damp air of the concrete building, your breathing hitches, because, God, you fucked it all up, didn't you? Yes, she was talking to Lucas, and yes, you're fucking pissed, but of course you were the first to go off like that and make it so easy to mess it all up. Because you said shit that was too far because don't you always go too goddamn far and now she's somewhere crying over a fucking text from a boy you're jealous of because you can't help but play it all off as this bullshit fury, right?

You breathe in and out and open the door of the car that you shouldn't know how to drive and yet sort of do, even though there's a good two years before that's even legal, and you grip the steering wheel and turn on the car because you need to do something.

So you drive. Not very well, but it's a while of cruising and slight speeding blending in against the Manhattan drivers and white noise on the radio clogging your ears as you beat yourself up inside before you're driving on a curve around a bend with wilderness to your left, and it occurs to you that you're not entirely sure where you are.

Your mind begins to flood with memories of earlier. God, you're terrible. Truly awful. But you don't know if you were wrong. You meant what you said when you told her she only acted like they were anything more than friends when you were in a bad situation- that's what started all of this, isn't it? But you didn't mean to say it out loud. And, God, she's going to be so torn up over that.

You flinch. You hurt her. That's all you ever do, huh? Hurt her, and make her worried constantly, always wondering when the next time she's gonna have to see you all broken is. Always scared of what the world will do to you. And, of course, you've gotta be stoic through all of this, just like always, because if you don't tell her that it's fine, then it'll only be worse, so you always have to ignore it all and say what she wants to hear.

Why do you always fucking do that? Why is that your job, when she's texting Lucas at two in the morning and the kissing you in hospital beds? Why do you bother?

You grit your teeth and don't notice yourself speeding up on the empty road until you swerve and the car flips and then there isn't anything, anymore.

Riley POV

When you get the sobbing call from Maya's mom at six in the morning, saying they recovered a body identified as Maya's a few hours from the city, you do not call your parents before hailing a cab to the hospital.

You storm in like it's your job despite the feeling leaving your body and simmering to a dull hiss in the back of your brain because you feel like you've been doing this for all of your life, you're convinced that hospital walls and hope of a higher power are all you've known, but you think maybe you're getting ahead of yourself.

Katy is crying, and she has every right to, but the first thought that pops into your head as the silvery dawn begins to appear out of the windows is that, Maya will be fine.

Partially because she has to be, and a little because this has happened before, right? So many times. And so, it's going to be okay. Because, if it weren't, it'd be your fault. She's gonna be fine, she always is. So, dutifully, you walk up to the familiar doctor you've grown so close to, and demand answers.

"Cerebral edema. Swelling of the brain. Unresponsive. There's brain trauma, there. That's the worst of your worries. She's so far unresponsive, and we've got her on a respirator. Possibility of coma, but it's early to tell, after something like that. A handful of her previous injuries have worsened, like her arm. Lungs are in bad shape, but the respirator is keeping her going," He looks grim as he gives you the rundown.

You inhale, quick and sharp. "She's going to be fine, though, right?" You ask, tugging at the sleeve of your pajama shirt.

"She's... a fighter," He hesitates.

The next day, she's announced to be in a coma. Your heart sinks. They let you see her. She looks very small and very broken and terribly far away. Your parents take you home when they see the look on your face.

You visit her, all day, everyday, for three days, and then your parents make you go back to school. You have to tell everyone what happened. And the first week rolls by. Lucas presses the truth out of you, the whole truth, like why Maya was out in the early hours of the morning, and he thinks that it's his fault.

"No news is good news" becomes your reluctant life motto. It all feels entirely stagnant and terrifying.

You visit everyday after school. Your grades drop. Not too terribly much. But enough to be noticeable. No one says anything, though.

You begin to talk to her. Because maybe she can hear you, right? You tell her you're sorry, and explain everything, like how Lucas only texted you because he was going on vacation with his family to Europe for the weekend, and wanted you to know.

You tell her you love her, more than anything in the world, and you tell her that you always have, and you most of all tell her that that's why she has to wake up for you. And one day, in the middle of all of this, her heart monitor begins to let out an alarm noise, and you're pushed out by doctors. You wait in the waiting room for hours and hours and hours.

But she's not dead. And her heart monitor goes back to normal. And you go home.

And then, weeks later, something wonderful happens. It's almost ceremonious. You watch them take her off of the respirator, and she breathes all by herself. Katy grips your hand and a tear falls from her eye. "She's a fighter," She says softly, and you are so, so proud.

The doctors tell you she's on the track to recovery, and you want to believe them, so you do, but there's still this aching in the back of your chest.

And then it's your birthday, and you want to believe that everything is going beautifully well. But it's dark, and everything in your apartment is loud, and you should be happy, but all you can see is the gaps in between the spaces where she should be, standing there next to you, and you can't help but feel completely alone. You can't be without her- you knew that a long time ago. Quietly, you slip away, and spend the night crying in your bedroom.

Months trot along in blurs of rain where there should be snow, and beige walls with antiseptic seeping through the cracks, and you barely notice that you even go to school anymore. But she should be getting better.

"She's not getting worse." That is hardly enough for you, and all of this waiting is getting to your head. But you visit, and visit, and visit.

And then it's May, and you haven't been visiting as much. You still do. You're dedicated, of course you are, you love her. But you and the others have made new friends, too, and life still has to go on, that's healthy, and it's prom night. So you just haven't been seeing her as much, and now it's prom night, and you're sitting in the hallway outside of the stench of booze and the loud music with an upperclassmen you only half know.

He leans forward in the darkness and kisses you, and for a second you think it's sort of nice, and then everything is rain in November at two am and a flashing text message that interrupts an almost-kiss with lips you remember, and you're scrambling up with burning eyes making up half apologies that fizzle out from your cracking voice long before you find yourself walking to the hospital in summer air that feels cold, still, in some stupid prom dress.

You get to the hospital under fluorescent lights that hurt your eyes even still, and you tell the nurse who knows you by name that you're here for Maya, and she tells you a doctor is with her now.

Forty five minutes later, a doctor comes out with a frown and a clipboard.

He sounds apologetic and you feel dazed. You can barely choke out three words before you stumble out onto the street again.

You feel hollow and guilty. You wander home feeling ridiculous. It was supposed to be just a regular visit. You didn't even get to say goodbye. You were supposed to save her. She died and it's your fault and she didn't know you loved her.

And now they're calling her mom.

And now you're alone. But it doesn’t make any sense. Because she’s Maya. She can withstand anything. She got shot, Jesus Christ! But now, she’s… just, dead. And that’s a little bit your fault. Mostly your fault. And she didn’t know you loved her. So there isn’t anything, anymore.