#Like 1984 is pretty easy for me to just put words on a page

[im-the-reader-of-which-you-speak]

Cool Cut

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Reader wants a cool, unconventional haircut, but is too shy to get it. Or at least that would be the case, if she wasn't dating Eddie Munson.

Word count: ~1,000

Notes: Reader is implied to have hair long enough to cut. The hair cut they want is described in the first sentence. Not sure if it will work for all hair textures. I think the details are pretty vague otherwise. -- Eddie calls Reader "Babe" and "Baby." -- No pronouns used, but the haircut they want is on a girl. -- Y/N is not used.

Her hair was long in the front and short in the back, like a reverse mullet. The magazine she lies in is a few years old at this point, the cover reads "August 21, 1984." That's how long you've been thinking about the damn haircut.

It was weird. It was unconventional.

It was cool.

You run your fingers through your hair, imagining what it'd be like to have a cut like that. Eddie pokes his head over your shoulder.

"With how much you stare at that lady, I'm starting to think you have a crush, babe." He kisses your neck. "Should I be jealous?"

"No no- don't worry, it's nothing like that! I've only got eyes for you, promise." Setting the tattered magazine down, full attention now on your boyfriend... Only for Eddie to pick it up again and flip right to the page.

"Ya sure? This is the third time you pulled that thing out this week. You study this page like Picasso painted it."

"She just has cool hair 'is all. Don't think I've ever seen anything like it."

He lets out a knowing hum, playing with his curls. "Think I should get it? Would ya like it shorter?" He shines a playful smile.

"No!" You snatch away the magazine before it gives him anymore ideas. "I love your hair exactly how it is!" You grab two fists full of his locks as if that will protect them.

He chuckles, gives you a kiss on the forehead and grabs your hands. "Yeah I love it too. Don't worry, this mop isn't going anywhere." He gives his crown a good shake, relishing in his abundance of curls.

"So do you want a cut like that?"

"Oh uh. Ha, I don't think real people have that sort of hair. That's reserved for like, rockstars and models. Not us lowly serfs."

"Says who? What, are the fashion police gonna stop us?" He hops off the sofa, finger gun pointed in your face. "Place the shears on the ground! We have you surrounded!"

"Officer! I was only getting a bob, I swear!"

"Likely story. With a cut this stylish, you're looking at a lifetime of conical bras high-waisted suspenders."

"Noooo!" You throw your hands up, surrendering to Officer Munson.

Grinning from ear to ear, Eddie ends the scene and returns to his place next to you on the couch. "I know you have shears in the bathroom. The style doesn't look that hard, I bet I could do it if you want."

You thought about it again. Feeling the breeze on your neck. How the long bits in the front would frame your face. You sigh. "No... Thanks but, nobody has hair like that. I'm not trying to put a target on my back." You fold in on yourself. "Probably wouldn't even look good on me anyway."

"Woah. First of all, you'd look hot wearing a fishbowl on your head. You'd look even better embracing your own style." You shy away from his words, but he pulls you right back to him.

"Second of all, what with this target? You're already dating the Freak of Hawkins High." He hops out of his seat, putting on the theatrics. "Are you gonna let them suppress you? Stamp out your individuality? Mold you into a drone like them?"

"Yes."

"So not metal." He rolls his eyes, shot down by words. His body drops down like a sand bag, weighted by disappointment. "I can't control you, babe, but I hope you know I love you. No matter the hair style."

"Even if it's matted and ratty?"

"Even if you were bald. And I think anyone worth a damn would too. 'Cuz you got good taste, baby. And anyone who thinks differently can fuck off!"

How does he make it look so easy? He dances through life like no one is watching. He screams to the world that he's a nerdy metalhead freak every day. He doesn't give the backlash a second thought.

If you were Eddie, you would have had this haircut for years now. And here you are longing for it. What to you is a dream, for him is a reality. You loved Eddie. You loved his style, every little weird thing about him, all his unconventional hobbies. To you he's the epitome of cool.

Man, how did you score a piece like him?

"Okay let's do it."

"Wait what?" Eddie tuned out while you were admiring him. It takes a second to process what you're saying.

"We have hair clippers. Let's do it" You hand him the magazine for reference.

"Fuck yeah baby let's do this!"

You wash your hair and throw on one of Eddie's shirts, one that you don't mind sacrificing to the prickly hair gods. You look in the bathroom mirror. Eddie stands behind you, pulling goofy faces, pretending to be some crazed killer with the scissors.

"Ready babe? Standing firm? Don't move around too much, I don't want to cut your ear off." You take a second to ground yourself, you're really gonna do this. Grasping the sink, you look at Eddie's eyes and he gives you a reassuring smile in the mirror.

"Ready."

He combs through your hair, separating a bit from the back.

Snip!

There's a drop in your stomach as you watch the wet loc fall to the ground.

"Hey could you pull your head back a bit?" He gently guides your face back up to the mirror. "Stay still, let me work my magic here."

Snip snip snip

Eventually you close your eyes-- you can't keep looking anymore. Deep breaths, you focus on Eddie's guiding hands. His fingers lightly scratching across your scalp. The long inhale he takes before holding his breath as he focuses. The long exhale that leaves his mouth as he makes the last cut.

"Done!"

You open your eyes, but he covers them immediately.

"Uh oh Munson, what did you do?"

"Gave you the perfect hair cut. But don't look yet! Let me comb it out and dry it first."

Your eyes mostly remain closed as he gets rid of all the stray hairs, but you manage sneak a little peek while Eddie is blowdrying your hair. His tongue pokes out as he concentrates.

"No peeking!" He blasts your peeping eye with the blow dryer.

A final brush out later he finally announces that you can look.

"What'd'ya think babe? Lookin' like a rockstar?"

Any reasonable person would probably not let Eddie cut their hair. Any reasonable person would probably lock away any sharp objects in his line of site.

But good thing you weren't reasonable, because it was perfect.

"Wow. Eddie, when did you go to cosmetology school?"

"So you like it?"

"Eddie, it's exactly what I wanted."

"Yeah, but how do you feel?"

Finally seeing yourself with the hair you always wanted, only one word comes to mind.

"Metal."

"Damn right you do babe." He squeezes your torso and places a fat kiss on your lips.

If there was any question amongst the student body of Hawkins High that you two were dating, there isn't anymore. Because you two freaks belong together. You guys were too cool for the rest of them anyway.

[user21340]

my only exception

(i don’t own this gif or any of the characters in this fic)

summary: you and nat are separated when in the Red Room. you both are reunited. after holding onto a couple things to give her for a couple years you both realize love is well and alive.

warnings: violence, abuse, swearing, lil angst, fluff

pairing: natasha romanoff x fem!reader

word count: nearly 1.8k

a/n: omg i don’t know what to say! thank you for all the support on the stuff i’ve released so far. it’s super crazy seeing some of my favorite writers following me. thank you so so much for 30 followers! much love 💕💕

(italics in dialogue mean the person is speaking russian)

sorry for any mistakes i wrote this at 3am and have to get up for school at 6 😪 no bueno

It was a cold and stormy night as the power in the Red Room continuously flickered on and off even with the help of a high powered generator.

You and Natalia had been waiting for an event like this to occur so you could break out. Even though both herself and you lived only a small bit of life outside in the real world before you were taken in and trained to become a weapon, both of your humanly morals knew right from wrong. The Red Room’s treatment definitely being a wrong.

Madame B and the other monstrous staff at this facility put all you girls to bed roughly an hour ago. Nat and yourself undid your cuffs connecting your wrist to the metal bedframe so you could pack the few things you both owned before you made your escape. Both of you had talked this plan over through and through so you both were on the same page as soon as you saw that flicker of a power outage surge though the site.

At the moment you both were eighteen years old meaning both of you had proven yourselves worthy enough to hone a spot at this academy and had graduated a couple months prior.

GAME PLAN

Some information you had gathered which the staff weren’t aware of was every time the power flickered off, it disarmed and unlocked the exit door/s for nearly five seconds. The weather has been dry but cold lately not making this discovery too useful. The plan was to sneak over to uncuff yourselves in the middle of the night when these brief power outages were occurring, pack your items, and as you were about to escape bang on the wall of the large room where the girls kept at the academy would sleep to create enough of a distraction before you were out and free for good. Easy right? How wrong you’d be.

When it was time for the distraction, Nat stood by the door waiting for the next surge of lightning of whatever broke the electricities stability as you walked to the far side of the sleeping quarters where you were sure you’d have enough time to bang on the walls and sprint out of that door.

You heard a crash of thunder so you knew your escape chance would be soon. As you were about to start banging on the walls you see a door knob parallel to Nat but far away none the less start turning.

BAM

Lightning strikes, what seems to be right outside of the building. You sprint for the door only to have your arm caught by one of Madame B’s henchmen.

Just like that the power flickers.

five.

Without much thought you break away from the man’s grasp lunge at Natalia who happened to be at the door.

four.

“We’ll meet again Natalia.” you speak softly

three.

You shove her out of the door with all of your might.

two.

You use all of your remaining strength that you can muster up to slam the heavy metal door closed.

one.

Click

The door locks once again.

“You stupid little bitch. Get over here NOW!” the man practically growls.

You slowly and steadily walk over to the man as he gruesomely pummels and kicks you.

Sure the beatings, mind torture and manipulation hurt, but you’ve never experienced any kind of pain on the same caliber to what being separated from Natalia feels like.

Madame B is more than disappointed, enraged and annoyed with one of her ‘star students’. You receive daily beatings and long, tiresome training hours for helping Natalia escape. Although everyone is ‘replaceable’ in the minds of the staff as well as Madame B, they just lost Natalia so they couldn’t afford to lose you as well.

Months later the beatings finally slow down to a couple a week which you are able to endure. Madame’s mission now is to make a monster out of you by pushing you to and past your limits when training.

One night you finally drift off to sleep. You hate sleeping. It’s a constant replay of your last night with Nat. Only hoping that she made it to civilization safe and sound and is living a normal teens life. However, tonight’s dream is different. In this dream you see yourself shoving your packed-escape bag between your mattress and bedframe as you are bleeding out on the ground from the beatings. You wake up in a cold sweat and manage to kneel on the ground and slowly lift up your mattress only to find that same, small bag filled with the few, but important belongings of yours and Nat’s. You open up the bag forgetting all about what you both had packed. The most important items you see is a picture of Natalia as a toddler with alongside her mother and father, a small metal ring which you had made for her after stealing a small teaspoon at dinner, banging it against the concrete floor with a rock to flatten it out as you’d continuously bend it back and fourth so only the thinnest part is of the spoon is left which you bend into a ring before surprising Nat with it after you know she had a pretty rough day training, and lastly Nat’s papers containing important info about her such as her full name, birthplace, parents names, and birthdate.

November 22, 1984

November 22, 1984

November 22, 1984

November 22, 1984

You make sure you have this date burned into your head, latching onto any important information about her you can learn.

You hang onto those three items keeping them hidden.

Two and a half years later...

It’s late at night when you hear gunshots and fights breaking out throughout the facility. You quickly get up out of bed (once again undoing your cuffs) and grab those three items from under your mattress. You place them in your pocket getting ready to make a break for the outside world. As you reach for the door you turn back taking one last look at the place you’ve been living for pretty much the entirety of your life, only before a man in a funny red, white, and blue costume enters your view.

You bring your hands up ready for a fight.

“Look kid, I’m not here to fight you. We are breaking you out.” the man ensures

“Who even are you?” you sternly question

“Steve Rogers. But the public calls me Captain America.” his gaze settles on your figure, “Mind telling me who you are?” he pushes

“Names y/n, but look I’ve got places to be ma-“ you are cut off when Captain America’s jaw drops.

“No, we both know you don’t. But, you ARE coming with me.” you know there isn’t much room for protest but that won’t stop you from trying. You lunge at him and push him to the ground as you wave a small goodbye and sprint towards the door only for your body to fall on the ground limp. Realizing you’ve been stunned by something temporarily.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” you shriek, he only chuckles.

“God, Nat was right about you.” she shakes he head with a small grin on his face.

“N-nat?” you whisper as you vision fades black.

You regain consciousness and look around only to find yourself in a weird windowy, loud vehicle type thing. You see a group of people standing around you but you see one particular familiar face hovering directly over yours lightly combing through your hair with one one hand and gently outlining your jawline with the other.

“NAT!” you screech, your brain is feeling too many emotions to comprehend at the moment.

Once she sees and hears you are awake she pulls you into a bone crushing hug.

“Y/n/n I’m so sorry I left you and you had to stay in that hellhole for so long alone I don’t know how I would’ve help up it if that-“ you cut her off

“Natalia, all that matters is I’m here with you right now.” you reason.

After getting off of what you learned is a ‘plane’ you and Nat spend hours together clinging onto one another as if, as soon as you separate you will be absent in her life for another couple years, vice versa.

Months pass by. Even though you and Nat have yet to label yourselves as a couple your hearts belong to one another after being attached to the hip to one another for pretty much every activity or mission you both do. In this time you were also recruited as an Avenger due to your skillful hand to hand combat and your masterful types of fighting you have nearly perfected from your time in the room.

The date just happens to be November 22. You are pretty sure no one in the compound is aware of Natalia’s birthday, hell, you aren’t even sure if she’s aware.

Today is the day you decide to return the missing items from her bag that you recover after she left.

You wake up next to her and wake her up with a long, graceful, soft kiss on her lips to which she responds shortly after by kissing you back as you feel as tiny smirk against your own lips.

“Hey, what was that for?” she asks playfully

“Ohhh nothing. Just maybe it’s for my favorite girl’s special day today.” Nat blushes.

“H-how’d you know?”

“Oh honey, I know e v e r y t h i n g.” you reply

Before she can respond you pull her to sit up on your shared bed and hand her an envelope containing her papers as well as he one and only photo of herself and her family.

As soon as she sees both items she sobs into your chest. (more because of the picture, you really only included her papers so she too would know all the most crucial parts of her life pre-red room era.

“Uh, uh, uh’” you tut,”One more thing.” you reach for her hand slowly and tell her to shut her eyes. You slowly slide the makeshift ring on her finger.

“Open.” you instruct

To which she gasps at the sight and just like the day you both were reunited you hugged and kissed for hours on end.

“Nat, will you be my girlfriend?” you ask with a sheepish smile.

“Of course y/n/n, I thought you’d never ask.” she takes a breath,“I know love is for children, but you are my only exception.”

“Ditto.” Natalia chuckles, “That is what the Americans say, right?” you backtrack with flushed cheeks.

She holds you tighter and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Sure.” she breathes out.

[songbirdstyles]

when i kissed the teacher.

summary: the one man you want more than anything is the one man you can’t have - your english professor.

warnings: teacher/student relationship, age gap (implied), f receiving oral, whole lotta smut, whole lotta feelings, whole lotta angst

word count: 14.7k (strap in)

song inspo.: when i kissed the teacher - abba

There was something special about Professor Styles.

You knew it, and so did every other girl who took his class. Your less-than-appropriate feelings about him were shared and that should’ve made you feel better about having them - at least you weren’t as obvious as some of the other girls who obviously took a fancy to your English professor. You applauded their efforts, showing up to classes in short skirts and low cut tops in the hopes that they’d catch his eyes drifting down to their chests while he passed out your essays -

But they hadn’t had any luck yet. He was a very respectable man, and more than his looks, that was what you appreciated about him. He was passionate about English, with a curriculum that appealed to you from the very first day and essay topics that forced you to look deeper into every book that the class read. He was one of the youngest professors on campus and you could tell something about that seemed to motivate him - to not be seen as a joke by the older professors, to be taken seriously by the students, some of which weren't much younger than him.

You decided, after your very first class with him, that, in any other universe, you’d have fallen in love with him. Or perhaps tried to jump his bones immediately.

Something of that sort.

As classes progressed you found yourself only liking him more. His classes were as difficult as you’d anticipated and you should have hated it, hated how much work and effort you had to put into every assignment but you absolutely adored it. You loved doing his essays, loved the novels he picked, loved the look on his face when he handed back your assignments with a 100% scribbled on top.

Most of your assignments, at least.

It didn’t really make sense to you, why your 1984 analysis should have gotten a 71%. Truthfully, you’d felt confident while writing it - it was such an easy analysis that you’d decided to go a little deeper, spending more time on it than was necessary, because you were sure he’d be tired of reading the same essay from everybody over and over again. So you gave him something different and maybe you should have stuck to analyzing the same themes that everyone else did.

“If any of you are confused about your grade,” Professor Styles announces to the class when everyone has gotten their essays back, time left in class slowly ticking down, “please feel free to see me after class. M’happy to discuss any concerns with you.”

Perhaps you’re being paranoid, but you could’ve sworn you felt his eyes land on you.

Class ends within a few minutes and you take your time packing your things back into your bag, waiting until the last kid has trickled from the lecture hall before swinging your bag over your shoulder and making your way down to his office. The door is cracked open and he’s barely sat down at his desk when you knock, flashing him a smile before pushing the door open a bit more.

You clear your throat before saying, “Hey, um, sorry to bother you - ” he interrupts you, telling you that it’s no bother at all “ - I’m just kind of confused on why I did badly on this essay.”

He nods, motioning for you to come in, and you step inside before shutting the door behind you. His office is small and cramped, with bookshelves lining the walls and a couch pressed into the corner. It’s a good vibe, you have to admit, although slightly messy. Perhaps you’d describe it as cozy, and it seems to fit him well. 

There’s an empty seat in front of his desk and you sit down in it awkwardly, placing your essay in front of him. His eyes skim the first page before he tells you, “You usually do really well on essays, and this was … a really easy one.”

“I know,” you tell him, leaning forward to try and read what he’s reading. “I just thought you might be looking for something more complex. It seemed too simple.” When you look up, he’s staring at you, and you feel heat flood to your cheeks. “I don’t - I don’t know.”

“It really is that simple, I promise,” Professor Styles informs you, and he pushes your essay back to you. “But you’re one of my best students, and I don’t want to let this bring down your grade. So, I have an idea for how you can make it up.”

Your mind runs through all the ways you’d want to make it up to him - most of them involve you being on your knees, and you cough into your elbow. He doesn’t know what you’re thinking, but it doesn’t stop you from feeling embarrassed about it. Fantasizing about your professor from across the lecture hall is one thing, but you’re barely a foot apart from him now and you’re almost nervous he can hear your thoughts.

“I’ll do anything.” And you don’t care about the ways he could interpret it. He drums his fingers on his desk, and when you look down at his hand, you notice with a start that his nails are painted - you’d never seen that before, but you’d also never been this close to him, you suppose. You wonder if he gets them done or if he does them himself - you can’t picture him going to a salon, and the thought of him painting his own nails could make you cum on its own.

You don’t realize he’s been speaking until you zone back in, and when you look back up at him, he furrows his brows at you. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry.” You shake your head. “Just - um - could you repeat that?” His eyes linger on you for just a beat too long, and your face flushes again. “So distracted,” he murmurs in a faux chastising tone, and your stomach flips. “What I said was that I’m willing to put this essay in as a 97 - your average for the class - if you would help me with grading some things. Not too heavy, maybe an hour or two after class. I’ve been falling behind with a lot of my classes and I’ve been looking for help, anyway, so it works out for both of us.”

Jesus Christ. Spending an extra hour every day with Professor Styles sounds like a recipe for disaster, and yet it also sounds completely perfect at the same time, and you’re nodding before you can fully process the pros and cons of the situation. “That sounds great. I mean, really - thank you so much.”

“S’my pleasure,” he informs you, giving you a large, dimpled smile. “So, after class, tomorrow - when I’m caught up and don’t need your help anymore, you’re off the hook.” 

“Got it.” you stand, grabbing your essay and your bag and making your way towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” he echoes, and the last thing you see before you shut the door is him, bringing his hand up to wave you off.

 ---

 When class concludes the next day you maintain the same habit as you did the day prior - watching every student trickle out the door before swinging your bag over your shoulders, grabbing the two cups of tea that you’d made before class and making your way down to the front of the lecture hall.

Professor Styles stands in the doorway of his office, holding the door open for you - you make your way inside with a tight, only slightly awkward smile. His eyes roll over the two cups that you’re holding and he asks, with a mildly amused inflection in his voice, “I guess you like tea quite a bit, then?”

You smile, looking down at your cups, and when he shuts the door you hold one out to him. “I do like it a lot, but this one’s for you. You know, to say thank you for giving me a freebie, and also because you look like the kind of guy who loves tea.”

He laughs and your grin widens at the noise - god, it’s like music to your ears, and you would do anything to keep hearing it from him. He reaches out to take the cup from you and brings it up to his mouth, taking a small sip - when he’s done his tongue pokes out to lap up a bit of tea from his lip, and you try to ignore how much the minuscule motion affects you. “This is perfect, Y/N. Just the way I like it. You’re an angel.” Your cheeks heat up, and then he says, “But you don’t need to thank me. I’m probably gaining more from this arrangement than you are, truthfully. People are starting to get annoyed with how I’ve been falling behind grading, which is where you come in.”

Yes, you’d heard the girls next to you whispering about how bothersome it was that they’d submitted three essays in the past month and had only gotten one back. Why does he give out so much work if he’s never gonna hand it back? 

It didn’t bother you too much.

“Well - alright, then. You’re welcome for helping you grade,” you tell him, pulling out the chair in front of his desk and settling in, dropping your bag beside you. You take another brief moment to glance around his office, as though expecting something to change, but it’s the same distinctly messy, cramped office that it had been yesterday. At some point, you should tell him that he ought to clean out his space, but that’s not what you’re here for - yet.

Professor Styles nods, making his way to the other side of his desk and plopping down in his spinning chair - it was quite nice, and made you wonder why the one you sat in seemed to be falling apart at the seams. But, then, you supposed teacher salary didn’t leave room for spectacular seating. “See, that’s the spirit.” All at once, the casual discussion between the pair of you died as he dug in the drawers of his desk for something - and then he plopped a large stack of papers on the table between you both. “This isn’t all of them - not even close. You’re very smart, so this should be pretty easy for you. Just read through them, add any notes, things they need to work on, and look at the rubric for a final grade.”

You nod, picking the first essay off the top of the pile and reaching for a pen from the cup on his desk - it’s a coffee mug with the Rumours by Fleetwood Mac album cover on it, and you take a moment to marvel at it briefly. “You like Fleetwood?” you question, voice seeming unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet of his office. “Didn’t strike me as that kind of guy.”

He looks up, then, from where he’d already begun scribbling bright red notes into the margin of someone’s essay. His eyes trail down to the mug full of pens, and then back up to meet yours. “You seem to make a lot of assumptions about the kind of guy I am. What’s that all about?”

“Nothing,” you assure him, your voice faux sweet and innocent, and he smiles slightly. “But I’m glad you have an appreciation for really good music. I was worried your music taste would be terrible, and then I’d have to live with the knowledge that Professor Styles exclusively listens to Justin Bieber.”

Your professor rolls his eyes, smile tugging at his lips. “You know,” he begins, “you don’t have to call me Professor Styles. Not outside of class, at least. It sounds weird when it’s just the pair of us here.”

“Oh.” You pause. “What should I call you, then?”

“Harry’s fine.”

Harry Styles. The name flows easily off the tongue as you test it out in a teasing tone, your eyes meeting his as you do, and your cheeks flush. You don’t know if it's commonplace for professors to allow random students to drop formalities and call them by their first names but you’ll accept it anyway - all you know is that, when you go home tonight, the thought of calling him Harry will fill your mind until you can’t stand it anymore. 

Harry as he buries his face between your thighs.

Harry as he pounds you into the mattress.

Harry as he bends you over his desk - this desk - the one you’re sitting at right now.

You cough into your arm and pick up your pen, pressing your thighs together to try and alleviate the throbbing that’s now affecting your body. You should’ve known not to let your mind wander because you’ve barely been here for 15 minutes and you already feel like you need to go rub one out in the bathroom. But you pause - take a sip of your tea, though it’s nearly gone from drinking it so much in class - and get to work grading Brianna Valeria’s essay on Death Comes to the Archbishop. The rubric sits on the desk next to you and you bury yourself in your work - if Harry notices the sudden silence that’s overtaken you, he doesn’t mention it.

For the rest of the hour, the pair of you work in silence. It’s comforting and surprisingly not awkward, and occasionally you ask his opinion on something one of his students wrote in their essays, but the playful banter you’d had before has dissipated. You’ve finished your tea and you suspect he has, as well, with the way he’s been feverishly drinking it.

“Oh,” he says, suddenly, and you glance up from where you’re in the middle of scribbling red notes into the margins of Alexander Simmons’ essay. “You should probably get going.”

One quick glance down at your phone proves that he’s right, and you rise from the extremely uncomfortable seat you’ve been perched in for the hour - you can practically hear your butt crying in relief. “Thank you so much for the tea,” Harry tells you, handing back his cup, and it’s empty, like you expected. “And - um. You don’t have to call me Harry if it makes you uncomfortable. Just thought it would be less formal, but if you don’t want to, it’s fine.”

Ah. He took your silence as you being uncomfortable calling him Harry. Well, it’s better than him knowing just how wet the sentiment made you, but you shake your head immediately. “No. No, I prefer calling you Harry. You’re right - it’s weird when it’s just us.”

He grins at you, then, standing up from his seat and stretching his arms over his head. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Ms. Y/L/N.”

“You know, if I’m calling you Harry now, I think you should drop formalities too. Make it equal.”

“Okay … Y/N. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Harry,” you tell him, turning and walking out of his office with your phone in your pocket and two cups in your hands, blissfully unaware of your abandoned bag still sitting next to the terribly uncomfortable chair you’d been all too quick to leave.

 --

 It’s only when you’ve finished the trek back to your dorm, the sun beginning to lower down into the horizon, that the absence of your bag on your shoulder becomes prominent.

You can’t get into your building without your key and your key is in your bag and your bag is … back in Harry’s office, where you nearly made yourself cum just thinking about him. And the thought of having to go back across campus, back to his office, when he might not even be there, is not favorable, but you need your key and you need to bang out homework tonight, so with a soft groan you spin on your heel, walking away from the warm comfort of your building and making your way back to his.

As summer bled into fall and fall begins to bleed into winter, the weather has changed so drastically in just the past week or so that you tug your cardigan closer to your body, but the air that seeps through the holes in the crocheted sweater send goosebumps trailing up and down your body. The wind whips your face and brings tears to your eyes that run down your cheeks, and when you’re finally at the door of Harry’s building it’s a welcome surprise to walk inside, allowing the warmth to embrace you - even if the shock of the changing temperatures causes your eyes to water again.

His office is on the 2nd floor, so you pull open the door to the staircase and make your way up the two flights. Most professors have gone home for the day, classrooms dark as you speed past them to where you know his office is. 

His office is dark and your heart sinks at the sight - there are a few posters pinned to the small window, but you can see the lack of light clear as day. Your hand grasps the doorknob anyway, turning it without any hope that it would open - but then it was, giving you access to his dark office, and by the seat you’d occupied later you can make out your bag.

A breath of relief escapes your throat as you take a step inside, reaching down to swing it over your shoulder before turning to leave. And then you hear it - a small breath, an indicator of someone else in the room, and you whip around to look back around at the office.

Oh.

Harry sits in his chair, face buried in his arms, fast asleep. His hair is messy and in front of him sits the stack of essays you’d been working at early, hardly any smaller than when you’d left. It would nearly be an adorable sight - your professor, passed out at his desk - but it just seems concerning, and without thinking you’ve leaned over the desk, placing your hand on his shoulder and shaking him slightly.

“Professor?” your voice is soft, barely audible, and you speak louder when you say, “Harry?”

He doesn’t respond, so you say, louder still, “Harry?”

Then he stirs slightly under your touch, and you drop your hand from his shoulder as he lifts his head from where it had been resting on his arms, looking up at you with messy eyebrows and a thoroughly confused expression on his face. “What - what are you doing here?” Jesus. His voice is deep and raspy, sounding as though he’d been sleeping for ages instead of merely less than an hour, and if his present state wasn’t slightly concerning to you, you know that you’d feel the effects of his words between your thighs. But you pause, staring down at him, before asking, “What are you still doing here?”

“Just working on some grading.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking around the darkened office with an air of distinct confusion.

“With all due respect, Harry,” you tell him, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “I think you’re burning yourself out. You should go home.”

He hesitates, and then questions, “Why are you here? I thought you left -”

“I forgot my bag,” and you hold it up to demonstrate it to him. “Are you going to go home? I’m serious - you need a break. And to sleep on a bed.”

“I’m fine,” Harry says, and he stands up from his chair. It moves back and hits the wall with a soft thud that goes unnoticed by both of you. “You should go home, too. I need to finish some stuff up. I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N.”

To neither of your surprise, you don’t move from your spot standing before his desk. You cross your arms over your chest, digging your sneakered toe into the plush rug on the floor of his office - you hadn’t noticed it before, but it’s pale blue and bright against the mahogany floors. The brief silence between you two, daring either of you to speak, fills the confined space and all you can hear is the ticking of the clock behind you, and finally you say, “You’re not going to get anything done when you’re exhausted. I mean, you fell asleep on the essays. How are you going to explain why there’s drool on their assignments?”

He gives you a tight lipped smile in response, looking down at the essay he’d been working on as if to check that no saliva had landed on the words. “You caught me at a bad time. I don’t usually fall asleep on top of student essays, I promise - but you should be heading out now. It’s getting dark.”

It is getting dark, he’s right - the window behind his desk shows the darkness that newly falls over the campus. And the thought of walking home in the dark scares you just a bit, but you’ll suck it up if it gets him to go home too. “Harry.”

“Y/N.”

“I’ll help you grade tomorrow. But you’re fucking yourself here -”

(Harry laughs at your choice of words internally, but it comes out as a small release of air and a soft grin.)

“ - so come on. Walk out with me so I can make sure you’re actually going home.”

Perhaps he’s realized he’s fighting a losing battle here, because finally he looks back down at the stack of ungraded essays with a small sigh and then says, “Fine.”

“Great.” Your grin widens across your face, and for a moment you make to hold out your hand to him, to drag him along like you would to any of your friends - but the second your hand raises you drop it down to your side, and heat burns your cheeks. He’s not one of your other friends, you tell yourself, stepping out of his office, hearing him walk behind you. And you can’t hold his hand, even as a joke.

“Where’s your dorm?” Harry asks you as he locks the door to his office and jiggles the handle to check it, and you jump at the chance to forget about what happened - you don’t want to dwell on it. “Is it far?”

“Across campus.” You raise your arm and point in the distinct direction of where your building is. “Closer to the cafeteria, I guess.”

“Christ, you have a trek, then, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” The pair of you make your way to the staircase, and from the corner of the eye you can see his head turning left and right down the hallway, as if scanning to see if there’s anyone coming - you can imagine it wouldn’t be great for him to be seen with a student long after classes ended. “I had to haul ass there and back to get my bag.”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, not until you’ve left the warm building and made your way into the cold air, the sun now having retreated for the night, and immediately you wrap your sweater tighter around yourself to try and provide some semblance of warmth. Harry glances down at you with a bemused smile, and you hoist your bag further up your shoulder.

“Well,” you sigh, breath coming out in white puffs. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Don’t burn yourself out, professor. And get a good night’s rest.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t I be telling you that?”

“Maybe.” You grin, feeling goosebumps sprout on your skin, and you shiver before turning in the direction of your dorm - the thought of walking home in the dark and cold doesn’t sound too great, but you’ve become good at dealing with it. “Goodnight, Harry.”

He doesn’t respond, and you’ve taken a few steps away when he calls out, “D’you want a ride?”

What?

“Y’know, like a ride back to your dorm. I can drop you off in the back - it’s just really cold and I’m sure you don’t want to walk so far in the dark.”

You turn back around to look at him, his cheeks a light shade of pink - whether from the cold or his offer, you can’t tell. And you’d love to jump in his car, accept his offer without a shadow of hesitation, but - “Is that allowed?”

Harry shrugs, and you know that’s code for absolutely not. “No one has to find out.”

(Your stomach drops, then.)

“Sure.” You take a few steps back towards him, and he spins on his heel, leading you to his car, and you walk in silence until you reach it. By the time you’re both safely in his car - his head turning every so often to check if there was anyone watching the pair of you - you’re shivering desperately, and you know you would have been positively miserable walking back to your dorm in these temperatures. “Thank you so much, Harry.”

“S’no problem, really.” His hand goes behind your seat as he turns to look behind him, and you hate the way the simple action makes you feel. “I’d rather know you get home safe than have you walk so far in the dark. Pretty girl like you, can never be too careful.”

You pause, cheek pressed against the cold window, and turn to look at him with a small smile. “Ooh, I’m a pretty girl now?”

“Wasn’t the point, Y/N,” Harry mutters, dropping his hand onto the center console, and if it were anyone else driving you like this, you’d rest your hand on top of his, intertwining your fingers and pressing your palms together. But he’s your professor, as much as you’re beginning to wish he weren’t, so you slide your hands beneath your thighs. “Which building, again?”

“McKinley,” you respond, voice barely louder than the sound of the heat blasting into his car. 

His car smells like eucalyptus and mint, and it’s surprisingly clean compared to his office - you wonder if his house is messy or clean, or a balanced mix, because you can’t quite catch a vibe for whether he’s organized or not. But, no - you’ll never see his house, surely. You can’t. 

“I used to date a girl who lived at McKinley,” he tells you, and you exhale slowly. You can tell he’s merely trying to make conversation but the sentiment isn’t making your internal conflicts any easier to manage. “Real nice dorms.”

“They’re alright.” In fact, you’ve been at university for 3 years and resided in 3 different dormitories and they’re your least favourite, with furniture that’s too big for rooms that are too small and bathrooms that can hardly fit more than 5 people, but you don’t tell him that. “Not the greatest.”

“S’what she told me, too,” Harry says, and you smile down at your lap, but you can’t find anything else to respond to that, so you take to gazing out the window.

Within a few seconds he’s slowing down, and you can recognize the back entrance to your building. You reach down and pick your bag off the ground, digging through it to find your key.

When you have it clutched in your hand, you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to look at him - to your surprise his eyes are already on you, and you swallow thickly. “Um - thanks for driving me.”

“Don’t worry about it.” 

You hesitate a moment before turning and swinging open the car door. You hop out and, just before you can shut it, he says, “Y/N.” And when you duck your head back into his car, raising your eyebrows, he adds, “Please don’t tell anyone I drove you home. You’re right - s’not allowed.”

“Alright.” Then, before you can help yourself, you flash him a wide grin and say, “Thanks for letting me be the exception, then.”

With that, you shut the door of his car, bounding up to the door of your building, and you swear you can feel his gaze remaining on you before his car drives off, and when you turn back around, it’s gone.

(In the back of your mind, you’re entirely too aware of the fact that merely sitting in his car crossed some sort of line that you didn’t know existed until now, but you don’t really know how far past it you are - not yet.)

 --

 “I have a question.”

You look up from the rubric you’d been working at - the student whose essay you’re grading hadn’t done too well on it, but you were trying to give them the most points you could, anyway. Harry’s looking down at his essay like he hadn’t spoken, but when he feels your gaze on him, he continues. “Why did you care so much? Yesterday. Me grading more s’less work for you to do. I feel like you should be loving that shit.”

It’s a reasonable question but, for a moment, you struggle thinking of how to answer it without exposing yourself to him. Finally, you give him a grin and say, “Well, if you were sleep deprived, it would make you mean.” He chuckles softly, and you can tell that’s not the answer he wanted, and it couldn’t have been further from the truth. So you add, “I guess I’m used to being the mom friend. Making sure all of my friends get a good night’s sleep and whatever.”

Harry pauses. “So we’re friends, then.”

You shrug, trying to stop the smile from peeking through onto your face. Being friends with Harry sounds positively dreamy and if it could segue into something else - whichitcan’t - you’d be the happiest girl alive.

You nod. “Yeah, aren’t we.” But it isn’t a question, and you can see the way his eyes twinkle at your response.

After a moment, you shift in your entirely entirely entirely too bloody uncomfortable chair, the wood making your butt ache. “I have a question, now.”

“Yeah?”

“Why’d you pick the most uncomfortable chair you possibly could for your guests to sit in?”

“Gets ‘em out of my office quicker.” Harry glances up and meets your glare with a laugh. “But I don’t want you to leave, so you can move to the couch, if you’d like.”

You hop out of the chair without a second’s hesitation, clutching your essay and your pen, flopping down on the couch and feeling your body weight sink into it. God, it’s so soft and your body relaxes into it, the relief of not being confined to the small, wooden chair so magnificent you could scream. Harry watches you with an amused grin, and says, “I feel like you’re being just a bit dramatic here.”

“Me? Dramatic? Never.” You sprawl yourself across the couch, head atop of the armrest, staring up at the white ceiling tiles above you. “I’m telling you, Harry, that chair is terrible. You should burn it.”

“So dramatic.”

You roll your eyes, sitting up slightly so you can rest your paper on your lap and still manage to scrawl semi-legible notes on this person’s piss poor essay. You wonder, briefly, if this is how Harry felt when he’d graded your 1984 essay, but - well - doesn’t matter now. And you’d fail that essay a thousand times over to get to this point, a point of companionship with your professor that you’re not sure any other student has felt with him before. At least, none that he’s told you about. It makes you feel special, and spectacular, and also the tiniest bit confused.

Why are you so special?

Maybe he’s lonely, or he’s merely entertaining your presence because you’re helping him grade, but you swear you can feel something more hidden within the lines of your relationship.

It doesn’t really matter, though, even if it is just a tad confusing.

“You should get going,” Harry tells you after another 15 minutes of you working at grading the essay. “You’ve been here for nearly two hours, bloody hell, wasn’t watching the time at all.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, though, in truth, you do have quite a bit of homework to work on later. “Don’t really have anything else to do.”

You sit up anyway, swinging your legs over the edge of the couch and stretching your arms above your head. Tiredness is beginning to affect you but you try not to let it.

“Well, in any case, you should be heading out now.” Harry nods his head towards the window behind him, the blinds pulled up so you can see the sun, nearly completely sunk below the horizon, the sky fading from reds and oranges to a dark shade of blue.

“What about you, professor?”

“What about me?” “You’re going home now too - right?”

He looks at you with a faux annoyed glare, but he can’t help the amusement from seeping through his features, and finally he breaks your stare with an exhale of breath. “I don’t think I’ll ever win this against you, will I?”

And you shake your head in response. “Never. So let’s go. Get your things.”

You take the next five minutes to gather all your stuff - resting the essay on top of his desk, sliding your phone and water bottle into your backpack, and zipping your bag shut - as Harry grabs his computer bag and his key. The two of you move surprisingly in sync with each other, sorting all of your stuff from around his small office, before making your way outside with him locking the door behind him.

It’s nearly completely dark, even colder than it had been the day prior. You reach behind you and pull the hood of your sweatshirt over your hair, protecting your ears, at least, from the chill.

You turn and face him, giving him a wide smile. The air is silent around you, surprisingly empty though the bitterness of the cold must be a contributing factor to that. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Professor. Make sure you get a good night’s rest -”

“Don’t want a ride?”

Your grin widens, and his eyes sparkle, even in the darkness, at your expression. “Well, of course I do, but it’s rude to invite myself into your car.”

“You’re not inviting yourself - I’m inviting you. Or, rather, demanding you. C’mon.”

Harry walks fast and you have to speed up your pace to keep up with him, though you suspect that has something to do with wanting to be free of any wandering eyes as quickly as possible. You recognize his car in the parking lot and bound ahead of him, standing by the passenger side door and wrapping your arms around yourself to try and warm yourself up, and for a moment his pace slows as he stares and looks at you. Standing by his car, holding an incredibly oversized hoodie tight to your body, a wide smile gracing your face.

“Staring is rude, professor,” you inform him as he shakes his head, unlocking his car and climbing into the driver’s seat. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”

Your lilt is teasing but you can tell it makes him slightly defensive either way.

“S’hard not to sometimes,” Harry tells you, and you giggle softly.

“So first, I’m a pretty girl, and now I’m hard not to stare at?” You drop your head back against the headrest, blowing air softly out of your mouth as you reach to buckle your seatbelt. “Keep this up, Harry, and my ego’s gonna be too big to even fit in your car.”

Harry laughs at that, resting his hand on your seat to back out of his parking spot. The radio softly plays some pop song that had been overtaking the charts recently, and you hum softly to it before turning your head to look at him. You examine his side profile - perfect, like every other angle of him - as he pulls out of the parking lot, making a left out of it.

He turns to see you watching him, and you watch redness bloom over his cheeks. “Staring is rude, Y/N.”

You smile, about to parrot his previous words back at him - it’s hard not to - but you bite your tongue, gazing at the road in front of you. A light drizzle is beginning to fall, a barely audible pitterpatter on the windshield, and that’s the only noise, for a moment - that and the radio playing, like a thought in the back of your mind.

The drive to your dorm seems to be taking longer than it had been yesterday and you can’t imagine why, but you appreciate just sitting in the car with him. Even if you’re not saying much, listening to his even breathing calms you.

You want to break the silence, though it’s comfortable rather than awkward. You like talking to him, like hearing everything he has to say, but you have no idea what you can possibly tell him that wouldn’t seem forced and awkward. So you sit, curling your legs up to your chest as you stare at the streets, and entirely too soon, the back of the McKinley building becomes apparent.

You want to stay in his car forever. Want to stay with him forever.

“Thanks for the ride,” you tell him, your voice sounding uncomfortably loud in the soft car. He nods in response, but for a moment neither of you move. You can’t bring yourself to leave yet, even if you know you have to, that he might have someone waiting for him at home.

“Y/N.” You turn and look at him, your eyes meeting his with your brows furrowed. “Uh - if you ever want a ride home, or to class, you can just let me know. Text me.”

“I don’t have your number.”

Harry’s cheeks are bright pink and there’s too much tension in the car, so thick you feel like you could cut it with a knife, and you lean down, unzipping your bag and pulling your phone out.

He takes it from you once you unlock it, going into your contacts and you watch as he types his phone number in, adding the contact name as Harry S. and you think you’ll be changing that later. He leaves the contact photo blank, which you expected - if anyone saw the name Harry S. in your phone, the contact photo would give it away.

He hands your phone back to you when he’s done, and your fingers graze his when you take it. “Just text me, then. If you need a ride.”

“Alright.” you give him a smile, unbuckling your seatbelt and pushing open the car door. “Thank you, Harry. Really.”

“My pleasure,” he says, and you grab your bag, hooking your arm underneath the strap and racing up to the back entrance of your building. It’s only when you get inside, the door firmly shut behind you, that you turn around again, and his car is gone.

 --

 10:52 PM

Y/N: hey professor...it’s y/n. just wanna make sure u have my number saved in case of emergencies

Harry S.: How is it you can have the highest grade of any student in my class and use improper grammar while texting?

Y/N: it’s a talent i guess

Y/N: texting like you’re writing an essay makes ppl v uncomfortable, and i speak from personal experience

Harry S.: So you’re uncomfortable right now, then?

Y/N: nooo, ur different

Harry S.: To quote this girl I know, ‘thanks for letting me be the exception, then.’

Y/N: how did u remember that? that makes me uncomfortable

Harry S.: Haha.

Harry S.: You should be sleeping right now. Students need their full 8 hours, don’t they?

Y/N: so do professors, as i keep telling u, but…

Y/N: i had hw to do, also had to make mac n cheese for dinner

Harry S.: You can do your homework in my office, you know. And then you can probably make it to the refectory for dinner.

Y/N: the food at the refectory sucks

Harry S.: Yeah, you’re right.

Harry S.: But I do feel bad that staying to help me grade made you have to stay up until 11 doing homework.

Y/N: well honestly i’d rather be sitting in ur office talking to u than in my dorm doing american lit work

Harry S.: Why’s that?

Y/N: ig i like hanging out with u

Y/N: u should feel honored btw

Harry S.: Believe me, I do. And now you should get to bed so you’re not grumpy tomorrow morning.

Y/N: ig i deserved that… and i’ll only go to bed if u do too

Harry S.: I will.

Y/N: promise??

Harry S.: I promise.

Harry S.: Goodnight.

Y/N: goodnight, professor

 --

 After a week, your arrangement has changed slightly.

Every day, you spend just a bit more time in his office. Then he drives you home, in comfortable silence, and from the minute you step into your dorm, you’re fishing your phone out of your bag to text him. Every night that you lie awake, texting him until you physically can’t keep your eyes open, the line that you’ve been dipping your toe across falls back even more.

The stack of assignments that need to be graded are beginning to dwindle, and you hate it. Hate to see the pile of ungraded work getting smaller and smaller, because when it’s gone, you probably won’t step foot in his office again.

Truthfully, and as embarrassing as it may be, Harry has become one of your closest friends at school. He’s funny and nice, and he brought you hot chocolate with powder left unmixed at the bottom after you mentioned that’s how you used to like it when you were younger, and he plays music on his phone at a low volume while you work on grading. 

Of course, as your friendship with Harry grows, so does the burning feelings for him that reside in the pit of your stomach day after day. And you know he doesn’t feel the same - he can’t - and maybe that’s painful for you, only slightly, but you’ve become rather talented at hiding those emotions. He can’t know that, everytime he laughs at one of your jokes, your heart swells - and everytime he reads a sentence from one of the essays out loud, using a mocking, deep voice, it makes your stomach flip.

You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so passionately about anyone, and that’s scary. Scary to think that the one man you want more than anyone else is the only person you can’t have.

“Y/N,” he says, and when you look up at him from your spot sprawled on the couch, he’s nibbling at the tip of his pen. “D’you think this makes sense?”

And he reads you a few lines written by one of his students - a name you recognize from being in your class, you think, but you’ve been paying attention less and less to other students during lectures. All you focus on is Harry, his booming voice projecting through the hall as he talks about the stories you’re reading, and every so often his eyes meet yours and the smile that spreads across his face could bring tears to your eyes, if you let it.

“Um - I guess. It’s worded kind of strangely, don’t you think? But I’d cut them some slack on it.” Harry nods and scribbles something in the margins of Nathalie Carron’s essay before flipping the page. “Can I put in a song request?”

He nods, then, picking up his phone from where it sits on his desk. The Chain plays softly, not too loud to interrupt your train of thought, but not too soft that you can’t hear it. “‘Course.”

“Heroes by David Bowie.” You glance back up at him, dropping Hannah Joseph’s essay on your stomach. “You like Bowie, right?”

“Who doesn’t, is the real question.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” You grin, glancing up at the white tiled ceiling as the song fills the hair, replacing Fleetwood. “You know, we should make a playlist for grading.”

Harry laughs. “A playlist of just Fleetwood and a dash of Bowie?”

“No, no. It can have other stuff, too. I mean, we know what we like.”

“Alright, alright.” He picks up his phone again, and you see his thumbs moving feverishly on the screen. “Y’know what, I’ll make it right now and show it to you for approval.”

“Make it good.” You pause, picking your essay up again. “No Justin Bieber.”

He snorts, and you relish in the noise.

The next ten minutes passes in mainly silence - when Heroes ends, Fleetwood continues, playing Secondhand News, and you hum to the tune. Harry’s ringer is on and you can hear it, the sound of the keyboard on his phone as he searches up song titles, and you rest the essay back on your stomach, writing messy notes with the pen you snatched from the mug on his desk again.

You sit up, suddenly, leaning over to rest Hannah’s fully graded essay on his desk, and instead of reaching for a new one to work on, you push yourself to your knees, resting your palms on his desk and attempting to lean over and peek at the playlist. But he anticipates that - he knows you’re nosy - and tilts his phone towards him, intercepting your attempts to eavesdrop.

“Don’t be impatient,” he murmurs, a smile tugging across his lips as he scrolls through something. “I’m almost done.”

You hum in response, dropping back down onto the couch, stretching your entire body across it, head resting on the armrest. The two of you settle back into a comfortable silence - he’s paused the music, by now - lasting only a moment or two before he stands up from his insanely comfortable chair, maneuvering his way around to the couch where you’re lying. He crouches down next to you, handing you his phone, opened to a Spotify playlist, and you greedily snatch the device from him, flicking through the songs.

Your eyes scan every song, absorbing every song title.

I Walk The Line by Johnny Cash - My Eyes Adored You by the Four Seasons - Your Song by Elton John?

Love songs. Every single one of them.

You push yourself up, sitting leaning against the armrest, as your eyes fall on the last song of the playlist - When I Kissed The Teacher by Abba. You lower his phone to your lap, looking at him with a slightly confused smile adorning your face.

He watches you intently, your heads a mere few inches apart, then reaches down to grab his phone off your lap, and you laugh lightly before saying, “it’s a lot of love songs.”

“They reminded me of you,” he tells you, voice quiet, testing the waters.

“They - they did?” It doesn’t make sense to you - doesn’t make sense that 45 love songs should bring you to the forefront of his mind, that every single time he hears Fooled Around And Fell In Love he should think of you. 

They make you think of him, though. 

And without thinking - of what you’re doing or of the consequences - you lean in, closing the short distance between your faces, pressing your lips against his so softly that it feels like it’s a mere breath on your mouth.

Harry pulls back, lips barely a centimeter from yours, exhaling softly. “We shouldn’t.”

You hum in agreement, already leaning back in. “No, we really shouldn’t.”

Your lips meet again and his hand goes to your face, cupping your jaw, and when he deepens the kiss you whimper into his mouth, bringing both of your hands to the back of his head. Your fingers bury themselves in his curls, tugging on the chocolate brown strands, and he groans softly into your mouth.

It’s everything you’d imagined and more, as the hand not on your cheek drops down to your waist, pulling your body closer to his. The angle is awkward - you sitting on the couch and him kneeling before it - so you unattach your lips, much to your dismay, and swing your legs around the edge of the couch so he’s situated between them. Harry’s eyes are wide, his hair mussed up, and you lean back in without a moment’s hesitation to resume the kiss. His tongue brushes against yours, and he tastes like mint tea and fucking heaven.

Both of his hands go down to your waist, tugging you to the very edge of the couch so your bodies are as close as they can be, and yours go to the back of his neck, dipping underneath the collar of his button down shirt to scratch at his back. It feels muscular, more toned than you were expecting, and feeling the skin underneath your nails makes you moan into his mouth.

“Fuck -” you groan softly as he moves his lips down your chin and to your jaw, nibbling softly at your skin, as if experimenting to see what you like - your reaction prompts him to move further down, licking a stripe down your neck and to the base of your collarbone. One of his hands - very large hands - slide up to cup one of your breasts, squeezing the mound of flesh through your tight shirt. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Harry hums against your collarbone, pressing open mouthed kisses across your skin. Your nails dragging down his back causes him to bite down gently to stifle the moan rising from his throat, but you hear it and Goditspursyouonsofuckingmuch. “God, Y/N -”

His praise is cut short by the sound of three swift knocks on the door - he pulls back from you, nearly falling back on his ass with the speed at which he stands, and your eyes flash to the door. Your heart is pounding desperately in your chest - are the doors soundproof? Did someone outside hear you? The thought makes you sick to your stomach, and your eyes meet Harry’s to find the same worry in his orbs.

Within moments he’s back behind his desk, running a hand through his hair to try and smooth it out, and you’ve reached to grab Hannah Joseph’s essay off his desk just as he calls, “come in!” in a voice that’s far too cheery for the panic that had just overtaken the both of you.

The door opens and from the corner of your eye you can recognize the girl who walks in - she lives across the hall from you, and her name is … Anna or Emma or something similar. She’s nice, and you should remember her name, but your brain is so scrambled that you can’t think of it.

Harry kissing you. Harry making you a playlist. Harry’s hands on your waist, pulling your body into his.

It’s everything you’ve dreamt of since the beginning of the semester, feeling his touch on you. And when you close your eyes, you try to imagine what would have happened if nobody knocked on the door, and it sends a shiver down your spine that doesn’t go unnoticed by Harry, sitting at his desk as he looks over Anna-or-Emma’s essay.

You can’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. The girl (who, now that you think of it, may be named Alana) is asking Harry a million bogus questions about the essay requirements he’d just given out and her shirt is so low cut that you’re surprised her boobs haven’t fallen out. Whether that was intentional or not isn’t something you dwell on, but something about sitting on the couch, trying to steady your breathing while your clit throbs violently feels wrong.

“I’m gonna go, professor,” you say, interrupting her question, and she looks at you like you just told her you’re going to give her a million dollars. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Y/N,” Harry calls as you grab your bag and shut the door behind you. His voice sounds pained, almost, as though he doesn’t want you to leave him alone with a girl whose only goal is clearly to fuck his brains out. You practically run down the hall, which isn’t close to being as empty as it usually is when you and Harry leave at the end of the day. 

Your shirt is tight and short sleeved and you can picture your jacket, up in his office, thrown over the back of the couch. You’d been in such a rush to leave that you’d left it, and you’re beginning to truly feel the consequences of it as the cold corners you, attacking your skin, and you could go back up to his office and get it but you just want to go home. The sun is setting, and it’s earlier than when you usually leave.

The walk home is decidedly miserable, the wind sending tears streaking down your cheeks, and your mind is practically going into overdrive. Jesus Christ. You kissed your professor, and he kissed you back. And then you left, like a fucking idiot. He probably feels terrible - feels like he violated you, or ruined his career. But he hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. If you were more respectable you’d go back to his building and apologize for running out, wrap your arms around him and kiss him like you fucking mean it, but all you do is scan your card to get into McKinley and walk down the hall to your dorm.

Your roommate is out - at her boyfriend’s, as per usual, but you appreciate it. Truth be told, you haven’t seen her much since the first few weeks of the semester, but she seemed nice enough. You drop your bag onto your bed and collapse on top of the covers, gazing up at the ceiling.

You bring your hand up to your mouth, brushing your fingertips over your lips with the same feather light touch that the first press of Harry’s lips to yours had felt like. You can still feel it - feel him - if you close your eyes, his hands grasping your hips and his lips trailing down your collarbone.

Slowly, you press your palm to your stomach, trailing it down your torso until you reach the button of your jeans. You undo it with shaky fingers and push them lower down, beneath the hem of your cotton thong, and the first brush of your fingertips against your clit sends a shiver down your spine and a whine falling off your lips.

Harry’s hand on your chest, squeezing your breast through your shirt as he kisses down your neck - oh my god, licking down your neck, biting your skin, his eyes are so wide, his hair is messy from where you grabbed it, and you hadn’t been interrupted he would’ve climbed on top of you, pressing you into the couch, tugging your jeans down your thighs and -

Maybe he would’ve done what you’re doing now, sliding his digits into your heat, fingers longer than yours, hitting every spot that you need him to. Or maybe he would’ve slid down your body, lifting your shirt to suck a deep purple mark into your chest, before burying his face in your cunt -

A very loud moan falls from your lips as you push a finger inside of yourself, curling them immediately to hit the spot inside of you that makes your tummy flip.

But maybe - just maybe - Harry wouldn’t have bothered with that. Would’ve watched, breathing so heavy as you unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his nice dress pants to wrap your hand around his cock, throwing his head back and moaning as you swiped your thumb over the tip of him.

You’re so close so fast you can practically taste the orgasm creeping up on you, your hips bucking up to meet where your fingers are feverishly rubbing circles on your clit.

And he would’ve slid into you, and he’s so big that he’s stretching you out more than any of your fingers or the guy you’ve been with, and he’d grab your chin and force your head up and kiss you so fucking hard, his hips flush against yours -

With a strangled cry, you curl your fingers once more and then you’re cumming, release coating your fingers as your hips roll into your hand. All you can think about is him and what could have happened, and the fact that you may have ruined the start of something magnificent, but God if the orgasm wasn’t good.

You pull your hand out of your panties, wiping your dripping fingers on the denim of your jeans. For a moment, you merely stare back up at the ceiling, focusing on steadying your breathing, and then you stand up, kicking your jeans off your legs and tossing them onto your dresser. You have a pair of plaid pajama pants crumbled in a pile at the bottom of your bed from the morning, and you pull them over your legs with a sigh. Perhaps it’s not the height of cleanliness, but they’re soft and comfortable, and you lie back down on your bed once they’re on.

After nearly an hour, you still haven’t done anything but sit and do nothing, occasionally flicking through your phone. You wish you could fall asleep but your brain is working far too fast to even think about resting, and -

The sound of your phone getting a notification startles you, and you groan, grabbing your phone to look at whoever disturbed your panic.

Harry S.: I’m behind your building. I have your jacket.

He’s here? Jesus Christ, you just came over him and damn near cried over him and now you have to see him.

Perfect.

Your heart skips a beat, and you jump up without a second thought. You look an absolute fool, stuffing your feet into the first pair of shoes you can find - a pair of slip on Vans that are so dirty they can barely constitute as white - before you’re running out the door, your phone tucked in the waistband of your pants, heading down the hall and out the back entrance where Harry’s black car sits, waiting.

You walk up to his car, pathetically out of breath, and lower your head so you can see him through the window as he rolls it down.

“Hi.” Your tone is quiet, and you clear your throat. “Um, I’m sorry about running off like that. I just got overwhelmed and that girl showing up made me - um - nervous.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, though he’s very pointedly not making eye contact. “M’sorry if I crossed a line. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that, or -”

“No, I kissed you first -”

“But I’m your professor.” He says the word with an odd inflection, nearly pained. “I shouldn’t have let it escalate. I’m sorry.”

You dig the toe of your shoe into the road, looking down at the passenger seat where your jacket sits, waiting. The tension is palpable and you swallow thickly, then grab the car handle, forcing the door open so you can grab your jacket. You wrap the fabric around your shoulders - the seat heaters made it warm and you could nearly cry at the way it embraces you.

Harry watches you - you can see him from the corner of your eye - and then he looks down at your body, your shirt and your pajama pants with no pockets, and asks, “D’you have your key to go back in your dorm? S’just, you don’t have any pockets … I can’t see it.”

Shit. No, you don’t. You hadn’t thought about that when you were running out to see him. Perhaps he can decide the answer from the way your face drops, because he exhales with a small smile, barely perceptible, and nods his head. “Get in.”

You grab the door handle again, pulling the door open and climbing inside. The seat is toasty and warm and the car is toasty and warm and altogether you feel like both of those adjectives combined. The radio plays softly - or maybe it’s his phone, hooked up to the aux cord, because Maybe I’m Amazed by Paul McCartney is a song you recognize reading on the playlist he’d made.  You slam the door shut and wrap your arms around yourself, holding your jacket closer to your body, before turning your head to glance at him. He still hasn’t started driving, merely gazing at you, and you feel your skin heat under his eyes. “Where are we going, professor?” It’s a stupid question, because you aren’t going anywhere yet, and he doesn’t look like he plans to start driving anytime soon.

“I’ll take you back to my apartment.” HIs eyes haven’t left yours, and your stomach turns. “How does that sound?”

You exhale softly. “Sounds perfect,” and then you’re leaning in, pressing your cold palms to the side of his cheeks and bringing his face into yours.

Your lips meet and it’s more desperate than it was in his office - teeth clashing and your tongues brushing against each other, as if he’s trying to devour you. His hand rests atop of yours, dwarfing you pathetically, before dragging his fingertips down your arm and up to your shoulder, fingers dipping beneath the sleeve of your shirt.

Where you’re cold from the air outside, Harry is so warm and toasty, his breath hot against your face when you pull away briefly. He presses his forehead to yours and then leans up, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose and smirking at the whimper you let out.

“Wait,” he tells you, voice low and quiet, and you nod slowly. “When we get to my apartment - but not now.”

You nod feverishly and sit back in your seat obediently, desperate for him to finally start driving. His hand rests on top of the center console and you stare at it for a moment - you can do it, do what you’ve wanted to do every single time he’s driven you home - and you place your palm overtop of his. He turns it over so your palms are pressed together, fingers intertwining, and you’re sure he can hear your heartbeat with how loudly it’s beating in your chest.

The line that you’ve crossed is so far behind you that it’s a mere dot in the distance. 

The car ride to his apartment is short - only 2 full songs play during it, and you recognize My Girl and I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight from the playlist. Truth be told, it feels as though you’d been in the car for hours and hours, his thumb rubbing circles into the back of your hand. You want nothing more than to crawl across the center console and straddle him, kiss him until you’re both breathless and go as far as you’d fantasized about but you have to wait.

 --

 Harry’s unlocking the door of his apartment entirely too slow for your liking. It’s as though he’s trying to tease you, make you antsy, when all you want is for him to press you against the wall and kiss you silly. 

He lives in a large brick apartment building - one of the newer ones, you know - in an apartment on the third floor. You’ve passed his building so many times driving through town and you never even knew it - didn’t know the man who lived there was someone you’d be so desperate for.

“Come on,” he whispers, though there’s no real reason for the two of you to be quiet - perhaps it just fits the mood. Harry’s hand wraps around your wrist as he tugs you into the now-open door of his apartment, flicking on the light switch residing beside the door. 

As light floods the apartment you’re somehow both surprised and also not at all. It’s surprisingly tidy, resembling more of his car than his office, and - to your relief - it’s quite obvious he’s the only one who lives here. You slip out of your Vans and take a moment to look around. A cat sits on top of the couch (her name is Marie, named after Aristocats, you learned from class) and you can’t stop yourself from gravitating towards her, using two fingers to stroke down her back as you peek around the apartment.

Yes, it is quite clean, and surprisingly colorful - there’s a striped rug and red couches and your eyes fly a bookshelf filled with picture frames against the wall. One is him with four other guys, arms wrapped around each other - one of him and Marie - one of him, significantly younger, hugging a girl who looks extremely similar to him.

“Is this your sister?” you ask, unaware of where he is in the apartment but trusting he hasn’t strayed too far from you.

“Yeah,” he responds, and you jump slightly. Harry stands just behind you, and when you turn to face him he’s fighting back a grin. “So nosy, aren’t you?”

You raise your arms to wrap around his neck, pulling his head down to yours as his hands gravitate down towards your lower back where your shirt rises just a couple inches from your pants, exposing a strip of skin, and his touch sends a shiver down your spine. “I guess I am nosy. Can’t help it.”

Harry leans down, then, pressing a kiss to your forehead and down the bridge of your nose before landing on your lips - you whine into his mouth, pushing yourself onto your toes to try and deepen it, swiping your tongue into his mouth. It’s so different than before - heavier, deeper, and you can’t get enough of it.

“Please,” you whimper against his lips as his hands creep farther down your back, landing on the globes of your ass through your soft pajama pants. “I need you.”

“Oh, yeah?” You can hear a sense of cockiness working its way into his voice and you groan softly as he pulls away from you, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “What do you need, baby? Tell me.”

You need everything. You need everything he can possibly give you and more - you need wish fulfillment of everything you’ve dreamt of since the start of the semester and that includes every single goddamn appendage on his body put to use somehow.

But you can’t possibly begin to tell him that, not yet. His fingers are already trailing down to the waistband of your pants, tugging at the tie that holds them up when you breathe, “Your mouth. Please, I need - I need your mouth.”

It’s not enough for him, you can tell, as he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your throat, sucking softly. “M’using my mouth.”

“H - Harry …”

“Where d’you want my mouth?”

You curse beneath your breath, and he pulls his head back to raise his eyebrows at the sound. You bury your hand in his hair, tugging lightly on his curls, before squeezing your eyes shut and muttering, “Want your mouth … down there.”

As much as you want it - and Godyouwantitsofuckingmuch - it makes it no less awkward to say it out loud.

“Down where, baby?” Harry asks, voice teasing and so fucking smug. “Down here?” His hand sprawls across your stomach, pressing down on your abdomen and you moan softly. “No … down here, s’that right?”

His hand slides down to your cunt, pressing his palm overtop of you through your pajama pants and you’re so wet you’re sure he can feel it even through two layers of fabric. Your throaty cry in response and the feverish nod of your head confirms what he’d been teasing you about, and Harry delivers one last soft kiss to your lips before dropping to his knees before you.

Fuck. You never thought you’d see Professor Harry Styles, the man of your dreams and the one person you considered to be entirely unattainable, kneeling in front of you with his nice dress pants on and a crisp button up shirt. He looks entirely normal, save for his messy hair and lust blown pupils, and you’re sure you look a bloody mess but his eyes still devour you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

You drop your shaky hands down to the tie of your pants, undoing it at record speed, and he hooks his fingers in your waistband. Slowly - so slowly - Harry tugs them down and his eyes remain on you as though expecting you to stop him, but you can’t. Finally they pool by your feet and you lift your legs to kick them off, sending them flying near the couch where Marie resides.

Had you known this would be happening perhaps you would have opted for racier panties - your cotton thong isn’t terrible but it certainly isn’t doing you any favours, and you have so many lace ones at home that would have been perfect for the opportunity - but Harry still looks at you like you created the world. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh and then the other, leaning in to suck a dark purple hickey into your skin.

You suppose he has a thing for hickeys.

Your fingers twist in his curls, trying to direct his head up to where you truly need him, and he chuckles softly - the soft exhalation of air makes you whine as it hits your cunt, even through your panties. A soft kiss is what he lands on your clothed clit, and your hips buck up into his mouth. You’d forgotten, perhaps, that you’d had an orgasm less than an hour prior but you’re very swiftly reminded, and he looks up at you with a smirk.

“So reactive,” he murmurs, wrapping his lips around your clit through your underwear and sucking softly. “Just the way I like.”

A shaky breath escapes your mouth as you toss your head back, legs shaking and you can’t expect them to hold you up much longer. One of his hands moves to the back of your thigh, kneading your skin softly, and the other dips into the hem of your panties and slowly tugs them down. You’re so wet that the fabric is desperate to stick to your dripping cunt but he manages to roll them down your legs, face to face with your pussy and -

Heat floods through your body and up to your face as you look down and make eye contact with Harry. Now that he’s down there, gazing at your bare pussy, you feel oddly compelled to protect whatever modesty you have left and shut your legs but then he grabs one of your legs and throws it over his shoulder, pushing you back just a bit until your back smacks into the wall, and leans in.

The first stripe he licks up your core sends a choked cry from the back of your throat and then a long whine as Harry focuses his attention on your clit. His tongue flicks the swollen bud, still rubbing circles into the back of your thigh. Your heel digs into his back as he moves one hand up to your cunt, running his finger through your soaked folds before pushing it inside of you.

He curls his finger, mimicking a come hither motion until he brushes against the spot that makes your hips jerk against his face. Harry’s lips wrap around your clit and when your eyes roll back into your head, he takes his hand off your thigh and snaps his fingers.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled against your cunt, and the vibrations roll through your body like an earthquake. “I wanna watch you fall apart. Look at me.”

Slowly you lower your eyes back down to him, meeting his gaze as he pulls his mouth away briefly - smacks his lips - and pushes a second finger into your dripping heat. As he thrusts them in and out, hitting that sweet spot in your velvet walls, you can feel your orgasm building in the pit of your tummy embarrassingly fast, but you want to hold out for him. Want to prolong this as long as you can.

Harry’s teeth brush against your clit and you cry out, barely hearing the way he groans, “So fucking reactive for me, yeah?” but you can hear it and it only makes you moan louder. His tongue draws patterns over your clit and he’s so determined to maintain eye contact but you can tell it’s a struggle for both of you.

He pulls his fingers out of you, licking a thin stripe up one of them as if he can’t get enough of your taste before reaching his arm up so his fingers rest on your bottom lip. Obediently you open your mouth, accepting his digits and swirling your tongue around them, tasting yourself on his skin, as he leans back, glancing up at you with heat blazing in his eyes.

“You’re close,” he tells you, his voice deep and throaty. “Can feel it - feel how you’re clenching around my fingers, baby. D’you wanna cum? Tell me how fucking bad you want it.”

Harry pulls his fingers from your mouth and presses them to your clit, rubbing a slow circle as you struggle to find your voice before gasping, “Fuck - need to cum so fucking bad Harry - Harry, oh my god -”

“Yeah? Gonna cum for me?”

“Yes! Oh my god, H - Harry -”

“Cum for me, baby.”

He leans in, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking and that’s all you need to topple over the edge, the orgasm that had been building in the pit of your tummy finally exploding. Your head falls back against the wall with a thud that’s hardly audible over your loud shrieks and moans, your leg finally giving out and you damn near slide to the ground before Harry hooks an arm around your thigh to keep you upright.

His tongue flicks at your clit gently, riding you through your orgasm, and when you’re coming down from your high it’s all you can focus on. There’s a high pitched ringing in your ears and you don’t think you’ve ever - ever - cum that hard in your life. You’d only been with one guy before who didn’t even know women could orgasm and your fingers never gave you anything so earth shattering.

Your breathing comes out in desperate pants as Harry rises from his knees, moving both hands to your hips as your legs nearly collapse again. Your clit is throbbing and when you press your body to his, leaning up to kiss him so desperately, you can feel his boner, hard against your thigh.

“Holy shit, professor.” It’s all you can manage, pulling away to drop your head against his chest, using the moment to try and steady your breaths. “W - who knew you were so good at that.”

His fingers brush through the ends of your hair, a gesture so sweet and innocent that it could make you forget what just occurred. “A hidden talent, I guess,” he mutters, gripping your chin to kiss you again.

You drop your hands to his waist, gripping his nice button down shirt in your tight grasp, surely wrinkling the fabric as you roll your hips against his. Even through his pants his hard on feels fucking huge and you’ve only been with one guy before and suddenly you’re wondering if he’ll even fit inside of you.

But you’ll try. By god, you’ll try. And you press your head to the wall, looking up at him with lust dilated pupils. “Harry.”

“Tell me what you need, baby.” But he already knows, and you can tell he needs the same thing.

You swallow, bucking your hips forward against his boner, and he groans. “I want you to fuck me. Please. I - I need you to fuck me, professor.”

The word makes him moan aloud, and within barely a second he’s grabbing your wrist, tugging you away from the wall and across the apartment until he’s swinging open a door and pulling you inside.

Something about being in his bedroom is entirely different than being in his living room, the carpet beneath your bare feet plush and soft. There’s a large television in front of his bed and the bed is made beautifully, a flannel blanket tossed over the end, and you can’t fucking wait to mess it up.

Harry spins you around to face him, attaching your lips once more as he shuts the door. You whimper into his mouth as his hand drops down to your bare bum, squeezing the flesh in his large palm. “Sorry,” you murmur, voice high pitched and breathy, “was nosing again -”

He groans as you drop your hand to the front of his fancy dress pants, trying desperately to undo the button with one shaking hand. It’s a struggle and finally he chuckles breathlessly, dropping both hands down to help you with the task, and finally you reach your hand into his trousers and press your palm against his cock, hot and heavy even through his boxers.

“Bed,” he grunts, backing you up until the back of your knees hit a hard edge and you fall backwards onto his plush duvet. He stands above you, breathing heavily, and for a moment you stare at each other, as though processing that this is happening - and the moment picks up again. Harry reaches down and tugs at the bottom hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off your body and sending it into the corner of the room. Your bra is lace, at least, and decidedly prettier than your panties, and for a moment he stares down at your chest with a look of pure lust adorning his face.

“You look a bit flushed, professor,” you tell him, voice faux innocent and sounding entirely more confident than you feel. “Are you feeling okay?”

Harry chuckles through gritted teeth, and you push yourself onto your elbows so you can work at the buttons of his shirt as he tugs his pants down his legs. “I’ve never been better, in fact.” His boxers are flannel and you can see the bulge in his boxers, and it’s even bigger than what you’d expected.

Your work at undoing his buttons slows down as your mind suddenly flips into overdrive - you must wear the worry that suddenly overtakes you because Harry leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips.

“When’s the last time you’ve done this?” he questions, voice soft and spun sugar sweet.

“Um -” you try and think. The last time you’d done this you’d lost your virginity and that was - “A year ago. Maybe longer.”

Harry nods, nudging your nose with his and giving you one final kiss before rising back up. His hands replace yours as he works on unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m going to go slow, baby. I promise.”

In every fantasy you’ve had about him, he’s not slow - he’s fast, pounding you so hard the bed is nearly louder than the noises you make - but now that you’re here with him? Maybe you need slow.

You nod, and he smiles down at you. He presses his hands onto the mattress and then snakes them beneath you, fingers working at the clasp of your bra, and you lift yourself up slightly so he can undo it and slide your last piece of clothing off of you. He sends it into another part of the room and you can’t be bothered to focus on it because - Christ! - all of a sudden Harry lowers his mouth to your breast, wrapping his lips around one of your nipples and sucking.

“Fuck!” you gasp, fingers working themselves into his curls. Your fingernails scratch at his scalp and he moans lowly against your skin. Harry lifts his head off of you, pinching one of your nipples so you cry out.

He lifts one leg to rest on the bed and then grips your hips, pulling you closer to the edge. Your legs instinctively spread and he watches you, breathing heavily. “Baby,” he mutters, hands slipping his boxers down his thighs. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

Heat burns your cheeks and you shut your eyes.

“Look at me,” Harry tells you, and it’s all you can do to obey. “Want you looking at me while I fuck you. Can you do that?”

You nod, swallowing as he grips one of your calves and hikes it onto the bed, exposing your sensitive, dripping cunt to him. You look down your body, where he’s grasping his achingly fucking hard cock in his hand, and then he drags the tip down your slit with a low hiss.

“Are you ready, baby?” he asks, voice soft and strained, as if he’s holding back and you know he is. But he needs this to be a good experience for you so it can be good for him and that’s what you appreciate.

“Y - yeah.” you push yourself onto your elbows and your eyes meet, maintaining perfect eye contact as he pushes himself inside of you. He’s going achingly slow and -

The stretch aches and you drop your head onto the mattress with a groan, Harry’s hand immediately finding your hand where you’re grasping the duvet feverishly. He bottoms out, fully sheathed in your warm cunt, a low groan piercing the air at the feeling of your walls, tight around him. It hurts - not as much as you’d expected, and the pain that quite literally fills you overtakes the burn.

You squeeze his hand, feeling his other run up and down the inside of your thigh as you adjust to him. “Oh - my god - wait - just - just one second wait one second -”

“Of course,” he breathes, and his voice is shaky with an emotion you can’t quite decipher. “T - take your time, babygirl.”

After a few seconds you push your head up to look at him, nodding slightly. “Okay. I need more, p - professor.”

You can tell he likes when you call him that and in some weird way you love it too - love knowing that the professor everyone lusts for is fucking you, slowly pulling out before thrusting back in, squeezing your hand when you cry out at the feeling. Maybe you’re not the first student to experience him like this but based on his demeanor you think you are - there’s something about him in this moment that feels like a secret you’ve discovered.

“Oh - fuck -” Harry grunts as he moves his hand from your thigh to your hip, pressing your body down with just enough force to limit your movements. It’s paining him, going so slow, you can tell - and you’re already starting to need more from him. You need him to go faster, and with a breathy moan you tell him.

Slowly his pace picks up, his grip on your hip tightening until you’re sure there’ll be fingerprint shaped bruises on your skin by tomorrow morning. With every thrust he fills you up so completely that every perfect spot inside of you is hit just right, and you never knew it could feel this good.

Every noise of his that tears through the bedroom spurs you on, pushing your hips into his to deepen every thrust. And every time you whine or whimper or cry or anything Harry delivers a harder thrust, fucking you so deep that you can feel it in the pit of your tummy.

“God, p - professor,” you moan, the word falling entirely too naturally off your lips even in your heightened state. Harry throws his head back with a high pitched whine, speeding up his pace until the loudest noise in the room is skin hitting skin. “Holy shit - fuck - I’m gonna - gonna -”

“Gonna cum around my cock, baby?” He hisses, pressing the hand that had once resided on your hip into the mattress, gripping the covers tighter so he can rail his hips into yours desperately. “So fucking tight around me, can’t even fucking stand it -”

Your hand, shaking beyond belief, slides down to rub hard circles into your clit. The sensations on your clit and his cock, rutting against your G spot with every thrust, sends you over the edge again - already so overstimulated from the rather intense orgasm you’d had before - and with a loud cry-bordering-on-scream you’re cumming again.

“Fuck!” you moan, hips bucking up against his as you ride out the waves of your orgasm. “Fuck, Harry, oh my god -”

He’s not far behind you, hips stuttering ever so slightly but he wants to bring you to one more orgasm, securing this day as the best fuck of your (admittedly limited) sex life and he can’t cum yet. Your hand falls back onto the mattress and Harry pulls his clammy hand from yours, bringing it down to replace your fingers on your clit, and immediately you clench around his cock, begging incoherently for something - you’re not sure what - as he presses down on your clit hard.

Your eyes roll back into your head as his cock twitches inside of you, and grunts and moans are flying from Harry’s mouth faster than he can control it. Your walls flutter around his dick, his thrusts slowing to lazy pumps in and out. He’s so fucking close, he just needs one more push and then -

Your fingers wrap around his wrist and he looks down at you, your eyes nearly black with desire, tears streaking down your cheeks. “C - cum in me, professor.”

It’s the final straw for Harry, and with a nearly animalistic cry he sheathes himself fully inside of you and cums so hard so fast, it’s nearly violent, and the feeling of warmth that explodes in your cunt sends you into your fourth orgasm of the night -

It’s less intense than the others but still entirely too prominent and when you’ve finally rode out the last wave you collapse against the bed, your head spinning and your legs aching as Harry presses it back down from where it had been perched up.

Harry collapses on top of you, his body suffocating and hot and sweaty and you wrap your arms around him, your desperate attempts at steadying your breathing filling the room. You’ve never cum so hard and so much and you’re fucking exhausted, truthfully.

He lifts his head, gazing down at you as you run your fingers through his tangled, sweat soaked curls. “How was that?”

You exhale with a smile upturning your lips, beginning to feel his cum dripping out of your pussy and down your thighs. “Jesus Christ,” you murmur, and a grin breaks onto his face as he drops his forehead against your shoulder.

The two of you lie in silence for a moment - no words need to be spoken. Harry shifts the pair of you further up the bed, your head crashing onto one of his pillows as he remains, firmly on top of you, like he never wants to leave.

But you can’t stop yourself from asking the question burning through your mind, and you swallow thickly before mumbling, “Harry -”

He hums softly.

“Is this like - a one time thing?”

His head lifts again, chin pressed to your shoulder blade, eyebrows furrowed. Harry takes a moment to respond, though, lifting his hand to trace a line across your jawline to your lips, and you press a soft kiss to the tips of his fingers when he arrives at his destination. “I don’t think so,” he tells you, and his voice is quiet and vulnerable, as if waiting for you to deny him. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone.”

You smile softly, leaning in to press a kiss against his soft lips. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“‘Course, baby.”

The name makes your tummy flutter, and you think you could listen to him call you baby for the rest of your life. “I’ve dreamt of this,” you tell him, lips merely a centimeter from his. “Since the beginning of the semester, every night.”

Harry raises his eyebrows at you, and you giggle at his expression. “Glad to know I’m not the only one.”

You shut your eyes, then. Rest your head on his pillow, feeling warm with the man you adore pressed on top of you, his arms firmly and protectively wrapped around you. Nothing has ever felt more right to you, and you drift off to sleep with a soft smile still gracing your lips.

[wordsnstuff]

Guide To Plot Development

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Where To Start

Start with the zero draft. Honestly, the only thing you need to know about your story in order to complete a solid zero draft is the basic timeline of events and 2-3 main characters. Zero drafts don’t need to include any minor characters, backstory, world building, subplots, anything. They’re just a rough estimate of what your story is going to be and where it’s going to go. 

This way, you have something to work with when you do approach the task of maturing your story, which is a lot easier to do when you have already gotten the garbage ideas onto paper, seen them, realized they’re bad, clipped out the good parts, and developed a better understanding of your story’s trajectory. 

Placing The Climax

The climax is two things; the apex of built tension and the turning point of the conflict. Recognizing that as a definition makes pin-pointing the climax of your story much easier, especially if you’re the kind of person who likes to start with a solid premise and work forward from there, rather than build a sturdy skeleton and fill in the blanks as you write the first draft. If you’re still having trouble, the climax is usually one of, if not the most exciting parts of the plot, and that comes from anticipating a massive shift in the story. 

Outlining For Discovery Writers

I know a lot of people out there will read this article and question whether they can put it to use because they’re not an intense plotter who relies on outlines, character sheets, etc. A lot of writers prefer to let characters grow on their own and the conflict present itself naturally, which is less predictable but very exciting, especially when brand new ideas hit you out of nowhere. If you’re one of these people, fear not. An easy way to settle the slight nervousness that comes with diving straight into a blank page is to write down all of the basic or specific ideas you have in one spot where you can see it all and as you go along, refer to it for inspiration or answers when you hit a snag in your story’s flow. It’s not exactly an outline, but it’s a lead, and it’s worth doing. 

Balancing Planning With Pantsing

A lot of writers who decide to take their stories seriously and commit to finishing a large project make the mistake of thinking that means they have to plan like a professional (which, spoiler, most professionals don’t do). What happens in these cases is that writers plan so meticulously for so long that the story becomes... boring. We all get kind of tired of stories when they take up too much of our imagination, but getting tired of a story before even a word of it is written should be avoided. 

I have a personal rule that I never give myself more than 6 weeks to plan a story. That seems like a lot to most people, but I also zero draft all of my stories before I plan them, so I never start a first draft with a blank page. I suggest that if you frequently run into this issue, you try this method and between each serious draft, you give yourself at least a month of space from it in order to refresh your mind. 

What Comes After Drafting

Foreshadowing, symbolism, subplot integration, and micro-development. These are all examples of things that writers try to plan before their first crack at a draft and end up betraying their ability follow through with writing the story at all. When it comes to complicating the story, these elements all come into the picture much later, when the main plot, character profiles, and structure is solid and ready to be finalized in the interest of moving forward in the writing process. When you’re plotting, shove these things out of your mind. You can’t input symbolism into a story that doesn’t exist, and you can’t develop characters that haven’t been born. 

Common Struggles

– The common struggles section of my “guide to__” posts are general questions sent in by readers on the topic at hand. If you have a question that has not been addressed thus far, you’ll probably find the answer in this section. As always, you’re welcome to send other questions to my inbox if you don’t find the answer in this post. –

~ How do I correctly pace a story?... The pace should depend on the genre and point of view, as these things are the framework of every plot. Generally, anticipation should be a slow burn and the big moments should be snappy and explosive, rather than drawn out. The exposition, climax, and resolution should take up the least amount of time in your story, and the rising action should be the majority of the rest of it.

~ What needs to be in your beginning, middle and end?... The answer to this question is answered when you choose a definitive structure model to either follow or build off of. I have a whole post about it here: Plot Structures

~ How can I know if I’ve resolved my major conflict enough?... The resolution of your story should leave the reader feeling satisfied with the protagonist’s overcoming their obstacle, but still leave enough room to anticipate more to come. 

~ How should the plot close?... This is entirely up to you, but I would take into account the possibility of a sequel. If it’s 100% a standalone story, give it a clean ending and tie up the loose ends, pat yourself on the back for all of the clever foreshadowing everyone missed, and leave the protagonists and beloved secondary characters’ futures looking bright. 

~ How do you write a plot around a theme?... Most stories that have a central theme are born from answering a tough question. George Orwell’s 1984 asked “What would the world look like if totalitarianism ruled society?”. Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 dealt with censorship and questioned whether bliss only belongs to the ignorant. Bottom line is, pick the theme you want to explore, and then ask yourself the tough questions. The story should be the process by which you find the answer. 

~ What is the best way to handle a large cast within a plot?... You have your main conflict and the plotline that surrounds it, and then you have various subplots, around 2-3 where you explore the world/characters further and immerse the reader in the stories. You can convince the reader to become invested in a large number of characters by making them heavily involved in the subplots. They should all touch the main plot considerably, but the bulk of their development should be in the subplot, and if you were to have 15 characters, you’d want around 3 subplots where 3-5 of them were important players. However, large casts that reader’s have trouble keeping up with is a problem that usually results from a writer’s inability to make cuts or combinations. Remember: the reader’s experience is the most important thing. It’s better to downsize your ideas than lose your readers altogether. 

Other Resources From My Blog That Help With This:

What Do You Do When You Over-Plan?

Resources For Plot Development

How To Write A Good Plot Twist

How To Foreshadow

Writing Long Stories Without Filler

Writing Stories About Your Own Experiences

Novel Planning 101

Tackling Subplots

Things A Reader Needs From A Story

How To Turn A Good Idea Into A Good Story

Planning A Scene

When To Stop Planning

How To Outline Outside Chapter Structure

Tips on Mapping Out A Series

Outlining By Chapter

How To Outline Effectively

Tips On Starting A Scene

How To Start A Novel

Character Driven vs. Plot Driven Stories

Plot Structures

Planning A Scene In A Story

Effective Ways Of Planning Chapters

Writing Meaningful Stories

Finding Your Own Writing Style

How To Write A Story Timeline

Making A Story Come Together

Tips on Planning A Series

Coming Up With Scene Ideas

General Resources For Plot Development

How To Engage The Reader

Coming Up With “Original” Ideas

Building Upon A Good Premise

Pacing Appropriately

–

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[naturallytom]

One Day Later (TA!Tom Holland x reader)

a/n: welp. this was way more nsfw than i planned. oops. big thank u to @sunshinehollandd​ for reading this over!!

warnings: language, drinking/drunkenness (sort of), making out, nsfw but nothing too heavy/graphic, fluff, a teeny bit of angst 

please reblog/leave feedback!!

“Good afternoon class and welcome to Sociological themes in Classic Literature. My name is Professor Jones.” The entire class was zoned out, as most students are the first day of classes.   You were mindlessly tapping your pen against the top of your notebook page, your eyes flickering over the previously highlighted assignment due dates. If you were being totally honest, you didn’t really want to take this class, you were just taking it to fill your English requirement. You figured it’d be easy since you were a sociology major already. “..And before I let you all go today, I wanted to introduce your TA to you guys. His name is Tom, he’ll send out an email with his office hours and how to contact him later.” Professor Jones finished.

As soon as Tom stepped up to the podium, you could tell every girl was gonna be going to his office hours at some point. And could you blame them? No. Not exactly. He was cute. Like really really cute. His short brown hair was gelled up and he had pretty brown eyes that resembled those of a puppy. Rectangular dark brown glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, giving him a look that screamed ‘teaching assistant.’ 

“Hey guys, as Professor Jones said my name’s Tom, I’ll be the TA for this semester. I’ll send you all an email later that will have this information in it so you don’t have to worry about memorizing it right now but my office hours are Monday’s from 12-4pm, Wednesday’s from 3-5pm, and Thursdays from 1-3pm. If those don’t work for you I’m happy to meet up with anyone outside of those times, just send me an email or a text.” He smiled, grabbing his bag and leaving the room, waving on his way out. “Perfect. You’re all free to go. We’ll start discussing Pride and Prejudice next class so make sure you have the first three chapters read.” Professor Jones dismissed. The class filed out of the lecture hall, whispers of how cute TA Tom was filling your ears in both directions. “He’s so damn cute.” One girl giggled to her friend. “I hope he’s single.” Her friend sighed in response. “I’m so gonna text him with random questions just to talk to him either way.” You rolled your eyes. Sure, he was cute. But he was your TA. It would be unprofessional to try anything with him. Besides, he’s got to have a girlfriend, right? You got your answer a few weeks later. Classes were going steady, but midterm week was approaching and you needed to let loose and have some fun before you had to stress about Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth Bennet, and the theories of social class. The frat house was more alive than ever. Multi colored lights decorated the kitchen with music blaring throughout the entire house. Making your way to the kitchen, you grabbed your friend’s hand to ensure you didn’t lose them in the crowd. The last thing you needed was to lose your friend in a sea of drunk college guys. Your friend settled on a beer while you settled on making a rum and coke to start. Next thing you knew, your friend was drunk and dancing with a couple guys, making you chuckle. “Need another drink?” A voice called over the music. You turned, seeing a cute boy standing next to you. He seemed familiar but between the alcohol you already consumed and the madness of the party, you couldn’t put your finger on where you knew him from. “You’re doing shots?” You yelled over the music, seeing him pour tequila into the small glasses. That was not what you thought when he offered to make you a drink. “Wanna join me?” He shrugged, offering you one. Fuck it. You took the small glass, clinking your glass with his lightly before the two of you downed the alcohol, feeling it burn your throat. “Another one?” He offered. Why not? A short amount of time and god knows how many shots later and you were out of it. Sober enough to know what you were doing, but drunk enough to know you’d be hungover tomorrow morning. Your lips were pressed messily up against his, your hands tangled in his soft but short curls. The two of you made your way upstairs, finding an empty bedroom. As soon as you were inside, you were pressed up against the door, his tongue finding its way into your mouth. “Fuck, you’re a good kisser.” You breathed out as the brunette trailed kisses down your neck and along your jaw. “Thanks.” He paused, giving you a goofy smile, a massive but momentary change in his demeanor before he pressed his lips to yours messily again, this time guiding you to the bed and laying you down before climbing on top of you, kissing you again before pulling away and resting his forehead against yours. “Are you gonna do something?” You whined as his hand toyed with the end of your shirt. “Do you want me to?” He asked, straddling your waist and earning a groan from you. “Yes, fuck yes. Please do something.” You sighed as he kissed down your neck, leaving marks in his wake. “Hm I don’t know.” He teased, his breath fanning over your ear. “I need you to be really sure about this.” “Jesus christ, you want me to beg?” You groaned, making him shrug. “First of all, my name’s Tom.” He chuckled, you rolling your eyes. “Second of all, I just wanna make sure you’re really positive you’re okay with what we’re about to do but I’m more than happy to hear you beg.” “Fine.” You rolled your eyes. “Please, please do something, Tom. I need you.” “What do you need?” He teased again. “I don’t, fuck, I don’t know! Go down on me, fuck me, just do something for fucks sake!” You groaned. That was all the answer Tom needed. - When you woke up the next morning, your head was pounding and you were in an unfamiliar bed, but you remembered exactly what had happened. Though you still couldn’t figure out where you knew Tom from, you figured you’d never see him again anyway, giving you mixed feelings. You climbed out of his arms as gently and as softly as possible, putting your clothes back on, before heading out of the frat house to call your friend and head back to your apartment. - It wasn’t until the very next day that you remembered where you knew Tom from. You walked into your sociological themes in classic literature class, prepared for the review session held by the TA and froze almost as soon as you entered the room upon seeing the TA. Oh. Right. Tom is the TA for this class. That’s how you knew him. The marks on your neck still sat there proudly and a light blush rose to Tom’s cheeks when he saw them as you took your seat. You gave him a simple smile as you sat down, pretending to scroll through your phone as the other students filed in. The class was torture. That was the best word to describe it. It was difficult to focus on anything when you now knew that you fucked the goddamn TA. The dorky, innocent-seeming TA. Finally when the class was over, you got up to leave as soon as possible, but stopped when Tom called your name. You sighed and the two of you waited until the rest of the students were gone to break the uncomfortable silence between the two of you. “I did a good job on your neck.” He said smugly, this time it was your turn to feel your cheeks heat up under his gaze. “Yeah. Um, I enjoyed that.” You mumbled, internally face palming yourself at how awkward you sounded. “Oh I could tell from the pretty little noises you let out.” He chuckled, making a smile tug on your lips, though you rolled your eyes. “Did you want to talk about something or did you just want to be a smug son of a bitch?” You asked. “Well, both, but I wasn’t planning on being a smug son of a bitch.” He smiled. “I wanted to see if you wanted to grab coffee.” “Like…like a date? Is that legal?” You wondered, making Tom laugh. “I’m a TA, y/n. We’re just two students, it’s not against the law.” He laughed. “We don’t have to-” “No, no. I want to. That sounds lovely.” You smiled, making Tom smile. “Here,” He handed you his phone. “You can put your number in.” You typed in the numbers, texting yourself so you knew who it was, and added a star emoji next to your name, because why not? Tom chuckled when he saw the emoji. “Do you wanna wait until after the midterm?” He asked. “The midterm is next week, Tom.” You giggled. “We can do this weekend.” - Your coffee date was Saturday morning and Tom asked you on a second date before it was finished. Two dates turned into three and soon enough a month went by and Tom asked to make things between the two of you official. “Yeah, of course I want this with you, Tom.” You whispered, the two of you lying in his bed, your fingers tracing shapes on his bare chest. “Just don’t want anyone knowing for a little bit.” “Perfectly fine with me, love.” He sighed, tugging you closer to his chest. “Perfectly fine with me.” The next time you had class, you got jealous. Tom looked exceptionally good that day and was in class to answer questions about themes relating to 1984. You were jealous because the girls in your class were basically undressing Tom with their eyes. Granted they didn’t know he was your boyfriend, you still felt jealous. Tom knew something was wrong when you stayed behind after the students left. The two of you had a date that night and he knew you’d want to do some homework before he picked you up. “What’s up, baby?” He asked as you walked up to the podium. “I didn’t like the way they were looking at you.” You mumbled into his chest. “Who?” “The girls in class. They were looking at you like you’re their boyfriend, but you’re my boyfriend.” You pouted, making Tom chuckle. “I am all yours, love. Don’t want the other girls in the class. Only you.” He assured you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “All mine?” You asked, looking up at him from his chest. “All yours.”

_______________________________________________________________________

tagging some mutuals: @sunshinehollandd​ @angelic-holland​ @spideypeach​ @terrifictomholland​

[lovemesomesurveys]

Do you have anyone you fully trust? Yes. I just don’t confide a lot to anyone for some reason. It’s not because I don’t trust them, I just... I have a hard time expressing myself and opening up. I know, shocking right? I ramble on and overshare on these surveys, but it’s not easy for me to do in person. I don’t like talking about myself (again, despite how it seems in these surveys) and having the attention on me. I don’t like burdening people with my problems. I also always feel like my problems are so insignificant and stupid that I feel no one wants to hear about. Which I know I could go to my mom with anything and tell her anything and she’d listen to me, but I still feel that way. I like that in these surveys I can just vent into the void.  What kind of pants did you wear today? Leggings, duh. How old is your television? I don’t know how old the TV itself is, but I think I’ve had it for almost 4 years. Do you have a laptop or desktop? Laptop. When did you last talk on the phone with someone? Yesterday when my mom called me on her lunch break. 

Are you currently sleepy? Of course I am. Have you ever deleted Facebook friends for a significant other? No. Have you ever had bad trust issues with someone? Yes. What accent do you think is the most attractive? Some southern and some British accents. Do you own any television series box sets? Yes. I have I Love Lucy and The Dick Van Dyke Show. Have you ever been in a fight with your best friend? Yeah. When did you last receive a hug and who was it from? Yesterday from my mom. Do you take any advanced classes? I’m not taking any classes, I’m done with school. What is your lucky number? I don’t have a “lucky” number, but my favorite number is 8. Was the last movie you watched a horror film? No, the last movie I watched was Freaky Friday yesterday. I watched 2 really good and creepy shows yesterday, though: AHS 1984 and Two Sentence Horror Story. Do you own a lot of tee shirts? Yes. I love graphic Ts and I’ve got myself a pretty good collection going.  Do you plan your outfits ahead of time? Only certain times like now cause I have a few Halloween shirts and sweatshirts, so I got those out.  Have you ever spent the night in jail? No Would you say you’re a bad influence on others? Definitely don’t look to me as an example right now. Describe your favorite jacket? I love all my hoodies, sweatshirts, and peacoats. List one word to describe your significant other? Non-existent.  Do you handle pain well? It’s something I’ve dealt with all my life. I used to be able to handle that and other health stuff better, but that’s changed these past few years. I’ve gotten so weak. :/ Have you ever been so nervous you threw up? No, but I’ve definitely felt sick. Where is your favorite place to go when you’re depressed? I spend most of my time in bed.  Do you remember the first survey you took? No, that was like back in 2005, I think. I’m sure it was your basic survey, though i.e name, age, location, birthday, etc. I wish I could access my Myspace survey posts and my Xanga account (RIP Xanga). Oh man, the memories.  How many friends do you have on Facebook? 100 and something.  Have you ever watched fight videos for amusement? No. I don’t find that stuff amusing at all. In high school, were you in trouble a lot? No, I never got in trouble in school. Do you enjoy your hairstyle? No. I badly need to get it dyed, trimmed, and styled. Do you have long hair or short hair? Long. How much make up do you wear on a daily basis? I haven’t worn makeup in quite awhile. I don’t think I’ve worn any this year... What is your favorite television show? I have several. Do you have a leather jacket? I have 2 pleather ones. Do you think anyone dislikes you for no reason? I’m sure if anyone dislikes me they have good reason. Do you have any children? Noooo. Have you ever been interviewed on television before? Yes. Do you have weak upper body strength? Now I do. :/ I use to have really great upper body strength. I’m a paraplegic, so it’s all upper body for me and I used to be active when I was going to school and had a social life. These past few years due to health stuff, I’ve become quite inactive and spend majority of my time in bed. I lost the muscle mass I used to have. 

What is the worst insult someone can call you? I don’t know, man. I put myself down enough. Do you write on your hands a lot? No. I used to sometimes when I was in high school. Are you good at sketching? Nope. I suck at drawing.  Do you think hugs are awkward? They definitely can be, yeah. Depends who I’m hugging. Do you think facial hair is gross? I wouldn’t say it’s gross, but I personally don’t like a lot of facial hair. I like some scruff on a guy, but that’s it. Would you ever dye your hair an unnatural color? I’ve dyed it red for the past few years.  What color was the last cup you drank from? It’s a clear glass with Disney characters and facts on it. Ever play Angry Birds? Nah, I never got into that. I remember when it seemed like everyone was playing that. That, and Farmland. Omg the game invites on Facebook used to get on my nerves until Facebook finally made the option to block those.  Have you ever been to the zoo before? Yeah, several times. What instruments do you know how to play? I used to play some piano. I regret not taking it more seriously. I wish I had kept up with it. :/ The last time I played was over 10 years ago. How late did you stay up last night? I went to bed around like 230. How late do you plan on staying up tonight? It’s almost 230 now and I probably should try to sleep after this. Whose wall did you post on last? It was a birthday post for someone. Have you ever done hard drugs before? The only drug I’ve done is weed.  Has anyone ever been weirdly obsessed with you? It kind of felt that way with my first boyfriend. Do you own a Snuggie? I do. What is your favorite band of all time? One of them will always be Linkin Park. Would you consider getting a tattoo any time soon? I’ve wanted one for several years, but I’m a big scardy cat. I can’t see myself actually getting one. Are you afraid someone might steal your identity someday? No. Are there any paintings on your wall? Speaking of which, what color are your walls painted? Yes, there’s a few. My walls are white. Do you have any talents that come naturally? I don’t feel like I have any talents. What is your favorite piece of jewelry? I have a few favorites. Is there a place you’d rather live right now? Yes. My family and I want to move. We’ve wanted to for a long time, but we just haven’t been able to yet, unfortunately.  What movie did you last watch with someone? The live-action Aladdin with my mom and aunt a few weeks ago. Do you go out often? No.  Are you afraid of airplane rides? Yes, but I’ve been wanting to travel via plane for awhile now. I’ve had this weird urge. I think probably because I’ve gone with my mom to drop off and pick up a family friend several times at the airport and just recently my dad did. It’s been 13 years since the last time I’ve flown and I’m like, okay it’s my turn to go somewhere now. How many times a day do you brush your teeth? Once. Do you consider yourself a sensitive person? I know I am.  Is there anyone who is overly nice to you? Uhh I don’t know about overly nice. What do you think is the best smell in the world? I have a lot of favorite scents that I love. If you’re reading a book, what page are you currently on? I’m not.  Do you think people are intimidated by you? Uh, no. Do you have a job you like? I don’t have a job. Have you ever lived with a roommate before? No. What song is your favorite right now? I have numerous favorite songs, but I don’t have a current particular favorite. Have you ever had a surprise at your doorstep? Well, like packages. Obviously I know what it is since I ordered it, but it’s still always exciting to get them. Ooh, but during Christmastime my family and I are all ordering stuff and the stuff they order for me is a surprise.  Do you like candles? * Ehhhh. I like them more in theory <<< Lol, same. I love many candle scents and Bath & Body Works has a lot I like that smell good and look cute, but I don’t actually light any candles. I have like 4 in my room that I never light lol. Would you prefer internet or television? The internet if I could only have one since I could watch my shows online as well. What is something you lose often? My patience and temper. Well, I don’t get angry very often, but I get frustrated and irritated all the time. :/ Do you enter a lot of sweepstakes? No. It’s been a long time since I’ve entered anything. What is your favorite possession in your room? Everything. I have it because I want and love it. What will you be doing in the next ten minutes? I should try and sleep. How old is your oldest sibling? He’ll be 36 next month. Do you consider yourself physically active? Nope. I’ve explained this already. How many scarves do you own, if any at all? Zero. It doesn’t get cold enough to where I’d need a scarf. Plus, I don’t like things around my neck. As it is I’m always pulling down my shirt cause they ride up. Do you have any cuts or scratches as of now? Yes. Where did you last sleep? My bed. Do you have Netflix? Yeah. Are you colorblind? Nope. Do you know anyone personally who is colorblind? Not anymore, but like I said in a previous survey recently I had a science teacher in high school that was. Do you enjoy dancing? My “dancing” is just me bobbing my head along to the music and maybe moving my arms/hands a bit. Have you ever considered writing a novel? Yeah, actually. I used to like writing short stories when I was younger, and I thought about writing novels.

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

Safe with me (15)

Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.

Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Extremely graphic descriptions of violence. Character death.

A/N: Well, here we go.

Tags for this story are CLOSED Link here for posting schedule

SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously…

“Alright then, if that’s what you want,” he steps even closer to the barrier, so close you can see the gleaming whites of his eyes. “I gave you a chance, so – just know that this is your fault Barnes, it’s all on you. I hope you remember that. In the end.”

Jack reaches behind him, grasping for something in his pocket, and Bucky crouches slightly, a snarl on his face as he settles into battle stance.

When his hand reappears, Jack’s holding a thick paperback book.

He smiles.

*****

"Do you know my favorite novel?" Jack asks casually, giving the book a small shake.

Peering around Bucky, you see a faded red cover, a worn and cracked spine, pages fat from decades of moisture and grimy fingers. A familiar title is stamped across the front.

"George Orwell, 1984. In my day, it was required reading for new recruits. Hydra's ideals, laid out in black and white. So easy, so obviously the right choice. Orwell understood perfectly. A shining example of how the world could prosper if you eliminate the temptation of choice."

"That story was satire you fucking moron. It was taken literally by arrogant dicks who were looking for a reason to be assholes," you scoff.

Bucky clears his throat quietly and pushes you behind him.

"Uncultured swine," you add, poking your head back around.

Bucky sighs and shoves you harder.

Grumbling under your breath, you press close to his back and he reaches around, capturing your fingers. Folding his thumb against your palm, he rubs small circles on your skin, his grip hot and reassuring.

"Let him talk, the team'll be here soon," he murmurs , squeezing your hand when he hears the annoyed huff.

Jack ignores the exchange, his attention fixed on Bucky.

"You know when I took the Head job, they gave me instruction manuals for you? So logical and clinical. Like a new appliance. Read them cover to cover, but they missed some important context."

Rifling through the paperback, he lands on a dog-eared page. Glancing down he finds the opening sentence and begins to recite, his voice as steady as the fanatic stare he levels at Bucky.

-----

"How does one man assert his power over another, Winston?"

Winston thought. "By making him suffer," he said.

"Exactly. By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough. Unless he is suffering, how can you be sure that he is obeying your will and not his own? Power is in inflicting pain and humiliation. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing."

-----

There's silence when he finishes, still looking expectantly at Bucky.

"That was dramatic," you pipe up sarcastically.

"Oh my god, would you shut the fuck up," Jack finally explodes. "Or I swear to God, I'll rip your fucking tongue out, you mouthy little whore – "

"Stop fucking talking," Bucky snarls. "You don't touch her and you don't touch me. I won't play this game, it's not happening. Sooner you accept that, the sooner we can stop pretending like I won't tear your heart out the second this barrier comes down."

Jack cocks his head. "No, you won't. What I did all those years, it was right. My Soldier suffered because he was made to. I tore him apart and put him back together and he thanked me for it. He always thanked me. And he will again, because he needs it, he needs me."

"Jesus Christ. You're insane. I'm telling you with absolute conviction – you're extremely fucking wrong."

"Guess we'll see," Jack shrugs and gives a sly smile. "I saw the look on your face though. Expecting a little red notebook?"

Bucky is silent, but you feel his body tense.

"I was pissed when I heard Rogers destroyed it. Talk about great literature. But hey, doesn't really matter, right? We both know, I had those words memorized the first time I read them. Used to sing them to myself when I couldn't sleep."

"What the hell's he talking about?" you murmur.

Bucky glances over his shoulder, meeting your confused stare. Jaw clenched, he swallows hard.

"Ah, you forget to tell her that little party trick?" Jack asks gleefully. He throws you a taunting smile when you peek around Bucky. "Ten little words. Barnes hears them and all hell breaks loose. Ten little words and you can meet my Soldier. Trust me, he's magnificent."

"It won't work," Bucky warns. "I promise it won't. Your funeral if you try."

"You know Barnes, the funny thing is, I just don't believe you. So, let's see what happens."

This is it then.

In his heart of hearts, Bucky knew he'd end up here. For all his threats that it won't work, the unfortunate truth is that it will. After all this time, the words still exist, an intrinsic part of his DNA that's impossible to strip away. He's tried, God fucking knows he's tried, but every attempt was a spectacular failure.

But hopelessness is the lifeblood of creativity, and those failures gave him an idea. Steeling himself for the fall, he clings desperately to the hope that his untested and fragile safeguard will work, because he knows what Jack will ask when the Soldier arrives.

Clutching your hand, terror prickles down his spine and Bucky watches Jack's lips part, sees the tip of his tongue touching his front teeth as he forms the first word –

*****

EARLIER (6 HOURS AND 5 MINUTES AFTER ABDUCTION)

Down in the cargo hold of the Quinjet, Bucky kneels in front of him.

"No," Steve breathes. "Absolutely fucking no."

"It's not a request Rogers."

"I honestly don't care. I'm not doing it."

Gritting his teeth, Bucky looks up, heart aching when he sees the panic-stricken blue eyes. His voice softens. "I'm sorry, I really am. But you're the only one who knows them and I need you to do this for me. Please."

Scratching nervous fingers through his fine blond hair, Steve shakes his head in frustration. "You said you'd never willingly lose control again. How are you comfortable with this?"

"Christ, I'm not comfortable, but if this is the price, I'll pay it," Bucky shrugs, looking beseechingly at Steve. "I gotta try, and she – she's worth it."

"What if you can't get back Buck? What if I can't get you back?"

Bucky considers him for a long moment before answering.

"The book – it didn't explicitly say it. But there are eleven trigger words. Not ten."

Steve looks taken aback. "The hell do you mean? What's the eleventh?"

Dropping his gaze back to the floor in front of him, Bucky rubs his palms down his thighs and takes a steadying breath, but his voice still cracks when he replies.

"The first ten words force involuntary paralysis, but the whole thing depends on the final word. On the name you use," Bucky's throat is suddenly dry. "It's the word Soldier that finally activates him. Use my name when you want to bring me back, because he won't show up if you don't complete the string."

He hates this. Not just being triggered, although – sure, when someone says a list of code words that make your body go into shock so your murderous alter-ego can take over, yeah that does suck pretty hard. But what he hates more, is that Steve will see this, because Bucky knows without it'll give Steve nightmares for months.

But he's running out of options.

"I – god fucking dammit, I just – fuck, fuck, fuck! You're sure Buck, you're absolutely sure?"

Bucky barks a humorless laugh and wipes away the bead of nervous sweat rolling down his temple, trembling fingers gathering his hair in a messy knot at his nape. "Yeah buddy. I'm sure. I just need you to get me in there, I'll do the rest."

Steve scuffs his feet angrily, waging his internal battle while Bucky waits patiently, his head bowed. He knows when Steve runs out of steam, because he stops dancing around and stomps his foot.

And while he's pissed as hell, his voice is strong when he begins.

"LONGING – "

*****

Everything is muted.

Bucky opens his eyes.

The world around him is perfectly empty and filled with a soft gray fog. Looking down, he sees the blue coat and his worn boots, feels his knives and guns strapped comfortably across his body. His hands are clean white and shining silver, wiped clean of the blood and grime of battle. The mist swirls around his feet and it feels so tangible, he wonders if he could scoop a handful if he tried.

Has he been here before? It feels familiar.

Everything is muted. And then it's not.

He hears the soft creak of leather and he turns slowly.

Stepping from the mist, the Soldier stands before him, dressed in the last uniform Bucky remembers donning before that final day in Washington DC. Straps of thick black leather criss-cross his chest, plastic guards cover his knees. His dark hair swings forward, the edges framing the black mask covering the bottom half of his face.

He's drenched in tragedy.

Streaks of dirt line his pale face, dark circles glow like bruises under his eyes. Rivers of blood run down his arms, vivid lines of red dripping soundlessly into the fog rising at his feet. Even from here, Bucky recognizes the scents of gunpowder and copper, feels the aura of despair surrounding him, can taste the flavors of stale sweat and heat forever trapped in the confines of that mask.

He's drenched in tragedy and remains as he has always been. Death personified.

Bucky stares in silence, drinking in the image. He thanks whatever God will listen, that you've never seen him this way and he hopes you never will. But Bucky Barnes is a realist and Fate's a bitch with a tendency to kick him in the balls, so he crushes that burgeoning hope and embraces the man before him.

"He'll try and take you back. You know who I mean."

Bucky's voice sounds odd in his ears, the quiet statement filling the cavernous void of nothingness.

The Soldier merely watches him, blank eyes betraying nothing.

"I think I found a way. For you to stay in control – after."

The Soldier tilts his head and even with the mask, Bucky sees the skepticism.

"You know how the triggers work. How they're linked to my – to your – shittiest memories. I can't change that. But I think if you could just connect them to something else, to something happy and not so fucking terrible, it might take away his power."

A strange sound comes from behind the mask. Bucky hears the derisive snort clearly and thinks how unnerving and god damn weird it is to watch himself like this.

"Yeah I know. Your whole life's been one giant train-wreck, but things are different now. I've got a life again, friends to help me and a girl to fight for, and I need this to fucking work. I'll do everything I can to help you, and if it works, if you get hold of him - he's all yours. Take your revenge however you want. Make it slow, make it painful, make it bloody. Do your worst."

Something shifts beneath that flat, dead expression. A flash of interest.

Bucky holds up his hand.

"I'm asking for something in return. No matter what he says or what he orders you to do, you fucking ignore all of it and you – you protect my girl. You keep her safe. That's the mission. That's the only mission that matters." Bucky extends his metal hand, offering it palm up. "Do we have a deal?"

The Soldier stares unblinkingly at Bucky, weighing the proposal. Truth be told, Bucky understands the risk better than anyone. He knows the Soldier inside and out, because as much as he hates this fact – at his core, he is indeed both men. And when the Soldier lets go, when that carefully controlled rage spills out, no one is safe.

But Bucky also knows this. If the man in his mirror has any emotion left, it's this – an all-consuming lust for revenge. So, he's unsurprised when the black-gloved hand reaches forward, pressing his fingers into Bucky's outstretched palm, and giving a single nod.

Entwined in this gray world, identical blue eyes watch each other.

"I'm trusting you," Bucky whispers.

From somewhere far beyond the tepid waters of his subconscious, he hears Steve calling his name.

The Soldier fades away.

*****

When they created him, when they added the triggers, the process was simple.

As each word lands a new part of his body shuts down, sparking a psychological pain that feels terrifyingly real. He gets three seconds between them, three excruciating seconds, to fight the nightmarish memories tying his brain to these words, but he loses every time.

Every time. Every single time. Bucky has never won this game, not once in seventy fucking years.

This time though, if luck can just for once in his god forsaken life be on his side, maybe his hail Mary can work –

"LONGING."

The first word is always the worst. Scorching pain races up his right arm, the sensation of his fingernails ripped from the beds, of razor blades flaying open his skin and he takes quick, shallow breaths as the first memory hits –

-----

For three straight days, he's strapped to a chair, his shiny new arm hanging disconnected and useless, while doctors shoot icy liquid in his veins, press chalky pills under his tongue. Every possible variation of medicine is pumped into him, sending him flying to inconceivable heights and crashing him into the terrifying depths of bone-weary depression. The Soldier remembers the desperate desire to die flooding through him, his heart longing for it to just fucking end –

----

–"I want you Bucky," you whisper hoarsely, your lips still brushing his, and he swallows the confession with a shaky sigh. "I want you and I want this. I'm in, if you are." Bucky feels the heavy swell of longing pumping through his veins at your words, at the promise behind them, and he'd give everything to stay here forever –

-----

His vision returns with a slap and Bucky feels a surge of courage when the sweet memory stays in place –

"RUSTED."

His right leg crumples, an iron bar shattering his shin, and groans as he falls to one knee –

-----

"Internal wiring's rusted, I need to replace it. Don't knock it out, keep it conscious." The Soldier sits quietly in the chair while they disassemble the metal arm, dismissing the fact that each piece of the arm is connected to his central nervous system. It's surgery without anesthesia and with every jerk and tug, the pain blooms so fierce, he nearly blacks out. Without realizing, he concedes to silent tears, unaware as they drip down his cheeks until one of the techs huffs in irritation. "Is it fucking crying? Jesus Christ." The Soldier starts in surprise and then –

-----

– "Question. If you get caught in a rainstorm, do you get all slow and rusted? Like the Tin Man in Wizard of Oz?" Bucky grins when you look up expectantly from the ice cream cone. "Also, follow-up question. Did you see the original run of Wizard of Oz in theaters?"

"No to the first question. Yes to the second."

"God you're old, I'm buying you a case of denture cream for your birthday," you say, taking a huge bite from the ice cream cone, recoiling at Bucky's outraged gasp.

"What the hell's the matter with you, that's not how you eat ice cream – "

-----

Bucky sees you standing beside him, reaching a shaky hand toward him, and he snarls in panic.

"No, get back, get back, stay back – "

"FURNACE."

His command rolls into a high-pitched scream when the metal arm turns to fire, electricity jolting through it, shocking him over and over, until he can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe, he's suffocating –

-----

Flames rise higher into the black night, transforming the world into eerie shades of orange and gray. Like waves of heat from a furnace, the flash burn singes his eyelashes and melts the tips of his boots, but the Soldier doesn't flinch. He smells charred wood and gasoline and burning flesh, but he stands in place with his gun trained on the exit door, waiting for anyone still able to escape the roaring inferno –

-----

– Bucky feels you stirring beside him. "Cold," you sigh and at the words, Bucky pulls you closer, folding your patchwork quilt carefully around your neck. "You're always so warm," you yawn, words slurring together, and he realizes you're not quite awake. "Like a furnace. Giant asshole furnace."

"Thanks," he whispers, choking back a laugh –

-----

Electricity still crackles up and down the arm, but the sharp edges blunt and Bucky draws a shaking breath –

"DAYBREAK."

His left leg buckles and he slumps on his knees, dead arms dragging him down. His teeth go straight through his tongue when he moans, blood instantly filling his mouth.

"Bucky what can I do, what the hell do I do?"

Heart cracking when he hears you sobbing, he spits a mouthful of red saliva in front of him, trying like hell to focus on your voice –

-----

Daybreak. Sunlight filters through the dirty windows high above him and the Soldier opens his eyes for the first time. He feels the steady drip of blood winding down his scalp, itching at the back of his neck. Vocabulary lost in the foggy chasms of his brain, the only words he can summon are a strange set of numbers, 3...2...5...5...7...0...3...8..., so he mumbles them until they arrive again, with dirty knives and syringes full of fiery green liquid that makes him scream –

-----

– Sunlight is creeping over the horizon when Bucky pads into his bedroom and pulls up short at the sight. Curled in the middle of his bed, you're sound asleep, hugging tight to his pillow. He leaves a glass of water and a packet of pain medicine on the night stand, shakes out his favorite blue blanket. Draping it gently over you, he allows this single moment of weakness – his quiet bedroom at daybreak, filled with the soft sounds of your breath and the whisper of fabric when you roll over. He stows the memory carefully away, something nice to hold onto –

-----

Gritting his teeth, Bucky whispers the mantra under his breath, something nice, something nice, something nice –

"SEVENTEEN."

White hot pain licks up his spine, every nerve along the vertebrae igniting and the muscles in his back seize up, locking him in place –

-----

Stalking through the warehouse, the Soldier counts the bodies as he goes. One, two, three. There's a hand still twitching, so he adds another bullet. Seven, eight, nine. He leaves sticky red footprints in his wake. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Harsh breaths are coming from the man crawling toward the red alarm button under his desk. The Soldier lands a bone crushing boot in his stomach and kicks him onto his back. Staring down into a defiant face, he steps on the man's trachea and shoots. Seventeen –

-----

– Legs dangling through the railings, Bucky waits on his fire escape wearing a ragged green sweater. The March night is fresh and clear and cold, and he puffs out a frosty breath. When the midnight church bells begin to ring, he swings his legs excitedly. Behind him, he hears shuffling footsteps and Steve is crawling out the open window, carrying a slice of banana bread with a stubby candle jammed in the middle. Settling next to Bucky, his skinny legs slide easily through the metal rails and he pulls out a shiny silver lighter, the flame dancing merrily in the dark night. Lighting the candle, he wipes the sleep from his eyes and hands it to Bucky with a grin.

"Seventeen, huh? Happy birthday pal."

-----

The tiny flame still flickers and he feels tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and he braces himself for what comes next –

"BENIGN."

The metal plates buried in his shoulder twist violently and his left shoulder dislocates, his arm bending behind him with a sickening crunch and snapping in place –

-----

"Your orders were to make those deaths as painful as possible, why the fuck did you kill them quick? Useless piece of shit," the Handler hisses and slaps the Soldier's face. The Soldier says nothing, eyes cast to the floor. Turning to the technicians watching in amusement, the Handler narrows his eyes. "I'm tired of this shit. Zola promised me a cold-blooded killer, not some benign little pussy who can't do a simple fucking job. Wipe everything this time, clean it out completely and don't leave a god damn thing behind." The Soldier is silent as the techs lead him toward the chair and he begins to shake –

-----

– "Barnes, You're a sweet, neurotic, perfectly benign human being. Don't be nervous." He doesn't believe Pepper Potts, but here he is anyway, loitering in the back of a crowded hospital room, watching tiny humans wearing casts and breathing tubes bounce on Steve's shield. Bucky begins to relax until he feels a tug on his sleeve and looks down to the serious face of a determined little girl, her dark braids framing wide brown eyes. She crooks her finger and he crouches awkwardly next to her with a hesitant smile. Reaching tentatively for his metal fingers, she offers her own arm for inspection and Bucky sees a new prosthetic. His entire soul melts when he hears her fragile voice say, "Hey Mr. Barnes, we match – "

-----

Nostrils flaring, Bucky breathes faster and faster, and he looks up to where you stand, watching silently as tears slip down your cheeks and he tries to give you an encouraging smile –

"NINE."

Like a gunshot, his right shoulder dislocates, the harsh crack ringing through the air –

-----

This is familiar. The Soldier's been shot dozens of times, but tonight the Voice is in a mood and he asks to see how long the Soldier can go. "Count them for me," the order comes dangerously soft in the Soldiers ear and he's thankful his face is obscured so the voice can't see his fear. He hears the click of the hammer, a pause, and the force of the bullet makes him jerk when it hits his arm.

"One," he grunts breathlessly. Click, pause, boom. "Two." Click, pause, boom. "Three." Every time a bullet hits his body, the Soldier replies without fail. Four, Five, Six. It carries on, until Nine comes out as a broken sob and he begins to lose consciousness and the Voice begin to laugh –

-----

– Bucky drops to his stomach on the floor of his apartment, and peers under the couch. "I found nine of your M&Ms, how many did you have in that bowl?"

"Umm," you respond absently, opening containers of Chinese food. "Let's say nine."

Bucky sits back on his heels and shoots you an exasperated look. "They'll melt on my nice wood floors you know."

"Your face is a nice wood floor," you mumble, and Bucky really wants to be annoyed but he sees your little smirk and then he's laughing –

-----

Harsh laughter echoes off the bare walls, cold and insane and Bucky shakes his head in confusion, because his mouth is open and he's laughing but that can't really be him –

"HOMECOMING."

An invisible hand appears, wrapping around his neck, choking him as it slowly forces his head back –

-----

The Soldier gags, trying to find fresh air under the hood of the thick canvas bag. He can taste the sour smell of his own breath coming back at him and he switches tactics, inhaling through his mouth. Wrists secured behind him, he's balanced on one knee while waves of pain radiate from his crushed kneecap. This is always the preferred homecoming reward. He hears the Voice close behind him and braces his nerves for what comes next.

"Welcome home Soldier," pain rebounds through his body as the metal bar fractures his back –

-----

– The smell of sawdust and fresh paint hangs in the air, the wind from the river coaxing the scents through the open wall. Snapping the caps on two bottles of beer, Bucky hands one to Steve and collapses next to him with an exhausted groan. Stretching out his legs, he laughs when he sees the smears of paint on his feet and he wiggles his gray speckled toes. Steve grins and clinks his bottle against Bucky's.

"Not a bad homecoming."

Bucky gazes into the nearly finished apartment, swimming in contentment. Shoulder to shoulder, they lean against his balcony wall and drink in silence, the comforting sounds of Brooklyn drifting up from the streets –

-----

Bucky sees you shivering and his blue eyes are shiny as he pleads with you. "He won't hurt you, trust me, fuck, please trust me, I have a way back, I'll find my way back – "

"ONE."

His voice evaporates, as though his tongue was cut from his mouth. Lips moving soundlessly, he sneers at Jack through the barrier –

-----

"You're the one," the Voice whispers. "The one thing I'll always want. The one thing I need." The promise rings in his ears when the whip hits his back and the Soldier jolts against the restraints. The voice is in his ear again, with the same request that follows every session. "Thank me now, tell me you deserved it." The Soldier complies, an automatic response, but then the voice asks something new. "I love you," it breathes, fingers trailing down his neck. "Tell me you love me too." But the Soldier doesn't understand so he stays quiet and the Voice is enraged and the lash falls again –

-----

– "You're such a pain in my ass Bucky Barnes, but I love you too. More than you can imagine." Bucky feels his body turn weightless at the words. This was it, the one thing he needed, the one thing he wanted, and the one thing he never expected to have. The words are magic in his ears and he knows he has the silliest smile on his face, but he just doesn't care –

-----

His tongue feels like cotton and he aches to say the words one more time, just in case –

"FREIGHT CAR."

And then he hears Jack's victorious voice, he sees you falling to your knees in front of him, but his head drops forward and his eyes slam shut –

-----

After all this time, the Soldier still feels his heart race when the cold smoke of cryofreeze billows up around him. He has no real emotions, no anxiety, no desire, except when it comes to this one thing. When he goes under the nightmare kicks in, running on a perpetual loop until he wakes again. Sometimes he wonders if the dream is another memory he's managed to forget, because it feels so real. Blasts of blue light, holding tight to the fractured metal bar, the agonized wail of another voice, and his left hand strangely human, so cold and slipping, slipping, slipping, until he falls from the freight car into the icy ravine where sharp black rocks and pain are waiting –

-----

– Bucky moves smoothly, rocking you back and forth and never breaking the tight hold, making sure you stay pressed flush against him. His breath trails down your neck, he laces his cool fingers with yours, and he hums in contentment. Bending closer, his nose brushes the shell of your ear and he closes his eyes at the scent of your skin. There in that dark ballroom, the music washing over him, he feels the understanding roaring in like a freight car knocking him sideways. The world around him upends and when it rights itself, his entire life has changed –

-----

Lost in the darkness, Bucky sees bright silver coming closer –

*****

His breathing stops, the ragged panting going quiet. His chest still rises and falls, but each breath comes slow and steady. Clutching the lapels of his jacket, you give him a rough shake.

"Bucky. Bucky, come on. Open your eyes. Please, Bucky, please. Open your eyes for me, wake up, wake up, please fucking wake up," you beg, but his eyes remain closed, lips slightly parted.

The electric barriers are dissolving and Jack creeps forward. Leaping to your feet with a growl, you spin around to block his path, but in a flash, you're starring down the barrel of his gun.

"You are so annoying. Could you not ruin this for me? I've been waiting a long fucking time. Thanks."

"Well you can keep on waiting and fuck off, you absolute twat."

Jack points the gun at your feet and fires a single shot, cracking the concrete floor. Tripping backward, you catch yourself against the wall with a furious shout.

Bucky doesn't move a muscle, still on his knees, head bowed.

Jack reaches forward and places his hand under Bucky's chin, yanking it up.

"Soldier?"

Blue eyes snap open. In one fluid move, he rises to his feet, towering above Jack. It takes a second before he replies.

"Ready to comply."

Dark and shredded, his lifeless voice makes your skin crawl.

"What the fuck have you done?" you grit out.

Enamored with the sight, Jack strokes a long finger down the metal arm.

"I've fixed him," he says blissfully. "Finally. Barnes is gone, my Soldier's here to stay."

Jack backs up, eyes running over Bucky's stiff posture, assessing.

"You know," he says conversationally. "This is the first time we've been face to face. You really are beautiful."

He lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

The roar of the gun covers the sound of your terrified scream when you see the bullet slam into Bucky's shoulder. It knocks him back with a grunt, but the vibrant blue fabric of his jacket is so thickly padded, so tightly woven, the bullet never finds flesh.

Jack sighs happily and holsters his gun. "That felt good. Just like old times."

"You're a fucking psychopath," you spit, pushing away from the wall.

"I really am just so fucking tired of your mouth, so let's get this show on the road. Soldier – turn and face her."

There's no hesitation when he spins crisply on his heel.

"Bucky, don't," you whisper.

"Left hand around her neck. God, I hope Barnes is awake in there, I really want him to see this."

The fingers are a silver blur when they shoot forward, long digits curling around your throat.

Wrapping both hands around his wrist, he is utterly unmovable. You feel the hard plates shifting under your panicked touch.

"Bucky, god dammit, please," you choke out, tears filling your eyes. "Please don't do this, please, please!"

Behind the hard blue, a shadow moves.

Yes, his touch is iron and unbreakable. But when that shadow appears, you realize something new - it is oddly gentle. His fingers are curved around your neck, but there's no pressure behind the grasp. Even stranger, his thumb is rubbing a small circle against your fluttering pulse.

"Squeeze until she's nearly unconscious," Jack orders. "And then let her breathe. I want her to focus on your face, before you break her neck."

The fingers tighten briefly, an unconscious flex, but then he relaxes, his thumb still slowly massaging.

"Bucky?" He follows the path of tears sliding down your face, watching as they splash on his wrist.

"Soldier!" Jack barks. "Now!"

Again, there's a small spasm of his fingers, but nothing else happens. The grip remains loose.

"Are you fucking kidding me? What the fuck did I just say? Do it now!" Disbelief rattles Jack's voice when he bellows the request.

The Soldier's eyes narrow at the repeated instruction and then a small smile lifts his lips.

Very carefully, he releases you.

Turning to Jack, he moves you gently behind him and the small smile slowly transforms into something hideously vengeful.

Jack realizes his mistake a beat too late and backpedals, scrambling furiously for the gun he mistakenly tucked away. The Soldier allows him to jerk it free and fire a wild shot, blocking it with a triumphant laugh. Stalking forward, he rips the gun from Jack's hand, twisting his wrist so hard you hear the bones snap in a long crackling rhythm.

Flipping the gun, the Soldier grips the barrel and swings it forward, whipping Jack across the face, the heavy handle caving in his cheekbone. Screeching in pain, he trips backward and the Soldier catches him by the throat, lifting him high in the air. Feet kicking uselessly, blood pouring down the Soldiers arm, you watch Jack's face turn red, mouth gaping soundlessly as he slaps weakly at the metal arm crushing his windpipe. His eyes begin to bulge and roll back in his head and you want to feel sorry for him, but the bruises on your face and the sound of Bucky's screams are too fresh. Huddling against the wall, you shudder at the sight.

You think this is it. This is the end.

But no.

The Soldier isn't through.

Loosening his grip, he allows oxygen to pour into Jack's lungs, gives him a momentary reprieve before crouching down and slamming the flailing body on the floor. The sickening crack of his skull bouncing on concrete is so loud, it makes you gag.

The Soldier pulls out the M9 strapped to his thigh and presses the barrel to Jack's forehead, digging the metal cruelly into the skin.

"Beg," the voice is shockingly guttural when he speaks, so different from Bucky's even tone. "Beg me for your life."

Gasping in pain, his body jerking and convulsing, Jack manages to lift a trembling hand to the Soldiers face, a solitary finger stroking down his cheek.

"Please – "

"Not good enough," the Soldier growls and he moves the gun down and blows apart a kneecap. The responding scream makes you cover your ears. "Try again."

Jack is crying now, coughing up spurts of blood and he tries again. "I love y – "

With a savage snarl, the Soldier cuts the sentence short. He pushes the gun back to Jack's forehead and pulls the trigger. Blood and fragments of bone spray his face, but he doesn't flinch, watching with relish as the life beneath him bleeds away.

The gunshot reverberates off the walls and settles in your ears, a drawn out echo that eventually fades, leaving only the frantic drumming of your heart.

Absorbed in his victory, the Soldier stays kneeling over the body.

"Bucky?"

With an effortless grace, he rises from his carnage and turns to you. There's a strange look in his eyes at the question in your voice.

Stepping carelessly over Jack's inert form, he walks cautiously toward you. Covered in blood, watching the slowly receding anger in his eyes, you can believe at this moment that he really is a different person. But then he scrunches up his nose and you see the tiny wrinkles around his blue eyes and it's so clear – it's all the same.

Bucky and the Soldier, two halves of a whole. You pity Jack in this instant, a monster in his inability to see the worth of each.

"Thank you," he says gruffly and his voice is so stilted and full of gravel, you wonder how often in his past life, he was ever allowed to speak.

"You're – welcome?"

You have no idea why he's thanking you, but it seems the only polite response.

He watches you so seriously, you see the gears cranking in his head. It seems as though he wants to say more, but the slap of hurried footsteps breaks through the web around you, and with a low hiss, he spins around, putting you safely at his back and raising his gun again.

Rounding the corner, Steve skids to a stop at the gruesome scene.

"Bucky – " the gunshot pings off his shield and Steve curses. "Fucking hell, stop!"

He tries to step forward and the Soldier sneers, lifting the gun again and aiming for his knees. Steve blocks the bullet with a frustrated shout.

"God dammit Buck!"

Bristling at the name, the Soldier evaluates the situation further and raises an eyebrow. "Your legs used to be skinny," he says roughly.

Steve looks irritated at the comment. "Yeah, thanks for the reminder. Dick."

"Drop the gun, please," you say quietly, wrapping your hand around the Soldier's forearm, trying to push his arm down. He looks down in surprise, perplexed at the insistent hand on his sleeve.

"I'm – supposed to – protect you," he says haltingly.

"You did," you reply, his words carving path straight to your heart. "But it's okay now and he's your friend."

The Soldier blinks, trying to unpick the word. Friend. A concept he knows, but one that is personally foreign.

"Okay," he finally says. "Okay."

Glancing at Steve, you see him inching slowly closer. He grimaces helplessly as his eyes flick a curious path from the Soldier to his shield to you, and Bucky's weak jokes about something the team called cognitive recalibration arrive with a thunderclap of clarity. Looking into the Soldier's newly trusting eyes, it hurts your heart.

Keeping your hand tight on his bloody blue sleeve, you hold his intense stare.

"Thank you for protecting me. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but I – I need him back. I hope that's okay."

Disappointment clouds his features, but the Soldier lowers the gun. This was the mission, to keep you safe and take his revenge, and here the mission ends.

Success.

He knows it's time to go, but he feels the hot pull of something deep inside at the soft touch of your hand. He doesn't quite remember who the hell Bucky is, but he thinks he must be one lucky bastard to own the memories the Soldier saw today.

Resigned to his fate, he focuses on your face and reaches tentatively for your hand. Something nice to hold onto, the fleeting thought enters his mind. You feel his fingers tangle in yours and give them a comforting squeeze, right as Steve slams the shield into his head.

*****

The world is soft and cool.

Bucky feels the gentle pressure of fingers stroking his hair. It feels so damn good, he leans into the feel. It's nice here in this meditative state, but he wants to thank whoever belongs to that soft touch. It seems like the polite thing to do. Forcing himself to swim up from the depths of unconsciousness, he kicks hard through the black night surrounding him.

Cracking an eye open, he whines when the dim light sends his pounding headache into overdrive. Every pulse of his brain makes his entire body flinch and he aches like he's been hit by a truck, but other than those minor issues, he's quite comfortable. Stretched out in one of the fluffy sleep pods on the Quinjet, his arm is curled tight around your waist, his head pillowed on your stomach.

He hums and nuzzles against you. Other than all the pesky murdering required, he thinks he could get used to this.

Brain still rattling loose in his skull, he turns himself carefully, trying not to vomit. Propping his chin on his fist, he squints up at you.

"Hi," he whispers.

"Hey," you whisper and the word unlocks a waterfall of tears. Bucky feels his headache evaporate at the look on your face, or maybe it doesn't bother him that much, so he scoots up and pulls you into his arms.

"Hey now, you're okay. Where'd that fuck 'em up attitude go?" His voice is so calm, so soothing, so completely different, you cry harder. Tracing his fingers lightly down your arm, he makes soft shushing sounds while you sob.

God you really hate ugly crying, but after everything that's happened, you deserve it.

Tears are finite though, and once your head feels good and stuffy, the well runs dry. Nose running everywhere, you dry your eyes on his dirty jacket.

"Steve told me what you did. How did you know that would work?" Wrapping your arm around his broad chest, you burrow closer to his side.

"I didn't," Bucky admitted. "I was fucking terrified it wouldn't, but I had to try."

Running your hand up and down his chest, you think of the man you met. It takes several minutes of silence before you can find the right words.

"I thought that was it. I thought you were gone," you say, so quietly Bucky strains to hear. "But when I looked in his eyes, it was still you. Underneath that, I could see it."

Sorrow fills his voice when he responds. "I know."

"No, don't do that. Don't. He saved me," you say fiercely, looking up at him. "You saved me."

He lays gentle fingers under your chin and runs a finger over your lips. "You saved me too. Because of you, I had something worth fighting for."

Reaching up, you tuck a stray piece of hair behind his ear. "You know, you're a real fucking sap, Barnes."

He grins at your words, the light back in his eyes. "So true. You like it, don't lie."

"Stop talking you fuckwit, you have a concussion," you murmur, snuggling back against him. The smell of blood and sweat surrounds you, but it doesn't matter. It smells like safety. Like Bucky. You hug him tighter. "Just shut up and sleep. I'm here and I've got you. You're safe with me."

*****

Epilogue

*****

[cindylouwho-2]

RECENT NEWS, RESOURCES & STUDIES, mid July to August, 2019

Welcome to my latest summary of recent news, resources & studies including search, analytics, content marketing, social media & ecommerce! This covers articles I came across from July 14 to August 24, although some may be older than that.

Tumblr has not been saving all of my drafts correctly, which has led to me rewriting some of this post more than once. (I’m now going to be compiling it elsewhere & pasting it here when done, to avoid this issue in the future.) That, a heavy workload, and some vacation time delayed & truncated this report. 

But the good news is I am now on a more consistent schedule, with more time to read and write. I expect to be getting this back to 3 times a month very soon. 

Are there types of news you would like to see here? Please let me know! Leave a comment below, email me through my website, or send me a message on Twitter.

TOP NEWS & ARTICLES

The priority placement is US search for items that ship free has been around for nearly 4 weeks, and doesn’t seem as disruptive as some feared. Etsy is conscious that non-US sellers are particularly upset about this, and have therefore published a list of things they are doing to help international sellers. (note that most of those things also help US sellers that ship to other countries, 

Etsy’s 2nd quarter results came out on August 1. Everything was up, but not quite as much as some experts predicted, so the stock is down quite a bit. The big announcement was that Etsy will be combining Promoted Listings & Google Shopping ads bought by sellers into Etsy Ads. They are supposed to launch in August, but I have yet to hear of any seller who thought this was a good idea.

3.5 million people worldwide use at least one social media platform. (That’s 46% of the planet’s population.) And more than half of the planet  - over 4 billion people - watch videos online. “[H]alf of all internet users below the age of 35″ use voice to operate their devices, with 43% of internet users worldwide using voice at least occasionally. 

SEO isn’t enough; you are going to have to spend money to be seen, if you don’t already “The last 18 years have been an anomaly. Twenty years ago, if a brand couldn't afford to pay for a newspaper or a radio ad, the media company didn't give the company time to publish a public service announcement. SEO allowed companies to go through a period where they received free listings on search engines like Google and Bing. Sending people to a brand's website is like getting a free television or radio commercial or newspaper ad or billboard at the baseball park in 1984″

Trend watch: both clothing retailers and makeup companies are seeing a drop in sales as their markets shrink. If you sell either, you will want to read both articles, as there are some parallels between the two areas in regard to what is and is not working. 

ETSY NEWS

Etsy purchased musical gear website Reverb for $275 million; it will continue to run separate from Etsy. Etsy stock went up at the time. This is notable because Etsy hasn’t bought much lately; it looks like they are slowly dialing back the panic mode, single-goal approach. Their business acumen has disappointed one commentator [humour].

Etsy is “improving” Etsy shop stats. (Note that the Google Shopping category is apparently for the ads you buy yourself only, not the ones Etsy buys, so you will need to use Google Analytics to look at those hits for the moment.) This seems to be leading up to the launch of Etsy Ads (see above).

Here’s some coverage of Etsy changes in the past few years (not a lot new, with some errors). 

Etsy seems to be ramping up its monitoring of seller customer service factors, as more people are receiving email notifications that their shops are falling below Etsy’s customer service expectations. I expect that any updates in this area might involve the new chat convo thingy: Convos are changing to live chat threads, which you cannot write more than one paragraph for because hitting return sends the message. It’s a mess. (Please forgive my frustration; I’ve already had to deal with over 40 separate convos from one buyer alone.)

There will be a site-wide Labour Day sale August 30-September 2, which Etsy will apparently be promoting. 

Fall fashion trends as promoted by Etsy: apparently silk scarves are in, for all sorts of uses. They also released their holiday trend report (pdf file), which I will summarize next week if I can find the time. It’s worth a look, because they divulge some top search data. You can also listen to the podcast, or read the podcast transcript. 

This article on tiered pricing and increasing your average order value is geared towards people using the $35 free shipping guarantee, but it is also useful for anyone wanting their customers to buy more from them. 

Staff will be using the Etsy Success section of the forum to post weekly tips called “Etsy Insights”. So far, they have been posting each week’s thread in that announcement post, so it is easy to skim and see if any topics are relevant for you. 

They are also asking members to sign up for more research surveys; so far, I am finding it pretty boring, and all of the content on their “hub” page is over a year old. 

The expansion into India saw their domestic listings more than double last year. Free workshops have helped bring many new sellers aboard. 

SEO: GOOGLE & OTHER SEARCH ENGINES

Google’s John Mu, who does SEO outreach & education, reminds us that “LSI keywords” are not actually a thing. (LSI was a computer method to figure out relationships between words back in the 1980s; no search engine today is using it, as they have real search data on how people relate words to each other, and it just doesn’t give any insight into modern search technology.)

You don’t need tons of backlinks, but you do need good ones. And linking out on your own site is a good idea in many cases [video], as long as it serves your readers. 

Using images that show up on many different web pages can harm your SEO. They used stock photos that showed up on hundreds of pages for this experiment, so it is not likely that using your own image on 5 sites, for example, would be a problem. 

It looks like there was a fairly significant Google update around July 18th; there’s a bit more coverage here. The last 3 large Google updates are summarized & analyzed here. 

Google then released a blog post explaining their core updates and what you should do if you are negatively affected by one. They linked to several SEO websites explaining Google’s concept “E-A-T” (Expertise, Authoritativeness and Trustworthiness), which is particularly important if you produce blog posts or educational materials.  

Less than half of Google searches now lead to a click on a website result, at least on desktop. Mobile Google searches overwhelmingly do not result in traffic to a website any more. (Note: as I always remind people, the data from these types of studies is always a bit suspect, because they only have a slice of the data, but the provider here probably has the biggest slice worldwide. 

Do you do some simple coding on your website or blog? You will find this beginners’ guide to canonical tags and the different uses of redirects and canonical tags [video & transcript] very helpful. If you are a bit more advanced than that, here’s a good guide to meta tags. 

CONTENT MARKETING & SOCIAL MEDIA (includes blogging & emails)

Hubspot puts out a lot of good digital marketing guides; check out their “Ultimate Guide to Content Distribution”. Also, they covered how to write a great (& SEO-effective) blog headline, with examples. 

Some stats on current social media usage [infographic]. 

Verizon sold Tumblr to Wordpress owner Automattic. 

Snapchat users continue to increase, as does revenue. They still aren’t profitable, but didn’t expect to be yet. 

Not getting enough traffic on Facebook? Here’s how to get seen by more people there. 

There are ways to optimize your LinkedIn profile to get more sales.

How to get valuable Twitter followers, that is, not bots. (They use Etsy as an example of a well-optimized Twitter profile.) 

ONLINE ADVERTISING (SEARCH ENGINES, SOCIAL MEDIA, & OTHERS)

Amazon is making advertising an even bigger slice of its income. 

Digital ad spending is continuing to increase in most areas.

Facebook is expanding its search ads to more businesses; it’s not really clear how it all works, though. The ads must also run as news feed ads. Here are some basic tips on how to get the most out of Facebook’s ad algorithm. 

With Etsy possibly ending the free Google Shopping ads it currently buys for us (see the Etsy Ads announcement above), this might be a good time to look into buying Google Shopping ads for your website; here is your complete guide to setting them up. 

More changes to regular Google ads mean less control for the business buying ads, meaning that exact match phrases are no longer even close. “Google says 15% of its daily searches are new — and advertisers will miss out on these new queries if matching is too tightly controlled. Its machine learning systems, the company says, can infer intent and spare advertisers from creating exhaustive keyword lists in order to get their ads to trigger on relevant queries.”

If you are thinking about paying for ads on Pinterest, you will want to read this starter guide. 

Twitter video ads now have an option to not pay for a click unless people view at least 6 seconds of the video. 

STATS, DATA, OTHER TRACKING

How to use Instagram Analytics to boost your business. (That is written for companies that are larger than most Etsy shops, but there is plenty of good material there.)

ECOMMERCE NEWS, IDEAS, TRENDS

eBay beat earnings expectations in the second quarter. 

Amazon had higher than expected sales but lower than expected earnings in the second quarter. They keep thriving despite low profits margins because they have a massive cash flow. 

Alibaba reported higher than expected revenue and profit for its first quarter ending June 30th. 

Amazon sales on Prime Day (July 15-16, actually 2 days) were greater than last year’s Black Friday & Cyber Monday combined, and also signed up more new Prime members on each than ever before. Other websites also saw a big boost, especially for electronics. 

Amazon forced to amend its seller policies worldwide following German legal action. As of August 16, they will give 30 days notice for standard account cancellations. 

And they have expanded their robot deliveries (still followed by humans, though!)

BUSINESS & CONSUMER STUDIES, STATS & REPORTS; SOCIOLOGY & PSYCHOLOGY, CUSTOMER SERVICE

While buyers do love free shipping, nearly half of US consumers surveyed will choose to pay for shipping in certain circumstances, most commonly when they really want the product. Only 11% said they never buy unless shipping is free. 

When you are trying to sell something, and especially if you want a repeat buyer, make sure you are pitching it to the right target market. For example, people who don’t want to spend a lot of money won’t buy things they can get for free elsewhere. Provide value for the right people. (A lot of this article is pitched at entrepreneurs selling classes and events, not tangible products, but I think there is a lot of value in the explanations.)

MISCELLANEOUS

WordPress is one of the most popular ways to set up your own website; here’s a beginner’s guide to getting started. 

Google beat earnings expectations in the second quarter. Ad revenue was up a lot. Microsoft also had a better-than-expected quarter, but the growth of their search ads and of LinkedIn (which they own) has slowed. 

How to choose colours that will work together well. 

There is a lot of research on productivity; here are 10 things you can do to get more done. 

If you use Chrome, you could really use these Chrome keyboard shortcuts. 

[multiverseofimagines]

Back in Time *Stranger Things fic*

Part one

Description: Its 2018 and Y/N Byers never felt like she belonged anywhere.  Not at school, not with her so called friends and definitely not with her family. But when her Mom (Nancy Wheeler) and Dad (Jonathan Byers) decide to pack up and move back to Hawkins Indiana, due to her Grandmother, Joyce’s death, Y/N uncovers more than what she bargained for.

Warnings: Cussing and heavily inspired by Back to the future

Your parents were your best friends, your only friends really. This was no surprise, considering how shut out your parents were from the world. They didn’t trust anyone, with anything, not even you. They refused to let you dive deep into their troubled past, you never really questioned it though because they blamed it on the fact that your two uncles were locked up. That seemed reasonable enough. So you let it go for awhile.

That is until Joyce died. Joyce being your Grandmother on your Dad’s side. She was your favourite person on the planet besides your parents, and you were hers too. She saw so much Will in you, and its probably the pin point of why she was so utterly in love with you. But she definitely wasn’t talking about your hellish good looks.

You see, you looked nothing like your family. Whatsoever. Your face shape, your hair and even parts of your personality. Everything just seemed, out of place. The only resemblance you could see was that of your Mothers kind smile. Which wasn’t much to go off of. But despite that, your personality was much like the both of your parents. Artsy, Nerdy and not afraid of anything.

Joyce dying didn’t do this feeling any justice. It made it worse. You constantly thought about your parents, their past and your Uncles. It was really killing you, and to make matters worse, you were moving.

Hawkins wasn’t that bad of a place, it really wasn’t bad at all. But your parents had drilled it into your head that it was horrible, boring and “nothing good ever came out of it.” So when you were told you were moving to Hawkins, the last thing you wanted to do was be happy about it.

“It’ll be fun! and You’ll get to go to the high school me and your father went to!” Your Mother said excitedly, minutes after just dropping the Hawkins Indiana bomb. ‘Does she think I’m fucking stupid?’ you thought as you gave a fake smile to her and your Father.

The only thing that brought you joy about this was being able to indulge yourself into your parents past just a little bit more.

You had been in Hawkins for a week, and you soon came to realise that nothing really did ever happened here. Absolutely nothing. 

And you were so fucking ready to go back home. But you knew that was out of reach, as much as you hated to think about it.

Other than it being boring, you didn’t mind the High School, and you couldn’t see why your parents didn’t enjoy it there. From the old school pictures plastered on the wall, it looked like a lot of fun. But every photograph had its secrets, and you would learn that early on. 

Your favourite thing about the new High school was your science class, and not just because of your love for the subject, but the teacher; Mr.Kert.

He was awesome; much different than other teachers you had met. He made everything seem so enthusiastic and fun, and on the first day when introducing you to the class, he made it clear that there would be no tests for marks. Which was the cherry on top.

The rest of your classes were boring, and stupid. You had History, English and Work experience.  English being the only one that could even barley compete with your science class.

Today in English, the teacher, Mrs. Blackburn had given you your first project. The assignment? To find someone in the yearbooks and write a story about their life. That seemed easy enough for you and fun, so, you decided you’d try and find your Mom and Dad in the yearbooks. That was a struggle.

Your class piled into the small area of the archives. It was a small room filled with old cheerleader outfits, sports uniforms, prom king and queen crowns and even an old pack of Marlboro cigarettes. You were already so fascinated with this small room that you had almost entirely forgotten to grab a yearbook. You went back over to the shelf to find that the majority kept out on display were gone, that’s when you overheard a student talking to what you could only assume as the archive teacher

“Why do some of these books have pages ripped out of them?”

“Their just old, most of them are like that. Sometimes the police station keeps them for investigation so I’m not sure.” The lady shrugged. This comment left you curious. What was there to hide in a town where nothing ever happens?

You continued to look around the small area after not having any luck finding  a yearbook that wasn’t totally trashed. The room was filled with many more old trinkets, pictures and clothes, but that’s when you noticed a small box in a secluded corner filled with random shit. You looked behind you, back and fourth to make sure no one was looking and that everyone was occupied. You squat down to the box moving things around, looking at the contents of the box. Most of it was random sheets of paper and old gym clothes. That's when something caught your eye, it was the color red. 

You dug deeper into the box, carefully taking some things out to reach what you had been looking for. 

It was a red journal with some decals on the side, and various wounds. It was definitely broken into. As you admired the red journal upon your hands, the bell rang, jolting you out of admiration and back to reality. You quickly stuffed the box back up with its random shit and hid the journal within your cardigan.

A couple days had gone by and you had done nothing but read the ratty journal. Needless to say, you were hooked. You had discovered it was a boy writing, because his name was scrawled upon the first page. Billy Hargrove.

You swore that name gave you the shivers, and you had only read two entries, and to be fair they were written messily so it was hard to get even through one entry.

The first entry was titled as November 3rd 1984

“Well, I guess I have to start using this journal for English. Our first entry should explain who we are and stuff, but I’m not one to talk about myself to a stupid journal. That's kind of fucked isn't it? The kid who tries to seem on top of the world isn't as cocky as you’d thought he was?  Well news flash, not everything is what it seems.”

You could relate to every word he had written down. You acted like you could handle yourself, like you were okay. But deep inside, you weren’t. You hadn’t felt a sense of belonging for a very long time, and yet in this ratty old journal from 1984 you had felt that belonging you yearned for.

For once you felt less alone.

It had been a week of reading Billy’s writings, and as fucked up as it sounds, you felt as if he was your best friend. You connected so much to him even though he hadn’t been fully open in his journal about his life, from what you had read he seemed pretty similar to you.

Closed off from the world, too scared to become attached, and insecure.

But as you read further, the sadder and sadder the writings had become.

January 10th 1985

“Hello journal. I can talk more freely now because first term is over and no one is going to read this, not that they were anyway. Teacher don’t give a shit.  Fun stuff right?

I feel like such a psycho for talking to a damn journal. 

But for some reason I feel like I have to still. Like somehow if I do I don’t have to put my shit onto other people’s plates.”

He needed a constant reliable source for his happiness, and this journal had given him that, somewhat. You believed that the writings only got sadder because now that no one was looking, he could be authentic. That couldn't have been more relatable.

The week had come and gone, and you couldn’t get enough of the mysterious boy you’d been reading about. So much so that you had forgotten to write a story about someone from a yearbook. You already knew you’d write about Billy, that was easy enough. 

But now you had to attach a face to the boy you had been reading about, so you moseyed on down to the archives after school.

The door was unlocked, but the lights were off and no one was in sight. You didn't think anything of it, so you turned on the light and began to look for what you had came for.

A little piece of you knew that it was wrong to be in the room without supervision, let alone sneak into the file room attached; but you were so intrigued and desperate for a picture of what once was a young boy.

You had been so caught up in Billy Hargrove that when you had come across a file in the back room of the archives with the name “BYERS” written across it, you almost skipped over it.

But you read it again, remembering it from somewhere. Until it had hit you.

That was your last name,

on some top secret school file.

This could be all the answers you had been looking for regarding your family. You could finally get a glimpse of what your uncles looked like, or what your Mom had gotten in trouble for.  

Moments before you were about to open the file, the door of the file room creaked slightly, and a booming voice had stopped you in your tacks.

“Hey kid, watcha doing down here? “You jumped a little and turned to see a man dressed in cop attire. And it was definitely not Halloween, so you were fucked.

The cop had brought you down to the station. You had discovered that he was the police chief and school constable. Chief Harrington to be exact. He had the highest and thickest hair known to mankind and  he kept a fucking nail bat next to his desk. Was that even remotely legal?

“What a fucking psycho.” You thought.

“So, your new around here? “He asked, kicking his feet up on his cluttered desk. You nodded your head.

“You got a name?” You were cautious at first, but he was a cop and you probably had tell him so he could write you up.

“Y/N, Y/N Byers.” You said quietly, looking down at your feet. And with that being said, his eyes flew open like saucers. It was as if he’d seen a ghost. But he was quick to change his reaction.

“What brings your family to Hawkins?” You definitely were not going to explain to this fat ass Indiana cop about your Grandmothers passing, so you stayed silent until he shot you another question.

He sighed deeply, “Okay so why were you stealing these.” He lifted up the Byers file.

“Just a school project.” you said bluntly, shrugging.

“So your telling me, you went through private school files over an assignment? With your own last name?  Doesn’t really add up.” He knew there had to be something else going on, but there really wasn't. 

“Well maybe if you didn't rip fucking pages out of the yearbooks-” you grumbled quietly, crossing your arms against your chest.

He scoffed, “God, your just like your mother.” He grumbled.

Authors Note: I wrote this a very long time ago but I figured I would post it, and see if anyone likes it? Comment if any of you want a part two!

[planttastic]

Book List 2017!

Goal: 48 Read: 48 New Authors: 13!: Rebekah Crane, Georgia Hunter, David Machado, Dee Lestari, Garson O’Toole, Tahereh Mafi, Soraya Lane, Courtney Elizabeth Mauk, F.C. Lee, Kory Stamper, Marie Lu, Mohsin Hamid, & Krysten Ritter Re-reads: 2: 1984, & The Stupidest Angel

1. The Hidden Oracle (The Trials of Apollo #1) - Rick Riordan, ★★★★

2. Dragon Fly in Amber (Outlander #2) - Diana Gabaldon, ★★★★

3. Seven Up (Stephanie Plum #7) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★

4. Packing For Mars: The Curious Science of Life In The Void) - Mary Roach, ★★★★★

5. Hard Eight (Stephanie Plum #8) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★

6. The Odds of Loving Grover Cleveland - Rebekah Crane, ★★★

7. 1984 - George Orwell, ★★★★

8. To The Nines (Stephanie Plum #9), ★★★

9. At Night We Walk In Circles - Daniel Alarcón, ★★★★

10. Ten Big Ones (Stephanie Plum #10) - Janet Evanovich, ★★

11. We Were the Lucky Ones - Georgia Hunter, ★★★★

12. Eleven on Top (Stephanie Plum #11) - Janet Evanovich, ★★

13. Twelve Sharp (Stephanie Plum #12) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★★

14. Lean Mean Thirteen (Stephanie Plum #13) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★

15. The Shelf Life of Happiness - David Machado, ★★★

16. Grunt: The Curious Science of Humans at War - Mary Roach, ★★★★

17. Paper Boats - Dee Lestari, ★★★★

18. Hemingway Didn’t Say That: The Truth Behind Familiar Quotations - Garson O’Toole, ★★

19. Shatter Me (Shatter Me #1) - Tahereh Mafi, ★★★★

20. Unravel Me (Shatter me #2) - Tahereh Mafi, ★★★

21. Unite Me (Shatter Me #1.5 & 2.5) - Tahereh Mafi, ★★

22. Ignite Me (Shatter Me #3) - Tahereh Mafi, ★★★

23. American Gods - Neil Gaiman, ★★★

24. Wives of War - Soraya Lane, ★★★

25. The Special Power of Restoring Lost Things - Courtney Elizabeth Mauk, ★★

26. Fearless Fourteen (Stephanie Plum #14) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★

27. Finger Lickin’ Fifteen (Stephanie Plum #15) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★

28. Sizzling Sixteen (Stephanie Plum #16) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★

29. Smoking Seventeen (Stephanie Plum #17) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★

30. The Epic Crush of Genie Lo - F.C. Lee, ★★★★

31. Word By Word: The Secret Life of Dictionaries - Kory Stamper, ★★★★

32. Explosive Eighteen (Stephanie Plum #18) - Janet Evanovich, ★★

33. Little Fires Everywhere - Celeste Ng, ★★★★★

34. The Dark Prophecy (The Trials of Apollo #2) - Rick Riordan, ★★★★

35. Notorious Nineteen (Stephanie Plum #19) - Janet Evanovich, ★★

36. Young Jane Young - Gabrielle Zevin, ★★★★

37. Takedown Twenty (Stephanie Plum #20) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★

38. Warcross (Warcross #1) - Marie Lu, ★★★★

39. Sourdough - Robin Sloan, ★★★★

40. La Belle Sauvage (The Book Of Dust #1) - Philip Pullman, ★★★★

41. Voyager (Outlander #3) - Diana Gabaldon, ★★★★

42. Feedback (Newsflesh #4) - Mira Grant, ★★★★

43. Top Secret Twenty-one (Stephanie Plum #21) - Janet Evanovich, ★★

44. Exit West - Mohsin Hamid, ★★★★★

45. Bonfire - Krysten Ritter, ★★★★

46. Artemis - Andy Weir, ★★

47. The Stupidest Angel: A Heartwarming Tale of Christmas Terror (Pine Cove #3) - Christopher Moore, ★★★

48. Mrs. Fletcher - Tom Perotta, ★★★

**WARNING** SPOILERS BELOW!

1. The Hidden Oracle (The Trials of Apollo #1) - Rick Riordan, ★★★★ Here's the thing. I know these are middle school books, HOWEVER some of my favorite modern literary characters have come from Riordan's Demigod books and this one contains the return of two of my favorites. I'm glad that he's continuing to write them, though I wish he would up the reading level, as I'm sure a lot of his readers are into YA levels now. An easy start for the new year! Progress: January 1, 2017 – Started Reading January 4, 2017 – Finished Reading

2. Dragon Fly in Amber (Outlander #2) - Diana Gabaldon, ★★★★ I must admit, I enjoyed this one much more than the first (a surprise, considering I wasn't a huge fan of season 2 of the show). It deals a lot more with history and the coming together of the Rising, which was more interesting than I expected. The ending was still incredibly sad and hopeful (as I did expect) and got me right in the heart. Progress: January 5, 2017 – Started Reading January 6, 2017 –page 79. "This book is long af. I was surprised to see a big reveal for a character (if you could call it that, I guess) in the first chapter. Oh the differences between tv writing and novels." January 12, 2017 –page 389. "Dude just pulled a snake out of his pocket like it was no thing. Wtf was happening in France?! Don't keep snakes in your jackets, gents. That is weird af." January 14, 2017 –page 521 "Sudden POV shift to Jaime is odd and unexpected. It seems that it's just in chunks? Makes it feel uneven." January 15, 2017 – Finished Reading

3. Seven Up (Stephanie Plum #7) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★ Stephanie is bad at her job, these are super formulaic and there's a standard love triangle, yet I can't stop reading these. They are the potato chip of bounty hunter novels. Progress: January 16, 2017 – Started Reading January 18, 2017 – Finished Reading

4. Packing For Mars: The Curious Science of Life In The Void - Mary Roach, ★★★★★ Full of science, humor and a lot of information I never thought to ask about space.  Mary Roach is my favorite science writer, quite possibly my favorite non-fiction writer. Stiff will probably always be my favorite of her books, but I think this is tied for 2nd with Gulp. Progress: January 19, 2017 – Started Reading January 19, 2017 – Shelved January 20, 2017 – page 133 "It's things like, "buttocks are nature's safety foam" that make me love Mary Roach's books. Give me all the facts in amusing and easily digestable prose!" January 24, 2017 – Finished Reading

5. Hard Eight (Stephanie Plum #8) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★ I figure since this book came out over 13 years ago, spoilers don't count, so I'm not going to put this under a cut, but at least a warning. WARNING. Stephanie is still terrible at her job, goes through cars more often than she buys tanks of gas, but at least she FINALLY BANGED RANGER. Unfortunately we only got a paragraph of explanation, which does not do justice to his apparent sexiness. (For the record, I'm still Team Cupcake.)  This one did feel a bit different, as she wasn't money-driven to solve the case. It does lend her a bit more... humanity? Progress: January 25, 2017 – Started Reading January 25, 2017 – page 94 "Gdi Stephanie, if you're going to handcuff a FTA to your car, DON'T LEAVE THE KEYS IN IT.  I swear 😒 is the only face I make when reading these." January 26, 2017 – page 128 "AGAIN with the wedging herself into a car. A Honda CR-V is a gd suv. Despite Stephanie being repulsed by her 'stomach roll', unless she has the seat very far up, doubtful considering she is also tall, she would not need to wedge herself into the front seat of an suv. Ughhhhhh. 😒" January 27, 2017 – Finished Reading

6. The Odds of Loving Grover Cleveland - Rebekah Crane, ★★★ I got this as a Kindle First Read and decided to read it as a filler between trips to the library. It proved to be a very quick read, and reminded me of Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher, though they aren't really that similar. (I had conflicting feelings about that one, too.) I think it does downplay mental illness, but does a good job of showcasing the power of friendship (less cheesy than it sounds), being there, and how tenuous that can be. Progress: January 28, 2017 – Started Reading January 29, 2017 – Finished Reading

7. 1984 - George Orwell, ★★★★ It's pretty clear why everyone is suddenly re-reading this. It's not going to save us though. Progress: January 29, 2017 – Started Reading January 31, 2017 – page 81 ""The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command. His heart sank as he thought of the enormous power arrayed against him..." #alarminglyrelevant" February 4, 2017 – page 199 "I know it's been years since I read this, but did I really just conveniently forget how wordy and dense it was? Oof." February 5, 2017 – Finished Reading

8. To The Nines (Stephanie Plum #9), ★★★ Finally some real character development! Or at least acknowledgement from Stephanie that she has learned things (wearing sensible shoes) and that she feels lackluster in her performance. It was interesting to see her finally evaluate her life outside of who she is as a romantic partner (I know that the romance is a big part of the series, but still).  And it was nice to see Vinnie be a little less creepy and explore some different bond types. Progress: February 6, 2017 – Started Reading February 6, 2017 – page 32 "Not really sure how I feel about Stephanie's hatred of a lady she just met, especially considering it seems to tie in with how she looks. Uncomfortable." February 7, 2017 – page 248 "For the second time, Stephanie has mentioned having sensible shoes on in case she has to run. She IS getting better!" February 8, 2017 – Finished Reading

9. At Night We Walk In Circles - Daniel Alarcón, ★★★★ A winding novel with an unexpected ending.  I really had no idea what it was going to be about, but I had read Lost City Radio in 07 or 08 for my Writers on Writing class and enjoyed it quite a bit and was excited to see that he had written another novel. Progress: February 8, 2017 – Started Reading February 18, 2017 – Finished Reading

10. Ten Big Ones (Stephanie Plum #10) - Janet Evanovich, ★★ I have a lot of issues with this one. First the good: Ranger and the tiny peek into his life. And the return of Sally Sweet!!  The bad: This one feels pretty racist with all of the gang bits.  Stephanie seems to suffer no consequences for her terrible actions and she continues to suck at her job. Despite her constant refusal to get a different job, there are times where she's is pretty lackadaisical when it comes to actually doing it.  There were A LOT of questionable things that happened, some really awful and terrible things, and at the end everyone is like, "lol, nbd." ARE YOU KIDDING ME. Actions have consequences, unless you're at the end of a Plum novel, I guess. Progress: February 18, 2017 – Started Reading February 22, 2017 – page 181 "So much fat shaming/ guilt happening right now I want to stop reading.  This is the part of 'chick lit' that I loathe. Way to reinforce stereotypes.  At the same time, if your character is going to eat a dozen donuts a day, she should know that she's going to gain weight and be on the lookout for diabetes because that's is just unhealthy." February 23, 2017 - page 226 "Jfc Stephanie, this is the worst idea, ever. If I didn't know the series was continuing, I'd think this is how the character got killed off." February 24, 2017 – Finished Reading

11. We Were the Lucky Ones - Georgia Hunter, ★★★★ Oh, my heart.  This was pretty difficult for me to start, mostly because I didn't want to get too attached to characters that were bound to have a horrific end. However, once it gets going (ie, all the terrible things start happening), it goes pretty quickly.  I don't know if if any one novel can encapsulate the spanning horror of the Holocaust, and I appreciate (not sure if that's the right word) that Hunter went for a more focused approach, scattering milestone dates within the story. Progress: February 25, 2017 – Started Reading March 8, 2017 – Finished Reading

12. Eleven on Top (Stephanie Plum #11) - Janet Evanovich, ★★ :Deep, prolonged, exasperated sigh:  Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie. I'm so glad you're a fictional character, because I'm pretty sure I'd hate you if you were real.  AND YET, I can't stop reading these. I blame Morelli and Ranger. Progress: March 9, 2017 – Started Reading March 11, 2017 – Finished Reading

13. Twelve Sharp (Stephanie Plum #12) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★★ FINALLY. A story I liked!  We get a lot of Ranger in this one, a pretty decent story, and none of Stephanie's cars blow up! She's competent and not as silly. I was wrong about the 'turning point' moment! Finally, finally, finally. Progress: March 13, 2017 – Started Reading March 15, 2017 – page 201 "There's usually a point in each of the novels where I think, 'that is how everything is going to go to hell.' This one is leaving her gd panic button at the office and skipping town to get away from "scary stuff" and Ranger, while someone is trying to KILL HER." March 17, 2017 – Finished Reading

14. Lean Mean Thirteen (Stephanie Plum #13) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★ I had issues with some of the motives in this one (especially with Joyce) and I continue to be annoyed that Morelli and Ranger pass Stephanie between them while 'protecting' her. The ending seemed a bit trite, but at least her car died in a normal way.  Not entirely sure how I feel about her constantly complaining about her job. But perhaps I'm expecting too much. Progress: March 22, 2017 – Started Reading April 1, 2017 – Finished Reading

15. The Shelf Life of Happiness - David Machado, ★★★ I got this as a Kindle First read, so I wasn't really sure what I was getting into. I liked it well enough. I definitely wanted more of the story, the end felt kind of abrupt. Progress: April 26, 2017 – Started Reading May 7, 2017 – Finished Reading

16. Grunt: The Curious Science of Humans at War - Mary Roach, ★★★★ Though not my favorite of Roach's books (that will always go to Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers), I found this a lot more interesting than I thought I would because it's about subjects I wouldn't have immediately thought of when thinking, 'war.'  A lot of the 'gross' that Roach does so well, (who thinks about diarrhea when fighting a battle?) along with textile science and shark repellent. Progress: May 9, 2017 – Started Reading May 18, 2017 – Finished Reading

17. Paper Boats - Dee Lestari, ★★★★ I ended up loving this book a lot more than I expected it to.  It's very sweet. The characters are charming and likeable. It does a very good job of capturing the awkward personal growth that happens during college and how it affects relationships.  I thought I could feel a bit of Tiffany Tsao in her translation, at least I found some similarities to her novel. I can certainly see why Lestari is such a popular writer in Indonesia. One of the best Kindle First books I've read. Progress: May 18, 2017 – Started Reading May 23, 2017 – Finished Reading

18. Hemingway Didn’t Say That: The Truth Behind Familiar Quotations - Garson O’Toole, ★★ Oof. I will say that this is very well researched. Clearly a lot of time and effort went into finding the origins of these quotes, and I do appreciate that.  However, I am not a fan of how the information is presented. Most of it feels pretentious ("QI feels...") and stiff. To be completely honest, I don't read many nonfiction books for a similar reason, so it's purely opinion. Progress: May 24, 2017 – Started Reading May 24, 2017 – 1.0% "Holy pretentiousness Batman... This might be rough to get through, but I really love quotes..." May 24, 2017 – 2.0% "There's faulty information on the Internet?! YOU DON'T SAY. (It is possible that I'm not the target generation for this intro.)" May 25, 2017 – 11.0% "Maybe I don't like quotes as much as I thought I did." May 28, 2017 – page 59 14.9% "My last year of college, I wrote this play about a blogger loosely based on my life. I had a draft due, so I pulled a few of my own blog posts, pasted them in some strategic places and turned it in. Almost all the feedback I got was about how the blog posts didn't make sense with the rest of the writing, probably because I didn't bother to edit them. That's how I feel about some of these entries" June 12, 2017 – page 241 60.86% "Not that it's important, but I have no idea what POV is being used here. Sometimes it feels like second person, and others third? All readers know that the writer is from QI, so separating them seems awkward. Oh well." June 19, 2017 – Finished Reading

19. Shatter Me (Shatter Me #1) - Tahereh Mafi, ★★★★ I have to say, I was pretty surprised by this novel.  The premise is not new (dystopia, boy meets girl, etc, etc), but Mafi has a very distinct and different writing style that I find quite enjoyable. It's different. I imagine a lot of people hate it? There's several instances where people are commenting on Juliette's body that are gross and super off-putting. I'm hoping this is something that diminishes in further novels.  SPOILER: The best part was the end though, SURPRISE IT'S JUST A SUPERHERO ORIGIN STORY. All of a sudden we're in this weird X-Men/Inhumans universe and I am so here for it.  Looking forward to reading the rest. Progress: June 21, 2017 – Started Reading June 25, 2017 – Finished Reading

20. Unravel Me (Shatter me #2) - Tahereh Mafi, ★★★ Basically everything I expected to happen, did happen. Ughhhhhh. Progress: June 28, 2017 – Started Reading July 1, 2017 – 30.0% "So far, most of this has been angst and trying to make Warner and Juliette seem So Similar. It makes me want to barf." July 2, 2017 – 64.0% "Every time I read YA novels I always think how I would never want to be a teen again. The angst and drama and omg." July 2, 2017 – Finished Reading

21. Unite Me (Shatter Me #1.5 & 2.5) - Tahereh Mafi, ★★ Destroy Me: I do not understand people's love for Warner. I'm going to put this under a spoiler cut, just in case.  SPOILER: He's the embodiment of entitled masculinity. He wants Juliette even though: he doesn't really know her, she hates him, he thinks she'll 'save him, and that he deserves her. It's gross. He literally kidnapped her after stalking her. He manipulated her on more than one occasion, bordering on torture, just to see what she was capable of. And now he's reading her diary/book as though he has the right to know those thoughts. His image of Juliette has been stripped of all agency. I don't care that he has qualms about what the Reestablishment is doing. I don't care that he seems to care about the citizens in his sector (also creepy). I don't care that he's possibly losing his grip on reality. I'm pretty sure he's going to turn over to the Omega's side in later installments so that he can get some kind of redemption arc, and then there might be a love triangle (BARF). I hope Juliette stays far away from him. I hope she never forgives him for the kidnapping, the simulation room, or his general desire to own her. Because women don't owe men anything, because we're not objects to be owned. Fracture Me: 75% of it was just a retelling of the end of Unravel Me, so that was unfortunate. I imagine it was a nice bonus to have while waiting for Ignite Me to come out, but I don't know how much it added to the the series. Progress: June 25, 2017 – Started Reading July 3, 2017 – Finished Reading

22. Ignite Me (Shatter Me #3) - Tahereh Mafi, ★★★ So, I really wanted to like this series. I really did.  However, I was so disappointed in how it all played out. The characters were totally OOC in this installment.  I still hate Warner, I don't care what he does.  The end felt anticlimactic, though that might just be a symptom of reading too much dystopian YA novels.  Pretty unsure about there being more books, but I think a lot of people will read them. Progress: July 5, 2017 – Started Reading July 5, 2017 - 6.0% "Ughhhhhhh. This is everything I Did Not Want.  Warner, your 'elaborate scheme' was not for your father's benefit, it was your way to stalk her, you creepy asshat." July 6, 2017 – 10.0% "She thinks she should lead the resistance? What? Is that why she trained so hard while she was at Omega Point? Oh wait... She didn't. Excuse me while I don't believe our MC." July 8, 2017 – 29.0% "And we descend into every trope of the third YA trilogy book. I was expecting so much more than this." July 8, 2017 – Finished Reading

23. American Gods - Neil Gaiman, ★★★ I had pretty high expectations for this novel, as I'm a Gaiman fan and a lot of people rave about it.  However, I found myself a bit disappointed. The imagery was probably the best part, a lot of awesome scenes were set up that would be visually stunning. I enjoyed Shadow as a character, but I expected more to happen.  SPOILER: It feels like 500 pages of build up to a war that never happens. I wonder if I'm just expecting too much 'action' because of other books I've been reading.  On a completely tactile note, this edition is incredibly pleasant to read. It stays open when lying on a table, and it has nice bendy covers. I bought this years ago from Borders and it's been sitting on a shelf since. Progress: July 16, 2017 – Started Reading July 22, 2017 – Finished Reading

24. Wives of War - Soraya Lane, ★★★ I actually enjoyed this more than I thought I would. Lane does a very interesting job at skirting around some of the extremes of war. There are no overly gory or visceral descriptions of wounds or death and is generally light on descriptive detail in general. People are explained in detail, (nearly everyone is very pretty or very handsome) and an occasional location will also be described. I actually prefer less description, but I could see that others may find it lacking.  This novel is very much about emotions, and considering the subject matter, it makes sense. I found myself wanting less telling and more showing in some cases. What I did find very interesting is the gender politics that were in play. WWII is a fascinating time to explore it, what was expected of our three main 'girls,' how they either defied or followed them, and what it meant after the war was over. It gets a little schmaltzy sometimes, but I'm willing to forgive that. SPOILERS: The Thomas situation is very difficult, considering PTSD wasn't 'a thing' yet, but they did acknowledge combat neurosis. But it pained me to see Scarlet battered, and still feel that she couldn't leave, that she was required to stay with him. And for Thomas's life to come to such a tragic end. It was hard to read, but also expected. And they totally say The Thing at the end. Progress: July 24, 2017 – Started Reading July 28, 2017 – Finished Reading

25. The Special Power of Restoring Lost Things - Courtney Elizabeth Mauk, ★★ I'm not really sure what to say beyond that I just didn't like it. It's possible I would have liked it more if I had read it before Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng (they have similar plots, but beyond that, they have little in common).  I didn't like any of the characters, though I did feel some empathy towards Drew and Ben. Carol was completely unlikable, though perhaps that was the point? I certainly don't understand her actions. I found myself wishing I knew more about Jennifer, maybe it would justify the reactions of her family more.  It is a very quick read, though. Progress: July 31, 2017 – Started Reading August 1, 2017 – Finished Reading

26. Fearless Fourteen (Stephanie Plum #14) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★ I still keep expecting Stephanie (and Lula?) to get better at their jobs.  Adding the kid in to this novel was a nice change, glad to see Mooner back too, even though Stephanie is judges them very harshly.  I'm mostly reading these to get caught back up on my reading goal. They're easy to read and mostly amusing. Progress: August 2, 2017 – Started Reading August 2, 2017 – page 8 "I was excited to get back to these novels, but less than 10 pages in and Stephanie is hardcore judging a kid for having piercings. COME ON.  This was written in 2008. Let's move on from the 'bad people have tattoos and piercings' stereotypes please. He better turn out to be a stellar kid and she feels bad about judging him." August 4, 2017 – Finished Reading

27. Finger Lickin’ Fifteen (Stephanie Plum #15) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★ I mostly didn't care about the story in this one. It feels like Lula is becoming more of a caricature in every book, which makes me kind of sad. Not everything needs to be so over the top. Not everything needs to catch fire. Relatively anticlimactic ending. Progress: August 4, 2017 – Started Reading August 6, 2017 – Finished Reading

28. Sizzling Sixteen (Stephanie Plum #16) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★ I liked this one a bit more than the last few, it was sort of nice to have Vinnie around again (even though he's pretty terrible). I did notice several spelling and editing errors, which was kind of strange. Progress: August 7, 2017 – Started Reading August 9, 2017 – Finished Reading

29. Smoking Seventeen (Stephanie Plum #17) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★ I'm getting too used to reading Plum novels, and I'm figuring them out too early. Enjoyable enough, though there are a few things that are starting to get on me. Glad she finally hooked up with Ranger again. Real tired of the, "I love two men, isn't that just *ca-raaazyyy*" idea. It's not crazy? You can love two people at a time.  Dave was creepy af. Progress: August 14, 2017 – Started Reading August 16, 2017 – page 144 "Come on Steph, you can connect the dots better than this..." August 16, 2017 – page 286  "Dots finally connected. Took ya long enough." August 16, 2017 – page 300 "She literally just said 'connect the dots to [character], hahahah. I think I've read too many Plum books in a row." August 16, 2017 – Finished Reading

30. The Epic Crush of Genie Lo - F.C. Lee, ★★★★ YESSSSS SOMETHING DIFFERENT. I really hope we get more Genie Lo books, because I would read many more novels of her kicking demon ass. Progress: August 16, 2017 – Started Reading September 4, 2017 – Finished Reading

31. Word By Word: The Secret Life of Dictionaries - Kory Stamper, ★★★★ Even though this took me ages to get through, I really enjoyed it. I've been getting the M-W Word of The Day email for years and was very excited when they announced this book.  It definitely helped me realize that the dictionary is not the final say on English, but just a record of how we use it. The bit on dialect is my favorite (and would have gladly read more about it!), followed closely by the discussion of 'nude'.  I certainly have a better appreciation of dictionaries and lexicographers. Progress: August 16, 2017 – Started Reading   September 21, 2017 – Finished Reading

32. Explosive Eighteen (Stephanie Plum #18) - Janet Evanovich, ★★ While I appreciate the change in narrative structure (slowly presenting information instead of all at once), it's still a Plum novel and feels a little bit out of touch.  Poor Lula deserves more than a caricature characterization. I want to know more about Connie. The love triangle is getting old, mostly because Stephanie is stuck in some pretty outdated notions of how her life is supposed to be.  It could be said that I'm rather liberal, and I'm looking into too much, but Lula can be more than just a former ho. Stop describing her outfits with such disdain. I just... expect more from a book published in 2011. Progress: September 19, 2017 – Started Reading September 27, 2017 – Shelved

33. Little Fires Everywhere - Celeste Ng, ★★★★★ My. Heart.  Ng is a truly gifted storyteller. Though perhaps it feels like a story that has been told before (maybe many stories that have been told before), it's such a nice, solid, slow build. I find myself wondering about the characters, and how their lives played out after the novel ended. Progress: September 1, 2017 – Shelved September 27, 2017 –page 1 "I was the first person in my library to get this and I AM VERY EXCITED" October 3, 2017 – Finished Reading

34. The Dark Prophecy (The Trials of Apollo #2) - Rick Riordan, ★★★★ Though Apollo is super annoying (on purpose, I assume) and there wasn't enough of Nico DiAngelo, my Sweet Baby Death Prince (aka, no appearance and only a single mention), I enjoyed this. I love Leo, and I'm warming up to Calypso. I find Meg very interesting, especially because she doesn't fall into 'girly' stereotypes, SPOILERS also her dealing with the abuse from her stepfather is an important thing for novels to address. However, I'm all about the Waystation. I want an entire series about it, and its inhabitants and the travelers passing through.  And as cheesy as it sounds, my favorite part of all of Riordan's series is how he reps families of all types. <3 Progress: October 3, 2017 – Started Reading October 7, 2017 – Finished Reading

35. Notorious Nineteen (Stephanie Plum #19) - Janet Evanovich, ★★ I know that these are meant to be light reading, but that doesn't mean they can't be better. Stereotypes and problematic behavior (and speech, and expectations...) shouldn't be the norm. Progress October 11, 2017 – Started Reading October 12, 2017 – page 72 "I don't know if I'm just noticing it more, or judging more harshly because this book was written in 2012, but there's a lot of things that are problematic af in this. I've stopped counting the moments of casual racism, but some old dude is groping Stephanie and all that happens is she and Ranger switch seats? Hell. No." October 13, 2017 – page 103 "Threatening someone with a fake rape and groping accusation? Wtaf, Evanovich. That is not okay." October 14, 2017 –page 292 "An Arthur Beasley and a Simon Diggery? Someone finally read Harry Potter." October 14, 2017 – Finished Reading

36. Young Jane Young - Gabrielle Zevin, ★★★★ Though lacking the emotional gut-punch of A.J. Fikry, this was still an excellent novel.  SPOILERS: I think what I really took away from this was the severe inequity between men and women. Jane's career was destroyed completely, while the Senator went on, with barely a blip. Obviously this is very reflective of our society, which is all too apparent these days, and it's one of those things that gets me in the heart.  I know life isn't fair, but damn. Progress: October 14, 2017 – Started Reading October 16, 2017 – Finished Reading

37. Takedown Twenty (Stephanie Plum #20) - Janet Evanovich, ★★★ I don't know why I keep doing this to myself.  This one seemed a little bit less problematic at the beginning, and then just went off the rails with the racist stereotypes and constant slut shaming. Ugh. Progress: October 16, 2017 – Started Reading October 18, 2017 – page 122 "Evanovich really has something against fat people. She points out everyone's weight, and just made a show about how a woman who weighs "upward of 200" has wrists that are too big for regular handcuffs. I call BS." October 20, 2017 - page 210 "For the love of all things holy, STOP SLUT-SHAMING LULA." October 20, 2017 – Finished Reading

38. Warcross (Warcross #1) - Marie Lu, ★★★★ Well hello Marie Lu, why haven't I read your novels before?!  Warcross is like an amalgamation of Ready Player One and Quidditch with the added bonus of POC characters and a female MC (awww yeaaaahhhh). I expected the end, but it's not going to deter me from reading the rest of the series. Progress: October 20, 2017 – Started Reading October 23, 2017 – Finished Reading

39. Sourdough - Robin Sloan, ★★★★ Confession: I love stuff about San Francisco, and this was no exception. It was a little weird and a little magical, very much like the city herself.  Though I guess this technically took place in more than just SF proper. However, the descriptions of Clement St, took me right back there and made me wish I could stop and get some Pad Thai from King of Thai Noodle House #2 and a Genki strawberry and nutella crepe. ::sigh:: Memories.  It also made me want to learn how to bake bread. I think what I enjoy most about Sloan's writing is that I'm not quite sure what I'm about to get into, but I'll believe it when I'm there. Progress: October 23, 2017 – Started Reading October 25, 2017 – page 168 "I think I love Beoreg." October 26, 2017 – Finished Reading

40. La Belle Sauvage (The Book Of Dust #1) - Philip Pullman, ★★★★ I am a HUGE fan of the original trilogy, and I was scared/excited to learn that Pullman was going to return to this world with more novels.  I was not disappointed. A likable new MC (::cough:: UnlikeLyra ::cough::), adventures, mystery, a little bit of terror, and a few hints about Dust!  I likely should have re-read the original trilogy before I read this, but honestly I didn't have the patience. I was the first person in my library to read this copy, and it's a beautiful edition. Progress: October 26, 2017 – Started Reading October 26, 2017 – page 1 "I AM SO EXCITED FOR THIS" November 4, 2017 – Finished Reading

41. Voyager (Outlander #3) - Diana Gabaldon, ★★★★ Oh man, what a long read... I found this one much more interesting than the first two, maybe because it was a more complex story. The jumping around of POVs is a bit distracting, as it takes a bit to realize who is talking at the beginning of each bit. But I managed to breeze through this a bit easier than I thought I would, considering how much I struggled through the second one. Bring on more Jamie Fraser, please. Progress: November 5, 2017 – Started Reading November 5, 2017 – page 1 "This book is a long one. o.O Here goes..." November 11, 2017 – page 564 "Was it necessary to give Mr. Willoughby a foot fetish? Really?" November 15, 2017 – Finished Reading

42. Feedback (Newsflesh #4) - Mira Grant, ★★★★ It should be said that I'm a sucker for the Newsflesh series, and would gladly read anything in the canon.  I found this to be a very good addition to the original trilogy. I like that it was way more diverse, with a lot of effort put into those differences (pronoun use!!). I wish I had re-read the trilogy before I read it, it's been a while and I found myself forgetting a lot of little things that had happened. I don't know if it diminished it, but a fresher read would have added a lot more to the story.  I think what I really appreciated is that it sounded different from the Mason's POV. Ash has a different way of forming her thoughts and sentences, and it showed.  What I didn't like so much was the over-explaining (maybe over-defending?) what it meant to be an Irwin, and to some extent a Newsie and Fictional. That might be because I have read the OG trilogy several times and I didn't feel the need to have it explained. Also, not once was Kellis-Amberlee shortened to KA, which seemed odd. This is a world steeped in a disease, and I find it hard to believe that an entire team of bloggers wouldn't shorten it, same with all of the politicians. (I mean, we live in a world with the flu, and does anyone other than doctors call it influenza?) Progress: November 16, 2017 – Started Reading November 22, 2017 – Finished Reading

43. Top Secret Twenty-one (Stephanie Plum #21) - Janet Evanovich, ★★I think I need to stop reading these... Forever disappointed, forever annoyed by the awful stereotypes, fat shaming and repetitive storylines. Progress: November 23, 2017 – Started Reading November 26, 2017 – Finished Reading

44. Exit West - Mohsin Hamid, ★★★★★ A beautifully told story. Some nice, unexpected aspects, sweeping prose that's almost poetic and a very satisfying ending.  Ah, lovely. Progress: November 27, 2017 – Started Reading November 29, 2017 – Finished Reading

45. Bonfire - Krysten Ritter, ★★★★ I definitely picked this up because it's Krysten Ritter, who, in my head will always be Gia Goodman first and Jessica Jones second. And oddly enough, this felt like an amalgamation of Veronica Mars and Jessica Jones, especially in the characterization of Abby.  I ended up liking it a lot more than I thought I would, though it's not anything amazingly new. There are parts that I was less impressed with, but it was a quick read and I hope she writes more. BIG SPOILER AHEAD: I think the characters could have been fleshed out more, I found myself wanting more from Abby, more of her life in Chicago, why she feels the need to drink herself into oblivion to sleep...  A little more in the explanation would have been nice too. It felt to quick and tidy. Not to mention the very obvious 'twist.' IT'S ALWAYS THE GUY YOU CONFESS TO. Ughhhhhhh. Progress: December 4, 2017 – Started Reading December 6, 2017 – Finished Reading

46. Artemis - Andy Weir, ★★ I wanted to like this, I really did, but I found it lacking.  The storyline was good and a little different because moon stuff, but I guess I expected a lot more. I can see why a lot of people love this, and why it's ending up on a lot of 2017 best lists, it just won't be on mine. The following cut isn't really for spoilers, but just to be safe: POSSIBLE SPOILERS: I did appreciate that MC could have been a man or woman and the basic plot wouldn't change (ie the whole thing wasn't based on Jazz being a woman), HOWEVER there were a lot of bits that felt unnecessary and overly 'feminized'. I didn't believe some of her language, and some of her mental wanderings seemed really forced (when I'm in a stressful situation, I don't imagine what the dude next to me looks like while working out... "Hey, I'm a girl, it's allowed", etc). Weir has a section in the acknowledgements about the people who helped him capture a female narrator, and I think they failed him a little bit. Why is everyone overly interested in her sex life? Do people just go around commenting on how many sexual partners you have on the moon, because that's just how 'different' society is? That seems weird AF to me. Jazz gets annoyed, but it's rude and invasive. I think some of it was supposed to play on the tension between her and Svoboda, but it just seemed awkward. Progress: December 6, 2017 – Started Reading December 8, 2017 – page 94 "Struggling to enjoy this. It feels like he's trying really hard to talk like a Woman. Which is unnecessary.  It also feels like it's building up to a hull breach or fire, due to the repeated warnings of fire, and overstating of the double hull. I hope I'm wrong." December 8, 2017 – page 158 ""I was a helpless, exposed girl with no weapon" SERIOUSLY.  You can't write Jazz as a supposed badass, and then pull out that drivel. I expected more." December 8, 2017 – page 178 "That wasn't a good one, it was sexist and gross. Ugh." December 8, 2017 – Finished Reading

47. The Stupidest Angel: A Heartwarming Tale of Christmas Terror (Pine Cove #3) - Christopher Moore, ★★★ Not the best of Moore's novels, hardly my favorite, but a fun read for the holidays.  It's a little bit wacky and makes me miss CA. Progress: December 23, 2017 – Started Reading December 26, 2017 – Finished Reading

48. Mrs. Fletcher - Tom Perotta, ★★★ I'm not totally sure how I feel about this novel. I've read Perrotta novels since I was in high school, and I don't think this is one of his strongest.  However there are a few things that were well done: changes of voice and capturing the 'present day'. I'm getting better at reading new novels, but this one in particular felt very *now*. It might feel dated in the future, or, hopefully, serve and example of what life is right now. Well, maybe pre-45, but I digress. It's full of current cultural and social issues, but I sort of felt like I wanted more.  And wasn't a huge fan of the ending. SPOILERS: Thank anything holy that Brendan wasn't a rapist. I thought Perrotta was leaning pretty heavily toward that, and he got dangerously close to assault. Maybe I just wasn't ready to handle it, but it would have made it so much worse. I'm not really sure how we're supposed to view Brendan. Are we supposed to feel bad that he's completely clueless about how to treat women, or are we supposed to dislike him for being totally oblivious?  I will say that a lot of the situations made me think about my own assumptions (I would definitely take the Gender and Society class that Eve took), so there's that. Progress: December 26, 2017 – Started Reading December 28, 2017 – Finished Reading

[suzannebyrne]

What Is Mariah Carey’s Real Age? We Investigate on Her 48th (or 47th?) Birthday

Is Mariah Carey turning 47 or 48 today? We try to get to the bottom of it. (GIF: Yahoo Celebrity)

Champagne wishes to Mariah Carey on her birthday — only she doesn’t celebrate. “I don’t have a birthday,” she said in an interview last year. “I was just dropped here. It was a fairyland experience.” The star, who has described herself as “eternally 12 years old,” previously explained that her plan is to remain “oblivious to age. Honestly, when you put a number on it yourself, it’s just like, Why? Why do that?”

The diva’s elusiveness about her big day only adds to the mystery surrounding it. Yes, mystery. One of the Internet’s most enduring burning questions is whether Mariah Carey was born on March 27, 1969 or 1970? And people have opinions on the matter, which you can read in revision notes on Mariah’s Wikipedia page and on fan forums. As we started digging into it, we found info pointing to both years, making it easy to understand why the Lambily — Mariah’s fans — have been debating it so heavily.

Not even Mariah Carey’s Wikipedia page has the answer. (Screenshot: Wikipedia)

From what we can decipher, when the “Elusive Chanteuse,” who graduated from Harborfields High School in Greenlawn, NY, in 1987, launched her career (her self-entitled album came out in June 1990), press material must have indicated she was born in 1970, because that is what the New York Times — and other outlets — noted at the time. In an interview on Video Soul soon after her record came out, she said as much. Mariah told Donnie Simpson she was 20 when the record came out and 19 when she recorded it. (Though the fact that she stumbled over her response, seen here at the 2:37 mark, only fuels conspiracy theories.)

However, by January 1991, other reputable outlets like People magazine and the Los Angeles Times were going with a 1969 birth year. (The latter of which used it in a headline: “Mariah Carey Doing OK at 21,” so they were pretty confident they were correct.) Even her hometown paper, Newsday, referred to her as 21 in an article that ran on March 19 of that year, and they had obtained a copy of her senior yearbook and interviewed the vice principal at her school. (Fun fact: Some of Mariah’s likes in 1987 included Corvettes and “guidos.”)

Here’s school girl Mariah as a freshman at Harborfields High School in 1984. (Photo: Seth Poppel/Yearbook Library)

Mariah has fueled the debate herself by avoiding dropping a specific number. At a 2005 party celebrating the release party of the Emancipation of Mimi — and her 35th (or 36th) birthday —  she didn’t utter her actual age, instead telling reporters, “It’s the anniversary of my 12th birthday.” And at the Cannes Film Festival in 2009, someone asked her about how she was feeling about turning 40 earlier that year (going with the 1969 birth year). She implied the reporter was incorrect, saying, “Read my bio again. We can’t allow these lies to spread! Don’t say the F-word around me. It’s just a number but I don’t see why women should have to conform to what is expected of a 40-year-old — whatever that is.”

If you really dig into Mariah Birthday Gate (and we went down that rabbit hole), there is a statement purportedly from a People magazine spokesperson floating around the Internet “verifying” that the star is a 1969 baby in response to fans inquiries about the conflicting info. “We have a copy of Ms. Carey’s driver’s license, which lists her birthday as March 27, 1969. Furthermore, we spoke with the administrators at the high school she attended who confirmed that Ms. Carey’s birthday is March 27, 1969, as did her management when we made our initial interview,” a magazine publicist supposedly said, according to NNDB.com. We were unable to find such a statement on People‘s website, not that it didn’t exist (it could have been in print because they didn’t have website in the early ’90s), and the publicity team for the magazine tells Yahoo “it doesn’t sound familiar at all.” (Despite this, the mag has steadily reported that she was born in 1969 through the years — from here to here.)

There were other things supporting the 1969 theory. One is as simple as her high school graduation date. At the end of the 1987 school year, she’d have pretty much just turned 17 if she was born in 1970, and she’s never said she skipped a grade. In fact, in her 1999 Homecoming special, in which she returned to her alma mater for a concert, made it clear she wasn’t a great student — and her teachers and superintendent verified that. It seems unlikely she’d have graduated a year early.

Mariah — in her senior year at Harborfields in 1987 — did not look young for her grade. However, if she was really born in 1970, she would have turned 17 two months before graduation. (Photo: Seth Poppel/Yearbook Library)

Then there is the matter of the Library of Congress’s Copyright Catalog. If Mariah wasn’t born in 1969, how come her early songs, including “Vision of Love”, which was on her eponymous album, were filed as “Carey, Mariah, 1969-“?

(Screenshot: Library of Congress’s Copyright Catalog)

Also, both Mariah and her director pal, Brett Ratner, have said that they are “born a day apart” — it’s one of the things that makes their bond so strong. His birthday? March 28, 1969. (See 2:25 mark.)

Not so convincing? This photo of Mariah’s “passport” that is all over the web. While it lists her birthday as March 27, 1969, there is nothing we found that leads us to think it’s real. (As in, we haven’t seen it on any reputable sites.)

But there are things that point to Mariah making her grand entrance into the world in 1970 as well. For one, and a good one at that, her mom said — clear as day during a 1999 Oprah interview — that Mariah was born in 1970. (See 2:25 mark.)

Let’s talk about the copies of her 5-year-old twins Monroe and Moroccan’s birth certificates. If they are real — and we guess they are because TMZ’s site TooFab posted them — they have her birthday as 1970. Would Mariah go so far as to falsify legal documents?

And the big bios out there on the superstar — including Mariah Carey Revisited: The Unauthorized Biography by Chris Nickson — list her birth year as 1970. Could they all be wrong?

A page from “Mariah Carey Revisited: The Unauthorized Biography” by Chris Nickson. (Screenshot: Google Books)

We have to admit, our own search to verify her actual birth was frustratingly fruitless — and we can only imagine that Mariah is smiling over it.

We reached out to Mimi’s��publicist, who, after our second message, replied to say she was “not sure off hand, sorry!”

We called her high school to try to get her records. That information is “archived” and even if it wasn’t they’d be “unable to give out,” according to the principal’s assistant.

We contacted her former principal, the one who happily appeared in “Homecoming” — and is still a school administrator — but he apparently didn’t want to talk about her this time around because he didn’t get back to us.

We reached out to some of her biographers, who didn’t have anything to add beyond what they wrote in the books years ago.

We requested our own copies of Mariah’s twins birth certificate from the Los Angeles County Registrar — as several fans speculated that the ones on the Internet are fake. It takes “several weeks” to process, so we are holding out for that.

We tried to obtain Mariah’s birth certificate from the Huntington, N.Y. town clerk, but were shot down: “According to NYS Public Health Law, birth certificates can only be given to the party named on the certificate, the party’s parents or documents providing the proper documentation fulfilled by court order,” we were told.

We reached out to the New York State DMV to get a copy of her driving record (including her birthdate), but getting the info for a story “is not a federally-permissible purpose to access personal information held within DMV records.”

We even tweeted her — and used butterflies to get her attention. Nada.

@MariahCarey ????????????What year were you born? Hoping these cute ???????????? inspire you to answer.

— Suzy Byrne (@SuzyByrne) March 22, 2017

We weren’t exaggerating about going down the rabbit hole. The biggest question we have though is why would she lie about her age to begin with? Especially because in 1988 — one year out of high school — she began a relationship with Tommy Mottola, the married record exec, 20 years her senior, who launched her career (and became her first husband). You would think they’d want to pad her age — instead of erase a year from it—  as she was still a teenager. Now that she’s in her late 40s it could make sense to shave off a year (so she’s not that much older than her younger beau Bryan Tanaka), but why do it at 19 or 20?

But let’s be honest, Mariah doesn’t always make sense. This is a woman who wears evening gowns — and shoes — in the bathtub. She works out wearing this. She grocery shops in this. She meets the Head of the United Nations in this. She attends bar mitzvahs in this. Sometimes her thought process seems to be … off-line.

(GIF: Youtube)

It seems likely the explanation is “Mariah Math.” In 2014, she was asked by Out magazine about “Vision of Love” turning 25 years old and she said, “First of all, don’t round up. If you’re going to round, round down!” She continued, “I don’t count years, but I definitely rebuke them — I have anniversaries, not birthdays, because I celebrate life, darling.”

So whether she’s 47 or 48, you can bet Mariah is somewhere celebrating life today. And she should be. However old she is, she still fabulous, dahling.

Read more from Yahoo Celebrity:

Happy 73rd Birthday, Diana Ross!

Sophie Simmons Calls Katey Sagal ‘Low’ for Revealing Dad Gene’s Affair

Val Kilmer’s Twitter Feed Is a Hidden Gem of Bizarre, Star-Studded Stories

[deadcactuswalking]

REVIEWING THE CHARTS: 8th December 2019

Top 10

This is a pretty easy week for me, thankfully, as not much has changed... well, apart from pretty much everything... except the top four, of course. “Dance Monkey” by Tones and I is at its tenth consecutive week at #1.

At number-two, we have “Before You Go” by Lewis Capaldi steady at the runner-up spot.

Similarly non-moving off of the debut at number-three is “Own It” by Stormzy featuring Ed Sheeran and Burna Boy. I’d say this could make a viable play for #1 in two weeks with the album release but I have my qualms, mostly because... well, you’ll see.

“Don’t Start Now” by Dua Lipa has not moved at number-four.

Arizona Zervas keeps climbing with “ROXANNE” up two spaces to number-five. As much as I hate to say it, this could clinch the top spot in the foreseeable future.

Billie Eilish is only slowly pushing herself down the chart, with “everything i wanted” down a spot to number-six.

“Memories” byhabm Maorith 5n is aipneone s;aceygw to nnujmberse0even bht who the hell cares

Now here’s the big story: “All I Want for Christmas is You”, the 1994 classic by Mariah Carey, straight off of its re-entry in the Top 40 last week, is up a whopping 26 spaces, probably the largest increase we’ve seen in months. It’s getting the #1, I’m guaranteeing it, in both the UK and US. It has virtually no competition. It’s getting there.

“South of the Border” by Ed Sheeran featuring Camila Cabello and Cardi B isn’t moving at number-nine.

At #10, we have “Heartless” by the Weeknd, a debut in the top 10 that I honestly expected to be higher, but nonetheless, it’s here and I’ll talk more about it later, but it’s the Weeknd’s 21st UK Top 40 hit and his eighth top 10.

Climbers

As I expected, there are no climbers to speak of here. You’ll see why.

Fallers

Well, here’s our first of three big lists to cover in this episode, as we have 14 fallers within the Top 40. Alright, let’s blast through them all: “Bruises” by Lewis Capaldi and “Down Like That” by KSI with Rick Ross, Lil Baby and S-X, both in the top 10 last week, are down five and seven spaces respectively to #11 and #17. “Good as Hell” by Lizzo isn’t far off, down seven spots to #19, and “Netflix & Chill” by Fredo is down five positions to #24... You know what, I’m typing too many words and too little numbers, here we go: “Turn Me On” by Riton, Oliver Heldens and Vula is down eight to #25, “Professor X” by Dave is down five to #27, “Must Be” by J Hus is down eight to #28, “Lights Up” by Harry Styles is down 14 to #29, “HIGHEST IN THE ROOM” by Travis Scott is down seven to #30 and “Ride It” by Regard featuring Jay Sean is down six to #31 – that’s five consecutive fallers. “Someone You Loved” by Lewis Capaldi is down eight to #34, “New Dior” by DigDat and D-Block Europe is down nine to #35 off of the debut last week, “Don’t Rush” by Young T & Bugsey with Headie One is down eight to #37, and finally, “Nice to Meet Ya” by Niall Horan is at #38, down 16 spaces from last week. The sad thing is that I think most if not all of these songs, excluding “Bruises” and “Down Like That”, have been hit by the Christmas explosion and prematurely lost their chart runs, which is kind of sad – I don’t see these tracks rebounding anytime soon.

Dropouts & Returning Entries

Now for our second list of 12 drop-outs, which is only slightly less than the last list. Don’t worry, these lists do get increasingly smaller... or decreasingly bigger, however you want to phrase it. Out from #27 is “Orphans” by Coldplay, “Watermelon Sugar” by Harry Styles is out from #28 (It’ll rebound due to the album release in the next two weeks), “God is a Dancer” by Tiesto and Mabel is out from #30, “Loyal” by PARTYNEXTDOOR and Drake is out from #31, “Liar” by Camila Cabello is out from #32 (It’ll rebound next week if nothing goes awry, although she has suffered a serious sophomore slump), “Gangsta” by Darkoo and One Acen is out from #33, “French Kisses” by ZieZie and Aitch is out off of the debut from #34, “Circles” by Post Malone is finally out from #37 and “Better Half of Me” by Tom Walker is out from #38. I don’t see many of these rebounding, although the releases of sophomore albums Fine Line and Romance could seriously help out Harry and Camila, and “Gangsta” and “French Kisses” seem like they could rise later on.

Edit: I forgot to note that “Can’t Fight This Feeling” by Bastille and the London Contemporary Orchestra is out from #39.

IT’S CHRISTMAS INNIT

Now for our final list, and our shortest, with only seven entries, although I will also recite the year they were produced just to show how insane these returns are every year. “Step into Christmas” by Elton John, from 1973, is back at #39, “Santa Tell Me” by Ariana Grande, from 2014, is back at #33, “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” by Michael Bublé, from 2011, is back at #32, “Merry Christmas Everyone” by Shakin’ Stevens, from 1985, is back at #26, “Do They Know it’s Christmas?” by Band Aid, from 1984, is back at #23, “Fairytale of New York” by The Pogues featuring Kirsty MacColl, from 1987, is back at #22, and “Last Christmas” by Wham!, also from 1984, is back at #13. Rest in peace to George Michael (Who actually contributed to two songs here), Kirsty MacColl and Rick Parfitt.

NEW ARRIVALS

#40 – “Falling” – Trevor Daniel

Produced by KC Supreme, Taz Taylor and Charlie Handsome – Peaked at #3 in Latvia and #41 in the US

I have no introduction for this. It’s just one of these TikTok songs and it’s produced by the new crop of trap-rap Internet Money-type guys. I don’t care for Lil Tecca or most of the crop surrounding him, so I doubt I’ll like this. This is Trevor Daniel’s first UK Top 40 hit and yeah, surprise, surprise, it’s not great. The bland guitar pick-up is good enough, but Trevor Daniel cannot sing and makes no effort to convince you that he can. The distorted sub-bass is just odd and honestly way too menacing and dark for a break-up song that paints itself not as a kiss-off, but more like a “Thank God I found someone else” song, so why isn’t this happier? The trap percussion is an FL Studio loop, and his delivery and cadence is mopey and pathetic. Everything here just feels painfully amateur, almost offensively so. This might be a lot worse than I’m giving off with my more apathetic tone here, but this is underdeveloped with a singular verse that somehow stretches out to nearly three minutes due to an overlong chorus. Yeah, no, I can’t stand this. Next.

#14 – “River” – Ellie Goulding

We’ve seen this before with Katy Perry’s “Cozy Little Christmas” last year. A week before the real Christmas kick-in, a new, mediocre Christmas-related song enters for the first time at an alarmingly high position by an increasingly irrelevant female pop star, that is exclusive to Amazon music for no other reason other than to bump sales and chart success, falsely implying that this song is successful. In the r/popheads thread about this chart, people upvoted a comment saying they didn’t even know Ellie Goulding had released anything – and I didn’t either, because it’s not on Spotify, Apple or even freaking TIDAL. It’s just on Amazon music, which is so odd to me but that is why I don’t have production info. No-one on Genius has bothered to download Goulding’s cover of a 1971 Joni Mitchell deep cut (I’m sure they just copy-pasted the original lyrics) to check the songwriting credits. The Wikipedia page for the song doesn’t have a separate section for Goulding’s version, and they did for the John Lewis advert rendition of “Can’t Fight This Feeling” that Bastille made with the London Contemporary Orchestra, a song that I forgot to even note myself until I realised it dropped out this week. In fact, I am protesting this song’s chart placement. Okay, that’s a bit far, but I’m not reviewing it, even if I could easily take a peep at a leaked YouTube re-upload. If it’s not on Spotify, it’s not on REVIEWING THE CHARTS.

#12 – “Blinding Lights” – The Weeknd

Produced by The Weeknd, Max Martin and Oscar Holter – Peaked at #3 in Lithuania and #11 in the US

It’s the Weeknd’s 22nd UK Top 40 hit: the double A-side with “Heartless” was released oddly, with “Blinding Lights” here being released days after and about a week after, was finally accompanied by a music video that’s really just an advertisement for Mercedes-Benz vehicles. Neither single got to experience their best possible tracking week in full, but nonetheless, both are still pretty high because it’s the Weeknd, and I’m actually somewhat excited for this. I’ve heard that it interpolates A-ha’s cheesy 80s synthpop classic “Take on Me”, and it wouldn’t be the first rendition I’ve heard of the song in 2019. That would be Weezer’s hilarious cover on both the Jimmy Fallon show (Where they played it with kids’ toys) and their “Teal Album”. Sorry, I bring Weezer up too much. Is the song good? Hell, yes. It starts with an overwhelming wave of ominous distortion before retro 80s synths quickly come in and an iconic, reverb-heavy drum pattern comes in that sounds awfully familiar – it’s probably also from “Take on Me”. The synth riff, as typical with 1980s synthpop, is hilariously grandiose and egregious, but the Weeknd kills it here as well, not letting the instrumental or even the freaking bongos playing during the verse shine over him or put him off. He blends in with the airy synth painting in the chorus, and it is gorgeous, it really is. I wish this was a tad catchier but that definitely will be a possibility for it to grow on me later on (Which hopefully it does, it’s already perfectly qualified for my best of 2020 list). The Weeknd’s vocals on the bridge are oddly powerful, and that last moment in the penultimate chorus where there is this epic beeping synth that rises until the synth riff drops once again is awesome. The pre-chorus is probably my favourite part, though, especially when the synths cut out for it to just be the Weeknd over the drums, right before the chorus kicks in. I love this so much, unexpectedly so, and I’m so glad it charted so high. I hope it survives the Christmas songs, though.

#10 – “Heartless” – The Weeknd

Produced by The Weeknd, Metro Boomin, Dre Moon and Illangelo – Peaked at #1 in the US

If “Blinding Lights” was the “pop” single, this is the “R&B” single. It’s very much like the Weeknd to release two singles harboured towards two different demographics and two different radio formats, and for both of them to be smash hits, although dropping them at the same time is a tad overwhelming. I can skip the pre-amble as I’ve already done that at the start of the episode, so does it deserve its (Likely single) chart-topping week on the Billboard Hot 100? Well, yeah, I’d say so definitely, this is pretty cool, although not nearly as good as “Blinding Lights” or really any of his songs by now. This really is only decent-tier Weeknd but, man, this guy’s too good. Metro Boomin is one of my favourite hip-hop producers, and he definitely makes his presence known here, with the watery synths in the intro being abruptly drowned out by massive 808 bass and a skittering trap pattern, as well as the Weeknd whispering “Sheesh” for whatever reason. Weeknd uses a very typical delivery for him here, one I’ve heard on his other massive #1 hits, “The Hills” and “Starboy”, but he still sounds charismatic as all hell, and rides the beat incredibly well, especially when those drum hits come in before pounding back into the groovy trap beat. Weeknd plays more into his cocaine-addict sex god persona here, but is pretty thorough and honestly kind of funny here (Despite sounding checked-out in the chorus’ whiny falsetto), as he’s “running through the [women] like a dog pound” and getting so much of said [women] that it’s falling out of his pockets... although he definitely doesn’t just glamorise the sour rockstar lifestyle, in fact he predicts himself to be jumping the shark in seven years (Or, alternatively, says he has already jumped the shark within his seven-year-long career). On both of these songs, however, I do feel that while they don’t run too long, they don’t really have that effective of a climax, even if both the final choruses are epic (This one going for a distorted, cluttered vocal samples to build up the dark sonic atmosphere replacing a plundering bass), and the bridges are kind of unnecessary. I’m not complaining that these songs exist though, they’re both pretty good at least. Welcome back, Abel, we missed you.

Conclusion

Best of the Week is going to the Weeknd for both “Heartless” and ESPECIALLY “Blinding Lights”, and Worst of the Week goes to Trevor Daniel for “Falling”. We’ll see next week a large amount of Christmas nonsense coming in once again, as well as the impacts of a certain unfortunate circumstance I’ve said my peace on with Twitter @cactusinthebank, which you can follow for more musical ramblings. See you next week.

[thebookrat]

I mentioned in another post recently (actually, maybe this is going up first, so maybe I will mention in another post... I've been writing and scheduling in so many posts - for me - that I don't honestly know!) that I have a goal of featuring more books more often, and in more ways, as a general rule on this blog. One of those ways -- and let me know if you like this idea -- is to do a monthly post highlighting some of the books that are coming out that month, that would be my top picks if someone handed me a bookstore gift card and said, "Go crazy." So here are my picks for April. Some are already out, and some will be out very soon. A couple of these are either on my shelves, or will be featured in some other way around these parts very soon. (Ahem, giveaway of one of these coming soon and/or possibly already up, depending on when you're reading this, and when I've scheduled things for! See note above... ;D) Take a look, let me know what you think, and if I've missed any April, 2018 releases that I DEFINITELY need to have, please tell me in the comments! And of course, each cover is >clickable< so you can find out more or pick a copy up! This is in my TBR for this month!

A captivating novel about two extraordinary teens, and the unsolvable problem of life after high school. Sophia is smart, like genius-calculator-brain smart. But there are some things no amount of genius can prepare you for, and the messiness of real life is one of them. When everything she knows is falling apart, how can she crack the puzzle of what to do with her life? Joshua spends his time honing magic tricks and planning how to win Sophia’s heart. But when your best trick is making schoolwork disappear, how do you possibly romance a genius? In life and love, timing is everything. Published April 1st 2018 by Peachtree Publishers

I mean... everyone's buzzing about this.

Jane McKeene was born two days before the dead began to walk the battlefields of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville—derailing the War Between the States and changing America forever. In this new nation, safety for all depends on the work of a few, and laws like the Native and Negro Reeducation Act require certain children attend combat schools to learn to put down the dead. But there are also opportunities—and Jane is studying to become an Attendant, trained in both weaponry and etiquette to protect the well-to-do. It’s a chance for a better life for Negro girls like Jane. After all, not even being the daughter of a wealthy white Southern woman could save her from society’s expectations. But that’s not a life Jane wants. Almost finished with her education at Miss Preston’s School of Combat in Baltimore, Jane is set on returning to her Kentucky home and doesn’t pay much mind to the politics of the eastern cities, with their talk of returning America to the glory of its days before the dead rose. But when families around Baltimore County begin to go missing, Jane is caught in the middle of a conspiracy, one that finds her in a desperate fight for her life against some powerful enemies. And the restless dead, it would seem, are the least of her problems. Published April 3rd 2018 by Balzer + Bray

I was a big fan of McCarthy's You Were Here.

Fandom and first love collide for Iris on the film set for her grandmother’s famous high-fantasy triology—perfect for readers of Fangirl! Unlike the rest of the world, Iris doesn't care about the famous high-fantasy Elementia books written by M. E. Thorne. So it's just a little annoying that M. E. Thorne is her grandmother—and that Iris has to deal with the trilogy's crazy fans. When Iris gets dropped in Ireland for the movie adaptation, she sees her opportunity: if she can shut down production, the Elementia craze won't grow any bigger, and she can finally have a normal life. Not even the rascally-cute actor Eamon O'Brien can get in her way. But the crew's passion is contagious, and as Iris begins to find herself in the very world she has avoided her whole life, she realizes that this movie might just be amazing… Published April 3rd 2018 by Sourcebooks Fire

*tries not to want book solely based on cover* *fails* *reads synopsis and still wants book, is happy* *realizes book is only in AUS, is sad*

Two very different girls, and one giant hoax that could change – or ruin – everything. Harriet Price has the perfect life: she's a prefect at Rosemead Grammar, she lives in a mansion, and her gorgeous girlfriend is a future prime minister. So when she risks it all by creating a hoax to expose the school's many problems – with help from notorious bad-girl Will Everheart, no less – Harriet tells herself it's because she's seeking justice. And definitely not because she finds Will oddly fascinating. But as Will and Harriet's campaign heats up, it gets harder for them to remain sworn enemies – and to avoid being caught. As tensions burn throughout the school, how far will they go to keep their mission – and their feelings for each other – a secret? Published April 2nd 2018 by Hardie Grant Egmont

I don't know that I've ever come across a more unique-sounding book.

In an alternate reality a lot like our world, every person’s physical size is directly proportional to their wealth. The poorest of the poor are the size of rats, and billionaires are the size of skyscrapers. Warner and his sister Prayer are destitute—and tiny. Their size is not just demeaning, but dangerous: day and night they face mortal dangers that bigger richer people don’t ever have to think about, from being mauled by cats to their house getting stepped on. There are no cars or phones built small enough for them, or schools or hospitals, for that matter—there’s no point, when no one that little has any purchasing power, and when salaried doctors and teachers would never fit in buildings so small. Warner and Prayer know their only hope is to scale up, but how can two littlepoors survive in a world built against them? A brilliant, warm, funny trip, unlike anything else out there, and a social novel for our time in the tradition of 1984 or Invisible Man. Inequality is made intensely visceral by an adventure and tragedy both hilarious and heartbreaking. Published April 3rd 2018 by Amulet Books

Welp. I need it.

The ancient land of Éirinn is mired in war. Ciara, Princess of Mide, has never known a time when Éirinn’s kingdoms were not battling for power, or Northmen were not plundering their shores. The people of Mide have thankfully always been safe because of Ciara’s unearthly ability to control her enemies’ minds and actions. But lately, a mysterious crow has been appearing to Ciara, whispering warnings of an even darker threat. Although her clansmen dismiss her visions as pagan nonsense, Ciara fears this coming evil will destroy not just Éirinn, but the entire world. Then the crow leads Ciara to Leif, a young Northman leader. Leif should be Ciara’s enemy, but when Ciara discovers that he, too, shares her prophetic visions, she knows he’s something more. Leif is mounting an impressive army, and with Ciara’s strength in battle the two might have a chance to save their world. With evil rising around them, they’ll do what it takes to defend the land they love…even if it means making the greatest sacrifice of all. Published April 10th 2018 by HarperTeen

Sometimes I just really crave romances that are fraught with tension and obstacles and SO MUCH HEADBUTTING.

A teen werewolf finally meets her destined soulmate only to discover that he's not quite what she expected in this steamy debut romance. She's met her mate . . . and he's met his match. Megan Ross has been waiting her whole life for her mate to come and sweep her off her feet. But the wolf she meets on the beach is NOT the sweet gentle boy she's been dreaming of. Instead, he's a warrior, one whose suffering has led him to lock his heart away in a prison as cold and hard as a diamond, who fights to resist the bond and their deep sexual attraction. Far from home, with a soulmate who is still a stranger, Megan learns that the path to true love isn't quite as straight and easy as she thought . . . Published April 10th 2018 by Swoon Reads

Spare, windswept, western -- these words didn't make it into my buzzwords list. But they should have.

Ten years ago, a horrifying disease began spreading across the West Texas desert. Infected people—shakes—attacked the living and created havoc and destruction. No one has ever survived the infection. Daisy Wilcox, known as Willie, has been protecting her siblings within the relatively safe walls of Glory, Texas. When Willie’s good-for-nothing father steals a fortune from one of the most dangerous shake-hunters in town, she finds herself on the hook for his debt. With two hunters, including the gruff and handsome Ben, to accompany her, she sets out across the desert in search of her father. But the desert is not kind to travelers, and not everyone will pass through alive. Western meets horror for this riveting story about survival, family, and inner strength. Tense, short chapters propel readers from one action-packed scene to the next, while Willie’s distinctive, introspective voice deepens the emotional stakes with every turn of the page. High concept and character-driven, Emma Berquist’s debut will satisfy fans of The Magnificent Seven, Rae Carson’s Walk on Earth a Stranger, and HBO’s Westworld. Published April 10th 2018 by Greenwillow

Psst! You can enter to win this!

Fourteen-year-old Avery Armisted is athletic, rich, and pretty. Sixteen-year-old Kayla Butts is known as “butt-girl” at school. The two girls were friends as little kids, but that’s ancient history now. So it’s a huge surprise when Avery’s father offers to bring Kayla along on a summer trip to Spain. Avery is horrified that her father thinks he can choose her friends—and make her miss soccer camp. Kayla struggles just to imagine leaving the confines of her small town. But in Spain, the two uncover a secret their families had hidden from both of them their entire lives. Maybe the girls can put aside their differences and work through it together. Or maybe the lies and betrayal will only push them—and their families—farther apart. Published April 10th 2018 by Simon Schuster Books for Young Readers

I am just so. damn. fascinated. by everything about this.

How do you live after death? Julie Nolan is a pretty average girl with pretty average problems. She’s been in love with her best friend, Lorelei, ever since they met in grade three. Only Lorelei doesn’t know about it — she’s too busy trying to set Julie up with Henry, her ex, who Julie finds, in a word, vapid. But life gets more complicated when Julie comes home to find her mother insisting that her heart is gone. Pretty soon it becomes clear: Julie’s mom believes that she has died. How is Julie supposed to navigate her first year of high school now, while she’s making midnight trips to the graveyard to cover her mother with dirt, lay flowers and make up eulogies? And why is Henry the only person Julie feels comfortable turning to? If she wants to get through this, Julie’s going to have to find the strength she never knew she had, and to learn how to listen to both her mom’s heart and her own. Published April 10th 2018 by HarperCollins

Again, love the cover, only in AUS. =/

Kit Learmonth would rather die than grow up and leave Neverland … When she was twelve, Kit Learmonth watched her parents drown in a storm as their boat sailed over the Tranter Sink Hole. Now seventeen, Kit doesn’t remember the incident, and she doesn’t want to. In fact, her only clear memories from before her parents’ death are of the fantastical stories of pirates and mermaids that she and her dad invented about the small island where she grew up, a place she calls Neverland. Following Kit’s parents’ deaths, her uncle and guardian, Doc, transformed the island into a boarding school for mentally ill teenagers and sent Kit away to school on the mainland. But when Kit tries and fails to end her life, Doc brings her home to the island and places her in the care of his colleague, Dr Hannah Ward. Resisting her treatment, Kit instead pulls her friends deeper into her world of make-believe. It’s only when Kit and her new boyfriend, Rohan, take the fantasy too far and land themselves in very real danger that her faith in Neverland is shaken, and Kit must find a way back to reality. Published April 1st 2018 by Penguin Random House Australia

Am I the only one getting serious dark fairy tale retelling vibes from this?

Theodosia was six when her country was invaded and her mother, the Queen of Flame and Fury, was murdered before her eyes. Ten years later, Theo has learned to survive under the relentless abuse of the Kaiser and his court as the ridiculed “Ash Princess.” Pretending to be empty-headed and naive when she's not enduring brutal whippings, she pushes down all other thoughts but one: Keep the Kaiser happy and he will keep you safe. When the Kaiser forces her to execute her last hope of rescue, Theo can't keep her feelings and memories pushed down any longer. She vows revenge, throwing herself into a plot to seduce and murder the Kaiser's warrior son with the help of a group of magically gifted and volatile rebels. But Theo doesn't expect to develop feelings for the Prinz. Or for her rebel allies to challenge her friendship with the one person who's been kind to her throughout the last hopeless decade: her heart's sister, Cress. Cornered into impossible choices and unable to trust even those who are on her side, Theo will have to decide how far she's willing to go to save her people and how much of herself she's willing to sacrifice to become queen. Expected publication: April 24th 2018 by Delacorte Books for Young Readers

Did I miss anything amazing? Or is there a book coming up in the next few months that you're dying for?  Let me know in the comments! via The Book Rat

[topmixtrends]

WELCOME TO the House of Pain. As I greet you, I’m suffering from various not-quite-self-inflicted wounds. There are small punctures in my shins and thighs where I’ve been pierced by the pointed ends of agave leaves. There are a couple of inflamed patches on my forearms where I splashed some sap on myself while trimming a euphorbia. There are opuntia spines in my hands and also, I’m sure, in my clothes, which I will only discover as they gradually work their way into my flesh.

Yes, I have been working in the Garden of Pain, which surrounds the house, what I usually refer to as a cactus garden, though in fact it contains as many succulents as it does cacti, and of course a few plants that are neither. Botanists differ, but the current consensus is that all cacti are succulents but by no means are all succulents cacti. This is only a small help, and the layman — which I most certainly am — can have a hell of a job telling what’s a true cactus and what isn’t. (Clue: It’s largely about the areoles.)

More correctly, I suppose I should say I have a xerophile garden. Xerophile: From the Greek, xeros meaning dry and philos meaning loving. (The term refers not to people who love these plants but to the plants themselves, which love dryness.) My own interest in xerophiles started when I moved to Los Angeles, partly because I took seriously all those warnings about the evils or watering your own backyard in a time of drought and partly because, as a deracinated Englishman, a xerophile garden was about as far away from the traditional English garden as I could imagine. But chiefly I got hooked because there’s something so compelling about living things that have so thoroughly adapted to hostile environments, and because xerophiles look so beautifully strange and strangely beautiful.

When word gets around that you’re a cactus (and xerophile) enthusiast people have a tendency to give you cactus-related items of varying degrees of kitschiness. And so in the House of Pain you’ll find T-shirts, tea towels, socks, and hats, all bearing images of cacti. There are cactus-shaped coasters, cactus-shaped margarita glasses, and a cactus-shaped bottle opener. Nobody, as yet, has offered me anything from Cartier’s “Cactus de Cartier” range, perhaps because the basic bracelet goes for about $30,000, but it’s early days.

Of course I have books, a shelf that includes Edward Abbey’s Cactus Country from the Time Life “American Wilderness” series; What Kinda Cactus Izzat?, a cartoon “who’s who of desert plants” by Reg Manning; the photographer Lee Friedlander’s The Desert Seen; and for the title alone (though the jacket’s pretty amazing too) Naked in a Cactus Garden by Jesse L. Lasky Jr., “a novel of Hollywood” in which “character after character is stripped of every pretense.” I’m also very fond of an essay titled “Cactus Teaching” by Michael Crichton (yes, that Michael Crichton) in which he goes to seek enlightenment at a meditation conference in the desert. He’s told to find a rock or plant that “speaks” to him, and after much searching and soul-searching he finds a small, unspectacular, damaged cactus in the garden of the institute where the conference is taking place. “The cactus had equanimity; ants ran over its surface, and it didn’t seem to mind,” Crichton writes. “It was certainly very attractive, with red thorns and a green body; bees were attracted to it. The cactus had a formal aspect; its pattern of thorns gave it almost a herringbone look. This was an Ivy League cactus. I saw it as dignified, silent, stoic, and out of place.”

If all this might make you think that I’m obsessed with xerophiles, my response would be to proffer a copy of Xerophile: Cactus Photographs from Expeditions of the Obsessed and say, “You think I’m obsessed — get a load of this.” No author is named on the jacket or the title page, but we in the L.A. xerophile community know that it’s the effort of Jeff Kaplon, Max Martin, and Carlos Morera, the guys who run Cactus Store in Echo Park. Xerophile is an extraordinary book, a singular and single-minded volume. It contains 300 pages of photographs, preceded by a three-page preface and rounded off with a 30-page section containing interviews with eight xerophile enthusiasts (xerophile-philes?): not people like me, but the kind who go on expeditions that require being dropped in by helicopter. There’s also a short appendix on relevant topics that includes “off-roading,” “mirage,” and “oblivion.”

But, really, it’s all about the photographs, taken over a period of some 70 years, of xerophiles glimpsed in situ around the world. A few are in the United States, but the majority are from Mexico and South America, along with outliers from such gloriously “far away places” as Somalia, the Galápagos Islands, Madagascar, and Namibia. Twenty-five named photographers are credited, although one or two images are captioned “photographer unknown,” and in some cases the date isn’t known either. This might create some irritation for the more academic reader, and I think that kind of reader is going to be irritated by other parts of the book too. As far as I can see there’s no obvious, overarching organizing principle at work in the arrangement and selection of photographs — it’s simply what’s in the Cactus Store’s archive — and yet I can’t say that I particularly minded. The overall effect is more celebratory than scholarly, and that’s fine by me.

Xerophile is somewhere between a coffee-table book and a slightly chaotic field guide. I know from extensive personal experience that it’s very easy to take dull pictures of cacti. And although some of the pictures in the book are incredibly dramatic, very few have the gloss and stylishness of professional photographs. The preface describes the images as “evidence.” A few are a bit blurry, either because of faltering focus or because of the low quality of the camera and lens, but this somehow only adds to the sense of authenticity. When you’re halfway up a mountain in Chile you may not have time for sophisticated and considered aesthetic choices. We’re not in National Geographic territory here. The plants are the stars, and the photographers are the adoring fans, perhaps in some cases the paparazzi, snapping what they can on the fly.

The fact is you can forgive quite a lot of technical and compositional failings in order to see things you’ve never seen before, like an Adenium in Namibia that looks like a long-dead tree but is bearing extraordinary white flowers at the tips of its branches. Or Peruvian Haageocereus plants growing in a foggy habitat and consequently covered in bright yellow lichen. Or cacti growing out of rock faces, poking up through broad stretches of sand or lava fields.

Human beings appear in some of the photographs. At the very least this is useful to give a sense of scale. We all know that cacti grow to spectacular heights, but when we see a picture that shows a full grown man looking utterly insignificant at the base of a 70-foot-tall Pachycereus pringlei, the sense of surprise and amazement is brought home with incredible force. Other pictures show botanists at work in the field, usually but not always in the desert, taking measurements or collecting seeds. One of my favorite photographs, dated 1952, shows George Lindsay, former director of the California Academy of Science, standing next to a Ferocactus that’s a good head taller than he is and much wider in girth. He’s khaki-clad, wearing sunglasses and a solar topee, has a camera and light meter slung around his neck, and he’s smoking a fat cigar. One’s sense of nostalgia (today’s desert rats just don’t look anything like that), along with the inevitable phallic resonance of a certain kind of cactus, are elegantly and wittily confirmed.

The most tantalizing, and to some extent frustrating, part of the book is the section of interviews with xerophile obsessives, frustrating only in the sense that it leaves you wanting much more. In there you’ll find tales of near-death experience from Joël Lodé, who suffered severe heatstroke on his first trip to the Mojave desert in 1984, and survived to risk his life in much the same way in New Mexico and Baja. He also went to Yemen at the height of the civil war to “photograph a plant.” I’m not sure what kind of plant that was, but I hope it was the Euphorbia abdelkuri discussed in a different interview with John Jacob Lavranos who hitched a ride with the British navy, across pirate-infested waters, to the island of Abd al-Kuri in 1967. (It’s part of Yemen, but closer to Somalia, hence the pirates.) Lavranos says that seeing the Euphorbia abdelkuri “was one of the highlights of my life. I’ll never forget it — coming up over the mountain and seeing those tall green candles, which, of course were Euphorbias that were centuries old.” Asked if he collected plants on the trip he replies, “Yes, of course. Every single Euphorbia abdelkuri in circulation came from that trip.” A little research reveals that they’re now extremely rare, both in collections and on the island.

Others are less interested in collecting than taxonomy, a fascinating and ultimately mind-boggling field that increasingly relies on molecular analysis. There’s an interview with a married couple, both botanists, named Giovanna Anceschi and Alberto Magli who say they have no desire for possession. Magli says,

For me, there’s nothing further from nature than a greenhouse. People put plants next to each other that would never, ever be seen together in nature. That’s fine for a fan. But not for a researcher, and I would venture to say that it’s part of the reason people continue to have confused ideas about the taxonomy of these plants.

The old wisdom was that there were about 175 genera and 2,000 species of cacti but the current thinking is that many of these are the same basic plant, achieving different forms because of different environments. Most of us amateurs would indeed welcome some clarification on the subject, and advice on how to identify obscure genera and species (the people who work in nurseries are seldom much help), but this pair really don’t put your mind at rest: “We eventually realized that many of the species you see in books don’t exist.”

If you want more detail, without an absolute guarantee of clarification, may I direct you to the activities of the International Cactaceae Systematics Group, a working party of the International Organization for Succulent Plant Study, which has been contemplating these matters since the mid-1980s? In fact there are many online cactus and succulent websites and groups. Few of them are quite as interesting or as obsessive as Xerophile, though I did come across the website for The Cactus Store which currently lists a Haageocereus tenuis for sale, yours for a cool quarter of a million dollars. They warn gravely, “This is not a statement piece, a collectors item, or a center piece for your garden. This is a critically endangered specimen plant for those familiar with ex-situ conservation who have a proper greenhouse setup.” Even in matters of obsession it’s good to know your limits.

¤

Geoff Nicholson is a contributing editor to the Los Angeles Review of Books. His latest novel is The Miranda.

The post Cactus Love: On “Xerophile: Cactus Photographs from Expeditions of the Obsessed” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books http://ift.tt/2B9fkFQ

[bobert0621]

This essay is killing me slowly