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jarofstyles · 4 years ago

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Teacher’s Pet

A/N: As requested, here is the first part of our professor!harry series. As usual, this we put our little twist on things and we hope that you enjoy! - n+d

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pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

warning: smut, mutual masturbation, use of sex toys

word count: 6.2k

While Harry tried not to show favoritism in his courses, it was hard not to be caring towards the students that showed effort but struggled. That was the case with little Y/N. She was young, pretty, had a bit of an edge to her. From what he had noticed she was kind and often let people borrow pens and once gave a diabetic classmate her muffin when she saw he was a bit pale and taking his blood sugar.

He wasn’t everyone’s favorite professor. He was a tough grader, had a bit of a resting ‘bitch’ face, and he wasn’t necessarily warm and fuzzy. It wasn’t what Harry wanted at all— but it had to be done so that the students wouldn’t just see him as a peer. He had learned that early in. He had to be strict and get respect or he would be stuck with slackers or people who thought he would ‘do them a solid’ as one student had tried to ask with a fist bump. But when it came to sweet students with dyed hair, a devastated little pout, and even watery eyes, he knew he would have to say something.

‘If you would like some help, please come to my office any time after 4. I would be happy to assist in figuring out the material.’

It was written next to a poor grade. He could tell that she had potential— she just wasn’t getting it. He also worried about her word usage. If what he thought of was correct, it would make sense why she was struggling.

School was never one of Y/N’s strong suits. From the beginning of her school career she struggled with getting the hang of concepts and her teachers grew a distaste for her because they thought she wasn’t trying. Y/N was a hard worker though, she did genuinely try, but her best was never enough. A few teachers pointed out that she might have a learning disability, but her parents denied that ever being a case. Her other siblings, both older and younger, were able to grasp concepts easily and were all incredible book smart in addition to being talented outside of school. It seemed that Y/N was just the bad apple of the bunch. Her parents would joke, but of course it hurt. She didn’t even want to go to college originally, but her parents forced her to at least try and get a degree so she wouldn’t be a low life. Y/N only agreed because they said they’d keep paying for her band. Of course, you can only really go to college if you pass though and Y/N wasn’t doing too well.

Professor Styles had always intimidated her, but he just took his job seriously. She could tell by the way he talked about everything that he was passionate about making sure people understood the deeper meaning behind these books and Y/N could appreciate that. It was just a shame that she struggled so much in his class. There were students that excelled in his classes and he was always giving them praise, little surprised smiles and nods, a small ‘good job’ or ‘correct, yes’ here and there. Y/N found herself wanting to try harder in his classes just to get a praise out of him, but she was too nervous to raise her hand even when she did know the answer. This was her third time getting a not so passing grade in this class and Y/N was growing more and more frustrated. She understood the material, or she felt like she did, but whenever it came to reading and remembering, she found herself getting stuck. Little frustrated tears formed in her eyes but she blinked them away, thinking she wasn’t going to muster up the courage to see him today.

But she did.

He had a soft spot for the students that he helped. It was human nature to care for those you spent time with. It wasn’t like how he thought about Y/N though. Okay— he knew it was bad. But he was intrigued by her. Why? He wasn’t able to pinpoint exactly what it was. Maybe her edgy look, maybe it was because she was seemingly submissive and every time he caught her eye she looked like a deer in headlights. She stares at him a lot, he could notice that. But he likes it. So he was pleasantly surprised when she came to his office, looking skittish but also curious. She needed help and he would offer it to her.

“Y/N, it’s nice to see you.” Harry adjusted his glasses and sat up straighter, putting the final mark on a test before looking back up at her with a gentle smile. He had to approach with caution, she already looked like she was going to shit herself. “I’m glad you got my note and weren’t offended. But I was wondering if you’d like some help.” He didn’t say what because he wanted her to tell him what exactly she was struggling with.

Y/N was very nervous, mostly because she didn’t like asking for help from anyone. She didn’t like to seem unintelligent in front of men, especially when they were as attractive as Professor Styles. All the girls on campus talked about how hot he was, how his dominance was a turn on and how none of them were properly able to focus in class. At least they were getting passing grades.

“Hi, professor...” Y/N said softly and closed the door behind her before taking a seat. “I, um... I’m not really good with asking for help.” She explained, pushing a few pieces of hair behind her ear before fixing her septum piercing. Y/N was playing with the hem of her skirt, one of her fingers playing with the fishnet stockings she had on. “I feel like I understand when you’re explaining it and then I go and take the test and it’s like I can’t remember anything you said. But I’m not good at academics anyway so...” Y/N let out a sad chuckle. Her self confidence was pretty low in all aspects, it was a shame because she was a pretty girl. She didn’t seem to think so, hence why she dressed up. At least her clothes she could control.

“Now, don’t say that.” Harry tutted. “I’m sure that’s not true. I bet you just have a different way of learning. If you understand verbally, but freeze when it’s written, that may be the case.” He hummed, flipping through the last work she had handed in. “My question is... it isn’t meant to offend you at all. But do you find difficulty in reading itself?” He approached it gently. You’d be surprised how many adults realize later on in life that they have dyslexia. They were labeled as not the smartest but he was because it took so long for them to understand because the words and numbers get jumbled up. “I’m asking because I notice in your writings, you spell things in a unique way. Or it seems the letters are flipped. This isn’t to embarrass you so please don’t be upset— we just need to figure out why it is that you struggle with the tests.” He leaned forward on his desk, licking over his bottom lip. She was beautiful. In that way when women didn’t know they were beautiful. He wished he could see more of her body— fuck, not going there. Absolutely not. Even though technically it wasn’t like he would be fired, seeing as half the damn staff fucks students. It was always that forbidden element. Either way, he was far too much for this sweet thing to handle. “I would like to help you if you would let me do so.”

Y/N felt really anxious, bouncing her leg to try and keep her composure. She didn’t think she was smart. She wasn’t good at math, wasn’t good at science, she was decent at English but even that seemed to be difficult now that she was reading classics that were barely in modern English. She just decided that learning wasn’t for her.

“I’m not a reader, no.” She shook her head, Y/N found herself having trouble focusing for a long time and when it came to reading words get jumbled up and she struggled a lot. Especially when she started thinking about it too much. Of course Y/N was embarrassed even though he said he wasn’t trying to embarrass her. It was more just her feeling incompetent. She didn’t like making eye contact with him for too long because she felt like he was staring straight into her soul. She was a bit shy and timid when it came to new people. She appreciated that he wasn’t judging her though. “I don’t know what you could do to help, but if you’d like to try we can? I—I don’t want to waste your time.”

“There’s no wasting time if it helps improve your learning, yeah? Please don’t think of yourself like that. You are an important person, just as important as my other students. I want you to succeed.” Harry promised. It kind of broke his heart that she was so sure that her time with him would be wasted. It made him sad that she felt that way. Why? “How about we set up a time... let’s say two days a week? I have time around now, so 4:15 to 5 where I can help you.” He normally wouldn’t do it for most but he wasn’t going to let her suffer. A passion project, so to speak. “I don’t know your schedule but I would be here during that time normally. I basically live in this office anyways.” He smiled in a joking way. “We can work on understanding first what was wrong and then we can have time to work on the new material.”

Y/N nodded her head in agreement, but it did make her worry. Of course she could only try her best but she was so used to failing that she wasn’t sure how much harder she could try. She was barely passing her other classes and frankly she was thinking about dropping out all together. Maybe she was the lowlife her parents made her out to be?

“Can do... Monday’s and Thursday’s..” Y/N told him, “if that’s okay, I have band practice on Wednesday’s.” She wasn’t sure why’s she told him but part of it was to show that she wasn’t just a stupid girl that she did have some talent or at least she thought she did. “It’s um... it’s really nice of you to do this, thank you.” She told him genuinely, though she was terrified of letting him down. He seemed so cool. He wasn’t like this in his classes, he seemed much more approachable this way. Maybe in another life they could have been friends or more than that... no, he probably wasn’t into girls like her. She needed a cigarette.

“Of course. You have my email if you need to reschedule.” But he could see right through her. Of course he could. “But... if you’re nervous, tell me. I can soothe the worries. I’ll be awfully disappointed if you don’t show up and don’t let me know.” He knew she was skittish. He didn’t want her to back out and not take the time to try at the very least. “Let’s just work on it a day at a time. I hope to see you soon.”

When she walked out, he was ashamed to say he was entranced by her ass. He was such a bastard for thinking about a student like that. So bad. But it didn’t stop him from seeing her eyes when he fucked his fist later that night.

----

The next couple of days left Y/N worried. Coming out of professor Styles’ office had left her feeling on edge, wondering if it was even worth trying. She felt like nothing would save her at this point but this was going to be her last attempt. If it didn’t work out she’d just drop out and couch surf. But she didn’t want to have to do that, her kitty Jinx would have to find a new home and that was something she certainly didn’t want. It was Monday and Y/N didn’t go to her classes today, feeling like it was justified because she was meeting with Professor Styles today.

If she was going to work on herself she wanted to be in the best shape possible, so she smoked some weed in the morning to get her day off right and got her things together before getting her skateboard and making her way to his office.

Harry was pleased when she actually showed up at his office. He was half expecting her to drop his class with how terrified she had seemed the past time, and he was curious to see how she had thought about what her grades and his revisions on her test. He had worn a dark red button up today with suspenders, his blazer off and hair a tiny bit messy. His glasses hung off the end of his nose while he looked up at her with surprise, before a smile came on his face.

“Y/N! I’m very glad to see you’ve come.” He hummed, sitting up and leaning back in his chair. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable on the couch. Would you like a water?” He had a mini fridge in his office. Without listening to an answer, he pulled one out anyways and handed it to her, rounding the desk so he seemed less scary. The desk was a position of power. One he loved, but also didn’t want to take advantage of when Y/N obviously was terrified of it. “Alright. So... you’ve seen my revisions?” He sat on the other arm chair across from the couch, glasses pushed up now with his copy of her paper. “Good. What do you think about your mistakes? Were they because you didn’t understand the material, or didn’t know what to say in paper?”

Y/N gave him a small smile, setting her skate board up against the side wall before taking a seat on the couch. No amount of weed could have calmed her down, she wasn’t even that high anymore it was just the residual feeling. Right now, she was more concerned about having to tell him what was going on inside her mind when she was working on assignments.

“I—I um... both?” She felt a blush creeping in on her cheeks. “I tried to like... watch videos about it, cause whenever I try to read I just get frustrated.” Y/N explained fiddling with the paper. She didn’t like this feeling, it was obvious that it was something that made her emotional which was why she didn’t really talk about it. She let out a breath, looking over what she wrote and seeing all the red pen. It made her want to crawl up into a ball despite how nice he was being. He was trying and so she would also try her best to keep it together. “I find it really hard to focus..”

“I don’t doubt that you do, Y/N. I’m thinking that maybe this isn’t something to do with your focus, but maybe it’s with your reading? You could learn differently than other people and that's absolutely alright.” Harry felt poorly that she was so sad and embarrassed about it. “Look at me.” When she didn’t respond he was trying a different tactic. Soft but very obviously meaning business. “There we are. Now, this doesn’t mean you’re stupid or unable to learn or do well in my class. You just may need to learn differently.” He stood up and grabbed a book from his shelf. “So this book— I got it online. It has some illustrations in it, and I find they’re pretty self explanatory. Maybe this will help you understand it better. Having an image opposed to words in your mind.” He handed it to her. She didn’t need to know he had bought it himself.

Y/N glanced up at him as he told her to look at him, seeing his face go much softer but his eyes still held that same intensity. She followed his with her eyes as he went to get the book. It was much thicker than the others due to all the illustrations but of course it made her feel like a little kid again. She just wished she could be normal.

“Okay...” She said softly, willing to try anything at this point. Of course she was nervous about going forward with his class seeing as she knew things would only get more difficult. Y/N gave him a small thank you as she looked through the book but part of her felt like it wasn’t going to work. No one was determined in helping her learn, they never have been. She’d always gotten very poor, passing grades because she assumed teachers felt bad for her or knew her siblings and assumed maybe she was just the rebellious one. “Sometimes I feel like I do better on the essays, cause I feel like I get it... but I end up getting better grades on the tests than the essays and it’s... disheartening.” She explained with a small frown, “cause I guess on the tests a lot of the time.”

He furrowed his brows, listening to what Y/N had to say. It made sense if she had dyslexia that she would be frustrated and upset with learning altogether but it was important to her and him as well, that she was able to do what she was meant to do. Whatever it was she had wanted.

“I think you should outline your essays more. Each body paragraph, with reasoning and thought. Come up with 4 to 6 reasons for each, word them how it makes sense to you, and write it that way. The structure taught isn’t the only way to do it.” He explained. Writing down on a piece of notebook paper an example of how she could do it. “I know it must be very frustrating— especially if it’s been years that you’ve had to deal with this. I understand. But I do have faith that you’re able to do this. You are intelligent, Y/N. You just have to figure out the right way to show it.”

Y/N let out a sigh, swallowing thickly as he gave her some advice on how to structure her essays in a way that would make more sense. She would try her best, especially with knowing that he was going to be grading things knowing what her situation was. Y/N was going to try her best to sound smart or collected, but she will admit she hadn’t been paying attention for years.

She pulled out a folder of her English work, pulled out the notes she had taken and the lay out for her essays and bit the inside of her lip. Y/N handed it to him and immediately went to pay with her own fingers. Observing him as he looked through what she had done previously.

“I—I try my best, I really do.. but anytime I get the courage to try it just gets worse and I go back to not trying at all because at least then I know I’m failing cause I’m doing it on purpose and not cause I’m stupid.” Y/N was trying to share her feelings to try and make him understand. “‘s really intimidating being in class with people who pick up information easily and I end up just tuning out cause it’s too fast for me to follow... and I don’t want to be that one girl that holds up the whole class with a stupid question.”

“You aren’t. If you have a question that you aren’t comfortable asking in front of everyone, you are always welcome to email me or come to my office at any time I’m here.” Harry promised. Poor girl. Jesus, what happened to her to make her self esteem like this? “You are very capable. Very much a smart girl. You need to tap into different areas of your brain. I promise, we can get your grade up together, alright?” He felt softness and fondness because he knew that sometimes professors weren’t the most understanding. Granted, he was only like this towards students that came for help— and oddly, even more so towards her, but still. “You don’t have to stop trying. You just need a different approach and we can help you find the right one. Do you like movies?” He suddenly remembered that. At her confused look, he continued. “Movies are scripts. Books. Visual. Do you find it easy to follow along with movies?”

She found it hard to believe him because no one really called her smart, ever. Y/N gave him a small smile and nodded her head, pushing pieces of hair away from her face before nodding and realizing she reversed the work she’d just done. He was a very nice man, it was clear that he was committed to helping her and it was definitely appreciated. She just didn’t know why he believed in her so much when no one else did?

“Well yeah... I can follow conversation and stuff.” Y/N let out a small chuckle, sniffling a bit before she continued. “I think another problem is I get too confused about things like.. the deeper meaning stuff in books. Like the themes and whatever you call it. Cause in my head I know what I think it means but then it’s meant to mean something else and then I think I just didn’t understand correctly.” Y/N was definitely more of a creative. She didn’t like following set rules, she liked going with the flow and following her own thing. It worked when it came to her music, she was able to focus then. But she taught herself guitar.

“I think that you need to first take the book at face value. Don’t look for the hidden meanings the first time you read because it will confuse you more.” Harry cleared his throat. She smelled really good. Like peaches and citrus. He wondered if her bed smelled like that, but stronger.

“Tell me some things you like.” He leaned back into the seat. “Things you think we can connect to projects. You said you’re in a band? Have a band?” He remembered that from last time. At her nod he continued. “You can find a song or make a playlist of songs that connect your head to the book. Say... Romeo and Juliet. Hmm.. check yes Juliet, We The Kings. If you’ve heard of that. You can find songs that help you remember.”

“Yeah, I’m in a band.” Y/N nodded her head a bit at him, “it’s like a indie punk thing...” She wasn’t sure what kind of music he listened to but he seemed young enough to think that indie music was good. Who knows, maybe he was one of those jazz guys with all the sweaters he wears. Y/N wasn’t one to judge though. The check yes Juliet reference made her chuckle, remembering middle school and highschool momentarily. He couldn’t be that much older then. “Yeah, I know that song.” She giggled and shook her head, “but yeah, I understand.” She spoke and took note of that in her mind. Y/N didn’t know how she was meant to explain to him that she spent the rest of her free time doing drugs. Tripping and writing music, hanging out with her kitty. That’s about it. Skating, going out in nature. Fucking. She definitely was a bit of a nympho. She assumed it was because of her need for attention.

“Okay. That’s good then. Use that to try and correlate.” He had felt weird watching her leave the room, seemingly in a better mood than she had been before but still nervous. It didn’t help that he hadn’t gotten laid and didn’t really want to have sex with someone else right now. God, if only he could spread her open and dip his cock into her soft cunt. That’s something he was dreaming of.

He thought about it the next night too. So, with his bored and needy thoughts, he went home and did his chores he needed to do, before he went to lay in his bed with his laptop. To be honest. Most porn didn’t do it for him. He much preferred erotic writing or even more so, cam girls. Sex workers deserved support and he always tipped well, though rarely talking in any of them. He was scrolling down the alternative tab when he found what he was looking for. Tattoos and plump lips, tits for a profile photo and a tongue sticking out. Interesting— and she was live.

He just never expected the exact woman in his head to be placed on the screen, smoke coming from her mouth.

Fuck.

Y/N wasn’t exactly sure how she thought about starting camming but it all sort of just fell into place. She started off just selling her nudes and videos for attention and money but then she realized that people would pay really good money to watch live stuff. It’s a good thing too because Y/N loved being watched. Her cams were usually regularly scheduled, but other times they were spontaneous because she was really horny. bbybunnie was her username, most people just called her pet names though, never by her actual name for obvious security reasons. She had quite the following too. People seemed to love her content. She was fun and bubbly and she felt like she put in a great show both literally and physically. Y/N had just done a bong rip, having her windows open to let the smoke out. She didn’t like smoking around Jinx so she’d let her in once she was properly stoned. She was dressed in a black crop top that said princess on it in gothic font, fishnets, and little black panties.

“Been really stressed lately with college and stuff...” Y/N answered a previous question as to what she’d been up to. “Working on assignments in stuff but it gets hard.” She pouted, turning her head when she heard Jinx scratching at the door. “One second.” She giggled and went to grab Jinx, leaving the door open so she could roam. “Here she is, say hi to everyone.” Y/N cooed in a baby voice. It was quite the sight. An alternative girl all soft with her cat, just starting the broadcast. Her vibrator was clearly in frame, already plugged in. A subscriber bought a heavy duty one for her.

And Harry should have clicked off. Right away, he should have exited the screen and said ‘gotta go’ because this was his student. His student he tutored and had fucking come on here to jerk off to a look alike. But he couldn’t. Not finally getting a look at her body. Soft and curved and delicious. Her tits strained the tank top and little tiny panties, some fishnets. Jesus fucking Christ. He let out an audible moan as he watched her sit back on the bed, talking back and forth with some of the comments.

He wasn’t sure what made him comment.

DaddyH: you look beautiful. I love the fishnets.

She did. And he loved them. A lot of the comments were dirtier but not to the point he could see it turning a woman on. He didn’t get an associates in sexology for nothing.

Y/N was pretty good with responding to comments, they were paying after all, but a lot of them were much nicer than most would think. Her community was used to her streams taking a bit to get going because she liked to get super horny, so once she was properly high she usually talked with her comments about things she’s been fantasizing about and what they’d like to see her do.

DaddyH. He was new.

“Hi daddyh, thank you! You’re new aren’t you?” Y/N said with an excited smile, she liked newcomers. It meant someone was interested in her. “Well we’ve got a special show on our hands then.” Her viewers loved when new people came because the shows were always better. She was visibly hornier. She shifted a little bit so she was leaning farther back on her pillows, bringing her legs up and out so she was spreading like a little butterfly. Of course the panties kept things covered but not much. Y/N pulled them up so they were tight on her, “Gotta get me real wet first, yeah?” She hummed, “love knowing you’re watching me... love when you tell me what you like...” It was strategic to talk dirty as if she was talking to one specific person.

Fuck shit motherfucker. Fuck.

Harry didn’t even see her pussy fully yet and he was nearly drooling. What the fuck had he done in what past life to get this type of luck? He wasn’t sure but he did know that whatever he did, he was thankful. He got a good look at her, her lusty eyes. He was a dirty talker. He loved to sex— fuck the English teacher in him. He loved making women a mess of whines and slick and speaking their darkest fantasies into their ears as the writhe underneath him. Y/N would be a fun one to play with. For sure.

DaddyH: you could play over the panties. They’re cute.

He had a thing for panties and fishnets, and she was going right to his kinks.

“But that’s no fun.” Y/N pouted at the comment, wiggling her panties a little bit so she could rub against her clit some. She let out a tiny moan and hummed, letting her hands move up her body to squeeze her tits through her shirt. She was properly eye fucking the camera too, teasing as she started to pull up her shirt. “I’m frustrated, daddy...” Usually she waited till she got a certain number of tips before she took her clothes off, but she was only a few dollars away so she pulled off her shirt revealing that she wasn’t wearing a bra. The tightness of the tank top kept them up, but these men seemed to love natural tits. Her hand slipped down to start rubbing over her clit over top her panties, letting out little breathy moans of pleasure. “Really want to be fucked...” She explained, “Wanna be full...” Y/N pouted and quickened her pace.

“Bent over a desk.”

Harry had a big oak desk he could bend her over and absolutely destroy her. If that’s something she would want. Harry would wreck her. His hand palmed Over his cock as he took her in and looked at her tits. He was an everything man but tits? He could happily suck on hers for an hour and make marks all over, just to listen to her mewl and feel her on his tongue. He squeezed over his sweatpants, feeling himself heat up as he watched her. She was topless, his student. His student was topless and rubbing her clit over tiny little panties, giving a pout and looking at the camera too fucking similar to the way she looked at him in his office today. And while his rational mind knew he wouldn’t be able to look at her the same— he would want to fuck her even more than he had— he couldn’t stop watching.

It was clear that Y/N’s interactions with Harry had spilt over into her mind while she was getting into it. It was that intense stare that he had, his ringed hands, of course there was also the tone of his voice. How he asked her to look at him that one time. She could only imagine him asking her much rougher and in a deeper voice.

“Daddy...” She whimpered out, teasing her own self over her panties as she read over the comments. Y/N giggled are some, loving he praise if men calling her cute and telling her she was pretty and her moans were turning them on. She went and took off her panties cause she really couldn’t take it anymore, revealing her fishnet covered cunt. “Want a better view, hmm?” Y/N smirked, moving to rip them right over the crotch so everyone could see. “I’m so fuck wet for you... look..” She said all excited, pulling her fingers back to show the strings of wetness on her fingers.

Harry was in heaven. Truly. Or hell, because he wasn’t able to be the one ripping the fishnets up and fucking her in them. Her thighs looked soft and delicate and probably so easily bruised. He could do some incredible work down there.

DaddyH: Lick it clean, sweetheart. I know it’s sweet.

There was no way she wasn’t so sweet that his teeth would fill with cavities. No way. He wanted her taste all over his tongue. He was a very giving dom, very much eager to make his lovers cum again and again and again so long as they complied with his soft rules. It wasn’t difficult.

Y/N’s stomach filled with warmth as she read over the comment, bringing her fingers to her mouth and sucking on them properly as if they were a cock. She was starting to like the Daddyh character. He was so sweet and polite in his choice of words, paid well. What was there not to like? She removed her fingers from her mouth giggling a little bit as she decided to show off some more. Y/N pushed the laptop back a bit, turning so they could see her ass and how she arched her back for them relieving that she’d had a butt plug in the whole time. Sleek and black with a little gem at the end. A lot of the things she had were gifts from subscribers. She had an Amazon wishlist specifically set up for them as well as a regular P.O. Box that then routed to her home. She had tons of back up fishnets, some used ones she sold online as well. Lots of other things. She quite enjoyed it.

When did she put that in? Harry needed to know. Was she wearing that when she was sat on his fucking couch? He would surely lose his goddamn mind if that was the case.

He tipped her $50, asking the question he needed the answer to.

DaddyH: Have you been wearing that all day, pretty girl?

The idea of her squirming in class occurred to him. And then the idea of a little vibrator inside of her that he had the remote to, pressing it on to see her reactions. He would buy her one, fuck. He would buy this girl anything if it meant getting to see her squirm and hear her beg him to let her cum.

Y/N wiggled her bum a bit, turning on her back again with a hum. “I’ve been wearing it all day...” She nodded, reaching over for her vibrator because she really couldn’t wait anymore. Everyone who streamed her knew she was impatient, sometimes if they paid a good amount she’d wait and tease herself first but she was needy today. She just kept thinking about professor Styles. “‘m so needy... been so horny lately, might be on for a while.” Y/N blushed, “or I’ll film some special requests on my onlyfans...” She smirked because she knew she would get lots of money for men begging her to stay but loads for custom content too. Y/N turned the vibrator on it’s lowest setting, starting to move it down on to her cunt where she let out a pleaser sigh. “I wanna cum so bad... just wanna cum.” She pleaded, reading to see what everyone was saying. Y/N turned it up a few notches, letting out a content sigh as she moved it over a specific spot. The feeling was indescribable and the noises that left her just showed how relieved she was.

Harry nearly fell over. Her ass was stuffed when she sat on his couch— and it wasn’t from his cock. Harry particularly loved anal, it was a very hot thing to him and the fact she hadn’t been warming his cock like that was near criminal. Truly.

“Sweet Jesus.” He breathed, finally taking himself out of his pants. Spitting thick on to the head, he spread it over his cock and waited for her to continue. She had an onlyfans? He would be subscribing and buying content. He didn’t give a fuck. He wanted it and it would be the best way to keep her close but far. He was watching how her legs trembled and her mouth fell open at the feeling, her body arching into the buzzing of the vibrator. Oh, how he would hold it against her and finger her until she squirted all over the bed and make her clean it up with her tongue. He was a sexual man but kinky more than anything. The idea of it all... it was so hot and wrong and taboo and it was even better in his cock’s mind that she was a no go zone. Made it hotter.

DaddyH: you’ve got such a pretty pussy. How many times can you cum?

Y/N read his comment and let out a whine, turning up the vibrator a few settings higher once again so she could get even closer to her brink of orgasm. “Let’s find out.” She breathed out and continued to crank up the settings. The closer she got the more she thrashed and bucked her hips both up and away from the vibrator. She was very enjoyable to watch she’s been told, specifically because she just couldn’t keep her mouth shut and that she was willing to take a lot. Y/N must have sat there for a few hours just making herself cum over and over again, both with the vibrator and the dildo she had. Once she was all fucked out, 5 orgasms deep, she just laid there and watched the comments roll in. She giggled at a few, breathing heavily as she slowly walked herself down from the blissful headspace she was in. “Thank you, I’m feeling so much better...” Y/N cooed, giving them a smile. “Have a good day or night!” And with that she’d logged off, happy that she had made a new regular.

-------------------------------------------

[part 2]

A/N: bet you weren’t expecting that huh? 😈 and yes!! punk!y/n - n + d

let us know what you think!

masterlist

#writing #harry styles smut #professor!harry #professor!h #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction

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margridarnauds · 4 years ago

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Things I Wish I Had Known About Being A Celticist (Before Becoming One):

1. If you’re North American, you’re going to have to work twice as hard to get the same level of respect as your peers from Europe. Get used to that now, because it won’t get any easier as time goes on. You’re also going to very likely be in classes with people who, while not FLUENT in Gaeilge, have at least some background in it. This can be a blessing and a curse - The curse is that you have less of an idea of what’s going on, the blessing is that the professors will focus a lot of the tougher questions on them, at least at first.

2. “So, do you have any Irish family?” You will be asked that question. All the time. If you’re North American or English. Unless you have, say, a grandma from Tipperary, the safest answer is always “No, not at all! I just love the literature/history/language/etc.”

3. Love languages? You’re going to! On average, depending on your program, it’s likely that you’ll at least be learning two languages. At enough of a level where you can get pretty in-depth when it comes to the grammar. Most Old Irish experts are expected to know Old Irish, Middle Welsh (at least enough for comparative purposes), and German, with Latin often being brought in. You’ll also be expected to be able to comment on the development of Old Irish, Middle Irish, Early Modern Irish, and Gaeilge - It’s essential if you’re going to date texts. There are also multiple other Celtic languages (Breton, Manx, Cornish, Scottish) that, while they might not be ESSENTIAL for whatever you’re doing, are still going to be cropping up at different times for comparison purposes - I’d be lying if I said I knew them WELL, and most people tend to stick fairly firmly to their area, BUT you will probably be learning at least a little of them. (Personally, no one asked me, but I honestly think that I couldn’t call myself a Celticist if I just knew one Celtic language, it’s why a longterm goal of mine is to build up as much knowledge of the others as I can.) I’ve seen quite a few scholars go in thinking that the linguistics part won’t be important, only to be slammed by the program early on. Even if you just want to do literary analysis, you’re going to have to explain the meaning and development of individual words, as well as situating it in the broader scope of the development of your language of choice. (IE “This is a ninth century text, and we know that because it has intact deponent verbs, the neuter article’s dying out, and no independent object pronoun. Also everything’s on fire because Vikings.”)

4. You’re very likely going to have to move. This applies mainly for North Americans who want to do it (unless you happen to live directly in, say, Toronto or Boston, in which case ignore what I said and, Bostonians, polish off your GREs and prepare to listen to Legally Blonde the Musical on repeat because you’re going to be applying for Harvard). There are very few Celtic Studies programs in the world and, in general, most of the major programs, sensibly, are in Celtic-speaking countries - So, if you want to study Scottish, you go to Scotland, you want Irish, you go to Ireland, Welsh in Wales, etc. If you already wanted to move to Europe for a year or two while you’re doing your MA, then great (and for EU students this doesn’t apply, since they can relocate much easier...unless they were planning on going to the UK in which case.....my condolences), but if you didn’t have any sudden plans to move, keep it in mind. From an American perspective, it was literally cheaper to move to Ireland and do my MA there than to deal with the school system here, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other inconveniences associated with moving to another country. Even if you’re European, the field is fickle - An Irish scholar might find themselves moving to Scotland, an English scholar might find themselves moving to Ireland, etc. etc. These things happen when you have to take what you can get.

5. You don’t need Old Irish to go for your MA in Celtic Studies. You do not need Old Irish to go for your MA in Celtic Studies. When I first applied for my MA, I thought I didn’t have a chance because I had a general Humanities degree and didn’t have any formal experience with a Celtic language, least of all Old Irish. As it turns out, most programs do not expect you to have a background in this sort of thing beforehand, and quite a few have different programs for those who have a background in this stuff VS those who don’t, so don’t feel, if this is what you REALLY want to do, like you can’t just because of that. Show your passion for the field in your application, talk a little about the texts you’ve studied, angles you’re interested in, etc., make it the best application you can, and you still have a shot even without Old Irish (or, for non-Irish potential Celticists, whatever your target is.)

6. It’s competitive - Just because you get your MA, PhD programs are fewer and farer between. Academia in general isn’t known for its phenomenal job security, but Celtic Studies in particular is very fragile, since we generally are seen as low priority even among the Humanities programs (which, in general, are the first to be axed anyway.) If you focus on medieval languages as opposed to modern ones, you might very well find your program ranked lower in priority than your colleagues in the modern departments. Especially since COVID has gutted many universities’ income. I found that getting into a MA program was significantly easier than planning on what to do afterwards, since, for a PhD, you generally have to go someplace that can pay you at least some amount of money. Going into your PhD without any departmental funding is a recipe for burnout and bankruptcy, and there are very few Celtic Studies programs that can pay. Doesn’t mean you can’t try, and, when paid PhDs become available, they tend to be quite well publicized on Celtic Studies Twitter/Facebook, but keep in mind that you’ll be in a very competitive market. Networking is key - Your MA is your time to shine and get those treasured letters of rec so that you can get that sweet, sweet institutional funding for your PhD.

7. You’re very likely not actually going to teach Celtic Studies. Because there are so few teaching positions available worldwide, it’s much more likely that you’ll be teaching general Humanities/Composition/etc. This doesn’t mean that you’ll be giving up Celtic Studies (conferences are always going to be open, you don’t have to stay in one department for your entire life and can snag a position when it becomes available, and, even if you go outside of academia, the tourism industry...well, it was looking for Celticists, before The Plague), it just means that if teaching it is what you REALLY want to do with your life, it might be good to check your expectations. A few programs even have an option where you can essentially double major for the sake of job security. (So, if you always wanted to be the world’s first French Revolution historian/Celticist/Gothic Literature triple threat......................the amount of reading you’d have to do would likely drive you insane but................)

8. Make nice with your department. Make nice with your department. Celtic Studies departments tend to be small and concentrated, so you’re going to be knowing everyone quite well by the end of your first grad degree, at least. You don’t have to like everyone in it, but they aren’t just your classmates, they’re your colleagues. You will be seeing at least some of their faces for the rest of your life. I can say that my MA department remembered students who left the program a decade ago. Your department is supposed to have your back, and they can be an invaluable source of support when you need it the most, since they understand the program and what it entails better than anyone else can. You’ll need them for everything from moral support to getting you pdfs of That One Article From A Long Discontinued Journal From The 1970s. I’ve seen students who made an ass of themselves to the department - Their classmates remembered them five years later. Don’t be that guy. Have fun, go to the holiday dinners, get to know people, ask about their work, attend the “voluntary” seminars and lectures, and do not make an ass of yourself. That is how you find yourself jumping from PhD program to PhD program because your old professors “forgot” your letter of rec until the day after the deadline. Also, since your departments are small and concentrated, it’s a good idea to prepare to separate your social media for your personal stuff vs your academics as much as you can, since it won’t be too hard to track you down if people just know that you do Celtic Studies.

9. Some areas of the field are more respected than others. If you want to do work on the legal or ecclesiastical aspects, excellent. If you want to focus on the linguistic elements, excellent. If you’re here for literature.....there’s a place, though you’re going to have to make damned sure to back it up with linguistic and historical evidence. (There’s less theory for theory’s sake, though theoretical approaches are slowly gaining more acceptance.) But if you’re here for mythography or comparative approaches...there is a PLACE for you, but it’s a little dustier than the others. There are fewer programs willing to outright teach mythology, mainly because it’s seen as outdated and unorthodox, especially since the term itself in a Celtic context is controversial. Pursue it, God knows we need the support, but just...be prepared to mute a lot of your academic social media. And, really, your social media in general. And have a defense prepared ahead of time. With citations. Frankly, I think my Bitch Levels have gone up a solid 50% since getting into this area, because consistently seeing the blue checkmarks on Twitter acting like you’re not doing real work while you’re knees deep in a five volume genealogical tract tends to do that to you. If it ever seems like I go overboard with the citations when it comes to talking about the Mythological Cycle, this is why - I have to. It’s how I maintain what legitimacy I have. I’d still do it if I’d have known, but I would have appreciated the heads up. (On the plus side - It means that, in those few programs that DO teach mythology, you’re golden, because they want all the serious students they can get.)

10. If you really, really love it, it’s worth it. After all this, you’re probably wondering why anyone would sign on for this. The work’s grueling and often unrewarding, you might or might not get respect for what you do based off of where you were born and what your interests are, and you’re subject to an incredibly unpredictable job market so you might never see any material compensation for all of it. But, if you can check your expectations of becoming rich off of it, if all you REALLY want to do is chase it as far as it can go, then it’s worth it. There’s a lot of work to be done, so you don’t have to worry too much about trotting over the same thing that a dozen scholars have already done. You might get the chance to be the very first person, for example, to crack into a text that no one’s read for over a thousand years, or you might totally re-analyze something because the last person to look at it did it in the 19th century, or you might get to be the first person to look at an angle for a text or figure that no one’s considered. If finding a reference to your favorite person in a single annal from the 17th century makes you walk on air for the entire day, then you might very well be the sort of person the field needs.

#celtic studies #long post #school tw

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prorevenge · 6 years ago

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Got my nightmare professor fired, might've indirectly gotten him deported too

Before this tale even begins, this is obviously a throwaway account. This is a big bitch of a story spanning two semesters, so I'm putting the tealdeer at the beginning and at the end for those who are short on time.

TL;DR - My French professor was so terrible that I decided to get him fired on behalf of my classmates. After he got fired, my partner that I worked with to do this tipped him off to an immigration agency to get him deported.

Last semester, I enrolled in an introductory French course at my university. This was to learn at least a little bit of French so that I could read French papers about French filmmaking techniques since I'm a pretty hardcore film student and I really love film as an art form. Plus, I needed some gen ed credit for my degree, so it made sense to take the course.

I went to the first lecture kind of dreading the course. I was in 19 credit hours, which is taking six classes in a single semester, and the class was 4 credit hours, meaning we met four days out of the week, every week. Very overwhelming schedule, indeed. Needless to say, I didn't work a single job that semester.

The professor, who will be referred to as Baguette because it's one of the few French words I actually know, began to go through the syllabus and I watched as the excitement that is usually present in students on the first day slowly left everyone's faces. Before I explain why, I have to address that this is the most basic French class that the university I go to offers and is really meant for people who never took a lick of French in high school. Like me.

Baguette announced that not only would he be teaching the entire class in fluent French with no English whatsoever, he wouldn't be answering questions in English at all, and if you asked him a question in French but got even a word or a conjugation wrong, he wouldn't answer you either. Attendance was mandatory as well, and you could only miss 4 class periods before he started dropping letter grades. Now, this attendance policy is unfair bullshit because we met for class just under 60 times that semester, meaning you would fail the course if you missed 8 class periods, which is only about 7% of the total course. I was looking around the class and people looked like they couldn't drop this class fast enough.

Then, he announced that not only would we not be using a physical book, we'd be using a free website online, a site called Francais Interactif. Now, this got some excitement back in the air. Textbook prices suck, and anything to lower the cost of education for students is great. You can even use the site yourself to practice your French skills, if you want. It's open source, knock yourself out.

That said, the site isn't meant to replace a textbook. There's a free workbook and audio files to help with aural comprehension on it, and that helped me and some of the other students pass some of the exams, but the site's equivalent to the part of a textbook that actually teaches you the material is extremely lacking, sometimes only having a couple of paragraphs about a really important concept in the language. In short, it gives you a ton of ways to practice concepts but almost no ways to learn them in the first place.

This would have been totally fine if Baguette would have explained things better in his lectures. But, as you'll recall, he gave them entirely in French, and in fast fluent French. So, picture this; you have to sit through four classes a week that you understand literally nothing of for an hour at a time while the professor rambles on in a language that you don't understand but are desperately trying to learn, and on top of all that, you can't even ask him any questions in English because he won't answer you and you can't ask him any questions in French either, because you don't know how to do that properly yet, and you won't for 3/4ths of the semester, because the unit that covers question words and phrases was arbitrarily put a few weeks after midterms, and on top of all that, you can't even really do your homework or study for exams because you have no fucking idea what any of this nasally shit means. Naturally, we, as a class, slowly started to get more and more frustrated as time went on. A few of us decided to band together and be friends and study partners to weather the storm. I'll call the important ones to the story R and S.

S was a foreign exchange student from Spain who spoke perfect Spanish and was taking the class to learn French for when she goes back to Europe. Now, we dug into what all other classes Baguette taught and found out that he taught Spanish, too. Perfect. We found a loophole. We could ask S a question in English, and she could ask him in Spanish, since it wasn't asking him in English, and he could answer in Spanish and she could translate that back to us in English. Now, you might be saying to yourself that this a fucking stupid and no self respecting educator should teach in this broken, shitty, ass-backwards way. You're right.

This worked for a bit, but he started answering S's Spanish questions in French to combat our little exploit of the rules. We were defeated and back to square one. We needed to devise a new plan, because most of us were failing at this point and we were stressed beyond belief.

R, a frat lad, and I, decidedly not a frat lad, became unlikely friends. He was a pretty naive kid, and he was a hardcore drinker. It visibly took a toll on him. He had a beer gut at 22 and addiction kind of mentally hollowed him out and made him flippant and emotional. The guy was super easy to piss off and he overreacted to everything. I felt bad for the guy and even outside of the struggle in class, I tried my best to be there for him. We were talking one day and we decided to meet up at the library and just theorize ways to crack the class to get at least a 60.

At the library, R was playing around on Francais Interactif trying to find the videos the professor would use for the aural part of the exam (basically, you'd listen to the video and copy down whatever the person was saying for credit. problem was, it was hard as shit and it was easily the part of the exams that took the biggest chunk out of the class's grade). He couldn't find them on the site anywhere and he got frustrated and gave up, so he started filling in the slots where you put answers on the homework pages of Francais Interactif with random words.

That's when we realized that when you do this, the site gives you the right answer regardless, no matter how wrong you are. Essentially, we now had access to the entire course's answers for the homework section and all we had to do was put one character into the answer boxes and, since all we had to do for the homework assignments was copy and paste our answers into a Word document and submit them online, we could theoretically do all the homework while knowing zero material whatsoever if we just changed the answers in Word. We sat for about 45 minutes and did the rest of the homework for the entire course this way in one sitting.

We agreed to not turn it all in at once so we couldn't get caught and we agreed to keep our mouths shut and only share this with people who wouldn't rat on us. Obviously, we told S.

One of the things I'll never forget about that first French class was that, during the final, one of the students started to quietly weep. Then, the weeping got louder, then louder still. The student was clutching his head in his hands and you could feel the palpable impotent frustration at his inability to do French correctly. After I finished the final, I saw him outside the class staring out a window in the hall. I asked if he was alright and what he was crying about and he told me he couldn't answer even the most basic questions asking for words for things like left and right and up and down and that was thing that finally broke him. That got to me, man.

Most of the kids failed the course, even some of the ones who used the homework exploit. R and S passed with a D and I passed with a C, surprisingly. The professor actually liked me, for some reason, and graded my exams a bit more fairly. Even still, I'm an A/B student, one in the Honor's Program at my university, so a C kind of stung my GPA. But, seeing as more than half the class failed, I counted my lucky stars that I got off easy.

I went to enroll in my classes for the next semester, and I had completely forgot that I still had to take another French class for my degree. I checked the class list and the second class you're supposed to take in the progression was only taught by Baguette. No other professor taught Beginning French II, apparently. This struck me as kind of odd, so I checked the rest of the French classes that were available. All of them, all 6 courses in the French department, were taught by Baguette. He was the only fucking teacher the department had. My stomach dropped as I realized I had locked myself into yet another class taught by the worst professor I've ever had, to this day.

This is class where the revenge begins, and I'm sorry if that preamble was too long, but I had to give context as to how horrible Baguette was. Even still, I'm frankly not doing him justice. His class was an artful trainwreck of incompetence, in the slowest slow motion available over nearly 60 class periods. And I had to do it again, only this time with harder material.

I had been keeping up with R and S over the winter break and S was going back to Spain, so she wouldn't be in the next class with me. But, I got R to enroll in the same section of Beginning French II as me.

Baguette passed out the syllabus to Beginning French II and it was the exact same as French I, down to us using Francais Interactif again, just in the higher chapters instead of the basic chapters. Now, here's the thing about learning a foreign language; you have to build from the basics, or else none of the other stuff makes sense. None of us in that class, not one person, knew any of the material past maybe Chapter 3. Most of us didn't even know how to ask questions. I did, so I asked questions for people who didn't, since S wasn't there.

Well, if you thought we bumbled through the basic material, no harder bumbling took place then when we started on things that have no direct English translation like y and en. When he asked students questions in this class, they'd just kind of look at him dumbfounded and shrug.

We got a study guide for our first exam and I was going to study my ass off so that I could get a better grade than a C. Besides a brief stint with depression my first semester that made me not be able to go to classes and fail one of my courses, a C was the lowest grade I had gotten at university. I must've studied for twenty hours over the course of a week before the exam. I hadn't even put that much effort into classes for my major. I got into class on the day of the exam, and nothing that I had spent all that time studying was on it. I bombed that test spectacularly, getting a 30%.

At this point, I was pretty much done. I was willing to go to my professor's office hours and ask him how I was supposed to study for his exams effectively, and his response is what began my quest to get revenge on him. He told me to watch YouTube videos. I don't know what it was about this that got me so pissed, but I was fired up.

But, that wasn't all that drove me to take the revenge I took on this fucker. No, what drove me to go after this guy was R calling me up crying after getting his exam back. He did worse than I did. He got a 15%. He kept repeating through sobs that he just wanted to be a good student and that he didn't want to disappoint his mom again. I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried at this. I thought back to that kid in French I after the final, about my peers and about R and something inside me snapped. I was going to get this guy fired and peacefully do anything else I could to ruin this guy's life one way or another, and R was going to be my Right Hand Man.

We met at his dorm and started brainstorming. It was about halfway through the semester, after our midterms. We both had a job, a significant other, extracurricular activities and I was taking 19 hours again this semester. We were going to need time on our side, a commodity that neither of us had, and we were going to need it quickly. We knew that the professor was going to be gone for a week at a conference right after spring break, so there was a two week window there. But, even still, we needed more time for what we started planning to do. I faked a doctor's note for two weeks absence and R agreed to use all four of his absences to meet at the same time French was supposed to occur and plan our peaceful academic coup.

Now, I knew I was eventually going to get caught from word go. But, I was so confident that I could get this guy fired before I would have a disciplinary hearing that I took the gamble, and Baguette took the bait. He excused me for two whole weeks.

So, you're probably wondering what we actually did. Well, the reason we needed so much time is that we needed time to both conduct interviews from the class as well as collect data on scores. We got a total of thirteen out of the seventeen students to make a statement about Baguette's performance in his Beginning French II class and all of them were negative. This was just in one section of the course.

Then, we asked if we could have their exam scores so that we could have some hard data to nail this guy with. All but two complied. We did some quick maths, and determined that more than half the class failed the exams, with most scoring between 30 and 50.

But, as it turns out, we didn't even need the exam scores given to us. We figured out that the online grade database site that our school uses so students can monitor their grades without asking their profs has a built in feature that shows the class average of every assignment that's put into the gradebook. Not a single assignment had a class average above a 50 except for the homework, which had a class average of around 80, no doubt thanks to the stupid exploit in the website.

Sure enough, I got tagged with a notice that I broke the discipline code of the university because obvious shop is obvious. But, it didn't matter. I had everything I needed to go to the Foreign Language department chair and sort this shit out. So, I did.

I showed the department chair all the data, let him listen to the audio from the student testimonies as well as gave my own testimony on the course. After showing him all this, he was dumbfounded. Not only did the chair not know that Baguette was a shitty teacher, almost nobody did course evaluations for French I, so he thought that Baguette was doing a decent job. He took all my evidence and gave it to the dean of arts and sciences and a couple weeks later, I get an email saying that Baguette was Bag-gone and that I was going to be withdrawn from the course along with everyone else who would've likely failed. Those who would've passed got to get a Credit Received grade without having to take the final. He got fired one semester before he qualified for his tenure.

But, that's not the juiciest fucking morsel of this tale. You're probably wondering how he got deported and how I found out that he got deported because of his firing. Well, after my disciplinary hearing got thrown out because the complainant was no longer affiliated with the university, I got more than I bargained for.

During his lectures, one of the few times he spoke English was after he introduced the syllabus on the first day. He had everyone introduce themselves and he started the exercise by introducing himself. Well, in his introduction, I remember him saying something about him being an immigrant from Venezuela. I live in the States (Etats-Unis for you Bonjour Bois), and some of you might know that we have pretty strict visa policies.

Well, R is pretty conservative. After our work got Baguette fired, we celebrated by getting some beer and shooting the shit. We talked about random aspects of the course and the fact that he was an immigrant got brought up. Apparently, R didn't know this and he was pretty upset about it. I tried to calm him down, but he went on a rant that I tried to politely nod along to while tuning out since I'm not really about that. I didn't think anything of it until a couple of days later.

He called me up and told me that he tipped Baguette off to a certain immigration agency for a "visa check" (his words, not mine) and that now all we had to do was wait. I was shocked. I didn't think this would go this far. I feigned that I was pleased with this but in reality, I was kinda bummed. Since he was probably here on an academic visa since he was a professor, he probably is going back home to Venezuela. I am glad, though, that he won't be teaching any more of my fellow students at my uni, because I wouldn't wish his classes on anyone.

edit: formatting

(source) story by (/u/ouiouirevenge)

#prorevenge #by /u/ouiouirevenge #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #last10

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trials-and-tribblations · 3 years ago

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Chapter One of the Fic That One Joke is For (Coffee Shop AU, Academy AU, possibly other things too I don't know yet)

(Please let me know what you think! I hope this is readable??? I'm trying to work with Datas voice in a way that still works in prose and it is Tricky)

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Routine was a comfort during Data’s time at Starfleet Academy. The design of his positronic system perfected his subroutines over time with trial and error, and in this way he learned, so the more times he completed the same task the more efficient he became. This extended to accompanying some of his fellow cadets to coffee before their first class, a diversion from his straightforward schedule, but a very welcome one.

On the subject of his fellow cadets, he could say very little. He had attempted “making friends” several times with limited success. The issue being that most of his classmates considered him about as sentient as the coffee makers inside Cafe La Barre, where he now found himself. He had initially hoped that spending this social time together outside of class might help remedy the issue, but his greatest personal relationship strides had been made with the barista, Geordi.

Nevertheless, it was nice to have at least one friend, even if they had no classes together. Geordi was on the engineering track, working a job at the cafe to occupy his free time. He told Data that for the most part, he enjoyed his job, though sometimes he found himself exasperated with an excess of “the public.” Data hardly knew what he meant except that he said it with extreme disdain.

If he were honest with himself, it did make sense that his first friend would be someone with such intimate understanding of what “made him tick,” as Geordi would put it himself. Otherwise, how irrational it would be to expect a person to grasp how far beyond any other ordinary machine truly Data was.

At least, that was something like what Geordi had said when Data explained his predicament. Frankly, Data was somewhat flattered.

Geordi spoke to Data over the heads of the cadets he was serving at the next table over.

“Are you- did you need a napkin with that- are you free this Saturday evening? I’m trying a new recipe and I could use another set of hands.”

“Yes, Geordi, that sounds very pleasant, I may advance my knowledge of baking procedure with more practical experience.”

“Great. I’ll swing by at about five?”

“Swing by?”

“Be at your dorm.”

“I see. Query-“

A cadet interrupted their conversation.

“Oh my god, can you please shut up, I’m trying to enjoy my breakfast.”

Geordi was very glad his eyes were not visible under his VISOR, rolling them at a customer was probably a fireable offense. Data imagined this may be an example of Geordi's “public.”

“Right. Well. I’ll see you then!”

Data collected his textbooks and made his way out, taking a moment to notice and appreciate the silvery sound of the door chime. The guidance counselor, Ms. Guinan, had briefly complimented his ability to ‘appreciate the little things.’ He now understood this as an example.

Artistic beauty was one thing Data had succeeded, at least in part, in comprehending. He found himself considering the title of an old earth novel ��Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?” He would not be able to answer such a question to any degree of satisfaction, were it asked to him in jest, but he believed the answer might be best addressed with one of his Xeno-archeology professor, Dr. Picard’s, favorite phrases.

“Nothing is impossible.”

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soap-brain · 7 years ago

Note

You had this headcannon about Paul and shifts and how not being with Hugh would make him snap at his team...Do you think Paul would apologize if he yelled at someone like that to the point of tears?

oh absolutely!! paul is not a mean person at all. he’s snappish and tries to keep them away and probably has a bit of a superiority complex going on where his science is concerned, but he’s not mean.

i think it would mostly be misunderstandings, too. paul knows words can hurt (god, does he know), but he’s got difficulties correlating between that and what he’s saying. so if someone actually cried in front of him because of him being snappish and mean, he’d definitely apologize (and feel super horrible). most of the time the problem is that people are afraid to approach him about that for fear of repercussions. what they don’t know is that paul is a huuuuge softie and genuinely afraid of hurting people.

*cough* and because i can’t stop myself, headcanons about paul’s life under the cut. it got super long and i am so, so sorry :D

i think paul was a rather quiet kid and clearly brilliant from a young age on, but it wasn’t recognized. my personal headcanon is that his mother was dying when he was rather young, so his father was occupied with that and not with paul, and later the grief destroyed him, so paul was left to his own devices. not saying that paul’s parents didn’t love him, but they weren’t able to express it.

i haven’t made up my mind whether he was actually openly bullied or his peers just quietly kept away from him.he was definitely a bookish child though, but, occupied with his wife’s sickness, there was never really a time and place for questions about the universe in the stamets’ household. so paul took to books. kids’ science books and stories alike.that’s never too good a basis to make friends with, since everyone else was outside, playing whatever games you play in kindergarten and elementary school while paul flipped through his books.(also since there was nobody really at home, he quickly learned that going outside in the sun is most likely going to burn him. he was a kid, of course he wasn’t going to think of sunscreen.)

by the time middle school (or secondary school, which i prefer) came around, paul hadn’t exactly learned socialization skills. his mother died around that time, paul’s will to interact with the world outside his little bubble of reading material practically vanished, and his peers went on without him. middle school / the first part of secondary school was probably also the time when paul actually got bullied. not by everyone, and not as horribly as they could’ve bullied him, but there was a definite rift and he learned not to trust other people. he wasn’t stupid - he knew they were ostracizing him for something, but in his world view there was nothing wrong with how he dressed, how he talked, his interests and his ideas of a good time. unfortunately, nobody else agreed.puberty happened and paul decided that shit got too weird for him, so he stuck his nose farther down the books while his classmates were well on their way to becoming bratty teenagers.around that time paul’s interests cross-sectioned with school topics for the first time, and when a teacher, already weary and afraid of even more burgeoning teenagers to deal with, told the class a wrong fact about something. and paul, with a sudden burst of courage, put his hand up and corrected the teacher.now there were two problems in that: one, paul had never exactly learned how to tell someone they’re wrong about something, so it came out rather aloof. two, the teacher was absolutely not about to be lectured by some kid. so paul got detention and a few weeks worth of teasing from his classmates. he really should’ve kept his mouth shut, but he was in the rebellious phase of his early teenagerhood, and a wrong was being done (because frankly, the teacher got a lot of their facts wrong), so he went straight to the principal and complained. that got him nothing but a parent-teacher conference where he was branded as “troubled” and “has problems keeping up with the workload” (he didn’t. his grades were bad because he wasn’t interested, so naturally he struggled with learning for school), and that got him a talk with his father about how paul should never be afraid to come to him and tell him something. paul said yes and nodded and agreed, because that got him out of those talks before, and school got him into smaller courses that went through the topic more slowly and more thoroughly.so paul spent the majority of his teenage years in school, staring out the windows while the teachers talked and explained and were ever-so-patient with all the “lesser gifted” students that stayed late every day.

and then, year ten happened and the whole year went to a bio-engineering research laboratory on a field trip.paul was... angry, at that time. at himself for still not achieving those grades he secretly wanted (if only to get out of those classes for “stupid kids”); at his peers for not liking him; at his father and all other authority figures for not understanding him; at the entire world for not bending to his will. that anger manifested itself in being the only one asking a question after the lead scientist had finished her presentation.he expected to get a vague answer and be brushed off. instead he got a “that’s a very smart question to ask!” and a full ten minute explanation that was directed at him, like he was someone to be taken serious.he managed to sidle up next to the scientist on their tour through the labs and kept asking, because he was hooked on being taken seriously. and he got serious answers every time.

somehow, that sparked something, and within the same half year, his grades improved enough that he was put into regular classes again. by the end of the year his teachers started thinking of letting him skip a year; by the end of year eleven he skipped right into year thirteen.

that doesn’t mean he magically got along with his peers. if anything, it got worse, because paul had never learned how to not be a smartass. but he was finally good at something, he’d finally found something he enjoyed (namely: being the smartest person in the room. also sciences), so he absolutely didn’t care.(being set up horribly on valentine’s day didn’t register for too long at that time. it came back later though)

he graduated second best of his year; when it turned out he was going to have to hold a speech, too, and when it turned out that his father wasn’t going to be able to attend the ceremony, he faked being sick and skipped out of it (also, a triple feature of marvels of the solar systems was coming out that day, and really, school can’t even begin to compare to his favorite show).

he applied to just about every college he could think about, afraid that his grades weren’t good enough after all. he also didn’t know what he wanted to study at all - languages? history? sciences? humanities?, just that he wanted to get away from his absent father and the town he grew up in.he got accepted to every. single. college and then had to begrudgingly make a trip to an advisor to get help with what on earth he’s supposed to do with that.due to a small miracle, the advisor was sick and he ended up talking to an advisor for phd programs during their coffee break, who, after listening to paul ranting about science, advised him to definitely go in that direction and which school to choose.

so, with his mind made up and set on a degree in astromechanical chemistry, he got a shuttle ticket and walked to his chosen school’s registration office.it was sheer luck that he was an hour early and had to spend some time in the cafeteria, where he ended up butting into two professors’ fight about whether, on a molecular level, physics, chemistry and biology were all the same. paul asked a question, and once again, he was talked to like an adult, and after one of them had made a derogatory remark about mycelial studies in regards to the overall composition of the universe, paul found himself going into astrobiology with a minor in particle physics and an oddly strong interest in mycelial studies.

he moved to college and was the asshole who’d read every single book by the time the semester started. his professors quickly caught on and redirected him to more works, seminars and conferences to attend. paul didn’t even realize that he was practically not socializing at all until the first year was over and he was glowing with knowledge. most people went home, there were parties and get-togethers and people having fun all around him, and no classes to attend. paul experienced a real life record scratch.so he tentatively started trying out social interaction, which for the most part went almost okay.he fell in love and had his heart broken almost instantly, so he withdrew again and buried himself in studies, because human interactions are scary.year two rolled around and he was still as studious as ever, but then someone invited him to a party (actually went up to him and asked him to come. he needed to lie down after that), and he went and actually kind of enjoyed himself.that’s when he met straal for the first time and they hit right off.that’s also when he saw his crush of that summer again, but this time with his friends and there were so many other cute guys, and paul came back from that party with a tentative friendship with straal and the sudden realization that he liked guys.that part he got over pretty quickly, but it took him a while to get used to having a friend.

college kept happening and he and straal got closer and closer. paul got kissed by a girl and decided that hey, maybe he likes girls? so he had a girlfriend for a while, lost his virginity and found out that no, she’d tried to get better grades by being associated with him, so he went back to hiding in his sciences. a string of mostly boyfriends later and straal smacked him upside the head for falling for every single guy who ever crossed his path, especially since most of them were rather transparent about what they wanted - either the status of being in a relationship, or they hoped to get some of paul’s brains that way.so paul went over to casual sex with whatever gender was available.

he and straal went on to university together, focusing their studies on mushrooms and astrophysics, and got funded pretty much instantly.

later on, funding was difficult on occasion; they eventually divided themselves between earth (straal) and alpha centauri (paul) to cover more ground.paul was a little lonely again on alpha centauri, which he didn’t like much, now that he had a friend (who was never only paul’s friend - straal was much more sociable than paul).and then he was just snacking and having a coffee in that café, reading some reports, and there was hugh, and the rest is, as they say, history.

(hugh managed to sweep paul off his feet so completely that he was absolutely useless for several days after their first couple dates. they moved in together after about two years, and a few months later paul’s and straal’s starfleet funding got approved in the most spectacular way, ie they were granted two research vessels, which were then constructed after precise orders from paul and straal, still holding the record for quickest construction. hugh, who had been working at the starfleet medical center on alpha centauri, saw not only a chance to stay with paul while also finally getting deployed like he’d been wishing for for a while, but also a chance to further his career, and immediately put in his application. he’s got aspirations for CMO anyways, and he was practically promised the position when their current CMO goes into retirement after this rotation. paul is both excited for and proud of his hardworking boyfriend, and the feeling is mutual. also, since jumping the discovery and hugh’s temporary death, you can BET paul is 800% more soft around his team. he learned a lot, about himself and about humans in general.)

so this got super long! if you read this far, you totally deserve a cookie :D but yeah there we goes, this is my backstory to paul.

#lksjdlfksdjf this got SO LONG i am SO SORRY #stamets #discovery #anonymous #ask #answered

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oldmancopper · 4 years ago

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Fall 2020 Evaluations (finally)

100% online teaching. I hated it. The students hated it. Editorial commentary in .gif format below

So, an overloaded professor, online, and burned out.

I’m shocked at the results. (Not shocked)

2175 : • Course was designed well, assignments made sense and were the right amount of work, and the professor was extremely helpful and understanding. However, I believe the quizzes were a mite too difficult.. My main complaint about them is that they're too subjective, and some questions felt like a couple answers could have been correct (See the president question of Quiz 2) Yeah, I literally say this in the syllabus and the first week. It’s subjective. That’s the point.

• Most of the assignments built off of each other and feedback was not provided so that changes could be made for the next assignments. Feedback was given many weeks after they were due for almost all of the assignments so the feedback was not able to be used on upcoming assignments because the feedback was given after the next several assignments were due.

• This course was taught by an overly cynical professor that teaches students to value productivity and mean spirited management more than anything. From tirades about prior work experiences, to tangents about why some work doesn't get done on time, I can safely say that most of the material was lost on me as I tried to pick apart the lectures for something worthwhile.

Oh yeah, it’s personal. I emphasize exactly how non personal it is. Guess you missed that.

• This course was one of the best I've taken at Becker. The Professor is incredible at relaying his knowledge on production methods to the students, and I loved every second of learning in this course.

• Great course and very helpful for the production/management focus for game design. I enjoyed learning all the different types of management and production methods. I think the topics were relevant as well. My one piece of criticism is that the course being digital hurt my overall understanding of the topics because the lectures were online. If the class were in person I am sure it would have been better for me personally, that is not the professors fault obviously.

• Slow rate of feedback on assignments, while understandable given the circumstances of the semester, resulted in large amounts of uncertainty and anxiety. I’m legit sorry about this. Was a tough time.

• Professor is fair and understanding to a degree. he makes sure you understand the information and gives you every opportunity to succeed. • More Challenging due to the online format. Might have to be made more digestible if Online formatting continues.

• I don't know what went wrong with this course, but I have yet to talk to numerous people who have a good "handle" on the course. Its very easy to just, have been wrong about stuff. And only find out when you did quizzes how much you really didn't know. I've been using Scrum (or a version of it) in Game Studio and yet I barely know anything about the fine mechanics of it to answer the questions given. 3900: • This entire studio is a mess • For my first game studio, this was frankly a suboptimal experience. Our task was to replicate and fix Winnie the Pooh's Home Run Derby; due to the flash game's enigmatic code and fatal flaws, as well as the lack of guidance from Prof. Y_____, this was extremely difficult. This was only further complicated by the professor's lofty goals, such as player analytics. In addition, I found Prof. Y______'s "six tasks every two weeks" system to be arbitrary and counterproductive. Finally, I witnessed an occasion where the professor acted in poor conduct; in the class Discord, where everyone could see, he labeled a classmate's work as "just awful.” Yeah, this was a fairly ridiculous class. 4200: • For a "game analytics" course, there has only been 1 very boring assignment about games. the rest has all been about covid stuff which is not interesting or useful to anything related to my major in any way, shape or form The course needs to be redesigned completely You know, they never paid me to design the course in the first place, then stiffed me halfway through the semester. Sooooo... yeah.

Having said that, you totally missed the point of the course. 4300: Funny how when you give me leeway and good students... you get good results.

• This program is always fantastic • The Internship with MassDiGI continues to be an Invaluable experience to Game dev students at Becker college and without it I would be a far less skilled and competent developer than I am now. Getting the opportunity to take an Internship during the school year and get credit for it while gaining real world experience and being treated like a working professional is an incredibly rare and extremely valuable resource that Becker has the immense privilege to be able to offer. MassDiGI has taught me so much through the mentors there and through my own successes and failures all while fostering an environment to learn and grow. Becker should continue it's partnership with MassDiGI well into the future • MassDigi is a great company that Becker should keep pursuing their relationship with. • Keep up the great work! • This internship opportunity is almost necessary for any student to get proper experience and have the chance to work on a game you know will succeed. It being all online this semester has made it difficult to have people work together properly and for some people to get work done in general. Overall Live Studio is an amazing experience and becker needs to keep it running for students. • My work with MassDiGi has been the best part of my Becker Academic Experience. My time working under M___ and W___ made the Becker Experience much more worth it. I feel like I've learned quite a bit in my time in Live/Collab • My best course this semester. Career Internship has given me opportunities like no other- I Network, I can be a Team Lead, and I can help guide other peers, as well as get advice from them too. The class is very hands-off, but the professors were always available to answer questions. The professors push us not only to do hard work, but to understand why we're doing the work. They make the students answer hard, critical thinking questions and tell us to make important decisions to teach us what works and what doesn't. I really think Career Internship is the best class you can take if you're serious about Game Dev. I've done most of my college learning in the three years I've been with them than I have in most classes. Truly, my favorite class. • As usual MassDiGI has provided me with invaluable learning experiences. I would not be where I am today without this course and I am very grateful for it

#me #personal #professor

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hsuoring · 8 years ago

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Comprehensive review: SUNY Fredonia

Hi! I am now a graduating senior and feel like I can give an honest review on this school if you are on the fence about attending. Please take a look at my overview and potential biases below, then click the read more for the breakdown. In addition to that, I will go over HOW TO GET THE MOST OUT OF THE ANIMATION AND ILLUSTRATION DEPARTMENT HERE. Background: Female / White / LGBT / 21 Major: Animation and Illustration [BFA with Honors] Social Priority: Low Academic Priority: Medium Overall rating of Fredonia: ★★★☆☆

If I had to describe the word “average,” I would use this school. Going to college here was absolutely the most average experience of my life. It is a good value for the money, especially considering it is a SUNY school and will now be open to the NY Tuition-Free program. My major was decided from the beginning. I have been a resident assistant and a tour guide in my time here. My GPA is at around a 3.75 but I have never found academics challenging. Here is a list of main points to consider when comparing to other colleges. GOOD: You can have a car on campus no matter your year. Housing is plentiful and comfortable. Academic professionals are easily accessible. The counseling center is free and very helpful (I’ve been there for sessions on 2 separate occasions). There is a bus that will take you into town and around campus in bad weather. You can travel the length of campus in about 10 minutes. Staff is super friendly and genuinely wants to help you. Food is decent (people bitch about the food but I’ve never had an issue with the options available; very standard stuff). BAD: The weather is absolute snow-belt shit. The health center and local hospital have bad reputations, so keep that in mind (I’ve been to the center for small issues and have never had a negative experience, however, but know people who have). Parking is ridiculous unless you’re okay with parking far away and walking all the time. You will need to put up with people calling Fredonia a “party school” because of FREDFest, an annual celebration that devolved into mindless shit and made us look bad. Otherwise it’s just like any other college- just be ready to hear this from strangers (I’ve been to two parties in my time here). Campus groups are not prominent unless they’ve been established for a long time. NEUTRAL: There is very little greek life. The town is small, so you must seek out things to do (we have a bowling alley, a couple cute cafes, a hobby/card shop, gift shops, movie theater, and various big name stores, so I’ve never seen an issue). Classes are a mixed bag; some are small, comfy, and very engaging, whereas others make you wonder what the fuck you're doing there. Now I will just give a few person anecdotes and tips to finish up. I am NOT a social person; I paid extra to live in University Commons, by myself. The lack of social activity has never bothered me. If you like social settings, please live in a suite style hall and connect with classmates in your major. Everyone is very friendly here. Starting next year, a number of dining halls will be closing earlier (as in WAY earlier). Fredonia is having budget and enrollment issues and they do not seem to be improving. I suggest living in a hall with a common room kitchen and making your own meals from time to time. Bring a fan if you live on higher floors in any hall that is not University Commons. Bring a fridge and microwave as well. WATCH YOUR FUCKING DEGREE REQUIREMENTS ON DEGREEWORKS. I found out halfway through my final semester that I was 4 credits short, and learned that MANY people were running into this problem because advisors were NOT going over this website with students during advising meetings. This cost me $1300 in summer credit bills. Don’t trust anyone to do this for or with you. Please keep track of paperwork, credits, classes, signups, etc. so nobody can screw you over at the last minute. The school needs money and I wouldn’t put it past them. Finally, about my major. Keep in mind that you will be hard pressed to find a “not for profit” school with this major as it is. You choose to pay premium for a decent education (FIT, etc.) or basic fees for a lackluster one at a school like Fredonia. An Animation and Illustration degree will not prepare you for the industry if you go here (but you can make it work). The department is currently overlooked by a single professor who is frankly spread too thin across the board and does not have sufficient support. The programs you will learn for animation are outdated and/or not even used by animation studios. Most classes are project based, especially in Illustration, and you will receive very little formal instruction. With these classes alone, the only people who will see improvement in their work are ones that were already talented when they started here. THAT SAID: there is formal instruction to be found that will help bridge this issue. TAKE THE FOLLOWING CLASSES WITH THE FOLLOWING PROFESSORS. Life Drawing: Ray Bonilla. Drawing and Painting: Ray Bonilla. 2D Form and Content: Any professor, but I took Emily Ivey. Figure Modeling: Prof. Hidei. These are still required as far as I know, but don’t let them slip past or get overwritten with a sub class. There are also life drawing sessions on Fridays. Attend if you are struggling. Utilize your studio space if/when you get one. I came here for A/I and ended up wanting to go into toy design, so keep an open mind and take many different medium based classes. As a school, Fredonia is very standard. I got lucky when it comes to the cons I experienced, but wanted to throw them out there. Please message me if you have specific questions about the school or my major. I’m not obligated to sell it to you and will answer honestly.

#fredonia #suny fredonia

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princessofbadassery · 6 years ago

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Like??? I graduated from a university creative writing program in undergrad and I still don’t know how valuable it was, either to me personally or to most of the other people in the program.

I don’t mean that most of us haven’t yet gotten jobs in the creative writing field.

a) there just aren’t that many “jobs” in writing out there that don’t require a whole other degree (e.g. journalism); “creatively writing” for money is largely something you do freelance and

b) I don’t keep track of my college classmates for the most part, except for those of y’all who are still my mutuals here and on other social media (I see you and I love you and I’m sorry about those times I was an idiot).

I mean that I don’t know how many of us came out of those programs being better writers and/or feeling better about writing as something we could do for the rest of our lives.

Creative writing programs are really great at teaching you how to write in one particular way, for one particular kind of audience. Most fiction courses will require you to write contemporary adult short fiction, thinking incorrectly that

short stories are microcosms of or stepping stones to novels, and

contemporary adult fiction is “neutral” instead of being its own genre with its own conventions.

Students who want to write “genre” fiction like romance, mystery, fantasy, or science fiction, or who want to write for kids or young adults, are largely ignored or taught to use adult contemporary short fiction to “hone their craft”. That’s fine, except that “hone your craft” too often means “learn to write like Jonathan Franzen, Joyce Carol Oates, or one of another authors on the very short affluent white list of whom I, your professor, approve”.

Beyond that, I don’t know what a better system would look like, but the workshop system in most creative writing programs is just. not. working. I’m sure many of my classmates straight-up stopped writing because of the way their work got picked apart in those classes. Being a good writer doesn’t make you a good teacher, and several of the professors in my program had zero classroom management skills. Since our classes as a whole, including me, had very limited knowledge about what criticism was supposed to be, it was easy for workshop discussions to devolve from “Here’s how you can make this thing a better version of what it is” into “I do not like what this thing is or you for writing it”.

Tossing 15 undergraduates in a room together and telling them to critique each other’s stories without spending more than a few minutes teaching them what criticism is or how to do it well is a recipe for disaster. In fairness, so is giving full authority over criticism to professors whose views will be limited to their own mostly homogeneous and privileged experiences, so I don’t have answers here, but come on: people take classes because they don’t know how to do things.

I guess if I’m gonna suggest possible solutions, they’d be:

require creative writing students to take a class on criticism before they take workshop courses. That class should include the difference between critique and review, how to include grammatical stuff in critiques without being a prescriptive ass, and a several-weeks-long unit on staying in your lane.

require creative writing professors to demonstrate knowledge of classroom management skills before teaching a workshop class.

include some courses on writing popular genres in the curriculum, including courses on how to write for younger audiences.

if a professor is unable to teach students who want to write non-contemporary-adult fiction, require the professor to frame that as a hole in their own education and experience, and to provide a list of resources that can help such students teach themselves upon request.

I’m not sure what I would have majored in if not creative writing; frankly, kids, your undergraduate major is about as likely to predict your career path as I am to predict the winner of March Madness. It wasn’t a bad choice. It just also wasn’t the writing education I or many of my classmates wanted or needed.

we’re having a lot of feelings about university creative writing programs in this Chili’s tonight

#creative writing #writers #editing #college

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divine529 · 8 years ago

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Living with a Disability and (some) Problems that Could Occur ([law] school edition)

I am so beyond pissed off right now. I’m tired of having to fight for what I need. I need recorded classes and am I getting them? Yes. But one professor (the Dean) is making it difficult. Not only is HE doing the recording (which I have no problem with) but he’s RESTRICTING MY USE OF THEM. Literally I have to check it out like a library book and return it within 24 hours and I have no idea if I’ll be able to check it out again if I need to or if it’ll be destroyed before that. I had to sign a BLOODY CONTRACT saying I wouldn’t distribute, copy, or share any of them already, why make it more restrictive. THIS IS NOT FOR FUN! I NEED THEM SO I CAN STUDY PROPERLY! I mean, I don’t want to transfer (frankly I don’t know where else I would be able to go) but christ. Why is it so hard for people like me to get what we need? Even if I try and educate people, because let me tell you, I educate people and I’m INCREDIBLY open about my disability as it’s part of who I am and it’s not something I can change. When I was in his office explaining all of this he basically tried every tactic in the book to get me to say no to recording and I did not back down. I’ve had this my entire life and I’ve fought this fight for just as long. Teachers in grade school who were not patient with me, standardized testing people, teachers in high school who didn’t want to accommodate me until the disability resources advocated for me, EVEN IN COLLEGE with professors. I’m tired. So tired. And I’m literally in tears over this. The person who gets the CDs (yeah they’re on fucking CDs) is frustrated too because he’s being incredibly cryptic about what he wants and how to go about this and he basically just sprung it on her at the last second. The Dean was basically like “get this disk back within a reasonable amount of time...some other places I know that do this give access for 4 hours” like no that’s not a reasonable amount of time. And frankly neither is 24 hours. On top of all my reading and assignments do you think I have time to listen to a 2 hour recording?! I’m barely sleeping as it is!

I’ve met resistance before this, but NEVER to this degree and frankly, I’m done. Tomorrow I have to return the CD and I also have to meet with the acting Dean of Student Affairs (different dean) to discuss “my strategies to improve my performance this semester” well you know what? Last semester I had resounding “no’s” from professors on recording until I turned one (another records on his own, no forms required) a little before halfway through the semester and he used to be the Dean of Students. I signed his contract and no problem. Other professors are willing to work with me. Some who explain their reasoning for why they don’t like recording (all bullshit by the way) have turned but I had to sign the contract. No problem. I have no problem filling out all the paper work you want, just allow me to have the level playing field. That’s all it is. Allowing me to have things to put me on the same place as every one else. To make me equal and whole. But my “strategies to improve my performance”? I don’t know what more I can do. I’m in the Academic Success Program, which to be honest is the biggest joke, I talk to most of my professors regularly, I do all of my assignments, I use outside resources to help, I study pretty much all hours of the day and most of the night getting pretty much 3-6 hours of sleep a night besides weekends, I go to review sessions and talk to my classmates. What more can I do? Because I’m not seeing anything.

I just don’t know anymore...

#personal #story of my life #my musings #law school #disability #recording #I'm so pissed off #I'm seeing red #and crying #living with a disability #schools and disability

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smashdraws · 8 years ago

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The things I’ve learned from art school: part 1/?

I’m a second year illustration student, and I’m here to share with you pearls of wisdom from what I’ve experienced and learned in college (so far), from the actual drawing process to attitudes about art/drawing. Most of these things I’ve learned the hard way, and some are from things I’ve seen others struggle with.

The most work you should be doing in your drawing process is thumbnails/sketching stage.

“There’s no point in finishing a drawing if it’s flawed from the beginning”. That’s what my Composition & Transparent Media professor constantly told us. During our first piece of the semester, he had us stay on the sketching and redrawing stage for a little over a month in order to perfect them. He wanted to make sure the perspective was right, composition was pushed to its fullest, details were added to make every space interesting, the whole shebang. Obviously you’re probably not going to spend a whole month redrawing a piece over and over every time you draw, especially if it’s a time-sensitive project or just a personal piece you’re doing for funsies. However, the sketching stage is where most of the creativity happens. You have to decide on composition, scale, design elements, characters and how they’re positioned in the space, environment, and so much more. And I’d be willing to bet that you won’t get it right the first time.

Give yourself projects when you aren’t in school.

It helps with artist block. The summer between freshman and sophomore year of school I could probably count the number of drawings I did on one hand. To be fair, I was working two jobs 6 days a week so i didn’t exactly have a lot of time, but I found that once I got out of school I had zero drive or ideas. Without assignments from class to draw for, I had nothing to draw, and when I got back to school for sophomore year I had a lot of trouble getting inspired again. It made the beginning of the year really hard for me. Find something, ANYTHING, to draw while you’re out of school, even if you draw fanart for one thing all summer, at least you’re still drawing.

If a character in your drawing is reminiscent of another character/too generic, think about altering it- especially if it’s a work that focuses on said character.

This really only applies for artists who’s focus/career is character design, but it’s still relevant to others. As painful as it is to hear, it means you might not be pushing your concepts enough. I took a class on Concept Art, and the first assignment was character design. A few of mine were deemed too generic looking, and one was too reminiscent of an existing character. It really hurt to hear, especially since I pride myself on character design and they were for a story I’ve had in development for over 6 years. It really made me feel like shit and made me not want to develop the characters further. But I needed to hear it, and I had to continue developing them for the class, so I ended up overhauling and redesigning the characters until they didn’t seem like the same ones anymore in order to make them more interesting. I hated it, but it’s what I had to do.

That being said, things like this really make you think about distinguishing your characters and art from others out there. It’s essentially impossible to be 100% original, but that doesn’t mean you cant try your damnedest to make your ideas as close to original as they can get without getting overcomplicated.

When designing characters, mix up the body shape and facial features.

This one is kind of specific, but still important since character design is an important element of illustration. If you don’t vary things up you’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’ from your professors and peers. And frankly, its boring as hell when someone’s characters all look the same. This is something I see a lot, and I can never get attached to an individual character cause they all looked the same! I found that it happens a lot with male characters, they all have defined abs to some degree and perfectly toned arms and honestly, it gets boring when all of someone’s male characters have the same body type. As for face, there is literally no excuse. There are SO MANY KINDS OF FACES MAN. Round, rectangular, circular, heart-shaped, squared. People can have hooked noses, upturned noses, tiny cute noses. Even eyebrows- arched, flat, thick, waxed, faint, or bold. You’re allowed to have preferences for what kind of bodies you like to draw, but don’t be afraid to branch out!

Develop your own style.

As an artist, you need your own style. Imitating other artist’s styles isn’t going to get you far in school or the real world, and chances are, your peers will call you out if your style looks too much like another established artist’s. In order to make a living and gain clients you need a style that you make unique, taking inspirations and aspects from other styles and squishing them together to make one amazing art style baby. Your art style will probably be the deciding factor in whether or not your client hires you!

Tracing references is OK when appropriate.

As long as it isn’t for a published or commissioned piece, there is absolutely no harm in tracing references. In your down time take some pictures of yourself or find some online and go ahead and trace ‘em. Really pay attention to how the body actually is, how the perspective on legs work, how that hand is foreshortened. Do this enough and you’ll find yourself thinking about all that when you’re drawing normally!

There will always be students better than you, you just gotta accept it.

It’s just a fact of life, unfortunately. When you’re a freshman, you’re in classes with only freshman for your foundation year. You and your peers are all on the relatively same level. What had affected me starting my second year (and I didn’t realize it until much later) was that now that I was in classes with upperclassmen, who had a year or two’s worth of experience on me, I felt as id my art was not up to par. It’s easy to forget your classmates are not just from your grade anymore, especially in electives. All of the electives I took had mostly Juniors and a few Sophomores, and my work always didn’t quite have that polish and finesse to it yet that the upperclassmen’s did have. It’s just a fact of life that you’ll always be up against artists who are more skilled than you , but thats because they have more or different experiences. You have to keep in mind that you can’t compare yourself to them, since it isn’t fair to you that you’re comparing yourself to someone who may have 3+ years on you.

Learn realism to some extent- figures, animals, everything.

You don’t have to like it, but you can always tell when an artist never learned it because their figures are always off. There is a difference between stylizing and not knowing, and it’s almost always evident. You can see it in the way hands are drawn, noses are rendered, and how they shape and place breasts. Do pages of body studies focusing on hands, feet, leg muscles, back arches, faces, all kinds of stuff. You’ll thank yourself later.

Your professors and peers will know when you don’t put in your best effort.

They’ll know when you aren’t pushing yourself because you’ll make fundamental mistakes. Slightly imperfect coloring, wiggly linework that wasn’t done quite carefully enough, not bothering to fix those damn feet in the finish. They always know, somehow...even if you’re careful with your laziness.

Buying expensive materials is usually worth it.

It may cost more but your work will benefit from it, and they last so, so much longer. I had to buy 3 brushes when my techniques class was doing watercolor, and in total they costed over $100. I found as I used them that since they were hair brushes and not synthetic, they held so much more pigment and water, and I could get a much finer tip. I was incredibly lucky that my professor provided the paint, which could go up to $20 a tube for some colors with the brand he had. Paper is also something worth splurging on, because let me tell you I have had disastrous effects when using shitty (coughCANSONcough) watercolor paper. The 9x12 paper block I bought for class was $30, and it was the best paper i’ve ever worked on. Absolutely worth the money and I will be buying that brand for projects from now on. And the best thing about all these is that they’ll last forever!

You NEED to find ways to get excited about a project you hate, because you’re gonna have to do a lot of them.

If you don’t find ways to get excited about projects you’re not too thrilled to do, you’ll never succeed. I learned this in my freshman year very fast, because man oh man were there some projects I couldn’t have cared less about. If you can, gear the project towards one of your interests without compromising the purpose or assigned subject.

I hope this advice can help some folks! Art school is a lot of tough love, and a lot of stepping 300 yards out of your comfort zone (sometimes by force). But they key is to not be afraid of trying new things! You’ll find things you absolutely hate doing, and will never want to do ever again if you can help it, and you’ll find things that you’ll love to do. It’s all about keeping an open mind!

Keep drawing, keep learning, keep creating.

#advice #life lessons #art #art advice #college #art school #not art #artist #learning #tough love #long post #critique

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ecotone99 · 5 years ago

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[NF] See you soon, but not soon enough

Summer of 2011 I was a university student, enrolled in summer courses to help accelerate my Bachelor of Science degree. I was offsetting a more difficult BioStat course with a Narrative Literature course (one of the options for the mandatory first year English requirement).

He caught my eye on the very first day. I was 20 years old, slightly older than my classmates, but what set me apart even more was my status as a single mother. It was one of those things that was omnipresent for me; I looked at my fellow students and saw them as fledglings - able to enjoy that space between childhood and adulthood. I would never know how it felt to be a carefree young adult. I was stuck between worlds - too young and inexperienced to fit in with other mothers, too much baggage to fit in with the other students.

But he wasn't like the other students. He was older - in his 30s. He was also handsome with his dark hair and slim build. He was sitting near the centre of the room and I sat at the edge, sneaking glances.

It wasn't long before he spoke. He was extroverted and confident, easily engaging with the professor. His voice was rich and low, closely resembling that of Matthew McConaughey (minus the southern accent. This story happened in Canada). It moved me at a cellular level.

It took me about 5 classes before I drummed up the courage to sit next to him. I noticed that he was often one of the first to arrive, so it was simply a matter of arriving early enough to claim the empty chair beside him. The first time I had difficulty making eye contact, and may have squeaked out a hello. I had high hopes of initiating a conversation about the weather at very least, but I couldn't will my mouth to speak.

I arrived prepared the next time. I pulled out a fresh sheet of note paper and while the professor began her lecture I scribbled "Hi! I'm Willow!"

My hand trembled a little as I nudged the paper in his direction. His eyes caught the movement and he didn't hesitate to scrawl back: "Hi! I'm Chris!"

It was on from then. We spent our lectures passing notes back and forth, asking about likes and dislikes, trying to make each other laugh and risk having all the eyes of the class on us after our barely muffled giggles/snorts. We thought we were being inconspicuous but I'm pretty sure we weren't fooling anyone.

I lived for our cutesy handwritten conversations, but I wanted more. I dropped hints about coffee and my favorite place to get it. The next class he was there waiting with a cup. He started walking me to my car after class, lingering for a chat with his long form leaned against my window. I found myself focusing less on what he was saying and willing him to make a move. As mentioned, I wasn't a virgin. I knew where I wanted this to go and I was growing bolder by the day, but also frustrated by my own impotence. I sensed he wanted it too - his arm brushed against mine too often while sitting side by side. Sometimes his leg would shift and touch mine and hesitate there and the blood rushing in my ears would drown out the lecture.

We had a rare July thundershower one hot afternoon as he walked me to my car. My tank top was getting soaked and my hair plastered to my forehead but I didn't care. I could feel it - today was the day that something would finally happen.

I leaned up against my car, hyper-aware of his gaze and meeting it unflinchingly.

He moved so suddenly it almost frightened me. He kissed me as the percussive raindrops drummed my car roof and pressed his body against mine. His hand grappled for the door handle, opened it, and lip-locked we fell into the backseat of the car. His hands were everywhere, sweat mingled with rain and steamed up the windows.

Breathless, we finally pulled apart before any clothes came off. We agreed that we could hardly wait to see each other in class again, and he walked away from me in the rain.

Our notes were much more explicit during our next class together. I was eager and throbbing. I knew what I wanted and was ready.

After class we drove off to a secluded wooded area near the school. He produced a condom and we had about as passionate sex as one could possibly have in a car with a brand new partner.

This is where the story goes south.

During the afterglow while he held me tight to his chest, he told me he was married.

It felt like the world crashed down on me. I had broken up with the cheating father of my child just over a year previous and I couldn't believe the position I was suddenly in. I had spent a month falling for this man, romanticizing him and our slow ascent and suddenly I knew clearly why he had been so hesitant to make a move on me.

"I really care about you. You're the most incredible girl I have ever met. It's like we were built for each other."

He spoke the words I wanted to hear. He told me about how his wife was 12 years his senior (he was 33, 13 years older than me) and sexless. He also talked about how badly they wanted children, but upon discovering that she was infertile, they pretty much stopped having sex altogether. He claimed they were currently little more than really considerate roommates.

I fell for it.

Our relationship was really fun at first. I let him meet my barely toddler-sized child early on. He loved coming over often and playing house with us. We were the family he never had and he talked about his desire for children often. He told me he loved me - us - early on. I reciprocated his affection gladly.

Eventually it would get dark outside, though, and he would leave for his real home.

I resented his wife at first. We had a lot of talks about her and I would try to present logical arguments for why it was time to leave. Weeks passed into months and it was never the right time.

I don't know exactly when it began to shift. There were some red flags: His extroversion and confidence morphed into leading comments about my behaviour and how it could improve. He made some racist comments on one occasion and his views on female body autonomy were not in line with mine. He was also religious and convinced that one day I would be smart enough to figure out that God did exist after all (I'm atheist). In retrospect he was also quite talented at gaslighting, but I didn't pick up on it at the time.

I started to pull away and he sensed it. He responded by granting one of my wishes - an entire night together - just me and him.

We arranged a night at a local upscale wellness resort. The room was beautiful and I still have lovely photos of our time there - but at 3 in the morning I woke up and I suddenly couldn't do it anymore: I broke up with him.

It shocked both of us, frankly. He didn't argue - just gathered up his things and drove away. I was stunned at the ease of it.

If only it was that easy.

We had finished our Narrative Lit class by this time, but had conspired to choose the same elective - Psychology - for the fall semester. This meant that we still had a class to attend together every other day.

He didn't use his cellphone for texting - too easy for his wife to trace - so we communicated exclusively through email when we were apart. It was common for him to sign his emails "I'll see you soon, but not soon enough." After we broke up, there were 6 of these emails before I had a chance to respond ranging in tone from brisk to playful to pleading.

I wasn't swayed. I told him that I had fallen out of love and that it was over. He responded by sending more emails, but when they went unanswered, he showed up at my house late that evening.

I didn't let him in. I was feeling rattled by his persistence, but I thought if I refused to answer the door he would go away. I could hear him calling for me, alternating between sweet loving words and irritated commands for me to talk him.

For context: I lived in the end unit of a row of townhouses. I had a front door, a back basement door, and an upper floor balcony. The front and back doors were locked, but I rarely locked the balcony door because it wasn't easily accessible from the ground.

I was sitting in my living room on the upper level (my son was asleep downstairs) when I heard a commotion in the direction of the balcony. I looked up to see him toppling over the railing. With a lurch I managed to lock the balcony door seconds before he could open it and let himself inside.

By this time I was shaking. He had gone from zero to creepy fast enough to give me whiplash. I barely recognized him as someone I had been so incredibly enamoured with - his pleas for me to let him inside were frenetic and he switched from wrenching on the door handle to trying to push the dining room window open.

It felt like I had entered someone else's nightmare as I fought to keep the window closed - begging him to leave while he begged me to let him in. I managed to wedge the security stick in that kept it from opening further than a small gap.

He demanded I let him in. I shook my head and asked him to leave as assertively as I could. He switched gears and told me that even though he had managed to climb up the second floor balcony, he didn't think that he would be able to safely climb back down.

I wavered, considering this. I didn't want him to get hurt. He saw my resolve weaken and promised that he would simply walk through the kitchen, down the stairs and out the front door if I let him in.

I tried one more time to encourage him to leave the way he came - he refused, citing possible injury. So I caved.

He lied. He stood there in my kitchen with his arms folded and demanded a better explanation for why I decided to end the relationship. I tried to usher him out but he was unmoveable. I couldn't even explain it - didn't want to explain it - just wanted him OUT. I told him that if he didn't leave right away I would call the police. I reached for my cellphone and he reacted quickly - he snatched it from my hands and held it high out of my reach.

My blood ran cold at this point. Here I was trapped in my home with this man, my child sleeping downstairs and my main source for calling for help was in his hands.

"I'll scream."

"No you won't."

I reached for it but it was no use.

"Just leave me alone," I begged.

"Not until you admit you love me."

"I don't. It's over. We're done."

"Those are just the lies you tell yourself because you're afraid to be close. BE REAL." He looked like he believed exactly what he was saying with full conviction. It was too much.

"Please. You're scaring me."

He softened. "Willow-Bee" he murmured and reached for me. I stiffened as his arms encircled me. He squeezed me tight, but as his hold loosened, I seized my chance and pulled away from him having grabbed my phone from his unsuspecting fingers.

I was already dialing a friend of mine (also happened to be a local police officer) as he chased me down the stairs. My police officer friend, Paul, answered on the second ring. Backed into a corner in the basement, I held my phone in front of me like a shield and spoke to my friend on speakerphone while Chris waited at arms-length, silently listening to my quivering voice explaining the situation.

Paul sternly admonished Chris to leave my house immediately and with a withering glare, Chris exited and drove away. After Chris left he checked in with me to be sure I was OK and recommended that I call the actual police. I explained that I still had some feelings for Chris, and didn't think he deserved to have his whole life blown up, despite how much he had scared me.

After we disconnected I wrapped myself up in several blankets, but it took a long time before I felt warm.

I wish I could say that the ordeal was over after this, but I would be lying. For weeks he emailed me and waited for me outside of my classes. We only shared one class, but he knew my schedule and would wait outside my other classes too. I walked silently past him and he would follow me, trying fruitlessly to get me to engage. He would also wait outside my house at night sometimes, and leave me loving messages on the sidewalk in chalk.

"I love you Willow-Bee" the chalk spelled in block letters.

So I stopped going to my classes. I did my best to stay caught up on the material by studying the slides posted online and reading the text book. Weeks passed without me being forced to see or talk to him. I had to attend the exams though, and sure enough, he was there outside my psychology exam, waiting.

I walked quickly towards my car and he followed, begging.

"Please! GO AWAY!" Months of feeling afraid and powerless were welling to the surface. I raced into the driver's seat of my car, but he was there, holding the door open against me as I tried to pull it closed. I tried uselessly to shut it, then scooted out the car.

He followed me as I did laps around the car. I threatened to call the police on him for harassment. He laughed at me.

I tried to reason with him. It was impossible. I darted for the driver's seat again and this time was successful at slamming the door shut before he could hold it open.

His response? He placed his foot under the driver's side tire and told me that in order to drive away I would have to run him over.

I so badly wanted to do it. Weeks of looking over my shoulder, of reading his emails with shivers. He rambled for paragraphs, accusing me of being pregnant with his child, mostly. Promising me everything, accusing me of lying about my feelings etc.

Here is one of the many emails left unanswered:

"I called you but I didn't hear back.... I'm worried that you are hurting and/or in trouble!! :( I can't drop by to check on you..... You keep pretending I'm not welcome there :P

I'll send you this so that you know whats going on, I'll call you again as well.

Do I Understand what and why you are doing this? NO I really don't! Who would? Especially when we both know its bs.

I have ideas and guesses....There is no way to understand it. I don't know what's really going on. I'm lacking whatever information you think you need to hide. I don't have the real information. I would LIKE to know, However that is your prerogative. I wish you wouldn't hide and hold back, but.... We have both said so much already.

So no, I don't understand. I hope that reading the messages I sent matter to you, Actually I'm sure that they do. We both know that you care, that we both care far more than we ever let on.

I did ask you to do me the courtesy of telling me whats really going on, even IF you'll "never see me again"..... as you say. Such a waste!

You don't need to drive me away. You should really have a hard think about all that I said in those messages. You don't HAVE to pretend all this BS... And you don't HAVE to hide the truth from me. Or have I guessed it already? That you are pregnant and full of fear? And that you don't want to be "the cause" of my marital breakdown...Well your not! A catalyst yes, but your NOT the cause. You just helped me realise that I COULD be happy. And I was, I'd STILL be if you'd drop the act and be real with me. We both were happy. I'd love to have that again, even for a short time, ANY time would be worth it and more. Knowing that I could be fulfilled, and so were you... But is it also that you are worried about your condition, so you think why invest your heart and love (already there!) into us anyway? Maybe you think its "easier" to drive me away and just waste away with your personal misery and not have a love to share with.... As I say I have ideas, maybe closer to the mark than I know, maybe not... You tell me. I dare you. "

So here I am, in the driver's seat of my car, with my married exboyfriend stubbornly sticking his leg in the way of my wheel. I had two choices I could drive over him, or I could call for help.

It was at this point that I finally called the police.

He figured out I was talking to the cops early enough to deke out before they could arrive. They took my statement and sent a member to his home to warn him to stop contacting me.

He sent one final email.

" This is the 2nd time you have WAY crossed the line of decent behaviour. Now to the business at hand.

I'm asking you to stop harassing me and stop threatening me.

If you have ANY pictures of me at this time I demand that you delete them. I do not give you permission to have anything like that at this time.

I do not want to have to inform the police that you stalked me along with [Paul, my cop friend], who miss-used police equipment to fraudulently attain my personal information and then gave it to his civilian ex-girlfriend, your self, so that you could find out about me. I'm sure that breach of trust, and many others, would not be well looked upon. Or that you have made personal threats to harm me or to otherwise harm my family. You have gone way to ridiculous with this. Stop bothering me. I told you that I care, but I am not interested in you attacking me or your threats against me.

IF you can be civil and reasonable you may explain your poor actions via email. If not, I choose to forgive you any way. Good bye, stop harassing me. "

A gas-lighter to his last breath.

submitted by /u/willowygirl [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/3cN8Bjg

#Blogger #Story

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veryangryhedgehog · 6 years ago

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“Nothing to See Here, Just a Never-Ending Pile of Shit, Right on my Head” an Ede Valley story by Hedgehog.

Nothing to See Here, Just a Never-Ending Pile of Shit Right on my Head

Of all the students at St. Adelaide’s, of all the tragic backstories and fucked up personalities, Doug Bailey had the worst, and was the most. And no one knew it. To most people, Doug was just that kid who was there. True, he was a bit of an oddity, with his bright white hair and his tendency to slide in and out of rooms on Heelys. People often joked that he used them to “escape his feelies”, but no one even knew what his “feelies” were. So mostly, they wrote him off as a weirdo and forgot about him. Even his friends. There was just something about him that made people not want to know.

They didn’t.

Of course, Doug’s life didn’t start out full of tragedy and woe. That wouldn’t be good storytelling. Even so, Doug had been a loser since the beginning. He was the youngest of three, and from early childhood it was clear that he was never going to measure up. His brother Gordon amazed people with his intellect and knowledge. His sister Clover charmed everyone around her with her passion and ready smile. Doug was just kinda there. He wasn’t clever, or charismatic. All Doug was really good for was the occasional snide remark.

Though no one ever said as much, people must have wondered what had gone wrong with him. By all accounts he should have been just as remarkable as his siblings. His mother Christine Bailey had a trifecta of Ph. Ds in Biology, Physics, and Psychology, and was a professor at Yale. His father Tim Bailey had received his medical degree at Stanford and had since written several books that had allegedly “Changed the American Diet”. At least, that’s what he had proudly scribed on all of their covers.

So how had Doug happened? No one had any idea. For the first twelve years of his life it seemed as if he’d simply been a fluke of creation; that somehow the brilliant genes of his progenitors had mixed in such a way to create a perfectly ordinary child. At least that’s what he assumed, until the results of his “mandatory IQ test” came in the mail.

He’d been forced to take it by his parents, who said there was no way a son of theirs wouldn’t be inducted into the Gifted and Talented program, which in his humble opinion, was a bullshit name. But who could have predicted the results? Because as his mother tearfully explained, the torn envelope crushed in the hand clutched to her chest, Doug was apparently a genius.

“Are you sure he didn’t just break the test?” Gordon asked over his physics book, as they all sat down to dinner that evening.

“Gordon!” his mother scolded. “That’s not appropriate. Apologize to your brother.”

“I’m sorry I doubted your entirely obvious genius, squirt,” he muttered, before turning back to the textbook.

Rolling her eyes, Clover smiled down at him. “I’m sure the test is right, Doug’s just been holding back, right Doug?”

He knew that she meant it as a compliment, but that phrase would grow to be his curse. Doug should do better in school, if he only “applied himself”. Even the very words sent shivers up his spine. What the fuck did that even mean? If he actually gave a shit? If he just tried a little harder? But he saw the already developing obsession with scholastic excellence in his fellow classmates, how they would check their grades every few minutes, how they would flip about tests. He simply couldn’t handle that kind of pressure.

So he did… okay. But that of course was never enough for his parents. Once every semester he would hand in his report card, and wait for the inevitable sigh and the “sit down, Doug,” from his father. Then he’d get the same speech he’d gotten the last semester, and the one before that. Like clockwork.

He wished every time that something would distract his parents from his “failing” grades. Anything. Well, anything but what he actually got.

Because for the final semester of eighth grade, he handed his report card, covered with Cs and Ds, to his father, and braced for the worst. But his father had merely glanced blearily at it, said “That’s fine, Doug,” and turned back to his writing.

Doug was frankly a little shocked, and wondered if he was dreaming. It all seemed so surreal that it couldn’t have actually happened. He couldn’t have gotten off the hook that easily. As would quickly become a theme in his life, he didn’t. Because that evening when his parents sat down to dinner with the two boys, they had some news.

“Clover is… sick,” his mother broke the silence finally.

“Well yes, of course, we know that.” Gordon frowned. She’d been bedridden for weeks. But they’d just assumed mono or something like that.

His father looked down at his plate. He hadn’t eaten anything. “It’s… it’s cancer.” His voice nearly broke on the last word. “Brain cancer.”

There was silence for a good minute. “What?” Doug asked finally, after looking over at Gordon, nearly frozen to his chair. “You’re… you’re shitting us, right?”

The fact that they didn’t even scold him for his language said volumes.

He couldn’t believe it. It didn’t seem real. Cancer… cancer was something that happened to other people. Something that distant relatives or friends of friends got and you had to pretend to feel sorry for. It didn’t happen to sisters. Not to Clover.

Late that night, as he was failing to fall asleep, he heard his father cry for the first time in his life. It came soft and muffled from his parents’ room, and it almost destroyed him. If his father was crying, then the world really was ending. He was never going to fall asleep now.

Doug stood, and padded across the dark room, taking care to avoid the piles of discarded clothes. The old wooden door creaked a little, and he cringed, but no one seemed to notice the sound. Before he knew what he was really doing, he found himself at Clover’s door. He opened it, just a sliver, just to make sure that she was still his sister.

“Hi Doug,” her voice came from the room, exhausted, but decidedly awake. He didn’t question how she knew it was him. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

“No,” he hesitated for a moment, before entering the room. She turned on a lamp, and patted the bed next to her. She didn’t look any different. Her cheeks were still their usual rose and her hair fell in dark ringlets around her face. More than anything, she just looked tired.

They sat there for a moment, before Doug finally broke the silence. “Mom and Dad told us about…”

“The cancer?” she finished for him finally.

“Are… are you gonna… die?”

She looked off to the far side of her room, her jaw tightening. “Probably,” she said finally.

“Why?” Doug asked, shaking his head. “Why does it have to be you? You’re… you’re the most amazing person I know. You’re the only one who’s never… never wanted anything from me.”

“I don’t know why things happen, Doug,” she admitted. “Maybe there’s some kind of great plan, and I got sick for a reason. Maybe it’s to motivate you to get off your ass,” she laughed bitterly. “Or maybe there is no meaning, and everything is random.”

“I don’t know which one’s better.”

She laughed again, but hard this time. “I don’t think anyone does. Wanna hear my opinion?” Clover’s blue eyes glowed in the low light.

He nodded.

“I think that you have to make your own meaning in the world. I think that you have to take what this universe hands you, and make something out of it.”

“I don’t think I understand,” he admitted.

“I’m not sure if I do either.”

He thought about those words for a long time, for the months and months that it took for Clover’s body to finally give up. They had taken her in for Chemo, of course, and Doug had watched helplessly as her hair fell out and her eyes grew cloudy and she ceased to even look human anymore. And it almost killed him. He didn’t want to remember her like that, the dead look in her eyes, the pain omnipresent in the tenseness of her shoulders, the complete smoothness of her face and head where her beautiful hair used to flow freely.

Of course, it didn’t work. Nor did any of the other treatments they tried, and gradually as the months passed, Clover just got weaker and weaker, until she could hardly lift her head to say hello anymore. By the time Doug’s freshman year of high school was nearing its end, she just slept. He didn’t think he would ever be able to forget the day when the doctor had gathered what remained of his family together, his parents and his brother and him, and told them that Clover was never going to wake up again.

They did what any sane person would do, and pulled the plug. If she was going to be a vegetable, not able to think and feel, to laugh or cry, to enchant people with her kind words and plentiful smiles, then there was no point in letting her suffer any longer. “It’s time,” his father said, hugging his mother tightly.

Doug left the room.

He didn’t want to remember her as she was, before the end. But that was the singular image that kept flashing through his mind. The deathly pale skin, hollow cheeks. Stop it stop it, go away. I want to remember my sister, not the Cancer. He found his way to the too sterile hospital bathroom, and threw up.

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

The next night, he couldn’t sleep.

The night after, he couldn’t sleep.

The night after that—

All he could see was the Cancer.

It stalked him, haunted his every waking moment. He saw It during class, in the morning, in the evening, while he was not eating, while he was not sleeping. He couldn’t get the image out of his head. Hollow eyes, hollow cheeks, lips stretched thin, not his sister, couldn’t be. It was Cancer.

Finally, after a week, he simply collapsed in the middle of his Bio final. But even in his dreams he couldn’t escape It. It was there, watching him in the dark, smiling, laughing at him. It loved the fact that It had ruined the image of his sister forever. It cackled with mad glee, the skin on Its face stretched grotesquely over Its cracked lips.

He didn’t remember much of the next few hours. The teacher poked him, and began to panic when nothing she did woke him up, apparently, and someone dragged him to the nurse’s office. When he finally did wake up, it was nearly two. There was no point in trying to go back to class now, and he wasn’t sure he could stand if he tried. How many days had it been since he’d eaten? He couldn’t exactly remember. There was no point, he couldn’t keep anything down anyway.

Maybe if he’d had the strength to get up and walk out, he wouldn’t have met Monte. Maybe his life wouldn’t have gotten so out of control.

Monte was a junior, and quite obviously off his gourd on pot most of the time. There were the stoner kids, with their overlarge hoodies and baggy pants, and then there was Monte. When Doug had first seen him on the cot next to him he was wearing a dad shirt covered in flamingos, and his large feet were enrobed in socks and sandals like some kind of Tibetan monk.

“And sleeping beauty finally awakes!” he said, grinning lethargically. “Thought I was gonna have to start mackin’ on you for a second there.”

“What... happened?” Doug rubbed his eyes.

The stoner shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. “You’ve been snoring away since I got here. Does that happen a lot?”

“No,” Doug replied, shaking his head. “But I haven’t slept in... a few days.” He didn’t know why he was telling any of this to the random guy on the cot next to him, but something about him just made Doug want to tell him things. He seemed... cool.

“A few days? What kinda damage you dealin’ with?”

Doug shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He liked this dude, but not enough to tell him his life story.

“Suit yourself. I’m Monte, by the by.”

“Doug.”

A few minutes later, the nurse came by, noticed that Doug was awake, at least nominally, and nodded at him, acknowledging that he was going to camp out here for the rest of the day. She then moved onto Monte, and handed him a small, metal tube that looked kind of like a pen. “Only one,” she admonished, and moved back over to behind the curtain.

Monte put the pen to his lips and took a deep puff of it. It smelled oddly like cotton candy. He noticed Doug staring a second later.

“Yeah, it is exactly what you think it is,” he laughed. “I’ve got epilepsy, ya know, seizures? The pot helps. Calms my body down, ya know?”

Doug nodded, and kept staring. A thought began to bloom at the back of his mind.

And it seemed Monte could read it, for he glanced over to the curtain, and then leaned over conspiratorially. “You wanna hit?”

He hesitated for a moment, the pen hanging in the air between them. Would this help him? Would it get rid of the Cancer that even now was flashing behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes? Doug reached out, and took the pen.

“Go easy on it,” Monte instructed. “Though you might not actually get high the first time anyway.”

Doug took a slow, deliberate puff of it, and coughed a little, even though it wasn't actual smoke, more like steam. He paused. “I don’t feel anything.”

“Give it a minute,” Monte said, and Doug did. After a little while, he realized that he was, for the first time in weeks, actually a little calm. The Cancer wasn’t gone, not entirely, but it seemed... further away somehow, slightly less important. Like a bird with a blanket on its cage. But still, it wasn’t entirely enough.

Monte seemed to notice his hesitation. “Keep in mind,” he offered, “that this is shitty medical J. If you wanna real high you’ve gotta get the real stuff, ya know?”

Every shitty DARE documentary he’d ever been shown flashed through Doug’s mind. He was supposed to say no to shit like this, wasn’t he? But Monte wasn’t pressuring him, not like everything he’d ever been told, he was just offering. And Doug was curious. And slowly getting desperate.

“You’d... give me pot?” he asked. “Why? Couldn’t you get in trouble?”

“Why not?” Monte shrugged. “You seem like a cool dude. And no offense, but you look like you need it.”

So that day after the final bell rang, Doug followed Monte under the bleachers to get high. And it worked. For a little while, he didn’t have to think about his grades, or his thoroughly broken family, or the Cancer. For a few hours, he could just laugh with his new friend and not worry about anything at all.

The summer was spent chilling with Monte and his friends, getting high in his dad’s garage, driving around the suburban wasteland. There was Jonah, who was a drummer that all the girls went nuts for, and Jake, who did theater and was constantly teased for it. He claimed he only did it so he had an excuse to be in the auditorium after school with girls. And then there was Morgan. Morgan, was... a little weird. A little twitchy. He hung with the others but they still kept a slight distance from him. Monte told Doug later that he did some... harder stuff. He was a little fucked.

But even with Morgan among them, Doug felt awesome, for the first time in years. It was... cool, he supposed, to hang out with these older guys. He felt cool. He even got offered a beer. It tasted bitter and weird and he didn’t really like it, but he forced it down anyway.

Of course, the universe just couldn’t give one to him. Uh uh, not allowed, old Dougy never gets a break. He felt like it was a written rule somewhere that he was not allowed to have anything good in his life, and if he did, it had to be snatched away from him as quickly as possible. To be fair, what happened after that was mostly his fault.

The problem with chemistry-altering drugs, Doug soon found, was that your brain quickly got used to the imbalance and learned to work around it. He’d learned that in Psychology, he was pretty sure. If he’d taken it slow, only used when the dreams or insomnia got really bad, he probably could have kept going for years. But he got greedy. Like any sane person would, he enjoyed not being constantly plagued by the growing pit of problems in his stomach, the weight on his chest. He just wanted to forget it all, all the time. And so he did. All the time. And by the end of the summer, it became harder and harder to do so.

By the end of the summer he began to feel the Cancer pressing at him again, staring at him through the blanket of its cage, just waiting for the day when the bars got thin and the blanket got worn and it could break free once again. He didn’t want to, but he could almost see it. He started to sleep less again, and when he did, the dreams began to return. He could feel himself slipping back into that pit, regardless of how much he smoked. And school only made it worse.

One day he was at a football game with Monte and his friends, not really watching, just hitting a toke behind the bleachers and laughing at the muscle-bound football players. When the band came out they hooted and hollered as loud as they could to try and distract Jonah, and all had a good laugh. But it didn’t feel the same, it was harder, Doug was more nervous. He felt It sitting in the back of his mind. At one point, Morgan snuck away to go snort some cocaine in the trees behind the field, and a few minutes later, Doug followed him.

“Hey dude,” Morgan nodded at him, wiping the white stain from under his nose. He leaned back against the tree he was sitting in front of and let out the most content sigh Doug had ever heard. He desperately wanted to be that calm. More than anything. He didn’t want to think any more.

So when Morgan asked if he wanted a hit, Doug nodded. Morgan grabbed the mirror he’d used just a minute before, and used a razor to form a line with the powder. It almost looked like powdered sugar, and Doug wondered vaguely if that’s what it would taste like. He took the straw that Morgan handed to him, and snorted.

Coughing viciously as Morgan laughed, Doug nearly fell backwards. And then, he grinned. It was gone, completely gone. He didn’t even remember what It was. He nearly laughed out loud. He’d found it, he’d found the cure to his fucked-up head at last. “Feels nice, right?” Morgan asked, and Doug nodded. For the first time in months, he felt full of energy. He didn’t feel tired or down in the slightest. This was the best thing ever.

The two of them went back to the game and joined the others, who were now cat-calling Jonah and making stupid faces. Doug joined in with a drive he hadn’t known he’d possessed. For once in his goddamn life, he was having fun.

At least, until an hour later when he abruptly came down.

It happened suddenly, on the drive back to his parent’s house. He’d finally gotten his license a few weeks ago, early birthday whoo hoo... and all of the sudden, out of nowhere, he looked into the rearview mirror and for just a second, he thought he saw It grinning at him.

Doug jerked the wheel so suddenly that he nearly ran into a parked car. “Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.” But he blinked, and it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. He shook himself, and eventually made it home without further incident.

But for the next few days he brooded over the appearance. The Cancer had never appeared in the real world before, only in his head. He’d known what was reality and what wasn’t. If the two were starting to bleed into each other. Was he getting worse? Or had it been the cocaine? To any rational person, they probably would have come to the conclusion that it was the cocaine and never take it ever again. But Doug was a teenage boy, one who was still coming down from a high. His limbs felt heavy, and he suddenly felt like crying, or shouting, or both, it didn’t matter which.

One thing was clear. He needed that high.

In the future, he would have difficulties remembering the next four months of his life. It all seemed to pass by in a haze of confusion and fog. He did remember some basic facts. More and more he had stopped hanging with Monte and the guys and clung to Morgan like some sort of parasite, which was what he quickly became.

“Dude,” Monte had pulled him aside sometime that fall. “Are you high... like, not on pot right now?”

Doug responded with something largely incoherent. He felt free as a bird. This shit didn’t matter.

“Is this Morgan’s doing? I’m gonna fucking kill that little prick.” Monte ran his fingers through his somewhat greasy hair. “What’s he thinking, getting a kid high?”

“I’m only like, a year younger than you dude, shut the fuck you’re up.” And suddenly, that slip of the tongue was absolutely hilarious to him.

Everything was pretty hilarious to him, when he was high. Finally, he had a little peace, and little quiet. The coke not only put a blanket on the Cancer’s cage, but dumped it into the fucking ocean. He could smile, he could laugh. He didn’t have to worry about the Cancer watching him. He didn’t have to mourn anymore.

Until he came down, of course. But then he’d just do it all over again.

He started going to parties with Morgan, even though he had never really liked them before. Usually it was because it would seem like a good idea at the time. And then he would wake up the next morning in a stranger’s house, smelling like booze and cigarettes. Sometimes if he was lucky, he wouldn’t have a vomit stain down the front of his shirt.

He’d lost his virginity at some point, though he didn’t remember anything about it. He thought her name might have been Lindsay but he wasn’t really sure. Even if he thought hard about it, for the life of him he couldn’t find her face. There were a lot of girls after that, but they all blurred together into a mass of perfume and curves. In fact, there had been a girl on his lap the night of the accident.

Luckily he hadn’t been driving. If he had, he wouldn’t be at St. Adelaide’s right now, he’d be in juvie. It had been after a party one night, and Morgan had piled something along the lines of eight people in his five-seat Dodge. Again, it had seemed like a good idea, at the time. Morgan had been high as a kite. Doug should have never let him drive. But he was flying at the exact same height. He didn’t give a shit. He was in the middle back seat with a pretty girl on his lap, her fingers in his hair, the taste of her lips, peppered with alcohol and cigarettes.

And a second later she was through the windshield. He watched in horror as with a horrible crash her body was dragged through the glass and bounced like some sort of morbid doll off the front of the car. The police told him later when they were questioning him that Morgan had tried to run a red light, but had stopped at the last second when a semi had crossed in front of him. Unfortunately, the truck that had been attempting to show off its driver’s massive balls behind him didn’t, and the little Dodge’s back end had quickly been reduced to so much scrap metal.

If it hadn’t been for the girl on his lap, it would have been Doug who was through the windshield. That thought kept circling through his mind. For a while, her mangled, Cocaine ridden body joined the Cancer in his nightmares. And the worst part was, he couldn’t even remember her name. He found it later, of course, in her obituary, Elizabeth. Her name had been Elizabeth. He promised himself he wouldn’t forget it.

The rest of the night was a little foggy. He knew that the police had taken the six survivors of the crash to the hospital, and out of all of them, Doug was probably the least beat up. His parents had been called of course, but he was a little surprised when it wasn’t either of them who showed up, but Gordon.

“What. The fuck. Is wrong with you?” was the first sentence out of his brother’s mouth.

“Nothing,” Doug insisted, “I was just at a party and—”

Gordon just shook his head. “Don’t even try to lie, the doctor told me everything. How you’re still high as a goddamn mountain right now.”

“Where’s dad?” Doug asked, still a little behind. “Mom? Thought they’d be worried sick.”

“Wow. You really are pathetic.” Gordon looked to the sky, as if it could help him. Looking to Clover. “You really haven’t noticed, have you? That coke dulled your fucking head so much you haven’t even realized that Mom’s been gone for the last four months and Dad’s been near catatonic since then?”

Blinking, Doug didn’t think he followed. “Are you shittin’ me?”

“No. I’m not.” At this point Gordon had grabbed his shoulders to try to get him to look at him. But now he let go in frustration. “God, I can’t believe I turned down MIT for this shit.”

“Wait, what?”

“Well, who the fuck else was gonna take care of you and dad, huh?” Several of the patients in the waiting room looked over at them. “Maybe it is just time for this family to fucking die.”

It was in that moment that Doug realized he couldn’t do this anymore. The drugs, the parties. Not only was he killing himself, but he didn’t even know what was going on anymore. He’d missed his own mother leaving their house and hadn’t even noticed. What the fuck was wrong with him?

The next week or so of withdrawal was absolute hell, but somehow, even with the dreams, even with the Cancer and the Cocaine flashing behind his eyelids, he gritted his teeth and got through it. Though YouTube helped quite a bit, if he was really honest. Without those Vine Compilations he would probably be dead.

Finally, after about a week, Doug came downstairs. Gordon was sitting at the counter, eating breakfast, and the acceptance letter for St. Adelaide’s was on Doug’s spot. It was the strangest thing, because he didn’t even remember applying for a “School for Gifted Youth”. He’d done a lot of strange things while high, but he never would have done that.

"What's this?" he asked Gordon, flipping the envelope over to see the large wax seal.

“I don’t know. I assumed you’d applied.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

Gordon finally looked up at him from his book. “I don’t know what you do period. I hardly know you anymore.”

That hurt. Doug fiddled with the envelope and finally got it open. “St. Adelaide’s?” he furrowed his brow. “Isn’t that that school where all the fucked-up rich kids go?”

“And what do you think you are?”

Doug didn’t respond.

After an awkward pause, Gordon sighed. “Sorry. That was harsh.”

“’S’okay. I kinda deserve that one.”

Again, there was silence for a long minute as Doug read the contents of the envelope. It seemed as if someone had applied for him, but unless it had been one of his parents he had no idea who could have done it.

“I think you should go.” Gordon said simply. “It’d be a good opportunity.” Doug just stared at him for a long minute. That wasn’t the real reason, and they both knew it. This family was as good as toast. All Doug was doing was keeping Gordon chained here. He was brilliant. He’d do brilliant things. He shouldn’t be sitting around here waiting for Doug to graduate and then... probably do nothing.

Doug sighed. “Alright.”

The day before he left, Doug did something he had never imagined he’d do: he went in Clover’s room. No one had touched the place since she had died, and it was just how he remembered it: light pink walls, posters for the various plays she’d been in hanging on the walls. He didn’t want to dig through her stuff—that felt like a violation, even if she wasn’t around to care anymore—but he couldn’t help noticing a small box under her bed, wrapped in wrapping paper.

He reached under the bed frame, trying not to cringe at the dead ladybugs and dust, and pulled the box out. On the top, in Clover’s handwriting, were the words: “To Doug, from your Sister xoxo”

Hesitating for a second, Doug wasn’t sure if he wanted to open it. The Thing-He-Definitely-Wasn’t-Thinking-About-Right-Now danced at the back of his mind. But it was addressed to him, wasn’t it? Clearly Clover had meant it for him. He took a deep breath, and ripped off the wrapping paper.

Inside were a pair of shoes. Not just any shoes, but a pair of Converse Heelys. He laughed, remembering just then that at one point, so long ago now it seemed, he’d joked about wanting a pair. He didn’t even know they actually made Converse Heelys.

“Hey fartface,” said the note on the cover. “You talked about wanting these, and I had to cut off an arm and a leg to get them, but here you are. Sorry, I think they might be a little big, it was the only size I could get, but I think you’ll grow into them? Maybe? Unless you’re already done growing, squirt ;P. Love, Clover.”

Doug smiled, blinked a few times, and left the room, taking the Heely’s with him.

And then, just in time for the new semester, Doug was dropped in some suburb he’d never heard of somewhere in the Midwest. In the middle of bumfuck nowhere, at least that’s how it appeared to his east coast brain. Gordon had helped him pack as much as he could, but he was also finally getting his life started. He was able to drop Doug off before heading back east to MIT, but for the most part, Doug was on his own.

He had heard that being away from home for the first time was hard, even for those who were more than ready, but he didn’t really feel it. Maybe he was too focused on ignoring the itch to approach the druggies on the quad to see if he could snatch a hit. But he persevered, and stayed as far away from them as possible. Even when the itch became nearly unbearable, even when his dreams were filled with Cancer and Cocaine.

But it wasn’t so bad. His roommate was bearable, the classes were boring but not unconquerable, and now all he had to do was wait out the next two and a half years until he could go to college or do whatever the fuck else he wanted. Maybe the shit was over, maybe the nightmares were bad enough now that the universe had decided to leave him alone for a change.

Well, you’re still reading this, aren’t you? The story hasn’t ended yet. So what do you think?

Doug had heard about the Director’s “sessions” in whispers, but found that most people didn’t want to talk about it. So he had no idea what they were exactly until one day he’d been called out of lunch and marched down to the basement. At that point, he wasn’t even surprised. After everything else, this might as well happen. He had no idea how bad it would get.

“Well, well, Douglas Bailey. I’ve been waiting for this moment for quite a while,” said the figure from under the mask.

By this point he was strapped down to a table, a piece of rubber in between his teeth. The numbness was fading now, replaced by a slowly building sense of terror that he hadn’t realized he was still capable of. Because this was weird. Even for him.

“You’ve been having nightmares, huh? My psychiatrists have informed me that it’s been interrupting your sleep. And we simply can’t have your demons getting in the way of your schoolwork now, can we?”

It was the flimsiest excuse he’d ever heard. This woman clearly could not care less about his current state of mind. He would have said something to that effect, if he could have spoken at that point in time.

“These new ‘humanitarians’ keep saying that this method of treatment is ‘cruel’ and ‘inhuman’, but I still find it to be highly effective. I guess we’ll see just how well it ends up working for you, hmm?”

And then he spent the rest of the afternoon with the sound of laughter in his ear and electric shocks jolting through his head.

At some point that he later couldn’t remember, he found himself back upstairs long after the lights had gone out. He could barely remember what happened. All he knew was that he couldn’t think straight and his entire body ached. It would have probably been best for him to just collapse right then and there, but he didn’t. He started walking, back towards the dorm, trudging through the newly fallen snow, not even feeling the cold through the thin canvas and rubber of his Heelys.

Doug felt... numb. He couldn’t feel... anything. Just nothing, just utter shock. So much shock. What had happened was so shocking that he couldn’t even... no, no more puns. That was a stupid coping mechanism anyway. He supposed this whole thing was a coping mechanism. One foot in front of the other, just keep moving, don’t think about what just happened, just keep moving, walk it off.

Keep. Fucking. Walking.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

He stumbled into the room, and in the first stroke of good luck he’d had in years, his roommate seemed to already be asleep. He did not want to have to explain what he was doing back here so late with his eyes blank and his hair so full of static he could power the school for a week.

In his bedroom, he packed some shit in a backpack, his laptop, some clothes, other random garbage he didn’t think about too hard, and just left. Walked right back out. If this was going to happen, then he was gone. He didn’t know where he would go, or what he would do once he’d gotten there, but one thing was clear: he sure as hell couldn’t stay here.

And then he’d ran right into one of the psychiatrists on the way out and was brought right back to the Director.

“Trying to run away, Doug?” she’d cackled. “Pathetic. Truly. Think you can leave your problems behind if you just keep moving? Well, you are unfortunately, very important, so I can’t have you running away on me.”

The psychiatrist had put the band on his wrist.

“Now, just so you can’t say I didn’t warn you. If you break a rule, if you’re gone from the school grounds for more than two hours, this is what will happen to you.”

She pressed a button on a remote control, and Doug’s whole body went into debilitating spasms.

To this day, the two weeks after that were completely gone from his memory. He doubted at this point that he’d ever get them back.

It’s funny, really, how people are so able to adapt to their realities so quickly. People wonder how starving children in Africa or victims of human trafficking are able to keep on living, keep on breathing, and the simple answer is because they get used to it. As horrifying as it is, it becomes routine, normal. And that is exactly what happened to Doug. One would think that continuously receiving electric shocks about once every month for multiple years would do a number on your mental state, and at first, it did, but Doug was so used to nightmares that this new element to them did next to nothing.

Though she didn’t show it much, he knew that the Director got frustrated when he stopped reacting to the shocks so much, so once every few months, she would turn up the voltage, which was just frankly annoying. It made it harder to get back to the dorm without anyone stopping to ask him if he was “okay”. Of course he wasn’t okay, but if he said or didn’t look as such then he’d just have to explain to people that he’d been receiving electric shocks in a basement and very few people would probably believe him that that was just a pain.

So he just survived for the next few months, trying not to think about his next session as much as he could.

Until the one day when the Director was in an especially prickly mood. Doug was strapped down as always—hot, a particularly immature part of his brain would insist every time—and he could feel the air of tension surrounding the masked figure stalking around him.

“So, are we gonna get started or are you too chicken?” Doug asked, mostly hating the waiting.

“Oh, we’re going to get started, all right,” the Director muttered. “I’m just figuring out how best to go about this. You see, Doug, I’ve had a particularly trying day, today, and I’m wondering how best to relieve the tension.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

She just laughed, that cackle that sent involuntary shivers down his spine. “You shouldn’t.”

After sticking the piece of rubber in his mouth, she moved away from him, over to the big, hulking machine that was responsible for the shocks. “You’re a little shit, Doug Bailey, you know that? And as much as I like that in a person, every once in a while it’d be nice if they’d just shut the hell up. And this, my dear friend, is one of those days. That being said, today I have a special treat for you. Today,” she paused to chuckle again. “Today, we’re going maximum power.”

Oh no. She’d only gone halfway up the scale in terms of voltage. This... was going to be painful.

“So, uh, if you don’t survive this, it was nice knowing you.”

The Director, as much as she loved her flair and drama, was deadly efficient when it got down to it. And so it was without any fanfare that she pulled the switch on the machine.

Doug immediately began convulsing as way too many volts of electricity shot through his body. He screamed, unable to form a singular coherent thought. All he could feel was pain. Sheer, unbearable pain. Usually, the Director would let up the electricity after a minute to let him breathe, but either time had slowed to the most unbearable crawl imaginable or she was letting the machine go.

After too long of oxygen deprivation and nerve snapping pain, something happened. Out of the corner of his eye, Doug saw her. Not the Cocaine, not the Cancer, but her. Clover. She was still ridden with her disease, her eyes dull, her cheeks hollow. But for some reason, Doug knew it was her. Maybe it was the look in her eye, the one she had always given him when she was worried about him. This definitely counted as a time to worry.

“You’re going to die, Doug,” she told him.

He couldn’t speak, the rubber clenched too tightly between his teeth, could hardly even think, but she still seemed to understand what he would be thinking: Yeah, no shit.

“Is that really okay?” she asked. “Is it okay to end it like this?”

It’s as good as any.

“Do you really believe that?”

He didn’t respond.

“This is what the universe has handed you, Doug.” She sighed, staring into his eyes. “What are you going to make of it?”

What could he make of this? This horrible piece of shit that he called his life. Nothing, nothing at all. The best thing for everyone would be if he just died. No one would care that much anyway.

“Maybe not right now,” she said. “But will that always be the case?”

He didn’t know what to think of that. Before now, his life had almost consistently been shit. It would probably continue to be shit. But there was always that chance, that small, insignificant chance, that things could end up differently. Life was long, depressingly long, after all.

“Are you alright with this?”

No. No, he was not. At the very least, giving in to what the Director wanted was simply not his style. At the most, at Clover’s behest, at that tiny little speck of optimism that she was, and had always been.

He screamed again, but this was more of a battle-cry, a bellow against the darkness, against the void. But above that, above it all, he could hear laughter. Her laughter.

A second later, the machine whirred into silence, and Doug blacked out.

He didn’t know exactly how long he had been out for, but when he came to, he was leaning against a wall in an out of the way corner of the Bloch building. He picked himself up, nearly fell over, and meandered over to the nearby restroom. Water, he needed water. The inside of his mouth was sand. He didn’t know why he didn’t just go to the water fountain instead, but at the time he wasn’t thinking quite clearly. Though to be fair, he almost never was.

Leaning on the sink, he managed to get some water in his mouth, though most of it just dribbled back out. In an attempt to get his mind unscrambled, Doug splashed some water into his face. But when he looked up into the mirror, he almost fell over. For a second, he thought that someone else had entered the bathroom, and was standing right behind him, but then he quickly realized that he was still alone. There was no one here. The face with the static-y, cloud-like halo of white hair staring back at him was his own.

At this moment, there were a variety of reactions he could have had. He could have cried, he could have panicked and tried to cut it all off. He could have passed out again, if he so desired. But all of those things were far too overdramatic for Doug. So instead, he just laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed. It was a harsh, bitter thing, and he probably sounded insane to anyone passing by. But that’s what he did.

Eventually he stumbled his way back to his dorm room and collapsed. Finally, about two days later, when he was finally able to venture out and function somewhat normally, he emerged to find the school in a frenzy of activity and gossip.

Because that was the day that Jilli Nakajima came to St. Adelaide’s.

#Ede Valley #writing #story #Doug Bailey #Abigail Hodge #Jilli Nakajima

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