Millennial Sisyphus keeps entering all the information from his resume into the web form, only for it to delete everything when he tries to move to the next page. He just goes back and types it all up again, over and over again, forever, and he never gets a job.
Millennial Tantalus has been promised that his unpaid internship will become a paid position as soon as the company has space for him. Every week he sees their new job posting. Every week he asks his boss if he can have a real job. The boss shrugs apologetically and says he’ll just have to make do with being paid in experience a little longer. He goes back and keeps working, over and over again, forever, and he never reaches the fruits of his labors.
Millennial Persephone can’t get a job without a degree, but because she had to take out loans to pay for college, she must spend 1/3 of her life working just to pay them off.
Millennial Cassandra’s title is Social Media Coordinator, she was hired to be the expert, but every time she tries to explain the problems in her company’s social media decisionmaking, the managers don’t listen…and end up hiring expensive PR flacks to repair the damage to their reputation when things blow up exactly as she predicted.
Millennial Medusa uses multiple shades of primer and opaque foundation to cover the scars snaking across her face, hiding the bruises, aligning the asymmetry in her broken nose and jaw. Red matte on the lips, green shimmer on the lids. Flawless liner on the first try. She’s had lots and lots of practice. She films her transformation in secret for all to see and learn, and again, men are turned to anonymous stone faces screaming in horror. “Liar!” “Witch!” “Take her swimming on the first date!” These words do not discourage her. These words are a challenge. GlamGorgonXx posts another video.
Millennial Prometheus uploads another PDF to his site. He’s lost track of the printing and edition of this textbook. He knows they just rearranged some of chapters then charge 150 dollars per copy, and the professor wrote the book himself. the ZIP fills uploads successfully, and he starts uploading the next one. He isn’t afraid of the potential lawsuit. knowledge shouldn’t held out of reach like this.
Millennial Circe screenshots all the lewd messages she gets from men on online dating sites and posts them on her very popular Instagram along with their pictures and usernames. When people accuse her of attempting to destroy their reputations, she insists she’s just revealing them for the pigs they truly are.
Millennial Odysseus is starting to suspect there’s something wrong with his GPS…
So I’ve been training this neural network to generate cookbook recipes by letting it look at tens of thousands of existing recipes.
The generated titles can get a bit odd.
There’s a creativity variable I can set when the network is generating new recipes, and when I set it low, it comes up with its best guess at the most quintessential recipe titles:
Cream Cheese Soup
Cream Of Sour Cream Cheese Soup
Chocolate Cake (Chocolate Cake)
Chocolate Chocolate Chocolate Cake
Chocolate Chicken Chicken Cake
Chocolate Chocolate Chocolate Chocolate Cake
Chocolate Chips
Chocolate Chips With Chocolate ChipsWhen I tell it to get creative, things get even weirder.
Beef Soup With Swamp Peef And Cheese
Chocolate Chops & Chocolate Chips
Crimm Grunk Garlic Cleas
Beasy Mist
Export Bean Spoons In Pie-Shell, Top If Spoon and Whip The Mustard
Chocolate Pickle Sauce
Whole Chicken Cookies
Salmon Beef Style Chicken Bottom
Star *
Cover Meats
Out Of Meat
Completely Meat Circle
Completely Meat Chocolate Pie
Cabbage Pot Cookies
Artichoke Gelatin Dogs
Crockpot Cold WaterTag yourself, I’m Completely Meat Circle.
I’m Chocolate Chops & Chocolate Chips
i’m Chocolate Chicken Chicken Cake
When I asked her to pull my hair, she’d looked momentarily confused, but then grinned—she was a switch after all—and happily, skillfully obliged. I responded like I always do, with a gasp-sigh of pleasure, melting into her grip, kissing her back forcefully.
“I can’t take you seriously as a top if I’m pulling your hair,” she told me laughingly when we came up for air.
I cocked an eyebrow at her. “You’ve got to be kidding me, you’re switchy as shit!”
“Well, right, from scene to scene.” Here she rolled on top of me and kissed me, and I didn’t much mind the interruption. “But tonight you are definitely topping me—”
“And doing a damn fine job of it,” I teased.
“Damn fine,” she agreed. “But: if you’re supposed to be topping”—another sound kiss—“how’m I supposed to take you seriously”—she threaded her fingers through my hair—“when you ask me to do this?” She gripped and pulled, and I sighed in pleasure. “And when you react like that,” she added as an afterthought, smiling cheekily at me.
I suddenly realized how much I was going to enjoy wiping that smile off her face.
She stared at the post and bit down on her lip, staring at the screen as she could feel the heat calling her between her legs.
“You can do it… just… ignore it,” she whispered the words to herself, begging herself in a soft, weak voice.
Ignore the way that her fingers wanted to dip down into the slick, sensitives folds of her aching, wanting emptiness.
Ignore the way that she kept feeling herself, aching, hungering, wanting to feel that hot pulse of sensation coursing through her.
Touching herself meant giving in, surrendering, Obeying the words on the screen in front of her. It meant losing the bet. It meant losing pride.
But it was getting so very hard to do. To not think about the way that those words were just seeping down into her mind. The way that they spoke to her, reaching down into a deep, dark little place she tried to keep so dark and hidden.
They connected to her in a way that she never imagined possible, making her suddenly numbed feelings, desires go from their simple, dormant, oh so easily ignorable state into something far more.
Something so very much alive, like they were a pool frozen over inside of her, buried down in the dark, hidden away somewhere she didn’t think anyone would find them. And then His words came along, piercing like a glorious ray of hot, molten sunlight through the darkness, Melting the cold, hard shell over her wants, her hungers, her needs. An undeniable heat that part of her just so eagerly suckled down as it thrust upon her.
“Oh, god… Goddess… oooh…” she hissed out as she could feel it, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment, her back arching out as she clenched and pressed her thighs tightly together, trying to keep the hot, slick need inside of her from dribbling, flowing out.
Instead it only reminded her of how much it was getting to her. How much she was losing, how much she was just Giving In.
He had told her that she couldn’t do it, that she wouldn’t be able to make it. That she’d end up Surrendering to the way that the words reached through the screen and lit her mind on fire. He’d told her that they’d burn away her confidence, their heat, melting it away into a dribbling, dripping little mess, flowing down, out of her.
He’d told her how they’d glisten, slick and shining as they formed a pool of hot, wet, Needing Desire. A surface of sweet, intoxicating Want that drew every sense to it. That made her self-control turn into a bubbling, dripping pour of white hot molten metal, reduced to nothing as she could feel the way her thoughts were burned away like useless slag.
“Nnnn…” she moaned. A burning, boiling sensual sound, like a siren’s call born deep down inside of her, from that quivering emptiness within that she could feel just growing with every breath, every pulsing moment, every beat of her heart.
She could practically hear his voice as she continued staring at the screen, her fingers creeping down, stroking, touching, caressing against the soft flesh of her inner thigh.
“You’re going to lose. Bit by bit, you’re going to feel the heat taking over. You’re going to try to ignore it at first, ignore the churning, pulsing, wanting sensation that you can feel building up, every breath, every shift, every beat of your heart.”
She wanted to touch herself, to caress herself, the feelings burning through her like nothing she ever imagined. But, she had to fight it, had stay strong…
“You’re going to try and not think about the swelling pulse of deep, impossibly powerful sensations growing up inside of you, the way you can practically feel how I’m reaching inside of you, connecting to some deep, secret part of who you really are, past all the lies, past all your defenses.”
She couldn’t just Give In. No matter how good, how wonderful, how amazing it felt, she couldn’t just Surrender to the things she wanted.
“And as those sensations course through you, it will be like you had been numbed all your life, like you were a beautiful crimson rose, full of passion, desire, sweet, elegant little curves waiting, begging to be touched, claimed, Owned, but you were instead frozen in a block of ancient, impossible cold ice.”
Oh, gods, why couldn’t she touch herself? All she could do was teas just around it, just away from it. She was being held back from going any closer, held back from pulling away, all she could do was helplessly continue stoking the sensations, the fires, the wants inside of her.
“Leaving you wanting, hungering to be found deep down in the depths of everything else you thought you’d be. Until you could feel the way I just brought a piercing ray of pure, impossibly bright connection down straight into the heart of your depths. A wonderfully intense sensation of sudden, erupting sensations that made you Feel for the first time you can ever really remember.”
She whined, helplessly, weakly, like a defenseless, weak little kitten, her voice dripping melodically with an impossibly desperate Want.
“And upon that frozen pedestal, for the first time, the flowing drops of melting cold grew warm, flowing, trickling down, slick and glistening as the sweet heat of that connection penetrated into the depths of your icy prison. Warming you, awakening you to the sense of almost serene light illuminating the depths of your core, melting away the cold numbness, burning away the empty cold, leaving you desperately, hungering, Needing that first touch to claim you.”
And she needed it, hungering, begging wordlessly to be claimed, to be taken to be Owned like that beautiful little flower.
Her mind was slick, melted, dripping down out of her, she just needed, hungered for, ached for his words.
To see them, hear them, Feel them pouring into her.
Touching her, caressing her, Melting and Controlling her.
She needed it in so many desperate ways she couldn’t begin to imagine.
She just had to Give In. Surrender. Submit.
And she could feel the bucking rush of pleasure that rewarded her when she did.
“I want to fuck you,” is high on my list of favorite phrases. It’s right up there next to “I’m going to fuck you,” although I use them in very different ways.
The first is something I put off as long as I can just to savor the flavor of the words in my mouth, and it works best when we have never so much as kissed. It lingers in the back of my throat as we talk and drink or dance so closely that you already know. I open my mouth a hundred times, but always hold back, not out of fear or doubt, but simply because the waiting is so delicious. My lips against your ear, my fingers through your hair, and my hands on your hips as we stand in the same space all speak it before I do.
And then I pull back, letting the temperature drop for just a moment because it’s a phrase that needs space. It needs a hint of distance before it can be closed in an instance, my mouth against your neck, as the words come out as if on their own. Unruly and wanting.
“I want to fuck you,” I finally whisper, and then we’re out on the street, frantic for any hint of privacy so we might accomplish our task.
With the other, it’s nearly the reverse. The statement comes first and the waiting comes after. When we met in the park on a Sunday, they were the first words whispered in your ear as we embraced.
“I’m going to fuck you,” I said, before stepping back with a smile.
I could feel your knees tremble for just a moment, and in an instant, our afternoon became something else. Our walk through the rose garden and our break for a drink at the Boathouse were laden with expectation. I whispered it over and over again until it was no longer a plan but an inevitability.
By the time we found an arch, so quiet and dark right at dusk, we couldn’t wait a moment longer. Your legs around me, my hands grabbing your hips and ass as I thrust into you, and our wordless fuck beneath the stone bridge were the rewards for our hours of anticipation.
Either way, we wait, and either way, I feel the weight of the words in my chest and my gut. I try them silently to myself, I hold them in my mouth, rolling them over on my tongue, and then, when there is simply no other choice, I let them go.
I want to fuck you.
I am going to fuck you.
-gny
(You can also buy me a coffee if you’d like to support my writing.)
“You have come so far so quickly and I want you to know how proud I am of you. Judging from the conversations I have had with your subconscious mind though, I know you are still interested in going deeper and exploring more. I know you don’t remember what was said, and I know that you came back here tonight to be broken and bent even further to my will.”
Her nostrils flared at the comment and a familiar warmth that moved through her body at the thought of the ways he would break her. She loved it when he would take charge like this. She had always known she was submissive, but had only recently discovered just what that meant. She cast her eyes downward, unable to continue meeting his gaze and in a quiet voice that betrayed both her shyness and her arousal she said “Yes sir. If that is what you want.”
“It is what I want, and you’re a good girl for that, but what you really need to learn is that this is exactly what you want too.”
She melted at his praise and felt herself swoon as he placed his fingers under her chin and slowly brought her line of sight back up to his beautiful and captivating eyes. Eyes she had fallen into so many times before. Each time they trapped her gaze she fell quicker and deeper than the time before. From that first night where she had agreed to let him hypnotize her to the countless nights thereafter, every time she found herself sinking deeper and deeper into his control.
Her eyes were locked onto his and she felt his will moving from his mind into hers through her open eyes. She felt herself freeze in place, helpless to stop what had just started. The longer she stared the deeper the tendrils of his control would seep into her brain taking over more and more. It felt like a physical force that moved inside of her. She could feel it infect the front of her head and then push slowly but inexorably to the back of her skull.
She felt the familiar and wonderful sensations of both sinking and floating in his control. She felt the last bit of her conscious mind moving into her safe and secure box inside of her head. The one that let her watch as a passive observer while his words controlled her body like a marionette. She was comfortable and safe inside of the box deep inside of her mind and she didn’t even register the sound when his voice began to speak. Her imagination went to work to create the comfortable sanctuary that they had built for her conscious mind to inhabit while he played with the portions of her will that she had surrendered to his control. There were two versions of herself now. Her body in the real world that had already surrendered itself to his control and her conscious mind sitting in a comfortable chair inside of the box in her mind.
In her private sanctuary she looked to her right. Next to her as always was the emergency release button. The one that he had installed that would let her quickly take control of her body and mind as soon as she pressed it. She had used it once at his direction in the beginning and was amazed at how quickly it brought her from deeply hypnotized to wide awake. Since that point, she had never felt the desire to use it and had reveled in all of the new experiences she had serving her hypnotic master.
In the real world, her body remained in its position, frozen in his gaze as her heart pounded and her breath came in quick and shallow gasps. She felt, rather than heard, his words as they washed over her entire body and slowly penetrating her to her core. From her safe and secure box her conscious mind was overtaken by the sensations of her body and she was subsumed by the excitement, anticipation and desperation that it felt. As she succumbed to the deep and relaxing trance she felt the slight and involuntary muscle twitches that only served to remind her how disconnected her mind and body had become. As he continued to speak, she felt herself surrender even more. She was floating in his control, but distantly she knew that her body was removing all of the clothing that she had been wearing in a slow and clumsy attempt to disrobe.
She was lost in his eyes, even as she watched from her vantage point deep inside of her own mind. She saw his gorgeous irises and her sleepy mind could still register his smile at her uncoordinated attempt to expose her body to him. Her fumbling fingers moved to unbutton, unzip, unfasten and strip each and every garment before she found herself sitting completely naked in the chair before him, never breaking the connection between their eyes and falling deeper and deeper under his control with every passing second.
Her conscious mind was stuck inside of the comfortable and secure box of observation in her brain and thought back to her initial embarrassment she had felt when she first displayed her naked body for him. She remembered how at first her shame had prevented her from letting herself submit to his control and enjoy her submissive nature. She smiled as she thought of the freedom and joy she felt the first time he had melted her mind and left her a frozen and naked statue on display for his enjoyment.
Her body felt itself moving to pull her knees up and draw her legs apart as she sat in a chair with her sex wantonly on display with her limbs spread. Her body was held in place by the unbreakable bonds created by his seductive words. The situation left both her mind and body begging for release and desperately on the edge.
She felt, rather than heard his voice when it penetrated into her small sanctuary and she looked to her left and saw a new button. Somehow she knew that this button would allow her to surrender all control and become a completely mindless and obedient slave to his commands.
Time seemed to stand still as the sensation of helpless obedience and submission that she felt in giving her body allowed his words to seep into her conscious mind from her helpless body and she felt the inside of the small confines of her sanctuary starting to crumble as she was desperately holding onto the last vestiges of her will.
She felt her hands being drawn out, both in the real world, and in her tiny imaginary box. Her arms spread out to each side in the real world and in her mind. She felt her hands hovering over each of the buttons in her mind and floating in the real world. She finally registered his words as they told her “Tell me what you want.”
“I want to submit” the words came to her without thought, but as much as they scared her she couldn’t deny their truth. As soon as she spoke that response she felt the buttons in her mind moving closer together and her hands following. They floated through the air closer and closer together bringing themselves to rest on top of each other and hovering tantalizingly close to her clit. Over and over she repeated her mantra. “I want to submit. I want to submit. I want to submit. I want to submit. I want to submit. I want to submit. I want to submit.” The words sunk deeper and deeper making her desperately horny and desperate to obey.
Her hands stayed in place over her unbelievably wet pussy in the real world, and in her mind they hovered over a single trigger as the button to submit and the button to break out of control merged together. She lost every thought other than that of obedience and surrender and waited for permission to do what she know he wanted. She was leaking in excitement and desperate for the relief that would be granted when she submitted.
He told her to press the button in her mind and when she pushed that single combined button she found her mind rapidly rush into a reality that found her body wantonly on display for his enjoyment, and unbelievably wet and yearning for stimulation. She was stuck in place with her hands hovering above her pussy and felt all of the shame she had always felt that prevented her from masturbating in front of him build up inside of herself.
“Tell me what you want.” He said again.
She felt her shame slip away as she looked him in the eyes and said “I want to submit” and felt her hands succumbing to gravity and lowering themselves towards her clit as she pressed the button again in her mind.
The second her hands made contact, her world exploded and her mind went blank. She had pressed the button that gave up every bit of control and thought in order to have the most amazing orgasm of her entire life, and in the process she had admitted that she wanted to give him complete and total control. She heard her own voice screaming and felt it pierce through the fog of her surrender.
Her pleasure increased to heights previously unimaginable as she realized she couldn’t even control her reaction to what her own hands did at his command. “Yes sir! Yes Sir! Yes SIR! YES SIR! YES SIR!!!!! I WANT TO SUBMIT PLEASE LET ME SUBMIT TO YOUR CONTROL SIR!!!!” she heard herself agreeing to whatever he said and knowing it didn’t matter at this point because she had already given up total control. She came harder than she had ever come in her life because she was cumming at his command on display for his enjoyment.
From that point forward, she found she was completely incapable of touching herself without doing it for his enjoyment. She either had to be in his company or she had to film it and send it to him if she wanted to touch her desperately submissive pussy. At first, she had tried to privately satisfy her desires while fantasizing about what he had done to her, but she found that her hands were completely and totally incapable of touching herself without being filmed. She would relive her recollection of her enslavement over and over again as her hand would hover over her pussy but she would never be able to touch until she finally found herself so desperate that she succumbed to his desires and filmed herself playing with what she had willingly given over to him. Without fail, every time she did it she came harder than she could believe in surrender to his control. There were days when she sent him video after video of herself masturbating and sinking deeper and deeper into submission and slavery.
my problem with the ‘harry becomes lord of 2/¾/5 ancient noble houses’ trope is so unbelievably petty because its that fic writers don’t take it to the potential extreme. like, okay, you wanna make harry the bossest of bitches i get that, i understand, i have that urge too from time to time, but c’mon, be a little more creative about it please
so how about a fic where harry goes to gringotts after the fighting is all over to try to make peace with the goblin nation because this boy does not need more problems and after much hostility and some groveling and promises of future payments for damages caused a plucky goblin lass comes and shuffles harry into her tiny cube office to discuss the nature of his financial situation
(this is a grave insult among goblins. getting handled by a female, first of all, because they are supposedly less capable bankers, hello misogyny among other species, and because they consider anyone who needs help with his money to be lower than cave scum. harry doesn’t know about his. and if he did, he wouldn’t care because he does, desperately, need help)
and plucky goblin lass (who we will call PGL for short) brings out this MASSIVE tome of parchment and slams it down on her desk. a cloud of dust rises. harry sneezes and gets a terrible feeling. some of the parchment is mildewing. the stack is taller than his hand is wide. this can only end badly
PGL tells him that he’ll need to read the entire book to fully comprehend the new scope of his property and harry kind of weakly says “what??”
and it turns out that heyo, when the death eaters swore to follow voldemort with all their lives and souls and magic in their little racist hearts they actually swore a modified liege lord oath which also has the coincidental side effect of ceding all titles (and property connected to said titles) held to the lord in question too. haha how funny who knew
and that’s an ongoing thing. so voldemort was the de facto head of two dozen magical houses at the beginning of the war and he just picked up more as he gained more followers and he probably could have just voted himself and his crew into every position of the government and run the country like that if he cared to do it but voldemort was not about dat political life. he wanted change and he wanted it now. he wanted to MAKE
AMERICAMAGICAL BRITAIN GREAT AGAIN. so he started a civil war and just never informed his loyal death eaters of that little fact because they didn’t need to know.and you might think that gringotts vaults are tied into bloodlines but they’re really not. the malfoy family vault belongs to whoever is the current head of the malfoy family. normally, that’s a malfoy and his malfoy spawn becomes the next head and so it passes through the family, accumulating inherited wealth. it was a working system until voldemort got involved and exploited the ever-living hell out of it.
now this all becomes harry’s problem because it turns out that Right of Conquest is an actual thing. what was voldemort’s is now his and voldemort has has the time to accumulate A Metric Fuck Ton of stuff.
also connected to titles are votes in the wizengamot. and whoo boy, this is where harry’s problem becomes really really really problematic. because the noble families squabble over those votes like children, hoarding them and passing them down, occasionally trading them for advantageous marriages and such, but mostly jealously guarding them like the politcal gold they are. it’s such a bitterly tight-fisted market that any one family has ~maybe~ three or four votes.
and now harry bloody potter has a hundred of the things and a completely unintentional stranglehold on the government. whoops
and then hermione would shotput harry straight into the wizengamot against his protests and things would become so hilarious i just
some jerkass attempts to increase his own salary for doing basically nothing
“how about no,” harry and his hundred votes say.
somebody attempts to tighten restrictions on where magical creatures like vampires and werewolves can work
“how about no.” harry crosses his arms. “actually, how about we repeal those bullshit laws already in place that make it almost impossible for werewolves to get a job right now, hmmmm? and how about we put something in place to catch abusive owners of house elves? and make sure they get paid? and vacation days? and healthcare? actually how about we get healthcare for EVERYBODY HOW ABOUT T H A T?”
ten generations of purebloods cry out in horror. look upon him ye mighty and despair.
the years after voldemort’s defeat don’t go down in history as The Golden Era. in fact, thanks to harry bloody potter (and some incessant nudging by hermione granger), they go down as The Decade of Frankly Astonishing Strides Toward Equality *cough* enforced by a semi-plutocracy.
(all thanks to a third tier plot never really explored by a would-be dictator YOU’RE ALL WELCOME)
Omg this is beautiful.
Harry as an accidental Lord Vetinari, oh my god.
Harry dealing with that all these pureblood families outright hate him. They were loyal to the Dark Lord, loyal to blood supremacy, loyal to their own enrichment and empowerment via the casting down of others, and now here’s Harry Potter, who opposes all of these things, who killed the Dark Lord and vanquished their dreams: their new Lord and Master.
And they can’t do anything about it because not only is it a binding magical contract but it’s their tradition, their law, their way of doing things, and they can’t attack Harry without shattering their own foundations in the process; they can’t even really convey their dislike of Harry because it would be disloyal to their own House.
So, all these pureblood wizards from old families who both hate Harry Potter and everything he stands for but also as a point of honor are perversely proud of him. He’s a wizard; he’s a half-blood, but he’s also the scion of a House of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and he’s a powerful and talented wizard who vanquished the greatest Dark Lord history has ever seen. And he’s the Head of a dozen great and ancient wizarding Houses, he’s their Head of House so to speak, and they tie themselves in knots trying to figure out how to feel about him.
And the ones who don’t have a noble House, but only have their votes in the Wizengamot that Harry Potter owns, and you just don’t throw tradition out and start casting votes on your own inclination, well, they aren’t honor-bound and pride-bound to claim and embrace him, but they make their social standing from copying the greater Houses, and when their betters are quietly and gracefully saying “he’s a chaos-minded tyrant, but he’s our chaos-minded tyrant,” well, they buck up and agree.
Harry Potter, unlike Voldemort, isn’t lashing out at random or threatening to kill their children, so it’s sort of an improvement in many ways, even as they want to scream and throw things over all his reforms.
And after all, the old Houses value power. And Harry, above all, has power.
He goes down in pure-blood history as the Tyrant. The most powerful Lord their family lines have ever known. The man who reshaped their world. Elderly wizards tell their great-grandchildren long after his death that “I knew the Tyrant.” “I beheld him when my father took me to the Wizengamot, and he spoke to me.” “When I went to Hogwarts, he gave a guest lecture.” This far removed, at the end of their lives, the details of his rule are forgotten, the overturnings of tradition lost to history, and he is remembered with pride, even with adoration.
Their Tyrant. Their Lord. Harry Potter, the Greatest Wizard that Ever Lived.
(There are pictures of Harry at Hogwarts, at the Ministry, at St. Mungo’s, outside the Auror Office and in front of the Minister’s Office and in the entrance hall to the Wizengamot and in both the entrance hall and the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts, and in every House he ruled. He wears stately robes and an impressive hat, gold jewelry, a beard (dark in some pictures, silver-shot in others, pure snowy white in still more, for he lived to be an old man himself, older than Dumbledore, older than Griselda Marchbanks, who lived to dance at his wedding), his glasses accentuating his brilliant green eyes, his scar more prominent in the pictures than it ever had been in life, surrounded with such trappings as the Sword of Gryffindor and the Elder Wand and a skull that purports to be that of Lord Voldemort.
Also at Hogwarts, in a back corridor next to a set of of dancing trolls and an overzealously combative knight, is a portrait commissioned by the executor of Harry Potter’s estate, in response to directions left in his will. This portrait depicts an eleven-year-old boy in brand-new wizard’s robes, with broken glasses and untidy hair that happens to cover his forehead. The portraits of his older selves go wrapped in the lofty dignity of the position he attained later in life; this child, filled with the untarnished wonder of the magical world, goes freely among the portraits with an anonymity Harry Potter never found in life, and loves it.)
GIVE ME THESE BOOKS.
HARRY POTTER AND THE ACCIDENTAL POLITICAL STRANGLEHOLD
IT GOT BETTER
“I’m going to grow a beard,” says Harry, looking through the mirror at about six days’ worth of stubble because in between Voldemort, the after-party, and the spectacular mess with the sociopolitical fallout of Voldemort’s downfall he hasn’t had time or energy to shave. “It might look more wizardly, eventually.”
Ron shrugs, eyeing Harry with what feels like an unusual sort of apathy. He’s spent the last six days kissing Hermione, and for the first time in several years there isn’t even a twinge of jealousy at his better-looking and more-famous best friend. “It might. Think Hermione’d like it if I grew a handlebar mustache?”
Harry says, diplomatically, “I think you should ask Hermione if she’d like that.”
“When she gets back.” Hermione’s in Australia, tracking down her parents and, presumably, explaining to two incendiarily furious Muggles why she rewrote their memories, sent them halfway around the world, and spent almost a year running through a war zone without them. Neither of them envy her the task. It also means that she hasn’t heard any of this; the Daily Prophet has suffered a truly impressive amount of magical vandalism in the past few days, much of it involving the sort of things that can be bought at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, and is taking a small hiatus while its staff writers and senior editors recover from the effects of multiple Bat Bogey Hexes per person.
Harry shrugs and turns away from the mirror. “So,” he says with some distaste. “Do I look like the Lord of seventeen Noble Houses?”
He doesn’t. He looks like a seventeen-year-old boy in a worn-out school robe made for someone several inches shorter and about ten kilos heavier, with wild hair that brushes his shoulders and what will perhaps someday be an impressive beard but currently looks like he’s forgotten to shave for several days. Ron thinks about the answer for a long moment. “Nope.”
Harry’s face splits into a relieved grin. “Oh, thank Merlin. I thought I was the only one who could see how much of a tosser I looked.”
“Nope. Plain as day.”
Harry looks one more time in the mirror, as though coming to a sort of peace with that he’ll probably never feel like a Lord. “Good,” is what he says.
–
That feeling lasts for all of a minute. Professor McGonagall intercepts him on the way down and drags him into her office, where she hands him a robe that hasn’t been dragged through multiple battles and a year-long camping trip, and a pair of shoes that aren’t falling apart. “I’m sure you don’t want any part of this, Harry, but you should try to look a bit more neat. It will show respect for your new position, which will make things a bit easier for you in the long run.
The shoes are leather, black, old-fashioned and fine. He has a moment’s thought of Dobby, polishing Lucius Malfoy’s boots in between being kicked, and bile rises in his throat. He puts the shoes on, and then the robe, which is not a school robe, but elegantly cut in some fine fabric, and it fits him. He finds himself standing up a bit straighter, and Professor McGonagall nods in approval. “That will do. Good luck, Mr. Potter.”
Another memory tickles at him, their conversation right after Dumbledore’s death, him declining to confide in her and her return to formality. “Harry,” he tells her.
“Harry,” she says, and gives him a hint of a smile.
–
The next person he runs into is Ginny, who runs up to him, hugs him, kisses him (Ron makes a coughing noise here, and is ignored), and steps back to look at him. “Don’t you look dashing,” she says, and Harry grins at her, feeling a bit more human. He wraps her up in a hug and is about to kiss her again when he’s hit about the head by a live chicken.
He lets go and flails about comically instead. Beside him, Ginny is doing the same thing, shoving the bird off him and in the direction of Ron, who is leaning against the wall guffawing. Ginny turns to yell down the hallway, “Just because you almost died doesn’t mean I won’t hex you!”
A pair of identical faces peek around the corner. “Good morning, dearest sister of mine!” Fred sings out, dramatically throwing one arm out towards the nearest sunlit window.
“Like our newest product?” George asks, coming up behind him; if they’re standing noticeably closer to each other than they would have done before, Harry doesn’t comment on it. He gets it.
“A chicken?” Harry asks, dubiously.
They both grin. “Not just any chicken,” says Fred.
“We started by improving our line of fake wands,” says George.
“So instead of rubber chickens and fish and parrots–”
“–They’d turn into real chickens–”
“–And squirrels–”
“–And ferrets,” George adds, and they all share a grin, knowing exactly who that particular fake wand is going to make its way to.
“But then we decided to go one further–”
“And make the spell triggered by kissing instead!”
Fred holds out what looks like a tiny, decorative egg. “We’re calling it the Cockblock, what do you think?”
Ginny smiles sweetly, though she’s toying with her wand in a way that has both brothers looking a tad wary. Then her smile turns full-on evil, and she says, “I think you should make a quill that turns into a really angry swan when someone uses it to write something untrue.”
Harry, sensing where she’s going with this, says, “Make it lime green.”
–
When he finally gets down to the Great Hall, Harry’s feeling a lot better about everything. It’s hard not to, with friends like he’s got.
The Great Hall is about two-thirds full. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner these days have all had their hours extended, to better serve the influx of families, refugees, repair workers, ministry officials and assorted others who have been in and out of Hogwarts quite a bit in the aftermath of battle.
As usual, all eyes turn to Harry as he comes in. As usual, several people detach themselves from their groups and conversations and start heading his way. As usual, he contemplates turning around and leaving rather than face an invasion of questions, requests, and unsolicited advice while he eats his French toast, but then he sees Draco Malfoy, hunched over a bowl of porridge with neither parents nor remaining sycophant in attendance, and with a polite smile to the converging adults and a silent astonishment at his own audacity he goes over and sits across from Draco.
Just as anticipated, everyone who wanted to talk to him finds themselves unwilling to interrupt somebody else’s conversation with him. At least if that somebody else is a Slytherin pureblood, and one of his new vassals.
Draco looks up. “Fuck do you want, my Lord?” Bitterness, underlaid with exhaustion, resignation, and months of despair.
Harry says, “Call me Potter, you tosspot.”
Draco’s lips twitch. Harry’s willing to bet it’s the closest thing to a smile to cross Draco’s face in months. But it’s gone almost instantly. “Can’t,” Draco says. “You’re my Head of House.”
“What, you didn’t have any problem disrespecting Snape last year.”
“Not that kind of Head of House. That’s just school. You’re head of my House, of the House of Malfoy, and that’s supposed to be my father!” This last is almost a snarl.
“And then you,” Harry reasons. “And then your kid.”
Draco nods. “And now it’s you instead, and you don’t give a shit for our traditions, or for blood, or for anything, and you look like you just escaped from Azkaban and I’ll bet somebody else chose that robe for you because you have the fashion sense of a coat rack.”
Harry giggles. Then he remembers he’s supposed to be eating breakfast here, and serves himself a slice of French toast from one of the platters. “Here I thought,” he says, looking at the traces of despair on Draco’s face, “that you were the one who just got out of Azkaban.”
Draco considers this. Harry pours his syrup and takes a bite while his longtime rival mulls this over. “Maybe, sort of,” Draco allows finally. “Still one prison to another.”
Harry frowns. That isn’t what he wants. Maybe for some of the nastier of Voldemort’s supporters, but for Draco? He casts about for something to offer that wouldn’t be rejected as empty comfort or held in contempt as though Harry were tossing him scraps.
“Maybe,” he repeats Draco’s word. At the other’s curious look, he says, “I could use someone to help me understand all this tradition and power I’ll be dealing with.” Draco looks at him, wary and yet obviously, keenly interested. Harry wonders when he got to be such an expert at reading Draco, who probably got actual lessons in not letting such things show.
Tradition, Harry thinks. Tradition, and power, or access to it. Influence. That’s what matters to pureblood Slytherins. That and lineage. He thinks back to the battle, to Draco’s mother lying to Voldemort in exchange for knowledge of her son’s survival; the image mingles momentarily with that of his own mother, standing before Voldemort, shielding him.
Family.
“For example,” Harry says, “If I adopt your firstborn as my heir to your House, do they become Head of it after me?”
The stunned widening of Draco’s eyes, the sudden blaze of naked hope, are shockingly intimate, and Harry almost nonchalantly busies himself pouring a cupful of orange juice.
“Yeah,” says Draco finally. "That … yeah.” A long, vaguely suspicious silence. “You’d do that?”
Harry nods. And feels like bursting with something like happiness when Draco straightens up, smiles genuinely, and says, “Well, then, you’ve got yourself an adviser. Have you considered growing a beard? Is that where you’re going with that?”
Harry nods, and is about to ask Draco’s advice on the matter when someone shrieks in the Entrance Hall.
“HARRY!” Hermione yells, standing in the doorway, rigid with shock but at the same time clearly missing a tension that’s been with her all year. “You’re a WHAT?!”
this is absolutely brilliant
@reesa-chan, a while ago you were talking about Lord Potter fanfic and I thought you’d enjoy this.
You’re awake.
You don’t know how, but you are. What time was it? It was dark. When did you go to bed? When did you actually fall asleep? How long had you been asleep? You stir, slowly beginning to move your limbs and sigh, but quickly realize–
You can’t move. Your brow furrows with effort as you struggle to move, to do anything, and a slight sense of panic begins to settle in. You finally open your eyes with great effort, though you’re not sure it was such a good idea.
Black tendrils, wrapped around your wrists and ankles, your arms and legs. Where were they coming from? You struggle to lift your head and see but your neck is being held down as well. Your breathing becomes more labored. Your vision is swimming, the shadows in your room appearing to be more and more tendrils drawing ever closer, but you know they’re not, they’re just a dream, just a dream, until one thin coil makes its way closer to your face, caresses your cheek with a gentleness you wouldn’t have imagined.
It was cold. It was real.
You let out a frightened gasp as you tug at your restraints as hard as you can, open your mouth to scream for help, or just in terror, but the tentacles only tighten, and one shushes you by covering your mouth. The words won’t come out. Your mind is racing at a million miles per hour with scrambled thoughts and worries and fears and then-
Shh, shh, it’s okay.
What? You freeze. You feel the lightest touches, almost ticklish, on and around your ears. One tentacle circles around your inner ear. As it draws closer, you begin to hear voices, voices upon voices, whispers and thoughts. You hear…thoughts. You FEEL thoughts, almost as if your own were being altered, changed. This was dangerous. No, silly. You’re just fine.
That thought. It wasn’t yours. Yes it was. You were just psyching yourself out. No you weren’t. You jerk involuntarily as a tendril burrows a little deeper in your ear. It’s ticklish. Your breathing is just fine, no more panic and fear, even though your mouth is covered by…
…What was it covered by? Nothing. You can breathe through your mouth again. You sigh. It was safe. Your limbs are still pulled apart, frozen, but you didn’t really need them. Yes. Everything was fine. You sigh again in relief. You had gotten all panicked for nothing. Nothing was wrong. Sometimes you just get a little jittery. You are fine. This is fine. Actually, it feels a little nice to be able to let go of your fears and relax your body. Something about struggling making everything so much worse, when the best decision is to unwind and ride it out. The tentacles are still holding you down and starting to slither around your body, but it’s not a scary or bad sensation. They’re actually kind of warm and pleasant feeling. The more they cover, the more they rub against your skin, the warmer and more pleasurable it feels. It feels nice.
The tentacles in and around your head start to rock you slowly from side to side as if to soothe and relax you. So silly. You were already as relaxed as you could be. Your ears feel hot, but not in a terrible way. They throb with a dull heat for some reason and–
Ohhh, hehe. Something in your head, around your ear was… Your head feels full and heavy. Your mind is a little fuzzy. You feel a smile spread across your lips without even meaning to smile. You laugh, giggle a little. It just felt so nice. Doesn’t it feel so nice? Yes. It feels…so nice… And oh…you were wrong…you ARE more relaxed now…when you don’t have to worry or think, or struggle, and just ride it…out. And let the thoughts come to you instead… When you just rid your mind of your own pesky thoughts, and let the voices, the whispers, the thoughts, the warm feelings, come to you instead… It just feels so pleasurable.
…..
.
You wake up with a start. You sit up in your bed and look around. What time was it? You shake your head a little, your ear feels ticklish and…off. Maybe you slept on your side weirdly. You get out of bed, and oddly, for no reason, check under the bed. Why did you do that? You laugh to yourself. Nope, no monsters under here.You feel like you had a weird dream, but you can’t remember it. Shame, it felt like it was an interesting dream. You shrug. No use trying to remember now. It’s better to just go with the flow. You scratch at your ear a little. Maybe you need to get someone to look at it later.
NB: @zanythoughts, the only person who’s ever inspired me to write Hogwarts fanfic, asked me to write a story to read for the hypno- “Hysterical Literature” panel at the recent Entranced hypnosis convention in Chicago… and to give some suggestions to take effect during the reading. Almost nobody, including @zanythoughts, had read the story before that panel (although it does include a character name from the one other piece of Hogwarts fanfic I’ve written, after we played last year…). I wanted to give @zanythoughts the experience of simultaneously feeling all RAAR and toppy and yet also uncontrollably compelled; I gave a few suggestions but the main one was to react very strongly to the word “helpless,” which appears a few times in the text. (Without revealing that the POV character was toppy, I asked @zanythoughts to think of all the associations that might come with the word “helpless” and amplify them, and then feel that very strongly whenever that word appeared.)
———-
“And then every time you re-cast it– Crucio, Crucio, Crucio– his whole body shivers really hard… right *here* between your thighs, you know?” Carrie Cacklewood recounted to the rapt crowd of Slytherin girls around her, gesturing vigorously and lewdly with her wand. They burst into knowing snickers.
Morgana Zayn smiled politely along with the other girls’ guffaws, but privately felt unimpressed by the gregarious seventh-year girl’s dirty joke. Morgana could appreciate sadism, but from the quiet moments she occasionally stole in bed at home, or while her roommates were in the shower in the mornings, she was pretty sure that agonized twitching wasn’t likely to ring her bell. There was definitely a rhythm and a pace that she liked, and she didn’t think a boy in the throes of torture was likely to accidentally hit on it. So, points for the complete moral depravity of Unforgivably Cursing a cute boy just to get yourself off, but in the end not very practical.
She shrugged, and started idly thinking about better ways to get off, as she wandered back towards her dorm room. Her roommates were, in fact, off doing other things at the moment, and not likely to return for more than an hour. She’d meant to sit down and work on her Potions homework, but one of the library books she’d borrowed for it had a really interesting section on herbs that caused compulsive physical sensations… All sorts of physical sensations. It might be fun to re-read that section and think more about the implications…
Years of low-key magical “practical joking” that the oldest Slytherins always told the entering youngest would “keep you kids on your toes” had her wand out almost before she registered the flash of movement behind her bed. "Petrificus Totalus!“ she yelled out as soon as she was pretty sure the movement was a person.
It was. He froze stiff, and fell over. There was a quiet crunch, as something probably broke in one of his pockets, and a musty smell escaped into the air.
Morgana walked around the side of the bed and blinked down at the intruder. Don Hardwick? Of *Gryffindor*?
“What are you doing in my room?”
Silly question. Of course he couldn’t answer, he was cursed motionless. Frozen.
Helpless.
Morgana licked her lips, and thought that word to herself again.
Helpless.
Why, she’d just been thinking about things she might do with a helpless boy. And here one had fallen right into her lap.
Well, he wasn’t exactly in her lap. Yet.
She narrowed her eyes. Judging by the way his robe seemed to be draping, though, he *was* happy to see her.
“Are you *hard*? Is this some sort of pervert thing, sneaking into a girls’ dorm? Is this what does it for you?” She bent down, and put a hand on his robe between his legs. Oh yes, definitely hard.
From here, his robe felt thinner than she’d ever noticed before. She could actually feel his pulse with her fingers, through the cloth, as his warm penis throbbed under her touch. Without thinking, she moved her fingertips around a bit, to test what she could feel. Of course, she could just lift his robe up…
It wasn’t like he could stop her. He was helpless.
Okay, she was feeling very distractible apparently. She took a breath, remembered her hand and picked it back up, took another breath. Well.
Why was he here? And what *should* she do with him?
Maybe he’d picked her room at random. They hadn’t ever interacted much in the past, and though he *was* cute, if he was harboring a secret thing for her, she didn’t know about it. Mostly she remembered him from their double Potions classes, where he was the main other student who seemed to be paying attention.
Her eye caught something on the floor underneath the fallen boy. One of his arms was pinned underneath his body where he’d fallen, and apparently he had been clutching something in his hand when she Petrified him. She could just see the corner of it peeking out from under his side. A book.
The Potions book she’d borrowed from the library.
She snorted. Of course, he was working on his Potions project too. And needed the book she’d already taken out, so he’d decided to steal it. Well, she could respect that. He might have made a proper Slytherin with that attitude.
Clever, a bit devious, not bad looking… her eyes roamed his motionless form a little more slowly this time. And, completely at her mercy. Helpless.
Was his crotch bulging even a little bit more than before? Oh, he *liked* this, did he?
Morgana straddled the helpless boy’s legs and leaned over his chest to look him in the frozen face from close up. "How do you suppose I should punish you for sneaking into my room, hm?“ She scooted forward, and her crotch pressed up against his. Oh. "Hmm?” she said more threateningly.
The scent of whatever had broken in his pocket was everywhere now. A little bitter, a little cloying and sweet. She had earlier just been reading about…
“Diligitis ardens? Is that what that smell is?” She yanked his robe off over his head, strode over to her desk, and dumped his pockets out. Little bits of broken glass and cork she could clean up later, from a vial filled with bright purple and red leaves.
Finely minced diligits ardens leaves were an important ingredient in some of the better love potions. According to the library book propping up the boy on her floor. But when the leaves were crushed instead of cut, they released a strong, distinctive bitter-cloying scent. That was a powerful aphrodisiac.
Well no *wonder* his robes were so…
Morgana turned around. He wasn’t wearing robes anymore; she’d thrown those on her desk. Lying on the floor by her bed, propped up by a library book, was a nearly naked boy with an enormous bulge in his underthings, sticking straight up. And with his body completely paralyzed.
Helpless.
Almost unconsciously, Morgana picked up one of the leaves of diligitis ardens from the broken vial on her desk, as she went back over to his petrified body. Her fingers methodically macerated the remains of the leaf as she walked. Bending over, she smeared the messy pulp all over his nose and mouth. The scent was definitely getting to her. But it would only serve him right to have it affect him worse.
She absentmindedly wiped her hand off on her robe, before shucking it off overhead and tossing it into a corner.
“I could do anything to you right now, you know,” she started, looking into his eyes. “And you’d deserve it, too. Breaking into another House– how did you even get in here, anyway? No, don’t answer that now, I’ll get it out of you later. Sneaking into a girls’ room. Stealing a library book. You’ve been very bad, haven’t you?”
She imagined that his eyes said yes. His eyes were trying to communicate something, anyway.
She pulled his underwear down his legs and tossed it aside. And his socks, too, for good measure. His wand was over with his robe on her desk, so he was pretty much as helpless as he could be right now.
“But I’m going to give you a choice, right now,” she went on, turning back to his motionless face. "I’d like to have some fun with that cock.“ She paused a moment, staring at it, and licked her lips. After a second, she recovered and turned back to his face. "Ah, If you let me do that, I won’t turn you in. And I think you might really want me to have my way with you, right now. So we’re going to see how much you want it. Do you want it bad enough to shake off some of the Petrify spell and blink your eyelids? If you agree to let me touch your cock, blink once for yes.”
Morgana held her hand next to his erect penis, just close enough that she could start to feel his body heat in her palm. She watched his eyes very carefully.
“If you don’t blink,” she murmured softly, “I’ll assume you don’t want me to touch your penis. Do you want me to touch your cock right now? Can you imagine what it will feel like, when my fingers wrap around your shaft? But I’ll only do it if you want it *so* badly that even being paralyzed can’t stop you from saying yes to me. Do you *need* to say yes to me, right now? I’ll only do it if you blink your eyes yes. Can you do that for me?”
Ever so slowly, his eyelids began to twitch downwards. When they were half closed, Morgana decided that was fair enough. She wrapped her fingers slowly but firmly around the girth of him, bit her lip, and smiled again up into that face. "Good boy.“
His skin was warm and soft, but precome was already dribbling down the length of his shaft, making it slippery and wet on one side. "Oh no, I don’t think so,” she murmured, and picked up her wand from the floor beside her. "Petrificus Coles,“ she incanted, tapping the head of his penis with her wand. His body part glowed briefly, all the way down to his balls, then stopped glowing as the spell set. "Sorry, bad boys who sneak into girls’ rooms to steal books don’t get to come. This is about what *I* get to enjoy.”
One hand still on his shaft, she leaned in close to his face again. "If you agree, blink once for yes.“
The blink was quicker this time.
"Very good boy.”
She turned her attention back to his cock. It was absolutely rigid and immobile now, frozen by her second Petrify curse, but she still thought she could feel it throb just a little when she rubbed her hand up and down the shaft. She wondered what that felt like for him, what it was doing to him. Petrify didn’t stop sensations, so surely he could feel her fingers sliding along his skin, even as he was helpless to do anything about it. Was it driving him crazy?
Did she care?
Tossing her own underthings onto the floor near his, she discovered that she was very, very wet. It’s just the diligitis ardens, she told herself. She could still smell it on her fingers, and the stronger scent of it from his face where she’d crushed the leaves. But whatever it was, there was no reason at all not to do something about it, right now.
No reason at all.
Scooting the book out from under him and setting it safely on her bed out of the way, Morgana straddled his body and crouched just over his statuelike member. "Since you don’t have any use for that thing right now, I’m going to use it for a bit.“ She bent lower, her lower lips almost touching the head of his cock. "If that’s all right with you, blink once for yes.”
He blinked almost before she was done speaking.
She settled herself onto him slowly, her pelvis pushing his penis down along the length of his own belly. His legs had been conveniently closed when she Petrified him, so it was easy for her to put a knee on either side of his body. Her lower lips molded around the base of his shaft, right in front of his balls, while the head of him was sandwiched between her belly and his.
She stared into his eyes and smiled. "Is that not what you expected? I think maybe you don’t get to be inside of me. But I can still enjoy this.“ She leaned back and rolled her hips forward until the head of his cock was just parting her labia. Oh yes. Right there.
"A lot.”After only a little wiggling, she found her rhythm, and this was much better than the Cruciatus Curse could possibly be. With every grind, the head of his paralyzed cock slid over her clit, and then back again between her labia, not quite inside her.
It must be agony for the poor boy.
The thought drove her faster.
“Mmm, my helpless boy,” she murmured as she rode his body. “How does it feel to be helpless? To have me using you? Is it very terrible? Ohhh… your rhythm is very good. Yeah, just like that. You can’t do anything right now, can you? Except lie there helpless and let me have my way with you. This is the *best*. I think it’s going to make me come. Do you want me to come on you, helpless boy? Do you?”
He blinked immediately. If only he could make a facial expression right now that wasn’t surprise.
She reached a hand down and wrapped it around his throat. She could do anything to him right now. So helpless.
“Yeah? You’re completely helpless. Totally at my mercy. Are you liking this?” she said, squeezing his throat just the tiniest bit.
She thought his eyes bulged a little. But he still blinked.
“Yeah? Do you want me to come on you, helpless boy?”
Blink.
“Do you want me to come on you, helpless boy?”
*Blink.*
“Do you want me to come on you, helpless boy?”
BLINK!
One hand reaching up to tease her own nipple and the other reaching down to rub some of the leaf mash more into his face and then sniff more of it herself, Morgana came hard on her helpless boy, helpless toy, helpless body, helpless cock, helpless thief who would know better than to steal from her again, wouldn’t he? Ohhh, this was sure to keep him from ever doing anything like this again, wasn’t it?
As the delicious shudders finished running through her body, Morgana glanced quickly at the old-school magic sundial her roommate kept by the window. She *still* had half an hour before any of her roommates had any chance of coming back.
“Do you want me to do that again?”
BLINK.
i made an aesthetic generator now you can discover urself
ghost queer. yes.
I got Dad Dad this is like fucking moon moon all over again
What the fuck is kaleidoscope memecore
i’ve always wanted to be a starbucks lolita
Black Hole Garbage.
Well I should’ve seen that coming.woodland goth… yes and yes
Feminine Skeleton. I mean, yeah basically my interests.
Soap Ghost
I got sewer gay, time to change my url
honey witch / crystal punk
Soft garbage/shimmer goth
storm goth/vintage memecore
forest goth lol
GEM MOM
Opulent hipster / kitsch farmer
Glam Abomination
Dream hippie. I can so live with this.
I apparently have a sort of Lizard Vintage chic.
