Be Who You Want to Be

Prompt: Ruby

Started for @gilded-sapphire’s July FCN, but school delayed getting it finished in time.

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hey red

— A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

big believer that by becoming the things you wish for in others is a form of attracting those people into ur life

part one

———

Leandro Esposita-McClain, I am in love with you.

Keith’s voice, staticky and muffled, rings through his brain for hours. He barely even moves from his seat, staring into space and trying to remind himself how breathing works.

I am in love with you.

Anyone with eyes can tell that he’s hot.

It’s always the fuckin’ pretty ones that get me.

A confession. Obvious, unmistakable, clear and concise and detailed, even, maybe more words that Lance has ever heard Keith say in one sitting.

Figures, of course, that Lance wasn’t meant to hear it.

The second they land on that night’s rest stop planet, Lance bolts out of his lion, barely remembering to keep the latch open so Kaltenecker can let herself out to graze. He sprints past the Black Lion, who has yet to open her maw, and careens around Blue, barely managing to straighten himself up before he brains himself on her massive paw. He hears her cackling in his head, and doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes. He runs up Yellow’s barely-open hatch and climbs up the stairs on all fours like an animal, tumbling into the cockpit and sprawling in front of Hunk in a heap, panting, suddenness making Hunk yelp.

“Je-sus, Lance,” he scolds, hand pressed to his heart. “You scared me.”

Lance doesn’t say anything, too busy desperately trying to gulp in some air. He’s obviously pretty practiced in cardio, being a paladin and all, but he wouldn’t be surprised to discover that he just broke several Olympic records.

(The breathing struggles may also be from the Keith thing. But that’s embarrassing, so he’s just going to pretend it’s from running.)

“We landed, like, forty seconds ago,” Hunk says after a moment. “Did you fucking teleport here? Is Kosmo around?”

At the mention of the space wolf, Lance wheezes, pressing both hands to his face to attempt to cover it as it flames. It’s no use — he can’t see Hunk through his pressed-shut eyes, but he can feel the wicked grin his best friend is sporting at the mention of Keith-by-proxy.

“I need help,” Lance says quickly, before Hunk can start in with the teasing. There’s no escaping the teasing, exactly, but he doesn’t need to leave any more opportunities.

“Do tell.”

Lance peeks through his fingers. Hunk has arranged his features in a very particular, pinched expression, which Lance knows from years of experience means he is fighting down his commentary with every inch of his strength.

“Keith,” he says hesitantly, “may have just said something along the lines of a confession. To me.” Before Hunk can say anything, Lance rushes to finish: “But I don’t think it was on purpose.”

Hunk exhales for a very long time. “Explain yourself very carefully.”

Lance pulls himself upright, sitting with his back against the wall of the cockpit and his knees pulled under his chin. “So I was just chilling in Red, right,” he starts, picking at his sleeve. “And I get this audio call from Keith, outta nowhere, and before I can say anything he starts talking? But not to me. To Kosmo. And at first I was like, okay. This is a Keith and Kosmo call. Awesome. But then he kept talking to Kosmo only, and I realised he was talking about me, and he said —” suddenly Lance realises he hasn’t taken a breath in God knows how long and inhales a deep, frantic one, flopping out his legs and staring at his friend with wide eyes — “Hunk, he said he was in love with me.”

Hunk’s eyes widen just as big as Lance’s. “Dude!”

“I know!”

“Dude!”

“I know!”

“No, dude!” Hunk insists, gripping his armrests and leaning forward. “This is awesome! This means you can make a move! And I can win a lot of money!” At Lance’s raised eyebrow, he clears his throat. “But, uh, obviously your whole crush thing is priority numero uno. I’m just saying that if you wanted to make some sort of gesture in front of everyone else and in the next week, that would be awesome. For you, of course.”

“Uh-huh.” Lance sighs, dragging his legs back up and hugging his knees, resting his cheek on top of them. “I don’t know. I’m probably not going to do anything about it, really.”

Hunk frowns. “How come?”

“Well, because. It wasn’t a real confession. Maybe it was a prank, or something. I mean, I don’t think Keith’s that mean, but who knows what was really going on? I overheard him say some pretty incriminating stuff, sure, but I don’t know the context. I don’t know the situation. Maybe he was roleplaying. Maybe he was making up scenarios because he was bored. I don’t want to misinterpret things, you know. It could ruin our friendship.”

He’s my friend, I don’t want to ruin things.

Hunk holds up a finger. “Excuse me for a moment.” He stands up and walks calmly out of the cockpit, jogging down the stairs to Yellow’s barracks and storage compartments. Lance tries not to feel too hurt at his best friend’s sudden departure in his greatest time of need.

A few minutes later, Hunk returns, holding his pillow in his hand. Lance tilts his head in confusion — was his butt hurting, or something? He supposes that makes sense. This space road trip has a lot of long stretches, after all. Maybe his butt was so achey that he couldn’t focus on Lance’s tragic situation. Well, Hunk is kind of caked up, but the butt is a muscle, so Lance supposes it can get cramps, too —

Wham!

Hunk clears his throat, brushing imaginary dust off the pillow he just whacked Lance in the face with. Hard! Lance is so shocked he can’t even muster up a single thought, everything going kind of static in his head.

“That,” Hunk says, casually sitting back down in his seat and holding the pillow like he’s prepared to strike again, “was the dumbest thing I have ever heard, and I’m including my own dumbassery in that. I’m including Pidge’s peanut rant in that. You have truly accomplished a feat, my friend.”

“What.”

“I mean, he said it out loud,” Hunk continues. “Out loud, with his mouth, no one making him, he said he was in love with you. Said your full name and everything. ‘Leandro Esposita-McClain, I am in love with you.’ Those were his words And you are sitting on my floor and working yourself into a frenzy.” He tuts. For a brief moment Lance is unsure if Hunk has somehow been replaced with Mrs. Garrett, that’s how much he’s resembling his mother. “What foolishness.”

“I get it,” Lance grumbles, rubbing his face sulkily. “You didn’t have to smack me, you meanie.”

Hunk leans over and kisses Lance forehead with quite a lot of patronization. Lance leans into it anyway.

“I really did.”

“Whatever.”

He stays with Hunk while everyone else unloads, until he hears loud, frantic barking, and a panicked voice screeching after it. Seconds later, there’s a flash of bright light, and Kosmo appears in the Yellow Lion’s cockpit, bounding at Lance with full speed and knocking him right over. Lance laughs wrapping both arms around the big dog as much as he can and squeezing.

“Hell-o, you darling boy!”

Kosmo yips loudly, and Lance doesn’t have time for so much as one more word before his stomach drops, and his vision goes white, and the next thing he knows he’s falling from the sky, blipped out of Yellow’s cockpit. He screeches at the top of his lungs, wondering why the hell Kosmo has teleported him in the air, but before he can hit the ground, a voice calls out “Woah!” and he’s caught by a pair of strong arms.

When he opens his eyes again, having squeezed them shut when he realized he was falling, he locks eyes with Keith. It takes him three seconds too long to realise he’s held in Keith’s arms, bridal-style, and Keith’s face is bright red. He yelps again — nope nope nope nope nope, he is not being cradled to Keith’s chest, not happening — and stuffs a blurry memory of a strong chest and the scent of sweat and smoke and the sound of running footsteps back into the recesses of his mind where it belongs. He twists out of Keith’s grip, or at least tries to, but Keith has a strong hold on him, so when Lance’s squirms he tilts their sight forward —

“Lance, what — quit squirming!”

— but it’s too late, they’re already heading to the ground, and neither has their hands free to break their fall. Just before they hit the strange pink grass, Lance feels Keith’s hand snap over to his head, tucking it towards his neck, instinctively protecting him from getting hurt. They hit the ground with an oof, Lance on his back, Keith crookedly on top of him, face planted directly in the middle of Lance’s chest.

It takes Lance a second to fully comprehend their situation, their position, and when he does he makes this horrible kind of squeaking sound in the back of his throat. Keith makes a similarly embarrassed throaty sound, scrambling to get off of him, but their arms are kind of tangled so he only manages to chuck himself more off balance, just barely catching himself by planting a hand right next to Lance’s face and stopping his forehead millimetres away from Lance’s.

Both of them freeze. Pinned, Lance just stares at the face in front of him (the crooked nose, broken three too many times, the strong brow, dark indigo eyes like none Lance has ever seen before, high cheekbones, flush with humiliation, the new purple scar; every part of his face, every detail, like he’s commuting it to memory, like he’s devouring the image of it after being starved too long). Keith’s lips are parted slightly, and Lance traces the defined cupid’s bow with his eyes, noticing how chapped they are, imagining how rough they would feel.

Anyone with eyes can tell that he’s hot. Seriously hot. And…leggy.

“I think you’re hot, too,” Lance blurts, and then immediately wishes for death. It doesn’t help that he hears both the sound of a camera shutter and several coins changing hands. (And Hunk’s very obvious crow of victory and loud “Thank you, Lance! I’ll give you a percentage for your service!”)

“What,” Keith croaks, which is generally a bad reaction to a confession but makes sense in this circumstance.

Lance clears his throat, still hyper aware of the way Keith’s body is streamlined on top of his, the way one gloved hand is still curved around his neck.

“I heard you,” he clarifies. “In the lion. With Kosmo. You must have butt-dialed me, or something. You said you loved me.”

He sees the exact moment it clicks for Keith, because face begins to actually turn pumice, and Lance can feel the heat pouring off of him. “I must have —” He makes a cut-off, aborted noise and hangs his head, slightly, like if he closes his eyes for a second he can wish away the entire situation.

Which. Fair. Lance can’t blame him.

“I am giving that dog away to a local charity,” he grumbles.

Lance snorts. “As if. You love that dog more than anything. Also, I’ll kill you if you even try.”

Keith glances back up at him, corner of his mouth twitching, and laughter bubbles up out of them at the same time, half-hysterical and half-tense and half-exhilarated and half something Lance can’t name. Two hundred percent intensity. Lance goes hoarse, and Keith loses the ability to hold his own head up, resting his forehead on Lance’s collarbone.

“I can’t believe I’m going to have to tell people you confessed via butt-dial, you goober!”

“You could lie and say I took you on a really romantic first date?” Keith suggests, grinning cheekily.

Lance snorts. “Not on your life.”

Keith sighs. “Yeah, didn’t think so.” He finally climbs off of Lance’s person, offering Lance a hand and pulling them both to their feet. Once Lance is upright, Keith stills, visibly deciding on something, then yanks the hand clutched around Lance’s backwards, making Lance stumbling forward. He steadies him with a hand on his waist, then untangles the other one and rests it on Lance’s cheek. He holds it there for a moment, letting Lance figure out his intentions.

Lance face burns as he understands the implications, what Keith is trying to do. He glances down at Keith’s chapped lips, thinking again of their roughness, imagining the scratch of them against his own, the scratch of the slight stubble around Keith’s chin in the late evening, the tickle of his hair on his cheeks.

“Although this part is kind of smooth,” he admits quietly, eyes half-lidded. He brings a shaking hand up to rest on the one Keith has around his hip, squeezing gently.

Keith’s lips quirk up. “Point for me, then, I guess.” He leans in, no hesitation this time, and presses his mouth to Lance’s; soft, searching, gentle and curious.

Lance melts.

Lance Esposita-McClain, I am in love with you, Keith had said, accidentally.

And I am in love with you, Keith Akira Kogane, Lance thinks, on purpose.

Lance knows he talks way too fucking much.

He started talking at seven months old. He never stopped. It was his older brother Marco, he thinks, who first called him Motormouth, but honestly he doesn’t remember. He’s been called that and Lancito Lorito longer than he can remember.

He loved the nickname, when he was little. His brothers or sisters or cousins or parents would groan, playfully, when they saw the look in his eyes, but always indulged his constant lectures and ideas and rambling. Motormouth meant you talk a lot but I like to listen. Motormouth meant I know you enough to have a trait I associate with you. Motormouth meant fondness and teasing and care. He loved that name.

When he was seven years old, one of his friends tugged her older sister over to where Lance was colouring with sidewalk chalk on the pavement.

“Look,” she’d said, gesturing to Lance but not talking to him. Lance had looked up from his chalk and smiled at her, opening his mouth to say hello but was interrupted by the subtle elbow she’s jammed into her sister’s side, and her muttered, “Watch this.”

“Hey, Motormouth,” she’d said, and Lance grinned, feeling something warm bloom in his stomach at her use of the nickname, oblivious to the choked-back laughter of the sister. “What was that thing you were talking about earlier? About the comet?”

If at all possible, Lance had brightened further, dropping the chalk and dusting off his hands as he’d launched into an explanation about the comet he’d been tracking with his dad. It was supposed to be visible for the first time in thousands of years that month, and he’d been buzzing with excitement about it. He talked about it to everyone who even appeared like they were maybe going to ask him about it. He’s rambled about it to the cashier at the grocery store the evening before.

“Just look at him,” his friend’s sister had said, something almost like awe in her voice, but not quite. Lance faltered, trailing off mid-sentence. “You were right. He’s like a wind-up toy.”

“Mo-tor-mouth,” his friend had said, in a distinct, sing-songy voice. “I told you I could make him do it on command.”

The girls burst into giggles. Lance had looked around, hesitantly, and found a number of his classmates giggling to themselves, at him or not he didn’t know, but he did know that he felt, distinctly, like he was in a zoo, and his friend was not his friend but a keeper who’d brought spectators to observe him and his freakish oddness.

Motormouth had felt, for the first time, like the insult he didn’t know it had always been. He felt trapped.

He’s grown since then. He’s no longer seven years old and oblivious to the fact that some people are quietly cruel. He knows the warning signs, now, of when someone is mocking him, of when he’s being treated like a pet, like an amusing little weirdo to cart around and show off. He knows the difference now between amusement and endearment.

But that feeling, that realization. The brick-to-the-face understanding that he was wrong about how other people cared about him the whole time he loved them.

He has never been able to un-know that.

———

He and Keith have a system. Lance starts work earlier, and is home earlier too, so he makes dinner for them. Keith cleans up after, crawling into bed next to a half-asleep Lance if they eat late enough. Sometimes, though, Keith gets home early, finished a repair faster than he’d anticipated, and decides he wants to make them supper for a change. Today Lance sits on the counter, kicking his legs and eating half the vegetables Keith has cut, grinning every time Keith lets him get away with it.

“…And there was this one woman who came on the trails today, babe, I swear to God, she’s the same nightmare lady you had to deal with a couple months ago. You remember that?”

Keith hums, hiking up one shoulder.

“The cooking oil lady. Who threw her baby’s rattle at your head because you told her you couldn’t put canola oil in her engine to make things cheaper.”

Keith snorts. “Oh, that nightmare.”

“Yeah!” Lance says, muffled by the four slices of bell pepper he’s shoved in his mouth at once. Keith stares flatly at him and smacks his hand, but the corner of his mouth twitches, and he walks over to the fridge to grab a new pepper without a word of admonishment. Loser.

Lance doesn’t say anything for a moment, following a new, bell-pepper related thought, and startled slightly when Keith clears his throat slightly and prompts, “You met cooking oil lady?”

“Oh yeah! On the trails today. We had to shut down one of them because Selena — remember the red wolf I told you about? The one who sings the loudest in her pack and has the reddest fur? I named her Selena after the singer, yeah, you remember — had her cubs the other day! So she’s super duper extra protective of the whole area, basically, and so is the rest of the pack, so humans going near their area is going to freak them out and that’s not fair to anybody. Hey, did you know red wolves are monogamous? Most wolf species are but red wolves especially show a really strong family unit. It’s really cute, actually, Selena her mate always go on wolf dates and stuff and terrorize the park-goers —”

“Trail,” Keith redirects gently, turning off the burner and scooping their food into two plates. He grabs them both, flicking Lance’s hand away, and sets them at the kitchen island, arranging the plates so they’re sat next to each other instead of across.

“Right, trail,” Lance says. As soon as he sits down and starts to eat, one of Keith’s hands comes to rest on his thigh, palm curving around the inner flesh and fingertips resting gently on the ankle tucked under it. He moves his thumb back and forth slowly, not to instigate, just to touch. Lance leans against him without even thinking about it.

“So. Trial closed. Not even that busy of a trail, honestly. One of the least popular ones. But this lady shows up, stroller in camo and packed to the nines like a fuckin, tactical mom, or something, and starts just hauling ass down the trail, breezing past the closed sign. And I’m like.” He points his fork in Keith’s direction, so he can Get The Vibe. His boyfriend smiles into his stir fry. “I mean, I didn’t want to be the one to handle her. But no one else did, either, and let me tell you she was hauling fucking ass down that trail, and I didn’t want her to actually disturb Selena or anything, so I had be like ma’am. Please. The sign very clearly says closed. And she ignored me, so I just stopped in front of her, and then she started screaming at me! All about how she has been to this trail all the time and she’s a loyal park-goer and it’s a public park, as if that means anything. I seriously thought she was never going to stop.”

He hears the irony as soon as he says it. I thought she was never going to stop. He’s like a wind-up toy. He manages to stop himself from tensing, barely, diverting into something like a twitch. He’s aware suddenly that he has been talking nonstop from essentially the second he walked in the front door and was delighted to find Keith’s boots already at the door, hear the quiet clanking of him in the kitchen. He can’t even remember if he’d bothered saying hello, or if he’d just launched right into whatever word salad was on his mind. God, did he even start with a full sentence? He does that sometimes, he just starts from the middle of his own thoughts like anyone would have any idea what he’s talking about, he’s honestly just kind of obsessed with the sound of his own voice, he thinks, he must be, because he just never stops, does he —

“I hope I die first.”

Lance blinks. He looks over at his boyfriend, wondering if he spaced out long enough that his brain just made something the fuck up to get him back on track (wouldn’t be the first time).

“…Pardon?”

Keith continues to eat, unbothered, casual. He’s not even feigning casualness, either — he tends to half-lid his eyes when he’s pretending something doesn’t bother him. He’s completely at ease, right now, hand still warm and heavy on Lance’s thigh.

“Sometimes I just think about how there’s a possibility that you’ll die before me, I guess.” He turns to Lance, finally, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry. That was emo. I just…you go silent, sometimes, and I’m worried I’ll have to miss every time you spoke.”

Lance doesn’t know what to say. For once, his revving engines are completely silent. He sits there, frozen, staring almost blankly at his plate. Keith is humming quietly to himself, something ridiculous and made-up. They’re still in each other’s spaces, the two of them, and so Lance knows Keith feels it when he shudders, slightly, as a lump grows in his throat, as he desperately blinks away the tears in his eyes.

Keith turns his head slightly to press a kiss to Lance’s hair. He holds his face there, lips pressed to Lance’s skin, soft exhales blowing strands of Lance’s curls.

“What’s wrong, Motormouth?” Keith murmurs. The concern is evident in his voice, and maybe some panic, too, like he’s worried he’s the reason Lance is upset.

Lance smiles. A tear escapes from the corner of his eye an burns a trail down his cheek. He wipes it, quickly, swiping a hand across his face before resting it on the hand that Keith still holds on his leg. Keith flips his hand palm-side up so he can interlock their fingers together. If he feels the wetness of the wiped tears, he doesn’t say anything, only their squeezes their hands together three times in quick succession.

There is no mistaking the fondness bleeding from Keith’s voice. There is no mistaking amusement for endearment, here.

Lance can be annoying. He knows he can. And he no doubt has moments where he annoys Keith, even. But he’s not seven, anymore. He knows to watch for the signs. And for whatever he can’t catch — he’ll just have to trust.

“Nothing,” he whispers, turning his head to catch Keith’s mouth against his. “It’s just nice to…know, I guess, that you love me.”

Keith hums, kissing back, reaching his free hand up to curl around Lance’s cheek, holding him gently. “Good. Don’t forget.”

———

based on this post

“Simulation complete.”

The first Black Paladin turns to his team, smiling widely. “Great job, everyone! That’s the highest level we’ve managed so far!”

The rest of team Voltron turn to each other to celebrate, cheering and high-fiving, smiling all around.

“Your new axe is amazing,” Keith informs Allura, clapping her shoulder. She grins at him, and then holds her bayard in front of her appreciatively, admiring it.

“I was, wasn’t I.”

She spins it in a show of skill, bright blue shine of it catching on the bright training room lights.

“Everyone did really well,” Shiro agrees. He faces to each of the paladins in turn, complimenting them in turn. “Keith, your reflexes were wicked fast today. You definitely shaved at least five full minutes off our time.” Keith preens, pleased. Pidge and Hunk roll their eyes in tandem, and they advance on him at the same time, play-wrestling him to the ground.

“Someone needs to humble you, Dropout!” Pidge yells teasingly.

“Never!” Keith shouts, wiggling out of Hunk’s chokehold.

Shiro snorts, walking over to separate them before things get out of hand. “Alright, alright, you three. Pidge and Hunk, you two did awesome as well. I won’t pretend to understand what that new gizmo that you made does, but it was really cool.”

Hunk and Pidge both beam at the same time.

“Thanks, Shiro!”

“Yeah!”

“And you, Lance.” Shiro turns to the final paladin, smiling warmly. He’s lying flat on the ground, slightly away from the rest of them. “None of us had to watch our own backs even once. Our Sharpshooter had us the whole time, huh?”

Without looking up, Lance lifts the hand not resting on his chest, forming a thumbs-up. “Yep,” he says weakly.

The rest of the team frown at each other. Coran steps away from his place on the wall, setting down the clipboard he was using to take notes.

“Lance, dear?” he asks, concerned. “Is everything all right?”

“Peachy!” Lance says quickly. He tries to sit up, and manages, but it’s obvious that it took way more effort than it’s meant to. He’s wheezing slightly, breaths quick and shallow. “Just — tired, man. Keith ran us through all those wicked drills beforehand, and the training was intense. You know how it is.”

Keith’s brow furrows. “They weren’t…that bad,” he says slowly. He’s not even trying to get a rise out of the Blue Paladin; his voice is one of genuine confusion. “No worse than usual.”

Lance waves a dismissive hand. His other attempts to find a comfortable resting place somewhere on his chest area, moving from his sternum to his left pec to just above his waist before he gives up, setting it slowly on the ground. “I’m just tired, I guess. Haven’t been sleeping super well.”

The team all exchange looks, again. They all know about Lance’s insomnia, the nights he spends on the observation deck, painfully homesick and unable to force himself asleep. They have a schedule, for it. It was Allura’s turn to keep a half-eye on Lance yesterday evening, make sure he went to bed. She was excited about it and had them do facemasks and watch a movie together before finally heading their separate ways around midnight. If Lance really was struggling to sleep last night, he went to great lengths to conceal it.

Pidge takes a couple steps forward, the first of them to move. She sits next to his extended legs, her own legs bent in a W — a bad habit she’s yet to break — and plays with her glasses. She watches him carefully, but he avoids her gaze, looking pointedly at his lap.

“You can come to us, you know,” she says hesitantly. “I mean, I come to you all the time when I’m homesick. And you’re always nagging me about a sleep schedule, mom.” She punches him teasingly on the shoulder, intentionally very gentle, but Lance still inhales sharply, trying to disguise it last-minute as a cough.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Keith snaps. “Something’s wrong. Out with it, Lance, or I swear to God —”

“There’s nothing wrong, Mullet,” Lance snaps right back. “So how about you keep your nose out of my business —”

“Well how about you quit being a stubborn dumbass and tell people when you’re hurt —”

“I’m not hurt! And who are you calling stubborn, Mr I’m Gonna Run After Lotor Even Though My Entire Team Is Begging Me Not To —”

“At least I didn’t pretend I didn’t have a fever until it got bad enough that I collapsed right into my goo at a diplomatic dinner!”

“At least I didn’t train myself into heat exhaustion!”

“At least I didn’t —”

“Both of you!” Shiro shouts, making the two of them freeze. “That’s enough!”

The second he’s done speaking, both paladins point aggressively at each other, yelling: “He’s not listening to me!”

Or, well, Keith does. Lance tries, but the sudden movement of his left arm makes him shout in pain. He tries to cut it off, dropping his hand back down, but the damage is done.

“Shit, Lance, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean — are you okay — ” Keith rushes over to Lance, tripping over himself in his haste and very nearly crashing into him. Lance swats him away as he gets close, insisting he’s fine.

“Go away, Keith, I’m fine, I appreciate your concern but —”

In his attempt to twist away, he bends his torso strangely, causing another half-strangled shout of pain to come from his throat.

“Okay, no, this isn’t happening,” Hunk snaps. Before anyone can react, and before Lance can stop him, he rips open his fanny pack, yanking out a smooth white cylinder and pointing it in Lance’s direction. It beeps once, then shoots a wide, blue beam of light onto Lance, scanning him from head to toe.

“Several injuries located,” the device reads. “Ready to list and suggest treatment.”

Six pairs of eyes whip towards the Blue Paladin, varying from disappointed to scared to furious. For a moment Lance’s expression is open, shocked, deer-in-headlights, and then it shutters, replaced with something determined and endlessly, endlessly stubborn.

“I’m fine,” he insists. “If anyone comes any closer I’m going to throw a hissy fit.”

“You’re already throwing a hissy fit,” Allura points out. “When normal people are injured, they just get treated.”

Lance sets his jaw. “I’m already treated.”

Keith scowls. “Well, obviously not, because you’re hurt. Dickhead.” He reaches forward and tugs on Lance’s jacket, clearly meaning to take it off to assess further damage, but Lance hisses at him, snapping his jaw.

“Are you a fucking scorned chihuahua?” Keith demands, snatching his hand back.

“Put your hands on me again and find out.”

Before Keith can argue any further, Hunk plops down in front of them, pressing the scanner’s button again so a loud beep rings through the room.

“Listing injuries and assessment now,” it says. “Injured person: young human adult. Injuries: newly broken rib. Heavy bruising around chest area. Set and healing sprain around left shoulder joint, previously dislocated. Deep laceration on right thigh, early stages of healing. Joint abnormality in left knee. Several small wounds in mouth, inside of cheek and lower lip. Minor hearing damage, old injury. Minor brain damage, old injury. Highly elevated heart rate. Shallow breathing.” The machine pauses for a moment. Six pairs of eyes now stare at Lance in shock, jaws dropped.

Lance shifts, and if possible his jaw sets further, chin raised stubbornly and brown eyes hard and defiant.

The machine prompts again. “Proceed with treatment suggestions?”

No one speaks.

“Shut down, Scanner 6X427,” Lance says.

“Shutting down,” the scanner responds pleasantly. It beeps one more time and then grows cold in Hunk’s hand.

Everyone erupts at the same time. There’s so much panicked yelling that it kind of all amalgamates into the sound of three crowded rooms, all voices competing with another, u til eventually it settles into: “Holy shit, we need to get you to a pod!”

“Not happening,” Lance says firmly. “You can’t make me.”

“Um, yes I can,” Keith says. “As the Black Paladin, I order you to go to a pod right fucking now.”

“Seconded,” Shiro says, eyes narrowed. “That’s double Black Paladin orders.”

Lance shrugs. “As the Red Paladin, I say no, and also piss off, just as a little extra treat.”

“Lance, get in a fucking pod or so help me God,” Hunk says through grit teeth. “I will carry you out, you little shit.”

Hunk’s threat seems to shake some of the irritating calmness from Lance’s frame, and his voice gets a little angrier, a little more desperate.

“Well it’s going to be a struggle and a fucking half for you, because I’m not going in that fucking death trap conscious!”

“Lance, you’re really hurt!” Pidge cries. Frustrated and angry tears have started to drip down her face. “You’re scaring me! Get in the fucking pod!”

Shiro and Coran are so worried that neither of them correct her on her language, as they often do almost reflectively.

“I’m afraid no medical attention is not an option, child,” Coran says, firm. “You know the rules as well as I.”

“The rules don’t say jack shit about a pod,” Lance says harshly.

Keith blinks at that, flinching a little in shock. Lance is — Keith is well versed in Lance’s volatility. As much as they love and rely on each other, they’re both very stubborn, and still fall into the occasional screaming match. Lance also ends up arguing with everyone else on the team, really, as people living in close quarters tend to do; with Pidge about her sleeping habits, Hunk about working himself to exhaustion, Allura about her reckless tendency to self-sacrifice when it’s not necessary — those fights are always particularly hard to witness, because Lance is right, but he of all people can’t get angry at her for it — and Shiro’s stubborn insistence that he comes last. About stupid shit, too, although usually much less angry; dirty dishes left on the counter; chore schedules ignored, outside clothes on the bed.

But Keith has never, not once in their three years in space, heard Lance raise his voice at Coran. In fact Coran is usually the one that Lance listens to without question, the one he trusts to know more than he does in every subject. Lance may roll his eyes and groan about things, but he has never outright refused. Coran has his best interests at the forefront of his mind, something he’s made abundantly clear.

But Lance has just snapped at him. And while some guilt bleeds into his eyes, none of the stubbornness leaves his expression.

Coran looks hurt, but his voice is still firm. “I’m not asking, Lance.”

It’s a rare thing to have Coran use Lance’s real name.

A tear drops from the corner of Lance’s eye. His chin trembles. “And I’m not going.” His voice wobbles; begging, almost, desperate, instead of the angry tone it had before. “I’m not.”

“Everyone stop,” Allura says. “Pidge, Keith, move.” Her voice is not rude, but leaves no room for argument. Both paladins follow her instructions immediately, scrambling back. Allura kneels in their place, right next to the Red Paladin, and places a gentle hand on his. She squeezes.

“What’s going on?” she asks, in a creole of Altean and Cuban Spanish. “This isn’t a trick. I’m not going to move you, or force you to go anywhere. Talk to me like you make me talk to you when I’m upset. Why this reaction?”

Lance’s face crumples. It’s slow, like he’s fighting with all he has to stop it, to keep his face blank or at the very least hard, but it doesn’t work; tears fill his eyes and overflow rapidly, and his breath hitches in his throat, and then again, and his shoulders shake and his hands tremble and he starts to sob.

“I won’t go in a pod,” he says. “Please. Please don’t make me. I don’t want to get stuck again. There’s no internal release, I checked the manuals, and when they defect sometimes they get sucked down into storage and they stay down there and no one would hear me and the BLIP reader wouldn’t find me ‘cause of the radiation reinforcement in the walls and I’d suffocate and die and I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t do it I’ll die I’ll suffocate I won’t be able to breathe —”

His already shallow breaths get even shallower, and soon he genuinely can’t breathe, wheezing, panic making his limbs flail slightly and his pupils to shrink down to pinpricks. Allura is the first to react, close as she is, firmly grasping both of his shoulders and straightening his neck to keep his airway open.

“Lance, you need to breathe through your nose,” she orders. “Close your mouth. Now. Yes, that’s it. Through your nose, okay? Like that. Exactly. Now purse your lips and exhale slowly out your mouth. Yes, perfect. Keep doing that. Do it with me. See how I’m doing it?” She breathes exaggeratedly, indicating for him to follow. “Good, good. Just like that. Keep going, asteraki. You’re doing great.”

Carefully so as to not crowd them, Keith sits on Lance’s other side, reaching forward and squeezing his ankle. Pidge follows suite, and then the rest of the team; sitting in a poorly-formed semicircle around their friend and teammate, chiming in with Allura with encouragement.

This is not their first panic attack, and it won’t be their last. Although this one was one they all could have prevented, as evidenced by the guilty way they look at each other.

Finally Lance begins to calm down, breaths evening out to a steady hiccuping, tears slowed to a trickle instead of a stream. Hunk digs in his fanny pack to hand Lance a tissue, but Lance grasps Hunk’s hand instead. Hunk smiles, tangling their hands together and keeping them that way, regardless of the awkward position and the strain on his arm.

“I dressed them,” Lance says, when he finally has his voice back. It’s hoarse, but earnest, pleading, almost.

“Dressed what?” Coran asks carefully. Out of all of them, he feels the heaviest guilt; knowing the role he plays for Lance means this was something he should have noticed first, not left for Allura to handle. It makes sense that she did — her own debilitating homesickness and depression means that she and Lance spend quite a lot of time with each other at their worst — but he still knows the paladin, knows him well, and he has the experience to identify that kind of fear. He has no excuse for failing to do so.

“All the injuries,” Lance answers. “I didn’t — I wasn’t ignoring them. I dislocated my shoulder two weeks ago, so I put it back into place with one of the x-ray machines to help and kept it stable for a while.”

“Is that why you kept stealing my hoodies?” Hunk asks quietly.

“Yes.” Lance smiles slightly. “And because I like them.”

Hunk snorts, smiling back despite himself. “Yeah, bud, I’m well aware. I’d say I want them back, but you can keep them for now.”

“Nice. I should get hurt more often.”

“Not funny,” each of them says immediately.

Lance winces. “Sorry, just trying to lighten the mood.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, the rest of them are handled, too. I took a spear to the leg when I was training a few days ago, so I fixed it and stitched it myself. It was fine and it’s healing nicely and it’s not even a little bit infected,” Lance says to Pidge, who opens her mouth to protest. His insistence calms her a little.

“If you say so.”

“I do. I’ve given myself stitches lots before, don’t worry.”

“That is very worrying,” Shiro says. “All of us could help you with stitches, Lance.”

“You’d make me go in the pod,” Lance points out. “And none of my injuries are primary emergencies. I worked at the Garrison clinic for five years, and trust me when I tell you the staff there took student help way too seriously. Half of them straight up slept for their whole shifts. I know how to handle myself.”

“Some of that stuff is fine,” Keith admits. He’s been guilty of setting his own strains and pulled muscles so he can keep training. “I know you hurt your knee when we were doing that sim a couple months ago and putting a brace on was fine, we checked.” He hesitates. “But that other stuff sounds pretty serious, Lance. Numerous mouth wounds? Hearing loss? Brain damage?” He throws up his hands, frustrated. “That’s bad!”

“The mouth wounds are just me biting the inside of my mouth,” Lance explains. “That’s not even a real injury. I’ve been doing that my whole life. I’m never not done that. As for the other stuff…” He trails off, looking at his lap.

“From the Sendak explosion,” Coran says quietly. “Permanent damage.”

“But we’d know about that,” Pidge argues. “The pod says all that kind of stuff when the person comes out. It didn’t say any of that stuff for Lance. He was fine!”

Keith’s face goes white. “None of us were there.” As he says it the rest of them go pale, too, remembering that day. “We were — God, we were arguing about something stupid. I don’t even remember. Did you…”

“I caught myself before I fell,” Lance says, correctly guessing what Keith is too horrified to say. “I wasn’t — I’m not mad, guys. I don’t expect everyone to have just stayed waiting around a guy who most of you barely knew, at that point, in a medically induced coma. Besides, we were busy.”

“I’m sorry,” Hunk says. He’s started to cry, now, dark eyes blurry with tears and nose running. “I’m so sorry, Lance. I didn’t — I should have been there to catch you.”

“I promise you I’m over a thing that happened four years ago,” Lance says drily.

Allura pinches his ear. He yelps.

“Hey! No pinching the brain damaged person!”

“Not funny,” she says, although her mouth twitches. “And accept our apology, you jerk. I know it’s been eating at you. You’re a Leo and you told me that that means you hold grudges for a thousand years.”

“I regret teaching you astrology,” Lance mumbles. He is visibly relieved. “But, fine. Apology accepted, you bunch of goobers. Can we forget this happened, now?”

“Absolutely not,” Shiro says. “You still have hearing loss and brain damage. And a broken rib! I won’t force you into a pod, but we need to figure something out, kiddo.”

“Eh.” Lance waves a dismissive hand. “I’ve had two of the three for four years, now, so I barely even notice them anymore. The hearing loss isn’t that bad, plus I’ve always had audio processing disorder so I know how to read lips and I’m used to asking people to repeat themselves a bajillion times. And I’m pretty sure the brain damage thing just means I get more migraines than usual, which I already know how to deal with because of the ‘tism. The broken rib —” He falters. “Well, the broken rib doesn’t look great for me, but there’s no cure for that anyway. You’re just supposed to wait it out until it heals itself, basically, and the scanner thing didn’t say anything about a punctured lung so I’m good.”

“How you humans have managed to stay alive as long as you have astounds me,” Allura mutters.

“Fair,” all five humans say at the same time.

Lance moves to get up, swiping his cheeks to wipe away the tears. “Are we good now?” he asks hopefully. “Lancey-Lance is secretly a medical genius, all mistakes have been forgiven, we can go do literally anything else? Food would be great. I don’t know about you people but personally, being vulnerable makes me horribly famished.”

“Sit down, dear,” Coran says, steadying a hand on Lance’s shoulder. “Alteans have better medical equipment, you remember. Not everything is a pod, they’re simply faster.” He turns to Pidge and Hunk. “I need the two of you to get the bone stitcher from the MedBay. Allura, go with them, the label is in a dialect of Altean they haven’t yet learnt, they’ll need your help to get it. It’s also quite heavy and quite high up.”

They nod and scurry off.

“What can I do, Coran?” Shiro asks.

“Get him his headphones and some water,” he suggests. “It’s been a lot of stimuli for one varga.”

“On it.”

“I can get my own shit,” Lance grumbles. “I don’t want people digging through my stuff.”

“Get up and I’m going to dislocated your other shoulder,” Keith threatens, half-joking. “Stop being a dweeb about needed help. It makes you look like a straight guy.”

Lance opens his mouth and then closes it again. “I hate when you use my words against me. It’s three quarters of the reason you’re irritating.”

“Shut up,” Keith says pleasantly.

They’re both grinning. Coran shakes his head at the two of them, knowing he will likely never understand their relationship.

The rest of the team comes back quickly, and they work together to set Lance’s rib, get him hydrated, move the mood into something lighter. They all head to dinner when he’s stable, eating their goo in exhausted but comfortable silence.

Tomorrow, Coran will have Lance run through some brain scans to make sure everything is as alright as it seems. Tomorrow, Pidge and Hunk will start working on a pair of hearing aids. Tomorrow, Keith will insist on helping Lance change the bandages on his leg wound; red to his hairline but stubborn and steady and gentle. Tomorrow, Shiro will sit with Lance on the observation deck, and they will discover that both of their mothers are nurses, and they will laugh about ridiculous ER stories they’ve heard. Tomorrow, Allura will help Lance bedazzle his knee brace as obnoxiously as they can.

Tomorrow, they will fix things. Tomorrow they will make things right.

But for now, they sit, and they eat, and they enjoy each other’s company and take great relief in the knowledge that their Blue and Red Paladin is truly, possibly for the first time in years, safe.

parts one two three

———

The first emotion Keith feels, immediately upon waking, is intense dread.

And if that doesn’t sum up the day he’s about to have. Fuck’s sake.

He already feels pretty guilty about yesterday. Besides the fact that Lance is his right hand man — they’re supposed to have each other’s backs, and Keith definitely didn’t have Lance’s, because even though Lance wasn’t in the right he wasn’t in the wrong either — and they’re supposed to be leading this as a team, Keith knows part of the reason things fell apart so quickly is because he didn’t talk to Lance last night. He probably couldn’t’ve convinced Lance to kill the beast, obviously, but they could have definitely explored some different angles together. By letting things fester, Keith pretty much ensured that Lance was going to come up with some elaborate, dangerous scheme that was going to cost them an alliance, and worse, possibly get Lance hurt or killed. (Lance had a good track record with dangerous animals, sure, but this is a beast. The thing sounded like a mix between a polar bear and a dragon. There’s only so much Lance can do, uncanny abilities or not.)

But what’s done is done. Keith can’t very well redo yesterday and make Lance un-mad at him and everyone else, so he’ll have to make do with what he’s got.

And what he’s got is first shift on make-sure-Lance-doesn’t-mutiny-duty.

Fuck, Keith thinks as he makes his way out of his room, this is going to be the Actual Worst.

As usual, Keith is one of the first people on the bridge. Unusually, Lance is next. (Usually he is last, and also late).

“Hey, Lance,” Keith says, trying to muster up a smile.

Surprisingly, Lance beams right back. “Hello, Numb — uh,” his smile falters. “I mean, hi there, Mullet.”

Keith slumps. “I’m still Mullet, huh.”

Lance nods.

“You reckon I’ll work my way back up to Keith, soon? I’ll do anything, you know I will. I’ll even try your horrible face mask with you.”

To his further surprise — Lance must have actually slept well, or something — Lance smiles again, and this time it’s soft even to Keith’s eyes.

“Really? You would do that?”

“I’d do anything for you,” Keith says, and it’s more than he means to.

Lance frowns, and Keith’s heart sinks for the millionth time in just a few hours.

“Except help me save an innocent animal’s life,” he says, and there’s nothing Keith can say to that.

They sit in tense silence until the rest of the paladins arrive.

Shiro counts them once they do, like they’re kindergarteners and he’s a very tired EA, and furrows his brow when he finishes.

“Six. Including me. Who are we — where’s Coran?”

“He said he’ll be here in a few dobashes,” Lance says. “A calibrator broke down in the control room somewhere — nothing urgent, but he wants to get it fixed to get it out of the way. He’ll be back before we’re gone long.”

“That’s fine. Thank you, Lance,” Allura says, transparently trying to ease the tense line of his shoulders, a little.

It does not work. Lance sets his jaw and looks away.

Allura sighs. “I’m sorry, Lance,” she tries. “I know this is hard for you. If it were possible, and we had more time, we’d find another way.”

“Whatever.”

Keith decides that enough is probably enough. Allura and Shiro look genuinely dejected and apologetic, and both Pidge and Hunk look upset.

“Look, Lance, this situation sucks for everyone, okay? It sucks. We’re going to do what we can. If we get to the situation in question and we can actually manage to fix things without killing the beast, then that’s what we’ll do, okay? We’ll do our best.”

Lance exhales, shoulders slumping. He looks… guilty, and his guilt certainly does nothing to appease Keith’s.

“Sorry,” Lance mutters. “I know this is hard for everyone.”

Keith swallows the lump in his throat. He genuinely can’t remember the last time a non-major battle mission sucked so unequivocally for everyone involved, but Jesus Christ.

“Let’s just go,” he says, and everyone nods before following him off the castle and to the wet, humid heat of the planet.

hate being the generation that remembers no ads on YouTube & the annoyance when we first saw 1 ad every 10 videos, then 1 every 5 videos, then on every video, then multiple ads within a single video, only for YouTube to market paying for Premium™️ to ‘get rid of ads!’ which weren’t even there at the start

I hate being the generation that remembers when I could easily find episodes of anime and whole ass movies on YouTube.

Hate being the generation that remembers when YouTube videos would buffer when you pause them, allowing the entire video to load and let you watch it without interruption even on slow connections.

(x)

Question for fic writers: do you find it weird when people comment on every chapter of a wip as it comes out?

It's amazing and motivating!! Do it more, please!

Literally the best thing.

commenting on every chapter as they post is 'backbone of fandom' behavior

Please please feel free to do so I would be delighted.

If people weren't commenting chapter by chapter I honestly would wonder if I was doing something wrong.

*cackling*

If OTW weren’t around, this wouldn’t be “scaremongering”: It would be the inescapable status quo.

The people who believe this crap are the anti-vaxxers of fandom.

Oh god. They kind of are, aren’t they?

I’d go bigger and just say that they’re the conservatives/reactionaries of fandom–or, to frame it differently, this is how conservative and authoritarian ideologies express themselves in the context of Fandom.

my opinion on AO3 is that it’s an important asset but i still find it scummy that they’ll ask for money but when their users try to ask for money they slam them with their non-monetization rules. Like Anne Rice is dead and this isn’t the 90s anymore, people are making money from fandom please catch up with the times.

I think you’ve misunderstood:

AO3 was built by a bunch of us with our free donated labor for the purpose of being a space free from commercial spam.

It’s not a public service. It was built by us to house the type of fandom culture we liked.

People who want to do fandom differently, including making money, are welcome to go build their own site with their own money or their own donated labor.

AO3 does not forbid commercial links because they think fans making money from fanworks is immoral but them making money (to run the damn site) is fine.

AO3 forbids commercial links because they are making a very specific claim about the legality of fanworks, and that claim is about noncommercial fanworks.

They’re not saying that commercialized fanworks are against the law. They’re just not prepared to host them–nor defend them in court.

In case people missed it: The OTW will not honor DMCA takedown orders that are basically, “I own X work and that’s a fanfic of it, and that’s copyright infringement so make it go away.”

The OTW says, lolnope, we don’t think that’s copyright infringement. If you disagree, sue us.

The OTW says: Disney - we will not remove explicit Mandalorian fanfic. Rowling, Warner Bros - we will not remove trans Harry Potter fanfic. Gabaldon - we are not removing Outlander fanfic no matter how much you think it’s illegal or a personal violation. Yarbro, if someone puts “The Adventure of the Gentleman in Black” on AO3, you will need to actually take it to trial to (try to) get it removed; none of this C&D order followed by fans caving because they can’t afford a lawyer.

…So far, nobody has sued them. (This is, in my mind, the strongest proof we have that fanfic is not copyright infringement. In 13 years, not a single person or company has scrounged up a lawyer and filed a lawsuit against AO3/the OTW for hosting fanworks.)

But they’re not willing to put themselves on the line for commercial works. Those get considered differently in copyright law. They’re not always infringing - there’s a whole history of parody books & songs to prove that - but the OTW is not dealing with them.

The OTW does not care if fans are making money. The OTW cares if fans making money interfere with its legal defense of its archive.

If you are not a copyright lawyer, your opinion about the situation is not going to be considered.

Also, it wasn’t just Anne Rice coming after fandom in the 90s as though this is some relic holdover terror from ancient history.

Events like Strikethrough and Boldthrough happened in the early to mid-2000s. It felt like you’d wake up every day in 2007 and find another fandom group on LJ gone. (And not just fandom groups either, important community groups for education and trauma survival were also wiped out in those purges as well.)

And while not exactly the same, Yahoo Groups–and yes Yahoo Groups was a major online fandom hub at one point–were deleted as late as 2019 with very little warning, leaving a lot of older fandom groups scrambling to back up decades worth of content.

I might be projecting, but Fanfic.net seems to be wobbling too. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out they go under in the next few years despite performing similar purges of adult content in 2012 and allowing for obnoxious ads, which made the site unusable on mobile unless you wanted to see an ad what felt like every couple of paragraphs. (It might be better now, I haven’t checked in a while.)

It has only been in very recent memory that fandom has gained any sort of foothold that isn’t poised directly over a precarious faultline that could at any moment open up and swallow entire communities whole, and a huge part of that is the volunteers at Ao3 who decided to play chicken with the likes of Anne Rice and won.

Ao3 at its core was and is built by fandom. Some people don’t like it and that’s fine, but to even suggest that the volunteers are lounging around eating peeled grapes and lighting cigars with hundred dollar bills making bank through fraud while fanfic authors are left out in the cold is beyond the scope of laughable.

They ask for all of that money for two reasons, one being larger than the other.

1. Employee expenses. Someone has to renew the page license, update firewalls, improve the webpage, and add beneficial features that the users are explicitly asking for. They also keep good copyright lawyers on retainer, who stay up-to-date on potential law suits and draw up legal responses to those Cease and Desist letter. That is not a nothing-expense. People deserve to be properly compensated for their labor.

2. This is the big one: Servers. I don’t know if y’all know this, but internet web pages do not have endless and infinite storage capacity. Since AO3 is ad free, it needs to come up with the money to buy and maintain servers from elsewhere, aka DONATIONS, which are willingly given.

It’s not a subscription service. Authors don’t have to pay to submit stories. There’s nothing predatory about it. If you don’t want to give, don’t give. But also don’t try and smear their name when you don’t understand a single thing about what they do for fandom and fanworks.

People do deserve to be properly compensated, but that’s not how AO3 runs. Almost all of the labor is donated, including those expensive tech skills and legal skills.

My biggest beef with the “I deserve a $5 coffee for my fic” thing is that the vital work of making the site exist at all is largely uncompensated. A given fic writer wouldn’t just be monetizing their own labor but that of a lot of other people who did not consent.

Yeah, I don’t think people realize–or can comprehend (!!)–that nobody gets paid–it’s all volunteer from the board on down, and even the lawyers work pro-bono. Server costs, machines, hosting for webpages for related activities, communications software, those things cost money, but the OTW is an all-volunteer nonprofit corporation. We did (I believe) once or twice hired limited-term contractors to help wit specific technical debt stuff (things about gems and stuff underlying the software, updating Rails), but the thing is mostly a giant labor of love. Because it turns out that not everyone creates awesome things  for money. As you might think an entire archive of awesome, custom-written fanfiction might prove. :D  Or to put it another way–the whole of OTW and AO3 is A FANWORK, YOU GUYS. 

there’s lots of great info here but i just want to add, for anyone who missed it or isn’t thinking about it, that it’s incredible that ao3 doesn’t have ads.

they aren’t even requiring that anyone pay to use the site. it’s optional. you don’t want to donate, don’t donate, it’s fine. you’re probably capable of ignoring the donation request banner on other sites (wiki??) just fine.

it’s true that running and maintaining servers and also holding a fund for legal expenses costs actual money– you can request their actual budget and expenses explanation iirc but i’m not going to leave tumblr mobile to hunt for it.

but also? do you realize how incredible no ads is? like, really? almost every single other non-commercial website (and even some of those now) depend on ads to survive. that means they’re selling your data to pitch their target demographics and traffic to advertisers. so not only is ao3 letting you read fic without annoying banner ads, but they aren’t selling your info to justify the advertising expense to potential advertisers/investors. imagine how horribly THAT info could be used if it was being sold or leaked as a commodity.

like bruh i’m sorry if it sucks that you think you should get to make money off someone else’s IP– depending on the IP in question you might be entirely justified in wanting to! but you’re welcome to go use patreon or ko-fi. you could take commissions somewhere. i could go off and write original fiction. yeah, it’s unfair that fanart is a loophole left alone more than writing, or that people feel like they shouldn’t have to pay as much for words. that all sucks. and none of that is ao3’s problem or a problem ao3 was created (by us, by fandom) to solve.

not only have we watched FFN go down the advertising and yielding to legal pressure drain, but if you’ve always had ao3, you don’t know what it was like to have fanworks hosted on little private hubs or groups on sites not entirely intended for it. one of my fandoms was a privately managed server and when the host moved on, they waited a few years, and then stopped paying to maintain it. it’s all just gone– any work i didn’t back up from when i was a teen, any stories i didn’t think to save for when i wanted to revisit them two decades later. i posted my first ao3 story seven years ago and even THAT is a wild amount of time to still be like “oh yeah i’m not at all worried about the site vanishing” to me.

they aren’t making money off us, nobody is vacationing on ao3 donations, but even if someone was for a site that doesn’t sell my data to advertisers, doesn’t require a fee to use, and lets me register pretty much anonymously, i would probably think an optional occasional donation was worth it. maybe i’d have criticisms but that’s still a whole fucking lot that thousands of fandoms are being offered for FREE.

and if it still really bothers you, then instead of complaining about your conspiracy theories every donation season, maybe just go donate to your local rescue or food pantry and do some good with the money you weren’t going to give anyway, instead of trying to trash a site’s reputation based on misunderstandings and rumors. some of us are really grateful for ao3 and don’t want it ruined.

Everytime I see posts like this I get filled with such profound sadness

Cause you know who has the same brainrot as you? The same unhinged feelings as you after you've read the fic? The person who always wants to scream about the fic with you?

THE PERSON WHO WROTE IT

I never used to leave comments but since I got into the habit of commenting on everything i enjoy it's been incredible. Especially when the author gets back to me about it and we get to have a discussion of what other ideas they had. One writer replied to my comment with a 5 paragraph essay detailing the Floorplan of the building the characters lived in and it was incredible

Anyways this is all to say that if you find a fic that just makes you want to scream from the rooftops, leave a comment saying that to the author and maybe they will join you and you can scream incoherently together

reblog to enlist your mutuals in building the House :)

I have made a strategical error

This continues to be the funniest thing that's ever happened to me on this website

With your help we can get to 30% flesh!!!

FLESH! FLESH! FLESH!

At the haunted house (chanting): flesh, flesh-

Ghosts: flesh, FLESH

House (pounding her doors): FLESH, FLESH, FLESH!

Of course this thing is mostly flesh. What is a human body if not a house of a billion microorganisms haunted by a soul wholly unknowable to it's residents?

i’m okay with fictional men becoming unhinged over the loves of their lives actually 

How I simultaneously avoid and indulge in dumb internet drama.

I dont understand like 90% of the fandom acronyms people are using in the tags, but I’m glad it seems like many people from different walks of life can relate to this. I feel like we’re kindred spirits in a way.