#and I know I had demerits at my high school

[shrekgogurt]

I have a lot of words written for Chapter 15 of that behemoth in the making I Knew A Boy, I Knew A Man and only some of them are good. Here are a few of those select ‘good words.’

Simon POV, past (age fifteen):

“You’re out of uniform,” Premal announces, flashing his prefect badge at Penny and me like a fucking copper.

Cachu hwch. (Pig’s shit.) (Total fucking disaster.)

We’ve been caught out.

And it’s not even our fault.

I woke up this morning and realised all my socks were gone—stolen by Baz’s psychotic aunt, no doubt. She was glaring at me like I pissed in a great Pitch family heirloom when she dropped him off yesterday. (And it was her.) (I’m convinced.) (Because Baz once told me he would rather saw his arm off with a rusty piece of barbed wire than touch any of my “chavvy accouterments.”) (So...) Anyway, Penny shirked her own socks at breakfast in solidarity and together we’ve managed to hide our bare ankles from even the most militant professors. But we forgot Premal was on the prowl, drunk off his new power and the opportunity to wield it over his siblings.

Penny crosses her arms in defiance. “We’re not even in your year.”

“You don’t need to be. I’m authorised by The Headmistress to distribute demerits to anyone who violates school policy.”

“Listen to yourself!” Penny’s arms flail as she yells. “The Headmistress? She gave birth to you! Call her mum, you prat!”

Bah humbug! Editing!? I have to do it!? And also still finish the last bit of the rough draft??? Boo! But, writing in a notebook has been great for speed if not a bit of a downgrade in initial quality.

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 5: Artemis, Goddess Of The Hunt]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.6k

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“So you smoked grass in college,” Aegon says, pondering you with glazed eyes as he slurps his cherry-flavored Mr. Misty. You’re in Biloxi, Mississippi where Aemond is making speeches and meeting with locals to commemorate the first summer of the beaches being desegregated after a decade of peaceful protests and violent white supremacist backlash. Route 90 runs right along the sand dunes. If you walked out of this Dairy Queen, you could look south and see the Gulf of Mexico, placid dark ripples gleaming with moonshine. “And swore, and had a boyfriend, and presumably, what, did shots? Skipped class on occasion?”

“Yeah,” you admit, smiling sheepishly, remembering. You stretch out your fingers. “I chewed gum, I talked during mass. And I loved black nail polish. The nuns would beat my knuckles with rulers, I always had bruises. I wore these flowing skirts down to my ankles and knee-high boots. My hair was a mess, long and blowing around everywhere. My friends and I would do each other’s makeup, silver glitter and purple shadow, pencil on a ridiculous amount of eyeliner and then smudge it out. If you saw a photo you wouldn’t recognize me.”

Aegon takes a drag on his Lucky Strike cigarette, weightless smoke and the tired yellowish haze of florescent lights. Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth is playing from the Zenith radio on the counter by the cash register. “I’d recognize you.”

“I used to skip this one class all the time. The professor was a demon. I could do the math, but not the way he wanted me to. Right solution, wrong steps, I don’t know. I learned it differently in high school, and I couldn’t figure out the formula he wanted me to use. So he’d mark everything a zero even if my answer was correct. I couldn’t stand that bastard. Then the nuns kept catching me sunbathing on the quad when I was supposed to be in Matrices and Vector Spaces. I racked up so many demerits they were going to revoke my weekend pass, and then I wouldn’t be able to go into the city with my friends. So I stole the demerit book and burned it up on the stove in my dorm. Almost set the whole building on fire.”

Aegon is laughing. “You did not. Not you, not perfect ever-obedient Miss America!”

“I did. I really did.” You sip your own Mr. Misty, lemon-lime. Across the restaurant, Criston and Fosco are eating banana splits—dripping chocolate syrup and melted ice cream all over their table—and passionately debating who is going to end up in the World Series; Criston favors the Cardinals and the Orioles, Fosco says the Red Sox and the Cubs. The rest of the Targaryen family is back at the hotel watching news coverage of the Republican National Convention, something you can only stomach so much of, Otto’s cynical commentary, Aemond’s remaining eye fixed fiercely on the screen as he nips at an Old Fashioned. “I was wild back then.”

“And you gave it all up to be Aemond’s first lady.”

You think back to where it started: palm trees, salt water, alligators in drainage ditches. “My father grew up in a shack outside of Tallahassee. No electricity, no running water, he dropped out of school in eighth grade to help take care of his siblings when his mom died. They moved south to live with their aunt in Tampa, and my father wound up in Tarpon Springs working as a sea sponge diver.”

Aegon’s eyebrows rise, like he thinks you’re teasing him. “Sea sponges…?”

“I’m serious! It paid better than picking oranges or sweeping up in a factory. It’s dangerous. You have to wear this heavy rubber suit and walk around on the ocean floor, sometimes 50 feet or more below the surface.”

“What do people do with sea sponges?”

“Oh right, you would be unfamiliar. You’re supposed to clean yourself with them, like a loofah. Soap? Water? Ringing any bells?”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “You’re a very mean person. Aren’t you supposed to be setting an example for the merciful wives and daughters of this great nation?”

“Painters and potters buy sponges too. And some women use them as contraceptives. You can soak them in lemon juice and then shove them up there and it kills sperm.”

“I suddenly have great appreciation for the sea sponge industry. God bless the sea sponges.”

“So my father spent a few years diving, and he fell in love with a girl who worked at one of the shops he sold sponges to. That was my mother. They got married when he had absolutely nothing, and by their fifth anniversary he had his own fleet of boats, a gift shop, and a processing and shipping facility, all of which they owned jointly. They just opened the Spongeorama Sponge Factory this past April, a cute little tourist trap. But my point is that they were partners from the start. My father listens to my mother, and she works alongside him, and it was never like what I’ve seen from my friends’ parents: dad at the office 80 hours a week, mom at home strung out on Valium, just these…deeply separate, cold planets locked in orbit but never touching each other. I knew I didn’t want that. I wanted a husband who was building something I could be a part of. I wanted a man who respected me.”

Aegon watches you as he lights a fresh cigarette, not saying what you imagine he wants to: And how is that working out? He puffs on his Lucky Strike a few times and then offers it to you. You aren’t supposed to smoke, not even tobacco—it’s not ladylike, it’s masculine, it’s subversive—but you take it and hold it between your index and middle fingers, inhaling an ashy bitterness that blood learns to crave. The bracelets on your wrist jangle, thin silver chains that match the diamonds in your ears. Your dress is mint green, your hair in your signature Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo. Aegon is wearing a black t-shirt with The Who stamped across the front. When you pass the cigarette back to him, Aegon asks: “What music did you listen to? The Stones, The Animals?”

“Yeah. And Hendrix, The Kinks, Aretha Franklin…”

“Phil Ochs?”

“I love him. He’s got a song about Mississippi, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware. It’s one of my favorites.”

“And I’m currently getting a little obsessed with Loretta Lynn. She’s so angry!”

“She’s sanctimonious, that’s what she is. Always bitching about men.”

“Six kids and an alcoholic husband will do that to someone.”

Aegon winces, and then you realize what you’ve said. Loretta Lynn sounds a lot like Mimi. He finishes his Mr. Misty and then fidgets restlessly with his white cardboard cup, spinning it around by the straw. You feel bad, though you shouldn’t. You wouldn’t have a month ago.

“Aegon,” you say gently, and he reluctantly looks up at you, sunburned cheeks, blonde hair shagging over his eyes. “Why do you ignore your children? They’re interesting, they’re fun. Violeta invited me to help her make cakes with her Easy-Bake Oven last week. And Cosmo…he’s so clever. But it’s like he doesn’t know who you are. He might actually think Fosco’s his dad.”

Aegon takes one last drag off his cigarette and discards the end of it in his Mr. Misty cup. Now he’s fiddling with it again, avoiding your gaze. “I don’t have much to offer them.”

“I think you do.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do,” you insist. “You can be kind of nice sometimes.”

He frowns, staring out the window. You know he can’t see anything but darkness and streetlights. “I should have been the one to go to Vietnam. If somebody had to get shot at so Aemond could be president, I was the right choice. No one would miss me. No one would mourn me. Daeron didn’t deserve that. But I was too old, so Otto and my father got him to enlist. Now he’s in the jungle and my mother has nightmares about Western Union telegrams. If I was the son over there, I think she’d sleep easier.”

I’m glad you’re still here, you think. Instead you say: “Your children need you.”

“No they don’t. Between me and Mimi, they’re better off as orphans. Helaena and Fosco can be their parents. Maybe they’ll have a fighting chance.”

The glass door opens, and a man walks into the Dairy Queen with his two sons scampering behind him, all with sandy flip flops and carrying fishing rods. The dad is at least six feet tall and brawny, and wearing a Wallace For President baseball cap. You and Aegon both notice it, then share an amused, disparaging glance. You mouth: Imbecile bigot. The man continues to the cash register and orders two chocolate shakes and a root beer float. At their own table, Criston is mopping up melted ice cream with napkins and telling Fosco to stop being such a pig.

“Me?!” Fosco says. “You are the pig, that spot there is your ice cream, do not blame your failings on poor Fosco. I have already let you drag me to this terrible state and never once complained about the fried food or the mosquitos. And that thing out there is not a real beach. The water is still and brown, brown!”

“For once in your life, pretend you have a work ethic and help me clean up the table.”

“You are being very anti-immigrant right now, do you know that?”

Aegon begins singing, ostensibly to himself. “Here’s to the state of Mississippi, for underneath her borders, the devil draws no lines.”

“Aegon, no,” you whisper, petrified. You know this song. You know where he’s going.

He’s beaming as he continues: “If you drag her muddy rivers, nameless bodies you will find.”

Now the man in the Wallace hat is looking at Aegon. His sons are happily gulping down their chocolate shakes. Criston and Fosco, still bickering, haven’t noticed yet.

“Oh, the fat trees of the forest have hid a thousand crimes.”

“Aegon, don’t,” you plead quietly. “He’ll murder you.”

“The calendar is lyin’ when it reads the present time.”

“Hey,” calls the man in the Wallace For President hat. “You got a problem, boy?”

Aegon drums his palms on the tabletop as he sings, loudly now: “Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of, Mississippi find yourself another country to be part of!”

In seconds, the man has crossed the room, grabbed Aegon by the collar of his t-shirt, yanked him out of his chair and struck him across the face: closed fist, lethal intent, the sick wet sound of bones on flesh. Aegon’s nose gushes, his lip splits open, but he isn’t flinching away, he isn’t afraid. He’s yowling like a rabid animal and clawing, kicking, swinging at the giant who’s ensnared him. You are screaming as you leap to your feet, your chair falling over and clattering on the floor behind you. The man’s sons are hooting joyously. “Git him, Paw!” one of them shouts.

“Criston?!” you shriek, but he and Fosco are already here, tugging at the man’s massive arms and beating on his back, trying to untangle him from Aegon.

“Stop!” Criston roars. “You don’t want to hurt him! He’s a Targaryen!”

“A Targaryen, huh?” the man says as he steps away, wiping the blood from his knuckles on his tattered white t-shirt, stained with fish guts. “All the better. I wish that bullet they put in Aemond woulda been just another inch to the left. Directly through the aorta.”

Aegon lunges at the man again, hissing, fists swinging. Fosco yanks him back.

“Are you gonna call someone or not?!” Criston snaps at the girl behind the cash register, but she only gives him a steely glare in return. This is Wallace country. There’s a reason why it took four years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to finally desegregate the beaches.

“We should go,” you tell Criston softly.

“Yes, we will leave now,” Fosco says, hauling Aegon towards the front door. Then, to the cashier: “Thank you for the ice cream, but it was not very good. If you are ever in Italy, try the gelato. You will learn so much.”

“I can’t wait ‘til November,” the man gloats, ominous, threatening. His sons are standing tall and proud beside him. “When Aemond loses, you can all cart your asses back to Europe. We don’t want you here. America ain’t for people like you.”

“It literally is,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “It’s on the Statue of Liberty.”

“Yeah, where do you think your ancestors came from?!” Aegon yells at the man. “Are you a Seminole, pal? I didn’t think so—!” Fosco and Criston lug him through the doorway before more punches can be thrown.

Outside—under stars and streetlights and a full moon—Aegon burst out laughing. This is when he feels alive; this is when the blood in his veins turns to wave and riptides. You didn’t think to grab napkins from the table, so you wipe the blood off his face with your bare hand, assessing the damage. He’ll be fine; swollen and sore, but fine.

“You’re insane, you know that?” you say. “You could have been killed.”

Aegon pats your cheek twice and grins, blood on his teeth. “The world would keep spinning, little Io.” Then he starts walking back towards the White House Hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the four of you arrive at your suite, Aemond, Otto, Ludwika, and Alicent are still gathered around the television. The nannies have taken the children to bed. Helaena is reading The Bell Jar in an armchair in the corner of the room. Mimi is passed out on the couch, several empty glasses on the coffee table. ABC is showing a clip they recorded earlier today of Ludwika travelling with Aemond’s retinue after he made an impassioned speech condemning the lack of recognition of the evils of slavery at Beauvoir, the historic home of former Confederate president Jefferson Davis. The reporter is asking Ludwika what she thinks makes Aemond a better presidential candidate than Eugene McCarthy, as McCarthy shares many of the same policy positions and has an additional 15 years of political experience.

“This McCarthy is not a real man,” Ludwika responds, her face stony and mistrustful. “He reminds me of the communists back in my country. Did you know he met with Che Guevara in New York City a few years ago? Why would he do such a thing?”

Now, Otto turns to her in this hotel room. “I love you.”

Ludwika takes a sip of her martini. “I want another Gucci bag.”

“Yes, yes. Tomorrow, my dear.”

“What happened to you?” Aemond asks his brother, half-exasperated and half-concerned. Criston has fetched a washcloth from the bathroom for Aegon to hold against his bleeding lip and nose. Aemond is still wearing his blue suit from a long day of campaigning, but he’s taken out his eye and put on his eyepatch. His gaze flicks from Aegon’s face to the blood still coating your left hand. On the couch, Mimi’s bare foot twitches but she doesn’t wake up.

“There was a Wallace supporter at the Dairy Queen,” you say. “Aegon felt inspired to defend you.”

Aemond chuckles. “Did you win?” he asks Aegon.

“I would have if the guy wasn’t two of me.”

On the television screen, Richard Nixon is accepting his party’s nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in Miami, Florida.

“He’s a buffoon,” Otto sneers. “So awkward and undignified. Look at him sweating! Look at those ridiculous jowls! And he comes from nothing. His family is trash.”

“Americans love a rags to riches story,” you say. And then, somewhat randomly: “He loves his wife. He proposed to Pat on their very first date, and she said no. So he drove her to dates with other men for years until she finally reconsidered. He said it was love at first sight. He’s never had a mistress. And jowls or no jowls, his family adores him.”

Aegon turns to you, still clutching the washcloth against his face. “Really?”

You nod. “That’s the sort of thing the women talk about.”

There’s a knock at the door. You all look at each other, confounded; no one has ordered room service, no one is expecting any visitors, and the nannies have keys in the event of an emergency. Fosco is closest to the door, so he opens it. A man in uniform is standing there with a golden Western Union telegram in his hands. Alicent screams and collapses. Criston bolts to her.

“It’s okay,” you say. “He’s not dead. Whatever happened, Daeron’s not dead.”

Otto crinkles his brow at you. “How do you know?”

“Because if he was killed, there would be a priest here too.” They always send a priest when the boy is dead. Aegon glances at you, eyes wet and fearful.

“Ma’am,” the soldier—a major you see now, spotting the golden oak leaves—says to Alicent as he removes his cap. “I regret to inform you that your son Daeron was missing in action for several weeks, and we’ve just received confirmation that he’s being held as a prisoner of war in Hỏa Lò Prison.”

“He’s in the Hanoi Hilton?!” Otto exclaims. “Oh, fuck those people and their swamp, how did Kennedy ever think we had something to gain from getting tangled up in that mess?”

“But he’s alive?” Aemond says. “He’s unharmed?”

“Yes sir,” the captain replies. “It is our understanding that he is in good condition. The North Vietnamese are aware that he is a very valuable prisoner, like Admiral McCain’s son John. He’ll be used in negotiations. He is of far more use to them alive than dead.”

“So we can get Daeron back,” Aegon says. “I mean, we have to be able to, right? Aemond’s running for president, he’ll probably win in November, we have millions of dollars, we can spring one man out of some third-world jail, right?”

The captain continues: “Tomorrow when your family returns to New Jersey, the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be there to discuss next steps with you. I’m afraid I’m only authorized to give you the news as it was relayed to me.” He entrusts the telegram to Otto, who rapidly opens it and stares down at the mechanical typewriter words.

“I have to pray,” Alicent says suddenly. “Helaena, will you pray with me? There’s a Greek church down the road. Holy Trinity, I think it’s called.”

Obediently, Helaena joins her mother and follows her to the doorway. Criston leaves with them. Otto gives his new wife a harsh, meaningful stare. Ludwika, an ardent yet covert atheist, sighs irritably. “Wait. I want to pray too,” she says, and vanishes with them into the hall.

As the captain departs, Mimi sits up on the couch, blinking, groggy. “What? What happened?”

“Go with Alicent,” Otto tells her. “She’s headed downstairs.”

“What? Why…?”

“Just go!” he barks.

Mimi staggers to her feet and hobbles out of the hotel room, her sundress—patterned with forget-me-nots—billowing around her. The only people left are Otto, Aemond, Fosco, Aegon, and you. The fact that you are the sole woman permitted to remain here feels intentional.

After a moment, Otto speaks. “You know, John McCain has famously refused to be released from the Hanoi Hilton until all the men imprisoned before him have been freed. He doesn’t want special treatment. And that’s a very noble thing to do, don’t you think? It has endeared him and the McCains to the public.”

Aemond and Otto are looking at each other, communicating in a silent language not of letters or accents but colors: red ambition, green hunger, grey impassionate morality. Fosco is observing them uneasily. Aemond says at last: “Daeron wants to help this family.”

“You’re not going to try to get him out.” Aegon realizes.

Aemond turns to him, businesslike, vague distant sympathy. “It’s only until November.”

“No, you know people!” Aegon explodes. “You pick up the phone, you call in every favor, you get him out of there now! You have no idea if he has another three months, you don’t know what kind of shape he’s in! They could be dislocating his arms or chopping off his fingers right now, they could be starving him, they could be beating him, you can’t just leave him there!”

“It’s not your decision. It could have been, had you accepted your role as the eldest son. But you didn’t. So it’s my job to handle these things. You don’t get to hate me for making choices you were too cowardly too take responsibility for.”

“But Daeron could die,” Aegon says, his voice going brittle.

“Any of us could die. We’re in a very dangerous line of work. Greatness killed Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Huey Long, Medgar Evers, John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, Vernon Dahmer, Martin Luther King Jr., does that mean we should all give up the fight? Of course not. The work isn’t finished. We have to keep going.”

“Will you stop pretending this is about America?! This is about you wanting to be president, and everything you’ve ever done has been in pursuit of that trophy, and you keep shoving new people into the line of fire and it’s not right!”

“Aegon,” Otto says calmly. “It’s unlikely we’d be able to get him out before the election anyway. Negotiations take time. But if Aemond wins in November, he’ll be in a very advantageous position. The North Vietnamese aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t kill the brother of a U.S. president. They don’t want their vile little corner of the world flattened by nukes.”

“Still, it feels so wrong to leave a brother in peril,” Fosco says. “It is unnatural. Of course Aegon will be upset. We could at least see what a deal to get Daeron released would entail, maybe his arrival home would be a good headline—”

“And who the fuck asked you?” Otto demands, and Fosco goes quiet.

“Okay, then tell Mom,” Aegon says to Aemond. “Tell her you’re going to pretend Daeron made some self-sacrificial vow not to come home until all the other POWs can too. Tell her you’re going to let him get tortured for a few months before you take this seriously.”

Aemond replies cooly: “Why would you want to upset her? She can’t change it. You’ll only make her suffering worse.”

“What do you think?” Otto asks you, and you know that he isn’t seeking counsel. He’s summoning you like a dog to perform a trick, like an actor to recite a line. He’s waiting for you to say that it’s a smart strategy, because it is. He’s waiting for you to bend to Aemond’s will as your station requires you to, as moons are bound to their planets.

“I think it’s wrong,” you murmur; and Aemond is thunderstruck by your treason.

Without another word, you walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and gaze down at Aegon’s blood on your palm. For some reason, it’s very difficult to bring yourself to wash it away.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s mid-August now, the world painted in goldenrod yellow and sky blue. The Democratic National Convention is in two weeks. You and Aemond are posing on the beach at Asteria, surrounded by an adoring gaggle of journalists who are snapping photographs and jotting down quotes on their notepads. You’re sitting demurely on a sand dune, you’re building sandcastles with the children you borrowed from Aegon and Helaena, you’re flying kites, you’re gazing confidently into the sunlit horizon where a glorious new age is surely dawning.

“Mr. Targaryen, what is it that makes your partnership so successful?” a journalist asks as flashbulbs pulse like lightning. “What do you think is the most crucial characteristic to have in a wife?”

Aemond doesn’t need to consider this before he answers. He always has his compliment picked out. “Loyalty,” your husband says. “Not just to me or to the Targaryen family, but to our shared cause. This year has been indescribably difficult for me and my wife. I announced my candidacy, we embarked on a strenuous national campaign that we’re currently only halfway through, I barely survived a brutal assassination attempt in May, in July we lost our first child to hyaline membrane disease after he was born six weeks prematurely, and at the beginning of this month we learned that my youngest brother Daeron was taken by the North Vietnamese as a prisoner of war. To find the strength not just to get out of bed in the morning, not just to be there for me and this family in our personal lives, but to tirelessly traverse the country with me inspiring Americans to believe in a better future…it’s absolutely remarkable. I’m in awe of her. And when she is the first lady of the United States, she will continue to amaze us all with her unwavering faith and dedication.”

There are whistles and cheers and strobing flashbulbs. You smile—elegant, soft, practiced—as Aemond rests a hand firmly on your waist. You lean into him, feeling out-of-place, bewildered that you’ve ever slept with him, full of dull panic that soon you’ll have to again.

“How about you, Mrs. Targaryen?” another reporter asks. “Same question, essentially. What is the trait that you most admire in your husband?”

And in the cascading clicks of photographs being captured, your mind goes entirely blank. You can think of so many other people—Aegon, Ari, Alicent, Daeron, Fosco, Cosmo—but not Aemond. It’s like you’ve blocked him out somehow, like he’s a sketch you erased. But you can’t hesitate. You can’t let the uncertainty read on your face. You begin speaking without knowing where you’re going, something that is rare for you. “Aemond is the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. When he has a goal in mind, nothing can stop him.” You pause, and there are a few awkward chuckles from the journalists. You swiftly recover. “He never stops learning. He always knows the right thing to do or say. And what he wants more than anything is to serve the American people. Aemond won’t disappoint you. He’s not capable of it. He will do whatever it takes to make this country more prosperous, more peaceful, and more free.”

There are applause and gracious thank yous, but Aemond gives you a look—just for a second, just long enough that you can catch it—that warns you to get it together. Fifteen minutes later, he and the flock of reporters are headed to one of the guest houses to conduct a long-form interview. This will be the bulk of the article; you will appear in one or two photos, you will supply a few quotes. The rest of the story is Aemond. You are an accessory, like a belt or a bracelet. He’s the person who picks you out of a drawer each morning and wears you until you go out of fashion.

Released from your obligations, you return to the main house and disappear into your upstairs bathroom. You are there for fifteen minutes and emerge rattled, routed. You pace aimlessly around your bedroom for a while, then try again; still no luck. You go back outside and stare blankly at the ocean, wondering what you’re going to do. Down on the beach, Fosco is teaching the kids how to yo-yo. Ludwika is sunbathing in a bikini.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You whirl to see Aegon, popping a Valium into his mouth and washing it down with a splash of straight rum from a coffee mug. “Huh? Nothing. I’m great.”

“No, something’s wrong. You look lost. You look like me.”

You gaze out over the ocean again, chewing your lower lip.

Aegon snickers, fascinated, sensing a scandal. “What did you do?”

Your eyes drift to him. “You can’t make fun of me.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

There is a long, heavy lull before you answer. When you speak, it’s all in a rush, like you can’t unburden yourself of the words fast enough. “I put a tampon in and I can’t get it out.”

Aegon immediately breaks his promise and cackles. “You did what?!” Then he tries to be serious. “Wait. Sorry. Uh, really?”

You’re on the verge of tears. “I’ve been bleeding since I had the baby, and I hate using tampons, I almost never do, but Aemond wanted me to wear this dress for the photoshoot and it’s super gauzy and from certain angles I felt like I could see the pad bulge when I checked in the mirror, so I put a tampon in for the first time in probably a year. I’m not even supposed to be using them for another few weeks because my uterus isn’t healed all the way or whatever. And now I can’t get it out and it’s been in there for like six hours and I’m scared I’m going to get an infection and die in the most pointless, humiliating way imaginable.”

“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Aegon says. “There’s no string?”

“No, I’ve checked multiple times. It must be a defective one and they forgot to put a string in it at the factory and I didn’t notice, or the string somehow got tucked under it, I don’t know, but I can’t get it out, it’s like…the angle isn’t right. I can just barely feel it with my fingertips, but I can’t grab it. I’m going to have to go to the hospital to get it taken out, but I’m scared word will spread and journalists will show up to get photos when I leave and then everyone will be asking me why I was at the emergency room to begin with and I’m going to have to make up something and…and…” You can’t talk anymore. There are other reasons why you don’t want to go to the hospital. You haven’t stepped foot in one since Ari died; the thought makes you feel like you are looking down to see blood on your thighs all over again, like you’ll never have enough air in your lungs.

“Did you bleed through it? Because that should help it slide out easier.”

“I don’t know,” you moan miserably. “I mean, I guess I did, because there was blood when I checked a few minutes ago. I had to stuff my underwear with toilet paper.”

“Why didn’t you just tell Aemond you couldn’t wear this dress?”

You give him an impatient glance. “I’m tired of having the same conversation.” When do you think you’ll be done bleeding? When do you think it’ll be time to start trying again?

Aegon sighs. “Do you want me to get it out for you?”

“Please stop. I’m really panicking here.”

“I’m not joking.”

You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have fished many objects out of many orifices, you cannot shock me. I am unshockable.”

“I’d rather walk down to the sand right now and strangle myself with Fosco’s yo-yo.”

“Okay. So who are you gonna ask to drive you to the hospital?”

You hesitate.

“I’d offer to do it,” Aegon says, grinning, holding up his mug. “But I’m in no condition to drive.”

“But you are in the proper condition to extract a rogue tampon, huh?”

“Two minutes tops. That’s a guarantee. My personal best is fifteen seconds. And that was for a lost condom, much trickier to locate than a tampon.”

Perhaps paradoxically, the more you consider his offer, the more tempting it seems. No complicated trip and cover story? Over in just a few minutes? “If you ever tell anyone about this, I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever.”

Aegon taunts: “I thought you already hated me.”

You aren’t sure what you feel for him, but it’s certainly not hate. Not anymore. “Where would we do it?”

“In my office. And by that I mean my basement.”

“Your filthy, disease-ridden basement? On your shag carpet full of crabs?”

“You’re in luck,” he jokes. “My crab exterminator service just came by yesterday.”

You exhale in a low, despairing groan.

“Hey, would you rather do it on the dining room table? I’m game. Your choice.”

You watch the seagulls swooping in the afternoon air, the banners of sailboats on the glittering water. “Okay. The basement.”

You walk with Aegon to the house and—after ensuring that no one is around to notice—sneak with him down the creaking basement steps, the door locked behind you. Aegon is darting around; he sets a small trashcan by the carpet and tosses you two towels, then goes to wash his hands in his tiny bathroom, not nearly enough room for someone to stretch out across the linoleum floor.

You’re surveying the scene nervously. “I don’t want to get blood all over your stuff.”

“You’re the cleanest thing that’s ever been on that carpet. Lie down.”

You place one towel on the green shag carpet, then whisk off your panties, discard the bloody knot of toilet paper in the trashcan, and pull the skirt of your dress up around your waist so it’s out of the way. Then you sit down and drape the second towel over your thighs so you’re hidden from him, like you’re about to be examined by a doctor. Your heart is thumping, but you don’t exactly feel like you want to stop. It’s more exhilarating than fear, you think; it is forbidden, it is shameful, it is a microscopic betrayal of Aemond that he’ll never know about.

Aegon moseys out of the bathroom, flicking drops of water from his hands. He wears one of his usual counterculture uniforms: a frayed green army jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, khaki shorts, tan moccasins. He kicks them off before he kneels on the shag carpet. He checks the clock on the wall. “2:07. I promised two minutes max. Let’s see how I do. Ready?”

You rest the back of your head on your linked hands, raise your knees, take a deep and unsteady breath. “Ready.”

But he can see that you’re shaking. “Hey,” Aegon says kindly, pressing his hand down on the towel so you’re covered. “Do you want me to go to the hospital with you? I’ll try to distract people. I’ll pretend I’m having a seizure or something.”

“No, I’m okay,” you insist. “I just want it out. I want this over with.”

“Got it.” And then he begins. He stares at the wall to his left, not looking at you, navigating by feel. You feel the pressure of two fingers, a stretching that is not entirely unpleasant. He’s warm and careful, strangely unobtrusive. Still, you suck in a breath and shift on the carpet. “Shh, shh, shh,” Aegon whispers, skimming his other hand up and down the inside of your thigh, and shiver like you’ve never felt before rolls backwards up the length of your spine. “Relax. You alright?”

“Fine. Totally fine.”

“Oh yeah, it’s definitely in there,” Aegon says. His brow is creased with comprehension. “No string…you’re right, it must either be tangled up somehow or it never had one to begin with. Maybe you accidentally inserted it upside down.”

“Now you insult my intelligence. As if I’m not embarrassed enough.”

“I should have put on a record to set the mood. What gets you going, Marvin Gaye? Elvis?”

“The seductive voice of Richard Milhous Nixon. Maybe you can get him on the phone.”

Aegon laughs hysterically. His fingertips push the tampon against your cervix and you yelp. “Sorry, sorry, my mistake,” Aegon says. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, on his temples; now his eyes are squeezed shut. “I’m gonna try to wiggle it out…”

As he works, there are sensations you can’t quite explain: a very slow-building indistinct desire, a loosening, a readying, a drop in your belly when you think about the fact that he’s the one touching you. Then he happens to press in just the right spot and there is a sudden pang of real pleasure—craving, aching, a deep red flare of previously unfathomable temptation—and you instinctively reach for him. Your hand meets his forearm, and for the first time since he started Aegon looks at your face, alarmed, afraid that he’s hurt you again. But once your eyes meet you’re both trapped there, and you can’t pretend you’re not, his fingers still inside you, his pulse racing, a rivulet of sweat snaking down the side of his face, his eyes an opaque murky blue like water you’re desperate to claw your way into. You know what you want to tell him, but the words are impossible. Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon clears his throat, forces himself to look away, and at last dislodges the tampon. It appears dark and bloody in his grasp. “No string,” he confirms, holding it up and turning it so you can see. “Factory reject.”

“Just like you.”

He glances at the clock. “2:09. I delivered precisely what was promised.” He chucks the tampon into the trashcan and then grins as he helps pull you upright with his clean hand. “So do you like to cuddle afterwards, or…?”

You’re giggling, covering your flushed face. “Shut up.”

“Personally, I enjoy being ridden into the ground and then called a good boy.”

“Go away.” You nod to where he disposed of the tampon and say before stopping to think: “You’re not going to keep that under your ashtray too?”

Aegon freezes and blinks at you. He smiles slowly, cautiously. “No, I think that would be a little unorthodox, even for me.” He pitches you a clean washcloth from the bathroom closet. “That should get you upstairs.”

“Thanks.” You shove it between your legs and rise to your feet, smoothing the skirt of your dress. “I owe you something. I’m not sure what, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Hey,” Aegon says, and waits for you to turn to him. “Maybe I’m not that bad.”

“Maybe,” you agree thoughtfully.

Just before you hurry upstairs, you steal a glimpse of Aegon in the bathroom, the door kicked only half-closed. He has turned on the water, but he’s not using it yet. Aegon is staring down at the blood on his hand, half-dried scarlet impermanent ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hi, it’s me again. I’m in solitary confinement. There’s a guy in the cell next to mine; we talk to each other with a modified version of Morse code. Tap tap tap on the wall, he taps back, etcetera etcetera, you get the idea. You’re not going to believe this, but he says his name is John McCain. Well, actually, he told me his name is Jobm McCbin, but I think that’s because I translated the taps wrong. I might be in the Hanoi Hilton, but at least they have me in the VIP section! Hahaha.

Every few hours the guards show up to do a very impressive magic trick: they wave their batons like wands, I turn black and blue. Sometimes one of my teeth even disappears. Isn’t that something? Houdini would love it. There’s a rat that I’m making friends with. I give her nibbles of my stale bread, she gives me someone to talk to. She’s good company. I’ve named her Tessarion.

Allow me to make something absolutely fucking clear.

I would very much like to be rescued.

[matchadobo]

KIDD; eustass kidd as a college student

summary: my headcanons of kidd as a college student in the modern world. no dfs here. part two here tw: afab!reader, nothing sussy here dw

* studies metallurgy or mechanical engineering

* insanely good at physics and chemistry 🫦

* but very emotionally and people dumb

* would wear graphic tees with rolled sleeves, ripped jeans, ankle boots

* eyeliner and lipstick on AT ALL TIMES

* is always late to class

* would be an overachiver

* makes every little thing a competition

* however, not an active student. he's just active when he wants to speak up about something he knows

* the typa student who does last minute reviews before exams and/or quizzes yet still manage to get a high mark

* lives in dorms with the other kidd pirates

* always have boys' nights where they just watch horror and scare each other, play games, or just get drunk

* not active in extracurriculars, he couldn't care less (unless it's related to his course or he's interested abt something it offers)

* know him as "that one hot redhead who always has a frown in his face and always gets into fights with the professors"

* would always banter with profs; not to disrespect them, but he's smart enough to butt heads with the professors. although his intention is to purely state what he knows is right, he always ends up disrespecting them bc of his language and attitude and gets demerits lmao

* kidd as a groupmate is a pain in the ass; he never replies and only does when he feels like it—which is rarer than rare. he replies to comply on the day before the deadline 🤬

* whenever there's debates, he's your man. mans got no filter and actually say stuff that no one wants to (e.g. controversies like church vs state, gray areas, taboos, gov't corruption, etc.), but only with a foul language

* submits tasks late 😫

* his handwriting is like this. he don't care abt pen width, brand, and type

* would visit nightclubs and bars seldomly, have hook ups and flings here and there but nothing was serious enough for him to go crazy for. he'd be with them one night max, he's the type of guy to leave afterwards 😭

his relationship with you:

* if you were just a blockmate he'd never even bat an eye at you let alone know you exist

- unless you caught his eye bc of your attractiveness physically or mentally

- if you haven't done anything remarkable to catch his attention, you're good as a rock to him

* if you're friends with him and is part of his circle:

- kidd being friends with you means that he can not only tolerate you but you can also measure up to and endure his feistyness

- that is tantamount to him being interested with you

- whenever a topic is blurry to you, he'd call you "dumb, birdbrain, shit for brains, etc" each time he explains and you still don't understand. but he would always accurately and patiently piece it out for you step by step, there's just some harshness that comes with it

- would always treat you to his and yours' favorite place after school whenever he sees you tired and bummed out after classes. would always tell you that "cmon i'll feed you some real fuckin' food, better than those ugly ass instant noodles you always have at your dorms." secretly loves seeing you eat and be full after meals

- each time your circle goes out, he'd always be seated next to you, is always close to you, or keeps an eye on you saying "you'll kill yourself with your dumb ass if i don't keep an eye on you." but that's just an excuse, cuz he likes looking at you

- study dates! well, he refuses to call them dates; just like how he refuses his feelings towards you. but would always insist on regularly doing this

> he doesn't really need the study dates, he's smart enough to excel on his own. he just wants an excuse to spend time with you, be close to you, teach you, make you laugh, and eat with you

- would he confess? he would, drunk. it'd start when you ask him to stop since he had too much to drink, he'll cup your face and tell you with flushed cheeks as his breath stinks from alcohol, he'll proclaim how much he adores you and how cute you are. he'll regret it in the morning and would avoid you for days.

- when you two get together, you two are inseparable. pda is clear as day. he's clingy af, would always link arms with you during lectures, rubbing circles on your soft skin. would let you put your thighs over his lap and stroke them fondly. when you put your head down during class as a result from weariness, his fingers with red-lacquered nails combs through your hair to soothe you. would always have an arm around you, whether above your shoulder or waist.

- his go to destressing activity is game/movie night with you and his circle

dreamy sighs 0~0

[pettyrevenge-base]

Got revenge on my teacher for only dress coding certain girls.

Remembered this out of the blue and thought I’d share.

Background info: I (16f at the time) went to a school that was K-12. We had multiple principals, one for the elementary school, one for middle, one for high school, and an overall principal who was in charge of all of them.

The principal of the high school, who I’ll call Ms. Smith, was notorious for only giving certain girls dress code violations. It always seemed to be the more “developed” girls that got in trouble. I once confronted her about it after she dress coded a friend of mine for having a short skirt while ignoring the fact that mine was even shorter. She mumbled some bullshit about my outfit being “more modest overall” and gave my friend a demerit (our school’s policy was 3 demerits = detention).

This really rubbed me the wrong way. So I hatched a petty little plan.

I was in charge of the art club. I’d been planning a project where I gave 10 disposable cameras to each grade in the HS to pass around and take pictures of their day. Afterwards I had them developed and mounted a display (before you ask, thankfully all of the pictures came out PG).

I knew I had to get permission from the principal. Instead of going to Ms. Smith, I decided to go straight to the principal of the whole school, Mr. Jones. He gave me the green light. I didn’t inform Ms. Smith of the project.

On the day I distributed the cameras, Ms. Smith found me during 2nd period and informed me she’d confiscated them due to not getting her permission. It was then that I informed her that I didn’t need her permission, because Mr. Jones had given his. She started at me with a sort of goldfish expression. I told her I’d be happy to return the cameras to each grade, but I had class, so could she do it? After an awkward pause she agreed. I thought the idea of her having to visit each individual classroom to eat her own words was hilarious. Even though she’ll never know why I pulled that stunt, it brought me joy to know I’d embarrassed her just like she embarrassed my friend.

Source: reddit.com/r/pettyrevenge

[mikecardenmpreg]

senior year of high school i was really really going thru it and i stopped doing my homework and my physics teacher (who had known me for nearly 3 years at that point) realized that writing me demerits and sending me to detention over and over wasnt making a difference and he knew that i was generally a good student so one day he pulled me aside and was like "listen. i don't know what's going on at home but you need to do your homework. you know what will always be there for you lauren? homework." and i cried and was like "yeah you're right mr. b you're right" and i hated disappointing him because he was my favorite teacher and i loved his class so after that i started doing my physics homework. only my physics homework tho. didn't care about those other classes.

[doctorbrown]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 ⸺ 「 19 / 31 * PLAYING HOOKY 」

10:15

Hill Valley Courthouse

“Good morning, Citizen Wilson,” Edna says curtly, a dangerous look in her eyes as she exchanges the expected pleasantries. Today’s smile is sharper than usual; today she has fangs instead of teeth, Goldie notes quietly—something that kicks his self-preservation drive into high gear because nothing good happens when the viper bears her fangs—and adjusts accordingly, proverbially twisting himself out of reach of that venomous bite of hers.

Mama used to tell him he was too perceptive for his own good. That he had a smile that could charm even the Devil himself and a tongue coated in silver.

It sure served him well back in law school. It would’ve made him a damn fine lawyer. It makes him excellent at his job now and keeps him out of trouble, mostly.

He knows what has put her in a sour mood before the explanation even comes out, which it inevitably does with alarming speed and disgust well before he can return the greeting. “I have urgent business to discuss with my husband, but I see his office has been untouched all morning. Have you heard anything from him?”

Goldie gives her the same bright smile he always does, flashing perfectly white teeth. “Good morning, Citizen. Lovely morning, isn’t it?” Edna’s mouth twitches at the edges but she says nothing, favouring expectant silence as she awaits the answer to her inquiry.

His mama taught him right. Taught him the value of honesty and virtue. That lying should be avoided unless it was the lesser of whatever two evils were placed in his path and then when he used that silver tongue of his, he knew exactly what he was doing.

Right now, he knew exactly what he was doing, lying to the most dangerous person in Hill Valley. And he knew exactly what would happen if he got caught.

But knowing what would happen if he didn’t, well, that left only one conscionable choice of action open to him.

He didn’t know all the details. Emmett had refused to elaborate on that meeting with Citizen Martin McFly, even after the usual prodding that often got him to open up and share some of his woes knowing they would be held in the utmost confidence.

‘It’s too dangerous to get you involved. The less you know, the less Edna will be able to try and force out of you.’

‘You’re planning something, aren’t you?’ Emmett says nothing and Goldie sets down two cups of coffee, sweetened with an additional cube of sugar each from their secret stash to cut the bitterness of the last few days. ‘I’ve been around long enough to know that look in your eyes.’ When Emmett’s brows fly up, he continues, ‘that’s the look of a man having a crisis of conscience.’

For a moment, he thinks a weary sigh is the only answer he’ll receive. ‘Let’s just say he forced something out into the open that I’ve tried to not think about for the past decade or so.’

But he was able to intuit enough of it based on the scraps of knowledge he did have.

Whatever he’s up to, whatever the reason Citizen McFly had for racking up a Demerit count that should have sent him straight to the Citizen Plus ward and whatever the truth was behind that memo that suddenly appeared on his desk overnight, Goldie knows in his heart that his absence today has everything to do with the kid.

He only hopes it's worth it.

So, Goldie lies expertly and efficiently, thankful for his long-time familiarity with Edna and her methods and Emmett’s forethought and preparedness, inasmuch as could be fabricated in an official memo left with him without revealing the true nature of whatever it was that consumed him. Without that, navigating the live minefield littered with Edna’s follow-up questions and scrutinising glares would have been near impossible.

[laniquelovlie]

First Time! We all have them whether you’re gay or straight. And if your first time was anything like mine, it’s a moment you’ll always remember. I was young when I experienced it for the first time. Not a perverted young age, so guys relax and feel free to stop reading here. For those who dare to read on, hold on to your seat because this is going to be one hell of a ride. I was in the middle of my teenage years. Granted, that’s still not an okay age to be on my back. Since I was still technically a virgin afterward, I don’t see it as such a big, disgusting deal.

A person’s first time is one of the most special moments in their life – at least it should be. My first sexual experience was with my best friend at the time, BriAnna. This was roughly eight years ago. We were the same age, but she had already made her rounds through every freshman boy in Philly. Amongst my group of friends, we’ve always debated whether it’s best to share your first time with another virgin or be with a partner who has experience. I was always neutral to the idea – who was I to say what someone should do during their first sexual voyage?

That’s until I had that wild, unbelievable, and flat out crazy night with BriAnna. I remember it like it was yesterday and each detail still gives me chills. School was a major pain in the ass, public transportation was running slow, and – to make things even worse – it was the middle of heat blasting July. All I wanted was to see a friendly face. BriAnna was loud, loved to swear, ate anything and everything without gaining a pound, had a weird craving for cucumbers, and gave slaps in the face more than high fives. All my pleasant friends were busy or out of town. I didn’t want to go home, so BriAnna was my next best thing.

I had made it a habit to strip out of my school shirt as soon as I could. It was a tacky gray, half cotton, half wool shirt with the school’s name stitched across the left chest. Even with short sleeves that shirt was thick and nasty to wear in the summer. I often wore a tank top underneath that hideous sweat maker, but on this exact day I only had a bra on. In the back of the air conditioned bus, I slipped my arms out the sleeves of the shirt and pulled my denim jacket up underneath it. I notice a few onlookers as I lift my shirt over my head – a frowning granny, jealous teen moms, and some perverted guys from school. What more can I do but wink while buttoning up my jacket.

The bus got empty as quickly as it was filled with high school students. The beaming sun made everyone lazy and anxious to get out from under its rays. Kids were leaping onto buses just to avoid walking down the street. My stop was near the end of the route, so I had nothing better to do than text my mom. It was a modest message telling her I wasn’t going to be home for a while – detention will be occupying my time. She didn’t pry about it and sent a simple “K!” back. It was only 3:30pm, and the sun wasn’t going down anytime soon. Still, moments like that remind me of the Do You Know Where Your Children Are? message that used to pop up before the 10pm news. New century; same clueless parents.

The end of the road was near and the low hum of the bus’ engine was putting me to sleep. I used to be a pain in the ass when it came to naptime back in kindergarten. I’m so mad I took those precious 45 minutes for granted. The uptight high school I went to didn’t even allow us to shut our eyes without a teacher “rewarding” us with a demerit once we reopened them. If not for the message coming through on my cell phone, I would have fallen asleep and missed my stop. I rang the bell and stepped out the thin double doors as I opened the message.

“Why are guys such dicks?” Damn. It was BriAnna.

I was so busy huffing that I was stuck with her, it really never crossed my mind to ask BriAnna in advance if she had plans. And here I was, a block from her house – miles from my own – and she was reaching out to me with men troubles. Is it too late to hop back on the bus? I ask myself a little bit too late. The doors shut behind me long ago, and the bus is up the street making its next stop. Mines well continue to her house. If she talked about whatever boy it was this time to piss her off for more than thirty minutes I would declare that detention ended early. Spending time with my nutty family would be better than hearing about Mike or Deon or Troy or Richard or Floyd or whoever.

Soon I was standing outside of BriAnna’s house, peeking inside through the screen door. I could hear screaming and dozens of curse words flying left and right. From my spot at the door, I could see BriAnna running up and down the stairs while debating with some guy on the house’s speaker phone. Each time she came downstairs she was cradling a box overflowing with junk in her arms. She dropped each at the base of the stairs as she called the guy a bastard. He said she should have known what she was getting into when they met. BriAnna started to scream louder as she repeated everything this guy ever said to her.

“You said you were going to leave her. What happened to that? Were you just lying to sleep with me?”

He sighed with a hint of laughter hidden behind his breath. When she heard that BriAnna continued to go off. He silenced her by yelling that she was a “crazy bitch”. A classic – and very unoriginal – line that men use to label us emotional females. Once he played that card, BriAnna ended the conversation. Granted, she did it the only way a “crazy bitch” would. She picked the house phone up off its base and threw it at the screen door. The battery pack popped out and the button lights went dark. Why did all the happy friends have to be bought? I took that as a sign to turn and leave.

“How long have you been here?” But she caught me. Opening the screen door, BriAnna stepped out on her porch barefoot. “Were you standing out here listening?”

“No. I was knocking for like five minutes.” Lying comes so naturally to me sometimes; my mom blames my dad for the negative trait. “I guess you didn’t hear all the yelling.”

“You could have come in. You know the door is never locked.”

“Yeah, I know. But the door shielded me from your phone attack, so I was smart to stay out there.” I followed her lead into the living room.

“It was smart to stay outside in the heat?”

“It’s no different here. Your mom doesn’t allow you to turn the air conditioner on.”

She leaped onto the couch, extremely hype about her tiny shorts and transparent top. “At least in my house you can take off your boxy uniform. Can’t do that outside.”

“Who says” I pulled at the open top of my jacket, giving her a peek at the bra and skin underneath.

“What?” BriAnna finally sits down. “Miss Conservative took it off on a Septa bus. What’s next for the bad girl?”

I sit down on the opposite end of the couch. “Ha ha. You’re so funny. Have you been drinking?”

“No, but I want to after dealing with that ass.”

I don’t wanna ask, but the question spills out. “Who’s the ass this week?”

“Deon.”

“Oh. An oldie but a goodie.”

She whines. “And he was sooo good.”

I shake my head. “So what happened now?”

“What do you mean ‘now’? Are you trying to say this is my fault? Are all my breakups my fault?”

Yes. “No. It’s always the boys’ fault.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Thank God! I was fed up with this story way back when she texted me. I really should have ran up the street to catch the bus.

The TV has been stuck on the guide since I showed up at BriAnna’s house. Based on the highlighted channel, I’d say she was ready to click on some housewife junk when Deon called. I grip the remote before BriAnna completely returns to earth and presses play on the show. I was almost hit by a phone; I wasn’t about to suffer through an hour or more of whiny, catty women.

“You are not about to put cartoons on my TV.” She reaches for the remote.

I pull it away from her hand. “Anything is better than grown women acting like children on national television.”

“Put on something we both like.”

That only left one of the dozens of music video channels. One channel was doing a Rihanna takeover for the next few hours, so that was the obvious choice. We sang two songs while talking shit about each other’s voices. I’m laughing; she’s laughing. To any stranger that might have seen us, they’d swear we were drunk or high off our asses. BriAnna tried to hit a high note, and I covered my ears while mocking her poor vocals.

“You can’t sing either.” She pulled my hands from my ears.

“I sound better than you, though.”

She kept a tight grip on my hands, then – all of a sudden – it happened. While I was in the middle of laughing at her, BriAnna leaned in and shut me up with a kiss. It was intense and the way she pressed her soft lips against mine was a little aggressive. Her eyes were closed, but my eyes were wide open. Paralyzed to the touch, I just let her lips move over mine as I searched her face for some emotion. It all just came so natural to her while I was damn near panicking inside.

I guess I didn’t know BriAnna as well as I thought. I’d only been friends with her for two years. I never believe rumors – only what I can see for myself – but not even rumors could have warned me about this. She seemed comfortable with what was happening. BriAnna was the same perverted, sexual creature I saw when she was around guys. She has always been a freak and never one to say “No” to an attractive guy. But girls? Is this just an experiment? Has she been with other girls before?

BriAnna suddenly opens her eyes and pulls back, releasing my hands in the process. “What’s wrong?”

I was dumbfounded. “Bitch, you just kissed me.”

“I know. You didn’t kiss me back.”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“When people kiss you, you just sit there?”

I giggled a little. “People don’t just kiss me.”

“I’ve seen you kiss tons of guys.”

“No, you haven’t.”

She nodded. “Yes, I have. Just last weekend you kissed that guy.”

“I don’t know what you saw but-”

“Okay, shut up. I just kissed you. What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I’m going to kiss you again. Act like you know what you’re doing.”

She followed through on her part. I was a bit slow catching on to what she wanted. My hands were numb at my sides while hers caressed my face. Before this day I had barely kissed a guy, and I’m sure pecks from relatives do not count as “make out sessions”. Nothing could have prepared me for that moment. Even after her little warning about the second kiss, I was still left in the dark. Nevertheless, as stunned as I was, I didn't want her to stop. I had to start responding to her or she’d stop. If BriAnna stopped a second time, I knew she wasn’t going to do it again. BriAnna was often the hunted, not the hunter. She wouldn’t tolerate this role reversal for too long.

It took some time – much longer than I’d care to admit – but I steadily began to engage in the kiss. A complete first timer to the whole ordeal, I looked to her for guidance and mocked each move she made. She parted her lips and mine did the same. I let her suck on my bottom lip before I sucked on hers. When BriAnna slid her tongue into my mouth, I slid my tongue up against hers. It was this wet push and pull with the two muscles battling for the upper hand. I must have been doing something right because she began to release soft – almost whimpering – sounds from her throat.

BriAnna wanted to be touched even though she never said the words. Instead, she gripped my hands and put them on her legs. The feeling rushed back to my fingertips as my hands rested on the bare flesh just beneath the hem of her skimpy shorts. While I was timid with my actions, she was bold and knew exactly what to do. She shifted closer to me on the couch as she kissed her way down my neck. BriAnna pressed her body against mine until she had me lying on my back. I tried to relax when I felt her knee forcing its way between my tightly clamped thighs. The kiss became more aggressive – BriAnna didn’t hold back when she bit my bottom lip – as she became frustrated with my bashful demeanor.

“I don’t want to stop.” She released my lip from her grip to whisper, “But I will if you don’t participate.”

Her hands moved down my sides – feeling her way over my hips. I could feel her heavy chest pressing against mine and then my stomach as she slithered further down. Using her hands, BriAnna pulled my legs apart and sat comfortably between them. A button popped clean off my jacket when she tore it open. I shivered when her warm, wet tongue touched the soft flesh of my cleavage. Everything new she did shocked me, yet I was enjoying the control she had on the situation.

BriAnna gripped the back of my neck with one hand to pull me forward. Her free hand reached beneath me, and she undid the clasp of my bra with one swift motion. Once she released the girls from their cotton prison, I found the will to “participate” more in the heated act. I’m still not sure what it was that came over me. I felt this massive weight being lightened up on my heart – literally. I sat up and pulled my jacket and bra off, throwing them both to the floor. BriAnna’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when I pulled her shirt up over her head. She was braless underneath the blue tank top, and her C cup breasts stood proud at attention. Now, we were both naked from the waist up.

“Don’t look at me like that.” I cupped her breasts, rubbing my thumbs over her dark-chocolate nipples. “You wanted me to participate more.”

I could hear the whimpers coming from her throat again as I sucked one of them into my mouth. BriAnna’s eyelids began to lower, yet she continued to watch my tongue circle around her areola. I pressed her luscious breasts together, bringing her nipples as close as they could possibly be. Licking back and forth between them, I finally heard a loud, vocalized gasp when I flicked my tongue over each nipple. BriAnna’s head fell back – it was loosely dangling from her neck – her short hair brushed over her shoulders.

BriAnna’s hips suddenly bucked against the air. I worshipped her breasts, and her head continued to roll as if her neck had snapped off its spine. She slid her hand down her shorts. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know what her rapid hand movements meant – self pleasure. BriAnna gripped my hair with her other hand, pulling my head closer to her yearning body. She was begging me for more – not wanting me to stop. I hooked my fingers into the hem of her shorts, tugging them down the generous curve of her hips. I had never seen BriAnna naked before, but all of the rumors were true – she wasn’t a supporter of underwear.

I pulled her close, feeling her ample breasts and velvet flesh against mine. Her mouth sought mine as we slid together on the couch. Our limbs entwined as we tried to get as close as we possibly could. She was on top of me, and then I got on top of her while our tongues played together. BriAnna wrapped her legs around me; her strong thighs pulling my hips closer. Even through my cotton school pants, I could feel the heat from her pussy radiating against mine. It was almost too much for me to bear. My whole body was starting to respond to her. I liked what I was doing to her, but I wanted some attention myself. Gasping – and using the last bit of strength I had – I broke the kiss.

“I want you.” The words just flew from my mouth. I didn’t see it coming, nor did I have the power to prevent it.

BriAnna giggled, her thighs tightening their grip around me. “I know. I have that effect on men… and women alike.”

BriAnna pushed me back, forcing me to sit on my heels. She undid the button on my pants and didn’t care to pull down the zipper. Grounding her feet on the couch and sitting up in front of me, BriAnna pushed her hand into my opened pants and straight down my panties.

“You’re so wet,” she whispered, her finger probing between my swollen, lower lips.

“It’s your fault.”

I was excited from the moment she kissed me – completely aroused. But it wasn’t until her fingers touched my clit that I realized just how wet I actually was. I could hear my juices gushing over her hand. I pulled BriAnna closer, my hands drifting to her plump derriere, until her moving hand was trapped between both of our sexes. Her warm, moist lips continuously dabbed over my neck as her other hand pulled at my hair.

“I’m okay with that.”

I was biting my lip out of habit. I had mastered being quiet during private moments when I was home at night. You do what you have to with a meddlesome sister and “no knock” rule mom. But the faster BriAnna’s fingers moved over my throbbing clit the harder it was to stay mute. Every noise became louder. The gushing from my wet pussy; the moans erupting from my throat; and the whimpers coming from BriAnna. Her hips pressed forward, trying to bring her clit closer to her moving hand. So engulfed in my own satisfaction – focused on reaching my own orgasm – I barely paid her frantic movements any mind.

My heart felt like it was about to jump out of my chest all of a sudden. I couldn’t breathe. My gaping mouth was heavily panted; yet, there was not enough oxygen to fill my lungs. There was this intense feeling completely taking over me in an instant. One I wasn’t prepared for. Something similar to the dozens of times I had masturbated before, but this experience was a million times stronger. Coming on BriAnna’s hand was the best moment of my life. Back then that is. Almost like an out of body, being abducted by aliens, getting high for the first time type of moment. It’s the rush you’re constantly chasing, but the second and third time never compare to the first.

I hadn’t realized that until years later.

I gripped her tighter after that. It had nothing to do with love – I wasn’t that naïve – but as weak as I felt I wasn’t just going to drop her off my lap. I’m not a guy. Truthfully, I didn’t know what to expect next. I wouldn’t be able to handle awkward silence. If she suddenly pushed me away and made me get dressed, I’d be lost in a sea of confused emotions. I suddenly had a bunch of questions – ones my religious grandmother would kill me for even thinking. Still, I wasn’t ready to go home, so I hoped BriAnna wasn’t about to kick me out. I crossed my fingers, wanting the moment to last a little bit longer. On the upside, I got to lay my head on her breasts as I waited for her reaction. More comfortable than a plush pillow.

She shifted underneath me. I shivered as she withdrew her hand from between my legs. I lifted my head to see my juices glistening on my fingers. I thought she was going to rub her hand clean on the couch or one of the articles of clothing we threw on the floor. Instant, I was dumbfounded when she slurred her index and middle fingers into her mouth. My eyes opened wide, lips parted as I gasped, and the questioned continued to pile up in my head. BriAnna didn’t speak a word to me, even when she removed the fingers from her mouth. We were stuck in eye contact as she traced my lips with her soaked ring finger. The digit slipped into my opened mouth, and I could taste the tangy liquid covering it.

“I can see you and me having a lot of fun together.” She was – surprisingly – breathless as she came up from between my legs.

“Really? More than what we just did?”

BriAnna giggled. “That was just the beginning.”

“I really don’t know you like I thought.” I slid back the hair matted to my forehead by sweat.

She crawled up my body until her lips were inches from mine. “Did I open your eyes to something new?”

“You have no idea.”

[ace-sailor-uranus]

had the realization today, after a conversation with a coworker, about the stereotype that a lot of people look back on high school as either the best time of their life or the worst time of their life

and like. i high-key thought it was some kind of joke?

bc no one ACTUALLY remembers high school, right? like, blips and shit, but not like. most of it?

no. most people do in fact remember most of their high school career (if not immediately then at least with a little effort) and the fact that i do *not* is apparently abnormal.

so. that's something fun to bring up to my therapist next time i see him. yay.

anyway, related, i thought up something to help my silly little mental health

did you know they make adult merit badges? yeah.

also so y'know i mentioned that im making removable back plates (basically) for my leather jacket and also a vest i cut up out of a denim jacket? yeah.

so i thought it would be funny if i made a backplate that was entirely, like, vaguely sarcastic and etc merit badges. technically they're mostly DEmerit badges but the point still stands

but also i want to get/make patches that are, like, lifetime achievements, y'know?

'escaped high school' and 'happy quarter-life crisis' and 'got a job'

alongside 'ghost hunter' and 'cunt' (which is absolutely an achievement and i will not hear otherwise) and 'banned book club member'

idk i think it'd be, like, nice to be able to see a semi-cohesive tangible picture of 'holy shit you're still kicking, lookit you go you little weirdo'

[charliedaltonspartner]

my friends, i am a cameron apologist and heres why (this is all from Cameron's point of vue)

first of all we have to remind ourselves that the movie is set in 1959 in an elite school (the best in the US !)

this means that Cameron was raised in the 40s and 50s. a time when education was really strict, and children were under high pressure, especially children such as Welton's students. it was also the period during and right after ww2 which only increased the feeling of uncertainty and the need for success.

Even if the other kids care less about doing the right thing, they're all mostly influenced by Charlie and Neil. once they both are gone, we can see that they all sign the document and comply.

this school is a place they have been in for 5+ years, so they know the teachers, they have a duty to that school in a way. especially since it's prestigious. it's the school that taught them everything they know, while keating hasnt been here 5 months. and the meeting have been going on for less. the sense of patriotism at that time was also high so duty to the school and to the country go together.

the meetings are teen stuff. just a funny thing that they did. it would have caused them demerits but other than that it was really just teen troubles.

Cameron is a child in need of academic validation, to feel like he fulfils his purpose. hes good at something, and people praise him for it. his friends ask him for help. thats something he had never tasted., something that promised him a future in a world just waking up from a war and entering another. and when the school ask him about his little game with his friends well he tells the truth. because thats all he knows.

his friend had DIED, and all his teachers, parents and mentors were telling him was that it was the fault of this guy he had met 5 months before.

Cameron was a grieving child and i don't think you need anything more than that.

Feel free to add arguments i prob havnt summed it up completely

[angelique-of-the-volturi-guard]

So I’m posting a fic tomorrow. SPY X FAMILY fans, enjoy the sneak peek of the most dramatic fic yet!

“My daughter confessed what has been happening to her over the past few weeks, complete with some of the notes she’s gotten, along with other evidence of what has occurred. I feel you need to see them.” He took out the notes, the photos he’d taken, and the picture of Anya’s back, with it’s yellowing bruise. “From what she’s told me, she was shoved against the wall by some boys, and it left quite a mark. I’m sure you can understand why my wife and I are so upset.”

“I do indeed. And I apologize both to the two of you and your daughter for such a concerning experience, on behalf of all the staff and Faculty at Eden College. I can assure you that I do not condone such inelegant behavior amongst students. There are a group of boys who have been quite rude to your daughter. I have been keeping an eye on them as much as I can, however, there are likely times this has happened with my back turned. It would seem this has stemmed from the first day of school. With the boy your daughter punched.”“And I assure you, she was thoroughly reprimanded for her actions. My wife taught her to defend herself after she was almost kidnapped for being a student at the school. It was not an appropriate response to what was happening, and we have both spoken to her about why it was the wrong course of action to take. Nonetheless, we realize the importance of her being able to protect herself and have tried to respond accordingly.” “I’m terribly sorry that happened to her. Unfortunately, many seek the riches and favor of the families of Eden College students. Because of our high standards, it’s often known that many prestigious families send their children here, and many people respond with greed. They forget that these children are just that- children. Not pawns in a game of rich and poor. Although our security measures here are excellent, safety in transit is often an issue. It’s why many students stay in our dormitories.” Loid gave a sad hum of understanding, letting him talk, before he spoke again. “Despite this, my wife and I would like to know what can be done about those boys.” "Apart from giving them all Tonitrus Bolts and separating them in the classrooms, I’m afraid my hands are tied in that regard. Unless I or another staff member catches them in the act, there is nothing I can do. Without proof like what you have provided, I cannot act. As much as I would enjoy having enough staff here to be able to keep a watch for such situations, it is not easy to enter the staff here at Eden College.” He said, and took a sip. At this, Loid felt his anger beginning to stir, but he kept his face neutral and tone the same. “Please, allow me to clarify something. Those boys are permitted to harass, tease, and hurt my daughter over things she has entirely no control of, and they get off with a few demerits. But when my daughter throws a punch at a boy that not only harassed her but a friend as well, she’s punished?”

“The children involved were explicitly clear that your daughter harmed another boy and made it physical to begin with, though I’m sure it may not have been the full extent of what happened. In order to combat this, the children need to speak up. But as I’m sure you’ve realized in the short time your daughter has been in attendance here, there is a hierarchy between those who live in the dormitories, those who commute, and how they are treated due to the jobs they hold in society. If they do not speak due to their fear, anger, or anything else, there is nothing I can do.” Henry Henderson seemed saddened by this fact, but it served to fill Loid with an Apoplectic rage. His eyes narrowed fractionally, and he allowed a bit of anger to seep into his tone. Had it not had some outlet he was sure he would explode like a pressure cooker and that would be the end for Operation STRIX. He had to keep it together. But he wasn't about to let his daughter be made the victim in this way. “So you’re telling me those boys are allowed to push my daughter into a wall, hurt her friend, harass her on countless occasions, and give her lasting mental scars, but she isn’t allowed to protect herself? Is that what you’re teaching my little girl?” Henry Henderson seemed taken aback by this rather calculated display of anger. Enough so that Loid was able to go in for a second jab. “My daughter has the right to protect herself in a situation where she is being hurt and harassed by anyone- be it her peers or otherwise. The circumstances of who started what are irrelevant to that fact. And while I do understand that there are things you legally cannot do in the situation due to school policy, you are ensuring my daughter continues to stay a victim of bullying by not allowing her to take action when needed or relying on her peers who are too frightened to speak up about the situation. If Eden College’s policy cannot help her, then I would like to request a meeting of the parents involved in the situation.” Henry Henderson looked almost shocked for a moment, before he regained his composure. “That was very well put, Doctor Forger, Very well put indeed.” He said, and took a sip of tea to steady himself. “I believe a parent meeting seems quite reasonable in light of the circumstances.” At this, Loid gave a soft smile. “Of all those on the school grounds, I believed you would be the person to find an elegant solution to such an issue.”

[bestiesenpai]

Lout - Naoya Zenin

Y’all ever seen that movie bad teacher with cameron diaz that would be me as a teacher lol also Naoya is a third year 18+ all that good jazz fun fact I’m actually allergic to minors so yeah even mentioning them breaks me out into hives, it’s disgusting they’re disgusting, would not recommend. 0/10 stars on google review and yelp also femme reader 3.3k words

Content warnings: noncon + dubcon, age gap(reader is obvi gonna be older than naoya lol), teacher x student shit, degradation, choking, noncon video taking, biting, spanking, not a mindbreak necessarily but there’s hints of that here

There was a problem child in your senior class and you weren’t even the main teacher. Stuck as a teaching aid until you could get full certification, it wasn’t even you that really had to bear the brunt of this student's bad behavior should the principal ask. Yet somehow, it was your duty to get him into line before he graduated in a few months.

Naoya Zenin couldn’t even pretend to care about his highschool reputation. All he focused on was being top of the class and making sure everyone knew who exactly was in charge. At an elite private school where his family had been generous donors for generations, Naoya’s behavior was almost expected.

Until he nearly put another student in the hospital after a fight. That was the final straw for disgruntled parents and students alike, causing a massive uproar and demanding action. And of course that call to action fell on your shoulders.

“Seriously? They stuck me with a fucking aide?” Throwing open the door to the office space assigned to you in the meeting, Naoya glared at you. It wasn’t that he particularly disliked you or anything, but he felt slighted that the school didn’t send a real teacher to talk to him.

“Have a seat, Naoya.” Standing up from the desk, you motioned to the lone armchair in the room. Walking in and slamming the door behind him, Naoya rolled his eyes as he flopped into the chair.

“Let’s make this quick, I’ve got a dive team meeting soon.” Looking out at the courtyard below, Naoya squinted against the harsh afternoon sun coming in through the windows. He wasn’t concerned with this meeting at all, wanting it to be over so he can go and impress some Olympic team scouts.

Clearing your throat awkwardly, you rustled the papers on your desk. There were pages of notes on what you were supposed to say, how you were supposed to say it and a few forms Naoya had to sign as well, stating that he’d be on his best behavior until graduation.

“Naoya, you know why you’re here.” You started, unable to meet his pointed gaze as it flicked over to you. “You’re behavior has gotten out of hand and-”

“So what?” Letting his head loll back, Naoya shrugged.

“And you need to be held accountable for your actions.” You pushed through the interruption, feeling your cheeks heat up in indignation.

“Yeah? My family’s had the dean in their pocket since this school was founded, I doubt there’s much I need to be accountable for.”

“You can’t throw money at everything, you know?”

“Why do you think I take judo?”

“Naoya, please.” Pinching the bridge of your nose, you mimicked him for a moment and leaned your head back. “We’re supposed to be having this meeting to reform your behavior. You did a really bad thing, you nearly killed that other student.”

“Reform? The board sent you to reform me? That’s a fucking laugh if I’ve ever heard one.” Letting out a boisterous laugh, Naoya slapped his knee. “How are you going to change me when you can’t even look me in the eye?”

“T-that’s not important.” Embarrassed, you forced yourself to make brief eye contact with him before shuffling your papers around again. “Look, can you just let me say what’s on these papers? Then you can sign them and be on your way.”

“I don’t think I will.” Crossing his arms, Naoya had the nerve to stretch his legs out and prop his feet up on the desk.

“Naoya-”

“I still think it’s hilarious that you’re here of all people. I mean, just look at you!” Gesturing vaguely to your form, Naoya laughed again. “Not even a real fucking teacher yet. Why don’t you go back to the little corner office you have and let the grown ups handle the big stuff?”

“I’m older than you!” This was bad. He was trying to rile you up and it was working. The control you already didn’t have on the situation was getting worse by the minute and both you and Naoya knew that the power balance between you was heavily skewed in his favor.

“Really? I couldn’t tell, you’ve got about as much gusto as an infant.” Giving you a once over, he sneered. “The only thing going for you is your looks and honestly, they could use a little work.”

“Hey!” Now your face was really on fire. Chuckling at your reaction, Naoya sat up a little straighter.

“Don’t get so upset, I know a pair of twins that would be more than willing to help you improve.”

“Can we just focus on the reason we’re here?” You wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow you whole. The chances of saving this meeting - and your dignity - were slim to none, but you still had to try.

“Right, right, this nonsense about ‘reforming me’.” Using heavy air quotes, Naoya dragged his feet off the desk and let them land on the ground with a loud thud. Taking another look out the windows, he started to undo the tie around his neck.

“Yes. Now, you’re going to sit there and just listen, okay? It’ll only take a few minutes, then you can go on about your day.” You were foolish to believe that you could possibly do anything to Naoya, let alone change his mind on something like this. All the high hopes you’d scrounged together before this meeting were utterly crushed when Naoya stood up.

“No, you listen.” In one fell swoop, Naoya pushed all the papers off the desk, waiting as they all fell to the ground and drinking in your shocked expression. “It’s almost insulting that you think you have any control over this situation, let alone me.”

“Sit back down, Naoya.” Your voice shook terribly as he rounded the desk. You weren’t able to push your chair away fast enough, and he was able to grab onto the back and spin you to face him.

“But teacher, I don’t want to.” He mocked, wasting no time in grabbing you by the throat and forcing you to stand. Clawing at his hand was no use, Naoya’s strength greatly outmatched yours and in just a few moments he was able to manhandle your arms behind your back and use his tie to bind your wrists together.

“Let me go, Naoya!” Thrashing against the desk you were now leaning on for support, a sense of dread filled you. Even if you managed to undo the tie, there was still the issue of actually getting out of the room and away from Naoya, and if his ease in handling you told you anything it was that that task would be impossible.

“Ya know, (Y/N)- can I call you (Y/N)?” He had a stupid grin on his face, pushing you to lean more on the desk as he stood in front of you. “You’ve talked a lot about reform and changing my behavior, but the only one I see here in need of an attitude adjustment is you.”

“Naoya!” Horror ripped through you as he yanked your top open, popping the buttons on your blouse and letting out a whistle at seeing your bra.

“(Y/N), I think you’re violating dress code right now.” Clicking his tongue, Naoya pulled your bra down as far as it would go. “I’ll have to give you a demerit.” Keeping one hand on your throat, Naoya pinched and twisted your nipple between his fingers.

You wouldn’t know it, but Naoya’s heart was beating wildly in his chest. The rush of power he usually got from presiding and dominating the other students was nothing compared to the power he felt now. This wasn’t even something he dreamed about doing, but you’d just given him the golden opportunity to really test his power at this school.

Lurching forward, Naoya sunk his teeth right below your jawline, somewhere he knew you’d have a hard time covering up the mark. The pained squeal you let out went straight to his head and right between his legs, making him bite you in another place and suck harshly on the skin.

Rutting his hips against your thigh, Naoya groaned as he trailed his mouth down your neck, leaving deep teeth marks that he knew would sting when you were alone at night later. Putting one of your nipples in his mouth, Naoya rolled it between his teeth and let drool drip out of his mouth and down your skin.

“Stop it, Naoya! Let me go!” There were strained tears in your eyes that refused to be blinked away. A flurry of slurred protests left your lips as his hand tightened on your neck, enough to have you gasping for air.

“Not until I teach you a little lesson.” He growled, leveling you with a single look. Keeping his grip firm until your eyes rolled back in your head, Naoya let go when he was sure you wouldn’t try to speak again.

Coughing and spluttering, there was little you could do with your fuzzy brain to stop Naoya from turning you around and bending you over the desk. Your face pressed into the hard surface and the wood dug into your face and hips as they were pushed forward.

Grabbing onto your bottoms, Naoya pulled them down until they were at your ankles, unceremoniously ripping off your panties and no doubt shoving them into his pocket. Your heated skin was exposed to the air of the room, making goosebumps pebble on your flesh.

“Ow!” The first slap to your ass was hard and unforgiving, making the tears in your eyes finally fall. “S-stop!” You tried to move your body away from the impending pain but it was no use, Naoya hit your other cheek almost as soon as you started to move.

“What’s wrong, teacher? Never had a bit of corporal punishment?” Laughing haughtily, Naoya grabbed your stinging skin in his hand.

“Ow, ow- N-naoya please, let me go!”

“Not a chance!” Slapping both cheeks in tandem, Naoya could feel the adrenaline going through him. There was no limit to what he could do in this moment, he could walk away and leave you like this, stranded for someone to find. Or, and he liked this option more, he could keep going, and save a few keepsakes for himself.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, Naoya opened the camera with no hesitation. Taking a video of your heaving body, groping your ass and hips, spreading your cheeks apart to reveal your asshole, Naoya tried to keep the groan coming forward low.

“W-what’re you doing?” You could just barely see him out of the corner of your eye, and your blood ran cold upon realizing what he was doing.

“Say hi.” Shoving the camera in your face, Naoya grabbed your chin to keep you from turning away. “Smile for the camera, (Y/N), don’t cry!”

“No, no, no…” Your career is over. Your life is over. Everything you’d worked so hard for, your education, this job - it was going to be taken away if Naoya decided to share the video. You’d be blacklisted from ever working in a school again and you would definitely face legal trouble for being in this situation with a student.

Leaving you for a moment, Naoya propped his phone up on the windowsill, making sure the camera was capturing the both of you as he went back over. Giving a cheeky little wave to the camera, Naoya turned his attention back to you.

Pushing a hand between your legs, Naoya chuckled darkly at the slick that met the tips of his fingers. It was a miniscule amount, but enough that he could mock you over it. Dragging his fingers through your folds, he presented the fingers to you.

“Who knew Ms. (Y/N) was such a fucking slut?” Rubbing his fingers together, Naoya held his hand up to the camera. “Ms. (Y/N) likes it when I’m rough with her.”

“No...no I don’t.” Sniffling pathetically, you shook your head as best you could.

“Don’t lie, the proof is right here.” Wiping his fingers across your cheek, he made a show of pushing your legs further apart and putting his hand back on your cunt. Pinching your clit, Naoya bit his lip as you let out a high pitch whine.

He knew he’d meet too much resistance if he tried to shove his cock in straight away, so Naoya took it upon himself to prep you a bit. Rubbing your clit in tight circles, he leered over you and watched as you struggled to keep whimpers at bay.

“Don’t be shy, let the camera know how much you like this. We already know how much of a slut you are.”

“I don’t- I don’t like this.”

“Hm? Then why are you getting wet?”

“T-thats-” He had you beat there, the glide of his fingers was getting easier and a distinct wet sound was starting to take shape.

“No need to be shy, teacher. You can tell me you’re just a dumb fucking slut.” Pressing his lips against your ear, Naoya looked at the camera. “I know you see the camera, say it nice and loud for me.”

“No.” Shaking your head, a sharp cry ripped through you as Naoya hit your thigh. From the force of his slap you knew there’d be a hand printed welt on your leg.

“Say it.”

“I-I’m a- a dumb fucking slut!” You sobbed and the strength nearly left your legs entirely. If not for Naoya holding you up you would have tumbled to the floor in shame.

“Now was that so hard?” Standing up straight, Naoya was done stalling. Pushing a finger inside you, he deemed you ready enough to take him and undid the belt on his pants, letting them fall to his ankles.

Taking a second to himself, Naoya ground his clothed cock against your body. This opportunity was something to cherish and he was going to savor every moment of it. Taking a deep breath as pleasure made his spine ripple, Naoya pushed down his underwear and grabbed his cock.

“Teacher, I have a bit of a problem, won’t you fix it?” Naoya teased, rubbing his cock along your slit.

“Wait Naoya, you need protection.”

“Shut up. You’d be lucky to bear a child with Zenin blood, so count this as a gift from me to you.” Putting the tip in, Naoya let his head fall back and gaze down his nose at where your cunt was already sucking him in.

Ignoring your protests, Naoya pushed his cock in all the way, quickly bottoming out and nestling his hips snugly against yours. Planting his hands on the desk to steady himself, he had to take a few deep breaths before beginning to move again.

Putting a hand on the back of your neck to keep you from moving too much, Naoya pulled his hips back, looking at the way his cock glistened with your slick. Breathing hard through his nose, he pushed back in and started a steady rhythm.

“Shit, you’re so tight.” He grunted behind clenched teeth, the hold on your neck getting tighter as he focused on moving his body and not cumming too soon. The clap of his hips against your ass was music to his ears, a sound Naoya was sure not to forget any time soon.

The shame of being fucked by a student was heavy enough on your mind but the shame knowing you were starting to enjoy it was even worse. Keeping your eyes tightly closed, there was little you could do as Naoya pounded into you, the full length of his cock hitting places inside you that hadn’t ever been touched before by previous partners.

“Fuck!” The shout that came out of you was unrestrained, you couldn’t contain yourself as Naoya put his fingers back on your clit. Humiliation covered you like a thick blanket, almost choking you as much as Naoya was.

“I knew you’d come around, (Y/N). No one can resist a Zenin.” Smirking at your scrunched up face, Naoya wrapped his hand fully around your throat and pulled you up until your back was nearly flush with him.

The new angle had a loud moan coming from you and Naoya was close to cumming as well, he could feel his toes start to curl and tingle. His mind was starting to get foggy, and the hold he had was starting to slip from the sweat building up between you.

“Make sure not to waste what I give you, okay? It’s special.”

“You have to pull out, Naoya. You have to!” You couldn’t get pregnant by a student, especially one as high profile as him. Humming against your ear, Naoya shook his head.

“No, I don’t think I will. This is the last part of your attitude adjustment, I need to make sure you remember it.”

“N-naoya- pull out-” You stuttered as your orgasm washed over you, making your back arch and angling your ass perfectly for Naoya to cum as well. Making sure his cock was as deep as possible, Naoya let you fall back onto the desk as he rutted into you.

Biting you on the shoulder one last time, Naoya stayed inside you until his breathing went back to normal and his cock went soft. He had sweat clinging to his body and his uniform was wrinkled beyond belief when he stood up.

Fixing his clothes, Naoya undid the tie around your wrists and watched your arms limply fall to the side. There was no doubt you were sore, he’d given you enough marks to last a week. Smoothing a hand over your still stinging thigh, Naoya stepped away from you and laughed as you fell to the floor.

“Ya know, maybe this meeting was beneficial after all. Wouldn’t you say, teach?” Toeing at your spent body curled up on the floor, Naoya drank you in one last time before going to his phone and ending the video.

Gathering his things and answering a few texts, Naoya grinned as you hobbled to your feet. You avoided looking at him, opting instead to try salvage your own clothes and make sense of the world again. The sun was still shining brightly in the sky and if you held your breath you could hear the distant sound of students on a baseball field.

“Well, I’ll be going now.” Naoya threw open the door, startling you.

“Wait.” Reaching out to him, your eyes went straight to the phone in his hands. “That video-”

“Don’t worry, I won’t show it to anyone, I promise!” Crossing his fingers for dramatic effect, Naoya tucked it away into his back pocket. “Stay out of my way for the rest of the school year, and I’ll delete it when I graduate.”

You couldn’t trust his words and you both knew it. There was no way Naoya would let this be a one time thing, now that he’s gotten a taste for it. He would only continue to take what he wanted from you, making your life hell until he left the school - he wouldn’t let you leave before him.

“Fine.” But it was all you had to go on, so you nodded your head and accepted your fate.

“Fine.” Nodding curtly, Naoya stepped out into the hall with a wide smirk on his face. “See you in class later, Ms. (Y/N).”

[cto10121]

Twilight Meta Review—Preface to Chapter 2

With the colder weather returning, it’s time for my Twilight reread, plus meta! So about three things I’m absolutely positive. First, the hate against Twilight was no doubt due more to its fangirl fanbase and its truly incompetent film adaptation than to its supposed demerits. This is still the best YA romance series I’ve read by a long shot—unfortunately, that is still not saying much. Secondly, Twilight stands out because at its core, it’s not even YA. It’s a (subverted) Gothic romance set in a high school. You could read this along with Rebecca and Jane Eyre and it would probably not be a total tonal shift. And thirdly, Edward is still unconditionally and irrevocably a cuttease. Stupid, sexy Volvo owner.

But! Lest you think my nostalgia goggles are firmly on. While most of it has stood up well, especially compared to the horrible writing of today’s YA, Twilight has its thematic and execution hiccups. Overall, it’s hampered by the fact that it’s effectively two classic love stories in one (with some Austen social comedy peeking in for some hi-and-bye). Overall they work well in tandem, informing each other in interesting ways, but occasionally they clash. Meyer definitely wanted to have both her cakes with this one. Interestingly enough, though, that’s what makes it so original. This was, in the end, a very fascinating fluke. All right, let’s go.

Preface: One Pair of Star-Crossed Lovers Sacrifice Their Life

I’d never given much thought to how I would die—though I’d had reason enough in the last few months—but even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this.

I stared without breathing across the long room, into the dark eyes of a hunter, and he looked pleasantly back at me.

So begins this book with a truly eye-catching fake-out—of course, with the spoiler of Edward being a vampire on the back cover (the most effective marketing decision ever and I stand by that), the reader is immediately lead to the conclusion that the hunter might be Edward himself. And thus the book begins with sudden, immediate stakes.

This and the back cover spoiler effectively function like the R&J Prologue—at once giving away the whole plot while revealing none of the story. Meyer knows her classics—or at least her editors do.

1. First Sight: Cinderbella & Female Heroine Cred

My mother looks like me, except with short hair and laugh lines. I felt a spasm of panic as I stared at her wide, childlike eyes. How could I leave my loving, erratic, harebrained mother to fed for herself? Of course she had Phil now, so the bills would probably get paid…(p. 4)

Here we have the first reversal—Bella has actually taken up the role of the mother to her own neglectful parent, establishing Bella’s (forced) maturity and independent character. She is distant and self-aware about her father as well, calling him Charlie. A Cinderella situation, then, though with no evil stepmother.

It was to Forks that I now exiled myself—an action that I took with great horror. I detested Forks.

Bella is moving from her happy, sunny life in Phoenix to rain-drenched and very cold Forks and describes the move as “self-imposed exile.” Is it me or am I getting some Hades-Persephone vibes here? Even her closeness with her sunny mother is very telling…

“I want to go,” I lied. I’d always been a bad liar, but I’d been saying this lie so frequently lately that I sounded almost convincing now.

This is proven somewhat untrue by the narrative since Bella is able to deceive others, at least temporarily. Of course, it’s always mitigated by the fact that she turns her “open book” face away and other factors. Still, Bella is established not to have the clearest picture of herself and her abilities, like most girls. This is part of her arc—she definitely gains more confidence as the series goes on.

That would explain why I didn’t remember him. I do a good job of blocking painful, unnecessary things from my memory. […]

The thing, I thought to myself…it had possibilities—as a nickname, at the very least. (p. 7-8)

And thus begins Snarky!Bella’s running commentary. I hated how they effectively removed that in the film adaptation. Stewart would have done her throwing-shade humor perfectly.

But of course, it does reveal Bella’s unhappiness about Forks, her loneliness. Again, that Persephone parallel. Hell, in some versions Persephone deliberately went to Hades on her lonesome, even for the exact same reasons. And of course at the climax Bella would be determined to sacrifice her life for her mother.

To my intense surprise, I loved [the truck]. I didn’t know if it would run, but I could see myself on it. Plus, it was one of those solid iron affairs that never gets damaged—the kind you see at the scene of an accident, paint unscratched, surrounded by the pieces of the foreign car it had destroyed. (p. 8)

Though Bella can be low-key snobbish—there is that persistent negative contrasting of small-town Forks in favor of cosmopolitan Phoenix—her tastes are paradoxically quite humble and modest. It makes for an interesting contrast with the urbane Edward and largely informs her fascination with him. Opposites attract and they inform a key part of Bedward’s dynamic.

I didn’t relate well to people my age. Maybe the truth was that I didn’t relate well to people, period. Even my mother, who I was closer to than anyone else on the planet, was never in harmony, never on exactly the same page. Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the same things through my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through theirs. Maybe there was a glitch in my brain. (p. 11)

Bella is a most peculiar mademoiselle. She’s a beauty and a sin, she doesn’t quite fit in. She feels there must be more than this provincial life—Okay, I’ll stop now.

I kept my face pulled back into my hood as I walked to the sidewalk, crowded with teenagers. My plain black jacket didn’t stand out, I noticed with relief. (p. 15)

Bella has a consistent horror of standing out. Actually relatable, ha. Understandable for her age and introverted personality.

“That’s really kind of nice—for them to take care of all those kids like that, when they’re so young and everything.”

“I guess so,” Jessica admitted reluctantly, and I got the impression that she didn’t like the doctor and his wife for some reason. With the glances she was throwing at their adopted children, I would presume the reason was jealousy. “I think that Mrs. Cullen can’t have any kids, though,” she added, as if that lessened their kindness.

Aaaaaand Bella is justified in her throwing shade at Forks. -.- Yeah, these kids are not the sharpest tools in the shed. But they’re not gross caricatures of high schoolers—they feel very natural in their characterization. The film adaptation tried to play up their immaturity and vapidity, especially on the boys’ part, which wasn’t an inherently bad idea—it’s a quick and easy contrast with Edward and his family. But Book Edward is so obviously leagues above them all in maturity that Meyer doesn’t need to go all social comedy shenanigans with the rest of the characters. Movie Edward, though, is barely a convincing vampire himself.

As I walked down the aisle to introduce myself to the teacher and get my slip signed, I was watching him surreptitiously. Just as I passed, he suddenly went rigid in his seat. He stared at me again, meeting my eyes with the strangest expression on his face—it was hostile, furious. […]

I didn’t look up as I set my book on the table and took my seat, but I saw his posture change from the corner of my eye. He was leaning away from me, sitting on the extreme edge of his chair and averting his face like he smelled something bad. Inconspicuously, I sniffed my hair. It smelled like strawberries, the scent of my favorite shampoo. (p. 23)

Notice how even when Bella tries to avoid seeing him, she is still very much aware of him and everything he does. This is something that comes up over and over again throughout the book.

(But oh, the film adaptation really turned this scene into an utter farce, didn’t it? With the whole fan thing and nose-clutching and everything. Pattinson really dngaf here and/or got horrendous direction.)

I could see his hand on his left leg was clenched into a fist, tendons standing out under his pale skin. This, too, he never relaxed. He had the long sleeves of his white shirt pushed up to his elbows, and his forearm was surprisingly hard and muscular beneath his light skin. (p. 24)

Bella checking him out as early as page 24. Homegirl already has it bad. But again, it shows Bella’s sharp observational skills, turned up to a 1000 when it comes to Edward. There is clearly the Romeo in her.

The door opened again, and the cold wind suddenly gusted through the room, rustling the papers on the desk, swirling my hair around my face. The girl who came in merely stepped to the desk, placed a note in the wire basket, and walked out again. But Edward Cullen’s back stiffened, and he turned slowly to glare at me—his face was absurdly handsome—with piercing, hate-filled eyes. For an instant, I felt a thrill of genuine fear, raising the hair on my arms. The look only lasted a second, but it chilled me more than the freezing wind. (p. 27)

Even in the midst of the raging beast, Bella notes Edward’s beauty. Oh, honey. You are doomed. (That said, I get it. It’s all about the *snapping fingers meme* contrast).

But this scene is so cinematic, much better than the poor shadow of the film adaptation. The gust of wind, Edward stiffening and dramatically turning to glare at her, full predator mode, and Bella frozen like prey in fear and awe. And then Edward sweeping out the room and the oblivious maternal receptionist asking Bella how her day went. And Bella is Just Fine(tm).

Chapter 2: Trying Not To Look Unsuccessfully

Last night I’d discovered that Charlie couldn’t cook much besides fried eggs and bacon. So I requested that I be assigned kitchen detail for the duration of my stay. He was willing enough to hand over the keys to the banquet hall. I also found out that he had no food in the house. (p. 31)

And so begins Bella taking over the household duties for her father, just as she did with her mother. Cinderbella(tm) strikes again. No wonder she has trouble making friends her own age and relates better to decades-old vampires (!!). Bella’s character really is perfect for this type of story.

In Gym, the kids on my team learned not to pass me the ball and to step quickly in front of me of the other team tried to take advantage of my weakness. I happily stayed out of their way. (p. 37).

I like how Bella’s clumsiness is an actual character trait that doesn’t disappear when it’s convenient to the narrative. Hell, you have her falling on her way over to the ballet studio at the climax. That’s what I call consistency.

My chin raised a fraction. “No, she did not sent me here. I sent myself.”

His eyebrows knit together. “I don’t understand,” he admitted, and he seemed unnecessarily frustrated by that fact.

Most all the antis complain about how there is nothing about Bella that would attract Edward (as if attraction is ever logical). But this small moment very pointedly develops the rationale: Bella is as much a mystery to Edward as he is to her. Not only that, but she challenges his preconceptions and assumptions. And of course his attraction grows the more he gets to know her, as they are essentially birds of a feather.

Edward Cullen was leaning against the front door of the Volvo, three cars down from me, and staring intently in my direction. I swiftly looked away and threw the truck into reverse, almost hitting a rusty Toyota Corolla in my haste. Lucky for the Toyota, I stomped on the brake in time…I took a deep breath, still looking out the other side of my car, and cautiously pulled out again, with greater success. I stared straight ahead as I passed the Volvo, but from a peripheral peek, I would swear I saw him laughing. (p. 52)

Would have been a great (actual) humorous moment for the movie had it decided to include it. A lot of the book is tense, hothouse suspenseful romance, but there is some light and humor too.

[whitehotharlots]

A true story about rehab from 2007

Names and places changed, dates slightly fuzzy, yada yada

This all starts with Chris.  Chris might be a good example of how things are objectively broken.

Two summers ago, Chris and his girlfriend moved from everyone's old hometown, Alton, to everyone's current home, Garden City.  I had known Chris briefly when I still lived in Alton, which was up until about 8 years ago.  In high school he was friends with my sister, a year behind her, I think, only he had some legal trouble and didn't graduate until two years after her.  The first arrest came during his junior year, when police found some marijuana in his car while he was in class.  "Apparently Alton is a utopia," he said years later.  "No robberies need solving, no cars need ticketing, no fences need mending, fuckit nobody's house must've been dirty because if there was anything else even remotely worthwhile that those cocksuckers could have been doing they wouldn't have taken a drug dog through the high school parking lot."  

The ironic part was that he was, honest-to-god, holding it for a friend.  Hadn't touched the stuff until then, hadn't even drank more than a beer or two.  Cops came in and pulled him out of class.  Cuffed him right there in class, in front of everybody.   From what I've been able to piece together that marked a very strong loss of innocence for young Chris.  No rules were worth following, after all, if The Bastards could punish you for nothing.  This was greatly exacerbated by the fact that, according to several of the best lawyers Alton had to offer, the search of Chris' car was unconstitutional as it was not actually parked in the school parking lot, or even on school grounds, at the time of the search.  The juvenile court judge would hear none of it though—all the police had done was break Chris' constitutional right to privacy.  He had committed the much greater crime of having an eighth ounce of marijuana in his glove compartment. 

His claim of having his rights violated incensed the judge, who sentenced our poor Chris to 72 hours in county jail and 12 weeks of rehab.  Were it not for his successful, stable family, he would have been sent to juvie. 

It was his first offense.  He was 16. 

Jail, he said, wasn't that bad.  He got to do it over a weekend. The guard was an old lady and even though she was kind of a bitch she let him bring in his homework.  She said she was surprised to see someone his age in here, with the adults, but whatever he had done it must have been pretty bad or else he wouldn't be here, would he?  They kept him away from the drunks at night and the only other people who came into the "pen" (his word, not mine) were guys who got bailed out within a couple of hours and were too pissed off about their own bad luck to give him any shit for his. 

What really fucked with him was rehab.  It didn’t matter that he'd never smoked a single joint (or even a cigarette) at this time:  he was an addict and by gum he had to admit to being an addict before the obese, shit-smelling overseer would sign the form saying that Chris had attended his sessions.  Every weekend for three months he was legally forced to lie.  Yes, he said, he was an addict.  Yes, even though it made no sense in any grammatical or even symbolic context, he was forced to say "my name is Chris and I'm a narcotic."  His personal habits were picked apart—why was his hair so long (it wasn't that long, really)? Why did he wear the same pants on Sunday that he wore on Saturday?  Who were these "Dead Milkmen" that his T-shirt spoke of?  Ohh… and surely this is a good-tempered, Christian punk band, right?  No?  Well you see right there that's a part of the problem.  Have your mother sign a note saying you've thrown out all of their CDs and any other enabling you might own.  No—you can't sell them, you must throw them out. 

"We had to go in a day and a half every weekend.  All day Saturday and then Sunday from noon until 4.  It took me five weeks, when I was starting to get comfortable, before I asked if I could come in Saturday afternoon and all day Sunday.  It worked out better for me that way, since the place where I worked wasn't open Sundays.  The fat guy just opened his mouth and would not close it.  'When would you go to church?'  he said. By then I knew enough to laugh and say 'oh yeah what was I thinking.'"

A few of the people had actual problems.  One guy got caught with meth, was beating the shit out of his wife and his two little girls, and seemed genuinely remorseful.  Another guy had to drink a sixer every morning or else he'd get the shakes so bad he wouldn't be able to drive to work.  But most of the people there were more or less normal and had either fucked up once or else been fucked over once—got into a bar fight while legally drunk, blew .02 over the legal limit at a roadblock, smoked pot once every few weeks and got narced on by a snitch, that kind of stuff. These people were split over how much they believed the bullshit they were being fed.  Those who believed, as the official literature did, that being hungover once in your lifetime or ever drinking more than 4 beers in a sitting two or more times in a month are both signs of hardcore alcoholism, they became repentant and preachy. 

One such lady was a thin, tan, well-dressed soccer mom who would snitch on the others when they didn't pay close enough attention to the instructional videos or else would appear in any way to not be taking things seriously enough.  If you were bad you got demerits, credit card-sized pieces of construction paper upon which frowny faces and intimidating biblical verses were printed. The overseer would also scribble something down in his notebook, which must have had some kind of official weight because it was on his person at all times.

Most people have an innate desire, however illogical it might often be, to please authority figures, and so Chris and the rest of the doubtful "addicts" thought the embarrassment of getting their reprimand literally handed to them was punishment enough for resting their eyes or letting a stray giggle break loose when the acting in an informational film was especially bad. Chris made only one such mistake.  During a lecture, the overseer kept making the point that it wasn't the drugs that people get addicted to—oh no, it's the high that keeps you coming back.  Chris smiled—remember at this point he still probably hadn't ever been high, not in his whole life—because it seemed like such a stupid, nonsensical thing to say, because even though he was only 16 he could appreciate moments like this, when the moronic essence of a big, scary process could concentrate itself into a single sentence. 

"It's not the drugs:  it's the high," the man said.  He was very clean shaven, dressed like a detective in a 70s cop show, his hair was combed so straight it was like wire, his glasses were round and cruel looking and he had this, this look on his face, this air about him like he thought he was a genius.  He nodded a little bit after the repetition of his idiotic point. Proud—he was actually proud of the things he was saying, proud of his position, proud of getting to fill the heads of desperate or else unfortunate people with nonsense.  And this made Chris smile—not laugh, just smile, and the soccer mom pulled on his ear really hard, so hard it made his eyes water, and then she raised her hand to snitch on him.  The proud overseer was still proud, looked like a king in an old movie, and with the most serious air Chris had ever seen, the fat man called him up before the entire room.  His eyes were still watery from the shock of having his ear nearly yanked up and so he looked down, towards the ground, so people wouldn't think he was crying.

"You ashamed of something," the fat overseer asked.  Chris didn't say anything. "Look up," said the overseer.  Chris kept looking down.  His chest moved in and out heavily and his fists were clenched, and he wasn't sure but he may have been crying normal tears by this point, but they were out of rage, not sadness.  Or—no…really what's the difference between those two, and it's impossible that the immense hopelessness of his situation and the utter retardation of his surroundings hadn't saddened somewhat.  If it were just rage making him cry then he would have also lashed out, punched the overseer or at least called him a name. No. No, the hopelessness must have stung enough to make him sad.  But his tears were out of rage primarily, and out of nothing even close to shame.

"Look up.  Now."

He did.  His jaw was clenched and his eyes were tightened into red little slits but he looked more defeated than mean, more helpless than threatening.

"I want you all to look at this face.  Soak it up.  Take it all in.  Done?  Give you another second.  Okay, now you're done.  This, people, is what failure looks like.  Some of you will see it again, right here.  This is what it looks like when you don't take yourself seriously, when you don't care enough about yourself to appreciate the chances that are being given to you."

He extended a demerit card towards the Chris’ face.  It was accepted without a whimper.

Weeks later, it came time for Chris and the gang to "graduate" from their classes.  By this point, Chris had gotten drunk several times (even puked, once) and tried to smoke pot a few times but it hadn't done anything to him.  Maybe he was just too drunk to feel it or he wasn't inhaling right, who knows.  Anyhow he figured a few bong hits wouldn't hurt before he had to show up to the ceremony, right, since he hadn't felt anything yet.  And, man, it was a blast because he was high as a fucking kite at the graduation, must have shoved 20 inches worth of the party sub into his mouth and downed at least 7 flutes of sparkling grape juice.  

His mother and stepfather—both stinking rich, by the way, disheartened by the lad's sudden fall from grace and more than a little pleased to see him making such a fast and exemplary recovery with the aid of such a caring and competent program—were dressed to the nines.  His mom was making time with the addicts.  This was her wont, the irresistible, flirty friendliness that drove her from the dregs of society (Chris' biological father) all the way to where she was today. While this was going on, Stepfather gracefully let loose to the riffraff around him all those little signs that showed that he was a kind man, but of great consequence.  He'd talk about sports while stretching him arm just so, just far enough to let his fancy watch fall into view.  He'd offer to lift heavy objects as an excuse to show off his bed-made tan, his gym-toned arms and back.  All of your jokes made him smile, but only just long enough for you to get a glimpse of his perfectly straight, snow white teeth. Both of them kept making their way over to Chris, who had stationed himself near the concessions table, to whisper into his ear how proud they were of him for pulling himself around and hint bluntly at him still receiving for his birthday a new car.  All the while, through this bleary, more-or-less with it haze, feeling content and calm with his surroundings and his high, Chris kept thinking about how much he had it made.  Everyone was a sucker, it seemed, but him.  Really, wow.  Everyone is stupid but me.

The soccer mom cut quickly around the room, stopping alongside each cluster of people and telling them that something important was about to happen,  it was time for everyone to walk into the little classroom where they normally met.  "You're not gonna want to miss this" she said, looking right into Chris with a mean little smile on her face that she knew would scare him.  Oh god, Chris though, she knew that he was high.  What was she in here for—ooh shit man, you've heard her talk about it 100 times.  Vicodin, right.  Vicodin and wine, passing out while one of her kids started a fire.  That's right.  Calm down. She wouldn't have known what someone looked like when he was high on pot.  Mom and Stepfather couldn't even tell and they saw Chris every day.  Calm down.

Chris shoved a few more bites of party sub into his mouth.  His mom laughed and said "getting better must make you work up an appetite, huh?"  Stepfather laughed.  Chris couldn't say anything, not even by the time they had walked all the way into the classroom and sat down on little folding chairs, because there was so much sandwich in his mouth.  Things began to quiet down within a couple of minutes. The overseer, smiling, poked his head out of his office and waved to the small crowd.  People clapped a little bit.  Chris noticed that "AWARDS RECEPTION" had been written on the blackboard with colored chalk, the letters alternating blue to red, blue to red.  A stack of certificates sat on the table up front.  The overseer waddled to the table and gestured towards his office and a large, black policeman walked from office to the entrance.  He looked all business.  There was another one who poked his head out from the office and then the overseer was still smiling, like the soccer mom he was wearing big, mean, fake smile and Chris sunk into his chair and moaned a little bit because he knew he was about to get arrested, again.  Arrested in front of his parents. 

Mom asked stepfather what the policemen were hear for the stepfather said—ahh the great rational bastard, it was all Chris could do to stop himself from hugging him—that since this was an official presentation, court mandated and all that, they must have some cops come and witness it.  That's all it was.  Nothing to get too upset about.  Still—gotta stay calm.  If the cops took no notice of Chris then they wouldn't take any notice of his being so incredibly fucking high. 

"Well," the overseer began.  Chris was hyperobservant and noncritical and he realized for the first time how long it took the overseer to get through sentences, because of all of his fat.  He'd pause every few words and take in a deep breath from his gut.  When he spoke it was in these bursts that were effeminately condescending but still bulky and powerful.  Like, if being told you were bad by a sharp-tongued gay man didn't hurt you then maybe being yelled at by an abusive gym coach would. Only he wasn't a gym coach and probably wasn't gay, either.  Talked about his wife and kids all the time.  This was an act.  He had measured out this persona for himself.  This was some kind of cruel professionalism.

Jesus, Chris thought to himself.  Pot fucks up the way you think about things.  How long had it been since they sat down?  How long since he'd been scared by the cops?  When was the guy going to start talking—ohh, wait he's already talking.  Might want to listen:

"And this is what this program is supposed to achieve: smiling faces.  Not just the smiling faces of those who are on roads to recovery—their own personal roads—but of their families and their friends.  The selfishness might end here.  The pain they have caused you, that they are sorry for, might end here.  But it's up to everyone here to make sure that all of these faces keep smiling."

He paused—too long.  Wanted people to clap for him.  They did.  Then they finished.  He continued.  His tone was different.  He had sounded like he was reading off a card.  Now he sounded more like he normally did, during classes.

"But it would be… hypocritical of me to let everyone who came here leave here, especially… if I knew that they would be making people start… to cry sometime soon.  Two of our friends will not be graduating today."

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

"The first… Rup-ERT Donwiddle."

Ahh.  Okay.  That guy—white guy, lots of scars—never even showed up after the first day.  He wasn't even here.  Chris sunk his head into his lap, like he was stretching or about to puke, while the overseer mumbled about how Rubert had squandered his chance for recovery and blah blah blah. 

"Rufus failed… due to lack of initiative.  He didn't come.  But every time we have this course, it seems… there is someone who does come…  but who shows such disrespect that he might as well not have"

The overseer's tone changed, again, abruptly but not in a way that seemed unplanned.  He was talking somewhere in between the rehearsed tone he'd used earlier and the mumbling, jumbled tone he used during regular meetings.  The air shifted around Chris.  It felt like strategy, men moving into position in order to accomplish some kind of task or anticipate some kind of resistance.  The bigger cop stood by the door that led to the outside, blocking it.  Meanwhile the guys who had missed the most class and been handed the most demerits began to shift in their seats a little bit while their wives looked at them in white fear, the sterile blank walls felt like they were closing in—that's what  expression actually meant, when it actually feels like the room you are in just got smaller, more oppressive—and the big fat fuck who ran the place worse the biggest fatfuck smile Chris had ever seen and he if had dropped dead of a heart attack no one with a mind or soul would have gotten up to help him.  In spite of all of this, the synchronization was such that Chris couldn't work up any fear.  He was too busy admiring the evil of the whole process. 

Chris took to talking to the soccer mom, a few months later, as part of some revenge scheme that never quite materialized.  He had first planned on sleeping with the woman and ruining her marriage.  When that didn’t work out he thought about maybe figuring out the vulnerabilities of her home and passing that knowledge on to some unseemly sorts who, god willing, would have raped, robbed, and kill her.  He didn't do that, though, for the same reason he didn't speak up during the meeting when the police were blocking off the door and overseer was smiling the very worst smile the world had ever seen:  because the woman's evil was so immense that he could barely process it, could do little else, in fact, aside from sitting back and admiring it.  What he learned from her, after she had opened up to him and filled him on all the details, was that if you didn't pass the rehab course it counted as either a violation of your parole or else as a violation of your court sentence, so your failure was akin to skipping bail trying to escape from prison.   That's to say it was a Very Serious offense, one that could put you in prison for a long, long time.  And what the overseer hadn't told to anybody but the soccer mom, who was his favorite, was that his policy was that out of every class there had to be at least one addict who failed to pass in spite of showing up, one person who because of this or that reason simply did not deserve to consider his or her self cured of their addiction.  That's what the demerits were for. Whoever got the most failed the course.  You couldn't tell the whole class about this since then the people who got the most demerits early on would have stopped coming all together.  On top of that, if you got into a situation where a few weeks in one guy had racked up 20 or 30 demerits, then that more or less lightens the stakes for everyone else.  They'll start mouthing off or falling asleep since they know they'll never make up enough demerits to catch the worst guy, and then by the end of it you'd have been better off not doing any sort of demerit system at all.  No—no, the trick was to keep it a surprise.  That had two positives:  one, you catch the guy by surprise and make sure he gets what's coming to him.  Two, you put the fear of god into the others who are all sitting around watching.  That's when they got taught what happens if you don't respect the things you should.

All Chris knew at the time of meeting was that the balding factory worker, Hank was his name, was getting pulled up really unnecessarily roughly by the cop, had his arms thrown behind his back, and was getting cuffed and pushed out of the room while his teenage daughter was screaming in abject terror and his wife was burying her head in her hands and then the two women sat there while the smiling overseer berated Hank, talked about how he needed to learn how to accept help and how this was for the good of him and his family and You two ladies should stop crying, it's pointless, what you need right now is strength, loyalty, and conviction.  Hank had blown .02 over the legal limit at a road block.  He insisted he hadn't had a drop to drink in months, not since his first DUI, that he couldn't perform the heel-to-toe sobriety test successfully because of a fully documented injury he had sustained during Desert Storm and that the alcohol on his breath—which came up on only one of the 5 breathalyzers he was given—must have been from gum or mouthwash or cologne or something.  His parole was zero tolerance, though, and so he found himself at the meetings.  Every week he told the overseer that something he had said was bullshit.  He wouldn't say "My name is Hank and I'm a narcotic," he said, because that is just fucking stupid.  He wouldn't apologize for hurting anybody because he hadn't hurt anybody.  He wouldn't lie for the sake of lying because goddamn it that's not what this country is about.

And for that he went to prison.

Coming face-to-face with the reality of just how cruel and unfair the system is can, especially for a teenager, lead to a distrust so strong and all encompassing that it borders on despair.  This distrust can, sometimes, be healthy and inspire you to try and change things.  More often, it can grow into full-blown hatred, a maniacal desire to change things or to right wrongs that leads you to do something rash or destructive.  Still more often, it leads to a sense of defeatism, a feeling that you can't win since the system is so fucked so why the hell should you even try.  At least, that's what I gather from hearing Chris talk about it.  That's probably what I would have done if something like that would have happened to me.  I would have given up and failed.

And for the longest time Chris had given up and had failed. He drank and drugged and destroyed.  This made him a blast to hang out with.  This was when he still lived in Alton and I would see him once every few months, when I was at home visiting my family.  My sister moved to Garden City to attend the university at which I now teach.  Most of her friends soon followed suit.  He was left behind.  As I am self-absorbed to the point where I don't care about my friend's lives except for when their stories are particularly miserable or amusing, I don't know much about this time period except that it saw Chris turning things somewhat around.  Not by much.  He still drinks far too much.  But he's in school now—he's at the school where I teach, actually, although I've never had him for a student. 

[inks-books]

Word Tag Game

I was tagged by @spacetimewraithwrites!

My words were: False mind wrap teeth hope

I'm tagging: @authorlaurawinter, @ashen-crest, @bloodandmonsters, and @genby-enby! With zero pressure!

Your words are: love, surprise, shaken, and jump

False

Soren described the cities and how they were alive.  That each of their citizens were responsible for helping take care of it. If you didn’t take care of the city or were destructive, the city didn’t take care of you if you needed help. It was a mutual bond and benefit, and could even help the sick and dying heal as much as possible. There were streets that would change up and lanes that would stretch out depending on what the city wanted to do that day or if someone needed help to escape someone chasing them, it would help block off their pursuer’s paths. Soren had seen that happen once when a man had been falsely accused of some crimes.

Mind

“Ms. Valtteri.”

Tursanay sighed. “I know.”

“You seemed to be having a little trouble following through with the concept,” Asher replied. “I’d like to reduce conflict in this school, not cultivate it.”

“I’m not just going to let someone disrespect me and my friends like that. He is ableist and racist,” Tursanay complained.

“Allowing him to get a rise out of you only makes matters worse,” Asher said.

“Taking the high road and not letting him get a rise out of me is the same as giving him permission to say those things and worse without the fear of repercussions,” Tursanay countered.

“I see you’ve been learning some things from the debate team. Good,” Asher approved with a nod. “I recommended them to you for a reason. You don’t have to let Trenton get away with what he’s saying and doing. You can use the knowledge and skills you have in you to turn the argument back on him without resorting to violence or name calling. Challenge him. Challenge yourself.”

Tursanay grumbled, not looking at him. “It shouldn’t be my job to educate him.”

“No it shouldn’t,” Asher agreed. “That’s not your burden to bear. What you need to worry about is utilizing your mind to the best of its abilities. Understand?”

“No,” she snapped. She glared for a second then rolled her eyes. “I’m getting a demerit too, aren’t I?”

“I can’t give him a demerit and not you, when you both said things you shouldn’t have,” Asher replied. When Tursanay grumbled, he added, “I don’t play favorites.”

Wrap

A one-armed girl, dark skinned, wide eyed standing before a mirror. Everything seemed to be happening through her vision. She glanced away from her reflection back down to a bag on the counter she was packing things into with a sense of urgency. The grim line of worry set in her forehead made her eyes seem too old for her young face. There was a sound from the other room, and she turned, poking her head around the corner to see another girl enter. This girl was in a chair with wheels. Much like a reverse chariot.

Her hair was hidden beneath a type of wrap that covered her ears, neck, and part of her shoulders as well. Her eyes were red rimmed and glassy, her breath coming in short little spurts as she tried to calm herself, but failed.

“What happened?” the one-armed girl asked. It was a moment before the other girl could form words.

“He’s- He’s d-dead,” she was sobbing. “He-He didn’t call be-because he was dead.” Rushing to her friend’s side, the one armed girl calmed and comforted her as best she could.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured between comforts. “Just breathe. I got you.” Her own vision blurred as tears formed in her eyes.

Teeth

Rodney glanced at his arm, the sharp pain still throbbing, but had been temporarily forgotten in their panic. His eyes grew wide as he looked up at the others.

"Guys! I have a problem!" he blurted.

"What?" Tursanay asked, her voice almost hoarse with fear as it was.

"What if I turn into a werewolf because that talking dog thing bit me?!" he asked, his words slurring together in his panic. He lifted his upper lip, angling his head so Tursanay could get a good look at his gums. "Are my teeth getting any longer?"

"Rodney focus! We don't have the time to panic!" Tursanay squeaked, already doing just that.

Hope

Rodney played with the ring on his right hand absentmindedly. “What if you’re not actually having dreams?” he said slowly.

“What do you mean?” Amara asked.

“What if someone’s actually trying to get in touch with you?” Rodney asked.

“I think she should tell the counselor about it, to be honest,” Tursanay said, the skepticism showing on her face.

“For sure,” Rodney shrugged. “But still what if?”

“What would we even do with that information?” Tursanay asked. “There’s literally nothing we can do for him.”

“He’s been consistently trying to tell her something since he first started to show up since the beginning of the year,” Rodney argued. “I mean... maybe we can try to hear him out?”

“I’ve tried, I don’t understand him,” Amara replied. “Well back when I was having the weird dreams. It’s been a few months... but if they’re coming back...” She paled at the thought.

“Maybe I could give it a crack,” Rodney offered.

“How are you going to do that?” Tursanay rolled her eyes. “Wait for her to take a nap between classes so you can yell in her ear for him to visit you next when she starts dreaming and hope it works? Wait - why are we even talking like he’s a real person?”

[alarriefantasy]

Hi, all! So it seems that the wonderful AO3 user - objectlesson - aka on tumblr as - horsegirlharry - has sadly deleted their fics. I have only a few saved in my files, but there are some I would really love to possess, if anyone has them? I would really appreciate it if you would message me and let me know! :)

Also, I am posting the whole list of amazing stories they shared for our fandom, and I am marking (with an asterisk*) the ones that I have myself, in case anyone else would like them too! <3

Silver White Winters

by objectlesson

In which Louis catches a cloud and pins it down.

Words: 5106, Chapters: 2/2, Language: English

I Must Confess (I Still Believe)

by objectlesson

Louis shrugs, eyes on the road. “You look cute in the blazer, too,” she says nonchalantly, and what the fucking fuck, what is Harry supposed to think?

“You probably do, too, but I wouldn’t know because I don’t even think you own one? Do you ever actually wear the entire uniform?” she asks, deflecting.

“Not since freshman year!” Louis boasts proudly. “They stopped giving me demerits because it’s, like, a lost cause. I literally haven’t seen my blazer in three years, I just borrow Veronica’s when I walk into Mass.” Her grin is very cheeky and bright, and she’s squinting in the sun, aviators pushed up into the overgrown auburn shag of her hair. The horizon is hazy and pink-orange as dark sneaks up on them, the air smelling of sprinkler water and BBQ smoke from people leaching the last warmth of October before summer’s gone for good. Harry feels alive with possibility, eyes watering as she smiles at Louis, unable to stop. She wrinkles her nose like it’ll somehow hide the way it looks on her face to be in love.

Or, Harry is the new girl at an all girl Catholic Girl’s School, and Louis is the unattainable, dashing senior who changes her forever.

Words: 44304, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Powerless (and I Don’t Care It’s Obvious)

by objectlesson

“Oh no, Lou, don’t make me laugh,” he whimpers. His Ribena-purple mouth twists into a glorious, breakable shape, and Louis’s heart stops. He should not be getting turned on by Harry’s full-bladder discomfort, his little twitches, his hips-stuttering. And yet.

Words: 4090, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

The Pink Ghost of Princess Park

by objectlesson

The thought of the vibrator does not go away. It’s sitting there collecting dust all through January, and every time Harry and Louis have to leave town for a press event or a show or to record or what have you, they come back home, and it’s still there, the Pink Ghost of Princess Park, the fucking glittery haunting that Harry cannot stop thinking of Louis stuffing up his arse.

Words: 7556, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

*Life Saver

by objectlesson

Nerd Boy’s giant, dorky, adorable hand shoots into the air. Louis notices he has chipped red polish on a few of his nails and some tattered friendship-looking bracelets, like the sort you make in camp, and he might hear the distant chime of wedding bells. He thought he didn’t even believe in marriage because it’s, like, oppressive and heteronormative or whatever, but that was before Styles, Harry (Harry Styles!!! What an absurd, wonderful name! What a perfect thing to scrawl in the margins of all his notebooks surrounded in hearts!) appeared in the bio lab at his new school and ruined all his principles forever.

or, Louis is a sweetheart punk with a theater background and a heart of gold, Harry is an inexperienced nerd who plays by the rules. Classmates, lab partners, and eventually friends, what happens when Louis knows he’s in love, but doesn’t know how tell Harry?

Words: 14809, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Even Your Honey Dew

by objectlesson

It probably says something about Harry that he’s so obsessed with another omega’s arse.

Words: 9512, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

What a Heavenly Way To Die

by objectlesson

She’s thought about it a lot, and two big things seem to be holding her back, aside from the uncontrollable paralysis that overtakes her body every time she so much as tries to sneak a hand under the waistband of Harry’s knickers.

Or, Louis is afraid to do stuff to Harry, who has done a lot of stuff to her.

Words: 8052, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

A Firm Believer and a Warm Receiver

by objectlesson

a few months ago, Louis had his first heat. It was no big deal, aside from it being awkward and weird and all the other things it was supposed to be. He figured he would present as an omega, so he wasn’t exactly surprised or anything.

But then, last week, Harry had his first heat, too.

Or, the omega/omega sleepover fic no one asked for but y'all really, really need.

Words: 10895, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

You’ll Know What Makes The World Turn

by objectlesson

Sometimes, when things are messy and they have more than a few weeks apart, they need the reminder. It’s comforting to have stars to map your course by.

or, Harry’s blue bandana is a day collar.

Words: 4624, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Sing You Butterflies

by objectlesson

Louis stares for a moment before some primal sympathetic force in him activates. He has to help this boy. He can hardly walk, and he seems so young (yet ageless, beyond age, like a sea turtle or a parrot or a tree or something else odd and magical), and on top of all that, he has body glitter clinging to his skin, like that roll-on stuff his sisters used to use as preteens, only pink-gold and twice as thick. It’s, like, professional grade. He’s also wearing grass- and dirt-stained pink silk women’s underwear, so maybe he’s from London. Maybe he’s a drag queen who crawled all the way from a nightclub in Soho just to save Louis from his horribly mundane and woefully heterosexual neighbours out here in the middle of nowhere.

or, Harry’s a clumsy unicorn who accidentally stomps on a witch’s garden and is turned into a human as punishment, so he wanders into a nearby village covered in glitter, still figuring out how to walk on two feet, and meets the fairy-tale-fine Louis, who has to teach him how to live as a human and stop him from eating soap.

Words: 22701, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Holy

by objectlesson

She deserves not to be so goddamned put together all the time. Being in the world’s biggest and highest exposure girlband means she’s never seen without a flat stomach, a spray tan, contouring, eyelash extensions, the whole of her body inescapably toned and plucked and waxed so frequently she genuinely forgot what fucking color her own pubes are. Louis wants to eat burgers and smoke weed and be twenty three. She wants to wake up with Harry and spend the whole day in bed fingering each other because they finally don’t have to have goddamn acrylic nails for once. She wants to grow her pubes out. She wants to lounge around in a posh, red-velvet High Hefner robe.

Or, Louis is dressed like a fucking queen, Harry’s begging please.

Words: 6608, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Only One I Dream Of: A Drabble Collection

by objectlesson

A collection of all the m/m One Direction drabbles and timestamps I’ve written on tumblr, so my readers on here aren’t missing out!

Words: 5164, Chapters: 5/13, Language: English

Diamonds in the Moonlight

by objectlesson

The 70s au where Harry is a rich girl stuck in the suburbs who thinks she loves Shaun Cassidy, and Louis is the skater who breaks into her backyard and changes everything forever.

Words: 16136, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

In the Heat of the Night

by objectlesson

“You’re sleeping with me, obviously,” Harry says then, pausing to regard Louis with a funny expression, nose wrinkled and brows drawn tight. “Don’t tell me you thought that I’d let you freeze out here!? Absolutely not! C’mon, the bedroom’s cozy, I dragged a space heater out.”

Louis wants to protest about as badly as she wants to sleep next to Harry Styles, which is a lot. Too much.

Or, Louis is the only butch in London with a truck and Harry needs to move a couch.

Words: 7726, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Once Upon a Dream

by objectlesson

“M’not gonna half-ass our fake relationship,” Louis almost snaps, voice sharp with a defensive edge, like Harry wandered too close to a bruise with needy fingers. “Now kiss me again. We’re gonna make every shitty tourist here wish they had stayed in the Midwest. We’re gonna burn Disneyland down with our gay. ”

Harry shuts his eyes and opens his mouth, because he can’t fucking say no to Louis.

Or, a fake dating AU where everyone is lying and they happen to be at the Happiest Place on Earth.

Words: 16643, Chapters: ½, Language: English

From Now Until Forever

by objectlesson

The girls go to Britney Nite and Louis wears Juicy track pants and Harry is not ok.

Niall takes the pint glass back from Harry and takes a swig, regarding her over the rim knowingly. “You’re nervous,” she observes with a grin. “Because you’re gonna get drunk at a gay bar with Louis, and you haven’t told her yet that you wanna marry her.”

“Oh, my god, stop,” Harry scolds, hiding her face in her hands, everything suddenly hot and shivery. “It’s not that,” she adds, even though it most definitely is.

“Then…you’re excited to see Louis in a schoolgirl skirt and bra? Covered in that body glitter that smells like cotton candy?” Niall presses, waggling her eyebrows, making Harry blush at the mere thought of Louis’s golden skin shimmering and sticky under club lights.

Words: 9223, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Hello, Heaven (you are tunnel-lined with yellow lights

by objectlesson

“Oh, yeah?” Harry asks, playing dumb as he helps Louis out of his coat before hanging it up. “A new phone charger? Mine’s still broken, the electrical tape didn’t work.”

Louis makes a face at him, all arched brows and tongue pressed into cheek. “Oh a phone charger? Is that what you need?” he quips lightly, voice high and lilting in this sing-song way that’s so, so high and gentle that it’s scary. He’s putting on a show for Harry, and Harry’s thrilled with it, already shivery and hot-cheeked because Louis got him something naughty, and they’re talking about it without really talking about it, wrapping it up in layers of mundanity and domesticity, still so excited to play the role of two Adults living in their new Adult flat in London that they bought with their own money from the X Factor. Harry’s living an unimaginably glamourous life so suddenly, and Louis and his gifts are right in the middle of it, the heart of his every dream.

Or, Louis buys Harry things sometimes.

Words: 2988, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Dream About That Casual Touch

by objectlesson

And that was the first thing Louis noticed about her. Not her nipples, or not only her nipples, anyway, but the fact that she was so confident with her body and didn’t seem to care that her tits were sort of soft and floppy and uneven or that she had a little roll of pudge around her hips that poked over the top of her jeans when she wore crop tops. She wore what she wanted to wear whether or not it was in fashion or technically even flattering; her hair was always messy, she only wore makeup half the time, and she seemed to like heeled boots even if she was already fairly tall and they made her tower over the boys. Louis always thought it was so fucking sexy how unconcerned Harry seemed with what people thought of her, how comfortable she was in her own skin. That by itself seemed like a sort-of gay thing, so Louis kept a remote, careful eye on her, hoping to one day see something else that blipped her radar.

Or, Louis and Harry fuck up two dates before they finally get it right.

Words: 7678, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

*Smoke Dreams from Smoke Rings

by objectlesson

“When I get a craving?” Louis says, “You have to help me chase it away. Distract me”

Oh. Harry can think of about one hundred different ways to distract Louis Tomlinson. One hundred better uses for his mouth, for example. “Erm,” he squeaks, well aware of the fact that he’s grinning and dimpling and blushing all at once, his whole face a suddenly mortifying warzone of transparent emotion. “How?”

“By hitting my arm as hard as you can,” Louis announces, holding out the arm in question. It bridges the gap between them, stiff and expectant, and Harry stares, not entirely sure if Louis’s being serious, if this is some prank that he isn’t clever enough to understand, or if the promise of touching Louis under any circumstances is so titillating that he just can’t process it. Louis rolls up the sleeve of his hoodie then, revealing his pale inner arm in maddening increments, pushing Harry somewhere between drooling and vomiting, he isn’t sure which. He just knows that his mouth is flooded, and the barely-there ghost of Louis’s veins through his skin is the prettiest thing that he’s ever seen. “Go on, hit me,” Louis orders. “Don’t be shy,”

or, Louis enlists Harry to help him with his bad habit.

Words: 18116, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Black Stars and Endless Seas

by objectlesson

Or, A Star Trek Original Series AU where Lt. Styles is a young science officer on his first away mission, and Louis is the headstrong ensign assigned to his security detail, and maybe they would be able to function together professionally in a normal setting, but not when their shuttlecraft crash-lands and they end up marooned together on an improbably and unfairly beautiful planet.

Words: 32246, Chapters: 3/3, Language: English

Rose Garden Dreams

by objectlesson

Harry thinks it’s a fever-induced delirium, at first. After all, she’s been sick in bed for a full forty-eight hours following the Best and Most Important beach trip of her entire life because fate is a cruel and jealous bitch who doesn’t want Harry to go on a date with the girl of her dreams.

or, Harry is sick and Louis comes to visit her.

Words: 9464, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Palms Reflecting in Your Eyes

by objectlesson

Harry visits Louis at his campus and finds a crop on the wall.

Words: 6496, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Wrap You Up in Daisy Chains

by objectlesson

Ten minutes later, an awkward, long-legged, curly-haired, so pale she’s reflective, and so obviously gay-looking Harry Styles is sitting shotgun next to Louis in a bikini, denim cut-offs, and heart-framed sunnies.

Or, Harry and Louis and a too-small bathing suit.

Words: 10613, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

To Keep the Night From Ending

by objectlesson

It doesn’t always feel real to kiss in the dark, Harry guesses. He wants it to feel real. He wants it to be the realest thing, burnt indelibly into his skin.

Or, Harry and Louis take a night swim.

Words: 5036, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Good Enough to Eat

by objectlesson

“Fuck,” Harry mumbles, shuffling. “You won’t give me shit for it? It’s sorta weird.”

“No,” Louis breathes. “Promise.”

“Okay. I just…fuck, I can’t believe I’m telling you this,” Harry whimpers, and he must be blushing because Louis can feel waves of heat coming off him, his embarrassment a hot, palpable thing. “So, like…I love rimming videos. Nothing makes me come harder,” he admits, covering his face with his hands so his voice comes out muffled and strangled.

It takes Louis a few seconds to process, to mentally rifle through his Pornhub search history and remember what rimming even is; Harry has him so stupid he can’t keep stuff straight. His ears ring, and then it hits him, and, oh, fuck. His stomach turns and tightens so quickly he’s gasping, an audible and shameful scrape of air in the dark. “You…really?” he chokes out.

Or, Harry is convinced he’s never gonna be able to try his favorite porn fantasy on a real boy, and Louis offers to remedy this.

Words: 6722, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Grenadine Sunshine

by objectlesson

Harry’s only sixteen, it shows right now, and Louis wants…he wants so many things. He wants to taste the faint, sugary ghost of lip gloss, he wants to cup Harry’s face between his palms and swipe the shimmery wet shadows from beneath his eyes. He wants to show him everything he knows, even though he doesn’t know anything about this, about kissing boys or flirting with them or doing their makeup or even showing them it’s okay to want to wear makeup in the first place. Still, Louis just wants, wants and wants and wants. It’s what Harry does to him.

Words: 18067, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Only Angel

by objectlesson

Louis pops his hip out, looking down at Harry from beneath the cut of his fringe sassily. “How do I look?”

Harry…Harry doesn’t have words, not really. He sits there on the floor with a half-hard cock, gazing up at this taller, scarier version of Louis with wide eyes. “Like I want you to spin-kick me in the face,” he admits after a moment, shakily inhaling. “You look…really good.”

Or, Louis finds a pair of heels that fit, and Harry wants to be ruined, as per usual.

Words: 6599, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Someone Who Knows How To Ride

by objectlesson

Harry gives Louis a lap dance. Or, at least, he tries to.

Words: 5114, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Copper Kiss

by objectlesson

Harry’s not allowed to fly back to the UK without marks to remember Louis by.

Words: 4604, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

You Drive Me Crazy ( I Just Can’t Sleep)

by objectlesson

The first time Louis ends up in Harry’s bed is a total accident.

Words: 18520, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Christmas Without You

by objectlesson

It’s Christmas Eve and Harry misses Louis so badly he might be going little crazy.

Words: 5639, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Vinyl and Lace

by objectlesson

Harry tries on a skirt in the X Factor dressing room as a joke. Louis doesn’t think it’s very funny.

Words: 7541, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Touch of My Hand

by objectlesson

Words: 3104, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: One Direction (Band)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson

Additional Tags: Tour Bus Sex, Bus Sex, PWP, Up All Night Tour, Uan era, Canon Compliant, baby boyfriends in love, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Established Relationship

Born to Make You Happy

by objectlesson

Harry makes a quiet vow to himself that he will be the very best girlfriend Louis has ever had, even if he never actually gets to be Louis’s girlfriend.

Words: 25662, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Taste of a Poison Paradise

by objectlesson

Louis notices Harry’s mouth right away.

Words: 9894, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

A Little Love (is better than none)

by objectlesson

It’s supposed to be no strings attached sex, but Harry’s in love with beauty and tragedy and Louis Tomlinson so there might actually a few strings they’re not talking about.

Or, alternately, the four times they fuck and don’t kiss, and one time they fuck and do (with a few more times thrown in because I’m a mess and know how to write short fics).

Words: 15074, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

*Take Me Under the Blue

by objectlesson

Louis hasn’t even seen his legs yet. He doesn’t know how they work or how long they’ll be. Maybe they won’t suit the rest of Harry at all, and he’ll have to grow into them or something. It doesn’t matter; Louis has loved Harry for a year with scales, so he can’t imagine wonky legs putting a damper on his attraction. 

He supposes he’ll just have to find out. In the meantime, he wonders how the fuck he got here, in his squelching wellies about to save the love of his life from the sea and take him to bed and bang him for the very first time.

It’s sort of a long story.

Words: 19011, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

[whywishesarehorses]

My Wild Horse Story

                                                               Jul 1, 2020                                              

Submitted by Katie Jo Smart, Mississippi

“He’s going to outgrow the pony soon, and we just don’t have the money for a Jr. High Rodeo horse,” I whispered to my husband as we looked through the panels at a small bay mare with a big head and even bigger eyes. Our son needed a new horse as he would eventually move on to Jr. High and High School Rodeo, and a professionally trained horse at $40k just wasn’t in the cards. A $25 horse, however, may be something to consider. I watched her move across the pen, her big eyes unsure and untrusting. I shrugged my shoulders and got in my car to leave. I went home and tried to clear my mind, but her quick feet and athletic nature were absolutely haunting.

“What if this could be the one? What if this is the horse to take him to Nationals? Wouldn’t that be a hoot, if a wild horse went to the High School Rodeo National Finals with all of those fancy high-bred rodeo horses?!”

I went to sleep thinking about that mare, woke up with her on my mind, and was basically only a warm body for the day until I went back to see her again.

There she was. Her pen had been sorted through, as most of her temporary roommates had been adopted. As I gazed over her wondering if I could even do any justice, a friendly face came towards me. “Well, what are you thinking?” asked Mr. Cary Frost, BLM Wild Horse and Burro Specialist.

“Honestly, sir, she is very catty and athletic but I’m wondering if I could even do her justice.”

“She is smart,” he added. He went about his way to talk to another prospective adopter as I stared into her pen trying to envision myself even attempting to train an 800lb, for all intents and purposes, wild animal. I went home again.

This dance went back and forth to the point that I made four trips to the adoption center before I was ready and confident enough to sign the adoption papers. She was one of only three that had not been taken home and the other two may have been adopted and waiting on their ride.

“How much is she” I asked Mr. Cary. "$25 or $125?”

“That one is $25,” he replied. I nervously went to the adoption desk. After verifying that I had all necessary facilities to hold a wild horse and the proper shelter, I handed over my $25 and signed my John Hancock.

“Would you like to sign her up for the Adoption Incentive Program?” asked another BLM employee, Demerits.

“What’s that?”

“Well, you get $1,000 for adopting a wild horse.”

“I’m sorry, I have a trick ear, what was that?” I asked. “If you keep the horse and prove that it’s been properly taken care of, you get $1,000,” he replied.

I could have been knocked over with a feather! You mean to tell me, that you are giving me this horse for $25 and you’re adding $1,000 too?

This day couldn’t get any better, I had found my son a horse and this horse was basically paying for everything itself. Feed, hay, farrier work, vet bills. She was financially independent.

We loaded her up, cut the tag from around her neck and she was mine.

She was unloaded into her pen and I just stared with the overwhelming feeling of “what did I just do.” I had never trailered a tornado before.

Then the research began. I combed through every well of knowledge as if I were writing a thesis. Every movie, documentary, YouTube video or blog about wild horse training, I was studying. I learned the most from the movie Wild Horse Redemption - I felt that it was the most accurate by far.

This is where the fairy tail takes a short pause.

3 days to touch her.

5 days of begging to lead her while most of those days she was leading me.

7 days to put a towel on her back to mimic a saddle pad.

2 weeks to pick her feet up.

1 month before her first farrier visit.

4 months to fully saddle her.

5 months before our first ride.

6 months before she would load on a trailer.

6 months before I could ride her around cattle.

Needless to say, September 14 until mid-March 2020 was a trying time. Every day was a new day, as much for me as it was for her. Training went like this: If she would accept A, I would move to B. If she would accept B, we went to C. If C was a “no go”, we reinforced B.

It was 6 months of trials and tribulations but when the victories came, they rained down. I can honestly and without holding back say that this horse, this “wild mustang” that my entire family was intimidated by because of the mustang stereotype, is the number one horse in my string. She is the one I want to go ride and bring cows up on. She is the one I load first to go to the arena. She is my pick. She is my Marty and she was worth it. I know without a shadow of a doubt that she will take my son to the High School National Finals rodeo. Keep an eye out for her, she will be the little bay with the freeze brand on her neck.