Photos I took of my pets as a child in the 90s

Yet Another Domestic K-9 Story Preview

Inside a tiny, abandoned room, a series of shuddering breaths, inborn sobs, and wet hiccups served as the only reprieve from the otherwise oppressive silence. Rosemary was neatly tucked against the wall, hunched over and clutching herself tightly in some attempt to bring herself a modicum of comfort. But there was no comfort to be found in these dead gray walls with dead gray people possessing dead not-gray animatronics. For even over the bitter concoction of regret, grief, and forlorn misery brewing inside her, she could still feel the chilled metal talons of the robot digging into herself, and each creak of rusty metal joints just served as yet another painful reminder of all her failures.  

Her heart clenched as her traitorous mind wandered back over to Jack. Jack, her Jack, the love of her life. The two of them had been through thick and thin together, all throughout high school, college, and adulthood. Jack, who loyally stood by her, who would do anything for her. Jack would know how to make her feel better. She could almost feel his rough palms caressing her own, his calloused thumb rubbing soothing circles into her hands as she sobbed into his arms. He would promise her with his delightfully deep voice that everything would be okay, and that they would still have each other, even through all this insanity. That Sophie-  

Oh god, Sophie! A fresh torrent of wails bubbled up from deep within her. The metal fingers dug into the plastic encasing on her arms even further. The sting of failure kept lashing at her, tearing and clawing at her skin until she was left bleeding.  

She was vaguely aware she kept crying out her daughter’s name, but she just couldn’t find the willpower to stop it. Her mind and body felt so disconnected that it was hard to track what she was doing over the maelstrom of anguish that buffeted her. 

She left Sophie all alone, after all the tragedies her poor little girl was forced to endure. Rosemary was all she had left, but then she had to mess even that up. Now her poor, poor baby was all alone in the world, an orphan, for god’s sake. She left her daughter an orphan!  

A fresh new wave of sorrow overwhelmed her just then. It wasn’t a new revelation by any means, but it was a painfully true one. It didn’t matter that she never asked for that wretched rabbit to rip her family apart, or that she tried her best to escape the restaurant when they were still there. Even still, the ending didn’t change. One by one her sweet little girl lost her entire family, and now was completely and utterly alone. 

And the worst part was that she had no clue what happened to her. Was she alright? Was she safe? Where was she? What was she doing? Who was she staying with? 

It was that lack of knowledge that scared her more, far more than whatever the answers could possibly be. 

She was so consumed by her self-depreciating grief that she was both blind and deaf to the outside world. She was unable to register the tell-tale clank-stomps of an animatronic walking, nor the darting shadow of a figure continuously ducking in and out of the many rooms that dotted the hall. She remained completely oblivious to her surroundings, until… 

“Oh, there you are Rose!”

The Bet: Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: While on vacation, Gojo makes a bet that Geto just can’t refuse. 

words: 1677

tw: nsfw, heavy smut, and bondage, baybeeee

Vacation sounded nice. 

When Suguru said “vacation” and “we” and “are going” all in the same sentence, you first squint your eyes at him, noting the last time he had said those words, you ended up sitting on the floor of the hotel watching a B-rated horror flick while he laid in bed, snoring the night away. But he promised this time would be different, mentioned a beach, and then had you hooked. 

The beach was there; that was a fact. You actually went to the beach earlier, splashing around in the ocean after making a very amature sand castle and burying Satoru in the sand. But now, you were sitting in the adjoining suite with Satoru and some girl he had picked up from a local club, your legs in Suguru’s lap while you talked, absolutely sober. 

“I bet you all of the money in my wallet that y/n won’t survive thirty-minutes of being tied up.” Gojo laughs, a long arm slung around the random brunette who giggles a little at the bet.  “She’ll be begging you to untie her before you cum, Geto.” Suguru tilts his head at Satoru, stroking your bare legs in his lap and calculating the possibility of beating Satoru’s odds. You don’t know how they got onto the topic of rope and the art of tying someone up, but here you were; the focus of this particular unwarranted conversation. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure… You’re pretty resilient - aren’t you, kitten?” He asks, patting your thigh with certainty. You just nod, half-interested in the conversation, half hoping they would just leave well enough alone and Satoru would waltz off to fuck the woman to his left. 

The woman in question eyes you carefully from her perch on the couch, fully relaxing into the white-haired sorcerer’s chest. Little did she know that this would be her one and only debut because Gojo never dipped in the same pot twice. Ever. So you effectively ignore her and answer Suguru’s question. 

“I’m sure I can handle it.” 

You really thought “tied up” meant both wrists bound or even a simple frog tie. But your hands are bound behind you in reverse prayer, with your legs tied up in some other position that Suguru had mentioned to you as he worked. You wonder for a moment where he got the rope and if this had been Satoru and his plan all along.

But the thoughts fade as you watch the sorcerer work his magic, taking care to exert minimal pressure with his movements and check the tightness with fidelity. The sound of the thick rope running through his fingers arouses you more than the positions he contorts you into, and before long you are absolutely helpless to his every whim and wish with no ability to move of your own will. When Suguru finishes, he runs a hand over your back, admiring his handiwork with a sweet smile. 

“It’s been a minute since I’ve done this…” he murmurs, peeling off his clothes slowly. His arm muscles ripple in the dim lighting of the room, and you feel saliva pooling in your mouth. “But you look just as beautiful as I thought you would.” As a final touch, Suguru reaches into his suitcase and pulls out a bar gag, looking at the device before deciding that yes, he would like to use it. “I need your consent,” he states, and you nod your head, eager to feel the contraption between your lips. A relaxing sensation sweeps over you after the gag is put into place, and you rest your head on the sheets in surrender. 

“You’re being so good for me tonight,” your lover coos, swiping a hand over your pussy. You groan at the contact, constricting on nothingness until he slides a finger into you. You quickly discover that the gag is a barrier to all speech except the guttural sounds you make, and your desire to be vocal about your pleasure heightens. Now that you can’t touch yourself, the sensations are enhanced exponentially, and you squirm beneath Suguru’s touch. “If something doesn’t feel right, I need you to shake your head twice, understand?” You nod, and he adds a finger while tugging on an exposed nipple. The sound that wrenches itself from your throat is needy and heady and absolutely filled with lust, and your head begins to spin. 

Suguru removes his fingers quickly, making you cry out, but it isn’t long before they’re replaced with his cock nudging at your entrance. When he enters you, you hear him mutter a long string of curses, more than he’s ever uttered before in one sentence to your knowledge. 

“Oh my fucking god, this shit is so motherfucking good.” You whimper when he begins to move inside of you, the familiar wet slapping sounds filling the room. You hope Satoru and his little plaything can’t hear you enjoying yourself, but you’re sure Suguru has plans to make your moans the soundtrack of the night. As you jostle back and forth with each stroke, there’s a distinct sense of pain you feel from the rope against your skin. Not that it was too much, but the pain added another layer of stimulation that you couldn’t quite describe in any other word except incredible. 

Suguru sounds like a dying man as he plows into you, and you answer his pants and grunts with your own. “Seeing you like this makes me… oh, shit… it makes me feel so good, y/n. You’re such a beautiful woman… all tied up and...” He couldn’t finish his words as he moved inside of you, but you knew that this was exactly what turned him on: the fact that you were absolutely helpless without him made him feel invincible. The power dynamic is switched, and here you are, beholden to his every move. He wanted to be the one to give you pleasure, not anyone else; not even yourself. He held the cards in his hands, and he wouldn’t let anyone have them. 

So when you tumble over into your first orgasm of the night, you know he’s swelling up with pride as he continues ramming into your soaking wet cunt. “Cum for me…” he whispers as you moan around the bar in your mouth. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.” 

Afterwards, he unties your hands, rubbing feeling back into them before re-tying them together in front of you. Instead of looping the rope around your wrists until it runs out, he deftly ties the ends around the restraints on your legs, making your arms stretch out between your thighs. Your fingers are so close to your pussy that you can feel the heat coming from it, but when you try to touch your clit, you find that it’s nearly impossible to do so. 

“We’ve got about fifteen more minutes,” Suguru murmurs into your ear, kissing your temple. “Think you can hold on?” You nod eagerly, hoping he can give you at least two more orgasms in that time frame. “Wonderful,” he answers, and takes his position behind you again. Except this time, there are no fingers or his cock… His tongue soaks into your cunt with precision, both hands resting on your ass cheeks. 

At the unexpected feeling, your head shoots up, tugging on your restraints a little. But Suguru ignores the movement and continues his agonizing, languid procession up and down your pussy, circling around your clit and back. His appreciation for your taste is evident in the sounds he makes, the humming down below stimulating you further. 

“Mmmph!” You grunt in response to his teeth grazing your clit before his tongue soothes the dull ache, flicking the bud back and forth. Your fingers extend out painfully, trying to anchor on anything as Suguru tortures you. But you fall over into the nothingness again, eyes drifting to the back of your head as you tremble beneath him. 

Your orgasm hasn’t even fully ended when he re-enters you, beginning his strokes. A wet sensation runs down your ass and the pressure from a single finger on your asshole startles you, making you jerk again. “You can take it…” Suguru whispers, pressing his thumb into your asshole with slight difficulty. “There you go.” 

The combined pressure from his cock and the finger in your ass drives you wild. Nevermind the fact that you were tied up; this was an entirely different level of satisfaction: ecstasy. 

Tears slip from your eyes and your body begins to feel the ache of an overwhelming experience. Reality is no more. You are no more. The universe? It’s all composed of this. 

The gag is drenched with your saliva and Suguru tosses his head back, a pained inhale dragging into his throat. “Fuck, I’m so close…” You try to buck your hips or at least attempt to reach your clit one last time so you can cum with him and completely black out, and you’re almost unsuccessful until you feel his cock twitch fiercely in your pussy. And that’s when your soul is snatched out of your body. 

You’re deaf to the loudest groan you’ve ever made, blind to the sight of Suguru tilting back and pressing his eyes closed due to the force of his orgasm, and numb to the feeling of him shooting long streams of cum into your cunt. 

The blackout doesn’t last forever, but you wish it had. 

The timer beeps, ropes come undone, the gag comes off, and you’re covered in a thick blanket before Suguru presses an infinite number of kisses to your face and neck. You feel as if you’d smoked the best weed in the world, but you know the high only stems from the man who is holding you close and whispering tender words into your ear. Before you can close your eyes and shut out the world around you, a kiss is pressed to the inside of your right wrist, Suguru places your hand on his heart, and whispers, 

“Satoru better not be broke.”

hi! for the event could i request: lana x bakugo katsuki + she/her pronouns + ☀️+ orange

thank you!!

life goes on like this again

✘ waking up to your boyfriend is one of the best things, although waking up to him cooking shirtless in your kitchen - yeah that takes the cake.

✘ GENRE: fluff

✘ WARNINGS: none

✘ WORD COUNT: 1.6k

✘ A/N: i got your message about changing your character to daichi, so i hope you like it!

Morning light paints the world behind your eyelids a mixture of shades of pink and orange, and once you open your eyes, the room around you isn’t much different. Early morning light gently slips through the cracks of your open blinds, turning the white walls of your room into a flux of pastel dawn colours. Trying to stay in bed for as long as possible, you turn over, pulling your sheets higher over your shoulder and cocooning yourself deeper into the warmth, more than content to just close your eyes and go back to sleep. However the lack of a presence next to you makes it borderline impossible, and soon enough you find your feet hitting the wooden floors of your apartment before you shuffle out of bed to do your morning routine.

Once you emerge from the bathroom feeling a little bit more awake, you slink down the hallway, not thinking that the noise of sizzling in the kitchen is anything abnormal. However, the second the wafting stench of something burning meets your nose do you wake up completely. With hastened steps, you walk to the kitchen, worried that your boyfriend left something on the stove before he left for work - something that would be uncharacteristic of him. But as you round the wall and step into the kitchen, a soft smile pulls at your lips.

Standing in front of your stove, shirtless, with his broad shoulders tense and looking more bronze in the warm morning light from your kitchen window - stands your boyfriend. Daichi looks like something you’ve plucked out of a dream, and whilst he hasn’t noticed you, simply standing there and appreciating him is what you plan to do; even if he’s currently glaring at whatever he’s trying to cook in the pan.

But Daichi Sawamura has eyes in the back of his head, you’re sure of it. You’re only standing there, staring at his back for only a few seconds before he’s glancing your way, his brown eyes flashing in surprise before a groan tears out of his mouth. You raise your eyebrows at his reaction.

“No no no, go back to bed, they’re not done.” Daichi complains, with pinched brows. He was concentrating really hard on whatever he was cooking, and your curiosity gets the better of you. Ignoring his protests, you smile as you wrap your arms around his toned waist and press a soft kiss between his shoulder blades.

“Are you cooking…” you start, tilting your head to see around his large frame, and into the pan sitting on the stove. The circular and flat thing in the pan gives it away straight away, making butterflies flutter inside your stomach.

“Pancakes?”

“More like cremating them,” he mutters under your breath, and you have to bite your lip to restrain yourself from giggling. You gently tap his abs with your hand and press your cheek to his back, closing your eyes and taking in the warmth that comes from being close to him.

“It’s the thought that counts, right?” You’re one hundred percent sure that your statement would have been far more convincing if your stomach hadn’t chosen that exact moment to growl in protest.

Daichi pivots on his feet, so that his side is pressed against your front and looks down at you frowning. Not at your words, you think, but the whole situation.

“No, it’s not the thought that counts because you can’t eat thoughts to sustain yourself.” Daichi replies with a pointed look. You’re trying really hard not to smile, because you can see how flustered he is about this, so instead you just tilt your head and let a sliver of one slip through.

“Daichi, really it's fine.” You promise, but your words fall on deaf ears as he finally turns to you fully, and you can tell he wants to cross his arms but can't because of your position and the fact he’s got a spatula still in one hand, so instead he just rubs his face. “I’m more surprised that you’re home. It’s a weekday after all.”

The man drops his hand from his face, his hair now a mess from him messing with it, but you think he’s never looked more handsome than in this moment.

“I wanted to take a day off to spend with my girl, and make her breakfast in bed, is that too much to ask?” He asks exasperatedly, waving the spatula around in his other hand.

“Apparently so,” you joke, quickly hip checking him away from the stove, before grabbing the pan and scooping the blackened pancake into the trash. Swiftly washing the pan, you return to the stove once more, turn on the heat and begin to cook the rest of the pancake batter. This time, it's Daichi who is standing behind you, watching over your shoulder as the butter melts in the pan, and you finally pour some batter noto the hot skillet.

“You see, this is why I wanted to cook you breakfast, because you’re always doing the work.” Your boyfriend complains in a groan, resting his forehead against your shoulder as if admitting defeat. A sweet smile pulls at your lips as you take in his gratefulness, because it’s the truth. You’re the one who cooks the meals for you both a lot, but the main reason for that is because you actively enjoy it. A fact he knows well, because he’d never stand for it if you didn’t.

“Yeah but I actually enjoy it. And please, you cook for me sometimes.” You can feel the look he gives you as he raises his head from your shoulder. “Today just isn’t a good example,” You finish, biting your lip to stop you from giggling at his antics.

“I know you enjoy it, I’d never let you cook food for me otherwise.” There ya go. “But I still feel like you do a lot around here, and I'm…” his voice trails off, and you immediately turn around to face him. His voice lacks any of the dominating confidence that he carries without knowing, and that alarms you. You don’t need to look into his eyes to see something is bothering him, but as you mentally make a checklist of his tells, you need to ask.

“Daichi, what’s this actually about?” You ask, your head tilting slightly as his eyes slink away from yours, settling on the small potted herbs resting on your windowsill.

“I was talking to one of the new recruits yesterday, and he made a passing comment after he saw the lunch you made for me.” He explains, and you nod your head encouraging him to continue. You’ve always made him a work lunch from the day you moved in seeing as he had a tendency to get intensely serious in what he was doing, and would often forget to eat. But if you made him food, he’d feel guilty if he forgot to eat it. Had you essentially guilt tripped your boyfriend into being healthy and not forgetting meals, yes, and it was worth it.

“And he mentioned that I was lucky that I have someone that does everything for me, and It made me realise how little i put into this relationship.” Daichi admits and you blink at him for a moment.

And the next, you wack him in the bicep with the plastic spatula in your hand.

“Ow!” he curses, clutching his arm, even though you both know you only tapped him. SO instead, with your free hand, you point right in his face with your index finger, and level him with your most serious glare.

“Now you listen to me Daichi Sawamura, you do not lack effort in this relationship. You are not putting in abysmal amounts. You are the love of my life, and you make me so happy by just simply being in the same room as me, and the fact that you come home to me every day, call me on your break when you're bored, or buy me flowers randomly because you know I'll love them. That is more than enough.” You argue, poking his bare chest with your finger.

“And if anyone tries to tell you that you are anything less than the perfect boyfriend, you’ll have to help me hide a dead body.” Your chest heaves as you finally get all the words out. Daichi is the perfect partner in every sense of the word and the fact that some recruit made him feel less than that really pisses you off.

You’re about to ask for his number so you can beat him with your spatula before warm lips are pressed to yours with a force that almost knocks you back onto the stove. However, strong arms wrap around your waist, stopping the accident before it happens, and you drop the utensil to the floor to slip your hands into Daichi’s short dark hair. Once again you’re gasping for breath when he pulls away, but the smile stretched across his face almost has your head spinning.

“Thank you sunshine, I- I really needed that.” He whispers, placing another kiss to your brow before leaning his forehead against yours. “I love you too,” You close your own eyes, reveling in the peace of the moment, and content that he finally sees what you do.

But the smell of burning interrupts the moment and you immediately curse, turning on your boyfriend and yanking the pan with the now burnt pancake off the heat. Daichi erupts into loud, heart filled laughter from behind you, and you give up, putting the pan in the sink still with the ruined food inside before turning to your boyfriend.

“Want to go out for breakfast?” He asks through his laughter and you nod your head, grinning right along with him. It was the little things like days like today, that made you fall in love with Daichi a little deeper.

✘ EVENT STATUS : CLOSED ✘

Break up with your girlfriend and date me instead

WOrds: 1.7k 

Warnings: None

Characters, Kenma, Tsukishima and HInata (all seperate and x reader)

Requests are open! 

Kenma 

It had been almost six months since yoou and Kenma started dating and it went exactly how you would expect, you chatted some in the mornings before school and during lunch, but otherwise majority of your time together was after school or on the weekends where you didn’t have to worry about other people bothering the two of you. One of your friends didn’t understand this and continuously asked you if you were going to bring Kenma around or why you weren’t sitting next to him, and when you told her that it was because he needed his space too she always rolled her eyes as you changed the subject. 

This had been happening since the beginning of your relationship and never thought too much of it, until she decided to go talk with Kenma alone. 

*From Kenma’s perspective* 

“Heyyyyyyy Kenma” You recognized the voice, she usually hung out with Y/N so I had to at least be a little nice to her so Y/N doesn’t get mad. 

“Hi” I mumbled not looking up from my game, being nice and caring are two different things. 

“Soooo whatcha doin?” She asks while sitting down right next to me. 

“Playing my game.” “Ohhh what game? It looks really hard, you must be amazing,” 

“It’s animal crossing, I have a five star island,” she was getting annoying and she’d barely said anything. 

“Wow Kenma you’re so talented.” “I guess.” 

“Well I wanted to ask you something?” Crap, she wanted to actually talk and I really don’t want to, before I could respond she was already going off, “so how is your relationship with Y/N going?” 

“Good.” 

“Is it really? I don’t see the two of you hanging out often, like it looks like the two of you aren’t even dating.” 

She's annoying, “We’re dating,” I huff out just wanting to focus on my game but I know that she is going to want to talk more. 

“Why?” 

“What?” I couldn’t help but look up at her to see that she looks serious. 

“I mean come on Kenma, you two don’t work together, I think you should date me instead, I mean I am a lot prettier and I will actually hang out with you and talk to you and cheer for you at all of your games because I care about you so much.” 

“No you don’t,” I respond, she really knows nothing. 

“But Kenma I promise you I do, we would be the best couple ever, we would have so much fun going out together and we look so” 

“No we would not. I like Y/N and we are dating so stop talking.” 

“Kenma listen to me we would be so much better together and she is nothing compared to me.” SHe is practically whining at me and I’m sick of it. 

“I don’t care what you think, you’re annoying” I can’t help but tell her the truth, and I don’t even have to look at her to know that she’s staring at me in shock. 

“Kenma Kozume you are a jerk and I can’t believe that you could say something like that-”

“I can, I don’t like you, I like Y/N so stop wasting your breath and find someone else.” 

She is peeved but I don’t care she is annoying. I get up and leave the bench to go find Y/N so we can walk home together and I can show her how much I’ve done on our shared island. (That he secretly has been working all day on to show you because you only had two stars at the beginning of the day and he just wants you to be proud of him and loves how happy it makes you, like he was really annoyed that he had to stop to tell that girl that he was not interested) 

Tsukishima

 You and Tsukki were the perfect couple, you both complimented each other perfectly, you brought out everything in him that he thought that the public would never see. You were too good to be true and he made a point to constantly remind you. What the world saw was him greeting you by the door, walking you home, and giving you his sweatshirts. What they didn’t see however was how you called him after practice and just let him talk about all of his worries, or how you pack him food for long bus trips because you know that’s the only way that he’ll eat, or how you practically pounce on him when he comes over and give him all of the affection in the world. This is what let your friend decide that she id going to have...an opinion on your relationship. 

*Tsukishima’s perspective*

Morning practice was as brutal as usual this morning, they all voted for sprints this morning and it really couldn’t have been worse. Now it’s over and I’m waiting for Yamaguchi to finish changing so we can walk to class together. It was a little colder out today and I just wanted to get inside. I decided to put my headphones on for a couple of minutes of peace before school, as I grab them out of my bag I see one of Y/N’s friends running towards me. 

“Tsukishima, hey Tsukishima!” She is calling my name, shit. She’s annoying and I really only handle her because she is Y/N’s friend.

Once she gets to me she is out of breath but tries to puff her chest out and smiles at me, “Heyyy so I was wondering if you wanted to go on a date with me?” 

“What?” Did she really just ask me that? I have a girlfriend and she knows it, she is literally friends with Y/N what the hell. 

“I mean I thought that you would want a girlfriend who actually cares about you ans wants to spend time with you and I would also love to show you a good time,” she says while rubbing her hand up on my chest and I can’t help but brush it off of me. 

“Why would I do that?” Is she really asking me to go out with her? Is she stupid? 

“Because I like you stupid and I would be willing to fufill all of your needs and I’m prettier than Y/N and I would like to do everything for you. Besides you don’t even seem happy with her, like you do all of these things but that’s because she’s spoiled, you deserve better,  duh.” 

“You must be stupid, ugly and stupid.” “What?!?” “Y/N is my girlfriend, not you, do not touch me, do not talk to me and do not assume anything about our relationship. You must be stupid to think that you can come blink at me and expect me to go out with you. I knew you were dumb but that’s rediculous.” She was completely in shock, but that’s fine she doesn’t matter to me. Lucky for me Yamaguchi walked out of the locker room and we left her standing there, staring at me in awe. When I got to the classroom with Y/N I pulled her into a hug and told her that she needed to drop that friend before you got hurt. 

He would actually never ever ever tell you this but you literally make him the happiest person ever and to think that someone would even think about trying to split the two of you up makes him both pissed and super nervous because if he was mean and still got asked things like that what happens to you, his nice and loving girlfriend. He makes sure to be a little closer to you for the next couple weeks because you are his whole world and he just wants you to be by his side. 

Hinata

You and Hinata are literally so cute together and if you don’t know that the two of you are dating then you must be blind, deaf, and stupid. He was constantly shouting your name or is right by your side, HInata is loud but a complete sweet heart and he treats you so well that it makes other girls so jealous. Like no one else gets greeted by their boyfriend with a big hug and goofy smile every single morning. Other girls approach him often but usually you are right by his side. 

Hinata’s POV

After school there is about 5 minutes after I change before someone with a key gets to the gym, so I like to sit on the steps by the gym to be the first one in. Usually Kageyama was there with me but today I was all alone, well until Y/N’s friend came along, she came and sat by me and gave me a really warm smile. 

“Hey Shouyo what’s up?” 

“I’m just waiting for practice to start, you?” 

She sighs and looks at me, “I’m not doing anything, I just wanted to know if you would be interested in hanging out with me?” 

“What were you thinking? Practice starts in fifteen minutes so I guess I could talk with you until then…” 

“No silly, I meant like hang out like go out on a date together,” she looks at me like I should’ve known that but there is no way. 

“Um no… you know that I’m dating Y/N right?” Maybe she forgot or this was a prank, who knows what people are up to. 

“Yeah, I know, but I mean I just thought that I would be more fun to date instead of her, like come on Hinata I play volleyball too, like we could do that together and I would actually be your biggest fan.” 

“I already have a biggest fan and her name is Y/N and she is also my girlfriend so thank you but no thank you.” She’s Y/N’s friend, how you could she say something like that? “NO HINATA I COULD MAKE YOU HAPPY” “I am already happy.” Walking up next to the gym is Tanaka who got a set of keys to the gym and unlocked it for us, he looks at the two of us with a confused look on his face but doesn’t bother asking before he entered the gym. I get up to follow behind him and look back at her one more time, “If you wanted to be friends I would be more than happy to be friends with you, but I am taken and have to go to practice now, so have a good day!” 

Hinata really didn’t understand what happened there, like she meant a date but he was already taken so he kinda just blew it off. When he told you later though you explained it to him and he kinda just laughed but also felt bad for rejecting her like that even though she should have known better than that. 

Really need people to understand that there is a difference between your diagnosis being stigmatized (what usually happens with mental illness) and your diagnosis resulting in you being subjected to ableism (disability) because those two things are a bit different and the distinction is important.

I want to start by saying that I am in no way attempting to minimize the struggles that mentally ill people face. I am mentally ill and have depression, anxiety, and ADHD as well as a physical disability, Cerebral Palsy. The line between the struggles of people with mental illnesses and the struggles of disabled people is thin but there is still a line. I just want to highlight some of the ways that disabled people are especially discriminated against in a world built and run by abled people and how that can be different from how mental ill people experience alienation or stigmatization. These differences are also why I think that comparing a mental illness to a disability can be problematic. I am, however, also aware that there is overlap and that some diagnoses can be considered to have a foot in both arenas, this is in no way meant to be a hard and fast rule. I also don't claim to speak for the entire disabled community but a lot of the things under the ableism list are things that I've experienced myself which is the place that this post is coming from. I want people to realize that ableism is more than stigmatization and that it is engrained in the world that we live in.

Stigmatization comes from people misunderstanding your illness and how seriously it can impact you and your life. I would consider stigmatization to be things like:

People using your diagnosis as an insult or joke, further stigmatizing it. Ex: When ppl say things like "I'm so ocd" or "I'm so bipolar"

People ignoring your symptoms or attributing your symptoms to your character. For example, instead of recognizing the symptoms of your illness like executive dysfunction, someone might just call you lazy.

General lack of understanding or sympathy towards mentally ill people

Lack of accurate representations of mental illnesses in media. Most of the time the character with the mental illness is made to be the villain or antagonist. Once again, very stigmatizing and gross.

Also, for both mentally ill and disabled people it can sometimes be difficult or expensive to get the right medications you need.

Examples of everyday ableism and systematic ableism that's ingrained in our society which particularly affects disabled people include:

Someone using derogatory language to belittle and degrade your existence as a person. It positions you as less than. Can often be a targetted, direct attack at a disabled person. Ex: the r slur, words like "cripple", and using "deaf", "blind", or "disabled" as insults.

Mocking the way someone walks, moves, speaks, or exists as a disabled person.

No one taking you seriously because you are disabled/being subjected to infantilization. People assuming that you can't do anything for yourself.

Able-bodied people assuming the needs of a disabled person without asking them. Often this comes from a place of trying to be helpful but make sure you always ask what you can do to accommodate someone before assuming what they might need help with because it can be infantilizing

Example: I've had a lot of people assume that I need help putting on a jacket or getting my shoes on so they automatically start helping me with it and they basically end up treating me like a child because they assume that I can't do something.

People touching you or your equipment or mobility aids without your consent. Mobility aids can be like extensions of our body so do not touch them without our permission. This urge to violate a disabled person's space comes from the subconscious assumption that disabled people don't have their own autonomy.

Example: many times when I was a full-time wheelchair user people would come up behind me and just start pushing my wheelchair without asking or saying anything. Their intention was to help me get where I was going but it was very jarring to suddenly start being pushed without asking.

Being denied a job because you are disabled.

Job applications including physical ability requirements for non-physical or desk jobs to discourage disabled people from applying. Ex: "must be able to lift [x amount] of pounds"

Being denied the accommodations you need to be able to function in a school/work/home/other environment.

Lack of captions or audio descriptions

Being expected to work and move at the same pace as your peers all of the time.

Constantly feeling the need to "prove" yourself to the abled majority.

The idea that being abled is the ideal and that you need to do everything in your power to try to be as close to abled as possible. The idea that you shouldn't be comfortable with your disability. The notion that being disabled cannot be a whole or fulfilling identity.

A good example of this that people don't often think about are the viral videos that are like "Sally worked for months so that she could [struggle] to walk down the aisle at her wedding! Isn't that sweet?" Or the videos of kids feeling pressured to walk across the stage at graduation. These videos imply that struggling to perform ability is somehow better than being comfortably disabled.

The idea that disabled people can't be desirable, attractive, or sexy. The idea that they don't make good romantic partners.

Using disabled people as inspiration porn. This happens a lot with viral videos of disabled people where the comments amount to "if they can live with a disability, then you have no reason to complain about your life!" Disabled people do not exist to inspire you.

Also another personal example but one time in gym class I did more push ups than a girl who was able-bodied so she got all defensive and said "well if she can do that many then I'm gonna do more!" Like girl.... anyways...

Having to jump through a million hoops to get disability benefits. Or being denied disability benefits for arbitrary reasons.

Also once you get disability benefits it's barely anything. Also when you're on benefits you're not allowed to save up money and if you get married you lose benefits. I could make a whole other post about how disabled people are expected to live off of nothing but...

MOBILITY AIDS ARE SO EXPENSIVE HOLY SHIT

The world was built by and for able-bodied people. Architectural/environmental ableism occurs when there are no ramps, no accessible bathroom stalls, no elevators, no disability parking spaces, and/or no space for wheelchairs/mobility aids in public places.

This also happens a lot with public transportation. When I tried using the metro with my friends in DC, I had to have a security guard help me get down the escalator because there wasn't an elevator nearby. Right before I got on it, I saw a man force his wheelchair onto the escalator.

A smaller example but it can be as small as there not being a sidewalk ramp. One time I couldn't even cross the street because there was no sidewalk ramp and I was in a wheelchair. Once again, the world was built by able-bodied people.

Eco-ableism. It's when disabled people aren't considered when it comes to environmental activism. The best example of this is the straw debacle that happened last year. Every abled person and their mama wanted to complete ban plastic straws without acknowledging that a lot of disabled people need to use blendable, flexible plastic straws.

Another example that I've witnessed myself has been with automatic doors. I've had to tear down signs at my university that were put on automatic doors that said "save a polar bear, use the other door". Stop blaming disabled people's survival for environmental issues and blame big corporations.

Almost a complete lack of disability representation in media. Disabled kids don't have many people who they can look up to. I know I didn't have any.

The ableism that comes from abled parents of a disabled child.

For years I was told inaccurate information about my disability by able-bodied people, including my mother. It was only when I started researching my disability myself that I actually began to understand it.

Related to the previous point, lack of information or knowledge about certain disabilities

People assuming that just because someone is in a wheelchair that they can't move their legs or walk. This feeds into the idea that disabled people are "faking" their disability. The idea that someone is "faking" can lead people to be attacked or have people tell them that they don't "deserve" things like benefits or parking spaces.

People who straight up pretend they don't see us. I've had so many people try to cut me in line over the years just because they didn't think I would say anything or wanted to pretend they didn't see me.

I have friends who have delayed speech as part of their disability. If you know someone who has delayed speech or a stutter, don't fucking cut them off or try to finish their sentences for them. It's super rude and disrespectful.

DON'T FUCKING SAY THE R WORD. DON'T SAY IT! DON'T SAY IT EVEN IF YOU ARE DISABLED! THE R WORD IS SO ABLEIST AND STIGMATIZING STOP SAYING IT! DON'T PUT IT IN YOUR WRITING EITHER!

Lastly, about half of people killed by police have some sort of disability or mental illness. Disability is intersectional and it's important when talking about things like the BLM movement, women's rights, lgbtq+ rights, etc.

Hope this helped you learn something about ableism and how prevalent it is!

The Colour of Our Voices [1]

Chapter 1 - Chapter 1.5 OR Chapter 2

➜ Words: 3.3k

➜ Genres: 98% Fluff, 2% Angst, Slice of Life, Broadway!AU

➜ Summary: He wasn’t supposed to hear. He wasn't supposed to know. But the instant Jimin came into your life and pulled the curtains back, you couldn't hide backstage anymore. You were no longer merely a phantom of the opera.

➜ Notes: I’m so excited to finally share this series. I’m pretty satisfied with how it turned out, so get ready for a rollercoaster, y’all.

cr.

The moving truck wakes you.   It’s deafening. You can hear the slow ‘beep, beep, beep’ of the vehicle backing up. With one eye open, you grab your phone to check the time. It’s ten minutes before your alarm.

You begrudgingly rise, getting ready for the day and humming while you brush your teeth to warm up your throat. You change your clothes, then eat cereal in silence at your kitchen counter. Once you’re ready, you leave. But not two steps out your door are you clumsily tripping over a cardboard box.   You make sure not to scream too loudly in case you draw attention. So with a muffled sound and your ankle throbbing at how it was twisted, you stand again.    Someone’s moving in next door.   There are messy boxes littering the hall, the door wide open, and from what you can see inside, the living space is empty. But you don’t dwell, making your own way down the hall to the stairwell.   The timing is poor. By mere seconds, you miss the brunette boy sticking his head out the door with pouty lips and cute eyes, peeking down the hall to catch your retreating form.   You limp to the station and as your shitty luck would have it, the train becomes delayed while you’re squished in the middle cart that’s packed like sweaty sardines. It halts suddenly, everyone jolting and you flinch when someone stomps on your right foot by accident.   There’s no apology.    “Hey, watch it,” the man beside you grumbles and you’re pushed again, at least with your foot free this time and throbbing inside of your worn shoe.   “S-sorry.”   The delay makes you late by the time you arrive in Time Square. You run through the street, shouting more apologies as you dive through the busy crowds and tourist groups. Once you make it to New 42nd Street Studios, you sprint down the stairs to the basement of the building. You nearly trip and tumble downwards to your death, but you catch yourself on the sticky railing.   It’s three minutes past nine o’clock.   “You’re late.”   “I’m sorry.”   “Sorry doesn’t make you earlier.”   The director sighs and rolls his eyes. He turns away from you and claps his hands together, scanning the rest of the bustling crew. “Today’s the day folks! We have dress rehearsal and then the show begins at six sharp! It’s showtime! So let’s get moving. You there, intern, go get coffee. And try not to be late this time.”   “Y-yes, sir.”   Up the stairs you go again. It seems like you’re always running, whether it’s for this job or to this job. But you quickly remind yourself that it’s a privilege to be here. Years ago, you would’ve cried tears of happiness if you knew you’d be on the production team of Phantom of the Opera.   Of course, you would’ve assumed you were performing. But being an intern was good enough. Everyone had to start somewhere.   “Hi, can I get ten americanos, six iced and four hot, three chai tea lattes, four vanilla lattes, three espressos, seven cappuccinos, and a green tea?”   The barista runs the company card into the side of her screen and then her eyes flicker up at you. “Sorry, it keeps saying declined. Do you have another method of payment?”   “O-oh. Sorry about that.” You end up paying out of your own pocket for the drinks. There’s no point in telling the director the company card failed — he’ll find some excuse to pin the blame on you, and it’s a small problem not worth the trouble.   You run back while balancing the plastic bags and cup holders in your hands, trying not to spill any of them. Once arrived, you hand them out to the crew members, actors, and actresses.   “Intern! What’s this?!” The director approaches and sighs. You prepare yourself, already reading that expression on his face. “I said six hot and four iced americanos. You got the order wrong!”   You bow your head. “S-sorry, my apologies.”    “You and your apologies!” His teeth are gritted, face reddened in anger. “Apologies doesn’t make my americano hot does it?!”   “I can go get another one if you need—”   “Don’t waste my time more than you already have.” He waves you off, sighing, and you’re left to drown in the humiliation as the others around you snicker underneath their breaths.    You release the air held in your throat and you narrow your eyes sharply into his backside as he walks away from you. You hold your tongue, reminding yourself that being here is a privilege.   //   The curtains draw.   There’s bated breath held in the audience, a certain sense of anticipation that builds the suspense until everyone’s on the edge of their seats. The lair is shown, mist spiraling on the floor, candles all around. The phantom with his cloak and half-mask sits at the organ.   Christine is enchanted, walking closer towards him slowly like she’s been bewitched by a spell.   The actor recites his lines, and then the music begins.    “Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation.” It’s a baritone voice, rich and seductive, but still sweet. “Darkness wakes and stirs imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defenses.”    The violin strings pull as if echoing after the voice.   You hold the microphone to your lips, singing and pulling the notes from deep in your stomach. The mic has been moved down several pitches to match the baritone vocal range that you wouldn’t be able to reach on your own, but the tone is rich and believable to be of the actor’s.   After all, one of the biggest efforts the director made was to be able to pull this off.   “.....the darkness of the music of the night.” Your eyes are shut, headphones on and you press the left side closer down to your ear, drowning in the lovely instrumental. “Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world. Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before. Let your soul take you where you long to be.”   The note is belted out, streaming out from your lips like silk. And when it’s over, you grin. It’s thrilling, a kind of pride blooming inside your chest that’s rare for you to experience. Even if you’ve done it so many times, it never fails to bring you delight — you’re unable to believe that you actually did it.   Once the song is complete, there’s thunderous applause.   A smile spreads into your cheeks, one that’s infectious but no one sees when you’re hidden behind the curtain. And had you been standing on the stage in the spotlight, you might’ve noticed the brunette boy with pouty lips and cute eyes amidst the crowd.   He’s become enraptured by your voice. He’s enchanted, heart stuttering, speechless beyond words. This was the voice he was waiting for. This was it.   The show eventually comes to a close and everyone holds hands to bow to the audience. You peek out from backstage to watch the curtains being brought down.    “Good job everyone. Nice job crew. Taeyeon, beautiful job as Christine once again. You were lovely, darling. Your sound is like melted caramel.” The director continues with his praises, and the other girls playing more minor roles flock to Taeyeon’s side to also shower her with compliments. The whole gathering parade themselves into the dressing room, brushing right past you. “Oh, yes, there’s the star of our show! Kim Seokjin, you never cease to amaze me! Beautiful job as Phantom!”   “Of course.” Seokjin grins, charismatic and charming as always. “You shouldn’t expect any less of me. With a face like this, how could I ever fail?!”   There’s bellowing laughter that rings and pierces your eardrums. “You’re right!”   You wait as they come closer.   Your breath is held. Maybe today, you did a good enough job that he’ll acknowledge you—   But then the director walks past you like you’re a plant. Wallpaper. A backstage prop.   “I loved that emotion you expressed in the final piece. Almost moved me to tears.”   “I tried to do a different interpretation of it this time…” Their voices fade off and you sigh.   You’re envious. Kim Seokjin has a good face. He can act. He can dance. He has stage presence. He’s magnetizing and charming. But he just can’t sing. The man can’t hold a steady note for the life of him. You suspect he’s tone-deaf.    Understandably, the director couldn’t give up on his godly face, so you became his voice. A ghost singer.   It actually works out well. You don't have to be on stage in the spotlight where every single person can scrutinize you, but your voice can be heard. In a way, it’s like you’re performing. But you can still be comfortable. You just wish you were acknowledged. Even if it’s just a little.   You’re suddenly shocked out of your thoughts when one of the crew members hands you a stick, clearing his throat obnoxiously. “Start sweeping.”   You carry the broom and dustpan, beginning to brush away at the confetti that exploded, clearing the floor of dust and dirt. And you end up missing the boy who sneaks himself backstage, who looks around and slips into the shadows.   He walks down the corridor, luckily finding the dressing rooms and he follows the nameplates until he discovers the one that reads ‘Kim Seokjin’.   The boy knocks three times in rapid succession. He puts on his best smile and tries to push the wrinkles out of his suit jacket that’s too small and worn. The door opens. The laughter tapers off.   Jin’s makeup and fake burnt skin have been removed. What’s left is pure godlike genes, and he’s blinded by the older man’s handsomeness, having to resist the urge to shield his eyes.   “Who are you?”   “M-My name is Park Jimin. I’m a fan, I-I absolutely loved your voice on the show.”   “You want an autograph? Of course you do.”   “Who’s that?” the director calls out, lounging on the sofa and drinking a glass of red wine.   “A fan,” Seokjin turns his head to say, and then he grabs a piece of paper. He makes an enormous signature with permanent marker and several loops in his name. Once finished, he slaps it to Jimin’s chest before the younger can even breathe. “Thanks for your support.”   “Wait. Mr. Kim.” Jimin puts his foot between the door before he can shut it. The actor raises his brow and looks at him. “My dream is to be on Broadway. I know this is a lot to ask of you, but can you please mentor me?”   Jin stares at him and then frowns in annoyance. “Mentor you?”   Jimin quickly adds, “I promise I’ll try my best. I am willing to give up anything and learn and you seem to be the best of the best. I haven’t heard such a great baritone voice like yours in so long. Please accept me as your student.”   There’s an extended silence. “Sorry. I don’t accept students.”   “W-wait. Please!”   “Security!” Seokjin shouts outside the door. “Get him out of here!”   Jimin’s shell-shocked, unable to move when his feet are rooted in the ground. His bones have been frozen. The precious image of his idol that he’s created in his own mind for the past two hours has shattered. He’s left in utter shame and disappointment.   “Hey...you’re not allowed to be here!” One of the crew members suddenly points to him.   And then a hand plops down onto his shoulder, a grip firm and intimidating. Jimin looks up to find a stocky security guard, and he sighs. He drags his own legs, shoulders slumped, escorted out.   //   It takes an hour to help the crew clean up. You assist them in sweeping and putting away the props, all while waiting patiently with your eyes pinned on the entrance of the corridor. You dust your hands off, and you’re lucky with your timing.   The director is walking out with his bag slung over his shoulder, jacket over his arm, busy sipping on some warm tea.   “Director Kang!”   You stop right in front of him and he looks at you in boredom. “Why haven’t you gone home yet, intern?”   You’ve been cleaning up the entire time, but you don’t bother telling him in case he tells you that you’re too slow to complete tasks. You’re too preoccupied anyways, catching your breath. It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for. “D-Director. I know we’ve talked about this before, b-but I really hope you’ll reconsider the referral.”   He sighs, rolls his eyes, and continues walking. You follow beside him frantically while he pulls out his phone to message someone.    “I think I’ve been trying my hardest at this job and I've been putting in a lot of hours. I’ve thought about what you said and your advice and I feel like I’ve improved in my singing, s-so….please give me a referral to an agent.”   All you need is a referral. One measly call and you can be in touch with someone who could expand their hands and help you. You could finally make a break in the industry, make a debut on Broadway. It’s what you’ve been trying to achieve your entire life. It’s your dream. Your goal. The reason you left everything back and home and came all the way here.   But he’s not paying any attention to your desperate pleas.   “Director?”   He’s irritated — you can tell with the way he huffs out. It makes you flinch, but he at least stops. “Intern, don’t make me repeat myself. You need to focus on what you’re doing now. Frankly, you’re not even good at this insignificant job. How are you supposed to achieve big things?”   “B-But…”    “You can’t take big leaps when you can’t even take small steps yet. You’re not ready. Not yet. If I happen to notice that you’re finally putting in some real effort and some hard grind, then I’ll think about it again. But now’s just not the time.”   “I…” You’re at a loss, on the verge of sobbing.   “Now if you’re finished, I have a call to make.”   He presses his phone to his ear, a universal sign that he’s not continuing the conversation. You watch him get into his car, driving away, and you’re left there on the street in a cloud of his gas exhaust.

Jimin is at a loss.    He paces around in his empty apartment room with still taped boxes scattered everywhere. He doesn’t feel like unpacking and putting away his belongings. Not when his mind was stuck on something else.   He came all the way here to look for a mentor — having followed his community theater director’s instructions to work on his singing. But without a teacher he can’t make his big break.   “What am I going to do now?” he sighs.    Maybe he jumped the gun a little too soon. It was pretty intense of him to go to a show right on the day when he moved in when he probably should’ve gotten settled. But there’s no time to waste when time is of the essence! Maybe he could somehow convince Seokjin to take him as a student. He is pretty insistent and not one to give up just after a single rejection….   Jimin sits on his couch, the only piece of furniture intact in his home, and he folds his hands together. His brows are furrowed, in deep contemplation onto the next step. But then suddenly, he hears a voice.   “—your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams.” It’s coming from the window. Sweet and melodic. Jimin’s captivated and stands on his feet, following the sound as if he was being gently tugged by a red string tied around his finger. “Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before.”   He steps out barefoot onto his chilly balcony. His eyes are fixed on the balcony beside him, the tiny flower beds that are wilting, the warm lights that pour out from inside the home, how the doors are slightly open to welcome a breeze. “Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar!”   He hangs onto the note, relishes in how it stirs his very soul, and then rushes out. “And you'll live as you've never lived before....”   Jimin throws his front door open and then pounds onto the door next to his with his fist.   Three beats. One — two — three. And it opens.   He smiles. Then it falls. His line of sight comes a little lower than expected. He was anticipating a man singing, perhaps someone alike to Seokjin, lean and handsome. But instead, it’s a timid girl in pajamas — you.   “H-hello?” you squeak, nervous.   “H-Hi. I...I just….” He taps his ear, trying to explain himself. “I thought I heard…heard....never mind.” Jimin hitches his thumb over his shoulder and awkwardly tilts his body. “I just moved in.”   “Y-Yeah. I saw this morning.”   “So…it’s-uh-nice to meet you, I guess. I mean I don’t guess because it is great to meet you. I swear I’m not usually like this. What I mean is usually I’m not so direct. And, um, bad at speaking. We’ll be neighbors from now on. So I wanted to say hello, since usually, that’s the polite thing to do. Or at least what my mom tells me. She’s great. My mom. But right, I didn’t even tell you my name. My bad. I’m Park Jimin.”    He extends and opens his hand. Then he realizes it’s idiotic for him to shake hands with you. It wasn’t like this was some sort of business transaction. So Jimin lowers his arm….right when you’re opening your palm.    It’s a missed handshake, and he’s cringing so hard, he’s tempted to jump off the balcony. But instead, he musters up stiff laughter and raises his hand to shake yours. He muses how soft your skin is, but tries not to think about it too much in case that’s a weird thought. Which it is.   God, he’s usually not this nervous. It’s a fucking mess.   Yet, you still offer him a polite smile. “I’m Y/N.”   “Nice name. I mean all names are nice, but yours in particular. Not that I mean anything by it. Like it’s quite normal, but not normal in the sense that it’s overused. Not that overused names are a bad thing.” It’s terribly awkward. That blank stare you’re giving him doesn’t help with his perspiration either. Jimin tries to smile to show that he’s not a freak. But it might also be doing the opposite effect. “Well, I should get going now. Lots to unpack.”   “Okay.”   You’re about to close the door, and he steps away. But in the last second, Jimin spins around before you can seal yourself inside.    “Um, were you playing music?”   You’re silent and you blink at him owlishly. “Sorry, I’ll try to keep it down.”   Jimin nods. It’s not exactly what he meant — he wasn’t complaining. But he doesn’t linger to tell you so. He doesn’t want to make you feel tense and he feels like a creep enough. The last thing that Jimin wants is to be kicked out before he’s even fully settled in for being a complete weirdo.   Typically he’s not this socially inept. But he accepts that he’s made a horrible first impression and shuts the door.   Though as he leans on the smooth surface of it, he quirks his head to one side and his brows furrow. Strange. That voice sounded so familiar. And so tangible as if it were here and not a recording.   But he doesn’t dwell, going on about his night.   In the meanwhile, you try to sing quieter.

Harry Potter Fanfic Recommendations about Trans Characters

I will not pretend to be an expert by any means when I am cis, but I’ve come across plenty of stories with trans characters in the past and wanted to not only re-find them but also discover more. Here is a far-from-comprehensive list of links sorted by which character is trans. Some of these stories have more than one, in which case I deferred to the protagonist. 

I intend to keep adding to this as I discover more, so if anyone has specific recommendations, please send them my way! I only have ten listed thus far, but I wanted to get the list out there.

Harry Potter

the girl who lived (again) - Features Harry/Ginny. 10,330 words. Rated G.

Molly tried her best. When Harry had told them, Arthur had asked excitedly, "is this a Muggle thing?" Hermione had hurried out a "no!" and a frantic history of gender diversity in the wizarding world.

"It's just that I'm a girl," Harry had said, and Arthur had nodded and asked her about how telephone booths worked. He would call her by the right pronouns until the day he died at the respectable old age of one hundred and thirty three, and he would make it seem easy.

But Molly had to try. Hermione explained things faster and higher-pitched every time Molly messed up a pronoun. Molly frowned and muttered and put extra potatoes on Harry's plate at breakfast. Harry slept in Ron's room, which didn't bother either of them but which made Hermione scowl.

Harry got boxes of sweets and warm hugs, as Molly chewed things over. For her fifteenth Christmas, the Weasley sweater she would receive would be a bright, friendly, terrible pink.

The next time Harry visited, Molly put her on Ginny's floor to sleep-- for some definition of sleep that involved Hermione hissing threats at three in the morning if Harry and Ginny didn't "shut up about Wronski feints, do you know what time it is."

My note: This story is actually a re-imagining of her whole book story. Her name is considered at one point, but she decides to keep using Harry because she feels it fits her. It also includes references to other trans and gender fluid characters.

Draco Malfoy

The Only True Goal of the Universe - Features Harry/Draco and background Hermione/Ron, Seamus/Dean. 22,753 words. Rated E.

It comes up, as most juvenile things do, in a game of Truth or Dare.

Shenanigans - Features Harry/Draco and background Hermione/Ron. 4823 words. Rated E.

Of course Draco’s orgasm hits him right as Potter does the one thing he’s not supposed to do. Of fucking course.

Or, the blood curse lingering over the Malfoys has landed on Draco, and he’s doomed to get knocked up by the first cock that gets inside his cunt. Just his luck that cock ends up being Harry Potter’s.

Hand-in-Hand and Handkerchief - Features Draco/Astoria. 3008 words. Rated G

Draco Malfoy is not generally sympathetic to the sight of tears, but when he stumbles upon a second year Slytherin sniffling in the rose garden during the Yule Ball, for once he manages not to be a complete arse. Astoria is just glad that he had a handkerchief in his pocket because she forgot hers.

My Note: This includes three trans characters, including a happy adult example. It also has mention of a really cool magical potion idea for transition that the author has provided a free-for-use explanation of here.

Sirius Black

Discards - Features Remus/Sirius, James/Lily. 76,032 words. Rated M. Modern non-magical AU.

When 21-year-old assistant librarian Sirius spots a cute hipster college student at the Seattle Public Library, he just needs to figure out a subtle way of determining whether he's into guys. But Remus's life is more complicated than Sirius knows.

My note:  Tons of diversity within this cast with no white main characters and many different sexualities mentioned. Also sex positive with great commentary about homelessness, HIV, sex work, classism, and more. 

Live Like We’re Renegates - Remus/Sirius and background Lily/James. 24,378 words. Rated E.

Exuberant, proud, genderfluid, cheerleader, self-described narcissist. All things to describe Sirius Black. It's a stark contrast from the self-imposed loner, Journalist, and Gender Studies major Remus Lupin who is thrown into Sirius' world after accepting a project for a class. When the two worlds collide, both lives are changed for the better.

Sirius leant forward a bit, meeting Remus’ eyes. “Are you asking if I go for cute boys in beanies and jumpers, Remus Lupin?”

Remus’ face went hot. “Er. No. I mean…er…”

Sirius laughed. “Find your chill, love. I’m joking.” He winked at Remus and sat back again.

My note: Sirius is genderfluid and uses He/Him pronouns. Remus is deaf with a cochlear implant.

Lay Your Hands on Me -Features Remus/Sirius and background Lily/James. 8947 words. Rated E.

In which Sirius really likes trying out new hairstyles over the years and Remus really can't concentrate on much else, to be honest. This fic features reckless and impulsive teenage boys, classic Marauders-style banter, a low-key overdramatic Remus, and falling in love with close friends.

Or, alternatively: Three times Remus really wanted to touch Sirius' hair and one time he actually did.

Remus Lupin

TransFigured (and continued series) - Features Remus/Sirius. 57,170. Rated E.

“We thought you might be a werewolf," said Sirius. "What?" Remus almost laughed at the absurdity. "Last year. James and I thought — but the dates didn’t quite match up. With the full moons, I mean." "Well, I’m not." "I know. All I meant was, we thought you might be, and we still wanted to be friends. Whatever you’re not telling us — how much worse can it be?"

All Hail the Outlaws - Features Remus/Sirius and background Lily/James, Peter/Dorcas. 29,330 words. Rated E.

One of Remus Lupin's three jobs happens to be working maintenance for their flat building. He gets to meet all sorts, most of whom he would rather have nothing to do with. Until James Potter and Sirius Black move in across the hall. Engineering students and self-proclaimed geniuses, the pair set out to make their neighbours new best friends, and everyone's life is turned upside down, but in the best way possible.

My note: Sirius is blind, and the fic spends a lot of focus on each man’s experiences with bigotry and learning how to best be there for each other.

Succession of Halos - Features Remus/Sirius and background Lily/James. 7340 words. Rated E

When Remus gets talked into seeing his favourite author--Astronomy Professor S. Black--hold a stargazing lecture, he anticipates a stodgy old man in tweed. He does not expect the ripped jeans and rolling-stones t-shirt wearing, motor-bike riding Sirius Black with his wicked smile and passion for the stars. Remus is sure there's no chance between them, but little does he know, Sirius has a passion for many things in life, one of which being Remus Lupin.

My note: I have this listed under Remus, but Sirius is also genderfluid. Baby Harry is featured in the story, and is blind.

Child Characters

‘Twas Brillig - Features Harry/Draco with failed Harry/Ginny. 73,998 words. Rated E.

Harry reads a chapter of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland to his children before bed every night and through the story, he and his middle child find an ally in each other as they, along with Alice, discover a world that just doesn't seem to make sense when taken at face value. The more aware Harry becomes - embracing his child's reality - the more motivated he is to build a wizarding world that is fully inclusive, and by processing these life lessons finds he's able to connect with another person in ways that have always eluded him.

My Note: There are two trans characters in this story, one being Al (who begins using Alice with Al still as a nickname) and another being an adult I’ll leave unnamed because it comes up organically. This story is as much if not more so about Harry’s sexuality, and there is also strong representation of drag and crossdressing from a cis male character.

Miscellaneous

When The Letter Comes by Sara Fox - A published short story that seems definitely inspired by Harry Potter but also by other fantasy works.

Henry believes that someday, something awesome will happen–everything will turn out all right and all her problems will disappear once her letter arrives, welcoming her to magic school. So even though puberty is already here with changes (like her voice deepening and hair growing in places she does not want), she also knows it’s only a matter of time. After all, hundreds of books have said so.

But when the letter finally comes on Henry’s thirteenth birthday, it is not addressed to her, but to her sister.

When The Letter Comes is a short story with a YA trans protagonist that embraces the experience of those left behind, who must find their own way in the world–magic or not.

HOZIER’S  “WASTELAND, BABY!” SENTENCE STARTERS

feel free to change pronouns, etc!

NINA CRIED POWER

‘ it’s not the waking, it’s the rising. ’ ‘ it is the grounding of a foot uncompromising. ’ ‘ it’s not forgoing of the lie, it’s not the opening of eyes. ’ ‘ it’s not the shade; we should be past it. it’s the light, and it’s the obstacle that casts it. ’ ‘ it’s the heat that drives the light. ’ ‘ it’s the heaven of a human spirit ringing. ’ ‘ and i could cry power. ’   ‘ it’s not the wall, but what’s behind it. ’ ‘ power has been cried by those stronger than me, straight into the face that tells you to rattle your chains if you love being free. ’

ALMOST (SWEET MUSIC)

‘ i came in from the outside, burned out from a joyride. ’ ‘ the same kind of music haunts her bedroom. ’ ‘ i’m almost me again. ’ ‘ i’m almost me again. she’s almost you. ’ ‘ i wouldn’t know where to start. ’ ‘ be still my foolish heart. ’ ‘ don’t ruin this on me. ’ ‘ let’s get lost and let the good times roll. ’ ‘ let’s smoke rings from this paper doll. ’ ‘ i got some color back. ’ ‘ i laugh like me again, she laughs like you. ’ ‘ the very thought of you, and i am blue. ’ ‘ i get along without you very well some other nights. ’

MOVEMENT

‘ i still watch you when you’re grooving. ’ ‘  you’re moving without moving. ’ ‘ when you move, i’m moved. ’ ‘ you are a call to motion. ’ ‘ when you move, i’m put to mind of all that i wanna be. ’ ‘ i could never define all that you are to me. ’ ‘ move me, baby. ’ ‘ you do it naturally. ’ ‘ honey, you’re atlas in his sleeping. ’ ‘ i recall something that’s gone from me. ’ ‘ when you move, i’m put in awe of something so flawed and free. ’

NO PLAN

‘ what a waste to say the heart could feel apart, or feel complete. ’ ‘ why would you make out of words a cage for your own bird, when it sings so sweet the screaming, heaving fuckery of the world? ’ ‘ why would you offer a name to the same old tired pain? ’ ‘ all things come from nothing. ’ ‘ my heart is thrilled by the still of your hand. ’ ‘ i know now that you understand. ’ ‘ there’s no plan. ’ ‘ there’s no race to be run. ’ ‘ the harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun. ’ ‘ there’s no kingdom to come. ’ ‘ i’ll be your man if you got love to get done. ’ ‘ sit in and watch the sunlight fade. ’ ‘ it’s getting late. ’ ‘ there’s no hand on the rein. ’ ‘ as mack explained, there will be darkness again. ’ ‘ let the awful song be heard. ’ ‘ i know your beat, baby. ’ ‘ your secret is safe with me. ’ ‘ if secrets were like seeds, keep my body from the fire, hire a gardener for my grave. ’ ‘ if secrets were like seeds, when i’m lying under marble, marvel at flowers you’ll have made. ’

NOBODY

‘ it’s gin o’clock. ’ ‘ i think about you everywhere i go. ’ ‘ i’ve done everything and i’ve been everywhere. ’ ‘ i’ve been fed gold by sweet fools. ’ ‘ i’ve had no love like your love from nobody. ’ ‘ i’d be appalled if i saw you ever try to be a saint. ’ ‘ i wouldn’t fall for someone i thought couldn’t misbehave. ’ ‘ i once warmed my hands over a burning maserati. ’ ‘ why should we deny the truth? ’ ‘ we could have less to worry about  —  i won’t lie to you. ’

TO NOISE MAKING (SING)

‘ remember when you’d sing just for the fuck of it? ’ ‘ the look of it was as sweet as the sound. ’ ‘ i couldn’t name that feeling carried in that voice  —  was it that, or just the act of making noise that brought you joy? ’ ‘ you don’t have to sing it right, but who could call you wrong? ’ ‘ put your emptiness to melody, your awful heart to song. ’ ‘ you don’t have to sing it right. ’ ‘ you don’t have to sing it right, but sing it strong. ’ ‘ at best, you’ll find a little remedy. ’ ‘ at worst, the world will sing along. ’ ‘ we’d scuff up our shoes. ’ ‘ you didn’t always sing it right. ’ ‘ who could ask you to be unbroken or be brave again? ’ ‘ be unbroken. ’ ‘ be brave again. ’ ‘ who could ask you to be sound or to feel saved again? ’ ‘ stick around until you hear that music play again. ’ ‘ so honey, sing. ’ ‘ sing. ’ ‘ remember when you’d sing just for the love of it? and any joy it would bring? ’

AS IT WAS 

‘ there is a roadway, muddy and foxgloved, whenever i’d have life enough, my heart is screaming of. ’ ‘ and in a few days, i would be there, love. ’ ‘ whatever here that’s left of me is yours. ’ ‘ the highs hit the heights of my baby, and its hold had the fight of my baby. ’ ‘ the lights were as bright as my baby, ’ ‘ your love was unmoved. ’   ‘ tell me if, somehow, some of it remains, how long you would wait for me. ’ ‘ make your good love known to me. ’ ‘ tell me about your day. ’ ‘ and the nights were as dark as my baby, and half as beautiful too. ’

SHRIKE

‘ i couldn’t utter my love when it counted. ’ ‘ i couldn’t utter my love when it counted, but i’m singing like a bird about it now. ’ ‘ i’m singing like a bird about it now. ’ ‘ i couldn’t whisper when you needed it shouted. ’ ‘ words hung above, but never would form  —  like a cry at the final breath that is drawn. ’ ‘ remember me. ’ ‘ remember me, love. ’ ‘ remember me, love, when i’m reborn as a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn. ’ ‘ i’d no idea on what ground i was founded. ’ ‘ all of that goodness is going with you now. ’ ‘ then, when i met you, my virtues uncounted  —  all of my goodness is going with you now. ’ ‘ all of my goodness is going with you now. ’ ‘ dragging along, following your form, hung like the pelt of some prey you had won. ’ ‘ i’m hung like the pelt of some prey you had one. ’ ‘ remember me when i’m reborn as a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn. ’ ‘ i fled to the city with so much discounted. ’ ‘ i fled to the city with so much discounted, but i’m flying like a bird to you now. ’ ‘ i’m flying like a bird to you now. ’ ‘ i’m flying like a bird to you now, back to the hedgerows where bodies are mounted. ’ ‘ i was housed by your warmth. ’ ‘ i was thus transformed by your grounded and giving and darkening scorn. ’

TALK

‘ i’d be the voice that urged orpheus when her body was found. i’d be the choiceless hope in grief that drove him underground. ’ ‘ i’d be the dreadful need in the devotee. ’ ‘ i’d be the immediate forgiveness in eurydice. ’ ‘ imagine being loved by me. ’ ‘ i won’t deny  —  i’ve got in my mind now all the things i would do. ’ ‘ i try to talk refined for fear that you find out how i’m imagining you. ’ ‘ i’d be the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love. ’ ‘ i’d be the sweet feeling of release. ’

BE

‘ be as you’ve always been. ’ ‘ lover, be good to me. ’ ‘ be like the love that discovered the sin, that freed the first man and will do so again. ’ ‘ be that hopeful feeling when eden was lost. ’ ‘ it’s been deaf to our laughter since the master was crossed. ’ ‘ which side of the wall really suffers that cost? ’ ‘ be love in its disrepute. ’ ‘ love, in its disrepute, scorches the hillside and salts every root. ’ ‘ watch the slowing and starving of troops. ’ ‘ be like the rose that you hold in your hand, that will grow bold in a barren and desolate land. ’ ‘ love, won’t you be as you’ve always been? ’

DINNER & DIATRIBES

‘ this club here is stuck up. ’ ‘ i knew well from our first hookup the look of mischief in your eyes. ’ ‘ your friends are a fate that befell me. ’ ‘ hell is the talking type. ’ ‘ i’d suffer hell if you’d tell me what you’d do to me tonight. ’ ‘ that’s the kind of love i’ve been dreaming of. ’ ‘ honey, i laugh when it sinks in. ’ ‘ the evening is slowing. ’ ‘ the end is in sight. ’ ‘ it’s easier knowing what you’d do to me tonight. ’ ‘ let there be hotel complaints and grievances raised. ’ ‘ let there be damage ensued and tabloid news. ’

WOULD THAT I 

‘ i saw your hair like the branch of a tree  — a willow dancing on air before covering me. ’ ‘ that love in withdrawal was the weeping of me. ’ ‘ the sound of the saw must be known by the tree. ’ ‘ i fretted fire, but that was long ago. ’ ‘ i blink in sight of your blinding light. ’ ‘ it’s not tonight where you hold me tight. ’ ‘ you’re good to me. ’ ‘ with the roar of the fire, my heart rose to its feet. ’ ‘ like the ashes of ash, i saw rise in the heat. ’ ‘ i fell in love with the fire long ago. ’ ‘ with each love i cut loose, i was never the same. ’ ‘ i’m watching still-living roots be consumed by the flame. ’ ‘ i was fixed on your hand of gold laying waste to my loving long ago. ’ ‘ in awe, there i stood. ’ ‘ though i’ve handled the wood, i still worship the flame. ’ ‘ as long as the amber of ember glows, all the would that i’d loved is long ago. ’

SUNLIGHT 

‘ i would shun the light. ’ ‘ share in evening’s cool and quiet. ’ ‘ who would trade that hum of night for sunlight? ’ ‘ but whose heart would not take flight? ’ ‘ but whose heart would not take flight, betray the moon as acolyte, on first and fierce affirming sight of sunlight? ’ ‘ i’d been lost to you. ’ ‘ i flew like a moth to you. ’ ‘ oh, your love is sunlight. ’ ‘ all the tales the same, told before and told again. ’ ‘ a soul that’s born in cold and rain knows sunlight. ’ ‘ oh, my sunlight. ’ ‘ all that was shown to me, sunlight, was something foreknown to me. ’ ‘ all these colors fade for you only. ’ ‘ hold me. ’ ‘ carry me slowly. ’ ‘ each day, you’d rise with me. ’ ‘ know that i would gladly be the icarus to your certainty. ’ ‘ strap the wing to me. death trap-clad, happily, with wax melted, i’d meet the sea. ’

WASTELAND, BABY!

‘ all the fear and the fire of the end of the world happens each time a boy falls in love with a girl. happens great, happens sweet. ’ ‘ happily, i’m unfazed here, too. ’ ‘ wasteland baby, i’m in love with you. ’ ‘ baby, i’m in love with you. ’ ‘ all the things yet to come are the things that have passed: like the holding of hands, like the breaking of glass. ’ ‘ i’m in love with you. ’ ‘ and i love too that love soon might end. ’ ‘ be still, my indelible friend. you are unbreaking. ’ ‘ you are unbreaking, though quaking. ’ ‘ that day that we watch the death of the sun; the cloud and the cold and those jeans you have on. ’ ‘ you gaze unafraid as they sob from the city ruins. ’ ‘ the stench of the sea and the absence of green are the death of all things that are seen and unseen. ’ ‘ not an end, but the start of all things that are left to do. ’ ‘ that’s it. ’

Maryanne.

You’re in my prayers every morning, she tells me on the sidewalk, casually slipping my 65 pound pitbull, Robin, a treat from her fanny pack. She tells me this every time we cross paths, which, if I am lucky, is a weekly occurrence. Maryanne should really have an ‘outfit of the day’ column in the New York Times. She is easily spotted a block away, not only by my dog’s nose, but in her perfectly coordinated clothing choices; bright red rain boots, wide-brimmed red hat, cherry earrings, and the color red lipstick that reminds me of my grandmother, who resembled Marilyn Monroe, smelled like old perfume, and never left the house without it.

Sometimes I wish I could shrink Maryanne to barbie-doll size and carry her around in my pocket. Maryanne never shames Robin for her plump figure. Her very spirit elicits joy- on evening walks in the neighborhood, when my mind jumps fifty years into the future, I think, when I grow older, I’d like to be like Maryanne.

Tell me about your outfits, I say one day, on the corner of Pinehurst and 184th. She recounts her days as a nurse in World War II, how although she loved her work, she was required to wear white every day. Now, I can wear whatever I want! She looks up at me with watery blue eyes lined in brown pencil, tiny, delicate hands roped in purple vein and beautiful. I have the overwhelming desire to scoop her into a hug.

Maryanne is a widow. She saves animals around the neighborhood and always carries treats in her purse. We commiserate about the state of the world, how humans don’t deserve dogs, and sometimes, my dating life. I often imagine her as the girl she used to be, fixed up in nursing whites, young and in love. And yet, how grateful I am to experience her in this phase of her life, just barely five feet tall, aged only by a number but towering in presence and charm.

I would like to think the universe created Maryanne as a reminder of the magic that exists here on earth. There is something about her aura- otherworldly, fairy-esque, that makes my breath catch in my throat each time I see her. As if the trees she passes suddenly begin to sway. And the light the sky emits at once becomes softer.

24 Hour Deli.

I don’t care about cohesion. Aesthetic is a non-issue. I want my salads big and overflowing, a picasso of flavor, texture, and crunch. Some (most) days I request a side of blue cheese dressing to use as dip for the potato chips I will inevitably buy no matter how many times I tell myself you don’t need them. I leave the store, plastic bag in hand, excitement stirring at the enjoyment to come- quiet room, a cornucopia of television options, peace to consume my masterpiece as if I am animal who has been deprived of food for months.

The 24 Hour Deli— I don’t know why I call it that- it’s actually called the Gourmet Deli, is approximately a one-minute walk from my apartment. Its marquee, bright, blocky and red, thrives with activity at all hours of the day. The 24 Hour Deli recently got a makeover. It now has more than five fancy gelato flavors and the miniature containers of cabot sour cream I like to destroy in one sitting. On the outside of the door, there is a clear no pets allowed sign. Yet magically, each time I walk into the deli with Robin, who suffers from separation anxiety, the cashier says nothing. Robin is no more than a sweet-demeanored curvy burrito, but being a pitbull, people tend to act strange at the sight of her.

The staff at the deli understand us. They let Robin sniff the endless line of Little Debbie snack cakes, and even sometimes offer their hand for a lick. Robin is overjoyed anytime she is allowed to enter an establishment, and this small gesture does not go unnoticed. The man who makes my salads sees me. He doesn’t laugh when he tosses in the eighteenth vegetable choice, rather tilts his head to one side and softly, almost lovingly, asks what else miss? I am always in awe watching him mix the ingredients together and making the whole ordeal fit perfectly under the flat plastic lid.

The 24 Hour Deli, like most local New York City bodegas, is more than just a deli. It is a meeting spot for conversation, gossip and respite from the street. It contains everything from beef jerky to pregnancy tests, the latter which I have sheepishly purchased among familiar faces that gave me kind smiles and a paper bag to carry it out in. It is run by a family whose hospitality has held me for the seven years I’ve lived in this gem of a neighborhood, quirky but inviting, not without its rough history and continued adoration of pungent marijuana and backwoods blunt wrappers, the latter which I have had my fair share of romantic neighborhood partners purchase before heading to my room on balmy summer evenings, knowing they’d be promised candlelight and a soft body.

Perhaps I will go to the deli soon to buy fresh flowers for my bathroom. They are not the best quality, but I like the way they look perched in my windowsill, trying mightily to stay alive.

The ladies at the Nail salon.

I have a paper card in my wallet that keeps track of the number of times I get my nails done. It is a rewards card, promising half off after I have completed six sessions. Over the last seven years, I am probably on my tenth card. The ladies at Diamond Nails know me by name. They compliment my hair, smile when they see me walking Robin, and massage my shoulders generously. They are motherly and kind, always assuring me of my nail polish color choice and warmly welcoming me into their establishment for however long I choose to stay.

I often get my nails done on days I feel sad. The budding of a new relationship gone awry, boredom at the state of things, the staggering injustice of healthcare in this country. Maybe I will get a manicure! Suddenly I am walking out the door, a quick left, the smell of acetone.

The ladies are drinking coffee. I smell takeout in the back room. I grab a handful of People magazines, propping myself in the oversized cushy chair and its complementary foot basin that will transform my toes into appealing seashells. Two women walk in- one is disabled and blind; her aid walks beside her. I take in this odd pair and am immediately brought back to my childhood, accompanying my dad to the house for the deaf he briefly worked at. My memories are mini movie reels- Sheri, a redhead, walking on the treadmill, calling my father Toli instead of Tony, over and over. My six-year old eyes, wide and observant, taught not to judge but understand. The blind woman chooses hot pink for her nails. The ladies tell her it is a lovely choice.

One day, while waiting for my nails to dry, my scalp tingles as hands weave in and out of my hair loops. I think perhaps I am receiving an extended shoulder massage, and close my eyes. The fingers move swiftly, repeating patterns and directions. I realize my hair is being braided, unsure as to why or if I should interject. I decide to let it happen. When she is finished, she proudly holds up a mirror so I can see the back. Beautiful! I reply. I laugh on my way out the door- amused that I came in for a manicure and left with a french braid. One month later, it happens again. I accept that it’s a package deal, and look forward to the next time.

I don’t know the lives of the ladies beyond the four walls of the salon, but I would like to imagine that they are filled with loving families, and warm homes that nurture them after a long day’s work. Their work is so giving, and far underappreciated. Having one’s nails done, similarly to getting a haircut or sitting at a bar nursing a cocktail, is never just about the monetary exchange. It is therapy. And the ladies, with their strong hands and tender demeanors, are my therapists.

Do yourself a favor and go to Diamond Nails. Make sure to tip generously.

An Ode to Morning Coffee.

If I collected all of the money I spend each day on neighborhood coffee, I’d have a jar amassing thousands of dollars by now. This is both depressing and impressive; on one hand, I’ve procured an awfully expensive habit. On the other, I honor my commitment to ritual. It all began when I adopted Robin. Robin wakes up each morning around eight am. It takes me approximately thirty minutes to make the bed, shower, get dressed, throw together some hair and makeup, and toss my keys in the mini purse I carry, along with plenty of poop bags and of course, coffee money.

Hudson Heights is lucky to have a rich coffee culture. There are multiple cups of coffee on each street corner, from the rudimentary but delicious cafe Bustelo at the bodega (low on ambiance, strong on flavor) to the cozy hole-in-the-wall, beloved Cafe Bunni. Nestled on the corner of 187 and Pinehurst, Bunni is a locally owned Ethiopian dream, serving everything from feta scones to frothy oat milk lattes. Tactically, it is the place I choose most often, mostly because Robin can rest her loins on the bench outside while watching my every move once I am in line to order.

Aesthetically pleasing bags of coffee beans line the cafe walls. Baked goods are displayed at the register, flirting with their puffed edges and swollen buttery insides. A long, communal wooden table is the main source of seating in this intimate space, as well as a window-seat bench. Robin, my oversized croissant, is perfectly visible on the other side of the glass. The whites of her eyes loom above seated coffee drinkers.

Cafe Bunni is approximately two hundred steps from the apartment of the first guy I dated when I moved to this neighborhood. He lives with his mother and drives an obnoxiously yellow pick-up truck. He asked me out while I was carrying laundry home. I should have known better. I was twenty-five and easily wooed by street flattery. He was twenty-one and desperate for attention. Bunni is a wonderful place to duck into when you spot ex boyfriends you’d rather not interact with. It is large enough to blend you into other bodies, and small enough that the whole event is not a big to-do. On many a summer morning, my eyes still waking to the day’s light, I have sought out anonymity in a paper coffee cup.

Perhaps my favorite fixture of Bunni is the way it inhabits the neighborhood. Between these walls, customers feel the understated, off-beat energy of the Hudson Heights residents. It is a tiny artist’s colony smack in the middle of a spa and a chinese restaurant. A place for those of us with less traditional jobs to post up, writing our dreams down in journals, people watching to feel less alone. We can sit there for hours, seen and supported by the comings and goings of both the patrons who fill the space and the baristas who are its undercurrent.

It’s difficult for me to pass Bunni without purchasing something. Sometimes I buy iced coffee just to have a cup in my hand while walking down the sidewalk. Other days, I never make it in, choosing to sit on the bench outside while watching the bustle of foot traffic go by. I once met a lady there who collects and sells crystals. She seemed a bit lonely, and happy to talk to anyone who’d listen. I complimented her necklace. We shared stories of moving to this neighborhood, coffees in hand, until Robin licked my ankle, alerting me it was time to go home.

Fort Tryon Park.

Imagine a maze. Giant and sprawling with lush greenery, gothic stone arches and secret roundabouts. Large enough to get lost in, small enough to find your way out.

Things I have done in Fort Tryon Park:

Cry. Clean up poop. Sing. Pick grass from the lawn while staring at the Hudson River. Smell flowers. Unintentionally photobomb a photoshoot. Meditate. Light sage. Sunbathe. Witness a quinceanera. Smoke weed. Talk to strangers. Watch a man masturbate behind a tree. Breathe deeply. Drink coffee. Pet dogs. Think about my life. Sit. Wait. Walk.

When I describe Fort Tryon Park to, say, a downtown person, I feel suddenly blessed, as though I am the keeper of a privileged secret that only a part of this city knows. Fort Tryon doesn’t belong to me, but it feels like it does. It is where my neighborhood ends, and Narnia begins.

On a good day, the park is about a fifteen minute walk North from my apartment. Each time we visit, I coerce my dog into posing for pictures. In the Fall, our earth-toned scarves blend in with the foliage; blankets of copper leaves illuminate a walking path, boots deliciously crunching with each step. In the summer, walks last up to two hours, trudging slowly from humidity and necessary water breaks. The park is both home, and home away from home. It receives me however I choose to show up. Nothing makes me feel more like a local than giving a visitor directions to the park, or its love child, the Cloisters. A simple head nod or wave in the right direction sends them on their way. I have paid forward Hudson Height’s most prized possession. My good deed for the day is done.

Years back, during one of my first visits to the park, I met a beautiful young woman roaming the grass with her giant snow angel, Zoe, and miniature tan taco, Zeta. Zaza, the owner of the eccentric dog duo and I became fast friends. We continued to meet for iced coffee and park walks. We watched my dog kill a gopher, and cried with hands held firmly as we heard it take its last breath. Meeting this Z trio changed my life; in the coming years, I would no longer feel like a mere resident of the neighborhood, but a fixture, with beautiful, lifelong friendships and last minute dinner dates to Refried Beans for oversized burritos and chips and salsa.

I am convinced the juju that permeates Fort Tryon is emboldened by the people who inhabit it each day. Much like the park itself, we span an array of colors and history, stories that give us character and scars to prove that although our lives haven’t been easy, we show up each day to smell fresh air and tilt our heads back to the sun. Thank you, Fort Tryon, for being my heartbeat at the tip of Manhattan.

The Lookout on Chittenden.

You know in the movies, when the grieving family member goes into the hospital chapel to pray by themselves? The lookout on Chittenden Avenue is Hudson Heights’ very own outdoor church, where on any given day, individuals can be spotted looking out the river’s horizon, asking for guidance from whatever higher power they believe in.

At least that is what I do. Usually at sunset, and most always, with Robin. Picking her up requires a deep squat and a tight grip around the underbelly. However, once I have it, we perch like bobbing lily pads in the ocean, peering out at New Jersey, waiting for a gust of wind or the smell of someone’s fried chicken to waft toward us.

The lookout is the kind of friend who doesn’t require every day interaction, but will always show up when you need them. Tucked away beneath a small hill, its presence is found rather than known, adding to its charm. Sometimes I imagine the narrative of the people who perch there alongside me- who is breaking up with who, who misses their mother, who also talks to the sky. Do they seek refuge here the way I do? At times not knowing what is being sought out but pulled to arrive anyway?

Or the residential voyeurs of the block, who put up fliers warning against drugs and littering, Chittenden’s silent army. My heart goes out to them. They know the real estate they live upon is neighborhood currency; they are only trying to preserve it.

I recall a visit to the lookout after a particularly painful heartbreak. The setting sun was so beautiful, it hurt. I couldn’t fathom how the world continued on as mine closed in on me. I knew in that moment that I would be ok, as I have always known, deep in my bones, that my small world spins within something much greater than me. It’s the staggering irony of life, that beauty can be found anywhere, even in the midst of agonizing pain. Nature has always known better than us. Embrace change, she whispers, and you will experience awe each day. It’s hard to walk yourself home with a broken heart. But then the sun sets. The skyline sparkles beneath a black sky. I smell the changing of seasons as the breeze hits the trees, releasing a single leaf on the ground beneath me.

Charles.

Charles has short white hair, olive skin, and piercing blue eyes. He is long-limbed and svelte, appearing almost fragile. Charles wears neutral colors and has long, elegant hands. He likes to eat dinner solo at the neighborhood restaurants, and always says hello to my dog.

I wonder often about Charles’s backstory. I have never asked, though I am confident if I did, he would share freely. There is a sadness in his demeanor that makes me want to reach my hands inside his chest and untwist the hurt. It is always the sad people who are kind, I’ve noticed. I have no idea if Charles is sad or not. Maybe melancholy is a better word. Or maybe it’s the way the deep lines around his eyes make him look like an etched painting, and the tiny blue half moons beneath them reflect longing, or wisdom.

I must have passed Charles at least ten times on the street before asking him his name. Now, I can’t stop using it. Hi Charles, I smile, walking down the giant stairs on 181st. He is on a bench with coffee, reading a newspaper. How’s it going, Charles? At 181 Cabrini, a spread of charcuterie and cheeses half eaten at his table. Robin sits down on his large feet. He pats her head. Oh, hi Charles! At the park, outside the laundromat, on my way to work.

I wonder how long he has lived here, what he does all day, if he has some large sum of money he lives on that pays for all his dinners out. I wonder if he is happy dining alone, savors it ritualistically, as I do my morning cup of coffee or the heady aroma of fresh cut flowers. Or if he longs for a partner, relying on the immersion of himself in the neighborhood as a way to feel more connected and less alone.

Of course, I could ask him. I think he would probably be flattered to know I’m thinking this much about the intricacies of his life. And yet. The mystique of not knowing somehow compels me. I have always imagined the inner lives of strangers; and though I am a truth seeker in nearly all aspects of my life, I am not sure I need to know the answers to the stories my brain creates. It’s like...foreplay. Or the titillating anticipation of an event nearly being better than the event itself. The hot sting of desire felt on the lips before the kiss. Must we spill over all our secrets? Or is the pleasure of them contained in the withholding?

The last time I saw Charles, he was sitting alongside a homeless man with pock-marked skin and gentle eyes. Another familiar face. They appeared to be friends. I smiled at the man, and said hello to Charles. Perhaps I will work up the courage someday to ask what brought him to this city. For now, I am grateful he is here, embedded into the scenery I call home.

Bennett Park.

Fun Fact- you’re standing on the highest natural point of elevation in New York City, I tell my soon-to-be boyfriend at the time. He is spending the weekend with me. It is our first time meeting each other in person. Ha.

I have probably spent more time in Bennett Park than any other place in Hudson Heights. When I first moved to the area, it was an all day stomping ground for the boys who perched on stoops and asked if I was from the heights. I’d walk Robin at midnight, letting her run laps in the grass while they rolled fresh blunts and skateboarded badly. I didn’t often take part, but I loved the camaraderie of these gatherings, how the park always felt like it belonged to someone, and in turn, that I belonged to it.

Bennett Park turns into a carnival on weekends; kids appear from every direction, dogs take refuge under shaded trees, the ice cream truck’s melody echoes in our brains- da da da da da da dum dum dum DUM dum dum. Orthodox Jewish women sit in clusters on the grass, dressed in long skirts and soft hats. I wonder if they know I am one of them, that despite my tattoos and nontraditional dress, I, too, can chant Hebrew prayers in my sleep, and recognize Saturday as their Sabbath. That I see a part of them in a part of me, though I will always wonder if they are happy, or have dreams bigger than motherhood, or spend moments in solitude wondering of a different life. The air smells of weed and cut grass. Children squeal on the swings. Someone plays hip hop out of a loud speaker while a parent bandaids a scraped knee. We coexist in our separate corners, together.

That boyfriend never visited my neighborhood again, though he did love the park and my attempt at impressing him with trivia. We made out on the grass under a moonlit sky, the boys of years past watching in the background, their silhouettes only vaguely familiar now. I was in love with the idea of him more than the individual I never truly had the chance to get to know, except through distance, and time zones, and continents. The agony of physical separate-ness gnawed at me; I fell asleep for an entire year existing on memories of a savored few nights together and future projections of what our life could be.

And so Bennett Park became my steadfast companion to get through each day. Every morning, with a cup of coffee and Robin at my feet, I walked aimlessly around its perimeter, noticing what was familiar- Bench. Tree. Water fountain. Rock. Lending Library. The grass where Robin likes to roll.

Ritualistic habits, I have learned, are a form of meditation. You can mend a broken heart by entering the same place each day while watching your perception of it slowly change. One day, almost magically, the flowers appear more potent, the sun, brighter, and your breath, which has been lodged somewhere between grief and hope, escapes into a singular, joyous exhale.

Elastic Heart - Part 7/10 (Branjie) - Mia Ugly

A/N: I told you I was going to post the rest quickly before the show changed it up too much, so here we are. Thanks again to this amazing group, with its brilliant mods and incomparable writers.  And as an aside: I may have some feelings about Dr. Ganache, but she is NOT a villain here.  She is a problematic and protective friend.  No tea. No shade.

Brock drives to Orlando. 

He stops at West Palm Beach, digs his toes into the white sand and then dips them in the ocean.   The beach is crowded with tourists (Brock knows that he’s one of them) and he wishes briefly for a wide brimmed hat. He leaves before he can burn too badly, though he takes a couple selfies at the shoreline.  Give his manager something to work with at least.

He drives slow along the coast.  Around noon he stops at a fresh fruit stand and buys starfruit (for some reason, even though he’s never tasted it, it just seems like the thing to do.) He buys some peaches and a bag of pecans too because the lady at the stand is sweet and nosy and reminds him of his grandmother. Later on, when he finds a pretty place to pull over, he sits on the hood of the rental car and eats the peach, skin and all. It tastes like summer, tastes like being young. Brock took family trips through the Okanagan as a child, can remember the fresh fruit that fell apart in your hands, turned to syrup on your tongue.

In Orlando, he finds a cheap hotel and he naps for a few hours (sleep is precious and rare, a religious icon) before he showers. Dresses in the butchest, most invisible clothing he brought with him (he’s got a lot of options and that’s a bit distressing.) If Jose’s not there, Brock doesn’t really want to be recognized, doesn’t want it to turn into a thing. And if Jose is there, well, he’s seen Brock in a lot worse.

Brock eats the pecans he bought (he needs to google ‘How to eat starfruit’ and decides it’s too much work for the situation) and the other peach.  He finds a bar nearby and drinks one drink (just one, he’s got to stay focused) slowly, and alone. No one looks at him.  No one recognizes him. The worn grey sweatshirt is apparently doing the fucking trick.

He takes an Uber to Vanjie’s club, because he doesn’t want to worry about driving. There’s a poster of her in the window, dressed in some sort of bejeweled body-suit, and it makes Brock smile. Build your brand, girl (the smile feels unfamiliar on his mouth.)

The bar is crowded.  Loud.  There’s a DJ playing and crowds of tanned men in tanktops grinding on the dance floor. It makes Brock feel older than he is, and he slinks through the knots of people to get to the bar, squeeze into the inch of available space and order a vodka soda.

He stirs the ice in his drink, and tries to come up with a plan.  Jose’s here. He’s here, or he will be here, and Brock can see him. Hear his voice. Just for tonight, and then he’ll leave it all behind him like exhaust fumes.

The drink disappears too quickly, and Brock orders another. He keeps his head down, tries to be inconspicuous. He must give off some kind of heartbroken vibe because no one has the time or energy for him tonight.

He’s glancing around anxiously - wondering when the show will start and whether Jose will make an appearance before then - when someone clears their throat loudly. Leaning up against the bar, only a few handsy drunk guys between them, is Silky fucking Ganache.

Great.

“Miss Brooke Lynn Hytes.” Silky’s in full face, sickening hair, and a purple-sequined mermaid gown. She comes toward Brock, pushing the people between them out of the way as if they were dandelion fluff. “Now what might you be doin’ here?”

Brock should be surprised to see her, but he isn’t. Silky and Jose seem connected at the hip lately, and that’s good. He’s glad Jose has someone he loves close by, someone so clearly protective of him. 

Brock air-kisses Silky on each cheek, unenthusiastically.

“Just in the neighbourhood.”

“What neighbourhood is that? Last I heard you were up in Canada, couldn’t cross the border.”

Brock rolls his eyes. “I had a show yesterday.  Thought I’d come say hi.”

“Ain’t you sweet. And lookin’ so fine too.” She gives his sweatshirt an understandably critical eye. “The good stuff ain’t started yet, honey, but that’s what it is. Suppose you’re lookin’ for Miss Vanjie.”

Brock doesn’t flinch.  He doesn’t.

“Don’t know if she’ll want to see your ass,” Silky continues. “She still tryin’ to get her head right after everything.”

“Yeah. Things got messed up.” Brock stirs at the ice in his drink, wanting to keep his hands busy.  “I messed them up.”

“You don’t got to tell me that.” The expression on her face leaves Brock with no question as to what Silky thinks of him, and that’s fine.  Or  - understandable anyway.

 “Is she backstage?”

“Nah, baby, she left already. Canceled her appearance, went off with some fine piece of ass. She probably off sucking his dick in a car somewhere.”

Brock almost drops his drink.  A part of him wishes he had; the sound of breaking glass could’ve drowned out all the other things that are breaking.

But then he hears a laugh across the crowded bar, a laugh that he would recognize anywhere - ninety years old and deaf and blind, he would still know Vanjie’s laugh by the way it raised goosebumps on his skin.

“Or did she?” Silky frowns. “Oops, my bad.”

Brock looks in the direction of the laugh, a group of people that have just emerged from the green room. For a moment he can’t see anyone clearly - and then Vanjie’s blonde bombshell wig catches the lights, and he can see her face. Clearly, for the first time in months. She’s smiling and has some kind of silvery lipstick on, and to cross the floor to get to her would probably take him thirty seconds.

But.

But she’s leaning into someone, a muscular dark-haired guy with tattoos winding up his arms. She’s smiling as she looks at him, as she moves closer, as her lips find the corner of his mouth. 

(He knew, of course. Yvie told him. He’d heard rumours online. He thought that forewarning would take some of the bite out of seeing it in person, but he was wrong. There are teeth at his throat, all of them filed into points.)

“You think she wants any of your sad-boy bullshit right now?” Silky snorts. “I dunno. Seems to be having herself a good time.”

Brock holds his breath. Plays out all the ways this could go. Vanjie hasn’t seen him yet, and her smile is wide and white-toothed. If he crosses the floor right now, he knows that smile will drop, that her eyes will go hard, that her back will stiffen.  He could go over there, cross the floor and have her within hands reach. He could touch her shoulder (Brock’s heart might live behind walls, but his body does not) and completely ruin her night.

But she looks beautiful. She looks happy.

“She ain’t even spotted your ass yet.  You ain’t got to cause no drama.” Silky looks between Brock and Vanjie, eyes narrowed. “Tell you what, why don’t you run along, Miss Brooke Lynn? She don’t even got to know you were here.”

Brock gives Silky a flat look.  The two of them aren’t friends, won’t ever be friends, but they have one thing desperately in common.  That one thing cuts through all the bullshit, right through to the bone.  

“How’s she doing?” Brock asks, and Silky shrugs.

“She fine as hell, what you want me to say? She getting on with it.  She got her girls looking out for her.”

“How are you doing?”

Silky laughs. “Just waitin’ around to collect my prize money.  Baby, you should see me in a crown.”

Silky might be convinced of her certain victory, but she’s as in the dark as everyone else. Brock didn’t know until he got to Drag Race that production films multiple endings for the series, that the top queens don’t find out who wins until the last episode airs. 

Of course, it could never be said that Silky lacks in confidence.

“Will you - tell her I was here? That I didn’t want to interrupt her.”

“Nah, bitch. You in her head too much already, and I ain’t your messenger.”

Across the bar, Vanjie laughs - loud and gravelly and gorgeous. Brock wishes he could capture that laugh like a jar full of fireflies and keep it. Visit it whenever he got tired, whenever he forgot that there were good things in the world, and once he had been part of one.

There’s maybe forty feet between Brock and Vanjie.  It feels like an ocean (but she looks happy. What more can he ask for?)

“Take care of yourself,” Brock says to Silky. “See you on tour.”

“How will I ever survive the wait?” Silky waves him away. “Yeah, go on home, Brooke. We good here.”

And it’s only because Brock can’t bear to see the smile fall from Vanjie’s face. It’s only because he didn’t let her know he was coming, and doesn’t want to surprise her and throw off her act. It’s only because she’s running her hands over another man’s shoulders with those dark, smoky eyes she gets sometimes - that’s the only reason Brock leaves. 

He isn’t afraid. 

He calls himself the worst sorts of names as he gets a ride back to his hotel. Then he raids the minibar and tells himself it’s all for the best.  

He got to see her. She looked beautiful (but she always looks beautiful) and happy. That’s all he can ask for.

Nina has texted him twice since that morning.

“Brock?”

And then: “BROCK???”

Brock wants to drink some more vodka and then blissfully pass out. 

Instead. 

He phones a friend.

* * *

So.  

There’s a music video challenge, and Brooke Lynn bombs it.  It’s not as bad as Snatch Game, but she’s nowhere close to the talent of A’Keria and Silky, and Yvie’s not as strong but she’s better than Brooke. Brooke’s gotten in her head again, hearing that voice on repeat telling her she’s not funny, she’s awkward, she’s letting people down (this is for the Top Five WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING -)

So.  She’s prepared to lip sync. It’s not like the last time, the time against Yvie.  Today she knows with one hundred percent certainty that it’s coming.

And she knows she’s going to be up against Vanjie. The great moment of television that Yvie predicted is finally here.  Give us all a fucking Emmy.

Vanjie is struggling with even the mini-challenges lately, and Brooke is trying to convince herself that it’s not her fault. They haven’t spoken privately since that night in Vanjie’s room (and that was a fucking mistake but Brooke still is having trouble regretting it. She wanted her.  She still wants her. And fuck, it wasn’t the right time but Brooke would get on her knees for Vanjie in the middle of the werkroom if the other queen asked.  Which she won’t, but. 

Brooke would do it.)

There’s defeat in Vanjie’s eyes now, like she’s waiting to get called out by the judges, like it’s inevitable that she’ll be the next one sent home. Even though she’s survived two lip syncs already, even though she’s changed up her silhouette so Michelle can’t keep reading her - Vanjie’s not having fun anymore. From the outside looking in at least (and Brooke is certainly on the outside now) it seems like she isn’t.

Did Brooke do that? Or was it just the show? As the production keeps going, Brooke feels her own spark dimming as well.  She wants to celebrate each elimination that she survives, but she’s also really fucking tired and - she’s in it until the end, of course, but she’s glad that the end is in sight.

So.

Top Five.

They leave the runway while the judges deliberate. Vanjie doesn’t say a word, just walks off on her own with her earbuds in. A’Keria gives Brooke an anxious look before she follows her.

Brooke gets a cocktail, drinks it too fast.

She knows tonight’s song by heart, has danced to it before. She waits until A’Keria comes back to the couch, whispers something in Silky’s ear before raising an eyebrow at Brooke.

“You better have a word with your girl,” A’Keria says.  “She ain’t right.”

She’s not my girl, Brooke wants to say, but she also wishes that it were true. She wishes Vanjie was hers, that they’d met somewhere normal and boring and didn’t have all this extra shit in between them.  It would have been different then. Brooke would have been different, not so in her head, not so reserved. They would have been able to touch and fuck and spend time alone like normal people.  

They might have made it.  Could have made it.

Brooke resists the urge to build a pillow fort when all she wants to do is bury herself, so deep she disappears. Instead, she gets off the couch and goes after Vanjie.

The impossible object of Brooke’s affections is sitting at the mirrors, eyes closed and earbuds in. She looks like a scene from a painting, a still from a classic black-and-white movie. Brooke puts a hand on her shoulder to get her attention (and they both pretend they don’t notice her flinch.) 

When Vanessa opens her eyes, they’ve got that dark, glassy look that Brooke recognizes. It’s the same look she had when Yvie suddenly turned on her in the backstage lounge, all those nights ago. It’s the look she had after the Snatch Game, when Ru told Brooke she was up for elimination. It’s pain and surprise, swirled together like ink.

“You doing okay?” Brooke asks.

Vanessa takes out one of her earbuds and nods, tightly. She doesn’t look at Brooke.

“And you’re ready?”

The other queen takes a deep breath before she answers. “I ain’t gonna let you off easy just cuz you’re pretty.”

Brooke laughs, startled, and the corner of Vanjie’s mouth curls.  It’s like they’re okay for a minute, like they’re back on the beach, that sunny afternoon when Brooke first realized that her heart was not her own anymore.  That it had somehow stretched itself into Vanjie’s hands, wound around her fingers.

For a minute, it’s like that. 

“I wish I’d met you earlier,” Brooke says because she has to, because the words are burning through her throat.  “At a club or something. Not here.” 

She won’t cry, she tells herself.  She can’t cry.

“Well.  What you gonna do?” Vanjie still has her eyes fixed on the mirror, fussing with her wig (her hands are shaking). “Gotta go out there and do what you do best, bitch. It’s what you came here for.”

“That was before-“

“Before what? Before you met me? Don’t expect me to believe that Miss Brooke Lynn.” Vanjie finally looks at her, a hint of her old self bleeding through the armour she’s put on. “You’re here for a crown. So go and get it.” She gives Brooke a stare that’s part challenge, part longing, and all heartache. “If you think you can.”

Brooke swallows around the tightness in her throat.  Then she nods (when what she really wants to do is take Vanjie’s hand and pull her out of her chair, kick down the door and get out of this studio. Fight off the P.A.s, find a cab, go to LAX, run the fuck away. Together. Leave this all behind and start over.)

“Kill it,” she says instead. “Show ‘em why they brought you back.” 

“You know I fucking will.” Vanjie puts her earbud back in, goes back to her own world. 

Brooke doesn’t dare touch her again, and walks away to a separate corner of the lounge. She realizes suddenly that the other girls are quiet.  Even Silky. There’s none of the shouting and laughing that usually fills the air backstage. When they talk, it’s almost in whispers. It feels more like a funeral than a reality show. 

Brooke puts her earbuds in, turns up the volume. She can taste her heart thumping in her throat. She told herself she wouldn’t get distracted. This thing with Vanjie wouldn’t become a problem.

And now the moment has come.  And it’s so much more than just a problem. 

In her ear Sia sings: “And another one bites the dust. Oh why can I not conquer love?”

Brooke loves this fucking song. She doesn’t need to practice; she knows exactly what she’s going to do.

Go out there on that stage and slay.  

Go out there and break her own heart.

(If she had met Vanjie in a club, she would have heard her before she saw her. 

She would have clocked that laugh immediately and thought up a million reasons to go talk to her. If she had met her at a club, Brooke would have bought her a drink and asked if she wanted to get out of there ten minutes later. She would have taken her to the beach, to a bookstore, to the park, to a thrift shop.  She would have wanted to hear her voice and ask her questions - how did you start doing drag? What’s your favourite song? What were your grandparents like? Who was the first person that broke your heart?

What keeps you up at night? Who are you when your paint is off and the lights go down and you’re alone at home and tired? Who do you think about? What were your pets named?  How do you feel about cats?

If she had met Vanjie in a club, they would have talked about Monique Heart in AllStars, and the  miracle of seeing Latrice live, and how Drag Race could be problematic AF but make a queen’s career. Change their life. How they’d give anything to get on it.

If she had met Vanjie anywhere else, Brooke would have still wanted her.)

It hits her like a punch, driving the wind from her lungs.  Vanessa had told her to figure out what she wanted. And at last - Brooke has. 

Just when everything’s about to fall apart, Brooke has.

“I’ve got thick skin and an elastic heart

but your blade it might be too sharp.”

“Five minutes,” a P.A. calls, and the other queens start to get their heels back on, finish the last sips of their cocktails.  

Yvie pats her on the shoulder as she walks by. “It’s you and me in the Top Two, girl. Deal with it.” 

Even Yvie’s encouragement comes off as a bit threatening, but the consistency is enough to make Brooke smile. 

This is it. 

She intercepts Vanessa before she goes back onstage. They stand inches apart, breathing in each other’s air. They do not touch.

(“Hi Papi.”)

(“Shoulda known you’d be a Pisces.”)

(“Y’had something on your face, Hytes.”)

(“I like the way you are.”)

“Hello, hello, hello Miss Brooke Lynn,” Vanessa says finally and Brooke swallows a laugh that might be a sob.

“Miss Vaaaanjie.”

“I’ma hold you to that Oliver Garden dinner,” Vanessa smiles wide but her eyes are shining. “You  made a promise, ho, you ain’t done with me.”

Brooke shakes her head ‘no’ (will she ever be done with Vanessa? She can’t imagine a world where that would be possible, where she could look at Vanjie and not fall utterly to pieces.)

Brooke holds out her hand. Vanjie looks at it a bit dubiously before she takes it. Their fingers lace as if they never were apart.

They’re still holding hands when they go back to the mainstage.

After it’s announced that they’re both up for elimination, Ross Matthews starts covertly wiping away tears. It’ll make for a great episode, Brooke thinks, and wishes that the voice in her head didn’t sound so bitter.

“Brooke Lynn Hytes.  Vanessa Vanjie Mateo.  The time has come for you to lip-synch for. Your. Life.”  

Brooke can feel Vanessa’s pulse fluttering like a bird against her fingertips. She’s terrified, Brooke realizes. 

Brooke is too.

(“You be careful girl.” A’Keria’s voice rings from somewhere in the background of her memories.

“You know what you’re doing?” Yvie is scowling at her on the beach, and Brooke swallows down  every instinct she has that’s screaming “NO.”)

“Good luck.  And don’t fuck it up.”

Brooke lets Vanjie’s hand slide from her grasp.  It feels like saying goodbye. 

And the music plays.

Bittersweet- Drarry Fanfic

This is a collab with Jess ( @shameless-bisexual )! She did the mood-boards and I did the writing. I had so much fun working with her and I've been working on this story since November and I love how it turned out so let me know what y'all think!

Enjoy!

~Vixen

~*@*~

“I took a chance, I took a shot

And you may think I’m bullet-proof, but I’m not. You took a swing, I took it hard.”

― Taylor Swift

~*@*~

5 years ago

Middle school- sixth grade, mid-year

Age 11

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!”

Draco looks up from where he was sprawled out on the ground at the boy who bumped into him as he was turning the corner. The rather small eleven-year-old held out a hand to help him up. Eyeing the hand in masked distrust- no one at the school even remotely knew Draco existed let alone had ever been kind to him- the blond timidly let the hand ease him up. He looked down to see messy raven locks and bulky round black glasses gazing back at him.

“No worries,” Draco said, slowly and quietly so he wouldn’t stutter like the social recluse he was. Upon looking closer, Draco blurted out,

“Are you new here?” The boy chuckled, raising a hand to ruffle his hair. As he did so, a portion of his bangs moved and Draco’s eyes were drawn to a small lightning bolt shaped scar right above his left eyebrow.   

“Yeah I am, I’m Harry, Harry Potter,” The boy, Harry, stuck out his hand. Draco shifted backward a bit in shock but shook the hand as he saw the dark eyebrows scrunch up a bit in confusion.

“I’m Draco.”

~*@*~

“Did I really want to stay on this road longer, knowing it was only going to end in devastation?”

― Becca Fitzpatrick, Crescendo

~*@*~

Draco’s father was a Politician, and not really well liked amongst those of which he saw as ‘lower class’, which was practically everyone. Draco always assumed that was the reason he was always picked last for everything, why no one ever sat next to him willingly, why he had no friends. But when Draco went to high school, he began to wonder if it was him.

It’s not like Draco was particularly mean or rude, on the contrary he was shy, quiet, brainy. He would classify himself as a dork, really. His nanny, Dobby, had always called him sweet and caring. They had been one of his primary guardians growing up. His father almost never home, traveling for ‘work’ and his mother always out socializing and doing God only knows what.

Draco remembers back when he used to try and make friends. He remembered one girl he met in his last year of primary school, a bushy-haired genius named Hermione. They had met in the library and were partners for an English project once. She had been the only person to come to his house, and he thought they had gotten along quite well. He liked her, she was smart and a wonderful person to listen to. But the weekend after the project, Draco went to sit with Hermione at lunch and she was surrounded by people, when he moved toward an open spot at the table, one of the students had scooted into the seat. He took the hint and when to sit at his usual spot at the peanut free table. Alone.

He had tried to find Hermione alone, just to talk. Just so he wouldn’t have to be alone anymore. But each time, she had someone, or was busy, or simply turned away.

And Draco got the hint.

When Harry shook his hand, he felt that little spark flare up once again. But he stomped it out immediately. Why would he stay, he’d probably never see Harry again. And it was for the best, after all.

Draco was unlovable.

~*@*~

“Hearts are breakable," Isabelle said. "And I think even when you heal, you're never what you were before".”

― Cassandra Clare, City of Fallen Angels

~*@*~

High School- Senior year- first week of school

-Age 17-

Harry had sat next to Draco. In chemistry class. He just walked in and placed his bag on the table where Draco sat. The table in the corner, away from the door and in the front row, it was the table near the professor's desk was, and none of the other students quite liked Professor Snape, but he was Draco’s favorite teacher.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Snape had acknowledged Draco at least twice (in the same week!) in the hallways out of class. It had nothing to do with the fact that Professor Snape was the only teacher that gave Draco more than a glance, or actually marked his papers with what mistakes he made like all the other kids so he could actually make his papers better instead of having to go home and teach it all to himself again.

It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that sitting at that table would make him look like he chose to have no one sitting next to him, and it definitely wasn’t that he longed for human companionship-

Nope, it was only because he liked Professor Snape’s sense of humor.

Draco hadn’t talked to Harry in years. Not since he was eleven and naive enough to walk the same path he had walked when he was nine.

Not since he had overheard Harry in that hallway-

“Hey,” Draco flinched and raised his head just a bit so that his hair covered his eyes. He cocked his head a bit to the side, almost as if he was a puppy. It was a tactic he used with adults to get him out of conversations he didn’t want to get into.

He was not depressed, thank you very much, Miss. Umbridge. How he loathed the woman his mother had once worriedly hired as his therapist. She was a toad who tried to steal Barbies’ wardrobe.

“It’s been a while, what’s been- How are you… ?” Harry asked, nervously. Draco stared at him, expression unreadable. This had to be a prank or something. A dare given to Harry by that Weasley or something. ‘Go and talk to Malfoy, see if the idiot is even alive. At this point, I bet he’s just a terrible figment of everyone’s imagination.’ Just because he never talks, doesn’t mean he doesn't know how to, or that he’s deaf and blind. It’s not like he’s unaware of what people think of him. How could he have been if that’s the only thing he knows anymore. The only thing he’s completely sure of after what happened between with his parents.

Draco looked back to see Harry still staring at him, blushing profoundly with his head down, and shoulders tense. Draco couldn’t see his eyes but knew he wouldn’t like to. How could he after he saw the pure hatred in them when Harry had last gazed his way.

When Harry had wanted to…

“Yeah, you’re right…”

That memory had been branded in his mind forever.  

Draco sighed and spoke for the first time since his parents had split and his mother had passed.

“Listen, you don’t have to sit or speak with me. You can go and tell all your friends that you did it. Just please leave,” Draco whispered, his voice soft like freshly fallen powdery snow. He had turned away from Potter- he opted to no longer call the boy by his first name, it hurt far too much- and opened his novel. He knew that the raven-haired boy got the hint. When Draco opened a book, he no longer engaged in what was going on around him. It was a sign to whoever was talking to him that the conversation was deemed over.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Harry sigh and pick up his bag. Harry walked off to another table but Draco saw it.

The small shake of Harry’s head to someone in the room.

Draco had been right.

He didn’t think there was anything left in himself to break a little more. Cut a little more, bleed a little more.

Why couldn’t he just be normal?

~*@*~

“Saying his name stabbed my heart, like someone had ripped through my carefully stitched up world and exposed the infected, pulsing red tissue that I thought was healing. ”

― Colleen Houck

~*@*~

When Draco was in his Freshman year, he had been, technically, an orphan. His mother had died the summer before, in a car crash. Unfortunately, Draco was in the very same car.

He still had nightmares about it.

Lucius and Narcissa had divorced when Draco was in middle school, when he was just 13. Lucius moved to the states and made it very clear he wanted nothing to do with the two former Malfoys.

Dobby had gone to college the very next year after the divorce. They were aspiring to be a fashion designer, and Draco was very proud that they had gotten into college. They two sent letters until Draco went to high school. Then the letters had stopped. Because he had been forgotten, again.

Seeing a pattern here?

The days turned to grey once more, just like the day that he had heard the words that unmasked his first friend.  The world turning like the sky would right before it was about to rain. Colours still there but dulled, nothing really popping out.  

When Draco was younger, he had believed he was cursed. He remembered a story he had written about a boy who was cursed to be forever alone. Only in that story, the boy and found his prince and lived a happily ever after. Draco knew he could never have one of those. Not in his life.

It’s funny, he remembered basing the prince off Har-

No, stop that.

He can’t be happy with other people. So he’ll have to not think about it, and endure. Just like he’s always done.

Because there was nothing anyone could do.

Not even Him.

~*@*~

“Everybody said, "Follow your heart". I did, it got broken”

― Mysterious Affair At Styles (Hercule Poirot, #1)

~*@*~

Sometimes, Draco mused, he missed Harry. He missed his long rambles about football, and how studies were boring. He missed the free periods in the library where they would get lost in the bookshelves, and Draco could talk with ease, with the comfort of books and his only friend at his side.

It all came to a head as the year ended.

Draco didn’t know what he would do when summer came. They hadn’t ever talked outside of school- mainly because Draco never saw Harry outside of school- so he opted to give him their house phone number. Maybe then they could talk, and plan to meet up.

When he waved goodbye to Harry, he missed the way Harry’s guardian - his godfather- had looked at Draco, but Draco remembered it later. When he would go over the memory in his mind over and over again as he cried himself to sleep the years following.

Draco had let his walls fall around Harry, and he had naively let the git worm his way into the blond’s fragile heart. He had hoped, wished, prayed that it would be worth it. That Harry did care, he tricked himself into thinking Harry was his friend.

It was all for naught.

Harry had never called. Draco never even got Harry's number -too excited with his own brilliant plan- to ask. But Harry hadn’t offered it either.

And the worst part?

Harry had promised.

Draco should have remembered that all promises had always been broken.

~*@*~

“Was it hard?" I ask.

Letting go?"

Not as hard as holding on to something that wasn't real.”

― Lisa Schroeder

~*@*~

Middle school- 7th Grade

Age 12

“-all know what he’s like! We all want him gone, and I know you do too!” Was that Ron Weasley? Draco stopped in his tracks. He had his arms around Hermione’s birthday present, he had made it himself. It was a jewelry box with little books painted on it. Inside was a gift card for Barnes & Noble and a small charm bracelet that was Percy Jackson themed. Hermione wasn’t having a birthday party, so he made her a present anyway, as he did for all of Harry’s friends.

When they came back from summer, Harry was surrounded by many friends.

Kids like Neville Longbottom, the Weasleys, Hermione, those Patil Twins and Lavender Brown. Zacharias Smith, and Anthony Goldstein. Cho Chang and Luna Lovegood, who he has shared a class with and wanted to be friends with but he never seemed to find her after classes, it’s not as though he doesn’t know how to take a hint.

They seemed to live near each other, and their parents were great friends as well. He had Harry’s late birthday present in hand-since they hadn’t met up over the break- and tapped his shoulder, giving it to him when they had a free period.

Harry had given him a small smile and introduced him to his friends.

“-we can’t just kick him out! That’s not nice, he hasn’t done anything wrong!” That was Harry, Draco realized, snapping back to reality.

“Yes, we can Harry! He’s a Malfoy, and he can’t be trusted. We all want him gone! He’s so annoying and clingy. We can all see how much you don’t like him hogging you, Harry. It’s ok if you don’t want him around. It doesn’t make you a bad person. You can say no.” Draco squeezes his eyes shut and leaned a bit closer. His breathing became labored, and he clutched his arms tighter around the box.

Please say no, please please say no, come on Harry please-

“Yeah, you’re right-”

Draco dropped the box with a bang and ran.

~*@*~

“Perhaps this is what the stories meant when they called somebody heartsick. Your heart and your stomach and your whole insides felt empty and hollow and aching.”

― Gabriel García Márquez

~*@*~

8th Grade- Graduation

Age 14

“Draco Malfoy- A honors, Principal's Award” There was a small round of clapping as Draco shyly stood up and accepted the certificate, posing for a brief picture. His eyes found those of his mother’s and he smiled brightly. The ones he only did around her.

As his eyes swept across the room, he landed on a mess of raven hair. Harry was scowling at the floor and Draco peered at him in curiosity and concern. When Harry lifted his gaze and Draco’s silver eyes searched the emerald ones. His heart stopped at what he saw in them.

Pure hatred.

Thank Hades and Poseidon that Draco was the last student. (Best for last they say)

~*@*~

“I don't think anyone can give you advice when you've got a broken heart.”

― Britney Spears

~*@*~

High school- 

Senior year-

2 days after the chemistry class

Harry Potter keeps on following him.

He’s been since the very beginning of the year.

At first, Draco didn’t know what to think. He really didn’t think much of it, so Harry was in the lunch line at the same time as him, or at the library every day that he was, big deal.

It was only once he thought over it after that chemistry class a couple of days ago, that he realized it really could not be a coincidence.

Harry was following him around, almost like a lost puppy that’s found a human with a biscuit in their pocket. Only Draco had no idea what the ‘biscuit’ Harry wanted was.

Never did Draco think that he was the ‘biscuit’ Harry wanted.

-.*.-

“So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.”

― E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly,

-.*.-

“Hey Draco,” Draco looked up from his book, already a bit peeved with this person for interrupting his reading. Never tickle a sleeping dragon, they say, or a reading one. Both will end in a way most would find unpleasant.

Eyebrows scrunched together, he tilts his head in confusion as he looks behind him to see if there was anyone she was talking to other than him. A girl stood in front of him, a soft smile on her brown skin with cool, jewel undertones. But what makes him remember her is the bushy dark brown curls that float around her as she stands in front of him. His mask falls back down in a blink.

Hermione Granger.

Oh no…

“C-Can I help you?” Draco whispers, playing it off as if he doesn’t recognize her. Why are all these people seeing him all of a sudden?

For years, Draco had been invisible, never acknowledged. Why is it that now; when he’s finally come to terms with his isolation; when he’s able to get used to crying himself to sleep at night, alone with only the sound of artificial rain from his speakers filling his silent apartment; when he’s finally used to fending for himself; when he’s finally accepted he’s never going to be whole, why is it now, that people are seeing him? People who he had tried to get the attention of; people he let in; people who he thought he could trust; people who he thought would let him hope-

People who then broke him; left him crying, another piece cracked, shattered, irreplaceable. They left him, and now they’re coming back?

Do they think he’s really that naive?

He does the ducking and hiding tactic again, watching as Hermione's hopeful eyes which were lit up only moments ago, dimed with something akin to sadness. But, he knows people can be brilliant actors.

Yes, he knows that’s hypocritical of him…

...shut up.

“I- um… W-What book are you reading?” She blurts out, and Draco barely manages to resist the urge to raise an eyebrow. He simply raises the book higher so she can read the front, effectively making the book cover his face as well.

Go away, please just leave me alone…

“Oh, that’s such an interesting topic! Do you know where I could find books on that in here?” Face still hidden behind his book, Draco rolls his eyes. Hermione was so bad at creating fake conversations, he would know.

Draco points to the call number on the spine of his book. It is a pretty familiar topic, one even the most unscholarly of students would know. It was just on Greek Gods, he’s always had a fascination for the ancient times. Probably because it was easier to get lost in a world that wasn’t his own.

Hermione slowly writes down the call number, after making a show of not having a paper or pen. It’s almost as if she wants to draw this out. How easy it would be to just reach out and grasp the chance. To just relieve her of her struggles, let her talk with him. It’s obvious that she wants to, the reason why is beyond him.

But he can’t, he can’t have his heart broken again. He can’t let himself hope anymore. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to put himself back together again.

Everyone he lets in leaves.

Pansy, his preschool friend, had moved. Blaise, the one exchange student that had come from Italy during 8th grade, had only been near him because he knew Italian -what else do you think Draco does with his time-. Once Blaise had learned enough English, he too left.

Hermione had left, Harry had left, his father, his mother, even Dobby.

All of them had left.

Sometimes he wonders if he should just leave too.

_~*~_

“Hearts can break. Yes, hearts can break. Sometimes I think it would be better if we died when they did, but we don't.”

― Stephen King, Hearts in Atlantis

_~*~_

It’s not that he’s suicidal, it’s more that he’s self aware. He doesn’t want to die, but it’s not as if he has a reason to be alive. He sometimes feels he lives in a state of non existence. Like he’s not living but still there. Not dead, but doomed to roam the Earth without being acknowledged.

He doesn’t fear Death, it seems more like a friend that he knows he will meet one day. But he doesn’t know what day, nor does he know when or how he feels about it. He’s come to terms with his fate.

His plan was to leave this town and go abroad, possibly to France? His mother had -used to- have connections there.

But why is everything changing all of a sudden?

_~*~_

“Sometimes life has a cruel sense of humor, giving you the thing you always wanted at the worst time possible.”

― Lisa Kleypas, Sugar Daddy

_~*~_

“-again?” A voice says. Draco stops still. Suddenly he’s taken back to 7th grade.

We all want him gone!

He’s once again faced with a choice. Just around the corner the voice sighs, Draco presses himself against the wall practically holding his breath.

He knows he should move. He should run away, to not be hurt like he had been before. To not eavesdrop as it’s just plain rude, and his mother was mostly likely wincing from above. He knows he shouldn’t stay where he is, back against the wall, knuckles clenched till they’re stark white as they grip the book he has trapped against his chest, but…

But he can’t help it, the masochist in him winning out. The small part of him that wants answers, the one who always asks why.

He stays, daring to catch every word, challenging destiny, and mocking fate.

What he hears rocks him to his very core.

And his little flame of hope that had been long extinguished lit up one again.

_~*~_

“Stab the body and it heals, but injure the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime.”

― Mineko Iwasaki

_~*~_

When Draco was three he had made a friend with a small little garden snake. She was very sweet and affectionate, for a snake. He found her tangled in his mother’s rose bush, a hawk circling above the area. He rescued her, and being as smart as she was, she didn’t attack him.

When his father found out, saying he was angry would be an understatement. He was positively livid. Draco had ran from the room with his friend wrapped around his wrist, rushing to leave her in the clutches of Mother Nature, lest she meet a terrible fate.

Upon releasing little Serena, Draco knew he would have to face punishment. It was not the first time his father had used his cane on him, but the silver digging into his own skin was worth the knowledge that his Serena would live for another day, at the very least.

The next day his father had came home with chocolates and apologies and Draco had embraced him and accepted his apologies. Of course Draco held that little silver memory close amidst all the dulled and rusted ones. That had been the last time his father had even gotten physical with him again, but aren’t mental scars just as worse?

Yet trust is like a mirror, even when they’ve apologized you can still see the cracks in that person’s reflection.

_~*~_

“The emotion that can break your heart is sometimes the very one that heals it...”

― Nicholas Sparks, At First Sight

_~*~_

“Pardon?”

Draco refused to believe the man in front of him, Gods, when had Harry grown up?

Draco refused to believe the words coming out of raven haired man in front of him. Refused to believe Harry had even wanted to talk with him, let alone believe the explanation that was given to him.

He was sitting on the floor of the gent’s bathroom, having a panic attack again. This day kept surprising him, first with opening his locker to see flowers -white roses,  his absolute favorite- in his lockers, along with a small package, sent him into a panic. This were all to similar to his father’s apologies. Why would someone send him this, why was this year not making any sense? He just wants to end High School so he can leave this area all together. So he can just leave and got study abroad like he had always planned to. There were no ties to him in his hometown after all.

But he got his answer in the form of a frantically apologizing Harry Potter.

“Please Draco, please believe me. I’m sorry, it was all a misunderstanding!”

“But y-you, and you said- Weasley- and me, and and-”

“None of it Draco! You didn’t hear everything, Ron was just being a jealous prick. I swear, I would never have left you! You were my first friend, my one link that made me want to stay here after moving from place to place for so so long. Please give me another chance. Please, please, please-” Harry’s bright eyes glistened with tears as he held Draco close to his chest, just as he had when he followed the blond into the restroom 15 minutes ago. Although it had felt like hours.

Harry whispering soft nothings into Draco’s ears trying to bring the silver eyed man down from his panic attack. Draco using the sound of Harry’s thumping heartbeat to calm himself down.

Now, they were talking, Draco with his back pressed against the wooden door and Harry kneeling in front of him, holding his hands and pleading with him.

And Draco was stunned, he was shocked and it seemed time froze. Someone wanted him? Someone out there wanted to talk with him? To do simple things like listen to him ramble about Greek Gods and fantasy stories. To do things like get coffee or tea with him at his favorite cafe. To do silly things he didn’t particularly enjoy but decided to participate in because his friend really enjoyed it.

There was someone?

“You mean...You do want to be friends with me? But why? I-I’m not-?” Draco cut off Harry’s rambling with a soft whisper. Draco looked up, fearing pity or disgust in those emerald eyes but all he saw were desperate tears.

Harry sobbed and crushed the smaller blond in his arms. Draco stiffed, not used to physical affection, or touch in general. When Harry pulled away, he looked the blond in the eyes, the silver filled with confusion and tiniest sliver of reluctant hope, while the green were filled with desperate determination.

“Draco, I will never let you go again. You’re stuck with me for the rest of your life, whether you like it or not. You’ll never be alone again.”

Draco stared back at Harry. Could it be? Could it be that he was wrong all along? Maybe he wasn’t doomed to live life alone, but he could only find out one way.

Draco let Harry pull him up, guiding him out to the hallway of the empty school. Draco looked up at the taller boy, meeting his eyes willingly.  

For the first time since his mother’s passing, Draco smiled.

The world exploded in colour.

~*(✿)*~

“We're staying together," he promised. "You're not getting away from me. Never again.”

― Rick Riordan, The Mark of Athena

~*(✿)*~

~~~~~~

HOPE YOU ENJOYED! Please Like and Leave a comment if you did! I wouldn’t mind a reblog too! :)

With all my Love

Vixen

The College Society Chapter 3 Part 2

Did I skip a week ? Yes. Was it on purpose ? No. Will it happen again ? Maybe.

Sorry :s

Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey Monday January 21

He tried his best to stay calm. Why would he be mad ? It wasn't something important at all. And he had his cock in Amber's pussy right now. He couldn't be mad. Not before he came. Screw it. I'm mad. Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey stood up, enraged.

"What are you doing ?" asked the cheerleader's captain. "We ain't finished yet. You promised me ten orgasm in one go, I got only nine."

"It was before you ruined everything." he replied. "Stupid bitch."

"Don't be vulgar. It makes me hornier."

This fuckin' little scumbag. She dares. He decided to ignore her. He put his briefs and his pants.

"C'mon Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey." she begged with a sweet, touching tone. "I'm sorry if it piss you off, but it's done now."

"You gave to this shitty Theophile your bmw and three tickets for the incoming big musical festival ! I mean, why the fuck ?"

She lowered her eyes. I don't like this. At all.

"Some people think you might be... out of touch with the prey. Look, we all know it had always been easy for you to hunt. And maybe, just maybe you got a bit overconfident and lost some skills."

The Dean's grandson hesitated. Should he strangle her or just beat the shit out of her ? He slowly put his shirt. This asshole, after all the things he did for her.

"There are bets among the hunters." she confessed, a bit scared by his attitude. "Most of us think Theo will win this. But hey, you're still the best in bed. Girls, boys, trans, you're our favorite when it comes to sex."

"You gambled against me." he realised. "That's why you helped Theo. And that's why you're distracting me here. You little dirty toad. I'm not a gigolo you can call when you want."

"To my opinion ? You should withdraw and just enjoy your already well developped sex life. Your pathetic strategy is working too slowly. Did you kiss him once already ? Theo will have him in bed wednesday night, whatever you try."

It was enough. All those stupids jerks thought he wasn't able to win the hunt ? Let's have some fun.

"Who's organizing these bets ?" he asked.

"Obviously Steve. Who else ?"

He left without a response.

When he arrived at the music club, it was running late but they were still playing some dumbshit music. Most of them were off-key, and it sounded horrible. Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey waited outside until Steve noticed him. The conductor decided to make a break, and came closer.

"You want something ?"

"Hell yeah. I'm here to make a bet."

"A what ?"

"Don't make yourself dumber than you already are porker. Listen carefully jackass. I'm betting 1000$ that Theophile will just fail like the contemptible shit he is, and I'll catch the prey. Do you understand ?"

Steve blinked, shocked. Stupid pitiful bonehead. You wanted to bet, we're betting.

"Okay..." he eventually whispered. "But I can't tell you who already gambled and..."

"Don't bother cretin. I know them by heart. Theo himself, you of course, Amber, Sam from the Beta Omicron, and the professor Linda Webers, all against me. Archie gambled for me. Am I right ?"

The dumbass's eyes spoke for him. All the greedier and most sutpid hunters, except Archie. The clevers didn't gambled yet. They're too cautious. He was glad to know Summer did nothing yet. The girl might be useful soon to get rid of those hyenas.

Damian Nicholas Smith Carrey then headed straight to his apartment. At the moment, Theo probably had already invited Liam for the festival. And my baboon of a boyfriend said yes, for sure. But what about the third ticket ? Not for Laura, it wouldn't make sense... It's for Nicolas. The fatty roommate. Oh man, this greedy Theo, he wants both of them. The blond lad looked at his phone. Zack had called him twice this evening. He would talk to him later. First, the business. He dialled Nancy number and waited.

"Geek to best dick in the world, what's the matter ?" she answered almost immediately.

She had her own way to communicate. I like it anyway. My cock is one of my favourite subject.

"I need a ticket for the festival of wednesday. I know the sales are off but can you find one ?"

"Of course sir. Send dick pick or butt pick and you'll be fulfilled."

He quickly and gladly sent both. He was still a bit hard from Amber's session, Nancy would like it.

"Nice." she appreciated. "I'm adding those to my collection asap. Damn, now my ceiling is almost covered like my walls. I have too many screen of your body dude."

I wonder what would happen if someone entered her room. It wasn't his problem anyway.

"Okay... I found someone selling his ticket for 250$." she announced after a moment. "Let me see if I can do better. By the way, it seems your ass is getting rounder again."

"Yeah, I overindulged in pastries lately. Long story."

It wasn't much, but Nancy was good to notice small detail.

"Oh, there we are. A moron who wants a revenge against his girlfriend and... whatever, we don't care about the story. Ticket is bought sir. You owe me 100$, but you know how I am, you can pay in kind."

"So nice of you milady. Send the ticket and let's have some fun."

Liam Wednesday January 23

His shrink Ms. Hang and him were on their third session. They hadn't talked much during the previous one. Mostly because he wasn't inclined to. He came only because he liked the couch. And I'll have to go soon, because Nick, Theo and me are going at the festival. He intented to protect his friend, because he knew the ogre was up to something bad.

"Tell me Liam." spoke eventually Ms. Hang. "What are your favorites hobbies ?"

Sleep. Going to the gym. Sleep again. Talk with the unicorns. He didn't answer. (Now that he thought about it, there was another thing he liked lately : make blowout with Dami's bakes). (His boyfriend, even if they never really formalized the thing, was a damn good baker, and cook in general). (They had only three more date after the movie, and each time, Liam ended up stuffed like a turkey).

"You know silent is an answer ?" asked Ms. Hang. "It help me to understand you. And there is a piece of advice I can give you."

"What ?"

"You should act more like your father."

Liam feigned to sleep. I didn't hear, nanana. It was the worst advice he ever heard.

"I don't mean to do the bad things he did." she insisted. "But you sure could use some of his confidence. He's a successful millionaire, known and respected. And you are the complete opposite, a shy, dreamy young adult who flee from his problems. You can learn some stuff from him."

"It's not a good idea." he contradicted. "And I'm sorry, but I need to go."

"Of course. The session is over anyway. But think about it Liam."

He went back at his apartment as fast as possible. And he tried to not think about it at all. Be like his father ? Learn from him ? I'm pretty convinced he's with the forces of evil. I think he and the witch made an alliance to fight us. (By us, Liam meant mainly the unicorns who lived under his bed). Anyway, he changed for more causual clothes, sweatpants and pullover, and then joined Nick.

"I've a bad feeling about this." confessed this one. "I mean, why Theo invited both of us to a music festival ? Where's the catch ?"

Make you eat your content. Kidnap you. Eat you. The ogre probably planned this. But Liam would protect his friend.

"I don't know why I'm asking you. I'm guessing you didn't even realised you put your pullover backwards..."

Theo picked them up in a nice car, and they arrived five minute later. The festival took place in a vast shed and all around. Quickly, they got lost in the crowd. The junior led them towards the center, and bought them food. (Obviously he did). (Greasy, rich food). And they started to dance, and listen to some bands. Nothing seemed to happen, and Liam started to feel reassured. After all, maybe Theo was just nice ? At some point, Nick whispered to his roommate :

"You know, I'm supposed to lose weight but fuck, if Theo keep feeding me like this, I'm gonna burst."

Liam himself had to admit, he had eaten a lot too. (But far less than he could handle).

"Maybe we should go somewhere less noisy to rest a bit." suggested the chestnut lad.

He expected to put some distance between them and the ogre. If we have to run, bloated like we are, it'll be fun to watch. (He pictured to stuffed turkeys running, and it made him laugh). Anyway, they found themselves next to the toilet area.

"Good call buddy." congratulated Nick. "I'll be back."

He entered in one cabin. Liam waited a bit, looking at the crowd. There were spotlight of several colors. People were dancing with ardor. He glanced at what looked like fairies and human-butterfly. (It was a real thing).

"Baboon !"

The lad turned his head. He glimpsed Dami coming closer.

"Dude, I'm calling you for almost ten minutes now." he said once here. "Are you deaf ?"

"Maybe." conceded Liam. "Sometimes I become blind and I can't see. Sometimes I can't hear. I don't know why."

(In truth, it probably was because he just went out of touch with the real world). (Literally in fact).

Dami tried to say something, but suddenly, a girl grabbed him and kissed him with passion. She shouted :

"Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey, where have you been ?!"

And then she kissed him again. For a long, very long time. Liam watched them, a bit surprised. He didn't know how to react properly. She is... Dami tried to do something. His eyes were burning with a mix of anger and surprise.

"Let's finish what we started." continued the girl.

She tried to pull off the boy's pants, apparently ready to do... Liam couldn't stand it. He just ran. Even his slow brain could understand what it meant.

Barbara Thursday January 24

She closed a book with a sigh of relief. Military stuff could be so scary sometimes. But also very instructive. The conquest of power wasn't an easy path, but Barbara was confident. The queen of this college, this Summer, she wouldn't be a problem. Then, she would've to get rid of this abusive king, Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey. Not easy, but one thing after another.

"Can you give me the plate ?" asked Jessy. "I'm still hungry."

Yeah, of course she was. Back in highschool, Barbara had saw her grade fall into decadence. Several people became greedy fatties. Even now, she was still wondering if it was Raphaël's doing ? Did he have manipulated people in order to make all his rivals become worthless ? You can't be at the top when you're too fat. People judge you only by your look. A bit of chub was the sign of a weathly life, but too much was just a proof you ain't able to control yourself. If you're not the master of your body and your mind, you can't be the master of the other. Jessy just let herself go for two years now. She wasn't in the race anymore.

"So... are you seriously gonna meet the football team captain today ?" asked Jessy. "When did you became so important ?"

"Well, you know, it just happenned."

"And what about Colton ? You said you would arrange a date between us."

I said it, right. She had planned to find a cover for her since the very beginning of their relationship. When she had met Colton in 12th grade, she knew they weren't meant to be together. Unlike Raphaël, who she never truly understood, he was a simple-minded lad. Since then, she had been searching someone to replace her when the time would come. Because she didn't need him under her feet, and neither his sister, Leila.

"I'll go see him." she assured. "Don't worry, he'll like you."

"I know, everybody likes me."

In your dreams maybe. Barbara just smiled and then left. She had an important appointment after all.

She met Oliver Thompson, the football team's captain, in the library C. He was a man of culture as well as a athlete. He was famous in the university and the town, because his team had managed to go the the national each year since he was captain. That was why Barbara needed him in her side.

"Hi." she greeted and sat in front of him. "Nice to meet you."

"Same."

The lad was tall (187 cm or 6'2") and corpulent. A mix of fat and muscle very imposing. She honestly looked like a tiny little girl in comparison. I'm 151 cm (4'11") and weight around 44kg (97 pounds). Of course I can't impress people with my stature.

"You probably know that I'll be the next head of the student union." she smiled. "I'm gonna make some important change, and first of all, I want to support our most important clubs."

It was the weird thing about this college. Fraternities and sororities weren't as powerful as she thought. Many student didn't even joined them. But activities's clubs were the center of the power. If I control them, I control the university.

"It's nice." admitted Oliver. "Summer's giving us a considerable budget already, but more is always welcome. But sorry, I'm not sure you'll have the real power to do it, even as the head of the student."

"I know what you mean. It depend of the hunters right ?"

The hunters. The women and men who chased for power and sex. As far as I know, they rule the university. Summer is one of them. Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey is one of them. I'm one of them.

"Exactly. Trust me, we all know the next general assembly is coming soon for the budget of the second semester. We all want our slice of the cake. But it's the community who prevails. The better hunter you are, the better are you chances."

"Even for me ?"

"Even for you. Maybe you think you'll be head of the student, but you'll have zero power if the community is with Summer. She's good ya know ? As long as the hunters respect her more than you, she still have the power."

Make sense. Barbara thanked the football player, and left, her head full of thought.

The petite blonde then attempted to her lessons. And this evening, she headed towards the pool. She had no interest at all for swimmers. They were only a few and in great majority useless. Especially this bastard, Liam. She hated him with her body and soul. To be honest, she only knew the story from Jessy, but it was enough. The chestnut brown lad had always been a bit weird. It wasn't surprising that he had tried to kill someone eventually. Anyway, she was here for Colton. Her ex-boyfriend had joined the swimming club when she had left him. A bit pathetic to my opinion, but whatever. She glanced him. Sadly, he was with this damn Liam. For a moment, she looked them do lenghts. They were both good. Colton was a bit shorter and thinner. More athletic. Liam was thicker, with a flat but slightly soft stomach. He had quite an ass, she noticed. What am I doing ? I'm not here to covet this dumb guy. Eventually, she decided to come closer.

"Colton." she hailed. "Can we talk ?"

The dark-haired lad glanced at her with a strange look. Next to him, Liam closed his eyes, maybe in order to disappear. But I can see you idiot.

"I won't be long." she assured. "I just want to introduce you to a friend of mine. I think you'll like her, and it could be good for you to be distracted. Why not next week ? I'm only worried for you, of course."

"Okay, I'm fine with it but only if I can bring a friend. Nick for example ?"

"Whoever you wants except Liam."

This latter pouted. Jessy doesn't need to see you. In fact, she might try to kill you if you two meet.

To be continued

Barbara’s pov help us to discover more about both Liam’s past and the hunter community... Where a war is starting. Will Theo surpass Dami ? Or maybe Liam will not fall for either of them. Right now, is main goal is to protect his fattened roommate anyway.

We are Bulletproof (BTS GANG AU) Prologue

Hello everyone welcome to my story!  I am also on WATTPAD with this story under the same user name!  Just a quick disclaimer there in case anyone thinks that I am stealing my own story!  It has gotten a pretty good reception so far over on Wattoad so I thought I would take my chances here on Tumblr and meet all you lovely people!

Prologue  /  CH.1  /

The music was blaring, the vibrations of the bass could be felt pulsing thorugh the floor as young people danced and crowded the already overflowing night club, it was almost claustrophobic. The lights were blinding and shining in almost every direction adding to the atmosphere. The bar was a busy, bustling commotion of drinks and crowds as the bar staff worked hard to provide drinks to the paying adults and not so legal teenagers using their fake ids. Various rooms were playing different styles of music, above the main floor was the V.I.P rooms which were private and had translucent sheets covering the windows, just enough to see silhouettes dancing and mingling almost as if it were a projection. Bouncers were stationed at the doors leading into the night club, tall, well built and very intimidating. Luxurious sofas and tables were placed around the walls providing a place for people to sit and enjoy the atmosphere as they partied with their friends or new found hook ups that would last one evening. The smell was almost intoxicating, the smell of alcohol, perfume and aftershave mingled into one, almost made you want to choke but it was bearable.

Ally looked around her as she and friend walked into the main room of the club. The idea of partying was foriegn to her and she was't one for drinking a lot of alcohol. It was her friends idea to come to this club and she wasn't going to let her friend go to a club without someone there to look after her and stop her from making bad decisions. Ally took a mental note of what she was wearing, a pair of jean shorts and a nice top and a pair of white converse, a lot more than what most of the girls in the club were wearing. She stood out like a sore thumb.

"Lighten up, Ally...it's my birthday remember, you promised you would come!" Her best friend, Ayami all but shouted over the music as she grabbed her friends hand and pulled her further into the club. "Besides, you never know...we could get lucky!"

Ayami was definitely the more adventurous of the two girls, she came from a family of two older sisters who got her a fake id and introduced her into the world of partying, boys and alcohol a couple of years ago. Ally was different, she moved to America with her American born mother when she was 5 and then returned when she was on the verge of becoming an adult herself to finish her education and to reconnect with her fathers roots and discover her Korean heritage, even though her parents split years ago. She met Ayami in school and the two became inseperable ever since, while they were total opposites, the two completed each other.

The girls went to the dance floor and decided to dance to some of the music before they did anything else. Ally found herself laughing and having a good time as the two best friends jumped around to some instrumental dubstep track. While she would never admit it, she was having fun. After dancing for a while, Ally shouted into her friends ear over the music that she was going to look for a toilet and would be right back as quick as she could.

Ally walked on into the club away from the main dance floor and into a corridor hoping she might come across the toilet. The crowds began to thin out the further into the club she went, maybe she had went the wrong way. She was about to head back to the main room of the club when she heard a strangled scream. Curiousity overtook her and she began to investigae the noise. A loud thud was head as well as she poked her head around the corner of the wall and nearly gasped out loud at the scene she saw. One man was being held up by another boy, obviously younger than him by his throat as he gasped for air.

"You here to spy on us?!" The boy growled at the man as he pushed his windpipe harder, making the man cry out in pain. Another boy who also stood in the hallway laughed sarcastically and landed a punch to the mans stomach making him wheeze. At this moment Ally let out a huge gasp, revealing that she was there, all three of the boys turned their heads and looked at her. Frozen like a deer in head lights Ally didn't know what to do.

"We'll continue this somewhere more privately" one of the boys said, "She's seen too much, go get her" As the other boy advanced, Ally panicked and ran out of the hallway and back into the crowded club, hoping she would lose the man in the crowd. After keeping low for a few minutes, Ally thought she lost him, so she went in search to find her best friend and enjoyvthe rest of the night, as well as try to forgrt what she just saw. Ayami was still partying away when Ally returned.

"Back so soon??" Ayami asked.

"Couldn't find the toilets, this place is so packed. But I'm okay, I'll just go when we get home!"

"Okay, let's go have some shots!" Ayami shouted excitedly as she pulled her best friend away from the dance floor.

Next thing Ally knew was they were at the bar ordering a round of shots to celebrate a toast to the birthday girl. Ally promised herself she would not get drunk, one shot wouldn't hurt and she would have soft drinks for the rest of the night.

"HERE'S TO BEING BEST FRIENDS FOREVER AND HERE'S TO AN AWESOME BIRTHDAY!" Ayami shouted as the girls clinked shot glasses filled with soju and downed them in one. The bitter drink ran down Ally's throat and she resisted the urge to gag the acidic drink back up, but she smiled and hugged her best friend as tight as she could.

"Hey, did I just hear you say it was your birthday?" A stranger asked from behind Ally at the other side of the bar.

Both girls turned to look at him, Ally almost did a double take, he was quite handsome. His black shirt wasn't buttoned all the way up, leaving his neck and the top of his chest exposed ever so slightly. His hair was a beautiful orange colour, not all boys could pull something vibrant off but in Ally's opinion, he could. He was leaning against the bar as he examined the two girls.

"Yeah, it's mine!" Ayami claimed as she gave him her full attention.

"Well, Happy Birthday. Not everyday that someone as pretty as you walks in here, especially someone who looks like an angel. Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?" He smiled.

Ayami was completely smitten and just laughed it off, flicking some of her hair over her shoulder.

"You're not too bad yourself." Ayami smiled sweetly, her cheeks glowing the brightest red in the dark.

"Sweetheart, I'm the best thing you'll find in here. How about a drink and a dance for the birthday girl?" He asked as he moved closer to the girls, both of them seeming to forget that Ally was even there as Ayami melted like putty in the strangers hand.

Ally raised an eyebrow as the two continued flirting. They completely ignored her, and it was almost pissing her off to the point where she wanted to go home. But she wasn't going to leave her friend alone as God knows what would happen her if this boy turned out of be some sort of sex offender or something picking up young unsuspecting girls at bars.

"I'm gonna go for a walk if you need me, I'll be over there." Ally said but her words fell on deaf ears as the handsome stranger pulled Ayami towards the dance floor. Sighing she walked in the opposite direction and Ally decided to take a seat on one of the sofas by herself as she watched the couples all dancing and milling around. This had to happen eventually, Ally thought as she watched her friend dancing with the boy that managed to sweet talk his way into her heart, trying to forget about the incident she just witnessed. However Ally was rapidly pulled out of her thoughts when another boy sat down beside her with two drinks in his hands.

"So what is a young girl like you, doing all by yourself over here?" He asked sincerly.

"My friend ditched me" Ally replied, a bit happier not having to scream over the music anymore.

"Now that's just sad" He replied. "Here, have a drink. Free on me, I'm good friends with the bartender and he hooked me up" He slid the glass over the small table that was in front of them. Ally picked it up and smiled.

"Thank you" Ally smiled as she took a drink of the beverage in her hand, it was very friuty with a bit of an afterbite from the vodka that laced the sweet substance. After Ally took a drink, the boy looked at a silver watch on his wrist and then turned his attention back back to her.

"I was here for my friends birthday. But she got a better offer." Ally sighed watching her friend dance. The boy followed her line of vision.

"Don't worry, it happens all the time...this your first time here? I have never seen you around?" The boy asked trying to start some conversation.

"Yeah, I'm not all big into clubs or partying...you a regular?" She asked taking another sip of the drink.

"Yeah, you could say that, so what do you do for a living?"

Ally smiled and thought about it. "I just finished school, so I was thinking on taking a year out with my best friend and maybe travel or just find jobs....I don't know yet...what about you?"

"If I told you that, I might have to kill you" he said with a straight face, Ally frowned, she couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

He finally cracked a smile and laughed it off, glancing at his watch once again. Ally rubbed her head furiously as she began to feel a bit dizzy, she hadn't drunk that much, had she?

"Are you okay, you look like you're about to pass out..." the boy asked concerned leaning closer to her.

Ally nodded, standing up. "I just need some fresh air and I'll be fine."

The boy offered to walk with her and Ally said yes as he insisted he made sure she was okay. He guided her through the club and she felt the dizziness in her head get worse. Ally noticed he was leading her towards the back section of the club she saw the fight between the three guys happen in earlier.

"Wait, this isn't the way out..." Ally said in a weak voice as she felt herself drain of all energy, nearly falling but the boy held her up.

"Just s you know, it was nothing personal when I spiked your drink" the boy smirked at her.

Ally looked up at him with wide eyes, before she collapsed and all she could see was darkness. Then nothing.

--

Touch In The Night - Part 14 (The End)

And here it is, the final chapter!

There was something about flying at night that made it magical. They were too high to see what was happening on earth and they were closer to the stars than ever. It truly was a wonderful sight. And yet, the only thing Merel had eyes for was the sleeping form next to her.

Charlotte’s head was resting against the window, her eyes closed and her lips almost curled up into a smile. They looked so inviting, as if they dared Merel to kiss them. But she knew better. It was a long flight after a long and exhausting tour. Charlotte needed all the rest she could get, and Merel knew she should probably try to get some sleep as well.

As careful as possible, the blonde tried to rest her head on Charlotte’s shoulder. A single butterfly in her stomach woke up when she inhaled the singer’s scent and she couldn’t fight back the smile that formed on her lips. For a second she couldn’t be happier. Then the other woman stirred. Cursing herself for waking Charlotte, Merel sat up again and sheepishly smiled. Charlotte didn’t say anything. She just looked at Merel, and eventually smiled when she spotted the goosebumps covering the girl’s arm.

‘Were you trying to steal my warmth while I was asleep?’

‘Ehm… Maybe?’

Merel did her best to look innocent, but there was something in Charlotte’s eyes. The girl wasn’t sure if it was the haze of sleep, or if the singer was brewing up some kind of dark plan. A smirk slowly grew on Charlotte’s face. A dark plan it was.

‘What time is it?’

‘Around 4:30, I guess.’

‘Good.’

With the smirk still in place, Charlotte got up from her seat. Merel got up as well so the singer could go wherever she wanted, but was surprised when Charlotte grabbed her arm and dragged her along to the back of the plane. Everyone around them seemed to be asleep. The other musicians, the crew members, the strangers who happened to be on the same plane. No one noticed them when they passed them and Merel was very happy about that.

A smirk on Charlotte’s face usually didn’t mean anything good, and neither did it this time. Merel’s heart started racing when she was pushed into the small toilet cabin. Charlotte quickly joined her and locked the door, her grin even wider now. Oh no…

‘Ever heard of the Mile High Club?’

Exactly what Merel thought. Before she could say anything, Charlotte already had her pinned against the wall, her lips firmly pressed against Merel’s. This was wrong, this was so, so wrong. They could be discovered at any moment. It was so wrong, but also so exciting. There just was no way Merel could say no to those lips and she easily gave in to them once they kissed her neck. A moan escaped and almost immediately Charlotte looked her in the eye.

‘You have to be quiet.’ Charlotte whispered. ‘And I have to be quick.’

Without hesitation the singer’s hand slipped into the sweatpants Merel was wearing before making its way into her underwear. Merel gasped, but was quickly silenced by Charlotte’s lips again. The singer kissed her hard and didn’t waste any time inside the blonde’s pants either. Her finger easily found Merel’s clit and pushed down on it.

Merel’s knees got weak at the touch. She buried her fingers in Charlotte’s shirt, holding on to it as she felt the singer’s hand move to her entrance. Two fingers thrusted into her, Charlotte’s palm pushing against the girl’s clit. There was no time for teasing now. Charlotte didn’t give Merel any time to enjoy the feeling of her fingers inside her, but started thrusting at a fast rhythm right away. It was driving her insane, to the point where she no longer knew how to control her body. Luckily, Charlotte knew exactly how to do just that.

Every thrust touched Merel in exactly the right spot and Charlotte’s palm never lost contact with her clit. Her lips where still pressed against Merel’s, keeping her quiet and making it harder for her to breathe. Charlotte’s free hand kept the girl pinned against the wall, leaving her nowhere to go but straight to her orgasm.

Merel knew she wouldn’t last long, especially not when she felt Charlotte’s fingers digging in deeper and harder. Desperately she held on to the singer’s shirt as if her life depended on it, her knees completely giving in when her orgasm hit her hard.

Charlotte managed to keep her up and finally gave her time to breathe. A small moan escaped when the singer pulled her fingers out and Merel missed them immediately. Those fingers knew Merel so well, knew exactly what her weak spots were, and were maybe even more talented than her own skilled fingers.

Without looking away from the girl in front of her, Charlotte brought her hand to her lips and licked her fingers clean. It definitely was one of the most arousing things Merel had ever seen. Still out of breath, she leaned up and kissed Charlotte, tasting herself on the singer’s lips.

‘Get yourself together.’ Charlotte grinned when she suddenly pulled back. ‘We have to go back before it gets suspicious.’

Without another word, Charlotte unlocked the door and left, leaving Merel behind. The girl smiled while she tried to catch her breath. She’d never expected to find herself having sex on an airplane, but here she was, the newest member of the Mile High Club. And it was all because of Charlotte. The singer was full of surprises and Merel couldn’t wait to get back to her.

Once her heart had slowed down, Merel opened the door and carefully peeked out. Everyone still seemed to be asleep, and with a sigh of relief Merel made her way back to her seat. Charlotte was already waiting for her and smiled when Merel sat down. She opened her arms and Merel happily leaned into them. Resting her head against Charlotte’s chest and listening to her heartbeat, the girl closed her eyes before dozing off to sleep.

 Merel could barely believe it was over. No more concerts, no more stress, no more waiting, and no more travelling. They were in Netherlands, luggage in their hands and on their way out of the airport. The tour was officially over.

Everyone was quiet while they pushed their suitcases towards to exit. It had been a long flight, the jetlag was already noticeable on everyone’s faces and they were all tired. Merel was so looking forward to get home and crash down on her own bed, but secretly she was looking even more forward to what could happen after that. Spending more time with Charlotte without anyone else around. No stress, no tour, just them. Just the thought of it warmed Merel’s heart, and she was surprised when she found herself actually saying the singer’s name out loud.

‘Charlotte?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Do you want to go out for a drink this evening?’

Charlotte suddenly stood still and the rest of the bad followed. All eyes were set on them, and Merel mentally kicked herself for not waiting until they were alone.

‘Are you asking me out on a date?’ Charlotte laughed ‘Oh Merel, we’re not going to do that.’

‘Why… not?’

‘Look, I had a lot of fun, and we can do it again some time, but I don’t want to date you. It was just sex.’

Disbelieve settled in Merel’s heart. No, this could not be true. Charlotte had been so nice to her, so sweet, this couldn’t just be about sex. She’d felt a connection between them! This wasn’t just sex!

‘I thought you loved me!’

‘I never said that.’ Charlotte said, her voice cold as ice. ‘I said I liked you, but I never said I loved you, because I don’t. All of it was just sex.’

And with that, Charlotte put her hands on the cart again and left.

Merel couldn’t believe it. She was right, Charlotte had never said the word love. Merel had said it, but Charlotte hadn’t said it back. How could she have been so blind? So deaf to Otto’s warnings? What was she supposed to do now? Never before had she felt so lost and looked at her band mates in need of help. They all just stood there, watching her as she slowly fell apart. Her heart sank when Otto’s voice sounded.

‘I told you so. I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen.’

With those words he turned around, and the others followed his example. They all left her behind with her broken heart, and it all was her own fault.

 Stepping into her room felt like stepping into another world. The sun greeted her through the window next to her bed, the colors surrounding her were light and calm. It was silent, not a single noise was to be heard. It felt so unreal.

Slowly Merel took another step into the room, hitting her toe on her suitcase in the process. And that’s when tears formed in her eyes, and a single one managed to escape. The pain was real, so the rest had to be as well. This was reality. No hectic tour schedule, no other people around, no fans waiting around every corner. No longer living during the darkest hours of the days, but being met by the sun in the morning. Everything she’d known in the last weeks had been fake, Charlotte’s love being the most painful of all. It had all been a lie, and Merel had been too blind to see it. They tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen. She was a victim of her own desire.

Hands off

Why oh why is it not ok to hold hands with a platonic friend? I was in my adult class when my friend yanked my shoulder. She had problems with anxiety and she was on the spectrum. I understood what she was going through.  I had panic attacks too. To be honest, I’ve been punched, had a pencil thrown at me, and had boys put their hands on me. The girl was legitimately scared of a convict coming down a hallway. So I let her squeeze my hand. (She had a tight grip). The next Thursday, we were at a police station. I got nervous. I grabbed her hand because I was nervous of the rifles on the walls. Even though my father was a cop himself, and he hunted mourning doves every September, looking at guns reminds me of the prevalent gun violence in America. 

I gripped her hand and walked out. Not less than 10 seconds later...

Keep your hands to yourselves! one of the special ed teachers glared at the two of us grabbing hands. We proceeded to be lectured on why holding hands “gave off the wrong impression.”

Why was it socially inappropriate to hold hands with your platonic best friend? I don’t care if we looked like two lesbians, I and my friend had issues with anxiety.

The problem with social expectations is that there is no grey area. We’re told not to stare at people. We’re told not to speak to strangers on the internet. We’re told to write appropriate things on the internet. Tolerate other peoples stupid behavior.

When we try to experiment with supposedly inappropriate behavior, we are reprimanded for trying. When we try to experiment with swearing, or what would be seen as typical, would be frowned upon. 

Where is the fine line? Autistics need to be taught there is a gray area.

This applies to media as well. 

Dancing with a platonic friend was also inappropriate. My sophomore year, I went with my friend (who had special needs) to the prom. My mom was excited that I figured out how to plan a social outing with another peer. I should have been excited. 

It was a complete disaster. I dressed up in my finest and I danced with another platonic friend. I learned not to intervene with other dancing couples. The girl with severe autism was at the dance.

In a way, I felt like the dance was justified. Most of the supposed peers that worked with her liked to test (Pick on) her. They asked her what their birthday was. She answered back. She didn’t comb her hair. Her posture was awkward and she had repetitive movements. We were not lovers, but friends. 

This was the fall of 2015. This was before I distanced my self from the special needs community. Before I realized my best friend was the equivalent of Regina George and tried to make my four years at the school a living disaster. 

This was the calm before the storm. 

She was standing before me and I took my opportunity. I (very gently) grabbed her arm. She didn’t mind dancing very slowly. Maybe she didn’t want it. 

She wanted to dance with me. Dancing with a severely autistic individual required a bit more effort. I had to hold her hips and dance back and forth. It seemed oddly satisfying.

The calm before the storm ended when I sat in my speech teacher’s office and told her that I not only danced flamboyantly but I also danced with someone of the same sex. `

The speech teacher gave me a weird grimace before informing me that I what I did was “unexpected” behavior or socially inappropriate. Then she told me that the reason that my friend didn’t want to dance with me was that I danced inappropriately.

The same person who claimed my dancing was weird would later try to pick fights with me. She was also manipulative and she liked to go behind other peoples backs. In a way, this was the first time I got into a fight with someone. 

From sophomore year to an extent Senior year, it felt like “Mean Girls”. My ex-friend would sic disabled peers and Aides on me. So I had to be careful with talking to anyone because if there’s something I’ve learned, is being associated with special needs was like being in the plastics. 

The sad thing is that nuerotypical peers often forget that people who have special needs have thoughts and feelings too. Almost like being a human. GASP.

So that was what I had to deal with for three years.

My tormentor had severe special needs. Which automatically made her popular with the other students.

Heres what I dealt with:

While all of this was going on I was drawing my freddie mercury comics. She liked to accuse me of being rude and making her mad. While this was a problem in P.E., most of the neurotypical peers turned a blind eye to her behavioral issues. 

The bully knew my friends and her friends knew my friends.  The accusations grew even crazier. I tried to break off relations with her. She was in my lunch period. Every time I tried to move away, it seemed like she was moving closer. 

No one would believe me if I was being bullied by someone from special needs class. I kept my eyes down. 

Her friends hated me...

While all of this was going down, I took my frustrations out on this character. 

I’m going to call him “Benji”.

( I was a beta reader for a manuscript and one of the characters is named Benji. he gets turned into a manticore.)

I felt like a giant manicure in this crazy world of high school. Turning into an adult felt weird. The character Benji felt crazy as he turned into a manticore. The guy I wrote about liked to stand on a soapbox. I had a love-hate feeling about the guy I wrote about. He could be nice, and smart, but he could turn mean in an instant. 

My friendship turned toxic. It was like being in a toxic relationship. She would tell me to stay away from her because her friend didn’t like me. Or stay away from her because her friend was mad at her. 

This backstabbing did come to a point where it was almost common. I wrote angry stuff about Benji. If swearing was typical, the things I drew were nothing short of a “Clockwork Orange.” I wonder if reading Lord of the Flies was also a influence as well.  I drew offensive things. With the help of my brother I protrayed unmentionable acts of voilence. I know, unlady like, right?

It was like this viscous cycle. There would be a vicous cycle and then there would be this quiet honey moon phase. Was I insecure? perhaps. I wrote about using Medivial torture instruments. I wrote about gender dysphoria. I wrote about battles I could not win. I wrote about this giant judge condemning Freddie for murdering Deacon and me. I was 15 and I had discovered dievant art. I used it to feed my obession. 

In a way, I felt emotionally dead. I was constientally exhausted becuase I didn’t sleep for the approprate amount of time. The storm came closer and closer. The same kids who picked on me hung out at the special needs table. I went to the special needs club becuase I had special needs. I hated it.

I tried to complain to my mom. I started to complain that Peers treated me with condescension. I tried to warn her that my new BFF liked to pick fights with me. Yet nothing happened. I still had to go to peer leadership. 

Why was holding hands and dancing with girls frowned upon?

Why was having a disability and picking fights ok?

I felt like my complaints were falling on deaf ears. No one was listening, so I kept tormenting my poor Benji. I guess drawing was a coping method.

 All of the anger started to build up. 

The tipping point happened when we went to a showing of  “Lucky Stiff”, which is basically like “Weekend at Bernies”. The aides had us sit next to each other because we were BFFs. Fifteen minutes later, my friend turned to me and said that her friend thought I was a “Bitch”. I told her I had enough of playing with her sick little mind games. I also univited her to my sweet sixteen birthday. I yelled that I was blocking her phone number. I made sure I was yelling as loud as I could.

When I was a kid, I learned that if someone was trying to abduct me, I should yell as loud as a possible. 

I was sitting next to two special needs aides. and next to a nonverbal boy. I had basically an audience. I sat down in a different seat and cried my head off. It was two weeks before I had my sweet sixteen. After the show, I cried to my mom about what happened. 

The next day I waited for my ex-friend and her line of disabled peers. I was steaming. This was the year before I saw Kill Bill vol one and vol two. It was exactly like the opening scene from Kill Bill.

Bill: Do you find me sadistic? You know, I bet I could fry an egg on your head right now, if I wanted to. You know, Kiddo, I'd like to believe that you're aware enough even now to know that there's nothing sadistic in my actions. Well, maybe towards those other... jokers, but not you. No Kiddo, at this moment, this is me at my most...

[cocks pistol]

Bill: masochistic.

The Bride: Bill... it's your baby...

I felt like I was cheated. I waited until the next day. I cornered her and her friend demanding an apology. Very loudly. 

What I wrote: he curled up in a ball. Everyone left. There was the pain in his groin. blood dripped onto the floor. The shrieks of laughter disappeared as he laid dead on the ground. He laid on the floor lifeless. he pushed himself up. 

I guess I overreacted. 

The next two years would consist of avoiding eye contact.

My senior year, I ran into her again. 

She caught me freaking out over my schedule change. I very nearly swore, and she heard it. She gave me a look of terror. 

She told the other special needs, kids, I told her to F- off. She sent an autistic boy to basically befriend me. He looked terrified of me. He knew my name, and he tried to pry information out of me. He said, “Well Regina said..” I had by this time forgotten about Regina.  

Most of the special needs peers were petrified of me. 

Good.