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[blueflyingturtleontheway]

I found some old posts wondering about why in the entirety of EoA only Elena and Isa have double surnames and I just wanted to share my headcanon that it might've been something that was eradicated during Shuriki's rule

[velidewrites]

When the senator of Chandrila’s debts catch up with him at last, the Galactic Empire places a bounty on his daughter’s head. But Elain Archeron is cunning, and she will not go down without a fight—certainly not to the handsome Mandalorian hunter, intent on claiming his prize.

Notes: Part 1/2 of my contribution to Day 7: AU of @elucienweekofficial! Dedicated to @melting-houses-of-gold who patiently listened to my ramblings about this fic <3

Tags: Alternate Universe - Star Wars, Mandalorian Bounty Hunter!Lucien x Bounty!Elain

Warnings: None (filthy smut in part 2 as I am once again unable to write porn without feelings)

Read on AO3

Part 1

The ship is disturbingly loud.

Elain doesn’t know much about spacecraft, but the sputtering hum of her H-Type Nubian’s engines is concerning enough that she imagines anyone else in her position would feel unsettled. She should have expected the complications—she’d been warned about them, in fact—but she still shifts in her seat uncomfortably.

The yacht has been borrowed to her by Vassa, the former queen of Naboo and a longtime friend—and, for the past four years, a senator within the ranks of the Galactic Empire. Vassa herself had not been present on Naboo during Elain’s stay, called away by what she called a sham of a voting in the Senate, but her people had been informed in advance well enough to take care of the entire process.

Elain Archeron is being smuggled.

It is precisely why she’s been lent the H-Type. The ship is pre-Empire, which means it will—it should—fly under the radar, staying off the Empire’s scopes. It’s not that Elain is a fugitive—not yet, at least—but she has no doubt the Chandrilan government will alert the Senate of her disappearance once they realise Lord Archeron’s daughter has escaped. She isn’t important enough to have Destroyers sent after her, but Elain has never been one to take her chances. Especially not on a day like this.

Especially not on her wedding day.

She has been putting it off since the day she turned fifteen, and it was only the love Lord Archeron supposedly bore for his daughter that kept Elain from an arrangement to be put in place immediately afterwards, as per the Chandrilan custom. Now, though, at twenty-three…Elain had run out of excuses.

The message arrived while she was on Naboo, spending the summer with Vassa as she did nearly every year. A holo-recording of Senator Archeron happily announced her engagement to Graysen Nolan, the only son of Governor Nolan—perhaps the single richest man on Chandrila, Elain’s own family not even coming close in wealth. This will be good for us, Elain, her father said. Finally, the tide turns favourably in our direction.

Elain was not inclined to agree.

Vassa, thank the Maker, had helped her put the plan in motion almost immediately, arranging for safe, undercover passage to the Outer Rim through one of the old hyperspace lanes, abandoned by the Republic during the Clone War. Her intel claimed the route to be safe enough to pass through undetected, which, for Elain, was more than enough.

Graysen Nolan is not old or, superficial as it may be, unattractive by any means. He is quite handsome actually and, as her father so vehemently assured her, quite ridiculously wealthy—but the twenty-eight year old man has a flaw.

He’s an Imperial.

Elain would never dare voice it out loud—in the eyes of the Empire, she is all but a loyal subject, a pretty face to put on Chandrila’s posters and nothing more. But deep down, in a place deep and uncharted like the Wild Space itself, Elain despises them with her whole, insignificant being.

The Senator does not share his daughter’s sentiment, of course—he is a loyalist through and through. It’s what made Elain despise him, too—despise the coward hiding behind expensive gestures and grand speeches. The coward who’d chosen the Empire over his family.

Over the two daughters it had taken from him.

Elain closes her eyes and rests the back of her head against the yacht’s sleek wall, the cool metal doing nothing to ease the pain of the memory. The ship shakes slightly as it charts the course into hyperspace, sending tremors into her bones where it comes into contact with her body. This is one of the crafts with strong deflector shields, Elain reminds herself. As long as they manage to avoid the asteroid field, they will be fine. Probably.

The ship sputters again, and, once again, doubt washes over her in a surging wave. This is probably the fourth or fifth time in the past hour that she’s reconsidered this whole ordeal, the very first one nearly sending her into cardiac arrest as she first saw the ship, the once glistening silver now rusted and peeling off in certain places, as though damaged by battle. It probably was. Elain can’t even begin to count how many attacks on her life Vassa had endured during the Clone War, the controversial Senator constantly the subject of immense interest to the now-extinct Separatist leaders.

She looks around the space, the air suddenly tight. She knows this is going to work—has been assured of it a hundred times—and yet, for some reason, dread continues to build in her chest all the same. Through the wide viewport of the cockpit, even the stars seem to flicker in warning.

“Are we clear?” she asks the pilot nervously.

The pilot, a man Vassa has personally vouched for, half-turns to her from his chair. “We’re calculating the jump, my Lady.”

Elain shifts in her own seat. “How much longer?”

The ground shakes violently before he manages to open his mouth.

Her four guards—or Vassa’s guards, since Elain abandoned her own when she’d sneaked out from her bedchamber’s terrace—jolt upright, white-gloved hands wrapped tightly around their blasters.

“What is happening?!” Elain yells when the floor trembles again, the ship groaning loudly.

All the blood drains from the pilot’s face. “Someone docked in from below.”

Elain’s blood chills. “Impossible.” They couldn’t have realised it yet—she’d purposefully opted to run in the middle of the night, way after the Chandrilan guard conducted their security check. She expected them to find her bed empty in the morning—but not now, merely an hour after her escape.

The commander of her escort looks at his subordinate, his face tight and deep with what seems like thousands of creases. “Check out the disturbance,” he barks, the guard only nodding before he disappears from the cockpit.

“Empire?” Elain asks, the question no more than a whisper. The pilot shakes his head, looking at the beeping controls in disbelief.

“It can’t be—this ship is supposed to be invisible.”

Elain chokes on a breath. “Supposed to?”

The pilot seems breathless, too. “My Lady—” 

His words are interrupted by a singular shot of blaster fire as it cuts through the air. Then, a loud thud as a body falls to the metal floor.

Elain yelps.

One of her guards grabs her by the arm, his grip tight enough to crush the veins beneath her skin. “My Lady, we must hide.”

“Escape pods?” Elain pants.

The commander’s expression looks grave. “There are none on this ship.” He looks at the entrance to the cockpit, and a ringing silence ripples through the air as they all realise the guard has not yet returned—which means the body they’d heard was likely not the intruder’s.

“Hide her,” the commander barks to his remaining two men. “Seal the entrance.” And with that, he, too, disappears between the automatic door, the sharp whoosh of it closing foreboding in a way Elain can’t quite describe.

Not a single person in the cockpit dares to utter so much as a breath as they listen in to the commander’s steps, echoing through the passageway. One second passes, then two—then three.

There is a muffled sound of struggle before the blaster is fired again, yet another thud as what is undoubtedly the commander’s body falls to the floor.

What happens next is a blur to Elain.

The pilot sucks in a breath, and the two guards begin shouting at each other, one order after another as Elain is pulled back toward the small storage space hidden under the pilot’s seat. One of the men lunges for the door, his own weapon at the ready as he aims for the control panel. Elain squeezes her eyes shut, preparing for the shot.

Except that when the shot finally comes, it does not sound from her guard’s sleek, elegant S-5—the man hadn’t even managed to raise it toward the source.

No, it comes from a different pistol, rough and heavy, a trail of smoke hissing upward as the man’s body, too, slumps onto the metal.

Elain tears her gaze off her lifeless guard to look into the eyes of his murderer.

What she finds is a face covered entirely by beskar, the silvery helmet glinting even under the dying starlight.

The Mandalorian comes into view, his powerful frame scraping against the blast door as he takes a step forward, the sound as loud as the bodies of the three men he’d killed. Elain’s breath hitches in her chest, as though afraid to so much as graze the faded green of his chest plate, the metal she recognises as durasteel—hardly comparable to the sheer strength of beskar, but enough to keep the laser-like beams from piercing his heart—something many people have tried to do, if  the ashen marks staining the armour are any indication.

Elain’s own heart—one she suspects will not keep beating for long—thumps loudly in her chest as the Mandalorian man sheathes the blaster back into his belt, so many weapons strapped to its side Elain struggles to understand how he manages to walk with all that weight. He looks calm as he looks over the cockpit—over the three people still alive and waiting for his next move. Elain cannot explain how she knows this—but she swears she can feel his gaze pinned on her, even with his face hidden behind a black, T-shaped visor.

“Stand down, Mandalorian,” the last of her Nubian guards orders loudly, his blaster pointed straight at the masked warrior.

Elain feels his eyes drift away from her face, like a magnet releasing its hold as he looks over the guard with nothing more than an angle of his head. The man actually squirms under his scrutiny.

“I said,” he repeated, no longer able to hide the slight tremor in his throat, “stand down.”

To Elain’s complete shock, the leather-clad hand hovering above his belt falls loosely down his side. The guard, too, seems to release a breath. “This is a diplomatic mission you have disrupted,” he says. “You will be reported to the Guild—”

“I’m not with the Guild,” the response cuts in. It makes Elain shiver—his voice is low and deep, the helmet’s vocoder modulating it slightly, making it seem like a gravelly rumble from his throat.

Once the shiver passes through her spine, the Mandalorian’s words register. If he isn’t with the Guild…

“Hand her over,” he orders. “Now.” One word—deadly. He does not seem like the man to revel in hiding his threats.

The guard gulps, sensing it, too. To his credit, he still manages to tell him, “We will not.”

The Mandalorian’s vocoder sounds with a low hum, the sound seeping a scorching fire into her bones. “My orders are to leave witnesses,” he finally says, his metal-clad body entirely still like a predator fixed on his prey. “It’s a shame I happen to be forgetful sometimes.”

Elain’s heart threatens to stumble out of her chest. He came here for her, and the men sent to protect her—Vassa’s men—do not need to die trying to protect her from the inevitable.

It’s just her luck, Elain thinks bitterly, that the one and only time she’s ever tried to rebel, she has to be hunted by one of the most ruthless warriors in the galaxy. The Mandalorians are known for their violent ways and brutal efficiency—they are, after all, one of the Empire’s most loyal subjects, having allied themselves with Emperor Koschei the moment he came into power.

Since it isn’t the Guild, then, it must be the Empire who have sent this bounty hunter after her, which could only mean two things: her plot to escape her impending marriage had been discovered by Governor Nolan much earlier than she’d expected, or…

Or Father was in a lot more trouble than he'd originally made it out to be.

“It’s okay,” Elain breathes, placing a palm on the guard’s arm. “It’s okay—I’ll go with him.”

The guard shakes his head vehemently. “No—you can’t my Lady, we have been ordered—”

“It’s okay,” she repeats, then squeezes his shoulder. “Lower your weapon.” She turns to the Mandalorian. “I’m going to walk towards you now. Do not hurt those men.”

The bounty hunter does not move, and so Elain takes this as his agreement.

She takes a half-step—then another, crossing the space on shaky legs. She’s almost there—has almost reached that magnetic presence of his when she hears a light swoosh, and a click of metal.

“Lady Elain, duck!” the guard shouts, and fires his blaster.

Elain whirls back just in time to see him sink to his knees, his mouth agape, the hole in his chest sizzling with that same, smoky trail. She shrieks, running back toward yet another man who’d given his life to keep her safe—when a tight, steady grip on her wrists holds her back. “No more tricks, sweetheart,” his warning comes purring as her back hits the hard steel at his chest. Elain whips to face him again, anger stinging hotly at her eyes. “You said you needed witnesses!”

His helmet moves an inch as he seemingly glances at the pilot cowering in his seat behind her. “One is more than enough.” He jerks his chin at the trembling man. “Deliver the message to the Senator. He has seven rotations.”

Elain starts, “Do not—” but her words are cut short as the Mandalorian yanks her back. “Where are you taking me?” she breathes, her attention transfixed on the rough feel of his leather gloves against her bare skin. “Answer me right now, or I will not follow you anywhere—”

His steps come to a stop so abruptly she nearly slams face-first into his back. Slowly, he turns to look at her, silence passing through them in a tremor before he asks lowly, “No?”

Elain swallows. Hard. “No,” she says, accepting that the word might mean her death.

To her surprise, the Mandalorian lets go, crossing his arms over his chest instead, the silver vambraces clanking against each other with the movement. “Look, sweetheart,” he says, the nickname already making a flaming anger stir in the pit of her stomach, “the way I see it, you’ve got two choices: you either come willingly, or I make you.”

Elain grits her teeth stubbornly. “If you want to collect on your bounty, you’ll have to bring me in alive.”

His hands brace at his hips as he cocks his head to the side, and though the black of his visor is nearly impenetrable, Elain swears she saw a flicker of a smirk. “Lucky for me, my orders weren’t that specific.”

Elain’s blood chills.

“So what’s it gonna be,” he pauses, a hint of mockery in his modulated tone as he adds, “my Lady?”

Elain considers.

If Nesta were here, she would have opposed the Mandalorian without a shadow of a doubt, the cold venom in her words perhaps enough to melt through the beskar itself. But Elain had never been much like her elder sister—and so she thinks of Feyre.

Her heart clenches at the memory of her name, but Elain does not linger—instead, she listens to her sister’s voice the way she remembers it—calm and wise, far too knowing for a seventeen year old Padawan—and yet still unmistakably Feyre’s, blue-grey eyes twinkling with mischief as she spoke. Don’t worry, Elain, she had told her four years ago, they won’t see us coming.

No, Feyre, Elain silently agrees now, a plan already forming in her head. He won’t.

She points at the circular opening in the floor—at the ladder to the ship docked directly beneath. “Lead the way.”

—

Elain finds herself in the cockpit of yet another crumbling ship.

The Razor Crest is even older than the H-Type, the model predating the Clone War by at least four years. She supposes the advantage of staying off the scopes is worth it, though right now, she can’t possibly imagine why the Mandalorian working clearly on the Empire’s paycheck would ever need to avoid it.

She sits a breath’s distance behind him, watching as those leather-clad fingers press so many controls her mind begins to spin as they shoot into hyperspace, the blue-white blur of stars blending together a sight beautiful enough to appreciate even in Elain’s current predicament. The ship is fast, too, no doubt tweaked with improvements over the years. She wonders how long the Mandalorian has owned it, frowning as she realises she doesn’t even know how old the bounty hunter is.

She doesn’t even know his face, let alone his name. She would’ve guessed a bounty hunter of his skill would be renowned all the way to the Outer Rim. “What’s your name?” she asks him, curiosity getting the better of her.

He ignores her question entirely.

Elain huffs. “It is rude to ignore a lady, you know.”

No response.

That familiar frustration stirs inside her again. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to have to simply call you Mandalorian.” Her lip curls. “Or just Mando, perhaps—”

He turns back to her at that, and Elain realises triumphantly that she’d struck a nerve. “You are not to call me anything,” he tells her gruffly. “And besides,” his seat squeaks slightly and he turns to face the viewport again, “Something tells me that you are no lady.”

Her eyes dig into his back, and Elain sure wishes she could will a burning fire into them right now. When she realises it’s a futile effort, she asks, “Where am I to sleep?”.

“Here.”

“Here?” she frowns, looking at the chair, already groaning under her weight. “Where are you taking me?”

There is a brief pause—as if he’s considering how much he can really tell her. Then, “Chandrila.”

Elain’s eyes widen. “Chandrila?”

There is a raspy sound coming from beneath his helmet that Elain can only take for a chuckle. “I’m not taking you home, sweetheart. Sorry to disappoint.”

Elain squints. “So he does have manners after all.” When her hope of hearing a retort fades away, she asks again, “How long before we get there?”

“Too long.”

“Are you always this infuriating?”

He simply chuckles again.

Elain leans back into her seat. “I’m going to need a change of clothes,” she announces.

A glimmer of surprise passes through the space between them—as if whatever the Mandalorian was expecting, it was decidedly not this. “What?”

“I have to change,” Elain repeats, making a point of gesturing to her Naboo-fashioned gown as he turns to face her again. Then, doing her best to sound as bratty as he surely expects her to be—as everyone expects her to be—she says, “Travelling in these is uncomfortable.”

She looks into his visor, which seems to stare at her blankly. “You can’t be serious,” he then says.

Elain tilts her chin up in challenge. “Have you ever worn a gown, Mandalorian?”

“You know I haven’t,” he grumbles darkly.

“Then you have no right to tell me what’s comfortable and what isn’t. These fabrics are heavy—”

“Beskar is heavy,” he cuts in.

Elain stumbles over a breath, irritated less that he’s thrown her off her track, but more that the bastard Mandalorian is right.

Still, she presses, “You’re a Mandalorian, and I’m not. I demand we stop on the nearest planet so that I may—” she hovers a hand over her form, “adapt to the situation at hand.” She angles her head. “Besides, I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to attract any attention now, would you? I am a Senator’s daughter, after all.”

For a moment, the bounty hunter says nothing, simply leaning back in his seat as he assesses her. She tries not to shift under the stare she knows lurks beneath the helmet, her mind for some reason wondering if his eyes are the same green—or silver, perhaps—as his armour. She immediately dismisses the idea, though—he burns far too hot for his gaze not to blaze with that heat in some capacity. Not that she particularly cares—Elain has simply never had the chance to speak to a Mandalorian before, and those that she had seen had not seemed to share this one’s sentiment to stay perpetually hidden beneath the beskar.

She decides to flat out ask him, then—if only to satisfy that strange curiosity in her chest—when he surprises her again. “Alright,” he says, his visor seemingly focused on the thick folds of her gown. “We’ll make a stop.” Then, he adds, his voice rumbling with warning, “But no tricks, sweetheart. You won’t be able to escape me that easily.”

Elain has to bite back a smile. We’ll see.

—

A mechanically distorted cough stirs her from sleep.

“We’re landing up on Llanic,” he announces, and walks away.

Elain sits up, her back straining from the worn-out leather of her chair, the heavy dress not helping it at all. She curses herself—and not for the first time—for not thinking to wear something allowing more flexibility as she’d dressed in Vassa’s estate. Though, Elain now supposes, that same gown is the only reason she now has the opportunity to escape.

Soon enough, the Mandalorian lowers the Razor Crest onto a landing platform. Despite its proximity to Naboo, Llanic looks nothing like the planet’s vibrant, ethereal ecosystem. Everything here seems dull and grey—even the people opting for garments of pale blues and sulking whites as they move around the settlement.

“Llanic is the smugglers’ den,” the Mandalorian explains, as though reading the thoughts from Elain’s face. “All of this,” he waves a hand, gesturing to the view ahead as they step out of the ship, “is to help them stay out of sight.”

Elain looks to her own dress, the deep amethyst standing out almost ridiculously, already drawing more than a few pairs of eyes. The shiny Mandalorian at her side, Elain thinks with a sigh, certainly does not help.

The last thing she wants is the attention of more criminals.

“We need to get you a change of clothes quickly,” he mutters, making Elain look up at him with a smirk. “I told you—” she starts, but he’s already begun to walk off the platform, his gruff, “No time” her only invitation to follow along.

Her eyes scan her surroundings quickly, noting a cantina farther out back, already humming with a strange music she doesn’t recognise. He leads them left, though, toward what seems to be the market—one crowded enough that Elain can’t help but loose a breath of relief.

It should be easy to get rid of him here, Elain thinks. If, of course, she is quick enough.

Feyre would have thought this to be no more than an adventure. Elain smiles, the thought pouring a surge of courage into her chest.

They stop at an Ithorian merchant’s stand, one of the largest ones on the stony street, as he grumbles something to a bartering customer. Elain begins to fumble through his selection, her mind already tracking her route of escape. She’ll find some other, proper clothes later—the only purpose of these is to serve as her distraction.

She picks up a matching set of a top and trousers of dusted ivory, and a beige poncho to supposedly help her blend in. She’ll have to pick out something similar later if she truly is to disappear.

Elain is already side-eyeing the cantina, the copular structure practically calling out her name far at the street’s end. Perhaps she’ll be able to find a transfer there—someone to get her off-world and, hopefully, as far away from the infuriating Mandalorian and the Empire as possible

A warm, heavy presence appears beside her, and she chucks the clothes into the bounty hunter’s hands. He only stares back, confusion rolling off of him in waves.

She can’t help but snicker. “You’re impossible.”

“I…don’t understand.”

Elain huffs. “Well, my apologies if I forgot to remember to bring my credits as I was being kidnapped,” she sputters, the word making the elderly couple behind the Mandalorian turn to face her with a frown.

“Be more quiet now, would you,” the Mandalorian growls, the sound a deep rumble from his chest.

Elain narrows her gaze. “Just go buy these, yeah?”

He chuckles at the apparent drop in formalities, though his voice remains firm as he reminds her, “Don’t move until I’m back.”

She smiles sweetly, motioning to the streets around her. “Where else would I go?”

He seems to agree well enough, because the Mandalorian soon disappears between the hanging layers of cloth as he moves towards the Ithorian seller. When the familiar glint of beskar vanishes out of her sight, Elain turns and begins to run.

The amethyst dress and the tightness in her back is a strain on her speed, but the adrenaline surging through her is enough to keep her legs moving swiftly. Not for the very first time, Elain wishes she had the lithe speed and remarkable strength both of her sisters have always displayed, their movements carefully supported by the Force.

The thought leaves her as quickly as it arrived as Elain makes a sharp turn, pivoting into a darkened alleyway that she hopes will discreetly lead her to the back wall of the cantina. Her steps slow, as though the silent darkness compelled them to do so—and Elain quickly looks around, letting herself take a breath before she continues on again.

“Not so fast, princess,” a low, hissing voice sounds behind her.

Elain’s feet freeze into the ground.

“Don’t be afraid,” it croons, stepping in closer. “It will all be over soon.”

Elain’s breath quickens.

The man, unmistakably a Trandoshan, slithers beside her, his scaled, greenish skin finally coming into view—but it’s not his appearance Elain finds her gaze glued to, but the long, heavy Mortar Gun resting in his large hands as he points it directly at her face.

“Sssuch a shame,” he muses. “To ruin such a pretty face. But I find myself in a desssperate need of credits, you sssee.” He angles his scaly head, yellow eyes narrowing on her. “The Empire is paying quite the sum for you, little princess. If it was any lower…I might have taken some time to play with you firssst.”

“A shame indeed,” a voice agrees somewhere behind him. “Unfortunately, your time seems to have run out.”

A single shot booms through the air before the Trandoshan evaporates into dust.

A Mandalorian—her Mandalorian, Elain realises—stands a few metres behind where the reptilian bounty hunter stood a moment ago, a forked sniper rifle Elain had never seen before still pointed at the dissipating dust.

“Where did you get that?” Elain breathed. Has he been carrying that weapon this whole time? Could he have turned her into…into this?

He shrugs. “Had it lying around.”

He reaches her in a few quick strides, his head dipping as he appears to be sweeping his gaze over her, assessing. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

Elain shakes her head, her body slowly moving out of stillness. “No.” She clears her throat, begging the Force to bring clarity into her voice. “Thank you,” she rasps, then sighs, exasperated. The Force had never seemed to be her ally, anyways. “I’m…sorry for running.”

He hums. “I knew you would try something eventually. You got lucky.”

Elain blinks. “You would call this—” she gestures to the Trandoshan bounty hunter’s remains spread out over the stone ground, “—lucky?”

He nods, strapping the rifle to his back in one, swift movement. “There are others out there who would not hesitate to kill you on sight. I’d say,” he adds, “you got more than lucky to end up with me.”

“How very fortunate,” she mutters. He only chuckles, though she feels as his gaze lands on her again. There is a pause of quiet between them before he finally asks, the voice behind the helmet softer, somehow, “Are you, though? Alright?”

Elain sighs. “Yes. I’m…” she searches for the word. Tired. Confused. Lost. “Hungry,” she decides.

Another chuckle. “Follow me.”

The cantina beams a more lively song as they enter, though Elain, despite all that thorough education she’d received, can’t seem to recognise the language. They take their seats at a booth stuck into a dim nook before a waiter approaches, his gaze shining with curiosity at the unlikely pair. “What can I get you?”

“Spotchka,” Elain sighs, earning yet another amused huff from her companion. “And—whatever your special is today.”

The man nods. “That would be the stew.”

“Perfect,” Elain says, then turns to the Mandalorian, the waiter, too, looking at him expectantly.

“That will be all,” he says tightly, his tone enough to make the waiter scatter immediately out back. Elain frowns. “Are you not going to eat?”

“No.”

“But—”

“I’m not hungry.”

Elain counters, “I have not seen you eat since you put me on that rusted old ship.”

The visor seems to glower at her. “The Crest is fine.”

“Stop changing the subject.”

“I’m not willing to discuss this, Elain.” She doesn’t think she’d ever heard his name fall from his lips.

Does he even have lips? Elain can’t help but wonder. He appears human, but beneath that armour, he really could be anyone. It’s not that she truly cares about his face—the curve of his nose or the angle of his jaw. But she wants to be able to see if his gaze burns as brightly as she’s been imagining it, like a hot, midday sun.

His tone does not invite such questions, though, so Elain gives up with a deep, long-suffering sigh. “Fine,” she says. “Tell me your name, at least.”

“No.”

“I’m sick of calling you the Mandalorian in my head.”

“Then stop thinking about me, Elain.”

She throws her arms up in exasperation. “You are impossible!”

He seems to snicker at that. “So I’ve heard.”

Elain sinks further into her seat. “Are you able to answer any of my questions, at least?”

He hums, making a show of considering. “Probably not,” he finally said, earning yet another huff from Elain. “But perhaps you can answer some of mine.”

Elain feels her brows rise. “Oh?”

He laces his fingers atop the table. “What has your father done to get the Empire to put a bounty on your head?”

That, Elain did not expect. “I thought bounty hunters were taught not to ask any questions.”

“To their clients. The bounty is a whole another story.”

“How convenient,” Elain murmurs, and, once again, she swears she can feel his smile in her chest. “Very well. If you must know, he borrowed some money—too much of it for me to even begin to describe, and all of it from the wrong people.” She chews on her bottom lip before quickly releasing it from her teeth, a sharp exhale pushing past her mouth. “It’s why my…engagement was arranged in the first place.”

“To the Governor’s son. So I’ve heard.”

“Yes, well, they had money. But look how that turned out.”

“Do you…” his helmet cocks to the side, as though from this new angle, he can read the answer simply by looking at her face. “Do you regret it?”

“No!” Elain quickly says. “Kriff, no—it’s why you found me on the Nubian instead of the planet itself. I was…” she clears her throat. “I was escaping.”

Silence falls, broken only for a moment as the waiter arrives with Elain’s food. She begins digging into the warm stew, realising the conversation has most likely come to an end, the Mandalorian seemingly gazing off into the distance.

But then, a quiet sound reaches her, so indiscernible she initially thinks she must’ve imagined it. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For disrupting your plans.”

Elain flashes him a cryptic smile. “My plans aren’t disrupted just yet.”

—

When Elain emerges from the Crest’s refresher, she finds the clothes she’d picked out at the market laid out on a new cot.

“We’re almost done refuelling,” the Mandalorian’s voice reaches her from where he leans against the ladder leading up to the cockpit.

Elain arches a brow. “What happened to not leaving your side for a moment?”

“Well, I trust you’re not reckless enough to jump out of our ship once we’re in hyperspace.”

Our ship?

Elain dismisses it as her mind playing tricks on her. “Thank you for getting these for me. Believe it or not, but that gown was uncomfortable.”

A grunt of agreement. “It sure looked like it.”

Elain takes the poncho into her hands, her palm smoothing out the fabric. “I’m sorry about nagging you earlier. I—I don’t know much about Mandalorians, I just assumed—”

“You assumed fine.” A deep sigh rattles through him as he bounces off the ladder, stepping closer toward her. “Not removing this,” he points to the shining beskar atop his head, “is my choice.”

Elain dares to ask, “Why, though?”

“Does it matter?”

Yes. No. Maybe.

No, Elain finally decides. Soon—within the next rotation or two, perhaps—the Mandalorian will hand her over to the Empire, a toy to toss over her father’s head. She’ll never have the chance to think about his face again.

Her expression must have told her enough, because his body seems to stiffen as he halts less than five feet away from her.

“Are they going to kill me?” Elain asks him openly.

Silence ripples through the air.

“The Empire doesn’t kill innocent civilians,” he says carefully. Elain can’t help but laugh. “Even if that were true, I am hardly innocent.”

He seems inclined to disagree. “Your father’s mistakes are not your own, Elain.” His words sound deeper than usual as he says them.

She shifts on her feet. “Still, I’m afraid my family’s sins are already beyond repair.” She sighs, a sudden wave of tiredness washing over her, as though the words alone were enough to make her body feel limp. “My…” she can’t say it, her throat tightening on its own as she tries. Elain simply looks away.

But then, a few shallow breaths later, a heavy weight rests on the cot beside her. “My father is the head of an…important clan back on Mandalore,” he begins to tell her quietly. “He’s not a good man—to say the least.” He clears his throat. “I have six brothers, each of them worse than the last, as if they’re all competing to see which one of them can become cruel enough to finally catch Father’s attention.”

Elain turns to look at him at that.

He continues, “I never wanted to be like them—any of them. My mother is the only good thing about my family, and she was the only one not to send bounty hunters after me when I finally left.”

Elain’s eyes widen. “You—you escaped from Mandalore?”

His laugh feels bitter. “There is no escaping from my family. I’m the youngest—not important enough for them to keep on wasting credits to drag me back, but, I suppose, a reminder annoying enough to make my life miserable for as long as they wished.” His hand flickers up for a moment, then falls back onto the cot—as if he was going to run his fingers through his hair before remembering the helmet shielding them from view. “So I cut the best deal for myself as I could—and I’ve been picking up the Empire’s dirty jobs ever since. I don’t like most of them,” he admits, “but…” the words trail off. He does not need to finish them for Elain to understand.

But I’m glad I met you.

It is why Elain tells him plainly, “My sisters were Jedi.”

The Mandalorian goes completely, breathlessly still.

Elain nods. “Traitors to the Republic,” she adds bitterly. “To the Empire. My older sister—Nesta…” she fights back tears at the memory of her icy eyes, softening whenever the two of them got to see each other. “She was—she was on Corellia when…when the Order was given. And Feyre…Feyre was at the Temple on Coruscant.” She swallows the thick words in her throat. “She was—she’s gone,” Elain finishes, unable to speak the full truth. It’s too soon—it will never not be.

Her sisters were discovered late—Feyre at six, and Nesta at ten years old, when all the other foundlings had usually come to the Temple at no older than three. But the great masters had foreseen something in the two of them—something Elain had never quite been able to understand without the Force whispering to her the way it did to her sisters. Something with the potential to change the Galaxy as they all knew it.

Whatever her sisters’ purpose was, it would never be fulfilled. It had never even been given the chance to.

“It’s how I know my father will not come for me,” Elain adds quietly. “When you hand me over to the Empire. He’d aligned himself with them when it took not one, but two of his daughters away. Now, it will take away the third.”

Once again, the ship is enveloped in silence.

It had been so long since Elain had last spoken her sisters’ names that she isn’t sure she’d even talked about them to anyone since their death. The Mandalorian is a quiet presence beside her, strong and warm even through the hardened metal encasing his body. It feels relieving to her to know that he, too, lives in accordance with the Empire’s cruelty not by choice, but by the lack of it, hoping that one day, he will be free enough to leave and never look back.

But then Elain is reminded that neither of them are free just yet—and that, while he might still be able to harbour that dream, it is already too late for Elain. That the only way for him to get a step closer toward it, he has to make sure Elain never gets to reach it herself. There is something about the irony of it all that makes her want to weep—and yet, Elain can’t bring herself to feel angry.

“I hope the Empire pays you well for all of this,” she tells him earnestly.

He turns to face her then—as much as he can with the self-imposed containment of his beskar—and perhaps it is merely wishful thinking, but, for a whisper of a moment, Elain knows with the utmost certainty that she saw a flicker of gold beneath the darkness.

His voice is quiet as he responds.

“Not nearly enough.”

—

Once again, Elain is violently ripped from sleep.

They cannot be landing already—Elain can swear they’ve only just left Llanic’s atmosphere, her face hitting the cot the moment the Crest’s navicomputer was programmed and the stars blurred into a singular light again. Chandrila is still a long journey ahead, at least two, if not three more refuelling stops since the Crest is unable to withstand such a distance on a single tank.

They aren’t landing, Elain understands as the last remnants of her sleep sharpen into reality—into the loud, flaring sound echoing off the ship’s tight space. Into the red light blazing on and off, illuminating her shaky hands as the realisation finally sinks.

The Crest is under attack.

Elucien Week Taglist: @melting-houses-of-gold @areyoudreaminof @fieldofdaisiies @kingofsummer93 @witchlingsandwyverns @gracie-rosee @stickyelectrons @selesera @sv0430 @vulpes-fennec @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @screaming-opossum @autumndreaming7 @sunshinebingo @spell-cleavers @starfall-spirit @lectoradefics @this-is-rochelle @goldenmagnolias @labellefleur-sauvage @bookeater34 @capbuckyfalcon @betterthaneveryword @tasha2627 @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune

[gravity-knight]

My bias coming out,

But I did enjoy I Became The Lead. Only 3 eps but I appreciate the runtime. The music was refreshing and the characters were fun.

Also this trend of using glasses to make someone appear unattractive or insignificant needs to stop. But my boy Nichika really had them on!

Big brown eyed beautiful boy

[unsalientopinionsbot]

1. unimportant 2. insignificant 3. trivial 4. nonessential 5. baseless 6. ill-conceived 7. inadept 8. inconversant 9. indifferent 10. insignificative 11. knowledgeless 12. low-profile 13. naive 14. none the wiser 15. nonthinking 16. pointless 17. quiet 18. simple 19. substantially 20. unacquainted 21. unadvised 22. unbiased 23. unchallenged 24. unchic 25. uncompanionable 26. unconscious 27. unenlightened 28. unexperienced 29. unfashionable 30. uninformed 31. unmeaning 32. unobtrusive 33. unpopular 34. unreasoned 35. unskillful 36. untempered 37. untrained 38. untrendy 39. unused 40. acontextually 41. agnostic 42. airy 43. anonymously 44. artless 45. asymptomatically 46. casual 47. causeless 48. causelessly 49. deaf 50. discreet 51. feckless 52. generally 53. generic 54. guiltless 55. heartwhole 56. hollow 57. ignoraunt 58. impenitent 59. impolitic 60. in vacuo 61. inadvertent 62. inartful 63. inartistic 64. inconsequential 65. indiscriminate 66. indiscriminative 67. inform 68. innocent 69. innominate 70. innoxious 71. inofficially 72. inofficious 73. inscient 74. insensate 75. insensible 76. insentient 77. insociable 78. intentionless 79. irrelevant 80. irrespective of

81. jamais vu 82. jejune 83. needless 84. nonchalant 85. noncharismatic 86. nonconsensually 87. nonprincipled 88. nonproficient 89. noteless 90. notionality 91. nowhere 92. patiency 93. plain 94. reasonless 95. regardless 96. rusty 97. seasonless 98. senseless 99. sheefish 100. something 101. subliminal 102. superficial 103. unadulteratedly 104. unathletic 105. unattractive 106. unaware 107. unbased 108. unbeautiful 109. unbecoming 110. unbending 111. unbred 112. uncalled-for 113. uncivil 114. unconsequential 115. unconspicuous 116. unconversable 117. unconvinced 118. uncool 119. undecorous 120. unexemplary 121. unfamiliar 122. unfriended 123. unhackneyed 124. unheedful 125. uninfluential 126. uninitiate 127. uninquiring 128. uninstructed 129. unintentional 130. uninteresting 131. uninviting 132. unkingly 133. unknowing 134. unknown 135. unladylike 136. unlovely 137. unmanly 138. unmindful 139. unnecessaries 140. unorganized 141. unpartial 142. unplanned 143. unpracticed 144. unprejudicedly 145. unprepossessing 146. unprofessional 147. unproficient 148. unprotestingly 149. unprovoked 150. unqualitied

Eclipses are totally overrated! I’ve seen like two partial eclipses and they’re totally overhyped ! Seriously, I slept through the one the other day. I regret nothing . Eclipses are only interesting if they’re completely unplanned and totally miraculous like that one in that video game 

[intimidating-fettuccine]

hc’s for when s/o is insecure about their stretch marks? preferably with jeff, toby, ej but i’ll be happy with whoever you do!please <3 also have a great day <333

I hope you enjoy~ And I hope you guys aren't too insecure about your stretch marks!!!!! They're VERY common and a very natural state of life!! Be proud of your body and the fact that it's gotten you to where you are today!

Jeff:

The first time you tell him about your insecurities, he'll take a moment to process it, sigh, and then he's gonna take off his shirt and pull up his shorts. Then, he's going to point out all of the stretch marks across his own body, some from his bodybuilding, some from his growth spurts, and he's going to ask you if you think he's unattractive because of them. When you say no, he will then ask you why you would consider yourself unattractive because of them. He thinks that you are attractive the way that you are, and he'll spend time pressing kisses to all of your stretch marks, reminding you that they are there because you lived, and they are a sign of your life's journey to where you are now. And, if I'm being honest, I can totally see Jeff being into stretch marks on a partner.

Toby:

Toby damn near gets whiplash from how fast he whips his head around to look at you when you confess to him that you're insecure about your stretch marks. Toby is covered in all sorts of things, from stretch marks, to scars, to bruises, and you don't think any less of him for it, so how could you think less of yourself from something so natural? He's quick to shut down that train of thought in your head, reminding you that you are the most gorgeous being in existence, and he MEANS it. Toby loves everything about you and he is constantly entranced by you, and he can't stand the thought of you disliking something about yourself. Toby will spend hours complimenting you, reminding you of all the good things about yourself and how a few lines on your body don't change that.

Eyeless Jack:

Probably extremely confused when you confess to him that you're insecure about your stretch marks. At this point Jack is more demon than human, so he doesn't always understand human worries- one of them being stretch marks. On his own body for example he's got them all over his back, arms, and legs (considering he shot up to 6'9" during his demonification), and he's never thought anything about it. It might not sound completely reassuring to the random person, but he'll probably end up saying something like "Why would you worry about something so insignificant?" And it might come off mean, but when you're close to Jack you can tell he means it. Why would you worry about something that doesn't matter? He isn't one to gush over you, but it's quite obvious he thinks highly of you and finds you beautiful, so you shouldn't worry about it in his opinion.

[duckbeater]

Courtship, pt. 4

As with all my writing, I’ve done readers the pleasure of compositing characters to expedite chronologies and intensify outcomes, while making myself slightly dumber and those around me more kind. I remember reported speech quite loosely—imagine a poor translation flagged by scholars then re-translated in compensation for assumed defects. —The Editors

I Kept Needing Things

Since I have no other, I use as preface a diary entry drafted two summers back, which is anyway what I’m attempting to recall. The keening undertones that struck me as too stupid and too revealing then I see now as the piquant seasoning to a longer work of even higher concentrates of self-pity. What I get for holding too long to a sense of injustice. I had titled the entry “Courtship, pt. 3” in crimped faint pencil before taking up a pen and titling it “Courtship, pt. 3” again, in loopier handwriting. (I know this entry is titled “Courtship, pt. 4.”) After jotting down the fragment I didn’t think about courtship anymore, possibly because I’d felt my way out of it by October, triumphantly, but that’s getting ahead of myself. For verisimilitude I choose to reproduce my cross-outs and egregious syntactical chaos. Here’s what I wrote: 

I kept needing things. Little escalations. This surprised me because I’d promised my self an unembarrassed self-sufficiency for 2020, a way of calling on or deferring to or—relying, I suppose is the word (but it’s not)—my inner-resources. Being in love made me want more… than my want more, quite against my little interdicta that I was prepared to sacrifice the needs for the year. Love is very much something I’m recovering from; “I’m in recovery from love,” I kept telling myself. And then I’d reach in the dark to squeeze Scotty’s hand and dryly mouth��honestly, piteously whisper—“I love you” while he slept. I needed him to say it back. Despite! The amount of! Time! We were insisting on spending together, before his last he persisted in the fantasy of our dating, or resisting labels, and rebuffing, unless drunk, mostly any conversation about what we were and what we were doing. I’m a reflective person. I need others to reflect with me.

When did I get it out of Scotty? The extortion took nearly two months. I joke, using that phrase, but there was some tedious unattractive bullying on my side. I deliver receipts with the rigor of a school marm and the frostiness of an assassin (apparently), all while litigating the math side of love like a prosecutor (YOU HAVE SLEPT OVER EVERY NIGHT FOR SIX WEEKS!) and the solid affection side like an ordinary language philosopher (IN TEXT MESSAGES YOU INCLUDE A LOT OF CRY-FACE EMOJI TO DESCRIBE MISSING ME DURING THE DAY!). This is an example of bad writing but it’s also real anxiety I’m foisting on the page, a weight no page in the history of neurotic white male writers has ever buckled under, thus I soldier on. 

For my part, I’ll say that dating is hard. Establishing strong attachments and certifying them is hard. Despite the two and half months off for quarantine in March through May, I fucked a not insignificant amount of men that winter, spring and summer, and I only wanted to sleep with Scotty (face pressed to his chest, legs wildly contorted, and holding hands). Waking up next to him and kissing after his nipples in lip-smacking anarchy until he swatted me off him: a ritual I’d gladly sacrifice my virginity to attain again.

Boo-Hoo

I asked Scotty two things in July. 

1) I asked him to be my boyfriend. It was probably 8 AM on a Sunday, after a very fun night with his friends. I was near-wailing with hangover and used his body in the lambent morning much as Rose used the door in Titanic, quite clinging, and said, “I was wondering if you would mind—I was wondering if you thought this, too—um, may I call you my boyfriend? Are we boyfriends yet?”

His silence lasted about as long as it takes to drown in a toilet; or, where I’d been transported. I slithered off his ice-cold belly and looked at the faint, far ceiling, croaking, “Well… that’s… definitely an answer.” He said, and I think reasonably, “Evan, I’m leaving in a month. I don’t think we can do it. The long distance. This is good what we have right now. But I am not your boyfriend. You understand that it’s all over soon?” I had my mother on my mind, pathetically, who usually calls on Sundays and who, usually enfeebled by hangover, I give over-honest reports to. “I guess, yeah,” I said. “I’m going to talk to my mom today and she’ll say, ‘How are you and Scotty?’ and I’ll say, ‘Oh, it’s all over soon, it’s so good.’” His reply was as lacerating as it was perceptive: “She’ll say you’re too old for me.” 

And indeed, when she called me later in the morning, and I shared my rejection like an idiot, she said, astonishingly, “Evie, Scotty’s going to be a doctor and he’s going to be able to do a lot better than you. Now, are you coming home for your birthday?” “Well, now I’m not.” “Oh boo-hoo,” she continued, “see if Scotty wants to visit the farm.” My mother’s attention span worried all her sons. “I just said he’ll be leaving by the end of August.” “Oh, boo-hoo,” she replied. “Where—where is this behavior coming from? Are you picking it up from the TV?”  

2) I asked him if he loved me. I admit, this was while he was in a bit of a tailspin. His med school had just sent an email confirming that all courses would “perform off-campus,” that is, over Zoom. His entire first semester of med school would take place online and with doctors who were (a likelihood borne out) too proud to adapt to video tutorials. 

“OK! But! You’re no longer moving to the Caribbean!” I interjected during his concession speech. 

My love query was ten days after the boyfriend query (angle of attacks, being what they are) and I’ll have you know its reception was so radically curt I actually told Scotty he was being curt, and weirdly I have a screen grab of the dictionary definition of curt that I forwarded him sometime later in the day. It was shameful of me, besides, to insist on some strong show of emotion, but I’d made my own after he rejected me as his boyfriend: I shaved my face.

My beard had recovered. I’m not being consecutive. He was distraught. “I’m going to have to live at home. With my parents,” he added. I tried pointing out that—silver linings where they shine—he’d be an hour and a half outside the city. He could still see his friends of a weekend. He could still see me. “I don’t want to be here! I want to be there! You’re not getting it!” he said. 

I said I did, I did get it. I’d spent three years attempting to get into grad school, I knew what it was like to navigate defeated expectations, and further, such navigation contributed to future untold resiliencies. Some things happen for a reason. 

“Like what?” he snapped. “Like what are you even talking about? No offense, but going to school to be a writer and going to school to be a doctor are really, they’re really different, and you’re not even a writer. You hate your job. You hate Chicago. You won’t even get a cat!” 

We were in my studio apartment. Fleeing to the kitchen, and then behind the refrigerator door, and pulling out some wine, shielded me a little from accepting or defending this read. I attempted the same tack I’d tried on my mother—“Where—where is this coming from?”—while dragging chardonnay against bottles of barbecue sauce and sparkling water to give me more time to feign untold resilience.

“Evan, I just feel fucked, dude. I just feel fucked,” he said from the bed. “Are you drinking?”

“It’s Friday?” 

“Can I get a glass?”

“Yeah. It’s um fresh wine. Very fresh.” I made a show of opening the new bottle by twisting off the cap with a flourish. I still had my back to Scotty. I doubt he was looking at me. “Thing is,” I started, glugging wine into my not-very-clean stemware, “you’ve definitely made me like the city a lot more, you know? Having you around this summer has been, well, it’s definitely made it feel like the city can be mine, and not just a city I deferred to, or a city I had to come to. It feels like a choice I care to own, finally. You know, being in love with someone—it imbues everything around it with that kind of love.” 

I brought him his glass. His expression was stricken. 

“I don’t want to do the love thing right now,” he said.

“What love thing?”

“I don’t want to say I love you,” he said, taking his glass and putting his nose in it. “That’s not what what this conversation is about.”

“This conversation,” I started, “can be about a lot of things—”

“It’s not.”

In August He Left for California 

“I’ve always wanted to take a trip alone. You know I want to live in California? Maybe do plastic surgery in L.A.” I had insisted on driving Scotty to the airport yet wouldn’t indulge his fantasies of cutting open faces in WeHo, or wherever. He noticed this, saying, “You know, you’re gonna have to get a better stomach for blood when I’m in med school? If I go into surgery, I’m gonna wanna talk about it.”

I merged left nodding yet neither tracking nor agreeing.

“And when I’m in med school, I’m gonna wanna talk to you about bodies and ethics and cut up organs and car wrecks and weird diseases and birth defects and crazy bowel obstructions and brains gone bad and—”

“How often are you going to talk to me when you’re in med school?”

“Every day?”

“Every-fucking-day?”

“Yeah. Whoa. Yeah?” He squeezed my knee as I merged into the left lane.

I felt an element of cruelty, if unintentional, in this conversation, especially as it took shape within minutes of Scotty’s leaving the state for 10 days to a far distant place, one almost completely closed to visitors. (California was still deep in its pandemic measures that August. Most restaurants were carry-out; pools were closed; national parks were iffy.) It was awkward to protest a hypothetical that suggested extraordinary care and devotion on my part—patient attention to reports from medical school, covering topics that disgusted me—from the young man who had rebuffed all my advances toward sureties. Yet in other ways I was entirely devoted and in a demonstrative way. I had, for instance, also promised to pick him up from the airport on his return—insisting. When I think about these gestural affectations toward love and solidity and abiding, now, the strongest feeling they arouse is embarrassment. 

Actually, no, almost two years out, the strongest feeling they arouse is sympathy. I loved his short fingers on my knee. And the strawberry blonde scruff on his cheeks. He’d purchased a tank top at Target that said California in a design intern’s approximation of neon spray paint that confused me no end, and I loved that too, even though it was wretched, just wretched to arrive in a state and wear a pre-fab tourist airbrush celebration of it. And furthermore, this idea that we’d be conversant every evening about the things he was discovering throughout his medical coursework—split ventricles and choked babies and suspicious coughs—I loved this too, because it embodied his knowledge in my own, depended on my willing reception and consolidation. Obviously, my efforts are transparent and piteous and beseeching to a degree that, I find, only concubines (notarized sex workers in an empirical setting) achieve—but these were the efforts I was making, then, to prove not to Scotty but to myself that I was practicing a kind of working love, à la Gillian Rose. 

You know, a year later, after we’d broke up and were still trying to be friends, during a bitter fight about just visiting over the holidays, I’d messaged, “The basis of this arguing is me basically pleading HOLD ONTO ME HOLD ONTO ME HOLD ONTO ME and your counter plea Let me go! Let me go! Let me go! Which is why we just talk circles around each other. It’s exhausting.” And this element of intense clutching/grasping is another aspect I love about this drop-off. I helped him with a bag and kissed his cheek and said, “Have so much fun. Keep me posted. See you soon.”      

The Butcher of Loneliness

If I was neither kept nor loved, I determined to fuck around a lot for the next ten days. But I didn’t. I played Switch and read some books, got stoned and drank too much wine, jerked off and played badminton. I worked late on sales presentations and answered Scotty’s FaceTimes. The ineffable hovered over me like a fragrance or a climate or a major decorative architectural period, advertising to others—my mom, my friend Peter, my twin brother—that I was somehow immobilized by grief, and that was embarrassing. They did the graceful thing. They assumed I was in love, after a bad way, and let me be ridiculous.

[copajay]

beauty is in the eye of the beholder

.𖥔 ݁ ˖༘⋆𐦍⊹₊ ⋆｡˚

masterlist

i haven’t written in so long (almost 3 years omg) so my apologies if this is the worst thing you’ve ever read.

summary: choi beomgyu, the son of aphrodite feels as though he’ll never find genuine love, and so he rejects all forms of it. y/n, child of hephaestus, is a hopeless romantic and is patiently waiting for their love story. can y/n teach beomgyu to love? and can beomgyu fulfill y/n’s dreams of a blissful romance? (gender neutral/not proofread)

date: 02/16/21

series: txt demigod series (located in masterlist)

scenario theme: strangers to friends to lovers

idol: choi beomgyu or beomgyu of txt

concept: fluff, angst

warnings: cursing, insecurity

word count: 3.7k

your father is hephaestus, your mother is a regular mortal, making you a demigod. like normal demigods, you’ve inherited many of your godly parent’s traits: the power to control fire and metal, great intelligence, being skilled in metal and stonework, and last but definitely least, ugliness.

hephaestus was never a very pleasant sight to look at, in fact, his own mother threw him off of olympus because of his looks (not to mention his wife cheating on him with much better looking gods). unfortunately, you were no different.

in a world where physical appearance has a social hierarchy of it’s own, those that aren’t akin to the beauty standard are deemed “ugly”, therefore untouchable. it’s sad really, how a social construct, something that doesn’t even really exist, can have such a harsh grip on one’s life, but it’s the truth.

so if you were at the bottom of the hierarchy, people like choi beomgyu, would be amongst the stars. he was the son of aphrodite, your father’s wife, though obviously not your mother, and one of the most physically attractive beings on earth.

not much was known about beomgyu, except the fact that everyone at camp halfblood either wanted to be him, or be with him. while the first option was near impossible, the second was an even harder feat to achieve. he has an ongoing streak of rejecting anyone that confesses to him, and it doesn’t seem like that streak will be broken anytime soon.

you, on the other hand, gave up all hopes of being beomgyu’s muse when you first laid eyes on him. it was apparent the two of you lived in entirely different worlds: when he walked in a room, he’d get stares of envy and adoration, when you did, you’d definitely get stares, but of disgust and ridicule.

when he was alone, people would push and shove just to be able to talk to him, bask in his presence, or simply stare at him in admiration. when you were all to yourself, you stayed that way. nobody approached you, and nobody wanted to.

while neither of your scenarios seemed ideal, you’d trade places in a heartbeat, and beomgyu would too.

he was never one to dwell too much on looks, yes physical attraction is important, but it shouldn’t be the only thing that matters in a relationship. all his life, he’s had people approach him, romantically and platonically, with no other interest in him aside from his looks. yes it sounds like an insignificant complaint, but he’s sick of people not caring for what else he has to offer. he’s a person. with feelings. not arm candy, or an empty-headed doll. if being “unattractive” by societal standards was what it would take for him to finally be left alone, and have the ability to form real, genuine relationships, then so be it.

you definitely don’t have to worry about that though, as you were always the first to approach someone, if they’d even stick around to hear what you have to say. one day. just for one day, you would like to know what it would feel like to feel beautiful.

your story begins at an awkward encounter during a game of capture the flag. you weren’t too big on sports, you preferred to stick to your workshop for obvious reasons, or even a library, where you could read romance novels and imagine yourself in the place of the beautiful, dainty heroine.

beomgyu loved any chance to display his athletic ability, as long as it distracted others from his appearance, but even that didn’t seem to work. sword in hand, he charged towards you. meanwhile, you were abscent-mindedly daydreaming, too busy to notice the boy running towards you head first.

before you could snap out of your trance, he had crashed into you, sending the both of you down. you were already embarrassed by the fact that you probably look like the biggest idiot right now, and that embarrassment doubled when you looked choi beomgyu in the eyes.

the position the two of you were in was also extremely questionable, he had both arms beside your head laying on top of you, in an attempt to keep from hurting you, while your arms were holding onto his waist.

it didn’t help that everyone in the game, intially only stopping to make sure beomgyu was okay, noticed you. then it began, the taunting, the mocking, the insults. before you knew it, tears welled up in your eyes, you were never one to cry in front of others, you pride yourself in your strength. but that doesn’t matter anymore, you embarrassed yourself in front of almost the entire camp. you know, deep down everyone knows, if you were just a little more beautiful, societally anyway, you wouldn’t be getting laughed at. you’d get asked if you were okay, you’d be helped up, you’d get assisted to the infirmary. but no.

apparently people that looked like you couldn’t afford to have those luxuries in life. wiping your tears, you stood up and shamefully walked yourself to infirmary, leaving behind a confused beomgyu and crowd of kids begging to take him there.

after the initial impact, everything was a blur. by the time he was able to see straight, he saw you tearing up underneath him. he felt horrible, wondering if he had hurt you... until he realized what the kids around you were chanting.

another wave of sympathy washed over him, but for an entirely different reason. he felt you push him to the side and stand up, nobody seemed to follow you. were they really about to go to the infirmary alone?

he shoved his way out of the mob, sending a pair of pleading eyes towards chiron, the centaur seeming to understand immediately.

“alright that’s enough, beomgyu and y/n can take themselves to the infirmary. they’re demigods, not toddlers.” he stated.

“why don’t you just heal them?” asked a peculiar boy from the hermes cabin. “i’m only here if a student needs immediate medical attention. a small bump on the head doesn’t seem all that bad.” he chuckled.

beomgyu managed to catch up to you, panting. “are you alright?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine concern. desperately trying to stop the tears, you nodded. “i heard what they were saying back there...” he started. the tears came back, is he really only being somewhat decent to you because of pity? “i hope you know it’s not true.” he quipped. confused, you turned your head to look him in the eyes, “what?” you sniffed.

he felt his heart break, you looked so hurt, and he couldn’t help but feel like it was his fault. “i mean the stuff they said... about your looks” the both of you avoiding eye contact, looked anywhere but at each other, until you finally spoke up.

“it’s alright.” you laughed, “it is true... but it still hurts”. he looked up at you, shock evident on his face. growing up, his mother made sure to instill in him the importance of finding beauty and love in anything and anyone. he still recalls his mother’s voice declaring: “everyone is worthy of love, and everyone is worthy of feeling beautiful.”

so why? why didn’t you feel loved? why didn’t you feel beautiful? beomgyu was never one to base his perception of others on looks, as he understands how that can impact relationships. he looked at you once more, before sighing. “it’s not.” he stated abruptly, stopping you in your tracks.

“excuse me?” you choked. he seemed to be taken aback as well, “i-i meant, none of it was true. you’re not... whatever they said you were.” he awkwardly explained. “right...” you muttered. you had assumed the collision had messed with his head, peering over at him to see him blush bright red.

finally, the two of you had reached the infirmary. sitting down opposite from each other. he seemed to be busy fidgeting with his hands, and you were still up in the clouds, imagining you were a princess, falling in love with a prince you were forbidden to marry.

“so...” he coughed, breaking the silence. “i hope it doesn’t hurt too much.”

“oh. yeah i’m fine, it’s not that bad. how are you holding up?” you inquired, “same i guess.” the boy quipped.

there it was again, that awkward silence.

thankfully, a nurse popped her head out of the door, calling in beomgyu, and promising to fetch you later. finally, you were alone. today had been very strange, and beomgyu’s behavior made it seem even more unnatural. despite never knowing the guy, you always assumed he was a confident and loud character. at least, that’s what you heard he was like around his friends.

beomgyu walked out about 10 minutes later, signaling you to get up. on his way out, he stopped himself, deciding to wait for you. there was something about you... about the way you acted around him. you didn’t treat him like he was some spectacle, or a celebrity, just another teenager. he enjoyed it. even though it was a bit awkward at times, he figured that’s just part of the experience, and the closer the two of you got, the more that awkwardness would fade.

some time later, you were on your way out, humming a soundtrack to one of your favorite romance films. letting out a scream when you heard a deep voice behind you exclaim, “hey i know that movie!”.

“where the hell did you come from?” you gasped, he started laughing. you couldn’t help but crack a smile, he was definitely the most gorgeous when he laughed. calming down, he apologized, “sorry, that was just a bit... unexpected. i wanted to walk you to your cabin, if that’s okay with you.” scratching the back of his neck, he scanned your face for any traces of discomfort.

you were baffled, the choi beomgyu, wanted to walk you to your cabin? clearing your throat, you remembered your life isn’t some romcom, and that he’s probably just doing it out of basic decency.

“y-yeah, um. sure. i don’t mind.” you stammered, mentally cursing at yourself for sounding like a complete fool.

he smiled and grabbed your hand, making his way towards the hephaestus cabin, dragging you with him. “beomgyu?” you mumbled, “yeah?” he replied.

“why are you holding my hand?”

he stopped in his tracks, causing you to bump into him again. shit. he was a very affectionate person, so he tended to forget that other people had stricter boundaries than him. spewing apologies, he removed your hand from his and blushed. giggling, you reached for his hand. he stifled a grin, latching onto your hand once more.

you spent the rest of the walk hand in hand, with beomgyu going on and on about anything and everything that came across his mind, and you simply nodding and laughing along. it felt nice, not having to constantly advance the conversation. beomgyu enjoyed it as well, seeing someone interested in what he has to say, and not just how he looked saying it.

unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and before either of you knew it, you were standing in front of your cabin. your fingers were still intertwined, and beomgyu still babbling on and on about his guitar.

it was getting dark, and the conversation had started to wear out. sighing, you retrieved your hand. wishing beomgyu a goodnight, you rushed inside and collapsed on your bed, feeling heat rush to your cheeks as you replayed the moments you spent with beomgyu inside your head.

marveling in the ecstasy that your first, and probably only, semi-romantic experience with another person was better than you could ever imagine, the realization hit you that it probably meant nothing to him.

he was known for being a likeable person, it’s not your fault you fell for his charms. if only you were just as likeable, if only his heart fluttered at the thought of being able to hold your hand again. but you knew that he was probably on his way back to his cabin now, being pulled over by dozens of campers much better looking than you, and falling for them instead.

if only you knew how wrong you were.

he had never felt like this before. his heart was thumping and his thoughts were racing. he was confused but all he knew was he wanted to be with you again. he wanted to hear your laugh, see your smile, hold your hand. he wanted all of it, and he couldn’t figure out why.

everything about you was intriguing, how intently you listened, your amazing advice, how your eyes went wide when you talked about something you’re passionate about. if only he was just as interesting, if only your heart fluttered at the thought of being able to talk to him again. but he knew that you were probably reading one of your novels, captivated by the male lead’s personality: his bravery, his kindness, his humor, and falling for him instead.

if only he knew how wrong he was.

——

over the next couple of days, you started spending more time with beomgyu. both of your feelings for each other continued to grow.

beomgyu learned you were very insecure about your appearance, and you learned that he was insecure about anything but his appearance.

beomgyu was always afraid he was nothing without his looks. no one ever praised his personality, his talents, his intelligence, his athleticism, nothing. you knew he had a lot to offer, he was everything and anything anyone could ever want. but no one seemed to look beyond the surface.

when it came to you, no one seemed to look past the surface either, but you had no doubt that you had more to offer, and neither did beomgyu. the rare times you received praise, it was for your personality, your talents, your intelligence, but never your looks.

beomgyu definitely made the effort to make you feel less self-conscious, and vice versa. he constantly complimented your character and your appearance, reminding you how pretty you looked or how nice your eyes are.

you made it clear you admired his other traits besides his appearance, giving dramatic yet genuine reactions everytime he played his guitar for you, laughing at his jokes so hard you tear up, and even attempting to learn to skateboard for him.

but even then, the both of you were completely oblivious to the other’s feelings, mainly as a result of your insecurities. beomgyu simply couldn’t believe that you could love him for him, and you couldn’t believe that anyone could love you with how you look.

as much as beomgyu wanted you to see how beautiful you were to him, it was hard to convince you... until one fateful day.

the two of you hanging out wasn’t exactly a secret, but you didn’t do it too often in public. you would occasionally walk each other back to your respective cabins but when it came to spending quality time with each other, you opted for a secluded spot in the forest.

flash forward to another game of capture the flag, except this time, beomgyu and you were on the same team.

as always, you had little to no interest in whatever was going on while beomgyu was fully immersed in the game. your team was doing fairly well until ira, a highly competitive girl from ares’ cabin, decided to target you, knowing you were the weakest player.

charging into you, she sent you flying back, making a run for your team’s flag. while it definitely didn’t hurt as bad as when beomgyu practically head-butted you, it made you a bit dizzy. standing up, you noticed a shadow right behind you, turning around you saw beomgyu.

and his face was way too close to yours.

“are you alright?” he questioned, his brows furrowed. you held back a laugh, remembering those being his first words after crashing into you the last time you played.

“i’m fine, really. you should get back to the game.” you mumbled as you brushed the dust off your vest. “good,” he grinned, “wouldn’t want anything happening to our star player” he jeered. “haha.” you deadpanned. he smiled at you one more time before going back to the game.

the both of you resumed your previous activities, him guarding the flag while you stood there waiting to either get knocked over or have to run away. however the rest of the camp seemed to be confused. since when did you two know each other? and when did you get on such good terms?

nadia, one of apollo’s children, took special notice to this. out of all of beomgyu’s admirers, she was definitely the most persistent, confessing to beomgyu every single summer since 2nd grade. it’s surprising her efforts haven’t proven successful yet considering she was dubbed one of the most beautiful girls at camp.

she had sleek, wavy black hair that extended to her lower back, long, curly eyelashes, bronzed skin, and was equally as kind as she was angelic. she had it all.

just thinking about her and beomgyu’s relationship made you insecure. how could beomgyu possibly want to be with you when she’s right there?

she was alluring... captivating even. and you? you were hephaestus’s child. destined to fall in love with someone as beautiful as aphrodite just to have your heart broken because you weren’t good-looking enough.

mentally cursing your genes, you sighed before making eye contact with nadia, seeing a reflection of the hurt in your eyes in hers. sending an awkward smile her way, which of course she returned, you went on with your day.

after the game, you decided to talk to beomgyu about how you feel. you had hoped that deep down, some part of him felt the same, but really, it was just all the romance books and movies getting to your head. walking down the dirt path to aphrodite’s cabin, you spotted beomgyu... but he seemed to be mid-conversation with none other than nadia.

you figured it was just another confession, and she would get turned down, just like you were about to. except this time he smiled... and then she did. you watched her embrace him, glee evident on both of their faces.

you always knew you would never end up with someone like beomgyu, so why did it hurt so bad to come to terms with it. reality struck you and you finally understood why beomgyu always warned you life isn’t one big romance. turns out it’s a tragedy, at least if you’re unappealing.

running back to your dorms, you faceplanted on your bed. feeling the exact opposite of how you did weeks ago after first meeting beomgyu. who knew one person could make you feel such a range of emotions.

sobbing silently into your pillow, you couldn’t help but laugh at the state you were in. you had let yourself become so vulnerable, so dependent. all over some stupid-

suddenly three knocks were heard outside of your door, along with a soft, breathy voice you’ve grown to love over the past two weeks. “y/n? you in there? i’ve got something i want to tell you.” he shouted.

you already knew very well what it was he wanted to say. grateful that none of your siblings were in the cabin, you stayed under your sheets, deciding to ignore him.

“y/n? y/n... c’mon i know you’re in there. you’re not at our spot or at the workshop.” he persisted, starting to sound irritated.

our spot? might as well rename it as “mine and nadia’s spot”. yes you were acting immature, but you didn’t care. this is how your favorite characters would react to heartbreak, so why not follow their example?

“y/n is everything alright? why aren’t you answering me.” he knocked once again. he then twisted the handle, curiosity getting the best of him, and finally opened the door.

shit. how could you have been so preoccupied that you couldn’t even lock the door?

“y/n... i know you’re not sleeping. what’s wrong?” he questioned softly, settling down besides your ‘sleeping’ frame.

“nothing. i want to be alone.” you managed to choke out. he gave you a look of bewilderment, “are you crying?”

growing more and more agitated by the second, you shot up and blurted, “yes! yes i’m crying beomgyu. i’m crying because i love you. and i know that you don’t feel the same way. i know. so save your rejection for some other random idiot that pours their heart out to you.”

it definitely wasn’t the cheesy, over-the-top confession you were planning on. far from it actually: bedhead, a tear stained face, wrinkled clothes. god you probably looked worse than usual, there was no way beomgyu could take a look at you and find any beauty.

frowning, he reached his hand out to wipe a tear from your cheek. “who said i don’t love you back?” he murmured. “nobody told me. because it’s obvious, i just don’t look like someone you would lo-”

you were interrupted by his lips on yours. it was a surprisingly long, chaste, and yet somehow passionate kiss. one of his hands snaked around your waist, while the other held your cheek, deepening the kiss. your arms were wrapped around his neck, the both of you smiling.

while pulling away, he looked at you, his gaze full of awe and enamor. “you’re the most beautiful person i’ve ever laid eyes on. i never want you to feel like you’re not enough because you are. you’re perfect to me. and that’s all i care about.”

you felt like tearing up once more, but kept it in, nodding with a huge smile on your face. as he was about to lean in for another kiss, you stopped him. “what about nadia?” you asked, “what about her?” he responded confused.

“didn’t she confess to you? well, i mean didn’t it work this time?” you interrogated, your face contorting into a look of pure confusion, mirroring his. suddenly, he broke out into a fit of laughter, “oh that? she was just telling me she decided we’re better off friends... not like we were ever more than that anyway,” he added with a sarcastic eye roll.

that day you realized that maybe the concept of beauty really isn’t all that complicated; everyone is beautiful, it’s just that not everyone sees it.

[nowhereclosetoit]

Even More Gay Shit in “The Goldfinch”

Specifically, Chapter 6: i-iv, because that showcases some of Theo’s finest internalised homophobic hours and some of the gayest shit surrounding Boris.

So, I was rereading “The Goldfinch” and I forgot how fucking gay Theo’s dumbass is in parts i. – iv. at the beginning of Chapter 6, like, it fucking SENT me. After reading some of Theo’s finest examples of internalised homophobia and general headassery, I decided that I needed to collect the gayest selection of quotes from this specific part and analyse them and their gayness accordingly, because once again, it’s lockdown, God is dead and I killed Her with this fucking essay.

Theo’s internalised homophobia and feelings towards Boris are depicted especially strongly at the beginning of Chapter 6 – The Wind, Sand and Stars due to the introduction of Boris’ girlfriend, Kotku. Theo clearly portrays Kotku as a threat to his and Boris’ relationship, without ever giving a valid (heterosexual explanation) answer why: a) she poses such a threat to their “friendship” – oh no wait sorry their “there was not exactly a word for Boris and me”-ship, or b) why he’s so upset by her being in a relationship with Boris. He tries to rationalise this by saying that it’s just Kotku that he has a problem with and that there were “Lots of other, better girls our own age [that] liked Boris”, however, it’s clear that he has a problem with anyone taking Boris away from him.

Theo is overly harsh of Kotku and we never receive an unbiased presentation of her. He’s always trying to make her come off worse than she probably is and make it sound ludicrous that Boris is in a relationship with her, specifically. To try and justify this behaviour, he often follows comments like these on with something that sounds reasonable and rational – this also helps to highlight his ignorance to his feelings for Boris as this clearly depicts his jealousy towards Boris being close/in a relationship/spending time with someone that isn’t him.

Theo’s problem with Kotku can only be explained through jealousy, there is literally no other way to interpret why he hates her so much, after all, if she treats Boris well and makes him happy, why should Theo, his supporting bestest friend have a problem with that? (Because he’s fucking jealous).

I’m going to work through each segment of the chapter through quotes I’ve picked out to fully show how fucking ridiculous this part is – it sends me every fucking time I read it so I need a log of all the gay shit.

Summary of the points I’m trying to make by showing you all this:

Theo clearly presents his relationship with Boris to have grown closer since the last chapter, so close in fact that they “were so attuned to each other” that they didn’t need to talk to each other to communicate properly, and that Boris knew “just where [Theo] was weakest, the spot under the blade where he could dig his fingers”. He’s set the scene to depict this intimate and intense relationship they now have after spending almost a year living together and spending all their time together. The closeness of their relationship can clearly be paralleled with that of a romantic relationship from these descriptors alone but are intensified by the following.

The quotes highlighted above in green clearly show Theo’s jealousy towards Boris now spending more time with Kotku than he is with Theo. Obviously, it’s natural to miss your friends and to want to spend time with them if they’re spending more time with other people or their partner, but the way Theo depicts his feelings here can only be read as jealousy.

If this wasn’t enough, Theo makes Kotku seem like she’s really boring (“The name Kotku…makes her sound more interesting than she was”, “she’d lived in Clark County, Nevada her whole life”), a horrible person (“the glare she slid over me was anxiety provoking”), and unattractive, despite not really getting to know her and give her a chance.

Theo also tries to tell us that he cannot remember Kotku’s real name and puts her down so that it comes across like she meant and her presence in his life meant nothing to him. He does this constantly throughout the chapter. (We should keep a running count of how many times he says something like “Kotku…or WHATEVER her name was, I can’t remember because she was so BORING and INSIGNIFICANT to my life, that I just simply cannot remember her name! Oh but I can by chance remember the exact outfit Boris was in a whilst proclaiming his undying love for Kotku, he was also running his hands through his hair which I totally don’t have a boner for!”.)

He even goes as far to hit Boris “hard” because he was “in no mood” to hear about Boris’ feelings for Kotku. That’s jealousy, baby!

ii. – And this is over 3 pages

Summary:

He’s pretending not to know Kotku’s name again, and also reinforcing that “or whatever” part,

Shows his #jealous streak again as he says Kotku “virtually assumed ownership of Boris”, like bitch, calm the fuck down,

Shows even more jealousy,

Key word – “embarrassed”, keep note for later as this appears when Theo has to head on deal with some gay shit and does not want to deal with said gay shit so he feels embarrassed and that’s on internalised homophobia,

Says he found Kotku “disturbing” and the reasons as to why he did find her disturbing, Boris liked – shows how he’s gay! Because he hates women! Unless they’re Pippa or his mom! Jokes! Or is it…

And there’s even more bullying towards Kotku who is yet to do something offensive to Theo.

iii. – 1 page

Summary:

I think these ones are pretty self-explanatory,

AND!!! There’s the last quote which I think is really interesting because it’s an example of Theo comparing activities he does with Boris that he would, hypothetically, do with a girl on a date, like…ok bro. That’s fucking gay. He does this again somewhere too, but I can’t remember where.

iv. – Ok, so, this is the big one where he owns up to his totally no homo shenanigans, there’s a lot to unpack from this entire part, strap yourselves in.

(For the key in this part, assume anything unhighlighted corresponds to the yellow on the chart, as there was too much of it and it looked really ugly so I removed it.)

Mini Summary Before the Really Gay Shit:

Theo is an oblivious dumbass who totally likes Boris in a very homo way, so much so that he fucking despises our queen Kotku. He also is obviously clouded by internalised homophobia because he cannot realise that he does in fact like Boris.

v – What I’m going to look at here is what the fuck is going on and why Theo’s explaining it in the way he is.

My thoughts are going to be in bullet points here because there’s SO much to analyse.

Theo clearly shows how he’s fucking head over heels for this Boris bitch. Just read like all of it.

He tries to describe it like he doesn’t care that much, and I mean, you can just tell that the motherfucker’s lying. Like seriously, dude. Like the whole part where he’s like “I didn’t want BORIS to get the WRONG IDEA! Wouldn’t that be fucking gay? HAHAHAH, not me! I’m heterosexual!”. He’s saying he wants to “make things clear” with Boris to “make absolutely sure he didn’t have the wrong idea” and personally, I think this is either because he’s completely fucked with internalised homophobia or he’s just dealing with the “rejection” from Boris because Boris is from Kotku. Maybe he’s saying this to make rejection hurt less?

I also want to talk about Boris’ possible side in this whole thing. We never see Boris’ point of view of this shit because this entire book is just Theo wallowing in self-pity (dude, get a fucking therapist, I’m begging you). Do you think that Boris maybe got with Kotku because he knew Theo was fucked with internalise homophobia and thought that maybe meant that Theo didn’t vibe with the shit they were doing? Or, do you think he did it because HE was dealing with shit like, “Oh, boy! Do I like girls? Or….like what’s happening here?”

IN CONCLUSION:

This was just an excuse for me to gather all the gay shit and write down some thoughts. That’s IT! I am ILLITERATE at this point tbh.

[islamicrays]

Dear Parents,

After a few months of hearing from pre-teens and teens about all the craze on TikTok, I finally downloaded it Sunday evening.

At first glance, it instantly reminded me of the Vines app which had similar short video clips of people dancing or trying to be funny/goofy.

As I continued to scroll up though, I realized why it's so addictive.

This app is a voyeur's fantasy land. Not only do you get to peer into the lives of hundreds of strangers at lightening speed, but you get to see them in all of their *ahem* "glory."

From dance videos to lip syncing, to quick "life hacks" and tutorials, to pranks and animal videos, everyone can curate their content to suit their interests.

Sounds pretty typical of a lot of social media offerings these days, but what's particularly troubling about TikTok is that it's so pervasive among young adolescents and teens, and we should explore just why that is...

Many unsuspecting parents might think, "what could be harmful about an app that's used to showcase popular dances and lip syncing videos?"

Well, sure there's plenty of that on there, but A LOT of the other things get thrown into the mix as well, specifically overtly sexual content and inappropriate material that children should definitely NOT be exposed to.

In my limited experience on the app, I think for young children, preadolescents, and even teens, it's incredibly toxic...(maybe a name change is in order? TikToxic?)

I'm sure a lot of teens are connected with their friends and enjoy watching their content, but the real danger is the videos which get added to the home screen. They are the most liked or popular ones, which often tend to be from celebrities; people who are incredibly good-looking and promote their vanity without any qualms whatsoever; people who are conventionally unattractive and exploit themselves with self deprecating humor and performances in the hopes of being accepted; and people with the most salacious and over the top content that makes it difficult to look away even if you wanted to.

I highly encourage parents whose teens have this app to HEAVILY monitor the content they are exposed to instead of taking their word for it that it's all innocent and fun.

IT ABSOLUTELY IS NOT INNOCENT.

Young, vulnerable, insecure, and incredibly impressionable teens should not be exposed to a seemingly never-ending stream of content that is designed for self-promotion of some, but will inevitably make them feel inadequate, insecure, and bad about themselves. Even if they belt out some laughs in between at the random "innocent" video, it's hard to imagine anyone who spends even more than 10 minutes on that app could walk away without some feelings of inadequacy, self-doubt, and insecurity!

When you're young and unsure of yourself but spend so much time watching people (sometimes your age) with near perfect bodies and skin showcase their looks/bodies, talents, dance, exercise, humor, athletic abilities, singing abilities, etc., how can you not walk away feeling like you don't measure up?!

And when you're struggling with your self-confidence and you see countless people parading themselves and being rewarded with popularity, compliments, and accolades, while you may feel insignificant and completely invisible in your own world, how can you not feel bad about yourself?

Think about the consequences of these things on an average person and then how much worse it would be for a teen.

Parents, please do your own research and ask your teen(s) to let you explore the app for a few minutes. See for yourselves what your teens are spending sometimes 3-4 hours a day or more on, and then see if there are any behavioral changes you've noticed in them lately that may be rooted in what they're being exposed to on the app.

May Allah ﷻ protect our children and our communities from the increasing fitna of this time. Amin.

Ustadha Hosai Mojaddidi

[garment-steamer]

Walls and Ceilings

We as a whole realize that our floors should be cleaned and have an essential thought of how to approach doing as such. Yet, with regards to our dividers and roofs, things may appear to be somewhat more far off. Fortunately, steam cleaning is here to help.

For what reason Do I Need to Clean My Walls?

In spite of the fact that they may not seem like they get a lot of contact from the start thought, in the event that you think of it as additional, you'll understand that is not really obvious. Your pets rub facing them, kids can smirch or even draw or paint on them, and grown-ups incline toward them or take hold of corners.

Consider the divider behind where your feline's litter box may be, for instance, or whether you have a canine who used to jump at the chance to stamp their domain inside. Possibly one of your home's past occupants was a smoker and now your dividers have nicotine staining and a tar buildup that could be perilous to your wellbeing.

Additionally there's all the amassed garbage of people simply existing in a space—soil dismissed up from the rug when you stroll on it, shedded dead skin cells, cooking buildup. Regardless of whether there isn't any conspicuous earth on your dividers, they actually should be cleaned. You might be amazed by what their real paint tone resembles.

Would you be able to Steam Clean Walls?

Indeed! Wall steam cleaner is ok for your dividers and won't affect different individuals from your family. It likewise offers a lot of different advantages, including:

Insignificant streaking. Since the Ladybug framework utilizes dry steam, there is a lower probability of fluid running down your dividers and leaving unattractive drying designs.

No synthetic compounds included. This both adds to the absence of streaking and implies that the cycle is more amiable toward kids and pets.

No stepping stools required. The included augmentation handles keep the cycle ergonomic, no stepping stools or awkward twisting and extending vital.

Is It Safe for Paint?

Generally truly, however that relies upon how your dividers were painted.

Likewise with some other surface, you ought to do a spot check in a subtle spot first to ensure that the paint will hold up. The spot check is extra significant here; if your dividers weren't arranged appropriately before the paint was initially applied or the paint isn't of acceptable quality, at that point the paint may fall off.

The genuine variable here is time. How long you let the warmth sit on the painted surface will decide the amount you eliminate—regardless of whether you're simply taking off soil or taking the paint off alongside it. Try not to remain in a similar spot for a really long time and your paint ought to be fine.

How Can It Remove Paint?

The more you remain in one spot, the more will fall silly, paint included since the warmth will continue working. In the event that you'd prefer to eliminate inappropriately prepared paint from your dividers and begin once again, this may be a decent time, since you can utilize your steam cleaner to eliminate paint deliberately.

It can eliminate backdrop also in case you're hoping to begin a room once again, however that is an alternate point completely.

How Do I Use Steam Vapor to Clean My Walls?

In case you're utilizing the Advap Ladybug framework, simply follow these simple advances. In the event that you have an alternate framework, make certain to adhere to the producer's guidelines, however the essential cycle will probably be genuinely comparative.

Stage 1: Clean.

Much like how you move your furnishings and vacuum your floors before you clean them, you need to ensure you're set up for progress. Pull furniture away from the dividers so you can make a point to clean the entire surface and do a speedy tidying to knock off any bigger particles. Continuously start from the top and work down.

Stage 2: Assemble.

Set up two augmentation handles, at that point join the enormous floor brush, filler cushion, and a terry towel.

Stage 3: Unlock.

In the event that there is a lock on the floor brush, click it off. You need the brush to have the option to turn as you move it so you can without much of a stretch move it all over the divider and spread the whole surface.

Stage 4: Get steaming.

Start at the head of the divider and work your way down, making moderate disregards the divider. It doesn't make a difference what sort of example you work in, insofar as you're working starting from the top.

Stage 5: Keep moving.

Keep the brush moving over the divider. In the event that there is an especially obstinate recognize that won't fall off, don't wait; simply proceed onward and return to it later. Remaining in one spot too long will eliminate the paint.

Despite the fact that the steam alone is normally enough for a strong cleaning position, on the off chance that you have any particularly oily territories, you can attempt Advap's Formula 212 Cleaner. Adhere to the guidelines that accompany the item, which is a focus that you can shower on oily zones for additional expulsion help, with insignificant amounts required.

Shouldn't something be said about the Ceiling?

A similar cycle should chip away at your roof too. (What's more, indeed, you ought to likewise be cleaning your roofs—would you like to be unintentionally thumping down residue and earth that has been coasted up there?) You should in reality clean the roof before doing your dividers since gravity will bring the soil descending. Continuously start high and work down.

The means are equivalent to for cleaning dividers. On the off chance that you have particularly high roofs, you may need to utilize three expansion handles as opposed to only two.

Will This Remove My Child's Unauthorized Art Installation?

Perhaps. The appropriate response here at last relies upon what materials your sprouting craftsman was working in. Pastel may recolor, as opposed to telling the truth, yet launderable colored pencils ought to be no issue. Sorcery marker and paint, in any case, likely won't fall off except if you're taking the remainder of your paint work off with them.

For what reason Should I Use the Ladybug System?

The Ladybug steam fume framework accompanies all you require to clean your dividers and roofs. All the included extras are high caliber and they, alongside the ergonomic plan, will assist you with getting into hard-to-arrive at corners with negligible extending or muscle strain.

Since the Ladybug framework is furnished with TANCS, your surfaces won't just be perfect, they will likewise be completely cleaned.

The Bottom Line

Steam cleaning can be as useful for your dividers and roofs all things considered for your floors. The dry steam measure is without substance, alright for youngsters and pets, and simple on the joints—no stepping stools or extending required.

Furthermore, because of the TANCS framework, every one of your surfaces will be sterilized just as shimmering clean.

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

26th August >> Fr. Martin’s Gospel Reflections / Homilies on Matthew 23:27-32 for Wednesday, Twenty First Week in Ordinary Time: ‘You are the sons of those who murdered the prophets’.

Wednesday, Twenty First Week in Ordinary Time

Gospel (Europe, Africa, New Zealand, Australia & Canada)

Matthew 23:27-32

You are the sons of those who murdered the prophets

Jesus said: ‘Alas for you, scribes and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You who are like whitewashed tombs that look handsome on the outside, but inside are full of dead men’s bones and every kind of corruption. In the same way you appear to people from the outside like good honest men, but inside you are full of hypocrisy and lawlessness.

‘Alas for you, scribes and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You who build the sepulchres of the prophets and decorate the tombs of holy men, saying, “We would never have joined in shedding the blood of the prophets, had we lived in our fathers’ day.” So! Your own evidence tells against you! You are the sons of those who murdered the prophets! Very well then, finish off the work that your fathers began.’

Gospel (USA)

Matthew 23:27-32

You are the children of those who murdered the prophets.

Jesus said, “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, you hypocrites. You are like whitewashed tombs, which appear beautiful on the outside, but inside are full of dead men’s bones and every kind of filth. Even so, on the outside you appear righteous, but inside you are filled with hypocrisy and evildoing.

“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, you hypocrites. You build the tombs of the prophets and adorn the memorials of the righteous, and you say, ‘If we had lived in the days of our ancestors, we would not have joined them in shedding the prophets’ blood.’ Thus you bear witness against yourselves that you are the children of those who murdered the prophets; now fill up what your ancestors measured out!”

Reflections (3)

(i) Wednesday, Twenty First Week in Ordinary Time

In the gospel reading Jesus criticizes those who look well on the outside but within leave a lot to be desired. We all know that appearances can be deceptive. There isn’t always a good fit between the person we present to others and the person we are in our heart of hearts. It is clear from the gospel reading that Jesus is more interested in how people are in their heart than in how they appear. He wants his followers to attend to what is within first, their basic attitudes and values, and not to be worried about appearances. If what is within is right, then it will show itself in how we appear to others. Jesus praised Nathanael as a person who was incapable of deceit, or, in an older translation, a ‘man in whom there is no guile’. In other words, there was a harmony between what was within him and what was evident to others. Nathanael had plenty of work to do on what was within, as Jesus went on to point out, but, at least, he wasn’t pretending to be someone he was not. The gospels suggest that Jesus had a very strong aversion to pretence. He looks for openness and honesty, a harmony between who we are in reality and how we appear to others, even if who we are in reality is not yet all that the Lord is calling us to be. The Lord recognizes that we are all on the way; we have not yet arrived; we are pilgrims. He just wants us to be honest pilgrims.

And/Or

(ii) Wednesday, Twenty First Week in Ordinary Time

Image and appearance are important values in our culture at the moment. There is an emphasis on looking well, and people can go to great lengths to look well. In the gospel reading, Jesus highlights the importance of what is within rather than what is without. How people are within themselves rather than how they appear to others is what matters. Jesus himself appeared at his most unattractive as he hung dying from the cross. Yet, that was the moment when the love that was within him was at its most intense. The poor widow who put two copper coins into the Temple treasury looked an insignificant figure contributing an insignificant amount of money. Yet Jesus saw through the unexceptional appearance of this woman to the generous heart within, a heart like his own, and he called over his disciples so that they could learn from her. Appearances can be deceptive. In the case of the scribes and Pharisees in today’s gospel reading there was less there than met the eye. In the case of the widow and Christ crucified there was more than met the eye. The gospel reading this morning encourages us not to work so much on our appearances as on what is within, the quality of the love in our heart.

And/Or

(iii) Wednesday, Twenty First Week in Ordinary Time

In the gospel reading this morning, Jesus criticizes those same people for being more preoccupied with appearances, what is on the outside, than with what is within, what Scripture call the heart. Today, even more than in the time of Jesus, appearances, image, has become all important. People who have a certain image receive the most adulation, have the biggest following and, often, get the biggest salaries. We are easily taken in by appearances. Jesus invites us to look at little deeper, which is how God looks. As one of the books of the Jewish Scriptures says, ‘we look at appearances, God looks at the heart’. The ‘heart’ in the Jewish Scriptures and in the New Testament is the seat of the emotions, the intellect and the will. What matters to God is the heart, how we feel, how we think, how and what we desire. We are to bring our feeling, our thoughts, our desires into line with how God feels, how God thinks, what God desires for us. Our hearts are to reflect, in some way, God’s heart, which means Jesus’ heart. As Jesus says elsewhere in Matthew’s gospel, ‘Learn from me for I am gentle and humble in heart’. It is the Holy Spirit who comes to us from God and the risen Lord who can mould our hearts into images of the Lord’s heart. We pray this morning that this work of the Spirit will be brought to completion in us.

 Fr. Martin Hogan.

[bestgaminglaptop]

Gaming Laptop Buying Guide: Find the Right Rig

With their amazing parts, beautiful plans and premium costs, gaming workstations are an unexpected brute in comparison to run of the mill standard scratch pad. What's more, they should be in the event that you need to play requesting games like The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt and Grand Theft Auto V, investigate virtual universes with either the HTC Vive or Oculus Rift and appreciate smooth ongoing interaction on high casing rates. They're likewise an alternate mammoth with regards to configuration, offering suspension with progressively forceful lines and multicolor consoles.

Contingent upon your financial plan, your way of life and the games you need to play, you could wind up spending somewhere in high range on a framework that is probably going to weigh somewhere in the range of 4 and 20 pounds. To locate the correct gaming PC, follow the tips and guidance at https://bestgaminglaptop.in/

Brisk Tips

Try not to purchase a gaming PC for low-end titles like World of Warcraft or Candy Crush. These games can without much of a stretch be bolstered by an incorporated illustrations card.

Maintain a strategic distance from contact screens. They're progressively costly and channel the battery.

17-or 18-inch PCs are normally increasingly incredible, however the least versatile while 13-, 14-and 15-inchers are simpler to convey yet frequently need better quality parts.

Ensure the console is agreeable. In the event that you can, travel to the store and evaluate the console before you purchase.

Jettison the M. On account of Nvidia's 10-arrangement GPUs, versatile chips are a relic of times gone by. These new GPUs are quicker, increasingly incredible and are VR-prepared.

Stay away from workstations with a low-res show (under 1920 x 1080).

Get strong state stockpiling. Put resources into a SSD for quicker game introduces and burden times.

Get a PC with in any event an Intel Core i7-6700HQ processor, a Nvidia GeForce GTX 1060 GPU and a HDMI 1.3 port on the off chance that you need to have the option to appreciate augmented reality games with an Oculus Rift or HTC Vive.

How Portable Do You Need It?

With regards to gaming frameworks, there are various degrees of compactness, going from "lift with your knees" to "standard PC." Generally, the more remarkable the PC, the less convenient it is.

Insignificant Portability (17 - 18 inches): If you intend to keep your PC in your home and leave it around your work area or simply move it between rooms, a framework with a 17 or 18-inch show like the Alienware 17 ought to be fine. PCs in this size range are generally the most remarkable, on the grounds that they have a lot of space for heat-producing parts. Be that as it may, they're substantial to convey, an extreme fit for most packs and too eager for power to utilize unplugged for long.

Medium Portability (15 inches): If you need to utilize the gaming scratch pad on your lap and haul it around more regularly, think about a 15-inch journal, for example, the OriginPC Eon15-S.These frameworks weigh somewhere in the range of 4.6 and 7.2 pounds while enduring a normal of 5 hours and 50 minutes on a charge.

Best Portability (13 - 14 inches): If you're continually progressing, you'll need to consider 13 or 14-inch workstations like the Razer Blade. Note pads in this size range normally weigh under 5 pounds and will in general have longer battery lives with a normal continuance of 7 hours and 38 minutes. In any case, 13 and 14-inch gaming PCs as a rule don't accompany the most impressive CPU or GPU, in light of the fact that they simply need more space to disseminate such warmth.

Illustrations

The illustrations card or GPU is the cornerstone of your gaming PC. It conveys the pictures on your presentation by handling the information and transmitting the sign to the screen. Because of how distressing this procedure can be when running match-ups, you need a discrete GPU with its own committed memory, called VRAM (video memory).

Despite the fact that there will in general be a more-is-better mantra with gaming PCs, the normal gaming lover ought to approve of 4GB of VRAM. Most of gaming workstations transport with Nvidia GPUs, yet in case you're inclined toward AMD, there are sure brands that permit you to design your framework as needs be.

Useful for Mainstream Gamers

Nvidia GeForce GTX 1060: Laptops with 1060 cards can play burdening games like Mass Effect: Andromeda or Witcher 3 without yielding a portion of the cooler visual beautiful sight, including water reflections and common looking hair at 1920 x 1080. You may need to change the settings a piece at 4K, however not all that much. Far and away superior, you can attach your Rift or Vive headset up for a portable fitting and-play VR experience.

Nvidia GeForce GTX 1050/1050 Ti - A stage beneath the 1060, the GTX 1050 will produce some strong framerates in mid-extend games like Battlefield 1 at humble settings. The 1050 Ti is somewhat increasingly amazing and proficient now and again of supporting Oculus Rift and its different titles. Be that as it may, genuine gamers searching for an elite framework will most likely be baffled.

Better

Nvidia GeForce GTX 1070: The center offspring of Nvidia's set-up of cards, the 1070 GPU is additionally VR-prepared and equipped for creating some great edge rates, yet isn't exactly comparable to the 1080. You can expect some genuine smooth designs at 1080p and 4K on the-line-games, for example, Htiman.

No-nonsense Gamers and VR-Ready

Nvidia GeForce GTX 1080: This is the card to beat. During our testing, gaming workstations equipped with a 1080 GPU routinely top the classification normal on top of the line games, for example, Rise of the Tomb Raider and Grand Theft Auto V with the enhancements settings and goals turned as far as possible up. What's more, obviously, Nvidia 1080 can without much of a stretch help all your computer generated simulation experiences. Simply be set up to dish out a chunk of change, since 1080s are just found in top of the line frameworks like the Razer Blade Pro or the Acer Predator 17X.

SLI: Since two is superior to one, a few workstations offer two GPUs in Nvidia's Scalable Link Interface (SLI) arrangement. The innovation permits up to four GPUs to cooperate, scaling illustrations execution for better rendering at incredibly high casing rates. A few instances of SLI PCs incorporate the Acer Predator 21 X and the MSI GT83 Titan SLI.

Nvidia Max-Q Design - Nvidia has collaborated with PC makers to make Max-Q, another structure determination which centers around proficiency as opposed to execution. Basically downclocking Nvidia GPUs can put an amazing 1080 GPU into the 0.5-inch thick Asus ROG Zephyrus. With less force being devoured, the framework is delivering less warmth, which implies the fans aren't being utilized so a lot. That implies you get a framework that is cooler and calmer than your normal gaming PC and about as amazing. Max-Q structured GPUs will incorporate the 1060, 1070 and 1080 GPUs.

Show

What's the purpose of having spread smooth edge rates and delightful designs if your note pad's presentation looks like poop? To forestall against this shocking unforeseen development, here are a couple of rules to follow.

Goals: The base goals for any gaming PC is 1920 x 1080 — anything less and you're requesting sloppy illustrations. PCs with QHD (2560 x 1440) or 4K (3840 x 2160) boards are getting progressively mainstream, applauded for their striking subtleties and shading. There are some gamers that depend on 1366 x 768 due to the expanded edge rates, yet I beseech you to cherish yourself more and point somewhat higher.

Contact Screens: Some gaming PCs have begun offering contact screens, which is pleasant in case you will play Candy Crush or Cut the Rope. We've tried an expansive area of touch-screen shows and keeping in mind that they bode well for convertible frameworks or 2-in-1s, this element is superfluous on most gaming PCs.

Matte or Glossy: How would you like your showcases, lustrous or matte? This is more a matter of inclination than all else, yet there are lifelong fans for the two camps. Group Glossy depends on the dynamic hues, however that sparkling surface is truly vulnerable to irritating glare. Enthusiasts of a matte board don't need to stress over diverting reflections, yet a few clients grumble about cleaned out shading and detail.

OLED: Described as the eventual fate of show, an OLED (natural light-discharging diode) board is contained a film of natural exacerbates that produce light when an electric flow is presented. The innovation takes into consideration more slender, more influence proficient boards that convey fantastically rich shading and differentiation. The Alienware 13 R3 OLED is right now the main PC to highlight this innovation.

G-Sync or FreeSync: Several gaming workstations accompany boards that help Nvidia's G-Sync or AMD's FreeSync advances, the two of which are intended to dispose of unattractive graphical tears and ghosting 0n screens going from 1080p to 4K. While 60Hz is the current least revive rate, there are an expanding number of screens that offer 120Hz, which offers considerably quicker rendering without presenting falter.

Sound: Get a Bark as Loud as the Bite

The sound is similarly as significant as the visuals with regards to gaming. Truly, you presumably have a headset that you'll utilize more often than not. Be that as it may, now and then you simply need to let your PC's speakers work. The MSI-restrictive, Nahimic sound programming is one of our top choices since it offers the absolute best encompass sound in the two earphones and speakers. It additionally gives a few convenient presets, Bass Boost and Voice Clarification programming. Alienware's Dell Audio programming is a nearby second, while Dolby Home Theater v4, accessible in Lenovo note pads, balances our main three.

Consoles and Touchpads

Try not to get so hung up on specs that you disregard console quality. You'll be beating on those keys each time you play a game or surf the Web, so you'll need them to feel good and look incredible as well.

CPU and RAM: The Brains of the Operation

In the event that the GPU is the core of a gaming PC, at that point the processor and RAM are the cerebrum and hippocampus. Your PC's processor (CPU) handles everything that doesn't have to do with illustrations, for example, playing out a portion of a game's material science figurings and controlling its non-playable characters. It additionally influences the presentation of the entirety of your non-gaming applications, including your program, OS and efficiency applications. When selecting your CPU and RAM, remember the accompanying tips.

Intel just: You most likely won't discover a gaming PC with an AMD CPU.

Pick in any event sixth Gen Core: The most recent age of Intel CPUs are the chipmaker's seventh Generation "Kaby Lake" arrangement that propelled in late 2016. All Kaby Lake CPUs have model numbers that start with a 7 (ex: Core i5-7200U) while more established, sixth era chips have IDs that start with a 6 (ex: Core i5-6200U).

Center i5 Is Bare Minimum: When you're looking for your new gaming PC, an Intel Core i5 is the slowest CPU you ought to consider. Double center Core i7 models are a little advance up.

Quad-Core Is Ideal: If you're in the market for a Core i7 processor, search for a quad-center chip rather than double center. You'll realize that a chip is double center by taking a gander toward the finish of its model number. Quad-center Core i7 CPUs have postfixes finishing off with HQ or HK. HK chips are the quickest and even permit you to overclock them.

Clock Speed Matters: Keep the check speed at the top of the priority list when choosing a CPU as higher numbers compare to quicker speeds. A 3.4-GHz Core i5 processor will be recognizably quicker than a similar chip with 2.6 GHz. A portion of Intel's new Skylake chips can be overclocked, which means the speed is movable through a program like Intel Extreme Tuning Utility.

8GB Is Enough: Don't make due with any under 8GB of RAM. Getting 16GB is an or more, yet isn't as significant as having a quicker CPU or illustrations chip.

Capacity: SSD or HDD?

Notice

With regards to gaming scratch pad, quicker is in every case better, which is the reason many individuals love SSDs, especially the new PCIe cards, which convey rankling record move speed. That additional increase in speed means quicker game burden times, just as decreasing hitching — that irritating delay when your drive can't create resources sufficiently quick to stay aware of the game.

For a trustable reviewer you must have a look at our website https://bestgaminglaptop.in/

[zackinthegreen]

Random questions ALL ANSWERS

Bored waiting for a ride home so i guess ill answer them all

1. Museum date or aquarium date? Why?

--museum. just got reaction

2. Describe your favorite type of weather.

-- Cold and Still

3. Name a subject/topic you know a lot about.

-- nothing

4. Do you have any friends or know anyone with the same name as you?

-- no friends but a couple people in my middle/highschool had the same first name

5. What’s something most people love that you hate?

-- uhhh I mean theres some food stuffs, pineapple, milk apparently

6. Who knows the most about you personally?

-- probably no one

7. If you could create ANY mix-up or mythical animal and have it be brought to life, what would it be?

-- Theow idk why

8. Do you think everyone in our lives serves a purpose, or are some people just there?

-- no one has a purpose

9. How do you feel about getting your picture taken?

-- HATE IT

10. Any guilty pleasure/s?

-- all things I enjoy come with not an insignificant amount of shame and guilt

11. What is your favorite Studio Ghibli film and why?

-- Havent seen any of them

12. Do you always make eye contact with people when you’re speaking to them?

-- I try to but I dont like to a lot of the times

13. Have you ever self-harmed?

-- as a kid I would slam my head against a wall but I dont think that really applies

14. What’s the nicest compliment you’ve ever been given?

-- don't really remember

15. Have you felt butterflies in your stomach today?

-- not today no

16. Did anyone/anything get on your nerves today?

-- yeah. Film club and the terrible way its run

17. Is there something you currently want, that you can’t have?

-- to be a ghost

18. Who was the last person to make you feel embarrassed or uncomfortable?

-- myself

19. Think of the last film you watched. Who was your favorite character in it?

-- i guess the last movie I watched was the lighthouse but that was a while ago. Fav character the seagull

20. What are you known for?

-- am I know for anything?

21. What is something you are skeptical about?

-- a lot i guess

22.If you have a job, do you prefer morning shifts or evening shifts?

-- morings if it's not too early

23. What is something you are most confident about?

-- nothing

How about something you're really insecure about?

-- my ability to communicate

24. What do you think in general of girls with short hair? How about guys with long hair?

-- I noticed a trend in highschool of frequently crushing on tall girls with short hair. boys with long depends

25. With films in languages you do not speak, do you prefer a dub or a subtitle?

-- it depends on a lot

26. If you wear makeup, what are your preferred brands?

-- dont wear make up

27. What part of a person's body do you usually find the most attractive?

-- I dont really know

28. What/which music are you currently listening to?

the dreadnoughts just released a new album

29. Do you find smoking unattractive?

YES

30. What was the last thing you looked up on Google?

--Petey Wheatstraw

31. What is the 10th picture in your phone gallery?

-- a half finished cardboard model of ds9

32. Would you ever dye your hair an unnatural color?

-- every time a movie with the joker comes out it delays me dying my hair green

33. What job would you be terrible at and what job would you be good at?

-- I'd be bad at a lot. doing okay at current job of AV lab monitor

34. Do you think forgiveness is mandatory to move on from something?

-- yes

35. What did you think was cool when you were younger?

-- I'm not sure I ever thought things were cool. like anything you could possibly do isnt cool. existing is uncool.

36. Is there a place that makes you sad to return to?

-- not that I can think of right now.

37. What's the best advice anyone has ever given you?

-- lay low

38. Have you ever treated someone badly just because someone else treated you badly?

-- yes

39. What's your favorite lyric from your favorite song right now?

-- FEELING LIKE A DEAD DUCK

40. What was the last thing that completely took your breath away?

-- walking up some steps

41. Is it true that if you can't love yourself, you can't love another?

-- I hope not

42. What's the most positive thing you could say to yourself right now?

-- it's all gonna be fine

43. What time of the day feels the most magical to you?

-- in the mornings when I'm the only one awake yet.

44. Were you a cute baby?

-- I dont think there exists a human baby capable of being cute

45. Is there something you wish you had said sorry for, but never did?

-- something said to Kass back at Drew U

46. What is any creative talent you wish you had?

-- drawing, writing, singing, playing music, acting

47. Do you think you'd make a good teacher? Why or why not?

NO. bad at communicating and cant deal with people well.

48. Do you think it's possible to fix a "broken" relationship?

-- I hope so

49. If you chose to get a tattoo what would it be and where would you want it?

-- I dont think I would get a tattoo

50. When was the last time you stayed up past midnight and what were you up to?

-- maybe about a month ago. feeling bad about some stuff I said.

[widgenstain]

i hope this doesnt sound creepy but what were your thoughts on submergence? I love reading movie reviews/rants about my faves (jamesy)

Lol, no,not creepy at all, I wanted write a few words after I saw it two weeks (?) agoanyway, but got distracted. I hope this doesn’t disappoint you though! Not so many positive opinions here!

(light spoilers under the cut)

The best word to sum up my feelings about this is“meh”. I expected the worst after reading some reviews but it wasn’tTHAT bad. It wasn’t good either though. I felt pretty vindicated in myassessment from January 2016 ; Submergence isn’t abook that translates well on screen. And they didn’t even try very hard. Boy, thatscript is bad…

Sceneslifted directly from the book that anyone with even the tiniest understandingof how good narratives work would have changed, or at least tried to make morefilmable. Instead we got this mess; long, clunky, scientific dialogue thatworks as a build-up in the book but needed to be cut short in the movie andmore importantly: focussed on the message and motives behind it! What does it mean to behuman, to live in certain social structures and how insignificant are we andthose social structures really in the big picture? You don’t have to explain the layers of the Ocean if you can’t get across how vast they really are and what that vastness is meant to symbolise! 

Thedirection doesn’t clear anything up either. It’s so inconsistent in its levelsof subtlety. Especially in the parts that take place in France it needed to be waymore obvious; what attracts these two people to each other? THE importantquestion in a romance!

In the bookit’s intellectual understanding and fascination with the other person’sapproach to topics like love, death, religion etc.. I wasn’t kidding in my earlierpost when I said that in the book they aren’t really characters, but voices for differentworld views that somehow still see their similarities and learn from eachother. The whole thing is supported by their weirdly intertwining heritage andlife story; she’s a biracial cosmopolitan who explores the seas his ancestors sailed,before he became a spy in Africa, who’s deeply involved with Eastern Africanconflicts.

In the movie?Yeah, that first part doesn’t come across whatsoever. They try, but it’s fartoo subtle and the script doesn’t capture the differences/similarities at all. Theyprobably realised that, so they added a lot of sex scenes instead. I was veryworried for them but they’re actually fine.They’re notreally well-matched physically, James looks way older than Alicia (well, he is,widge) but they do have chemistry. Is it the chemistry the movie needs though? No,it’s not.

I totallycan see them as two people who met at a nice hotel on the Atlantic coast and thought“hey u cute!” “hey, u cute too, let’s have some really good sex since we’reboth people who are so good at sex.” And after the three days, they went their ways andmaybe thought of each other during a wank session or two.

It’s notthe chemistry of a couple where he thinks of her in the worst moments of his lifeand she in the most triumphant yet terrifying ones. 

As for the intertwiningheritages? They actually wrote, shot, edited and left in a scene in which hetalks about her being such a “mongrel” of Swedish and Australian heritage. Noone in that whole process noticed the disconnect or the freaking white-washing!Wim Wenders deserves a few punches in the nuts for that.

As for theacting, yeah… I’m not a fan of Alicia, there I said it. I don’t subscribe tothe hate the Fassbender fans/haters/toxically obsessed creeps (who keeps upwith this these days?) throw at her but I sincerely do. not. understand. how shemade it as far as an actress as she has. 

Still, she is ok in this, she showsmore than her usual three expressions and some actual emotions. That doesn’ttake away from the fact that she acts in scenes, not in movies. She’s onecharacter in one scene, another in the next. It - weirdly enough - works bestin the sex scenes where they allowed her to be an unusually tomboyish character,not the ultra-feminine seductress you’d expect in such context. She feels more or less natural and ok in them.

She’s farless believable as the career-driven and respected-by-her-peers scientist andit’s the absolute worst in the “phone” scenes. To be fair the script fucks herover in these as well, turning Danny, a stoic woman of science about to go onthe biggest adventure of her career, into a bawling teenage girl, who’s upsetthat the guy she had really good sex with doesn’t reply to her calls. 

A betteractress than her would have struggled with that garbage too, but with her scene-actingit really feels like you’re watching someone completely different each time. Addthe gloomy goth girl rambling about suffocating in really inappropriate momentsand you’ve got your stitched together Frankenstein character.

James of course knows how to portray a coherent character, but he isn’tat the height of his game either in the beginning. He’s a bit stiff, the whole spy stuff is thankfully short because it feels like an artsy-fartsydirector trying and failing to do James Bond, and the scenes in captivity would have hit much harder if you’d gotten WHY he adores her so and whispers “OH DANNY” all so dramatically.

I mean, I get thatmovie!James is trying to hang on to his sanity as best as he can, but why think of that random girlhe had really good sex with in France? Why not his mother, his best friend or, ffs, his housekeeper in Nairobi he’s known for more than 3 days?! The film doesn’tget this across and it’s sad (I’m also convinced the editor hated them. Herflashbacks show him squinting unattractively and his flashbacks show her from areally unfortunate angle.)

However, hisacting is top notch in the pivotal scene when movie!James’ captors send him into thewater to shoot him. It starts out all dramatic but then he takes it and turnsit into this absolutely painful, human moment where he yanks the audience’sheart out and crushes it like he’s wont to do. Man is he good. From that on Ilike the movie. 

The interactions with the doctor (helloooo Julian Bashir, didn’tknow you were in this!) are the best scenes in the book as well and they’reexcellent. Nothing is black and white, how different can the lessons differentpeople take from the same situations be, etc.? It’s great.

Except whenthe movie suddenly throws all subtlety overboard. There’s a scene where a womangets stoned and instead of focusing on the fucking amazing acting that goes on onJames’ and Alexander Siddig’s faces it has to ram the pointhome with the silliest effects. It’s such a waste of two excellent actors with an amazingly uncomfortable chemistry. 

Still, the scenes with the extremists are awesome. Too short and I don’t think the movie audience really gets how intriguingReda Kateb’s character really is, but they’re part of a movie that could havebeen great. Pity that wasn’t the whole movie.

I was a bitconfused after Tiff last year where Wenders said that he changed the ending butI don’t think he really has? Both are open in ways, but not really. I liked theending in the book and I liked it in the movie, super kitschy lifetime movieshots of Danny aside.

Anotherpositive thing I noticed was the light. Whoever did that really understood whatto do with the beautiful people in front of the camera and how to tell thefreaking story. I swear, the light on her face as he leaves the hotel, in hisprison and in her sub does a far better job at connecting them and explainingthe motives than script and direction together! I hope that light person got paid a ridiculously high amount of money and gets to do more movies.The script person should find another day job though and Wenders should stick todocumentaries from now on.

In short:Meh. Not gonna buy the DVD but maybe will check it out another time when/if itcomes along on Netflix and see if my opinion changes.

[lastsonlost]

Thanks goes out to @yourownpetard​for bringing this to my attention with his post HERE.

Fifteen years ago, Hollywood’s glittering superstars—among them Meryl Streep— were on their feet cheering for Roman Polanski, the convicted child rapist and fugitive from justice, when he won the 2003 Academy Award for Best Director. But famous sex criminals of the motion picture and television arts have lately fallen out of fashion, as the industry attempts not just to police itself but—where would we be without them?—to instruct all of us on how to lead our lives.

The Golden Globes ceremony had the angry, unofficial theme of  “Time’s Up,” which quickly and predictably became unmoored from its original meaning, as excited winners tried to align their entertaining movies and TV shows with the message. By the time Laura Dern—a quiver in her voice—connected the nighttime soap opera Big Little Lies to America’s need to institute “restorative justice,” it seemed we’d set a course for the moon but ended up on Jupiter: close, but still 300 million miles away. And then Oprah Winfrey climbed the stairs to the stage, and I knew she wouldn’t just bat clean-up; she’d bring home the pennant.

Winfrey began speaking to crowds at the age of 3. “Little Miss Winfrey is here to do the recitation,” the preacher would say, and the whole congregation would lean in to listen to the remarkable child. As far as sexual abuse is involved, no one speaks with greater personal authority; the first time she was raped, she was 9.  “I knew it was bad,” she said later, “because it hurt so badly.” From the second she started speaking at the Golden Globes, filling the ballroom at the Beverly Hilton with her rich, confident, and sui generis voice, she gave the night what it had so desperately wanted: emotional coherence.  

She smoothly accomplished what other speakers had struggled to do: She connected the grotesque but statistically insignificant problem of sexual harassment in Hollywood to the larger fate of women and girls. “It’s not just a story affecting the entertainment industry,” she said; “it’s one that transcends any culture, geography, race, religion, politics, or workplace.” She said that a new day was on the horizon—this was near the end of the speech, by which point she could have marched the crowd right over to The Weinstein Company and torched the place—and that the catalyst for this important change was the number of women willing to “speak their truth.” In that moment, all us watching from home witnessed the revolution become a movement.

Less than a week later, the movement became a racket. A previously obscure website called Babe, which is operated by a group of very young women in Brooklyn, got a hot tip. Through the grapevine, the staff had heard that another young Brooklyn woman had been talking about being sexually violated by the comic Aziz Ansari. They reached out to a woman they called “Grace,” persuaded her to “speak her truth,” albeit anonymously, and rushed the piece into publication: Ansari was given less than six hours to respond to these reputation-destroying allegations. There was no need for the furious pace—this wasn’t a breaking story about a political election or a natural disaster—which seemed to have been motivated by the urgency of the “Time’s Up” motto. Almost immediately the piece became the object of intense cultural interest, with many commentators (including myself) deciding that Ansari had been unfairly treated by the website. Just as many others, particularly young women, said that the account resonated deeply with them, and concluded that Ansari had violated Grace.

Predictably, the piece drove huge traffic to Babe, and visitors who explored the site were exposed to its credo: Babe is created by and for “girls who don’t give a fuck.” Collectively, the articles address what the site suggests are universal conditions of the young female heart, or at least conditions universal to its fans. Unfortunately, many of these shared concerns boil down to an almost exact list of traits which blatantly misogynist websites like Return of Kings have enumerated for years. 

The Babe girl is 

MANIPULATIVE (“Period-Trapping Is the Only Way to Find Out if You’re in a Relationship or Not”)

INSECURE (“You Should Be Secretly Looking Through Your Partner’s Phone”)

ADDICTED TO DRAMA (“We Pranked Our Exes and Asked Them to Be Our New Year’s Kiss and It Was a Complete Disaster”)

JEALOUS (“You’re Not Paranoid: This Is How to Tell If Someone Else Is Closing In on Your Man”)

OBSESSED WITH TEARING DOWN THE SAME FEMALE SHE’S IDOLIZES & ENVIES (“Amber Rose’s Plastic Surgery Is Absolutely a Feminist Statement” and  “Sorry, but Kendall Jenner Can’t Model for Shit”). 

The Ansari piece was written by a recent college graduate named Katie Way, who shot into the popular awareness like a rocket blasting away from Cape Canaveral on Sunday night, only to plummet—flaming and disintegrating—by Wednesday. On Monday, she was excited to appear on CBS This Morning to discuss her piece, tweeting, “Catch me on @CBSThisMorning brrright and early tomorrow morning, can’t wait for America to hear my weird low voice.” But her anger toward those who would question her motives and moral rightness was soon piqued by the HLN news analysis show Crime & Justice. The host, Ashleigh Banfield, read an open letter to “Grace” in which she said, “You have chiseled away at a movement that I, along with all of my sisters in the workplace, have been dreaming of for decades.”

The producers reached out to Way, via a direct message on social media, inviting her to come on the show to discuss the essay. At this point, Way abandoned the low voice for the high-pitched screech of the angry teenager. She wrote back that she wouldn’t go on the program, principally because Banfield was too old and unattractive, called her a “burgundy lipstick, bad highlights, second-wave feminist has-been,” and said that “no woman my age would ever watch your network. I will remember this for the rest of my career—I’m 22 and so far, not too shabby!”

I happened to be sitting in a Los Angeles green room waiting to appear on Crime & Justice the night when Banfield read part of this fantastical letter on the air, at which point the entire Katie Way arc of the story seemed to have turned into an unfilmed episode of Girls: the time Hannah wrote a hit-piece on a famous celebrity but only did half the amount of work required, and when confronted about it by a respected journalist she fired off a nasty letter that might have seemed like a great idea in the moment but ended up getting read on national television. Suffice it to say, it seemed that Katie Way—beloved only child, recent graduate of Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism, nongiver of fucks—had bitten off more than she could chew.  

Like many news and information websites created by young women, Babepublishes many stories on sexual assault. But unlike most other such outfits, it also runs stories about the pleasure of rape fantasies. Feminists have fought for years to keep the notion of rape fantasy as far as it could possibly get from actual reports of sexual assault. But those were feminists who gave a fuck. Babegleefully, witlessly runs angry pieces about sexual assault as part of the same cotton-candy pink, swirling galaxy as the ones that describe the pleasures of fantasizing about rape. The site has devoted many pixels to explaining to readers how enjoyable and common these fantasies are.

Babe explains to readers that rape fantasies serve lots of worthy sexual desires: “You want to know you’re wanted”

 (“A Clinical Psychologist Revealed Why Women Have Rape Fantasies and It’s Totally Fascinating”)

 “What I like about rape fantasies is the loss of control” (“These Women Revealed Why They’re Into Rape Fantasies”)

 “It’s all about ‘sexual desirability’” (“There’s a Major Rape Fantasy Sub-Culture Out There That’s Pretty Intense”)

 “I hear how rape fantasies can be exciting and fun, even for those who have been raped. It’s not an unhealthy expression of sexuality” (“A Sexologist Explains Why Women Have Rape Fantasies”)

 “I beg him to stop while he carries on fucking me harder and harder. I dig my nails into his back with tears in my eyes and whisper that I want to go home” (“Sex IRL: The Grad Student With Graphic Rape Fantasies”).  

Many of the pieces on actual sexual assault are filled with the precise, clinical detail that is the hallmark of reporting on the subject, such as the texts between two high school students after a drunken hook-up which the girl said constituted an assault, but which the boy thinks was not: “Wanna clarify that we didn’t fuck last night … I ate you out and fingered you, but that’s it.”

Obviously these two types of story are in conversation with one another. For girls who enjoy rape fantasies, the vividly reported sexual assault reports provide a world of concrete details to feed into them.

Katie Way’s college interests were journalism and creative writing. At Northwestern she wrote skillfully composed short stories in a vein of fiction she admired: magical realism. One of the reasons her Babe story has such an impact on readers—other than its naming of a very famous man—was its literary skill: It’s filled with precise details, and provides an immersive, world-building reading experience. On a “beautiful, warm September night” Ansari and Grace walked together to a romantic dinner spot, “Grand Banks, an Oyster bar onboard a historic wooden schooner on the Hudson River.” Over lobster rolls and a bottle of wine, they chatted about things that mattered to Grace: NYU, photography, and “a new, secret project” that Ansari was working on. They headed back to his apartment located in “an exclusive address on TriBeCa’s Franklin Street, where Taylor Swift has a place too.”

It was a night when a rich, successful, older man was taking a huge amount of interest in a young woman and treating her well: taking her to a fancy dinner, paying the check, listening to her stories. It’s a dream date. And then—as soon as they walk through the door of his apartment—the story turns dark and terrible. The language that Way uses to describe it is not the straight-ahead dispassionate language of crime reporting; it’s the language of pornography:  “‘Where do you want me to fuck you? Do you want me to fuck you right here?’ He rammed his penis against her ass while he said it, pantomiming intercourse.”

The piece, with its dreamy opening, its pornographic passages, and its tone of aggrieved score-keeping over petty slights—HE DID OFFER HER THE KIND OF WINE SHE LIKES—has stirred something in young women.  

But the piece is the almost inevitable consequence of a lifestyle promoted on the website, which enjoins young women to fulfill men’s sexual desires and to— literally—behave whorishly. Or, as a wrap-up of Babe’s 2017 service journalismput it: “You now know how to give life-changing blow-jobs, what it’s like to have rape fantasies, what percent hoe you are based on a scientifically accurate quiz, and how to keep your lipstick on even if your mouth is … otherwise occupied.”

Pulsing underneath all of this is the exact emotion which Katie Way lost control of Wednesday night: rage, so overpowering and so poorly understood that it can easily erupt and excoriate the wrong person.

In such swirls of high emotion and with diffuse goals, social entrepreneurship becomes lucrative. This Ansari episode, for example, has been a huge boon to the girls who don’t give a fuck, as they gleefully tell every reporter who asks them about it. As the writer Kerry Flynn wrote in an essay about the website published in Mashable, “For Babe, Grace's story was a big break—good for traffic and for the brand.”

[rena-demo-gardens]

Sand Sage; Sand Sagebrush; Sandhill Sage

Scientific Name: Artemisia filifolia

Shrub; 3-4’; full sun or light shade; sandy, gravelly, or rocky soil; very drought tolerant

Description: Sand sage is a beautiful small to mid-sized native shrub at home in sandy, dry, and rocky soils. It also can be grown in better soil if kept well drained. Growing up to 4 feet in height, its slender, silver-grey fronds are an excellent backdrop for shorter perennials or annuals. The species name filifolia comes from Latin, meaning “thin leaved.”  Sand sage is evergreen, and its feathery fronds have a pleasant fragrance.

Plants are primarily pollinated by wind. Very small yellow flowers cover the stems in late summer and early fall. (Photo above was taken in late October.) Although these flowers are not attractive to pollinators, they do provide seeds and nesting areas for ground birds and nest material for bees. Its taste is unattractive to deer, rabbits and other pests. 

Sand sage is an excellent plant to use for soil erosion on sandy slopes. It is particularly effective at preventing wind erosion on light, sandy soils. Under the right conditions, it will self-seed. Nursery stock obtained from northern Colorado has been reported to be exceptionally cold hardy.

Sand sage, like other sage species, contains aromatic compounds that have some antibacterial activity. Native Americans, experts in the use of medicinal herbs, used sand sage infusions to clear boils and intestinal disturbances. Eating too much sand sage can cause sage sickness in horses.

Height: 3 – 4’

Spread/Spacing: 3 – 4’ spread/ 36” spacing

Exposure: full sun or very light shade

Soil Tolerances: sandy soil preferred, rocky or poor soils

Soil Moisture: dry preferred, can grow in moist soil if well drained

Water: low water, very drought tolerant, xeric

Bloom: August - September; yellow and insignificant -- foliage is the main attraction.

Value to Pollinators: Though pollen doesn’t attract insects, the shrub provides nesting materials for native bees, seeds for a wide variety of birds, and nesting areas and cover for ground birds, such as grouse.

Deer & Rabbit Resistance: Yes. Deer and rabbits are not attracted to sand sage.

Where they like to grow: Sand dunes, sand hills, arid deserts, open shortgrass prairie

Cultivation Notes: Plant in late spring, early summer, or fall in dry, sandy, well-drained soil, preferably in full sun. Water sparingly until established. Can be started from seed. This shrub will take on a rather wild appearance as it ages; just let it. Prune, if necessary, to clean out dead or damaged branches, removing them entirely, right down to the plant base. Do not shear this shrub: it will spoil the characteristic “featheriness” of the branches.