#he says to forgetting to take his binder off during phone sex

[thebucketcrew]

I saw a silly comic on twitter that made me think of Mistel so here's a little shitpost doodle of him being bobo the fool

[taechaos]

A Parting Gift

Continuation of Blackmail from Textbook Love

pairing: bully!Jungkook x nerdy!fem!Reader

genre: drabble, smut, college au

synopsis: "He told me he would leak your video if you don’t give him a handjob."

warnings: deception/manipulation, dubcon, handjob, spit, slight angst

word count: 2.4k

tag: @mwitsmejk

a/n: jungkook is a bit cruel in this 😖 a flop.

Every time you think about Jimin seeing you in your most vulnerable state, you want to cry, gag, vomit, but all you can do is look down and walk away from his direction in a hurry. Jungkook told you to avoid him, and it’s the easiest option for you right now, but you wish you could tell him it was an accident. If he doesn’t see you, he’ll forget it quicker and save you the embarrassment.

It’s been three days since the incident, and it’s Monday as you clutch your binder to your chest while walking to your afternoon lecture. The coast is clear when you scurry down the halls, the lightning dim due to the gloomy weather outside. It’s going to rain soon, but you got off easy by arriving early. The campus is not crowded yet, just as you expected before coming. Chances of seeing Jimin are supposed to be lowered in this instance, but the boy really can’t take a hint.

You hear him holler your name from a distance in the corridor, and you quicken your steps anxiously. You’re internally begging for him to leave you alone, to forget you exist, just to not approach you. The chants don’t matter when he gently holds your shoulder a few seconds later. You screw your eyes shut the moment you’re turned around, hoping he would just go away and spare the shame.

“Hey,” he exhales, out of breath from his short sprint to you. “Why were you ignoring me just now?”

“I didn’t hear you,” you lie and open your eyes. Jimin frowns.

“That’s not true,” he mumbles, “I was pretty loud and you don’t even have earphones in.”

You don’t say anything and grimace at the floor instead, avoiding his gaze for as long as you can. You’re not a good liar, and Jimin realizes that all too quickly. He continues quietly, “Is this about the… video?”

“It was an accident!” you blurt out with flushed cheeks, “J-Jungkook was going to send it to himself, but…”

She’s so dense, Jimin thinks in astonishment. “He told you that?” He knows it was on purpose; Jungkook was sending him a message beyond the media: that he stands no chance; that you belong to him. He was telling him to back off, but Jimin is more strong-willed than that.

“Yes… please forget about that video.” You avert your gaze to him pleadingly.

“I’m not judging you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he tries to comfort, “but are you sure it wasn’t intentional?”

Both of you miss Jungkook exiting the lecture hall when you respond. His brows furrow the moment he notices the interaction, but his vision is blocked by other students leaving. He shoves a few as he watches you from afar, your back facing him and Jimin’s expression angering him with its doubtful look. Why the fuck is he still talking to her? He fumes in his spot until you turn back on your path to attend your lecture. You glance at him mid-way and all of your worries vanish the moment you lock eyes. You are taken aback by his glare as he waves you off and stalks up to Jimin who is just idly standing by without moving.

He only breaks out of his trance when Jungkook grabs him by his collar. “I’m guessing you didn’t hear what she said,” he refers to the video with a subtle snarl.

“Heard it loud and clear,” Jimin retaliates obnoxiously. The halls are emptying itself out, and he grows a bit more nervous when he realizes that he’s alone.

“Are you fucking dense? Why are you still following her around like a fucking creep?” He’s greeted with silence, and another possibility dawns on him. A cheshire grin crosses his features as he scoffs, “Oh, you liked it, didn’t you?”

Jimin blinks, dumbfounded, but doesn’t respond. He’s harshly shoved and the back of his head bangs against the wall, echoing in the otherwise silent area. An oomf escapes his mouth at the force, but Jungkook isn’t apologetic.

“You jacked off to it, Jimin?” he closes in on the suffering man who only stares at him. “Answer me.”

“N-No, I wouldn’t-” He’s cut off by the stinging pain on his scalp. 

Jungkook yanks his hair back without mercy, and sings, “Stuttering, avoiding eye contact, taking too long to respond… all signs of lying, no?”

“You’re hurting me,” Jimin holds onto his wrist with both hands as he groans. Jungkook only tugs on it harder.

“I’ll let go if you answer me honestly.” 

Jimin knows that Jungkook is waiting for one specific answer; it is obvious by the sick glint in his eyes. Alas, he tries again, “I-I didn’t do that!”

A deep sigh leaves his mouth with an eye roll, and he brings his free hand to wrap his fingers around Jimin’s neck. He doesn’t put any pressure on him yet, and Jimin is helpless because of the weight pressing against his legs to prevent him from kicking. “Pity,” he mutters, “I never took you for a pervert and a liar.”

The air leaves Jimin’s lungs all too soon when Jungkook tightens his grip on his throat, crushing his windpipes without so much as an expression on his face. Jimin claws at his arm as he wheezes, and Jungkook doesn’t react in the slightest; he looks psychopathic. “Yes,” he finally croaks, “I did.”

He coughs the moment Jungkook removes his hands from him. He bends on his knees as he catches his breath, and the deadly man waits patiently. “You did what?”

“I-I… I jacked off to it,” he swallows audibly.

“Jacked off to what? Your sex life doesn’t interest me.”

“I jacked off to the video of you fingering… her.” Jimin is once again reminded of how cruel Jungkook is, and all he wants is for you to realize that before it’s too late. But he isn’t any better when he is admitting the truth of his wrongful actions.

“Christ…” he trails and shakes his head. He’s feigning disgust, but it works in making Jimin feel worse. “I bet you’d pay to watch it live.”

“Jungkook, please,” he begs hoarsely, his throat dry and scratchy from the suffocation, “stop this. You don’t even love her.”

“Jimin,” he says monotonously, “count yourself lucky that I don’t have any scissors on me, because I’d cut your tongue off right about now. Your voice gives me a headache,” he sighs, “meet me in the lounge at 4.”

You’re worried and twitching on the edge of your seat during your lecture. Conversing with Jimin was awkward, and him telling you Jungkook had lied to you was infuriating, but it shifted to anxiety when Jungkook appeared upset with you. Why do you always do things wrong?

Dwelling on your feelings is not an option when you have to focus on your professor, and you’re overwhelmed with so many things at once. Your exams; Jungkook’s assignments; Jimin’s persistence are all taking a toll on you. You don’t hesitate to escape reality when your phone vibrates in your pocket. It’s a message from Jungkook and your heart fills with relief as you open it under the desk. It reads:

come straight to the lounge after your lecture.

He’s been interacting with you outside of academical topics, and it feels like you’ve hit a milestone. It’s progress at its finest! He’s waiting for you. Time passes too slow for you, and you eagerly take notes to distract yourself; it works, and you’re out of the hall in a rush.

Students are packing up their belongings just as you stride into the lounge. Jungkook is sitting at the far back, and you almost miss his figure. He’s scrolling through his phone when you reach him and your shallow breaths make him look up. 

“Hi,” you breathe and place your sling bag on the coffee table. The room is spacious and the couches are wide and comfortable. You sit down next to him, your leg touching his spread one.

“Hey baby,” he greets with a smile. You internally scream at the rare pet name, unaware that he’s intentionally riling you up. “How was your lecture?”

“It was good! I missed you so much,” you lean into him, “I didn’t upset you earlier, did I?”

“Of course not, princess. I missed you too,” he palms your cheek before pecking the tip of your nose. “Oh, and Jimin will be joining us today.”

You don’t get to relish in Jungkook’s affection long before your eyes widen. “What? Why?”

“I spoke to him earlier today, and well…” he sighs guiltily, “He told me he would leak your video if you don’t give him a handjob. And I agreed on my terms.”

Your lips part as hatred consumes you. Jungkook knows you would do it, and he knows you’ll hold a grudge. And Jimin… well, he’ll definitely have this experience to keep him satisfied for a while.

Said man stands before the both of you timidly. You’re still in shock when you avert your gaze to him. Jungkook is unexpectedly friendly as he stands up and says, “Jimin! Take a seat.” Jimin sits in his former seat wordlessly as Jungkook plops on the loveseat across. “I don’t think we should drag this out longer than it needs to be.” He juts his chin at you, “Start.”

Jimin is perplexed when you hide your face from him as you unbuckle his belt. “Wh-What are you doing?” he asks, but doesn’t stop you.

Before you can respond, Jungkook says, “She knows.” You and Jimin have two different interpretations of his words, and he is baffled by your reaction to it. You’re going to pleasure him because of what he did? Or is this all an attempt at cutting his dick off?

Your upper body covers your actions from any outsiders, but Jimin is worried he won’t be able to stay quiet when your hand massages his crotch over his briefs. It’s a wet dream come true, really, as he involuntarily inches closer to you. Jungkook leans his cheek on his palm as he watches you in boredom. “Take it out,” he instructs you. You don’t glance at Jimin as you push down his underwear and wrap your hand around his erection. He’s not fully erect because he’s still confused, but the more you stroke him, the harder it grows. “You like it?”

Jimin is conflicted between responding and ignoring, but his noises are the only answer Jungkook needs. He is suppressing moans with gasps, shuddering in his seat because your hand feels so soft and you look so pretty and shy. When you pick up your head to gaze at him questioningly, he replies, “Y-Yes.” 

He is entranced by your doe eyes but Jungkook breaks the building tension by mocking, “You look like you want to kiss her. Calm yourself.”

There’s a brief pause before you ask, “Would it make you… cum faster?”

Jungkook leans his elbows on his knees in interest, a smirk plastered on his face at the power dynamic: both of you are playing along to his strings, two puppets under his control. It makes him curious to see how far you’re willing to go before he’s completely rid of Jimin. The only reason he’s allowing this to happen is because of how pathetic Jimin looks now, and how he’ll be utterly crushed when you never speak to him again. It’s a bittersweet parting memory.

“Um…” he hesitates, but thinks if you decided to give him a handjob, a kiss wouldn’t make you uncomfortable. “Yes?”

You inch your face closer to his, and the both of you look like middle schoolers with how slow your lips eventually meet. It’s a sloppy and amateur kiss with Jimin whining into your mouth, his tongue swiping across your lips recklessly. He’s lost in the pleasure, and it’s clear to you that he’s never done anything like this before. Your thumb grazes the tip of his stiff length, and he begins to twitch under you. You use your other hand to pump his girth, your lips awkwardly pressing against his plump ones.

“Spit in his mouth.”

You abruptly pull away to gawk at Jungkook, but he only raises a brow intimidatingly, as if daring you to defy him. “Open,” you demand Jimin. His eyes are hazy, and he has no idea what he’s doing. He’s drunk on your touch as he parts his glistening lips and slightly sticks out his tongue. You spit on it and he flicks his tongue out to collect all of it, swallowing with a deep rumble resounding from his chest. He’s enjoying this far too much.

You don’t notice him cum with a thrust in the air when you kiss him, but as it begins to coat your fingers, you look down to see his oozing leak. It’s not spurting, and you’re grateful for it when you scoot away from him. He’s panting with his head thrown back on the couch headrest. 

Jungkook breaks his silence by cooing to you, “Are you okay, baby?” You nod with a pout, head turned away from Jimin. You’re waiting for Jungkook’s cue to leave so you can speak your mind. “You can go now.”

Without skipping a beat, you seethe, “Fuck you, Jimin. Don’t talk to me ever again or else I will report you to the dean. I hate you, and I hope to never see you again.” You make your grand departure right after, and the man sputters incoherently in confusion.

“What did I do…?”

“Now, Jimin, you heard the girl,” he grins and clasps his hands, “she may take pity on you, but I won’t. One word from you to her, and you’re fucked.”

“If you’re so jealous, why would you let her do that to me?”

He merely shrugs. “Who is she waiting for after giving you a handjob?” he stands up and towers over the seated man who is fumbling with his belt. “I was being nice to you before she completely cut contact with you. You’re welcome by the way.”

As he exits the lounge, he scoffs to himself, “Jealous. What a joke.”

He has no reason to be jealous, because when he's outside, you're shuffling on your feet with your hands held behind your back with a bright smile as you turn to look at him.

"There's my girl," he affirms with a lopsided grin.

It shouldn't feel so reassuring when you reply, "Always yours." And as long as you are, you should be content with only having him in your life.

Because he's never going to catch you talking to another boy again, even if it's his former best friend.

[ms-maj]

Sadie Hawkins Dance

More songfic y’all! It’s only taken six months to do nine of them so, I’ll maybe finish this challenge before I’m ninety...

Again, ALL the love and thanks to @bettycooper​ for her amaze beta skills and wonderful header. 

The Sadie Hawkins dance

In my khaki pants

There's nothing better

Oh oh oh

The girls ask the guys

It’s always a surprise

There's nothing better baby

Do you like my sweater?

Sadie Hawkins Dance- Relient K

Time: 12:47 p.m.

Location: The hallway outside the cafeteria

Objective: Get Jughead alone for five minutes to ask him to the stupid dance

The Sadie Hawkins Dance. It had been her idea, after all, in some convoluted (not-so-subtle) attempt to get control of the raging crush she’d developed on one of her childhood best friends. The natural course of events should have put her firmly crushing on her all-American neighbor and other childhood best friend, Archie Andrews, and for the briefest of moments, she had... until Jughead walked up to their favorite swimming hole the summer before ninth grade and inadvertently taught her all about what true desire was. To say Betty had been blindsided was an understatement.

Three years later and she’s still staring at him from across the room—though it might as well be the other side of the world for all he seems to notice—as he sits with the friends he made during his brief tenure at Southside High. Even if she made it impossible for him to forget her by calling and texting constantly, Betty hated (and still hates) those three months more than anything. When he walked back into Riverdale High with Toni Topaz—who was ten ways of sexy Betty could never measure up to—her heart broke. 

Despite reassurances from Jughead himself that they were only friends and Toni was far more interested in the fairer sex, Betty couldn’t help but wonder what it would take for him to ever look at her the way she swore he looked at Toni, but wondering was all she did. Despite her initial beliefs, as time went on, she saw only genuine friendship between them, and nothing else.

As relieved as she was, she was more guarded with him than she’d been before. She tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to will her crush away on more than one occasion, but his proximity and renewed involvement in the Blue and Gold made it damn near impossible. 

Read me here or on AO3

When she’d mentioned a Sadie Hawkins Dance a month ago, he scoffed. “Really, Cooper, did we time travel in our sleep? Is it somehow the fifties again?”

As annoyed as she’d been, she hadn’t exactly expected him to be enthusiastic about the concept. Jughead wasn’t particularly fond of any, or all, typical high school activities. Least of all school dances. 

“Would you go?” He looked at her with furrowed brows and an incredulous smirk. “If someone asked you to the dance, would you go?”

She hoped her face didn’t betray just how anxious she was for his answer. “The only reason I ever went was for the food. I don’t know why that would change now.”

Her heart dropped from her throat to her stomach. All the other dances he’d gone to were with her, and apparently it had only been for access to the refreshments table. Choking back tears, she nodded and went back to work on her article. 

That was the last time they’d spoken more than a few words to one another. He’d tried, on several occasions, to initiate conversation between them, but she always found a way out. Between the paper, the dance committee, and cheerleading, Betty always had a viable excuse, but it was getting harder and harder to avoid him. 

Especially since nothing seems to get by their vulture friends. Veronica, Archie, Kevin, and even Reggie know about her crush and despite all their reassurances that Jughead would reciprocate, she simply cannot get their last conversation out of her head. Of course, he’d say yes if she asked him to go to the dance. She was in charge of the food which guaranteed the selection would be everything he wanted. 

(Not that she had suggested his favorites first, or anything. That would just be weird.)

Betty pulls her phone from her back pocket and checks the time just as the bell rings. She knows he has Chemistry after lunch and if she keeps stalling, Ethel Muggs is going to ask him then. As much as she likes Ethel, she won’t let that happen...even if his saying yes only means he’s hungry. 

“Betty!” She swings around, book and binder for her next class held tightly against her chest. 

“Kev, what’s up?” Her tone is short and words clipped as she looks back at the now empty Serpent table. 

“You will not believe who asked Jughead Jones to the Sadie Hawkins!”

Betty’s head snaps back to her brunette friend. “Wh-what?” She manages to stammer as she realizes she’s lost Jughead in the receding crowd. 

“You know the new girl, Sabrina?” Betty nods even though she’s a world away trying to remember if she’d seen the petite blonde at his table. “Well, she just walked right up to him and sat on his lap—”

“Oh crap, sorry, Kev, I’ve got to...I mean I have this...I have to go.” Holding her books even closer to her, Betty makes her way to class trying to will away the bile and tears that keep threatening to spill over.

Of course, she’s glad she didn’t have to actually see it. She spent the majority of her lunch period psyching herself up to ask him, so Kevin’s unwelcome interruption saved her much of the face she’d have lost if she actually had caught up to Jughead. 

There are only two periods left in the day, and one is study hall. She just needs to make it through Trig then she can have a proper breakdown in the Blue and Gold. Betty takes her seat quickly and wills the minutes to pass faster than they ever had in math. 

Eighty-five minutes later she slinks into the Blue and Gold. Closing the door as she enters the room, Betty’s forehead smacks against it as it clicks closed.

“That hardly sounded pleasant, Coop,” the voice behind her causes her eyes to pinch tightly. “Now, you wanna tell me why you feel like you need to slam your head into doors?” 

She takes a deep breath in and turns on the exhale, dewy lashes fluttering open. The smile on her face is forced and fake, and she knows instantly he can see right through it. Still, she steps toward where he’s leaning against the desk. “It’s just been one of those days, Jug. Nothing’s going my way, but, it’s mostly my fa—”

“Don’t you dare,” he punctuates with a sharply pointed finger in her direction. Her eyes roll as it retracts, and his arms cross over his chest. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I highly doubt it was your fault.”

“How would you know, Jughead? Where have you been?”

His bag falls to the ground as he stands up, confusion and anger sewn into his brow. “Excuse me? I’m right fucking here, Betts. I haven’t gone anywhere!”

Betty’s own brow raises incredulous. “No? Then where are you on movie night or game night? I know Archie misses kicking your ass as much as I do, but every single time we ask you…” her voice trails off knowing that, while this is all true, it’s nothing to do with the matter at hand. “I miss you, Jug.”

“Okay, so why are you freezing me out? If you miss me then why can’t I spend more than two minutes with you? Every single time I’ve seen you in the last three weeks you’ve literally run away from me.”

Her tongue feels heavy with the words she wishes she was brave enough to say. She wants to scream at him, ask why not her, why never her, what does she have to do to get his attention? 

Instead, she drops her books onto the nearest surface and crosses her arms, staring back at him intently. “Why do you think, Jug?” 

She’s met with a blank stare that hurts as much as if he’d just said ‘no’ to her. Betty tightens her ponytail and drops into the desk she’s set her stuff at. “Just forget it. Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“It’s just English. I will not be missed.”

Betty sits up a little straighter, slightly more curious than before. “I thought you had English with Sabrina?”

“I do,” he leans back against the desk directly in front of her. 

“Well, I just thought after lunch you’d want to spend as much time with her as possible.” Somehow, her voice barely breaks as the words leave her mouth.

His head shakes as confusion emerges as the dominant emotion. “Were you even at lunch? I don’t remember seeing you...but no, Betts. After that Debra Morgan confessing love to her step-brother level of awkward, the last thing I want to do is see Sabrina.”

“Oh. I just thought since you were going to the dance together maybe you’d want to see her more, I don’t know. At least you have a real date this time and won’t have to use me for access to the refreshments table.” She tries her hand at levity, and it falls flat between them. She’s not sure she’s ever seen the particular look adorning his face.

“Betty,” he sighs softly as one of his dexterous hands pulls the beanie from his head and the other slides through the dark waves. “That wasn’t, I mean, that’s not what... You can’t actually believe that’s what I meant!”

She finds herself standing despite not wanting to react. “That’s what you said. It’s not like I was trying to decode it the way I do ninety-nine percent of our other interactions. For the first time since you came back to Riverdale High, you actually said what you meant.”

“Decode? What the fuck does that mean?” He pushes off the desk he’s been leaning against and surges onto hers. “I have never been anything but real with you. Only you. Only ever you.” 

“Bullshit.” She leans in, both sets of their hands grip the edge of the desk as the staredown continues. “For the last year, I’ve done everything I can to try to get you to notice.”

Jughead scoffs. “Notice what?”

“Me, Jughead!” She sighs, pushing off the desk and turning away from him. “I wanted you to notice me.”

Betty runs weary hands over her face. She’s so sick of crying, so tired of feeling lonely even though she never seems alone. The tears crest in her eyes but don’t spill down her cheeks until she’s grabbed by the elbow and spun around. 

“Do you really think I didn’t—that I don’t notice you? That I don’t see just how often you tighten your ponytail, or the way your hands ball up at your sides when you’re angry, or the red rings around your eyes—”

“I have allergies!”  

“No, that’s what you tell everyone but I know they’re only bad in the fall. This is something different,” he stops holding onto her elbow but doesn’t stop touching her. In fact, his hand slides up her arm and cups around her shoulder before finally resting at her neck. Long fingers wrap around the base of her neck, he thumbs at the hollow of her throat and the breath stills in her body. “Betty…”

Her eyes flicker to his. They’re dark, tidal pools in a tempest as his body invades her space in the most perfect way. She wraps a hand around the wrist that holds her, his pulse pounding beneath her fingers. Betty doesn’t even notice he’s moved, not until his lips are on hers and she’s carding her free hand through his unruly hair. An undignified moan escapes her, and she stills, only to feel Jughead’s grip on her throat tighten as his other hand slips to her ass and pulls her tight against him. His thumb traces a path up to her chin, guiding her head so he can kiss her more deeply.

She’s not sure how long they’ve been kissing. Frankly, she’s not sure she even cares. If kissing him once feels like this, she can’t wait to do it again. And again. And again. Maybe at the dance…

She pulls away abruptly, Jughead’s eyes slowly blinking open and crossing in confusion. “What? Did I do something wrong?” Betty doesn’t break the contact, just leans back as his hands drop to her waist. 

“No, Jug, that was perfect. This was everything I hoped it could be. My thoughts just got a little ahead of me.”

A frown creases his brow while a hand slides up her back and threads through the flaxen waves of her ponytail. “Then what is it, Betts?”

“Sabrina,” she blurts out. “I know she asked you to the dance, and here I am, practically throwing myself at you. But, to be fair, I had planned on asking you to the dance which is why you didn’t see me at lunch. I was too busy trying not to have a panic attack over it, and then I saw Kevin first, and he told me Sabrina made it very clear she wanted to take you to the dance—”

“Hey, hey, breathe Betty,” smirking, Jughead stops her before she rambles all of her oxygen away. “Did Kevin happen to tell you what else happened at lunch?”

Betty’s eyes drop in embarrassment as her head shakes no. The light tug on her ponytail forces her eyes back to his, which implore her to tell her story. “I kinda, sorta, maybe ran away from him after he said she sat on your lap.” 

“So you missed the part where I said ‘no’ and asked her to remove herself from my space. She did not take too kindly to that, so avoiding English wasn’t unintentional.”

“Why did you say no, Jug? If you were just looking for an excuse, she’s a smart, funny, gorgeous one.”

“Because the only person I wanted to ask me is standing in this room.” Both hands come to frame her face as she holds onto the lapels of his threadbare flannel. “Because a few weeks ago I thought she was going to, and I was only recently made aware of how gloriously I fucked that up,” she laughs, feeling his thumbs sweep up her cheekbones while she drowns in his eyes. “Because I never wanted an excuse to go to the dance. I just wanted to spend time with you, be around you, and how could fourteen-year-old me have ever imagined that the girl of his dreams actually dreamed about him too?”

“Jug,” her voice a whisper swallowed by the silence. She grabs his face between her hands and pulls it toward her.

“Wait,” he breathes against her lips. “I think you have something very important to ask me.” She feels the upturn of his lips on hers, and her bottom lip finds itself between her teeth as she tries to hold her grin at bay.

“Jughead Jones, will you go with me to Sadie Hawkins?” 

“Only for you, Betty Cooper,” he says no more, simply slants his mouth over hers and kisses her like she’s never been kissed before. For the first and only time, she's happy that it's taken this long for anything to happen, because she can't imagine there's a better feeling in the world than this. And she fully intends to test that theory for as long as he'll let her. 

[workmaninprogress]

Last month I volunteered to read at a service for Transgender Day of Remembrance. What I didn’t realize is that I would end up speaking for the closing remarks. My responsibility went from reading off of a paper to trying to come up with something worthy of the occasion.

There was something that I had written a few months ago that I didn’t get as involved in as I wanted to because I didn’t have the words for it yet. I used it as a caption for a photo several posts ago so it’ll sound familiar. I combined that with what I had written last year for TDOR. Then, of course, finished with a quote from ABBA.

I don’t necessarily ~have~ to share my speech more publicly than I already have, but I felt it important to document it as part of my transition.

For time, I ended up reading only the names of the transgender individuals from the US at the service. But there were 347 names I did not read. Meaning there were 369 deaths total within the past year.

Here’s the speech (not sorry for length):

“I remember being little and standing on the metal step stool in front of the bathroom mirror.

I remember “shaving” my face using popsicle sticks as my razor.

I remember hours in front of that mirror, tucking my hair behind my ears, moving my bangs to the side so that all I saw was short hair.

I remember playing outside with a childhood friend. We were playing with water balloons, he took his shirt off, I wanted to but couldn’t, and didn’t know why.

I remember wanting boy shoes but getting the same pair of white keds with flowers several times in a row instead.

I remember being a double agent for the boys so I could steal dolls and teddy bears from girls on the playground.

I remember the exact day, the exact moment, and the exact red and black striped shirt that I realized I had boobs.

I remember the embarrassment of my first period.

I remember the peer pressure and teasing from my classmates until I shaved my legs.

I remember the time spent pretending to like a boy just to have something to talk about with girls.

I remember wanting to hold hands with all of the girls, that I realized later, I had crushes on.

I remember needing to hide in bathroom stalls while changing in the locker room and feeling the overwhelming desire cover every inch of my skin when it came for swimsuit season.

I remember being called a dyke in the high school cafeteria.

I remember just how little I remember of 13 years of mennonite school after repressing most of it.

I remember cutting my hair short for the first time.

I remember the several hairstylists that said “oh you don’t want that, that’ll be too masculine.” every time I went in to get it cut shorter.

I remember coming out as bi on Facebook and my aunt immediately accusing me that all I wanted was sex.

I remember my math professor splitting the class up between girls and guys as an example of percentages.

I remember her counting wrong 3 times before she realized I wasn’t a boy.

I remember verbally expressing my interest in transitioning for the first time.

I remember my best friend not believing me.

I remember when it finally clicked in her brain, and she became one of my first supporters.

I remember telling another so called best friend.

I remember the night she told me that there was no room for a sick person like me in her life.

I remember telling my sister and her reaction of pure disappointment and fear of tearing the family apart.

I remember telling my brother and his not so eloquent way of telling me he will always support and love me.

I remember getting stuck in my first binder.

I remember the summer morning that my father tried to kick me out of the house and said he wanted nothing to do with me because of a binder.

I remember the feeling of relief after my breast reduction.

I remember the disappointment of waking up, knowing I’d still be wearing a binder every day.

I remember the mother of my first girlfriend who said I was insane to try to make someone else go along with my lies.

I remember getting dumped over the phone. Listening to her voice almost laughingly say “I just think I’m a lesbian.” as she blamed my gender identity for the breakup.

I remember the nurse being late to my appointment for my first shot of testosterone.

I remember learning how to do my own shots.

I remember the anticipation for it to be shot day again.

I remember that anticipation dwindling and becoming a mundane, often forgotten, task.

I remember every moment spent arguing with the pharmacist so that I can get the correct needles to do my injections.

I remember my voice starting to crack, counting my chin hairs in the mirror, and wanting to eat everything in sight.

I remember shaving my face for the first time with a real razor instead of pretending with popsicle sticks.

I remember my coworker at the deli thinking it was outrageous that customers called me “sir.”

I remember a nurse at a hospital telling me “you had me fooled as a man, and you should take that as a compliment,” meaning I passed well as a cisgender male.

I remember opening up for the first to a room full of strangers during group therapy.

I remember the 71 year old man shaking my hand, giving me a hug, and telling me what an inspiration I was to him.

I remember my mother standing in the kitchen as she fumbled her words saying “you’re a good girl. Er. Boy. Thing. Person. You’re a good person.”

I remember the feeling of receiving a standing ovation, just two weeks ago, from another (much larger room) full of strangers after I told my story in hopes to help bring awareness to educators.

Soon I will be able to look back and remember this moment. File it away as another step in my transition.

I remember how far I’ve come. I remember the little girl with long red hair wearing dirt covered overalls. She’s still in me and I work hard every day to try to make her proud. But we’re not here for me and my memories. Because I’m just the one reading a list of names.

A list of names of the children and adults that have died within the past year. Transgender and gender non-conforming people. I read maybe twenty or so names. Twentyish names out of the three hundred and sixty nine documented people that have lost their lives within the year.

369.

That number is hard to swallow, but we shouldn’t forget about them. We should mourn their loss. We should become activists for those that have been silenced. More importantly we should offer love, hope, and support for those that can’t speak up.

I’m able to stand here reading this after injecting my 71st shot of testosterone into my thigh last night. I’m able to stand here because I was fortunate to grow up surrounded by loving and supportive people. With every name added to that list, I’m reminded of how incredibly difficult this journey is and how incredibly blessed I am to be able to live an open life. I choose to be open and vulnerable for those that don’t have that ability.

I don’t really know what words to string together to make this moment seem ~okay~ so I suppose I’ll just stop talking. I’ll leave you with some words from my all time favorite band, abba:

“People need hope, people need lovin'

People need trust from a fellow man

People need love to make a good livin'

People need faith in a helping hand”

369. Remember them.”

[jilliancares]

Amour

Summary: Trans!Dan and Phil get ready to have sex for the first time.

Word Count: 4k

A/N: i’m not trans but i did my best with research to make sure i got everything right and wasn’t offensive in any way. if there are any incongruities in that sense, forgive me :]

~~

Dan was a boy. That was one of his first memories, really—being vehemently certain that he was male. He expressed it in every way he could, but when a three year old tells their parents, quite determinedly, that they’re the opposite gender—well, parents generally assume that they’re confused. That they’re just a kid. That they don’t know what they’re saying.

And so Dan took his gender into his own hands, at least, until he was old enough for his parents to genuinely believe that he was, in fact, a boy. At four years old he snuck into his father’s office, found the grown-up scissors, and cut off all the hair that hung lower than his ears. His mother was horrified—not because it was short, but because really, no four year old should ever try to cut their own hair. He was taken to a hair-cutters shortly after in an attempt to correct the remains.

Growing up, Dan also refused to wear anything pink, as every other little kid immediately associated it with girls. He also hid, tarnished, or threw away any dresses or skirts his extended family bought him for birthdays or Christmas—his own family already knew not to buy him such things, as he wouldn’t wear it.

By the time he was six, he owned a full and comprehensive set of little boys’ clothes and couldn’t be happier. By the time he was ten, another little boy pantsed him at recess and his entire grade proceeded to call him a girl. Dan moved away after that, all the way to London, where he could start anew and make sure that no one ever found out that he hadn’t been born with a penis ever again.

Shortly after Dan turned twelve, he got his period, and could never have been more ashamed. He hated it with every fiber of his being. He spent each month dreading its arrival, and when he had it, was so depressed that he often locked himself up in his room and refused to converse with anyone or even go to school. On the occasions that Dan’s parents managed to coax him out of his room and out the door, Dan would simply hide in a nearby forest until the school day was over.

That very same year, his parents bought him his first binder, which helped monumentally with his self-esteem. Even better was that his parents did research and found that there was a way to halt his puberty. Unfortunately, this involved seeing a doctor and going to a therapist to “prove” that he really wasn’t a girl, which was possibly the most disheartening thing he’d had to experience yet. Dan didn’t see why he should have to prove something to others, something that seemed so obvious to himself.

Nevertheless, a year later Dan was equipped with hormone blockers, which put and end to his period and his parents’ anxiety, afraid he was going to miss so much school he would be held back. The doctors said he was too young to start testosterone, but he looked forward to the day when he was old enough with giddy excitement.

By the time Dan turned seventeen, he was in love. Phil Lester was the nicest boy he’d ever met, and Dan fell head over heels for him. They met in their chemistry class, their seats having been next to each other. They became fast friends, and Phil was the first and only person Dan told about being trans.

They started dating immediately after Phil kissed Dan, soft and gentle, in the front seat of Phil’s car. They liked to sneak out there during lunch and eat together, away from the clamor of the cafeteria. When Phil started to lean in, Dan couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d had no choice but to believe it, however, once Phil’s hand cupped his face and his lips brushed Dan’s. It was the best moment of Dan’s life.

For a while, things went really slow, and Dan was glad of it. They went on dates and held hands, sharing shy glances across the table at a restaurant or carefully, nervously pressing closer to each other in a movie theater. At the end of each date, Phil would drive him home and kiss him goodnight—Dan could easily count each of their kisses on his fingers.

And then, one day, Dan went over to Phil's house. This date was unlike the others, in that they were completely alone, Phil's parents being somewhere out of the house. Sure, they played a movie, but there was no stiff arm rest between them. Dan could lean completely against Phil's side, and Phil could wrap his arm around his shoulders.

Sometime during the movie, which wasn't too interesting anyway, Phil kissed Dan. And he kissed him again. Dan lost count of how many kisses they shared. All he knew was that soon he was on Phil's lap, and they were kissing each other hurriedly and pulling one another closer, closer, gasping into each other's mouths with their fingers tangled in hair.

Dan, embarrassingly, could feel himself getting wet. As if that weren't embarrassing enough, it wasn't long before he could feel Phil's own arousal, and was painfully reminded of the ways in which they were different.

When Dan pulled away, red in the face, Phil was completely understanding. They continued watching the movie, though neither of them had any idea what was happening after that.

From then on, they got very close to taking off clothes several times. They would being kissing, standing up, sitting down, sprawled across Dan's bed, with everything getting more and more heated before Dan chickened out, usually with an apology on his lips.

“Don't apologize," Phil would whisper, kissing him on the cheek. Afterwards they would usually cuddle, but it didn't erase the fact that Dan was ashamed from his mind. He wanted to go further, he really did—but he couldn't forget that underneath his clothes he looked different than Phil did.

One Saturday morning, Dan woke up, determined. He marched to Phil's house (and about half way there, began wishing he could've been determined and told his boyfriend to pick him up) and straight into Phil's room. His parents weren't home, but Phil had secretly given him a key for occasions such as this.

Still, perhaps he should've knocked before barging into Phil's room.

"Dan!" Phil gasped, hastily withdrawing his hand from his pants, his face sweaty and red. Dan felt his eyes widen, his face becoming just as red as Phil's.

"Shit! Sorry," he said, holding his hand up and looking at the ground.

“Fuck, I mean, it's okay. What are you doing here?”

“Um…” Dan could barely think. He’d just walked in on Phil doing… well, that. “I was just going to say, that, um. We should. You know.”

“What?”

“Have sex.”

“Dan. Are you being serious right now?”

Dan finally looked up from his feet. Phil had pulled his covers up over his lap, and he was looking at Dan incredulously. Dan heaved a great sigh.

“Yes. I’m tired of being scared and—and ashamed. Every time we get close I really want to.”

“I don’t want to pressure you into it.”

“Phil,” Dan said, his voice serious. “I woke up and walked all the way over here and you think you pressured me?”

Phil shrugged, and Dan crossed his arms uncomfortably over his chest.

“I mean, we don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Dan said awkwardly. “Or if you’re…” he gestured towards Phil’s lap. “Already done.”

Phil blushed. “I’m not. Already done, I mean.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“So?” Dan prompted. “Are we gonna—?”

“Oh! You mean right now?”

Dan groaned, covering his face with his hands. “No. Never mind, this is too awkward. Just, when we—next time—don’t stop. I’m going home.”

“Dan—”

“You should, uh,” Dan gestured towards Phil’s lap again. “And when I get home, I’ll, er—I’ll think about it. And—you know—myself.” Phil, as if he’d happened to understand this stuttery, foreign language Dan had just spoken, went bright red and nodded. Dan went home, crawled in bed, and shoved his hand into his underwear, thinking all the while of Phil over at his house, doing the same.

The next time they got together, there was unspoken tension and anticipation in the air. They ended up both crawling into Phil’s bed, laying close and tangled with one another, on their respective phones. Dan appreciated that they could do this sometimes, be completely silent and practically alone, except with the pleasure of still being in each other’s companies. Occasionally one of them would snort, having seen something funny on their phone, and would show the other. It was nice.

Still, though, they both had an idea of what was coming. Dan’s underwear was soaked with anticipation, and he was almost sure that if he shifted, just a little bit, he would find that Phil was quite aroused as well. Finally, Phil’s hand shifted to hold his hip, and Dan felt his entire body tense up. When Phil started kissing his neck, behind his ear, Dan could hardly keep himself still.

“Are you sure you’re ready Dan?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Dan whispered. “I really want to.” He rolled over to face Phil, his hands clutching in Phil’s shirt while Phil kissed him. They ended up taking off Phil’s clothes first, his shirt and his trousers, anyway. Dan had never seen Phil like this, and he couldn’t help running his fingers over his bare skin reverently.

“If you want to stop, tell me,” Phil said seriously.

“I’m fine,” Dan insisted.

“At any time, though,” Phil added. “I’m serious. Even if we’re in the middle of it.”

Dan kissed him to shut him up, and continued kissing him for a little while. If he was being honest with himself, he was stalling. Phil already knew he was trans, had known for the longest time now, but getting naked together made it so real.

“Are you okay, Dan?” Phil whispered in between kisses, and Dan huffed and rolled away.

“I will be when you stop asking me that,” he muttered. Phil rolled closer and rested his hand on Dan’s stomach, his breaths fluttering gently against Dan’s neck.

“I just don’t want you to regret this. I love you so much, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“I shouldn’t even be feeling uncomfortable,” Dan whispered, his mouth pinched into a frown. His eyes felt tight, as if he might cry if he didn’t do something about it soon.

“You’re beautiful, just the way you are,” Phil promised. “If you’re worried I’m going to think differently of you…”

Dan groaned suddenly and rolled over, shoving his face into the pillow.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know! I don’t like… talking about it,” he said, his voice muffled by the pillow. Dan had only ever really discussed this at length with his parents before. Everyone else he’d kept it a secret from except Phil, whose questions had always seemed polite or nonexistent.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Phil suddenly said fiercely, and Dan huffed.

“I know that, that’s not the problem. I don’t know. I just feel… awkward.”

“A lot of people feel awkward the first time they have sex.”

“Phil—”

“I’m serious! And I’m still saying we don’t have to do it now, or ever, if you don’t want to, but maybe you’re just having normal first-time jitters. It’s only you and me here, and neither of us will think anything unpleasant about you.”

Dan rolled onto his side again, this time facing away from Phil. “Just—touch me,” he finally instructed.

“What?”

“Get over here and touch me!”

Dan waited (completely patiently) while Phil scooted closer to him, carefully spooning him. Dan wasn’t too stupid to realize that Phil was keeping his hips well away from Dan’s, so he immediately pressed backward into him, making Phil’s breath hitch in his ear.

“Now touch me,” Dan said. Phil put his hand on his hip. Dan huffed and grabbed his idiot boyfriend’s hand and dragged it between his legs. Immediately, Phil’s fingers were moving against him, rubbing his clit through his trousers. Dan was clutching the pillow by his head by the time Phil’s hips started rubbing against his backside as well.

Soon, Dan was shoving Phil away, who immediately set about apologizing and trying to extricate himself before Dan shot him an exasperated look, and pulled off his shirt.

“Will you have to take that off?” Phil asked, nodding to his binder. Dan bit his lip.

“I don’t know,” Dan admitted. Really, he probably should’ve researched this before hand. He knew you weren’t supposed to exercise in a binder, but was sex considered exercise?

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

“How about if it starts to hurt or you can’t breathe, you let me know?”

Dan sighed. “Okay.”

Phil leaned up then and kissed him on the cheek. Dan smiled at him briefly before reaching for his trousers. Really, he was lucky that he’d fallen for Phil. There was no other person Dan would rather be doing this with, and for the first time too.

Dan discarded his trousers on the ground and was soon clad solely in boxers, as was Phil.

“How do you want to do this?” Phil asked, his fingers trailing over Dan’s thigh.

“What?”

“Well, there’s lots of different ways to—”

Dan groaned, shoving his forehead into Phil’s neck. “This is the most awkward conversation we’ve ever had.”

“It’s not!” Phil insisted. “It’s just sex.”

“You’re just sex.”

“Clever.”

“Fine. What do you want to do?”

“Anything,” Phil said. “Everything—eventually.”

“For now can we just… with our hands? And maybe mouths?”

“Sounds perfect.”

It was after a second, awkward conversation, that they decided that Dan would get to touch Phil first. At this point they were both red in the face, though Dan didn’t know if Phil’s was also because of embarrassment or not. Together they shucked off Phil’s boxers.

“Wow,” Dan said, when Phil’s cock sprung up.

“Don’t say wow!” Phil exclaimed, and Dan laughed, grinning up at him. He leaned up to kiss his boyfriend, still giggling.

“It was a compliment,” Dan insisted. “He seems very excited to see me.”

“Oh my God…” Phil groaned. “Don’t call it a he!”

Still smiling at Phil, Dan reached down and held Phil’s cock. He felt arousal leap through his own stomach as Phil’s eyes darkened, his breath hitching. His hands were clenched in the sheets on either side of him, his mouth clenched shut and his eyes trained on Dan’s.

Dan finally broke eye contact, looking down at the arousal before him. It was pink—darker near the top—and surrounded by a curls at the base. Honestly, out of all the cocks Dan had seen, this one had to be the best.

“I’ve never seen a penis this closely before,” Dan said idly.

“It’s a bit disconcerting when you stare at it like that,” Phil answered breathlessly. Dan hummed.

“You don’t seem disconcerted.” He punctuated this by dragging his hand to the top of Phil’s cock. Once there, he ran his thumb over the slit, grinning triumphantly as Phil jerked upward.

“Fuck,” he breathed, tilting his head back. Dan ran his hand up and down it once more, though it wasn’t helped by the fact that it wasn’t very slick. He didn’t want to ask Phil if he had lube (definitely a conversation for another time) so Dan decided he’d just have to use his mouth.

“I’m gonna use my mouth, okay?” Dan said, looking up at Phil just to make sure.

“Fuck—yeah. Yes. Please.”

It was a bit nerve wracking, convincing himself to open his mouth around that, but Dan did it. He slipped Phil into his mouth, taking pleasure in the groan he caused him to emit. Dan hummed around him in acknowledgement, which only caused Phil’s cock to jerk in his mouth.

Slowly and carefully, Dan worked as far down Phil as he could, wrapping his hand around the part that he couldn’t. He pulled slowly back up and pulled off with a pop.

“Good?” Dan asked.

“Fuck,” Phil responded. He was clearly incoherent with pleasure. Dan jerked him off a few times, his saliva working quite nicely as a lubricant, before ducking down once more and taking Phil into his mouth again.

“I don’t—I think—fuck,” Phil breathed. Dan chuckled around him, and Phil whined in the back of his throat. “I’m gonna come soon,” Phil panted, his hand suddenly coming up to twine in Dan’s hair. He seemed to think that he was going to be pulling Dan off of him, which he most certainly wasn’t. Dan sunk lower on him, sucking, and Phil groaned loudly.

“I’m serious, Dan,” he panted. “I’m going to—I’m about too—”

Dan hummed around him, and Phil cried out, jerking beneath him as his cock twitched in Dan’s mouth. Dan tried to anticipate Phil’s load but there wasn’t really a proper way to tell his brain to expect something he’d never experienced before. Still, he managed to not throw up, and slowly pulled off Phil, his entire release in his mouth. Dan didn’t know what to do with it.

He sat up, staring at Phil who was still panting. The semen didn’t taste bad per se, it was just… kind of gross. Warm and salty.

Suddenly, Phil looked up at him, looked at his puffed cheeks, and laughed. “You can spit that out Dan.”

Dan hummed loudly, trying to ask “Where?” without opening his mouth and spitting Phil’s own cum all over him. Phil reached by his bedside and grabbed a trashcan, which Dan spat into.

“Would you have rather I swallowed it?” Dan asked, once he’d gotten rid of the spunk.

“I don’t care,” Phil said easily. “I don’t want you to swallow it if it’s really gross.”

“It’s not horrible,” Dan answered, and Phil pulled him forward and pecked him on the lips.

“You’re turn?” he asked. Dan nodded, the light, easy atmosphere feeling like it was slipping away. Right. His turn.

He laid down on his back, his head propped up on the pillows and his hands folded on his stomach. He was breathing shallowly.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Phil warned.

“Trying to get out of reciprocating?” Dan teased, and Phil smiled softly, grabbing his hand and kissing his knuckles.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” With that, Phil reached up for the sides of his boxers, and Dan held his breath as he nodded and let Phil tug them down. Phil didn’t stare too long, didn’t grimace, didn’t anything. He just looked back up at Dan and smiled, and so Dan smiled back.

Carefully, Phil reached down. Dan wondered if he’d know what to do. With a penis, there was really only one option—everything you needed was right out there in the open. But for Dan…

Dan gasped and jerked up as Phil’s fingers brushed over his clit. His hands were now tight in the sheets on either side of him, imitating the way Phil had sat. And God—he felt so much more sensitive when he wasn’t doing it to him self.

“Did I hurt you?” Phil immediately blurted. Dan shook his head.

“No, no—it’s just—you know.” He was blushing. “Sensitive. Do it again.”

And so Phil did, and Dan had to wonder if he was going to rip Phil’s sheets apart. Phil’s fingers were gentle but firm against him, rubbing over his clit again and again and making Dan pant.

“Can I put them inside?” Phil asked tentatively. Dan opened his eyes, realizing all at once that Phil had been examining his every reaction, every twitch and shudder he’d made while Phil had been touching him. It was oddly hot.

“Yes,” Dan decided, and held himself relaxed as Phil’s fingers moved downward. Two of them slipped inside him, pressing in, in, in. There, they pressed upward and rubbed firmly against the inside of Dan, making him throw his head back with a gasp.

“W-where did you learn to do that?” Dan panted, writhing slightly beneath Phil’s ministrations.

“I did some research,” Phil admitted, his other hand coming up to rub against Dan’s clit. Dan whined.

“I fucking love you,” he panted.

“Can I use my mouth?” Phil answered.

Dan was quick to say yes, and soon Phil’s fingers were still inside him, still rubbing firmly against that spot, but his tongue was also on Dan, lapping against him again and again. Sometimes he used broad, slow strokes over Dan’s clit, only to suddenly make his tongue into a point, rubbing it hard and firm over Dan and making him cry out and arch up, up, up.

The first time Dan came, twitching around Phil’s fingers and shaking underneath him, Phil had thought they were done.

“K-keep going?” Dan had said, and Phil had looked at him like he was some sort of god.

“Again?” Phil asked incredulously. “You don’t need some time?”

“Please Phil,” Dan had answered. “Keep going.”

And so Phil did. He kept going after the first time, the second time, and the third time. By the fourth time Dan came, he was covered in sweat and twitching all over in aftershocks, panting heavily.

“Again?” Phil asked. It was possible he was enjoying this more than Dan had realized. His eyes were wide with excitement, glowing, practically. His fingers were dripping—with a wince, Dan realized he was dripping because of Dan—but he looked ready to shove them back into Dan at a moment’s notice. Even as he waited for Dan’s answer, one of his fingers was rubbing idly over the length of Dan’s cunt.

“Think I’m done,” Dan breathed, and Phil raised his eyebrows.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Come up here.”

First, Phil grabbed a few tissues and dried his hands, and then he crawled up the bed and wrapped his arm around Dan. Dan was still panting, his breathing labored, his chest tight. His eyes widened as he realized what that meant.

He didn’t want to tell Phil. Maybe if he just laid here for a couple minutes more he would catch his breath, wouldn’t have to take off his binder. But then… it was late, and Dan never slept with his binder on. You weren’t supposed to wear it for that long, anyway. It was for that reason exactly that he’d refused to have sleepovers with Phil before, despite the fact that Phil had promised that “sleepover” didn’t have to entail “sex”.

But Dan’s ribs were starting to hurt, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to fall asleep like this. But he did want to fall asleep with Phil, to lay close with him, especially after his first time. Wanting to beat himself over the head, Dan opened his mouth.

“Phil,” he whispered.

“Dan,” Phil whispered back.

“I’m—I have to—um, take off my binder.”

“Okay, do you need help?”

“No!” Dan hissed, his face flaring in embarrassment. Phil reached up and kissed his shoulder.

“Want me to get you a t-shirt?”

Dan paused. “Yes please.”

Phil got off the bed and crossed the room to his dresser, pulling out a big, comfy-looking yellow shirt. He held it up questioningly, and Dan nodded. Phil even offered to leave the room while Dan changed, but Dan, oddly enough, kind of wanted him to be there. Still, Phil politely looked away while Dan pulled off his binder and pulled on the t-shirt. He felt oddly exposed and plenty uncomfortable, but Phil kissed his cheek and his anxiety suddenly seemed unfounded. They both laid back down then, Phil’s arm around his waist once more.

“I love you,” Dan whispered, and Phil hummed against the back of his neck.

“I love you too.”

[duanecbrooks]

On (Still) Being Torn     It was almost ten years ago that my Mom died and I remain conflicted concerning her death. There is still a titanic struggle between my intellectual self and my emotional/psychological self about her passing.           I'll explain what I mean.             Let me first say, however, that for the overwhelming majority of the time she was alive, Elizabeth Irene Brooks was, quite simply, one of the genuinely great mothers of all time, if not the genuinely greatest. The earliest memory I have of her is this time she, I, and a group of neighborhood kids were playing ball outside and it began sprinkling. Being in that I was at the time not a very social person, I pointed out the sprinkling (my exact words being: "It's starting to rain") in the hope that the game would end and I could go back inside. Mom's affectionate response: "You won't melt or lump."     And there other facets of this woman that deserve mention. The way she consistently cooked and cleaned for me. The fact that, for the rest of her life, even though she and my Dad divorced, she never in any sense tried to poison my mind against him, always, always speaking well of him (Indeed, when one time it was arranged that my Dad would certainly, definitely visit us--when said divorced was final, he took up residence in New Jersey with his new wife Terry, where he lived right up to the day he died--she went into sheer glee, joyously grabbing both of my hands and literally doing a jig with me). The way she was an uber-solid, never-wavering brick while I was going through what was easily the worst period of my Asperger's (Actually, there was one time--one time--that she hit me that I'll go into later. However, as I'll explain, I richly deserved it).               And there are other times that are worthy of remembering. During my adolescence Mom bore a striking resemblance to this dazzlingly beautiful black singer/actor named Barbara McNair, who was quite popular at the time. While I was in the hospital recuperating from an injury that happened to me at school, Mom came to visit me and, while she was there, I told my hospital roommate how much Mom resembled the aforementioned performer. After my hospital roomie and I talked for a while, Mom, sporting a grin, asserted: "I wish I had [McNair's] money." Later, also grinning, she told my roommate, regarding me: "You want to know anything about show business, you ask this boy." Also: I used to regularly write letters-to-the-editor to my hometown newspaper The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and other publications, which, more often than not, would be printed. Eventually Mom, without any urging from me whatsoever, collected literally all of my printed missives and compiled them in a quite attractive and quite sizable binder. And not once, not once, did Mom ever ask me: "Why are you wasting your time on that meaningless stuff?" And as for that one time Mom hit me, it was during the 1980s, when I was deep, deep, deep into my Asperger's--in point of fact, as was mentioned earlier, honestly the deepest I'd ever been. Mom and I were having this very forceful argument--about what, sad to say, has long escaped my memory--and in the midst of it, freely displaying an arrogance and a callousness that to this day shame me, I said to Mom: "The hell with you" and turned away. To this Mom of course spun me back around to her and gave me a good, hard left hook (Even then she showed me unconditional love, saying to me after she'd done it: "'The hell with you.' Now what kind of way is that for a son to talk to his mother?").               Yet when Mom took ill, her usually giving, usually loving demeanor changed and changed majorly. She became snappish, intolerant, and flat-out mean-minded.             Here are examples.                   .One day while we were riding along looking for the office of this doctor with whom she'd made an appointment. There was a very long stretch of time when we couldn't find said office so I, alas, engaged in my lifelong habit of playing with my fingers. "Don't play with your fingers!" Mom screeched. "Watch the numbers [of the houses we were passing], please!" And even though I immediately got on Mom for screaming at me, she didn't apologize until around a week later.          .Mom had developed a deep girl-crush on the professional-men's-tennis sex symbol Roger Federer. One night the two of us were in her room watching him play and the time came when I had to take my meds and go to bed. Yet Mom, completely ignoring the fact that I had to take much-needed, indeed, crucial medication, insisted that I stay and watch Federer make this play. And some time later, I was home alone and I was planning to go someplace and I was speaking to Mom over the phone--where she was at the time, alas, has completely left my memory--and she actually wanted me to stay home and watch this televised match Federer was scheduled to play so I could tell her about it when she got back home.                   .One morning I was in bed and Mom was standing over me and out of the blue she snappishly said: "I wish you'd go out and clean off the snow [from the driveway]." When I protested her language and her demanding tone, she quickly shut me down ("All right, don't get excited. Forget about it").                   .Mom at last finally had to be put in a hospice. During a visit I made to her we got into an argument wherein I expressed firm resentment over Mom's incessant "attacks." At this she snarled: "You deserve to be attacked!"                   .The absolute final remark I heard Mom say before she died was, when she got out of bed despite the fact that she was clearly too weak to do so and I ordered her to lie back down, her angrily complaining that I was "hollering" at her.                     And thus it would go. Allow me to say right here and right now that I am perfectly aware that Mom said the things she did and behaved the way she did because she was facing the one situation in her life about which she could do nothing--namely her upcoming death--and it frustrated, indeed, scared the crap out of her. Therefore, when she lashed out, she was lashing out not at me but at the one condition in her life over which she had absolutely, positively no control. And: I am also fully aware that, in dredging up the times Mom was hurtful and offensive--which, it shames me to say, I repeatedly do--I'm entirely bypassing, in fact, entirely backhanding the vast majority of my time with her during which she was, to come right out with it, simply one of the most outstanding mothers of all time, if not the most outstanding. And I know full well that if Mom had been completely together, if she could have somehow stood outside herself and could have heard and saw what she was saying and how she was behaving toward me, she would have been fiercely remorseful. It brings to mind what the towering Scottish poet Robert Burns wrote:                                                   "O wad some Power the giftie gie us                                        To see outsels as ithers see us!"                   However, all this knowledge is entirely in my head. It after all this time has not fully reached my heart.               Other factors that are impacting my feelings: In point of fact--and let it be noted that I'm profusely wincing as I say this--I have and have long had a Carol Brady/Shirley Partridge/Clair Huxtable-influenced notion of what a mother, and especially a black mother, is supposed to be. Thus, in being hurtful and offensive like she was--and permit me to say that I fully realize how this sounds--Mom to me was failing to live up to Clair Huxtable standards. Then, too, it still hurts me that my own mother was behaving so negatively towards her own son. I have and have long had this vision, it saddens me to say, of mothers as always-patient, always-affectionate, always-loving. Mom's words and behavior during her final days gravely wounded that vision (In truth, I continue to have the attitude that Drew Barrymore compensated for being the monumentally bratty, monumentally immature, monumentally selfish mother she was in Riding In Cars With Boys by being the greatly warm, greatly attentive, greatly loving mother she was in Blended). That these outlooks completely, completely ignore and, in fact, swat away the facts that Mom was 1) dying and 2) human is knowledge that I wholly realize intellectually. However, I regret to say, it has not fully gotten through emotionally/psychologically.     So I continue to go through the tortures of the damned concerning Mom's death. On the one hand, I am mightily bitter and mightily resentful regarding the fiercely angry, fiercely intolerant, very often venomous woman she was during her last period. On the other hand, I know full well in my head, not, alas, in my heart, that such bitterness and such resentment not only display titanic insensitivity concerning the considerable fear--indeed, the considerable anguish--that Mom felt but also wholly obscures the fact that, during the great majority of my time knowing her, she was, to employ a line from the hit 1990s number, "the closest thing to perfect that I've ever seen."