#put down the hallmark channel. it's just a fucking day like any other. you give everything your own meaning and I find none in it and

[redrockbutch]

The thing I hate the most about Christmas is that it has the simplest, most obvious holiday gimmick ever (give and get presents) but the Christmas Lovers™ just. Refuse to accept that this could possibly be a factor in why people who aren't children like Christmas over other holidays like sorry but you live across the street from your parents I dont believe that you literally only ever see your family But One Day A Year on Christmas, so the whole "I just love being with family uwu" schtick is so fucking transparent just say you like presents!!! Just say it!

"Oh the strange mystical unnameable magic of Christmas..."

Yeah that's presents and enforced Christianity and it's never been mystical or strange

[moorishflower]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Thank you @landwriter for the tag <3<3<3 Answers under the cut!

How many works do you have on Ao3? 227!

What's your total Ao3 word count? I broken two million this year! :)

What fandoms do you write for? I guess you'd say my "main" fandom is still The Sandman, because that's what really started me writing again, but I'll write for any piece of media that inspires me. I've written for The Terror, the D&D movie, Dungeon Meshi, Supernatural, Sherlock, and Homestuck at various points.

Top five fics by kudos: 1. aulon raid - In which no neonazis are allowed in the New Inn. 2. Curse of the Green Hag - The one where Xenk Yendar is cursed by a hag and he and Edgin have to fuck about it. 3. Ecdysis - Undressing and armor and bathing. 4. That I Should Wedded-Be - This was my first attempt at something longer. It's definitely not one of my better ones at this point but it was one of the first ones so it has a lot more kudos. 5. Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow - The one where Hob fucks Dream on his desk.

Do you respond to comments? I would really like to, but I find that I often don't have the energy, and because I want every response to be unique and thoughtful and just for that person, it means that I feel really bad if I give a simple "thanks!" and nothing else. Inevitably the bad feeling of not responding in a meaningful way outweighs the good feeling of getting the comment, so now I really only respond to comments if they address me directly or ask a question.

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? the long way down maybe? It has a more open "hopeful" ending. I don't usually let things end on a low note!

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Hallmark-Adjacent, I think. Literally ends like a Hallmark movie lol.

Do you get hate on fics? Once or twice it's happened. If it's happened since then I haven't been aware of it. I'm sure a lot of conversation goes on in like, discord channels and such that I don't follow. I'm not particularly interested in debating with people about the intentions or morality of my writing. I try to be as authentic and inclusive and respectful as the setting and story allow me to be, but I'm also human and fallible. *shrug* I grow and learn more every day. Expecting perfection from people is an exercise in frustration and futility.

Do you write smut?

yeh

Craziest crossover: Wrote a BBC Sherlock/Homestuck fusion. That was fun.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I'm aware of. If it was like Cocoon or Maybe sprout wings I think I'd be really upset about it because I put so much into those, but I don't know if I'd feel particularly devastated if it was anything else. BSN, maybe. I mean it would suck? That's a shitty thing to do, but also, you're not earning any real clout or money by doing it, lol.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes! A number of my fics have been translated, mostly into Russian (thanks chainsmoking and Bonniemary!), and one into Spanish (thanks Dhixi!). I'm incredibly flattered every time someone takes the time and effort to do a translation. It's an incredible art.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? Yes, though not recently.

All time favourite ship? Listen I write so much for Sandman but truthfully? Mulder/Scully. Alpha and omega ship. Don't know if anything will ever compare.

What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? At this point, The Whole of Love Contained is so far removed from my current writing style that I would have to restart from scratch, I think. I'm not counting it out forever, but there are other ideas I've had that I'm more interested in pursuing first.

What are your writing strengths? I really like sentence construction. The flow of it. How you can use punctuation to make it stop -- and then carry on, giving it purposeful structure. I've been told I have a talent for inserting life-altering sentences into the middle of things so that they hit you like a punch. Idk I'm bad at listing my own strengths. I like to research things a lot?

What are your writing weaknesses? Pacing, definitely, and action scenes. I always feel like my action scenes have low-stakes feel to them. And dialogue. I think a lot of people struggle to write realistic dialogue, though, so that might not just be me. Keeping the momentum going. Sometimes I'll be so focused on reaching one specific scene that I'll lose track of how to actually get there, and I'll stall out. I feel like I have a lot more weaknesses but I struggle to articulate them beyond a sense of deep dissatisfaction with my own writing, especially in comparison with other writers whom I greatly admire. I feel often like I'm churning out things that are easily-digestible and entertaining, but not necessarily meaningful, or not conveying what I would like them to do. Logically I know that "entertaining" is a value unto itself, and nothing to scoff at, but still. The writer's hubris, maybe.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language? Kind of depends on what you're using it for, I suppose. I tend to stick with one narrator's POV, so it can be useful if the narrator doesn't speak that language, but we, as the readers, can pop the sentence into translate and get the gist. I tend to use that sparingly as a gimmick, though, because I'm not multilingual except in the very most basic of terms and I prefer being correct to being aesthetic, lol.

First fandom you wrote in? If you want to be technical, it was Harry Potter. But the first fandom I wrote seriously for was Heroes.

Favourite fic you've written? I'm still proudest of Maybe sprout wings. Not sure if I'll ever write something like that again, where so much of it just felt right. And it got a compliment from a writer I admired very much in Homestuck fandom, so I reckon I did something right with it.

I'll tag @arialerendeair and @dsudis because I know you've both been in fandom for a while and I want to hear your stats <3

[teknicaldifficulties]

perhabs,, early relationship, Paul wanting affection but being anxious and not knowing how to go about it?

Ceej, you understand me and my Paul hcs on a spiritual level, thank you for my rights and an excuse to write soft nonsense. It's uh... It's a little long.

Being in an honest-to-god romantic relationship was taking a bit of re-getting used to for Paul. He hadn't dated anyone since college, and suddenly wham, he's head over heels for a cute, snarky barista who seems to return his affections. It was odd, but no less wonderful, feeling his heart flutter in his chest whenever Emma so much as smiled at him. He hadn't felt this way about someone in damn near a decade, and then this beautiful 5'0 biology student walked into his life, and god, his brain just didn't know how to handle it.

Paul and Emma had started seeing each other around late October, hooking up in the Beanies break room during a Halloween party her boss Nora had thrown. It was mid-December now, a week and a half before Christmas, and things were still going strong between them. Though there had been... something strange on Paul's mind for a few weeks now, something that had never bothered him before in his past relationships.

Paul was a tactile guy with people he liked, something his friends all knew well. He was never sure exactly how he'd rank the five love languages as applied to himself, but touch was definitely his number one. Casual shoulder squeezes and light nudges were common gestures of his among friends, as Bill could easily attest. With romantic partners, this was cranked up a bit. Lots of light kisses to their temple or resting his hand on their back, stuff like that. It was always the easiest way for him to show that he cared. His partners... were never as tactile as him. It was very all give and no take on Paul's end when it came to physical affection, and he hadn't really minded it. At least, he was pretty sure he hadn't...

But now? With Emma? Her touch was something he actively craved. And it's not as if Emma never touched him outside of sex, far from it, she was probably the most physically affectionate partner Paul had ever had. She held his hand, kissed his cheek, cuddled up against him during movie nights, and gave him playful little jabs in the side when he was being a smartass. But she wasn't quite as casually affectionate as Paul was with her, and he couldn't help but wish she was.

And sweet jesus christ, did Paul find it embarrassing. It made him feel like some dopey lovesick teenager whenever he thought about it. Like, what was he supposed to do? Ask her to touch him more often? He'd sound like a total fucking weirdo if he tried to explain it to her. But still, he couldn't help but think about it a lot.

It had been a lazy Sunday evening, the one day of the week when neither half of the couple had work. And of course, they were... taking advantage of their day off, as it were. On Paul's living room couch, no less. They'd just finished up, and Emma had gone off to use his shower and whatnot. After washing up a bit, Paul had promptly put some comfy sleepwear on (because it was December in Michigan and Paul was not one to lounge around in the nude with temperatures like that outside), and was now absentmindedly channel surfing whilst laying on the couch.

Nearly half an hour later, Emma had emerged from the bathroom, hair tied into a braid and clad in a bright red hoodie that Paul recognized as his own. He couldn't help but smile, it was so big on her, and she looked adorable in it.

"Find anything to watch while I was in there?" she asked.

"Hallmark movies, a bunch of stock Christmas faire, and like three separate Harry Potter marathons," Paul replied. "None of which I'm particularly interested in watching, so we might have to retreat to the DVD shelf again."

Emma shrugged. "Hey, fine by me, TV edits are usually garbage fires anyway," she said. She strode over to the other side of the living room, where Paul kept his DVDs, and eyed the shelf. After a minute or two, she plucked a case off the shelf, snickering. "Monty Python: Life of Brian, that's a Christmas movie, right?"

"Absolutely," Paul quipped. "Anything can be a Christmas movie if you stretch the definition enough."

"Good, because I wanna watch Monty Python."

After popping the disk in, she turned back to the couch, and Paul sat up to give her some room. As she sat back down, Paul took in the sight of her. God, she was lovely. And she looked so cozy in his hoodie, it was hard not to find the sight of her absolutely heart-melting. His heart fluttered a bit, he was getting that feeling again. Unfortunately, Paul found himself staring at her instead of the screen for a bit too long, and she took notice.

"Paul?" she piped up, snapping him out of his trance with a befuddled smile. "You good, babe?"

Paul felt his cheeks flush. Had she ever called him "babe" before? "It's, uh... it's nothing," he stammered unconvincingly. "I just zoned out for a bit."

Emma, being the observant person she was, eyed him with skepticism. "You look like you have something on your mind," she noted. "What's up?"

Well, shit. Feeling his face burn hotter, Paul attempted to weasel himself out of this inevitable awkward conversation.

"N-nothing's up, I'm fine!" he tried to assure her, perhaps too defensively to sound convincing.

"That's the voice of a man who definitely has something up," Emma observed. She grabbed the remote, and paused the film before continuing. "Something's bothering you, Paul, I can tell."

"It-it's just..." Paul tried to begin, feeling momentarily reassured by Emma's soft gaze. But when the right words wouldn't come to him, he groaned and buried his flushing face in his hands. God, why was he like this? "Nevermind, it's really stupid, can we just watch the movie, please?"

"Paul, I know stupid, I work at Beanies," Emma retorted playfully, earning a brief chuckle from Paul. "Whatever's bothering you, it can't be any worse than the shit my co-workers complain about on the daily. I promise you I won't laugh."

Paul removed his hands from his face, meeting her gentle gaze once more. "You mean it?"

She nodded. "I'm all ears."

Exhaling a deep breath, Paul took a moment to think of how to word his self-imposed predicament in the least stupid way possible. Probably best to start small.

"Um, y'know how... when we watch movies or whatever together," he began, trying to force himself to talk above a whisper. "You'll like, lean against my chest, and I'll wrap my arms around you and play with your hair and all that?"

Emma nodded, looking somewhat confused. "Yeah...?"

"Do you think we could... do that the other way around this time?"

There was a brief moment of silence, and Paul was pretty sure his face had turned a shade of red that had only ever been seen by shrimp before. Jesus, that must've sounded so stupid.

"That's all?" Emma asked.

Yep, there it was. Paul looked down at his lap again, embarrassed beyond belief. "Basically, yeah..." he chuckled despite himself. "I know, I know, it's really dumb, and I probably got you all worried for nothing-"

"Whoa, whoa, Paul, slow down!" Emma cut him off, reaching out to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. She smiled at him softly. "I mean, sure! If that's what you want, we can do it!"

Paul took another deep breath. "Really?"

"Yeah!" Emma replied. She leaned back on the arm of the couch, and opened her arms. "Come on, bring it in."

Still nervous and flustered, Paul slowly eased himself against Emma, resting his head against her chest. He could feel her heartbeat, even through the thick fabric of the hoodie. Emma rested one hand on his back, and began to thread her fingers through his hair, just like he would do with her. Paul felt a chill go down his spine. God, he forgot how much he loved having his hair stroked. He wrapped his arms around her torso, face still flushing like nobody's business.

"How's that?" Emma asked, undoubtedly noticing the ridiculous smile that had forced itself onto his face.

"Wonderful..." he sighed, finally beginning to calm down a bit. "Thanks, Emma."

"No prob," Emma snickered, still stroking his hair. "But before we un-pause the movie, can I ask why it was such an ordeal for you to ask me about this?"

"It's kinda hard to articulate," Paul explained, adjusting himself so that he wasn't muffled by the hoodie. "My, um... my past partners weren't really the, uh... the affectionate kinda types, y'know? So it just kinda felt weird to ask you to... do this... I guess..."

"...Well," Emma began after a moment's pause. "I'm not your past partners, so I'd be more than happy to do this more often."

"You would?" Paul inquired hopefully.

"If it makes you feel as loved as it makes me feel," Emma said, rubbing a calming circle between his shoulder blades with her thumb. "Then I'll do it anytime."

Paul could've melted right then and there. He was loved... In a somewhat indirect way, Emma said she loved him. Perhaps now was the time...

"Thanks again, Em," he said, slightly choked up. He craned his neck a bit to press a kiss to her neck. "I, um... I love you."

Emma briefly paused in her stroking of his hair, only to resume moments later, and press a kiss to his forehead.

"I... I love you too, Paul."

[rvspberry]

Cat boy Steve trying to cook/ BAKE??? something as a Christmas surprise???

(THIS WAS AN AMAZING ASK!!! And it ended up becoming a modern Catboy AU. And ended up longer than I expected. Anon, I hope you enjoy.)

Steve’s never baked cookies before. He’s never baked *anything* before, to be honest, and he’s never really thought about trying his hand at doing things in the kitchen until now. Billy cooks for them, mostly because Steve can burn water because he gets so easily distracted, ears twitching at every little noise and tail flicking with each new interest that catches his attention.

But the thing is… the thing is, Steve turns on the Hallmark channel the second week of December and watches romcom after romcom with people baking cakes and pies and whole Christmas dinners to show their love. Steve could maybe try cookies. They seem easy enough.

And, like, it sounds cool. Making cookies for Billy. Showing his love through something homemade. Like, he works part-time at Family Video, and he already bought Billy something small, something he could afford. But giving Billy something he put his heart into? Something made with love and care? Something he made with his own two hands?

The way the movies make it out, that’s the best thing he could ever offer to Billy, cookies worth their weight in gold.

It can’t be that hard, right?

So Steve turns to his first source of knowledge anytime he needs to find out how to do something new.

YouTube.

He’s a visual learner, okay? He likes being able to see the steps laid out in real time.

His attention span shoots for the sixty-second video where they do a run-through of the steps to making the perfect chocolate chip cookies. It’s long enough to hold his attention, short enough to keep him focused, and he feels so confident watching it that he goes out and buys all the ingredients he needs. He’s whistling to himself through the grocery store, smiles at the cashier, and when he gets home, he still feels utterly confident.

Until the batter comes out a lot more liquid than solid. The chocolate chips fall off the spoon before he can even scoop them up. Steve winces, but he followed the directions. Even if the directions didn’t have anything like measurements. He kind of eyeballs each ingredient. Two sticks of butter, two eggs, a cup each of flour and sugar, a hefty scoop of baking powder - and then the chocolate chips. But…

It looks weird.

It’s not right.

Steve dips his pinky into the batter and tastes it. It’s bitter, and not sweet enough. He still goes through with it, spooning the liquidy mixture onto the cookie sheet and popping it into the oven.

The oven is a whole other experience entirely, because Steve doesn’t know what the numbers really mean. He pushes a few until the numbers read 2-0-0. That seems like a long time, right? Or is it temperature? Whatever. It works.

...Except the video says to leave the cookies in the oven for 10-15 minutes, and when he pulls them out, they’re still raw. So he pops them back in for 20 minutes. 30 minutes. An hour passes, and they seem to grow more disgusting with every minute that passes.

When he finally pulls them out, somehow raw on top and burnt on the bottom and sides, Steve tosses the whole thing - cookies, tray, and all.

Billy comes home later and crinkles his nose. “Did you burn something, babe?”

“No!” Steve is quick to reply, eyes wide when he looks up at Billy from his spot on the couch where he’d been laying in the sun earlier. “Nope. Not at all.”

“Okay…” Billy drawls, his eyes gazing over at Steve with confusion until he spots something and smiles. Strutting over to Steve, Billy reaches out and rubs his thumb over Steve’s cheek. “You got some flour on you.”

Steve lets out a yelp and flies to the bathroom to wash up properly, Billy snickering behind him.

~

Steve tries again the next week, the week before Christmas. Surely he can master it if he tries to follow a longer video, right? Something with measurements. Something that’s foolproof. And when the batter is finished, with Steve’s focus narrowing enough for him to measure every little ingredient out, it looks just like the video. He pulls it up on his phone, ears twitching as he listens intently.

He follows every step to the T, to the dotted ‘i.’ The sets the “bake” thing to 3-7-5 and puts the sheet inside to begin with. Even waits as the numbers turn from 1-0-0 to 1-2-0, thinking that he must wait 120 minutes for the oven to hear up. He groans when the 1-0-0 turns to 1-2-0… Really? That long? That’s how long it takes to heat the oven?

By the time the oven beeps and the numbers read ‘3-7-5,’ Steve has gotten distracted licking his paws and visibly startles into action.

He places the tray into the oven and even turns on the timer somehow for ten minutes.

But then Steve goes to the living room and lays down on the couch in the sun and starts cleaning his tail, licking the backs of his hands to clean his ears. He doesn’t want Billy to know he’s made cookies until he steps into the kitchen and sees the beautiful pile of them on a plate on the counter. Wouldn’t that be something?

So, ten minutes turn into twenty, and the smell of smoke tinges the air.

Steve crinkles his nose at the scent, his senses more sensitive than a human’s, and then his eyes widen comically in fear.

“No, no, no! Not my cookies!!”

Steve rushes to the kitchen to drag the cookies out of the oven with a mitted-hand and lays them on the stove. Confusion tinges his expression - it curls at the edges of his mouth, curls his eyebrows up, makes him completely disinterested and distrustful of the process. These were going to be fool-proof. Steve-proof.

And he messed it up again.

He scrapes the burnt cookies off the tray into the trash can and soaks the tray in the sink as best as he can, given how tiny it is.

Steve’s tail twitches. How did he screw this batch so badly? How did he not hear the timer?

He realizes that only one person can really help him right now, and resolves to call Joyce Byers.

~

Steve is still smarting from his last attempt, so it takes him another few days to get around to calling her. By the time he does, it’s Christmas Eve.

But Joyce seems happy to help, one catperson to another, and offers up the recipe for her homemade snickerdoodles.

“Could you- could you tell me how to make them? All the ones I’ve tried end up terrible,” he says, wincing at the admission.

“Of course, Steve. Just stay on the phone with me. Put me on speaker so you can use both of your hands. And don’t hesitate to ask me any questions, okay?”

“Okay…”

So, Joyce talks him through properly measuring the ingredients, leveling them off with a knife.

She describes adding the sugar and butter together and calls it “creaming” which makes him fight back a snicker.

He adds the eggs carefully, once at a time, fishing out tiny pieces of eggshell to make sure no one gets that unpleasant surprise. He adds the vanilla, the dry ingredients, rolls them into little balls in a mix of cinnamon sugar, and places them carefully on a baking sheet.

Steve thinks to ask her about the oven numbers and feels like an idiot when she tells him it’s not the time left for preheating but the temperature climbing up to 350’.

Joyce even keeps him on the phone while the cookies bake, both of them sharing information about the latest campaigns of the party. Steve doesn’t have the attention to stay interested in a campaign for as long as they take to trudge through, everyone rolling, everyone making a decision, the boys fighting about what is and isn’t allowed… It’s a lot, and he feels a little better when Joyce agrees with him, both of them dissolving into laughter.

His tail flicks back and forth, casual and easy and contented, and when the timer goes off in the background, Steve actually hears it and Joyce reminds him to take the cookies out to let them cool.

When Billy gets home that night, Steve can’t help the smug smile on his face.

“Damn, I think the neighbor was baking cookies or something, it smells so good in the hallway!” Billy says, toeing off his boots. He stops in the doorway and sniffs the air curiously. His blue eyes turn on Steve, who can’t even pretend to be innocent as his ears are flicked ahead, alert, and his tail whips back and forth with anticipation. “Baby… did *you* bake cookies today?”

The slow smile that steals across Steve’s lips is no less smug, and his tail flicks excitedly. He perks up, licking his lips.

“Do you want to try one?” Steve asks, affecting a shy look right up until Billy nods. Then, Steve stands quickly, shoots his hand out to curl around Billy’s wrist and drags him into the kitchen.

There, on a simple paper plate, are the snickerdoodles Joyce helped him make. Completely harmless, and yet they hold a weight to them that Steve cannot describe.

Steve’s eyes are wide as he watches Billy pick one up, can practically feed his pupils dilating as Billy raises the cookie to his mouth and he takes a bite.

Billy tuns to face him suddenly and Steve’s ears flatten in preparation to be told that they’re terrible. For Billy to spit them out, or- or whatever. To do something that shows that Steve’s efforts were all for naught.

“Steve, these are *delicious*!” Billy exclaims, then shoves the rest of the cookie into his mouth.

“Really?” Steve asks. He looks at Billy through his lashes with his biggest, roundest eyes, a little pout on his lips.

“Baby, yes. Yes, they’re so fucking good,” Billy mumbles through a mouthful of cookie, chewing and swallowing what he had in his mouth. He pulls Steve into his arms and gives him a sweet kiss, the buttery-sugar-and-cinnamon flavor clinging to Billy’s lips. “Did you make these for me…?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes out, the weight on his shoulders lifting immediately. He ducks his head, trying to hide his grin.

Billy crowds him back against the counter, a hand on either side of Steve caging him in. Steve picks his chin up to lock eyes with Billy, who smiles warmly at him.

“Thank you,” Billy murmurs and turns his head to lean in and press their lips together. “They’re amazing. *You’re* amazing.”

Steve laughs softly and kisses Billy back, his hands moving up to slide into Billy’s hair. “You’re amazing, too. That’s why I made them for you. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, babe,” Billy whispers, and kisses Steve again.

[thebattlelost]

A Christmas tale of one idiot. Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house screaming was heard as he was killing his spouse with blood splatter on everything including the mouse the children up stairs are laid up in their beds coughing and sneezing with Covid 19 temperatures soaring with breathing becoming harder I am sure Santa Klause will likely find them long dead. Do I have your attention just a reminder that we now have two more days until Christmas where more suicides are recorded then any other day of the year so when someone says to me "Have a happy holiday"  I want to throw up making me want to pick up a big rock wrap it in the prettiest Christmas paper place a pretty bow on it then smile as I throw it through their God damn window while I am screaming "here bitch is your fucking HoHoHo,"  Then all of the Christmas lights hanging everywhere I can see on everything they can find looking making it look like a stupid Disney movie causing the cost of electricity to go up giving all the crooks, the ones in suites the greedy bastards who care about nothing but themselves besides that, it hurts my eyes so bad that I want to break every single bulb-like it is a bubble wrapper or start taking target practice and shoot every mother fucking one of them then take the wire that's a lot of copper for the scrappers out there and wrap it around those executive necks then hang them up by the chimney with  care as I fill the house with gas and a yuletide log then light it on fire causing a mile wide explosion so Santa Clause would not miss out on the carnage and so he can look down right at me and kiss me ass from the air   then when the carolers come howling all of those stupid songs that hurt my ears wearing ridiculous clothes that   a clown would not even wear making me want to take my hose turn it on full blast and spray them down like two dogs humping and a partridge in a pear tree, then go to my room and turn the lock then place a note on my door that says I killed Santa Clause right down Santa clause lane so Christmas would be canceled for cutting me off on the road due to the fact that he is an asshole. so take your damn cheer and Happy New Year and shove them up to your ass. I mean everywhere you go you will see the best of all humanity putting up Christmas trees with all that shiny tinsel of Red and green buying overpriced gifts standing in line for hours to buy presents with money they do not have to spend in the first place using all their rent and bill cash on people they do not even like or who do not care about them, I mean really who in the hell needs ten stuffed animals that cost twenty cents to make in all shapes and sizes bending you over the table costing ridiculous prices or ugly sweaters that make you sick or crappy tasting fruitcakes that have been around since Nixon was in office while they are killing trees tearing down the rain forestand filling up the dumps with billions of tons of trash and litter all for what the hallmark channel made up  all the holidays that are supposed to be celebrating the day our Lord and King Baby Jesus Christ and maybe even baby Yoda was born, another thing you know what I bet Jesus was pissed off growing up only getting one gift with a card that said, Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas because if that were me I would be like Whoa "yo hey  whats this bitch one gift you cheap mother beeeeeeep" I will smite your ass and flood your crops, hey dad will you send a plague of wasp, I mean what is the deal with holiday spirit because there is nothing at all to cheer about, I mean the poor keep getting poorer living on the streets they got no money for presents, hell that cannot even eat, you have the television showing all the specials the ones where everyone gets presents making those unfortunate children feel like shit, because of who they were born into Imean I guess they get the gift of their father being locked away in prison who spent all the Christmas money on cocaine bail and woman for beating his mother half to death who is nothing but a whore drug addict passed out on the floor of the kitchen so hey kid have yourself a Merry Christmas I hope you get presents but he won't instead, he will be a foster kid living from home to home oh and son Happy Holidays even though your parents died a day ago hit and killed by a fucking drunk driver coming home from a Christmas party full of holiday spirit then walked away without a scratch saying, I did not do it there you go kid your parents were in the car on the way home sorry but Happy Holidays we saved the presents they are a little soaked with and guts oh wait there is you dads eye t will take that. Then you have the ones at home to face the dark all alone they want to laugh and smile but can't because of mental health they have depression or anxiety or some other form of a mental kind of disability no one to help them they never believe them only saying things like take a pill or twenty just fake a smile until they find them hanging by a rope by the chimney with care, dead who knows how long they been hanging there or holding a gun still, been dead two weeks all red and green and it ain't no Christmas spirit that blood splatter or sitting in a car that is full of presents and cookies and candy smothered and covered by carbon monoxide and oh hear that Christmas music blaring full of the Happy New Year where you find the addicts on the streets trying to snort up all of the white powder or the ice that has fallen or those heroes in places unknown fighting and dying for what? jingle bells and IEDs singing all they want for Christmas is their arms or legs they were blown away when they stopped and searched foreign Santas and his elves carrying a hundred pounds of explosive and radioactive Christmas toys so I say screw the holidays take your cheers I do not want to hear about Rudolph or a snowman or how those rich kids got fifty thousand dollars worth of toys but threw them all away and   killed their parents because they did not get what they asked for so take your jingle or I will kick your balls and tell Santa that if he comes here he will see naughty when I Claus his eyes out then shoot his reindeer mounting their heads on my wall,  so all of you greedy  suit-wearing bottom dollar soul-sucking corporations stop shoving your Christmas bullshit down the throats of those who have nothing at all to give, stop harassing our kids and charging forty dollars at the overcrowded malls to see your crappy looking smells like he has been drinking child molesting fake Kris Kringle figuring the kids will throw a fit so the parents will have to spend all that money. so take your HoHoHo and shove it up your holiday spirit and go back to hell with the other demons. 

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night, Poet Richard M Knittle Jr. A Poet's Journey

[snelbz]

The Best For Last

Christmas in July {Day 2}

Manon + Dorian

Written alongside the best bff who ever did live, @tacmc.

Dorian walked up the front porch steps with a bag of gifts in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. He reached up with his snow-covered boot to ring the doorbell and waited.

Manon had never liked the holidays. Dorian, however, loved Christmas. His family was a little dysfunctional, but his happiest memories had always been around the holidays. He wanted nothing more than for a little bit of his cheer to rub off on his girlfriend. Which is why, on Christmas Eve, Dorian had wandered out in the snowstorm to drive across town to Manon’s little house on the edge of the city.

Except she wasn’t answering the damn door.

His boot hit the doorbell once more.

He could hear her footsteps as she quickly came down the stairs, her feet (most likely in fuzzy socks) skidding as she hit the landing. The porch light flicked on and as soon as Manon opened the door, he began to sing.

“We wish you a Merry Christmas,

We wish you a Merry Christmas,

We wish you a Merry Christmas,

And a Happy-.”

The door slammed in his face and the porch light turned off.

“Manon!” He called, laughter in his voice. “Open the door, baby.”

Silence.

“I can see your shadow through the glass. I know you’re still standing there.”

Nothing.

“It’s freezing, shit, open the-“

The door swung open and Dorian was pulled in by the collar of his coat. His lips caught hers in a hungry embrace as the door shut behind him. 

Once their lips broke, Dorian raised a brow. “Was that because you missed me or to keep me from singing again?” 

“A little bit of both,” she crooned, looking down at the gifts he brought along with him. “Mostly the singing though.”

Dorian grinned, before looking around her living room. His eyes landed on the far corner, where an armchair sat.

“What are you looking for?” Manon asked, eyes narrowing.

“A place to put the tree,” he mumbled, setting down his bag and the bottle of wine.

“What tree?” Manon asked, through gritted teeth.

“The one tied to the roof of my car,” he answered, cheerfully. “Obviously.”

“Dorian,” she groaned, falling onto the couch. “You know I don’t do Christmas. I show up to the parties, I drink the wine and then I leave before people can start talking about merriment and love and all that other bullshit.”

He sat down next to her, a hand rubbing her knee. “You don’t want to talk about merriment and love and all that other bullshit with me? In front of our own Christmas tree? With all the presents I bought you?”

She visibly brightened and said, “You bought me present?”

“Many,” he said, grin growing. “Multiples. And you’re gonna like all of them.”

She sighed, pursing her lips. “Can’t I like them without a tree?”

“Nope,” Dorian said, giving her a quick kiss before rising to his feet and holding out his hand. “Come on.”

“No.”

“You have to come with me.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“You know it turns me on when you get sassy.”

Manon rolled her eyes, unable to stop her sputtering laughter.

Dorian loved that laughter.

“Fine,” she said, meeting him on his feet. “I’ll help you put up the fucking tree, but I’m only doing it for you. I’m not going to enjoy myself.”

Dorian bit down his own laughter. “I can live with that.”

When he had cut the tree down, Dorian had had not only Chaol to help him tie it to the roof, but Rowan and Lorcan as well. As the snow began to fall faster and faster, he and Manon were finally able drag it inside.

After setting it up in the base he had brought, he looked over at Manon, standing in the middle of the living room, with her arms crossed over her chest.

True to her word, she was not enjoying herself.

There were pine needles sticking out of her moon white hair and the braid it had been tied back in had come loose. Strands were framing her face and though she was disheveled, Dorian couldn’t believe how gorgeous she was.

“Time to decorate,” he said, stepping in front of her and kissing her nose.

She held out a hand. “I demand payment, boyfriend.” He awkwardly gave her a low five. She rolled her eyes and said, “I was promised presents. Multiple.”

“Not until after we’re done-.”

She cut him off with a kiss, searing and passionate, her hands knitting into his raven hair. “No,” she said, pulling away. “I want one now.”

Dorian blinked, then sighed. “You do realize-“

“If you tell me that’s not how Christmas works, you will not be getting any tonight, Havilliard.”

Well, she definitely knew how to get what she wanted. 

Dorian opened his mouth to snap a reply, but he had nothing.

“Fine,” He said, “but just one. And I’m not giving you the best one. That one will be saved for last, when this is the best damn looking tree I’ve ever seen. Understand?”

Manon just grinned, small and wickedly. “I love it when you lay down the law.”

Dorian couldn’t help but laugh as he reached into his bag and pulled out a square box, the biggest out of all of her gifts.

“Here,” He said, placing it tauntingly into her outstretched hands. “Tradition-ruiner.”

She dropped to the floor and tore into it, unceremoniously ripping the paper and throwing it onto the floor around her. When she opened the lid, she gasped and carefully picked up the small leather bag.

She’d been eyeing a new Michael Kors crossbody purse. He saw her eyes lock into it every time they walked past the window in the Square.

“Baby,” she breathed, unable to articulate her feelings into words.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Christmas is just another opportunity for me to spoil my girl.” She looked up at him and beamed, a true smile that she only reserved for him. “Now, let’s get this tree looking festive as heck and maybe you’ll get another one tonight.”

“Maybe?” She repeated. “You can’t tease me then expect me not to want more.”

Dorian just smiled and opened a small box of ornaments. “Decorate.”

Manon almost had a pep in her step as she grabbed an ornament from the box, a small blue ball, and hung it on the tree.

“Here,” Dorian said from behind her. “This one next.”

She took it, not even bothering to look at it until she hung it on the branch. Her hand froze as she saw it, a faint smile on her lips. 

A silver Christmas tree hung from a red ribbon that read, Our First Christmas. Dorian & Manon.

She turned to face him. He watched her, eyes soft. “You’re allowed to tell me its stupid, but it’s staying on the tree.”

Manon just shook her head, picking another little blue ball out of the box. “It can stay.”

They decorated in silence, the only noise the rustling of the tree as Dorian fixed an ornament her and there and the crackling of the fire. Manon has just plucked the small angel from the box when Dorian picked her up around the hips and lifted her up. She laughed and asked him what he was doing, but he didn’t answer and carried her over to the tree. She reached up and carefully placed the angel at the top and looked down at him. “Is that festive enough for you?”

He slid her down his body, making sure there was contact at every point, and gently kissed her lips when her feet her back on the floor. “I guess you can have one more present tonight.”

“By one do you mean all?” She asked through long, white lashes.

“It’s not Christmas yet,” he whispered. 

“But it’s Christmas Eve,” she whispered back. 

Dorian just laughed, breathlessly. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

Manon simply shook her head.

He nuzzled against her neck. “You don’t want to wake up with me on Christmas morning and run downstairs to see what Santa brought?” He pressed a soft kiss to the spot just below her ear he knew could start or finish something, depending on how you looked at it.

“Santa,” she said, pulling away and putting emphasis on the name, “didn’t bring me shit. My amazing-,” a kiss to his chin, “wonderful-,” a kiss to his nose, “sexy-,” a kiss to his lips, “boyfriend did and I want to properly thank him. All night. Mornings are overrated anyways.”

Dorian let out a deep, low groan. Partly out of frustration, partly out of the sexual tension that was now building in his core.

“Fine,” He said, his lips finding her collarbone. “But now I’m going to be the one not enjoying it.”

Manon grinned. “I can live with that.”

She sat down on the couch crossing her legs and held out her hands in a gimme motion. Her signature, metallic nails glinted in the firelight and the colorful lights shining from the tree.

“First,” he said, swiping the remote off the table and turning the tv on. He flipped through the channels until he landed on Hallmark, showing their generic, cheesy Christmas movie of the night. Manon groaned and leaned her head back against the cushions. “You’re trying to kill me.”

Dorian just smiled, completely satisfied in her aggravation.  

He knew he was annoying her, but when he annoyed her he also knew that she secretly liked it.

“At least I’m not still out on the porch single Christmas carols,” he offered. 

Manon swing her legs over his lap, straddling his lap. “True.”

Her mouth touched his, softly, lovingly. “Keep me waiting and I won’t give you your gift.”

Dorians head jerked back. “You got me a gift? You? Manon Blackbeak? Got me a gift? You? Went shopping for me? For a Christmas gift?”

“If you keep talking, I will take it back to the store.”

She’d never seen him shut up so quickly.

She was also unprepared for the way he grabbed her hips and ground them into his own.

“You sure you don’t want to go ahead and thank me now for all of my wonderful presents you’ll be getting?”

Manon bit her lip, then shook her head slowly. “Gifts. Then sex.”

“Which is a gift in itself,” Dorian said, his lips finding her neck.

She pushed on his chest until he was resting against the back of the couch. “Down, boy,” she said, and climbed off of him and the couch.

She grabbed the bag of gifts and sat them down on the couch next to him.

Dorian grinned as she peeked inside. “Go ahead. Tear into them.” Manon did just that.

She may have hated Christmas, but she definitely didn’t hate getting gifts.

He spoiled her rotten. She tore into the boxes, pleased to find a new dress, an eyeshadow pallet she had mentioned that she wanted, and a necklace with his initials on it.

As he clasped the necklace and settled her braid back where it had been, he pressed a kiss to the back of her neck.

“I love you,” she said, resting a hand on his knee. “Thank you so much, you are-.” She paused and swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “You are more than I ever imagined I would deserve.”

He turned her to look at him and pressed a careful kiss to her lips. “You deserve everything I’ve given you and so much more. I can’t wait to spoil you for the rest of my life.” He loved the way her cheeks reddened as he said the words. She loved the butterflies the words ignited in her stomach. “Now before I turn the cheesiest of cheesy Christmas movies on, where’s my present?”

Manon pulled out a small, red wrapped rectangle from beneath the tree and handed it to him.

Dorian raised a brow as he grinned, taking the gift from her delicate hands and carefully removing the wrapping paper.

He beheld an old, vintage copy of one of his favorite classics, The Great Gatsby. 

He gawked. “Where did you find this?”

Manon showed him a rare, soft smile. “Antique shop on Main Street.”

He was speechless. Not only because it was an amazing gift, but because she knew him so well. “Thank you,” He said, kissing her quickly, softly. “It’s perfect.”

Manon patted his knee, uncomfortable with the praise as she rose to her feet. “Come on. To the wine cabinet.”

She was almost to the kitchen when she realized Dorian wasn’t following her. When she turned, she froze.

Dorian was down on one knee in front of the Christmas tree.

“What are you doing?” She breathed.

Dorian let out a deep breath of his own. “I have one more gift.”

She was frozen in place, a hand pressed to her chest. Her golden eyes were wide and she waited.

“I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you. Most people look at you and they see the wild demon you pretend to be, but you let me in. You let me see the beautiful soul inside. You let me love you. I want to keep doing that every day and every night, for the rest of our lives. Manon Katan Blackbeak, be my wife. Marry me and make me the happiest man in the world.”

Her eyes were lined with silver when she whispered, “You didn’t ask me.”

Dorian blinked. “What?”

She walked over to him, dropping on her knees in front of him and laughed softly. She framed his face with her hands and said, “You can’t just tell me we’re getting married. That’s not how it works. You have to ask me.”

Dorian let out a low chuckle, his head shaking slowly as he asked, “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Manon sputtered out a laugh as she pressed her mouth to his, softly. “Yes, of course, I will.”

He slipped the ring onto her finger and kissed her one more time. When she pulled back, she said, “Now, I definitely think we need to make a trip to the wine cabinet. To celebrate.”

He grinned. “I have something better, fiancée.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and stood, grabbing the last item out of the bag he’d brought. He held out a bottle of champagne and said, “We should probably open this in the front yard.”

She laughed and followed him as he headed for the front door.

After a dramatic opening, in which Dorian was fairly sure she aimed the cork for his head, they headed back inside and snuggled under a fuzzy blanket -- one of his many presents for her -- on the couch, watching a Hallmark Christmas special and sipping their champagne. Dorian pressed a kiss to the top of her head as she leaned back against his chest.

“I love you,” she said, turning around to look at him.

His sapphire eyes were bright as he said, “I love you more.”

And as she kissed her future husband, Manon decided maybe Christmas wasn’t so bad after all.

[tryinganddoing]

The Hallmark Channel

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Platonic), Steve x Reader (Platonic), Sam x Reader (Platonic)

Summary: It’s Christmas in July on the Hallmark Channel

Warnings: Cursing, but not a lot mainly just wholesomeness, (might be ooc idk)

Word Count: 821

A/N: Hi, this is my first time using Tumblr to write stuff. Feel free to leave criticism and comments please, cause anything will help. Please tell me if there’s any grammatical errors Also I’m shitty at dialogue so please stick with me

Productivity wasn’t a word you could identify with. Sure, you could be doing laundry or cleaning up around the house or arguing with people online, but nope. You laid on the couch channel surfing trying to find something to cure your early morning boredom. It was currently 9:50, meaning that the only  “entertaining” shows that were on was infomercials for mops and old game show reruns. You continued your search, going beyond your typical limits, eventually finding something that piqued your curiosity. Skimming over the title you raised a brow; The Christmas List? You were thoroughly confused considering it was the middle of July. Once you saw the channel it was playing on you let out a sigh. The Hallmark Channel, infamous for its subpar Christmas movies and love stories, portraying life in a weirdly “normal” way. They played slice of life love stories with awkwardly written scripts and generic plot lines, and always ended up being  anything but normal. Against your better judgement you decided to give into your boredom and watched the movie. Two hours later you heard the front door open and your three friends; Sam, Steve and Bucky, walked in.

“Hey, we’re back and we bought food! ” Sam announced walking past the couch and into the kitchen, leaving the other two standing by the door squabbling about something. They went out to brunch with the others, everyone putting in effort to try and relax now that the threat world destruction was gone.

You paused the movie and got up from the couch, making your way to where Sam was.

“I got you two waffles and four pieces of bacon. It would be five, but Barnes couldn’t keep his nasty hands off your food.” He gave a side eye to the metal armed man walking in the kitchen, Steve following close behind.

Reaching past Sam, you grabbed the bag off the table, just as him and Bucky began to bicker. Sam has been your best friend since the 4th grade, so when he asked if he and his friends could stay you said yes. At first you thought they were gonna stay for a couple days, but then couple of days turned into a couple of months. Now its been 7 months and they’re still here, but you can’t complain. You loved and cared about all three of them and wouldn’t get rid of them even if you wanted to. You took your spot back on the coach, continued the movie and began to eat you lukewarm waffles and bacon.

After about five minutes Steve came in and sat down next to you. “Whats this?” hes asked nodding towards the TV.

“Its, uh, the Hallmark Channel” you answered as the movie cut to a commercial.

“You? Watching the Hallmark Channel?” Sam chuckled walking behind the couch.

“Shut it, smartass” you replied glaring up at him making him laugh harder. He walked away, probably to his room to do, whatever.

“What’s the Hallmark Channel?” Bucky asked sitting down next to Steve, biting into an apple.

“They play romance movies and stuff. Ya know, the cheesy rom-com type of movies that have forgotten actors and the same typical female lead” . Just as you finished explaining the movie started again.

“Why’s it Christmas time?” Steve questioned

“ Its this Christmas in July thing  ... play Christmas movies in July. Its for people who are ready for Christmas to start, I guess.”

He nodded, “It be like that sometimes”.

You paused and looked at him. “Peter started showing you memes again, hasn’t he?”

“He said that everyone uses them in conversations now, so why can’t I? I even made a list of them, ya wanna s-”.

“Ssshhhh, I’m trynna watch the goddam movie,” Bucky shushed waving his hand, accidentally hitting Steve. “Oops, sorry.”

Silently laughing, you turned your attention back to the movie. Considering how subpar the movie was the two seemed absorbed in it. Maybe its cause they’re ya know, century old super soldiers, or they love shitty movies, who knows. The three of you sat there in is comfortable silence till it ended. “So, what you guys think? You guys like it?”

“This was literally a fucking waste of time” Bucky deadpanned making you laugh.

“I’ve never” Steve chuckled,“ Regretted anything more than this”.

“ I didn’t make you guys do anything,” you raised your hands up in surrender smirking, “You guys where the ones that decided to join!”

“She did the same thing to me!” Sam screamed from his room “ But with Ghost Adventures!”

“First of all, don’t you dare compare Ghost Adventures with this atrocity!”

“What‘s Ghost Adventures?” Steve asked, earning a curse from Bucky.

“I’m happy you asked, my friend,” you giggled when they groaned. You knew they enjoyed spending time with them even if it meant being forced to watch horrible shows. They wouldn’t trade these chill moments for the world ... or a better TV show.

[unapologeticallyjaylos]

“Merry Christmas, Darling” - Jay x Carlos

HI ALL! MERRY CHRISTMAS IF YOU CELEBRATE! 

Here’s my secret santa contribution (put together by @descendantssecretsanta) for @stanfouqueen!!!! 

The spiked eggnog tasted pretty good.

Mostly because the liquor contents in Jay’s glass way overpowered the actual holiday drink.

That night, the weather was less “sparkling snowflakes” and more “biting frost”, but he found himself on the front porch anyway, staring out at the neighbors’ Christmas display across the street. The lights blinked and glowed in the frigid darkness. To anyone else, the indoors would’ve seemed incredibly inviting - with the warm lights spilling out of the windows, followed closely by the sounds of laughter and classic Christmas carols playing on that record player someone had gotten during a gift exchange several years ago. Evie’s Annual Christmas Party was in full swing.

Except Jay didn’t feel like laughing or socializing, and how could he listen to Christmas Carols when the same person who gifted Mal that record player was now a hundred miles away doing who knew what?

What would Carlos be doing right now? Jay thought, taking another sip and letting the alcohol warm his insides. He’s probably already decorated one of those strange, lopsided shelf trees that he always picks.

His boyfriend always insisted on picking the one tree no one ever wanted, arguing that it deserved to be dressed up and brought home for Christmas just as much as any of the other perfect trees. (“The misfits were valid too”, he’d always say. “I’m a misfit, and you like me, remember?”)

Oh, Jay remembered alright. Especially now that the correct title for Carlos was technically ex-boyfriend. Even four months after their split, he still caught himself forgetting. This time, he would blame it on the drinks. 

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked - answered shortly by another dog. The conversation went on for awhile, each dog exchanging a few yips and an occasional howl from behind their separate fences, and Jay wondered how long he’d been sitting out there. So far, no one had come to look for him, which meant that he either hadn’t been gone long or that they were all too drunk to notice. Probably the latter.

Not that he really wanted them to come looking for him. Tonight, he was okay being kind of lonely because his only other option was pretending - and that wasn’t any better. Evie liked to say that Christmas and loneliness really didn’t belong in the same sentence, and maybe she was right. But people grew up. People changed. People got offered different scholarships to different schools and drifted apart.

I bet he’s studying tonight, the nerd, Jay thought before he could stop himself. In years past, he’d told Carlos to put down the books and enjoy life before it flashed before his eyes while he was staring at some derived equations or scientific theories. But this Christmas, Carlos was probably curled up his dorm room bed or somewhere in a corner, cuddling his dog and sipping hot chocolate, while studying the very same subjects he’d helped tutor Jay in not that long ago. And usually, Jay would choose a party over any night spent studying. But right at that moment? He’d choose the second option without a backward glance. It was kind of pathetic what he’d reduced himself to these days.

The noises of the night interrupted his wallowing thoughts once more. A few houses down, a car had honked and now, the sounds of ecstatic greetings and “Merry Christmas” echoed up and down the block. Family or friends come into town, no doubt.  Everyone reuniting and coming together again. Because that’s what happened during the holidays. People came home. People reunited. People understood that their friends and family had looked forward to seeing them over the holidays and would be crushed and disappointed by a simple text to a group chat that exam studies were just too intense and they wouldn’t make it home.

It’s not his fault, a voice in Jay’s head reminded.

Jay really didn’t want to resent Carlos for not wanting to come home for the holidays. All of his texts (however sparingly and usually sent to Mal or Evie) were filled with glowing reports about school and classes and life on campus. He’d been among of the select five percent of the country that were admitted, so Jay figured the place was probably equivalent to heaven or something. Who needed to come home when you had all the world at your fingertips?

“Yo,” came a voice behind him, sounding only slightly tipsy. “Jay, are you done feeling sorry for yourself yet? Uma’s about to open her gift and trust me, you won’t wanna miss it. I got her a stuffed shrimp; she’s gonna fucking strangle me.”

Without turning around, Jay took another sip of his drink. “I’m not feeling sorry for myself.”

“Oh,” Mal snorted. “My bad. I guess I mistook your sad slumped shoulders and sitting outside of a dope party in the dark drinking alone for self pity. Forgive me.”  

“Fuck you.” Jay wasn’t in the mood for her sarcasm.

“Look.” The wooden porch boards creaked under footsteps as Mal walked over and sat down next to him. “I get it. I miss him too. But this is ridiculous, Jay. All your friends are inside. And I’m sorry, but you gotta man up and stop letting him get to you.”

“He’s not getting to me.” Another sip.

“Really?” The purple-haired girl raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Because every time you lie, you take another swig of alcohol, so…”

“Mal, I’m not in the fucking mood for your bullshit!” Jay slammed his fist down on the ground suddenly, but the other girl didn’t even flinch. In fact, she looked as though she might be grinning in the dim light.

“Yeah, at least get mad,” she laughed. “Getting mad is at least less pitiful than downing glass after glass of - what is that? spiked eggnog? - and moping around.”

“He didn’t come home,” Jay spat. “He didn’t come home! That’s that! So why would I go inside, huh? What’s the point of going inside, Mal, tell me. I already poured two drinks today out of habit, thinking I was getting one for him, but no. He’s a million miles away changing the world or whatever.”

“Let me guess?” Mal folded her arms. “You drank his glass, too?”

“Can you listen and be helpful for like five seconds?” Jay asked angrily. “Do you really have to be a snarky, sarcastic bitch every second of your life?”

“Always have, always will be.” Despite her answer, Mal stared at him closer. “If you miss him so much, why don’t you just call him? It’s not like you two ended badly.”

“I’m not gonna call him.” Jay shook his head, even though it was something he’d nearly done quite a few times. “It’s just pathetic. He hasn’t called me.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Mal groaned. “You really think Carlos de Vil is gonna pick up the phone and call you first? The kid who would rather run himself into the ground rather than ask for help?”

“Yeah, well, that’s his loss then.”

“You guys didn’t leave it on these terms, if I recall,” Mal prodded, taking Jay’s glass and stealing a sip. He didn’t really care. “You said you still liked each other, but with both of you at separate colleges, you thought it best that you have some freedom -”

“ - to explore other options, yeah, got it, thanks, Mal,” Jay finished with an angry exhale. “We didn’t want to rush into anything, make anything to serious, especially long distance.”

“You could’ve gone with him,” Mal reminded helpfully, (even though Jay didn’t find it helpful at all). It was something that kept him up at night these days. “He asked you several times. What? Do you think you chose wrong?”

“They weren’t offering me a tourney scholarship to any of the colleges up there,” Jay shrugged. “He got a full-ride to the best university in the world. And I’m stuck here.”

“Oh, please,” Mal snorted. “You’re going to a fine school with a pretty good tourney program. The only reason you’re not over-the-moon is because he’s not here.”

“I didn’t ask you to analyze my damn life.” The words came out bitter and colder than the night air.

“Well, you don’t usually sit around and drink a huge glass of self pity, so sue me,” the girl shot back. “Look, I understand, you feel like being bitchy. Don’t let me stop you.”

“Wasn’t gonna.”

A thick silence fell between them. Jay knew it wasn’t fair to lash out at Mal, but he also didn’t really care. He knew she’d understand; he’d helped her through countless breakups where the roles were definitely reversed.

“Last year, the Jay I knew wasn’t afraid of anything.”

And Jay positively growled. “Why are you out here? Last time I checked, the party was in there!”

“Because I happen to care about you, asshole.” Mal shook her head. “And I wanted to warn you that Uma is giving everyone pictures of their exes for Christmas, so… maybe don’t open her gift for awhile.”

“Great.” If Jay hadn’t been recently singled, he would’ve probably found the whole thing hilarious. Actually, if he’d been recently singled by anyone but Carlos he would’ve thought it funny. Usually break-ups didn’t hit him anywhere near this hard. “Is it least a good picture of him?”

“I swear to fucking -forget I said anything!”

They sat on the steps for awhile longer. Jay figured that at this point, Carlos had probably gone to bed. Or maybe he was up watching those cheesy Christmas movies on the hallmark channel. Maybe he was wearing those horrible striped pajamas that Harry had gotten everyone a few years back that everyone had somehow “lost” except the white-haired boy.

After awhile, Jay let out a long exhale, a puff of white breath trailing out into the freezing air.  “I think I’m gonna head out,” he sighed.

“You aren’t driving home, are you?” Mal eyed the empty glass on the step beside them.”

“Nah.” Jay shook his head. “I’ll walk. Pick up my car tomorrow. As shitty as this night has been, I would rather like to stay alive, you know?”

“Mmm, that’s a relief,” she replied dryly. “Listen, Jay -” Her face scrunched a little. “I know feelings aren’t really my jam, but I’m pretty sure you can’t just drink them away. And I don't want to see you try. Either call him or move on. Got it? Try and go on some other dates. Meet some other people. Like you both promised that you would.”

“Yeah.” He spun one of his rings around for a moment. “I know. We said that we didn’t want to bog each other down doing the whole long distance thing.” He stood up, helping Mal to her feet. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Merry Christmas,” Mal offered with only a hint of a sarcastic smile.

“Yeah, merry. That’s exactly how I would describe this night.”

“Get home quickly. It’ll get better. You’ll see,” she called. And although he detected something underneath those words, Jay couldn’t quite figure it out.  

///

The walk home was better, he supposed.

Jay hated sitting still, even for short periods of time. And his muscles were shouting in protest after being frozen for all that time on the porch. The sleet fell sideways, glowing in the patches of light cast by the street lamps along the way, but now the he was physically moving again, he didn’t mind so much. And his apartment wasn’t far, so Jay would’ve gone so far as to say that he relished the walk.

Maybe I should’ve stayed a little longer at the party, he thought, now that he wasn’t so sluggish. He could’ve at least thanked Evie and apologized for being such a mess. But then he remembered what Mal had said about Uma’s very-funny gift, and decided he didn’t need to open up a picture of Carlos de Fucking Vil tonight.

Climbing the stairs to his apartment building was an ambitious feat, something he only realized about halfway up when he nearly lost his balance. Maybe he’d had a bit more to drink than he’d thought. Luckily, he managed to make it the rest of the way up unharmed. At least physically.

As he started down the hallway on his floor, his phone buzzed. Glancing down, Jay saw it was from Evie.

Heard you were finally heading out. Good choice :) Try and look up. Things will get better; I have a good feeling. Merry Christmas! Love you!

Evie made it all sound so easy, and for a moment, he almost believed her. That things would get better. She had that effect on people.

You and Carlos made the right choice, that voice protested. You both said that you were just gonna let the other one live a little. Go explore. Not be tied down. Is that so bad?

Jay’s fingers were so cold that nearly fumbled his keys, but after a moment of uncertainty, he got them back under control. Pushing on the door that always got a little bit stuck, he stepped into the apartment. The place wasn’t large by any stretch of the imagination, but it could pretty easily house two people. Even if it was only home to one now.

The lights were already on, and he kicked himself inwardly. Electricity bills were high enough without paying to light an empty apartment. And now that he glanced around, he could see several things that, not too long ago, a certain freckled someone would’ve kicked his ass over. The living room lamps were on, the Christmas lights had been left lit, and he still had clothes all over the couch. Although, the kitchen looked a lot cleaner than he remembered leaving it (Jay was like ninety percent sure that he’d left last night’s takeout cartons on the counter), so apparently his sober self had been sporadic in his preparations to leave.

“Fuck,” Jay muttered under his breath. “My bill is gonna be through the roof.”

“Not really,” came a voice. “I only got in a half hour ago. I turned everything on. You know, darkness isn’t really my thing.”

The voice sent a sharp stab of something down to his very core. Sometimes his drunk brain hated him. “Oh really?” he asked the voice. “From where, huh?”

“The airport, idiot.”

Shrugging off his coat, Jay huffed. “Alright, drunk me. You feel like making this night worse? Got it.”

“If you’d just turn around,” the voice insisted. “I think you’d realize that it's got nothing to do with alcohol.”

Standing in the hallway, leaning casually against the wall, was Carlos. Or something that looked like him anyway.

“I must've had way more than I thought.” Jay rubbed his forehead, blinking several times. “Maybe I should've taken a cab. All that walking and those stairs…”

“I'm not denying that you were drinking,” Carlos shrugged. “But I'm not a hallucination, dude.”

Suddenly, there was a pattering of claws on hardwood floor as a dog launched himself at Jay.

“Dude!” Carlos whistled. “You're gonna knock him over. Come here, boy.”

“Wait…” Jay stared at Dude, who was now rushing back to Carlos’ side. “Oh my God…”

“Hi.” Carlos looked a little more apprehensive now, shifting from foot to foot.

“How… where did you come from….” The taller boy held his forehead, wishing he could get a grip. He still wasn't entirely convinced that this wasn't all a cruel dream.

“I still have my key.” Carlos gave him a little smile, but it was quickly replaced by a frown. “And - uh - maybe I shouldn't have just let myself in - maybe that was wrong… I'm not sure….”

“You're really here…” Jay felt his knees weaken a little. “This isn't a dream?”

“No…” Carlos gave him a nervous glance-over. “Evie said that she didn't know if you’d take this well. I can leave if you want. I know we haven't spoken in… well, awhile...”

“Wait…” Jay’s mind raced to keep up with his words. “Evie? She knew?”

“Yeah.” Carlos looked down. “She actually helped me pay for the ticket. Money is tight. Even with the scholarship.”

Jay shook his head again, still trying to wrap her mind around it all. “So she knew? She brought you here? Why didn't she tell me?”

“She didn't know if you'd want to see me,” Carlos shrugged. “I mean… usually seeing your ex isn't what you want for Christmas.”

The word “ex” cut into his heart like a knife. A new kind of dread started replacing his initial surprise. “Yeah, so, um… you seeing anyone new?” He tried to keep his voice level. Carlos had the right to see other guys. “Because… I am. Um, yeah, I totally am. So don't worry about it.”

Carlos stared at him, an eyebrow raised. “Evie didn't mention that. In fact, she - she told me that you hadn't gone out since we…” His shoulders fell some. “Look, this was a mistake, I'm sorry, I didn't know. I told her that you would've moved on. I'll get out of your hair. I'm really sorry, Jay, I am.”

Cursing himself, Jay bit his lip so hard that it bled. Damn his fucking pride. Damn his stupid ego and everything that came with it. Why couldn’t he just look Carlos in the eye and tell him that he missed him? That he was really glad to see him? Finally, after a moment of throat clearing and coughing, he spoke up. “No, Carlos, stop.”

“Why?” The freckled boy continued to gather his stuff. “So I can hear all about your new love life? Jay, Evie didn’t tell me you’d started dating again. I dunno, I figured you were hadn’t like me - uh - and - I can’t stay here now.”

“She was right, ‘Los.” Jay ignored the dizzy feeling the words gave him, and pressed on. “Evie was right.”

Carlos paused for a moment, looking up. “Huh?”

“Evie.” Jay shook his head. “She was right. I'm not - seeing anyone.”

“You're not?”

“No.” Running a hand through his hair, the taller boy sighed. “I'm not. Mal’s been hounding me about it, though. It's been tough without you. Things aren't the same, you know? Like tonight, Uma got everyone pictures of their exes for our gift exchange, and I'm still not used to describing you like that.”

Carlos studied him. “Was it at least a good picture of me?”

A tiny, sad smile threatened to emerge on Jay’s face. “Dunno. I didn't stick around to open it. Mal insisted I go home  - wait, did she know, too?”

“Yeah.” Carlos looked a little sheepish now.

“The little bitch,” Jay realized. “She spent half an hour tonight trying to rile me up about you.”

“Surprise.” Carlos raised his arms half-heartedly. “So… you don't want me to go?”

Inhaling deeply, Jay forced himself to ignore his pride and ego and everything else that would just lead to another huge night of regret. “No. I - I would like you to stay. Here.”

“Mmm, don't hurt yourself.” Carlos glanced up at him. “You don't have to say yes.”

“I want to, though.” Jay took a moment to probe the metallic cut inside his mouth from earlier. “Like I said… things aren't the same without you.”

“Okay.” Carlos let out his breath, relaxing some. “Good. I'd feel badly if I made tonight worse.”

“If anything, you made it better,” Jay promised, sitting down on the couch. “Come sit down for at least a little bit. I want to hear everything that’s been missing from those texts you never send me.”

“Yeah… sorry about that,” his ex-boyfriend sighed. “I just never knew what to say to you. Everything I wanted to say would've gone back on our deal of giving the other space.”

“And here I was thinking you just forgot about me.” Jay pushed some of his clothes from the couch cushions to the floor. “Sorry the place is such a mess. I would've cleaned up if I’d known you were coming home - back. If I'd known you were coming back.”

“It's okay.” Carlos pointed to the takeout cartons on the counter. “I may have finished off the Chinese takeout you left on the counter. Sorry about that. But I also cleaned up the kitchen, so, maybe that makes up for it.”

“You've been here about five minutes, de Vil,” Jay said with a shake of his head. “You didn't need to clean up.”

“It was giving me anxiety.” Carlos folded his arms. “You're still a slob, you know.”

“Maybe I've forgotten,” Jay joked a little. “How can I remember that if you're not around to remind me?” The comment came out a little sadder than he had hoped. He definitely didn’t want Carlos to think that he was anything other than happy these days. “So, how’s school?”

“Great.” The other boy gave him a thin smile. “Really great. I mean, I like all my classes and everyone is really focused and driven.”

“Like you?”

Carlos shrugged, laughing softly. “I dunno, there are some really smart people, Jay. Like so smart. It would blow your mind what they’d all accomplished. This one kid in my hall created a software system that’s standard now for most professional computers.”

“And you can hack into that software with like ten clicks,” Jay pointed out. “He’s not so cool.”

A faint pink spread across Carlos’ freckled-splashed cheeks. “I like that you can do that.”

“Do what?” Jay had no idea what he meant, but he did know that he liked making Carlos’ blush. It was something he’d missed most.

“Make me feel special,” the other boy laughed. “Sometimes… it’s hard to feel special at that school.”

“Bullshit.” The older boy gave him a gentle shove. “You’re way cooler than any of the kids there. Hands down. And I bet their eyeliner isn’t half as straight as yours.”

“Maybe.” Carlos shook his head. “Tell me about your classes here. How are the girls? Is it nice to still go to the same school?”

“Yeah.” Jay didn’t add that it would be better if their threesome were a foursome on campus, but he probably didn’t need to. Carlos could usually understand what he meant. “I mean, Evie’s got orders coming in left and right. Mal’s doing her whole art gig, and I guess that’s great, especially when you have a successful business woman as a girlfriend. We’re all just, you know, living life.”

“You didn’t tell me about you,” pushed the freckled boy. “How are you doing? How’s tourney? It sucked that you guys lost last week, but you lead the team in goals, don’t you?”

Carlos was spot on with the stats, but the fact that he knew them at all surprised Jay. “Wait, how did you know all that?”

“Oh, um, people talk. I guess.”

Jay raised an eyebrow. “About an average university all the way across the country?”

“Not buying it?” Carlos shook his head. “Uh, I may have caught some of the games on TV. And looked up the stats. And followed your team’s Twitter. Does that count as stalking? I just wanted to see how you guys were doing.”

The taller boy hoped his surprise (and delight) didn’t show. “Oh, yeah, that’s cool. Really. Understandable. Totally.”

“It’s really weird,” laughed Carlos softly. “Sorry.”

“No, no,” insisted Jay. “I’m glad you’re still keeping up with the stuff around here.”

“Well…” the other boy shifted some. “I didn’t really care about the other players. Mostly just… you.”

Now Jay knew that his surprise showed. He hadn’t expected such an bold (or emotional) statement from Carlos. “Oh. Um… that’s cool.”

Carlos blushed again, but this time, he looked a more embarrassed. Maybe even humiliated. Clearly that hadn’t been the reaction he’d been hoping for. Once again, Jay had to kick himself.

Let those walls down, he heard a voice say. This time, the voice sounded a lot like Evie, strangely enough. Jay, you spend so much time hiding yourself and your feelings. It’s okay to tell him how you feel.

But Jay didn’t do feelings or emotions, much less talking about feelings and emotions. Mal understood. She hated sappy shit, too. But this was Carlos. If he didn’t say something soon, it might really be too late. Even now, the freckled boy was drawing back, distancing himself, putting his own armor back on.

“Hey, um, Pup?”

“Yes?” Carlos perked up a little at the nickname, but he still didn’t smile.

Jay scratched the back of his neck, sighing. “Uh… I, look, when I said… that things were tough here. I meant it. I’m… not doing too hot.”

“Really?” Carlos tilted his head slightly. “Jay, you don’t have to -”

“No!” It came out kind of loud. “I mean… no. Don’t try and apologize or let me duck out of this. Because I really sort of miss you, and I’m really glad to see you, and I don’t want you to think anything else.” He let out a breathe, that dizzy feeling coming back.

“You miss me?” The smaller boy’s voice definitely sounded hopeful.

“Just like every fucking second of my day.” Jay cracked his knuckles nervously. “I mean, I wanted to be alright, ‘Los, I did. I really tried to go out with other people.”

“How many dates?”

“Well, strictly speaking… none.”

“Wow, you really did try.” Carlos gave him a soft punch to the shoulder.

“Shut up.” Jay felt some of the tension in his chest dislodge. This was Carlos. The same Carlos who sat in the bathroom on the cold tile with Jay after one of them had a mental breakdown. The same Carlos who helped him get his first A. The same Carlos who slapped him on the ass when he changed, or set his alarm twenty minutes later to let Jay sleep after big games.

“So…” Carlos fidgeting with his hands. “This whole breaking up for the better thing hasn’t really gone the way either of us planned, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“So… what now?” Carlos looked around the messy apartment.

“Why did you come home?” The question came out of the blue, and Jay was powerless to stop it from reaching his tongue. “Uh, I mean, back? Why did you come back? I mean… you could’ve said no. Easily. It wasn’t a stretch or -”

“I came home because I wanted to see you.” His ex-boyfriend stared right at him. “Maybe I did wanna sus out how you’d been and… if we’d made a mistake.”

“Mistake.” Jay heard himself echo the word, and felt himself leaning closer. “Yeah, mistake.”

“Maybe…” Carlos said softly. “Maybe we should reevaluate? I think -” but he was cut off by Jay’s lips before he had a chance to finish. Not that he needed to. Jay understood.

He understood completely.

And later that night, when they threw a blanket over themselves and the (sufficiently tousled couch cushions), when Jay had his face pressed into Carlos’ familiar curls, drinking in their familiar smell and feel, the latter started to laugh.

“God, I missed you.”

“Merry Christmas, de Vil.”

“Would you use the word merry?” Carlos jabbed him a little. “I might use a different word to describe what just hap -”

“Shut up. Don’t ruin it.” Jay’s eyes drifted shut, but before he gave into sleep, he had to say one last thing. “Hey, ‘Los?”

“Yeah?”

“When you go back to school…” Jay paused, wondering why the words didn’t seem to want to come.

“I’ll be wearing my boyfriend’s jersey,” Carlos mumbled, sounding sleepy, happy, sated.

“Boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend.”

[babydoll1947]

Let’s Talk: Mental/Emotional Abuse, from a Survivor

If you read my recent post, you have seen that I am a true crime lover, and have been watching the ID channel as if it may disappear when I’m not looking (kind of like this post did the first time I wrote it, but we’ll get to that). However, I have found that my obsession sometimes comes at a cost to my mental health. You see, when I watch these shows and hear about these horrible people with horrible traits... well, sometimes it triggers recall of some of the equally horrible traits of the man who once abused me. Now, do I think one day he will escalate all the way to murdering someone? No, I think there is a fairly slim chance of that, just given the lack of physical violence I have seen him exhibit. But, I could be wrong, and I sincerely hope everyone he encounters stays on their guard with him. Do I, however, believe this man is a sadistic psychopath who derives pure please from controlling and harming other people (especially women)? Yes, yes I do, with every fiber of my being. No matter the type, abuse is a topic people cringe at the thought of having to talk about. Trust me, the first time I wrote this before tumblr threw it off into the cosmos somewhere, it turned out to be one of the most difficult and painful things I’ve ever had to write. And, I do not relish the thought of having to write this all over again. But, even though we don’t want to talk about this, I believe that we NEED to talk about this. And yes, I said “we”, because it takes small actions from a whole lot of people to make a change in the world around us, not to mention the fact that I think everyone can gain something from the takeaways of abuse survivors. So, here I am, about to write about one of the worst years of my life, hoping to help others gain more understanding. WARNING: I am about to share graphic, detailed accounts of abuse. If you do not feel you can emotionally cope, that’s okay, please just skip to the end of the post for the recap. If at any time you feel you need support, please send me a message and I will be happy to direct you to some amazing resources! I met Chris... and I am choosing to use his real first name, as I do not feel he deserves any anonymity at all... when I was 17 and a senior in high school. When I said earlier that this man is a psychopath, I do not use that term lightly. Like, “Oh, that girl is psycho, like, totally cray cray!” I mean it in the full sense and scope of the disorder. I met him through a close friend who was seeing him, and our first real encounter should have sent off warning bells in my head. To protect the privacy and dignity of myself and my friend, I am not going into details of that particular encounter here, but I will say that it was sexual in nature. False promises were made to my friend to convince her to do this, and it was not an overall a good experience. Even with that, though, there was something so charming and alluring about him that you just felt pulled in. Right away I started seeing him on my own. At first, it was almost like a secretly agreed “sister wives” situation... each of us knew about the other, and knew we were both seeing him, but also both adored him so much that we didn’t seem to care. Over time, as we both started to want more with him, he would lie or manipulate the situation to keep us placated. Often, he would tell me he was not dating her, but tell her that he was. He loved to lie. Like, genuinely loved it. He once told me that half the time he would lie even when he didn’t need to, just to see what he could get away with and how many people he could fool. Another red flag I missed, since that is one of the hallmark traits of a psychopath. He could also fake any emotion necessary to obtain his end goal, even though I doubt he really felt much of anything. Before long, I was practically living with Chris and his roommate in their apartment. Despite this closeness, and his supposed care for me, we never “officially” dated. This is where things started to go haywire. He frequently would list off things he desired in a potential girlfriend, and I would jump through hoops to make them happen. I grew my hair out because he preferred long hair (even though I hated maintaining long hair), got French manicures because he didn’t like bright colored nails (even though I did), changed my mannerisms and reactions to be the “cool girl”, literally anything I had to do to please him. Sadly, I never realized that nothing I did would ever please him or be good enough for him... he just wanted to see how far he could push me. Over that year I morphed into a person I didn’t even recognize in the mirror. Then came the “reminders”, as I like to call them. He would not only talk about girls he liked from work or school, but bring them home with him when he knew I was there, parading them in front of me to remind me that I still wasn’t good enough. Next were the subtle put downs. Then the more serious put downs. Then came the tough love. So tough, in fact, the he held me by my arm while I was sobbing and trying to go home, holding me there until he was done telling me everything that was wrong with me. That was the closest he ever came to physical abuse, his hand wrapped around my forearm, but hell... sometimes I wished he would just hit me, thinking it would hurt less than his words piercing my heart and self-esteem. Still, I fell in love with him. Still, I stayed. Things continued to spiral, and with that spiral came the sexual abuse. That was undoubtedly the worst. His idea of sexual fun was to make me give him oral sex until he was almost ready to orgasm, then push me onto my stomach so he could fuck me for a few seconds until he came on my body. It was no longer about my pleasure or desires, only his. He convinced me that I would like being submissive, that I enjoyed it. He made me call him master, and bend to his will. On more than one occasion he would put me on my knees to give him oral sex, then hold me by my hair and half-drag/half-make-me-crawl over to him like a disobedient dog. Like an animal. I didn’t like it, but I just figured as long as it pleased him it was okay. I had only one hard boundary which I had communicated to him several times: I would not do anal sex. So, to get around this boundary, he decided to just rape me instead... One night as he was fucking me from behind, he pulled out of my vagina and ruthlessly thrust himself into my anus. I buried my face in the mattress and screamed, the pain being indescribable. He did not stop when I screamed. He kept thrusting until he finished inside me, and gave the final demeaning blow as I followed him into the bathroom: “This is why I don’t do anal, it makes your dick smell bad.” I sat on the toilet for several minutes in disbelief, dripping blood and cum into the bowl. I had never felt more humiliated in my entire life, and I don’t know if I ever will. But, he apologized (though he did not mean it), I forgave him (as I always did) and life moved on. Any time I tried to pull away from him, he made sure that didn’t happen. He would talk bad of people I liked, talk bad of me to the people I liked, and sabotage any attempt to let him go. The final few months of hell came with his drug abuse. He became addicted to Xanax and Percocet, and I became his caregiver and guardian, ensuring that he ate, finished tasks, etc., and watching over him on many sleepless nights, making sure he didn’t start to overdose in his sleep. He never once thanked me for helping him, or saving his life until he finally went into rehab. The only good thing that ever came of our relationship happened during one of his attempts to be sober: he began going to church, so I went with him and ultimately rekindled/strengthened my relationship with God. That relationship is what lead me to eventually leave Chris behind. As more time passed we slowly parted ways, him going into rehab and then halfway homes, and me leaving home permanently. Still, it took a very long time to remove him from my life completely. He was like a cancer that I had to extract from my soul one piece at a time, and it took me a lot of time, distance, and perspective to come to the realizations I have about who he really is. Here are the reasons why I am telling you all of this (if you didn’t want to read the details, come back now). First of all, something that still haunts me to this day is how nobody did anything to help me. I mentioned that he lived with a roommate, and they regularly had another friend at the apartment with them, but neither of them tried to intervene on my behalf. I know how hard it can be to confront a friend for doing shitty things, believe me I do, but we MUST do this. Please. If you are friends with someone who shows signs of being a perpetrator, please talk to them, or help the person they are with. The next thing is, please be understanding and patient with people who have survived or are currently experiencing abuse. I already know that a lot of you were thinking while reading my story “Why didn’t she just leave?” The answer is a simple one: I really believed that I loved him. I couldn’t process what was happening to me while I was still wearing the rose-colored glasses, and it can be extremely difficult to discern how bad a situation is in while you are still in it. Give your loved ones time to process what is happening, but still support and protect them as much as you can. Nothing is as black-and-white as it seems. Also understand that just because the abuse isn’t physical, it doesn’t make it any less damaging. I still struggle with the trauma to this day, seven years later. The last few days I found myself dealing with flashbacks and bouts of intense anger. It happens sometimes, and will likely continue to happen here and there for the rest of my life. And lastly, I leave you with this: If you have experienced abuse of any kind, or if you still are, I promise you that you will be okay. You are strong, a fighter, and a survivor. You are a WARRIOR. Time may not heal all wounds (I still have plenty of scars) but it truly does make it easier and less painful. There will come a day when the pain is not a constant ache, and when you can breathe freely again. Never, ever, EVER give up! I love you all, and I am always here for you! Thanks for going on this journey with me. 

[transformationstuck]

Basket in the Pool

Target; A store that remained in constant across all of time. The soft lighting, dark carpeting in the clothes areas, casually dressed employees. The pretzels and pizza were advertising through smell across the store and faint indie music could be heard if you listened hard enough, though it might’ve been from one of the shops adjacent in the mall.

Another constant of Target happens to be teenagers acting like asshole when it is well past dark and there are more employees than customers in the store.

“Pleeeeeaaseeee give me enough for a pretzel. I’ll give you half, I’m so hungry,” Dave said to Karkat as they walked down one of the aisles back to the men’s clothing section. Dave clung onto Karkat’s sleeve and started to try and drag Karkat down.

“Don’t let me starve, dude, you’re so mean,” he continued in a louder voice. While Dave seemed like he didn’t realize or care that he was being entirely too loud in the store. Though the aisle was empty, registers were manned and some poor souls were probably still wandering the aisles of the store. Forced to not only clean up after asshole customers, stock shelves, work overtime, deal with angry people all day, and now some loud boy yelling about pretzels…

“Dude, shut the fuck up. Just let me get some pants first. I fucking hate people being able to see my boxers with this tear,” Karkat softly delivered the words to Dave as icily as he could. Karkat had also pulled his arm up quick to get Dave back on his feet.

“Yeah sure,” Dave said as they continued towards the clothes. Their arms were locked at the elbow so Dave could feel Karkat tense up when he started to replicate dubstep with mouth sounds.

The dubstep was an in joke and, of course, was almost entirely ironic. A twitter joke Dave had made his mission to keep repeating to get on Karkat’s nerves. At Karkat’s place, Dave doing this would’ve led to Karkat faking anger and pushing him on the bed, eventually leading to them making out. Here, however, it led only to Karkat pushing him away as he knelt down to view the jean sizes available to them.

As the sounds continued, Karkat quickly grabbed all the darker jeans in his size range and hurried to the dressing room. He was mortified to see an attendant on duty folding clothes. They approached and the dubstep introduced them before they were sighted.

“You need to try those on?” The attendant asked. Her smile twitched as Dave continued to make noise as she spoke.

“Yeah, thanks,” Karkat said and laid out the jeans on the counter so the woman could look through them to make sure there was no merchandise hidden in the pile. Soon the jeans were handed back to him with a key attached to a plastic card with the number ‘4’ on top of the pile.

“Thanks,” Karkat said again and turned to the row of dressing stalls. He began walking to the rooms. Dave followed him to the hall.

“Alone,” Karkat said and gently shoved Dave back with his palm to Dave’s chest. Dave frowned and grunted, but turned away from Karkat’s glaring to walk back through the clothing section. Not having anyone to annoy, and his jaw starting to ache, Dave stopped the mouth sounds.

He continued down the aisle. To his left, the toy aisles stretched on. The lego sets jumped out in his sight first. He glanced at them discreetly from behind his sunglasses and didn’t stop walking as his sight jumped from toy to toy. Sure they were cool, but he had no money on him, and any money he would hypothetically have would need to be spent on utility bills.

It didn’t make him not nervous at the sight of the AT-AT lego set on display.

His journey down the back aisle continued through the sporting goods. He passed bikes and baseball helmets. Next the printers and bluetooth speakers. Finally the video games.

He walked to the xbox section and looked at what was available. He eyed the boring looking new releases and looked over the sale games. It was all they ever had; Payday, Battlefront, Call of Duty…

Nothing worthy of interest he continued walking. He passed the seasonal goods and came to the mall entrance of the store, connecting the Target to the hall of Game Stops and Hallmarks.

However, in front of the mall entrance, there was an unattended Target cart with some boxes in it. Thinking it was maybe a cart with items on sale, Dave approached it. First he looked at the box that drew his attention in the first place, a bluetooth/record player.

The box looked fine, however the electronic pieces falling out of it dissuaded Dave from looking at it any further. A cracked blender in a box, handfuls of clothes hangers, opened dvd cases… All damaged items it seemed.

One other item did draw Dave when he started peering in, however. There was a large pile of yellow plastic like a balloon. The yellow seemed too bright to him, as if he were looking at a banana on a computer screen and not seeing it through sunglasses in a fluorescent lit Target. He reached down to grab it and determine the item’s original shape.

No much seemed to remain. Tears and rips plagued the surface of the item. The way it felt, though, reminded him of water wings that he used to wear at the public pool what felt like decades ago. There was too much plastic to be kiddie water wings though, so Dave guessed it was a pooltoy of some kind. Maybe a goldfish or part of a palm tree?

He guessed at what it had been meant for and rubbed the plastic between his fingers.

*Squeeeek*

*Squeeeek*

His fingers rubbed the plastic vinyl again and again. His thoughts trailed off and the sound grew in his head, louder and louder. What if he…

“Hello?” someone said behind Dave.

“Ah..!” Dave exclaimed, somewhat startled. Before him a Target employee was eyeing him nervously.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” the man said, and looked down at Dave’s hands. He seemed to sigh in relief. Dave glanced back at the mall entrance and realised the employee might’ve been wondering if he was trying to steal something away into the mall.

“I don’t know where that came from, but it wasn’t here,” the employee said at the lack of Dave’s response. He had been absentmindedly rubbing the plastic again as he stared into the mall. He turned again when the employee started speaking to him again.

“Yeah, somebody asked where they could find an undamaged version, but we don’t carry pool items this time of year. I suggested the Sear’s at the other end of the mall or Spencer’s. Honestly, I don’t know what that was supposed to be anyway.”

“Oh, thanks,” Dave said and looked down at the plastic. “Well, I’m going to go back to looking around while my, uh, friend is still looking at clothes.”

“Sounds fine,” said the clerk, relieved. He then held out an open hand to Dave. “If you give me that I can throw that away for you.”

“Thanks,” Dave said and started to hand the trash to the clerk, but hesitated. The plastic had rubbed against his hand as he moved to give it to the clerk, reminding him of the oddly satisfied squeaking he had been drawn into earlier.

“Actually, I’ll throw it away later,” Dave said and lowered his hand. “I’m going to use it to annoy my friend if he takes too long.”

“Oooo-kay,” the clerk said, confused. “Well, let me know if you need anything else.”

The clerk turned away and began walking back to the front of the store. Dave watched him go for a second before turning back to the direction of the dressing rooms. He took a step and stopped, startled.

He hadn’t even realised he was sporting an erection, but the movement of it against his jeans made it quickly apparent. He moved into one of the seasonal aisles to adjust it with his jeans. While in the aisle, he looked again at the torn plastic. Now he noticed something else on it. He moved it closer to his face to look at an air nozzle.

Dave smiled and ripped the nozzle off. It was perfect.

He moved the nozzle around his hands, inspecting it. The more he played with it, the more the bits of yellow plastic seemed out of place on the nozzle. He made quick work of removing the remaining yellow bits and brushed the now naked nozzle with his thumb, moving the valve open. He then brought the nozzle up to his lips and sucked it partially in. Once he moved it securely between his teeth with his tongue, he blew into it.

Air whined as it exited the tube in a tune that wouldn’t be out of place in the intro to a 13 year old’s minecraft channel introduction, only missing the metal instruments and replacing it with mouth sounds. This was sure to get Karkat even more pissed.

He looked back down at the plastic in his hands. Although he no longer needed it, it still felt nice on his skin. He shoved it into his right pocket and moved back to the dressing rooms. He absentmindedly continued to breathe through the nozzle between his teeth, needing less and less pressure on it.

Dave was unaware as his lips started to seal to the nozzle in his mouth. His tongue and teeth began to sink into his mouth, leaving more room for the nozzle to inhale and exhale. The cavern of his mouth began to shrink as well, soon leaving only a tube as big as the nozzle’s opening from the nozzle to his throat.

His lips took on a red sheen someone could’ve easily mistaken for lipstick. The Red sheen continued to spread across his face, however. His nostrils closed up and his nose was drawn into his face until Dave just had a small pyramid poking out from his face. The plastic was making quicker work of his lower body. His neck was quickly overtaken with red plastic and his chest soon after.

Dave continued his walk along the men’s section as his breathing through the nozzle continued. He passed a rack with hoodies and paused. He looked down at his own hoodie in puzzlement, his neck squeaking as his head tilted his gaze down. Why was he wearing this? It was too hot! He pulled off the hoodie, revelling the feeling of the fabric of his shirt as it was pulled across his plastic chest and face.  He looked at his hands to see his shirt had also come off with the hoodie.

He felt like he should put his shirt back on, but the cool air felt so good against his skin. The breeze felt so good against his plastic stomach. Why was he wearing clothes to begin with? He brought a hand up to scratch at his head in thought, but continued to scratch to keep the squeaking sound of his hands against his plastic hair going. It was much too hot for this, too much clothes, too much thinking…

Dave fumbled with his belt and let it fall to the floor. His fingers fusing together made it difficult for him to untie his shoes but he eventually managed to kick them off when they were untied. He pulled his left sock off of his plastic foot quickly. He attempted to moan at the feeling, but could only let out a more desperate exhale through his nozzle. He removed his other sock slower to prolong the feeling. He unbuttoned his pants next and let them drop to the floor, soon followed by his boxers.

He stood naked in the shirt selection and ran his hands along his body. The feeling of his hands making depressions in his skin as they ran along the plastic with long squeaks made him terribly aroused. He moved his mitten-like hands down to his crotch, whining at the sensitive bulge he now sported, devoid of any of his genitals.

Wait, wasn’t he supposed to be doing something? Right, he wanted to play with Karkat! Dave turned back to the changing rooms. Each step he took rubbed his thighs together, making Dave even more aroused. He soon reached the hall of stalls, relieved to see the attendant gone. It sure was hard to see with the sunglasses on. Dave put them on the counter and sighed at the feeling of his skin re-inflating the depressions the glasses left on the sides of his nose. It was much easier for his painted-on eyes to see without the light-blockers on.

Which stall was Karkat in again? He tried hard to remember as he made his way down the hall. He had barely made two steps before his legs gave out. Dave landed on his stomach, the carpet feeling nice against his exposed body. He looked back behind him, unable to move his legs. His head began to turn to the front, though. He felt his neck and head lock to keep him viewing forward.

There was little he could do to stop his arms from moving to grab his ass behind him, not that he would’ve wanted himself to stop. The strands of carpet moving against his skin felt too good. He continued not to panic as he felt his legs begin to retract back into him.

As his legs were drawn back into his body, he felt his back also begin to depress. His middle section fused with his arms, leaving them as an inflated ring from his ass to his head. His middle section had deflated to a thin plastic sheet with the record logo on his old shirt as a decal on the circular depression. His legs were not fully gone, along with his hands and midsection.

Dave’s continued ignorance of his changes continued as his breathing grew shallower and shallower. There was less and less of his body to convert, now just his brain remained. As a pooltoy he had no need of independent thought, just the need to be played with and used.  

Shorter and shorter breaths now, every exhale removing his mind through the air. Shorter and shorter, then nothing.

There was air moving across his skin, creating undetectable ripples. The carpet strands kept his body up, each strand shifting with the air to create a nice feeling on his body. All he needed was someone to play with him. He was okay with waiting, though, people didn’t always have time to play with toys.

“Dave? Were you the one breathing creepily out here?” Came Karkat’s voice from the stall behind him. He heard a latch click and a door open. There was padding on the carpet as Karkat moved forward. “What the fuck?”

Karkat stood unmoving in the hall. Oh god, this couldn’t be happening. His boyfriend had put an honest to god sex toy in the hall. This was way too far, even for him. Karkat was so going to murder Dave, what if that attendant had seen this?

He knelt down to grab the sexual pooltoy up. As soon as his fingers brushed against the plastic vinyl, though, his thoughts were gone. That felt… really nice actually.

Karkat picked up the pooltoy to further inspect it. That ass did actually look really nice, it kind of reminded Karkat of Dave’s. He turned it around to look at the front half.

“Whoa..” Karkat exhaled. There was an unmistakable resemblance to Dave in the toy. It almost had his haircut, the nose was a bit smaller though…

“Fuck,” Karkat said and removed his hand from inside his jeans. He had been absentmindedly pawing at his dick. This was dirty, he was touching himself in Target now. That plastic did feel nice, though. And his erection was in one of the hardest states it had ever been it. Fuck it.

Karkat quickly glanced out of the hall. The woman was still gone, he was alone. He pushed the door back closed and latched it. His hands kind of fumbled with his leather belt, but he soon had it unlatched. He dropped his jeans and boxers quick. He dropped himself down on the plastic chair in the dressing room.

He then brought the pooltoy on his lap, dick in between the exposed asscheeks. He then began rubbing the toy up and down on his dick. Sounds of the toy squeaking only made Karkat groan louder. The plastic felt so good against his dick, he needed to fuck this thing.

Karkat gripped the toy tightly and brought it up and down, up and down, faster and faster. The feeling of the plastic on his cock drove Karkat wild. He groaned as he felt his climax nearing.

Glancing in the mirror, Karkat saw himself fucking what he could imagine being Dave’s ass. God, this was so hot. His cock sputtered and began letting out a stream of cum all over the toy’s ass and flat midsection. Karkat let out a long, low moan. His cock continued to spurt, slowing down as he went empty. In the moments of ecstasy, he let go of the pooltoy and sighed.

The toy quietly bumped against the floor, bouncing up once before settling on the carpet. Karkat continued to gaze down on it, his mind slowly returning. His eyes went wide. He just fucking masturbated in a Target! FUCK!

Karkat quickly stood up. He threw his pulled his pants back up his legs, wincing at his still sensitive cock rubbing the wrong way across his zipper. His belt buckle clinked loudly as Karkat re-did the belt buckle. He looked back down at the pooltoy. It still had his cum on it.

He looked back at the plastic seat where he put the jeans he decided to purchase already. He grabbed the pair on top of the pile and used one of the pant legs to wipe the toy clean. Hopefully he could just have the cashier scan it without picking it up, or hopefully the self-checkout was still open.

He looked back down at the pooltoy. There was no way he was bringing that with him. He opened the door. He then turned back and walked into the stall again, screaming internally. The attendant was back. He poked his head back out.

He felt like collapsing in relief, the woman had headphones in and seemed absorbed in the clothes folding. Anyway, he couldn’t leave that toy in his stall now. There might still be some residue on it, and there was no way he wanted the attendant to think he was some kind of pervert. He knelt down and picked up the pooltoy. He made an effort to put the pleasing sound of the toy squeaking out of his mind as he shoved it into the open slot above the door to the stall opposite his in the hallway. He heard the toy bounce off against the far war and settle on the floor. He then scooped up all the jeans in his room and exited the hall.

“Anything you don’t need?” The attendant asked. Karkat gulped and realised he might still look exhausted. He made an effort to calm his breathing.

“Yeah,” Karkat replied and handed her the jean pile in his left hand. “Thanks.”

“Thank you,” The attendant said and turned back to the unfolded clothes. Karkat kept walking to the checkout area.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Dave remained on the floor of the stall. It had felt amazing to have Karkat play with him, his cock moving nicely along his ass. Now it was over, however, and nobody was playing with him.

He didn’t know how long he had been on the floor. Eventually he heard the whirring of a vacuum. His stall door opened and the whirring stopped. Whoever was cleaning removed Dave from the floor and placed him on the dressing room counter. The vacuum turned back on.

The whirring continued, someone picked Dave up again. He was moved down the aisle towards the mall entrance. His painted eyes were able to see the section he had removed his clothing in. His hoodie and jeans were gone, no evidence he had been there at all. The person carrying him absentmindedly brushed their thumb across his skin. If only Dave could moan out for more, his nozzle had closed with a final inhale hours ago.

At the mall entrance, he was handed over to a man with a Spencer’s shirt on. The man turned with Dave in hand and walked down the mall. People were walking all around him, and there was light coming in from the skylight signaling early morning. The man turned into the Spencer’s and walked to the back counter. He looked around the store for where the display of weird  pool toys was, but couldn’t remember. His thumb brushed against the plastic. Maybe he should just keep it on the counter. His thumb brushed across the plastic again.

Dave was placed on the store counter. The man went into the back room, presumably to stock or count something. Dave didn’t really attempt to guess, it was enough to know he wasn’t going to be played with again by him anytime soon.

The mall music drifted into the open doorway to the Spencer’s, bringing with it customer after customer. Hours dragged on. Anyone who came in for longer than a second found themselves drawn to the back of the store. Sooner or later they would notice Dave on the counter and pick him up to examine him.

Dave was happy as he was poked and prodded over and over again by customers. The squealing of their skin against his plastic calmed him and kept him horribly aroused. He could feel customers’ eyes drawn to him again and again. He could tell some of them had been subconsciously fiddling with their groin or groping his ass in a blatantly sexual way. Sooner or later they would return him to the counter, however, to Dave’s disappointment not wishing to further play with him. The customers seemed too embarrassed after realising their actions to ask the clerk the price of toy Dave. Time rolled on.

--------------------------------------------------

A familiar presence soon entered the store, to Dave’s excitement.

Karkat walked into the Spencer’s searching for the plastic red toy he had left in Target last night. He had been unable to get in touch with Dave after purchasing his jeans and waiting in the car for two hours. He returned to the Target to find Dave’s clothes and glasses near the changing rooms with his cellphone in his pocket.

The pooltoy had wandered back into his mind. The familiar ass and face had been a lot to take as coincidence, and the feeling of his cock on the toy was unwilling to exit his mind. It was a stupid idea, thinking the pooltoy might be his boyfriend, but it was his only shot.

The Target employee had told him that the other employees had called someone from Spencer’s, thinking the toy to be some strange novelty item. Karkat glanced around and quickly found Dave on the counter. He rubbed his right hand along Dave’s tubular side.

Dave didn’t pay attention to the muffled conversation above him as he was sold to Karkat. His boyfriend’s hand continued to run along his side, driving him wild. Soon he felt himself lifted in the air by Karkat and exiting the store.

Dave could feel the glances from all the other shoppers as Karkat exited the mall. If only the would all play with him, but his owner probably wouldn’t want that. Karkat was so smart.

He heard the familiar beeping of Karkat’s car unlocking remotely. The driver’s door opened and Dave was tossed onto the passenger seat. Karkat soon followed and settled on the driver’s seat, closing the door. He sighed and looked out the windshield before him.

Karkat then turned to the plastic toy on the seat next to him. This was so stupid. He brought one of his hands up to rub his thumb along the side of the toy’s face.

‘Well?” Karkat asked aloud. “Are you Dave? Are you my boyfriend?”

Silence filled the car. Karkat sighed and ran his thumb back down the toy’s face. There was another squeak of plastic moving beneath his thumb. As his thumb moved down Dave’s face, he moved it to the air nozzle. He flicked up the valve and felt the air push past his thumb.

Air began to leave Dave, who began to feel more and more tired. Why was Karkat putting him to sleep? Maybe he should get his attention.

Karkat jolted as the air leaving the toy changed, airflow altered to make a crude tune that reminded Karkat of the annoying mouth dubstep from last night…

Karkat hurridley stopped the air escaping and put his thumb on the air nozzle. He brought the nozzle up to his mouth and began to blow air back into the toy.

Dave felt himself re-inflate. He soon realised it was his boyfriend filling him up with air and felt stupidly happy at his owner filling him up with air from his lungs.

Karkat removed his lips from Dave’s nozzle. Dave felt as though he had just left one of the best make out sessions he had ever been in. The air nozzle was resealed and he was placed back on the car seat. Karkat just stared at Dave.

‘Well?” Karkat asked. “...Aren’t you going to do something?”

Dave could only stare with painted on eyes as he waited for Karkat to continue to play with him.

“Gah!” Karkat screamed and pounded the steering wheel. “This is so stupid! Why am I acting like an idiot!”

He turned back to the toy and grabbed it again. He moved it to look at its face.

“What happened to Dave, huh?” Karkat said, though not really expecting an answer. He turned back to look out the windshield. His fingers began subconsciously rubbing along Dave’s body again. His mind flashed with memories, Dave blowing into the nozzle, discarding his clothes, getting fucked by Karkat...

“Hah!” Karkat said and looked back at Dave. “You are Dave!”

The squeaking of Dave’s skin began to drive itself back into Karkat’s mind. There might be some way to turn Dave back, but right now he wanted to torture dave a bit more for a few days, a punishment for embarrassing him last night. Karkat licked his lips and realised he was hard again.  Maybe a bit longer than a few days.

Karkat’s hands found their way back to Dave’s ass and he squeezed on the sexy inflated plastic. He turned the toy to begin to grind his denim-covered cock along Dave’s ass again, but stopped as he realised he was still in a parking lot. He tossed Dave back on the passenger seat and started the car.

As Karkat backed out, his mind drifted him to images of home and the many times in the future he would make time to play with Dave…

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some months later, Karkat was laying down on his bed while on his phone. He was absentmindedly pawing at his erection underneath his jeans and looking at twitter. Eventually he sighed and tossed his phone to the other side of the bed. Karkat then undid his jeans and pulled them down enough to grab at his erect cock.

Karkat then stood up and walked to the closet in front of the bed. He opened the door and knelt down to retrieve the Dave pooltoy, laying on the floor of the closet. Karkat turned and walked back to the bed.

He had long since stopped leaving the toy on his bed. It was too distracting, leaving him more horny than usual. Karkat did use Dave quite a lot still, though. Dave was turned around and Karkat’s cock fell neatly between his asscheeks in the familiar position. There was some staining from all the times Karkat had blown a load on Dave’s ass that only served to make Karkat more excited.

He bobbed Dave up and down on his cock, over and over. The sound of the plastic rubbing against his hands and dick drove Karkat wild. The feeling of the plastic skin against his cock felt even better as he was quickly drawn into a climax. He came on Dave’s ass and breathed out a sigh.

He was using his sleeve to wipe away most of the cum when he noticed that his cock was hard again, ready to pound Dave again. Karkat smiled and grunted, grabbing his cock to reposition it over the toy’s ass. All Dave felt was pure happiness at how often Karkat was playing with him.

Art by @chutzpah-draws

[dweebpheles]

New Years Harringrove Drabble

"Ouch.....hell, what a dumbass...." Billy wiped the blood from his lip, he didn't bother to flinch even though it hurt like hell to the touch. Neil had flipped his shit on his son again, this time for not telling him that Max was going to hang out with the boys at the Wheeler house for New Years.

After the fight, he didn't bother to waste his time starting the car. He just grabbed his coat and started walking. Walked out the front door, and down the sidewalk into the night not giving a single shit where he wound up.

He had found his way past the school, somewhere in town. The roads were icy, sidewalks super tricky to walk on, north sides all coated in ice. No one was out, most everyone was with their families, or having some sort of party. No one was driving, driving wouldnt be the smartest thing to do as of now meaning as the roads were partially white.

He saw someone on the other side of the road, bundled up in heavy clothes with a hat on pass under a streetlight. He froze, and looked. Whoever was under that streetlight shot their eyes directly to Billy.

It was like some scene straight from a cliche love movie where long lost lovers find themselves so close yet so far away. Made Billy think of his mom watching something on the Hallmark channel or something real sappy like that.

The wind blew. Billy's onward gaze to the figure under the streetlight was interrupted by the bitter piercing wind. His leather bomber and tanktop wasn't doing much for him at this point, rather it wasn't in the first place; but the cold was successfully numbing his busted lip that his father gave him. He turned his back to the wind, tucking his head in a position to where he could still manage a glance at this figure.

Said figures hat blew off with another gust of wind. Billy saw this figures well done hair plain as day under the street lamp, through the snow, in the middle of the night. It was none other than King Steve Harrington himself.

"Well Well Well!!" Billy called to Steve from across the street. "Whats "King Steve" doing out at 11:34 p.m. on new years eve??" He calmly strutted across the road, tucking his sleeve back over his watch, staring at the taller male under the street light.

"It's not like my family would acknowledge I left, hell, it's only my dad there. My moms over somewhere else, with someone else." Steve replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "So I grabbed my jacket and walked out, I wasn't in the mood to hang around that mess."

Billy laughed, he grinned at the thought of his newest idea. With the action of his grin he felt his lip wound split back open, it started bleeding once more. "Ah fuck..."

Steve drew his right hand from his pocket, calmly and gently wiping the blood running from Billy's lip off with his thumb. "The hell happened to you Hargrove? Your lips busted, your cheeks cut and your damn eye's blacked."

Hargrove turned his head, he looked away scuffing one foot nervously. "Y...yea...it was my fuckin' dad again.... the bastards reason for jumping me gets dumber and dumber every time he does it, I swear. Maybe instead of blaming me for not keeping up with my step-sister, he should step up to the fucking plate and start looking after his step daughter." He didnt know what good telling Harrington would do, but hell at least its off his chest.

Steve put his arm around Billy's waist. "C'mon, let's get to a drug store so I can grab supplies to bandage up this mangled mess you call your face. Then we can book a cheap motel room or something, anything but go home."

Billy knew he'd catch hell from his father for this one if he ever found out- he knew his dad would kill him if he caught wind that his son was dating another boy; Steve Harrington. Billy knew he'd hear it, hed get called a fag, queer, whatever in the hell else his dad wanted to call him as he'd beat the fuck out of him again. Shit- right now he didn't give a damn if his dad found out about any of that or not. He was with Steve Harrington and they were going to spend the rest of their new years together in some beat up motel, drinking and relaxing.

"Sounds fine to me, King Steve. Lead the way."

((To be continued? May make a part 2 if this gets enough likes and reblogs/if anyone wants it?))

[traveling-madness]

everything for shi(t)p(ost) :)

 @lyesander you asked on anon and then openly told me it was you come forward. Anyway this is under the cut because it got. Really long.

- How do they fall asleep? Wake up? Any daily rituals?a. You know how kittens pile on top of each other? Usually they sleep like that. b. Clara wakes up at 5am in the morning, Craig does…not do that, She makes breakfast goes for a run showers and is usually gone for work before he’s even halfway awake and on one hand he hates that but on the other being awake before 7 is too haaarrrd. c. She also leaves him notes every morning but usually the note asks him to do at least one thing and that’s so much work :(.

- How’s their team work? Do they share well?a. Depends on what the teamwork is for. b. Sharing love? Yea. Sharing blankets/the tv/ Clara’s attention? Craig.exe has stopped.

- Are they open about their relationship? How do they feel about public displays of affection?a. Clara at everyone she knows: “This is my boyfriend and I love him.” Craig at everyone he doesn’t know, strangers, baristas, waiters, gas station employees: “This is my girlfriend she loves me.” b. They aren’t gross teens making out in public but they are holding hands or her arm is around him or he is sprawled across her lap in a booth at Burger King.

- First impression of each other? Was it love at first sight?a. He called her sexually frustrated and she punched him in the fucking face. b. It was Not.

- Nicknames? Pet names? Any in-jokes?Clara calls him shitlord and their in-jokes are strangely specific memelike phrases and things like Clara still having a plastic poop emoji from Mcdonalds glued to her dashboard.

- Any tasks that are always left to one person?Clara has taken full responsibility for loading the dishwasher and taking out the trash. Craig is in charge of making dinner at LEAST once a week and unloading the dishwasher after it’s done. They switch off on everything else by which I mean Clara does most of it.

- What annoys them the most about their partner? Would they change it if they could?a. Clara’s least favorite thing about Craig is he doesn’t do jack shit and she is significantly worried about his lack of motivation. Craig’s least favorite thing about Clara is that she smells like wet dog but other than that she loves him and so she must not have any flaws. b. They’d both change these things, Clara for Craig’s own good and Craig also for his own good.

- What do they like best about their partner?‘Willing to date me’ is pretty high on both of their lists. On a more lighthearted note they have a lot of similar interests, they’re good at bouncing humor off each other, and they can both provide the amount of affection the other one needs (which is… a lot).

- Do they discuss big issues? Religion? Marriage? Children? Death?Mmmm kind’ve? Religion isn’t hugely important to either of them. It’s pretty clear that they want to get married at some point but It only came up once when Clara was on pain killers. Clara can’t have kids and that’s fine neither of them have an interest in parenting. Death, no, they don’t talk about that because thinking about it is terrible.

- Who drives? Cooks? Does the handiwork? Cleans? Pays the bills? Handles the public?a. Clara. b. Both of them but Craig more often because he does not have a fucking job. c. Depends on the job; Clara fixes what she knows how to and Craig is tasked with figuring out the rest, which he can do, he just doesn’t want to. d. Almost exclusively Clara. e. Clara. f. Both of them but Craig is actually better at it when he wants to be.

- Do they celebrate holidays? Anniversaries?Yes, to both. A lot of holidays are spent at Sketch’s company parties, (or more accurately his mom’s company parties.) They haven’t actually had their first anniversary yet but that’s coming up and will probably be cute as shit.

- Is there a wedding? What was the proposal like? Any kind of honeymoon?There hasn’t been yet but like let’s be honest it’s a solid ‘probably.’ Not anytime imminently soon though.

- What do they do for fun? Do they have a favorite activity or do they like to switch things up?Video games and movie nights are probably the most common. Mostly because they cost the least amount of money and take the least amount of effort. Sometimes they get crazy and go to an arcade or go bowling. Or to the Y across town because swimming is one of the few things that involve physical activity that Craig actually likes doing and Clara will capitalize on that as much as possible.

- Anything they both dread?The other one dying/disappearing, which sounds obvious but sometimes it gets to the point where Clara is overwhelmingly paranoid about leaving the room for a few minutes because what if he gets sucked back into his own dimension and she never sees him again?? That and part of Craig has flat out convinced himself that that Clara is a godsend and he couldn’t survive life without her. (He could but try convincing him that his worth isn’t dependent on people loving him)

- How adventurous are they?Their most adventurous moment so far was exploring an old abandoned military fort in the town Clara used to live in.

- Do they keep secrets? Lie? Cheat? Secrets/lies like Craig sometimes still skims her diary or Clara blaming farts on the dog. Or when Craig says he ‘forgot’ to do what ever chore he was supposed to do that day when in reality he just made a conscious choice not to do it. Or when Clara doesn’t tell him she’s disappointed that he’s not doing anything with his time because she doesn’t want to sound like rev!Clara. Neither of them would cheat on the other one though. Ever. 

- What would make them break up? Would it be permanent?a. Craig doing something to ruin her career so she wouldn’t have any reason to leave his side for more than an hour at a time ever. b. in a healthy world yea but it wouldn’t actually be because a week later she’d be like “oh no you’re still crying… I don’t forgive you but you are sad so I’ll pretend it doesn’t matter : (”

- What are their dates like? How long do/did they date? Do they ever feel the need to take a break from each other?a. When they do go out it’s pretty eclectic; anything from going to an arcade to setting up a candle lit dinner… in a burger king. b. They’ve been dating since last May and that’s not going to change any time soon c. No. Never. At all. It’s probably kinda unhealthy.

- What do they fight about? What are their arguments like? How do they make up?a. Craig doing something stupid. Clara saying something sarcastically that sounds a little too close to rev!Clara’s go-to drags. Craig not having a job vs. Clara putting in way too much time that she doesn’t have to a her job. b. Clara is almost always the one to actually address the problem, and puts a lot of planning into how she phrases the conversation. Craig is… capable of having those conversations, but his go to approach is more along the lines of vying for pity based attention because he knows if she feels bad for him she won’t actively be angry, he’s not even always conscious of doing it, and it’s usually on impulse. This is starting to improve, and Clara’s gotten much better at recognizing and addressing it. Unlearning toxic shit takes time but she’s still gonna call him out on it. c. Parroting ‘I-love-you’s back and forth while sometimes crying. Usually a good few hours chilling on the couch watching movies. Whoever was wronged picks the movie and whoever fucked up makes dinner- that’s not a rule it’s more of an unspoken agreement. 

- What does their home look like? Their room?Bad. Not the actual apartment like it’s a pretty nice apartment they’re just both shitty at cleaning. See also:Mads-02/28/2018 he lives in a house full of dog fur and grease stains lye-02/28/2018 doesn’t mean he likes it but he’s also too lazy to clean it himself so it’ll be likeclara: (comes home from work)craig: your house is grossclara: then clean it you slut.

- Do they share any interests or hobbies?Vidya game. They’re both roller coaster fanatics also. Those are the biggest things that they both really like independently but also when you spend enough time with someone you love some of the things they like will start to remind you of them to the point you like them vicariously. The best example I can give is Clara used to hate the fucking Hallmark channel in all it’s heteronormative glory but now she actually enjoys like at least three of the movies. Maybe four.

- Does their work ever interfere with the relationship?Craig’s LACK of work does, it’s something Clara is really, REALLY frustrated over and she’s still a little unsure how to convey that without it coming off guilt tripping. At the same time Clara works overtime much more often than Craig would like, which is to say more than once or twice a month. He’s not any better at addressing this than she is though, he tends to do shit like pretend to be sick or actually make himself sick (the latter only once at least) so she’ll stay home.

- How do they hug? Kiss? Tease? Flirt? Comfort?Hugs have a 60 second absolute minimum in this household. Kisses have a two second record minimum but it’s usually at least 5. They are absolute dicks to each other but 99.9% of the time it’s fully communicated to be just that. Teasing. Flirting is terrible romantic gestures are go big or go home. Unless you count Clara making the WORST romance puns and Craig holding up his phone sometimes with ‘love my gf’ memes and going “that’s us babe!” or the one time he tried to lay seductively across the table when Clara got home and her immediate response is “So I guess we’re ordering take out again?” Comforting is either ‘I will hold you for 17 hours non-stop’, ‘you like food right? I’ll make some food’, or both.

- Any doubts about the relationship?Not that they don’t tune out and bury as deep down as possible!

- How much time do they spend together? Do they share their feelings, or hold things in?a. As Much As Possible. Another thing that’s not entirely healthy. b. They share most feelings, until it’s something negative and significant about the other, then they aren’t so good at it. Working on it, but not good at it.

- How do their friends feel about their relationship? Their families?Craig was the one who told Sketch at least because Clara genuinely could not figure out how. I’m assuming the question means like, mutual friends. Clara’s family is touch and go, not too big on Once-lers in general. Her mom likes Craig a lot though and her dad tolerates him which is saying something. Craig’s family doesn’t exist in this universe. 

- Do they have kids? Grow old together? Split up?¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Well actually I can say for certain they don’t have kids. Clara physically can’t have kids, or at least not safely, and more importantly can you imagine either of these fucking losers trying to parent anything? Terrifying.

- What are their vacations like?The closest thing to a vacation they’ve gone on is driving like 2 hours to Rhode Island/Connecticut once and then another 2 hours to Vermont for Thanksgiving.

- How do the handle disasters or emergencies? Minor injuries? Sickness?Bad. Mostly because if and when anything bad happens to one of them, the other subsequently flips shit. Clara is a little better at flipping shit INTERNALLY, but don’t let her fool you she is very stressed over her boyfriend coming down with the common cold and yes she DOES need to go home over her lunch break to check on him and NO she is not babying him what the fuck are you talking about.

- Could they manage a long distance relationship?They would INSIST that they can, and maybe they could for a few weeks, but after that things would go pretty bad pretty fast.

- Do they finish each other’s sentences? Pick up any phrases or habits from each other? Know when the other is hiding something?a.They are the couple that would attempt to finish each other’s sentences but fail horribly. Like, really badly, like, inserting words that don’t even make sense badly. “We finish each others-” “Chores, so you’ll clean the kitchen so I can go watch Pretty Woman while it’s on Starz? Thanks!”  “No!”b. Ok so Craig is from Texas, very rural tiny ass town in Texas, and unlike Sketch he has done next to nothing to not SOUND like someone from a very rural tiny ass Texas town. After living with him for several months Clara now says y’all’d’ve, y’all’d’n’t’ve, I’d’n’t’ve, and both ain’t and y’ain’t entirely unironically. She very rarely realizes this is happening. c. Clara knows because she’s good at reading people, Craig knows because he’s good at still occasionally reading her diary and just not telling her.

- Do they ever get into trouble? Is it serious, or are they just mischievous?They have had to climb a fence and bail halfway through a game of paintball because Craig shot a kids father who was NOT in the game.

- What kind of presents do they get each other? Do they only do it on special occasions?Craig goes with chocolate because that’s yet to fail, that and just, money he talks Sketch into giving him. Sketch has a habit of giving Clara money and she won’t accept it from him without a fight so at this point he’s reached a state of “I’ll give it to you IF you give it to Clara/put it towards food/rent.”Clara spoils the SHIT out of Craig now that she has a steady job and income. She has gotten him, so far, A Nintendo Switch, an Xbox 1s, and a fucking PS4. Now it should be noted that she also has unlimited access to all of these and tends to beat him at most games played on them, so the selflessness of buying them is debatable.

- Do they have any pets?Sticks!!! But he’s really just Clara’s dog that Craig lives with because being provided with love and affection from Clara is worth being allergic to her dog apparently.

- Do they bring out the best in each other, or the worst? Do they have a fatal flaw?It’s tough to say whether it’s their BEST qualities, but overall they bring out more good in each other than bad. I’m not sure about a fatal flaw but a pretty big one is just, not addressing negative emotions around any aspect of their relationship enough out of fear of losing each other. They aren’t the picture of a perfect relationship by any means either, Clara has an obsession with feeling needed and depended on, and because of this is a massive enabler who pretty much does everything for him. Including things he can very easily do himself. Craig, who doesn’t want to do jack shit and constantly needs to be loved and validated, is very ok with this.

- What’s their greatest strength as a couple? Their weakness?This sounds really disgustingly cheesy but listen they are very in love. Like frighteningly dedicated to one another in love. This is a double edged sword. 

- How much would they be willing to sacrifice for the other? Any lines they refuse to cross?They would deadass take a bullet for each other they are Ride Or Die™ let’s be real.

- What are they like in the bedroom? Any kinks/fetishes/turn-ons? Anything they won’t do?a. Uhhh synopsis; Craig’s a sex positive ace and Clara was a virgin until age 26. They are,, I think my most vanilla ship actually? If that says anything lmao. Other than Craig crying after sex on occasion. Lots of eye contact and being as close to each other as possible, less sex more ‘cuddling but with orgasms’. b. Craig has a fucking praise kink and Clara just so happens to never shut up when it comes to giving said praise so jot that down. c. Refer to a, there’s a shit ton of stuff they won’t do I’m too lazy to list all of it.  Listen anyone who actually cares can send asks to my nsfw blog because like. I know the answers. It’s probably sad how many answers I’m equipped to give here.

- Who initiated the relationship? Who kissed who first?  When did they realize they we’re in love?a/b. That’d be Craig who kicked off the relations hip with the class act of asking “hey wanna make out?” c. That’s not something that happens all at once, for anyone really. It’s a slow realization of ‘oh fuck I’m in love I guess.’

- Any special memories? Do they have a special place they like to go to?Define special because the most prominent memories are of shit like jumping the fence at the paintball place or the time Craig pretended to drown. Also the first time Clara said “I love you” then immediately buried it in a mouthful of spaghetti. 

- Are they party-goers? What are they like when they’re drunk? Does it happen often?Nah, other than like, holiday company parties they get invited to. Clara doesn’t drink at all anymore, or at least not without strong supervision, and she definitely doesn’t get drunk anymore. Craig’s just not crazy about alcohol in general, unless it’s got a gallon of sugar it doesn’t even taste good. 

- Do they let each other get away with things that would normally bother them?Constantly. There’s some stuff that Clara will draw the line on, and that’s usually when it’s a manipulative situation. But we all know that Craig will put up with just about any shit if it means validation and attention. THIS Clara doesn’t give him too much shit to put up with though, she just kinda smells like wet dog.

- Do they talk often? What about?Yea but not always about things the need to. They talk about their days or plans for the next week or how they’re doing in general, and they will delve into some levels of sharing insecurities but like I said there’s definitely some things they should talk about but haven’t.

- Are the comfortable with each other? Anything they have to have their privacy for?Maybe there was some need for privacy for the first month of living together but honestly at this point “Clara I ate half a pint of ice-cream and on a very related note we are out of toilet paper” is just commonplace conversation. They will hang out for an entire day sitting on the couch eating corn chips wearing each others sweatpants like it’s safe to say they’re comfortable.

- Any special dreams or goals they have as a couple? Any heartbreaks? Regrets?They both wanna marry each other like a lot, like I’m surprised it hasn’t come up more because let’s be honest it’s harder to leave someone when you have to go through a bunch of legal paperwork-. I think the most heartbreaking thing is that all of Craig’s family and friends live in an alternate plane of reality that it seems like there’s no way of getting back to, and if there WAS a way of getting back that would mean choosing between his home and his Clara, who is much better than the Clara back home. There’s some regrets in the making with the whole Clara not sitting down and telling Craig he NEEDS to get a fucking job. 

[tobns]

SNOWED IN: A (Tragic) Christmas Story — part three.

In Which We All Contemplate Sacrificing Alexander for the Greater Good

Jen gives up on trying to induce bonding, so the rest of the evening is spent in relative peace. We’re free to do whatever our hearts desire, so long as we aren’t booking ourselves a one-way ticket to a jail cell and we don’t choose anything for dinner that has a Christmas tree sticky note with Jen’s name on it. I opt to sit downstairs in the living room with Jackie, Jack and Leven, Jack channel surfing to find something other than the ‘ridiculous Hallmark movies with budgets of twelve dollars’.

Leven’s doing her nails on one end of the sectional, legs stretched out as she paints her toes an alarming shade of yellow with concentrated precision. After she finishes a toe, she’ll stop, turn to face me and open her mouth so I can feed her a piece of trail mix – specifically, the cashews or the M&Ms. God forbid she eat a dried cherry.

I’m sitting under a heating blanket, which only adds to my heated demeanor still lingering from earlier. Alexander has stayed far out of my sight for the remainder of the day, so at least it’s nice to know he’s able to tell when he’s not wanted and isn’t going to push an apology like he might have years and years ago. Dayo has been rather suspiciously unaccounted for as well. I’ve tried asking Jackie on three separate occasions throughout the evening to go to Dayo’s room and make sure he doesn’t have Alexander hogtied in the closet, but she pretends that she’s either enthralled with the channel surfing or that I’m speaking a language she doesn’t understand.

Jackie sure did make one hell of a point yesterday. Perhaps there was a reason we’d all grown apart, whenever it happened and whether it was a gradual thing or the after effects of a sledgehammer coming down. Sure, Alexander’s girlfriends and their possessive nature played a pretty big part in us falling out, but maybe there had been a little bit more to it than just that.

“Jack, can you pick a movie already?” Leven mumbles after I toss an M&M into her expecting mouth.

He shifts his head in Jackie’s lap so he’s looking up at her. “When I find one that isn’t deserving of a fucking Razzie. Seriously, who makes these disasters, and what studio puts forth the money to produce them?”

“I thought you’d already decided their overall budget was a ten-dollar bill,” I point out. Jack simply points at me with the remote for emphasis as he keeps flipping. “Jackie, I am begging you—”

“—I am not going to see if Dayo is committing a felony!” she finishes for me. “Let him for all I care. Maybe that’ll teach ol’ Blondie up there a lesson.”

“I’ll be sure to remember this for when we’re all sitting at Dayo’s murder trial in two weeks.”

“Why do you care so much, Belly?” Leven asks, beating Jackie to the punch. “I mean, you were all but ready to decapitate him earlier.”

“Yeah, Belly,” Jackie echoes. “If anything, Dayo’d be doing you a favor.”

“What’s this about favors?” Jen asks as she passes through the living room, presumably making her way from the kitchen. She has inadvertently become my savior, keeping me from delivering an explanation that I’m not even sure I have. It’s only a few threads of my good conscious that are on board with saving Alexander’s life from a certain death – the more I try to find a reason, the more reasons I come up with as to why I’m perfectly justified in turning a blind eye.

“Nothing, we’re just discussing the one Dayo’s doing for all of us by getting rid of Alexander.” Jen’s mouth forms a slight ‘O’ as she nods. She then jabs a thumb over her shoulder, pointing behind her.

“Well, I could use one from you guys, if you don’t mind. The wind’s finally stopped, and I need some help unloading presents from my car.”

“You actually bought us shit?” Jack asks, resting a hand over his heart. “Jenny, I’m touched.”

“There’s still time to take it back.”

“Don’t be crazy.” The four of us slowly pull ourselves off of the couch, wrapping blankets or jackets around our shoulders and pursuing a pair of shoes as we start to make our way to the door. The snow is still falling down lazily in thick white clumps when I get a brief glimpse out the window, the sky behind it an odd shade of black.

“I’ll be out there in a second,” Jen calls. “I’ve gotta go find my keys.”

Jack goes ahead with opening up the door, a rush of cold air hitting me square in the chest. I instinctively pull the blanket a little tighter around my chest as I step outside. Everything has morphed into even more of a winter wonderland, the snow already a thick blanket on the ground and only growing by the second.

“Which car is Jen’s, you think?” Jack asks as he leads the way down the stairs, the snow crunching underneath his feet. I try to step in his footprints, cutting down the chances of slipping and falling.

“The nicest one, duh,” Jackie replies. “You know she didn’t roll up in a fucking Prius.”

“You drove a Prius for like, three years,” Leven reminds her. Jackie stops as she turns back around, making a face.

“Yes, because I was a high school sophomore, not an Academy Award winner.”

Leven nods in refutation, and I all but push Jackie down the next step so we keep moving. The less time I spend on these stairs, the higher the probability of me leaving here in one piece increases.

My feet start to sink into the snow by the time I reach the ground, the hems of my sweatpants brushing up against it. “I’m actually terrified to see the final total of how much snow this place has accumulated,” I mutter.

Jackie shudders at the thought. “We might never leave.”

“Which I’m sure would be right up Jen’s alley,” Leven adds.

The sound of the door up on the porch closing catches our attention. “Yo, Jenny!” Jack calls out. “Hit the button on your car already so I can grab some gifts and head back inside! It’s cold!”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Jen sounds an awful lot like Dayo.

Sure enough, Dayo’s bounding down the stairs as he shrugs on his ridiculous wintergreen flannel. He’s had it for ages, and I know this because I tried to sneak it into a donation box and a trash can on many different occasions when I’d stop by his place in LA. “You guys helping with presents?” he asks. I simply nod.

“Was Jennifer behind you?” Jack questions, peeking around from behind the trunk of what I think he’s established as Jen’s car.

“No,” he replies, coming to stand down next to me. “She said she had to go find her keys.”

“So,” Jackie says as she sidles up next to Dayo. “What’d you do with Alexander’s body?”

Dayo scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You really think I did something to him?”

Leven, Jackie, Jack, and I all respond in unison. “Yes.”

I hear the sound of the door to the house open up again. The porch lights are off, so we aren’t able to see who it is until they’re a few steps away from being on the ground. I figure out that it isn’t Jen this time again either before they even come into view – Amandla and Willow don’t exactly whisper at the quietest of volumes.

By the time Alexander, Jen, and Josh all come sauntering down the steps in two different intervals, I can’t do anything but roll my eyes at how gullible all of us are. I doubt Jen even bought us anything; the first class tickets probably cost enough to suffice as our Christmas. Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas, I think. Your present is a one-way trip to hell.

“Jen…” Jackie drags out warily. It’s a very good thing that Jen never got into gambling, because her poker face is absolute garbage. “Why are we all out here?”

“Is this Alexander’s funeral?” Willow asks. Alexander rolls his eyes, arms folded tightly over his chest as he leans up against the hood of one of the cars.

Somewhere inside her, Jen finds her gall and glares at all of us with steely eyes. “No,” she responds defiantly. “You guys – namely Alexander – screwed up my bonding exercises, that’s one thing. I wasn’t really taking that seriously.”

“You weren’t?” Jack repeats.

Jen’s face falls in a deadpan. “Jack, I flee from any and all organized activities. It’s why I left public school faster than you could say extracurricular,” she says. “But I thought if it was gonna get you asshats to talk again, then I’d suffer through it. And we were doing so well up until Ludwig over there opened his freakishly big mouth and went right for the fucking glue of the group.” I don’t know whether I should feel a small inch of contentment or offense towards that.

“So now you’ve forced my hand, resulting in my having to get creative.” Her arms cross as she pops out her hip, staring at us expectantly. “We aren’t going back inside until you idiots love each other again.”

Josh instantly bursts out into laughter. “Oh god, that’s a good one,” he says, wiping at his eyes. Jen however, doesn’t lighten up any. “Wait…are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m messing around?”

“Jen, I thought we agreed we were partners in crime on this!” Josh whines.

“And you were a terrible partner in crime,” she retorts. “The only crime you’ve committed since showing up here is wearing that tacky ass shirt.” Josh looks down at his Charlie Brown Christmas sweater, frowning.

“This is ridiculous,” Amandla states, the mouthpiece of all our thoughts. “Seriously, Jen, let’s stop doing laps through the Nile.” With that, she brushes past me and heads right back up the stairs towards the front door. Jen doesn’t try to stop her, just stares blankly into the empty space as she waits for something.

I move to follow after Amandla once she’s made it up to the door, stopping only once I realize Amandla hasn’t actually made it inside yet. She’s tugging on the door just to meet resistance. It will not budge, no matter how hard she pulls. My eyes snap over to Jen, who’s got the beginnings of a rather smug smirk curling along the corners of her lips.

“What the hell?” Amandla yells out, echoing out into the night. “Why is this thing locked?”

“I told you!” Jen shouts back. “No one is going inside until I’m seeing a group hug so genuine it brings a frozen fucking tear to my eye!”

“Jen,” Leven says slowly. “You do realize it’s nearly midnight, there’s still snow coming down to add on the foot-and-a-half on the ground, and it’s, oh I don’t know, below freezing?”

“Well Levvy, maybe that’ll motivate all of you to get to singing Kumbaya a little bit faster.”

Amandla comes bounding back down the stairs, searching for a way to get up underneath the blanket I have draped around my shoulders. “This isn’t gonna go well,” she says to me quietly. All I do is nod.

Alexander sighs, dragging a hand down his chin. “Look, Belle, I’m sorry about earlier,” he says begrudgingly, as though the apology will cleanse him of all his sins and wrongdoing. “I spoke before I thought—”

“—not uncommon for you—”

“—stay out of it, Jackie,” Alexander growls.

“I mean, I tried, and look where that got us,” she defends herself. “You went airing out the details of Isabelle’s sex life, which I didn’t really care to know that much about.”

“Like you haven’t had a five-year subscription to mine, the way you run commentary on it!” Alexander fires back. Jackie’s hands only rise higher.

“Hey, I’m not the one who’s type is ‘how close of a knockoff Isabelle girlfriend can I find?’ She’s oblivious as it is, someone’s gotta look out for her, Douchewig.”

“God, why haven’t you let that nickname die yet?”

“We’re talking, we’re talking…” Jen muses in observation. “This is good.”

Dayo rolls his eyes. “Jenny, this is the exact opposite of good. You should have known that the minute you invited Ludwig we’d all go postal. He is the root of all our problems.”

“Excuse me!”

“You heard me, Ludwig!”

Already, I find myself starting to cower a little farther into the blanket huddle Amandla and I have created. I’ve never witnessed Dayo and Alexander get genuinely angry with one another – annoyance, yes, that was more common than anything, but nothing near this. Any second now, I’m waiting for Dayo to punch Alexander. Apparently, Jen senses this too as the tension begins escalating at a trajectory far beyond our control.

“Boys—”

Alexander seems to lose what little tact he has left, swiping a handful of snow off the hood of the car behind him and lobbing it right at Dayo. It hits the flannel, knocking him square in the chest. Dayo glares at him, and Alexander simply gives him a look that’s meant to challenge him.

Dayo takes it, happily retaliating with the biggest piece of snow he can pick up off Jen’s car and heave Alexander’s way.

“Words!” Jen screeches. “Use your words!”

“Gladly!” Dayo says, his voice dripping in feigned cheer. He scoops more snow off of Jen’s car, and with every handful he sends hurtling Alexander’s way, he emphasizes with a single word. “Would. It. Kill you. To. Not. Be. An asshole?”

“Would it kill you to let shit go, damn!?” Alexander yells as he ducks behind Jack’s rental car for cover.

“Dayo I swear to god if you dent the rental that is in my name, you are paying for it!” Jack shouts. Dayo pauses his snow assault on Alexander, flames dancing in his eyes.

“Is that just the wolf pack motto? Make Dayo pay for everything? Why wasn’t I informed of this before I signed my life away to the cult?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the cheapest person on Earth,” Amandla groans, her arms wrapping around my waist so we optimize our body heat.

“What are you talking about, Dayo?” Jackie asks, shaking her head.

Dayo points an accusatory index finger at Alexander. “The real cheapskate over here loves to just rack up all the bills and then put my fucking name on them, and it got old! I drew the line when he parked my car in a ‘no park’ zone at that supermodel’s birthday party we crashed, and I had to pay for the ticket plus the tow truck’s drop on-site fee!”

Jen’s voice is dangerously quiet. “You mean to tell me that we have all been dancing around each other’s necks all awkwardly and shit because the two of you were fighting over a motherfucking parking ticket?!”

“IT WAS THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS!” Dayo roars.

Jen has finally reached her breaking point, lunging directly for the two of them with a handful of snow that she arms herself with. She chases them through the front yard, throwing snow at the both of them while Alexander and Dayo resume throwing it at each other. The rest of us stand there on what’s left of the sidewalk, watching the scene unfold. The winter wonderland has quickly evolved into a winter warfront.

“A parking ticket,” Jack repeats dully. “I had to play the middle man for six months because of a parking ticket.”

Saying it out loud seems to help him process, because no sooner do the words roll off his lips does he go running off into the snow to catch up with them, his war cry echoing out into the quiet nighttime.

“Dear god,” Jackie groans as she goes taking off after him. Secretly, I think she’s using Jack’s involvement in this whole mess as an excuse to throw a couple of balls of ice right at Alexander’s head. And maybe Jen’s, if the opportunity presents itself.

Amandla, Josh, Leven, Willow and I all look at one another, unsure of what to do from here. None of us have any dogs in this fight – up until Jackie tackles Alexander a few minutes later, attempting to literally bury him in the snow, and then we have to intervene.

Amandla and I decide it will at least take the two of us to pry Jackie off of Alexander, each of us grabbing a side and attempting to pull her away while still keeping the blanket remotely around us. Jack is bathing Dayo in snow, which Leven and Willow are trying to break up, and Josh is holding Jen by the waist to usher her away while she struggles to get back in the ring.

We acted more mature six years ago.

“Jackie, give it up!” Amandla spits, nearly pulling Jackie’s arm out of socket. I must not be on the same wavelength with Amandla in the way I usually am with Jackie, because I missed the transmission that left me to deal with Alexander, or at least, be the wall that keeps Jackie from going back for the vocal cords. At least I got the blanket.

One of Alexander’s hands come to rest on my shoulder, and I instantly whip around. I don’t even have to verbalize my confusion, the daggers whirling from my eyes as I glare at him send him back a step or two, hands lifted slightly in mock arrest.

“Hopeless!” Jen yowls as Josh drags her up the side staircase towards the porch. “You morons are hopeless! Not even Dr. Phil could save us!”

Josh finally lets go of her, Jen stomping towards one of the hanging plants on the porch. My guess is, she’s rummaging for the spare house key, since keeping it on her person would have been too obvious a hiding spot. She runs her hand through the pot, a small look of puzzlement washing over her face as she slides to the one next to it. She does the same thing, rummaging around for the key. Her eyes then start to grow wider and wider, moving to each individual hanging plant and performing the same thing. Her expression gives me no reassurance.

“Jen…” I say cautiously.

“Belly…” she calls down just as nervously.

“Why do you have that look on your face?”

“I don’t have a look on my face?” Her voice is squeakier than ever.

Amandla frowns. “You have a look on your face that says you’ve fucked something up.”

“Me? Moi? Psh,” Jen says, voice getting higher and higher each time as she deflects with the wave of her hand. “Naw. No. Never.”

“Jen?” Josh asks quietly.

“The fucking house key isn’t here!” she wails.

“The what isn’t where?!” Dayo repeats, voice strained. Poor Dayo. He’s come to the brink of his sanity being unraveled one too many times today – it wouldn’t surprise me if we had to go to the hospital tomorrow because he’s somehow managed to develop an ulcer in record time.

“I swear it was right here!” Jen shuffles back over to the hanging plant she started at, digging around inside of it in search for the key. “That was the whole reason I even went through with something as dumb as locking us out – it’s always a foolproof idea when you’ve got a spare key!”

“Nothing, I repeat, nothing is foolproof when it comes to us,” Willow states. “We defy the way of the natural universe. Foolproof plus us? Automatically cancelled out. We are the fools foolproof doesn’t work on.”

“Not helping, Wills,” Jen whines.

“So are we stuck out here?” Jack says as he dusts snow off of his jeans.

“No,” Dayo answers before Jen gets the opportunity to. “No, I refuse. This is not happening. We are not stuck out here. Over my dead body.”

“Frostbite is a silent killer,” I mutter.

Jen comes thundering back down the stairs, Josh right on her heels like the lost puppy he is. “Okay,” she starts, thinking out loud. “Alright. How the hell are we gonna get back inside?”

“Is there a back door?” Leven tries. “Every house has to have a back door.”

Amandla nods eagerly. “Yeah, and if you’re anything like Dayo, you leave it unlocked.”

“This one doesn’t,” Jen answers. “But there is a garage door down on the side of the house, it goes through the basement. We’ve got more than enough muscle to get it pried open.”

“So basically, we’re going to break back into your house,” Alexander reiterates.

“Do you have any other ideas?” Jen snaps. He immediately withdraws, quiet. She nods. “What I thought.” Pointing ahead, she begins marching around the side of the house. “Roll out, gang!”

We all amble along behind her, wading through the snow that’s brushing up against our ankles. Jack is still trying to shake snow out from inside his t-shirt, Dayo keeps grumbling about how we’ve gotten his flannel wet – he was going to grace us with its presence again by wearing it tomorrow – and Willow has given up on walking, hitching a ride on Josh’s back.

When we reach the garage door, which Jen neglected to tell us was in the pitch-black shadow of the house and down a fucking hill, she’s standing next to it expectantly. “Muscle,” she summons.

“What?” Dayo asks, hands settling on his hips. “You aren’t gonna give it a whirl?”

“I have the upper body strength of a linguine noodle.”

Alexander slides past me (he apparently decided to bring up the rear so no one could get any fun ideas and try to kickstart round two by jumping him) as he joins Dayo in front of the garage door. Manually opening one shouldn’t be rocket science, of course, but that is exactly what it will become knowing the two of them.

They start at the bottom, trying to at least get some separation between the door and the concrete. The rest of us stand back, remaining as quiet as possible while we watch them work. After a few minutes of trying and failing with that tactic, Alexander stands up. “Let’s try you down there and me up here, see if evening out the force works.”

Dayo stares up at him. “Dude, what kind of made up physics is that?”

“Well clearly your version wasn’t working out too well, I’m just trying to offer a fresh perspective!”

“Jenny, you sure we can’t just heave-ho Ludwig through a window?” Dayo asks innocently. “Pray for jagged glass?”

Willow rolls her eyes. “You two need more manpower,” she insists, taking up the spot in between Dayo and Alexander. “Alexander, get back down here, and on my count, push it upwards.”

“What?”

“Do what now?”

“Do you want to stand out here and freeze or do you want to make progress?”

Jackie interrupts them before they get a chance to answer. “Listen to her, knuckleheads.”

Dayo and Alexander both fall silent, and Alexander does as he’s told, kneeling back down. Willow counts them off. “One…two…three.”

There’s a loud groaning noise, metal screeching as the garage door lifts slightly off the ground. I have to admit I’m slightly amazed, if not at the fact that it actually worked but at the fact that Willow, the baby of the bunch was the one thing that made the significant difference.

Dayo and Alexander are both also astounded by this that they become entirely obsolete, staring at her in such amazement that they leave her to push the garage door up to a height we can all squeeze under all by herself. When she finishes it, she dusts off her hands and turns around to face us.

“What?” she asks when she sees how we’re looking at her.

“You might be tiny,” Josh finally says. “But out of all of us, you’re the biggest.”

The garage is dusty, pitch-black, and a safety hazard if I’ve ever halfway seen one. With every step, there’s something else to trip over – I nearly bite the dust on four different occasions, stumbling into bikes, skis, and a leaf blower that Jen claims belongs to her nephew. Amandla has to catch and steady me each time.

We all huddle around the door, each of us looking at it expectantly. Josh is closest to the door itself, his hand finding the handle. “C’mon miracle, c’mon Christmas miracle…” he mumbles, as if he’s getting ready to roll a dice. He then jiggles it, attempting to force it open.

Nothing.

“It’s locked,” Josh announces, and we all groan.

“Move out of the way, Hutcherson.” Leven pushes through our little clump, pulling a bobby pin out of her hair. “If this trick worked on a trailer unit, a Parisian hotel room, and the sketchy alleyway entrance to my apartment, it’ll work on anything.”

“Leven Rambin, my hero,” Jackie whispers.

It takes her a second, and I can hear the click of the lock even over the sound of Jack’s heavy breathing – he must be shutting down and going into hibernation mode. “Voila,” she says, pumping her fist in victory.

It’s a stampede to get inside, each one of us eager to be the first one to get in the presence of insulation, heat, and a dry ground.  

“Ah, heat,” Jack sighs contentedly as we all spread out in the hallway, taking off his t-shirt and a fair amount of snow falling to the floor when he does. My face scrunches up in contempt. “What, Izzy?”

“Not all of us are Jackie – we don’t appreciate seeing you shirtless.”

“Okay,” Jen sighs, resting her hands on her knees. “I am officially done trying to mediate with you fuckers. Done.” At that, we all breathe giant sighs of relief. She frowns. “You guys are awful.”

“Sorry, Jenny,” Josh says, reaching up to ruffle her hair. “Can’t fix something that’s not broken.”

“That’s a damn lie; we’re as broken as broken gets, and that’s on a good day.”

Jen hits the button to the garage door to close it back up, turning the lock back on the door. “If you guys want to be Grinches, then be my guest. You’re stuck here anyways, I think that satisfaction alone will suffice.”

“It ought to, you selfish, selfish woman,” Jackie mumbles.

“All I want for Christmas is for you to stop asking too much of us,” Dayo adds. “We’re the bare minimum kind of people. Not a single one of us is an overachiever.”

“Hey,” I protest, to which everyone glares at me.

Jack rests a hand on his hip as he pats my shoulder patronizingly. “Try as you might, Belly, but how well does that work out for you?”

Good point.

                                                          ...

I wake up the next morning to blue and red lights and the sound of someone using their fist as a miniature battering ram.

I don’t remember crashing on the couch downstairs in the living room with Jackie, Jack, and Amandla, but I can feel the after effects of it as I sit up slowly, my spine aching in ways I didn’t know possible. The Netflix home screen is glaring up at as from where we apparently forgot to turn the TV off last night, my eyes bleary.

“Mm…Jackie,” I mumble quietly, leaning over and shaking her. “Jackie.”

“Go away, Taylor,” she groans almost incoherently, her voice muffled by the blanket she’s got pulled up around her nose. I frown, pushing some of my hair out of my face as I glance back over at the door. The blue and red lights are a dancing blur through the frosted glass, and I can see the shadows of someone standing on the porch. Two and two very quickly equals four.

That wakes me up pretty quickly, and I duck down behind the couch. My shaking gets a lot more violent. “Jackie, wake the fuck up,” I hiss. “There are cops at the door.”

Both of her eyes fly open, staring up at me like a deer in headlights.

I stay hunched down as Jackie takes a tentative glance over the edge of the couch, almost instantly snapping back down. “Why the hell are the cops here?” she asks me.

“Like I know!” I whisper.

“Maybe they’ve come to collect Alexander,” she tries.

“For what?”

“Tax evasion? Underage drinking? Possession? Perpetuating incompetency via social media? Bad acting?”

I roll my eyes. “Be serious, Jackie.”

“I am – did you not see Grownups 2?”

I glance around the living room; Jack and Amandla are still sleeping peacefully, and no one else seems to be downstairs with us. The house, for the first time this entire vacation, is quiet. “What do we do?”

Jackie begins patting down her lap, searching for something. She spots her phone on the floor, bending in ways that would bring the circus scouts calling to get it. “What are you doing?” I ask as she starts typing furiously.

“Texting Jen,” she replies, and I stare at her like she’s lost her mind. “What?! We are bound to this couch – if they see someone moving around in here, they’ll call for backup or some shit, and the last thing I need this Christmas is to be apart of some accidental police standoff all because we started strolling around like nothing’s fucking happening!”

“Okay, first of all, you need to lay off the procedural dramas,” I tell her. “Second of all, what makes you think Jen is gonna hear her phone go off if she hasn’t heard the cops banging on the door?!”

Suddenly, we hear sounds on the footsteps, our heads snapping in the direction of the staircase. Down strolls Josh Hutcherson in a plaid robe, like he doesn’t have a single care in the world.

“Get down!” Jackie whisper-shouts through gritted teeth, catching Josh’s attention. He immediately hits the deck, the action so rapid that he slips and falls down at least three steps before grabbing ahold of the banister. The noise is somewhat loud, and I wince.

“What the fuck?!” he says, and Jackie and I both put our fingers to our lips. He starts again, this time quieter. “What the hell is wrong with you two?”

“There are cops outside,” I inform him.

“How the hell did you not see the lightshow?!”

“Cops?” Josh whispers. “Why are the police here?”

“You tell us!”

“Okay, there is no need to cop a ‘tude with me, Fuhrman.” He lifts himself up a little bit to see if he can get a glimpse out the window. “How did they even get here?” he asks. “There’s like, two feet of snow on the ground.”

“Maybe they attached their little lights onto a horse’s head,” Jackie says, turning to me for some sort of affirmation.

“Can we worry about their means of transportation later and focus on the real problem here? What are we gonna do?!”

Jackie sits up a little bit. “I nominate we send Josh to the door. He’s easily the most likable.”

Josh’s jaw drops in offense. “Why me? We could just send Isabelle, her cleavage in that tank top could get us out of any kinda warning we’ve bestowed upon ourselves.” It’s my turn to lose control of my jaw, it falling a little as I glare at him.

“Sexist much?”

“It’s not my fault you own very, very revealing clothing! I mean, you wonder why Ludwig’s so into you, have you looked in your closet lately?”

“Focus!” Jackie snaps her fingers. “Josh, you’re…the most decent out of all of us, you go to the door.”

“It’s not my house! I don’t think I’m gonna pass as a very convincing Jennifer, Jacqueline.”

The knocking returns, much more intense this time around. Jackie’s eyes forcefully shoot in the direction of the door before she looks back expectantly at Josh. “Go,” she mouths. He huffs, running a hand over the top of his head to fix his hair before he straightens back up, walking down the rest of the stairs with purpose. Nervously, but with purpose.

As he passes by the couch, he shoots Jackie a look. She rolls her eyes, waving him along.

“Remember, if all else fails, just say we’ve got Alexander Ludwig upstairs and we’ll happily hand him over,” she throws out last minute, before ducking back down.

Jackie and I do our best to lay as flat against the couch without waking up Jack or Amandla but still have a gauge on the unfolding situation of what’s happening as the door. It creaks open, Josh greeting both of the officers. Suddenly, breathing doesn’t seem so necessary.

“Are you the owner of this house?” a voice much deeper than Josh’s asks, and I feel my heart stop. Jackie has taken to squeezing my hand to alleviate some of her anxiety, and it takes everything in me not to slap her or yelp in pain. Her grip is like a vice.

“Um, I’m her…husband,” Josh replies slowly, and Jackie clamps a hand over her mouth to force the laugh back in. I roll my eyes at his response – Josh might be the most likable, but he’s also the worst liar. “Is everything alright?”

“We’re sorry to bother you this morning, Mister Lawrence,” an even deeper voice than the first says. Jackie’s eyes are closed as she uses every ounce of concentration she has to keep quiet. “We’re here on behalf of the alarm company.”

“Alarm company?” Josh repeats, and Jackie and I look at each other confusedly.

“Yes sir. Last night after midnight, your alarm system was tripped and the company reported a break-in to our district.” Jackie’s eyes widen – apparently, we’d had all the right ideas in trying to get back inside, but Jen had forgotten to disarm the fucking alarm system. That, or it just went straight ahead and alerted the cops, not even bothering to send out the warning shot. “The snow prevented an officer from getting here any sooner; we wanted to stop by and make sure everything was alright.”

“Oh, yeah,” Josh says after a beat of painful silence, false laugh falling from his mouth. “Yeah, silly me – the wife wanted me to get another box of ornaments out of the garage, and we never go out that door. I guess I forgot to disarm the system, too busy trying to please the missus. You know how that is, right fellas?”

Again, silence follows, and if I could, I’d melt into the couch cushions.

“Well, as long as everything’s alright here,” one of the officers finally concedes.

“It is,” Josh rushes to answer. “Really. Thank you, officers, for stopping by. You have a Merry Christmas now!”

Josh all but shoos the police from the doorway, and as I peer over the edge, I catch a glimpse of him delivering one convincing wave before he slams the door back shut. He keeps his nose pressed to the glass, waiting until they presumably leave. When they’re either far enough out of sight or gone, Josh spins back around, slumping up against the door.

Jackie and I pop back up from behind the couch, Jackie draping her arms over the top. “Any horses with little lights on their head?” she asks.

Josh ignores her entirely. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbles. “That went horribly.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Jackie responds. “How the hell did we just…not realize we set off the fucking alarm?”

“Because we’re us, Jacqueline,” is Josh’s weary reply. “The better question is, why did we think that any of last night’s escapade would just go over scot-free?”

“Because we’re idiots,” I offer.

Josh simply nods, combing a hand back through his hair. Jackie perks up a little after a beat of silence has passed.

“Box of ornaments?” she asks.

A sly grin slips onto my face. “Mister Lawrence?”

“The missus?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Josh growls.

“You better go wake the missus up,” Jackie says. “Because you know the cops are gonna be back in a few hours, demanding to talk to the real owner of the house.”

“And don’t worry, Joshie,” I add. “We won’t tell Jen how you’re dying to be her husband.”

Josh doesn’t say anything else. He just flips us off, before tightening the knot on his robe and retreating back upstairs.

[duckbeater]

KNIGHTS TROPICANA

I finally edited this to my satisfaction. It’s another I shared with Peter, who needs to send me more drawings (only when he has drawn something to his satisfaction!). I would say this is a short story more than it’s an essay, which means I’ve fictionalized 12% of it and barely changed the names.

—

A LOT OF THE MEN IN MY LIFE were undergoing strife of one variety or another. Hardly any of it professional. Shawn wanted a job in New York to keep tabs on his boyfriend, Bryan, who lived in Manhattan. They had the usual arrangement with caveats: while apart, they should enjoy sex with whomever they pleased, so long as it was never penetrative. Shawn lived in Chicago (a few neighborhoods from me), so he really had no way of policing their policy, no way of knowing for certain who was letting whom put what where. The normal jealousies creeped up. “People get drunk and caught up in the moment” was his suspicion, which deepened and blossomed. He often texted “am I crazy” before settling into hours of emotional, retrospective analysis. I was putting my counseling hat on a lot for the boys, which is pretty rich, when you think about it. It was like flirting. I assumed the outcome would be the same if I were flirting (sex), but it was much more work (and the outcome ended up being endearment and confusion). I put Kahlúa in my morning coffee and sort of buckled in for the ride.

Is paranoid an emotion? I googled that. For Shawn’s part, he was never having sex with anyone else. For Bryan’s part, he was always having sex. He loved Shawn, and when they spent long weekends together was slavishly devoted to his boyfriend’s every exquisite need. They illustrated this by sending me numerous blowjob Snaps and some clinically erotic Instagram stories. (I’m not sure why they hopped apps.) I was a cut-rate participant/observer, sending weak congratulations on their every orgasm. Weak but “deeply felt,” as the critics say. If I wasn’t in a grocery store getting these images, or at dinner with friends, or at my desk on a Tuesday morning, I might reply back with something saucier by way of encouragement. Playing Switch, numb in Hyrule, vaguely aware of Link’s swimmer’s physique under his cute climbing gear—then a bzzz. And then—twenty or so minutes of elating distraction while a dominating Shawn glazed a whimpering Bryan in mucilaginous ropes of semen. The epilogue to these displays? An eye crimped shut with cum.

Exhibiting couples are always checking in with each other, with their audience, with themselves. “Do you like that?” begets “Do you want this?” begets “Do you need it?” (I really needed it.) Yet rather than heightening sensations, the teleplay of desire squanders them by mangling the ordinary human rhythms of love and sex. The wait on replies alone (as I texted back, as I replayed videos, as I waited for future queries and titillations), was enough to distend all attraction to a gray space of null waiting—the erotic equivalence of a DMV. This was not satisfaction deferred, like edging; this was the bureaucracy of our devices, mandating thrills on a piecemeal hold, to give us time to wipe the lube off our palms before holding our phones again. (My phone was disgusting. Assume all phones are disgusting.) For Shawn and Bryan’s sex shows (I don’t know what else to call them), I settled into a holding pattern, with the fly of my jeans undone, a quickened pulse, and eventually... a hand on the TV remote. (Look: This was during Peak TV. I could be immersed in their most intense, most intimate moments, and also catch up on The Good Place. Besides, I wasn’t sure who else was a part of these broadcasts, who else was among my competitors [could I also follow them on Instagram?], and “the sex wasn’t the main thing anyway.”)

The sex, apparently, wasn’t the main thing, anyway. They wanted to grow old together, explained Bryan. They wanted kids, they wanted property, they wanted grandchildren. As their schedules permitted, they connected on life-affirming business trips—to Atlanta, to Reno, to Austin—while accruing the kinds of expenses that signify serious investment and total commitment. They shared a sensibility (a brand alignment) that showed through even in their most coordinated and winsome posts: a bright “togetherness” captured by strangers competently photographing them in an iPhone X’s portrait mode. Big smiles over barbecue. Shirts off in front of a Route 66 sign. Sometimes the faked focal length is annoyingly apparent, but never for them. The depth of their strife was commensurate with the strength of their devotion. It was enviable, its earnestness. “I love making Shawn laugh—I love hearing his laugh,” confided Bryan, once, back when we still Facetimed. I felt same.

At drinks with Shawn one night, a similar desire arose in me, the desire to fill him with glee—to draw out his rich, low, wagging laugh, with his hand on my thigh. I realized I wanted to be radiant at the exact moment of realizing I was subsisting—had been subsisting for months—on radiance’s shadow. I didn’t want to be the faint part of the moon illuminated by Shawn and Bryan’s earthshine, I didn’t even want to be the stupid, pockmarked, rinky-dink moon. Fuck the earth. Fuck the moon. I wanted to be the sun. I wanted a magnetic field for miles. I wanted to be white-hot charming, and focused, like a laser beam. I wanted to pierce Shawn with longing, ravaging his soul with a kind of diamond-tip precision. It would be like firing a flare gun, igniting our fates. It would be like some other flame- or light-related simile. I didn't mind feeling out of control for once, lusting like a mad man, impervious to restraint or decorum or good sense. He had illustrated, over a year of very triple-X texts, that we had no respect for good sense, at all. And, at last, there were no screens between us. Here I was, commuting three hours every day (my strife was professional), watching other passions on screens for three more hours, wondering if I could just have a small taste of that, a whiff, and here was the object of that manifestation, that torment and temptation. He grazed my knee with his knee. He broke off a piece of grilled cheese sandwich and fed it to me. I casually declined a second feeding.

Who is Shawn? He is two heads taller, plays tennis, keeps a trim beard, has curly short hair and white (but not bleach-white) buckteeth. A copy-writer for a very prominent ad agency. Actually the thing I want to describe isn’t physical, it’s cultural: he reads very straight (gauche to say this), and flirting with him in public, in crowded bars, felt like the gauche victory of seducing a straight man. We want our prizes won fair. I wanted to win a grand prize. I’ve seduced maybe one straight man? God. It felt really, really grand.

Because Shawn does improv comedy, he actually read me jokes that night, pulling up one and then another from a folder in his phone. These were spec headlines he’d written for The Onion (where I know the head writer) and some Vimeo-hosted productions for his agency portfolio. None of them made me laugh but that did not make him stop, because I kept my face warm and alert, and because I was quick to ask questions, questions that intimated close scrutiny—and also because my face is handsome. (I don’t know the preconditions. My face, however, is handsome.) At least I didn’t have to critique this one. He was a gentleman. What helped was that I had consumed a double whiskey before he met me at the bar and had volunteered double shots shortly after his arrival, and then nursed a strong cocktail thereafter. He asked me how my playwriting was going and I was happy to report that I was no longer a playwright, not even a pretend playwright! I was just a normal communications lackey for an emergent fintech company, building PowerPoint presentations that lowered company morale.

Did we have intimacy? I felt near blackout by dinner’s end, but then, I often felt near blackout that season, gripping the present as though it were a cliff’s edge. (The surf below sounded exciting. I could drop down there.) Déjà vu permeated our exchange. Even the grilled cheesed feeding felt prêt-à-porter. Batting his hand away from the second morsel, I remember thinking, “Why does dating suck this much? Why does getting to know anyone feel so hellish?” I recalled that I knew, in fact, Shawn intimately: the crimped thick purple veins of his dick, striations below his ass cheeks, his preference for boxers over briefs; I knew that he liked to humiliate his lover, and often called Bryan, during their love-making, repellently misogynist names. We had the kind of internetty intimacy that checks a lot of porn search engine boxes. It was entirely performative and it was entirely contained within the hidden folder of photos in our phones. We got along swimmingly in part because the absolute worst of ourselves had already been revealed. He was a narcissist. I was an idiot. But all of this information existed on axes of desire—was warped by that desire—and so wasn’t very truthful. (Maybe, I mean, “accurate.”) He wanted a lover close-by. He wanted to live with Bryan, to live with his soulmate. He needed me to confirm that soulmates were real. I needed him to confirm that the entire concept of a “soulmate” was a byproduct of dental insurance, a strong core, the Hallmark Channel, inside jokes, whatever. Sitting next to him at the bar, pummeled near-silent by his stand-up routine, I thought about the difficulty of getting anyone to love us for who we are, let alone loving us for our very worst selves. Shawn was so often his very worst self. Soulmates, in that case, must be real. I marveled at this drunken conclusion before succumbing to intense, silent sadness.

Shawn walked me partway home before sweeping me up, away, above—into the kiss of a lifetime. I’ve described to friends that I felt, momentarily, as though he were licking my eyeballs, touching every part of me with his lips and his tongue. I scrubbed his hair with my hands: wiry tight curls, perfectly coiffed, fragrant with product and softened, I think, by sleep. He pressed a steady erection against my hip and held my hand to his boner, so I could feel the arrow-tip shape of his cock head. We breathed sourly against the other’s neck. He whispered in a hoarse drag into the conch of my ear, “What’s your friend’s email at The Onion?”

[chocolate-brownies]

“Tune in to yourself,” says Taryn Toomey, the latest étoile du jour to light up the fitness world, addressing a women’s retreat in upstate New York last summer. “Know there’s a part of you that really wants the suffering and part of you that really wants the awakening.

“Know who’s running the show.”

Therein lies the essence of the Taryn Toomey phenomenon—suffering and awakening, hurting and healing. Toomey is the birthmother of The Class, a body-depleting, mind-bending workout that defies both definition and category. Physically demanding and emotionally exhausting, it is, to its throngs of acolytes who sweat regularly in her signature TriBeCa gym, spiritually and psychically cathartic. 

The hallmark of The Class is a series of repetitive motions devoid of rep count; there is no telling when the torture will end, an approach that plunges you entirely into the moment.

The hallmark of The Class is a series of repetitive motions devoid of rep count; there is no telling when the torture will end, an approach that plunges you entirely into the moment. Meshing high-intensity calisthenics with impassioned, confessional, almost feral exhortations, Toomey doesn’t simply want you to feel the burn—she wants you to experience it as an existential crisis.

“There’s a very specific way we train our teachers, of how we open the room,” says Toomey. “There’s an arc of the class, it’s how we build trust. There’s the physical, the emotional, the energetic. Then there is the spiritual. And we let you into that door through the body.” 

The Class didn’t so much start one day as it evolved. From doing sports as a teenager, to practicing yoga, to running, Toomey says it was marinating within her for a long time. “Things were getting activated in me,” she says. She started doing her impassioned, improvisational workouts with a friend in the gym in the basement of the building where she used to live. Other friends joined, and then this one told that one, and eventually Toomey took her show to the Dance Factory. Then came men and women from around Manhattan who had heard about this thing, this fitness class that wasn’t just about strength or cardio, but also about spirit and soul—not in that bullshit way that some classes try to invoke your animal spirit, but in a very real way that holds your hand as you step into your own darkness, and guides you toward the light, also your own. It’s a thing, a class, a workout, a mindfuck so powerful and popular, that Taryn Toomey has opened three outposts, in LA, Vancouver, and the Hamptons; hosts a monthly  “spiritual residency” in Miami; and offers multi-day “Retreatments” to places like Martha’s Vineyard and the Dominican Republic. →

Toomey has also collaborated with Lululemon on a clothing line, has recently started offering specialized classes at Equinox and Pure Yoga, and has put her name on a palette of muted pastel nail polish and bath salts. She designs her own high-end line of crystal gemstone jewelry, and even sells hats and capes that mimic her signature look. Indeed, what ignited as her own drive to exercise more mindfully—that is, to move her body in a way that freed her mind so as to open her heart—is erupting into a kind of empire of Toomey-inspired everything. 

Following Toomey on social media is so profound it could turn your day around, maybe your life. “To those who inspired it but will never read it,” she posts as encouragement to journal. In another she writes, “One of the most expensive things you could ever do is pay attention to the wrong people.” 

And yet. There she is, on a motor boat on Lake Como. At the Savoy Hotel in London. Lounging in Marrakesh. She’s even getting a bikini wax! Clearly the Ralph Lauren account exec turned spiritual crusader likes nice stuff, and who doesn’t? But as she crosses that border from creator into celebrity, is her ever-increasing price tag ($5,000-a-week “Retreatments,” travel not included) putting this work out of reach?  

Jennifer Wolff: In my first class you chanted about the birth experience, among other things. In fact, you didn’t seem to be teaching or leading a class as much as acting out the kind of cataclysmic epiphany many students come to The Class to experience. By the end you were on your knees pounding your fists into the floor, your hair stuck to your cheeks, your eyes somewhat crazed, and saying “Fuck this” and “Fuck that.” What was that? 

Taryn Toomey: Sometimes I feel like I’m on the battlefield out there. I’m not just teaching. I say what comes through me. I’ve given birth twice, and I remember feeling, “I can’t do this anymore. This is so intense. When is this going to end?” And then boom, you start pushing and a baby comes out and you have a love that you never knew possible. I don’t often talk about the birth experience, but that’s where I was that day. So for me, the reason I can teach and do what I do is because I’ve had a lot of shit go down and been in a lot of pain for a long time, and I’m teaching from the depths of a lot of things. People look at me and are like, “What is this girl doing?” I still do this with a very soft, humble, scared heart. I’m still trying to heal myself. 

What do you think it is about The Class that is such a revelation for people? 

I have a true belief that there is not one human better than another and I am there with everyone. The thing I always do first is gain the trust of the room. And I do that by letting people know that they don’t have to do any of it. I’ll say, “You can just stand and place your hands over your heart and breathe.” I give people permission not to do it, and then usually they are able to do it a bit more. It’s gaining trust of the psyche from one’s own self. If you tell someone they have to do something, usually they will resist. That’s what I find in my own self. So there’s a buildup of movements slowly that’s attached to breath awareness. We don’t go in there and be like, “Everybody lose your shit!” There’s sound involved [the music volume gets higher as movement intensifies, then lower during breaks of stillness] so people can express themselves without feeling like they’re having some sort of panic attack. It’s one of the built-in safety nets, so at the end of a big exercise, like the burpees, you can express yourself and then land in stillness. The hands are on the body. You recover the heart. You feel the soles of your feet on the floor.

Your exercises are simple. No weights. No bands. Very old school, not unlike Jack LaLanne: jumping jacks, flapping arms, leg lifts. And those damned burpees. But you don’t count. We never know when it’s going to end. 

The intention is that it’s basic. There is no choreography. You close your eyes and go. You watch your mind as opposed to your mind having to do something. It’s actually a form of self-study. And when stuff comes up, it’s probably a pretty good sign that you’re on the edge of something that is really transformative. So what do you do? You breathe. You notice that you’re in the throes of something. Instead of knowing when it’s over, you practice your ability to tolerate feeling, to tolerate intensity, and you stay right there with yourself.

Most articles about The Class describe screaming and crying. After three classes I heard some screaming and witnessed some tears, but it was nothing like what people are saying. 

I know. One person cries and the media makes it like everyone is sobbing. Sure, sometimes people cry a bit. Sometimes it hits you. There are times when I’ve gone to my other teachers’ classes and they have broken me. It happens. But it can’t be like, “Cry!” If people come expecting to cry, they’re not going to cry.

Have you seen any transformation in your regular students?

This question makes me very uncomfortable. It’s like every single thing in my body starts to flare up and I don’t want to share any of it. But, yeah, people have told me that it’s changed their whole life. Students have been able to create completely new career paths for themselves, or leave painful or toxic relationships, or grieve the loss of things from years ago. They’ve broken patterns within themselves. They’ve completely changed their physical body. But I don’t take ownership for any of it because they’re the ones that are doing it. I’m just kind of channeling their experience based on the energy they bring to the room. It’s like I’m here to be of service. 

Do you ever discuss your own trauma? The trauma that led you to this place? To The Class?

With people in my inner circle, behind the scenes. If you pull the hood back, it’s intense. But I’ve never fallen victim to it. And I say  to the people who have hurt me, “Thank you.” Because they have required me to heal. I have a lot of stuff to process from the past. I think I’m clearing a lot of it, and I feel grateful that I am able to do what I am doing.

People refer to you as the new fitness guru, sometimes even a celebrity fitness guru. Is that what you are?

That makes me laugh, too. I have friends who call themselves gurus. With all due respect, I don’t consider myself one. And to call me a celebrity fitness guru, that just makes me want to roll over. It makes me crazy because those celebrities who work out, they’re that way because they work their faces off for their own bodies. Nobody is putting them on a machine and doing the work for them.

You now have four studios. How do you keep the intention of this work from becoming diluted?

It’s a fine balance. I’ve really had to have some hard conversations with myself, especially lately. One of the hard things would be if I lost my ability to teach and my community for some big dollar sign. That would be my worst nightmare.

Do you consider yourself a luxury brand?  

I’d say yes. I love beautiful things. I’m also thrifty. I’ve done everything on a budget. And we’ve said no to a lot of pretty big deals because they didn’t feel right. We actually could have been a lot further in terms of opening studios and putting a lot more gas in the tank. We’re trying to be mindful as we move forward. So it’s like a double-edged sword: I like luxury, but I want this work to be accessible to all. 

Even your Retreatments? Those are pretty expensive.

The retreats evolved in the same way The Class happened, which was a mash-up of all the things that I loved and needed. 

I had not traveled much, but I wanted to. I wanted to be able to bring my kids. I like really good food. I like really good music. I like friends coming together. I like to move my body. I like to meditate. I like yoga in the afternoon. Why don’t I get a whole bunch of people together and do it? So it’s great because all of these things are now enmeshed. I have basically designed my life around the way I want to live. It wasn’t this big idea of “Let’s make it really luxury.” It was “I want to get out of the city in the summer and out of the cold in the winter.” 

That said, behind the scenes, we’re working to layer in some additional retreats with other teachers that are more accessible, and price points that are lower. So we are going to, as we move forward, make sure that there are ways for this work to be accessible to all, because that’s the end goal.

Will we see Taryn Toomey for Target?

No, not necessarily. I’m not saying ‘pooh-pooh’ on Target, nor am I going to say no. But we’re moving slowly because of the questions of teachers and how to rescale it. We’ll do a few more studios in the right markets. We’re considering some digital platforms.

Right when I’m like, “Am I going crazy?” That’s when…it’s a little bit of, that’s where the “magic” lives.

Your class is so out there it’s hard to know if it’s complete magic or complete BS. 

Yeah, I said something like that to someone recently. I said, “Sometimes I feel completely insane. I feel like I’m bodying right up against the edge of madness, and that’s where all of the genius lives.” She was like, “Yeah, you’re right.” It’s like what you just said. I was kind of laughing about it because that’s what I feel like sometimes. I feel like right when I’m like, “Am I going crazy?” That’s when…it’s a little bit of, that’s where the “magic” lives.

Inside the Class

Our writer throws herself into Taryn Toomey’s “The Class” and comes out the other side—intact.

Taryn Toomey steps in so close to my face I think she’s going to kiss me. And though generally not into women, I am fairly certain in that instant that I will kiss her back, until I realize that this is how she greets people, up in their grill, under their skin. 

“Does anything hurt?” she asks after not kissing me.  

“Yes,” I tell her. “Everything.”

“Perfect,” she replies. “We’ll take care of that.” 

I don’t know what she means, or what she is—sort of beautiful, sort of plain, absolutely radiant, her blonde streaked hair tumbled just so atop her head, her skin aglow with the slightest brush of the expensive highlighter she sells in the gift shop outside of her Bridgehampton pop-up. To get to her, to The Class, I had to maneuver between fancy women in big sunglasses and expensive workout gear driving Mercedes and Range Rovers, fighting for a space in the crowded dirt lot. But once inside, lifted by the sweet smell of palo santo—and by the Chanel products in the bathroom—I find peace on the Toomey-insignia’d yoga mat that will define my space among some 40 others during the next hour of sweat and, so I am told, tears. 

Toomey starts us off with Mumford & Sons’ “Si Tu Veux”—beat-driven, foreign, imploring—and we begin to move as she whisper-talks into her little mic. I can’t make out what she is saying, only that her voice is not coming into my head but through it. She urges me, all of us, from the inside, through a round of jumping jacks that never seems to end until it does. Then we stand, hands over heart, until we begin again, this time with squats, and a song that seems to speak for Toomey, Avicii’s “Wake Me Up”:

Feeling my way through the darkness

guided by a beating heart

I can’t tell where the journey will end

but I know where to start… 

I feel weak, unable to keep up. It’s been a while since I set foot in a gym or onto a mat. My body creaks. I am angry that it won’t move how I want it to, how I bend my waist into my squats, how my hands won’t clap above my head during the jacks. And don’t talk to me about the goddamned burpees, of which I’ve done, maybe, one.  

“Stay in your body,” Toomey says. “Don’t let anyone fucking tell you how to live. How to be. Who you are.” She looks at me through the crowd, and I look down. Ashamed. It’s like she’s reading the script inside of my head. I. Can. Not. Do. This. I feel her stare, and look back up. She nods, as though telegraphing, Yes, you can. If you want to. You can. 

As the frenzy of the class builds, Toomey riffs like a preacher on the precepts of pain, of time, of overcoming self-imposed limitations. Yet she doesn’t demand focus or discipline. She asks for something else entirely: surrender. 

As the exercises grow more intense, so does the music get louder. The yelps and grunts that explode from the crowd lay down a baseline rhythm for the room, a deep-throated mantra in which soon enough I lose myself, too. Because the more I move, the deeper Toomey’s raspy voice penetrates my brain, the looser my limbs become, the stronger. And then my revelation: I am frightened not of my weakness but of my strength. I’m frightened not of what my body can’t do, but by what I have never let it do: be powerful. 

Meanwhile, Toomey begins to twist into her own unique contortions, as though gripped in an exorcism. Then, she comes down and brings us with her. We stand, hand to heart, feet to floor. “All you need is right under your hand,” she whispers. “It’s all you need. Not the cars or the clothes or the stuff.” I gaze toward her shop with the $800 gemstone pendants and the $100 beauty serums, and I wonder with all that’s being offered, for a price, is my heart truly enough?

The post Trusting Yourself Enough to Break appeared first on Mindful.

[alexbandfan]

DONATE LIFE ORGAN DONATION AWARENESS

July 26, 2010

"You've got to give a lot these days," exclaims Alex Band. He certainly gives a lot and more on his solo debut, We've All Been There. In The Calling, Alex was the architect of massive anthems like "Wherever You Will Go" and "Adrienne." His solo material certainly preserves that epic feel, but there's a vital vulnerability that bleeds through each and every track on We've All Been There. In fact, each song comes to life vividly—from the vibrant lyrical poetry of "Love" to the nearly progressive bombast of album closer "Start Over Again." Alex bares his soul over 14 tracks, giving listeners more than most artists ever well. It's an emotional journey and a half, but it's still catchy as all hell at the right times… Alex Band sat down with ARTISTdirect.com editor and Dolor author Rick Florino for an exclusive interview about the journey that led to We've All Been There, his bracelet line and so much more.

The album feels like a cohesive vision from start-to-finish. There's one story weaving through it. Did you go into the studio with that idea or did it evolve once you began recording? When I hear people say that, I'm like, "Thank the Lord!" [Laughs] This album was made over the course of four years. I co-produced it with six different producers. It has two different mixers, and it was mastered by two different people. I think the fact that it even sounds cohesive is a bit of a miracle. I wrote it all and produced it all, and that obviously makes it gel. The label I was with wanted me to work with Timbaland and Akon. They wanted urban rock. I kept fighting them though, and they'd let me do two of my own tracks here and there. It was this piece-by-piece making-of process that took forever. When it was finally done, Geffen went under, and my manager passed away. That was the beginning of 2008. Between those two things, I was like, "I need to make some serious changes here." That's when I decided to ask to be let go from Geffen. Luckily, they were willing to do that, but they weren't willing to give me my album. They wanted me to buy it. We had to negotiate, and I spent my own money to buy the album back. I then had to make my own record label here. I'm one-hundred percent fully invested in this album in every way possible. I believe in it.

The album covers a whole spectrum of emotions. It's a pretty dynamic record. Over those five years , a lot happened. I'd just come from The Calling with all of this success, so I wrote songs like "Euphoria." Then we got into darker times. My wife at the time was dying. I'm associated with "Donate Life" because she needed a liver transplant. She wasn't going to get a liver in time, and there was a whole nightmare that went over two of those five years. I wrote "Love" while she was in the hospital. Then there was the struggle of getting out of the deal, and I added songs like "Leave," "Will Not Back Down" and "Holding On." I wrote "Only One" last year. It was on Melrose Place and Vampire Diaries so I was like, "Man, I've got to put this on the album." There were four new songs added. I got the other ten from the label.

Was making the song relatable a goal from the get-go? Even though for me it was very particular, anyone can listen to the record, and the songs are generalized and relatable. That's why the first song I wrote for the album, "We've All Been There," is the title track. Everyone can relate to the album. We've all been there. We've all dealt with loss. We've all dealt with the frustration of business and work in our art and what we do. We've all dealt with people struggling with their health. That's the big concept of the record. I always knew "We've all Been There" would be the first track and "Start Over Again" would be the last track. I had the bookends; it was all about filling in the middle.

"Start Over Again" really shows everything you're capable of. That's the long epic song! That was one of the whole orchestras we had at Capitol Records. I produced that song myself, so I'm really excited about it. The end turns into that Coldplay-ish jam. The lyrics at that point speak about how frustrated I was. I wrote that song when I was in the most frustrating spot of the last five years. Maybe there was a little bit of hope, but it was kind of dark. I think it's a beautiful song though. You get that anthemic, cinematic feeling to it. Part of it is the production, but part of it is the songwriting. Even if it's a dark subject, I end up writing a big melody, and it's uplifting. I think the record has that feel across the board.

If you were to compare this album to a movie or a combination of movies, what would you compare it to? That's a tough one! It could be any movie that's about struggling to follow your dream and not giving up. There are so many moments where it seemed like I was going to have to start from scratch and not be let go from the label. I didn't even know if this would ever see the light of day. I just had to keep being persistent. I ended up following my dream to the point where I took a huge leap of faith, said "Fuck you to everybody," bought the album, made my own record label and so can you think of movie that matches that.

Maybe Rocky? Sure, Rocky, why not? [Laughs] I did write a song called "Adrienne" on one of The Calling records…

What's up with your bracelet line, Black Star Bracelets? I wanted to create a new form of distribution. I was going through all of the traditional channels, but I wanted to do something different as well. I hooked up with this bracelet company that's famous for the karma bead bracelets. My idea was to take that concept, create a line of bracelets called Black Star Bracelets, and instead of selling music, I'm selling a bracelet that comes with music. I'm the first artist, but we're going to do it with multiple artists. Right now, you can go into Whole Foods, Hallmark Stores, Gas Stations and you're going to see my bracelets. There's a different bracelet for each song on the record, and each bracelet has a tag on it that explains what it stands for and the meaning. There's a scratch code that gives you a free download of the song, ringtone, lyric sheet and a video. You get all of this content with the bracelet. I'm able to get my music, in some form, into stores that would never carry CDs, used to carry CDs and are now scared to or stores that really want to carry music but won't do it because of the times. It's doing amazingly. If you get six of the twelve, you get a bonus song. If you get all twelve bracelets and collect the whole album, you get two free bonus songs and become a V.I.P. member. As a V.I.P. member, you're allowed into any soundcheck of my show to meet me, and you're first in line at my show. You also get a personal five-minute long phone call from me. People freak out that I'm calling them [Laughs]. —Rick Florino 07.26.10

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