Title: The Rules
Author: Cyclone
Rating: T
Summary: Rule number five: Never leave the orphanage without clean underwear.
Notes: Stella centric silliness. I have no idea where this came from.

~x~

The nuns always told me not to speak with my mouth full.

It had something to do with manners, behaving like a lady, social protocol . . . whatever. I can't really remember right now. With a bunch of older kids who were into anything and everything and who allowed me to tag along after them, it never really sunk in. Besides, my warped sense of humour always thought it was kind of fun to spit half chewed peas across the table and watch them land in Sister Francine's mashed potato. My cohorts thought it was hilarious and egged me on with twinkling eyes and muffled laughter, but no one else thought it was particularly humorous – Sister Francine least of all – but what's a bit of masticated food at the dinner table? And when it came down to it, Sister Francine had her revenge. I'm pretty sure that those peas were the reason I got stuck with pots and pans on porridge day.

I did have other rules that I had to follow. Apart from the obvious religious ones that we went over every Wednesday and twice on Sunday, that is. Rules that had apparently been tailored just for me, and that were drummed into my head from the time I was able to understand what a rule was, until the nuns gave up all hope of ever turning me into a lady and just let me be.

Rule number one: Be nice to your dorm mates.
Rule number two: Respect your elders.
Rule number three: Don't run with scissors.
Rule number four: Don't chew with your mouth open.

Rules one and four I pretty much broke on a daily basis. The girl in the bed next to me; Carly was her name, was older than me, so it was my job to annoy her as much as possible. She didn't have a little sister so I kind of took on that role. And Elizabeth, who was on the other side, was an insufferable suck up who tattled to the nuns whenever I did something she deemed inappropriate. Since I was what they call precocious, I was called into the Mother Superiors office at least once a week to explain my actions and listen to a lecture on how I'd disappointed God. Elizabeth totally deserved it when I scrubbed the toilet with her toothbrush. And, despite Sister Rosemary telling me that I'd go to hell if I lied to a nun, I have no idea how crickets kept appearing in her bed. Honest.

Rule number three was one of the stupidest things I had ever heard. I ran with scissors once. I had to; one of the boys had dared me and Sister Brigid had forbidden it. I think there's something quite perverse in my nature that even now that I'm a grown woman, I take great delight in doing the exact opposite to what is expected of me. To her great disappointment nothing happened. I didn't trip, I didn't impale myself and bleed to death on the hallway carpet, and she didn't get to say 'I told you so' in that irritatingly superior way of hers.

Rule number five: Never leave the orphanage without clean underwear.
Rule number six: Always say please and thank you.
Rule number seven: Don't cuss.

I never could figure out what all the fuss about clean underwear was. So when I was ten, I walked to the park without wearing any underwear at all. I returned home triumphant, because I hadn't been hit by a bus and the sky hadn't fallen. I was a little disappointed because no one had even noticed, at least, not until I told them. The look on Sister Catherine's face when I informed her that Father Sloane wanted to see her in his office to discuss why they couldn't afford to provide me with underwear was priceless. It was well worth all the extra penance I had to do. Rules number six and seven I combined by asking Sister Francine (after I'd just spat something onto her plate) to pass the fucking butter, please. I was sent to bed without any dessert and the promise of yet another visit to the Mother Superior, but again, it was worth it.

Rule number eight: Don't trick the younger kids into eating bugs.
Rule number nine: Don't try and write your name in the snow.
Rule number nine a: Don't dare the younger kids to eat yellow snow.
Rule number ten: Don't speak with your mouth full.

Rule eight – David was a year or so younger than me and followed me around much the same way as I shadowed the older kids. I can't remember exactly how it came about, but one day I told him that bugs tasted like Twizzlers, and that if he wanted a nice treat he'd go down to the garden and find some. So he did. And when he came looking for me, screaming bloody murder with black bug juice running down his chin, Sister Brigid thought he was possessed and almost had a heart attack. I don't think she ever forgave me for that one.

I think rule number nine came about because I saw one of the older boys do it. Anything he could do, I could do better, right? Turns out, not so much. Father Sloane laughed so hard he cried, Sister Catherine practically gave up on me right there and then, Carly mocked me every day for a month, and I learned that I could make David eat anything if I imitated a chicken squawk and flapped my arms.

I'm more than a little dismayed to say that I never really outgrew rule ten. My spray control improved when I realised that boys didn't like to see bits of food flying from their dates mouths, especially when they were thinking about kissing them, but I'm still a big chewer/talker. Or at least, I was. Today, after years of having 'don't speak with your mouth full' drilled into me before, during and after most meals, I find myself remembering those childhood admonishments and am suddenly mute.

Oh, the nuns would be so proud.

However, the fact that I've finally managed to learn some self restraint means nothing. It means nothing because of one man, and he is not in the least interested in what I have to say. He keeps hedging, keeps trying to divert my attention by encouraging me, gently of course, because he knows exactly how sharp my teeth are, with sweet words and breathless grunts. Sooner or later – probably sooner, because it's been a while and we both want to move on to other things, I'll finish what I'm doing and then he'll have no choice but to listen. Sooner or later the floodgates will open and I'll tell him exactly what I want, and he'll obey me, just like he usually . . . well, sometimes, does.

I've almost arranged my thoughts into a half-decent battle plan when he slips from my mouth and pulls me to my feet. He drags my shirt over my head and then, because he's not done with me yet, claims my lips with a fierce kiss.

I finally find my voice when we break apart. "Mac. Bed. Now." I try to make it sound like a command, but who am I kidding? It comes out whiney and needy and I know he's not going to take any notice of me. This is his game now, and he's the one in control.

He shakes his head and pulls me onto the couch.

"No. Here. Now." And pulls down my panties with his teeth.

His fucking teeth. Trust him to find something that I couldn't resist and turn it into my addiction.

But I can't complain.

The nuns always told me not to speak with my mouth full.

End.