Before she left for Beauxbatons, her mother told her “You never have to say ‘yes’ to a boy. Jamais.”  During the trip to drop her off at school, her mother had made her practice saying “no” a hundred times in every language she knew while her father rolled his eyes.

In fourth year she had a boyfriend who was so worried that he made her wear her robes buttoned high to keep other boys from noticing her. Her friends thought she did that to hide hickeys, and rumours circulated.  He kept her from her studies, instead teaching her how to give handjobs in the stacks of the library.  She knew something was wrong with their relationship, so she broke up with him in time to catch up on her grades. It took her years to figure out what the problem was.  

In fifth year, an older professor took an interest in her.  He spent hours talking to her, listening to her ideas.  It was the first time somebody took such interest in her mind.  Until one day, when he was demonstrating proper spellcasting posture, she realized that he was holding her by the waist, sliding his hand down her arm, and pressing his chest against her back, and that something hard was rubbing against her backside.  She excused herself politely and went directly to the headmistress’ office to explain what happened, and she hadn’t even noticed that she was shaking and crying until Madame Maxime had swallowed her in the biggest, most comforting hug.  The professor was gone the next day, something about incurable boils that put him in L’hôpital de Saint-Denis.

Over Christmas holiday in sixth year she met a muggle who lived in the next town over from her parents. He taught her amazing things, how to enjoy her body when all she had known was that men liked it when she bit her lip and gasped.  She had her first orgasm that week.  After he taught her to pleasure herself, he left. She never saw him again. They never talked about how the air shimmered when she moaned.

In the summer of that year, she met an English girl.  Kate was punk and listened to the Sex Pistols and wore thick eyeliner.  Fleur had never met anyone like her, and she made excuses to be with her on the pretense of helping her learn French.  One day she leaned in and kissed her. The girl smiled and Fleur learned what it feels like to kiss someone so happy they can’t keep from smiling.  Kate was the one she ran to when her father started shouting at her.  He had never understood how being part veela meant that men couldn’t stop looking at her mother, and now he noticed that his baby girl was attracting all kinds of attention.  Kate taught her how to fight back, first with kicks and punches and then with dueling, once Fleur turned 17 at the beginning of August.  She started defending herself from men on the street, on the bus, in shops, and one day she finally hit one, open-hand slap to the cheek. She felt invincible. When Fleur noticed her father looking at young Gabrielle suspiciously, she brought her to fighting lessons, too.

When they broke up, Fleur decided she had everything she needed. She was strong.  She didn’t need Kate.  She had loyal friends and a sister she’d give her life to protect.  Her mother had started wilting under her father’s constant pressure, and she could no longer help her daughters.  Fleur found a strong supporter in Madame Maxime as a mother and a role model.  Fleur decided that she was a warrior, and warriors can do what they want, so she started dating boys again.  “Dating” was a strong word, because she just liked kissing.  It made her feel alive, in control, and fluttery on the inside.  But only with boys.  Her friends—who had long ago come to terms with the unfortunate side effects of veela heritage—knew that the only people she dated were the ones who never showed explicit interest in her, but none of the boys caught on. 

When she met Bill, she noticed his eyes, his long hair, and the earrings with fangs, but she mostly noticed that he didn’t notice her.  He looked at her face, noted her Beauxbatons uniform, and smiled politely at her and her family. And that was it. He was it.




My latest Doctor Who cosplay! :D



"Losing your virginity" will henceforth be called "your sexual debut".

Because you’re not fucking losing anything.



*university voice* unfortunately… we have too much money… so we have to raise tuition so we can build a place to keep all the other money in… so sorry unavoidable

I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me

My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.

On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls’ phone numbers.

When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks —
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.

Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.

He tells me he loves me with the lights on.

I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.

The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.

The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.

I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
and kisses me


a different era




This was shared on facebook and a large proportion of the people commenting were white and complaining that there aren’t any bras pale enough for them!! If you actually take a second away from making everything about you and read the article it says they are planning to release bras for all shapes and skin tones

but even if they didn’t release bras for white people, i don’t see the point in complaining. i mean




has a “nude” underwear for us white people.


They just feel bad for not being included in everything.



Love foxes

They’re just so strange. (Not behemoth-depths strange, but strange nonetheless.)




Pulled a fast one on us 6 year-olds, Disney.

she knew what was up

Holy shit :O




-boys that are against feminism
-boys that call girls sluts and whores
-boys that think a vagina gets loose after having a lot of sex
-white boys that use the n word


-girls that use feminism as an excuse to hate men

-girls that think that they shouldn’t be judged for fucking excessive amounts of people


-tumblr user davidthedeer

What You Crave vs What You Need

Chocolate: Raw nuts/seeds.
Oily/Fatty Snacks: Kale, leafy greens.
Soda/Carbonated Drinks: Actual, literal bubbles.
Chips/Salty Food: Topsoil.
Cookies: Freudian psychology.
Sweet Tea: A strong Southern gentleman to take care of you.
Pasta/Carbs: Pasta/Carbs.
Ice: The sweet release of death.


713. Muggleborns charming their plants to say “I AM GROOT!”