#boy likes 2 emphasize his jawline lately...

[poc-movie-supremacy]

Merry Christmas

On one very Merry Christmas, disaster strikes the Lim-Ilnyckyj family. Will everything be okay or will it be deadly Christmas for all???

------

Steven hates eggnog. He hates that it’s only sold on Christmas. He hates that he always forgets to buy more of it. He hates that he made Andrew go get some on that Christmas night. 

Yesterday night…

Steven loves Christmas. He loved it when he was a kid and he loved it now. He loved the Christmas music, and the twinkling lights, and the constant buzz of happiness. It’s become even more special now that he has Andrew and Sunny and Mark. 

“Do you have everything you need for the party tomorrow, baby?” 

Steven surveyed the kitchen. “I think we should. Do you wanna get started on the dumplings?” 

Andrew nodded and started getting out all the ingredients. “Sure are you going to start the banana bread?”

“Yup.” Steven maneuvered around Andrew as he got out his ingredients. They worked together in the kitchen seamlessly to produce a Christmas feast. Tomorrow in the late afternoon, they were hosting a large Christmas dinner with all of their friends and family. Considering who was coming they were planning on making a large meal. 

“The ham is going to be ready for pick up tomorrow right?”

“Last time I checked honey.” Steven had on a Hanukkah sweater under his apron. It was a gift from Zach a few years ago. He also had an elf hat that Adam gave him and a discrete hickey from Andrew. Didn’t need the kids seeing that.

As they cooked, those same kids sat on the couch watching Christmas movies.  Currently they were enthralled by Disney’s A Christmas Carol. The lights from the Christmas tree blinked lazily at them. It painted the kids in a warm glow. The smells of cooking food and scented candles wafted around the house. The adults kept a half an eye on them as they worked in the kitchen. 

As Steven stirred the banana bread mix, he felt a slight tug on his pant leg. Looking down he saw his baby boy holding on to his leg. “Hey Markie, what’s up?”

Steven knelt down so he could hear his son better. “Baba, are ghosts real?” Steven almost fell over laughing. It was making his son agitated but he couldn’t stop. Sunny and Andrew started to look at them curiously.

Before Mark could start crying Steven squeezed his hand. “Buddy, hey, Buddy I’m sorry. You know what, when your Uncle Shane and Ryan come over tomorrow you ask them ok? They know more about this than I do.” 

“Oh God, Ghosts.” Andrew groaned into his hands. He looked almost comical in his zany red Christmas sweater and Mickey Santa hat that Ryan got him a few years ago. Their poor kids look very confused at their parents. Steven almost fell down from laughing too hard. 

“Do you think when they finally started dating Shane would intentionally scare Ryan so that Ryan would go to him for comfort?” Andrew wondered. The red Christmas light fell on his profile, emphasizing his strong jawline and beard. It made Steven’s heart happy to look at. It was also hilarious sine he looked like a giant red man from where Steven was crouching on the floor. 

“Oh most definitely. I had to help him sometimes.” Steven rolled his eyes exasperatedly while Andrew chuckled. 

"Anyways, you kids wanna make Christmas cookies after me papa are done?” Steven asked. Papa and Baba’s cookies were a special treat for the Lim-Ilnyckyj kids. They enthusiastically took any chance of making them with their father’s as they could. 

“Ok watch a few more movies while Papa and I finish cooking, alright?” They nodded and went back into the living room. Frosty the Snowman and It’s Christmas Charlie Brown played through before Steven and Andrew were ready for them. Sunny and Mark rushed into the kitchen eagerly, happy to bake with their parents. It got a little messy, but they had fun. Andrew had flour in his hair and icing was everywhere. After that adventure, Steven and Andrew wrangled their kids to bed. Then they cleaned up the house to make it more presentable. 

Half-way through the clock struck midnight.  Steven was busy fixing the mistletoe so he missed Andrew coming up behind him. He squeaked when he felt Andrew wrap his arms around him. “Merry Christmas, Baby.” Andrew reached up to press a quick kiss to Steven’s lips. 

Just as quickly he pulled away leaving Steven a giggly mess. He playfully swatted Andrew on the shoulder before getting back to work. “Merry Christmas to you too, Honey.” 

Christmas Day for the Lim-Ilnyckyj household was chaotic. Sunny woke up Mark and together they woke up their parents. They were found sleeping back to back holding hands. They did not go to bed like that. It made Sunny and Mark laugh as they bounced on the bed. Their giggling is what actually woke up the two parents. Andrew gave Mark a bear hug while Steven tickled Sunny senseless. When they finally escaped their parents hold,  the kids pulled their parents to the Christmas Tree. 

“Don’t forget we’re going to Mass at noon. Then everyone’s coming over at 3. Can you get me some matcha honey?” Steven asked. 

“Sure.” Andrew stood up from the couch to go get some coffee in the kitchen. Light streamed in from the open windows onto the children. It made them almost glow in the morning light. 

Steven peacefully watched the kids divide up the presents. Mark got some nice lego’s and a coloring book while Sunny got a kid-safe detective and chemistry kit. They got a few other gifts but this was their favorite. Andrew came back with two cups of matcha, one for Steven and one for himself. Steven smiled happily and kissed his husband’s cheek in thanks. They hadn’t been planning on opening their gifts, but Sunny and Mark insisted. 

Steven’s gift was an art project and a Ratatouille stuffed animal. Sunny and Mark smiled eagerly at him. “Uncle Adam helped us pick it out! Do you like it Baba?” 

Steven pulled his kids into a hug. “I love it so much.”

“Your turn papa.” Mark handed his father one of his presents from Sunny and Mark. It was another art project and a stuffed animal of a cat possibly from the Aristocats. 

Andrew squeezed the cat close to his chest. “You guys, this is great.” 

“You like it?” The kids asked him excitedly. 

“I love it. And I’ll open the rest of the gifts after I get the ham. Ham is the last thing we need right?” 

“It should be..” Steven said. It wasn’t. 

“Ok, let’s eat some breakfast, I’ll get the ham then we’ll go to Mass. Sounds good?” The kids nodded distractedly. Steven made them special christmas waffles (which were like regular waffles with a lot of sweets in them).

“You’re going to give them a sugar rush,” Andrew said.

“Yeah and they’ll crash during mass.”

Andrew smiled sneakily at his husband. “You're so smart.

Steven shrugged with faux humility, “I try.”

The kids did in fact crash half-way through Mass. Steven and Andrew had to carry them the rest of the celebration. All the Church goers cooed as they passed. At home, Steven and Andrew let the kids sleep as they made sure the house was ready for the party. The wrappers were all thrown away and the Christmas lights were turned on. The food was arranged artfully around the kitchen table. At 2:20 the children were woken up and cleaned up for the party.

The first people to show up were Uncle Ryan and Uncle Shane. Their three kids, Sherry Linda and Benny stood behind them carrying gifts. After hugging Ryan and shane, Steven graciously took the gifts from his nieces and nephews.  Mark ran up to Ryan’s leg and pulled him down. “Uncle Ryan, Uncle Ryan, Baba told me I could ask you a question.”

“What’s up slugger?”

“Are Ghosts real?” Mark whispered.

 Ryan immediately started wheezing while Shane groaned. Mark looked around very confused. His dads had the exact same reaction. At the same time Ryan told him yes, Shane shook his head no. An argument ensued to Mark’s utter confusion. Linda rolled her eyes, took her cousin by the hand and pulled him away.

“Ignore my dads. They can’t agree on this.” Sherry, her younger brother Benny and cousin Sunny and followed Linda and Mark. They made their way to the play room away from the bickering adults. 

“If you ask me,” Sherry started, “I think they are.” Benny nodded too. He was three so there was a 60/40 chance he was just agreeing because his older sister said it, but none of them commented on it. 

More guests started to arrive, The Fulmers, the Habersburgers, Cool Uncle Adam. The kids all went to play upstairs while the grownups stayed downstairs to talk.  

Christmas music rang throughout the house as Christmas lights twinkled around them. The cookies and eggnog were a big hit, especially after someone spiked it. Steven didn’t account for this and sadly they ran out of eggnog quicker than he planned. “Do you want me to get more?” Andrew whispered in Steven’s ear. He had seen Steven start to play with the hem of his shirt, a tell-tale sign he was agitated.

Steven played with the hem of his shirt more and almost started to bite his lip. Internally he was having a debate with himself. “Are you sure? You don’t mind?” Steven whispered.

“No it’s ok. The trip would be quick.”

“Want me to go with you?”

“Nah stay home. I think Bergara’s going to do something to my clothes, I want you to stay guard.”

“Yes sir.” Steven smiled and kissed his husband on the cheek. Silently Andrew left the party to get some eggnog. Annie saw this and quirked an eyebrow. 

Steven answered her silent question. “It’s all good.” No it wasn’t “He’s just getting some eggnog.” He wanted to get some eggnog.

Annie nodded slowly like she was debating on what to say next. “The roads are slippery. I hope he’s careful.”

The thought made Steven nervous, but nothing bad could happen right? It was Christmas Day so he decided to trust in God and believe that Andrew would be alright. Steven nodded at Annie and steered the conversation towards studio ghibli. 

-_-  -_-  -_-

It takes half an hour to get from the grocery store and back to the house. Steven knows after all the times one kid has gotten sick and he had to rush to the store for soup. It had been 20 minutes so far. Steven wasn’t too worried. He went to the kitchen to get more cinnamon rolls  where he caught Ryan staring out at the snow. 

“Snowstorm. Must be blue moon today,” Ryan whispered when he noticed Steven beside him. “First time I’ve ever had to bundle up like I do visiting Shane’s family in California. Kids were ecstatic though.”

Steven snorted softly. “I can imagine, Cali boy.”

Ryan fondly rolled his eyes, “That was an awful nickname and you know it. By the way, where did Andrew go? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Before Steven could answer, his phone rang. Excusing himself, he answered and started to walk away. He made it four paces before he felt his heart shatter. 

-_-  -_-  -_-  

Steven was stock still in the middle of the kitchen. He wasn’t moving. Ryan called out to him, but he wasn’t responding. Hesitantly, Ryan walked over to Steven. His breaths were shallow and his eyes looked bloodshot. Carefully Ryan took the phone out of Steven’s hand.

“Hi, my name’s Ryan Bergara, I’m… Steven’s relative, what seems to be the problem?”

“Mr. Bergara, as I was just telling Mr. Lim, Mr. Andrew Ilnyckyj has been in a car accident. He’s in St. Luke’s hospital on 5th and 9th.” The operator had a sympathetic voice, probably picking up on how much Andrew means to Steven. Ryan took a deep breathe in an attempt to steel his nerves. He couldn’t break down, not yet, not until this whole mess was sorted out. Someone had to be strong for Steven.  

“Oh, um thank you, Steven and I’ll be there as soon as we can. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas Mr. Bergara. I hope your friend turns out okay.”

“I hope so too.” Ryan hung up and pocketed the phone. He turned towards Steven who was still stock-still and crying. “Hey man, I need you to breath. He’s going to be okay. Shane and I’ll drive you to the hospital, the rest can stay back and watch the kids.”

“The kids… you can’t tell them just yet. You can’t. It’s Christmas Ryan. Wait, wait until tomorrow.”

“Ok, ok I promise. Wait right here. I’m going to go tell the grown ups and get Shane.”

As he was about to leave, Steven reached out and tightly gripped Ryan’s arm. “Don’t, don’t leave.”

Ryan paused and took a deep breath .”Ok, slim lim, come with me.” Slowly Ryan tugged Steven back to the living room. To get everyone’s attention Ryan made one sharp whistle. 

Everyone turned to look at them and concern colored their faces when they saw Steven’s tear stained face. Before they could speak Ryan’s voice wobbled out, “Uhh, Steven just got a call from the hospital,” Annie held a hand over her mouth, “Andrew’s been in a car accident. Shane and I are going to take him there, but we need someone to stay behind to watch the kids. It’s Christmas. I don’t want them there quite yet.”

Shane walked up to stand on Steven’s otherside. He wrapped an arm around Steven’s shoulders and rubbed in an effort to calm him down. 

“We can stay with the kids,” Katie offered. She sent a sympathetic look towards Steven that went unnoticed. The others offered to clean up before either going to the hospital or going home.  

Ryan and Shane ushed Steven into the car and drove as quick as they lawfully could to the hospital. When they came to a stop in front of the hospital, Steven jumped out and made his way to Andrew’s room. They watched him go silently, sadly. Before they joined him they parked.   

-_-  -_-  -_-

Steven ran down the hallways as fast as he could. Christmas music played softly through the halls, but it doesn’t have the same soothing effect anymore. It started to become more threatening as it played in his mind over and over. You better watch out. You better watch out. YOU BETTER WATCH OUT  you better not cry, you better watch out I’m telling you why… 

It made him sick. His anxiety increased two-fold. The washed out hallways seemed to stretch on forever. It was freezing to the bones in there. For every step Steven took, the hallway added another foot of length. 

401… 402… 403.

Steven felt like he was running on borrowed air. Like when he got that phone call Satan stole his breath and wouldn’t give it back to him. He didn’t stop running though, he would run as quickly as he could to get to him. 

Finally, finally after his ugly christmas sweater was starting to choke him, finally after his tears were starting to stream down his cheeks, he made it to him. 

Andrew was lying unconscious in his hospital bed. There was a long scar over his left eye and a bruise on his left forearm. Steven almost fell over at the sight of it. Yet he pulled himself together and staggered to Andrew’s bedside. Tightly he grabbed one of Andrew’s hands as he willed himself to stay strong, stoic. 

The hospital room was cold and unfeeling. It smelled of antiseptic and medicine. Steven hated it. He hated that he was here, he hated that he was the okay one. Steven, Steven burned with anger. But anger doesn’t last long, especially for Steven who quickly goes from murderous to deep tragic sadness. It makes his knees weak. 

 He pulls up a chair so he could fall into it. While still holding his hands, he rests his forehead onto Andrew’s stomach and let the tears fall. At first it’s singular droplets but then it becomes heaving sobs. All the pent up energy he feels is released through the tears. He’s relieved the kids aren’t here to see either of their parent’s like this. They’re too young. 

He hears Ryan and Shane approach but he pays them no mind. All he’s aware of is Andrew’s soft breathing and the beep of the heart monitor. The sound is both a blessing and a curse. As much as he hates the incessant beeping, he’d take it over its silence any day. The boys walk over to Steven, Ryan on his left and Shane on his right. 

Shane’s quiet as Ryan speaks. “The nurse says there was some internal bleeding, and he has a few broken ribs. The roads were a little slippery the other car couldn’t break fast enough to avoid collision. She checked your insurance. They’re going to send in robots to fix up the bleeding. Thank God we updated the healthcare on time.” Ryan tried to joke to alleviate the dour mood. It didn’t work that well. 

Steven tightened his hold on Andrew’s fingers. Jaggedly, he nodded his head. Shane placed a hand on top of his shoulder. “Hey man ease up. Don’t break his fingers.” Steven wanted to hold onto his husband’s hands like a lifeline, but he knew Shane was right. Instead he grabbed one of Shane’s hands and one of Ryan’s. No one spoke as they quietly watch Andrew sleep.

When the nurses had to take Andrew into surgery, Steven let them lead him back to the waiting room. The lights were bright in an awful way, harsh on his eyes. They sat together on one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs. No one spoke, unsure of what to say. Steven played with the hem of his Christmas sweater and prayed the rosary over and over internally. 

Later on in the night, Adam, Annie, Rie, and Niki came over to sit with them. Unless it was to offer Steven a comforting word no one spoke. They all waited apprehensively for an update on Andrew’s situation. Annie wrapped her arms around Steven who curled into her. 

“I’m sorry I jinxed it.” Her voice was whisper-soft and shaky, like she was about to cry but didn’t want to. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Just more evidence that you might be a little more magical than we thought.” Steven tried to humor her. Annie just held him tighter and kissed his forehead. 

“I’m magical as fuck and I’ll use my powers to make Andrew come out the surgery room brand new,” Annie declared confidently. Despite himself, Steven smiled. 

-_-  -_-  -_-

Andrew’s surgery lasted a few hours. Ryan shot a text to Katie that Andrew would be staying overnight and Steven would too. Katie offered to stay the rest of the night with them, but Adam refused. He drove back to keep an eye on the kids while Katie and her husband went home. She gave him a sympathetic smile and made Ryan swear that he would update them on Andrew’s situation. After that they sent Steven one last sympathy text before heading home. 

Luckily the surgery went smoothly. He’d wake up from the anaesthetics in a few hours. Since only one person could wait for him in the hospital room everyone stayed in the waiting room. Steven went to visit Andrew alone. He pulled up a hospital chair and fiddled with the hem of his sweater as he prayed. 

Half-way through the night, Ryan and Shane had to go back home to pick up the kids and put them to bed. Annie stayed with Steven the whole night. She went with him to see Andrew before having to go back home. Well into the morning, once the kids were awake and ready, Adam took Sunny and Mark back to the hospital to wait for Andrew and Steven. They were quiet and still for once chock full with worry. Adam tried his best to distract them. He played youtube videos, read to them, and let them play games on his phone. Nothing seemed to work however. The only thing the kids wanted was their father. 

They looked up when a nurse called Adam’s name. They got up together, one kid holding one of his hands. The nurse gave him a pleased, tired smile. “Everything went well, so well in fact that you all can visit him.”

“We can visit Papa!” Sunny squealed excitedly. It made the nurse laugh. 

“Yeah, your father’s waiting for you.” Sunny would’ve sprinted off if it weren’t for Adam. He quietly thanked the nurse before turning his attention back to the squirming kids. 

“We walk together, no running off. We can’t run into anyone.” The kids sullenly agreed with Adam. Together they walked towards Andrew’s hospital room. He didn’t let go of the hyper kids until they crossed the threshold. Sunlight light up Andrew’s hospital room. There were some flowers and candy lying on the side table. Steven and Andrew had matching red rimmed eyes as they held hands. Big Smiles shone on their faces when they saw their kids. Before the kids could pounce on Andrew’s torso Steven scooped them up onto his lap.

“Hey, hey, before you shower your papa with all the love in the world, we got to go over a few ground rules.” Steven waited until he had his kids attention. “Your father’s chest and stomach is very sore so you can’t put any pressure on it. That means so sitting on it, no tight hugs, no leaning against it. Ok?”

Both kids nodded solemnly before Steven let them onto Andrew’s hospital bed. Mark sat on his left while Sunny carefully climbed over him. When they started talking they also started crying and they did this on top of each other. Adam went to stand silently behind Steven. No one could fully understand what the kids were saying. It was something between, don’t go, I’m scared and it was confusing. Andrew let them cry it all out. He rubbed Mark’s arm up and down as he tried to thumb away Sunny’s tears (in vain). Gingerly he let the kids lay on him, wanting to be just as close to them as they needed to be to him. 

“I’m going to be ok guys, I promise. Papa just got in a little tumble.” The kids didn’t really believe him, he did have a scar on his face after all. They did always like the rumble of his chest when he talked though, so they just quietly listened. Andrew told them a story about one of his Christmases as a boy. It was long enough to have them fall asleep by the end of it.  Andrew kissed them on the forehead before turning towards Adam and Steven. 

“They fell asleep quickly. What did I miss from the 24 hours or so?” 

“Nothing much. After Steven got the call, half of us went to the hospital while the other half stayed behind to clean up the house and watch the kids. They’ve had some trouble sleeping. Very worried for you.” Adam informed him. Absentmindedly Andrew tightened his hold on his kids even if it pained him. 

“Merry Christmas to us,” Steven quipped sarcastically. 

Andrew snorted. “Hey, I turned out fine. Little banged up but I’m ok.”

Steven carefully squeezed his upper elbow. “You better be. I didn’t want to tell the kids that pops went out for milk and never came home.”

Andrew and Adam laughed out loud. “I promise baby, I’m not going anywhere.”

#standrew #shyan #ella's worth it fics #we're all fic writers here #I coined mark from the bible #sunny cause Steven was like sunshine personified so obviously his kid would be too #and sherry and linda since they are shane and ryan's respective mom's #ella's unsolved fics

[futurepurplepaladin]

Under the Sea |2|

Warning: minor cuss words

Word Count: 1000+

(GIF by @katsuakiw)

———————-

I sat on the beach, the midnight black waves contrasting with the pearly white sand.

It was peaceful, calm, tranquil-everything I wish life was.

My life wasn’t terrible, but it could be easier-my mother died when I started middle school, so I had no one to look for support. I had to take care of myself. My father left me and my mother before I could even remember him. School was stressful and tireless work-work I had to do so I could give myself a better life than this one. Nobody really noticed me, and that was alright. Even today, on my 16th birthday, it was alright.

So, when things felt like too much, like the world is on my shoulders and my lungs feel shattered by the weight-I come to the ocean. The ocean was different than my life- the ocean didn’t listen to anyone, it commanded itself, it wasn’t fearful of what would happen if was it’s true self. Because it was. While me on the other hand, it was stuck in a tiny box that I couldn’t escape from.

Everything about the ocean’s fearless nature gave me strength to push on.

I looked out on the waves, tasting the earthy flavor of salt on my tongues, the smell tingling my nose.

I closed my eyes- a all too familiar memory resurfacing- my small hand greedily picking a flower so perfect it looked alien, it’s blue petals blurring from one shade of blue to another like a tie dye of ocean colors.

Then the bad ones came- me running, the fog, the fall from the cliff, and then-the boy. The child that saved me.

Every since I was a kid, every single person I told my story to didn’t believe me. They blamed it on my childish age, the fact I hit my head, or that my fear augmented my memory. Anything to rationalize what happened. Because my story was already extraordinary as it was.A fall from a 2 story cliff should have killed me instantly. But it didn’t. And how the weather was completely different around the time of my “incident.” The day had been beautiful and bright, until it turned dark and cold, and as quickly as the cold came, the sunlight returned. It was quite strange to say the least.

I always had this nagging feeling that my story was right. That I didn’t just think it all up. It was too real for me to not believe it to be true. But with time, the story got fuzzy, the details slipping my mind like a dream. And now, it’s harder to believe my own story with each passing day.

I looked back at the waves, a hint of longing in my chest. I would love to be in the ocean. It seemed so carefree, so relaxing. I could discover, and explore the depths, with no expectations or deadlines. I wouldn't ever feel claustrophobic in the immense space of the ocean.

And if I’m being honest with myself- some of that longing is the result of the boy I may or may not seen.

I couldn't help but think that maybe-just maybe-he could explain things to me. Could tell me what happened that day. Because even if everything was fake, the flower, my fall, the change of weather was all just my imagination- my cut couldn’t have magically healed by itself. There was no way. The blood around my skin was definitely there that day because my mother had inspected the spot in depth due to the blood stained fabric. Something in my stomach nagged me. It was him. It had to be him.

I got up, stretching, my stomach being exposed to the soft salty wind. I closed my eyes, focusing on the sounds and smells of the ocean. It always helped to clear my head.

I stared at the waves, it churning delicately in the full moon. It was almost magical,in a way.

Suddenly, a strange sensation overtook my body. It was electricity was surging into my body, my fingertips tingling with this almost ticklish sensation. I looked up, a new wind blowing my hair. I looked out, the Sea churning harder- it was like it wanted me to come to it. To command it. I walked tentatively towards the ocean, the sand crunching softly under my bare feet. I reached the edge of the water, the black waves sloshing excitedly. For some reason, I wasn’t afraid-I was interested, and confused. I should be scared, I thought. “Why aren’t I?”

I dipped my foot in the water carefully- only, I didn’t. The moment I put my foot near the water, the water shifted away from it. It reminded me of batteries-the same sides detracting from each other. I yelped, confused.

How the hell could this happen?

I did this multiple times- out, the water is normal. In, I’m literally defying the laws of gravity.

I decided to test how far this could work. I stepped both feet in, feeling only sand again as the waves avoided my touch. I began to take small steps, the waves still avoiding me. And another. And another. And another, until I’m a few feet away from the shore and there’s a wall of water up to my waist. I grazed my fingers against the watery boundary, the water splashing me, but still keeping its form. The energy feeling was still surging through me-it was amazing. Crazy, but amazing. I could control water?

The moonlight cast a white glow above me, reflecting pieces of things on the ocean floor. There were sea shells, and seaweed, and then something that caught my eye. I bent down brushing my hair to one side as I went to examine this glittering object. I picked it up, swirling in the tips of my fingers.

It was a perfectly round pearl, the white tinted a shade of cerulean blue. It was quite beautiful, the smooth surface cool against my fingers.

“Hey!” I heard someone say, “That’s mine!”

“Ah!” I yelped. My mind broke away from the ocean and the pearl, and the waves crashed over me.

I screamed, the cold waves crushing my body’s senses. I locked my knees, willing my body to stay in one place.Thank god I only went waist deep-I would have given out if I went any further.

My hands grasped the pearl tightly in reflex, my fingers digging into the skin of my palm.

“Are you okay?” I heard again, this time Being able to distinguish what type of person was calling to me. It was definitely male, but young. Maybe my age or older.

“Who’s there?” I gulped out in fear, the cold and new fear mingling together in my voice. I twirled in the water, my shorts floating around my legs as I tried to find the source of the voice.

I heard the voice again. “Wait-“ He said awe in voice, “you’re-you’re human?”

I stopped twisting, confusion now entering my system. Human?

I willed myself to steady my voice. “Who are you? Show yourself!” I commanded, my fingers beginning to shake.

I felt a tremor in the water in front of me, fear erupting again in my body. i started walking away, not being able to go fast enough. It was like trying to walk in syrup.

Panic was rising as the ripples got closer to me, only now a few feet away. I began to thrash a little, trying to reach the shore as quickly as possible. The tremors suddenly stopped, and instead, a boy emerged from the water, his soaked hair parted against his forehead.

I stared at him, my hand still clutching the blueish pearl against me as if it was a good luck charm.

I stared at him, the panic in my chest ebbing away and leaving only a soft pant.

“Hey!” He said, his voice trailing closer to me, “Are you okay?”

I stared at him, lost for words. Who the hell was this? Why did he scare me so badly? And most importantly, why did he call me a human?

“Did I scare you?” He asked, swimming closer to me.

What was strange to me was how he came towards me-he didn’t swim towards me like most people do. Most people use their hands to trend the water, their weight causing them to trudge through it heavily. He, on the other hand, was graceful-he swam through it quickly and efficiently, not even using his hands.

He stopped in front of me, his eyes level with mine.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he chuckled softly, his hands rising to rub the back of his neck, “I really didn’t mean to.”

In the moonlight , I could see this boy was quite good looking-his skin had a glow to it, the eyelashes coating his lids were dark and thick, and his jawline could seriously cut a man. My checks began to grow in heat despite my dropping body temperature.

He looked up through his black lashes, his lips raisers in an apologetic smile.

I stared at him lost for words-the cold, the scare, the confusion of what just happened was making my mind go haywire

He chuckled nervously. “Um, hello?” He asked, shaking a hand in front of my face. I broke out of my daze, shaking my head a few times.

“Huh?” I asked.

He chuckled again, his laugh melodic.

“Are you good?”

“Uh-uh, Yeah, Yeah!” I smiled nervously, my shoulders tight in cold.

“I was just wondering...do you have a pearl? That’s kinda blue? I kinda lost it, and uh-If I lose another one Id get in so much trouble,” he emphasized the “So”, making me chuckle despite the really weird situation.

“Actually, I did,” I smile, the cold making me shiver. “Is that why you yelled at me?” I smirked, watching his mannerism turn embarrassed.

“Maybe...If I knew you were so pretty, I wouldn’t have done that,” He smirked playfully, his broad shoulders brushing the waves gracefully.

“Whoa-Okay,” I thought, “hot dude complimenting me while I’m freezing in an ocean at 11 at night. Never thought this’d happen.”

“Well-that helps my conscience a bit,” I said back, my words stuttering a little do to the cold.

I was beginning to get used to the water, but since I wasn’t moving anymore, it was starting to feel cold again.

“Um-just a quick question,” I asked, “why are you swimming this late at night?”

“Why are you?” He pushed, his head tailoring a bit too the side.

“Uh-“ I paused, trying to come up with a lie quickly. I don’t know who this guy is, but I don’t feel like telling a stranger I can somehow control water like some mutant in a comic book.

“I was-just….clearing my head,” I stuttered, making my lie sound extremely fake. It wasn’t full lie though-I did come to the ocean to relax a bit-but not like this.

“Uhm-same here!” The boy said half heartedly. That felt like as much of a lie as mine did. It was quite obvious he wasn’t telling the truth, but I let it pass.

“Is it okay if I can have my pearl back?” He asked.

My hand came of the water, the quiet “drip” of droplets clinging like wind chimes. He raised his hand above the water as well, reaching for my outstretched palm. His skin made contact with my palm, it being surprisingly warm. I began to feel self conscious about my hands, realizing they were probably extremely cold.

And then that’s when I had an”vision”, I guess.

It was strange-A large light beamed in my face, blinding my senses. The only thing I could hear was a strong wind in my ears, and then a montage of images: a little girl falling, diving in gray murky water, then watching a little boy with a blue tail look down on a battered little girl. Another flash of light, and I saw the boys outstretched hand hold a small pearl, almost identical to the one I just had. Then the light died and the wind rushed back until I was in the present.

The boy and I both jumped back from our touch. He was holding the pearl to his chest, his eyes large in shock as I stared at my hand and back at him.

Did he see what I see?

His chest feel heavily, his breathing fast. “Who are you?” He asked, almost accusingly.

“Did you see what I saw?” I asked feverishly, my confusion forcing away his question.

“No no no no no,” he said quickly, “my question first! How are you able to-to put memories in my head, or make me remember stuff like that-“

“Wait! You saw it too?!? What did you see?” I asked loudly, excitement pushing through my voice.

He looked at me, his eyes furrowed in thought.

“I saw-myself falling….and then seeing me when I was small helping this little girl-you know, it’s not important I’m just gonna-“ he looked extremely freaked out, and even though a twinge of guilt formed in my stomach I pressed him.

“No, I know what your talking about! I saw that too-except I was saving the girl…”

“did you by any chance heal a little girl with a pearl? Like a really long time ago?” I said towards him, looking to see if I was right.

He nodded numbly.

“And-did she look a little like me?” I held my breath, waiting for his answer.

“Yeah… she kinda did…” He whispered, “and when I saved her-the weather changed…”

“From sunny to cloudy?”

He nodded again, realization hitting his features.

“Are you-you that girl?” He asked in astonishment.

I sighed. “I think I am.”

Then I paused, something surfacing. The boy had fins-blue ones. Like a-

“Oh my god.” I gasped, “Are-are you a mermaid?”

“Well, it’s more like merman than mermaid but Yeah-“

His expression changed, almost anger in himself for admitting this.

“Wait I’m not supposed to tell you that...but well, I already admitted. Yeah, I’m a mermaid,” his voice got quieter, him waiting for my response.

“What?!? Your a-you have-oh my god…” I breathed out, processing things over.

When I was a kid, I thought a mermaid had saved me because I had glimpses his blue tail-but I didn’t think it was real. Just maybe a trick if the light-but clearly not.

“Hey, uh,” the boy broke my thoughts, his voice tentative, “is there any way we can see each other again? Because we need to talk more. Figure things out-Cause I’m super confused.”

“Me too,” I agreed, still processing everything. “Can you come tomorrow, same time and place?”

“Sure,” He said. “What’s your name? So when I’m hear I can call for you?”

“It’s y/n,” I smiled tentatively. “Yours?”

“Lance.”

#voltron #vld #lance x reader #vld matchup blog #vld lance #hunk x reader #keith x reader #vld keith x reader #vld shiro x reader #keith kogane #vld lance x reader hc #vld lance hc #vld lance mcclain x you #vld lance mcclain blog #vld lance x you #vld lance mcclain x reader #vld lance x reader #vld lance mcclain #lance vld #vld lance mermaid au

[lxiewrites]

Embrace the Gay

Prompt from @bleusarcelle crabs and tomatoes

Inspiration from @ciuucalata who refuses to let my crab dream die 

Context: I dreamt that I was being chased by a giant crab before I knew about this video and Ellie hasn’t stopped teasing me since. Lance is like 90% her.

Lance was already up when his phone rang at 2:38AM.

He groped for the cell lost to the mountains and folds of his blankets, rummaging through until he felt the familiar shape. Bringing the too bright screen to his face he stared into what was causing his insomnia.

The contact photo was of the boy with a stupidly cute pout on his face. He took it sneaky-like. This boy just did not like pictures. He remembered that it was when they were studying for the upcoming math test. He was staring at the study guide like it would give him the secrets of the world, a cute little pout on his lips. It was a pretty good picture all in all. He got the angle perfectly catching his jawline that could probably cut glass. The light streaming through illuminated him like a fucking halo and lighting his purple eyes like amethysts. His friend, his buddy, his pal, his BFFL (best friend for life)… his apparently gay best friend? Keith Kogane.

It was just a few weeks ago that Keith came out to him. It would’ve been very heartfelt and touching, a perfect Hallmark moment, if Lance didn’t eat those three bean burritos for lunch and farted right after. But it was fine, Keith had got to have known Lance would accept him for who he was. Just like how Lance knew he could come out to him that he was bi three months earlier.

The problem was…now Keith is gay… and he’s been having some issues… with feelings.

Keith wasn’t exactly his bi awakening but Lance never really let himself think of his best friend in that way. Don’t fall for a straight boy, his sister told him. But what if that straight boy is now gay and he has some minor chance in hell?

No. Nope, nu-uh, not happening. What if Keith thought he was just using him? What if he thought it was creepy? What if he rejected him? What if it made their friendship all awkward and weird? What if he didn’t like him anymore?

What if he lost him?

He always thought falling in love with your best friend the greatest thing ever. The movies made it seem so natural and magical but this isn’t the movies.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. He would just continue on like normal.

He pressed the answer button. “What’s up, Mullet?” he rasped, his voice scratchy from disuse.

“Lance,” Keith’s voice was scratchy too. “I had a fucking weird dream.”

Lance chuckled, putting an arm behind his head as he relaxed for the tale. “You do realize it’s two AM right?”

“I had a really fucking weird dream,” the sleepy boy mumbled. He must be still half asleep. Lance ignored the swooping in his stomach at the thought of being the instinctive first person Keith told.

“Okay, okay, what was it?”

“I was chased by a giant crab.”

“….Pffftttt, what?”

“Giant crab,” he slurred, “chasing me on its little feet things. Skittering. Skkkssshhh, skkkksssshhhh, ssskkkkkssshhhhh.” Lance pressed his mouth into his shoulder to muffle his laugh. Sleepy tired Keith is the best Keith. He could almost imagine him being rolling over all cute, rubbing his eyes and poking Lance in the side to mumble something about giant crab, hair all floofed out. No, no, bad Lance! “It was chasing me and I couldn’t move but it never caught me but it was still chasing me.”

God, he was ridiculous at this stage, he’d believe anything. One time he Lance called him early in the morning and demanded why he wasn’t in class. It was Saturday. He was so pissed when he got to school only to see it closed except for the janitor.

…Aw, he was mean, he was so mean. He was gonna do it. Keith was gonna kill him but he’s gonna do it. “Hold on, buddy! I have a dream book!” He reached over to grope along the floor for a random book. He heaved his literacy book onto his lap.

“Why the fuck do you have a dream book?”

He flipped through the pages, pretending to look for the meaning of crabs. “I’m allowed to have interests. Don’t judge.” His response was a muffled grumble.

He couldn’t help but smile. He gasped, loudly and dramatically. He could hear the shifting of the covers on the other side of the phone and the sleepy hum. “It says here you’re gay!”

”What?” More rustling.

“Yeah, yeah! The crab means you’re gay because it represents sexuality because it doesn’t know which way it—And! You were running from it which means you’re running from your gay!”

”What the f—“

“Were there loafers?”

“…No, not re—“

“It emphasizes the gay!”

“WHAT THE FUCK!”

“And the lightning makes it super, ultra, mega gay!”

There was a beat, bed creaking. “Oh my fucking god; I’m gay.”

“Looks like, goodnight buddy!”

“Yeah…g’night…”

Lance hung up the phone, rolling over onto his stomach to hide his smile in the pillow. He waited a second… two…

The phone lit up with his pouty face. Snickering he accepted and brought the phone up to his—

“WAIT A FUCKING SECOND!”

Lance burst into laughter despite knowing he might wake up his parents and siblings.

-

“Hey, guys,” Keith greeted when he sat down at the lunch table, late as usual but thankfully before Hunk came. Pidge nodded with a short “’Sup,” but didn’t look up from the notes she was furiously scribbling. Lance shot him a shit-eating grin from where he stood, hovering over Pidge, at least until he saw his lunch.

Making a face Lance stuck out his tongue. “Bleh, how can you eat that? What even is it?” He leaned bodily over Pidge to peer closer at his lunch. Pidge didn’t react other to than let herself be flattened into the table, still writing. “Chicken? Beans?” He paused, lip twitching. “Crab?”

Keith slammed his tray on the table, lunch clattering, mysterious lunch spilling, and pointed an aggressive finger at him. “YOU SHUT YOUR FUCK!”

Lance burst out laughing while Pidge finally stopped writing and stared at Keith in confusion. She then looked at Lance and deadpanned, “What did you do.”

Still laughing Lance tried to look as affronted as he could with a grin on his face. Hand to his heart he gasped past his giggles, “Why do you think I did something?”

Keith pouted and kicked Lance under the table while sitting at the table like the talented motherfucker he is. “That’s because you did do something.”

“I helped you embrace your inner gay!”

“I’m already gay!”

“What does any of this have to do with crabs?!” Pidge yelled, arms spread out encompassing the what-the-fuckness of the situation. Her hands landed on the table with a thump before looking at Keith mouth agape and eyes wide behind her glasses. “Oh my god, you have crabs.”

“No!” he shouted.

Lance proceeded to die on the dirty floor of the cafeteria. He stood up again, kissing Pidge on the top of her head while avoiding the hand she flung out. “Then what the fuck, man!”

Keith planted his face in his hands and groaned. Lance decided to be the good guy his is and explain the entire situation. “Keith had a hentai dream with crabs—“ He yelped as a dinner roll nailed him in the face. Keith’s face was deadly, already armed with another roll. Lance tore a bite out of the roll out of spite before starting over and because he’s a masochist… “Fine, he had a dream about me with Sebastian the crab—“ And there was the second roll.

Pidge was snickering off to the side as Keith crossed his arms with a pout and a red face. “Okay,” Pidge said after she calmed down. “But we need to actually work on what we’re doing for Hunk’s birthday before he gets here.”

“Stop goofing around, Keith! We need to make this perfect for my best friend!”

“You’re the one—!” He huffed and planted his chin on his fist not looking at them. “Forget it,” he mumbled.

“Okay,” Pidge said, finishing her notes with a flourish. Tearing off a section she handed Lance the paper. “Lance, you got making dinner, this is the recipe. Keith, you got buying the decorations. Allura’s baking the cake and Shiro is making sure that Hunk gets there surprised.”

“And what will you be doing, Pidge?” Keith drawled, accepting his piece of paper.

“Uh, I’m the master genius of this plan? Duh. And I’m building him a computer so I’d shut up if I were you crabby.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

Keith grabbed a spoonful of the mysterious meat, relishing in the screams of horror from his two so-called friends.

-

Lance browsed the aisles, list held loosely between his fingers. The cart clattered as his partner dumped his items into the basket.

“Okay,” Keith started, “that’s the decorations, I might need to get a balloon pump or something.”

Lance held a hand over his heart and looked at him over his shoulder. “Buddy, my man, my pal, my lung capacity is amazing, save yo monies.”

Keith huffed in amusement and crossed his arms. “Fine, but I’m not driving you to the hospital when you have to blow up one hundred twenty balloons.”

“One hundre—bro! That is an excessive amount of balloons! Why so many?”

Keith raised his brows at him as if to say are you serious? “Don’t you want to make a balloon arch?” He sorted through his items with a distracted hand and murmured, “We might need to get more balloons actually.”

Lance stopped his browsing, shoved the list in his jacket pocket, and turned around, deadpanned look on his face. “We are not making a balloon arch, Keith.”

His brows furrowed and he pouted his stupid cute pout. “Why not?”

“Uh, because they’re tacky as hell? Nuh-uh, Hunk would not want a stupid balloon arch that he’d have no use for.”

“You don’t know, he could love it.”

“I am his best friend, I think I’d know whether or not Hunk would want a balloon arch for his birthday.”

“Well have you asked?”

“Why the hell would I ask if he liked balloon arches?”

“Well, why not?”

”Why would that be in an everyday conversation?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?’

”Oh my fucking God,” Lance groaned, trying not to laugh. He forced the corners of his lips down but it probably only served him to look more ridiculous. He shook his head, mildly alarmed when his bangs brushed Keith’s. He didn’t realize how close they got in their argument, foreheads almost touching.

The color was high in Keith’s cheeks, but he didn’t seem to notice their proximity, only squinting his indigo eyes at him. Lance stood up straight, adding much-needed distance between their faces. He could feel his face become warm as he coughed into his fist before planting it on his hip.

“Well, when it’s your birthday we’ll make a balloon arch for you.”

Keith’s not wrinkled in a mock grimace, the slightest tilt to his lips and smiling eyes. “Ew, no, balloon arches are tacky.”

Lance lunged forward with a battle cry. Keith barely dodged those long arms, laughing as he ducked under flailing limbs, but he wasn’t quick enough to escape grabby fingers that latched onto his jacket collar.

He squirmed and escaped his jacket, leaving him in his black T-shirt he spun around to grab it but Lance yanked it out of his reach. Lance glared down at Keith, smirk dancing across his face. “HA!”

“Lance, give me my jacket.”

“Uh, how about no.”

”Lance,” Keith growled.

”Keith.”

Keith lunged for it but he was stopped when Lance used his foot to kick the cart in front of him like a shield. Keith rubbed at his stomach where it scraped against him and glared. “I could climb you if I wanted.”

Lance gasped, turned his head, and placed the back of his hand to his mouth like some anime schoolgirl. He said in an exaggerated breathy voice, “Save it for the bedroom.”

Keith turned bright red and bit his lip. Damn, sometimes Lance wondered if Keith knew of his crush and did these things just to torment him. He wants to take that bitten lip and kiss it better. Run his tongue—

“Fine,” Keith spat.

Fine? Fine what?

Keith held out his hand. “At least give me your jacket to keep warm, it’s like fifty degrees out.”

Wait, what? Keith wants to wear his jacket??

Lance scrutinized him. Does he know what he’s asking? The implication? It’s unlikely because it’s Keith. Keith who’s as oblivious to social cues and unsaid gestures as he is to the concepts of cheers. He looked almost bored, maybe expectant, hand out and wiggling his fingers.

It’s Keith; of course he wouldn’t get it.

But even if Keith didn’t know did not mean that Lance couldn’t get a little excited at seeing Keith in his jacket. Hisjacket. All cute and snuggly and warm in his jacket. He sighed, at the situation or himself he didn’t really know but he shucked off his jacket, still keeping his hand on Keith’s before draping it over the extended palm.

Keith pushed his arms through and oh good gravy it was too big on him. Only the tips of his fingers stuck out of the sleeves. He adjusted the jacket around his shoulders a pleased hum in the back of his throat. “It’s really warm.”

Did he die? Did Lance die in the canned food aisle due to the cuteness overload?

Covering how flustered he was sure he was he shoved on Keith’s jacket. The sleeves slightly too short, they didn’t even cover his wrists, and if it was a cropped jacket on Keith it fell only to his ribs.

“How the hell do you stay warm in this? This is, like, nothing. Keith, buddy, we need to get you a proper jacket.”

“Thanks, but I got one.”

Lance glared at him, still trying to make the jacket work around his shoulders. It didn’t. He took it off and tied it around his waist. “You’re a little shit.”

A chuckle was his only answer. “What else do you need?”

Lance turned around to go back to scanning the canned goods. “Mmm, I still need tomatoes… and crab.”

He flinched when a hard punch landed on his shoulder. “Ow!” he exclaimed, rubbing his shoulder and pouting at the glaring boy next to him.

“Good!” his so-called friend said before hitting him again.

“Will you—ow! Stop, dude! Will you stop? Ow, stop hitting me! We really do need it, check the list!”

The hits slowed, but Keith got one more swat to his stomach before reaching in to look at the ingredient list. “What the fuck are you even making?”

Lance snatched the list out of Keith’s hands and shoved it in his pants pocket. “Gordon Ramsey’s crab spaghetti, I wouldn’t ruin my best bud’s birthday with your weird gay crab dream.” He set his hand on Keith’s shoulder and squeezed. “Just accept your gay, Keith.”

“I’m already gay!”

“That’s why it’s hilarious!”

Keith crossed his arms grumbling. Pouting, he turned slightly away from him and muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?”

Keith side-eyed him. “I thought I was your best friend.”

Lance bit his lip to keep from smiling too big. Keith was really going to kill him one day. He wrapped an arm around him, pulling him to his side. “You’re more than my best friend, Keith.”

Keith looked up at him, those starry eyes sucking him in like no other. Ignoring his heart rate he smirked. “You’re my BFFL.”

Keith’s expression fell flat. “Oh my God.”

-

“Sauté! Sauté! Oh my God! What are you doing?!”

“Stop telling me what to do, Keith! I’m not taking advice from someone who reduces everything to ash!” Lance bumped Keith out of the way as he reached for a spatula. Stirring the quickly charring onions and garlic he screamed at Keith to tell him the next step in the instructions.

“Pour in the white wine and reduce it.”

“Reduce it? Reduce it to what? Water? I’m not Jesus!”

Keith laughed. “You know what that means you fucking nerd!”

Lance poured the wine in a steady stream; the pan sizzled loudly. He darted a look at Keith who was biting a corner of his lip to keep from smiling. Lance allowed himself to second or two at looking at him before gasping loudly. “You kiss your gay crab with that mouth?!”

Keith slammed his hand on the counter, pointing the other at him threateningly. “I swear to god Lance if you mention that crab dream one more time I’ll shank you.”

Lance laughed, stirring the dish in front of him. “But it’s so funny!”

“I told you I was gay a few months ago!”

“And this was just a manifestation of your gayness. Embrace your inner gay, Keith.”

A hand fisted in his shirt and brought him down a couple of inches to look into the glowering face of Keith Kogane. “I. Have. Embraced. My. Gay.” he growled.

Lance gulped, staring into those furious violet eyes. They were so close he could count nearly every single star placed in those eyes. The tips of their noses brush with every inhalation. Only a few centimeters of air kept him from taking that plump bottom lip between his own.

Any moment. Any minute now Keith was going to pull away and bring him back to reality. He was going to back up and threaten him to stop it with the crab jokes and Lance was going to laugh it off and go back to stirring. He was going to reduce the wine before he forgot himself and do something stupid.

Except Keith wasn’t backing away. The grip on his shirt lightened but still kept him right where he was. And he didn’t try too hard to step back. His breaths were shallow as he tried to keep from looking at the lips that were so temptingly close. His eyelids drooped and he tilted his head down the slightest bit.

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP!!!

“Oh, fuck!” Lance lunged the burning dish to the sink, turning on the tap.

He turned around to see Keith climbing on the counter of the marble island reaching up to swipe at the fire alarm. He jumped slightly to get closer, heel coming dangerously close to the edge.

“Get down from there! You’re gonna hurt yourself!” Lance shouted, marching over. He coughed when he inhaled a lungful of black smoke from the burnt food. Keith was still trying to get at the smoke alarm but was just barely too short, fingers brushing but not enough to actually grab it and turn it off. Lance wrapped his arms around his hips, bracing himself for the shift of weight while he prepared to pick the Korean boy up.

“Hey!”

Lance dropped him to the side, shoving him in the direction of the window. “Open up the windows, I’ll get the smoke alarm!”

Climbing on top of the counter he could easily reach with his long limbs. He could hear Keith grumbling about unfair height advantages but he still opened the window, the cold bite of winter air nipping at any bare skin available.

Alarm quiet and smoke drifting lazily out the window Lance hopped down. He went to grab a towel to help flap the smoke out, ignoring the self-satisfied look Keith gave him.

“Who was it that turns everything to ash?”

“Oh, shut up, Keith.”

-

“SURPRISE!”

The lights came on and everyone came out of their hiding places. Leaping out at a surprised Hunk who looked close to tears.

“You guys! I can’t believe you did this!”

“Of course buddy!” Lance said, sauntering over, wrapping an arm around him. “Only the best for you buddy!”

Hunk leaned down and in a hushed tone murmured to Lance, “Okay but the cake…”

“Allura.”

Hunk breathed a sigh of relief, hand to his heart. “Oh thank God. Who made dinner?”

“Uuhh, you see, Keith and I just helped each other with our—“

“You guys burnt it didn’t you. Lance! What have I told you guys about cooking?! If it’s not perfect it’s not leaving the kitchen!”

“W-well, I kicked him out of the kitchen and then it was fine!”

“Hey, I resent that,” Keith said coming over, giving the big guy a hug. “Lance burned it without my help.”

“Uh, you totally were the reason why the food burned Mr. Crabs-for-brains.”

“Crabs?” Hunk asked.

“Keith has crabs,” Pidge said shoving Keith out of the way to leap at Hunk, hugging him. “Don’t worry I kept Shiro away from any cooking,” she whispered.

“I don’t have crabs!”

“You just dream of them.”

Keith covered his face and groaned in his hands.

“Do we need to have a talk about safe sex?” Shiro teased, ignoring Keith’s shout. He leaned over and hugged Hunk. “Happy birthday, Hunk.”

Allura hugged him next. “I made your favorite cake.” She stepped back and smiled. “Happy birthday, Hunk.”

“Happy birthday!” they all chorused.

It was a little while later when Hunk cornered Lance in the kitchen on a mission to retrieve more cake that he started teasing him. “So you and Keith, huh,” he said with a smug smile.

“Yeeess,” Lance drawled, “what of it?”

“Have you two been…sitting in a tree lately?” Lance groaned and pushed Hunk’s smirking face away from him. He cut a large slice from the freaking three-tiered cake that Allura baked, mussing the passion fruit frosting on the transfer to his plate.

”No, we haven’t.” He scraped off the extra frosting off the knife.

“Who hasn’t what?” Keith asked, hitching a thumb behind him. “And how long does it take to get a piece of cake? Pidge is setting up the video game system.”

“Oh! That’s my cue to go!” Hunk exclaimed rushing out. “Pidge! It’s my birthday, I have the right to call dibs!”

Both boys chuckled at the distant fight over characters. “So who hasn’t what?” Keith asked, leaning against the counter.

“Oh, just—hey! Get your own frosting! We’re just talking about how you haven’t accepted your gayness yet.”

“I was already gay, Lance! That doesn’t even make any sense!”

“Keith. Keith, Keith, Keith. Keith. My man, that’s exactly why it’s funny,” He placed a hand on his shoulder. “You are gay but you haven’t accepted your gay.” He placed a hand on his heart doing his best to keep a neutral face. “That’s why you had the crab dream, I’m glad I was able to help your gay awakening, Keith.”

“Lance,” Keith growled, he gripped his shirtfront and got right up into Lance’s face. “You were my gay awakening!”

As soon as Keith said it he looked horrified, letting go of his shirt and backing up slightly.

Lance’s mouth was still agape as his mind tried to catch up to his ears, hands still suspended in the air. Before Keith could turn and run he reached out and grabbed his shoulder, hand fisting in the material of his jacket. “Wha-what?” The words died in his throat. He tried again. “What did you just say?”

“I didn’t—I—I mean—“

“You said I was your gay awakening,” Lance said, still dazed. “Like, how? As in you find me attractive or…”

“I— I…” Keith looked off to the side searching for an escape but didn’t move. “I find you attractive but also I just…” He sighed and looked him in the eye, violet eyes determined but a softness was there. Something that could get hurt if handled roughly. “I have a crush on you. I’ve had a crush on you for a long time. But I didn’t really think about it until you told me you were bi. It wasn’t even something conscious I was just, ‘I have a chance’. But this is just weird. It’s weird, right? It’s stupid and gonna mess up our friendship and can we just for—“

Lance didn’t even realize he moved, only that Keith was rambling and being so unsure of himself was so out of character that he somehow had to stop it. Next thing he knew he was cupping Keith’s face and kissing him. Taking those soft lips and slotting them between his own. Soft kisses and a gentle grip allowing him to back off if he wanted. Keith sighed into his mouth and only got closer, arms encircling his neck as he lined his body up with his.

Lance groaned parted from him, chest warming from how Keith chased him. Slowly Keith opened his eyes, licking his lips as if he could still taste Lance on his lips. He looked up at him, brow furrowed, lips still wet from kissing. “Was that out of pi—mmph.”

Keith wrenched his head back, pout on his lips. “Stop that. Just answer me if—mmph.”

Keith allowed the kiss for a few seconds before jabbing Lance in the stomach with a pointy finger. He glared at him, trying to maintain the stern composure but Lance could see a laugh fraying the edges of his expression. “Just give me an answer you dork!”

“I keep kissing you! Doesn’t that give you the answer!?” Lance laughed. He rested his forehead against Keith’s. “Listen, I liked you for a long time. I don’t really know for how long but I know I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss you or even hold your hand. Especially, after you told me you were gay. I thought I finally had a chance too.”

“…Well, I guess that answers my question.”

They burst into giggles, still holding the other close. A voice popped the bubble they put themselves in. “Hey, are you guys coming out of the kitchen anytime soon? We’re already on the third round!”

They looked at each other and smiled. “We’re coming!” Lance called. Keith grabbed his hand with a small smile, leading them out to the others.

“Wait! My cake!”

-

Lance was already awake when his phone rang at 2:40AM. Though for far better reasons than last time.

He answered. “Hey, babe, weird dream?”

He heard a gentle murmur over the phone and the rustle of the covers. “Not too weird this time,” he whispered, smile in his voice. “This time I had a weird dream about being in Goodwill and shopping for flannel. I actually got a good one before I woke up and realized it was a dream.”

“You dreamed about getting flannel?”

“Mmhm,” he hummed, more sounds of him getting comfortable under the covers.

He was quiet, waiting for the breaths of his boyfriend to gentle, a steady in and out right before he fell asleep. “That’s really gay.”

A long and loud groan muffled in a pillow was his answer. “Don’t you fucking start.”

“Your dream self finally accepted your gay.”

“Lance, you’re my boyfriend. OF COURSE I’M GAY!” In the background, he could hear the creaking of a door and the soft sound of someone else speaking. “Yeah, sorry Shiro, I’ll keep loud gay revelations to myself, sorry.” The sound of the door closing. “See what you done.”

Lance snickered into the back of his hand. “Aw, come on. You love me.”

“Can’t even tell you about any kind of dream without it going back to the crabs,” he muttered. He heaved a great sigh and Lance heard the smile in his voice. “I do. Love you, I suppose.”

Lance felt his chest fill with warm butterflies. “Good night, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He grinned. “Try not to wake up too crabby.”

”RRRAAAAHHH!!” The door opened again followed by a tired, “Keith, please.”

“Sorry, Shiro.”

Ao3

#VLD #lex writes #klance #keith #Lance #my dream #gay awakening #crabs

[bountyofbeads]

Every parent should read this important article regarding how we mistakenly indoctrinate our young men in society.

The Miseducation of the American Boy

Why boys crack up at rape jokes, think having a girlfriend is “gay,” and still can’t cry—and why we need to give them new and better models of masculinity

Story by Peggy Orenstein | Published January/February 2020 Issue | The Atlantic | Posted December 26, 2019 |

Updated at 9:30 p.m. ET on December 20, 2019.

I knew nothing about Cole before meeting him; he was just a name on a list of boys at a private school outside Boston who had volunteered to talk with me (or perhaps had had their arm twisted a bit by a counselor). The afternoon of our first interview, I was running late. As I rushed down a hallway at the school, I noticed a boy sitting outside the library, waiting—it had to be him. He was staring impassively ahead, both feet planted on the floor, hands resting loosely on his thighs.

My first reaction was Oh no.

It was totally unfair, a scarlet letter of personal bias. Cole would later describe himself to me as a “typical tall white athlete” guy, and that is exactly what I saw. At 18, he stood more than 6 feet tall, with broad shoulders and short-clipped hair. His neck was so thick that it seemed to merge into his jawline, and he was planning to enter a military academy for college the following fall. His friends were “the jock group,” he’d tell me. “They’re what you’d expect, I guess. Let’s leave it at that.” If I had closed my eyes and described the boy I imagined would never open up to me, it would have been him.

But Cole surprised me. He pulled up a picture on his phone of his girlfriend, whom he’d been dating for the past 18 months, describing her proudly as “way smarter than I am,” a feminist, and a bedrock of emotional support. He also confided how he’d worried four years earlier, during his first weeks as a freshman on a scholarship at a new school, that he wouldn’t know how to act with other guys, wouldn’t be able to make friends. “I could talk to girls platonically,” he said. “That was easy. But being around guys was different. I needed to be a ‘bro,’ and I didn’t know how to do that.”

Whenever Cole uttered the word bro, he shifted his weight to take up more space, rocking back in his chair, and spoke from low in his throat, like he’d inhaled a lungful of weed. He grinned when I pointed that out. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s part of it: seeming relaxed and never intrusive, yet somehow bringing out that aggression on the sports field. Because a ‘bro’ ”—he rocked back again—“is always, always an athlete.”

The definition of masculinity seems to be contracting. When asked what traits society values most in boys, only 2 percent of male survey respondents said honesty and morality.

Cole eventually found his people on the crew team, but it wasn’t a smooth fit at first. He recalled an incident two years prior when a senior was bragging in the locker room about how he’d convinced one of Cole’s female classmates—a young sophomore, Cole emphasized—that they were an item, then started hooking up with other girls behind her back. And the guy wasn’t shy about sharing the details. Cole and a friend of his, another sophomore, told him to knock it off. “I started to explain why it wasn’t appropriate,” Cole said, “but he just laughed.”

The next day, a second senior started talking about “getting back at” a “bitch” who’d dumped him. Cole’s friend spoke up again, but this time Cole stayed silent. “And as I continued to step back” and the other sophomore “continued to step up, you could tell that the guys on the team stopped liking him as much. They stopped listening to him, too. It’s almost as if he spent all his social currency” trying to get them to stop making sexist jokes. “Meanwhile, I was sitting there”—Cole thumped his chest—“too afraid to spend any of mine, and I just had buckets left.

“I don’t know what to do,” he continued earnestly. “Once I’m in the military, and I’m a part of that culture, I don’t want to have to choose between my own dignity and my relationship with others I’m serving with. But …” He looked me in the eye. “How do I make it so I don’t have to choose?”

I’ve spent two years talking with boys across America—more than 100 of them between the ages of 16 and 21—about masculinity, sex, and love: about the forces, seen and unseen, that shape them as men. Though I spoke with boys of all races and ethnicities, I stuck to those who were in college or college-bound, because like it or not, they’re the ones most likely to set cultural norms. Nearly every guy I interviewed held relatively egalitarian views about girls, at least their role in the public sphere. They considered their female classmates to be smart and competent, entitled to their place on the athletic field and in school leadership, deserving of their admission to college and of professional opportunities. They all had female friends; most had gay male friends as well. That was a huge shift from what you might have seen 50, 40, maybe even 20 years ago. They could also easily reel off the excesses of masculinity. They’d seen the headlines about mass shootings, domestic violence, sexual harassment, campus rape, presidential Twitter tantrums, and Supreme Court confirmation hearings. A Big Ten football player I interviewed bandied about the term toxic masculinity. “Everyone knows what that is,” he said, when I seemed surprised.

Yet when asked to describe the attributes of “the ideal guy,” those same boys appeared to be harking back to 1955. Dominance. Aggression. Rugged good looks (with an emphasis on height). Sexual prowess. Stoicism. Athleticism. Wealth (at least some day). It’s not that all of these qualities, properly channeled, are bad. But while a 2018 national survey of more than 1,000 10-to-19-year-olds commissioned by Plan International USA and conducted by the polling firm PerryUndem found that young women believed there were many ways to be a girl—they could shine in math, sports, music, leadership (the big caveat being that they still felt valued primarily for their appearance)—young men described just one narrow route to successful masculinity.* One-third said they felt compelled to suppress their feelings, to “suck it up” or “be a man” when they were sad or scared, and more than 40 percent said that when they were angry, society expected them to be combative. In another survey, which compared young men from the U.S., the U.K., and Mexico, Americans reported more social pressure to be ever-ready for sex and to get with as many women as possible; they also acknowledged more stigma against homosexuality, and they received more messages that they should control their female partners, as in: Men “deserve to know” the whereabouts of their girlfriends or wives at all times.

Feminism may have provided girls with a powerful alternative to conventional femininity, and a language with which to express the myriad problems-that-have-no-name, but there have been no credible equivalents for boys. Quite the contrary: The definition of masculinity seems to be in some respects contracting. When asked what traits society values most in boys, only 2 percent of male respondents in the PerryUndem survey said honesty and morality, and only 8 percent said leadership skills—traits that are, of course, admirable in anyone but have traditionally been considered masculine. When I asked my subjects, as I always did, what they liked about being a boy, most of them drew a blank. “Huh,” mused Josh, a college sophomore at Washington State. (All the teenagers I spoke with are identified by pseudonyms.) “That’s interesting. I never really thought about that. You hear a lot more about what is wrong with guys.”

While following the conventional script may still bring social and professional rewards to boys and men, research shows that those who rigidly adhere to certain masculine norms are not only more likely to harass and bully others but to themselves be victims of verbal or physical violence. They’re more prone to binge-drinking, risky sexual behavior, and getting in car accidents. They are also less happy than other guys, with higher depression rates and fewer friends in whom they can confide.

It wasn’t always thus. According to Andrew Smiler, a psychologist who has studied the history of Western masculinity, the ideal late-19th-century man was compassionate, a caretaker, but such qualities lost favor as paid labor moved from homes to factories during industrialization. In fact, the Boy Scouts, whose creed urges its members to be loyal, friendly, courteous, and kind, was founded in 1910 in part to counter that dehumanizing trend. Smiler attributes further distortions in masculinity to a century-long backlash against women’s rights. During World War I, women proved that they could keep the economy humming on their own, and soon afterward they secured the vote. Instead of embracing gender equality, he says, the country’s leaders “doubled down” on the inalienable male right to power, emphasizing men’s supposedly more logical and less emotional nature as a prerequisite for leadership.

Then, during the second half of the 20th century, traditional paths to manhood—early marriage, breadwinning—began to close, along with the positive traits associated with them. Today many parents are unsure of how to raise a boy, what sort of masculinity to encourage in their sons. But as I learned from talking with boys themselves, the culture of adolescence, which fuses hyperrationality with domination, sexual conquest, and a glorification of male violence, fills the void.

Read: Today’s masculinity is stifling

For Cole, as for many boys, this stunted masculinity is a yardstick against which all choices, even those seemingly irrelevant to male identity, are measured. When he had a choice, he would team up with girls on school projects, to avoid the possibility of appearing subordinate to another guy. “With a girl, it feels safer to talk and ask questions, to work together or to admit that I did something wrong and want help,” Cole said. During his junior year, he briefly suggested to his crew teammates that they go vegan for a while, just to show that athletes could. “And everybody was like, ‘Cole, that is the dumbest idea ever. We’d be the slowest in any race.’ That’s somewhat true—we do need protein. We do need fats and salts and carbs that we get from meat. But another reason they all thought it was stupid is because being vegans would make us pussies.”

LEARNING TO “MAN UP”

There is no difference between the sexes’ need for connection in infancy, nor between their capacity for empathy—there’s actually some evidence that male infants are more expressive than females. Yet, from the get-go, boys are relegated to an impoverished emotional landscape. In a classic study, adults shown a video of an infant startled by a jack-in-the-box were more likely to presume the baby was “angry” if they were first told the child was male. Mothers of young children have repeatedly been found to talk more to their girls and to employ a broader, richer emotional vocabulary with them; with their sons, again, they tend to linger on anger. As for fathers, they speak with less emotional nuance than mothers regardless of their child’s sex. Despite that, according to Judy Y. Chu, a human-biology lecturer at Stanford who conducted a study of boys from pre-K through first grade, little boys have a keen understanding of emotions and a desire for close relationships. But by age 5 or 6, they’ve learned to knock that stuff off, at least in public: to disconnect from feelings of weakness, reject friendships with girls (or take them underground, outside of school), and become more hierarchical in their behavior.

By adolescence, says the Harvard psychologist William Pollack, boys become “shame-phobic,” convinced that peers will lose respect for them if they discuss their personal problems. My conversations bore this out. Boys routinely confided that they felt denied—by male peers, girlfriends, the media, teachers, coaches, and especially their fathers—the full spectrum of human expression. Cole, for instance, spent most of his childhood with his mother, grandmother, and sister—his parents split up when he was 10 and his dad, who was in the military, was often away. Cole spoke of his mom with unbridled love and respect. His father was another matter. “He’s a nice guy,” Cole said—caring and involved, even after the divorce—“but I can’t be myself around him. I feel like I need to keep everything that’s in here”—Cole tapped his chest again—“behind a wall, where he can’t see it. It’s a taboo—like, not as bad as incest, but …”

Rob, an 18-year-old from New Jersey in his freshman year at a North Carolina college, said his father would tell him to “man up” when he was struggling in school or with baseball. “That’s why I never talk to anybody about my problems.” He’d always think, If you can’t handle this on your own, then you aren’t a man; you aren’t trying hard enough. Other boys also pointed to their fathers as the chief of the gender police, though in a less obvious way. “It’s not like my dad is some alcoholic, emotionally unavailable asshole with a pulse,” said a college sophomore in Southern California. “He’s a normal, loving, charismatic guy who’s not at all intimidating.” But “there’s a block there. There’s a hesitation, even though I don’t like to admit that. A hesitation to talk about … anything, really. We learn to confide in nobody. You sort of train yourself not to feel.”

I met Rob about four months after he’d broken up with his high-school girlfriend. The two had dated for more than three years—“I really did love her,” he said—and although their colleges were far apart, they’d decided to try to stay together. Then, a few weeks into freshman year, Rob heard from a friend that she was cheating on him. “So I cut her off,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I stopped talking to her and forgot about her completely.” Only … not really. Although he didn’t use the word, Rob became depressed. The excitement he’d felt about leaving home, starting college, and rushing a fraternity all drained away, and, as the semester wore on, it didn’t come back.

When I asked whom he talked to during that time, he shrugged. If he had told his friends he was “hung up” on a girl, “they’d be like, ‘Stop being a bitch.’ ” Rob looked glum. The only person with whom he had been able to drop his guard was his girlfriend, but that was no longer an option.

Girlfriends, mothers, and in some cases sisters were the most common confidants of the boys I met. While it’s wonderful to know they have someone to talk to—and I’m sure mothers, in particular, savor the role—teaching boys that women are responsible for emotional labor, for processing men’s emotional lives in ways that would be emasculating for them to do themselves, comes at a price for both sexes. Among other things, that dependence can leave men unable to identify or express their own emotions, and ill-equipped to form caring, lasting adult relationships.

By Thanksgiving break, Rob was so distraught that he had what he called a “mental breakdown” one night while chatting in the kitchen with his mom. “I was so stressed out,” he said. “Classes. The thing with my girlfriend.” He couldn’t describe what that “breakdown” felt like (though he did say it “scared the crap” out of his mom, who immediately demanded, “Tell me everything”). All he could say definitively was that he didn’t cry. “Never,” he insisted. “I don’t cry, ever.”

I paid close attention when boys mentioned crying—doing it, not doing it, wanting to do it, not being able to do it. For most, it was a rare and humiliating event—a dangerous crack in a carefully constructed edifice. A college sophomore in Chicago told me that he hadn’t been able to cry when his parents divorced. “I really wanted to,” he said. “I needed to cry.” His solution: He streamed three movies about the Holocaust over the weekend. That worked.

As someone who, by virtue of my sex, has always had permission to weep, I didn’t initially understand this. Only after multiple interviews did I realize that when boys confided in me about crying—or, even more so, when they teared up right in front of me—they were taking a risk, trusting me with something private and precious: evidence of vulnerability, or a desire for it. Or, as with Rob, an inability to acknowledge any human frailty that was so poignant, it made me want to, well, cry.

BRO CULTURE

While my interview subjects struggled when I asked what they liked about being a boy, the most frequent response was sports. They recalled their early days on the playing field with almost romantic warmth. But I was struck by how many had dropped athletics they’d enjoyed because they couldn’t stand the Lord of the Flies mentality of teammates or coaches. Perhaps the most extreme example was Ethan, a kid from the Bay Area who had been recruited by a small liberal-arts college in New England to play lacrosse. He said he’d expected to encounter the East Coast “ ‘lax bro’ culture,” but he’d underestimated its intensity. “It was all about sex” and bragging about hooking up, and even the coaches endorsed victim-blaming, Ethan told me. “They weren’t like that in class or around other people; it was a super-liberal school. But once you got them in the locker room …” He shook his head. “It was one of the most jarring experiences of my life.”

As a freshman, Ethan didn’t feel he could challenge his older teammates, especially without support from the coaches. So he quit the team; not only that, he transferred. “If I’d stayed, there would’ve been a lot of pressure on me to play, a lot of resentment, and I would’ve run into those guys all the time. This way I didn’t really have to explain anything.” At his new school, Ethan didn’t play lacrosse, or anything else.

What the longtime sportswriter Robert Lipsyte calls “jock culture” (or what the boys I talked with more often referred to as “bro culture”) is the dark underbelly of male-dominated enclaves, whether or not they formally involve athletics: all-boys’ schools, fraternity houses, Wall Street, Silicon Valley, Hollywood, the military. Even as such groups promote bonding, even as they preach honor, pride, and integrity, they tend to condition young men to treat anyone who is not “on the team” as the enemy (the only women who ordinarily make the cut are blood relatives— bros before hos!), justifying any hostility toward them. Loyalty is paramount, and masculinity is habitually established through misogynist language and homophobia.

As a senior in high school, Cole was made captain of the crew team. He relished being part of a unit, a band of brothers. When he raced, he imagined pulling each stroke for the guy in front of him, for the guy behind him—never for himself alone. But not everyone could muster such higher purpose. “Crew demands you push yourself to a threshold of pain and keep yourself there,” Cole said. “And it’s hard to find something to motivate you to do that other than anger and aggression.”

I asked him about how his teammates talked in the locker room. That question always made these young men squirm. They’d rather talk about looking at porn, erectile dysfunction, premature ejaculation—anything else. Cole cut his eyes to the side, shifted in his seat, and sighed deeply. “Okay,” he finally said, “so here’s my best shot: We definitely say fuck a lot; fuckin’ can go anywhere in a sentence. And we call each other pussies, bitches. We never say the N-word, though. That’s going too far.”

“What about fag?” I asked.

“No,” he said, shaking his head firmly.

“So why can’t you say fag or the N-word but you can say pussy and bitch? Aren’t those just as offensive?”

“One of my friends said we probably shouldn’t say those words anymore either, but what would we replace them with? We couldn’t think of anything that bites as much.”

“Bites?”

“Yeah. It’s like … for some reason pussy just works. When someone calls me a pussy—‘Don’t be a pussy! Come on! Fuckin’ go! Pull! Pull! Pull!’—it just flows. If someone said, ‘Come on, Cole, don’t be weak! Be tough! Pull! Pull! Pull!,’ it just wouldn’t get inside my head the same way. I don’t know why that is.” He paused. “Well,” he said, “maybe I do. Maybe I just try not to dig too deeply.”

Although losing ground in more progressive circles, like the one Cole runs in, fag remained pervasive in the language of the boys I interviewed—including those who insisted that they would never use the word in reference to an actual homosexual. Fag has become less a comment on a boy’s sexuality, says the University of Oregon sociology professor C. J. Pascoe, than a referendum on his manhood. It can be used to mock anything, she told me, even something as random as a guy “dropping the meat out of his sandwich.” (Perhaps oddest to me, Pascoe found that one of the more common reasons boys get tagged with fag is for acting romantically with a girl. That’s seen as heterosexual in the “wrong” way, which explains why one high-school junior told me that having a girlfriend was “gay.”) That fluidity, the elusiveness of the word’s definition, only intensifies its power, much like slut for girls.

Recently, Pascoe turned her attention to no homo, a phrase that gained traction in the 1990s. She sifted through more than 1,000 tweets, primarily by young men, that included the phrase. Most were expressing a positive emotion, sometimes as innocuous as “I love chocolate ice cream, #nohomo” or “I loved the movie The Day After Tomorrow, #nohomo.” “A lot of times they were saying things like ‘I miss you’ to a friend or ‘We should hang out soon,’ ” she said. “Just normal expressions of joy or connection.” No homo is a form of inoculation against insults from other guys, Pascoe concluded, a “shield that allows boys to be fully human.”

Just because some young men now draw the line at referring to someone who is openly gay as a fag doesn’t mean, by the way, that gay men (or men with traits that read as gay) are suddenly safe. If anything, the gay guys I met were more conscious of the rules of manhood than their straight peers were. They had to be—and because of that, they were like spies in the house of hypermasculinity.

Mateo, 17, attended the same Boston-area high school as Cole, also on a scholarship, but the two could not have presented more differently. Mateo, whose father is Salvadoran, was slim and tan, with an animated expression and a tendency to wave his arms as he spoke. Where Cole sat straight and still, Mateo crossed his legs at the knee and swung his foot, propping his chin on one hand.

This was Mateo’s second private high school. The oldest of six children, he had been identified as academically gifted and encouraged by an eighth-grade teacher to apply to an all-boys prep school for his freshman year. When he arrived, he discovered that his classmates were nearly all white, athletic, affluent, and, as far as he could tell, straight. Mateo—Latino and gay, the son of a janitor—was none of those things. He felt immediately conscious of how he held himself, of how he sat, and especially of the pitch of his voice. He tried lowering it, but that felt unnatural, so he withdrew from conversation altogether. He changed the way he walked as well, to avoid being targeted as “girly.” “One of my only friends there was gay too,” he said, “and he was a lot more outward about it. He just got destroyed.”

Guys who identify as straight but aren’t athletic, or are involved in the arts, or have a lot of female friends, all risk having their masculinity impugned. What has changed for this generation, though, is that some young men, particularly if they grew up around LGBTQ people, don’t rise to the bait. “I don’t mind when people mistake me for being gay,” said Luke, a high-school senior from New York City. “It’s more of an annoyance than anything, because I want people to believe me when I say I’m straight.” The way he described himself did, indeed, tick every stereotypical box. “I’m a very thin person,” he said. “I like clothing. I care about my appearance in maybe a more delicate way. I’m very in touch with my sensitive side. So when people think I’m gay?” He shrugged. “It can feel like more of a compliment. Like, ‘Oh, you like the way I dress? Thank you! ’ ”

One of Luke’s friends, who was labeled “the faggot frosh” in ninth grade, is not so philosophical. “He treats everything as a test of his masculinity,” Luke told me. “Like, once when I was wearing red pants, I heard him say to other people, ‘He looks like such a faggot.’ I didn’t care, and maybe in that situation no one was really harmed, but when you apply that attitude to whole populations, you end up with Donald Trump as president.”

W’s AND L’s

Sexual conquest—or perhaps more specifically, bragging about your experiences to other boys—is, arguably, the most crucial aspect of toxic masculinity. Nate, who attended a public high school in the Bay Area, knew this well. At a party held near the beginning of his junior year of high school, he sank deep into the couch, trying to look chill. Kids were doing shots and smoking weed. Some were Juuling. Nate didn’t drink much himself and never got high. He wasn’t morally opposed to it; he just didn’t like the feeling of being out of control.

At 16, reputation meant everything to Nate, and certain things could cement your status. “The whole goal of going to a party is to hook up with girls and then tell your guys about it,” he said. And there’s this “race for experience,” because if you get behind, by the time you do hook up with a girl “she’ll have hit it with, like, five guys already. Then she’s going to know how to do things” you don’t—and that’s a problem, if she tells people “you’ve got floppy lips” or “don’t know how to get her bra off.”

A lanky boy with dark, liquid eyes and curly hair that resisted all attempts at taming, Nate put himself in the middle of his school’s social hierarchy: friends with both the “popular” and “lower” kids. Still, he’d hooked up with only three girls since ninth grade—kissing, getting under their shirts—but none had wanted a repeat. That left him worried about his skills. He is afraid of intimacy, he told me sincerely. “It’s a huge self-esteem suck.”

It would probably be more accurate to say that Nate was afraid of having drunken sexual interactions with a girl he did not know or trust. But it was all about credentialing. “Guys need to prove themselves to their guys,” Nate said. To do that, “they’re going to be dominating.” They’re going to “push.” Because the girl is just there “as a means for him to get off and to brag.”

Before the start of this school year, Nate’s “dry spell” had seemed to be ending. He’d been in a relationship with a girl that lasted a full two weeks, until other guys told him she was “slutty”—their word, he hastened to add, not his. Although any hookup is marginally better than none, Nate said, you only truly earn points for getting sexual with the right kind of girl. “If you hook up with a girl below your status, it’s an ‘L,’ ” he explained. “A loss. Like, a bad move.” So he stopped talking to the girl, which was too bad. He’d really liked her.

After a short trip to the kitchen to watch his friend Kyle stand on a table and drunkenly try to pour Sprite from a can into a shot glass, Nate returned to the couch, starting to relax as people swirled around him. Suddenly Nicole, the party’s host and a senior, plopped onto his lap, handing him a shot of vodka. Nate was impressed, if a little confused. Usually, if a girl wanted to hook up with you, there were texts and Snapchats, and if you said yes, it was on; everyone would be anticipating it, and expecting a postmortem.

Nate thought Nicole was “pretty hot”—she had a great body, he said—though he’d never been especially interested in her before this moment. Still, he knew that hooking up with her would be a “W.” A big one. He glanced around the room subtly, wanting to make sure, without appearing to care, that everyone who mattered—everyone “relevant”—saw what was going down. A couple of guys gave him little nods. One winked. Another slapped him on the shoulder. Nate feigned nonchalance. Meanwhile, he told me, “I was just trying not to pop a boner.”

Nicole took Nate’s hand and led him to an empty bedroom. He got through the inevitable, cringey moments when you actually have to talk to your partner, then, finally, they started kissing. In his anxiety, Nate bit Nicole’s lip. Hard. “I was thinking, Oh God! What do I do now?” But he kept going. He took off her top and undid her bra. He took off his own shirt. Then she took off her pants. “And that,” he said, “was the first time I ever saw a vagina. I did not know what to do with it.” He recalled that his friends had said girls go crazy if you stick your fingers up there and make the “come here” motion, so he tried it, but Nicole just lay there. He didn’t ask what might feel better to her, because that would have been admitting ignorance.

After a few more agonizing minutes, Nicole announced that she wanted to see what was going on upstairs, and left, Nate trailing behind. A friend handed him a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Another high-fived him. A third said, “Dude, you hit that!” Maybe the hookup hadn’t been a disaster after all: He still had bragging rights.

Then he heard a senior, a guy Nate considered kind of a friend, loudly ask Nicole, “Why would you hook up with Nate?”

She giggled. “Oh, I was drunk!” she said. “I was so drunk!”

They were calling him an “L.”

By Monday morning, Nicole had spread the word that Nate was bad at hooking up: that he’d bit her lip, that he didn’t know how to finger a girl. That his nails were ragged. “The stereotype is that guys go into gory detail,” Nate said, but “it’s the other way around.” Guys will brag, but they’re not specific. Girls will go into “what his penis looked like,” every single thing he did.

Nate said he felt “completely emasculated,” so mortified that he told his mom he was sick and stayed home from school the next day. “I was basically crying,” he said. “I was like, Shit! I fucked up.”

No question, gossip about poor “performance” can destroy a guy’s reputation almost as surely as being called a “slut” or a “prude” can destroy a girl’s. As a result, the boys I talked with were concerned with female satisfaction during a hookup; they just didn’t typically define it as the girl having an orgasm. They believed it to be a function of their own endurance and, to a lesser extent, penis size. A college freshman in Los Angeles recalled a high-school classmate who’d had sex with a girl who told everyone he’d ejaculated really quickly: “He got the nickname Second Sam. That basically scared the crap out of all the other guys.” A college senior in Boston recounted how he would glance at the clock when he started penetration. “I’d think, I have to last five minutes, minimum,” he said. “And once I could do that, I’d think, I need to get to double digits. I don’t know if it’s necessarily about your partner’s enjoyment. It’s more about getting beyond the point where you’d be embarrassed, maintaining your pride. It turns sex into a task—one I enjoy to a certain degree, but one where you’re monitoring your performance rather than living in the moment.”

Eventually, Nate decided that he had to take a stand, if only to make returning to school bearable. He texted Nicole and said, “ ‘I’m sorry that you didn’t enjoy it, [but] I would never roast you. Why are you doing this?’ ” She felt “really bad,” he said. “She stopped telling people, but it took me until the next semester to recover.”

HOW MISOGYNY BECOMES “HILARIOUS”

No matter how often I heard it, the brutal language that even a conscientious young man like Nate used to describe sexual contact—you hit that!—always unnerved me. In mixed-sex groups, teenagers may talk about hooking up (already impersonal), but when guys are on their own, they nail, they pound, they bang, they smash, they hammer. They tap that ass, they tear her up. It can be hard to tell whether they have engaged in an intimate act or just returned from a construction site.

It’s not like I imagined boys would gush about making sweet, sweet love to the ladies, but why was their language so weaponized ? The answer, I came to believe, was that locker-room talk isn’t about sex at all, which is why guys were ashamed to discuss it openly with me. The (often clearly exaggerated) stories boys tell are really about power: using aggression toward women to connect and to validate one another as heterosexual, or to claim top spots in the adolescent sexual hierarchy. Dismissing that as “banter” denies the ways that language can desensitize—abrade boys’ ability to see girls as people deserving of respect and dignity in sexual encounters.

For evidence, look no further than the scandals that keep popping up at the country’s top colleges: Harvard, Amherst, Columbia, Yale (the scene of an especially notorious 2010 fraternity chant, “No means yes; yes means anal”). Most recently, in the spring of 2019, at the politically progressive Swarthmore College, in Pennsylvania, two fraternities disbanded after student-run publications released more than 100 pages of “minutes” from house meetings a few years earlier that included, among other things, jokes about a “rape attic” and the acquiring of roofies, “finger blasting” a member’s 10-year-old sister, and vomiting on women during sex.

When called out, boys typically claim that they thought they were just being “funny.” And in a way that makes sense—when left unexamined, such “humor” may seem like an extension of the gross-out comedy of childhood. Little boys are famous for their fart jokes, booger jokes, poop jokes. It’s how they test boundaries, understand the human body, gain a little cred among their peers. But, as can happen with sports, their glee in that can both enable and camouflage sexism. The boy who, at age 10, asks his friends the difference between a dead baby and a bowling ball may or may not find it equally uproarious, at 16, to share what a woman and a bowling ball have in common (you can Google it). He may or may not post ever-escalating “jokes” about women, or African Americans, or homosexuals, or disabled people on a group Snapchat. He may or may not send “funny” texts to friends about “girls who need to be raped,” or think it’s hysterical to surprise a buddy with a meme in which a woman is being gagged by a penis, her mascara mixed with her tears. He may or may not, at 18, scrawl the names of his hookups on a wall in his all-male dorm, as part of a year-long competition to see who can “pull” the most. Perfectly nice, bright, polite boys I interviewed had done one or another of these things.

How does that happen? I talked with a 15-year-old from the East Coast who had been among a group of boys suspended from school for posting more than 100 racist and sexist “jokes” about classmates on a group Finsta (a secondary, or “fake,” Instagram account that is in many cases more genuine than a “Rinsta,” or “real” account).“The Finsta became very competitive,” he said. “You wanted to make your friends laugh, but when you’re not face-to-face,” you can’t tell whether you’ll get a reaction, “so you go one step beyond.” It was “that combination of competitiveness and that … disconnect that triggered it to get worse and worse.”

At the most disturbing end of the continuum, “funny” and “hilarious” become a defense against charges of sexual harassment or assault. To cite just one example, a boy from Steubenville, Ohio, was captured on video joking about the repeated violation of an unconscious girl at a party by a couple of high-school football players. “She is so raped,” he said, laughing. “They raped her quicker than Mike Tyson.” When someone off camera suggested that rape wasn’t funny, he retorted, “It isn’t funny—it’s hilarious!”

“Hilarious” is another way, under the pretext of horseplay or group bonding, that boys learn to disregard others’ feelings as well as their own. “Hilarious” is a haven, offering distance when something is inappropriate, confusing, depressing, unnerving, or horrifying; when something defies boys’ ethics. It allows them to subvert a more compassionate response that could be read as unmasculine—and makes sexism and misogyny feel transgressive rather than supportive of an age-old status quo. Boys may know when something is wrong; they may even know that true manhood—or maybe just common decency—compels them to speak up. Yet, too often, they fear that if they do, they’ll be marginalized or, worse, themselves become the target of derision from other boys. Masculinity, then, becomes not only about what boys do say, but about what they don’t—or won’t, or can’t—say, even when they wish they could. The psychologists Dan Kindlon and Michael Thompson, the authors of Raising Cain: Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys, have pointed out that silence in the face of cruelty or sexism is how too many boys become men. Charis Denison, a sex educator in the Bay Area, puts it another way: “At one time or another, every young man will get a letter of admission to ‘dick school.’ The question is, will he drop out, graduate, or go for an advanced degree?”

Midway through Cole’s freshman year in military college, I FaceTimed him to see how he’d resolved the conflict between his personal values and those of the culture in which he found himself. As he’d expected, most of his classmates were male, and he said there was a lot of what passed for friendly ribbing: giving one another “love taps” on the back of the head; blocking one another’s paths, then pretending to pick a fight; grabbing one another’s asses; pretending to lean in for a kiss. Giving someone a hard time, Cole said, was always “easy humor,” but it could spiral into something more troubling pretty quickly. When one of his dorm mates joked to another, “I’m going to piss on you in your sleep,” for instance, the other boy shot back, “If you do, I’ll fucking rape you.” For better or worse, Cole said, that sort of comment no longer rattled him.

Although he had been adamantly against the epithet fag when we met, Cole found himself using it, reasoning, as other boys did, that it was “more like ‘You suck’ or ‘You’re lame.’ ” However, at least one of his friends had revealed himself to be legitimately homophobic, declaring that being gay was un-American (“I didn’t know that about him until after we became friends,” Cole insisted). And Cole had not met a single openly LGBTQ student at the school. He certainly wouldn’t want to be out in this environment if he were gay. Nor, he said, would he want to be Asian—the two Asian American boys in his dorm were ostracized and treated like foreigners; both seemed miserable.

“I do feel kind of like a cop-out for letting all the little things slide,” Cole said. “It’s a cop-out to not fight the good fight. But, you know, there was that thing I tried sophomore year … It just didn’t work. I could be a social-justice warrior here, but I don’t think anyone would listen to me. And I’d have no friends.”

The #MeToo movement has created an opportunity, a mandate not only to discuss sexual violence but to engage young men in authentic, long-overdue conversations about gender and intimacy. I don’t want to suggest that this is easy. Back in the early 1990s, when I began writing about how girls’ confidence drops during adolescence, parents would privately tell me that they were afraid to raise outspoken daughters, girls who stood up for themselves and their rights, because they might be excluded by peers and called “bossy” (or worse). Although there is still much work to be done, things are different for young women today. Now it’s time to rethink assumptions about how we raise boys. That will require models of manhood that are neither ashamed nor regressive, and that emphasize emotional flexibility—a hallmark of mental health. Stoicism is valuable sometimes, as is free expression; toughness and tenderness can coexist in one human. In the right context, physical aggression is fun, satisfying, even thrilling. If your response to all of this is Obviously, I’d say: Sure, but it’s a mistake to underestimate the strength and durability of the cultural machinery at work on adolescent boys. Real change will require a sustained, collective effort on the part of fathers, mothers, teachers, coaches. (A study of 2,000 male high-school athletes found significantly reduced rates of dating violence and a greater likelihood of intervening to stop other boys’ abusive conduct among those who participated in weekly coach-led discussions about consent, personal responsibility, and respectful behavior.)

We have to purposefully and repeatedly broaden the masculine repertoire for dealing with disappointment, anger, desire. We have to say not just what we don’t want from boys but what we do want from them. Instructing them to “respect women” and to “not get anyone pregnant” isn’t enough. As one college sophomore told me, “That’s kind of like telling someone who’s learning to drive not to run over any little old ladies and then handing him the car keys. Well, of course you think you’re not going to run over an old lady. But you still don’t know how to drive.” By staying quiet, we leave many boys in a state of confusion—or worse, push them into a defensive crouch, primed to display their manhood in the one way that is definitely on offer: by being a dick.

During our first conversation, Cole had told me that he’d decided to join the military after learning in high-school history class about the My Lai massacre—the infamous 1968 slaughter by U.S. troops of hundreds of unarmed Vietnamese civilians along with the mass rape of girls as young as 10. “I want to be able to be in the same position as someone like that commanding officer and not order people to do something like that,” he’d said. I’d been impressed. Given that noble goal, was a single failure to call out sexism a reason to stop trying? I understood that the personal cost might be greater than the impact. I also understood that, developmentally, adolescents want and need to feel a strong sense of belonging. But if Cole didn’t practice standing up, if he didn’t figure out a way to assert his values and find others who shared them, who was he?

“I knew you were going to ask me something like that,” he said. “I don’t know. In this hyper-masculine culture where you call guys ‘pussies’ and ‘bitches’ and ‘maggots’—”

“Did you say ‘maggots,’ or ‘faggots?’ ” I interrupted.

“Maggots. Like worms. So you’re equating maggots to women and to women’s body parts to convince young men like me that we’re strong. To go up against that, to convince people that we don’t need to put others down to lift ourselves up … I don’t know. I would need to be some sort of superman.” Cole fell silent.

“Maybe the best I can do is to just be a decent guy,” he continued. “The best I can do is lead by example.” He paused again, furrowed his brow, then added, “I really hope that will make a difference.”

_______

Peggy Orenstein is the author of Boys & Sex, Cinderella Ate My Daughter, and Waiting for Daisy: A Tale of Two Continents, Three Religions, Five Infertility Doctors, an Oscar, an Atomic Bomb, a Romantic Night, and One Woman's Quest to Become a Mother. Her website is peggyorenstein.com.

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