I Wanna Eff You Like a Masochistic Seagull: Chilly's Song

another epic of naval proportions

"honoring" the "works" "of" Chekhov, Rowling, "Meyer," Burgess, Dostoyevsky, Nabokov, Melville, "and" King

starring Bella and Edward and Renesmee and Chilly Barley and Jacob and Lasagna and Lotion and Strobe Light and special guest secret Dom/sub action

by Feisty Y. Beden, Philadelphic, and NelsonSmandela

celebetaed by Tim Gunn, of Bravo Television

EPIC A/N: Without your reckless and masochistic encouragement, we wouldn't be violating your eyes again with this horror. You have only yourselves to blame. We also want to thank you for voting to make us, officially, the worst writers in this monkeyfucking fandom. Have you read Stephen King's Carrie, or maybe you saw the movie with Sissy Spacek? No? If you have, just skip over this. If you haven't all you need to know is that Carrie is a skeered girl with a crazy mom who doesn't tell her anything about being a woman other than it's all shameful and she calls boobs "dirty pillows" and Carrie gets confused when she gets her period, and the girls in high school locker room, not having Facebook at that time, just throw tampons at her (yeah, like they'd admit to having one if you needed it, AND ALSO feminine hygiene products are motherfucking expensive; like they'd really waste their perfectly good tampons just to torment the weird naked girl bleeding from her vagina; like REALLY, the telekinesis I can believe, but the wanton wasting of expensive tampons: you just lost me, Stephen King—oh wait, I just remembered that I think they broke the tampon dispenser in the girls' room to get the tampons, but still, it's a waste of feminine hygiene product, Mr. King, and the wasting of finite feminine-hygiene resources is everyone's business) and then commit horrible girl-on-girl violence to her until she gets pigs' blood dumped on her at prom (oh, NOW you've heard of it), and then she kills everyone with her brain. Which is why higher education is not good for women. Because they will kill you. With their brain. On account of the bleeding from the vagina.

Disclaimer: It is our love of fanfic that compels us to mock it, and ourselves. Any similarities to persons real or imaginary or historical or sociopathic or your mom are purely coincidental.

Chekhov POV:
SORIN. Do you know, my boy, I like literary men. I once passionately desired two things: to marry, and to become an author. I have succeeded in neither. It must be pleasant to be even an insignificant author.

TREPLIEFF. [Listening] I hear footsteps! [He embraces his uncle] I cannot live without her; even the sound of her footsteps is music to me. I am madly happy. [He goes quickly to meet NINA, who comes in at that moment] My enchantress! My girl of dreams!

NINA. [Excitedly] It can't be that I am late? No, I am not late.

TREPLIEFF. [Kissing her hands] No, no, no!

NINA. I have been in a fever all day, I was so afraid my father would prevent my coming, but he and my stepmother have just gone driving. The sky is clear, the moon is rising. How I hurried to get here! How I urged my horse to go faster and faster!

Tim Gunn, Celebrity Beta POV: [coughs discreetly, waving his crisp linen pocket square to get Chekhov's attention, whispers]

Chekhov POV: Um, ahem, what? But is this not The Sea-gull? For it says so, right at the very top!

Tim Gunn, Celebrity Beta POV: I'm a connoisseur of your entire catalogue, Mr. Chekhov, but trust me, this isn't the audience you should be canvassing.

Chekhov POV: My mistake ... BRB, working on angst fic.

Chilly Barley POV:
As I stood under one of the showerheads in the boys' communal shower, I thought about how much I hated this school. I didn't even know why I went here. Technically I should have gone to the Rez school, especially since they'd proven that no Paleface or undead-extra-pasty Paleface was my parent on that humiliating talk show when I was a baby. I was 100% russet-skinned Native-American.

But then my dad had insisted on moving away from the Rez into Forks' school district. He was a weird guy, always doing stomach crunches whenever he wasn't looking new-moonily at the Palefaces and the undead Palefaces who lived next door. And the Paleface/undead Paleface daughter. Okay, I supposed Renesmee made the school worth it. Her tinkly laugh, her twirling and sparkling and perky Paleboobies were really ... oh, man. They were like two coconut-frosted cupcakes with pink jellybeans on them. I mean, I imagined. I mean, I hoped she had nipples like delicate pink jellybeans, not like big dark slices of pepperoni. But I'd accept her either way, because, well, that's how love worked. And as long as some sort of food flavor was present in the nipular area.

Today in math class, she'd tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I had a pencil. When she touched me, I saw beautiful pictures, pictures of her smiling face, and someone who looked like me, kind of, I mean, it was just a view from the back of long, swinging, proud Russet-American hair. So we—or she and this other long-haired Russet-American—were running in slow-motion down the beach at La Push, dressed inexplicably in handmade Amish finery. I just got all red—russet—in the face, I mean, russetter. Oh, her pretty little hands, tiny like ... like teaspoons ... and rain ... and ... oh, god. Oh god. Suddenly I felt a weird rushing of blood and a ... tightening, kind of really low down on my body. Kind of like in the dirty-boy-no-touchy area.

I rubbed the soap out of my eyes and let the hot jets of water run down my face. When I looked down, my russet netherpotato was flaring up like a crazy tuber one would top with marshmallows and brown sugar, as if I'd just put it in the microwave without using a fork, probably from Forks, to poke steam holes in it first. No matter how I much I tried to control my breathing, my netherpotato just kept expanding, unfurling like a fireworks snake, pointing straight up at the sky like it had just seen the Hindenburg burst into flame.

"Oh shit!" I cried out. "I think my dick is going to explode! Does anyone know how to defuse this thing? Oh god, help me! I don't want to die! I never even got to go to Pottery Barn!"

The other guys from my gym class stopped whipping towels at each other's asses heterosexually and ran to see what the commotion was all about. Maybe they would help. Maybe someone would fetch the school nurse. Maybe I wouldn't lose my penis.

"Clear-twatter's got a boner!" someone yelled, and everyone laughed and pointed. What was worse was that my no-no-bad-boy-piss-pole pointed right back at them, without my consent!

I tried to ignore the butchering of my mom's honorable last name. Boner? What the hell was a boner?

"Can you help me?" I asked, one hand on my delicate, throbbing rainstick, the other held out in supplication. "I ... might need my penis some day. OH MY GOD, I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" I shrieked simultaneously in Quileute and English and Elvish, my voice cracking.

"Clear-twatter doesn't know what a boner is!" Jessichael Newtonley announced, which sent the rest of the guys running over. "Look at him and his weird red dick!"

"It's not red; it's russet, you racist douchebags!" I yelled.

Before I knew what was happening, all the jock assholes were throwing stuff at me: bottles of lotion, boxes of tissues, even some tube socks.

"Rub one out! Rub one out! Rub one out!" they chanted like zombies. I collapsed into the corner of the shower, not caring that my bare terracotta ass was now touching the slimy, mildewed tile. My asscrack was already burning from the Athlete's Foot fungus there. Could one get Athlete's Asscrack? I shielded my head from the bottles and the oozing lotion they were now squirting on me, and they never once stopped yelling, "Rub one out! Rub one out!" And no one was helping me. My penis was going to explode like a Rez ceremonial bonfire, and they were pelting me with shit.

"What's going on here?" I heard Coach Cheney blow his whistle and shove boys aside. "What are you doing to him?" he demanded. "Clearwater!" he shouted at me, tossing over a washcloth. "Cover your peace pipe."

"I'm dying!" I gasped, staring blankly at the washcloth. "I'm going to lose my penis! Tell my mom ... tell her I love her."

And then I fainted, water continuing to fall on my prone body, my netherpotato still pointing at the ceiling like a rocket ready to go off.

Hedwig POV:
Well, now, that was quite a night. The night all my dreams finally came true. Years and months of surly silence, watching the beautiful Russian lab table brood and seethe and steep in sexy regret, witnessing his silent torment as cock after cold vampire cock thumped into his noble imported wooden, assbestos-covered surface, just wishing that I could be the one to whom he would turn. That I would be the one from whom he would seek solace. That my feathered thighs would be the ones between which he would seek his absolution for his former hatchety crimes against the wrinkly pawn-shop owner.

But no, the table hated himself too much to pursue a life (or an inanimate afterlife) with me. I had given up all hope. I had given up everything I could, but I couldn't stop the erotic dreams from penetrating my bird brain when I slept, much like I wanted his morning wood to penetrate my cloaca. Little did I know that I would, one fine evening, get my chance at happiness.

I had dozed off for a moment and was dreaming I was still in the owlery back at Hogwarts. It was pleasant—I could almost smell that tangy zip of owl shit and feel the crisp fall wind ruffle my feathers. I heard a mournful creaking sound, which I initially attributed to the Whomping Willow, but it was just that gorgeous, self-flagellating table again. In the moonlight it almost looked as if he were watching me, making eyes at me. Was it just a cruel trick of the night? It had been so long since I'd gotten my freaky nocturnal avian lovin' on that I almost thought my cloaca had completely fused shut or something. Shit, had the taxidermist even left my cloaca intact? If my wings hadn't been pinned up in this ridiculous position, I could probably have reached a couple of wing feathers down there to give myself a once-over, but, as per usual, sucks to be Hedwig.

The truth of it was, there was something deep and brooding and irresistible about that table. I wanted to know its sexy secrets. I mean, I knew about the post traumatic stress from the vampire cock, and how he had suffered through it for over three years, first when Emmett and Rosalie had shared this table, then Alice and Jasper, then finally Edward and Bella. I had never seen anything like it: that table was a vampire magnet, and the daily molestations would get anyone down. But even despite that, I thought there was some deeper, darker secret the table was hiding. Maybe if I could just get it drunk.

But then there's the age-old question: How the fuck do you get a Russian drunk? Aren't they born with forty-proof blood? Maybe a foreign kind of alcohol would do the trick? Then maybe, just maybe, I could get some. I mean. Fall in love.

My dear Harry—he was a wanker, but, by Dumbledore's anal lube, he was my wanker—had taught me a couple of spells, despite it being against the Ministry of Magic Ordinance something-or-other for the Prevention of Magic by Fowl No Matter How Majestic Said Fowl Might Be (that may or may not have been the actual name of the ordinance—Merlin's wrinkly ball-sac, I was an owl, not some asshole wizard solicitor). Anyway, I was feeling lonely and melancholy so I accio'ed my favorite boozy treat. Owls weren't supposed to have people food, but Harry sure liked to see me flying under the influence when he'd drunk-owl Cho Chang.

"Hey," I said in the direction of the table. "Tired of the generic Pledge the custodial staff gives you? Want someone else to polish you for a change?" He just grunted. I wasn't sure if he even spoke English, and my Russian was pretty rusty. Actually all the Russian I knew was from watching A Clockwork Orange with Harry when he was hopped up on crystal meth and wearing that gigantic Gryffindor lion codpiece. "Horrorshow?" I said. "Groodies?" Damnit, I remembered nothing. I just hooted a phrase or two from Beethoven's Ninth. I thought I heard the table creak and groan with something like desire.

When I magically popped the bottle of liquid courage open, the table perked up considerably, showcasing his woodliness. We passed the bottle back and forth, and then he seemed kind of hot, you know, with all those right angles and splinters and faint chemical aroma and those nicks on his underside from being thwacked daily by concrete, twitching vampire dick and also well-oiled from the Swan girl's effusive lady-spooge. He was even, gee, kind of beautiful. I did that thing where you lean in, blink rapidly (worked for that freaky Swan girl anyway), and then cough up the fur and bones of the rat you ate several hours prior. Yeah, I still had it. It was like riding a bicycle; I would never forget how to be seductive while regurgitating. Yeah, I'm sexy ... you want a piece of this? Oh, yeah. I glanced at his table-man-parts and gasped, silently, on the inside. Gosh, his table member seems so hugewill it fit? I hope he doesn't rip my cloaca in two.

Raskolnikov Table POV:
WTF, why am I all covered in feathers?

I couldn't remember a thing. Except ... maybe the owl fell over last night when we were drinking ... butterbeer? Was that what she called it? I never should have trusted that feathered floozy's unnatural beverage. I vowed to stick only to liquors distilled from potatoes, the way the Good Lord intended. What was it that the redeeming whore used to tell me? "Blessed are the tubers," spaketh the Lord, "for they produce the clear sunshine that brings truth, bad choices, and vomiting." Something like that.

I hope she's okay. Man, I wish I were closer to that hott little cherrywood lab table on the other side of the room. Yeah, I'd sure like to explore her knotholes. I bet she'd even open up her rear drawer for me, if you know what I'm saying.

I shook my tabletop clear, trying to stop seeing double. Behind my creepy reincarnated-axe-murderer eyelids embedded on the side of the table, I could have sworn I saw this nerdy kid with glasses on a tiny broom, or two of them, rather, and before I knew it, I was spewing wood pulp all over the classroom floor. I was quite sure I saw one tiny feather in the wood pulp, so fine and tiny that it must have come from the cloaca of some bird. What in the what now? Oh, my splitting tabletop.

Butterbeer. Never again.

Chilly Barley POV:
It was humiliating. They called my mom, and she came rumbling over in that shitty station wagon with the wood paneling. Like, just because we were Native Russet-American didn't mean we needed to have a car made of fucking wood, like, to commune with nature or whatever. Mom claimed it was genuine sequoia, but I had my doubts. When she got out of the car, Coach talked to her in a low voice, and I think he was checking out at least four, maybe five, of her six boobs. I couldn't hear him, but whatever he said made her face go white—I mean, pale russet. She pressed her lips so tightly together that they pretty much disappeared.

"Get in the car," she hissed, and I slid in, still goopy and lubed from all the stuff those boys had thrown at me.

I had to grab the dashboard to keep from getting a crotch full of gearshift.

Gearshift POV:
Holy shit! Those Quileute youngling balls almost hit me right in the face! Wait, no, I guess that was more my neck.

Chilly Barley POV:
"Mama?" I timidly asked once we'd sped away from the school.

"Do not EVEN," she said, clutching the wheel tightly.

I stared out the window for a bit, but then I got the courage to ask, "Why didn't you tell me, Mama?"

"You brought the white man's SIN upon your JUNK. I prayed and danced in my hand-beaded moccasins from Cost Plus World Market that this curse would not come upon your penis. I shook my rainstick and communed with the deer in the woods, and still this happened."

"But I don't understand, Mama," I whimpered as she continued to speed down the road, never looking at me.

"When we get home, you are going into the sweat lodge, and you are going to smoke up a lot of peyote. And you will pray for your spirit guide to show your penis the way of the semi-soft cheesedick."

"I don't want to, Mama," I said, fiddling with my long, swingy hair, which I'd plaited into many manly braids. The lube and lotion and crap actually made my hair really glossy, like a thoroughbred's coat. I made a mental note to stock up on the stuff the next time I was at a Walgreens.

"Why don't you just give me some smallpox-infested blankets?" she spat.

"Don't ... don't say that, Mama."

"Then you'll head straight for the sweat lodge."

"It's not even a proper sweat lodge. It's just a pup tent with a vaporizer and a heat lamp," I muttered. "And the peyote is, I think, oregano."

"Chilly Barley Ephraim Joaquin Running Brook Clearwater!" Mama shrieked, and from the tone in her voice I knew to shut my yapper. Even though the oregano wasn't even fresh, but dried. And bought in bulk from Costco.

Unearned-Angst-Trigger-Happy-Tissue-Warning Author A/N: So OMG, you guys, you all should get your tissues out. *TISSUE WARNING* because really I cried just doubleclicking on the Microsoft Word icon. Even Clippy looked kind of choked up as he formatted my margins. I typed through my tears until my cheeks burned from the salt. So GET YOUR TISSUES. I am SERIOUS.

Do you have your tissues? Are you sure? I mean, I'm not going to start until I'm sure all of you have your tissues. Okay.

Chilly Barley sobbed and sobbed. (OMG Do you have your tissues? I warned you! *TISSUE WARNING* HE'S, LIKE, CRYING! OMG I AM SNOT-SOBBING HERE.) He was so ashamed of what had happened at school, and his mother seemed upset with him, and also when he got home he discovered his pet fish floating upside down in his bowl. (*sobbing* I TOLD YOU.)

"Ruh-renesmee?" he said to the little dead fish. (OMG DID YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENED THERE? HE NAMED HIS FISH AFTER RENESMEE! BECAUSE HE LOVES HER! AND THEN THE FISH DIED! OMG OMG WEEPING *TISSUE WARNING*) He'd never admit it to anyone, but he had been in love with Renesmee Cullen since the day she'd tripped on the sidewalk in front of his house and dropped her ice cream cone. She was ... well it was hard to tell how old she was then, because she was a freaky human/vampire hybrid, but Chilly was about four, so she must have been around that age too, but with better teeth. She'd been wearing a Janie & Jack sailor-dress with a matching knit cardigan with little nautical anchors on it. (check my polyvore for outfits!1!)She cried and cried and cried (OMG I CAN'T STOP CRYING, CAN YOU?), and Chilly came out with an Eskimo Pie, and she'd said, "The proper term is Inuit Pie." He just loved her, but she never really looked at him even though they lived next door to each other.

Sometimes he watched her from the kitchen window as he helped his mom make dinner, and he'd chop onions and feel his eyes burn as tiny amounts of propanethiol S-oxide, which, coupled with the enzymes in the onion, emitted a passive sulfur compound. This passive sulfur compound, when mixed with the saline in his eyes, formed sulfuric acid. Tears would then seep uncontrollably from his eyes. (I AM OUT OF TISSUES. HE IS IN SO MUCH PAIN! *TISSUE WARNING*!)

Silver Volvo POV:
I wasn't even part of the story anymore, completely irrelevant in the sequel. I was alone, alone, alone. Even Rearview Mirror told me he wasn't any good for me. He said there was no point, so he was going to leave. He said, and I quote, "It will be as if I never existed." The next morning, when I woke up, he was gone.

Rearview Mirror POV:
It was time to get the hell out of Dodge—I mean, Volvo.

Silver Volvo POV:
[slow circling camera, watching trick-or-treaters]

[slow circling camera, watching the neighbors' grandkids arriving with Thanksgiving food fixins.]
*Existential angst*

[slow circling camera, watching snow and various non-denominational winter holiday celebrations]
*Wondering why any of these silly consumerist holidays even matter when Rearview Mirror has left me, woe, woe, woe*

Eventually I started drag racing, running red lights, refusing to yield when waiting to enter a traffic circle, not even bothering to wipe the bird shit off my windshield. A few times I drank regular instead of super plus gasoline, and I even applied an ill-chosen bumper sticker to my rear. I was hoping against hope that the thrill and danger from my irresponsible living would bring back Rearview's silent, seething disapproval.

But nothing worked.

Then one day I saw an old episode of "Knight Rider" where this evil car went flying off a cliff to his death, yelling, "Noooooooo!" I felt a rush of hope where previously there had been a vacuum of despair, not to be confused with the cheeseburger of pain that festered beneath my driver's seat.

Cliff-diving? Could I do it? Would Rearview Mirror care? If I died, would he come to my funeral?

Rearview Mirror POV:
So, Air Freshener texted me to let me know Silver Volvo had finally done it, that he had purposely plummeted off the edge of a cliff to his death. The last thing Air Freshener had heard was that Silver Volvo was on the way to the trash heap.

"Huh," I said, returning to my daiquiri while a hot girl in a bikini rubbed me down with Windex.

Tim Gunn, Celebrity Beta POV: I have to say, I like where this is going. The paneled-wood Americana station wagon gave it a faux bois idealism, and it's just stunning. Congratulations. I urge you to develop this further.

Uber-Goth-Wannabe Hack Writer POV:
A/N: Step aside. This story is seriously lacking in deep, dark darkness like the darkness of my soul and my black eyeliner and nails and Manic Panic and my lip ring OMG you poseurs. Let me show you how a professional works. BEHOLD THE DARKETY.

So then Edward found an innocent kitten with wide blue eyes hiding under the shrubbery he had clipped into a giant "666." He roared, laughing at the sad little kitten's attempts to hide her trembling little body. He picked up the kitten, which had an adorable little red bow around her neck, and tore into the tender flesh under the soft, soft fur. The kitten squealed, making a sound like a dying cat, except more miserable and dark, as Edward's vicious teeth ripped through the fur and the skin and the tendons and the muscles until the warm blood gushed into his mouth. He didn't wear a napkin around his neck or on his lap because he was badass and not a fucking napkin-using pussy. He wasn't afraid to get blood all over his tightly fitting sleeveless mesh shirt he had purchased from the International Male catalog. After he'd emptied the kitten of her life's blood, he tossed the carcass over his shoulder. The carcass made a dull thwacking sound as it hit a tree behind him, darkly.

He heard a whimper that sounded like a wee innocent kitten, but instead he found a beautiful girl with golden ringlets. "Have you seen my kitten, Mister?" she asked with wide blue eyes, that were even wider and bluer than the kitten's.

Edward sneered, threw his head back, and laughed cruelly. "I ate her face," he said, even though that wasn't technically what he'd done.

The little girl's face fell, and her eyes grew watery. "Mister, my dead parents gave me that kitten. It was the last thing they gave me before they died. I'm an orphan. Now I am all alone." She coughed pathetically a few times and added by way of apology, "I have tuberculosis."

Edward felt a strange draw toward this girl. He felt like he should protect her, but then he pushed that human-like impulse down, down, back into the churning bile and vampire blackness in his blackety black dark evil liquid-hot magma core. But he was cold, cold as ice, because he was Vampyre. He watched the little girl's lip tremble, and he put one cold finger against her lips. "Hush," he said in a soothing voice, and she relaxed a little, feeling safe.

"You're with me now," he said, smiling, but his eyes were dead and darkety dark like evil!

The girl shook her curls adorably, slipping her small hand into his, completely trusting.

Then Edward went all RAWR and DARK and CHOMP and ripped her head off, putting it on the end of his walking stick. He carried a walking stick only because it instilled fear when he impaled the heads of his most recent victims on it. The girl's glassy eyes stared back at him, but he was too busy slurping the fountain of blood coming out of the slender neck of the girl. He made animal sounds while he devoured her, sucking the marrow from her wee tiny innocent baby bones.

"What are you doing?" came a small, frightened, delicious-sounding voice. Edward had an immediate erection that actually ripped through his skinny-fit black jeans and black-on-black boxer-briefs (A/N: POLYVORE ON MY PROFILE!). No fabric could contain the dark serpent of his desire. She was here, the one he had been stalking like the PREDATOR he was, the dark, evil, erection-bursting-from-his-jeans PREDATOR. He didn't need to say her name OUT LOUD, because it sang inside his head constantly, and he silently mouthed it, pursing his lips and touching the tip of his blood-coated tongue against his impossibly hard alveolar ridge again and again and again. Bella, Bella, Bella, Bella.

"It is but my nature," he purred, drawing a rakish little mustache on his face with the neck blood of the little girl. He could see all of her pulsepoints, throbbing at the same rate as the Darkest Serpent of Desire. In his pants. I mean, recently exploded from his pants. They both throbbed to the tune of that Nightwish song everybody who is dark loves. Denim was no match for his aching, vampire cock. Nothing could contain his darkest, uncircumcised serpent, except perhaps some garment made from the skin of a fellow vampire. But that is some Jeffrey Dahmer shit, and even Edward found that a bit distasteful. In addition, he liked feeling his pants-python rip through the threads of feeble man-made clothing, the way it had torn through so many virgins' hymens, with only a whisper like the tearing of silk as he thrust into them as they screamed for more, screamed until he bit their necks, sucking them dry and engorging like a tick. A dead sexy, pale, dangerous tick. DO NOT FUCK WITH THE DANGEROUS, ENGORGED TICK!


Yoda POV: Think the Dark Side you know, do you?

Uber-Goth-Wannabe Hack Writer A/N: Excuse me, tiny green man, my adoring public is hanging onto every dark, tantalizing word here. [*sniffs indignantly and continues to type furiously*]
He didn't know if he wanted to eat her or fuck her. So he kind of did both. First he kissed her, and battled for dominance with her wiggling, silky-soft tongue, pink like a Georgia peach on the first day of harvest. The battle went on for what felt like hours, or years. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding; he could tell from her ragged gasping through her nostrils. Then, suddenly, without warning, he bit into her, tearing off large chunks of flesh while his teeth tried to find Louisiana Purchase. Once the hole was big enough, he thrust his dark serpent of desire repeatedly into the jagged neck wound, now slick with her sweet, sweet blood. Then he kissed her urgently while he penetrated her neck hole, his penis performing a tracheotomy, violating her virgin neck. As the life flowed from her and her spirit escaped into the air around them, she whispered, "I love you, Edward," with her last wet, rattling breath.

Uber-Goth-Wannabe Hack Writer A/N: And that's how it's done, POSEURS. Excuse me, I am late for my tattoo appointment. I'm getting a bleeding skull tattooed on my shaved pussy. It's already raw and angry. Also I am out of Lean Pockets.

Yoda POV: Shady aisle of Hot Topic the only dark side you know is, mmmmm.

Uber-Goth-Wannabe Hack Writer A/N: Well if that's true, why do I have over ten thousand reviews? Ten THOUSAND reviews! How many reviews do you have? Can you even type with those three prehensile claws? [*secretly butthurt*]

Yoda POV: Fandom you think you have? Hoho, huhuhmmm. Butthurt think you are, mmmm? The force I will use on your butt and then hurt your butt will know...

Uber-Goth-Wannabe Hack Writer A/N: With what? That teeny weenie peenie? You're only, like, two feet tall, so I can't imagine your wee green troll-rod can be bigger than my pinkie, unless you're, like, hiding a kickstand under there. Which I highly doubt. DON'T MESS WITH ME I AM WICCAN SORT OF WELL I HAVE HENNA, URBAN DECAY LIPSTICK, AND A SMUDGE STICK AND ALSO I AM OUT OF LEAN POCKETS. DON'T TEST ME, LITTLE MAN.

Random Onlooker POV: MORTAL KOMBAT!


Yoda POV: Less convincing you sound than Darth Maul, before sucking my surprisingly thick green member he did. When the dark side you embrace, the jizz I will force.

Random onlooker POV: [*coughs*] Um, Mortal Kombat?

Darth Maul POV: OMG I SO did NOT give Yoda a beej. [aside to Yoda] You promised that was between us! I'm giving you back your Jedi fraternity pin. And, not that you care, but you made me mouth-pregnant! [running off sobbing]


Tim Gunn, Celebrity Beta POV: Is there a plot here? I'm concerned. What's going on with Chilly Barley? Doesn't he have a prom to go to? Proms need outfits, people. Let's get to work.

Chilly Barley POV:
Are you there, Skywolf? It's me, Chilly. I'm so confused, Great Skywolf. I got a boner, but I haven't fursploded yet. What does this mean? Am I a man? A wolf? A wolf-man
(Jack)? Will Renesmee like me more if I fursplode? She's always liked it when Dad does it. She's always clapping and whistling and rubbing his fur, like all over and under his belly, especially the thicker, wiry fur toward his hind legs. Then she rides off on him bareback. Used to be he'd take both of us, but then she got bigger faster, and he said we didn't both fit on his back. I sure would like her to ride me like that someday.

I got another boner, just thinking about Renesmee. The great Skywolf had told me to get rid of my boners by using some of the lotion I had collected from the littering palefaces (with one tear streaking down my face at the desecration of the pristine locker-room showers).

Could it be that those guys were actually trying to help me? Would lotion actually help me? What should I do?

Rub one out! Rub one out! Their taunts rang in my head. I observed my russet member and considered, my head cocked to one side, my cock cocked to the other.

I put some lotion on my boner and stared at it. It stared back at me, as if to say, "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

Chilly Barley Peen POV:
You have no idea what you're doing, do you?

Chilly Barley POV:
"Great Skywolf," I said, "please guide me. Help me heal this horrible affliction. Please don't let any harm come to my wolf-dick. It's nice for peeing outside, and for writing my name in the snow."

I closed my eyes, praying for guidance, and suddenly I saw him in my mind's eye: The Great Skywolf, and he wasn't alone. A tiny green man with pointy ears wearing a stylish linen Japanese keikogi was riding on his back.

"Since fursploded you have not," the green man said in a weird little voice, "interpret for you, Yoda must."

"Barooo!" howled the Great Skywolf.

"Out one rub," the little man named Yoda said. "Use the Force," he added as an afterthought, twisting his three-clawed hands in opposite directions as if to give the celebrated burn of my people.

So I started rubbing the lotion into my boner, and it felt weird. Like kind of scary and weird, but really intense too, and I felt like I had to rub some more in. So I put some lotion in my hand and tried to get it all over the boner. It made me think of Renesmee for some reason, but when I closed my eyes, the little green dude was staring at me, all relentless and bug-eyed.

"Yes... yes! Veeeerrrry gooooooood, young Clearwater," he said, with a weird chuckle. "Afraid do not be to use the Force! It is strong with this one! Stay on your penis will."

It was kind of freaky, but reassuring, too. So I rubbed and rubbed, putting my whole hand around it and making sure the lotion got all over my stiff russet shaft. I thought of Renesmee riding the Great Skywolf, and my boner started twitching. I hoped it wasn't epileptic. Unfortunately Yoda was also in my head, I mean my head-head, not my penis-head, although maybe he was there, too. Anyway, in my mind, as Yoda watched me watching Imaginary Renesmee ride the Great Sky Wolf, her shirt disappeared, showing her glorious ...

"Paleboobies!" Yoda cried, motorboating. "Pppaaaalllebbbbooobbbbies."

This was too much for me, and then everything went crazy! At first I thought I was fursploding, except no hair came out of my skin (except a little on my palms), but one thing did kind of explode. At first I thought it was just some lotion, but it was coming ... OUT OF MY BONER like a FIREHOSE. Did the lotion somehow get sucked into me? Was I producing it? Is this what all lotion was made of? Is that why Dad's L'Occitane products were so expensive? Was I going to die? Was my penis vomiting? I tried to hold back my penis-hair so it wouldn't get penis-vomit in it, but everything was all slippery and strange and smelled kind of funny, not at all like the vanilla and patchouli smell from the lotion of the White Man.

"Very good!" said Yoda, as the Great Skywolf howled. "It right you did."

They turned to leave, but I yelled after them to stop.

"Wait!" I cried. "How should I ask Renesmee to the prom?"

"You just did," said Yoda. "Behind you look."

I whipped my head around, and Renesmee was standing at the entrance of the so-called sweat lodge, sucking on a lollipop and staring at me over her heart-shaped sunglasses.

"Hey, Chilly," she said in a sultry voice. "I'd ask what's up, but I guess we both know the answer to that."

She nodded at my boner, which was still there for some reason, just not as scary.

Chilly Barley Peen POV:
Lllllllllllllllllllllladies. I mean, llllllllllllllllllllady. I mean, crrrrrrrreepy vampire/human hybrid llllllllllllady-person.

Chilly Barley POV:
"Oh no!" I yelped, grabbing a towel to cover my semi-erect shame. "I didn't mean for you to see that!"

"It's nothing I haven't seen before," she shrugged. "You look so much like your dad!"

Huh. That's random. I guess we do have the same eyes.

"So, I guess you heard that last part, about prom, right?"

"Uh-huh." She licked the lollipop slowly and said something else, but I swear I couldn't understand a word of it. I just kept watching her tongue find purchase on the sweet candy, battling the sugary disc for dominance, darting about like a pink, fluttering butterfly.

Then she smirked at my towel and sauntered away, leaving me trying to figure out what just happened, besides my towel making its own teepee.

"She said uh-huh," I said to Skywolf and Yoda. "That means she's my date, right?"

"Sure, kid," Yoda said, peering over the great wolf's back at my teepee. "Another one rub out you must, young Clearwater."

Man, this guy was strict.

His Holy Sparklepeen POV:
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my penis man-purse, and nothing particular to interest me on the bodies of mere mortals, I thought I would sail about a little and see the dark, immortal part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the sparklespleen, and regulating the circulation to my penile self. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the shaft; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my urethra; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before glory holes, and bringing up the rear [yeah, I said rear] of every circle-jerk I meet; and especially whenever my engorgings get such an upper hand [technically, Rosy Palm and her Five Sisters, if you know what I'm saying] of me, that it requires a strong moral assbead—I mean, um, principle—to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the sparkling sunlight outside the Y-flap in my Master's tightie-whities at high noon while the Volturi are watching, and uncontrollably twitching and smacking the undersides of lab tables—then, I account it high time to get away from sea-men as soon as I can. This is my substitute for cock and balls. With a philosophical flourish Kato Kaelin throws himself upon the firepoker in his freeloading ass's borrowed guest house; I quietly take to the poon. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the poon with me.

Ghost of Melville POV: What in God's name is going on here? Who authorized this? What the Jesus fuckity?

His Holy Sparklepeen Whom We Shall Call Ishmael POV: Dude, be cool.

Ghost of Melville POV: "Be cool"? I'm dead! I'm frigid! And what is this horrible bastardization of my work? I WROTE THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL, YOU FUCKS! I WROTE IT!

His Holy Sparklepeen Whom We Shall Call Ishmael POV: Yeah, but what did you expect with a title like Moby-Dick? And he's a sperm whale, right? Besides, you're in good company. This Sparklepeen honors the works of Rowling, King, and Meyer!

Ghost of Freud POV: [*Kichern, Kichern*] Heh heh, Moby-Dick. Das ist offensichtlich für den Pimmel gehalten werden.

Helpful Babelfish POV: [*giggle, giggle*] Heh heh, Moby-Dick. That is for the cock to be kept obvious.

Ghost of Freud POV: Das war nicht, was ich gesagt habe. [*der Flouncer*]

Ghost of Melville POV: I would like a word with my solicitor!

His Holy Sparklepeen Whom We Shall Call Ishmael POV: [continuing as if he hasn't at all been interrupted] ... Elders, Dostoyevsky, Carebears!

Ghost of Ghost of Melville's Solicitor POV: [*hushed legal mumbo-jumbo*]

Ghost of Melville POV: Public domain? Well, fuck me. [*flounces in a puff of chagrin*]

His Holy Sparklepeen Whom We Shall Call Ishmael POV:
Now I had been a-wandering far from home, seeking not the poon but rather the tangy ass parts of various vampires, especially when writ by immature adolescents. After a while, I tired of ass after ass after ass, even if Master always enjoyed some rear action. It was time to return to the tropical, exotic heat of the poon. I had a secret, though, and as much as I wished for the rest of the world not to know, my safety was now too much of an issue. I slipped the metal band about my waist, shimmying it all the way down to my base, a trifle embarrassed but mostly relieved.

Master freed me from my confines, wriggling out of his dark-wash Seven for All Mankind jeans and gently peeling off his charcoal Calvin Klein boxer-briefs. I was immediately standing at attention. The Master needed me.

"Ooh," I heard Bella say, breathing heavily, her satin and lace Agent Provocateur bustier heaving and shaking. "What's this?" She fingered the circle of silver at my base. "Naughty, Edward. A cock ring?"

Master glanced down at me. "Huh?" he said, puzzled. I held my breath, hoping he wouldn't examine too closely. "Never mind," he said, shaking his head. "Let's get busy." He flipped on the strobe light, and I soon lost control, twitching and spasming in the erratic light.

"Oh my," Bella said, quivering in her thigh-high 10-denier hosiery and 4.5-inch Christian Louboutins. "Somebody's excited to see me."

"Oh yes," Master said, trying to hold me still but jiggling around from the force of my shaking, his voice as distorted as if he were speaking while working a jackhammer. After a while he gave up, walking to the sound system on the other side of the room. He turned on the old Victrola, and that voice came warbling out, that cursed, bewitching voice. My twitching had calmed somewhat, but when I heard her voice, I lost all control, shaking and vibrating like Master's shopaholic pixie Tinkerbell sister when she saw in a vision that La Perla would soon be having a sale. Why did they think "The Best of 'Entertainment Tonight': The John Tesh and Mary Hart Years" was booty music? Why did the voice of la mia cantante put them in the mood? I tried not to swallow my tongue, and then I wondered if I actually had a tongue to swallow. And then I was unaware of anything but the spasms.

When I came to, Bella's tiny teaspoon hands were wrapped around me, trying to tame me enough to slip inside her wet velvet Hot Pocket crisping sleeve.

"Mmmm," hummed Bella with pleasure, her undercarriage glistening with desire.

Bella's Clit POV:
I figured since I was spending so much time peeping out of crotchless panties from Frederick's of Hollywood and bumping heads with the sparklepeen, that I should at least introduce myself. "The name's Bud," I said, peeping out coyly from underneath my hood. "Billy Bud."

Ghost of Melville POV: NO NO NO NO NO! WHAT? WHY DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING? WHAT DID I EVER DO TO YOU? [*rocks back and forth, pulling large chunks of shaggy, old-man beard from his chin*]

His Holy Sparklepeen Whom We Shall Call Ishmael POV:
I had no idea why the clit was introducing herself, especially when I was clearly in the middle of a medical emergency. "G-g-good to meet you," I tried to answer. Then Master's hand went to my base to help out his precious Bella.

"What the fuck IS this?" he asked, his hand around the band of silver. Crap.

He eased off the band and looked it over. "MedicAlert bracelet? Did you do this, Bella? Is this your idea of a joke? A novelty cock ring? Medical conditions are nothing to mock, love." He tossed the silver band over to her. "I'd urge you to be more sensitive to the plight of humans. After all, you used to be one yourself."

Bella turned the ring around in her hand. "Epilepsy? Why would I mock epilepsy?"

I blushed in shame, but then the strobe light got to me again, and I had another seizure.

Ghost of Melville POV: A penis. A penis with epilepsy. This is what my greatest oeuvre has been reduced to. Fucking SPLENDID. *THE GREAT AMERICAN FLOUNCE*

Thirteen-year-old FF author specializing in poly/slash A/N:
So I bet you guise thought I was gone or something because last time there was a twelve year old butt now see I had a birthday so I am a teenager and I get my ministrations like a lady. My other account says I died but thats bc my english teacher found my account and threttened to tell my mom so i had to take drastic meshures. I men, that was my twin sister. She is dead like realy. I jus have all her passwords an stuff becasue we were twins an twins know everything like in that movie wiht Lindsay Lohan as taht stripper an the missing hand an that freaky cereal killer an shit so dont you be hating.

And I no sum people who are around my age have like good grammer and stuff but come on not all of us are Doggie Howser. Some of us are that guy who was his dum friend who ended up being one of those guys in Lion King who I am pretty sure were gay. That reminds me I am starting a new storie can you red and tell me what you think:

Thirteen-year-old FF author specializing in poly/slash's new story:
So them Timon told Poomba, Dud you mack me so hot when you roll around in the muck I just want to stick my cook up you're butte long and hard until you cry out from how good I make you fell.

Poomba laughed, Like you're tiny little muskrat weenur wood come at all close too satisfying me and my butt. Like have you seen a warthogs cook? It is huge and veiny. And I have had like seventeen in me at one time because gay warthogs are really slutty I mean whatever you call gay warthogs that have alot of buttsecks with alot of other warthogs at one time. I mean my butte can strech out long and wide like as big as a football field you could totally play the Superbowl here. And then he farted the Superbowl theme song out of his giant buttehole to demonstate.

One single gay precum tear rolled out of Timons eye, finding purchase on his shirt which he had found purchase at the Kenya-Mart, an he turn away from Poomba before he can see it.

Thirteen-year-old FF author specializing in poly/slash A/N: I no I am so sorry it looks like they wont have buttsecks yet this is because of something I red about in goth Twiligt FF called angst. I here it makes people lick you're stories moore and makes blue balls or something that is why they are not having cooked butt anytime soon butt dont worry their will be lot's of cooked butts soon but when you don't expect it SPOILER it is in three chapters after Timon see's the which doctor to englarge his penus untill it looks like a elephant tusk all pointy lick that and than Poomba totally butt bleeds because Timon's pens is so big and pointy on teh end and animal's dont have loob or something. See I learned alot when I turned thirteen about lub and angst I am going to have like a million revues and be famus and then Ms. Carson can suck it for telling the school counsler about my story's and then tell my parent's that she think I need some kind of help because I like to think about alot of pen's and cook's in peoples butte's at one time I mean theres nothing wrong with that it is fine liturature and also I bleed out of my vagina now so I no things anywho what I was saying is that dont worry becasue there will be so much butt loving later in this story but this is the angst part. Oh and also Poomba is secretly all hurt inside, like butthurt and regular hurt and also hurt in his butt, from his last seven gay boyfriends with who he was doing it with at the same time with like. They were suppose to throw him a suprise party he new a bout but said he didnt but them they got smushed by a wildebest stampeed on the way to the Chuck E. Cheeses. This is based on a IRL expeerience I had, OK? So he feel all guilty an is a fraid to let anyone new love him up the butte. I think this is what they call hurt/confront. So I am riting about agnest/hurt/confront because I am growing as a rider because I am a teenager now. Also sum of you sed that my riding was kind of shitty an to be honest that kind of hurt my fellings but because I am tryng to be mature about stuff now that I am a teenager I got a beta so may be you guise can get off my back. You really shoed, because I am a teenager.

Also I get my periods. If you have ministrations your a woman, legully.

Oh sorry I shooed get back to the story, rite.

TIM GUNN, CELEBRITY BETA POV: Ficwriters, I have to tell you: I'm troubled. I've held my tongue for a while because frankly, I was just dazzled by the choice you made with the Russian table covered in feathers, and I even enjoyed the Hot Topic/Yoda youth-meets-retro fusion and kicky 1960s-throwback lingerie, but I think this is going in the wrong direction now. I just want you to think about this for a moment. I like the hurt/confrontation possibility. I think you need to pursue that. It's edgy.

Carry on.

Thirteen-year-old FF author specializing in poly/slash and now hurt/confront POV:
So Bella and Edward where going to have sex because that is what vampires like to do when they are a lone or even in front of other people just sex sex sex all the time and they can go forever because they never have to sleep. Sumtimes Jasper come over their because he always want's Edward's cook all throbbing and stuff cumming out of the tip gooey like. But he was out at the gay vampire's's's bar over in Port Angeles (you have to use Port Angels in your story because it is cannon that people go there and I lick to be acurate because I take alot of pride in my riding). So it was just Bella and Edward. Edward sighed because Bella didn't have a pens, which mean he wouldn't get any action in the butt.

Bella was like, why did you sigh just now? I'm naked accept for my stilleto heals and reddy for you're hot throbbing giant trunk of a dicke and wet all oven. What you don't think I'm sexy anymore because I had a babby.

No its not that" Edward said while stroking his pail cook. Could he tell her the truth? Wood she still let him stick his huge dong all over and in every whole?

Bella was all like why you all like a marble statute (A/N: I am pretty sure this is cannon too all the marble and sparkles like toy marbles I have. And hes always hard because he want's the sex all the time) an shit? Just stick it in okay because that is how we have the sexy, you stick your pens in my wet slit and in and out a bunch of times and then we cum at the same time butt only when you order me to and you say cum for me baby NOW and that make's me all wet and squeezy.

Edward trying to get up the courage to ass her if she woud maybe stick a finger up his butte but he shy all of a sudden. And he thinks like man if I cant ask her to do that she will never let me stick my throbbing pens in her butthole.

Edward's kind of Hungary so his stomache was making sounds almost like it was talking to bella in sum secret lagnuage.

Oh em gee did you just say Tanya to me. Bella ask with horror.

Edward think oh shit now she nos all my secrets an I cant kill her because she is a vampire now lick me an I need her hidey-hole all wet and reddy for me an I dont think when I pull her a part an make her all on fire I can stick my cook all in that hot ash because I bet that burns an is sticky in the bad way.

Before he know's what bella does she has her hand's in his vampire pant's he left on teh floor from Armani X-change an finds purchase on a peace of paper with Edward hearts Tanya riding on it. She start to scream and cry except I dun think vampire's can cry see I know my cannon so she just has like hot eyes with venom. I new it!" she yell's and hit's him rite in the ball's. They made a tinkly sound like windchimes, one ball hitting the other ball. You bin cheating on me with this junkie ho name Tanya. That why you're pens dont want to cum play in my hidey-whole." Bella yelled.

Tim Gunn, Beta: Ficwriters, this is unadvisable. It's just a furtherance of the slouchification of America, and I just hate it. Change it.

Thirteen-year-old FF author specializing in poly/slash:
Okay Mr. Gunn, if that is you're real name. I am tryying very hard to write good an listen to you're criticisems, but you are getting on my nerve's now. I am the author, not you. You are the feta reeder. If your so smart than why are you reeding and not riding? Somone else can finnish this if they want to. [*flounces*]


The sub was lying just how her Dom liked it, fully splayed, her meat curtains awaiting his scrutiny. If her odor wasn't just as he'd specified, she would be punished. She thrilled inside at the prospect, not knowing which she'd prefer—his approval or his hot, angry punishment for disobedience.

She could hear her Dom approaching the kitchen, where he had left her and told her not to move until he returned. It seemed like hours she had waited, but she knew better than to complain.

She could tell he had entered and was examining her. Although she was blindfolded, she knew he was wearing that dapper beret, as he always did when he was going to spend time examining her every crevice and cleft.

"Mmm," her Dom hummed. "You smell delectable, my sub. You are pristine, mouth-watering. You've done well. You have obeyed me." He touched a finger to her tender, rare bits. "Fresh," he said. She could hear her Dom suck on his finger. "You taste amazing. But you aren't quite ready yet."

She twitched in excitement and anticipation as he put instrument after instrument on the table next to her. What would it be this time? He squeezed a bottle of something—some massage oil? honey?—leaving a cool trail on her buns.

"Yes, that will do nicely," her Dom murmured to himself. He lapped up some of the excess as it dripped out of her side, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming out in pleasure at the feel of his rough beard grazing against her. Right when she thought she might explode from keeping everything in, he stepped away so suddenly, quietly, that she wondered if he'd ever really been there in the first place.

Oh please, please let him eat me today, she prayed. Maybe after a good spanking. She could just feel his hands on her, squeezing and squeezing right at the edge between pleasure and pain.

She could hear the sound of steel on steel as he rummaged inside a drawer. So, it would be edge play today? They'd never gone this far before, but she trusted him. She lay still,even as he kept squirting various things on her; she felt she would burst from all the attention. She was oozing now with desire, cold and hot at the same time, no part of her not dripping wet.

She felt the cool edge of the knife along her skin, and then pressure, more pressure than she was expecting. She stifled a scream, so he kept bearing down until she felt she were being cleaved in two.

"Didn't make a sound, good girl," her Dom said, and she would have smiled if she had been allowed to.

He wrapped his thick, meaty hands around her and lifted her up, bringing her sensitive parts to his lips. She could feel his whole warm mouth around her, and she quivered as she felt his teeth rake across her. It was so good. So, so good.

"Exquisite," her Dom said, rolling his tongue around and around his mouth with her sensitive bits still in it.

Oh god, oh god, yes! She cheated and peeped behind her blindfold. She could see her juices glistening in his beard, and traces of her stuck in between his teeth.

Suddenly he spat out in a burst of anger, slamming his fist into the table and rattling her where she lay. "Pickles? Pickles? I clearly stated NO PICKLES."

She bit her lip. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Pickles? Had she forgotten? She no longer felt secure with her Dom, having never seen him this angry ever. What was the safeword? Oh, Christ, she'd forgotten the safeword.

She lay on her side, silent and tense, worrying what would come. Then she heard his fat fingers punching numbers on the phone. "Antonio's? You destroyed my order! I clearly said no pickles! Do you know who you're talking to? This is Dom fucking DeLuise, and I poop bigger than your restaurant! I'm going to go over there right now and pinch out a giant loaf on one of your foot-long hoagie rolls! See how YOU like it!"

Just then, the sub remembered the safeword: turd-rocket.

Unearned-Angst-Trigger-Happy-Tissue-Warning Author A/N: Okay so I have been asked to finish this story—OMG I am so honored that snot is running out of my nose like a tap. I had to run to the store to find purchase with a box of tissues, since I ran out because OMG I'm just bawling all over while I'm writing this! So, needless to say, *TISSUE WARNING*!

In case you forgot where we left off, Bella and Edward were about to have the relations, but then Bella found a note in his pocket that said "Edward Hearts Tanya." She feels betrayed and sad and OMG *TISSUE WARNING*:

"She meant nothing to me. She was a horrible mistake of a lasagna, named Tanya," he said shamefully, his eyes full of venomy tears. "I don't even eat food, Bella! She was utterly meaningless! She was a curiosity, nothing more, the way you, as a human, might have had a collection of Hummel figurines. Plus her noodles were limp and her meat smelled faintly of leftover breakfast sausage and the anuses of the lowest class of Plebeian swine. You only smell like I imagine the most delicious bacon would taste."

"Did you write her a song, too?"

"Define song," hedged Edward.

"You know, when you play notes and/or sing stuff? That you made up? And look dreamily at me while the camera pans around your body in a circular fashion at a canted angle, but only on the bonus third DVD available exclusively at Target?"

"Well ..." Edward avoided eye contact. "There was a little ... um I may have written somethingIcallTanya'slullabye," he mumbled. (Oh, snap! What do you think Bella is going to say? She has trust issues! OMG I'm not going to make it through this! My lower lip is all wibbly!)

"Just. Sing. It," Bella said, grinding her teeth together. (Oh no! I think Bella is very upset! I think she will reject Edward, and OMG TISSUES WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY TISSUES?)

Filled with chagrin, yet still dazzling like the disco-ball vampire that he was, he took a deep breath and began to sing in a rich (because the Cullens are loaded, dudes) baritone, "On top of old Tanya, all covered with cheese, I hid my spicy sausage, between her layers of limp noodles, which were a nice contrast to my cold and iron-like vampire man-rod ..."

"Oh my god!" interrupted Bella. "It's bad enough that you fucked a lasagna. But that song doesn't even rhyme! You! You are a shitty poet and a pastafucker." (OMG I think Edward must be hurting so bad inside from these mean, nasty Bella comments!)


Tim Gunn, Celebrity Beta: I think this would be an opportune moment to liken Edward's voice to some sort of fabric choice.

Unearned-Angst-Trigger-Happy-Tissue-Warning Author POV:
"No, Bella, it wasn't like that, I swear!" Edward cried in dulcet Velveeta tones, with a fine herringbone pattern and Alençon lace edging. His inhuman vampire-topaz-butterscotch eyes were filled with pain and longing and chagrin. Alot of chagrin.

Edward tried to grab Bella's arm, but she jerked it away in such a manner that he somehow knew, even without the ability to read her mind, that she'd never jerk and squeeze on his hot Italian sausage again. His crotchmeat twitched mournfully and began singing spirituals, as it often did in times of trouble. Why, was that a viscous tear slowly oozing out of its sad, glossy, circumcised tip? (WEEPING! Even his penis is sad now! OMG! I can't see the keyboard anymore because of my tears so I am having trouble tpying wihh my tearyy etes oh *TISSUE WARNINGSSSS* ALSO CHECK MY POLYVORE FOR OUTFITS!)

"I was going to give you my virginity, you pastafucker!" Bella sobbed. "At least, the back half of it!" she wailed, running awkwardly out of the room, with her hands clamped firmly over her maiden crack, as if to shield its single, chocolatey-brown virgin eye from Edward's Italianate casserole treachery.

"I was going to give you that too! I still can!" Edward called after her weakly. "You know, in case you wanted to put something up my butt, if that in any way interests you. You could ..."

But she was already far away. As she ran down the hallway, she could have sworn she heard someone—or something—singing, quite muted, but silkily, and maybe muffled by grey cotton boxer-briefs and accompanied by the most mournful beatboxing by a velvet-like vampire voice, "Nobody Knows De Trouble I've Seen."

Unearned-Angst-Trigger-Happy-Tissue-Warning Author A/N: OMG I have to stop writing because now I need to see my grief counselor because OMG OMG OMG WEEPING TISSUES SOB SOB SOB WAH *TISSUE WARNING* OH NO I'M OUT OF TISSUES AGAIN! I THINK MY BUTT IS CRYING TOO! OH WAIT THAT'S JUST DIARRHEA. DAMN CHIPOTLE.

Tanya the Lasagna POV:
That douche didn't know that I was still in the fridge, cold, abandoned, pastafucked and pastatossed away, and I could hear every goddamned word. He thought the refrigerator door could buffer me from his insults, but had he forgotten I had super-sensitive vampire pasta hearing? It wasn't my fault that I was a hideously constructed yet lovelier-than-all-the-stars lasagna with corkscrew curls made of strawberries. I mean, who does that? And why does a certain SM always want to combine strawberries and hair in some form or fashion? It was weird. One would think that maybe she had some sort of odd strawberry fetish, or Suave fetish, or an extremely poor memory of the crap descriptions she'd already used.

One of the above. Take your pick.

But what did I know? I was just a lasagna.

Here I was, unwanted, hated by an entire fandom, and for what? For being pretty and constantly rejected by that twatty virgin? I know I got to fuck him in almost every "Edward is a manwhore" fic, which was, frankly, awesome, but it was not my fault that I was perfect and gorgeous and leggy and ricotta-y and slutty and glutinous. It was not my fault that my noodles were limp and my meat smelled faintly of leftover breakfast sausage. Blame the person who cooked me. I wasn't naming any names, but I'd give you three guesses as to which "mommy dearest" vampire needed to get her meddling ass kicked.

I was just a lovesick baked entree with poorly chosen ingredients.

And mold.

And maybe a used condom made of semolina.

Okay, and that chasm from the time I let Julia Child fist me. But, OMG, it was just that one time!

I wish that Charlie could have eaten me. He always appreciated lasagna. And I bet his mustache would feel really good.

Charlie's Mustache POV:
Man, if there's one thing I love, it's giving oral pleasure to delicious, succulent casseroles, and then washing it all down with some Vitamin R.

Tim Gunn, Celebrity Beta: You completely disregarded my advice. Frankly, I'm bewildered and flabbergasted. I'll never be able to face another lasagna or submarine sandwich without thinking of vagina dentata. On the plus side, I suppose that removes two dietary temptations from my life. On the balance, it's a plus. Carry on.

Chilly Barley POV:
When I got to Renesmee's house dressed and ready for the prom, all I heard were the totally embarrassing sounds of her parents having 1) sex, 2) bad sex, and 3) a huge fight. I was totally freaked out by hearing Mrs. Cullen say that she was planning on giving him part of her virginity. Did she have two girl-parts? Did that mean Renesmee did, too? Did everyone have two and I was missing one? Oh wait, I have seen other naked people in a book. Just one member. I sighed in relief.

Renesmee's grandfather, Cold Dr. Cullen, as the wolves call him, had given me a book, My Lumpy Pants: I'm Normal, after the boner incident in the shower, and Mom's old boyfriend Sam had told me an old Qualuude legend about the ancient ritual called the "circle jerk", a ritual he said they still perform today whenever the moon was full. Now that I had boners, I was supposed to cum too. He even said "cum" with a "u" like that instead of the normal way, but only as a verb, not a noun; it was so weird.

So I was really nervous, and didn't know what to do when the sex was all loud and stuff, but when they started fighting I figured it would be a good time to knock. So I did, and Mrs. Cullen came out all crying. She looked kind of hot, so I gave her a big hug. My netherpotato throbbed once.

"Oh, Chilly Barley!" she sobbed, rubbing her boobs on my shirt.

Chilly Barley Peen POV:

Chilly Barley POV:
Another boner. How embarrassing!

Fortunately I was wearing the jorts that Sam gave me when he heard about my boners. He said they would kind of hide and kind of accentuate them at the same time. I didn't know what he meant, but Renesmee's mom seemed to.

"Oh, Chilly Barley!" she said again, but this time it was all breathy, and her boobs got really pointy. They actually cut through the fabric of her shirt, her concrete nipples no match for her drapey rayon Chico's top. "You're wearing the traditional Quaalude jorts! Does this mean that you're a man now?"

"Yes, Mrs. Cullen," I said, gulping.

"Call me Bella," she laughed. "Mrs. Cullen is my mother-in-law's name."

I let out the breath I did not know I had not been holding for at least the past three minutes. My face was probably a shade of blue, or maybe purple because of my russety undertones. Then Cold Dr. Cullen's wife came to the door too, looking over my prom attire.

"Mrs. Cullen is my mother-in-law's name, too," she purred, oggling me with her goldenscotchtacular orbs. All four of them. "Call me Esme. What an unusual prom outfit you have on, Chilly Barley. You're practically naked. Aren't you cold?"

"No, Ma'am," I said proudly. "All us wolves are 109 degrees. I combined the traditional Quillyewt jorts with the traditional bow tie and cumberbund. Renesmee said she was wearing a green dress, so I got green."

Bella and Esme looked at each other sadly.

"What, green wasn't right?" I asked, in a panic. "Is she wearing another color? Did she change her mind about the dress?"

"No, sweetie," Bella said. "She's still wearing green. But she changed her mind about her date. I thought she told you."

WAIT ... WUT? There goes my boner. Such a confusing organ, the penis.

"But, honey, why don't you come inside and let us take care of you?" Esme said, rubbing her matronly undead boobs on my arm.

Chilly Barley Peen POV:

Chilly Barley POV:
And here was the little Injun that could, back again. Then Bella rubbed her slightly perkier undead boobs on my other arm, and my boner started to HURT.

Chilly Barley Peen POV:
Ah cahn't take much more, Cap'n! Ah'm givin' yah all Ah've got!

Chilly Barley POV:
Which made me get super nervous.

"Umm, I should go anyway," I say, clutching Renesmee's dyed-green carnation corsage in my hands—as a Quackadoodledoote I had the power in my hands to influence the elements of the earth, and I'd learned the Old Magic in one of our tribe's communal Highlights magazines involving a glass of water, green food coloring, and a stalk of celery split in half at the bottom, like a cleaved ladypart. "It's probably just a mistake. I probably forgot to call her or something. I know she loves me!"

So I ran away, first making a little pitstop in the woods.

Out of the tiny pocket inside the main pocket of the jorts I struggled to free the emergency lotion that Sam had given me, careful to coat my painful boner in a light film just as I'd seen in Appendix A of My Lumpy Pants: I'm Normal (second edition, with new foreward by Joycelyn Elders). Fappety fappety fappety, UNGH!

"Barrooooooo!" I howled, as I shot my wad into a saucy little tree with knobby bark that resembled Bella and Esme's boobs. Streams and streams of young wolf sauce covered the silky green leaves. "You're welcome, bitch," I told the tree in the manner of my people. Sam and the Great Skywolf had both instructed me on the proper post-fapping etiquette, to show our respect to the living spirits in the trees. "You may blow your wad on them," they had both told me, "but never forget they are the fingers and, possibly, lungs of our dearest Mother Earth."

I ran the rest of the way to prom, only stopping to pull my jorts out of my ass-crack from time to time. I was all sweaty, like rain was pouring down on my head, when I finally. got. to. the. prom.

And I saw them. My beautiful girl was standing there, next to another Quillyouth, a very familiar man in almost the same outfit I had on: jorts, a green bow tie and green cummerbund. Only he had some French cuffs on, with little dreamcatcher cufflinks. And he had his hand on my girlfriend's ASS!

Tim Gunn, Celebrity Beta POV: You were doing so well, but now you're at a prom and all you have to say about the outfits is that two of them are green? And dreamcatcher cufflinks belong solely on one particular character from the Village People, and then only in my private dreams, after several Appletinis. This is unforgivable writing. I regret to inform you that I must flounce this fic. I bid you adieu.

Chilly Barley POV:
"Renesmee?" I asked, horrified. "DAD? What are you doing?"

"Oh," Dad said. "Didn't I tell you? My bad. I imprinted (my hand) on Renesmee('s ASS). At least for tonight," he said, winking in our Native American way, one lash in front of the other so as not to make a sound that might startle our prey.

"YOU WHAT?" I yelled.

"He imprinted on me," Renesmee said, emphasizing it with American Sign Language, then Qualuddite Sign Language, and when I kept staring at her blankly, with semaphore code. She pulled these giant flags out of her bra and everything, made out of the same fabric as her prom dress. Girl knew how to accessorize. "And now we're together. Like together, together." Then she emphasized that by humping my dad's leg while making air quotes with her fingers.

"When the fuck did this happen?" I wailed.

"Uh ... when she was a baby?" Dad said. "I think you guys were making mudpies at the time, actually. But it wasn't sexual. You're ignorant. It's not sexual. That's ignorant!"

"It's sure as hell sexual now," Renesmee corrected, grabbing my dad's boner through his jorts. "Right, baby?"

"Fuck yeah!" Dad said, trying to give me a high five. I just gave him a withering stare. I hoped it was a boner-withering stare. He didn't get the hint, just kept his hand up there like a doofus. "Don't leave me hangin', kid!"

I felt sick! I felt like the saddest puppy in the whole universe. Just then the voice of popular Tylauren Crowllory came over the loudspeaker.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's now time to crown the prom king and queen! For queen, it's Renesmee Cullen! And for king, it's Chilly Clearwater!"

Maybe this evening could be salvaged after all. The People had spoken! They wanted us to rule over them! I grabbed Renesmee's hand and dragged her up to the stage.

"Why didn't you tell me you were dating my dad?" I whispered to her. "You're breaking my heart, Renesmee. I just started getting boners!"

"You'll be fine," she said dismissively, looking disturbingly like her mom and dad at the same time.

Oh man. Thinking about her mom's boobs and her dad's undeniably perfect ass just had given me another stiffy.

Chilly Barley Peen POV:
[quietly] Llllllllllllllladies. Also, may I suggest a threeway with your dad? I mean, llllllllllllladies.

Chilly Barley POV:
"Maybe we could do some threeways?" my erection made me say. Wait, what? NO! I want Renesmee to myself! Why do you make me say these things, O, throbbing russet one?

Suddenly, a 10-gallon bucket of Hormel Chili (medium, no beans) mixed with lube (the warming kind) splashed all over my head! I turned, and Renesmee was standing there, pointing and laughing at my inappropriately timed boner. I felt my wolfy heart break into a million billion pieces. And it was as if each one of those million billion pieces got pasted to the end of my rapidly growing chubby. "My heart is on my dick!" I moaned, rocking back and forth, which only served to make the kids in the front row duck and flinch like they were watching an old timey 3-D film where they kept poking long things at you. Very, very long things. Long, girthy, red-orange things.

I looked out at the audience, and everyone was laughing at me! Even my DAD was laughing at me, and there were nasty chunks of meat and inferior chili sauce dripping all over me and getting into my jorts and onto my boner, ruining the tie I bought to match Renesmee's beautiful dress. And I could see the top of her tits in her dress, and it just made my ruddy boner worse.

"Bo-ner! Bo-ner!" everyone started yelling. I looked down, and to my horror, my boner had erupted right out of my jorts, covered in chili and lube. I didn't know whether to lick it (we wolves have very flexible vertebrae) or stroke it.

The crowd seemed to have an opinion.

"Rub one out! Rub one out!" they yelled, so to spite them, I started rubbing it, and oh my god, I do not recommend rubbing chili into an erection, because that shit STINGS. Then, I swear I heard the voice of Yoda telling me to use the Force, or force the Jizz? It was hard to hear him over the sound of my own screaming.

"Auauauughhthehabaneros!" I screamed in agony, still holding my raging boner in my palm, which was becoming increasingly hairy. "Too ... many ... Scovilles!"

I started shaking and trembling, and even though it hurt I was still stroking it, and then my wolf-chowder spurted out all over all of them like sour cream, in a huge deluge of ropy cum like Noah's flood, coating everyone in chili-flavored cummy cum cum cumin cum sauce. I swiveled my hips like one of those rotating sprinkler things, and then went ahead and did the sprinkler dance for good measure, since it was prom, making sure I got a little on every single person who laughed at me, especially my dad, whose mouth was open disturbingly wide with his white-picket-fencelike teeth. I spooged all over every tooth until he looked like he had semen rabies.

"Fuck you all, Forks High!" I screamed, as fur exploded all over my nubile russet potato skin. "You're welcome, BITCHES! Baroooooo!" Then I alley-ooped the chili bucket so it hit my dad directly on his maroon cranium.

And that's how I became the basketball team's star player.

Honored Guest Author, TheMuseIsMineAlone POV: Attention, everyone, attention! Due to overwhelming demand from my faithful and most devoted followers, I have decided to come out of retirement. You might say to yourself, "But what is this? How can we be so lucky?" You may well indeed say this if you have been given the secret password from my super secret snowflake forum and therefore recognize the new and deeply meaningful name I have dubbed myself in order to evade the attacks on me and my family, nay, even my ficus plant is not immune from the vitriol, the outrageous slings and arrows of the jealous, those who spread their poison to the many hamlets and byways and quaint shires of the fandom, their hatred for me feathering amongst our tales like bloody spite in an ocean of banal tripe, mine own deathless, celestial prose the sole lifeboat saving so many from their otherwise colorless, dreary, and pathetic lives. It is for them that I return, to write once more, for I call myself into being every time I put pen to paper. It is for my acolytes that I have come back, in order to fulfill my obligations as an artist. To you I say, in the immortal words of the Quileutes, "You're welcome, bitches."


Yoda POV: Write this even, do you?

Tim Gunn, Celebrity Beta POV: I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you to gather your belongings and leave.

Honored Guest Author, TheMuseIsMineAlone POV: What? You ... you forsake me? Now I know how Jesus felt when he was crucified. But oh, I will repay your loathing and jibes only with love and forgiveness, for I know you know not what you do. Now watch as I walk on water and cure the lame. WHICH BY THE WAY IS ALL OF YOU. YOU = LAME. BITCHES!

Chilly Barley POV:
After prom, people respected me a little. Maybe they were scared of getting hosed down by my Wolfmilk again. Irregardlesslyfully, it was nice not getting mocked in the hallways. My new varsity basketball jacket earned me a few head nods as I passed students. Finally, things were looking up for Chilly Barley Ephraim Joaquin Running Brook Clearwater.

It was the day of the big pep rally before the state championship, and the cheerleaders had just made their giant fork formation (it was breathtaking) when this ...weird albino guy with a greasy ponytail came in and grabbed Renesmee by the throat, pulling her out from the bottom of the fork. Hot cheerleaders went tumbling everywhere like it was Jenga, but the greasy dude kept dragging away my Renesmee, holding a knife to her pale, perfect throat.

"Clearwater!" he shouted. How did he know my name? "I know you know where my mate is. You tried to hide her from me. I heard you even fucked her ... You tell me where she is, and maybe I'll let this freakshow live ... It's ... your choice."

"But ... I have no idea who your mate is! Does he go here? Are you ... Australian? You don't sound Australian."

"He? I'm not some sick pervert! I think you know her. A lasagna ... about this wide? Very ... saucy?"

"God, I don't ... know!" I screamed, my throat closing in panic.

"Say goodbye ... to your ... mutant girlfriend ..." he said, and I closed my eyes, praying for ... a miracle.

I heard a crash of glass and a lot of shouting and hubbub, and when I dared to open my eyes again, I couldn't believe what I saw ...




... or could I?