#but this time i put a naughty shame box where i write down how much money i spent on misc shit i prolly didnt need

[princeyadon]

also

i got a whiteboard and stuck on my wall where i always get my keys before i go out so i see it

i’m tryna see if i can do a sorta simple on the fly budgeting, it’s like really fucking hard to budget w this job cuz they never guarantee a certain amount of hours a week or what days you work so i’ve been making it up as i go urg

[extremelyblackandwhite]

handmaid - 17

PAIRING: mob!sebastian stan x ingenue!reader

WARNINGS: age gap

A/N:  i wrote this while watching hamilton on disney + and then proceeded to watch love never dies, so i’m pumped. hope you enjoy this chapter xxx

NEXT CHAPTER

The babysitter rushed after the two girls down Fifth Avenue, only noticing the vibrant colours of their winter coats lined with white faux fur that mixed with the white of the fresh fallen snow on the ground. All that could he heard down the streets were carollers and child-like glee. Y/N followed Gwen the fastest her six year old legs allowed her until they stopped at the front of the beautifully decorated Cartier shop. The two girls fawned over the beautiful shimmer of every single necklace and diamond on stand for the richest of all the richest. Y/N, however, was more interested in a red box of three Christmas ornaments with the most adorned, precious and precise craft. 

      - I’m gonna have all of them when I’m an adult. - a young Gwen smiled at the shop front, ignoring their breath catching babysitter who was praying to the gods the children had lost all their energy. - And I’m gonna wear all of them all the time.

      - You can’t wear all these earrings all the time. - Y/N retorted, eyes still glued on the Christmas ornaments. 

      - I’ll wear them as necklaces. - she rebuffed. 

      - Ladies, we should be going. - Ms. Wellington held both her hands out for the girls which both took gleefully, eyes still glued onto the Cartier glass as they were hushed onto the car.

The car took them back to the Forrest house which was covered in garlands and fairy lights looking like a winter wonderland. The young Y/N rushed down the halls onto the common room where several maids and handymen were putting the last details for the Christmas Eve dinner. She watched with pure glee and childhood innocence the Christmas tree being crowned with an acrylic and crystal angel. 

       - Good morning, Miss Y/N. - one of the maids spoke up as the young girl rushed through the crowds and into the kitchen which was boiling with heat due to the heaters and constant cooking. The no more than 39 feet tall girl watched in awe as the cooks prepared various amounts of precisely decorated sugar cookies. 

She put her tiny hands on the marble balconies, bracing herself to take a closer look at the cooks and maids preparing what would be Christmas dinner desserts. One of the maids noticed the face of the soon to be handmaid starring at them and went from behind her, grabbing her and sitting her on the marbled tops. 

      - Trying to get a peek of the Christmas desserts aren’t you, missy? - Y/N giggled at getting caught. - You can’t be naughty, Santa is still watching. 

      - I’m never ever ever naughty. - she crossed the arms over her Christmas dress embroidered with Christmas imagery. 

     - That it’s true. - the maid laughed, handing her one of the sugar cookies which Y/N’s eyes sparkled at. - It’s our little secret. 

     - What secret? - Y/N gobbled up the cookie as Mr. Forrest walked into the kitchen quarters. - How come you’re not with Gwenie watching TV?

     - I wanna help. 

     - You always wanna help. - the head of the mob family sighed, taking a slightly medium sized wrapped box off his jacket and handing it to the soon to be handmaid. Y/N furrowed her eyebrows, mouth agape in surprise. - Gwen got her bracelet and I thought you’d want something nice too that doesn’t come from Santa.

     - Can I open it? - she questioned excitingly picking at the bow on top of the red box. As he nodded, Y/N ripped the paper off revealing a shiny red box with a little ribbon which, when pulled, open a little drawer lined with white cushioned satin. In the middle stood a gold Christmas bauble which glistened whenever the light hit it. - It’s so pretty.

     - It’s pure gold. - he lifted the bauble for her to see it more clearly. - Ms. Wellington did say you were inclined for Christmas decorations.

    - What is gold? 

    - It’s a precious metal. Men kill each other over it. 

    - It doesn’t look that precious. - Y/N closed the box, holding it close to her chest. -  It silly to kill people over metal. 

    - Well, some would say men will kill each other over women with hearts of gold. 

    - Sounds painful. - she grimaced making Mr. Forrest laugh at her comment. 

    - Why, some would even say you have one of those precious metalled hearts, Miss Y/N. 

Y/N sighed, watching her reflection on the mirror as she tied her hair back before reaching into her suitcase, grabbing an old yet still in pristine shape red box with the golden writing fading due to time. Mindlessly, she smiled, opening the little drawer to stare at the intact bauble that always hanged on the Christmas tree every single year. She wondered if her salary would be enough to buy some decorations for the penthouse as Sebastian didn’t seem one to decorate or at least over do it as the only thing he had a Christmas garland surrounding the lift’s door.

    - Y/N! - Gwen screamed from outside her door, proceeding to bang one of her fists against it. - C’mon, we don’t have all day. 

    - I’m sorry, Gwen. - Y/N put her red box back, getting her bag and phone before unlocking the door. Gwen was wearing a faux fur white coat with her only Birkin which she hoped to have a collection of someday. - Remember when Ms. Wellington used to take us to Fifth Avenue?

   - I wonder if Cartier has a new stand this year. - Gwen gave her a soft smile as the two girls went downstairs. Her eyes lingered on the handmaid’s neck noticing a soft bruise there. - Hey, when did you get that bruise?

   - Oh ... - Y/N’s flew to her neck. - It’s a curling iron burn. 

   - No, that’s look like a hickey. - she smirked. - Soooo, who is he?

   - He’s no one. - Y/N tried to run away from the subject, standing a bit further away from Gwen in the lift. She, however didn’t seem to let go of the conversation and what was Y/N supposed to say? Why yes, Genevieve, this hickey was caused by your husband to-be? Gwen would have her head on a stick in the middle of Times Square for everyone to shame her. - Will you knock it off? It’s really nothing, it’s just a curling iron burn.

   - Oh c’mon, Y/N. Why are you being so secretive? Is he married or something?

   - What?! No. - no other time had Y/N replied so quickly. - There isn’t a he.

The shopping trip was filled with Gwen asking more and more questions about who had made the bruise despite Y/N saying various times that she had just burned herself with her curling wand. Luckily for her, Gwen had gotten distracted by the Hermes’ concession stand which gave her plenty of time to go into a less higher end shop and buy as many Christmas decorations as her salary pay check allowed her. She had gotten lost in the glimmer lights and shimmer of Christmas, smiling at everything she could find. 

After she had paid for an unholy amount of Christmas baubles and garlands, a particular dark jumper caught her eye. It wasn’t branded, it was probably cheap but it did felt nice and she wondered how good Sebastian would look in it. He always looked better in his casual attire rather than the perfectly tailored suits he was known for and besides, she did needed to get something for him for Christmas before she left with Gwen for the Forrest household. 

Once Gwen was done shopping for herself and everyone else who she considered high enough to be in her gifting list, the girls were driven back to the penthouse where Gwen took to retreating to her bedroom probably to be with Christian while Y/N started to wrap garland around the staircase rail. She was rather found of decorating and with the help of some staff managed to locate an old Christmas tree which she filled and filled with baubles and lights making it bright enough for people on the other side of the Atlantic to see it. 

    - Angel, what have you done to my house? - Sebastian had left his office to grab himself another cup of coffee to find Y/N still decorating.

   - It’s Christmas.

  - Yeah, I’ve noticed. - he rubbed the back of his neck. - Listen, angel, Mr. Williams is coming over for a meeting and I think you should go to your bedroom. 

   - Mr. Williams is not threatening. You said it yourself. - Y/N finished putting various baubles on the tree, staring at it with a proud smile on her face. - Doesn’t that look beautiful? 

   - Angel, you find beauty in everything. - Sebastian grabbed the Christmas star from the pile of decorations she had. - Saving the best for me?

   - Oh ... of course. - she shifted her weight from feet to feet. Sebastian had learned to understand whenever she felt embarrassed or shy and that sounded like one of those moments. Chuckling, his hand laid rest on her natural waist, while the other holding the Christmas tree star placed the ornament on her warm hand. Before she could question him, his now free hand came to rest on the other side of her waist and with a proper grip onto the fabric of her jumper and skin, he lifted her up. 

   - Go on, angel. Finish it. - he spoke up and with a child-like glee only present in the young handmaid, she placed the star on top of the tree. Gently, he lowered her down, twirling her so he was face to face with her. - Y/N, I ...

   - Mr. Stan, I see you decorated. - Sebastian grip hardened against Y/N and in a swift move, he placed her behind his back, observing as one of his least favourites walked in. How Mr. Williams had been his father’s favourite was still a mystery to him. How someone who beg, borrowed and stole their way to the hope without as much as getting a stain in his suit was someone who was still respected in the mob irritated him, yet again, he kept him around mostly in his father’s memory. - Miss Y/N, ever so lovely. 

   - Mr. Williams. - she bowed her head ever so slightly, before taking back to her bedroom. 

   - Some would comment on allowing a handmaid to decorate your home. 

   - Some would be smart enough not to comment on my decisions. What is the meaning of this meeting? You should be in France by now. 

   - It’s really about Miss Y/N, some associates have questioned about your ... closeness. - Sebastian rolled his eyes at the words. - She’s an unmarried woman accompanying a promised man to a cabaret, people ought to comment, Sir. 

   - All of my associates have seas and seas of mistresses besides Miss Y/N was only filling in for my fiancée as she was not feeling well. Whatever you are trying to imply, I suggest you shut it before you get off this house with a shot wound. 

   - Your father would’ve been more discreet with his mistresses. - his blood was boiling at the mere thought of calling his angel a mistress. It sounded dirty and unfitting of the own purity that came along with her but it sounded even worse coming from the middle-age balding man who was everything but a great man even less a good associate. - Your mother, may she rest, she never ev...

  - Don’t speak of my mother and next time you wanna accuse any of my employees of being everything other than my employees I suggest you buy a new identity because I will fucking kill you. Now, GET OUT!

Y/N was perched by her door, ear against the wood as she tried to listen to the argument which surely had become heated based on the screaming she could hear. She peaked through the door, watching as some bodyguards escorted Mr. Williams out. 

Sebastian sighed, walking over to the silver tray that held most of his liquor and spirits and poured himself a glass which he seemed to down in no time. She sighed, looking at the black bag with the jumper she had bought him, he probably needed something nice right now. With that idea tattooed on her mind, she went down the stairs, reaching a very stressed Sebastian. With a soft touch, she called out for his attention.

   - You need a break. - she smiled softly, hand coming to caress his cheek.

   - Mob bosses don’t take a break, angel. 

   - Everyone needs a break. It’s Christmas season, you’re eventually gonna burn out if you don’t take a break. 

   - Y/N ... - he sighed. - I can’t take a break but I’m happy you care. 

   - I’m sure you can take a break, Mr. Forrest never worked during Christmas season and he’s doing just fine. - she shrugged before handing him a bag. Sebastian furrowed his brow, gaze moving from her to the bag. - It’s not much and I was gonna give it to you for Christmas but you look like you need a treat. 

   - You shouldn’t waste your money on me. - he opened the bag which showed a knitted black jumper. - It’s great, angel. Thank you.

   - You should use it when you take that break. 

Meanwhile, outside Mr. Williams was waiting for his ride. Out of everyone that could’ve inherited the mob boss title of the Stan family it had to be Sebastian. In his mind, Sebastian was too emotional to run the family and the arrival of the handmaid had surely started to show how unprepared he was to run it. No mob boss should show weakness yet there it was, the mob boss weakness displayed for everyone to see. With a swift move of his wrist, he placed his phone by his ear. 

   - I need a favour. 

tag list: @lilya-petrichor @xoxohannahlee @irespostthingsiwanttoseelater @nikkipea @madisonpillstrom @cevans98 @thelostallycat @sideeffectsofyou @anxiousdreamersworld​ @captainchrisstan @lookiamtrying @sarge-barnes-sir​@stuffforreferences

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

ANOTHER VICTORY

Michael “Riz” Ariza x Reader

Anon asked: I just want you to know I had a dream where I had sex with Riz and he was PACKING below the belt 😏 and it was great and Omgggg I will pay you if you can write a nsfw fic about that. (Also include doggy style bc that was the position 😏😏) please and ty so much ❤️❤️❤️

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: NSFW, smut and Riz being daddiest.

Thanks to my lovely beta reader @chibsytelford 💘

Author comments: I hope you all enjoy. Gif credits to: @fromthesixteenthfloor

Tag list: @starrynite7114 ​ @chibsytelford ​ @dazzledamazon ​ @mara-mpou ​ @sammskellington ​ @gemini0410 ​ @1-800-imagines ​ @briana-mishell24 ​ @sassymox @whyisgmora @aquamento @sadeyesgf 💥 (if you wanna be tagged, send me a message!)

With the cardboard box of Jose Cuervo on the bar, you tie your hair in a pony-tail to place the bottles in the shelving hanging on the wall. Ray came with Happy last night, and the prospect is pretty gentle with you. You two also have a lot of things in common, so always it's nice to see him again. You're laughing about one of his bad jokes, watching sideways the tensed jaw of Riz, some meters away, sitting on a table and playing poker with some Mayans and some Sons'. He's not even paying attention to the game.

“So, when you finish?”

“Ah...” Turning to your wrist to watch the clock, you calculate the time. “One hour, more or less, why?”

“We can go to that new foodtruck you said last time”.

“Sure! I would like it. A friend of Letti works there”.

“I'm done”. You hear Riz's rough voice, seeing how he throws his cards on the table, getting up of his chair.

Walking towards you, he grabs your forearm turning you to a strange confusion, whilst he's practically dragging you through the hallway straight to the dorms. You don't ask. You know exactly what is going on, with a naughty smile on your lips. He opens the door of the room you used to use, pushing you inside, before closing it back. He looks furious, but not at you, but because of Ray and his little shame of flirting with you.

You're about to cross your arms, trying to look outraged, when he nails his hands on your hips pulling you into his body with a dry hit, crashing his lips with yours. Growling at the slight lash of pain, you tangle your hands in his hair, enjoying the dirty and angry kiss he's giving you. His hands moving fast, lifting up your shirt over your head to throw it somewhere, while yours are traveling down to the belt. He's hard because of the excessive and exaggerated situation, and you can't help but feel blessed because of his jealousy. He's not the kind that could hit another man, but fuck you harder to mark his territory and make himself sure you're satisfied enough to not find another guy.

“What 'you gonna' do, papi?” You ask with a husky voice and your lungs looking for some air.

He doesn't answer, getting you undressed as you unzip his jeans walking towards the bed. And when he can, he turns you under his hands to make you kneel on the mattress spreading your legs enough to enjoy the view for a second. He doesn't even need to play with you, 'cause he knows you're wet enough when he behaves that way. Supporting your weight on your knees and on your palms, he guides his reddened glans between your legs, till he's able to pound you with all his strength making you moan loudly with closed eyes.

“Shit, Riz...” You growl, tangling your fingers in the sheets, while he nails his on your wrist.

Every thrust is angrier than the last, hitting your soul without regrets as you like. You're sure that someone turned on the radio outside of the room, just to not hear you. It's a little uncomfortable, but you love screaming out his full name when you finish.

“Oh, god... just like that, papi”. You gasp biting your lips, arching down your back to rest your chest on the bed sinking your head between your arms.

Riz spanks your ass two times, making you squirm for a second. You enjoy a lot the sex with him when he's riled up. 'Cause it's not because of you, but he takes it out on you giving you such pleasure, always being careful of not hurting you. One of his hands tour your back, tangling it in the pony-tail to lift you up with a jerk, fitting his body better between your legs and your back supported on his chest.

Thrusting you with a non-stop move, he puts that hand grabbing your throat, looking desperate for bite your neck twisting it and leaving a wet trail of saliva. Your groans get louder placing your fingers around his wrist to make some pressure on your skin, while his other hand goes down your low belly till find your disregarded clit.

“Fuck, baby...” Riz moans on your ear, stroking your wetness with his forefinger, drawing an imaginary road through your back with kisses, pushing your chest again to the mattress.

His hands holds your waist now, pounding you faster with his head leaning slightly back. His gasps dancing with yours all around the room. He's a self-confident man and he trusts you blindly, but Happy's prospect drives him insane in a bad mood, and he hate everytime that kid is swarming near you, as if he thinks that he could have a chance with you. But you're Ariza's property and everybody knows that fact. Not as a trophy, nor a possession, nor a piece of meat in a barbecue, but the love of his life, being bewitched by you.

Maybe sometimes he has a weird way to show you that he loves you, but it's part of his charm and you like it. Licking your lips, you start to feel how close you are of cumming because the pleasure he's drowning you into. Riz pulls himself out with a disappointed growl in your throat, turning you over the bed.

“I wanna see you cum, baby”. He says laying in top of you, forcing your legs to wrap his waist.

He digs his hardness without expecting, arching your back a little because of it, looking for his lips to kiss him and suck his tongue in a soft lick, whilst your moans floods the room. Some heat chills run through the skin of your thighs, bristling it. He loves your face when the ecstasy wraps you, seeing that it's the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

“Fuckin' Michael Ariza!” You scream out, closing your eyes and your mouth opened, while he chuckles without stopping till he fills you with his seed, with a guttural howl full of pleasure.

“Me vuelves loco, mi amor”. (You drive me crazy, my love). He whispers tiredly on your ear, kissing gently your neck and your collarbone, trying to recover his air.

You laugh covering your mouth for a second, caressing lovely with your feet his legs. Shaking your hair then, you get comfy under his body, still inside you.

“I bet you will can't to have lunch outside”. He says then, kissing your lips slowly and enjoying them.

“Yea', congratulations. You always win”.

“This is my most desired victory”.

“I'm pretty sure, Rizzy. But now, get outta' my room, 'cause I need to take a shower and keep working”.

“At your service, mi reina”.

Pulling himself out and cleaning the mess he made, he gets dressed back while you're staring at him with a funny smile on your face. Before leaving, he leans to you with a hand placed on your neck, to give you some last kisses all around your cheeks and temples.

“I love you”.

“Yea' sure. Go fuck yourself”. You chuckle pushing him to get up.

[illfoandillfie]

Countdown To Christmas

Pairing: Lucy Boynton x Reader x Gwilym Lee

Summery: When Gwilym reveals he has no plans for Christmas Day, you and Lucy invite him to spend it with you.

Warnings: SMUT (18+), Christmas themed girlfriend fluff, orgasm denial/edging, threesome (obv.), dom/sub/dom dynamic, oral sex (m and f receiving), spanking, sex toys - vibrator and strap-on, a teeny tiny bit of cumplay

Words: 9020 (jesus)

A/N: This is my secret santa gift for @laedymoon​ for @dtfrogertaylor​ ‘s Thank God It’s Christmas event! El, I got very excited when I found out I was going to be writing for you! You are my tumblr daughter/wife and I love you so much. I had a lot of fun writing this (I really don’t write either Gwil or Lucy enough) and I really hope you enjoy it!! 

Taglist:  @laedymoon​  @dtfrogertaylor​   @ezmina98​  @vee-ndetta​ @atomic-watermelon​ @kellypenac​ @labessieisallama​ @deakyclicks​ @jennyggggrrr​ @drowseoftaylor​  @hannafuckingsucks​  @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming​ @queenmylovely​ @supersonicfreddie​

THREE DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS

Normally you didn’t leave gift buying so late but this year things just seemed to have slipped away from you. To be fair, a lot of the big things you’d already bought. Your parents were taken care of, and Lucy. And besides, you didn’t really mind heading into the city so close to Christmas. It made you feel festive, especially as the sun faded and the strings of lights decorating each street and shopfront came to life. Aside from the crowds of people hurrying to finish their shopping, it was quite lovely. Light snowfall, a line of kids waiting to get their photo taken with Father Christmas, a choir huddled together singing carols. It just made you more excited for the actual day. You shook your head and squeezed Lucy’s hand as you tried to remind yourself that you weren’t there for the festive ambience, you had things to do.

Together you and Lucy entered Harrods, heading straight for their Christmas display. You were mostly looking for smaller items, fun and maybe a little gimmicky, for the friends you were likely to see over the holiday season and your neighbours, a thank you for collecting your mail while you and Lucy had been away earlier in the year. “D’you think Pam and Harry would like a cookbook?” you asked Lucy as you browsed one of the tables of “Gifts For Her” the store had laid out. “I don’t think they’re that big into cooking. What about this cocktail set? See it’s got a shaker and a couple of flavours,” “Isn’t Harry a teetotaller?” “Oh, shit you’re right, okay forget that. Maybe a puzzle?” Lucy laughed as she pulled the suggestion out of thin air, giving you a look that plainly said Lord I don’t know. You were about to suggest searching in a different part of the store, hoping something would leap out at you as the perfect gift, when a voice caught your attention. “Lucy? Y/N?” “Gwil!” Lucy smiled as the tall, bearded man came over, “Fancy running into you here.” “Finishing your shopping?” “Yeah” you said, “thankfully almost done. What about you?” “I’ve been given a slight reprieve this year. Not doing the whole big family thing we had planned.” “Oh no, what happened?” “Oh it’s not that bad Luce. My parents decided they wanted to spend the holidays somewhere warmer so they’re on a cruise in the pacific right now. And then my brother’s family have all come down with some sort of cold or flu or something, so we’ve all decided to save our festivities until new year's. It’s great though, means I haven’t had to rush buying presents or anything, only looking for something for my niece and nephew now.” “So you’ll be alone on Christmas? Why don’t you come over to ours instead?” “I couldn’t intrude like that,” “Don’t be daft, not intruding if we invited you,” Lucy laughed, “Seriously, it’s just going to be me and Y/N all day. We’re going to my parents for Boxing Day lunch but other than that it’s just the two of us and we’ve already bought more food than we could possibly get through on our own.” “You really don’t mind?” “Of course not Gwil! You’re practically family anyway. We’d have invited Ben too but Y/N spoke to him last week and he’s already got plans.” “Alright, you’ve twisted my arm, I’ll be there.”

You chatted to Gwilym for a little longer before he left you to wander around in search of suitable presents once more. Both you and Lucy agreed you should get him something too, although, distracted by other people’s gifts and a little worn out from having to navigate the crowds, it ended up slipping your mind. It wasn’t until you were at home, sitting on your living room floor wrapping your haul that you realised. “Hey what happened to that book about the Welsh rugby team? The one we were going to give Gwil?” you asked as you finished writing on the gift tag of the present you’d just wrapped. “I thought we decided he’d already read it and left it behind.” You looked over at the small Christmas shrine you’d created. With only the two of you, and your house being more cosy than spacious, you’d decided not to worry about the whole big tree thing. Instead you’d bought a kitschy fiber-optic tree that was small enough to sit on a little table and surrounded it with tinsel, a few cards you’d received and a candle that smelt like Christmas pudding. There was enough space under the table to stack the few presents you’d be opening come Christmas morning. Each of you had two to open, something naughty and something nice, a decision you’d made as soon as you realised you’d not be seeing anyone else all day. “We have to get him something.” “Okay but I’m not going back into the city two days out from Christmas. It’ll be mad and everything’ll be sold out.” “Well what do you suggest then Luce?” She furrowed her brow as she thought for a moment and then she looked at you. “I know that look Lucy, whatever your idea is it’s dangerous.” “Not dangerous. Risky maybe.” “Spit it out then,” “What if we gave him a threesome?” You laughed but stopped when you realised she wasn’t, “Bullshit, you’re not serious are you?” “Well I’m sure he’d like it. Isn’t it every guy’s dream to have a threesome with two girls?” “I wasn’t saying he wouldn’t like it. Just didn’t expect that to be your first idea. You really thought threesome before you thought of the weird little shop up the road?” “That shop wouldn’t have anything Gwil liked, it’s all incense and crystals and hippie stuff. And you have to admit it’s a hot idea. He’s hot. Can’t say I haven’t thought about it before and I know you have too.” “Okay true I have.” “Good, so we’re doing it?” You considered for a moment, “Fuck it why not. It would be the best type of present since it’ll be as fun for us as it is for him. So then how to we give it to him? Like just blurt it out when he arrives or, a piece of paper that says redeem for one free threesome or something?” you laughed and shook your head at the slightly ridiculous turn the conversation had taken. “What about a little coupon book? Then we can give him some other things too in case he doesn’t actually want a threesome. Wait here,” Lucy pushed herself to her feet and ran off down the hall. You listened, bemused, as she opened and closed cupboards, rifling through them and pulling various things free, only returning when her arms were full. She dropped back to the floor next to you and laid everything out. Scissors, a stapler, a stack of paper, coloured pens. “Love, your artsy farsty, you wanna design a cover for the coupons? And then maybe write some things out in nice lettering?” Lucy pushed the pens towards you with her toes as she began mocking up a template to use as a size reference. You plugged your phone into some speakers and shuffled your Christmas playlist, both of you singing along as you set to work creating Gwilym’s present. By the time you were done you had a very cute little book of coupons, suitably decorated with festive colours and a little bit of glitter you’d remembered you had. Inside were ten coupons ranging from One Free Hug to One Free Threesome. You stood up and stretched as Lucy wrapped it and added it to the pile under your little tree.

TWO DAYS UNTIL CHRISTMAS

Lucy had splodges of batter over her shirt, a mishap with the electric mixer, and flour smudged across her nose and cheek, entirely your doing. She’d got you back, a smear of brown sugar over your forehead though you rubbed it in and thanked her for the exfoliant. Her attempts to act unimpressed, making a big show of rolling her eyes and telling you to get back to work, were admirable but the giggle gave her away. The kitchen itself wasn’t faring much better, splatters of butter and flour and sugar littering the bench and a few spots of the batter that covered Lucy’s shirt also decorating the walls. It was a shame really since you’d spent most of the day cleaning, intending on having the place spotless for when Gwilym arrived. “Is it meant to be that sticky?” Lucy asked over the Christmas playlist you’d once again put on, trying to compare the recipe on her phone to the concoction currently sitting in a blob on the bench, “I thought it was supposed to be firmer?” “Maybe it’ll fix itself as you knead it,” you shrugged, “just put down some extra flour.” “Maybe Gwil will bring some store bought gingerbread with him and save us from ourselves,” “It’s not that bad, look,” you grabbed an extra handful of flour, scattering it over the dough and bench, coating your palms in the remnants. Lucy took a step back, “those come no where near me Y/N, I swear,” You held your white palms up to her innocently before taking to the dough, pushing and pulling it until it began to form a smooth ball which you placed on the beeswax wrap Lucy laid out, “see, nothing to worry about.” “S’pose we’ll find out for sure in half an hour when we roll it out.” She took the wrapped up dough from your hand and placed it in the fridge, “Siri, set a timer for thirty minutes.” While her back was turned you began tidying up the sack of dirty dishes, collecting a little of the mixture that still clung to the edge of the bowl on your thumb, “You don’t have to wait that long,” “Wasn't it half an hour? I’m sure that’s what the recipe said.” As Lucy turned eyes on her phone, trying to find the right part of the recipe, you caught her, sliding your thumb across her bottom lip and spreading the sticky batter there. She looked shocked for a minute before her tongue darted out to taste it, “okay, that’s really good,” a grin spread out across her face as she took a step towards you, and then another, and another, backing you up against the bench. One of her hands fell to your waist as the other cupped your cheek and she brought her lips to yours. You hummed, sucking some of the sweet spiced mixture off her lip. “What do you think?” “Yeah we nailed it,” “Mmhmm, good,” Lucy reached behind you, running her finger along the side of the bowl, collecting more of the leftovers. Slowly she slipped the finger between your lips, biting her own as she watched you suck it clean.

By the time the alarm went off Lucy was sitting on the clean part of the bench, your hands resting on her thighs as you made out. The rude beeping blasted through the jazzy rendition of White Christmas, and your moment, making you spring apart in surprise. Lucy, face flushed and demeanour flustered, giggled as she reached to turn off the alarm, “effective way of killing time,” “Could keep killing time, perhaps in the bedroom,” you trailed your finger over her thigh as you spoke. “But the dough’s ready, we can roll it out now.” “The dough will still be there in a couple of hours.” Lucy raised an eyebrow. “An hour? Half an hour? Fifteen minutes?” “C’mon,” she slipped off the bench, “grab the cutters, would you?” “Not even fifteen minutes?” you waited but Lucy didn’t say anything, “Fine, s’pose baking is almost as fun,” You turned to dig around in the draw for the cutters Lucy had bought. You managed to find them as Lucy lay out more flour and picked up the rolling pin, two cutters shaped like men, one like a Christmas tree and one like a heart. Together you pressed them out and lay them out on the baking trays, occasionally sneaking bits of the raw dough into your mouths. “They look really good,” Lucy said as she placed the last one on the tray. “They’ll look even better when they’re cooked,” “Ha ha ha. Just for that you can stick them in the oven and keep an eye on them while I go have a shower.” “Sure you wouldn’t rather I join you?” you traced your fingers lightly along her shoulder, hooking them under the strap of her bra. Without warning you pulled the strap away from her and let it go, making her squeal as it snapped back against her skin. “You’re a shocker, Y/N.” “You’re the one who put her fingers in my mouth so really I think this is on you.” “Just don’t let them burn.”

For a few minutes you stayed in the kitchen, scrolling through your Instagram feed, liking a few friends' posts about their own holiday activities, as you absentmindedly hummed along to the music. But that got old fast. Figuring you’d smell the biscuits burning if anything went wrong you left the timer ticking in the kitchen and headed out to the lounge room. The Christmas shrine caught your eye. Surely it wouldn’t matter if you had a little peek. Not even a peek, just a rattle. Just to see if you could guess what Lucy had got you. It wasn’t like you were going to unwrap it early, just play a little guessing game with yourself. You tiptoed a few steps closer to the bathroom door, listening to make sure the water was still running and then, having decided the coast was clear, you scurried back towards the tree. Carefully picking up the smaller of the two gifts baring your name, you examined the tag. A red dot. The naughty present. It was in a box, that much you could tell, but it didn’t help you narrow it down much. The size of the box didn’t really give anything away either. It was just an average sized box that could hold any number of naughty items. You gave it an experimental shake. And then, when you didn’t hear anything move, another shake, harder than the first. Still nothing. Perhaps that meant it was made from a soft material, or perhaps Lucy knew you’d try to figure out what she got you and intentionally packaged it so as to limit its movement. Either way, there were too many possibilities for you to work out what it was, so you put it back and reached for the nice present. “And what are you doing?” Lucy’s voice startled you. “Just rearranging, making sure the pile was steady.” “Sure, that’s believable.” “Oh come on Luce,” you turned around on your knees, “not like I was doing anything bad,” “Trying to work out what I got you for Christmas isn’t bad?” “No, it’s not. I’d say it’s perfectly reasonable.” “Well I’d say it’s impatient. Little bit bratty,” You bit your lip, your breath hitching with the word. You knew what bratty meant. “But you’ve been a little impatient all day haven’t you. Wanting to get me into bed before we finished baking. So maybe you need to learn how to wait. And you can start by waiting for me on the bed. No clothes and no touching.” You made to stand up but Lucy just tutted at you. “Didn’t say you could walk, you know how much I like looking at your bum.” With an eyeroll you dropped back to your knees and began crawling towards the bedroom door.

Lucy made you wait for fifteen whole minutes before she followed you into the bedroom. “Luce, what the hell took you so long?” you asked, leaning against the headboard. It had taken every ounce of self-control you had to not touch yourself and you were already feeling antsy, ready for more. “Had to pull the biscuits out since you decided to misbehave before they were done,” she crossed the room, heading towards your cupboard and dug around inside for a moment. When she turned around she held a vibrator in her hand, “And you’re learning a lesson about patience, lucky I didn’t make you wait even longer.” You groaned, suspecting where things were headed. Lucy just chuckled as she moved towards the bed, dropping the vibrator onto the sheets as she kneeled beside you and pushed your legs open. Slowly she ran a finger through your folds, “Already wet for me. Good girl. You ready?” “Yes,” your voice sounded airier than normal, even to your own ears. With one hand she tugged on your hair, making you tilt your head back so she could capture your lips, continuing the kisses from earlier. Her other hand remained between your legs, fingers dragging through the slick and spreading it over and around your clit. You whined at the contact, hoping that if you sounded enticing enough Lucy might forget her plans to punish you. It didn’t work. Her fingers pressed against you firmly, drawing you closer and closer to the edge, leaving you panting against her lips, and whining when she pulled her hand away. “Patience, my love.” “You’ve got that look again. I’m not going to get off tonight, am I?” “Clever girl. Don’t think you’ll be getting off before Christmas Day.” “Lucy,” you whined, but she just laughed, leaning back to remove her own shirt. “Weren’t you wearing a bra before? Distinctly remember snapping the shoulder strap.” “Couldn’t be bothered after the shower. Figured you were going to take it off anyway but then of course I found you being so naughty,” Once more her fingers found your clit, “and my plans changed.” You could feel the familiar tingle creeping up, your hips shifting automatically in an attempt to find more friction. Christmas Day suddenly seemed an age away and you weren’t sure you could wait that long. Perhaps if you distracted Lucy enough, she wouldn’t realise how close you were getting, and you’d be able to steal an orgasm. Licking your lips, you directed your attention to her chest, dragging your tongue along one of her breasts before sucking her nipple into your mouth. Her fingers faltered for a split second and her breath hitched but she didn’t stop. Christmas music floated from the kitchen where it was still playing, but neither of you were in any frame of mind to think about changing the playlist. The sound was punctured by your muffled moan as Lucy pulled you towards the edge, followed by a soft squeak from Lucy herself, as you reach up to tweak one nipple, and drew circles with your tongue round the other. For a moment you thought your plan had worked, that Lucy was distracted enough, but then she pulled her hand away, making you whine and release her breast. “Awww, baby thought she’d get what she wanted?” Lucy mocked, taking your chin in hand. “Maybe,” “Baby was wrong,” she let go of your chin, tapping your cheek twice, “Think we’ll do one more for now.” Before you could say anything in return Lucy had picked up the vibrator and pressed it to your clit. You hissed as she turned it on low, your clit on the verge of being sensitive. It took less time for you to reach the edge again, a combination of the vibrator’s stimulation and how much you’d already endured. She waited until the last possible moment before she pulled the vibrator away, leaving you panting the word please as you tried to grind against thin air. “You’re done, for the moment at least. Might give you a few more before I let you go to sleep,” as she spoke Lucy stood and kicked off her pants and underwear, “But now it’s my turn. Here, hold this.” You took the vibrator from her, tempted to quickly use it on yourself, consequences be damned. Instead you waited. “Oh, good girl. You’re learning,” “Does that get me a reward?” Lucy laughed, “Bold. But yes, alright. It’s not the reward you want though, just a kiss,” she tapped your leg, indicating you should close them, and straddled your waist. You let her pull your arm into position, so the vibrator pressed against her pussy, and turned it on. She hummed as it came to life and brought her lips to yours. Each moan and whine she made was swallowed by you, the kiss only getting deeper and sloppier as she rocked her hips against the buzzing machine. It was close enough to your own skin that you could feel it’s pulsing, but nowhere near close enough to give you any real pleasure. Instead you had to be content with Lucy’s fingernails digging into your shoulder, her teeth scraping over your lip, her legs beginning to tremble as she hovered over you. Her lips parted from yours as she repeated the word yes over and over, her breaths gasped in between, culminating in a long moan as she hit her climax, shuddering through it. “Oh god,” she whined, grabbing your wrist to push the vibrator away. You turned it off as her head fell to your shoulder, still panting as she came down from her high. “You sure you don’t want to watch me cum like that?” “Positive,” she giggled into your shoulder. “Damn.” “Come on, we should get up, gotta finish tidying the kitchen and then I think it’s cheesy Christmas movie time.”

ONE DAY UNTIL CHRISTMAS

You weren’t entirely sure if the morning started off good or bad. On one hand, you woke up with Lucy’s fingers sliding through your slick folds. On the other, she edged you twice, resolutely sticking to her plan to keep you denied until Christmas. You considered that morning to be when she broke you. Of course, you’d played with denial before but for the most part it only lasted however long it took for Lucy to cum two or three times and then she’d take pity on you. The most you’d done was one day and that wasn’t even by design, just an accident while you’d been staying with your parents for a weekend. So the previous evening it had all seemed like a game, a joke even. Surely she was stringing you along. You’d not worried if you came across as bratty, confident that by the time you were hoping into bed she’d give in. Now though, after she’d sent you to sleep with another edge and then woken you up with two more…perhaps she was serious. You were rapidly losing confidence that it would end on Christmas Day, half convinced she was having too much fun to actually let you cum ever again. The idea that she was going to keep you wet and desperate for days rather than hours was scary and overwhelmingly erotic. Knowing that no matter how many times you asked, no matter if you got down on your knees and begged for it, she wasn’t going to give in, only made the need grow. When she was satisfied with the way you whined please she lay down and spread her own legs, telling you it was time you repaid her generosity. “Could have edged you more, kept going until you were so sensitive you were begging me to stop. But I didn’t. So how about you show me some gratitude,” Perhaps it was because a part of you hoped good behaviour would earn you a shorter punishment, or perhaps you just wanted something to take your mind off the way your clit was throbbing, but either way you were laying between her legs within seconds, without so much as a muttered comment about unfairness.  

Despite the uncertain beginnings, Christmas Eve went well. The morning was spent decorating the gingerbread you’d made the previous day, a process just as sticky as the actual biscuit dough had been, especially since there was a small mishap with the red food colouring that left a stain on the benchtop. But eventually you had a decent selection of coloured icings set out in piping bags as well as decorative sprinkles and the like. You and Lucy let your artistic sides take over as you gave the gingerbread men faces and buttons and sometimes hats or scarves. Silver and gold balls adorned the trees like little baubles and Lucy used the sprinkles on a few of the hearts to spell out yours, Gwilym’s and her own initials. When you were done you carefully packed most of them away into a Tupperware box to keep them safe, though you picked out a few of the funnier looking ones to snack on while you watched another cheesy movie.

Halfway through the movie the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” you said, pushing yourself off the couch. Lucy’s hand had been wandering higher and higher up your thigh for the last few minutes and you had already begun to feel the heat in your cheeks rising. The phone call was a good excuse to calm down a little before she could have you begging again. “Hello?” you said into the receiver. “Y/N? Hi, it’s Gwilym.” “Oh! Gwil, hi! You’re not calling to cancel tomorrow are you?” you turned to lean against the wall as you spoke, watching Lucy as she watched you. “No, no, the opposite actually. Wanted to make sure you’re still okay to have me,” You held back a giggle at the unintentional double entendre although you gave Lucy a look, pumping your eyebrows, “of course we’re okay to have you,” “Excellent, really looking forward to it,” “So are we. It’s going to be fun,” Lucy laughed, and you had to cover the receiver so Gwilym wouldn’t hear you struggling not to join her. “I should have asked this when I saw you the other day but do you want me to bring anything?” “Oh um, I think we’re all good for lunch. We’ve got turkey and a few different sides. Plus a Christmas Pudding and we’ve just finished decorating some gingerbread biscuits. If you want you could bring another bottle of wine or two, or maybe some mince pies, but if you can’t be bothered don’t worry about it.” “Wine and pies, think I can handle that.” “Seriously, only if it’s no trouble. We’ve probably got way too much food and drink as is and you will definitely be leaving with some leftovers.” “What’s Christmas without plenty of leftovers? I’ll be happy to take as much as you want to part with, anything if it means I don’t have to cook or go grocery shopping for a few more days.” You did laugh at that. “Anyway, I should let you get back to whatever you were doing,” “Watching Christmas movies,” “I caught Love Actually on TV Last night, still holds up.” “So did we! Absolute classic,” Gwilym’s laugh crackled through the receiver, “Definitely a classic. Oh! Almost forgot, what time do you want me there?” “How about elevenish? Should give us time for a pre-lunch drink.” “Sounds great. Thanks again for inviting me, I’ll see you tomorrow,” “It’s our pleasure! See you then,” you hung up the phone and turned back to the couch, “Gwil just wanted to know if he should bring anything.” “Yeah I gathered,” You dropped back into your seat and Lucy’s hand went straight back to where it had been before you answered the phone, as if there was a magnet pulling her towards your thigh.

By the time the credits were rolling you’d lost track of which movie you’d been watching, too preoccupied with how badly you wanted to cum. “Please Lucy, please.” “Stop asking, it’s not going to happen.” “Can you at least fuck me properly? Keep edging me, I’ll be good and I won’t complain, but I need you to do more than rub my clit, please.” “You want me to finger you hard and fast? Or maybe you want to be fucked with my stap? Wanna feel me deep in your pretty little pussy? “Yes, please,” “You’re really desperate, aren’t you?” she sounded almost surprised by the turn of events. All you could do was nod your agreement, “C’mon Luce, please? You’ll have so much fun and I promise I’ll behave,” Lucy giggled, “I’m already having fun just knowing what a whiny little slut you’ve turned into. And as much as I’d enjoy fucking you, I’m not going to. I want Gwil to see how pathetic you are right now. Besides, you’re way too close and I don’t want to risk you going over.” You whined and let your head hit the back of the couch as Lucy laughed.

CHRISTMAS DAY

You woke before Lucy did, grogginess gone the second you realised what day it was. A glance at the clock told you it was just after 9.00. Carefully you slipped out of bed, pausing when Lucy made a snuffling sound, holding your breath as she snuggled deeper into the warm covers. Careful to skip the squeaky floorboard outside your bedroom door, you tiptoed from the room, thankful you’d had the foresight to slip a pair of socks on as you changed into your pyjamas the night before. As quietly as you could you made your way to the kitchen where the speaker was still set up and grabbed it. Then, just as quietly, you made your way back to the bedroom. With one eye on Lucy’s peaceful figure you set the speaker down and turned the volume up high. You were ready to run the second you hit play on the Christmas playlist, an entirely too loud rendition of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer suddenly filling the room. Lucy damn near screamed in shock, yelling your name as she sprang out of bed and chased you from the room. “Y/N you bitch! I’m so going to get you for that!” You were cackling as she chased you through the house into the living room, stopping with your arms outstretched when you ran out of escape routes. “Wait wait wait,” you said hurridly, almost needing to yell to be heard over the music. “Better say something good or I’m going to have to end you,” “I love you?” Lucy lunged forward and you took a step back, hitting the arm of the couch. On most days you would have been able to duck under her arms and continue running through the house but not today. Today your knees gave way as they hit the arm sending you toppling backwards onto the cushions. Before you could even think to roll off the couch Lucy took the opportunity the universe presented her with and climbed onto your lap, effectively pinning you down. You squealed as she began tickling you. “Luce, god stop, I’m gonna pee my pants,” “You deserve it! That was so mean!” “Bu- ah! - But I’ll ruin the couch,” She stopped suddenly, “Fair point,” You were still panting as you grinned up at her, “Merry Christmas, by the way,” “Merry Christmas,” She said, leaning forward to peck you on the lips. “You gonna let me up?” “Okay but you have to make tea,” “Sure, as long as I can go pee first. I was not joking about that.”

You were just bringing the tea out of the kitchen when Lucy, having turned down the music and brought the speakers out to the living room, called out to you from where she sat on the floor, “Hey, we should open our naughty presents before Gwil gets here,” “Ooo yes, definitely. Here, take this,” you handed her mug down to her, followed by your own mug, “you want some gingerbread?” “A heart please,” “So picky,” you shook your head but collected the requested biscuit anyway. When you returned and took your own seat Lucy handed you the box you’d examined two days previously. You pulled out the gift you’d wrapped for Lucy from the small pile and handed it over. Together you unwrapped your presents, wrapping paper flying as you tore into yours though Lucy was a little more careful. Your gift was a set of silky-smooth lingerie in Egyptian Blue. “Do you like it? I thought the colour would match your eyes,” You ran your fingers over the floaty babydoll, “It’s gorgeous, I love it,” Lucy broke out smiling as she finished unwrapping her own gift, “Well this is interesting,” she began pulling items out of the hamper you’d created, “A candle. Didn’t know you were interested in wax play.” “Not what I had in mind. Mostly just a mood setting thing, but I s’pose your idea could be interesting.” “What else have we got, hot rocks, massage oil,” “Actually, it’s a massage oil slash lube that heats as you rub it in.” “So this is for a sexy massage then,” “Mmmhmm. That’s also why there’s a bullet vibrator is in there.” “Does this mean I can expect you to treat me to a massage sometime?” “Absolutely. I’d say let’s do it right now if Gwil wasn’t coming over.” “Definitely don’t want to be interrupted,” Lucy leaned over to kiss you, “Thank you, it’s lovely and I can’t wait to try some of this stuff out. Maybe I’ll keep you denied until you show me how it all works.”

When Gwilym arrived the presents were safely shut away in the cupboard in your bedroom, the turkey was cooking, and you were on your second lemon, lime and bitters. You opened the door to find him wearing a dorky Christmas sweater and carrying two bottles of wine, a box of Mr Kipling’s Mince Pies, and two packages wrapped up in paper decorated with snowflakes. “Hello hello. Merry Christmas” Gwilym kissed you on the cheek, a few flakes of snow clinging to his beard. “Merry Christmas to you too! Let me take those off you,” you took the wine and led Gwilym through the house to the kitchen, “Can I get you a drink? We’ve got all sorts, bitters, gin, whisky, a bit of champers, some mulled wine going on the stove,” “I’ll start with some of the wine if that’s alright,” “Work your way up to the strong stuff?” “Precisely. Lucy, Merry Christmas,” “And to you Gwil,” she said as he dropped a kiss to her cheek too. “Where can I stick these?” “Presents? Gwil you didn’t have to,” “Oh hush, it’s Christmas, as if I wasn’t going to.” “Fair enough, well, I’ll take the pies, add them to the rest of our goodies. If you take the presents out to the living room, you’ll see where a couple already are. Give me a second to grab a drink and I’ll be out.”

You handed Gwilym his drink and led him out to the small tree, both of you taking a seat as you chatted. Before long Lucy joined you, drink in one hand, box of gingerbread biscuits in the other. As soon as she was seated you got stuck into the presents, torn wrapping paper and excited exclamations flying. The larger present from Lucy that you’d been caught trying to peek at turned out to be a new record player, and the one of Gwilym was a fancy notebook and fountain pen. Lucy loved the vintage hand mirror and set of blush and highlighters you got her, almost spilling your drink as she tackled you with a grateful kiss when she realised it was the mirror she’d seen in an antique store and regretted not buying. She’d gone back for it a week later and found it had been sold. “God I am so glad you finally know!” you laughed as she sat back down and examined it, “You kept going on about it but I’d already bought it and hidden it and I had to stop myself from laughing or spilling the secret every time you brought it up.” Gwilym bought her a book about fashion and style in the 1960s which, while it didn’t elicit quite the same response, was enough to earn him a bright smile and a tight hug. Finally, there was one present left. “That’s yours Gwil, from both of us,” Gwilym wasted no time in unwrapping it, dropping the paper to the ground as he looked at the cover, “Coupons?” “Look inside,” Your stomach felt tight with nerves and you glanced over at Lucy who was subtly shredding a scrap of wrapping paper. With a curious glance at both you and Lucy he began flicking through the pages, “One free hug, nice, a free meal. Do I have to use that to get lunch today?” “No, we’ll give you today free anyway, but you can come back and cash that in any time you like.” “Cheers,” he laughed and kept flicking though. You knew he’d reached the last page by how wide his eyes went. “Does this mean what I think it means?” “If you think it means Lucy and I are inviting you to sleep with us both then yes it does. Do you like it?” “Yes, Christ yes. Do I have to spend it today or is it like the meal one where I’m guaranteed a threesome because it’s Christmas?” “No, that one has to be cashed in I’m sorry.” “Then I’d like to cash it in now, please.” “Right now? You only have one, you sure you want to use it so soon?” Lucy asked. “Positive.” “Don’t want to save it for later tonight,” “Surely we’ll be too full and tipsy to move later,” “Good point.” “So, um,” he seemed a little unsure of how to progress, “how is this going to work?” “Just like sex normally does but there’s an extra person?” “More meant what are your limits and that sort of stuff, Luce” “Yeah I know, was pulling your leg.” She looked over at you as she spoke, “I mean, I think we’re both fine with most things. Nothing too BDSM-y or whatever but Y/N does tend to run more submissive.” You nodded, “Yeah, uh, I guess I like being told what to do, called names, stuff like that. My safeword is red just so you know, not that I think we’ll need it but, better safe than sorry.” Gwil nodded, “And,” his cheeks seemed a little more flushed than before, “this feels kinda weird to talk about but, how….uh, how involved do you want me to be?” “It’s your present Gwil, so as involved as you like.” Lucy seemed a lot more comfortable with the discussion, “ If you’d prefer to watch us that’s cool or if you wanted to fuck us both we’re into that too.” “Okay then, sounds good to me,” “Y/N, love, why don’t you go change into the thing you unwrapped this morning and wait for us in the bedroom. Got some other stuff I want to talk to Gwil about.” With a grin and a racing heart you scurried off to do just that, able to hear Gwil quietly asking what thing?

When you heard the doorknob turn you stood up, the soft material of the baby doll floating around the top of your thigh as you moved. “That’s pretty,” Gwilym said softly, stepping closer to you as Lucy followed him into the room and shut the door behind her, “suits you. Lucy’s got good taste.” “She told you she bought it for me?” “She told me a few interesting things. Like how you’re an impatient little brat who had to be put on denial to be taught a lesson.” Gone was the slightly uncomfortable Gwil from your discussion, now he was all confidence and control. It was a marked difference that made you clench your thighs together. “Oh, that,” “Yes, Gwil knows all about how I’ve been edging you for days now and how pathetically wet it’s made you. I also told him he now gets to choose if and when you cum today.” “What?” you were aghast. With Lucy you’d been maybe eighty-five percent sure she would be true to her word but with Gwil you had no idea what to expect. “That’s right. So you’re going to be a good girl for me, aren’t you?” “Yes,” you nodded emphatically to show how much you meant it making both Lucy and Gwilym laugh. “I told you she was desperate.” “Desperate enough to suck my cock?” Gwilym had spoken more to Lucy than you but you dropped to your knees all the same, beyond caring how eager you appeared or how much they’d mock you for it. “Christ,” Gwilym muttered under his breath and then, addressing you, “When was the last time you sucked dick?” “Umm, depends. I’ve sucked on Lucy’s strap a couple of times but the last time I did it with a real dick was before me and Luce got together, so over a year. But I got good feedback from him.” “You okay to do it now?” “Sure. Just like riding a bike….probably.” Gwilym laughed and waved his hand in a go on motion. From the corner of your eye you saw Lucy take a seat on the end of the bed, watching. You shuffled forwards on your knees until Gwilym was in easy reach, eyes trained on his belt as you undid it and then his zip. As you pushed his pants down his long legs, he pulled his sweater off over his head. “Thank god. Not sure I could have blown you properly while I was looking at Rudolf’s googly eyes.” “Sure you could have. Because if you don’t impress me you don’t cum. How’s that for incentive?” You almost whimpered as you pushed his underwear down, eyes going wide at what you were met with. He was bigger than you’d been expecting, certainly longer than you were used to. You started slow, grasping the base of his cock, and pumping your fist over him a few times before you began kitten licking around the head as you let instinct take over. You could feel your heart pounding against your chest, and took a deep breath, exhaling in a long stream, the air wafting over Gwilym’s cock. He hummed as you wrapped your lips around him, one hand dropping to rest on top of your head as you adjusted to the feeling. You began bobbing your head, slowly taking more of him in your mouth, stroking what you couldn’t reach. “Good girl,” he said, almost breathless, “look so good on your knees, eyes up.” You shifted your gaze to his face, and hollowed your cheeks, a soft groan his response. Being able to see and hear how much he was enjoying it made you feel bolder so you took him deeper still. You gagged. A string of saliva broke and dangled from your lip as you pulled back, gasping for air. “Sorry, you’re bigger than Lucy’s.” “Don’t apologise. I’m not expecting you to deepthroat me or anything like that.” “Am I doing good?” “Better than good, Y/N,” he groaned as you dragged your tongue down his length and then back up, sinking down onto him once more, “Feel incredible. And Lucy’s having fun too. She must like seeing you being a good little cock whore because she’s touching herself right now.” You whined around him and felt his hand tighten in your hair for a second. “She looks so hot like that. Pulled the top of her dress down so she can squeeze her tits, the skirt all bunched up around her waist. That’s it, just like that.” You tried to take him deeper again, squeezing your thumb in your fist and doing everything in your power to supress your gags. “Jesus, gonna make me cum so-“ he broke off with a gasp as you fondled his balls with your free hand, “oh fuck, soon, gonna cum soon.” Lucy moaned from where she was sat on the bed, as if to prove Gwilym had been speaking the truth about her. You squeezed your thighs together as best you could, needing any friction you could get as your own moan broke free. His fingers once again tightened in your hair, his hips bucking forward slightly with the stimulation, making you gag again. “Sorry, I’m-” he moaned as you picked up the pace, bobbing faster, “god, just like that. Y-you gonna be good and swal-low for me?” “You didn’t bother responding, just squeezed his balls a little as you sucked on his tip.” “Fuck, I’m cumming,” he groaned just before he released his load into your mouth. You kept sucking, making sure to get every drop before you let him go, sitting back on your heels as you caught your breath. “Show me,” You stuck out your tongue, earning his praise when he saw it was clean.

“What should we do with her next Luce?” Gwilym asked, towering over you. “Only seems fair that you get to watch her eat me out,” “That does sound fun. Alright, slut, up on the bed.” You hurried into place, kneeling before Lucy, waiting for her to lie back and get comfortable. She pulled you into a kiss for a moment, tongue sliding along your lip and then into your mouth. Gwilym quickly stepped out of his pants which had been pooled around his ankles and pulled off his shirt, settling himself at the end of the bed behind you. “Lie down,” Lucy said softly in your ear. It wasn’t what you expected but you were too far gone to argue. When you were settled Lucy quickly shimmied out of her dress and swung her leg over you, hovering over your mouth facing Gwilym. “Show us what a good slut you are, Y/N.” Your wrapped your hands around her thighs as she lowered herself onto your mouth, dragging your tongue along her pussy before latching onto her clit. For a moment they let you be, Lucy moaning as you slid your tongue into her entrance and she rocked her hips against you, but then you felt a light touch on your hips which made you squirm. Gwilym slowly dragged your underwear down your legs. “You weren’t joking about how wet she is, were you Luce,” he said, holding your underwear up so she could see the wet patch you’d left. The next thing you felt was his hands pushing your legs open and then his beard scratching against your skin as he lowered his lips to the inside of your thighs, sucking marks that made you whine. “Don’t cum,” he warned you before his mouth finally met your throbbing core. In that moment you were suddenly glad you had Lucy to focus on, sure you wouldn’t have lasted long without the distraction. Each time Gwilym made you moan Lucy was sure to moan too, grinding herself onto you with abandon. You let go of Lucy’s thigh, moving your fingers to her core, pumping them into her as best you could. “Wait Gwil, s-stop or she’ll go over,” Lucy said, tugging on his hair to pull him away from you. He retreated, once again giving his attention to your thighs as you whined in frustration. When you’d sufficiently calmed down Lucy gave the word, and he focused back in on your cunt, adding two of his long fingers to the mix. He avoided your clit for the most part, occasionally nudging it with his nose to keep you on your toes. You could feel Lucy’s legs beginning to tremble and tightened your grip, pulling your fingers free as you focused on her clit, her moans getting louder with each passing second. Gwilym left you again, shifting onto his knees as Lucy caught his attention. You could hear him talking to her softly, encouraging her to let go. She shuddered as she came, riding it out as Gwilym held her up. Finally she climbed off you, leaving you panting and squirming, trying to get Gwilym to finish you off.

“Don’t you look so pretty like this,” he said softly, stroking himself slowly, “you ready to be fucked, pretty girl?” “Please,” “Not yet. Don’t know if you’ve done enough to earn it yet.” “You could fuck me,” Lucy said, eyes glinting mischievously. “No, please, please, I need it. I need one of you to fuck me.” Both of them laughed as you sat up, still begging. “What if I fucked Lucy and made you watch and then we went and had lunch. What if we left you like this all day?” “That’s not fair,” you whined, “please, it’s Christmas, it’s a time for giving, please give me your cocks.” “Well,” Lucy said through a laugh, “can’t deny her logic. Alright, love, up on your hands and knees. Gwil’s gonna play with you while I get set up. The second you were in place Gwilym sunk three fingers into you, “There you go you needy slut, finally getting what you want.” He pushed his fingers into you a few time before he replaced them with his cock, making you mewl and fall forward on your arms. He held your hips tight as you adjusted to him but as soon as you indicated you were alright he began fucking into you, laying a few spanks to your arse just because he could. “You’re close already aren’t you?” “Yes, fuck, so close,” you whined, the days of denial catching up with you. “Cum for me then,” he dropped his fingers to your clit, which was all you needed to finally fall over the edge, crying out as you did. “God such a tight cunt,” he panted as you clenched around him. Yet he didn’t stop. Just held you tighter as he continued to pound you roughly. Barely recovered from your first, you could already feel the beginnings of a second orgasm starting to build in your gut. You gasped as another spank landed on you, surprised by it because Gwilym’s hands hadn’t moved. Lucy chuckled at your reaction and did it again. “Give me a go, Gwil,” His thrusts slowed and then he pulled out, shuffling to the side so Lucy could kneel behind you. “Turn over, love,” she said softly, tapping your thigh. You were happy to collapse on your back, sure your legs would have given out as soon as you came again. If you came again. God you hoped they’d let you cum again. Lucy leaned over to kiss you as she lined the dildo up and sank into you. “Good girl, taking both of us so well,” You whined at the change of position, Lucy leaning down to tug at your nipple with her teeth. Suddenly she let you go, gasping as Gwilym sank into her from behind. He paused for a moment, letting her adjust and then, when he was sure she was fine, he thrust harshly into her, pushing her deeper into you. There was nothing you could do but hold your legs up and moan, able to see Gwilym, holding Lucy’s hips and grunting as he ploughed into her. The sight only turned you on more, every one of his movements hitting you through Lucy, the feeling in your stomach only getting stronger. “Can I cum?” you panted, tugging on Lucy’s hair out of a need to do something with your hands. “Ho-hold it. Fuck Gwil just like that,” You whined, watching as Lucy’s eyes rolled into the back of her head. You used your grip on her hair to tilt her head, attaching your lips to her neck. “Yes, yes, yes, god don’t stop,” her eyes slipped shut. It didn’t take much more before she was moaning through her release, Gwilym grunting as he held back his own. As soon as he slipped out of her, he kneeled beside you. “Fuck her Luce.” His hand came down on her arse, jolting her into moving, “dirty slut wants to cum again.” “Please,” you whined as Lucy found her rhythm again. Gwilym snaked one hand between you and Lucy, rubbing your clit, “Cum for us Y/N,” You obeyed, thanking him through your moans. Lucy’s fingers were digging into your thighs as you rode out your orgasm, Gwil’s fingers still on your clit, until you became too sensitive and had to push him away. “Doesn’t she look so good right now Gwil?” Lucy asked as she carefully pulled out, “Leaking onto the sheets, face still covered in my cum. So fucking messy.” “Mmm, makes me wanna add to the mess.” Before you could register what he meant he was kneeling in front of your face, pulling your head up. Lucy moved behind you, holding you in place as he tapped his leaking tip onto your lips. You hummed as you were pushed down his length, Lucy controlling your pace, as you pressed your tongue to the underside of his cock, a few gags escaping, tears running down your cheeks. It didn’t take long, Gwilym’s groans getting longer as he got closer. He pushed you off him at the last moment, stroking himself until white ropes painted your tits. “Fuck you look like a such a mess,” “A hot mess though,” Lucy said, trailing her fingers through the splatters on your chest. She sucked them into her own mouth, swirling her tongue around her digits. When she was satisfied that they’d been thoroughly cleaned she leaned over you and kissed you again, a sticky white string connecting you when she pulled away. “Fuck,” Gwilym lay beside you, propping himself up on one elbow, eyes glued to your lips, the space Lucy had just inhabited, “Might be the best Christmas present I’ve ever got. Certainly the best I’m likely to get this year.” “Good,” Lucy said, standing and beginning to undo the strap around her waist, “I’m glad you liked it.” “Me too,” you smiled over at him, “It was fun.” “A lot of fun,” Lucy laughed, “Maybe we could be persuaded to give you another round later, after lunch. It is Christmas after all, and what’s Christmas if not a time to be generous?”

[mariequitecontrarie]

All of Me: Chapter 16

The Fic: Belle French is a pudgy librarian who’s in love from afar with “town monster” and ace reporter, Mr. Gold. Little does she know, he’s head-over-heels in love with her, too. Chapter Summary: Belle and Emma go shopping in Portland to prepare for a big night out with Gold and Neal at the Storybrooke Winter Gala. Emma runs into an old high school rival and shares a secret. Rating: T A/N: Guys, it’s been 84 years! Much love to @galactic-pirates and @magnoliatattoo for putting up with me. Artwork by the talented @wizzygold @a-monthly-rumbelling: “I’m not dressed for this.”

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | 

Stay with Me (bet. Ch 9&10) | Spiked Chocolate (bet. Ch 16&17) | Pieces of Me (Q&A)

ON AO3

“The quickest way to know a woman is to go shopping with her.” - Marcelene Cox

***Three weeks after Belle has moved out of her parents’ house and into Marco’ s.***

Belle picked up the telephone to call Gold at the newspaper, her day planner spread open on the desk.

Yes, it was old-fashioned, writing things down on a calendar and lugging the thick planner around in her bag, but she liked old-fashioned. She liked books, and fountain pens, and the rustle of paper—both crisply new and faded with age. Besides, she didn’t trust iPhone calendar apps.

She’d forgotten Daddy and Edith’s anniversary one too many times thanks to those finicky electronic calendars. Whenever it happened, she rushed to write a card at the last minute but instead of being grateful, Edith seemed to enjoy shaming her for “neglecting her family.” Personally, Belle felt anniversaries were about the couple celebrating each other…but her thoughts were veering way off course. If she ventured down the dark road of worrying over Edith, she could end up in bed with a box of snowball cakes for the rest of the day.

But falling into depression was less likely now that she no longer called her father and Edith’s house home. After three weeks of living with Marco, there was no denying how much better she felt; the freedom of coming and going as she pleased was a heady sensation. Sometimes Gold joined her at Marco’s house in the evening and the three of them played Scrabble together. Once, she had insisted Marco not cook dinner after cooking at the restaurant all day long and dragged him to Emma’s house for a family dinner where Henry chattered about school and his friends and made everyone laugh until their sides ached. 

But most often, Marco would come home from the restaurant and the two of them would eat a pasta and salad dinner, and then spend the evening in the comfortable quiet of his small, cozy living room. His overstuffed couch and chairs were such a contrast to the hard, slick leather furniture Edith filled her house with, and Belle loved sinking into the corner of Marco’s huge couch and covering up with a fluffy throw blanket.

Sometimes they would make small talk about their days but on most evenings, Marco would be bent over a notebook making notes for the next day’s specials at the restaurant, and she would pull out her laptop to research books to add to the library. Usually, either the Cooking Channel or HGTV played in the background. She’d had an older television in her bedroom at her parents’ but no cable connection. Marco, however, had a new flatscreen and Belle indulged in her love of watching House Hunters International, which combined two of her favorite pastimes: seeing home interiors and a peek at exotic destinations.

Gone were the days of being chased into her bedroom, hiding her diary, and hoarding snacks. Some days, the years spent in Edith and her dad’s frosty household seemed like a bad dream. 

At least twice a week, Belle offered to pay Marco rent. It didn’t seem right to eat his food and live in his space and offer nothing in return. But he refused every time she asked. “No,” he had said this morning over breakfast, flipping eggs with a stubborn twist of his lips. “We are family, Bella. La famiglia. And when life is hard, family is a soft place to land.” Her eyes had burned with grateful tears, but she kissed his cheek and ate her breakfast and let him fuss over her until they went their separate ways—he to the restaurant and her to the library.

Besides, she thought as she punched in Gold’s number, she didn’t have time for wallowing.

She needed to talk to Gold about the annual Storybrooke Winter Gala today. On impulse, Neal had bought four tickets and insisted he and Emma and Belle and Gold make a double date of the occasion. He’d even arranged for their next-door neighbor, Ana, to watch Henry.

Every December, the Mayor’s Office hosted the gala to benefit the city schools. This year, all proceeds would go toward school Arts programs—music, theatre, writing, and art workshops. Emma and Gold usually attended every year, Gold to cover the event for the Times and Emma to capture photographs to accompany the story. Belle had never been invited to the ball before, though, and she wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Part of her didn’t want to be seen in public with so many shiny glossy people she couldn’t measure up to, but another side of her was excited to play princess for an evening.

She glanced again at the date and punched in Gold’s phone number. Today was Friday, November 16th. Thanksgiving was next week, which meant the gala was only three weeks away. There wasn’t much time to get ready. Finding a dress could be difficult and she would probably need to take it to a tailor, too. The thought of shopping for formalwear made her palms begin to sweat.

“Gold,” he answered on the first ring.

“What are you wearing?” she asked in a rush, followed by a breathless pause.

He answered with a laugh, the deep, rich sound making her spine tingle. She imagined him setting down the newspaper proof he was holding to turn in his chair to peer out the window toward the library. Since her office was in the back of the building he couldn’t actually see her, but she felt the admiring burn of his eyes all the same.

She heard a rustling sound as he set down the pages. When they talked or spent time together, he always gave her his full attention. It was certainly a refreshing change from Sean distractedly glancing at her during one of his marathon video game sessions and asking her to repeat what she’d said for the third time.

“A naughty call in the middle of the workday?” Gold drawled into the phone. “Sweetheart, men dream of these sorts of calls from their girlfriends. It’s not even my birthday.”

Belle blushed. She hadn’t stopped to think how awkward the question would sound out of context, but now that it was out, she teased him right back. “Mmmm nothing naughty to say today but just wait till it is your birthday,” she said. “Now that you mention it…”

“Yes?” He drew out the word, filling it with expectation and making her giggle.

She could almost see him leaning forward across the desk, a mischievous gleam in those caramel eyes.

“When is your birthday?”

“January 14th,” he answered promptly. “And tell Marco I prefer ice cream cake.”

“You prefer every cake,” she shot back, smiling into the phone. When it came to baked goods, Gold had an enormous sweet tooth. “But I think it can be arranged.”

“That’s excellent news. Just don’t tell Marco how many candles to put on it because the thing will be melted before we have a chance to slice it.”

Belle knew he was still self-conscious about the difference in their ages. She also knew exactly how to soothe him when he worried. “Then it’s a good thing I prefer mature men.”

“Indeed,” he said, sounding pleased.

She flipped her planner forward and marked his birthday on the calendar in bold, red ink, surrounding the date with fat, bright hearts. The birthday of the man she loved was an important day—far more worth remembering than the wedding date of her stuffy stepmother and emotionally unavailable father. At least she knew Marco wouldn’t snoop through her things and read her planner or her diary. But she was digressing again.

“Now, back to my question,” she ordered, feigning sternness. 

“You have my full attention, General French.”

She laughed and rubbed the thick holiday gala invitation between her fingers. Its embossed gold lettering and sprigs of holly in metallic ink screamed expensive. Everyone knew the Storybrooke Winter Gala was the social event of the season. From the chilled seafood towers bursting with crab claws and lobster tails to the elegant champagne cocktails, no expense would be spared.

Belle fanned her warm cheeks with the cardstock, her clammy fingers leaving damp smudges at the top of the matte stationery. “The invite says formal attire, but you’re almost always formal. Were you thinking suit or tuxedo?”

 “At the moment, I’m in my usual. I did opt for the socks with the turkeys today as a nod to next Thursday.”

Belle giggled and dragged her teeth over her lower lip. His Thanksgiving socks were adorable and he was being terribly sweet in his attempts to put her at ease. She wanted to go to the gala, but she didn’t want to look like a country bumpkin who had never been anywhere. Gold had attended fancy dinners and parties all over the world. He’d been to a State Dinner with the President, for goodness sake, while Belle had never ventured beyond the Portland city limits. “You know what I mean. It’s not like we can show up in sweatpants and be all ‘sorry, I’m not dressed for this.’” Oh, how she wished.

“Sweetheart, you can wear anything you like. You’re gorgeous no matter what you have on. That said, I’m not really the proper person to offer advice on evening gown selections. Why don’t you talk to Emma?”

She sighed. “Honey, I have talked to Emma. We’re both going shopping and we both need to know. It’s not like we can ask Neal for guidance.” Exasperated, she pushed a curl off her forehead, wondering why she had to explain this. “You know what he’s like. Emma said, ‘Neal would dust corn chips off his construction clothes, zip a hoodie sweatshirt over it, and head out the door.’ That’s a direct quote, by the way.”

Gold burst out laughing. “Sounds like my boy. I’ll make sure he’s dressed appropriately.”

“Anyway,” she continued, “there’s not much of a boutique circuit here in Storybrooke and I’m not exactly a candidate for Rent the Runway.” She sucked in the inside of her cheek as soon as those last words were out. Since they’d started dating, she’d been making a concerted effort not to say self-deprecating things about herself. At least not out loud.

Gold hadn’t seemed to notice her negativity, though.

“Which would you prefer I wear? Tux or suit?”

The image of whirling on the dance floor with Gold in a sleek black tuxedo was doing crazy things to her insides. “Tux,” she said in a breathless whisper. “Tux sounds good.”

“Tux it shall be then. And Belle?”

“Yes?” She was still picturing Gold in black tie and her stomach was doing gymnastics.

“Love,  I meant what I said: you’re gorgeous no matter what you wear. We’re going to the gala so we can dance and eat shrimp cocktail and support the Arts, not so you’ll worry over competing with silly girls and stupid women who wouldn’t know true beauty if it ran over them with a sleigh.”

“I wish you and Emma and Neal were going to be the only ones there,” she murmured, feeling silly. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t known about the gala and been given every opportunity to decide against going. The event had been on the calendar for weeks, yet the closer it came the more she fretted about fitting in. An inexplicable craving for belonging tightened her chest.

Gold hummed into the phone. “This is about more than a dress, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath, letting the weight of his understanding settle over her like a comforting mantle. Her head lolled forward until her forehead rested upon the top of her desk. The smooth, cool grain of the wood felt good against her flushed skin and she forced out another lungful of air. Gold didn’t deserve to be at the wrong end of her short fuse. She tried to tell herself she belonged at the gala because he’d invited her, but the heart didn’t always believe the head—no matter how sensible the head was being.

“It matters to me that I at least look like I belong, even if it isn’t true,” she admitted.

Gold was quiet for a long moment. “It is true, sweetheart. For as long as I draw breath, you will always have a place to belong. If Marco, Emma, Neal, and Henry were here, I know each of them would say the same. I also know it’s going to take more than hearing the words to make you believe it. You have to know the truth deep down. I love you so much, and I only hope and pray that one day you’ll see yourself the way we see you.”

Belle pressed her lips together, muffling a sob. “Thank you for understanding,” she whispered tearfully. “I love you.”

“It’s nearly five. I’m coming over to the library.” Through the phone, she heard the distinctive click of his pocket watch as he snapped it closed. “When I get there, I’m going to kiss you till you’re breathless, then take you out for a nice, quiet dinner, just the two of us. How does that sound?”

Belle smiled and wiped her tears and her worries away with a tissue from the box on her desk. “It sounds perfect.”

“So we’re here.” Emma sucked down the dregs of her iced latte in a noisy slurp and wiped her hands on her black jeans. “Portland. Boutique Row. What do we do now?” She tossed the cup in the trash can inside the door.

Like aliens on a foreign planet, they hovered inside the doorway of Posh, the largest formal boutique in the city.

Belle eyed Emma suspiciously. “I thought you said you knew about shopping.”

“Yeah, for denim and dry fit. Where to get the best doughnuts. And the occasional piece of leather. Not evening gowns.”

“But you’ve been to this gala before?” she pressed.

“Yeah, as the photographer. No one pays attention to what you’re wearing when you’re behind the camera. I got away with black pants and a dress shirt three years running.”

Belle looked her friend up and down. Perspiration was dotting Emma’s temples. Her cheeks, ruddy from the winter air outside just moments ago, were ashen. She knew that deer-in-headlights look: Emma was on the verge of an anxiety attack.

Belle ran her teeth over her lower lip, discouragement slithering around her and squeezing the air from her lungs. “Are we in trouble?”

“It’s possible,” Emma acknowledged, then shook her head hard enough to cause her ponytail to sway. “No. No! We’re two grown women. We can handle one small town formal.”

“You make it sound like war,” Belle said wryly.

“It’s worse. Other women. Rich, polished, cold as ice.” She rolled her eyes at a chic blonde dripping in Chanel and carrying a Louis Vuitton handbag bigger than Belle’s suitcase. “Maybe we should invest in suits of armor.”

“Or maybe we should eat them for supper.”

Emma snorted, their laughter breaking the tension. It was rare for Emma to be intimidated, and Belle patted her shoulder. Misery loved company, and somehow knowing she wasn’t alone in her insecurity gave her hope for more than the hunt for an evening gown. “We can do this, as long as we do it together.”

Emma’s reached for Belle’s hand and squeezed. “Right. Together is better.”

”Exactly.”

Emma gave a long, slow whistle and they moved into the store like two people tied together in a three-legged race. “Where should we start?” Belle stared at the array of gowns and began to shuffle through the racks, heading in the direction of the plus sizes. She’d come here expecting to have maybe two choices in style but after a few minutes of browsing, to her surprise, there were many gowns in her size—short and long, tight and flowing, beaded and glittery. And though she hadn’t tried on a solitary dress, she was still convinced there wasn’t one in all of Portland designed to flatter her physique. In one fell swoop, she’d gone from zero choices to too many. So many dresses, so little time, and so much Belle.

Even the eggnog lattes and cream-stuffed doughnuts she and Emma had feasted on in the car on the way here left her feeling hollow. She was at her worst at formal events—the last one she’d been to was her high school senior prom and not one person had asked her to dance. She’d gone stag simply so she didn’t have to sit in the house with her father and Edith. With the exception of going to the refreshment table to sneak brownies, she had sat in the corner the entire time.

But she wasn’t in high school any longer. She had a handsome escort in Gold and friends to spend the evening with. The steeply priced gala tickets had already been purchased and paid for and supporting the Arts in their schools? She couldn’t think of a more excellent cause. Besides, backing out three weeks before the event was paramount to announcing you had no interest in seeing Hamilton. It simply wasn’t done.

She squinted in the direction of the lingerie. Spanx were what she needed—something to suck her in and smooth her out—injected with industrial-strength elastic.

“Black. Black is the slimming choice,” Belle decided aloud, pushing through the rack toward a plain A-line silk sheath gown.

At least if she stuck to basic black, she and Gold would match. Like two penguins. One sleek and sophisticated, the other round and plump, carrying a lot of blubber around to make it through the hard, cold, South Pole winter.

“No black! Black is the safe choice,” Emma countered, smacking Belle’s hand when she reached for the hanger on another simple, nondescript black gown with clean lines.

“And that’s bad why?”

“Because it’s drab and washes you out. Go for color. Like gold.”

“Suddenly you’re a Pantone expert?” Belle winced. “A gold dress? Isn’t that a touch…cliché?”

“Alright. We’ll keep looking.”

Belle nudged Emma in the direction of a tall, willow-thin woman with striking black and grey hair and the pointiest red stilettos she’d ever seen. “Maybe we should ask someone. I think she works here.”

Emma squinted and slid more dresses down the rack. “The one with the scarf on?”

“It’s a poncho.” She knew that much.

“Wait! Wait! Try this emerald one! Gold will go crazy when he sees you in this!” Emma whipped a dazzling, jewel-toned gown with a daring thigh-high slit off the rack. Belle stared at the stunning gown then glanced back at the saleswoman. “Five minutes ago you didn’t know anything about dresses.” “You’re right, I don’t. But I know my father-in-law and he’s going to love that dress. Well, he’d love you in a life-sized paper bag, but this dress will make even Mr. Smart Ass Newspaper Dude speechless. God, I can picture him drooling already!” She thrust the dress into Belle’s arms and gave her a playful shove. “Go try it on. And remember, the only person who has to know how beautiful you are…”

“Is me,” Belle finished. They’d had this conversation often during their walks over the past few months, and Emma had reminded her yet again on the two-hour drive here. She fingered the rich velvet skirt with trembling fingers. Now she had to walk the walk. “I’ll try it. What color are you looking for?” she asked, backing into the fitting room.

“Black.” “Emma!” she whined.

Emma yanked the fitting room curtain closed with a laugh. The dress was crushed velvet with full-length sleeves, hard to find, even in the middle of a brutal Maine winter. She slid into the gown, the silk-lined velvet feeling decadent against her skin. Even without the back completely zipped, she liked the look. Emma was right, she realized, turning this way and that in the three-way mirror.

The scoop neck hugged her shoulder blades, emphasizing her thinnest feature—her shoulders—and the color made her blue eyes sparkle and skin creamy even under the garish fluorescent fitting room lights. It was a few inches too long for her 5-foot, 1-inch frame, but the skirt length was easily remedied at a tailor. Not hating it, she took a deep breath, lifted the skirt so she wouldn’t trip, and opened the curtain. She hoped Emma was nearby because she didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself. Those stupid little fitting room closets were designed to thrust you back out onto the floor where commission-hungry salespeople could tell you how good you looked and convince you to buy.

“Em,” she called out, “could you zip—” She swallowed the rest of her words. Emma was face-to-face with a dark-haired woman, and looking even more nervous than she had when they walked into the boutique. “Emma? Emma Nolan?” The stranger wore a smart navy pantsuit and a light blue silk blouse, and her blood-red lips spread in a wide smile. Everything about her, from her perfectly coifed hair to her buffed, nude pumps, screamed suave and important.

“Yeah, who’s asking?” “It’s me, Regina Mills. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. We graduated together from Storybrooke High! I sat next to you in Mr. Walsh’s English class.” “Oh, hey.” Emma kicked the carpet with her boot, looking anything but thrilled to meet an old high school friend. “Good to see you. You remember Belle French, I’m sure. She graduated the year after us.” Regina frowned at Belle, making a small scar on her upper lip stand out. “Sorry, doesn’t ring a...bell.” “It’s fine. We didn’t really travel in the same social circles anyway,” Belle said.  Regina pouted, as if trying to decide if Belle’s remark was a put-down.

Well, she could interpret the comment however she wished. Belle didn’t care for the change that had come over Emma since Regina had appeared or the barely-veiled insult that she wasn’t worth remembering. Now that she’d had a good look at her, she remembered Regina well enough. Then again, it was hard to forget the most popular girl to ever come out of Storybrooke High School. Student body president, prom queen, and girlfriend of Daniel Colter, captain of the football team. Belle would have called her a high school cliché, except that Regina had carried her smooth, flawless reputation into adulthood. She was still the most beautiful woman Belle had ever seen close-up.  “I’m just in town for meetings today. I’m an attorney and planning to run for office next term.” Regina’s frozen smile was back in business. “I’m thinking start small with state Senate and work up from there. So, Emma, what have you been up to since graduation? I haven’t seen you since we walked across the stage.” “Um, well.” Emma shoved her hands in her pockets and looked toward the racks of dresses. “Emma is a gifted photographer,” Belle said, sliding to her friend’s side. If Emma wasn’t going to boast about her accomplishments, she sure as hell was going to do it for her. “How exciting!” Regina’s grin was wolfish, her dark eyes sparkling. “Are you exhibiting your portraits at any galleries?” “Uh…” Emma looked at the floor. “No time,” Belle put in. “Right, Em? You’re much too busy with your son, Henry and your husband, Neal.” “Oooh, a husband.” Regina’s eyes flashed again, reminding Belle of a shark circling its prey. “Is he a doctor?” “Nope.” “Hmmm.” She tapped a red nail against her jaw. “A lawyer then?” “He’s in construction,” Emma said, looking to Belle for help. “For your information, he runs his own construction company. He’s built most of Storybrooke’s new buildings in the last ten years.” Belle glared at Regina, daring her to make another cutting remark. “So he’s a working man,” she said, managing to make the term sound neither positive nor negative. “Yeah. Yeah. He’s great.” Emma’s laugh was feeble and she ducked her head.  Regina clapped her hands. “This has been fun, catching up. We should do this again sometime.” She flashed another gorgeous, winning smile, and moved in the direction of the lingerie. “Best of luck on the campaign trail,” Belle called after her. Waiting until Regina was out of earshot, Belle whirled on Emma. “Excuse me, but what the hell was that?”

“Never mind. We have shopping to do.” Emma cleared her throat and tried to slide past her, but Belle held her ground.

“The shopping can wait. Who died and crowned Regina Mills queen?”

Belle had zero patience for people who clambered for social standing and pronounced themselves better than others. Having been so often on the receiving end of other people’s sarcasm, Belle rarely talked down to people. But standing up to bullies didn’t count. Something about watching Emma cower in front of Regina caused an angry fire to blaze in her belly. Maybe she was lousy at defending herself, but she’d be damned if she’d let anyone walk all over her friend. Emma shrugged and studied the dresses. She was pretending not to care about the awkward encounter, but Belle knew better. “I don’t like small talk. ‘Hi. How are you?’ she parroted. ‘Oh, I’m fine, how are you?’ News flash: nobody’s fine.”

“Em…”

“No matter how she makes it sound, Regina and I weren’t friends in high school, we were competitors.” She rolled her eyes. “She reminisces about Mr. Walsh’s English class like that was the only time we saw each other. I guess she forgot about the four years we spent one-upping each other on the cheerleading squad, softball team, and the debate team. Always trying to be smarter, stronger, and skinnier than the other. We were out for blood.”

“Then why are you letting her get under your skin?”

Emma sighed and pulled on her ponytail. “You know Cora Mills?”

“Cora Mills, the mayor? Of course.” Belle suppressed a shudder.

Regina’s mother, Cora, had been mayor of Storybrooke for as long as Belle could remember. Cora was a cold, calculating woman, but what she lacked in lovable qualities, she made up for in efficiency. She ran Storybrooke like a machine and no one could argue with her methods, not even Gold, who was paid to search out everything. From the few times Belle had met her, she realized Cora wasn’t mean so much as devoid of emotion.  Beyond a perfunctory review of the library budget once a year, Belle was fortunate to rarely communicate with the Mayor’s Office and even when she did, it was strictly emails between Belle and Cora’s assistant. The library and its services were beneath Cora’s notice; so long as Belle didn’t ask for too much money, she stayed under her radar—which was exactly the way she liked it.

Emma wandered to a bench next to the row of fitting rooms and plopped down. “My mom always wanted to be like her, you know.”

“Really?” Belle would never have expected sweet, kind Mary Margaret Nolan to want to emulate Cora Mills.

Emma smirked. “Once, a long time ago, Mom even tried bidding against her for Mayor but she was too nice. She was laughed out of the first debate, and it’s a good thing because the town would have walked all over her. Since Mom couldn’t be like Cora, she decided the next best thing would be for me to be like Cora’s daughter, Regina. I spent every day of high school trying to beat Regina for one reason: because my mom couldn’t beat hers.”

“Wow,” Belle said. “I would never have known. Your mom is such a great teacher and your parents are like a fairytale marriage. Talk about relationship goals.”

“Exactly. The thing with my mom is she’s incredible just as she is,” she said. “Former prom queen, straight-A student, a born teacher. She’s smart and pretty and married to the perfect, charming husband. And she loves Storybrooke—but not for me.”

“But your parents live in Storybrooke.” Confused, Belle furrowed her brow. “That seems like a bit of a double-standard.”

“Yeah.” Emma shook her head. “’Why do you want to take pictures of engaged couples and local pet adoptions?’ she said, mimicking her mother’s innocent tone. “She would rather I was out on the front lines of some war documenting the dying.” “Like Gold used to?” Belle nodded in sympathy and claimed the empty side of the bench. She knew all too well the feeling of being expected to be someone you couldn’t be and dashing parental hopes in the process. “She feels like you shouldn’t be satisfied with a simple life.” “Bingo! And she resents the hell out of Gold for telling me what it’s really like out there. I think that’s why I’m closer to him now than I am my own parents. He understands weakness and failure in a way I don’t think they can. I’m not some conceited little bitch who’s hiding in the bathroom to throw up everything she eats to fit in anymore, but sometimes that really sucks, you know?”

“Yeah, I do.” Belle’s heart clenched in sympathy. Sometimes she still got sucked into the vortex of her own self-pity and forgot that everyone—even gorgeous, wonderful Emma—was fighting a battle. Trying to be yourself was hard work. It was so much easier to toe the line of people’s expectations, to do and say what made others feel comfortable and safe. “So there’s Regina, first conquering the state of Maine, then the world.” Emma put her head in her hands. “And here I am...not running for a spot even on the PTO. Married with a kid and pregnant again.” “You’re pregnant?” Belle slung an arm around Emma and dragged her against her side in an awkward hug. “Oh, sweetie, that’s amazing!” “Ya think? Emma sniffled but looked hopeful for the first time since they had entered the boutique. “Really? I wasn’t expecting another baby. It just happened.”

“Henry is going to be a big brother!” Belle squealed, excited enough for both of them. “Does your mom know yet?”

“Are you kidding?” “What did Neal say?”

Emma shook her head and touched her belly. “You’re the first soul I’ve told.”

“Me?” Belle crowded closer to Emma and drew her head down on her shoulder. She smoothed Emma’s hair back from her temples, soothing her the way her mother used to when she was little while she tried to process the news. To think she was the first to know about the new addition coming to the Cassidy household. She hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever been first in someone else’s confidence. At least not...well there’s Gold, of course.” She felt Emma nod against her shoulder. “I know what you mean. I’ve had friends. Acquaintances. Then when I met Neal he satisfied any need I had for friends. He’s a great husband and I love him to pieces, but it’s not like this. Like us. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Belle.”

“Me too,” she said, tears scalding her eyes. She’d known it was true—had felt the stirrings of their bond deep in her spirit ever since their first real conversation at Henry’s birthday clambake. Between family dinners, walks, and girls nights out, the invisible force between them only grown stronger. Somehow acknowledging their friendship out loud made it seem more solid. Precious. As important to her as her love for Gold, but in a different way.

“Now stand up,” Emma said, fishing into her pocket for a crumpled tissue. “I wanna see this dress!”

Belle shot to her feet and smoothed the skirt, her fingers fluttering around the waist and hips while Emma zipped up the back.

“I love it,” she said, motioning for Belle to twirl around.

“Really? You don’t think it makes me look like a medieval strumpet?”

“Hell no!” Emma whistled as Belle turned around again. “You’re stunning. All we need now are Spanx and shoes. And maybe some lingerie for the after-party?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“Maybe.” Belle’s face flamed at the thought of wearing a negligee for Gold. “What about you?”

“We’ll get to me after lunch.” She patted her still-flat tummy. “There’s a place down the street serving yummy cheese-covered waffle fries and this kid wants some now.”

Belle’s stomach growled in answer. “Lead the way.”

Their waiter was clearing the lunch plates at the café when Belle heard a knock on the window. She did a double-take as her father waved through the glass with a sheepish smile. Her turkey club sandwich, which had tasted so delicious a few minutes ago, now lodged in her stomach. What was he doing here in the city?

“I’ll grab the check, Belle. You go talk to him,” Emma urged. “If I see things are getting bad I’ll come outside and rescue you.”

Nodding, she gathered her coat and made her way outside, wondering what would bring her father looking for her in Portland of all places, when she hadn’t seen him once on the streets of Storybrooke in the three weeks since she’d moved out.

The air was frigid even in the sunshine, and she seemed to grow colder with every step she took toward her father.

“Daddy?” She wrapped her arms around herself to keep from reaching for a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s the Portland flower show.” He brushed a bit of pollen off the sleeve of his coat. “I was in the neighborhood and saw you having lunch in the window.” “Ah.” Her dad attended the vendor-focused flower exhibition every year. She should have prepared for the possibility of running into him in town, but she’d completely forgotten it was this weekend.

“We haven’t heard from you in weeks, darling. Edith was devastated when you collected your things and left us.”

Belle gave a noncommittal grunt and thrust her cold hands in her pockets. Edith was devastated? Perish the thought her own father actually missed her.

“Marco treating you well?”  he asked gruffly.

“Like family,” she retorted, her voice carrying a sharpness she hadn’t intended.

Her father’s face paled and she instantly regretted her tone. There was no call to be so mean-spirited, especially when it somehow succeeded in making her feel worse instead of better.

He sniffed. “Will we see you for Thanksgiving?“

Belle looked into the clear blue sky, distancing herself from his hopeful gaze. "Marco’s cooking a huge feast, so I’ll be eating with him and Gold and the Cassidys.“

“Christmas?“

She blew out an exasperated breath and hugged herself again. “Let’s push through one nightmare holiday at a time, okay?“

He huffed. “I didn’t realize things had gotten so bad.”

“Are we still talking about holidays, or are you referring to other bad situations?” She thought back to the horrible family dinner she’d put Gold through when she’d tossed a roll at Edith’s head and stormed out. “I can’t live like that anymore. I won’t.”

“You’ve changed, Belle. Is this…is this Gold’s influence on you, then?” He seemed to deflate before her eyes, this giant of a man shriveling down to a pathetic shell. “When did you become this way? So stubborn. So willful.” His lips shook as he spoke. “If your mother were alive, she…”

“But she’s not, Daddy,” Belle interrupted. “Mother hasn’t been with us for years. She’s not here to tell you what to do and what to say, and for that matter neither is Edith. You’re the one who changed. It’s as Erskine said, you don’t even see me. Maybe you never did.”

“Belle!” Emma jogged over to the rescue, her breath a white cloud in the cold afternoon air. “Hey, Mister French. We really gotta get going if we’re going to finish shopping and I promised Henry I’d be home in time to tuck him in.”

“Great. I’m freezing anyway.” She looped her arm through Emma’s and mustered a sad, parting smile for her father. After years of trying to gain his attention and approval, she wasn’t sure when she would see him again and at the moment, she didn’t care. “Take care of yourself, Dad.”

###

[lisacongo2-blog]

‘Shrill’ Shreds Hollywood Stereotypes About How Women of Size Eat

The first time you see Annie, the protagonist of the new Hulu show Shrill, eating, her meal doesn’t look particularly pleasant. Played by SNL cast member Aidy Bryant, Annie grabs a plastic container from the fridge, opening it to reveal three white disks — supposedly pancakes — from a Tupperware labeled “Thin Menu.” While standing in her kitchen, she tries to break off a slab, puts it in her mouth, and wrinkles her nose in disgust. Her roommate, Fran (played by Lolly Adefope), walks by to witness the three doughy pucks, and says, “Good God.”

It’s not the only time Annie eats in her kitchen. Later in the series, Bryant opens a sealed container of leftover spaghetti, standing alone over an island near the sink. She twirls noodles around her fork, grinning in anticipation. She looks confident, blissed out, holding her hand under her chin as a noodle inches toward her lips. She scrunches her eyebrows and crinkles her nose, the perfect opposite of her look of disgust eating the Thin Meal pancakes. She nods and smiles while chewing, enjoying the moment.

The annals of TV are full of stories where women change themselves, from Mad Men’s Peggy Olsen to Eleanor Shellstrop in The Good Place. But Shrill, the six-episode adaptation of writer Lindy West’s memoir of the same name, is a different kind of “transformation” story, starring a woman of size. The show tells the story of Annie, a Portland-based calendar editor for an alt-weekly newspaper, trying to jump start her career, earn the love of Ryan, a painfully oblivious loser, and become a more honest, self-assured person. What Shrill is not is a story of body transformation, of a fat woman getting thin. Although it shows Annie eating diet meals and exercising with her mother, her real goal goes beyond the universal challenge of self-acceptance — she wants to feel powerful, as a woman of size and simply as a woman. She wants to demand respect from the people around her.

Those people often fat-shame Annie, whether it’s her obsessive online troll, her perpetually sneering editor, or an invasive personal trainer who eventually devolves into calling her a “fat bitch.” Still, Annie’s relationship with her body is more nuanced. Her insecurities are more often portrayed in physical details or unspoken interpersonal choices she makes because she feels that, in her words, “there’s a certain way that your body’s supposed to be and I’m not that.”

In media where a woman’s relationship with her body plays its own role, the eating scenes are telling. There are countless movies in which women devour ice cream during break-ups or lonely moments. And for years, when a person of size ate on screen, it was portrayed as comic relief, from Melissa McCarthy consuming a napkin in Spy to a cross-dressing Chris Farley on Saturday Night Live inhaling his friend’s french fries while asking, “Can I have some?”

Even in shows and movies celebrated for their representations of non-normative bodies, eating is reserved for emotional distress. In HBO’s Girls, Hannah Horvath (played by Lena Dunham) is often caught eating during low moments, like when she eats cake with her hands after her purse is stolen on the train. In Real Women Have Curves, it takes a conflict with her mother to get the protagonist, Ana (America Ferrera), to eat a bite of flan in a moment of overall positive defiance. Rarely do women of size get the opportunity to eat happily on screen without some tumult, some churning emotional hang-ups or interpersonal conflict. The exception, of course, is when people of size are shot eating healthy foods, like when the contestants on The Biggest Loser marvel over turkey burgers. But if a not-thin character is caught eating a cupcake, the audience is meant to laugh or cry at their expense.

When Annie eats so-called “indulgent” foods in Shrill, she’s not considered a failure, and it’s not used as a comic device. Instead, it’s often tied to a moment of personal or thematic triumph completely unrelated to her weight. By simply showing Annie eating the foods countless people love in a way that’s empowering, Shrill reinforces the idea that people, regardless of size, have the right to enjoy food in its entirety — not just salads and apples and other pious things, but rather the foods that are seen as permissibly comforting and luxurious for people of a smaller size. Like last year’s hit culinary travel show Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat, Hulu’s new series rewrites the rules for who gets to enjoy food on television.

Annie isn’t the only big millennial woman eating spaghetti on TV. In a scene on Girls, Hannah grabs handfuls of noodles from a takeout box, dangling them into her open mouth. There is an element of watching this scene that feels relatable, especially for anyone who lives alone, but nothing about that moment is sexy or empowering. At its best, it’s a moment of comic relief born out of universality; at its worst, it’s Dunham’s self-ridiculing humor shaming herself — and other women — for eating without control while not thin.

This is far from the only moment when a woman eating sugary, greasy, and otherwise “bad” foods on television works as a boiler-plate scene representing rock bottom. In her essay “Why is it sad and lonely women who turn to chocolate?” Telegraph culture writer Rebecca Hawkes recalls similar moments in romantic comedies, like when Renee Zellweger devours chocolates under a blanket in Bridget Jones’s Diary, or when Sandra Bullock turns to ice cream in Miss Congeniality. “When you look at the trope in more detail, the implication is that eating chocolate is something ‘naughty,’” she writes. “It’s something that (calorie-counting, figure-obsessed) women shouldn’t be doing, but can’t help resorting to in moments of extreme trauma — or simply due to a comedic lack of discipline.” In her essay, Hawkes also brings up another classic plus-sized person comically shamed and punished for their gluttony: Augustus Gloop, the rotund little boy in Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, presumably killed for wanting to eat some of the chocolate in a literal river of chocolate — as if anyone wouldn’t.

Ryan (Luka Jones) and Annie (Aidy Bryant)

Photo: Allyson Riggs/Shrill

But still, beyond little boys, beyond thin ladies, it’s plus-size women whose eating is most often used as a thematic example of a psychological and/or personal failure, whether it’s comical or supposedly tragic. “With any overweight, unruly woman, there’s always a tendency to pathologize their relationship with food,” says Kathleen Rowe Karlyn, author of The Unruly Woman: Gender and the Genres of Laughter. “[For] women who dive in to the quart of ice cream or the box of chocolate, food is a source of comfort because life is not giving them other types of comfort.”

If women get fat as a plot device, they’re often shown eating something like pizza, ice cream, chocolate, or other sweets — take, for example, Goldie Hawn gorging herself on frosting post-breakup in Death Becomes Her. If a character appears to get them out of a slump, a chicken wing might be yanked out of their hands. And they won’t reach personal fulfillment until they’re skinny again. Meanwhile, women who are thin and confident — whether it’s Drew Barrymore in Charlie’s Angels, or the titular Gilmore Girls — are free to eat as much as they please, to the delight of all who watch them.

Annie didn’t originally eat the spaghetti. It was made by Fran’s brother, Lamar (Akemnji Ndifornyen), who spends the third episode, “Pencil,” visiting his sister and her roommate. For most of the first few episodes, Annie is busy obsessing over a man (Luka Jones) who is so embarrassed by her that he sends her out the back door of his apartment so his roommates can’t see her. On their first date, she eats a salad. When she arrives home after Ryan has stood her up, Lamar and Fran offer her the spaghetti. She turns it down.

Lamar, a chef, spends the episode quietly fawning over Annie. When he arrives, he gives her a box of chocolate turtles, an elaborate reference to a memory from their past. He lights up when she enters the room. And later, when she comes back after choosing not to see Ryan, he admits that he likes her, and that he always did. After they have sex, Annie tiptoes downstairs to the kitchen, where she finds the pasta he made. The scene is romantic and almost sexy, in a totally subtle, maybe even unintentional way. He didn’t make the pasta for her, specifically, but it was made by him.

But beyond the romantic arc of Annie and Lamar, the scene’s impact comes directly from what it means for her, in her path to self-respect: she’s giving herself what she wants and deserves, on her own terms. And the bewildered delight in her face as she eats is so contagiously joyful that the context of her weight becomes irrelevant.

Annie (Aidy Bryant) and Lamar (Akemnji Ndifornyen).

Photo by: Allyson Riggs/Shrill

Beyond the men in her life, one of Annie’s most fraught relationships is with her mother, Vera (played by Julia Sweeney), who’s responsible for the Thin Menu meals. During a pivotal rant, when Annie describes the ways the people around her have made her size seem like a moral failing, she says, “At this point, I could be a licensed fucking nutritionist because I’ve literally been training for it since the fourth grade, which is the first time that my mom said that I should just eat a bowl of Special K and not the dinner that she made for everyone else so I might be a little bit smaller.” One of Annie’s most significant plot developments with her mother, when she pushes back against her health policing, starts with a meal of meatball subs with her father. And when the season ends, we leave Vera lying on the ground with a bag of chips, suggesting that Annie’s number one advice giver also needs respite from controlling everything.

“Whether they’re very curvy like Mae West or they’re slender, I think what we haven’t seen in a long time is the ability of women just to be seen enjoying food,” Karlyn says. “Food is enjoyable (to women), not because they’re neurotic, not because they’re crazy, not because they’re sex-obsessed, just because food is a natural pleasure of life.” That’s how Shrill treats food, but also most of life’s joys: dancing at a party, swimming in a pool, having sex, being honest. Counter to the ways television and movies have previously presented plus-size women, as victims of their own lack of self-control, Shrill shows how restrictive life as a plus-size woman can be, and how often that’s a direct result of their self control. Shrill seems to be advocating for more self-designated freedom for women of size — the freedom to live with abandon. As Annie says, lying in bed and taking charge, “I’ve got big titties and a fat ass — I make the rules.”

Brooke Jackson-Glidden is the editor of Eater Portland. Edited by: Greg Morabito

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Source: https://www.eater.com/2019/3/28/18284128/shrill-hulu-aidy-bryant-food-eating

[sparkvelvet75-blog]

‘Shrill’ Shreds Hollywood Stereotypes About How Women of Size Eat

The first time you see Annie, the protagonist of the new Hulu show Shrill, eating, her meal doesn’t look particularly pleasant. Played by SNL cast member Aidy Bryant, Annie grabs a plastic container from the fridge, opening it to reveal three white disks — supposedly pancakes — from a Tupperware labeled “Thin Menu.” While standing in her kitchen, she tries to break off a slab, puts it in her mouth, and wrinkles her nose in disgust. Her roommate, Fran (played by Lolly Adefope), walks by to witness the three doughy pucks, and says, “Good God.”

It’s not the only time Annie eats in her kitchen. Later in the series, Bryant opens a sealed container of leftover spaghetti, standing alone over an island near the sink. She twirls noodles around her fork, grinning in anticipation. She looks confident, blissed out, holding her hand under her chin as a noodle inches toward her lips. She scrunches her eyebrows and crinkles her nose, the perfect opposite of her look of disgust eating the Thin Meal pancakes. She nods and smiles while chewing, enjoying the moment.

The annals of TV are full of stories where women change themselves, from Mad Men’s Peggy Olsen to Eleanor Shellstrop in The Good Place. But Shrill, the six-episode adaptation of writer Lindy West’s memoir of the same name, is a different kind of “transformation” story, starring a woman of size. The show tells the story of Annie, a Portland-based calendar editor for an alt-weekly newspaper, trying to jump start her career, earn the love of Ryan, a painfully oblivious loser, and become a more honest, self-assured person. What Shrill is not is a story of body transformation, of a fat woman getting thin. Although it shows Annie eating diet meals and exercising with her mother, her real goal goes beyond the universal challenge of self-acceptance — she wants to feel powerful, as a woman of size and simply as a woman. She wants to demand respect from the people around her.

Those people often fat-shame Annie, whether it’s her obsessive online troll, her perpetually sneering editor, or an invasive personal trainer who eventually devolves into calling her a “fat bitch.” Still, Annie’s relationship with her body is more nuanced. Her insecurities are more often portrayed in physical details or unspoken interpersonal choices she makes because she feels that, in her words, “there’s a certain way that your body’s supposed to be and I’m not that.”

In media where a woman’s relationship with her body plays its own role, the eating scenes are telling. There are countless movies in which women devour ice cream during break-ups or lonely moments. And for years, when a person of size ate on screen, it was portrayed as comic relief, from Melissa McCarthy consuming a napkin in Spy to a cross-dressing Chris Farley on Saturday Night Live inhaling his friend’s french fries while asking, “Can I have some?”

Even in shows and movies celebrated for their representations of non-normative bodies, eating is reserved for emotional distress. In HBO’s Girls, Hannah Horvath (played by Lena Dunham) is often caught eating during low moments, like when she eats cake with her hands after her purse is stolen on the train. In Real Women Have Curves, it takes a conflict with her mother to get the protagonist, Ana (America Ferrera), to eat a bite of flan in a moment of overall positive defiance. Rarely do women of size get the opportunity to eat happily on screen without some tumult, some churning emotional hang-ups or interpersonal conflict. The exception, of course, is when people of size are shot eating healthy foods, like when the contestants on The Biggest Loser marvel over turkey burgers. But if a not-thin character is caught eating a cupcake, the audience is meant to laugh or cry at their expense.

When Annie eats so-called “indulgent” foods in Shrill, she’s not considered a failure, and it’s not used as a comic device. Instead, it’s often tied to a moment of personal or thematic triumph completely unrelated to her weight. By simply showing Annie eating the foods countless people love in a way that’s empowering, Shrill reinforces the idea that people, regardless of size, have the right to enjoy food in its entirety — not just salads and apples and other pious things, but rather the foods that are seen as permissibly comforting and luxurious for people of a smaller size. Like last year’s hit culinary travel show Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat, Hulu’s new series rewrites the rules for who gets to enjoy food on television.

Annie isn’t the only big millennial woman eating spaghetti on TV. In a scene on Girls, Hannah grabs handfuls of noodles from a takeout box, dangling them into her open mouth. There is an element of watching this scene that feels relatable, especially for anyone who lives alone, but nothing about that moment is sexy or empowering. At its best, it’s a moment of comic relief born out of universality; at its worst, it’s Dunham’s self-ridiculing humor shaming herself — and other women — for eating without control while not thin.

This is far from the only moment when a woman eating sugary, greasy, and otherwise “bad” foods on television works as a boiler-plate scene representing rock bottom. In her essay “Why is it sad and lonely women who turn to chocolate?” Telegraph culture writer Rebecca Hawkes recalls similar moments in romantic comedies, like when Renee Zellweger devours chocolates under a blanket in Bridget Jones’s Diary, or when Sandra Bullock turns to ice cream in Miss Congeniality. “When you look at the trope in more detail, the implication is that eating chocolate is something ‘naughty,’” she writes. “It’s something that (calorie-counting, figure-obsessed) women shouldn’t be doing, but can’t help resorting to in moments of extreme trauma — or simply due to a comedic lack of discipline.” In her essay, Hawkes also brings up another classic plus-sized person comically shamed and punished for their gluttony: Augustus Gloop, the rotund little boy in Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, presumably killed for wanting to eat some of the chocolate in a literal river of chocolate — as if anyone wouldn’t.

Ryan (Luka Jones) and Annie (Aidy Bryant)

Photo: Allyson Riggs/Shrill

But still, beyond little boys, beyond thin ladies, it’s plus-size women whose eating is most often used as a thematic example of a psychological and/or personal failure, whether it’s comical or supposedly tragic. “With any overweight, unruly woman, there’s always a tendency to pathologize their relationship with food,” says Kathleen Rowe Karlyn, author of The Unruly Woman: Gender and the Genres of Laughter. “[For] women who dive in to the quart of ice cream or the box of chocolate, food is a source of comfort because life is not giving them other types of comfort.”

If women get fat as a plot device, they’re often shown eating something like pizza, ice cream, chocolate, or other sweets — take, for example, Goldie Hawn gorging herself on frosting post-breakup in Death Becomes Her. If a character appears to get them out of a slump, a chicken wing might be yanked out of their hands. And they won’t reach personal fulfillment until they’re skinny again. Meanwhile, women who are thin and confident — whether it’s Drew Barrymore in Charlie’s Angels, or the titular Gilmore Girls — are free to eat as much as they please, to the delight of all who watch them.

Annie didn’t originally eat the spaghetti. It was made by Fran’s brother, Lamar (Akemnji Ndifornyen), who spends the third episode, “Pencil,” visiting his sister and her roommate. For most of the first few episodes, Annie is busy obsessing over a man (Luka Jones) who is so embarrassed by her that he sends her out the back door of his apartment so his roommates can’t see her. On their first date, she eats a salad. When she arrives home after Ryan has stood her up, Lamar and Fran offer her the spaghetti. She turns it down.

Lamar, a chef, spends the episode quietly fawning over Annie. When he arrives, he gives her a box of chocolate turtles, an elaborate reference to a memory from their past. He lights up when she enters the room. And later, when she comes back after choosing not to see Ryan, he admits that he likes her, and that he always did. After they have sex, Annie tiptoes downstairs to the kitchen, where she finds the pasta he made. The scene is romantic and almost sexy, in a totally subtle, maybe even unintentional way. He didn’t make the pasta for her, specifically, but it was made by him.

But beyond the romantic arc of Annie and Lamar, the scene’s impact comes directly from what it means for her, in her path to self-respect: she’s giving herself what she wants and deserves, on her own terms. And the bewildered delight in her face as she eats is so contagiously joyful that the context of her weight becomes irrelevant.

Annie (Aidy Bryant) and Lamar (Akemnji Ndifornyen).

Photo by: Allyson Riggs/Shrill

Beyond the men in her life, one of Annie’s most fraught relationships is with her mother, Vera (played by Julia Sweeney), who’s responsible for the Thin Menu meals. During a pivotal rant, when Annie describes the ways the people around her have made her size seem like a moral failing, she says, “At this point, I could be a licensed fucking nutritionist because I’ve literally been training for it since the fourth grade, which is the first time that my mom said that I should just eat a bowl of Special K and not the dinner that she made for everyone else so I might be a little bit smaller.” One of Annie’s most significant plot developments with her mother, when she pushes back against her health policing, starts with a meal of meatball subs with her father. And when the season ends, we leave Vera lying on the ground with a bag of chips, suggesting that Annie’s number one advice giver also needs respite from controlling everything.

“Whether they’re very curvy like Mae West or they’re slender, I think what we haven’t seen in a long time is the ability of women just to be seen enjoying food,” Karlyn says. “Food is enjoyable (to women), not because they’re neurotic, not because they’re crazy, not because they’re sex-obsessed, just because food is a natural pleasure of life.” That’s how Shrill treats food, but also most of life’s joys: dancing at a party, swimming in a pool, having sex, being honest. Counter to the ways television and movies have previously presented plus-size women, as victims of their own lack of self-control, Shrill shows how restrictive life as a plus-size woman can be, and how often that’s a direct result of their self control. Shrill seems to be advocating for more self-designated freedom for women of size — the freedom to live with abandon. As Annie says, lying in bed and taking charge, “I’ve got big titties and a fat ass — I make the rules.”

Brooke Jackson-Glidden is the editor of Eater Portland. Edited by: Greg Morabito

Eat, Drink, Watch.

Food entertainment news and streaming recommendations every Friday

By signing up, you agree to our Privacy Policy and European users agree to the data transfer policy.

Source: https://www.eater.com/2019/3/28/18284128/shrill-hulu-aidy-bryant-food-eating

[butaneplate02-blog]

‘Shrill’ Shreds Hollywood Stereotypes About How Women of Size Eat

The first time you see Annie, the protagonist of the new Hulu show Shrill, eating, her meal doesn’t look particularly pleasant. Played by SNL cast member Aidy Bryant, Annie grabs a plastic container from the fridge, opening it to reveal three white disks — supposedly pancakes — from a Tupperware labeled “Thin Menu.” While standing in her kitchen, she tries to break off a slab, puts it in her mouth, and wrinkles her nose in disgust. Her roommate, Fran (played by Lolly Adefope), walks by to witness the three doughy pucks, and says, “Good God.”

It’s not the only time Annie eats in her kitchen. Later in the series, Bryant opens a sealed container of leftover spaghetti, standing alone over an island near the sink. She twirls noodles around her fork, grinning in anticipation. She looks confident, blissed out, holding her hand under her chin as a noodle inches toward her lips. She scrunches her eyebrows and crinkles her nose, the perfect opposite of her look of disgust eating the Thin Meal pancakes. She nods and smiles while chewing, enjoying the moment.

The annals of TV are full of stories where women change themselves, from Mad Men’s Peggy Olsen to Eleanor Shellstrop in The Good Place. But Shrill, the six-episode adaptation of writer Lindy West’s memoir of the same name, is a different kind of “transformation” story, starring a woman of size. The show tells the story of Annie, a Portland-based calendar editor for an alt-weekly newspaper, trying to jump start her career, earn the love of Ryan, a painfully oblivious loser, and become a more honest, self-assured person. What Shrill is not is a story of body transformation, of a fat woman getting thin. Although it shows Annie eating diet meals and exercising with her mother, her real goal goes beyond the universal challenge of self-acceptance — she wants to feel powerful, as a woman of size and simply as a woman. She wants to demand respect from the people around her.

Those people often fat-shame Annie, whether it’s her obsessive online troll, her perpetually sneering editor, or an invasive personal trainer who eventually devolves into calling her a “fat bitch.” Still, Annie’s relationship with her body is more nuanced. Her insecurities are more often portrayed in physical details or unspoken interpersonal choices she makes because she feels that, in her words, “there’s a certain way that your body’s supposed to be and I’m not that.”

In media where a woman’s relationship with her body plays its own role, the eating scenes are telling. There are countless movies in which women devour ice cream during break-ups or lonely moments. And for years, when a person of size ate on screen, it was portrayed as comic relief, from Melissa McCarthy consuming a napkin in Spy to a cross-dressing Chris Farley on Saturday Night Live inhaling his friend’s french fries while asking, “Can I have some?”

Even in shows and movies celebrated for their representations of non-normative bodies, eating is reserved for emotional distress. In HBO’s Girls, Hannah Horvath (played by Lena Dunham) is often caught eating during low moments, like when she eats cake with her hands after her purse is stolen on the train. In Real Women Have Curves, it takes a conflict with her mother to get the protagonist, Ana (America Ferrera), to eat a bite of flan in a moment of overall positive defiance. Rarely do women of size get the opportunity to eat happily on screen without some tumult, some churning emotional hang-ups or interpersonal conflict. The exception, of course, is when people of size are shot eating healthy foods, like when the contestants on The Biggest Loser marvel over turkey burgers. But if a not-thin character is caught eating a cupcake, the audience is meant to laugh or cry at their expense.

When Annie eats so-called “indulgent” foods in Shrill, she’s not considered a failure, and it’s not used as a comic device. Instead, it’s often tied to a moment of personal or thematic triumph completely unrelated to her weight. By simply showing Annie eating the foods countless people love in a way that’s empowering, Shrill reinforces the idea that people, regardless of size, have the right to enjoy food in its entirety — not just salads and apples and other pious things, but rather the foods that are seen as permissibly comforting and luxurious for people of a smaller size. Like last year’s hit culinary travel show Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat, Hulu’s new series rewrites the rules for who gets to enjoy food on television.

Annie isn’t the only big millennial woman eating spaghetti on TV. In a scene on Girls, Hannah grabs handfuls of noodles from a takeout box, dangling them into her open mouth. There is an element of watching this scene that feels relatable, especially for anyone who lives alone, but nothing about that moment is sexy or empowering. At its best, it’s a moment of comic relief born out of universality; at its worst, it’s Dunham’s self-ridiculing humor shaming herself — and other women — for eating without control while not thin.

This is far from the only moment when a woman eating sugary, greasy, and otherwise “bad” foods on television works as a boiler-plate scene representing rock bottom. In her essay “Why is it sad and lonely women who turn to chocolate?” Telegraph culture writer Rebecca Hawkes recalls similar moments in romantic comedies, like when Renee Zellweger devours chocolates under a blanket in Bridget Jones’s Diary, or when Sandra Bullock turns to ice cream in Miss Congeniality. “When you look at the trope in more detail, the implication is that eating chocolate is something ‘naughty,’” she writes. “It’s something that (calorie-counting, figure-obsessed) women shouldn’t be doing, but can’t help resorting to in moments of extreme trauma — or simply due to a comedic lack of discipline.” In her essay, Hawkes also brings up another classic plus-sized person comically shamed and punished for their gluttony: Augustus Gloop, the rotund little boy in Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, presumably killed for wanting to eat some of the chocolate in a literal river of chocolate — as if anyone wouldn’t.

Ryan (Luka Jones) and Annie (Aidy Bryant)

Photo: Allyson Riggs/Shrill

But still, beyond little boys, beyond thin ladies, it’s plus-size women whose eating is most often used as a thematic example of a psychological and/or personal failure, whether it’s comical or supposedly tragic. “With any overweight, unruly woman, there’s always a tendency to pathologize their relationship with food,” says Kathleen Rowe Karlyn, author of The Unruly Woman: Gender and the Genres of Laughter. “[For] women who dive in to the quart of ice cream or the box of chocolate, food is a source of comfort because life is not giving them other types of comfort.”

If women get fat as a plot device, they’re often shown eating something like pizza, ice cream, chocolate, or other sweets — take, for example, Goldie Hawn gorging herself on frosting post-breakup in Death Becomes Her. If a character appears to get them out of a slump, a chicken wing might be yanked out of their hands. And they won’t reach personal fulfillment until they’re skinny again. Meanwhile, women who are thin and confident — whether it’s Drew Barrymore in Charlie’s Angels, or the titular Gilmore Girls — are free to eat as much as they please, to the delight of all who watch them.

Annie didn’t originally eat the spaghetti. It was made by Fran’s brother, Lamar (Akemnji Ndifornyen), who spends the third episode, “Pencil,” visiting his sister and her roommate. For most of the first few episodes, Annie is busy obsessing over a man (Luka Jones) who is so embarrassed by her that he sends her out the back door of his apartment so his roommates can’t see her. On their first date, she eats a salad. When she arrives home after Ryan has stood her up, Lamar and Fran offer her the spaghetti. She turns it down.

Lamar, a chef, spends the episode quietly fawning over Annie. When he arrives, he gives her a box of chocolate turtles, an elaborate reference to a memory from their past. He lights up when she enters the room. And later, when she comes back after choosing not to see Ryan, he admits that he likes her, and that he always did. After they have sex, Annie tiptoes downstairs to the kitchen, where she finds the pasta he made. The scene is romantic and almost sexy, in a totally subtle, maybe even unintentional way. He didn’t make the pasta for her, specifically, but it was made by him.

But beyond the romantic arc of Annie and Lamar, the scene’s impact comes directly from what it means for her, in her path to self-respect: she’s giving herself what she wants and deserves, on her own terms. And the bewildered delight in her face as she eats is so contagiously joyful that the context of her weight becomes irrelevant.

Annie (Aidy Bryant) and Lamar (Akemnji Ndifornyen).

Photo by: Allyson Riggs/Shrill

Beyond the men in her life, one of Annie’s most fraught relationships is with her mother, Vera (played by Julia Sweeney), who’s responsible for the Thin Menu meals. During a pivotal rant, when Annie describes the ways the people around her have made her size seem like a moral failing, she says, “At this point, I could be a licensed fucking nutritionist because I’ve literally been training for it since the fourth grade, which is the first time that my mom said that I should just eat a bowl of Special K and not the dinner that she made for everyone else so I might be a little bit smaller.” One of Annie’s most significant plot developments with her mother, when she pushes back against her health policing, starts with a meal of meatball subs with her father. And when the season ends, we leave Vera lying on the ground with a bag of chips, suggesting that Annie’s number one advice giver also needs respite from controlling everything.

“Whether they’re very curvy like Mae West or they’re slender, I think what we haven’t seen in a long time is the ability of women just to be seen enjoying food,” Karlyn says. “Food is enjoyable (to women), not because they’re neurotic, not because they’re crazy, not because they’re sex-obsessed, just because food is a natural pleasure of life.” That’s how Shrill treats food, but also most of life’s joys: dancing at a party, swimming in a pool, having sex, being honest. Counter to the ways television and movies have previously presented plus-size women, as victims of their own lack of self-control, Shrill shows how restrictive life as a plus-size woman can be, and how often that’s a direct result of their self control. Shrill seems to be advocating for more self-designated freedom for women of size — the freedom to live with abandon. As Annie says, lying in bed and taking charge, “I’ve got big titties and a fat ass — I make the rules.”

Brooke Jackson-Glidden is the editor of Eater Portland. Edited by: Greg Morabito

Eat, Drink, Watch.

Food entertainment news and streaming recommendations every Friday

By signing up, you agree to our Privacy Policy and European users agree to the data transfer policy.

Source: https://www.eater.com/2019/3/28/18284128/shrill-hulu-aidy-bryant-food-eating

[lethe-distillery-blog]

The Philanthropist

It took everything in me to not break down into tears in the parking lot of Gage Enterprises and Investments Incorporated. To say that it had been a long four hours was as simple as saying the ocean was a large puddle. Technically, it was true. In the most basic stretch of the definition. But if I stopped, if I allowed everything to catch up to me, I would break, I would fall apart and crumble and I couldn't let that happen. I needed to do this. This was the last shot I had of still having a house in the morning.

My rust bucket of a 1991 Ford Mustang looked out of place beneath the shadow of the steel and glass building; not to mention it's companions were things that likely cost as much if not more than the dump I called home, I was just thankful that she hadn't decided to backfire or else someone would call the cops thinking I was here to rob the place. I looked around slowly, breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth. It was something I had seen on a Youtube ad about how to relax, and right here, now, of all times, I needed it.

The receptionist gave me a polite, but cold smile as I approached her rather large desk, with whom she shared it with two others. "Can I help you?" She asked in that polite kind of way that assumes you're lost.

I forced myself to not look down at what I was wearing, the pencil skirt and blouse were for work, but also so happened to be the best-looking things I owned and I had figured that though it wasn't perfect, it wouldn't hurt. "Yes," I took a long reassuring breath, in through the nose, hold three seconds, out through the mouth. "I am here to see Gage Harrison."

Her expression was plain, even though she did her best to hide the disbelief from her features. "He's the top floor," she indicated a row of elevators and I nodded my thanks, doing my best to swallow down all fear and trepidation and walk to the elevators as if I owned the place. Well, maybe not the place, but maybe some small modicum of dignity and self-worth. I could at least have that, right? I stepped into the rich walnut paneled box and the doors slid shut without a sound. Scanning over the buttons I found floor 43, the top floor, whispered a prayer, and pushed it. I started moving after a slight delay.

In the lonely confines of the elevator, with the distance from everyone, and the half a moment to breathe; everything crashed into me. Hard.

"What do you mean we got an eviction notice?" My voice had been louder than I meant, but the shock of it had caught me off guard as I had been getting ready for work. I pulled the paper close and started reading.

Carson, my husband, had looked distraught. "Baby look, I can explain." The writing was explaining it far better than he was, "I was hoping I could get the money together and pay it off before you noticed." Before I noticed!

"Where did the money that I gave you for rent go?" I had a really, really bad feeling though the rest of the stupidity of what he said taking a second to register, "And where were you supposed to get the money from?"

He reached out to touch me and I felt his hand on my cheek, I almost wished he was angry too, I felt so helpless when he was pathetic like this. Like I wasn't allowed to be angry at him; when he was yelling back, I at least felt justified. "I," he hesitated, pulling his hand away and scratching the back of his neck. "I was doing really good last Saturday with the guys," I knew what was coming, but still, I naively kept hoping I was wrong, "I thought," he hesitated again, "I figured that I could win big and give you that new dress you've been wanting so badly." He didn't exactly fess guilt to his spending the rent money but this had happened often enough that I knew what had happened. "And I've been trying to get the rest back, so then you wouldn't get angry." Ah, because this was my fault I got angry that he had just 'lost' six hundred dollars. "That's why I didn't tell you, Jake said they're doing double the stakes tonight, I figured I could win it back, and pay it off before you even knew what was happening."

"Carson," it took everything in my power to not yell at him but the pathetic look in those big green eyes had me just sighing and shaking my head. He came up to me, a large man, he limped slowly on a leg that had been shattered in the prime of his life.

He wrapped his arms around me, "I'm so sorry Tess, I didn't ever mean to stress you out." I hugged him back, though I felt cold. It was just the anger, the pain of him lying to me, again.

"It's alright, I'll figure something out." I didn't know what, but, I would at least try.

I dropped Hannah off at school, hard to believe the munchkin had just started kindergarten this year. Her brother, Jeremy, was at home still, my mother-in-law, Sarah, had said she'd take care of him today since I needed to scrape together every penny to try and get rent together in less than twenty-four hours and had decided that forgoing the babysitter would help some, besides, it would be a nice visit for Sarah and Carson.

An hour after that, I was sitting in the mall parking lot and staring off into nothing. The bank wouldn't loan us the money. Even the quick-loan wasn't giving us money and I had always been led to believe that they gave money to anyone. I didn't know what else to do, I could get together a couple hundred, but this was our third miss, I didn't really blame Karol, she was trying her best and she had already been more than generous as tempting as it was to blame her, blame anyone really, for my problems. I didn't know what else to do. It's not like we could afford anywhere else, between a damage deposit, first month's rent, and a place that accepted Randy, I was seriously out of luck.

"It's a shame that Gage is too much of a royal prick and would never give money to anyone in need or I'd suggest him." Sarah ranted when I called her to ask what I should do.

I had only met the younger Harrison boy once; it was when Carson and I had gotten married. I had only been introduced to the man in passing, and the way he stood apart from everyone I figured he had been simply a long lost relative or friend that Carson had invited out of guilt or obligation. Never would I have suspected that this man was a brother. Though I did get an earful later when I had asked who he was. "He's my younger brother," Carson had spat, sounding angry and bitter, "gone off to business school like he's somehow better than us. Fool don't know shit even if smacked him in the face, you watch, he'll come crawling back and beg for a place among us and I'll shut him out just like he did us." After hearing the rage, and the chewing out I got after simply asking if he had an email I could contact him by, I had left the topic alone.

I had looked him up, with shaking fingers, on the free WiFi hotspot by the library. Gage Harrison, owner, and CEO of GEII, a multimillionaire. Parents and brother were listed in the Wikipedia article. Parents are Sarah and Parker Harrison, older brother of Carson Harrison married to Tessiah, children of Hannah and Jeremy. Honestly, it was a bit creepy to have this much known about me on the internet where just anyone could find it. If they had included my pittie Randy I would have flipped a gasket. Not sure why that would have sent me over the edge given that they already seemed to know more about me than was comfortable.

The ding of the elevator dragged me back into reality and I looked into the smooth glass panel and swore. I had been crying, and it was painfully obvious that I had been. Stepping aside, I took a few seconds to dab at my eyes and clean up some of the mascara that had flowed down my cheeks. Even on my dark complexion that was still terribly obvious. Not to mention it only took a good look to see that my eyes were swollen and bloodshot. Yes. I indeed look like a crazy bitch. All well, it's all I had.

I stepped out into a beautiful sunlit space, the ceiling had to be at least fifteen feet up. I stopped and looked around in sheer awe. Massive panes of glass stretched floor to ceiling, the floor was a brilliant black marble with gold sparkles that glowed in the afternoon sunlight. It reflected on itself causing glowing constellations across the walls, all tastefully paired with comfy looking black leather, black wrought iron, and glass, It had been perfectly put together, providing comfort but also commanding attention. I would know, I had been taking interior design courses before I had gotten pregnant with Hannah and I had dropped out to marry Carson and care for her.

I froze mid-step when I realized I wasn't alone. An older woman sat behind a desk at the far end of the room though she was smiling kindly. I went over, a bit hurried and she smiled kindly, "I still catch myself staring at all the reflections too. They move like smoke throughout the day." I could only imagine, though I still flushed furiously, like a child that had been caught doing something naughty. She smiled, "I'm assuming you're here to see Mr. Harrison, but he's on a call right now, would you like to sit and maybe have some refreshments?" She indicated the plush looking leather chairs and a coffee maker, water, and what looked to be a kettle and an assortment of teas. "I can't see him being much longer than a half hour." She smiled, warm and kind, I liked her immediately.

"Thank you," I trailed off and looked over her desk and flushed more.

"Wendy." She provided with even more warmth in her smile.

"Thank you Wendy." I smiled, relaxing slightly and went over and poured myself a mug of the hot bitter coffee and added a few sugars and cream. I needed the caffeine. I didn't even pull out my phone from my purse, I had told no one I had come here, given the horrific reaction I had gotten after the wedding, I figured that this was best done without knowledge from anyone. Ever.

Instead, I simply contented myself on walking around the room, impressed how the deep turquoise green color of the room lent itself to brightening the space rather than making it seem smaller. Though to be honest it was likely due to the space being massive already. It was easily a thousand square feet, complete with what looked to be like a conference area, complete with a carved ebony table that likely cost more than some of the cars outside. I knew because I had drooled over one at a studio once, the wood color was rich and warm, very close to my own skin tone, which made it all the more appealing to me. I couldn't help but reach out and smooth my fingers over the polished surface. It was warm from the sun, hard, but with that softness that wood held that was different than metal or glass.

I felt him before I saw him. Raw power. That was the only way to describe what I felt coming off him as I looked up at his approach. He was a tall man, though a couple inches shorter than his older brother I could see the family resemblance in the jaw, the shape of the eyes, and the way the eyebrows arched. Still, he held a predatory grace that definitely made me notice him, an innate confidence that had him knowing his place in the world and that he was content in it. His suit hugged a body that was lean and muscular and a flash on his right hand indicated a ring as it caught the light. His smile was warm, though it didn't quite reach eyes that were a deep hazel and moss. "Tessiah," my voice sounded exquisite on his tongue, rich and cultured, "it's been a while, please, come in."

I followed him past Wendy, who smiled at us both, and through the large walnut double doors and into a beautifully furnished office space. Large and airy it held a pair of the same leather chairs, a small table that looked like it should collapse under its own weight, a rather well-stocked dry bar, a massive kidney shaped ebony desk that was neatly organized of papers and a charming, old fashioned, rotary phone, and a laptop that held a slideshow of far off places. Would you like something more to drink?"

I shook my head, given that I had been drawn in by the design of the place I still had three-quarters of a cup of coffee. "Have to drive home still." I offered an explanation. He nodded his understanding and pulled out one of the leather chairs slightly, sitting, he tucked me in like a true gentleman before he went, found himself a tumbler, a bottle, and poured himself a couple fingers of amber ambrosia before coming over and sitting across from me. It smelled potent but sweet. He took an appreciative sip and closed his eyes slowly as he rolled the flavors on his tongue.

"So, how are the kids?"

I was startled, I was expecting to get straight down to business and my begging him for money but I smiled at the thought of Hannah and Jeremy. "They're good," I sipped my coffee, "Hannah started kindergarten this year."

He let out a long breath and smiled, "I hadn't realized it had been so long. I bet you're thrilled."

I was. "And frightened," I confessed. "Most of her classmates are white, and though it isn't an issue now, I worry about her when she's older." He nodded sympathetically and I continued. "She loves it though, keeps on saying she wants to adopt Mrs. Kinsmith to be a third grandmother."

Gage snorted a soft laugh, "I'm surprised she's still alive." I raised an eyebrow and he smiled, "she was around when I went to school, was still old then too."

I laughed. "Yeah, she's still there, and grumpy too." And slowly, I started talking about Hannah and Jeremy and before I realized it, and two cups of coffee later, it had been an hour and I felt nearly human again. He truly was a miracle worker. I felt like I wasn't taking on the world anymore, that maybe I wasn't alone in facing this all myself. That if I didn't exactly have an ally I at least had someone that I could talk to. "Thank you," I let out a long breath, "really, I needed that."

He nodded in answer and I could see the veil slide into place. "So, why were you sent? I thought they finally got the point."

I frowned at him entirely confused, "What? Who?"

"Carson, or his parents. All have come several times." I could hear the bitter fury in his tone though he did his best to hide it. I wouldn't think about it until I was driving home that he hadn't claimed any of them as family. "Asking me for money, begging for money, telling me that I owe it to them." His eyes were hard and flat as he stared at me, marbles held in his skull. "So, which of them sent you here looking for money?"

I swallowed, a bit fearful now but I answered honestly, I had a feeling he wouldn't be made a fool. "None of them," I took a long breath and forced it out after he raised his eyebrow. "I came by myself, I didn't know where else to turn," it all came in a rush, a painful wave that had tears trickling down my cheeks again, "no one will lend us money, not the banks, not the quick-lenders, no one. Even Sarah and Parker don't have the money. Carson gambled away our rent money and we're going to be evicted tomorrow unless I can get my hands on twenty five hundred dollars to cover rent."

"Of course they don't have the money," his growl was feral, "would be helpful if Carson worked a god damn day in his life and Parker could hold down a job more than a few weeks."

I sniffed back tears and gratefully took the tissues he handed me and patted my eyes dry again before looking back at the arrogant asshole. "That's harsh." His eyes were spitting fire and I met it, "Parker can't hold a job down because no one respects him," I didn't rise to the bait as he snorted disdainfully, "As for Carson, you know he was in for a scholarship and championship if he hadn't been in that car accident that shattered his leg."

I glared at the arrogant prick that had the audacity to laugh. "Oh, yes, Mr. Golden Boy had it all lined up for him, didn't he?" He looked at me and I could practically feel the rage flowing off him, "He was so picture perfect, could get coasted on by through grades because he was so great, everyone was so proud of him, he would become so much." He snorted and glared at me like it was my fault, "So Mr. Golden Boy goes out, tries for training camp and you know what happened?" I shook my head, helpless before the onslaught of his anger, "Mr. Precious failed!" He didn't even sound gloating, just pissed, "he goes out drinking, ran a stop sign in front of one Becca O'Reilly, who so happened to be killed instantly. On her way to a date, a date who had no idea what was going on because this was before the age of cell phones."

A tear slipped down his cheek and it all slammed home with a sharp, vicious clarity. "She was coming to see you?" My voice broke on the whisper, as if it held all the secrets of the universe.

"It doesn't matter," it did, a lot, it had crushed this man before me, "but since he was the crushed football star who could never play again, he got all the attention, he got all the sympathy; not some pathetic drama student the rest of the world couldn't give a shit less about." He glared at me and I could see the pain, the self loathing, and the complete hatred for his own brother.

"I'm sorry I brought up such terrible memories, I had no right. I'm so sorry." I got up, stumbling as I blinked back tears as I went to leave when a soft voice stopped me.

"You still need the money," it cracked slightly and I turned back to watch him pull himself together with a strength that awed me. If not for the bloodshot eyes, I would never have guessed that I just ripped apart this man's soul.

"I'll get it some other way." I couldn't even look into his eyes for long, guilt stabbing me through the heart.

He shook his head, "There is no other way Tessiah, you and I both know that." He looked at me hard, "I'll give you five thousand dollars on two conditions." I blinked at him stupidly, not even following for a heartbeat, "one, you keep it away from Carson." I nodded, I didn't plan on trusting him with money again, "two," the slow smile that formed was all kinds of evil, "you come with me, alone, for a week long vacation in Mexico to get, acquainted."

[gaiatheorist]

Cutting.

TW: Self Harm.

I haven’t deliberately injured myself since June 2nd 2013. I could have thrown myself an anniversary party for ‘Five years clean’ last year, but I had other things on my mind. Apart from the constant, incessant urge to ‘Do something.’ I did caution the last counsellor to think about his phrasing of “Doing something silly.”, with a flash of my eyes, and a very calm, clear “It doesn’t seem ‘silly’ at the time, does it?” I shook him more than I needed to, but if he continues to use that selection of words, with people less-resilient than I am, there’s a risk that his platitude could deter disclosures.

Five offices, probably over a decade ago, I printed out the attachment I’d sent to key staff, and stuck it to the wall, as a reminder for some less-calm, more-flappy colleagues. It started “Treat as first aid.”, and I’m still mildly surprised that I managed to get it past the tone-police, and out into wider circulation, as well as being given permission to run a training session for staff on responding appropriately to instances of self-harm.  

I was, at that point, the only member of staff at that secondary school ‘trained’ on self-harm. We had access to one free place on MIND’s carousel of training courses, and, as much as management knew that I was best-placed to attend, absorb, and articulate the content to wider staff, I did try not to ‘hog’ the places. Nobody else wanted the self-harm one. I can imagine the split-second ‘Yuck!’ face some colleagues would have pulled, and now I’m half-smiling, because I was frequently ‘reminded’ by one manager to try to maintain a neutral facial expression in team meetings. (It was eye-rolling at the ineptitude of one specific colleague, and they were so inept, I genuinely don’t think they ever picked up on it.) 

The ‘Yuck!’ reaction, much like my eye-rolling, is automatic in some people with regard to self-harm, that’s why I started the how-to guide with “Treat as first aid.” It’s an injury, if little Jimmy had fallen over in the playground and skinned his knees, the ‘yuck’ is pushed back by the need to check for bits of gravel, and hope the plasters in the first aid box aren’t those horrible cheap ones that don’t stick properly. Those of us that ‘did’ first aid had that ability to step-back and become very practical, blood, head injuries, vomit, and obviously-broken bones, it’s a version of the plane-crash/seat-belt scenario, you can’t help other people if you’re not safe yourself. (I was guilty of unkind thoughts about some colleagues who didn’t-do first aid, and would demand urgent-assistance from an advanced-first-aider. ‘Urgent’ was originally a code-word, for drop-what-you’re-doing-and-RUN. Over-use watered it down, in the style of the Boy Who Cried ‘Wolf!’, I may not have maintained an entirely neutral facial expression the 20th time I was called out on an ‘urgent’ first-aid to lift the antiseptic wipe and plaster out of the box, and hand them to the student.) 

Some people panic. Some don’t. I don’t, it’s one of the useful elements of my mental health issues. Useful in a high-end crisis, that is, it’s exceptionally draining day-to-day, to be alert and aware at-all-times, the body isn’t designed to cope with constant cortisol. 

The ‘panic’ was one aspect of unhelpful reactions to discovery or disclosure of self-harm. The platitudes were, in my opinion, more harmful. “Oh my God! What have you done that for? Your lovely skin! What would your Mum think?” All very natural, ‘maternal’ responses, to an incident that the observer had deemed unnatural, possibly abhorrent. (I’m parking the strand about ‘God-given, perfect bodies’, it’s too involved.) Self-harm is emotive, and it is difficult for some people to ‘disable’ the projection of their own emotions onto a person who has self injured. Yes, Linda, I know you find it disturbing, but we have an incredibly vulnerable student bleeding, and you’re telling them off for trying to cope the only way they know how, I find your eyebrows disturbing, I’m not mentioning it, am I? 

‘Coping’ is the element that a lot of people can’t grasp. Nail-biting, smoking, buying new handbags, that second glass of wine, that ‘naughty’ slice of cake, they’re coping-mechanisms that don’t involve cutting, so they must be OK, right? Every self-harmer has their own reasons, it’s a broad and sweeping generalisation to say we ‘control the only thing we have’, which is our physical body, but I’ll use it anyway, as an umbrella-term. For some people, self-harm ‘works’, and I feel the need to put a tobacco-style warning here “Smoking kills, don’t start.” (On the packaging for the product, hey-ho, I’ve just bought this pack of cancer, but the writing on it says not to start, so I’ll bin it.) Some people bite their fingernails when they’re stressed, some self-harm, there can be elements of subconscious-automatic to it, as well as the instances where it’s overload, or crisis-response. (Flashback to having to hide my hands under a table at work more than a decade ago, because I’d scratched myself until I bled, and wasn’t aware I’d done so until I noticed the blood under my fingernails. There’s the shame-element of “What have you done that for?”, we know we shouldn’t-do-it, that’s why most of us keep it covered.)    

Keeping it covered, ‘hiding’ it, is the reason I started writing this jumbled-rambling this morning. There is a risk, with vulnerable people, especially, but not exclusively young people, of ‘elective empathy’, of a sort of contagion. When I was at school myself, there were phases of ‘99 burns’, and ‘freeze-burns’ (I still have a scar on my arm from a freeze-burn, spraying aerosol body-spray directly onto the skin from too close a distance.) the phases were-and-were-not self-harm. We were deliberately self-inflicting injuries, but it wasn’t as a coping mechanism in poor mental health, it was a group-thing, and a kudos-thing, there wasn’t any social media, you’d show your mates your burn, or scratch, they’d either like it or not, and then you’d carry on as normal. We were showing off to each other, a really grim version of completing the football-stickers-album, in that we were collecting scars, by showing each other how ‘hard’ we were. (We were, in hindsight, idiots.) 

Instagram doesn’t want to be held responsible for contagion, copying, or a football-sticker “Got, got, need.” tasting menu of self-harm, so the company is taking measures to remove-or-ban content relating to self-harm. Fine business strategy, because there’s potential for legal action if people start saying they wouldn’t have self-harmed if they hadn’t seen someone else do it first. The UK government are pressurising all social media companies to follow suit, in an attempt to appear to be doing something about the current spike in mental health referrals. I AM an expert, if people want that content, they will find it. This is the twist in the tale. The platforms can cut the content, but the driving force behind many of the causes-of-cutting will be the other ‘cuts’. Austerity, in the UK, and the cutting-away of protective mechanisms here, and elsewhere. (Must NOT go off on a side-rant about how the last two years of blatantly damaging decisions by the US president have blunted our collective capacity to be shocked. He’s become normalised, and that shouldn’t be the case.) 

Water on a rock, we’ve absorbed austerity as a concept, as it has eroded us as individuals, and a society. When I left work in 2017, I was on the same salary band as I had been on in 2008, despite ‘absorbing the roles of others who had left through natural attrition.’ By the time I left, I was attempting to do three peoples’ jobs at once, within systems and processes that were stretched too painfully thin to have any hope of being effective. The school staff were fire-fighting, when we should have been preventing the fires catching hold in the first place. We couldn’t prevent them, because the agencies we needed for support were either being cut, or subject to such a high degree of pointless paperwork in the face of lessons-must-be-learned that they couldn’t spend time providing the services. Every single Serious Case Review concerning a death, or near-miss I’ve ever read has highlighted the same issues, time, and communication. If the government continues to cut funding, we will continue to see SCR findings that opportunities to intervene were missed due to time-constraints, and communication failed because there wasn’t the opportunity to repeatedly chase-and-check that actions had been implemented. 

Expanding out from then, to now, there’s a new level of cuts to deal with. I’m currently unemployed and disabled. I’ll always be disabled, the level to which it impacts on my life depends on the NHS. My brain haemorrhage was four years ago this month, and I have only just been referred for the Neurology and Mental Health interventions that really ought to have been in place from the start. We ‘cope’, until we don’t. The NHS is on its knees, I understand that my superficial functioning placed me at ‘the back of the queue’, it also placed me, and a lot of other people at risk. 

The UK disability benefit system hasn’t just been cut, it has been eviscerated. It took me 17 months of fighting to ‘qualify’ for assistance, ‘coping’-but-not-cutting, some people don’t manage that. It’s probable, but not prove-able that if my original application in 2016 had qualified, I wouldn’t be in this state now. It is irrefutably evident that the original decision that I was fit-for-work was incorrect, I placed myself, and others at risk of significant harm by trying to ‘get on with it.’ That length of time isn’t unusual, the deliberate stalling and obfuscation is part of the system, to cut the number of claims paid out. The recent government sound-bite that disability payments have increased will take into account the cost of the ‘Mandatory Reconsideration’ and tribunals, where those of us who can appear in court, to prove we are disabled-enough. In the majority of cases, DWP/PIP don’t even bother to send a representative to court to defend their incorrect decisions.

Universal Credit is absorbing the lower-level disability benefit of Employment Support Allowance. (The lower-rate ESA has been cut away completely, people who would have qualified for that historically now just have a box ticked, to say they have ‘limited capacity for work’.) Cuts. Job Centre staff will be faced with people who may never have been able to work, due to disabilities, and tasked with ‘empowering’ and ‘enabling’ them into employment. Good luck with that. The Work Capability Assessment, even in times of austerity, the government can find funds for that. The statistics on the number of people who die after being deemed ‘fit for work’ are horrendous, as are some people’s accounts of the assessment process. (Mine wasn’t too bad, the doctor decided he had enough information to be going on with when I had an episode of positional hypotension, I don’t suppose he wanted to take the risk of any of my noted brain aneurysms rupturing during the physical tests, imagine the paperwork.) The assessments are unpleasant, in most cases they’re unnecessary, and the ‘reports’ that come out of them are so removed from the reality of what happens during the assessment that people are starting to make covert recordings of them. (Don’t do that, it would likely be deemed inadmissible as evidence due to lack of informed consent. The paragraph on the forms about ‘approved equipment’ for audio-recording is there as a scare-tactic, tick the box to indicate you want DWP to record the assessment, I still haven’t checked my CD to see if there’s anything on it.) 

The number of people who die after being declared fit-for-work is shocking, but so is the number who don’t. We’re a whole different level of ‘Just about managing.’ The financial aspect is starting to be discussed in the media, an encouraging step away from ‘Life of Riley on benefits!’, it’s only enough to survive on if you’re very careful, paradoxical, because some of us have cognitive difficulties, mental health issues, or learning disabilities. It’s not a comfortable lifestyle, none of us would choose it if there was an alternative. In my case, I have a temporary reprieve from being expected to apply for ‘any suitable vacancy’, I’m using that time to try to access NHS provision, to make myself as functional as I can be. People declared fit for work when they really aren’t will be compelled into any kind of work the non-medically-trained Job Centre staff deem ‘suitable.’ Short-term cost-cutting, but at what long-term cost?  A high proportion will rebound back into the benefit systems, either through employers having to dismiss them because they’re not capable of doing the job, or through being in employment exacerbating the health issues, placing even more strain on the NHS.

The icing on the unpalatable cake, in the UK, is the omnishambles of Brexit. The money that has been thrown at it, the schisms and divisions, the pig-headed insistence that “We managed fine in the war!” Cutting ties with the EU has already been referred to  as ‘An act of national self-mutilation’ in the press. The uncertainty about potential outcomes, and the absolute refusal of the PM to consider a second referendum, now that the contingent who genuinely believed ‘No Deal’ meant ‘Nothing Changes’ are a little more furnished with facts is the polar opposite of ‘Strong and Stable.’ A lot of people are struggling with the uncertainty, and, in some, that lack-of-control will lead to self-harm as a coping mechanism. How very kind of the government to limit the ability of individuals to disclose self-harm, ‘for the sake of the children.’