#also ignore my inability to draw cats lol

[meteor-moon]

@simplyanotherartist 's fic "cora-louie" but i cant draw ducks and they aren't really scenes from the fic

[promisenolies]

A Writer Fed Up

I feel like this post/rant has been coming for a while. I realize that this might not be received well, but I guess that’s a risk I’m willing to take.  

I’ve been encountering some interesting takes and comments around my work as of late. And I feel like it needs to be addressed on a few different fronts. And yes, I could have continued with my life ignoring all these issues, as most people who do these behaviors are likely just doing it for attention. But...I feel that these things need to be said, if not only to give voice to many other writers/content creators who feel similarly.  

General points are as follows:  

The first and simplest point to make is this: the fanfiction writers in your fandom write these pieces – 1. for FREE  2. for THEMSELVES because they feel a call to create something. They/We do not do this for YOU. The sense of entitlement some readers have is uncalled for. Unless you’re paying us for our work, your opinion is not needed. At all.  

Comments and Kudos are the air we breathe as writers. We love when people appreciate our work, enjoy our work, and feel the need to let us know. HOWEVER, the comment section is not there for you to tell us how much you didn’t enjoy the piece. (see point 1)  

Everyone has personal tastes, yes? I have particular things I won’t read/write and I take no offense to others who feel differently. Again though, if you come across work that does not sit well with you or that you don’t enjoy – stop reading. That’s it. Don’t leave a comment, don’t bitch on timelines, don’t send passive aggressive curious cat messages. Just leave it alone. It’s that simple. I have particular tastes, I know that. But I don’t shit on writers who fall outside of what I enjoy. Because WHY!? They—again—are creating content for themselves and those who want to read it. And they’re doing so for free under no obligation to make anyone happy. Including—surprise—you and me! So again – if you don’t like ABO, don’t read it. If you don’t like MCD, don’t read it. If you don’t like BDSM, don’t read it. If you don’t like something specifically don’t. read. it.  I don’t know why this is so hard for readers to grasp.  

Specific points are as follows:  

I write vers/switch Jikook. That’s all I write. Yes, one-shots typically have only one role, but you’ll find a variety of who bottoms/tops in each of them. Claiming that I only wrote bottom Jimin fics after I was “called out” by some entitled person who didn’t care for my content is ridiculous. Especially considering the very first BTS piece I posted was Dressing Room Deviance which not only featured bottom Jimin – but it was also a VMinKook fic!  

On that note. I can’t believe I even have to say this, but what I write is FICTION. As in, despite them taking after the likeness of real Jimin and real Jungkook at the end of the day they are characters or interpretations of them (in my canon fics). And as characters, I write their sexual roles as I see fit. Sometimes I feel like they’d enjoy bottoming, sometimes I feel like they’d like to top. (See general points 1 and 3)  

But what really irritates me with this concerning fascination with sexual roles is that PEOPLE ARE MORE THAN SEX. Are you that incapable of understanding the complexities in human nature? Is it impossible for you to see them as multi-faceted and capable of multiple roles? Relationships are built on more than sex. I promise. And if you’re stuck in thinking otherwise, I greatly encourage you to speak with a professional about what healthy relationships are and what they look like. The sex is my work is ONE part of their relationship. There’s so much more going on behind it. Trust, humor, equality, love... If all you see in my work is the sex or if that’s all you can seem to bring yourself to comment on – quite honestly I don’t want you to read my stuff then. Because it’s CLEARLY over your head.  

Implying that I have no experience in sexual relationships is honestly the most ludacris and laughable thing I’ve encountered to date. One can only DREAM of the level of satisfaction I have in my sex like with my spouse. (Sorry to my little if they end up seeing this LOL) And that satisfaction and experience is in the very thing you seem to think I don’t understand the mechanics of.  

People’s inability to separate physical appearance, size, presentation, etc from their preconceived, heteronormative scripts/ideas is frustrating and sad. Again, people are complex and much more than their sexual roles. There is absolutely NO reason that the smaller partner can’t top. There’s absolutely NO reason that Jimin (let’s be specific here since these are my specific points) can’t be a top, can’t be assertive, can’t be portrayed outside your limited view of “babie Jimi”  Even in real life, yes he’s adorable – but he’s also legitimately scary as fuck and he could kick all our asses. And he’s not TINY. Let's be real. He’s 5’9”  - I can’t understand why so many people depict him as being like 5’3” or some shit. Trust me, that man can reach that top shelf to grab a bowl and doesn’t need Kook to do it for him. Stop making him a feminized, weak, damsel in distress. He’s a MAN and you’d do well to fucking realize that. Jungkook also deserves more than this general script of only topping, being stupid or aggressive, being incapable of feelings and intimacy, and always being some sort of protector. AKA – Jimin is not “the woman” and Jungkook is not “the man.” THEY ARE MEN. Your homophobic heteronormativity is showing and it’s disgusting.  

I do honestly enjoy writing bottom JK, mostly because it’s unconventional (for some gross heteronormative reason). So yeah, you might see a bit more of that in my one-shots. But honestly, maybe y’all need to expand your horizons. I enjoy breaking him out of the confining box so many of you put him in. Same with Jimin. Both he and Jimin deserve great sex, whatever form that happens to take in my work.  

Also, the fandom’s inability to separate sub/dom from bottom/top is also GREATLY CONCERNING. I have a lot of thoughts on this issue. Like A LOT. Mostly focused around the disgusting pornification of our youth and the sexualizing of violence. But at the end of the day my point will be short on this. (And keep in mind I will not debate this issue. This is one of my boundaries alright? - it’s HEALTHY to have boundaries) The main point of this is that sex doesn’t need to have power dynamics. It doesn’t. And I’ll concede on the point that some people specifically write BDSM and sub/dom work and that’s fine because again – points 1 and 3 in general points above. But what frustrates me is that even if there isn’t ANY power dynamics people will tag it that way. Why? Is it to get hits because people have been so culturally groomed to be aroused by that? It makes me sad that I miss out on likely some great pieces because it’s tagged wrong. Just because someone is assertive doesn’t mean they’re being a dom and just because someone let’s go and surrender’s to pleasure doesn’t mean they’re being a sub. Assertiveness is so important to have in sexual experiences because one needs to be able to voice what they like and what they don’t like. Assertiveness is not domming.  

Some people’s simple lack of understanding of intimacy truly saddens me. And I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about INTIMACY. About knowing your partner, being there for your partner, talking through things and managing conflict as a team.  

This next one is a very specific rant point. If you haven’t read the “There And Back Again” series this might give spoilers and/or you might be lost. As a counselor, I can ASSURE you that the dynamics with Jungkook and Jimin include CARE and COMFORT on both sides. The way people seem to think that Jungkook wasn’t a caretaker for Jimin simply because he didn’t coddle him BLOWS MY MIND. Again, is it just because we have so FEW depictions of true intimacy and care for our partners? People process trauma in so many ways. Some people need the image that apparently so many of you draw up in your mind; the hugs, the soothing words, etc. Some people don’t. Jimin specifically in this piece didn’t need that kind of care. If you paid attention AT ALL to his character you would know that. This version of Jimin needed to feel like he was still capable, that he didn’t lose his strength and who he was, he needed to know that he still had PURPOSE. Jimin didn’t need to be coddled the way you seem to think he did. The way Jungkook didn’t make a big deal of Jimin going to therapy – that's the reaction Jimin NEEDED. If you can’t see Jungkook’s apologies for his focus on Jimin’s injuries and how he couldn’t do certain things as care, if you can’t see Jungkook’s desire to learn grounding techniques to help Jimin through flashbacks and panic attacks as care, if you can’t see Jungkook’s support of not just therapy but going to school as care...then I guess I don’t know what to tell you. But let it be known and clear that Jungkook took care of Jimin in all the ways he needed, and I’m not sorry if you can’t see it. Because THOSE depictions of care and intimacy are NEEDED (clearly) and I won’t write cookie-cutter bullshit just so people like it.  

On that note – people's weird dislike of Jimin bottoming at the end of that series is so strange to me. Like, why? Does it revert back to people’s massive inability to accept him as a potential bottom? Is it the inability to reconcile his incredibly masculine portrayal with their perceived feminine role? People say they don’t think he’d healed enough... literally the last chapter is THREE YEARS later. You think he didn’t put in some work in that time? Jesus. As for saying it didn’t seem natural? ...honestly that final scene with them is one of my absolute favorites...I know a few who would agree with me.  

I want to throw in one other comment/disclosure before y’all run in here and call me a hypocrite. I did recently call something out that honestly just needed to be, in my opinion. I’m sure much of that situation was due to me being a sexual assault advocate and recognizing the situation for what it was, and for recognizing the impact that the mislabeling could have on others. It was an intense moment, and I’m thankful that the creator was open to hearing me out in my escalated state. We talked through it, heard each other’s points and have moved on. And I still fully support them in their work as they are an incredible writer.  

I think that’s all I have. For now.  

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.  

[tsubaki3192]

Had I known you were taking requests, I'd have requested one sooner! May I request a HC for Shingen, Hideyoshi, Kennyo and Mitsuhide comforting their s/o who came home crying after having the worst day ever? Lots of love 💜💜

Oops that might be my bad for not properly announcing ^-^’’

[How does Kennyo, Shingen, Hideyoshi and Mitsuhide comfort MC when she’s upset from having the worst day?]

Notes: Modern! Headcannons, assumed ‘living together’ stage. Long, because I have no self-control when I have inspiration….

Warning: Kennyo’s headcanon might be a little much… because I didn’t know how to write for him lol… Talks a little about Behavioural issues in Children. I blanked out for his. 

Warning 2: I… Have no idea if this is even headcanons anymore. I got carried away… xD 

(Without further Ado, I’ll start with Kennyo!)

————————–

Kennyo:

…. Is the type to have no idea why you’re feeling terrible, let alone how to deal with it.

To be fair, he blames it on himself: Y’know, calling himself a ‘demon’ and whatnot. And rather than he assuring you, you’re back to reassuring him that he’s not what he says he is.

But he can see the distress in your eyes; the coldness as you tell him it’s not his ‘curse, or whatever he likes to call it, that has befallen you.

You don’t work, not in a stereotypical office setting, but you do help his temple in various ways, whether it be watching the younger children, patching up clothing, or the like. Just simple things, you know?

It’s loads of fun, but every once in awhile you’ll receive angry parents, demanding for cures to their incurable children, because, you know, bringing an ill child to a temple really does something good. 

It’s not their fault that the child has behavioural issues (ones you just like to call minor, for they truly weren’t cursed) and it’s not yours, nor the child’s fault either.

(Incurable diseases they were, often genetically related, but-)

You just gently smile at them, falsely promising them that you’ll do what you can to help, even if it’s not much. (Falsely, because you know there’s really nothing that a temple can do to help… A doctor would be much better, but these were people who truly believed they had been cursed with whatever-)

But today’s issue was terrible… And that was the very least to be said. The couple who had dropped their child off had been rather… Aggressive, to say the least, dumping the child, who, mind you was seven years of age, in your arms and storming off without so much of a goodbye.

And then you were granted the responsibility of caring for the child, who would just not stop crying…. All before you had properly woken yourself up. And the child just would not leave your side, clinging to your leg wherever possible.

On top of that, the parents had looked so smug when they came to retrieve the child. 

(To be fair, you nearly slammed the door in their faces when they stepped back out.)

You just stand there for several moments, fuming at their inability to properly look after the child (And your inability to do much else for the child).

It doesn’t take long for Kennyo to find you staring at the now-shut door with clenched fists.

Again, he swears it’s his fault, but you just give him an indignant look before storming outside to the Koi pond purposely hidden in the corner of the yard where no one would dare look. The pond was yours, as it had always been since the very beginning.

Kennyo left you for several moments, unsure of how to deal with your troubles (save for giving you space). But it wasn’t even 10 minutes later that he strode out to the garden, your shared cat now cradled in his arms.

There is a wooden bridge over the pond, leading to a tiny island, and that was exactly where he found you: seated beneath the now-green Sakura tree, head buried between your arms and knees.

And he… Just takes a seat beside you. There’s quite literally no room to shift comfortably, but he ignores the fact and just… places the cat on your head.

You, however, are fully aware he is seated beside you, though you don’t dare move for the sake of breaking his almost trance-like state. 

(His actions make you want to laugh but-)

Awkwardly, he places an arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him. He doesn’t say anything, but he knows you’ve considerably calmed down. All there’s left is for you to talk. About anything; about everything.

And you do, blabbering about how your day went, how it could’ve gone, how you were being an idiot for getting so worked up about something minor.

His large hand just runs through your hair as you pull yourself onto his lap (the cat now on a branch above you), and nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck.

“Shh… Don’t cry….”

Really, he thinks he has no clue, but he does more than he thinks he does xD.

Shingen:

…. Is the type to pick up his phone as soon as he hears your call, and rush home when he hears your sobs…. No matter if he is scolded by Yuki or not the next day. 

(But when Yuki hears about your condition the following day, he’s actually genuinely concerned, that tsundere-)

He keeps you on the phone the entire time he runs home (it’s rush hour, he knows, and running will be faster, despite his terrible health), listening as you blabber about your day.

When he does get home, you can ensure that he will pull you to his chest, (he wheezing or not) and coo gently.

And depending on what, when and where the trouble had affected you, he’ll be sure to pamper you.

Today’s issue seemed to be about your day out:

You had taken the day off, calling in ‘sick’ for the amount of work they had given you over the past few months, courtesy of Shingen’s suggestion. You’re stressed, and it’s clear, given how little time you’ve spent with him over the past few months…

Still, as a seamstress, your work isn’t overly difficult- just plentiful- especially when you consider just which company you work for: It’s one of the highest ranking embroidery offices, and yet they refuse to allow workers to take breaks when a major project has arrived…. It’s no wonder that the company has a high drop-out/quitting/firing rate.

And yet Shingen finds you on the ground of the living room, knees curled into your chest. He could hear you cry from metres away.

You’re dressed in nice clothes- too nice for a normal, casual setting- and he had immediately assumed you had prepared a day out with your friends in town. 

You, despite being one of the best workers in the company, had been fired, thanks to a suspicious coincidence that your boss had also called in ‘sick’: More than likely the reason why you were fired. 

(Which was kinda stupid, because you were pretty sure you couldn’t be fired in places outside the yours and the company’s working hours, as per company rules.)

But you had been humiliated, stripped of your role, and fired nonetheless- All in front of your friends.

You had bolted home, ignoring the horns of passing cars and slammed the door shut behind you. Your phone had been switched off for several minutes, before you unconsciously made the decision to call Shingen.

And he was home now, preparing a simple action movie and caramel popcorn (something you had made a compromise over-). It was stay-at-home time, tonight.

But you had crawled over to him impatiently, clinging onto his back still crying.

And he’ll freeze, before drawing your arms tighter around him.

“My dear angel, weep not for the loss of your job, but for the freedom in being in mine”

And if that line didn’t address all your concerns, then who knew what would?

Be prepared for the sweetest kisses all over your face, silver words whispered in your ear and sweets. Lots of sweets. And pampering. He’ll do that too.

(Shingen’s the type to drop everything and anything for you, and that underestimates what he wants to give you.)

And when you’re ready again, he’ll give you a job in the design team. Be sure of it. Whether it’ll be clothing design, interior design- you qualify in most areas, and he’ll come to you first.

Bonus: Watch him utterly crush your old company to pieces with his words. It’ll be the best thing to watch ^-^

Hideyoshi:

…. Is the type to arrive home after you do.

To be fair, you don’t blame him when he does- His devotion to Nobunaga is admired amongst many employers, both inside and outside the company. And so is his devotion to you, though very few people know about that.

So when he finds out you’ve essentially collapsed on the fluffy rug in the living room, he begins panicking.

He’s genuinely, utterly distressed at the sight of your condition, and he perhaps doesn’t even notice the tear-stains on your face… Until he turns you over in his arms.

Oh. Ohhh.

Your skin is worryingly pale, and aside from your tear-stains, your lower eyelids are darker than your norm.

And he just sits on the ground, leaning against your shared couch, as he cradles you in his arms, not at all concerned at how uncomfortable he is in the position and the clothes.

It takes him several moments before he hesitantly decides to lay you gently on the couch (shoes and socks removed) and cover you with a nearby grey overthrow, before retrieving a warm, damp cloth to wipe the stains from your face.

You stir slightly and wrinkle your brow, murmuring his name quietly against your lips when he does this, but he can see the colour returning to your face. The crinkle in your eyebrows remain though, and he brings his fingers up it, smoothing it over gently.

And that’s when you truly relax, shifting slightly to a more comfortable position and with a more satisfied look on your face.

He leaves you then, but only for a few moments before he returns, now in a more comfortable nightwear than a stiff suit and tie.

When you wake, he’ll be seated beside you, watching you with a kind look on his face. He won’t ask you how your day went, because he knows that it was downright terrible- Had it just been exhaustion, you would collapse on your shared bed otherwise. 

And he just holds you, until you’re ready to talk; until the tears have truly dried. 

You mumble everything out. How you were accidentally late, how your day spiralled down from there, how you were burnt by someone’s extra-hot coffee and how you managed to almost ruined an idol’s new item of clothing. And it wasn’t even your fault.

But he just listens, letting your head lean against his broad, muscular chest. His heartbeat is what soothes you and you rest, once again closing your eyes and falling asleep, though much faster and much more peaceful than you had just moments earlier.

“My love, none of that matters at the end of the day. Do not let their words and actions harm you. I’m always here for you. Next time something does happen, come and find me okay?”

And if you both worked for the same company (Which is more than likely, by the way), he’ll ensure that your boss becomes fired… Valid reason or not.

He’s second in command. Vice-CEO, if that makes sense. 

Also be sure that he’ll make you take the next day off and pamper you with anything and everything :3

Mitsuhide:

…. Is the type to be spontaneous at times. Surprisingly sweet, too, if you’re not careful.

Though you work for the same company, you come home at very different times, given the differences in your departments.

You work as a member of the design team, while he works in the communication’s team, because that’s what he’s best at, right?

And though you technically work together, there are just times where he can’t see you for various work-related reasons.

And that includes today.

You’re home before him, though he hasn’t noticed as your shoes, usually neatly placed by the door, aren’t there, even though it’s already 9 in the evening.

Something’s wrong, he can tell, though he’s not quite sure just what… Until he spies your leather satchel, your favourite, thrown scandalously on the wooden floorboards of the living room.

He strains his ears, listening to your hyperventilating breaths and quiet sobs from above him, and he knows you know he’s home. 

He sighs, gently taking his time to return upstairs where he knows you’re attempting- and failing- to hide your distress from him. It’s okay, though. He knows you’ll be fine…. Eventually.

His footsteps are loud against the wooden steps, each soft thud drawing you to take several deep breaths to hide your emotions.

When he does arrive at the door of your shared room, you falsify reading a nearby book, one that had been placed on your bedside table.

“Oh! Mitsuhide! How was work?”

Your voice is falsely peppy for someone who had been crying just moments before, and it takes him two large steps to reach where you now sat on the bed. 

Gently and wordlessly, he wrenches the book from your hand and close it, returning it back to the table, before pulling you into a standing position.

And he draws you in, wrapping his arms around you as your face is pressed into his shoulder. You freeze as he hushes you, before collapsing against his arms in a shuddering mess.

Your tears gnaw at his heart, though he lets you wet his shoulder until your sobs slow to a stop.

When it does, he removes you from his shoulder and cups your face in his hands, thumbs wiping at the tear marks on your otherwise red cheeks. It’s embarrassing, he knows, but he won’t tease you. Not now, when you’re hurting. Not now, when he’s hurting because you are.

“Look at you, Darling. To think you would ask about my day when clearly yours was abysmal!”

Your lips curl upwards slightly, thinking about how incredulous it sounds, hiding your cheeks behind locks of hair.

But he just places a chaste kiss on your lips, before taking a seat beside you on the bed and drawing your shoulder and ear to his chest. His fingers run through your hair soothingly.

“When you’re ready, I’ll listen. When you’re ready, I’ll ensure whatever happens to you won’t happen again. I promise.”

[haleruby]

Forget Me Not

Characters/Pairings: established Malia/Lydia/Reader (Quim), Malia, Lydia, Scott, Stiles, lots of snow, and I never say it but the literal yeti. 

Summary: Amnesia makes the mind go brrr, but in a bad way...brr (sad). [This not being a published imagine for my followers means I can mess with the summary and other info as much as I want. XD]

Word Count: 5.9k

Notes: I am using a sideblog that is empty and not tagging bc this is only for your eyes (hopefully and technically the gif maker’s...thank you @ gifmaker for the gif), so no need to reblog/like, etc.

Hope you enjoy and it gives you a boost for dealing with your aunt. :-)

I wrote this around October 11th 2019, so apologies about the style not being quite as fluid as my other writing. My other stuff is a bit more recent, if you maybe wanna read it. Most of my teen wolf phase was around here and then it re-sparked in 2020 towards the fall so I added a tiny bit to that one story I told you about with the warnings. 

Also, apologies for the ending, lol. >.>

- - - - -

She is cold... So cold. It feels like a slab of ice is being used for a bed; her back aches all the way down to the individual vertebrae that compose her spine. Pain is slowly causing her other senses to return, enlivening them in cruel way so feeling anything means to hurt to some degree. A whooshing sound makes it hard to think, it rips across her mind dashing the thoughts that slowly trickle in through the haze and the ache. What happened...? Whipping wind continues to bear down on wherever here is. There is hardness under her, so she is probably on the ground and outside based on the frigid temperature. Moving an arm to check the hypothesis causes pain to lance through her shoulder so sharply a feeling of vertigo sets in. The firm ground suddenly tilts slightly. The leverage is increased almost mockingly, it edges up bit by bit like she is about to be slid off a cold metal tray to join the next batch of suffering. A choked whimper leaves her at the odd sensation of slipping. Just before the final plummet, she snaps back into herself viciously. Jolting does nothing good for her body, but now her eyes snap open with a slight burn as if they were sealed shut previously with chilled glue...At least she thinks they are open. Blinking confirms that her eyelids still function, which is good because she is trying not to think about how her arms and legs are not, though she can still mostly feel them. Everything is white. A flurry of white is all she sees after staring long enough to detect movement in what was thought to be a static image. Snow from what may be an impending blizzard continues to beat down on the surroundings, coating them in freezing rain, smatterings of hail, and ice. Why isn't she buried yet...? How long has she been here? A large conglomerate of flurries landing on her cheek causes her to wince, because it will not melt for a time, but the question remains. The left side of her face is stinging brutally, while the rest of her exposed skin only feels like a wind chap is starting to set in. Frowning makes it seem like there is something frozen to her skin; the downward curl is not reaching the left corner of her lips as if they are stuck. Is there something on her face? Staring blankly at the sky is not helping any of this make sense. Turning her head a miniscule amount causes her to feel sick, so she stops, trying to breathe evenly although the slight shaking is making it difficult. Being still is not an option, but the jolts of pain makes her wish it was. Evergreen trees were glimpsed in her peripheral vision; they looked towering and dark, not all fit for a happy Christmas. Woods plus winter with injuries does not sound good. Why is she even here? Working up the will power to try and get up is not something she has even entertained, since moving a single appendage hurt way too much. The snow fall is becoming less like the interior of a cheap snow globe and more like sheets of rain are freezing and then coating the forest solidly. Her right arm is no longer visible. Maybe getting under a tree would provide some protective covering? Don't get up, just shuffle. She can do that. Her feet ache in a disconcerting way like they fell half asleep. Digging her heels into whatever frozen packed dirt or snow is under her takes a few minutes, but little divets were clumsily formed. Now, she just has to leverage it. Her left arm is tucked close after what happened when she moved it. Shakily drawing her legs up again allows her to try and push back slowly, more so scrambling a few inches than moving back with purpose. Sliding against snow should be easy. The rocks and sticks that litter the ground seem to dig into her when she attempts the awkward dragging motion that causes a pull of tension across her body.

It hurts. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she mumbles hoarsely. Anger at not knowing why, where, or what lead to this prompts the pain signals to be ignored, instead she attempts to continue the mutilated crab walk back. Powdery snow sticks to the black of her pants with less finding purchase on the plastic shell of the navy jacket. A bit of red is spotted in the snow, but checking for the source of bleeding is secondary to getting away from the flurries. A trail of blood spottily forms from where she started to where she has hauled herself to. She is practically panting, which causes the cold air to stab her lungs like multiple knifes each time a ragged breath is drawn in. Her movements become out of sync, bordering on frantic. Less than a few meters of progress has been made... A foot digging in is mistimed with the curl of her back and placement of her arm, so that the stretch wracks through her painfully. A gasp muffles the cry of pain. She ends up off balance, crashing to her side heavily. Snow forces her to reflexively turn her head slightly to the side, but she still feels it burning in a way only ice can against her cheek. Throbbing stemming from her left temple encapsulates her head in a vice and is likely what makes the white dance with undulating blots of black for a while until her vision slowly clears back up. She could just rest and then try again. Maybe she should just close her eyes... Lean back and try to conserve warmth until the effort to move again seems possible. A cat nap could work? She tried and is tired; it's deserved. A sudden shrill howl barely stirs her, but a primal part of her mind urges her to become slightly more alert. That kind of sound belongs to a predator. Laying semi-buried in the snow with the inability to move may as well be an open invitation for dinner to whatever can survive the harsh conditions of the forest; it is probably a wolf or something canine. The tree line is watched between too slow blinks for whatever just made that noise. Nothing happens... She didn't imagine it. The cold has penetrated her gloves, it has penetrated her to the very center of her being, but fingers weakly search for something of use. A large rock? A stick? A phone? A conveniently placed gun? There is nothing she can use for defense, so her right arm stops extending outwards from her side to come to rest with her useless left one. Guarding her vital organs may at least help a little... Another howl sounds, but this one sounds deeper and echoes across the space; it sounds low, haunting, and mournful. There is more than one... They could play tug-a-war with her.  She can barely make it to a tree for makeshift shelter, so climbing one to impede them locating her is also a 'no'. No weapon or means to deter the animal was magically found in the snow. The state she is in is yet another limitation, because she could not fend one off in perfect health either. ...What does she do?  A short yip sounds like an announcement that her time to wrack her weary mind for a solution has trickled away. The source of the sound is located immediately as a small wolf with large, rounded ears makes a bee line for her. She vaguely thought it would have white fur or maybe a light gray, but a tawny brown sticks out against the snowy surroundings and looks distinctly out of place; it should be in a rich pine forest with browns and greens. Mentally critiquing the animal is not what she should be doing. Fear laced adrenaline causes her to clench her right fist tightly as she attempts to shift upwards to appear less prone—less weak. Gathering snow in her palm is so she has something to throw, even if a snow ball is a poor choice against a predator. The animal skids to a stop a little ways away, raising its head towards the sky to scent the air. Is it smelling her blood and judging that she is easy prey?

Teeth grit at the thought, because she has no idea about wolves or whatever dog thing this is. Could noise scare it away or only incite it further? How do you deter a canine? Looking it in the eye may be taken as a challenge or as a warning, but she still stares into its' eyes sharply, trying to project an intimidating aura as she narrows her own. The little quakes racking her paired with the fact she is on her back does not make her cut an imposing figure. A slow step forward is taken as the small wolf lowers its body more to the ground; it must be savoring how easy a kill this will be. Her arm draws back in warning. Will the wolf call her bluff and edge closer? "Go away," she seethes, knowing that saying something to it is a lost cause, but it is eyeing her oddly for an animal, almost thoughtfully. Lunging for her throat or springing forward to pounce should have occurred by now. Why isn't it attacking? Ears fall back, almost dropping at the tone, rather than being pressed flat against the skull in anger. Another step forward is taken and then another, until the wolf is close enough that she thinks she can hit it...The snowball is poorly compacted and falls apart, but some of it lands on its fur, which causes the wolf to shake its head at the action, giving a disgruntled chuff at the coldness.  ...Did she expect that to go any better in her head? No. But it was her only real projectile. The wolf does something unexpected, it sits down like a dog and stares at her with those too human eyes. The forest in summer again comes to mind; a rich hazel that borders on brown like wood bark aside from the lightness around the iris is trained on her. She glares right back. Maybe its not a wolf, because it looks small and lean with a body that seems more agile than powerful. A long snout reminds her of a fox, and those ears that are still down are not really that wolf like either, too floppy... Maybe it's a special breed to this area or something else, not that it matters when it definitely has vicious claws, sharp teeth, and she can't get away. A decision must have been made as it creeps closer with tentative footfalls that barely displace the snow. Her arm is pinwheeled to kick up the remaining snow at her side at it in a last ditch effort for distance, but it keeps coming closer heedless of the weak icy barrage. The coolness likely does not seep through its thick fur. "Stop! Please, just go back!" She raises her voice sharply, distilling a hardness to her tone that causes the near hyperventilating quality of her breathing to abate for a moment as she tries to issue a command to a wild animal. Surprisingly, the wolf does halt its progress, but what it does next has her trying to get away as if the promise of being eaten was only a slight offense. Hazel just flashed a brilliant, glowing electric blue that seemed to pierce through her. Its an unnatural wolf thing. There may be worse things than death. Scrambling away using both hands and legs was a mistake, one that was made more than once as she groans. Her jaw locks like a steel trap as she continues, now on her stomach rather than side to crawl away. Tears feel momentarily warm against her frozen cheeks, before causing the burning to redouble from the wind. Everything hurts. She claws desperately at the snow, trying to get away, because there is no explanation for what she just saw or how odd the creature is in general. Her vision seems to be becoming the view used for wide screen movies; darkness creeps around the edges. She is struggling to make sense of things other than the need to move away, because that creature goes against the natural order.

Its too intelligent, it knows too much. Those eyes. It won't just kill her... Something grabs a fistful of her jacket, tugging backwards to prevent the flagging forward motion. It must have a mouthful of her jacket. She kicks out. Her legs feel like lead weights that she only has a minor degree of control over and no contact was made with a furry body, instead only the inevitable collision back with the hard ground occurs. The additional jolt is nothing compared to the rest of the pain that is maddening at this point, because the adrenaline rush is failing at dampening it. Her actions are catching up with her. An angry sob leaves her when she inelegantly falls face first in the snow. Her arms are shaking and she can't support herself anymore while also resisting the wolf. The grip on her jacket is suddenly replaced by a clamping sensation on her shoulder. There is no tearing or teeth burrowing. What feels like fingers squeeze her shoulder, until another hand is placed flatly on her back. What the Hell? What. The. Fuck. Being turned over slowly causes her to whimper; her eyes screw shut because nothing makes sense and she hates it all. Fighting has gotten her nowhere. Something warm settles on her cheek, and she should look to see what is going on, but she is too cold and tired to care. The whipping wind gains an additional sound, though she can't process what it is except that is softer and more pleasing to the ear. A voice? No, that isn't possible. The falling sensation comes again; this time she does not try and stay upright or grounded against it, allowing herself to go along with it. She gives up. . . . . . . "-the blizzard is only increasing; it took out the power lines. We can't go out in that." "You can't, but I can." A dull bang sounds like someone hit something wooden with their fist. "We can't!" This is half shouted in clear exasperation that may be hiding anger. "Losing anyone else isn't an option, ok? I want to know where he is too, but you can't see, smell, or even hear when it's this bad out, and we don't know what is out there that did that to her. You're not thinking it through, Scott." "He's a part of the pack." Listening to the argument unfolding any further is prevented when warm fingers graze her neck. She stops playing possum. Her eyes snap open to meet startled green ones that reminds her of emerald gemstones. A strawberry blonde girl is sitting on the burgundy upholstered couch she lays on, and may just be checking her pulse, but her right hand wraps tightly around her wrist just in case the action is not so innocent. Only a cursory glance is given to the surroundings, since she feels on edge. Where is she? A ski lodge... Thick wooden logs make up the walls, though it is hard to tell how large the space is when only candle light provides light. She does spot the underside of the A-line architectural support that is made of exposed beams. A few mounted deer heads leer at her with glassy black eyes. One wall boasts a large crackling stone fire place that has ancient crossed ski poles above it as a decoration; this is the main source of warmth and brightens the large 'U' of couches that could fit a dozen or more comfortably. This must be a lobby, not a home, based on the few informational areas and posters she saw. Was she out skiing? Returning her attention to the girl has her pausing, because she is being watched so closely, but there may be fear to that gaze too. Pale skin seems to lack much color, even though the fire is casting warmth on both of them and making the red to her hair more vibrant. Her grip is not that tight, and she was touched first, so why is she being looked at like that? Releasing the hold after moving those probing fingers away occurs; she did not mean to frighten her... "She's up! Thank God." The sudden announcement breaks the silent stare off. A guy with spiked brown hair dashes over to the couch alongside a taller guy with black hair that is somewhat obscured by a beanie. These were the two who were arguing. She simply observes them, unwilling to be the first one to speak, because she has no clue how she got here and would rather not be at a deficit by admitting that. Letting them do the informing is a smart move. "We set your arm back in place, but you may need surgery for the cuff," Stiles explains, coming to kneel beside the couch. Soft brown eyes sweep over her form that has less snow and blood caked on it; however, he is still worried about the injuries, especially when they only have a small first aid kit and makeshift sling on hand. "We bandaged what we could. Also, you will probably need a CT scan because your head has a crack in it like Humpty Dumpty. We will figure it all out, Quimmie." He seems pretty caring, so she nods stiltedly in agreement for him to continue speaking. The taller one, who must be Scott, draws closer, fiddling with a walkie talkie in his hand, before sighing. She waits for him to muster up the will to speak. "I know you're hurting, and I'm sorry, but where is Liam?" Once one question is asked it seems that it breaks the dam so a deluge of them come forward as his dark brown eyes narrow at the faint popping of static that comes from the device. There has not been a check-in in a while. "What happened to your team? Was it the ridge that you investigated or did it come after you on a trail? Were the hikers right, and it's just a crazed wolf or something else?" "You can't ask her all that at once." "Stiles, the temperature is dropping further and he is still out in it." "Yeah, and she just woke up, Scott. So back off." A hand finding her own diverts her focus from another brewing argument between the two. Fingers interlace with her own one at a time with a gentleness that confuses her after how hard everything else has been, so she doesn't immediately resist it. A pinky edges over the row of her digits until her hand is covered and then a hold is formed that she does not return. The question must be evident on her features, because a sad smile of understanding is given; it looks like the girl is trying not to crumble, which she accomplishes, but the underlying cracks are still there for all to see. What did she do to be looked at like that?   "Malia is right..." Stiles practically rounds on both of them, knocking his knees against the edge of the couch at the softly spoken statement. "No, Lyds," he disagrees immediately, before locking eyes with impassive (Y/E/C) that watch him, but do not really take him in or express much emotion. He thought it was from the pain and shock, not because... "What is my name?" "Stiles," she answers correctly, because it was spoken already.

"Scott said it earlier," Lydia points it out calmly.  Stiles runs a hand down his face, not wanting to test the theory that Malia suggested because of what it could mean, but he also knows he needs to. There is a reason the werecoyote is listening from behind the couch and not present with the rest. The earlier fear towards her cut her to the bone. Explaining it away as confusion or discombobulation did not convince Malia, who he tries to not glance directly at, even though he can see the glowing blue to her eyes, because this is upsetting to her. He balls his hands into fists; it can't be that. "What school do we all go to?" She says nothing, but wishes the couch cushions would absorb her into it. "What does our dad do for a living?" He asks it more sharply at the silence that seems to say more than any answer could. No, no, no. A hand is placed on the edge of the couch to keep balance as he sinks to his knees, rather than kneel; he meets her eyes squarely. "Come on, try and answer."   Her brows furrow at this, because she does not look particularly like him for them to be blood related. His features are mentally compared to what she intuitively knows to be her appearance. The skepticism is not voiced.  Being stared in outright disbelief by Stiles makes it clear that anything she could say about the situation would make it worse. "What is your name? Where are we from? What is the year? Who is she-" A hand gestures quickly to Lydia, though he quickly unfolds his fingers so he is not rudely pointing at her, but his palm shakes, "-to you? Malia, come over here and-" "Stiles." Lydia's voice holds a firm warning as she places a hand on his shoulder, pushing him slightly away from the couch edge before he looms closer. She scoots to be blocking his stare that practically tears into them with its desperate edge. He probably does not even realize he was raising his voice, almost shouting out each question so it warped into a demand. "Don't push her; it's not her fault." "She isn't saying anything!" Stiles counters. "It wouldn't be what you all want to hear..." That causes the pack to grow quiet for a moment as they each consider the matter of fact statement. "So, what? You were just going to go along with it?" Scott asks, confused. The realization that they have no idea what they are facing or how Liam is doing also weighs on him in addition to how this amnesia will affect the pack. Did they just lose two friends tonight? He sits down heavily on the coffee table, shooting Malia a sympathetic look to try and silently communicate she needs to dim down. "There are five of you and one of me, not great odds, so-" "We aren't going to hurt you." The vehement interjection causes her to reword the point, though green eyes practically blaze as they meet her own; any of that fear has burned away, replaced with conviction. "I don't know anything about anything," she admits softly, glancing at the red and black plaid blanket draped over her legs to cope with so many people staring at her. Her head still aches and this is tiring. "Waiting to see what you had to say was the logical thing to do. I don't know your intentions, but I wasn't going to lie to you. Thanks for helping me out of the snow..." "That was Malia," Scott supplies automatically. She has the feeling that none of the ones in the seating area is this Malia person, so a nod is given. Stiles rises from the stone floor, trying to figure out how to fix the situation. This is no broken bone that can be set or a cut that needs to be stitched up; her memories are not murky or mixed up, but are completely gone. "Can you please tell us what you do remember?" "Why?"

"So we can help you and our other friend." Scott answers honestly, before Stiles losses the bit of composure he just re-gained. He is in older, adopted brother mode and is obviously upset. "We can answer your questions too." "I didn't say I had any..." "You don't know anything, so you should. Unless being amnesiac is how you want to reinvent yourself before senior year." Stiles snipes, but backs off when his best friend gives him a warning look that does not compare to the one he will get from Lydia and Malia, if he keeps pressing it. He is mad at what happened not her...But she is not acting like his adopted sister, who has been with him for years, but someone else entirely. Fingers pull at the worn tassels of the blanket for a moment as she considers the alternatives, turning them over in her head given how tense things are and her own deficit. They did help her, so being difficult is not her goal. She can't shake that there is something not quite right about them, especially Scott, it makes her feel on guard like there is a potentially hidden deadliness. Why are they in an empty ski lodge? The owners should be present or at least the other customers. She is mostly laying down aside from a pillow that elevates her back, sitting upright would put them more on equal terms, but the pain that will come with moving is considered. "Okay, one quick question: why are you all here alone? This place does not seem to be in operation, so did you break in...?" Scott shares a look with Stiles. Telling the full truth would only work with someone acquainted with the supernatural and all of that must have been wiped away too. He runs his hands down his thighs to stall. "We got, er, permission to come up. There's an unsolved mystery that we are trying to crack. The resort is temporarily closed down, because of it and the blizzard..." He trails off, trying to balance the truth with the lies. "We are trying to help." "You do seem the helpful type," she observes dubiously, before crossing her right arm carefully with her sling encased left. The position helps her feel a bit more distant from their prying eyes; it feels like they are judging her, though that makes sense when she is expected to actually be someone, not a blank slate. She turns her attention to the fire. "I don't know a Liam. I don't know why we were on a team or what our objective was. All I remember is snow: white, cold, burning snow. I was on the ground trying to get up, but failed because everything ached. I actually felt like I was falling..." She presses her lips together, mulling over what else can be said. Those glowing, unnaturally blue eyes come to mind so vividly, it feels like she is staring at the creature again. They probably already think she is crazy enough without mentioning it. "There was a wolf, or maybe it wasn't a wolf, that kept coming towards me. I assumed it would maul me, but it didn't...I'm not sure how it was going to kill me, it seemed too patient and smart, not really like a typical animal. I freaked out and tried to crawl away when it got too close, which made all the pain a lot worse. I fainted. I'm assuming Malia scared it off or dealt with it, because I think I would remember it biting into me...Then I woke up here." Lydia wants to reach out to her, but prevents the urge with how previous attempts were received. She can tell that she is still struggling with the pain on top of everything else; however, the far off look in her eyes must mean something is not being voiced. They still have not shared her name...

"Okay, so everything before the snow is blank?" Stiles confirms, getting a curt nod in response that makes him want to throw something into the flames of the fireplace. This is not how the weekend's mission was meant to go. He is pacing in front of the hearth, chewing on the cap end of a pen as he thinks about where to go from here. She was also their only lead with Liam and the creature. How will his dad react? He's older--the older sibling, and feels responsible for her, and now she's a very familiar stranger..."You're sure that's it? So like an hour or so comprises your entire, new existence?" "Yes, Stiles." He ignores the slight irritation to her tone, because he is busy thinking. "Maybe we can jog her memory?" This is posed to the pack, like his sister is another murder case or mystery that he can add to his pin and red string laden board to puzzle out the connections and causes. He can solve this. "We should wait until my mom sees her and the doctors run legit tests. There may be rules on how to deal with head trauma patients," Scott disagrees gently. "Maybe the head trauma is not the cause...It could be something else?" "She is still healing and we don't know how bad everything is." Scott sees the way Stiles crosses his arm abruptly at the disagreement, annoyed. "I want to help her. We need to find Liam too." "The answer could lie with her if we just try and remind her who she is!" "That could make it worse." Lydia is unsure who she sides with between the two guys, but knows talking about the one in question like she is not present in the room is almost always a bad idea. Malia getting up from the wooden chair that was pulled from behind the receptionist's to rest behind the couch is mostly ignored. Supple leather comprises her winter boots that only make a faint clack against the wood floor. She moves purposefully, ignoring Lydia's questioning look as she rounds the couch and stands in front of it to peer down at its occupant. The lack of recognition causes her to feel a deep ache in her heart, while the early fear left a ragged wound behind. Taking a knee, she tilts her head slightly as she watches (Y/E/C) eyes look her over cautiously, rather than softly, because the one in front of her does not know her. "Uhm, thank you for saving me?" Malia ignores the tentative gratitude. "Malia, I-" Scott's concerned warning is stopped short when Stiles holds up a hand, silently asking for him to let whatever is about to happen unfold. He locks his jaw, knowing how affected his beta was when she arrived back at the lodge. She was practically incoherent in describing what happened, instead whimpering and growling when anyone got too close to the two and unwilling to let go of the one bundled up in her arms. She was more coyote than human... Scott slides to the very edge of the coffee table to intervene, if needed, as a precaution. She looks kind of angry...Hazel eyes are not nearly as searching as the green ones that were first on her, rather they seem to be invasively prying without hesitation. The shoulder length cut to her brown locks frames her face nicely, which makes her gaze that much harder to look away from. Being stared at like some sort of freak show is grating on her patience, so she eventually manages to glance away to look back at the fire, though her view is soon occupied by Malia shifting closer with a challenging look. A lightly tanned hand rests on the back of the couch, effectively caging her in. "If you have something to say, then please go ahead," she requests calmly. "How could you forget about me?"

"It wasn't a choice." "Then why aren't you remembering?" Malia almost snaps out the question. A scoff almost leaves her at the presumption, because this girl is really blaming her...Are they all placing the fault on her alone? Maybe the inkling that something is not right with some of them is because they are actually a threat; the lodge is becoming more inhospitable by the second.  "I can't. It's not like I'm repressing it," she replies sternly. "I don't know my own name, so it's definitely not personal. Get over yourself." "Quim. That is your name" Lydia offers, trying to mediate between the two, though she knows this is hard for Malia. It is hard for her too, but someone has to be on Quim's side as a source of support. "Oh, okay..." Fingers burrow deeply into the upholstery of the couch, nails threaten to extend and rip out the plush stuffing. Her coyote aspect howls in her mind. Malia grits her teeth against the hurt those words just stirred, trying to let anger mask it because she would have never thought this would happen to them. This is not how it should be. Relying on instinct, she surges forward, placing a hand firmly over Quim's heart to pin her in place as she joins their lips without asking for permission. She is her's, so she should not have to. The kiss is forceful, demanding and not at all how a kiss should be...It is also one sided. She is doing all the action, while her partner is frozen and unresponsive, though that stasis eventually breaks for Quim to turn her head away abruptly, before a hand is against her shoulder, pushing away. Trying to move away from Malia causes a sharp pull in her back that earns a wince. Fucking oww. "What the hell are you doing?!" "I was trying to jog your memory!" Malia counters. "You can't just kiss people!" "We've done way more than kiss, Quim!" That causes the indignation to leave her in a rush, making the anger feel unwieldy and too large for her to handle. She retracts her hand from Malia, re-crossing her arms as best she can to serve as a barrier between the two of them. Now, she is more confused. "What...?" "Maybe now isn't the time for this..." Scott attempts to reason with his beta. "Mal-" "My soulmate forgot me!" "Not on purpose." Lydia pipes up, earning a huff from the werecoyote, but at least she is listening to her. She links their hands to try and pull Malia away from the couch edge. "We need to be patient." "How are you handling this well? She forgot you too--both of us!" "Not. By. Choice." "I have two girlfriends...?" Stiles runs a hand down his face at the turn in conversation; this is not going to fix her memory, but of course that is what his sister takes away from the conversation. "Yes," he answers at the perplexed expression, rolling up his shirt sleeve to show his blank wrist. "Soul identifying marks. Ring any bells? No, well, you have two of them, so you have two soulmates, even though it is rare to have even one. Lucky you."  Oh... Green and hazel eyes no longer meet in a silent, tense stare off, settling back on the occupant of the couch. Quim falls silent under their attention, unsure what could be said when forgetting your literal fated other halves.

[alteridolriley]

Forgotten

A/N: Hey there everyone! Look! I wrote something! IN ONE DAY! I was hella inspired by @sidespart‘s art here of amnesiac Roman and uhhhhhhh take this for it! LOL

People who wanted to be tagged: @a-not-okay, @imtoobiforyou, @apologieslogan, @cloverlyanxious, @icecoldparadise, @backatthebein

People I always tag: @artistictaurean, @availe, @anxious-patton, @mandeebobandee (plz message me if you want to be permanently added to my taglist)

TW: blood mention, injury/memory loss, food mention, yelling, crying, cursing

((Romantic Moxiety with pining Logince))

((Like what I do? Support me on Ko-Fi!))

---

The four of them were inseparable.

Everyone in their high school knew they were basically family.

Roman was the theater kid. Popular wasn't even the best way to describe him. Infamous was probably better. Roman was always the lead in every play. His vibrant personality and kind heart attracted everyone around him and Roman did his best to always be happy for them.

His brother, Virgil, was the well known artist of the school. He had been commissioned by their town to do art for restaurants and local businesses as well as the school itself. Being a bit of a quiet kid, Virgil depended on Roman to get him out of his shell a bit, which Roman did quite happily.

Virgil's boyfriend, Patton, was the farm boy. Raised outside of the bustling city, Patton grew up with chickens and cows as his best friends. There wasn't a farm animal alive on his grandparent's farm that Patton hadn't helped raise from birth. Patton loved all animals and shared his adoration of cats with Virgil quite closely as Patton's grandparents had commissioned Virgil to draw a portrait of Patton's barn cat, Isabella, who had recently passed away at the old age of 17. They realized they both attended Cravens Academy and now it's history.

Patton's cousin, Logan, also attends the school but he's far from the farm as that side the family runs the business aspect of the farm. Crunching the numbers and making sure the animals are provided for by scheduling food deliveries and produce sales. Logan is also the star of the debate team and is currently vice president of the student council, but everyone knows he runs the board and will eventually have the president title within the school year.

Logan has a secret the other three do not know, however. He's been pining for Roman since he met him.

In 7th grade, Patton introduced Logan to Virgil who in turn introduced Roman. Logan had been taken back by Roman's poise and elegance, and yet also frustrated by his spontaneity and unrelenting inability to say no to anyone. Logan watched as person after person abused Roman's kindness. As an upperclassman, Roman always offered to take on the bulk of the work in the theater class, but then suffer in his own schoolwork.

As the four of them sat around their shared lunch room table, Logan decided today would be the day he would put his foot down. Roman's classes were ending earlier today and he always spent every early ending day in the theater: cleaning, building sets, making outfits. Then he would suffer at home with his homework, being up until 2 or 3 in the morning to get it done. He knew this because Roman always complained about being tired the next day.

"Roman?" Logan said, interjecting his voice into Roman and Patton's conversation.

Virgil turned to give Logan an odd stare. Logan figured Virgil could read the atmosphere just from the way Logan said the theater boy's name.

"Yeah what's up Specs?" Roman questioned, taking a bite of his lunch sandwich. Even his response seemed a bit on edge at what Logan had to say.

"I think... I think you should go to study hall today instead of the theater. After lunch, I mean." Logan said carefully. As the words fell out of his mouth, Roman's eyebrows narrowed. "I just think it's high time you take care of yourself for once-”

"And just ignore all the work that needs to be done for our performance coming up?" Roman retorted. "Our showing of Into The Woods is in two weeks and we have no costumes at all. I'm the president of the club and I'm also playing the Prince. It's my responsibility to get this stuff done, Logan. We've talked about this."

Logan sighed. "I know, but--"

"No buts Logan! God, I'm so tired of you constantly pushing yourself into my life like this. Why can't I do what I want to do?!" Roman said standing up, basically shouting.

The cafeteria around them fell silent. All eyes on Roman.

"You're always mothering me! Telling me "be sure to do your school work" and "you can't always focus on theater stuff". I can do whatever I want, Logan! Just... please leave me alone." Roman said, exasperatedly, breathing heavily. "Theater is my life. The reason I work so hard is because it is my dream to perform on Broadway someday. I've told you this. Why do you insist on getting in my way?!"

Logan stood up, pressing his eyes closed to prevent tears from falling. He didn't want to see Roman's red cheeks from anger or Patton's tears or Virgil's annoyance at both of them for causing a scene and making Patton upset.

"You're right, I'm sorry." Logan murmured before immediately picking up his lunch tray and leaving the table.

The lunch bell rang out and all the students began talking again all around Logan as he turned in his tray.

The Core Four are arguing??

Since when do they argue? I've never seen Roman so mad before.

Yeah that's what Logan gets for trying to baby his friends. He has no idea what Roman tries so hard to do.

Nuh uh, Roman has no idea how hard being on the Student Council! Roman needs to listen to Logan for once!

The voices kept filtering in but it didn't matter. Logan arrived at the student council room and locked himself inside. He didn't have any classes for the rest of the day either so he figured he could get some work done as well as his homework before heading straight home.

Logan threw his bag on the nearby solo chair and collapsed onto the couch. He was joking himself if he thought he was going to get any work done now. All he wanted to do was show Roman how much he cared. But of course, Mr. Robot couldn't show feelings for another person. He has no idea how they work... right?

A knock at the door jolted him up; Logan realized he had dozed off on the couch. He glanced up at the wall to see about an hour had passed. Classes were almost over. The person knocked at the door again. Logan rushed over and looked into the peephole to see Patton standing there. He had his hoodie pulled over his head and head down facing forward. Logan sighed as he opened the door.

"Patton, I-" Logan started to say before Patton threw himself into Logan's chest, hugging him tightly. "H-hey, what-" Logan staggered to hold himself up as Patton was nearly a foot taller than him.

"It's okay, Logan. It really is. Roman just doesn't understand how much you care about him. He also doesn't realize how much he's pushing himself..." Patton said through gasping tears. "But I know how much you care for him. Try again and say it from your heart. I know he will understand." He hugged Logan tighter. "I know you love him." Patton admitted before finally taking a step back.

"I see. I'm that obvious about it." Logan responded, walking back to the couch. He put his face in his hands. "Absolutely fantastic."

Patton came over and sat down next to Logan, rubbing his back. "It's okay. It's okay." Patton whispered under his breath. Logan wasn't sure if Patton was saying it for him or just about the situation in general.

Both of them were jolted again by loud banging at the door, followed by someone trying to open the door.

"Logan!! Logan, come on you idiot, open the fucking door!!"

"Remy? What?" Logan ran up to the door, throwing it open to see Roman's theater sidekick standing there, exasperated and his eyes wide. "Remy what's wrong?" Logan asked firmly.

Remy was missing his trademark sunglasses and was in half of a costume. He was breathing incredibly hard.

"You need to come to the theater room immediately. Where's Patton? Oh okay you're here too, god just come to the theater room please god let's just go." Remy said, grabbing Logan's arm and pulling him quickly as he spoke.

The three of them ran across the school only to see a crowd of people around the entrance to the auditorium as well as ambulance lights flashing through an exterior door nearby.

"Get out of the fucking way!" Remy shouted and as if controlled, all of the students moved, allowing Remy to pull Logan and Patton through the crowd.

Logan made his way through only to see Roman laying flat on the stage of the auditorium. Virgil was at his side, running his hands through Roman's hair. The boy wasn't moving. On the other side of Roman was a paramedic who seemed to be tending to Roman.

Patton made a mad dash to the stage, leaving Logan standing in the central aisle way leading to the stage.

Remy walked up behind Logan, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"A light went out as we were rehearsing. He said he could take care of it himself and refused when we all said no. And then... he fell. He landed on his neck and head and didn't move. One of the freshman called 911 and the teachers came flooding in. Virgil happened to be nearby when everything went down. He's pretty calm despite it all." Remy explained.

Logan's eyes canvassed the area. The small group of theater students sat to the right of the stage. Some were crying; some looked very angry. Logan watched Remy rejoin his theater group.

Part of Logan wanted to move. He could see Roman laying limply in Virgil's arms. The paramedic was still talking to Virgil. Patton was now at Virgil's side. He wanted to be there. Was Roman okay? He had to be, right? There was no way anything serious was wrong. Logically, all four of them wouldn't just be sitting there if something serious happened, right?

Suddenly, Logan felt himself walking closer. As he approached he saw a bandage covering Roman's left temple. It was lightly red where blood threatened to seep through. Logan felt himself shake a bit as the paramedic's voice became audible.

"He should wake up any moment now. No reason to take him to the hospital, but like I said, it seems he hit his head hard so he might be a bit forgetful at first." The paramedic repeated. She pulled her white gloves off and disposed of them in a proper clear bag before putting it back in her bigger bag. "I'll let the teachers know he's okay. I can see he's in good hands with you." She spoke to Virgil softly, patting his shoulder.

The paramedic stood up and as she did so, Roman groaned, his left arm jerking to his bandage.

"Oh god.... I..." Roman looked up and immediately pushed his way out of Virgil's arms, spooking Virgil, Patton, and the paramedic. "Where am I? Who are you people?"

That response jolted Logan forward and up onto the stage as Virgil held his hands out to Roman, as if to show he meant no harm.

"Roman, it's me. Your little brother. It's Virgil." Virgil explained. His voice was soft as if he was speaking to a child.

"Virgil? I-I don't know you. I... who am I? Roman? Who is-" Roman was cut off by the doctor.

"Honey, do you know what day it is?" She asked simply, pulling a small penlight out of her pocket and flashing it into Roman's eyes.

"Um... not really." Roman answered, blinking. He held himself up by his arms, but Logan could see him trembling. "What's going on?"

"You took a pretty bad fall here at your school, young man." She said, pointing to the light scaffolding above them. "You're lucky you're not injured even worse. My name is Amelia. Do you know your name?"

Roman looked down and gritted his teeth. "I don't... I don't remember, I... ugh my head hurts. What happened? I can't..." Roman pulled at his hair and Amelia turned to Virgil.

"Is there someplace nearby you can take him that's quiet? He will need his rest to fully recover. I'd also recommend an appointment with his primary physician as soon as possible." Amelia explained.

Virgil nodded. "I'll tell our parents. And yeah, we can go to the nearby meeting room. It should be empty and it has a couch." Virgil walked slowly up to Roman, holding out his hand. "Hey... come with me? Please?"

Roman looked up at him, and all Logan could see was pain and confusion across his face. Logan's heart sunk. How long would Roman be this way?

After a few seconds, Roman took Virgil's hand and the purple clad boy led his brother through the backstage exit of the auditorium. Patton grabbed Logan to make sure he followed. The four of them entered the room and Patton locked the door behind them. Virgil led Roman to the couch, telling him to lay down, covering him with a nearby blanket and getting several pillows under his head for extra support.

"Roman is your name." Virgil started as he pulled up a chair. "You're my older brother by about 15 minutes. That person over there," Virgil pointed to Patton who waved, "is my boyfriend, Patton. And that," Virgil pointed to Logan, "is one of our best friends in the world. His name is Logan."

Roman scrunched his face in confusion and frustration. All of them could tell he was trying very hard to remember. After asking some vague questions, it was obvious Roman didn't remember anything at all. Virgil suggested Roman just try to relax. Roman agreed reluctantly and settled down into the pile of blankets.

Virgil stood from his seat and walked over to where Logan and Patton stood.

"I'm gonna go get his stuff and my stuff, then take him home." Virgil explained. "I also gotta call our mom. She's gonna be so mad at the school for not calling her or sending him to the hospital but we don't need that medical bill." Virgil sighed. He turned to Logan. "Can you stay with him for me? I'll be back in like 15 minutes. I want help, but someone needs to stay with him."

Logan peeked over Virgil's shoulder at Roman before he nodded. "Yes, of course."

Virgil released a long breath. "Thanks dude. We will be back." He grabbed Patton's hand and pulled him out of the room, the door slamming behind them.

Logan pushed his hair out of his face and sat down in a chair, about five feet away from Roman.

For a few moments, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the wall clock and a corner desk fan.

"So... um... Logan, right?" Roman asked as he sat up to face him.

"Yes, but you're supposed to be resting." Logan explained. "Virgil will kill me if anything happens to you."

Roman coughed a laugh. "I see. Well, he seems very kind so I'm happy about that. Anyway, I wanted to ask something..." he bit his lip before continuing. "... what's our relationship? You seem to be the most uncomfortable here but Virgil said we're best friends, right?"

Logan felt his shoulders stiffen. "Yeah, we are. Or at least I hope we are."

"Hope?" Roman responded and Logan heard his voice crack. "I hope I didn't do anything to hurt you, Logan. If so, that wasn't my intention."

Logan shrugged. "It's too much to explain to you at the moment. But we both said some things to each other at lunch today and left on not so great terms, so that's what I mean when I said I hope we were best friends."

Roman laid back onto the pillows. His eyes became half-lidded, like he was fighting off sleep. "I'm sorry, Logan. I'm sure I didn't mean it." He said barely above a whisper.

Logan stood and walked closer, leaning down to Roman's level. "You should rest. We can talk more about it later. Once you have your memory back." Logan reassured, tucking Roman in tightly. "Get some sleep before Virgil comes back. I love you."

Logan immediately realized what he had said and slapped his hand over his mouth. Roman did not move as Logan realized he had fallen asleep. His eyes were closed, his mouth partly open with his chest slowly rising and falling. Roman didn't hear him... right?

Before Logan could process the probability, the door unlocked and in came Virgil and Patton. Patton was carrying Logan's backpack and his briefcase. Virgil was on the phone.

"Yes mom. Yes... I know mom." Virgil kept repeating. "It seems Roman is resting now. I just got back to the room. I'm gonna let him sleep a bit longer before we head home. Okay. Yeah, okay, I will. Love you too." Virgil sighed as he ended the call, tucking the phone back in his pocket. "Everything alright Logan?" He asked.

Logan nodded as he took his things from Patton. "Yes, quite fine. I'm actually going to be taking my leave now. I'll see you both tomorrow. Give Roman my best."

Before Virgil or Patton could protest, Logan was out the door, making his way to the student parking area.

For the next several days of school, Roman was absent and so was Virgil. Patton told Logan that Virgil was staying home with Roman until he regained his memories since their mom couldn't take off from work and their mama was overseas for business.

One week after, Logan was sitting in the student council room, working on paperwork. He had proudly managed to get quite a bit completed. As Logan stapled a stack of papers together, a knock at the door rang out.

"Come in." Logan said as he bent over to file the packet away.

As he leaned back up, he was greeted by Roman standing in front of his desk. The boy was standing very casually with his hands in the pockets of his letterman jacket. He was grinning down at Logan.

"Roman!" Logan said, standing up. "You're back. Glad to see you're okay." He felt his face grow hot at remembering the last time he had seen Roman.

I love you.

"Yeah hey Specs. I just wanted to apologize for everything. The yelling at you in the cafeteria and all that jazz." Roman bit his cheek and scratched his head. "And also for any issues you had with my accident. I don't remember much about it, but I'm sure it was hard on you."

Logan sighed, crossing his arms. "Thank you, Roman. I am also sorry for the way I treated you that day. I need to realize you can make your own decisions and that I should support those decisions by assisting you how I can instead of just idly watching it happen."

"It's all good." Roman assured. "Also, um, I uh..." Logan's head snapped up and met with Roman's eyes. "Did you um... did you mean it?"

Logan took a sharp intake of breath. Well... shit.

"Mean what, exactly?" Logan responded.

Roman's eyes narrowed. "Feigning ignorance isn't going to help your situation, Specs. We both know what I'm talking about."

As Virgil would say, "I'm boned."

"Ah... that." Logan sat down. "What would happened if I say that I did mean it?"

Roman leaned over the desk, his eyes squinting with his lips curling into a smile. "I'd have to say I'm surprised you admitted it. As well to the fact that I remember it happening at all but..." Roman stood back up. "I would have to say it back."

Logan blinked. "Wait what? You... me... I... wait a minute-"

"The great Logan Foster is speechless? What such triumph it is for me!" Roman said happily, basically spinning around the desk to stand next to Logan. "But yes, my dear Logan, I will admit I also feel the same for you as you do I. Have for quite a long time as a matter of fact. Honestly, I've been trying to find a way to tell you, but all of my hints and flirting had failed."

Logan must've looked confused because Roman sighed loudly and unbelievably.

"You couldn't tell from the fact I bought you a dozen roses on Valentine's Day earlier this year? Or how on your birthday last year I took you to see your favorite band in concert just the two of us mind you! Also, may I say I'm surprised you wanted to see Breaking Benjamin, they don't really seem like your type of music but man they're pretty awesome, not gonna lie. And then what about the ring I gave you after the concert? Sure, it was just our birthstones but we have matching ones!" Roman stopped as Logan grabbed his shirt sleeve. The vice president didn't look up at him. "Logan?" Logan mumbled something incoherently and Roman frowned. "Come again?"

"I love you..." Logan said again, his face flushed a light pink. "Sorry I never noticed, I just thought you were being nice to me and I didn't want to read into the situation too much you know? I already do that so often. I'm sure it gets tiresome."

"No, none of that, my dearheart." Roman used his finger to get Logan to look up at him. "Your ability to understand the things around you is fascinating. You know, I realized I was in love with you almost two years ago. Virgil and Patton brought me along when they went with you for your academic team tournament thing. Seeing you up there on stage, standing your ground and firmly explaining your side of things was just... so damn attractive."

"It's called debate team but, thank you Roman." Logan said softly.

They stared into each other's eyes and Logan felt his heart begin to race. Roman was very close to him. Logan could feel his breath on his face and their noses were almost touching.

"May I?" Roman asked softly.

"You may." Logan answered.

The gap between them was closed as the two kissed deeply. Logan felt a weight falling off of his chest as Roman held him closely, running his fingers through Logan's hair. A tingle sensation flowed through Logan's feet and hands as the kiss came to an end. It was then he realized he had been smiling the whole time.

Roman reached up to push Logan's bangs out of his eyes. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

Logan could only laugh which caused Roman to begin snickering as well.

"Hot damn, it finally happened."

The boys turned to the doorway to see Virgil standing there with his arms crossed and Patton standing behind him grinning happily.

"This means double dates! I'm so excited! We can go to the amusement park and the movies and so much more!" Patton said excitedly.

"Pat, love, we already do that." Virgil responded and Patton frowned.

"Nooooo it's different now!! It'll be like a whole new experience!" Patton assured.

He turned to see Roman and Logan sitting on the couch, talking softly in their own little world, both smiling and holding hands.

"I'm so happy for them." Patton cooed. He reached over to hold Virgil's hand.

"Yeah, me too, Pat. Me too." Virgil agreed, squeezing Patton's hand back.

--

[j-k-notrowling]

Untitled

Hi there! Spoilers up front: this is a gratuitously long-winded “thank you,” not an Ask (also I’m 31 and don’t know how to Social Media so apologies if this is the wrong page/tab/link/widget).

--(oh actually it’s a blog post now because of course I can’t send an “Ask” this stupidly long see? wasn’t kidding about that Social Media thing...)--

I started writing my first book in the Fall of 2016. Before that I’d only written songs. One day I got an idea which didn’t fit within the usual rhymes or rhythms. I tried and tried, but kept on hitting a wall. In addition, I was fed up with the whole “business” of music—the fragile egos, the politics of being in a band, all that. One morning I sat down at my HP desktop computer (again...31) and opened up a blank Word document. I stared at it with murderous intent for a long time, but nothing happened. So I grabbed the nearest book off the shelf (Crash by J.G. Ballard), opened it, and began to type out the first paragraph, copying the sentences line by line. I wanted to see what it felt like — my clumsy fingers pecking at the keyboard, observing how the words fell into place with a musical cadence and tempo almost prophetic, as though the ink were destined to dry in this exact form upon the page, the machinery of its tumultuous birth and impeccable design skillfully concealed. I paused and looked out the window. There was a squirrel on the deck, I remember. And then I saw it. Not outside but inside my own head, behind my eyelids. The song, the one I’d been struggling to write, I saw that it could be a story. I saw it had a clear beginning, middle, and end. I saw a world of characters opening doors to other worlds, other stories, other characters. This was life-changing shit. Suddenly I was a little boy at my first baseball game, drinking my first ice-cold Coke, surrounded by old men chain-smoking Marlboro Reds and muttering dirty words I’d never heard before about the [EXPLETIVES DELETED] on the opposing team. I’d discovered a fire fueled by the psychic anarchy of its own discovery, a Moebius-strip of dramatic invention, a repository for all the pop-cultural turds floating around inside the cracked porcelain toilet bowl of my skull. I wrote prose every night after work. I never thought about what I was doing. I never once stopped to check word counts or page counts. I never thought about sticking to an outline, making sure my story adhered to a specific plot structure, none of that. I wrote like a man in love. Delirious, overheated teenage love. Wear-my-ill-fitting-letterman’s-jacket love (is this also A Thing™️ in Canada?). Stupid stupid stupid love, naive and hormonal and precious and retrospectively mortifying. I’d turn off the world, turn on the music, sit back and watch the words sashay straight into my lap. It took 2-3 months before the ruthless scourge known as Self Doubt farted in my private elevator. Am I doing this right? How many words are in a book, anyway? How many pages? How long is this going to take? Is this an effective way to impress women and/or get laid? Am I writing a novel or a novella? The fuck is “flash fiction”? Are you allowed to write actual books in Microsoft Word? Does it matter that my free trial version of Microsoft Word expires in 30 days? They’re bluffing, right? And so on. I compared my own writing with that of authors I admired; subsequently, I couldn’t get out of bed for a week. I watched 40+ hours of “Kitchen Nightmares” reruns (it’s. the. same. fucking. formula. every. single. episode.) and nursed my shame with bowl after bowl of strawberry ice cream. To think — I’d TOLD people about this fool’s errand, and sooner or later I’d have to show them precisely how awful a writer I was... I turned to the Internet for advice. At first, it seemed like a godsend. There was such a litany of knowledge, so many pro-tips and life hacks and proven formulas for success. This was how I stumbled across your channel. I found other channels which offered more straightforward “DO IT LIKE THIS YOU FUCKING IDIOT” instructions, but I still enjoyed yours the most. I lol-ed at your jokes. I remember a few videos where you spoke highly about All The Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr, which remains among the most achingly beautiful books I’ve ever read. Also you’re Canadian, and you guys just generally Human better than we (Americans) Human. ...and here my troubles began. See, the more I tried to adhere to word count goals, the more I tried to properly organize the scenes on my Scrivener™️ virtual cork board, the less I enjoyed the actual process of writing. So I tried other things, based upon other writers’ suggestions: cut the adverbs, write in the morning, write at night, write during your lunch break, write an outline, stick to the outline, write x amount of pages per day, write x number of hours per day, spend x amount of hours drafting and x amount of hours editing, etc. But nothing I tried made me feel confident in my writing. I started actively hating it, to be honest. I dreaded the cursor and the infinite white void. Then I would watch more writing videos and feel guilty about my lack of ambition, my inability to accomplish simple tasks. It’s only a few thousand words, dude — just get in there and do it. Eventually I would. I’d grumble and feel miserable and stay locked in my little writing dungeon all night, ignoring my friends’ texts and phone calls, and the next day I’d hate everything I wrote, trash it, and start over. Then, when I had no more writing left to hate, I started hating myself. The words in my head turned malignant, putrefied into spongy, black tumors. I’d spend all day at work consumed by thoughts and ideas and goals! goals! goals! for my book, then I’d come home and stare at a blinking cursor and wonder why I was such a worthless failure. I couldn’t write the way these other writers did, no matter what I tried. But I still wanted to write. Needed to, in that yearning, terrible way I suspect you understand. I don’t know why The Internet subconsciously invites us to flay ourselves before total strangers, but it does. So I will. Shit got Dark™️, Shaelin. I gained 50 pounds, started living like a hoarder, stopped hanging out with my friends, stopped leaving the house altogether. I kept the curtains closed so my neighbors wouldn’t see the piles of empty take-out boxes stacked up on the kitchen table. I traded the pleasures and contradictions and beguiling enigmas of women for the 24-hour neon distraction of cheap porno. My cat Maggie, basically the only friend I had during this time, got cancer. I watched her suffer and waste away because I couldn’t bear the thought of putting her to sleep and coming home alone to an empty, filthy house. Eventually she died and I hated myself even more for not being able to save her. I wore the same pair of pants for six months. I’d go to work and sit at my desk all day and do absolutely nothing (I was the accounting manager at a small company, technically my own “boss,” so I got away with this for a shocking, frankly heroic amount of time). Then I simply stopped going to work. And I kept torturing myself with those stupid goals and word counts, never happy with the end result, resigned to feel like a failure every day. I remember watching your “Spill the Tea” video back when it was initially posted. Watching it now is eerie, because you describe exactly what I was going through, what I was feeling. Like, to the “T” (see what I did there? #WordPlay #LitPuns101). I’d never experienced anxiety/depression before, so I didn’t really understand what was happening to me. Not that it mattered, because by that point the damage was done. I couldn’t recognize and isolate the real problem. I’d given up. Even though you said a lot of things in that video I desperately, desperately needed to hear, I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to listen to you, because you were one of Them™️. Your eyes were bright and your voice sounded friendly and encouraging, but your name wasn’t McCarthy or Pynchon or DeLillo or Nabokov. You were just a kid. What could you possibly know that I didn’t? In January of this year I called a local psychiatric hospital and told them I was planning to kill myself. I never harbored any true intentions of doing that, but I figured they’d offer me a nice three-week vacation in a padded cell. Considering the circumstances, it honestly seemed like a relief. I ended up quitting my job, selling my house, and moving back in with my parents 300 miles away. I started seeing a therapist once a week (still do, for the record). So far I’ve lost 30 pounds of the 50 pound surplus I acquired. I kept watching your videos, even though I was no longer in the market for writing advice (#JustHereForTheSnark). You kept me lol-ing through some bad days and weeks and months. I’d listen to you talk about problems with the writing community and nod my head like an old woman in church (#ShaelinSermons™️ #SheTeachesANDShePreaches), but I still hadn’t made the connection with my own issues. I swore off writing completely, went back to playing music. Cover songs in coffee shops and family restaurants. It was fun for awhile. I genuinely felt happier. But my story was still an old pebble poking around in my shoe...calling out, issuing playground taunts, drawing hairy cartoon dicks on my forehead while I slept. About a month ago I stared down another blank page, my first since experiencing that fun-sized nervous breakdown earlier this year. I closed my eyes and heard your voice in my head. “You can do whatever you want.” I had no goals, no arbitrary quotas to meet. I wrote a few lines, stopped, fixed a couple things I wasn’t satisfied with, and then went on with my day. I thought about what I’d written, sure, but I didn’t worry or spend the whole day stressing out. The next morning I read over what I’d done, and I didn’t hate it. I thought it was actually pretty good, funny and off-kilter and a little/lotta fucked up. So I sat down and wrote some more. Took some things out, re-worded stuff, dressed up the bones in silver and pearls. Addition and subtraction. Before I knew it, I’d finished a whole page. Then another. And then the hair on the back of my neck stood up, because I remembered: This is how it felt at the beginning. Back when I was young and love-struck and writing only to catch those moments of pure levitation, that devilish tickle, that rush of blood propelled by my own wild heart. It’s been a rough road, but I finally found what I’d lost. I figured out how to write again and enjoy it. And ultimately, the best writing advice I received didn’t come from McCarthy or Pynchon or DeLillo or Nabokov. It came from a young woman in another country with a camera and a nose ring and a big tapestry and bigger dreams which run parallel to my own. So thank you. Thank you for taking time out of your busy life and braving the Steaming Pile™️ that is The Internet to offer words of empathy and encouragement to complete strangers. Thank you for the wisdom you share. Thank you for being who you are. Know that tonight the stars shine brighter as a result. They do for me, at least. (Also I’m sincerely sorry about the absurd length of this “Ask” wherein no actual questions were posed and nothing substantial was communicated beyond a simple yet torturously delayed “thank you” kthxbye #longlivethenewtapestry 

—Justin)