#School Curriculums | Libraries.

[xtruss]

Why Parents Still Try to Ban ‘The Color Purple’ in Schools

Four decades after it was released, Alice Walker’s enduring classic remains at the forefront of the battle over what is available on library shelves.

— By Erin Blakemore | August 22, 2023

Alice Walker reads from her Pulitzer Prize- and National Book Award-winning novel, The Color Purple. Since it was first published in 1982, the critically acclaimed book has been targeted by movements pushing to censor the book's subject matter. Photograph By Johnny Crawford, Atlanta Journal-Constitution/AP

When Alice Walker’s The Color Purple hit bookshelves in 1982, it blew away critics, became a nationwide bestseller, and endeared itself to readers who found pain and inspiration in its pages.

But in the years since its publication, the acclaimed novel has become famous for another reason: It’s one of the most challenged books in the nation, withstanding criticisms aimed at its depictions of race and sex, its portrayal of abuse and agony, and even its spelling and style.

Here’s how The Color Purple became one of the nation’s most banned books—and why it continues igniting controversy to this day.

“A Spiritual Experience”

Walker, who grew up in Jim Crow-era Georgia, described writing the book as a “spiritual experience” inspired by the strength and grit of the Black Southern women she made her heroines. The epistolary epic follows 40 years in the lives of its main characters Celie, Shug, and Nettie, who survive incest, domestic abuse, and racism in the early twentieth century—all while carving out joy, independence, and dignity along the way.

When it was released in 1982, the book immediately caught the attention of both the critics and the reading public, who praised the book for its portrayals of both the brutality and sorrow of racism and sexual violence and its celebration of Black women.

It was critically acclaimed, winning both the Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award for 1983, and inspired a popular 1985 film directed by Stephen Spielberg and starring Whoopi Goldberg and Oprah Winfrey.

Banning ‘Purple’

But something else accompanied the novel as its renown grew: controversy. Though educators recognized the book’s potential as a teaching tool, some parents and community members objected to its presence in school curriculums and libraries.

The first major attempt to ban the book occurred in 1984, when a parent petitioned against its use in an Oakland, California classroom. In a 1985 essay, Walker recalled reading frequent updates on “how the banning was coming along” and watching the book’s sales skyrocket.

“I felt I had written the book as a gift to the people. All of them,” Walker wrote. “If they wanted it, let them fight to keep it, as I had to fight to deliver it.”

Fight they did. Though the Oakland schools ultimately decided not to remove the book from classrooms, the book has consistently been challenged nationwide since its publication, repeatedly making it on the American Library Association’s list of most frequently challenged books.

Why Parents Challenge the Book

Attempts to ban The Color Purple usually contest Walker’s use of slang and profanity, the book’s portrayal of brutal Black men, a same-sex encounter between the two main characters, and its depiction of sexual violence in its first pages.

“One can eat from a cafeteria or a dumpster…but one would hope those placed in charge of our children would have exercised better oversight,” wrote one parent in a characteristic 2013 challenge in Brunswick County, North Carolina. (The book has survived multiple attempted bans in the Brunswick County school district.)

But the same pages that provoke ire in some have inspired others.

Oprah Winfrey, who endured sexual abuse as a child, later recalled reading the first page of The Color Purple “and thinking ‘Oh God, I’m not alone.’” After Winfrey co-starred in the first movie adaptation of the film, she began talking about her own experiences on her talk show.

TV historians now credit the self-disclosures inspired by Walker’s book with helping Winfrey develop her winning confessional interview format.

Modern Attempts to Ban the Novel

Efforts to ban The Color Purple have continued during a recent wave of attempted book bans.

In 2022, the American Library Association documented over 1,200 attempts to ban or restrict library materials—double the number of challenges from the previous year—and most of which attempted to remove multiple titles from shelves.

Among them was The Color Purple, which was removed from library shelves in Florida’s Indian County School District at the request of a parent group that objected to 156 of the books on school shelves, claiming the books contain everything from pornography to critical race theory. Though the district’s school board declined to ban The Color Purple, it did remove five of the other books on the list and approve a permission slip allowing parents to restrict their child’s use of school library books.

With news of an upcoming movie adaptation of the acclaimed musical based on the book, The Color Purple is poised to regain the national spotlight. Only time will tell if the movie will spark more challenges—but for now, the legacy of a book one 1982 reviewer called “indelibly affecting” is secure.

To date, the book has sold over 5 million copies—a number sure to rise as a new generation meets its heroines.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Mike Hixenbaugh for The Atlantic:

America’s public schools, since their creation, have repeatedly become a locus for our nation’s most divisive fights over politics and civil rights, whether the subject be evolution, segregation, sex ed, or school prayer. After all, it is in its classrooms—in social-studies curricula and civics lessons and mandatory-reading lists—that the country wrestles with how to tell its story to new generations, how to teach kids what’s right and wrong, true and false. And the decisions that society makes about what children ought to learn, or ought not to, have the power to shape culture and the future of democracy. Thus today we see fights over how to discuss racism in schools, with progressives championing lessons that connect the stain of slavery to modern inequities, conservatives demanding instead that children be taught “not to see color,” and plenty of debate somewhere in between. We see fights over whether first-graders should be allowed to check out picture books featuring LGBTQ characters, whether teens should be made to read literature with graphic depictions of sex, whether the Ten Commandments should be posted inside classrooms. The recent wave of activism targeting schools has sometimes seemed unprecedented in its ferocity and scale. But of course, these types of debates are not new. They fit into a long tradition of reactionary movements seeking to shape what children in America learn.

Early in the 20th century, Christian fundamentalists waged a crusade to stop the teaching of human evolution in public schools, culminating most famously with 1925’s Scopes “monkey trial,” in which a high-school teacher in Tennessee was charged with violating a new state law banning evolution lessons from classrooms. With the United States on the precipice of entering World War II in the late 1930s and early ’40s, groups such as the Daughters of the American Revolution and the American Legion waged a successful nationwide campaign against popular social-studies textbooks written by the progressive educator Harold Rugg; they argued that the books—which raised questions about the unequal distribution of wealth in the U.S. and advocated for civil rights for African Americans—were “subversive.” Attempts to force schools to integrate in the 1950s, ’60s, and ’70s were met with riots and racist protests.

While researching my book on the latest political wars over public education, I came across a 1981 New York Times article that sounded as if it might have been printed this year. It described a coalition of suburban residents who, “armed with sophisticated lobbying techniques,” were fighting to “remove books from libraries” and replace history syllabi with “texts that emphasize the positive side of America’s past.” The article documented efforts by parents’ groups across the country to “cleanse their local schools of materials and teaching methods they consider antifamily, anti-American and anti-God.” Here was a tale of conservative activists waging a national assault on school lessons more than four decades ago, though that earlier generation applied a different label to the threat it perceived than activists do now: secular humanism.

[...] Also much as in today’s fights, the battles over secular humanism, which occurred in the years immediately following the civil-rights movement, were a response to evolving social norms around gender, race, and sexuality. And just as the protests for racial justice following the police murder of George Floyd in 2020 incited school-board conflicts in communities with rapidly changing demographics, many of the battles a generation ago emanated from predominantly white but diversifying suburbs, where angry parents formed groups with such names as Young Parents Alert and Guardians of Education. Portraying teachers, textbook writers, and school bureaucrats as liberal foot soldiers in a shadowy scheme to indoctrinate their children, these citizen activists described their cause as one of good versus evil, a framing that stoked passions—and sometimes violence.

The simmering right-wing movement against secular humanism exploded into national view in the spring of 1974, when white fundamentalists launched a political attack on the public school system in Kanawha County, West Virginia. The district had introduced new multicultural textbooks as required by a recent state mandate. Months of protests were led by Alice Moore, a white school-board member and preacher’s wife who argued—while explicitly invoking the dangers of secular humanism—that new language-arts textbooks would teach students “ghetto dialect” instead of “standard American speech.” Picketers carried homemade signs, including one that read i have a “bible,” i don’t need those dirty books. Angry parents were soon joined by members of the Ku Klux Klan. An elementary school’s entrance was defaced with a swastika. Arsonists attacked schools with firebombs and Molotov cocktails, vandals cut the fuel lines of school buses to keep them from running, and the county board-of-education building was blasted with 15 sticks of dynamite. [...]

There are also parallels in the financing of these movements, with support then and now drawn from a large network of conservative think tanks and activist groups. The campaign against secular humanism was backed by national organizations including the Heritage Foundation, Jerry Falwell’s Moral Majority, Pat Robertson’s National Legal Foundation, and the antigay, anti-feminist crusader Phyllis Schlafly’s Eagle Forum. Some of those same organizations remain involved today, joined by dozens of emergent activist groups, such as Moms for Liberty, No Left Turn in Education, and the 1776 Project PAC.

Some aspects of the right’s new playbook appear to have been copied from history—including its campaign to leverage school-board conflicts to push for a conservative reinterpretation of foundational rights. With help from conservative law firms, parents filed lawsuits in the 1970s and ’80s claiming that secular humanism was itself a religion, and as such should be barred from schools or balanced with Christian perspectives. Others in the movement simultaneously sought to overturn the principle of Church-state separation that was the basis for that argument. Insisting that America’s founding was grounded in biblical principles, activists demanded that educators present Christianity in a favorable light, that children be taught to respect the United States and its military, and that men and women be depicted in “traditional” gender roles in classroom reading assignments. Although many of these demands were denied by local and state education boards, Christian conservative groups scored major victories throughout the 1980s—largely through targeted lawsuits and local pressure campaigns—before the movement’s power and momentum began to wane, in the ’90s.

[...] Now, in many classrooms, dark chapters of America’s history are being softened or skipped. Some students are being taught a distorted narrative about our nation’s past and present, and books challenging that depiction are being pulled from shelves. All of this is helping shape what a new generation of Americans believes about our country—exactly the effect that anti-secularism activists fought for decades ago.

NBC News’s Mike Hixenbaugh wrote in The Atlantic about the history of right-wing “parental rights” revolts.

See Also:

Chalkbeat: How the ‘Southlake Playbook’ brought partisan battles to America’s school boards

[intothestacks]

Looking over my province's new elementary curriculum and

Being a school librarian, I've started reading over the new elementary curriculum my province's government has put out and holy cow. All the teachers hate it and now I know why.

Magnetism, which used to be a Grade 2 science unit (it's perfect for that age, since they still learn mostly through hands-on activities) is now a Grade 4 unit.

Meanwhile, they want to teach Kindergarteners about recycling and why it's important (which will either go way over their heads or will give them anxiety).

They want Grade 2s to be able to "examine properties, types, and selection of materials based on suitability, availability and sustainability".

Grade 3s (8-year-olds!) are now expected to do the Grade 4 unit on simple machines as well as to "investigate creativity and its relationship to computational and divergent thinking".

Grade 5s are learning about atomic particles while also learning some stuff that used to be Grade 1 and 2.

It's all basically a mishmash of "Hey kids, we want you to learn the names of colours -- and also to do junior high physics in the same grade!".

[dana-chan-the-control-brain]

Is making a curriculum always like throwing a dart at an assortment of things loosely based on what the school system wants you to teach???

No wonder teachers are stressed out all the time

[rainingincale]

.

[bringbackmaes14]

Working at a library is all fun and games when you're a student at the school housing the library and you're looking for part time work but you want a legit job post-degree???? Good luck bro

as someone with a bachelor’s degree in english, i am inexpressibly tired of people telling me to get highly specific jobs that often require highly specific degrees. “just go write for a magazine!” you need a journalism degree for that. “just teach!” you need a teaching certificate, and also fuck you. “just go work at a tutoring place!” tutoring children with learning disabilities, which make up the majority of the clientele at those places, requires not only a teaching certificate but a specialized master’s degree. “just go work at a library!” you need a master’s degree in library science to be a librarian. it is actually a highly skilled and extremely competitive field. you don’t just “go work at a library,” you train for years in the vain hope that you will get one of handful of available jobs. “just go work at a library.” the nerve. the unmitigated gall. “just go work at a library.” ugh.

[blog-karl]

MY FAVORITE KIDS’ BOOKS

Inclusive holiday goodies, freebies & fun for the whole family What children’s titles got you excited about reading books? Here’s my list: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll Anna’s Prayer: The True Story of an Immigrant Girl (about my great-great aunt) Bicycles North: A Mystery on Wheels by Rita Ritchie (this book got me hooked on non-picture books) The Bridge of the Golden…

[educationaldm]

[isawhitney]

Reading While Coloured

I flip through my nineteenth century novel

the one we’ve been set for a class that

we hate and the lectures we’ve been avoiding

and I catch a glimpse of something about the

alluring negro wenches of the southern quarter

am I, I think, a negro wench or just a quadroon

one? oh well, it’s nice to be alluring anyway

[mzapplebee]

Back to School Sale 🍎

Up to 25% off Reader's Theater scripts, Storytime programs, Rebus Readers, interactive activities & more!

Shop the Sale ➡️

[bubonickitten]

"HB 777 not only would fine libraries and librarians, but it would possibly require hard labor by those found guilty. Read that again: librarians would be sentenced to hard labor for daring to join their largest professional organization.

The bill would also potentially kill one of the largest graduate school programs in the state of Louisiana, Louisiana State University’s Masters of Library and Information Science program. Like all Master of Library and Information Science programs, it is accredited by the ALA and goes through a rigorous process to ensure that the curriculum is up-to-date and aligned with best practices in libraries.

Even if the bill is limited “only” to the use of tax money to support membership or attendance/enrollment in ALA-sponsored professional development, take a moment to look into whether or not police, fire, or other public entities are subject to similar legislation in Louisiana or elsewhere. You probably know the answer��and you probably won’t be surprised that one of the few institutional benefits offered to library workers is such membership.

If you haven’t been paying attention until now or you’ve thought these fears when laid out over the last several years were hyperbole and this is your wakeup call, there’s no time like the present to get to work advocating on behalf of your library. If you live in Louisiana, contact your representatives as soon as possible (here’s a very easy way to do that!). You can also reach out to Kellee Dickerson by phone at (225) 380-4232 and email hse064@legis.la.gov.

Then, reach out to your own libraries and offer your support, either by showing up at board meetings and/or running for those board positions when vacancies occur. Go borrow books from the library and get your writing hands going with letters to your local papers.

EveryLibrary also has a petition you can sign related to HB777."

Please take the time to sign the petition, spread the word, and support your local library.

[tenaflyviper]

Fun Fact: "Gender Queer" was never recommended to kids by schools in the first place. It was recommended for EDUCATORS.

Kids in general would've never known the book even existed until pearl-clutching clowns--the same people who still don't seem to grasp that CRT is a college elective, and has never been taught in K-12--threw a collective ignorant tantrum about it. Since then, sales of the book have increased, and the kids they didn't want to see it are now far more likely to seek it out for themselves.

Great job.

Meanwhile, my generation saw "Where Did I Come From?" turned into an animated film narrated by Howie Mandel.

That was in 1985. And we turned out just fine.

[euphoriaslux]

two’s a party.

summary: you recently transferred to stanford, and decide to tutor a tennis player in your class. he has a friend. severe indecency ensues.

word count: 3.3k

warnings : smut, threesomes, f!oral receiving, swearing, smoking, drinking. slight cuck energy if you squint (i’m sorry ((no i’m not))). no challengers spoilers!

a/n: this fic got away from me big time but this movie has rotted my brain and as a result i have written utter debauchery that i will not apologize for. just had to get this out of my head, enjoy!

-

stanford science hall. monday , march 3.

You swear the last thing you’ll hear before your body is lowered into your grave is the process of lactic acid breakdown.

It’s 2:30 PM. Kinesiology 189 with Professor Wilson, a lanky middle-aged man with a PhD in exercise science and a half-grown beard that you don’t think will ever fully grow in, is almost over. He’s teaching Extended Studies of the Human Body in a humid classroom filled with student-athletes, most of whom are trying to stay awake, trying to hide that they’re taking a nap, or making no attempt to hide that they’re on their phones. You don’t really blame any of them, because the professor’s voice is so soft and monotone that it feels like he’s begging everyone to pay attention to anything but him. You’ve managed to stay somewhat on course with the thread of today’s lecture, the notebook in front of you filled with scribbles of incomplete molecular structures and somewhat legible drawings of the muscular anatomy of a hamstring.

This class is required for your biology major since you’re on a pre-medicine track. You don’t know why you’re doing it, the whole doctor thing, but you’ve developed a weird fixation for this class. The functionality of the body, how muscles stretch and tear with each movement, and how amino acids work to build them back even bigger.

And, possibly because of the tennis player who sits four rows ahead of you every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

His last name is Donaldson. You know because of the faded label on the massive bag he throws on the floor every time he walks into class, at least ten minutes late with a backward Stanford Tennis cap on his head. His first name remains a mystery, partly because he never talks in class, and mainly because you’ve made no attempt to speak to him. You like to think it’s because you’re so focused on the curriculum.

Professor Wilson knows your name, though, since you’re in his office hours every Thursday at 11 A.M. In part because he gives out most of the answers to his homework, and because you just transferred to Stanford your last year and very desperately need a letter of recommendation for medical school. Hence why you agreed to tutor a student with lower than 60% in the class during one of your meetings. And why everyone in the class was staring at you right now.

“... first come first serve, so reach out to her sooner rather than later.”

You give a tight-lipped smile, glancing around the room. Most people have looked away, back to their distraction of choice, but you meet eyes with the fluffy blonde-haired tennis player.

stanford library. wednesday, march fifth.

It’s 11 A.M., and you feel like your brain is about to explode if you look at another practice set.

“Hey”.

Your head whips around to the harsh whisper, only to be met with the blue-eyed mystery from your class. He has that large bag slung over his shoulder, with the end of a tennis racket peeking out of it. His hair is slightly stuck to his face, and his compression tee is slick to his chest like a second skin.

“Hi,” you whisper back. He smiles before tossing his bag on the floor and sitting in the chair across from you, either unaware of or completely ignoring the glares he’s receiving from the other students studying.

“You know,” he pulls out some kind of nutrition bar from his bag, unwrapping it and taking an aggressive bite, “for someone advertising their services, you’re pretty hard to find.”

“You’re in Mr. Wilson’s class, right?” you ask, hoping your subdued voice will remind him that he’s in a notoriously quiet place. He hums, pointing at you with his half-eaten snack.

“And I’m trying not to fail, but you didn’t leave your number anywhere in the classroom, and you bolt after every class. So how am I supposed to patronize your tutoring services…” he trails off, his volume the same level as when he walked in. You furrow your brows as he leans back into the chair.

“That’s when you say who you are.”

You feel a burn on the back of your neck as you tell him your name. He glances down towards the problem set you’ve nearly finished.

“How do you turn in any of those, I can’t get halfway through one of them.”

You pause for a moment before leaning slightly across the table to whisper:

“This new weird thing called studying. I think it just got approved by the CDC.”

“Very funny,” he shakes his head as reaches for your binder with your class schedule printed out on the front of it.

“Why are you taking so many bio classes?”

“Because I’m a biology major,” you can’t help the sarcasm dripping from your voice, and he looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, you’re making this too easy for me,” you raise your hands in conceit.

“I have practice every day at five so you can tutor me for like an hour beforehand,” he says before standing up, crunching up the silver wrapper and stuffing it into the front pocket of his blue jeans. You scoff at his sentence.

“Well, thank you for so generously fitting me into your schedule,” you roll your eyes, turning the page in your textbook. He grins.

“Tell the coach you’re there for Art. They’ll let you through.”

stanford tennis courts. friday, march 7th.

It’s 4 PM, and the California sun is sweltering. Your shorts feel like they’ve become a part of your legs, and your bag feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. By the time you make it to the tennis courts Art is already on the green concrete, shirtless with beads of sweat dripping down his face and chest. You hear his grunts as he sprints across the court, hitting the ball toward a slightly taller brunette with dangerously short red shorts. You watch them at the entrance for a few minutes, slightly entranced as the two play so seamlessly, as if they know every move the other person is going to make. You force your eyes away as you walk up the bleachers, stepping over leftover water bottles and chip bags to sit down and grab your notes from your backpack. It takes a couple more minutes for Art to notice you, yelling your name after he turns around to grab a ball his partner had hit particularly hard. You wave, and he says something you can’t hear to the brunette before the two of them jog across the courts and up the stands to where you are, blocking the sun as the two stand side by side.

“Who’s your friend?” you ask as you stuff the problem set you were working on in between the pages of your notebook.

“I’m Patrick,” he says, with a toothy smile and his ears poking out from under his hair. He has a bit more of a boyish charm to him than Art does, whose eyes are glued to his brunette counterpart.

“Are you in Mr. Wilson’s class too?”

Patrick opens his mouth to answer but Art speaks first, slightly pushing his friend with his shoulder as he says “He doesn’t go to Stanford, too busy being a tennis pro.”

Patrick rolls his eyes but his smile doesn’t leave his face. You notice how different this Art feels from the one in the library, how direct his playfulness is and how close he and Patrick stand together, their sweaty torsos nearly melding together.

Interesting.

“Like, Andre Agassi level pro?” you smile as the two of them laugh. Patrick raises the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, and you can’t help but take a glance at the exposed skin just above his waistband.

“Sorry, he’s like the only tennis player I know.”

“No, no I’m taking that as a compliment that you think I’m on the level of Agassi. No takebacks if you see me play,” Patrick points at you.

“Will do,” you salute, turning over to Art.

“You ready to study?” you ask him as he makes a comically loud groan, his head falling back. Patrick laughs, reaching over to ruffle his friends hair.

“You do remember that’s why I’m here, right? Midterms are in two weeks.”

“I definitely have not forgotten that.” he says. You purse your lips just as Patrick’s eyes seem to light up.

“I’m staying at the Courtyard Hotel for the weekend. You two can come over and study, I need to review my last match anyway. Kill two birds with one stone,” Patrick suggests.

“Just studying?”

“Just studying,” Art says, wrapping his arm around his friend's shoulder. You glance between the two of them, trying to decipher the unspoken communication they seem to be doing. But you can’t crack it, so you shrug.

“Sure.”

“Let us finish this set, and then you’ll have me all to yourself. Sound fair?”

“Wow, what a privilege. Don’t take too long, it’s hell on Earth out here!” you yell the last part as Art jogs down the steps and back down towards the net. You look up once you realize that the sun is still being blocked, and Patrick is still standing in front of you.

“You ever play?” he grins, flipping the tennis racket in his hand.

“Tennis? God, no, that would not be a pretty sight. I’ll stick to what I’m good at,” you gesture to the books and notes in your lap. Patrick nods.

“If you ever want to learn, I could teach you sometime, you know if-” he’s cut off by Art yelling his name, and you both glance to see him with his hands on his hips.

“Go, don’t keep your boyfriend waiting,” you wave him off, and you swear you can see him blushing. Must have been the glare.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he runs toward Art.

courtyard hotel. saturday, march 8.

It’s 11 pm. There’s a cold shiver in the elevator as you wait to get to the fourth floor, your tennis shoes tapping against the floor as one hand plays with the handle of the pack of beer in your hand while the other crumples and re-crumples the piece of paper with the hotel room number Patrick scribbled on it.

what are you doing?

You don’t have time to think about the consequences of your actions as the robotic voice signals that you’re on the fourth floor, the elevator doors fluttering open. It’s like your feet have a mind of their own, as you find yourself almost mindlessly wandering through the hotel halls until you’re planted in front of room 4B. You raise your hand to knock on the door but before you can make contact with the wood it’s thrust open, and Patrick is standing behind it. His dark hair is slightly tousled around his face, his striped shirt unbuttoned and his black boxer briefs low on his waist. He’s smiling, that same big smile as before, but his face is a little flushed, a gentle pink hue touching his cheeks. The two of you don’t say anything for a few seconds, as if you were both testing to see who would concede first to acknowledge the other’s presence. You raise the pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in your right hand.

“I brought studying fuel.”

You were never good at waiting.

Patrick laughs before he moves slightly out of the way to allow you to walk into his room. It’s small, with a queen-sized bed and a tiny desk, and the A/C emits an odd rumbling sound as it smacks against the window. Clothes and scorecards are strewn across the floor, and the scent of cigarettes permeates the room. You place the alcohol on the floor before deciding to sit on the bed, kicking off your shoes as you cross your legs. Patrick seems to stall for a moment, smiling to himself before closing the door behind him. He doesn’t lock the door, but you didn’t notice.

“Art’s not here yet?” you ask, watching as Patrick walks over and tears open the cardboard case, cracking open a can. Taking a sip, he leans against the desk as he smiles.

“Art can be bad with time.”

“As I’ve noticed,” you reach your hand out to motion towards the drink and Patrick hands it to you, staring as you take a large sip.

“Well,” you wipe the side of your mouth, “I told him to bring the topics he wanted to study, so I guess we can’t do anything until he gets here.”

Patrick nods with a slight pout, his fingers playing with the pop tab of the can. “I guess we can’t.”

“How’s tennis… stuff,” you laugh as you finish the question, not sure of exactly what to say.

Patrick seems to tense a little at the mention of the sport, moving over to sit next to you on the bed. His knee grazes your leg and you feel a slight buzz at the contact as he takes the beer from your hand.

“I’m kinda fucking it up right now,” he says, and you furrow your brows.

“How? You were like, really good yesterday.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. He hands you the beer and you finish it off, placing the empty can at the bottom of your feet.

“I’m good with Art. It feels so fucking natural and easy with him. But in my other matches, I don’t know. I just … can’t replicate it.”

You nudge him with your leg.

“Sounds like you two were made to play tennis together.”

He makes a noise of agreement, his hands slowly moving to ghost over your thigh.

“You and Art are pretty close?” you ask as he plays with the bottom hem of your shorts, but he doesn’t say anything. You take his silence as a yes.

“Do you ever get jealous?”

“Of Art?” he asks, almost incredulously. You shrug.

“Yeah, or jealous of the girls he’s with. Either or.”

Patrick sits on that for a few moments before smirking.

“What’s mine is mine, and what’s his is mine.”

You laugh at that, a real deep laugh, and Patrick giggles next to you, the both of you tipsy from the can of beer you finished. You reach over and put your hand on his flushed face, rubbing your hand across his cheek.

“What were you doing before I came?” you feel his face warm even more against your skin as you position yourself closer to him.

“Practicing- or, sorry, rereading my scorecards from my last match.”

You tutted as you moved your hand to the back of his neck, gently running your hands through his hair.

“You can tell me the truth, Patrick.”

He turns his head to press a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand before looking up at you as if to check if that was too much. Whatever your expression is gives him the confidence to move down to your neck, his tongue licking your skin.

“I think you know.”

You feel a pull in your lower stomach at his words, muffled by his mouth nipping at the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he sucks hard enough for you to put your hand around on his face at the pressure. Pulling his face up, the two of you stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and his eyes glance toward your lips. You wanted to wait, to make him beg and plead for it, but your body seemingly pulled you forward as your pressed your mouth onto his.

You were really quite bad at waiting.

He tastes like tobacco and faintly of the fruit medley in the dining hall, and you sigh as his lips interlock with yours and his hand grabs the back of your neck, pressing you into him. The kiss gets messy and hard, his tongue gliding over your bottom lip and into your mouth as you lift your leg to straddle Patrick, grinding into him. He whimpers into the kiss as his calloused hands drop down to the waistband of your shorts, hesitating for a moment before dropping his hand into your underwear. You grind just a little bit faster as his fingers press circles into your clit, covering your mouth with your hand as you moan.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as he uses his other hand to guide your hips, and your move your hands down to tug firmly on his hair. You can feel your climax building, the pressure in your stomach getting closer and closer to taking you over the edge-

You both jump at the sound of the hotel room dor slamming shut. Art is standing there, in that damn backward cap and a Stanford tee shirt as he crosses his arms over his chest, saying nothing as you and Patrick sit up straight, him adjusting his crotch and you smooth down your shirt, avoiding his gaze. Finally, the silence is broken by Art laughing.

“Christ, I’m not the cops,” he slips out of his slides as he waltzes over and opens a can of beer, drinking about half of it in one go. You look at him, and at Patrick, and then back at him, not knowing what the hell you just got yourself into.

“You want to fuck him right?” Art asks, and you can’t help your small gasp at how easily he said that. You glance at Patrick, hoping he’ll know what to say, but he’s just staring at Art.

“I-um,”

“So, no one’s stopping you,” Art cuts you off, taking a final swig of his beer and moving to stand directly in front of you. You open your mouth to try and explain, but before you can talk Patrick’s mouth is on yours again, his hand roaming your body. His grip is firmer now, his fingertips digging into the side of your stomach. He tugs at the bottom of your shirt and you separate, breathless as you pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. Patrick’s mouth moves down to your neck, then your collarbones, and then your chest as he reaches around to take of your bra, and you feel on fire from Art’s gaze across the room. As Patrick kisses down your stomach and yanks down your shorts, you turn over to meet Art’s eyes.

“Come here.”

Whatever resolve Art was holding onto crumbles as he quickly takes off his shirt and slips out of his Nike shorts, tossing his hat on the dresser. In a flash Art’s hands are on your neck, tilting your head around to kiss you as Patrick lifts up your hips so he can take off your underwear. Art’s lips are softer than Patrick’s but he kisses you a little bit harder, his hand cupping the base of your neck. Somehow, they both taste the same. You moan into Art’s mouth as you feel Patrick’s tongue swirl around your clit, rolling your hips into his mouth as Art’s cock presses into your back. It’s just so much so fast, and that familiar buzz starts to pool in your lower stomach.

“Look at him,” Art turns your head to Patrick and you look into his eyes as you cum, Art’s hands hold your head forward as a wave of euphoria crashes over you. Patrick’s hands are digging into your hips as he stares up at you and Art. Your chest heaves up and down as you try to catch your breath, leaning against Art as Patrick leans back up, his mouth a few inches from yours.

“Who do you want first?

[renthony]

Hope in the Hellfire: Revisiting Fahrenheit 451 in 2024

by Ren Basel renbasel.com

When I first read Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, I wasn’t much younger than seventeen-year-old Clarisse McClellan, one of the novel’s major characters. In many ways I was like her: disgruntled with classmates who found me off-putting, eager to talk to adults who would entertain my unusual questions, and constantly off exploring the woods. I was a bookish loner who struggled socially. I proudly read banned books, and carried around my mom’s paperback copy of Robert A. Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land—a book formally banned from inclusion in my high school’s library or curriculum—as a passive challenge for adults to try and confiscate it. None ever tried, but I sure was prepared to raise hell.

Revisiting Fahrenheit 451 in 2024 is a strange experience, not just because of the book’s political commentary. In 2024 I am 30 years old—the same age as Guy Montag, the protagonist. It is easy to put myself in his shoes now, the way I once put myself in Clarisse’s.

Montag is a fireman in a world where every house is fireproof. Instead of extinguishing fires, Bradbury’s firemen collect and burn books. Without books, the population is ignorant and complacent, kept busy with mindless screen entertainment.

Like Montag, I live in a world where books are targeted by a hostile government. In 2024 I live in Florida, where Governor Ron DeSantis makes regular headlines for his crusades against public education, libraries, and books. Many an op-ed has been written about the relevance of Fahrenheit 451 in our times, and it almost feels cliché as an anti-censorship advocate to list it as one of my favorites.

Cliché or not, I can’t help it. Fahrenheit 451 is a warning against censorship, yes; it is a pointed exploration of 1950s American social anxieties, yes; it is a well-written piece of fiction containing rich descriptions of exciting events, yes; but more than that? Fahrenheit 451 is one of my favorite novels because it leaves me feeling hopeful in the midst of social upheaval.

After stealing and reading forbidden books, Montag’s life spirals out of control. His wife sells him out to the authorities, he kills a former colleague in self-defense, he is pursued in a televised government manhunt, and before the story ends he watches bombs reduce his former home to rubble. Montag survives, but he doesn’t fix the world. He is not the victorious hero of a glorious rebellion. Many, many books get burned, and people die. Yet still, there is hope, because Montag finds community. He finds a way to help preserve the books’ contents so they can be passed down to later generations.

In 2024, Fahrenheit 451’s message is important not only because it warns against censorship, but because it reminds us that even if the road ahead is difficult, even if things get worse before they can get better, even if some stories are lost, there are still countless unnamed, unnoticed people fighting to preserve and share knowledge.

The best part is that any of us can join them.

_

Written on commission, using the prompt, “500 words about your favorite pre-1960s Sci-Fi.”

Lovingly dedicated to the Queer Liberation Library (on tumblr as @queerliblib!) for their ongoing mission to make queer eBooks accessible. Check them out at queerliberationlibrary.org!

Like this essay? Tip me on Ko-Fi, pledge to my Patreon, or commission an essay on the topic of your choice!

[fuckitupfelix]

ANON. LET ME COOK WITH THIS ANON.

third time's the charm !?

miya atsumu x male reader

word count: 1.8k

atsumu's self proclaimed "flirting" doesn't get him very far when the guy he's crushing on is absolutely clueless.

FEM ALIGNED DNI

atsumu miya is a fairly popular student. he’s quite well known among his classmates, and generally well liked. as a result, he’s grown a bit cocky. he considered himself a chick magnet— osamu jokes that he’s actually just a manwhore, to atsumu’s dismay— but the fact remains that he was attractive and he knew it, even if he never really acted on it. sure, he liked the attention, but when it came down to it, and osamu or suna ever prodded on why he didn’t get with any of the countless people leaving love letters in his locker, he would simply say they were ‘distractions’. his main focus was volleyball! he’d mess around here and there, but he would never take any of his little flings seriously. that’s what he’s been telling himself. he knows he could get with anyone, and he prides himself on that. it gives him a sense of power; a sense of control— until a certain (name) (surname) joined his class.

the teen had transferred into inarizaki in the middle of second year, and while he knew of the ‘wonder twins’ (he so aptly nicknamed them in his head) through friends and bits he’d seen online, he didn’t care much for them. as far as he was concerned, they were just teenagers. athletes with admirable skill, sure, but teenagers nonetheless. just the same as he was.

atsumu’s been pulling his hair out over the past few weeks because of (name)— his previous logic going straight out the window with the new transfer student. any and all attempts that the setter made to drop hints were futile. the guy was, to put it simply, far too dense.

ATTEMPT ONE: HOMEROOM.

upon (name’s) initial arrival, atsumu’s hooked immediately. it’s not like his introduction was anything crazy; the teacher called him in, he introduced himself, and sat down in the free seat next to suna and behind atsumu. but there’s something so appealing about the teen that draws atsumu in. the setter turns around in his seat, his usual lazy grin sprawled across his face.

“hey there. name’s miya atsumu,” he hums, before jutting a thumb towards the seat to (name’s) left. “that there’s suna rintaro.”

the expected reaction, if you know who he is— and he’s offended at the notion someone at his school potentially wouldn’t— would be absolute joy and surprise. instead, the new student responds with a, “oh. you’re the volleyball guys, right? nice to meet you two.”

suna has to bite back a snort at atsumu’s expression— his jaw dropped, his eye twitching. that’s it? “ya know who i am, yeah?” he asks, regaining his composure immediately. “ain’t i impressive?” he drawls.

“i guess? yeah. you’ve got impressive skill.” (name) responds, seemingly missing the way atsumu bristles at the lack of praise. he decides to flirt a little, wanting to throw this guy off his game.

“since ya missed some of the curriculum already, i can help ya study. get ya caught up.” atsumu says. he catches the way (name’s) face lights up and feels the pride bubbling in his chest. “really? that’d be such a big help! where should we meet up?”

“i was thinkin’ we could study at my place,” atsumu hums, voice a bit lower.

“. . . wouldn’t it be more productive if we went to a library or cafe? i also don’t wanna disturb your parents at all.” (name) replies. suna barks out a laugh, and atsumu shoves his shoulder. “shut it, suna!” he sputters.

“i’m definitely tellin’ ‘samu this later,” the teen snickers, leaning back in his chair. “‘n turn around, ‘tsumu, the lesson’s startin’.”

with a grumble, atsumu turns back to face the front, his arms crossed. there’s no way he just got blown off like that . .

ATTEMPT TWO: VENDING MACHINE.

atsumu refused to give up, even after the relentless nagging from suna to ‘quit being a pussy’ lasted for weeks on end. the two of them sat together with osamu and ginjima on their lunch, a figure slumped over the table, groaning dramatically; the person being atsumu, of course.

“could ya whine a lil quieter? i’ve gotta finish my history assignment and yer bein’ distractin’,” suna says, prodding at atsumu’s crunchy hair— which only prompted another, longer, louder groan.

“i don’t get it! how oblivious is this guy gonna be?!” atsumu whines, his cheek pressed against the cool table. his teammates were going to comment on how none of his attempts were straightforward in the slightest, but decided to let him wallow a bit longer. with a sigh, atsumu stands from his seat, shoving his hands into his pockets. he just needs to clear his head.

“d’you guys want anything from the vending machine?” he asks. they tell him their respective requests, and he exits the cafeteria to find a free vending machine. as he’s wandering about, mind filled with thoughts and plans to get (name) to give in to his ‘flirting’, lo and behold, he’s right there, crouched in front of the vending machine. a pretty face contorted into a hardened expression, eyebrows furrowed as he scans the contents, before letting out a sigh and standing. he turns in the direction of atsumu, and he jumps a little.

“oh! miya-san, hey.” he hums. atsumu scoffs lightly at that, walking closer and leaning an arm against the edge of the vending machine. at this angle, he can see (name’s) face perfectly, the light from the window on the other wall shining beautifully against his skin. it makes him feel giddy.

“i told ya, you can jus’ call me atsumu. drop the honorifics already, (name),” he drawls, his signature smirk on his face. “ya grabbin’ a drink?” (name) nods. he frowns slightly, turning back to look at the vending machine. “i can’t decide what to get, though. any suggestions?”

it’s almost like a lightbulb sparks above atsumu’s head. he has a perfect idea. leaning over (name), he comes closer to the glass dividing them and the drinks, purposefully drawing his face inches away from (name).

“hm,” he narrows his eyes, pretending to think about it, before pointing to a peach tea can, letting that same arm loosely wrap above the other teen’s shoulder. “this peach tea’s pretty good. it’s sweet, just like you,” he says, adding that last part a little quieter.

this has to be it. (name) has to hear that and take the hint, atsumu thinks to himself. so when (name) turns, his face lighting up with joy, and he responds with, “that sounds perfect, man! thank you!” he gawks at the teen's obliviousness as he punches in ‘D-3’ on the keypad, sliding the coins in. the can falls down with a thud, and he takes it, walking off as he cracks it open and takes a sip.

atsumu really cannot catch a break.

ATTEMPT THREE: NATIONALS.

atsumu's been going at it in the gym for the entirety of his lunch break, practicing his serves, sending ball after ball over the net.

“i’m done!” atsumu sputters, his shoes squeaking as he jumps up, arms stretched out as he slams another volleyball across the court. it lands out, and he grits his teeth. “he's impossible! he keeps actin' all buddy-buddy with me!”

osamu snorts at his brother's pouting. “so you'd rather (name) hate yer guts?” “that's not what i meant!” he huffs childishly, kicking at the floor. “fuck it. i’m tellin’ ‘im! ‘samu,” he whirls around to face his twin, jostling him by the shoulders.

“where would (name) be right now?” “why would i know that? it's lunch, check the classrooms.” osamu says dryly, shoving atsumu off of himself.

atsumu just nods, ignoring the action. like his life depends on it, he sprints out of the gym and towards the main building. through the side doors, past the lockers, up the stairs, to the very end of the hall, until he reaches their classroom.

“(name)!” he all but yells, sliding the door open with too much force. students whisper and murmur around the room, girls huddled up in the corners, eyes wide and hands cupped over their cheeks as they practically marvel at the sight of atsumu. (name), however, looks a bit concerned. placing his lunchbox onto his desk, his fork laid gently beside it, he stands and walks over to the door, not noticing the stares from all over the classroom. as he steps out, he shuts the door behind him.

“atsumu? are you alright?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed. “you look like you just ran a marathon—”

“we're goin’ to nationals tomorrow,” atsumu pants. (name) knew that— he's heard him and the others on the team talk about it in the halls, or when they have lunch at atsumu's desk.

“right, yeah. goodluck with that. you guys are gonna do amazing, obviously,” (name) chuckles. god, the sound makes atsumu's heart ache. he needs to get it out already, he's wasted far too much time dawdling.

“right, yeah. words don't mean much, though,” atsumu leans an arm against the wall, right next to (name). “a goodluck kiss would work wonders, though.” he says smoothly. this was his final attempt for (name).

the teen stiffens up at that. “what?” he laughs, wondering if he even heard atsumu correctly. “ya heard me. it’d be pretty motivatin’ if the pretty boy i’ve been likin’ gave me a lil goodluck kiss. just a lil peck.”

what?

“. . . you like me?” (name) asks. “since when?” atsumu huffs at that. “since forever! yer just too dense, i’ve been tryna hint at it for months now!” at that, the realization dawns on him. oh. “i thought you were just being nice!” (name) sputters, clearly trying to defend himself. atsumu lets out a choked noise.

“am i that bad at flirting?” he asks weakly. “no! i don't think so? i didn't realize you liked me at all! you should have said something!”

yes. he should have. he knows that, god knows osamu does as well. he just leans in a little closer. “so, how about that goodluck kiss, hm?” he asks after a beat of silence.

with a light scoff, (name) plants his hands on atsumu's shoulders, gripping at the fabric of his uniform shirt. it’s crumpled and smells slightly like sweat, but he decides to overlook that detail. he leans in, capturing atsumu's lips with his own. the kiss was brief, but atsumu's hands had already flown to cup the back of (name's) neck, gently tugging him forward. (name) lets out a startled noise, but doesn't move back until a few seconds later.

“so. you'll be watchin’ me at nationals, yeah?” atsumu drawls, his fingers carding through (name's) hair, idly twisting a strand.

“of course i will.”

this was so fun to write omg!!! also my reqs are open if you wanna drop any ideas for any fics !!

divider by @/plutism !!

[unabashegirl]

Different 13 — college hs

Harry's quiet, routine-driven life changes one weekend when he meets Y/N through a mutual friend at her party. She comes from a superficial, materialistic world with absent parents who believe money solves everything. Despite their differences, something clicks that night, and Y/N can't stop thinking about him.

Author's note: hello everyone,I hope you are all doing well! I wanted to thank everyone who has donated to my Ko-FI "help me pay for medical school". It has really touched me especially how kind everyone here can be. If you are able please please help me. I am desperate. I've run out of options.

If you don't know what I am talking about here is a brief summary: As many of you may know, I’m currently in medical school, only a year away from graduating. Unfortunately, I’m facing a financial hurdle that might prevent me from enrolling this January. My father’s passing due to cancer has left my family in a tough spot, and my mom has been working tirelessly to support me and cover my school expenses. The reason this is so urgent is that if I miss this semester, I’ll fall behind significantly due to changes in the school’s syllabus. The semesters after mine follow a completely different curriculum, meaning I wouldn’t just be delayed a semester—I’d be delayed by over a year and a half. I’ve been thinking long and hard about how I can keep moving forward, and I’ve decided to ask for your help. Any support, whether through donations, or simply spreading the word, would mean the world to me. I’m incredibly grateful to have this amazing community.

--> Ko-Fi link for donations. (You can even donate a $1)

--> Patreon

---> different masterlist <---

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of rape, sexual abuse and physical abuse.

“I am done” Y/N frowned as she shut her book closed. “My brain is going to explode if I continue” Harry smiled as he caressed her back gently. “Can we go get some dinner or something?” She suggested to everyone.

“Keep talking,” Mitch said as he looked up from his laptop. “I am genuinely starving”.

“Can I go too?” Sarah asked, not wanting to interrupt the plans if it was a couples-only plan and she and Mitch had misinterpreted.

“Obviously” Y/N smiled, “I know this place where they sell tacos and burritos close to campus. Does that sound good?”

“So good” Mitch had already started packing, knowing that if he continued studying nothing would stick and he would just be burning neurons for fun.

“I left my car. is it all right if we walk there? Is not that far” They all nodded and started their journey to the food truck that Y/N had pumped up so much.

Y/N had texted James and Sebastian to meet them after their gym session, so she wasn’t surprised to run into them when they arrived.

“There you are” James smiled as he pulled her into a hug. “How was the library?”

“Good” She smiled and hugged him back.

It all happened so quickly that no one in the group had a chance to react. Y/N hadn’t even been able to introduce her lifelong friends to her boyfriend when Brian walked up with his jaw clenched and his eyebrows frowned.

“Look who is here” He smiled as he noticed Harry. Their hands were intertwined, and Harry carried both of their backpacks. “Why are you here, huh?”.

“Brian. Don’t” Y/N hissed she noticed James moving up front to face him. She was nervous about how everything was going to unfold. The last thing she wanted was for a fight to break out between her friends and boyfriend against Brian.

“So, this is what you are fucking, huh?” He poked Harry’s chest harshly, emphasizing on YOU. Harry didn’t say anything and remained quiet. He had no desire to fight. He was also very serene at alarming times.

“You are a fucking idiot” James chuckled as he stepped in front of Y/N and Harry. His body was tense, and he stood proudly with his head up. James had never been a fan of Brian. They were teammates, but Brian always ran his mouth in the locker room and spoke of whomever he was doing. Brian had obviously spoken about Y/N and had referred to her as easy.

“I wasn’t speaking to you. So, I suggest you shut your mouth and get out of my face” Brian commanded him only reminding him of that night. “Before I shut it for you”.

The comment that brought him back to that night. An image and a night that still haunted him. James had been downstairs enjoying a few drinks, celebrating a victory in beer pong. He had also been the first in the room and to think that he had gone to look for them because of a hunch.

--->FLASHBACK<----

People danced against one another to the rhythm of the loud music that made the house vibrate. Sebastian walked past James too intoxicated to even notice him. Earlier they had won a football game which coherently had been celebrated with a party, organized by a sorority. They had arrived with Y/N and like every other party she had disappeared with Brian. James yanked Sebastian by the back of his yellow shirt.

“Bro” Sebastian grind, realizing that it was his best friend. “There are so many hot girls” He breathed then leaned in, “Let’s go get some” he whispered and so his breath fanned James’s face. He could smell the alcohol on him from twenty miles away. Sebastian rarely partied as hard, but he had recently broken up with a girl, which had hurt him severely. James laughed and pushed him back lightly, trying to get his breath away from his face.

“You need a fucking mint. Not a girl, man” James joked as Sebastian threw his arm over his shoulders as they looked through the crowd of people. “Have you seen Y/N?” He asked over the loud music.

“Saw her a few hours ago. She was heading upstairs with Brian. Even she is getting some!” James frowned and couldn’t keep his mind from drifting to the stories that people talked of Brian.

“A few hours?” He asked again, but Sebastian was too distracted eyeing some random girl to answer him.

Something grew within James that night. Perhaps it was an instinct of protection. So, since he was far from shy, he started making his way through people and up the stairs to the second floor. He dodged people and pushed them around in hopes to find her. James looked for her one last time when he was at the top of the stairs but there were so people, and Y/N was tiny, that it was useless.

He eventually gave up and walked up the stairs and towards the master bedroom. He didn’t need to search the other bedrooms because he knew Brian was too self-absorbed to settle for less than the biggest room in the house.

James stood outside the door and thought about it multiple times, but something in his gut told him to get into the room. So, he quietly opened one of the doors and found them.

Brian was holding her and not in the delicate matter that she deserved to be touched and handled. He held her by her hair and his fist was in the air, above her, ready to deliver the third blow to her face. Y/N was looking up at him, drowning in tears and blood. Her hands were trying to scratch her way out of his grip, but she was unsuccessful.

In a matter of seconds, James had gripped him by the back of his neck and had ripped him off her like a band-aid.

“What the fuck?” Brian slurred as he was thrown on the floor. James was finally able to get a better look at Y/N. He would never forget how scared and vulnerable she looked. His blood boiled and was quickly on Brian. James’s fist repeatedly met with his face and blood started splattering everywhere. Y/N cried and screamed as she tried pulling James off, Brian.

“SHIT” Sebastian's drunkenness evaporated in seconds as soon as he walked in. There was blood everywhere and not only from Brian and James but also Y/N’s. Her dress straps were down, and the bottom was riddled up to her waist. Her throat was red from the marks made by his tight grip on her. She had arrived in a tan bodycon dress, but now it had a huge strain covering the front and it had been overly stretched by Brian’s brutality.

Sebastian was finally able to get James off, Brian, but not without breaking a sweat.

“Enough” He yelled as he helped him off the floor. “Look at Y/N. She needs us more than ever” James looked up and noticed the crying mess that Y/N was and how broken she was.

“Is he breathing?” James asked as he approached Y/N slowly not wanting to startle her or scare her.

Sebastian kneeled down by Brian and checked that he was still breathing before nodding back at James, who was taking his jacket off just so he could take his shirt off too. He gathered it up and pressed it against her broken nose then pulled on the jacket to cover his naked torso.

“Fuck baby” he hissed as he watched her wince, “What has he done to you?” He whispered as his eyes watered, hoping that it hadn’t happened before. James and Sebastian didn’t expect an answer from her. They just helped her to pull her dress down and pull the straps of her dress up.

“Please take me home” She begged between hiccups. James nodded but stood back. He felt too dirty of his blood to be able to touch her. Sebastian wrapped an arm over Y/N’s shoulder and protected her body as they both escorted her out of the party. James also gave deadly stares to anyone that looked with the intention of asking what had happened.

“How could this happen?” James whispered to Sebastian after they had comfortably settled Y/N in the back of the car and made sure that she was able to lie down. Sebastian sighed and ran his hands through his air. Still very perplexed by the situation. “God only knows what he would’ve done to her if we hadn’t walked in” he mumbled as he started the car.

“I don’t even want to think about it” Sebastian shook his head, hating the evident pain that Brian had caused Y/N. They could tell that Y/N would never fully recover from it.

Sebastian picked her up and carried her upstairs after parking in her apartment. James made sure to prepare her a bath and they both helped her get her feet in the bath before leaving her to her own privacy. They all took their own independent showers and scrubbed their skin until it was red in the hopes that it would wash away the memories too.

“Hi,” James gave her a small smile as he stood by the doorframe. He had thrown on some pajamas that they kept in her house since freshman year.

Most of the lights were already off, except for the light that the TV emitted and her bedside lamp.

“How bad is it?” He asked just as Sebastian sat down by the feet of the bed. She wore a set of matching pajamas; her pair was wet and brushed back. Y/N was finally clean, but her nose worried her. The bruising had started forming and the blood on her lip had dried up.

“I think he broke my nose” Sebastian inhaled heavily, “It wasn’t good a noise anyway” she shrugged, knowing that her parents would probably pay for plastic surgery to get it fixed as soon as possible.

“I’ll call my dad tomorrow so he can check it out for you” Sebastian’s father was a very prestigious plastic surgeon that had applied multiple Botox injections to her mother.

“You need to get some rest.”

“Please stay with me” She was embarrassed, but she couldn’t sleep alone. Y/N made herself in the middle and cleared space for them.

James makes sure to turn off the TV and the lamp. All three lay in the darkness, but none of them said anything. However, none of them were able to catch sleep.

“Are you alright?” Sebastian asked as he grabbed Y/N’s hand.

“I don’t know” James responded and looked over at Y/N.

“You?” he asked as he ran his finger over his bruised knuckles. He knows her answer before she is able to say anything. James could tell that she wasn’t okay and that she was scared. She doesn’t respond to James but only allows the tears to stream down her cheeks. Y/N cried silently for a few minutes until a soft sob escaped her mouth.

So, James turned to his side and gathered her in his arms. None of them say anything or do anything. James just held her for hours until she cried herself to sleep from exhaustion.

Later, Sebastian woke up in the middle of the night and realized that nothing that they had lived that night had been a dream. So, he joined them and threw an arm over Y/N, hugging her and cuddling her from behind.

--> END OF FLASHBACK <---

“I thought I had made myself very clear when I told you to stay the fuck away from Y/N” James stepped up to Brian, “Were you too drunk that night to remember?”

“I could care less what you want me to do” Brian wasn’t going to walk away without causing a scene. People from the university had gathered around them and were closely listening in. Brian didn’t feel as confident to face James’s anger, but he couldn’t back down. People were watching and to Brian, his reputation mattered more.

“I swear to God that I won’t hesitate to break your fucking face in front of everyone” Their foreheads were almost touching, and Brian tried to stand tall, but James was too intimidating, “Step away and go home” he hissed.

Brian raised his eyebrow and tore his eyes from James’s stare. He noticed how many people were around them. He was considering leaving after he remembered how James had left him that night. Brian was actually lucky that James hadn’t killed him. So, he walked away, leaving them alone.

“What the hell was that?” Mitch asked completely taken back by Brian’s unfriendly behavior. “What a prick”. He laughed.

“Sorry” Y/N frowned as she finally looked up at Harry, who had released her hand midway through the altercation.

“I am James” He smiled and shook everyone’s hand, “I’ve known Y/N since birth” He added watching how uneasy Harry was. James could tell that Harry hadn’t liked something and it had been James’s closeness to Y/N. To be fair, James did have a crush on Y/N, but that was way back in high school. He now loved her, but only as a sister.

“And I am Sebastian” he smiled, “So who wants some tacos?”.

--> chapter 14