Blizzards and Bastards

by C.M. Stunich

Crispin seems like the sort of man you want Santa to leave under the tree, but probably fucks like he was abandoned by Krampus.

“If you don’t start writing something then you’ll never write anything,”

“It’s okay to be sad,” Vale tells me, like we didn’t just meet yesterday. “Even if you think you’ve got it too good to complain. Sometimes, the most difficult prisons to break out of are the ones made of glass. When they shatter, they cut.”

“He wrote it about his dream girl, who he never even met.” I lift my eyes up to Cyan’s and press a defiant kiss to her pussy as I watch her arch her pale throat, painted orange by the fire. “Hell, maybe that means the song is about you?”

I’ve learned that you shouldn’t treat people better than they treat you and let resentment fester. You should drop to their level and only respond if they put forth effort first.