#thinks its not very conducive to his or anyone's well being

[twcfaces]

"Ah, the joys of the Internet. There's entire compilations out there of us capes showing off, messing up and sometimes just quietly existing. There's a fascination with Nightwing's butt, Red Hood's walk and Batgirl's kicks." @arobinwithoutbatman

Yuck.

He can't help but feel a little weirded out by the mention of Nightwing's butt - he'd known Nightwing since he was a Robin wing and he didn't know which Batgirl the kid meant, but either way, all this stuff seemed horribly voyeuristic.

Useful, in a pinch, but was it worth it?

"It's kind of a bummer that technology has moved into a corporate cop stalking and disinformation direction instead of in the direction that could have netted Harvey Dent some Terminator-style implants.

Hell, I'd still want to practice law if I could show up as the Litigator."

It was a joke, but he had thought about it. Not in terms of something grandiose, but - medicine had gotten better in the last twenty to fifteen years. Sometimes he wondered if there was something that could be done to simply shut it all off.

The personality disorder, the reoccurring pain, the highs and lows. That was what Hatter did to his victims, but even thinking about that made him feel nauseated.

Maybe it was better to keep the lights on manually.

"Thanks for showing me I really don't need 'screen time'. Arkham offers it as a reward for good behavior - I'm just fine passing that up."

@arobinwithoutbatman

[psychewritesbs]

Hii~~ greetings from Argentina oh juremos con gloria a morir~~

Question, do you have any hcs/ assumptions of what Touji’s early life in the clan was like? Cause I’d like to hear you out🥺

HOLA my dear CABAnon ♥ ¡Al gran pueblo Argentino, saludsita! 🍻

hcs about this man you ask...

Why I'm happy to bs about it under the cut mwahaha.

BUT FIRST... clarification:

I'm actually more of a daddy Sukuna stan... literally no one asked you, v.

Or basically how I just love this panel of Sukuna and GO. BACK. TO. YOUR BODY ALREADY DAMMIT!

Also, in case people have not noticed, I have such an obsession with Megumi that I sleep on any arc where he's not front and center. It's, literally, a #thing I am afflicted by.

So I must confess I don't spend a lot of time thinking about anyone else in this darn manga and most people who send me asks haven't realized yet how much of a fraud I am LOL.

So, no, I spend absolutely no time thinking about Toji's swag.

Zero time thinking about his sexy back.

Nope.

Sorry not sorry Toji, but...

Ok he's KINDA sexy. kinda.

So to answer your ask I pulled panels that I think might say something about Toji and then mixed it all with my perhaps unrealistic hc that Toji was actually quite the domestic daddy. It just so happened to be that Megumi-mama's death broke him.

Basically Toji is such a tragic character.

I am no longer who I used to be

So first there's defo a clear delineation in how Toji perceives himself. The person he was before he took the Fushiguro last name, Zenin Toji, and Fushiguro Toji.

And remember, names have power because they define your sense of self. ngl I love that my name is victoria.

I think there's some disagreement as to who was Fushiguro, whether Megumi's mom or Tsumiki's mom, but I personally prefer the idea that it was Megumi's mom.

My perspective, I'll admit, is a bit romanticized, it's just that Toji is always shown as being sentimental about Megumi and Megumi-mama.

So I like the idea that he took the Fushiguro last name because it was Megumi's mom's. I feel like in his head this also served the purpose of hiding himself and leaving behind the person he used to be. That is not to mention that it would also help keep Megumi a secret from the Zenin.

Self-sabotage runs in the family

I get the sense that Toji internalized all of the toxic masculinity of the Zenin household and expressed it by being a complete fuck up.

I get the sense that Toji was so disillusioned with life that he just allowed himself to become the worst version of himself until he met Megumi's mom.

He was also a womanizer, which implies that he knew he was good looking or was attractive to others and probably used that to his advantage.

Toji, truly was, irredeemable.

Just appalling behavior, really.

But I think that's part of Toji's tragedy, that just like Megumi, Toji did not grow up in an environment that was conducive to fostering one's best self. It's like a testament of how damaging extreme psychological attitudes like the ones held by the Zenin can poison the psyche and the sense of self and severely limit its ability to self-actualize.

In that sense, Toji and Megumi (more specifically Megumi) are examples of breaking the cycle of trauma from abuse. It's all about generational trauma getting passed on generation after generation until someone can break the curse.

So yeah, we gotta talk about everybody's favorite toxic family, the Kardashians Zenin.

The Zenin

Now, the irony of the Zenin is that their last name is a literal allusion to a family that is "Zen". And what is Zen if not mindfulness?

Quite the contrary, the Zenin, as an institution within Jujutsu society, epitomize everything that is wrong with Jujutsu Society: misogyny, toxic masculinity, corruption.

There's this really "cute" platitude, something about "bloom where you're planted."

And I believe you can bloom where you're planted. But when the very soil that is the basis for your sense of self is poisoned, well, the way you bloom is going to be a little poisoned.

So I imagine Toji's behavior was a sort of open defiance to the pressure to perform and conform to the unrealistic expectation his family held of him.

For that reason, I think the fact that he's a direct descendant of the previous head of the Zenin clan is a big fucking deal. Like, how are you going to be the son of the clan's head and not even be able to use Cursed Energy?

The nerve!

In other words, if he couldn't be accepted for who he was, what was the point in trying? Why not just give up altogether and be a complete and utter fuck up?

This portion of the post was sponsored by red wine. Thank you red wine.

Sorcerer Killer

Is it a collective headcanon or canon that Toji started killing sorcerers as a way to impose his sense of self against the injustice of being rejected for not having the same abilities as sorerers?

I'm assuming someone said "I'll pay you" and he said "sure ok" and he just became known as the person to go to if you wanted to kill a sorcerer.

Like father, like son

This epic panel...

Is a testament to how broken Fushiguro Toji is.

How does a father forget his son? Or more like... how does a father make himself forget he has a son he would rather forget he has?

Anyways, this reads to me like psychological suppression. And I have to wonder how much Toji had to resort to suppressing himself and his thoughts while growing up in the Zenin household.

Yeah you could take the panel at face value, or you can take the whole context of Toji's backstory and the environment he grew up in, + the tragedy of Megumi Mama's death, and wonder whether Toji cared so much about Megumi that he knew the best thing for him was to not be in his life.

He's a fuck up, right? Worst of the worst. So what's better than abandoning his child with someone else who is capable of caring for him the way he can't?

That's a lot of self-awareness on Toji's behalf if you ask me.

I just get the sense that Toji does not see himself as a "good" person and doesn't care to prove anyone wrong about it.

Toji had to learn to control his strength

Like... what if something as simple as splitting chopsticks is something that requires a lot of finesse and concentration for Toji? Makes me wonder if Toji had to learn to regulate his strength.

Toji is utterly unimpressed

Due to the word choice in the panel above, I have to wonder about how Toji perceives most people who can use cursed energy.

In other words, he's completely unimpressed with most sorcerers and their abilities because he has found he can overpower the vast majority of them with raw strength alone.

Think of it this way, he's the direct descendant of the head of the Zenin clan and is considered an anomaly and a failure due to his inability to use Cursed Energy, right?

Now...

If, in the words of a Zenin, the Zenin clan exists because of Toji's whim, that tells me that the Zenin feared Toji's physical prowess even if they did not acknowledge him.

It tells me Toji was perhaps unafraid to demonstrate his strength in order to gain respect from others in a similar way Maki did during the Perfect Preparation arc.

But for some reason Toji never quite did anything about it and instead decided to leave the clan.

I wondered for a sec whether Naobito perhaps defeated him but then I remembered how easily Toji took on Dagon compared to Naobito struggling.

I think what's sad about it is that after going to such lengths, Toji still found himself as the clan's reject.

In a sense, even if he could wipe out the clan, it wouldn't achieve being accepted and acknowledged as a human by them. And honestly, I can't say for sure that he wanted to be accepted and cherished by the Zenin, but the human need to belong is incredibly powerful.

So to see him call himself a monkey in spite of what he's able to accomplish shows how deep that wound runs.

To see his endless plight to validate himself in a world that denied him the belonging he most likely desperately sought...

And it's a real tragedy just how damaged Toji's self esteem is and how growing up in the Zenin clan completely destroyed his self-esteem.

Which brings us back full circle to...

I am no longer who I used to be + Megumi-Mama

Fudge me.

I know you specifically asked about Toji's early life in the clan but I find myself unable to write about Toji without addressing the clear delineation of who Zenin Toji was before he became Fushiguro Toji.

Again, this is assuming that Megumi's mom was the one with the Fushiguro last name, which I don't think Gege has confirmed.

But there's just something about how Toji was changed from his meeting Megumi's mom and Megumi's birth.

If Zenin Toji was unafraid to impose his will in order to validate himself through raw strength, we can assume from the panels above that Fushiguro Toji became someone whose priorities were reorganized when he met Megumi's mom.

Perhaps for the first time in his life he saw a reason to become the better version of himself and then he had that taken from him.

Breaking the curse of intergenerational trauma

Last but not least, Toji passes the torch onto Megumi...

I love that even though Toji had set out for Megumi to be sold to the Zenin clan because he thought it was the best for him, he is glad to hear his son did not have to grow up in the same toxic environment he grew up in.

God I love Jujutsu Kaisen... please excuse me while I go cry in the corner.

Anyways...

Spanglish Alert

Que hongo CABAnon? Gracias por el ask! Espero q mi tangente no halla sido muy tangencial LOL. Ya ves, con eso d q tiendo a irme por otros rumbos.

Anyways, me dió mucha curiosidad q compartieras ese pedacito del himno nacional Argentino pq inmediatamente pensé en el himno Mexicano y el himno Mexicano es total y completamente acerca d la guerra.

Me quedé con el ojo cuadrado pq nunca me había tomado el tiempo para pensar en la posible razón por la q el himno Mexicano está enfocado en q los Mexicanos vamos al grito d guerra.

En fin. Será por la lucha de independencia contra España y la sangre indígena hablando por medio de los mestizos?

Oh well... gracias d nuevo y muchos saludos!

[dumpster-fire-deluxe]

Good time of day to you, most preeminent rubbish receptacle! I hope this obnoxiously long (1) book rec finds you well, I took my (prescribed) adderall today if it's any consolation lmao

As a fellow palpatine enjoyer, I was wondering if you have read "Lords of the Sith" by Paul S. Kemp? Kemp commits one cardinal sin, in that he uh, he makes Darth Vader run lol, like a lot. He uses the word "sprint" often. But other than THAT, it's stupid good. It's about the early days of the empire and the subjugation of Ryloth.

Both plots are given a similar amount of time and meet together at the end so idfk which is the A plot and which is the B plot, but let's call ryloth's rebellion the B plot, since our sith friends arent in this one til the end.

The A plot? Darth Vader and the Emperor crash land on ryloth (a la RoTS, palpatine even makes a fucking joke about the similarity) in ryloths single jungle, its equatorial (think the amazon for climate, but spread over the entirety of south america for size) with just 2 of palpatines red guards, and all the radios on the whole planet, including imperial transmissions, all of it, are down.

So they're just, stuck there, no help, traipzing through a huge ass old growth forest trying to find "out" with stampede amounts of large bug-like feral carnivorous animals and a small rebellion trying to personally hunt them down (the bug monsters are included in the "personally hunting them down" bit, btw lol)

You get so much insight into how palpatine works, thru his actions, thru how the red guards react to finding out palpatine has the force, what they think of him in general and also through Vader's perspective (pov character), and theres parts throughout where it's clear Vaders being a bit of an unreliable narrator (lol @ him being a reliable narrator) which is always fun, and palpatine's teaching vader darkside lessons and philosophy on their trek, including some excellent zingers and one liners which are v in-character actually, and hes actually participating in the action and violence too, no one but vader and his personal redguard are there so he can use the force willy nilly without having to keep up the weak old man persona and dude goes ABSOLUTELY ham. That robe of his generates ungodly amounts of static electricity, just shocking.

And the A plot, that's Cham Syndulla and his freedom fighters (the characters from the TCW ryloth episodes) and there's twilek/ryl political stuff on the ground and senate levels and theres guerilla warfare and secret missions and theres even spycraft! Really good spycraft!

It's set riiiiight after RoTS, so this is like, the FIRST act of resistance against the Empire. Actually wait, maybe that's why vader keeps running. He hasn't learned he doesn't need to yet, slow learner and all that. I'll downgrade that to a venial sin. But it still displeases me.

It's ~350 pages (8"×4" book, avg paperback size if that helps anyone), but both times I've read it, I finished in under 3 hours, cause its that captivating. It also reads a bit different each time, I noticed new stuff that enhanced the story on ea read, so if you(or followers) have read it already but it was over a year ago, it's def worth it to read again imo.

*****

Medium CW for fatphobia; one of the lady moffs gets compared to a Hutt (only in a few chapters, but its constant in those chapters) and her appearance is spoken about by her direct underling (a pov character) in very, uh, conducive to fascism way. which, apropos ig lol. Hes pretty much the only one doing it tho, like palpatine and vader absolutely have the opportunity to jump in on the fat bashing but neither do.

No wait, palpatine makes fun of orn free taa's appearance, but to my mind it's a 50/50 on whether he was mocking him for being fat or if he was doing a "Jesus this guy sweats a LOT when he's around us, eh vader? Embarrassing for him, huh? Probably thinks he's gonna die. Go ahead and toss him into the bulkhead on your way out I need to make a point later" and the second is more, uh, in character for him, so.

The fact that you're into palpatine of all ppl indicates to me there's probably not a lot of cw's that you'd need, but just incase I wanted to give it cause it's like, very realistic (it's the most realistic part of the damn book, it's star wars lol) and there isn't any warning in the text that its coming. At all. Belkor (pov character) complains about mosquitoes and then goes on a spiel in his head about how fat and gross and gluttonous and lazy his moff is out of fuckin nooooowhere just cause shes in the room now, it's our literal introduction to her character. And I KNOW I have friends that'd be at minimum bothered by that for sure, so, its getting mentioned.

Also by nature of the story being set on ryloth, there's slavery, there's forced sex work, there's a vigilante ex sex worker that murders imperial johns sometimes, for fun. Theres on page drug use, cause its ryloth, the planet where they mine the drugs. But like, nothing about spice remind me of any singular drugs IVE taken (unless you've somehow got access to opium concentrate to mix with some cocaine and a micro dose of lsd lmfao) so i doubt anyones gonna be jonesing for the shit han solo's smuggling if you feel me.

The fatphobia IS jarring though if you're not expecting it, i think Kemp got free reign to be an asshole about her cause shes an imp. He doesnt do it to the other imperials, but i dont think there are other female presenting imperials for him to rub his 2015-era internalized mysogyny all over either.

So, okay, 1 venial sin, 1 cardinal sin that wasnt considered a sin by publishers when the book was written, and probably wouldnt have a hard time going to print today. But (spoilers: but not really, this tells you nothing i could mean anything by this) she gets hers. Also she's a lesbian.

(And no they don't burry their 1 gay if any of your followers want to know before diving in, but also shes not in a relationship it isnt a gay story there's no romance shes just a random fictional facist who likes bush, and its v likely that someone figured they could squeeze a queer in there for brownie points if she was in the bg and a bad guy. She's still a v compelling character tho, and one of the few characters who expirience growth and betters themselves, and good lord the tragic backstory.) Either way id probably hang and that means i say shes cool.

Got it in paperback off thriftbooks for smth like $3, if you/anyone don't have access to a library!

Adderall made me aggressive so you're doing much better on it than I did 😂

and palpatine's teaching vader darkside lessons and philosophy on their trek, including some excellent zingers and one liners which are v in-character actually, and hes actually participating in the action and violence too, no one but vader and his personal redguard are there so he can use the force willy nilly without having to keep up the weak old man persona and dude goes ABSOLUTELY ham

Okay I'm sold I'm gonna read it lmao

The fact that you're into palpatine of all ppl indicates to me there's probably not a lot of cw's that you'd need

Idk why but I laughed so hard at this. "If you're into THAT then you must not be shocked easily". Like, it's so true, I'm known for being stoic or apathetic (I'm the one people confess or vent horrific things to because they know I stay cool as a cucumber). Guess the Palpa-porn was on-brand all along 😂

Thanks for the recommendation! I'd heard of a "Vader-Palpy buddy road trip on Ryloth" book, but I hadn't read it yet. I found the audiobook so this is going to be fun 🎉

[pigagainstsuicidism]

Well historical materialist-style communists (henceforth histcoms) of any stripe and anarchists are unfortunately probably always going to have some heavy tension between them, if the theory of prefiguration is correct. There's a lot of aspects to this cultural rift. One has to do with their relationships to abuse.

Prefiguring Abuse

Council communists have a pretty varied relationship to anarchists, and historically both revolutionary traditions influenced each other greatly. There's heavy tension in virtue of how each tradition began, and how they developed very different relationships to historical figures.

Much like the split between the Mensheviks and the Bolsheviks started from a high profile mobbing/abuse case (the Bauman affair), the anarchists and the histcoms started from one as well. The now widely undisputed case of Marx and Engels abusing several members of their organization left its mark on the communist movement.

From that abuse of power arose two different approaches to tradition, one of uncritical celebration and one of critical engagement and inspiration. Histcoms now go by 'Marxist' whereas ancoms tend to just be ancoms, not 'Proudhonists' or 'Bakuninists' or 'Malatestites' or 'Kropotkinists.' Histcoms do more than just pay homage to their contributors, they celebrate them uncritically, without really feeling the weight of such an act upon their victims.

The mobbing and abuse was conducive to the anarchist tradition to follow a different route from the histcoms. Since whatever fallibilities and wrongdoings of the Jura federation, of specific anarchist figures, etc. would be amplified if these figures were celebrated, it was important not to emphasize and glorify any figure. How would the victims of Bakunin's anti-semitism feel seeing him celebrated while their ideas were dismissed by his peers, left to decay undocumented?

Glorification and Dogmatism

So the rather strange fact that despite ancoms heeding historical materialism plenty, there's so much tension between council communists and ancoms can be partially explained. Namely, it can be explained by the cultures that came out of perpetrating and invisibilizing the abuse, and out of being subjected to the abuse.

A lot of council communists it's spoken to do acknowledge the historical record around the various abuse cases in the First International, but it really does sort of just stop at acknowledgment and not really critically engaging with it. But the theory of prefiguration demands of us that we think very critically about how certain elements of our traditions can "snowball," and so an important part of analyzing our conditions is analyzing significant elements of the past and their causal relationship with our present conditions. This being an paradigmatic component of anarchism does make it easier to avoid dogmatism.

A Caveat

Anyway, all of this does need to be caveated with the immense complexity and diversity of these movements. Plenty of council communists were very tight with their anarchist communist neighboring movements. Even Leninists and anarchist communists impact each other heavily sometimes, as we saw in the early Chinese revolution where MLs and ancoms heavily influenced each other before all of the anarchists were exiled to Hong Kong, and ML strategies and ideas influenced how anarchism expressed itself in Hong Kong and anarchism heavily influenced how the Mao era played out (in particular, with many of the successes of the early era of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution).

Furthermore, many anarchists are plenty dogmatic. Anyone vulnerable who's been in enough anarchist spaces has been abused and mobbed out of them plenty, and whether or not it's true that it's harder to get away with just paying lipservice to the culture of being cognizant of power dynamics and abuse in anarchism, abuse culture is more powerful than any tradition.

A Specific Example: The United Front

Histcoms had a famously varied respond to the United Front. Leon Trotsky, at the same time as anarchists Armando Borghi and Errico Malatesta as well as more broadly the Italian Syndicalist Union, pushed for the United Front. The revolutionary socialists would work with rank and file reformist socialists against fascism, and while resisting would show the folly of the reformists who always prepared to betray the working class. They would resist fascism and radicalize the working class simultaneously.

Meanwhile, Stalin went with the Popular Front strategy of class collaboration, and the Italian left rejected both (with Bordiga writing plenty critical on both the United Front and the Popular Front).

Today, you can find with some effort leftcoms who disagree with rejecting the United Front, Trotskyists who disagree with accepting the United Front. But without any persuasion, ancoms have a fairly diverse set of lines, with perhaps the most typical line being that the United Front was a failure, but cannot be compared to the disaster of either the Popular Front or rejecting all alliances altogether.

For that reason, contemporary especifismo traditions (for example) deploy a variety of strategies that have been developing for a century now from the United Front, all with their own conditions, strengths and weaknesses, successes and failures. It is possible, it would seem, to honor the fallen contributors to your history without being loyal to them.

These two different approaches, one that tends towards glorified adherence to one's past contributors and one that tends towards honoring without glorifying, towards critical engagement, is a significant source of discord between the two traditions.

Random Thoughts on Marxists

This is gonna be me just rambling about things I saw on marxist spaces. I'll be focusing on experiences I had with council communists (CC) and Left communists (LC)

Dogmatism

Ok, I wanna be honest, this is just a vibe I got. If u had to ask me for tangible evidence, I'd be 🤷‍♂️

Is just a feelin I got of "this is the way to go cause Dude in 1924 said so". It feels very restricting, takin away the potential that human imagination has in socialist movements

It felt like "this is the way! Oh ure more keen on this idea? Let me see what Dude said in '32...mmm sorry! Can't do it!"

But maybe is just me! I'm the type of kid to ask why a 100 times! Did I ask why a 100 times? Not really I was a shy kid, but in my mind I did it so it counts

On Anarchy

Idk the hate coming from Marxists towards anarchists! And I'm not even talking about MLs, I'm talking about marxists/communists that have more in common with bakunin that with lenin!

Like, I remember a CC (council communist) talking about an anarchist revolt (in a hypothetical communist revolution) on the same terms of a counter revolution by reactionaries!!

Or how a CC insta page made fun of an anarchist comparing Lenin to Lasalle (socialist that though that socialism could be achieved by takin control of the state. Marx didn't like him) and being something like "anarchist critique of lenin is bad!"

And I was like "Bro, half the memes u posted are just you sayin that lenin and lasalle are the same!!"

Another thing that I notice is this mentality off "if a marxist said X, that's good, if an anarchist said the same thing, then bad!"

I heard ppl talk about Marxists sayin that the "dictator of the proletariat" is the revolution itself and I was like "ok, that feels like anarchism but with some marx sprinkles in it!"

The end goal is the same, the way of achieving it is the same, the anti-authoritarian sentiment is the same BUT we ain't anarchists! No no no, we're total opposite actually!!

On Ukraine

Since the beginning of the invasion, I heard so many shit takes from the left. When I heard em from MLs I was like "shit take? Yes, but I wasn't expecting something else from yall" But from the left communists?

They can only chant "no war but class war" wich is nice, don't get me wrong, but is...just bs

They always go against the MLs cause they're not good enough on examining the world, that MLs are just too blinded by propaganda, how MLs don't have a grip on the world, and then the only solution they give is "the Russians and ukranians soldiers should go against their generals and politicians (to achieve socialism)"

In what world will this happen? Defenetly not in this one!! How distant can you be from the real world to say that ukranian soldiers just have to go and fight their politicians!

I'd be like telling someone's who's house is burning down to go and beat the cops that arrived at the scene cause they're class traitors! They are, but saving the house from the flames maybe takes the priority!!

I'm not a patriotic person. I never was. So my thinking doesn't come from "we must save our country!" type of sentiment. It comes from a "This is my house, the street where I used to walk my dog, the bar where I used to go and chill with friends"

Idk how to end this ramble...if u read it all, damn, ure one cool person. If u have something to say, be nice about it. Have a good day!!

[trifoliate-undergrowth]

ABSOLUTELY NO ONE requested Ryan for the blorbo chart but I am doing him anyway. this is just something you have to endure on this blog

Ask me if there is a character besides Ryan whom you actually want to see

[greatwillhunting]

seeing critiques of adora’s character arc saying that it was inconsistent or “thrown away” so she and catra would end up together is honestly mind boggling so here’s why that’s a bad take

adora doesn’t leave the horde because she’s being treated badly. she leaves because of what they’re doing to other people, and because shadow weaver’s big talk of destiny being her purpose makes she-ra all the more appealing. when she leaves, it’s not her breaking any of her patterns, it’s simply her finding a different environment to have them in. this isn’t to say that catra always understood adora. shadow weaver raised the two very intentionally so that they could never really function together. shadow weaver’s treatment of adora will always make her blame herself for catra’s abuse, and shadow weaver’s treatment of catra will always prevent her from truly seeing how adora is being abused as well.

if you’ve seen succession, it’s obvious that the roy siblings were trained like attack dogs against each other. they don’t know how to love each other (or anyone, really) because logan’s abuse has prevented them from ever seeing each other as anything other than competitors in a war for his love and validation. obviously this doesn’t directly apply to catradora, but you can see similarities in that because of their conditioning as children, they will never see each other in a way that’s conducive to a healthy relationship. adora’s been conditioned to never feel like she’s has enough until she’s truly given all of herself away. so at the end of the pilot, you see their relationship truly fall apart thanks to the groundwork laid by shadow weaver.

the next major episode for adora’s character arc is 1x07 aka the mystacor episode. this is where she truly realizes that shadow weaver has been manipulating her and using her as a way of controlling her. this is important for gaining agency, yes. but it’s not an end to adora seeing herself as just a vessel that needs to carry out her duties. adora never would have been accepted into brightmoon if she wasn’t she-ra. ever. even in 1x03 when angella welcomes her to brightmoon, she welcomes She-Ra, Princess of Power. not adora. this is an incredibly important distinction. yes, glimmer says she-ra isn’t the reason they like adora in 1x04, but they never would have gotten to that point if it weren’t for she-ra. and that doesn’t negate the fact that in brightmoon, especially by glimmer, adora is seen primarily as she-ra and for what she can do for the rebellion.

in promise, we see more manipulation but this time from light hope. it’s clear that catra is attached to adora in a way that’s completely isolated from her duties as she-ra, and so catra is shown memories that intentionally manipulate her into cutting all ties with adora as a friend. this advances light hope’s agenda to remove adora’s agency. even as adora realizes that she’s truly fighting for her friends, the damage has been done to their relationship.

season three is instrumental to adora’s arc but nowhere near the end of it. in the portal reality, we really see the consequences of shadow weaver’s conditioning on catra and adora. adora wants to take responsibility for catra. she wants to save catra. but catra won’t let her. catra wants to win. like she’s been trained to. she needs to win because shadow weaver has always told her she never could. i don’t think adora knows this, but she does finally realize that she’s not responsible for catra. this is huge. this is the final nail on the coffin for their relationship in the horde and all its codependency. but this isn’t the end for adora’s lack of self being replaced by a desperate need to do what she has to. before she punches catra, she says: “i didn’t break the world. but i am going to fix it.” she still needs to fix it. it’s still her responsibility. season five doesn’t throw away or backtrack on adora’s development because her development still isn’t finished.

in fact, season four is pretty much an entire season of characters who aren’t catra (and mainly glimmer) reinforcing adora’s belief that she’s only good as good as what she can do. obviously glimmer is heartbroken after what happened to angella and yes that is indirectly catra’s fault but it’s necessary to point out that this was going to happen no matter what. in season 4, glimmer’s extreme dedication to getting rid of the horde (which has been there from the start) is just rearing its ugly head. she does “what she needs to” and uses adora as bait for the horde. she repeatedly disregards how adora feels so she can win the war. she ignores adora’s warnings against light hope, right as adora is starting to realize that she’s being manipulated by her as well. so when everything goes to shit and adora has to give up she-ra- give up her destiny, that need to save the world we’ve seen all along, even after her development in season three, is still there. but now, she doesn’t have a destiny propelling her forward.

so we see season five adora, bereft of all of her coping mechanisms and everything she’s needed to function. this is a logical progression of her character. even though she no longer takes responsibility for catra and she realizes she wants a choice in what she does, she still doesn’t know who she is or what she wants without someone telling her. in corridors, catra’s memories of adora inspire her to save glimmer. she starts to realize that outside of the war and the abuse, adora truly did want to be her friend. (side note- i see a lot of posts about how catra’s physical behavior in the flashback to when they were like 5 is abusive. i want to tell you that you look stupid.) anyways. after catra hit rock bottom in season four, her saving glimmer expecting to die once she did is a complete reversal of the toxic behavior we saw in season three. instead of doing anything to see adora lose, she sacrifices everything so adora can win.

when adora hears catra’s apology she realizes that catra has truly changed since the portal. and what happens next is incredibly important for adora’s arc. like i said earlier, catra is something to adora that’s completely removed from what she needs to do. catra is the only thing adora has ever truly wanted for herself. adora saves catra even when it doesn’t make sense to and this is basically the first time we’ve seen adora take agency in spite of the war. it’s because of this that she’s able to become she-ra again, this time as an extension of herself rather than shoes to fill. how is that throwing away her development?

in failsafe, we see that even though she’s accepted that she needs catra, she still feels like she has to save the world even at the cost of her life. no one challenges this except for catra. so when catra shows up, once again ready to sacrifice herself in a reversal of her previous behavior, adora is joined in what is basically a guaranteed death by the only person that’s seen her as more than what she needs to do. and that person ends up saving her. by the end of the show, both adora and catra still have trauma to get over. but it’s just a logical (and quite beautiful) conclusion to adora’s arc that she overcomes her trauma-instilled neglect of her own needs by accepting love from someone that she’s always wanted in spite of what she had to do.

don’t insult the writers or say they need to go back to writing 101 because you’re disappointed your ship didn’t win or whatever. the show’s narrative is cohesive and pretty easy to follow if you know how to think critically.

sincerely,

a film/tv student whose life is dedicated to studying and understanding narratives and is starting to get embarrassed for catradora antis

[stardustincarnate]

Dating Light Yagami Would Include :

— assuming you begin dating in high school

— one time he casually asks if you want to go on a date with him. with him being collected as usual he looks as if your answer won't even matter. but honestly he's lowkey panicking on the inside. i mean he really likes you, for years even, so if you were to reject him it would leave him crestfallen

— what does she not like about me i'm everything you wish to have for a boyfriend

— how he asks you to be his girlfriend?

— " [y/n], would you mind? "

— " mind what? "

— " being my girlfriend? "

— can't look at you in the eye. i mean, sure, but for like 2 seconds before he finds the walls suddenly interesting

— wait is that light yagami really sweating?

— boy basically almost stutters you find it amusing and almost chortle

— i mean this boy right here have always been collected so to see him lose a wee bit of his composure is straight-up entertainment

— LIGHT INVENTING THAT “BOYFRIEND VIBES” LOOK

— I MEAN HAVE YOU SEEN HIS WARDROBE

— he's not exactly the biggest fan of PDA especially when you're at school

— school is a place to study not to flirt

— though sometimes he will in the most SUBTLE ways that you don't even realize it

— protective boyfriend check ✔️

— someone catcalling you? he'll look at them in the eye and they'd be dead right on the spot

— you don't want to mess with yagami

— when you two walk together you walk side by side. occasionally holding hands but if not then at a really close proximity

— though he likes it too if he were to walk behind you real close just so he can watch over you from the back

— feeling down?

— " it's okay to let it out [y/n]. i'm here to listen, okay? "

— forehead kisses 🥺

— gives the BEST advices like oh gosh where does he get all that stuff from and how much has he actually experienced in life???

— and he's sort of like a mom friend actually

— not the biggest fan of small talks. well, sure, sometimes it helps him. but often it wears him out and he doesn't really get the point of why he and the other party should be talking about something that isn't conducive in any way

— being good at socializing doesn't mean he always enjoys it

— some peeps honestly wear him out tsk

— he's the type of person who looks deeply into stuff that has your brain turning its wheels at 3a.m. so if you're that type of person too then he'd be more than happy to discuss it with you and he'd be so in love ugh

— i mean he doesn't sleep at 3a.m. because that definitely is very much unhealthy but you get the picture

— though sometimes he has trouble sleeping because of overthinking

— he won't admit but it really helps if he can talk about it with you before the day ends

— you two often debate lightly but at some point it gets a wee bit serious

— but no one gets mad ofc it actually clears both your minds and gives you new perspectives

— if you're that person who asks someone else for homework answers then i'm sorry but light says N O

— he loves you, really

— but please learn to do it yourself

— he will help you understand the lesson if you had trouble doing so but it only goes that far

— oh AND I CAN TOTALLY SEE HIM HAVING A STUDY SESSION WITH HIS S/O <3333

— IT HAPPENS OFTEN

— AND IT'S ACTUALLY VERY RELAXING

— just there in the silence enjoying each other's company while reading

— either in his room, yours, or in a small coffee shop that's barely visited by anyone

— classrooms can work too only if the other students had already left

— also when he's really really bored he picks up the most random things he can see

— coughs the notebook coughs

— then proceeds to stare at them for like five minutes straight

— " why is he staring at a pencil like that— "

— " i think he's about to make-out with it "

— don't disturb him he's somehow managed to get lost deep in thought and if you dare interrupt it's adios for you

— when he stumbles upon the death note, he contemplates about telling you about it but thinks better and decides to keep silent at first

— but once he's sure that the notebook isn't just some kind of prank he gravely swears to himself that he'll never tell you about it

— he's not himself for the next few days because he. just. killed. a. bloody. person. and has a shinigami wandering by his side how. messed. up. is. that.

— and when you ask him what's the matter, he'll just look at you—look away—then shake his head

— because of his pride shyness he will not ask you to comfort him

— but when you do he'll just close his eyes, sigh, and indulge himself in that very moment

— then he'll whisper a barely audible " i love you "

— and he MEANS it

— once he recovers from the shock and knows just what to do with that bloody notebook a point where he has to break up with you will come

— the thought will pain him at first, but he's got to

— which is probably for the best because if you were to stick with him any longer he'd eventually kill you since he says you're not a very useful piece on his chessboard

— but that happens only if he survives

— in which case he doesn't

— well. . . moving on

— in conclusion, he's that type of bf who shows his love for you subtly. he respects your personal space because he has his own too. and he knows that although you two are in a relationship there are other things that require your attention more. being in a relationship does not mean smooching nearly every second of the day. love can come in many forms.

— please distract him so he doesn't find the notebook i just want my cinnamon roll back

[bronte-deserves-better]

Okay, hot take, but I don't think hiding your trauma more effectively makes you virtuous, and I don't think being a traumatized teenager who doesn't hide that well makes you not virtuous/a bad person.

I do think the point 'Keefe doesn't hide his trauma well' has some merit behind it (we do get to hear quite a lot about his trauma in the series), but also does anon think that traumatized people have to hide their trauma and be smiley and happy in order to be 'virtuous'?

And before anyone starts shit about this: I am NOT saying that people should just share all their trauma with random strangers. I DO think that some settings are more appropriate for sharing your trauma than others. However, I take issue with the classification of Keefe as 'whiny' and 'not virtuous' because he's a teenager who has trauma and doesn't hide that well. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion on characters, and you don't have to like Keefe, but this sort of attitude towards a fictional traumatized character seems like its very conducive to a similarly shitty attitude towards real life people with trauma.

People act like Keefe is so virtuous and like he hides his trauma under humor

But like

He does not hide his trauma.

He whines all the time. all the time.

He's like Alvar in that sense- there's even a point in Legacy where Keefe decides to make his and Alvar's trauma be some sort of competition. How is this guy so many people's favorite character?

[voiceless-terror]

The Weight of Love (TMA)

Jon is a restless sleeper. Martin attempts to adjust.

Note: This was just a little something inspired by @janekfan‘s wonderful art of Jon sleeping in all sorts of weird positions. It takes place in my ADHD Jon Adventures universe, but is totally fine as a stand alone piece! <3

Martin Blackwood was awakened once again by a knee to his side.

Look, Jonathan Sims was the love of his life. An all-around wonderful human being. Sweet, caring, intelligent, clever. A thousand other descriptors that he kept track of in a small journal (for sappy poetry that wouldn’t see the light of day). Every moment they spent together was precious to him, even when they bickered. Especially when they bickered. So, needless to say, Martin Blackwood was a very happy and lucky man. But there was just one thing he couldn’t get used to.

Jonathan Sims was incapable of staying still, even in his sleep.

It would start out fine. Jon would curl into his side, Martin would nod off, everyone comfortable and cozy. But after about an hour or so, Jon would start to move. A restless turn here, a mumble or two there. Occasionally he would grab Martin’s hand and intertwine their fingers. A kiss to his forearm, a gentle nudge to his chin. All very cute. But that was just the prologue. 

The main event came closer to midnight, when Jon thought it was suddenly appropriate to treat Martin like some sort of jungle gym. If Martin attempted to sleep on his stomach, he very quickly acquired a Jon-sized backpack. If he moved to his side, Jon would throw himself horizontally over Martin’s hip, as if to prevent him from getting up. If he slept on his back, he would wake up to a mouthful of black curls. 

It didn’t help if Martin stayed still. Jon would find a position comfortable for about thirty minutes before he started contorting into a new one, all elbows and knees. None of this could’ve been comfortable for him and it was clear he wasn’t sleeping soundly, but he woke up with seemingly no knowledge of his late-night misdeeds. Either that, or he was unwilling to acknowledge them. Martin, however, was starting to get a bit tired. 

Last night had been the final straw, with Martin waking up to Jon trying to climb him like a ladder, a knee almost knocking the wind out of him. He pulled the man back down from what looked like an almost-successful attempt at crawling up the headboard. Jon simply mumbled in response to the manhandling, attempting to curl back up in his arms. Martin groaned aloud at the adorable display, clearly a clever ruse to distract him from the task at hand: namely, making sure Jon didn’t kill him in his sleep.

“Oh no you don’t- wake up, Jon.” A small snore, then silence. Martin ran a finger down his side, a dirty trick as it was his most ticklish spot. “C’mon. Rise and shine.”

Jon squirmed, his eyes blinking open as he quickly adopted his trademark scowl, as if he was the offended party. “Hnnh. What time s’it?”

“Time for you to stop assaulting me in my sleep, that’s what.” He instantly regretted that choice in words as Jon shot back, almost flailing out of bed in an attempt to put some distance between the two of them. Martin grabbed hold of his arm with a sigh, pulling him back to safety.

“That’s- sorry, that’s not what I meant.” Martin winced. “Well, it kind of is, but-”

“I’m-I’m sorry, Martin.” Even in the dim light of the room, Martin could make out two big eyes looking at him apologetically. “What did I do?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a very active sleeper?” Jon immediately looked down at his lap. That’s a yes. Martin moved to reassure him. “It’s very endearing, but er, not very conducive to sleeping. For me.” He reached out to rub at Jon’s back, letting him relax into the touch. “Honestly, I don’t know how you sleep that way. You’re not even that energetic when you’re awake.”

“Georgie did mention it once or twice, yes. But she ah, gave as good as she got, as it were.”

Martin shuddered at the image of the two of them, punching and kicking their way through the night. What a nightmare. Jon looked guilty and chastised and that wasn’t at all what he was aiming for. He just wanted some fucking sleep. He could move out to the couch, but it wasn’t particularly comfortable and he genuinely liked sleeping with Jon. When he’s still, and not fighting off some unseen enemy or climbing Martin like a fencepost. “Is there anything that helps? Or is this just...normal?” Jon shook his head and sighed, leaning into his side.

“I’m sorry, Martin. I’ve never really been good at this ‘resting’ business.”

“What if I wrapped you up in a blanket or something? Like a little burrito!” Martin framed it as a joke, but he was actually half-serious.

Jon gave a weak laugh. “I think I’d just roll out of it.”

“Doesn’t hurt to try!”

Turns out it did in fact hurt to try. Not forty minutes later did Jon roll out of his cocoon and off the bed, momentum carrying him almost to the wall. It would have been hilarious if it weren’t for the large bruise on his forehead and the ice pack he was now nursing as he sat on the couch, complaining.

It was still a little funny. And a bit of payback for all of the bruises he’d given Martin. But Martin was determined to find a solution to their little conundrum, and let them both get a good night’s sleep. If he was going to survive sleeping with Jon, he would need a little help.

_____

“What do you want, Blackwood?” 

Martin sighed. All things considered, this was a rather tame greeting from Melanie. “Hi, Melanie. How are you?”

She glared at him for a moment too long before opening the door fully, gesturing for him to come in. “Usual. Heard you’ve got someone keeping you up all night.” She snickered, collapsing onto the sofa with a smirk and propping her legs up on the coffee table. Martin gaped.

“How did you-”

“Jon’s been texting Georgie. And what Jon texts Georgie, Georgie tells me.” She patted the couch cushion next to her. Martin shuffled over, plopping down with a sigh. “Never thought I’d see the day where Jonathan Sims landed a hit on someone.”

“I have no idea where that strength comes from!” He bit out, happy to have someone to commiserate with. Melanie’s never complained to him about Georgie, though they aren’t really on close enough terms to confide in each other like that. “He’s completely still and then wham! Foot to the shin. How do you stand it?”

Melanie shrugged. “Georgie doesn’t do that anymore. Not since she got one of those weighted blankets from a sponsor. Sleeps like a log, she does.” Martin paused.

“Huh.”

“Yup.”

Why didn’t I think of that? He’d always considered buying one for his anxiety, though he never bit the bullet on the purchase. It seemed like a needless extravagance on his already limited budget. But it was worth it, for a decent night’s sleep. And being able to sleep in the same bed as Jon.

“We have another, if you want to try it out. They send us loads of free shit, it’s actually pretty wasteful.”

And so, armed with one incredibly heavy blanket and the hope of a restful night, Martin made his way back to their flat.

_______

“It’s got ghosts on it.”

“Cute, right?” Jon scowled.

“Look,” Martin sat down on the sofa, where Jon had been curled up for most of the day, still pouting over his head injury. “Just try it out! You might actually like it. And if you don’t...well, we’ll just try something else.” In actuality Martin wasn’t sure of any other options, but he figured he’d leave it open, try not to pressure him. “Here.”

He unfolded the blanket, large and black with tiny white ghosts on it, and held it out towards Jon enticingly. He rolled his eyes but still stretched out his legs for Martin to place it over. “Fine. If you must.”

He carefully spread it out on Jon’s legs, tucking it up around his waist. It was an adorable picture, really, Jon scowling and covered with all of those cartoonish ghosts. Martin felt him tense underneath it and he paused, ready for the inevitable failure of his experiment. “Too heavy?”

“No, it’s-” Jon shuffled around a bit, like a skittish animal trying to get its bearings. But then he melted before Martin’s eyes, leaning back on the couch with a look of utter relaxation that was so un-Jon like he had to do a double take. “Oh that’s-that’s rather nice, actually.”

Martin beamed. “So you like it?”

“I-maybe? Give me a minute.”

“Sure.” Ten minutes later he was passed out on the couch, utterly still. Like magic!

Mission accomplished.

_________

Jon dragged it into bed that night, noting with some grumpiness that the ghosts glowed in the dark. Martin thought he protested a bit too much.

“Childish nonsense. They didn’t have any others?”

“We can buy a different one, if you like.”

Jon let out a long-suffering sigh. “No, it’s...fine.”

And it was. Within twenty minutes, the two of them fell into a peaceful sleep. Jon had the occasional fidget, but was so weighed down and sleepy that it was never more than a twitch. It was the best night’s sleep Martin had in ages, and he reckoned the same for Jon.

He woke up the next morning to find Jon had once again migrated in his sleep, though only to lay himself completely on top of Martin, unmoving otherwise. He was a dead weight in addition to the blanket, but he wasn’t being actively kicked or climbed or otherwise maimed.

Now this he could work with. 

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28349760

[astarryon]

Promise Me

You’ll Always Have Me

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: None

Chapter Summary: Spencer’s not one for unsolicited physical contact — except, of course, when it comes from you.

A/N: This is a gift more one of my best friends, @johnmulaneyslut​! Congratulations girl, by turning me into a Reid stan you’ve officially guaranteed yourself a whole lot of fluff in the near future, and THAT’S on the season 9 haircut.

Masterlist

Spencer doesn’t like the way lies taste in his mouth.

He knows there’s no logical reason for it. Lies are only constructs of the human understanding of deception, after all. They aren’t tangible, they aren’t edible, and they certainly aren’t accompanied by the acidic tang characteristic of citrus, yet even still he’s never been able to tell one without the bitter taste of lemon blooming across the tip of his tongue.

So he tries not to tell them very often. Not to unsubs, though it had been unavoidable during this last case and the mental gymnastics he’d had to perform to keep the guy from unloading a gun full of bullets into a slew of innocent bystanders — including one of his fellow agents. Not to Hotch, or Morgan, or any of the rest of the team, not since he’d gotten clean and stayed that way. And not to you, despite the fact that he’d wanted to tell you he wasn’t even a little bit tired when you’d sat next to him on the jet and encouraged him to try and get some sleep.

He’s still getting used to having you around — or, more accurately, you’re still acclimating to being around him. You haven’t rolled your eyes in irritation at his rambling yet, or poked fun at his habit of volunteering fun facts that may or may not be only somewhat related to the original topic of conversation. It’s hard to wrap his mind around, especially when you respond to his tangents with wide, curious eyes and genuine smiles, or even the occasional enthusiastic chime of your voice when you have something to add yourself. You haven’t yet fixed him with a pointed look implying that you wished he would learn to take a hint and stop talking.

Most notable, Spencer thinks, is that you haven’t made him feel other. He’s been waiting for it to happen. It always does with new agents, like Prentiss, before they’d gotten to know each other very well, and then Seaver, who he never quite figured out how to talk to. But things are different with you. Easier. Which is why falling asleep sitting next to you on the jet came natural as breathing, even though he knew he’d catch flack from Morgan about it once you weren’t around to hear the teasing.

It’s your voice that brings him to, your soft, honeyed tones a gentle encouragement toward consciousness. You’re humming some achingly sweet melody beneath your breath, and the way the notes carry through the silence of the cabin, underscored by Morgan’s light snores nearby, tells him that everyone else is fast asleep. It nearly breaks his heart when you fall silent at his sudden stirring.

“Spence?” you murmur, prodding at his shoulder with your palm. He doesn’t remember falling asleep laying in your lap — he’s never done it before, or asked to, or been invited to — but the way your voice hits his ears and your words fan his cheek mean he must have. “Can you hear me?”

He doesn’t know what makes him stay silent. The warmth of your palm leeching through his shirt, maybe, or the way that the scent of your perfume lulls his breaths into a slow, deep rhythm to catch more and more of it. It might have something to do with the way his name floats off your tongue, making him feel those things in his stomach that are way too intense for anyone who claims to be a casual friend. Spencer can’t really say one way or the other. All he knows is that he’s... not quite ready to break the moment.

So he doesn’t.

“You look so calm when you sleep,” he hears you breathe, an odd note of fondness he’s never noticed before lining the edges of your words. He’s so distracted trying to figure out the reasoning for its sudden appearance that his body almost forgets to process the feeling of your warm fingers carding through his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp. “What’s going on in that head of yours right now?”

Symphonies. Nonstop bursts of fireworks, so loud and jarring he can barely make out your words over the cacophony drumming through his skull. His own heartbeat magnified twenty times louder than is normal, harmonizing with the beat of yours, which he can hear from where his ear presses against the lower edge of your sternum. Maybe that’s why he can’t taste the lie of pretending to be asleep — his senses are already too overloaded to register much of anything else.

“You’re really pretty, you know,” you laugh quietly as the pads of your fingers gently skim across his forehead. He wants to open his mouth to repay the compliment — it’s only right, he thinks, especially considering you’re much prettier than he could ever be (not that you would ever let him tell you that) — but doing that would mean sacrificing the feeling of your hands in his hair, and he’s not really sure when he’ll ever get the chance to feel that again. “But I’m sure all the girls tell you that.”

They don’t, actually. The only person who tells him he’s pretty on a regular basis is Morgan, and even then, Spencer’s pretty sure it’s just to get under his skin in the teasing fashion of an older brother. His mother’s called him handsome before — or, rather, she’s mentioned how handsome he would be if he’d ever get a proper haircut. But no one’s ever just... meant it. Not the way it seems like you do right now, with your hands rhythmically running through his curls, nails dancing lightly at the nape of his neck. He can’t pay too much attention to the way it makes his stomach flip — he’ll shiver if he’s not careful, and then the ruse will be up — but he files it away to pore over in his privacy later on in the night, just like he files away the curiosity that comes when he thinks about why you’re whispering to him while under the impression that he isn’t awake to know the difference.

“I know you’ve been going through a tough time lately,” you tell him. It’s ridiculous that he’s entranced, captivated, hanging on your every word, but he is. He is. And laying here, with his head in your lap, he’s not particularly sure he minds. “But you know I’m here for you, don’t you? You’ll always have me. If you need someone to talk to, or someone to distract you, or... I don’t even know, if you just want someone to sit next to in complete silence. I’ll be that person for you.”

He can’t understand why you’re saying this to him now, while you think he’s unconscious and dreaming. He admits he’s been touchy lately. It’s getting close to the anniversary of everything that happened with Maeve, and though it’s been two years now, he still has issues coping with those events, or even talking about how they’d made him feel in the aftermath. It’s hard. He doesn’t want to forget her — even if he did, he knows he’d never be able to figure out how — but he also knows he can’t always become a haunted shell of himself for four to six weeks every year. It’s not conducive to productivity, and it’s certainly not conducive to keeping his coworkers from worrying after him.

On the other hand… there’s no way that the thoughts you inspire are especially conducive to productivity, either. He’s caught himself staring across desks in the bullpen much too long for subtlety, offering little waves and funny faces every time you catch him, each one in the hopes of making you smile. His face betrays his eagerness each time Hotch pairs the two of you together on cases, which, lately, seems to be more often than not. He’s started bringing you coffee most mornings, except for those ones where you text him hours before he even wakes up — he can’t tell whether you’re an early riser or a chronic insomniac — with a Morning, Sunshine! Sweet treats on me ;) and Spencer doesn’t know what it is about the winky face, but it’s stuck around in his mind for weeks now and it doesn’t appear to be in danger of going anywhere any time soon. It’s all of these things and so many more that have his mind racing, swirling with thoughts of you and whether what he ponders while he lies awake at night is in breach of the sweet little slow dance the two of you have been doing since you joined the team after Emily left.

Something warm and soft presses to his forehead, then. The sensation is so foreign that it actually takes a full five seconds before he realizes that the only possible explanation is that you’ve just kissed him.

“I love you, Spencer,” you whisper gently against his skin. “I just… I hope you know I love you.”

You go back to carding your fingers through his hair, then, without so much as another word. Resisting the urge to protest is difficult — your voice has fast become Spencer’s favorite sound and you’ve spoiled him to the point of entitlement in the last five minutes. He wants to hear you say his name again, if only to play it on a loop in his mind until the next occurrence. He isn’t above making the request, either, but that requires revealing that he’s been listening to your heartfelt prattling and he doesn’t want you to think he’s the type to eavesdrop, despite the fact you’d been speaking to him in the first place. But then you start humming again, some cordial tune he can’t put his finger on, and Spencer is mercifully spared from having to decide whether or not he should betray himself.

And as he lets himself drift back into sleep, the feel of your hands in his hair and the warm, quiet tones of your voice lulling him peacefully along… Spencer realizes.

—

Chapter Two: Red is a Wondrous Color

[tsundere-mitsuhide]

Hogwarts Students HCs

Also posted on AO3. I once had this planned as an AU, but I recently realized the worldbuilding works a lot better as headcanons. Ive sat on these for a long, long time because of the discourse with She Who Shall Not Be Named. I do not mean to bring up painful memories for anyone, I just wanted to have some fun in a world Ive enjoyed over the years.

Nobunaga - Ravenclaw

Nobunaga is always interested in learning of technology, information, and ways of life beyond the island of Japan. He wants to know as much as he can from the Potuguese traders. While Nobunaga could also be a Slytherin for his desire to dominate Japan, in a world where magic exists and he is not fighting the wars of the Sengoku, I think he would be more interested in learning than in fighting. Therefore, I have put him in Ravenclaw.

Hideyoshi - Gryffindor

Gryffindor is a simple choice for Hideyoshi. Always upright, just, loyal, and self-sacrificing, he is a classic fit. And he’s the most likely to have a grudge against Slytherin's methods.

Masamune - Gryffindor

I put Masamune in Gryffindor because of his headstrong, charge-first-ask-questions-later attitude. I think it's a very Gryffindor trait. Out of the warlords in Gryffindor, I think he’d be the most likely to have a bunch of Slytherin friends; he doesn’t judge on house but on ability, and Slytherin are certainly a capable lot. He often ends up the victim of Hideyoshi’s chastisement over his choice of friends.

Ieyasu - Slytherin

Ieyasu’s motivations in his own route focus on power. He has been powerless in the past, as a hostage of the Imagawa. And he never wants to be in that place again. He wants to prove his ability, and be stronger than those who have oppressed him; never again to be the victim. For this reason, I think he’s a Slytherin, as opposed to a Hufflepuff. Who's to say you have to be a Hufflepuff to like plants and healing?

Mitsunari - Ravenclaw

This one was easy, as we all know Mitsunari’s propensity to get lost in a sea of books. I like to think that he reads so often that he entirely forgets to attend class. The professors have tried to have him reprimanded for this but as he always knows so much more than the other students, Mitsunari manages to get away with his behavior.

Mitsuhide - Slytherin

Sneaky. Slippery. Secretive. These are all things that describe Mitsuhide and Slytherins. He respects the order of Slytherins, but also fights it. He occupies the darkness, the space behind everyone’s backs, never admitting what he is really up to. He embraces this dismal role to protect those outside of its clutches, much like other well-known Slytherins have done--or more appropriately, have been forced to choose. I think Mitsuhide would be mighty good at potions, as well as a skilled duelist.

Kenshin - Gryffindor

Kenshin is noble, honorable, and will stand by what he believes is right regardless of what other people try to convince him to do. Both Slytherin and Gryffindor like a good fight, but because of Kenshin’s upstanding values in a fair fight, he wouldn’t play dirty the way a Slytherin would. Thus I think he’d be one of the few Gryffindor’s who actually followed the rules, haha.

Shingen - Gryffindor / Ravenclaw

Shingen… this one is one of the hardest to pin down for me. I think he has traits of a Gryffindor in the loyalty to his land and to his people. But also traits of Ravenclaw in his tangled web of information which he manipulates like a well-trained puppetmaster. I guess that gives him a little bit of Slytherin aspects too. Though I don't think Slytherin would be a good fit for him though, as he desires power not for himself but for the people. Therefore I’m going to say he leans a bit more Gryffindor than Ravenclaw, but he could really be either.

Yukimura - Gryffindor

I imagine Yukimura is the Quidditch captain of Gryffindor. He already wears red, so its not that much of a change for him. He’s active and sporty, but yet respects the rules and the right thing to do. Most of the time. We won't talk about that one time out in the woods, he’s not proud of it either. Overall, like Hideyoshi, I think Yukimura is a pretty classic Gryffindor.

Sasuke -Ravenclaw

How could our astrophysicist ninja be anything but a Ravenclaw? The amount of learning, innovation, creativity, and tenacity it takes to track wormholes without the equipment and technology of the modern day is astounding. Let alone the sheer amount of math.

Kennyo - Hufflepuff

Kennyo is a big, softie and you can't change my mind. He loves all the things Hufflepuff stands for: hard work, nature, animals, kindness, etc. Kennyo won't hurt a fly if given a chance, and nor would a proper Hufflepuff. He embraces the common man, and rejects the racism of Slytherin, the elitism of Ravenclaw, as well as the arrogance of Gryffindor. Kennyo is the epitome of a Hufflepuff.

Ranmaru - Hufflepuff / Slytherin

Ranmaru is a strange one to place because he is a ninja of many secrets, loyal to opposing sides and stuck in the middle. I think he wants to be free of the tight-rope he walks daily, and if he is, he would likely embrace the philosophy of Hufflepuff in order to keep other people from being stuck in the same painful position he had been in. I also think he would make a damn good Slytherin.

Yoshimoto - Ravenclaw

Yoshimoto is interesting because his love of the aesthetic and art would seem to place him in Ravenclaw. And yet his desire to do nothing, to live out the remainder of his days in quiet obsolescence, can also be very Hufflepuff. They’ve cornered the market on cottage-core, after all. He desires to be left alone to admire the things he finds beautiful. I picture him kinda like the curator of a small, private museum. Ths collection of things are the beauties that give his life meaning, and it doesn’t matter if it's just a strange mushroom. He doesn't want to be bothered by anything else. He’s a rather eccentric Ravenclaw, who can be found admiring unnoticed artifacts in the castle instead of attending class. He’d get more detentions, but too many people are so entranced by his own beauty that they forget what they were upset with him about. He’s quite proud of how proficient he is with that charm.

Motonari - Slytherin

Motonari was almost a Gryffindor for his utter disregard for the rules. But I think his “watch the world burn” mentality fits into Slytherin more. Slytherin likes order to Motonari’s chaos, but I think it's the place that is most conducive to his out-for-no-one-but-myself attitude. I imagine that he’d be on good terms with the Bloody Baron, and there are stories after he graduates akin to the horror stories told at teenage sleepovers created about Motonari’s school years.

[thiswasinevitableid]

for the meet ugly prompts, 38 indruck nsfw ;)

Here you go!

38: I overhear you ordering your coffee in a coffee shop and I’m trying to place your voice when I realize that you’re the phone sex operator I’ve been calling on and off for the last few months but the realization startles me so much that I accidentally spill my drink on you and you’re pissed

Indrid thought he was having a normal day. He’s treating himself to a post work iced vanilla mocha, then he’ll go home, watch T.V and draw, maybe jerk off, then go to bed and get up in time for his eight a.m appointment tomorrow.

He’s messing around on his phone when the person placing their order catches his ear. There’s something in the drawl, polite and friendly, that feels weirdly familiar. It’s not a regular at the shop, and a glance at the mans face offers no useful information; he’s a complete stranger.

The barista asks something about the second drink, and the man replies, “as sweet as can be, please.”

“Ahnngod, please, please, please say I can cum?” Indrid’s been edging himself with the fleshlight so long his wrist is sore.

“Hmmm” the voice on the phone takes his sweet time answering, “dunno, not sure I punished you enough for teasin me in the bar.”

Indrid whimpers, hoping the neighbors can’t hear (even if he’d like them too, they haven’t consented to it).

This is how his calls to the 1-800-Hot-Guys line have gone ever since his first time. He asks for “Ryan,” gets a sweet, southern greeting before the other man asks what he’s in the mood for tonight. See, Indrid’s only recently begun exploring his interest in men, and is discovering that a better sense of his sexuality makes it much easier to get in touch with his other desires. Like being fucked in a bathroom stall where lots of people can hear what’s happening to him.

Ryan always takes the ideas generated by Indrid’s desire-addled brain and runs with them. Tonight, virginal Indrid Cold went to a leather bar and found a bear waiting for him (he suspects Ryan might be one in the real world, because when Indrid first revealed that preference his moans sounded a touch more genuine). The bear made him blow him in front of everyone to make sure he was worth taking home, then told him not to cum until he was done fucking him.

“Please?”

A chuckle, “Okay darlin, you can cum.”

Indrid’s certain he hurts Ryan's ear with the noise he makes as he spurts into the toy, but all the other man says is , “Good boy.”

After a moment, he adds, “aw fuck, meant to bring some spankin or somethin into the scene because I know you like it.”

“That’s, that’s quite alright. I’m not sure you could ever disappoint me.”

“Thanks, sugar.”

Indrid whines, hoping it sounds horny and not like the noise a man who’s just realized he’ll be sleeping alone makes.

“You like when I call you that? Because it’s true; you’re as sweet as can be”

As he’s been having its slow-motion realization, Indrid’s body has been going on autopilot, picking up his cup when the young woman behind the counter calls his name. Which means that--when Indrid startles at his revelation-- the cup is in perfect position to send its contents flying straight onto the man who caused it.

“AHfuck, jesus man be careful!”

“I, I’m so sorry, here, let me-” he slips in the puddle of coffee and hits the floor, kicking the other man in the shin on his way down.

“Owfuck, fuck, okay, don’t fuckin try to help again.” The man snaps.

“Nono, right, I’m sorry, goodbye” he scrambles up, sticky with shame and vanilla syrup, and hurries out of the shop.

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

Duck keeps an eye on his burner phone while playing Plants vs Bom-Boms on his real one. It’s shaping up to be another night with only two calls.

He took up the phone sex thing during the last government shutdown; the park had to furlough them, and he needed money. The extra cash was nice enough that he kept at it even after work started back up. He isn’t the most in-demand operator; he can’t lie, laughs a little too easily, so lots of callers don’t come to him a second time.

One of the few who does is Indrid. He’s Duck’s favorite because their fantasies align well enough that he actually jerks off while on the phone with him. But the guy hasn’t called in two weeks; this is a bummer, in part, because Duck came up with a scenario involving a pool table and a biker gang he thinks Indrid would really be into.

More than that, he’s worried about him.

He worries about him so much that even a half a day later he’s wondering if he should figure out how to have someone check on him. The coffee shop is conducive to thinking. Right up until the dipshit who spilled coffee on him a few weeks back plops down in the seat across from him.

“You here to ruin another shirt?”

The man, all silver hair and angular features, shakes his head, “Nono, I, I really am very sorry about that. I came to offer to buy you another.”

Duck points at his cup.

“Some other time?”

“You come here often?’

“Since I moved to the city, yes. I was out in the suburbs up until a few months ago.”

“Fine. Next time we see each other, you owe me a drink.”

He nods, nearly sliding his red glasses off his nose in his eagerness. Then he taps on the table, “There’s, ah, something else you should know. We already know each other. In a way.”

Duck frowns; he’s never seen this guy before, he’d remember his face.

“We talk on the phone. Often.”

Oh fuck.

“My name is, ah, it’s, it’s Indrid.”

“Jesus, glad you’re ok--hold the fuck on. How the fuck do you know who I am?”

“I recognized your voice the last time we were both here. I, I wanted to get to know you more but I felt it was only right to do so if you knew I knew who you were so you wouldn’t be uncomfortable, but you clearly are, I’m so sorry” he stands up, banging his knee in the process, “I promise I won’t call any more, I didn’t mean to be creepy, I’m sorry, goodbye.”

He’s out the door in a flash of long limbs before Duck has a chance to respond.

Duck sighs, downs the rest of his coffee, and decides not to dwell on the fact he’s going to miss Indrid’s calls.

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

Indrid’s excited. He really is.

It’s just that the sex club is even more overstimulating than he anticipated.

It was alright at first; when he replied that yes, this was his first time, the guy working the counter ushered him over to a set of blue velvet seats and told him to wait. Soon, Indrid and ten others were being given a rundown of the rules, risks, and etiquette of the space, their understanding of which they signed in a neatly typed contract.

Then they turned them loose into three stories of sexual exploration and Indrid froze, totally unable to process it all. Lucky for him Lucy, there with her girlfriend Willow, helped him navigate the edge of the first floor until they came to one of the “chill out” rooms; rooms for people for whom the club was as much a place to chat with friends as it was a place to get spanked or suspended. They even have juice.

After three separate people check to be sure he’s alright, he asks the trio on a nearby couch where he should go to if he’s interested in bondage and impact play. They all agree the second floor is his best bet, and that there’s a shibari demonstration starting soon.

To reach the demo room, Indrid passes though a portion of the space that reminds him of a hotel. The nice dominatrix explained the rules for their use as: doors and windows closed, leave us alone. Curtains open but door shut? You’re free to watch, but don’t come in. And if the door is open, you’re welcome to join whatever is happening. He pauses at some open windows, but nothing really catches his attention.

The demo room is already packed, so he stays at the back. A perk of being tall is he can see the couple on the little platform easily without blocking anyone else’s view. The dom is explaining why she chose the rope she did and what ties she’s going to show everyone. Indrid listens, but his eyes wander in hopes of finding someone checking him out.

Someone is. But Indrid isn’t sure it’s a good thing.

Duck stands a few bodies to his left, looking him up and down with a slight smile. Well, at least that means he doesn’t think he’s stalking him or something.

The other man meets his eyes, tips his head towards the nearby green room and raises an eyebrow. Indrid nods, picks his way through the crowd to find Duck has beaten him there.

“Y’know, if you’d told me you were into this scene, I coulda worked with that.” He polishes off his water and tosses the cup in the trash.

“I...this is my first time. Is, ah, is it yours?”

“Nah. Came some when I was younger, decided to come out tonight because I was bored and itchin’ to get someone cute in my lap.” The casual way he says it is a hundred times hotter than the practice voice he used on the phone.

“Ah. In, ah, in that case, would you mind if I asked you a question?”

“Shoot.” Duck leans against the wall, grinning.

“Am I dressed alright for this?” He gestures to his pink and yellow tank top and black jeans.

He watches Duck catch his laugh before it starts, which he appreciates.

“You’re dressed just fine, Indrid. I mean, just look at me.”

“I am” Indrid is having such a difficult time tearing his eyes from the way Duck’s white t-shirt fits his chest or how the bluejeans show off his ass. Duck catches him mid-ogle, which is all it takes to drop his gaze to the floor.

“C’mon, sit down with me a sec.” Duck settles on a grey couch, leaving Indrid space to join him, “feel like you and I got off on the wrong foot. You know I ain’t angry with you for tellin me you were a customer, right?”

Indrid shakes his head but sits down all the same.

“Indrid, you startled the hell outta me when you admitted that. For a second, I was sure you were gonna try to get somethin outta me by threatenin to tell my boss at my regular job. But then it was so fuckin clear all you were tryin to do was be straight with me and try to be polite about the drink thing, I wasn’t mad at all. You just up and bolted before I could say as much.”

“Ah. Yes. I, ah, I can be a bit of a walking disaster so I try to get out of situations before I make them even worse.”

Duck touches his hand, “I get bein’ spooked. Happens to everyone. But, uh, guess what I’m also gettin at is, uh, if you wanna actually get to know each other, I ain’t gonna complain.”

“I’d like that.”

“Okay” Duck scoots closer, “let’s start easy; what do you do when you ain’t callin me?”

Indrid tells him about the tattoo shop, which leads to them comparing ink, which in turn leads to Duck getting on a ten minute digression about native plants. They’re debating the best Cramps album (Duck votes for “Date With Elvis,” Indrid for “Off the Bone”) when they decide to stretch their legs, Duck holding Indrid’s hand as he weaves them through rooms and clumps of people.

They end up doing laps of the second floor, people watching, during which Duck nudges Indrid playfully, “Knew you were kiddin me with the never been fucked stuff.”

“Ah, well…”

“Holy fuck, you’ve never had sex and you picked here as the place to try? You got guts, sugar.”

Indrid blushes, “Well, yes and no. I’ve never had sex with another guy, but I feel confident in what kinds of things I want to try. You helped a lot with that; you made me feel safe enough to express and explore my more intense desires.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I came here out of curiosity, and because I thought my chances were good of finding someone who shared my interests without running the gamut of dating.”

“So all that stuff about bein watched, bein roughed up and used, you, uh, you really like it?”

“Indeed. Do you like it too? I, ah, I assume you pretend to like everything when you work on a sex line.”

“You’re supposed to yeah. But I’ll let you in on a little secret” Duck leans close, whispers in his ear, “I never was much good at pretendin.”

“Oh. Oh my.” He leans against Duck, excitement making his legs unreliable.

“You want me to show you just how much I like it?”

“Please.”

Duck kisses his cheek, “Missed hearin you beg, sugar. C’mon.” He pulls Indrid two doors down to a room dedicated to impact play. People are sprawled and tied to crosses, benches, chairs, all of which look exciting. Duck doesn’t stop to consider them, doesn’t even hesitate on their trip. He stops at a table, one bolted to the floor, and digs through a nearby basket.

“Here it is” he pulls out a red blanket, holds it out for Indrid to test the texture.

“It’s lovely.”

“Good” Duck spreads it on the table, “you’ll be comfier this way. How naked do you wanna be?”

“Is just my underwear alright?”

Duck points to the completely nude person being spanked on his right and the fully clothed one being hit with a crop to his left.

“I meant with you.”

Duck sets his hands on Indrid’s hips, “as long as I get to see this cute ass in the air for me, I’ll be just fine.”

Indrid quickly strips to his boxer briefs, opts to leave them on for now. Duck licks his lips, pats the table. Indrid bends over it, feet planted on the floor.

“Gonna use just my hand tonight. Easier for me to feel how hard I’m hittin, and I wanna be able to grope you while I turn your ass red.”

He moans, tenses as Duck rubs soothing circles on his ass. The first few slaps are mild, Duck checking on him after each one. Then one comes, hard and sharp, and he gasps, hips momentarily twitching away from Duck.

“Still good?”

“So very good, more, pleaseAHgod” He clings to the far end of the table as Duck brings ten slaps down on each side before giving him a rest.

“Let’s see...how many times would you say you called me?”

“At, at least fifteen.”

“Fifteen times two, add a few extra for ghostin me…” Duck pets his lower back, “You’re gonna get forty on each side as punishment for not lettin me see you cum all those times you called. Think you can handle that?”

Indrid nods.

“Count.”

“AHone, two, th-three, Aaaah,god, fourfive…”

Indrid loses himself somewhere around “ten” on the second side; all his focus is on being good, on counting out each strike, on taking whatever Duck wants to give him. His heartbeat is loud in his ears and his skin stings from ass to thigh. Dimly, he hears spectators complimenting Duck on having such a well-trained sub.

“He is, ain’t he?” Duck lands the final blow with a grunt, keeps his hand there and squeezes. Indrid whimpers, the pain going straight to his already aching dick. Duck shifts his stance, still mercilessly groping the bruise but pressing his fly against the cleft of Indrid’s ass, making it abundantly clear Indrid isn’t alone in his arousal, “he fuckin knows who he belongs too.”

Indrid moans, tears pricking his eyes; Duck is wonderful, Duck is handsome, Duck is perfect, and Duck is claiming him instead of someone twice as attractive or experienced.

“I know, sugar, you like it when people see how good you are for me.” Duck crouches down, petting Indrid’s hair as he studies his face, “you wanna regroup and finish this at home? Or do you need me now?”

“Now?” Indrid raises his head hopefully. His voice is odd in his throat, vulnerable but not afraid in the slightest. Duck nods, helps him up, thanks the person who offers to clean-up the station since Indrid, “looks like he’ll hit the ground if you let go” and grabs Indrid’s clothes.

“No point in putting these back on. Not with what I’m gonna do to you.”

They find an unoccupied, cleaned room, Indrid flopping on the bed as Duck closes the door.

“You wanna prep yourself or do you want me to?”

“I, I can do it. And could we, ah, leave the curtains closed for this bit?”

“Course.” Duck draws the red fabric tight as Indrid fishes complimentary condoms and lube from the bowl on the table. He’s so wound up he starts with two, the stretch uncomfortable for a few instants before he gets himself to relax.

“You look so fuckin good doin that.” Duck is undressing, only taking his eyes off Indrid when his belt buckle resists him.

“I’ve had a lot of practice fingering myself while listening to you. I, I’d picture whatever person you told me to but I, none of it compares to you.”

Duck blushes as he pulls his pants off.

“I mean it. You, you’re so handsome I” he tenses, pushing the third finger in and fucking himself fast, “I can’t believe it. I,I want to be so good for you, Duck, please,” he’s babbling, decides to quit while he’s ahead, “is three enough?”

“You tell me.” Duck gestures to his dick with a flourish; it’s average length, he thinks, but combined with the dark hair on Duck’s belly and the strong curve of his thighs, it is the most glorious dick in all of creation.

“Yes, yesyes, please come over here now oh, wait, the curtains please?”

Duck whisks them open on his way to the bed, settles with his back against the wall before rolling the condom on with ease. He points to his lap, “You wanna face me?”

“Yes. I...I like the idea of people watching but I don’t think I can handle seeing their scrutiny just yet.” He straddles Duck, let’s the shorter grope his sore ass before guiding it down.

“You sure you wanna do this now?” Duck murmurs into his chest, “you don’t owe me your first time with a fella.”

Indrid kisses his forehead and sinks down in reply.

‘Fuck!” Duck grips his hips, laughs, “that’s a hell of an answer, sugar.”

“Nngh” Indrid’s whole brain goes offline at the feeling of Duck inside him.

“Dick drunk already?” Duck teases.

“YesAHGOD, god, ohmygoodness.” He clings to Duck’s shoulders as the other man fucks up into him with abandon.

“That’s just fine, ‘Drid. Got enough brains for the two of us; all you gotta do is be my cute, fucked-out toy.”

“Nffph” Indrid hides his face in Duck’s neck. His legs and ass, still sore from earlier, are reluctant to obey his mind, so all he can do is let Duck bounce him on his cock or hold him down on it to thrust up in short, demanding jerks of his body.

“We got an audience.”

Indrid tries to moan. It comes out a whimper.

“You want me to tell you what they’re doin?”

“Mmhhmm”

“Two of ‘em are makin out with one eye on you. The other three…” he nibbles Indrid’s ear, “they’re jerkin off to us. Don’t blame ‘em, you look so fuckin good on my dick they all wish they were me.”

“Duck” his cock keeps rubbing on Duck’s belly, threatening to spill before he’s ready.

“One of ‘em asks how you feel on my dick. You want me to tell him?”

“Please.”

“Fuckin’ great!” Duck yells, “it’s his first time and he’s” Duck grunts, bucks his hips, “so fuckin tight but takes it like a fucking champ. Gettin in this ass is a fuckin privilege.”

Indrid smiles into his skin at the pride in Duck’s voice and the responding whoops from outside.

“Fuck” Duck kisses his cheek, “fuck, shoulda grabbed a cock ring, I’m gonna cum way too fuckin fast.”

“Me, me too.”

“Just like a fuckin virgin.” Duck quickens their pace.

“I’m not a--Aaaahn” the noise cuts off as he cums between them, cock pulsing onto Duck’s skin.

“Fuck, fuck that’s hot, fuck, c’mon sugar, lemme cum, lemme cum right in this fuckin perfect assfuck, fuck, ‘Drid.” He holds Indrid down, groaning as he pumps his hips. Then he tips them forward, crashing their mouths together and pressing Indrid into the bed.

When they surface for air, the spectators are gone. Duck pulls out, cleans them both up as Indrid tries to remember how words work.

“So good.” Is what comes out.

“Glad you think so.” Duck gathers him into a hug, “you want me to do all the aftercare here?”

Indrid blinks, “what’s the other option?”

“We could, uh, go back to my place?”

“That...I’d like that. Wait.” Indrid cocks his head, “do you...would it really be okay if I stayed the night?”

“Yep. Kinda hopin you’d stay over plenty in the future.”

“You want to date me?’

“Damn right” Duck kisses him, “besides you, still owe me a drink.”

Indrid kisses back, grinning, “So I do.”

[aliciameade]

Full Reveal

Title: Full Reveal Author: aliciameade Rating: E for Extra Fun Pairing: Beca/Chloe Summary: Chloe and her [very famous] girlfriend Beca escape into anonymity at a Las Vegas burlesque performance, though the show has other plans for them that stir up some playful feelings of jealousy and possessiveness that beg to be addressed.

Also on AO3

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

“Ladies? If you’d follow me?”

“I saw that,” Chloe teases in Beca’s ear, fingertips tickling Beca’s lower back through her sheer black shirt.

Beca’s response is little more than a side-eye and a smirk as she shoos Chloe’s hand away. Chloe takes no offense, of course. They are less than alone as a concierge leads them through a dark, sultry hallway teeming with people in various states of inebriation. Their escort is an attractive blonde wearing a black three-piece suit and stilettos, though she seems to have forgotten to don the shirt beneath the vest to leave ample cleavage on display and Beca hadn’t been very discreet about looking at it.

They’re in Las Vegas for the weekend. Beca is there ostensibly for work—she’s performing tomorrow night at Mandalay Bay—but when she’s not scheduled for soundcheck, press, meet and greets, and the concert itself, the weekend is for the two of them. They’ve sacrificed the privacy and seclusion of the embarrassingly large home they share in Malibu in favor of a weekend of fun. 

They’d sacrificed anonymity years ago when Beca decided, with the support of their friends, to take the leap into becoming a solo artist, leaving behind the frustrating and often unfulfilling career in music production she thought she’d been made for.

It turned out that performing was a lot more fun for her.

The paychecks were also a lot bigger.

And Chloe was by her side for the breakneck launch of Beca’s new career, quietly smiling as she trailed a few steps behind on red carpets, tucked herself into corners of green rooms while Beca entertained VIPs after concerts, and watched her girlfriend present at award shows from backstage monitors.

The general public doesn’t know who Beca is dating, or if she is dating anyone at all. She doesn’t talk about having a current relationship in interviews, just tales of bad ones in her past. There are plenty of rumors and theories, and some people are correct in their hypothesis that the friend often accompanying Beca to parties or seen grabbing coffee or grocery shopping with is more than just a friend.

It’s a privacy thing for Beca. She is out and proud, finally, and she had decided she didn’t owe the public more of her than she was already giving them. Chloe respected that decision; she waited so long for Beca, she probably would have agreed to the wildest of terms if it meant finally being in a relationship with the woman. But simply keeping their relationship status away from the public wasn’t a big ask. Their friends and family knew. Beca’s team knew. But the public was left to its own conjecture.

It helped that part of why Beca didn’t want to share that part of her life with the public was because she wanted to protect it.

It was really damn romantic for Chloe.

It’s also fun. It’s like they have alter egos and tonight they are attending the midnight performance of Luxury X Lace in a small cabaret venue in the depths of a massive casino as nothing more than two friends having a girls’ night out in the city that never sleeps. It was the hottest ticket in a town full of hot tickets, an X-rated burlesque that confiscated cell phones at the door in exchange for your choice of black, silver, or gold masquerade masks to help strip patrons of their identity and inhibitions and immerse them into a world of high-end debauchery.

Beca’s publicist had made a phone call and Beca and her good friend Chloe were invited to the Friday night performance. Phones were exchanged for masks—black for Beca and silver for Chloe—to be led into the cabaret hall.

It’s far more intimate than Chloe had expected. There are a dozen tables arranged around the X-shaped stage and three lines of booths curving around the wall behind the tables. The stage is empty save for a single black chair positioned at the center of it. Music pulses around them.

They are shown to the center booth on the first level, something Chloe suspects is likely the choice seat in the venue. She’s been with Beca long enough to recognize plenty of such perks.

She prefers other types of perks that come with being with Beca, though. Like the way Beca’s hand immediately comes to rest on Chloe’s bare knee just below the hem of Chloe’s gray pleated skirt. Chloe smiles to herself and peruses the themed cocktail menu, content with their proximity and connection. She knows there will be more tonight once they are back in the privacy of their suite at the Mandalay.

“What are you thinking?”

Chloe lets herself smirk, knowing Beca will see it and read exactly what Chloe was thinking, though she knows that wasn’t what Beca was asking. “I think I’m going to try this one, the ‘Satin Sheets,’” she says, tapping on the menu before rotating it so Beca can choose as well.

She watches other patrons arrive to be shown to their tables, the air of excitement growing around them as scantily clad waitresses start to weave their way from table to table collecting drink orders. They spend time flirting with everyone and Chloe notices the way they don’t hesitate to offer a friendly touch to their customer: a playful nudge of a shoulder, fingers through the short hair of the men, winks, and close examinations of manicures or rings on the women.

When a blonde arrives at their table, Chloe thinks that perhaps they will be exempt from this flirtation. Their seating in the booth is not conducive to a waitress sidling up next to someone as can be done at a table and chairs on an open floor, but to compensate, the waitress simply slides into the booth next to Chloe and offers a well-practiced sultry smile.

“Hello, ladies. My name is Jasmine, and I’ll be sure you’re well taken care of tonight.”

Chloe thinks Jasmine might recognize Beca, even with the mask. There’s a bit of a hesitation in the way her eyes linger on Beca. Or maybe she’s just appreciating Beca’s eyes and lips and jawline the same way Chloe does. Or maybe she’s just working on a good tip. But Chloe knows they are in the high roller seat and it wouldn’t take much for the waitress to connect the dots. And that means she and Beca need to be best friends. Not girlfriends.

“Hi, Jasmine,” Chloe offers and can’t help her smile when the attractive woman leans in to slowly wrap a lock of her red hair around a finger.

“I love this color,” Jasmine purrs and even though Chloe knows exactly what the waitress is doing, her own natural inclination to flirt responds.

“It’s natural,” she purrs right back, leaning into her space. She can feel Beca’s blunt fingernails press into her knee before her hand disappears. That is another perk to their secret romance: getting to experience Beca’s possessiveness. It rivals her own for Beca.

“Can you prove it?” The waitress lets her eyes drop unabashedly to Chloe’s lap before they’re back on her eyes.

“Yes, she can.” 

Chloe sees the amusement on Jasmine’s face at Beca’s interjection and the waitress backs off, interpreting Beca’s answer as asserting her dominance.

Beca asserting her dominance is nothing new. She’s been good at that since she was in college. Taking control of situations. Putting people in their place. Making people listen to what she has to say.

She asserts it everywhere but in the bedroom that she shares with Chloe.

Jasmine is unfazed by Beca, even if she does stop touching Chloe. Her demeanor is still dark and flirtatious and she redirects her attention to Beca. “Mmm, I love your voice.”

Chloe’s sure Jasmine knows now. In fact, it’s entirely possible that every employee of the production knows that Beca Mitchell is their special guest this evening. That is often the case if they attend some type of event when Beca insists she makes the calls to get the best seats and the backstage access and whatever else she thinks Chloe should have.

Chloe’s attention shifts to Beca and her reaction, but she’s well-versed in this act as well. Chloe’s bared witness to Beca emerging from her cocoon of early adulthood and her wavering confidence and awkwardness. Chloe knows Beca can charm her way into anyone’s pants nowadays, with or without the game.

She charms her way into Chloe’s on a regular basis.

“Then you’d love how it sounds moaning your name. Jasmine, was it?” Beca’s voice drips over the waitress’s name and Chloe feels her own thighs clench at her tone.

Chloe tries to mask her reaction—arousal and amusement—by adjusting the way her hair sits over her shoulders. She knows this is a game for them. It’s hot to watch Beca flirt with other women knowing it’s Chloe’s skirt that her hand will be up on the way home. So many people wanting her girlfriend but her girlfriend only wants her.

God, she can’t wait to get back to their room tonight.

“She’s going to have the Satin Sheets,” Beca continues, ordering Chloe’s drink for her. “And I’ll take the...Pillow Princess,” she concludes.

Chloe’s no fool. She knows why Beca chose that one; she knew she would the moment Chloe saw it on the menu.

Maybe Chloe really, really likes it when Beca uses her tongue. And maybe Beca likes using it just as much. Chloe’s not ashamed one bit that she asks for it with the frequency that she does.

“A perfect combination,” Jasmine says, reaching across the table just to graze her fingers over Beca’s knuckles. Working extra hard earning the big tip from the celebrity table. “I’ll be right back.” Her exit is as practiced and graceful as her appearance was and Chloe feels Beca’s hand back on her knee, maybe an inch or so higher than it was before.

“You’re such a flirt,” Beca says with a sly smile. She knows the game, well, too.

“Well, she has great tits,” Chloe answers with a shrug, playing along with their evening of Gal Pals.

That manages to ruffle Beca's feathers the tiniest bit, and she knew it would. Cleavage is something Beca definitely excels at and it’s on display tonight thanks to the black push-up bra she’s wearing beneath her sleeveless sheer black top. Chloe had unbuttoned it almost completely while they were in the elevator, leaving only the last three buttons remaining fastened. It created a wonderful peek-a-boo effect, sometimes revealing bare skin, sometimes not, and she’d given in to the temptation to press her lips to the swell of Beca’s right breast before the doors had opened. She can still see the faint imprint of her lipstick on it when the light catches it.

Beca narrows her eyes and pointedly brushes one side of her open blouse aside as a reminder of her own assets—as if Chloe could ever forget—and Chloe lets her eyes roam over the expanse of skin, tongue wetting her lips with obvious want.

That seems to rectify the situation. The corners of Beca’s mouth twitch and Chloe has to bite her lip at the way Beca’s fingers suddenly sweep up her inner thigh to graze between her legs before her hands are both above the table to accept the drinks their waitress has already returned with.

“Enjoy,” Jasmine says with a wink before departing once more.

“Mmm, we will,” Chloe says as she takes hers in her hand. “Shall we toast?”

Beca nods and lifts her glass as well. “To what?”

“To seeing where the night takes us.”

Beca’s mouth pulls into the attractive smirk Chloe fell in love with so many years ago. “What happens in Vegas…” she says and taps her glass to Chloe’s.

They drink together as the lights dim until the room is in near darkness. Under the safety of the shadows, Beca presses herself closer, her fingers moving absently but sweetly over and along Chloe’s knee and thigh. Not progressing. Just touching. Chloe lets her arm slip over Beca’s shoulders, something that is more conspicuous, but the only people who know who Beca is are those focused on putting on a show. 

A single spotlight hits the chair center stage and a figure emerges from the darkness behind it, dark hair, long legs, sparkling lingerie, platform stilettos.

They watch the performance in silence. It’s a mixture of blatant sex appeal and tongue-in-cheek humor, the performers—mostly women but a few men—each having their own unique talents and schticks, an androgynous emcee by the name of Angel guiding the audience through the evening.

Angel is funny and personable as they flirt with patrons and performers alike, cracking one-liners between performances.

Chloe watches as several performers make their way out of the wings and onto the stage until the X is occupied by eight women in matching sparkling red lace lingerie, a ninth waiting at the center wearing a black leather bustier, thigh-high boots, and holding a riding crop.

Her appearance earns a particularly boisterous round of cheers from the audience and Chloe has to admit that the woman is the most attractive person on stage, all legs and tits and long, purposely mussed blond hair.

Beca’s fingers have stopped wandering. Instead, they’re tapping along to the beat of the music. She finds rhythms woven and hidden in the instrumentals that Chloe would never hear if not for Beca’s keen ear. The soundtrack for the evening largely consists of remixes of popular songs. They’re recognizable but without the vocals, not distracting.

“And now, ladies, gentlemen, neither, both, and those yet-to-decide,” Angel says with a dramatic flourish as they slowly turn in place as if addressing each person individually, “Scarlet needs a victim—I mean, a volunteer.” 

A murmur of excitement rolls through the audience and Chloe thinks she feels Angel’s attention land squarely on their table. She can’t be sure due to the lighting; it’s possible they’re eyeing everyone in the room to increase the tension. Chloe can feel it in the way the initial excitement is now silent other than the thumping bass of a remix of a remix of a song Chloe can’t quite put her finger on in her pleasantly inebriated, slightly distracted state.

Beca seems to recognize the song, the tapping on Chloe’s knee shifting to one of confidence. It registers with her just as she senses Beca turning as if to whisper something in her ear but Chloe beats her to it.

“Hey, this is your—” is all she gets out before a lace-clad woman is taking Beca’s hand to invite her out of the booth. 

“It seems we have a volunteer!” Angel initiates an encouraging round of applause from the audience.

Chloe watches with equal parts amusement and trepidation as her very famous and very secret girlfriend is led—willingly, she notices—down through the tables and toward the stage while a version of one of Beca’s biggest hits thumps and swirls around the room. She wonders if Beca knew this was going to happen for as ready as she was to slide out of the booth to be taken to the stage where Chloe watches her climb the three steps.

“I didn’t tell you to sit,” Scarlet chastises as soon as Beca moves to sit on the chair in the center of the stage.

It makes Beca laugh and stand up straight, hands clasped in front of her.

“You didn’t even let me give you a proper welcome,” the new host says with a shake of her head and Chloe can tell she’s looking Beca up and down appreciatively.

“Sorry.” Chloe can’t really hear Beca; she doesn’t have a microphone as Scarlet does, but she sees it on her lips.

“Did I ask you to speak?” Scarlet scoffs toward the audience, causing laughter to bubble up from the tables. “Now, what should I call you?” She extends the microphone to Beca who hesitates before speaking.

The premise of the club is anonymity to allow everyone to indulge in their dark desires, but she still answers, “Beca.”

It makes Chloe’s heart stop. She knows it will take people a matter of seconds before they figure it out. She might be wearing a mask, but with her song playing and saying her name, there’s no hiding exactly who has been selected for the main event. She’s grateful that cell phones were confiscated upon arrival. If they hadn’t, she knows this would be broadcast on Instagram Live. The excitement in the room is palpable as the audience puts the pieces together.

“Beca? Everyone, let’s give Beca a warm welcome.”

The applause is not a polite smattering this time. It’s boisterous and full of whistles and shouts and Chloe just sits forward to prop her chin on her clasped hands. This wasn’t how she expected their night to go.

“Okay, Beca,” Scarlet says, her stance so casual despite her costume, “would you like to sit down?”

Beca moves to sit and yelps when Scarlet makes quick work of the riding crop. It was so quick Chloe didn’t even see it but she’d clearly used it to stop Beca from taking a seat.

“I didn’t tell you to sit. I asked if you would like to sit.” Scarlet shakes her head as she says it and the audience laughs, fully engaged in watching pop star Beca Mitchell get womanhandled. “You see, Beca, I’m the one in charge here.”

And womanhandled she gets. Scarlet’s hand, the one not holding her microphone, is on the back of Beca’s neck and wandering across her shoulders and into her hair in a way that makes Beca visibly shiver. It also makes Chloe clench her jaw.

“I know you’re a woman who holds a lot of power, but something tells me you like to give up control now and then. Am I right?”

There are teasing whistles when Beca laughs and says, “Yeah,” into the microphone.

“I think you mean, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

“Yes, ma’am,” Beca repeats.

“Good. Obedient,” Scarlet praises, starting to circle Beca slowly though still managing to not stop touching her. “So you’re going to listen to me, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good girl. Now sit.” A hand in the center of Beca’s chest pushes her down into the chair. It makes the audience whistle again.

Beca makes eye contact with Chloe once Scarlet is out of the way and flashes a smile and the small hand gesture they came up with shortly after they began dating, something they could do inconspicuously to let the other know, ‘The situation is okay, not to worry, I love you.’ They use it on red carpets, at press junkets, interviews, and appearances. Chloe was always so worried Beca was being pressured into sharing more than she wanted to or getting upset that people would confront Beca about dating rumors on national television. It was a good solution and one that has grown to have a deeper meaning for them both as time has passed.

It helps Chloe relax. It means Beca’s fine. That she did, in fact, probably agree to this in advance when she made the arrangements to attend. Chloe sits back in her seat though is no less attentive to how Scarlet is touching Beca. 

It’s fifteen minutes of amusement and agony for Chloe as she watches Scarlet entertain the audience by catching Beca misbehaving, taking action before being given permission to do so, or forgetting to say, “Yes, ma’am.” It’s particularly painful when Scarlet’s stiletto thigh-high boot gets planted on the seat of the chair right between Beca’s thighs. She’s instructed to kiss it and Chloe watches with rapt attention as Beca hesitates before doing so, kissing Scarlet’s knee.

Chloe doesn’t like it, not one bit. But she does enjoy it, which is more than a little confusing. The one thing she is sure of is that she wants the show to end so they can go back to their room where Chloe can show Beca just how much she enjoyed her performance.

It’s fifteen minutes of Beca being ordered to her knees, to lie down, to stand up, to answer questions, sometimes messing up and getting swatted across her ass with Scarlet’s riding crop. It’s entertaining for everyone, Beca included who is smiling most of the time, except when she’s ordered to wipe it off her face. Everyone is entertained by the sexy blond dominatrix making sexual innuendos with Chloe’s girlfriend, touching her, spanking her, making her laugh, and assuredly blush as the crowd gets way more than they paid for. Not just a night at Luxury X Lace but fifteen minutes of Beca Mitchell, whose concert tickets top out in the $500 range for premium seats, being sexually teased and willingly degraded.

By the time it’s over and Beca’s sliding back into their booth, Chloe has to check to see if her own fingernails have made her palms bleed from clenching her fists so hard.

“Was that fun?” she asks, making no effort to hide her irritation from her voice.

It doesn’t seem to bother Beca, though, who ignores the question and leans in to kiss Chloe. It’s hard and demanding and not something they should be doing in public and Beca’s hand returning to her thigh under the edge of her skirt makes Chloe forget why she was annoyed in the first place.

“Everything okay?” Beca asks when they part after a few more seconds.

“Um,” Chloe feels dazed, “yeah. Um...people?” She reminds tilting her head toward the rest of the seating area.

Beca just smiles and slides her hand higher up Chloe’s skirt. “No one’s watching us.”

It makes Chloe grab Beca’s hand to stop it and turn to look around. Beca’s right. The show is continuing and even though Beca’s cover is blown, their privacy in the booth remains in-tact. The audience is more interested in the mostly naked women and men on stage, not what the celebrity is getting up to with her secret girlfriend at the burlesque show.

“Oh, my God,” Chloe breathes. She can’t believe she’s agreeing to what Beca so immediately suggested upon her return. But something about what she watched did things to her. Turned her on. Made her want to remind Beca who was really the one in charge, and their name isn’t Scarlet. She nods and kisses Beca again while releasing Beca’s hand to let her do what she wants.

Beca’s smooth about it. They’ve had years to memorize perfect angles, perfect rhythms, and Chloe hates (and kind of loves) that Beca pulls back from their kiss to watch Chloe’s masked face respond to her fingers moving up and slipping beneath her lace thong.

Beca’s smile is annoying and Chloe knows exactly what she’s thinking: Chloe is way too wet for two minutes of kissing. She’s been enjoying the show. Specifically, Beca’s role in it.

“Fuck,” she quietly laughs, pressing a quick kiss to Beca’s lips before turning her attention back to the performance. She knows they could probably get away with a lot more than Beca’s hand up her skirt, but that’s what makes it fun. The game. Will they get caught? Will the world finally know who Beca’s talented, multi-million-dollar mouth is making come nearly every night?

She feels Beca settle comfortably next to her, one hand lifting her drink to her lips, the other pressing two fingers into Chloe to start fucking her slowly. Chloe hates that she knows Beca’s intentions: if she hadn’t done that, if she’d just kept her fingers teasing Chloe’s clit, she’d be coming in a matter of a few minutes.

But she won’t now, not like this. Not with Beca fucking her almost leisurely, a slow pace that reaches as deep as the angle allows. She hikes up her left knee to prop her foot against the leg of the table and open herself wider. It doesn’t make Beca move any more quickly, but it does help her push deeper.

It makes Chloe’s head tilt back to rest against the booth. She doesn’t need to watch the performance. No one cares. No one’s watching them. The music is loud and Angel is narrating and people are applauding and Chloe lets herself moan.

She slips her arm behind Beca’s shoulders to keep her close, playing with her hair to make her shiver as Scarlet had. But it’s Chloe whom Beca is fucking in public. Not Scarlet. The thought makes her fingers twist and they tug maybe a little too hard on Beca’s hair because she hears her gasp in her ear.

Chloe wonders how long Beca will torture her. She’s so turned on but Beca’s not driving her any closer to her climax. It’s a prolonged plateau and Chloe starts to feel that it’s less about getting her off and more about Beca wanting to do something risque when people know who she is.

It’s not the first time; they’ve snuck off to bathrooms and coat check rooms many times over the years for quick fun, but Beca has never been this bold.

She clenches around Beca’s fingers and feels them curl inside her. She thinks it might encourage Beca to speed up but instead, she pulls out completely.

It makes Chloe’s head snap up, ready to complain about the loss only to open her eyes to Beca sucking on her fingers before she’s clapping enthusiastically along with the rest of the audience and dropping a trio of hundred-dollar bills on the table to tip their waitress.

The show is over and Chloe has no idea how it ended. She doesn’t care. All she cares about is how much she needs to come and how quickly they can get back to their hotel.

People are still clapping when their escort upon arrival appears. “Ladies? Let’s get you out before the mass exodus.”

Beca finishes off her drink and scoots out of the booth, reaching back for a slow-to-move Chloe to take her hand and help her. Chloe isn’t drunk, far from it in fact. But she’s so aroused she’s not thinking very clearly and smiles her appreciation as Beca helps her out and to her feet.

Her mind clears a bit as they walk, though she can feel how wet and swollen Beca’s made her with every step she takes. She’s grateful for the early exit; Beca no longer being anonymous means she is fair game to anyone who can get to her. They’re led not the way they entered but through a side door that drops them right next to the desk where they’d checked in. Phones returned but masks retained, they turn to make their way out of the casino.

“What were you thinking?” Chloe asks as they walk with notable speed through the maze of slot machines following signs pointing toward the exit.

Beca’s smile is really more than a smirk. “Are you complaining?”

Chloe doesn’t really have an answer to that. She’s not complaining. Maybe some notice about being the featured guest would have been nice, but she doesn’t want to talk about celebrity life and privacy right now.

Right now, she needs Beca to finish what she started.

“No,” she says with a shake of her head. Then, driven by need and adrenaline and the fact that word has probably not yet spread that Beca Mitchell is in that particular casino and they still have their masks, she pulls Beca aside and up against the side of a bank of slot machines to kiss her.

She wants to do it right there. She wants to tell Beca to kneel like she did for Scarlet and put her head under her skirt and make her scream in front of everyone.

Instead, she kisses Beca hard, tongue and teeth and hands on her ass until it’s Beca who moans this time.

Chloe pulls away abruptly just as Beca had when the show ended and it’s her turn to smirk at how disoriented and aroused Beca looks. “Come on,” she says as she takes her hand and pulls them toward the path to the exit once again.

It takes longer than it should to get back to the Mandalay Bay. If they could manage to make it more than two blocks without someone being pushed against a wall, a planter, or a vending machine to make out, it would only be a fifteen-minute walk.

Instead, they’re finally in the elevator forty-five minutes later behaving themselves because there are three other people riding up with them. They both know they’ll be the last ones off; Beca’s suite is on one of the uppermost floors. It makes Chloe tingle with anticipation because she knows it’s going to be a competition of who does what first as soon as they are alone.

It’s Chloe who wins. The last person steps off and before the doors are even closed, she has Beca against the rear wall of the elevator, tongue in her mouth and hands up her shirt and under her bra. They have six floors to go which is only a matter of seconds but it’s long enough to make Beca say, “God, I need you,” when it ends and the doors open.

They’ve had their share of rushing down hotel hallways to lock themselves in increasingly upscale rooms to ravage one another and this time is no different. It’s a choreographed dance at this point. Chloe’s the one who has the key out and ready because Beca usually can’t find hers or can’t focus long enough to insert it.

Chloe’s able to unlock it by touch at this point because so often she has Beca pressed up against the door, sometimes kissing her, sometimes breathing hotly in her ear while her hand wanders to indecent places. With a quick click, the door swings open and they spill into the palatial suite. It’s a dance as well, removing shoes while careful not to trip over each other or furniture or bags as Beca pulls her mask off and tosses it aside, followed by Chloe’s before she’s pulling Chloe down onto the oversized couch in the center of the room.

“Can’t even wait ‘til we get to bed?” Chloe asks with a smiling kiss before she moves back so she can unbutton Beca’s jeans.

“Whatever,” Beca says. She arches her back and reaches under herself and Chloe watches her strip away her bra, pulling it out through her shirt.

“I was getting to that. No, leave it,” Chloe adds when Beca starts to unbutton the sheer top. It leaves nothing to the imagination, but seeing Beca without her bra, perfect curves and stiff nipples Chloe knows she’ll have her mouth on soon enough… 

Beca stops what she’s doing and instead lifts her hips to help Chloe peel her jeans and underwear away.

“You were trying to make me jealous,” Chloe says matter-of-factly as she yanks the tight jeans from Beca’s feet with a little more force than is necessary.

Beca’s holding herself up on her elbows and she looks entirely too proud of herself. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“I can’t believe you let everyone know who you were.” Chloe’s hands start making their way up Beca’s bare legs, parting them to make room so she can back up and lie down between them. She settles Beca’s knees over her shoulders to kiss her inner thigh. It makes Beca shiver and sends hands down to tangle in Chloe’s hair. “And I can’t believe you fucked me.” Another kiss, higher, to make Beca’s breathing quicken. “Anyone could have caught us. Think of the headlines: ‘Beca Mitchell caught red-handed...knuckles deep in her best friend’s sopping pussy.’”

She can tell Beca wants to laugh but it comes out as a moan of impatience instead. Tired of waiting herself, Chloe shifts higher to tease her tongue against Beca’s clit.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Beca groans, pulling hair and lifting her hips as if she’s the one who had been left needing more at the show. Her impatience means Chloe’s done a good job turning the tables on her little stunt.

“Did you like that woman spanking you?” Chloe knows she’s toeing a line. They both might be, but she was jealous. And she is turned on.

Beca’s hesitation is telling and she finally nods when Chloe licks her again. “Yeah.”

“Did you like her telling you what to do?”

The answer is immediate this time. “Yes. Fuck, Chlo, please.” She lifts her hips again wanting more of what Chloe is withholding.

Chloe’s going to come back to the conversation. For now, she has needs and she needs to make Beca come. She’s never been able to resist her long, not when she begs her in that voice, not when she pulls Chloe’s face between her legs pleading Chloe to fuck her.

She’s not going to torture her the way Beca did. She has a second need which is to make Beca finish what she started, but she will deal with one thing at a time.

Beca is wet under her tongue and Chloe wraps her arms around her thighs to hold her, one hand gripping her thigh, the other parting Beca to be able to lick exactly where she knows Beca likes it. Fast. Focused. Exactly what it takes for Beca to— 

“Fuck, I’m gonna come already, I hate you.” She moans as she says it and Chloe can taste the way she’s starting to unravel.

It makes her smile. Beca doesn’t hate her. Not one bit. Quite the opposite, in fact, and Chloe takes pride that it still annoys Beca that Chloe can get her off so quickly. And it’s not that she’s annoyed that Chloe’s good, it’s that she doesn’t want it to end.

(Though rarely does it end after just one orgasm from Beca.)

She savors Beca’s voice in her ears and taste on her tongue and eases her down from her quick, surprisingly intense climax.

Though maybe not so surprising when she thinks about how desperate Beca had been after her little game of Scarlet Says. Which reminds her…

“Get up.” She says it with an edge to her voice as she sits up and moves back from between Beca’s legs.

It’s clear Beca’s startled by the sudden mood change and her eyes are wide as she stares down her half-naked body, chest still heaving as she’s not yet recovered. “Dude, what the fuck?” she bites. She’s not just startled, she’s incensed by Chloe ripping away from her the way she did. It’s not normal behavior by any means.

It’s precarious; Chloe knows it. She’s springing some kind of role-play on Beca without talking about it first and she’s ready to drop it if Beca pushes back again. She levels her gaze to look directly at Beca. “I told you to get up.”

There’s the slightest twitch to Beca’s lips and Chloe knows she’s realized what’s happening. With a nod, she sits up and somewhat tiredly pushes herself up to her feet and turns around to face Chloe.

Chloe eyes her as she gets herself situated on the couch, turning to sit properly and makes a bit of a show of crossing her legs primly. She’s still fully clothed unlike her girlfriend waiting for directions wearing nothing but her half-unbuttoned sheer blouse that stops at her hips.

“I didn’t realize you like being told what to do so much,” Chloe says airly. She wants to keep Beca unsteady. They’ve played with power dynamics in the bedroom before, of course. After this long, there’s not much they haven’t tried. But they had never pushed it to the point of commands and obedience. “I guess I’m not that surprised,” she continues, smiling at memories of how Beca had reacted to simple requests in the bedroom in the past. She hadn’t explored it further. There wasn’t a need to; someone usually came minutes later. Now she understands why.

Beca takes a breath like she’s about to speak but instead snaps her jaw closed.

It makes Chloe’s eyebrows lift. She hadn’t had to do much of anything and Beca has already fallen into her role, primed, no doubt, by the events at the burlesque show.

“Did you like that woman touching you?” she asks. When Beca doesn’t answer, she has to work not to smile. “You can answer me when I ask you a question.”

“I didn’t know it was going to be like that,” Beca answers. “I thought they were just going to ask me questions and give me a lap dance or something.”

Chloe finds it endearing the way Beca’s trying to defend herself. Chloe’s not upset about it; a hair bothered, maybe, but nothing worth getting mad about. Possessive, though...it’s definitely worth reminding Beca who’s been in her bed every night. “That isn’t what I asked,” Chloe says as she leans back casually. “I asked if you liked it when that woman touched you.”

She can see Beca trying to choose the right words, which is amusingly telling. “It was...fun,” is what she decides to answer.

Chloe looks at her in surprise. “Fun? I’ll show you fun. On your knees.” She snaps and points at the floor as she says it and watches as Beca sinks to kneel obediently on the plush carpet. It’s thrilling to watch and does more for her than she thought it would. “Come here,” she continues with a crook of her finger.

“Yes, ma’am,” Beca says as she shuffles forward until she’s as close as she can be, Chloe’s right leg crossed over the left stopping her from getting any closer. 

Her response is spine-tingling. Chloe wants to draw this out; she wants to see just how obedient Beca can be, but her patience is thin after being so aroused for so long with no release. She can save that for another day. “Would you like to know what I want you to do?” She teases Beca’s bare stomach with her toe as she says it.

“I bet you’re about to tell me,” Beca says as she squirms a little; she’s ticklish there and Chloe knows it.

“Sassy.”

Beca shrugs.

“Let’s give your mouth something better to do.” She uncrosses her legs as she says it and enjoys the way Beca’s eyes fall automatically to look, though Chloe knows she can’t see anything. Not with her skirt resting how it is. “You ruined my underwear at the show. The least you could do is take them off me.”

She can see the way Beca’s eyelashes flutter; she’s excited and ready as she reaches for Chloe, hands sliding up her thighs to hook her fingers into the waistband of Chloe’s thong to pull it down. She lifts her hips to let it slip out from under her and watches Beca pull it the rest of the way down her legs until she’s tossing it over her shoulder with more confidence than someone ordered to her knees ought to have, but Chloe doesn’t mind. Not when Beca’s hands almost reach for Chloe’s thighs again but stops herself and they fall back to her own naked lap.

“So patient,” Chloe smiles. Beca giving up control like this is turning Chloe on far more than she had expected and she knows she isn’t going to last very long. She parts her knees and hikes up her skirt. Not too much. Just enough that Beca will be able to see how much she needs her. “But I’m not.”

Beca’s eyes snap up to meet Chloe’s and she can see the excitement in them, the desire to please Chloe in more ways than one.

“I want you to make me come”—she pauses to glance at her non-existent watch—“in less than five minutes.” When Beca doesn’t move, she adds, “The clock is ticking.”

She can tell Beca is amused by the challenge, even excited by it as her hands do what they had probably meant to do after stripping Chloe of her underwear: land on Chloe’s knees to part them before they slide higher, pushing Chloe’s skirt with them.

Chloe leans back, relaxing into the couch as she spreads her legs wider until she decides to bring her right foot up to rest on the edge of the couch, knee fully bent, holding her ankle to keep it there. It opens her up splendidly and she watches with rapt attention as Beca shifts closer, tongue already at her lips as she leans down.

Chloe can’t help the moan that comes with the first touch of Beca’s tongue. She’s been waiting for it for hours, really since they left the hotel to attend the show. 

Beca seems to take her directive seriously if the way she’s using her tongue is anything to judge by. She’s lapping at Chloe in exactly the way Chloe likes it the most: messy and lewd, her arousal audible in the way her clit slips from Beca’s lips when she sucks on it. She likes it because Beca’s so passionate about making her feel good, and her passion only makes Chloe want it more.

She weaves the fingers of her free hand through Beca’s soft hair, watching as Beca fucks her perfectly. “Just like that,” she sighs as she lets her hips start rocking. “Use your fingers, too, baby.”

They both groan as Beca sinks two fingers into her and she clenches around them. As soon as she relaxes, Beca is fucking her, hard, and it makes her gasp. She hadn’t been ready for that, forgetting for a moment about her self-imposed deadline.

“Beca, fuck,” she moans, ass coming off the couch from the sudden onslaught of pleasure and she watches as Beca ducks her shoulder under the leg Chloe isn’t holding so she can tuck herself even closer. Her fingers twist in Beca’s hair and it might be too tight but it doesn’t seem to bother her. “So good,” she says and feels Beca’s tongue flicking at her clit impossibly faster. “You’re so good,” she repeats and feels her fingers speed up, too.

She knows Beca likes being praised. It’s served them both very well in the past and it’s serving Chloe impeccably well right now. Beca moans at the comment and glances up at Chloe through dark eyelashes, eyes meeting before she closes them to lose herself in fucking Chloe.

It doesn’t take long after that. Not with the way Beca starts sucking on her clit and doesn’t let up. “Yes, yes, just like that,” she moans again, grateful for the massive room offering plenty of insulation from the prying ears of the only other room on that floor. “You’re gonna make me come, Beca.”

Beca groans in response and doesn’t change a thing; her pace is relentless and Chloe can feel how hot her body is under her leg from working so hard and she’s so, so grateful for her hard work as her orgasm crashes through her.

Beca’s moaning through it with her and it makes Chloe drop the pretense. She wants Beca. Now. Her cunt is still pulsing around Beca’s fingers when she pulls her up by her hair. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to get the point.

“Come here,” she breathes, pulling Beca in to kiss her wet mouth as she drops her leg back to hang over the edge of the couch and make room for Beca to climb into her lap, straddling her on her knees.

Beca’s hand hasn’t left her with the change in position and though she has less room to move, she’s still working her fingers against Chloe’s overstimulated clit as Chloe reaches between Beca’s legs to slide her fingers into her soaked cunt.

The way Beca moans into Chloe’s mouth through their heated kiss is sinful but not as sinful as the way she immediately starts riding Chloe’s hand. Her hand tangles in Chloe’s hair as her hips roll and grind, all restraint gone as she chases her orgasm.

She’s so far gone that she’s not paying close attention to how hard she’s touching Chloe. It’s borderline painful for a few seconds until something in Chloe clicks and the force becomes delicious and somehow not enough. She grinds the heel of her hand up into Beca, slipping a third finger into her with how wet she’s become, dripping into Chloe’s palm and Chloe knows she’s just as wet. She’s thankful she’s sitting on her skirt. She’d rather pay to dry clean it than reupholster the hotel couch.

“Fuck,” Beca whimpers against Chloe’s lips before her hips suddenly change from riding Chloe’s fingers hard to riding them fast.

Chloe can feel how close she is with the way she’s starting to tremble around her fingers. Beca’s fighting it and she doesn’t know why until she thinks maybe Beca hasn’t dropped the pretense like Chloe had.

She’s waiting for permission.

The concept quickly spools Chloe’s orgasm into a coil ready to spring at any second and she has to fight it, too.

This is hot. This is really hot. She loves when Beca is wild and desperate and there are no other words to describe her right now.

Chloe pulls back from the kiss. “Do you want to come?”

Beca’s jaw drops at the words and Chloe feels her clench hard but the climax doesn’t follow as it normally would. “God, yes,” she exhales after a few seconds. Beca is still fucking them both. Riding Chloe’s fingers. Rubbing Chloe’s clit.

Chloe’s free hand catches Beca’s chin and lifts her head to make eye contact with her. “Ask me nicely.”

She’s not sure she’s ever felt Beca as wet as she is tonight and it doesn’t stop. She thinks she can even feel it increase as soon as she says those words.

“Please,” Beca whines immediately. “Please let me come for you.” She holds Chloe’s stare as she says it and she tightens around Chloe’s fingers again.

Chloe hesitates with her answer. The moment is so intense, so erotic she’s not quite ready to end it. They’re existing on another plane of sex than most of their nights. She hopes it continues through the night.

“Not yet,” she finally answers and Beca almost sobs at the response. “Stand up,” she demands, lifting with the hand between Beca’s legs until Beca’s moving.

“What…?” Beca starts, only to say, “Oh, my God,” when Chloe guides Beca’s left knee up and past her head to rest on the back of the couch.

Chloe pulls her forward with the fingers inside her until she has Beca’s clit against her tongue. Beca’s hands immediately fall to Chloe’s head for balance as she rocks her hips forward into Chloe’s face.

It’s Chloe’s turn to be brutal with the pace of her fingers, fucking up and into Beca as she lets Beca ride her tongue. She knows Beca’s orgasm is going to be massive when she lets her have it and Chloe wants her coming in her mouth.

The change in position bought them a few minutes, distracting Beca long enough that she’s not about to lose it any second but Chloe knows it’s barreling down on her again. “You taste so good,” she says between licks.

Beca moans in answer and Chloe feels the wetness increase again. She can hear it, too. It’s obscene. It sends her other hand between her own legs to pick up where Beca left off.

“I’m going to make myself come,” she says before sucking pointedly on Beca’s clit. “Don’t you dare come with me.”

“What?” Beca laughs somewhat desperately. “Fuck, okay.”

The obedience makes Chloe moan and she fucks herself, rubbing hard circles into her clit. She embellishes her moans to make it even harder for Beca to resist until she’s moaning again and again into Beca’s pussy, coming as Beca clenches around her wantonly. 

She looks up at Beca when it passes but she can’t see her face, not with how Beca’s leaning forward, eyes squeezed closed, face determined and desperate to obey as Chloe comes without her, still fucking her, not letting her let go.

“That felt so good,” she says. “You turn me on so much, Beca.”

“Yeah, same,” Beca answers quickly.

“I think after I let you come…” she says it thoughtfully even as she lavishes attention on Beca’s impossibly swollen clit, “I’m going to take you to bed,” she gives it a long suck, “bend you over,” she curls her fingers and massages them into the spot that makes Beca’s eyes roll back, “and fuck you so hard you’ll feel it at your show tomorrow,” Beca’s entire body is trembling with the need for release, “in front of twelve thousand people and you’ll remember the way you’re going to be such a good girl for me and take my strap all night.”

She knows Beca’s losing her grip on her orgasm. Chloe can feel it starting, pulsing around her fingers and she thinks she might need it as much as Beca does.

“Come for me, Beca,” she says and immediately slides her tongue into her as she withdraws her fingers, using them instead to stroke her clit. She can see Beca’s wetness and how it’s all the way to Chloe’s wrist and she groans as the way Beca’s cunt contracts so hard around her tongue she couldn’t remove it even if she wanted to.

‘Massive’ isn’t the term for it.

Beca’s orgasm is earth-shattering and Chloe’s free hand has to shoot up to press against her chest to keep her from toppling forward and over the back of the couch as it rocks her again and again, voice ringing in Chloe’s ears.

Chloe feels Beca’s knees buckling as it passes and she catches her as she folds until she’s sitting in Chloe’s lap again, slumped against her forehead-to-forehead. Both of them are breathless but Beca’s far more winded and Chloe gives her a chance to recover, hands moving slowly and gently over her back, to her hair which she lifts away from her neck to help her cool down. Her blouse sticks to her skin and she feels kind of bad she didn’t let Beca take it off before, but she hasn’t complained about it.

“Fuck,” Beca finally says with a weak laugh as she lifts her head and sits back enough that they can look at each other comfortably, her hands toying with the hem of Chloe’s shirt, still on despite it all. “What the fuck, Chlo?” She smiles as she says it. She brings her hand up to wipe at Chloe’s face. “You’re a mess.”

Chloe smiles in return and lets Beca clean her off. “Problem?”

Beca cocks her head to the side and huffs again, not quite a laugh. “Uh, no. But can you take this off now? You’re overdressed.” She tugs at Chloe’s shirt and Chloe lets her remove it, lifting her arms so she can slip it over her head.

“Better?” she asks, even though she knows it’s definitely better. Her body is on fire and the cool air is a godsend.

“Much,” Beca says as she tosses Chloe’s shirt aside to rest her hands on her bare shoulders.

“So,” Chloe starts after a few comfortable seconds of silence, hands wandering around Beca’s ass to her waist where she finally finishes unbuttoning Beca’s shirt. “Still think it was fun to be touched by that other woman?” She cocks an eyebrow as she says it.

She knows Beca knows she is the one in control of what happens next; they both know what will happen depending on her answer. One answer will send them to the bedroom and Beca onto all-fours. The other will send them to the shower to clean up while they wait for room service to bring them something to eat.

Beca rakes her hands through her own wild hair after she lets Chloe flip her shirt over her shoulders and off to leave her fully naked in Chloe’s lap. Her eyes are still dark, as are her well-kissed lips which start to curve into a smile. “Yeah, I had a great time. I wonder if she’s free. Maybe we could invite her to join us?”

“Fuck you,” Chloe laughs before kissing her. “Hold on,” she mumbles against her lips and feels Beca wrap her arms around Chloe’s neck and her legs around her waist so she can stand to carry Beca to the bedroom.

“Make me feel it tomorrow,” Beca whispers before kissing her as they cross the threshold into the bedroom.

Chloe drops her onto the bed with a smile. “You will. Turn around.”

The End

[my-writings-and-musings]

I have another lovely commission to share with you all! An awesome person wanted a super cute bit of interaction between Springload and Quillfire, so here it is!

Quillfire tried to keep the frown on his face from appearing too off putting as he left the base behind, keeping pace with Springload but ensuring the two of them had considerable personal space at the same time. To the benefit of their mission Earth's forests offered ample cover all around, ensuring neither had anything to fear in regards to detection. Though, to the anarchist, potential discovery was the least of his concerns. His last parting with the other mech had been under less than amicable terms, so he was fully anticipating a very unpleasant mission. In fact, he wouldn't have been surprised to learn Springload was planning to ditch him at the nearest opportunity. Such a prediction seemed more likely than not considering how the amphibicon had a tendency towards the dramatic. Was he going to be accused of defying invisible spirits, or sullying important signals from some great deity before he was exposed to corrosive attacks? It all seemed equally probable...

Frowning a little harder, he watched Springload hop ahead of him and wondered if this mission would end in failure like the last. They'd been up against considerable odds, and things weren looking much better. Steeljaw had been very insistent on them teaming up, so he had a bit of hope this would go well, but-

Crossing his arms, he huffed quietly to himself as he abandoned the train of thought, plodding along behind his chosen partner all the while. Why should he be the one to mend things? More importantly, why did he want to? There were a million other activities he could be doing at the moment, all of them more conducive to speeding up a revolution than this! Just imagining all the injustice on this backwards planet made his quills twitch with unease. Oh, how he longed to tear down the tyranny that was evident around every corner-

"Can you move more swiftly?" Springload barked back at him unexpectedly, hopping along through the forest at a pace few could match with a mere walk. Admittedly though, Quillfire was lagging behind as he mused over his unhappy thoughts. The amphibicon fixed him with an impatient glare. "The sooner this mission is completed, the sooner I may return to my quest!" 

Quillfire obeyed with a gulp, a reaction so out of character for himself he didn't know what to make of it. For some unfathomable reason, he wanted to make peace with this bot, and he was stuck with that. Perhaps he just didn't want to endure an entire mission tainted by awkward silences and angry glares, but what could possibly make things amicable between them? This bot wanted nothing but the treasure of a fabled city that didn't exist, how was he supposed to provide anything like that? Perhaps… just some conversation might do the trick? If only to lighten the mood...

As they came to a road that marked the next leg of their mission, he made an effort to think of something to say as the amphibicon pondered their map, as well as the instructions they'd been given.

"Steeljaw instructed us to wait here and construct an ambush site. When the human transport arrives, we are to steal their cargo…" he said, finishing the statement with a most distasteful croak. Clearly, his fellow bot was not especially interested in the mission either, and likely was imagining countless other ways his time could be better spent. Such was a common feeling at their rank, and he did truly share most of the frustration. With that as a starting point, Quillfire imagined they may have some common ground after all. 

"I will keep watch on the road, so that you might strike at the most opportune time!" he declared boldly, emphasizing his faith in the others skills. It wasn't even a stretch, as he firmly believed the other was more than capable of getting this done. Looking up and down the simple paved path to ensure he had a good vantage point, he found one in the form of a sheltered outcrop. Looking to Springload for a reaction the entire time, he smirked confidently and clamored up to the flat bit of earth above the road, gesturing to the wide field of observable forest as he did so. "We will claim our quarry with a single attack, and return victorious!"

Springload merely observed him with a blink of apathetic consideration. "Yes, indeed." he said simply, hopping into position and making sure to face away from his teammate when he did so. Pulling out the holo of his supposed map, he began to study it as he always did, scanning the runes for what had to be the millionth time. A terse tone made his feelings on any future reconciliation clear. "Then I may continue my quest for Doradas, alone."

The anarchist's quills sagged at the turn of events. While he hadn't been expecting immediate friendship, he also hadn't anticipated that the other mech would be so openly hostile to any kind of amicable teamwork, and found himself quite disappointed by the lack of success. For whatever reason, he just wanted Springload to like him, and failing at that was bothering him. I'm fact, it was bad enough that some part of him just refused to accept the defeat. There had to be a way he could earn the other's camaraderie. Considering how much time they still had left before their mission began, he had a good window in which to ponder a solution. 

Sitting back on the soft grass, he put a hand to his chin in intense thought. Springload himself only openly cared about one thing, and he didn't know him well enough to be aware of any other likes or interests… Casting a glance at the amphibicon, he felt his processor buzzing at the strain of thinking so hard to produce no results. He simply didn't know anything about geography, archeology, linguistics or any other topic which might help the other mech in his quest. The thought that he might not be able to do anything ate at him much more than it should have. It was enough to make him sigh sadly to himself at the hopelessness of it all.

"Do you see something?" Springload asked, mistaking his small sound for a potential signal. Embarrassed and surprised, Quillfire coughed and babbled out an excuse as fast as he could come up with one.

"Ah… no! I simply mistook a… an organic being for the target!" he explained lamely, not even believing himself. Springload arched an optic ridge, looking as incredulous as he did frustrated at the false alarm. Quillfire laughed awkwardly to clear the air, shrinking down beneath the edge of the outcrop to disappear from view. A dissatisfied croak let him know the outburst was thoroughly not appreciated. 

Frowning miserably to himself, the anarchist occupied his lonesome by doodling in the dirt at his pedes, practicing his signature mark as he often did while thinking. What was he supposed to do? Apologies were not in his nature, least of all because he didn't want to give them. As a loner he just didn't have much practice saying he was sorry to anyone. Ordinarily he was busy disrupting systems of power, overthrowing tyrannical systems, or freeing trapped souls with no one else to save them… Thoughts and feelings like these were too new for him to know what to do with them.

Thinking hard, he tried to come up with something he could do to earn the favor of the other mech, but still came up short. It was frustrating enough to make him draw more aggressively, because deep down he was certain there had to be a way to succeed. Springload wasn't too different from himself, after all. A lone mech, seeking his goals, using his natural gifts and weapons to take down those who opposed him…

Just as he was about to growl to himself at his failure to be inspired, his digit bumped against something in the soft earth. Without anything better to do, he slowly went about digging the object free. A flash of a white, shiny exterior motivated him to continue. Briefly forgetting about his troubles, he dug until a dirty but visibly solid object began to reveal its shape. Round and about the size of his palm, a glossy white stone came from the dirt without too much fuss, and he smiled at the small accomplishment. It was a rather lovely treasure for such a simple planet.

Just as he began to dust some of the remaining dirt from the granite or quartz exterior, he was struck by an idea, one so foolish he had to wonder how it could work.  

Still, he was a champion of crazy ideas, so he dared to consider it. 

Springload was a mech who one could describe as… extravagant, both in mission and mind. He required one to go all out, as he never held back in regards to the quest that he'd dedicated his entire life to completing. Overall, he was just an unusual bot. Perhaps, if Quillfire was thinking this through properly, that meant he could be reasoned with through some unusual means?

Tilting the rounded stone in his servo, he dared to believe a simple yet unusual gift would be enough to at least get the two of them started on a path to mending their teamwork. If nothing else, he'd at least get to tell himself he tried. The hardest part would be working up the courage to begin, but hopefully after that things would be easier. He just needed to take that first step…

Peeking over the edge of the outcrop, he saw that the amphibicon was in the same place he'd last been, reading over his map and murmuring to himself. Despite having read it every day for eons, the dedicated bot didn't look the least bit uninterested in his work. If anything, he looked downright eager, as if on the verge of a breakthrough at any given time. Quillfire hoped interrupting him wouldn't cause an even greater rift to form. 

Clearing his vents, he found his pump pounding with unnatural anxiety as he forced his voice box to speak up, his servos almost trembling about the stone as he took a considerable leap of faith.

"S-Springload?" he finally croaked out, nearly losing his nerve when the other mech looked up to him with painfully obvious annoyance. Gulping, he overcame his anxiety to speak up and stand tall to appear more confident than he felt.  "Can you… come up here? There is something you must see!"

Brightly colored optics widened, then fixed him with a look equal parts incredulous and irritated. "Is it important?"

"Very!" he insisted, sounding honest because he truly meant it with all of his spark. What could be more important than mending his fued with a fellow teammate?

In a single hop, Springload tucked away his map and cleared the entire road, landing just before Quillfire with a graceful thud. 

"I, er…" he stammered as the silliness of what he was about to do hit him in full. Unable to remember the last time he had given or received anything, he was without a clue as to what to say, so he simply held out the stone in his cupped palms with an attempt at a smile. There was a perceptible tremble in his arms as he did so, but he remained strong. "I believe I'm supposed to give this to you!" 

Springload didn't immediately react beyond a raised brow, so he stammered forth more of an explanation, spark sinking in his chest. "As a s-sign of… teamwork."

"A white stone?" the amphibicon said at last, as if awakening from a light trance. Taking the rock carefully into his large servo, all while ensuring his acidic coat didn't touch the other mech, he held the item aloft into the light. Just seeing him interested made the anarchist dare to hope things might work out, but in his wildest of dreams he'd never have anticipated what happened next. Springload lit up like a mech beholding a Prime out of the blue, his optics turning away from the stone for just a moment. 

"Just the same as those that line the gates of Doradas!" he exclaimed in awe.

Quillfire didn't have any response for that, good or bad as it may have been.

"What?"

"The sacred text makes it clear!" he shouted in explanation, bringing forth his scroll of indecipherable runes as if it made everything make sense. Gesturing to the lines of what Springload saw as gibberish, he began to proclaim their meaning with enthusiasm, optics wide and wild. "You see, here?! The gates of the Holy City will be lined with pure stones to mark the way!" 

"I'm…" was all he could reply with, still a million miles behind the other mech in regards to understanding. While he'd hoped at most for appreciation or a mere thanks, Springload looked about ready to burst with excitement, and for reasons he couldn't even begin to comprehend. At the very least he figured he should be happy for the turn of events when he was surprised yet again. 

"But how could you know?" Springload pressed, catching him more than a little off guard. Holding up his servos in surrender, Quillfire tried to figure out what exactly he was supposed to have known, and how he might have gone about figuring it out. He'd just thought it was pretty and would make a decent gesture of peace! Fumbling for a response so as not to lose his progress, he was saved by another burst of revelation he had no part in.

"Of course, the spirits!" he exclaimed, almost dropping the rock in his excitement. Clasping his servos over the apparently precious gift, he explained his excitement more or less by simply talking aloud to himself. "They must have guided you, enabling you to find such a sacred object, so that you could gift it to me!"

Accepting he would never truly understand, Quillfire only smiled and nodded at the other's exuberance. More than happy things had turned out so well, he was content to let the other mech believe whatever he wanted, even if he didn't follow it. "Of course!"

"As to why they would do this… they must know you are key to my quest!" Springload continued, using an avid free servo to clasp the other mech's arm in a sign of commitment. More surprised than confused, the anarchist tilted his helm in shock at how fast things had changed between them. Just like that, everything that had happened was forgiven? More than forgiven, in fact, he was seen as a friend and ally? It didn't seem inaccurate to say he was also being looked at as a divine being at the moment. By the Primes, this bot was like no other!

"I was a fool! To think, I tried to push you away!" the amphibicon cried, deactivating his acid so he could better cling to the taller mech. Seeing the emotion in his eyes, Quillfire wondered if he might start weeping, and hoped it wouldn't come to such a show. Not only was he not the best at providing comfort, he didn't have any tissues… Mercifully, the big optics looking into his seemed to sparkle with jubilation rather than tears.

"Ah, it's really nothing…" Quillfire reassured, beginning to blush from the high praise. A spare servo massaged the back of his neck in an open show of bashful deflection. Such a small thing hardly felt worthy of this kind of praise, even for a mech as glory seeking as himself. Not that he was disliking this turn of events.

"It's everything!" Springload corrected, emphatic and no longer impatient. "You must have been sent into my life by the spirits themselves!"

Actively blushing at that, the anarchist looked away, rubbing harder at the back of his neck. He hadn't a clue what to do with this newfound respect and admiration. Perhaps the other bot was just having a momentary burst of affection, which would give way as soon as the next symbol or sign grabbed his attention, but at present such a turn seemed beyond doubtful. Quillfire was being regarded in a way typically saved for the most ancient and holy of altars to the Primes. In the depths of his spark, he wanted it to last.

A distant but heavy sound caught his sharp audials, just as the tremor sensitive Springload perked up in synchronized recognition. Something was rumbling its way down the primitive earth road. Recalling their mission so fast his quills flared in alarm, the anarchist stood up to his full height, catching a glimpse of a truck through the densely packed pines. Their target was approaching fast. Worse, they were in no position to intercept it as planned. 

Thinking fast, Quillfire pulled one of his namesake weapons from his back, preparing to strike as the unknowing human drove their way. 

"I shall block the path." he announced, redirecting their strategy from before to include himself. Business came first for them both, so each was ready in an instant. Springload crouched low on his powerful legs in anticipation of his orders, which came just as the truck began barreling down the final stretch in their direction, multiple tons on a solid course they needed to stop. "You, render it motionless once it is stopped."

An agreeable ribbit communicated hearty understanding in the final moments before their strike. 

While massive by earth standards, the truck was small enough for Quillfire to plan his moves without much of a risk. Still, he was careful in his timing, as the cargo was as valuable as it was delicate. Any great crash would render it useless. Their success hinged on him being precise more than cautious, so he waited for the perfect amount of distance to be between himself and his target before he leapt down into the asphalt below. 

Well practiced using his own weapons, he tossed his quill just ahead of the already braking truck, funneling their path to the point of nonexistence. With nowhere to go, the driver was forced to slam on the brakes and skid to a stop, not having the option to go around or turn back. Quillfire smirked in pride at the human's textbook reaction, and could have sworn he heard Springload give a cheer at his victory. Near victory, that was, there was still one crucial step for them to see through.

"Now!" he ordered as the multiple tire sets came to a stop just shy of him. With the speed of someone working on the same page, the amphibicon dove from his perch, shooting his tongue out like a whip. Acid and force popped the tires in rapid succession, filling the air with a series of bangs and creaks until the heavy machine collapsed onto nothing but it's hubcaps. Rubber flew in every direction and nothing even resembling tires remained to spin, leaving multiple tons collapsed on the asphalt. The truck would not be going anywhere. 

"A clean victory!" Springload declared happily, still clutching his gift as he hopped back beside Quillfire. "Truly, the spirits are on our side in full. You are their greatest emissary."

Beaming at the praise, Quillfire turned when he heard the door of the vehicle opening up. Both mech's turned just as the human driver jumped from the vehicle, landing in a heap on the ground as he did so. Catching their mutual gaze, the tiny being threw up his hands in surrender, wide eyed and terrified as could be. A gigantic, metallic frog and an even bigger metal porcupine had not been mentioned when he'd taken the job. 

"Look, I'm n-not paid enough for this!" he stammered, gesturing wildly to the trailer as he slowly stepped backwards on shaking legs. Giving up the goods completely for his own sake, he unknowingly earned the approval of a certain anarchist. Abandoning one's shackles for self preservation was a key tactic, and he smiled as the human gave them both full clearance, dropping his keys on the spot. "Just take the truck! A-all of it!"

"We shall, your cooperation is appreciated." Springload replied, sounding a bit haughty. In truth the human's cooperation meant little; either mech was fully capable of taking what they wanted without much effort. Happy just to see someone making the right choices, Quillfire praised and comforted the terrified earthling in what he considered to be the best way.  

"Fear not, brother. You have been liberated from the bonds of oppressive labor!" he encouraged, presenting the human with a smile of reassurance. Reacting with what he presumed to be unfathomable joy, the tiny being turned about and began to sprint, disappearing into the trees with a considerable ruckus of breaking branches and fussing animals. Screams of jubilation began echoing out after he was long gone from sight.

Waving the lucky one off, Quillfire smiled at the impossible fortune this day had brought him, happy to share it with others. If humans could figure out the true way to live, perhaps there was yet hope for them. He dared to believe as much while shouting after the former truck driver. "Go forth, tiny earthling! Enjoy the freedom we have given you!"

Turning back to the work yet to be completed, he found Springload using his selectively acidic touch to melt through the lock of the truck's trailer, his gift still peeking out through his other servo's protective grip. Marveling at how the other mech seemed intent on believing his truth, Quillfire still decided to let it be. Though happy just to be friends, it was quite likely this was just how things worked for such a dramatic bot. He was surprised how he was beyond accepting of such a concept, and in fact, quite looking forward to it. 

As the doors opened, the two of them found a rather manageable cluster of boxes secured tightly to avoid damaging movement. Comfortable as the load would have been for two bots, it doubtlessly was too much for one, yet Springload began freeing it from its bonds with a smile. 

"Allow me to carry this burden, great one! It is the least I can offer!" he said eagerly, tucking his stone away into a subspace beside his spark. Cutting their payload free, he began to move the boxes happily outside, no doubt planning to pile them all into his altmode. While usually happy to get some time off, Quillfire didn't feel right about leaving the other mech to handle it all. Their new partnership deserved to get off to a much better start than that. 

"I can help." he reassured simply, taking his fair share of the boxes to carry in his hands. Though the smaller mech needed his altmode to handle his share, he didn't allow transforming to stop his eager chatting, and continued to extoll the virtues of his new ally as a happy pickup truck. 

"Such generosity!" he praised, putting along to leave the abandoned truck behind them. Though a little overwhelmed by the idea of someone seeing him as a bona fide gift from ancient deities, he allowed the other mech's chatter to fill the walk home, finding it to be far better than the awkward silence that had followed them here. Who ever would have been able to guess a mere stone could change so much? 

"I shall have to insist we are partnered together for future endeavors! As two individuals chosen by the spirits, our camaraderie can bring only success!" Springload gushed, turning about happily on his bouncing tires. "Would that please you, great one? I am certain riches will come to us both!"

Though he still had his own dreams, Quillfire didn't indeed find the idea of more missions like this very agreeable, so much so that he had no problem smiling in affirment. 

"Riches indeed, my new friend!" 

[cruisingthedemimonde]

America’s Gay Men in WW2

World War Two was a “National Coming Out” for queer Americans.

I don’t think any other event in history changed the lives of so many of us since Rome became Christian. 

For European queers the war brought tragedy.

The queer movement began in Germany in the 1860s when trans activist Karl Ulrichs spoke before the courts to repeal Anti-Sodomy laws. From his first act of bravery the movement grew and by the 1920s Berlin had more gay bars than Manhattan did in the 1980s. Magnus Hirschfeld’s “Scientific Humanitarian Committee” fought valiantly in politics for LGBT rights and performed the first gender affirmation surgeries. They were a century ahead of the rest of the world.

The Nazis made Hirschfeld - Socialist, Homosexual and Jew - public enemy number one.

The famous image of the Nazis burning books? Those were the books of the Scientific Humanitarian Committee. Case studies of the first openly queer Europeans, histories, diaries - the first treasure trove of our history was destroyed that day.

100,000 of us were charged with felonies. As many as 15,000 were sent to the camps, about 60% were murdered.

But in America the war brought liberation.

In a country where most people never even heard the word “homosexual” , historian John D’emilio wrote the war was “conducive both to the articulation of  a homosexual identity and to the more rapid evolution of a gay subculture. (24)” The war years were “a Watershed (Eaklor 68)”

Now before we begin I need to give a caveat. The focus of this first post is not lesbians, transfolk or others in our community. Those stories have additional complexity the story of cisgender homosexual men does not. Starting with gay men lets me begin in the simplest way I can, in subsequent posts I’ll look at the rest of our community.

Twilight Aristocracy: Being Queer Before the War

I want us to go back in time and imagine the life of the typical queer American before the war. Odds are you lived on a farm and simply accepted the basic fact that you would marry and raise children as surely as you were born or would die. You would have never seen someone Out or Proud. If you did see your sexuality or gender in contrary ways you had no words to express it, odds are even your doctor had never heard the term “Homosexual. In your mind it was just a quirk, without a name or possible expression.

In the city the “Twilight Aristocracy” lived hidden, on the margins and exposed their queerness only in the most coded ways. Gay men “Dropping pins” with a handkerchief in a specific pocket. Butch women with key chains heavy enough to show she didn’t need a man to carry anything for her. A secret language of “Jockers” and “Nances” “Playing Checkers” during a night out. There is a really good article on the queer vernacular here

And these were “Lovers in a Dangerous Time.”

In public one must act as straight as possible. Two people of the same gender dancing could be prosecuted. Cross dressing, even with something as trivial as a woman wearing pants, would run afoul of obscenity laws.

The only spaces we had for ourselves were dive bars, run by organized crime. But even then one must be sure to be circumspect, and act straight. Anyone could be an undercover cop. If a gaze was held to long, or lovers kissed in a corner the bar would be raided. Police saw us as worthy candidates for abuse so beatings were common and the judge would do all he could to humiliate you.

Now Michael Foucault, the big swinging french dick of queer theory, laid out this whole theory about how the real policing in a society happens inside our heads. Ideas about sin, shame, normalcy, mental illness can all be made to control people, and the Twilight Aristocracy was no different.

While cruising a park at night, or settled on the sofa with a lifelong lover, the thoughts of Priests and Doctors haunted them. “Am I living in Sin? Am I someone God could love?” “Is this healthy? Have I gone mad? Is this a true love or a medical condition which requires cure?”

There was no voice in America yet healing our self doubt, or demanding the world accept us as we are. And that voice, the socialist Harry Hay, did not come during the war, but it would come shortly after directly because of it.

Johnny Get Your Gun… And are you now or ever been a Homosexual?

For the first time in their lives millions of young men crossed thousands of miles from their home to the front.

But before they made that brave journey they had another, unexpected and often torturous journey. The one across the doctor’s office at a recruiting station.

In the nineteenth century queerness moved from an act, “Forgive me Father I have sinned, I kissed another man” to something you are, “The homosexual subspecies can be identified by certain physical and psychological signs.” 

These were the glory days of patriarchy and white supremacy, those who transgressed the line between masculine and feminine called the whole culture into question. So doctors obsessed themselves with queerness, its origins, its signs, its so called catastrophic racial consequences and its cure.

“Are you a homosexual?” doctors asked stunned recruits. 

If you were closeted but patriotic, you would of course deny the accusation. But the doctor would continue his examination by checking if you were a “Real Man.”

“Do you have a girlfriend? Did you like playing sports as a kid?”

If you passed that, the doctor would often try and trip you up by asking about your culture.

“Do you ever go basketeering?” he would ask, remembering to check if there was any lisp or effeminacy in your voice.

Finally if the doctor felt like it he could examine your body to see if you were a member of the homosexual subspecies. 

Your gag reflex would be tested with a tongue depressor. Another hole could be carefully examined as well.

Humiliating enough for a straight man. But for a gay recruit the consequences could be life threatening.

Medical authorities knew homosexuals were weak, criminal and mad. To place them among the troops would weaken unit cohesion at the very least, result in treachery at the worst. In civilian life doctors had much the same thing to say. 

The recruit needed a cure. And a doctor was always ready. With talk therapy, hypnosis, drugs, electroshock and forced surgeries of the worst kinds there was always a cure ready at hand.

Thankfully the doctors were not successful in their task, one doctor wrote “for every homosexual who was referred or came to the Medical Department, there  were five or ten who never were detected. (d’Emilio 25)”

Here’s the irony though, by asking such pointed and direct questions to people closeted to themselves it forced them to confront their sexuality for the first time. 

Hegarty writes, “As a result of the screening policies, homosexuality became part of wartime discourse. Questions about homosexual desire and behavior ensured that every man inducted into the armed forces had to confront the possibility of homosexual feelings or experiences. This was a kind of massive public education about homosexuality. Despite—and be-cause of—the attempts to eliminate homosexuals from the military, men with same-sex desires learned that there were many people like themselves (Hegarty 180)”

And then it gave them a golden opportunity to have fun.

The 101st Airborn - Homosocial and Homosexual

“Homosocial” refers to a gender segregated space. And they were often havens for gay men. The YMCA for example really was a place for young gay men to meet.

Now the government was already aware of the kind of scandalous sexual behaviour young men can get up to when left to themselves. Two major government programs before the war, the Federal Transient Program and the Civilian Conservation Corps focused on unattached young men, but over time these spaces became highly suspect and the focus shifted to helping family men so as to avoid giving government aid to ‘sexual perversion’ in these homosocial spaces.

But with the war on there was no choice but to put hundreds of thousands of young men in their own world. All male boot camps, all male bases, all male front lines. 

The emotional intensity broke down the barriers between men and the strict enforcement of gendered norms.

On the front the men had no girlfriend, wife or mother to confide in. The soldier’s body was strong and heroic but also fragile. Straight men held each other in foxholes and shared their emotional vulnerability to each other. Gender lines began to blur as straight men danced together in bars an action that would result in arrest in many American cities.

Bronski writes, “Men were now more able to be emotional, express their feelings, and even cry. The stereotypical “strong, silent type,” quintessentially heterosexual, that had characterized the American Man had been replaced with a new, sensitive man who had many of the qualities of the homosexual male. (Bronski 152)”

Homosexual men discovered in this environment new freedoms to get close to one another without arousing suspicion.

“Though the military  officially maintained an anti-homosexual stance, wartime conditions nonetheless offered a protective covering that facilitated interaction  among gay men (d’Emilio 26)”

Bob Ruffing, a chief petty officer in the Navy described this freedom as follows, ‘When I first got into the navy—in the recreation hall, for instance— there’d be  eye contact, and pretty soon you’d get to know one or two people and kept branching out. All of a sudden you had a vast network of friends, usually through  this eye contact thing, some through outright cruising. They could get away with  it in that atmosphere. (d’Emilio 26) ”

Another wrote about their experience serving in the navy in San Diego, “‘Oh, these are more my kind of people.’ We became very chummy, quite close, very fraternal, very protective of each other. (Hegarty 180)”

Some spaces within the army became queer as well. The USO put on shows for soldiers, and since they could not find women to play parts, the men often dressed in drag. “impersonation. For actors and audiences, these performances were a needed relief from the stress of war. For men who identified as homosexual, these shows were a place where they could, in coded terms, express their sexual desires, be visible, and build a community. (Bronski 148)”

“Here you see three lovely “girls”

 With their plastic shapes and curls.

 Isn’t it campy? Isn’t it campy?

 We’ve got glamour and that’s no lie;

 Can’t you tell when we swish by?

 Isn’t it campy? Isn’t it campy?”

The words camp and swish being used in the gay subculture and connected to effeminate gay men.

I would have to assume, more than a few transwomen gravitated to these spaces as well.

Even the battlefield itself provided opportunities for gay fraternization. A beach in Guam for example became a secret just for the gay troops, they called it Purple Beach Number 2, after a perfume brand.

This homoerotic space was not confined to the military, but spilled out into civilian life as well.

Donald Vining was a pacifist who stated bluntly his homosexuality to the recruitment board as his mother needed his work earnings, and if you wanted be a conscientious objector you had to apply to go to an objector’s camp. He became something of a soldier chaser, working in the local YMCA and volunteering at the soldier’s canteen in New York he hooked up with soldiers still closeted for a night of passion but many more who were open about who they were. 

After the war he was left with a network of gay friends and a strong sense of belonging to a community. It was dangerous tho, he was victim of robberies he could not report because they happened during hook ups, but police were always ready to raid gay bars when they were bored. “It was obvious that [the police] just had to make a few arrests to look busy,” he protested in his diary.  “It was a travesty of justice and the workings of the police department (d’Emilio 30).״

Now it might seem odd he was able to plug into a community like that, but over the war underground gay bars appeared across the country for their new clientele. Even the isolated Worcester Mass got a gay bar.

African American men, barred from combat on the front lines, were not entirely barred from the gay subculture in the cities. For example in Harlem the jazz bar Lucky Rendevous was reported in Ebony as whites and blacks “steeped in the swish jargon of its many lavender costumers. (Bronski 149)”

The Other War: Facing Homophobia

“For homosexual soldiers, induction into the military forced a sudden confrontation with their sexuality that highlighted the stigma attached to it and kept  it  a  matter  of special  concern (d’Emilio 25)”

“They were fighting two wars: one for America, democracy, and freedom; the other for their own survival as homosexuals within the military organization. (Eaklor 68)”

Once they were in, they fell under Article 125 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice: “Any person subject to this chapter who engages in unnatural carnal copulation with another person of the same or opposite sex or with an animal is guilty of sodomy. Penetration, however slight, is sufficient to complete the offense.”

Penalties could include five years hard labour, forced institutionalization or fall under the dreaded Section 8 discharge, a stamp of mental instability that would prevent you from finding meaningful employment in civilian life.

Even if one wanted nothing to do with fulfilling their desires it was still essential to become hyper aware of your presentation and behaviour in order to avoid suspicion.

Coming Home to Gay Ghettos

“The veterans of World War II were the first generation of gay men and women to experience such rapid, dramatic, and widespread changes in their lives as homosexuals. Bronski 154”

After the war many queer servicemen went on to live conventionally heterosexual lives. But many more returned to a much queerer life stateside.

Bob Ruffing would settle down in San Francisco. The city has always been a safe harbour for queer Americans, made more so as ex servicemen gravitated to its liberated atmosphere. The port cities of New York, San Francisco and Los Angeles became the prime destinations to settle. Vining’s partner joined him in New York, where they both immersed themselves in the gay culture.

Other soldiers moved to specific neighborhoods known for having small gay communities. San Francisco’s North Beach, the west side of Boston’s Beacon Hill, or New York’s Greenwich Village. Following the war the gay populations of these cities increased dramatically.

The cities offered parks, coffee houses and bars which became queer spaces. And drag performance, music and comedy became features of this culture.

These veterans also founded organizations just for the queer soldiers. In Los Angeles the Knights of the Clock provided a space for same sex inter racial couples. In New York the Veterans Benevolent Association would often see 400-500 homosexuals appear at its events.

A number of books bluntly explored homosexuality following the war, such as The Invisible Glass which tells the story of an inter racial couple in Italy, 

“With a slight moan Chick rolled onto his left side, toward the Lieutenant. His finger sought those of the officer’s as they entwined their legs. Their faces met. The breaths, smelling sweet from wine, came in heavy drawn sighs. La Cava grasped the soldier by his waist and drew him tightly to his body. His mouth pressed down until he felt Chick’s lips part. For a moment they lay quietly, holding one another with strained arms.”

Others like Gore Vidal’s The City and the Pillar (1948), Fritz Peters’s The World Next Door (1949), and James Barr’s Quatrefoil (1950) explored similar themes.

In 1948 the Kinsey Report would create a public firestorm by arguing that homosexuality is shockingly common. In 1950 The Mattachine Society, a secretive group of homosexual Stalinists launched America’s LGBT movement.

References:

Michael Bronski “A Queer History of the United States”

John D’emilio “Coming Out Under Fire”

Vivki L Eaklor “Queer America: A GLBT History of America”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Lesbians

In 1947 General Eisenhower told a purple heart winning Sargeant Johhnie Phelps, “It's come to my attention that there are lesbians in the WACs, we need to ferret them out”.

Phelps replied, “"If the General pleases, sir, I'll be happy to do that, but the first name on the list will be mine."

Eisenhower’s secretary added “"If the General pleases, sir, my name will be first and hers will be second."

Join me again May 17 to hear the story of America’s Lesbians during the war.

[stillbandofbrothersthirsty]

How Do You Feel

George Luz x OC (Part 2)

Rated T+ (Part 1; Part 3)

“Okay, so we’re doing this.” George stood awkwardly in front of Julia in his PT shirt, his suspenders hanging down by his thighs.

“Yep,” Julia said as seriously as she could before bursting into a fit of nervous giggles.

“Julia!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You just-,” she pressed a hand over her mouth as she took him in, “I’m sorry,” she giggled.

“This is not going to work if you can’t keep it together.”

“I know, you’re right. I just have never seen you so…” she gestured up and down his body.

“I’m not even undressed yet.”

“No but it’s clear it’s going in that direction,” Julia blushed and giggled nervously.

“Well, yeah, it is.” George was not nearly as amused as her.

“Okay,” Julia composed her face, “I’m ready.” She began unbuttoning the top of her dress.

“Here let me,” George said, his hands out stretched. She smacked them away.

“Julia!”

“Sorry! Wouldn’t you say that’s kinda intimate though?”

“Well, we are about to be naked!”

“Yeah, but-,”

“It would feel transactional if you just stood and stripped. Look, we’re good friends right?” George’s voice dropped into a low, comforting tone, “As your friend, I think you’re beautiful. And, we’ve hugged and kissed and touched each other before. This doesn’t have to be weird, we just need to trust each other.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” she asked.

“Yeah, you’re a red hot tomato, kid.”

Julia stuck her tongue out at him. But, George’s words reassured her. He was right; it wasn’t like this was their first time ever touching each other. How many times had he planted a kiss on her after a rowdy darts game victory. How many times had they stumbled back to their beds with their arms wrapped around each other. They were dance partners, they knew each others movements almost better than anyone else. Theirs was a different kind of intimacy founded on confidence in the other. Julia needed to get out of her head and simply trust her friend.

“Okay,” she said in a low voice. She was calm. The previous giddiness had evaporated as she surrendered her trust to George. He moved toward her, slipping his fingers behind the button at the very bottom of her bodice. He worked steadily, efficiently sliding each plastic button through its hole so that slowly her light pink satin slip was revealed. George pulled the dress off of her shoulders, letting it drop to the ground. Then Julia took her turn. She ran her hands into the waistband of his pants and under his shirt, helping him to lift it over his head.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he said.

“Okay.”


The kiss was sweet but some carried the same weirdness as their last kiss.

Julia pushed him away, “I think it’s when we plan it.” George looked confused. “Just kiss me!”

“So you don’t want a heads up?”



“No, I think I think about it too much when I get a warning ya know?” George nodded and leaned in. His hand came up to cup her jaw as he deepened the kiss.

“George,” Julia squeaked. He pulled away.

“What now?” he said exasperated.

“Don’t be so sweet! It’s weird! Just be you!”

“I am just being me! This is how I kiss! I’m sweet!”

“Well don’t kiss me like one of your girlfriends, kiss me like one of your friends!”

“Oh my god, fine,” George rolled his eyes. He grabbed her around the waist, kissing her hard. The kiss was relentless; Julia barely had time to think as his lips and tongue explored her mouth, her neck and her collarbones. She could barely keep pace as he slipped her shift off and expertly released her garters. Her hands fumbled with his pants. He took that opportunity to come up for air. He released her from their kiss, leaning back to give her room to work. As soon as she had his pants unbuttoned he belly flopped onto the bed, pulling her down with him. Julia squealed in involuntary delight, giggling as they landed on the quilt.

“Shh!” George grinned and began kissing her again. They roamed each other’s bodies with a familiarity that was innate to people who had spent so much time with each other. The only pause in their rhythm occurred at the moment of penetration.


“Are you sure about this?” George was braced above her, his chocolate eyes searching hers for any indication of uncertainty.

“I’m sure!” Julia said confidently pulling him to her.

“So, thoughts?” George wrangled his arms through his shirt sleeves.

“Yeah, good,” Julia said as she reattached her garters.

“Good? That’s it?” 

“What do you want me to say? You’re a god in the sack, George?” Julia teased.

“Actually, yeah, that would be great to hear.”

“Ha ha!”

They had spent only a few moments in each others arms after they finished. But after coming down from the haze of their orgasms they realized no cuddling should be a rule. Their friendship could handle a bar booth cuddle with clothes on; naked and in bed was not conducive to their goal of platonic sex.

“So when’s the next time?” George said, tying up his boots.

“Ready to go again already?”



“As a red-blooded man I am always ready to go.”

“Debatable.”

“You need me to prove it?” George tackled her onto the bed and the two dissolved into a fit of giggles.

“No!” Julia playfully swatted him off of her, “we don’t have time anyways, get out of here.”

George stood up and smiled warmly down on her. “See you tomorrow, Jules.”

“Be quiet!” Julia reminded him as he slipped out the door, his jacket in hand.

They were overly cautious at first which meant their liaisons were few and far between. But as their confidence grew they became greedier, and more reckless. On more than one occasion George was nearly spotted exiting Julia's bedroom.

“None of the guys know right?” Julia asked one night as she dressed.

“Not that I’m aware of,” George replied. “Why?”

“Only wondering, I want to make sure things stay private.”

“You embarrassed of me?” George stuck out his bottom lip jokingly.

“No, not of you, but at the same time I don’t want every guy in the Company thinking I’m easy.”


“Don’t worry about that, they’re Easy too!”

“Bad joke, George.”

“Mm yeah, that one kinda fell flat huh?”



“I just don’t want to get a reputation ya know?”



“I understand,” George sat down beside her on the twin bed, “don’t worry, kid, our secret’s safe.” He kissed her sweetly on the cheek. “Okay, I’m off.”

As the summer wrapped up so did the men’s training at Toccoa. Julia and George discussed the possibility that Julia may not be moving on with the men. There was nothing they could do about it if that were the case so promises of letters were made.

Fortunately, however, Julia continued on with the 101st airborne to Fort Mackall. Life was good, all things considering. The dynamic between George and Julia was comfortable. For all intents and purposes, nothing had changed between the two of them. They played darts and cards and drank with the other airborne staff and soldiers just as they had before. They ended the evenings laughing into each other’s shoulders. But instead of walking back from the bar together or George escorting Julia back to her quarters, they would sneak off to find a private moment.

They were still careful. One had to know the difference in order to spot it. If the evening ended with just the two of them they would find a place to kiss - or if they could, go back to Julia’s room. Their rules hadn’t ever prohibited fooling around or kissing outside of Julia’s bedroom. So, especially when the alcohol was flowing, they found themselves taking liberties with their intimacy in dark alleyways and behind barracks.

Had this been a rule, it would’ve been the hardest to respect. But it wasn’t, so instead the couple found themselves struggling with the “sleep with other people” rule. Neither of them would admit this; as much as they each wanted to support the other (and keep up appearances) it was easy to feel lonely if one of them was occupied elsewhere. Considering the male to female ratio at the bars, it was surprising that George was usually the one with a new partner.

The bars were always filled with the airborne men, along with the army and marines. Relatively few women were brave enough to infiltrate the packed bars. Yet, somehow, George was often found charming a beautiful local.

It bothered Julia quite a bit at first. Not for the obvious reasons, but because she missed her friend. They had never been glued together at the hip, but at Toccoa they almost always ended the evenings together. Julia couldn’t help but wonder if George was getting tired of her since they spent so much time together. But Julia found solace in her other Easy Company friends. Frank Perconte was always up for a chat. Joe Toye was a more melancholy friend when he drank and they spent plenty of evening’s lost in deep conversation.

It was on nights like these, when George was absent, that Julia found herself interacting more and more with Chuck Grant. On a regular week-day evening Julia was honoring an invitation to play cards with Frank and Bull when Chuck invited her out on a date.

He had run into her as she was about to enter the building where Frank was bunked. It was late evening. The sun hung just above the horizon, struggling to say goodbye to the late summer world. The warm, fading light had Chuck’s skin glowing when he approached her. Julia had always found him very handsome, but never entertained the idea that he may be interested in her. Before their social encounters out in town she wouldn’t have expected him to know her name.



“Hi Julia,” he said politely. He looked like he had just showered. His hair was freshly combed back and she could smell his aftershave.

“Hi Chuck,” she smiled. Her palms were a little sweaty, although she wasn’t sure if it was out of nervousness or due to the last beams of the day’s heat.

“Who ya visting this evening?”

“Frank. Well a few guys actually, but Frank invited me to play cards with them.”

“You any good?” Chuck asked.

Julia shrugged, “not as good as I’d like to think I am.”

“Ah, I bet you’re better than you think!” Chuck said.

Julia smiled at him, then at the ground, trying to think of something to say next. “Well, I ought to get going…” she trailed off.

“Yeah, well hey, I was wondering, would you like to see a movie with me?”



Julia looked at him in surprise, “like watch one of the ones they screen here?”


“Well I was thinking somewhere in town? Like a date.”

“Oh!” Julia didn’t know what to say, she was totally taken aback.

“If you’re up for it?” Chuck asked sheepishly. He was usually a confident guy but standing there in front of her Julia finally saw a more vulnerable side of him. His shoulders were slightly hunched and his lips were pressed together in nervous anticipation for her answer.

“I would love to!” she said honestly.

“Great!” he straightened with renewed confidence. “We can work out the details later, I’ll let you get to your game.”

“Okay, see you later Chuck.”

He smiled a little half smile at her as she turned toward the barrack. Before entering, she stole another look at him over her shoulder and he smiled warmly at her. A little swarm of butterflies somersaulted in her stomach and Julia had to press down a wide smile.