#and several of the things are largely me not knowing the exact perfect thing to do in the current transition

[orcelito]

Read the most depressing trauma dumping letter Ever sent to me from my mother and then went right into the manager meeting where I had to get it thrown in my face AGAINNNN that I'm a fuckup who's doing nothing right, as if Saturday wasn't one of the most humiliating days of my life

I need to fucking scream. I need to fucking break things. But it's nearly 10 pm and I can't do Shit because if I throw shit in my apartment I'll scare my cats and I don't want to break my shit and I can't leave my apartment because it's fucking 10 pm and that's Dangerous but I need to release this energy somehow because I. Am. So. Fucking. Fed UP with life. It feels like no one sees how much I'm trying, it's always always always always my fuckups. Always always always. And meanwhile I've been slipping in a major way and I'm trying so hard to keep myself on track but I am

Needing to calm down. Before I start thinking drastic things.

I'm just so. Fucking. Frustrated.

I'm trying. Does anyone see that I'm trying? Can anyone fucking tell me they see I'm trying?

Of course not. We have to remind me that I'm a fuckup who's awful at their job. Of course :)

[anghraine]

I don't know if it's become more common lately or just grates more after years in academia, but I genuinely dislike the whole "this wildly popular and enormously influential work is fun and it's fine to enjoy it, but there's no need to fool yourself into thinking it's genuinely good and actual Art."

Thanks for the permission, perfect stranger, but I don't get all that invested in things I don't think are good, no matter how conscious I am of their flaws.

I really do think Lord of the Rings is, by and large, a beautifully-written and well-constructed novel. The idea of respecting its trailblazing qualities but insisting that Tolkien is objectively a poor novelist or weak prose stylist is not actually my perspective on it at all. I have criticisms, some more serious than others, but do I still think it's a great work of art? Yes. I think Tolkien is actually incredibly skilled stylistically and shifts between registers and styles in a way that I find really impressive. The obvious point of contrast for me is the Narnia books, which famously he disliked, but which I enjoyed well enough as a kid—Aravis was one of my favorite characters growing up (and she still rules!). But the shifts between registers of style in the Narnia books feel so forced and artificial to me next to Tolkien's far more elegant and controlled handling of shifting registers in The Hobbit and esp LOTR.

I actually feel pretty similarly about the Star Wars original trilogy (blasphemy to some, lol). I think The Empire Strikes Back is, despite occasional misfires, really truly brilliant artistic cinema. I recently watched Flash Gordon, which has similarities of genre and inspiration and came out the exact same year as ESB, and as enjoyable as it is in, uh, realizing its own artistic vision, there's no comparison to ESB. I've seen reviews that can't resist the urge to get in digs at Star Wars even while calling for re-evaluations of Flash Gordon and other 80s schlock (even Starcrash!) and it just seems an absurd degree of snobbery to me, all the more in the context of cheesy movies that owed their existence to Star Wars taking tropes and genres seen as fun but essentially unserious and making beautiful films out of them.

I've even experienced this "it's enjoyable and influential but not great art" snobbery with works that are generally well-regarded. In grad school, other students were genuinely taken aback that I thought Pride and Prejudice is truly one of the greatest novels written in the eighteenth century and one of Austen's best novels. I'd encountered and been annoyed by the whole "oh, a truly discerning, sophisticated taste will prefer Persuasion or Emma" thing, but it didn't even occur to me that it would be at all controversial for me to think P&P is a spectacularly brilliant novel, all the more in the context of its time. But I've encountered quite a bit of discomfort with the idea that P&P is actually great art and not just enjoyable wish-fulfillment in an accessible style. And meanwhile, I'm like ... no, I really do think it is superior in characterization, structure, pacing, style, and cohesion than most English-language novels of its era, including several by Austen herself.

[catboybiologist]

Be honest: do you think there are femboys who aren't just eggs?

Yes, and tbh I resent that their existence is questioned so much. And I know this is gonna be considered a Bad Take by many people I've fostered a community with, so uh. Yeah.

As a former femboy, and current dykey/tomboyish trans woman, gender nonconformity within your actual gender is an essential part of a trans or genderqueer identity. In a lot of ways, my transition goals are the inverse of being a femboy- I'm going from a feminine man to a masculine woman. And yet, the trans community doesn't question my feminimity as a masculine woman in the same places where many people would question the masculinity of a feminine man. And don't even get me started on where NB identities fit into all of this. This is largely coming from the same place where people are okay with women wearing pants, but men or AMABs in general wearing skirts is Bad (tm).

Like don't get me wrong. The caricature of the Bad Trans pushing all the femboys to become eggs is a wildly overexaggerated, and I've met many, many femboys online that used that caricature to excuse rampant transphobia. But. I hate that there's a but. But.... I literally experienced it myself many times during my femboy days, especially online. Here's a short list:

-Had a transmed bombard me with harassing messages and comments on reddit telling me that I was a "fencesitter" and I just needed to "fucking transition already and stop making trans people look bad"

-Had a trans woman I knew irl shove an estradiol pill in my face, and try to order me to take it, in front of a group of people I wasn't even fully comfortable presenting as a femboy to, until she was eventually asked by someone else to stop.

-Had several comments indicating that I should be force femmed in femboy subreddits

-Had many, many DMs trying to tell me I was a "failed man" that should just transition already

And to clarify- all of this is so, so mild compared to transphobia that myself and others face. But it is a very real thing that happens. To many femboys, I think this is the first time they've received any kind of queerphobia or questioning of their identity, so it feels far worse in their heads than it really actually is. And, to be fair, I think it mostly happens from the more gender binary minded cis community than it comes from trans people- but as I've said, I've had it coming from trans women both irl and online.

I've also tangentially noticed that it seems to be transmed adjacent. Not saying that this anon is, or others who try to encourage femboys to explore their gender, but there certainly is a correlation. If its difficult for you to acknowledge cis gender nonconformity, then its easy to see that extending to a lack of understanding of nonbinary people or others with different trans experiences.

Every time one of these things happened, it didn't put me any closer to transition. It made me feel unsafe. It made me feel on the spot, and scared, and almost outed.

I've said this before, and I'll say it again- if you want historical parallels to femboys, we have a perfect example in drag. Drag is performative, over the top femininity that has become its own artform, style, and means of expression in a way that is intrinsically tied to gender nonconformity. Being a femboy is also all of those things. And guess what? Many drag queens have used it as a way to explore their own gender and realize that they're trans. There are also many who are cis, and remain confident in that identity. Is the percentage of trans people among people who have done drag at some point higher than the general population? Of fucking course- its one of the few places where exploring gender is encouraged and celebrated. Of course trans people flock to that. And the exact same thing is true of femboys. Are a higher proportion of femboys trans or eggs than the general population. Of course. It's a great venue for trans people to explore their identities. But even more of them are

Am I saying you're a bad person if you encourage femboys and gender nonconforming people to consider the possibility that they're trans? Of fucking course not. It was the gentle, affirming pressure with respect and care for my comfort levels from several incredible trans women I know irl that eventually made me confident enough to start HRT. Their continually support is a key factor in my social transition plans for the future. I needed that pressure, and I think everyone, including people who aren't actively engaging in gender nonconformity, needs some push to question their gender and start unlocking cis+. But to be blunt, questioning whether cis femboys even exist is not gentle, comfortable, and affirming pushes.

[luvkyu]

my everything ( jeon wonwoo )

wonwoo x male!reader

wonwoo prepares something special for his boyfriend.

content : 2k words, fluff, some light suggestive lines, idol!wonu x non celeb!reader

wonwoo sat in front of his laptop, eyes narrowed and brows knit together in focus. the only light in the room came from the screen and a bit from the master bathroom, as the light was left on by his now absent boyfriend.

seventeen was currently on vacation in jeju. wonwoo managed to convince their manager to let y/n come along, all of them renting out a large house on a secluded part of the beach for a week. he and y/n were in a shared master suite with a glass door overlooking the beach, while the other members shared their own rooms.

with only a day gone by of their vacation so far, wonwoo was getting more and more nervous about a plan he'd come up with weeks ago for y/n. he sighed as his sleepiness began to tug at him, removing his glasses to rub his eyes.

he was about to look back at his computer when several loud knocks came from the glass door. he jumped, quickly shutting the laptop and looking over to see jeonghan, joshua, and chan eagerly waving at him from outside. wonwoo rolled his eyes, knowing he should've expected something like this from them.

he got up and went over to unlock the door, the others letting themselves in.

"what'cha lookin' at over there??" joshua teased as he gestured to the male's now closed laptop.

"yeah, you closed that shit real fast. you got lotion somewhere? tissues?" chan added.

wonwoo rolled his eyes again at the insinuation.

"no, no. he has y/n here for that exact reason," jeonghan answered. the three of them burst into a fit of laughter while wonwoo stifled a small chuckle and shook his head.

"shut up. you guys are weird," he finally said as he went to sit back down.

"where is y/n, actually?" jeonghan asked after noticing he wasn't in the room.

"he's out with seungkwan, i think."

they all nodded at wonwoo's answer as joshua gave him a mischievous smile.

"so really, what were you doing?"

"..nothing."

"tsk. whatever you say," jeonghan pouted.

"c'mon, i'm nosy! pleeeease," joshua said again, the other two nodding along eagerly. wonwoo sighed again before finally turning in his seat and slowly opening the laptop back.

the screen lit up as the boys gathered around their groupmate, now seeing the list he'd made that was titled "proposal ideas for y/n ❤️".

"holy shit.." jeonghan muttered, his jaw falling agape.

"you're proposing to y/n??! like, marriage?!" chan screamed. wonwoo's eyes went wide as he watched all three of them basically jump out of their skin in excitement.

"wait, you're proposing here in jeju?!"

"how long have you been planning this??"

"do you have a ring for him?!"

wonwoo's heart hammered against his chest as he tried to take in all their questions and enthusiasm. he was already beyond nervous about proposing to y/n, and this was not helping.

"guys, calm.."

the others simmered down a bit, though still obviously dying to celebrate for their friend.

"alright," wonwoo began, "yes, i was planning a proposal while we're here since it's so beautiful. but now i'm second guessing how i'm gonna ask him."

the nervousness in wonwoo's voice was easy to hear, making the others become more serious.

"i'm sure what you have planned is perfect. the proposal itself is already huge as it is, you don't need to make any grand gesture," joshua comforted. the others nodded in agreement while wonwoo looked at them.

"plus, you can't really do a public proposal or anything cause people could find out.." chan said sadly.

"yeah, exactly. but i don't think a public thing would suit us anyways," wonwoo responded. "plus, i think it'll be a much more intimate experience if we're alone, y'know? and if he rejects me then no one will have to know."

"he's not gonna reject you!!" jeonghan scolded with a small hit to wonwoo's shoulder. the latter laughed and nodded.

"let's hope so.. i was planning to just take him on a walk on the beach to do it. i thought that'd be really romantic, but now i dunno.."

"oh my god, it is! do that, he'll love it!!" chan screamed again. wonwoo laughed at the male's eager energy.

"thanks for being so supportive, guys."

"wha.. of course. that's what we're here for, idiot," jeonghan responded.

"so, do you have a ring for him already?" joshua asked. wonwoo's eyes brightened, getting up again and heading toward his suitcase. before he could retrieve the ring though, the bedroom door suddenly opened to reveal his boyfriend.

"wonuuuuu!! ..oh, hey guys!"

"hey, babe. back already?" wonwoo asked. y/n skipped up to him and gave his lips a small kiss before nodding.

"mhm! we only went to get some ice cream. what're you guys doing?"

"not much, just talking," wonwoo replied, slipping his hand into y/n's. the latter smiled and nodded as he now looked at the others. joshua and jeonghan looked like they had small tears in their eyes while chan held back his excitement. y/n's brows furrowed at the unusual behavior.

"you guys okay..?"

"huh? oh, yes! we're fine!" joshua immediately answered. a nervous laugh left wonwoo's lips, now beginning to usher the three of them back outside to continue their night swim.

"g'night, brats!"

"hey, two of us are older than y-"

"good night!" wonwoo said again before closing the door completely and adjusting the curtains. he turned back to see a slightly concerned y/n with raised brows.

"that was.. odd."

wonwoo sighed and walked back over to him to take both his hands.

"they're odd," he corrected. he placed a gentle kiss on y/n's forehead before resuming, "let's get ready for bed?"

y/n smiled now and nodded happily.

"yes please."

y/n awoke the next morning to see the ceiling of his and wonwoo's temporary room. he groaned at the realization that it was already time to get up before he rolled over to cuddle closer to his boyfriend, frowning when seeing that the male wasn't there.

"wonwoo?" he called tiredly as he sat up. wonwoo's head poked out of the bathroom to see the other awake and squinting while his eyes adjusted.

"good morning, my love."

y/n's view quickly shifted to finally see him, a large smile stretching on his lips as a result.

"morning, wonu," he responded happily. wonwoo stepped out of the bathroom in only some shorts, drying his washed hair with a towel. he walked over to their bed to give y/n a deep kiss on his lips.

"wanna go on a morning walk with me?" he asked. y/n's eyes brightened at the idea. he nodded and began getting out of their bed.

"let me put my contacts in and get a shirt and we can go," wonwoo said.

"noo, you look so good just like that. hottest boyfriend ever," y/n praised, making wonwoo blush a bit as he felt the former's eyes scan his body. his broad frame and messy hair made y/n fall in love all over again. his eyes traveled from wonwoo's glasses to the print of his phone in his shorts pocket, which looked rather bulky in y/n's opinion, but he paid the thought no mind.

"alright, just a shirt then," wonwoo compromised.

"tsk, fine."

once the couple made their way onto the beach, they walked at a comfortably slow pace with connected hands, enjoying the sea breeze and clear sky. wonwoo looked over at y/n a few times while trying to think of how to start a conversation for a proposal. y/n was simply too distracting though. wonwoo found that he couldn't think straight, entranced by his partner.

y/n finally felt the other's gaze on him after a moment and looked at him. he smiled in content and squeezed wonwoo's hand.

"you okay?" y/n asked.

wonwoo looked down now. he watched the sand move with their footprints and the waves meet their skin. y/n stopped at the lack of an answer, a little worried now.

"wonwoo?"

"hm? oh yes sorry, i'm okay," he finally said. y/n was not convinced.

"do you need to talk, or..?"

wonwoo looked at him again, his mind screaming at him to just do it already.

"no no, i'm really okay, baby. just thinking," he assured. y/n nodded and gave him a satisfied grin as they began walking again.

wonwoo watched y/n's attention go back to the waves of the ocean while his hair and clothing moved with the wind. he didn't think he'd ever felt this nervous around him. it was an odd feeling, as y/n's presence had always been comforting and warm. but now, it was like wonwoo couldn't stop shaking around him.

"y/n?" he finally spoke up as they stopped again.

"hm?"

wonwoo gazed at y/n's gentle eyes and the cute smile he always got when he felt content in a certain moment. he took a deep breath and now held tightly onto his boyfriend's hands.

"i have something i want to ask you.. but i'm not exactly sure how to bring up something like this, so i'm just gonna say it."

y/n looked at him, a little nervous himself. he nodded for the other to continue.

"i'm so.. just, incredibly in love with you. i have been for years. i really can't imagine a life without you in it, by my side," wonwoo paused, letting go of y/n's hands to reach in his pocket and pull out a black ring box. y/n's jaw instantly fell as he realized what was happening.

"wonwoo," y/n was speechless, watching his boyfriend turn the open box toward him.

"y/n, will you-"

"yes."

wonwoo blinked. a smile broke onto his lips, a little in shock.

"really?"

"yes," y/n said again, trying to contain his happiness. wonwoo let the response sink in before hugging him tightly. both were smiling ear to ear as they tried to grasp the situation.

wonwoo pulled away to look at him, chuckling a bit at the happy tears leaving the other's eyes. he carefully wiped them away before their lips met passionately. this didn't last long though, as it was hard to kiss when neither could stop smiling.

"oh my god," y/n mumbled in disbelief. wonwoo laughed again and took the ring from it's box. he gave y/n another ecstatic grin as he slid the piece of jewelry onto his finger.

"does it fit okay?"

y/n looked at the engagement band while twirling it around his finger. it was a metallic black color with a matte grey strand running through the middle.

"it's a tiny bit big, but that'll be easily fixed."

wonwoo nodded, gazing at him as he admired the ring. y/n quickly looked back up at him and gave him another short kiss.

"i love you so much," wonwoo said a bit quietly. "i can't explain how much i love you, you're my everything, y/n."

"damn it, wonu, stop making me cry," y/n mumbled, wiping his eyes. he took wonwoo's hands back and and composed himself. "i love you too, more than anything."

the pair continued walking for another minute, reveling in the feeling of their new engagement. y/n's eyes soon drifted back down to their connected hands. the presence of his new ring made his heart swell. he then looked to wonwoo again, who was already looking back at him. he leaned over to give y/n another soft kiss on his temple.

"let's go back and tell the guys?" wonwoo asked eagerly. he watched excitement wash over y/n all over again.

"they're going to ruin our eardrums with their screaming," y/n joked. wonwoo snickered and nodded, swinging their hands back and forth as they began walking back toward the house.

"yeah, but it'll be worth it."

[notjustjavierpena]

The Making of Ellie - Part V: Happy

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: I've crawled out of my depression hole to give you the last epilogue-esque part of The Making of Ellie. Watch me disappear again now.

Summary: Joel's thoughts surrounding fatherhood and newborn Ellie.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: Joel’s POV, domesticated Joel Miller, thoughts of fatherhood, mention of Sarah’s mother, breastfeeding

Word count: 1.1k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49183051/chapters/124097539

Happy

Ellie is the tiniest baby Joel has ever seen and with the loudest voice, Joel has ever heard. She seems to sport her mother’s temper from the moment that she is born, and he knows from the get-go that she will have Sarah’s ability to persuade him to do anything just by merely existing. She fits in both of his palms which is unfathomable even if he knows that he has big hands, fits on top of your belly too, her previous home, if she’s curled into a little ball, and you call him a goof whenever he utters ‘Bellie’ under his breath whilst admiring her sleeping on you. The first time he had said it, your soft laugh had made Ellie cry again yet not as fiercely, and Joel had argued that she liked the nickname. 

“We need to monitor her heart rate,” a nurse had said after the first few hours that the two of you had had Ellie alone. Joel was reluctant to hand her over at first, but when he got her back into his arms, her sporting a little blue monitor around her ankle, that same nurse had made him flush when she praised him for evening out her rapid pulse by doing skin-to-skin contact. 

It’s pretty much all he does now; holds her tiny body in his hands with his shirt off so he can feel his daughter properly, connect with her as you get much-needed rest in between feedings. 

He has also proclaimed that he can tell the difference between Ellie’s cries. You say that ‘it’s been two days’, but he is certain and confident in his abilities. This isn’t his first time at the rodeo. Ellie’s cries have different pitches when she’s in his or your arms compared to when she’s getting picked up by the nurses. He has to stop himself from interfering with their work, mostly by your request, but he still hovers around the hospital staff whenever they are in your room. 

“She’s too tiny, we need to keep an eye on her weight,” they say. By instinct, he wants to say that she is perfect just the way she is. She’ll get there. She’s strong. He can tell. 

“Silly man,” you say into a kiss when you notice his pacing as nurses bathe or weigh her, and Joel is absolutely fine with being just that. A silly, foolish man with a desperate need to look out for his three girls despite no danger lurking around the corner. But then again? Isn’t being a parent equal to living in fear of losing said child? Ellie has only been in the real world for two days, and he would burn the world down to the ground if it meant that she would be safer. 

Joel knows that he has been here before. Sarah, albeit not as tiny, made him feel the exact same things that he is going through right now but still, there’s a part of him that has forgotten just how nerve-wracking having an infant is and just how much it fucks with the perception of everything. Whilst being terrified, he loves Ellie so intensely that it makes his head swim and he looks at you nervously as you announce that you can go home soon. He doesn’t get how you can say it and be so calm. 

You go home a week after Ellie is born, with a pink little hat on her head that is still a bit too large for her despite it being the smallest size they had. He drives the car under the speed limit. He checks the roads several times before turning. 

Sarah and Tommy wait for you in the kitchen, coming to greet you at the front door, and Joel does the pat-on-the-back hug with his brother who immediately fusses over Ellie as much as himself. He mentions that he and Maria might have one too, and makes a joke about Joel beating him to fatherhood once again. 

“She’s tiny,” he also says as Ellie cries, rocking her in his arms whilst Sarah runs a hand over her baby sister’s head. She has removed the hat after claiming that it’s falling into Ellie’s eyes, and whereas Joel would have protested the act in the hospital, he finds that he absolutely trusts his oldest daughter. 

“Don’t say that,” she chimes in, and then like she has read his mind despite them being apart for a week, “She’s perfect.” 

Joel catches your eye across the room at that. You look at him with the gentlest smile, and despite all his efforts to appear as the strong protector for a whole week in the hospital with you and his newborn baby, he feels the facade crumbling and it allows him to feel safe, happy and relaxed. He cries then, excuses himself to breathe in the crisp air outside in the place where he realized his love for you a few years back. 

Later, when the house empties - Tommy leaving with the excuse of letting you be a family of four - and everyone goes to bed, he settles into a new routine with you. 

He assembled the bassinet a few weeks ago, and he holds you as the two of you stare down at the tiny life that you’ve made together. Ellie sleeps with her arms above her head and kicks her legs when she wakes up crying in the middle of the night.

He tells you that he’ll get her, lays her against his naked chest until she simply coos instead of screaming, “That’s it, baby girl. No need to use that tone with your father. No monsters here, Bellie.”

When she starts moving her hand to her mouth, smacking her lips, and looking around, he rubs your back and tells you that Ellie is hungry, “Lookin’ for ya.”

You sit up in bed, barely awake as you nurse his daughter back to sleep. He admires the scene and knows how lucky he is; in his 40s and experiencing the greatest gift of life that he’ll ever receive once more. He gets sentimental about it too, thinking of the intimacy of seeing Ellie getting fed by her mother when he never got to with Sarah’s. It wasn’t good with the chemo that never saved her. 

Joel has never been able to pinpoint what had shifted the moment that he had let you into his life but with the comfort of knowing that Sarah is sleeping soundly in her own room, and by listening to the soft noises of you and Ellie sleeping occupying the room that had been so used to the sound of nothing, he knows that before, he had been satisfied but now, he is happy.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Yo man, I like reading your posts and your thoughts. It inspires me.

There were a few questions that I asked anonymously, but reading everything you wrote, and thanks to you, I changed my attitude towards Killer as a character (to be honest, I hated him before, as well as his duo with Color). And also, like one anon person, I love Delta.

How do you do it, inspire and change opinions about characters?

I become obsessed about them and learn everything I can and then yap about it on the internet. /hj

Also a lot of killers story requires even a base level understanding in psychology and abuse and trauma, I feel. Especially things like prolonged intense coercion, and dissociative disorders, paired with severe CPTSD. And I love psychology so he quickly became a favorite of mine.

A lot of my fixation towards killer actually came from the fact that—no one could seem to understand or agree on things about killer’s canon story (which in large part is because a lot of killer’s canon was unfortunately deleted, including an entire ask blog.)

So i went looking myself, found what i could, shared it around everywhere i could reach—and then started doing research and analysis, and sharing those too.

But also from what I can see, the UTMV fandom back then was all really young—focusing more on black and white, “good” and “bad” morality. Creepypasta-esque. Instead of acknowledging Something New for the tragedy and psychological horror it is.

It was never as simple as “sans goes crazy and kills everyone” or “evil Chara possesses sans to kill everyone” or “sans gets bored and kills for fun.” It was all deliberate, pointed towards a goal—and sans completely lost himself until he became something so completely foreign and unrecognizable. which was all intentional.

and another thing I love about killer is that he’s definitely not a “perfect victim.” He was a victim sure, and he was made and taught to be this way, but it doesn’t change the fact that this victim has victims and he’s still an awful, shitty person. there are completely valid reasons to despise that bitch, and everyone is well within their rights to do so (Delta and Delta lovers deserve to punch killer and humble him ong) even as he attempts to work on himself and actually process his trauma that had been going for an unknown amount of time.

(which still fascinates me. there is a period of time in Chara and killer’s partnership that we are unlikely to ever see. we have no clue just how long they were together. killer himself probably isn’t sure—maybe they were always together.)

and color is an interesting piece of psychology too. I completely understand why he inspires hope in killer—hope that change is possible, that safety is possible, that something better out there can exist. that not everyone with power seeks to harm and control, that not everything is control or be controlled or kill or be killed, that some things do matter. that what he wants matters. that someone out there still cares about him, and unlike papyrus or the rest of the underground—is willing to fight for him, too.

(of course, papyrus was willing to die if it made sans happy. but he was never willing to fight to make sans happy, as far as killer can see.)

color has really lost everything and everyone in his attempts to save them. he fought and fought and fought—until as a last ditch effort, he makes a desperate choice. and it works, but it dooms him. only, it didn’t actually work, because the feeling of the Genocide route is coming back—and it’s happening again.

We can see this same exact thing with killer, too. Nightmare replaces Killers when they are killed or no longer useful. Color can see right through Killer—he knows he doesn’t actually want this life. He just doesn’t know anything different anymore.

And so Color spends so long trying to get Killer to admit to what he actually wants—and when he does, when Killer finally just admits he wants his old life back—his brother, his family, he wants to be Sans again. Color doesn’t tell him it’s likely impossible—instead he offers to help.

And when Killer asks Color to save him, Color takes to it loyally. It’s not hard to imagine that Color tried and failed to help save and protect many, many, many Killers.

And yet with each devastating failure, he keeps getting up and going and persevering. Because he has to, because it’s the right thing to do, because Killer asked him to, because Killer needs help, because he cares so much about Killer, because Color can’t leave him alone or forget about him the way he was forgotten. No one else is going to care enough to reach out and try with Killer—and Killer isn’t likely to trust anyone else who tries.

Even Color has to work hard to earn and maintain Killer’s trust. A single slip up could send Killer recoiling and snapping at any hand that attempts to touch him. So despite how desperately Color wants to save him, keep him safe, take care of him—he knows he needs to go at Killer’s pace.

He needs to be patient, and he needs to be consistent, and he needs to be open and as honest as possible—even if it’s hard, and he needs to be careful around Killer, too.

He can’t allow his emotions to drive him completely, to make him blind to Killer’s violence and apathy and manipulation and controlling behaviors—not only because for his own well being, but because Killer would definitely lose any respect he has for him if he thinks Color can’t see him for what he is. He can’t allow Killer to think that he is weak—someone easily trusting, or naive, or easily led and used and taken advantage of.

He has to maintain a balance between that, and just being himself—practicing what he preaches, because killer will notice; he is watching. Color’s goal isn’t to fix him, that’s something killer has to want for himself, he’s just here because he wants to help and Killer asked for the help he needs—even if Killer’s SOUL Stages make him have conflicting viewpoints and desires, if any at all. He has to show up for Killer consistently, show he isn’t trying to use or control him, and be true to himself.

Of course, the journey to actually getting there would likely be a struggle for them both, but they’re both determined enough to try, I think.

Anyway rant over. So that’s basically what I do; get curious, go digging and researching and get obsessed and then make my thoughts and interpretations everyone else’s problem.

{ @ferociousperson }

[thekingofwinterblog]

The Problem With Yasopp

So like many people I was genuinely surprised by Netflix One Piece, adaption, which turned out the exact opposite of pretty much every single travesty that america has made when adapting Manga and Anime.

It certainly was not without flaws, for one thing it needed to be at least 3-5 episodes longer in order to fix it's pacing issues if it wanted to get all of East Blue into one season, and the fight scenes while very well choreographed, didn't exactly sell me on the superhuman strength of most of these characters.

However, there was one thing that genuinely pissed me off, in large part because the american adapters changed something they didn't like, in order to fit "western sensibilites" and in doing so, completely missing the point, and frankly tragedy of the original context.

That of course, is the character of Usopp's relationship with his parents Yasopp and Banchina, and the rather sad tale of plans going completely arry due to twists of fate.

In the west, the character of Yasopp has been a rather contentious one, for several reasons, but also one that has been a bit altered by the changes from Japanese to English.

Yasopp is critiqued heavily by people who don't like him for abandoning his kid, and his wife to seek adventure on the high seas. Now this is not untrue, but there is a bit of context here that's a bit lost in translation.

And you can really tell that, because the way Netflix portrays Yasopp leaving is the surface level one you might get if you just read Syrup Village arc, and you don't pay any attention at all to the timeline given.

In the neflix series, it's explicitly said that Yasopp left Usopp and his mother while Usopp was still a baby. That is such a common reading, that it's actually what the One Piece Wiki claims happened(Another example of why you should always be critical of Wiki's).

The actual Manga tells a different story.

Yasopp left Syrup village right before Banchina unexpedetly got sick with the disease that ultimatly killed her.

When Usopp is so touchy against Kuro about him badmouting his father, it's not in the context of him idolizing some father he never met, because Usopp and Yasopp knew and loved each other dearly. Usopp's wish to see his dad again isn't some wish to meet the father he only knows through stories, but to reconnect with the dad he loved so much growing up and was sad when he left.

And then of course there is the glory of mistraslation. If you've read this part of the manga, you might rightly be wondering, what sort of woman would be proud of the man who abandoned her to take care of their kid while he sought adventure.

The answer, which the english translation does not give, is a woman who was the one to convince him to go out on that journey in the first place.

Because that is what happened in the orignal manga. It was Banchina, for reasons we don't fully understand or have the context for, eho convinced her husband to go out and seek his dreams.

That's the reason why she is so certain Yasopp will NOT be coming home, but why she is also not bitter about it. She was the one who encouraged Yasopp to go out to sea, while she stayed home and took care of their kid, until he grew old enough to care for himself, and seek the seas himself if he wished.

The story of Yasopp, Usopp and his wife is a genuine tragedy, but not because Yasopp abandoned Usopp before he ever got to know him, but because Usopp's parents made plans for the future, that while not perfect by any stretch, seemed workable enough... only for the entire thing to come crumbling down after Yasopp left due to something as mundane as a random disease.

One can certainly make an argument that this was NOT the best course of action for Yasopp and Banchina to take, but it's not the complete deadbeat dad who abandons his baby trope that the Netflix series portrays it as.

Further hammering in that this was a bit more complicated than that, Yasopp seems to have been one of the very first crew members Shanks tried to recruit, having sought him out not long after Roger died... And Yasopp seems to have flat out rejected him, as he stayed with Banchina for years and years afterwards.

It adds a lot of context to the idea that Banchina was the one who ultimately convinced Yasopp to go out and chase his dreams while she took care of the kid... Because it took years and years for it to ultimately conclude at this course of action. Yasopp would continue to reject Shanks offer to join him for years to instead to take care of his wife and kid, until about a year before Shanks met Luffy, when his wife told him to go.

It's a hell of a lot more nuanced and interesting than what Netflix did, that's for damn sure.

[conostra]

Gojo's Racism, and Greater Jujutsu Society at Large

Put it to bed, that shit was indeed racist. No mincing words, no covering, nothing. Gojo's statement about Miguel was bred from ignorance and nothing more. And to be honest, I'm okay with that.

Been a lot of discourse about whether or not Gojo himself is a racist over the discussion he had with Miguel over both his physiology and his cursed technique. Specifically, Gojo and Miguel are having a discussion, and Miguel expresses surprise at Gojo being able to just know his CT. Gojo says he can tell just by looking, but that the real frightening thing about Miguel is his build. He then begins to talk about African sorcerers.

"99% of all sorcerers are Japanese. Add a cursed energy buff to these guys' physiques and muscle mass, which are crazy rare in Japan, and the result is pretty amazing."

Miguel sees the pretty over, if incidental, racism sown through the statement, being very quick to point out that him being African is not what makes him special, but being himself. Gojo quickly apologizes.

But the point still stands. Gojo makes a broad blanket statement about an entire racial demographic of people, and uses it to attempt to explain one of those people's greatness. This is undercutting the work Miguel as an individual, not just as a black man, and not just as a sorcerer, has had to put in to get where he now is. And this is especially cutting coming from Gojo, who is clearly established as, at least in motive, one of the more progressive members of the modern Jujutsu society.

But are we actually crying foul over whether or not Gege's anti-Gojo propaganda is at work here? To me, this seems like a pretty clear take on how racism permeates. Gojo is not racist, in that he does not look down upon any races. But he is perpetuating a clearly prejudiced idea, born from a long history of eugenicist, biological-determinism-rooted thinking. And is this really a surprise?

Gojo wants massive, fundamental reform for the world of Jujutsu. He has gone out of his way on several occasions to intervene in the going-ons of the fucked up system he takes part in. Yuta and Yuji's executions, Megumi's sale, and has on more than one occasion threatened to simply massacre the elders of the different clans and the various schools if he thought that it would be the easiest way for him to fix the problems he sees in that system.

But at the same time, Gojo is also quite literally the living result of the Jujutsu world's most powerful clan engaging in a centuries-long eugenics project themselves. He was not sent to real schools to gain an actual education, instead raised by the very people who selectively bred for dozens of generations to engineer the genetically perfect offspring, amongst other, equally stringent clans, all of whom engage in the exact same behavior. And all of this is all the more true when you remember that apparently, 80% of Jujutsu is already hard-coded into the body at one's very birth, neurologically and physiologically hard-wired from one's very conception. and Gojo, since his birth was told that he was the best among the best in a world literally bred for this kind of competition.

All of this, of course, happening in the country of Japan, very well known for its incredibly conservative, xenophobic views on race and outsiders in general. This entire thing just kind of reads as that guy you know who's pretty progressive but both of his parents are conservative so every once and a while he says something that's not reminds you his parents own a confederate shot glass you saw in the back of their cupboard.

These kinds of ideas are pervasive and seeping. They work their way into the bases of ideology, warping the very way one views the world and how they express that. Gojo is the literal poster child for everything wrong with the Jujutsu world, and actively fights against what it stands for. And yet, it is still the world that dictated how he grew up, how he was educated, how every part of him was developed until he developed the ability to do these things on his own. And even then, the developments that really cemented his disillusionment with the Jujutsu society were never anything that challenged his beliefs in the weird parasitic eugenics projects they engaged in, but the system itself. Doing the mental work to completely strip every part of that system, which you still actively engage in every day as a mentor figure, is not easy, and not something Gojo seemingly engaged in.

So TLDR, Gojo is not a "bigot". But his worldview is tainted by the very world which victimized him, and his perspective is warped by those who literally shaped the lenses through which he sees. No clarity from the Six Eyes is enough to ease the difficulty of introspection, I guess.

No, Gege is not engaging in character assassination. He's just playing into the world. And I appreciate that.

[separatist-apologist]

no gods. no religion.

Just bad, bad decisions

Summary: Galactic Senator Elain Archeron knows her ex-fiance is financing a crime syndicate. All she needs to oust him is a little proof.

And, of course, a pilot.

The prompt: SENATOR ELAIN AND FLYBOY LUCIEN

Part 1/2 | read on ao3 (OR GIVE ME A KISS)

12k words, but this is STILL A DRABBLE

Elain Archeron required a pilot. 

Well—not technically a pilot, but a soldier, really. But someone who could fly better than most, who knew how to be discreet, and perhaps most importantly, could fire in a straight line. She didn’t know many in the naval academy, but she did know her sister. General Archeron, the woman who had turned down ruling a planet in favor of military service, was the exact kind of woman Elain had been hoping for when she’d gone to her sister.

“I need to know the true scope of the Nolan’s involvement,” Elain had whispered. Nesta could have sneered, could have narrowed her eyes and asked if this was just a personal vendetta. After all, she and Count Nolan’s son had been engaged. And it was known well enough she was angry about how things had ended.

She’d won her election and he’d left her, despite supporting her campaign publicly for months. And Elain had learned it had been, in her fiance’s eyes, nothing more than an amusement for him. He hadn’t expected her to actually win. He’d thought she’d lose dismally, marry him, and finally settle down on his country estate, raising babies while he did the true politicking.

Now they shared the same air in the Senate and things were tense. Sure, she’d been upset for the first couple months, but with the help of several friendly staffers, Elain had begun to think Graysen had done her a massive favor.

She hadn’t known just how filthy his hands were, or how well connected to criminal syndicates his fortune was. Nor did she want to believe he’d help terrorists ship deadly weapons, pumping the republic full of modified blasters capable of cutting through all but a lightsaber. Meanwhile, Graysen waxed poetic about ridding the galaxy of criminals who obeyed nothing but their own greed.

All the while funding the Hybern Syndicate. 

Elain just needed to know for herself. It was risky—not only was her life forfeit if one of Hybern’s mercenaries caught sight of her, but if Graysen learned what she was up to before she could compile an expose and rid democracy of grifters like the Nolans, she’d lose her seat, too. 

“What do you know about…” Elain looked down at the data pad in her hand. Nesta had sent over her recommendation that morning with a note to meet just outside the hangars. “Lucien Vanserra.”

Her elder sister's lips quirked in not quite a smile. Nesta was as severe as ever, hair braided in a crown against her scalp. She wore the Naval white and orange, vest snug to her chest. 

Holding up a hand, Nesta ticked off Vanserra’s qualities. “Discreet, quick on his feet, damn good pilot. That was what you wanted, right? He’s the best and he owes me a favor. Plus, he’s afraid of me, which means he won’t take unnecessary risks when it comes to your life. Do what he says, alright El? No matter how…arrogantly…he barks those orders?”

That didn’t sound promising. 

“Does he know the mission?”

Nesta’s eyes swept over the massive, open hangar with distaste. To Elain, everything was running smoothly—pilots, mechanics, and other professionals bustled about, readying a wide array of ships to both fly in and out of port. A large viewport betrayed air command, setting courses and waving ships in and out. Elain could still recall growing up on Naboo and the advisors who used to joke there was no pleasing little Nesta Archeron. She’d been bred to be a Queen, so why wouldn’t she act any different? To Elain, Nesta’s straight spine and her unwillingness to accept anything but perfection always made sense.

What hadn’t was a moment of weakness—a man, sent from the Republic to meet the middle Archeron, diplomat to diplomat. Cassian Alonso was more rebel than anything. A man already when Nesta had only been nineteen. They’d taken one look at the other and that had been it. Elain still didn’t understand it a decade later. Nesta hadn’t wavered, though. She’d married Cassian and joined the Republic.

And now, instead of Queen, she was General Archeron. Elain wondered if her sister didn’t see them the same way. 

“He knows enough,” Nesta finally said, cutting through Elain’s musings. 

There was no opportunity to interrogate her sister further. They halted before a rather run down ship that seemed as if it must be fast, and able to take a beating. Sleek and pointed, with a little orange fox painted just over the ship's hull, Elain thought it was better than nothing. Far shabbier than her usual vehicles, and yet she knew she was in no position to complain. Not when her plan was going off without a hitch and someone was willing to help her.

A pair of legs hopped to the platform, landing with a grunting oof. The man who rose was much younger than Elain had been imagining in her head. He couldn’t have been two or three years older than her. Maybe as old as Nesta, but likely not by much.

“General,” he said respectfully, offering up a dimpled grin. He was a beautiful man despite the trio of scars running over his left eye, which had been replaced with a rather lovely golden cybernetic. The other was a nice shade of russet brown, flecked with just enough gold to catch the light.

Auburn red hair was half braided off his handsome face, allowing the rest to spill over broad shoulders wearing the same red and white vest her sister wore. She hoped he didn’t plan to keep his uniform, given how immediately noticeable it was. He seemed like the sort who could blend in under the right conditions, although maybe that was just wishful thinking. 

“Vanserra,” her sister replied, ignoring how Lucien’s eyes immediately fell on her. Some of his easiness faded as he, too, drank her in. Obviously she wasn’t going to wear her heavy skirts, nor was she going to sport the elaborate updo she currently wore. It wasn’t like they were leaving today. Still, Elain couldn’t help but fidget under his disapproving gaze, her fingers crushing the velvet of her blush colored dress. 

“My sister Elain.”

His smile returned, bright and hot like the sun. “Senator, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she replied stiffly. 

He knew. From the way his expression sharpened, Elain knew he knew. Maybe not all of it, but he knew, just like Nesta had when Elain had first dumped all this in her lap, that Elain was still chasing after Graysen. She wanted to scream, to get on the holonet and tell the whole damn galaxy that she was over it. Graysen humiliated her on a grand stage and now the whole galaxy would forever believe she was nursing a broken heart.

Elain wouldn’t have taken him back even if he’d begged. He had no integrity, no heart, and if she was right about his underworld dealings, no soul, either. And what did that say about her, that she’d slept beside him for so many nights unaware the man she’d wanted to spend the rest of her life with was a rotting cesspit of greed?

This wasn’t the place to ruminate on that. 

“Nine am sharp, then?” he said, unaware of how much relief his words provided. Who cared if he thought her merely a scorned woman so long as he did what she wanted. Elain didn’t expect this man to understand. 

“You got it,” she agreed, offering up her most practiced smile. His own faltered for a moment, his eyes taking on a strange, glassy quality. 

“Vanserra!” her sister snapped. His head bowed, cheeks warming as pink crawled up his neck. Elain understood she had been dismissed and with a sunny smile and a wave to her sister, vanished out of the hangar without tripping on the hem of her dress. 

Tomorrow. Elain would finally repay Graysen for what he’d done. Maybe she’d always be scorned, but at least she wouldn’t be the one sitting in a Republic prison. 

And for someone who loved compromise, that was the best Elain could ask for.

LUCIEN:

“That’s your sister?”

Lucien looked up at his General, hoping his expression conveyed his reproach. He’d been imagining someone more like Nesta or Feyre…not…not….kriff. Elain Archeron was easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. And when she smiled? Gods, but Lucien didn’t think this mission was a good idea anymore. All the things he loved when accepting an off the book mission—risky, unsanctioned, likely to end in death—seemed unreasonable in the light of Elain’s beautiful face.

“Keep it in your pants,” General Archeron snapped, though Lucien swore Nesta’s silvery blue eyes were filled with amusement. “She has that effect on everyone.”

Yeah, he bet. Lucien might have told Nesta to find another pilot had he not been sure that man would have fallen in love with her, too—and that was unacceptable to Lucien. Especially when he knew Nesta was likely to send her stealthies pilot and Azriel wouldn’t waste an opportunity like Elain Archeron.

“She seems…” like my future wife, though Lucien didn’t dare say that out loud. “Green.”

“She’s a junior Senator. Just…do this for her, okay?” Nesta said with an air of resignation. “I don’t expect much to come from it, but this is the liveliest she’s been in months.”

“Right,” he agreed, his mind racing. He hadn’t paid much attention to the dust up when Nolan and Archeron had split. Amiable, that was what he remembered. Clearly not if Elain was trying to link her former betrothed to a crime syndicate. Ballsy, too. Lucien liked that. If Elain was right, he hoped to be the pilot who helped take a corrupt Senator down. That sort of thing all but guaranteed him a promotion.

And a beautiful wife, if you’re smart about it. 

Lucien was a strategic man. Lucien was a smart and patient man. And he wanted very few things out of his life, but he knew the minute Elain Archeron smiled at him, that he wanted her. Even if it made an enemy of Nesta and even if it meant a lifetime of rubbing elbows with politicians.

Lucien was willing to sacrifice for her.

It was an exhilarating feeling. 

“Nothing is to happen to my sister. No matter how persuasive she is or what promises she makes you Commander. Remember that my sister has been trained from birth to be a politician. She could convince anyone to do anything she asks with a few smiles.”

Yeah, Lucien believed that. 

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Lucien said, hoping he sounded convincing and not desperate. “I spent a month with Feyre, remember?”

Nesta was polite enough not to remind Lucien how he and Feyre had managed to set an ancient estate ablaze under his watchful eye. Still, she let him go with only minimal threats, which Lucien thought spoke to his skill. There were likely very few people Nesta Archeron entrusted her sisters to, and he’d been tasked with both. That filled Lucien with warm pride, buoying him long enough to make traversing the Coruscant markets for all the creature comforts a Senator was likely accustomed to.

Lucien’s last assignment had been a month with a Jedi. That, he thought, had been far easier given the man wanted very little. Lucien suspected Elain wouldn’t be content to live off supply bars and sleep on the cold, durasteel floors. 

Lucien spent more money than he might have, and when he was finished, submitted his receipts through his datapad to Nesta for reimbursement. If the amount irritated his General, she didn’t say—all Lucien’s credits had been returned before he made it back to The Fighting Fox. 

Lucien set his things away, clearing space in the small Captain’s quarters for Elain. He’d make do in one of the swinging hammocks just outside the cockpit. The room he offered her was small—the bed took up most of the available walking space, and the closet was really three drawers stacked atop each other. She had a viewport, though, and a short walk to the shared ‘fresher. Lucien even swapped out the soap dispensers for something nicer, something a shopkeeper assured him women loved. 

With nothing left to do, Lucien kicked his boots up over the dash, pulled his data pad from his pocket, and decided to do some recon. All good missions started that way…and if it meant he got to study his soon-to-be wife, well, all the better for him. 

Lucien learned several things about Elain Archeron. She was a spit-fire. Feisty and passionate all under the demure, beautiful face that had stunned him into silence for perhaps the first time in his life. He got caught up watching speech after impassioned speech, occasionally rewinding to listen to a particular turn of phrase a second time. 

And Graysen, the Senator supposedly financing the Hybern Syndicate, was every bit as clever as the woman he’d let go. Lucien studied him, too, though he was far more critical than he was of Elain. Lucien, by virtue of growing up with an elder brother who was, perhaps, one of the wiliest politician’s the galaxy had ever seen, knew what a liar looked like. Graysen was adept at saying so much without saying anything at all, and yet it felt good. 

And, though it felt a little like betrayal, he watched Graysen’s holovid where he announced the end of his relationship with Elain. 

Amicable. Lucien remembered that from memory, and yet by his count, Graysen stressed it no less than four times in the span of fifteen minutes. Smiling like too-white teeth, he hardly looked sorry at all. I wish her nothing but the best.

Elain had opted to say nothing at all, which had allowed the media to run roughshod over her. Perhaps she’d figured there was nothing she could say that wouldn’t make her seem bitter and had chosen to give the media nothing to work with. No words to pick apart, no lines to read between. Just Elain, several days later going to work with clear eyes and a bright, practiced smile. 

If she suffered, she didn’t show it. Lucien wondered what had fractured them. Maybe he’d find out. By Lucien’s estimate, they’d be together, conservatively, for a month. With the time it would take to get out to the outer reaches from the inner core and then the recon, the data collecting, and whatever else Elain hoped to achieve, a month assumed perfect circumstances.

It assumed nothing would go wrong. Lucien had never worked a mission like that. They’d have plenty of time to get to know one another, to impart painful truths and perhaps, if he was exceptionally lucky, plan a wedding.

Though, he wasn’t counting on that last one. 

Still, the thought put him to sleep in his hammock, tucked away in the obnoxiously loud hangar. He slept like a babe, used to the clanking and the shouting of military life, and woke an hour before Elain was supposed to arrive.

It had occurred to Lucien that the one thing he knew Elain and Graysen had in common was their impeccable sense of fashion. He could dress well, too, though too often what was the point? He was covered in oil half the time, and the other half splattered with blood or goo or some other substance he preferred not to think about. 

There was no point putting on his nicest pair of robes—the pair such a deep, forestry green that it made his skin seem to glow—but there was wisdom in digging out a pair of well-fitted brown pants and an equally tight blue shirt with the quarter sleeves.

Just so she could see the black inked tattoo on his forearm. The one that denoted his rank in solid black bars. No one called him Commander, but they sure as hell knew he was Commander Vanserra when they saw those six black bars. He wanted her to know that he was ambitious, same as her. 

He rebraided his hair after carefully pulling out the tangles, and shaved just enough to leave the stubble behind. It was rugged, he decided, and women generally liked that. At least, the ones he was in frequent contact with did. Why shouldn’t Elain, too? 

Lucien was buckling his belt low over his hips, weapons laying out before him, when he heard the punctual, polite, rapping knock on the door. He was grinning like a fool and he knew it, and still he couldn’t help himself. Lucien pulled his boots on and met her just outside the hangar.

She was a vision with a bag at her feet and her hair pulled in a neat chignon just at the nape of her neck. He suspected this was Elain Archeron’s attempt at looking nondescript, as if the hundreds of credits she’d spent on that deep blue cloak pulled over her beautiful face was anything but a massive neon sign that screamed wealth. 

She was in a white jumpsuit that hugged every inch of her—not that he was looking. 

“Ready?” he asked, leaning against the open door as the ramp slowly descended. Elain didn’t seem convinced of him, but that was fine. 

“As I’ll ever be,” she admitted, teeth sinking against her full, bottom lip. Lucien stepped aside, one hand outstretched to take her bag. 

“You’ll be in here,” he said, closing up behind her before gesturing for her to follow. Elain hesitated when she saw that little room, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“We’ll be sharing?” she asked, her cheeks the prettiest shade of pink. It was Lucien’s turn to hesitate. If he said yes, he could force them into close quarters.

“No,” he replied, thinking it was better to give her some space. “I’ll be just outside. It’s not much, but it's better than nothing, don’t you think?”

Relief stole over her expression. “Yes,” she admitted as Lucien shoved her little bag inside. “I’m surprised there is enough space for a private room at all on this thing.”

“It was my only requirement when picking it out,” he admitted with a sly grin. In his mind, he was already upgrading to a nicer—albeit more expensive—model. One with a room big enough for them both to move around in. He assumed a Senator was used to yachts, but maybe she could get used to something smaller in exchange for speed. 

One thing at a time. 

He expected her to make a small fuss. To hole up in that room while he got them ready, but Elain merely followed after him, up the ladder and into the cockpit where she took the co-captain’s chair. He liked the sight of her there, hood down and wide eyed with excitement. 

That’s my girl, he thought, practically giddy.

“How does it all work?” she asked, watching him carefully flip switches. 

“Maybe I’ll show you some day,” he said, not wanting to make himself obsolete to her just yet. “But not today. Buckle up, princess.”

If he’d said that to either of her sisters, he’d have been shot in the face for it. But Elain merely rolled her eyes and did as she was told. 

Unaware she was a princess—his princess. 

And he’d do anything she asked.

ELAIN: 

“How long before we get to our outpost?” Elain asked, already bored. They’d been zooming through space for the better part of a day. Realistically, she knew it was going to take five days of non-stop, lightspeed travel. And yet part of her hoped Lucien knew some magical shortcut that would get them there by the end of the night.

Long legs stretched up over the dash, his datapad held in one of his broad, strong hands, Lucien Vanserra didn’t look her way.

“Five days,” he replied, thumb sliding over his screen. Elain sighed and Lucien finally looked over at her. It was an effort not to rake her eyes down his muscular body again. She didn’t think he’d appreciate being ogled when he was merely trying to fulfill his duty to her sister. Had Nesta chosen him specifically for how appealing he was? Or was Lucien really the best? 

“Yes, princess?” he drawled in that deep, warm voice of his. Elain suppressed a shiver. It had been so long since any man had made her feel anything but revulsion that she didn’t quite know what to do with herself. 

“I’m bored.”

That was enough to bring back his dimpled smile and to convince him to turn off his data pad. “Oh yeah? Why don’t you tell me what this little journey of ours is about then. The whole version,” he added pointedly.

So he wanted to know about her break-up, then. Elain swallowed some of her bitterness.

“Well. I guess if we started at the beginning then I’d say that I met Graysen Nolan back on Naboo during Feyre’s first campaign. I was helping her run it as her official diplomat to the Republic, and Graysen had been sent to get a feel for her. She was young, and everyone expected Nesta to run, but she’d recently run off with Cassian…it was a mess.”

He chuckled, but said nothing. It was invitation enough to continue.

“Father was…unwell,” she said, thinking that was the most charitable way to describe their fathers rapid spiral into misery. “And mother was dead. Nesta was gone and Feyre busy…I was just…”

Stars, but Elain hated admitting this to herself, let alone the beautiful man with the teasing eyes.

“Lonely?” he guessed.

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “And Graysen was nice. It was a whirlwind, truthfully. I never had a moment to catch my breath. Feyre was elected and Naboo needed a new Senator and Graysen convinced me I ought to run and Feyre was begging me to…so I did.”

Elain swallowed hard. “When he asked me to marry him, I think he expected I’d drop out. And then, when I won, well…What he wanted was someone more domestic.”

“Okay,” Lucien said, still smiling though his eyes were tight. “I wasn’t asking about your breakup, for the record, but I guess it’s good to know Nolan is as much of an asshole as I always suspected. I assume this is why you want to go on this mission? Revenge?”

Well kriff. “No,” she said, a shade too defensive. “It’s been eight months. I’m not still…I don’t miss him. There was a bill up for vote in the Senate last month and Graysen waged war to kill it in a committee. I couldn’t figure it out—of course he comes from money, but who doesn’t know that at this point? His rivals point it out every change they get. Why wouldn’t he want to share who donates to his campaigns? It seemed like such a nothing bill, easily passed. And it made me start digging. I still have all his old passcodes,” she admitted sheepishly, thinking Lucien would think her low for snooping.

His real smile returned. “Clever.”

“He must have figured it out because he changed them, but I was in long enough to see a lot of his money leaving accounts for offshore banks in planets in the Outer Rim. And money came in, too—in huge sums, all unaccounted for. I did a little digging, and it turns out the First Raider Bank is used exclusively by the Hybern Corporation. And Hybern—”

“Deals in black market weapons,” Lucien supplied for her, rubbing at his stubbled jaw. Elain’s satisfaction returned.

“Exactly. I know I don’t have a lot to work with, but if I had some proof I could remove him from his seat and the Republic could have the transparency it so badly needs.”

Lucien, to his credit, didn’t add what anyone else would have—and your revenge. Elain wasn’t denying that was part of it. She’d loved Graysen. Believed the best in him, even when her sisters thought her stupid and naive. And he’d not only abused that trust, but he’d been lying to her the whole time. Sometimes, when Elain truly wanted to punish herself, she imagined what would have happened when she learned. How humiliated she would have been.

And how trapped. 

Instead, Lucien tilted his head toward her, body still facing the neon blue viewport and the blurred stars that illuminated the entire cockpit in blinding, burning white. “I’m in this until the end, princess.”

She wondered if he called her that because, technically, she was a princess. When she returned home, everyone addressed her as such—though no one called Nesta princess. They called her General. Elain didn’t mind it because Lucien didn’t make it seem mocking. 

“Well,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. “I should…I’m going to head to bed, if that’s alright with you.”

Lucien’s gaze returned to his data pad. One had waved for her to go, revealing six black lines inked against the skin of his forearm. Commander. 

He seemed awfully young for a rank so prestigious, and hardly showy about it like she might have expected. Nesta hadn’t said anything about it, either. Lucien, unaware of where her attention now lay, was fully immersed back in his holovid. 

Everyone she knew had managed to achieve such great, important things. Feyre was Queen of Naboo, her sister a General. Even this pilot, Commander Vanserra. And what was she, besides a joke? 

Elain climbed the ladder back into the hull, listening to the pleasant hum of the ship as she made her way back to the closet Lucien called a bedroom. Elain was used to shuttles and yachts with private ‘freshers and enough space to stretch out her legs and pace. Lucien’s private quarters housed a bed that might have fit them both if they laid chest to back.

An appealing idea, given the general shape of him. 

And likely totally inappropriate given he worked for her sister and this was just a job. Elain wasn’t sure she was even in the right space to indulge him. Something about the way he moved his body and the casual arrogance that radiated from him made Elain think Lucien wouldn’t say no if she invited him back into bed.

And he wouldn’t look at her twice when they were back on Coruscant. He’d get to say he’d been with the naive senator and she’d…she’d be humiliated twice. That was enough to convince Elain to carefully fold up the clothes she’d brought, dig out a towel and her night dress, and pad down to the equally tiny ‘fresher.

She knew she’d have to be quick on a ship this small. The water tank likely couldn’t support a full forty five minute break down beneath scalding hot water and Elain refused to rinse soap from her hair in the cold.

She felt a moment of wicked delight when she pushed the shampoo dispenser and found her favorite honey scented soap plunk into her hand. Had Nesta told Lucien, or did they just so happen to prefer the same? She’d ask him later—once she wasn’t in the shower, at any rate. 

Elain stepped out in a short, ivory night dress and her hair dripping down her bare arms as she tried to towel dry her wild hair. She’d wondered if Lucien would be sleeping in his pilot's chair and found a hanging hammock just between the ladder up to the cockpit and her own bedroom.

And Lucien, shirtless and staring at the water she was dripping all over his floor. This wasn’t a yacht, she reminded herself. This was his ship that had likely cost him a year's salary and she was careless.

“Sorry,” she said as Lucien stepped forward, one hand outstretched when she tried to toss the towel to the floor. 

“No,” he replied, his eyes unfocused. “No, you’re fine. Just…watch your step, princess.”

He never looked back up at her, which gave Elain the briefest opportunity to look at him without being caught. Lucien was…wow. Shirt gripped in one hand, the other still hovering in midair, while the rest of his body was lovingly carved by whatever god blessed pilots. Elain had the strangest urge to cross the gap between them and trace the muscled grooves of his golden brown skin with her fingertips.

Or her tongue, depending on his preference. 

But he wasn’t looking at her, his cheeks inflamed, and Elain suspected he was uncomfortable. So she offered him a smile he couldn’t see, murmured a good night, and vanished behind the closed door of the bedroom, cursing herself for making things weird between them on the first day.

It certainly did bode well for the rest of their mission.

LUCIEN:

He couldn’t sleep. Not with the image of that very shreddable nightdress clinging to Elain’s body, made sheer by the sheet of dripping curls tumbling over her shoulder was burned just behind his eyes. And he’d been shirtless, not that she’d noticed or cared. She’d assumed he was upset about the water, unaware Lucien was screaming at his stupid, useless cock to remain as it was instead of thickening with interest.

Like it was now, pulsating against his thigh and urging him to go and check on her, the utter bastard. Lucien warred between his rationality and his cock driven need to open the door and see how she was doing. In his mind, her hair would be a wild halo of curls around her beautiful face and those big, brown eyes would be half lidded from sleep. Maybe the tiny nightdress would have ridden up her hips and she’d pull at the blanket so he could slip in.

And Lucien would part her legs and—

“Stop it,” he hissed, refusing to even touch himself. He didn’t want to give in, like his cock was a living thing that could be rewarded and not a manifestation of his own aching need. He could go in the ‘fresher and handle his erection and it made him feel like a pervert. So Lucien remained in that swaying hammock, eyes closed as he ran through drills and listened to the gentle hum of the engine. Eventually his cock grew bored and deflated and Lucien fell asleep, too. 

He woke to the smell of food winding around him, filling his lungs and reminding him he was not alone. Lucien shifted, checking that he was still flaccid before opening his eyes. Elain had set up shop in the tiny little kitchen, if it could even be called that, frying eggs and panna cakes with a cheerful smile. 

“Another day,” she said when he all but fell from the hammock. Lucien flung a shirt over his chest quickly before making his way toward her. Elain eyed him hopefully, but the answer was unchanged.

“Four days,” he said in a sleep heavy voice. Elain’s smile threatened to drive him to his knees though he was appropriate enough. Maybe his smile bordered on sultry, but she didn’t seem to mind.

They went on like this for three days—sharing little bits of information or playing games where Lucien learned Elain had the most infectious laugh he’d ever heard in his life. He slept better than he ever had, despite the knotted rope digging in his skin. Maybe that was her, too, because Lucien had never had to fight his cock for the right to use his own blood the way he had been recently.

The day before landing, Lucien pulled up a holomap. “Florrum,” he said, letting Elain drink in the arid, desert planet now hovering before them. He couldn’t picture the pristine woman sitting beside him trekking through the desert, and yet the determined slant of her mouth told Lucien she would be. 

“We’ll land in the outpost tomorrow afternoon,” he said, bringing up the image of the oasis Doshar outpost was situated against. It was deceptively lush, though Lucien knew from his own research harsh sandstorms often wrecked the pretty greenery and made the sparkling water undrinkable without a filter. “Spend a day getting our bearings and plotting our course. I’ll need a little time to track down a speeder and we don’t want to go charging in. It might be worth your time to chat up the locals…see what they’ve heard.” Elain bit the inside of her cheek, nodding. “So maybe two days at the outpost.” She glanced over at Lucien before reaching into the pocket of the nice dress she wore. His heart stumbled at the sight of the plain, silver band now resting in her open palm.

“We’ll need a backstory,” she said, swallowing as he plucked that ring from her. Lucien slid it over his finger, admiring the way it looked. He’d have to wear it around his neck when he was back on Coruscant, but maybe another tattoo, inked where the ring would go? Beside him, Elain slid her own simple band over a slim finger before curling them into a fist. 

“Married,” he said with dizzying delight. “Good idea.”

“You could say you’re looking for work,” she suggested, sliding a hand over her flat stomach. Lucien’s heart pounded as she continued, “And I’ll say I’m looking for a place to settle for the time.”

Children. Because they were going to have a family and— “Good thinking,” he managed, unable to look her in the eye. “Smart.”

“You probably shouldn’t go around telling them you’re Commander Vanserra—”

Lucien’s whole body went achy and tight at the sound of his title coming from her lips. 

“So I thought we could be Rose and Fox.”

“Rose…and Fox…” he repeated, still fixated on Commander Vanserra. Commander Vanserra and Senator Archeron, married with three—no five—children, settled on Naboo after—

“Lucien? Would you prefer something different?” she asked, her voice timid and soft. Right. Pretend to marry her for now, really marry her when they arrived back home. 

“Fox is great,” he said, flashing her an easy smile. “Anything else I should know?”

A flush crawled up Elain’s neck. “No, I…that’s all I have. I didn’t want you to think…”

Lucien reclined back in his chair, the image of Florrum forgotten. “Think what? That you’re trying to trap a gorgeous guy like me into marriage?”

“No!” she exclaimed, immediately defensive. Lucien needed to get out of her breathing space for a minute or he was about to admit he wanted her to trap him. Despite being strangers, and despite the attraction simmering just beneath his skin, Lucien wouldn’t have told her no if Elain had said they needed to get married truthfully, nor would he have freed her from it once they were finished.

“Sure,” he replied with a wink. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

And though it was a flippant comment, he’d accidentally touched an old wound. Jes, who’d wanted to get married right until she didn’t, which had been, conveniently, the day before their planned wedding. Lucien considered, as he stood with a grin he knew didn’t meet his eyes, that he rushed into things.

He was always all in. Hadn’t he sworn he wouldn’t be hurt again? That he’d be more cautious next time, that he’d spent months—years, even—making sure the next woman loved him more than she loved anything else. That she, at the very least, loved him the way he loved her. Elain was none of those things and yet here he was, planning a whole future with her all the same.

His boots hit the bottom of the hold when he heard her say his name.

“Lucien!” Elain breathed, unaware he’d hurt his own feelings. Still, Lucien remained still, listening to the sounds of her carefully climbing down the ladder behind him. “If I upset you—”

“You didn’t,” he said, adopting an easy smile she thought she saw right through. “Trust me, there are a million worse things than being married to you.”

She didn’t smile back. “You’re the only one who thinks so,” she said, and Lucien wondered if they didn’t have matching wounds. He’d foolishly forgotten about Graysen. 

Lucien couldn’t help himself, turning to reach for that pretty, heart-shaped face. “Lucky me,” he murmured, letting her see some of his desire. Not all of it, but enough to settle her—to let her know he meant it. 

She sucked in a soft breath through her teeth. “Lucien—”

“Save it,” he replied, not wanting to hear her protests. Exhaling, Lucien dropped his hold. “Get to know Florrum before we land. I’m gonna…”

He was gonna what? They were practically on top of each other. He couldn’t escape her, not when she occupied his bed and all the private space on their little ship. Still, Elain waited, her chin tilted just enough that he could have reached for her again and kissed her. She might have liked it, too, if Graysen Nolan was the last pair of lips that had touched her.

“...use the ‘fresher,” he finally said lamely. 

Was it his imagination, or did some of the air deflate from her body? Elain murmured something polite and the pair vanished, getting about as far from the other as they could without flinging themselves into hyperspace. Lucien sat in the ‘fresher longer than was polite, head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. 

Get it together, Vanserra, he ordered himself. He knew he wouldn’t, just like he knew when he climbed back up into the cockpit and Elain turned in her chair, smiling up at him, that he was in so much trouble. A face like that…surely there had to be some other reason for the demise of her engagement? Did Graysen imagine he could do better? 

Lucien was certain no one could do better than Elain Archeron. 

ELAIN:

They landed at dusk, kicking up sand all over the viewport. Elain didn’t care, though Lucien frowned at the sight, eyes narrowed. She was practically giddy with anticipation, ready to put her boots on the ground and finally—finally—prove she was more than just some pretty nobody from Naboo. Overshadowed by her far more powerful, more interesting sisters. This was her shot, and the only one she’d get. 

Lucien had convinced her to ditch the cape, saying it was far too conspicuous in a place that seemed drenched in poverty. He was right, she reflected, and she might have told him so had they both not stepped onto the hangar so Lucien could immediately begin arguing with someone about cleaning up his ship.

Fussy. 

She wandered toward the edge, fingers curling over the railing that overlooked the outpost below. The image Lucien had shown her made it seem picturesque, but reality was far less kind. The grass was more brown than green, clinging to the sandy as an unforgiving wind battered it about. Everything had a fine layer of red sand dusting it—even the giant yellow sun dipping in the sky cast a hazy, bloody glow. 

Lucien’s presence at her side told Elain he’d managed to haggle out a price for fuel and repairs that he could live with. Was Nesta financing this trip for him, or had it come out of his own pocket? Lucien hadn’t asked her for credits which seemed unusual. Even Graysen had often opened his palm in the name of fairness.

“C’mon,” Lucien said, handing Elain a heavy brown jacket that smelled of smoke and oil. “Try not to breathe in too much of the air. I’ll get us some scarves in the morning.”

And that was that. He kept a hand on her back and his body angled as if something lurking in the sand was going to come running at them. Elain very much doubted anything would, though she had read that gundarks made their home on Florrum, though typically higher up on the cliffsides she could just make out in the distance. 

No sand monsters. Just sand, which was its own monster given how it was filling her boots despite the elevated walkway that wound toward town. Lucien seemed unphased and even the cruel wind somehow avoided his beautiful face, as if the world recognized he was special somehow. 

Or perhaps too beautiful to mar, which Elain agreed with. The galaxy had so few lovely things to start, it would be a shame to harm him further. Elain still wondered what had happened to his eye—who had wounded him? And why did it make her so angry? Elain had been trying to work up the nerve to ask him without making him feel self-conscious about it. The scars added something to his beauty, told a story of someone brave and clever—a survivor. 

Unaware of her own admiration, Lucien stepped in front of the cantina. Everything about him shifted so quickly she might have blinked and missed it. Gone was the serious pilot, the smiling man she’d come to know. All his worst traits seemed exaggerated when he stepped into the dim, artificially illuminated space.

No one batted an eye or even turned to look at them. It allowed Lucien to saunter up to the edge of the bar, wedging himself between two open stools so he could lean against his elbow. “Got any work?”

That…wasn’t what she’d expected him to ask. The barkeep glanced up at the pair of them, eyes narrowed for just a moment. Lucien certainly looked like the sort who came into places like this all the time. Elain might have appreciated his worn clothes and how he strategically hid his arm so the bars denoting his rank were no longer visible. He could have been any low-life looking for a job.

But she couldn’t. And when those pair of green eyes landed on her, Elain knew she couldn’t fake her easy, privileged upbringing. Lucien hadn’t mentioned that at all, and now she wished she’d thought of it.

“You’re looking for work?” the woman asked, turning her attention back to Lucien.

Lucien’s grin widened. “Got a pretty new wife to support. Her family didn’t like when I ran off with her.”

And just like that, Lucien had smoothed over every question on that lined, weathered face. The barkeepers shoulders relaxed and she went back to rubbing that filthy rag all over the equally filthy bartop. 

“Aye! Marcellus! Got you a taker!”

Lucien turned his head, angling his body in front of Elain so she was half hidden behind his bulk. From the shadows, a tall, lanky, dark haired, dark eyed man stepped forward. His gaze swept over Lucien first before turning to Elain. She didn’t think she quite liked the way his expression sharpened into something akin to hunger. 

“You want a job?” Marcellus asked Lucien, though he was still looking at Elain. 

“Pretty, right?” Lucien asked casually, hand drifting toward the blaster holstered against his muscular thigh. “If you keep looking at her like that, we’re gonna have trouble.”

“Ain’t never seen a woman half so pretty,” Marcellus replied, tipping his head in Elain’s direction. “Where’d you find her?”

“Corellia,” Lucien replied with a grin. 

Marcellus turned his attention back to Lucien. “Maybe it’s time to pay the core a visit.”

They laughed at Elain’s expense, but she didn’t care. So long as they believed she and Lucien were together, Elain didn’t mind a little male laughter in the form of bonding. From the corner of her eye, she watched him rest his hand on his blaster, a subtle warning that for all their joviality, Lucien would make good on his promise if he felt like he needed to. 

“What’s the job?” Lucien asked once Marcellus’s smile faded a bit. 

“Gundarks,” Marcellus said with a grimace. “You a steady shot?”

Elain reached for Lucien’s arm, squeezing slightly. The gesture wasn’t lost on their new friend, who glanced at her again. 

“Maybe we should go,” she said, letting her own anxiety creep in. “I’ll talk to my father, I’ll—”

“No,” Lucien interrupted smoothly, playing along perfectly. “I can take care of my new wife. Gundarks aren’t the worst thing I’ve faced, besides. Your sister, for one,” he said, earning another laugh from Marcellus. 

“I’ll bring him home mostly intact,” Marcellus informed her. Elain shrank back like the good, sheltered Corellian woman she knew he expected to see. In truth, Elain had never been to Corellia and had no idea what women were like there. She trusted Lucien knew what he was doing.

“Speaking of, you know any places with some availability. I think we’ll be sticking around for a bit,” Lucien told Marcellus. The barkeeper, still listening over the hum of conversation, leaned forward again.

“I got a place. It ain’t much, but it’s cheap.”

“I love cheap,” Lucien told her with an easy, beautiful grin. They worked out a price for the month and Lucien handed over credits without looking at her at all. Elain had been prepared to pay, even if only to continue with the charade. There was a tightness to Lucien’s shoulders as he paid and she wondered if this wasn’t a matter of honor that she didn’t understand.

He was given a key card and directions to their new home for the month with another murmured, remember it ain’t much, as if they hadn’t just spent a week on top of each other on his ship. Anything was better than the tiny room they’d been given. 

“I’ll meet you in the morning. You got a name?” Marcellus asked.

“Fox,” Lucien said with that same charming smile. “And this is Rose.”

“Well, Fox. I’d get your pretty woman a blaster if I were you.”

But it was the barkeep, with her narrowed eyes, that leaned toward Elain. “If you want a job, I got something for you. It’s not glamorous, but it pays.”

“Okay,” Elain said breathlessly, nodding her head with an earnestness that felt real.

“Come by when he leaves and I’ll get you set up.”

And that was that. Elain stumbled out an appreciative thank you while Lucien snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She felt his lips pressed into her hair, swore he inhaled softly. She was tempted to fling her arms around his middle and didn’t, if only because that wasn’t the sort of thing high born ladies did. She’d never seen Nesta act that way with Cassian when they were surrounded by people, though she knew her sister loved him enough to risk everything for him. 

Lucien led Elain back out into the rapidly cooling desert, his arm migrating from her waist to her shoulder so he could pull her closer. It was practical, given the wind whistled around them, throwing sand right into her mouth. Lucien was, once again, immune to the weather and the world, leading her through closed shops and little, round houses shut tight for the night. Their own was right in the middle of a rather nice neighborhood, rundown and shabby and yet she saw a child’s hovercar parked in front of a door a few houses down. People had a life, were happy here. 

The sight strengthened Elain’s commitment to bring Graysen down. The galaxy was filled with people like this, who just wanted safety and security. They deserved better than the rich getting richer off shady deals while funding terrorists to ensure that wealth.

Lucien opened the door with a, “Home, sweet home.”

The barkeep hadn’t lied. It wasn’t much at all. Three connected rooms that hadn’t been updated since the High Republic if that peeling, gold paint was any indicator. The kitchen seemed functional enough, and the bedroom had a closet at least—and a bed hardly any bigger than the one Lucien kept on his ship. Maybe he wouldn’t be directly on top of her, but he’d certainly be touching her. 

“I’ll sleep out here,” he said, peeking his head over her own when Elain turned on the light.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. She’d seen the sofa and its lumpy cushions. If he was going to clear out gundark nests, he’d need better sleep or he was likely to get eaten. “We’re married, right? We’ll sleep in the same bed.”

Lucien took a healthy step away from her, back in the hall that held the decently sized ‘fresher. “We’re not actually married,” he reminded her, shaking sand from his pulled back hair. “This is just a job.”

Elain swallowed the little hurt. Just a job. “I don’t want to explain to my sister why Gundarks ate her favorite pilot,” Elain snapped, her words just a shade too frosty. “I didn’t realize sleeping beside me was such a terrible prospect, but if you want to risk it, be my guest.”

She went to stomp toward the kitchen and see what they had in the way of cookware when Lucien’s fingers curled around her arm.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, looking down at her. Russet and gold were matched in their intensity. “The idea of sleeping beside you is a little too appealing. Surely you know that.”

“I don’t know anything,” she replied, wrenching her arm from his grip. There was no ire to her voice, though. In fact, Elain thought she sounded just a shade too suggestive given the way he was looking at her.

Still, it soothed her a little, knowing the attraction wasn’t one sided. 

“Would you like to?” he called after her retreating form. Elain shivered, though she didn’t turn. Yes, her mind screamed. Instead, Elain went to the kitchen just as she’d planned.

Silent and wondering how long they’d last before they gave in.

LUCIEN:

Elain was back in that silky ivory nightdress—the one with the pearls on the straps, a detail he’d missed before. She’d unbound her hair, letting it fall around her delicate, freckled shoulders. Lucien wanted to map them like a constellation, wanted to memorize them like star charts. Instead, he slid into bed beside her, nervous like this was his first time. Elain glanced over, her cheeks burning red and Lucien was glad he hadn’t put on a shirt. 

“Are you really going to clear out gundarks?” she asked once they were alone in the dark. Lucien resisted the urge to pull her against him, if only because he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands or his mouth to himself.

“I meant it when I said I’ve done worse jobs. It’ll give me a chance to get a read on the planet—and you a chance to hear the local gossip. If the Hybern Syndicate is working here, that’s more money and I’m a good shot.”

“You’re going to work for them?” she gaped, twisting so she was facing him. Lucien remained on his back, sliding his hands behind his head to keep them to himself.

“No, but an introduction never hurt anyone. Especially not you,” he added, though in truth it very well could hurt her. This was just recon, and not a takedown, and as long as no one recognized either of them, they couldn’t get hurt. 

Not badly, anyway. 

“I have a blaster for you,” he added, thinking of the weapon he’d left in the kitchen for her. “Shoot first, ask questions later. Nesta will kill me if I bring you home covered in bruises.”

“Nesta isn’t my mother,” Elain replied, shifting back to her original position. She kept rolling, until her back was to him and once again, Lucien had to fight the urge to pull her closer. He remained where he was long after sleep took Elain, his mind a jumble of thoughts and emotions. Nesta would want a report tomorrow, and Lucien didn’t know what to tell her. This was a monumentally bad idea, made all the worse by how fervently Elain wanted to see results. Lucien wasn’t convinced she would back down if they managed to find proof of Graysen’s connection—and that was what made Elain dangerous. She was untested, unpracticed, and too used to using her words as weapons.

The Hybern Syndicate would use weapons as weapons, and would hardly mourn the loss of one dead Senator. Lucien would, though, which made him risky, too. He lacked his usual distance and the ability to shrug things off. His mind was still in the cantina, on Marcellus and his lightning hot rage as the man looked Elain up and down with open appreciation.

Mine, she’s mine—it wasn’t rational, and yet he had been too close to putting a blaster bolt in the man's head if he hadn’t backed down. Lucien didn’t think he could handle a whole day listening to another man talk about how beautiful his pretend wife was.

In the end, Lucien gave in to impulse and pulled Elain’s pliant, sleeping body against his own. For as long as they were on Florrum, she was his wife and surely that meant he was allowed to hold her. 

He woke to a painful erection—the result of being relaxed and asleep and the scent of her shampoo burning in his nose—and the sound of knocking on the door.

Elain groaned. “I just fell asleep,” she mumbled as Lucien angled his hips away from her. Best not to assault her with his penis first thing in the morning. He didn’t release her though, burying his face in her hair to drink that floral, sweet smell. 

The sun filtered through a filthy window, betraying to Elain that she hadn’t, in fact, just fallen asleep. Elain pressed herself back against him, narrowly avoiding sliding her ass against his still interested, still very awake cock, unaware of how Lucien’s heart stumbled at the thought. He dind’t want to freak her out.

He wanted her to touch him.

“Fox! You still coming or what?!”

It was Lucien’s turn to groan, resting the urge to kiss her arched neck. “Another day, princess,” he said, though truthfully he was talking to himself.

“Give me a minute!” Lucien yelled, flinging the blankets off his body. By the time he’d managed to get himself into his pants, he was back to normal which was a relief. He didn’t want to face the gundarks still worked up over his pretend wife. 

“Here,” Lucien said, fishing in his pockets for some credits. “Get a couple scarves and whatever else you need to blend in. Nothing fancy,” he added, as if she’d be likely to find it. Elain sat up, her tangled hair tumbling down her back. 

“I have credits—”

“C’mon,” he chided, pulling his hair back in a rather sloppy bun at the nape of his neck. “What kind of husband would I be if I made you spend your own credits? And besides. Nesta will reimburse me for all the money I spend, so no harm done.”

“She wouldn’t do that for me,” Elain mumbled, taking the little gold and silver pieces.

“Exactly,” he said with a flourish, offering up a grin while he tripped into his boots. “Don’t forget your blaster, sweetheart. I love you!” he added loudly, pushing open the door a second later. 

Marcellus looked exactly the same as before, though his sleeve was rolled up. Lucien wasn’t stupid—he saw the half-hidden, black inked tattoo in the shape of what seemed to be a cauldron just beneath leather vambraces.

Marcellus wasn’t a simple good samaritan, then. Good. If Lucien impressed him, he’d be able to loosen his tongue with liquor, and maybe get that invite faster than he’d anticipated. 

“Ready?” Marcellus asked, running a hand through his closely cropped hair.

Lucien felt a pair of hands run up his back. Turning, he found Elain still in her nightdress. 

“You’ll take good care of him?” she asked, blinking wide, doe-eyes up at him. Kriffing hell, but Lucien was seconds from closing the door, damning the mission and convincing her all the reasons she should be his actual wife. 

“Very good care,” Marcellus replied, his expression just a little too friendly. 

“Yeah, okay, eyes up here pal,” Lucien grumbled, brushing his knuckles over Elain’s cheek. Their first kiss wasn’t happening like this. Not that Elain seemed to have gotten that memo, as she reached for his hand and pressed a sweet, soft kiss against his palm. 

“Be safe,” she said earnestly. None of it felt fake to Lucien, whose knees nearly buckled beneath the weight of her words.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he replied. 

And then they were gone, walking into the sand and the early morning heat. Marcellus whistled softly, leading Lucien to the blue and silver hovercar idling just off the path. “How’d you meet a girl like that?”

“Luck,” he said honestly. Better to pepper them into his lies to make them easier to remember. “The same way you meet any beautiful woman.”

“Need me that kind of luck,” Marcellus said with a smile. “But I don’t think I’d bring that kind of woman out to these parts.”

Lucien grunted, taking a seat beside Marcellus. “You would if you met her father. He had plans for her.”

“I’ll bet,” Marcellus replied. “You hidin’ out, then?”

“For now. Trying to find something long term, but I gotta start somewhere.”

“I might have a job for you after this, if you don’t mind getting your hands dirty.”

“I’ve never minded that,” Lucien said with a grin. That much was true—he was pretty sure he still had a little engine oil caked beneath his nails. The whipping wind silenced their conversation, and Marcellus was kind enough to offer Lucien a smoky smelling scarf for his face, if only to keep his lungs from filling with sand. Lucien hated Florrum, and was desperate to return to the artifice of Coruscant. There was no true weather at all—just a carefully controlled climate made by machines in order to keep the planet from total collapse. 

Marcellus drove Lucien out into the dune filled landscape, drowning him in a sea of red. Cliffs scaled a few feet in the distance with carved out holes likely made by the gundarks in question. 

“Got a nest of ‘em right up ahead,” Marcellus told Lucien grimly. “They’ve been harassing workers on their way to the mines.”

“Mines?” Lucien replied with genuine surprise. What could they possibly be mining on Florrum? Sand? 

“Some upstart from Coruscant’s little pet project,” Marcellus said flippantly, unaware this was exactly what Lucien wanted to know. “Not many from Doshar Outpost work there—conditions are rough and credits are low. But a lot more a few towns over do, and the gundarks are picking them off one by one. I’ll go half with you if you don’t die.”

“Encouraging words,” Lucien grumbled, swinging himself out of the speeder. So it was Graysen’s money funding this job. Lucien didn’t hate that, though he also didn’t like being so close to the man he was trying to take down. Still, he trusted Marcellus not to do too much blabbing—that would be bad for business, after all. 

What followed was, perhaps, the worst day of Lucien’s life. After scaling the cliffside, both he and Marcellus quickly found that gundarks in any number were a formidable foe. At least as tall as Lucien, with four arms, red fur, and the will to kill him, there were several back handed blows that convinced Lucien this would be his last day alive.

They stumbled back to the speeder closer to dusk, bloodied and bruised and exhausted. “Fuck you,” Lucien said, adopting the crudest language he could think of. “That was…that was a suicide mission.”

“It’s done,” Marcellus replied, swiping at a cut over the bridge of his nose. The unspoken words between them was, of course, that neither had truly believed they’d survive it. There must have been eight of them in that nest—no wonder so many people were being hunted. Lucien had questions about the mines, about Graysen, about all of it. 

And none of it mattered. Not as he fought to catch his breath and adjust to the ache of his body. Lucien indulged himself in a fantasy where Elain patched up all his little hurts like a good wife, though in truth he figured she’d admonish him loudly for being so reckless.

She’d just have to get used to that.

“I’ve got another job for you, if you want,” Marcellus told him, pulling outside the cantina.

“Pay me for this one, first,” Lucien grumbled, stumbling out of the car. “And then we’ll talk another.”

Marcellus chuckled. “You got it.”

Lucien pushed open the door, intending to wash himself up in the ‘fresher before going home to Elain. He didn’t need to bother. There she was, with a pretty yellow scarf tied around her head, hiding her hair and leaving just that beautiful face of hers visible. She’d taken his advice and gotten some new clothes, and the brown pants clinging to her hips, along with the pretty blue of her shirt tucked inside neatly, made Lucien forget all about gundarks.

Wife. That's my wife. 

Elain had an empty tray in one hand and an apron tied around her waist. “What happened to you?” she gaped, rushing between tables for him.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the ebbing fear. Lucien didn’t know what made him reach for her face, nor could he account for drawing her closer until his mouth slanted over her own. All Lucien knew was he couldn’t die without kissing her, at least once. 

He’d expected something polite back. Just enough to sell the kiss before pushing him away with get it together eyes.

That wasn’t what happened. Elain reached for him, too, arms tangling around his neck as she surged upwards for what, to Lucien, felt like a frantic, desperate kiss. Good. He forgot they were in a cantina, forgot he was covered in gundark blood. He even forgot his aching body and this mission that was going just a shade too well for his personal comfort. 

All he knew was the taste of her mouth—spicy and sweet, like she’d had a spice brew sometime that afternoon—and the way her tongue slid into his mouth so she could taste him, too.

A jarring touch on his shoulder pulled Lucien back. “Got your credits,” Marcellus said, offering up a tired smile. “Why don’t you sleep on it, get back to me sometime tomorrow about this new job. You were a damn good shot in there. Glad to have you at my back, Fox.”

“You too,” Lucien admitted, slipping his datapad from his pocket for a quick transfer. “I’m taking her home, if no one objects.”

The barkeep merely waved them on, uninterested in the small, personal drama playing out in the middle of her floor. Elain tripped forward, handing back her tray with a sweet, grateful smile. 

“Thank you for the job,” she said, her words endearing. She played the part of sheltered, naive princess so well. Even the barkeep's flinty eyes softened.

“You got it. Glad to have some help in this dump.”

“I’d carry you out, but I think my ribs are bruised,” Lucien told Elain ruefully, leading her back into the chill. It had been blazing hot all afternoon and now that night was approaching, they’d be treated to freezing weather again.

“What happened?” she demanded, reaching for his scratched up hand.

“Gundarks,” he replied grimly. “I’ll tell you all about it when we’re back inside.”

“Here,” she told him, unwinding a scarf from her apron for him. Orange, just like the little fox painted on his ship. Lucien wondered if she’d guessed, or that had been the only thing available to her. Another day he might have asked, but Lucien was merely grateful to be back inside their shared, temporary home. Tripping out of his boots, Lucien made his way for the ‘fresher.

“I’ll make dinner,” Elain called, reminding him he had no idea when he’d eaten last.

It was on the tip of his tongue—I love you—and he was grateful he didn’t say so. That kiss would surely be ruined by his stupid heart and his inability to look before he leaped. That had been his problem with the gundarks, with this mission, with everything he’d ever done. 

It would have been a lie to say he didn’t have a few regrets. Maybe someone else would have been better suited for this mission.

But Lucien knew one thing with absolute certainty: Nesta Archeron had sent him on this mission for a reason. And if Nesta thought Elain had nothing, and this was merely to placate her, she could have sent someone better suited. Someone more level, someone less likely to jump into things. That wasn’t Lucien.

That had never been Lucien.

ELAIN: 

Real or not real? 

All through dinner, that was Elain’s only, burning question. Had the kiss been real or had it been fake? It felt real, and there was no reason for it—everyone believed she and Lucien were married after the day of gushing she’d done. Not to mention, Elain’s worry as the hour grew later and later certainly sold the nervous, sheltered wife act. She was nervous…and maybe a little sheltered, too. 

And then Lucien had come in, looking every inch the hero Nesta had suggested he was. Cut up, bruised, and covered in blood that, for a second, she’d been terrified had been his. But no, gundark blood was so dark it was almost black, mingled against his own blood of which there seemed to be very little of.

The wanting slammed into her mere seconds before he did. He looked good. Better than good—incredible, like the sort of man she’d been waiting on her entire life. And then he’d kissed her and Elain had forgotten about their mission or even that they weren’t really married. Because of course this was her husband—her filthy, stupid husband—and he was safe.

And now he was clean. A little battered and bruised but alive and spooning a third bowl of her mediocre stew into his mouth. In between bites, Lucien recounted his day and the fight with the gundarks, unaware of how her heart stumbled every time he laughed off a near miss with death. As though it were all funny to him.

And all the while, all Elain truly wanted to know was if the kiss had been real. Did he mean to kiss her like that? Like the only thing keeping him on his feet was her? Or had it been part of his ruse for Marcellus? Tapping her fingers, Elain waited until he finished another bowl, groaning as he stood.

She cleaned while Lucien eyed her warily. “Are you okay?” he finally asked, walking toward the other side of the counter so he could lean his muscular body against the cool metal. His clean shirt clung to his chest, a vibrant blue that made his skin seem more sunkissed than usual.

“I’m fine,” she lied, because she wasn’t. 

“Are you upset with me?” he asked. And she wasn’t mad at him, either. Not when he’d managed to score a job with Marcellus, who might be connected to Hybern, and when he’d learned Graysen was operating a mine, for reasons Elain couldn’t untease. 

“No,” she said, looking up at him. “Of course not.”

“Then what is it?” he asked. Damp tendrils of auburn hair spilled over his shoulders, framing a face that was too perceptive for his own good. Elain blinked.

Nothing. That was what she intended to say. “Why did you kiss me like that?”

Lucien’s lips parted. “Because…” he swallowed hard, the knot in his throat bobbing ever so slightly. “Kriff, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t…I crossed a line, and…I’m sorry.”

“So…it was for show?” Stars, but that hurt more than anything he could have said.

His expression sharpened. “Who said that? I said I was sorry for crossing a line…not that I was putting on a show.”

Finger beneath her chin, Lucien tilted her face so she had to look at him. “All I want to do is kiss you. All the time,” he added, just in case she didn’t understand. 

“All the time?” she repeated. “Like…right now?”

“Especially right now,” he agreed, drawing them closer. 

“Lucien—”

He silenced her plea to get on with it, a smile on his face. She could taste it, warm and bright and tinged with the dinner she’d made him. There was a soft exhale of air and then his fingers tangled in her hair, drawing her closer still, until she was flush against his body.

Lucien groaned from either want or pain—she couldn’t say for sure. Whatever it was, it didn’t keep him from banding her closer, to pulling her up so her legs were wrapped around his waist and he was holding her in the air despite his many injuries. 

And the whole while, all Elain focused on was kissing him. The taste of his mouth, the softness of his tongue gliding against her own—all of it was too much. She wanted far more, wanted to peel his clothes from his body and have him whatever way he’d let her. 

Lucien grunted when she tried to pull the shift up over his head. “I want to,” he panted, pressing his forehead against her own. “You have no idea how badly I want to, but…”

But she was sliding back to the floor and the splattered bruises against his ribcage told Elain he was in far worse shape than she’d originally thought.

“Take it off,” she whispered, wanting to take stock of him. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Lucien tossed his shirt behind him, shrugging his cut up shoulders. He didn’t react while she ran her fingers over his toned chest, mapping the scars and bruises beneath her fingers. 

“Will you let me take care of you, at least?” she asked him.

His eyes flashed with heat. “Careful, Elain, or I’ll start thinking you’re my actual wife.”

Something in his tone made her think he might like it if she was. 

“What woman wants such a reckless husband?” she replied lightly, grateful he couldn’t hear the way her heart raced. “I’d be a widow before the year was out.”

His eyes tracked her, even when she reached for his hand and pulled him toward the bedroom. “I don’t know about that,” he all but purred. “I’m deceptively resourceful.”

“I’m learning,” she replied dryly, shoving him gently to the bed she’d made after he left. “Stay here. I’ll dig out some bacta.”

Lucien laid flat, stripping to just his under things so she could slather his cuts in the thick, cold goo before gently laying a bandage over top.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say the princess was a healer,” he said, his voice strained and breathless. It didn’t take much to understand what had him so worked up. Elain had seen the bulge outlining those tight shorts the moment she’d settled between his splayed legs to clean up a rather nasty cut against his inner thigh. And maybe she’d lingered there, rubbing her fingers over his skin like she was checking for something internal, when in truth she merely liked feeling his muscles flex just beneath his skin. 

“Why do you call me that?” she asked him, settling back once she was certain he was as patched up as she could get him. “Princess? No one calls me that outside of Naboo.”

“You look like one,” he told her earnestly, rising up on his elbows to look at her still kneeling between his legs. “What else would you like me to call you?”

So long as he wasn’t mocking her, Elain didn’t mind if he called her princess. In fact, she didn’t think it was such an awful thing to be considered his princess. “Princess is fine.”

He grinned, gesturing for her to come toward him. Elain collapsed against the solid strength of his chest, burying a smile into his skin when his arms wrapped around her. His face was back in her hair, inhaling deeply before he kissed her gently. 

“My pretty princess,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her cheek. 

“Marcellus can wait a day,” Elain told him, laying flat on her stomach so she could look at him. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Lucien offered her that dimpled smile. “Oh? Hoping to keep me in bed, are you?”

“I have a job, don’t I?” she shot back without malice. “I’m working a little charm, too. But it would be nice knowing you’re here, tucked away and safe.”

“It’s tempting, but if you’re leaving, I am too,” he said, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. 

“Because this is a job?” she asked anxiously. 

“Because I’d be a shitty husband if I laid in bed all day while my wife worked. I’ll take care of myself,” he added hastily, offering another warm kiss. 

“Promise?”

Lucien placed a battered hand against his bruised chest. “I swear it on the vows we made the day we got married.”

Elain offered him a loud, exaggerated sigh of exasperation, but Lucien was still grinning. “He knows I need the money. He’ll expect to see me tomorrow. And I want to know what’s going on with that mine and how it all connects. Trust me,” he added. 

Elain settled beside him. 

“I do.”

[biconickyoshi]

hey there!

this might be like a weird ask, but i've seen you post a lot about the legend of korra, so.

do you think it's worth watching the show? i've been avoiding it for a while now simply because i'm afraid it's gonna disappoint. i know it is a separate narrative with entirely new characters, but from the few scenes i've seen it just looks sooooo different from the gaang's story that i'm just afraid they've butchered the original universe. plus, my favorite character from atla is aang, and i do not know if any character from korra will have that same kind of charm.

on the other hand, i know it attracts a lot of fans. what do you think?:)

(btw, amazzzzzzing job on both your zukaang fanfic and the artwork for it !!)

Hi anon! :) This isn't a weird ask at all, I'd be happy to help!

So the short answer is: yes, I think it's worth watching! I know exactly how you feel - Aang is also my favorite AtLA character, so I was also very apprehensive when LoK was first announced way back in like 2011. But my apprehension didn't stop me from looking forward to and eventually enjoying it, mainly because AtLA was/still is my strongest and longest running hyperfixation to date, and I (especially at that time) was willing to consume any scrap of media related to it lol. We were very starved for content in the olden days :')

I'll go ahead and give you a spoiler-free breakdown of the four LoK seasons - this might help you decide:

Book 1: Air is definitely is quite a bit different from AtLA (which was done on purpose by the creators to differentiate it so it wouldn't just feel like the exact same show). Book 1 is still my least favorite of the LoK seasons for this reason (as well as for questionable writing decisions), but there are still some great moments. You may notice that Book 1 ends very "neatly" - this is because LoK was originally supposed to be a miniseries before Nickelodeon picked it up for 3 more seasons (which I think was a large part of why the writing suffers a lot in the first half of the show as a whole).

Book 2: Spirits also starts out pretty rough (with more questionable writing decisions), but it picks up about halfway through. Some people say this is their least favorite season, but I've always enjoyed it overall a ton more than Book 1. While some of the additions to the lore of the Avatar and the Spirit World are polarizing amongst the fandom (and there are some things I wish they'd done differently), I still ate that shit up when it first aired lol.

Book 3: Change is where, in my and many others' opinions, the show suddenly rises to the same level of quality as AtLA. There's a lot of traveling, we get to see some familiar faces and several classic AtLA locations from Book 2: Earth, the villains are the best villains in any Avatar media, and the plot and emotional core of the season are just so, so good. I can't say any more because I don't want to spoil even a little bit of it. I personally think LoK is worth watching just for this season alone.

Book 4: Balance is not as good as Book 3, but I enjoyed it a lot more than Book 1 and Book 2. It does a really good job of exploring trauma/PTSD and the relevance of the role of the Avatar in a modernizing world, and is a decent followup to Book 3. What happens at the end of Book 4 is also SO culturally impactful (not sure if you know why, but I won't say anything specific), especially for queer AtLA fans such as myself.

While LoK definitely isn't perfect, I still accept it as canon for the world of Avatar, and it's still a show I've rewatched several times (though I tend to skip a lot of Book 1 and the first half of Book 2 when I do lmao). If you decide to watch it, go in with an open mind knowing that it is not going to be exactly like AtLA. Even in the not-as-good seasons, there's still some gems to behold. And what's also nice about LoK is that each season is about 12ish episodes, so you'll get to the really good stuff (Book 3) pretty quickly if you binge lol.

Feel free to send me another ask if you have any more specific questions about LoK! :)

[flock-talk]

That last anon answer has me wondering, what in your opinion is the best pellet out there?

At the present moment I don’t believe there is a best pellet. With current research we don’t even know what exact foods wild parrots we keep as pets eat. what vitamins and minerals are actually needed in what quantities for optimal health. Most of the data used to formulate diets for captive parrots is based off studies done on chickens. Pellets don’t run feeding trials and the singular one that claims they do won’t publish any data for consumers to make educated decisions.

We don’t have any of the data necessary to be able to say that there is one that checks the boxes better than another. Currently when selecting pellets the knowledge you’re using is as primal as “is this toxic” and “will this cause harm to the body over time” which is where we are able to make statements on fillers, dyes, and sugars.

I feed three different pellets currently for various reasons

TOPs - the ingredients are wholesome foods, no real fillers or additives, no synthetic vitamins (there’s no studies on whether or not a parrot can actually absorb and utilize synthetic vitamins currently, hypothetically they should and there’s nothing wrong with synthetic vitamins, we just do not have proper peer reviewed knowledge on how they interact in a parrot body) however there’s loads of concern over whether TOPs on its own supplies enough nutrients to be a full diet on its own.

Harrisons - it is formulated by a veterinarian (say about that what you will *cough* science diet debacles *cough*), does primarily use fillers but does also have slightly more hearty things like oats and barley, packed with vitamins that may be lacking in other formulations. Have flavour varieties, tougher texture, and much more varied sizes that can benefit more picky eaters. Frequently recommended by other vets, same company also creates liquid formulas for sick and ill birds. Overall does seem like they know what they’re doing.

Caitec - I primarily started feeding this because Newt is allergic to soy and this has very low soy and doesn’t yield a reaction from him. Has some filler but primarily uses oats, quinoa, millet, sunflower. Then you move in to the added vitamins and minerals. Unique crunchy texture, very palatable to my birds, very large size variety which is great for enrichment.

My choice to feed multiples is because of a safety fallback in case of recalls, I won’t be left feeding seeds trying to quickly do a pellet conversion if I have two other backups they can eat. But also to cover nutritional bases. We do not know what they need and I don’t wish to rely on one specific company to be doing everything just right to be providing optimal health for my birds, serving several will hopefully make it so if one pellet is lacking something one of the others will have it. And lastly is enrichment- various flavours, colours, textures and pellet size make meals more interesting and really liven up mealtimes.

There simply isn’t a perfect pellet because nobody knows what that would even look like.

When looking for a food to feed your bird the ultimately best thing to do is ask yourself “is this product made for the birds or to draw human interest”. Flashy colours, silly shapes, and potent sugars will primarily be used to attract your eye- not your birds. The sugars will make it palatable which converts the bird quickly and make the human happy. But the dyes and sugars are not ideal for long term health.

And secondly “how do birds do on this food” in the dog industry you would just get the paperwork from a feeding trial but for birds this means reading forums or sampling it for yourself. you can tell pretty quickly whether a food is doing your specific bird any good. Dull plumage, inconsistent droppings, weird food intake fluctuations, lack of energy, feather destructive behaviour, would all be potential signs that a food isn’t working for your bird (also potential signs of illness so y’know, correlation is not causation)

I did a deep dive last year where I contacted major pellet brands and tried to get any basic info out of them, you may want to read in to that if you want continued reading!

[ms-hells-bells]

idk why the dog discourse is back again, but as someone that both lives in a country with high levels of pitbull/staffie ownership and interacts daily with dog owners and dog issues in my volunteer work, they aren't just randomly violent for no reason with good guardians who are shocked that it happened. the way people treat pitties here is fucking horrible, because they have the rep/stereotype of guard dogs or attack dogs, people who are lower class, close to or in gangs, use drugs, or are just hypermasculine get those male dogs, DON'T DESEX THEM (so, more aggression), don't properly train them, but scream at and beat them, because they think that's what will 'toughen' a pittie up and make them attack dogs. 99% of the time it does not, they just become miserable recluses, super withdrawn and fearful (most dog attacks are NOT out of anger or territory based aggression, they're fear aggression, when the dog feels extremely scared, and doesn't see a way out, and the human (often a child) ignores the warnings, like growling, showing teeth, certain poses, etc. another one is food/possession aggression, where their trauma and lack of proper training means that they cannot cope with people in their space and taking their things. you'll see bites at children who grab food from their dog bowls).

but they still love their owners, i have lost count of the amount of times, literally more than the fingers on my hands, i have seen men scream at, kick, punch, etc. their intact male pitbulls (not legal in nz unless a licenced breeder btw, but still a widespread issue), and the dogs still get excited and wag their tails, and want to play whenever the man comes back from work or whatever, they still seek touch and affection. it's just horrible, i have aided in someone else....disappearing a dog to a better life not exactly legally, that was treated like this because the spca wouldn't do shit, unless there's a dead or gravely injured animal, and people physically saw the owner/s do it, they don't care. those dogs have so often been abused from 10 weeks old, and they still seek love. very rarely some are so mentally damaged that they DO attack someone, and unfortunately they get put down, which i have complicated feelings about, but that's a different topic, i won't get into it in this post.

but yeah, you abuse a dog, don't train a dog, and destroy a dog's sense of safety, of course they are gonna be at a higher risk of aggression, because they have ptsd, they are traumatised and in constant fear of harm. and i do believe that there is a biological element due to the bite force of pitties and similar dogs, as well as breeding for specific personality traits. but we also see so many bites (far more than pitties and other large dogs) from small dogs, they just can't cause deaths or usually severe injuries because they are small, but they are attacking for the exact same reasons; fear and lack of training. so many people just have zero respect for other living beings. it's why i'm against breeding and domestication as a whole, because we just completely fuck with their lives for our own benefit. pitbulls as a species should not exist, just like near every other dog on earth apart from wild ones (that do include domestic species, but very quickly become just 'mixed' dogs). which is a similar opinion to many ANTI-pitbull people, but i come at it from an angle of empathy (as well as applying it to all dogs, we should not be breeding 'the perfect pet'). they didn't ask to be here and be treated so cruelly.

i'm not gonna reply to any responses to this trying to argue. i have posted about this before and had all those arguments. i know the statistics, i know the biology, psychology, and i have real world first hand experience. you are not fighting with me on my opinion on this.

[midnighttreasureseeking]

Claudia’s Diary entries S1 EP5

Alright, this is my first Interview with the Vampire post that isnt just me reblogging someone else and adding to their post. There will be several of these posts as i have done my best to transcribe all written work shown in season one of the show. When season two starts (and season three etc.) I plan on making another series of posts about the written works shown in the series. 

This post is about the bit from Claudia’s diary seen in episode 5 of season one, just after her traumatic encounter with the vampire Bruce (Killer). A large part of this is from my reblog of @halo4life2017-blog​  as I didnt want to write down all my theories again. I’m very much looking forward to her theories about this as well as she is doing a rewatch!

So directly after the scene with Killer we are shown this page

(The left, its unimportant, reads: ...thing happend when....I had just...really get)

Its on the right hand side, its clean, and reads as such:

“November 11, 1930″

Dear Diary,

I met another vampire. His name is bruce,

but  I thought he was better suited to Killer.

We had just eaten together and started talking

about books when he really began acting strange

and made me uncomfortable. Bruce walked

back from the fire and leaned down over me

and…”

Daniel turns the page

And this reads

“November 11, 1930

Dear Diary,

I met another vampire. His name is bruce,

but  I thought he was better suited to Killer.

We had just eaten together and started talking

about books when he really began acting strange

and made me uncomfortable. Bruce walked

back from the fire and leaned down over me

and…”

The exact same!! this time on the left side page, and spattered with blood! Not only that but the passage cuts off midway through the page with that sentence unfinished and Daniel says nothing. (If this was accidental and just as far as Eric was supposed to read, therefore they didnt bother adding more, they wouldnt have put the empty space in the frame. Its just too weird not to be on purpose) He says nothing about the half cutoff sentence and nothing about the double passage either. He doesnt ask why the blood seems to be applied after the ripping out of the pages. Instead he remarks on the cutout pages and demands to know whats on them. As if she had filled four pages with a detailed account of her assault! And that was for some reason important for him to read. He says “Bruce walked back from the fire and leaned down over me and, cut out pages!” ??? no “cutoff sentence” or “empty space” as if the middle of the page is a perfectly normal place to end a page and continue on the next! He also immediately assumes that Louis ripped out the pages, which Louis neither confirms nor denies. And therefore we assume it too. But as we have discovered, never assume something of Louis, you will probably be wrong.

So what we know is: The passage was first written on the right side page, but left unfinished. Then it is written on a later page and stops at the same place the other did. then either four pages are ripped out or the new right side paragraph is written. Then someone cries over the pages, or at least little drops of blood end up on it.  If the right hand page wasnt written before the blood landed on it, then its written after.

(This is the right side paragraph as far as i could transcribe it

I’m going back to the house (..)

I’m ready for whatever lestat has to say. And I

will leave right away and take Louis with me.

Wouldn’t that be wonderfull? I am (..) excited to

see him again. And I (..) I was a handful

All those years don’t ()

I don’t know if ()

() tho…he (when) (…)

I just know he and I would have so 

much fun together. And anything (..)

depises I want to share with him to ?)

sheltered by Lestat for so long I want to 

open his eyes! We can learn about our kind together and maybe feel something.”

(This is not perfect and will be improved upon))

Three theories as to what happened;

Louis did it: This theory is assumed true by Daniel and the audience because of Louis reaction and the fact that he doesn't deny it. Louis discovered this diary and when he does he rips out four pages chronicling the assault, gets upset, and cries blood-tears all over it. This does not explain the cutoff sentence or the double passage.

Claudia did it: I think this has the most merit and is what i assumed happend the first time i watched this. But it is the most human way of looking at it. So Claudia has just experienced her encounter with Bruce. And as she always does writes it down in her diary. But she cant do it, she doesn't get very far. And just before the SA she has to stop. She takes a deep breath, turns a pages and just starts over, from the beginning. But this time, when she gets to the SA she gets too emotional, lets go of two tears and wipes them, and out of frustration (at herself for not being able to finish writing, blaming herself for what happened or anger at Bruce) she rips out two pages and leaves the book. then later, after making a plan for the future, she opens the book again and continues on the right side, on the blood spattered page. She could also have cried at this second diary writing moment. She might have cried at the memory of what happened or the thought of having to return home. Everything Daniel says “did she do it, doesn’t seem like her” etc, is an assumption about her on his part. It’s based on the emotionless monster he sees her as. Something that support this is that the blood tears are far too small to be from an adult (They actually look like they are from a small child. But i might be looking too far into it)

Louis rewrote the diary: In this theory everything is staged and done on purpose by Louis or Armand and Louis together. Maybe the original diary doesn't tell the right story, the story Louis wants to tell. So he rewrites the entire thing to fit the narrative. He plants the double paragraph, he plants the hastily ripped out pages, he purposefully ends the sentence in both entries at the same place. All this to get a reaction out of Daniel. To frame her as more human (see my “Claudia did it” theory above.) And Daniel doesn't respond the way he is supposed to, he doesn't believe in Louis humanisation of Claudia and this makes Louis angry.

Actually in all theories Louis gets angry because Daniel is being an asshole.

At last i want to talk about the ripped out pages themselves. 

This might be me looking too much into it, take everything with a grain of salt. But let’s analyse the diary without looking at the text. What has happened to it. 

The pages have been yellowed through age, to be expected. 

There are some light stains, and some crinkling of the paper that just suggest use. 

there is the bloodspatters on the paper, mostly on the lower side, who ever was crying was sitting in front of it. 

There are four pages ripped out, maybe with hands, or something sharp, a knife or scissors maybe. 

The pages are curled inwards (and not flattened as much as one would expect) and the right page is very yellow. To me it suggests it was slightly burned or something really hot got really close to it.  The yellow does not come from the light, or the other right-side-page should have the same colors. The Yellow is also too localised to be the light and too big to be the shadow coming from the torn out pages. 

That is what i could find and speculate from these diary entries!! I would love for anyone to tell me your own theories, maybe you have seen something I haven’t. In the mean time I’ll be trying to transcribe all other entries and written works that we have seen in the show!

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

For Christmas this year, I treated myself to a new external hard drive. It's 5 TB, which is pretty much the most storage space I can get before the hard drive gets too physically big to fit on the back of my laptop where it lives like a parasite. It's great, I am so pleased with the purchase. I was able to consolidate so much stuff from other, smaller hard drives. And I left the stuff on those other hard drives too, so now those act as backups in case something goes wrong with one hard drive. I have a few of the most important things backed up in the cloud as well, but I like having a physical media collection with physical backups.

Instead of having my comedy stuff spread across several different places, I now have one big comedy folder (currently 1.54 TB) with lots of sub-folders for different comedians, where I have their stand-up and TV shows they've made and radio shows and audiobooks and ebooks and whatever else I have downloaded by that person, all in one place. It's so convenient. There's a whole system for things like mixed-bill gigs where I have the same file copied to the folders of each individual person on the bill. Or if it's not just one file but a big folder, I use shortcuts. My folder with every No More Jockeys episode is in the Mark Watson sub-folder but a shortcut is in the Tim Key one. I have a lot of systems for that sort of thing.

So I can generally - not always as a perfect measurement, but generally - tell how big a fan I am of a comedian by how much stuff is in their comedy sub-folder. It's especially telling if their folder starts getting its own sub-folders. If there's so much in there that I have to separate it into stand-up shows, TV shows, books, etc.

I know I'm really going too far down a comedian rabbit hole if they get a sub-folder just for their guest appearances on other things. Mainly I use their folder for their own stuff - things where they were the writer, presenter, and/or star actor. But in some rare cases, I'll collate episodes of a variety of shows that are hosted by other people, in which this comedian was a guest. I don't do that often, there are a lot of comedians whom I'd count among my favourites who do not have sub-folders like that. So if someone does have one, it's a major sign that I've been rabbit hole digging.

I've updated one particular folder in the last few days, and:

It's fine. I happened, today, to be going through my posts from a year ago because someone asked for a link to one. While doing this, I happened to find a post I made almost exactly a year ago, from which I'd like to copy-paste an excerpt:

John Robins is dangerous. Not in general or anything - just to me, right now. It is, as I’ve said, the fastest I’ve ever turned around on liking something like this. My opinion on him for quite a while was… “Well I don’t have a really good reason to dislike him, but he’s just sort of annoying, right? Every time he’s a guest on something I wish he weren’t. I don’t even know how to explain it, he just reminds me a little of Phil from The Thick of It?” Then I watched The Darkness of Robins and listened to A Robin Amongst the Pigeons, and learned that not only was I wrong, I was the exact opposite of right. He perfectly appeals to everything I like best in a comedian, I just judged him on that one Mock the Week appearance even though Sara Pascoe was also being a dick in that episode, and I didn’t hold it against her because I already liked her. Anyway, he’s become dangerous now because any time I hear him do anything, I’m reminded more of how much he appeals to every single thing I like in a comedian, and I want to hear more of him. Which is bad, because there’s large rabbit hole that I could fall down, but I have shit to do. It isn’t the lockdowns of 2021 anymore, so unlike back then, I can’t just sit down and listen to over a hundred hours of a radio show featuring some guy who spent 2006 in one particular house in Bristol. I’m sorry Robins, I only have so much capacity to do that, and I spent it all on Jon Richardson and Russell Howard. No, I didn’t know at that time that Russell Howard was going to turn into a Jordan Peterson advocate; if I’d known that, maybe I’d have given you more of a chance. But we can’t go back now, can we?

I was right, it was dangerous. I'm pleased to say I managed to hold out for almost a whole year before taking a hard fall down the rabbit hole.

[handeaux]

The Scandalous Can-Can Amused Cincinnati Until One Newspaper Clutched Its Pearls

No one really knows when or where the dance known as the can-can originated. Although associated with France, some authorities point to the exotic corners of Asia. Other boffins find roots in the Middle Ages, and a few discern a mutation of the Eighteenth-Century quadrille.

It took a long time for the can-can to land in Cincinnati. The first rumblings appeared in the local newspapers around 1860 with a few brief mentions about the sensation this dance caused in Paris. Mozart Hall, on Vine Street just north of Fountain Square, seems to have been the first Cincinnati venue to present the can-can locally. The Daily Gazette [10 March 1868] approved:

“Undine [a sort of Victorian “Little Mermaid”] drew a very large house last evening. The scenes are splendid as ever, and their audiences lose none of their enthusiasm. The new feature of the evening, the Can-Can, was a perfect success, eclipsing the former ballet completely.”

Among the Cincinnati theatrical community, anything that sold out one theater was soon added to the bill at several other stages and so it was with the innovative can-can. The Gazette [8 July 1868] reported that a newly redecorated Wood’s Theater, across the street from Mozart Hall, now offered this “fancy dance”:

“The little theater on Vine Street is so clean, with its new paint, and so cool, with its lace curtains, and its company so good, that there is little wonder that it is crowded nightly. The programme is full and complete, and very attractive. The rage for fancy dancing has got into the company, and can-can is given nightly.”

Only the Cincinnati Enquirer grumbled about the new can-can fad, but even the staid “Grey Lady of Vine Street” devoted a couple of lines [20 July 1869] in defense of the dance, quoting an otherwise unidentified “Cincinnati lady”:

“Now, I believe I know enough to know when a dance is improper. To me the can-can is full of all grace and refinement and bewitching charms. And I believe it is the fault of those horrid newspapers that have said so much about it.”

Just three days later, the Enquirer, presumably in its role as a “horrid newspaper,” editorialized [23 July 1869] against a production offered by Yale’s concert hall and saloon on Walnut Street:

“The Can-Can is not the most moral thing in the world when put forward in its most presentable shape. As rendered by the depraved creatures on Walnut Street it is filthy, obscene and disgusting, without arising to the dignity of the lascivious.”

The Enquirer rejoiced when the proprietor, whose name is variously reported as Phillip Yale, G. Wilkins Yale and J. Croissant-Yale, was arrested a week or so later. The competing Commercial Tribune reported the arrest [2 August 1869] but noted that the key witnesses for the prosecution were all Enquirer reporters:

“The local reporters of the Enquirer, who have assumed to determine the exact degree of immorality characterizing the can-can, as danced in the Walnut Street cellar, have been subpoenaed as witnesses against Yale, and will probably make some interesting revelations concerning this indecency, as compared with the many other indecencies which they seem to have seen.”

The Enquirer’s campaign drove the Yale family out of town. One news item had one of Yale’s sons accompanying one of the can-can dancers, Nellie Whitney, on a train eastward. The article specified that she danced at the Yale saloon on Walnut Street and identifies her as a “cyprian,” in other words, a prostitute. That could be some libelous hyperbole or it could be accurate, but it emphasizes the Enquirer’s objection to women dancing the can-can. While Cincinnati’s on-stage performers were exclusively female, the can-can, among the demimonde, was danced by all genders at Cincinnati’s bohemian soirees.

Despite the Enquirer’s disdain, the can-can continued its invasion of the Queen City. Just as the Yales closed their saloon, an advertisement appeared in the Commercial Tribune [14 August 1869] that Mademoiselle Aline Lefavre, who claimed to have introduced the can-can to the United States, would appear nightly at the Variety Theater on Race Street. In its advertisements, the Variety described Mlle. Lefvare as “the most beautifully formed woman in the world.”

The Commercial Tribune [3 May 1870] observed a sort of irony at work in the city’s esthetic morals. An exhibition that month at Wiswell’s Gallery, largely supported by charging admission to view paintings of “the type men like” as they used to say, featured a canvas depicting a very nude woman titled “Sleeping Beauty.” The paper’s art critic found it interesting that the can-can was condemned while a fully nude woman was celebrated:

“It was formerly a subject of animadversion that our ball-room belles dressed very low down in the neck – that is, wore no clothes much above the pit of the stomach; but had they gone in and become decollete down to their heels, that would simply have been Art – High Art. We see, too, how the moral comes in; to see the lady of the Can-Can is shocking, and we call for the police, but seeing her at second hand, through the eyes of the artist, it is great, and the price is all the same – only twenty-five cents.”

Perhaps the Commercial Tribune convinced the Variety Theater on Race Street to lean into the fine art proposition, because that establishment soon began offering, in addition to the can-can, an exhibition of “tableaux vivants” or “living pictures” in which women, clad only in flesh-colored tights, posed in the manner of Greek statuary or famous paintings. This despite the proprietor enduring several stints in the Workhouse on charges of operating a disorderly house.

Not to be outdone, the Vine Street Opera House announced a program headlined by “The Queen of the Serio-Comic Vocalists” Jennie Engle, Irish comics Mullen and McGee, as well as living pictures, the can-can and something billed as “weird dance.”

The show, it seems, must go on. And so it did. The forces of propriety and the minions of moral turpitude held an uneasy truce throughout most of the 1870s, with an arrest here while a new show popped up there, like whack-a-mole.

The fragile peace was broken dramatically in 1877 by the National Theater who booked Madame Ninon DuClos’ “Dizzy Blondes” for an extended engagement. The troupe claimed to specialize in the authentic Parisian can-can regardless of the reality that Mme. DuClos’ origins lay a lot closer to Dublin than Montmartre. Even though the Blondes were hauled into court and although they had been kicked out of Indianapolis, the show went on in Cincinnati for months. The Cincinnati Star [1 December 1877] simply sighed:

“The Dizzy Blondes at the National Theater have captivated a number of our young men, who come home exclaiming: “Did you ever?”

[theaceofskulls]

I finally finished Fulgrim and there's something to be said about how we focus more on the bad than the good or the simply alright based on how many posts I've made about it while I've been listening to it, but I think my true takeaway from the book is that it's a fascinating one because you can see how it could've been a good book if things were changed.

The final parts of it felt bad, but it actually made me like Ishvaan V and Ferrus Manus more than every summary I've heard of it as it no longer comes off as stupid as it seems. It takes the time to establish how Ferrus's rage works and how it subsides and makes him come off less as "the guy who gets mad at the drop of a hat and jumped the gun too hard", especially by pointing out why waiting too long would've been just as bad and why they couldn't just shoot down from orbit.

However, this book is about the fall of Fulgrim and that part is handled so badly. You can see the attempt to make it a slower corruption but in the end you also see how this book suffers from being so early in the series, wanting to get to the daemon stuff too soon.

And yet as I've mentioned so many times, individual character arcs are handled so well, and the contrast it puts between the Iron Hands who also idolized perfection and feared failure but were told that refusing to admit failure was worse than the failure itself really helps highlight their fall.

The book also struggles with the fact that it comes off as a sequel to several other books in the series, with a couple of character arcs having large portions of them located elsewhere in earlier books, making this feel more supplemental of a story.

This is honestly the book I most feared from reviews when I started this whole thing and is part of the reason I put off this series in the first place, as one of the central events of the start of it was apparently in a horrendous book, and having finished it, it's different than what I was told to expect.

It fumbles most of its payoffs, from the terrible warp orchestra that feels a little too much for this early in the Heresy, to the moment Fulgrim joins Horus, to the dropsite massacre being over in pages, to what actually happens in the moments when Fulgrim performs the infamous sword swing, but a good portion of the book is actually fairly good.

Fabius, Lucius (if you're like me and enjoy watching Starscream-like pathetic sad sacks, not so much if you're the type who already hates him because of these exact traits), and Eidolon all get great scenes that carry forward with future appearances, and Fulgrim himself actually has several good moments outside of the ones that he really needed to have.

I walked away from this book still wishing I could've liked it, but understanding why this one is so hated. It's not stalling the plot by getting distracted or full of terrible prose (though there are some moments) but it makes the exact wrong missteps that don't leave any opportunity to come back and fix them.

My final recommendation is the same one I thought I'd give it from my early impressions: this is a book that you'll read once if you're interested in the series and can appreciate it as a lesson on what can go wrong in a narrative. Dissecting this book is interesting because it helps you understand what you're looking for from this series as well as from this style of genre fiction in general because the highs and lows are so extreme it's easy to separate them out and the lows leave such gaps that it's easier to understand exactly what you wanted to fill them.

Anyway, this marks the last point of my sequential readings of this series and am now going to be jumping around to different books as they interest me.

In the end I think this is as good a point to talk about the series so far.

Horus Rising is great, classic, and works well on its own. Even with an ending that's setting up the next one, it basically could've ended there with a wink of "well you know what happens next". I stand by my statement that it's almost entirely for 40k fans instead of a newcomer book since half of it is written with dramatic irony thick in the prose.

False Gods is good, being a fantastic sequel with a misstep that plagues the early series where Horus's fall lacks enough characterizing motivation to endear him enough. However, the books are primarily concerned with other characters all of whom feel like a smooth continuation of the previous book's characterizations and it works well in that respect.

Galaxy in Flames has some great heights, especially in its pivotal scenes, but honestly it mostly blends together until you get to the event you're here for.

Flight of the Eisenstein continues the story but is honestly the point where I could tell that the writer switching was changing the tone of the books. It's still a good book but outside of the moment the message is delivered at the end of the book, and a few pivotal moments (the bomb in the hanger), most of it has slipped from my memory.

Finally Fulgrim I've given my thoughts on extensively, but definitely a weak ending to streak of 5 books before they begin to jump around to various perspectives.