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The hottest party of the year was winding down at long last. The bar was running dry, food was dwindling or drying on the floor, the effects of the happiest of happy pills was taking effect, and anyone who was anyone was out on the beach sitting around the bonfire. There wasn't much longer before the chorus of voices would join together to drunkenly serenade the ending of the year while ringing in a new one, which meant time was running out for those without someone to hold close and celebrate together to find someone. The party would be on everyone's lips for the following week, if not longer, from the bartender's eccentric concoctions to the displays of debauchery fueled by a teenage bout of lust and poor inhibitions, this was a party to remember. Though truly the talk of the night was one of the many altercations. Some were were over the simple. Spilled beer soiling a fancy polo. Dancing too close on someone's girlfriend. Hustling at the pool table. All of those incidents were trivial compared to the talk of the night.

 The big fight at the entrance to the party. 

When powers clashed, the mortals of the world got out of the way, and while the story was being passed around like a bad game of telephone the general participants were consistent between tellings. What started as a fist fight turned into sexual assault turned into games of he said-she said. There was only one thing that was clear: The Lion had been kissed by The Lamb. 

While the party was entering its final stages a lone figure crossed the beach under the comfort of the night sky. The figure kept to the shadows, out of sight of the drunks and stoners, out of the illuminating range of the raging fire. The destination was clear even if the route was anything but. A lone tent near the end of the beach, on the backside of the beach house. There was no secret to what these tents were for; there were only so many bedrooms in the beach house and for as liberated as many of the student body claimed to be, few actually would've agreed to sharing the bed with other couples trying to drunkenly reach a climax together. It didn't take long for a little saying to travel its way through the party: When the flap is shut, it's time to nut. 

Someone didn't get the memo. 

The furthest tent flap unzipped and illuminated by the moonlight entered a tall, broad shouldered boy with a mop of unkempt dirty brown hair. Even in the poor lighting of the night sky his eyes shone brighter than any star above. He had been running, given that his shirt was clinging to him like saran wrap, and the mop of sweat down the collar was like a trail guiding the eyes downwards where the sizes-too-small shirt did little to hide the fruits of an athletic workout. Not many at this party could claim to be in such perfect physical shape, but when he had the body of an Adonis who could blame him for wanting to show it off in subtle ways? 

[color=997fdb][b]"You're late."[/b][/color] Certainly not the occupant of the tent, who had until now been being quite the belle of the ball by absorbing himself in a fantasy novel. Though fantasy, as with most things, paled in comparison to the reality. His eyes were drawn away from the written word towards the statuesque presence who was closing the tent behind him. The reader was far more slender and spoke with a low whisper that nevertheless sounded as sweet as cinnamon. In stark contrast to the messy haired man at the flaps, the smaller boy's hair was a brilliant black sheen that was trimmed and styled immaculately, and the only blemish to his attire was the slight wrinkled crease along the back. 

There wasn't an apology given by the intruder. Not a verbal one, anyway. Without speaking, the messy haired man entered the tent fully, embracing the smaller boy with his arms thrown around his back. Their lips pressed together and for a time the only sound was that of their shared heartbeat and the only feeling was the warmth of their breath on each other's skin. The kiss was a deep one, passionate, with tongues dancing a gentle routine on the stage that was each other's mouth. How long did the kiss last? In actuality only a few seconds, but those few seconds were like a lifetime neither of them wanted to come to an end. 

This kiss was quite different from the one they shared at the front door, though that one had been for the benefit of an audience. They had to throw them off the scent, after all. 

[color=a52521][b]"I didn't hurt you, did I?[/b][/color] Matching his physique, the Lion's roaring voice was more of a mewl in the presence of his Little Lamb. The Lion ran his thumb over the Lamb's lower lip, an apologetic gesture of affection. [color=a52521][b]"I had to make it believable."[/b][/color] 

[color=997fdb][b]"Hurt me? You could never."[/b][/color] The Lamb smiled up at his Lion, and the way that beast became like a domesticated animal with the smile and bout of laughter that followed was enough to have the Lamb move in for another kiss. [color=997fdb][b]"But if you want to make it up to me, you can start by taking your shirt off."[/b][/color]

The Lion didn't have to be told twice. The Lamb couldn't keep from sliding his fingers over that washboard stomach, the little bit of resistance as he pressed his fingers against that toned torso. More. The Lamb wanted more even as the Lion was busy unbuttoning his Lamb's shirt. Their hands couldn't stop holding one another, couldn't stop affirming their physical affection for the other. The Lamb traced his slim fingers along the outline of his Lion's Adonis belt, eagerly wanting to go lower, to hold what lay at the bisection, and his eagerness had him pulling down the worn pair of jeans with the eagerness of opening a birthday present. 

This Lion came ready to pounce. 

The night's party would be on everybody's lips. But at the moment there was something much more appealing for the Lamb to wrap his own lips around. And the Lion did roar. 

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[sub][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yEqurB2dD0A]Often compared to a tree that bears no fruit. A bank account with no loot; The inability to produce a thought. Ideas get stale, brain cells rot[/url]
Homeroom[/sub][hr]

Ever since the party came to a close in disappointing fashion - disappointing because Hana was one of the kissless come midnight which just seemed [i]impossible[/i] - Hana had debated about going through with the 'submit' button. It had been a few months since the last time VanillaSunrise uploaded the second thing VanillaSunrise was known for: erotic slash fiction. She had a small bit of notoriety within communities, namely for her rather vivid descriptions of the deviant acts in question as well as the fact that she took requests. Some people drew erotic art of characters. Hana Park wrote erotic fanfiction. The reason why hesitated on uploading part one was because this story [u]The Lion and The Lamb[/u] wasn't using fictional characters. Anyone who might've been a reader of VanillaSunrise's boy's love stories would easily have been able to tell just who this story was actually about. 

The dilemma stuck with her even here at school as she was looking over what she had written on her tablet. It wasn't the best thing she'd written, though it did have a few turns of phrase involving lions that she was rather proud of, but in terms of graphic content it was lacking. Sure, it was present, but far more subtle and, she felt, that made it a bit more romantic and real. What was sad was that this bit of fanfiction was essentially the highlight of Hana's New Year's Eve. For damn near the entire party Hana was against a wall, handing out pills and poppers to people having much more fun. She missed raid night for that party and all she had to show for it was ninety five hundred dollars pocketed and little else. 

The day after the party was not much better. The police, rather her sister Abby, had read the Weekend Warrior and had an uncomfortable amount of questions about the party. Hana was surprised her sister didn't demand a drug test. But Hana was home by curfew, which helped her case. When midnight rolled around and Hana was left alone in the beach house sad and bored, there was little else for her to do except go home. Hana was back at Abby's apartment by twelve thirty and was doing a dungeon run by twelve forty five. She didn't even get any legendary drops. 

Now that school was back on, Hana found herself again just killing time. For someone that was known throughout the school, she didn't have much to show for it. No one was sitting at her table. People in homeroom were doing their own thing and Hana was looking over erotic fiction involving two students of BHHS. 

[color=FF69B4][b]"Screw it."[/b][/color] Hana went all in. Her finger pressed the 'submit' button and like that the latest bit of slash fiction went up on VanillaSunrise's page. 

It was likely to be the highlight of her school day. Which only served to make her all the more upset, as she sighed and blew a few strands of her hair out of her eyes.

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[sub][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDdLs1Uj23o]The president has a sex tape. The government sold you drugs. I’m just trying to get paid, but nobody’s coughing up.[/url] 
Homeroom[/sub][hr]

The fact that Henry fucking Green came stomping into the room to stew amidst his harem was like a cherry on top of the sundae Roz had been enjoying ever since the blog went live. This was a big one. The Weekend Warrior was a known quantity within Beverly Hills High and had been ever since Roz's first year. The older posts were a lot less focused and a lot less professional. No one really took it seriously at first, it was seen as just someone using profanity instead of having an actual point to make. But Roz remained determined and adapted. Clickbait titles were the bane of legitimate journalism but she had to admit they did wonders for web traffic. Weekend Warrior evolved with Roz, elevating itself from just some stupid burn blog to a burn blog with a point and a message inbetween slamming those who were unfortunate to catch the eye. 

This was the first instance where action was taken as a direct result of what she had written. Henry fucking Green was angry. She could see the Warrior on people's phones, she could hear people whispering, wondering how much of what they read was true. The article about the New Year's party had basically gone viral within Beverly Hills High. Weekend Warrior's infamy was at an all time high and Roz was happy to simply watch the show. She did this. She fired the first shot. Hopefully others would follow suit. 

The hard part was trying not to look too smug, but Roz walked into homeroom that morning with a bit of a skip to her step. People were on notice now. That was good. Journalism was a powerful tool. In the past it exposed coverups and criminals, ousted molesters and murderers, gave the power of voice to those who had none, and now it was going to be used against people who couldn't help but to shit on the little person. 

The comments on the post were largely positive, which was a rarity, and Roz didn't even have the time to go through them all yet due to the sheer amount of them. It felt like everyone who was at the party, and even some who weren't, had something to say or something to corroborate the claims. Roz was in her normal spot, back of the class, closest to the door, and she was scrolling through the comments, giddy as a school girl on prom night. 

Until a discrepancy crossed her eyes. 

[color=FFFACD][b]"That can't be right."[/b][/color] Refresh. Refresh. Each time brought the same result. Mixed in among the comments and single to five dollar donations was a comment attached to a $4500 donation. For some that attended this school it might've been pocket change but for Roz it was a serious amount of cash. More than she made in six months running the site with ads. [color=FFFACD][b]"Who the fuck..."[/b][/color] 

Roz was out of her chair in a flash, and out the homeroom door not long after that. She was dialing the number as she made her way to an empty stairwell, dipping around behind it, a little place students used to sneak cigarettes or makeouts between classes. It was probably some mistake, someone might've added some extra zeroes to the total and it was her responsibility to clear up any confusion. The number was dialed. It rang. 

A man answered. He sounded proper. Older. He had manners, that was suspicious enough. [color=FFFACD][b]"Hello, I'm inquiring about a donation this number left on a webpage?"[/b][/color] Roz put on her own voice, doing her best to sound proper bougie; that she sounded like someone ordering a pumpkin spice latte was largely the point. Her normal voice would have given her away in an instant. [color=FFFACD][b]"Well you tell me if there's a problem. Forty five hundred dollars is not exactly walking around money. I was wondering if there was some kind of mistake or...yes I...[i]represent[/i] Weekend Warrior. I'm the...Webmaster. I'm not saying I want to give it back, I want to know what it means."[/b][/color] 

This old man was exhausting to talk to. He sounded so robotic. He had to be some kind of mediator. The question, then, was for whom. [color=FFFACD][b]"Look, I'm not stupid, you don't leave a phone number on a donation because you want to gossip and dish dirt. I want a face-to-face. Whoever you are, set it up. This isn't adding up. Your people can call my people, or whatever."[/b][/color] 

Roz hung up first and sat down, leaning her back against the stairwell. She should've been overjoyed to get such a gift for her words, but something about it just stunk. The sundae had melted and the cherry rolled under the couch. Something was going on, and Roz was keen on finding out what it was. 

What kind of journalist would she be otherwise.[/center]