#we shouldn’t make a habit of it since it can kind of muddy the real world conversations going on

[hungergameshyperfixation]

“Those photos go hard”

No they don’t??? I’ve already ranted to the people in my life about this but all I’m gonna say is that they literally remind me of this:

That’s all I’m going to say right now, though I do have a lot of thoughts about not only real world politics but also comparing them to The Hunger Games (which is what I literally, hypocritically just did…which is why I mentioned it)

[insertsyscoursehere]

As much as I agree that she said things in the heat of passion, I’m more concerned about the fact that she stands by what she said in the heat of passion. The fact that she isn’t apologetic about wishing harm is far more of a pressing issue.

When I have a violent torture thought— and I do, because the people who have hurt me in the past have never been brought to justice despite having done what could be argued were literal crimes— my immediate next thought is a response with a mixture of concern and shame. Because as someone who wants to be considered a relatively “good person”, such thoughts seem contradictory to that sense of self I hold.

Sophie doesn’t seem to have chosen to reflect on her words, and instead has doubled down on her feelings of being justified. And despite all the hatred she receives on a daily basis, the persona she puts out of being a friendly and kind person (as she claims) does not match her actions here.

That being said, you’re right that anon hate, and especially violent anon hate, is NEVER okay. And while Sophie is perfectly within her right to react in whatever way she feels— it’s her tumblr after all— it doesn’t really help her case of trying to ‘educate’ others in a friendly tone. I personally find her research attempts quixotic, artless, and outright ignorant towards the voices of people from cultures surrounding such spiritual traditions.

SEAsain culture already has a difficult time as it is avoiding culture erasure. Things like this muddy the waters for RS scholars like myself who appreciate the diversity of the world, reducing culture down to extremes and monoliths that don’t exist in the culture they come from. I can’t really go further without becoming a white knight, so I’ll leave it to the voices of those who are directly affected on that front.

All in all, this entire situation was a clusterfuck and a headache from both sides. The anon, who I assume was anti-endo, was absolutely out of line and the violent words were really fucking gross. Sophie’s response was also gross. As someone whose system collapse (and reformation a year later) was caused by a man who cut us off from family and fakeclaimed our headmates into dormancy, which created total isolation ripe for abusing me, I would not wish this upon my worst enemies.

And the moment she felt the heat, she backpedaled and said her that was meant to mean she wanted the anon to learn a lesson and “come to their senses” about what she preaches. Either way, she wanted to inflict mental trauma on a subject for a specific goal. If this were face-to-face, both the anon and Sophie would have grounds to charge the other with threats of harm.

Again, while Sophie has the right to answer an ask, she has the option to delete it as well as turn off anon asks. This ask was arguably no different than any other death threat ask she’s gotten. This was a failure on her part to control her emotions, and considering her prolific habit of doing this, I’m not convinced that she’s willing to admit that she just wants to be angry and throw a fit online.

Why platform an anon and give them more fuel? I see no reason to give the faceless hater a voice and ammunition. And the sheer length of the post itself is another reason why I don’t find the idea of the heat of passion argument to be entirely viable. It takes time to write all of that out as well as to find the screenshots she did, and not once did she sit back and consider the consequences that could result from this, or perhaps to take a break and come back with a more level head.

At the end of the day, like I said, this situation was a garbage fire. The anon shouldn’t have sent hate and Sophie should’ve exercised self control. Since we ultimately don’t know who sent the ask, the only people we can focus our efforts on is Sophie. While there are people who want to resort to theatrics, which don’t do anything but make it worse, there are people who wanna call Sophie out on very real concerns over her conduct and mental state. Without her aggressor coming forward, we can’t focus on addressing the other party.

TL;dr— both parties were fucking awful and we can’t focus our attention on a perpetrator who hides behind the funny grey circle, so there’s only one focus we can face rn.

Don't fucking send anon hate it's really that simple.

And if you find yourself in the situation where you got anon hate or a hurtful anon (even if it wasn't necessarily anon hate), I'm sorry that happened to you.

Honestly, things may not have been worded the best and wishing harm on someone else is not okay, but also yall are really taking things that someone said in a moment of intense emotion way too personally.

I'm not saying it's okay to wish harm on someone. Isolation and ostracization are so incredibly traumatic experiences for anyone to go through. I've been there.

But also, it kind of looks like yall are literally trying to find things to be mad at now. Instead of acknowledging that someone said something in the heat of being upset or triggered, you... what? Further demonize them? Show how awful they are for having an emotional response to a death threat?

It's a very emotionally charged situation. People were and are hurt on all sides of this.

Can we at least put those differences aside to try to help each other for once instead of constantly tearing each other down?

[thiswasinevitableid]

Apple, Delight (Sternclay)

Prompt for the fourth was: Apple Orchard

Barclay has cinnamon sugar in his pores, he’s certain of it. The first of October means the crowds arrive in earnest to Amnesty Farm which, from late September to mid-November, becomes a center for fall fun. They don’t serve tons of food, but Barclay is in charge of what they do offer, his pride and joy being their apple cider doughnuts, which he’s made by dozen since eight that morning.

He’s ready to settle in for the night when he discovers he has less firewood than he thought. Ah well, Sass needs to go out anyway, a trip to the wood pile won’t kill him. 

Except, as he’s gathering an armful of chopped logs, Sass goes tearing off towards the orchards, dark fur disappearing into the shadows under the trees.

Barclay sighs, sets the wood down and starts off after him. It’s not like he can get too lost, since the farm is fenced in on all sides, but it’s supposed to rain tonight and he’d hate for him to be out in it. Plus, if he gets into the garden display again, Dani will be pissed. 

He passes the petting zoo, then the goat and sheep pens, smiling when soft clucks come from the chicken coop. They’re on a country road, so at night there’s no traffic to drown out the sounds of the farm and the nearby woods. Maybe some people find it eerie, but hes’ grateful for the relative quiet after a day of being in the kitchen. 

Skirting the end of the U-Pick Pumpkin Patch brings him to the apple orchards. There are also pear and cherry trees, but the apples make up the bulk of what they grow, and visitors are welcome to pick from designated sections. 

Now if only he could spot a wagging tail or hear a jingling collar in the midst of them. 

“Sass!” He whistles, but no shape comes bounding towards him. Usually when the dog fails to come when called, it’s because he’s chasing some poor squirrel or rabbit into the underbrush.

Which is why, when he hears a  distinctly human cry of alarm, Barclay jumps out of his skin before taking off towards the subsequent barks. 

He finds Sass directing his deep woofs at a man about Barclay’s age, with dark hair that was slicked back at some point but is now mussed, and a sweater and jeans that are far too clean for him to be a farmhand. When he gets closer, he realizes he recognizes the guy; he’d been in with his family earlier that day, and Barclay had just enough time to think he was hotter than the fryer before a new wave of visitors came to the counter. Given that he was there with a woman and  young girl, he’s gonna assume the guy is off-limits for flirting. 

“Sass, c’mon boy, heel.” 

The dog turns, lopes over to Barclay as he steps to the man and offers a hand. 

“Sorry, he’s a surprisingly good guard dog for something that gets distracted by butterflies.”

The man takes his hand, stands and brushes leaves from his sweater, “and he's terrifying to have bolting towards you out of the darkness.”

Barclay raises an eyebrow, “that's kind of the point of a guard dog. Y’know, keeping intruders out?”

“I’m not an intruder, I am a visitor who misplaced something.”

“We’ve been closed for two hours.”

“I’m aware. But the front gate was locked and I couldn't get anyone’s attention.”

“Because the staff who live here live out towards the back. That's why we put that phone number on the gate. '' He turns them back towards the cottage, Sass trotting happily in front of them. 

“Which would have worked perfectly. If the thing I was missing wasn't my phone.” The man holds up a smartphone.

“I mean, guess it’s good you found it, but you coulda used someone else's and let us know to look for i in the lost and found. Folds are good about bringing dropped stuff back to the main farm.”

“I considered that option but I might not have a job come morning if I did it that way.”

“Jesus, where do you work?”

“The FBI.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, pretty much.”

“That how come you were able to scale the fence so easily?”

The man nods.

“What kind of work do you do in the FBI?” He may as well make the most of having a cute guy walking with him. A little practice flirting can’t hurt. God knows he needs it. 

“I work for the, um, the UP.”

“....Holy shit, I didn’t know that was real, I thought they made it up for the X-Files.”

“No, though it involves far more dead ends than that show portrays. Oddly, Twin Peaks is more accurate to what I do.”

“Man, that’s fucking cool agh, shit” rain patters on the leaves, “please tell me you moved your car away from the gate?”

“Only a little.”

“Shit. Okay, you probably figured it out from wandering around, but we are literally on the other end of the property right now, and the golf cart is in the shop.”

“It’s, um, it’s alright, if you get me to the main route through the farm, I can walk back on my own and climb the fence. Again.” His tone suggests he’s already working through the logistics in his head. 

“Uh, if you aren't in too big a hurry, at least let me swing by my place and get you a raincoat?”

“Oh. Um, that’d be great. Thank you.”

They veer right and soon the cottage comes into view. He grabs some dry firewood while Sass waits on the step and the man rubs his hands together. 

Once they’re inside, the man turns to him and Barclay has to work to keep his focus on his words rather than the blue eyes and handsome face.

“May I use your restroom? I got a bit muddy.” He holds up his hands. 

“Just down the hall.” 

The man smiles, and Barclay starts building a fire as he walks away. There’s a ding, and he goes to check in case Mama needs something. But it's not his phone, it’s the other man's, glowing where he set it on the table. 

Hayes: I expect better than technical mishaps from you, agent,

Shit, he wasn’t kidding about work. And his other notification is showing thirty unread emails.

The water shuts off in the bathroom and he hurries back to the fire, is just getting it caught when there’s a groan behind him. Turning, he sees his guest running a hand through his black hair, staring defeatedly down at his phone. 

“I’m moving to the bottom of the sea.”

Barclay chuckles and the man looks a little embarrassed at being heard.

“If you want something closer to home, we're hiring seasonal help.”

“I’m sure it’d do wonders for my physique, if you’re anything to go by, but I doubt I’m cut out for it. I’m white-collar through and through, unfortunately. Sorry” he looks at the hardwood floor, “probably shouldn’t whine about my job, since you’re helping me stay dry instead after I committed at least two misdemeanors on your property.”

“It’s Mama’s, I just work here. And it’s okay. Though, uh, kinda surprised you wanna talk to some random dude on a farm about it instead of, like, your wife.”

“Wife?”

“The woman who was with you today? You came into the restaurant at one point.”

“Oh! No, that’s my sister, I came with her and my niece. Her opinion on my work troubles is to get a boyfriend so I’ll have someone to complain to.”

Barclay closes the fire grate slightly harder than he means to at that last sentence.

“Did, uh, did you all have a good time?”

“Very. Ellie, my niece, adored all the animals, and Lily comes here every year to pick out pumpkins for decorating the house. I, um, my favorite part was the food. Those doughnuts were amazing, as were the pumpkin scones.”

Barclay blushes; a cute guy complimenting his cooking tends to make him all fluttery.

“You thought those were good, then I got something you need to try. Uh, I mean, if you want to stay a little, if not I can get the coat and we can go.”

The man looks at his phone, then back to Barclay, “what the hell, things are under control until the morning. I’d love to stay. Um, may I dry my sweater by the fire? It got pretty wet just in the few minutes we were out.”

“Sure thing uh, Mr-”

“Joseph is fine.”

Barclay smiles, heading for the kitchen, but not before watching Joseph's shirt catch on his sweater and ride up, revealing honest-to-god cut muscle. Instead of asking if he can lick apple butter off his abs, he grabs the jar of said butter, the loaf of bread, and starts a kettle for tea. 

Soon he’s setting a plate and a cup of cranberry-apple tea un front of Joseph, who inhales appreciatively.

“Let me guess; you made all of this?”

“Yep, the apple butter is an old family recipe.”

They eat in silence for a few moments until Sass, roused from his spot by the fire by the smell of food, pads over to sit in front of Joseph and stare. When that fails to produce treats, he turns his puppy-dog eyes on Barclay. The cook makes him sit and shake before tossing him a small piece of bread.

“What kind of dog is he?”

“Bernese Mountain Dog and Rottweiler, we think.”

“Is his name short for something?”

Barclay smiles, “Sasquatch. He had huge feet as a puppy.”

“We have similar dog-naming habits.” Joseph pulls out his phone, “this is Nessie.” When he turns it, Barclay almost snorts tea out his nose, unprepared for the sight of a greyhound in a sweater decorated with tiny Loch Ness Monsters. 

“Believe it or not, she adores that sweater. Last time I took it off to be washed, she whined for an hour.”

“Awww” It’s an adorable image, but not quite as adorable as the thought of Joseph on laundry day, in pajama pants and one of Barclay’s shirts, hair still relaxed from a shower. 

“She’s a good girl.” He tucks his phone away, “I feel terrible whenever I have to travel for work; my sister can’t take her so I have to board her somewhere, and it’s just infrequent enough that she forgets the staff and is terrified of them anew each time.”

“We could always get her used to me and board her here, assuming she and Sass get along.” The offer is sixty percent out of the goodness of his heart and forty percent wanting to see Joseph smile. 

“You’d really do that?”

“The farm is secure, she’d have a playmate, and there’d be lots of people here looking after her. She’d sleep in the cottage, of course.”

Joseph gives him an inquisitive look, then glances down at Sass, who’s wagging his tail so hard he’s sweeping the floor.

“Sure, what the hell. Assuming they get along, the next time I have to go, she can stay here.”

They chat for awhile longer about books, cooking, and various farm mishaps, before Barclay reluctantly fetches the spare raincoat so they can get Joseph back to his car. 

“Doesn’t quite bring out your eyes the way that sweater does.” He murmurs, then tries to correct for the come-on with, “because it’s such a, uh, a nice sweater?”

Joseph stays close to him as he replies “I’d offer to trade, but I’m not sure any of my clothes could survive that broad chest.” He ghosts his fingers across Barclays shirt, “Though it could be fun to see them try.”

The walk to the gate isn’t nearly long enough, and he blushes when Joseph once again thanks him profusely for his help and his company. The walk back, however, feels like an eternity, one that gives him time to doubt the other man had any interest in him at all. 

But all that evaporates when he gets home. Because sitting on the table is a slip of paper with a phone number and a short message. 

For arranging dog playdates. And dinner next Friday if you’re interested.

-Joseph

And sitting just below the message is a small, precisely drawn heart.

[pynkhues]

If you're still doing prompts......Brio waking up/morning routine?

+ @packleaderluke‘s prompt from the kiss meme: lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up.

Set in The Centre and Circumference / Domestic Fic universe

One of the first things she learns about Rio – one of the first real true things, before they’re even living together, is that he doesn’t sleep.

Or, well, he does, but it’s in pockets and minutes, brief spells when the night’s at it’s thickest – little more than a shutter of his eyelids and an evening of his breath before he’s up again, his body long and alert in the dull light of her bedroom and then, later, the warm light of theirs. She figures its due to work, probably, or maybe fatherhood, or maybe it’s some combination of both of those parts of him with the addition of being just - - him too.

And the thing is, maybe Beth knows that too well, because it’s not exactly like she’s the best sleeper either.

It’s not like - - a thing exactly. She tells Rio it’s a part of being a mother of four - - or, more than that - - a mother with her three youngests barely having a full year between each of them, and she remembers that too clearly. Nursing Jane against her chest with one hand and soothing Emma in her crib with the other, Danny crawling at her feet, but then - - she hadn’t been the best sleeper before that either.

Knows that, more than anything, she’s just not especially good at turning herself off, and maybe that’s why it’s so easy to see that in Rio too. But then again, at least she can, she thinks, because Rio?

He’s always on.

She wakes when she feels him shift behind her, slowly, carefully, detaching himself from where he’s been spooning against her back, his broad chest gone, letting cool air lap at her pyjama-covered back. Clenching her eyes shut, only half-awake, roused by him, Beth scoots back across the bed, following him until she’s back against his chest, re-tangling her legs among his, and sighing, content, when he lets her.

Still, he huffs out a laugh, pressing his lips against the back of her neck.

“This gonna be a habit?” he hums, and Beth shifts against the sheets, adjusts, catches his arm before he can slide it off her, pulling it back around her waist.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mumbles into her pillow, voice thick with sleep, with the need to keep sleeping, and to keep him sleeping beside her too, and when his arm shifts around her waist, hands briefly squeezing her hips to hold her in place as he disentangles, Beth rolls over, fast enough he lets go, presses her front into his chest instead, and leans in to kiss him blindly, her eyes still closed and crusty with sleep.

She gets his chin which is close at least, she thinks, humming happily when he lifts her enough to actually meet their mouths, biting her lip until she parts them, his tongue pushing in. Her arms rise to circle his shoulders, and she melts into him.

“We don’t have the kids,” she mumbles, somehow, around his tongue, voice still hoarse, eyes still shut.

“We don’t,” he agrees, his hands finding her back, slipping up beneath her silk pyjama shirt to trace the knobs of her spine. It’s nice, she thinks sleepily, but then - - there’s so much to do today. She’d even written a list last night after Dean had picked up the kids and while Rio had dropped Marcus at Laura’s, pencilling in tasks for home and work, to help Annie organise Sadie’s birthday party, to help Ruby with the bakesale at Sara’s school. Already her mind is letting the day in, even if her body isn’t.

“I’m going to deep clean the laundry this morning,” she says, shifting closer to Rio, feeling the hard lines of his body press against her. She yawns. ��De-grout the tiles.”

She feels more than hears him laugh, his chest vibrating against hers as he noses his way to her neck, pressing his lips to her pulse point.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Beth hums, eyes closed still. “I’m going to throw out Kenny’s socks.”

They’ve been soaking in the laundry sink for the better part of a week, since they’d gotten soaked and muddy and stinky at his baseball game (it had rained hard) and she’d warned him that if he didn’t wash them before he left for his dad’s, she’d get rid of them. She sighs, pleased at the prospect of re-homing them in the bin and then - - oooo.

“And put in the new dryer sheets,” she hums, and Rio purrs against her neck, hands coming down to squeeze her ass, pull her into him as she rakes her nails down the back of his head.

“’m gonna fix the heat lamp in the bathroom,” he replies, and god, Beth thinks, wriggling closer, finally blinking her eyes open, she doesn’t think he could’ve said anything sexier.

It had been a weird thing to discover – although perhaps it shouldn’t have been – that Rio was handy. And not handy like Dean had been – because Dean had been handy too – just - - it would take him forever to actually do anything. All household jobs delegated low on his priority list, her day’s at home continually hindered by what he couldn’t find the time to do for her, only for him to simmer with slighted masculinity if she’d dare suggest she just call somebody out to fix it instead.

Something didn’t even have to be quite broken for Rio to tinker with it – an apparent expert in sanding down rough edges, fixing hinges, repotting plants, cleaning before dust could even really settle. God, even the heat lamp in the kids’ bathroom had only broken last night, and it had taken her basically taking her clothes off in the doorway to get him to leave it alone and come to bed.

And just - - there was something about not even having to ask.

Something about it that just made her feel - -

Cared for, she supposes, a sort of shy warmth spreading in her chest as she shifts her weight between him and her sheets.

“Then ‘m gonna clean the vent in there,” he adds, and Beth groans, delighted, the warmth in her chest spreading lower, making her hook a leg over his hip, only to gasp when Rio suddenly sucks hard at her neck.

“No hickies,” she whines, and his lips snap off her neck with a wet pop.

“No kids,” he tells her, looking up at her, and right - - she had told him that once, when they were still new, that hickies were acceptable when the kids weren’t there, but that had been back when she thought he’d get over giving them to her at some point. She rolls her eyes, letting him drop his lips back to her neck to finish the job, and she keens a little, squirms against him when he latches on to a particularly sensitive spot.

“Rio,” she moans, and he laughs, hands sliding up her back again, beneath the thin silk of her shirt, moving to the front to fiddle with the buttons. “We have things to do.”

“Oh, don’t play like you didn’t start this, mami,” he says, and okay, she thinks, head falling back when his lips ghost over her breast, he’s kind of got her there. After all, if he’s not going to sleep, there’s plenty else they can do in bed.  

[raichukfm]

To a confused anon: I’m here to offer my assistance, as best I can. As a fair warning, I have a bad habit of shoving my foot right in my mouth and coming off as an ass, but I promise that’s not what’s intended here. Also, I spent a lot of words on all this. If you don’t want to read a lot of words, scroll down past the break a bit and read the bolded bit, because that’s the most important part, I think. Also, anybody seeing this because they’re following me, this is here to show somebody else, so you can read it if you want but keep that in mind I guess.

Step one, as I am a real trans woman who happens to be gay, I can speak pretty authoritatively that this is gay. Because I’m a woman, and I like women. So it’s gay when I like cis women, and equally as gay as when I like trans women. If I hypothetically liked a cis man or a trans man, that wouldn’t be gay, and also I’d find out I was bi I suppose. If I liked someone that wasn’t a man or a woman I’m not really sure what word I’d use for that, but that’s not really the point. Sexuality, sexual orientation, and sexuality are complicated things. But, generally, what you are attracted to is someone’s gender. You may also be attracted to their sex, or you might not. It’s possible to be attracted to someone’s sex and not their gender. It’s possible to be attracted to someone because of an incorrect perception of their gender. It can be messy; real life is messy. Generally, people will define their own sexual identity in regards to their gender, because that’s what most people care more about in their identity. Usually, that aligns with sex, which is pretty cool, but when it doesn’t for someone, the person generally thinks of themselves as that gender that they are. That’s... kinda the point. So, if you were exclusively attracted to women, you would think yourself straight if you’re a man, and lesbian if you’re a woman, regardless of if you were cis or trans. Similarly, most people are attracted to gender; specifically, gender presentation. It’s by definition more visible than gender identity or sex, and also coincides with both, most of the time, though it can coincide with only one or neither, in other cases. You sort of have to learn or infer those. However, people don’t only care about gender presentation. (Okay, some people probably do.) Which has two major components: 1. People almost always care about a potential partner’s gender identity. It’s just a basic interpersonal thing, even if it doesn’t impact one’s preferences. And if there is a preference, it’s not necessarily a dealbreaker, but... If you like men, then finding out someone you find attractive is actually a woman would probably tamp that down a bit. For one, they are likely (although not necessarily) going to adapt their presentation to be less masculine in the future, but even beyond that... They’re a woman. That in itself can put you off. It’s also possible for that to interface with romantic attraction more than sexual attraction. And that’s okay. A good thing to keep in mind is that your feelings are just feelings. It’s possible for them to go against your self-concept, or have unfortunate implications. Feelings aren’t conscious beliefs. So if you’re attracted to someone for their sex, but aren’t attracted to their gender identity, that’s just an awkward coincidence. No more, no less. Don’t let it get to you, and don’t be a creep or jerk about it. If someone’s gender identity changes, or they come out to you as a different identity than you had previously thought, and that’s not congruent with your sexual or romantic orientation, that’s okay. It can definitely be worthwhile to stick together and see if it works out, because it genuinely might. But it’s also entirely legitimate to split up because of it. The thing is, if this was someone who you cared about, that shouldn’t go away even if your attraction does, so be kind and supportive. They might need distance, or you might, I’m no relationship expert, but do your best to help both of you through something like that. 2. People often care about a potential partner’s sex. This is not a controversy-free take, but it is entirely legitimate to be attracted or not attracted to a sex regardless of gender. That’s fine. Feelings are feelings. There is however, as in all things, an onus not to be a jackass about it. If you are attracted to cis women, but not attracted to trans women, just treat them decently, and turn them down nicely when you must. If you’re attracted to cis men, but not attracted to trans men, just treat them decently and turn them down nicely when you must. If you have a strong preference for or against a certain kind of genitalia or other sexual characteristic, that’s legitimate. But if you’re together with someone and then find out they’re not what you’re attracted to in some respect, you still have to be a good person about it. You don’t owe anybody affection, romance, or sex, but you have to be decent. That goes for physical features the same way it goes for habits, beliefs, anything else. I think what leaf brought up with the fetishizing thing is that a lot of the time the people who (loudly) care about a trans person’s sex treat this as, well, a fetish. And while I think it’s fine to fetishize whatever, a lot of the time that fetishization of a concept involves treating real, actual people shittily, reducing them to objects or . It’s not an inherent quality to caring about someone’s sex I use “care about” a bit broadly there, such that it doesn’t necessarily mean “have a preference about”, because some people genuinely don’t have preferences about gender identity, or about sex, or about either, but still wouldn’t really disregard those. This is maybe muddying the water a tad, but oh well. This is mostly focused on binary gender identities, because the whole straight/gay etc. terminology is mostly focused on those, but the general principles also include nonbinary people. I’d elaborate, but I think it’s pretty straightforward how they fit in. The short of it: If you’re attracted to someone, whether that attraction would be classified as “straight” or “gay” is most respectfully contingent on your respective gender identities. It may be useful to understand your own sexual attraction as contingent on the other person’s gender presentation or sex instead, when it’s not congruent with their gender identity, but I’d stress that’s only for understanding your own feelings. Whatever horny part of your brain might not get the relevant nuance, but you’re a whole intellect, so you don’t get that excuse. If you’re romantically/sexually attracted to somebody you intellectually wouldn’t consider a romantic/sexual partner, that doesn’t invalidate your orientation, but it doesn’t invalidate their identity, either. That’s a bit long for something I’m calling “the short of it” but brevity has never been among my skills. As for another point that apparently came up in asks, about the very nature of gender identity as a thing, I’m going to do my best to crack that nut. I think there is a very simple case to be made: Gender identities exist. If you ask someone, there’s a likely chance they’ll feel pretty strongly that they have one. They might tell you they’re a man, or a woman, or something else. People who don’t believe they have a gender will probably feel fairly strongly that they don’t have one. Even people who don’t believe in transgender or nonbinary people almost always believe in this, even if they want to call it something else. Your gender identity is the gender, if any, that you identify as. We’re just defining the term as that. It turns out, people generally tend to identify with genders (or at least sexes), so we have a term that refers to an idea and correlates with observed reality, so... We have a real thing! Score! I belabored the point a bit, but that’s just the thing. The argument against transgender or nonbinary people tends to be that gender identity isn’t a real thing, that it’s denying reality, or that it’s . But... You can verify it exists. It has to. And it doesn’t obey any restriction to only being two genders, because you can see a sizeable amount of people whose stated identities don’t obey that restriction. I mean, you can disbelieve this, you can think essentially everyone is lying, but that’s a bit of a reality denial position. So the question isn’t “Does gender identity exist?”, because that question has an answer you can’t actually reasonably deny. The question is “Does gender identity matter?” and, um... Again, I’ll invoke the argument that most people care about it. Cisgender people usually care about their gender identity, including those that think it inextricably linked to their sex. Transgender people certainly care about it. What grounds is there to think it doesn’t matter? The arguments I see all tend to rest on this assumption that this is a made up thing, but... It’s not, as earlier stated. It’s based on thinking gender identity must necessarily align with sex, but; you have to just arbitrarily assume that; there’s no justification for this other than it appears to be obviously true to some people. But “It’s obvious, duh” isn’t really an argument. “It’s basic biology” also isn’t an argument. Sex is a fairly basic biological idea, although it’s itself considerably more complicated than just XX chromosomes = biologically female and XY chromosomes = biologically male. But gender identity is a thing to do with your mind. Ergo, it’s your brain, and as it happens, that’s considerably more advanced biology. There’s no obvious reason why a mental self-conception should necessarily correlate with biological sex, and the observable evidence doesn’t point to such a necessary correlation, since transgender and nonbinary people exist. Given that gender identity exists and people care about it, I think there’s a pretty clear case to make that you should respect other people’s gender identities: They want you to. It’s kind. It’s at best rude not to do it, and being rude is one of those things generally agreed to be bad. It’s a whole archetypical way for things to be considered bad, in fact. Any argument in good faith based on psychology will pretty easily come to the conclusion that it should be respected, because that’s the field consensus. The studies show it helps people deal with gender dysphoria to be treated as the gender they identify as. All the anecdotal evidence in the world is there to show you people overwhelming prefer to be treated as the gender they identify as. And the utilitarian counterarguments are... that it poses logistical issues? That’s okay, those can be addressed. That it makes some people uncomfortable or annoyed? It’ll probably be easier for them to get over that and adjust to the way things are. That accepting it will lead to some disastrous consequences? Well that’s... I mean it’s already largely accepted. Last I heard, there hasn’t been any disastrous wave of disastrous consequences here to foreshadow the coming storm. So, to put this aside, if you don’t understand gender identity: That’s okay. It’s messy, but relatively simple. People feel like they are a certain gender, and want to be accepted and treated as that gender. (Or feel they have no gender and want to be accepted and treated accordingly.) That’s the same for cis and trans people. Whether or not that gender correlates to any physical or biological feature in them isn’t really the point of it, because it’s a mental thing. No physical part of you directly correlates to what your name is, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t important to you, for instance. (And, as a last note, if you’ve seen a statistic that the rate of suicide attempts don’t fall after one transitions, it’s being grossly misrepresented. Every time I have seen that with its actual source given, if you follow said source, you find the statistic is from a question being asked about whether the person ever attempted suicide in their life. So, someone who was suicidal pre-transition who lost those suicidal tendencies after transitioning would still answer “yes”, and thus be marked down as such and post-transition. Therefore, the fact that the percentage was roughly the same for pre- and post-transition people says exactly jack shit about the effectiveness or lackthereof of transitioning for suicidal ideation. Every other piece of evidence I’ve seen points to transitioning, and more generally affirming someone’s gender, helps with the negative effects of gender dysphoria. Of course, don’t listen to me. Look it up. But I implore you, basically never trust someone’s summary of the research, at least not totally; the media all too often sucks at summarizing science, and average people are often worse, and that’s without an ideological axe to grind. Find the source if you can. You don’t necessarily have to read the whole thing, but check the abstract or such. As an example, I had a college textbook claim that “Women use their whole brain during conversations, while men use only half”, with a citation to an I think Wired article that restated a BBC website article that incredibly poorly reported on a paper that was actually about putting people in MRI machines listen to books on tape. Women had more activity across both hemispheres of the brain while men had activity more centered around one. It was about strokes and how signals travel across the brain, not communication. Professionals can cock stuff up bad. I’m not saying “Don’t trust the news” or “Don’t trust anybody”, but it doesn’t hurt to check into things as much as you can, and that goes doubly so for research and science.) 

[teamoliv-archive]

Cutscene: The New Normal, Part 1

Onyx didn’t bother spending too much time in the suite that was “generously” prepared for him and his team. He knew the layout of the Cheshire estate better than perhaps even his father, save perhaps Sterling who understood the nooks and crannies of the place with an almost supernatural ease. But Sterling wasn’t here right now and his usual spying wouldn’t be a concern. He crept into the old parlour as silently as he always used to by picking the lock, turning invisible, and slipping inside. His mother’s old desk still sat in the back. She always preferred to keep her things here where there were large sunlit windows and a table to arrange things on better. She and Father used to spend hours in this room talking, planning, and going about family and company business though he and his sister were never allowed to participate. This was their time as strange as it was.

Now both his mother and Lilac were gone. Even the usual faces of the now long dead Major Ymir, Ivory’s father Redmond, and the snooping butler Sterling were absent for one reason or another. Despite this, he couldn’t help but feel like he wasn’t alone here. He slowly crept up to the old desk and pulled out a stack of aging papers. It was here he had “conveniently” found his old adoption forms falsified so that he didn’t know where he really came from. His damaged ear twitched and he grit his teeth with a small resurgence of pain. Perhaps some of his old medicine was still lying around somewhere, but he doubted it. Mother’s old desk was always an interesting source of information and one only he knew to look through for any kind of information. He wasn’t sure what he would find this time, he just wanted to settle himself by delving into an old bad habit; then he found the letters.

The letters were perhaps decades old based on the dates on the ones written on Cheshire Financial and Atlas Council letterhead respectively. He was thankful for his faunus ability to see in the dark or else he would have had to give himself away by turning on a light. A quick scan showed that these seemingly had nothing to do with his father or the company at all, though. 

They were addressed to and from Cassandra Cheshire and her father, former Atlesian councilman Dunstan Baskerville.

The sound of the door gently creeping open caused Onyx to freeze, hoping what probably looked like floating papers to anyone else were hidden behind the desk.

Tyrael Cheshire walked into the darkened room and ran his finger up a slider to raise the lights slightly, but not to maximum. It was still dim in the room. He walks right past the desk and drew the curtain to look out the open window and the view into Atlas below.

“I had a feeling you would be in here. There’s no need to hide yourself, Onyx. There are things we have to discuss anyway.” 

Onyx slowly stood, letting his invisibility fade and set the stack of papers carefully on the desk. There was no sense in hiding it now. “How long have you known...?” He cautiously whispers out, careful not to ruin his still healing voice.

“Since you started snooping around.” Tyrael explains calmly, “Did you really think you just stumbled into those false adoption papers? Your mother put them up front for you to find. Her intention was to make sure you didn’t dig too deeply into where you came from just in case Leroux tried to pull some strings he shouldn’t have. There was never anything in that desk we didn’t want you to see. In fact, a few times we counted on it.”

“So this was all set up to use me like everything else was it?” Onyx leaned against the desk, staring at his own reflection in the large window. “Was I ever really anything here? To anyone?”

Tyrael lets out a long breath and hangs his head a moment. “This room, all of it, was your mother’s. Cassandra’s touch is on every decoration, every piece of furniture, and what she put inside the desk. This was her space to do as she wished on her terms- and she allowed you to share it by sneaking in here instead of changing the lock or having either of us confront you about it. “You may not believe me, but your mother and your sister- they loved you as if you were blood. We may have begun subverting Leroux’s attempt at sinking his influence deeper into my company, but that is not all that resulted.”

He turned and looked at the two small couches in front of the desk and the small table between them then moved to a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. He set them on the table and opened a mostly empty bottle with a pop before pouring the glasses to half-full. “Sit down, son. Bring those letters with you.”

Seeing any kind of real emotion on Tyrael Cheshire’s face was a rarity. Mother’s private parlor always felt like a strange sanctuary of sorts and perhaps it was true for his father as well. Right now Onyx’s father didn’t look like the strong, unmovable businessman, the ruthless Atlesean crime boss, or even the retired huntsman; he was just an old tired man who was finally lifting the weight of his emotions and responsibilities off of his shoulders for a while. He pulls the letters from the desk as well as a remaining stack that were still in the back of the filing drawer and set them down on the side of the table, taking his seat at the other couch. 

“These are between Mother and Grandfather...” He begins. It was odd of him to say it out loud. Onyx had never met Dunstan Baskerville. Still living somewhere in his late nineties, the former councilman is one of the only people left on Remnant with a living memory of the Great War. On the council he was a steadfast hawk with an unquenchable desire for Atlas to reach for the glory of the former Mantle Empire. His routinely brutal and increasingly authoritarian attitude ultimate got him booted from the council more than a decade ago. He was all but exiled to live out his days under assisted care in his old age somewhere in Atlas, but he was allowed no further participation in the public sphere. It seemed he still had time to write to his daughter, though.

“Let me see them.” Tyrael reached over to take the letters, looking through them carefully. “The old councilman and I very rarely got along. To him I was little more than a mercenary with delusions of grandeur as well as an outsider to Atlas at the time. I was still working with Auroras and Hari with their business when I met your mother. He hated me and you and Lilac by association. Your sister met him once and insisted never again. As he aged his nationalist rants turned into mad ramblings and he was finally forced to retire. His practical house arrest likely means this was his only communication with the outside world. He is still alive, I hear, possibly out of a pure stubborn refusal to die until a ‘proper Atlesean reaper’ comes for his soul.”

The small joke got a self-satisfied smirk from Tyrael and a wide-eyed look from Onyx who didn’t really think his father capable of humor.

“I was hoping you would look through that old desk again. Following Cassandra’s example, I decided it was time to show you something important. Take a look through those letters.”

A scan through them again revealed that his mother spoke to her aging father on multiple topics but many of them involved defending Tyrael, Lilac, and himself from the man’s increasingly unhinged insistence on insults to Atlas’s honor by “muddying the waters.” It showed a side to his mother he never really knew. While she had a proper, almost haughty public air, Cassandra Cheshire was highly intelligent, steadfast, and unwilling to back down in the face of a threat to her family- even from her own father. She poured everything into guarding what she cared about.

And when Jade Leroux decided this was going to get in the way of his plans, he had her killed...

Onyx set his jaw and tried to focus on anything but that “accident.” He had almost perished as well and bore a heavy scar across his back as perpetual proof. Instead he tried to keep his attention on the letters again. The fact that Dunstan Baskerville was apparently still alive was a strange thought. What must life be like for someone who is nearly one hundred, disgraced beyond redemption, and all but isolated from the greater kingdom? He didn’t care to dwell on it for too much longer. He floated his gaze over the words again and again, “If Grandfather was as impotent as he seems this late in life, she could have just ignored him. Why even bother answering these?”

“Because the man was, before anything else, still her father. I suppose she felt he could be helped with some communication. All of her pleas to meet with us pleasantly were utter disasters as I’m sure you can see there; but if you ever wanted proof that you meant something to this family, there it is. Find the ones that speak about you.”

There they were. Onyx himself got the most passionate defense. It seems her father knew about him being a faunus and was none too pleased that he wasn’t just killed instead of raised in their household, as a son let alone a servant. Before he could get emotional himself, Onyx stops reading and sets them aside. “Why show me this?”

Tyrael picks up the wine glass and takes a small sip. “Make no mistake, Onyx. The Borealis Project may be on the forefront of our efforts right now, but I did not go through all the trouble to give you a task interchangeable with anyone else. You crossed weapons with me knowing you would lose just to prove that you would not seek to be subjugated by anyone else.

“I’d like to think any faunus peers you may have made over time would see it as inspiring, but that’s not my point. As much as Auburn seems to believe she must replace you for her own sense of self worth, you and I know better than that. She is being placated while I test the project. She will be a useful ally in the future if you can learn to control her.”

“And you expect me to do what?”

“What else? You have never once stopped calling yourself Onyx Cheshire, have you? Like it or not, you are still part of this family and with your mother and your sister gone... you are all that I have left.  One day you will take over this company. In the coming months you will prove to me you deserve it.”

[pernatius]

Lost in Space Part 4: Ch 2

Ch 1

Summary: Having lost Earth, an unnamed Space Explorer is haunted by a mysterious, black figure as she begins to drift away from those closest to her. 

Part 1: ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5

Part 2: ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5

Part 3: ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5

————————

It was creaky, especially from S1Y’s footsteps, which didn’t help the uneasiness. It was long, which didn’t help it either. Although, that didn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is the sight we get to see. As the higher we went up the staircase, the less dense the steam became. This not only meant it got cooler but we were able to see the mountain’s dark, muddy color slowly become vibrant. A bright, rich green began to spring up all over the mountain. While the mountain is mostly green it’s not entirely green. Hints of pinks and yellows popped now and again between the luscious green sea. About twenty steps before we hit the village’s entrance a gust of wind slides between us and hits the mountain, causing the grass and flowers to sway, almost dancing, against it. 

Two trees with fruits the size of my head greeted us. Their roots created an arch and on the other side of it sat S1Y’s village. I’m not sure who’s stomach growled. It could’ve been mine because it sounded close or it could’ve been all of us besides our new robot companion. Whatever the case it gets him to conclude, “So, that is why you all came here. People rarely come to our planet.”

“After what we faced, I don’t blame them,” Ashley commented with her arms crossed. 

Our robot companion transforms his hand into a small blaster and once he does, turns his attention to one of the trees overhead. Taking a knee and squinting one of his eyes, he shoots. It’s one big flash that causes my eyes to become blinded for a split second. It must’ve been what he used to kill off that serpent. 

Picking them up, between the bits of branches and leaves he accidentally took out as well, he hands them to us. The three of us inspect them quietly. Skeema, however, takes the opposite approach. His nostrils flare as he sniffs it. It’s loud, which breaks our silence and has us look at him. When he takes a small bite, I watch its juices squirt out and land on some of his furs. We continue watching him as he slowly chews until he eventually swallows it down. When he does, he turns to us, “It’s good, if that’s what you three are about to ask.”

Mikrovos is the first one to finish, followed by Ashley. The third is Skeema. I’m last, but I’m not quite done. I’m a little more than halfway done. So, I hold it in my hand as our guide shows us around his village, which is just several huts made from dead trees. They’re similar to Skeema’s, but better crafted. Their material differed from each other as it was obvious a single hut was created using different trees, yet their parts fit perfectly with one another. Maybe this is kind of a case of reverse speciesism to stereotype this, but it’s probably because they were created from robots. While S1Y continues to talk about his village and random, spotty memories my mind drifts off into thinking about Khavas. The last time I saw him he didn’t act like the Khavas I knew. Sure, I didn’t know him for long, but I just know that wasn’t him. 

In the corner of my eye S1Y’s people got out from their huts. They smiled and said their hellos. A handful waved at us. A few got out and played wooden instruments like flutes and drums and began to play. The rest headed towards us and asked questions. The three answered without hesitation. Well, all but Ashley answered them smoothly. Mikrovos and Skeema stumbled over their words, but the latter was distracted by a feminine robot pressing her chest against his arm. I get asked too, but I’m focused on the ghostly figure of Khavas. From between two huts, he looks straight at me but stares blankly. Like he was empty. Like he was dead. The last thing I’m able to hear is S1Y explaining, “Sorry. We just get excited about meeting off-worlders.” 

Soon everyone but Khavas fades out from my sight. He takes a step towards me. It should’ve taken several but he gets in front of me before I could blink. I dropped my half-eaten fruit. I’m not scared. I know I shouldn’t be because I know this is all in my head, but I still feel something. I feel sympathetic. Maybe I feel empathetic too as we remain looking into each other’s eyes. I don’t know what he sees in mine, but in his, I see a story I have yet to make of. It’s blurry. It’s fast. As strange as it is, I reach out towards his face. I want to hold it. With him huffing a dense, black smoke is blown out of his nostrils. I cover my face and when I lower my arms I see that black figure again. Still and unlike those other times, I don’t feel fear. Instead, curiosity and bits of heartbreak boil within me, causing me to open my mouth. I’m about to ask it, but the emotions overwhelm me. They explode. I stop myself before I get the chance. 

We’re all sitting on the ground. Ashley is sitting far from me, which hurts. It kind of ticked me off too, but I guess I can’t make her sit with me. I’m just not in the right position. At least Mikrovos is sitting on one side of me and Skeema is sitting on the other. Speaking of Skeema, he’s at least having a way better time than me with that same robot from earlier as they flirt with each other, which of course has to include tons of smiling and laughing. 

Looking at S1Y, Mikrovos asks, “So, your people were created by the previous civilization that was here?” 

“Mhm. Unfortunately, they’re long gone.” S1Y and the rest of the villagers, except Skeema’s companion, lower their heads. 

“I just learned about your planet, but if I knew anything else about this planet, especially about your creators I wouldn’t hesitate to share.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing compared to all the good you’ve done for us so far. Besides, I think the four of us can agree that this is the most welcomed we’ve felt in a while.”

“As thankful as we are about your arrival, you should be thankful you landed on our planet. Things are getting heated out there.”

Ashley enters into their conversation, “What do you mean?”

“You haven’t heard? Another war has recently started between the Space Pirates. Several planets have already joined in.”

“It’s barely been two decades since the first one,” Mikrovos crossed his arms, “I have a feeling this is Syco’s doing.”

“Syco? Is he like you? Is he a Tauvox?”

He hesitates for a moment. “Yeah. He is my-No. He was my superior. He’s the new commander of the Tauvox Space Pirates.”

“Then, yes, I think he’s the one that started it. Well, he and a Virmus. At first, we were confused and some of us were scared why a Tauvox and Virmus came here with two humans.”

“Neither of us are Space Pirates anymore, especially in those factions.”

“That’s good to hear. I heard being a Space Pirate is a tough and dangerous business practice.”

Mikrovos looks at Skeema, wanting him to pitch in his experience, but because he’s busy flirting Mikrovos speaks for the both of them. “Yeah, it was,” he looks away from the robot and has his eyes drifting towards one of the trees between a few huts, “But, Syco, what does he think he’s doing? The first war is what killed our planet. Hundreds of other homeworlds died. Now he wants to add to those numbers?”

I look at him. “Wait. I thought it was because of a civil war.”

“Yes, but there’s a bit more to it than that. The civil war started because the leaders of our planet were divided on whether to help the Space Pirates in our solar system or not. They continuously aided us by helping us export off-world and bring us imports from other worlds, helping us trade. However, helping them would mean a large portion of our population, too many I have to add, would join in a war that wasn’t our fight. It started with Space Pirates and it ended with Space Pirates, but now it’s starting again with Space Pirates.”

“Wait. Two decades ago? Was that the reason Earth was getting invaded? The first time I mean.”

“By that point, the war was almost over. I might be wrong, but I think they invaded Earth because they needed a new homeworld. Earth must’ve been the closest, habitable planet with life forms that wouldn’t pick much of a fight. Good for them because their resources must’ve been low. Bad for you for obvious reasons. Most of their records were destroyed along with their ship, so don’t make this assumption as fact.”

I imagine myself as a child in the middle of a field of crops. Everything is on fire. She screams. My mother, or at least I think that’s her, calls out to me. She begs for me to help her. I don’t know where she is. I can’t see her, but she sounds close. It’s like she’s in front of me. Because of this, I step back and cover my mouth as I cry. It’s all I can do, or at least that’s all I think I can do. I shut my eyes. When I reopen them, I’m back on the ship. Still crying, I watch Earth grow smaller and smaller, but I still hear her. I’m still haunted by her.  

“We can’t just let them do this again. I can’t just sit here and let them do what caused the deaths of millions of humans. I have to do something.”

“Like what,” Ashley questioned. The look on my face has her to explain, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to come out that way, but there’s nothing we can do about it. I don’t like this as much as you, but this isn’t some fictional book where one of us can wave our hand and magically stop it. This is real life and we’re only human. Well, two of us are, but it’s not like anyone else here can do that much better. Look, I lost you once and I almost lost you again. I’m not going to let you get into any more danger, especially not when Syco is involved.”

“Oh, so now you care about me?” It slipped out. I regretted it as soon as it came out of my mouth, but I just had to get it out. 

“What are you talking about? I constantly worry about and care for you.” 

“Are you sure because recently it doesn’t feel that way? You haven’t looked or talked to me and have kept your distance since Syco took Earth until now.” My heart raced because of my rising anger.  

It’s like someone else took over. I’ve been wanting to say these things, yes, but I don’t want to say them like this, especially not in front of everyone. Mikrovos and Skeema know this because of the way they look at me. They know this isn’t me. So, Mikrovos tries calming me down by motioning me to stop. 

“It’s because there’s been a lot going on. We lost Earth and now Saamuki.”

“Saamuki? Why do you care about Saamuki?”

“Why do I care about Saamuki? Saamuki is my friend. She’s also someone that Mikrovos, my other friend, really cares about.” Ashley is getting angry too. S1Y catches this, the stuffy atmosphere created because of the tension between us, so he tries laughing this off. He tries to change the subject, but I cut him off. 

“No, this has never been about Saamuki or Mikrovos. This isn’t even about Earth. This is about me.”

“You? Why would it-”

“You’re mad at me aren’t you? You’re mad that it’s because of me our planet is gone. You’re mad that it’s because of me I took away the only home you’ve ever known. No, it’s all because of me you’re even in this mess.”

“I was never mad at you about that, but I am about this. When are you ever going to stop making things about yourself? When are you ever going to grow up?”

With that, we all became silent. The look on her face, as angry as she is, shows that she regrets what she said. So, she tries to apologize, but I cut her off again, “No, you’re right. When am I ever going to grow up?”

[starryeyed-char]

Out Cold

Prompt: Prompt if its alright-Lance with narcolepsy?- anon

I had so much fun writing this, so thanks so much for the prompt! This is a one-shot, and even though the ask didn’t specifically ask for klance... it ended up in here because, as I’ve said before, I have no self control. It took a bit of an unexpected turn, but hopefully the anon likes it? And other people do? As always, feedback is appreciated!

oh and @taylor-tut if you want to read it, of course

Lance's entire life was full to the brim with close calls.

Granted, fighting a war against a corrupt alien empire will have its share of near-death experiences. But, oddly enough, another type of close call worried him more.

Lance didn't particularly want to die if he could avoid it, but he'd honestly prefer that to his teammates finding out.

And he knew there was a chance they wouldn't judge him for it, wouldn't think it made him less of a paladin. After all, Hunk didn't care in the slightest. But there was always the chance that they would.

Lance had always prided himself on being able to hide things. And it was even easier to hide things from the team than his enormous, nosy family. 

His ideas, insecurities, homesickness, bisexuality... he'd learned to bury these things deep down inside himself and try to ignore them.

Lance didn't see why his having narcolepsy should be any different.

When Lance was young, he loved to lay on the beach and look up at the stars. He would always tell his family about his dreams to fly up there one day, to see the stars up close and personal. Lance always preferred to be up close and personal.

One of his uncles pointed out that Lance would never be allowed to pilot a ship, not with his condition.

With Lance on the verge of tears, his mother had swooped in and saved the day, as usual. “We just won't tell them, then.”

Lance managed to keep it from his roommate for some time, except once when he collapsed while walking down to breakfast at the Garrison. He spent an hour or so convincing Hunk he didn't need to go to the infirmary after that. Funnily enough, Hunk had no qualms about keeping the information from the instructors.

Lance probably would've made it into the fighter pilot class sooner, all things considered. Randomly falling asleep made him late to class more times than Lance would like to count, especially when considering the sleep paralysis that often came after. Pair this up with him falling asleep in class, and every teacher came to see him as an idiot.

Never mind that his grades were almost (but not quite) as good as Hunk's.

Lance didn't mind playing the idiot, if it meant he could still be a pilot. So that's how he decided to treat being a paladin of Voltron, too.

In retrospect, he knew it couldn't last forever. But Lance would be damned if he didn't try.

Late to training or meals because he was suddenly out cold? Just Lance being Lance. Hunk pestered him about falling asleep inside of Blue, and how dangerous it was, but thankfully the lion could manage to keep him out of danger long enough for him to wake up.

The others were sometimes curious about Lance's silence, but Blue's shoddy flying without a pilot was enough to convince them that Lance was still functioning. Which stung a little, if the blue paladin was honest.

The missions they had to do in person? Those were the real problem.

Shiro had a habit of sending the blue and red paladins on missions together. Something about them needing to function well as teammates.

On this particular day, they were scouting ahead on a planet that Allura had received a distress beacon from. The surface was almost entirely submerged in ankle deep water, at least where Keith had landed red. The few patches of ground they came across were muddy, and sunk under their feet.

And, as far as Lance could tell, the entire planet was sweltering.

“Why would anyone want to live in a place like this?” he grumbled. “There's no solid ground!”

“Well, shouldn't you be used to that?” Keith pointed out. “You wanted to be a pilot, didn't you? Besides, you grew up on a beach.”

“How'd you know that?” Lance demanded. “I bet you've been spying on me to get ahead. I was right all along!”

“You talk about Cuba all the time,” Keith told him. “I'd be an idiot to not know it.”

“You definitely are an idiot,” Lance agreed, though he was lost in thought. “Huh. Guess I just thought no one really listened when I went on rambles like that.”

“Why wouldn't I be listening?”

“Do you ever listen to anyone?” Lance asked in return, smothering his grin. This earned a glare from the red paladin. “But seriously, the ocean is very, very different from this miserable swamp.”

“It's so hot here, too,” Keith added. “Is Allura even sure there are inhabitants? If this mission is a waste, I'm going to be pissed.”

“The guardian spirit of fire can't handle a little heat,” Lance observed with a teasing smile. “But I have to admit you're right there.”

“Shouldn't you be used to that, too?” Keith asked. “You were raised on a beach, after all.”

“Yes, but there was always the ocean to cool off!” Lance argued. “Here all we've got is mud stuck to our boots!” He lifted a foot for emphasis, causing Keith to snort.

“Maybe this isn't the entirety of the planet,” Keith muttered hopefully. “Maybe the citizens live on an island?”

“Keith. You were the one flying around before we landed. Did you see anything but marshes?” Lance looked around, and sure enough nothing but the bog reached from horizon to horizon. The flat landscape was only interrupted by the red lion. “Maybe the aliens here are just small fish, and coming here to rescue them was just a waste of time.”

“Fishing laws,” Keith nodded his head in mock seriousness, and Lance couldn't stop laughter from leaving him.

“Do you ever feel like we should come up with more concrete plans before getting dropped onto alien planets?” Lance mused. “I mean, for all we know some freaky swamp monster is waiting under all this gross water.”

“Whenever we make plans, they end up going to shit anyway,” Keith pointed out, hacking at a vine that had wrapped around his foot.

“You're not wrong,” Lance conceded. “Half the time our attempts to stealthily sneak in and back out turn into us just having to bust our way back out of the Galra base, guns blazing.”

“At least that makes things more interesting.”

“Right,” sarcasm filled Lance's voice. “Because what amounts to near-death experiences for the rest of us is just entertaining for the brilliant Keith Kogane, master of the sword.”

“And you're going to tell me that you don't enjoy storming out of Galra bases... what was it you said? 'Guns blazing?'” Keith was careful to not look Lance's way, knowing the blue paladin would be able to see the smile he was trying to hide. “Guns are your thing, aren't they?”

Keith turned when he heard Lance's footsteps stop, afraid he'd said something wrong. But when he turned around, Lance was simply staring at Keith with a happy expression of wonder on his face.

“Yeah,” Lance mumbled, as if he couldn't believe the words that just came out of Keith's mouth. “Yeah, they are.”

The red paladin turned, trying to not feel too unsettled by what Lance said. The response was strange, and so very unlike the person Keith knew that he attempted to diffuse the tension with humor again.

“Maybe the aliens were sending a distress beacon because of how miserable their planet is,” Keith called, glancing over his shoulder briefly. “But they were waiting around so long that they just decided to jump ship instead. I can't exactly blame them. Who'd want to live on a rock like this, right Lance?”

Lance opened his mouth as if to respond, but then suddenly his vision wobbled. The entire swamp seemed to tilt, and Lance panicked for a moment once he knew what was going on. He willed himself to stay awake, but it was no use.

All too soon the wet ground was rushing up to meet him, and then everything went dark.

The only answer Keith received was a loud splash from behind him.

He turned, at first thinking the blue paladin had tripped and fell on something. However, the second he saw Lance, Keith was struck to the bone with fear.

He'd fallen face first into the shallow water, and therefore wouldn't be able to breathe. Keith rushed forward and turned him over, thanking every star he'd seen since coming up into space that Lance still had a heartbeat.

Did he just pass out? Keith couldn't find anything seemingly wrong with Lance, which was what scared him the most. All the possibilities began racing through his head.

Marshes like this were crawling with mosquitoes on Earth. What if Lance had been bitten by some kind of alien bug? What if he had an old wound that got infected by the dirty water? What if he'd gotten a heat stroke from the intense temperatures?

Lance didn't have a fever, or any visible injuries, fortunately. His breathing seemed to be normal. But no matter what Keith tried, Lance wouldn't wake up.

“Lance, come on,” Keith shook him slightly, trying to force down his panic. “Wake up. This isn't funny.”

Lance's dead weight was more than Keith expected, and he knew there was no way he could carry his body all the way back to Red. Especially not with the ground sinking under their feet. Which meant that they'd have to wait for the others to come for rescue.

“Guys,” Keith's voice shook as he turned on the com. “There's a problem. Lance is... he collapsed.”

“WHAT?!” Pidge shrieked. “What happened? Were you attacked?”

“No, he just— he just fell, and I don't know what's going on,” Keith said frantically, hands ghosting over Lance's face.

Hunk cursed. “Keith, I know this is going to sound confusing, but trust me. Lance is going to be just fine, okay? He'll wake up in a few minutes on his own, so don't try to wake him.”

“How do you know that?!” Keith demanded. “I... I have no idea what's wrong with him, we were just walking a minute ago—”

“Trust me,” Hunk repeated. “I can get there soon, but until then just sit tight. Well, unless... not counting sleep paralysis, of course. I don't know if he still gets that as regularly as at the Garrison, but let me tell you it was pretty scary to be his roommate—”

“Hunk,” Shiro's voice cut through the yellow paladin's ramblings. “Do you know what's happening to Lance?”

There was a beat of awkward silence. “Nope, no way,” Hunk said finally. “That's his job to tell you. You're going to have to wait until he wakes up, which he will, I promise. I'll be down soon.”

Keith wanted to pester him more, concern completely eradicating his respect for Lance's privacy. Not that Keith knew much about boundaries to begin with. Still, Hunk was nothing if not loyal, and the red paladin knew he wouldn't get an answer so easily.

So, he returned his attention to Lance's limp form only to realize that his eyes were open.

Lance blinked slowly at Keith as if he didn't know exactly where he was, before his eyes widened. “Please tell me what I think just happened didn't actually happen.”

“You passed out,” Keith said bluntly. “Hunk says he knew you'd be fine, but... you had the rest of us really worried. Are you sick, or something?”

Lance winced. “Quiznak,” he forced a weak smile. “Something like that.”

“Lance!” Keith resisted the urge to punch him in the arm. “This is serious. I... we were all really freaked out! One second we were just talking and then suddenly you're on the ground and I just— what happened?”

“Had to happen eventually I suppose,” Lance muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Oh, perfect, now I'm completely covered in this nasty swamp water.”

Keith crossed his arms and glared pointedly at Lance. He sighed.

“And of course it had to be you,” he grumbled, before meeting Keith's eyes. “I have narcolepsy.”

Keith had no idea what he'd been expecting, but that was definitely not what he thought Lance would say. “You... what?”

“Narcolepsy?” Lance held out his hands, as if gesturing would somehow help the red paladin understand. “You know, randomly falling asleep. Well, among other things. 'Randomly falling asleep' is an understatement, and frankly sugarcoating it, but—”

“You mean to tell me that all this time... that you've had... how the hell were you allowed to become a pilot?!”

For a moment, it seemed to Keith that a light had been snuffed out somewhere behind Lance's eyes. “It was my dream,” he spoke quietly. “It's always been my dream. The only people that knew were my family and Hunk, after he found out. I kept it a secret from the instructors at the Garrison.”

“And from the team,” Keith reminded him. “How could you have kept something like this from us? Do you have any idea how much danger this puts all of us in? We're trying to save the world, but if you had—”

“Don't you think I know that?!” Lance nearly shouted. “I know, okay? I know that this puts everyone in danger! I know this could very well get someone killed.”

“Then why—?!”

“Because I was scared!” Lance exclaimed, tears welling up in his eyes. “I thought that if I told you, you'd kick me off the team, and send me back to Earth. I thought... you guys wouldn't want me to keep defending the universe with you.”

All Keith's anger dissipated immediately. “I thought... I thought you wanted to go back to Earth. To see your family?”

“Of course I do,” Lance whispered. “But... you guys are my family, too. And I want to be here, I want to be a part of Voltron even... even if you don't need me, sometimes. And it might be selfish of me, to put you guys all in danger. But we're fighting an alien empire that's been in power for at least ten thousand years. Our lives are pretty threatened already.”

“Lance, you do realize that the person who's in the most danger because of this,” Keith said carefully. “Is you, right?”

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“How did we not notice?” Keith wondered aloud. “The entire time you've had to deal with this...”

“You act like I haven't been 'dealing with this' my entire life,” Lance chuckled softly. “It's not a problem unless I decide to make it one. Besides, it's not that hard to hide stuff in a huge castle with only seven people living in it.”

“Fair enough,” Keith agreed.

“Do you...” Lance hesitated. “Do you think I should go back to Earth?”

Keith stared at his feet. Despite how much more danger Lance's life could potentially be in, and despite how much the very idea of Lance getting hurt scared him...

“I'll have to keep a closer eye on you,” Keith said softly. “But no. I... definitely don't want you to leave.”

“But... what if Allura—”

“Do you remember what you said to me?” Keith interrupted him. “When I told you I was Galra, do you remember what you said?”

The smile was small, but it was there. “The five of us are a team. Nothing can change that, or come between us. We're not going to leave you behind just because we know more about you. You're still you, and you're still our friend.”

“I've never been good with words, but I think you just about covered it,” Keith smiled back. “And do you remember what you said about Allura and Coran?”

“Allura might take a bit longer to come around, but you know she will,” Lance recalled. “And I don't think Coran has a malicious bone in his body... even if the Galra killed off his entire race.”

Keith snorted. “I forgot that you said that! I nearly punched you! I guess that part doesn't exactly apply to you, huh?”

“Not really,” Lance admitted, still smiling softly. “You don't think they'll have a problem with it, though? You don't think they'll kick me off the team?”

“Of course not,” Keith hesitated before placing a comforting hand on Lance's shoulder. To his surprise, the blue paladin leaned into the touch. “You're the pilot of the blue lion. We need you. I... I need you. You're our family, too, right?”

Lance nodded, blinking back tears. “Right.”

Movement caught their eye, and both boys looked up to see the yellow lion flying towards them. Hunk to the rescue, just like he'd promised.

“You don't have to tell them right away,” Keith offered. “Hunk and I can keep it a secret until you're ready.”

“No, they'll want answers after all that,” Lance sighed. “And they deserve to know. Just... could you be there? In case, you know, they freak out?”

“Of course,” Keith said immediately.

Lance was looking at him as if it was for the first time, and Keith shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

“What?” he asked, trying not to fidget. “Is... are you okay? Are you going to pass out again?!” With these words Keith shot onto his feet, slightly panicked.

“I'm fine,” Lance assured him, with a small laugh. Keith helped him up, their eyes met for a second. “I'm... great, actually. Better than I have been in a long time.”

Keith eyed him skeptically. “Are you sure you didn't hit your head when you fell?”

“No,” Lance insisted. “I just... realized something, that's all.” Just because one secret got out didn't make him any less good at hiding things. And Lance decided to hold onto this one until they were in a less... disgusting setting. And on a day where he wasn't already so exhausted emotionally.

The yellow lion landed on the planet's surface in front of them, and Lance grabbed Keith's hand, yanking him forward.

“Come on,” he called over his shoulder. “Let's go tell the team.”

The End

[twocubes]

Hm, i suppose the problem is that i have an odd... view of maturity here, which is like,

I mean, while i agree that in practice differences in maturity are often social fictions, there do seem to be real things that do work like that? I mean, ones that are more general than “the difference between a 10-year-old and a 20-year-old”

I guess to me the paradigmatic example is a phenomenon sometimes called “mathematical maturity”, which is like, roughly a particular state that you end up in after some amount of mathematical study, somewhere in the grad-school, when you end up with enough of a well-rounded background that you can kind of throw yourself at new things without too much trouble. It’s a bit strange because it seems to involve both knowing-specific-things and having-absorbed-specific-habits-of-thought, and the particular set of habits is a bit hard to really get a handle on since it isn’t exactly, eh, precise... idk halmos seems to try and capture some of it but it goes beyond all that...

The point being, i think hypothetically if we had a longer baseline to be human minds in, one where we didn’t degrade so quickly, phenomena like that would be things you could experience more than like, 2-3 times in your entire life if you’re lucky, and thus the dynamics of them would be something that you like, learn over the centuries, and that themselves can form larger arcs of larger lives, and so on and so forth.

So like, another thing that we could bring in would be like, this idea that is often evoked that “no one really has any idea what they’re doing”, like, someone will turn 30 or 40 or w/e and be confronted with the realization that they’re still muddying through life without any clear idea what exactly they’re doing, and they’ll post about it, and it’ll get a bunch of notes/retweets/whatever.

One way to read these posts would be to think, “well, yeah, mastery-cycles for specific subjects among humans are waay too long for humans to really know what they’re doing within 40 years, and they barely get 2 of those in their lives”. Thus, hypothetically humans that can live longer without degrading too much might be able to ‘do things like they know what they’re doing’ at least at a slightly larger scale than extant humans can.

So like, ok, if we’re interrogating the relationship between more-mature and less-mature, this goes beyond parent-child relationships and also encompasses like, teacher-student, master-disciple, etc etc. There are real differences in ability, real things that one side will try to learn from the other. Yes, over time, one must overcome the other and be seen as an equal, and that’s important, and thus, reifying them as permanent hierarchies is a bad idea, but, still, these are real things, even if we don’t, ultimately, have just a simple age-tracking individual maturity characteristic.

That’s more the thing i find interesting here, more than “how do we deal with something inherently superior,” and thus positing actual beings that might deal with that and develop a culture around it seems like it might be a fun way to interrogate these sorts of things...

...I suppose I shouldn’t have described those beings as having “unattainable and unknowable” maturities. I mean, they do, but that’s sort of incidental to the interesting bit, which is, uh, this stuff (at least to me)...

If that makes sense? Idk where to... fit in the concept of “emotional maturity” in this, mostly because idk what it is and i haven’t decided whether it really makes sense yet...

one of those extremely-slow-aging-but-humanoid fantasy species where everyone is actually centuries or millennia old

but the twist is that because they’re so old they develop levels of maturity that are simply unattainable and unknowable to humans

hundreds of emotion-words that all seem to mean the same thing to humans because they require decades of context to distinguish

fiction and artworks that take decades of study to understand considered standard parts of adult pop culture. one of them that you’ve known for 50 years suddenly changes their habits completely, you ask one of their friends and they go like, “oh, yes, they finished reading [name of story]”. they smile at you, like you’re a child playing peekaboo for the first time

“things were better in my day” considered a sign of immaturity, diagnostic of something analogous to a second teenager phase that you go through starting around your first half-century and get out of by the time you turn 100