#But if it was then like half the population would be considered fat

[kypopkypop]

Growing up the chubby girl and never being able to get a piggy back ride, you were always the one giving them to your friends. 😔

[bonefall]

Warrior Bites: Dietary Needs

[ID: A fish carcass, bird carcass, and mouse carcass on a stone slab.]

Are you wondering how much prey a Clan needs a day? What they should eat to stay healthy? Why food processing is useful at all? All the answers to these questions and more, contained within a general guide to dietary needs for your Warrior Cats!

As an obligate carnivore, a cat's entire diet revolves around processing meat. More specifically, the ideal diet should be 55% protein, 45% fats, about 1% to 3% carbs, with the remainder being various micro-nutrients. You can expect the average 10-pound warrior to need 350 calories per day, about 3.5 mice on average.

I've also included a section talking about obesity, which dives into how canon's depiction of it is both harmful fatphobia and wouldn't make sense from a cat perspective. It also discusses obesity in realistic cats; and how you're free to choose the realism on that aspect.

Below the cut;

Caloric Intake

Nutrition

Food Processing

On Obesity

Caloric Intake

The general rule for how much a cat needs to eat is that an active, non-neutered tom will need about 35 calories per pound of their own body weight, per day, just to remain the weight they are.

That means that the average warrior, assuming they are 10 pounds, will need 350 calories a day.

Kittens, pregnant and nursing cats, and large warriors will need to eat more than average. Neutered cats, elders, and clerics/medcats will eat less. There are calculators online for determining how much an individual will need, but you can estimate how much an entire Clan will need just by taking 350 and multiplying it by population!

Assuming the average population is about 30 cats, that's 10,500 calories to feed a Clan for a day! To put that in perspective, that many calories would feed 7 large humans. If you felt like fighting a group of angry cats to steal their day's worth of mice, I mean.

Generally speaking, land prey will have a caloric value around 5 calories per gram. Aquatic prey is significantly lower, around 4 calories per gram. Birds will be just below 6 calories per gram. To find out how many cats a piece of prey will feed, or how many pieces a cat will need that day, take the category and multiply by the prey's weight in grams.

So for example, the average house mouse is 20 grams and it is land prey, meaning its caloric value is around 100 calories! A warrior will need 3 and a half mice a day to stay healthy, and a Clan will need 105 mice daily to support 30 cats.

105 mice may seem like a lot, but remember that a wild rabbit is 1,800 grams on average which means 9,000 calories. 2 big pieces of prey will feed the whole Clan, with leftovers.

Those estimates include every part of the animal. Cats eat organs, small bones, and even skin. Skeletal muscle, or "fillets" in reference to fish, is so low in calories that it's typically somewhere between 1 kcal to 1.5 kcal per gram. That's what you're buying in the supermarket; but wild animals don't usually cut their food into choice strips.

(unless you're writing a clan that does food processing of course!)

QUICK FACTS

Average warrior will need 35 calories per pound of weight

10 pound warrior needs 350 calories a day

350 x 30 cats = 10,500 calories to feed a Clan for a single day

Birds provide the most calories per gram, land prey the middlemost, and aquatic prey the least.

Calculate calories in prey by taking the weight, converting to grams, and multiply by 4, 5, or 6 depending on broad category.

If you're having trouble feeding a Clan on small animals, look at bigger prey like rabbits and trout.

Muscle fillets are inferior to organ meats and have a much lower caloric value.

Nutrition

Not all food is the same. The more important thing to consider about any particular meal is NOT its calorie count, but its nutritional value. This is especially important to cats because protein is not stored as fat. If the body has no immediate use for it, it's flushed out.

Since cats should not eat more than 3% carbs, ALL of their fat stores will need to come from fat.

The ideal piece of meat would be at least 55% protein and 45% fat. Every individual species will have a different ratio, and more importantly, individual cuts will have a different ratio.

Skeletal muscle has a higher ratio of protein to fat. Organ meat, also sometimes called "offal," will have a more balanced ratio. That said, nearly all meat skews towards protein. PURE fat is very hard to find on the sorts of animals Clan cats hunt, and must be carefully divided, collected, or processed to make sure all warriors are getting proper nutrition.

I'll be going more in-depth with dietary fat at some other time, as this guide is meant to just be an overview! Just know that some Clans will need to eat MORE food to stay healthy because of this.

Cats need more than the "macronutrients" to stay healthy. They can't JUST rely on the juiciest cuts of meat to keep their health intact, they also need several vitamins and minerals to support their body functions, and avoid getting a deficiency.

Here's some of the important micronutrients, where to get them, and what happens they don't get enough;

Vitamin A: Livers, mealworms, eggs This is one of the most important micronutrients in a cat's body, used for practically everything. Without this, their coats will grow dull, and their joints stiff, and they'll start to go night-blind. In a severe state, they'll start to lose the ability to heal skin lacerations and die. Pregnant cats and kittens need more of this than usual, but it IS also possible to get vitamin A poisoning from getting too concentrated of a dose.

Calcium: Bones, eggs With a calcium deficiency, the warrior will feel stiff and sore, and experience painful muscle spasms. Most cats will simply crunch the bones of small prey and never have to worry about this, but if your cats cook or scavenge, they have to be told to NEVER eat the bones of a roasted bird. Because bird bones are hollow and cooking makes them brittle, they can splinter and cause fatal internal bleeding.

Thiamine: Trout, boar meat, mealworms, eggs Called a Fish Seizure because raw carp and raw bream contains thiaminase, which will destroy thiamine in the body. Lack of thiamine will cause neurological issues, such as the aforementioned seizures, general confusion, memory loss, and muscle weakness. This can be counterracted by eating trout, which is so high in thiamine that there's a theory that carp evolved it specifically to eat salmonids better.

Potassium: Trout, boar meat, mealworms, eggs As cats get older, they begin needing a lot more potassium for their bodies. It's a very common micronutrient found in most meat, but elders should get the first bite of special snacks "out of respect" which helps keep their potassium level up. Without it, they become very weak.

i feel like that evil struthiomimus from land before time with how many times i typed eggs

QUICK FACTS

The ideal ratio of a cut of meat is 55% protein 45% fat

Organ meat > Muscle meat

Micronutrients are important

But micronutrients can also cause poisoning if, somehow, they're too concentrated (very hard to come across concentrated micronutrients without the science of chemistry tho. Like if a cat swallowed a vitamin gummy.)

Food Processing

"Food Processing" is when you do something to your food before you eat it. Just a little bit of care is going to go a LONG WAY when it comes to health of the warrior.

Cats that eat raw meat the way canon warriors do are almost guaranteed to get worms. Roundworms, hookworms, and tapeworms are all passed through the infected tissue of rodent prey, and in fish, roundworms, tapeworms, and flukes can pass through raw meat.

All parasites do something a little different, but most digestive worms aren't fatal unless the cat is sick or a kitten. However, nearly ALL of them screw around with digestion, making the cat need to eat more just to stay healthy, or causing stomach irritation. Some of them can even pass in milk, infecting a suckler's nursing kits.

The easiest way to reduce this kind of infection is simply to slice the prey open from mouth-to-butt, Tigerstar-style, and hook and lift out the GI tract before eating. There's nothing in that worth eating raw anyway. It can just be discarded, or cleaned out and used to case tiny sausages! But it's only a reduction; there's still a risk of catching worms from raw meat.

There's also always the possibility of getting salmonella poisoning.

Many believe that cats are immune to this, but that's not true! Carnivores just have a shorter GI tract than omnivores and herbivores, so salmonella spends less time in their gut and ergo has less chance of causing an infection. It still happens, ESPECIALLY when cats hunt songbirds.

Nothing can be done about salmonella in raw meat, besides eating it as quickly as possible. It's innate to the bodies of birds and reptiles, and usually found on raw eggs too.

Some animals are small enough to be dried and carried around as rations, such as minnows or grasshoppers. Others could be sliced up into strips, and marinated in spices like valerian or catmint for an extra boost of energy. It could also be worthwhile to cut the pelt off a particularly soft animal, like a mole, to dry and keep as bedding material.

All of the above examples of food processing are possible without fire, but if your cats DO have fire, they will have a DRASTIC increase to the quality of their health.

Such as;

Cooking will almost completely eliminate those foodborne parasites. Their eggs don't survive extreme heat.

No more salmonella poisoning! GONE! Cooking is the only way to eliminate this!

It can increase caloric absorption from anywhere between 20% to 50%. Our example warrior who needed 3.5 mice a day could suddenly need one less mouse; and even a meager 20% drop in how much the entire Clan needs saves 2,400 calories a day. 24 whole mice!

I HAVE TO STRESS HOW BIG THAT IS. You save anywhere from 2/10 to 5/10 successful kills.

Thiaminase is destroyed by cooking, making bream and carp healthier and reducing "fish seizures."

It allows for fats to be processed and stored as tallow, lard, and oil, so it can be added to other dishes to make them both healthier and tastier.

Most food preservation requires fire in some way; by heating, jellying, boiling, etc. The only other two ways to reliably store food is by having access to a ton of salt, which is hard for most non-coastal clans to acquire, or vinegar, which is so acidic it's a notorious cat-repellent.

While cooking can also destroy some micronutrients, its benefits FAR outweigh any potential "strengths" of raw food. Destroying micronutrients is also not always a bad thing; as TOO MANY micronutrients can cause poisoning. Fire-using Clans will be more likely to "seek" micronutrients than non-fire Clans as a result, though they probably won't recognize the science behind a hankering!

QUICK FACTS

Worms. Basically unavoidable if your cat's eating like a canon warrior.

Some parasites can spread through milk.

Slicing and lifting out the GI tract can significantly reduce the chance of catching worms.

Salmonella can only be eliminated with cooking

Cooking will drastically increase the quality of a Clan's health, if your cats are advanced enough to figure out fire.

Warriors need to hunt a LOT less prey, and can store that prey, if they have fire.

Fire-using Clans will intentionally try to put more types of food in their diets and get 'cravings.'

On Obesity

Warrior Cats is not a realistic series. The boundary that any particular writer draws between humans and warrior cats is completely arbitrary. The series itself follows no sense of realistic genetics, regularly shows the cats using herbs that would poison them, and gives the characters human-centric morals like monogamy and paternal involvement.

So when it comes to being fatness in your project, please keep that in mind. You do not need too follow realistic cat weight distribution, if that's not what your project about. That said, let me tell you about humans vs cats in this department!

Humans have a massive diversity of weight distribution, with varied genetic predispositions to gaining and losing weight. The shame, bullying, and medical discrimination that comes with fatphobia is a LOT more harmful than being fat itself, and the causes of the "obesity crisis" are ridiculously more complicated than "ppl r snorking 2 much food".

Realistic cats aren't the same way.

When REAL cats are fat, that's VERY bad. It's a sign they are being fed the wrong things by humans, or live somewhere that they are able to eat what they shouldn't. They just don't have that same diversity in fat distribution that humans do. Because of how adipose tissue secretes certain hormones, feline obesity is like a chronic inflammatory disease which can cause arthritis, bladder stones, hepatic lipidosis, and more.

But with that in mind, fatness should be perceived very differently even in the most realistic settings. In comparison to humans;

It is harder for a wild cat to put on weight. Most of what they're eating is raw protein, actively trying to fill the 45% of daily fat intake they need to stay healthy. Protein isn't stored as fat, it's immediately discarded by the body if there is no use for it. A cat would need to be taking an INSANE amount of prey to start becoming dangerously overweight. Housecats are often fed human food, which has carbohydrates. Low-quality cat food will also use carbs as filler. High carb food is VERY bad for them, since they're only supposed to have 3% carbs at most. This is one of the reasons why it's easy for pet cats to become overweight.

Realistic cats don't look start looking overweight until they are significantly obese. Most of their fat is stored around their ribs and internally, unlike humans with our thick hips and round bellies, and they are covered in a naturally sagging pelt of fur. It's not as obvious with them. Visually, weight will be noticed best from a bird's eye perspective, unlike humans where it's apparent at every angle.

Putting on the fat that CAN be acquired is ridiculously important 3.5 raw, whole mice a day, per cat, are needed to fill their basic dietary requirements. There are going to be days or months especially during winter where they might be below that number, and that stored fat is going to be lifesaving. Bulking up is actually a big deal!

So not only is how canon treats overweight characters full of malice, it's full of lazy malice. It makes no sense from a realistic standpoint for wild cats to develop an association between fatness and greed or laziness. It's important, hard work for them to acquire it!

Though the Clans are notoriously xenophobic and kittypets are more likely to be overweight, it still doesn't make sense from a realistic cat perspective to be fatphobic in the same way as canon. It's more likely they'd see fat housecats as having "unearned" weight given to them by humans, like they're cheating, or they might be disdainful of how much junk food they eat, or pitiable because it's a sign of a bad twoleg... or just "sour grapes" variety jealousy ☕.

Bottom line is that there's a LOT you can do here which is better than canon's vicious bullying. The writers just lifted British cultural disdain for fat people and put it into the books. They simply did not think it through.

So please do what they didn't, and just put a little extra thought into how your project is going to view fatness! Consider if fatphobia is even a theme you need in your text.

As stated, you do not even have to write weight in your cats as being realistic in this way! I encourage you to pick and choose what's most fun and fitting for your own work. I personally give my characters a more human weight distribution, simply because I want to spite canon and be more body-positive. I am a fat people and you can take Bumble's big chunky bod from my cold, dead hands.

You can choose to make your work however you'd like, and now with this guide, you can have an easy reference for what your cats should eat! Thank you, StarClan, for this prey <3

[divine-nonchalance]

I stopped eating bread and it's amazing how much smarter I feel, and how much easier it is to express my thoughts cohesively and clearly. Regular wheat really does something to the brain… We're eating way too many carbohydrates.

There's a reason Caesar organized free bread and games. It distracts people from what's really going on and keeps the population sick and dumb.

I'm eating apples instead, peeled. And eating more eggs. I feel more grounded.

No more bulging belly. My skin is healthier. Feeling happier!

On top of that, I have a small growth in my gums above one of my front teeth that I can feel with my tongue, a leftover from an allergic reaction to an antibiotic. I've had it for about 18 years. It's only recently that I figured out it grows when I eat lots of sweet stuff and cream. So I'm drastically reducing that, I haven't had any dairy in weeks now and the only bread I've been eating lately is fullcorn spelt bread, which still has regular wheat in it.

I've reduced that to one slice, every few days, and I feel so much sharper mentally.

I only drink water with a fresh living hemp leaf i it, which oxygenates the water and gives it a beneficial electromagnetic charge, I just keep adding more water as I drink it. One leaf can last days.

So now I'm living on apples for breakfast and a warm meal of veggies and eggs for the rest of the day. I don't do heavy labor anymore, I'd probably just add extra eggs and apples if I would be.

Cheese and every form of dairy and fake dairy I've given up too.

I'm amazed at the results from these adjustments after just a couple of weeks. The growth in my gums was almost gone until I ate some white bread, now it's bigger again, and that's the only thing I ate differently.

What an eye opener...

"The energy from burning protein can be used to synthesize glucose. That's slightly different from what the word conversion means. When protein is burned for fuel about half of the energy goes to a process named gluconeogenesis to produce glucose."

The human body is amazing, it can use protein for fuel as well as to repair cells and make new ones, but it can't turn carbs into protein. Carbs are basically just fuel, and when there's too much fuel the body stores it as fat cells, or burns it off through inflammation.

"...the effect that processed carbs have on blood sugar—whether that's slow and steady or a sudden spike—is considered a primary driver of inflammation."

The only things I'm gonna keep eating now: Apples, bananas and walnuts, dried figs and cashews, dried dates and almonds, veggies, eggs, mushrooms like reishi, oyster mushrooms and shiitake, virgin olive oil, virgin coconut oil, steamed potatoes. And small amounts dark chocolate.

And ofcourse many different herbs and spices.

That's it for me now.

It took me 37 years to figure this out... wtf. Better late than never!

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Jesse Duquette

* * * * *

TRUMP SEEMED HAVE HAD SOME SORT OF...EPISODE AT A RALLY IN NEW JERSEY

TCINLA

MAY 13, 2024

From Charles P. Pierce at the Esquire Politics Blog:

Over the weekend, the de facto Republican presidential candidate gave a speech in New Jersey in which he sounded like a raving lunatic. To wit:

“Al Capone was so mean that if you went to dinner with him and he didn’t like you, you’d be dead the next morning. And I got indicted more than him. On bullshit, too. Just bullshit.” “The enemies from within are more dangerous to me than the enemies on the outside. Russia and China we can handle, but these lunatics within our government that are going to destroy our country, we have to get it stopped. They’re not on the right; they’re on the left.” “Fat Alvin, corrupt guy.” “You could take the ten worst presidents in the history of our country and add them up...and they haven’t done the damage to our country that this total moron has done. He’s a fool; he’s not a smart man. He never was. He was considered stupid. I talk about him differently now because now the gloves are off. He’s a bad guy…he’s the worst president ever, of any country. The whole world is laughing at him; he’s a fool.” “They’re emptying out their mental institutions into the United States, our beautiful country. And now the prison populations all over the world are down. They don’t want to report that the mental-institution population is down because they’re taking people from insane asylums and from mental institutions.” “Has anyone ever seen The Silence of the Lambs? The late, great Hannibal Lecter. He’s a wonderful man. He oftentimes would have a friend for dinner. Remember the last scene? ‘Excuse me, I’m about to have a friend for dinner,’ as this poor doctor walked by. ‘I’m about to have a friend for dinner.’ But Hannibal Lecter. Congratulations. The late, great Hannibal Lecter. We have people that have been released into our country that we don’t want in our country, and they’re coming in totally unchecked, totally unvetted. And we can’t let this happen. They’re destroying our country, and we’re sitting back and we better damn well win this election, because if we don’t, our country is going to be doomed. It’s going to be doomed.”

(Not to be pedantic, but the fictional Mr. Lecter is still fictionally alive, and not fictionally dead. He has accomplished this despite, you know, not being a real person.)

The only story to be written about this event is that a huge crowd gathered to see and hear the presumptive presidential candidate have some sort of episode in public. That is a major news story. Half the electorate has turned into a banana farm. The following, from The New York Times, is not the way to do this.

But if Mr. Trump’s speech largely consisted of what has become his standard fare, the setting stood out. Though New Jersey has voted for Democratic presidential candidates in every election since 1992, and Mr. Trump lost the state by double-digit margins in both 2016 and 2020, he insisted that he could win there in November. “We’re expanding the electoral map, because we are going to officially play in the state of New Jersey,” Mr. Trump said to a packed crowd on the beach. “We’re going to win the state of New Jersey.”

Neither is this.

Mr. Trump, who once owned casinos in Atlantic City, N.J., and who often spends summers at his golf club in Bedminster, N.J., has been publicly bullish on his chances in New Jersey for months. Political experts, and even some of his advisers, are skeptical. Still, parts of the state are deeply conservative, including the area around Wildwood, a boardwalk town on the southern end of the Jersey Shore and a beach destination popular with working-class families. Many visitors come from Pennsylvania, a battleground state that backed Mr. Trump in 2016 but swung to Mr. Biden in 2020.

And, finally, this isn’t, either.

Against the backdrop of classic Americana, Mr. Trump repeated his typical criticism that Mr. Biden’s economic policies were hurting the middle class. With an amusement park operating rides in the background, he insisted that only he could preserve the summer shore tradition. “The choice for New Jersey and Pennsylvania is simple,” Mr. Trump said, telling supporters to vote for him if they wanted “lower costs, higher income and more weekends down at the shore.” (The area’s locals usually say “down the shore,” but judging by the cheers of the crowd, the point was well received.) The rally was a stark contrast to the scene at the Manhattan courthouse, where proceedings are more sober and Mr. Trump’s comments are limited to remarks to reporters before he enters and leaves the courtroom.

This is normalization that ought to be taught in journalism schools as an example of what never to do. And the comparisons drawn between Trump in Court and Trump on the Stump are dangerously facile. His criminal trial isn’t just another bump on the campaign trail, like a freak snowstorm in Iowa or a washed-out bridge in New Hampshire. The odds are better than 50–50 that the presumptive Republican presidential candidate will be a convicted criminal going into his party’s convention. That’s a black-swan event in American history, and it ought to be covered like one every day.

My comment:

A.G. Sulzberger is proving every day that the private ownership of a public service like the New York Times makes as much sense as allowing one of the billionaire class to own the local water supply.

[dearestaeneas]

Freezer Burn

[word count: 2214]

The snow has not stopped for six whole days. It falls in fat flakes, melting at the slightest touch of human skin, with its warmth and salt. But still, despite (or perhaps, in spite of) its fragility, it falls. It falls in fat flakes and it collects. And collects and collects and collects. The earth here is hard, and cold. There is no blood pumping beneath the surface, no hot red liquid working tirelessly in veins and arteries to warm from within. The machine here is still. And so, the snow collects. And collects and collects and collects.

Sylvan Dorsey is no stranger to the cold. He is no stranger to the snow or the ice or the wind. Neither is his wife, Elizabeth Dorsey (formerly Clarence). Sylvan and Elizabeth Dorsey know all the tricks of the trade: how to check for breaks between door and window frames, how to keep the water from freezing in the pipes. Their supplies included flashlights and long underwear and blankets and gloves and hats and scarves and jugs of bottled water, should the power go out and the well become useless. The Dorseys would not have considered themselves a “board game couple” prior to their initial move, but in the years since the winters had taught them chess and rummy and Scrabble.

They consolidated most supplies to the living room in the winter months. There were obvious disadvantages to the decision, as it was the largest room with the biggest windows. However, any argument to the contrary was quickly extinguished in the face of the fireplace. It was a huge stone number, built by the original owners of the house and fortified by the Dorseys themselves. It was beautiful and huge and warm.

Truly, the Dorseys did not mind the cold and its challenges. It had been Sylvan’s idea to move up north, and Elizabeth had enthusiastically consented. Her singular complaint grew upon learning that municipal water, a luxury she had never realized she’d had prior, did not rely on electricity. A power outage in a city did not mean the toilets became functionally useless.

The cold had rolled in early this year. The Dorseys were a few weeks behind on their preparation schedule, having expected snow by the beginning of the next month. The fascinating thing about winter- the beautiful and terrible thing about the snow and the ice and the cold- was that it did not care about progress. It did not care about electric stoves or cars or telephone wires. It was as harsh and unforgiving in this decade as it had been a hundred years ago. The cold was like that. Even as the planet heats from the jets of careless billionaires and the drills of indifferent oil companies- the cold stays.

There is a fundamental misunderstanding the world has about the cold, and it is this: The cold is, above all else, patient. The warm cannot stay, the fire cannot burn forever. The heat will fizzle. All around everything that is and everything that will be, the cold waits. It does not push in on the planets, because it does not need to. Men cannot resist the cold- they come to it, with their rocket ships and their satellites and their little dogs who deserve far more than just a kiss on the nose. The cold was here before the universe, and it will be here after.

The Dorseys believed they understood this truth. To their credit, they may have been closer to understanding it than most. But no one truly understands what it means to be cold.

“We’re out of firewood.”

Elizabeth Dorsey entered the living room. Her arms were full of garbage bags as she dragged the Shop-Vac behind her. Her husband stood before the fireplace, hugging his arms to himself. Despite wanting this life, the anxiety he felt whenever the temperature started to drop was palpable. Elizabeth had suggested moving back to the city, or at least to a more populated town. They were alone here. But no, Sylvan would not have it. He loved their home, loved the trees and the stream half a mile out.

“Have you cut some outside?” she asked.

“No,” he answered. “I thought we had more time. I thought we had enough for this month.”

Elizabeth nodded. The anger she felt in the back of her throat did not tumble out. “Will the door open?”

The snow had pounded against it for six whole days. Thankfully, the power had not been lost, and Elizabeth had intended on cleaning out the fireplace before it had a chance to go out. “We’ll go together.”

“No!” Sylvan responded quickly. “I’ll go. I’ll stay close by.”

Her protestations were dismissed, even as the door was forced open, having frozen quickly. The snow against it tumbled inside, having been just above waist-high. “I’ll be fine. I’ll stay close by.”

When the door was once again forcefully shut against the cold, the silence that ensued in the house was near deafening. The roar of wind outside was cut cleanly off, and the scrape of Elizabeth’s boots on the floor was grating as she forced the snow that had found its way inside as close to the door as she could manage. Her steps toward the fireplace, the roll of the plastic wheels on the vacuum- it was ear-shattering.

Elizabeth liked the way the snow muffled sounds. She loved the way it crunched underfoot, and when she was in town, she loved how the trucks sounded so far away, even when she was standing across the street from them.

Elizabeth did not love these new sounds. Her skin crawled. She sang, softly, acclimating her ears to the house itself. Outside, faintly, she could hear Sylvan chopping wood. She inhaled, and exhaled. Cleaning the fireplace was an art form to her by this point. What had originally taken her 20 minutes could now be done in 5. She listened to the sound of the ax hitting the stump, the sounds of log after log landing with a fwump! into snow, and then the gentle clunk! of a new log hitting the previous one. These sounds were briefly suffocated by the sound of the vacuum.

Elizabeth emptied the ash and debris of the vacuum into one of the garbage bags, all the while hearing the sounds of wood hitting wood in the snow. Fireplace ready, she pulled her boots back on and heard Sylvan’s scream as her hand made contact with the door.

“STAY INSIDE.”

Elizabeth froze, despite herself. The command had frightened her, causing her to physically recoil away from the door, as if burned. The sounds of wood being chopped had not stopped at any point.

“Sylvan?” she called out hesitantly after several agonizing minutes. “Can I come help you? You’re scaring me.”

As if on cue, the chopping stopped. It was replaced by the soft crunching of footsteps. Elizabeth stepped back from the door, unable to understand why she dreaded the idea of that door opening. Instead, the steps appeared to be leading away from the door. Upon realizing this, Elizabeth pressed her back against the wall. Her breath caught in her chest and held itself.

“Open the door.”

Elizabeth did not move. She did not breathe.

“Open the door.”

Why had he walked away from it?

“Open the door.”

More footsteps.

“Open the door.”

Elizabeth did not move when she saw the blue finger creep from the corner of the window frame and begin scratching on the glass. The nails were sharp, like ice. The glass squealed.

Vomit threatened to release itself from her throat, but Elizabeth swallowed, hard. Tears sprang to her eyes, and every muscle in her body began shaking. The finger disappeared, and it was several seconds before the top of Sylvan’s head came into view from the bottom of the window frame. It was playful, the way he’d peek up and pop back down again. His already gray hair was white with snow, and his skin was blue. A quiet, muffled laughter accompanied the show.

Elizabeth sobbed, tears hot against her cheeks. She wanted to throw up, wanted to scream and hit and bite and claw. She must have begun to make noises, because Sylvan stopped and straightened. The lines on his face were deep, and his movements were stiff and slow. He stared into the house, blue and white. His expression was blank. Behind him, the snow collected.

“What are you crying for?” The wind whipped the words from his mouth.

Elizabeth’s sobs turned to screams, her entire face wet and red. Sylvan held up a finger. The motion was so fluid it caught her off guard, and Elizabeth gave him her focus. She watched as he placed a finger on either side of his mouth and pulled the corners up. He pulled up and up and up, his face becoming frozen in a terrible grin. Elizabeth could hear his skin cracking like ice as he pulled. She vomited until her bones hurt.

“I left the wood at the door for you.”

His voice was strained, coming out of a mouth bent the wrong way.

“What happened?” Elizabeth heard herself ask. Her voice shook.

Sylvan did not answer. “You’ll be needing it soon. It’s cold out.”

“Please don’t do this.”

“Open the door.”

Elizabeth moved before she understood what she was doing. She flung the drapes shut, blocking Sylvan out. The other window was already covered. The room was cast in warm light from the lamps, but Elizabeth knew she wouldn’t make it long without the fire. The house’s elderly heater chugged along faithfully, but needed the supplemental heat of the fireplace to make a real difference.

“Elizabeth,” Sylvan sang. “Elizabeth.”

She wouldn’t sleep. She would stay awake. She would stay awake all winter if she had to. She would not open the door. Her head pounded, her eyes ached.

The house was small enough that remaining in the living room would pose no problem to her safety. She’d burn the dining room chairs and table. She’d burn the wooden desk chairs and the desks themselves. Elizabeth busied herself collecting the soon-to-be tinder, and kept it by the door. Then, she sat. She sat across from the fireplace and stared into it, its dark mouth expectant. She screwed her eyes shut against the sound of Sylvan’s voice outside.

Several hours later, she burned the first chair. She would ration the furniture, keeping warm in other ways. The fire was for nighttime. Elizabeth soon found this conviction to be difficult to stick to, realizing that when the fire burned, Sylvan did not sing. When the flames died, he would start again.

Elizabeth lost track of how many days passed. The rare moments she did sleep, the sight of Sylvan’s distorted mouth was plastered on the inside of her eyes, and the sound of his skin crackling rang in her ears.

His singing and his footsteps circled the house. Every few hours she would try the telephone again. Although the house had not lost power, the phone only responded to Elizabeth with a dead tone.

No one would come. No one would stop by to see how the Dorseys were faring, no one would even notice that they were unreachable by phone. No one would notice that the Dorseys’ old truck never rattled down to the store. All of these would, historically, spark great concern among the Dorseys’ many friends in the area. No family members would wonder why they hadn’t heard from either of them recently. The coming silence would be uncharacteristic. And yet, Elizabeth knew.

Elizabeth knew that she was alone. That no one was coming. That she would have to come to them. She went upstairs. When she looked out the window, there he was. Looking up at her.

By the time Elizabeth decided to burn the house down, she hadn’t eaten in four days. She had run out of furniture to burn a week ago. Sylvan sang incessantly. She did not care about making it to town anymore.

“You could make a break for the truck,” Sylvan suggested, his skin pink and his hair gray. “I can’t outrun you, even if we’re both in the snow.”

He was right, of course. Elizabeth did not care. “You’ll be waiting right outside the door.”

Sylvan nodded. Elizabeth sat on the floor, staring into the empty fireplace. Sylvan sat in front of her. Outside the house, he sang.

“I want quiet.”

Sylvan did not respond. He watched as Elizabeth stood and smiled at him. A real, genuine smile. Her eyes were bloodshot.

Elizabeth lit the match and dropped it on the floor. She lit a second match and dropped it on one of the remaining piles of blankets. A third fell to the final hat and scarf. She tossed the gloves on it. Small fires grew, and fed. When the flames ate the drapes, Sylvan stood outside the window, face frozen in its grotesque smile. His eyes were wide with terror. Flames took bites out of the house, licking the walls. Not even the natural muffle of winter could drown out the crackle.

The Dorseys looked at one another.

Elizabeth stood on the other side of the window and laughed and laughed and laughed.

[sorcerous-caress]

A thought I've had about the whole human kink thing is how viably we can modify ourselves, like basic tattoos, piercings, and the more extreme tongue bifurcation and horn implants. There's also what Faerun can offer humans, be it through inking our skin with runes, magical glass eyes, magical prosthetics as replacement limbs, and even just straight up growing new limbs if the circumstances are right. Wyll pops into mind, and Mizora just snapping her fingers and making him partially devil is insane to me. What exactly does that even entail, like does he burn hotter, is he prone to vices, or is it literally all aesthetic? Draconic sorcerers growing wings and a tail comes to mind, but I personally think we should have more crazy shit like it. Watch the stupid tiefling that made fun of you for your fat forehead as you become a druid and learn how to grow big deer horns to assert dominance. Wizards studying winged races like the aasimar in order to grow their own and accidentally recreate Icarus (hahaha wizard hubris haha draco sorcs can already do that) Wyll has already proven that warlock patrons could just slap something on you and call it a day, could you imagine what an eldritch horror could do to a guy? It could force you to be a catgirl, scary stuff

Scary stuff indeed. So like, anyone got Cthulhu's address or something? Just wanna bang these pots and pans in front of his house, no reason.

Realistically, in Faerun, only 20% of humans would be adventurers, and only 5% would manage to become powerful enough to reach the high levels in their class to alter their appearance. The remaining humans would just be your average normal human, maybe with coloured hair or piercings.

Luckily, there is a fuck ton of humans. So going by our current numbers of 8,082,949,811 population. 1,616,589,962 of it would be adventurers. One billion and half.

And 404,147,490 would be the powerful ones at high levels. Draconic Sorcerers, for example, need to reach level 11 to sprout wings, and reaching level 12 is considered to almost be demi-god like in power. Almost half a billion demi-god like humans just waddling Faerun.

Also I pulled these percentages out of my ass, source: trust me bro. It does sound kinda reasonable so eh.

The fuckery these 5% of humanity gets up to will have the whole planet on a toll. Wasn't Karsus himself a human that had his ego stroked and inflated by the elves endlessly?

Think of how quickly Gale ascended to divnity in mere months after the endgame when he reached level 12. It normally takes a person years of dedicated study to level up once.

Maybe a group of nonhuman adventurers meet a really powerful and cool looking person that saves them from a dragon. Killing it so easily. Maybe they have wings themselves or mayhe an aura of holy magic that surrounds them.

They have horns, glossy skin and glowing limbs. Eyes shaped like stars with the galaxy inside and hair flaoting around with no regards to gravity.

The party asks who is this benevolent deity, and you reply with, "pfft, a deity? Please, I'm just a simple human."

Also, with Wyll's transformation. Remember, Mizora works under the arch-devil zariel. The punishment was probably casted by the arch-devil herself but handed by Mizora.

Transforming someone into another being is never easy, but I feel like fiends and celestials can get an exception, yk?

Like Corellon and his pantheon can change other races into elves at will. Fiends can be born out of hate or sins, and Wyll already handed in his soul in a contract. It would be easy to infect it with enough sin by dragging it through the hells to make him a devil, or just have the appearance of one.

His ingame status never changes, tho. It still describes him as human, and he still has all human weaknesses and none of the fiending bonuses. So maybe it didn't transform him but just altered his appearance? Like a cure or something?

[rookwoodacademy]

MILLICENT BULSTRODE is a HALF-BLOOD WITCH. They're a [enter role here], a SLYTHERIN, and are 19 years of age. Their wand is 10 & 3/4" long, made of Hemlock, and possesses a dragon heartstring core. It is currently in Millicent's possesion. They identify as pansexual and are currently SINGLE. They are UNCLAIMED. Oddly enough, they look an awful lot like KAT DENNINGS.

They are TAKEN.

Biography:

There were a lot of things Millicent Bulstrode had to learn growing up for her own good. For instance, she never was to mention her birth mother. Her father, a young Rasputus Bulstrode, seemingly unsatisfied with the lack of attention he got from young women, turned to a Muggle prostitute for attention. Considering he couldn’t use a prophylactic charm in the presence of a Muggle, Rasputus received a rather disarming surprise roughly nine months after his encounter with said prostitute - a newborn baby girl and a note claiming he was the father. His mother Violetta learned of his dalliance, and after confirming the paternity of the child, took her in to raise. She wouldn’t have any blood of hers living in the streets. Society was told that Rasputus fathered the child with a poor, sickly witch while he was on holiday in France. However, little Millie was reminded over and over by her father just how unwanted she was.

Second was that she was not like most girls. The girls she was surrounded with, other children of Pureblood descent, were prim and proper, delicate, catty little things. Millicent was a bigger girl, with the body inherited from her father’s side of the family. Her grandmother fought to teach her the ways of society, but no matter how hard Millicent tried, she couldn’t find the grace within her that the other girls had so naturally. She wasn’t a leader, not one to be the center of attention. And so, she became sort of a shadow within the group of girls, often found tagging along with Pansy Parkinson and Astoria Greengrass, though Pansy would find any way to mock her that she could.

Thankfully, she was sorted into Slytherin. She thought maybe being at school would help her change things about herself, to make her more appealing, but it only set them more into stone. Her self-loathing and frustration came out in physical violence at times, including a few instances where she fought Hermione Granger. Her friends praised her for her actions, but Millie, when she was tucked into her bed, behind thick emerald curtains and curled up with her cat Lilith, she would admit her anger came from more of a place of jealousy. Hermione was a Mudblood, yet she had friends who appreciated her. She excelled in her studies. She was the perfect picture of a young witch. Everything Millie longed for but knew she never could have - or even express the desire for. 

Puberty was about the only thing in Millie’s life that was kind to her. A growth spurt had her awkward baby fat morphing into luscious curves, her rounded face sharpening into beautiful features. Going into seventh year, Millie suddenly had the attention of the male population in Slytherin House - something she had no idea how to handle. However, she found that there was many a boy - and the occasional girl - who wanted to back her into the shadowy corners in the long halls connecting the Slytherin dungeons to the Potions classroom she was often found in. Those encounters were thrilling and confusing at first, but Millie soon learned what she liked. At least, what she liked when she was kissed and groped. And she knew her grandmother would be disappointed to learn her precious granddaughter fantasized about a partner strong and bold enough to toss her around and take what they wanted from her.

Following the Wizarding War, Millicent’s blood status was revealed, though because of her family connections, she was allowed to claim the status of a switch. She knew her father wouldn’t accept what she truly wanted, to be a submissive, but perhaps by the time that came to be, his opinion wouldn’t be of consequence.

[jessehart]

time capsule video. task 003.

Jesse sat on a chair in his living room, propping up his laptop so that it pointed in his direction. The webcam was pulled up, reflecting back his surroundings, and Jesse tried to feel anything as he stared at the image of himself on screen. He looked tired. Last night’s binge drinking still clung to him, his red-rimmed bleary eyes staring through the screen rather than at it. He wished he had a drink now too. Just enough to quiet the static in his mind.

This time capsule video seemed pointless to him. But more than that, he didn’t fucking care. And he couldn’t imagine kids fifty years from now would give a shit either. 

There were several directions he could take this, all of which he’d considered in the fifteen minutes it had taken him to decide today was the day he was going to just get it over with so he didn’t have to think about Ogden again until fall. He’d considered indulging his hedonistic side, snorting a fat line as the video started and letting the blow lead him where it may. He thought about playing the dutiful student, though something about leaving behind a false legacy rubbed him the wrong way. It pissed him off, in fact. He hated that innate need to polish himself in front of a camera, to pretend to be the son his father had so clearly wanted rather than whatever it was Jesse actually turned out to be. 

So, that was his answer, then.

Pushing up from his chair, he decided he did, in fact, need a drink (or several) for this. He pounded four beers in quick succession, his stomach churning uncomfortably as he made his way back to the living room half an hour later and sunk back in his seat. Now or never.

Jesse sat forward and hit the record button before settling back in his chair, a smirk on his face that held no true amusement within it. His thoughts were racing, his mind circling that night like it had every moment since it happened. And Greer’s silence on the other end was entirely too loud. Louder now, somehow.

A little timer popped up on the screen and Jesse sat in silence for one second and then two. Then, his smile widened. “What up, Ogden! Fifty years, huh?” He puffed up his cheeks and deflated them on an exhale. “Damn. Hard to believe this shithole made it that long.” He scratched at his chin. “I don’t really know what the point of this is, to be honest. You don’t give a shit about what a bunch of students fifty years ago have to say. And if I know anything about the population of Ogden in 2022, it’s that they’re up their own asses enough to think that they have some... I don’t know, unearned wisdom or sage advice to offer. But you know what? It’s bullshit. It’s all bullshit.”

Jesse laughed, the sound edging towards manic. “Here’s all you really need to know: everyone is fake. Everyone. And we’re all just looking out for ourselves. And why is that a bad thing? Isn’t that just, like, human nature? No one else is gonna look out for you.”

Even when you think they might.

“I hope in fifty years we’re not so fucking soft, you know? Everyone is terrible, but only some of us are brave enough to be terrible out loud.”

There was a pause as the truth of that settled somewhere deep inside Jesse. It was as if he was no longer talking to a group of people, but talking for the sake of getting rid of the things that had been eating him up for years. For his whole life, maybe.

“I don’t think enough people are talking about that. It feels so fucking lonely sometimes, you know? I’ve lied, I’ve cheated, I’ve stolen, I’ve—” Memories flashed by almost too fast to catch. A warm night. Greer. Little white lines. An argument. Jesse blinked hard to fight them off, but Greer lingered. She always did. “I was fucking this girl who had a boyfriend for pretty much all of my Sophomore year. And I’m not sorry. It was fun, we had fun together. The secrecy and the sneaking around is fun. And you know what? I’ll do it again next year.” He grinned a secret smile before he remembered the camera and glanced back at it. “I hope you’re having more of that in the future. Be terrible, 2072. And be fucking loud about it.”

[sainthelgas]

Assorted Last unicorn rewatch thoyghts/ gravity falls critique

Okay i had a double feature with the gravity falls commentary track where alex hirsch trashed the last unicorn and then the last unicorn. In all fairness feom the way he described the movie I dont think he has seen it in 20+ years. But also its funny that he shit on it in the commentary track for one of the worst grabity falls episodes. The fucking last mabelcorn. They made the episode in the last liek five minutes and it shows. He calls it bad and treats it like a guilty pleaure thing but fuck you. Quality wise the last unicorn is runnint circles around this episode. It remains entertaining throughout which is more then I can say for a lot of grabity falls episodes in the later half of season 2. Saying this from my memory of watching it when I was 12 fyi. Also its kinda silly to compare an hour and a half movie to a tv show with two seasons. Like apples and oranges. But what I will say is that the last unicorn reaches higher highs.

That being said by someone who would consider the last unicorn one of her favorite movies. All of the characters are like flawed in differsnt ways byr all decently likeable. Even the king who is literally holding a whole population of creatures captive is pretty sympathetic. Or at least moreso than he might be in other films of a similar age demographic. The entire thing with the unicorn losing herself to the illusion was delightful. Its all the tropes I really love. And its funny that is what alex hirsch focused on as a major point. The whole horror of it just went over his head. I could probably make some argument yow uis misreading of the unicorn and total blindness to molly can say something for how gravity falls writes its women characters. I could also day its funny how this parallels a lot of the ways people treat mabel. Being hyper critical of a (usually girl)character due to a desire to go against the norm presented. It kinda reminds me of what happened to scrappy doo in the james gun scooby doo movie. But ya know scrappy do was actuslly annoying lets not kid ourselves. The unicorn did nothing wrong amd now theres this smear campaign against her. Funded by the disney corporation. I kid.

I do not have a gender studys major nor do I have enough knowledge to accurately say if gravity falls is a little sexist. I feel like so much of wendy's screentime is devoted to her relationship to dipper and or robbie. She never really gets to feel like a natural part of the group dynamic. She has nice interactions with other characters she just doesbt get that many plots focused on her. At least in comparrison to soos who gets full episodes about him/his backstory and like just gets more b plots. The fee b plots wendy does get are like about dippers crush on her or robbie being a shitty boyfriend or both. Remember when robbie tried to brainwash her and they never mentioned it again. Not really relevant just thought it was interesting.

Overall: is gravity falls a bad show? No, it has problems but like in comparrison to its contemporaries its pretty good. Its just a flawed show. And I cant say its like all mysoginistic because mabel is a very well written character even if it feels like the show is very often still from dippers pov. And they at least kinda subvert the mean girl archetype. I like that. Giving a character supposed to be shallow more depth is always a plus. I think the biggest drawback from wendys lack of side plots is soos kinda be overplayed a bit as "supporting young adult". Like soos is funny but also he can kinda get grating when used to much. Maybe its jurt cause my tolerance for "funny innofensive fat guy" is very low. I much prefer "rude asshole fat guy" like pete from a goofy movie.

Tldr: watch the last unicorn it changed my life

[borntobecheap]

"Look, one of the things about this country I really can't stand? It's the lack of accountability.

Everything wrong with an American's life is somebody else's fault. All these smokers raking in millions of dollars in damages from tobacco companies, when, what, they've known the risks for forty years. Can't quit?

Stick it to Philip Morris. Next thing you know, fat people will be suing fast-food companies because they've eaten too many Big Macs!" I paused, catching myself. "I realize you've heard this before."

Kevin was winding me up, of course, like a toy. He had the same intent, mischievous expression I'd seen recently on a boy making his model race car hurtle off the rocks in Tallman Park by remote control. "Once or twice," he allowed, repressing a smile.

"Power walkers," I said.

"What about them."

"They drive me insane." Of course, he'd heard this, too. But he hadn't heard this, because until then I hadn't quite put it together: "People around here can't just go for a walk, they have to be getting with some kind of program. And you know, this may be at the heart of it, what's my beef?.

All those intangibles of life, the really good but really elusive stuff that makes life worth living— Americans seem to believe they can all be obtained by joining a group, or signing up to a subscription, or going on a special diet, or undergoing aroma therapy. It’s just not just that Americans think they can buy everything; they think that if you follow the instructions on the label, the product has to work. Then when the product doesn't work and they're still unhappy even though the right to happiness is enshrined in the Constitution, they sue the bejesus out of each other"

"What do you mean, intangibles," said Kevin.

"Whatever, as your friends would say. Love, joy, insight." (To Kevin, I could as well have been talking about little green men on the moon.)

"But you can't order them on the Internet or learn them in a course at the New School or look them up in a How-To. It's not that easy, or maybe it is easy ... so easy that trying, following the directions, gets in the way…

I don't know."

Kevin was doodling furiously on the tablecloth with his crayon. "Anything else?"

"Of course there's anything else," I said, feeling the momentum that gets rolling in those plane chats when I finally get access to the library in my head, remembering Madame Bovary, and Jude the Obscure, and A Passage to India, "Americans are fat, inarticulate, and ignorant. They're demanding, imperious, and spoiled. They're self-righteous and superior about their precious democracy, and condescending toward other nationalities because they think they've got it right—never mind that half the adult population doesn't vote. And they're boastful, too. Believe it or not, in Europe it isn't considered acceptable to foist on new acquaintances right off the bat that you went to Harvard and you own a big house and what it cost and which celebrities come to dinner. And Americans never pick up, either, that in some places it's considered crass to share your taste for anal sex with someone at a cocktail party you've known for five minutes— since the whole concept of privacy here has fallen by the wayside. That's because Americans are trusting to a fault, innocent in a way that makes you stupid. Worst of all, they have no idea that the rest of the world can't stand them." I was talking too loudly for such a small establishment and such abrasive sentiments, but I was strangely exhilarated. This was the first time that I’d been able to really talk to my son, and I hoped that we'd crossed the Rubicon. At last I was able to confide things that I well and truly believed, and not just lecture—please don't pick the Corleys' prize-winning roses.

Granted, I'd begun in a childishly inept way, asking how's school, while he was the one who’d conducted our talk like a competent adult, drawing out his companion. But as a consequence I was proud of him. I was just fashioning a remark along these lines, when Kevin, who had been scribbling intently on the tablecloth with that crayon, finished whatever he was drawing, looked up, and nodded at the scrawl.

"Wow," he said. "That's a whole lot of adjectives."

Attention deficit disorder in a pigs eye. Kevin was an able student when he bothered, and he hadn't been doodling; he’d been taking notes.

"Let's see," he said, and proceeded to check off successive elements of his list with his red crayon. "Spoiled. You're rich. I'm not too sure what you think you're doing without, but I bet you could afford it. Imperious. Pretty good description of that speech just now; if I was you, I wouldn't order dessert, 'cause you can bet the waiter's gonna hawk a loogie in your raspberry sauce. Inarticulate Lemme see... "He searched the tablecloth, and read aloud, "It's not that easy, or maybe it is easy, I don't know. I don't call that Shakespeare myself. Also, seems to me I'm sitting across from the lady who goes on these long rants about ‘reality TV' when she's never watched a single show. And that-one of your favorite words, Mumsey—is ignorant. Next: boasting. What was all that these-dumb-fucks-suck-dead-moose-dick-and-I'm-so-much-cooler-than-them if it wasn't showing off? Like somebody who thinks she's got it right and nobody else does. Trusting ... with no idea other people can't stand them." He underscored this one and then looked me in the eye with naked dislike. "Well. Far as I can tell, about the only thing that keeps you and the other dumbass Americans from being peas in a pod is you're not fat. And just because you're skinny you act self-righteous, condescending and superior. Maybe I'd rather have a big cow of a mother who at least didn't think she was better than everybody else in the fucking country!"

We need to talk about Kevin

[elodieunderglass]

Oh it’s even more than that! The cis straight guy is very often a ride home, dad or husband. Or a Bob which I will explain in this essay is a signifier of a healthy ecosystem, like frogs are.

This is a 3 am take so consider this a blanket apology and a readmore but if you hate this post you were warned.

If he’s someone’s ride home, then his presence enables queer people to show up. Note this importance in, say, rural America or where the person might use a wheelchair or need care or can’t drive. Or where the meeting place is generally awkward.

If he’s someone’s dad, his presence enables kids to show up. I know a 5 year old trans kid in real life. I know a nonbinary teen in real life who’s allowed to do a lot on their own, but their parents worry, and if they’re hanging out with adults the parents want to attend and meet the adults. Teenagers are so liminal with this.

If he’s someone’s husband, that’s a perfectly common accessory for a bisexual, nonbinary, or trans person. I think it adds a delightful dimension to queer spaces. I think it’s great that there’s a whole class of sexuality that’s “bi wife energy” or “straight except for loving this person” or “straight since I think nonbinary people are considered a different gender to my own - actually I’m completely lost about whether that’s true but we’ve been married ten years?” or “straight except for the fact that my partner transitioned, and we’re still married, and it’s none of your business.” At this point they’re so common that they’re their own subspecies. I think all spaces should have a slightly bewildered guy in his late forties who owns a set of good screwdrivers. I am bi and have one myself; it is a common pairing. “Why would your husband come to your social thing” idk this is a genuine thing people do sometimes in non-tar-pit spaces. They stop by. It’s almost like birds. You meet this incredible ornate, splendid older queer person and then they introduce their husband Professor Robert “Bob” Kevinsworth, who’s just this extremely straight old big fat Linux geologist in a 90s t-shirt with a trout on it, they’ve been married 45 years. Evolutionary pressures mean that the Bob must be relatively drab in order to camouflage themselves on the nest or something; if you want to attract the flashy half of the couple to your garden, then you have to provide habitat for Bob. idk it’s 3:46 am right now. But it’s like frogs; the presence of Bobs indicates a healthy and established ecosystem, like Grison and Derin indicate. Because frogs, who absorb environmental toxins readily through their skin, are an indicator species for pollution and biodiversity; a Bob means there is going to be less toxicity and more diversity.

[And also it’s none of our business but there are an awful lot of queer Bobs (Bob himself, again, possibly being queer) and it’s really none of our business. Sure, maybe that person looks like a straight grandpa. A lot of people do/did. I have always hated the idea that you can “spot” a queer person by their haircut, clothes or youth (largely because I don’t look very unusual or amazing myself.) the oldest nb person I know is a sort of Bob with a big white beard and grandchildren, and I’m sorry but at their age they are NOT going to be getting a different haircut! Let alone pink Shein dungarees and black circle sunglasses to signify their queerness to gatekeepers. A lot of people seeing them would assume they are cishet. Nope! Just old, fat and unfashionable.)

So a space that doesn’t have room for a cishet guy is a space that has made decisions about children, non-drivers, a large proportion of bi and nonbinary people, straight trans women, dads, and so on.

Which is fine in itself I suppose, but what they’re clearly kinda selecting for is a population of able twentysomethings who can all have sex with each other. and the thing is that there’s often a vibe they feel annoyed by seeing people they don’t want to fuck (children, middle-aged people, unfashionable queer people, people unironically wearing trout t shirts).

So in my admittedly highly limited personal experience, the exclusionary “queer spaces” just tend to be an elaborate drama-production exercise for twentysomethings to date each other, the rituals are intricate etc.

And all the rest of the weird queer people are just. at the seed swap.

I'm kind of at a point where the "queer spaces" i feel safest in are the ones that have a pet cishet dude or two hanging around

[xtruss]

Ultra-Processed Foods Make Us Eat More, and It’s Not About Their Nutritional Makeup

Two Groups of Study Participants were Offered Nutritionally Identical Diets. Those Eating Ultra-Processed Foods Consumed More Calories and Gained Weight.

— By Katherine J. Wu | Published: Thursday May 16, 2019 | NOVA—PBS | Wednesday 22 November 2023

Sweetened breakfast cereals count as ultra-processed foods, which often include additives and ingredients that enhance a product's flavor, texture, or shelf life. Image Credit: Ponce Photography, Pixabay

At the start of his latest clinical trial in 2018, National Institutes of Health researcher Kevin Hall was sure he wouldn’t see a difference.

His study, intended to monitor caloric intake and weight gain, offered its participants one of two nearly identical menus. Both contained the same number of calories, and comparable amounts of carbohydrates, fats, and proteins. Even the diets’ fiber, sugar, and sodium contents were matched. Nutrient-wise, they were about as similar as two meal plans could get.

But as the days ticked by, Hall quickly began to see how wrong his initial hunch had been. Despite the superficial similarities, one group was eating much more of the food they were offered. And by the end of two weeks, the members of that same group had gained an average of two pounds, while their counterparts had lost two pounds.

The only explanation was the one factor Hall had thought would have no effect at all: While one menu was made up mostly of whole, unprocessed foods, the other—the one tied to weight gain—was composed almost entirely of ultra-processed foods.

Compared to unprocessed foods like fresh fruits and nuts, ultra-processed foods like cookies and chips tend to have more calories, sugar, fat, and salt, all of which have been linked to putting on weight. But the findings from Hall’s team, published today in the journal Cell Metabolism, are the first to show there’s something inherent to ultra-processed foods, independent of nutritional makeup, that seems to encourage overeating.

“This is really important work,” says Dana Small, a psychologist and neuroscientist studying food choice at Yale University who was not involved in the study. “This study produces a definitive answer to a question we did not have a definitive answer to.”

Though it’s not yet clear why ultra-processed foods have this effect, the results underscore the importance of an issue that goes beyond effective dieting. With their cheapness, convenience, and long shelf life, ultra-processed foods now make up more than half the calories Americans eat. These numbers tick even further upwards for underrepresented minorities, as well as in lower income populations.

“This is not about willpower—we’re living in a manipulated food environment,” says Ashley Gearhardt, a psychologist studying food addiction at the University of Michigan who was not involved in the study. “Ultra-processed foods are unique in ways that we are only just starting to understand.”

The unprocessed and ultra-processed breakfasts (respectively) offered to study participants on Day 4. Left: A spinach, onion, and tomato omelet made with fresh eggs and olive oil, sweet potato hash, and skim milk. Right: Scrambled eggs prepared from liquid, pork sausage, honey buns, and orange juice infused with fiber. Image Credit: Courtesy of Kevin Hall, National Institutes of Health, Hall et al. 2019

Technically, any food that’s been mechanically or chemically altered from its original state can be considered “processed.” That label applies to milk, tofu, frozen spinach, and countless other foods that appear in our diets, and doesn’t automatically designate a product as unhealthy.

Ultra-processed foods, on the other hand, take things one step further by including ingredients that provide cheap, “industrial” sources of dietary energy and nutrients—like added sugars, fats, and chemical preservatives—that enhance an item’s flavor, texture, or shelf life. Some offenders in the ultra-processed arena are familiar, like candy and chicken nuggets; others, like sweetened yogurts, reduced-fat salad dressing (or reduced-fat anything, for that matter), and packaged soup, may be a little more surprising.

For years, scientists have been linking ultra-processed foods to a variety of poor health outcomes, including cancer, obesity, and even an increased risk of death. Most of these studies, however, have been limited to questionnaires and diet records that rely on people to accurately report what they’ve eaten, and can’t establish direct cause and effect.

So Hall and his team decided to do what no other group had done before: Round up 20 people, house them at the National Institutes of Health Clinical Center, and prepare, serve, and track every single morsel of food they ate for a month. Each person was randomly assigned to either an ultra-processed or unprocessed menu for the first two weeks, then switched. Both diets consisted of three meals and a glut of snacks, providing almost 4,000 calories each day, and participants were told to eat as much or as little as they wanted.

The unprocessed and ultra-processed lunches (respectively) offered to study participants on Day 6. Left: Salmon, green beans with olive oil, baked sweet potato, and plain Greek yogurt with frozen strawberries. Right: Burgers with American cheese, fries, ketchup, and diet lemonade infused with fiber. Image Credit: Courtesy of Kevin Hall, National Institutes of Health, Hall et al. 2019

In terms of their nutritional composition, the two diets were equivalent on almost every front, down to the average number of calories per gram of food. But while ultra-processed foods had no part in the unprocessed menu, they contributed more than 80 percent of the calories in the ultra-processed diet.

It took some serious finagling to get the menus to match, while keeping the ratio of carbohydrate to fat to protein within a healthy range, Hall says. The team also had to take great pains to keep the study’s results mum as they unfolded, even outfitting participants in loose-fitting clothing to mask any weight gain or loss.

But the work paid off. In the end, the only real difference between the groups was the proportion of ultra-processed foods in their diets.

“I can’t think of another study that has been this well controlled for so long,” Gearhardt says. “That allows us to make much more confident interpretations of what these foods are really doing.” If Hall and his team saw clear differences in outcome, there would be a pretty clear culprit.

But even Hall was surprised to discover how quickly changes in eating behavior unfolded. When put on the ultra-processed diet, participants started eating an average of 500 extra calories a day, resulting in several people gaining weight and body fat over the two-week stint. The difference had nothing to do with the amount of food they’d been offered, or even how good it tasted (when asked, participants reported the two menus were equally appetizing and satisfying). But the inclusion of ultra-processed food had triggered a subtle, and likely subconscious, shift in behavior.

The study was brief, and there’s no telling if these results will hold true on a longer time scale, says Vasanti Malik, a nutrition researcher at the Harvard School of Public Health who was not involved in the study. To that point, the difference in the number of calories consumed on each diet actually decreased slightly as time went on. But that doesn’t make the upshot any less concerning: Something in this ultra-processed diet was making people eat more, and it didn’t take long to see the effects.

What exactly that something was, though, is still an open question. Finding the answer will require a lot more research, but Hall has a few theories.

Although both diets were similar in energy density, or the number of calories per gram, these calculations also counted drinks, including juices and lemonade that acted as vehicles for fiber supplements in the ultra-processed diet. But beverages may not make people feel full in the same way that solid food does—and when the researchers took liquids out of the equation, the solid foods on the ultra-processed menu packed in more calories per bite. This might have made it easy for people on this diet to scarf down a lot of calories, Hall says.

People also ate much faster when put on the ultra-processed diet, consuming 17 more calories per minute compared to the unprocessed diet. It takes a while for our brains to register the feeling of fullness, and this lag gives our mouths plenty of time to overeat—an easy thing to do with ultra-processed foods, which are often softer and easier to chew and swallow, Hall says.

The researchers are currently gearing up for a repeat study that may put these theories to the test. One critical change will involve revamping the ultra-processed diet to include more stews and gumbos. Hopefully, Hall says, this swap will both dilute the energy density of the solid food portion of the meal and encourage people to eat more slowly.

Plain yogurt is technically a "processed" food, but still healthful. The addition of flavors and sweeteners, however, transforms plain yogurt into an ultra-processed product. Image Credit: Alexialex, iStock

There’s plenty to grapple with, but one needn’t see directly into the belly of the beast to know to avoid its bite. The study’s results are a resounding confirmation of years of nutritional counsel—and if anything, the problem is only getting worse.

As food production becomes increasingly industrialized, ultra-processed foods have taken over the diets of modern Americans. Even when put on diets at two extremes of a spectrum, study participants experienced a bigger change in their hormone levels when shifting to the unprocessed menu, suggesting that their baseline was more aligned with an ultra-processed diet.

That’s not terribly surprising, given that these products tend to be rich in fat and sugars, which set off the brain’s pleasure system, Gearhardt says. Over time, our bodies get used to the reward, and crave it in even higher quantities. This vicious cycle of addiction makes ultra-processed foods a tough habit to break.

But weaning ourselves off ultra-processed foods entirely isn’t a practical goal. The fact remains that ultra-processed foods require less time, money, and effort to purchase and consume—and they’re effectively marketed as such. In the study, the ingredients that went into the unprocessed meal plan cost nearly 50 percent more than those for the ultra-processed menu. Tacking on the hours, skills, equipment, and energy invested in the storage and preparation of perishable whole foods, it’s no wonder ultra-processed foods have become a mealtime fixture over the past 30 years, Hall says.

Whole foods, while healthful, carry a bigger price tag than ultra-processed foods—even before taking into account the added expenses of storing, preparing, and serving them. Image Credit: Vera Petrunina, iStock

What’s more, because cost is such a big incentive, the burden of ultra-processed foods is disproportionately shouldered by people who make less money—those with the fewest means to avoid them. This trend threatens to exacerbate existing health disparities between socioeconomic brackets.

There’s no quick fix to this problem. But the path forward is with studies like these, Small says. By pinpointing the mystery factor in ultra-processed foods—whatever it is that’s causing us to eat more and gain weight—researchers may be able to partner with the food industry to cook up cheap, convenient foods that can still confer some health benefits.

In the end, “just giving people nutrition advice won’t be enough,” Gearhardt says. “We need to advocate for policy initiatives and support people’s needs. This is a social justice issue. And we’re living it right now.”

[thebarefootcajunpetiteshistoires]

Sitting among the crepe myrtles, pink, purple and white blossoms created a backdrop against their colorful shirts. The men both wore cotton shirts with flower prints; stylish in the year 1957. The shirts were made by moms and wives for husbands and sons. The fabric originated as feed sacks purchased from the local feed store. Not only were these shirts stylish but they breathed well in the heat on the South Louisiana prairie.

The men glanced in each other’s direction as they smoked their rolled cigarettes. Both men smoked Prince Albert, a popular tobacco during that year. The men were on their lunch break; usually an hour break during the summer months. Temps ranged anywhere from 90 to 100 degrees; the humidity added to an unbearable day for those who engaged in muscled labor.

The men worked at Shawee’s Feed Store on Cowherd Street in the small village of Tempest, population 379 as of the 1963 census conducted every 5 years. Munier and Babin worked the back room where customers picked up their orders, bachelors, quite eligible men I might add. They were considered good lookers. Munier was 49 and Babin was 50. They had been at Shawee’s since they graduated from High School. Hard workers described the men; in that they opened and closed the store. Starting work at 5:45 A.M. and closing at 6:45 P.M. Lifting heavy feed sacks kept the boys muscled tone; not an ounce of fat could be found on those two men.

Munier and Babin were happy with their lives, maybe if truth be told they were a little bit lonely. Family and friends were abundant in each of their lives, but both men were different in that they had no desire to date women; men was their demographic. Now, fake news reports that gay men love to sleep around and have lots of sex with men that they meet. This author being a gay man is here to testify that’s not the case; he’s happily partnered and in a monogamous relationship to a great guy for twenty eight and one half years. Now back to Munier and Babin, each wanted someone to share his life with. Now, readers remember that this is the 1950’s and being gay wasn’t condoned at all. Fearful of bringing shame to their families, not themselves, they thought that finding someone to love was worth the risks, but bringing shame to their families, not worth the risks.

Munier and Babin were the best of friends. They had been friends since high school and had become even better friends as they worked together in the feed store. They spent their days together, ate their lunch together and took their tobacco breaks together. The men had begun to take even more of a liking towards each other, but each man was afraid to voice that to the other. It would be embarrassing if one man vowed his love to the other and the other didn’t reciprocate. Munier and Babin were shy guys; this was uncharted territory for them, a place they had not gone before. Munier and Babin thought it best to declare their intentions away from the work place, maybe on a fishing, hunting or camping trip.

Now let me remind you that these guys weren’t effeminate men. They were real men by the standards that men and women might require. Not that effeminate men aren’t loved and accepted, too, but this author is using effeminate to paint a clearer picture of what is expected in the Deep South where there are clear definitions of what constitutes a man or a woman.

It was on a Monday morning that Munier asked Babin about his weekend plans. “Que fais-tu ce week-end?” Munier asked. (What are you doing this weekend?)


Babin answered, “Mais, cher, mon ami, rien.” (Well, my friend, nothing.”

Munier asked, “Tu veux aller pêcher, chasse, ou camping avec moi ce Samedi ou Dimanche? (You want to go fishing, hunting or camping with me this Saturday or Sunday?)

Babin answered, “Mais, cher, mon ami, oui, je veux pêcher, chasse ou camping avec toi ce weekend. (Well, yes, my friend, I would like to fish, hunt or camp with you this weekend.)

Munier said, “Mais, Babin, c’est finis, nous allons pêche, chasse ou camping ensemble ce weekend!” Well Babin, it’s finished, we will go fishing, hunting, or camping this weekend.

It was the end of the day after this conversation, and the men knew it would be a good week. Each had a fishing trip to look forward to with his best friend. Actually, it was a beautiful thing to observe; two happy men, both friends leaning toward a declaration of intention about romance on a fishing, hunting or camping trip - not a typical Southern thing, but nothing is typical in the South.

[amplifyme]

Shift (aka The Lost Fanfic)

The X-Files. MSR. Teen and up. WC: 4261. Post-Fight the Future. Read on AO3.

Notes:

This was written sometime in the summer of 1998 after Fight the Future was released and before Season 6 began. It was archived exclusively on my website and was the only piece I didn't have backed up on my computer. When the site went down a few years later, it disappeared into the ether. I've been looking for it off and on ever since. Truth be told, I couldn't even remember what I'd written. But thanks to the resourceful and forward-thinking Lilydalexf over on Tumblr, I received an email with a text file of the fic, which she'd saved way back in the day. I've cleaned it up a bit and have included the original author's notes and disclaimer.

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Classification: VAH... all right, all right, it's MSR, too.

Rating: PG-13 for content

Spoilers: Fight the Future

Author's notes: Yeah, okay, so it's not smut. I'm sorry (say it like Eddie Van Blundht). The muse looked down her nose at me and implied that I'd forgotten how to write anything clean. This'll show her.

I'm so sorry, Mel. Can you ever forgive me? ;->

Disclaimer: Aw, jeez, do I have to? You all know the drill; just repeat it to yourselves and that'll be good enough for me.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Let me see if I'm understanding you, Mulder." Scully silently offered to swap her container of shrimp fried rice for his Mongolian beef. "You're saying that our work on the X-Files should be considered the norm, as opposed to the typical white-collar worker with the house in the suburbs and the two point five kids?'

"And the Range Rover," Mulder added as they traded off. He took a bite of the rice and talked around it, his typical enthusiasm overriding any need for manners. "What I'm saying is that we're hardwired to seek out new experiences, blaze new trails. The human intellect demands new and different challenges, and if we ignore that basic need we run the risk of becoming complacent; the perfect target for any organization with enough power to literally take over our lives."

He set the container on the coffee table and tore open a packet of hot mustard with his teeth, liberally dousing an egg roll with the runny yellow substance before inhaling half of it in one bite. Scully watched with bemusement. A grazing Mulder was a sight to behold.

"So, if everyone was hunting down fat sucking vampires instead of sitting behind a desk or flipping burgers, the world would be a better place?" She waited as he furiously waved a hand in front of his open mouth and grabbed his beer, draining the last couple inches from the bottle. Pushing forty and he still hadn't figured out how much hot mustard was enough.

"That's kind of simplistic," he declared when he could talk again, "but yeah. Just think about it, Scully. What if the majority of the population could see just a fraction of the things we have? Think of how much more open-minded people would be to extreme possibilities. The idea of a race of aliens bent on colonizing the planet with not so benign intentions would be much more easily accepted."

Mulder held his hand out for the beef, giving her some time to consider what he'd said. Night had fallen and his living room was bathed in shadows. Light spilled from the kitchen doorway. Aside from the cool blue cast by the muted and ignored TV and the soft glow from the newly stocked fish tank, it was the only illumination in the apartment.

"But, Mulder, you're assuming that the majority of the world's population would even want to know the things we know. Contrary to what you might think, most people are perfectly happy living a life of order and routine. I dare say most of them would go out of their way to avoid the changes that kind of knowledge would inevitably bring."

"Ignorance is bliss?"

"That's kind of simplistic," she remarked, catching his faint smile as she echoed his earlier jab, "but yes. Most people just want to be left alone to live their lives as they see fit. Change isn't always a good thing, Mulder."

"But it's inevitable," he argued. "Chaos is the norm. I can't believe I'm the only one who realizes that." He chewed and swallowed another bite, staring off into space. And then he looked in her direction, aiming the full force of his gaze squarely at her. His eyes were suddenly darker and more soulful. More aware. In a split second his entire focus had changed, and now everything in him was intent on nothing but her. It was a look she'd seen in his hallway just a few weeks ago, and one not easily forgotten.

"What about you, Scully? Is ignorance bliss?"

It was a question fraught with many different meanings - and they both knew it. That he felt comfortable enough to ask anyway was a sign of how much things had changed. It wasn't just one event out of all the events of the last month: it was the sum total of them that had led to this new and still tentative honesty; the constant awareness that they were standing on the brink of something brand new and yet older than time.

It was an electrifying feeling that had her thoughts careening wildly. She was smart enough to realize that what was blossoming between them was a strange and beautiful thing, but it was also a double-edged sword, and she wasn't entirely certain she was emotionally prepared to deal with the risks it entailed.

She held his eye, determined not to flinch, and chose to answer the easier version of his question. "No, of course not. It would be foolish of me to try to pretend that none of these things have happened." She glanced away and then back at him. The fact that his attention had shifted to the food and off of her allowed her to elaborate more than she might've otherwise.

"I guess I'm uneasy with the inherent changes that certain kinds of knowledge bring. I've always been a creature of habit, Mulder. I like routine. I like knowing what to expect. And despite the rather bizarre lifestyle I seem to have established, I've been able to adapt fairly well. It's just that sometimes it gets a little overwhelming."

"There's nothing wrong with routine, Scully. You're taking me too literally." Apparently, her deflection had worked. At least for the time being. He went on in his slightly professorial monotone. "The daily grind is a natural outgrowth of living in a civilized society. All I'm saying is that it tends to make us lazy and stupid. And that leaves us vulnerable to anyone or anything who cares to take advantage of the situation."

Mulder scrubbed his newly cropped hair and slouched back against the couch, one hand unconsciously and contentedly rubbing his stomach. "I probably don't have to tell you this," he continued, "but I thrive on change. I like chaos. It keeps me sharp. The best thing about not knowing what might happen next is that you're prepared for anything."

She pushed away from the food and settled back next to him, their shoulders barely brushing. "But, Mulder, we all need some kind of stability, a constant we can depend on. Otherwise, we'd spend our lives wandering aimlessly from one experience to another, without any kind of cohesiveness. I hear what you're saying, but there's nothing that prevents us from living an ordered life except our own inability to make sense of the very chaos you seem to cherish."

He rewarded her with a low chuckle. "Is this a kinder, gentler way of telling me I'm crazy?"

She shot him a dismissive look. "No. I'm just baffled by your attitude. Don't you ever find yourself wishing for a simpler life; one where you knew what to expect from day to day?"

"You make it sound like I don't have that already."

She gaped at him and then recovered. "Okay, now you've completely lost me. You wanna explain to me how you can possibly describe your life as simple?"

"Well, using the criteria you've established, it is simple. I have the stability you spoke of. I have that constant."

She snorted softly. "And that would be… what? That your stability is the fact that you have none? That your only constant is change?"

He turned his head and pinned her with a look, his words echoing the gentle rebuke she saw in the mossy green of his eyes. "You haven't been paying attention, Scully."

Still sprawled on the couch, his face bland, the only clue to Mulder's anxiety was the almost imperceptible bouncing of one leg. "I realize that the aftermath might be a little foggy to you, but I find it hard to believe you don't remember what was said just outside that door." He tilted his head toward the front of his apartment. He made no attempt to elaborate. His words lay solid and heavy between them, offered up like a gift she couldn't refuse, even if she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to accept it just then.

She'd been anticipating this. She'd thought about it enough that she'd even come to think of it as The Moment of Truth because of its potential to shift a large portion of her life in an unknown direction. Formulating possible responses to Mulder's probable remarks about what had happened and what'd been said had been uppermost in her mind lately. When he’d jokingly accused her of daydreaming just the day before, she hadn't been able to argue the point. He'd been right: she'd been far too distracted the last few weeks. Maybe it was best just to get things out in the open - for her continued sanity, if nothing else.

But before she could say anything he beat her to it, apparently misconstruing her long silence as refusal to take his bait. "Well," he rasped, sitting up and pulling a hand down his face, "this is an awkward moment. Look, Scully, forget I said anything."

"No," she quickly assured him, laying her hand on his back. "No, it's okay. I was just… I'm just not sure what to say, Mulder."  

He glanced back over his shoulder at her. "Well, I think I made my feelings pretty clear."

She certainly wouldn't argue with that. While she couldn't claim to remember much after she'd been stung in the hallway outside his apartment, the memory of Mulder's strangled words and the thrill of realization as he'd moved in to kiss her were etched into her brain. And now it was obvious that he was expecting her to come clean about her feelings. Yet another version of their well-established “I showed you mine, now you show me yours” game. Only this time it wasn't theories they were trading.

If Scully'd had a list, she could've checked off the symptoms of reticence she was experiencing, one by one. First came the dry mouth, followed closely by the leaden feeling in her stomach. Then the reeling in her head as she began to contemplate all she could say wrong despite her best efforts to put the correct spin on things. If discussing emotions were as simple as analyzing facts and figures, debating hypothetical situations, she'd be in the clear. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

She'd never been very big on flowery declarations; the words had always stuck in her throat every time she'd attempted it. She was a woman of action, and if forced to 'fess up, would much rather show than tell. And so that's what she did: sitting up and perching on the edge of the couch next to him, she gently turned his face toward hers and leaned in to kiss him. She was aware as her lips brushed his that he had gone completely still. She didn't linger, choosing instead to make it a chaste but tender kiss, pulling away after just a few seconds. Her hand stayed at his jaw a little longer though, as her fingers memorized the slight abrasiveness of his evening stubble. His eyes, when she raised hers to meet them, were both amused and a little shocked.

"There," she whispered. "I hate leaving things unfinished."

Mulder's eyebrows crept up and he gave an infinitesimal shake of his head. "That's it?" he asked. "You mean we're done?"

Now it was her turn to be taken aback. "What were you expecting?"

As his hands lifted to cup her cheeks he murmured, "C'mere and I'll show you."

Chaste was clearly not what Mulder had in mind. Not that she was complaining. She was too busy admiring the way his bottom lip was expertly nudging hers apart, opening her mouth to admit just the tip of his tongue. He briefly touched it to hers before sweeping it across her upper lip and withdrawing, pulling back just enough to be able to look her in the eye. Permission was asked and granted in the few moments it took her to curl a hand around the nape of his neck and bring his mouth back to hers.

Scully decided that his idea of what constituted finishing business was much more comprehensive than hers. She also decided that kissing him was something she really enjoyed doing and vaguely wondered what had taken them so long.

Good little investigator that he was, Mulder was busy making a thorough exploration of her mouth. It occurred to her, in some distant, foggy place in the back of her mind, that the shift she'd predicted was indeed inevitable. Funny thing was that the reality of it didn't scare her nearly as much as she'd thought it would. She allowed herself to completely relax into their kiss, with Mulder sensing her acquiescence and slowly easing her down onto the couch, his arms cradling her. They ended up with Scully lying against one of the throw pillows, his upper body draped across hers, their legs tangled.

It took her a few seconds to force her eyes open after Mulder finally broke for air. She found him looking down at her, his expression a wickedly potent mixture of affection and good old-fashioned lust. One corner of his mouth drew up just the tiniest bit.

"That was more what I had in mind," he informed her. And then he dipped his head and began to plant small, wet kisses down the line of her jaw. His hand slid up her back and gathered a fistful of hair, gently but determinedly drawing her head back and exposing the tender skin of her neck to his mouth. The soft cotton of his dress shirt rubbed against her stiffening nipples through the silk of her blouse and bra, setting off sparks of heat traveling swiftly through her body.

Hoo-boy.

It'd been a very long time since she'd felt the weight of a man's body on hers, the delicious friction it created. Forever since her hands had roamed over corded muscle and curve of spine. Too long since she'd felt the heat pooling deep within her and someone there to share it, add to it, eventually douse it. What made the cottony thickness of her arousal even more enjoyable was that it was the real thing this time - not some fantasy Mulder who came to her only in the relative safety of her dreams. And there was only a little part of her that wondered if perhaps they should slow down and think about this some more.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry when Mulder muttered against her neck, "You're gonna have to tell me when to stop, Scully, 'cause if you leave it up to me, I won't."

God bless his considerate, gentlemanly little heart.

Damn it.

"Then maybe," she managed to utter even while threading her fingers through his hair and urging his mouth to points south, "we should stop and think about this."

Deft fingers began working the buttons on her blouse. "Okay. Just say the word and I'll stop."

Oh, she didn't want to do this. She didn't want to stop him. She had a sudden urge to strangle the life out of the sensible little voice in her head. If such a thing were possible, that is.

"Mulder."

"Hmm?"

"Stop."

He groaned in noisy protest but did as she asked. Resting his chin between her breasts, he peered up at her. Hair askew, eyes warm but a little wary, he was the most gorgeous man she'd ever had the pleasure of lying beneath. He was content to wait quietly while she pronounced sentence on him, trusting her to do what was best for both of them. That particular trust was a heavy burden he'd placed on her long ago, and one she'd struggled to throw off more than once. But here and now, she was beginning to realize that it was also a precious gift. And it gave her far more power over him than she even dared contemplate.

"Is this what you had in mind in the hallway?" Her voice was intentionally rich with humor. It was important that he know she wasn't upset by his attempted seduction. Getting their wires crossed about this was the last thing they needed.

She watched as his eyes lost their wariness. The hint of a boyish grin crossed his face before disappearing behind his trademark deadpan expression. "Actually," he quipped, "I was kind of hoping to make it to second base." And with that, he deliberately began to refasten the buttons he'd managed to undo. His knuckles unintentionally brushed fire along her breasts.

"Don't give up, Slugger," she told him as he finished, her voice gone slow and husky. "You haven't struck out yet."

The look on his face was priceless. She couldn't help but grin at him. His answering smile was enough to light up the room. He sat up and pulled her along with him, waiting until she was settled before he twisted around and sat down on the coffee table across from her, his long legs caging hers. Mulder reached out and caught one of her hands in his. He took in a breath and let it out slowly. "The truth is, Scully, I accomplished everything I set out to do that night. The rest of it… just icing on the cake." There was a beat of silence. "Well, except for the bee sting. That kind of put a damper on things."

"Mulder…"

"No, let me finish. I'm sorry it took me so long, but I want you to know I meant every word I said."

"I know." She squeezed his hand and ducked her head, not wanting him to see the sudden tears that threatened to spill over.

"Do you? Because that's all that really matters to me. I don't ever want you to think that I don't value you, or that you're not the most important thing in my -"

She cut him off with her fingers pressed against his mouth. If he kept it up, she'd lose her struggle to hold off her tears. She didn't want to turn into a blubbering idiot, not now. Not when smiling had felt so good.

"I know," she repeated.

His eyes flicked over her face, reading it like a map only he could decipher. Long seconds passed before he nodded slowly, satisfied by what he'd seen.

"Good," he said. "That's good."

She took a few moments to study his familiar features, softened by emotions he rarely let show. She took in the relaxed line of his jaw, the warmth of his eyes, the hair that stood up in tiny spikes on the top of his head. And the seductive fullness of his mouth, still moist from their kisses. She could drown there, she realized, and not give two hoots about anything else. It was a dangerous and compelling prospect.

She reached up and smoothed her hand over his unruly hair. "I guess this begs the question of what we do now."

He looked aside for a minute and then back at her, shrugging. "We keep on keepin' on. We see where this thing takes us. We fight the good fight. We start scheduling regular make-out sessions."

"Just thought you'd sneak that last one in there, huh?"

"Nothing gets past you, Scully."

She was trying to focus on the issue at hand. He wasn't going to make it easy. She knew this Mulder well. And she could tell he wanted to play, revert to his habit of joking about the most serious of subjects. All the nervous energy he'd suppressed just minutes ago had broken free. Both legs had taken up a gentle bouncing, his hands moving like moths around a flame: glancing off her knees, her hands, her arms, before flying away, only to return again.

Sometimes it was a pain in the ass always being the grown-up.

She grabbed one of his hands and held it tightly in both of hers. He went still almost at once, his keen sense of her innate composure helping to ground him. She vaguely wondered what would become of him if something happened to her. She could picture him floating off into space like an errant helium balloon, with no one to pull him back. She was his safety line; a fragile string that was nonetheless durable enough to keep them both anchored to the ground - even if Mulder was always looking up into the sky, wondering what he might be missing.

"This is going to have an impact on everything," she told him as she caught his eye. "It's going to change everything."

He pursed his lips and jerked an eyebrow. "Maybe. But it's impossible that you'll ever be more important to me than you are right now, so that won't change."

"What if it does, Mulder?"

"That's not gonna happen." She opened her mouth to protest but he cut her off, grasping her shoulders and gazing at her with single-minded intensity. "I won't let it. I'm one relentless sonofabitch, Scully. It's gonna take a nuclear explosion to pry me away from you now. And I won't risk the only thing that matters to me unless I'm absolutely certain it's the right thing. How could it, how could we, be anything short of incredible?"

Five years with Mulder had programmed her to automatically begin formulating an argument to counteract his latest bizarre theory, and this time was no different. While her brain shifted into overdrive, spitting out a dozen reasons why they couldn't afford to be so blasé about the whole situation, her heart was busy tugging her in a different direction. One that whispered to her that he might have a point. Not every decision had to be based in logic - she'd slowly begun to realize that. Sometimes you just had to go with your gut.

"And besides," Mulder suddenly blurted into the silence, "who else would put up with my sorry ass?"

Strange how the simplest phrase could be the deciding factor in such a life-altering decision. He wasn't being facetious, despite the joking tone of his voice. He honestly believed that she was the only one who'd ever understand him, who'd willingly accept him for all that he was. Who'd see that what he did made a difference. And though there were times when she'd wondered if someone more open to extreme possibilities might be better for him, she knew in her heart that no one could ever feel about him the way she did. And no one could ever challenge, respect, trust, and complete her the way Mulder did.

“You made me a whole person.”

Isn't that what it came down to in the end? Wasn't that all that really mattered? Suddenly, nothing was more important to her than that he know what was in her heart.

"I want you to know something," she told him. "And I want you to listen to me very carefully." Mulder gazed at her with cautious chameleon eyes. "I want you to know that no matter what happens now, one thing will never change. What you do makes a difference. I know it doesn't seem like it most of the time, but it does. You have to believe that. And I want you to know how proud I am to be a part of that. You're an honorable man, Mulder, and you lead an honorable life. And I want you to know I'd be proud to be a part of that, too. In whatever form it takes."

She watched his face carefully as she spoke, cataloguing every emotion that passed over it. There were many things to see there, as he nervously chewed his lip and took in her words. But what she was left with was a mixture of tenderness and pride that nearly made her dizzy.

Mulder opened his mouth a few times before he finally got anything to come out. "Can I…" His brow furrowed and he cleared his throat and tried again. "Can I just hold you, Scully? For a minute?"

She reached for him, and they both stood, knowing that the limited contact they'd have otherwise wouldn't satisfy either of them. She went easily into his embrace, her head tucked under his chin, her arms wrapped around his waist. He held her loosely for a moment before tightening his arms and drawing her even closer. They stood toe to toe, touching everywhere it was possible to touch, the contact sweet and heavy with the promise of things to come.

Mulder dipped his head until it rested against hers. His chest expanded as he took in a deep breath and then released it with a ragged sigh. "God, you feel so good. So good."

She tightened her arms around him, wanting nothing more than to be enveloped by him, held in his warm and welcoming embrace for as long as he'd let her. Judging by his remark, that could end up being a good long while.

And that was okay. It was better than okay.

"You know what, Scully?" he murmured against her hair.

"What’s that, Mulder?"

"Someday soon we're gonna have really phenomenal sex."

Maybe even sooner than he thought.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The End

Nope, no sequel planned. Live with it.

[loominggaia]

How is obesity seen and handled in each of the great kingdoms? Which nations are the most and least fatphobic?

This is very difficult to answer because opinions on obesity differ greatly even within the same kingdom, in most cases. Most Great Kingdoms contain many different cultures, and how one culture views fatness can be opposite to another, even if they are geographically close to eachother.

I would say that overall, Seelie and Mogdiri cultures are the most fatphobic. Elven supremacist attitudes run rampant in these areas, and since it's so hard for elves to gain weight, they are naturally thin and see the most beauty in this body type.

Strangely enough, Zareenite culture is quite fatphobic too. You'd think that wouldn't be the case, since the majority of Zareen Empire's population is overweight, but its fatphobic attitude can be traced back to capitalism.

Here's the situation: Half of Zareenites are dworfen. Dworfs put on weight easily. Zareenite's automation tech leads to sedentary lifestyles and shitty food. This has all led to a lot of overweight citizens. Capitalists saw that and thought "hey, we can make a lot of money off these people if we make them insecure and ignorant enough!" so begins the Zareenite diet industry, a storm of stupid fad diets, gimmicky gyms, snake oil supplements, and so on. Meanwhile the citizens remain ignorant about how to actually lose weight because they're bombarded with so much bullshit information from the media...so they keep spending money on crap that doesn't work, they stay fat, and spend more money. Rinse and repeat for centuries. The point is, the media has convinced Zareenites to be self-loathing and insecure about their fatness.

Matuzan cultures generally revere fatness, as plump body types are associated with the wealthy. But this can be toxic too, because in some cases, elves and other species who naturally struggle to gain weight are holding themselves to impossible beauty standards. They end up comparing them to plumper species and feeling bad about themselves.

Evangelites also generally favor fatness, but you'll get some mixed opinions here. Rural Evangelites see fatness as a positive thing, but only for women. If a woman is fat, it means her husband works hard and puts plenty of food on the table, which allows her to stay home and do sedentary domestic tasks. If a man is fat, it means he isn't working hard enough, because Evangelite men are expected to do "outdoor" tasks like farming, which burns lots of calories.

Urban Evangelites feel a little differently. They tend to work less physically demanding jobs than rural folk, so being fat just means you have a desirable job in an office and plenty of money to put food on the table, whether you're male or female. Big muscles or a sinewy body aren't considered very attractive here because it means you probably dig ditches or something.

The Etiosi also appreciate some fat on both men and women, but only if it's accompanied by plenty of muscle. Obesity is not considered attractive because it impairs health. For the Etiosi, being built like a fridge is the height of beauty. Children are also expected to be a bit overweight to protect them from harsh winters and possible famine. If your children are stringy or average sized, you are considered a bad parent.

Meanwhile the traditional trollish cultures of Gaia, particularly those in Wokina and Serkel, revere extremely obese women. I mean really obese, to the point that these ladies are immobilized by their weight and must be tended to by a caregiver (usually her children) to survive. But the same cannot be said for trollish males, because if they are fat, they're seen as lazy and not providing for their families. Male trolls face a finicky standard of beauty because they are seen as lazy/broke if they're either too fat or too thin. They are expected to be well-muscled with a healthy layer of padding, but not too much! Who knew people who live in dung-houses could be so picky?

As a general rule, you'll find the "fat women good, fat men bad" attitude is quite prevalent across Gaia. Ogrish cultures are an exception, because female ogres are naturally bigger and stronger than males, so they don't take domestic roles like other species of women tend to do. Thinness is considered ugly for both men and women in these cultures. The most beautiful ogrish women are the biggest, burliest ones. If she's built like a heavyweight pro wrestler, she's the real hotness in the eyes of traditional ogres. Male ogres are more valued for "softer" body types, maybe a little chunky but not obese.

There are just too many different opinions to get into. Overall it really just depends on the species, their lifestyle, and the culture around them.

As for obesity as a societal issue, it's a real problem in Zareen Empire as I stated, but is also becoming an increasing concern in Matuzu Kingdom and the urban cities of Evangeline Kingdom as well. Matuzu and Evangeline are responding with education campaigns and produce vouchers, among other solutions. Meanwhile Zareen Empire is just throwing diet pills and surgery at the problem to make more money and not solving anything.

*

Questions/Comments?

Lore Masterpost

[the-last-kenobi]

I adore your qui gon and obi wan stuff so can we get a number 8 on the prompt list with obi wan and qui gon?

Absolutely!! I’m so glad you chose that one; I’ve loved every single prompt I’ve gotten but this one breaks the mold a little.

I hope this lives up to your expectations!

From this various prompts list.

_

When Qui-Gon Jinn set foot on the planet of Melida/Daan for the second time, he had a fixed set of expectations.

He expected to find the same war-torn, shattered homes and abused soil, the same decimated populations, the same stench of death. He expected to find the underground hideouts where the children hid from the wrath of their parents, and where the Melida plotted against the Daan and the Daan against the Melida. He expected to find a bruised and shame-faced former Jedi Padawan, ready to humble himself before the Council.

He expected to have to offer both comfort and stern reprimand to this child who, as much of a delight as he had once been, no longer deserved to be his apprentice.

And he did find some of that.

He also found fields of green grass, and abandoned fields of half-plucked vegetation and fruits.

A memorial garden.

A row of corpses covered neatly in cloths, lining the road, respectfully untouched.

Faded posters announcing committees and treaties and open elections, speeches and remembrance services.

A mural on a stone wall, somewhere between impressionist and abstract, of a line of children and adults, the children in the center. Towards the very middle, almost exactly so, was the image of a young boy with pale russet locks hanging an inch loose, and Qui-Gon paused, observing warily as if the image might come to life and attack him.

But it was only an image, and Obi-Wan Kenobi was only a wayward child.

And none of this is was going as anticipated.

The Jedi Master tried to recall what Yoda had told him before chivvying him out the door, but in truth he had not processed much of it aside from Obi-Wan’s name and the understanding that he had asked to be retrieved from Melida/Daan.

Why?

Clearly things had changed, immensely — and yet, in the background, the continued sound of bombs going off and weapons firing, and not a living being in sight.

Qui-Gon continued deeper into the core of the civilization, skirting the worst of the ruins but avoiding the main road in a passing effort to go unnoticed.

It did not last long.

“Master Jedi!” a voice hissed out suddenly, and Qui-Gon turned sharply to see a young man — maybe nineteen, at most — peering at him around the corner of the nearest building, pressed close to the wall. He gestured shortly and vanished.

Qui-Gon took a moment to cast out his senses. The Force bore no distinct warning, so he crossed the road quickly and ducked around the corner.

The young man was waiting for him. Up close it was clear that he was younger than he had appeared, perhaps seventeen, just emerging from the gangly limbs stage, and he was coated in dirt and grime — some of it oddly strategic, smeared across his cheekbones and the crown of his forehead, darkening and muting them. Dark hazel eyes considered Qui-Gon suspiciously.

“You were expecting me,” Qui-Gon stated.

The boy nodded. “I was. Obi-Wan said you would be arriving today, maybe tomorrow.”

A strange jolt ran through Qui-Gon. He had not said Obi-Wan’s name aloud himself, not since that day almost eight months before, and while he had heard other Jedi mention it, it was off-putting to hear this total stranger use it. So familiarly. Like he knew Kenobi well. Qui-Gon brushed the thoughts aside like so many cobwebs and spoke again: “Well, here I am. Where next?”

He did not say, ‘Where is Obi-Wan?’

For some reason, it would have felt like a confession.

The boy pressed his lips into a flat line, as if the Jedi had failed some sort of test. “…I’ll show you. Stick close to me and don’t do anything reckless. Stealth is our best ally right now. Only ally, really.”

Qui-Gon wondered what he was, then, since he was certainly not included in this mysterious “we.”

It was slightly insulting, and sharply painful, to be lectured on strategic maneuvers by what amounted to a child soldier.

Nevertheless, Qui-Gon followed him.

They wound their way through the settlement, bypassing craters where homes had stood and also far more intact buildings, still crisp and clean and bearing that unmistakable scent of newness.

These, more than any of the others, were painted with images of children and adults standing together, plastered with announcements, and more than one — many — almost all — featuring that flame-haired youth. More often than not he was framed closely by two others. Another boy, this one slightly taller and leaner with dark hair. And a girl, a little smaller, with bold waves and startling green eyes.

The boy with the dirty face turned his head to look at each of them, though he did not slow.

After what felt like a very long time, Qui-Gon found himself entering what seemed to be a cellar. It was dark and musty, but before he could question it, his guide went to a section of the wall and pushed, popping open a panel that sank away and slid to one side.

“This way,” he said unnecessarily.

In they went. It was a tunnel, low and long, and Qui-Gon had to stoop halfway just to move. The boy, several inches shorter, had less trouble.

A few minutes of breathless, blind stumbling later, and they reached a reinforced door.

The boy knocked slowly, then quickly; stopped, and then knocked rapidly again. “It’s me!” he called through the crevice. “He’s here.”

There was a grinding sound, and then the door swung open to reveal bright light. The boy slipped through without hesitation, but the Jedi Master was more wary, blinking and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light before slowly entering the room, still bowed low from the tunnel.

When he rose, he was looking directly into the eyes of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The boy had changed, and yet was exactly the same.

There was no other way to describe it.

He had certainly shot up an inch or so in height. His Jedi tunics were gone; he was wearing a stained white tunic of much poorer cloth and simpler cut, over a pair of patched brown trousers and sturdy boots. His robe was still the one he had worn when he had first arrived all those months ago, but he had sewn the sleeves so that they did not dangle over his wrists or hang wide and loose; instead they were drawn closer, but not so tight that they impeded his movement.

His hair seemed more coppery red than before as it hung loose and untidy, coming to slightly ragged ends halfway between his jawline and his shoulders. Some of the baby fat had melted away, driven off no doubt by stress and hunger and emotion, and his cheekbones stood out a little too much.

But it was his eyes that struck Qui-Gon.

They seemed exactly the same.

Pale blue-green, wide and friendly and innocent, sweet as they had been on the day they met.

Unbearably naive.

Those eyes flickered with shock for a moment, and then the boy stepped forward and offered out his hand. “Master Jinn,” he said.

Qui-Gon blinked. Perhaps if he waited a moment, Obi-Wan would remember that Jedi bowed? But the boy merely stared at him with his hand extended, and so Qui-Gon grasped it and shook briefly before letting go.

The boy did not seem particularly bothered. He turned to the rest of the room. “You’re all ready?”

“Yes,” came a chorus of voices.

Freed from the strangeness of Obi-Wan and his gaze, Qui-Gon looked around. There were several others present — all humans, all young, all grimy. Maybe a dozen or so in number. The room he was in was spacious, a little low-ceilinged and plain. It had the air of a bunker, with bright lights that aggravated the eyes and dull walls and functional furniture. Most notably, the enormous table in the center.

It was spread with maps, fliers, announcement posters, detailed blueprints for buildings and machinery, tidy sketches outlining strategies and countermeasures. Qui-Gon’s keen eyes caught words like ‘anti-terrorism,’ ‘knowledge is courage,’ ‘long-range missile launcher,’ and ‘riot activity.’ And, half-concealed under a map of Melida/Daan’s entire surface, a flat holo of three people. Obi-Wan. The dark-haired boy. The girl with green eyes.

“Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan’s voice broke into his observations.

They were all watching him with various degrees of mistrust.

Qui-Gon straightened his spine, and then forced himself to relax a little, trying to radiate comfort and honesty. Even without force sensitivity, they would be eased somewhat.

“Yes, I’m listening,” he assured them.

Kenobi exchanged a quick look with the boy who had guided him here, and the youth shrugged. “He was quick enough and he listened to what I said, but he’s like most adults. Thinking more in his head than paying attention, didn’t even ask my name.”

Qui-Gon started. He hadn’t, had he?

“I—” he began, but the youth cut him off with a dismissive gesture.

“You didn’t ask,” he said. “I’m not sharing now. I’m sure you’ll hear it eventually.”

Obi-Wan nodded as if this were perfectly reasonable. “Master Jinn, are you prepared to take all thirteen of us back to Coruscant?”

“What?” Qui-Gon demanded. He glanced around at the others, who looked even less impressed than before. He felt so unexpectedly out of his depth. What was this place? “I — no, I’m returning you to the Jedi, to the care of the High Council.”

“No,” Obi-Wan said placidly. “You’re not. I’m sure Master Yoda had his reasons for sending you—” the slightest emphasis on the word ‘you’—“but you are here to escort myself and the other twelve to the Core to appear before the Senate. That’s why you were assigned such a large ship. We’re going to make an appeal on behalf of Meldan.”

“Meldan?” Qui-Gon echoed.

“Our planet,” one of the others, a curly-haired, fierce-eyed woman of about twenty-two said. “Obi, are you sure about this? This isn’t at all what you said we could expect.”

“Master Jinn is an exception to many rules,” Obi-Wan told her; as he turned his head to look in her direction, he briefly seemed to change, the tension in his shoulders easing and his face alight with mischief. Then it was gone. He turned back to Qui-Gon, and beneath the veneer of professionalism could be glimpsed a strange aura of… something Qui-Gon couldn’t determine or define.

Their eyes met again, and silence fell for a moment.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan decided. “Yes, this will work. If any Jedi will help ensure you catch the attention of the Senate, it would be Master Jinn. Master Yoda also told me that Master Adi Gallia will be your official patron, which is good; she spends most of her time handling the political side of Jedi affairs.”

“Then we should go now,” said a small boy of no more than nine. “Let’s go!”

“Not just yet, Jocco,” Obi-Wan said soothingly, turning a gentle smile on the child. “We’re not quite ready. We’ll leave in about an hour.”

“Right,” Jocco said, nodding. “Okay.”

Obi-Wan smiled again. “All right, everyone. We have meals to eat and supplies to pack, so let’s keep together and keep organized. Sarai,” he nodded at the curly-haired woman, “and my friend,” a nod to the bitter-eyed nameless guide, “please bring Master Jinn up to speed. Master Jinn,” he added, glancing up from where the smallest children were flocking to his side and clinging to his hands, “I will see you in an hour.”

He left, surrounded by children both far younger and several years older than him, like adoring chicks following their mother, or maybe more like an honor guard. The contrast was both ludicrous and oddly touching.

“You listen to him,” Qui-Gon commented to his tight-lipped companions. “Even though he no longer carries the authority of a Jedi.”

“I haven’t seen any Jedi authority yet,” snapped back his unnamed guide. “Just three Jedi who came, two who left, and one who stayed.”

“It was not our mission to stay,” Qui-Gon replied calmly, tucking his hands inside his sleeves. “Though I can see what compelled him to.”

“Oh, can you?” said Sarai. She folded her arms tightly and assessed him, her lip curling. “I don’t think you see much past the end of your own nose.”

“Petty insults will get us nowhere,” he replied, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of said nose. “And it won’t help you when you speak for your people before the Senate.”

“Me?” an amused smile curled her lips. She looked as if all her suspicions had just been confirmed. “I won’t be speaking, not primarily anyways. I don’t have any governmental authority behind me, I’m just a secondary representative.”

“Same here,” said the young man.

“Governmental authority…? Then who is your speaker?” Qui-Gon asked, slightly bewildered.

“Are you blind?” said the young man. “Obi-Wan is the leader. Since the other two were assassinated, Obi-Wan is our only head of government.”

_

The next time Qui-Gon laid eyes on his former apprentice, it was mere minutes before their agreed departure time.

The children — Melida, Daan, none of them older than sixteen, aside from former Melida Sarai and former Daan who still refused to share his name — were all gathered next to a large reinforced bay door next to a small fleet of speeders.

Obi-Wan had one arm draped around the shoulders of a ten-year-old boy, murmuring instructions to him, and carrying the little toddler girl on his hip. She was playing with his hair contentedly, unbothered by the preparations going on around her.

If it had been strange to see Obi-Wan before, with his air of sameness-yet-differentness, it was doubly so now.

Knowing what he now knew.

Knowing that Obi-Wan Kenobi had accomplished what he had set out to do and reunited the Melida and the Daan with the help of a few middle-aged adults from both sides and the constant aid of his two companions, Cerasi and Nield. Knowing that he had been fairly elected alongside Cerasi and Nield as the Triumvers — the three Heads of State — of the newly named Meldan.

Knowing that they had been in the midst of Reconstruction both physical and emotional when a radical had betrayed them, murdering innocents gathered for discussions. How Cerasi had been murdered in her bed. How Nield had begun drumming up a military force, only to be assassinated — by a friend of the peace or a foe, who could say? How Obi-Wan had seen all his allies either killed or turn away, and had gathered all he could and retreated below ground, holding tight to his ideals and the legislative power that now backed him.

Knowing how he had continued to sow the seeds of freedom and diplomacy even as the people left above ground resorted again to violence. How he had nurtured genuine friendships among his people, even after having been betrayed.

And here he stood, not even fifteen, making children laugh and reassuring people older than him as he attempted to carry them to freedom and hope.

A government of war-veteran children, led by a former Jedi Padawan.

Qui-Gon watched as everyone was paired up, older teens with younger children, two to a speeder, until at last there was only one vehicle left and only himself and Kenobi still standing.

“I’m afraid I’ll be piloting,” the boy told him. “I’m familiar with the route.”

Qui-Gon swallowed away a bitter taste and merely nodded.

Obi-Wan swung himself up behind the controls, and Qui-Gon moved to sit behind him, and despite everything, despite knowing Obi-Wan’s history over the past eight months, despite being determined not to regard him as his Padawan ever again, it still felt wrong to sit behind. To let the child lead. To let the child sit behind the controls where any decent sniper would aim.

“Stick close and keep low!” Obi-Wan called out.

“Love you Obi!” the same tiny girl cried out from somewhere behind them on another speeder.

Qui-Gon didn’t know what he expected, if he expected anything at all in this strange parallel universe he had wandered into. Nevertheless, Obi-Wan turning his head to grin at the girl and calling back, “Love you too, Cler!” still surprised him.

And then they were off.

The children were clearly well trained, experienced. They seemed to know this back route by heart, undeterred by the semi-light of dusk, and keeping behind outcroppings of rock and trees as much as possible.

Obi-Wan glanced around periodically to check on the others, and every so often one of the others from the back of the parade would speed up to match his pace and give him the all-clear before falling back again.

The breathlessness of the moment settled somewhere in Qui-Gon’s chest. If he could put aside the emotional toll it was taking to sit behind his former student and see him not as a Jedi but as a war-tried planetary ruler, it was easier to be caught up in the rush. The fate of thousands depended on this race for freedom.

The former Jedi Master and Padawan maintained their lead, a slight gap between them and the others.

This served them all well when a blaster bolt came out of nowhere and struck Obi-Wan in his right shoulder, missing his chest only because he sensed it at the last second and twisted away.

There were screams from the smaller children; the older children reacted immediately, scattering their small fleet and engaging their weapons.

“There!” Qui-Gon cried, pointing to a ridge on their right where glimpses of people moving could be seen. His other hand was holding Obi-Wan upright.

“Are you all right to keep piloting?” he shouted.

“For a little while! Hold on, I have a plan!” Obi-Wan shouted back.

“Is it a good plan?”

“Hard to tell until I’ve done it!”

For a second it felt like it had been a year ago, or even better, both of them on the edge of adrenaline and serenity, grinning.

Qui-Gon ignited his lightsaber and deflected two more blaster shots, calling out warnings to the others within earshot.

A speeder went down.

A girl and boy were thrown several meters, crushing in the dust, clinging to one another as they rolled to a stop. On another speeder, Sarai yelled “Here!” and pulled up alongside Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, while Jocco stood up from behind her and leapt.

Qui-Gon’s heart shot to his throat.

But as he extended a hand and caught the child with the Force, Obi-Wan was already doing the same thing, drawing Jocco safely onto their speeder. Sarai, meanwhile, swung her speeder back around and parked it in front of the fallen one, shielding the injured two from view. She stood up on the seat and raised a blaster in each hand, lips twisted in a snarl. “Over here you bastards!” she screamed. “Like shooting at children? Give it your best shot!”

“She’s insane,” said Qui-Gon.

“She’s my second in command!” Obi-Wan laughed. “Now get ready! You’re taking the wheel!”

“What?”

Qui-Gon turned his head just in time to see Obi-Wan launch himself off of the moving speeder with reckless grace, executing a Force-augmented leap to land neatly on the ridge. “Kenobi! What are you doing?” Qui-Gon bellowed.

The boy didn’t respond. He had a blaster in his good hand and dropped out of view, directly onto the heads of the people concealed behind the rocks. There were yells; red light flared as weapons went off in rapid succession. Sarai took advantage of the distraction and urged the other two onto her speeder. “Go!” she said.

As soon as they were off, one of the other speeders erupted from the tree-line and swooped in front of her, slowing down enough to allow her to jump aboard behind two smaller children. “Good job kiddos,” Qui-Gon heard her say. Then she looked up at him. “Come on, we have to go!”

“But—Obi-Wan—” he said helplessly.

As he did, Obi-Wan reappeared at the crest of the ridge, a smoking hole in his trouser leg and a bloody furrow over one eye. He looked directly at Qui-Gon and mouthed, ‘Go! Take the others and run, now!’

Then he was gone again.

A pained look crossed Sarai’s face, but she glanced at Jocco sitting on his lap and smoothed it away at once. “He knows what he’s doing,” she said. “Now come on!”

They sped off, trailing dust and a broken wreck, following in the wake of the other speeders far ahead of them.

In the distance, the ship gleamed in the low light, a beacon for them to follow.

The others were waiting for them when they arrived, arranged defensively around the ship, protecting their only mode of transportation. The nameless boy was standing front and center, an adapted blaster rifle in his arms, looking ready to kill anyone who got too near. Jocco ran straight to him.

Sarai helped the other two down and began loading everyone onto the ship, which opened at Qui-Gon’s command.

He and the boy with the rifle waited.

And waited.

The sun set in earnest, and darkness fell.

And still they waited.

“Can you make your appeal to the Senate without him?” Qui-Gon said suddenly.

The young man whipped his head around to look at him. “What?”

“Can you make your appeal without Obi-Wan?”

He sneered. “In his absence, legal responsibility falls to Sarai and me. But it’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not.” Qui-Gon agreed.

There was a brief silence.

“Can you pilot this starship?”

“What?”

Qui-Gon did not repeat himself this time, and the young man’s eyes widened, his grip on his rifle slackening. “You… you want to stay. You want to stay and search for him.”

“You need to leave,” said Qui-Gon quietly. “Can you pilot this starship?”

“My name’s Radan,” the young man said brusquely, extending a grimy hand. “And yeah, between me and Kieln we can figure it out pretty quickly.”

“Good,” said Qui-Gon shaking his hand firmly. “As soon as you exit your first hyperspace jump, contact Master Yoda, it’s all programmed into the system. Tell him what happened.”

He looked again to the shadowed horizon, to the dark smudge several kilometers distant that was the stone ridge where he had last seen Obi-Wan.

“Tell him,” he paused. “…Tell him I am going to stay with my Padawan.”

Radan paused halfway up the ramp, turning to look back, a look of concern crossing his young face. “Even if he’s never going back to the Jedi?” he asked.

Qui-Gon hesitated.

“I suppose we’ll have to wait and see, won’t we? Obi-Wan is capable of making his own decisions.”

Qui-Gon turned back towards the horizon, towards Obi-Wan.

“But I will not leave him again.”

_