#I'm pissed because so many things in this race were so unnecessary

[teamatsumu]

primal. (miya osamu x reader)

word count: 2586

warnings: a/b/o dynamics, fem!omega reader, porn with minimal plot, swearing, typical omegaverse jargon (scent, heat, rut, slick, knot)

tags: @keiva1000 @kindnessspreads @msbyomimi @sleepyxxhead @priv-rose

This was getting ridiculous.

Three whole days Osamu had not spoken to you. And for what? Because of a stupid argument you had about his new menu? In your mind, if he didn't want constructive criticism, he really should not have asked you for your opinion.

(You tried to ignore the gnawing guilt you felt that maybe you had been too harsh.)

But still, was it worth being this upset about? He hadn't replied to any of your messages. His phone was going straight to voicemail, and to top it off, even Atsumu hadn't heard from him. The blond twin had told you to just give him some space, and that he was ‘going through it’. But you scoffed. What exactly was he going through? All this over a controversial menu item? You didn't know Osamu could be so unreasonable over something so stupid.

Which is why you were standing at his door now, knocking for the last ten fucking minutes, while he didn't even bother to respond or open up. Your knocking had now progressed to vicious pounding, and you didn't give a shit if the neighbours heard. You were pissed. Osamu was being a baby and not communicating with you and you would make him talk if it was the last thing you did.

“Open this fucking door, Osamu!” You shouted for the tenth time.

“Go away!” Finally. Now that Osamu had gotten tired of your incessant pounding, he had finally responded. Triumph coarsed through you.

“I knew you were in there!” One more smack on the wood. “Open up. Now!”

“I'm tellin’ ya to go away.” His voice sounded strained. Your eyebrows furrowed a bit.

“What's up with you?”

There was some shuffling, and then a pained groan. Your muscles stiffened in alarm.

“Samu?” You could feel your anger drain away, replaced by worry. “Are you okay? Open the door!”

“Just go away. Everythin’ is fine. I'm not mad at ya. I just need ya to…. get away.”

You couldn't ignore the pain in his voice anymore. You tried the doorknob again to no avail. “Please let me in. I'm getting worried.”

Silence again. You leaned against the door, your panic only building. “Samu, please.”

Your anger was non-existent now. It didn't matter to you whatever stupid fight you two had gotten into. Your paranoid mind was racing and all you could think about was a million different ways that Osamu might be hurt. If anything happened to him…

Your heart imperceptibly broke.

You had known Osamu since high school, when him and his brother would melt your brain with their unnecessary fighting and competition. He was young and naive then, with that godawful gray hair that he thankfully abandoned after high school, and an attitude so fiery it left most other people in the dust. You couldn't understand why you were so attracted to him at first glance, but then he presented as an Alpha mere months after you first met, and your attraction to him became quite clear.

More than anything else, Osamu was your close friend. He understood you in a way his twin didn't, and you liked to think you were a good friend to him too. You kept your feelings for him pretty tightly wrapped up in your heart, afraid that an Alpha like him wouldn't want you. He was desired widely by many, many omegas. And he had always turned them down. If all those prime omegas weren't good enough for him, you didn't stand a chance.

So you lived with him as your friend, because you would rather have that than nothing at all.

You knocked on the door again, more softly this time, knowing he was right on the other side. “Samu, please let me in. Let me see.”

There was a thunk. You assumed Osamu had leaned his forehead against the door. “Omega…”

It clicked in you, like gears fitting into place. Your heart raced. You shuffled closer to the door until there was no more space left. You sniffed carefully.

There was his scent, heady and musky, sandalwood and something you had come to associate only with Osamu. A scent you had loved for so long it made you want to buckle to your knees. It was strong, heavier than any time you had smelled it before. It made your eyes cross, your breath pause. Something in your core stirred.

“Your rut?” You mumbled. You knew he heard you.

Osamu groaned low in response. Your thighs clenched.

Over the years, you observed that Osamu's ruts were rare. Maybe once every three months. He would always disappear a few days beforehand, and didn't reappear until it was well over and done. Atsumu said that since his ruts were so spaced out, they would always hit really hard. So you tended to leave him alone until he reached out first, talking normally and as if nothing had happened, picking up where he left off.

In your anger and with your fight fresh in your mind, you didn't realize that Osamu had likely gone off the grid because of his rut, and not because he was ignoring you. Now you were standing here, mere inches from an Alpha in full rut, with your own core tightening and something wet slowly dripping down the crease of your thigh. Your inhibition was slowly dissipating the more you frantically tried to breathe his faint scent. Your omega purred and whined.

“I could help.” You dared say. “I could help you, Alpha.”

Another groan, low and desperate, and you felt like it was rattling through your very soul. You bit your lip hard, hand twitching to move between your thighs, but you remained frozen. Osamu didn't move away from the door. His pants grew louder, and then he whined.

“Are you sure?” His muffled voice came, almost broken with desire. He wanted- needed- you to say yes. You nodded vigorously even if he couldn't see you.

“Yes!”

Some thudding, clicking, and then he pulled open the door. Your breath caught at the sight of him.

He was gloriously shirtless, and his loose sweatpants were doing nothing to hide his problem either. His erection was obvious, straining and standing against the struggling material of his pants. It would look almost comical if you weren't horny out of your fucking mind right now. His bare torso shone with a thin layer of sweat. You bit your lip so hard you were sure you drew blood.

“Holy fuck, you smell good.” Osamu's nose, more sensitive with his rut, twitched. His eyelids fluttered, and he took in a deep breath. You stared at him some more, wondering if you were dreaming.

“What are ya standin’ there for? C’mere, Omega.”

He tugged on your arm, until your body was making contact with his. Your hands rested on his chest, and you could feel how rapidly his heart was beating. He leaned down until his face was mere inches from yours. His breath hit your lips, made them tingle. Your core clenched painfully. His scent got stronger.

“Ya sure ya want this?”

You didn’t even have the strength to nod, feeling lightheaded. You only tilted your face up until your lips brushed his. “Please.”

A breathy curse, and then he was kissing you. His arms wrapped tight around your back, like he was scared you would disappear, one hand gripping possessively over your hip. You suspected it would leave a bruise.

You wanted it to leave a bruise.

He left you breathless when your lips parted. He tugged you in further and shut the door with a loud bang, before pushing you back against it. The manhandling turned you on to no end, the thought that you were someone Osamu was about to use to satisfy himself. Your already aroused mind went wild at the notion and you arched into him when he crowded you against the door, lips meeting in a frenzy. He bit and licked your mouth raw, invading your mouth like he couldn’t bear to be apart from you. You dug your nails into his biceps, reveling in the feeling of him, of finally having him the way you wanted. Your panties were soaked through by now. Your inner thighs held the signs of your desire.

His lips traveled down your neck next, licking and biting, inhaling and exhaling as he scented you. His cock pressed into your hip and you let him satisfy his need to leave his mark on you, basking in his scent that mixed with yours and how he laid his claim on you, albeit temporarily. His hands gripped hard at your sides, pushing your shirt up to run over bare skin.

“Wanted this so bad.” He rasped, biting dangerously close to your scent gland, you leaned into the sting. “Every rut. Ya know how many times I’ve jerked off to ya?”

His accent was thick, his words slurred. You were sure he was completely gone by this point. You gripped his hair hard.

“Wanted you too, Alpha.” You whimpered back. “Touch me, god, please.”

Osamu lifted you up then, two strong hands grabbing your asscheeks and carrying you across the room to where his couch was located. You wrapped your arms around his neck, taking the opportunity to lap and nip at his neck, scenting him back. Your drenched walls fluttered around nothing, crying and weeping for a nice, thick knot to fill you up.

You had a suspicion you wouldn’t have to wait long.

When Osamu dropped you on the couch, his hands immediately tugged on your clothes, pulling off your jeans and panties in one go. The fabric clung to you with how wet it was, and the air was cool on your burning skin. You used the moment to pull off your top until you were bare before him. Osamu kissed your calf, traveling up quickly with a few kisses laid on your skin. Your thigh, your stomach, the valley of your breasts, your jaw. He had tugged his sweats down already, and you felt something hard poke at your dripping entrance.

“Can’t wait, baby.” His voice trembled. “Need ya now. Need to knot ya so bad I’m gonna explode.”

And then he was sliding into your slicked up but unprepped pussy, carving his way through your spasming walls until a sharp pain went through you. You gasped at the glorious stretch, at your walls recognising an Alpha cock and opening up to accommodate him. Your wetness ran down your ass, likely soiling Osamu’s couch but you doubted he cared. He was cursing and whining in your ear, spine bending forward at the relief of finally sinking into a wet, ready cunt. His face was flushed a deep red, sweat building on his forehead. He sank into you to the base, your toes tingling with the sensation of being so full.

“Hold on, omega.” His last words. They almost sounded like a threat. Your breath caught.

Then he was gripping your hips and holding you down, before fucking into you hard and fast. You gasped at the sudden pace, legs pushed even further open as his cock repeatedly bullied itself into you. Your jaw went slack at the sensation, how he hit you so deep, sloppy noises filling the air along with your cries and his moans. His skin slapped hard against yours, leaving the inside of your thighs red and tender. His cock hit every spot just right. You felt your toes curl.

Osamu watched your reactions, nearly delirious himself, barely holding on by a thread.

“Feel good?”

You nodded frantically, fingernails scratching over his shoulders and arms. Osamu leaned down on his elbows, tongue poking out to lick at your lips every now and then.

“Tell me how good it feels. Tell me.”

“I-” You gasped and jolted with the force of his thrusts. Tears built up in your eyes and spilled down the sides of your face. “Can’t- can’t talk.”

“Yes you can.” His hand wound into the hair at the back of your head, tugging hard until you arched into him. “Say it. Say ya love my cock.”

“Love your cock.” You managed to wail, clamping down hard on him. He cursed and leaned down further, pace not even faltering in the slightest. His lips sealed themselves against the skin of your neck and he sucked hard.

“Tell me how bad ya want my knot.”

“Want it so bad.” You parroted, losing every coherent thought and just going along with what he was saying. Osamu continued to pound into you like he wasn’t even talking, like he wasn’t rearranging your guts or turning your legs to jelly. Like the base of his cock wasn’t rapidly swelling and catching on the rim of your hole.

Osamu pushed himself deep into you before stilling completely, and you nearly weeped in frustration.

“Tell me why ya deserve my knot.” He gritted, eyes meeting yours. Little golden flecks shown in his irises, and his incisors elongated below his bottom lip. He was deep, deep in the clutches of his rut. Combined with his messed up hair and flushed cheeks, he looked wild. Uninhibited. Dangerous. Your pleasure hit its very peak, teetering just over the edge, begging for that last push. You sobbed.

“Wanted you for so long.” You gasped and cried, tears pouring from your cheeks. “Wanted you to fuck me and knot me and give me your cum. Please, Alpha, please. I’ll be so good for you.”

Osamu groaned. Something in his eyes softened. He hooked a hand under your left knee and tugged it up, folding it against your torso. His cock pulled out before pushing back in, slowly picking up his pace again. You moaned loud, feeling your pit tighten up again.

“Why don’t ya cum fer me nice and hard, baby? Get me wet with your juice and then I’ll fill you up. Promise. I’ll shove this fat knot into your tiny little cunt. Just cum fer me, little omega.”

And you did. You arched into him, eyes rolling and arms seizing as you came harder than you ever had in your life. Electricity zipped through you and all air was punched out of your lungs until you felt that your very soul was leaving your body. You didn’t even register when Osamu groaned and stuttered in his pace, or when his knot swelled until it was bullied into your thoroughly fucked out and sore pussy. White hot cum filled your insides as he locked into you, hips flush against your own.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist as Osamu’s comforting weight settled on you. He licked and lapped at your neck softly, breathing into you until you were nothing but his scent, his touches, his marks. You panted and tried to catch your breath, legs trembling with aftershocks of the event. You could barely lift your arms to run over his bare back, but you managed. Osamu hummed at your soft touch.

All was silent beneath you two as the fog of his rut lifted. You could feel him slowly cool down, get pliant against you. You could almost sense his apprehension.

“Do ya regret it?”

You smiled slightly, staring up at the ceiling. “I meant it, Samu. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

You could feel his own smile against your neck, his embrace around you tightening. “Me too.”

Your skin buzzed with warmth. While Osamu breathed softly against your neck, you let yourself drift into a quiet sleep.

[erelavent]

Merc's strategy this entire race was absolute garbage. Lewis was 1.8 seconds away from Max in the last few laps. If he had better tyres, he WOULD have caught him. I'm pissed af. Also, telling Bottas not to go for fastest lap? Wtf was that? Pitting Lewis on lap 71 of 72 to ensure Bottas didn't get fastest lap even when they should have done it earlier basically screwing both Lewis and Bottas over?

Daniel having to move over for Lando and for what?

Only saving grace of this race is Gasly in P4, Alonso in P6. Everything else can take a hike.

[artificialqueens]

Paper Hearts Chapter Four (Branjie) - meggie

A/N: Whew. This one was difficult. That being said, I have so many people to thank for being cheerleaders, hand-holders, and all-around the best group of people I could have asked for to help bring this chapter to life because it. took. a. village. Thank you @theartificialdane who was the first person to read this and tell me it was too dramatic (you were right). Thank you @pink-grapefruit-cafe for dutifully adding that unnecessary ‘h’ to my (correct American) spelling of yogurt and calling me out when my sentences get too long. Thank you @formercongressman for providing the feedback that I needed to tighten and polish and really get the chapter where I wanted it by encouraging me to delve into Brooke’s psyche. And thank you @mia-ugly for giving me a final read through and assuring me that it wasn’t utter garbage and worth actually putting out there.

I’ve added a TW for perfectionism and anxiety because we’re going pretty deep into Brooke’s inner monologue here and I can get in my own head when reading about those things that I struggle with every day. Erring on the side of caution seemed prudent.

Please let me know your thoughts, here or on my personal blog @artificialmeggie. My ask box is always open and I love chatting with you guys!

So here’s chapter four: in which Vanessa calls it like she sees it, Nina gives Brooke some advice, and Brooke learns to relax (a little). I hope it doesn’t disappoint.

Brooke Lynn spends Friday night in and out of fitful sleep, dreams punctuated with hot, heavy kisses that taste like peppermint and broken promises pressed against secluded bathroom doors. It’s the same dream every time—they’re kissing, groping, grasping each other, and then Vanessa pulls away and looks up at her with hurt in her dark eyes, and Brooke wakes, drenched in sweat with a knot of guilt fully formed in her gut.

She rises early on Saturday morning and (after a cigarette on the balcony, alone, again) stumbles into the bathroom to peer at herself in the mirror, ultimately becoming dismayed at the dark circles etched under her eyes. If she cared, she’d smear on some concealer before venturing downstairs for breakfast, but try as she might, she can’t make herself put on makeup on a day when she doesn’t have to be in drag. So she settles for tugging on her favorite white hoodie and grey beanie and heads downstairs just after seven hoping to beat the rest of the girls to an early breakfast.

She gets her wish. She’s first to the conference room and could have her pick of yogurt, fresh fruit, or muffins; but Brooke needs comfort today, after that hollow look in Vanessa’s eyes had haunted her dreams last night and left her gutted. Instead, she waits a few moments until a steaming chafing dish of oatmeal is brought out by a hotel employee. She spoons a good amount into a bowl and dresses it with a scoop of raisins and far more brown sugar than is healthy. It reminds her of being seven years old and sitting at the kitchen table with her mother on a Saturday morning. It’s comfortable.

Brooke watches as the brown sugar melts and then she stirs her breakfast lazily, relaxing into her chair at the table farthest from the lone production assistant in the room. The PA avoids eye contact, and Brooke is glad—she’s more than happy to forego small talk with the poor intern who drew the short straw and was assigned Saturday queen babysitting duty.

And then, just as Brooke’s oatmeal cools to an edible temperature, the conference room door swings open and in walks Vanessa; terry cloth shorts slung low on her hips, Adidas slides scuffing on the carpet, and red zippered jacket undone to her bellybutton exposing that perfectly toned, perfectly tanned chest that’s the exact color of the molten brown sugar in Brooke’s oatmeal.

Brooke wants to run her tongue over the curves and dips and swoops of that chest more than almost anything. She settles for scooping up a bite of oatmeal shot through with a ribbon of brown sugar. She turns the spoon over in her mouth and sucks every molecule of sweetness from it. Absentmindedly, she wonders if Vanjie’s skin tastes as sweet.

Across the empty room, Vanessa’s eyes meet hers, and Brooke finds it difficult to swallow. Then Vanjie sets her jaw and quirks up her nose and maybe (just maybe, or maybe Brooke imagines it) swings her hips a little more than is entirely necessary as she moves to the buffet table to help herself to a bowl of yogurt.

She takes her time scooping in sliced strawberries, whole blueberries, and granola, and it feels like two geological ages of sheer unadulterated torture for Brooke, who watches every motion carefully.

At this point, she’s practically licked her oatmeal bowl clean, imagining the curves of the white porcelain to be the swerves of Vanjie’s smooth back, the spoon to be her own hands, exploring every inch of Vanessa as thoroughly and completely as possible. Like she wants to. Like she longs to.

She’s pretty much ruined any shot she had at that, she supposes.

Then Vanessa sits in the chair directly across from Brooke Lynn and spends another long moment stirring her yogurt together, and Brooke wonders if maybe she still has a chance.

Brooke watches her eat, but neither one of them speaks. She knows they’re both too stubborn for their own damn good.

Finally, Brooke grows too uncomfortable with the silence, so she sets her bowl on the table and clears her throat. “Sleep well?”

Vanessa shrugs. “All right. Coulda been better. I don’t like it when people get pissed off at me for no reason.” And she narrows her eyes pointedly and just stares.

“I’m not… Jesus.” Brooke sighs and squeezes the bridge of her nose. “Fuck, Vanj, I'm not mad at you.”

Vanjie tuts and takes a bite of yogurt. “Care to explain what last night in the van was then? Or do you got a habit of making out with people in bathrooms and then ghosting ‘em?”

“Granted, I did not handle that well,” Brooke says slowly. “I get in my head, okay? I’m… Look, I thought maybe A’keria saw something, and I kind of freaked.”

Vanessa shakes her head. “A’keria didn’t see shit.” Then she reaches across the table and takes Brooke’s hand in her own. “And even if she did, so what? You gotta relax, mami.”

“You don’t care if the girls know that we’re… What are we doing exactly?”

Vanjie shrugs. “We’re… getting to know each other.”

“Getting to know each other…” Brooke repeats it slowly and turns the phrase over in her head because she’s never done this before. She’s had one-night stands and friends-with-benefits, but there’s never been anyone to Get To Know. Never been anyone she’s wanted to get to know quite like she wants to know Vanjie.

It scares her. Not that she’s afraid of feelings, really, but she’s level-headed and goal-oriented and this was definitely not in The Plan when she started auditioning for drag race two years ago. So she’s afraid of feelings in this setting because how is she supposed to concentrate on presenting her perfect Drag Race package when Hurricane Vanessa is swirling around her?

But how do you brace for a category five storm?

“Yeah, okay,” Brooke says slowly. “We’re getting to know each other…”

Vanessa smiles at her. “Maybe we could start with boy names. I’m Jose, by the way.”

“Brock,” Brooke says softly, shaking the hand that Vanjie has offered. It feels different, more intimate now that she’s been formally introduced to the boy behind the drag.

“Brock…” Vanessa repeats quietly, almost testing the name, trying it out to see how it rolls off her tongue. Brooke heaves a sigh of relief when she smiles. “Yeah, it fits.”

And Brooke is blushing, the fire that ignited between them when their lips collided last night is back in full force, burning her from the inside out, so she smiles and ducks her head and hopes she doesn’t look like an idiot. She never wants to look stupid; she’s worked for years to curate this careful image of perfection, but she’s especially concerned with how Vanessa perceives her.

“Well. We have all day off today,” Vanessa says. Having finished her breakfast, she pushes herself up from the table and stretches her arms above her head, exposing another two inches of flat, taut stomach that peeks out over the waistband of her shorts.

Brooke’s mouth practically waters, yearns for that molten brown sugar skin beneath her fingers, lips, tongue.

“If you wanna come get to know me a little better in my room feel free to come by,” Vanjie continues. “But wait ‘til after lunch. I gotta take a nap.”

Brooke laughs. “Didn’t you just wake up?”

“I wanted to talk to you before the rest of the girls came down.”

“How did you know I’d be down here?”

“Our beds share a wall,” she says with a wink. “And you snore like a fucking moose.” Vanessa struts around behind her, wraps her arms around her neck, and presses a kiss into her temple. “See you later, mami.”

*****

Brooke’s working on her third cup of coffee when Nina finally makes it into the conference room for breakfast.

“Good morning!” she sing-songs as she slides into the chair two down from Brooke. “How are you?”

Brooke shrugs a little and flashes a tight-lipped grin before she takes another sip from her mug, but Nina’s eyes narrow.

“You have a secret.”

“What?”

“I know you, Hytes.” Nina reaches for the salt and pepper shaker and generously seasons her scrambled eggs. “I’ve known you for literally your entire drag career and your face right now? It screams ‘I’ve got a secret.’ So what’s the tea?”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Nina,” Brooke asserts, trying her best to keep her wits about her. Nina is awfully convincing when she wants something, and if Brooke is being honest with herself, she values her friend’s opinion.

“Okay. That’s fine.” Nina takes a bite of her eggs and watches Brooke Lynn with an amused expression. “But I’m going to find out. Because I always find out. So you might as well just tell me what it is.”

And Brooke crumbles because Nina is right—she has known her for her entire career and they’re friends. She trusts Nina implicitly and she needs reassurance. So Brooke sucks in a deep breath.

“I think I kind of have a crush on Jose.” She says it quickly because as soon as the words leave her lips, she knows how it sounds: so, so very junior high that she expects Nina to laugh in her face, and really, would she deserve anything less?

“Oh.” It’s almost worse that Nina’s eyes grow wide and her mouth falls open a little, specks of egg on her tongue, and she says, “Who’s Jose?”

And Brooke feels the blood rush even deeper into her cheeks. She must be a dark shade of purple because the room is suddenly extremely hot, boiling almost (why is she drinking hot coffee in June?), and she wants nothing more than for a hole to open right underneath her and swallow her completely. This is junior high school all over again, and she is being teased for being too feminine.

“Vanessa,” she says weakly, then clears her throat. “Vanjie?”

“Oh,” Nina says again. And then, “Ohh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well…” Nina stabs at her eggs. “Umm. Does Jose feel the same way?”

“I mean…” Brooke shrugs and picks at a spot of superglue still stuck to her thumbnail. “We kissed in the bathroom after the runway last night.”

“So… Yes?” Nina smiles at her, but Brooke shrugs again. “Listen, Brooke, I think if someone’s swapping spit with you, they’re interested.”

“We’re getting to know each other.” When she says it to someone else, the phrase takes on a different feeling. It’s not as tangible or solid. She doesn’t know how to feel about it. Then she remembers Vanjie’s arms around her neck, her lips against her temple, the smell of her cologne that’s always a little too strong… And those are tangible things.

“Oh my god, Drag Race’s first romance,” Nina says, sighing dramatically and placing a hand over her heart. “Please tell me I get to be the flower gay when you guys get married.”

Brooke groans and drains her coffee mug.

*****

It’s a little after two when Vanessa comes looking for Brooke.

Three sharp raps on her door and Brooke answers, expecting Nina or Plastique or even Ra’jah, but instead it’s Vanjie, hip popped to the side, lips quirked up in a smirk.

“I said after lunch, ho.” She pushes past Brooke into the room without being invited in. Not that she needs an invitation. Brooke supposes she always has one.

“Yeah, I lost track of time,” Brooke lies. She hadn’t. She had one hundred percent chickened out of going over to Vanessa’s room because Nina’s comment about them being Drag Race’s first romance had, honestly, pushed her back into her head. Not that it’s difficult to do, but she had been counting on Nina for reassurance. “I was stoning and… You know how into stoning you can get… Time just flies…”

Vanessa grins knowingly, and Brooke knows she’s caught because her room smells nothing like the tell-tale fumes of E6000, and there aren’t any stray rhinestones anywhere. Her room is practically spotless (with the exception of a towel slung across the chair), but Vanjie says nothing about the obvious lie.

“So, I should tell you something…” Vanjie says, clasping her hands together and spinning around to face Brooke. “Promise you won’t get mad.”

Brooke narrows her eyes. “I hesitantly promise I won’t get mad. But I’m Canadian, so it would really be more like kind of annoyed and not so much mad.”

“Well, anyway.” Vanjie bites her lip. “I kind of told Silky that we maybe had a little something going on. Actually what I said was, ‘Brooke Lynn is trade. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating cookies.’ If you know what I’m saying…”

Brooke is so relieved because she knows she should warn Vanjie that Nina is aware of their situation as well, and now she doesn’t have to broach the subject herself. Vanessa has provided her the perfect transition. She’s choosing to ignore the bed comment for now. For her own sanity.

She clears her throat. “That’s funny… Because I told Nina that I had a little bit of a crush on you.”

She might imagine it, but Brooke would swear that Vanjie blushes before she laughs uproariously and says, “A crush? Are you fourteen, Mary?”

Brooke just shrugs. “Look, I don’t know how this whole thing works—”

But suddenly she can’t speak anymore because Vanessa’s lips are on hers and her arms are around Brooke’s neck, and they’re kissing so softly that she forgets what she was even saying because the only thing that matters is the heat and static between them.

And it’s different this time because there’s only them, just her and Vanjie. No cameras, no other queens with prying eyes, no PAs waiting outside the bathroom to escort them back to the Werk Room where they’ll be watched and recorded and lorded over until they’re driven back to the hotel and locked in their rooms. So Brooke breathes and relaxes into Vanessa and the warm pressure of her mouth as it moves rhythmically against hers.

Then Vanessa pulls away and looks up at her with big sparkling eyes, and Brooke knows she’s done for. This isn’t just a junior high school crush. She could develop feelings for Vanessa.

Brooke loves her mom and her siblings and her cats deeply and unabashedly because she knows they’re stuck with her. She has spent years telling herself that she could get by on a life of hookups because feelings are messy and only led to heartbreak and disaster.

She’s always been so focused, there’s just never been time to make a connection.

And here she is, in the middle of the biggest competition of her life, and Vanessa dropped into her lap.

So how do you brace for a category five storm?

You hold on and hope for the best.

“Is this okay?” Vanjie asks her as she blinks rapid-fire. Nervous energy, she drips with it. “That I’m here? That I just really wanted to kiss you again so I did it?”

Hurricane Vanessa makes landfall and wipes out all of Brooke Lynn Hytes’s carefully constructed barriers.

“Okay. Of course it’s okay.” Brooke breathes and anchors her hands on Vanessa’s hips. It’s all they’ve wanted for the few days—no barriers, no restrictions. “I really wanted to kiss you again, too, but I thought maybe after the van last night that it would be weird.”

“You think too much,” Vanessa says softly, pulling gently on the string of Brooke’s hoodie. “You wanna kiss me again? Stop talking and do it. Step up, bitch.”

So Brooke Lynn obliges, and it’s all fire between them as their mouths meld together once again. She still tastes like mint and strawberries and the smallest hint of spice that Brooke was convinced is just Vanjie but now recognizes as brown sugar. She smiles against Vanessa’s mouth.

Brooke can’t stifle the moan when Vanjie rolls her bottom lip between her teeth and tugs gently, so Brooke dives deeper.

She could kiss Vanessa forever, Brooke thinks as they stumble backwards onto the unmade bed, because it feels like the easiest thing in the world.

It feels like breathing.

[fapangel]

What's your opinion on LGBT issues (gay marriage, transgender rights, etc.)? I'm not attempting to troll or 'gotcha' or anything, but I haven't seen you post anything relating to them aside from your response to the "Trump tweet banning trans in military" hullabaloo.

I really don’t give a shit. And I mean that in the classical liberal, hard-core Federalist style - as Thomas Jefferson famously said, “It does me no injury for my neighbor to say there are twenty gods or no God. It neither picks my pocket nor breaks my leg.” I give about as many fucks as Trump’s giving in this picture about the visible queerness of the dude standing next to him:

No one seemed to notice as he passed through security, he recalled. But Trump spotted the fan shortly after the teachers were led into the Oval Office.

“He said I had good style.”

Giannopoulos grew more confident then — enough that when an aide asked him to put the fan away for his private photo, he raised a small protest.

“I said, ‘I was hoping to pose with this,’ ” he said. “They said, ‘No — just put it away.’ ”

He did, for a minute. But before the shutter snapped, Giannopoulos asked the president if he minded.

“He said, sure.” So the fan came out, the ensemble was complete, “and the rest is history,” Giannopoulos said.

“The issue with being openly queer is our existence is constantly politicized,” he said. “They never stop to think: Oh, maybe that’s just who I am.”

That last line of Giannopoulos’s is perfect - it’s why I can’t find a fuck to give. It’s like caring about people being “visibly short” or something. The only time I think of - or give a shit - about gender issues is when they come up in politics, via the courts or whatever. Niel Gorsuch, the latest conservative on the Supreme Court, summarized my views neatly when he said the courts aren’t the place to advance social or cultural debates. (When Justice Roberts correctly identified Obamacare’s individual mandate as a roundabout tax, he punted it back to Congressional conservatives with a note; “stop trying to use the courts to write your goddamned legislation for you.” It’s much the same principle.) Likewise, most of this can’t simply be legislated away, either, any more than the 13th amendment’s abolition of slavery ended racism or prevented Jim Crow. The entire notion of protected classes that was created to demolish Jim Crow has always been awkward - the result of a legal system with no concept of class divides having to hastily adapt to prevent the reality of such from undermining it - but a lot of what we see ending up in the courts or legislature these days aren’t anything like those weighty issues of law and liberty our Republic’s long sough to reconcile. They’re more shit like that Californian bathroom law that ordered single-occupant restrooms (which anyone of any gender could already use) to put up gender-neutral signage. This changed nothing and helped nobody, but by jove it was fantastic virtue-signalling, wasn’t it? This isn’t going to increase “acceptance” or change anyone’s mind - in fact, it might just foster resentment, achieving the exact opposite. I understand why people in these minority groups choose to make the courts the forum for their cultural debates - the publicity and such - but I really question the wisdom of it. But at the end of the day I don’t have any strong knowledge or interest of their movement’s problems and priorities, so neither do I have strong feelings about how they go about promoting them. Californian businesses having to spend ten bucks on new sign placards is indeed picking their pocket - but it’s ten bucks. Whuppity fukkin doo. 

As for transgender issues specifically, my main concern is that the people aggressively pushing the concept of transgenderism as an “identity” issue are glossing over the biological and mental aspects of it - transgender people suffer from gender dysphoria, a recognized mental disorder that’s seemingly related to disorders like body integrity identity disorder, where people suffering from acute xenomelia (the dysphoric sense that their own limb[s] are not their own,) begin to desire amputating the offending limb. Any way you look at this, this is abnormal. The Usual Suspects argue that the much higher suicide rate of transgender people is solely due to bullying and discrimination - and they might be right - but they never address how gender reassignment surgery doesn’t seem to reduce that horrific suicide rate at all. 

Sex reassignment surgery is a permanent mutilation of the human body, and the details of them are quite gruesome - they are not something to undertake lightly, as they’re irreversible and come with significant side effects. But the left wing only sees it as an Identity Issue to virtue signal over - they’re not just uninterested in the actual effectiveness of sex reassignment surgery as a treatment, they’re actively hostile to any attempt to investigate it (like the surgeon in that Guardian article that declared a proper controlled study would be “unethical.”) 

The permanence of sex reassignment surgery is what alarms me - it cannot be reversed. Encouraging people to undergo a drastic and irreversible surgical procedure which hasn’t been proven to be an effective treatment is fucked up. Considering how drastic bodily alteration for no gain is liable to have grievous psychological consequences of its own - on top of that the patient already suffers - it’s really fucking hard to believe that the people encouraging this (without solid evidence that it works) actually care about transgender people. 

Even worse, it seems unnecessary. If this is truly an identity issue, then there’s no need for body altering surgeries. If gender’s just a social construct, then dress as you want, because it’s a free country. Want to wear a dress? Go for it, it’s a free country. Want to wear a ham sandwich around your neck on a string? Who’s gonna stop you? It’s a free country, you can do what you fuckin want. Want to sexually identify as an attack helicopter? IT’S A FREE COUNTRY, NOBODY CAN STOP YOU. I thought we agreed as a society that mutilating your body to adhere to socially-mandated gender roles was fucked up - like in Iran, where gay men are forced to undergo sex reassignment surgery so they conform to a patriarchal, religious culture’s gender role mandate.

And if it is a biological issue, then why do so many leftists flip their effing lids if you call it a disorder that should be looked at by those people that specialize in brain biology issues - you know, specialist doctors? Why aren’t we putting teams of specialists on studying this, instead of listening to fucking surgeons (the same ones making bank on the sex reassignment surgeries) who say that scientific study and investigation is “unethical?” Why are there voices trying to stop doctors from treating and helping these people? 

I don’t have a dog in this race, and I haven’t taken a deep dive into researching all facets of the argument. My stance on the whole thing is pretty simple: if transgenderism is not a mental illness - then it’s still a free goddamn country, they can do as they damn well please. If it is a mental illness, then we should treat these people to the best of our ability - and find a way to pay for it, too. Nobody asks to be born ill, mentally or otherwise - this wasn’t their decision, or their fault, so they shouldn’t have to suffer for it, either. These people deserve help, and helping them requires remedies that actually work. I don’t give a fuck how we do it, because this isn’t about the how. This isn’t about puffing up someone’s pet policy, this is about getting these people the help they need and deserve. We’re all going to have different ideas about what the best solution is, but we can’t even begin to have that debate until we have properly identified the problem. 

And that’s why people that stand in the way of doing that piss me off. 

So yeah, that’s how I feel about ell-gee-bee-tees. As long as it harms none, yiff whom you will, I don’t give a fuck. And if they’re screaming about their rights being violated, then welcome to the goddamn club, ladies and gentlemen and demiboys - please pick up your complimentary Gasden Flag and concealed carry permit at the desk, and be sure to join us for the Two Minutes REEEEEE every hour, on the hour.