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#fellas is it gay to raise a child with another man

cant-fight-kyrumption · 29 days

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“Trying to get your attention has been kind of exhausting” Eddie saying “you’re exhausting” brainrot

#911 #911 abc #911 spoilers #buddie #fellas is it gay to raise a child with another man

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awkwardalpha · 2 years

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I’ve been sick and binge watching 9-1-1 and I knew there was some ship shit going on before I started but

oh boy

these two bitches really are just straight up married with a child, aren’t they?

#fellas is it gay to raise a child with another man #while having your relationship be #your exact definition of love #and a parallel to the already established couples in the show?#9-1-1 #911 show #buddie #fuck you im into this ship now

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newjenns · 1 year

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buddy daddies is kind of promoting gay people in a way i think ?

#fellas is it gay if you and another man live together and work together and raise a child together ?

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fox-guardian · 7 months

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please PLEASE we need more of that somewhere else au

hi i've been sitting on this ask for a hot minute cuz i've been trying to think of how events in this world would line up with events in the og timeline. like.

i'm trying to figure out gerry's family situation. because he bonds with this universe's martin over their mommy issues, but his mom couldn't have found and gotten obsessed with a leitner, since they don't exist in this world. so how could she become a killer? well, she does it The Normal Way. no spooky shit, she just kills people for her own purposes.

and what about eric? currently i'm thinking he was left in the dark about her whole Thing because in this world, he didn't have the pre-exposure to weird shit via the institute so he's just. basically clueless the whole time they're together cuz he doesn't wanna invade her privacy too much. especially since she gets so Defensive. until gerry gets born and he gets Concerned that his wife is focusing more on the hobbies he's allowed her to keep to herself than on caring for their own child, so then he confronts her and figures out about the murders, and tries to call the police, and she tries to stop him and in the scuffle she blinds him (that's right baby he Remains Eyeless in this au)

she manages to frame him for the murders and he's locked away for ~13 years ish and she raises gerry in that time, giving him So Many Issues and eventually she just. goes back to the murders. but more subtly. only since there's More Murders In The Area Again the cops catch her and free eric and WHOO GERRY HAS HIS DAD NOW and eric loves him so much. they bond and it's wonderful. (this is obviously where we've branched off from lining up with canon this is The Good Timeline)

gerry grows up with his epic and cool dad who bonds with him via music and shitty hair dye jobs and laments that he can't see his son's cool art but gerry still describes it to him and he's like "oh that sounds so cool. i'd get that tattoo'd" and BOOM. GERRY TATTOO ARTIST DREAMS BEGIN.

he starts at a shop, gets really good, his specialty is stylized horror-related tattoos and portraits. years go by, a new guy comes in and wants to start an apprenticeship, gerry takes him under his wing. dude is pretty good and they keep working together, the guy is really good at writing script so he does a lot of text and stuff, and a lot of line-heavy designs. that guy is Martin.

one day martin informs gerry that he's noticed him being off lately, he gets concerned for his health and eventually after a lot of nagging and a one-man intervention, martin manages to get gerry to a doctor and OH NO, THERE'S A TUMOR IN HIS BRAIN but good news is they caught it in time!! now gerry has a big cool scar on his head and owes martin his life.

and then fellas. Fellas. is it gay to open a tattoo shop with the man who you taught how to tattoo and now you feel is your equal in his own right and also who saved your life because he Knew You That Well.

eric thinks so. and he kept making annoying grins about it that only got worse when gerry told him they'd made it official ("dad please" "I KNEW YOU CRAZY KIDS WOULD MAKE IT WORK" "dad" "when's the wedding" "DAD")

can you tell i've been thinking about gerry and martin a lot.

to bring it back to the "somewhere else" part, OG martin works at a coffee shop trying to get by with OG jon and gerry and eric happen to come in one day, and then another day gerry comes in with martin, Excited To Share With Him The Barista That Looks Uncannily Like Him But Older. and OG martin is, of course, shitting his pants because Oh No This Probably Isn't Good BUT THEN HE LOOKS AT MARTIN. and he's SO mad. this martin looks SO MUCH COOLER THAN HIM. he has GOLD FACIAL PIERCINGS and a SLEEVE TATTOO of ROSES. AND HE DOESN'T LOOK DEPRESSED.

he brings this up to og jon and he's just like ".... did you want to get piercings. i mean you know you'd look cool" and jon is just feeling very 😳👀 about that part but martin is just "WHAT, AND COPY HIM?? I CAN'T DO THAT"

so uh yeah that's uh. that's the most detailed i've got so far. i've got a little bit of jon and sasha and surprisingly little for the stokers. but yeah <3 this got long <3

#fg's answers #asks #the magnus archives #tma #gerry keay #gerry delano #he goes by that name in this au btw #martin blackwood #eric delano #jonathan sims #somewhere else shops au #that's the name for rn idk what else to call it #cancer mention #fictional but jic #cursing #ask to tag #also YES i have a drawing in the woiks its just martin with gerry peeking and yes i will post it once its done but aaaa

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lifblogs · 3 years

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Banned Together Bingo 2020 | Gay Gang Rape

Title: The Only Thing Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Explicit Pairing: Arthur Ketch/Dean Winchester, Belphegor/Dean Winchester Word Count: 1230 Summary: After days of hunting Dean, Arthur Ketch and Belphegor finally catch up to him. WARNINGS: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Gore, Child Abuse Mention

READ ON AO3

Dean had done everything he could to escape his fate, but eventually, he’d been cornered. After being on the run for days, Belphegor and Arthur Ketch had caught up to him. It was fucked up that they were working together, but they had a common goal: Dean. They wanted him. Dean had known it, and yet, with them hunting him, he’d gone out on his own anyway.

Dumbass! Fucking stupid son of a bitch!

They’d caught up to him outside a closed bar so early in the morning it would be another hour or two before the sky turned gray with pre-dawn light.

Backed against the brick wall, Dean said, “Evenin’, fellas.”

He tried reaching for the gun in the waistband of his pants, but Ketch held out his hand.

“Give it here.”

“Why?”

Belphegor took out a knife.

Dean raised his eyebrows, and nodded. “Okay, yeah, guess that’s convincing enough.”

Heart pounding, mouth dry, eyes frantically searching for exits, Dean took his pistol from the waistband of his pants. After putting it on the ground he considered not kicking it over, but then Ketch drew his own gun. What was with these guys and threats of physical violence? They were already planning on hurting him, so why not just do it?

Rolling his eyes, Dean kicked the gun over.

“All right, you have me. I know what you want. I guess we should get down to business.”

Somehow the words came out of his mouth clear and even, surprising his two soon-to-be attackers.

“Come on, Dean,” Ketch hedged, “I know you want to fight.”

“Yeah? And why would I be stupid enough to do that?”

Belphegor stepped up, wearing the skin of his dead son, charred, empty eye sockets covered by sunglasses. A darkly amused grin that Dean had seen one too many times was on his face. “I’m sure you don’t want us to rape you.”

“Oh, rape?” Dean questioned as if he didn’t know that’s what they intended. “Wow. Fellas, I gotta say, that’s… genius morality right there. Awesome.”

“Enough of this,” Ketch growled.

He charged at Dean, and as he was about to whack him across the face with his gun, Dean’s body worked on instinct. He grabbed Ketch’s wrist and the struggle began. Dean punched, and kneed, and blocked blows, and took others, but eventually, Belphegor grabbed him by his hair, held his head back, and put his knife to his throat. Bleeding from multiple injuries, and skin bruising and swelling, Dean couldn’t do anything now. He tried to catch his breath as blood from his broken nose filled his throat.

Vision blurred with exhaustion, they shoved Dean onto the ground. He fell, hard, skinning his palms and his knees. He winced, trying to push himself up, and that earned him a hard kick in the gut that forced all his air out.

Fuck!

Dean’s voice was choked and strangled, and just when the pain was starting to lessen by at least one percent, someone stomped on his back over his kidneys.

It was like getting run over by a tire, and now Dean really couldn’t get up.

He screamed and scrabbled at the asphalt as they started in on his belt and jeans, but together, they held him down.

Dean was a whimpering mess by the time he felt Ketch’s cock lining up to enter him. God, no lube? No preparation?

God, yep, they weren’t doing that.

Ketch shoved himself into Dean, and Belphegor put a strangling hand over Dean’s mouth, muffling his screams. His thumb was against his broken nose, which was one of the many reasons his body was now attempting to sob.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Dean tried to kick, tried to do anything, but Ketch was in him. He was in him and there wasn’t a thing he could do.

They spoke to him—well, at him would be more precise. The things they called him and said to him would be enough to make the Devil blush.

Ketch pulled out, leaving Dean writhing on the ground, and sobbing. Blood trickled down to his balls, and his cock was bruised and cut up from being forced against the unforgiving ground (who’d even decided asphalt should be so rough anyway? Maybe he should find that ghost and kill them, just to make sure they were really dead). The demon and the fucking hunter (a hunter), switched places, though they weren’t nearly done with him yet. When Ketch held Dean down with one hand, Dean could clearly hear him using his free hand to pump his cock that was wet with his blood.

Belphegor was worse. He was rough and unforgiving, and his whole body kept trembling as if he was holding in a scream of utmost pleasure. And he was in Jack’s dead body.

He missed Hell.

Dean wasn’t sure he had understood his own body anymore. He was spread open and penetrated so deeply, and he was swollen and bleeding, and his cock was taking such a beating he would have rathered if someone had just severed him from the waist down. Yeah, that’d be nice. No more pain, no more of getting ridden like he was nothing but a useless animal.

They grabbed his wrists and rolled him over, Dean screaming before Ketch could get a hand over his mouth. He fought them, failing with the way his pants were trapped around his knees, and the way they held him, and Belphegor’s demonic strength. When Ketch got in him again, Belphegor put a foot on Dean’s chest to keep him cowed. He stroked his cock above him, blood dripping onto Dean’s face.

Just take it like a man, his mind feverishly told him. What are you—a bitch?

Yes, another part answered.

That’s all he was. He was just something to be fucked and used and thrown away.

Pain searing through him and making him feel like he’d just had a lovely night out getting fucked by a branch, he tried to scream. Belphegor’s foot moved to his throat.

At some point Dean might’ve blacked out. Eventually, he wasn’t sure who was in him, and who wasn’t. Maybe they were fucking him together, both penetrating him at once. Bloodied cocks were forced into his mouth, choking him, making him gag, and he’d seem to lose consciousness from that, unable to breathe.

Dean wanted that dark reprieve of unconsciousness. Wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything in his entire damn life. He’d rather be sixteen again, John’s friends burning him with cigarette butts while they all laughed at him whimpering, than go through this. He’d rather relive getting that gunshot wound just above his knee when he was twenty-five. Would rather he was getting clawed up by a fucking Hellhound.

But there were no cigarettes, or bullets, or hounds. There was a man and a powerful demon. And there was the ruin of Dean’s body.

Dean passed out for good before they were done. He woke up hours later, the sun beating down hot and heavy, sadly reminding him he existed, that he had a body. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even make a sound, as he lay where they’d left him, right behind the dumpster.

Dean just lay there, and he looked at some of the gravel on the asphalt, and he decided that was the only thing that existed.

#bannedtogether2020 #spn #dean winchester #whump #fanfiction #tw: rape/non-con #tw: rape #tw: graphic depictions of violence #tw: child abuse mention #supernatural #spn fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester fanfiction #dean!whump #dean winchester!whump #writing #my writing

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hiraethstill · 5 years

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THIS WEEK ON DAIYA NO ACE (8/13)

SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT!

LIVEBLOG:

FIRST SECOND AND I ALREADY PAUSED TO FAWN OVER ASADA

he researched... and developed.... this style......

what a good boi im soft

he works so hard

and he's so happy to be praised by koushuu lookit him!!!

WAS THAT MY CHILD TAKU COVERING FIRST

TAKU BEIN CHEEKY

eijun shook

kanetou bein proud!!

look at these two beautiful boyos

TAKU ENCOURAGING ASADA AND THE OTHERS I CANNOT

lmaooo mogami

"their voices are urging me forward" YOUUUUUUUUU PRECIOUS BEAN

tiny outfield firstie bois

haha kuki doesnt look that upset that theyre calling out more than when he was pitching

then again he didnt have koushuu/taku out there with him huh

they stirring things up

aaand kuki read my mind hyaha!

obligatory pretty koushuu shot

bro asada did the anime megane thing lmaoo

i like that masashi noticed someone else's/yui's countenance

someone wanna tell me why eijun's smiles/grins are always so contagious

passionate deep down huh hehe

W OW??? THIS ART LOOKS KINDA STRANGE BUT TAKU LOOKS REALLY HANDSOME/OLDER????

okay its not strange but

it seems different from everyone else's

@ animators did you hire someone specifically to draw taku lmaoo

whatre you lookin at me like that for HUH???

aww you will pitch your best asada sweetie

HASKDJF asada das gAY

HELL F U CK ING YEAH THAT WAS A CURVEBALL

EAT DIRT AUDIENCE

oh man i remember someone talking about how it was more 12-6 hMMST

KOUSHUU APPRECIATING ASADA IS ALL I NEEDED

and omg my sweet child asada is just wondering about how he missed it

pretty koushuus

"maybe it wasnt so bad" MY DUDE

MY GU Y

BALL ANIMATION

BRO MASASHI I KNOW YOU WANNA HIT IT

okay that sounded kinda wrong

WHY IS HE SO PRETTY AND WHY IS HE CHEERING ON HIS BOYFRIEND

aww asada turns to taku like he doesnt know which other fielder to turn to first aaaaaaa

hey zono looks nice here

and of course shirasu my guy

kanemaru's sassy hip

"you have an evil look in your eye, shinji" "you started it!"

HAVE I MENTIONED KANETOU ARE MARRIED

aw asada nodding so fervently my heart just grows for him every second

I FUCKIN LOVE YOUUUUUUU TAKUUUUUUUUUUU

asaDA'S NOISES OF SHOCK HE'S SO CUTE IM ABOUT TO BURST I SWEAR

AND HIS FACE OF SHOCK IM

WOW

I NEED TO SIT DOWN

BABIIIIIIIIEEEEESSSSSSSSSS

ASADA IS SO HAPPY THAT KOUSHUU IS RAISING HIS GLOVE AND TAKU IS SO PROUD THAT KOUSHUU IS RAISING HIS GLOVE

NOT TO MENTION KOUSHUU AND ASADA TAPPING GLOVES IM

SO FUCKING DRAMATIC

FELLA S IS IT G AY

WAIT WHAT

DID I HEAR THAT CORRECTLY

ASADA PLAYED SOFTBALL??????

UMMMM CAN I GET A HELL YEAH??????????

esp since i told this kid at camp that i played baseball and he was like "no you play softball" like fuck gender norms

EIJUN AND MOCHI ARE SO PROUD OF ASADAAA

AND LOOK AT KUKI + OTHERS GREETING ASADA SO WARMLY IM SOFT

ah mochi i love you

ah eijun i love you

both of you even more so after being great big bros to asada

why the fuck is koushuu so pretty

taku looks SO happy that koushuu is stepping up and changing momentum and kicking ass

the other third years look so down that nabe cant play... :c

oh man i remember tokyo senbatsu i cant wait to see more good bois

TAKU ON BASE HELL YEAHH

oho koushuu batting third

wow ochiai recruited taku?

at least they recognize he's a speedy boi

OMG EIJUN SAYING UNDERESTIMATING KARIBA im so proud of both of them

but uhhh i still want taku to reach

and he dID!!

eijun's shocked face and mochi's "nice, a challenge huh" face are a bit gratifying

im sos orry kariba i know you deserve better

damn taku acknowledging he barely made it when everyone else WHOAs

also koushuu calling him taku aaaaaa

kawashima you got this!

HELL FUCKING YEAH TAKU STOLE THIRD I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUU

MOCHI

MOCHI ACKNOWLEDGING TAKU'S HARD WORK AND TALENT

what did i tell yall about koutaku sharing one brain cell

one smart brain cell

man... justice for kariba what a good underrated boi

HA kanemaru ships koutaku you cant tell me otherwise

their baseball is brainy... im cryin softly

lmAO savage mochi

sachiko i love you!

what rumors ochiai -eyes emoji-

SCREM SMOL KOUTAKU BABIES

I WOULD D IE FOR THEM

LOOK AT THEIR SMILES

pretty koushuu shot is pretty and this one was too pretty to gloss over

there was another one but ill spare you and also i couldnt get the screenshot where i wanted it

AWW LOOK AT ASADA CHEERING FOR KOUSHUU WITH HIS HANDS IN THE AIR

TAKU SCOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AAAAAAAA FLASHBACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

HARUCCHI EIJUN TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK

ANOTHER pretty koushuu shot wtfff

lmao masashi just leaves

and yui's concerned face omg

YES KAGAMI GOOD HIT

AND PRETTY KUKI

asou are you saying shirasu has a plain appearance???????? bc excuse you shirasu is handsome and therefore kagami is handsome

LMAO masashi tryna steal their spotlight?

you can do that somewhere else buddy

yui's :0 face omg

natsukawa and anna!!!! queens <333

omg harucchi wow lowkey savage as always

imagine kanetouharu......... hMST

hyaha mogami just always makes me laugh

bro yui and masashi while thats sweet of you isnt it kinda rude to allow less spotlight time for players that wanna move up

takatsu has every right to be frustrated

aND KAWASHIMA TOO LOOK AT HIM

wow... that hurt

right there

that shit hurted

KSDSDKH masayui also one brain cell?

BROSKIS.... HEIG H T DIFFERENCE..........

lmaooo eijun

you're probably not gonna get a second yes

himst pretty

yes zono thank you

mogami BLS

YESS THANK YOU MOCHI FOR ACKNOWLEDGING TAKATSU

that makes it both kane and mochi now, WHERE IS MY INTERACTION

FELLAS.... IS IT GAY...........

OMG SAWAMURA

DRAG THAT PITCHER OFF THE MOUND IS TOO MUCH

LOOK ASADA THINKS YALL WANT TO PULVERIZE HIM NOW

what... what a beautiful shot...

they dont even look fazed

aww taku reminding asada that eijun really does care about him

taku is so amused by eijun omg

and so perceptive

toujou kane and harucchi all looking at eijun in varying shades of "this is normal"

WHY ARE KOUTAKU LOOKING AT EACH OTHER LIKE THIS

MY GAY HEART CANT TAKE IT

PLEASE I LOVE THEM

asada looks so determined!!!

preview

no amount of time is enough for what? before graduation?

ooh a beautiful mochi!

RIP koushuu but honestly im glad he went to second string first he'll get more playing time

beautiful kuki too!

NORI AND EIJUN HANGING OUT YESS

SUMMARY:

asada praised by koushuu + cheered on by fielders esp takukuki gay

"you have an evil look in your eye shinji" "you started it!"

ASADA CURVE + SOFTBALL

TAKU SPEED

justice for senpais

masayui Appeal one brain cell

too many pretty koushuus

harusawa teamwork!

#daiya no ace act ii #daiya spoilers #spoilers #daiya no ace #ace of diamond #okumura koushuu #seto takuma #asada hirofumi #kuki youhei #sawamura eijun #kuramochi youichi #kawashima kengo #takatsu hiroomi #kariba wataru

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narke · 5 years

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wei wuxian in chapter 67: fellas is it gay to construct an elaborate hypothetical future where you live with another man and raise a child together

#the domesticity... wwx please #also wwx replicating his childhood memory with lwj and himself in the place of his parents.... he wants a family with lwj and its killing me #i cant believe this chapter is titled 'tenderness' its really got me #mdzs

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glittership · 5 years

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Episode #66: "Tell the Phoenix Fox, Tell the Tortoise Fruit"

Download directly here:

And here’s the RSS feed: http://glittership.podbean.com/feed/

Episode 66 is a GLITTERSHIP ORIGINAL and part of the Summer 2018 issue!

Support GlitterShip by picking up your copy here: http://www.glittership.com/buy/

Tell the Phoenix Fox, Tell the Tortoise Fruit

by Cynthia So

On the day Sunae turned nine years old, there was no joyful feast. A monster burst from the sea that night and ate five people. The Mirayans gathered upon the shore to watch this, as they did every Appeasement. Sunae’s mother covered Sunae’s eyes, but Sunae still heard the screams. The crunch of brittle bone between teeth. The wet gulp of gluttonous throats.

Sunae prayed to the Goddess that the warrior Yomue might rise from the dead and defeat the monster yet again. No warrior came, but a hand grasped Sunae’s and squeezed. A hand as small as her own.

When it was over, Sunae’s mother murmured, “Now we will be safe for another ten years.” She removed her hands from Sunae’s eyes, and Sunae flinched from the gore before her. The older children always said that this was why Miraya’s beaches were pink, but she hadn’t been convinced until she saw the sands now drenched with fresh blood. Dark red on dusk pink.

Full transcript after the cut:

Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 66 for March 5, 2019. This is your host Keffy, and I’m super excited to share this story with you. Today we have a GlitterShip original, “Tell the Phoenix Fox, Tell the Tortoise Fruit” by Cynthia So and a poem by Chanter, “The Lamentations of Old Money.”

This episode is part of the newest GlitterShip issue, which was just released and… is very late. The “Summer 2018” issue of GlitterShip is available for purchase at glittership.com/buy and on Kindle, Nook, Kobo, and now Gumroad! If you’re one of our Patreon supporters, you should have access to the new issue waiting for you when you log in. For everyone else, it’s $2.99, and all of our back issues are $1.49.

GlitterShip is also a part of the Audible Trial Program. This means that just by listening to GlitterShip, you are eligible for a free 30 day membership on Audible and a free audiobook to keep. If you’er looking for an excellent book of short queer stories to listen to, you should check out Bitter Waters by Chaz Brenchley. This book is full of speculative fiction featuring gay men and was awarded the Lambda Award for best LGBT speculative fiction.

To download Bitter Waters for free today, go to www.audibletrial.com/glittership — or choose another book if you’re in the mood for something else.

Up first, our poem:

Chanter is a proud Wisconsinite who took flight (alas, not literally) from her originating small town, headed for the big city’s more accepting climes and never looked back. She’s proudly asexual, demisensual, and some flavor of bi- or panromantic that’s as yet proving difficult to define. She’s also brand squeaky new (emphasis, occasionally, on squeaky) to official publication. Besides holding down a day job, she’s an active shortwave radio DXer and ham operator, as well as a crowdfunded author currently based mainly on Dreamwidth.

The Lamentations of Old Money

by Chanter

Jennifer doesn’t want a white dress.

She doesn’t want a church, an altar, a tangle of coast-grown flowers, sisters in matching silk, trained doves, stained glass, twenty overlaid colognes and splintering sunlight, rehearsed organ music and recorded pop shorthand warbling through weak speakers, biting April breezes, overthought hair and makeup, snow in hardwood aisles.

Jennifer doesn’t want a wild time.

She doesn’t want hips around shoulders, tools and toys, filthy supplications and hot breath ideas, hours between bedsheets, sticky aftermaths, bruises as tawdry mementos in hard to reach places, hands and mouths, teeth and tongues and fluids, too many entrances, the junctions of legs and legs and legs.

Jennifer doesn’t want hard edges.

Not for her, leashes, spike heels and bad girl pretense. not for her, the bite of too-demanding fingertips grinding at her biceps, cold and bruising at her cheeks, clamped into the flesh of her wrists. Not for her, orders with teeth both behind and in them, whipcracks in voice and deed. Not for her, daddy’s little anything, mommy’s little anything, a schoolgirl’s life, a paddle’s life, princess, flower, whore. Not for her, latex and custom-made chains, iron protocol and a child’s tear-stung punishments, revoked names and Halloween’s expected trappings.

Not for her, anonymity. Not for her, all of the spice and none of the wine to mull with it.

What Jennifer wants?

Fits on a two-sided coin.

One side:

Jennifer wants nights asleep in a hayloft, clothes on, with siblings in arms—and black coffee, and cotton-coarse humor, and blood— to her left and right.

Jennifer wants a uniform, wants honest lamplight with a wick beneath it, wants a hundred songs and a hand-tuned fiddle, a guitar played at a campfire, laces and burlap, branches and homespun wool, antique language, tactile camaraderie, respected rank and unresented ceremony, world-spanning care so personal it can’t be feigned, so simultaneously subtle and frank that it confuses, so elegant it’s genuine, so casual it’s ancient. “To be fair, that one does drive me utterly mad of an afternoon but God be good, dear fellow, why wouldn’t I?”

Jennifer wants a certain amount of ignored anachronism, wants a world where ‘dear fellow’ as affectionate genderless address is just fine, where ‘she’s a good man to have beside you in a fight’ is perfectly acceptable wording, but where the phrase ‘man up’ is both soundly off limits and considered decades or centuries distant, depending; a world where, at the end of the day, it’s quietly acknowledged and otherwise near-forgotten that oh yes, that one there, she’s a girl. As in woman. As in, see also, dame. Noun. Example I: To go to work for the war effort on the road under cover of darkness, on the air for the BBC, or on the battlefield firing decisive cannon blast volleys like a real dame.

Example II: I’m a girl, and mostly, I prefer other dames to fellas. Mostly. But when I don’t, I kinda have a type? Ahem!”

Somewhere, a coin is balancing on its edge.

And the flip side:

Jennifer wants to write a hundred stories and bind them in hard covers, wants modern skirts to her ankles, comfortable jeans and blue corduroy coat sleeves, wants city streets, steel toes and long hair, near-distant clocktower bells, silver jewelry bought by her own hand, in her own name, a rocking chair made to last for decades, a damn fine radio setup, the solid strength of a wooden door at her back after she and she – he and she – they and she after they’ve crashed through it and, fully clothed, battered it closed behind them.

Both sides:

Jennifer wants her wrists pressed flat against that wooden door, all benevolent force, all warmth, all welcome gravity, all burgeoning life in orbit, all the steady strength of a star in symbiosis with a planet. Jennifer wants voices and voices and voices, innocent details and muscle-melting, breath-stealing turns of phrase, sound serving as light serving as lodestone to the iron in every millimeter of her except, except, for a bare and unbared few.

One side:

Jennifer wants the wind at her back, a message, a mission, a reason and a warning, miles and miles and miles rolled out under a sky filled with leaden stars, a purpose and a signal, a gesture, an anticipation of command that tenses her like a bowstring before—wait, wait, wait for it—rush for it— “Fire!”

Both sides:

Jennifer wants to be eager, to be teeming under her skin with silver, wants a reason and a cause and a leader who’s fallible by self-description, near-matchless by others’ accounts, wants to thrill to rank, surname, simple designation, wants to know at exactly what she’s aimed, near-precisely what will happen when she hits and that yes, the trusted, entirely human hands of gravity to a planet are the only hands pulling or perhaps, perhaps, the only hands directing those pulling her string, wants to be entirely, mindfully, consensually willing to be fired like a longbow.

And the flip side:

Jennifer wants to bring a girlfriend home to her parents, wants to curl into accented words like they’re warm compresses and quilts, wants to make promises and keep them, find each others’ keys, play each others’ record collections, brush cat hair off each others’ sweaters, adore and be adored forever, not live together. Jennifer wants to never grow tired of hearing herself say “This is Elaine.” Or “This is Kim.” Or “This is…” “This is my better half.”

Both sides:

Jennifer wants orders that both delight her and fill her with clean purpose, stoking a fire that consumes every inch of her except, except, for the space between her thighs. Jennifer wants the intersection where bravery meets well-placed loyalty. Jennifer wants to know exactly what she’s doing, wants to be utterly sure of her cause, to make up her entire mind, on her own, and then raise her voice and throw herself into the thing with abandon because yes, this is right, this is reason, this is exuberance and happiness and righteous fury blazing, this is bright history, this is justice, this is–

One coin. With two sides.

Jennifer wants the rarity that is liking of, love for, acceptance and welcome of both the existence and the admission of her two sides.

Even when she’s difficult. Even when she’s horrible. Even when she’s irrational. Even when she’s just, so most people would say, plain off baseline weird.

Especially when she’s weird.

All of the wine to mull with all of the spice ground by capable hands. Hands ringed in silver.

Hands at the ends of corduroy sleeves.

The sleeves of a coat that may have, once or twice, been a makeshift pillow in a hayloft.

After a night’s ride.

After a night’s mission.

Cynthia So is a queer Chinese writer from Hong Kong, living in London. She spent her undergrad crying over poets that have been dead for 2,000 years, give or take. (She’s graduated now, but still crying.) Her short fiction has appeared in Anathema, Arsenika, and Cast of Wonders. She can be found on Twitter @cynaesthete.

Zora Mai Quỳnh is a genderqueer Vietnamese writer whose short stories, poems, and essays can be found in The SEA Is Ours, Genius Loci: The Spirit of Place, POC Destroy Science Fiction, Luminescent Threads: Connections to Octavia Butler, Strange Horizons, and Terraform. Visit her: zmquynh.com. Rivia is a Black and Vietnamese Pansexual Teen who has a passion for reading, video games and music. She says “I’m gender questioning but also questioning whether or not I’m questioning…Isn’t gender just a concept?” You can hear her vocals on Strange Horizon’s podcast for “When she sings…”

Tell the Phoenix Fox, Tell the Tortoise Fruit

by Cynthia So

Sunae prayed to the Goddess that the warrior Yomue might rise from the dead and defeat the monster yet again. No warrior came, but a hand grasped Sunae’s and squeezed. A hand as small as her own.

She looked at the girl next to her, the girl who was holding her hand, and she saw a determination in those eyes as bright as the moon, as bright as her own. A determination to make sure that this would never happen again.

“I’m Oaru,” the girl said. “What’s your name?”

Sunae looked down at their clasped hands and told Oaru her name.

The Temple of the Moon Goddess is the most beautiful place on the island. There are no straight lines and sharp angles within, but everything is curved and gentle and swooping. Shades of blue deepen as one enters through the front, the colors of twilight intensifying into midnight, accented by silver and broken up by patches of brilliant white that gleam through the dark. A pool of water from the Moon Lake shimmers in the atrium. Frosty glass cut into lunar shapes hang from the ceiling in long, glittering threads.

All of it is flawless craftsmanship, except for the wall of the prayer hall.

The hall is perfectly circular. Spanning a semicircle on the wall is a painting of Yomue, splendid in lustrous armor, wielding a sword as black as her hair and an expression as fierce as the sea. The sand of the Mirayan beach is pink beneath her feet, and she glares at the monster that towers over her. Its writhing, many-headed form is etched into the blackness of the night. The moon hangs above them, solemn and full.

The other half of the wall is blank, its contents effaced and forgotten.

Warrior confronts monster. What’s the rest of the story? Monster leaves island alone for a hundred years. Warrior dies, and monster comes back. It is starved and salivating, with too many teeth. Every ten years, it must be fed.

Is that what was on the other half of the wall?

Sunae’s mother buys her Carrucean books to read, because Carrucean is an important language to learn well. In Carrucean tales, monsters are always slain. Heroes sometimes journey into foreign lands and kill other people’s monsters for them, and they are rewarded with riches and brides and thrones.

Sunae is ten years old, but she knows this: there are Carruceans living in Miraya. Miraya was owned by Carrucea for hundreds of years, and then there was a treaty of some sort not long before Sunae was born, and now Miraya belongs to the Mirayans again.

The Carruceans came here to their island. They governed the island and lived here for centuries, but no Carrucean ever killed the monster for them. Yet here they are on the island still, with their wealth, their power. Their Mirayan wives.

“Mother, have any Carruceans ever been fed to the monster?” Sunae asks.

Her mother frowns. “Can’t we talk about something more cheerful?”

Sunae just wants to know how to defeat the monster. If no Carruceans will come to their aid, then who will?

The old Library of Miraya is a burnt husk with a blackened facade, secluded from the town and set into the side of a hill, a little way from the Moon Lake. Sunae doesn’t understand why it hasn’t been torn down to make way for something new when fire ravaged it long ago, but perhaps its remote location preserved it. Evidently the Mirayans of yore prized a peaceful reading environment. Sunae can hear nothing of the bustling town here, only a chorus of birds.

She also doesn’t understand why she is letting Oaru drag her into the grim ruins. Inside, the half-collapsed roof lets in some lemony sunlight, but there is an unpleasant smell like overripe tortoise fruit, and rows of charred shelves loom and menace. “It went this way,” Oaru says, and drops to her hands and knees to crawl through a tiny hole in the wall.

Sunae sighs and follows. She gets stuck, her shoulders being broader than Oaru’s, but Oaru wrenches her free with a painful yank. She emerges into a cramped and airless space, illuminated only by the glow of the phoenix fox, which is swishing its enormous tail back and forth, sweeping away layers of ash and dust from the wall behind it.

Sunae coughs, but Oaru grabs her arm excitedly. “There’s something on the wall!”

Oaru leans over the fox and scrubs at the wall with her sleeve, gradually revealing the faded colors of a painting: a woman in an ethereal blue gown, sitting with a brush in her hand. A long scroll of paper unfurls before her, inked in an illegible, swirling script.

“Doesn’t that look a bit like Yomue?” Oaru asks.

It seems impossible that this serene woman should resemble the powerful warrior in the temple, but she does. It’s in the proud tilt of her jaw, maybe. Sunae reaches out and traces the woman’s chin. She has never been permitted to touch the temple mural, though she has longed to.

“What is she doing?” Oaru wonders.

“Writing poetry?” Sunae ventures.

The phoenix fox smirks at her and stretches lazily before slipping out through the hole in the wall, leaving them in absolute darkness. Oaru yelps, “I’ve got to catch that fox!” She tugs at Sunae’s elbow and Sunae reluctantly goes with her. It’s as much a struggle to get out as it was to get in, and the fox is nowhere to be seen by the time Sunae has wriggled through.

The new Library of Miraya is a clean and functional building, centrally located, right next to the Town Hall. Most of the space is dedicated to Carrucean books, with the Mirayan literature section tucked into a dismal corner. Sunae asks a librarian to help her find Yomue’s poems.

“Yomue wasn’t a poet,” the librarian says, puzzled. “But I can recommend poetry from the same time period. Not much of it survived, what with the old Library burning down… But there is some, and it’s very beautiful. Do you know how to read Classical Mirayan, though?”

In the end, Sunae walks away from the Library with a few books and a leaflet for free Classical Mirayan lessons.

By the time she turns twelve, she has read all the Classical Mirayan poetry that the Library has to offer—and all the modern Mirayan poetry, too.

She tries her hand at writing her own poem. She writes about Yomue and the monster. Yomue’s husband, wrongfully convicted of murdering a man, chained to a pillar on the shore, awaiting his execution. Yomue weeping at his feet. The moon trembling in the sky, the Goddess watching. Yomue dressing herself in armor, carefully lacing her breastplate, looping her belt through the buckle. Whetting her sword and sheathing it. Her hair, tied back with a ribbon given to her by her husband. Her boots hitting the ground, her armor jangling. The monster howling, crashing back into the sea where it nurses its wounds for a hundred years.

Sunae wins a competition at school with this poem, and gets a shiny badge that she pins to her satchel.

She is fourteen, and she writes about nature: trees touching, sands blushing. The ocean embracing the coast. Leaves tender for one another. Mountains asleep next to each other. The moon observing everything.

She is sixteen, and Oaru bets a boy she can beat him in a swordfight. Sunae has watched Oaru practise in her garden every week for five years, first with a toy sword, then with a real one; Oaru is graceful and deft with it where Sunae has always fumbled and flailed.

Oaru and the boy are wearing white clothes and using wooden swords dipped in red paint; the boy soon looks like a bloody mess and yields, while Oaru is still pristine.

“You were amazing,” Sunae says afterwards, as Oaru is cutting into a celebratory tortoise fruit. Oaru waves a slice of it in her face, and Sunae grimaces at its distinct mustiness. “Ew, no thank you.”

“How can you not like tortoise fruit?” Oaru says, shaking her head. “Are you even Mirayan?”

Sunae sticks her tongue out. “It smells like a sweaty armpit and it tastes even worse.”

Oaru eagerly bites into the purple flesh of the fruit. “You should know though, you kind of looked like a tortoise fruit just then, when I wafted it under your nose.”

Sunae blinks at the wrinkled skin of the tortoise fruit in horror. “I looked like that? Don’t be so mean!”

Oaru laughs and nudges her side. “All right, I’m sorry—but hey, do you think I’ll be good enough to defeat the monster someday?”

No. Don’t you dare try. Sunae swallows. Oaru must be the best fighter Miraya has seen in generations. Surely if anyone has a chance to ward off the monster and stop more Appeasements from happening, it’s her. How can Sunae be so selfish as to hold Oaru back for fear of losing her?

She says, “You look so much like Yomue in the temple mural when you’re moving with that sword.”

Oaru’s breath catches, and Sunae suddenly understands what it is she has really been trying to write poetry about all this time. They are alone in Sunae’s bedroom, and Sunae kisses Oaru. There is tortoise fruit on Oaru’s tongue, cloying and bitter, but Sunae doesn’t scrunch up her nose. She doesn’t mind at all.

“That has to be the boldest thing you’ve ever done,” Oaru whispers, her lips soft and purpled, her hair mussed by Sunae’s hands.

“I guess you inspired me,” Sunae says, and Oaru grins and grips Sunae’s arms.

“Remember that time I tried to catch the phoenix fox?”

Sunae nods. Every day she thinks of the painted woman lit by the phoenix-fox fire. The nameless poet buried in the rubble, her face so strangely like Yomue’s. Sunae returned to the shadowy wreckage of the old Library once, but she has grown and can no longer contort herself to fit through that hole in the wall.

“I wanted to give the fox to you,” Oaru says.

Oh.

It is a Mirayan custom for young men to present phoenix foxes to girls they wish to marry. This fact had utterly escaped ten-year-old Sunae, who merely assumed that Oaru wanted the fox as a pretty pet.

Sunae raises her eyebrows, stroking Oaru’s cheek with her thumb. “You already wanted to marry me when you were ten?”

Oaru shrugs. “I didn’t know then, what it meant. I only knew I wanted to be your friend forever. But now I know what it actually means, for me to want to marry you.” Her eyes are serious, like a cloud veiling the moon.

It means we could both be a part of the next Appeasement if anyone finds out. Sunae closes her eyes against the thought and kisses Oaru again.

Sunae is eighteen and she is awarded a scholarship to study at the University of Wimmore, one of Carrucea’s world-famous institutions. If she takes the scholarship, she will be absent from Miraya for a year. She will be absent from Miraya on the day of the next Appeasement.

Tell me what else there is, she pleads with the impassive image of Yomue on the wall, as everyone else in the prayer hall lifts their cupped hands repeatedly to their faces in the traditional gesture of worship. Tell me.

Because if there is more to the story than a swordfight, then maybe she can convince Oaru not to risk her life. And if she has to go to Carrucea to find the answers, she will.

At the end of the prayer session, when people are either shuffling off or lingering to socialize, Sunae tells Oaru about the scholarship.

“It’s stupid that you have to go to Carrucea to learn more about this island, our island that we’ve been living on our whole lives.” Oaru spits the words, and her frustration echoes in the chambers of Sunae’s heart.

“I know.” Sunae wants to run her hands through Oaru’s hair to comfort her, but it would be foolish to show such affection in public. She wants to hold Oaru’s hand, but they are not children anymore. They will not get away with it, not here where everyone can see. “Just promise me that you won’t try and take on the monster when the Appeasement comes. Please. You’re not ready.” I’m not ready.

“I promise.” Oaru’s voice sounds fervent with honesty.

Sunae hopes she has known Oaru for long enough to tell when she is lying.

The Moon Lake is luminous as a heart that brims full with emotion, and Sunae stands at the edge and dips her toes in.

Oaru is naked in the water, moonlight dripping from her hair. Oaru wears a smile like a phoenix fox’s, sly and burning through Sunae. Oaru’s arms are muscled and impatient and open wide.

“Come on, Sunae.”

Sunae’s fingers hover over the knot that ties the sash around her waist. “You’re breaking the law,” she whispers.

Oaru wades closer to Sunae. She lifts the hem of Sunae’s gown and kisses Sunae’s ankles. “We’ve been breaking the law for a long time, tortoise fruit,” she says, her dark eyes looking up into Sunae’s. “When has that ever stopped you?” She leaves wet handprints on the skirt of Sunae’s gown, droplets trickling down the backs of Sunae’s calves. “Who knows when we’ll get to do this again?”

I’ll only be away for a year, Sunae thinks, but Oaru’s eyes are darker than fire-scorched walls, and Sunae knows it will be the longest year of their lives.

She loosens the knot. Her gown joins Oaru’s in a careless heap on the sandy bank, and soon her body twines with Oaru’s in the water. Mist forms around them, as though the Goddess herself wishes to hide them away from the world.

Let’s skip ahead for a moment. It is Sunae’s nineteenth birthday, and she is chained to a pillar on the pink shore of Miraya. Her lover Oaru is shackled to a different pillar. They cannot touch or kiss each other. The monster is about to rear its ugly heads from the sea, and Sunae is crying, but she is speaking. She is reciting a poem she wrote, and I am watching, as I always have. I am listening.

So how did they get here?

Sunae sits on the steps of a lofty sandstone building, shivering in the wind and eating a whole tortoise fruit by herself.

She has been studying in Wimmore for four months, and she hasn’t made a single friend. The light in Wimmore is muted and cold, the streets narrow and grey, the houses foreboding and tall. People laugh at her accent. The dresses fashionable here are too tight, and she can never get enough air into her lungs.

The air tastes nothing of salt, anyway. She misses the sea.

She runs her fingers over the tough, knobbly green rind of the fruit. Her professor had bought it for the class to try—an expensive import from Miraya, not easily purchased. The others in her class had squealed over how disgusting the fruit looked and smelled as Dr. Janner was dissecting it like a corpse, and Sunae thought of Oaru’s teeth tearing into a wedge of tortoise fruit. Oaru’s tongue stained purple by its juice.

Sunae had stood up, gathered the massive fruit in her arms as though it were a baby and marched out of the classroom. And now she is sitting on rain-wet stone and chewing miserably.

How Oaru would tease her, if Oaru were here.

A girl sits down next to her. Talia from her class, with wheat-colored curls flattened in the drizzle. “You really like tortoise fruit, huh?” Talia says.

“I hate it,” Sunae says.

“Let me try a bit, will you?”

Sunae gives her a small slice and she takes a tentative bite. “Hmm, it tastes a lot better than it smells. Definitely not the texture I was expecting, though. It’s… squidgy?” She finishes the slice, throws the rind over her shoulder, and grabs another immediately.

Sunae smiles. She thinks it must be the first time she has smiled since she set foot in Wimmore. “You like it more than I do, then.”

“So what are you doing out here eating something you hate and crying?” Talia asks, squinting. “Don’t tell me that’s just the rain.”

“It’s not just the rain,” Sunae says, rubbing a hand over her face. “It’s just… It’s what a friend calls me. Tortoise fruit.”

“An affectionate nickname?” Talia turns the piece of wrinkly rind over in her hand. “Is it a cute boy who’s waiting for you at home?”

Sunae hesitates. “Um. Not a boy.” And then, to distract Talia from fixating on that, she launches into an account of everything that’s been overwhelming her. She explains that the next Appeasement is happening soon, and that she has been trying to conduct research into the history and literature of Miraya to see if she can find any clues as to how Yomue defeated the monster last time and why the monster came back, but she still hasn’t found anything useful.

“I just want to find another way,” Sunae says. “I don’t want my friend to do anything rash. I don’t want to lose her.”

Talia presses her shoulder gently against Sunae’s. “One of my ancestors was part of the first expedition to Miraya. We have an attic full of things left behind by various family members. We’ve never managed to go through all of it properly, but you’re welcome to come and have a look.”

This is how Sunae finds herself cross-legged on the dusty floor of Talia’s ridiculously big attic, cross-eyed after three continuous days of rifling through boxes of miscellanea in dim light, unable to believe what she’s looking at.

It’s a roughly colored sketch of Yomue the warrior, copied from the temple wall. Sword and monster and moon. And beneath that, a sketch of Yomue again—a woman dressed in the same armor, holding not a sword but a scroll open in her hands. Next to her is something a little like a mirror, or a full moon: a vast circle, shaded in silver. Within it coils a spiral shadow.

Sunae isn’t sure how to interpret this, but she knows that this Yomue and the painted poet in the old Library are one and the same.

She rummages through the rest of the box which contained the sketches, and her hand touches worn leather. She pulls it out of the box and it falls open on her lap, yellowed pages crammed with neat handwriting.

It’s a diary.

“Why do all you rich Carruceans have stuff just lying around in your attic that I’ve only been searching for my entire life?” Sunae mutters under her breath to Talia, who is sitting next to her at this dinner. She clenches her fist around her fork.

“Well, at least now you can read Yomue’s poetry!” Talia whispers back.

Dr. Sotkin, a dear friend of Dr. Janner, carries on explaining to everyone how he recovered the lost manuscript of Yomue’s poems when he was cleaning out his grandfather’s house after his grandfather recently passed away. Sunae saws away at her chunk of boiled beef.

“I’ll be publishing a translation later this year,” Dr. Sotkin announces.

Sunae takes a sip of water and a deep breath. “What kind of poetry is it?” she asks, proud of how calm and polite she sounds.

“Sadly, it only survives in fragments, but I’ve brought a copy of some of them to share with all of you as a preview.” Dr. Sotkin digs in his bag and retrieves a sheaf of papers. “I believe Dr. Janner told me you can all read Classical Mirayan?”

“Some of us better than others,” Talia murmurs to Sunae, and Sunae hides a smile behind her napkin. Some of the boys in their class seem to be getting by with barely any knowledge of Mirayan. Sunae assumes it must be their wealth that passes their exams for them.

She takes the sheet that Dr. Sotkin offers to her and scans it quickly. Her mind whirls dizzily and she pushes away her plate and reads the fragment again, more slowly this time. And again.

She closes her eyes and envisions the inscrutable moon in the night sky to steady herself. Dr. Sotkin is saying something about a man that Yomue is drinking with. “She compares her love for this man to the Moon Lake—a blessing that glimmers on and on.”

Sunae hands the sheet to Talia and holds onto the edge of the table. “Dr. Sotkin,” she says, and she isn’t able to sound calm anymore. Her voice quavers. “I don’t believe Yomue is talking about a man. I know it’s only a fragment, but it’s clear from the grammar that she’s writing about a woman.”

Dr. Sotkin frowns. “Did you not hear when I said that this is a love poem?”

“Yes, I know, and I believe that Yomue’s beloved is a woman.”

“That’s preposterous. It’s simply impossible.”

“You think it’s impossible that Yomue loved another woman?”

“What you are speaking of is highly illegal and punishable by death, young lady,” Dr. Sotkin sniffs. In both Miraya and Carrucea, yes—Sunae is extremely aware. “Are we to believe that Yomue shared these poems with the public and was not executed for her sins?”

“Well, she warded off the monster, so there were no Appeasements—”

Dr. Sotkin tugs haughtily at his cravat. “You do realize that it is possible to execute people without feeding them to a monster as you barbarians love to do?”

“Love?” Sunae’s voice is shrill to her own ears; drums thunder in her ribcage. “You think we love having to feed people to a monster every ten years to keep it from destroying our whole island?”

Dr. Sotkin’s face is pink as the sand on Miraya’s beaches. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Yes,” Dr. Janner joins in. “Sunae, your behavior of late has been extremely rude and disruptive and I’m afraid we cannot tolerate this. Dr. Sotkin is the foremost expert on Classical Mirayan and he will not be insulted by your bumbling reading of this poem.”

“But she’s right!” Talia protests, jabbing at the sheet of paper. “Dr. Janner, Sunae’s right. Look at this line here.”

“It’s all right,” Sunae says, putting her hand on Talia’s arm. “I’m leaving.”

Sunae’s head is still spinning from the fragment of Yomue’s poetry. It was so much like the poems that she has been writing about Oaru, folded into envelopes and sent across the ocean to her lover. One was about the glow of sweat and moon-water on Oaru’s skin, the night they drifted together in the Moon Lake, the last night they spent together.

And now, this letter from her mother. She sinks to the floor of the post room and clutches her knees. She is going to be sick.

The door creaks open. She looks up and Talia is there. “I’m so sorry,” Talia says. “You were such a fearsome warrior back there, speaking up to Sotkin like that. He’s utterly dreadful. Janner, too. I want to lock them both up in my attic and never let them out. Janner revoked your scholarship but he hasn’t even tried to suspend me.”

Sunae stares at Talia and cannot speak. Talia doesn’t know about the letter yet. She thinks Sunae is just upset about what happened at the dinner, but the world is crumbling at Sunae’s feet and Talia has no idea.

A smile stretches across Talia’s face. “Can you believe your legendary Yomue’s one of us?”

Sunae’s shoulders loosen a little. “One of us?”

“One of us,” Talia repeats and holds her hand out to Sunae, and Sunae understands. Instead of taking Talia’s hand, she lifts up the letter and gives it to Talia.

Talia reads it and is speechless, too. She sits down next to Sunae and together they watch the flickering light bulb. It is no moon, but it soothes, somehow.

Eventually, Talia asks, “When is the next Appeasement? Will you make it back in time?”

“If I leave at dawn, I might,” Sunae says, hoarsely.

“You’ll be arrested too if you go back, won’t you?”

Sunae nods.

“But you’re definitely going.”

Sunae nods again.

“Good luck,” Talia whispers. “If you don’t die, write me a poem. You have my address.”

She kisses Sunae’s forehead.

Sunae crosses the ocean home. She prays to the Goddess. She prays to Yomue.

She writes.

Which is what brings us here, to Sunae’s nineteenth birthday, and Sunae and Oaru on the beach where they first met ten years ago. “I love you,” Sunae says to Oaru. There is white sea-spray in Oaru’s windblown hair, and if Sunae’s plan doesn’t succeed, she wants this to be the last thing she ever sees.

She closes her eyes. The waves lap the shore. Her lungs are full of salt air. The moon caresses her face with its white light.

She opens her mouth.

The truth comes out.

Sunae wrote that silly poem when she was twelve, where I saved my husband from the monster. I laughed when I heard her read it to her classmates. Now she is a much better poet, and she has learnt so much—from sketches and diaries and mistranslated fragments—and this is what she tells the Mirayans.

Four hundred years ago, Yomue loved another woman, and they had flowers and wine and stars; they chased phoenix foxes together in the valleys. They ate tortoise fruit and kissed each other’s mouths purple. They wrapped themselves in moonlight.

Yomue was skilled with the sword, but even more skilled with words, and she was the Goddess’ favorite. She could not stand by and watch a monster kill more people in her town. She wove a spell out of poetry and enchanted the monster, led it to the Moon Lake where it slumbered for as long as she lived, and longer, because she taught others the poem.

But the Carruceans came; they brought their laws with them, and they knew how powerful fear was. How to control a people with it. Fire bloomed in the Library; in the temple, fresh paint dried on the wall. Yomue the poet was erased from history. The monster was awoken, and anyone who caused trouble could be thrown into its devouring jaws.

“Now you tell me I cannot love Oaru.

We chase a phoenix fox that Yomue tamed once,

Reborn from the ashes of the Library.

It hides poems in its fur.

Tell the phoenix fox I cannot love Oaru.

We eat tortoise fruit grown from centuries-old trees,

Roots as deep as our island.

It hides poems in its rind.

Tell the tortoise fruit I cannot love Oaru.

We bathe in the Moon Lake Yomue drank from,

Water sacred to the Goddess.

It hides poems in its bed.

Tell the Moon Lake I cannot love Oaru.

Tell the Goddess I cannot love Oaru.

Tell Yomue. Tell her and the woman she loved.

Go back in time and bind her to this pillar and

Tell her she was wrong.”

The monster rises out of the sea, torrents of water cascading from its back.

Oaru was arrested because of Sunae’s poetry. Because Oaru’s father found the incriminating poems, because Sunae had sent so many and they overflowed, spilled, flooded Oaru’s room. Poems alight with the memories of all that Oaru and Sunae did together, all the times they were wide-eyed travelers in the landscape of each other’s bodies, all the smoldering hearths they built in the secret corners of each other’s hearts.

The monster bellows and the earth quakes and Sunae is not afraid. She knows she is not the first who has been here. She is not the first who has done this.

“Let her tell you she is me.

Let her open her mouth and

Sing the monster to sleep

Again.”

Sunae’s pores still have the magic blessing of moon-water in them, and I am with her. Through her, I sing. I was here, like her. I loved, like her. I fought the monster and won, and she will, too.

If you visit the Temple of Moon Goddess today, you will see this scene painted alongside my mural in the prayer hall:

The monster walks spellbound across the island, and the Mirayans walk with it, every one of their faces slack with awe. Sunae leads them, freed from her shackles.

She holds Oaru’s hand.

END

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Episode #66: “Tell the Phoenix Fox, Tell the Tortoise Fruit” was originally published on GlitterShip

#fantasy #monsters #original #poetry #secondary world fantasy #GlitterShip #lgbtq fiction #queer fiction #short stories #science fiction and fantasy #podcast

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astereaes · 7 years

Text

The Moonlight Thief chapter five!

It’s here! I know it’s been a while, but I have a lot on my plate :P Thanks to @hipsterunicorn20 and @kanarael for beta reading! … I don’t have a lot to say about this chapter… Pichit makes an appearance for like, a couple lines. I feel like I’m skipping over all my favorite characters just for the victuuri… *cries* Also I have an Ao3 account but I haven’t posted yet… I’ll let y'all know when it goes up! Chapter five: Victor takes Yuutopia

When Yakov called for Victor, he did not let down his hair. He tore at the stone walls until his fingers were bloodied and he opened the entrance which had been blocked up as soon as Vitya’s hair was long enough to climb. The tower room was dark. Victor’s winter coat and boots, only there in case of emergency, were gone. A chair was toppled in the middle of the room, and Victor was nowhere in sight. “Vitya! Vitya, where are you?” Yakov shouted as he turned over tables and cabinets. There was a leather satchel under the chair. Inside there was naught but a piece of old paper, a wanted sign- a thief named Katsuki. Yakov had heard of him in his travels, dangerous, a cutthroat-double crosser, all in all, one with low respect for other humans and famous for his most daring caper yet- stealing the prince’s crown right from its pedestal. Yakov glanced about again. There- under the staircase. A shining piece of metal. Yakov retrieved it. It had been so long since he had seen it last. He hadn’t even been gone for a day. There’s no way he could’ve gotten far.

“So are your friends in charge of this restaurant?” Victor asked. “They’re almost family.” “Is the food there good?” “The best!” “What kind?” “Pork cutlet bowls.” “What are those?” “Well, you’ll have to find. out. Won’t you?” Katsuki said in exasperation. “Do you have to be so grumpy?” “Do you have to ask so many questions? We’re here.” Victor threw open the door before Katsuki could mutter a single word of warning.

There had been a ruckus going on inside the pub, there always was. The second Katsuki walked in, though, it stopped, a scene played out in magnificent detail- Minako with her hands around a customer’s throat, Mama with a pan raised over her head and papa with a blood stained menu. Regulars that Katsuki could almost recognize were distributed in the small space, participating in various undergroundly activities that included gambling, deviating degrees of physical assault, and something bubbling on a pot. Victor clutched Katsuki’s arm and his knuckles turned white on the handle of the frying pan. “Hi there… fellas…” Katsuki began. A particular young man- Minami Keijiro, Katsuki believed, held a knife to Katsuki’s throat. “You’re showing you’re face here again? That’s pretty cocky, even for you.” Victor leaned close to his ear. “Why is that?” “I thought you were gonna retire after our job on that one lord or whatever. But you blew it, huh?” “Look, Minami, as I appreciate your concern for my welfare, but as you can see, I’m transporting this very valuable cargo so if you could?” Carefully, Katsuki pushed the knife away and grabbed Victor’s hand. “See?” He said quietly Victor. “This is what it’s like in the real world. So we could just take you back to your tower, you can give me my satchel,” “Hey!” Another person said. Suddenly he was in Katsuki’s face instead of Minami. Before he could judge his face though, a paper was shoved up against his glasses. “Is this you?” Katsuki peeled the paper off. He winced as he saw the drawing there and his name. “Please.” He placed the poster back in their hands. “With a nose like that… please.” “There’s a pretty high price on your head, isn’t there?” Maybe two men slipped out the door. Katsuki couldn’t tell. “I’m just here to get some meals, alright? No confrontation.” “Two specials?” Mama asked. Katsuki nodded wearily. “Thanks Ma.” “She’s your mother?” Victor asked “Everyone calls her that.” “And what does everyone call you?” A man called from the pub bristling with whispers. “Hair boy?” “I’m Victor.” He said confidently. And then no one spoke, whispered, breathed. The only sound was the bubbling of the pot and rats scuttling on the floor. “Is there something wrong with that?” Katsuki was made aware of shining iron in every corner. Axes and knives and spears were at the ready. Victor grabbed his arm tighter. “Please, I just want to live my dream.” Victor said. “Haven’t any of you ever had a dream?” “I have a dream.” Someone spoke up from the corner. “I want to head an ice show. All choreographed by me, and performed with all my friends.” “Pichit.” Katsuki whispered. “Can’t you see us all skating about in the cutest costumes? Rainbows and hamsters everywhere?” “I can sew the costumes, designing is my dream.” “All my friends would be there it’s the most amazing thing you see? What’s better than finally living your dream?” “I’ve got a dream, I’ve got a dream. I’m not so angry and frightening as I seem!” “Victor, hide!” Katsuki said, grabbing him by a handful of silver hair. “Why?” “That’s Georgi. He… well, let’s say he isn’t the type to ask questions before sheathing a knife in you.” “Why do you have so many enemies?” “I guess you could say I’m not a nice person.” Katsuki said, then ducked under the bar as Georgi leaned closed to Victor. “Despite my scary countenance and my relationships haven’t been the best, I’ve always wanted to find my truest love. I’d cherish her without a thought, there would be nothing she’d have to want, I’d be the best boyfriend in the world! I’ve got a dream! And I know one day romance will reign supreme! Though my face leaves people screaming, there’s a child behind it, dreaming. Like everybody else I’ve got a dream” Victor patted him on the head, and then turned him and pushed him gently back into the crowd. “And you ‘Victor’? You got a dream?” “I have a dream!” Victor said loudly. “He has a dream!” The bar echoed. “I just want to see the floating lanterns gleam! And every passing hour I’m so glad I left my tower. Like all you lovely folks I’ve got a dream.” Suddenly, the door busted open. Christophe stood there with a smile. “I’ve got the guards!” The rowdy bar again fell silent. “Come on.” Mama said, pulling Victor over the bar. Katsuki jumped over on his own accord. They looped up Victor’s still somewhat soggy hair and ma pulled one of the beer levers which- instead of causing one of the spouts to gush beer as it ought, opened up a trap door. “You can’t run an establishment like this without a backdoor. You’re a handsome young man. I’d like to see you live your dream.” “I’ll try my best.” Katsuki said. “You didn’t even share. I was talking to Victor.” “Thank you, ma.” Victor said, and they began down the tunnel, the trapdoor shutting them in the darkness.

Yuri busted into the pub. It was underworldly, and the yeasty smell of alcohol mixed with the tang of urine was thick in the air. It was exactly the sort of place he’d expect to see that thief. He sniffed around until he caught the trail- it led straight into the floor. He stomped on it angrily until the boards gave way to a tunnel. “They went this way?” A guard asked. His tone was too close to patronizing. Yuri shot him a droll look, but nodded. Carefully, he led the pursuit into the tunnel.

Outside Yuutopia, Yakov ran into Christophe scolding Georgi. “You’re telling me Katsuki was two feet away from you and you let him get away cause you were talking about your love life? I’m disappointed.” “What do you know about love?” “More than you, I’d reckon.” “Boys!” Yakov called. “I have your crown. You could have it now if you like.” This was effective at shutting them up. “Is there a catch?” Christophe snarled. “Only a job if you want to take it.“ “And why would we?” Georgi asked. “It comes with revenge on a certain man named Katsuki.”

@yaoi-on-skates, @tea-and-a-gay-detective, @ostranenien y'all asked. If anyone else does, please message me, ask me or write it in the comments, anything works! Also if you asked and I forgot to tag you sorrryyyyyy I might have forgotten, send an ask about it!

#the moonlight thief #the tangled au #victurri #yoi #yuri on ice #fic #my writing #victor #Yuuri #victor nikiforov #yuuri katsuki #au #yoi fic #yuri on ice fic #yuri on ice au #my stuff

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woodsyboxingandlife · 6 years

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Roy Moore Is a P.O.S.

This Roy Moore character, I won’t even call him “Judge” because for lord’s sake, he was tossed from his seat, on two occasions, his case and how the public at large isn’t responding to the piling on of allegations, on the record, against him, is raising my BP.

This Moore clown…no, that’s too kind, too benevolent a characterization of an apparet predator…

This Moore fella is now running for a Senate seat representing the citizens of Alabama, sweet home to about 4.8 million people, too many of whom feel, polling tells us, that they don’t see Roy Moore as being anything other than deserving of the Senate seat given up by the current Attorney General, Jefferson Sessions.

They don’t see him as I do…which as a piece of shit. OK, I’m going with that one…harsh, reserved for the truly deserving…piece of shit.

Ouch, harsh Woods, some who have stumbled onto this, thinking I am writing about the latest great white hope in the heavyweight division or what have you. Nah, if you haven’t heard or read, this guy Roy Moore, who was a judge and then a DA in Bama, has a high regard of himself, to the point that he thinks he’d make a fine Senator. He is heading towards a place where he’s going to be the only one seeing himself as Senate material, as a continuing stream of allegations, and first-person publicly delivered accusations by women that declare that Moore, a grown man, engaged in at best unseemly and at worst straight-on sex assault of young ladies, if we are being politically correct, “girls,” some of them, if we are not, dribble out. One or two a day, now…

Five ladies, it was reported, said that Moore, who was bumped from his spot as Chief Justice of the Alabama Supreme Court after two years because of overt religiosity, a refusal to respect the separation of church and state, was a super creep. But he still had that high assessment of self—he twice attempted to win the Governor job, and was rebuffed in the primaries. He got a second chance as Chief Justice in 2013 but again fumbled, after three years, showing blatant bigotry towards gays, by enforcing a state ban on same-sex marriage, which the Supreme Court invalidated.

So, if you are boiling it down, Moore finds it unlawful for two men to marry—but now a steady stream of ladies have come forward to relay that the man, now 70, was in decades past fast and loose with his own conduct. Moore, in the days following the allegations storm, admitted he’d date teens when he was in his 30s. They were over 16, he stated. Ewww, came the calls from a dare say a strong majority of decent minded beings, though many in and outside Alabama were dismayed when polling showed a devoted flock wouldn’t stray from their man Moore. These pro Moore stalwarts looked down on the aggrieved women who’d been harassed and seduced and/or molested by Moore back in the day, and said their sharing of the misconducts was nothing more than conspiracy politics, smear tactics by persons who apparently just deemed him such a titan of righteousness and political acumen that they decided he’d need to be character assasinated to remove him from the playing field.

So, to this point, people who’ve accused Moore of misconduct are painted, basically, as Hillary Clinton supporting Libtards. They’ve been dismissed and discounted, critiqued by Moore defenders who try to sound like Columbo when they say they find it strange that they are crying as they relay a story from 30 years ago. As if to say, how could being molested decades ago really, truly, actually bother someone so much today. You will not be surprised to know that most of the defenders are men, and painting themselves as being empathically deficient at best. And sub moronic cavemen at worst…

Some of these defenders, they seemingly just don’t comprehend how their defending of this track record of molestation reads to us with normal conscience levels. One guy brought on to cable news to be a Moore surrogate noted that Joseph was an older dude and Mary wasn’t of legal drinking age, so, c’mon, Moore was just boys being boys back then. It was the 70s, that is an excuse that comes up time and again.

It was no boys being boys, what Beverly Young Moore, a Trump voter, told media two days ago. She was 16, Moore age 30, an ADA, someone looked up to as a pillar of lawfulness. This was no horseplay gone awry when he drove with her, stopped, locked the doors, grabbed at her chest and tried to force her head to his groin. Rape attempt, is what she described. Yes, publicly, which some of these mega morons blinded by the disgraceful political climate that we are mired in point to as a point against her credibility.

She just wants attention, and money, they say.

That seems plausible to them, maybe, because that is maybe how they think…they find it so foreign that maybe someone would be holding on to such a painful memory that they go beyond their comfort zone, their fear of being disbelieved and ridiculed and shunned within the community.

"And he looked at me and told me, 'You’re just a child, and I am the district attorney. If you tell anyone about this, no one will ever believe you," Nelson said. Moore was, a paper reported, then an assistant district attorney in Gadsden, in northeast Alabama, from 1977 to 1982. You choose your description of Moore, will you? I won’t take issue with it, I bet, if you see this situation as I do.

I heard a whopper today that steams me. A lawyer Moore pays to cover for him said, "I've been with him in probably over 100 different meetings and been around probably in excess of 10,000 different ladies in Judge Moore's presence and not once, not one time, have I ever seen him act even remotely inappropriate against any woman."

Jesus H. C-Word, this man has a valid law license?

Friends, back in the day, I used to smoke pot. It was more illegal then. And can I assure you, in that time frame I didn’t spark it up in front of my mom and dad, or the principal, or any other person who I figured wouldn’t be A-OK with my deviation from lawfulness. Yeah, I hid it. As, common sense would tell you, and if you are half a sentient being or not someone being paid by Roy Moore, is what someone who seemed to be a serial perv/molester would do.

They’d sneak and slither and use their sneaky creepy methods to get their victims in a place safe for them to attempt their attack.

This Moore story is yet another one which cements the stark and sad state of where we are as a nation. We are citizens united, we are, too many of us, in our division…polarized by mind sets that virtually render us different species. 63 million people said yes, this guy who was accused of molestation or harassment by 11 women, who has a track record of stiffing vendors, playing the system by declaring bankruptcies, and defrauded innocents by promising a high level education experience and delivering an adult-ed night school status one, this is the guy we deem Presidential material. Who was on tape bragging about hitting on a married woman, and how he can walk up and grab a lady’s pussy because he is rich and famous and immune from blowback. This EXCEPTIONAL nation elected this crude con man, who walks around painted on orange spray tan year round and doesn’t get the memo that he looks like a buffoon, is an ethical black hole and you have to go back to our civil war experience to offer a similar era of instability of national morale.

Too many of those same Trumpers, it seems like, cannot ponder that this Moore off the rails story is anything other than a vast left wing conspiracy to make it so a Libtard gets the Session seat. That “reasoning” defies common sense, and points to an outbreak of madness. Because, c’mon it isn’t sane. As if we needed more evidence of that. Those that wish to hold on to power, at pretty much any cost, will over-look egregious examples of misconduct and duplicity and lying under oath to adhere to the higher power that so many of these politicians look up to, their God, their framework for living, their personal Constitution…enriching themselves, by securing and holding on to power, and the trappings, be it monetary, or ego-massaging, which come with it.

Oh, and let’s not even delve deep into the concurrent shit shows that are giving the DC follies a run for the money. The Cosby-Weinstein-Louis CK-(insert fallen idol of the hour-day here) quagmire is confirming what so many women who’d been targeted by “important” movers and shakers/liberty takers had figured out: sooo many guys use their power like a weapon. They dangle the possibility for upward mobility, or maybe even dispense with that, and just assume because they are well-known public figures they deserve to treat people like items on a buffet line. They do’t see a person, they see a tray of orange beef.

The ingredients missing in the Moores and the CKs and whoever is outed as a perv piece of shot tomorrow are…empathy.. decency…integrity..humility.

All these guys saw something, which was actually a SOMEBODY, with a feelings, and went after it. With rude voraciousness…they didn’t care or consider their actions would cause alarm, dismay, fear, terror, post traumatic stress. The millenials get smacked down for being entitled; this conduct that we’re hearing has been a Hollywood staple isn’t that the height of toxic entitlement. Aesthetic train wreck Weinstein because of his powerful seat didn’t need to match up his appeal level with a potential romantic or sexual partner, he’d be the sole arbiter if there was a “love” connection, because he saw not a human being, but a vessel to serve him, to please him. How Trump sees his office, I think.

Mark these words: Roy Moore will step down from his quest to serve his ego and be elected to the Senate. Might not be tomorrow, or the next day, but it will happen. And we can take some solace in that. Because our system of communication is not totally broken. People don’t often enough seek news, but corroborative evidence. The “news” they get from Fox News isn’t news, it’s a hit of an opiate, to soothe them, quell their anger at the state of society, and offer them alternative targets to puncture, so that their angst can dissipate for the moment, and they can avoid for another hour their disgust at the man in the mirror and the fallacy of the validity of the American dream. But truth still can win…it sort of seeps to the fore, caterpillar quick, and has to be lobbed to persons who don't even realize it but are actively avoiding it. The Roy Moores, the pieces of shit who deserve a jail stint more so than a Senate seat, still eventually do get what is coming to them. Of that, I still have faith.

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