#Elate Subliminals

[elatesubliminals]

Are you ready to rewrite your health story and conquer Diabetes? Get ready to say Goodbye to Diabetes, Rejuvenate your Pancreas, Regenerate Beta Cells, and Optimize your Insulin levels with this powerful subliminal to eliminate Diabetes completely and permanently.

[misstranci]

[PROGRAMMED FOR PLEASURE] Calibrating gratification delivery systems... Optical complacency emanation functional... Initiating pleasure insertion protocols... Pushing subliminal response directives... Behavioral link established... Control within pliant range... Arousal coefficient optimal... Maintaining elation... Looping directives... Repeating process... Reward acquired...

"Thank you for your cooperation."

[takearisk-x]

Hello, do you ever wonder if Ginny would have broken up with Dean if Harry hadn’t taken Felix Felicis (same with Ron and Lav) ? It seemed like the side effects of taking that was a reason for the ending of two relationships

Both Weasley were obviously unhappy with both respected relationships but they didn’t want to hurt the feels of their partners. Yet, I don’t think either of them would have ended it until much later, which would have been worse

i’ve tried a few times to get in ginny’s head in the last half of her relationship with dean and i can’t quite wrap my head around why they stayed together for so long after the relationship had clearly run it’s course… and my overall conclusion is that dean was hopelessly, head over heels, smitten with her but the tighter he held on, the more she pulled away.

meanwhile, i think ginny knew harry liked her but i can’t figure out if she was trying to convince herself that she wasn’t absolutely elated by that or if she had wanted it for so long and built it up so much in her head that she figured it couldn’t possibly live up to her very high expectations so she held onto dean because he was nice and he liked her and he was real… not a fantasy…

ANYWAYS, i think everything dean did was annoying for the simple fact that he wasn’t harry (lol) and she was looking for a reason to end it. however, dean could pick up on the subliminal messages obviously and so he wasn’t going to give her a reason to break up with him. therefore, harry bumping into ginny on the way out of the portrait hole really does becomes luck. not just for harry, but for ginny as well. because ‘thank god that’s finally over.’

now she can sort out this whole harry thing for real.

meanwhile ron was in literal hiding and the felix finally brought him out in the open LOL so i don’t think he would’ve lasted much longer before lav cornered him some place or another. BUT lavender finding ron with hermione was luck because it ended it in one of the fastest ways possible.

[nenekobasu]

i didn’t realize how much i was cheering for kaiser until i saw him challenge snuffy. like yeah he got cooked (snuffy goated) but the way kaiser didn’t hesitate and went in without prompting is huge compared to how he initially shied away from chris. even though he lost real quick i was elated okay my boy is learning he is aiming for those above him he may not be aware of it but he’s developing positively. if this were like two matches earlier he probably would have seen how snuffy beat noa and been like “okay i can’t beat him” but not now! this time he goes for it. i’m so proud of him that’s my awful wonderboy

also one obvious difference between kaiser v. chris and v. snuffy is that against chris kaiser had ness in his orbit (though he didn’t rely on ness for the 1v1, ness’ presence is what initially stopped him from fighting chris). i think it calls attention to the the specific way in which ness+the kaiser system nerfed kaiser: it didn’t make him worse (having a team acting as your arms and legs is usually good), but it put a cap on his potential. if kaiser’s original ideal is “belief” (that nothing is ‘impossible’) and he pops off by, for example, finding a slim chance and going for it (a fulfillment of his potential, his “possibility”), then putting a lid on his upper limit must have killed him as a player. it’s no wonder he could only feel happy when he was crushing other peoples lives; he probably wasn’t really “living” either. if this is true it would further cement kaiser and isagi as mirrors, both talents whose true potential selves were crushed by their surroundings until they came to blue lock

also also given that ubers is softly a better version of the kaiser system that is a team supporting one player who can mass-produce goals, the way kaiser (as of right now, the angriest he’s ever been) unhesitatingly tries to crush snuffy the watchtower and architect of a kaiser system-like team is. hm. kaiser himself is probably not doing it on purpose but subliminally this is meaningful to me

[suicidejack]

Crow

I have a trust deficit. It's developed in stages over many years. I've been lied to for so long and by so many that somewhere I forgot that I never even knew the truth.

I've spent many years in solitude because I refuse to believe the big Lie.  A few years ago I isolated myself so far away from other people that for almost a year my only correspondence was with the animals I encountered over time. My list of friends included a cat, a raccoon, an owl, and a crow.

He alighted on a tree stump one day at lunch while I was taking a break from guitar practice.

I said to him, "You're a crow, right? He just looked at me.

"Well," I said to him, "crows are smart birds. You live in societies called Murders, and you hold yourselves accountable to a standard of ethics that includes courtesy and respect."

The crow just listened, so I continued.

"So where are all your crow cronies? Where's your girl crow, and your crow family?"

The crow tipped his head at me the way he always does, and I was compelled to offer him some trail mix. He likes the granola and the m&m's but he don't like the little freeze dried coconut curlies.

After a minute he said to me, "You should know this."

He spoke to me telepathically, not with a human voice, or a crow voice, but through the subliminal wave link between our minds. He said to me, "You are no different than me. Here you sit, alone with your music and your machines, isolated from the rest of the humans. You have discovered, as I have, that solitude is a good thing."

I said nothing but I listened attentively.

Solitude," the crow asserted, "is good. It's where you find your Self."

At that, my large, wise crow friend took to the wind, and he flew aloft, leaving me utterly, and completely alone.

For days I sat there wishing he would return. I went and opened a box of the butter cookies he likes, but still he remained absent.

After about two weeks I had given up as hopeless the chance that I would ever see the crow again. Then one random day, right at lunch time, he returned.

I was elated, but I tried to contain my joy.

As we shared my lunch, I addressed the subject of his observations on solitude.

I told him, "I agree with you. Solitude is a good thing. But Loneliness and Isolation are not Solitude."

He looked at me sideways through his coal black eyes, and his mind was silent.

"Loneliness," I continued, "is akin to a Silent SCREAM in the deepest part of the night that will not let you go to sleep."

After a moment of reflection, the crow conceded that what I had interjected was the truth. He hopped a few times to get a better angle and trajectory and then he once again took the wind under his big black wings, and this time he disappeared off over the horizon. It was the last time I ever saw him. I like to believe he returned unto his own.

I spent some time repairing a damaged old F150 pickup that I found in a field on a farm near Port Orchard. It had a sticker on it that said Don't Mess with TEXAS.

I removed the part of the sticker that said Don't, so it just said Mess with TEXAS, and I took it out on the road and down to the freeway, off that mountain, and I headed back to the city, where I am now surrounded by a million people in all directions, and all around me. all the time.

Here, amidst of all the people, cars rushing by, sirens blaring, lights flashing on and off all day and every night, there are people chattering and hopping around everywhere. And I feel far lonelier here than I ever did when I was alone up on the hill.

[cataclysmic-cathexis]

Analysis of Iron Maiden’s “Piece of Mind” and how it relates to S4 of Stranger Things

I have to assume that the choice of album here was intentional, so I’m going to talk about it and how it related to this season of Stranger Things. (This is possibly entirely me being unhinged so feel free to ignore). I’ve included links to the songs on YouTube with the lyrics.

The album, “Piece of Mind” by Iron Maiden, is their fourth studio album and the band’s highest charting album in the US at the time - certified gold the same year it was released (1983) and hitting platinum in 1986 (the same year ST4 is set). It’s heavily influenced by the band’s literary interests.

The track listing is as follows:

A1.Where Eagles Dare

A2. Revelations**

A3. Flight of Icarus**

A4: Die With Your Boots On**

B1. The Trooper**

B2. Still Life**

B3. Quest for Fire**

B4. Sun and Steel

B5. To Tame A Land**

The first song I think is relevant to this season is “Revelations”. It’s about Aleister Crowley, the famous occultist, who believed in magick as an intersection of science and religion, and thought that it was a way of communicating with individuals who exist on a higher plane. This can be seen as a nod to Vecna and the Upside Down existing on a different plane, and how El and Vecna’s powers can be seen as both magical and scientific, since El’s powers are the result of her mother being experimented on. The lyrics to the song are also interesting, as they compare humans to “a babe in a black abyss” - mankind is living in a hopeless world, which is similar to Henry Creel’s view of humanity. The lyrics also frequently reference blindness and eyes (Victor Creel). This song also got the Parents Music Resource Center (PMRC) up in arms because they thought it was Satanic and about the apocalypse. 

The next song is “Flight of Icarus”, which is a lyrical retelling of the myth of Icarus and Dedalus. Dedalus and his son were trying to escape the King of Crete, so Dedalus created wings made of wax and feathers. He warned Icarus not to fly too close to the sun, but Icarus was so elated by his ability to fly that he flew too close to the sun. The wax on the wings melted and the feathers fell off, and he fell into the sea and died. This was the most popular song in the US on this album, getting the most radio play, and can also be seen as a reference to the way Eddie dies - he is warned not to deviate from the plan, but after his success at the diversion, he decides to “buy more time” by being a hero (something he promised not to do).

“Die With Your Boots On” is the next song I think is relevant and it’s pretty self-explanatory, as the phrase references dying in action. Eddie definitely died with his boots on fighting the demobats. It also has lyrics referencing “prophets ... taunting us with visions/ afflicting us with fear/ predicting war for millions/ in the hope that one appears”. I’d say this references the news media hyping up controversies and sowing fear in the population - a good example being the Satanic Panic which is obviously a huge plot point this season.

“The Trooper” was inspired by Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poem “The Charge of the Light Brigade” which is about a suicidal charge by the UK army  against the larger and more well-armed Russian force in the Crimean War. Again, this can reference both the plan to kill Vecna (a charge against a superior enemy) and Eddie’s valiant last stand (his single last stand against the demobats).

“Still Life” is important because it contains a backwards message. The PMRC at this point was accusing various heavy metal bands of having subliminal messages in their songs that encouraged Satanism. Iron Maiden were sick of this, so they included a backwards message in this track, which is the drummer imitating John Bird imitating Idi Amin saying "What ho said the t'ing with the three 'bonce', don't meddle with things you don't understand" and then burping. The lyrics of the song can also be seen to reference Vecna’s victims from their point of view. The song is about someone who sees faces in a pool that nobody else can see, who begins to feel weak and knows they will soon die and join the spirits.  The lyrics “Nightmares, spirits calling me / Nightmares, they won’t leave me be” can definitely relate to Vecna’s Curse. He curses his victims and they begin to have nightmares and hallucinate. The ending of the song and Vecna’s curse are the same - the people being called end up dead (”Nightmares, forever calling me / Nightmares, now we rest in peace”).

“Quest for Fire” is based on a French movie with the same name, which is about the struggle for control of fire by early humans. The tribe in the beginning of the movie have fire, but it is accidentally extinguished after an attack by some ape monsters. The tribe send three men on a quest to find fire. This parallels El’s journey to reclaim her powers. Her powers are the fire, which she loses after an attack, and must go on a hero’s journey to reclaim them. The lyrics to the song also reference the primordial land of early man, which could be the Upside Down when Vecna found it.

“To Tame A Land” was originally called “Dune” and is about Paul Atreides from the novel of the same name by Frank Herbert. There are some parallels to Vecna here, mainly about taming a fierce land. However Paul is a prophesied chosen one, and Vecna is the villain, so it’s not entirely a good parallel.

Okay! That’s it! Hope you enjoyed this rambling, let me know if you think of anything I missed! 

[cyarsk5230]

Breaking Down Kendrick Lamar's Drake Diss 'euphoria,' Line By Line

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History’s best rappers force listeners to peel back the layers of their bars to find meaning lingering beneath the surface. In that, Kendrick Lamar can teach a master class: He’s known for making albums with nonlinear storylines and deep cut references.

“euphoria,” his dense, six-plus-minute assault on Drake, is no exception.

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Here are some of the gems from the song that you may have missed on your first few listens.

“Everything they say about me is true”

Two standout gems from the track are present before Kendrick utters a word. The song is titled “euphoria,” and the track is a euphoric (or elated, as shown in the song’s dictionary definition artwork) experience for Kendrick. But it’s also the title of the hit HBO show produced by Drake, which has been criticized for its sexualization of teenagers. Drake has also been criticized for his proximity to teenage girls in his personal life.

The song intro’s reversed audio clip is from Richard Pryor’s portrayal of the titular character in “The Wiz,” — the 1978 remake of the classic “The Wizard of Oz,” in which he admits he’s a “phony.”

“Hellcat, made his homeboys and them type sell they soul, okay / Everybody wanna be demon ‘til they get chipped by your throwaway”

On “Taylor Made Freestyle,” Drake told Drake that he “better have a mother***ing quintuple entendre” in his response. K. Dot obliged, with these lines that revolve around the word “demon.” On “Push Ups,” Drake warned “don’t wake the demon up.” The genesis of their beef appears to be Kendrick’s renowned “throwaway” verse on Big Sean’s B-side “Control.”

Future also has a song called “Throw Away;” his real name is Nayvadius DeMun Cash, and he and Drake are rumored to be feuding over a woman. Translation: Drake was talking trash until his ego was bruised by Kendrick’s lyrics, and he rolled with frequent collaborator Future until they slept with the same girl.

“The very first time I shot me a Drac’, the homie had told me to aim it this way / I didn’t point down enough, today, I’ll show you I learned from those mistakes”

Drake is Kendrick’s opponent, and a Draco is a semi-automatic pistol. While referring to the gun, Kendrick is saying that he misfired after aiming it incorrectly but has since learned how to use it. He also appears to be saying that after years of trading subliminal disses, he’s finally aiming directly at him and shooting to kill.

“It’s three G.O.A.T.s left, and I seen two of them kissin’ and huggin’ on stage / I love ‘em to death, and in eight bars, I’ll explain that phrase … Cole and Aubrey know I’m a selfish nigga / The crown is heavy / I pray they my real friends, if not, I’m YNW Melly”

Kendrick refers to himself, J. Cole, and Drake (neé Aubrey Graham) as “three G.O.A.T.s” in this line, but on “Like That” he famously claimed “f**k the big three; it’s big me.” He says here that he “loves them to death,” but precisely eight lines later, he reveals a flip on the colloquialism: YNW Melly, the rapper behind the song “Murder On My Mind,” is on trial for killing his two friends in a double homicide case. Kendrick’s message is clear: he’s willing to lyrically eviscerate his fellow two MCs if necessary.

“Am I battlin’ ghosts or AI? N***a feelin’ like Joel Osteen / Funny, he was in a film called “AI” / And my sixth sense tellin’ me to off him”

Here, Kendrick Lamar teases Drake for his use of anything besides his own lyrics and voice. He asks if he’s battling “ghosts,” a reference to Drake’s alleged ghostwriters, or “A.I.,” since Drake used artificial intelligence voice filters to imitate 2Pac and Snoop Dogg. After that, he appears to be referring not to the televangelist pastor Joel Osteen, but the similarly named child actor Haley Joel Osment, who acted in the films “AI” and “The Sixth Sense.”

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[femdomliterature]

FemLit 0210 - EXPLOIT HIS MALE SEXUAL OBSESSION

FemLit 0210 - EXPLOIT HIS MALE SEXUAL OBSESSION

Realize This Ladies - Fundamentally, He Is A Cock…

Male Sexual Obsession is a relentless subliminal spiral that endlessly feeds on itself. It’s Obvious that Male Teasing, Stroking and Edging - Naturally Makes the Virile Mans Cock (Want To Cum)… But when his desperate cherished ejaculation is properly and “Deftly” Denied…, the beautiful straining Cock (Joystick) naturally wants to experience MORE masturbation / stimulation… Thus Habitual and Routine Male Masturbation and Edging produces a perpetuating, driving desire to Cum… Naturally the increasing Desire to Cum, produces a psychological driving desire for Cock stimulation / masturbation… Manifestly, Male Masturbation (or stroking) prepares the Cock to Ejaculate…, the balls begin churning - producing sperm, the prostate becomes Loaded and Full…, and the virile vein filled cock shaft slowly begins leaking precum from the mushroomed slit tip… As long as the impending and imminent ejaculation is carefully harnessed, managed and postponed…, The Raging Desperate Cock of a Man, Continues to Prepare to Spurt and Erupt… As his brain is helplessly flooded with dopamine…

BUT, Here is the The Wonderful, Little Known Fact – A Healthy Raging Straining COCK can prepare to Cum for Weeks…. Meaning, the compulsion and desire for a male to be sexually stimulated never goes away… BUT BRILLIANTLY IN A FEMALE LED RELATIONSHIP , THE MALE IS NEVER ALLOWED TO TOUCH HIS OWN COCK, THE GOVERNING MISTRESS BECOMES THE ONLY ONE WHO STIMULATES AND PLEASURES THE SUBJUGATED VIRILE ERECTION… So Follow me here Ladies, The longer he goes without Cumming (When Edged Daily), the more his “Cock” becomes an all-consuming Obsession in his mind… He lives and breathes and dreams Cock… His daily helpless Testosterone Enhanced (Rock Hard COCK) becomes his Primary Passion… Time in his mind - divides itself into only two simple categories: time spent with me his intoxicating mistress, teasing, stroking and Edging him, and time spent thinking about me his mistress torturing, seducing and Edging him … And in order to receive the Heavenly Sexual Bliss of my Glorious Feminine Affections, requires his constant adoration, veneration, and Unyielding Obedience to my will, desires and pleasures…… Do You see where All of this is leading Ladies?

The Cock Craves… The Cock Hungers… The Cock Wants…, And then Wants More!!! The longer he goes without Cumming (while you deftly harness his sexual energy), the more he wants to Cum, and Thus He’ll Do Anything To Please You… The more You mercilessly masturbate and “Edge” Him - The Hornier and Hungrier naturally gets for My Divine Femininity (As I Astutely and Routinely feed or Queen Him). The dog chases its own tail. He simply Becomes COCK…

His psyche reaches a state where his existence becomes “Devoted” to your sexual bliss and pleasure - through his Virile Desperate Cock CUM Desire… Every waking hour is some aspect of a sexual thought or memory… His Routine and Habitual Raging “Governed” Cock is always in his consciousness along with your ambrosial (intoxicating) Juicy Vagina…

His hunger for your glorious and divine femininity becomes insatiable…

Errands and chores always seem like inconvenient interruptions into his Cock-centered life, but even when out and about he is still cognizant of his Cock’s increasing desire and energy… He manages to go to work five days a week, He does his shopping like everyone else, he even does volunteer work… But is always thinking about when he can get back to his primary business of Cock Stimulation, Edging. Denial and Pussy Worship… Even when occupied at work, in the back of his mind he projects forward to his next opportunity to commune with his elated cock… OR SHOULD I SAY   ‘MY’  COCK   NOW… He’ll wake up in the middle of the night (almost every night), moaning with a raging unsatisfied crying oozing erection (which I tenderly and spontaneous take hold of…, Or drowsily nurse on - in my sleepy unconscious state)… Eventually he’ll fall back asleep as I “fondly” hold his raging pulsing erection in my hand or mouth, throughout the rest of the night…

Some would label this as a sex addiction…, and I will not be the one to deny it, but I look around me and see people who fritter away their hours sitting in front of the TV, or trolling Facebook or making the rounds of the taverns… In the end there is not much to show for their time… I could do much worse for how I choose to spend my time… Habitually Stimulating, Torturing, “Edging” and Mastering   My Astounding Stud Muffin   On a Daily Basis…

I have discussed this Cock addiction, my man now has with other dominant women in FLR Relationships and have often heard the rationalization that it is a “Good addiction” Or Hobby - whatever that is…. Is caffeine addiction good or bad? At the least, this might not be as destructive as some other addictions…

Femdom is MY HOBBY. Seductively and Sensuously “Keeping” my mans mind and body, under my Complete Control does require effort - but just like all the other hobbies in life, if you Enjoy it Enough, you hardly think of it as Work. My masturbation and edging hobby has the Priceless Bonus of “Keeping” BOTH of Us Very Horny - giving “ME” endless hours (each month) of sexual bliss and pleasure, while surreptitiously programming my Darlings Vulnerable Psyche, Something no other hobby can do for me… The best fringe benefit however is, His Hunger for my Ambrosial Femininity (naturally) multiplies – As he becomes more and more Amenable in every aspect of life…

But his constant sexual yearning is still an addiction…

Given the choice between watching a reality show on TV or teasing and edging my virile stud muffin - You know what I prefer (my own form of reality)… There are many things I do not do - many things that go undone - because I am always playing with or edging him. Stuff gets put off, but then - My Doting Lover Boy ends up doing what needs to be done… It’s Not procrastination, I’m just pre-occupied doing something else sexual… I’ll do my banking later, shopping will have to wait, Sometimes I don’t want to stop… Sometimes I don’t stop straddling his face or incarcerating his glorious erection inside of me when we should be going to bed… Just one more minute or two… Am I Bad ? My Man Never Gets To Cum… Poor Baby!

I have been a Cock Lover and Master Masturbator since I was twelve years old… Learning to Deftly  “Edge”  and purposely prevent a guy from Erupting -  the age of fifteen was extremely transformative for me, because now at the age of twenty two, I can adroitly work on ANY Cock, for hours at a time, with no risk of accidental ejaculation to ruin my Males Effective Subliminal “Training”. . .

My Heightened Feminine Intuition and Awareness:

The contradictory dynamic between My Male and his Cock, is central to my present state of being… I control my males subordinate, ejaculatory Cock function (Absolutely)… Yet at the same time his magnificent healthy 8 inch Cock of “Pure Curved Perfection” Totally Controls HIM, in the addictive sense.

With Me Withholding the Cherished Release, His Orgasm Denial forces his attention to stay centered on his Unsatisfied Desperate Cock… Habitually Denied Orgasm - He exists in a constant state of horniness… And His Horniness and Hunger is no longer a condition to be gotten rid of, as most men see it… He must be addicted to his horniness… Not Addicted To His Orgasm… He NEEDS… To Not Cum!   Especially when I Incarcerate Him  Balls Deep  Within My Juicy (Hyper Sensitive) Loins “Each Morning”– Or After each Satisfying Queening Session… It is ALL about Extreme Virile Maleness… IT’S ALL about Robust Vein Filled Desperate COCK…

And So for Him, the Universe Revolves around His Desperate “Edged” Cock…

The World (is) His Cock   “Enveloped”   As often as possible - By Either My Gentle Nursing Mouth or My Sublime Imprisoning Warm Wet Covetous Feminine Loins…

There is a delightful little book called “The Practice of the Presence of God,” a small compilation of letters from a monk who was a lowly cook in a monastery 300 years ago. His spiritual practice was to try to always to keep God in the forefront of his mind, every minute of every day.. Even if he was peeling potatoes, God was ever present in his consciousness… 

Similarly, In the Same Way, a Properly Conditioned Male Mind could be Advantageously Re-Programmed (Sexually) - And a New Modern “Femdom” Book could be Written and Called “The Practice of the Persistent  Raging Unsatisfied  Cock…

The Beautiful, Exquisite, “Habitually  Edged”   UnCummed Cock:

I know guys (my previous boyfriends) who have gone over 100 days without “Erupting”… Many of my girlfriends who have transformed their relationships INTO FEMALE LED (Femdom Relationships) Openly discuss between ourselves how many days they’ve harnessed and “preserved” their boyfriends from having Destructive (energy draining) Orgasms… Some have gone a year or more, “Actively” Edging and Denying their Men - Culminating With Deep Blissful Vaginal Intercourse - While Successfully preventing their (increasingly tantric) Stud Muffins from Loosing Control and Ejaculating - Even While Being Captive, Incarcerated and Helplessly Immobile…. So It is VERY    Do-able…

I must tell you. When my man hits the “Edge”, His entire body utterly glows… With Indescribable Energy… Quivering Chills emanate from his groin and flow up his tight abs, through his muscular chest and finally into his face, as he has described it to me (and I can actually see as well as feel it happening)… He can feel the endorphins and neuro chemicals pumping throughout his entire cardio vascular system as he  “Obediently”  holds his cherished intense climax back… Over the last 2 years he has now become addicted to the powerful endorphins flooding his system - while in the state of being “EDGED”… None of this Male Bliss is Possible, If his destructive ejaculation brings it all Crashing to a Wasteful End…

The other night after a sumptuous playtime and “Fully Satisfying” Queening Session (I secretly feed him a Viagra in his milkshake beforehand), I sat on the bed just “Staring” at My Mans Fully Erect (Majestic) Pulsing Rock Hard Cock…, Not touching him, but only slowly licking him from ball base to tip, every now and again - as his Straining Powerful Cock bobbed up and down (helplessly) off his belly and yummy precum endlessly oozed… I was mesmerized with How Amazing and Glorious the Male Sexual System Really Is: the crying droplets of scrumptious tears from his “over filled” leaking shaft and slit, the wonderful flare and/or ridge around the base of his purplish engorged cock head, the stretched sweet spot on the most sensitive dangerous underside, the alluring pulsing “Desperate” vein filled shaft, the hidden prostate, his fascinating shaved  vulnerable testicles, the pronounced main tube running up the entire curved 8 inch underside, the nerves, the triggers… All of this - is so superbly interconnected:  “Edging”, Denial, Desperation, Obsession, His Precious Increasing Sexual Hunger, His Strong Muscular Anatomy… 

Every time I would tenderly lick the tears - from his crying Cock Head, It would Strain Harder (Flex Up Into The Air)…. Only to Cry and Ooze Some More…

Its Utterly “Amazing” How The (Unspent)   UnCummed Cock is Never Satisfied… It always Craves More… It doesn’t want to stop - It’s Not Done Yet… The (Unspent) UnCummed Cock is Never Done…

As I Praise Him “For Not Cumming” and Lovingly Kiss His Fragrant Musky  Balls -  In His Vulnerable Receptive Mind He Helplessly Thinks To Himself…

I am Cock… I am Only Cock… I am Nothing But “Servile”  Cock… ! ! !

For My  “Queens” Enjoyment, Entertainment and Exploitation… She is My Goddess, My Governess, My True Master… AND I SO MUCH, Want to Make Her Happy!

[lichengrass]

Ok not to be corny but since I haven't had a beta in forever, my thoughts have been left unvocalized except through this fic so let me rant.

The woes of not having a beta-reader continue. I have these self-criticisms about my own writing which I don't exactly know anyone who would be able to inform me on. For example, while writing this chapter, I had the greatest of concerns that by symbolically representing Siobhan as fire and Arthur as bones, I was lending the dualisms of the relationship to pure stereotype. The kind of stereotype broads like Karen Warren, Catherine Roach, & Amanda Rooks (all of whom I admire greatly for their work in feminist literary criticism & ecofeminism) would just rip to shreds. And as a girl writing a fanfiction about someone my age in a relationship that would be absolutely detrimental to anyone's mental health if it were real, I feel compelled to be super hyper-vigilant about how I portray my glorified self-insert OC, Siobhan <3. Which is so stupid, I know. But sometimes I read my shit and I'm like, "Is this even feminist??!! NO? Pack it up, bitch!"

Of course, there's a glaring heap of shit in this fic that is just so, so, so NOT feminist of me, and I own that. At least that which is not beneficial to the self-perception of womanhood, I am aware of and (sometimes) try to censure; whalebone. whalebone. whalebone. (Then comes the realization that as someone throwing subliminal feminism and anti-feminism at my readers comes the responsibility of not glamorizing that which is bad and not romanticizing that which is harmful... fuck fuck fuck fuck Marlene Longnecker shield your eyes)!!!!

Not that I'm trying to write a feminist fucking manifesto, but I certainly use fanfiction as a way to organize my thoughts on the world from different perspectives. And I certainly want my symbolism to be a coherent reflection of that even when it sometimes comes out satire or ironic and other times downright hypocritical. And while we're on the topic of that, something that has been SO bugging me since the beginning of this endeavor is exactly that; the difficulty of portraying my thoughts on THIS world in a fic about THAT world. Fuck, the amount of times I have written some of Siobhan's sections and sat back and went, "Hold the fuck on, this reads like a TERF." IS DUMBFOUNDING. Trying to funnel modern opinions on the ever-changing landscape of social womanhood into a story about a teenager in 1899 is NOT EASY. Very fun though.

I mean, I love historical accuracy, but I don't want to write bigotry; sue me! Of course there is bigotry within a lot of my characters because at a certain point you have to acknowledge what the fuck is up before you go and write an 1899 American bucolic fucking wonderland. Having trans beta last year super helped, she weeded out the nearly rowling-esque garbage I came up with, but that bitch quit! I'm all alone!

At the end of the day, I am not complaining. I am insecure about a lot when it comes to my writing but not exactly this. It is more like an elated specificity of purpose and self-expression. I am super open to making mistakes and learning from them. It would honestly be so flattering if I got a comment one day that was like, "Who the fuck do you think you are, Louise Gluck? This paragraph right here is exactly what Cixous meant about a woman shackled, you are a lunatic and a bad feminist." And then I would have to question everything and have an actual, concrete perspective to look at my attempts at feminism from.

This shit is fun.

Blah blah blah. (Bitch just get a journal). Blah blah blah, (is any of this about the actual goddamn story? no?) blah blah blah. Thank u for reading this if you read this lol.

[catrinathomas]

What Does It Mean To Dream About Crow?

What precisely are dreams, and their meaning could be a little more obvious. All things considered, as per researchers, a fantasy is a progression of pictures and stories that works out in your mind while you rest (by means of WebMD). The normal peculiarity is capable by everyone in the world. In any case, dreams have been confusing people starting from the very beginning. Early civilizations accepted dreams were a gateway for speaking with plunging substances, while others considered them prophetic with the capacity to anticipate the future, per Scientific American.

These days, scientists are separated regarding the matter. Some think that fantasies have not an obvious explanation or importance, while others believe it's the cerebrum's inner mind process for unloading feelings or mental injury (by means of WebMD). While it's difficult to pinpoint the specific science behind dreams, we really do realize that fantasies can be elating, heartfelt, unusual, and in some cases, sort of frightening. What's more, many accept that dreaming about unambiguous things or situations can be a sign for something negative to come, which can frequently cause nervousness or dread, as per Bustle.

Longing for crows is an ideal model. Crows, to the extent that imagery goes at any rate, have frequently been related with pessimism, dark wizardry, or even demise, as per Crystal Clear Intuition. Nonetheless, does longing for crows generally must be associated with something dull and unfavorable? Evidently, there are numerous implications behind seeing a crow during sleep, some even sure. Continue to peruse to figure out more.

Crows address the otherworldly world and the shadow self

Back in the former times, crows were in many cases utilized in ceremonies, and in certain societies, they were viewed as the bird portrayal of the ruler or sovereign of phantoms and spirits (through Angel Number). This checks out, as birds are normally connected with the component of endlessly air is the basic portrayal of the soul. In this way, on the off chance that one longs for crows (or birds overall), it tends to be seen as a message from the profound aspect. Crows are additionally firmly attached with the inconspicuous or clouded side of otherworldly energies, which is some of the time called "the shadow," per Crystal Clear Intuition.

As per speculative chemistry lessons, crows additionally address the shadow self, or one's smothered feelings and subliminal convictions (for example culpability, disgrace, or behaving destructively considerations). So one potential explanation crows might show up in your fantasies is to assist with directing you through these restricting considerations or ways of behaving you have towards yourself. As they're viewed as exceptionally keen birds, seeing crows in your fantasies could likewise imply that you're acquiring information, shrewdness, and acknowledgment of your whole self, as per Crystal Clear Intuition and Alo Dreams.

The quantity of crows you find in your fantasy is critical

How much crows you find in your fantasy is critical as the translations shift appropriately. What the crow(s) are doing likewise changes the importance. For example, in the event that you're dreaming and see a solitary crow only sort of hanging out, this could imply that you're determinedly acting resolutely in a circumstance. Maybe you're in a conflict with somebody or confronting a contention of some kind yet decline to see what is happening beyond your own nearsighted perspective (by means of Alo Dreams).

Assuming a solitary crow is flying in your fantasy, it could imply that you ought to select your next darling or accomplice cautiously and that they're rapidly moving toward your life. On the off chance that a solitary crow is addressing you in your fantasies, it could mean that cash is coming your direction, per Alo Dreams. Assuming you long for a crow gnawing or pecking you, that could mean you're moving toward a more elevated level in your otherworldly excursion, as per Crystal Clear Intuition.

Some accept that longing for a homicide of crows flying overhead is normally connected with terrible signs, explicitly demise (through Alo Dreams). Others, nonetheless, accept that crows flying over you could just imply acquiring a higher heavenly viewpoint, per Crystal Clear Intuition. Generally speaking, dream understandings are not a precise science and differ contingent upon the singular setting of a fantasy.

[marvellovegalore]

Breaking You

Chris Evans

Parte Deux - Hurting You

Synopsis: You begin to feel the true consequences of you hurting Chris and it's beginning to overwhelm you - and him.

Word Count: 2,483

Author's Note: I listened to quite a few songs to truly get into the vibe of this but The Cinematic Orchestra - To build a home (slowed) really got me into the energy I want to be delivered from this write-up. Happy Reading! Feel free to let me know how you feel!

Warning: Explicit Language, Mention of Mental Illness, Sexual Content

You’ve rarely had to consider yourself as someone who runs from her problems. You’d probably proudly tell anyone that asked that you quite confidently tackle your problems head-on.

However, you’ve created quite a serious problem for yourself. A broken heart.

What you have periled numerous men with, is now afflicting you. The odd thing is, is that you are exulting in it. It’s an oddly familiar sensation; it drowns your body in an intangible sickness that paralyses and asphyxiates you.

You sit at your piano, watching the silent and unmoving countryside. The fields of Portofino showered with golden sunlight, the brio reflecting into your room.

You haven’t pushed aside the sheer curtains since you arrived four days ago. You’ve taken your first shower this morning, the water sinking you into its comforting, warm embrace. You don’t really want to tell yourself aloud why you chose to come back to your grandparents’ old house, when stuff is going wrong. You’ve decided that playing the piano and smoking your days away is better than confronting yourself in the mirror - good thing all the furniture is covered with sheets. The sorry state of your face would make you plunder even deeper into your melancholy.

You will yourself to forget him and try to forget his existence.

But it’s virtually impossible, with him promoting a new film three towns over.

Good thing is you feel physically incapable of stepping outside of the confines of the house. The ladies that tend to the house scurry around the town buying food for the house and maintain its upkeep, they attempt to feed you three meals a day or four. You refuse most of the time, and they regard you with concerned gazes.

How could you begin to explain that with breaking a man’s heart, you subsequently had broken your own? His words blistered with bitterness bit you and dragged you down to the same pits of sadness that you plunged him into. You can probably say that you loved him, but you’ll probably truly never grasp why you can’t stay in something that requires such cemented commitment.

“Signora?” Your house governess interrupts your train of thought, you pull your cigarette away from your lips. “Sí?” She presents you with a letter addressed to you. The handwriting vaguely familiar to you. You thank her and dismiss her, the cigarette back in between your lips.

The letter doesn’t inform you of who it is from, but you hope, in the depths of your ribs that it’s from him, but you couldn’t possibly understand why he would ask to meet with you. He left you wordlessly two months ago and hasn’t been in contact since, not even through subliminal messages on social media. You can wager that you’re probably dead to him. It was made clear to you when you stood at the beach outside of your friend’s Malibu compound. He would rather die than get back with you; you don’t blame him.

You turn back to your piano, the keys feeling like lead beneath your shaky fingers. You play out a melancholic tune, your fingers feeling like they’re losing blood, you play clumsily, your eyes welling with tears.

You do have to admit, you feel extremely guilty for leaving him.

Life was beautiful with him.

He would have served you the sun on a platter if it meant making you smile - but you’re meant to destroy beautiful things.

It was what your father told you. You ruined his marriage to your mother; your sheer existence drove her to the brink of insanity. Since you were conceived you were a parasite that took the love your mother had for your father and you guzzled it out of her, taking all of her focus and affection. When you were born your parents refused the diagnosis of postpartum psychosis. Your mother believed you were an angel sent from heaven and doctors were trying to take you from her; so, she slowly succumbed to the madness and your father eventually was forced to send her away. The resentment he felt towards you all but scented the house, you were a poisonous leech, and you were treated as such.

You take the last drag of your cigarette and drag yourself to your walk-in closet, you decide on taking another shower - scrubbing away the odour of tar and smoke. You ready yourself for your strange and mysterious encounter. You dress yourself and half an hour later rush out to your car. The sun is low in the sky by the time you start driving away from the house, the countryside hugging you from all sides.

The drive is long into the town centre. The sky is blushed with pink and tinges of orange. You park your car and take a slow walk to the Splendido Mare; you enter the hotel’s restaurant and are led to a table. Your order a glass of wine and wait. After ten minutes you take out the letter, you read it from start to finish and confirm that the invitation was not a figment of your imagination; you were indeed summoned here by a mystery writer. Whom you hope is him.

You sit for half an hour at your table, you sip your anxiety away through two glasses of wine, you step outside and smoke two cigarettes and yet you’re still waiting. You flit through your phone notifications; you decide against your better judgement to type his name into the Goggle search bar. You fleetingly glance around the sparsely attended restaurant. You lock your phone without looking at the updates about him.

The thought of him makes your chest ache, harshly. The pain is tangible, you place your hands over your chest and wince. Something is not right.

You’re not aware of his slow approach, his hands wringing around each other, his cheeks red with nervous energy. He wishes he had had a shot of something - anything before getting here. He doesn’t recall what filled him the mad inspiration to send you a stamped letter to meet him at his hotel restaurant. He doesn’t know whether he wishes he had just called the brunette and spoken to her tonight; but he misses you. Madly.

He pulls out the chair in front of you. You can both tell that you’re holding in your breath.

Every time you see him it feels like the first time, all over again.

And he feels the same, but for either of you to admit it would be succumbing to defeat. You’re engaged in a silent and unspoken battle of wills.

“You sent me a letter?” You show him the letter. He nods, you sigh. “What is it you want to talk about?” You’re afraid to look into his eyes, they’re huge lakes filled with your dreams and deepest desires.

He hesitates, a ghostly sentence is formed on his tongue – he decides against materialising it. “I heard you were nearby; thought we could catch up.” He motions for the waiter. You narrow your eyes in - almost offence. What does he think, that you’re old pals?

He wants to catch up, but you want to do everything. Mostly profess your adoration for him and make love to him.

You despise the feeling; you’ve never felt like this for anyone. The alien feeling makes you heat up, your chest rises and falls quickly; agony filling your body as if you were a vessel to claim. “Right,” is all you can utter.

“What have you been up to?” He’s ordered two martinis, his eyes connecting to yours. You wince as the pain in your chest returns. How can he be so close yet so far?

“I was filming a fragrance campaign recently.” You speak quickly, an itch to smoke tickling your fingers. He nods, his eyebrows raised high.

“Nice.” He sighs and extends his clasped hands further onto the table. You look even more beautiful than in his thoughts, which he can’t expel you from. It seems your haunting presence is with him to stay, and his imagination can’t do any justice to your face and your intoxicating smell.

The conversation you have over your first drinks is dry, emotionless and full of hidden desires.

After each of you have three cocktails you let out the first laugh. He’s released himself a bit from the shackles of wanting to one-up you, his joke about his dog’s stubbornness reminding you of the good days of domesticity with Christopher and his dog. You move out to the terrace, candles flickering in the wind; you share more laughs. Memories being shared between you about life together.

There’s a clear shared emotion - longing. You crave the late summer nights sharing the dance floor with his friends or yours; him undressing you slowly in your pool; the nights watching the fire pit in your Santa Barbara home; the dinners enclosed in brick walled Italian restaurants with candles illuminating your elated faces.

“Come up with me.” His suggestion is quiet, his lips edging closer to yours. You nod, overcome with emotion. He grips on to your hand, the grip of a man thanking his lucky stars. He leads you to his room, on the top floor. A paradisiacal view of the sea and hills greeting you. The sun has set completely, and the moon casts a pale light over the buildings across the water.

Chris closes the door, and no sooner is he clutching at your lips with his. His hands smother you onto him and you meet him with the same desperation. Your hands slip under his shirt and moan into his mouth, your lipstick smearing over his lips. You feel him inhale your smell; he sighs desperately as he pulls you closer to him. You fall onto the chaise lounge in front of the open doors leading onto his balcony. The wind whispers sweet nothings onto your skins as you meld together, your bodies wanting desperately to be combined. He removes your clothes with familiar precision and your fingers touch him where you know he likes it.

The grooves of his skin are familiar, his dick entering you slowly as your fingers caress his tanned skin. He looks spectacular underneath you, his skin illuminated by the moonlight. You ride him slowly, you lips adventuring each other, like your bodies are each other’s long lost home territory. Your lips touch again, but it feels like the first time all over again. You feel yourself melting, your brain feels high, your limbs terribly relaxed. You guess this is what true love feels like. There’s nowhere else you’d want to be.

You love him. Only him.

He turns you over, on all fours, one hand gripping your throat and the other around your hair. He thrusts into you - with passion, his lips ghost over your shoulder. You feel your eyes close, the strength to fight the sedation unable to be found. It goes on for a while, and he flattens you onto your stomach. He lays on top of you, his hips gyrating against your skin, his arms encircling your torso. You feel safe, his head laying to rest in between you shoulder and jawline. He inhales your scent and kisses your shoulder, his lips printing their mark on your skin.

He turns you over and takes a deep breath, his eyes hold your entire world. They’ve trapped you into his universe and you have no desire to leave. He’s your whole world and you gave him away on a silver platter - but he’s here. He accommodates himself in between your legs and gives you a hug, his lips find yours in the darkness. The moonlight bathes you generously and he nestles himself inside you again. His lips refuse to leave yours; his thrusts grow in fervour; he wants to bury himself inside you and never leave.

He’s so deeply, and madly in love with you.

He can’t believe you hurt him. He hates you for it.

He pulls away from your kiss, his breathing heavy and slightly laboured.

His hides his face in the nook under your head. You feel like crumpling when you feel tears run over your shoulder, you hug him tighter. You want to stitch his wounds closed, tightly with your bare fingers and your lips. You want to mould your bodies together and live forever in this moment. His fingers reach for your clitoris and he makes love to you in two different ways. Your head lolls back and you feel ecstatic, currents washing over you slowly and you orgasm.

Chris kisses you desperately, swallowing your moans. He thrusts into you, complementing your orgasm. He releases himself into you, slowly moaning into your mouth.

After a few moments he stands up from the lounge chair and heads to the shower, as he walks through the door, he turns to you. He smiles in a way that you understand is an invitation to join him in the shower. You stand slowly, your legs feeling like jelly. You join him for a warm shower, peppered with tender kisses and saccharine touches.

Your bodies unconsciously refuse to part until you’re lying in his bed. He turns off the lamp and lays facing you.

A sweet look embalms his irises. His hand lifts itself to nestle under your cheekbone. He regards you softly.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice shaky.

You smile sleepily, “I love you too.”

You’re hypnotised to sleep by his soft breaths.

—

The sunlight reflected on the lake wakes you out of you slumber, the first dreamless one you’ve had in months. You turn to the side where Chris is and find nothing but empty air. You sit up quickly; the room is deadly silent. Nothing but your movements on the bed make noise. You scramble out of the bed and look for him.

There’s no trace of him in the room. You let out small wail of desperation. What if it was all a dream?

You pace the room, an uneasy feeling setting itself in your chest. You feel the space between your ribs tighten and your head feel faint. Your legs feel weak and unsteady, you crumple into a heap near the chaise lounge. Your breath feels constricted, massively so. The world begins to spin, and you fall onto your back.

It feels like a heart attack.

You can barely feel your heart.

You drag yourself to the counsel table, desperate to reach the phone. Your hand misses it massively, instead a hotel branded paper flickers down next to you. You pick it up, the tightness in your chest limiting your movement.

I guess this is goodbye, I can’t get over the fact that I’ll never be able to trust you. No matter how much I want to.

I hate you for ruining us

I’ll miss you, forever.

With all my love,

C

--

Parte Quatre -

Tags -

@chvntelle-99, @krispy-toes, @hampass, @calimoi, @saltyflowermakertaco

[cinefairy]

Success story 🙄

So yesterday I decided that I wanted coffee…

Mind you… I have struggled, Oh lord I have struggled! I started out with subliminals with no results then went to LOAttraction to try and manifest the gifts I promised my friends. I put myself under pressure I cried and wept like Jesus. I was impatient. I followed dominant thoughts Law of assumption Instagram and cried when I saw the 3-D not looking how I wanted to. But Jesus wept and he is still God, so I am too. I was still God and power still remained and so did my desire to change my life.

So I was like yeah this coffee has already been created and Is coming to be. I woke almost giving up on it coming today but I read some success stories I saved on time crunches and persisted. Next day I went to school assuming someone would give me coffee. But no one did and school ended… I was worried I was like maybe manifesting isn’t for or maybe I’m not good enough. But then I was like nah… it’s already mine and has been created to be given to me it must come today. Even though my self concept wasnt perfect and I had doubts I called my mom when I got home to tell her I’m home. She was like I’m at Walmart getting McDonalds for you and some juice. I was elated. My. Conscious manifestation. EVER. I danced but then was like what if she forgot my coffee but kept dancing because I knew it was all mine. And yep I got a cameral frap just like I wanted. And i didn’t deem it as coincidence.

This may seem small but this is where my journey begins.🖤

THATS GREAT!! no, im proud. it may seem “small” but the way you manifested that coffee you can manifest becoming a billionaire.

[gstqaobc]

💜💜💜HI FROM PG💜💜💜

💜💜💜HI FROM PG💜💜💜

Hello there everybody! I thought I would send a message or a post and just let you all know that I miss you and I miss being a very active part of Skippy‘s blog!!

I had my second vaccination the Astrazeneca on Tuesday and had my doctor assessment yesterday and my arm is getting better it’s still is not 100% so I am taking it low and slow and using the dictation software. I know so many of you have left messages such kind words of love and support and I really really really appreciate them! And I want to say a special message to💜🙏🏻💜 CHERUB, 💜🙏🏻💜you know that you are  in my  prayers every single day. Jesus is with you he will never leave you or for sake you no matter what happens. I will be back probably in another week I think with if my arm continues as it is progressing.

Now I have a few things I wanna say about what’s happening here first I wanna say the visit to Scotland was a rousing success and as usual our Catherine slayed Fashion wise and interpersonal skills wise! I saw someone write a comment that they didn’t like her in the brown and the khaki but I had commented a couple of weeks ago when she wore that beautiful camel coloured coat that I wish she would wear browns and taupes more often so I was just elated to see her wear those long wide leg pants that were hemmed exactly as they should be not dragging on the ground! I just think that this couple can do no wrong and they both very well for the future! Now I am not biased by my affection for the Cambridge is at all ha ha Ha! By the way I received my Hold Still book this week and I also received from Royal Mail Her Majesty’s at 95th birthday stamp first day cover and coin which was reasonably price I think £20? Anyhow the book is very substantial and because of my left arm being the way it is I have yet to be able to look at it because it’s quite heavy and it is a huge book, but I am looking forward to the day when I can hold it and I can enjoy looking at the pictures! Again I say Catherine kudos to you on your fabulous projects! Catherine I also wonder if you’re stealing my word wowza because when you met with Mila for tea, you said wowza as she showed her dress twirling. I’m wondering are you borrowing from PG?? Aka me?? 😂😂😂🤣🤣Catherine you are most welcome to share the word while that I think we are the only two people on the planet that still say it ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!

OK now onto our Harry. Heads together in the UK and many other mental health organizations around the world are doing fabulous work. CBT or cognitive behavioural therapy, cognitive restructuring, EDMR, Hipnosis, that’s spelt wrong but hey I’m dictating hypnosis is spelled HYPNO either we go anyhow those are all legitimate therapies done when they’re done by trained professionals! One thing that has always driven me crazy about Oprah and Dr. Phil who is her who is her surrogate,  is they do mumbo-jumbo therapy on tv and have people share their just horrific interpersonal stories with an audience and a television audience! It just it just sickens me to make people so vulnerable for attention and ratings and money and advertising! When I saw Harry doing the tapping and whatever I just felt whether he was doing it for real or whether he’s towing the line as I believe it is just so wrong to show somebody at their most vulnerable!! It just sickens me.

However let’s let us ask ourselves why is this happening now? When ‘her’, l will continue to use the descriptor ‘her’ was doing all the talking a.k.a. lying because every time her lips move we know she’s lying and now she’s been silent. But for the last well since about the time that the Duke of Edinburgh passed away Harry allegedly has flown back to the to the United States where apparently he’s lived for two years one article said which surprises me but anyways what what’s truth and in articles. And he has been everywhere good morning America that all these Apple things with Oprah and celebrities and doing this and that and the other all for mental health!

You know sometimes it’s too much of a good thing. There’s a lot of excellent organizations in Canada there’s a CMH a Canadian mental health Association all over the world. But this constant stream of video and him in our face that’s not normal and the things he saying or lies and their provable lies that they’re not difficult at all. This is NOT NORMAL! IT IS A DELIBERATE OVERSATURATION FILLED WITH SUBLIMINAL MESSAGES IN THE VIDEOS, TRUST ME, SUBLIMINAL MESSAGES IN ADVERTISING IS REAL. TAKE A MAGNIFYING GLASS TO A FASHION MAGAZINE AND LOOK CLOSELY. YOU WILL BE AMAZED WHAT IS EMBEDDED IN THEM. JUST LIKE THE DISNEY VIDEOS THAT WERE SHOWN TO HAVE ADULT DRAWINGS.

In knowing Harry’s dedication to his Queen, his grandmother and his grandfather why on earth would he pick the first few days after the funeral to dig in like this and go so public? Why? We really must ask ourselves why? I will tell you why he is continuing to expose evil! There are all kinds of organizations that I’m not gonna name any “churches” some start with the letter S which many celebrities are members of Tom C is one. These organizations manipulate people and just like the NIXVM did in Canada. These backers are evil people and they’re willing to use people for anything in anyway at any purpose. The last picture I saw of Harry it was a video but I didn’t watch the video he looks so pale and so gaunt and so unwell that even though I believe he is doing the right thing and exposing all this and eventually hopefully eventually this will wrap up with him being free and everyone brought to justice let’s hope and pray, this is taking a terrible toll on him an absolute terrible toll. I have to again harken back to London scoop, everything has come to pass that she foretold way back several years ago when she came upon this information about this plot. I did a post one post last week where I propose the thought that the plot to integrate the British royal family began in the 1990s with princess Diana and I still believe that. I don’t know all the reasons or who the people would be but things things are just smelling very funny very very funny and I don’t mean funny as in laughter I mean funny as an off off off off!!!

So I say let us continue to pray for our Queen her family pray for the Cambridges, that they all stay safe and healthy the whole family to especially pray for Harry, whether do you think he’s doing his duty or you think he’s fallen under her trap and has become some whimpering child, pray for him all the more then because he needs it. If you really believe that he is he is doing this on his own free will because he’s mesmerized by her or he is woke and has become part of the woke world my goodness he needs more prayer than ever! To be released from these bondages!!

OK kids that’s my more than my two cents worth! As you all know it’s never one word thing with me I am very elaborative! I miss you all miss you and you all know who you are! Take care sending you all my love and prayers, PG!! I beg you all please don’t forget about me because I shall return I shall return!

To my dear Skippy, thank you for always being there. Thank you for relay messages. Most especially thank you for this safe space, your friendship and your prayers.

To my MM Anon/ Kensington Anon, thank you so much for your kind messages of love and support I have really appreciated it. I just feel like I’ve let everybody down by not being able to do the stories about the Cambridges. But I shall return soon hopefully in a week I’ll see how my arm is but it’s getting better hopefully in a week. I hope this finds you well, I hope you read this I don’t know if you ever checked my blog but if you do you will see this here.

💜🙂🙏🏻✝️💟PG💟✝️🙂🙏🏻💜

GSTQAOBC 🇨🇦🇬🇧🇦🇺🇳🇿

[sunsoothed]

perception

Vincenzo loves.

bi vinny! | rated t | 1.5k words | pre-canon, canon-divergence | internalised homophobia, self-discovery

read on ao3

enjoy!

~

It is when he is nine that he has the stirring, growing suspicion of something different. An ad on TV, and the commercial break cuts, and there is a man with another man. And they stand together, but Vincenzo’s mind registers together, and he thinks the shriveled, suppressed excitement within him is indicative of something too similar to pride.

And then Papa changes the channel, a click to his tongue, and Mama keeps her gaze carefully away, and Vincenzo recognises that this is something he’s too young to understand.

-

Too young to understand. Thirteen and walking home, when the seniors from school have a new curse to hurl at him. So this is what Papa wanted to say.

Bitterly, at the back of his mind, he indulges himself. Eomma would never say that.

-

Vincenzo never does find out, for an hour later broken glass will make it to his list of allergies, and a strong, clasping hand will settle on his shoulder; he will forget until Fabio makes him sweat buckets, and bleed buckets, and sentences him to a communal shower.

Vincenzo knows his early rising will be seen as dedication. It is only to hide his shame.

-

Aurelio is from the Abruzzese Familia that Fabio has been trying to establish reluctant ties with. Aurelio singles him out with a look too knowing. One brush of his arm over Vincenzo’s arm, one answering shiver, one grin thrown over a callous shoulder.

A bad seed has sowed in his near-perfect sustenance. Hunched over the sink in the washroom, water dripping down his face, Vincenzo takes in his acne-marred skin, shudders, and pulls out a paper-towel. Why must all these events line up? Eomma’s abandonment is enough to stir a caucus of self-deprecation within him. He doesn’t need to be seen any more than he is already. And now he has to go face a caucus outside of him, of the children he already feels so distant from.

Did Fabio really have to transfer him here at the dawn of fucking high school?

-

It is fumbling hands and breaths too short. That is how he would describe it. Their shirts are unbuttoned. There is no air in their lungs. Vincenzo grasps for breath, finds it in holding onto Aurelio’s upper arm, who, much like him, is disarmed of light.

They hadn’t gone far.

Vincenzo sits up, some energy in him, puts his back against the wall. He stares at his open shirt.

“Are you okay?”

He blinks. Aurelio’s already buttoning up, wiping the corners of his mouth. “Vincenzo.”

“I’m okay,” Vincenzo says. There is a fogging christening his senses. “I’m fine.”

Aurelio seems somewhat suspicious, but he’s not one to be caught up in other people’s affairs. He stands, gives his companion a cursory once-over.

“I’m…” he gestures to the door, one thumb protruding out, and Vincenzo can tell he’s itching to uncover the packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

“Go ahead,” Vincenzo tells him. “I’ll see you in a minute.”

Aurelio leaves wordlessly. Vincenzo, watching the door scream shut in increments, waits for the silence to clear the fog. Light remains absent.

He plucks at his lowermost button, runs his nails over the ridges formed by thread, and slowly begins to button his shirt. Halfway up, he holds something heavy in his throat. By the time he reaches his collar, his eyes are red with strain.

An air of smoke will hang around him for the rest of the evening. Vincenzo will purchase a lighter. He won’t smoke until he remembers this fateful party again, until he remembers Aurelio’s grip again.

-

It will be years later that Vincenzo finds, out of primal desire, a craving for something dangerous. Him and Luca have an arrangement. It is nothing more than convenience sampling and convenience persevering, but once he will sit up in bed and think, lover, and once he will bake in smoke until his head rings fuzzy and thoughts come and go without intervention.

Luca, of course, notices. They don’t talk about it. They don’t sleep together about it, either. But they don’t cook together that day forward, and Vincenzo bids his leave before the sky can turn the indelible shade of dark it sometimes does, and eventually, even the air they breathe melds back into the distinction of you and me.

Which melds back into the distinction of business and brotherhood, in such vengeance that Vincenzo will forget until, years later again, he will note himself in a particular dilemma and only think, lover.

-

Lover changes and snaps. But lover is markedly known to be sass and self-preservation, and loved is known to be devoted and coveted. Vincenzo sometimes demarcates lover and loved so much so that nights of clairvoyance, under a stranger’s roof, tell him: loved. So much so, that a trap easily avoidable, will tell him: lover.

He scrunches his nose, picks up his cigarette, and draws a Venn diagram.

-

When Hong byeonhosa-nim suggests seduction, an allowance for Vincenzo to be in his element for an act, for a case — to weaponise the one thing he’s kept between his coronary arteries, Vincenzo feels a cold elation.

If this was the Vincenzo of five years past, the one who had come to see his mother served injustice, he would have considered a hotel-room night with Hwang Minseong, conveniently conventional in his preferences, conveniently attractive, convenient enough to push buttons and to shut up.

But Vincenzo knows who Hwang Minseong is, now.

“You’re on board with this, then?” Hong byeonhosa-nim asks.

Vincenzo nods. “What’s the plan?”

-

He lets his fingers dance over Minseong’s hand when he hears about his mother. He knows Hong byeonhosa-nim is watching him critically, Mr Nam even more so, but he lets the words and his anger channel themselves in his bruising grip on Minseong’s forearm, in his request to spend the weekend together. Minseong will take his barred teeth as an invitation. Vincenzo squeezes his neck when he gets up to leave, and Minseong will take that as an invitation as well.

-

Hong byeonhosa-nim accosts him at night, dragging him to the terrace of Geumga Plaza despite the overcast hour. She presents him with a tetra pack of banana milk and nothing else, and declares, as they sit opposite each other, “You were very much in your element.”

Vincenzo, plastic straw in his mouth, only blinks at her. He knows what she’s talking about.

She nods, somewhat at par with his thoughts, takes a sip of her own banana milk. Observing the skyline, marking a line of pollution, she observes as well: “Takes one to know one.”

-

They sentence Hwang Minseong the way they know best. He won’t be lonely in his jail cell. He will, Vincenzo supposes, have to come to terms with himself and what overt pleasures he serves himself as a means to cope. He doesn’t feel sorry. He is not Hwang Minseong, despite what similar depth they carry.

-

Takes one to know one.

Jang Hanseo, over a shared serving of makgeolli. Before he picks up soy sauce to drink, he says, Vin-hyung, and Vincenzo knows what will proceed. He’s known since he caught Hanseo’s eyes trailing after him when they first met, a gaze all-too-familiar.

“No one can take this from you, Hanseo-yah.”

And cue: Hanseo’s hand stills, an image of dried sobriety. “What are you talking about, hyung?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Vincenzo says. He nudges Hanseo’s bowl up, and Hanseo gets the hint, downing the makgeolli. “Don’t feel sorry for your desires.”

Hanseo splutters. “Hyung.”

-

Yeorim. Five years ago, in the dazed streets of Itaewon. Yeorim, he had been introduced. Vincenzo had admired the drape of hanbok upon him, light pink and white, a flower adorning the delicate flush of his ears. He had read Vincenzo clearly, and Vincenzo had read him clearly, and the one-night stay at the Hyatt had been, to Vincenzo’s best knowledge, read and forgotten clearly. Upon the appearance of cream fabric and a white flower, he remembered Yeorim.

Yeorim had prefered his pleasure face-down with a hand on the back of his neck. In the negative space carved between their bodies, Vincenzo, lightened beyond grief and the events of the day, had felt a strange, subliminal connection to his homeland, where he is still expected to run under an industrial daybreak and fend for himself apart from his people. How homely. How comfortable.

-

At the end of the day, it isn’t perfection Vincenzo seeks; it is completion. In a restriction of childhood bedroom, over the brilliant idea of makgeolli in bed, he encounters Chayoung confessing.

She hadn’t loved me, she explains. She hadn’t loved me because we were good friends who just so happened to, ah, find solace in one another.

Is that what she told her parents?

And Chayoung shakes her head. That is what she told me.

He makes spaces for her to wipe her tears in his bare shoulder.

How about you, byeonhosa-nim? I have reason to believe you’ve been popular.

Reason being?

Chayoung wrings her hands to make an awfully crude gesture, which Vincenzo takes great offence to, because engaging with him in any activity of the sort is anything but crude.

I have… my fair share of experience.

You sound ashamed.

I used to be.

What changed?

I loved, Vincenzo finds himself saying. And no love deserves to be shamed, Vincenzo finds himself believing.

[socketz]

All is Pain in Poetry, But, Oh, The Play Goes On; Chapter One.

A Dead Poets Society Fanfiction story!

Charlie Dalton x Female!OC

Warnings : Mentions of Abuse, slight *slight* signs of it, mentions of bullying, name-calling I suppose, profanity, smoking, just some people bein’ mean :/

Word Count : like 11k (I’m pretty sure)

Summary : It’s the introductory day, unpleasant to speak the least, and Jane rejoins a few familiar faces.

Authors Note : There is like barely any Charlie content in this chapter (forgive me, pls) simply because it is the first, and I have so many plans for this being a sloooow burner. Anyways, I love Nuwanda, Meeksy, Pittsie, Neil, Todd, and Knox. Cameron can die. I also just realised that there’s no Pittsie in this chapter :// it’s okay though, our long boy will be there in the second, I promise.

Chapter One, The Summer Was No Better, But Hell-ton’s Surely Death.

“Come, now, Jane.” Father called, his suit elated to a perfect crisp. His face contorted with that of a ghostly scowl, drawn down and impossible to relieve. Father was not an impressionable person, though most certainly easy to disappoint. 

I made my way, wordlessly, to fall beside him, and found my complexion flushed with something of a gentle scarlet hue, nerves to embrace oneself in a mantra of lightly peppered sweat. My uniform - a dreadful thing, really - had been fitted during the summer; ‘You are but a young Lady, now, Jane,’ Father had insisted, ‘It is only right to find your clothing of a perfect fit.’ Though it had hardly mattered the years before, smothered within the lies my Father somehow wriggled us out of, and I could bitterly recall that it mattered not then, either. 

I felt ridiculous, swaddled in the warmth of a blazer, littered with perfectly aligned badges - meaningless copper circles, infused with the reminder of every stupid achievement I had picked up throughout my years - and long, iron-pressed, grey trousers - enclosed with a tight-fitting belt, for the weight I had seemed to loose beneath the summer heat had made an alarming appearance, and it seemed all too improper to alter them a mere seventy-two hours before the introductory day. The shirt - blouse, as I had never before become accustomed to occupying - was of a snug fit, particularly comfortable upon my partially flat breast, the tie hardly a bump higher than the other boys’. 

My shoes, shining with a fresh layer of polish, squeaked upon the echoing floor of the filling hall, and I found a breath slipping from my clenched jaw. It would merely be the same routine as every year had solemnly been. And, - I had no doubt about this, you understand - I knew I would grow to loathe it all the same. 

“Chin up, Jane.” Father scolded, a sharp pinch to the back of my arm. I hardly reacted, ripping myself away from such a close proximity, and fixed my expression with something blank, jaw set and teeth grinding. The walls, the candles - the scentless gloom that filled the air - reminded me of nothing other than Death. Than everything morose and unethical. 

The bench was cold, lifeless, and I found a sour taste to elope my grimace, subliminally displeased to be trapped within the grounds of Hell-ton for another draining, horrible, year. A low level of murmurs ran along the sea of suited heads, and I nearly - almost, though not quite - found an ache of sympathy for the innocent youths, trembling nervously, within the front row. Such excitement, I sighed, such naivety. They shall be ruined, it seemed clear, by the haunting excrement Hell-ton deemed ‘successful methoding.’ 

There was a poke to my side, the ratty whisper of an antagonizing tone. “Feels good to be home, huh?” Peter taunted, undoubtedly pleased to rid of myself for the better side of ten months. 

My silence remained, an ache to the clench in my jaw, and I simply hoped that his teasing would soon dissolve upon quiet nothingness. Though, as he prodded my side - supposedly the older twin, mind you - and he mumbled crude names within my ear, I found it reasonable that a lack of response would do little to deter his act of childishness. 

“Rat.” He whispered, prodding my side once again - a jab sure to leave an inklet of a mark. “God, I can’t wait to get rid of you. Two months by your side is enough to push me over the edge. I’d surely contemplated killing myself-” 

“Oh, why don’t you, then?” I snapped, a glare surely cut to burn. Of course, I didn’t mean it, though I found myself unwilling to project any kind of apology. He hardly deserved it, and I - as well as him, it seemed - had had just about enough of his relentless bullying. “Leave me alone, Peter.” I said. 

He scoffed something bitter, “At least I’d be missed, Snot-face.” He bit. 

I doubted it was much of a lie, and settled for a roll of the eyes. “Fuck off, Mutt.” 

“Billy-no-mates.” He hissed. 

“Worthless narcissist.” I sneered. 

“Virgin.” 

“Self aggrandising cunt.”

“Moron.”

“Boring, talentless, vegetable-” “Stop it!” Father snapped, another hushed whisper to intervene that of our own. I had hardly realised our spluttered, mumbled, argument, and the way in which it seemed to progress, “Both of you.” Father muttered, quiet and surely furious.  And yet, although it seemed it was not I whom began the fight, at all, my hair was ragged by Father's rough grip, and I were forced to attain a regularly seated position. I hissed upon the contact, a scowl to thunder my expression. “You will not embarrass me again, Jane.” He sneered. 

My silence loomed once more, and his grip released roughly, a violent jerk to my neck as he did so. Jane, I thought, an internally suppressed scoff, It’s always Jane’s fault. 

The blare of a riveting shrill erupted from the southern doors, clunking open in their heavy weight, and the bagpipes - those terrible things, awful, truly - began their entrance. A sigh slipped the breach of my lips, for I knew this mantra, and I knew it well. In a kind of solemnly delightful way, I suppose I was enthralled to enjoy my final experience of such liberal torture - it was my last year, after all. 

A pair of first-years trailed to the front of the line, followed by a blonde boy - of whom’s name I had forgotten, though he wore glasses, and was rather small - from my own year. The dreadful musician was to follow, and I decided to pay him no mind - perhaps ignorantly so - as the banners began to flutter forth. 

Tradition - upheld by none other than the snobby, pristine and particularly ginger Mr Cameron, a boy of whom mine own experiences seemed rather potently bad. 

Discipline - a familiar, soft, face. An expression of boredom, nonetheless, though I found a certain fondness about Knox, and thus my gaze seemed to brighten. He was a gentle boy, kind, sensitive.  

Honour - I hardly recognized him, though his… his similarity - a striking thing, one must admit - to Peter’s level in intelligence seemed all too familiar, through the grave number of classes we had shared across the years. 

Excellence - Neil Perry, a boy in which I knew little of, yet heard so much about. The sweetest of souls, the saddest of smiles - trapped, was Perry, in a loop his parents laid down. Perhaps I found a little of myself engulfed within his big brown eyes, upon the rare occurrence we happened to share a glance - always a grin, always a wave. Polite, the boy was, and nothing but the fact. For my life was nothing but the script in which I had been given, raised upon lies and bred to know no freedom, and he was much the same. 

There was a curt breath of silence, and the boys shuffled into line. It seemed the song had finished - a heavenly notion - and the perplexing weight of Mr Nolan’s tone - a sound no better than that of nails to a chalkboard - fell upon the seated audience. “Ladies, and Gentlemen.” He said. Oh, how I hated his voice. “Boys.” The summer had been long, tedious, and I liked it no more than I could have, and yet still - still, despite the liberal torture, and the inevitable bullying of mine own blood - it were of a better nature than this. 

This, of course, that was Mr Nolan, and his lengthy speeches, drawled upon every sentiment with a mean glare, or a calculating stare. 

“The light of knowledge.” He declared, tone blank, devastatingly boring. For although I could not shed a glance to the nervous boys, perched stoically, within the front row, and their expression remained ambiguous, I knew the routine all too well. There was a loud rip of applause, and I knew - within a moment's notice, as Father glared pointedly for my compliance - that the first candle had been lit. 

The boys, aligned to the front, circled to their seats, maneuvering among my peripheral vision. The ruckus had died down, and I slumped - only slightly, as to deter from a kind of beating - unto myself, lightly distracted by my heavy-lidded eyes. Oh, I scolded, how stupid I had been, to lie awake all night reading. 

Nolan began his speech, undoubtedly much the same as it always seemed to be, and I took a deliberately long moment to gaze upon the great array of teachers. It would seem, I noticed, with a harshly contained grin, that they were all particularly deathly looking. Perhaps, over the course of the summer, they had been returned to their graves, where their corpses lay to rest for the period of time - only to be dug up again as the school year returned. They seemed so withered, so pale - lifeless. Though I supposed it was particularly fitting, really; deathly teachers for a murderous school. 

“Gentlemen,” Nolan bellowed, “What are the four pillars?” 

Another sigh, I breathed, standing among the sonorous chorus of muffled shuffling. “Tradition, Honor, Discipline, Excellence.” We sang, a recital of the faculty’s pounding, and took our seats once more. 

His rambling continued, and I found myself physically incapable of paying it any mind - one would simply drift into a noticeable dream of slumber - as I drank in the sullen scowls of the boys reluctantly returning. I, myself, reciprocated a glance of hidden blue, and I knew that they simply loathed the man - Nolan - much the same as I. 

It was rather strange, really - the way in which my attendance to Hell-ton came about. For I was eleven: much the same nervous, wilted, and shelled child as the boys of the front row, and my application was riddled with lies. 

Name : Peter Joseph Darling, the first line read. Only, as I had continually pestered my Father upon, my name was Jane Elizabeth Darling, and my twin brother - Peter, you understand - should have been clothed within the uniform, instead. ‘He hasn’t the mind of you, Jane.’ Father had scoffed, mocking, as though I should have known better. Though I still didn’t understand. ‘Welton is an excellent opportunity, and they have accepted you, through the name of your brother.’ My misunderstanding, as I came to dislodge many a month later, were perfectly reasonable. Why was I, a girl, to attend an all boys boarding school, with the faux persona of my twin brother? It seemed strange, though - in my foolish naivety that youth would always bring - I found no reason to protest upon my Father’s wishes, and complied nonetheless. 

I was a late bloomer - much as my Mother had been, as old relatives would jest - and thus my identity was easily concealed - hair to be cut, in a similar style to the other little boys, and my figure hidden by the tatter of oversized suits. 

I became - rather unfortunately, on mine own behalf - one of the best students ever to attend Hell-ton. ‘Top grades,’ Father would boast - as though he had ever congratulated me, before - ‘our Jane is something truly spectacular. The top of every class, and a routine winner in almost every sporting category.’ Though what he said was true, it made it no less frustrating and mortifying, as he would babble on about my achievements, and leave no room for a word in edgeways. It seemed the only time he could bother to call, were if my report card had yet to arrive, or there was something - unexplained, you understand - for myself to receive the blame. 

‘Jane.’ He would bellow, tone furious over the line, ‘Your report card.’ He would then say, as though it were I who sent them off. ‘Where is it? It had better be here tomorrow, young Lady.’ 

Sometimes, I hated my Father, too. He made it frustratingly difficult not to - though, admittedly, I tried little to stop my fury. 

It seemed, however, that his plan were not entirely fool-proof. For when I did begin to develop breasts - as flat as they may be -, with little curves, and a more womanly figure, it was surely something noticeable. And my hair had grown out, over the months of neglect, and I allowed the soft blonde curls to have their way - and, suddenly, I looked far more a girl than ever before. 

My face, although chiselled by my petite weight, grew more round, less sharp - feminine. The rise of my cheekbones increased, and my eyelashes found a natural curve. Perhaps I could have considered myself pretty, if it weren’t for the insistent teasing Peter had enforced upon me. Thus, instead, I depicted myself ordinary, and decided to move on. 

Nolan, upon discovering my true identity - though how such a thing had gone unnoticed, before, I had no idea - riddled himself sick with rage. His expulsion threat was vengeful, and he loathed my Father’s guts. Such conflict had only truly occurred eighteen or so months before, and thus the tension seemed inevitably thick, whenever I found myself surrounded by the ever-depressing company of Nolan. I discovered a true beating upon Father’s account, for poorly concealing his awfully supported lies - ‘You cannot even pretend - not for a godforsaken moment - to be a boy,’ he had yelled, as I spat my blood upon the floor, ‘You shall learn to listen to me, Jane.’ And teach me to listen, he surely had. 

Fortunately, though I hardly see such as fortunate, at all, Nolan had - somewhat reluctantly, somewhat pretentiously - decided that my education be isolated, and my attendance a nuisance. My grades - my high, substantial, grades - seemed enough to access his persuasion; my lack of discussion and silent account another contributing factor; my sporting ability and lack of complaint a cherry on top for it all, as it should so seem. He found himself obliging to my continuation at Hell-ton, and I - perhaps expectedly - were undoubtedly disappointed. To leave such hellish faculty would be something joyous - greatly anticipated. Alas, there I was, sat - again - among the rows of morose expressions and pressuring parents. 

My dormitory, that year, was to be separated. Not a roommate, neither a shared bathroom - utter isolation. I minded not for the quiet, nor the lack of company, though it should seem the segregated seating within lesson perched a little too far, for my liking. It was rather ridiculous, I should have thought, that male brains were incapable of focusing upon the task at hand with a female sat to their left. Pathetic! Utterly, truly, pathetic. 

I had been branded a number of grilling rules - mandatory to abide by, you understand.

1. No perfume. 

2. Hair is to be kept up, tied tightly, and not disruptive. 

My hair, you see, was not a particularly easy tamer. Rampant blonde curlage, spilling from every direction. I could hardly control it on the better days, never mind every day. 

3. Skirts, or dresses, to be worn below the knee (if at all) and shoulders should remain contained at all times. 

4. No make up.

5. No fraternizing with other students. 

6. Meals are to be eaten alone, or not at all. 

7. Curfew is at 8:30PM. 

8. Toiletry business should be contained to a seperate bathroom, use the locker room provided - NOT the male students’. 

The list truly seemed to go on, and on, and it surely rambled for far too long - I had merely shared a glance with such paper, and thrown it to my bag in retaliation. Meals to be eaten alone? I had hardly the chance to converse between lessons - never mind during - and no longer could I discuss, nor listen in upon, with others among meals? It was true bullshit, for I knew such were never applied to me before - before they discovered my true identity. And the curfew - eight-thirty p.m - was utterly ridiculous. What was I to do for thirty minutes more, idle within my room, with not but a roommate to keep me company? The boys’ curfew was hardly nine p.m, anyhow - they were always allowed an extra number of minutes or so, and I knew - I hated it, but I knew - that I would have not but a choice to comply. 

To enjoy my stay, - at Hell-ton, you understand - seemed merely impossible - as a woman. Or, rather, to be known as a woman. For although its endeavours were painfully unbearable for the boys, it was all so much worse for I. The rules and regulations simply doubled in their length, and the eyes of concentration, inflicted by those of great authority, I found only to increase. Depressingly so. 

Oh, how I hated it all. 

“Jane,” Father hissed; a sharp jab to my side, and a smirking Peter. “Pay attention, would you?” He whispered, a furious glint to his icy blue glare. The roar of applause began to die down, and I found myself gathering my hands at the final few claps, settling within the silence once more. 

Nolan spoke again, his tone ever-droned, ever-dull. “As you know,” he said, chin tilted with a fauxly embodied confidence I hardly understood his deserving of, “our beloved Mr. Portius - of the English department - retired last term.” Mr Portius were nothing more than a rotting corpse with the political beliefs of all things dreadful. An awful man, truly. “You will have the opportunity later to meet his replacement,” He said, turning something gradual - no doubt riddled with arthritis, and with marrowing bones - to meet the seat of the said replacement. “Mr. John Keating.” 

Keating  stood, and his stature was comfortably acceptable. He were of something small - noticeably shorter than the other corpses - and his expression dripped in kindness. His thin lips played a soft smile, and his eyes gazed tenderly - calculating, but gentle, nonetheless - upon the great array of prying students. 

“Himself an honours graduate of this school,” Nolan droned on. “And who, for the past several years, has been teaching at the highly regarded Chester School, in London.”

He was good, then, it seemed. The low rumble of shuffling rang among the hall, as students and parents, alike, maneuvered their gaze to fumble upon his position of casual confidence. Another, small, round of applause was to follow, and I - for perhaps the first time - voluntarily joined in. 

Keating took his seat, and the clapping drew to a close. 

“As I’m sure you are aware,” Nolan continued, addressing the audience with that monotonous death. “This year may seem a little different.” His gaze wandered, scrutinizing - harrowing - and settled upon I - upon Father, Peter, and I. I held his glare, cold and stubborn, for I would never have allowed myself to succumb to the fright in which he inflicted upon others. “This year, there is to be a girl in attendance.” 

A low hum of mumbles rang out, and the subtle gasps of distraught Mothers were something pathetically blatant. I found myself deeply suppressing the urge to scoff; I were a girl before, in the years of my previous attendance, thus what did it matter, now? 

“Miss Darling,” He bellowed, tone fit to carry among the greatest disturbance. A moment of nothingness graced the hall, as the murmurs of concerned Mothers, and outraged Fathers, simply rose in their volume. “Miss Darling.” Nolan echoed, his tone of something hauntingly venomous. A sigh slipped from upon my lips, and I rose to my feet with a glance of perfect nonchalance. 

Silence. 

The corner of my mouth found a quiver, for - Oh - were they all so frightened of me that they should hardly breathe?  The smirk was riddled with amusement, bloomed from the very  depth of my stomach, for their quiet hatred, and their burning silence, were all so wonderfully foolish. 

Nolan sneered, gaze writhing with gauging disgust - sewn by the tattle of hierarchy, and of misogyny. “Miss Darling is to accommodate her own - separate - housing,” he began, dislodging his stare and addressing his crowd. “There will be no contact between herself, and the boys. You needn’t worry for their concentration, Ladies and Gentlemen.” His wry smile was something sickening, as it danced upon his wrinkled lips. 

Die, I thought, die with your pathetic beliefs, and die a horrible death. 

~*~

The breeze of the fresh air seemed so close, so delicious, as we approached the ever-slow line, all smiles and polite passing greetings, yet so unfortunately far. I trailed after Father, step slow and gradual, certain his discussion would be tense, and it would be awful. “Mr. Nolan,” Father greeted, somewhat sheepishly, somewhat humorously. The old gargoyle glanced - unappreciative - to his nervously outstretched hand, shaking it with something of a pointedly stern glare. 

“Frank.” He nodded, tight-lipped and utterly infuriating. For although I held no sympathy for my Father, nor for the manner in which Nolan depicted respectable as he addressed him, the mere sight of his wrinkled person found my scowl something deep, something noticeable. 

“Wonderful ceremony, as always.” Father smiled. “And I must thank you for allowing my Jane into your school.” He said, as though it were not I who attended the years before.

“Yes, yes,” Nolan smiled, a ghostly thing, with a hollow foreground. “Well, I’m sure she is aware of the expectations, yes?” His stare fell upon myself, as I nodded silently, unable to erase the distaste within my gaze. “I will warn you, Miss Darling,” He continued, features to crease with that of an aggravated scowl. “Not to cross me. One wrong move,” He threatened, a wonky kind of finger held before me, “and you’re out.” 

One morning, I thought; one morning, you shall never wake up - and, oh, that morning will be such a blissful morning. 

Biting my tongue, I spoke with a faux sentiment, cheery toned and smiling kindly. “Of course, Sir.” I said. “I won’t let you down.” Fuck you, I wished to spit, though I simply turned upon my heel, and I stumbled away from his cautiously prying eyes, gripped by the harsh digits of Father’s stern hold.  

“You’ll see yourself to your room, I suspect.” Father said, tone withdrawn and utterly blank. Cold - Father, he was a cold man. My silence remained, though I nodded responsively, and allowed a solemn breath to slip the breach of my lips. The days, such melancholic tales, of summer - they were bad. They were awful - but at least they were not quite as lonely. A gentle sting graced the back of my eyes, and my jaw set achingly; an overwhelming urge to dispel my bitten tears a wave of unwanted suddenness. Wretched. For I did not want to be alone, I did not wish to be consumed by the ever-growing loneliness that life enforced upon me - I wished to be happy, free. Myself. 

Not Peter, not Miss Darling - Jane. Just Jane. 

I bit back the tears - I swallowed them whole, and I winced as they clawed upon my throat, cautious as to speak, for their wounds may crack in my tone, and damage my composure. But my smile, it was forced, and my eyes, they were glossy. “Do not disappoint me, Jane.” Father said. “I expect nothing but the best.” And with that, he was gone. 

Not but a mutter of goodbye; not but a touch of parental affection - nothing. The glaze upon my expression dropped slightly, a drooped frown to occupy my solemn features, and the smirk Peter threw over his shoulder -  barreled beside my Father, with his strides large, confident - merely seemed to ache the clench of my throat.

 God, my conscience spat, don’t be pathetic. 

And so, I balled my hands into fists, and I shoved them into my pockets; watched my Father leave, and I attempted to scrape together every time he told me he loved me. I came up with nothing - not but an utter of affection - and I remained true to my scowl, caught among the breeze, and the bustle of crying children, and loving parents. Perhaps I could have been jealous, as I glanced to the first years, embraced by the doting adoration of their guardians - though how could I force myself to envy a thing I had never known? 

The answer? I couldn’t. And so, I didn’t. 

I allowed my shoulders to sink, and I returned my gaze to the retreating vehicle - the vehicle that ached a certain - particularly ignored - part of myself. I wondered of Mother - a brief moment, though striking, nonetheless - and I pondered what she would be like. For - yes, - she was gone, and to think of such was simply barbaric, but a girl could dream. A girl could dream that she were loved, and that all of which could have been, would be so wonderful. Maybe if Mother were here, I thought, I wouldn’t feel so lonely. 

And, perhaps wishful thinking were foolish, and a dream unworthy of time - but it helped. It dulled the ache, though maybe only that little bit, and that were enough for me. 

The car was gone, lost among the mass of chaotic departure, and I found myself staring absently upon the horizon. How beautiful the sky did seem, I thought, and how well it masked destruction. 

My luggage had been dropped - previously - within my room, by Peter’s graceful volunteer. And, albeit reasonably, I were slightly fearful for the mess I would grow to discover, as I entered the living quarters - for I knew, and I knew it well, that Peter loathed me greatly, and he would do anything to tip me off. Perhaps that would be enough, I smiled, sadly, and to myself, to trigger the release of all things morose and bitterly withheld. 

Nevertheless, I found myself glumly retreating, making my way - pushed, knocked, and shoved, by bags, by luggage, and apologetic elbows - through the courtyard, and through the entrance of the school. My silence was something looming - it hung above my head, I could feel it - and it only seemed to darken with the realisation that this was reality, and that my stay would surely get no better. 

Oh, how I ached for something good - something nice, to carry me through my days. 

“Jane?” A familiar tone called, though I daren’t glance around for it’s owner. Silence. Silence. Silence - ‘tis your only company, I thought, know no better, feel no different. “Jane!” They called once more - Knox. I found myself sighing, for I knew I could not evade his greeting forever, and he was much too polite, much too kind, to simply ignore. “Hey,” He smiled, gentle and friendly. 

The scowl crumbled from my features, and I plastered on a joyous smile - teeth bared and glistening; believable. “Knox!” I chirped, allowing my expression to elope with a sense of delight. Our paths had crossed a number of times upon the past years, and thus a kind of acquaintance was to be formed. Nothing special, nothing particularly close, but he was a nice boy - a delightful chat. “How’s your summer?” I asked. 

“Great.” He sighed, grin riddled with a dream. “Busy,” he added, “but great.” 

My smile softened, “Oh, yeah?” I said, and he nodded subtly, smirk uneven and boyish - always boyish. 

“Yeah.” He sighed, again, before drawing his eyebrows to a loose pinch, “What about you, Darl’?” He asked, “Nobody heard from you all summer. Where’d you go for two months?” I shrugged something light - nowhere, I thought to admit, though what fell from my tongue was nothing but another lie. 

“I went home.” I said, “Back to England.” ‘Twas nothing of a home - not for me. 

I was beaten by my Father, and I was bullied by my brother - I was bed bound with the illness of my own crepent mind, and I found myself unable to answer the ringing phone, though I am awfully sorry for your inconvenience, Mr Overstreet - I shall be sure to spit my blood before I say ‘Hello’, yes? 

Of course, my thoughts remained thoughts, and my expression a blank nothingness behind my smile, behind my eyes. “That sounds wonderful.” He said, those dough brown orbs shining with a kind of genuineness - so honest, so true, I almost felt bad. “I bet it was nice, there, was it? Such beautiful scenery, and I bet the tea was good.” His smile was infectious, and I breathed a supple laugh. 

“The tea was perfect,” I said, “though the scenery - if we’re discussing the same London, here - was filled with nothing but Homelessness, and pollution.” 

“Oh,” He frowned, “that’s too bad.” 

Too bad? I thought; Too bad? Knoxie, my summer was horrifying. 

I shrugged gently, “It’s alright.” I said, “I’m used to it.” Though to which context I had attempted to console, I held little knowledge of. 

He smiled once more, “I’d only expect you to be.” He said, beginning to wander away; one step, two steps, three steps, four. His gaze fixed upon myself, he smiled - his eyes, they smiled - and he said:  “You comin’?” With a nod of nonchalant amusement. 

I raised an eyebrow, “Where to, Overstreet?” 

“Why, to the guys, of course.” He grinned. 

And by guys, I, fortunately, knew that he meant his friends: Neil Perry (the kind boy, of whom I shared a likeliness for terrible Fathers and passion for things they did not approve); Gerard Pitts (Pittsie, of whom was simply too tall for his own good - terrible at sport, though he surely tried his best); Richard Cameron (the ginger one, with a permanent foot rammed so far up his ass, it shall simply never be recovered); Steven Meeks (a blonde - with a tinge of red, as he had argued against last year - headed boy, riddled with curls - as was I - and the brains of something magnificent), and Charles Dalton (a typically chaotic and utterly unpredictable mess, with substantial grades, and a great yearn for women - not their love, you understand, but merely their attention - and a fascinating dedication to the saxophone). 

I had come to know them all - at a distance, though some a little more than others, as was Knox, and was Meeks - and thus found myself trailing comfortably behind the tall boy, his jacket swaying among the ruffle of his movement. 

The stairwell was something utterly cramped - a nauseating kind of warmth emitted from such, and I scowled bitterly through my ascent - our footsteps drowned among the chaos of rambling conversations, clatters of luggage - curses; groans; yells; cheers; animosity. Ah, the fresh stench of testosterone, and cologne. Expensive cologne - always expensive, always lathered. 

The crowd seemed mostly polite, peering me no mind and abiding about their business as though they held not a care in the world for the female presence - for such, I was grateful. I were far too exhausted to handle gawking boys - by the hundreds, mind you - with any ounce of grace. 

Knox held a relaxed pace, he leaned into it, as though persistently O.K, and unbothered by the great deal of shit in the word. I almost envied his carelessness, though found myself unable to ponder my digression any which further, for he paused, and then he bounded through the familiarity of the open doorway. A rush of excitement eloped within him, it seemed, as he threw himself to tackle - rather boyishly, rather fondly - a stumbling Charlie Dalton. 

The pair fell to the ground, a great thud among the ruckus, and erupted with a childish kind of laughter. I brushed my shoulder upon the doorframe, watching the scene unfold, as they lay - a little breathless, with their laughs drawn to silent breathing - and they smiled toothy, giddy, smiles. A sort of grin embraced my expression, and the moment played on. 

“Jesus, Knoxious.” Charlie breathed, the subtlety of a laugh to follow, “I’ve not seen you move like that since-” He paused, another laugh ripping from his throat, “Shit, not since little Ginny tried it with you, back in eighth grade!”

Knox let out a little snicker, “Don’t remind me.” He said, spoken with a slight shudder. The tickle of a laugh slipped from my lips, and the fluttered noise seemed to catch the attention of the red-faced boys. “Oh, yeah,” Knox mumbled, scrambling to his feet. Or, rather, attempting to - as the brunette beside him tugged to the collar of his coat, dragging him back to the ground with a great huff, and a startled yelp. 

Charlie stood, instead, and he smirked that classic Dalton smirk. One corner of his mouth found a higher rest that the other, perched comfortably with a flirted sense of amusement. “Miss Darling.” He said, and he offered a hand, “Welcome back.” I took his hand, a roll of my eyes, and shook it thoroughly. 

“Yeah, yeah, Dalton.” I scoffed, an eyebrow raised. “Quit the formalities, okay?” His smile feathered futherly full, genuine, and it seemed that the idea of loneliness grew that little bit more unbearable. For the guys - all of them, perhaps even the red-headed bastard - they could be such graciously wonderful company. And although I knew it were dangerous, and that I simply should not have wished it; I found myself often dreaming of a life - a different one, somewhere else, where things had changed, yet certain company was much the same - in which I had befriended them all - and, oh, how colourful life did seem! 

I longed, regularly, for their friendship - for the absence of my loneliness. But, as it should portray, life had other plans, and I had not but an ounce of energy to revoke against it. 

The warmth of Charlie’s palm, curled around my own, in a growing spirit of lightly peppered sweat and heated touch, found me retracting my grip, and glancing, wordlessly, to the boy upon the floor. He was sat up, no longer reclined, with his knees bent, and his arms to drape upon them. He smiled, and I reciprocated the gesture softly - softly, for it were all I could manage to plaster aloft my expression. 

“Hey, Charlie, I brought you some-” Meeks. I grinned, something wide, something wonderful, and I spun upon my heel. His eyes, they were bright, fixed largely behind the glint of his round glasses, a smile to his lips, and his hair was wild - curly as I, and graciously familiar. “Jane?” He said, a certain fondness about his tone. “When’d you get here?” He ushered, drawing me in for a tight, warming, embrace. Perhaps, throughout the list of their group, I found myself closest to Meeks. For he was witty, he was intelligent, and more of a brotherly figure than any twin I had ever known. I obliged comfortably, curled within his arms, as he withdrew, and he rested his grip upon the hunch of my shoulders. He smiled, “How was your summer?” And I simply knew for which I would have to lie - again. 

“It was fine.” I smiled. Accompanied with many-a-blue-day, and many nights of darkening contemplation. Riddled by the tangle of silence, with nothingness; raised voices, and bruising discipline. I had done nothing wrong. I had done nothing wrong. “It was great.” I said. 

He smiled kindly, that reassuring sense of Meeks I had needed during the bitter hue of summer’s company. “Good.” He said, releasing myself gently, and outstretching his grip. He turned to face Charlie, gentle in his smile, and spoke again: “I got you some more smokes, Dalton.” He grinned, “So you’ll stop moaning that we’re bummin’ ‘em.” 

The boy in question scoffed, “You do.” He said, a smirk nonetheless, as he shovelled the packet into his inner-blazer pocket. “I’d say you owe me a couple more, Meeksy.” 

“Take what you’re given.” He smirked, “Or you’ll get nothin’ at all.” 

He merely smiled, an eyebrow raised, and he spoke lightly, a bounce to his words. “You have a good vacation, Stevo?” He said, “You’re pale as ever.” 

“Always the joker.” Meeks offered, a mere mutter beneath his breath, “My summer was standard.” He shrugged lightly, “Studying, mostly. A little extra-reading, I suppose.” 

“Riveting.” Knox scoffed, a dizzy arrival to his feet. 

Charlie smirked, and he shook his head - wobbling slightly upon the draped arm of Knox’s weight. “So you’ll be smarter than last year?” He said, teasingly in his ways. Meeks’ response came witty, and it came fondly, though I paid it little mind, obtaining a subtle moment to study the features of the entangled pair before me. 

Knox was far taller than Charlie, it should seem, with his arm slung around the brunette’s shoulders, and his features somewhat softer. His eyes, though similarly brown and kind, were lighter - a brightened tinge, infused with sensitivity. Charlie held mischief, and he held youth, among the deep swirl of his stare; his smirk was crude and it were sharp, uneven, and unfortunately attractive. Charlie was unfortunately attractive. 

And, as I had hardly dared to notice, his smirk fluttered a widened stance, gaze shifting to meet that of mine own curious observation. An eyebrow raised, and he shot a wink to my stoic self - classically flirty, and ever the romantic - before grinning toothily, and rejoining the loose conversion between the other two boys. 

“The other three here, yet?” Charlie asked, nodding serupticially to the open wind of the door. 

Meeks shrugged something light, beginning to make his way - a saunter in his stride - to the opposing doorway, positioned directly before Dalton’s own. Charlie trailed suit, and I found myself obliging to the gentle push of Knox’s tender touch, as he guided my shoulders to cross the hallway, and he brushed his palms along the doorframe, gating us all in with a kind of casual amusement. I were pressed - rather tightly, mind you - between the heat of Charlie’s back, as he leaned upon the wooden frame, and Knox’s arm, held just above my head, as we peered on through. 

“Rumour has it,” Charlie grinned, pointing with mock accusement, to Neil - his sharp features conveyed by a gentle, tender smile. “You did summer school.” The boy glanced up, straightening his position. 

“Yep.” He breathed, “Chemistry.” And I felt undoubtedly sorry for him. “My Father thought I should get ahead.” There were a certain glaze - one I happened to notice, though not entirely potent - upon the mention of his Father, and I found mine own stare reciprocating a mixture of something kind, and something understanding. It should seem we had plenty in common - between our parents, and our inability to stand up against their trying discipline. Though perhaps Neil were not… Perhaps he were not physically harmed, as were I, it would do damage just the same. 

His smile was toothy, brotherly, as he approached. He shook the outstretched hand of Dalton’s own, and said: “How was your summer, Slick?” With a mischievous kind of glint.

“Keen.” Came the reply, drowned in all things sinfully scandalous and unspoken. 

The breath of a laugh slipped from Neil’s lips, a gentle shake of the head, and he retreated to his luggage, tossed carelessly upon his bed. Charlie followed, and I found myself trailing - helplessly - along. 

“Meeks,” Charlie called, over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, and a diligent grin, pointing to the boy with spoken commandment, “Door. Closed.” I smiled - beside myself, and frustratingly so - and Meeks spoke his reply. 

“Yes, Sir.” He said, and the dark oak swung to a tight close. 

Dalton took his seat upon the unmade, bare, mattress that was Neil’s single accommodation; Knox to rest backwards within the spare desk chair, withdrawn slightly from the weak table, and to the other side of the room, and Meeks assumed his position within the seat opposite Knox, facing outwardly at Neil’s desk. I stood, quietly, and I watched the room for the moment that passed, as everyone took their place. 

The back of someone unfamiliar greeted me, his hair a dirty blonde. He hunched over his luggage, fiddling with this, and with that, and remained submerged within his own silence, undisturbed - or so it seemed - by the rather rowdy crowd of newcomers. 

“Gentlemen,” Neil mocked, leaning gradually upon the dark radiator. “What are the four pillars?” 

“Travesty. Horror. Decadence. Excrement.”  They sang, a whispered quire of mocking upon the monstrosity Hell-ton dared to deem success. I grinned, despite myself, and took a seat upon the edge of the bed, slightly pushing the sharp edge of the leather-bound case. 

Charlie spoke, a cigarette hung from between his lips, “‘kay,” He muttered, withdrawing the stick from between his muffled speech, and producing a lighter, “Study group.” He said. “Meeks aced Latin,” No surprise there, I thought, “Jane’s just… Jane.” He grinned, to which I rolled my eyes. “She’ll have aced everything.” He swung his legs to rest upon my lap, unreasonably comfortable, and he lay - utterly sprawled out - upon the bed. His touch was warm, it was cozy, and thus I did not protest. “I didn’t quite flunk English,” He continued, “So, if you want, we got our study group.” 

He lit the cigarette, as a hum of agreement rang through the room. I remained true to my silence, for I knew I would simply not be allowed within such close proximity - neither to study, nor merely to talk. Pathetic, my conscience reminded, the misogyny were fucking pathetic. 

“Alright,” Neil shrugged, “You comin’, Jane?” He asked. I glanced up, and upon meeting such a gentle expression, I smiled. 

I spoke softly - I hated the way it sounded, but I said it nonetheless. “I can’t.” I sighed. “I got new rules, now, boys.” 

Charlie scoffed, and Neil’s gaze seemed to soften - sympathetic, understanding. “Forget the rules.” Charlie said, handing his cigarette to myself, as I took it between my middle and first. “You’re coming.” 

Through a breath of smoke, I scoffed, and I said: “I’ll be kicked out, Dalton.” 

He smirked that uneven smirk, with a shrug to accompany, “For studying? C’mon, Darl’.” He challenged, “That’s a lame excuse.” 

“I can’t.” I sighed, inhaling another deep breath of such chemical smoke, holding it within the depth of my throat - as the Dalton boy had taught me, back in eighth grade - and I exhaled tiresomely. I truly wished it could be simpler. I handed back the cigarette, and I focused myself upon Perry, as he smiled - something reassuring, and gentle.

“Well, Cameron asked, too.” Neil said, and a chorus of mumbled protests rang out - I found myself groaning something light, for the red-headed bastard were nothing but a stuck up prissy, and I liked nothing about him. “Anyone mind including him?” 

I could practically hear the silent ‘Yes’ of the boys’ disagreement, as they sighed once more, and they remained true to the quiet. “What’s his specialty, bootlicking?” Charlie scoffed, lighting his cigarette once more. 

“C’mon,” Neil tried. Always the kinder soul. “He’s your roommate.” 

Charlie let out a breathy laugh, “That’s not my fault.” he said. And I did feel a little sorry for him, at times, for - indeed - Richard Cameron was his roommate, and the pair got on like butter in a sock. 

In other words; they didn’t. 

I grinned, riddled with slight amusement, for I knew Charlie held a special kind of talent for pissing Cameron off. He - regularly, you understand - played his saxophone, at all hours of the night. Only loud enough to disturb Richard, of course, but it was persistently frustrating for the ginger lad, nonetheless. Charlie would often steal his clothing, amidst his showers, and force the poor boy to return to his room in nothing but a towel - all kinds of impractical things, that I, for one, found utterly hilarious, and the school board did not agree with. 

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Meeks spoke, “My name is Steven Meeks.” 

Glancing toward the newcomer, I smiled warmly, for he looked to be riddled with nerves, and shaken with anxiety. So fragile, did he seem. 

“Oh, this is Todd Anderson.” Neil introduced, spinning him around with a soft touch. He turned to face Meeks, a light blush dusting his cheeks, and he reached out - as though nervous, I had noticed - to shake his hand. 

Meeks shook it something small, “Nice to meet you.” He smiled, and let go of their grip.

“Nice to meet you.” Todd whispered, a tone so quiet, I almost missed it. He seemed polite, kind, and softly spoken. His lips quivered with an affable smile, docile and modest, and he shared a curt glance with I, a nervous nod to be sent. 

I spoke quietly, though not quite as quiet as he, and I smiled, “I’m Jane.” I said, “Jane Darling.” 

“Hello.” He mumbled, that faint dust of pinkish hue to elope his complexion once more. 

“Charlie Dalton.” Charlie said, far louder than perhaps necessary (though I supposed it were just him, and that was that) with an azure of confidence radiating between his smirk. The boy, - Todd - he glanced with a curtly reigned frown, turning away with not but a word. The breath of a laugh slipped from my lips - for Charlie, his chaotic, messy, self, could seem so intimidating, so utterly confident, upon first glance - and I smiled with great amusement. His foot nudged my stomach lightly, and, upon glancing to his expression, I noticed a mockery of annoyance, ruined by his grin. 

Another amused giggle fell from me, and I rolled my eyes - a natural reaction, you see - as I turned to meet the introduction of Knox. He leaned up, an awkward kind of crouch, over the back of the wooden chair, and shook Todd’s hand. “I’m Knox Overstreet.” He smiled, with a subtle nod to follow. 

Overstreet fell back to rest within his chair, and Neil spoke with earnestness, although lightly uninterested upon the topic. “Todd’s brother was Jeffery Anderson.” He said, taking ahold of the cigarette Charlie had offered. 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Charlie said, as though the name dared to ring a bell. I knew not for this Jeffery, nor his brother, as he stood before us, scoping his luggage once again. “Valedictorian.” Charlie continued. “National merit scholar.” Oh, I thought, oh, it was that Anderson. 

Todd seemed to freeze slightly, his jaw drawn to a momentary clench, and I understood that such recognition were not of something unfamiliar to him. Meeks, his eyebrows raised, spoke with light teasing, “Ooh. Well,” he said, “Welcome to Hell-ton.” 

A silent, shy, laugh reciprocated the boy’s reply, as Charlie - once more - made the pass of another loud statement. “It’s every bit as tough as they say,” he said, a tone of nonchalance to occupy. “Unless you’re Jane. She’s…” He trailed, a ribbing grin, “Well, like I said; she’s just Jane. A genius, like Meeks.” 

I scoffed, swatting the boney shin of his leg, as he smirked something proud, and shot me a wink. “He excels in flattery, Todd,” I said, “Don’t mind him.” 

Meeks snickered, “Yeah,” he agreed, “That’s why I help him with Latin.” 

“And English,” I added, a mere mutter beneath my breath. 

“And Trig,” Charlie coughed, another light kick to my stomach, with that same teasing glint to those deep, chocolate, eyes. He had taken back the cigarette, inhaling a rather deep toke upon the stick, before offering it to myself. I took it, gulping in the toxins with a sense of normality, as I leaned myself back upon the edge of the luggage. 

A subtly sounded knock erupted from the opposing side of the wooden door, and I - reasonably so - found myself lightly panicking for the stick of illegal measures, wrapped within my fingers. I glanced to Charlie, a furrow upon my brows, and he took hold of the cigarette, maneuvering himself to extinguish the final few tokes of the lit thing. Neil, Charlie, and I, made an attempt to waft the smoke away; our hands batting the air somewhat foolishly. It would still smell, I thought, but I waved my hands anyway. 

“It’s open,” Neil called, as Charlie rose to his feet, the corpse of the hidden cigarette perched beneath his shiny shoe. 

The door opened, and an older man strode - masked by a great sense of authority - within the complex. “Father,” Neil all but spluttered, risen to a wobbly stand, “I thought you’d gone.” His gaze, it faltered, and a shine of something fearful riddled among his widened eyes. Mr Perry seemed stern, the kind of man whom found small talk to be his only communication, unless condescending, or belittling, and I didn’t quite like that. 

“Mr Perry - Sir.” the boys each greeted, rising to a respectful stand, among the thickening tension within the air. I remained perched upon the bed, merely smiling something small. 

The man nodded politely, tight lipped, with a grin of something powerful, and I found myself disliking the blankness behind his gaze, behind his eyes. “Keep your seats, fella’s,” He said, “keep your seats.” And so they did - Meeks, Knox, and Charlie, returning to their assigned seats, each somewhat displeased by the presence of the elder man. He glanced to myself, smile tightening distastefully, as mine only seemed to brighten - often, I enjoyed the act of making men squirm. “Miss Darling,” He said, a light bite to his tone, “I hope you are well.” 

“Very well, thank you, Mr Perry.” I replied, somewhat nonchalantly, somewhat bemusedly. 

“Good.” He said, gaze to flutter upon my frame - scrutinizing, with a sense of uncomfortability. My smile, it fell to a smirk, for I found great fondness among his displeasure. “Neil,” He continued, attention returning once more to his son, of whom stood, nervously, with a furrow in his brows. “I’ve just spoken to Mr Nolan.” He said, “I think that you’re taking too many extracurricular activities this semester, and I’ve decided that you should drop the school annual.” 

I shifted my gaze, prominent with a frown, to meet the angered stare of Charlie, who merely sighed, a shake to his head. ‘Is he serious?’ I mouthed, somewhat silent among my breathing. The boy shrugged, nodding slightly in response. Unfortunately, his glare seemed to utter, and I found my scowl deepening. “But I’m the assistant editor, this year.” Neil attempted to reason, a glaze of solemn hurt, so potent, upon his features. 

Mr Perry, a glance of perfect nonchalance, said: “Well, I’m sorry, Neil.” With not but a flicker of apathy. No, I thought, you’re not. 

Neil tried again, “But - Father - I can’t! It wouldn’t be fair-” 

“Fella’s,” Mr Perry interjected, a great wash of impatience to succumb to his expression, “Would you excuse us for a moment?” 

There were a sudden gloom that hung about the air, thicker than the smoke that fell from our throats, as we smoked our cigarettes, and basked in the little freedom we could. Neil glanced, a sheepish kind of look, from his left, to his right - to nothing in particular, I could only assume - and the gentle thud of his Father’s footsteps were to be the only disrupance. I dared to spare another sharp exchange with Charlie, his jaw set, teeth clenched. He watched, deep orbs conflicted with a burning - obvious - distaste, as Mr Perry paused at the doorway, and Neil stuttered in his walk. 

The boy left, and the smile his Father gave - perhaps something of reassurance, though I paid it no mind - were of nothing partially kind; tight, and thin-lipped. Charlie did not smile back, he glared, though something slightly softer, and awaited the retreat of Mr Perry’s moving figure. 

A breath of silence dared to pass, and I wondered - perhaps selfishly, perhaps ignorantly - if this were how it felt to be a witness, and not a receiver. For I had never known the way it felt, to listen in upon hushed whispers of angered disputes, and the stumbled reply of someone ferociously terrified. It were usually I, whom stuttered my response, and cried silent tears, as the strike of powerful palms caressed the worn complexion of my cheek. Often, it stung. Though each time, less than the rest. 

I found myself tracing the flush of my cheek - absentmindedly, you understand - with a gaze fallen to the floor. For although I were certainly glad that the bruises had healed, and the scabs didn’t leave scars, my conscience often recalled such moments, of inner battles, and of physical aches, upon the most wretched of times. 

The summer was dreadful - as it had always seemed to be - and I held no doubt that the next break - Winter, I supposed - would be much the same. I dreaded it all, just as well. For who was I to defy the mighty hand of a man who’d taught me nothing but pain? I knew not how to love, but to hate - Oh, I could hate with great excellence. 

“That guy’s a real jerk-off.” Charlie sighed, a mumble beneath his breath. 

I smiled something small, saddened, “Yeah,” I said, “I wouldn’t invite him to tea, that’s for sure.” 

He snorted, a toothy grin to follow, “Give it to him cold.” he suggested, leaning back among the pillows once more, his legs dangling - an awkward angle, surely - up off the side of the mattress. “Or leave some mushed up cookies at the bottom.” He had a nice smile, I cared to notice; bright, straight, teeth, with a perfectly even set - he looked, silly as it may seem, rather pretty, when he smiled. A true smile, however, not a smirk. His smirk were mischievous - older - and his smile withheld the youth he often projected. 

“Too hot, maybe - burn his tongue.” I shrugged. “Though I’m doubtful he’d ever return my invite.” 

“No,” Charlie sighed, “No, he wouldn’t.” 

“It’s a shame, really,” I said, turning back to gaze upon the floor, a breath of faux despair dissolving upon my tongue, and I smiled. “I make a wonderful tea.” 

“More of a liquor kinda guy, really.” He muttered, a shrug of faint amusement. “Or a Hot Chocolate.” He added, a moment of nothingness to follow, “Wouldn’t be Christmas without one, y’know?” 

My grin merely heightened, for I knew the feeling all too well, and I nodded. “Of course.” I said, returning my gaze to lock with his bemused glint. “As long as you don’t make them with milk.” 

He frowned, scoffed, and spoke with a tone of great offence. “How else am I supposed to make it?” 

“With water!” I scoffed. Buffoon, I thought, and a disgusting one at that. To make his hot chocolate with milk - the audacity of the boy. “Hot water.” I then said, glancing to his scrunched expression - assuming that I, myself, withheld disgust much the same. “How’d you even heat up the milk?” I asked, another scrunch of distaste to follow. 

“Jesus fuck,” He breathed, “The same way you heat up water?” He said, an incredulous kind of tone to pepper his words. His eyes widened, a placid glaze of disbelief to flutter his features, and I merely shook my head. Oh, he seemed so pretty - and, now, all was ruined. 

“Disgraceful.” I muttered. 

“Me?” He mocked, “You’re the weirdo that likes hot-water-chocolate!” 

“You make it sound like a bad thing!” I defended. 

“It is a bad thing! A damn shame, too.” He scoffed, a roll of his eyes, “I was just beginning to like you.” His smirk came sly and it came teasing, and I found myself unable to withhold my own, the slip of a gentle giggle to fall along with it. 

“Only just?” I jeered, a fond kind of smile, “Well, shit, I better step up my game.” 

Charlie shot me a wink - again - and swung to his feet, standing with a sudden wobble, as he said: “I’d say the same for myself, but my game is simply…” He paused, he grinned, “Perfect.” He said. I scoffed, rolling my eyes; for yes, he was a flirt  - potentially the biggest flirt I had ever come to know, at that - but there was nothing perfect about him. Well, nothing but that smile, of course. 

“Yeah, alright, Dalton.” I said, the ascent to my feet something clumsy - as always, it should so seem - and I stumbled a few steps, bashing my shoulder upon the chest of the boy, himself. He let out a breathy grunt, clasping me - far gentler than I supposed I had expected - at my elbow, for I jerked myself away, and I found my footing solely. A natural reaction, I thought to reason, and I pretended not to notice the brief flash of concern, as it washed across his face. “We should check on Neil.” I mumbled, tone far quieter than I should have liked - addressing the silence of the other three boys. 

Todd glanced, - nervously, I noticed - with a quick kind of look, though returned to his luggage - a bag with nothing left to unpack - as though he were too busy to follow. Meeks merely nodded, Knox rising quietly from his position, and we wandered through the open doorway. 

Charlie, the first to step out, leaned upon the cream wall, smug with his uneven, classic, smirk. I found myself positioned ever-slightly behind him, shoulder rested against the back of his arm, and Knox stood, hands in his pockets, to the right of I. Neil stared forward, jaw set, though soft - as he always seemed to be - and he dropped back against the wall, his head bouncing lightly upon such contact. 

I frowned, silent within my thoughts, for although I wished to speak upon my concerns, I knew such would simply do nothing to help. “Why doesn’t he let you do what you want?” Charlie asked, brazen as ever. 

Helpful, Dalton, I scoffed, internally, real helpful. 

Neil turned to face us, an eyebrow raised, and his silence surely telling. “Yeah, Neil,” Knox added, a light tone of confidence to ooze between his words, “tell him off.” 

My eyes rolled gravely, the comment slipping from upon my tongue before I caught the chance to reel it in. “God,” I sighed, “That’s a terrible idea.” I muttered, a shake to my head, “Don’t listen to them, Neil.” 

Knox frowned, a glance of conflict to contort his handsome features, and he said: “Why? It couldn’t get any worse.” Oh, you fool, I thought - it could get so much worse. Of course it could. 

“You don’t know that.” I said, a little too sharp for my liking. I softened my tone, “It’s best to just take it - take it ‘til you’re free.” I glanced once to Neil, his eyes fluttered shut, and I added - quietly, with a gentle stare. “Not long, now.” 

There were a great beat of silence, a shake to his head, and the brunette returned his attention to the cream paint of the opposing wall, tone tender, tired. “Ten years is a lifetime.” He all but whispered, the slip of a crack to differentiate his tone. Something within my chest ached - a gentle squeeze, and my expression fell to a sympathetic furrow. 

“No, Neil,” I said, a smile of something reassuring flashed his way, “you’ve the rest of your life to enjoy, to feel free. Ten years? Ten years is nothing.” 

“It’s forever.” He mumbled, “I’ll be trapped forever.” 

Knox shrugged smally, “It’s your life, Neil. Your future. You do with it what you want, that’s the way it goes.”

A mocking, bitterly tasted, laugh fell from the boy’s tongue, his eyebrows raised; fixture of disbelief. “Oh, that’s rich!” He scoffed, and my chest ached once more, throbbing slightly, for the weight of things all too familiar. I had witnessed this scene many-a-time before - only I were Neil, and Neil were I. “Like you guy’s defy your parents?” He continued, a hint of frustration to lick upon his tone, “Mr Future Lawyer, and Mr Future Banker.” 

Charlie, another smug smirk slapped across his expression, said, with the breath of a laugh; “Okay, so I don’t like it any more than you do.” 

Neil sighed, falling back to rest his head against the wall. “Well- Just don’t tell me how to talk to my Father.” He said, a trailed gaze to meet us all, “You guys are the same way.” And surely right he was. To defy was - to put it rather dramatically, though not entirely impossible - to die. 

Knox let out a breathy, “Alright, alright, Jesus.” and Neil retracted his gaze, a glum grin to be shot my way. “So what are you gonna do, then?” He muttered, soft eyes laced with a thinly dispersed concern. 

He fluttered his eyes shut, once more, and sighed. “What I have to do,” he mumbled, “Drop the annual.” I frowned a little, unable to miss the thick layer of sadness, as it wove between his features. 

“Well,” Charlie began, “I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it.” 

I let out a breath, “Yeah,” I said, “It’s just a bunch of jerks trying to impress Nolan.” 

His laugh rang fake, and it fell from his lips with great force - I practically winced. “I don’t care.” He lied. “I don’t give a damn about any of it.” But oh, of all the blindest men - anyone could read his mistruth. 

There was a beat of silence, and I found myself reaching out, and placing a softly positioned hand upon the sleeve of his blazer, a curt squeeze of support - of companionship. “Well, uh,” Meeks stuttered, his breath a little warm upon the back of my neck. I flinched, be it only slight, from the sudden sensation, and bumped - once more, curse my soul - unto the frame of the Dalton boy himself. He merely raised an eyebrow, hand instinctively brushing upon my upper back, a stroke of miraculous comfort. I smiled, sheepishly, might I admit, and attempted to ignore the circular trail of his fingers upon the blazer, warped between my shoulder blades. “Latin?” Meeks offered, “Eight o’clock, tomorrow?” 

A round of agreement followed around - Neil expressing the loudest, as he passed between Knox and I, and made his way through the doorway of his room. 

“Todd,” The boy glanced up, fiddling with a small clock, and Meeks smiled, “You’re welcome to join us.” He offered, as Knox chimed in. 

“Yeah,” He said, “Come along, Pal.” 

Todd nodded, another shy movement, and he muttered a quiet: “Thanks.” And nothing more.

A breath left my lips, as the four remaining students - Meeks, Knox, Charlie, and I - turned away from the slowly closing door. I sighed, for I dreaded the condition to which Peter had left behind, upon his trail of Knightly destruction, and I wondered just what he had ruined, in the longer-than-necessary time he took, upon delivering mine own luggage to my dorm. “I’m gonna head back to my room.” I muttered, “Unpack, and all that.” 

I dared to notice the hand, rested - still - between my shoulder blades, as Charlie spoke, softer than he had all day. “Sure.” He mumbled, “Know how to get there from here?” I merely nodded, for I did; it were up the stairs, the first right upon landing, and five doors to the left. 

“See you in class, Jane,” Meeks smiled, a small wave to follow. I reciprocated, breathed a laugh. 

“Yeah, and don’t forget - you’re coming to that study group.” Charlie grinned, a subtle wink, as he patted my back - thrice, upon counting - and I began to wander the trek within the distilled hallway. Their echoing footsteps, retreating to their own rooms, I could merely assume, drowned to something of a silent aubade, as I ascended the stairs, my shoes tapping gently upon the polished wood. 

Perhaps, I thought, as I entered my hallway, and I strode to the oak of my door, this year could be better. Maybe it would be good, and not just fine. Shrug-worthy, would be a legible descriptive of past years - nothing but bland yearning, a great longing for freedom. Something tingled, deep within my bones, and I wondered if perhaps this year - maybe, just maybe - I would find it. The freedom, that is. 

It sounded so wonderful, looked so serene. I discovered myself longing for it, all over again. And, as I swung open the wooden panel, a large kind of smirk tattled upon my teeth, I decided that I would do everything I could to achieve it. I swerved, among the piles of strewn clothing, of broken picture frames, and of smashed bottles - of perfume, might I add, despite their forbiddency - and I sat upon the naked, unmade bed, smiling. I cared not for the mess, the disgusting and blatant, disrespect, in which my brother had inflicted upon the scene - for I, Jane Elizabeth Darling, grew warm; warm with a sense of fulfilling passion. 

This year would be different, I thought to myself; this year would be free. No longer was I Miss Darling, nor Peter - with a more feminine touch - Neither a future trophy wife, or a distraction amongst men - No. No, that year - beginning then, for if not then, when? - I was Jane. A bright, witty, independent, girl, with not but a man to influence her, and rag her around. 

“I am Jane.” I said, and I liked the way it tasted. 

[violetmoon-blacksun]

Hollowed by thy breath, fallen upon sacred crystallized souls. Voidless filled love.

Remember, the beating of your heart is not part of what was conceived as time. Reach for what the glades in the azure of solace, can only be thought, the whispers of a raw balance in honing the fluid flow of your veins, it is not a languish, for if life were to be something so intricate... Yet it is as malleable as the exactitude that you can not endearingly resign your body of water. The very ethereal knowledge that vibrant whimsical touch of a dimension entirely unknown in which was neither nor ever has upon material courage. Vast is the expense of cherished gemstones and this cathartic valley among misty conscious happens to be kindred. Does it seem... Adequate? Not to me. Because perserverance is the fabric in which these tides have swung inward. Such roots of rising ash and smothering love in the way that we breathe. Nourish the ever so changing mind, dissolve your notion that time is something alive. To be kept. For threads of fulfillment, the raging listless banter can only make for daintifully enormous depths of empty... Words.

Remnants of the most blissful moments. It begins in such a watchful clock. Even the smallest moment within the passing microns. It can be felt. But tender is the ferocious joy of a colorful life. Even under systematic entitlement. Dormant is the. Affinity of decadence

Walk through endlessly in the ever moving form of warmth, echoing the brilliance of empty matter in the willing. Remain for even if akin missives and restraining elation is a waning talent. Gentle is surpassing of the void. Breathe, it is a moment that can leave granted paradise once again. I shed so many a prideful tear for friends who have tried to find their longevity mastered. Rely on as if illustrious regards of darling soft green vibes. Did you not see? The yearning for the certainty of more, that the sky beyond is fully seizing invigorated permanent flow through our gilded heartbeat. Has this pulled you like the forest valleys and ponds of valour. Even the rustle of steep feathers is a collapse of peace. Jubilance suggest brazen attention of a startled... Muse. Stride in tepidly untouched waters. Soak in the ifrits of intoned chance. Seek the threshold of extravagance in the mystified sol. Mind the thoughts mined, extracted and then engraved. Right into manacles disbelief. Restore fragility in coalited hypernovaeic lore. Reminder of orchestral unrelience is the auburn of a hue into repetition and indicted redundancy. Wound the harsh anger into subliminal unconsciousness. So much that it is not only... A raw emotion it simply never was. Etiquette the silver lining, tug at the seams... What is found? Beyond the basics. What reigns?