#but don’t consider themselves queer and once they get all the warmth and love from the queer woman they ditch the wlw relationship

[ormymarius]

most annoying breed on the planet next to men is straight women who pretend to be queer for funsies

[ginger-and-mint]

Immodest Immoderation: Part 1

Note: there’s a lot of Gender Stuff in this fic, and it takes place in a fantasy setting where acceptance and awareness of queer people is at a different stage than in our world. The language and frameworks the characters in this fic use to understand and describe themselves may not in all cases reflect what is common in modern real-world communities. Please keep all this in mind when deciding if it would be a comfortable fic for you to read!

CW: implied sex, alcohol, consensual drunkenness in a sexual situation, transphobia, homophobia, gender dysphoria

Based on this prompt -- thanks to daedricmage for the idea!

---

Jo’s hand was warm and familiar against the curve of Si’s shoulder blade. It traced a gentle path up their neck and into their hair, and they hummed happily as her fingers began to comb the mussed-up strands back into place. Her chest was soft beneath their cheek, the perfect pillow on which to rest as their heartbeat slowed and the last shivers of heat trickled away. Si always loved these moments, when they felt gooey with post-orgasmic bliss and so completely attuned to another person, adrift in the feel of their skin and the rhythm of their breath. Compounded with how long it had been since they had last spent a moment like this with Jo, and they wanted nothing more than to lie there in her arms all day.

But it wasn’t to be. Somewhere from down the hall came a banging sound.

Si squeaked in surprise, lifting their head. “What on earth was that?”

“Ugh…” Jo’s arm snaked around their shoulders and gently pressed them back down to the bed. “Don’t worry about it, baby. Just the damn shutter in the kitchen. The latch comes loose and it blows open in the wind.”

“Oh. I thought you said in your letters that Margie was gonna fix that?”

“I said that Margie said she was going to fix it. Knowing her, that probably means it’ll be done in… I dunno, eight more months?”

Si laughed. “Sounds about right. Oh, Margie dear!” They frowned as the distant shutter banged again. “Maybe you should go close it? In case the rain starts back up?”

“Ugh. Fine.” Jo lingered for a moment, clearly loathe to break the cuddle, which made Si grin and plant a big kiss on her collarbone. She grunted fondly at the gesture, then sighed and shifted out from under them, gently depositing them into the mess of sheets. Si watched her as she rolled off the bed and padded over to grab her bathrobe from its hook near the closet. They always felt so fond, seeing this private side of her, with her close-cropped hair sticking up at funny angles and the architecture of her body bare and beautiful, all curves and lumps and angles and folds.

It was chilly without Jo’s warmth, and Si squirmed themself beneath as many of the sheets as they could. The warmest summer day in Oppendorff would be considered cool in Tideway, but the wet breeze from the ocean added an extra chill to the air here when it rained. Si had only been back a week, and they were still adjusting to the damp. It was funny, they thought, how a full year away could make the place you’d called home all your life feel so strange.

From the direction of the kitchen came Jo’s voice. “Damn wind. It’s blown a bunch of stuff off the counter.”

Si frowned as they heard the banging and scraping of Jo opening drawers. “Oh, don’t clean it all up now! Just close the shutter and get back here.”

“You’re the one who sent me out in there in the first place.” Jo sounded amused. The sounds of tidying didn’t stop.

“But I’m cold without you!”

“So sing one of those magic songs of yours. Or, you know, put your clothes back on. Once I’m up, I’m up.”

Si grumbled and burrowed deeper in the sheets. They didn’t want clothes. They wanted cuddles. Jo was right, though. The moment was over. Even if she came back to bed, that feeling of intimate bliss had already slipped away. Reluctantly, they rolled towards the edge of the mattress and peered down at the clothes they’d discarded on the floor. They’d worn such a complicated outfit too, with suspenders and a buttoned shirt. It’d been lots of fun to let Jo work her way down that line of buttons, easing them open one by one. Wasn’t going to be as much fun to do them all back up.

Si was still lying with their chin on the edge of the mattress when Jo poked her head back into the bedroom. “Hey, the sun’s starting to come out. Want to go get fries on the pier?”

“Ooh!” Suddenly, all those buttons didn’t seem like such a chore. Si disentangled their limbs from the blankets at lightning speed. “Absolutely!”

- - -

Half an hour later, the two of them were dressed and tidied, strolling arm-in-arm down the sandy path that led from Jo and Margie’s house to the pier. As they walked, Si happily soaked up both the watery sunlight and Jo’s steady stream of gossip.

“So Henry got that job he applied for. Great for him, except that he had to move out into the country. When he left, Alice and Jamie decided to go with him. It was sweet that they all stayed together, but we were sad to see them go.”

“Aw, yeah. Wish I could’ve said goodbye.” Si hadn’t been particularly close to any of the three of them, but the queer folk of Tideway were a small group and stuck together on principle. “What about Sylvia and Bobbie? I stopped at the shop where Bobbie used to work on my first night back and I didn’t see her.”

“They moved across town, but they’re still here. Maybe we can arrange a visit once Margie gets back from her work trip. We’ve got two months before you’ve got to head back north, right? Plenty of time.”

“A visit would be really nice! Maybe not right after Margie gets back, though. I’d love to spend some time with just you and her.”

“She’ll like that. She’s been missing you almost as much as I have.”

Hearing that made Si’s heart glow. Margie was very dear to them, even though they had not known her nearly as long as they had known Jo. Margie and Jo had become a couple seven years ago, right around the time Si had been finishing up their song-mage training. At the time, Jo had been Si’s most regular lover—certainly their most enjoyable one, and the one they knew best—and they had felt a little morose at the idea of losing that aspect of their friendship. But they’d understood, and they’d been happy for her. It had been less than a year until the date of Si’s Proving Exam, when they would likely get shipped off to some far-flung corner of Zlott anyway. They’d been glad that Jo would not be lonely once they were gone.

But in the end, it had all worked out beautifully. Si had been assigned to stay on as a researcher at the Tideway Institute of Music and Magic, and as it turned out, Margie was both lovely and open-minded. Si had quickly become her friend, and it wasn’t long until they’d been welcome in the couple’s bed. Sometimes, they passed affectionate afternoons or torrid evenings as a trio. Sometimes, Si would spend time with just Margie or just Jo. It was uncomplicated and lovely, a bond that Si treasured. Si’s reassignment to Oppendorff had been hard on them all, but it was starting to look like maybe the three of them really could continue their particular style of love and friendship right where they’d left off.

The path crested the top of a sandy hill, revealing the glittering expanse of the sea stretched out to the horizon. A bracing breeze tickled Si’s cheeks, and they breathed in a deep lungful, savoring the tang of salt.

“How’s your family?” Jo asked as they descended a set of wooden steps, headed for the dunes. “You seen them yet?”

“Oh, yeah. You know my mom. I barely had time to report to the Institute and set down my bags before her dinner plans.” Si chuckled. “They’re fine. Mom’s redoing the living room yet again. Phil is getting married next spring, so I think she’s trying to make the house look perfect. My dad still refuses to retire from the Academy, but I think he might come around now that Marius works there. As long as there’s some kind of Martin legacy at that school, he’ll be happy.”

Jo shook her head. “I still can’t believe your brother ended up teaching at the Academy! After everything we went through!”

Si shrugged, a little uncomfortable. “I can’t blame him. That school was my mother’s childhood and my father’s career. And it’s not a bad place, really. It just… wasn’t ready for people like you and me.”

“You’re being real generous. I still can’t walk past that place without feeling pissed off.”

“Yes, well… look on the bright side. If we hadn’t gone to school there, we never would’ve met.”

That much was true. Jo and Si had attended Tideway Academy for Girls together, back when Jo had still gone by Jolene and Si had still been called Sigrid. They’d met in their third grade class and been immediately drawn to each other, as though some instinct deep within their baby queer hearts had known they’d need each other in the years that followed.

Jo had been there the day that Si had chopped off all their hair with a pair of kitchen shears and declared that they were a boy—and also the next day, when their unamused teacher made Si skip lunch to cover the chalkboard in lines of the deeply ironic words: I will not play pretend in class. Si had been there the day that Jo was caught kissing another girl out in the schoolyard, and had sat in the hallway with her and held her trembling hand in theirs as they listened to the principal talking rapidly to Jo’s mother through a closed office door. As teenagers, they had both braved a period of several years during which they refused to wear skirts, school uniforms be damned, and it was only the fact that Si’s bewildered but adoring father taught at the school that shielded them from the threats of detention and expulsion. Jo still had not touched a dress since those days, as far as Si knew. As for themself…

They’d been eighteen, right on the cusp of leaving Tideway Academy for Girls behind forever. It was a moment they had dreamed about for years. And yet they had been unhappy, so deeply unhappy that most days they felt like tearing off their own skin. They had spent the better part of their teenage years fighting tooth and nail to be seen as a boy. Which was no simple feat, when you liked to sing and giggled easily and had about as much heft to your body as a storybook elf. But they had always believed it would be worth it, because at the end of it all lay a day where they would finally feel right.

But the older they’d gotten, the more upset and confused they’d become. Because despite it all, despite everything—they missed their long hair. They envied the pretty dresses and sparkling jewelry their classmates wore, and watched with longing as girls lined up at bathroom mirrors and applied beautiful colors to their lips and eyes. Day after day, Si found themself looking away, reminding themself that boys weren’t supposed to want to be pretty and trying to swallow the feeling that they were just as trapped now as they had been back when they were Sigrid the little girl.

They could’ve put on a dress and done their makeup, of course. It would’ve made their life easier. Their constant quarrels with their teachers would’ve eased, their classmates would’ve had to find something else to mock, and their parents would’ve been quietly but palpably relieved. Except… the moment a tube of makeup touched their fingertips, other parts of themself would have to be locked away in the dark forever. Everyone would immediately accept that they were, in fact, a girl—that they always had been and always would be—as though putting lipstick on revealed an indisputable truth about who you were underneath your skin. The thought of that made them want to scream.

What had felt especially awful was that it had all seemed so stupid, like a thorny problem they had invented for themself by thinking far too hard about something that was supposed to boil down to a checklist of body parts. Who cared, really, whether people called them Si or Sigrid? What did it matter if they grew up trapped as a man or trapped as a woman? But Si did care, so much so that they’d begun to sink into a place of hopelessness, afraid that there was nowhere in this world they could ever truly be free.

Jo was the one who had said the words that made the universe fall into place: “Maybe you never really wanted to be a boy after all? Maybe you just don’t want to be a girl, and that seemed like the only other option.”

It had all made sense, in one single electric moment. Si was just themself. Most people were born into a boy-self or a girl-self, but somehow Si had not been born into either. They were just a person. Just Si. The sudden power with which they’d known that to be true had propelled them through the difficulty of trying to explain this knowledge to the people they cared about, of fighting for everyone see them all over again.

The difficulty hadn’t ended there, of course. The difficulty might never completely end, but they had learned to thrive with it. Back in those days, Si had often come down to the beach to eat fries and stare out at the old wooden pilings that rose out of the waves beneath pier—battered and rotted, slick with algae and studded with barnacles, but still standing proud and strong and solid as the ocean crashed and blustered around them.

Even now, happy and secure and more than a decade distant from the Academy, Si smiled as the pier and its pilings came into sight. Still there, just like always.

The food cart wasn’t far away. Old and nondescript, with its colorful advertisements faded by decades of salty air, it had been parked where the pier met the sand for as long as anyone could remember. Si and Jo exchanged a few coins for paper cones of golden-brown fries, which they shielded from the circling seagulls as they continued out onto the boardwalk.

“What about your Oppendorff friends?” Jo asked. “That man you mentioned in your letters—what was it, Ryan?”

“Ryder?” Si laughed. “Oh, he’s great! I think he’ll miss me, but he’s got enough to keep him busy over the summer. I hope you can meet him someday, the two of you would get along amazingly. And I’d love to get him out onto the beach, see how he likes the sand between his toes. Of course, it might be hard for him to get permission to travel down here considering he’s a mage, but…”

“Maybe I can take the train up to Oppendorff one of these days.” Jo popped a couple fries into her mouth. “Be interesting to see how you live up there. Bet it’s cold.”

“The winter was rough,” Si agreed with a laugh. “But there are good things about it too! The mountains are gorgeous. And the food is just as incredible as you’d imagine. Gosh, those di-mages eat well! For their magic, obviously, but also just day-to-day. The school’s dining hall has just about anything you could want, and you can take as much as you like. You could have a feast any day of the week! In fact, some of the mages there—my friend Ryder, for example, he does this—they have days where they’ll just eat as much as they can, fill themselves up as a form of practice. You wouldn’t believe how much most of them can fit in their bellies, they— ”

“Si Martin, I’m gonna need you to stop.”

There was a slightly strained quality to Jo’s voice that made Si pause. They glanced over at Jo to see that her cheeks were flushed just the lightest shade of pink, and abruptly they remembered a conversation the two of them had had late one night over a bottle of wine, many years ago.

“Oh!” Si grinned broadly. “Right, you have a thing about that, don’t you?”

Jo hastily shoved a few fries into her mouth and didn’t answer.

“Gosh, I can’t believe I forgot!” In Si’s defense, it hadn’t come up often. The first time had to have been nearly ten years ago now, when the two of them had only just started sleeping together. During a night of sharing wine and kisses, Jo had let it slip that she had a thing for overindulgence.

“Overindulgence? Overindulgence on what?” Si remembered asking.

“Uh—food, mostly. Or alcohol. You know, anything that feels good to have but when someone has too much, they get all soft and helpless and—and—damn it, forget I said anything! I’m not doing it with you. You’re fragile, Si, you’d damn well break.”

She had seemed embarrassed, so Si had let the matter drop. Clearly the intervening years had not helped much, because Jo shut them down just as quickly this time. “Yeah, well. You can go ahead and forget again, if you like.”

But this time, Si had no intention of forgetting. An idea was coalescing in their head. “Jo, has anyone ever indulged you? That part of you, I mean?”

Jo’s blush deepened, and Si felt their heart flutter. It had been a very long time since they’d seen Jo look flustered. The two of them had been spending nights together for so many years, and Jo was generally a straightforward woman. She liked sex to be sweet and simple. Si, on the other hand, loved kinks. They loved the process of delving into them, dissecting them, discovering the fire behind their appeal—and then, the best part—using that knowledge to gleefully take someone apart.

Jo looked deeply uncertain. “What—what are you saying, Si?”

“Just that I’d be up for a little bit of immodest immoderation.” They winked. “Could be fun.”

“Are you serious? Do you understand what my thing is?”

“It’s all about too much, right? Come on, Jo! Too much is practically my specialty.”

Jo’s voice dropped to a low, embarrassed murmur, as though she were worried the gulls might be eavesdropping. “I—I barely ever see you even clear your plate.”

“Oh, I’ve gotten a lot better at eating, living at a di-mage school. I think I might surprise you.” Si patted their tummy, giggling softly when Jo immediately flushed and looked away. “We could at least try it? Personally I think I’d be cute, all helplessly overindulged.”

“Fuck, Si.” Jo cleared her throat. “…Yeah. You would be so cute.”

“And there are so many restaurants I’ve missed! We could do a little food and drink tour, let me make up for lost time. As long as Margie wouldn’t mind if we did this before she gets back?”

Jo shook her head slowly. “No. No, I—I know she wouldn’t mind.”

“Great! What do you say, then? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? That soon?”

“Why not? Then I’ll have all of Sunday to recover if I get, you know, super hungover or something. No time like the present, right? Does the Blue Dolphin still do brunch and drinks on Saturdays? Oh, and we could go get fish on the docks! Mmm, my mouth is watering just thinking about it.”

Jo groaned softly. “Oh boy. I’m gonna regret saying yes to this, aren’t I?”

“Absolutely not.” Si snatched a fry out of her cone and popped it into their mouth. “If I have anything to say about it, you’re gonna be thinking about tomorrow for a long time.”

- - -

The next morning found Si and Jo at a secluded table out on the Blue Dolphin’s back patio. The cafe was located in a sleepy neighborhood that overlooked the beach, and they had a perfect view of the grass gently waving on the dunes and the sunlight glittering on the shifting surface of the sea. In an hour or so, this place would be packed with tourists and locals alike, all here for the famed weekend brunch. But Si and Jo had gotten up early and come right at opening time. They had the patio to themselves, with only the cries of the gulls wheeling overhead for company.

Si gently swirled their peach bellini in its glass before taking a sip. “So, my dear—shall we have a little check-in? I would love to know more about what you might enjoy from this day.”

Jo took a deep breath and nodded. She still looked a little bashful, with light patches of pink on her cheeks, but she seemed to have steeled herself since the previous afternoon. A shy grin played across her face as she looked up from her orange juice. “I dunno, Si. I haven’t done this before, so… it might be a learning experience for me almost as much as it is for you.”

“I’m trying to remember what I’ve heard you say about it. It’s got something to do with seeing someone overwhelmed by food and drink, doesn’t it? A little bit helpless? Too drunk or too full to move?” Si examined Jo’s expression and laughed. “I’m on the right track, I take it.”

Jo sucked in a quick breath. “Biggest ground rule is that I don’t want you to be in pain. Or make yourself sick. Part of what does it for me is seeing someone feel good, like… too good. Uh. Overwhelmingly good. So if it stops feeling good, we stop.”

“Got it.” Si tapped their fingers against the side of their glass. “Is uncomfortable okay? I might get uncomfortable, but like… you know how sometimes discomfort can feel nice, in a way? I can keep it to just nice discomfort, but I don’t want it to alarm you if I start groaning or something.”

Jo’s cheeks reddened considerably. “Uncomfortable is alright as long as you’re enjoying it. Groaning—uhhh, is… is, um, fine.”

“Fine, huh?” Si couldn’t bite back a smile as they slipped that bit of knowledge into their pocket. “What about—you know, seeing someone’s tummy get bigger as they eat? I’m guessing that’s also, as you say, ‘fine?’”

The way Jo glanced wildly around, as though they’d just said something unimaginably dirty, told Si everything they needed to know. “I assume that’s gonna damn well happen whether I like it or not.”

“True enough.” Si silently congratulated themself on having the foresight to wear comfortable leggings and a silky fitted blouse that skimmed down the front of their body—not tight, but not loose either, with buttons that would not take much swelling before they began to strain. Exactly the kind of top they had learned was not a great choice for food-centric events back at OSM.

“Enough about me.” Jo took a measured sip of her orange juice. “You’re the one who really ought to be setting boundaries.”

“Right.” Si drained the last of their drink and set the glass to the side, savoring the sweetness and alcohol mingling on their tongue. “Well, I’m going to be drunk, so… you know my rules about that already. Other than that… I figure I’ll just keep eating until I feel like I can’t? Seems pretty straightforward. And once I’m all full, and we’re back in private, maybe you could give me a little attention right here?” They leaned back in their chair, patting their stomach. “Because that’s gonna feel so good. You know, back at OSM, sometimes the di-mages will rub each other’s bellies to kinda help work the food down, and it really does feel incredible.”

Jo choked on a mouthful of orange juice. “Sorry, what?”

“Yeah, like—you know my friend Ryder? That’s basically his job, taking care of people in that way. There’s an entire area of the school dedicated to it.”

Jo looked like she certainly had some things to say about that. But before she could, the patio door creaked open, and out came a server with their breakfast.

“Here you are,” he said, setting a bacon sandwich in front of Jo and a shrimp-and-tomato omelette with toast and fruit in front of Si. “Anything else I can get you?”

“Just another one of these, please.” Si tipped their empty glass with a smile. “Thanks.”

As soon as the server was gone, Jo leaned across the table and hissed, “That’s what your friend Ryder does? Creator’s holy blood!��

“He’s very good at it.” Si beamed as they broke a slice of toast in half. “I’m sure you will be too. You’re quite good with your hands, my dear. And by the end of the day, I think I’m really going to need your help.”

Jo took a deep breath. “Yeah, well… I’ll do my best.” Her gaze flicked over to Si’s plate, and she regained enough of her composure to smirk. “Eat up, then.”

Si laughed and forked off a corner of their omelette.

Everything was delicious. The eggs were fluffy and perfectly cooked, and the subtle sweetness of the shrimp mingled magically with the sharp tomato. The fruit was fresh and ripe, so full of juice that it tasted as though it had been picked right off the vine. Si had not been lacking fresh produce in Oppendorff, but these kinds of fruits did not grow that far north—watermelon, cantaloupe, peaches. There were even some fresh-cut figs, even though it was still early in the summer. As spoiled as Si had been by the cooks at OSM, nothing could compare to the taste of home. They cleared their plate with enthusiastic ease.

“Gosh, that was good.” Si wiped toast crumbs from their fingers and dropped the crumpled napkin onto their empty plate. “I sure have missed Blue Dolphin omelettes.”

Jo, who had finished her sandwich a little while ago, smiled slightly. “I was kinda surprised you didn’t go for the pancakes. That was always your usual order, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, that was years ago! By the time I moved away, it was the omelettes I could never resist.” Memories of fluffy buttermilk pancakes smothered in syrup and berries drifted up from the depths of Si’s mind. “But yeah, wow, those pancakes are delicious.”

“Hmm.” Jo paused. “Well. Maybe you should get some before we leave? For old time’s sake?”

Si paused a moment, trying to read Jo’s face. Was this part of the kink? They wanted to say yes, but at the same time, if they got too overzealous, their tummy would give out on them before midday.

“Gosh, I don’t know, Jo. That omelette was pretty filling.” That was the entirely the truth; Si felt comfortably satisfied. They studied Jo out of the corner of their eye as they let a hand drift to their belly. “Mmm, but I do love those pancakes…”

Jo fiddled with the edge of her napkin. “We could split a small stack,” she suggested. “If you want.”

Si beamed, feeling a stab of triumph. “Hmm, you know… I think I do want. Let’s do it.”

It was a decision that Si did not regret. The pancakes were fluffy and golden, covered in whipped cream and more fresh fruit. It was enough food that when they left the cafe and began to stroll towards the main road, Si could feel their breakfast as a pleasant heaviness in their stomach, weighing them down a little as they walked. It was quite a nice sensation, as was the breezy sea air against their skin and the light buzzing in their head from the two cocktails they’d had.

“So what next?” they asked brightly. “Shall we go see what vendors are down by the beach today? There’s bound to be a few food carts.”

Jo’s voice was teasing. “What, you already want more? You can’t still be hungry.”

“Oh, not at all. Just thinking ahead. It might be nice to have a little snack before lunch.”

“Well… we could go down to the tourist market, if you want. There’s always food there, and when I was in the area yesterday, there was a merchant selling Sumorian wines. I’ll buy you a glass.”

“Trying to get me drunk, are you, my dear?”

Jo said nothing, but her lips tightened ever so slightly. Si laughed and grabbed her hand, leaning in to kiss her cheek before leading the way down the path to the waterfront.

They could hear the market before they got close enough to see it. The shouts of its vendors and clamor of its crowd were a staple of summertime in Tideway, and Si felt very at home as they and Jo joined the throngs of shoppers and browsers. There were dozens of stalls, all laden with trinkets and treasures and festooned in multi-colored flags that flapped lazily in the breeze. Locals haggled for something better than the tourist prices, children shouted in delight as vendors wound up clockwork toys, and seagulls perched on the eaves, their beady eyes searching eagerly for the vulnerable and complacent.

Si kept one eye on the circling birds as they bought a bag of small round doughnuts and a cup of iced watermelon juice from a vendor at the market’s edge. Jo watched as they trotted back with their treats, a smile playing around her lips.

“I thought you weren’t hungry yet,” she said in a low voice.

“I’m not.” Si winked at her and then popped a doughnut into their mouth. “You want one?”

“Mm… no thanks.”

“More for me, then.” Si took a big gulp of their watermelon juice. They felt their tummy gurgle softly as the swallow settled inside, and glanced impishly at Jo, but there was so much noise around them that she clearly hadn’t heard. She stood looking out over the market, the breeze ruffling the soft spikes of her hair and sunlight turning her cheeks rosy.

“So, do you have any shopping you want to do or should we just look around? There’s a new—oh!” Jo laughed as Si suddenly pressed up against her in a playful embrace. “What’s this about? Hey, don’t spill your juice!”

“I won’t.” Si gave her cheek an affectionate peck. “I just thought you looked cute. Couldn’t resist.”

Jo looked them up and down, a smile playing over her face, and then leaned in for a proper kiss.

It was a very nice kiss, all soft breath and sun-warmed skin and Jo’s voice murmuring, “You taste like watermelon and powdered sugar” low in Si’s ear as their lips parted. It sent a little thrill through Si, fondness and attraction mixing with anticipation for the moment when all of this would come to fruition, when all the watermelon and powdered sugar and pancakes and alcohol would really start to show, and Jo wouldn’t be able to resist them. They cast a sly glance down at their front. Was it just their imagination, or were they starting to see a very subtle swell under their shirt?

They couldn’t help themself. Laughing, they arched their back, pressing the slightly firm curve of their belly into the softness of Jo’s. The moment they heard Jo’s breath catch in her throat, they planted another quick peck on her cheek and then squirmed out of her embrace.

“Let’s go.” Si grabbed her wrist, turning away to hide their grin, and tugged her along through the crowd until they felt her pulse slow beneath their fingers.

The market was a wonderful place to spend the morning. There was always something new to see, even for someone who had whiled away many an hour browsing the stalls in years past. Si purchased a colorful silk scarf for themself, some soaps with tiny bits of sea sponge embedded inside for friends back in Oppendorff, and a few jars of preserves to take back to Ryder. Jo mostly browsed, but she did buy a little butter dish patterned with bumblebees, saying she knew that Margie would like it.

There was plenty to snack on, too, and Si did not hold themself back. After the doughnuts and juice, they picked up a skewer of spiced chicken grilled with pineapple and onion, and after that, a sticky bun filled with sweetened coconut. Soon the warm weight of breakfast had grown into a solid little tightness inside them, sitting just above their navel.

They finished their tour of the market with the Sumorian wine Jo had mentioned. It was wonderful, so smooth and fruity that it was honestly a little dangerous. Si gulped down half their cup in about five minutes, after which Jo noticed them starting to sway on their feet and steered them over to a bench to sit down.

“Gosh, this stuff is strong!” Si raised the cup to eye level and squinted at it before taking another big gulp. “The heck do they put in it? Super-grapes?”

Jo patted their shoulder. “You’re not doing a great job at pacing yourself, are you?”

“Whatever do you mean, my dear?”

“Well… I would say that it’s lunchtime, but you, uh, haven’t really stopped eating.”

“I’ve been grazing,” Si corrected with a winning smile. “I could eat.”

“Yeah? You’re sure you don’t need a break?”

“Not yet.” They glanced down at themself. There was a definite swell beneath their shirt now, but only if you knew what to look for. “Trust me, I’ve made the mistake of wearing this shirt to dinners at OSM. You’ll be able to tell when I’m really full.”

Jo considered this information quietly. Then she pulled Si against her side, her hand pressing very casually against the spot where their ribs gave way to the soft flesh of their belly—soft flesh that was feeling rather more stretched out than usual at the moment. Si squeaked faintly, and Jo chuckled.

“What do you want for lunch, then?” she asked.

“Hmm….” Si shuffled possibilities through their wine-hazy head. They weren’t stuffed yet, but their stomach was feeling undeniably snug, and they tried to identify something that they would savor even on a full belly. “Ooh—what about Penelope’s, down by the docks? I could go for a fish sandwich.”

“Penelope’s it is.” Jo stood up and offered Si a hand. “Come on. I’ll carry your bags.”

Penelope’s was a breezy establishment clad in weatherbeaten clapboard and the mingled aromas of fresh fish and hot oil. They were a bit early for the lunchtime rush, so they had their pick of places to sit. Jo led Si to a table in a secluded corner near the back and pulled out a chair for them. “You take it easy. I’ll go up and order. What do you want?”

“Grouper sandwich and a beer, please.” Si patted Jo’s arm appreciatively as she went by. The delicious scent of fried fish was whetting their appetite again, but they were still grateful to have a few minutes to let their belly settle before asking it to hold more.

When Jo came back from the counter, the trays she carried were a little more laden than Si expected.

“You got me sides, huh?” They shot Jo a knowing smirk as she placed a tray on the table in front of them. There was a cup of coleslaw and a basket of fries alongside the sandwich and beer they’d requested.

Jo had the decency to blush. “It’s the meal deal. Since you already got a sandwich and a drink, the sides come practically free.”

Si laughed. “Well, I love the coleslaw here. I’m not gonna complain.” They lowered their voice to a playful murmur. “My tummy might by the time I’m done, though.”

Jo selected a fry from her own basket of fish and chips, dragging it through ketchup before biting off the end. “Don’t push yourself.”

“Oh, I won’t. The real question is whether I’ll be able to help myself.”

That put such a crack in Jo’s composure that a visible shiver ran through her body. “Just… remember that you’re gonna have to stand up and walk out of here, okay?”

“I’ll do my best.” Si chuckled heartily before turning their full attention to their meal.

It was a big lunch, big enough that on an ordinary day, Si probably would not have finished the whole thing even on an empty stomach. But this was no ordinary day, and although Si’s stomach was far from empty, they were determined to eat as much as they could. As they took the first bite of their sandwich, they felt a little surge of curiosity, a bit of excitement to find out how far they could get.

Penelope’s had been the right choice. The fish was flaky and tender within its golden crust and the cold beer was deeply satisfying after a morning in the sun. The coleslaw was sweet and tangy, a perfect complement to the salty fries. It all tasted so good that Si was honestly disappointed when they started to feel the tightness around their middle getting tough to ignore. They set down their half-eaten sandwich and squirmed in their seat, trying to find a position that might give them a bit more room.

“Full?” Jo asked quietly.

“Yeah.” Si leaned back slightly, pressing their hands to their sides and noting with a bit of shock how much they had rounded out. “Whew, look, my tummy’s getting big.”

Jo’s lips went thin as she pressed them together. When she spoke, her voice was carefully even-toned and so soft that Si could barely hear it. “Think you’ve got room for the rest? Or should I go ask for a box?”

“Mmm… not sure. Give me a minute.” Si picked up their beer and took a tiny sip. A burp bubbled out of them, and they groaned softly at the way it eased the pressure before raising a hand to cover another.

For a couple minutes, Si sat, sipped, and stifled quiet belches. Whether it was the bubbles or the alcohol, they weren’t sure—but the more they drank, the more the tension inside them seemed to fade into the background, until finally the wall they’d hit didn’t seem quite so intimidating anymore.

“Okay. I think I’m good.” Si patted their tummy gently and leaned back over their plate. “I’ve got room for a little more.”

It was funny, the way the beer had helped. Si still felt very full, just somehow… stretchier. It was like their stomach was no longer resisting every time it had to expand to accommodate another swallow. The discomfort had been mostly replaced by a warm heaviness, and the few twinges that remained were vastly outweighed by how good everything tasted and by the way Jo was watching them as though she’d never seen anything so transfixing in her life.

Finally, Si popped the last fry into their mouth, stifled a hiccup, and pushed their empty tray away. Their tummy bulged out in front of them as they slumped against the hard wooden back of their chair, and they braced one hand against their side, because they had just enough wherewithal left to restrain themself from putting their hand directly on top of the swell in the public eye.

Jo cleared her throat. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah. Mmm…” Si closed their eyes, feeling the room spin a little. “Gosh, that was—hic—good.”

“You look just about ready for a nap.”

“A nap sounds—hic—amazing….”

“What do you say we go back to the house for few hours, then? Rest and digest?”

“Perfect.” Si dragged their eyes open and braced a hand against the tabletop. An obvious weight tugged at their front, but they pushed through it, groaning softly with the effort of standing up.

Jo’s eyes widened. “Whoa—hold on, you can sit and, uh, let things settle first!”

“Mmm, I’m okay. I wanna go before I fall asleep right here. Plus,” Si let their voice drop mischievously, “the sooner we get home, the sooner you can get your hands on this tummy of mine.” They wrinkled their brow as another hiccup jostled their heavy lunch. “Ooh.”

Jo gave them a dry look and said nothing. But Si didn’t miss the way her eyes flicked briefly to their middle, where their shirt was now decidedly clinging to the curve of their very full stomach. The buttons were now strained enough that if Si hadn’t been four drinks into their day, they might’ve been a little embarrassed.

They brushed a hand down their front, letting out a quiet groan that was only partly for show. “I promise I’m looking forward to it just as much as you. That was a lot of lunch… I’m starting to feel pretty overindulged….”

“Fuck.” The curse was light on Jo’s tongue, so soft that they almost didn’t catch it. Her eyes darted warily around their little corner of the restaurant, which was still very much deserted. “Creator’s blood, Si. Have you no shame?”

“Not really. ‘Cause there’s no shame in turning you on.” Si flashed their brightest smile, then brought a hand to their mouth to stifle another hiccup.

Jo let out a soft breath. “Yeah well, save your worst for when we’re in private, alright?”

“Good thing we’ll be in private soon, then.”

“Yeah.” Jo stepped around the table and took hold of Si’s arm, steering them gently towards the back door. “Let’s go.”

Outside, the afternoon had grown bright and hot and humid. Si felt absolutely luxurious as they meandered down the road—warmed by the sun, caressed by the air, heavy with good food, giddy with drink. They clung to Jo’s arm, letting whatever flitted across their mind roll from their tongue. Jo wouldn’t mind it if they babbled. She knew them. She loved them. And even through the heavy haze of indulgence, they could see the way she subtly reacted whenever they interrupted themself with a sudden hiccup or a particularly heavy breath.

The path to Jo’s neighborhood led past the pier. As they drew close to the sandy area where the food carts always parked, Si caught the scent of hot oil on the salty breeze and stopped in their tracks.

“What’s up? Um—where are you going?” Jo asked bewilderedly as Si veered off the path. They cheerfully ignored her, digging in their pocket for a coin. Whether it was an effect of the alcohol or just their inability to resist twisting Jo further around their finger, they couldn’t say. All they knew is that the possibility that struck them in that moment was too tempting to pass up.

The look on Jo’s face when they came ambling back with a paperboard carton of fried clam strips was priceless.

“Are you serious?” she asked.

“Absolutely.” Si stifled a hiccup behind their hand before selecting a strip. The coating was perfectly golden, hot and crispy on their tongue. “Mmm. Gosh, these are so good! I haven’t had them in forever. Remember when we used to come and get them on Fridays after school?”

“Uh… I guess?” Jo was clearly not in the right frame of mind to reminisce. Her eyes darted downwards as Si’s round tummy jumped with another hiccup.

They chuckled and grabbed for her arm, accidentally swiping through empty air before managing to catch hold of her elbow. “C’mon, dear, let’s get home. I’m really gonna need those belly rubs.”

They had said it with the intention to titillate, but as the carton grew lighter and lighter and Si’s insides grew heavier and heavier, they started to realize just how true it was. It was no easy feat, squeezing fried morsels into a stomach that was already tight with two big meals and plenty of snacks. When they started to feel their tummy twinging beneath their ribs, they licked the crumbs from their fingers and resolved to give it a rest until they could get sitting down. Even so, by the time they were walking across the stepping stones that led to the back door of Jo and Margie’s little cottage, they felt almost short of breath from sheer fullness.

“Ooh, wow.” Si pressed a hand against their side, trying to massage away a gurgling cramp. “Tummy’s starting to complain a bit.”

“Yeah. I can hear that.” Jo fished around in her bag for the keys. “Did you finish those clam strips?”

“Not yet.” Si gripped the railing that enclosed the back stoop and hunched over a little bit as their tummy pulsed with another low grumble. “Whew, I’ve gotta sit down.”

“Almost there.” Jo wrestled open the old lock and stepped aside to let Si in. They went straight for the sofa, where they settled with a heavy groan. Jo took a detour to the kitchen, followed closely by the sounds of cabinets banging and water running in the sink.

Si squirmed amongst the couch cushions, trying to get comfortable. There were only a few clam strips left, but they were starting to feel like their tummy couldn’t hold much more. They touched the swollen place above their navel, noting with some amazement how firm it felt, and huffed softly as their stomach made a sound under their hand. It was only a little rumble, but it felt so intense against all the pressure inside them. They circled their thumb over it, groaning in relief when the motion worked up a little burp.

They were nibbling determinedly on the corner of a clam strip when Jo came into the room with a glass of water in each hand. Si’s powers of observation had begun to slip further and further away, but still they noticed the way she paused, her eyes running over them. They thought abruptly about how they must look—sprawled out on the couch, struggling to get their breath between hiccups, one hand holding their swollen stomach—and grinned invitingly. Jo was smoldering, they could tell.

Jo came to the couch, setting one glass down on the coffee table and offering the other. “Want some water? It might help.”

“Mmm… yeah.” Si resolutely shoved the strip they were nibbling on into their mouth, chewed, and forced themself to swallow. Then, before their insides could register that new weight, they took the glass from Jo and gulped a few sips down.

The water felt good. It sent a rush of clarity through their blurry brain and cleared the heaviness of the grease from their throat. And then, abruptly, it felt a little less good as its cold bulk squeezed in at the very top of their belly. Si pressed their fingers into the tight spot, groaning. “Ooh… gosh, I’m so full….”

“You’re doing great.” Jo’s voice was a little breathy. “You’re really close, Si.”

“Mmm…” Si tugged another clam strip out of the carton and bit into the edge. Their tummy rumbled, and they arched their back, pushing it outwards. They wanted so badly for Jo to touch it. Her soft, strong hands would feel so good, so warm and supportive against this place where they felt stretched and sensitive. They squirmed a little, pressing their own hands against the tense sides of their stomach. It brought them enough relief that they managed to get down one final swallow—but that was it.

“Ohhh, I can’t finish…” Si set the carton aside, hiccuping thickly. “Whew… oh man, I—I need a break….”

“Yeah, looks like it.” Jo’s arm settled around Si’s shoulders, tugging them gently to lean against her side. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m—hic—I’m fine. If it wasn’t so greasy, maybe I could—hic—do it…” Si rubbed at a little cramp that was pinching under their ribs. “Ugh.”

“Does your stomach hurt?”

“Nah. I just need to—hic—to let everything settle.” Si’s breath caught in their throat as Jo’s hand finally came to rest against their middle. “Mmm, yes…”

“Creator, Si. This is such a full belly you’ve got here.”

“Yeah…” Si closed their eyes and sank wearily into Jo’s shoulder. “Rub, please.”

Jo obliged, smoothing the softest of circles over the curve of their tummy. Her touch was extremely hesitant at first, like she was afraid she was going to hurt them. It was kind of funny to Si, who had been spoiled by Ryder’s skilled use of pressure. They found themself arching their back, trying to press into Jo’s hand, but she only lightened her touch—so instead, they covered her hand with theirs and pushed it into their belly.

Jo drew in a sharp breath. “Holy fuck. Just kill me, why don’t you?”

Si couldn’t respond. They were too busy groaning, awash in relief at the feeling of Jo’s warm palm against the heaviness inside them, helping to keep everything steady and settled.

“You like a little pressure, huh?”

“Yeah.” Si had to bite back another groan as Jo swept her fingers in a much firmer circle on the swollen place between their ribs and navel. “Ohhh, that’s—hic—that’s perfect, Jo….”

She took that to heart, repeating the motion over and over until Si was melted into her side, gasping and groaning. It felt so good—the tension in their stomach easing with every pass of her hand, the morning’s fullness starting to settle as the cramps and twinges were pressed away. Their head, which had already been swimming, filled with a haze of pleasure that grew thicker and thicker until abruptly that they remembered that there was supposed to be a purpose to all this beyond their own enjoyment.

“Jo…” They struggled to sit up straight. “Do you want to… like, we could make out?”

She laughed and turned to kiss on the side of their head. “I think right now, I just wanna take you in. I mean, Creator, Si, it’s barely noon and you’ve already eaten so much…” Her hand came to rest near the top of their overburdened belly, palm flat against the curve. “I can feel your stomach working on all that food.”

“Mmm… so can I.” Si stifled a soft burp as their insides grumbled against Jo’s fingers. “Ooh, I’ve got to lie down and digest. Help me?”

Jo chuckled and shifted so that they could settle into her lap, pulling a pillow over to tuck beneath their head. The movement made their stomach slosh and groan, and she rested a supportive hand over it once they were settled. “How’re you feeling?”

“Really, really full. Kinda sleepy. I… I don’t wanna lose the edge, but…”

“There’s no way you’re going to manage more without a good break.” Jo rubbed her thumb soothingly over the tender spot in the center of Si’s stomach, and they moaned softly. “You went pretty hard this morning, baby. If you keep eating at this pace, your poor tummy is going to explode. Or at least start to ache.”

“Mmm. Yeah.” Si yawned, wincing at the spike of pressure on their lungs. “I’m sure after a nap, I’ll be hungry again.”

“We’ll see.” Jo paused before saying, “I did have something special in mind for dinner and dessert. If you’re up for it.”

“A surprise?” Even in their drowsy state, Si felt their curiosity pique.

“Yeah. I… I was thinking that at the end of the day, you’d probably need something really irresistible to help you push through the strain. So I asked myself, what’s something that Si can never resist? And the obvious answer was ‘a surprise.’”

Si chuckled faintly, delighted. “Gosh, you know me so well.” They closed their eyes and snuggled deeper into Jo’s lap, pressing their cheek into the softness of her waist. She smelled warm and familiar, and Si felt their heart swell.  “I really love you, you know that, Jo? You’re one of the best friends I have.”

“I know.” Jo’s fingers combed through Si’s hair, tucking stray strands behind their ear. “Right back at you, baby. Not many people would go this far for me.”

“Oh, don’t talk like it’s such a sacrifice.” Si laughed, and then huffed softly as their tummy gurgled. “I haven’t eaten so well in a long time. And considering where I’ve been living, that’s saying something.”

Jo made a sound in the back of her throat. “Yeah, well. See if you can sleep.”

Si had just enough energy left in them for an impish grin. “Plus, I love turning you on.”

“Later. Sleep now.”

Si laughed, draped one hand over their digesting belly, and let themself drift off.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

[cadence-talle]

Moonlight Burst Into the Room

Pairing: Marella Redek/Linh Song

Wordcount: 2,203

TW: mentions of transphobia 

Notes: For @marellinh-week-2020​! Doesn’t totally fit any of the prompts besides First Kiss/Confession so let’s just pretend I posted it then instead of several days late 

Taglist: @everyonehasthoughts, @clearlykeefitz, @loverofallthingssmart, @a-lonely-tatertot, @enbies-and-felonies, @molly-sencen, @lemontarto, @appalyneinstitute1, @ruewen-and-rising, @silver-snow, @linhamon-roll, @hyperlollypop, @never-ever-too-many-fandoms, @keeper-of-the-lost-queers, @impostertamsong, @vibing-in-the-void, @yeetersofthelostcities, @mistythegirlfluxmess, @diamond-dreamerr, @we-have-no-bananas-today, @an-absolute-travesty, @callas-starkflower-stew

Linh has never had a nickname. 

When she was younger, still living with her parents, names were a point of frustration. Her parents never used pet names, which meant they always referred to her by her given name- the wrong name. Always the wrong name, until Linh had to tell them to stop. 

(That conversation was quiet, hushed, like her parents couldn’t quite believe it. They had simply stared at her when she said I’m a girl and then shared a long look.)

Her parents had called her Linh from then on, but it still felt strictly impersonal. As if a wall of water had sprung up between them and drowned any hope of parental affection. 

Once they were banished, names were hardly ever used. Elves at Exillium weren’t considered to have names; they were referred to in a group or not at all. So Linh grew accustomed to turning at a simple shout, to only hearing her name spoken by her brother. Lonely? Sure, but at least she didn’t have to hear that disappointed sigh of Linh whenever she messed up.

(The way Tam said her name wasn’t disappointed, not ever. But it was resigned, like he knew he was the only one who would ever say it. Like he had come to terms with the fact that they were going to fade into oblivion.)

Then Sophie turned up and ushered them into her friend group, into warmth and belonging and people talking to Linh. People saying her name.

Sophie’s group didn’t use nicknames much- besides Keefe, of course, who seemed to be in a competition against himself to come up with the most ridiculous titles for Sophie- but just hearing her name said in a way that told Linh people wanted her here was enough. 

And then Marella Redek becomes a bigger part of Linh’s life, her fiery temper charging into arguments and her endless vocabulary of pet names filling the air, and Linh doesn’t know what to do with herself. 

-/-

“Hey, sweetheart, could you grab me that box?”

Linh turns just in time to see Dex hand Marella the small wooden box in question with a confused look. The blond girl grins at him and opens the box, digging through its contents. “Ooh, a necklace! And… Prattles?”

She holds up the package for all to see. The three of them are the only kids at Havenfield today- the others are all off on various errands. Even Sophie’s out in Atlantis, shopping with Biana. Linh doesn’t mind much, though, even as they embark on the laborious task of sorting through the stuff in Edaline’s cluttered office. She’s still marveling at the fact that she has friends now. 

“They’re probably really stale by now,” Dex says. Marella shrugs, ripping off the top and popping a candy into her mouth. She makes a face.

“Oh, ew. Why did you two let me eat that?”

Linh giggles and Marella smiles at her. There’s a strange flush on the other girl’s cheeks, and Linh wonders if you can get sick from eating old Prattles. She hopes not. 

“He did warn you,” Linh points out. Marella puts a hand over her heart in mock insult. 

“Betrayal! I thought we were friends, sweetie.”

Linh shrugs nonchalantly, trying to hide the warmth she can feel creeping up her neck. Marella does this all the time, she reminds herself, and Linh just needs to get used to it. “Sorry. All’s fair in lov- in war and stale Prattles.”

Dex snorts, shooting Linh a knowing look. Linh blinks and he shakes his head. “We should get back to cleaning. Marella, put the Prattles down.”

Marella, who is apparently a three-year-old in the body of a fifteen-year-old, shoves two more Prattles into her mouth and pockets the drawstring bag that holds the pin. Dex rolls his eyes and turns to a huge green chest. Marella nudges Linh’s ankle with her foot. 

“You know, hon, this stuff really isn’t bad. You wanna try?” She holds out the box. 

Linh shakes her head and Marella puts the package away. Linh’s thoughts, though, can’t be dislodged so easily, and the word hon echoes in her mind for the rest of the day. 

-/-

The transition from Exillium to Foxfire was a hurried one, a few busy days of reading schedules and getting used to being around normal people again. It felt almost too fast in the moment, too quick for even the little they were leaving behind.

Linh has left a lot of things behind in her life. She doesn’t miss them most of the time, but on days like this- days where it’s quiet and cool and the winds whipping past her sound eerily like the whispers in her head- it’s hard not to remember. 

She wanders outside of Solreef, settling down under a tree where she won’t be directly visible from the house. The grass around her is still slightly damp with dew, and Linh tugs a few blades out of the ground to fiddle with. 

Tiergan’s house is very different from anywhere she’s ever lived. The rooms are large and sprawling but still cozy, perhaps made so by the various pillows and classified scrolls that are scattered across nearly every surface. It’s not the rugged landscape of Wildwood nor the smoothed edges of Choralmere, and Linh is glad. Things are calm here, but not so calm she’s afraid to walk on anything but tiptoe. 

She broke a vase, once. One of her mother’s heirlooms. Tam had been chasing her through the house and Linh hadn’t had a chance to slow down in time. Quan had shouted louder than she had ever heard, too angry to even call Linh by the right name. 

It’s been years since that event, but the disappointment still presses on Linh’s skin. Covers her like a heavy blanket woven from sad sighs and ignorant comments and constant dissatisfied looks. The idea that Linh would never be enough. 

Will never be enough, no matter what she does. 

(There have been too many conversations for her to ever disprove that.)

“Linh?”

Abruptly, Linh realizes she hasn’t been breathing. She breaks away from the fixed point she’s been staring at and pastes a smile on her face. 

“Marella! Hey, sorry, I must have forgotten you were coming today.”

“You didn’t,” the blond girl responds, sinking down next to Linh. “I wanted to surprise you. Are you okay?”

“What? I’m fine. Why?”

Marella gives her an utterly unimpressed look. 

“Hon. You looked about five seconds away from crying when I showed up. And that’s not a bad thing,” she hurries to add when Linh opens her mouth to apologize. “I just want to help, if I can.”

“I-” Linh trails off, staring at the ground. “I was just thinking. About… stuff. Names. Memories.”

“Huh.” Marella doesn’t press, which Linh is thankful for. “Names can be weird sometimes,” she says carefully, turning to face Linh. “My mom- on her better days, she calls me Ella.”

Linh blinks. “I thought you didn’t like being called Ella.” Marella had almost taken Keefe’s head off when he had called her that once. Marella shrugs. 

“I don’t know. It’s different when Mom does it. It tells me… she’s there, I guess. She’s there and she loves me.” Marella worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “It’s hard to see, sometimes. What she’s going to do. What I’m supposed to do when she gets frantic or starts crying.” 

“I get that. Well. Not the ‘frantic and crying’ part, but I get not knowing what to do.”

Marella smiles, a tiny, crooked thing. “I thought you would, sweetie.”

Linh turns back to the landscape, staring out at it. Next to her, Marella shifts so she’s facing the same direction. Her eyes are still fixed on Linh, though. Maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s the sweetie, but Linh speaks up a few moments later. 

“My parents… didn’t always remember to call me Linh.” She says, testing the waters. Marella’s head inclines a tiny bit, encouraging her to go on. 

So Linh does. She tells the whole story, all those lonely years in Choralmere and then the too-free years in Wildwood. She’s never had to tell anyone that before- Tam has always known, and neither of them needed to say it out loud. 

When she finishes, Marella is silent. Linh worries she’s made a huge mistake. 

“Sorry,” she says quietly. “You don’t have to- I mean, I know this changes-”

“Hey, darling.” Marella shifts to sit on her knees in front of Linh, leaning forward and grabbing her hands. “This doesn’t change anything, okay. I mean, obviously it does,” she says thoughtfully, “but you’re still Linh, okay? You’re still Linh and you’re still beautiful. And I totally understand if you don’t want me to make a big deal out of this, but if you do, I happen to throw legendary parties.” 

Linh laughs, a half-choked sound of relief. Marella settles back against the tree with a grin and they stare at the horizon again. 

“Thanks,” Linh says after a moment. Marella gives her a thumbs-up.

“What are friends for, right?”

“Yeah.” Yeah, Linh reminds herself. Friends. 

-/-

“Whoa. Hon, look at this.” Marella pulls a tiny marble out of a box, glittering pale yellow and about the size of her thumbnail. Linh would almost mistake it for a Councillor’s cache if it weren’t for the absence of tiny jewels inside. 

They’re back in Edaline’s office, digging through piles of junk, but this time it’s just the two of them. Linh is halfway sure that’s intentional, actually- even Grady and Edaline suddenly decided to take an impromptu trip to Mysterium today. They have Havenfield all to themselves. 

(That sentence seems to fill Linh’s stomach with the mechanical butterflies they accidentally unleashed earlier. She doesn’t think about that too hard.)

(If she does, she knows she’ll find out something very odd about why she always feels warm when Marella calls her a pet name.)

“What is it?” She asks Marella. The other girl lifts one shoulder. 

“I don’t know, but it’s pretty. Let’s see...”

She taps the marble with two fingers and the lights cut out. They come back a few seconds later, Marella grinning sheepishly.

“Whoops. Sorry, sweetheart-”

“Stop calling me that.”

The words are out before Linh can stop them, and she flounders. “I mean- I just-” She shakes her head. “I can’t. Not when I know…” You don’t mean them, she finishes mentally. It hurts too much to hear you throw them out that easily. 

Marella’s expression shutters and she looks away. “Right,” she says, sounding oddly defeated. “Of course.”

She turns around, muttering “of course you would have figured it out” under her breath. Linh frowns and, since her mouth and her brain seem to be operating on different planes of existence today, says,

“What? Figured out what?” Her tone is almost challenging, but even Linh isn’t entirely sure why. Marella turns back around, arms crossed defensively.

“Really. You’re really gonna make me say it?”

“Say what?”

Marella throws up her hands. “Fine. I like you, okay? Is that what you wanted?” Her voice drops lower, less frustrated and more finished. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be weird. I’ll get over it.”

“You. You like me?” 

Marella doesn’t respond, already sorting through another pile. Linh takes a deep breath and uses what’s left of her courage. 

“I didn’t know that. I wanted you to stop calling me pet names because I thought they didn’t mean anything to you.”

Marella pauses. Straightens up. 

“They did,” she says, so softly it’s almost imperceptible. “They all did.” 

“They meant something to me too.” 

Edaline’s office is quiet. Linh doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, tries not to even think until Marella turns her head. 

“I hear there’s a really good restaurant in downtown Atlantis,” she says. It’s a question, an outstretched hand. Linh smiles and takes it. 

“That sounds amazing,” she responds. “Honey.”

The marble slips from Marella’s fingers and the lights turn off again. Marella’s smile, though, is enough to brighten the room. 

-/-

When she was little, Linh never had a nickname. 

They were too frivolous for her parents, too unnecessary for the people who sometimes forgot to even call her Linh. Nicknames weren’t needed for someone who barely had a name at all. 

Nicknames are never really needed, but they’re used here. 

“Mare,” she calls across their small kitchen, “we need to go.”

“I’m here! I’m ready,” Marella responds breathlessly, pecking Linh on the cheek as she rushes to pull her coat on. 

“Bi is going skin us alive if we’re late to Sophie’s party.”

“Good thing we’re not late then, sweetie.” Marella grins at her and moves out of the door. They are late, actually, but neither of them really care. 

It hits Linh sometimes, how very different her life is now. She has friends, and family, and a wonderful wife who deserves the world. 

(The ring on her finger seems to shine. That conversation was feather-light and delighted, a gasped yes and cheers from all their friends.)

“Hon, come on!”

She has a nickname now. Dozens, in fact. But she also has a name.

Linh Redek steps out the door. 

[soberyinragingyang]

s m i t h e r s (for the ask thing)

favorite thing about them

I guess the fact that he’s just... refreshing. You don’t see many characters like him, you know? Everything about him is opposable. Evil but still incredibly sincere, an everyman but with a rich, emotional personality. Submissive and syncophantic, but... by choice!

Even his sexuality, like it’s very clear that he’s gay, yet at the same time it’s pretty easy to forget about it. And I like that he’s closeted, too, I think writers tend to forget how relatable that is to queer people and not something to be glossed over (like a certain episode did... *bitter*)

least favorite thing about them

Disregarding his flanderization, I would say my least favorite thing about him is

Uhm... well there’s nothing about him I don’t like, but I do wish he wasn’t... idk, it’s not wasted potential, because this character is a legend, but I wish they’d done even more with him. I wish we’d get a spin-off by the old writers (or a new team of people who care) of him and Burns. It’d be a romcom adventure with elements of mystery ✨ I take no criticism

favorite line

Literally everything he says is gold... “No, sir. Who would you like killed?” being one of my favorites just bc it’s so absurd and his face when he says it.

Pictured ^, the face of a man ready to kill/get someone to kill.

But my all-time favorite has to be “I’ll show you how to use a phone, you boob!” because A: I’m sure he picked up ‘boob’ as an insult from Burns’ vocabulary, which is hilarious. B: He then proceeds to bang the phone into Homer’s head C: this is then followed by “It’s for you.”

brOTP

Him and Marge ❤️ I’m glad some writer had the vision to point out they’d make a good pair of friends and I really like to think about their relationship evolving, especially considering Marge has a bit of a crush on him (which is like... good taste). I also think it makes his dynamic with the other characters really interesting.

i.e he hates Homer but that’s his best friend’s wife, I can imagine him saddling Homer up with the worst duties just bc Marge told Smits about a fight they had, during tea the day before, haha.

And then there’s the fact that Burns is attracted to Marge (again, good taste) I feel like he’d be impressed by Smithers’ capability of forming a relationship with her, although he’d completely miss the point of it being purely platonic. I feel like to him, a man and a woman can be friends as much as two men can be lovers: not!

OTP

Burnsmithers!! (duh) I thought it was the best when I watched the show as kid and that opinion’s only been revived today haha. Don’t really have much more to say about this I haven’t already said except that there’s so. much. to. draw. and the amount of fics I have in the works, goshdang. I’m so in love. I apologize once more to everyone for being so bad at finishing things and putting them out there :<

nOTP

Uhm... none? I’m not really a nOTP kinda person except for the stuff that creeps me out, but I can’t really think of a pairing with Smits that makes me does that. So yeah, nah, shipping galore.

random headcanon

He got his first Malibu Stacy at the age of 15 with money from a parttime job (aka his own money, not his allowance) just to say ‘fuck you’ to his parents for not letting him have one as a kid. He wasn’t even interested in playing with it anymore, but it still made him feel like he was taking pride in an aspect of himself that others have condemned him for. A fascination commences...

unpopular opinion

I feel like I have many unpopular opinions about Waylon lol... the one that’s most important to me, I guess, is that he’s not a cinnamon roll!! I know he’s friendly and cute and sweet but... he’s not a good guy haha.

And what matters is that he enjoys not being a good guy. I know that’s less apparent in the newer seasons where it seems he’s only along for the ride on Burnsie’s schemes, but I really feel like he’s the kind of guy to actually take pleasure in corruption, malcontent and stepping on others from time to time.

And this relates to his dynamic with Monty as well. He doesn’t like Monty despite him being evil, he likes him because he’s evil. He doesn’t want to ‘fix’ him or whatever, I’m sure he sees some humanity and warmth in him but goodness? Benevolence? Nah.

He’s clearly been shown to try and gently steer Burns away from carrrying out any plans that are borderline twisting-mustache-villain evil (i.e taking candy from a baby, stuff that’s just not attractive anymore), but that’s it.

song i associate with them

‘Two’ by Sleeping at Last. I think it’s pretty self-explanatory but man, do I love a song that fits with the kind of character that would throw themselves into peril if it meant anything at all to their loved one, no matter what.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PrDzd4ufypE

favorite picture of them

That’s a hard one cause he’s always my favorite thing in every frame ever, especially when he’s wearing that incredible dress shirt + sweater combo

Like boye does he look good in casual wear...

HOWEVER I’m afraid I’ll have to go with The Classic on this one

Bc malicious Smithers is best Smithers

[freebooter4ever]

Here is the request, a beautiful heartwarming rendition of Eugene Sledge losing his virginity to Snafu, but set in the AU where Snaf and Sledge met before the war in Mobile while Snaf was working on the docks. Now, two years later they meet again on Pavuvu with Snaf a war-torn experienced marine and new replacement Sledge still very adorable and naive, and after after some brief hostility due to Snaf being an emotionally constipated dumbass, they work out their issues and have some fun. Thanks to @lieblinggs who really wanted to see them meet during the war in this AU and encouraged me.

Apologies in advance, I tried, I’m not sexy, my specialty is fluff and humor you guys....this is the last time anyone’s gonna ask me to write smut ever again lol. The secondhand embarrassment might be Hard with this one.

 Snafu is a ghost after Gloucester. The rain washed away all traces of his personality entirely and left him with very little to work with. He spends his days on Pavuvu avoiding doing anything, and he watches the slow progress of the healing sores on his skin like it's the final lap of the Indy 500.

He doesn't think about the future, all he knows at camp is warmth, his soft pillow, and the food he gets three times a day. After weeks of exhaustion, aches, and cold, he is finally comfortable. There's nothing much else on his mind besides that. 

Then Eugene Sledge walks into his tent.

Eugene Sledge arrives on a ship, and with the ship comes the daily mail bags, and in the mail comes a newspaper clipping from Snafu's home town. As if one helping of guilt wasn't enough and he needs another to balance it. The article from home, delivered minutes before Eugene walked back into his life, only brings half-guilt though. It says nothing of Mairzy, who is probably still safe in Mobile. And instead says everything about Snafu. And his heroism on Gloucester.

That brings a little bit of pride which eases the sting of the guilt over leaving his sister behind.

He tries to focus on the letter and the newspaper clipping instead of the boy standing in his tent, with his crooked helmet hanging off his ginger hair. After Gloucester, Snafu can barely focus on anything at all. The five minutes when Eugene tries to claim a bunk in their tent is an outlier. Snafu's entire reason for being narrows in focus, and it becomes imperative that Eugene not live in the same space. He needs to convince Burgie of this, though Burgie unquestioningly plays along with the disdain Snafu started easily enough.

It's been two years since he saw Eugene Sledge. They did not part well. Snafu isn't so good with goodbyes.

"Understatement," Sledge mutters in the chow line behind Snafu later that day.

Snafu had just got done explaining all this history to Burgie while they waited for their flood, and Snafu hadn't even noticed Eugene was there, eavesdropping on them. Snafu's constant state of physical awareness must be slipping within the relative safety of Pavuvu.

Burgie takes one look at Sledge, and one look at Snafu. "I don't know what this is about and I don't care, but please make sure I still have an entire squad standing and in fighting fit by the end of it," he warns. And with that he collects his food and makes a run for it, leaving Snafu to face the music on his own.

Snafu turns around, and meets Eugene's eyes, and sees blank emptiness. Eugene isn't even angry. Snafu had hoped Eugene would be angry. That he would hate Snafu to the ends of the earth. 

Neither of them say anything. They just engage in a silent stare down until someone behind them in line asks what's the hold up. Eugene turns around to apologize and Snafu ducks underneath the serving table and disappears behind the mess tent.

Snafu is in danger of saying something stupid. He can sense it, bubbling up in him like alka-seltzer in coke. One look in Eugene's damn eyes and he's falling in love all over again.

In retaliation for Eugene sneaking up on him, Snafu finds the skipper who always invents the worst work duties. Sure enough all it takes is some idle chitchat to convince the skipper that now is the time to clean out the oil barrels. Snafu offers to oversee the work, and suggests a couple new Boots to assign the task to, and the rest is history.

Eugene gets angry at him then. He glares prettily at Snafu from underneath his elbow while scrubbing drums. There's something else burning beneath that anger. Snafu can sense it in the way Eugene's gaze lingers on the movement of Snafu's hips - in how sometimes Snafu turns around only to catch Eugene looking away.

Otherwise Snafu avoids Sledge like the plague.

He does a pretty good job of it. Until the day Sledge disappears.

As Snafu walks by a tent he overhears one of the officers complaining that Sledge hasn't been seen since lunch. Apparently the boy skipped out on dinner and coconut detail. Which is an understandable thing to skip - nobody willingly subjects themselves to the smell and texture of rotten coconuts. Sledge's disappearance makes sense. Unless one knows Sledge, and knows he would never shirk duty no matter how unpleasant.

Snafu also knows something else the officer didn't consider and maybe Sledge didn't even know - certain members of How company were scheduled to rotate home this morning. As far as Snafu knew, their ship already left dock. So it doesn't take much to guess where Eugene might be.

He finds Eugene sitting on an empty cot in Phillip's old tent. Eugene is holding a book in his hands but he isn't reading it. His head hangs between his shoulders in defeat. He doesn't acknowledge Snafu when Snafu steps into the tent, even though Snafu's shadow falls over him with the harsh evening light so low in the sky.

Snafu hesitates to enter so he hovers in the doorway. There is a second cot across the room. But there is also a little sliver of space next to Eugene on the first cot that Snafu knows he could squeeze his butt onto if he tried.

"Left alone again?" Snafu asks. He tries to sound sympathetic.

Eugene looks up. He clearly did not expect the person in the doorway to be Snafu. And - oh! - Eugene's eyes are full of hope. Snafu makes his decision. He crosses the room and sits next to Eugene. They're so close there isn't an inch of space between them.

Snafu turns his head and rests his nose on Eugene's shoulder. He closes his eyes, and breathes.

He missed how Eugene smelled

"You'd think I'd be used to being the type to be left behind by now," Eugene gripes.

Snafu snorts. "It ain't you," he mumbles into Eugene's shoulder, "It's us. We're just dicks."

"Sidney is not a dick."

"But I am?"

"Jury's still out on that one"

Snafu grins. He turns his hips in towards Eugene so he can wrap his arms around his waist and press closer in a sort of half hug. "Guess it's a good thing you're fond of my dick, then." He kisses Eugene's neck, "You certainly felt me up enough times. Remember the day under the bridge by your house?"

Eugene sighs in exasperation and tilts his head back, "God, Merriell."

"Jury out on that one too? Cause if you need me to jog your memory…"

"Why didn't you say goodbye?" Eugene interrupts, "Why did I wake up one morning to find your house empty and Mairzy alone?"

Snafu holds Eugene and thinks about that one for a bit. He finally surmises, "You would have asked why I was enlisting."

"Why were you enlisting?" Eugene asks.

"For you," Snafu admits. He turns his face in towards Eugene's neck. Takes another deep breath. If he doesn't face Eugene, Snafu can pretend the man next to him is still the same boy who skipped class every day to bicycle down to the docks where Snafu worked, and kiss him behind the pilings.

"I would have stopped you," Eugene says.

"I know."

They sit in silence for another beat, and then Eugene asks a second question, "You fought in the same battle on Gloucester, you must have some insight. Why didn't Sid tell me goodbye?"

Snafu takes a deep breath and debates giving Eugene the real answer. 

He doesn't think you're going to live. Keeping attachments is a hazard here.

"If you were at those same battles," Snafu concludes quietly, "You'd realize there's no room for thought, and no insight to be had."

Eugene nods, "Guess I'll learn." He sounds scared.

Snafu tightens his hold around Eugene's waist.

During another long silence Snafu works up the courage to ask a question he's been wondering for two years.

"Did you love him?"

The question seems to genuinely startle Eugene. And then the dots connect. "Sid?" Eugene asks, "Of course I loved him. He's my best and oldest friend in the whole world."

It's Snafu's turn to nod, resigned. He rests his forehead on Eugene's back.

"But also…" Eugene says quietly, "No. I didn't love him like I loved you. God Mer, I never loved anyone like I loved you."

Snafu sits up so he can look Eugene in the eye, "You loved me?"

"Yes," Eugene says, smiling back, "Not that you gave me much chance to."

Snafu grins.

"What about you?" Eugene asks, "Still carrying a torch for me or did you find some girl in Melbourne too?"

Snafu leans back, his smile widens, "Who said anything about girls?"

"Sid slept with some woman in Australia," Eugene says.

"You jealous?" Snafu asks.

Eugene ignores him. "Sid claims war is the opposite of that...the opposite of sex, he means. I guess. I wouldn't know anything about either," Eugene says. He sounds grumpy.

Snafu laughs, "Sex ain't all it's cracked up to be."

"You're saying it should be closer on the scale to war?"

"No, I'm saying some parts are great but there's a lot of bullshit that goes with it," Snafu explains, "I wouldn't use it as a benchmark."

"Did you sleep with someone in Melbourne?" 

"I'm not a virgin, Eugene. Not now; not in melbourne; nor was I two years ago when I met you."

Eugene abruptly stands up from the cot. He wipes his hands on his pants. His palms are red and Snafu bets if he touches them, they'd be hot.

Snafu leans back on the cot and surveys Eugene.

"So what part's the bullshit, then?" Eugene demands, "In sex?"

Snafu shrugs nonchalantly, "You try growing up queer in New Orleans where the only men who'll fuck you are the older ones who insist you keep silent about it. Who treat you like the dirt you live in."

"Men who were ashamed of you?" Eugene asks, "Like you accused me of being?"

"Ashamed of me and of themselves," Snafu replies, "Don't care about anyone's pleasure except their own. Can make sex real unpleasant sometimes. And once it gets associated with pain, real hard to seperate it."

"Mer, why would you…?"

"Better than nothing. When you're alone," Snafu kicks his legs onto the cot and lies down with his hands behind his head, "Don't deserve better anyway. I can take the bullshit." He looks at the tent canvas and listens to the sound of the rainstorm pounding hard on the roof.

He can't see Eugene but Eugene doesn't stop watching him.

"So what's at your other end then?" Eugene asks, "For you, what is opposite war on the spectrum of human experience?"

Snafu contemplates quietly for a few minutes and then says, "Do you remember that night I got so drunk that you hunted me down, found me, took me home, and let me sleep in your bed? And you went to school and I stayed under your covers all day? And I didn't have to get up for nothing except to have food served at my door. Just laid in bed for hours and read all your journals."

"You read my journals?" Eugene says incredulously.

"They were enlightening," Snafu turns his head and lifts his chin to smirk at him.

"They were at least ninety percent about botany," Eugene protests, "Completely boring."

"And the other ten percent provided detailed descriptions of every handsome man who ever walked into your life," Snafu claims.

"Sometimes it's easier to describe what I see with words than draw," Eugene says defensively.

"Anyway," Snafu continues and looks back at the ceiling, "I laid around reading your horny thorny journals till you came home. And you crawled into bed with me. And you held me and kissed me. And introduced me to your parents. And they liked me, though I think they liked Mairzy better." He sighs and closes his eyes. He can still smell Eugene's room from that day. "That memory is what's on the other end," Snafu tells him.

"Mer…"

"Ain't ever loved anybody like I loved you," Snafu throws Eugene's own words back at him and smiles.

In a rush, Eugene bends down, grabs the lapels of Snafu's shirt, and kisses him passionately. Snafu barely has time to react. 

"Shit, I forgot. " Too soon Eugene switches gears, wrenches his face away, and drops Snafu like a live grenade. Eugene lunges towards the tent door and knocks it shut. He peers through the mosquito netting before covering it with the canvas flap.

Snafu laughs. "Nobody's gonna be out in this storm. Nothing to be worried about," he says. He lolls his head back and resists rolling his eyes.

"Yeah and who knows how long the rain's gonna last," Eugene says as he unrolls the canvas covers of all the tent windows.

"It's gonna get hot in here if you do that," Snafu points out.

"Do you want to be court martialed?" Eugene asks.

"Depends," Snafu says, "What exactly will we be getting up to in here to merit it? Will it be worth my while?" He waggles his eyebrows.

Eugene finishes the last tent flap, steps over the debris and trash on the floor, and makes his way back to the cot to stand in front of Snafu.

"Before I go to war, I want to know what the other end of the spectrum is like," Eugene announces. He carefully places his hands on Snafu's shoulders, and then straddles his lap.

Snafu sits up, slides his hands over Eugene's hips and along his back.

"Besides, you've been teasing me since the minute I got here," Eugene accuses, "Time to follow through."

Snafu huffs.

"Are you telling me the oil barrels wasn't your idea?" Eugene asks, "And staying to watch me sweat? That was all on you."

"Ain't denying it," Snafu says, leaning in close, his eyes on Eugene's lips.

"So shut up and kiss me, then," Eugene says.

Every single bit of Snafu wants to. He runs his hands around to feel the flat of Eugene's stomach, no longer soft after all that bootcamp training. Slowly Snafu rucks Eugene's shirt up over his head. It gets tossed to the extra cot behind them.

Snafu keeps Eugene in his lap with a steadying hand on the small of his back. With his free hand he lifts the dog tags hanging around Eugene's neck.

"You got what you wanted," Snafu says. He runs his fingers over the name. First Marines. Bondurant.

Eugene smiles thinly and shakes his head, "You're a little behind on your intel." His hand closes around Snafu's hand holding the dog tags. He gently takes them away and swings the chain over his shoulder. "This is what I wanted," Eugene whispers right before he cradles Snafu's face and kisses him.

Snafu kisses back. He kisses back hard enough to drown out all his conflicted thoughts. If Eugene wants this, he can give it to him. And it feels good. He can add this to his list of comfort - warmth, sleep, food, and the feel of Eugene moving in his lap, Eugene's lips on his neck, Eugene's hands in his hair.

Oddly enough it's Eugene who breaks the kiss. Snafu moans as Eugene pulls away and climbs off Snafu's lap. Snafu tries to follow but he doesn't get far. Eugene gently places a hand on his shoulder to stop him. And then steps back.

Snafu watches as Eugene's hands undo his own belt and then the button of his dungarees. Eugene drops the pants to the ground and steps on them to pull them off his feet. He dips his fingers into the waistband of his underwear and slides them along the hem, looking nervous.

"We can stop," Snafu reassures him, "Or you can keep those on and go right back to kissing me. Don't gotta go any further than that."

Eugene silently thumbs the waistband and in one swoop, shoves them to the ground. When he tries to get his feet out of his clothes this time, he stumbles, and Snafu has to catch him before he falls over.

It's the first time Snafu touches Eugene's bare butt. And he can't help but giggle a little.

Eugene smiles too. He stands in front of Snafu and fidgets shyly. Snafu grabs Eugene's bouncing hand and tugs him closer. Closer till Snafu's nose bumps against Eugene's stomach.

"This ok?" Snafu asks. He tilts his head back to look at Eugene while he runs his hand up the inside of Eugene's thigh.

Eugene nods enthusiastically and mutters something under his breath.

"Sorry, couldn't hear that?" Snafu grins. He switches to touching Eugene's other leg - up the thigh and around his butt. Eugene's still got a death grip going on Snafu's right hand.

"Yes, Mer, it's more than okay. I thought you were old hat at this, do I have to spell it out for you or…? Oh!" Eugene shudders into silence.

Snafu's throat is unusually dry whether from anticipation or - dare he say it - nerves. Snafu has to swallow and lick his lips a few times to get everything to go smooth. He's never been nervous going down on someone before, but Eugene is...Eugene. Snafu wants this first time to be as perfect as Gene himself. 

Eugene, for his part, is watching Snafu with heavy lidded awe and looking as if he's about to faint. He groans and starts to sag where he stands.

Snafu pulls off. He gets up and puts his arms around Eugene to stabilize him. "Why don't you lie down?" he suggests.

Instead Eugene kisses him. He grips Snafu's hips, brings them both together, and kisses him desperately until neither of them can breathe.

"Gene…" Snafu smiles, "Gene, lie down. I'll take care of you."

Eugene doesn't listen. He tugs Snafu's shirt off and makes quick work of the button on Snafu's dungarees. Snafu stumbles with his pants around his ankles and Eugene actually fucking lifts Snafu off the ground by his waist so he can kick his legs free.

"Eugene…!" Snafu almost laughs.

"I won't drop you," Eugene promises, still holding him tight. He gets an arm underneath Snafu's ass and hefts him higher.

They kiss again, with Snafu suspended in the air, naked against Gene's body like some dramatic movie ending where the music swells and everything fades to black. 

If this was a movie, they could skip all the ugly parts and he and Gene could go home.

"Lie down, let me take care of you," Snafu repeats. He pulls away from their kiss and stares into Gene's pretty dark eyes and waits for him to listen. Eugene has a habit of giving way to Snafu's expertise.

Sure enough, Eugene reluctantly releases his hold on Snafu and stretches out on the cot. His hands immediately reattach themselves to Snafu's hips when Snafu straddles him. Eugene looks calm and his unfaltering trust is a lot of responsibility laid on Snafu's narrow shoulders.

It takes a minute to line everything up properly. When Snafu sinks down onto Eugene's lap, he screws his eyes shut from the pain, but he hears Gene moan in pleasure. Snafu breathes through it, and keeps going. Till Gene's warm hands interrupt by sliding gently around his waist. Eugene sits up and refuses to let Snafu sink down on him again, holding his body still.

"Mer, are you alright?" Eugene asks.

"'M fine," Snafu mumbles, "Just takes a bit to loosen up. Not a lot to work with here on Pavuvu. Let me go."

"You looked like you were in pain."

"A good kind.."

"No! Merriell...just...stop…I refuse to hurt you" Eugene kisses him tenderly.

Snafu squirms. "Hold on…" Snafu crawls off Gene's lap and staggers to his feet, feeling a little off balance, "You said this was How Company's bunk right?"

"Yeah?" Eugene says, confused.

"Had a buddy in here," Snafu says. He wanders around the tent, kicking at trash and opening boxes, "He might'a left something…"

"A buddy?" Eugene sounds unimpressed.

"Do you want to fuck me or not?" Snafu asks, lifting a small container triumphantly. He tosses it to Eugene who unscrews the lid and looks inside.

"I do," Eugene says.

"Then don't ask about buddys," Snafu replies, "None of them matter. Haven't been with anybody since Gloucester anyway."

"I guess I should be grateful you know what you're doing," Eugene says, handing him the container.

The container is mostly empty, but there's enough to make things slide easy. This time Eugene rolls Snafu over onto his back and settles between his legs. He fucks Snafu slowly, watching his face for the first long while, as if making sure Snafu isn't hiding pain from him again. And oh boy does it feel good now, in a leisurely, drawn out, intense kinda way. Snafu enjoys every minute of it. 

To his surprise. 

It used to be the opposite. With the other guys it was usually quick. The faster he gets this part over, the faster he can jerk himself off and be done with it. But Eugene keeps hitting parts inside him that Snafu did not even know existed. Fuck reading journals, Snafu wants to do this for hours in Eugene's bed instead. Luckily Eugene is in no rush. 

He seems more focused on kissing Snafu than getting off. At one point Gene slips out and he hardly notices, too busy sucking on his face. It's up to Snafu, grinning stupidly, to break the kiss briefly and line him up again.

Snafu hasn't been this sensitive around his ass for ages. All it takes is for Eugene to push up against him even lightly and Snafu is goddamn writhing underneath him. It's ridiculous. Normally he keeps a safe disconnect between that general area and his brain.

But - oh!

Fuck.

Eugene is turning that disconnect into a thing of the past.

Snafu thinks he must have moaned or something because Eugene pauses briefly and holds himself over Snafu, smiling goofily.

"Why'd you stop?" Snafu pants.

"Wanted to watch you," Eugene grins back.

"Fuck, Eugene," Snafu complains, drawing Eugene's name out in a groan, his legs still moving even though Eugene is doing nothing but lying there like a hard slippery dense rock between them.

"I think Sid might be right," Eugene says.

"You are not talking about Sidney Fucking Philips right now…"

"This is the most amazing experience of my life," Eugene brags, leaning in to kiss Snafu's neck and running his hand down Snafu's side as Snafu arches up into the touch.

"Shut the fuck up, Sledge," Snafu gripes.

"Mmm, no, I won't," Eugene hums against Snafu's collarbone, "You love it. I've seen you now. I know."

"Fuck, Gene! Please."

Eugene's hand slides between their bodies and strokes Snafu's cock - fucking adoringly - if a hand job could even be adoring - and, fuck all it takes is one second before Snafu loses total control, and much to everyone's surprise, cum squirts high and shoots far enough to hit Gene in the chin.

Snafu stares at Eugene, wide eyed with shock, and maybe a little embarrassment.

Eugene laughs. He gathers Snafu up even tighter in his arms, buries his face in his hair, and whispers, "I love you," his voice full of delight.

Snafu is slowly drifting back to earth, though he can feel his mouth still gaping like a fish. "You ain't done yet."

"I got too distracted by you," Gene replies. He slowly starts rolling his hips into Snafu again.

Snafu rolls his eyes at the sentiment.

Eugene pistons into him erratically, like he's chasing a high he doesn't quite understand how to reach. Feeling a sudden burst of inspiration, Snafu maneuvers Eugene to where he can hold Gene's face in his hands, wipe off the cum dripping down his neck, and then asks, in a serious voice, "Sledge?"

"Yeah?" Eugene responds.

"Hammer me."

Eugene bites his lip to keep from laughing and he presses his forehead to Snafu's but he starts to go at it a little more rhythmically. Snafu keeps his eyes open to watch it happen. He sees when Sledge hits the tipping point and starts pounding into him desperately. And sees when Eugene finally climaxes in a series of moans and breathy whispers of Snafu's name.

They collapse together in a slippery mess.

As could be predicted, Eugene is a snuggler and he clings to Snafu like a long-limbed sloth. He even falls asleep. And snores. Snafu curls around him and wiggles his fingers through Gene's hair to smooth all the knots out. That takes him a good long while. Eventually the rain stops. Gene sleeps on.

Burgie accidentally steps into the tent for a brief second. After the initial moment of shocked staring, he pivots to face the wall and casts his eyes to the ceiling.

Snafu's fight or flight instinct kicks in because Burgie is not leaving. Despite Sledge's bare ass being on display between Snafu's very naked legs.

"Well, that's a relief," Burgie comments idly, "I take it this means we won't be having any more personal problems among our mortar squad?"

"Right as rain, Burgie," Snafu drawls.

"Good," Burgie nods at the wall, his tone is friendly, "I'll tell the skipper you're both indisposed tonight. See you in the morning, Snaf." And then he leaves, shutting the door tight behind him.

The sound wakes Eugene up, finally.

Gene squints, and looks around himself like he's lost. His eyes finally settle on Snafu and his whole expression goes soft. He melts over Snafu's body languidly and props his chin on Snafu's chest.

"Yeah, after this I'm gonna have to move my benchmark. Take this into consideration as the most amazing indescribable experience ever," Eugene says.

He's looking so full of himself and smiley that Snafu would be tempted to take him down a peg or two if Gene wasn't also so irresistible.

"You can journal about it," Snafu suggests.

Gene snorts a laugh. He kisses Snafu's sternum gently.

Snafu stretches, his body starting to ache from lying around so long. He tickles Eugene's neck till he rolls off him in a fit of giggles. "Gonna have to change my nickname," Snafu says, "SNAFO. Situation Normal All Fucked Out."

"That will never catch on," Eugene argues. His hand starts exploring Snafu's body and is awfully close to reaching between his thighs again.

"Gene!" Snafu laughs. He flexes his hips and hums when Eugege's delicate fingers rub him lightly. He's still soft, but honestly, with Eugene, it probably wouldn't take much. "That wasn't a challenge."

"You sure about that?" Eugene asks impishly, "Cause I'm prepared to take it as one."

Snafu rolls on top of him and sits up. He pins Eugene's arms over his head playfully.

"Least we got a new nickname for you outta this," Snafu points out.

'What's that?" Gene asks.

"Sledgehammer."

"If you dare…" Eugene starts in a mock serious tone, "...to call me that in front of any of the men...I'll...I'll…"

"You'll what?" Snafu taunts.

"I'll kiss you in public," Eugene says, "In full view of everybody."

"You won't," Snafu calls his bluff.

"Maybe not, but I'll want to," Eugene says, "Every time you call me that I'll want to."

"Sledgehammer," Snafu drawls, taunting.

Eugene smiles, pulls him into a kiss, and Eugene's 'first time' quickly transitions into his 'second time'.

Snafu doesn't push the boundaries of the nickname. He only uses it in private, when he can whisper in Eugene's ear and Eugene can bend down to kiss him silly.

They search out places they can be alone. It isn't too difficult to do but the farther they wander from civilization, the less hospitable the environment is. After a few days of discovering how uncomfortable sand can be in sensitive areas of the body, and a few 'times' of almost getting caught by fellow Marines less friendly than Burgin, Snafu comes up with the bright idea to borrow old tent material and use it as a blanket. They hike through the jungle to an isolated beach cove and stretch the stained canvas over the sand.

"Does it keep getting better every time?" Eugene asks Snafu afterwards.

They're lying on top of each other, still naked and sweaty. Snafu is itching for a smoke. He reaches for his pants, but Eugene, knowing exactly what he is going for, places a gentle hand on his shoulder to stop him.

Snafu grunts and shifts so he's nestled more snugly between Eugene's legs. He works out his craving on Eugene's neck, and takes great pleasure in sucking a hickey in a place Eugene can't possibly hide.

"I'm wondering how often I'll need to move that benchmark," Eugene continues.

"As if I'm the expert?" Snafu asks.

"You are the one with more experience here…" Eugene says.

"Not like this," Snafu lifts his head to stare into Gene's eyes, "Never had nothing like this, Sledgehammer."

There's a fire in Snafu and it's not lust. Or maybe partially, but another part, a deeply buried protective streak, desperately wants Eugene to keep this. This warm happy glow around sex. Cause Snafu's benchmark is moving too, in a direction he thought impossible, and the changes make him so dizzy he can barely keep up. Sometimes he forgets there was anything before this. That love and pleasure is as uncomplicated and joyous as Eugene believes it to be - completely unassociated with physical pain, with hatred. A total opposite to the carnage and destructive hell of war. 

The thought of losing Eugene to war makes Snafu nauseous, and yet it's a constant awareness in the back of his mind, coloring everything they do. Eugene, meanwhile, remains blissfully unaware.

And fuck, that's gonna change, and Snafu is powerless to stop it.

They're going into battle tomorrow. This is the last chance he'll get to lay around and relish in the feel of Eugene's bare unblemished skin against his.

Possibly the last chance ever, if Eugene joins ranks with one of the many many statistics.

So he forgoes smoking and pours all his attention into making Eugene moan every chance he gets. Let Eugene have this. Let him hold onto this.

"Sledgehammer," Snafu says when he finds Eugene standing alone on the deck of the ship carrying them into battle. The sun is setting, and Eugene is beautiful.

Gene responds with a kiss intense enough to be worthy of their last kiss. Snafu promises to stick by Eugene's side during the entire campaign. They don't talk about any other possibility.

As it turns out, the first time Snafu uses Eugene's nickname in front of K Company happens after Eugene saves Snafu's life. The minute Snafu says "Sledgehammer" out loud, Eugene looks at him slyly. And in that single glance, Snafu knows they both understand.

tagging request @xmxisxforxmaybe

[benkouji726]

Five times Alex surprised Forrest and one time he didn’t

Chapter 2! It’s even longer than chapter 1, I must have lost my mind.

A little warning: this Chapter is Guerin heavy, and not exactly Guerin friendly. Sorry in advance.

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

2.

They didn’t talk about Guerin.

To be fair, it was not like Alex purposely had avoided talking about him, just, there had been no good chance to. When they were together, out on a date or stayed in, they had so much to talk about: their shared passion for emotional artistic outlets, either music or poetry, their combat days, and how they both didn’t agree with the concept of war but had no choice but to fight, their different PTSD-symptoms, their true selves, just to name a few. They also had silly and meaningless conversations, like who their favorite slayer was, or how they cried over the new episode of Queer Eye. There was never a dull moment in their three months long relationship, and at no point would Forrest willingly talk about Alex’s ex. He didn’t even know if Guerin WAS Alex’s ex or not, from what he’d gathered from Alex’s friends, they’d not been dating to begin with.

Which brought him to the second scenario where Guerin might have been a topic between them, if he had ever shown to the friend group thingy (still didn’t how to call it) whenever he was around. He knew Guerin would be there, as long as Forrest couldn’t make it. And when they accidentally bumped in each other, whether with or without Alex’s presence, Guerin would always politely nod, mumble something like “howdy”, and turned away. He steered away from open mic nights completely.

So it was not like Forrest could abruptly turn to Alex, when they were in the middle of discussing what they would do after Friday’s dinner date, and said casually, “hey you know Michael Guerin? The one you apparently have been in love with for at least a decade, who, judged by the looks he throws your way when he thinks you are not looking, is also in love with you. Who you wrote an epic love song for and SANG it in front of your family, your colleagues, the whole town, and ME? How is the love between you two doing? Still going strong?”

No, that was not going to happen. Besides, he was kind of afraid what the answer would be. So he asked an easier question.

“Why don’t we just go back to your house, so we can netflix and chill?”

Alex smiled fondly, “We ‘netflix and chill’ed the last Friday. Don’t you want to do something more fun?”

“How dare you to assume any time we spend together is anything but fun, you wounded me, Manes.”

“Oh my God”, Alex laughed, “I thought you were done with the cheeky lines.”

Forrest smirked. “For you? Never.”

Alex shook his head, but he also turned a little pink in his ears, which gave Forrest enough courage to say the next bit.

“And after we ‘chilled’”, he winked, Alex rolled his eyes, “I thought maybe I could spend the night?”

And there it was, the “I don’t think this is a good idea but let me think of a way to let you down gently” face. It came out every time Forrest brought up the sleepover thing.

Honestly, Forrest was a little tired. They were dating three months now, they texted each other almost every single day, they spent time together regularly, they had three or four dates each week, and they ended having sex after ALL of their dates. It was frankly a little ridiculous that they always had to leave after sex to go to their own houses, even when they were bone deep tired and they had tangled in each other in warmth.

So he interrupted whatever Alex was trying to say, and turned on his most charming smile, even though his voice was a little shaky, because hope mixed with fear for rejection was always scary as fuck.

“I make a killer pancake, if I do say so myself. I’d hate for you to miss out on that.”

Alex blinked. Searched his face for a minute. Looked down. And when he looked up again, the let-down face was gone, and he said, softly but determined, “Well, if you put it that way, I’d hate for me to miss out on that too.”

——————————

Dinner was great. The ‘chill’ part was mind blowing as usual, though they didn’t do much of the netflix part, because, and Forrest could not stress this enough, the chill part was REALLY good and they kinda had a hard time to keep their hands to themselves even after the “chilling”. So they just made out for God know how long, lazily and contently, between laughs and little convos, until they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

That was, until Forrest was startled awake by some loud knocking. Next thing he knew, Alex was already out of bed and headed to his front door.

“Wait, what? Who?” In his defense, he was not fully awake.

Alex threw him an apologizing smile over his shoulder, and gave him a name he least want to hear.

“It’s probably Guerin, and it’s probably nothing. Go back to sleep.” With that, he was gone.

Like hell he was going back to sleep after THAT.

Sitting up in Alex’s bed, Forrest realized Guerin never spoke while knocking on the door, and Alex was so sure it was him before he even got out of bed. Which did not just suggest their complex relationship, but also indicated it was not a one time occurrence.

Suddenly, Forrest thought of the many times Alex rejected his request to spend the night together and wondered if that was the real reason behind it.

It was insecure and unhealthy as fuck, he knew. And he also knew Alex was never this type of man. But the fact Alex left him in the middle of the night (clock said 2 am, Jesus), and didn’t even hesitate to come to Guerin, was enough to make his blood boil.

So he decided, then and there, fuck it, I’m gonna be petty because I sure as hell feel petty.

They were on Alex’s couch in his living room, sitting respectfully far enough. Guerin’s face was buried in his hands, and Alex was saying something, quiet and soft.

Forrest went out, barefoot, bare chest, came directly in front of Alex, dropped a kiss on his forehead, and said in a sleepy voice:

“What’s wrong, honey? Why aren’t you in bed?”

Only then he pretended to notice Guerin, and acted innocently surprised.

“Alien Guy! What are you doing here, at this hour?”

Through all his antics, both Alex and Guerin seemed frozen on spot. Good. Dramatic effect accomplished.

Then Alex turned to him, gave him his “I know what you are doing but I don’t approve” captain glance, which was unfairly hot, at the same time Guerin blurted out,

“Wait, he is sleeping here now?!” He seemed WAY more upset about this than whatever had been bothering him before he came.

Alex turned his glance to Guerin, added a warning “Michael”, and Guerin deflated like a punctured ballon. He curled in around himself, defeated, and threw some puppy eyes towards Alex. And Alex visibly softened.

They looked in each other’s eyes, seemingly having a silent conversation, and Forrest suddenly felt cold without his shirt and shoes.

He was prepared to be told again that he should go back to bed when Alex spoke, steel in his voice.

“Forrest is my boyfriend, we’ve been dating for three months now. It’s natural that we spend the night together at this point, don’t you think?”

Guerin looked like he was punched in his gut.

Alex stood up, went next to Forrest, and continued.

“You know you can come to me anytime you need me, Michael. And I’m willing to do whatever I can to help you. You’re my family, that’s never gonna change. But your issues with Max, I can’t help you with. It’s something you need to talk to him. Hell, you both should see a therapist together at this point. But you’re never gonna have answers and solutions by coming to me and crying on my shoulders.”

“So what, I can’t talk to my family about my problems, just because they can’t solve it?” Guerin stood up too, anger and hurt all over his face.

“You can, just not after midnight, when my boyfriend is here. So right now, you need to go.”

Guerin looked down, “You don’t have to say the B word again, I heard it first time.”

He turned around and left, without looking at Forrest even once.

After he slammed the door shut, Alex took several deep breaths, eyes teary, and asked in a small voice.

“I know we need to talk about this”, he leaned in to Forrest, head rest on his shoulder, “but can we talk in the morning? I’m exhausted and just wanna sleep now.”

So they slept.

——————————

Next morning, Forrest was making pancakes and working out some plausible excuses as why he behaved like a goddamn high schooler and preparing for the hurtful but inevitable “look I’m sorry but I still love Michael” speech, when Alex appeared in the kitchen, freshly showered and looking like all of Forrest’s wet dreams rolled into one. It’s so unfair, the high schooler in Forrest whined.

What Alex said though, took him totally by surprise.

“I kinda liked it, you know.”

“...My pancakes? You’ve not had them yet.” He said, knowing perfectly that was not Alex was talking about.

Alex smiled, shyly. “No, I mean, when you came out and claimed your stake on me.”

Forrest blushed. He’d NEVER blushed. “You mean when I made a fool of myself being petty and immature like fuck?”

“Come to think of it, it WAS indeed very irrational and somewhat a dick move, so not adult-like”, Alex teased, but his eyes were warm and fond, “But I liked the fact that you would become this emotion-driven for me. And also the fact you’re willing to fight dirty for me, for us.”

Forrest felt so giddy he could combust. “Be careful there, Manes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you are enabling my bad behavior.”

Alex laughed. “Oh God no. For future reference, I’d prefer we solve our insecurities and problems by communicating, not through some childish possessive bullshit”, he paused, considered for a minute, and said in a quieter voice, “but I get it. I didn’t exactly give you a chance to talk about Guerin and our history, and I didn’t handle the situation very well when he showed up. I should have talked to you before I went to him, I’m sorry.”

Forrest didn’t want to push, he really didn’t. But when it came to Alex, he was seriously lacking impulse control, so he went and asked, “Why didn’t you then?”

Alex seemed to be lost for a moment. But then he began to talk, slowly but surely.

“Michael and I, we had this instant connection and we have loved each other for a long time. But we also shared painful history and a ton of issues. We decided, over and over again, that we didn’t work, but we were always drawn back together like we were being pulled by some invisible strings.”

He inhaled, exhaled. And continued.

“When I sang that song, I didn’t know he was gonna be there. But when he showed up, I thought, well, maybe it was a sign, that I should fight for him one last time, so I looked into his eyes, and bared my heart and soul for him.”

“Then he walked out in the middle of the song.”

He seemed so heartbroken Forrest couldn’t help but went to him and held his hand.

Alex held on tight.

“I decided then and there, I wanna move on, like, truly move on. Free myself and see if I can find someone who makes me happy and for me to make him happy. And I’m so glad that I found you.”

He looked into Forrest eyes then, raw and open.

“I don’t think I’ll ever able to fully stop loving him, it’s like in my blood. He knows this, and he’s under the impression that he is currently not good enough for me, and he’s improving himself, so that when our timing is right, he’d come back and we’ll live happily ever after.”

Forrest felt his heart sank. He wasn’t sure he was able to pick it up again.

“But heart doesn’t work that way. I can’t just order it to wait and not to fall for anyone else. When I’m with someone, I’m all in. I don’t treat them like they’re just a stepping stone for somebody else, that’s not how I’m built. And when I’m all in, I see all of you. And it’s really easy to fall for you, because you are the best thing that happened to me in a very long time.”

Forrest opened his mouth, but no word would come. He felt his emotions were on a roller coaster today, he didn’t even know where to begin to untangle his messy feelings.

Alex took his silence as hesitation and started to pull away.

“I get it if you don’t want to throw yourself in my mess. But I really want to try to work it out. Because you’re worth fighting for. WE are worth fighting for.”

At that, Forrest had no choice but to wipe his tears, hold him and kiss him.

They would fight together.

[love-takes-work]

Ace/Aro Amethyst headcanons

Some people headcanon Amethyst as asexual and/or aromantic. I think that's pretty cool.

Unfortunately, some people are really hostile to this idea. Sometimes in a way that's problematic.

No, I'm not going to tell you you have to headcanon Amethyst as asexual and aromantic or else you're an acephobe. That's silly. Here's the problem: I recently came across a post on Reddit where a member of the Steven Universe subreddit demanded to know where the "stupid" headcanon of ace Amethyst came from and opined that it's ridiculous because that orientation does not "fit her personality."

Think about that for a sec, y'all.

Sexualities don't have personalities. This is a problem.

If you follow some of the interviews Rebecca Sugar has done over the years, especially lately, she sometimes talks about her growth toward understanding herself as bisexual and why it took her so long to figure it out. It was partly because media representation of characters follows a certain system, and as a result she'd been led to believe bisexual people were aggressively sexual, greedy, unfaithful, and extremely desirous of attention.

"I didn't know you could be a SHY bisexual," she said, and you can hear the wonder in her voice at that idea.

So let's really consider that, please. Any orientation can have any type of personality. And if you pigeonhole someone into what their orientation is likely to be because of how you interpret their personality and what messages you've internalized about what traits go with the way they are, you are probably contributing to this damaging message.

Moving on: full disclosure. I'm an asexual Steven Universe fan. I'm also aromantic. And anybody who says asexual people wouldn't have a personality like Amethyst has probably never hung out in a room full of asexual people. (Uh, I have.) 

There are shy people in the groups. There are conservative people in the groups. There are easily offended and sensitive people in the groups. But you will also find bawdy asexual people cracking gross jokes, asexual people who nevertheless turn everything into a sex joke, asexual people who are sex positive and even occasionally promiscuous or interested in sex. (If you don't understand how that's not a contradiction, I'll just leave you on your own to read some asexual education, because I'm not actually trying to go there with this post.)

Personally, I was raised by a rather crass mom whose sense of humor led her to blurt "IS IT A PENIS? BWAHAHAHA!" at the start of every round of Pictionary. She taught her daughters sex education early because she wanted us to know the facts, and though she joked about sex a lot, she also made it very clear that she expected us to make sex a part of our lives when we were older, and didn’t want us to think it was shameful or should be hidden. She gave us access to birth control in our mid teens and made sure we had the resources to make good choices about sex. It wasn't embarrassing or weird in our house. And even though I turned out ace, my siblings are straight and married. I grew up making ridiculous sex jokes and not being at all shocked by sexual humor or sexual situations. It was all just a good time and an accepting atmosphere. It was also okay that I didn't desire it myself. It didn't mean I couldn't dish out the innuendo with the best of them.

And yet, sometimes when I've come out as ace to someone and then they notice I use swear words, or am not horrified into covering my face during the movie's kissing scene, or have done things they really don't expect asexual people to enjoy, I'm treated to this weird mixture of shock-and-mock:

"Whaaaaat? Aren't you too PURE to use language like that, young lady?" "Plug your virgin ears, girl, we're talking about ADULT THINGS." "Don't worry, I won't mention S-E-X. LOL triggered." "She wouldn't be interested. It's about relationships and she thinks that's ICKY." "GASP! You just used the F word! Wait isn't that ironic?"

No, having a vocabulary that includes vulgarities and being tolerant of other people's desires is not inconsistent with being asexual. Being asexual means I don't feel sexually attracted to other people. It says absolutely zero about my behavior, and nothing I do is "wrong" behavior for an asexual person, because I am doing it.

Back to Amethyst.

Asexuality is a dicey issue for discussing Gems because technically they're all asexual. They are not a sexually reproducing species, so there really shouldn't be any reason for them to desire each other sexually. But they do seem to want intimacy and closeness in some situations, and there's definitely romantic attraction between some of them. It's sometimes hard to tell whether "sex" would be a concept available to them (besides Gems who shapeshift to mimic how humans do it), because it is after all a family show and sometimes you have to wonder if the relative chastity of some of the romantic scenes is due to the intended audience.

Amethyst has been more than once described by Rebecca Sugar as Dionysian. She was set up as an opposite to Pearl's Apollonian nature. If you don't know, Apollo vs. Dionysus is a concept of Greek origin that's often used in literature to set characters at odds with each other. Apollo is everything Pearl is: rational, clean, proper, perfect. Dionysus instead embraces the mess, just like Amethyst: Dionysian characters are sloppy, unruly, chaotic, and (this is important) hedonistic. They do what feels good.

Given this, I understand the root of why some people feel asexuality and Amethyst wouldn't go together well. And all things considered, it's true: Amethyst seems, to me, like the kind of Gem who would try anything, especially if other people seemed to enjoy it and especially if abstaining is portrayed as prudent and restrained. She's a let-it-loose kind of character. It's hard to imagine someone like her, who loves to eat, sleep, hoard, and be lazy, wouldn't have tried a few rolls in the hay, right?

Well, sure. Maybe.

And yet we've seen no specific evidence of it.

She could choose any form but she's never seen trying to change herself to look sexy; she's displayed no particular intimate or romantic interest in anyone beyond casual physicality and warmth; she's the only main-four Crystal Gem who hasn't been pursued romantically by a human; she's a little insecure and seems to crave attention sometimes but never spins it as a need to be fulfilled by romantic attention; she never expresses that she wishes she was someone's partner. Who knows? Maybe she's tried it out, found nothing she liked, said "Eh," and decided it's not her bag.

Hedonism is about embracing what feels good. If those kinds of relationships just didn’t feel good for her, I could see her just deciding they were boring and still fully embracing her other Dionysian qualities. She can indulge in naps and eat all the food in the fridge and hoard all the garbage she wants . . . without that indicating she must also possess and pursue amorous relations.

There’s also the fact that a minority of asexual people are like “eh, screw it, I’ll try it,” and don’t find sex completely objectionable or might even like it. (Not all, not most, not me, but this does exist.) They still may not desire it the way non-asexual people do, or may experience no attraction despite having neutral or positive feelings about the act itself. Who knows? Amethyst could be like that. We’ve seen her eat food that she doesn’t even like, just ‘cause it’s there. Some people take or leave sex like that.

And if you say her "type" necessarily incorporates promiscuity or a large sexual appetite, or you say she couldn't be ace because she's not uptight and strait laced, you're buying right into the damaging stereotypes about asexual people.

It's certainly not acephobic to headcanon Amethyst as bisexual or pansexual or lesbian or whatever you want. And it's fine if you believe the closeness she’s displayed with others that I interpret as friendship or non-romantic intimacy is actually a different flavor. What's NOT fine is saying Amethyst CANNOT be asexual or aromantic because of weird beliefs you have about what ace/aro people would be like.

Further, asexual people unfortunately don't have that much representation, and usually we're reduced to embracing absence as evidence. If a character isn't shown to "like" anyone that way, whoa, they might be ace! It's so very rare that a character does actively say or do something that indicates their lack of attraction. We often have to see ourselves in the "not yet" if we want any representation at all, running the risk of having our headcanons smashed as soon as a writer decides a certain type of attraction in a relationship will make that character interesting. But at least we're in the same boat as every other fan there. What we want to happen isn't necessarily what will happen.

And for those who think Amethyst might be ace and/or aro, she's such a great example of someone who isn't defined by the overly cautious, conservative germophobe who's obsessed with logic and conflates their abstention with purity and righteousness. I get really tired of asexuality being tied in with those traits because non-ace writers can't imagine ace people without sucking fun and flexibility out of their souls. (And on the flip side, isn't it wonderful to have the logical, organized, clean, perfect character be a giant lesbian? This is one box queer women rarely see themselves put in, but I know they're out there. I'm friends with a few.)

As for me, do I headcanon Amethyst as asexual or aromantic? Honestly, I am not very invested in this theory. 

I can see it and I could support it in a debate if someone asked me to. But I think Amethyst could turn out to be anything; really, the most likely thing for her to be is fluid. I think she's cute with Pearl sometimes, though Pearl having a mom vibe and being so much older and having other attractions does give me pause. I think the idea of her with Peridot or Vidalia is interesting, though Peridot more than Amethyst reads as possibly ace and there's more built up between her and Lapis now. I could even see her with another tertiary character someday; I wouldn't bat an eye.

But Amethyst as ace and/or aro would also make complete sense to me and might even fit best with her livin' free and unbound attitude, and when you look at the asexual flag, Amethyst is certainly dressed for it.

[jackednephi]

So now that I've had some time to recuperate from a weekend of Doing Things every single day and I'm awake and can focus thanks to meds

Sunday was the last full day my parents were up here. They left 6 am Monday because the drive back to my older brother's was like a solid 12 hours or so and they have doctor appointments they have to attend. They'll visit my younger brother in Utah at some point but whatever. Point is they went to sacrament meeting with me and met a lot of the people I've come to love. They get why I don't want to switch wards unless I have to

As you all know, I'm moving about half an hour away from where I'm living currently in the next few weeks. I could easily switch wards to one closer but I did the math and it's only a few more minutes (five to ten) from my new place to where I currently go to church. There's one that's literally five minutes from my current apartment but I go like 20 minutes out of my way to attend this specific ward. Why?

Well a year ago when I moved up into the area, I decided a fresh start was what I needed. I'd try going to church again and do my best to lift where I stand. I'm physically disabled and unable to drive so I'm stuck at home. I knew I'd need friends and a support system and figured it was high time I got my act together spiritually since I'd handled my queerness, mental health, and disability already. I'd run into the elders unpacking my uhaul and took that as an Answer to my prayers about if I should go back or not. My first week back was fast Sunday and I got up and introduced myself. I made it perfectly clear that I'm queer and struggling

The response I have gotten was radical inclusion, complete acceptance and love. My bishop's son is gay so he has a unique perspective. Everyone just accepts my gender expression even if they don't Get It and nobody says anything when I mentioned having dated various genders when I bring up life examples in lessons. They call me by my chosen name and I consider them my church family. I'm still completely silent about being polyamorous but I'm slowly coming out of my shell and I've experienced nothing but gentle love and complete acceptance

I have NO idea if this would be the case anywhere else and I don't have it in me to risk trying. It's hard enough being called Sister and sitting in relief society where I definitely do not belong. They're little hurts I can endure but I don't think I could do more. It was a struggle with one particular family (who has since moved) calling me my birth name and I was too shy to correct more than a few times or meekly as a joke. Just because even after a year I have no way of knowing who's love and acceptance is conditional upon me being an Acceptable Queer

My mother didn't quite get it until she experienced everyone's warmth for herself. Nobody knew who my parents were, if they were visiting or permanent, and they all warmly introduced themselves and welcomed my parents to the ward the way they had my very first meeting. She saw how much gentleness and acceptance there was to go around and why I'd be loathe to leave such a sweet home. Like the place feels like one of those cozy branches where it's you, two other families, and one set of missionaries. She was impressed that the bishop himself came to greet them within moments of walking in the doors

I forget where I was going with that. I got interrupted partway through. Anyway

Elder Zeller had finally come back from his mission. He'd served in the Fukuoka area where my parents live but they'd never crossed paths. My mother knows the mission president's wife and sent her a message about seeing him in church. It was his first Sunday back and his younger brother's last Sunday before going to the MTC and heading off to the Kobe area mission. So two brothers with Japan missions, me having lived in Japan for six years, and my parents visiting from Japan. All in one sacrament meeting

I'll admit I didn't pay much attention to the younger brother's talk all that much. I'd welcomed Elder Zeller home in Japanese and he was delighted to have someone who could understand him. From what I could tell though the jet lag at least

Anyway he was talking about one sister who had all kinds of hard questions. About why she should worry about something arbitrary like "happiness" when there were hungry children who needed God more. Why he didn't just intervene and take away suffering if he existed. Super concerned for other people and stubborn with her questions until she was finally baptized. Then about a brother who attended every day for two years before getting baptized because he was anxious about the process, most notably speaking at his baptism to others because he had a fear of public speaking. The point was about how we have to take a leap of faith in order to be rewarded blessings and I felt like that was meant for me about continuing to attend regularly

Then he bore his testimony in Japanese. I didn't expect that and started crying because it had been, oh I don't know, seven years? Or so? Since I'd heard Japanese spoken in church. He had greeted us (and I did the greeting back without thinking about it whoops) but I hadn't expected him to Speak speak

It was what you could call a primary testimony. But here I was hearing it in a language I hadn't heard in person in church in years. I started going to an asian market to be less homesick trying desperately to hear anything spoken at all. A language I continue to study and work hard to understand as much as I possibly can. A beautiful, nuanced language I can barely speak anymore for lack of people to practice with

And the meaning was a bit more nuanced than in English. There are words that mean a couple things that he used. One was a word that can me heart, soul, or (spirit) essence depending on context and can be translated differently according to individual translator. Because I knew what this word means, I knew that him saying "I know in my [kokoro] this is true" he was saying all these at once in a way you can't in English. The beauty of his words were indescribable

I ended up bawling my eyes out in the back of the chapel, just a waterfall of snot down my face choked sobs. My poor parents thought something was wrong but it was just so moving. I couldn't tell you what he said exactly but I know what he meant. I know he talked about the truth of the gospel, being grateful for his experiences, and what it meant to him. The spirit of his words were overwhelming

But I also understood the words. And they were so beautiful

I ended up thanking him after service. I'll admit I didn't expect to just lose my mind and end up holding my face just crying my eyes out. But the love was so thick you could have cut the air

It was like he was talking directly to me. I was the only one who could understand him. And the sweet feeling of "this is where I need you to be" was so overwhelming all I could do was sit there and sob and hope I didn't make too much noise and disturb people from his testimony

Anyway that's the thing I wanted to tell you guys about what happened Sunday. My dad gave my husband and I blessings and those were lovely. The comforting hug to be told that I could get through anything so long as I asked was amazing. It was helpful to be told to take my husband to the doctor which has definitely been excellent guidance

But Sunday was lovely and the highlight was the testimony Elder Zeller gave

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Hey ARC prompt, Ruby’s first serious SO is coming over for meet the parents dinner.

Bridget smoothes the front of her dress, and tucks her hair behind her ear. Her heart pounds as she stares at the black paint of the door in front of her. God, her palms are sweating. She can’t meet Ruby’s parents with damp palms. Gross. They’re going to think she doesn’t wash her hands.

Her vision pulses in time with her heart.

She could still bolt. She could flee to the furthest reaches of Panama, and text Ruby she got sick.

But no. One thought of Ruby’s disappointment nips that in the bud. She couldn’t do that to Ruby.

Instead, she reaches out and raps sharply on the door, sealing her fate.

The door swings open to reveal Ruby on the other side, offering a smile just as nervous as her own.

“Hi! Come in!” she says breathlessly. Ruby starts and stops awkwardly a few times, before they finally manage to meet in a stiff, chaste hug. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Bridget smiles. “Me too. Your house is awesome.”

“Thanks,” Ruby returns. She rolls her eyes, and suddenly the tension melts away. “I spent months getting the decor right.” They giggle together for a second, and then Ruby slips her hand into Bridget’s. “Come on. Kitchen’s this way.”

The kitchen feels like it could swallow the apartment Bridget shares with her mom twice over. She tries not to stare, and finds a distraction in the willowy woman who looks up from the stove at their entrance. In an instant, Bridget knows this is Ruby’s first mom, Sam. She had Ruby’s nose.

Or Ruby has hers. Whatever.

“Hi!” Mrs. Arias chirps, offering a broad smile as she wipes her hands on a towel. “You must be Bridget.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bridget feels the look Ruby shoots her. Ma’am? God she’s so nervous. She wipes her palm on her skirt again before shaking Mrs. Arias’ hand. “Thank you for having me. You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you, that’s so kind of you to say.”

Bridget’s heard her mom whispering with the other PTA moms, snidely gossiping about Mrs. Arias’ age. Bridget has a single mom too, but apparently the fact that she was married first makes it okay, even if Bridget never knew her dad. But Mrs. Arias exudes calm, like she’s done this a million times before. Considering her own mom was fussing even worse than Bridget was on the way over, it’s a stunning difference.

“Bridget, do you like pasta? I made some baked ziti for dinner, but if you’d like something else–”

“Oh, no! Pasta is fine. Great! I love pasta.” Ruby’s hand gives a gentle squeeze. Relax, it says. It’s okay. “Thanks.”

Sam nods warmly. “Great. There’s also green beans and garlic bread. Rubes, Lena’s still on her way. Is it okay if we wait?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Go ahead and grab yourselves some drinks, okay? Bridget, please make yourself at home. We’re really happy to have you.”

By the time Ruby shoves a glass of Coke in her hand and pushes her onto the couch in the living room, Bridget feels like she’s about to melt into a puddle.

“Okay, you need to breathe,” Ruby hisses.

Bridget sucks in a giant breath. “Oh my god your mom is so nice. She’s so chill! Does she have a condition? Parents aren’t supposed to be so, so–”

“Normal?”

“Yes!” Bridget gulps at her soda. “You didn’t warn me she was cool, Rubes.”

Ruby draws back with an incredulous arch of her brow. “Um, excuse me? She’s the coolest. But don’t worry, she’s also the biggest dork in the galaxy, so–”

Bridget’s attention wanders at the sight of motion in the kitchen. A tall woman with short hair enters, wrapping her arms around Mrs. Arias from behind as she works. Bridget can only see their backs, but the exchange is so soft, and punctuated with an awkward over-the-shoulder kiss, that Bridget can barely breathe.

She knows she can be happy as a gay woman. She’s read all the blogs and connected with happy, attached queer couples, knows what her future can be if she stays hopeful. But she’s never seen it.

She’s never seen her future so clearly illustrated before.

God, she wants it.

She wants it so bad.

Ruby nudges her gently, pulling her focus back around. Bridget blinks back tears, clearing her throat. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Ruby gets it. She doesn’t understand how lucky she has it, but knows what it means to Bridget.

The short-haired woman comes to join them in the living room. Bridget surges to her feet, pasting a smile on her face. “Hi, Lena! I’m Bridget. Bridget Tennyson.”

She sticks out her hand, knowing full well she’s coming on way too strong, but she’s committed now. Might as well lean into it. Lena accepts Bridget’s hand with an amused smile.

“Hi, Bridget Tennyson,” the woman says. “I’m Alex, actually.”

Ruby snorts. Bridget suddenly wonders if it’s possible for her to melt into the carpet and disappear completely. Because that would be preferable to the hot blush that burns at her cheeks as she robotically continues to shake Alex’s hand.

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Alex assures her. “Don’t worry, you’ll know Lena when you see her.”

Ruby tugs at Bridget’s skirt. “Stop shaking her hand, Bridge.”

Bridget releases Alex’s hand in a snap. “Sorry! I, ah–”

“It’s cool.”

No, Alex is cool. Not just chill, like Mrs. Arias, but cool. Motorcycle cool. Professional side cut cool. Could crush a guy’s nuts in her bare hand cool.

Ew. Stop it, Bridget.

“But speaking of Lena, she’s actually going to be later than expected, so we’re going to start without her. That okay, Rubes?”

“Are you sure? We don’t mind waiting.”

Alex nods. “Apparently there’s bad traffic downtown. She asked us to start.”

Ruby looks at Bridget, who manages to shrug. She just wants the ground to open up and swallow her so she can forget the last few minutes ever happened. “Okay,” Ruby responds. “Let’s eat.”

Dinner is… normal? Like, shockingly normal. Well, aside from the fact that conversation frequently shifts back to Bridget. But it’s not an interrogation. There’s no hard-hitting questions about her intentions towards Ruby, or her plans for the future.

Despite the way Alex looks at her like she knows Bridget snuck a frog into her teacher’s desk back in the second grade, it all feels like a normal dinner conversation. Bridget feels her nerves relax a little, as warmth and laughter seep into her bones.

It all snaps back when the front door opens and a body bustles inside.

“Lena!” Ruby calls, breaking into a beaming grin.

“Lena!” Alex and Sam echo in unison, teasing and warm all at once.

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry, Ruby,” Lena Luthor breathes as she walks in, making a beeline for Ruby’s seat. Bridget’s jaw drops. “I tried to get out early, but Supergirl had other plans, apparently. I got here as soon as I could.”

Lena Luthor presses a kiss against Ruby’s head, and envelops her in a one-armed hug around the back of her chair. “I know tonight is special.”

“It’s okay. We saved some for you.”

Bright eyes meet Bridget’s over the top of Ruby’s head. “Hi, there. So lovely to finally meet you, Bridget.”

Bridget stares. Her mouth flops open and closed for several moments, but only a squeak emerges.

Ruby comes to her rescue. “You know what? I need a break before dessert.”

“Good idea,” Sam chimes. “Why don’t you two hang out upstairs while we clear the table.”

“Thanks!” Ruby yanks on Bridget’s hand and hauls her towards the stairs. In the safety of Ruby’s room, Bridget finally gasps back to life.

“Oh my god, Ruby!”

“What’s gotten into you?” Ruby hisses back.

“Into me! You– you’re– that was Lena Luthor!”

Ruby shrugs. “So? I talk about Lena all the time.”

“You talk about Lena all the time! You never said she was Lena Luthor! Jesus fuck, Ruby. A little warning would have been nice!”

“Hey, it’s not my fault! I’ve never made my moms a secret.”

Bridget snorts. Suddenly there are tears burning behind her eyes and in her nose and her throat locks tight. “Right. Moms. You forgot to mention you have three of them!”

At that, Ruby’s expression turns cold. “You got a problem with that?”

Blinking, Bridget bursts into tears. “No!” Her voice cracks, and no matter how many times she wipes her eyes the tears don’t stop. “God, of course not! I just– it’s just…”

Bridget’s mom loves her. But Bridget’s seen the books her mom hides in her bedside drawer, and noticed the way she doesn’t comment on indecency the way she used to. Her mom loves her, but accepting Bridget’s sexuality is a work in progress. It doesn’t come naturally. But Ruby…

Ruby not only has parents who understand– she has not two, but three parents who know what it’s like to be her. Three moms who took one look at Bridget and welcomed her like it’s as easy as breathing.

She doesn’t know how she’s going to go back home tonight, to a small apartment with one mom who has to work to accept her.

Ruby touches her shoulder awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Before she can say anything, a soft knock sounds at her door. “Just a minute!” Ruby calls.

Turning, Bridget hides her tears from their visitor as Ruby cracks the door open. A soft voice asks to come in. Bridget hears Ruby hesitate, before the door creaks open. Then…

“Rubes, can you give us a minute?”

Ruby must be glad for the save, because she slips out without a word. Guilt floods Bridget. She’s supposed to making a good impression, not crying in her girlfriend’s bedroom in front of one of her three moms. She hastily tries to wipe her tears away, but they only smear across her face, mingling with new ones that continue to leak like the traitors they are.

“Hey, Bridget. I know it can be a little overwhelming meeting family for the first time. Especially when it’s the kind of family you didn’t know could ever exist.”

Sniffling, Bridget says nothing.

“Ruby’s pretty amazing. She’s probably the most resilient person I’ve ever met. But with her ability to settle into new normals so quickly– I think sometimes she forgets how special her family is.”

When Bridget finally turns, Lena Luthor is sitting on the edge of Ruby’s bed, still looking pretty and elegant in her work clothes. Red lips curve into a warm smile.

“Especially to girls who’ve never seen themselves in others before.”

Bridget coughs a laugh, nodding. When Lena Luthor pats the bed next to her, Bridget sits. When Lena turns her hand over in invitation, Bridget takes it. Lena’s skin is warm to the touch, and it bleeds the tension from her in an instant.

“But it’s okay,” Lena promises. “It’s okay to feel overwhelmed, and also happy, and hopeful. It’s okay to have questions, and ask them. We may not have all the answers,” she laughs, “but you can ask.”

Bridget smiles wetly. “Pretty sure you do,” she mutters. “I’ve seen your TEDTalks.”

Lena’s grin scrunches her nose, and suddenly, she doesn’t look like Lena Luthor, CEO and billionaire. She looks like a mom. “I promise you, quantum physics is a breeze compared to relationships.”

This time, Bridget manages to actually chuckle. “Do you think you guys could be a little less nice? I don’t know how to process how great you guys have been.”

“Not a chance,” Lena gives her hand a squeeze. “But I will battle you for the last slice of Ruby’s tiramisu. It’s amazing.”

Bridget nods. “I can work with that.”

“Are you ready to go back down? We can take another minute if you need it.”

God. Would she please stop being nice?

“I’m okay.” Bridget groans, wiping her face. “I probably cried off all my makeup.”

“Come on,” Lena says, tugging her up. “I’ll help you touch up and then we can go save Ruby from pacing a hole in the floor.”

Bridget ends up sitting on the closed toilet lid while Lena reapplies eyeliner and eye shadow with practiced precision, all while somehow executing the most elegant half-squat in a pencil skirt that Bridget’s ever seen. When she checks herself in Lena’s compact mirror, Bridget looks better than she did when she arrived.

“Thank you,” she says softly. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

She offers the mirror back, which Lena takes before catching both of Bridget’s hands in hers.

“I need you to listen to me, Bridget.” Green eyes stare into hers with startling intensity, until Bridget nods. 

“You are never a bother. If you ever, ever need anything, you come here. You can call Ruby, you can call me or Alex or Sam. Our door is always open to you. Do you understand?”

Oh, god. She’s going to cry again. She bobs her head frantically.

“And don’t you ever apologize for existing, exactly the way you are.”

Bridget swears she blacks out. Nothing else could explain the split second change from sitting on the toilet to suddenly wrapping her arms around Lena Luthor, and the warmth of Lena’s return hug tightening around her.

Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you thankyou…

“Come on,” Lena whispers. “Let’s go eat cake.”

But she maintains the hug until Bridget pulls away, and even then her arm remains around Bridget’s shoulders as they make their way back downstairs. It only slips away when Bridget moves to join Ruby on the couch, while Lena detours to the kitchen, letting the girls have a minute to themselves.

“Sorry I bailed on you,” Ruby murmurs. “I kinda freaked.”

“It’s okay.”

“You good?”

Bridget looks past Ruby’s shoulder to where her moms stand around the kitchen island. Lena’s already hooked an arm around Alex’s waist, and her free hand links loosely with Sam’s. She looks comfortable, and confident, and happy. When she notices Bridget watching, one eye flickers in the barest hint of a wink.

“Yeah,” Bridget sighs, leaning into Ruby’s shoulder. “I’m good.”

[dahmer]

oh pi! at es. ples. ples.

Oh! just, subtle, and mighty opium! that to the hearts of poor and rich alike, for the wounds that will never heal, and for 'the pangs that tempt the spirit to rebel,' bringest an assuaging balm; eloquent opium! that with thy potent rhetoric stealest away the purposes of wrath; and to the guilty man, for one night givest back the hopes of his youth, and hands washed pure of blood.... qtd // thomas de Quincey // Confessions of an English Opium Eater

here’s a man, once ill-tempered of turks and trendsetting vices, speaking to the grand stage of the world fashioned in this season’s epide-mock. a warm, fuzzy coatish wear nestled in the covers. small american towns know these styles too well to count body bags, along cotton pads and china scabs, among mother’s basements and luxury high risers graduating all from the fancy-feels certificate of blues. those roxy pebbles, how they start us so--an endless invitation to long summer warmth that childhood bathtubs and lawn-mower sundays would once bring.

when did the foil side decision set in. was there truly a technique to not waste the evaporated smoke, or just somedaze endless-ego-talk of the mighty soldiers in the opium army of guilt. shame, yes sir! solute to toot, scrap the straw edges as the hours pass waiting for the guy with the goods. were you in california when fent came along, past the liquid patch of time-released days. the recents 16s, 17s, two thousands eighteens. labs grade, synthesizing variations to parade as china. “east coast man, east coast shit. it’s the best ever. no, nah nah bro, i got you. bud took one point, was on his ass for hours. nod on fire.”

did chemists know the china rhetoric will turn fent-for-all. markets of east coast fantasies, oblivious to west coast privileges. of potency. of people. of starry nights in smashing pumpkin music video dreams, riding through hollywood as a secret member of the powder variety. it’s a plague paraded as a epidemic because that word has no world of meaning to the good folk playing their igno-rent; recycling stigmas of junky choice rattling thrillists. despite the proof inside the bottles. the truth in every bottle. in every cabinet. of every person. with every doctor. who ever felt. the normalcy sensation of one of the most blanked words: pain.

pain is surely what that just, subtle, and mighty opium! creates in the hearts of the poor and rich alike. the rich die often in the experimentation state of emergency someone labeled as ‘the opioid problem’--problem? oh lily, you know as much as your wilted leaves and neighboring trees the silly stamp we slap when using ‘problem’ to critically deconstruct something magnificently complex.this ‘problem’ has destroyed empires for centuries. it’s notorious and makes no attempt to conceal its power in narrative recollections of the living  authors that have spoke the truths of humanity across language, land, and lives. yet big pharma pulled off opana and roxicodone in the last 20 years. if there’s any declaration of the fools ruling the castle in modern times, this must be the great exemplary act. the profit of pain, oh yawn. i’m sure the academic discourse that has capture this best is brilliant it construction and nature, but what difference does it make in an opiated masses?

i’ve not canceled my subscriptions to the periodical dual tragedies of the early 21st century, as they remain unchanged and unchallenged: (1) a sheer lack of empathy in the common man; (2) the curious and devastating complacency and lack of outrage to what seems to unfold before our eyes, rapidly and carelessly so now that it’s almost as if those navigating the unseen lines of powers that be mock us, appropriately so. if we’re no opiated, we’re not outrage or active either. generalization? yes. but for those who fall outside of this, fight causes that continually reveal themselves as premeditated chess pieces in the political playing field that has seep into dominating the social sphere that delivers use a constantly-running facet of media and targeted, privatized ads.

i am an addict.

i can clean. M knows. some family knows. the weight that has been lifted is ineffably enduring. i’m frustrated, naturally, at the golden years missed. the creativity, the goodness of my heart, kindness of soul, charity, intellectual ability, sincerity, and passionate interests. how they dulled and disappeared. the weight of their reappearance should be the least of my worries, and for now have been. i’m only a week into my methadone treatment program. but my partner knows now. and that was the missing link, that was needed for so long. he left. i stay in the apartment alone. had the worst week. four days into starting treatment, i get arrested on a fix-it ticket that never was completely closed in a difference country because the DMV didn’t inform the courthouse I’ve squared everything away. I was given a new court date to bring this documentation in myself after final payments were made and the matter seemed settled. but the letter was sent to my old apartment, so i was completely unaware a warrant in los angeles was issued. a few short blocks away from my new apartment in newport beach, where M returned for the first time since walking in on me and learning of the addiction that exposure so much (that was the most bittersweet, hard, important, thankful, and devastating night of my life--but revitalizing. I never realize how much everything rested on just M being told or finding out.). I’m almost home, about to see it, sirens go on. get pulled over. second car arrives. i’m in cuffs. call my works, and text M to say I wouldn’t be coming home to give him space.

at this point, i was told i would be transferred to LA that night, and see a judge in the morning. have everything taken care of. but orange county SA jail is notorious for lies and abuse. there was no intentions of this, and i went from holding cell to orange jumpsuit soon enough. smart this time, i disclosed my sexuality. was given a special block, with an actual two-person jail cell. like the movies. my cell mate was great. jason ciega. curious sexuality. talked heavily about girlfriends, but made subtle jokes that went: “when you’re expecting pussy, but life gives ya dick... but hey, there’s nothing wrong with that too.” He vaguely mentioned his sexuality was “whatever”--I respected and explained why I identify as queer. i have some hidden white china fent mix left i snuck in, even after the cavity search. I stressed needing the bathroom for diarrhea, in fear of the 4-6 gram rocks being found. they kept stressing if i had drugs, it would be another charge. but with my profession work title, they didn’t really consider that with me. i hated that i had to use again so early in treatment, but this avoided the sickness. and made me sleep through the day and a half before M bailed me out. when i got celled up with jason, he shared his rations he bought, like cookies and stuff. i shared my china, in very small doses. he still O.D.’d. turned blue and purple, unconscious, eyes behind head. he took off his shirt after sniffing the first baby bit. i snorted probably 30x what he did, and barely felt something, tolerance. his speck had him worried after 5 mins. “I don’t feel it”

I tell him it wait another 5-10 mins at least. he starts ripping up my mattress and sheet to make a pillow and bedsheet. at first i’m scared this would cause the jail keeper to punish or abuse me. i saw it happened. beds are supposed to be returned in the form they were given. but the special blocks for “protective custody” and queers were treated with more respect, out of fear I assume. The regular jail area is a massive shared space with dozens of rows of beds, and people organized and grouped by race and gangs that you must join right away. I was glad I didn’t have to endure that. I did briefly at 19 for an alcohol in public ticket. only spent 4-6 hours in actual jail-orange-suits area after 10-15 hours of hold cells then. realized how racially divided even jails were. but this experience was more pleasant, given the circumstances. before jason began nodding out, he was fun and talkative in an enjoyable well. he revealed a great chest and body--small frame, but bulky build with tattoos. an insecure boy turn nice guy that acts like one of the guys. referenced odd jokes that seemed code for him being a bottom, and wanting sexual companionship if we ended up bunking for awhile. mutual only, of course. i laughed these attempts off. jason was lonely, and i wasn’t there for inmate sex. i’m in love with M, and still spent every moment worrying and texting about him, and what i’ve done to him. how little he knows about this addiction, how much his family might enable him to think narrowly or ignorantly about the realities of this as a disease.

M abandoned me the day I began treated, 2 mornings after he caught me and everything in our lives froze. we sat on the bed that night, side by side, for hours. him crying in his hands mostly, for hours. me frozen in a wave of emotions. i was a fault. i was honest and told him everything. this was the only thing i kept from him, and told him why. the shame, the guilt. the fear. losing him. rejection of me, disposal of my efforts and love from him and his family. he said we needed time apart. i begged him to be there for me, no matter what the outcome was of our relationship, at least in the beginning. knowing this is the most crucial time to have a support system. he expressed things like believing I’ve just been high this whole time, and asked questions that extracted as much shame and guilt as possible. he had every right to. it’s all i’ve see him and his twin ever do. to the point of their older brother needing serious psychological helping, crying out literally shouting how suicidal he is, but they fail to understand how mental health works, how humor and jokes are masks that should be taken seriously. M was hurt most that I lied. I did lie. Not directly, but did lie at times when he asked why i was in the bathroom for so long. It was unspoken, so it didn’t feel like lying. More like protecting, but it was lying. And I will forever be in the wrong.

Going to jail may have ruined any chance of him coming back. And I can’t stand that thought. He doesn’t know what I’ve been going through. How long it took to be honest about my addiction, what steps I took to try to get clean on my own, the lies you convince yourself off--that you can do it alone, that it’ll work out, that you’ll run out of money so you’ll have to stop. My only other treatment attempt told me I must tell M. He’s the closest to me that I love and trust, who is a good influence, not a user, and could be my support system that sees me through this, and can monitor me during the first 3-7 days that are most crucial. M mentioned how he could have come home to find me dead. O.D. we watched docs and podcasts on the epidemic, but they don’t go into how hard this experience is. How withdrawal is considered one of the hardest things a human can possible do in life, and takes incredible amounts of courage, strength, and dedication that M will probably never even experience in his life. The reports just assume people know this stuff. And under-represent who is most likely to O.D. I’ve never come close. I haven’t been high in, years. I used to stay normal. M, and others like him--those who don’t know--don’t understand that. I was never chasing the dragon. I hate the addiction, quickly. I was too smart for it. Too focused and dedicated to have this problem.

But I did, and unless I dose a certain amount, I couldn’t function. Bedridden in the worst sickness imaginable. To those who’ve experience withdrawal, it’s not just the constant, non-stop, extreme physical sickness. It’s the relentless psychological sickness. Torture. That doesn’t even given you a 30 second break. Hearing that your sick for 3-5 days might sound easy because we call it “getting sick” or “dope sick”--but it’s a far worse experience that can even be fatal for some. My finances and lack of wanting to be doped out, nodding and unproductive all day luckily allowed my addiction to plateau at taking a certain amount to stay well, and doing that everyday for over a year. Til I was caught. It would slightly increase, but fluctuate, based on product, potency, and source going around. I never shot. Only snorted, that was my ritual. And when I was stupid, I would smoke. It was a waste, that burned through product much faster. Which meant more money and time dedicated to staying well. The consistent tolerance and dosing makes my chances of O.D’ing incredibly low. If M knew me as an addiction, which he couldn’t--I never disclosed--he’d know this was hell. Torture. Something I spent endless nights up all night wishing, hoping, begging for change. 

The fright came from the Friday I got into a detox treatment program. I told him two nights before I needed him for supported. He made a sly remark about “what, you’re going to force me to stay around or you’ll OD and die if I don’t”--but it was among other things, so it was unclear what would happened. And days past, with little words exchanged, but M stayed around. When he returned from work, I was in bed and he has if I stayed treatment. I said yes, but didn’t explain or speak confidently out of fear of him not knowing what these treatments were, how much research I’ve done, how I picked this on purpose with a goal to get off treatment drugs soon too and never be dependent on a substance. He didn’t ask much questions. He shortly said it’s good, then revealed he’s packing up and staying at this parents for the weekend. I froze in silence. He packed and said some of the same narrowed perspective claims from the other night--how my sibling and her spouse are there to help me. M thinks because they’ve both been in AA, and one is an ex-heroin addict in healthy, long-term recovery that they can just drop their full time college, 3 jobs, and toddler to take care of me. They’re wonderful support systems, but the detox clinic described who needs to be around the first 3 days for my outpatient detox, and it perfectly defined M. 

But I must respect M’s decisions, feelings, angry, and pain. He has his own healing to do. All I said was that I need support more now than ever, so please don’t forget me. This was in response to him saying I could always call him if I needed something--which was worded in a way that read like ‘call in emergencies, but I’m out.’ So I went through it alone, all 3 days. In bed. I called a friend for xanax, even though you have to be very very careful taking both. I was, and needed to sleep if no one would be there to check on me. At this time, I thought either M felt his hurt and pain outweighed what I was going through, and that’s understandable regardless of my experience actually being a life-threatening disorder. What I wish he knew was that most people who O.D.--the ones on the news all the time. It’s most from relapse. Stopping, detoxing, getting clean. Then a trigger happens, or hope gives up, opportunity comes, or you feel alone and no one cares. Whatever the reason, you return to the drug and take a similar dose, or even smaller dose, than what you were doing before. But your tolerance fades as quickly as it builds, and is different for everything. So most O.D. deaths are simply from people relapsing and taking too much without knowing where their new tolerance stands. Any temptation or relapse could be my last breathe.

I still live in that fear, but I’m motivated and happy to finally get clean. It’s all I wanted, I just couldn’t do it alone. And knew this. The summer realized it most. I spent the summer trying to find the right time and opportunity to tell M. He has no idea how many plans and times and moments I wanted to. Even my trip to NYC. I wanted t come back clean so bad. It doesn’t work that way, You need those in your life who support and love you to help. That’s what a relationship is. It’s like if I was diagnosed with cancer. But social misconception and outdated conception allows this opposite, toxic reaction. Where now I exist in this constant mental cycle that centers on figuring out what to do for M. It would hurt my sister, so that would be my biggest regret, but I think M wants a gift from me more than anything; however, knowing him well, he’d never ask. If I just gave it to him, he’d be free. No more doubts or embarrassments or beating himself up about not knowing or what others would think. No more hating and shaming me. He wouldn’t ever have to deal with it, which is what I realize he wants in life. Where we disagree. I can’t play video games and ignore maintaining healthy efforts all day. He’s made great improvements, but blind to others that allowed him to say hurtful things like without even consciousness of it, but would be shocked and hurt if someone said the same back to him. This created a state where if anything that required him to get up from playing video games in his ‘free time’ (non work hours) is a drag that he resents or avoids at all costs. It cost the friendships built between my closest friends, who love him and he claimed to love them. This constant thread was something I battled with most. I would count the weekends I would spend doing whatever he wanted--hanging with siblings, friends, work functions, friends parties. 11 weekends go by, then one movie night with my friends and he wouldn’t even pretend to want to go. It hurt, but I learned other people’s needs are an annoyance or deterrent to his rightful ability to be glued to the computer. I know this was a big factor in never bringing up my addiction. Already he hated any serious conversations, even if I tried to make them positive about reaching goals. Even mentioning one would cause eye rolls and audible disgusts, vocalizing how he just doesn’t like them or “aren’t good at them”--which never made sense to me. I understand he didn’t like to have conversations that implied he’s less than perfect or right, but it creates this wall around you where no one will ever be able to grow or talk or really improvement your or our lives together. I didn’t think much of it. But now that I’m learning my triggers, I’m not blaming M. It will always be me. But I regret starting to pick up his habits in attempts to try and connect more with him, and be closer. I started playing video games more and more, and all my interests disappeared. There was never a time I played video games that didn’t require going to the bathroom and dosing. I couldn’t live that life. But I wanted to build a life with M. When he stopped talking an interests in sharing my activities, I doubled down with his. But things that felt non-productive and antisocial to me became triggers.

There are other issues that caused distance and perhaps his lack of interest or investment in my friends and desires. One, my addiction. Where my interests began to dull. A terrible cycle that grows like a fungus, and can stem from one activity to get closer, but affect another. Also, I gained a considerable amount of weight. This was before my addiction started, but at a time that M became less physical. Then associated it with my weight gain. This was always curious. All compliments, words of encouragement, positive reinforcement, or sexual intimacy ceased, yet I was expected to work harder on health. I should have, but I never went a period of my sexual life where exercise and health were part of my routine because it continued my ability to have a sexual life. In a serious relationship, taking this element away makes it hard to understand how or if anything would restore such intimacy sense there’s no expression, communication, or honesty from M. Just gestures and small hints. He experienced some weight gained, and when he finally got a job after college--after 8 months of playing video games all day as I worked 2-3 jobs 6 days a week plus went to the gym, cleaned the house, and made dinner most nights for him and our roommate--he took up the gym and has done a great job focusing on getting in shape. I expressed this once, and it was something that was some important and meaningful because it consumed by consciousness, but I still wonder a year later if he understood or truly took to heart pointing out that when he got a full time, professional job and began working out after work, he came home daily needing positive reinforcement, acknowledgement, and encouragement about his gym efforts. Even in the early stages when not much can be seen.

I expressed that before grad school, when I really gained the weight from the stress and demands, I too signed up for the gym after my first, full time professional job after college. On top of this, I continued working on Sundays at a restaurant doing back-breaking labor I underplayed because tips were good. My one day off--Saturdays--I spent putting our first apartment together, shopping, planning, going to every family event or friend invite he extended, while keeping up with cooking and cleaning. During this time, M never acknowledged my gym efforts, progress, or work. I think once he complimented me in a tank, but apart from that, I believe he saw that this was just my role. Expected and easy, like it was nothing to essentially try my best to be the best version of myself, be the best boyfriend I could be, build a relationship together, and not ask for anything in return. This felt like my nature, so I didn’t think much of it at the time.

It wasn’t until I started grad school, and he began what I had already gone through: entry level at first professional job. I don’t know why I’m writing about it now, but it hurt he was doing it in a way that made it seem I had no idea what this was like because of my current shape, and my support was expected, not appreciated. M has never been too expressive, but any acknowledgement or encouragement while attending Gold’s gym after work each day in DTLB would have done so much for my self-esteem, our intimacy, his care and support, or just mutual respect I guess when the tables turned later. I still continue to compliment and support. But the thought is always there. What is it about me and what I do, the effort I put in, that seems just expected. Demanded. Not a privilege or sign of care, affection, and love. But “do your damn job”--but then anyone who does the same or a fraction of the same things has the right to guilt or shame me in not being supportive or caring enough. Why do I just exist to replace the role of M’s parents, perhaps, but my efforts aren’t even acknowledged to the same degree in how M views what his parents do. 

The shortcomings are what he’s most expressive about. Like I have a savings account like him, and just not paying  for things I literally cannot. I didn’t have my parents pay for college, a car, half my rent, bills, and little things in life M takes for granted. I pay for everything. And even having one or two things taken care of by parents allow young adults to live remarkably more comfortable lives that they’re blind to. They don’t understand the luxury of saving every paycheck because their parents pay for everything else. Or maybe it’s me, and my fault for having interests, and occasionally spending money on exploring interests to acculturate my life. Understanding myself, people, and culture better. Be a strong global citizen,

I don’t know. A lot of these claims are unfair to M. He avoids serious conversations, but most of this has come up. It’s just been treated with silence. When he caught my addiction last week, he kept repeating how hurt he was that I lied about it. He’s right, but I couldn’t shake the feeling... when would I ever been able to tell you and you wouldn’t act this way? Was there a time limit when you would have been supportive? Where you would have stayed and ensured I didn’t die during the most crucial period? Would there ever been a time that you didn’t just dismiss it as all my fault, so shame and guilt are the only things I’ll get from him while I need to seek treatment options on my own. That’s not how treatment works. In everything I’ve read, it says the same thing. This is a family problem. You need support. Loved ones. Care. Compassionate. Understanding. If these were never things that would have been offered, why is the main drive of pain from me lying? I did lie, so that’s valid. But it hurts because I don’t know how he truly feels, and sometimes it just goes through my head that this is the reason he’s been waiting for. I haven’t lied or cheated or hid other things. I’ve talked to other guys online, but came clean when caught. And that did hurt trust between us. But I never lied or hid something when we talked about it.

I write all of this because last night he texted me asking to meeting up this weekend to talk. I get excited because it means, after a week, maybe he wants to just sit and ask questions or express anger or frustrations or what’s on his mind. I send him my availability all weekend, with details. He takes hours to respond, but around 2am he says he’s free Saturday and Sunday. This is Friday night, and I see he’s at someone’s house--probably a party--that I didn’t know of. So maybe he’s drunk, but oddly he responded to my availability with just saying he’s free Sat and Sun--not setting a day or time to meet and talk. I don’t respond. It’s late and he says he’s out with friends since I mentioned I was even free that night back when I responded at 9pm when he first asked if I was free to meet and talk this weekend.

Today the morning goes by and I don’t hear from him, but he sent the last text. S at Noon I ask: “do you want me to pick a date and time then?” No answer.

A couple hours later I tell him I’m going to the gym later, and an NA meeting the next day (Sunday) if he wants to join me at either of those for an alternative meet up option--hopefully implying if he doesn’t want to just chat face-to-face, we can do something healthy that shows him I’m working hard in recovery. No response.

Both texts show read receipts. He read that right away, and Find My Friends shows he’s still just at his parents house. Been there all day, but ignoring my texts. Perhaps he was drunk when he texted me Friday night saying he wanted to meet up. I ran with it too quickly then because I miss him like crazy, worry about it, and just think about him and this situation constantly. Plus he bailed me out of jail for $5K of his own money this week on top of all of this, and that’s the last I saw him. 

As the day progresses, it starts to dawn on me. Most of his stuff is still at our apartment. We still live here in how it’s set up, and how he’s briefly used it this week. But he’s mostly stayed at his parents, which is understandable since he needs time to figure out how to make sense of this or what to think... which is how I believe he worded it when he left the day I started detox. I think he said “because he feels conflicted.”

But if his stuff is still here, and he knows my schedule, and I know his, he knows we’re both mostly free Saturdays and Sundays. So he could come home either day and sit down to talk when he sees I’m home, Granted, he hasn’t asked about how recovery or detox is going, or shown interest in caring about how I’m doing. He’s not there, and clearly I’m in a state where I agree in the sense that I worry about him most. He doesn’t express his feelings, and this is not something he can just avoid or pretend to go away. He needs to face it. But then I realize what “we need to meet up and talk” means in a relationship after a major issue happens, and one person moves out for a week, leaving the status open-ended, stating we need time apart, and then gets stuck paying $5k while trying to distance (on top of all the money I own him for rent and impound fees last summer). This talk usually means one thing, and I start to panic. Even more so because he’s dodging my texts to follow up about setting a meeting time and date. If M had the liquid courage to ask, but not is faced with following through sober, it would be like him to just ignore me. And he’s definitely ignoring me. Maybe because he just wants me to suffer or leave him alone. But my fear and anxiety has skyrocketed since last night. I’m consumed in fear with the idea that he’s wanting to meet up to end our relationship. I would understand why, but I realize, despite everything, I really really am in love with Michael. My addiction made me not a great boyfriend to look at or be around I’m sure, but I’m confident the person I’m returning to now that I’m free and in recovery is someone that he would benefit from growing with. Many also have expressed they think  this process will help M in the long run too, as things became static and this may needed to happen to reevaluate things and take us to the new heights we wanted and deserve.

M would have a hard time standing up for himself and dumping me, so when I was asking him if I should set the date and time, I starting thinking.. am I actually having to plan getting dumped for him? That’s not fair. This is the most emotional fragile state I’ve ever been in, and although he has every right to make that decision, and reasons to back it up, and not care about actually exercising real support that couples give each other, that’s fine. I would have to just respect the decision. I fucked up. And I knew who M was before we started dating. I just always think.. is he going to find someone else who doesn’t care about wanting basic needs and emotions and thoughts exchanged, shared, and supporting in a relationship? Abandon me, but that wouldn’t make these issues go away. Anyways, no one around him can offer me insight to his state of mind. So I fear the most devastating and hurtful decision and experience of my life is around the corner. Maybe even tomorrow. And despite our lease tomorrow until April, and the life we built together, M may just walk away from it all. Claiming he can’t trust me anymore as the main reason. And that trust is solely from hiding my addiction. Something I see now, given his reaction, why I did. 

Jonathon Van Ness, in a recent podcast “Getting Curious” with an addiction specialist at UCLA discusses shame in addiction, and defines it as this idea where “if you knew this one thing about me, you wouldn’t love me anymore.” This definition makes a lot of sense, as to why I could never tell M. If he knew, I would lose his love. And his love was holding me together, and giving me hope that someday I can fix this, overcome this, get help, get better, get fit, be the best version of myself again and beyond.

But now I just wait by my phone, wondering if I should send a 3rd text. The last one was around 3pm, when my day was freeing up for the rest of the weekend. So he could have arranged to meet at any time. Maybe inviting him to the gym or a meeting was too off-putting--like i WANTED that or something. But I just want to give options since just asking for a basic plan yielded no results. I don’t know if I should leave him alone. If he needs more time. If I push, I push him farther away. Or if ignoring makes me feel insecure and think I don’t care or think about him. That I just think about using again or getting clean, and he’s not longer important. This is farthest from the truth. All I want is to not fall asleep alone in bed anymore. I want M back by my side, cuddling me and us to sleep. But even then, I fear or believe that M doesn’t feel he can do that and feel safe or comfortable anymore, even though I think he wants this again too. But the trust that’s missing is something that will come in time. Through my actions. Through my recovery. And if only he were here to hold me, he would understand that my recovery means everything. Not for him, for me. But I am his, so a better me is a better him. I just want him to know he’s loved and cared for. I don’t want him to feel alone, upset, and sad. I want him to ask questions, even yell, shame, guilt. Do what he needs to do. Isolating himself alone in his room at his parents house is not going to help him heal, with or without me.

And for some reason, as I heal, I need to know who I affected most is healing. Because the truth is: I can’t stop thinking about killing myself since this happened. Not because I want to, but because I think it’s the one thing that would end his healing process, and make his life better. Even if it meant I would lose mine. So be it.

[spamzineglasgow]

SPAM Digest #5 (Feb 2019)

A quick of the editors’ current favourite critical essays, post-internet think pieces, and literature reviews that have influenced the way we think about contemporary poetics, technology and storytelling. 

‘Terminology’ by Callie Gardner, Granta

I’ve lost track of the amount of times I’ve recommended Callie Gardner’s astonishing piece, ‘Terminology’, to friends and family. Sometimes you read something and it’s as though the world decided to refashion its atoms around the text, wear it like a brand new garment. I had to cry a little, admittedly, to realise this. I guess I was reading the essay in darkest November and found myself astounded by its honesty and light. It’s not all sunshine, but it’s definitely a form of waking up, of gradual awareness and loosening. ‘Terminology’ begins with a sleeper train, a world where people wake up in carriages and put on what they want to, unbound by the violent constraints of our usual distinctions. These people keep their differences, but the differences are no longer scars of history, privilege.

The sleeper train is going somewhere. This future is open, potential; this future is based on care. This world, this place we drift towards on the train (I say we now, because I too want in on this world), is named Iris, ‘after the Roman goddess of the rainbow’. Iris, perhaps, is without terminus, the people that live there ‘speak a language with a hundred pronouns’. If this is a utopia, it is ‘an unscientific utopia’ that nevertheless glows with what already exists, what is within our reach: the charge of a ‘queerness in everything’. It is a mantra, a lullaby world and ‘a wish given flesh’. I wish every essay began with a world like this, a speculative projection towards where we could be when we open up, seek some generous expanse to sink into, flexing our selves afresh.

‘Terminology’ is about the body. It is about appearance and disguise, about survival, performance, expectation. It is about the precarity of the genderqueer person in public space, the social ties they might make out of safety, necessity. It draws attention to the everyday actions the genderqueer person might make for the sake of their own survival. The fact that we occupy space radically differently, depending on how society chooses to stratify our identities and consequent vulnerabilities. ‘Terminology’ moves from the hypothetical experience of the genderqueer person to the author’s own encounters with daily microaggressions, media representation and social relations in public, creative and professional space. Gardner describes, acutely, the violence of misgendering, intentional or otherwise: its physiological effect on the body, akin to a kind of dissociative paralysis, abjection. ‘Maybe this makes no sense to you’, Gardner writes, ‘It doesn’t make much more sense to me’. This is an essay of admission, working through, coming to terms, learning respect.

The reason I constantly recommend ‘Terminology’ is that it states the fundamentals with absolute clarity: ‘language is not ours to use without consequence’. It asks for an ethics in which we question what our words might do in a certain context, how we make and shape reality with discourse. Recently, the songwriter Kiran Leonard put it so eloquently in an interview, arguing that tenderness and cultural responsibility is ‘about thinking through when I’m speaking in the world, speaking against a thing, what world am I looking at, what world am I creating when I say these things, and what worlds are other people creating’. The world of Iris is a world we might make with a more commodious language, one which permits an expanded, plural sociality.

Gardner tentatively imagines what Iris would actually look like, the features of its ecology and landscape. I am reminded of the work of Queer Nature, ‘a queer-run nature education and ancestral skills program serving the local LGBTQ2+ community’: a collective who make it their mission to make links between the survival skills queer populations have developed for themselves, ancestral wilderness skills and other forms of marginalised knowledge. Wilderness, conventionally the domain of dominant hetero-male, becomes a queer space in which collectivity and silenced forms of self-reliance map onto the terrain as an active, responsive, symbiotic space of wonder, vulnerability and healing: an ‘Ecology of Belonging’, as Queer Nature put it. There is, in queer ecology, a blurring of active/passive as a binary. Survival might be about avoidance or withdrawal as much as presence and action.

Walking through Gardner’s imaginary Iris, we realise we won’t reach this space without confronting questions of identity around capitalism, sexuality, culture and ‘nature’. What is it to feel something as natural at all? Since society likes to police what is considered ‘natural’, how do we frame queer subjective experiences of embodied reality in collective contexts, without essentialising? There is the beautiful admission that queerness is not just about who or how you do or don’t fuck, but also about how you live, how you need to live. The doing of gender and intimacy. And looking for a language, a vernacular, a cultural narrative through which you might play out that life, which is not defined essentially but perhaps intuitively, iteratively, interdependently. Gardner calls for the necessity for nuance in a world where the conditions of survival often confuse the bounds of romance or friendship. If ‘gender is only history’, then we have to really reflect on where we are here and where we are going. Sadly, we aren’t going to wake up from the sleeper train in a lovely, wholly unbound country. But this isn’t to say utopian thought is useless. For Gardner, wanting a place like Iris is not a weakness but actually ‘a resource’ for recalibrating the self within dead-end, heteronormative histories.

The question of queer futurity versus Lee Edelman’s ‘No Future’ is of course a complex and rich one, which I haven’t space to go into here. What’s more interesting is the fact that this essay celebrates the possible while recognising difficulties and limits within the imagining of a place like Iris, as much as reminding us what happens in lived spaces like queer communities. Ultimately, ‘Gender is at once a material condition and a psychical state’. This essay, ‘Terminology’, is one of those rare places where the actual extent of what that means is acknowledged. Nothing covered in this essay bears easy solution or simple resistance, position. Identity, standpoint, community and experience are entangled in questions of occupation, flux and, frankly, difficulty. I learn a lot within its gauzy bounds, I find clarity of a sort; I look at the world around me anew, and I feel an openness in myself that, for once, I lack words for. I realise this is okay, I just need to read on; there is so much more to understand.  ‘Citation’, as Gardner reminds us, can be used ‘as transfeminist practice’. As such, I encourage your own turning to ‘Terminology’: to follow its list of transfeminist writers, to think about your own version of Iris; mostly, to read and to listen, to drape this warmth over your shoulders, share it with others, without condition.

M.S

‘24 Hours Watching DAU, the Most Ambitious Film Project of All Time’, by Hunter Dukes and McNeil Taylor, Hyperallergic

This SPAM Digest might break the rules a little bit—it's a review of a review, and it has absolutely nothing to do with poetry—but do bear with me; I promise you I’m getting somewhere.

Last month, Mac Taylor and Hunter Dukes (yes, those are two real-life people; have you ever seen a better pair of names) went to Paris for the premiere of DAU, a film project of Tom McCarthian inclinations, and insane if not obscene logistic, aesthetic, and conceptual ambitions. Directed by the young Russian director Ilya Khrzhanovsky, DAU tells the story of Soviet physicist Lev Landau; Khrzhanovsky hired thousands of actors—or “participants”— as he refers to them, and deployed them to a custom-built set in Ukraine reproducing a research-facility. As Taylor and Dukes report:

From 2009 to 2011, the amateur actors stayed more or less in character. They lived like full-time historical reenactors, dressing in Stalin-era clothes, earning and spending Soviet rubles, doing their jobs: as scientists, officers, cleaners, and cooks. The film set became a world of its own. In all, 700 hours of footage were shot; this was eventually cut into a series of 13 distinct features, collectively titled DAU.

Apart from my obvious fascination with this Reamainder-like gargantuan re-enactment (did I mention I love Tom McCarthy), what really struck me was the format this project was shown in at the premiere:

To enter the [sprawling] exhibit, which runs through February 17th, you must apply for a “visa” through DAU’s online portal, choose a visit length (the authors of this article opted for 24 hours), and fill out a confidential questionnaire about your psychological, moral, and sexual history. Respondents answer yes or no to such statements as:

I HAVE BEEN IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH AN IMBALANCE OF POWER

IN THE RIGHT SITUATION, EVERYONE COULD HAVE THE CAPACITY TO KILL

Downloaded onto a smartphone, this psychometric profile becomes your guide to the exhibition. In theory, your device can unlock tailored screenings, concerts, and other experiences. In reality, none of this technology has been implemented in the theaters or museum. But it does not matter.

The premiere organisers chose to design and explicitly articulate the experience of a world around the experience of the world of the film; and to tailor this experience, in turn, around the premiere’s visitor themselves. Apart from sounding like a lot of fun, this exploitation and amplification (if not redoubling)  of film’s world-building capacity made me immediately wonder: what would this practice would look like when applied to poetry instead of film? (I know, I have a one-track mind.)

One of the traits that poetry and film seem to me to share is the potential to conjure up alternative worlds that seems obey to their own logic and set of rules. Like film, long poems or poetry ensembles (pamphlets, collections, sometimes entire oeuvres, or to a lesser extent magazines) often seem to respond to aesthetic parametres of their own making, and to establish a certain unique space for experience that can only be accessed through the artwork itself. We all know what the world of David Lynch is, and what it is like—we know what it looks like, what it feels like, what is allowed and what is not allowed within its limits. And we know the world of Gertrude Stein or John Ashbery or Sophie Collins the same way; there’s not only a tone to this space of experience, but a also a flexible and entirely nebulous set of rules that seems to dictate—to code, if we want to throw in a sprinkle of the gratuitous post-internet buzzwords we SPAM people are suckers for—how the world behaves and how it responds to our attention.

Dukes and Taylor rightfully call DAU ‘a beguiling collection of moving images that call into question our basic assumptions about film production and consumption’, and I wonder what a poetry project with the same goal would look like. Apart from the cool re-enactment part, I imagine what it would be like if poetry could be tailored to one's history or personality; spending a day moving from venue to venue to take in bits of an orchestrations of poetry readings running 24/7. It probably wouldn’t work; it definitely wouldn’t work. But it got me thinking about what an alternative modality to deliver poetry IRL would look like. There has definitely been lots of experimentation (although never enough, IMHO) with the visual presentation of poetry: I’m thinking of Crispin Best’s pleaseliveforever, a poem that refreshes itself every few seconds into new L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E/lol combinations of words (what is the poem, then? The structure? The algorithm?); his poem that fades into lighter gray, only to darken into normal text as you keep scrolling down the page (what was it call? where did it go? Help @crispinbest). I’m thinking of video poems and surreal memes (yes you can @ me, those are poems). But readings are rarely stranger than a just a reading. We should get thinking about they could become weirder. Does anyone know how to make holograms?

D.B.

Image from Internet Machine by Timo Arnall (2014). image credit: Timo Arnall.

Always Inside, Always Enfolded into the Metainterface: A Roundtable Discussion Speakers: Christian Ulrik Andersen, Elisabeth Nesheim, Lisa Swanstrom,Scott Rettberg, Søren Pold

Having been fascinated by Søren Pold's writing on literature and translation in relation to the interface, I knew when I saw this new roundtable discussion that it would most likely be making SPAM's February Digest. This discussion, made available on the Electronic Literature Review website, brings together the above speakers to discuss many of the ideas explored in Christian Ulrik Andersen and Søren Pold's 2018 publication, The Metainterface: The Art of Platforms, Cities, and Clouds (The MIT Press).

Covering a diverse range of theorists, artists, designers and academics, the speakers take as their focus the idea of the metainterface, examining how interfaces have moved beyond the computer into cultural platforms, such as net art and electronic literature. Forming part of this analysis are considerations of how the computer interface, through becoming embedded in everyday objects such as the smartphone, has become both omnipresent and invisible. Through exploring the different relationships that form between art and interfaces, the authors note that whilst during many smart interactions the interface becomes invisible, it tends to gradually resurface, the displaced interface then creating a metainterface. Their argument is that art can help us to see this, with the interface becoming a site of aesthetic attention.

It is the question of aesthetic attention, in varying forms, that runs through this discussion, offering the reader a profusion of references of artists whose work examines the metainterface. One piece that stood out to me was Camouflaged Cell Concealment Sites by the Canadian-American artist, Betty Beaumont. This piece consists of a collection of photos taken of cell phone towers disguised as pine trees or Saguaro cactuses. As Lisa Swanstrom notes in the discussion, they're terribly disguised, but ones that you could still overlook if you weren't paying attention. Similarly, Nicole Starosielski's The Undersea Network, is a book that makes visible the materiality of the internet through mapping the global network of fibre optic cables that runs along seabeds. In bringing these works to our attention, Swanstrom notes how both examples are questioning the aesthetics of infrastructure, as both are trying to reveal something about the ways in which we experience it, not just know of it.

Responding to the question of what our role as critical users of the metainterface is, Pold draws our attention to the fact that we are always a part of the interface and have to work from the fact of being embedded, as there is essentially no outside. This invites the question of how the artists and writers can respond to the conditioning of self into the metainterface. As Andersen points out, whilst there is no safe haven 'outside' of the interface, there are certain tactics that can be developed as a user. The example given, a chapter entitled Watching The Med by Eric Snodgrass in his work Executions: Power and Expression in Networked and Computational Media (Malmö University, 2017), points to how real users operate in the Mediterranean Sea (now a highly-politicized landscape) by switching between different GPS technologies and Twitter to 'recombine media in a tactical way'. The key idea to take from this is that whilst a reconsideration of our approach to tactical media in the condition of the interface is necessary, it doesn't mean we cannot operate on platformed versions of tactical media such as Facebook or Twitter.

Another point of focus in this discussion I found especially captivating was the consideration of the posthuman machine in relation to the reformulation of labour, in particular Scott Rettberg's consideration of the interface as an intermediate layer between humans and machines. In questioning whether we are moving towards a system in which the interfaces themselves generate human labour for the benefit of corporate entities, Rettberg poses the question of whether we can be alienated from our labour if we are not conscious of being laborours? This leads into a contemplation on the condition of cultural tiredness, an awareness that a certain media platform, such as Facebook, is packed with problems regarding social interaction and data protection, but still we continue to use its service.

Cautious of covering more than needs to be said in this digest, I will close by returning to the fundamental question that Pold and Andersen put forward in their work: the role of art and literature in shedding light on the behaviour and ontology of the metainterface. I find it interesting to learn that Pold started out by studying literature, before moving into a study of digital aesthetics. Perhaps it was the combination of these two domains that allowed him to see the act of reading the everyday interfaces of life as a literary act. This seems to be echoed in Andersen's response to the question of art and literature's role in an age of environmental crisis and metaintertface, whereby he looks to Walter Benjamin's definition of an author as a producer. To see the artist or writer as 'someone who produces not only the narrative, but who is a realist in the sense that he or she reflects what it means to produce in the circumstances that you are embedded in. So, the role of the author in the 21st century is to 'not only to use the interface as a media for the production of new narratives, but also use the interface, and reflect the interface as a system of production'.

With questions such as 'how are we being written by machines?' and 'how have we become media?' still yet to be answered, I encourage anyone interested in posthumanism and digital aesthetics to make their way through the full discussion.

M.P.

[ignis-scientia-estrogen-brigade]

I've got an idea- first time the Strategist picked up a male lover. Don't care what flavor of guy. I'm honestly very interested to know what you think would catch his eye enough to test the waters. Sexy eloquent times to make my queer heart sing, please and thank you? (P.S. bonus points for a neck tie of any sort being involved.)

[ISEB Author’s Note #1: I’ve had this Ask sitting in my inbox for ages, and it was one I had looked forward to tackling for a long time. Sadly, the demands of real life seemed to distract me every time I sat down to work on it; in an effort to wrap it up once and for all, I admittedly rushed through the prose a bit more than I would’ve liked. Likewise, I tried to avoid a specific dilemma that often crops up in fanfiction—the premise of two male paramours written 100% for the consumption of a female demographic—but as I am not a gay man myself, my attempts may have ultimately proved futile. For any of my followers who choose to skip this particular fic, I’m going to try very hard to get through at least one other Ask in my inbox before the day is over, so stay tuned!]

[ISEB Author’s Note #2: If you’ve kept up with any of my other fics at this point, you may be asking yourself why I avoid naming the paramours who happen to cross paths with everyone’s favorite strategist. The answer is simple: It gives the reader the option of projecting either themselves or their own OCs onto the characters in question. By naming them, I feel like it confines the story to my own personal headcanons; without the pesky limitations of names or titles, the reader is at liberty to imagine Ignis Scientia fellating Ronald McDonald, for all I care. That said, I fear I will be unable to circumvent the issue of naming the protagonist in my next work of Specs fanfiction; the best I can hope for is that you’ll come to love that character as much as I have!]

Ignis x Male Suitor; 6800 Words

Redunkulously NSFW

He isn’t quite sure where the palace rumors about him originated from; contrary to popular belief, the strategist didn’t actually entertain a plethora of paramours all at once. It was hard enough keeping tabs on the three men who were entrusted to his care, and juggling several partners without the others’ knowledge was just asking for trouble.

The gossip was doubly bewildering to Ignis Scientia considering he hadn’t bedded a lover for the first time until considerably recently—much to the teasing of his friends. Even Prompto, the bumbling idiot around women that he was, had managed to cajole a bored classmate into sleeping with him well before Ignis had ever shared himself privately with another. But he hadn’t been in the same kind of hurry to exercise his sexual prowess like the others; establishing one’s virility was all relative, and physical intimacy was no more or less a validation of masculinity than slitting an enemy’s throat.

But he had eventually taken part in a man’s customary right of passage, and the rumors about him had begun to spread within the Citadel like wildfire not long after. He wonders if his proclivity for indulging in an evening drink at the same bar several of the royal Kingsglaive frequented has piqued the curiosity of more inquisitive observers—the seedy underbelly of Crown City was fertile breeding grounds for palace whispers, and the women who visited the establishment on the regular were indeed quite beautiful—but that’s not precisely why he comes here.

It’s actually because of the bartender; specifically, the delectable cocktail he creates using aged Altissian scotch with a twist of Duscaen orange rind is what prompts the strategist’s returning patronage. Ebony is inarguably his preferred beverage of choice, but there’s nothing quite like a stiff drink after spending an entire afternoon walloping on his undisciplined pupils to ease the tension in his shoulders. If he didn’t have to get up so early every morning to prepare his royal charge for the day ahead, Ignis might not have any reason to leave the bar at all.

It also helps that the man behind the counter is easy on the eyes; maybe it’s because his clipped accent draws attention to his strong jawline when he elongates his syllables, or perhaps it’s simply because the strategist appreciates someone who isn’t afraid of donning a pair of classic suspenders. The bartender often pairs them with a crisp button-down shirt and necktie—both in varying shades of black, per the royal dress code—and he hasn’t been absent once since Ignis took up his admittedly fallible habit.

Which is why he’s somewhat perplexed to find that the mixologist is not at his usual post when he strolls into the tavern that night. The strategist is reticent to inquire into the man’s whereabouts for fear of perpetuating even more rumors about himself—behind the safety of Insomnia’s walls, bored Kingsglaive seemingly have little better to do than to hypothesize about the relationship status of a lowly Crownsguard—so he spends several minutes casually wandering the floor’s perimeter in search of the only company he cares to entertain at this particular establishment.

It’s only after he’s poked his nose into every corner and booth—keenly aware of the probing stares the Kingsglaive have trained on him—that he steps back outside and into the brisk night air. The smell of smoking tobacco wafts through his nostrils, and he follows the odor around the corner of the building until he finds its source: A gentleman is leaning against a brick wall in the alleyway behind the bar, nursing a cigarette and dressed in a crisp button-down shirt, necktie, and suspenders.

“For a moment, I thought I was going to have to construct my own concoction this evening,” Ignis says as he stops beside the man.

“Sorry,” the bartender chuckles. “Just taking a short break. Standing on my feet for hours on end gets the better of me sometimes.”

The strategist runs a hand along one of his own sore biceps. “I can relate. If I didn’t have your alcoholic curatives to look forward to, I fear I would have to resort to acquainting myself with Crown City University’s local fraternity chapter. Either that, or I’d have to learn how to pour myself a proper glass of scotch.”

The man snorts softly. “I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing what some of my patrons on the other side of the bar might come up with.”

“I have some skill in backward-engineering recipes,” Ignis concedes, “but there’s an art to zesting an orange I haven’t quite mastered yet.”

The bartender takes a drag off his cigarette and shakes his head. “Perhaps, but nothing someone of your talents with a knife couldn’t acquire. At least, if the grumblings of the bruised Kingsglave inside are to be believed.”

Ignis’ lips twist into a wry grin; he spends most of his time at the Citadel tutoring the palace’s lower security detail in the study of hand-to-hand combat—that is, when he’s not occupied with his duties to the crown prince—but is remiss to pass up any opportunity to humble Regis’ more arrogant bodyguards whenever they offer to cross daggers with him. “Come now—surely Nyx isn’t still bitter about the finger I broke?”

“Only slightly,” the bartender demurs, and withdraws a small case from his trouser pocket. “Cigarette?”

The strategist hesitates briefly, then plucks one from the outstretched box. “Sure.”

The bartender then ignites a lighter in his direction, and Ignis leans over to kindle his smoke. His face is in close enough proximity to the man that he can smell the subtle fragrance of his cologne; his cheeks warm slightly when the aroma activates a deeper, more primal area of his brain, and he joins his impromptu counterpart against the wall as the chemicals in the tobacco work their magic through his tight muscles.

“At the risk of sounding like I’m prying,” he says through a hazy exhale, “what is a fit young gentleman like yourself doing working as a bartender in Insomnia? The Citadel’s recruitment offices would positively wring their hands in delight if they saw you walk through their front doors.”

He’s not wrong about the fit part; the strategist surmises only a blind person could miss the sharp definition of the bartender’s torso beneath his tailored shirt. But the man plays coy, and brushes his observation aside with a curious flick of his wrist. “I’m not as young as I look,” he says.

“Oh? How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Thirty-two,” he replies. “And if you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”

It’s not often the strategist feels encumbered by the age gap between him and his elders, but the bartender’s soulful eyes seemingly penetrate his deepest insecurities. “Nineteen going on forty, according to my friends,” he quips.

“Scarcely more than a child. I bet you haven’t even seen the world yet, have you?”

Ignis busies himself with his cigarette, if only to avert the older man’s probing gaze. “Not precisely, no.”

The man then grows quiet; after a while, he takes a final drag off his smoke and crushes the discarded butt beneath his heel. “To answer your question, I’m not as fit as I look, either. I was living in Tenebrae when the Imperial assault there occurred.”

The strategist ruminates over the meaning behind his mention for a long moment, until the pieces click into place. “Were you injured?”

The bartender kicks his right foot against the brick wall, and Ignis can hear the faint clink of metal. “Lost my leg below the knee in a daemon attack.”

An inkling of guilt trickles through Ignis’ gut, and he frowns. “My apologies.”

“None the worse for wear,” the man says jovially, “but it does limit my professional options a tad.”

“You probably presume I’m an naïve anklebiter who is unaware of the true dangers of Eos prowling just beyond the city’s walls.” The strategist gnaws on his lip as he tosses aside his own cigarette butt. “I suppose that would not be an entirely inaccurate observation.”

“Not at all.” The bartender resumes his place against the wall, only now he’s a step closer to Ignis, near enough that he can sense the warmth emanating from under the man’s tunic. “Although I do wonder sometimes why you show up to this place all alone night after night, when the palace rumors that have reached my ears suggest you are anything but lonely.”

“I’m going to have to do something about those pesky palace rumors,” Ignis mutters irritably. “It’s a small wonder the entire constituency of Insomnia doesn’t think I keep intimate company with a pack of Sabertusks by now.”

“What intimate company do you keep, then?”

His gaze suddenly darts over to the bartender. “Come again?”

The man has one eyebrow cocked in his direction, the faintest hint of a grin touching his lips. “Was that impolite of me to ask?”

“No, it’s just—” In an uncharacteristic loss of composure, the strategist finds himself stumbling over his words. “I should think you would hardly find the interests of a mere Crownsguard entertaining, when there are undoubtably more important individuals that vie for your attention.”

“The Kingsglaive only talk to me because they think I’m easy to impress. Libertus Ostium is evidently harboring a behemoth-sized phallus beneath his royal raiments, if one were to believe even a fraction of his boasting.”

Ignis can’t quite stifle a laugh. “Libertus walks around like a nudist in the Citadel’s locker rooms, so I know it’s not that big.”

“I know it’s not, either.”

The way the bartender tosses him an mischievous wink gives the strategist pause. “…right.”

“So do the beasts of greater Lucis truly tickle your fancy?” the man continues. “Or is there more to your unassuming character than meets the eye?”

Ignis glances cautiously over at him, not entirely confident in his own ability to read between the lines. “I find an exceptional intellect to be most intriguing, above all else.”

“That’s not exactly the narrowest of requisites.”

The strategist views his own sexuality in the same manner as the approach to warfare; tried and tested methods are often the most applicable policy, but are wholly conditional depending on the circumstances. “I suppose that hinges upon your definition of narrow.”

“So then, whereabouts would you assess my intellect?”

The lines are becoming more distinct now, and Ignis offers him a small smile. “I think anyone who has overcome the tremendous amount of adversity you have is certainly worth getting to know better.”

The man purses his lips in thought, and for the briefest of instants Ignis ponders what it might be like to feel the bartender’s warm breath on his neck. Then his companion abruptly pushes himself away from the wall and moves to exit the alleyway. “If you care to learn more about my exceptional intellect,” he calls out over his shoulder, “I live in the biggest apartment complex on Twelfth Street. I’m off at midnight.”

Biggest apartment complex on Twelfth Street isn’t the most explicit of directions, Ignis surmises, considering 12th Street ran the entire length of Crown City. But the strategist has the advantage of logic on his side, and there are a few hints he can infer from what little he knows about the bartender.

The man has a prosthetic leg, which meant that the radius of walking distance he was limited to was no more than ten or so blocks from the bar. It was conceivable he might’ve driven to his place of employment, but as the metropolitan area where the tavern was located offered very little street parking, it seemed rather unlikely. Within those constraints, that left two possible structures for consideration; one was a story taller that the other, but the shorter one spanned a greater width along its facade.

So Ignis situates himself equidistant from the two apartment buildings, and waits silently beneath a flickering street lamp in the hopes of picking up on another, more audible clue. On weeknights like this, the roads and alleyways were quiet enough to hear the sound of footfalls on the sidewalk, and indeed the strategist is rewarded by the soft grinding of a mechanical joint not long after the top of the hour.

“It appears my enigmatic instructions gave you far less trouble than I had anticipated,” the bartender says, as he steps out of the shadows and into the brassy light. “I suppose they don’t call you The Strategist without due cause.”

“If your intention was to be purposefully vague,” Ignis counters, “I wonder why you bothered inviting me to your residence in the first place.”

“One can never be too careful, what with the eyes of the crown peering through every nook and cranny of this city.” The man stops beside him and looks him up and down once. “Besides, there’s something to be said about gauging a person’s interest with discretion.”

Ignis raises a dubious eyebrow. “So you were testing me?”

The man’s gaze settles in on his own. “Just curious to see how far your youthful inquisitiveness would lead you.”

Admittedly, the women who had attempted to play bashful games with him in the past had held the strategist’s attention scarcely beyond a single heartbeat. But the bartender was neither bashful nor a woman, and Ignis can’t help but be more than a little intrigued. “Truth be told, I was hoping it would lead me to that drink I never got this evening.”

His pulse elevates slightly when bartender flashes him a wide grin before heading off in the direction of the taller of the two structures. “I’ll have to charge you a premium for dipping into my own inventory. Good Altissian scotch is hard to come by these days.”

The strategist trails a few paces behind him, the subtle sound of creaking metal echoing in the bartender’s wake. “Unless you have an automated teller machine squirreled away somewhere inside your apartment, you’ll have to settle for a more informal method of compensation.”

“I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

Ignis takes note of his companion’s thinly veiled insinuation as he follows him down a footpath terminating in a corner unit at the end of the complex. The man then withdraws a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks an ornate front door; serving drinks to thirsty palace guards is clearly a prosperous business venture, the strategist surmises, if he’s able to afford such posh accommodations in a part of Crown City as upper-class as this. The bartender plays the consummate gentleman, holding the door open for Ignis patiently until he is fully inside the dwelling.

The strategist focuses his attention on the furnishings of the room when the bartender taps a light switch on the wall; there’s nothing particularly out of the ordinary beyond the usual bachelor décor—high ceilings, leather furniture, an array of liquor bottles displayed behind a glass cabinet in the kitchen—but a curious oil painting on the wall catches his eye.

“The Birth of Eos,” Ignis comments, sifting through the assortment of useless information he keeps filed away in his mind at all times. “It’s not often you see classical Tenebraen art this far from where it originated. You mentioned you were present during the Imperial invasion—are you from there originally?”

The bartender is already in the kitchen, retrieving a couple of glass tumblers from an overhead shelf. “I am. Most of my family relocated to Crown City after the assault, but I still have a few cousins living there. I assume you’ve never been to Tenebrae?”

“I have not,” Ignis says, “but Noctis spent some months there as a child, and regaled its beauty to me many times.”

“It truly is a lovely place, when it’s not crawling with Magitek infantry.” The man rummages through the refrigerator for a moment before withdrawing an orange from the crisper and setting it on the kitchen counter. “I seem to recall a royal retinue gracing the country with their presence for a time. The prince was recuperating from a daemon attack, am I correct?”

“Indeed.”

“Nasty beasts—the one interaction I had with them was once too many for my liking.” He then unsheathes a paring knife and deftly peels off a strip of rind from the orange. “May I ask how long you’ve been in service to the crown?”

“As long as I can remember,” Ignis murmurs, his attention still wrapped up in the details of the Astral depicted in the image. “I was recruited as somewhat of plaything for Noct when I was six years old.”

“If you’d had the choice, would you have done things differently? Explored other avenues?”

“I’ve… never really given it much thought, to be honest.” He finally tears his eyes away from the painting just in time to see the bartender uncorking a bottle of scotch and pouring a splash over both tumblers. “The circumstances I found myself in as a child seemingly dictated my lot in life.”

“I suppose there are far less honorable professions than that of a royal Crownsguard.” The man drops a twist of orange rind into each glass, then strolls over to where Ignis is standing before offering him one of the drinks. “Like bartending, for instance.”

“Bartending is absolutely an honorable profession. Just imagine how dreary the world would be without the simple joy of drinking oneself to oblivion.” The strategist smiles at his counterpart as he raises his tumbler to his lips. “What do I owe you?”

The bartender narrows his eyes. “How about an answer to a personal inquiry?”

“All right.”

“Are you virtuous?”

Ignis nearly chokes on his scotch. “Am I what?”

“Perhaps ‘unsullied’ is the word I was looking for.”

He then frowns, not entirely sure where the bartender’s line of questioning is headed. “Certainly not. I wouldn’t be having to field salacious whispers about myself if I were.”

The bartender takes a long sip of his drink before setting his glass down on a nearby end table. “I only ask because I never quite know what gossip to believe. Perhaps if the one set of rumors were untrue, the other rumors I’ve heard might be false as well.”

The strategist’s brow furrows. “What other rumors?”

“That you’ve engaged exclusively with women.”

“That… is not false, no.”

The bartender takes a step closer to Ignis, near enough that he can smell the scotch on the man’s breath. “Does the notion of entertaining the company of men trouble to you?”

The strategist’s eyes fall on the bartender’s necktie, and he briefly calculates the amount of time it would take to fashion it into a makeshift manacle. “I should think not. One willing body is as warm as another.”

“But you can’t speak from experience?”

“I cannot.”

The bartender tilts his head thoughtfully to one side. “How curious.”

Ignis’ grip tightens around his cold beverage, the hackles on his neck tingling in mild irritation. “I’m not intimidated, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Are you sure about that?”

For a long moment, the two men stare each other down in silence; then the bartender casually reaches over and plucks the tumbler from Ignis’ hand before closing the distance between them. The strategist’s breath catches in his throat when the man runs his fingers lightly across his bare cheek, and his spectacled eyes fall shut when their lips finally meet.

There was something to be said about all the things that made women so delightfully feminine—small statures, dainty fingers, rosy lips that teased Ignis in all the right places. But the raw energy the strategist could taste on the tip of the bartender’s tongue was unlike anything he’d experienced before; the smell of the man’s cologne mingling with the oaky flavor of aged Altissian scotch muddles his senses and sends electrical impulses firing from his brain down to his feet with lightning speed.

Ignis clutches at the bartender’s necktie absentmindedly, if only to stop his knees from giving out from under him entirely. He has nothing to fear, however, because his companion’s hands are already circling around his waist, his strong fingers gripping the small of his back. He presses his chest up against the man’s torso, and for all the effort the nineteen-year-old strategist has made at crafting a mature and collected demeanor, he suddenly finds himself succumbing to the childish desire of wanting to be held.

But the bartender stifles his juvenile instinct by breaking their kiss, stepping backward a pace before Ignis can drag him to the nearest flat surface and strip him of his clothes entirely. “If this is your first attempt at wielding a sword,” he says as he reaches for Ignis’ glass, “you might want to finish this first.”

“My expertise admittedly lies with the lance, but there are some notable similarities.” The strategist grudgingly accepts the drink from the bartender’s hand and knocks it back in one swig. “How different could it be?”

His counterpart is already making his way toward a room at the end of a hallway, and Ignis abandons his empty tumbler before trailing him through the open door. A large bed is situated in the center of the space, and the bartender loosens his necktie as he lowers himself onto the edge of it. “I presume if you haven’t entangled yourself with a man before, you might have some inquiries as to the delegation of certain tasks.”

The strategist hesitates as he watches him discard his tie on a nearby pillow. “I suppose my expectations do align a bit more toward the traditional.”

The bartender then unbuttons the top two closures of his shirt, and Ignis catches a glimpse of his smooth collarbone. “I’ll tell you what,” the man says. “I have trouble being on my knees for too long a time. If you can spare me the effort of overexerting my right leg, I’ll let you play whatever role you like to your heart’s content.”

“An agreeable strategy,” Ignis replies, and slowly makes his way toward the bedside.

The bartender’s skin is as soft as he imagined it would be when the strategist finally traces his fingers along the lines of his chest. His hands then move to tug on the elastic of his suspenders, and a flutter of anticipation stirs in his belly when he slips them down past the man’s firm shoulders. His companion’s eyes never leave his own, and he waits unflinching while Ignis tackles the rest of his shirt buttons.

“I must admit,” the bartender says in a low voice, “I was expecting a bit more jittering from a man who’s only practice is with the fairer sex. Do they temper your nerves in steel at the Citadel?”

The strategist snorts softly as he liberates his partner from his tunic. “Not quite. The drink helped.”

He then covers the bartender’s mouth with his own before he can respond with a clever retort, dropping his hands to the man’s waist to release his belt buckle. At the back of his mind, Ignis knows this is little more than a momentary tryst, a mutual understanding between two men simply in need of alleviating a bit of life’s pressures; still, the bartender is tender in his touch, caressing the strategist’s jawline with gentle fingers and nipping softly at his lower lip.

Ignis then drops to his knees and eases the bartender out of his trousers; he isn’t quite sure what he was expecting his own reaction to be, but the sight of the man’s right leg causes his heart to seize up in his chest. Aluminum plates and copper wiring shaped into a respectable facsimile of calf muscles and an ankle joint encases everything below the knee, and Ignis runs his hand along the bartender’s thigh before stopping just above the artificial limb.

“You don’t have to worry about dancing around my feelings,” the man says quietly. “I can hardly even remember how it happened nowadays.”

Ignis had seen the visible scars carved into those in service to the crown who had been involved in action on the Imperial front; he’d even seen the emotional impact the terrors of the night had had on his closest friend. But he had never borne witness to the horrors of bloodshed in such close quarters before, and suddenly it felt as if the war against the Empire was right outside his doorstep.

The strategist glides tentative fingers down the man’s right leg, noting the transition between the warmth of his skin and the coolness of the polished metal. “Does it hurt?”

The bartender offers him a cheeky grin. “Only when I kick someone.”

The tension in his chest ebbs, and Ignis brushes a cheek against the inside of the man’s thigh. “Do warn me if you happen to be ticklish, then. In my experience, tooth enamel is rather weak against metal.”

He can feel the bartender’s hands sift through his hair when he moves to relieve him from his briefs; the strategist was scarcely bashful in the presence of bare flesh, but his cheeks unconsciously redden when he lays eyes on his partner’s burgeoning erection that matches the pressure in his own trousers. The dull ache of intoxication is causing his head to swim, although whether it was from the alcohol he consumed earlier, or simply a side effect of his increasingly demanding libido, Ignis isn’t quite sure.

And while he may have had little experience with manipulating a sword, the strategist knows what he likes whenever he happens to be on the receiving end of a lover’s generosity; his hands move instinctively to grip at the base of the bartender’s strengthening rigidity, his mouth enveloping him fully, his tongue pressing hard against the sensitive part just below the head. His partner’s fingers tighten around his temples once before drifting down the back of his neck; he is quiet in his reaction to Ignis’ gentle probing, but the fingernails the strategist can feel digging through the fabric of his shirt speak volumes.

Ignis takes this as a positive sign, and settles in more comfortably between the bartender’s legs. He then allows one of his hands to circle around the man’s artificial calf—he isn’t sure whether his partner has any feeling below his right knee, but the smooth metal is enjoyable to the touch nonetheless—and supplements his oral machinations with the other. The bartender’s own hands eventually let go of their vice grip over his shoulders and drift down the front of his chest, and Ignis can feel the buttons of his shirt loosen with each passing stroke of his tongue.

He pauses only briefly to give the bartender free rein to discard his shirt on the floor, glancing up as the man leans down to steal a kiss. Then Ignis returns his attention to the task at hand, closing his eyes against the sensation of warm flesh thrusting hard against the back of his throat. The scent of cologne and scotch and male pheromones that swirl in the air around his nostrils serves only to urge the strategist onward, and he reaches down to loosen the zipper of his trousers to relieve himself of the pressure plaguing his own groin.

The bartender remains silent, but Ignis can sense the man’s breath shortening in his lungs, can feel the pulsing of blood locked tightly inside the tissue of his shaft. And he can hear the sound of his mechanical ankle flexing and clenching in time with Ignis’ movements, until his tremors reach all the way to his hands and he tilts the strategist’s chin up with trembling fingers.

“Perhaps it would be best if we moved on to other things,” he says hoarsely. “I wouldn’t want to dirty up your spectacles.”

The strategist levels him with a malevolent grin, and draws himself up to his full height. The bartender’s hands drift to the waistband of his trousers, tracing his fingertips lightly over Ignis’ arousal before tugging on the pockets of his pants and dropping them to the floor. The strategist rakes his gaze over his partner’s taut abdomen when he pushes himself onto the bed and reaches for a drawer in the nightstand; after a moment, the man withdraws a small bottle and tosses it in Ignis’ direction.

“For your own pleasure,” he offers. “If you need more, there’s plenty where that came from.”

Ignis eyes the vial of lubricant in his hand; if a full bottle wasn’t enough to prime the evening’s activities, the strategist had grossly underestimated the proportions of his own equipment. But before he can even remove his smallclothes, the bartender rolls over onto his chest and props himself on his elbows.

Ignis finally abandons his briefs on the floor and eases himself onto the bed beside his lover. “If you don’t mind,” he says, as he gestures for the bartender to assume a comfortable position on his back, “I generally like to see my partners’ faces in the heat of the moment.”

“Missionary? Really?” The man lets out a laugh. “I should think you were an old maid, with that sort of taste.”

The strategist tucks the bottle of lubricant beneath his arm and plucks the long-forgotten tie up off the pillow. “There are ways of reinventing the familiar.”

The man’s eyes widen as Ignis gathers his wrists above his head. “If you were hoping to avoid a metal foot to the teeth, this might not be the best course of action.”

The strategist loops the tie around the back of the headboard and secures the bartender’s hands. “A calculated risk.”

When he is satisfied with the strength of his knot, Ignis rocks back on his knees and rids himself of his last remaining accoutrement: his glasses. There was something about the absence of the familiar weight across the bridge of his nose that made him feel even more naked and vulnerable than being nude in front of a lover; perhaps it was the comments he inevitably received from his paramours on how different he looked without them that triggered his insecurities about his own image.

But the bartender mercifully makes no wry quips about his youthful features, and instead watches with curiosity as Ignis uncaps the vial of lubricant; cold serum drips down into his palm, and gooseflesh ripples through his skin when he touches the viscous liquid to his screaming erection. He then pours a generous amount over his partner’s loins, spreading the fluid across the man’s shivering flesh with warm hands, until he stops to press a finger inside the most sensitive and intimate part of his lover’s body.

Only then does the bartender finally make a sound; Ignis introduces a second finger, and is rewarded not with a kick to the jaw, but a louder, more audible gasp from the man. The exploration of discovery was wholly universal, the strategist surmises, and probing a man’s canal was not all that different than teasing the sex of a woman. He leans over and nuzzles his nose against his partner’s neck, his hand still buried between his thighs, and the bartender tilts his face toward the strategist’s in a furious attempt to meet his lips.

Ignis indulges in his desire, but only briefly, because it isn’t long before the man’s hips are quivering and his insistence is making itself known. The strategist withdraws his hand and positions himself above the bartender, then reaches down for the base of his own shaft and nudges the head against the entrance of his lover’s body; the lubrication has its intended effect, and the strategist’s elbows nearly give out from under him when he presses his heat inside his partner.

It was an altogether different sensation than what Ignis had experienced in the past; the taut walls of a man were more rigid, the muscles tightening against his ardor more acute, than the soft folds of a woman. He ceases all movement for an instant to allow for the sudden dizziness in his head to pass, and moves to rest his cheek against the bartender’s chiseled torso until his mind is clear enough to actively quell the throbbing in his loins.

When he is certain his body won’t betray him and spill his seed unceremoniously within five seconds of penetrating him, Ignis finally lifts his head to cover the bartender’s parted mouth with his own. His kiss is gentle at first, then more urgent as buries himself fully inside his partner; the man arches his ribcage and wraps his ankles around the back of the strategist’s knees—his left leg warm, his right cool to the touch—until their two bodies are nearly as one and his partner’s hard-as-stone manhood is trapped between both their abdomens.

Ignis grips at the sheets on either side of the bartender’s head when he begins to move, if only to protect the man from his fingernails that are desperate to mark their territory. But he can’t safeguard his partner from his teeth, and indeed the strategist is unable to resist the urge to leave a trail of gentle love bites down the man’s collarbone. His lover’s arms strain against the shackles of the necktie, so Ignis teases his tongue along the inside of the man’s biceps in an effort to distract him from the knot fettering his wrists.

The strategist eventually settles his hips into a comfortable rhythm, and studies the planes of his lover’s face as he seeks out visual and audible clues that might reveal to him the thoughts turning behind the bartender’s mind. He can see his jaw clench tightly when Ignis meets the edge of his resistance, can hear the carnal growl coming from deep within his throat; he can also feel the warm droplets pooling onto his partner’s abdomen, a telltale sign of the man’s ardor inching ever closer to its breaking point.

So Ignis doubles his efforts, and aims for the same firm spot he can feel with each passing drive of his hips. The bartender’s thighs are gripped tightly around his waist, his moans growing louder in his ears, his arms fighting the ties that bind them. Ignis bites down hard on the inside of his cheek in a rapidly failing attempt at mitigating his own rising fervor; it doesn’t help that lubricant smothering both of their flesh makes the strategist’s thrusts glide with the ease and pleasure of a well-oiled machine.

The bartender’s eyes suddenly flash with a fire that catches Ignis off guard. “Untie me,” he whispers.

The strategist hesitates for a moment, then leans down to touch his lips lightly to his partner’s cheek. “It won’t be much longer, I promise.”

The man levels him with a steely gaze. “Do it before I break this headboard, damn it.”

It doesn’t take a strategist to pick up on the deadly seriousness of the bartender’s voice; he immediately moves to loosen the knot, and the man’s hands are on his buttocks the instant they are freed. His mouth seeks out Ignis’ with a hunger of a rabid Voretooth, and he grinds his hips agonizingly against the strategist’s aching loins; even Ignis, the silent lover he often was, cannot entirely contain the gasp that escapes his lungs, and he closes his eyes when his partner’s writhing intensifies beneath him.

This isn’t precisely how the strategist had planned things to occur; drawing out sensual pleasure was a marathon, not a race, and he’d hoped to prolong his partner’s ecstasy at least a little longer than it had taken him to down his cocktail. But the bartender’s fingers clawing urgently at his lower back is doing nothing to impede the familiar pressure constricting the base of his shaft, and his body has wrenched his own free will away from him in favor of progressing autonomously through his thrusts.

It’s his partner’s climax that ultimately tips him over the edge, and the strategist has but a heartbeat to register the sensation of warm, milky fluid squeezing through the tight space between their bellies. Then his own orgasm is tearing through him, so he yields himself over to the inevitable; he grits his teeth as his hips jerk in time with the pulse of his contractions. When the final wave of his climax has exhausted itself, he summons the last of his self discipline and gingerly lowers himself to the bartender’s chest rather than collapsing under the weight of his own mass entirely.

The older man rakes his hands gently through Ignis’ scalp and they lay in silence, their hearts beating nearly as one. The strategist resists the urge to laugh aloud at the ludicrous notion that there was something inherently immoral or emasculating about bedding a gentleman; sword or sheath, one willing body was truly as warm as another. After a moment, Ignis pushes himself off his partner and reaches for his spectacles resting on the nightstand.

The bartender peers over at him as he settles his glasses across the bridge of his nose. Admittedly, this was the part of the evening that Ignis was always the most tentative of; his loyalty is first and foremost to the crown, and he recognizes the damage he risks to his credibility with each surreptitious dalliance he engages himself in. It’s why he hides behind a cold and aloof demeanor whenever he returns his lenses to his face; feelings of longing and affection would only get in the way of a man who has sworn his allegiance to a life of royal service.

Mercifully, the bartender makes no indication of a desire for pillow talk; he simply retrieves a hand towel stored in a drawer in the nightstand and wipes the fluid from his belly in silence. Ignis’ heart aches inside his chest at the painful austerity of their resolution, but it’s the price he must pay as a Crownsguard, a fleeting moment of euphoria in an otherwise restrained existence.

The bartender then offers the towel in the direction of the strategist. “Care for a cup of coffee?”

He takes the rag and cleans up the product of his own desire between his thighs. “If you happen to have Ebony, I’d be in your debt.”

The man tosses his legs—mechanical or otherwise—over the side of the bed and draws himself upright. “I’d be an embarrassment to my vocation if I brewed anything less than the best.”

Ignis watches as the man quickly throws on his briefs and trousers before exiting the bedroom. He then glances around in search of his own wardrobe—how his shirt ended up all the way in the threshold of the door, he can’t quite remember—and dresses in silence, an odd sense of dismay washing over him. In hindsight, bedding the one person in all of Insomnia who knew just how to pour a proper glass of scotch perhaps went against his better judgment.

The alluring aroma of freshly-brewed coffee is already swirling in the air when the strategist finally moves into the living room. The bartender is leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his bare chest, his flat abdomen on full display for Ignis’ viewing pleasure. “Is everything all right?” the man asks. “You seem to be mired in a cloud of melancholy, all of a sudden.”

Ignis adjusts his spectacles out of nervous habit. “I was just thinking it might be best if I gave up my drinking habit for a while.”

The bartender frowns. “Are you worried about what I’ll say? I’ll have you know that no one keeps secrets in Crown City better than I do.”

“I’ve heard that before,” the strategist mutters, “but loose lips appear to follow me wherever I go.”

The man then retrieves two mugs from a cabinet, topping them both off with Ebony before moving to stop beside Ignis. “Libertus’ reputation seems to be no worse for wear, despite my best efforts,” he teases.

The strategist accepts the mug the bartender is holding out for him and grimaces. “Your discretion is appreciated.”

“If you choose to distance yourself from your fallibilities, I’ll try not to take it personally.” The bartender sips at his Ebony and touches a hand to the small of Ignis’ back. “But a little youthful capriciousness scarcely tarnished a man’s respectability. I should think your name might be famous across Lucis one day.”

“‘The Philanderer’ doesn’t exactly have the ring I was hoping for.”

“You have nothing to fear—‘The Strategist’ has already taken root in the minds of others. It may have reached the ears of even Tenebrae by now.” The bartender then leans over and presses a chaste kiss to Ignis’ cheek. “If you ever happen to make it there, do be on the lookout for the floating castles—they are truly a sight to behold.”