Please share this call to anyone you think might be interested!
Kinky Shit is a collaborative zine about what people look for when they play with kinks and what they get out of the experience. You can read the first issue of the zine right here.
I am trying to put together a second issue! If you want to play along and answer the question "What do you get out of kink/out of a specific kink?" then please send me an email at meenilevi [at] gmail [dot] com
You can submit all kinds of visual art (illustration, photography, comics,...) or writing (prose, poetry, fiction,...). Just send me your contribution in an easy to deal with format (jpg, png, odt, doc). The final zine will be in an A5 format. (Be careful to consider printing margins in your art.)
Please include in your e-mail the name you want to be credited under (if you want to be credited) as well as a 2-sentence bio and a link to the website/social media of your choice.
Content that promotes abuse or discrimination is not allowed.
The zine will be made available online for free. Contributors will not get paid, but will receive a print copy of the zine through the mail. Contributors are free to print their own copies of the zine if they want to sell or trade it.
If you have any more questions or would like help to refine your idea for a contribution, do not hesitate to contact me by e-mail (I check my mail box a lot more often than my tumblr.)
Please share this call to anyone you think might be interested!
Kinky Shit is a collaborative zine about what people look for when they play with kinks and what they get out of the experience. You can read the first issue of the zine right here.
I am trying to put together a second issue! If you want to play along and answer the question "What do you get out of kink/out of a specific kink?" then please send me an email at meenilevi [at] gmail [dot] com
You can submit all kinds of visual art (illustration, photography, comics,...) or writing (prose, poetry, fiction,...). Just send me your contribution in an easy to deal with format (jpg, png, odt, doc). The final zine will be in an A5 format. (Be careful to consider printing margins in your art.)
Please include in your e-mail the name you want to be credited under (if you want to be credited) as well as a 2-sentence bio and a link to the website/social media of your choice.
Content that promotes abuse or discrimination is not allowed.
The zine will be made available online for free. Contributors will not get paid, but will receive a print copy of the zine through the mail. Contributors are free to print their own copies of the zine if they want to sell or trade it.
If you have any more questions or would like help to refine your idea for a contribution, do not hesitate to contact me by e-mail (I check my mail box a lot more often than my tumblr.)
February 14 is International Jetaire Day because that's the day I met the wonderful, the absolutely lovely @demonsonthemoon ... many years ago.
Life has been hectic lately, but I didn't want to miss our day, so here's a short fic I wrote thinking of you.
Love you! ♡
See Me. Feel Me. Touch Me. Heal Me
Jehan had never expected to be chosen.
From a very young age, he had learned to live on the margins. His parents were always busy, and his grandparents, who had raised him, were more interested in their social events and parties, which often required Jehan to behave like an adult, even though he was just a little boy. Living in a house surrounded by adults, with no one close to his age to share his life with, had created a sense of detachment that was difficult to shake. Then he became a teenager and realized that this extended far beyond his immediate family.
At an age when all his classmates were trying to win over girls, Jehan immersed himself in his books and poems. He was the typical outcast, but he knew that, more than anything, it was his discomfort with romance that prevented him from connecting with his peers. Not only was he rather awkward at interacting with others his age due to his old-fashioned upbringing, but he also completely lacked the ability to fall in love, which seemed to be a basic social skill for a 16 year old boy. Little did he know that this inability would cause him to struggle even in his adult life.
By 29, not much had changed, but then he joined Les Amis and met Grantaire.
Every Thursday, Les Amis gathered at Feuilly's book shop to talk politics, art, and their next fundraiser; Jehan had never felt more alive. Enjolras was impressive; his passion, his dedication, everything about him was truly inspiring, but as fascinating as he could be —and despite everyone thinking Jehan would be closer to him because of their similar upbringing—, Jehan found himself gravitating towards Grantaire, who was completely different from him.
Because under the contagious humor, the clever remarks and the unparalleled ability to retain and recite data that challenged their beloved leader, Grantaire harbored a sadness that drew Jehan in, one he could relate to, a feeling that compelled him to want to be with him, though he wasn't sure on what terms. The first time they slept together, Jehan got his answer.
Grantaire was the kind of friend he'd never had. One he could talk to about everything without shame or judgment, and Grantaire would do the same with him; so it shouldn't have come as a surprise when Grantaire confessed he'd developed feeling for Enjolras. It shouldn't, but it did. Because even though Jehan had never expected to be chosen, a part of him truly longed for it. Selfish, perhaps (what did he have to offer, after all), but it was a feeling that existed despite logic telling him it was absurd. Jehan, incapable of falling in love, wanted to be the only one. Truly absurd.
But that didn't stop him from going home on the days Grantaire walked by his side with the sinking feeling that that was the last time, that come tomorrow, Grantaire would be gone forever and Jehan could do nothing to stop him. What can you do when you have nothing to give back? It was a matter of time until Grantaire showed up with a final revelation: "I'm leaving". And he'd have to let him go, there was no way out of it.
So Jehan waited. And waited. And waited, but that dreadful moment never came.
Every time, Grantaire came back to him and stayed. He would occasionally talk about Enjolras: his admiration for their leader, the way he made his blood boil, how annoying, charming, and incredible he was... but it never went beyond that. Grantaire never spoke of his future plans or whether he intended to pursue him. Nothing. Until Jehan had to ask.
It was unnerving to expose his fears like that, but he knew—or trusted—that Grantaire would never use them against him. He would never mock him for feeling insecure. Maybe he was going to leave him, but he was still his best friend, and Jehan trusted him.
"Have you told Enjolras you're in love with him yet?"
Little patch in the making...
This one could seem hyperspecific, but I'm finding that it's a surprisingly common for arospec and polyamorous experiences to intersect. Whether it's aromantic people who first identified as polyamorous before realising they're arospec, allosexual aro people who hang out in polyamorous communities to find new sex dates and friends, polyamorous people who start questioning what romantic attraction even IS after witnessing how different their relationships all are and how they don't fit the normative couple model...
The truth is, aromantic and polyamorous people are all in a position that questions the normative ideals of a stable, monogamous and romantic relationship.
And for me, specifically, relationship anarchy is what brought these two angles of critique into a cohesive whole that makes sense of who I am and how I live. This is what the central A represents.
I'm arospec, and I am in multiple, polyamorous relationships. I also believe in relationship anarchy : "dating", for me, is a mode of relationship, not a type that is distinct and better than friendships. And dating means whatever me and my dates want it to mean, not what society dictates.
So I guess I'm polyAro
skateboard will be so fictionalized that people forget we all have one inside of us. like the war of course but like they arent just fantasy creatures.... its just In There
Next up on the list of aro OCs, one of my current DnD characters, Benjamin!
Benjamin Larkwright (he/him)
Genre: DnD/fantasy
Identity: aromantic asexual
Born as the eldest son of parents who were minor nobility, in a country that had been fighting a border war on and off for generations, it was expected of Benjamin that he'd join the military for a few years, do his duty and prove himself a capable leader, and then return home to take up his duties to his family. But Benjamin had no interest in marriage and children, and instead threw himself into the expected military career in the hope that at least in that regard he could satisfy his parents' expectations.
In the military, he discovered an aptitude for magic and was quickly tapped for a new, experimental unit of war wizards who would act as human artillery on the battlefield. Rising to captain of his unit, he served through two resurgences of the border war, until tragedy struck him repeatedly in quick succession. First, his beloved younger brother was killed when the fighting rolled over the town he was working in as a doctor, then the same fate befell his parents and the Larkwright family estate. And finally, in the last months after a successful siege that was supposed to bring the war to an end, nearly his whole unit was wiped out in an ambush.
Suspecting a betrayal but never able to prove it, Benjamin quit the military, burned his spellbook and put all of his inheritance and pension into supporting the families of his dead and injured comrades. He took a job as a lowly watchman in the capital city, somewhere he could still be of at least some use, and spent the next decade miserable and refusing to get close to anyone in case he lost them too.
Until, one day, he instinctively used magic to save the life of a nobleman he was guarding, and realised that what he really wanted to be doing was using those skills to genuinely help people rather than for destruction. And so he retrieved the wizard staff he'd never been able to bring himself to destroy from under his bed, and set about relearning how to do proper magic. Then, naturally, he quit his job, and took up as an adventurer.
Class-wise, Benjamin is a War Wizard, with a single Fighter level because I rolled dreadfully on hit points and he was terrifyingly squishy. Personality-wise, he's a serious, sharp-witted man with a subtle sarcastic streak, a take-charge sort of attitude, and an awkward but well-meaning way of caring about people, although he's never entirely been able to shake the irrational fear that he's going to get everyone around him killed. Being aro (and ace) had a huge impact on the shape of his life, and he's always had a stubborn pride in it despite the rift it created with his parents and the other problems that it's caused. But he'd be lying if he said it wasn't deeply important to him when he eventually finds aro friends and others with shared experiences.
Mini playlist, for extra vibes:
Third Eye - Florence + the Machine - You don't have to be a ghost / Here amongst the living / You are flesh and blood / And you deserve to be loved / And you deserve what you are given
Mars - Sleeping At Last - Though time is ruthless / It showed us kindness in the end / By slowing down enough / A second chance to make amends
Never Quite Free - The Mountain Goats - It's okay to find the faith to saunter forward / With no fear of shadows spreading where you stand
I've had some bits of this story on my mind for some time, but didn't know hot to write it down until recently, so I thought it'd be a good idea to post it during @aggressivelyarospec's Aggressively Arospectacular Week. I hope you're ready for some toxic friendships, yay! [Text dividers by @aroworlds]
The Story So Far
December 21.
I've been texting a lot with Anna recently. It reminds of those days back in college when we would stay up late just talking. It's weird, though. I think I'm not longer used to hearing from her that much, it was not long ago that I would only get a random text a week from her. But I humor her. We're still friends, at least their definition of friendship. I gave up on mine long time ago.
She's had another breakup. I never met the guy, but I remember they've been dating for 2 years or so. It looks like he wasn't nice, it was an ugly breakup and she spends much of the conversations talking about him.
We talk for hours, catching up, and I try to listen, to understand, but that little voice inside my head keeps saying the only reason she's reaching out now is because she's alone again. Somehow she saying I'm her true soulmate only confirms it for me.
"She doesn't have any other options," the little voice says. "This is her last resource, she doesn't have anyone left."
But I don't say any of this. We made plans to go out next weekend.
January 6.
I'm still thinking about the weekend with Anna.
I hadn't seen her in so long that walking towards her at the mall's entrance felt like meeting her for the very first time. Not much had changed, really, but I no longer knew how to be myself around her. What an odd thing to say about the person that used to be my closest friend.
I accommodated pretty quickly —proof enough that my body remembers way better than my head— and soon things felt like no time had passed. After a couple of hours just walking around, laughing together, she talked about her ex-boyfriend again.
They met thanks to a mutual friend that works at Anna's office, a story I already knew but pretended not to for her sake. They broke up because he cheated.
She talked about some of their dates, about the life they'd planned together, the things they wanted to do. She mentioned, casually, we could do some of those together. "I really want to go camping. It's such a lovely plan to let it go to waste because of him," she said, overexcited, like she was already over the entire thing.
I smiled politely and diverted the conversation to avoid giving a straight answer. It wasn't until I got home that something occurred to me: she's not choosing me, she's rejecting loneliness. This seems the easiest way to get it because I could never abandon her for a romantic partner.
I hate camping. I have absolutely no desire to go camping with her.
May 10.
Anna's trying dating again and it's not going well. The dating pool is in shambles, apparently. The last guy she went out with stopped texting her a week ago and that's probably the only reason we're still regularly hanging out. I'm not so confident it's gonna last, so it still takes me by surprise every time she wants to go somewhere. She doesn't particularly like that I don't really wait for her if I want to do something for myself. Force of habit, I guess.
I'm still in the process of accommodating someone else in my plans. Or rather remembering there's another option available that isn't "do it alone". That too it's not going well. We met up today for lunch and I told her about the concert I went to yesterday. "I could've gone with you", she said. Yeah, she could've... but she doesn't understand that once you leave behind any reservations you might have about being on your own there's no coming back. It's something we both need to work on.
I'm fine being on my own. I've learned to be on my own after getting ditched for every new relationship and I'd rather be alone than being with someone that thinks of me as a substitute for whatever thing they couldn't accomplish.
I don't think this is gonna work.
July 12.
Anna wants us to live together and I diverted attention with a joke.
The list of things that could go wrong if we were to do that is truly endless and I was a little bit more curious about what had brought all this up anyway. We never talked about that before, not even when we saw each other almost daily. To no one's surprise, I got my answer pretty quickly: Anna's giving up on dating again.
I'd forgotten how draining it could be to listen to those stories as often as I do now, but I try anyway, it's important to her. Maybe the stories will stop now that she's focusing on something else. I just wish I wasn't that something else.
She talked about us being soulmates again and I grimaced, hopefully without her noticing, but it only got worse when she complained she couldn't find someone like me in the men she dates. I'm still trying to figure out why that bothered me.
I need her to go back to be casual friends and stop the whole found family/soulmates shtick or I'm going to lose my mind. I'm not sure how to tell her that without hurting her feelings. I know she doesn't do it maliciously, it's just that I don't believe her anymore.
October 4.
Anna keeps talking about building a life together and I'm done with it.
She's still trying to find a boyfriend, going on dates with men she meets in random places or dating apps, but none of them seem to be enough. "That's because you're my one true love", she said after one of our conversations, which would've been flattering if it hadn't come ten years too late.
Back then, we were inseparable. There were very few thing we wouldn't do together and we were each other's priority, above other friends and relationships. Some people thought we were together, and maybe we were, not like everyone else thought, but certainly in a way that was special and unique to us.
But we're not those people anymore.
I can't help but to feel this right now is a mimicry of who we used to be back in college, before life happened and she focused all her attention on romantic relationships that were beginning to become very serious and real. The ones people come to expect once you turn a certain age.
It's funny that 10 years ago I would've been game for building a life with her, no questions asked. I guess I, for once, can be very grateful for being so paranoid or an over-thinker. Now I know that wouldn't have lasted. Nor will it this time.
November 19.
I haven't seen Anna in a little over a month.
We're still texting, but I'm rejecting all the plans she makes for us. No more movie dates, no more shared lunches. I'm sure she's not happy about it, she's made me aware of it in her not so subtle way, but I just say I'm busy.
I almost wish she finds a boyfriend, so we can go back to who we were before all this started. Am I wrong? It feels stupid to run away from all this when it was something I had even dreamed about when I was younger, it's just that I don't think it should happen like this.
Is this the only type of friendship I'm destined to? The one that only becomes relevant when all the other options don't work out? The one that's a placeholder until something better comes along? Am I being too demanding? Too particular? Maybe it really is the only thing I can aspire to, and I'm letting it slip away…
I'm not sure I'm doing the right thing, but right now it's the one thing that feels safer.
Stories tell us that love is goodness, love saves the day, love is what makes life worth living--but is it the benevolent force we're supposed to revere?
Contains: A friendless witch, an autistic boy, an allosexual aromantic overlord, and two women struggling with the consequences of would-be-romantic experiences.
Length: 901 words.
Content advisory: This ficlet riffs upon shapes of oppression as they intersect with (Western notions of) romantic, platonic and familial love, including amatonormativity, sex negativity, ableism, ageism, singleism, heterosexism and misogyny. It showcases antagonistic attitudes directed at the elderly, disabled, multisexuals, autistics, sex workers and aromantics. Please note that this depicts only one way, out of countless ways, of being autistic!
One scene depicts a stalker; another depicts an attempt at kissing.
Love, the people say, makes one’s life worth living.
***
The witch is an ancient creature of bony limbs and yellow teeth. In times of warmth and abundance, children run lest her shadow cross theirs and infect them with misfortune. Adults shudder as she hobbles through the market, disgusted by the sight of her gnarled hands clasping carrots and turnips. They thank the gods when she returns to the loneliness of her ramshackle cottage, freeing them from her judgemental eyes and mumbling voice.
When seeds rot in the fields and winter’s freeze sickens the weak, the villagers summon their courage to do as they have always done: knock upon her door and beg her use of wisecraft. She won't trouble herself to hide her disdain while she grinds their herbs and casts their spells—the reason, the adults murmur, why even in her youth none could abide her company.
She deserves to die alone, the people say, unloving and unloved.
***
Only in love, the people say, will we forge peace and prosperity.
***
He governs his lands as a rider guides an excited horse, employing encouragement and praise alongside bit and heel. The citizens within his borders live assured of peace, for no invader or troublemaker has won victories greater than their panicked flight and his bloody, uncompromising pursuit. Yet rebellion stirs upon the streets, for while the overlord dines behind walls adorned with the warning dead, he scorns his allies’ attempts at courtship.
Instead, men and women enter his bedchamber for sport alone—no doubt, the gossips declare, engaged to perform abhorrent, unspeakable acts. Oh, his hirelings insist that he pays them generously and regards them respectfully, but who trusts the word of those who accept coin for what belongs within the sanctity of a relationship?
His reign must end, the people say, because the land will wilt beneath a loveless deviant’s rule.
***
Love, the people say, shall deliver us from evil.
***
“You must know how much I love you,” he proclaims from bended knee, flowers clasped in one hand and a jewellery box in the other, as daring as the heroes populating the pages of her romance novels. Through messages, gifts and surprise appearances at her school, workplace and gym, he conveys his devotion to her—a shadow, now unassuaged, that envelopes every inch of her world. “I’ll never stop loving you if you'll just take me back!”
She has learnt to fear the ringing phone, an email from an unknown account, a shout ringing across the parking lot. What began as a romance, two people dating in the hope of building a connection that lasts a lifetime, became her endless nightmare. Speechless, for “no” has passed her lips too many times to count, she slams the door on his smiling face before sliding the bolt and chain home. Why can’t he fall out of love with her, and just let her be?
Obsession, the people say, cannot be compared to the sacred force that is true love.
***
Without love, the people say, we have nothing worth having.
***
He nods when presented with a gift, even if he’s more engrossed by the sounds of crunched-up wrapping paper. He jumps up and down, fluttering his hands, after his mother dresses him in his bright red T-shirt. He raises a testing corner of an apple slice to his lips before, his arms and shoulders relaxing, taking a chomping bite. He leans into his father’s embrace as they sit on the couch, listening to his favourite book read aloud for the hundredth time.
His face freezes when his parents tell him they love him, as if those words hold little relevancy or meaning. How are they supposed to look at him without grieving the futures—achievements, occupations, relationships—he was meant to live? Autism, that cruel pandemic of suffering, stole their hopes, their dreams, their son!
Any good parent, the people say, will mourn the raising of a child unable to express or acknowledge the words “I love you”.
***
Happiness, the people say, requires love.
***
She leans into his embrace, struggling to bear the headache-inducing aroma of aftershave and alcohol. “You should kiss him,” his friends insisted, “because he obviously loves you!” For so long, she avoided romantic entanglements with responsible-sounding excuses like “homework” or “exams”, but she’s now an adult. She’s supposed to want those relationships that signify maturity. She’s supposed to desire the kind man who shares her interests, the handsome man who hangs upon her every move like an adoring hound. Why doesn't she? “Just kiss him already!”
When she forces her lips to meet his, she finds only cold revulsion and the desperate need to run. His smile fades as she jerks away from his body, but she can’t explain what must look as though she’s leading him on. “What’s wrong with you?” the friends later ask. “Why do you treat him that way?”
It’s a pity, the people say, that good men love women who toy with their hearts.
***
Love, the people say—
Whom does your love exclude? Whom does your love excuse?
Say to us now: what becomes of all those cast as villains when you place human worth upon love’s altar? What becomes of the sacrificial spinster witches and autistic children in the stories you tell of love’s unquestionable beneficence?
This weird little short story was born out of a challenge asking me to place the word "anthozoan" in a story, and the prompt "Mythology" from @aggressivelyarospec's #AggressivelyAroSpectacular event.
From Wikipedia : "Corals also breed sexually by spawning: polyps of the same species release gametes simultaneously overnight, often around a full moon."
The full moon was a moment of important ceremony. Was, nowadays, although it had not always been. Even though it had also been the case before, a long time ago, before the long forgetting.
There was a time when human people honored their dependence on nature by heeding its cycles. That time was now, and it was also the long-ago past whose memory had returned, after many dreamings and prayers.
The heeding of the full moon – some called it worship, but worshippers themselves saw it as a logical part of life, not a spirituality – had returned most easily to the people of the coast and the estuary. People who could see with their own two eyes that water itself paid careful tribute to the white orb in the sky. Which human would ignore a force that the tides themselves depended on?Which human who had witnessed a flood could consider themself more powerful than water?
The people of the estuary had witnessed many floods. When their memories of the old ways returned, the truth of the moon's importance resonated quickly in their bones.
The ceremony itself took many forms across communities. This was how nature found its balance, through diversity of inputs.
This particular community had taken inspiration from corals.
Its members came from various regions, but, after floating a while, they had all wished to settle down. The tradition was that each newcomer had to build part of the infrastructure of the settlement. This included people born in the community who, once they reached adulthood, decided whether they wanted to leave or to re-enter the community as an adult by building their part.
This was how the Reef grew. It was a slow process.
Outside of arrivals, people did with what they had. If a building had to be broken down, people knew it would take a long time for something to be build in its place. Repair was important work. As was the preservation of materials to prepare for future community growth.
On the day before a full moon, however, nobody could be found working, not even the latest newcomer. The day of the full moon was spent getting ready for the night.
People bathed and laughed, picked out their clothes and gossiped. They lounged around and ate their fill, so they would not be distracted by hunger or fatigue once the evening came.
Children and those who did not wish to take part in the ceremony picked out games and songs, so that their evening would still be a celebration.
When the sun fell, all of the people willing joined each other on a specific stretch of beach. Large pieces of fabric were laid down for comfort, fresh water and food were set aside. Contraception, lubricant and toys had their own reserved corner, close to the large chest that protected cast away clothing.
Full moons were the nights when the corals spawned, throwing their collective desire to survive into the water so one want would encounter another and new life might emerge, here or further down the current.
Is that still what they do? Are there still enough corals where and when you are?
Have our beliefs worked? Has the moon judged our dance worthy enough to redeem the species?
Full moons were not the only night when human people tried to honor and protect their anthozoan ancestors, but it was the night when they felt like they most resembled them.
They let themselves be fed by the energy coming from the tides, and they fed them in turn. Those who felt comfortable stripped naked and trusted that others would keep them warm.
Then they touched each others.
The ceremony started quietly, gestures searching and shy at first, people seeking familiar paths and skin. And then it swelled, like music and the ocean, until it became an endless breaking.
The community left the beach feeling more whole than ever.
Its offering were traces in the sand, where the weight of bodies had started to mark the earth.
Yet those marks were always only temporary. They were to be swallowed by the rising waves. They would be kissed softly by the moon, held quietly in its reflection. Twenty-eight days later, the humans would feel the wind press against them and push them towards one another. Towards connection. Towards this act of casting their hope for survival into the air and the water with extatic joy.
They would remember the last ceremony.
And the one before that.
And the one before that.
The grain of sand remembered those ceremonies of long ago, before any of the current humans had been born.
That memory was powerful.
It could seep through fabric and skin.
It could seep into dreams, even though it wasn't always understood.
The first issue of a collaborative zine I'm editing is now out! This zine is a mix of illustrations, poetry and essays exploring what kink brings to different people practicing it.
You can download the pdf for free.
If you want to financially support my creative work, I have a ko-fi page where you can tip me or buy some of my poetry zines.
Submissions for the next issues of the zine are now open. Don't hesitate to send me a message if you want more info.
For day 1 of #AggressivelyArospectacular, an event hosted by @aggressivelyarospec
Community is the thing you've always just lost
Or are looking forward to
A nostalgia both ways that takes hold of the body
Especially the salivary glands
Community is about fluids
The sweat of anxious anticipation for a miracle
Or of back-breaking labor
The fruit of which you might never see
And still hope will be liked
By a next generation
But sometimes your child
Is allergic to the pollen
Of the tree you planted for their birth
And a screaming match doesn't feel like community
A fire is not always a hearth
But the silence is so unnerving
Are you out there?
Ghost or ghosting me?
My fingers slip through the thing
That fit snugly in my hand a second ago
What were the ingredients
The exact measures
That made it hold together
And can we bring the stars
Back in alignment?
Can I rest in your bed
Without you leaving?
If I don't have fruit
I'll bite into anything,
Give me an arm or a leg
Or a bone
I don't care if I break my teeth.
Give me a warm hand
To soothe my tummy aches
And I'll learn the ways
I'll tuck the feral
Back under my tongue
If you can look me in the eyes
Without drooling
The real reason why you need to be social is the best chinese place within 10 miles is an unknown hole in the wall with a yearly marketing budget of $15 dollars and you will never, ever find it unless someone tells you about it.
Saira Sherwani from We Are Lady Parts for @aggressivelyarospec week
I clocked Saira as aro from her breakup speech to Abdullah. From the beginning she struggles with acting the way she is expected to in a relationship which frustrates both her and Abdullah. I really like that over the course of the show, she opens up about her past and becomes more comfortable around her friends, but still can't maintain a romantic relationship and that's fine. She has a fulfilling life with her band and the show doesn't force her back into her relationship in the name of healing or character development and lets them break up respectfully and organically.
just barely finished this in time for @aggressivelyarospec week! I’ve always imagined Jehan to be on the aromantic spectrum, primarily being demiromantic! It’s always fit well to them for me, along with the fact it’s my own orientation as well <3
"I've never really understood what you might call physical love," said Nightingale. "But I do understand the bonds of friendship and family." (The Masquerades of Spring)
This was a bit of an experiment in colour palettes, but after The Masquerades of Spring finally confirmed that Nightingale is aroace I just had to draw something about it. The whole thing still makes me pretty emotional, honestly, and it felt fitting to finally finish this one during pride month.
(This is modern day Nightingale, but at some point I really do need to draw his 20-something y/o self as he was in Masquerades, he was so much fun.)
Fandom: Les Misérables
Pairing: Grantaire/Enjolras, non-romantic Jehan & Grantaire
Word Count: 1312
Rating: Teen and up
Summary: Enjolras asked to sit in on a shibari session between Grantaire and Jehan, because he wanted to see what kink did for Grantaire. He hadn't considered that you could feel threatened by other things than romantic feelings.
(Featuring aromantic!Jehan and a past kink+sex friends relationship between Grantaire and Jehan)
Warning: Enjolras has some really amatonormative thoughts that he's working through in this series.
Posted for @aggressivelyarospec week.
Read it on AO3.
The ropes that Grantaire was using were dark red. There were also some undyed ones, the beige of unbleached fibers, carefully lined up on the floor.
Jehan was usually seen in pastels and green tones that contrasted with his ginger bob. Enjolras couldn't help but think that the dark red didn't suit him as well, wasn't meant for him.
Not that he didn't still make a pretty picture, kneeling quietly as Grantaire looped the red rope around his wrists, tying it in his back and to the harness that already criss-crossed his chest.
Enjolras understood the aesthetic appeal of shibari. His education in a bourgeois family – which had included regular trips to art museums – had taught him to appreciate the beauty of the human form, which was only enhanced by the careful patterns of rope. However, he still struggled to understand the rest of the experience. His skin itched just looking at the unbleached ropes. He was already impatient, completely boggled by the way Jehan could hold himself so still and look so relaxed. That said, he was not about to interrupt the two others. He was the one who had asked to be able to watch this, so he was going to focus and stay quiet and let Grantaire and Jehan do their things, no matter how long it took.
The thing was, Enjolras wasn't really interested in shibari, or in kink in general. He was, however, very much interested in Grantaire. It had taken him long enough to realise it, he wasn't going to beat around that bush any longer. He was interested in Grantaire, and kink was a part of Grantaire's life. “It used to be”, Grantaire would say, happily sacrificing his practice to keep Enjolras happy and comfortable. But Enjolras didn't want that. He didn't want to stay comfortable forever. That's not what he'd left his bourgeois family for. He wanted to learn, to see if he could get it and, if that didn't work, if there was a way he could offer Grantaire a space beyond himself where the other man could explore kink and what it did for him.
That was how they had gotten here, in Enjolras' living room, a thin mat placed on the floor, Jehan dressed only in boxers and ropes.
Jehan was the perfect person to ask for something like this. It was no secret that he and Grantaire had been kink partners and friends with benefits for a long time, and yet Jehan had been extremely supportive when Grantaire and Enjolras had finally gotten their shit together enough to start dating. Even if the monogamous arrangement between Grantaire and Enjolras had meant Jehan had lost one of his regular partners for both sex and shibari.
Beyond his good will and selflessness, there was the fact that Jehan was aromantic and had never had an interest in a romantic relationship with Grantaire. That meant that Enjolras didn't feel threatened, which was what had made him able to suggest trying something like this. Grantaire had explained that shibari and other kinks didn't have to involve sexuality or romantic feelings, but it still seemed very intimate. Enjolras knew that there were lines that Jehan himself didn't want to cross, so that intimacy felt safer coming from him than from someone else.
Enjolras focused his attention again on the way Grantaire was moving. He grabbed hold of the harness he had fastened on Jehan's back, then slowly pushed down on the other man's shoulder. Jehan tipped forward, Grantaire's hold on the ropes the only thing keeping him from face-planting into the mat. Enjolras held his breath as he watched, but Jehan's exhale only deepened with the movement, most of his muscles staying relaxed, even as his core reflexively engaged to help keep him balanced.
Grantaire lowered Jehan until his face rested sideways against the mat, knees still bent and arms tied. From away, Enjolras saw the two men exchange a smile as Grantaire moved around to retrieve more rope, moving Jehan's legs easily to get them where he wanted them.
Grantaire hadn't looked at Enjolras since the very beginning of the session. They had exchanged a few nods as Grantaire worked on the harness, checking that Enjolras was okay with everything that was going on. Talking about sharing this experience and how it might go was not the same thing as actually seeing it, after all. Enjolras had done his best to seem at ease and enthusiastic, reassuring his boyfriend that everything was fine. After a few minutes, however, Grantaire had stopped checking in. Enjolras could understand why. He was entirely focused on what he was doing, on the patterns of criss-crossing ropes, on Jehan's each reaction. Each gesture was precise and imbued with a specific energy. Enjolras had never seen Grantaire act like this outside of his paint studio.
Grantaire carefully untied Jehan's wrists before flipping him onto his back. It was a casual display of strength to which Jehan's only response was a languid compliance. Enjolras felt twitchy.
He knew what those hands felt like on his skin, knew how easily Grantaire could hold him up against a wall or door before hotly pressing his mouth to Enjolras' chest.
But this was not what this was. Enjolras shook is head softly, trying to clear it.
He didn't catch the few words that Jehan whispered, but he wholy focused on his friend and partner when Grantaire responded by grabbing Jehan's hair at the root and pulling sharply.
Enjolras flinched a little, but Jehan only let out a contented gasp before he laughed. Grantaire ruffled his hair, an obvious smile on his face, before he went back to the ropes.
Enjolras' chest was tight.
The point of this experience had been to understand what this meant to Grantaire, and it was too easy to realise now. The focus in his gaze, the pleased curl of his smile, the shared intention that emanated every time he and Jehan moved together. It was obvious how precious an exchange this all was.
Enjolras understood, now, but it brought him no satisfaction.
Instead he felt jealous.
He had expected that this would be easy, because Jehan was aromantic and posed no threat to his couple with Grantaire. He had not counted on the fact that there was something beyond the romantic that he might also want to share. He had been so confident that romance was the most precious of all experiences, that he was the one who had the most to give to Grantaire.
But here was Jehan, offering his submission easily, and thereby creating a space and time so intimate and powerful, so apart from the everyday that Enjolras could only describe it as more.
More intense. More joyful. More devoted. More loving.
Enjolras knew that this was not the right way to think. He knew that types of relationship did not exist on a scale of value. Yet he realised that he had still felt as though that were true. Confronted with the reality of this form of intimacy he did not think he could offer, he realized just how awful he felt at the idea that he might not be able to offer all that Grantaire wanted.
Had Jehan felt this way even as he cheered Grantaire on when he and Enjolras got together? He had always seemed so eager to share others' romantic joy, even as it stayed inaccessible to him. It couldn't all have been an act.
Enjolras watched Grantaire uncoil his ropes. He watched him embrace Jehan as they both came down from the high of their session, as they both slowly took note of their environment again. Jehan looked up at Enjolras and smiled, curious and happy.
Enjolras wondered if compersion was not just an emotion, but a skill that could be learned.
