Their Troublesome Crush

by Xan West

About Nine of Swords, Reversed

  Dev has been with xyr service submissive Noam for seven years and xe loves them very much. Dev and Noam have built a good life together in Noam’s family home in Oakland, where they both can practice their magecraft, celebrate the high holidays in comfort, support each other as their disabilities flare, and where Noam can spend Shabbos with their beloved family ghost.

  But Dev’s got a problem: xe has had so much arthritis pain recently that xe has not been able to shield properly. As an empath, no shielding means Dev cannot safely touch Noam. That has put a strain on their relationship, and it feels like Noam is pulling away from xym. To top it off, Dev has just had an upsetting dream-vision about xyrself and Noam that caused one of the biggest meltdowns xe has had in a while. It’s only with a timely tarot reading and the help of another genderfluid mage that Dev is able to unpack the situation. Can xe figure out how to address the issues in xyr relationship with Noam before everything falls apart?

  Content Warnings for Excerpt of Nine of Swords, Reversed:

  Depicts an autistic meltdown.

  Depicts MCs dealing with chronic pain. Describes the internal experience of chronic pain and brain fog.

  Reference to an emotionally abusive ex.

  Both MCs are trauma survivors, and trauma is referenced as part of what an MC is dealing with.

  References an MC’s depression.

  MC’s younger brother died many years ago; his ghost is referenced.

  References to a disturbing dream.

  Depicts consensual kink including D/s and in particular, service-based submission.

  Excerpt from Nine of Swords, Reversed

  It started with the dream-vision, a jangling clamor yanking me awake, leaving me rocking and tremoring and saying no repeatedly for an entire hour. My beloved submissive Noam woke when I did, leaving the bed for me alone, so I could feel free to shake and rock and try to weave myself into something more solid again. They placed the weighted blanket they had made for me nearby on the bed before they moved to their favorite chair in the corner. They were such a good boy, for me. In so many ways.

  I could see them from the bed, reading their book, their curls in disarray, a blanket tucked around their midsize fatness, and that was a comfort. For the dream had been about them. And in it, I could not get to them.

  When my tremors abated, mouth no longer grasping the word no, I draped the weighted blanket over my fat body. It made everything slow, the heaviness of it holding me just tight enough, so I could go from still to truly calm. My mind stopped; all I did was breathe as the weight seeped calm into me. I was left spent afterwards, my magic floppy and ungrippable, my shields weakened. This was the way it always was, after a meltdown.

  It was time to come back to my cave-like room on the ground floor of our home. I named things that I saw, to myself, my usual strategy to come back into the world. The raspberry and teal scarf I wrapped my tarot cards in, the butter yellow frame around a photo of me and my best friend Ezra at Pride twenty years ago, my navy blue mini fridge strewn with Yiddish magnetic poetry, my red electric kettle, my sapphire boots on the top of the bookshelf, the moss green blanket wrapped around Noam.

  I was filled with this tremendous relief to see Noam push their glasses up on their nose like always, concentrating on their book. They were still here, unshattered. Still here, still mine. So attuned to me; of course they looked up at my gaze, asked if I wanted company.

  The want was a gnawing weight in the center of my chest, a bright burst of orange pain surrounded by gray heavy stone. Between the stress of swirling in trauma-soaked memories of my ex Linus, and the way my arthritis had been flaring, I hadn’t been able to shield properly in weeks. Weakened shields meant my pain could seep into Noam through physical contact. Their feelings, thoughts, and pain could seep through to me, without their permission. I had to protect them from that, even if it ached not to touch them. And truly, I did not have it in me to hold a deep connection to their depression this morning, if it was flaring, as my arthritis was. I was already filled with my own fear and despair this morning; I could not also hold Noam’s.

  I shook my head, and they nodded jerkily, lowering their gaze. They were buzzing with anxious energy, but strangely they were still, instead of fidgeting like they usually would. Their anxiety was a chartreuse zappy flickering at the surface of their skin. It hurt to look at it. Maybe giving them a task would help? I could probably hold enough dominance for that.

  When I pulled myself into a sitting position, the room tilted. My skin felt like a porous membrane. I needed to eat. There was a service task for Noam, one of the core ones we’d negotiated so long ago. When I asked, they gifted me with a smile and stood, slowly. They pulled on their favorite hoodie, putting the hood up, and walked gingerly out of the room.

  I could hear them on the stairs, moving with the kind of deliberation that usually signaled they were in pain. Which they hadn’t mentioned. The hood meant Noam needed light protection from the sun streaming in the huge bank of windows on the main floor of our three-story Oakland home, which had been in their family for three generations. So, a migraine at the very least. Perhaps their back was out as well, given how they were moving.

  They’d just agreed to the service task without mentioning being in pain. Why? Had I not been thinking a task would help them, I would have figured out my own breakfast. They knew I didn’t depend on them to eat.

  Our service negotiations specified that Noam would only do service tasks I could do myself, had workarounds for, could hire others to do. Service intertwined with dependence muddled things, and scared me. Noam could help me with things I was unable to do, but not as service, not as part of our power dynamic. I needed it to be okay for me to not be up for dom space, and still be able to have my basic needs met.

  I stood slowly, leaning heavily on my cane, and went to the fridge. Cold apple juice went down easily despite the nausea, and helped lessen the dizziness. I lay back down, conserving my energy, as I wondered whether the dream-vision might be connected to this issue with Noam not letting me know they were in pain. I got the dull ping inside telling me yes, it was part of the story, but not the whole. I worried this thought like a small stone in my hand, circling it round and round, trying to find a way to reassure myself about it so I could put it down.

  I could hear Noam coming down the stairs. They moved slowly into the room, carrying a tray with food for both of us.

  “Scrambled eggs with cheese—mozzarella today, and challah toast with butter and honey, Xer,” Noam announced, the cheer in their voice sounding strained. I could only see their mouth, their hood was pulled down low. Yes, the mozzarella and the hood meant they had a migraine. They set the tray down carefully, making sure to bend only at the knee.

  “Thank you, boy. It looks wonderful.”

  “Glad to do it, Xer.”

  “Actually, it’s Ma’am today.”

  “Alright, Ma’am; boy works for me,” they said.

  I nodded. They had been in boy mode for weeks.

  “Ma’am, I’d like to eat mine at my desk. Today is a writing day, and it will help me get in the mode of making words. In the late afternoon I’m spending time with Levi, in the kitchen, getting ready for Shabbos.”

  It had been a rather long while since they’d mentioned spending time with the ghost of their little brother. Noam was quite private about Levi, so it could be that they just hadn’t mentioned it. But I had the feeling it had been a while, because I could usually tell when it had been a Levi day. At the end of those, Noam was made of dough that had been rolled way too thin and would fall apart at the slightest touch. Their medium work didn’t do that; it usually left them solid and glowy and full of the need to cook all the things.

  Their room was next to mine, and we were both glad of our own space, for the nights when they or I needed, or simply wished, to sleep alone. As they left for it, I saw the blue of an ice pack in the waistband of their plaid sleep pants. The coldness in my stom
ach solidified. I flashed on a memory from two weeks ago, the strain in Noam’s face as they lugged my laundry upstairs. It was hard to get the food down after that, even though cheesy scrambled eggs were a favorite.

  The ping of a morning text from Ezra was a welcome distraction. Ze would pick me up in a few hours for lunch. It was probably best to talk to my best friend before I discussed this with Noam. Ze would help me figure it out.