not in that sense anyway but i wonder if anyone has ever even tried

iwasapruneratfaverolles  asked:

PLEASE TELL THE CHILDREN THE STORY OF MS. STUBELS

Grace fuck, why would you invoke her name like that???

Okay, fine, gather round children, buckle up because we’re going on a bumpy ride back to everyone’s collective least favorite place: 7th grade.

Some background: I went to a very small Catholic school. One class per grade (we were the largest with 19 kids), everyone knew each other whether they wanted to or not. Despite basically every teacher and faculty members insistence that we were The Best And Most Special Class In The School and that everyone loved having us, the longstanding 7th grade teacher Mrs. O’Hara decided to retire in the summer of 2008, meaning the school had to find us a new teacher for the upcoming year. This would be like, the first new teacher in the school in a while, and as she was getting the ‘best class’, it was viewed as a Big Deal. Somewhere in like July or August we got a letter announcing Mrs. Stubel, and it came with a list of books to pick for the summer reading, and that was basically all the information we had.

So…the first day of class. She seems nice enough. Very…ditsy, I guess? It was very easy for her to get herself off topic while talking. She constantly paced around the room, never staying in one spot for longer than a second, complaining she has restless leg syndrome. Which like, I’m sure she did, but she was in the middle of introducing herself and then went on a 20 minute tangent about restless leg syndrome without anyone prompting her. It was almost like you could see her scattered thoughts flying around her head.

So anyone, she eventually gives somewhat of an introduction- she had only taught in public schools before, and kept worrying she ‘didn’t know’ how to teach in a Catholic school despite the entire class insisting literally nothing was different, you just teach the curriculum, twice a week we have religion class with Sister Mary King, that’s literally it (she still talked over us in worry), she told us about her kids, she told us about her obsession with Emily Dickinson, stuff like that.

And then she hands us this worksheet.

She’s like, “Oh, these are just some basic questions for you to answer! Just so I can get to know you guys better!” like in lieu of an icebreaker game, which is fine, but…the questions. The questions were all “What is your most haunting fear?”, “What is your deepest regret?”, “Have you ever experienced the pain of loss?”, “What was your worst injury?”, “What was your worst nightmare?”, all questions like that, and then on the back she wanted us to draw a gravestone and write out what we wanted our epitaph to be.

We were twelve year olds, mind you.

Oh my God and one girl missed the first day because of her grandmother’s funeral, so when she came the next day and saw what the teacher was insisting she do for homework, she almost had a panic attack? And the lady still made her do it? Literally who wants to think about death anymore at a time like that omfg.

Okay, so then we get to the summer reading book reports, right? Now, she had given a list of maybe, 20 books that you could pick from, read it, and then present an oral report on it. You had to have notecards and you had to be able to answer questions from the class at the end. All in all, I’ve had worse projects.

So, on this list, she apparently put Madeleine L’Engle’s entire book series on the list…only she did not make it known that this was a series and not multiple stand alone books, so when reports started up it caused mass-panic of kids trying to put together plot points and make connections on what the hell they had read.

I was the only kid in the class who had chosen to read “A Wrinkle In Time”, and that has since lead to a series of events that…really actually scares me, I’m still incredibly freaked out, I’m not going to get into it right now because it’ll take away from the current story, but just know that I’m not above wondering if it only happened because I read the book for Stubel.

Anyway, so like, I got through the report okay. The class asking questions about it was fine, but the teacher kept asking questions that didn’t make sense, like, at all. My friend Angie has always had super neat handwriting and Mrs. Stubel got like, obsessed with her notecards and asked if she could borrow them for something. When we got our grades back a few weeks later, Angie had points taken off for not having notecards.

And then her teaching just…didn’t happen. She’d never stay on a topic, she’d always get herself distracted! We were not learning anything. And like, this wasn’t a class of advanced smart kids that loved to learn. By all accounts we should’ve been thrilled. But it got out of hand. It got to points where we had to start teaching lessons to ourselves, asking teacher from other grades for help, always coming home in tears, complaining constantly to our parents and the principal because this woman wasn’t teaching us anything. There were two kids who asked her multiple times for extra help, and she told them each time to ‘talk to me after school’, but then she’d leave immediately after school so they wouldn’t be able to talk to her. They finally brought up the issue in the middle of class and she had a breakdown, yelling about how nobody ever thinks that maybe the teacher has a lot of work to do, and maybe she’s entitled to taking off early, but when we tried to argue she shouldn’t schedule meetings and then break them off in the name of relaxation, she stormed out of the room and tried to get the principal to give us detention. (Which, like, our school didn’t even do, and she was the only one in the wrong during this situation) We are still in September at this point, and already at least ten kids have parents considering transferring them to another school. (And remember, there was only 19 of us, and most of the class had been together since preschool, so that was a big deal).

Then, she starts coming in with all the weird bruises. All the Moms™ immediately started gossiping that her husband had to be beating her, and that’s why she was so screwy in the head. But the way she talked about her husband made it seem like he *might* be dead, and we actually did witness her fall and smack her head into a doorknob once, so no one really knew what to believe. (Also, I’m not trying to imply that abuse would make someone crazy or ‘damaged’ or anything, this is just what was being said. I think they were trying to turn her into a more sympathetic character, because if you feel sorry for her you don’t have to hate her for frustrating your kids so much, and Hate Is A Bad Emotion.)

Also…this woman and Emily Dickinson.

She talked about Emily Dickinson every chance she could get. None of us knew who Emily Dickinson really was before she got there and you could see in her mind it was a capitol offense. She found out the curriculum didn’t have room to cover her (because like, we had a text book), and was way too upset about it. She started reading her poems whenever she found the time (usually somewhere in history class), and always gave us very detailed accounts about her dressing up as Emily and reading her poetry at the library.

Now, two things to note here:

  1. The library did not hire her to do this. She would literally just get in the mood, put on an Emily Dickinson costume that she made by herself, drive to different libraries, and just read poetry out loud to everyone there until someone eventually asked her to leave.
  2. The way she described these events…her tone, the look on her face, her posture…you could just tell that she was getting some sort of sexual gratification out of this? Like dressing up as Emily Dickinson in public and reading her sad poems is really what got this lady’s jollies rocking? Got her all hot and bothered? Which is…a lot, but why would you tell a bunch of seventh graders about it holy shit. What about that sounds like a good idea! What about that turns you back on!

So anyway, we learned a lot about Emily Dickinson against our will.

One of the Davids™ was reading a book for pleasure- which shouldn’t have been a shocker, a lot of kids always had books on them, but Stubel got really interested and asked if she could borrow it from him. He was like ‘sure, after I finish it?’ but she took it that day. He asked her for it back for like five weeks straight.

And…the strudels.

Okay, so the school was trying some dorky thing to promote ~togetherness~ or some virtue or something, I don’t remember the specifics of why, but each class had to make a huge themed poster and hang it on the wall outside the classroom. Which was like, whatever, not the most thrilling project but at least it allowed us to be productive vs just sitting there as the teacher runs about the room rambling about her family vacation from four years ago. Mrs. Stubel decided we needed a quirky nickname and after like three days of deliberation we were christened “Stubel’s Special Strudels”!

(points for alliteration or whatever, but no one actually voted for that and what exactly do strudels have to do with Catholicism? It became a big running joke amongst the kids)

Also, in case you were wondering, she didn’t explain the assignment correctly to us- so every other class had like these beautiful, artistic, well-themed and put together posters, while ours was just…literally a bunch of shit thrown together on paper. Nothing fit with each other, it was literally embarrassing to look at.

But then…she wouldn’t drop the strudel thing. Like she kept bringing it up. She got really into strudels and would just tell us random shit about them. Finally, someone jokes that we should get strudels one day for a party (like instead of a pizza party), and she’s Freaking Out and On Board. She really wants to buy us strudels and have a breakfast party now. She talked about it for like two days straight.

So like… you know in school when you would have a pizza party, usually the teacher would buy it? That’s how they always happened in my experience (not counting the last day of 10th grade when some kid had pizza delivered to the school for lunch but it didn’t get there until math class lol). But especially in grade school? Like if it wasn’t a PTA made party that’s super organized, the school would buy the food, right? Right?

Yeah, so she was like, if this is happening you guys need to give me the money. Just give me the money and then I’ll pick them up on my way to work!! And after some arguing some kids are on board. Strudels should only cost a couple dollars right?

And she’s like, oh no, I’m gonna get them from this high end bakery near my house so it’ll be special, but they’re not cheap and it’ll be a big order! I’m gonna need like fifteen dollars from each of you!

And at this point I’m just like…lady. Come on. 

But she keeps insisting. She’s not gonna go until every student in class pays up.

And I’m like…I’m poor. I don’t even like strudel.  And some of the less-naïve kids are siding with me.

And then she pulls that “you guys are just spoiling all the fun for your classmates” shit, like the naïve kids who already paid up, so it gets to the point where we just gotta cave and give her the money.

(I ended up stealing it out of my Crazy Bitch Aunt’s wallet so it’s whatever, I guess.)

And then of course, shockingly enough, every morning she was met with “where are the strudels?” and every morning she went wide eyed, slapped her forehead and yelled in embarrassed horror “I totally forgot! Tomorrow, guys, I promise!”

Honestly, with how scatterbrained and confused she always was…like to this day I can’t tell you with 100% certainty whether she hustled us or was just actually forgetting about the damn pastries, I choose to lean towards the hustled us side because that’s just the type of people I’m used to, but if I found out it was innocent forgetfulness I wouldn’t exactly be surprised.

She couldn’t handle more than one person talking at a time. Like, we’d have break periods, or group work, or something and all the talking made her go wide-eyed and batty. She’d look overworked and anxious and would be darting around the room trying to do work or something but she couldn’t focus and she’d yell at anyone who tried to talk to her directly. I remember one time she was using this boys desk for something so he asked “where am I supposed to sit?” and she snapped “Sit on the ceiling for all I care!”. And this kid was the Class Clown™ , so he immediately grabbed a chair in one hand and started climbing the bookcase to try and reach the ceiling. She’s standing right next to this and doesn’t even notice. He got all four chair legs planted on the ceiling and was trying to somehow maneuver his way into the chair (I really don’t know what the plan was exactly- he was really tall and it was a small building, so I think he probably had the idea that if he can get his body upside down and in the chair, and stretch out his arms like a hand-stand to hold onto bookcase, he could arguably sit on the ceiling.) but he slipped. Crashed into my desk and the two desks next to me, knocked over the book case, broke the chair in half and hit the desks with enough force to knock them down lower. It was hilarious. Everyone was loosing their shit cracking up (he was fine) and it still took Stubel like five minutes to notice his lying out across the desks right in front of her eyes. She was pissed but how did she miss any of it in the first place? She was barely being helpful in whatever it was she was trying to do.

This was the year the Phillies were going to the World Series, and all the grades were having a Phillies Rally in the cafeteria so a news crew was coming to the school and each class was supposed to come up with fun little cheers for them to broadcast. Multiple cheer ideas were presented to her and she vetoed all of them, someone even suggested just singing the damn eagles theme song with replaced words and calling it a day but she vetoed that too, she was very adamant that she could come up with a cheer all by herself and it’ll be the best one (whoever had the best cheer was winning like an ice cream day or something idk). And then like…literally five minutes before the rally she just hands us signs with the letters and was like ‘we’re just gonna spell out Phillies it will be cute won’t it my strudels???’. We were the weakest class there, predictably. I think we lost to the kindergarteners. There might still be a video online of me yelling “ i “ passionately at the top of my lungs. It was online bc our cheer was so bland the news crew cut it out of the broadcast.

I literally can’t say enough about how she never taught us anything. She’d be going on some tangent about how she doesn’t understand the science behind skiing, and I’d be like “Okay yes but please can you just tell me where Romania is on a map???” And she’d start fights whenever someone actually wanted to learn. It was so easy to get her angry but so hard for her to stay on topic. Kids started teaching the class themselves! Like seriously, she’d be rambling and one of us would just go up to the podium, open the teacher’s guide textbook and just start reading out loud and talking over her. By the time she noticed we’d be halfway through a lesson. And we understood it better than when she tried! You know something’s wrong when pre-teens are more qualified for a job than an adult who supposedly went to school for this.

We were in the church having run-throughs for our upcoming Confirmation and she almost set the church on fire…fifteen different times. In less than half an hour. How hard is it to hold a candle?

Okay, and here’s when stuff starts kicking up. It was October 28th, a Tuesday, and it was our last day of school that week because they were having parent-teacher conferences the rest of the week. So we were just hanging out, watching movies in class and reading (lord knows we weren’t learning), and Stubel calls me over to her desk.

So like, she had given everyone little bags with candy for Halloween, but I get up there and she hands me an extra one. And she’s like “Molly I know your birthday is tomorrow and I bought you a present but I left it on my coffee table this morning by accident! So just have the candy for now!”

And I’m like….”Ma’am I’m like, the sixth birthday this year. You didn’t give anyone else presents?”

And she goes “Oh, I know but this is a special secret surprise. I just know you’re gonna love it! Do you wanna stop by my house later this week to pick it up or should I just give it to you Monday after school?”

And like…In writing this sounds like a non-threatening exchange, and like, it was, but I felt so uncomfortable holy shit. I’m looking over my shoulder and shooting my friends SOS signals. Something about this felt so weird in my gut omfg. I told her thanks and I’d just see her Monday.

So we flash forward to Wednesday- my 13th birthday, the day the Phillies won the world series, and also the day my mother innocently strolled into the school for her meeting only to be met with screaming, the sound of heavy destruction, and the school secretary Mrs. Daily running at her in a panic, waving her arms and yelling “YOUR MEETING IS CANCELLED YOUR MEETING IS CANCELLED GET IN MY OFFICE NOW!”

So my poor mother, who thought she could handle this whole meeting in a few minutes and barely be an hour late for work, is now barricaded in the front office with the school secretary, as the noises from down the hall get louder and louder. The woman explains that they had gotten so many complaints about Mrs. Stubel that this morning, when she got to the school, the principal Sister Patricia called her in and said “Listen, we need you to be professional and still have the parent conferences, but we have to let you go. We just don’t think you fit in well here, and the kids need to come first and feel comfortable in their school.” and like, I’m paraphrasing because I wasn’t there, but we all know she was very polite and professional about it.

Mrs. Stubel, however…was not.

She flipped her chair and stormed out of the office, and locks herself in the seventh grade classroom. She started wrecking the shit out of that place, screaming obscenities and the top of her lungs, they had to call the cops on her! She was locked in there for almost an hour! And let me just give you a nice little list of everything she did in that classroom:

  • Smashed three windows.
  • Threw everything off her desk and carved swear words all over it.
  • Got cleaning fluid that she knew would damage the chalk boards, smeared it all over.
  • Cracked the chalk boards by repeatedly smashing chairs against them.
  • Wrote swear words all over the walls and on desks
  • Went into students desks, ripped up their books.
  • Stole my glasses. (which were in my desk bc I only used them in class at the time)
  • Threw some desks around.
  • Carved swear words into the boards. (there was so much carving I’m assuming she just had a knife on her person, which has to lead to the question, did she have a knife on her while she was in class with us?)
  • Physically ripped the hooks to hang backpacks on out of the wall.
  • Knocked the closet door off it’s hinges.
  • Ripped up all the books in the bookcases and threw their pages all around the room.
  • Wrote lewd phrases inside student’s desks.
  • Broke multiple chairs.
  • Used her podium as a battering ram against the wall that’s in front of where the backpacks go. (the wall won but Damage Was Inflicted)
  • Set a fire in the trash can.
  • When the principal and other teachers started trying to get in, she tossed her rolling chair at the door to scare them off.
  • She was screaming curse words at the top of her lungs the entire time, and cursing the school and the kids and the principal and the church in general, and the school building was small, so all the parents and the smaller children that had to come to the meetings (who were locked in their respective classrooms in fear) heard everything.
  • So much more? But it’s 4:30 in this morning and this list is already long.

So my mom is in the front office and deadass the

entire police force

shows up, running down the hallway to the classroom yelling at her to stop, and it takes a while for them to get her out holy shit. They knocked down the door and she tried to escape out of one of the broken windows! But they got her and dragged her out.

So of course, in such a small school with very involved parents this shit spread like wildfire. The entire town knew within the day. The poor principal called the newly retired old-seventh grade teacher and was like “So we…need some help” and the lady was like “I already heard I’ll be there Monday” omfg. I remember I got a text from one of my classmates saying “if your birthday wish was for us to be set free from the beast I love you” omfg.

So, we eventually go back to school on Monday and everyone’s buzzing. The principal has us go to the cafeteria and she ‘delicately’ explains the situation, and that the old teacher is coming out of retirement for us, the school has a restraining order against Mrs. Stubel now and that she’s sorry we had to deal with this mess. Our classroom had to go under some heavy reconstruction before we could be let back in there, so for like two weeks we alternated between the cafeteria and the preschooler’s classroom, we had no books or anything, just provided loose-leaf paper and pens. It was like, surreal, but everyone was just so happy to be rid of her and to be in the presence of a competent teacher omfg. We eventually were able to get back into our usual classroom.

  1. It took a while for things to go completely back to normal, though. After the big spectacle she made, for weeks after she was fired we were all very scared of the possibility of Mrs. Stubel returning to the school with a gun in hand. It was always a topic we whispered about at lunch with wide eyes and shivers. Like…genuine nightmare scenario.
  2. About two weeks after she was fired, a boy in the back of the classroom gasped loudly during SSR, and when we all looked at him, he whispered in anger “She never gave us our freakin’ strudels!”
  3. About three months after she was fired, we were lined up at the door to go to Library when a few of us looked through the windows and saw something darting through the trees. It was fast and we couldn’t make anything out, so we let it drop. When the class and teacher returned half and hour later, the book she had borrowed months before from one of the boys was sitting on his desk. It was just laying there, the room was silent, nothing had been disturbed…but I have never seen a book look so threatening. People were freaking out. Someone kept insisting that she turned the book into a bomb. No one figure out how she got in the school, and no one could figure out how she got it on the right desk, as we had switched the seating arrangement since she had last been there.  
  4. A full six months after she had left, it was nearing the end of the school year and our class was dicking around during our last computer class. Someone found a website (that we weren’t allowed to be on) that pulls up any police records attached to whoever’s name you enter, so someone decided to search Mrs. Stubel as a joke. We ended up finding out she had like six DUI’s.

Aaaaand that’s the story of the horrendous teacher I had for two months in 7th grade. One of my favorite party stories but tbh she still haunts me™ .

Long Way Down // Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: A little bit of everything really


The end had finally come and despite the amount of time you spent preparing for it, it still felt like a punch in your stomach. The knot in your throat was painful and your lungs still struggled for air to breathe. Tears clouded your eyes and turned your vision blurry until his face was unrecognizable.

“You’re a coward,” you cried. “A fucking coward!”

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McPriceley Fanfiction Recommendations

McPriceley fanfiction that I absolutely adore~! Not mine.

McPriceley Fanfiction Recommendations

1. Turn It Off
“"Where’s your ‘nifty, little Mormon trick,’ now? What good is it if you can’t use it when you need it most?”“

2. Little Syncopations
"Five times Elder Price made matters terribly frustrating for Elder McKinley…well, sort of.”

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lillshiro  asked:

Hii, I really love X-men (marvel in general) and I was wondering what kind of mutants the rfa+ V,Saeran and rika (vanderwood if u want) would be, but If you dont know them You can just ignore this if you want, Have fun writing! x

The first bomb begins.


Yoosung

  • For most of Yoosung’s life, he’s been able to understand animals (much to the envy of Saeyoung and Jumin)
  • Because he’s naturally smart, he is pressured to do well in school and behave
  • So, if Yoosung needs some me-time, he goes out to a grassy area and sits and waits for the animals to gather around him
  • More than once he’s actually been caught petting a deer while playing a game on his phone
  • Yoosung’s a Disney Princess

Jaehee

  • She’s got some form of super speed
  • Granted, Jaehee isn’t as fast as some mutants with super speed, but she’s infinitely more efficient
  • While Jaehee does have a lot of control over her powers, if she gets too tired or doesn’t concentrate properly, she’s very likely to crash into walls or hurt herself
  • Thankfully, her speed carries over to her healing as well, so she recovers fast enough that it’s not anything serious

Zen

  • Well, naturally, he has an unnatural healing ability
  • It’s interesting that it’s actually a mind based super power as he has to focus and force his body to heal, knowing every cell and what it has to do to heal himself
  • It’s nowhere near as fast as, say, Wolverine, but it’s fast enough that he’s able to recover from a broken bone or sprained ankle within minutes to hours (depending on severity)
  • Some speculate that he has some sort of hypnotic singing voice, but he doesn’t, he’s just a beautiful singer
  • Also, although he doesn’t advertise it, he has had a vision or two of the future in his dreams, but they’re infrequent

Jumin

  • if he weren’t a mutant, his superpower would be money
  • Jumin’s able to shift his body into diamond and back again
  • He’s able to manipulate this form and create diamond weapons or just straight up diamonds
  • Of course he wishes he could speak to cats, but unfortunately, he’s not so lucky and believe me he has tried to get Yoosung on his employee roster
  • Instead, he has an ability that can make him money and he can use to give people he likes nice things (also, he can spoil Elizabeth)
  • Would totally transform his hand and use the light refraction to play with Elizabeth

Saeyoung

  • Omnilingual
  • Aka, he speaks, reads, and understands all languages perfectly
  • Computer code, ancient Egyptian, and Korean all look the same to him
  • Not a super power, but he’s also super smart, and because he got to skip the step of “learning” new languages, he’s able to read a lot of books and how to hack better than anyone else
  • However, sometimes he misses something simple because he doesn’t realize that something is written in two languages for a deliberate reason that hints at the truth

V

  • He has enhanced senses and the ability to make super sonic blasts
  • So V is very good at knowing his surroundings at all times
  • He can detect anything new or wrong in his immediate area long before he even sees it
  • When V goes blind, he’s still able to see, but it’s different, and he’s not sure he likes it, but it’s interesting
  • The pictures he takes after he goes blind are drastically different in style, the critics say, but they’re still beautiful and his work continues to be adored

Saeran

  • Twins are often similar, but never the same
  • So while Saeyoung is omnilingual, Saeran isn’t
  • Instead, he’s telekinetic
  • He also has a little telepathy, but it only works with Saeyoung (twin telepathy for the win)
  • As a result, when he gets worked up or really emotional, Saeran loses control and things are either thrown or destroyed
  • When he was first rescued from Rika’s control, he had to be quarantined so that he couldn’t hurt anyone

Vanderwood

  • Human taser
  • Basically, he controls electricity and polarities and such
  • Vanderwood, when irritated or pushed, will simply raise his hand and have electricity arc between his fingers as a quiet threat
  • He’s also extremely useful to have around if something electrical breaks, because he can sense if the electricity isn’t passing through part of the machine, or if it’s an electricity problem at all

Rika

  • Rika… well, she’s got kind of a Queen Bee type power
  • In that, she produces pheromones that can warp and control a person’s mind
  • Now, people with strong minds or mental based powers, resist her control (such as MC and Saeyoung, Saeran to a lesser extent, and even V, although you wouldn’t know it because he gives into Rika’s will anyways, most of the time)
  • When her powers firsts appeared, her powers only appeared to make people more attracted to her, more drawn in, more interested in making her happy rather than anything else, and she used that to get people to donate money towards good causes
  • One day, someone tried to kill for her, misinterpreting her order, and Rika realized, if she could control people like this, she could change the world
  • Reshape it in a way that nobody would ever be unhappy or want for anything ever again (by taking away their free will)
  • Thus her descent into a power mad, world domination bent, villain

MC

  • MC would be a psychic
  • Probably with some form of ability to telepathically link people’s minds so that everyone can be on the same page
  • But she wouldn’t be strong enough to control or influence people
  • Although, be warned, she does have visions of the past, present, and future, so she could know more about you than you do
  • Not that she would tell you

When I was 5, I sat on the edge of my chair with my legs spread. I felt an itch between them, so I reached down to scratch, but my grandma grabbed my wrist to stop me and hissed: “Girls don’t do that!” I asked her why, because I had seen my father doing it, I had seen all the boys in primary school doing it, too. And it itched and I wanted to scratch it. Her answer was: “It’s just how it is. Girls don’t do that. Also, don’t sit there with your legs spread like that. Girls don’t do that, either.”

When I was 6, I spent a day on the beach with my family. I was excited about the new bikini my mum got me, but confused as to why she asked me to keep the top on when I went for a swim. She hadn’t made me wear it the years before, but suddenly, she was very fussy about it. “Look, I’ve got one on, too.”, she said to me. And I thought I understood: Women had to cover their breasts, because they were bigger than mens’. But I wasn’t a woman. I was a child. Later, I overheard a talk she had with my dad. “I don’t want old men to stare at her.”, she whispered. I interrupted them and asked her why she thought old men would look at me. Her answer was: “It’s just how it is. It’s because you’re a girl. And men do that.”

When I was 9, I got in a fight with my best friend. I went home and complained about it to my grandma, who lived with us. She told me I should have seen it coming. “That’s how girls are.”, she said. “A friendship between girls is always also a competition. Girls are jealous, manipulative and backstabbing. You can’t trust them.” But I had never fought with my best friend before and I knew we’d forgive and forget the next day, anyway. So, I asked my grandma why, and her answer was: “It’s just how it is. Catfights will happen. It’s normal. That’s how girls are.”

When I was 13, I fell in love with a boy from the neighbourhood. I couldn’t hide my excitement. He was on my mind all the time and I caught myself wishing we were together, so I could hold his hand and kiss him, too. I wanted to meet him, get to know him better, and I told my dad about my plan of asking him out. “Don’t do that.”, my dad said. “It’s not appropriate for a girl to ask a boy out.” Though I partly agreed, since I had never seen a woman proposing to the man in a movie, or read about a girl kissing her crush first, I still didn’t understand what would be so bad about being an exception, so I asked my dad why I had to wait for a boy to show interest in me in order to be allowed to openly requite it. His answer was: “It’s just how it is, darling. The man makes the first move. It’s always been this way. Boys like to conquer, and girls love being chased.”

When I was 17, I was part of a large group of friends. There was a boy who fancied me. I didn’t like him back, but I wasn’t used to anyone crushing on me, so I enjoyed the attention. He’d always tell me I was special. One of a kind. Different. “You’re not like other girls.”, he said. “You’re not a bitch. You’re funny, laid back, intelligent. You don’t just care about your nails or your hair. You get my sense of humour. You’re not like most girls. You’re my best guy friend. But with tits.” I was flattered in the beginning, but soon, I started to wonder if his compliments were any at all. I began to feel disgusted with him. I didn’t want to be his best guy friend with tits. So I asked him what’s so good about a girl like me, a girl unlike what he called a typical one, and his answer was: “That’s easy to explain. A pretty model type of girl is good enough to jack off to, but in the end, a guy wants some drama free pussy. You’re an exception. The majority of girls is superficial and slutty. The kind of girl you fuck, but dump when you’re ready to settle down. Or they’re just plain boring and prude. This sounds harsh, but it’s just how it is.”

When I was 19, there was a boy I regularly had sex with. It was nice. Not the breathtaking kind of passionate, ecstatic fucking I had dreamed of; maybe we lacked chemistry, maybe it would have been nicer if we had been in love; but I was alright with it. I adapted, obeyed and swallowed. Of course I did. In the beginning, he really put an effort in giving me what I gave him. He really tried. But his attempts at putting his tongue to good work quickly faded into halfheartedly rubbing me dry and at some point, he said: “I’m giving up.” I asked him why. His answer was: “It’s so hard to get a girl off. You women need ages to cum. It’s so exhausting.” I laughed and told him I needed about two minutes when I did it on my own. “Then stick to that.”, he said. “I’ve got a cramp in my wrist. Women are so complicated. It’s just how it is. I’m sorry.”

I am 20 now, and I’ve come to realize that my female identity has been shaped by a biased, hypocritical excuse based on ridiculous gender roles: “It’s just how it is.” All my life, I have asked them why, and all they said was “It’s just how it is.” And it didn’t matter whether I’ve asked men or women. Internalized misogyny is just as harmful. There were as many women as men who said: “It’s just how it is.” But that is not the answer I wanted. Not the answer I needed. These few words don’t fucking answer the countless questions concerning my gender identity.

Why can’t I sit with my legs spread? What’s so shameful about what I keep between them? Why must I cover my breasts? Why am I being sexualized long before I’m even told when sex is? Why am I being taught to mistrust other girls? Why do I have to compete with other girls? Why am I only a good girl when I’m not like most girls? Why do I have to keep quiet about the way I feel? Why am I not allowed to show affection like men do? Can’t I conquer a boy’s heart, too? Why must love be about conquering, anyway? What if I don’t like being chased? What if it scares me? Why do boys scare me, anyway? Why do you make me feel inferior to them? And why do I have to like a boy in order to be liked? Why am I being shamed for being a “slut”, them shamed for being “prude”? Why am I expected to adapt, obey and swallow without praise when boys who return the favour are considered grateful, dedicated lovers, heroes, almost ,because to the majority of them, it’s not fucking understood that if I make them cum, they should make me cum, too? Why am I exhausting to be with? Why am I complicated?

Is it because I’m a bitch? Because I’m an oversensitive little baby? Is it because I’m a slut? A prude virgin? Is it because I’m on my period? Cause women are just crazy? Cause I am jealous, manipulative, backstabbing, competitive or any of the other countless negative traits that are immediately connected with the female identity? All summed up, is it because I’m a girl?

I’ve asked them. And they said yes.

And when I asked “But why?”, they said it again: “It’s just how it is.”

“It” is that context, is a never ending circle of resigning acceptance of the circumstance that girls are being raised to disrespect their own gender from their childhood on. I was, and am, expected to accept the fact that being female automatically makes me inferior, and that I should be thankful for being treated equally, because that’s not the standard. I was, and am, expected to appreciate and take it as a compliment when people tell me that I’m not like other women. Because I was, and am, expected to look down on women even though I am a woman myself. But I refuse. I refuse to adapt, obey and swallow. I refuse to accept that “it’s just how it is”. I refuse to take this as an answer, and I will not stop asking why. I won’t ever stop asking why. Not because I want people to give me a proper response, but because I want them to question themselves, too. I want them to start wondering. Want them to start doubting the concept of the role I’ve learned to stick to before I knew how to spell my “typically female” name. I want them to think about it, lose their sleep about it, until they ask, too: “Why?”

In order to eliminate misogynic stereotypes, we must unlearn to understand them. We must refuse to accept “It’s just how it is” as an answer, until we forget what “it” stands for. Keep asking why, until nobody knows an answer anymore. “It’s just how it is” is not an answer. Neither is “It’s cause you’re a girl”. Or “That’s how girls are”. Because girls can be everything and anything they want to be. That’s how it really is.

—  I REFUSE!, a rant on how my female identity has been shaped by excuses and lies

anonymous asked:

idk if you do this anymore but i really love your writing and after the last run ep i'm in need of a jikook hc where jk is jm's coach (an athlete and a coach being in love isn't really a new concept for someone who's watched yoi lmao).. if you write it thank you so much and if not it's totally okay 😊

here’s a short thing of jimin learning judo from jungkook!au !!


Jimin plops down on the mat, worn out and panting. “You’re a monster, you know that?” 

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” Jungkook snorts, crouching until they’re eye-level. “What was that move you tried to do just now? I didn’t teach you that.”

Jimin pouts. “It was nothing. It didn’t work anyway, so - ”

“No. If it were anyone else, you’d have gotten them on their back at the very least.” Jungkook’s brow ticks in realization. “Hey. You’ve been going to Hoseok for pointers again, haven’t you?”

“No. Of course I - Jungkook, no.” But quickly, as usual, Jimin’s defenses crumble in the face of Jungkook’s intense, withering stare. “Okay - maybe I did, so what?”

“Why?” Am I not good enough for you? Jungkook doeesn’t say. Jimin hears it anyway and whines.

“It’s not like that, Kook, it’s just…”

“If you wanted him to be your coach, why’d you come to me?” Jungkook mutters, sitting back on his haunches and running a frustrated hand through his hair. Jimin can’t place the exact nature of the look on his face - whether it’s irritation or jealousy, or something in between.

After too long a silence, Jungkook gets to his feet, turning to stalk off and brood like he often does, when he gets too worked up and has to take a breather before he ends up taking it out on Jimin. Or when he has too much energy to spare and needs to burn some off, alone, where no one will break and bleed under his fists. Sometimes, Jungkook doesn’t like to talk about things, preferring to punch it out.

Jimin scrambles up and latches onto his hand before he can go, palms clammy and shaky from exertion.

“I wanted to impress you,” Jimin whispers.

Jungkook stops in his tracks. He faces Jimin, large eyes widened with shock. “You - what?”

“I wanted to impress you, so I asked Hoseok-hyung to show me a flashy move. He - ” Turning bright red, Jimin sputters, “Don’t laugh, you asshole!”

Choking back the cackles, Jungkook reels Jimin in closer, blocking Jimin’s feeble attempts at smacking some sense into him through his chest. “You wanted to impress me, huh.”

“Shut up. I - I’m never telling you anything ever again,” Jimin threatens, voice wobbly as Jungkook leans down into his space. His attempt at maintaining a fair distance between them has him arching backwards, cheeks aflame.

Jungkook’s smug grin kind of makes him wish he hadn’t fucked up the throw last minute. But it’d been nice to wipe that look off Jungkook’s face even for a second. “So, what was the move he taught you?” 

“Hoseok-hyung called it a - a “dead tree drop”?”

“Hm.” Jungkook releases him abruptly. Jimin almost falls backwards and rights himself with a glare. “That’s one name for it. It’s also called the Kuchiki taoshi, or single leg takedown,” he tells him. “Show me again.”

“I - Huh?”

“Try the throw on me,” Jungkook reiterates impatiently.

“You’re just going to pin me down again if I try.”

Jungkook laughs, and the sound warms Jimin all the way to his belly. “Damn. Caught,” he snickers.

And for a moment, Jimin forgets how tired he is - how his whole body aches from head to toe. Jungkook can get so rough when they spar, Jimin often goes home with bruises on his shins and pink finger marks on his arms and back from where Jungkook had grabbed onto him. Even days later he can feel the ghost-like hold Jungkook has on him, both mentally and physically. His roommate has raised one too many eyebrows at them, wondering why Jimin keeps going back to judo when he’s not particularly invested in it in the first place. Jimin always shrugs, doesn’t have it in him to explain.

It’s not really judo that Jimin’s in love with after all, just Jeon Jungkook.

“No, but seriously, try it again. You just need to fix your posture a bit, but it was good. It was a good start, Jimin.”

As much as Jimin can’t stand Jungkook’s teasing, he can’t stand his praises even more. “It was - Thank you, but it wasn’t - I didn’t even get you,” Jimin says embarrassedly. 

“Show me again,” Jungkook prompts, the look on his face softening.

Jimin edges closer, unsure. Jungkook doesn’t budge when Jimin hesitantly bends down to take hold of his thigh. He peers up at Jungkook’s expression and swallows tightly. “Do… Do you want me to try the throw?”

Jungkook stares down at him wordlessly for several long moments. 

“What - ” Jimin barely has time to feel a sense of foreboding at the grin that stretches Jungkook’s lips before he brings his hand to Jimin’s hair, petting and ruffling his hair aggressively. Jimin straightens with an indignant squawk because - his hair - and makes a valiant effort to move the strands back to their rightful place. Then with heightened resolve, he throws himself at Jungkook in response, reaching up to enact his revenge.

Jungkook’s laughing, barely managing to keep his head out of Jimin’s reach.

“Hold still, you giant brat,” Jimin bites out. 

“Is that any way to talk to your teacher,” Jungkook chortles, but his laughter breaks off when Jimin clambers onto his back, locking his legs around his middle and proceeds to make a mess out of his hair. “You’re gonna get it, Jimin,” he growls.

Jimin hates the way his stomach flips at the warning; the way it clenches when Jungkook manages to grab hold on him, sling him over his shoulder in one smooth motion before sending them both falling down onto the mat. At the last second, he switches their position, keeping Jimin’s body cushioned above him.

“I should make you run laps for this,” he murmurs, and his voice reverberates where their chests are pressed together. Jimin can’t tell if he’s serious, but he isn’t going to risk it.

“You started it,” Jimin says breathlessly. Jungkook looks like a dream come true, hair disheveled and a thin sheen of sweat on his skin, and all of it Jimin’s doing.

“No, you did. When you went to Jung Hoseok for help instead of me.”

“Can you let it go?” Jimin whines, though the happiness that colours his tone when Jungkook wraps his arms around him to keep him still is blatant for all ears. “I already told you why I did it.”

Jungkook, with his tongue pressed against his cheek in petulance and obviously not letting it go, mutters, “Yeah, whatever. Don’t do it again. I’m your coach. You can’t go fraternizing with the enemy.”

“Competition,” Jimin corrects. “Not enemy.”

“Same thing.” 

It’s not, but Jimin knows when he’s fighting a losing battle. “Alright,” he acquiesces. “I won’t go to Hobi-hyung for help with judo.”

“’Hobi-hyung’?” Jungkook echoes. “When’d he become ‘Hobi-hyung’? His first name is Competition - ”

“Jungkook, oh my god.”

“You’re not gonna lose to him at the next tournament, you got that Jimin? He’s gonna eat your tiny little fists and - ”

Jungkookie,” Jimin says with increasing exasperation.

“You’re gonna stand up there on the podium with that gold fucking medal around your neck, and he’s gonna bask in awe as you dead tree kick everyone’s ass after I help you make it perfect - ”

Jimin can’t help the giggles that bubble up, both at the serious set of Jungkook’s brows and the competitive fire burning in his eyes. “Alright. Whatever you say.” He sits up, and Jungkook follows suit. Jimin’s on his lap now, and he tries not to notice that fact. Tries.

“Your stance was a little too high just now. You need to lower yourself more, your center of gravity, and your grip wasn’t in the right place. You need to - ”

“Slow down, you’re rambling,” Jimin says with great fondness.

Jungkook pauses for a breath. “… And - ” 

His eyes widen for the briefest moment, before they shut. Jimin doesn’t know where the sudden courage had come from, but this close to Jungkook’s face, Jimin felt brave. It doesn’t feel so out of reach when their bodies are flush together, and Jungkook’s hands are coming up to frame his cheeks, still warm from exertion. Their mouths coming together, again and again, Jungkook’s tongue sliding against his, feels just like another one of their sparring matches.

When they break apart, panting heavily, Jungkook’s got that boyish grin on his face - the one that gets Jimin’s insides all twisted into knots, every damn time without fail. “You need to work on your technique.”

“Fuck off,” Jimin complains. Then, softer, and so fucking in love with Jeon Jungkook: “You gonna show me how it’s done, golden boy?”

“It’ll be my pleasure.”

Stereotypical (3)

Bucky Barnes x reader AU (short series)

Notes: swearing, flirting, mentions of child abuse and alcoholism (past), angst, mentions of sex.

Summary: As a PA/secretary, you are all too familiar with the fantasies nearly all men share: banging their hot assistant. Former jobs haven’t worked out for you for that exact reason, and now starting out at a new company, as the secretary for the CEO of the hottest modelling agency in the country, you’re hoping this one will be different. But after meeting your new boss, Mr J.B. Barnes, you’re not so sure if it will be. Then again, maybe Mr Barnes is not as stereotypical as you think he is.  

A/N: Okay, so. Shit is gonna hit the fan on this one. Enter: Steve, Tony and Pepper. It might feel like I’m skipping over some crucial stuff, but don’t worry! I’ll get to that. Enjoy! 

Business went on as usual for the next few days, the only thing different was that James wouldn’t let you go to meetings alone anymore with anyone he didn’t know. You’d jumped up and down, pleaded left and right, but he wouldn’t have any of it. After finally giving in, James took you to lunch and had to physically pull a folder out of your hands to get you to eat.

Keep reading

When I was 5,
I sat on the edge of my chair with my legs spread.
I felt an itch between them, so I reached down to scratch,
but my grandma grabbed my wrist to stop me and hissed:
“Girls don’t do that!” I asked her why,
because I had seen my father doing it, I had seen all the boys in primary school doing it, too.
And it itched and I wanted to scratch it.
Her answer was: “It’s just how it is. Girls don’t do that. Also, don’t sit there with your legs spread like that. Girls don’t do that, either.”
When I was 6,
I spent a day on the beach with my family.
I was excited about the new bikini my mum got me,
but confused as to why she asked me to keep the top on when I went for a swim.
She hadn’t made me wear it the years before,
but suddenly, she was very fussy about it.
“Look, I’ve got one on, too.”, she said to me.
And I thought I understood: Women had to cover their breasts,
because they were bigger than mens’. But I wasn’t a woman.
I was a child.
Later, I overheard a talk she had with my dad.
“I don’t want old men to stare at her.”, she whispered.
I interrupted them and asked her why she thought old men would look at me.
Her answer was: “It’s just how it is. It’s because you’re a girl. And men do that.”
When I was 9,
I got in a fight with my best friend.
I went home and complained about it to my grandma, who lived with us.
She told me I should have seen it coming.
“That’s how girls are.”, she said.
“A friendship between girls is always also a competition. Girls are jealous, manipulative and backstabbing. You can’t trust them.”
But I had never fought with my best friend before
and I knew we’d forgive and forget the next day, anyway.
So, I asked my grandma why,
and her answer was: “It’s just how it is. Catfights will happen. It’s normal. That’s how girls are.”
When I was 13,
I fell in love with a boy from the neighbourhood.
I couldn’t hide my excitement.
He was on my mind all the time
and I caught myself wishing we were together,
so I could hold his hand and kiss him, too.
I wanted to meet him, get to know him better,
and I told my dad about my plan of asking him out.
“Don’t do that.”, my dad said. “It’s not appropriate for a girl to ask a boy out.”
Though I partly agreed,
since I had never seen a woman proposing to the man in a movie,
or read about a girl kissing her crush first,
I still didn’t understand what would be so bad about being an exception,
so I asked my dad why I had to wait for a boy to show interest in me
in order to be allowed to openly requite it.
His answer was: “It’s just how it is, darling. The man makes the first move. It’s always been this way. Boys like to conquer, and girls love being chased.”
When I was 17,
I was part of a large group of friends.
There was a boy who fancied me.
I didn’t like him back,
but I wasn’t used to anyone crushing on me,
so I enjoyed the attention.
He’d always tell me I was special.
One of a kind. Different.
“You’re not like other girls.”, he said.
“You’re not a bitch. You’re funny, laid back, intelligent.
You don’t just care about your nails or your hair. You get my sense of humour.
You’re not like most girls. You’re my best guy friend. But with tits.”
I was flattered in the beginning,
but soon, I started to wonder if his compliments were any at all.
I began to feel disgusted with him.
I didn’t want to be his best guy friend with tits.
So I asked him what’s so good about a girl like me,
a girl unlike what he called a typical one,
and his answer was: “That’s easy to explain.
A pretty model type of girl is good enough to jack off to,
but in the end, a guy wants some drama free pussy.
You’re an exception. The majority of girls is superficial and slutty.
The kind of girl you fuck, but dump when you’re ready to settle down.
Or they’re just plain boring and prude. This sounds harsh, but it’s just how it is.”
When I was 19,
there was a boy I regularly had sex with.
It was nice. Not the breathtaking kind of passionate, ecstatic fucking I had dreamed of;
maybe we lacked chemistry,
maybe it would have been nicer if we had been in love;
but I was alright with it. I adapted, obeyed and swallowed.
Of course I did.
In the beginning, he really put an effort in giving me what I gave him.
He really tried.
But his attempts at putting his tongue to good work quickly faded into halfheartedly rubbing me dry and at some point, he said: “I’m giving up.” I asked him why.
His answer was: “It’s so hard to get a girl off.
You women need ages to cum. It’s so exhausting.”
I laughed and told him I needed about two minutes when I did it on my own.
“Then stick to that.”, he said. “I’ve got a cramp in my wrist.
Women are so complicated. It’s just how it is. I’m sorry.”
I am 20 now,
and I’ve come to realize that my female identity
has been shaped by a biased,
hypocritical excuse based on ridiculous gender roles:
“It’s just how it is.”
All my life, I have asked them why,
and all they said was “It’s just how it is.”
And it didn’t matter whether I’ve asked men or women.
Internalized misogyny is just as harmful.
There were as many women as men who said: “It’s just how it is.”
But that is not the answer I wanted.
Not the answer I needed.
These few words don’t fucking answer the countless questions concerning my gender identity.
Why can’t I sit with my legs spread?
What’s so shameful about what I keep between them?
Why must I cover my breasts?
Why am I being sexualized long before I’m even told when sex is?
Why am I being taught to mistrust other girls?
Why do I have to compete with other girls?
Why am I only a good girl when I’m not like most girls?
Why do I have to keep quiet about the way I feel?
Why am I not allowed to show affection like men do?
Can’t I conquer a boy’s heart, too?
Why must love be about conquering, anyway?
What if I don’t like being chased?
What if it scares me?
Why do boys scare me, anyway?
Why do you make me feel inferior to them?
And why do I have to like a boy in order to be liked?
Why am I being shamed for being a “slut”, them shamed for being “prude”?
Why am I expected to adapt, obey and swallow without praise when boys who return the favour are considered grateful, dedicated lovers, heroes, almost ,because to the majority of them, it’s not fucking understood that if I make them cum, they should make me cum, too?
Why am I exhausting to be with?
Why am I complicated?
Is it because I’m a bitch?
Because I’m an oversensitive little baby?
Is it because I’m a slut?
A prude virgin?
Is it because I’m on my period?
Cause women are just crazy?
Cause I am jealous, manipulative, backstabbing, competitive
or any of the other countless negative traits
that are immediately connected with the female identity?
All summed up, is it because I’m a girl?
I’ve asked them.
And they said yes.
And when I asked “But why?”,
they said it again: “It’s just how it is.”
“It” is that context, is a never ending circle
of resigning acceptance of the circumstance
that girls are being raised to disrespect their own gender from their childhood on.
I was, and am, expected to accept the fact that being female automatically makes me inferior,
and that I should be thankful for being treated equally,
because that’s not the standard.
I was, and am, expected to appreciate
and take it as a compliment when people tell me that I’m not like other women.
Because I was, and am, expected to look down on women
even though I am a woman myself.
But I refuse. I refuse to adapt, obey and swallow.
I refuse to accept that “it’s just how it is”.
I refuse to take this as an answer,
and I will not stop asking why.
I won’t ever stop asking why.
Not because I want people to give me a proper response,
but because I want them to question themselves, too.
I want them to start wondering.
Want them to start doubting the concept of the role
I’ve learned to stick to before I knew how to spell my “typically female” name.
I want them to think about it,
lose their sleep about it, until they ask, too: “Why?”
In order to eliminate misogynic stereotypes, we must unlearn to understand them.
We must refuse to accept “It’s just how it is” as an answer,
until we forget what “it” stands for.
Keep asking why, until nobody knows an answer anymore.
“It’s just how it is” is not an answer.
Neither is “It’s cause you’re a girl”.
Or “That’s how girls are”.
Because girls can be everything and anything they want to be.
That’s how it really is.

Random relationship hc for the RFA

(this wasn’t a request sorry but i’m slowly trying to get back into the whole writing thing hhhh my bad, if you want i’ll do a V and Saeran edition)


Yoosung

  • would be so damn cheesy : he’d try every cliché lines, dates, moves and just about everything he’s seen in romantic movies
  • if you played video games with him, he’d try to do couple stuff in there : he’s Mario and you’re Peach in Mario Party; matching outfits in LOLOL, you’re always in the same team/guild when you play multiplayer, he’d name both your Pokemons with matching names
  • If he ever played a game where you can romance someone (like Mass Effect, Dragon Age, Fallout..) he’d avoid talking to any of the romanceable characters just bc he’d feel like he’d be cheating on you (lol nerd)
  • he takes cooking classes so he can be better at it and loves to make you a cute bento box for lunch
  • loves coffee dates and loves holding your hand even though he’s super shy about it
  • kinda shy with PDA but if he’s really happy, he’ll get super confident and will kiss you and hold your waist all the time
  • biggest cuddle bug you’ve ever seen : you’re working on something? he’ll find a way to sit behind you and wrap his arms around your waist. He’s playing LOLOL? He’ll ask you the second you enter the room if you can sit on his lap. You both just came home from college/work? He’ll drag you to his bed and cuddle until it’s time for dinner.
  • Loves pet names but he’s so embarrassed with them; he loves stupid names like cutie pie, my hero, my player 2, honey bunny (he’s so embarrasing jfc yoosung)


Zen

  • I mean he’s no better with pet names but he’s a bit more traditional (with babe, honey, darling) but if you do something cute or just if he’s in the mood to coddle you (which is very often) he’ll give you long and embarrassing names like ‘my fluffy cutie sweet beautiful adorable little cupcake’ it’s bad and it’s even worse that this man has no shame - he’ll say that in front of everyone good luck with him
  • he’s so dedicated and observant though. Doesn’t matter that he only sees you in the morning before going to work and at night when he comes home and you’re already sleeping - if something’s wrong or you don’t feel well, he’ll know. It’s like he has a radar and he just knows even if he’s away from you, when you’re not okay and he’ll do anything to help and cheer you up
  • he’s always so open about his feelings and how thankful he is to have you - not only will he never take you for granted but he’ll always make sure you know just how much you mean to him, how grateful he is for staying with him despite how his career isn’t making things easy for your relationship together
  • doesn’t matter if you’re in college or at work or even in another city or country - he’ll find a way to talk to you almost all day long - not necessarily in a clingy way (although he can be clingy if you let him) but he’ll check up on how your last class went, make sure you’ve had lunch (although he’d do what he can to always eat every meal together), call you when you both have a break, send you selfies when you’re at work
  • he loves suprising you : there’s a beautiful bouquet on your desk at work/home? that’s him. you’ve had a stressful week and you’re about to have a breakdown? let’s go on a date where it’s just the two of you and you don’t have to worry about anything or anyone. He has a lot of work and spends his time practicing? He’ll leave a bunch of sticky notes everywhere for you to find and he’ll write compliments, declarations of love, things to cheer you up and help you get through the day.


Jaehee

  • Not very open with PDA, she feels like it’s not proper and she’s not a fan of showing her love to strangers. she’d prefer walking close to each others rather than holding hands for example
  • since she loves baking, she always makes some stuff for you and she also makes you try all her new creations to know what to improve before she makes them available on her coffee shop’s menu
  • ahh and if you love coffee (and I hope you do if you’re with her) she makes the best cup and always prepares you one in the morning - she absolutely loves having breakfast together and wouldn’t mind waking up extra early just so you can both take your time and enjoy the moment before going to work
  • she’d always be there if you needed help with your work or making notes for school - she’s so organized and her way to make notes and color coding are on point
  • she’s not spontaneous and she hasn’t been in a relationship in a very long time so you need to take things step by step with her but with time she becomes a lot more open to you and while she’s not very good with voicing her feelings and thoughts, she’ll always make sure you know what her feelings for you are
  • she’s independent but she’s also been alone for a long time, she would want to start living together kinda early on in the relationship just because she wants to share as much as possible with you
  • she gets incredibly touched and flustered at random acts of affection because she is just not used to them and it means so much to her, even or actually, especially the little things : you made her breakfast? she’ll give you the brightest sleepy smile you’ve ever seen first thing in the morning. You saw something in a shop and it reminded you of her so you just bought it? doesn’t matter what it is, she’ll keep it with her at all times and smile every time she looks at it. You tell her how proud you are of her for following her dreams? she’ll be in tears in less than two seconds


Jumin

  • you’d think this man would be proper and distinguished and what not but no. When he’s with you, he’s like a giddy teenager who just looks at you with so much love in his eyes that it terrifies anyone who knows Jumin Han the Robot Man.
  • you’ve got him wrapped around your finger and you don’t even need to do anything about it. You just have to exist and bam, he’s 100% smitten with you. You can ask him anything and he’ll get/do it for you. Ofc, it makes more sense for him to show you his love through material stuff like expensive clothes, jewelry and fancy trips to the best spa in the world; if you didn’t want him to spend his money on you then too bad because he’ll buy you stuff anyways, he just can’t help it, it makes him so happy to buy you stuff – but with time, he’ll learn how words alone can affect him and you. 
  • He’ll feel so wonderful when you tell him that you love him and just if you tell him your feelings - it won’t take long for him to do the same bc he wants you to feel as happy as him - and he has a way with words + no shame so good luck trying to survive this combo bc the fluff this man brings will be the death of you
  • he loves to show you off, he just needs the whole world to know how perfect you are and he’s pretty handsy too - he’s never felt the need to be so close to someone both physically and in a relationship so it’s pretty overwhelming for him and if you give him the okay then he won’t see the point in holding back - he doesn’t care about what the others say, as long as you’re fine with him holding you, kissing you, nuzzling into your neck and resting his forehead against yours in front of everybody (be it at the office, in the street or in a super important party with fancy people from all over the world) that’s all he needs
  • you know, he’s kinda rivaling with Yoosung on the #1 RFA’s cuddle bug bc he absolutely loves holding you and there’s nothing better in the world for him than waking up with you in his arms, still sleeping with your face hiding in his chest
  • he’s still shit with taking pictures and it’s a shame bc he’s become a selfie slut (watch out Zen, a new challenger has arrived) but, he only takes selfies with you
  • and he download more or less every single app that lets him add stupid filters to your faces so you can have kitty whiskers or flower crowns and what not
  • despite how busy he always is, he always tries to see you in the morning and makes it a point to come home for dinner - doesn’t matter if he has to bring home five full folders from the office and work at home - dinner time with his love is important and he won’t miss it


707 (i don’t know how to write him so it’s gonna be bad sorry)

  • it’s gonna be a rollercoaster of emotions with him so I hope you’re patient with his shit bc he’ll still have his emo days where he just wants to be alone with his deep dark edgy feelings so yeah you deal with that 
  • most of the time though, he’ll just goof around, prank you H24, try to make you two become a meme
  • he has 0 domestic skills so hahhh I hope you do. either that or you’re fine with living in a constant mess and eating junk food all the time - you’ll either have to be like his caretaker or his partner in crime (or both if you can manage)
  • he doesn’t take most things very seriously though and making you smile and laugh is his number one priority so there’s that
  • he’s more or less a walking wikipedia + urban dictionary so if you need anything for an essay you’re writing just ask him - he’s full of knowledge - both accurate infos and random useless trivia
  • he’ll take you on every single date possible and once he’s done them all, he’ll invent new ones. The classics will be going to the arcade and getting the highest score on every single game or going to a lasertag or paintball and teaming up to be the winning team every time. He always gets so into it and you’ll both have code names like 'God 1, this is God 2, I have the enemy team in my sight do you copy?’ and if it’s a game where only one person can win, he’ll make you shoot him and be all dramatic about it 
  • for the more original ones, he’ll make the both of you dress up and wear wigs and pretend to be other people with other identities; like you’ll slip in weddings and pretend to be distant family of the bride while you stuff your face with the food there
  • he’ll make a bunch of stuff for you like he’ll make an app where there’s a 2D version of him and you can poke him to get voice lines, pet him and he’ll say “nya”, you can dress him up and you have interactions with him with dialogues choices (like in MM, how meta)

i hope this wasn’t too awful rip

The Liking Game

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / Jackson

Genre: Fluff / Angst

Prompt: “Life is a highway, and I’m always drunk. So I’m not driving.”

Rating: PG-13 (college partying, drinking)

Word Count: 2,023

Originally posted by jypnior

Keep reading

Accidents happen

Takashi Shirogane (Shiro) x reader

A/N: Honest to god, I laughed when I got this request but I promise I will make it pure gold! I honestly love the anon who sent this request in…thank you so much! XD

Warnings: I may or may not have made it a bit ‘saucy’ at some point…

Request: ‘How about the reader walking in on shiro walkin out of the communal shower without his towel’ – ‘comic genius’ anon

Originally posted by relatablepicsofvoltron

You woke up desperately needing a shower. Smelling of someone who had never seen a stick of deodorant in their life, you stumbled sleepily down the hallway. Almost reluctantly really. You never liked the communal showers that were available to you and the rest of team Voltron. Being only one of two female paladins, you always had to wait until none of the guys would come in and then shower. You didn’t want to walk in on one of the guys…naked. That was just, weird. You would never be able to look at them the same way ever again. It would be even worse if they walked in on you, seeing as you had different features compared to a male’s body.

Cringing just thinking about it, you held your towel over your head as you walked up to the door to the showers. Ignoring the sound of water hitting tile and the ever so obvious purple towel on the door handle. Thinking someone had just left it there, you opened the door without a second thought. Still tired, you rubbed your eyes whilst yawning, stretching out as you realised that you were not alone. Hoping to god that it was either Pidge or Allura, you hesitantly opened your eyes.

Keep reading

His Explanation

~

That Starfall had been Feyre’s first and last, she believed. At the time, things didn’t seem uncomfortable between her and Rhys—until the party was over of course. Then Rhys seemed different somehow. More distant. Not in a cold way, but as if she were a stranger and he wasn’t quite sure what to say or how to introduce himself.

Feyre supposed it was her fault. That he had not wanted to kiss her—or, Mother forbid, it was bad. It had been her first kiss after all, and she knew life was not like the novels she read and that nothing completely perfect existed.

So now she sat—these thoughts still haunting her three years later—getting ready for her twentieth birthday. She wasn’t sure if Rhys or anyone from the Night Court was coming, though she was certain her mother likely invited them. She hadn’t communicated with Rhys very much these past few years, merely assuming he didn’t want to speak with her. That there was something forever broken between them. She kept her distance and he kept his, though she missed her friend so much it ached.

This was going to be a party she likely hated. As Feyre got older, her mother began inviting more men to her parties as to find her a husband. Thank goodness no one was ever actually forced upon her, but her mother constantly introduced her to Fae and human males alike. She was polite enough to all of them, and upheld some conversations, though none of them caught her eye. And some, it seemed, tried far too hard. She wondered how Nesta and Elain dodged their mother’s wishes, and how they weren’t even in relationships yet.

Nesta, Feyre had more of an inkling for, and it was because most people were intimidated by her. Elain however was sweet and innocent. Perhaps that was it: she was too innocent to see any advances. All in due time it would fall into place, she assumed.

Feyre finished her appearance with deep red lipstick and looked herself in the mirror. She had asked for Nesta’s help to dress her, because she honestly didn’t have the interest in finding something nice for herself on her own. And she must say that her sister has remarkable taste.

Elain had finished Feyre’s hair an hour or so ago—simply curled and pinned so that it fell delicately over her shoulder. And her dress was a red wine color that—even despite it being so cold outside—cut low down her back. And for how tight it fit her body…she couldn’t wear a number of underthings.

Feyre slipped into some comfortable shoes, and with a sigh set out to join her party.

~

In the first fifteen minutes alone, Luel introduced Feyre to three different men. And she was suddenly regretting wearing such a tight and revealing dress. It’s not that the men weren’t polite, it’s just that she felt that their eyes lingered longer in places that they shouldn’t. She wanted more than anything to leave the party. To get out of this dress and to escape to her painting room. But she’d agreed with her mother that she would stay. And was now regretting it.

Feyre supposed the food and sparkling wine helped whenever she got away from talking to anyone. Overall, she couldn’t really complain about her party. It was exquisite. Also, her mother bought her new art supplies, which was always a plus. Then of course there were various new clothes and shoes she received, but would likely hardly ever wear because she already had so many. Still, Feyre was thankful.

The room began getting too hot with all the bodies, so Feyre stepped onto the balcony for some fresh air; despite the fact that she didn’t even have a shawl. Within seconds, the winter kissed air cooled the sweat on her neck and she sighed—a puff of vapor clouding the air in front of her. The party sounds diminished and she was left in the cool of the night. It was surprisingly clear, so she had a full view of the moon and stars. Her heart grew heavy as she was pulled to the memory of the Night Court and its beauty. Would she ever get to go back?

The cold began creeping its way further under her dress and into her skin. Goosebumps rose on her arms, so she hugged herself to preserve warmth. She wasn’t ready to rejoin the fray quite yet.

Until footsteps sounded behind her. Feyre just convinced herself that it was a partygoer that needed air, same as she, and hoped that it wasn’t another suitor coming to talk to her at her mother’s behest. She kept her back to whoever it was.

Then a warmth covered her back and arms as a dark jacket was laid to rest on her shoulders, efficiently stopping the chills and shivers she wasn’t even aware she had. The gesture startled her until a familiar scent enveloped her senses—citrus and the sea.

Feyre’s heart leapt as she looked up to see exactly who she thought she would: Rhysand. With him standing here before her, after hardly talking for almost four years, Feyre wasn’t sure if she was relieved, angry, or happy. So many emotions passed through her that shock was the only thing evident on her face, and her mouth fell open.

“There you are,” Rhys said casually, with a hint of a smile, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Feyre swallowed when she heard his voice. By the Mother, she missed him. So much. She wanted to think that it had been easy these few years to let go of whatever they had together, but it hadn’t been. And now he was here. She didn’t care in the slightest if he didn’t want her like that, she just wanted them to at least be friends again. Tears sprung in her eyes.

“Why are you here, Rhys?” Feyre rasped. She hadn’t meant it to be harsh; it was a legitimate question. Why now? What would he say to her?

“I realize how distant I’ve been these past years, and I owe you an explanation. But I’d rather we talk where we’re not likely to be overheard.” Rhys replied. An explanation? Or an excuse? Feyre tried not to let any bitterness show.

Feyre wiped her eyes and motioned for Rhys to follow. “Follow me,” she said as she lead them back into the manor. They navigated the party—people practically parting for Rhys anyway. Feyre got incredulous looks from the males at he party and a few snooty glances from the women there. She just kept her chin down.

Once they broke away from the party, Feyre walked down an ever familiar hallway, Rhys following silently behind her. Eventually she came to the door she wanted and opened it—her painting room. Comforting and the safest place for her. Rhys followed her in and closed the door behind them.

It was warm enough in here that Feyre stripped Rhys’s jacket and returned it with a small “Thank you.” He gave a nod of his head in acknowledgment but folded it over the back of a chair.

“So what did you want to explain?” Feyre asked. And it was those few words that made Rhysand instantly more nervous than he had looked just seconds before.

He clenched and unclenched his fists and took a few deep breaths, all whilst avoiding Feyre’s eyes. She had never seen him look so disheveled, and it worried her slightly. What he had to tell her couldn’t be good if it elicited this kind of reaction.

When Rhys finally met Feyre’s gaze, he ran his fingers through his hair and said, “I know how insane this is going to sound, because even I still haven’t gotten a grasp on it. And I don’t expect you to say yes or accept anything, especially since how I’ve treated you. I shouldn’t have been so distant. I shouldn’t have abandoned you because, Feyre, you’re one of the greatest things that has come into my life.”

It was sort of startling to hear these things from him, so Feyre blurted, “What is this about, Rhys?”

A pause. Then a heaving sigh and Rhys focused solely on Feyre’s eyes, and she on his. “I think you’re my mate, Feyre.”

The words clanged through Feyre, but one settled in her core. Mate. A thing so rare and treasured amongst Fae that most don’t find it. And now a five-hundred year old Fae male—one of the seven High Lords—is telling her that she may be his. Mate. She may be Rhysand’s mate. He was not just a High Lord or a Fae, but her friend since she was eight years old.

Feyre swallowed against a lump that had formed in her throat. “How do you know?” The words came out softer than she intended.

“I can’t really explain it. I just…know. When we kissed, I felt it. The bond. It wasn’t strong, so I didn’t pay attention to it,” Rhys explained, “But even after the kiss, I felt it every time I looked at you. And I panicked. You were still young, only seventeen. I didn’t want to force it on you.

“But I didn’t handle it well, and I cut ties with you completely with no explanation. I shouldn’t have. That’s why I came here, to explain myself and tell you why. And to also tell you that I don’t expect you to accept the bond right now, if ever.” Rhys took a deep breath. “Because, Feyre, I don’t deserve you. For many reasons that you do not know, I don’t deserve to have you. But you have the right to know all of this. And you have to know that I love you, and have known since that kiss on Starfall.”

Rhys swallowed thickly as he finished, his eyes full of something akin to sorrow—and something else. Feyre’s throat was dry. Here this male was, saying that he did not deserve her, when she had no idea what she’d done to deserve him. To deserve his selflessness and this visage he had of her.

Still, it was a lot to take in. She knew Rhys would accept any answer she gave, even if it was undecided. But his confession—that he loved her…

“Rhys…” Feyre said, but paused as her words escaped her. Something plagued her, and she had to get it out. “What if I never Settle? What if I am mortal and I grow old? Whatever we have—if we are mates—I couldn’t do that to you.”

Rhys’s face turned grim. “It’s something we would have to see with time. And if it came to it…” Rhys wetted his lips. “For you, I would be more than willing to bind my life to yours. If it came to it, I would age with you.”

Feyre’s eyes welled with tears. “No, Rhys. I couldn’t ask you to do that for me. I wouldn’t want you to do that for me.” So what did that mean? Was she telling him that she rejected their bond to spare him potential heartbreak?

“You wouldn’t have to ask me, because I would want to. That’s how much I love you, Feyre,” Rhys stated as he approached her and took her hands in his, “Mortality is not a problem to me. I would walk through every afterlife to be with you. So it’s up to you now with whatever your answer may be.”

Feyre’s eyes were watery, but she did nothing to wipe the tears away as she did not want to stop holding Rhys’s hands. Now she found herself wondering what she did to deserve Rhysand. Why the Mother would ever bless her with this unselfish male.

Feyre looked at their joined hands and studied them in a moment of silence, as a small smile slowly began to dance on her lips. “Do you remember that forest painting I made all those years ago?” She asked, “And I told you the story of how a handsome Fae prince lived there?”

A smile that mirrored hers played at Rhysand’s lips. “I do.”

“Well, I think I prefer a prince from the City of Starlight now.” Feyre was fully aware of what she insinuated. And even more aware when she leaned up and kissed Rhysand.

Feyre’s memory didn’t do it justice. Not the softness of his lips or how he tasted and smelled. The way one of his hands rested on the nape of her neck, and the other on the bare small of her back, gave her chills. It was a moment of pure bliss. She wanted this. Wanted him. No matter what.

“You’ll have to tell me how all of this works,” Feyre breathed when the kiss broke at last, “I’m not really in touch with my Fae heritage.”

Rhys smiled. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll always be here to help you if you need me.”

So Feyre smiled and kissed her mate, in a room that smelled of paint and Rhysand. Thus they took the first big step in their new life together.

~

A/N: I feel like doing more on this. It just seems a little unsettled, doesn’t it? I hope you’re enjoying this so far and I’m sorry it took so long to update! Thanks for the support!

anonymous asked:

60! :))

I combined the prompt 60. “Oh, do that again.” with @leiascully exercise challenge. 

Set after “My Struggle” most likely; around that time anyway. 

His fist raised to knock, Mulder pauses a moment, realizing he’s never been here before.

Scully’s apartment.

The first time they were partnered, before they were ever anything else, how long did it take him to come to her place? A week, maybe? Two? He can’t remember. The forgetting, he realized early in his treatment, is a side effect of his medication. Some days he curses it, like he curses so many things. Other days, he accepts silently, almost joyously. When it comes to Scully and their past, though, he doesn’t want to forget even the most insignificant moment.

He knocks, finally. His knuckles tingle as he waits for her to open the door. Gone are the times when they lived in the same place, coming in and going out with a kiss hello or goodbye; gone are the days he has a key to her place. Scully has invited him over, though, for the first time in almost a year so maybe this means they’re making progress. Or she is just tired of constantly driving out to their – now his, as she likes to remind him – house. Either way, he won’t complain. He won’t ask either, though. Mulder is not sure he’s still allowed to ask; their relationship, in whatever form it is, twists anew at every turn and right now he can’t tell where he is, where she is. Where they are. So he stays quiet, masks it with a smile, and he is certain she does the same. He’s learning to take baby steps, do one thing to get to another. The days where he jumped in, no questions asked, no action thought through, those are gone, too.

“Oh hi.” Scully greets him when the door finally opens. She stares him up and down as if she’s been expecting someone else.

“Why are you dressed like that, Mulder?”

“I’m wearing casual clothes.” He explains slowly, looking at her. Of course she’s dressed for the occasion already: tight black running shorts and a very form fitting, short sleeved running top in a deep, dark blue. Mulder tries not to stare, tries not to react, but he’s like a Pavlovian dog when it comes to her. She clears her throat and he swears he hears her amusement. Some things simply never change. His eyes meet hers and the twinkle he sees there lets him think today might be a good day for them.

“Why are you wearing casual clothes, Mulder? You can’t run in jeans.”

“I can run wearing an Armani suit, Scully, so the question is I can’t or you won’t let me?” Just like that her mood shifts; there’s the slightest quiver around her lips that would go undetected by anyone who hasn’t spent the last twenty years observing her, loving her.

“Mulder…”

“I know, I know,” he apologizes, “I just didn’t want to scare away my Uber with my tights.”

“Mulder, you need a car.” She finally opens the door wider and Mulder, albeit hesitantly, steps in. The apartment, he realizes, is not at all what he expected or feared. There is nothing here that screams Scully at him. A few picture frames are up and the book shelf carries a few medical journals, a couple of books. There are no personal trinkets. He sees none of the novels she still claims not to own, the ones that are full of fairytale romances, tropical settings and atrocious writing. Mulder stumbled upon one of her dog-eared paperbacks a couple of days ago when he tried to tidy the place up. Just in case, he tells himself. In case she ever wants to come home.

“That’s why I took this job, Scully. Skinner promised me a car.” She rolls her eyes while massaging oil into her legs. The smell reminds him of lazy Sundays years ago when she, not him, wanted to go running. Just in case, she’d told him. In case of what, he’d wondered even then. Unbeknownst to them it had been the beginning of the end. Yet, the sweet scent fills him with a longing. At least back then they’d been living together, sharing their lives, such as they were.

“If you want to keep said job, Mulder, you need to get back into exercising.” She pats his stomach, which he believes is still firm enough.

“Are you saying I look fat?”

“No,” she continues her pre-run routine with stretches that make Mulder hot for entirely different reasons than exercise, “I’m saying you need to get back into shape. Which is why I’m asking you again: why are you wearing this? Where are your running clothes?”

“Like I told you,” Mulder says, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans patiently and slowing down even more when he sees Scully watching him intently, “I didn’t want to scare away the driver. I came prepared.” Taking his jeans off all the way reveal his running tights. Scully bought them for him a couple of years ago and he protested, preferring his much looser shorts, but she told him to try it anyway. He’s been wearing the tights ever since.

“They still fit?” Her voice, as well as her eyes, soften, the memory though unspoken seems almost palpable in the small room. Afraid to break the spell and unable to form words anyway, Mulder just nods.

“Well then,” Scully raises her arms into the air, her top riding up and revealing the slightest peek at her stomach. The need to touch her there is almost unbearable and he straightens his own shirt to distract himself and his hands. Scully lowers her arms and the moment is gone, leaving only the lingering sense of longing. “Let’s go?” Her hands are on her hips and she’s staring at him, challenging him. Some things really do never change, he thinks, and nods.

*

They return an hour later with Scully hobbling on her feet and clinging to him. Mulder offered to carry her and upon receiving the eyebrow withdrew his offer and instead put his arms around her. He’s essentially carrying her this way, too, but he knows she lets it count because her feet are still on the ground. Her body is warm, hot even, after their intense run. She tried to outrun him knowing that despite her smaller physique, she is in much better shape. They didn’t speak at all, just ran, and somehow always fell into step with the other. Until they suddenly didn’t.

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she’d told him through gritted teeth, trying to stretch her left leg and keep running. “We can keep going.” She’d said then, her wet, teary eyes betraying the strong resolve in her voice.

“The only place we’re going is your place – and slowly.” She had not protested then, except for when he tried to carry her, and now here they are. Scully lets go of him and he almost reaches out to stop her, not ready to lose the close contact, and wobbles into her bedroom. She doesn’t tell him to follow and Mulder stands there, half in, half out. His eyes wander about, searching for his jeans, so he can leave. Maybe. He doesn’t know what the protocol is in this situation.

“Mulder?” A muffled voice comes from the bedroom. He takes a few steps and stops in the doorway. The room is as sparsely decorated as the living room, maybe even more so. It reminds him of a hotel, not the ones they used to stay in, in a very sterile, very impersonal way.

“Yeah?”

“Could you, uhm… I hate to ask this of you, but…” Scully is sitting on her bed; she’s taken her shoes off, but she is still wearing the rest of her running gear. She looks young and cute and as much as Mulder wants to voice this, his feelings for her, he keeps quiet and waits for her to go on.

“My leg really hurts and… it’s just a kink. I had it before and uhm, the best way to get rid of it is a massage.” She’s unable to meet her eyes so his grin goes unnoticed. He clears his throat and nods. Which of course she doesn’t see either.

“Sure, Scully. Just tell me what to do.” She sends him into the tiny bathroom to get oil. There are several small bottles and Mulder doesn’t want to think about why she even has them. He picks the one that smells like peppermint, knowing she prefers that for her after run routine. At least he hopes this still rings true. By the time he comes back, Scully has taken off her running tights. The sight should not paralyze him like this; it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, touched before. He used to kiss down her legs, tickling her behind the knee and making her laugh out loud in delight.

“Mulder? What are you doing?” Her question jolts him back to the present time.

“Nothing. I just got the oil.” He joins her on the bed and wonders if he should take off his own clothes. He is positive that he reeks. But his hand lands on her thigh and she moans – loudly. Mulder forgets everything else after that. He uncaps the small, green bottle and pours some of the oil into his hands. He’s done this before, of course. As he puts his hands on her soft skin and starts kneading gently, he can’t help but think of other times they did this. When she moans again, in a way that reminds him of a different situation altogether, he closes his eyes as if in pain only to realize it’s even worse, his mind feeding him unwanted memories. No one, least of all Scully, taught him to navigate this; the remains of their relationship. I need time, she had told him once when she came by the house to pick up a few things, and you need to get better without me here, she’d finished, leaving him again, alone and waiting. No manual to sift through; even if, as Scully would most certainly remind him, he never reads the manual anyway.

“Oh, do that again!” Scully moans and that’s when Mulder stops.

“I can’t do this, Scully.” His hands remain on her leg, warm and firm, oily and soft.

“You’re doing great, Mulder,” she assures him, her face sideways on the pillow, her eyes closed, “Just keep going, please.”

“No, I mean I can’t do this, whatever this is.” One eye opens, then the other as she shifts to look at him. “Why did you even ask me to come here? I can go running at home, you know. You used to do it there, too. It’s a much nicer neighborhood.”

“You’re right,” she sits up with difficulty, “Maybe I wasn’t completely honest when I asked you come here to exercise together.”

“Are you going to make me guess?” Mulder asks when he can’t stand the silence any longer; his therapist implored him to work on his patience, and he has, but right now, he can’t wait when his heart beats faster with a sense of hopeful longing he hasn’t felt in a while.

“Maybe I finally wanted you to see this place,” Scully admits, biting her lower lip; he knows her, reads her easily, and he knows she’s still holding back something, and so he waits, one eyebrow raised, “Do you like this apartment, Mulder?” For a moment he considers lying.

“No. I hate it.” He tells her honestly and she nods.

“I hate it, too,” she admits, her eyes never leaving his, “I miss our house,” she hasn’t called it that in a long, long time, “But I wanted you to see it and well, give you a key. I didn’t mean for my leg to be this bad. This – the massage was not part of my plan.”

“You had a plan?”

“Kind of,” she chuckles, “I thought I’d give you a key so you could consider this your home away from home, too.”

“That’s what this is for you? A home away from home?”

“No,” she takes his hand into hers and stares at his fingers, gently running her own over the back of his hand, “It’s a refuge. I needed one, Mulder. At least for a while. I’m keeping it because… it’s so much closer to work than the house, Mulder.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.” Scully rolls her eyes at him, but then smiles.

“I want us to stay here during the week and then… go home for the weekends.”

“Together? You want us to live here together?”

“Unless you don’t want us-”

“Scully, as long as there’s an us, I want it all.” She grins at him coyly then and lets go of his hand.

“You’ll keep going to therapy, though.” It’s not a question and he nods. “You’ll keep taking your meds.” Another nod follows as a huge grin appears on his face. “We’re not… we still have a long way to go, Mulder.” He wants to take her into his arms, hold her tight and never let go, kiss her and never taste anything else ever again, but he stays put, waits for her.

“You came up with this whole you need to exercise ploy to make me come to your apartment? Scully, you know you could have called.”

“I know,” she tells him, leaning into his space and he can’t wait until they’re ready to take the next step, when this is not just banter but foreplay, “but let’s face it Mulder: you really are out of shape.”

“Says the woman with the leg injury.”

“It’s not an injury, it’s just – why are you grinning like that, Mulder?”

“No reason, Scully. No reason at all.” It’s happiness, he knows, and when she returns his smile he knows she sees it, too.

anonymous asked:

How about RFA+V and Saeran react to MC completely disappearing once Rika comes back and everyone ignores MC. Like she was replaced by Rika,and the last thing they saw of her was "MC has left the chatroom"

I’m gonna format this different than usual, just because this is… Gosh this is a really good ask, and I want to answer it in a good way too, but the usual way just doesn’t seem to suit it, so.. heheh, I hope you guys like this format Note: The reactions are all connected, I suggest reading it in order as I wrote it to make the best sense!! ^^

To begin with, there was a lot of “Rika..? Where have you been??” “We thought you were dead” “How.. how are you back?”
You were amazed too. But you felt forgotten in the excitement, no one answered you, they all acted like… Rika replaced you. As if now that she was there, you… were not. You understood at first, sure. They were all excited that Rika was back. Makes sense. But this lasted for a few days… They wouldn’t join in chatrooms with you anymore, they had just left you. You attempted one last time to get their attention.

-Hey.. guys?
-I guess you’re all busy…
-….
-Haha.. that seems to be all the time now ^^;;
-You’re all really busy….;;
-I guess I’m just a bother, aren’t I?
-…..
-I’m sorry
-MC has left the chatroom-

Yoosung

At first, he was still caught up in the excitement. Rika, enticing as ever, held his attention. He at first played off your chat as a bad day, on your part. But then… you stopped coming to the chats at all. He realized it one day when he was thinking about you. He stopped in the chats and asked if anyone else had noticed.
No one quite knew… when you were last on. Rika tried to say to brush it off. “She’ll come back sometime. I’m sure!! Don’t worry!”
Yoosung looked back to find the chat anyways. It worried him.. what you said sounded so definitive. As if you planned to leave, for good.
So he consulted Seven. “Where’s MC? Why hasn’t she been here?”
“I… I haven’t been able to find them… They deleted the app, and then they just completely disappeared.”
“Why didn’t you tell us sooner??”
“I tried. No one would listen.”
Yoosung didn’t want to believe Seven, but looking back at the chats… he saw it was true. Anything about you, everyone just brushed aside. It seemed only Seven tried to bring you up, before he too, gave up.
“When did you last see MC?”
“She left her home, and disappeared from the city…”
“There has to be clues at her home… what’s her address?”
He recorded it as Seven told him, then went out on a drive, driving through the neighborhood you resided in, scouring the houses for your address.

Jaehee

“What do you mean.. MC’s gone?”
She hadn’t noticed it either that you were gone gone, until Yoosung brought up the chat with Seven about your disappearance.
“They can’t just… be gone. Can they..?”
“Jaehee, I know you were close to them..” Yoosung started, “do you know anything about where they might have gone? Could they be hiding something at home about where they went?”
“I… Maybe, but… I never really saw them outside of club activities, only a couple times..”
“Come with me then. We have to check her home for anything, any clues.”
“Okay”
That’s how the two of them ended up at your porch, first knocking the door to see if you were maybe just at home. There was always the chance, and Jaehee didn’t want to ‘break in’ if it was unnecessary, because it after all, was your home.
“Let’s go in” Yoosung said after waiting a minute.
“Wait– hold up, they might just be coming.”
Yoosung huffed, but Jaehee stubbornly made them wait five more minutes. “Fine, we can go in.”
They found the place clean. Not just clean, but to a point of… barrenness. It felt empty. Lifeless.
“You’d think there’d be signs of them actually living here…” Yoosung murmured.
“Maybe that’s the point…” Jaehee said. She wandered through the house, into a bedroom. It too felt empty, with a bed, an empty nightstand, and a desk. The desk appeared empty, but she checked the drawers, and found a notebook. She remembered this from times hanging out with you, you kept notes in this… it was kind of like your planner/diary/notes all blended together.
“This should have something.”

Zen

He saw the chat when he woke up in the morning. “What’s going on? MC… is missing?”
He didn’t quite believe it.
Scratch that– he didn’t want to believe it.
But he couldn’t deny how they all were ignoring you. He couldn’t help wondering if that’s what drove you to leave, the fact that everyone ignored you. Or was it something more…?
“Guys, why is everyone so worried..?” Rika chimed in on the chat. “They’ll be fine, they’re probably just taking a break. It can be kind of stressful leading the RFA, I would know!! ^^”
“But why would they just disappear?” Zen asked. “Shouldn’t they have given us some kind of warning?”
“Just give them space, they’ll be fine.”
He noticed how Rika had little concern about you, and sure it made some sense.. she didn’t really know you. Call it paranoid, but he was skeptical about her “it’s fine” act. In a moment of rogue thought, he wondered if Rika had anything to do with your disappearance.
That… couldn’t be possible though. It’s Rika– he knows her. She wouldn’t do something like this.
But then again.. the Rika he last knew was from at least four years ago. The details around her ‘death’ and return were vague, and V and her were shrouded in secrets. Thinking more about it, Zen felt less and less sure that Rika wasn’t involved.

Jumin

“Let me see what you found.”
“It isn’t much, but..” Jaehee drew out a notebook from her bag. “This is it, Mr. Han. It took me forever to convince Yoosung to let me take it, but it’s their notebook. I found it in their drawer. I thought that this might be of some help…”
She opened to a page and showed it to Jumin, revealing a page of a scribbled-down conversation. Little notes labelled one side as you, the other side as someone going by Unknown.
“Isn’t Unknown..?”
“Yes, Unknown is the one who lead MC to the apartment in the first place. I didn’t realize they had been talking with each other…”
Jumin looked closer at the conversation. It talked about plans, how you needed to leave, needed help leaving. Needed to know how to disappear, so even Seven couldn’t find you.
“Why was MC planning this? And why would they go to this Unknown to do it?” He hesitates. “Jaehee, find out more about this for me. Consult Seven maybe, leave the notebook with me. I’ll continue looking through it.”
Jaehee bites her lip, but doesn’t protest before heading off.
Jumin starts looking through your notebook, and finds the first day you met the RFA.
MC was so happy… He remmebers fondly, and starts scanning through more.
-Could I really be more than Rika for them? Can I just become me and mean the same to them?
-I really think I can.

The memories go bittersweet as he realizes how quickly they tossed you to the wind after Rika came back.
-Unknown got a hold of me on the app… he messaged me again. I think.. there’s a reason he’s back. It might be for the best to have him help me.
MC… Jumin worries, are you with this unknown right now?

Seven

“Seven, you’re saying you don’t know how to handle Unknown? How he did all of this?”
“I– I told you. I can’t figure out how they do it, but they always seem to be one step ahead. I’ll call if I can figure out more. I have to go.”
Rika had to peep in a final word, “It’ll be fine. MC’s probably just on vacation or something~”
He left the chat with Jaehee, and started scouring the computer again. His eyes hung open sleeplessly, his fingers were cramped from working on the computer for so long, but he couldn’t find you. He couldn’t find any sign of you. And he just didn’t understand it.
Hearing that you worked with the Unknown to disappear, it started making sense why he couldn’t find you. The Unknown seemed to be on the same level if not more advanced than him of hacking, he could easily help you disappear without a trace online.
The only clues left were what was left in your house, which meant your notebook…
Seven couldn’t help but feel like he failed you.
He should’ve been able to stop this. He should’ve been able to keep you there, with them. It must’ve been his fault. He failed to protect you from whatever drove you to Unknown for help. Perhaps he even failed to protect you from Unknown. 
His phone buzzed. A message from Rika. “It’ll be okay, okay Seven? You’ll see, things will go back to normal. The way they were. It’ll be all better with time.”
Frustrated, Seven chucked his phone across the room. It clashed in the trash of Dr. Pepper cans and Honey Buddha Chip bags, all empty. He hadn’t had a proper meal since he saw you deleted the app. He hadn’t ate since his stash of pop and chips ran out… two days ago.
His stomach rumbled.
But he decided he wasn’t hungry, and continued typing at the computer.

Saeran

“Are you sure about this?” He asked.
“Yeah,” you said, nodding. “Give them this after I’m gone. And.. thanks, for helping me. You know you didn’t have to.”
Saeran grunted.
“Shut up. Just get out of here, before I hack into the chat and spoil your plans.”
You smiled half-heartedly. “I.. don’t think they’d worry too much over me, even if you did message them. Just.. keep an eye on (insert-your-fave-mm-charrie) for me, okay..?”
He shifted his eyes. “ ‘kay.”
He watched you go, holding himself back from saying anything more…
I’m sorry.

V

He watched the RFA’s panic as they realized you disappeared.
He didn’t want to intrude on it.
Even if it pained him.
He sat back and watched.
The buzz and the worry over you went on for a few months.
Yoosung clung onto it like he clung on to Rika’s death.
Jaehee lost motivation in anything but work.
Zen kept on face, looking like he was fine while reeking of vodka.
Jumin invested himself heavily in the company, losing himself in it.
Seven rarely was online, but when he was, reassuring everyone he was doing his best to find you.
The RFA as it once was lost it’s enthusiam.
Rika started working hard to build it back up.

The message was supposed to be given out to the rest of the RFA after he received it. It appeared anonymously in the mail one wintry day.
He consulted Rika about it however, before even considering sharing it.
She told him to burn it. Don’t leave it to be discovered, get rid of it before someone like Seven gets a hold of it.
He couldn’t bring himself to burn it. He felt too guilty to.
So he hid it away, in a box locked up and tucked away on a shelf, where it would gather dust and be forgotten about.
It was like the memory of you, just as Rika hoped it would be.
Tucked up on a shelf, left to gather dust and be forgotten about.

Continued here

~Sunflower (:

4

[warning for old-school trans terminology and rhetoric, transmisogyny, slurs, and mentions of violence and rape]

this is the article roycevomit discovered; i managed to track it down in the local university library and use their scanner.  bear with me, the text is a little long, but it’s also very interesting and at times a little too close to home.  obviously i don’t agree with everything it says, but i think it’s an important part of our history.

Beyond Two-Genderism
Notes of a Radical Transsexual
by Margo
published in The Second Wave Vol 2.4 (1972)

Over the past few years, both the feminist and gay movements have been challenging some basic assumptions about human sexual identity and expression.  There is a growing group of people who refuse to see women as inferior to men, and who also refuse to see love between people of the same sex as inferior or less “moral” than love between people of different sexes.  More and more questions are being asked about sex roles and relationships, ranging from why there is not equal pay for equal work to why a fulfilling sexual experience cannot involve less or more than two people.  In brief, the feminist movement has challenged male chauvinism, and the gay movement has challenged heterosexual chauvinism.  Of course, these are not separate issues.  As one who views herself as a feminist bisexual woman, I think and feel them to be very intimately related indeed.

Two-Genderism: Unfinished Business

However, if I am to find a life as a full human being, I must challenge yet a third aspect of sexism which has not yet been challenged, at least not on a large scale.  I call this aspect two-genderism, a rather clumsy term upon which I hope someone will improve.

Two-genderism can be summed up in the following assumptions: (1) human beings are divided into two distinct and mutually exclusive biological pigeonholes, male and female, (2) human beings are divided into two distinct and mutually exclusive psychological and social pigeonholes, men and women; (3) biological sex, subjective identity, and social assignment always coincide, and (4) none of these facts can change as a person grows and develops.

Perhaps these assumptions become clearer when we see exactly who gets hurt by them.  While it is true that everyone is affected to some extent, and that without these assumptions it would be much harder to maintain or justify a sexist society, still there are two overlapping groups that are particularly damaged by two-genderism.  First, there are intersexuals, people who combine some elements of both sexes in their bodies.  Secondly, there are transsexuals, people who develop gender identities which are preponderantly opposite to the ones which society demands.

Most transsexuals have perfectly “normal” female or male bodies, as the case may be.  Most intersexuals tend to adopt whatever sex they are reared to be, no matter how confusing from a two-sex viewpoint their biological condition is.  And there are some people who combine aspects of both these groups.  I am one of them.

A Personal Account

As I have learned from the feminist and gay movements, theory is not enough.  Now women are beginning to feel free to discuss their rapes without shame or euphemism, and gay people openly discuss the joys and terrors of coming out.  In the same way, I feel that an account of my past may give a better picture of what two-genderism means.

I am a genitally male person who has wanted to be female since about the age of four and a half.  I have some female breast development and gonads which produce virtually no sperm for a reason which has not yet been medically determined.  At present, I am taking female hormones and look forward to eventual sex reassignment surgery to make me as biologically female as possible.  At the same time, I must admit that 21 years of living as a male, however unrelished a role it has been, has made my sense of femaleness different than it is for someone born into that status.

Rather than write an autobiographical case history, I would like to relate moments which may give a better feeling of what my transsexuality has meant in my life.  My technique is borrowed directly from an article entitled “Barbaric Rituals,” which is in Sisterhood is Powerful.

Excerpts From A Diary

I am walking around in male clothing, and a child refers to me as a “funny-looking lady."  Teenagers ask me if I am a boy or a girl.  I am not sure if they are affirming my female identity or merely considering me as a hippy.  I think of many replies, respond with silence, and walk on.

In a crowd watching a building a building demolition (do I see the bring-down of a sixteen-story building as symbolic transsexuality?), being asked by some teenage boys if I use silicone, and being warned by a hardhat not to lift my sweatshirt lest I be "lewd and luscious."  Being told by one boy that I would probably be busted for "impersonating a chick” even though I am in male attire.

Being told by a feminist friend that I am masculine in being more idea-oriented than people-oriented, and wondering when people would ever give me a chance to be my real self to them.

Openly cross-dressing, wearing women’s clothing to a university campus, and being correctly associated with the gay movement but incorrectly identified as a male homosexual rather than as what I consider myself, a female bisexual.

Being called a faggot by some fraternity types at school.  The humor was that a faggot is the derogatory term for a male who enjoys sleeping with males, while I was and am in a situation where I can go to bed only with myself.

Finding some genuine beauty and humanness in my own subjectively female sexuality, in spite of all the confusion and ambivalence, but being unable to express a shadow of it to anyone else.

Talking to a friendly gay male who tells me, “I’m a very tolerant faggot, but I can’t understand you.  You’ve gone three steps beyond me and another two in reverse.”

Talking to a gay sister who can understand me as a “cross-gender Lesbian” but cannot understand why I find myself talking in a very different tone of voice, an affirmation of my emerging identity.

Being excluded from feminist groups because of my genitals and required male social role, and being excluded from male society because of almost everything else.

Talking with some genuinely kind organizers of a women’s center at my undergraduate school who has tried to comfort me by telling me that what with nonsexist child rearing I should have company in fifteen or twenty years.

After a demonstration against fraternity prostitution, going to a local newspaper and saying “Women’s liberation frees men too,” rather than, “I am what i feel, a woman who supports both her sisters and her brothers in ending dehumanization.”

Going to a campus meeting for a feminist organization where it is proposed to hold a women’s party, hearing that there can also be a men’s party, and realizing that I can fit into neither; going outside and having a good cry.

Having a radical male friend question whether my transsexuality is a personal distraction from “worthwhile” political work because “how many transsexuals are there, anyway?”

Leaving early from a radical literature distribution meeting and hearing that I had missed an excellent discussion of the unity of the personal and the political.  Later the same night being asked, at a party of the same people, not to discuss my intersexuality since I might be overheard.  Knowing that natural-born women could discuss birth control or abortion at this party without fear.

Telling myself that I am where a female was in 1950 or a gay person in 1960.  Then thinking about a woman or gay person raped, murdered, or driven to suicide, and feeling guilty fro playing the game of “more oppressed than thou.”

Reading about a woman’s project in Vietnam, and getting my priorities straight by hoping that the war will be over before I will be eligible to join.

Wondering if I will ever be able to pass as a female, and deciding that if not, I would rather live in a body and wear clothes that I can enjoy, even if it is on a desert island.

Reading feminist literature which claims that “men sure of their masculinity support equality” and gay literature which says that those who cross-identify or cross-dress are expressing masochism, are a small minority of the upright homophile world, and should not make you doubt that “you can be gay and normal too."  As a Lesbian who considers female transsexuals her sisters, experiencing the special pain of seeing these people apologized for and put down.

Arranging for hormone tests, and wondering what they can really prove.  Realizing that to learn I "really” have breasts, that I “really” am partly female, would make me feel much more legitimate.

Enjoying medieval music, which has scales in between major and minor.  Reflecting that even in classical music you are permitted to modulate, to change key.

Conclusion

This article is intended neither as a scholarly discussion of transsexual and intersexual states nor as a blueprint for ideal societies.  There are a number of articles now available on transsexuals and intersexuals, although many have a sexist bias.  As far as utopias are concerned, many anti-sexist people have shown a great interest in writing about androgynous societies yet small tolerance for actual androgynous people.  I can, however, make some suggestions to both the feminist and gay movements.

To The Feminist Movement:

1.  Do not assume that people who are confident about their sexual identities are for equality.  many people are either confident sexists or unsure people who question the old givens.  It is also an insult to all who do not fit the stereotype of a confident person of any sex.

2.  Understand that because of psychological and social pressures many transsexuals seek extreme versions of their desired sex roles.  Feminism can best reach these people by example and by understanding the uncertainty which sex identity shift can bring and which extreme role-playing can mark.

3.  In writing, recognize that there are intersexuals and transsexuals who may be trapped in a no-person’s-land and who need solidarity from anti-sexist people.  Literature which insists that there are only women and men is conspiring unconsciously with sexist forces to crush those in between.

4.  In exclusively female groups, redefine what it means to be female so that male transsexuals may have at least partial membership before surgery.  It is just at this transitional point, when the transsexual is beginning to live in her new identity, that communication with wher sisters may be important in shaping her life-style and in getting a wider perspective on what it means to be a woman.

5.  Become involved in current gender research and treatment programs so that the feminist view may be represented.

To The Gay Movement:

1.  Do not put down transsexuals, intersexuals, or other unusual people (e.g., transvestites) for apologize or express condescending pity for them.

2.  Explain that gay people are those who wish to love a member of their own sex, while transsexuals wish to change sex.  This is the difference between sexual preference and gender identity, and it should be known in order to confront the confusion and needless conflict between transsexuals and gay people.

3.  Recognize that some female transsexuals will have male homosexual feelings and some male transsexuals will have female homosexual feelings.  Such people should be welcomed to their respective groups.

In general:

Although transsexuals and intersexuals can organize themselves, they cannot make progress without help since they are such a small minority.  Recognizing the problems of intermediate people would be a humane step for anti-sexist groups and a move toward a freer view of sex and gender for everyone.  It would help bring to an end the two-genderism which is being challenged in genetic research but not yet in social reality.

I should say something about my obligations as a transsexual to the larger movement.  First of all, I feel committed to such issues as child-care and abortion, even though I shall never be able to bear or father a child.  I shall always try to be sensitive to the ways in which I have profited by male status, however much I have lost emotionally: for school and job simply being male was an automatic bonus.  Of course, I will be renouncing this status, but I cannot renounce the very unjust benefits I have received and which are now unerasable history.  I shall join with the Lesbian movement, while as a bisexual female I shall try to have the strict dichotomy between gay and straight removed (as Kate Millett has tried to do).  My main feeling is that I want to love human beings; sex and gender should not be determining factors.  At the same time, I do not put down those who happen to prefer one sex or the other.  It is a question of taste, becoming a problem when one taste is almost forced and another is repressed.


Back to the Past (Hamilton x Reader) 3

Words: 2194

Tags: @ghcstflower @mehrmonga @princessoftrash1234 @theamazingfeministunicorn @caswhatareyoudoingstahp @fanagelbagel @the-founding-fuckboys @batgurl32467 @21phantasticromances @live-to-the-fullest18 @looneylovegoodx @onelastfic @sbobsessions @gonnamurderyou 

A/N: not gonna lie, i’ve been procrastinating on writing this, because i had a brain fart. fyi for all you new writers out there, maybe write an outline before writing something. would really help the process, just saying. besides that, enjoy!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4


You nodded at all of them, putting the pen in the pocket of the pants you were given. You saw Hamilton’s face drop, and a small snicker from Mulligan. You stood up, giving all of them a quick glance, finally landing on Hamilton’s face.

“So, how am I going to get back home?” You asked the men. Lafayette looked at the others, then shrugged.

“No idea, miss. Maybe we can create this machine you call a moving paper that you research words on. How you say…?” He asked, waving his hand around.

“A computer. It’s called a computer.” You mumbled. “But you haven’t even created electricity, and the first computer was in the 1900s. So there’s no way that’s going to happen.” Laurens bit his lip.

“Electricity? What is this electricity?” Laurens asked, looking at his friends for help.

“And you said 1900s. Does this mean that the colonies still exist at that time?” Hamilton asked after.

“And why do you speak these strange words, are you trying to confuse us?” Mulligan questioned, crossing his arms.

“I am very of the confused.” Lafayette sat on the stool next to Hamilton’s desk, putting his head in his hands. “These English people are more fusing than the empire.”

“fusing? Don’t you mean confusing?” You helped, and Lafayette nodded. “Guys, I get it, it’s strange to hear about this stuff. Honestly, I want to tell you everything, I do. But I don’t know what could happen. I mean, I told you about a pen, and you guys thought it was witches-“

“That was Hamilton.” Mulligan pointed out, gesturing towards the man. Hamilton looked at you shyly, glancing down at the floor. You smiled at him, then looked back at Mulligan. He winked.

“That’s not the point I was trying to make. You see, even mentioning these things can change the course of the world. I mean, I’ve watched so many films about time traveling…” You trailed off, looking at the perturbed men in front of you.

“Are you talking about something like Gulliver’s Travels?” Hamilton asked, and you nodded, thanking him for the reference. “I want to help you, Miss Y/N. Anything with what you might need, I am here to help you.” He stared at you intensely, his eyes never leaving yours.

The five of you talked like this for a while, trying to come up with the best ideas. Mulligan mentioned a gypsy that he “knew” the other night, but you dropped that idea, not wanting to deal with any type of magic. It just doesn’t seem realistic to you. Laurens had few ideas, one was for you to pretend to be a man while you were staying inside the tent. You denied that idea too, since it might make you fight in a battle you certainly weren’t ready for. Lafayette did not have much to say, sometimes interrupting your chats with random questions. Hamilton paced back and forth across the tent, his hand under his chin and his eyes lost in his head. You admired how hard he was thinking about this.

“How about this, Miss Y/N. You go to a fortune teller, and they may be able to help you find out the answer.” Mulligan pumped his fist in the air, happy his idea was chosen. You sighed, looking at his antics. “Listen, this makes the most sense. Since this is, in fact, a supernatural occurrence, we might need supernatural help. Even if it is a witch.” All the men shuddered at the thought, besides Mulligan. He was grinning widely.

You told them earlier that they did not have to use miss when addressing you, but they seemed to ignore your request, continuing to call you this anyway.

“I have the woman’s address, if you want to write her a letter.” You forgot that they did not have phones, and frowned. Sending a letter would take too long, and you needed help as soon as possible.

“No, we go to her tonight. Miss Y/N needs help as quickly as possible. There’s no time for waiting.” Hamilton replied, reading your mind. He glanced over at you, as if he was asking if this was okay. You nodded, touching his arm. He blushed at the contact, and you let go quickly.

Right, no touching.

“I agree, but we should wait until morning. You four must be exhausted, and it’s been a long day. Especially for you.” You looked at Hamilton. He nodded slowly, turning towards the men.

“Tomorrow morning at four we leave to the witch.”

“Gypsy.” Mulligan corrected, causing a glare from Hamilton. They all began to walk out, but not before glancing over at me.

“Where is Miss Y/N going to rest? She cannot sleep in a man’s tent.” Lafayette said. You shrugged, looking around for a blanket. You saw one hanging up in the corner, and pointed to it.

“I’ll just sleep on the floor, not a big deal.” They all gasped, shaking their heads quickly. They were all speaking at the same time, and it was hard to understand everything that was being tossed back and forth. You barely deciphered what was going on, and watched their ranting to each other:

Lafayette: No lady sleeps on the floor, not even in the middle of a war.

Laurens: She can sleep in our tent, Laf. No one would mess with her if she’s there.

Lafayette: That is the truth, Laurens. Our tent is very safe for females.

Mulligan: The way you said that Laf made you sound quite strange. And creepy.

Hamilton: What are you trying to say? She’ll be just fine in mine! And she met me first, so she’ll be the most comfortable in my tent.

Mulligan: She could sleep in mine.

All (besides Mulligan): NO!

“Okay, guys, okay! I’m standing right here, and you’re ignoring me. Hello?” You tried to speak through their arguing, but they talked over you.

You decided to grab the cover you found in the corner of the room, beginning to make your makeshift bed on the floor. They didn’t notice you creating the mat on the floor, but their arguing grew louder. You tensed up, hoping no one heard what they were talking about exactly. After you took one of the sheets from Hamilton’s bed, you laid on the ground, turning your back to the men.

“Miss Y/N, right you’ll be fine in here, right?” Hamilton said, noticing your figure on the ground. You were soon sound asleep, tired of listening to their talking. Hamilton turned back to the men, smiling. “She’s safe in here with me, friends. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” They all walked out the room, Mulligan grumbling something about Hamilton always getting his way. Hamilton blew out the candles in the tent, making his way to the cot.

He hated leaving you to sleep on the floor, so, while making sure you were sound asleep, he picked you off the floor, placing you on his bed. You mumbled something about cupcakes, he has never heard about cups being made into cake, and he pulled the sheet on top of you, knowing that the nights grew quite cold around here.

He took himself to the floor, laughing softly at the makeshift bed you created. You were very different, different from anyone he has ever met. As Hamilton adjusted to the curve of the ground, he faced you, watching your body lift and fall from the breaths you took. He was interested in learning more about you, more about where you were from. Of course he wanted you to go back to your home safety, but he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his chest. He’s only just met you, and he wanted you to stay with him if possible.

He closed his eyes, dreaming of you and him sitting in the tent, talking about nothing and everything.


Hamilton opened his eyes, their gaze immediately landing on the empty cot in front of him. He scrambled off the floor, looking around the room. You were no where to be found. He panicked, mentally slapping himself. He should have slept in front of you, he should have been paying more attention. Hamilton began to shake, scared of what might have happened to you. He heard the tent door rustle, and looked towards it quickly. You walked in, wearing an elegant dress. You smiled at Hamilton, and he sighed in relief, his hand against the left side of his chest.

“Are you all right, Hamilton?”

“Y-Yes, Miss Y/N. I am fine, how are you, did you sleep well?” You nodded, smoothing down the fabric. He was smiling at you, and you wondered why he was so happy. He was scanning your figure, looking at your new outfit.

“I slept fine. You put me on your bed, did you not?” You cringed at your poor attempt of speaking how they did in the 1700s. Hamilton did not seem to notice, but his face reddened.

He was spitting out words fast, making your head hurt. “I, I’m sorry for touching you, Miss Y/N. It is improper, and I should not have-“

“Whoa, whoa, slow your roll there, Ham. It’s fine, I am not warning you not to do it again. I’m, I’m thanking you. Thank you, Alexander, for lending me your bed for the night. I really appreciate your kindness.”

Alexander smiled at you shyly, looking down at the ground. “There is nothing that I would not do to please you, Miss Y/N.” You laughed nervously, playing with your fingers.

“Sorry to interrupt this very intense conversation, but it is four, and we have to leave before rollcall.” Laurens said, peeking his head in. He looked at you, and smiled. “You look beautiful, Miss Y/N!” You giggled.

“Thank you, John. Hercules picked it out for me.” You heard a snorting in the background, and looked at Alexander, a forced smile on his face.

“Of course, it’s Mulligan, it’s always Mulligan.” Another head popped in, his curls pulled back, except for one. You smiled at Lafayette, and he winked at you.

“Hurry up and get ready, mon ami. We have to leave.” You decided to let Alexander get himself together, leaving him in the tent alone. You did not notice the jealous glare when you mentioned Mulligan, or how his eyes stayed on your dress for a little too long. Lafayette and Laurens hid you on the way to the tree where you said that all of you would meet.

Laurens mentioned what type of relationship that you have with Hamilton, and you just shrugged. “Nothing really, we did just meet yesterday. I barely know him.” You replied, causing a snicker from the Irishman leaning on the tree.

“Courting does not take that long, Miss Y/N. By the way he goes after you, you may be engaged within a week.” Mulligan teased. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at him.

“I’m not gonna marry a man I’ve just met. It takes time, like maybe a few years?” Lafayette widened his eyes at your response.

“Years? Miss, that’s very strange, I have never heard this before. The longest time I have heard was a few months.” You shrugged your shoulders. Being married in a few weeks? No way, that’s insane. Well, at least it was to you. The strange looks that the three men gave you made you guess that that was a very common occurrence. Hamilton finally came out of his tent, without his revolutionary uniform on. You then noticed all the men were without their uniform, wearing what you suppose was casual wear.

You all followed Mulligan to the woman’s address, the friends laughing and joking along the way. There were few people up this early in the morning, and the ones you saw gave you all strange looks, their gaze mainly focusing on you. You felt like an outsider, covering yourself with the jacket that Laurens gave you. After about a half an hour or so of walking, you walked up to the woman’s house. Mulligan knocked on the front door.

Within seconds, a woman appeared on the other side. She glared at Mulligan, hitting him on the arm. Mulligan cursed, backing up at little from her. She was, very interesting. The ruffles on her sleeves cascaded down to the floor, her dress long and wide. You glanced down at yours, thanking the tailor that he gave you one less attention-grabbing.

“Sir, I told you to never see me again. Why are you on the porch of my home?” She glared at the other men around her, her eyes finally landing on me. “Miss Y/N, I’m sorry that you have to deal with these men, especially him.” She nudged Mulligan.

How did she know your name?

“How did you know her name?” Hamilton asked, standing slightly in front of you. You peeked over his shoulder, glancing at the woman. She laughed, opening her door wider.

“This man did not lie when he said I could help you. Come in.” All the men shared a glance with one another, then entered the home. You hoped that she could help you get back home.


Call Me A Tree, Because I Am Pining For You

Klance Fanfiction

3862 Words

Completed Oneshot 

It’s really just fluff and pining

Summary: Lance likes Keith’s abs and Keith likes Lance’s legs and they are pining fools also Good Uncle Coran makes an appearance. (also every time there is a — it switches who the main focus is)

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I wanted to write a jealous Pynch fic and then I saw someone talking about how they wanted to read a 5+1 jealous Pynch and I kind of stole that idea, so here you go. It’s all set after TRK, except for the first one (no Kavinsy, though, if you’re worried about that).
This is almost 10k words, which makes this the longest fic I’ve ever written, so enjoy I guess.
Mentions of past abuse and internalized homophobia, but it’s nothing big


Ronan Lynch and Adam Parrish are both incredibly complicated beings, not easy to figure out or predict or understand. Really understand. Gansey tried to make sense of who they are as a person, maybe without realizing it. Because he can’t resist a challenge, a puzzle of sorts. It’s the reason he’s so passionate about Glendower. Probably why he surrounds himself with difficult friends, even though he will never truly get them.

Adam and Ronan, though. They’re different together. They do understand each other, because they want to, because they’re more themselves when it’s just the two of them, because you don’t have to hide certain parts of yourself when you know you’ll be accepted anyway.

They don’t take each other’s shit. When Ronan is being an even bigger asshole than he usually is, Adam will call him out on it. When Adam is being unreasonable, Ronan will not hesitate to tell him. And they work.

Anger is something they both struggle with, something that they don’t particularly like about themselves, but which simultaneously means it’s something they share, so they don’t tiptoe around each other, they don’t pretend to be fine, to hide that anger.

They’ve understood each other long before they even realized it.

And they work together.

Anger isn’t the only thing they have in common, though. Jealousy is a feeling that’s so incredibly woven inside them, that it’s now simply a part of them.

Adam Parrish has spent his life dreaming of things he can’t have, carrying water in cupped hands to the shore and ending up with not much at all, but slowly and surely seeing his hole in the sand fill, while surrounding himself with people who have those things without ever having had to work for it. It’s a particular brand of torture, but it’s worth it if it means he’ll be able to call himself one of them some day.

And Ronan Lynch, who’s experienced too many losses a person his age should ever have to go through – his father; his mother’s soul that only existed when his dad was there to breathe the life into it and then it wasn’t just her soul, it was her body too and now he’s officially an orphan at the                    tender age of eighteen and really, he’s just a child, or he feels like one anyway; his glitter loving friend, partner in crime, confident though he never actually told him anything, the creepy fucker who was but a faded image of a person Ronan does not know at all, so did he really? Lose him? Maybe that’s what hurts the most in the end; his best friend and brother whose death were possibly the most antagonizing moments of his existence. No wonder he’s a little territorial. It’s what each of his heartbeats are saying don’t lose anyone else, I wouldn’t be able to take it.

So, really, the jealous feelings that arise when they officially become a thing (and even before that), shouldn’t come as a surprise.

 

1.

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and you | (m)

Originally posted by jeonsshi

• pairing: kim namjoon x reader (his point of view)
• genre/warnings: angst, smut, phone sex, dirty talk, pet names, degrading names used in sex, mentions of supposed cheating
• words: 5,946
→ summary: you call Namjoon late one night to tell him you want him back. Is it true, or are you just looking for some sweet relief, fuelled by your jealously and irrational behaviour?
• note. song here

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anonymous asked:

Ok so YES I love the long distance internet friends au but consider! Long distance wrong number au

honestly anon, thank you so much for this tonight. 

i took long distance and made it loooooong distance to the point where it probably doesn’t make sense, but ~~suspension of disbelief~~

texts between adrien and the mystery person (wow i wonder who) are in italics because theyre in french. also i didnt want to bother anyone so ‘numéro inconnu’ is from google translate so im sorry for….that

finally i tried to streamline how i do texts for this just because the way i do texts is usually a lot clunkier? so it looks more like wanna chat but isnt in like….the contact names are still what the other person would see? like when it says pretty boy thats ninos contact name for adrien and—

frick just tell me if its too confusing and tell me how to fix it im really tired

[on ao3 in case the read more is a butt and wont open]


2:51 PM
unknown number: Did this work?????
unknown number: a;slkdfjadj its me btw
unknown number: I mean duh its me who else would it be
unknown number: If you screenshot this conversation al I swear to go d Ill kill you

Adrien squints at his phone. Not only does he not know this number, but the text are in French. That’s…unusual. He thinks that it’s a lucky coincidence that his father is from France and insisted he learned the language before replying.

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