#keep the yuletide gay

[johnthestitcher]

Yes - the Woolworth's Christmas Catalog. I don't believe you could get a gay leather hustler through one, though.

[watercolourcritters]

time to be merry and gay y'all!!!

[ID: a watercolour painting of a white unicorn with golden mane and tail holding a progressive pride flag in its mouth and waving it in the air. It is wearing a santa hat. Large text reads "Keep the yuletide gay (heart shape). The background is pink, with gold emphasis lines coming from the unicorn. The artist's signature reads @ watercolour critters. End ID.]

Instagram | Etsy

[im-secretly-a-frog]

Most of my Spotify ads are just Twinks singing Christmas songs and honestly, I'm okay with that.

[lotties-ashwagandha]

HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

riley johnson x fem!reader

you’re home for christmas, and in the chaos of the holiday season you find solace with an old friend. make the yuletide GAY wooooo!!! tell me you see my vision. 3.2k words.

You stand in the corner of the event center like Santa’s greatest reject. You have banished yourself, let yourself succumb to the fate of being The Weird One Standing In The Corner. It suits you better than the rest of the party — you have no connection to local politics here, you haven’t met half of the guests before in your life, and those you have met you would much prefer to stay away from. Your family has ditched you to mingle, and you start to regret coming back for them.

You are home for the holidays, and it has lived up to your expectations. Staying in your childhood home, met with familiar faces around town, dragged to every Christmas party you come across — privacy has evaded you, and so has the prospect of sleep.

You take a sip of your coffee. It’s the only thing keeping you standing — any of the alcohol being passed around would have you passed out in your car, and the warmth helps to soothe the biting chill.

You don’t hear her approach, but you recognize her voice instantly. “Good choice. If I got drunk right now I would grab the microphone off the stage and yell, ‘No, everyone, I can’t hook you up for any dull pain in your funny bone.’”

You turn to see her, a cup of coffee in her hands to match your own. She watches you with tired eyes, an ever-worn expression that you know every line and look of. Riley Johnson has joined you at your side.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Riley says. She turns to gaze out at the rest of the party. “You never called me.”

Fuck.

“Everything happened so last minute,” you lie. You knew you were coming back for weeks before you left home. “It has all passed by so quickly. The holidays always happen that way.”

She hums in response, offering a quick nod. Riley takes a sip of her coffee, a faint crimson smudge is left behind on the mug.

You’re desperate for anything to say to get yourself out of this. “Are you enjoying the party?”

Riley gives you a deadpan look and shoves her free hand into the pocket of her grey blazer. “No.”

It’s been a year, almost exactly, since you last saw Riley Johnson. You were once friends in high school, then roommates in your first two years of college, and now since you moved away you have been immaculately estranged. Since your early twenties you have been seeing one another once a year: during your visits to your hometown during the holidays.

You shouldn’t be avoiding her. Your relationship with Riley has faded pleasantly — she’s a doctor now, you’re successful in your own field, both of you have all you could want out of life. Yet the nostalgia you experience every time you meet her again is wrenching. It has become ingrained in you, triggered at every photo you see of her, the sound of her voice, the way you watch each other change and age with every passing year.

Riley studies you. She smiles softly. “You aren’t enjoying yourself either.”

“Just wait until the White Elephant party.”

She’s silent for a moment, clears her throat and looks back out at the crowd. “I don’t think I’m going this year.”

“You’re not?” A great sense of dread comes over you. Every year you attend the White Elephant gift exchange hosted by Harper’s family — Riley’s ex, another one of your strained friendships, whose family is intensely close to yours. You go every year. Riley usually joins you and for the night you are instantly allies again in the suffering.

“I have had enough years in a row of going to my ex’s house on Christmas Eve, getting drunk on cheap spiced alcohol, and spending the day at the mall wanting to kill myself in pursuit of a White Elephant gift.”

It is a fair point, but still… “I don’t think I can make it through the event without you.”

“No, you will be just fine,” she says. “Don’t let me get in your way.”

You need a drink after all – you need a drink because the hidden implication that you don’t need her has brought you to your limit. “Up for grabbing microphones off the stage?”

“What?”

You look down at your empty coffee mug, over at the drinks being served at the bar near the entrance.

You sit with Riley on a bench outside the building. Three drinks in now, both of your spirits have been lifted, and you disregard the cold night. The light coming from inside the party is cast over you, though you find relief from the noise of the crowd.

“Wait, wait,” Riley starts. “Do you remember when we went to a gay bar for the first time together? And then we got a cab home back to our apartment and you fucking vomited all over the backseat?”

You cringe at the memory, but beside you Riley is hardly able to breathe through her laughter. You throw your head into your hands. “I thought the driver was going to kill me that night.”

Riley pulls one of your hands away from your face and jabs a finger at you. “If you had thrown up in our apartment then I would have killed you. You got lucky.”

“I don’t know if lucky is the right word. Everyone around town was talking about me for weeks.”

“Oh, come on,” she sighs contentedly. “You’re complaining to the wrong person when it comes to public disgrace.”

She leans against you, hands stuffed into the pocket of her blazer and empty glass disregarded on the ground by her feet. For warmth, you think. She leans against you for warmth, and because you lived together for years, and because you are familiar and safe and even after all these years she knows everything about you. She leans against you because, like you, she holds trust in your friendship — however strained and monotonous and lonesome.

You want to wrap an arm around her and pull her closer. You want to lean into her, too, close your eyes and let yourself succumb to the comfort of her beside you and the sharp pine of her perfume. You stay still — if anything, you become more tense, though an unwelcome giddiness spreads through you at having her so close and you work hard to resist the urge to take her hand in yours.

“You’re an asshole,” Riley says.

You panic. “Why?”

“The elephant in the room. It wants me to go to its party.”

“It told you itself?”

Riley nods.

“What else did it say?”

Riley sits back up straight. She considers the mysterious white elephant’s words. “That we should go into town tomorrow and look for White Elephant gifts — unless you’ve already gone shopping.”

“I haven’t yet,” you smile. “I would love to go.”

“Good,” she nods. Her gaze settles on you, she leans back against the bench. For a second she seems to hesitate, gauging your expression to anticipate how you might respond when she says: “I’ve missed this.”

You nod, searching for the words – you have missed this too, you have missed Riley so intensely that you try to disregard any memory of her as it resurfaces during your everyday life. You have missed her so much that you neglected calling her and telling her you were coming back home for Christmas this year because you knew that if you saw her you would leave feeling empty without her. “I’ve missed this too,” you say simply. “I wish we could see each other more often. Once a year isn’t enough.”

Riley smiles softly, her features possessed with the same nostalgia wracking you. She doesn’t have to say it: once a year is the best the two of you will get. Your ship has sailed, you have parted ways, and you will have to make do with the blessing of your paths crossing every once in a lifetime.

Riley stands up. She looks down at you, surveying you for any changes since last year, in the same way you have been examining her. Above all, in her you have noticed a new exhaustion. It possesses her features with tantalizing strength, it has grown parasitically.

“Tomorrow,” she starts, always in her same awkwardness that is charismatic in a way you are not. “We will brave the storm of the mall.”

Terrifying. “I’ll meet you there.”

The night has grown colder. Riley stalks off and a frozen breeze whips against you, and no matter how you brace against it you are chilled to the bone.

You eye the forgotten glass she has left by the leg of the bench.

When Riley meets you at the mall the next morning, you are jittery with the coffee buzz you’ve gotten. You’re nervous, though you hardly have reason to be, and through a lapse of judgement you have been sipping on copious amounts of holiday-flavored coffee drinks while you wait for her.

Riley steps into the coffee shop you had agreed to meet at. It is a place of refuge from the chaos of the rest of the mall, though you have tried to escape the worst of the last-minute Christmas shoppers by going so early in the morning.

In an attempt to be gallant you pay for the black coffee she orders. A simple gesture, one she thanks you for and that you hope can start your journey of reconnecting.

“Okay,” she takes her coffee and looks out of the coffee shop at the rest of the mall. “Anywhere you have in mind to start with?”

You hesitate. It’s been so long since you visited the mall here – you usually come to town with a White Elephant gift in tow, but this year you ran out of time. You shake your head listlessly.

“Come on,” Riley grabs your arm and leads you into the mall.

First she leads you into a home decor store. You browse dinnerware, towels, anything cheap but still appealing enough to give away at a party.

Riley disappears into an area of kitchen gadgets and comes back with a plastic handheld citrus juicer. “Look at this fucking thing.”

She holds it up like a block of gold.

“Oranges,” she starts listing with a deadpan expression, “lemons, limes, grapefruit. Juicers are the future.”

You take the juicer from her. Looking it over, you see the appeal, but you don’t think Ted or Tipper will be as enthusiastic about a citrus juicer. Even one of the high-tech mechanical ones would still be a disappointment to their standards.

Riley snatches it back. “You don’t like it?”

“I like it,” you try. Riley shakes her head and tosses the juicer into the basket you carry.

“I’ll get it for myself. Merry Christmas.”

You look down into the basket. “You used to have one of these when we lived together. You would juice a bunch of oranges and make one singular mimosa for yourself on Sundays.”

Riley nods. The two of you walk deeper into the store. “Remember why you never got a mimosa?”

“No.”

“I had two juicers. The first one broke because you tried to crack nuts in it.”

Oh.

You pay for the citrus juicer, too. “For my sins,” you tell her and offer the juicer in a plastic bag.

You visit a fragrance store next. You decide that if you would appreciate a gift of seasonally-scented soap, so might someone else. You test the peppermint scents, the snowball scents, every variation of gingerbread. The store is packed and you lose Riley in the fray, but you end up by a back wall of older scents you suspect are soon to be cycled out.

You test the scents of the perfumes and soap, but one of them gives you pause. An old perfume you used to wear when you were younger. You thought the line had ended, but now you hold it new and rebranded.

“What’s that?” Riley peers over your shoulder. “Did you find one?”

You hand it to her. “You won’t remember. I used to wear this all the time, I thought it had been discontinued.”

Riley holds it up to smell. There’s a change in her features, the same heady nostalgia that you wore last night has spread to her. “I remember.” She looks down at the perfume, then back up at you, something unreadable in her expression that has you averting your gaze as your chest tightens. “It still suits you… Let me buy it for you.”

You shake your head. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

She has made it to the cash register before you can stop her.

You end up at Riley’s house after purchasing your White Elephant gift, a gift card you put no thought into that everyone will be disappointed in — it’s hardly a gift, and not extravagant enough for White Elephant, but as the mall had gotten busier both of you had been craving to get out. Riley had invited you back for a drink, and it had been beyond you to decline.

You sit on the sofa with her, glass of wine in hand. A small fire dances in the fireplace, relief from the chill running through her house — one far larger than yours, exhibiting the wealth she has obtained through the years. You have been successful apart in your own fields, but you hadn’t realized the extent of Riley’s accomplishment until you had stepped into one of the grandest houses in town.

Instead of feeling welcomed by the grandeur, though, the house feels isolating. It is empty, except for her, and while you know she enjoys her solitude you can’t help but question how much more confined one would feel in the winter months living in a home like this.

“It’s different here for you, isn’t it?” Riley questions. “More contained than Christmas in the city.”

She says it like you loathe the ground you walk on, and you would sell your soul to be back in your house in the city a few hours away. As if you are dropping down into the fire every year you come back to smaller suburbs.

“It’s familiar,” you say carefully. “There are always pieces of this place I’ll miss and pieces I would rather not see again.”

“Is that why you didn’t call me?” She asks, studying you carefully, wearing a playful expression to fall back on. Gold is reflected in her eyes from the fire. It casts the two of you in its light, the rest of the room darkening as the day fades on.

“No,” you shake your head, stunned by the implication – but you remember your earlier avoidance of her, and even now you feel it in your bones drawing you away as you feel forever pulled towards her. It is a balance you don’t understand. “I always want to see you.”

Riley takes a long drink of her wine. Then she leans forward, elbows resting on her knees, and a spike of adrenaline runs through you like a high at her proximity. The silence between you is a heavy, living thing, charged with something best left unnamed. Her gaze flicks up to you and you hate how your breath catches, like it is her your heart beats for. “I hate those fucking parties.”

You know. You hate them, too, the political events and social squabbles hosted annually by the families the two of you grew up with – the events you hardly have a choice but to go to, because you have nowhere else to be for Christmas without a family started on your own and the parties are part of the package.

“I only go for you,” she says softly – anxiously. It is a new color on her. “I’ll never get anywhere with the people here. They all think I’m a stalker.”

You smile. “Aren’t you?”

“Are you into that?”

“I could be.”

Riley laughs, it cuts through the tenderness of her earlier confession. She sets her glass down on the coffee table. When she sits back up she shifts closer to you, like you are a very curious and outlandish thing to occupy space in her home, but one she would like to keep here permanently.

Again, you want to pull her closer to you, live in the bliss of her claiming your senses – and immediately, like being shot in the leg, you realize the nature of your push and pull. Every year it dawns on you and every year you push it aside, the growing love for her that has haunted you throughout every year you have spent apart.

You see it in her, the same longing. It sets you both in terrifying stillness that you don’t know how to break out of. She shifts again and her knee brushes against yours and sends a quick jolt through you, and no matter how you set your gaze away from her you betray yourself in the way you look at her lips.

In the nature of present longing, you make up for past regrets: You kiss her.

She leans into you, wrapping her arms around you and tugging you closer. For a fleeting moment you are wracked with guilt at the touch – after Christmas you will be separated again, back to your own lives and jobs and fates. You will return to your solitude and all of this will have to be forgotten.

The guilt is gone when her tongue slips into your mouth and her hands slide under your shirt. Just for now, you need each other. You have been given the blessing of an escape and it would be a waste of both of your time not to take it – you need it, and you feel in the hunger Riley kisses you with and the yearning in her touch that she needs it, too.

She pushes you to lay down on the couch, lips only leaving yours to pull your shirt over your head. Her hands are cold, you moan into the kiss when they start exploring the newly revealed skin. The warmth of the fire soothes over you in compliment, new softness amid the hunger.

Riley is gentle with you, handling you like an endlessly fragile thing. Her touch is anxious, cautious, but with every passing moment need grows in you, surging beneath your skin. In a smooth motion you pull her down so that it’s Riley with her back to the couch and you hover above her.

Her hands find your hips, nails digging sharply into your skin when you lean down to kiss her. Any hesitation is gone, you are left only with your longing as you rid her of her button-down shirt and your lips latch onto her neck. It comes naturally to you to be above her like this, you are driven on faultless instinct as you find every way to explore her neck and chest that leaves her breath heavy and back arching to find more of you to sate her.

Something breaks in the moment, tenderness returning when she pulls you back up from her neck to meet your eyes.

“Stay here with me,” she whispers. One of her hands runs through your hair and your eyes shut as you savor her. “I want to wake up with you on Christmas.”

You close the distance again, an unspoken promise that you are bound to her. You have found harbor here together, in the privacy of her home and in the love that never extends beyond each other.

HI HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!! happiest season has been my movie obsession this christmas so i had to write a fic for it 😋 if you enjoyed and wanna be my sexy secret santa then fill my stocking with a giant coffee (?) and i will consider it the merriest christmas ever. or just comment or reblog or whatever. anyway love love love you all thank you for reading!!!

[gold-onthe-inside]

make the yuletide gay

who? spencer reid (s3) x postgrad!reader

summary: the year's been hard, and the holidays hurt, and spencer realises maybe this christmas, comfort precedes joy. based on a request by @matthew-gray-gubler-lover: I would love one were i am down and it doesn't feel like Christmas to me (because it doesn't this year) and Spencer cheers me up, thank you.

word count: 939 (so close to 1k)

content warnings: unhealthy family dynamics, reader is trying to emotionally cut-off from her family, just all around angst and a lot of spencer cuddles

You had come back early from winter break, a day or two after Thanksgiving, using your key to get into Spencer's apartment while he was still on a case, somewhere in New Jersey. You hadn't just broken in, obviously, texting him that you were coming back early. As neutral your message had seemed to you, Spencer was much too good at his job not to know something was wrong. He'd called you from the hotel after and asked, to which you had said you'd tell him when he came home - all the while trying not to cry from the earnest care in his tone. But this wasn't how you wanted to tell him, a state between the two of you, over the phone, when he had a serial killer to catch.

It's not the first time your politics had tainted your holidays, the distance between you and your family helping temper your relationship with them. You'd made a plan and everything to keep your sanity for winter break, had mantras in your pocket to use to regulate yourself, breathing exercises, but while your degree is in psychology, theirs seems to be in pissing you off.

Spencer had done his best to make you feel better, had told you how this was normal, had let you talk about it over and over again without losing his patience, had distracted you when you didn't want to think about it, and soon enough, November was in the past. December was fast approaching and the Halloween decorations came down. Orange, purple and black were replaced with green, red  and white. Your phone buzzed with messages from parents, cousins, siblings, asking if you were coming back home for Christmas and you'd let them go unreplied, trying to hold onto joy.

Christmas wasn't as important to Spencer as Halloween, but he knew how much you loved the holiday. He'd spent hours with Penelope on Pinterest to find you the perfect gift, and even though he couldn't get a real fir tree into his apartment (at least not without being kicked out by his landlord), he'd bought a pretty good plastic one you could put up and decorate. You were being a total sport about it, even though your heart wasn't in it, because he was trying and if that wasn’t a sign that he loved you then what was?

The two of you spent Christmas Eve decorating the small tree that you really did love, wrapping tinsel and lights and hanging baubles on the branches and cooked together and there was more love here in Spencer's apartment than you'd ever felt at home, even though you ached for it still.

Christmas Day was so much harder - you'd accepted a video call with your family, watching from a screen as they unwrapped presents, your younger cousins ripping apart wrapping paper to reveal Lego sets and firetruck and dolls and you were so close to crying right there and then. "We miss you," they cried in unison and you'd sent them a flying kiss before closing the laptop, curling into your pillow with blankets that smelled like your boyfriend.

He'd given you the apartment that morning, letting you attend the call alone, because that's what you had wanted, opting to buy groceries instead, and he'd had the brilliant idea to bake cookies on Christmas Day, splurging on Christmas themed cookie cutters, almost noon when he unlocked the door, bursting at the seams with hope. It was too quiet though, the presents untouched under the tree.

He set the bags down in the kitchen, leaving his keys beside them, and checked the bedroom, finding you curled up in the foetal position, tear tracks on your cheek, having fallen asleep with your laptop beside you. He doesn’t know whether or not to wake you up, trying his best to anticipate your needs. What he wants to do is call up your parents and give them an earful for doing this to you, for not seeing the amazing, wonderful, kind person you are. Instead, he sat beside you, tucking the blankets around you, letting you sleep for an hour before waking you up with warm cocoa.

His question goes unasked, but it's the elephant in the room as you sipped the cocoa, feeling a little less hollow and numb as warm chocolate soothed your upset. "Am I making a huge mistake?" you asked instead, looking at him and he shook his head.

"You're making the best decisions you can," Spencer said and when you leaned into him, he wrapped his arm around you, lips automatically finding your temple. "You are so loved," he assured you, "and by nobody more than me."

"What if I lose them forever?" you asked his shoulder, fear creeping into your tone.

"They should be more worried about losing you," he said, a little bitterly, but it was honest, and he rubbed your arm.

You crushed your face into his chest, wanting to cry again but you had no more tears left. "I just want this year to be over," you mumbled as Spencer rubbed your back, hugging you tighter.

Spencer leaned down and kissed the top of your head, a wave of protectiveness washing over him. The thought of you in so much pain broke his heart more than anything else ever had. He had never felt so angry towards anybody as he did towards your family for making you feel this way.  "It will be," he murmured, holding you against him. "And next year is going to be better. I promise." He just kept holding you. The cookies and presents could wait.

[unhealthyfanobsession]

My dearest gentle giftee (@c-e-d-dreamer),

I knew two things the second I learned of the great honour bestowed upon me to get you as my giftee:

This needed to be a very special piece. You have given so, so much to this fandom and are constantly updating a number of ongoing WIPS all of which I am obsessed with. Did you know you've written OVER 60 fics for this fandom and still going (thank GOD)!!!! This couldn’t be more of a labour of love. I hope throughout the chapters that you catch every little Easter egg I put in just for you (you know I had to give you a little mini Rhysta moment - as a treat)

It would take a Mastermind to keep my identity a secret while carefully mining your preferences. Sorry for actively lying to you about what I was writing for the gift exchange - it was all for a good cause (even if it means there never truly was a university AU in which Nesta and Cassian fight about uncrustable flavours.)

Chapter one and two of my @acotargiftexchange gift to the one, the only, the legend herself, are now up on A03

Summary:

Freshly returned from battle with a new title he hasn't grown used to and an entire estate he has yet to even see, Cassian has only one goal this holiday season: get very drunk with his brothers. Until he spots Nesta Archeron from across the crowded ballroom and a single dance alters the path of their future forever - even if she doesn't know it yet. What can he say? It's love at first fight.

Regency Romance AU - Strap in friends, it's time to eat, drink, and make the yuletide gay.

[penny00dreadful]

Robin and Steve singing "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" to each other over a piano in the most somber and depressing serious tones they can but intentionally and emphatically shouting that one lyric at each other like they're trying to verbally spear the other one.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas,

Make the Yuletide ✨GAY✨

And then they're struggling to go back to the rest of the song in the same way they had started, sad and morose, slapping and hissing at each other to keep it together but they're hitting discordant keys and the sudden and loud noise sends them completely over the edge into irrecoverable laughter.

[eiraeths]

quotes from the tv show chuck, but make it the 141

———

Ghost: I’m a Riley, I don’t run. I stalk my prey.

———

Soap: [to Ghost, under the influence of a truth serum] God you're so pretty! And Gaz, your jaw was chiseled by Michelangelo himself.

Gaz: Thank you.

———

Ghost: Relax, I think I see a scenario where we both get out of here with acceptable losses.

Soap: What exactly is your version of acceptable?

Ghost: Breaks and punctures, possible loss of a limb, no major organ damage.

———

Soap: [mimicking Ghost’s voice] Well thanks for saving my life today, Soap.

Soap: Any time, Ghost. Yeah, you know what you're my friend.

Soap: [mimicking Ghost’s voice] Yeah, you know what, you're my friend too.

Soap: That's really kind of you, Ghost. Have a good night.

Ghost: [seriously] Thank you. [closes door]

———

Soap: What's in Dubai?

Ghost: Weap-Con, the greatest weapons convention in the world. I go every year. I find it incredibly relaxing. It looks like I'll get to write this year's off as a business trip.

———

Laswell: Well, it's an interesting group of employees you've put together here.

Price: Oh, they scare me too. Ha ha ha.

———

Soap: I talked to Ghost.

Gaz: And?

Soap: If he'd have me, I'd let him.

———

Soap: [while Ghost is about to leaving for a mission] What am I, what do I say? What do we...?

Ghost: I love you.

Soap: That's good. I love you. I like that. I love you, too. Be safe, okay?

Ghost: Nothing is gonna keep me from coming back to you.

Soap: Better not.

———

Laswell: Lieutenant Riley, after the Yves St. Laurent incident, you will obviously have to sit this one out.

Ghost: [quietly to himself] Stab one guy with a stilleto...

———

Soap: [to Ghost] Do our wedding colors remind you of socialism?

———

Soap: Let's get this party started.

Ghost: [eager to kill mercenaries] My sentiments exactly.

———

Ghost: It made a nasty scar, right over one of my favorite scars.

———

this was more ghoap than the 141

whoops

anyways happy holidays the yuletide is in fact gay or whatever that actually means

i told my dad about the time i got barked at by vultures and he got a sign that says beware of vultures and put it on my door. he thinks he’s so funny. (he is)

[inky-quilled-dragon]

You know what? I’m mad. I’m TERRIFIED. But I’m also autistic, and spite is one of my favourite motivators.

Take care of yourselves today. Read some gay fanfic, splurge on something kinda useless, hug your persons and/or pets, eat your favourite food. Take today, and tomorrow, and as much time as you want, to grieve.

And then, for the love of all that’s good in this world, get SPITEFUL.

They want to make us quiet? No, fuck you.

They want to make us hopeless? No, Fuck You.

They want to convince us there’s nothing good left to fight for? NO, FUCK YOU.

Don’t let them tell you what to do! This is a loss, but Americans with hearts are NOT ALONE. The world is watching, and we are grieving with you and for you. But what that means is that you have allies everywhere!

America’s bucking the trend of conservatism falling out of favour. This is a trend we as a global community must FIGHT to keep, (and i suspect that now, we r e a l l y will) but it IS a trend!!

this is going to hurt so, so many people. I’ve cried over and over both yesterday and this morning. I feel like i’m going to throw up. My heart breaks for all those who are suffering far more than i, in Ukraine, Palestine, Taiwan, and America itself among countless more.

But i’ll reiterate.

FUCK THEM. I’m running off of spite. I’m going to live. i’m going to find joy. I’m going to create art. i’m going to celebrate my pagan Yuletide as a queer autistic woman, because FUCK. THEM.

I love you all. I have hope still for humanity, and i think that’s the greatest act of resistance i can provide.

[dodgerkedavra]

yuletide gay

or: how did my drarries spend the holidays? my wife @its-the-allure tagged me so I'm going to do my BEST

Now I Know In Part: Harry can't see (again) because he got so worked up about whether his twin children would be disappointed. They sound so happy

Bike Dream: Ron and Draco will not see reason when it comes to holiday parties—their cafe/house in Hogsmeade is full well past capacity. Ron is dancing on the sitting room table wearing only a Santa hat and tight green pants, Draco keeps rating the dancing (100/10 every time) and Harry's face hurts from smiling so hard

A Line-storm Song: Everything is the same in the morning—they get up at the same time, eat the same breakfast, and fly on their brooms for an hour. No gifts until the afternoon. Draco looks away when Harry opens his, but sits close. They go to the Burrow when it's already dark and people are gentler

Sweet to Your Taste: Draco made icing by December moonlight, which is holiday-flavoured. Harry is stoned at FriendsChristmas and won't stop licking it off Draco's fingers. This will escalate

See Me and Live: The Manor is really the only place big enough to fit the madhouse of Draco and Harry's family and friends. Draco has no idea how the dance fever begins, and once it does, he can't hear a thing. Harry shouts something Draco has no hope of understanding, so he shouts it again. The third time is a charm--the music goes quiet just as Harry bellows Draco, I'm bloody pregnant again!

I don't know who to tag and am agnostic about myself and friendship LOL

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

my valentine, miss valentine

pairing: jill x ashley (yes, i know i'm the only one on this ship)

cws/tags: lesbians, period-typical homophobia, sex but not super explicit, fluff but also angst

summary: the valentine's day date that i promised to write, like a year ago, that happens after the christmas party in make the yuletide gay

a/n: this is not the end to their story, so don't let yourself be too sad.... however, i will have to finish re5 for the lore to write part three so you'll have to wait like forever (i say to the 3 people reading this lol)

wc: 4.5k

“Leon?” Ashley whispers into her brand new Motorola Razr – the old one was lost during her ‘vacation’ to Spain. As far as the rest of the country knows, there was a mishap during her trip, no bioweapons or cults involved.

It’s midnight, her parents are asleep across a long hallway, snoring, unaware of her phone call to her knight in shining armor turned friend and greatest confidant. 

“Mm-hmm,” Leon mumbles, barely awake. 

He keeps his phone on his nightstand, beside his gun, just in case of emergencies. Ashley knows this because he told her. He told her to call if she needed anything. He probably should’ve specified that he really would rather she stick to daylight hours for non-emergency calls. 

“I need to ask you for a favor.”

“What is it?”

“I’m going to tell my dad that we’re going out for Valentine’s Day. If he says anything to you about it, just go with it.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re not going anywhere. It’s a… lie.” 

Ashley doesn’t like the word ‘lie’. It’s something she’s been told not to do since she was a child. She’s 21 now, and has yet to be told that sometimes lying is justified. 

“I know that, Ash. I meant, where does he think we’re going? What’s the story?”

She can’t tell if he’s irritated or not, but she knows him well enough to know that if she apologizes, he’ll say he’s not mad. Sometimes he lies. 

“Do we need one? I was just going to say that we’re going out to dinner… or something.”

“Where are you actually going? A party?”

“Does it matter?”

Despite the fact that Leon already knows what happened at the Christmas party, she hesitates to tell him. She knows he won’t care. He’ll protect her, he always will. That was his promise to her and her father. Plus, she has blackmail material. She won’t play dirty, but she could. 

“The secret to being a good liar is telling as much of the truth as possible. So, tell me the truth, and I’ll help you come up with a way to… change it a little bit,” he tells her. 

She takes a deep breath before divulging the greatest secret of the century. “Fine. Jill asked me out. We’re going to dinner.”

She swears she can hear his lips curve into a smile. “Okay, so, that means you and I are going to dinner. What time is our reservation? And, am I going to pick you up?”

“Reservation is at 7:15, and I guess you can pick me up.”

So, he picks her up, wearing a suit and tie to match the dress code. Ashley sent him about a million mirror pictures in various pink dresses – she wanted to be ���on theme” for the holiday. To every single one, he told her she looked great, but she needed to look better than “great”, she needed to look “stunning, perfect, gorgeous, jaw-dropping”. 

The doorbell rings and it’s him. 

“Daddy, Leon’s here!” She knows her father will want to speak with him – as if he doesn’t speak with him enough already. 

Leon greets him with a handshake, and calls him ‘sir’. Ashley is proud though she expected no less. He probably does this all the time – the ever-present need to please her father is one thing they have in common. 

Her father tells them to “have a good time, but not too good of a time” with a laugh, not a gun, because he’s relieved it’s Leon she’s chosen to date. He’s the one person in the world her father trusts with his daughter’s life. 

When they climb into Leon’s car, Ashley asks him, “You got a hot date too?”

“What makes you think I do?”

“The suit.”

“I’m just matching you.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, but she doesn’t believe him for a second. 

She won’t press him because she’s more focused on her own nerves than on his date – that she’s nearly 100% positive is happening. 

“What am I supposed to do?” she asks. 

“About what?”

“When I get there.”

“Go up to the host, tell them you have a reservation–”

“-I know that part, idiot! I mean, with Jill. Like, what do I say?”

“I don’t know. Just be cool.”

“I can’t be cool.”

“You’re overthinking this. It’s not your first date. Just be normal. Do what you normally do.”

When he puts the car in park, Ashley hesitates. 

“We’re here,” he reminds her. 

“I know, I’m just… I need a moment…”

“I have a reservation at 7:30, Ash,” he says with a smile creeping up.

“So you are going on a date! I knew it! Who is it?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he says, practically pushing her out of the car. 

“It’s Chris, isn’t it?” Ashley asks, a bit too loud for his liking. 

“Shut up. I’ll tell you later.” But his reddened cheeks have already said enough. 

Jill waits by the entrance wearing a well-tailored pantsuit and freshly shined heels. She fits in well with the crowd in her adherence to the formal dress code, but she sticks out among everyone else in Ashley’s eyes. 

“Hi,” Ashley says with a stupid little wave as she approaches her date. 

“Wow, you look beautiful,” Jill says, giving her the once-over in the most polite way one can. 

“Same to you.”

“Thanks, I took your advice.”

Oh, the pantsuit. She remembered. 

“No secret service tonight?” Jill whispers as they walk towards the hostess. 

“Nope. Just me.”

“I can’t believe you convinced your parents… after everything that happened.”

“Well, they think I’m with Leon. He’s the one who drove me here.”

“Ah. That explains why I didn’t see a limo pull up out front.”

The hostess has Ashley speak up when she gives them the name for the reservation. Ashley Graham is generally well-known, and thus, she tries not to attract any attention. The hostess is about to say something about how long they’ll have to wait when a waiter clearly recognizes her, and cuts in, “Actually, Miss Graham, we have your table ready.”

He takes two menus and beckons the two women to follow him towards the back of the restaurant where a table is set with heart-shaped tealights and an arrangement of flowers in the middle. It looks fancier than the tables surrounding them, she notices. Perks of being the president’s daughter. 

Sitting in front of Jill Valentine, she does not feel like Ashley Graham – just Ashley, a shy blonde girl with hearts for eyes. Jill Valentine is a name that means nothing to the wait staff, but everything to Ashley. 

Ashley usually listens intently to the list of specials but it’s hard to focus when out of the corner of her eye, she can see Jill’s grays sparkling like diamonds. 

“Do you know what you’re going to have?” Jill asks. 

“The Steak Au Poivre sounds good,” she says in her best French accent. 

“I don’t think I can pronounce any of these things. I guess I’ll just have to point at the menu like an idiot.”

“No one will care. They probably won’t even notice.”

“You don’t think so? What if I use the wrong fork for dessert?”

“You use the spoon for dessert.”

“Are there any other rules that I should know about?”

“Maybe, but they’re all bullshit– sorry, I mean, um, they’re all silly.” She gives Jill the same bullshit smile that she gives to diplomats and reporters alike. 

“I’m guessing swearing isn’t allowed either?”

“I’ve been trained not to, but I think Leon has been a bad influence on me.”

“Ah, yes, Leon, the real bad boy type,” Jill says sarcastically.

“Badder than me.”

“Well, you’re America’s sweetheart. You’re a good girl.”

Ashley tries to hide the way ‘good girl’ makes her feel by diverting the attention back to Leon. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Always,” Jill says, intrigued by Ashley’s one tiny step towards ‘naughtiness’, as well as Leon’s secrets which he shares with almost no one. 

“Leon’s on a date tonight.”

“With who?”

“Chris.”

And, just then, while Jill processes the information, the waiter comes back to check on them. 

Ashley asks what he thinks the best wine is, and he asks her “white or red?”

“White. I don’t want to spill red wine on this dress.”

“It is a very nice dress.”

“On a very nice girl,” Jill says. “There’s no denying that,” the waiter agrees.

“Can I see your ID?” he asks Jill, and while she fishes it out of her purse, he turns to Ashley, and says, “I’d ask for yours as well, Miss Graham, but I remember seeing pictures from your birthday party in People Magazine a month or so ago.”

Ashley gives him a polite smile, the same one she gave everyone that day, all the photographers who took those pictures. Very few people have ever seen the real Ashley – and sometimes, she thinks she has yet to see herself. 

“Ah, Miss Valentine, how appropriate for the holiday.”

“Yep,” she says, clearly suppressing an eyeroll as she’s definitely heard that one before.  

When he walks away, Jill immediately leans back over the table to Ashley. “Leon and Chris?” she asks. “Since when is this a thing?”

“They, um, well, I found them making out at the Christmas party, but I was sworn to secrecy. I only found this out tonight when he was dropping me off… I was a little nervous and he told me he didn’t want to be late for his reservation.”

“Why were you nervous?”

Isn’t it obvious? She thinks. 

“I’m on a date… with you.”

“You’ve been kidnapped by a cult and I’m scary to you?”

“You’re not scary. You’re just… out of my league.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she says a bit too loud, and remembers what Ashley said about swearing. She coughs transitionally, and corrects herself, “I apologize. I meant, you must be making a facetious statement.”

“I am not fucking kidding or being facetious,” Ashley says, much quieter. 

“Fine. We’ll table it, but don’t think you’ve won just yet.”

Dinner is good – no, great. At least, until a couple next to them butts into their conversation. The husband – presumably – looks to be in his late 60s, and something about him feels off but so does everything in Ashley’s life. The PTSD, being America’s sweetheart, going on a date with a woman for the first time. 

“Are you ladies having a nice ‘Galentine’s Day’? That’s what it’s called right? Forgive me, I’m an old man who can’t keep up with the youngsters.”

Ashley gets a spark of confidence, or maybe she’s just tired of the bullshit, and she finally snaps, finally gives someone a sliver of truth. 

“Actually, it’s a Valentine’s Day for us,” she says, grabbing Jill’s hand across the table.

“Oh, well, in that case, Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says, obviously thrown off by the notion that she is on a date with a woman whether he knows she’s the president's daughter or not. 

They both glance over to see him whispering to his wife, and she can tell they’re talking about her. She cares, but less than she ever has before. There’s something fun about this feeling, about honesty. Catharsis is exhilarating, she finds. 

“Wow,” Jill says, with a look of pride that gives Ashley a greater wave of exhilaration, and it’s a good thing that they don’t spend enough time in public for her to grab a microphone and tell the world she’s on a date with the one and only, Jill Valentine. 

“Was it okay that I did that?”

“Yeah, it was cool, actually, but I just didn’t expect it.”

Cool. She’s cool. Ashley’s usually sweet or cute, but never cool. Until now.

Their first argument is over who will pay the bill. 

“You think you’re paying?” Jill says, appalled at the concept, “I asked you out.”

“But I picked the restaurant,” Ashley protests. 

The waiter cuts in, “I don’t mean to intrude, but this meal is on the house. Since President Graham was so gracious during his last visit, we want to pay back the favor as best we can. So, please, ladies, order whatever you’d like.”

“Anything?” Ashley asks, having looked over the wine list and deciding on a water earlier. 

“Anything,” he repeats, handing her the wine list, knowing she’ll want to look over it again. 

They get the special president’s daughter’s privilege of not only getting a free meal, but also corking the wine and taking it back to Jill’s apartment. 

They drink from the bottle on Jill’s couch, and Ashley realizes quickly that she’s a bit tipsy, and she cannot show up at home like this. She also finds that the idea of staying over at Jill’s place is very appealing. 

So, she calls her partner in crime. 

“Leon,” she whispers into the phone. 

“What?” he says, somewhat annoyed, and she’s sure she’s interrupted something. Something salacious. 

“Can you call my dad and say I’m staying at your place?”

“No way,” he says. “This is supposed to be our first date. Your dad would be furious.”

“Just tell him I’m sick. That I ate something bad and you’re taking care of me. I can send you a picture of me laying on the floor, keeled over in pain, if he asks for proof.”

For someone dedicated to being ‘good’, Ashley is adept at lying.

“Fine, but don’t think I’m just going to lie for you all the time. I can’t. He’s my boss in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Thank you, Leon. Love you.” She blows kisses into the phone and he hangs up.

“I think it'll be even more convincing if you send pictures of you on the bathroom floor, leaning over the toilet.”

“You’re a genius!”

So, they convince Ashley’s dad to let her sleep at “Leon’s” house. It’s not hard. In fact, her dad thanks him for taking good care of her. 

They take stupid pictures of Ashley acting like she’s about to be sick and a few of the two of them smiling – there’s one Ashley considers printing out and framing. She would, if things were different. And later, Jill gets out her old polaroid camera and takes pictures of Ashley that are for her eyes only. 

“You okay, Ash?” Jill tilts her head to the side, examining Ashley. “You look like you might actually be sick.” 

Jill presses the back of her palm to Ashley’s forehead, checking for a fever. Ashley grabs her wrist and takes her palm in her own.

“I’m fine,” she smiles, and redness replaces the paleness in her cheeks. “I was acting.”

“You’re a really good actress, then. Have you taken classes?”

“No, but dating boys in college requires a certain level of ‘faking it’ if you know what I mean.”

Ashley begins to realize she might be a bit more than tipsy when she lets that secret spill, but she gets caught by a case of the giggles when she hears Jill’s laugh turn to a snort. 

“My condolences,” Jill says. “You’re far stronger than me. I’ve never been in that situation before, but I’ve never been one to spare a man’s feelings.”

“So, you’ve never been with a guy before?”

“Nope.”

“You’ve always known you were gay, then?”

“Pretty much. I remember seeing Lara Croft and her triangular boobs and not knowing whether I wanted to be her or be with her.”

“Who’s Lara Croft?”

“Oh my God, you’ve never played Tomb Raider?!”

“Sounds familiar but nope. I’ve never really been into video games. Maybe you can introduce me to those too.”

Too. She nods in understanding. She’ll introduce her to what it’s like to be with a woman. 

When the wine bottle is empty, they end up in Jill’s bed – mostly clothed, but tired of sitting up. 

“Mind if I take my bra off?” Jill asks. “The underwire is killing me.”

“I’ve actually been dying to do the same thing.” 

Jill turns away, slipping her bra out from under her shirt – the jacket has been long lost by now. Ashley does the same well-known trick, while she stares at herself in Jill’s full-length mirror. 

“I hate dressing up,” she groans as she falls back onto the bed. 

“Then, why do you do it?”

“Because I want to look good.”

Jill scoffs. “You would look good in anything.”

“Shut up. You’re just saying that.”

“Why would I? I already got to go on a date with you, and you’re literally in my bed right now. I’m just telling you the truth.”

Ashley stops, lost in thought. She is in Jill’s bed. What happens now?

“Hey, what’s wrong?” She tentatively places her hand on Ashley’s shoulder. “I was kind of messing around with the ‘you in my bed’ comment. I’m not expecting you to do that with me. I mean, unless you want to, but I know you’ve never done this with a woman before – and you know, I’d never expect it from anyone… I was assuming I’d hopefully get to cuddle with you, but that’s okay if–”

Ashley cuts her off with a kiss. It takes Jill a moment to register that Ashley’s lips are on hers, but she reciprocates, slowly, matching her pace, letting Ashley have control.

They pull back for air, and Ashley says, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk for that long, like ever. It was freaking me out.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m okay,” she says. “I just might need a little bit of guidance… Maybe you could tell me how this goes?”

“Well, it seems you’ve already got the kissing part down.”

“Aw, I was hoping you’d say I need more practice.”

“You know what, I changed my mind, we both need to practice some more.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean ‘and then what?’”

“Sex,” Ashley whispers like it’s some sort of secret. 

“It’s kind of similar to how it works with guys actually. You know, hand stuff, mouth stuff, combinations of those, and then, if you want I can… fuck you.”

“Okay,” Ashley says, lost in the fantasies of all the foreplay. 

“How about you tell me, how does this usually go for you?”

“Usually, we make out for a while, and then he starts grabbing my tits,” she says with an eye roll, “and then I take my shirt off and he shoves his hand down my pants and I have to pretend that he found my clit.”

Jill and Ashley lock eyes and with a smirk, Jill puts Ashley in her lap. It’s hot and heavy and eventually neither of them can stand to wear their clothes for another second. 

“I can’t reach my zipper,” Ashley says, so Jill, topless, with pants unbuttoned, unzips her, and Ashley lets the dress fall to the floor. 

“These are cute,” Jill muses, playing with the seam of Ashley’s pink panties, brand new and lacy. 

“Thanks,” she says, but she’s too focused on Jill’s pants coming down to reveal a navy blue cotton pair. 

“I guess I’ll just put these in the laundry basket,” Jill says, coyly, bending over and walking away, so she can give Ashley a view of her backside. The secret she’d momentarily kept. The tiny thong, revealing her ass. 

“I see what you did there,” Ashley says. 

“Business in the front, party in the back.”

And there’s no amount of flirtation that can help Ashley. She is stunned in the face of the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen. There’s no president’s daughter’s privilege when she’s nearly naked in Jill’s bed. 

Maybe she is finding what it means to be just ‘Ashley’. It is terrifying in its novelty and wonderful all at once. It is childlike wonder but she’s not as innocent as she once thought. Maybe it’s innate or kinesthetic learning, but she can please and be pleased by a woman. It’s easier without the harsh edges and prodding at all the wrong places. Precision and communication lead her gracefully into arousal and then completely disheveled, writhing, sobbing headlong into orgasm. 

Her eyes snap open to see Jill above her, head tipped back in pleasure, lips parted – and as she cums, one word escapes her mouth: Ashley. 

Just as Jill keeps the polaroids, Ashley keeps that memory tucked secretly inside her pockets. 

Despite the hangover, she feels a kind of bliss that is completely unprecedented. It would be scary if it weren’t lovely. The D.C. air is cold, but Jill’s arms around her are warm. The only sad thing about this moment is that it has to end. 

Eventually, she looks at the clock, and it’s much later than she wants it to be. 

“Ugh. I have to get home or else my dad will kill me,” she groans. 

“I know,” Jill says. “It sucks that you have to go, but you know, you can always come back.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, of course. I’m free next weekend.”

Next weekend. It sounds like forever, but she’ll take it. 

Ashley picks up her phone to see way too many missed calls from Leon. 

She immediately calls him. She knows she’s in trouble before he picks up. 

“Have you seen the headlines?” he asks.

“What headlines?”

She’s imagined many horrible possibilities – it’s a common thought when her life is constant under scrutiny. 

But this one, she didn’t expect: “America’s Sweetheart and Her Sweetheart Seen on Valentine’s Day,” with a picture of her and Jill at the restaurant. And that’s the most flattering headline of them all. 

The tears fall, but Jill doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She just lets Ashley fall into her arms and cry it out while she looks at the pictures Leon has texted her. 

“I’m sorry,” Jill says eventually. “It’s my fault. I should’ve known something like this would happen.”

“How is it your fault? I’m the one they’re mad at.”

“But this is your first time going through this. It happens a lot – not on this scale – but a lot. People will always judge you for this kind of thing.”

“Then what do we do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want you to leave, but I think you have to.” She pauses. “And I don’t want this to be over, but I understand if it has to.”

Ashley nods and puts on her dress in silence.

“It’s cold out,” Jill says. “Take this.”

She tosses Ashley a sweatshirt that has the STARS logo on it. 

“Maybe you can even convince your dad this was Leon’s.”

They both know it doesn’t matter either way, but she takes it and treasures it. But not as much as she treasures the final kiss goodbye.

Leon picks her up, looking more terrified than she does. She realizes that Leon could be fired from his job, but she can’t be fired from hers. 

“I’m so sorry, Leon,” she sobs. 

“It’s my fault too. I agreed to it. I’ll take responsibility.”

“No, I’m going to tell him I forced you.”

She’s lied enough already, might as well keep going.

Leon ushers her inside where her dad is waiting, holding out a newspaper. 

“What in the world were you thinking, Ashley Graham?”

“I was being stupid.”

“I know that.”

He turns to Leon. “And you-”

“-It was my fault,” Ashley cuts in. “I practically forced him to, and the photos of me are real. I got sick and he picked me up and took care of me. He really did his best, I swear.”

“Sir, I take full responsibility,” Leon tries to say, but her dad is focused on her. 

“I want the truth. Did you really make Leon do this for you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“If I find out you’re lying, you’re both going to be in huge trouble.”

“I swear, I’m telling the truth.”

“Leon, if you’ll excuse us,” her father gestures for him to leave. 

“Absolutely, sir. And I apologize again.”

“It’s not your fault, Leon. Ashley is the one who acted inappropriately.”

He holds out the newspaper to her with pure rage in his eyes. 

“What the Hell were you thinking?”

She doesn’t say a word. Instead, she snatches the newspaper from his hand, runs to her room, and slams the door shut so she can cry in peace.

There is one final secret that Ashley keeps. She cuts out the picture of her and Jill and keeps it in a box inside her closet, then slips it in her wallet when she moves, and tucks it into her bedside drawer in a new house. It stays hidden and safe by her side, no man sleeping beside ever sees it. 

When she looks at the two of them, in isolation, they look happy. It’s a photo that would go in an album rather than an expose if she were seen with a boy instead. Despite the way the reporters spun the story, it was a good night – one of the best of her life – and she’ll always have it, even if it’s just a memory. 

[gulliblelemon]

❄️ Young Royals Fic Recs

Snowy or cold YR fic recs. Other weather lists here: ☀️⛈🌧

❄️ I just keep on dreaming (but it's cool cause we're just friends) by LoveIsGolden ❄️ Almost Is Never Enough by this_time_its_just_me @in-amor-veritas ❄️ There all along by @stretchoutfics ❄️ White Christmas by YoungRydbergs ❄️ Enough by demeterfics @eyeofthedrgn ❄️ Baby, It's Cold Outside by YoungRydbergs ❄️ I'll be home for Christmas by YoungRydbergs ❄️ sending you this christmas card (to say it's nice to have you near) by chicken_tender ❄️ make the yuletide gay by cloudymilk 🥶 The Purple Hoodie Stays ON During Sex by RubyIntyale @earlgrey-lateatnight ❄️ The Prince and His Secretary by @harosia ❄️ not if it's you by thatgayprince ❄️ SportLOVE by @piebingo ❄️ Warmth by RubyIntyale @earlgrey-lateatnight 🌧❄️ We're not who we used to be by itsme_hi_imtheproblem @iwouldnevergetintofanfic

[bengiyo]

Comfort Films Tag

Rules: List 7 of your comfort movies, then tag 7 people.

Tagged by @callipigio

1 - Shelter (2007)

I often joke around here about how I’ve been watching queer cinema for over half of my life at this point, and it’s easy to recommend this film. This is a coming of age film about a guy who gave up art school to become the primary breadwinner and caregiver for his family. However, when the older brother of his best friend returns to their town to collect himself, our artist and he reconnect and find something special between them. Great use of a young actor in this shores up the caregiving aspects.

I’m probably going to rewatch it now. Because it was produced by Here! TV, you can only legally watch it via a subscription to their platform. I own it on DVD because I fell in love with it and knew I needed to keep it forever.

2 - Big Eden (2000)

Big Eden. Oh, Big Eden. This is the film equivalent of a warm blanket and a tight hug. It’s about an artist named Henry Hart, who is preparing for a big exhibition in New York when he’s called back home to Montana because his uncle has had a stroke. We are greatest with the most queer-friendly town to ever exist as Henry manages his old angst about his straight best friend as the local general store owner also secretly pursues him. It’s absolutely lovely.

3 - The Blues Brothers (1980)

Luna has great taste, because this is one of the best films ever made. What was originally just an SNL bit turns into a fun road film about getting the band back together so that two brothers can raise enough money to pay the back taxes owed by the orphanage they grew up in. We also run over Illinois nazis in this movie and demolish dozens of cop cars. Cab Calloway, James Brown, Carrie Fisher, Chaka Khan, Paul Reubens, and Aretha Franklin are in it. John Candy orders orange whips. This is the kind of film I would watch with my dad any time it was on.

4 - Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003)

This is one of the most man movies ever made. I don’t know any woman who wants to sit down and watch this film, but me and boys will spend an entire afternoon on this film in a heartbeat. The sexual tension between Russell Crowe’s and Paul Bettany’s characters goes unremarked on this website in a way that lets you know for sure this hellsite is dominated by femmes, because those two have definitely fucked. At least twice. It’s 1805 and oceans have become battlefields!

5 - Clue (1985)

A movie based on the board game of the same name should not have been this good, but it instead goes on to become a camp masterpiece. Many people will end up remembering Tim Curry for Rocky Horror or even Muppet Treasure Island, but this is still one of his favorite performances for me. This film is batshit and I love it. 

6 - Camp (2003)

Speaking of camp films, let’s talk about one of the best of all time. I know we often talk about the bad singing in Thai BL, but I unironically love all of the musical theater in this film. I regularly listen to this soundtrack, and have been for over 15 years. It’s a film about a bunch of weird theater kids who get to escape the bullying and hellishness of their lives for a few weeks during the summer, where they get to put on a bunch of classic plays. It’s so camp. I love this film because it was difficult for me to find queer films that had happy components with them, and this little movie has a wide array of queer kids in it.

7 - Make The Yuletide Gay (2009)

This was the first queer film I ever watched that had a happy ending that was also a comedy. Prior to this, I think I had watched Beautiful Thing (1996), Edge of Seventeen (1998), Get Real (1998), and Bent (1997). Most of those films ended resolved or sad. Yuletide is a silly little gay film of almost nonstop innuendo about a guy who goes back into the closet when he returns home for Christmas, but hijinks ensue when his boyfriend shows up unexpectedly. It’s an annual watch for me around the holidays, and I usually host people for it. 

Also, Adamo Ruggiero is in it! He played Marco on Degrassi: The Next Generation.

This was fun! I think most folks have been tagged that I know, but I’ll tag @warningtothecurious​. If anyone else does this, please tag me back if you do this! I want to know what films you all return to.

[lavender-twilight23]

New fic!! (lots of fluff and I love it)

I posted about this one a little bit ago, but it is finished and I am here to link/announce its existence!

Title: Make The Yuletide Straight (Gay)

Summary:

This white Christmas at the X-Mansion is teeming with love and life, and there are so many things that make the day perfect, like Darwin and Erik making a pancake bar, Secret Santa gift exchanges between the mutant children, and plenty more little (and big) intimate found family moments that keep smiles on their faces from sunup to sundown.

Excerpt:

(Charles' POV)

It hits 3pm, and we all flock to the living room with wrapped boxes and bags from our own hidden corners in which we’d shielded each other’s gifts until this moment. I can barely contain my excitement, and it’s so strong that by the time we all get situated in the room and Erik and I are sitting in front of the blazing hearth again, I’m shaking uncontrollably. As the chatter dies down and as Darwin and Alex finish debating on the ornament placements on the tree, Erik notices my shivering and he lightly touches my arm, his forehead creased in concern. “You okay?”

I nod. “Yep. Just excited. Wait til you see what I got you.”

Erik raises his eyebrows. “Well, I could say the same. You’re going to explode.”

Link!

[sourcreammachine]

fuck it, let’s die on this hill

FAIRYTALE OF NEW YORK IS THE ULTIMATE QUEER YULETIDE SONG

the straights have been getting increasingly uncomfortable with it in the last few years. you’re going to see a big resurgence of the censored version this year because Shane MacGowan died last week, but it has been well on the decline - meaning a wide open gulf is forming to allow the cheap, lousy faggots to swoop in and continue colonising it. here’s why we should

firstly it’s an absolute banger. traditional irish music combined with modern drums into a sound that fits the yule aesthetic perfectly whilst bringing drama and emotion. it’s cozied up by the fire, but alive and dramatic

the biggest source of discomfort for most people is that it’s MacGowan and MacColl aggressively arguing at each other, rattling off textbook sexist vitriol. and MacColl calls MacGowan a faggot, with total sincere usage of the slur, hatred and all. putting the slur aside, the nastiness of the song gets people’s ire. it’s a couple having a stereotypical domestic and they seem to kiss and make up in the final act, all unacceptable behaviour forgiven. it’s everything modern straights want to put in the past. so let them. it’s a het couple being toxic, cool. queer celebration has attached the bandwagon to worse things and it’s always taking up the castoffs of heteronormative society. queer love can be made of FONY all the same:

MacGowan’s first verse stings, does it not? sadness, desperation, and longing. in queer society, we have all been MacGowan’s character and we have all been the Old Man, even if it’s not the bottle and the drunk tank. we’re survivors, we’re bloodied and bruised, we refuse to go away no matter how many AIDS-genocides, moral panics, and hate-murders they do to us. there are nights where we think by all mercy we Won’t See Another One, and we turn our face away and Dream About You. there’s always hope. there’s always reasons to continue the fight, and they don’t have to be abstract

when the sobbing’s over, the Pogues immediately come to life for the main body. we go up and down the rollercoaster of emotions while the band keeps playing, while the air is always jubilant. the wonder, the delight, the hope, the madlove, the melodrama, the bile, the hatred. for a song making allusions of broadway, it sounds fresh from broadway - our story is painted through feelings, not words. and when it’s over, MacColl’s character (seems to, judging by the tonal finality of MacGowan’s lines and her participation in the final chorus) forgives her abusive partner and reattaches her hopes to him, her drunkard patriarch. but we’re queer, remember - we’re not celebrating these straggot pieces of shit. we find identity in the feelings. we have all been MacColl’s character, finding wonder and hope and the chance to become who we want to be, and being given false promises by false starts. and if you’ll forgive me for entertaining MacGowan’s character’s bastard misogynist perspective for a second, we’ve all found ourselves having to defend our queer communities, having to stand by our old sluts on junk, even as doing so takes its toll and sometimes feels like a burden. those feelings happen. they are irrational, they are bad, and they happen. and a new day comes and we’re thankful we stood by. it’s a melodramatic broadway banger - we can find meaning in all places, even the ‘b*tch-wife’ slurrings of a misogynist

it’s that power that lets a queer reading of FONY stick the fucking landing. again i repeat myself, from a surface reading the ending is toxic as shit. but queer reading is in the feeling. this lament, this mournful lament, of misplaced hopes, of lost dreams, and a commitment to what we have, and looking forward despite unbearable challenge. you’d scream ‘leave him!’ to every straight MacColl in the world, that’s like, feminism 101 - but queer life is nothing if not complicated. the queer-read MacGowan isn’t a toxic gay lover. he is queer life itself. he took our dreams from us when we first found him, so it may appear. the hatred we feel inside, the emptiness, the pain, it’s all there with the phantasmic joy, the discovery, the love, the everything. and the band always keeps playing. straight MacColls returning to their straight MacGowans is stupid, but we don’t have a choice. our community is everything, our support is everything. it’s rough. it can almost kill you. but would any of us trade it for anything else? we are MacColls and MacGowans all at once - we are the ones with fragile hopes, we are the ones who damage it, and shepherd it still. we’re our own worst enemy and we’re all we have

when Shane MacGowan adapted the original lyrics of a lonely seafarer, he did not turn it into a queer song. in fact, he wrote a character yelling the f-slur. there is not a gramme of queercoding here. but exactly what is the difference between the actual faggots finding commonality in the villain songs penned to mock us, or old broadway songs that have nothing to do with us, and the yuletide song that actively hates us? fucking little, i would argue. queer celebration’s power is its ability to reconstrue. they call us faggot every month of the year with nary a second thought, and we spit it right back at them with reclamation and solidarity. we should do the same in december. we dance to the tune of their bigotry and we sing along at the top of our lungs. they are quietening down out of embarrassment - long may our party reign. FONY, a bigoted song, is a queer anthem because it has been made so. the madness. the love. the sadness. the dreams. that is queerness. and queer revolution is not giving one single, solitary shite about straight people’s discomfort about what the cheap, lousy faggots choose to celebrate. the way the ending instrumental tapers off into beautiful emotion - the straights have abandoned it: that feeling of love, that feeling of joy, that feeling belongs to us now

sing it like you would all queer songs. hold your friends close and celebrate them. love everyone around you. and when the naughty word comes around, scream it

[springonmytraptillicomeback]

make sure to keep YOUR yuletide gay this holiday season