#but this was a great excuse to explain exactly why myths about bisexuals like this are harmful

[rantingcrocodile]

Do you think straight partnered bisexual women are overrepresented and dominant in bisexual spaces?

Questions like these are exactly how I know there's internalised biphobia. I'm not saying that to shame you or anything like that, because in this biphobic climate, it's a reasonable question to ask. The problem is that the perspective is all wrong.

For one: what bisexual spaces are we even talking about? There are very few that even exist to begin with. LGB spaces don't count remember, as we're talking about bisexual spaces, not spaces for the LG to be included.

Secondly: why is this framed as straight-partnered bisexual women? Should a bisexual woman who grew up believing that she was a lesbian, all of her previous partners been women, but her current partner happens to be a man suddenly "dominant" and therefore should be made to be quiet about her experiences? Why is this framed as bisexuals dominating others? Do you not see that this is suggesting that bisexual women that happen to act on one part of their sexuality can somehow be infected by men and therefore an enemy to other bisexuals?

Thirdly: why are bisexual women being defined by who their partner is, and not their personal bisexuality, how biphobia has affected them and there’s no understanding that there are bisexual women out there simply wanting to connect with other people who are also bisexual?

But most importantly of all: when we talk about who “dominates” in bisexual spaces, why is there never any discussion about bisexual POC, or bisexual WOC specifically? 

Are white bisexual women who are currently single and only hope to have a wife one day “dominated” and need some sort of protection from black bisexual women that happen to currently have a boyfriend?

There’s all this talk demonising bisexuals in opposite-sex relationships and fetishising bisexuals who simply say they want same-sex relationships to pit us against each other, like that’s what makes massive differences between us (and hint: the “differences” are nowhere near as big as the biphobes have convinced us are there) that there is absolutely no space to talk about the very real intersections of biphobic oppression.

When Jews are already stereotyped as greedy, manipulative and can’t be trusted, and Jewish women often seen as sexless prudes, how do you think that intersects with the biphobic beliefs that bisexuals are greedy, manipulative whores who can’t be trusted?

When black women are already stereotyped as promiscuous commodities, how do you think that intersects with the biphobic beliefs that bisexuals are all sluts and our bisexuality is automatic, permanent consent no matter what else we say?

When Hispanic women are already stereotyped as flirtatious and “the sexy Latina,” how do you think that intersects with the biphobic beliefs that bisexuals exist for male consumption, ready for sex at all times, where we aren’t allowed to have boundaries?

So while the biphobes pretend that biphobia doesn’t even exist and tell us that our biggest issue is those straight-partnered bihets taking over everything and harming the poor, actually marginalised same-sex partnered febfems, nobody’s actually talking about how the few discussions and studies into bisexuality are mostly through a white lens. There’s no understanding at all that bisexuals come from all different races and ethnicities and backgrounds, and that those intersections are the most important ones.

Who has the loudest voices in the few bisexual spaces that exist? White bisexuals.

All that this question does is completely erase the actual intersections that exist, and the reason that this racism exists is purely to teach bisexuals that we aren’t the ones that ever actually matter, only the LG matters. It teaches us that at best, the bisexuals who can “pass as LG” are the only ones that should ever matter, because specifically in LGB spaces, the LG (primarily the G) are the ones with the control. The only times that we’re allowed to speak are if it’s something that the LG can identify with, so even if one bisexual woman mentions a boyfriend once in an LGB space, which is her right as it’s part of her bisexuality that she can and should be allowed to share (as long as it’s not sexual or inappropriate!), then that’s enough for the LG to say that the space has been “ruined” or “overtaken.” 

Bisexuals have internalised that message. Bisexuals have no idea, in general, that biphobia takes different forms when it comes to different intersections, just like homophobia takes different forms when it comes to different intersections, and just like misogyny takes different forms when it comes to different intersections.

Systemic biphobia has taught us that we’re “half-straight-half-gay” and despite knowing, deep down, that we aren’t, that bisexuality is its own unique and discrete sexuality, too many bisexuals still have an obsession with demonising whatever they believe shows off the “half-straight part” instead of understanding that we’re simply all bisexual and express our bisexuality in different ways. One voice speaking too loudly about an opposite-sex partner is one too many for too many bisexuals to deal with. The idea that bisexuals can simply say, “I want to talk about my same-sex attraction instead” or “that particular conversation about your boyfriend isn’t appropriate” in one of the few bisexual spaces to exist is beyond too many of these bisexuals, because too many bisexuals don’t have any spine to speak out and have their voices heard thanks to the toxic mix of both female and biphobic socialisation and have completely forgotten that we’re all simply bisexual.

Bisexuals are hated by everyone else, biphobia is praised by everyone else, bisexuals are silenced by everyone else, but there’s a belief that there are so many bisexuals who magically take over everything to make it “straight”?

Please, if that were the case, then the LGB would be spearheaded by bisexuals, bisexual representation would be everywhere, bisexuals would be the first mentioned when it comes to LGB topics, and everyone on the planet would know that Freddie Mercury was bisexual and not gay, as most presume. (Once again, a bisexual MOC, don’t forget.) That isn’t the case.

Take a step back and think for a minute.

We’re so oppressed and marginalised that we’re still in the stage where most people don’t even believe that we’re oppressed and marginalised while they’re oppressing and marginalising us that we haven’t even been allowed to begin the very important and key discussions about how bisexuality intersects with other axes of oppression.

We’re too busy saying that we’re oppressed and fighting the idea that “actually, only the more half-gay bisexuals are worth anything” that racial and ethnic minority bisexuals don’t get to speak about our specific, individual axes of oppression, that disabled bisexuals can’t discuss axes of oppression, etc etc etc.

Instead, it’s all about “the half-straight gross bisexuals” vs “the pure and wholesome half-gay bisexuals” that does nothing but damage all of us because the argument is actually just “biphobic oppression doesn’t exist, only what can look like homophobic oppression matters, bisexuals in general don’t matter.”

It’s fucked.

Questions like this are beyond fucked.

Hopefully now, you can see exactly why.

[poormeowmeowcollector]

Two Gals Sitting On An Elevator Because They're Not Gay

Pairing: Lady Loki/Female Reader

Warnings: claustrophobia, panic attacks

Summary: with the power cut off, you get trapped in an elevator with Loki.

Notes: after being tempted by a certain lady *coughcough* @lucywrites02 *coughcough*, my bisexual thirsty ass needed Lady Loki, okay?

Read On AO3

You're pacing down the corridor, the shoes slamming rhythmically on the tile floor. It's just your first meeting and you're already late.

You slide into the elevator right before it closes, pressing the button and staying put in a corner.

"Good day," a posh voice greets. You turn to face a woman around your age, black locks of hair framing her sharp and pale face, her green eyes scanning you. She's also dressed nicely, a black leather jacket and jeans with old boots and a green tee, some gold jewelry here and there. And she is holding four cups of coffee, the biggest ones the shop inside the Tower has to offer.

"Good day," you smile and nod, eyes still on her. You can swear she looks familiar, apart from illegally attractive. "Excuse me, but have we met again? You look familiar," you mutter, already regretting it. Gosh, you sound like a freak.

"Perhaps from the TV, when the attack took place," she answers, voice low and deep. You stop and think for a bit. The only women on the TV from back then were Agent Hill and Agent Romanov, and this woman is much taller and paler than both of them. You're ready to ask for more information, in hope of recognising her.

"Apologies, I looked different then. I'm Loki," she explains, a tint of anxiety in her eyes.

"It's fine, don't bother with it. Oh, by the way, what're your pronouns?" you ask, secretly glad to see that anxiety dying out.

"Thank you, she/they for now," she smiles, still small and distant. You nod and stay silent, feeling that there's nothing more to add to the convention. Loki agrees with it.

There is a silent agreement among humanity, one that says that we cannot stare when inside an elevator. But your eyes can't stop trying to steal glances. It's not the superhero fact, you knew very well that you needed to acknowledge the fact that you're on the tower and respect those people's boundaries the moment you got the job. It's how damn beautiful they are, even though she's just standing there.

Then, you can't stare altogether, because the lights are out and the elevator comes to a halt.

"What just happened?" There's an obvious panic on Loki's voice, accompanied by a small breeze.

"Probably the power was cut off. A second generator or the reactor will turn on again soon, don't worry. We just need a light so we don't bump into each other…" you mutter, trying to find your phone.

Which you, apparently, forgot at home when you rushed here. Great!

"Do you happen to have something that can light up the place?" You ask, trying not to groan. A small lantern appears on the centres of the small box, lighting it up with a green light.

"Nice, relaxing," you smile at Loki, watching as they nod from their tiny corner. You sigh and go to the door, trying to open it.

"Allow me," Loki appears from behind you and digs her fingers into the small split, the metal bending around them. With one flex of their hands, the doors are torn apart, only to reveal a wall. There's no light or air coming from below or above, you're trapped exactly between the floors.

"JARVIS, tell Stark that we're here," she sighs and turns towards the black screen that is supposed to be the board. Nothing happens.

"Maybe the AI needs power to work. They'll find us. Until then, we should get comfortable," you suggest as you sit down, facing the green lantern. Loki hums but doesn't sit. Instead, they walk around in circles like a caged animal and mess with their fingers (the coffees are on a corner), an obvious nervous gesture.

Without thinking about it, you grab your fidget toy from your bag and wait until Loki walks in front of you so you can kick her gently. "What?" They ask, glaring at you. You smile and offer the toy, watching her expression becoming softer as she takes it and starts messing with it instead of her fingers.

"I apologise, but I don't have the best experience with closed rooms, they're like cages," they laugh, the nervous kind of it.

"No need to apologize," you shrug, mentally trying to think of a way to make it more bearable. Damn, you should have searched for it while you had the chance…

The elevator gets colder, distracting you for the mental barade on how ignorant you are. "Could we run out of air?" Loki asks, stopping the walk and staring at you.

"There's a vent on the ceiling and air coming from the holes in the door so, no," you take it literally. It probably won't help but she still nods and tries to smile.

They sit down, opposite to you, and keep playing with the toy, eyes lost. Her lips are muttering things in a language that comes to your ears as a combination of trills, groans and gagging sounds. Their skin becomes clammy and pale and their eyes glassy, shoulders jumping up and down faster than before.

You're not an expert, but this is not a good sign.

Your breath comes out visible from the cold as you call Loki's name. She doesn't respond. Instead, they throw the toy down and curl into a ball, head hidden and something between wheezing and sobbing coming out of them. Her hands, tight around her curled feet, have a green glow on the fingers, like fire threatening to burn everything down.

You move closer and call their name again, hoping you won't starle them and make it worse. She doesn't flinch, but doesn't respond either. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay. You're safe. You will be fine, alright? You'll be fine," you whisper, again to no avail.

You try to run your hand against the green flames, still repeating those words and warning her. It covers your fingers too, giving you a numbing sensation of a sleeping limp.

Then, Loki literally grabs you like you're a teddy bear and squeezes you, but gives you enough freedom to do the same. You're afraid to apply pressure but they squeeze you back, almost asking you to mimic them.

So, you hug each other for dear life, your hands drawing patterns on her back. Against your body, their heart pounds like it's going to break out and their lungs move faster than light, their whole body shaking and feeling clammy and cold. She's resting her head against your shoulder, tears streaming down as she fights for air.

"Shhhh, it's okay, it's okay. You'll be okay. It will pass, I promise. Just try to breathe and wait, okay? You're not alone in this one, you're not. Everything will be okay," you whisper again and again against their ear, hoping to help somehow.

It takes time and effort for Loki to finally draw a full breath, even though a shaky one. You smile and praise her for it, happy to hear the next ones being more full of air and feel her body steady.

But there's a cold wave again.

"Sh- I'm so sorry… I-I… I had no control…" they mutter and break the hug, head hanging down with shame.

"Since you're better, it doesn't matter," you smile, trying to find her hand again. She's quick to cup yours with hers, squeezing and tracing lines with her thumb.

"Then, thank you," they raise their head and give you a weak smile, eyes still glassy from the tears.

"Don't mention it. Em… do you want me to step back, give you space?"

She nods a no. "Actually, I would ask for the exact opposite," they whisper, trying to maintain the smile. You turn around and sit beside her, your upper body resting against the metal wall.

"You're free to go ahead, you know," you let them know. Without a warning, not that you needed one, she tangles her hand against your and lays on your shoulder, breathing heavily. You move your own hand against their waist, bringing them closer.

"Can I ask, why do you feel so safe with me? You're literally a goddess," you ask.

"You aren't a threat. When you," she stops to take a breath, "when you touched my seiðr, it felt safe," they explain, voice wheezing just so.

"The green fire thing?" You furrow your brows. Loki gives you a hum.

Neither speaks for a long time, you stay put where you are. But it's not awkward at all. In fact, it's quite comfortable. She stays there, the small and occasional squeezing on your side by her hand is the only proof that she hasn't fallen asleep, but it's obvious how the attack drained her.

Then, they start humming a tune, completely foreign to your ears.

"What's that song?" You ask out of the blue, praying you won't starle her.

"An old lullabye Frigga used to sing to me and Thor when we were small. She said it has a protection spell to keep creatures of the night away," they sigh. Only from the myths, you recognise the name.

"It probably is inappropriate to ask, but do you mind singing it out loud? The melody sounds sweet," you suggest, voice small. Loki chuckles.

"My singing is terrible in this form, I was unfortunately trained to sing only with the male voice and there's no way I'm turning into him anytime soon,"

"Oh, okay then," you nod at her response, convinced that that's the end of the discussion. Loki stays silent for some long moments, and then they straighten themselves against the wall.

"Come, lay here. If I am to do it, better do it the way she did," she argues, petting her thigh. Whatever bisexual alarms exist in your brain start beeping like bomb sirens from the WWII, so loudly that you swear they can hear them.

"We're strangers…" it's all you manage to say. Loki responds with a shrug.

"Yes, and?"

You nod and do as she commanded, your eyes put on hers. They smile and take some deep breaths, you don't know if it's to gather courage or air.

Then, she starts singing. The sounds are still rough and hard, like their mumbling earlier, and the melody is completely foreign to your ear. It doesn't stop it from being magical. You soon close your eyes and find yourself relaxing in her lap, drunk in her voice.

Their foot jerks, hitting your head and making you groan as you land face–first on reality. "You could at least pay some attention," she scolds, icy eyes glaring at you.

"I'm sorry, I got lost in the song. But your singing is stunning," you try to explain yourself, but their face doesn't seem to soften.

"You could use a better lie, I sound like a dying goose," she maintains her serious face, or façade, even though you start grinning.

"Now who's lying?" you tease, rising up and going back to your previous position beside them. Her cheeks go pink and then red, the blush spreading to her ears and her lips turning into a thin line.

And gosh, they're so adorable!

"I-" she stammers, seconds before hiding her burning face between her fingers and muttering in Old Norse.

"Hey, are you alright?" you ask, worried you might have triggered another attack. They nod and sigh, revealing their now pinkish face.

"I apologize, it just started to hurt," she whispers, eyes looking down at her hands. You shrug one shoulder.

"You have nothing to apologize for." They smile at the answer, laying back at your shoulder and digging their nose in your neck, long cold fingers grabbing your hand and playing with it as tickling fire comes and goes. She digs her head out, watching carefully your hand's reaction to the fidgeting.

"You have a beautiful hand, you know that?" they mutter, almost you themselves.

"Thank you," you don't know if you giggle from the comment or the tickling coming from her seiðr. They hum, consecrated on your hand and maintaining a second wave of comfortable silence for several minutes.

"What do you plan to do when we get out?" she asks out of the blue, leaving your hand alone and hiding back to your neck.

"Make sure I'm not fired, apologize to my boss, probably get something to eat since I didn't have time for breakfast…" you whisper, scared of breaking the silence.

"If Stark fires you, he dies, slowly," they don't break the calm with the threat, but you still giggle at it.

"Thank you, sweetie. What're you planning to do?" you beam and move some hair away from her face as she turns around.

"Move to a balcony, smoke the whole tobacco industry, never use an elevator again, and kill Stark," they shrug, gazing at the metal wall in front of you.

"Sounds like a plan," you grimace and fail to hold back a shiver. When did it get so cold again?

Loki starts to quiver too, but you bet it's not from the cold.

"Loki?" you keep quiet, hoping you won't scare her. They don't respond.

Instead, she just sits there, like a statue, vacant eyes on the wall.

"Loki, you're safe now. Okay? You'll be alright. I promise, you'll be just fine," you start whispering again, raising a hand to hold them.

Your head gets slammed against the wall. Loki stands in front of you, her eyes glowing green and filled with rage and a flaming punch being ready to launch in your face. You raise your hands in surrender, praying that they'll see them instead of the way you shiver from fear.

Her eyes soften, and then water up. "You're not- Oh Norns, I'm so- Oh Gods!" they stammer and walk back, their whole body shaking. She stops on the neatest wall, her feet collapsing and making her fall down.

They need space, you know that, but you still walk closer. "It's okay, you didn't mean to," you whisper, now careful not to touch without permission.

"I almost…" she mutters, hiding her face behind her hands.

"Almost. You didn't do it," you debunk, hoping it will somehow help.

Plus that punch couldn't be so bad. Expect that they're able to bend metal… minus the magic… Nevermind, you'd break your skull.

"Hey, did you listen? You didn't do it. It was close, yes, but it didn't happen," you repeat, sure that her thinking was louder than your speaking.

"Could you… could you stop talking? Please?" they whisper, removing their hands from their face to glare at you.

You nod, waiting for another way to help. She pats the metal beside her, and you move there, letting her lay on your shoulder again.

"You know, I never thought of you as a cuddler…" you comment.

"If you tell anyone, I will kill you," they growl. You nod, sure she didn't feel like joking.

You stay still as they move around to get more comfortable, ending again on your shoulder but this time their body is relying on yours and their nose brushing your neck. For someone as thin, you didn't expect her to be that heavy, but you're not getting crushed, literally, so you don't complain.

"What happened? Did the snake eat your tongue?" they purr, and you get to feel their sinuses vibrating as they speak.

"You asked for silence," you shrug your free shoulder, turning to face her. They hum and go silent again, pressing their face harder on your neck.

"Oh, apologies," she whispers, after a yawn so soft you thought it's just a sigh, her voice dragged and half asleep.

"It's fine, you can even sleep," you whisper back, smiling as they smile at you and dive further down.

And maybe five minutes later, her breath evens out and deepens. You stay even more still, they had maybe three panic attacks, they must be exhausted. So, in order to entertain yourself, you decide to daydream and maybe count the deep sighs she releases against your neck.

At about ten sighs, the elevator starts moving down, which is enough to wake them up. "They're getting us out?" she asks and yawns, eyes on the wall that reveals the door of the lower floor.

Someone digs their fingers on the other metal wall and opens it. The sunlight makes you cover your eyes.

"Sister, are you well?" Thor's voice literally bombs as he runs inside.

"Be quiet, you idiot…" they respond, basically jumping up before Thor can realise that you were cuddling. You follow her path.

"Oh, a Mortal. Are you well?" Thor turns his eyes on you.

"Yes, yes. Is Mr Stark here, by any chance?" you mutter. The characteristic sound of the suit walking towards you is enough of an answer.

"Yes, miss. Don't worry, you're not fired. In fact, since you are now needed more spontaneously, you'll move here. And before you ask, yes, that's a promotion," he moves the metal mask out of his face to deliver the good news.

"Also, how did Loki not kill you?" Captain America pops up and asks.

"They were hugging when I opened the door," Thor answers before you can muster a lie. Your first reaction is to bite your lip and turn to Loki, whose face has gone all pink from the shame.

"No, no! She was scared and asked for it. I committed out of pity!" they make up a lie. All three heroes turn to you.

"Yes, yes, exactly. It was terrifying. Now, if I could… pack up my things? Yes… Gotta go, sorry…" you stammer and walk back, towards the staircase.

"Wait, I… I can help you. With the seiðr and superstrength and all…" Loki also stammers and follows you.

You walk down a level in complete silence, waiting to be 100% sure no one is listening. "They will never let that die out…" Loki sighs, her hand brushing her bright red cheeks.

"Definitely… in order to make up for the embarrassment, may I tempt you to dinner? On Friday? I know a nice place," you smirk, hoping to appear less messy.

They offer you a mischievous grin, her eyes shimmering in the dark staircase. "Temptation managed,"

[fictorium]

I just came out to my parents O_O So idk if you're taking prompts but I'd love to hear about Cat coming out

Technically I’m not, but for such a special occasion (well done, you!) I’ll make a brief exception.

She’s nine years old the first time she tries to form the thought out loud, lacking both vocabulary and imagination to express what it is she means. It’s an innocent joke after all, some great aunt or other getting a cheap laugh by suggesting that Kitty will grow up to marry the boy whose birthday they’re celebrating, in this drafty Metropolis mansion.

The force behind her no I won’t is unexpected, but Mother tells her off for being contrary, once the other adults have drifted away in search of another dry martini. This isn’t a birthday party, it’s a wake held four decades too soon, and Cat wants to go home.

You don’t have to marry the first man who asks, her mother tells her, like it’s some private joke.

I don’t have to marry any of them at all, Cat retorts, not knowing why her mother laughs.

The bottle is spinning and spinning, spun much too hard on the parquet floor of Sophia’s game room. They’re all done with the SATs and this is the first available house with no parents, so it’s all warm beer and kitchen herbs passing for weed. Cat will stay just long enough for the morning editions to hit the newsstands, so she can pick up a copy of the Planet and a coffee for the brief walk home. She likes her paper still warm, with the ink ripe for smudging.

Sophia is the one spinning, and Cat knows who she wants it to land on. The unsubtle crush on a football player of all things, is too cliché to be believed. She has an eyeroll ready for when it lands on the hulking quarterback trying not to take up too much space.

Instead it lands on Cat, and she should be protesting for a do-over, for that doesn’t count but the boys are braying and Cat is too intrigued by Sophia crawling towards her to move.

I have to kiss you, Sophia mutters, and she does it in a way that says there’s no obligation in it at all. Despite their audience, Cat kisses back. Enough to put on a show, but stopping when the whoops and hollers start to taper off.

She runs, then. Though the papers won’t be delivered and the diner won’t have opened to serve too strong, too hot coffee. Cat doesn’t make it to the end of the block before Sophia catches her. Damn track team.

Was that okay? She asks, and Cat shrugs her shoulders. It’ll be years before she perfects the art of the snappy comeback. I’ve wanted to do that for a while.

Cat could tell her the truth realized in the last few minutes, that she’s wanted to for a long time. That her scorn over Sophia hanging around football players has been rooted in jealousy, but not over the boys. Cat could be kind, and meet Sophia halfway, share a secret that can only make them closer.

Don’t do it again is what she says instead. She continues her walk home, to a quiet house, and doesn’t turn around to see what damage she might have done.

She tries to do it all at Radcliffe. Every society, every class that her timetable can accommodate. Every social event once she settles on the media as her career path, knowing networks matter to networks more than any college transcript.

Cat takes her theory classes and finds a word for it, at last. The restless feeling that makes her keen on men and quietly interested in women. College, of course, is a hotbed of experimentation that she avails herself of freely. She’s young, desired, and the world beyond Metropolis is beckoning at last.

There are territorial scuffles, of course. The boys find it enticing, for the most part, that she dates girls too. The lesbians with a cause find her dalliances with men a betrayal, but Cat reminds each one of them that she never claimed to be signing up to their exclusive club, though she’ll visit when the mood strikes.

Bisexual, she gets tired of explaining, to the ignorant and those who should know better. It’s not exactly hard to grasp, after all.

The marriage before graduation doesn’t last through the fall, but Cat’s always believed in the first pancake theory of life. It neither slows her nor deters her, and three years later there’s Adam’s father, with his big promises and relaxed attitude to contraception that catches them out in the end.

It isn’t a choice, exactly not to come out to him. With CatCo and barely time for monogamy as it is, Cat decides discretion is the better part of valor. He finds out anyway, because people talk and Cat is vicious when she can drink again, once Adam is born. She uses her sexuality to hurt him, and he uses it against her in court.

After that she swears off romantic entanglements. Empires don’t build themselves.

Eve writes her off on their first meeting. It’s easy to buy into the public myths of Cat Grant. Maneater, mogul, irredeemable workaholic. The legends are many and varied, and hardly any of them true. It’s clear that’s all the lawyer sees when sitting down to depose Cat in some frivolous suit or other, and it irks her in a way that few people can do by this stage in her life.

She researches, of course. The LGBTQ causes, the awards and charitable acts, the lack of partner mentioned in the last six months. Cat is nothing if not a journalist at heart. Their paths cross before long, some fundraiser for the ACLU, and Cat sets her stall out early over champagne.

You assumed I’m straight, didn’t you? Is all it takes to get the telltale quirk of an eyebrow, and the shift of full attention turned on her. It would seem Cat hasn’t lost her touch.

Nine torrid months, leading to a City Hall wedding when a proposition outlawing the newly acquired marriage rights is put on the November ballot. The measure is unsuccessful, the people of California more tolerant than given credit for. The marriage is even less successful, but that’s becoming something of a constant in Cat’s life. She’s beginning to appreciate the predictability of it.

There’s never any public acknowledgement beyond gal pals and that’s Cat’s iron fist at the helm of the media. It’s a conversation she doesn’t want to have with the world, not when she hasn’t with her sons. As excuses go, it’s a handy one.

She dates appropriate men in appropriate settings and has some occasionally inappropriate flings along the way. It’s lonely, lacking in connection, but it doesn’t require an explanation or a media strategy.

It’s enough.

Carter inherits more from her than a curious mind and hair that curls whether asked to or not. He frets for days and it pains her that he can’t come out and say it, but patience is a skill Cat learned for her son, and she exercises it as best she can.

Can you like both boys and girls? He asks, when they’re under blankets in the den, watching some subversive cartoon that Cat’s already forgotten the name of.

Oh darling, she exhales. Of course you can. Let me tell you something about me, okay?

There’s no decision on the public coming out, which is unusual in a life that’s become perfectly organized, regimented first by Kara and then by the systems she left in place for Eve and the one who comes after.

Fame has made Cat bullish about her privacy, walking a balanced line of public displays to lead the press, and a fiercely guarded private life that no paparazzo or hack has been able to breach.

The first night she stays over at Kara’s apartment, none of the usual safeguards are in place. Cat is twenty again, slipping out of a barely-known building. Only this time it’s not a shoeless sprint across campus, but a short walk to her waiting Mercedes. It’s enough for an opportunist with a camera phone. The speculation reaches fever pitch when it turns out one of Kara’s neighbors is a notorious playboy who’s making his way through National City’s celebrities like a dose of whatever STD he’s no doubt spreading along the way.

As the second week of compulsive apologizing from Kara begins, Cat comes to the quiet realization that she wants more. She doesn’t want furtive and compromising. She doesn’t want the most sinful intimacy behind closed doors only, she wants the simple affection of a hand held at brunch or a waist circled on a red carpet. There is Kara, who loves as though she was born to do it, and Cat is tired of pretending she isn’t lucky enough to be the recipient of that love.

That’s why, she tells herself, she insists that Kara come to the Siegel Awards with her. There’s lots of fussing about appropriate distance and a tighter smile than usual when Kara assumes she’ll be relegated to assistant. Three paces behind, despite the fact that their dresses barely made it out of the limo intact thanks to wandering hands.

For years she hasn’t answered a shouted question at these events, but when the inevitable who are you here with? comes, from the Planet of all places, Cat holds her position with all the poise she can summon. She takes Kara’s hand, and pulls her close. It’s a miracle that Kara doesn’t stumble, but luck is on their side.

Not that it’s any of your business, Jerry, she scoffs, squeezing Kara’s hip. But I’m here with the woman I love. This is Kara.

The flashes go off like a thousand tiny bombs, and Cat beams through them. She checks in with Kara, whose smile outshines everything around them.

I meant to tell you that before, Cat leans in to whisper. I know you’ve been trying desperately not to blurt it out, so here we are.

I love you, too, Kara answers, blossoming under the pleasure of saying it at last. Cat kisses her, caught in the moment. 

She’s out, she’s free, and nothing important needs to be a secret anymore.