#i need a lil version of him to put on my shelf like a figure | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tamedol-blog · 6 years ago

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Nightlife (G.D.)

Summary: Y/N spends a drunken night with Grayson at his fraternity house, which results in slurred words, exposed feelings…..and nearly getting hit by a car.

Word Count: 2.7k+

A/N: I love Frat! Grayson so so much, so I wanted to write my own version of him! Also, this is my first fanfic! I hope you enjoy hehe :)

You drank a little too much tonight. Well…...little was most definitely an understatement, considering it took you a good amount of time to form cohesive sentences by the end of the night. It was the weekend after final exams, and you desperately needed to release all of the stress that had been building up inside of you for the past few weeks. Your best friend Grayson was a new member of Phi Beta Sigma and they were hosting a party at their house, so you’d immediately agreed to come with your friends before he could even get the question out.

However, one thing led to another; your friend Meghan had announced five minutes after arriving that she was running off with a guy named Jake (or maybe his name was Blake….you couldn’t hear properly over the deafening music), your other friend Rebecca managed to find the girl she’d been crushing on the whole semester, so of course she made her way over to offer her a drink and tell some corny pickup line, and you were left scanning the crowd for Grayson amongst the drunk teens and strobe lights. He told you to text him when you arrived, but knowing how awful he is at checking his texts and assuming he was busy probably dancing behind some girl, you knew better than to expect a response.

You searched the entire first floor of the house and there was no sign of Grayson, so you officially came to the conclusion that he had already scooped up some girl for the night, and decided to have some fun on your own.

You weaved through the sweaty college students, who were jumping up and down with their red solo cups in front of the DJ station in the large empty area in the center of the house. Once you made it out of the back door you let out a long sigh of relief, finally being able to inhale air that didn’t smell like weed and Bud Light.

Grayson had told you a few weeks prior to the party that he’d bought a bottle of Malibu for you, which he knew was your absolute favorite. He left it in the back room, where all of the frat members keep what they call the “good stuff” — meaning everything else but the cheap beer they provided to the students at their parties. The back room was off-limits to everyone else but the members of the fraternity, but since you were at the house so often with Grayson, most of the members knew who you were and didn’t mind you being back there.

You push open the creaky door, using the flashlight on your phone to scan the pitch black room for your bottle of rum. Your eyes light up once you see the tall white bottle and you immediately run to the shelf, filling a solo cup to the rim and shoving the bottle in your purse. You take a large gulp, instantly feeling better at the feeling of the coconut-flavored drink slipping down your throat.

“Yo, what the fuck are you doing in here?”

You immediately halt your actions when you hear a deep voice boom from behind you. You can physically feel the heat rush to your cheeks. You’re too terrified to turn around, expecting to see a security guard standing at the entrance.

Before you could even respond, you hear the familiar wheezy laugh that you adore. It’s Grayson. You immediately whip around to see him bent over, chuckling loudly at your terrified state. You beamed at the sight of him wearing the jean jacket that you’d bought him over Spring Break (which he actually wasn’t too fond of — but if it meant he got to see your pretty smile, he’d wear it whenever you were around).

“It’s not funny, you fucking jerk. I thought I was about to be arrested or something. How did you even know it was me?,” you question, making your way over to him and pulling him into a one-armed hug.

“I’d recognize this long hair anywhere,” he shrugs, lifting a strand of your straight hair and wiggling it around. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here? You should’ve texted me and I would’ve come to find you.” He takes one last sip of his beer before crushing the can with his hand and throwing it over his shoulder.

You scoff at his remark, taking three large gulps from your drink.

“Gray, I texted you when I got here, dummy. I literally looked everywhere for you, but I figured you were sucking faces with some sorority bitch, so I came to get a drink.”

He furrows his brows, pulling his phone out from his front pocket, eyes bouncing around the bright screen before smiling sheepishly at you.

“Oops?”

You roll your eyes and gently shove his shoulder before he wraps an arm around you, leading you out of the dark room.

“So, where were you hiding, Dolan?”

He wanted to tell you that he’d just been up in his room, attempting to clean the jumbled pile of clothing that accumulated after he’d spent almost an hour scavenging for this jean jacket - but he knew that’d come off a little too strong.

“I was dealing with one of my fraternity brothers. Dave got blackout drunk before the fucking party even started,” he lies, walking ahead of you and towards the entrance to the house.

You furrow your brows in confusion; you’d just seen Dave on your way outside, and he seemed perfectly awake and sober, but you let it go.

“Well, you’re with me now, and I’m starting to feel realllyyyy good, so let’s get out onto this dance floor now and show everyone our groovy fucking dance moves,” you exclaim excitedly, taking his hand in yours and running towards the crowd. He laughs loudly, partially because there was no dance floor, but also because he was in awe at how absolutely adorable you were.

You finish your drink before the song even ends, and before you know it, you’re amongst the large crowd, grinding against Grayson to the rap song booming throughout the house. Sober you would never dance against your best friend like this, but that’s the thing — you were so far from sober, and Grayson wasn’t too far behind you on the drunken scale, so he didn’t seem to mind.

You turn around in his grip, lazily wrapping your arms around his neck and standing on your toes to put your mouth right by his ear.

“Wanna go upstairs with you,” you yell sloppily, swaying your hips to the beat. Grayson smiles softly and stares at you with hooded eyes, shaking his head slowly.

“We’re not sober, Y/N. Also, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t feel the same way if we were.”

“Yeah I would,” you confess eagerly, biting your lip and leaning in closer to him.

“Mmmm…..don’t think so. Let’s just chill out a lil, alright?,” he yells into your ear.

You feel your heart sink in your chest. Even drunk Grayson didn’t want to give you a chance. You couldn’t believe that you’d just asked Grayson to fuck and he said no. What kind of guy declines sex?

He sees your smile fade and immediately feels guilty for his refusal. It’s not that he didn’t want to sleep with you — he’s wanted that for months, but he would never take advantage of you, and considering you’d downed three-quarters of a bottle of rum in just a couple of minutes, he was almost positive your judgements were clouded.

“How about this,” Grayson begins, lifting your arm and spinning you around so you’re facing away from him before he slowly slides his hand underneath your shirt and letting them rest above your waistband, sending shivers throughout your body.

“If we have this conversation in the morning and your statement still stands, I’ll be more than happy to bring you upstairs whenever you want,” he mumbles into your ear, pressing a soft kiss against your temple and making you giggle.

“Deal.”

You continue to dance with Grayson until you feel a familiar feeling of nausea in your stomach. You stop in your tracks and quickly remove his arms from around your waist.

“Gonna puke,” you yell, covering your mouth with your hand before shoving your way through students, not caring about the dirty looks you’re currently receiving. Grayson’s following behind you as close as he can, apologizing to the students you’d previously just harshly bumped into.

Grayson catches up with you as you stumble to the front yard of the house, attempting to bend over, which results in you toppling over into the grass. He tries his hardest not to laugh at the view in front of him — you’re groaning loudly from the fall, sprawled out against the grass with your eyes squeezed close. He strides over to you, scooping you up in his arms bridal-style and beginning to walk down the sidewalk.

“Where are you going? Not done partying yet,” you slur, leaning your head back and letting it hang downward. Grayson chuckles softly.

“You’re done for tonight, Y/N. I’m taking you back to your dorm.”

“Wanna sleep in your bed, Gray….”

“I know you do, but I also don’t wanna get yelled at in the morning if I let you sleep with your makeup on, and I have nothing to take it off with at the house.”

“What a weak excuse,” you snarl, rolling your eyes.

“You’ll thank me in the morning.”

He continues to carry you down the street for about ten minutes until you suddenly begin to wiggle out of his grip, firmly planting your feet on the ground.

“I can walk on my own, I’m not dead,” you mumble lazily, nearly falling into the busy street the second you take a step. Grayson snorts, quickly wrapping his arms around your waist and guiding you down the street.

“Still too stubborn to let me carry you? We’ve got about another five minute walk until we’re there.”

“M’ a grown woman, Grayson. Plus, don’t want your arms getting tired.”

He snorts. “Yeah, you’re a drunk grown woman, and if I can carry Ethan around, I can definitely carry you.”

“I know you have a crush on me, Gray. Just tell me.”

He laughs softly at your sudden switch of topic, tightening his grip as he practically pushes you down the sidewalk. The process would be much easier and less time consuming if you’d just let him carry you, but you were extremely stubborn — even when you were wasted.

“Yeah? How do you know?,” he questions, smiling softly.

“It’s obvious. I’ve known since the first day of classes when you carried all 5 of my textbooks across the campus to my room.”

“You would’ve struggled if I hadn’t helped.”

“What about when you kissed me at the Delta Chi party?”

“We were playing Truth or Dare.”

“You could’ve kissed anyone playing,” you scoff. Grayson remains silent, mentally thankful that his red cheeks couldn’t be seen underneath the dark sky.

“What about when you called me the prettiest girl in the room that one time?,” you interrogate.

“You were complaining about that douchebag that stood you up, it felt like the right thing to say.”

“So you think I’m ugly?” You turn to look at him with a smirk.

“What is this, reverse psychology? You’re not ugly and you know it.”

“What about all those times you waited for me outside of my class with my favorite bagel and an iced latte from Bagel Baker?” you look over at him with raised eyebrows.

“I was just…...being thoughtful.”

“Why won’t you just admit it?,” you exclaim, stopping in your tracks and attempting to shove him off you, which clearly didn’t happen, considering you’re half his size.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Can we talk about this when neither of us have alcohol in our systems?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“If we don’t discuss this now, I will run into the street, Grayson.”

“Y/N, you’re being ridiculous. Stop.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I’m feeling a little wild tonight.”

“Stop.”

“Freshman year is almost over. Speak now or I’ll go home, find a cute boy to date this summer, and block you on Instagram and Snapchat.”

“You wouldn’t.”

You sigh heavily, lazily throwing your head back.

“You leave me no choice, Dolan.”

Before Grayson can grab you and place you on the other side of the sidewalk, you’re ripping yourself from his grip and quickly stumbling out into the empty road, plopping down onto the street and smiling mischievously. Grayson groans, walking out and attempting to reach for your arms, but you lean back and begin to kick your feet at his grabby hands, giggling like a child.

“Y/N, stop before we both get hit by a car and don’t even live to confess our feelings.”

“Nope,” you shrug, popping the P. “Stop being a little bitch and avoiding the question, how about that?”

Grayson squints his eyes at you, but before he can respond, he sees the headlights he was dreadfully anticipating coming down the road. He’s swiftly putting his arms underneath yours, lifting you up and throwing you over his shoulder while walking back over to the sidewalk.

You begin to protest and squirm in his arms, but Grayson just smacks your butt gently, making you squeal.

“We can talk about this in the safety of your dorm room, but dying really isn’t on the agenda for tonight.”

“Sit still.”

“I can’t, I’m tired.”

“You’d think that being tired would make you sit still, not make you more antsy,” Grayson mumbles, laughing softly as he slowly rubs the makeup wipe across your puckered lips to get the remaining bit of lipstick off.

“Shut up, I’m delusional and drunk.” You sigh contently, resting your head against the pillow as your eyes flutter shut. Grayson rubs the makeup wipe across your skin once more before tossing them in the trash and placing his hands on the bottom of your shirt. “Arms up.”

“I thought you didn’t wanna have sex?,” you question, lips turning up into a smirk as you wiggle your eyebrows.

“I do, but not now. I’m trying to change you out of this tight shirt.” He shakes his head, grabbing your arms and placing them above your head before peeling off your shirt.

“So you do wanna sleep with me?”

He nods silently, continuing to dig through your drawer until he found a large t-shirt.

“But is that all you want from me? Sex?”

He immediately whips his head towards you, furiously shaking his head. He stands from his squatting position, lifting your arms once more and slipping the shirt over your head.

“I wouldn’t break my back for you every chance I get if all I wanted was sex.” He gives you a large toothy smile and winks, hands moving to your waistband to remove your jeans.

You smile softly, lifting your hips to help him. “Roommate’s not coming back tonight, you can sleep here if you want.” You snuggle under the covers, shutting your eyes.

“There’s definitely not enough room for the both of us in your twin sized bed.”

“I guess you’ll have to cuddle me all night.” You peek one eye open to see Grayson staring at you with a wide smile.

He contemplates it; he wanted nothing more than to slip in bed behind you and cuddle you tightly all night, but he was terrified of you waking up in the morning and regretting all of your decisions from tonight.

“Not tonight. I’ll call you in the morning, alright?” He reaches into your fridge to grab a water bottle to put on your bedside table, but when he turns around after not receiving a whine or a sassy remark from you, he sees you’re already fast asleep.

He lets out a breathy laugh, placing the water on the table and gently running his hand through your hair.

Grayson sits in your desk chair for a moment, watching your chest slowly rise and fall, lips slightly parted and hair sprawled across your pillow. He silently prayed that you weren’t drunk enough to have tonight’s events erased from your memory; he finally admitted that he liked you…...well, kinda. He’d work on the details later.

He couldn’t believe he’d met someone as chaotic as you — but at the same time, you were absolutely perfect in all the right ways to him.

Your eyes peel open to the sight of rays of sunlight beaming through your slightly parted curtains. You let out a soft yawn, attempting to sit up to grab Advil before the throbbing headache kicked in when you felt a restraint around your waist. You quickly turn around to see Grayson laying behind you, lips parted and letting out snores every few seconds. You giggle softly, plugging his nose, which makes his eyes shoot open.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” You smile softly, ruffling his hair. Grayson slowly sits up and winces, tilting his head side to side.

“I think I broke my neck from sleeping without a pillow. You hogged it all night.”

You roll your eyes, slipping from your bed and grabbing the medicine bottle. “Of course I did. It’s my bed.”

“You invited me to sleep here, remember?”

“I remember, but you said you were leaving, which meant no sharing of pillows.”

“I stayed to make sure you didn’t throw up in your sleep or somethin.”

You smirk and raise your brows. “Yeah, that’s why you stayed.”

“So…..you didn’t forget anything from last night?”

“Hmmm, let’s see…..drank a bottle of Malibu, danced with you, tried to fuck you, almost threw up in your front yard, almost got us hit by a car, came back here, you took off my makeup, which I appreciate by the way. Then you stripped me and we said some stuff. I think that’s everything.”

He nods, smiling sheepishly and rubbing his neck.

“So, now that we’re sober, do you still like me?” You pop two pills in your mouth and wash them down with water, staring at him expectantly.

His cheeks turn a light shade of red and he nods slowly. “Yeah, I do, but I didn’t hear you admit any feelings for me all night.”

You hop back into your bed, placing a leg on either side of him and straddling him. He leans back against the pillow, placing his arms above his head and smirking at you. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his nose, and then to both of his cheeks, and then his lips.

You pull away, placing your face inches away from his.

“Of course I like you, idiot.” You press another kiss to his lips before moving over to his ear.

“If the offer still stands, I still wanna fuck you.”

You both laugh softly and Grayson begins to slide his hands underneath your shirt, lifting it above your head.

“Of course it does, idiot.”

#grayson dolan #dolan twins #grayson dolan imagine

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snarkwriteswrasslin · 5 years ago

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FFT: boop; curtis axel

Notes:

This was sent to my main’s ask by @markostuntthesehoes and the idea came to me and it was cute so.. Even though it’s old af and got buried beneath every other post on the main, I had to move it here. Because it’s one version of curtis and carly’s story.

Summary:

Carly likes to flirt. Curtis is oblivious. Something has to give, right?

Pairing:

Curtis Axel x OFC, Carly.

Warning:

flirting and fluff and one oblivious guy.

“What the hell are you doing up there, Carlie? You’re gonna break your ass.” Big E’s statement made Carlie jump a little and as a result, she did wind up almost losing her footing. She got the radio off the shelf and lowered it down to Big E.

“What the hell was this doing up there, lil bit?”

“I put it there.”

“Say what?” Big E raised a brow and Carlie gave a sheepish laugh and hopped down from the counter, smoothing her hands down the front of her jeans. She tilted her head to the side and dragged her fingers through her hair and explained casually, “I put it there to have an excuse to get Curtis in here.”

“Curtis.. Oh, Axel.. Wait, why?”

“Because.. I don’t know, okay?”

Big E thought back to the past few weeks since she’d gotten a spot on the glam squad with the main roster. His eyes lit up and he chuckled, closing the door to the room quickly.

“You’re crushing on him, huh?”

“Yes and it’s the only frickin way I can think to… Interact with him. He keeps to himself way too much. Unless Bo or Heath are around.”

Big E chuckled and teased his friend gently, “You do realize you could just talk to the guy, right? You don’t have to keep climbing things and putting things out of your own reach.. Or tripping.”

“Hey, that wasn’t planned. I’m clumsy, remember?”

“Riiight little bit. Riiiight.” Big E was teasing her again and Carlie sent her hand lazily against his upper arm, giggling.

“You hit like a girl.”

“Uh, duh?” Carlie teased.

She bit her lip and glanced at the open door when she thought she heard Curtis and Bo laughing out loud in the hallway.

“You’ve got it bad, girl.” Big E assessed and Carlie muttered quietly, “It seems I do, Mr. Big.” as she tore her eyes off the doorway. Big E nodded to the radio that sat on the highest shelf in the room. “Talking to the guy is always an option too, little bit. Think about it, maybe?”

“I will, just.. Doing this kinda.. He always gives me this amused smirk and it makes my day.. Besides, I kinda feel like.. Maybe.. Forget it, it’s stupid.”

“No, what?”

“ Maybe he likes it when I ask him to do little things like this? Like.. we both know that he’s been frustrated as of late.”

“I take it back. You don’t just have it bad, Carlie.. You have the worst case ever of having it bad.” Big E chuckled to himself as he walked out of the room.

The idea hit him halfway down the hallway.

Maybe he could do some sleuthing around and find out if Curtis felt the same way.. And maybe if it turned out the guy did, maybe Big E could maneuver events so that the two wound up actually having to interact a fair bit more.

And maybe, he found himself smirking at the thought, maybe things would finally click.

He saw the way Carlie lit up around the guy and he remembered her last relationship and a few others prior. All he wanted was his friend to have everything she wanted. To show her that she wasn’t unlucky, she just didn’t have the guts to actually go for what she really wanted. He wanted her to see that when she did go for what she actually wanted as opposed to just settling, things could be so much better.

And it wasn’t a secret that Curtis had been going through it lately, either. Maybe having someone around the guy who believed in him and bought him out of his shell and made him go outside his comfort zone like he knew Carlie well enough to know she would.. Maybe that would be good for him too.

So, Big E set off to find Heath and Bo and hopefully, find some answers.

Curtis happened to walk past her work area and Carlie called his name, stopping him. He chuckled when she stepped out, shuffling her feet and tilting her head to the side a little to look up at him while explaining that somehow, the idiots in charge of setting up her work area put her radio on a shelf over her head.

“And you want me to get it down, huh?”

He’d never own up to it but he kind of.. No he really liked the way she always seemed to ask him to do these little things. He realized that she probably only did it because no one else ever happened to be around and he had to admit that his tendency to linger close to her might well be the reason she never bothered to ask one of the other guys in back, but this small sliver of hope always rose up whenever she’d ask.

Carlie nodded and then opened the door to her workspace and stepped out of his way.

“It’s up there.”

Curtis eyed the shelf and then her and she bit her lip, mumbling an apology as she held his gaze.

She had this look in her eyes again. She always looked like she was on the verge of saying something else to him but she never did. Curtis shook the thought from his mind and cleared his throat.

“That’s the fourth time they’ve set your workspace up with things out of your reach.. If you want me to talk to ‘em, darlin..” Curtis reached up, grabbing the radio and sat it down on the countertop beneath the shelf as he turned to her and realized just how close she’d been standing behind him when he found himself body to body with her. Carlie shook her head and sighed. “Won’t do any good. I swear they only halfway listen.”

She was migrating a little closer, her fingertips toying with the strings on his hoodie. He swallowed hard and shook his head, staring down at her.

… If she had one tenth of a clue… she’d probably laugh her ass off… the thought jarred him back into the present and out of his own mind and he cleared his throat, nodded towards the door. “I should umm.. Go get ready for my match.”

“You’ve got this big guy.” she was staring up at him and she rose to tiptoe, booping the tip of his nose playfully and smiling at him.

… she has the prettiest smile…

“Not according to the higher ups. I gotta take another L tonight.” Curtis grumbled, shaking his head. When she stepped a little closer, he almost gasped at the way she brushed against him.

… you’re imagining things do not overthink this…

“Screw the higher ups. They’re idiots. I tell Big E this all the time.” Carlie threaded her fingers through the strings of his hoodie again and for a few seconds, she caught the look in his eyes again, the frustrated lost one and she almost went for it, pressed her lips against a strong and stubble lined jaw.

His cologne lingered in the air between them and she breathed in deeply, taking in as much of the crisp and clean scent she could.

“Yeah, well.. Anyway.. I’ll see you around.” Curtis raised a hand, rubbing it over the back of his head before stepping out into the hallway where he was taken off to the side by Big E, Heath and Bo.

“Tell ‘im what you were tellin us, E.”

Curtis looked from Heath to Big E and waited. “Well?”

Bo grumbled and then spoke up before Big E could even open his mouth because he was just that excited for his friend. “E thinks.. No, he’s pretty damn sure that Carlie has a thing for you too! That’s great, right? Now you can stop dragging your ass and do something before you drive me and Heath insane.”

Big E turned an intent gaze to Curtis who grumbled at Bo, “Thanks big mouth. Thanks a lot.”

“What? It’s the truth and you need to do something about it.” Bo shrugged, not even bothered by Curtis’ words. Bo spoke up again, nodding to the closed door of Carlie’s workspace. “Did you actually talk to her for a change?”

“Yeah, I mean.. Kinda.. One of the backstage guys put her radio on a shelf out of her reach. I swear I’m gonna talk to ‘em about doing that shit.” Curtis happened to glance towards the door just in time to see Carlie walk out and then go down the hall into catering, sandwiched between Nikki Cross and Alexa Bliss, the three of them talking and laughing a mile a minute.

Big E chuckled and shook his head at the answer Curtis gave. He could have spoken up, he could have told Curtis the truth, but given what he gathered in talking to Bo and Heath, the guy was completely oblivious.

And it was amusing as hell to Big E.

Now he just had to figure out a way to get the two interacting.. And he might just have gotten the perfect idea.

Now all he had to do was drag Carlie to the next UpUpDownDown.

He chuckled to himself and made an excuse to duck out of the conversation, setting off to explain to Kofi and Xavier what was going on.

They’d probably wanna be in on it too.

She’d seen the match end and she bit her lip, shaking her head at the screen. “They’re wasting so many of these people, I swear.”

Knowing Curtis was probably going to be in a mood, she made her way down to catering and upon spotting him after grabbing her bottled water, she made her way over.

“It was still a really good match.” she sat down next to him and toyed with the top on the bottle, making it seem as if she couldn’t get it open. It wasn’t entirely a lie, her fake nails made it damn impossible to do anything. Grumbling, she sat the bottle down and Curtis chuckled, taking it, twisting off the top. He glanced at her nails and she bit her lip, raising her hand so he could see them better.

“I.. got bored during that whole nonsensical spot with Shane. So I stupidly put these fuckers on. Forgot just how little you can do with fake nails in the way.” she gave a sheepish smile and Curtis laughed, shaking his head.

“I can imagine.” he mused, taking a sip of his own water. She was leaning in a little and the faintest hint of cotton candy scented perfume filled the air. It was more than a little comforting if he had to admit it.

… just do something for the love of fuck…

… but what if she isn’t flirting and only sees you as a friend…

A throat cleared and Xavier, Kofi and Big E took up the seats on the opposite side of the table. Xavier spoke up.

“So, we’re on for upupdowndown later?”

Curtis eyed him and then Kofi reminded him that he was supposed to be playing Seth again.

Big E eyed Carlie and mouthed, “Well? You could come too.. Becky’s gonna be there..” and Carlie gave Big E a look but surprised herself by speaking up.

“I think I might check out this show of yours, E.”

Big E smirked and nodded. “Finally. I’ve only been trying to get your ass to show up for a thousand years, little bit.”

“I don’t know shit about video games but from what I’ve seen when I watched it on youtube, it looks like fun.”

Kofi smiled, nudging Xavier who added, “Actually, we were thinking.. Since Seth’s gonna have Becky there and Carlie just said she’d finally come sit in.. Maybe Carlie could play with you? We could have games against each other or play teams against Seth and Becky. Pretty sure those two will be down for whatever.”

“You don’t wanna do that, he’ll lose because I promise you,I have not one fucking clue what to do with a video game…” Carlie started but Big E spoke up, cutting her off before she could try to back out.

“We’ll pick something easy.”

“Right.”

Carlie eyed Curtis and Curtis chuckled and nodded as he told her, “I’d be fine with it. I mean if you really want to.”

“Okay, but I mean it. I’m going to be the reason you wind up losing at whatever we play.. If you’re okay with that, I’d like to.” Carlie found herself migrating a little closer, giving a playful look as she answered Curtis. Big E chuckled to himself and spoke up again. “It’s gonna go down tonight. When we’re all set up back at the hotel. I think we’ll be able to use that one lounge area. Carlie, you could bring the cupcakes….” he gave his best friend a hopeful look and Carlie giggled quietly and nodded.

“I dunno where I’ll bake them, but I can try.”

“Cupcakes?” Curtis asked, looking from Big E to Carlie who shrugged. “My mom made cupcakes once when these three stopped by. I rode with them from one town to the other and she fed us all. Made them her famous cupcakes and now Big E asks for them a lot since he figured out that I bake too. I mean not nearly as good but I try.”

“Girl.. Do not even.” Xavier spoke up over her, telling Curtis, “This woman is really good at baking. Don’t let her lie to you, man.”

“Okay, alright. I’ll bring cupcakes. I think I can get Brie and Daniel to let me use the stove in their RV.”

“Awesome! We’ll see you two tonight then!”

As New Day walked away, Carlie gave Curtis a sheepish look and asked, “You’re sure you’re okay with a potential loss?”

“We might not even play teams.. Might wind up playing against one another.” Curtis mused, giving a playful smirk as he added quickly, “But don’t worry. I’ll take it easy on you.”

“If they’re playing Mortal Kombat though..”

“ So you have played a video game before.”

“And I was pretty damn good at that one. That and Mario Kart. You’re on, Curtis. You are on.” Carlie flirted, flashing a playful grin as she did.

“You realize she only asks you to do all that stuff, right? And she’s only askin you for a reason.” Heath tried to point it out to his friend and Curtis raised a brow, shaking his head. “It’s because I’m usually the only one around.”

“No, no it’s not.. Not according to Big E.” Bo started, but Heath gave him a look and shook his head. Curtis saw the look and the way Heath shook his head and he turned his attention to Bo.

“What do you mean not according to Big E?”

Heath grumbled and Bo shook his head. “I’m not going to keep this to myself. Something has to get through to the idiot, Slater!”

“Hey, I am standin right here, Bo.”

“And you’re an idiot.. Now do you wanna hear what I was told, Axel, or are you going to continue to foolishly insist that you’re right and we’re all wrong?”

“Okay, fine.. Color me curious.”

“The stage hand didn’t put that radio out of her reach. She did.”

Curtis started to laugh and when he saw Heath and Bo’s serious facial expressions, he stopped and raised a brow. “Why would she do that? She didn’t, that’s stupid…”

“Oh but she did, man. E said he caught her doin it. And that he thinks it ain’t the first time, either. That maybe quite a few of her incidents are.. Her trying to make an excuse to be around you… Like the whole ‘oh crap, my swimsuit top came untied?’” Heath smirked as he watched Curtis attempting to process what he and Bo were saying.

“But..” he trailed off, Bo and Heath weren’t going to listen to reason and maybe hearing them out wasn’t that bad of an idea.

“No buts. I’m telling you, she’s flirting. Why the hell do you think when I asked if she needed help with her luggage at the airport she said no to me but then you walked past and she’s suddenly wanting someone to help her? I mean.. It makes sense, Curtis. Think a little, jesus.” Bo sighed and shook his head, giving a know it all grin.

“And the little nose boops, man.. Or the way she fluffs your hair and stuff. She’s always touchin you and.. She’s not touchy. At least, not with anybody else but you.” Heath added, staring his friend down intently -almost daring him to make an argument against what he said. Curtis could deny,deny,deny all he wanted, but Heath was convinced that Big E was on to something.

Because after Big E asked the questions he had earlier, it really got both Bo and himself thinking and talking about the situation with their best friend and his feelings for Carlie.

And her little cues were kind of hard to miss unless you were totally oblivious.

“You guys really think so?”

“We wouldn’t have even mentioned it if we weren’t.” Bo assured him and then a second later he asked the million dollar question.

“What are you going to do now that you know what you know?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

By the time that night rolled around, he’d at least halfway come up with some kind of game plan. He found himself both excited and extremely anxious about it because there was the chance that his friends and Big E were totally wrong.

… but Big E caught her moving that radio herself…

… you can attempt flirting and see what happens. Couldn’t hurt…

He happened to get behind her while waiting on the elevator and he sniffed the air, eyes settling on the muffin tin with cupcakes in it.

“Take one. It’s not a big deal.” Carlie offered as she shuffled her feet and tried like hell not to stare at him like an ass.. Or his lips, rather. Because as he took a cupcake and bit into it, the whole process only drew further attention to his mouth and before Carlie could stop herself, she’d sort of… Gasped quietly.

She felt her cheeks going red.

Curtis heard the little gasp and he bit his lip, staring at her while she was staring down at the floor. He groaned as he ate the cupcake.

It practically melted in his mouth.

Just as she looked up, he licked the icing on his finger off and she swallowed hard. Took a small step closer. The ding of the elevator signalled that they were arriving in the lobby and he cleared his throat, nodding at the doors as they slid open.

“And we’re in the lobby. I can carry those..” Curtis nodded to the muffin tin and took it, falling into step beside Carlie who stopped about halfway and leaned against him as she took off a pair of impossibly high wedge sandals she was wearing. He chuckled and stared down at her.

“You’re really short.”

“Oh hahaha bite me.” Carlie teased, adding in her mind, … actually, anywhere you wanna bite me is fine if you ever wanna take me up on that… but not daring to say it. She felt his hand at the small of her back and she glanced up at him, tempted beyond temptation to raise to tiptoe, pull him down into a kiss.

She settled for simply booping the tip of his nose playfully when she couldn’t resist touching him in some way. Curtis leaned in closer and took a deep breath, mentally prepping himself to do what he’d been thinking he’d do.

Start small.

He raised his hand and brushed back some hair out of her eyes, catching and holding her gaze, giving her a playful smirk as he reached around her, lightly pressing into her from behind and opened the door to the room upupdowndown was set up in.

Just as he went to step into the room he muttered against her ear, “Relax, Carlie. It’s gonna be fun. If you need any help figuring things out…”

“Oh believe me. I’m going to take you up on that. I have not one fucking clue how to operate one of those..” she nodded at the gaming console sitting on a low table in the middle of the room.

Seth called out to Curtis and Becky gave a knowing grin to Carlie who waved back.

“Least ah’m not t’ be th’ only girl.” Becky gave a laugh and then nodding at Curtis she mouthed, “Are y’ a thing?”

Carlie shook her head and mouthed back, “It’s tricky.” and Becky gave her a thumbs up.

After Xavier explained how they’d play and what game they were going to play, Carlie jumped up in excitement when he said it was going to be Mortal Kombat to start off with.

“Curtis, do you and Carlie want to go against each other first?”

“Ready to lose, darlin?”

“Bring it on, Axel. Bring it on.” Carlie joked.

Given there wasn’t much room to sit, Carlie settled on the floor with her back against Curtis’ knees. After a few failed attempts at making a combination move -and not being able to figure out how to make Jade move to begin with, Curtis decided to try stepping it up.

He reached around her with both arms and paused the game, telling Xavier, “Maybe if we played teams and took turns? That way I can help Carlie get used to this controller.”

Big E chuckled to himself. Maybe he’d been right.

Maybe things were going to fall into place, and a lot easier than he thought.

They were down to the last two games. And it was down to Curtis and her. Carlie’s competitive streak kicked in and she decided that maybe since it seemed like Curtis might be flirting a little, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to do it in return.. In the name of distracting him from the game.. Or so she’d tell herself that.

She settled herself between Curtis’ knees and looked back at him, winking. “What’s the matter? Too close for comfort? The score, I mean..”

“Oh no, not at all. If you think I’m rattled, darlin.. You are dead wrong.” Curtis did a combo and won the round, earning him a pout from her. Carlie bit her lip and rose up, leaning over him to reach behind him and grab another slice of pizza. When she did, it put them body to body and Curtis smirked up at her. “Besides, I’m up two wins now anyway.”

“Not for long, Axel.” Carlie challenged, settling back on the floor between his legs. She leaned back against him, the back of her head resting against the couch next to him awkwardly. He chuckled and muttered against her ear, “Ready for me to hit start again?”

“I was born ready.”

“Oh really.” his lips brushed her ear and she wiggled against him, giving a teasing grin as she met his gaze. “Really. Hit start, Curtis.”

“Okay, you asked for it, darlin.”

… if you had any idea what I’d actually ask for… she thought to herself, but shoving the thought aside, she tried to focus on the game.

And she’d have been good at it but he rose to a sitting position and the end result was her, having to sit up straighter. His arms went around her so he could hold the controller a little better and she couldn’t refrain from the quiet purr that slipped out.

Or maybe the slightest wiggle against him that put them even closer together.

Curtis sucked in a breath. So far, he’d been flirting all night and every time he’d do something, she’d do something a little more in retaliation.

He rested his chin on her shoulder and muttered quietly, “You’re gonna.. No, that’s not a good idea. Because then I can do this,” he got Scorpion into a position to drag Jade towards him to do the finisher, “And I’m now up three wins, Carlie.”

“Just wait.” Carlie gave a mild shrug and smirked at him. Her heart was literally about to beat right out of her chest because the feel of his lip against her neck, the stubble on his face brushing against her skin, it was… really doing a number on her concentration.

Seth said something about him and Becky going for a drive and they left, leaving only Curtis and Carlie. Big E, Kofi and Xavier had gone down to pick up some drinks and wings they’d ordered to eat and it left Carlie alone with him.

Which left the couch they were propped against unoccupied for the time being. So Carlie stood and moved to sit behind him, a leg on either side of his arm. Curtis barely stopped himself from growling. He turned his head to look at the door and his lip brushed right against her thigh. Carlie dropped the controller because she hadn’t been expecting it.

Curtis chuckled and Carlie explained through a mouth full of pizza, “Ticklish on my thighs..” sheepishly.

He paused the game and turned to face her.

“How about we play for stakes, hmm?”

“I’m curious.. Tell me these stakes of yours?”

“ Winner gets to pick whatever they want.. Anything goes.”

“Anything, huh?” Carlie mulled it over, gazing at Curtis intently. He gave that little smirk and rubbed his chin. “And darlin, since I’m 3 ahead.. I know exactly what I want.”

“Awfully confident, aren’t you?”

… not really, but this gives me an excuse to go for it… he thought to himself, but instead of saying it aloud, he gave a cockier than usual grin.

“One more game.. Shall we?” Carlie picked up her controller as she thought to herself, … I wonder what he’s up to?… Maybe I was wrong… maybe he is starting to finally catch on?…

They’d gone best four out of five and Curtis’ character went in for a finisher on Carlie’s character. The cut scene showing the finisher played and Carlie giggled.

“So.. you won.. Any idea what you’re going to do with your win?”

“Mhmm.” Curtis was staring at her mouth intently, leaning in closer. His hand cupped her jaw, pulling her face closer to his and he muttered against her lips, “Stop me..”

“I didn’t deliberately lose the last two games to stop you.” Carlie answered, leaning in closer, moving so that she sat in his lap, pressing against him. Her mouth brushed his and he groaned quietly, his other hand tangling in the ends of her hair, tilting her head so that the kiss deepened. Her lips parted willingly and he asked with a quiet laugh, “You really lost the last two games?”

“Mmm, yeah? I wanted to see what you’d choose.”

“Disappointed?”

“Not even.”

“Oh?”

“Well,” Carlie grinded against him, making him growl and swear quietly as she did so, “ personally.. I’ve wanted to kiss you a really long time now and I’m basically getting my way right now, so it’s a win for me either way.”

“I like that.” Curtis muttered as he gripped her hip, grinding her against him all over again.

#curtis axel fanfiction #curtis axel fanfic #curtis axel fic #curtis axel oneshot #curtis axel imagine #// flirting #// fluff

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riverofmemoriesft · 8 years ago

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. Obsessive Impulsive . 12

Full Summary: “‘I’ve been trying to find you alone for weeks, but you’ve been avoiding me.’ He clicked his tongue, as if scolding her. 'I tried approaching, but you always had someone with you to give me nasty words and looks. They turned you against me, Miss Levy.’"

Pairings: Gajeel x Levy

Warnings: I strode for a darker fic again. This is not for sensitive readers. Violence, stalking, etc.

Author’s Note: This is a very, very twisted gift for Bubbles, who has not been allowed to so much as read a single chapter. This will update every other day.

He stalked through the guildhall, keeping to the edge as he made his way for the stairs that would take him to Levy. Gajeel's red eyes burned with anger - no, not anger. Rage, fury, emotions so dark, he thought for a split second that he'd gone back to Phantom Lord.

"She's okay," Wendy had told him when she'd met him at the door. She'd explained what had happened, what she'd heard from Levy, how she was now, and that Levy had wanted to keep it under wraps. She wanted no one but him, Wendy, Charle, and Makarov - perhaps Gildarts - knowing. He'd said nothing to anyone but Lily.

Who had flown ahead of him while he talked with Makarov to sit with his shrimp.

"It seems," he remembered Makarov saying, "we have a problem with a manacle that Elroy placed on her. It seals her magic. It's made of iron, but outside of that we cannot figure out what it is. See what you can do about it. If all else fails, we will contact the Council. Their soft spot for Levy will help in this moment. I've sent word that I want permission to hunt him down and arrest him. I'm sure they'll allow it."

He didn't want permission to arrest Elroy.

He wanted permission to watch him bleed in tiny pieces.

Gajeel pushed those thoughts away as he reached the door to the infirmary room Levy had been calling home. He knocked once and something in him softened when she called for him to enter.

He ducked in without pause, rumbling a soft sound of unhappiness.

Levy was tucked into bed with Lily in her lap and a bandage wrapped around her head. She'd made it back hours before as he'd come back and conferenced with Makarov about what had happened.

She didn't bother to throw him a smile, though her eyes lit up just a fraction at the sight of him. Something in Gajeel's chest loosened as he walked over to stand beside her bed.

"I'm sorry," she said immediately, "that I missed-"

"Stop," he snarled. She flinched, frowning, and he grimaced. His gaze shifted to his cat. "Lil'," he rumbled, "could you-"

Lily flicked his tail once. "I'll be downstairs should you need me." Without a second glance at either of them, his wings snapped out and he flew out of the room, closing the door behind him.

She should have looked hurt by the command. Instead, she merely searched his gaze for a moment before her expression broke. "I couldn't," she breathed, breath hitching. "I couldn't...I couldn't get away. I tried, and I tried to fight-"

Gajeel cut her off swiftly.

She jerked in surprise when his lips met hers, his warm calloused fingers gently gripping her chin and holding her in place. After the initial shock, she kissed him back, lifting her hands to brush her fingers lightly over his cheekbones. When he pulled back, he glared at her fiercely.

"Don't let that fucking bastard," he seethed, "touch you again."

She sputtered out an awkward laugh. "Okay," she agreed in a whisper.

Gajeel made a pleased sound low in his throat and then pulled back. "Forget dinner," she said after a moment of silence between them. "Can we just...stay here? In the guildhall? Mirajane can make us some food."

"Yeah," he grunted. "I'll go let her know."

"Thank you." She smiled at him and he smirked at her.

And just for a second, everything was right with the world.

Levy wanted to drop everything and end it all.

A week later found her swaying on the bench she sat on. Gajeel was giving her harsh looks over the table - his version of concern. Lily asked her if she was okay every few minutes, if she needed to go upstairs and rest, but Levy waved him off. The shadows beneath her eyes were purple bruises, her face gaunt. She had barely eaten and she knew she'd lost weight.

The manacle still decorated her wrist. It was as if it was permanent - and Levy feared it was.

They'd tried everything. Gildarts had manipulated his magic, but no luck. Natsu had carefully tried to burn through it, Lucy had called on her Spirits to see what they knew, and they'd even gone to a regular master of weapons to see what could be done. No luck there, either.

Gajeel had gone so far as taking her wrist in his hand and gnawing on the metal to see what he could do. He'd almost cracked a tooth with the force he'd put into biting on it.

Sleep refused to come. She couldn't close her eyes without terror overwhelming her. Not even Mirajane drugging her tea with things to help her sleep did anything. Every waking moment found her looking, searching.

The Council had sent word to kill him if need be - not something anyone would do if they could help it. But if it had to happen, no one had any problem with it. Even the gentle Wendy had bared her teeth like a wolf and promised to make him suffer.

Levy couldn't help but worry that she'd tainted the dragon slayer's innocence.

The entire guild was on edge.

But Levy felt like she was drowning.

Even now, she felt her head drooping, her eyes fluttering shut. The image of Elroy's face in her mind had her snapping her head back up. She whimpered, just softly enough that only those with her heard. Gajeel growled in response; Lily echoed him.

Suddenly, Gajeel grunted. He climbed to his feet and ducked around the table. He took her arm in his hand and dragged her up. She squealed, earning stares as she was thrown over his shoulder. Gajeel glared until those stares looked elsewhere.

"You gotta sleep," he rumbled. "Or you're gonna hurt yourself."

"Put me down," she pleaded, not bothering to struggle.

What good was it? He could overpower her.

If Elroy could, so could he.

He purposely shrugged so that she gasped, telling Lily, "C'mon whenever you want to. Let me know if something comes up."

Lily smirked a little. "Of course."

Gajeel spared a look at Makarov, who was watching closely with Gildarts from where the pair were seated at the bar. Makarov inclined his head a fraction. And Gajeel bared his teeth in a smug grin before heading out of the guildhall.

Levy fell silent as he walked, grumbling about him. "Why can't you carry me like a normal person?"

"S'no fun."

A ghost of a smile fluttered over her features. "Jerk," she accused, smacking him with the palm of her hand on his back.

He cackled.

Levy was speechless when they arrived at what he declared to be his home. It was small and in the middle of nowhere outside of Magnolia, but looked homely enough.

Gajeel gently set her down on her feet and inclined his head towards the door. "Ya need to sleep and s'not like the fucker'll try and break in here."

"Thank you?" she murmured, uncertain as to whether or not he was doing this for his own gain or not. He'd begun to sneak little things - gifts that appeared out of nowhere, like a necklace made purely of iron, and books of every kind. Lucy had mentioned snidely that the dragon slayers liked to hoard certain things. She'd guessed he was adding to Levy's collection of books.

Licking her lips, Levy stumbled to the front door and pushed it open. He hadn't even bothered to lock it and calmly bustled in behind her. Levy was aware of the fact that only Lily had ever seen the place before.

She grimaced at the piles of metal that surrounded her, but ignored them. She had no room to judge when she had piles of books all over the place. She jumped when he nudged her towards a door at the back. "Ya can use my bed if ya want," he rumbled. "S'kinda messy, but it's a bed."

"Thank you, Gajeel," she said earnestly as she opened the door.

"Tch, whatever," he muttered and shoved her into the room. "Get some fuckin' sleep for once. I'll be out here eatin' and doin' whatever."

She smiled and surprised him with a kiss to the cheek before kicking the door shut behind her after sliding in. She pushed her freed hair from her face and eyed Gajeel's bedroom.

It was worse than the main part of the house in terms of messiness, but she didn't care. It practically radiated Gajeel, with a bed built of rough old wood pieced together with iron. He'd probably put it together himself. There wasn't much else except for a low shelf put together in the same way, piled with various objects. When Levy peered at it curiously, her jaw dropped.

The shelf held knick-knacks. And the majority of them were from her. Well, from Wendy, too, she guessed, but mostly her. Some were old books she'd gifted him in an attempt to encourage him to read more. There were some bookmarks, too, from her, and a snowglobe made of metal and glass from who she guessed was Wendy.

They were the only possessions in the room cleaned to perfection.

She smiled, so tired that tears came to her eyes, and turned away. She crawled into the bed and flung herself down in it with a relieved groan, contently breathing in the scent of Gajeel, and then closed her eyes.

She was asleep in an instant.

When Levy woke up, there were birds chirping calmly outside. She blinked, lifting her head, and then squinted at the window in the room. Her jaw dropped. It was dawn. She'd been asleep for well over the amount of time she'd meant to sleep. She paused, thinking about the fact that Gajeel had let her sleep so long, and then admitted she had needed it before climbing to her feet. She stretched, enjoying how her body did so, and then dropped her arms. With a yawn and a yearning for coffee, Levy opened the door and peeked out.

She smiled lightly at the sight of Gajeel sprawled out with Lily on his chest, both on the couch. Gajeel was snoring surprisingly loudly, much to her amusement. She giggled softly and then wandered towards where she assumed a kitchen to be, her eyes shining. Her bare feet padded softly on the floor as she found it.

The kitchen was, like that little shelf in his room, surprisingly clean and polished up. The fridge and pantry was stocked full, though filled with food meant for crazy kinds of cooking rather than for a quick breakfast. She was somewhat disappointed - and truly hungry for the first time in days.

"I can make somethin' if ya want."

Levy jumped, whipping her head around as the pantry door slid from her hands and clattered shut. Gajeel snorted softly in apology before jerking his chin towards the general direction of the stove and fridge. "Like to cook. I'll make somethin'."

"Please," she said with a small sigh of relief at the idea of food.

He smirked, crimson eyes glittering and then nodded towards an island in the center of the kitchen, lined with crudely made barstools. She didn't hesitate to drop into one as he went to work, reaching back to tie his messy black hair out of his face.

She folded her arms and rested her chin on them. "Thank you," she said suddenly, "for letting me sleep here. It feels...safer. It doesn't feel like I have to look over my shoulder."

Gajeel practically puffed up in pride, but only said, "Tch. Whatever."

She giggled and then looked back as Lily came in, yawning loudly as if to tell them he was coming. She laughed again and smiled at her friend. "Morning, Lily."

"The sun just rose," he growled. "Why are you awake."

Levy laughed again and Gajeel didn't bother to look back as he said, "You can go back to sleep if ya want. No one's stopping you."

"You're making food. I'm hungry." Lily hauled himself into Levy's lap, curling up there happily. Levy gently stroked his fur and settled down contently, wishing she'd thought to bring a book out.

For the first time in weeks, Levy was entirely at peace.

#fairy tail #fanfiction #obsessive impulsive #riverofmemoriesft #gajevy #gajeel x levy #gajeel redfox #levy mcgarden #makarov dreyar #pantherlily

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jonjordanforrealz · 7 years ago

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The Chronicles of Elfdom

Last December, I documented my struggles with Hermie the Elf - you know, of the “on a shelf” variety, sure, but more accurately, in my head, eating my brain and in my soul, tormenting from here to eternity.

This is my story, shared only in hopes that it may help others.

Tread lightly... Vol 1: Narrowly avoided complete disaster after totally forgetting about the little bastard on Night 1, despite having read the special book/instruction manual/elf commandments at bedtime. Oldest boy Kramers through our bedroom door at 0500, announcing that he'd prefer to use our bathroom over his. As I pondered the logic behind this, thinking, "Boy, he's assertive," something felt amiss and within seconds, I realized my worst December nightmares (since exam time during the old teaching days) were already coming true. As Boy 1 finished his business, I sprung into action, anticipating his yearning to find our annual household guest at this ungodly hour, escorting his proactive little ass back to his bedroom. Always (read: sometimes) a step ahead, I waited in the hallway for the inevitable: an attempted rendezvous to join forces with little brother. After that was easily intercepted, it was time for a little psychological warfare. Warding off both emotional sabotage (Boy 1's, "Daddy, I love you") and an honesty play (Boy 2's, "We we were trying to find Hermie but he's tricky") some redirecting was in order. Authoritative Dad speaks! "It's 5:00 am. No one comes to this house unless everyone is sleeping." With that understanding in mind, aided by the musical distractions of the old Epcot Canadian band and, of course, Kidz Bop 27, I hunted down Public Enemy #1 in his top secret hideaway. Tucked away in a Target bag - dead giveaway, right? Duh. - I shoved him into my pocket and moved on to recover the donuts that he brought with him from the North Pole. Breaking kayfabe here, I'd actually purchased these GMO-laden diabetes bombs myself from Dunkin Donuts on the way home last night, on direct orders from the General, but yes, still totally forgot about this whole charade... Does anyone realize how fucking loud a paper bag is at 5:15 am? Donuts on a paper plate and little orphan Hermie's demanding ass still secured in my Florida State sleepy pants, I knew I had very little time to reach the intended destination and disappear into whatever remained of this night. Cat- or zombie-like in my movements (not quite sure which) down went the plate and into a bouquet of flowers leftover from Thanksgiving landed Osama - or whatever his name is. Somehow, now back behind my bedroom door, I'd survived. There would be no more sleeping for our hero this morning. The sweet taste of victory would be the lone reward. Looking ahead to Night 2, it is possible that we may bribe an acquaintance to drop the bomb on Boy 1, letting him know that this is all a bunch of honkybonk, and thus, instantly creating a valuable ally to continue the ruse for Boy 2. It is now clear that the oldest is the mastermind of what will surely be a constant barrage of this sort of subterfuge for the next 24 days. Vol 2:

There will be no threat of disaster tonight. Since yesterday's torment weighed on my mind all day, it would have been nearly impossible to forget my elfly duties this evening. So, there he sits, the little prick. He's made friends with another rather smug trio that has taken up residence in my home (rent-free, I might add.) Yes, nestled snugly between Alvin and Simon, while Theodore's fat ass looks on, in the morning, the kids will find Hermie, appearing to have read the timeless holiday classic, "Santa Comes to Florida" with his rodent buddies. If you haven't read this piece of literature, it's worth at least a passing glance. But I must warn you that it isn't all that accurate. For one, there is no mention of meth or bath salts, even as Santa flies right over Apopka. And two, there isn't a lot of love for Melbourne, which is pretty shameful since such visionaries as Jim Morrison, Darrell Hammond and that guy I went to high school with who ended up in that reality show boy band are among its native sons. Let's not get too sidetracked here. There is still work to be done. I was informed earlier that one of Boy 2's little friends announced that he received a letter from Santa himself this morning, officially putting him on "The Nice List," while, shame on me, all I did was make sure the kids saw the fuckin' elf and got to eat donuts for breakfast., sacrificing sleep, sanity and something else I forgot about because I'm tired and crazy. I guess lil' man used the power of deductive reasoning and, sans Santa letter, convinced himself he was on "The Naughty List," creating a bit of a challenge at bedtime. Dad here, who may or may not have occupied a spot on the unsavory version of the imaginary fat man's lists a time or two over the years, did his best to convince the young buck that he was not on any such document - that things were going just fine - but I'm not sure he bought it. Thanks to utter exhaustion, a self-inflicted derivative of last night's bullshit adventures, sleep came quickly for the littlest Jordan, allowing me time to think of what I might include in the now necessary piece of prose needed to support my earlier claims of his green light toward Christmas presents galore. Ideally, it'd be straightforward: [Hey, kid(s). If you're worried that you might be on the wrong side of Santa's ledger, maybe you weren't as good as you thought you were all year. You ever hear of the NSA? Ever see any of my text messages? Holy shit! Now that's a list you don't want to worry about being on. Anyway... Keep the faith. The truth is, we like you. And you'd probably have to try to stab one or both of us before we'd make sure you didn't get anything at all for Christmas. Love, Dad PS: On Saturday, I want you to sleep until 10 am. Remember: THE LIST!] But traditions are traditions and in this family, as in so many others, we lie like a muthafucka - especially around the holidays! And so, the propaganda continues. Hermie, it will appear, took a break from reading his Florida Santa book to his pals to write a letter to the Jordan kids, detailing how fantastic they've been and urging them to be good listeners and make good choices at least for a few more weeks. (Pretty suspicious - or "ironic," as Alanis Morrisette might deem it - that the stuffed elf, who I think wears makeup, uses the exact same discipline terminology as Mom and Dad do, ain't it? These kids get any smarter any time soon and they'll bust me for sure. And what then?!?) Depending on what time they wake up in the morning, I may have to stage a sacrifice when it comes to the chipmunk population in this home. If we can send positive messages via letters from imaginary people, we can also send negative messages by offing a fake friend or two. And since they haven't seen "Christmas Vacation" just yet, nor do they know for sure that I don't have a Cousin Eddie, they'll have no idea that he stopped eating chipmunks (yeah, yeah, chipmunks and squirrels are different things, I get it) when he found out they were high in cholesterol. Black and white photos should do. I'll use the old Hitchcock chocolate syrup trick. Tomorrow brings the added challenges of that batshit crazy Chick-Fil-A with all the lights, what the food there does to my insides and selecting the 2016 Jordan Family Christmas tree. There will be booze. Two down, 23 to go. Vol 3:

It's clear that my efforts here are drawing something of a crowd, which is much appreciated but not at all the intent. One trusted advisor has even suggested I attempt to profit financially from this record but the truth is simply this: It has to be done. For the betterment of all mankind, our successes and failures with this Johnny-come-lately holiday irritant must be documented. Tonight, I was reminded of a better day that has passed us by. As we decorated our tree, I took some inventory of the many ornaments we've accumulated over the years. Among them, holiday stalwarts like Frosty the Snowman, Santa Claus and The Grinch make their presence known. We also have the typical representation of some of our sports teams (all of whom suck out loud), life milestones ("2006 New Home" is a real joy, since that was two houses, two kids and one lawsuit ago) and the innocence of homemade trinkets featuring the younger versions of Boy 1 and Boy 2, long before they discovered the art of whining. There is also an ornament that is simply a beer glass (right on!) and the disembodied head of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which I find terrifying. It wasn't so long ago that my biggest holiday concern was making sure that as few of these characters were damaged during tree-trimming time as possible. (Why do they call it "tree-trimming" anyway? When I go to get my hair trimmed, I'm not looking for Akbar the barber to scatter random trinkets about my rapidly-depleting mane.) But as I longed for the days of yore tonight, there it was, right in my face, as if to say, "Not so fast, asshole! The glory days are over, mother fucker!" Hermie - this sonofoabitchofanelf - is also present as an ornament on our tree. Well, shit in my hat. Just as I discovered this mini version of our mini-monster, both boys began to melt down, merely an hour past their regular bedtime, and I was already on my way to a conniption fit myself, three days into the shit and already running out of placement ideas for Elfrey Dahmer. Coincidental timing, my ass! This guy's in my head. Or he's like the alien thing from Stranger Things. If my lights start flickering, I'm setting him on fire and we'll tell the kids he didn't stop, drop or roll because he wasn't a good listener. But at least I'm not in danger of forgetting at the moment. Tomorrow may prove difficult, what with multiple activities involving alcohol already scheduled - after the children's sporting events, as per societal acceptance. I figure if I can make it through a day like that and still move "it" from Point A to Point B, that's a big win for ol' Daddio. His mind powers working on both me and the young'ins tonight jives with my recognizing the cheery-cheeked, red-and-white clad fuzzy thing to be quite clearly a demon in cahoots with Beelzebub himself. So, I've now paired him up with a dragon statue that we have atop our curio cabinet. (Never thought you'd hear me use the term "curio cabinet," did you, old friends? That's right, I'm cultured. Or I've lost all street cred. Not quite sure which distinction to hang onto here.) What's the connection between Hermalerm and the dragon? Well, heroin of course. That's right, kids, the elf didn't just chase the dragon. He caught the damn thing. Which means as I drift off to sleep tonight, I'll be headed for a righteous dream of Hermie sinking through the floor to the sounds of Lou Reed's "Perfect Day," a la Trainspotting. You'll be alright, elf boy, but this one won't be easy. One bucket for urine, one for feces, and one for vomitus. Preparation is key. You're in a new kind of hell for now, fella. See you on the flip. Vol 4:

The voodoo appears to be working. In the last 24 hours, my better half and I have each been caught making mention of "having a talk with Hermie" about this instance of a slight misstep in behavior or that. It's worth pondering what sort of residual effect this may have on the boys (or any kids, really) long-term. Is life truly one observed event after another, with an eye in the sky passing judgment in turn? And let's not get all religious here. I'm seeing this through an Orwellian lens at the moment. If we do slip up, must we live in fear of being told on? I should get out more... Speaking of, having been out quite a bit yesterday, bailing on my "move the elf" responsibility was a distinct possibility but it did not come to pass. Late at night, headache looming, our favorite holiday hobo was relocated from the dragon's back to a high perch overlooking the entrance to Boy 1's room. It's a creepy spot for sure. Like, if you were to walk out of your bedroom and find a person situated the way Hermie is at the moment, laying on his belly, chin resting on his hands, smiling like a whackjob, cheeks as rosy as ever, you'd definitely call the cops. Or shoot him. Or both. The creative maneuvers are lacking for yours truly this year - although I guess mounting the dragon was pretty cool. That's ok, though. My goal is simply to survive this month with as few mid-sleep panic attacks as possible. Started off 1-for-1 but we have a clean slate since, so I'll call it a win so far. Perhaps tonight, we'll set the elf up with a lady or something - freak Carrie out a little, if nothing else. The boys have been warned - née, reminded - that no one is supposed to be up and moving about until at least 7 am in this house (great rule, hardly ever followed) and they seem pretty beat from a long weekend so there might be hope for a more restful slumber. If not, maybe it's time for the elf to get shelved for a day or two, go visit Santa (or Satan?) or something. That'll get these tired kids back on track. Tired kids are like drunk adults, by the way. But that's a story for a different setting. 21 days to go. Zeus help me. Vol 5:

There has been no shortage of remarkable moments in our adventures with the red devil of late. Boy 1, in an apparent attempt to extort his elf friend, left him a tangerine on Monday, after finding him purportedly reading through one of Mom's cupcake cookbooks. Perhaps he was being proactive, in the event that the elf delivers cupcakes as he did donuts on opening day of this annual charade. A simple, "Hey, man. I gave you a tangerine. Whatchyougot for me?" Or maybe he's overheard dear ol' Dad opine on the corruption of politics, in general. Either way, Boy 2 was not pleased. The littlest Jordan, you see, has developed an affinity for these tangerines and while he is almost always quite willing to share his snacks, such was not the case here, as he relocated Boy 1's offering back to its original box. This incensed the elder sibling and the back-and-forth game from tangerine box to offering table began. I should note that the boys are still suffering from Christmasitis - the plague that renders otherwise lovable little humans into demon beings, drunk on exhaustion, impulsive and exhibiting a bravado unbecoming of their age or social status. Now off to school, Mom stepped in with a solution, staging a scene where the elf appeared to have eaten the tangerine in question, abandoning his cookbook perch in favor of a seated position at a makeshift snack area and leaving scraps behind, along with a note that read, "Thanks for the tangerine! I'll only eat one!" (It is also likely that a smiley face was included but I cannot confirm with any certainty, having destroyed this document, and thus, in the name of accuracy and out of respect for journalism, it is omitted here.) This was, largely, an intelligent counter tactic by my female counterpart and while its intended result - assuaging the pending civil war betwixt brothers with a reasonable compromise - was achieved, ultimately, the strategy lacked the necessary foresight to continue the mind games without needling questions from the youngsters. Of utmost importance: "Wait... You moved him?" Crickets. "No, kid," I thought to myself - but dared not say aloud. "He moved himself, of course!" But, of course, this was not supposed to be a part of the pestilent pixie's skillset! For his meandering about is only supposed to take place at night, according to the owner's manual! Far be it from Mom to not have her next move planned, however, and as I stood stock still, considering a swift exit strategy (were the neighbors home? Could a friend pick me up? Where is my rocketpack?) as if beamed in by the projector of Orson Welles himself, the holiday classic "Home Alone" was suddenly on the living room television and Mom's invite for cuddle time was accepted by both young Jordans. Crisis averted, once more. In the time since, the attitudes of drunken demon children 1 and 2 have worsened. Boy 1 resisted piano practice and was not permitted to walk the neighborhood to look at Christmas lights in turn, then admittedly plotted revenge on yours truly, attempting to stave off bedtime as long as possible by prancing about the house, giggling and speaking in tongues. And Boy 2 ignored my orders to disarm, wielding his light saber freely about the living room as though I wasn't even there. With Mom on a run (and not 100% sure she was coming back) I engaged hand-to-hand, demilitarizing my target and receiving his "Mad Dog" glare for my troubles. In fairness, Boy 2 pulled it together enough to join me on the aforementioned Christmas walk, where he graciously educated me on the difference between frogs and what he calls "toadfrogs," (apparently this has everything to do with their tongues - who knew?) and I shared with him my disdain for projector lights. Nonetheless, the net result of Sunday/Monday called for a sabbatical for the nefarious imp creature, who has, as far as the boys know, "gone to visit Santa for a day or two," according to my - no, his! - note. Improvements are expected in short order but just in case, the vodka supply has been restocked. I now count 19 days, which looks far less daunting than 20. Still, my sleep pattern has been erratic. We'll call that 20% problem drinking, 60% guilt from blatantly lying to one's offspring and 20% New York Jets football. With apologies to my parents and, more importantly, to Mark Twain, I haven't told the truth, out of necessity, thanks to you-know-who, and now I can't remember anything.

Vol 6:

Tensions have subsided. The elf was brought back after the exhibition of acceptable behavior on the part of both boys on Tuesday night. 1 did a fine job at his school Christmas concert, while 2 gave a great effort at soccer practice. (It is also important to note that Dad scored a goal in an impromptu coaches/kids mixed scrimmage. That this feat was accomplished against 6- and 7-year-olds matters not.) More importantly, bedtime was without incident on the evening in question. Why that is ever an issue is still beyond me but never has a more relatable tale been told than that of "Go the Fuck to Sleep," by Samuel L. Jackson a few years back. (Well, maybe it isn't exactly the written work of Jules Winnfield himself but I'd like to think it is, as no one could possibly ever recite it better.) Boy 1 is a fan of the every-excuse-in-the-book technique (from pooping to asking questions to feigning injury to everyone taking turns laying with him, telling stories, needing water, etc.) while Boy 2 is more straightforward with his thoughts on sleep overall. Namely, he says he never sleeps. He just relaxes. While I know this isn't completely true, having witnessed him sleeping myself on thousands of occasions, there is something a little vampiresque about the littlest Jordan, who is almost always the first to arise in the morning, often long before the sun. Today, in fact, I awoke to a noise and thinking it was either intruders (that I would have to exterminate, obviously) or my youngest son dicking around (slightly more likely) I promptly began a seek-and-destroy (or G the F to S) mission. The latter scenario proved to be reality, as there he sat, hiding behind his bathroom door, sitting on the floor with the light on, cuddling with his blanket. I don't know either, people, but hey... We all have hobbies... The return of Hellboy Hermie, fresh from his visit with Santa, Satan or Sam Kinison - can't recall which and perhaps it was all - featured him choking out one of the boys' forgotten bath toys, a gator. In this house, that visual brings more joy than the hair of the dog cure-all on a Jordan Family Christmas morning. (Well, almost.) As we enjoy this new era of peace, recognizing that it may be a brief interlude, I'm appreciative of the pause its given me, for the war against the imaginary (?) black magic of this shitbag of a Christmas toy is rather taxing. 17 days. #tylenol Vol 7:

This tradition begets strange bedfellows. Hermie the Elf, who is destined to be renamed Beelzebub, I assure you, commandeered a ship belonging to Jake and the Neverland Pirates last night, along with John Cena and Sleepy (of Seven Dwarfs fame.) Oh, if this were only real, what an adventure they may have had overnight. Sleepy, groggy to the point of hallucination, no doubt, likely from a mixture of NyQuil, booze and some medicinal herb (since we can do that here now!) wouldn’t have been much help to his shipmates. The elf, in his Luciferian glory, perched atop the crow’s nest, would attempt to serve as captain, I would think, causing immediate conflict with Cena, the jorts-wearing, self-important hero, who nobody above the age of 12 really likes. (I’m told he was actually at a local bar I’ve been to a time or 200 a couple of weeks ago. Think I could take him?) They’d square off at some point to determine the alpha male and I’d have to give that decision to the only being on this ship with supernatural, other-worldly powers. “You can’t see me,” John? Well, that’s fine. Hermie doesn’t need to see you to breathe demon fire into your soul. And they'd land at their final destination knowing that the little red-faced asshole with the pointy hat was absolutely in charge. The destination was our TV stand, by the way, because I didn't feel like thinking anymore - or leaving the ship somewhere it might easily fall, ruining everything for everyone. (Or saving them?) The children seemed to approve of this newly established faction, upon this morning's discovery, and I suppose that’s what it’s all about. Unfortunately, it’s also proven to be all about my own sick mind, full of delusions and unfulfilled desires belonging to my inner child. Back in my day, all we had was the mystique of Santa Claus himself – and thanks to friends, Sean and Tina, that gig was up for me at around eight. (Eight! That’s Boy 1’s age now. Well, balls... Getting old indeed.) I believe the big reveal upset me for a few minutes but already conditioned toward materialism (thanks, America!) I reasoned that, hell, I’d still be getting presents, so I don’t think I really cared whether they came from Mom, Dad, Uncle Charlie (who I’m pretty sure once stole a trampoline before gifting it to me) or an old, fat stranger in a furry red suit who likes to have little children sit in his lap. I was skeptical – maybe my friends lied to me. After all, this was the same brother/sister combo that once had me convinced that the oil I spotted floating atop the drink they’d made for me was perfectly normal for “Swedish chocolate milk.” (Looking back, the accompanying smell of vinegar should have been a dead giveaway. Tasted like shit but I’m sure it built character. Appreciate that, S&T!) But alas, as I gave my dad a goodnight hug on Christmas Eve, 1987, there sat the Nintendo I’d be receiving the next morning, in his closet behind him. When I found it, unwrapped, as was Santa’s style, at the foot of the tree, the bullshit meter exploded but I wouldn’t let it get me down. Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out and Super Mario Brothers (and Duck Hunt, if only so we'd all learn about tagalongs at an early age) awaited! I was smart enough to know that I didn’t want to deal with upsetting my mom so I didn’t let on that I knew that Santa was Keyzer Soze (or Verbal Kint? Sometimes my metaphors don’t work.) I think I hid that from her for at least two years. Point is, I guess I fear these kids of mine finding out we’re all the masterminds behind some pretty serious fabrications. What sort of example does that set? But mostly, it’s about the growing-up-too-fast thing. I mean, fuck. I’m 37, somehow. Oh and the other point is, how did we allow this elf thing to get so popular? We had friggin' Santa already! And wasn’t one lie enough? I’m tired. 16 days.

Vol 8:

Turnabout is fair play. Boy 2 had something of a rough day yesterday, although not in the sense that his behavior was unacceptable. With the added pressure of a snitch like the elf-demon watching over you at all times, I'm sure being a 6-year-old isn't as easy as it could be at this time of year so, when the boy wonder seemed exceptionally emotional, I should have known to chalk it up to just that. After eight straight days of "being on 'Good Citizen'" at school, the littlest Jordan was proud to announce that he had recorded No. 9 in a row. How about that? My own little Cal Ripken-type thing. But after dinner, the tiny tough guy started showing his sensitive side (a trait shared by his father - but don't tell anyone.) Seeking either a goalkeeper for his soccer game, an opponent in marbles or a playmate of any sort, he solicited the services of all of Boy 1, myself and the lady of the house, though we all politely declined, citing a collective desire to relax and/or consume the programming of WWE Network before bedtime. (The latter, of course, forced upon Mrs. Jordan, although I think she enjoys it at least a little, though she would never, ever admit as much.) His emotions played out with faulty reasoning - "No one likes me!" - and harsh accusations - "I don't have a nice family!" and "Nobody is being my friend!" My explanation was simple; that declining an invitation to any particular activity does not automatically disqualify one from being another's friend, since free will is an important quality and, if I asked a friend of mine to eat dog poop with me, their lack of participation would not stand in the way of my assessment of their loyalty toward me. But Boy 2 was not having any of this and in a brief fit of rage, he roared at me, "You better watch your attitude, Mister, or I'm telling Hermie!" Oh, did I laugh! But he did not appreciate that either and retired to his room. Confession time came quickly. As I laid with him to coax him to sleep - the sleep that, remember, he swears he never gets in favor of only "relaxing" - he exclaimed, "I'm a bad boy!" and began crying immediately. At first, he would not tell me why he had come to this conclusion but after some leveling with him in the form of a promise not to get mad, he told me he had lied and that he had not, in fact, achieved a ninth straight day of school-bestowed "good citizenship." Instead, he was stuck on "Ready to Learn," which is quite fine in this house, although anything less will need to be addressed. I blamed the elf. For the boy was convinced that he needed to be stellar each and every day without fail, whereas on most days, outside of this window of watching from on high (and by on high, I mean somewhere high enough so as not to tempt the "illegal" touching) he, like his father, would be just fine in the realm of acceptable mediocrity. Never again will I utter the words, "I'm telling Hermie." At this point, 1) I hate the name. The kids named him, after that failure of an elf from the original Rudolph special, now a dentist, or so we're told. (Probably one of those creepy dentists, I'd say. You know, the kind that gasses his female patients and plays peekaboo and stuff?) 2) The kids know the (completely fabricated) score. I will not add to this charade more than I already have. And I will not go gentle into this good night. The company Christmas party awaits and I've got some tomfoolery in which to partake. Still tired. 15 days.

Vol 9 and 10:

They sell both volumes of Kill Bill together now, as I understand it, so I’m allowed to drop a double dose of Elfdom if I want to. (This will be of no additional length, mind you, but we’ll call it two volumes nonetheless.) The uptick in emotion from Friday still fresh in my mind, the idea this weekend was to restore the spirits of Boy 1 and Boy 2 (and mostly the latter) and the elf, for all his faults, appears to be adept at aiding that, so long as the pressure he brings is tempered. I’d like to think that the littlest Jordan is less concerned, having had some weekend time, about trying to be “Good Citizen” levels of perfect than he was during our last volume. Saturday morning, Elfenstein, which is one of many names I am considering for a possible rebranding, took a ringside seat next to Boy 1’s toy wrestling ring, watching what was staged as a battle royal between all of his favorite toy wrestlers. Adorning the garb of a particular favorite, Samoa Joe, along with the NXT championship belt, he sat, smiling his usual satanic smile, as if to say that he was some sort of champion himself. You are not, sir, by any stretch. Let me make that clear. But, they enjoy your company, again, despite your many shortcomings. The wrestling set-up reminded me, however, that I would enjoy squaring off against you, were you of an acceptable size to do so, and perhaps if I can find someone of a similar appearance in human form, elbows will drop (and he shall fall.) Of course, then, I’d likely be arrested and/or sued but hey, that’s the cost of doing business, I suppose. This scene, like so many others featuring you-know-who, turned out to be less than perfect, largely because I set him up too low to the ground to be completely ignored or out-of-reach, but this turned out to be a positive step for the children, who resisted the temptation to move him themselves and asked for assistance when he flopped over at one point. Boy 1 wanted the championship belt the evil elf had been wearing, you see, and I was happy to strip it from him, since he did not deserve such an accolade by any means. Boy 2, it should be noted, held back his elfly interactions on Saturday. Maybe he was trying to determine just how emotionally invested in this thing he really should be. Saturday evening brought forth the annual company Christmas party and since the lady and I do not often stay out past 11 pm, let alone 2 am, anymore, it is no wonder that the Hermie the Hack almost did not get moved that night. Of course, I had every intention, and though my return home (thanks, Uber!) involved a certain level of whiskey breath as I spoke directly with my mother-in-law about plans for said move, in the fleeting seconds following that conversation, I forgot completely, probably focused on the pillows calling my name just a few feet away. Ever-clutch, Gran chipped in and relocated the impetuous imp, placing his (fake) happy little ass in the middle of a wreath on the door to the laundry room. Last night, as I stared at him, I honestly thought to myself, “You know, elf, you look like a real asshole sitting there smiling at me with your hands folded. I’d like to spear you with one of the skewers I use to make kebobs from time to time. Or drop you into a vat of bleach. Or something... Keep looking at me like that! Go ahead!” He was just lucky that there was no whiskey for a second consecutive evening. Of course, there can be no whiskey on consecutive evenings for yours truly anymore. Such is the penance that comes with age. Well, that and a vile attitude toward all things festive, it seems. Or at least all things purportedly festive that are nothing more than some sort of fabric, a little plastic and stuffed with cotton (or is it demon fiber?) 13 days. Unlucky 13, the elf might say, but we’ll see how lucky he is when I practice punting him later on today...

Vol 11:

The easy way seems like the right move at the moment. From one stocking (with Spider-Man) to another (with Ultron) - specifically recognizing each boy's individual preference for good guys vs. bad guys, we've killed two days and two potentially grief-inducing moments. But hark! There are three more stockings! That could very well be three more days. Lady Jordan would love to see the imp intruder in her stocking, along with, say, vodka? Yeah, she likes vodka. And Superdog would dig it if he were to show up in hers next to, ah yes! Something she always begs me for - leftover pizza! Perfect! As for me, well, this isn't really about me but if I'm to tend to this shithead as much as I do, why not treat myself and set the stage for him to gift me some Johnny Walker Blue? Mmmmm. We're already down to 12 days and if I can pull this off, we're into the single digits with plenty of creativity left in the reserve tank. Note to self: Boy 1 is looking more and more suspicious by the day. He is wise indeed. Perhaps it is time to distract him with fear and confusion. Would he believe the Russians hacked his elementary school, forcing an uptick in homework? That seems to be a popular play these days and it just might work. Operation: Borscht shall commence in the am. And looky, looky! It's now midnight! 11 days, just like that! We can do this. Ohhhhh, yes. We shall overcome.

Vol 12:

Rats once spread the Bubonic Plague. Prince Prospero's hubris allowed the Red Death to infiltrate his castellated abbeys, according to E.A. Poe. And I say these little elves carry their own special pandemic - a yuletide malady that flips the universe onto its head and turns otherwise relatively well-behaved children into distracted, exhausted malcontents, spewing tidings of discomfort and misery on adults the world over. It makes no sense. At a time when conventional wisdom would dictate that they walk the straight and narrow like never before, the little ones have truly gone mad. Under the watchful eye of the hellion in the red hat, I always expect that Boy 1 and Boy 2 would adopt model citizenship - and for small spurts, they do. For instance, Boy 1's cleaning dog poop from the backyard last Sunday was completely out of character and Boy 2's strong run of eight consecutive "good citizen" statuses (already chronicled in a previous volume, as well as his subsequent fall from grace) was quite a feat! (Suddenly, I'm reminded that I did not ask for details on the dog doo cleaning duty - nor can I say for sure if they showered that night... Nonetheless, the past is the past.) But these exceptions have not become the rule. instead... It took 47 utterances of the elder Jordan child's name tonight just to get him to come to the table to do his homework, when normally, it would only take 3-5. And that was just the beginning of the battle. "Math with Mom" may sound like a fun game show of sorts but in reality, it's quite torturous. Eating dinner in short order once that was finally complete, a necessary rush on an evening when baseball practice beckons, drew moans and whines and pouts and eventually, claims of complete disinterest in our national pastime - a sin, certainly, but more importantly, a lie, as proven instantly upon arriving at the field, where free-spirited fun commenced. (I noticed there, too, that it is not just my own children who have figuratively tooted the Christmas cocaine of late. Everyone's offspring is mental at the moment, it appears. We're all in this together, people.) As for Boy 2, well, that run of eight straight school days by which he was judged all chivalrous and what not has been followed by quite the struggle. Warnings and consequences and nastygrams from the teacher are the new trend. (Note to Teacher: I feel ya, girl. I mean, I ain't never did kindergarten and shit but I did teach at muthafuckin' Hillsborough High School for a hot minute. And you trippin' if you think students clownin' in December is only for the jits. Teenage fools be whack AF.) But we have reached the magic number of 10 and with that, I see the light. Alas, I am stupid enough to crank this sonofabitch waaaaaaaaaay past 10 on the Holly-Jolly-Christmas-o-Meter tomorrow night, as we venture to what some might call the happiest place on Earth (whereas I call it, "Whythehellcan'twedrinkhereagainland") for Mickey's Very Merry Christmas Party. We'll see how very merry it is this time, kids. Just keep up the shenanigans and maybe I'll tell you the story of the crazy Christmas kid who got left with the elephants on the Jungle Cruise back in 1984. Look for him, Reggie, I think... Yeah, he's in there, somewhere. Keep looking... Ah, but that's tomorrow night... Tonight, I'll resist the urge to send the elf into the garbage can, no matter how easy to pull off the narrative of "Hey, kids. Yeah, sorry... He must have really wanted that last piece of chocolate," might be. Single digits are afoot!

Vol 13:

As if Christmas madness wasn't already enough to make even the most level-headed parents consider sending their normally well-adjusted children to some sort of juvenile rehab, we went and introduced the idea of this all-powerful elf and sent things into hyperdrive. And then you have idiots like myself, who facilitate the special kind of speedball that is Christmas and Disney World to launch the youngsters into a stratosphere of holiday intoxication that would appeal to Belushi- and Farley-types the world over. I've spent enough time at the House of Mouse in the last seven years or so to know that on any random Tuesday, you can do some serious people-watching but on a designated Friday night in December, at something they jam down your throat as a "Very Merry" Christmas party, young bucks and grandmas alike are off the rails right from the jump. It's marketing, I get it, but shouldn't it be up to me to decide how to describe the levels of joy and/or merriment I get from a party to which I'm invited (and certainly one I've paid for?) I'm not going to throw a pool party in a couple of months, invite a bunch of you people, and call it "Jon's Super Enjoyable and Relaxing Pool Party." I might assist in the temporary adjustments of your dopamine and serotonin levels as best I can but I'll leave it up to you to determine what sort of accolades you bestow upon my event. Anyway, free from the eyes of the elf (theoretically, anyway) the children were a bit wild on the journey to WDW but I've found that any car ride longer than 20 minutes or so has the potential to become the clearest manifestation of their best friends/worst enemies style of relationship at this phase of their lives. One minute, they're sharing books and the next, someone's finger is in someone else's eye. I tried my best to sing Christmas songs to myself (no, really, I do try to get into it here and there) but my soul-soothing would have to come in the form of a bunch of junk food at the park and a ride or two. The kids had free reign to try and off each other in the interim. As evenings go, one could really do far worse, honestly. As I've said a million times, it would be tremendous if adults could wander around the Magic Kingdom with a beer but I get it. It's a kids' park. And I suppose that isn't appropriate EVERYWHERE, after all. Plus, there are fleeting moments on these nights that we just aren't going to get anywhere else - like Boy 2 cuddling with his mom or Boy 1 beaming from the front row of a parade route or both of them, giggling with laughter (and maybe a little hint of fear) as we whirl around on some roller coaster or other. Those are sights and sounds I'm tattooing into my brain for sure. But by the time it's all over, we have reached full-fledged juvenile Christmas drunkenness, where, just like your overserved adult friend, conversations ramble on making very little sense, emotions are high and the expression of as much can go from "I love yous" to crying in an instant. There is slurring, overindulgence on late night snacks and then, ultimately, they just pass out. And while one big difference between your friend, Drunky the Bear, and your overtired, cranky Christmas kid is that you usually don't have to worry about the latter throwing up, another is that you can't just leave them where they fall out. So, in my case, you're forced to scoop and carry the now 70-ish pound, increasingly long 8-year-old for miles into boats and trams and finally to the car. While waiting for said tram, I surveyed my surrounding area and confirmed my suspicions that, yes, out of the 500 or so people I could see in my immediate vicinity, Boy 1 was definitely the biggest human sleeping in another human’s arms at that point. But again... Special moments, I suppose, if I'm being honest. (And honestly, between that and multiple shoulder hoistings throughout the evening, holy shit is my back messed up! Thanks again, lady who rear-ended me a few years back to kickstart that now-lifelong pleasantry.) As for the elf, the vile, heinous, intrusive being that he is, he's joined forces with an Angry Bird and Sven from Frozen, and has taken up residence in the boys' bathroom - which is definitely a little weird and creepy, now that I re-think my most recent placement strategy but hey, can't touch him again until tomorrow now. And besides, weird and creepy suits him just fine. ONE WEEK.

Vol 14:

Creativity has ceased. There are no more ideas. The focus has shifted, solely, to survival. Christmas intoxication has run amok and both children are perpetually drunk in turn. I have not yet found the proper means to detox them, although I believe, once that bag of chocolate-covered pretzels was stolen and consumed, only time was to be my ally. Boy 2 turned emotional once more last night, expressing his desire to "go home." Since he was sitting in his bed as he proclaimed this, a deeper inquiry revealed that he wanted to go back to our old house, which we left roughly 18 months ago, because he missed his friends. Total bullhonk, of course, since he couldn't identify a single "friend" by name, other than the old neighbor's dog, aptly named Jordan, which weakens his argument even further. Boy 1 arose at 6 am today, reportedly uttering some nonsense about starting a band. (I cannot confirm this directly, as I was in the midst of a dream starring myself, Wolf Blitzer and Jennifer Lawrence, all scouring the planet for "the lost relics." But the reporting of my wife person is to be trusted, more often than not.) His level of Yuletide inebriation has manifested itself in a phenomenon known as "Low Eyes Syndrome" and whether you choose to admit it or not, you've all been there. Just look through photos in which you've been tagged by others - specifically anything after midnight, at weddings or taken by your most obnoxious friends. On the positive side, we've reached the 5-day mark and are just two days shy of relocating this clan to the other coast, where the grandparent folks can assist in keeping us all alive. The inherent danger of said grandparent folks inadvertently contributing to Christmas chaos matters not, for there is strength in numbers and reinforcements at this point are sorely needed. The elf is spooning with a San Francisco 49ers Christmas ornament today and I think I will say no more to that end. "Take a look around here, Ellen. We're at the threshold of hell!" - Clark W. Griswold, Jr.

Vol 15:

The day is nigh. The elf has been bagged in preparation for the cross-state trek. Part of me wanted that to happen legit abduction-style - little potato sack thrown over his head, a swat of a tiny baseball bat to the dome... A garrote, probably, would have been overkill but I wouldn't have ruled it out. Anyway, he's MIA - and of course, that means we'll have to lie to the children once more as to why he's disappeared. "I don't know, kids. I walked around the corner and he just wasn't there anymore!" Then, tomorrow morning when he shows up at La Casa de Jordan 1.0, I'll be ogling Boy 1 to see if there is any further hint of suspicion in his eye. Surely, Boy 2 will wake up some time between 3 and 5 am tomorrow as the excitement percolates. (I will not.) There will be no attempts to peer deeply into his eyes, mostly out of fear that they've turned black by now, undoubtedly the evildoing of you-know-who. The good news is that I believe all is reparable, once he is gone for good - or at least until next year. In my experience, Christmasitis usually takes a couple of weeks to fade away and then some semblance of normalcy returns. This year, I'm hoping that comes with a newfound affinity for sleeping in. I was never very good at that as a young kid and didn't master it until college, really - an achievement aided at that time by, well, let's just call them PEDs. But I know it is possible for even an 8-year-old to sleep until 9, 10 or 11, even, because I saw my pal Jeremy do it with my own eyes. Sleeping over at his house was great the night before amidst our usual hijinks but I could only describe the following mornings as, uh, educational, as in I seized the opportunity to read every single book on his bookshelf and watch every movie he owned, killing time until he finally woke up. (What the hell were my parents doing anyway, that they couldn't pick me up early, as I often asked? Actually... Don't answer that.) So, again, the hope is that Boy 1 takes after Uncle Berm and learns to hibernate (at least a little.) There is no hope for the other one to that end. He continues to remind us that he never sleeps and only relaxes. "Sometimes," he says, "I don't mean to but I accidentally go to sleep automatically." Clearly, he isn't to be trusted with this intentionally perplexing narrative of his but I believe he has convinced himself that it is all true. That, in and of itself, surely leads to the unique circadian rhythm he's adopted. He sure is cute, though. I imagine that'll keep earning him a pass, no matter how many times he fires a soccer ball directly into my nether regions. Perhaps only one or two more entries into these chronicles shall be necessary from this point forward. I should say that I'm pleased with the response so far, as it seems most of the free world can relate in one way or another, but the goal from the beginning was simply to document the daily deeds of our ignominious, inanimate, annual invader and their impact on our everyday lives. Plus, if I should meet my demise during his stay, surely this will aid law enforcement officials. As far as that goes, one only needs to buy one vowel to solve this puzzle, and that is the "E" to kick off "E.L.F." You see, although we are still in the pre-Christmas phase of my intensive study, I have learned enough to commit to the conclusion that it is indeed an acronym, standing for Evil Little Fucker, as some of you may have already ascertained. It is but one piece but a vital one indeed. I've got you now, you hellion. It is only a matter of time. Deportation is but three days away!

Vol 16:

He is everywhere and he takes on many forms. The shape-shifting shithead has obviously meandered about my home for weeks but also invaded my tree, in the form of a Christmas ornament, and now, as I've taken up temporary residence at my parents' house, he is present as a children's nightlight in the bathroom, staring, peering, judging as people partake in their most private and personal moments. He truly is a sick sonofabitch. He is also in my brain at this point, as evidenced by the masterful mindfuck he pulled on me on Thursday evening. I am a man of many talents but perhaps my most important task as the husband, father and clearly established second-in-command of our family is to handle all packing duties for out-of-town adventures. At Christmastime, this can get tricky, what with an overabundance of presents to account for, in addition to our regular haul. But, always up to the challenge, I gathered up all of the important items and successfully played the game of Tetris that is fitting all of them into the dadmobile, née Honda Pilot. All of them, you see, except for my own suitcase, left perfectly packed and wide open on my bedroom floor, only to be revealed at the most impactful moment from a psychological perspective, as we crossed the Brevard County line, all according to "Its" diabolical plan. I have no clothes. I have no toiletries. As a broken man at this point, I also have no soul. And now I seek redemption. A Christmas angel has aided my efforts to thwart this hostile takeover and my suitcase has been successfully recovered, here, two days later, so brushing my teeth and replacing the loin cloth I've adopted in the interim is but hours away. But the damage has been done. The little fucker has clearly won a round. His reign of terror ends for the season after tomorrow but does that give me time to recover my soul before he is banished once more? Clearly, his excommunication is more important than my return to human form so if sacrifice is required, I must remain committed to the cause. In the event of Christmas catastrophe, I offer warmest regards and eternal gratitude to all that have followed these chronicles. As I forge forward, know that I am acting not on my own behalf but for all that is good in this world. The final showdown is nearly upon us and with any luck - and the guidance of Lord Zeus, Ra the sun god, sweet baby Jesus, John Cougar, John Deere and John 3:16 - when it's all said and done, I aim to look the elf straight in the eye and tell him what a cheap, lying, no good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?

Vol 17:

It is all over. Since I am writing this, it needs not be clarified that the side of righteousness prevailed in the end but this was not always a foregone conclusion. The red devil was a formidable foe and I can say with near-certainty that we will do battle at least once more, as Boy 1 and Boy 2 will probably still be buying what he's selling. It cannot go undocumented that Hermie took one last pound of flesh as he exited, to the tune of me waking up in a panic at 5 am to remove him from sight and complete this festive ruse. Just as he had on Day 1 this year, he ruined my slumber and that cheeky little smile stretched ever so slightly. It did feel good, under the cover of darkness, to jam the little prick into my suitcase pocket and zip it up. I hope it's hot in your own personal hell, you heathen. And now, we pick up the pieces. I am in need of repair, inside and out. Tired, tattered, full of torment... But mostly tired. Is there no vacation from Christmas vacation? It's become clear to me that, despite my ultimate victory, this experience will haunt me for years to come. And in ensuing years, likely, it will be worse. So, when is a win actually a loss? Perhaps it is now. Perhaps it is more than just a pound of flesh the evil elf has taken with him. There is, it turns out, slight discomfort in my liver area, you see. That's either from the traditional holiday excess or, if you believe the ancient Navajo legend, that's where the soul is located and clearly, mine is gone. Back to our happy little lives? Sure - I can play that game. It is a beautiful existence. But he has broken me indeed. "And Darkness and Decay and The Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."

#christmas #elfonashelf #hell on earth #edgar allan poe #holidays #family #parenting #shootmeintheface

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