#like. does it technically affect me? no. do i still stare at my activity page and frown about it? yes

[mamawasatesttube]

being a pedant has its downsides because every time someone tags one of my timkon or yj posts as "#batfam" in my notifs i do twitch a little. thats not their group name thats a different group of people. there is precisely one (1) character that overlaps here. this is incorrect taxonomy

[chaoticchickadee]

Active Meditation

"Deep in her thoughts, Ahsoka almost didn’t see the event board as she passed by it. Most of the flyers were uninteresting-- some speeders for sale, a lost tooka notice, and war effort posters covered a majority of the board, however there was one advertisement in the corner that caught her eye. Free Beginner’s Pottery Class it read, in bold lettering at the top."

Or, Ahsoka discovers a new hobby after seeking help from Obi-Wan.

Read it here on AO3 

Like her master, Ahsoka had always had a hard time meditating. She really tried, but especially after experiencing the “hurry up and wait” lifestyle necessary in the war, she found it difficult to just sit still and calm her mind. While Anakin was visiting Padme on Senatorial duty, she was using some of her precious alone time to practice meditation techniques, but it still didn’t come any easier to her. Sighing, Ahsoka flopped onto her back and tried to think of a solution. She knew if she went to Anakin with her troubles, he would understand, but he wouldn't be able to help her with this. Master Obi-Wan always had sage advice to offer when she asked, but the thought of revealing her vulnerability made her hesitate to reach out. However, Ahsoka couldn’t recall ever feeling judgment or disappointment when confiding him, so she reconsidered the option. Deciding that despite her fear of her grandmaster’s disappointment, he would be the most helpful for finding a solution. She slowly got up from the floor and headed for Obi-Wan’s quarters.

Once outside of Obi-Wan’s door, she raised her hand to knock, but paused right before her fist made contact. Guilt and trepidation settled in her gut and almost made her turn around and go back to her rooms. She swallowed and finally knocked, determined to go through with her plan. For a moment, she worried Obi-Wan was out, but then his door opened and Ahsoka was blinded by his bright, cheery smile. “Ahsoka! What a wonderful surprise! Please, come in, I’ll make some tea.” Ahsoka flashed him a tight smile and followed him into his small common area. “Is there something wrong, padawan?” Obi-Wan asked as he puttered about in the kitchenette. “Well, I was hoping that you might be able to help me with something. I’ve been having a really hard time meditating, and I can tell it's starting to affect me. No matter what I do, I just can’t get my mind to settle. Do you have any advice?” Ahsoka asked, nervously trailing off at the end. Obi-Wan hummed as he brought two steaming mugs into the common area, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “Well, from what I remember with Anakin, he always seemed to do better when he had something to pour his excess energy into. It’s a little trick called ‘active meditation.’ Sometimes focusing the mind on an activity is what is needed to bring clarity. You could try finding a small, repetitive task that you enjoy to do while you meditate. I bought Anakin a beginner’s droid-building kit and it worked wonders. Not so challenging that it would take all of his concentration, but enough that he would have something to center himself. You could try something like drawing, or dance? Whatever feels right to you.”

Anakin had never told her about that, but after witnessing his restless energy over the course of her apprenticeship, Ahsoka supposed it made sense. She took a sip of her tea as she mulled over Obi-Wan’s advice. Ahsoka wasn’t totally convinced that it would work, but ultimately decided that, out of respect and trust in Obi-Wan, she would at least try it. “I don’t really know what I would do, but I guess I could try it, Master. I’ve never heard of this before, does it really work? Is it--” she paused, searching for the right word, “-- allowed? ” Obi-Wan smiled fondly, patient and understanding as he answered her questions. “Oh yes, in fact many knights and masters practice both active and traditional meditation, depending on their current needs and state of mind. Many practice katas, but others have found the arts conducive to achieving peace and mindfulness. I--” He was interrupted by the shrill beeping of his comm on the other side of the room. Obi-Wan excused himself for a moment and went to check the message, shoulders sagging as he read it. “I’m afraid an emergency meeting has been called by the council, I have to go. You’re a bright young woman, I’m sure you’ll find an activity that feels right. Please don’t hesitate to come to me if you have any trouble.” Ahsoka nodded and followed him out the door. They parted ways down the corridor, and Ahsoka changed course from her quarters toward the entrance to the temple, hoping a walk would help clear her head.

Ahsoka strolled through the streets of Coruscant, contemplating her grandmaster’s words. She did always excel when working with her hands. Learning mechanics and ship repair with Anakin had been easy, her deft fingers learning the intricacies of the movements with ease. The more she thought about it, the more Obi-Wan’s advice made sense to her. He’d clearly only wanted to help her, and his voice had held none of the judgement and disappointment she had feared when she first knocked on his door. If her grandmaster thought this… “active meditation” would help, then she would give it her best try.

She knew some of the clones had taken up a form of weaving, making small accessories like socks and helmet liners with just a couple of sticks and some yarn. When she’d asked about it, they’d told Ahsoka it relaxed them and that it was the process that was important, the finished product was just a bonus. It certainly had an appeal, but Ahsoka couldn’t see herself finding much enjoyment out of fiddling with some sticks and string. Her thoughts drifted to her master, who seemed to always be in reach of some half-finished mechanical heap. Often during long, boring meetings she had noticed him quietly building and taking apart small mechanical components. Ahsoka enjoyed mechanics plenty, but a lot of her duties in the GAR involved ship and droid repair, and she wanted her meditation to be an escape from her day-to-day life, not really an extension of it.

Deep in her thoughts, Ahsoka almost didn’t see the event board as she passed by it. Most of the flyers were uninteresting-- some speeders for sale, a lost tooka notice, and war effort posters covered a majority of the board, however there was one advertisement in the corner that caught her eye. Free Beginner’s Pottery Class  it read, in bold lettering at the top. On the bottom of the page was a comm frequency and information on where and when the class would be held. Memories of wandering the temple halls as a youngling, soaking up the beautiful art and artifacts on display quickly came to the forefront of her mind. She remembered staring in awe at the intricate designs and shapes of the vases and statues, amazed at the detail. Ahsoka checked the date on the flyer, smiling when she noticed that the class would be during her leave. Snapping a quick holo of the relevant information, she turned away from the event board and made her way back to the temple.

Senior padawans were allowed to come and go as they pleased during their free time, so while Ahsoka wasn’t  technically sneaking out, it sure did feel like she was. She opted to take one of the lesser known exits in the temple, the knowledge of which had been passed down in her lineage specifically for troublemaking. Logically, she knew no one would care if they found out where she was going, but Ahsoka wasn’t quite ready for anyone to know about her potential new hobby yet. Soon she reached the end of the corridor and stepped out into the cool Coruscant night.

The rec center hosting the pottery class was only a few blocks away from the temple, so it wasn’t long before Ahsoka entered the small, modest building. She followed the small signs indicating where to find room 137, where the class would be held. Pausing outside of the door, she could hear quiet, relaxed chatter coming from inside. Ahsoka gathered herself and opened the door, scanning the room for an open workbench. Ahsoka found one near the door and walked quickly over to it and waited patiently for the class to begin, hoping she looked more confident and at ease than she really felt.

A few minutes later, a friendly Rhodian woman made her way to the front of the classroom and cleared her throat. A hush fell over the students, eager to receive instruction. “Hello everyone, I see we have some new faces, welcome. I am Meeqkrik Vunu, your teacher for tonight. This week, we’ll be making mugs. They are pretty easy to do, a perfect opportunity to get creative with your design. Your work tables are already cleaned and set up for you, so go ahead and grab some clay from the cabinet to begin.” Meeqkrik’s soft voice instantly put Ahsoka at ease. She reminded her of the Creche Masters at the Jedi temple-- approachable, understanding, and patient, genuinely happy to be here teaching her students. Ahsoka followed the others to an open cabinet on the left wall of the room and scooped up a handful of clay. Once everyone had their clay and settled back at their work benches, Meeqkrik began her instructions. The soothing cadence of her words helped Ahsoka relax, and soon she found herself enjoying the process. It was easy to get creative and let loose in the calm atmosphere of the little classroom. As her hands performed the small, repetitive tasks, Ahsoka’s thoughts flowed freely and she let them go into Force with an ease she hadn’t had since she was a youngling. Smiling to herself, Ahsoka realized that once again, Master Obi-Wan’s advice had been spot-on.

Once she had the basic structure of the mug done, Ahsoka sat back and tried to come up with how she wanted to design the mug. She looked around the room, analyzing what her peers had chosen to do with their mugs. Most were carving small motifs on the side, some abstract, some familiar shapes, like the tooka the young human in front of her chose. A twi’lek towards the front of the room had made the body of his mug mimic a tree trunk and shaped the handle to look like a leaf, which Ahsoka thought was pretty cool. The unique design of the twi’lek’s mug gave Ahsoka an idea, and she quickly turned to work on her mug with renewed vigor.

An hour or so later, Ahsoka gingerly carried her mug to the front of the room where Meeqkrik was patiently waiting for their finished pieces. “Ah, an ambitious creation. Very well done, miss…?” “Oh, Ahsoka is fine Ms. Vunu, thank you. Where should I put it?” Ahsoka blushed at the compliment. “Just find an empty spot here in the kiln. We’ll have a painting session on Taungsday if you can make it.” Meeqkrik answered, gesturing to the large oven-like structure in the corner of the room. Ahsoka nodded her thanks, and carefully set her mug on the tray inside of the kiln. She then headed back to the temple, excited to finish her project on Taungsday.

The next morning, Obi-Wan joined her for breakfast in the cafeteria. “Good morning, Ahsoka. Have you had a chance to try active meditation yet?” he asked. She grinned, “Actually, I have. The rec center hosts free pottery classes, I went to one last night. It really helped, thank you. The creative outlet really was perfect for sorting through my thoughts” “That’s wonderful, Ahsoka. I’m glad it helped. What did you learn in the class?” Ahsoka could hear the pride in his voice when he spoke, and she told him about her exciting night out.

Ahsoka counted down the hours until she could return to the rec center, eager to paint her little mug. When Taungday evening finally came, she raced out the temple entrance, a stark contrast to her exit just a few days prior. She couldn’t quite hide the smile that crept up on her face when the rec center was in view, and quickly made her way back to room 137. Meeqkrik had their mugs on the counter up front, and a few other students were already working on theirs. “Good evening Ahsoka, welcome back. Your mug is here on the left, and the paints are over in the cabinet next to the clay. Take all of the colors and time you need, we have the room until closing.” Meeqkrik said quietly, and Ahsoka thanked her and went to gather her paint. She grabbed black, gray, blue, and a dash of red, then brought them to the nearest bench and set to work. It took Ahsoka almost until closing to finish painting, the finer details of her design taking patience she didn’t know she still had. When she was done, she brought it back to the kildn one last time to set the paint. Meeqkrik assured her she could swing by to pick it up at any time that ten-day, and soon Ahsoka was walking back to the temple, enjoying the brisk Coruscant night.

While Anakin was at the Senate building again, Ahsoka left to pick up her mug. It’s unique and familiar shape made it easy to pick out on the table set out for the pottery class. She gingerly secured it in the satchel she brought with her and sped back to the temple, hoping to make it there before her Master was due back. Relieved when she didn’t see his speeder parked outside, Ahsoka scurried back to their rooms. She made it just a few moments before she heard Anakin’s boisterous voice outside, most likely continuing his debate with Knight Secura about who had the better master. The door clicked open and Ahsoka heard Anakin step into the room. She tried not to fidget where she sat on the battered but comfortable couch, her excitement palpable. Anakin finally noticed her as he walked into the room. ”Hey Snips, do anything fun while I was out?” he asked cheerily. Ahsoka beamed, “Actually, yeah. I was having some trouble meditating, so I asked Master Obi-Wan for advice. He suggested I try something called ‘active meditation,’ and it worked! I took a free pottery class over at the rec center, and I made this!” she said, brandishing the mug from her bag. “Active meditation, huh? Well I’m glad it helped. You did a good job with the mug, the resemblance is uncanny.” he chuckled. Indeed, it was. Ahsoka had painstakingly painted every detail she could of their favorite astromech, down to the mismatching panels just above the right strut. “Thanks, Skyguy. I figured, since Rex keeps stealing your favorite mug by accident, you could use this one instead. It certainly can’t be mistaken for anyone else’s.” Anakin gently took the mug, looking it over with the biggest smile she had ever seen. “I love it. You’re the best padawan I could ever ask for.” He set his present down on the end table and swept her up in a bone-crushing hug, which Ahsoka enthusiastically returned. “Thanks, Master. I love you too.”

[icycream-catqueen]

Kindling (When You’re Burning Low)

Cinder would rather burn herself out than risk a low grade; fortunately, Neo knows how to make her relax.

Rating: T

Tone: Some angst, lots of supportiveness, and a fluffy ending

Word Count: ~5,000

Important Tags: College AU, Established Relationship

I was gonna post this before now but I had problems with writing it and I was nervous about participating in a ship week especially when I only have something written for one prompt, and also my cat was sleeping on me for five whole hours earlier tonight while I was trying to finish up and as everyone knows it is a crime to disturb a snoozing kitty cat. I hope it still counts. ^_^;

Considering it’s pretty long, I only have an excerpt (the first scene I wrote for this fic, actually) on this post; the whole thing is, of course, over on AO3!

On this fine Saturday afternoon, Cinder was taking advantage of the lounge in the dorm suite. The coffee table was half-claimed by various books and notes while Cinder herself was settled at the same end of the couch, her laptop perched on the arm of it and her right side pressed closely against the suede upholstery as she struggled with the perfect phrasing for her essay. Failure was never an option for her, and even the slightest error would lead to it when it came to this class. She was running on pure caffeine by now, from a supposedly unhealthy amount of coffee. This was her third or fourth solid day of being awake. After the first night, she’d moved her setup from her room to the lounge to help her stay more alert. Winter and Emerald had both tried to tell her what was best for her wellbeing, but she’d firmly shut down their arrogance; she knew her own limits, and she needed to get this stupid project done. Neo, thankfully, had been out of town from Thursday morning to last night, and when she’d come back to the suite, she’d trudged straight to her room and shut the door. Cinder had only seen a couple brief glimpses of her since. Just as well, considering Cinder couldn’t intimidate her into letting her be like she could to Emerald and Winter.

At the moment, Emerald and Winter were both out of the building. They’d each probably told her what they were doing, but she hadn’t bothered to remember it. Neo was apparently still asleep, which was a bit odd but not enough so to risk seeing the pitiful kicked-puppy expression that appeared when her sleep was disturbed. Still, if she wasn’t up and about in two hours, it would be worth it to check on her mental and physical health.

Speak of the devil, Cinder heard a door open behind her. She didn't bother to look, though, until she realized the shuffling footsteps were approaching the couch instead of the kitchen, bathroom, or shower. She took a brief glance, then did an immediate double take because Neo looked absolutely miserable. Her hair was unbrushed and her eyes were dull. The oversized black sweatshirt (which Cinder recognized by the fiery orange phoenix on the front as one of her own that had mysteriously vanished a few weeks ago) and the brown and pink plaid pajama pants were probably what she'd worn to bed the night before, and she hadn't even bothered to put on socks. It was worrying to see her in such a state.

"You certainly look worse for wear," Cinder commented. Neo pouted at her as she slowly made her way to the couch and sank to the cushions. Before Cinder could react, Neo flopped down, squirmed to lay her head in her lap, and rolled onto her back. "I'm busy," Cinder told her sternly.

Neo's response was a soft and pitiful keening sound. She fumbled to grab Cinder's left wrist, staring up at her with pleading doe eyes.

"Neo. I'm busy," Cinder repeated. Neo whined and tugged on her wrist, so Cinder rolled her eyes and stopped resisting, curious about what she wanted. She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but she was definitely taken by surprise when Neo gently guided her hand under the hem of her sweatshirt and pressed it against her lower stomach.

What is she trying to accomplish here? Cinder raised an eyebrow at the woman in her lap. Neo let go of her wrist to sign something at her. The odd angle made it hard to translate, so it took a few seconds for Cinder to understand what she was asking for and why.

"I suppose I can take a short break, if you're really in that much pain," she relented. "You're lucky you're cute," she added as she carefully activated her Semblance.

The reaction was instant. Neo sighed with relief at the warmth, eyes full of soft gratitude and affection. Cinder rubbed slow, small circles over her stomach, feeling the smaller woman go languid under her touch. After a few more seconds, Neo's eyes fluttered closed.

"Is this warm enough?" Cinder asked. Neo nodded, a content smile playing across her lips. "Just ten minutes."

Neo opened her eyes and pouted at her.

"There is a reason I've been awake for," Cinder checked the time on her laptop, "about eighty hours now." Neo looked positively outraged.

"You need to sleep," she signed—easily decipherable now that Cinder had gotten a little more time to adjust to her current perspective. Not that the message was very appreciated.

"No, what I need is to finish this ridiculous project so I can move on to my two remaining essays, do all the work for a 'group project' because the rest of my assigned group are immature and unmotivated idiots, and study for my three exams this week," Cinder retorted.

"When are your essays due?"

Cinder elected not to answer, since admitting the due dates were two and three weeks away respectively wouldn't help her against Neo's accusatory glare.

"Your group project?"

Okay, so maybe it hadn't technically been assigned yet and was scheduled to be due in a month and a half, but all the information was in the syllabus. Cinder's class was full of imbeciles, and somehow she always got stuck in a group with some idiot or another who didn't understand what a lesbian was, so she was getting it out of the way to avoid interacting with anyone.

"Are all three of your exams actually this week?"

Two of them, and one of those barely counted more towards the final grade in the class than a small quiz. Her continued silence was answer enough; Neo knew her too well.

"You're going to burn yourself out again." Neo's eyes were unbearably sad, so Cinder looked away.

"I'm fine," she dismissed the concern. A hand grabbed her chin and yanked her head down so her eyes met Neo's again.

"I watched you collapse in the middle of campus last year, and I almost got in trouble for pulling a knife on the paramedics to make them let me stay with you. I got a scared video call from Winter four months ago because you fainted in her fancy rich-person hot tub and nearly drowned," Neo reminded her. “Do I need to go on?”

"I can handle it this time," Cinder insisted, growing agitated. Neo took a calming breath before responding.

"No you can't. You always say it but you never can. You end up in an exhausted daze. You work yourself into a frenzy. You get into fits of rage...which honestly scare me."

"I would never lay a hand on—!" Cinder was cut off when Neo pressed a finger to her lips.

"Not for myself. I'm scared you'll lose control and take it out on yourself again," Neo corrected her. "You haven't in a while, but..." Neo trailed a hand down Cinder's left arm, tracing her scars.

"I just...I need to...I have to keep working. I can't let myself fall behind. I can't..." Cinder faltered. Neo sighed.

"I know," she acknowledged. She knew about the past, knew why Cinder relapsed into these desperate attempts to excel, to stay ahead. "But it's pointless if you destroy yourself trying."

"I've only ended up being sent to the hospital three times since I started college," Cinder argued. Neo was unimpressed.

"Congratulations! And you've managed to barely avoid hospitalization how many times now?"

"I—that isn't relevant!" Cinder hissed. Neo scowled.

"Really? It's not? How many times have you ended up so exhausted that you were bedridden for days? How many times have you gone into a mental decline because you were incapacitated? And how many more times are you going to make me watch you suffer like that?"

"If you want to leave me, just get it over with!" Cinder spat bitterly. Neo's eyes widened, hurt and shocked. Cinder flinched, realizing she'd crossed a very important line. "I didn't mean...I don't know why I said that."

"An abandonment complex, emotional instability, a mess of insecurities you mask with your ego, previous girlfriends who couldn't handle you or only wanted your body...and like I've been saying, you need sleep,” Neo replied, recovering. "Also, my cramps?"

"What?" Cinder realized she'd subconsciously deactivated her Semblance at some point and quickly remedied that. "Oh. Sorry."

"I'm going to make a deal with you," Neo informed her abruptly. Cinder raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"What kind of deal?"

"The 'ridiculous project' you're trying to finish. Tell me about it, and I'll explain," Neo replied. Cinder clenched her teeth at the mere mention of it.

"It's an assigned experiment, a five to ten-page report on it, and an oral presentation. And the professor hates me. He goes out of his way to make every class, every test, and every assignment hell for me. I have to work harder than anyone so he can't get away with failing me out of spite. If I make even one mistake..." she growled.

"When is it due?"

"The day after tomorrow. It was assigned two weeks ago, but three days ago he realized he 'accidentally' gave me the wrong experiment. In other words, he's making me do a two-week project within five days—after I'd already finished the one he previously assigned me."

"Watts," Neo guessed. Cinder had come back from his class angry enough times that it wasn't even a question.

"Yeah," she confirmed anyway. Neo wrinkled her nose.

"I already hated that guy, and I hated him more and more every time you came back from his class in a bad mood, but this shit he's pulling now is the final straw, so I'm going to get him fired," she declared. Cinder let out an amused huff.

"And how will you do that?" she asked. She didn’t expect an actual answer but Neo didn't even hesitate.

"It may include breaking and entering, small and well-placed incidents, a flat tire, some bottles of the expensive alcohol he isn't supposed to have on campus, a sedative, and if we're lucky, a little inadvertent assistance from gravity and Ironwood."

"Just how long have you been planning this?" Cinder was taken aback at the immediate response. Neo considered.

"The time you locked me out of your dorm after his class because you were so furious you wanted to hit something, and you were worried you'd see so much red you might accidentally hit me in blackout rage. You've never told me what happens in his class to make you so angry, or even if it's actually him or just another student—though I was pretty sure it was him—so I planned for both situations."

"I'm impressed," Cinder commented. Neo smirked. “Now what was that ‘deal’ you mentioned?”

"You finish the report for your project, then eat something more substantial than coffee and whatever quick snacks you've been living off of for the past few days. And then we go to my dorm and you get some damn sleep."

"How did you know I'm working on the report right now?" Cinder was taken aback. "And how do you know I haven't been eating?"

"Because I can see it on your computer. And once again, you've done this before, so I know you don't take the time for more than the minimum amount of food to keep hunger from 'distracting' you," Neo pointed out, almost accusingly.

"I haven't even started working on the oral presentation. I'll do all that after I'm completely finished."

"Nope. You can start that part when you're well-rested. If you make me physically drag you to bed while I'm on my period, I'll make damn sure you regret it," Neo threatened with a scowl.

“Fine,” Cinder gave in reluctantly. Neo smiled brightly, and dammit, it was nigh impossible for Cinder to stay bitter in the face of such genuine fondness, joy, and relief. She wondered when she’d gotten so soft—even if only a select few people got to see that soft part of her—and realized she didn’t even mind anymore.

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

Anxious Millennial Love

I couldn’t let this day pass without posting some fanfic love for the man whose become my favorite wrestler in the world. I’m not saying that he’s the best technically (although he’s pretty amazing and getting better all the time) but the combination of skill and nuanced character is unequalled. So here’s a fic in honor of birthday boy Hangman Adam Page. Happy trails, cowboy. 

Pairing: Hangman Page x reader

Word Count: 1,576

Warnings: None really. Other than that it’s pretty angst-y. 

The alcohol selection here isn’t great, to say the least. A few mainstream beers that all tasted the same, cheap spirits for mixed drinks and a couple of low-to-mid-range bottles for those who insisted on drinking straight up. And the atmosphere is pretty lousy. There’s always a small crowd and it’s not what you’d call a full-on dive, but an air of depression just permeates the place, rising like a mist from the eyes of the people in it. You’d never come here with your regular friends, that much is certain. You’re the cheery one, the plugged-in one who always knows what’s happening around town, where the hot spots are and where to be seen. You got your job at AEW because you knew all these things. You’re an Event Coordinator, which means that you’re in charge of everything from press conferences to team dinners. With everything in lockdown and all the shows happening in Jacksonville, you feel like you’ve been demoted to a glorified travel agent but given how many of your friends have been laid off, you know you’re one of the lucky ones.

“Just keep an eye on the kids,” was the instruction Tony gave you. Make sure they all had places to stay and make suggestions as to where they could go so that at least tracking their activities wouldn’t be too difficult.

Only one of the “kids” ever comes here, though. The rest cycle through the small number of places you’ve recommended. They’re not thrilled about it but they get it and they’re all happy to spend time with one another. He, however, needs to separate himself and take some time alone. So you’d suggested this place to him and hadn’t mentioned it to anyone else. A quiet bar with the basics and little likelihood of getting picked out by fans. He’d been shyly appreciative of the suggestion and the grateful look in his eyes had practically melted you.

So you’re sitting here, doing your job by keeping an eye on the company’s prize asset, the one who’s quietly become the most beloved character on the show: Hangman Adam Page. You know that the others have gone to dinner at the hotel and that a few of them will be hitting the bar there afterward, so you’re just doing your job by hanging around in the shadows of the bar where the Hangman has come once again to drown his sorrows. You’re just doing your job.

Except that never in history has a job coordinated so perfectly with what you’d choose to do anyway. You’d happily spend your time doing nothing but trailing after the Hangman. From the first time you laid eyes on him, you were done for. It was that combination of strength and pride with vulnerability. The anxious millennial cowboy indeed. You’d immediately let yourself get lost in those crystal blue eyes and you still couldn’t find your way out. So, sure, you were doing your job by keeping an eye on him. That’s what you told yourself. That’s what you told him on all the nights when you swept in to gather him up and take him back to the hotel. Just your job.

Seeing the time, you slide from the booth where you’ve been hiding with the same beer you ordered when you came in over an hour ago. It’s nasty and flat and you’ve barely been able to stick your tongue in it to give the impression that you were consuming. But it makes decent bait, so you bring it with you as you approach your target.

“Hey,” he mumbles, looking genuinely pleased to see you. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Well I just got here,” you lie. “But I don’t think I’m going to stay long.”

He pivots on his seat and gives you that sweet drunken smile, the smile that turns your skeleton to dust every time you see it. He’s like an angel with his soft golden curls and cherubic face, so powerful and yet so in need of protection. You don’t know exactly what it is that’s been troubling him all these months, the tension between him and his Elite brethren, the retreat into alcohol, the conflicting ways in which he constantly seems to be reaching out to people and isolating himself. Whatever it is, you just want to gather him up and shelter him from his demons. You want to be his safe space and sometimes, you think you are.

You push your barely-touched glass towards him and he eagerly accepts, draining almost half of it at once, then looking embarrassed when he burps.

“A bit too excited there,” he explains, blushing.

Nevertheless, he downs the rest of the glass in his next gulp, smiling when no bodily reaction shows up to humiliate him. He beams at you, eyes unfocused, and holds his arms wide, inviting you in. You couldn’t think of refusing.

As soon as you step closer, he enfolds you in his arms and pulls you against his chest. You wrap your arms loosely around his neck, admiring the sight of him staring up at you, inebriated and innocent.

“How do you always know where to find me?” he drawls.

“That’s my job,” you joke in response, saddened when you see that he believes you.

He runs his hands up your back and pushes his lips against yours, soft and needy like always, his tongue finding its way into your mouth and your movements growing more passionate until you’re forced to pull away.

You smile, seeing your lipstick smudged on his mouth and move to wipe away the mess with your sleeve. He just stares at you with affection and doesn’t react, like he doesn’t care what you’re doing as long as you’re there with him. He’s always so vulnerable looking when he’s like this, always seems like he just needs to be held and told that things will be alright, that the world is not as angry and brutish as it appears. You desperately want to reassure him, but what could you even say? You’re not any more hopeful than he is. But feeling his arms around you makes things a little better because he is proof that there are beautiful, incorruptible things in this world.

“I think it’s time I get you back to the stables, cowboy,” you tell him.

“Cowboys don’t live in the stables, silly.”

“Well then it’s time that I take you back to wherever the cowboys go.”

He pulls you close and kisses you again, fervently but also softly, needing you while at the same time showing how very much he appreciates you. Perhaps, if you were a better person, you’d just take him back to his hotel room and tuck him in before heading back to your own place. On top of all the other things that are obviously plaguing him, he really doesn’t need you raising questions about the kind of relationship you have.

But you’re not that person. You don’t need alcohol because you’re so drunk in love with him that no number of step-programs could save you. You run your fingers through his hair and feel your heart flutter. Then you take a step back, which he correctly interprets as a request to rise to his feet. As he does so, he pulls you in again and plants the most sensual, wonderful kiss you’ve ever had on your lips. You want it to go on forever. You want music to kick in and see credits roll. You want to believe that this is the moment where you’ve truly discovered each other and that you’re about to step into the world of happily ever after.

It isn’t. Tomorrow morning he’s going to wake up with the same sheepish expression he always has. He’s going to slink guiltily from your apartment and back to the hotel so that he can pretend it’s where he spent the night. You’ll be left reclining in a bed redolent of sex, still hearing his whispers of passion in your ears, still feeling the trail of his touches over your body. You’ll try to shake the heavy weight of your feelings off and you’ll fail but do just enough to allow you to get up and continue with your day.

Maybe it would be easier if you couldn’t tell he had feelings for you. Maybe if you could look in his eyes and see someone who just wanted a place to relieve his sexual tension, you could burn away any emotions he stirred in you. Maybe if he were an asshole like a lot of the men in this business are, you’d be better off. But every time he drunkenly declares that you’re the best thing in his life, the only thing that makes him feel better, and even when he retreats hung over and shame-faced from your bed, you know that his feelings go far beyond the desire for a casual hook-up.

Gathering you close against him, he whispers hoarsely into your ear, “Take me home. I need you to love me right now.”

And so you slide away just slightly, grasping both of his hands in yours and leading him towards the exit. Some day, you promise yourself, you’re going to force him to open up, you’re going to make him explain the specters that haunt him and make him realize that love can overcome them. But it probably won’t be tonight.

[stardust-and-blades]

Coma

klance drabble 2 from insta: Keith is in a coma from a mission gone wrong and the team is not sure he will make it

pairing: Keith/Lance fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

---------

Keith cannot fully remember what happened on the mission. All he can recall in the moments of waking up is him setting up a bomb, getting trapped in said room until Pidge hacked the system, and a flash of light as he neared an escape ship. 

He isn’t sure how long he has been out. All he is sure of is when he did come to, his head was wrapped up, cradled by a soft pillow. A blanket is draped over him, scratchy but somewhat warm. There is a quiet beeping in the background, no doubt registering the easy pace of his heartbeat. 

He felt like he slept a thousand years. His body is stiff from its stance, his spine aching to move into a different position. Keith tried to move his legs, but the most he can move is his feet. His shoulders even feel like he was strapped to blocks of lead. 

Except when his vision merged two into one, he registers he is not alone. 

Shiro is on a chair pulled up on the left side of Keith’s bed. His chin is resting against his knuckles, a forgotten book falling off his lap and his white hair in his face.

Hunk is on the opposite side, he too asleep with Pidge on his lap. Pidge’s glasses are slipping off, drool leaking onto his jeans. 

And Lance. Dear Lance has Keith’s hand in a death grip, afraid if he lets go keith will too. Becoming an anchor for Keith’s titanic spirit. 

He does not know where his mother and Allura are. Keith guesses she stepped away for a second, her blade jacket on a nearby chair. Maybe Allura is checking on his vitals with the doctors since he just woke up. 

A little slow from the drugs, he weakly squeezes Lance’s hand. 

His voice is raspy when he speaks, a desert without an oasis.

“Lance?”

It has been months since Lance has seen Keith awake. Since they talked, the two giggling underneath the sheets of their shared bed. Since they travelled to a far off planet for a date, lance trading keith that he wasn’t as fast as he used to be now that Lance had Red.

Since the mission the group went on. One that left the team scared shitless as they watched from their lions the enemy ship go up in raging flames. Lance had flown down to the wreckage as soon as it was clear, his heart a hammer in his chest as he flung Red around in a frantic search. 

It did not help his fear when he saw the escape pod empty, and for a moment—a black hole of a second—he believed they were too late. 

But Red hummed in his head of assurance, her thrum guiding him to floating red armor scratched and bent, but Keith breathing.

But while Keith’s body survived, they weren’t sure his head did. His helmet was extremely damaged, enclaves scattered about and the glass near to shattering. Allura said he was lucky. The doctors skeptical. But the team remained hopeful. Even as days turned to weeks. Weeks into a month, when sure enough six months had gone by since the incident. 

The day prior the doctors said there was a 70% chance he would never wake up. They said it was their call to pull the plug or not, slightly intimidated by the death glare Krolia gave them. 

Lance is glad they held onto their hope despite the odds, for he almost burst into tears as he met soft violet jewels, Keith looking like hell but nevertheless, alright.��

“Holy shit,” he exclaims, rising from his place and immediately checking his body, warm palms cupping his cheeks and combing through his hair. “You’re awake! Oh my god, Keith you’re awake!”

“I know.” Keith rasps, amused. He leans into Lance’s touch, recalling the last time they were like this, Keith was being kissed upon his brow and promising he’d be back in barely an hour. 

Keith kisses the inside of Lance’s palm, closing his eyes. Bathing in the attention. But he couldn’t keep them closed for long, for Lance quietly asks him to not go back to sleep.

“Please don’t go back to sleep,” he says, his lids burning. “Please stay a little longer. It has been...it’s been rough.”

Keith stares at him, noting the lines under his eyes. The dark circles. His chapped lips, and how his beautiful glow dimmed into a meek semblance. 

Lance isn’t okay, no matter the masks he puts up. 

Keith pulls him in, wrapping his arms around his thin frame. Lance nuzzles underneath Keith’s chin, listening to the sweet beat of his heart. It is music to his ears. A symphony compared to the nightmare silence he had been dealing with. 

To the day they brought him in, mangled, worn, and as white as death’s bones. 

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

“Keith!” Lance dove for Keith as Red opened her mouth. He activated his jetpack, pushing himself to snatch the collar of Keith’s armor. 

“Hang on, love. You’re going to be okay.” Lance settled Keith’s limp body gently. He moved his hair away from his eyes, silently hoping those dark lashes would flutter open and tell him the blood sticking to his curls was “just a scratch”.

But when Lance got him to a medical cruiser, all was not sound.

“The impact caused severe trauma to his brain. It has swelled to a significant rate and, at the moment, has affected his brain stem.” The doctor stated, overlooking the medical papers as the group digested the information in the waiting area. 

“You say he was in an explosion?”

“Yes. He was meant to be in an escape pod when the bomb detonated.” Pidge explained, hugging herself and avoiding eye contact. “But he was trapped. I had to get him out. I thought he...I thought...”

The doctor switched from technical to sympathy, alert of her distress. “The swelling may go down and he could wake up. There is a chance when he hit it, the helmet took most of the brunt.”

“But?” Lance asked quietly.

The doctor sighed. “But there is also a chance that his reticular activating system—the part of him that alerts and wakes him up—may be too damaged.” He paused. “The fluid is pushing up against his skull. It may even be bleeding. At this rate, there is no telling he will awaken.”

“What do you mean no telling?” Lance snapped. “You’re intergalactic doctors. Don’t you have a way of fixing this?”

“The mind is a sensitive organ. No matter the species, tampering it can be deadly.”

Lance veered to Allura. “Is there anything you can do?” Lance begged. “Anything? You healed me once. Can you heal him too?”

“I...I can try.” Allura said, hesitant. “But Lance...please be prepared in case...in case I can’t. With you, it was your body. With Keith, it’s more fragile.”

When Allura went in and came out, Lance sat down and put his head in his hands. There was nothing to do but wait. 

And as time went by, Lance practically became a resident of the hospital Keith was transferred to. He was closely monitored, but every time they would finish tests, every time a doctor would come out of the room, the update remained the same. 

Each time Lance would nod, walk in with a book in hand, some flowers, and sit there holding Keith’s hand. He would set up Keith’s favorite flowers in a case, aware he promised some on their next date. He would read to him, hoping if he could give anything, he could give keith an adventure only he can hear, and an escape for Lance. 

Yet even as months went by, pages of the books would be spotted with tears. The group would come in every week, but not nearly as much as Lance and Krolia.

Occasionally, if Lance was really struggling, the doctors would give him family status and let him stay the night alongside Krolia. He would always be found on the same side, holding onto Keith’s hand and conked out hunched over the mattress. 

Upon awakening, he’d pray to the Gods before he opened his eyes for the hand to be gone and the sleeping beauty alert and dressed, waiting to give Lance a soft smile.

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

On the morning Keith woke up, the doctors suggested pulling the plug. 

Lance nearly lost his mind. 

“The hell we are giving up on him!” Lance yelled, baring his teeth and shoving his body in front of the doctors as if they were the many galra soldiers they fought. “He still has a chance to pull through.”

The doctor lowered his voice, quietly talking to Lance and the nurse raised her eyebrows, used to Lance’s calm demeanor. 

“We understand. But with all the monitoring we have done, he shows no signs of getting better.”

“You said his swelling went down.”

“It did. And that’s good. But with how big the blast was, it...isn’t enough. His scans have been the same for the past six months.”

“He is literally still breathing!”

The doctor bowed his head. “That may be, but while his body lives, his brain could very well be...gone. The probability of him waking up has decreased.” He looked up to krolia, who stood behind Lance, brushing her fingers through her son’s hair. 

“You’re his mother, correct?”

“Yes.” She said, keeping her gaze on the sleeping boy.

“It is ultimately up to you on what you believe is best for your son. Whether to keep him here and hope, or...” he glanced at the heart monitor. “To let him go.”

“Krolia, come on. He’s your kid—the one who throws himself in front of danger to protect others. The one who got you out of the bad situation you two were in when you met. The same one who gave you a chance and fought nearly every blade member to prove himself. you know he’s a fighter. You can’t give up on him!”

Krolia said nothing. 

“Krolia, please. He can do it. I feel it in my gut. Please.” 

She waited a few ticks before answering. When she took in a breath and opened her mouth, he waited for the guillotine to fall or the pardon to be announced.

She was not able to spend the most time with her son. It wasn’t so long ago they reunited. For Krolia to take in she was meeting a fierce man, not the vulnerable baby boy she held in her arms. He had grown up. And she missed it all. 

Missed his tiny snores as he slept in his crib while her and his father laid nearby. Missed his first walk, where he waddled to a waiting father coaxing for him to make it. Missed his first words, the earth word “papa” easily coming out of his mouth rather than the sweet sound of him calling for Krolia. 

Missed his first day at school. Missed his first birthday. Missed his laughs and smiles. Missed the first time he road a vehicle, even if it was stolen from the garrison. Missed his first fight, his first friend, missed his everything.

Krolia missed so much of his life, and just when she was about to gain a taste of what she was absent from, it was ripped away from her grasp. 

Many times she had let go and let the universe make the decisions for her. Allowed obstacles to form. For bridges to burn. For paths to diverge.

But this time she would not stand for it. Would not relinquish her right as a mother. To abandon her beloved boy again, not to the destiny of a paladin, and certainly not to the end card of a fallen warrior. 

He was her son. He, like her, would fight tooth and nail to be alive. 

The world may give up on him. But Krolia would not.

“Lance is right,” she said, standing. “Regardless of the situation, regardless of the results, my son is not dead. He lives, both mind and body. It may be a percentage, but it is not zero. You will not unplug my son. Not unless he breathes his last breath and the monitor goes straight.”

Lance almost cried from those words.

Almost. 

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

“I’m not going anywhere.” Keith says, petting Lance from the top of his head down to his back. “My head hurts, but I’m here. Don’t worry.”

“Please stop being so reckless, it’s bad for my health.” Lance half jokes.

“I was only out for, what, a couple weeks?” He looks around, seemingly searching for a calendar. “How...how long have I been out?”

When Lance tells him, Keith is left speechless. A gaping fish out of water. And each detail Lance went into, the hold on keith tightens. If he wasn’t so scared of losing Keith, he could’ve crushed his ribs. 

“Wait, so if I was brain dead according to the doctors, how am I awake?”

Lance shrugs. “I don’t know. One moment you’re almost gone, the next you’re waking me up. I thought I was dreaming.”

“It’s...a miracle. I don’t usually believe in...miracles.” Keith absently began toy with the bandage around him, feeling for anything that could have caused him to defy the odds. 

“Maybe it was true loves kiss.”

Keith gave Lance a questioning look, to which he answered back with a mumble. 

“What?” Keith doesn’t hear him. Lance is stubborn in answering, prompting Keith to poke his side. “What is it? I just woke up from a coma, no secrets.”

“It’s cheesy.”

“Name one moment Pidge didn’t say we were cheesy.”

Lance purses his lips. “Point taken.”

“So?”

Lance dramatically sighs, burying his face in Keith’s neck. “I used to kiss your forehead before I left. You know, like when we got up in the morning.” 

Keith can recall those moments as clear as day, and he melts. And he can also recall, though it is covered in muddy waters and an echoing train station, a hint of someone talking as he dreamed away. 

He had no concept of time. No idea he was comatose, stuck in a state between life and death. 

He thought he was already awake. Believed based on the vivid sense of crisp hot wind caressing his cheeks, the sweat on his brow, and the overwhelming clutter of his father’s shack. Moments where his mother care by, his friends visited, and he road around on his motorcycle with Lance behind him.

He had no memory of the accident. Of being a paladin, for all that mattered was the days mirroring reality. When you dream, you forget you are in a dream. Convinced you are well. Normal. At peace.

But there were times when he was doing these normal things he heard a voice in the distance. His dream would become background noise. The faces of those he loved blurred and froze, a computer frozen due to an error. 

He would close his eyes and listen. Take in the far away voice speaking tales of adventure and woe. Keith would wonder how such a phenomenon could happen. How the disembodied stories sounded so much like his Lance when he was right beside him. 

It defied all logic. But he couldn’t help but disregard it, for who spoke to him was sad. He would be slow in his speech; a veil covering the truth with beauty to hide pain. And when the stories ended—when his dreaming began to resume and he fell once again to his injury—something soft kissed his cheek.

His forehead.

His nose.

His lips. 

It wasn’t all at once. The kisses would be different, depending on the day. Some days keith went without them, not being aware of their absence until it happened again. 

Afterwards there would always be a strange sensation in the back of his mind. Like he had forgotten something. Like he had a mission to complete, even if he wasn’t sure what that mission was.

He had to go home.

But...he was home.

Wasn’t he? 

It wasn’t until his surroundings began to fade away did he fight. 

Before he was lingering. Convinced the lie before him was reality rather than fantasy.

But then he stopped hearing his friends. Their faces became distorted, their features morphing into blobs than the stark angles and shapes ingrained in his memory. Their conversations became jumbled, a scratch in a CD that kept playing the same verse or skipping three songs all together. 

His home lost pieces of its defining features. The bookshelves melted away. The pictures on his walls shattered. The ground beneath his feet no longer was solid, holes popping up from corner to corner. 

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t understand what was happening. 

Until he heard two very distinct voices.

Two very important people.

“My son, it is time to wake up. Wake up, my boy. I want to create more memories with you.”

“Keith, please wake up. We promised to see each other again. So I can tell you I love you.”

I love you.

I love you.

For that, he snapped out of his state of oblivion. His world was crumbling away. What he knew became dust. But as it did, he forced himself to fight the sensation for him to close his eyes. He clawed his way through the ruins of his dreams, refusing to be sucked in my death.

He refused to die. 

Somehow—he didn’t know how—he grasped a white ledge. It glowed, beckoning for keith to approach it. To touch it. 

The tips of his fingers barely grazed it when he was thrown back into his body, his consciousness gradually returning. 

He was numb all over.

But at least he could touch and talk to his Lance. The real Lance. 

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

Krolia had been searching all of earth—the entire galaxy—for a way to heal her son. She, a member of the Blade who faced numerous ruthless enemies and an entire space war, was breaking down from the stress.

If she could choose what battle to face, she would rather fight a thousand galra enemies than the potential loss of her child. She would rather feel the cut of a sword or spark of an energy orb than the mental waterfall of suffering from the potential of the hospital bed being empty.

She was determined. In said determination, she enlisted Allura’s help, knowing if anyone could harbor ancient knowledge, it is her.

They just had to find the right planet. 

Or the right ripple in space.

“Do you really believe Oriande has the correct plant?”

Allura had her arms crossed, looking straight ahead. But while her posture was tense, her words were strong. “Positive. I don’t want to give false hope, but I know in my heart they have the answer. I’m sure of it.”

“You’ll be on your own. I can’t get in there.”

“I’ve done it once. I can do it again.”

“And if they deny you?”

“They won’t. Even if they did, I would break down their door.” She sealed on her mask, her glowing marks locked away. “Open the hatch, Krolia. I will be back soon.”

Krolia pressed the buttons, watching Allura carefully exit. Before the door closed, Allura gave her a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry, Krolia. You and your son aren’t alone anymore. I promise to bring him back to you.”

Krolia liked this Altean. 

It felt like a millennia before Allura returned. Krolia feared something had happened to the kind woman with pink marks, afraid she would have to deliver a morose message to her father figure.

But just as she was about to push the button to let her out and risk Oriande herself, the door flew open on its own to reveal an unscathed Allura. 

An allura with a light pink flower in hand, it’s petals decorated with sunshine orbs and it’s pollen a deep magenta. It’s roots were carefully removed from its home, no sign of wear and tear. Allura’s hands and face was covered in dirt, but smiled through the grime.

“It took some looking, but I found it. There was three left.”

“You have my thanks, princess.” Krolia bowed. “I am in your debt.”

Allura, no longer considering herself a princess, settled a hand on Krolia’s shoulder.

“There is no need for that with me. I am Keith’s friend, and a diplomat. I am not your superior, Krolia.”

She was right. She wasn’t her superior. But she was someone who was helping her son come back to her. To prevent him from entering the land of the dead. Allura does not understand how deep krolia’s appreciation lies. 

They arrived back at the hospital later in the day, Pidge’s new technology in tracking, speed, and performance proving to be her best work. They made their way into the room, the group completely conked out by Keith’s bedside. Allura had to sneak her way past Lance, his body taking up most room on his side and making it difficult for Allura to navigate. 

Krolia watched out for the doctors, ready to fight them in case they tried stopping her and Allura from their plans. 

Allura held the plant in one hand and touched the top of Keith’s head with the other, closing her eyes as she murmured in her altean tongue. Both her and the plant radiated a blue essence, it’s soft hue coursing from her to the unconscious boy. It was almost like a lullaby. 

A sound someone could sleep through.

A voice so welcoming, animals and species alike would sit down and listen until their eyes grew heavy. 

By the time Allura finished, the plant lost its glow. It’s color sapped dry. The remnant of it ever being alive was the single petal falling from the bulb of the flower. 

When Krolia and Allura return to check on his progress, she nearly collapsed in relief to see her son’s violet eyes brimming with life.

“Hey, mom.” He croaked, his throat raspy from being unused.

She smiled. “Welcome back, son.”

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

The rest of Keith’s friends are ecstatic he is no longer in a coma, spending most of the day catching up and giving keith many hugs. By nightfall, they left for home, saying they will visit him the next day when the doctors discharge him.

“Why can’t they let you out now?” Lance asks, the last to be asked to leave. “Your vitals are normal. Can’t you come home?”

“They have to make sure I am 100% okay. They don’t want me going home and then something bad happen.” Keith explains, squeezing Lance’s hand. “Go home and rest.”

Lance looks down at their hands, basking over it no longer being limp and unresponsive. 

“Maybe I can convince the nurse to let me stay. Be like, an alarm of sorts.”

“Lance, when was the last time you’ve slept in a bed? Did your skin care routine? Bathe?”

Lance upturns his nose. “Are you saying I STINK?”

Keith chuckles. “No, I’m saying you look just as bad as me.”

“Unlike you, who has been sleeping for months. It’s amazing I didn’t have to slay a dragon and fight through treacherous thorns for you.”

“And you won’t have to.” He motions with his chin. “Go. Sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Lance doesn’t move. His grasp on keith only tightens.

“Lance.”

“Do you need to pee?”

“What?”

“You haven’t gone in awhile. Or eaten. Do you need me to get you food?”

“I—no I’m fine. I ate when you did.” 

“Only five bites!” Lance says.

Keith lets out a breath, leaning his head against the pillow and leveling Lance with a soft but worried look.

“I haven’t eaten real food in awhile, it’s going to take time for my system to go back to how it used to. Just like with walking. I promise, I’m okay.”

“You made a promise last time too.” Lance whispers. Yes, Keith remembers the moments before the mission. His chest compresses from it; pained he broke his word.

“What is this really about, Lance?” Keith asks. Lance turns his head away, avoiding eye contact. But Keith reaches out, brushing a thumb against the apples of his cheeks. It is warm. Kind. Not a ghost lingering for too long when Lance couldn’t sleep for a week. Lance thought he would never feel this again. 

“Talk to me.”

“It’s nothing...”

“You know, when you’re sad or upset, I noticed your jaw becomes more apparent. A crease develops on your brow, and you force a smile,” Keith comments, causing Lance to bite his lip. “You’re doing that now.”

“I guess that’s why you’re in the Blade. You’re annoyingly observant.”

“It’s a gift.”

Lance gives a small smile, kissing Keith’s palm.

“If I start talking, I won’t be able to stop.”

Keith stares at him. Debating what he should do. Should say. Hating to see him suffer, wondering if all going through Lance’s mind is nightmares and illusions. Dark “what if’s” that would keep him up at night, defying Keith’s desire for him to slumber soundly.

He guesses it wouldn’t hurt for him to ask the nurses to let him stay. He is part of his family.

Keith moves over to the side, patting the space.

“Okay. Talk as much as you want. We have all the time in the world.”

Keith thought he wasn’t going to fall asleep since he had been in a coma for so long.

Him and Lance dozed off in each other’s arms. 

[what-soul]

Gender

It occurred to me while I was exploring the nature of this sense of yearning for a sort of “coming of age” story that I haven’t written anything about my sense of gender on this blog, something which seems to always be bubbling in the background even when I’m unaware of it. The last time I made serious notes about gender was at Sierra Tucson and soon after moving to Crownview, and was likely postponed due to needing to adjust too quickly and return to old coping mechanisms. I have an excerpt here I’ll copy from Sierra Tucson:

I’ve been thinking about gender identity as it relates to physicality and societal expectations. If I am male, I feel like that identity shouldn’t come exclusively from biology, especially concerning outliers. Thus it seems that gender as we truly define it is something more abstract; belonging to a group. But then, how is such a group defined if not ad-hoc, biologically inspired judgement? Perhaps it’s more useful to recontextualize gender as the identification with certain values. We might imagine a distant future where biological gender has been genomically removed, but people still fall into gendered categories (even a literal “man” or “woman” card, like a club membership) by taking a personality and values assessment test. But then, what are these values? What follows is a first draft from perceived societal norms and expectations:

Male:

Strength

Stoicism

Self-sacrifice?

Self-sufficiency/solidarity

Engineer

Protection

Confrontation

Direct

Outward

Honor

Female:

Elegance

Compassion

 Flexibility

Cooperation

Designer

Growth/nurturing -> support

 Indirect

Inward

Fairness

Notice that none of these are diametrically opposed; one person could have all these qualities, although such a person would be just short of perfect. These represent the values of a gender identity as well as the attitude/mindset. They are designed to fit with antiquated gender norms and are all positive qualities meant to empower any who embody them. This is not prescriptive, but descriptive, and no effort is made to make an explicit tie to biological sex. Additionally, qualities are made to be abstract. Qualities like “physical” v “emotional” implicitly dehumanize and are too close to reality to be appropriate values.

After a page of doodling I came to these values:

Strength | Elegance

Stoicism | Compassion

Structure | Flexibility

Independence | Cooperation

Protection | Support

Honor | Equality

I’m sure if I rooted through Journal 0 I’d find notes expanding this model, but I’m lazy.

Now then, I suppose I should explore my relationship to gender here, something I’m finding particularly hard to keep a train of thought about.

I can’t say gender has always been a complicated subject for me. I don’t recall having any particular interaction with it as a kid up to... we’ll say middle school. I think it really only became complicated when my asexual fetish branched out into transgenderism and the homosexual side of my bisexuality came out. I would often imagine myself as female with a male in fantasies - this didn’t so much cause me to question my masculinity as wonder what “masculinity” and “femininity” really were. In my head, the difference seemed superficially anatomical, but I got a distinct feeling there was something deeper to it.

I also questioned my gender identity as far as being trans goes, but at the end came to conclude that, for one, anatomical gender was irrelevant other than how it affects the perceptions of others and post-op transsexuals were deluding themselves into thinking physicalizing a fundamentally abstract part of their personality would somehow lead them to self-actualization. On the other hand, an easy counter-point was putting myself in the shoes of a female social scenario and recognizing that any such exchange made me uncomfortable; I didn’t like being treated “like a girl”. But then, so too did male social scenarios.

I became more and more aware of a deep discomfort when stereotypes were applied to me, such as remarking that my eating habits are “because I’m a boy”, or that I’m acting “just like a boy”. It felt wrong, alienating, dehumanizing even, not because they were technically inaccurate, but rather because they robbed aspects of my personality and placed them in a categorical identity I had no control over. For a while I felt some sense of pride when I saw how unlike the stereotypes I was, caring nothing for “football” or “cars”, but such an attitude has likely led me to my current situation; a lack of socialization with “male culture” and thus a stunted ability to make friends.

If I might go off on a tangent for a bit, I have this particular image in my head. When I lived with a friend, there was a grey cat named Sophie there. She was very odd to deal with, because it almost seemed like she didn’t know how to act like a cat. She was stiff, easily spooked, would stare blankly at toys or playful advances from the other cat, and loved nothing more than to lie down on someone’s lap where she didn’t have to move around. I’ve been told she was removed from her litter too early; essentially, she never had the opportunity to learn how to be a cat, and what resulted was this uncomfortable mess. I am that cat, “catness” being “manhood”.

Speaking of, I do remember always being incredibly uncomfortable with the word “man”, less so with “boy”, and that still seems to apply. I cringe every time I remember that I’m supposed to be a “man”. Is it fear of the expectations therein? A residual reaction to the inherent dehumanization of labeling?

I don’t think all of this is solely related to gender though; I get similar (though less pronounced) feelings when people comment on my race being causal to my personality. There’s just something deeply unsettling about people having these easy visual markers to tear off large chunks of your humanity before you can even speak.

As for my perception of the stereotypes associated with men, I suppose I should list those:

Strong, aggressive, teasing borders bullying

Smart or stupid, serious or clowns, usually overconfident

Ravenous appetite, a proclivity toward activity

Sports, cars, sex, money, fame, success

Competition, independence, invulnerable

Expected to self-sacrifice (stoicism, women and children first)

Heavy lifters, pull the weight, breadwinner, work yourself to death

Soldier, worker, grunt, slabs of meat

Big and bulky, powerful, threatening, hairy, smelly

Unrespectful of politeness (body humor, farts, burps are “funny”)

Dirty slobs, pigs or bulls, wrecking everything they pass

There’s a few societal roles tangled up in there (child, adolescent, adult, family-man) but you can get the general picture. As I write these I interpret only negatives, but it occurs to me that there’s nothing inherently negative about any of them (with some exceptions). Someone matching these stereotypes would think them either natural or even virtuous.

Uh... Back to my original motivation, exploring this sense of... disconnection or lack of finality with my gender. This feeling I can’t quite place. One that’s most strongly responded to this image:

... and others like it...

From what I can tell, the two main commonalities are “serious face” and “contrast” (young and old). The second image especially fascinates me because I can see the adult’s eyes shining through his child body. Something about that, unattainable levels of wisdom well beyond their years... I’d compare it to nostalgia, or even a longing for something to be nostalgic about.

I want a coming of age story set in elementary school featuring a main character who’s older than they appear. Am I looking for a role model? A transitional period between being taken care of and taking care of others? I want to feel small for some reason. Do I want to be masculine in the strong protector sense? I lack it as-is. Many of the things Satoru does are unthinkable for me simply because of my personality, things I wouldn’t mind doing but can’t because that’s not the imaginary self I’m roleplaying... Personality? Something to tinge what to me is a dull grey mush of a personality? Or happiness, belonging, connection, friends.

And then in anime, when I see boys shirtless

It’s not jealousy, or lust. I wish for a toned physique, and enjoy looking at theirs. But at the same time, I feel a counter-feeling of shame from wanting anything “manly” like well-defined muscles. I don’t want to be a “man”, yet I find myself wishing for just that.

I just want to be “me” without that being labeled.. Just “human” suffices, I think. (though I’ve had issues with even that...)

I keep thinking about writing some kind of story in which a girl wakes up as a boy and has to deal with everything that comes with. She’d be a kind of self-insert for me, in that neither of us knows what being a boy is like.