running out of funny exaggerated ways to talk abt my pain lads

Kneecap Day - Floyd

(better title TBD) This piece is in celebration of two different events! First of all: happy kneecap day to @brutal-nemesis! Thank you for the inspiration this event has given so many of us. Second of all: this is my happy anniversary piece to the Persistence series, which I posted the first part of last year on this date! I seriously can’t believe this story has been in progress for so long already, and thank you to all of you who have supported me through it. Alright. Without further ado, here’s the masterlist for everything else, and this happens further in the future than anything I’ve already written, the closest being the branding. 

Content warnings: creepy/intimate whumper, suggestions and implications of dehumanization (not quite the purpose, but just to be safe), dislocated joints and realigning them, starvation mentions, and general cruelty and unfairness. ————————————

Mud splattered all across Floyd’s backside when he collapsed from the sheer dizzying force of the slap.

“You get on your knees when you’re told,” Percival snarled, leaning over him and pulling on the leash as he scrambled to sit up. “There is no hesitation. There is no unspoken question. There is no disobedience. A direct order is to be followed immediately, you understand?”

“Aah, I understand- I understand I just- sir, please, the ground is muddy here-”

“Do you think I’d tell you to kneel if I didn’t know what the consequences would be?” A tilt of the head, a rhetorical question.

“I was- I was acting in your best interest, I promise,” Floyd shuddered at his words, but he couldn’t risk anything else. This was his decision to obey, get off easy for the time being, make it through this as quickly as possible, and minimize the consequences when it was finally over.

“You think you know better than I do now, Benedict?” Percival smiled, humor dancing in his eyes. “Oh, dear, I know you’re not that stupid.”

“No! I… these clothes are- they’re so nice, I wanted to show you- I- I’m-” He couldn’t spit out the ‘grateful’ fast enough, but his tormentor understood well enough.

“And yet you’ve gone and ruined them.” Percival sounded disappointed and Floyd flushed in embarrassment, but there was something else in there too. Frustration stirred at the unfairness of it all.

“I’m sorry!” He really was.

“If you loved them so much then maybe you should’ve steadied yourself after a single slap.” 

“You- you ha-aven’t let me eat in three days! What did you expect?!” Anger seeped into Floyd’s voice, but he couldn’t be bothered to stop it. Percival bristled at the change in tone.

“I expected a little more respect toward the hand that chooses to feed,” he snapped, “especially since allowing you to kneel would have been a generous mercy, had you taken the opportunity. I’m sure neither of us wanted you to collapse today, and yet here we are.” 

“Maybe I wouldn’t have fallen if you actually gave a single damn about me!” Floyd yelled, voice cracking around the curse he knew he shouldn’t have said.

“Oh? You don’t think I care for you, is that it?” Venom pooled in Percival’s words. He sank down, straddling Floyd’s chest and letting his own knees sink into the mud. A rough hand cupped his cheek. 

“I… I-”

“I’ve taught you more about yourself than you ever could have figured out on your own. I found the potential within you that you never could. I am making you, Benedict Floyd.” He paused as the man in question shuddered against his grip. “Don’t you think that’s caring enough?”

Before he could even register the tension, Floyd snapped. He smacked Percival’s hand off his face, shoving frantic elbows into his chest and kicking wildly until he slid free, scrambling back as far as the leash would allow. Even then he pulled back against it, settling into an unsteady crouch and meeting Percival’s eyes again. 

He saw the mounting fury there held back by careful patience, but Floyd wouldn’t have been able to hold himself back even without that hesitancy. Words bubbled up and spilled forth faster than he could find the strength to control them. 

“Right, right, because that’s all you see me as, isn’t it? I’m s-something for you to control, to teach, to- to parade around like-” he sobbed, unable to breathe or speak for several seconds, “-parade like a fucking- fucking animal, and you’re so goddamn proud of yourself-”

“Hey now, I-” Percival warned, and Floyd cut him off.

“You do not get to make me. You don’t- don’t deserve to make me. You don’t know me, you never even tried to- to- to talk to me... you saw the potential I had and... decided that’s all that I am.

“I have tried- so hard to find myself. Have you- have you ever lost yourself before? Have you been told that your body is not your own, you are worth only as much as you can work, you are not worth the investment of basic necessities, and- and- you don’t understand. It took years to understand I could be something. Something more than what I was made to be. I took the time, I-I found my truth, I had only just begun living it, and I spent far too long lost in my own mind to just let you pull me under again.

“You hurt and hurt and hurt and you say I’m learning, that I’m- I’m better off, that I’m good for you! The only thing I’ve fucking learned here is how much hurt I can bear before I black out, how hard you can push me before I break! 

“...you... you broke me, Percival, sir. Is that what you want to hear? Is that what you want from me? Do you- do you want to know that you’re the one person who has hurt me the most, finally pushed past my limits? 

“F-fine, then. Look at the mark you burned into my chest and know that everything you’ve done has broken me beyond belief, and- and you’ll probably do it all over again and I can’t stop you. But when all is said and d-done, don’t you fucking dare believe for a second that you built me.”

.

..

...the world held still for a few, blissful moments where Floyd felt good. Percival’s eyes narrowed and he did not turn away, did not flinch, did not fall to his knees. 

Percival approached and Floyd rose shakily to his full height, swaying with the dizziness that took him, but standing his ground. When he came face to face with his captor, craning his neck up to see him fully, Floyd didn’t step back up against the wall waiting for him. He didn’t have to. 

Percival shoved him up against it himself, a hand on his forehead to keep his head grinding painfully against the bricks while the other held him in a choking embrace, pulling the leash down between his shoulder blades. 

“Hmm, such a pity. You could have looked so much prettier for your backslide. If only...”

“What-hgk!” A jerk on the leash silenced him as Percival kept on, anger darkening his tone.

“Did you really think all that just now was how you’d been this entire time? Just a free spirit locking himself up of his own will until he could run free again? I didn’t see you slipping shackles over your wrists or heating the brand of your own free will, did you?

“None of this has been a choice for you, Benedict. You fail to see that just because you didn’t recognize something doesn’t mean I didn’t do it. And you have to understand that, no matter what you think, if you aren’t controlling my actions, then you aren’t in control. I broke you, yes, but I’ve also built you up in ways you will only realize when they come to fruition. And when they finally do, you will thank me for what I’ve done.”

“Fff-fuck you,” Floyd sputtered, a last, hateful resort.

“...in any case, I’m not sure you’re even worthy of kneeling at my feet right now.”

Percival’s foot connected with his knee and it buckled immediately. Floyd gasped and fell, but the leash held his limp body up as Percival kicked again, repeatedly smashing metal toes into his battered knees. Pain tore up his leg, flaring with each subsequent kick and suddenly something was wrong. A sickening pop ricocheted through his body, and his vision went white when the next kick did the same to his other leg. He couldn’t scream, he couldn’t breathe, but he was finally allowed to crumple to the ground. 

A hand in his hair righted him, briefly him leaning forward on bent knees that he could hardly feel through the blinding agony. Percival was saying something that he couldn’t hear over his own screams, throwing him on his back and holding him down by his shoulders as he writhed.

“Stop, stop stop- hAAAHH! Off, get off get off it HURTS!”

He felt hands on his legs, pulling them flat against his struggles until he went limp and darkness nearly claimed him. Floyd faded in and out of consciousness, gasping for breath around whimpers and cries, somehow finding the energy to shake his head when Percival ordered him to submit. 

A foot smashed down on his knee and he lost himself in the pain, coming to when a cold touch smacked across his cheek. Percival’s muddy hand smoothed back over it--that was certainly going to bruise at this rate--forcing a shiver through him.

“Nnh, nnhhh-“ he groaned, still weakly trying to throw off the people holding him down. 

“Really?” Percival sounded so far away now. “Are you really going to throw away all our progress just like that? Just for some sad, prideful ideal?”

“Wh- hhhhnn… what progress?”

“Oh come now, you can’t deny all the work we’ve done with you. You said it yourself already. I broke you, and I’ll do it again.”

“Yehh- yes, I- but- hhhhh-“

“My darling Benedict,” Percival said, voice in his ear now, a low murmur that made his blood run cold, “I don’t think you understand the predicament you’re in right now. I could leave you like this, you know: leave you to starve with your legs twisted completely out of place, and make sure nobody will ever find you. I could ruin your legs permanently, drag you everywhere else for the rest of your miserable life. I could make this so, so much worse. Is that what you want?”

Floyd almost forced himself to nod, but he was trembling in fear, breath hitching at the mere thought of anything like that…

“Y-you wouldn’t.” He made himself to swallow down cries, slur out weak defenses. “Would nhh- would never. Like me too much f’r that.”

“Oh, I bet I could stop liking you long enough to get the job done. Don’t doubt that, sweetheart.” A warning in a teasing, lilting tone. Floyd was too out of it to even question if that was the truth. “I’ll ask again. Will you submit to me and take back those words, or will you accept one of my many alternatives?”

Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes as he squeezed them shut, lips pressed together to hold back the refusal on the tip of his tongue. 

“I… I’ll s-submit, sir.”

Percival didn’t give a response, humming affirmingly and running a wet hand through Floyd’s hair, the other still resting firmly on his shoulder.

“Emil,” he called out to one of his crew members, probably nearby, probably one of the ones holding Floyd down, “how are you feeling?”

He slipped out of coherence again before he could catch the other man’s response, only vaguely aware of the people moving and shifting around him to make room, the person crouching over his legs, placing careful hands on his knees, feeling the dislocation in each one. 

Floyd snapped back to consciousness when he felt a strong presence grip his knee, a horrible sensation that became a grinding, moving pain until something clicked. The pain died down immediately, now only a throbbing soreness. The invasion left for a minute and he basked in the slight relief. Then it was back in his other knee, moving, pushing against his will, and snapping into place again. Floyd let out a shaking sigh, the effects radiating through him so much more bearable than what they had been just previously.

“Thh- thank-” Floyd snapped his mouth shut, finally registering what he was about to say on instinct. He was too slow, though, as he heard Percival’s delighted laugh above him.

“Only proving my point for me, Benedict. Come on, we’ve still got plenty to get done today. We’ll continue this conversation later. In private.” The twinkling smile as Percival pulled Floyd to his shaking feet was as comforting as a threat, and it really might as well have been one at that point.

Floyd tilted his head into the hand settled over the back of his neck, rubbing right under the collar where the feeling was near heavenly, and tried to pretend it was a choice. 

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with himself otherwise.

————————————

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@whump-tr0pes, @burtlederp, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @doitforthewhump, @shameless-whumper, @endless-whump, @theycomeinthrees, @faewhump, @lonesome--hunter, @insanitywishes, @ohmywhump, @deluxewhump​, @galaxywhump, @liliability, @whump-only

One Good Turn ch. 5 [end]

[Read on AO3] | [First Chapter]  Rating: M Story summary: Angel’s clean streak is broken when Val forcibly calls him back to the studio. On principle (and not at all out of concern for Angel's wellbeing), Alastor takes it upon himself to free Angel from Valentino's control. But what started as a simple favor becomes something much more complicated, all because of an innocent thank-you kiss. Note: I did have another chapter planned for this story, but I’ve gotten so thoroughly invested in my Giardino Segreto AU that I don’t think I’ll ever get around to it. Besides, this isn’t a terrible place to leave off!

— — –

Angel’s back was pinned against the wall in the hotel’s abandoned excuse for a ballroom. The room was mostly dark, a little light from the setting sun bleeding in through dingy windows while he lazily observed one of his fellow patrons trying to make a move on him. The other demon was a little taller than Angel himself, a little broader, and he used his extra bit of height to his advantage, leaning forward against the wall to bear down on Angel.

“You talk a pretty big game, sweet thing.” His name was some kind of music joke: Jazz or Ska or House or some shit. “I’d sure like to see you put your money where your mouth is.”

“I can think of better things to put in my mouth,” Angel snickered. As the other demon grinned and reached up to pet his cheek, Angel slapped his hand away and went on, “But your dick ain’t one of ‘em. Fuck off and find someone else to bother.”

“Are you serious?” Maybe-Jazz growled. “You sit there makin’ offers all through Charlie’s sessions but you won’t follow through?”

“Offers? Please. Look, I ain’t serious about any of that shit; I’m sayin’ it to fuck with ya, not to actually fuck ya.” This wasn’t the first time he’d had to explain this over the past week or so, but truth be told, he was kind of enjoying having the freedom to say ‘no’ (not that his sex drive wasn’t as strong as ever, but he’d gotten pickier about who he was willing to spend it on—a lot pickier).

“Well I’m not into being teased, so maybe you better reconsider.” Jazz snaked an arm around Angel’s waist, incorrectly thinking this was a situation he could brute-force his way through. As if his vague bullshit threats were anything compared to what Angel had been through in the past.

Cute. His body moved almost by reflex, one hand grabbing Jazz’s shirt to reverse their positions and shove him back against the wall. His other hands reached into his jacket and drew out a matching set of three pistols, pressing one to Jazz’s temple, one to his chest, and aiming the last at his crotch.

“Which trigger should I pull first, ya think?” Angel asked casually, enjoying the shocked and disarmed look on the other demon’s face. “You could probably live without your balls, but I feel like you don’t get much use outta your brain, either.”

“Hey, cool it,” Jazz grumbled, raising his hands in surrender. “You know killin’ me’d set back your redemption plan pretty far.”

“Ha! You must not know me very well, sweet thing. I’m a backslider from way back; wouldn’t be the first time my virtues got a little blurry.” After another moment of enjoying the tension, he released the other demon’s shirt and took a step back. “But fuckin’ you up isn’t worth listenin’ to Charlie gripe. So how ‘bout you get the hell outta my face and we call it even?”

“Fine. Shit.” With a bitter, disappointed glance in Angel’s direction, Jazz shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked out of the room. Angel twirled his guns once before tucking them back into his jacket. He was just in such a good goddamn mood lately, and he didn’t have to wonder why; true to Alastor’s word, none of Val’s guys had shown up at the hotel since their little ‘chat,’ leaving Angel free to enjoy his independence and sexuality—or lack thereof!—whatever way he chose. Since he’d been working for Val so long, it was refreshing to be back in control of himself now. And he hadn’t forgotten for even a second who he had to thank for it.

Alastor had been acting a little weird since then, though. Looking at him funny, not responding to his playful flirting right, and then there was that word—cher—he’d started using. Angel might not have the best grasp of French, but he was pretty sure he recognized that term. Enough to know what it meant but not what it meant.

As he strolled out of the ballroom Jazz had dragged him into without warning, he found Alastor standing outside, clutching his staff tightly in both hands. “Angel,” he said a little too cheerfully. “How are you? I thought…well, I could’ve been wrong. It sounded like you and Jazz had a bit of a disagreement.”

“Is there anything in the hotel you don’t hear?” Angel tried hard not to think about how many times he’d moaned the Radio Demon’s name into his pillow over the past few nights.

“Not much.” Alastor’s default expression didn’t shift in the slightest. It wasn’t easy, but Angel was making a point of learning to tell one smile from another. How else would he ever learn to read the cryptic bastard? “But you look fine. I suppose you took care of it.”

“Y’know, it’s pretty cute, you gettin’ all protective,” Angel said with a knowing grin, “but don’t start thinkin’ I can’t handle myself with jerk-offs like him. I’m not gonna ask you to step in for me again any time soon, don’t worry.”

“Right. Of course! No, I know you’re perfectly capable of defending yourself.” He was doing it again, getting all awkward and distant for no reason, avoiding Angel’s eyes, his usual smooth attitude stuttering a little.

Angel Dust had never been much good at quiet contemplation or impulse control, so instead of keeping his concerns to himself and giving Alastor space, he asked directly, “What’s goin’ on with you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bullshit. Don’t act like you haven’t been lookin’ at me different since you got back from Val’s place.” Or maybe it was the kiss. “You act like you’re happy to see me, you start talkin’ to me like normal, then you clam up all of a sudden and run off. You were always a little weird, but you’re weirder lately, and I feel like it’s got somethin’ to do with me.”

It bothered him more than he wanted to admit to think that Alastor was mad at him or something. Despite his best efforts at resisting, Angel had developed a sort of attachment to him, weirdness and all. Maybe out of gratitude. Maybe something else. He already knew better than to expect Alastor would ever start feeling something similar about him, but he’d thought they were at least on some kind of friendly terms.

The Radio Demon was silent and still for just a moment too long, and Angel let out a frustrated sigh, throwing up his hands and starting past him toward the elevator—but Alastor caught his hand to stop him.

“If anything I’ve done has made you feel like you’re in the wrong, I’m sorry,” he said plainly. “I’ve been keeping my distance while I decided how to talk to you about this. And, obviously, I haven’t had any luck. Now might be as good a time as any.”

“For what? What d’you want to talk about?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Alastor seemed to realize he was still holding Angel’s hand and released it. “I’d rather have the conversation in private, if you don’t mind. We could use one of the conference rooms or—”

“Isn’t your room closer?” Angel asked, raising his eyebrows, and Al’s throat constricted with a reflexive gulp.

“Yes. That’s also fine. If you like.” He turned on his heel to lead the way down the hall to room 313, then held the door open and gestured for Angel to go ahead. The room was surprisingly minimalist, not reflecting the beaucoups of personality that showed every time Alastor opened his mouth. But that was better than the hellish horrors some other Overlords might decorate with.

“So what’s the deal?” Angel’s instinct was to seat himself on the bed, but he resisted it, not wanting Alastor to think he was being pushy.

“The question seems simple enough, doesn’t it? Yet as hard as I’ve tried, I can’t seem to answer it as clearly or eloquently as I’d like. That’s part of the reason I haven’t mentioned it to you; I felt there was no point bringing it up until I actually had something to say.”

“Funny. Most times, it’s a lot harder to make you stop talkin’.”

“Believe me, I know exactly how unusual this is,” Alastor sighed, releasing his staff and letting it vanish, “which is most likely why it’s been so difficult for me to form it into a complete, polished statement.”

“Give it to me messy, then.” Seeing how rigid Alastor had gone, Angel winced and tried again. Sometimes his mouth just formed innuendos without any effort on his part. “I’m sayin’ I don’t need it to be super-organized and flawless. Just tell me what you’re thinkin’.”

The Radio Demon took a deep breath and, without looking anywhere near Angel, confessed, “I want…you. That’s the clearest way I can think to say it.” He wrinkled his nose and shook his head, obviously frustrated with how inelegant the words were. But they were enough to hold Angel’s attention regardless.

“Oh.” He was about to ask Alastor to elaborate but quickly realized that was the part he was having trouble with. So he asked a different question. “When’d that start?”

“Roughly twenty-four seconds after you kissed me,” Alastor said matter-of-factly.

“After? So that’s not why you helped me with Val?”

“No. I don’t think so, at least. And I didn’t want you thinking so, either. But then—” He choked out a laugh. “I don’t have a definitive answer for why I did that, either, so maybe I’m fooling myself. It’s hard to say.”

“Well, if you can’t tell me what ya want, it’ll be awful hard for me to give it to ya.”

Red eyes lingered on Angel’s lips, and Alastor wet his own. “But you’re willing to agree, just like that? Without even knowing what I’m asking for?”

“Al, I’m gonna be totally honest with you,” Angel said, drawing closer and bending down a little to meet his gaze. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a little bit of a freak. I figured I was wastin’ my time, thinkin’ about gettin’ with you—”

“You’ve been thinking about that, have you?”

“—but I’m pretty sure whatever you wanna do with my body, I’ll enjoy it,” he went on, draping his arms over Alastor’s shoulders, not missing the shiver that went through the Overlord’s body. “I trust you.”

Those were apparently the magic words; Alastor’s eyes widened, and he dragged Angel into a firm kiss. And he participated much more actively this time! He slid one hand into Angel’s hair to draw him downward, forcing his posture to bend, but he was too absorbed in the experience to be bothered.

It all seemed to happen much slower than he expected. Alastor’s tongue traced his lips, stealing his breath, then slipped inside, everything soft and wet and warm. Even as Angel pressed in closer, arms tightening around Alastor’s shoulders and waist, Al refused to let him take things any faster. It seemed like he was intent on exploring every inch of Angel’s mouth in his own time, and—God—his tongue was longer than expected. When Alastor moaned into his mouth, Angel’s heart practically stopped, and he forced himself to break away for a breath.

“Fuck,” he muttered, hanging off Al for stability.

“That’s a nice sound, cher,” the Radio Demon purred, allowing his free arm to wrap around Angel’s slender waist and hold him close. “I wonder what it would take to hear more of it.”

“Uh. My voice?” Angel asked, embarrassed at how turned on he’d gotten from just one kiss (albeit a very deep, very thorough kiss).

“That’s right. I know for sure that I want that. The question is how to go about getting it.” Using the grip in his hair, he turned Angel toward him for another kiss, one every bit as hot and intense as the first, and Angel found himself moaning softly with every breath from having his mouth full. How ironic that someone so indifferent about sex could excite him with hardly any effort. But after so long doing without, every little bit of pleasurable friction made him eager for more. If this is his first time, is he feeling all that too?

“H-hang on,” he whimpered, reluctantly pushing Alastor away so he could catch a breath. “You probably can’t hear me really well if my mouth’s covered.”

“Fair point.” Al grabbed his wrist and dragged him over to the bed, then pushed him forward to kneel on the mattress. Stepping in close behind him, Alastor wrapped both arms around his waist, chest pressed to Angel’s back. With Angel on his knees, Alastor’s mouth was at just the right level to meet his neck, lips and tongue and teeth teasing to send hot shivers down his spine.

“That’s…nice, baby,” Angel sighed, and he could feel Alastor tense up behind him. “What? Somethin’ wrong?”

“I don’t care to be called that,” the Radio Demon said plainly. “Try again, cher.”

“Oh. Well, what d’ya like, then?” Angel was struggling to focus on talking as Al easily unbuttoned his jacket and stripped it off him to toss it to the floor. So much for shyness! He knew some part of what he wanted, clearly.

“Surprise me,” Alastor chuckled. “Something unique. Something you wouldn’t use for anyone else.”

“Okay. How ‘bout, uh, dear?” That one was a lot more wholesome than he was used to.

Al laughed against his skin. “Yes, that seems appropriate.” His hands drifted down to unbutton Angel’s shorts, drawing a breathless moan from his lips.

“Alastor…”

“Simple, but I’m surprised at how much I enjoy hearing it.” As he talked, casual as could be, he slid his hand down the front of Angel’s shorts to tease a desperate whine from his lips.

“Y-y’know, you’re makin’ this…kinda hard for me, honey,” he moaned, cheeks flushing with heat. There was another term he didn’t use often. It always felt too sweet, too familiar to call a stranger. But of course, Alastor didn’t fall into that category anymore.

“Oh, I like that very much, cher,” he purred, his hand meeting Angel’s bare skin without any sense of reservation or discomfort. Angel whined and writhed, embarrassed at how hard he’d gotten already but not trying to escape.

“Hang on. Lemme…do somethin’ for you too.” He tried reaching back with his free hands to grope between Alastor’s legs—but the Radio Demon moved away before he could.

“That’s not necessary.” The shadows in the room came to life and bound Angel’s wrists in front of him so he couldn’t reach. With a snap of Alastor’s fingers, the room went utterly pitch black, forcing Angel to feel everything else even more. It seemed unfair that with hardly any experience, he was still doing everything just right. “If you want to please me, speak to me, moan for me—sing for me if you like. I can promise no one else will hear. And I intend to keep it that way.”

So there was a little possessiveness in him somewhere. Not that Angel minded. Even if it wasn’t the same kind of sex he was used to having, he was still 100% engaged and eager to do whatever he could to make it good for his partner too. He moaned wantonly, trying and failing to keep his hips still, dropping his head back against Alastor’s shoulder just to be closer to him. The Radio Demon chuckled at his enthusiasm and nibbled along his neck, sharp teeth deliciously dangerous against soft skin.

“Harder,” Angel whispered, and he obliged without hesitation, biting down hard enough that Angel was sure he would have a bruise—but he still wasn’t satisfied. “I said harder, honey.”

Alastor hummed his approval and sank his teeth viciously into Angel’s neck, the force enough to buckle his knees. Good thing he was kneeling already. Al made a point of lapping up whatever blood he’d spilled, even gathering a few stray drops with his fingers and licking it off. Meaning that when his hand slid between Angel’s legs again, it was slick and wet, enough to pull a shocked cry of pleasure from his lips.

“I didn’t…I really didn’t expect you to be this good,” he laughed shakily.

“No? What did you expect?” Alastor’s other hand slid up the curve of his waist and into the thick fur of his chest to banish any space between them. “I’m curious, chéri: what have you been imagining?”

“Well. I figured you’d be kinda…forceful like this,” Angel answered, trying to distract himself from the slow strokes on his heated flesh, the way Alastor’s fingertips seemed to be mapping out every curve of his body. So calm, so thorough, and shockingly effective. “But, uh…I dunno, maybe a little clumsy? So much for that.” It was also surprising him how difficult holding a conversation was; normally guys weren’t interested in talking to him, especially in bed.

“Why bother doing a thing if you aren’t going to do it well, that’s what I always say.” Alastor took his hand away, and Angel almost whined, almost begged him to keep going—but his breath caught as something else curled around his erection, something slender and flexible like a… Like a shadow tentacle, he realized. Holy shit. The Radio Demon was apparently kinkier than he let on, but Angel could hardly complain when it all felt so good.

As his body was burning up and he was really losing track of his breath, he rested his head back against Alastor’s shoulder and turned to murmur into his ear. “Will you, uh, kiss me again?”

“Hmm. You like having your mouth full that much?” Al teased, and a shiver of hot embarrassment (and something else) rushed through Angel’s stomach.

“Well, I”—he swallowed hard—“I like when it’s your tongue.”

Alastor let out a low groan and held him even tighter. “Whatever you need, chéri.” One of his hands found its way into Angel’s hair again, and this time his kiss was brutal, bruising, urgent. Perfect. But he was no slouch at multitasking, his shadow magic just as precise and attentive as his hand was, and all this friction between Angel’s legs and lips was driving him out of his mind.

Remembering what Al had said about wanting to hear him, he didn’t bother stifling his moans, not for a second, his pitch and volume rising every moment that Alastor toyed with him. Fuck, it’s so hot. I can’t handle it! I… He could hardly even keep his own thoughts straight, too lost in feeling every single second of this, getting closer and closer until his willpower finally broke and he came with a breathy scream. His instinct was to pull away to catch his breath, but Alastor kept him trapped, apparently content to swallow every deep, desperate whimper that slipped out of his lips as he rode out his orgasm.

Eventually, after several more seconds of enjoying his mouth, Alastor drew away and let him gasp for air but still refused to allow any space between them. He even nuzzled his lips slowly against Angel’s neck, and a different, totally non-sexual warmth flooded through him. “That…that was… Uh, wow,” he laughed, and Alastor snickered along with him.

“Good to know my ‘weirdness about sex’ didn’t ruin it for you.”

“No way. It was better,” Angel told him without thinking. “Maybe just cuz it was you.”

“Ahem!” He could imagine Alastor’s bashful smile, which was very slightly different from his nervous smile or his apprehensive one.

“So?” Angel shifted carefully to sit up, tugging at the bonds still holding his wrists. “You gonna let me spend the night or…?”

“Let you? I would be bothered if you didn’t. Besides.” With another snap of Alastor’s fingers, a lamp in the corner glowed to life, casting soft red light across the room. Shouldn’t that be creepy? Unnerving? Angel felt totally comfortable. “I think you’d find it difficult to get upstairs in your state.” To illustrate, he pushed Angel forward lightly, and he easily collapsed against the bed, shaky now that he was no longer being supported.

“Twist my arm, why don’t ya,” he answered, wriggling out of his shorts and kicking them, along with his boots, to the floor.

“Oh, is that something else you enjoy? I’ll keep it in mind.” After stripping out of his coat and hanging it in the closet, Alastor unfastened his cuffs and unbuttoned his shirt a little, then came to crawl into bed still mostly dressed. Angel decided not to question it; if that was how he was comfortable, then fine. When he noticed Angel’s shaking wasn’t stopping, he tilted his head to one side and asked, “Is something wrong?”

“No, no.” Angel tried to still himself, hoping not to ruin the mood after everything had gone so well. “I’m fine. Just…tryna calm down.” That was a pretty intense session, after all, so his body and mind were still a little overwhelmed.

“I see.” Moving slightly closer without touching him, Alastor instead asked, “Would you like to be near me while you do so?”

His reflexive and honest answer was yes, please—but he hesitated to speak it, not wanting to come off clingy or weak. “I mean, you don’t hafta do that. If you gimme a couple minutes, I’ll—”

“You aren’t answering my question, cher,” Alastor pointed out, very carefully brushing his thumb over Angel’s cheek. Even that tiny bit of gentle affection was a huge comfort after so much intensity. Angel’s resistance quickly broke.

“Yeah. I would.” He wriggled a little closer under the covers to put himself in Alastor’s arms, and the Radio Demon held him without question, stroking his hair and humming to him softly while he slowly relaxed. So weird. So different. But different in a way Angel could definitely see himself getting used to. “You better be careful, honey. Keep bein’ this nice to me and I might start gettin’ confused about what you actually want here.”

“That would make two of us,” Alastor answered quietly. But he didn’t back away, didn’t get uncomfortable, didn’t kick Angel out of his bed. He didn’t make any effort to insist that this was just about sex (since it obviously wasn’t) or that Angel shouldn’t get his hopes up for anything more. Which was a good thing, because as he leaned down for another kiss—slow and soft this time—Angel’s hopes were rising higher and higher all the time. How long had it been since he’d felt hopeful about anything? He wasn’t even sure what he expected to happen, but damn it: he’d forgotten how good it felt to believe in something. 

Third Time’s the Charm

For just a four-week (and relatively gentle) cut, this most recent adventure was definitely more of a roller coaster than anticipated! It started and ended on relatively high notes, but with a great big dip in the middle. This was my third time through the Renaissance Periodization gauntlet, and the logistics feel pretty familiar by now, yet I still somehow manage to come away from each of these with progressively deeper insight into my own physiology. I feel like one of the official RP hashtags should be #alwayslearning! I've definitely posted a lot more in the Facebook groups than anywhere else lately, so this post is going to be long, even by my standards — apologies in advance! :) Quick background recap. I finished my second cut in late January 2018 with an all-time low scale weight of 133.7# — and also with a lot of metabolic and hormonal issues. I couldn't sleep, was freezing all the time, had a nagging back injury, my hair was falling out, I had through-the-roof anxiety, and I lost my period for nearly four months straight. The goals had been to (1) get my first ring muscle-up, and (2) get below 20% body fat (read: lean enough to eventually do a massing cycle), and while I did meet both those goals, it was clear to me in hindsight that I should have stopped that cut about 3-4 weeks sooner than I did. It was also clear that I subsequently needed a LONG maintenance period, both to let my body heal and to regain some of the barbell strength I'd lost over the previous year (while focusing on gymnastics and fat loss). The immediate post-cut period was a mixed bag. Physically, I certainly started feeling better in every respect. My back pain completely disappeared within a week, and I also ultimately got my muscle-up about two weeks AFTER the cut was over (a testament to the magic of a smaller body that is ALSO properly fueled!). Furthermore, I finally listened to my coach and began rating my workouts appropriately (generally 'Moderate', not 'Light') in terms of my carbohydrate consumption, which helped performance and recovery tremendously. However, despite a fairly slow and careful reverse-diet progression, the scale definitely climbed higher than I'd hoped — my Cut Week 12 average had been 135.8#, and I finally plateaued at 140-141#. Objectively, I'm 5'5" with an athletic build (and literally haven't been in the 130s since puberty), so this wasn't unreasonable on the part of my biology by any means, but after 12 weeks of such close analysis of scale data, it took a while for my brain to settle down about it. However, in mid-April, performance finally started to hit its stride — I was still feeling pretty light and efficient on gymnastics, and when we tested a few barbell maxes, I shocked myself by easily recapturing almost all of my old numbers (most of which had been attained more than a year earlier, when I was 30-35# heavier) and even exceeding a couple (crushed my overhead squat PR by 15 lb!). After that, I finally accepted that the 140-142# range seemed to be a good all-around functional spot for me. And then I went to Cuba, on the same wonderful health professionals' trip that I took last year. Leaving aside the mojitos, beaches, and classic cars, one unfortunate wrinkle to this year's trip is that almost every single one of us developed some degree of GI issues. Apart from being rather irked that my famously iron gut had let me down, what this meant in a practical sense was that I could barely eat for almost a week (while still doing a ton of standing, walking, and other low-level activity). I had rolled my eyes at myself while obsessively packing a cache of nonperishable RP-friendly snacks, but I was ultimately grateful that I had done so, because I knew I needed to at least force myself to gag down a casein shake every night no matter how nauseated I was! I came home having dropped back to 138-139# territory — and, in hindsight, I think this served as a 'mini-cut' in the true sense of the word, in that it predisposed me to gain weight. I wasn't fully recovered from the metabolic aftereffects of my previous cut (had literally just gotten my period back for the first time while we were in Cuba... because of course that would happen), and so that week of unintentional severe restriction, combined with (undoubtedly) a major shift in gut flora, PLUS my coach putting me on a strength cycle... well, it was the perfect storm to lead to a bit of a rebound weight gain. I had stopped checking the scale daily or even weekly at this point, but throughout late May and early June, most of the numbers I saw on my spot checks were in the 143-146 range. Beyond just the scale, my clothes were also starting to fit differently (my hard-won 34C bras were getting a bit tight), gymnastics were feeling tougher than they had in months, and I was suddenly feeling self-conscious in my gym clothes. Something had to be done — but with the aftereffects of January still fresh in my mind, and with heavy barbells now the focus of my training, I had more than a little PTSD about the idea of embarking on yet another cut. The quirk of fate that provided my 'accidental' acceptance to the 2018 New York City Marathon (which is a whole other story) is what ultimately nudged me into pulling the trigger. I’ve run marathons before, but not since starting 1:1 CrossFit programming or since following RP. Knowing that a shift in my training would be coming soon, I posted a question in the RP Endurance group about my situation. I had the vague idea of combining a cut with the early or middle phase of the marathon training plan, when a calorie deficit would be easier to hit. One of the endurance coaches promptly replied — with exactly the opposite of what I'd expected to hear. "Cut now. Start today. Finish as far out from the marathon as possible." I blinked for a second, and then it clicked. For some reason, it took someone ELSE saying it to trigger the light bulb. Of course. For goals like mine — maintenance of strength and muscle mass — heavy barbells are actually the perfect time to cut. Marathon training, by comparison, would be the WORST time for someone like me to cut, because although the scale would certainly drop, I'd also be a lot more likely to lose precious muscle along with fat. I started back on strict Base the very next day. If nothing else, this made me very aware of all the tiny luxuries I'd managed to work in — no more extra glasses of milk, sneaky spoonfuls of PBfit, or "tastes" of Reddi Whip squirted directly into the mouth! :) However, because I was still fearful of pushing the limits too far and knew that I objectively didn't have very much weight to lose, I also set myself some parameters. My three 'hard stops' were that I wasn't going to go below 138#, wasn't going to extend the cut beyond 8 weeks, and wasn't going to utilize the third/harshest phase of the cutting plan (since slashing carbohydrates would be counterintuitive to my performance goals). Week 1 Starting weight: 147.2 lb Week 1 Average: 144.2 lb The first thing I noticed was that my mental state calmed down tremendously. I hadn't fully acknowledged how much this situation had been worrying me, and I had also forgotten how lovely the 'control' of a cut can feel. From day one, I was no longer afraid of the number on the scale, because now — rather than being passive (and therefore frightening) information — it was a tool that I could use to make changes. Further, I knew I got to look forward to watching it go DOWN! :)

I also knew I had a peak week programmed in (what would have been) Week 5 of this cut, so every time the scale showed a number that was higher than I'd hoped, I felt an odd mix of disappointment AND reassurance that "at least that's more mass with which to move the barbell!" Oddly, I think the fact that I had a rationale for not entirely WANTING to see a massive scale plunge helped me to approach this whole thing with a bit of a healthier mental state. The second thing I realized during this first week is that I had drifted further from my templates than I'd thought. In many instances, I was habitually shorting my fats and (not always consciously) exceeding my prescribed carbs. I made sure to write this down, so I could correct it when I started to work my way back up towards Base; however, I also didn't re-add all the fats I had dropped, because that seemed like a silly thing to do in the first stage of a *cut*. As such, my first week of this adventure was spent on an imaginary 'gray zone' tab that I named 'Cut 0.5'. :) This first week was, honestly, pretty smooth sailing. My parents had been in town for a visit, and we'd eaten at a couple of restaurants, so my starting weight of 147.2# was a bit artificially inflated; however, this meant that I had a very gratifying water weight drop across the first week (five pounds!). This made my clothes start to fit better AND my gymnastics feel instantaneously better, both of which were big morale boosts. I started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I might be able to knock this out in six weeks instead of eight. Week 2 Average: 143.8 lb This was where the plateau started to hit; that lovely five-pound drop was (naturally) followed by a RISE of 4# across 4 days. This was partly being driven by hormones (PMS week), but in a shorter cut like this, you don't wait around if you don't have to. Midweek, I could tell that my average was going to stagnate, so I went ahead and moved onto the first fat loss tab. This impacted my sleep almost immediately (hello darkness my old friend...), and also led to that annoying, familiar feeling of weakness and shakiness on non-training days when carbs were low. However, in general, I continued to feel pretty good — handstand push-ups in particular were suddenly feeling awesome, and although barbells FELT noticeably heavier, my hard numbers hadn't actually backslid. I had two notable non-scale victories in week two. First, I had two unavoidable restaurant meals in the span of 4 days (a dinner and a post-workout breakfast), wherein I managed to (1) stay compliant and (2) calmly enjoy myself and my company in the process, feeling neither deprived NOR the usual overwhelming creeping dread about the unpredictability of the food in front of me (green salad with grilled shrimp/veggies for the dinner, an egg white omelet with salsa, veggies, and toast for the breakfast). It sounds so simple, but I just never learned how to do that very well on my first couple of cuts — how to simultaneously make good nutrition choices in a social setting AND truly FEEL okay mentally about those choices, rather than anxious or apologetic or defensive or self-conscious. This set of coping skills would have been a worthy takeaway no matter where the scale ended up. Second, this week made me recognize and appreciate the value of cycle tracking. Losing my period for so long after my last cut was admittedly nice on one level, but was also incredibly annoying, because I had no hormonal context in which to confidently interpret my day-to-day physical and mental fluctuations. That experience prompted me to start paying MUCH closer attention to such things during maintenance, and now that I have a couple months' worth of notes, I absolutely see a very strong correlation between where I am in the month and how I feel (both gym-wise and mood-wise). It's pretty neat to write a description that says (for example) that I woke up roasting hot overnight, or the scale went up, or my mood was calmer than I expected, or my skin started breaking out — and then flip back to the previous month and realize I'd written the exact same thing on the exact same cycle day then, too. In addition to being just plain cool information (female bodies are weird and frustrating and also kind of incredible!), this is also extremely comforting, because it reminds me that I often have additional reasons to feel 'off' that aren't necessarily directly correlated to cutting. 

Week 3 Average: 142.1 lb This third week was where I really started hurting. Training started to feel like utter garbage — I could still hit my expected/prescribed numbers on MOST things, but it was taking significantly more physical and mental effort to do so, and every so often I'd run headlong into an unexpected wall. Despite ZMAs and melatonin and even the occasional Flexeril, I couldn't sleep through the night at all anymore. My right shoulder got 'tweaked' and refused to calm down (much the same as my low back had done, during my second cut). And non-training days felt absolutely horrible — I wasn't "hungry" per se, but I felt persistently weak, and would get lightheaded every time I stood up. I checked my BP at work on one such occasion, and it was way down at 86/63.

Part of me was sufficiently freaked out that I almost wanted to go ahead and call it right here — not because I was struggling with hunger or cravings, but because I was extremely leery of (potentially) losing muscle or impacting performance without (by this point) any particularly good reason for continuing to do so. However, I also knew that the wise RPer overshoots slightly, when feasible. I was also able to recognize the fact that, since I'd already made the mistake once of not stopping a cut when I should have, I was probably a bit hypersensitive to discomfort this time around, from the perspective of not wanting to make the same error twice. I decided I had at least one more week in me. And this third week wasn't all bad: I practically danced a jig when I started my period (on time!), because I knew it would be sending the scale on another nice downward trend. This was also the week when I started to feel really good about my physical appearance — which I guess shouldn't have surprised me, but did, probably just because my first two cuts had felt like such long slow slogs. But the very reason that this one was shorter was because I didn't NEED to lose very much — and it was definitely gratifying to feel this degree of satisfaction so early in the process, comparatively speaking. I also measured myself this week and compared the numbers to my old log, which made me realize that — though I was (fortunately!) not as tiny as I was at the very end of my second cut, I was generally matching up with where I'd been about three weeks from its end — at a point when I had weighed (wait for it) 138#, a.k.a. the weight I had picked as my 'hard stop'! Given this — essentially the same measurements as before, while also 4# heavier — I realized I'd probably increased my lean body mass significantly during maintenance (hooray!), and therefore should probably adjust my boundary lines accordingly.  After some thought, I decided the cutoffs should be: — an average of 140# (rather than 138#) — since, along with performance, my other highest priority was (and is) muscle preservation. If I was measuring the same at 142# as I had been at 138#, then willfully cutting all the way to 138# this time might have been flirting with the edge of diminishing returns. — a maximum of SIX weeks rather than eight — because, the shorter the cut, the less it would spill over into marathon training (which was *definitely* the setting where I'd be more likely to lose muscle). — a plateau on the FIRST cutting tab, or possibly a 'gray zone' of tab 1.5, rather than going fully onto the second tab... a decision that was also related to my impending marathon training. I have a prior history of metatarsal stress fractures as it is, and hence am highly motivated to NOT screw up my hormones again at the moment, which made me reconsider the wisdom of dropping my fats all the way down to 7g/day (as I'd have done on the second tab). All of the above is perfectly reasonable from every angle. However — although I didn't quite say so out loud — in my mind, by the end of this third week, I had already made the decision to call it at the end of week 4. That certainly wasn't how I'd initially planned for this adventure to go, but I was feeling rotten, I had a peak week coming up, and it was seeming pretty obvious that the cutting process was serving neither my body nor my priorities very well. Privately, as this week drew to an end, I was feeling like a bit of a failure, knowing that I was going to ‘quit’ sooner than I had planned. I'm accustomed to thinking of myself as 'strong' on all levels, more than capable of pushing through discomfort — and the cutting process is pretty familiar to me at this point, not particularly difficult or intimidating anymore — so I truly did not expect to be experiencing the physical effects quite so strongly at this stage of the game. Even though it wasn't a terribly logical thing to feel, I was definitely more than a little disappointed in my body for 'letting me down'.  However, this is one arena where my loquaciousness served me well; I started writing a blog post about the negative things I was feeling — and by the end of it, I had convinced myself that (1) it's also a victory to recognize the point of diminishing returns and know what the responsible decision is, and (2) the fact that I was 'feeling' the cut this strongly this time could, in fact, be viewed as a direct reflection of the tremendous progress I've made in my training over the past year, how very hard I'm working every day, and how well my current baseline nutrition habits are serving me. In other words, the major impact I feel when I mess with my homeostasis is itself a testament to the healthy habits I've developed in SUPPORT of that homeostasis. Looking at it that way made me feel better.

Week 4 Average: 140.2 lb Nadir: 138.3 lb ...So then, of course, things immediately improved. :) The gym started feeling closer to normal, AND the scale took a nosedive (both of which always happen in cycle week 2 — note to self: structure ALL future cuts this same way! :)). I also saw a new sports massage guru for my shoulder, who did some cupping (which I'd never had before — interesting experience) and was able to help the discomfort pretty significantly. It's not gone, but it's better, and I bet a few days of higher calories will be the tipping point. As per my mental wrestling match last week, I was always going to choose to stop today, regardless of the numbers. HOWEVER... my average for this week has ultimately ended up being 140.2#, with this morning's weight being the lowest I've seen so far, 138.3#. Meaning, based on my parameters above... it's officially time to stop ANYWAY! ...Which just makes me laugh and shake my head at the workings of the universe. :)

Numbers: This Cut: — Starting weight (Day 1): 147.2# — Ending weight (Day 28): 138.3# — Highest to lowest: down 8.9# — Weekly averages: down exactly 4# across 4 weeks — Inches: down 6" total (1" off bust, under-bust, and hips; 1.5" off waist and belly) DEXA, January 2018 vs July 2018: — Weight (on their scale): up exactly six pounds since January, from 134.8 to 140.8 — BUT, get this — LEAN mass has INCREASED by SEVEN pounds since January (!), AND — body fat is also DOWN another 1.5% since January (from 18.6% to 17.1%)... which is probably primarily from the efforts of these past four weeks. I mean... I'm just saying... it basically doesn't get better than that! Takeaways:  — As I mentioned, the process of strictly dialing in my macros again has definitely helped me identify some places where I'd drifted further from template on maintenance than I should have (often shorting fats and exceeding carbs). Since I haven't left FL1 on this go-round, I'm now in a very good position for a 'controlled reentry' over the next couple of weeks, which will be a chance to correct this and hopefully end up with EVEN MORE FOOD/calories on my new base. As of today, I could technically jump to New Base all in one go — but in the interest of optimizing the final macro result (and rebounding as little as possible, weight-wise), I'm going to split it into two jumps of about 150-200 calories apiece. I'm sure I'll end up adjusting as I go, but my tentative plan for right now is to add 1.5 servings fat to NTD, and 0.5 serving fat plus 20-25g carbs to training days (to bring me back to ‘Light-Plus’ territory); the second jump (in probably 1-2 weeks, depending on what the scale does) will be adding back the rest of the fats. — Related: this experience also confirmed for me that, on maintenance, I was definitely rating my workouts correctly as (for the most part) Light-Plus or Moderate. I don't discount the RP approach of resistance training being the primary driver of ratings; however, my personal experience (yet again) is that INTENSITY matters also. I'm on the 2.0 version of the templates, meaning my first tab has only cut my fats, not carbs — but I've rated almost every single day as Light for these past four weeks, and in terms of how beat up and under-recovered I've felt, I do think the carb deficit has likely played just as much of a role as the overall calorie deficit. — We all know this already, but I think my degree of success here really speaks to the power of a long maintenance in terms of repairing our metabolism. Last time, I saw zero change on Base, then plateaued on FL1 in the middle of Week 4 and had to move to FL2 for the remaining 8+ weeks of the cut. This time, after five months of maintenance, I actually LOST a bit of weight on Base (!), and then Week 4 was where I saw the overall BIGGEST scale drop... without ever leaving FL1. — Going forward, I'll be very interested to see how well this all 'sticks' — how the degree of rebound compares to previous cuts. For obvious reasons, mentally and logistically, I found this cut DRAMATICALLY easier than either of my first two, so it'll be useful information to know whether a commitment this short in duration actually has any lasting effect to make it worthwhile as a potential future approach. (Based on this experience, if I keep training at this level, I also may need to give a bit more consideration to trying 1:1 for future cuts.) — Overall, I definitely 'got what I needed' out of this, which is: back to feeling proud of my body in all respects — happy with the fit of my clothes, with my visual appearance, and with my performance. I mean, we always want to push the envelope just a bit further — the hints of actual abs that I've been able to see this week are admittedly tantalizing! — and I certainly COULD push further if that were the priority, but right now, it isn't. And after all the ups and downs of the past few years, it's comforting on some level to know that "this is all I had to do" in order to get back to a place where I'm at peace with my body. Although this won't be my first marathon, the training for it is going to be a brand-new learning curve now that I'm on individualized CrossFit programming as well as following RP, and it'll be a huge help to know that I'm starting from the best possible place, physically speaking. — Also, although it may sound a bit silly, it's oddly mentally reassuring to know that I seized this opportunity to 'dial it in' and shave off just a couple pounds during an (admittedly brief!) window when it logistically made sense to do so. The scale is fickle and the amount of actual fat loss was certainly small — but I won't have the opportunity to cut again for another few months, and knowing I did everything I reasonably could during THIS phase — not to mention, everything I learned from that stellar DEXA result! — lets me feel a bit more emotionally okay about fueling my body purely for training and performance over the challenges to come. It's gratifying to watch the swing of this pendulum get progressively narrower as I hone in on the ideal spot in terms of both appearance and performance. Honestly, in so many ways, I barely recognize myself compared to a year ago. I'm happy right here, and this is a great spot to sit and breathe for the moment, but I'm also already curious — and optimistic — about whatever may come next. #massing? ;)

painted rocks

I have lived in western Washington for over half my life now and I’ve learned a thing or two from all the rain. Getting wet is inevitable, for one, so there’s really no need to arm myself with an umbrella at all times. It can stay stashed in the trunk of my car underneath the pile of Amazon boxes I’ve been meaning to recycle or remain forever lost in the back nether regions of my coat closet, useless and unused.

I’ve also learned that in the wintertime when the rain relents, it’s go time. Never mind that it may still be 35 degrees outside, so cold I’m surrounded by smoky clouds of my own breath. The moment I notice that the puddles outside are still and smooth as glass, no longer rippling with split second bullet marks from the rain’s merciless falling, I’m outside. It may seem a bit overboard, staying on such high alert during the darker, drearier months, ready to pounce on any scrap of sunlight or clear sky Nature sends my way. But I’ve yet to find a better way to ensure that I do not spend the whole of winter stowed away inside.

Which is why I found myself at Fish Park the other day, one of December’s first, dropping bits of Chex Mix into my children’s open, waiting mouths like they were baby birds. The miserably cold air bit at their hands each time they braved the outside of their tiny pockets, rendering them helpless to eat the picnic lunch I’d packed all on their own. Without a single raindrop in sight though, I’d led the charge to explore the outdoors while we had the chance.

Fish Park sits close to our house, just a two minute drive through the heart of our small town’s main street to get there. Void of any swings or slides, or the splash of primary colored handprint murals that seem the hallmark of any thoughtfully constructed community playground, there’s only wide open wetlands and winding paths throughout. My kids love to walk here, feet stomping fast upon the gravel spread smooth in neat lines, bounding down the boardwalks built up over every mushy place. Mostly we look for rocks.

Our community has a program where people paint rocks and then hide them in any number of public places for others to find. We’ve planted plenty of our own stony masterpieces, but nothing is more fun than stumbling upon the surprise of one that’s been left behind by someone else. I usually spot them first, slight specks of bright shooting through the sandy browns of nature. The kids will stop sword fighting with sticks or hunting in the tall grasses for any manner of wildlife and follow my hints to the end, where the newfound treasure lays waiting to belong to them. (Except for the two times when I’ve kept my mouth shut and snagged the rock for myself. One purple hued, with ‘Be Free’ brushed boldly across the top; a second, emblazoned with a giant red bow and the words ‘Love Yourself’).

During our last visit, I knew the freezing cold and never-ending string of rainy days meant any continued searching would be fruitless. No one was taking the time to carefully conceal rocks just for the fun of it in these conditions. Still, as my kids busied themselves seeing how far they could stray from me while remaining in my line of sight (family rule #4), I couldn’t help but scan every inch of ground around my plodding feet in hopes of spying just a bit of color. With each step my pursuit grew both in purpose and in passion, and though barely twenty paces from the trailhead, I completely lost myself in seeking. I mean, I was really going for it, even attempting to administer the law of attraction I’d read about in my husband’s battered copy of The Secret. (I will find a rock. I know it. I will find a rock.)

I feel compelled to side step my little story here and fill you in. As a young child my parents led me to Jesus, and in so doing, gave me Everything. All the other stuff that came along with being raised in a conservative, evangelical Christian home was simply part of the package. Spiritual warfare was a whole big thing and I had a pretty far-reaching knowledge of demons, hell and (worst of all!) backsliding before my age was even in the double digits. I never let my eyes scan the horoscopes in the newspaper for more than a passing second in fear that some black voodoo magic might lob onto me and never let me go, and at birthday parties when someone pulled out a ouija board, I’d go sit in the corner by myself and wait out all the debauchery until the game was over. I understood that dark, demonic forces were very real and that I could never be quite sure which MTV show or secular song they lurked in. Every single religion besides Christianity, even Catholicism (sorry guys, so close), was also lumped into Bad Stuff That Isn’t Good Or True. The lines drawn in the sand for me were hard and fast. Buddhism? You might as well be a witch.

This is why employing the power of my own mind and using visualization as a tool in order to scout out a painted rock in the park made me laugh at myself. Emily of 1999 (hell, even the Emily of 2012), would never be caught participating in such sinful schemes. Back then I wouldn’t have opened up the front cover of The Secret, dismissing it without even reading it because it wasn’t the Bible and that made it Bad. God’s clued me in on some of my own ignorance since then, and as He’s continued to draw me closer and closer to Himself, a lot of the ‘hard and fast’ has fallen by the wayside. A lot of the fear, too.

So I walked and I walked, looking high and low all over Fish Park, trying to maintain a responsible enough watch on my kiddos while envisioning the rock I just knew lay waiting for me to find it. The sight of it formed crystal like in my mind: small, smooth, rich glossy paint, the word ‘YOU’ sprawled across the top. Suddenly I was searching for myself, or rather some way in which to commemorate the hunt that’d become the whole of my life in this last season. A sense of urgency began to grow within me, more excitement than panic because I knew the rock would turn up, even if it wasn’t till my very last step before hopping in the car to leave.

Except it didn’t. There were no painted rocks. And then it was time to go.

The sun had teased us the entire time we were there, shining forth in spurts and slivers for minutes at a time, until finally it seemed to cover itself in clouds for good and we all realized just how frozen cold we were. Immediately, we hightailed it back to the parking lot where our car waited with its glorious warm heat. While the kids piled in and fumbled to do their buckles with their numb, little fingers, I stooped down and scraped at the packed dirt, prying free a rock. It took a nearby stick to get the job done, and my coat and hands were dirtied in the process, but still I picked it up and brought it home with me.

Later, after a quick rinse in my kitchen sink and time to dry, (and also a special trip to the store just for a new art brush), I painted it. Blue, both bright and deep, with the word ‘YOU’ scripted  on top in cool, clear white.

When my husband came home from work that evening, I shared my search with him, including a description of the rock I’d been visualizing in my mind. Before I was able to add the detail of my disappointment, we were interrupted by a whole host of whines and groans when the kids came into the kitchen looking for dinner. Our conversation picked back up after I’d started heating up the Costco package of pulled pork (did I mention I’m a gourmet chef?), but by then we’d moved on to another subject.

It wasn’t until much later, as I was readying to head to bed, that my husband came across the rock I’d painted laying on the windowsill in the kitchen. Calling out to me from across the house he said, “Oh hey, you ended up finding your rock, your YOU!”

And by then I’d realized that I had.

Relapse.

Relapse. 

Part I.

 Relapse: to fall back into vice, wrong-doing, or error; backslide.

Two months. It had been two months since I last seen you, let alone spoken to you. It had been two months of pure bliss and peace. For once I was starting to feel whole again. I was able to breathe better. Not to mention I was finally capable of sleeping the whole night through without waking randomly, wondering if you were still breathing. I hadn’t imagined my life returning to its normal state without you, but everything was returning to just that, normal. I was chasing my dreams faster than ever at this moment. There was nothing standing in my way. Not even you. I was certain I was happy and I refused to lose that again. 

“It’s been awhile. Aren’t you the least bit curious about his wellbeing?”

I locked eyes with my reflection in the mirror ahead of me. I was completely alone, however I heard those words clear as day. The voices were returning. I had been ignoring them for the last couple of weeks but as of a few days ago I had let them win.

Now before you get to thinking that I suffer from schizophrenia, it was not like I heard actual voices in my head. They had more so been thoughts that I couldn't suppress and right now I could not control the fact that my mind drifted off to him. “I don’t care about his wellbeing.” My voice bounced off the mirror as I continued with my nightly regimen. I had finally managed to convince myself and my brain that he was no longer a factor in my life. Night had become a shadow in the dark to me. I knew he was there, but I never saw him. 

“Fuck!” I groaned lowly. It was already after 9 o’clock in the evening. I knew I wasn’t going to make it to my destination anymore and I honestly didn’t care. Staying away from crowds of people was second nature to me. I didn’t strive to be around people and that particular trait of mine was growing deeper. I reached for my phone and tapped on the screen. My bottom lip rested between my teeth as I lightly chewed on it. I needed an excuse to feed my friends so they wouldn’t press to hard into why I wasn’t coming. I didn’t want them to worry about me either. So I decided to send the best believable excuse that I knew of.

Hey, I’m trying my best to make it, but Mother Nature is fucking winning right now. I’m sorry.

Deep sighs escaped my lips as I carried myself back into my room. I have to admit, I lied earlier when I said I that I was happy. I was almost close to it until a little while ago. Everything had gone from pure sunlight to straight fucking darkness. I still continued to stroll through life like everything was all fine and dandy. In some aspects it was. My work life was amazing and my health gradually grew better. At least my physical health continued to grow better. Now my mental health that was something that was going to take longer than two months to repair. 

It’s okay, feel better.

She didn’t need to say too much in her response to me to let me know she was disappointed again that I had bailed out on being around her and the remainder of my small group of friends. I knew Rylie would never grasp how I felt in life. She was my best friend and she did understand me on certain things, but the demons in my closet…she would never quite understand. 

My mental disorder was unknown to majority of the people around me. But Night knew about it.

I crawled into my bed and adjusted myself multiple times until I was comfortable. I was hoping I could be sleep by ten. Sometimes I got lucky with that hope, other times I didn’t get so lucky. My sleeping pattern had always been off. I could remember as far back as being eight or nine years old and lying awake into the wee hours of the night. Whenever I was questioned about why I struggled with my sleep, I never had a clear answer. I wish that I could answer that question with a straight out answer, because then maybe I would able to solve this terrible sleeping curse. Until then I shall continue to struggle with my sleep. 

I let my thoughts flow through my mind as I continued to lay in the same position. Eventually sleep would consume me. 

“My mind is off it.” I looked in his direction. To the average person he held no pain, he was a strong individual and he never slipped. But my eyes had seen too many of his truths. I knew the pain he held and the strength that he could exude. There’s was no fooling me. I didn’t see black and white when it came to Night. I saw colors, his true colors. “I didn’t need you to clarify that for me, Night.” I didn’t. I could see it all in his eyes that his mind was nowhere near where it needed to be. I placed my hand softly on top of his. The feeling of his warm skin against my cool palm brought a wave of calmness over me. 

 Prior to my hand touching his, my mind had been running laps at 150 miles per hour. Now it had completely slowed down and focused on him.

“You know I’m here for you. I don’t understand why you don’t see that.” I looked him up and down. Night didn’t move or even change his facial expression. I wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking at this time and this made me even more worried about him than I had already been. “I know, E. I love you, but some of this shit I have to handle alone. We’ve been over that more than once.” I removed my hand from on top of this. He was telling the truth. He had told me on multiple occasions that it was certain situations that I needed to be separated from. But a part of me wasn’t willing to accept that. He never accepted when I wanted to be alone or even when I told him that I was doing fine.

“Don’t do that Egypt.”

I could hear him sigh. I wasn’t doing a damn thing. I just knew not to continue to press the issue. When it came to us, if we continued to press one another it would only lead to a huge explosion. And honestly right now neither one of needed an argument, let alone a screaming match.

“I’m not doing any. I just want you to understand that I’m here for you. You don’t need to shut me out.” I spoke my true feelings. If I never did anything else when I spoke to him, I was going to at least speak my truths. Night nodded his head gently. “And I know that, Egypt. You just have to be patient with me and ride this wave all the way through. We gon’ get pass this.” I knew that we wouldn’t get pass this as long as we both decided not to speak on what was bothering us. I had issues and he had demons. They were both the same, they just played different roles in our lives. Crazy thing about that is that fact that we both knew how to handle those bad aspects of one another’s lives.

I felt his arms embrace me, pulling me until my back was against his chest. I rested my head softly against his shoulders. I felt complete and a sense of serenity whenever our skin touched in some way. It didn’t even have to be sexual. As long as my skin felt his, I was complete. I was a better woman. Even if it was only for that moment.

“I’m not shutting you out. If anything, I’m protecting you.” He pushed my hair away from my face and softly kissed the corner of my forehead. “I need you more than ever right now, Egypt. I just got to create some space. I can’t let my shit start to fuck with you mentally.” As he spoke his hand traveled away from my waist to the faint markings that laid on both of my wrist. “This was my fault and I refuse to let you feel that type pain again.” His thumb touched each one gently. “These weren’t your fault. I had my own issues.” I gently pushed his fingers away from my scars. They had been a terrible reminder of my dark past. A past I never wanted to experience again. 

“Issues that I make deeper than they already are.” Night’s eyes looked into me as I stood from the bed. I didn’t like having these type of conversations. It was nothing but a mind trick. As matter of fact it was reverse psychology. He wanted to blame himself so I could tell him that he wasn’t the one to blame. As a matter of fact he wasn’t to blame, well at least not completely. He did complicate things for me, but at the same time he made things better for me too. It was a win and lose situation. And sometimes I wasn’t sure if I enjoyed winning or losing more. I had known in my heart that I was attracted to damaged people. I had a thing for fixing broken souls...yet my soul was broken the most. 

“I’m not doing this with you, Night. I don’t blame you for anything. I made majority of the decisions on my own. So how could you make anything worse?” I looked down at him as I pulled on a pair of shorts. Suddenly I felt the need to cover myself and hide. Hiding my body meant hiding my heart and soul. Right now that was needed. I couldn’t be open. I didn’t need to be vulnerable. Showing vulnerability meant breaking and I refused to break. Not now, not in this moment.

Night shook his head and kissed his teeth. I rolled my eyes knowing that an attitude was setting in deep in his veins. “You need to stop thinking that way, E.” I watched closely as he rose from the bed and reached for his shoes. He was leaving. This was nothing new. We spent minimum time together now, but once upon a time we spent so much time together that we had become one. “You got it, Night.” My tone was sarcastic but deep down I meant that. It was pointless to go back and forth with him. When he thought he was right that was it. There was no winning.

“Whatever, Egypt.”

I rolled my eyes as I continued to watch him. “Don’t start.” I mumbled lowly. “Just be safe.’ This time I spoke a little louder. I worried about his safety more than anything. “I’m always safe. He gathered his things and came my way. “You be safe and let me know if you need anything.” The word you was stressed every time he spoke it. Truth of the matter is I would never let him know what was bothering mentally or if I needed anything. I didn’t need him to worry about me. Not when had too many things of his own to worry about. I could handle myself. I always did. 

“Don’t be difficult, E. I love you Kid.”

Loud knocks caused me to jump from my sleep. I knew that I hadn’t been sleep long, but what I didn’t know was who was knocking at my door. My hands roamed over the sheets of my bed in search for my phone. I didn’t fear much, however being alone with someone knocking at my door this late scared me. I looked at the time on my lock screen before realizing a familiar name on the screen. My heartbeat sped up some. His messages confused me. 

Nah I’m not really that good right now, E. 

I’ll be there.

I slide my finger across the screen, pulling up our entire thread. I had completely forgot that I asked him was he okay before I fell asleep. I had given in.

[health-andfitness]-How to go out on Thanksgiving Eve without becoming a regressive shell of your high school self

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‘Twas the night before Thanksgiving, and all through the bar, dozens of people were blacking out, having traveled home from afar. If you’ve ever gone back to your hometown for Thanksgiving, you’re likely familiar with the ethos of the grossly named unofficial holiday known as “drinksgiving” or “blackout Wednesday.”

This hallowed Thanksgiving Eve night is marked by the gathering of folks home for the holidays who mingle with people they generally see just on this annual occasion, drinking and waxing nostalgic about memories that are seminal for some, triggering for others. Folks who have enjoyed a serious glow-up since their nerdy days in high school revel in the attention from the popular kids who never left town, and many even backslide (like way back) and hook up with that high school ex who still curiously sparks butterflies. But no matter what you do or don’t do, the alcohol is free-flowing and the behavior is seriously regressive.

As you can probably imagine, or have experienced yourself, this rarely, if ever, ends well: At best, you’re hungover and disappointed in yourself on Thanksgiving, anxious about how you acted the previous night while inevitably sandwiched at the dinner table between nosy relatives who want answers to your least favorite questions. And at worst, you drunkenly sang Sweet Caroline at the bar with high school friends and (mostly) acquaintances—and the evidence is all over Instagram Stories.

Whenever I’ve gone out with people from high school, I always find myself feeling like I did in high school—and in a lot of ways, I’m no longer that gal.

On some level, I completely understand wanting to get sloshed with classmates from freshman English and be the best version of your freshman English self. Heck, I’ve fallen victim to the trap of Blackout Wednesday on more than one occasion, and for me, the desire usually stems from wanting to gloat to the people who called me a weirdo in high school. (Who hasn’t daydreamed of telling the guy who didn’t want to take you to prom how successful you are over a glass of organic wine?) Still, as we’ve learned from Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion, this never plays out as well IRL as it does in your mind.

Whenever I’ve gone out with people from high school, I always find myself feeling like I did in high school—and in a lot of ways, I’m no longer that gal. I was awkward, a little overdramatic, and constantly worried about what my peers thought of me. But when I’m in my hometown and with people from my past? Those feelings bubble up again, and over the years, I’ve tried to be mindful of this. Because, listen: High school ended long ago, and it’s time to move on—especially for the sake of your bestie or S.O. you brought home for the holidays.

You’re old enough to know that your regressive behavior won’t make you feel like homecoming queen (unless, y’know, you were literally homecoming queen).

And another thing: In another lifetime you may have been able to toss back six Smirnoff Ices chased by a salty midnight snack and still awoken clear-headed. But now? LOL. (Read: The effect is not a cute look.) So instead of taking shots with your pals from the cheerleading team, why not meet for dinner and call it a night instead?

You’re old now—at least old enough to know that your regressive behavior won’t make you feel like homecoming queen (unless, y’know, you were literally homecoming queen)—and that’s totally fine. You can still enjoy time with old friends while still being the responsible, authentic adult you’ve grown into. So this “drinksgiving,” why not keep things tame and stick to two drinks and an early bedtime? Cranberry sauce and a side of chitchat with your aunt is so much more enjoyable when you aren’t hungover as all hell. Trust me.

Don’t feel like going out this Thanksgiving Eve? Spend your night perusing Black Friday beauty deals and big-ticket savings from Best Buy.

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