#i’m up to seven of my juniors who have independently tried to convince me to be their attending

[izvmimi]

i’m about to be peer pressured into staying in academia LMAOOOOO

[elliesbelle]

nobody compares to you

chapter 6

pairing: ellie x reader

synopsis: you're in your junior year of college and at a party, you run into the girl who broke your heart: ellie williams. despite the time it took to reset your life, will you risk a broken heart again for her?

content warnings: modern college au, cursing, angst, messy lesbian relationships/situationships, loser!ellie makes an appearance for 0.5 seconds, brief and indirection mention of marijuana, mentions of death, brief mention of reader's genitals (implies that reader has a vagina, but if you headcanon reader as a trans girl w/a penis, just pretend it's a metaphorical vagina, i fully encourage it), sexual speech and content (not fully smut but there are drops of it), depictions of nudity, minors do not interact

word count: 4.6k

chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen

series masterlist

my masterlist

i have a ko-fi if you like my work so much that you feel compelled to tip me ♡︎

the "nobody compares to you" spotify playlist

Abigail Anderson. Pre-med student. Rugby star. A brief hook-up from freshman year. 

And now approaching your frozen figure at a rather fast pace. 

As your shocked face emerges from behind the football you're still holding in your hands, Abby begins to register who it was that she’d almost killed via pigskin. 

“Oh, shit!” She murmurs your name as her jog comes to a stop at your feet. “I’m so sorry, my friend Jordan was being a dick. I meant to catch that.” 

You let out a nervous chuckle as your trembling fingers lift the football up to her. 

“Oh, it’s okay. My life definitely flashed before my eyes, but I’m alright otherwise.” You give her a smile. 

She returns it with a crooked one of her own, her fingers softly brushing against yours as she takes the football from you. 

“Well, you still look alive and pretty,” Abby says, tucking the ball underneath an arm. “And those were some impressive reflexes, I gotta say.” 

“Just practicing in case of a zombie apocalypse.” You joke, cheeks burning ever so slightly at her calling you pretty. “We can’t all be built like Themysciran Amazons the way you are.” 

“Themy-what?” Abby asks, eyebrows furrowing in confusion and chuckling. 

Your face erupts in flames in embarrassment from your geeky comic book reference. 

“Y-you know,” You stammer. “Like Wonder Woman. She’s from that island where it’s only women and they’re all these gorgeous, buff warriors who’ve renounced men.” 

Abby laugh. 

“Really? Well, thank you. You’re very cute for thinking I’m some hot warrior chick who’ll survive a zombie apocalypse.” 

Before you can respond, she continues. 

“How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you around much.” 

“Hey, I’ve been around.” You lie. You really haven’t been. “Probably haven’t noticed being an aspiring doctor and all.” 

“Still remember that, huh?” She smiles. 

“Of course.” You say, returning her smile. 

Freshman Year, Fall

You met Abby Anderson at the beginning of your freshman year when she was a sophomore. 

Being in a new and independent environment, you did what many single freshmen do upon first arriving: scoured the dating apps. 

Fresh out of a messy high school relationship, you came to college a little raw and emotionally vulnerable. You jumped into a casual relationship with a girl named Adriana within the first month of arriving on campus. After a drunken night of you and your roommate Tara recklessly swiping through your profile on a dating app, you somehow and hesitantly found yourself with a girlfriend after just two dates. 

The best word you would use to describe Adriana was nice. She was a pleasant person: brought you out on cute dates, paid for your food, always held your hand. You spent the two weeks of dating her trying to convince yourself that you were as into her as she was into you. But the further you tried to force attraction for her, the less interested you became. Then she introduced you to her friend, Abby Anderson. 

Abby was the kind of person that closeted gay girls would develop their first gay crush on at their initial glance. She was bold and exuded a sense of confidence & charisma that most 20-somethings haven’t achieved yet. People knew who she was when she walked around campus, whether personally or through reputation. Abby made friends quickly and kept them easily, so it was no shock that you got along very well with her when Adriana first introduced you. 

You pretended at the time not to notice the way Abby looked you up and down when first laying eyes on you. It was a quick glance and she pulled it off well enough that nobody else but you had caught it. You were amused by the way that Abby had held out her hand to you upon meeting. None of Adriana’s other friends had offered a handshake, and you chuckled quietly as you introduced yourself to her. 

Is she for real? A little prim and proper, you’d thought. You’d later find out it was merely her excuse to initiate physical contact. 

You’d originally come over to Adriana’s dorm to meet her friends, but you’d spent most of the time talking with Abby. She was very charming, keeping you engaged in conversation as if she’d known you for months already. She would ask you questions about yourself, seeming to be genuinely interested in your responses. It was effortless to keep up a banter with her, and she had you laughing in a way Adriana hadn’t been able to elicit from you herself. You weren’t fawning over Abby the way newly-discovered gays constantly were, but you were intrigued. By the end of the hang-out, you’d already exchanged numbers and socials. 

When Adriana amicably broke up with you a week later, saying that she felt as if “your heart didn’t seem quite into this” and “she’d like to see you comfortable” and “we honestly seem like we would vibe better as friends” over a phone call, you’d felt a wave of relief followed by a pang of guilt. You could tell that Adriana really didn’t feel any ill will towards you, but it did feel indecent that all you got out of the relationship was a mended heart as a result of the rebound. That, and a very interested Abby Anderson. 

It didn’t take a week since your split from Adriana that Abby was flirtatiously commenting under your Instagram posts or sending you at least ten snaps on Snapchat daily or messaging you borderline thirst traps accompanied by texts that were asking for your “opinion on her gym progress.” It was a mere five days since the break-up that you were dolling yourself up a bit to go hang out with Abby in her dorm room, just the two of you. 

Most of your friends playfully teased you about the position you’d placed yourself in. Hooking up with a recent ex’s friend seemed messy, but they encouraged you to put yourself out there all the same. Never having actually gone all the way with Adriana, they all hyped you up to hook up with Abby. All but one. 

“You’re judging me!” You said, lightly smacking Ellie’s arm. 

She chuckled, rolling her eyes at you. 

“I literally didn’t say anything, dude.” 

“Uh-huh, sure.” You returned her eye roll with your own before jumping off your bed to walk towards your closet. 

“Just sounds like a guilty conscience to me.” She shrugged, leaning back onto your headboard. 

You sighed and said, “Should I feel guilty, though?” 

Ellie shrugged again nonchalantly before saying, “Not gonna tell you how to feel.” 

“I just want to know your opinion!” 

“It’s your love life, dude. It’s up to you, not me.” 

“I know that! But what do you think I should do?” 

“Make your own decisions.” She chuckled once more. 

You groaned, turning away from her to continue rifling through your closet. 

“You’re so fucking useless.” You complained, fingers weaving between hangers as you tried to select an outfit to see Abby later that day. 

“What can I say? It’s a gift.” Ellie replied, resting the palms of her hands on the back of her head as she watched you. 

Despite yourself, you giggled quietly. As you continued to browse through your wardrobe, you felt Ellie’s ocean green eyes trailing your every movement. You kept your back turned to her, hiding the flames tickling your cheeks.  

You hadn’t bothered the rest of your friends about this the way you did Ellie. They’d all given their blessing for you to sleep with Abby, but Ellie? Ellie was persistent in remaining mysteriously neutral. She refused to voice any kind of personal bias. She didn’t seem disinterested, but she also withheld offering up her genuine opinion on your Abby situation. And for some reason, this bothered you. Something about her unhelpfulness compelled you to pester her about it. You knew you didn’t need Ellie’s approval. So why did it feel like you did?  

Ellie watched as you picked out a short dark blue dress, spreading it out on your bed next to her. She listened to you question yourself out loud on whether you should wear fishnet stockings underneath it or just go bare. She felt the way your fingers lingered when brushing softly against hers after she handed you your silver hoop earrings laying next to her on your bedside table. She inhaled your signature lavender scent as you slowly caressed your arms and legs up and down while applying your favourite lotion.

It felt so strange, prettying yourself up for another girl while Ellie sat on your bed and watched. She and you were just friends. You’ve never been anything more than that. Why did it feel strange, then? 

Are we though? Just friends? 

The way you’d stare at the way her big, calloused hands moved when she’d be rolling a joint or etching in her journal. The way she observed the exact manner your lips moved every time you spoke or laughed. The way you always noticed when she’d trace that intricate arm tattoo of hers when she’d get lost in thought. The way she watched exactly how your smile would often meet your soft eyes. 

Is this just friendship?

Ellie observed as you sat at your desk and carefully began applying your makeup, scooting towards the foot of your bed to better marvel at your technique. She’d begun to learn the routine you had by heart, mesmerized by how carefully and naturally your hands moved in a creative dance. She blurted out a compliment about how you were an artist for the way you did your makeup. You attempted to brush it off, but she insisted. You’re the artist here, she’d said. 

After finishing applying a shade of dark red lipstick, you gave yourself one last satisfied look in your mirror. You got up and began to shake your hair out of the bun it was in, walking to the foot of your bed where both your dress and Ellie waited. You looked at your chosen attire for the night and were suddenly hit with a predicament. 

“Umm, Ellie?” 

“What’s up, man?” 

“D-do you think you could help me with something?” 

“Uh… sure?” 

Your fingers fiddled with the bottom of your t-shirt. Your face flushed for what felt like the millionth time today. 

“C-can you help me put my dress on?” 

Ellie looked like someone dumped a bucket of ice-cold water right over her head. 

“What?” 

You scratched the back of your neck, a habit you’d picked up from her. 

“I forgot how t-tight this dress is, and I might fuck up my makeup if I just pull it on myself. Can you help me g-get it on?” 

Ellie’s face remained unreadable as she looked you up and down. 

“Yeah, okay.” She said finally. 

“T-thanks.” You said, nervously biting the inside of your cheek. 

Normal friends do not get nervous when they ask their friends to help them get dressed. 

“Just…just one second.” You said, meekly holding a finger up before turning your back to her. 

As you profusely thanked past you for already putting on your desired underwear for tonight, you carefully peeled off your t-shirt and threw it to the side. Though you had your back to her, you could feel Ellie’s gaze land on the black lace bra you’d decided on earlier. When you shed your pajama shorts, her eyes then drifted onto the matching black lace panties that left very little to the imagination. 

She quickly averted her stare as you turned to face her, not fully meeting each other’s eyes. 

“Do you think you could—?” You gestured to your dress next to her on the bed. 

“Yeah.” She said, picking it up before approaching you. 

You watched her face as she lifted the dress above your head. Her tense fingers gripped the collar tightly as you raised your arms. You felt goosebumps form where her hands inadvertently brushed against your skin, lowering the dress onto your figure. As you fit your head and arms through, she pulled the dress all the way down to your thighs. You tugged your hair out from the collar and let it fall behind you when your eyes met hers. 

“Uhh,” She said awkwardly. “Your lipstick…” 

Your right hand flew up to your mouth. 

“Oh shit, did it smudge—?” 

“Yeah, a little, but it’s okay, I got it.” 

“Wh—“ 

Before you could react any further, Ellie licked her thumb and brought it to the edge of your bottom lip. It was as though your entire body was set on fire the exact second that you felt the wetness from her finger meet the corner of your mouth. Her eyebrows furrowed as she rubbed off the small streaks of smeared lipstick. You could have sworn she could hear how loud your heart was beating in the moment, feel the way it echoed through your entire body. You felt your mouth water as your eyes fell on her tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. Someone could easily sneak into your room right now and rob you blind, the way you both remained completely encaptured in this moment. 

“There,” Ellie whispered. “Got it.” 

Her thumb slowly drifted from your lip to your cheek, her hand suddenly caressing your face. You were frozen in place, trying not to combust as every cell in your body danced fervently. Her ocean green irises kept darting back and forth between your eyes and your crimson lips. Both your mouths were parted, the unsaid at the tip of both your tongues, waiting for whoever was bravest to let the truth drip out. 

But instead, after what felt like twenty-five years, Ellie let her hand drop from your face back to her side. She swallowed and cleared her throat, breaking eye contact with you to stare at the floor. You blinked and gulped, quickly plummeting back to reality. 

“Th-thanks, El.” 

“No problem, bro.” 

“Bro.” Ugh. Okay, Ellie. 

You were far less clothed a minute ago, and yet somehow you now were feeling much more naked than ever before. 

“I-I think I left the shoes I want across the hall in Sidney’s room. Give me a sec?” 

“Yeah, man. Go ahead.” 

You nodded and retreated quickly out the door. As you shut it behind you, you leaned against it and clutched at your chest with both hands. 

Oh god, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck. What just happened? What the fuck. Fuck. 

Inside your room and unbeknownst to you, Ellie was leaning against her side of the door, quietly cursing to herself. 

“Did I really just fucking do that? What the fuck, oh my fucking god. God damn it. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

“Hey, are you okay?” 

You blinked. 

“Yes! Sorry, just spaced out for a second.” 

You adjusted yourself under the covers to turn more towards Abby. Your previously glassy eyes met her concerned ones. 

“Was it that bad?” She joked. 

“No, oh my god, Abby,” You giggled, covering your face with your hands. “I think you getting me to cum twice in less than a minute speaks for itself.” 

Abby smirked. 

“Only twice? Wanna add a couple more to that?” She said, propping herself up on her elbow to look at you better. 

“I think my pussy needs a sec before you make her see heaven again.” You replied. 

“Mmm,” was all Abby said in reply, drinking in your naked figure in her bed. 

The rest of the evening seemed surreal. Ellie had watched you finish getting ready, remaining mostly quiet for the rest of the time. She didn’t touch you again, almost as if she was afraid to. She’d walked you partway to Abby’s building before giving the excuse that she had some client she needed to meet. Her signature Converse stormed off without a second glance back at you. As you waved her off, you thought about how she didn’t have anything on her to sell, and you both knew it. 

Throughout the entire night with Abby, though you allowed yourself to unwind and have some fun for once, your thoughts still continued to dance back incessantly to your auburn-haired friend. 

“What’s on your mind, pretty girl?” Abby asked. 

“Just taking a minute and being impressed by you.” 

Abby laughed. 

“So not that bad, huh?” She joked. “But really. What’s up?” 

You pursed your lips. You liked Abby, but she did not need to know all about this “friendship” of yours with Ellie. 

“Not gonna lie,” You said, quickly coming up with a lie. “I was feeling really guilty before coming here tonight. Just cause Adriana’s your friend and we just broke up.” 

It wasn’t completely far from the truth. You were feeling guilty about seeing Abby after Adriana. But she wasn’t the lesbian who you couldn’t get out of your head all night. 

“Mm, that does make sense.” Abby replied, understanding. “It’s true, though. What I said earlier. Adriana did say it was okay.” 

Sometime after you’d arrived at Abby’s dorm and before you’d both dropped the pretense of you coming over just to “hang out,” Abby disclosed that she’d asked for Adriana’s permission to fool around with you already. You were a bit surprised, but pleasantly so. You did come here tonight with specific intentions, but it did relieve you to know that Adriana meant it when she’d expressed no ill will towards you. And it kindled a warmth in you that Abby’d gone into this prepared and still with the respect of her friend. 

“No, I know,” You said, the crease between your eyebrows crinkling as you thought up a quick lie. “I just… I still like Adriana as a person and I didn’t want my wandering vagina to get in the way of your friendship with her.” 

Abby suddenly guffawed, her laugh so infectious and genuine that it made you giggle in response. 

“D-did you just say ‘wandering vagina,’ oh my g—” She chortled. “Never heard that before.” 

You shrugged, smiling at how easily amused Abby has been turning out to be. 

“You say the strangest shit, you know?” Abby said, still chuckling. 

“What can I say? It’s a gift.” You replied, to which Abby smiled. 

“But really though,” Abby continued. “You don’t have to worry about me and Adriana. We’re still cool; nothing’s changed in our friendship. You both told me you weren’t serious, and she’s also just someone who’s never been possessive or jealous as a person. We’re all adults here, so no need to feel guilty. I promise.” 

“Yeah, that…that does help.” You said, hoping that answer would suffice for Abby. 

Abby seemed like she wanted to press more but decided against it. Instead, she grabbed your hips all of a sudden and lifted you up to place you on top of her, making you straddle her waist. 

“Wh—Abby!” You said, startled. Your arms instinctively flew up to cover your bare breasts, the bed covers no longer shrouding your nakedness. 

Abby chuckled, reaching up to your wrists and pulling them away from your chest. 

“Anyone ever tell you how cute you are when you have such a serious thinking face on?” She said. 

A bashful look crossed your face as you stuttered a quiet “no” in response. 

Abby smirked, dropping your wrists and placing her hands on your waist, tracing up and down your inner thighs with her thumbs. Your breath hitched and you gulped, feeling yourself instinctively grind against her. 

“Well, you are.” She said. “And you’re cute, acting all shy about being naked in front of me like I wasn’t just knuckles deep inside you ten minutes ago.” 

You bit your lip, partly from embarrassment and partly because Abby’s tracing of your thighs turned into squeezing. 

“Y-you w-weren’t… knuckles-deep…” You stammered. 

Abby chuckled, raising an eyebrow. 

“Why the hell are you correcting me on how far inside of you I was anatomically?” She asked, extremely amused. 

“I don’t know!” You said, flustered and rolling your eyes. 

Abby chuckled, wrapping a muscular arm around your waist to keep you steady as she sat up to be at eye-level with you. With her free hand, she firmly gripped your chin between her large fingers and forced your eyes to meet hers. 

“You’re very easy to fluster, you know.” She whispered. 

“I-I—” was all that you could get out before Abby’s lips found yours. The sentence you’d meant to continue instead turned into a quiet shriek of surprise then into a lustful sigh that melted into the kiss. 

Not ten seconds later, Abby pulled away slightly, a cocky look on her face. 

“Any more anatomical complaints, then?” She murmured. 

“Not at all, Dr. Anderson.” You chuckled breathlessly. 

You jolted as Abby laughed again all of a sudden, grabbing both your shoulders for support. 

“Was it… that funny?” You chuckled, a little confused. 

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Abby said. “It’s just that—my dad was Dr. Anderson.” 

“Your dad?” 

“Yeah, he was a doctor.” She explained. “Before he passed, he used to be a surgeon back when my family and I lived in Utah.” 

Shit, her dad. Of course. 

Abby had mentioned her father to you several times already. You didn’t know much about him other than the fact that Abby completely adored the man and that he had died when she was only 16. 

“Right, makes sense.” You said, wrapping your arms around her neck. 

Abby’s father didn’t seem like an off-limits topic with her. In fact, you were in awe of how at peace she was with it. She seemed happy to talk about her dad, somehow able to acknowledge his passing and yet speak of him as if he was always present in a way. She didn’t make it uncomfortable to ask about him, and you often had the impression that she actually preferred it when others didn’t fuss over it. So you made sure not to. 

“So no to calling you Dr. Anderson, then?” You asked. 

“Well, actually,” Abby embraced your waist and pulled you closer to her body. “Kind of studying to be a doctor. Like him.” 

“Wait, really?” You replied, a bit of shock in your voice. “How did I not know that?” 

“Don’t really know, pretty girl,” She replied, smirking. “Got too distracted by my washboard abs to notice?” 

“Oh my god, shut the fuck up.” You scoffed, smiling and rolling your eyes. 

Abby chuckled before leaning into your neck to leave trails of kisses. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re also very cute when you have a little bit of an attitude?” She asked, lifting her head up slightly in between kisses. 

“Mm, I don’t know,” You sighed, pulling her further into you and trying not to grind too eagerly against her once again. “Maybe once or twice. But why don’t you remind me, Dr. Anderson?” 

You heard Abby suddenly moan in your ear, almost growling, before you were suddenly thrown on your back onto the bed. Any words that meant to roll off your tongue were replaced instead with cries of pleasure as your knees were pried apart with Abby’s strong hands, her mouth finding ways to answer your question without words. 

Present Day 

“So still planning on becoming a surgeon, then?” You ask. 

“Starting med school immediately after I graduate this year.” Abby replies. 

“Wow,” You say, impressed. “That’s really soon. Are you nervous about it?” 

“Hmm, not nervous, exactly,” Abby replies, thinking. “I grew up around doctor shit, so I have a tiny idea of what I’m facing. I’m choosing to stay positive about it all for now.” 

“Commendable,” You smile. “How the hell have you been surviving all your pre-med shit with sports and all?” 

“Hey,” She says, shrugging. “You said it yourself. I’m basically a superhero.” 

You chuckle. You’ve forgotten just how confident Abby is and how attractive it was to see it in action. 

“Right, of course. How could I forget?” 

“You know, maybe if I really was Wonder Woman, I could attend my next class and get a coffee with you right now. If you’re not busy, that is.” 

“That is not how Wonder Woman works, Abby.” You say, giggling. 

“Oh, whatever.” Abby laughs, rolling her eyes. “Forgot just how much of a nerd you were, pretty girl.” 

“Hey—” You start. 

“YO ABS, are you gonna throw that shit back or keep flirting with hot chicks?!” A voice behind Abby calls. 

Abby grunts in annoyance, turning around to face her friend Jordan who was several feet away from where you both were. 

“Stop throwing like a little bitch and we wouldn’t be having this problem, dumbass!” She calls back at him, to which he replies with a playful, “Oh, fuck off!”

You watch as Abby draws back, arms flexing as she throws the football in a quick, perfect spiral towards Jordan. He catches it, but not before it makes a loud thud against his chest. 

“OW, FUCK—" He shouts in pain. 

“Dumbass!” She hollers in response. 

You're both chuckling when she turns back to face you. 

“Need to go?” You ask. 

“Didn’t you hear? I’m busy flirting with hot chicks. Well, just one hot chick.” 

Your purse your lips, sheepish. 

“So,” She said. “Coffee?” 

“Abby, you just said you had a class to get to in a bit. Also,” You gesture to your mostly-empty coffee cup still next to you in the grass. “Beat you to the punch.” 

“Ah, fuck.” 

“Sorry,” You chuckle. “I’ve also got class in,” You checked your phone for the time. “Around five minutes or so.” 

“Wow, you really wanna avoid getting a coffee with me that bad, huh?” 

“Oh, absolutely. I premeditatedly mapped out my entire class schedule this semester just so I didn’t have to hang out with you right at this moment.” You joke. 

“I knew it.” 

You laugh. 

“Can I at least walk you to class, though?” Abby asks. 

“Sure,” You replies. “But what about your class?” 

“Got a bit of time; don’t worry about it.” 

You smile before you gather your things together quickly. You reach for your coffee cup but it disappears suddenly before your hand is even inches from it.  

“Abby!” You exclaim, jumping up onto your feet as you quickly pull your backpack on. 

“What?” She questions, walking backwards while still facing you to throw your coffee cup away in a nearby trash can. 

“I can’t throw away my own trash?” 

“Just being helpful.” She says, shrugging. 

“You can’t be both a superhero and some chivalrous lesbian knight.” 

“I can do whatever I want, pretty girl.” 

You feel your face getting hot once more. 

“So,” She starts. “Which way is your next class?” She begins walking in the wrong direction. 

“About twenty feet east of where you’re heading, silly.” 

“Oh, uhh…” Abby stops in her tracks, eyebrows furrowed in concentration while processing your directions. 

You laugh and roll your eyes, grabbing her arm and leading her towards the building your next class was in. 

“Straley Hall, right in front of you, dummy. Remind me never to travel across the country with you.” You say. 

“What kind of nerd actually says ‘east’ when giving directions!” She complains. 

“That’s a perfectly normal thing to say!” 

“Why are the cutest girls always the weirdest ones?” Abby says, shaking her head. 

You looked away from her, trying to hide your embarrassed smile. 

“How are you supposed to save people’s lives when you don’t even understand simple directions, Dr. Anderson?” 

She smirks at your comment and her lips form to reply with a retort of their own. 

Just a few feet down the brick college road, Ellie stands frozen on the spot. Her hands are balled up in fists and her jaw is clenched. Her ocean green eyes trail after your unknowing figure, fixating on the wide smile on your lips as you let out peals of genuine laughter and your fingers still gently caressing the bicep of golden girl and star athlete, Abigail Anderson.

author's notes:

HAHAHAHA "in case of a zombie apocalypse" get it, cause the game is set in a zomb—yeah y'all get it (sorry not really)

let's all take a brief sexy second together and imagine abby as amazon from themyscira... now let's all let out the collective horny sigh together.

thank you all for being so patient waiting for this one. life has been... yeah (if you've been keeping up with the personal stuff I've said on my blog the last week, that should add more context to what a shit my life has been recently). i've been having to push myself with writing lately cause i feel like i'm getting too into my head about it. but thank y'all so much for being supportive and all, thank you for not giving up on me!

not gonna lie, loves. i may have gotten extremely horny writing certain scenes in this and had to take multiple breaks because my mind was concocting too many distracting scenarios as a result (the ellie scene took me days to get through to write, i'm so dead serious, and the smut-adjacent abby scene almost turned into a full-fledged smut scene cause i'm such a fucking lesbian, oops, i genuinely had to restrain myself so i could write the story the way i actually have it planned out).

abby having no sense of direction at the end of the chapter is just a personal reference to me when i played tlou2 for the first time and when i was playing as abby at the very start when she's mad at owen for getting mel pregnant and trying to go after joel on her own, i got lost for like 10 minutes just going in circles in the fucking woods and snow like a moron. just wanted to be a little bit silly by creating no sense of direction!abby hehe

taglist: @lonelyfooryouonly, @elliesinterlude, @sawaagyapong, @peppesgirl, @iconsoft, @maybeidohaveadhd, @ellieswifee, @valiantllamapersonpony-blog, @nil-eena, @echostinn, @uraesthete, @softbunlvr, @cherriessxinthespring, @amitycat, @chrissyfishywissy, @yevheniiaaa, @machetegirl109, @bertandfearnie, @ximtiredx, @efam, @elliesnoviecita, @oatmilkchaii, @tayyyystan, @emothurman, @livvy-2000, @abigaillovestoread, @gold-dustwomxn, @liabadoobee, @yuckyfucky, @ximtiredx, @qtefolleunpez, @libr4sonsa

[remuswriting]

Hey, I saw your matchup post and I got interested in it, so I would like to request that if it's still available and if you're okay with doing so.

For the info required, I'm male and go by he/him and I have a preference for male characters, and I want the matchup to be romantic. I'm 19, and being very brief in my personality: though I'm quiet and a bit too reserved, I try to be as nice as possible to people around me independent of who they are, so I consider myself to be a bit easygoing. However, I see myself as a bit boring due to preferring to stay in my comfort zone, and I may be a bit too serious at times though I try not to cause arguments, I much rather stay at peace. I feel a little insecure (both appearance and personality), which may contribute to me being a bit shy/reserved, along with keeping me from trying new experiences. If it helps, I'm an ISFJ and my enneagram is 9w1 (you don't need to use them, it's just in case you know them in case it helps you out).

I like drawing, especially character design, and I have had a bit of an interest towards volleyball for a long time, but I often stay away from playing it with strangers (which is not something I'm proud of) due to not being confident enough in my abilities, so I opt to just play it with my friends. I honestly don't have a specific type when it comes to appearance, but I see myself being more interested in people who are a bit adventurous (but not impulsive), probably because I lack it in me, but are, at the same time, respectful of my boundaries and caring; they can also be a bit assertive, but I rather someone who's patient and not someone who can rude/insensitive, at least not all the time. My love language is mainly acts of service, and I can incline a bit to physical affection too, but I can be a bit taken back with it bc I feel like I'd ruin things lol.

I'm sorry if this is too long, I tried my best to fit this all in one ask so it wouldn't be too much. In case you need more information just tell me and I can provide some more. Hope you're having a good day.

I believe you're best suited with Sugawara!

HOW YOU MET

(Small disclaimer: I picked a major for you to go with the idea.  I’m sorry if you absolutely hate or aren’t good at math.)

It’s your junior year of university when you get an email from your freshman college algebra professor asking if you would be interested in being on the list students receive when asking for tutoring help.  You weren’t too sure about it at first since you hadn’t done tutoring since high school, and tutoring back then had just been study groups. 

Yachi, your best friend, convinces you to say yes and to charge anyone who you end up tutoring.  She tells you that you’re good at helping people, so there’s no need not to do it.  She’ll be there for you if you need it, but she doesn’t think you will.

(Yachi wasn’t the nervous girl like she had been back in high school, which you wanted to change too, so might as well listen to her.)

It’s three weeks before midterms when you get your first text.  Thinking back on it, email would’ve been better, but you didn’t want any important emails getting buried under anyone asking for math help.

Unknown Number: hey is this l/n y/n? Unknown Number: prof tanaka gave me this number if I needed math tutoring.

You: Yes, I’m L/N.  How can I help you?

Unknown Number: do you charge???

You: Yeah.  3,875 yen an hour.

Unknown Number: is that per person??

Your first text ended up being seven guys attached to it.  A third of the volleyball team needed an algebra tutor.  They had all managed to annoy the only person on the team good at math to the point he refused to tutor them, so now they were all coming to you.

This would be the biggest study group you had ever done.  Back in high school, you kept it fairly small, mainly because your friend group was fairly small.  When you voiced this concern of there being too many people, Yachi pulled out her calculator and showed you how much money you’d be making for the 2.5 hours you were scheduled to tutor them.

So, here you are, standing in front of the apartment door of one of the guys you were going to be tutoring.  It’s Hinata’s apartment if you remember correctly, and hopefully, you don’t need to remember correctly and they’ll just introduce themselves to you.  You’re really hoping they’ll introduce themselves to you.

You gently knock, and the door flies open in three seconds to reveal a guy with unruly ginger hair and another guy behind him with bleached hair that’s swept out of his face.  It’s hard to remember who they are, even as you try to remember the team roster in your head.

“L/N?” Ginger asks, and you nod.  A huge smile makes its way to his face. “Hello!  I’m Hinata Shoyo!  Come in!” He’s pulling you in by your arm as he elbows the guy behind him out of the way. “Atsumu-san, go get everyone else.”

Okay, so blondie is Atsumu.

“But Shoyo-kun,” Atsumu whines, and Hinata swats his arm, which makes Atsumu pout as he stomps down the hallway.

“Feel free to put your shoes there.  Do you need anything to drink?  We’ve got it all, well, except for alcohol.  I don’t have alcohol here ever,” Hinata says as you put your shoes where he’s told you to.  He’s talking so fast, and you’re getting a bit overwhelmed just by him.

“No, thank you,” you say, and you turn to him to see someone next to him.  The guy has silver blonde hair that’s neatly styled and there’s a mole under his left eye.  He’s really pretty, and you now want to run out the door and forget about the money that would help with this month’s rent.

“You’re going to scare him off if you act like that, Hinata,” the guy says, and he has a soft smile on his face.  He looks at you and you look down at your socks.  Did you look nice enough for this?  Yachi had helped you with your outfit, but was it good enough to meet a cute guy in? “I’m Sugawara Koushi.”

You look up at him, and he’s still smiling, but it feels like he’s teasing you a little. “I’m L/N Y/N.”

“Well, let’s get started!” Hinata says, and it sounds like he wasn’t there for that moment you shared with Sugawara. “We’ve got a team outing later, and we wanna tell coach we studied some today!”

You nod, and Sugawara laughs slightly. “You go get them in the living room while I help L/N-san with something.”

Hinata nods before hurrying off.  You watch him go down a small hallway before disappearing into a room. “There’s nothing you need to help me with, but thank you, Sugawara-san.”

“Call me Suga,” Sugawara says, and his gaze follows to where yours is. “I just wanted to warn you that they’re absolutely insufferable.  I’m majoring in early childhood education and struggled with getting them to understand any sort of math.”

“Well, you’re not teaching children algebra, are you?” you ask, and he looks at you.  You can’t read his expression, but it doesn’t seem like a bad one. “I’m majoring in mathematics, so we may get different results.”

Sugawara smiles as he lets out a small laugh. “Alright, but don’t I can’t come to the rescue when it all crashes.”

“I didn’t say you needed to,” you say, and he’s easy to talk to.  There haven’t been many people you found it easy to talk to. “I just hope they know they have to pay me before the session starts.”

“They do,” Sugawara says as he crosses his arms over his chest. “They were all running around getting the money together before you got here.  That’s what Atsumu-san was sent off to finish.”

You look at the door Hinata went into before looking back at Suga. “Okay.  Let’s go see if they’ve finished.”

Sugawara grins as his arms fall to his sides. “Let’s.”

HEADCANONS

Sugawara respects your desire to stay in your comfort zone, but he makes sure to challenge you in small ways.

When he learns you like volleyball, he convinces you and the team to play a little.  He makes sure that no one gets too competitive and ends up playing halfway through.

He’s not part of the team, just friends with them, but is invited to all the parties they go to, which leads to him inviting you too.  Won’t go if you don’t want to go since he’d rather spend time with you.

He’s extremely affectionate.  Once you say you’re okay with physical touch, he hangs off you constantly.  Especially loves randomly giving you cheek kisses.

Sugawara will talk for you.  You’re out and people come up to you guys, he’s the one leading the conversation as he has an arm wrapped around your shoulder.  Him being an ambivert comes in handy in situations like that.

He loves doing things for you that you forget to.  He’s ready to get you lunch if you need him to and has memorized your order everywhere you guys go.  Will buy you something to drink (coffee/tea/soda) when he notices you forgot your morning drink.  Helps out with laundry and cleaning the house. 

If you draw anything for him, then know he’s posting all about it and showing it off to anyone who will listen.  He’s just so proud of you and loves you so much.

TROPE

Slow Burn

Although it’s easy to talk to Sugawara, you deal with a lot of insecurity and you’re not sure if he feels the same—if he’ll ever feel the same.  This leads to the gradual getting to know each other and learning to love yourself as well as loving Sugawara.  Along the way there is some hopeless pining, but after 100k words of people just waiting for you and Sugawara to actually hold hands instead of your hands just brushing each other as you walk by each other, Sugawara confesses to you.

RUNNERUP: Osamu

I hope you like it!

[autisticadventurer]

My History

CW: emotional, sexual, and financial abuse, suicide, drugs and alcohol, conversion therapy, divorce, homelessness, seriously... you name it.

For the very young among my readers, and for those who simply weren’t aware of what was happening in the queer community in the 90′s, let me tell you a little more about my family. 

My dad is from a city. His family later moved to a more rural environment, but he also grew up with a cosmopolitan experience. His mom’s parents were filthy rich and disinherited her for eloping with my grandpa but my dad still got to do rich people things when he was a kid. He has funny memories of his grandma nearly killing them because she was too drunk to drive but he also remembers doing farm labor as a teenager. He was a math whiz and played varsity football his sophomore year but had to quit after a car accident when the doctors discovered that one of his kidneys is totally non functional and the other is under developed. When he joined the Air Force, he was training to be a helicopter flight mechanic but there is something wrong with his depth perception so he was recycled and ended up with the far less glamorous but still noble position of cooking. Cooking runs in our blood.

My mom is from a very small town, 1000 people or so. The only diversity she ever really knew was Lutheran or Catholic and because of her heritage on her biological dad’s side, she may have been the only Jewish person in town. She was raised Catholic, though, by her mom and step dad. Her stories of childhood have a much different tone than my dad’s do. She was constantly angry at her mom for being too stupid. She earned average grades in all subjects and helped in the family store from the time she started high school. She played basketball for a few years in school, but most of her time was spent getting drunk probably because she had no framework to understand her attraction to other women. When she joined the Air Force, she did so as a diet tech. 

My parents met in a kitchen on an Air Force base thousands of miles from their home states. My dad told me that it was love at first sight. My mom has never talked about it. Their marriage was unhappy. They produced two children and then divorced a few years later. My dad was depressed for years and my mom openly shamed his depression to us kids. I have heard so many versions of why he left the Air Force but he was the primary parent when I was a kid. After the divorce, he struggled to find suitable work. 

My mom convinced us kids not to visit my dad more than once and even forbade us from visiting him on other occasions. I remember being coerced into signing a contract that we would not visit him at all when I was eleven. I figured out that my mom was gay when I was seven. Luckily, I had not been exposed to other culture stories about homosexuality before this so for me it was just data. We had to keep it a secret from the Air Force. In the 90′s being queer could cost you your job, especially in the military. This secrecy was used to convince us to keep our mouths shut about all the abuse that was happening in the home. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll be investigated and lose my job.” 

Ironically, my mom preached tolerance while perpetrating all kinds of conversion therapy on me that would have left me traumatized for life if I had not taken matters into my own hands as an adult. It was on a nearly daily basis that she openly declared my sibling the favorite and called me Number Two. I think that may have something to do with why I make so many poop jokes. I tried to earn her love and respect by doing well in school but my straight A’s did nothing but only further enrage her. When my IQ was tested at the age of 8, she denied the score because scores in that range almost always point to autism and she was working her ass off to deny that part of me. She even hid my fidget, my teddy bear, from me as a prank on more than one occasion. Imagine what it is like to have a mother who makes fun of you as a rule and will only show you love if you act right, and you never act right because you’re not right. 

You can imagine that I lived with my dad as often as I could. My dad is strange though. He would only want both of us to live with him. He was also very poor but I didn’t care because being able to breathe freely was a luxury that I didn’t have when living with mom. (I actually had to see a specialist at one point because my stress was preventing me from being able to breathe. The muscles in my neck were locking up but this only lead to being teased about putting less strain on my vocal chords. She didn’t love me at all.) Living with my dad wasn’t perfect. I was unable to continue the swim team into high school because my dad was fearful of me riding in a car to get to practice (unresolved trauma from his past) and his work schedule prevented him from taking me. But I was allowed to be in the IB Program and I begged my way into a few summer camps at the university. During my Junior year, my mom and dad got into a stupid fight and my dad lost it. I can’t say I blame him now because as an adult, I understand my mom’s power to provoke and pick at emotional wounds... but at the time, all I could think was, “what the fuck?” and I had that thought for years.

We ended up back with mom who wanted me to drop out of IB and get a job which also derailed my plans to attempt to get into MIT and they had been scouting me since I took my PSAT. Why did I do what my mom wanted me to do? I guess I trusted her, I still saw her only as my mommy and not as the manipulative, abusive person that she is. Staying in the IB Program would’ve led to my finding a suitable job but you have to remember, she hated the idea of having a genius child because that meant having an aspergers/autistic child and she retained her small town mentality for fear and shame of difference. In a weird way, not becoming an engineer has worked out for me and if she hadn’t treated me like so much dog shit for 25 years, we’d probably still have a relationship. My relationship with my dad was later repaired because he apologized for what had happened as a result of the fight. 

During my twenties, I was chronically homeless. Although I did well in school, because I was taught, but nobody ever taught me how to live in this world. I struggled to find work because I am strange, I cannot work full time because of the intensity of my sensory processing disorder, and the paychecks I earned were never enough to even cover rent, let alone food or a phone bill or student loan payments. I tried living with family, which meant my mom, and this only lead to my second suicide attempt at the age of 25. (My first was at age 12, also while living with my mom.) My sibling found me and I woke up in the psych ward a couple days later. It was after this that I lived in a home called a Board and Lodge. About a third of us were autistic but requiring less staff than a traditional group home. There were also people with physical injuries, drug addiction, prison re-entries, and one guy with schizophrenia. It was not a safe place to live because there was a great deal of abuse amongst the residents and staff due to what I think was a social power struggle. It was so bad that some of the staff wouldn’t even perform their jobs appropriately and I reported it when I moved out. 

I’m leaving a lot out: my years in college, my marriage and divorce, my time in a cult, being taken advantage of financially, the sexual assault, and other things. Being unable to recognize danger does not magically help an autistic person recognize danger. I have a lot to thank my therapist for because she has mentored me to help me recognize danger and to help me see the world as it is. She has helped me to build life skills and self care skills so that I can live independently and not be at the mercy of people who don’t understand autism and think they’re doing me a favor by trying to abuse me into being normal. I am hoping against hope that I can find a part time job in this state that will be understanding of my autism and accommodate me in the way the law requires them to. I have a lot to give but I cannot give what I do not have. 

Everyone you know has a hidden past that has been molded and shaped by the hidden past of their parents and grandparents. Try to put a hold on judgements and assumptions, if you can. It will help to foster tolerance and acceptance without having know things that are none of your business. It is an important lesson to learn that nobody owes you an explanation for who they are and nobody is obligated to share what they consider private.

[isabellestillman]

Strong (In)Dependent Woman

From an evolutionary perspective, humans are not meant to be alone. Darwin and our seventh-grade science teachers would have us recall that the foremost objective of any living thing is to procreate. Our species requires the meeting of two distinct individuals to do so: we need a second human to survive.

From the perspective of my elite, liberal, feminist upbringing, a young woman ought to survive on her own. In my world, engagements before age 25 are met with shock if not opprobrium, breaking up with him is encouraged in favor of “doing you,” career-based choices are lauded over those that prioritize relationships. ‘Survival,’ in my case, often seems synonymous with ‘self-reliance.’

Run fast, be smart, get dirty, eat what you want—and don’t ever think you need a man to make you whole: it’s a crucial set of tips, an education in womanhood of which too many girls and women are deprived. It’s one that I’ve taken seriously throughout my adolescence. But having internalized its expectations of autonomy, I’ve begun to scold myself for longing, for loneliness, for the slightest whiff of dependence.

It is this capacity to scold that I now question.

Will was my blind date to a wine-and-cheese dorm party my junior year of college: an unfamiliar face with mountain-man hair, his gangly frame swimming in a sport coat, paired perfectly with beat-up trail running shoes. It was a first sight thing. That night we didn’t leave our corner of the room once. We traded thoughts on the Green Mountains and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, privilege and justice, the scenes at the tables where we’d grown up eating dinner.

The next week, we went for burgers and beers in town. Four days later, I wrote in my journal, “Something I know for sure: I am falling in love.” From then on, we saw each other every day. We’d drive down dirt roads to catch sunsets and eat pancakes in bed and try to figure out how to be good in the world.

We were so different; that was what drew me in. I craved something other, something to shatter the carefully sculpted perspectives I’d held for the first two decades of my life. Will challenged me, his mind full of questions I’d never wondered and convictions I’d never entertained. I was spellbound by his way of seeing the world, hungry for the way he made me eat away at my own beliefs. For a while, I thought that was what it meant to find a partner.  

But over time, our differences began to wear, revealing themselves not just as day-to-day misunderstandings but as existential crises. Little things at first: Will was a minimalist, the owner of roughly five shirts, a couple pairs of shorts, and a laptop from 2007. I like clothes (whatever!), enjoy dinner out, spent $30 on Amazon for a poster to hang in my dorm. The first winter of our relationship, I bought a new sweater. I wore it to his house and waited in his bathroom, talking to him through the curtain as he finished showering with his simple bar of soap. I caught my reflection in the mirror—the sweater suddenly egregiously bright—and felt immediately sick to my stomach: You don’t need this sweater, or any of the countless things you have. You’re wasteful and spoiled. Your priorities are all off. What is wrong with you?

Maybe you know the feeling–when minor lifestyle choices bear the weight of character traits, criteria for judgment. Will managed to keep his world view consistent down to the last detail—living only on bread and peanut butter, listening only to music with ‘real’ messages, keeping as much distance from his phone as possible. And, in contrast, I was shallow, asinine, silly, out of touch with the systems and structures of the world.

It was more than just wardrobe choices. It was Big Ideas About How To Live: my drive to change the world and his fear of unbridled ambition; my need for light-hearted frivolity, his reading of my laid-backness as a failure to scrutinize my surroundings; my trusting of certain ideas, his only constant being skepticism.

As these chasms grew, my strength depleted. And the same person who made me question my worth was the one I turned to for affirmation. If Will couldn’t spend the afternoon with me, I wondered what it meant and begged him to assure me it was nothing. When I felt unseen or inferior, I would escape to his dorm room to feel his hands in my hair, the band-aid of physical touch. I could never hear the words “I love you” enough. I needed him to say I was smart, insightful, vibrant: that he loved me even with my flaws. I needed him to tell me I was good.

It ended almost as suddenly as it started. A phone call three months after graduation. And soon, I began to wonder if my ‘flaws’ had really been flaws at all.

That summer, I moved to Boston to get my Masters in Education, knowing that what I needed to work on was being good enough for myself.

And it worked.

I became the strong independent woman my upbringing had enshrined. I got a 4.0 GPA at Harvard, took on double the required teaching load, created a new social circle, read and wrote more than I had in years. I got drinks and kissed by the Charles and met people’s friends and sometimes stayed the night. I dated around.

In the midst of all this, my best friend broke up with her long-term boyfriend. It was a long time coming, but nonetheless sad, difficult and dark. It was also, as our group of girlfriends agreed, a great time for Zoey to “work on herself.” “Time to do you,” we said. “Time to become the strong independent woman you envisioned when you made this decision.” Plant a garden, we suggested. Make a scrapbook, join a soccer league, play poker, paint. Make yourself happy. Be independent.

It was funny, hearing myself counsel Zooey. So convinced that I knew what she needed—to do things that ‘made her independent’—advising her with ostensible confidence, but never quite sure how, exactly, I’d arrived at my own self-discovery. I’d certainly tried to learn to cook, to train for a half marathon, to finish the Sunday crossword, to skateboard. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t these things that had gotten me where I was.

I was afraid, when Daniel came along that February, that I hadn’t yet solidified my independence, that I was still vulnerable to other people’s ideas of what would make me ‘good.’ But as we spent more time together, that fear sort of dropped away. Eventually it stopped occurring to me at all, because with Daniel I never felt like there were expectations. I felt like my own self, at my very best. The most perceptive observer, eagerest listener, funniest banterer, caringest ally, cleverest referencer, insightfulest reflector, outgoingest adventurer, sweetest lover: peak Isabeller. Not because I was trying. Because Daniel somehow brought it out.

In the spring of 2017, I got a job teaching at a school I believed in, in Denver, which I knew would suit me better than Boston. I didn’t want to leave Daniel, but in my strong independent heart I knew better than to base a career choice on some guy I’d been dating a few months. Even if I did suspect, as I still do, that he might be the guy. As my friends, family, and culture had taught me, I sided with my strong independent woman self.

It was a tearful (sobful, really) sunrise parting, imbued with the understanding that staying together would be essentially impossible. He was a third-year medical student, I a first-year teacher, the number of three-day weekends sub-three, the distance a seven-hour, two-thousand-mile journey.

I pushed. I said, “Let’s leave the option open,” and, “It might be worth a try.” He smiled noncommittally, saying it didn’t make sense, that it would be more pain-inducing than joyful. The rational side of me saw his reasoning as legitimate. The strong independent side of me saw single life as ‘the right thing’ for me. But the feeling side of me still believed that it was possible. That when something makes you feel like the best you, holding on makes the most sense.

Now, lying on the floor of my new, empty apartment, my mind rings, “I need you.” And in some ways, I do. I need people in my life who inspire me. I need to laugh often, which we did. I need places where I know my best self comes standard. Just like I need these things from my friends. Why is it that different to need from a partner? Why is it that different to need from a man, a lover?

-

If you have a minute, Google “strong independent woman”: the how-to’s are endless, not to mention simple, degrading, sexist, and frankly absurd. (My personal favorite: lovepanky.com’s “How to be a Strong Independent Woman that Men Love.”)

Our society puts so much value on independence: make your own choices, discover your own happiness. Look in the mirror and say, “I look fly in this sweater, and I’m keeping it!” It sounds empowering. But it’s just another “women should ____.” A sexist expectation. A pigeonhole that’s exhausting at best, inhuman at worst. Being human means at least sometimes reveling in relying on others, in the beauty of finding your best self with other people—in a dependence that secures your survival, rather than threatens it.

I’m working on a theory of two kinds of dependence: in type one dependence, we rely on others to make ourselves believe we are good and worthy. In type two dependence, we rely on others because with them, we simply are that way. The fine line between the two gets lost easily in the fog of romantic feelings.  

It’s only a hypothesis, with a mere 23 years of evidence behind it, but it passes the common sense test. A woman’s choice of whether and how to depend should be just that: hers.

[billierain]

A LIFE LIVED, DELIBERATELY Welcome, students of Evergreen, and thank you for this invitation. On the MOVE. Long live John Africa. I feel privileged to address your chosen theme, not because I'm some kind of avatar, but because a life lived deliberately has been the example of people I admire and respect, such as Malcolm X; Dr. Huey P. Newton, founder of the Black Panther Party; like Ramona Africa, who survived the hellish bombing by police of May 13, 1985; or the MOVE Nine, committed rebels now encaged for up to 100 years in Pennsylvania hellholes despite their innocence, solely for their adherence to the teachings of John Africa. These people, although of quite diverse beliefs, ideologies, and lifestyles, shared something in common: a commitment to revolution and a determination to live that commitment deliberately in the face of staggering state repression. No doubt some of you are disconcerted by my use of the term "revolution." It's telling that people who claim with pride to be proud Americans would disclaim the very process that made such a nationality possible, even if it was a bourgeois revolution. Why was it right for people to revolt against the British because of "taxation without representation," and somehow wrong for truly unrepresented Africans in America to revolt against America? For any oppressed people, revolution, according to the Declaration of Independence, is a right. Malcolm X, although now widely acclaimed as a Black nationalist martyr, was vilified at the time of his assassination by Time magazine as "an unashamed demagogue" who "was a disaster to the civil rights movement." The New York Times would describe him as a "twisted man" who used his brains and oratorical skills for "an evil purpose." Today, there are schools named for him, and recently a postage stamp was even issued in his honor. Dr. Huey P. Newton, PhD, founded the Black Panther Party in October of 1966 and created one of the most militant, principled organizations American Blacks had ever seen. J. Edgar Hoover of the FBI targeted the party, using every foul and underhanded method they could conceive of to neutralize the group, which they described as the "number one threat to national security." Sister Ramona Africa of the MOVE organization survived one of the most remarkable bombings in American history, one where Philadelphia police massacred eleven men, women, and children living in the MOVE house and destroyed some 61 homes in the vicinity. She did seven years in the state prison on riot charges, came out, and began doing all she could to spread the teachings of John Africa, the teachings of revolution, and to free her imprisoned brothers and sisters of MOVE from their repressive century in hellish prison cells. These people dared to dissent, dared to speak out, dared to reject the status quo by becoming rebels against it. They lived--and some of them continue to live--lives of deliberate will, of willed resistance to a system that is killing us. Remember them. Honor their highest moments. Learn from them. Are these not lives lived deliberately? This system's greatest fear has been that folks like you, young people, people who have begun to critically examine the world around them, some perhaps for the first time, people who have yet to have the spark of life snuffed out, will do just that: learn from those lives, be inspired, and then live lives of opposition to the deadening status quo. Let me give you an example. A young woman walks into a courtroom, one situated in the cradle of American democracy--that's Philadelphia--to do some research for a law class. This woman, who dreams of becoming a lawyer, sits down and watches the court proceedings and is stunned by what she sees. She sees defendants prevented from defending themselves, manhandled in court, and cops lying on the stand with abandon. She saw the judge as nothing more than an administrator of injustice and saw U.S. law as an illusion. Her mind reeled, as she said to herself, "They can't do that," as her eyes saw them doing whatever they wanted to. Well, that young woman is now known as Ramona Africa, who lived her life deliberately after attending several sessions of the MOVE trial in Philadelphia. After that farce she knew she could never be a part of the legal system that allowed it, and she found more truth in the teachings of John Africa than she ever could in the law books which promised a kind of justice that was foreign to the courtrooms she had seen. The contrast between America's lofty promises and the truth of its legal repression inspired her to be a revolutionary, one that America has tried to bomb into oblivion. What is the difference between Ramona Africa and you? Absolutely nothing, except she made that choice. Similarly, Huey Newton studied U.S. law with close attention when he was a student at Merritt Junior College in west Oakland, California. His studies convinced him that the laws must be changed, and the famous Black Panther Party ten-point program and platform proves, then and now, that serious problems still face the nation's Black communities, such as all the predominantly white juries still sending Blacks to prison, and cops still treating Black life as a cheap commodity. Witness the recent Bronx execution of Ghanaian immigrant Amadou Diallo, where cops fired 41 shots at an unarmed man in the doorway of his own apartment building. Huey, at least in his earlier years, lived his life deliberately and set the mark as a revolutionary. What was the difference between Huey Newton and you? Absolutely nothing, except he made the choice. Each of the MOVE Nine--including the late Merle Africa, who died under somewhat questionable circumstances after nineteen years into an unjust prison sentence--members of the MOVE organization whose trial initially attracted the attention of a young law student named Ramona decades ago, was a person who came to question their lives as lived in the system. Some were U.S. Marines, some were petty criminals, some were carpenters, but all came to the point of questioning the status quo, deeply, honestly, and completely--irrevocably. One by one, they turned their back on a system that they knew couldn't care less if they lived or died and joined a revolution after being exposed to the stirring teachings of John Africa. They individually chose to live life deliberately and joined MOVE. And although they are individuals--Delbert Africa, Janet Africa, Phil Africa, Janine Africa, Chuckie Africa, Mike Africa, Debbie Africa, and Eddie Africa--they are also united as MOVE members, united in heart and soul. What's the difference between the MOVE Nine and you? Absolutely nothing, except they made the choice. Now, unless I miss my guess, Evergreen is not a predominantly Black institution, and my choices heretofore given may seem somewhat strange to too many of you, for far too many of you may identify yourselves by the fictional label of "white." In truth, as I'm sure many of you know, race is a social construct. That said, it is still a social reality formed by our histories and our cultures. For those of you still bound by such realities however, I have some names for you like John Brown, like Dr. Alan Berkman, Susan Rosenberg, Sue Africa, Marilyn Buck, for examples. Each of these people are or were known in America as white. They are all people I know of, who I admire, love, and respect. They all are or were revolutionaries. John Brown's courageous band's attack on Harper's Ferry was one deeply religious man's strike against the hated slavery system and was indeed considered one of the opening salvos of the U.S. Civil War. Dr. Alan Berkman, Susan Rosenberg, and Marilyn Buck were all anti-imperialists who fought to free Black revolutionary Assata Shakur from an unjust and cruel bondage. They are the spiritual grandsons and granddaughters of John Brown. Dr. Alan Berkman, Marilyn Buck, and Susan Rosenberg were treated like virtual traitors to white supremacy and thrown into American dungeons. Buck and Rosenberg remain so imprisoned today. They lived lives deliberately and chose liberation as their goals, understanding that our freedom is interconnected. They chose the hard road of revolution, yet they chose. And but for that choice they are just like each of you seated here tonight, people who saw the evils of the system and resolved to fight it. Period. Now, the name Sue Africa may not be known to you. She's what you may call white. Yet when she joined the MOVE organization, the system attacked her bitterly for what was seen as a betrayal of her white-skinned privilege. On May 13, 1985 she lost her only son because the Philadelphia police bombed the house she was living in. She served over a decade in prison where the guards vilely taunted her in the hours and days after the bombing. When she came out, she went right to work to rebuild the MOVE organization in Philadelphia. She lives her life deliberately by promoting John Africa's revolution each and every day. Except for that choice, she's just like you. Now, some of you are sure to be wondering, "Well, if this guy's gig is with revolutionaries, why is he saying this to us?" The answer of course is "Why not?" OK, I know you ain't supposed to answer a question with a question, but do I expect you guys and gals who've just received your degrees to chuck it all for so nebulous a concept as revolution? Nope. I ain't that dumb. The great historians Will and Ariel Durant teach us that history in the large is the conflict of minorities. The majority applauds the victor and supplies the human material of social experiment. Now, I take that to mean that social movements are begun by relatively small numbers of people who, as catalysts, inspire, provoke, and move larger numbers to see and share their vision. Social movements can then become social forces that expand our perspectives, open up new social possibilities, and create the consciousness for change. To begin this process, we must first sense that (1) the status quo is wrong, and (2) the existing order is not amenable to real, meaningful, and substantive transformation. Out of the many here assembled, it is the heart of he or she that I seek who looks at a life of vapid materialism, of capitalist excess, and finds it simply intolerable. It may be 100 of you, or 50, or even ten, or even one of you who makes that choice. I'm here to honor and applaud that choice and to warn you that, though the suffering may indeed be great, it is nothing to the joy of doing the right thing. Malcolm, Dr. Huey P. Newton, Ramona Africa, the MOVE Nine, Dr. Alan Berkman, Susan Rosenberg, John Brown, Susan Africa, Marilyn Buck, Geronimo ji Jaga, Leonard Peltier, Angela Davis, and others, all of them people just like you, felt compelled to change the conditions they found intolerable. I urge you to join that noble tradition. I thank you all, and wish you well. On the MOVE. Long live John Africa. From Death Row, this is Mumia Abu-Jamal. The Evergreen State College, 1999 https://youtu.be/RK7AoOcI-sM