#basically grades are fractured into points

[natasha-barton]

Best thing ever is when you think you fucked up on an exam but then it turns out you actually did really well . It’s a joy I can’t describe

[wanologic]

college au prequel: what happened to danny during junior year - 2940 words

Viscous green liquid sludges through a dry river bed, whetting the cracked ground and seeping deep into the void. Soil softens, becoming fat with nutrient. In the most basic definition, still itself, but filled with new matter, ready and accepting of more. This is what it was made for, its purpose. It has been sitting, dry and untended for too long. In this symbiosis it is more than it dreamed to be. Complete in the sense that it has been starved.

--

Danny wakes up, the dream lingering.

He’s been feeling odd lately, despite the fact that he is more comfortable in his skin than ever. He has a goal, he has support. 

A bridge, he called himself.

Even if he’s only sixteen and his influence is contextually small, he has time. People are listening. Ghosts are listening. Small steps over a long period will get you where you need to go, and he’s still just a kid. 

A kid who has to get ready for school.

He goes through the familiar motions, snags a quick breakfast and lets his parents know he’s headed out, that he’ll see them later. He’s out the door and on his way before he knows it.

Danny’s grades have improved since his freshman year. The pressure to keep things secret has all but alleviated and his family is sticking close. The world might not know that Fenton and Phantom are the same, but the people who matter do.

He’s managing. Thriving, even.

His extracurriculars are atypical of a high school junior, but he plays his role well. The Ghost Investigation Ward meets Phantom and the Fentons on neutral ground that evening, working their way methodically through a tangle of red tape. Teaching, learning. There’s always danger in compromise, but both parties are being two faced. It’s civil for now.

He’ll do this from the opposite angle on another day, playing border guard for the dimensional tear nestled into the fabric of his basement. Walker would be proud of him. He’s enforcing the Rules.

And it’s all going well as far as he can tell. Things are so much less chaotic than they were, his brawls feel like bonding, his head is no longer on a swivel.

For now, it’s off to his room. A space for himself to decompress after a long day's work.

He spends a lot of time thinking about a prehistoric past. What the future might look like once his job is over. This solid physical reality fed that swirling and infinite realm of emotion directly, once. It didn’t last, but time has passed. 

Danny is more aware of this fractured nature than most. He’s sure it’s why he’s had so much success. Why the responsibility falls on him. He feels it every time he calls upon his second self. 

And that’s what it is, isn’t it? Human first, ghost second. Humanity is the frame of reference he was born with. Everything new he experiences in this strange half-life is compared against it. Spectra once asked him what he was. But humanity is in his nature. He is a creepy boy with creepy powers. He’s sure of it. 

Going ghost.

Returning to humanity.

Not that he prefers one over the other. He’s made the choice. More than once. When his memories were erased or his powers short-circuited he always took them back. Felt the thrumming and euphoric energy pulsing through his being once again. His shape projected and unreal. Weightless. It feels incredible.

At some point, some late night discussion about feelings, whether it was with family or with friends, he realized his dual nature was more of a privilege than he could ever hope to fully comprehend. His human half feeds his ghost half everything. His ghost half is complete. No wonder he’s so determined, so strong. He has never once craved emotion the way the others have. He has intrinsic access to everything. Every failed test, every frustration, every joy, every thrill. He is comfortable and whole. Has no need to lash out. Two separate identities working together as two polar magnets, inseparable through the strength of their attraction, moving through the world as one.

He slips the familiar glowing rings across his body, the cool wash of ectoplasm coursing through his veins. Back again, blood pumps oxygen to his cells. Human. Ghost. Human. Ghost.

--

This time the dream is stranger.

The river craves the ocean. 

Danny feels the sand cake beneath his nails as he digs a trench, a violation of the river’s established bed. There’s a trickle as a thin and frothy stream flows out of sync with the current along the path he lays. It longs for the larger disconnected body ahead. A curious tendril seeking an easier path. He digs deeper, automatic, compelled by a force he doesn’t quite understand. 

Is this a bridge too?

He’s both excited and afraid to find out.

The liquid pools at his fingertips as fast as he can dig. Nudging. The sand is saturated and wet in front of him. He’s not sure how much further he has to go. But if he can claw his way through this dense barrier he’s sure it will pick up momentum even without him. The fluid mass can carve its own trench. Wider. Faster. Wider again.

He wakes up in a cold sweat. He somehow feels incorporeal. This isn’t right. He looks at his hands. His fingers in the dark. Clean. Spotless. He feels the sheets beneath his body, the press of the blanket above. So he’s still human then, wrong as it may seem. He clutches at his chest as he tries to calm his racing heart, quell the strength of an intense emotion that he cannot describe. It’s exhilarating. It’s terrifying.

He stops digging and fashions a dam, not yet ready for what the final connection could mean.

His head hurts.

Nausea tucks itself against his gut.

He takes a shower.

--

It’s Saturday and he has business in the Ghost Zone.

He shifts, expecting the weird feeling to subside. Instead it’s more of the same. Something is off. He ignores it. A thing to worry about later when he has less to do.

His work that day goes smoothly, another step in what he can only hope is the right direction. And it feels nice, giving in to the compulsion and focusing on what is in front of him, what is currently begging his attention, rather than the problems lurking beneath the surface. It is a learned behavior, one he falls back into easily.

Upon his return he feels like he is dragging a piece of the Infinite Realms back with him. The air seems to thicken, the cold steel walls of the portal are closing in on him. The exit is a pinpoint.  He’s being called back. He wants to move forward. He can feel silky fingers worm their way over his skin, hundreds of tendrils trying to pull him into their embrace. He stays strong. Moves with intent. The invisible hands can’t find enough purchase and he is finally welcomed back into the Physical World like the denizen he is. 

The caress stays with him much longer than he’s willing to admit.

--

Weeks go by and he only feels stranger and stranger. High. His attention slides off of everything so easily, his eyes blurring mid-conversation, a stuffy feeling, like a balloon that’s expanding well past the boundaries of his head. He loses time. Cancels appointments. He doesn’t feel well, sorry, he’s going to stay home today.

There is something Danny knows he needs to do. He can’t keep existing in limbo like this, his job only half-finished, pulled in two directions but choosing neither. His powers will wane once again in his indecision. His purpose sits unfulfilled.

He lays back and stares at the softly luminescent stars pasted to the ceiling of his room. Takes deep and even breaths as he struggles to remain present. His sister is worried for him, he’s sure. The best he can do for her is secretly practice what she has preached.

Danny eventually thinks back to that trickling stream. The slimy offshoot of the coursing river. He thinks of the dam he dreamed up all those weeks ago, sure it’s bigger now. His denial adds weight and height to the metaphor. Every day it feels less like a figment of his fucked up imagination and more like the worlds are trying to tell him something. What’s on the other side now, he wonders? Is the river still flowing? Are the fruits of his labor still there or has that little hand-clawed pathway dried up? How large is the reservoir pressing up against that sandy hill if it hasn’t?

He’s scared. 

He doesn’t want to know. 

But this isn’t what he promised himself.

A peek can’t hurt.

--

The dream comes easily, now that he lets it.

The funny thing about water is that it always finds a way. No matter what people do, how they try to tame it, erosion is inevitable. It starts as a dark wet splotch, the faint idea of a tiny breach in the all-but-permeable barrier between worlds—the river and the ocean. As the spot expands a dip forms on the horizon. The water moves. Under, through, over. Destructive. Alive. Danny shouldn’t have looked but he can’t stop what has already started. Equilibrium will be achieved one way or another. It was only ever a matter of time. He stands in the shallows, cowed as the wall comes down. Slowly first, then all at once.

The edges of panic are sharp and he realizes what is happening only a beat too late. 

The dam breaks.

He screams.

He was the dam, he is the trench, the rapid connection of energy flowing out of bounds and rushing along a new path. Lightning striking the rod to avoid burning down the house. The portal below him is a wound, a tear. He is something asked for, something natural. His mind can’t keep up as he struggles to regain ground and prevent being swept away by the violent current.

Dim awareness of his physical body comes back to him slowly as he writhes against the foreign dimension assaulting his senses. A second death. His double life was a conceptual marvel, a switch flipping from on to off, and back on again. He is the embodiment of two worlds, split, distinct. His quest to join them together requires this of him, doesn’t it? Whatever autonomy he has against the will of the universe cannot remain if he truly wants to serve his purpose. It’s a choice he has to make. One that he has been making. One that has been made.

He takes a deep and shuddering breath.

He tries to let go, and finds that he can’t. It’s like being electrocuted all over again, his nerves fried and his joints stuck rigid. It’s a feeling that is impossible to control, tense as he is.

His breath still comes ragged as colors around him saturate and the world warps. He can feel his fear, his desperation, feeding the momentum of whatever is happening. The exchange of emotion, osmosis through a rapidly deteriorating membrane. Thousands of overlapping inputs assault his mind as he feels the energy sliding around in the folds of his brain. He breathes through it. It’s not at all painful, but it is intense. His human points of reference aren’t working to help him conceptualize what is happening. His atoms are buzzing with newfound energy and the world is no longer solid. He tries once again to attempt the mindfulness ritual Jazz has been shoving down his throat, tries to name five things around him. The exercise fails him as he feels his brain liquefy in his skull. He gasps at the sloshing sensation, back arching. He’s going to be unmade.

Instead of loosening his grip, he tightens it. Remembering what it is to be human with all the force he can muster. His knuckles are white. Sweat slips down his brow. If he can’t let go, he has to hold on. He is gasping, thrashing. He’s hyperventilating, he’s sure, but no oxygen floods his system. He wants release, wants off this ride. The world outside of his perception ceases to exist. Flesh slips from his bones and it feels so, so good.

Then he sees it.

His eyes are blind, but he perceives it, somehow. The yawning void of the infinite realms is so much bigger, so much hungrier than he had ever thought. Reading that tablet, all that time ago, he thought his purpose was something simple. Easy in a way that a fourteen year old imagination could rationalize. The earth and the zone were two physical spaces that only needed to understand each other and hold hands to achieve that elusive harmony. 

He’d been wrong.

It’s not the earth that feeds the realms. Dimensions aren’t something that can be explained by an elementary understanding of mass and matter. They aren’t some static three dimensional points in time and space. They are universes of their own, expanding, interstitched in a nasty and sticky web of inexplicable physics folding over and back on themselves, forever too complicated to pry apart.

The realms are fed by the conscious universe perceiving itself, the soul, the spirit, whatever you want to call it. Emotions aren’t some grid of faces on a paper, they are infinite, they are cause and effect, the chicken and the egg, projecting forever in a möbius loop human understanding can never truly describe.

He’s going to go insane, he concludes. Here on his bed, on some random weekday, alone in his room. The magnetic pull of his two halves are phasing into each other, becoming imperceivable as the two separate forms he once knew. He’s not even sure that he really exists at this point. 

There is another choice to make.

He thinks back to what he knows about this buried history, Pariah Dark, The Ancients, wonders if they considered this connection, what they knew about how this should happen. Is there a way to do this that is objectively correct? If he knew more would it be easier? Or would it go down just the same? He has no desire to conquer. Only to be a bridge. A tether. An example. To show that this merging from two to one can be peaceful, a shift in perception rather than a violent overhaul. It is unavoidable now. His only wish is to remain recognizable as himself. 

He focuses not on his mind but on his body. He has to rebuild from the ground up or risk losing himself forever. Start small, a beating heart. Vascular systems. Skeletal. Muscular. Take a breath and pump blood into the empty cavern of his skull. Human is what he knows, though he’s never had to think about it quite this way before. His nerves lace through the structures he’s struggling to create, half intuition, half memory. It feels like being a ghost, all projection and thought, a deep and innate understanding. He knows this. He’s existed this way every moment of his short life and he can do it again. He’s alive, his blood is red, his flesh is tangible.

His brain slams back into his body and he promptly throws up.

--

The worlds are connected once again.

Danny’s hands shake as he tries to get a grip on himself. He’s been changed. He can feel it. The Infinite Realms has marked him as he has marked it. The world is flowing through and from him. Energy hums under his skin, and in it there is access to a well so deep he’s not sure it could ever run dry. 

He finally gets it. This is what being a bridge between worlds means for him.

He gets off his bed slowly. Half floating, half stumbling for balance. His instincts are scattered and his breath no longer sits in his body the same.

This change gives him the authority and the power, the perception and understanding to mend the bleeding fracture between dimensions. He will be listened to. He cannot be hurt. His appearance no longer matters, he is what he is, wholly and entirely. He exists as a linchpin. He is the keystone in the arch where one side is living and the other is dead.

Gravity feels so odd. Like someone changed the coefficient.

He sobs and grabs his dresser for support, woozy and unbalanced, a newborn deer walking on unfamiliar legs. He intends to make his way downstairs. Wants to fall into the embrace of his parents. Needs someone to hold him and tell him that everything will still be okay. He looks to the door.

And without moving, he is there.

Breath comes hard and fast as he steadies himself. His perception catching up to the new perspective. His hand is on the handle, he radiates a trail of semi-physical matter with every motion. It will take practice to appear normal again. He’s reminded of his freshman year.

When he finally opens the door, a swirling green wall is all that meets him. He stares at it, the cold vapor of the Realms slipping around and through him.

He knows the observants exist on the other side. He is sure of it as he is sure of anything. They are there to acknowledge the crown above his head. To observe what he has finally made of himself. 

He will tell him that he didn’t want this, didn’t ask for it.

They will tell him that he is lying.

He steps through the threshold.

[rageprufrock]

Sneak Peak: MLC Fanfic

I have so many chores to do so instead I am on tumblr posting this little snippet instead because adulthood is a SCAM.

Anyway, please have some in-progress modern AU where Jiao Liqiao hits Di Feisheng with a car.

The whole thing starts when Jiao Liqiao hits Di Feisheng with an orange Hummer outside of the Alliance Security headquarters while he's on the phone with Li Lianhua.

***

Six hours later, Li Lianhua is sitting around in Di Feisheng's hospital room dressed like someone's dad's dirty uncle best friend: beat up pajama pants, a shirt he'd grabbed at random hearing the shriek of tires through the phone line, and a pair of Fang Duobing's fucking sky blue Adidas slides he'd stolen as he'd bolted out the door.

"It's not that I want to criticize you, lao-Di," Li Lianhua says, critically, "but I told you to run that woman out of town as soon as humanly possible at least five times."

Di Feisheng, who's been provided pain medication and is angry about it, busies himself with glaring at the ceiling. 

"Now look at you," Li Lianhua goes on, like a bastard, "you've got a hairline fracture in your foot, you've got a broken leg, three cracked ribs, a low grade concussion, and also you're the top four trending tags on Weibo." 

That these are factual statements does not make Li Lianhua's continued, unwanted presence in Di Feisheng's hospital room any less insufferable. 

"Alliance Security CEO accident," Li Lianhua reads off his phone. "Alliance CEO car crash. Alliance CEO crazy girlfriend. Alliance CEO handsome." 

Di Feisheng's head lolls around so he can center a wild-eyed glare at Li Lianhua.

"Why are you here?" he asks through gritted teeth.

Li Lianhua squints at him. "Can you be considered human?" he demands. "There I was, enjoying my Saturday morning like a normal person—"

"You were calling me to complain that our CDN felt 'kind of slow,' like an asshole," Di Feisheng corrects.

"—and then I hear you yelling and the sounds of vehicular violence," Li Lianhua goes on. "Any person with a heart would be concerned."

"Fang Duobing made you come," Di Feisheng says.

"Fang Duobing made me come," Li Lianhua agrees.

"Well I'm not dead, so you can leave now," Di Feisheng mutters.

"'As someone who has also wanted to hit their boss with a car, but never truly had the courage, I respectfully acknowledge Jiao Liqiao as my master and will endeavor to serve her as a faithful student in all things,'" Li Lianhua reads, going back to scrolling through Weibo. "'I never want to know the truth or any details about why she did it. Just that she hit this beautiful mean-faced millionaire with a car is enough. I would die for her.'"  

Di Feisheng goes back to staring at the ceiling and begins to systematically reflect on the wrongs that have led to specific terrible moment. This begins with lingering resentment over college scheduling that had put him in a 9:30 programming basics class with Li Xiangyi and concludes with admitting that perhaps Fang Duobing had been right when he'd said, two years ago, "A'Fei, you can't just tell a woman it's fine if she's in love with you and that you guys can keep working together but that it's none of your business." But at that point, Fang Duobing was still the infant Li Xiangyi was fucking as some kind of weird post mental breakdown enrichment activity, and seemed like a poor source of professional counseling. In the years since, Di Feisheng can admit that while Fang Duobing continues to be an infant Li Xiangyi is fucking as a weird post mental breakdown enrichment activity, he has a sharp and nuanced emotional intelligence—as long as it has nothing to do with his profoundly repulsive attachment to Li Xiangyi. 

"Miss Jiao is going to get some truly staggering letters in jail," Li Lianhua observes with audible admiration in his voice. For not the first and likely not the last time, Di Feisheng swears never to answer another phone call or text message from this bastard again.  

"If you like her so much, you should hire her once she's served her time," he mutters through gritted teeth. The sharp edge of pain is starting to break through the drugs, but he feels clearer, sharper, less like he's trying to hear shouting through the rush of a flowing river. "Is there a reason you're still hanging around here?" 

Li Lianhua slants him a look, beaming with charity. "Now don't get shy, A'Fei—"

"Stop calling me A'Fei," Di Feisheng snaps.

"—I came in a DiDi, so Xiaobao is coming to pick me up," Li Lianhua finishes. "You'll be back to your peace and blessed quiet soon." 

Which is of course the precise moment that little treasure of Li Lianhua's pokes his abominably sunny little face into the doorway of the sickroom and declares, all smiles:

"Okay! I just finished with the nursing jiejies! They’re wrapping up your discharge paperwork and we should be able to take you home with us this afternoon.” 

“What,” Di Feisheng and Li Lianhua say.

[miracles-and-butterflies]

And why exactly Luminous Luisa decided to smash the old hag?

Many reasons.

Long story short, his treatment of herself and the rest of her family, in particular her sisters.

I won’t discuss the obvious things - Isabela being giftless, Bruno leaving, etc.

With herself, Luisa was the perfect golden child. She was built up to be as powerful as goddess, she always had to be strong and unaffected, while also remaining in complete control of her gift and emotions.

Sometimes she had to force herself into certain feelings for particular weather patterns that the town relied on (such as good weather for crops). She would have to find ways to make herself feel whatever was needed, not that she could ever let said feelings show - she had to appear unaffected, even in her emotions. To the point, she was viewed as just controlling the weather; the townspeople have mostly forgotten it is attached to her emotions and not something she just clicks her fingers for.

Having to always be strong also meant she’s never seen a doctor and has never been healed by Mirabel - she has snuck some of Mirabel’s cooking at night, but she doesn’t know what does what: sometimes she guesses right, most she doesn’t. She just been left to be sick or injured and just has to force herself work and smile through it. Such things can pile up and make her feel worse.

Mirabel has basically been feeding an entire town since her fifth birthday, being the superior medical professional in Encanto. Pedro made the decision that most of the food should just be made by Mirabel, as her gift will keep everyone healthy and it’ll be more effective.

Subsequently, she is ridiculously overworked. Do remember that she is still attending school throughout this and has the highest grades of her family (second only to Dolores). She has never received any kind of break, not even her birthday or family occasion, because Pedro does not want anyone to lose someone like he lost his Alma. Pedro often remakes that she’s lucky she still gets sleep and frequently calls her a failure/useless. The first time he did so was after a funeral - the person had been come down with a sickness - gesturing to the coffin and the heartbroken family over the grave.

Then, of course, there is her sensitive nature and squeamishness. Which is the only reason she’s never managed to succeed Luisa in his affections. He’s used the same technique as he does in Imperfect, forcing Mirabel to see severe injuries stupidly young, albeit not as often (his main focus was Luisa here, once he gave up on Mirabel a few months after her birthday). He is fairly rough with her and has definitely caused minor injuries, but nothing to the extent of Fracture.

It’s him hitting Mirabel (in front of Luisa and Isabela, just after their reconciliation moment) that officially makes Luisa snap. The rest was just boiling away over time and she would have done so eventually anyways.

[where-does-the-heart-lie]

You're probably getting bombarded with asks right now so sorry to add to the clutter - but I am a huge rock nerd - that goes beyond like Steven Universe and Houseki no Kuni. So I just want to share some stones and stuff that have cool properties and maybe could provide some inspiration (mainly tho so I can list off rock facts)

Mercury: Mohs 3.5, Toughness: Brittle - Malleable. Technically Mercury is always found in it's liquid form unless amalgamated with other elements, etc. But Mercury actually can be solidified, creating a "rock" with a 3.5 Mohs scale. What's interesting about this is that this solid Mercury produces an awful echo-screeching sound when bent. Idk how this would apply for a SU One Piece Character, but having the abilities to liquify, solidify, as well as being a very heavy metal which corrodes or amalgamates with many other rocks, a character like this would be a difficult opponent, or a powerful ally.

Calsilica: This ones funny because it's not a natural gem, and has an extensive history of people trying to claim that it is. Rather, Calsilica can be made from the run off byproducts in plastic, epoxy, wax, etc, condensed so hard it becomes a rock. I've had character ideas of this kind being a gem who either feels like they're lesser for being man-made, or even having imposter syndrome.

Painite: Mohs 7.5-8, tough. An incredibly rare, red-orange gem, which though is a lesser "hardness" then diamond, could easily break or shatter one.

That's another interesting thing about diamonds that was less included in the show, but they are very brittle - while sapphires, rubies, jade may be of a lesser Mohs scale, they could easily crush a diamond. Especially Jade. Jade may be one of the toughest, naturally occurring gemstones out there (hence why there are so many carvings made out of it) and can even be stronger than steal, also with no known cleavage point (point where the gemstone easily fractures most) it's a kind durable to both blunt and pin-point force.

Rutile: Rutile itself can be pretty thin and weak, but they usually occur inside of other gemstones, as needle-like fractals and growths. Their possibilities are endless and they're gorgeous. Hundreds of gem kinds can be "rutilated".

Carbyne: The. Strongest. Material. Known to man. Taking Graphenes place. I have OC's made of this, but the possibilities for character development are endless. Because, technically, only a 100 atoms of carbyne exist. They have to be contained by a graphene tube in order to stay in existence. These could be extremely powerful characters, but say their outer coating of graphene is gone? They'll vaporize. Carbyne, Graphene, and Buckminsterfullerene are all in the carbon family along with diamonds, and so modern experimentation has led to their creations, and thus, gemstones both harder and tougher than any diamond.

Though, having said all that stuff about diamonds, there is one kind that is incredibly difficult to shatter and that is Bort or Bortz. It's technically a term for any diamond that isn't jewel-grade, or natural diamond, used for cutting tools and abrasives, but as a gemstone, it would be the top tier of diamonds. Their crystal structure is smaller than a normal diamond and so blows or damage are spread out evenly through the material, rather than a regular diamond which will often take force over one point of cleavage and completely shatter.

Ok I will be quiet now I've literally been typing this for more than an hour - I just love gem Au's and your designs especially. Idk if you've heard of Houseki no Kuni but it's basically a manga/show where the characters are completely made out of the gemstones, unlike being manifestations of light in Steven Universe. I'm working on a fic/head canon au of HNK One Piece characters (once again because I'm a rock nerd)

Good lord. That's a lot of rock facts.

I def will be using this information in the future so I'm posting this as future reference/ getting this long thing outta my inbox/ showing everyone else these rock facts

Thanks for the ask and tips!

[para-socialist]

hello i am so curious about your ocs :3c

HI DEN thank u so much for asking!! sorry it took so long to answer lol

when i say “my OCs” sometimes i am talking about guys i have written 50k words of content about and sometimes i am talking about guys who only exist in my head LMFAO

my oldest OC i still think about regularly was originally a killjoy oc based on billie joe armstrong. here is vintage art i made of him (circa 6th grade age 12)

but then i think i changed his personality and appearance so much and then also changed the lore of the world he’s in from the danger days universe so much he kinda just became his Own Guy. his name is Saint he’s a traumatized bisexual himbo 👍 he’s missing an eye and he has a cat 👍

i can’t see myself ever properly writing something about him - like, this is one of those things where it’s very much just something that lives in my head. i love the world building i’ve done though idk!! i just don’t know what medium i would ever want to tell this story in :(

but basically america is fractured into like, city states all with varying levels of dystopia and fascism, with what used to be california controlling most of the country. most of the cities are surrounded by walls with armed guards and no one can get in or out (with exceptions) and the areas between the cities are completely lawless and self governed and have various Dangers depending on what happened there during the war that fucked up the country.

there’s a spot in the mojave desert that’s basically a dumping ground for anyone california deems a threat to the government. they’re tortured for information (or publicly just to make an example of them), experimented on, and then left to die. saint is one of these people but he’s found in the desert by a girl named neon and they have fun chaotic bisexual adventures in the wasteland while they try to get to vegas

you can see why this is never being published it’s very derivative and me personally i think it’s obvious that the idea was originally conceived by me when i was 13 lol. fun to think about though

anyway i’m talking about this and not the actual novel i’m writing because this is so much more interesting. and i have not been doing much writing lately and i have completely changed the plot and focus of it within the last few months to the point where i’m just stressed when i think about it. and i think i need to just write a New Thing instead of trying to finish something i started 3 years ago.

but it’s following a guy trying to figure out why his famous folk musician ex fuckbuddy bought his childhood home and then burned it down with himself in it. he’s doing this by going around the country and trying to get the full story from people who were close to his ex. except a lot of them are dead or insane and hated this guy who is now dead and can’t defend himself.

i. i was going to end this here. but i found something i thought i forgot about.

my fucking 90s boy band OCs i made as a joke and then fell in love with

but i’ll put a read more because this requires SO MUCH EXPLAINING and i have a lot of pictures

how do i even start. so basically when i was like 17 i was planning on being a music journalist. i was going to major in communications at portland state university and then covid happened so i never went to college. i was planning on starting a music blog and i was like oh i need practice writing about music. what if i uh. what if i made a fake boy band and wrote a bunch of fake interviews and reviews about them???

so it was kind of a role playing thing with a bunch of friends but we weren’t role playing as though we were the characters. we were making album covers using sims. we were telling the entire story of this universe through like, fake interviews written with our characters and writing, i shit you not, entire wikipedia articles 10k+ words each about each of their albums and tours.

here is their lore from what i remember.

Chester Coleman (left): gay. outed circa 2004. guitarist. the only one who ended up sort of normal

Cliff Coleman (middle): lead singer. scientologist. homophobic but eventually reconnects with Chester. he ends up being assassinated i’m not sure why i think i just wanted to kill him

Clive Coleman: token emo. heroin addict? i think he dies too? leaves the band to become an actor and make weird avant garde films that are all a metaphor for him being nonbinary. he has twins whose nicknames are Reef and Beef????????? you can see why i eventually had to stop doing this it went off the rails. however i have two screenshots of him from the sims that i think are the best screenshots i’ve ever taken

also he played drums he was actually soooo cute can you see i like making tortured musicians.

i never actually played the sims normally with them btw i spent HOURS on all these screenshots though. i also made animations so i could make music videos and fancams. what a strange period of my life. how could anyone have known i was mentally ill

[moondirti]

← chapter three

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Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader Rated: Explicit Word Count: 4.3k Summary: Your group takes some time to recover on a quiet planet. The Mandalorian teaches you a thing or two. Warnings: canon typical violence, sparring, mild sexual content, consensual groping, language Notes: this is the last of the pre-written chapters! I apologise for the spam, but the updates won't be as regular from here on out. I have to say though, this chapter is a personal favourite of mine. I hope you guys enjoy too! <;3

“Mando, it’s a nondisplaced radius fracture, there’s no need for reconstructive surgery.” 

“The medisensor suggested it for your best chance at recovery.” 

Maker, he was driving you crazy. 

Your impromptu nap in the cockpit hadn’t lasted long. When you came to, you had found yourself on your makeshift couch, restored to its former glory, clothing-padded edges and all. For a moment, with your bleary vision and pounding head, you had thought you dreamt up the whole attack; that was, until you were able to focus in on the remaining hull and found it in absolute disarray. The hatch was hanging on its last hinge, caved in on itself. Wires jut out from corners you hadn’t thought possible. Singed, broken metal covered the floor, blood sinking into the mechanics in what made a macabre display. You didn’t even have time to stress about the lack of bodies before Mando had been on you, all but reprimanding you for your rashness. 

“The medisensor is just a hunk of programmed diagnoses that, in actuality, should vary on a case to case basis.” You mock. “I’ve seen several injuries like mine, a basic cast will-” 

“Which finger am I pinching?” Of course, since icing your bruised knee and providing adequate support for your back, the Mandalorian moved on to fretting over what he believes is the most pressing of your wounds; a fractured wrist. He’s checked for circulation, sensation and motion over a hundred times now, immobilised in actually doing anything for reasons beyond your comprehension. 

You sigh. “My thumb.” 

“Can you wiggle it for me?” He’s cradling the underside of your fingers now, his inquiry softly spoken as if any octave above a whisper will shatter you. You cough, half to remind him you were no more fragile than you were yesterday - half to cover the hitch in your breath at his tenderness. His large hand dwarfs yours, body heat permeating through his leather gloves. Despite yourself, your pinky twitches under the sensation. 

It takes longer than usual to rally a retort. You have to wait for your blush to subside. “Can you just get the padding and splint before my bones shift?” 

That manages to scare him into decisive action. He grunts, leaving you to ruffle through your medical cupboard in one quick movement, pulling out the several packs of high-density open-cell foam you reserve for special occasions. You wince - he isn’t going to use that on you now, is he? It had cost you a fortune. 

“Just get the regular grade stuff.” Ignoring you, he piles a shot of E-bacta on top of a thermoplastic splint.

“No.” He gruffs back after a while, marching towards you with a handful of stuff - most unnecessary and all expensive. It’s quiet, but the letters punctuate through his modulator in a way you can decipher as meaning ‘no buts.’ Luckily for you, though, you like to push his buttons.

When he reaches for your wrist, you pull away. There’s not much space for you to back into, but he gets the memo, waiting for you to make your point. “Don’t. One day you’re gonna need those more than me.” 

“Are… Are you fucking kidding me?” 

You gulp, but otherwise say absolutely nothing. Mando holds you to that, the two of you staying in the forced silence for what feels like an eternity. ‘This is what he does,’ you have to remind yourself, ‘he’s quiet until the other person concedes.’ But tension rises with every passing second, all the residue adrenaline and anxiety from the fight amalgamating to a stifling chokehold, and you start to feel your exhaustion creeping back up on you. Your resolve has been battered to a shrivelled little thing - you can’t keep this up. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m just tense, is’all.” You struggle for the right words - you have too much to say. Thank you for saving us; thank you for being here; I’m sorry I risked your life; I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. What comes out of your mouth isn’t half of it, merely an excuse for the amount you were leaving unspoken. The sentiment behind your apology is the only truth; that alone will have to do for now. To back it up, you extend your arm, sacrificing your stubbornness on the current topic. 

His shoulders fall at the forfeit, and he nods, his touch still gentle when he begins wrapping your swollen wrist with the exorbitant padding. 

There are two things you can choose to focus on while he does. One is the feeling of his skilled fingers encircling your relatively smaller wrist, brushing over your injury with the utmost care. The other is the sounds of the planet the Crest had landed on, unfiltered and drifting through the gaping hole where the door once was. The latter is infinitely more favourable for the distraction it provides from the former, and so you tune in on the rustling of leaves and gentle pitter patter of rain as it beats down on the ship. 

The draft is heavy, laden with a sticky humidity that clings to your neck. Secretly, you thank the cloying heat for the justification it gives to your burning cheeks. You doubt he’d ask, but you still wouldn’t be able to explain it to the man of steel who was just trying to aid you with your affliction. Stars, for all you tried to centre in on the ambience of the rainforest outside, you can feel nothing besides Mando’s caresses. His reassuring squeezes. The tugs he gives to the dressing. It’s barely audible, but you even catch onto a low hum he makes when he shifts your limp arm. You wonder whether he’s pursing his lips in focus, or biting them, rather. You try to imagine either, fail, then come to the conclusion that he’s furrowing his brows instead. How perfectly suitable, you think. He probably makes all sorts of faces under there, free from worrying about what his expressions might mean to others. You can almost picture it, if you try hard enough to ignore the smear that is his face - his eyes squinting at you in impatience, his lips quirked with a restrained laugh. Everything in you calms as you continue with the train of thought.

It’s simple to be at ease around him. 

Mando moves on to attach the splint now. You almost don’t want to explain to him how it works; the material needs some sort of body heat to shape around your wrist, and you know him - you know that he’d see no problem in wrapping his palms around you to make that happen. But maker, what a travesty that would be for you; you don’t think you’d be able to have him hold you like that without growing salacious again, not when you were this incapacitated and unable to do anything about it alone. 

He tries to fasten the splint. The plastic is still too wide to snugly fit around your arm, so it only pokes you uncomfortably. You flinch.

Mando withdraws suddenly, leather glove creaking when he clenches a fist. 

“No, no! Hey. Don’t worry, that’s good. You just have to…” You rasp. “Mould it.” 

What he says in response is entirely unexpected. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come.” 

“Huh?” Your heart skips a beat; fluttering, pounding, flip-flopping at the abrupt confession. It’s so out of the blue you speculate whether he actually intended to say it aloud, in fact. Regardless, he has, and all your fantasies dissipate. Was he going to send you back to Nevarro? Have you done something to deserve it? 

“I… Didn’t consider you at all.” His added admission does little to abet your panic. He can’t be serious, can he? You thought this whole arrangement had been made on your behalf, to relieve you of the distress you felt in his absence. To double back on it all now was… frightening of him. You can’t go back, not after all that has just transpired. Fuck, you’ve broken a million bits in your body for this and would do it all over again if it meant you could stay. “This life isn’t for someone like you.” 

There it is. What you’ve been waiting to hear since he invited you on his dumb ship. You aren’t cut out for this. You’re useless to me. 

You’re made for after the fight, not during. 

All tranquillity from earlier drains out of you. It’s not surprising that you nod along, expression grim in face of the critique. It’s nothing you haven’t told yourself before - nothing you’ve disproven. For some reason, though, hearing it from cold metal hurts exponentially worse. You thought… You had assumed you’d shown him otherwise - that you revealed some sort of hidden potential when you’d navigated yourself away from those pirate’s. 

Evidently not. 

A heavy stone sets itself in your chest, and the once comforting heat becomes confining, almost intolerable. You try not to let your voice waver when you joke, “Yeah, well, I’m not dead yet, though. So I’ll… stick around until something happens to ensure that.” The end of your words lilt in subdued hope, turning out as more of a question. The load of Mando’s stare is heavier than you think you’ve ever felt it. “Kidding - sorta. But… Just…” An uncomfortable sensation bubbles up in you, your vision blurring with the telltale fever of tears. You turn away, blinking upwards at the ceiling until they subside, before drawing in a long inhale. In result, your next words are secure. “Don’t say things like that, okay? I know, I know I’m more trouble than I’m worth, but I can be better.” 

“That’s not-” You don’t stop to hear it. You need to get it all out now, before you lose the fervour. 

“You can teach me. I can learn. If I turn out even half as good as you, it’ll be worth something, I promise.” You choke when you finish, throat uncomfortably tight with the concession. The backbone you found vanishes at the fear of his rejection. Were you being selfish? Asking him to waste time in training you? 

Mando has since visibly recoiled, but his hand still remains on yours. He takes a while to respond, unaware of what the continued disquietude did to you. Then:

“You– You wonderful little thing.” He murmurs amidst a light huff of disbelief. 

The screwed up muscles along your face release, flattening to a stunned deadpan. Your body fills with an inferno instantaneously; the surging, solid roar of it rolling and clambering up your gut like gigantic waves in an omnipotent sea, and your heart tips into it, suspended in a giddy type of agony that almost threatens to tear it in two. The endearment is not lost on you, you store it, savouring the affection for when it can be better appreciated; currently, the glorious burst of sweetness is outclassed by the relief that pours into you like a balm, cool milk over a stinging rash. 

Your wide eyes must say it all. Mando brushes a finger over your knuckles - you tremor in response. 

“You can’t possibly… You really don’t–” He shakes his head, helmet bowing. “No. That is not what I meant. But I can’t– You’ve… Y-You’ve saved my life more times than I can count, yet I can barely heal you.” Frantically, you flick your eyes over his visor, trying to hold his gaze from beneath it. “I just need you to be safe.”

The words find you before all else. You’re far too familiar with the doubt he is admitting to. 

“I am.” And you are, unequivocally, indisputably. You think back to the security you had felt just a few minutes ago, and you know. With Mando, you are the safest you’ve ever been. 

Your assuredness must do little to persuade him, for he just nods in response, returning to your splint with hesitant fingers. 

The idiosyncrasy of this planet is fog. It rolls steadily in slow folds from the great mountains in the distance, and settles down into cool, boggy pools on the dense undergrowth. Fog on the downed trees, fog on the rocky outcrops, on the nearby lagoon – clinging in a moat of scattering mist to the perimeters of the Razor Crest, clouding the beskar of Mando’s armour. It makes it hard to judge the terrain that surrounds you; more than once, you’ve tripped over a wayward root or bulky flower. Accident prone, Mando had called it, like he didn’t have the advantage of a bifocal that navigated the ground for him. In any case, you’ve resorted to staying put as he repaired the ship, tucked somewhere up against a thick trunk, ogling upwards at the cerulean sky while trying to catch the dew that slipped off bowed leaves on your tongue. 

Given the sequential days of leisure you’ve taken to, it’s no surprise that your anxiety has receded to a faded background noise, buzzing up only in moments of sudden commotion. They weren’t hard to come by, though; while Ede, your current planet of residence, looked to be sparsely populated, the kid you were travelling with has ensured that your life isn’t void of any excitement. Just yesterday, when you had taken on babysitting duty to grant Mando his alone time, you made the mistake of leaving the menace for a small second to fetch him his dinner. Coming back to him nowhere in sight had been quite the ordeal, your worried shouts spurring Mando into action as he came barreling down from the cockpit, guns blazing. 

You soon found the kid flopped up on a rock a mere three metres away, absolutely thrilled with the fluttering bug his grubby hands had managed to trap. 

Periodic injections of E-bacta guaranteed you healed up pretty nicely, too. You’ve regulated it to only a few millilitres at a time, quite familiar with its adverse effects, of which Mando was apparently ignorant to, having come at you with a full vial and all intentions of using it that first night. Your subsequent lecture on the responsible handling of addictive substances dragged on for nearly an hour afterwards, and, since then, he’s been extremely diligent in following your every instruction. It isn’t difficult to tell that he simply values your input, but you’ve convinced yourself you had scared him straight instead; it is easier than admitting to the affection that swarms you when considering the faith he has in you. 

At any rate, the lessons extended both ways. 

On one of the days you find yourself perched beneath a lush canopy, your consciousness slowly slipping, the hunter approaches through the clag, a wooden dagger outstretched towards you in a silent command. You blink rather stupidly at it when it’s dropped onto your lap, but he doesn’t elaborate, turning around to begin ridding himself of the weapon’s he always keeps on his person. It’s only when he beckons you over with a ‘come here’ motion do you actually move, scrambling upwards to join him on the clearing. 

“How’s your wrist?” He questions, arms bending like he’s preparing for a fight. 

Yours awkwardly hang by your side, the prop dagger clutched loosely between fumbling fingers. “Better? Still hurts when I move it too much. It’s nothing serious.” You’ve forgone the splint for now, so your only support is the tightly wound bandages stemming from your palm to mid-forearm. 

“Good.” He stills, helmet tilting up to fixate on you. The sudden, undivided attention is flustering. “I want you to run.” 

“W-Wha-” 

“Or fight. Just keep the dagger from me at all costs.” 

And then he pounces.

You don’t register the crouch of his large frame before he’s right in front of you, bent with his arms circling your knees. Squealing, you leap as some hidden instinct prompts you to evade his tackle. The problem is that Mando is terribly strong, blindingly fast and so precise in his movements that your futile attempt doesn’t amount to much. Your jump does little to offend him - he’s back on his feet in an instant. 

When he stalks towards you again, he takes his time, assessing your panicked struggle. You’re still on the floor, your legs lashing out at him, mud streaked across your cheek from the tumble. If Mando is baffled by your sparring style, he doesn’t show it, his darkened visor tilted at you. Still, your erratic movements are hard to predict - although he certainly tries to capture your ankles, he can’t, and so he retreats the slightest bit while you scramble for a plan. 

‘Or fight,’ he had said, like it was an afterthought he didn’t think you were capable of. He expected you to run, hide, dodge his attacks and be on the defensive. Granted, while you were extremely tempted to climb up a nearby tree and do exactly that, his intentions are not lost on you. Mando isn’t ambushing you for lack of anything better to do, he’s trying to teach you - like you had asked him to. ‘I can learn. If I turn out even half as good as you, it’ll be worth something.’

So, what would Mando do? 

He’d… appraise his opponent. Yeah, for any weaknesses he can exploit. You realise with a shudder that, presently, he’s doing just that, the burn of his stare scalding you. 

Two can play at that game, though - you track him as he fences you in. One; he’s still sore where that blaster hit him on his back, you notice, based on the way he positions that side away from you. You won’t exploit that, not unless you’re absolutely cornered with no way out. Two; with the way he just attacked you, you can recognize that Mando’s hits hold terrifying power, but only if they land. His movements, while precise, are wide and easy to slip through. Three; he underestimates you. He doesn’t think you’ll fight back. 

You rise, renewed vigour clear in the way you seize the dagger. Anything can tip the scales here. The child rousing from his nap, a distraction. A variation in his armour’s reflection, a deceptive shadow. You make a point to focus in on the sole figure of the Mandalorian, poised like a venomous snake on offence, the scene around him blurring to nothing. And then, when you’re fully settled, Mando charges at you. 

As he rushes, he swings a strong right hook. You meet him halfway, ducking to avoid his fist and lashing out with your knee centred in on his pelvis Your motion is gradually timed, surprisingly fluid, but so slow it gives Mando the margin to twist, backing and turning away. You’re too drunk on the pride that fills you having dodged him to notice he’s stopped holding back as much; his charges are focused now, rougher, grounded in one reality - your inexperience. When he charges at you again, he feigns a punch. You take the bait, diving to avoid it, only for him to grab your elbow to spin you around. He’s got your back pinned to his chest now, his embrace unrelenting. It feels as though you’re trapped in hardening cement, breaths shallow with the little give his arms allow. 

You are trapped, but you haven’t lost yet. ‘Keep the dagger from me.’ He’d ordered. 

‘At all costs.’ 

You move so quickly you don’t have time to reflect on your guilt. A foot hooks around the Mandalorian’s ankle, pulling forward to throw him off kilter. He doesn’t let up; even so, the momentary distraction allows you to wrench your knife-wielding arm free from his hold. Rashly, you arch it behind you, at him, so that it collides with his loin, right over his freshly healed wound. 

You can almost feel the air forced out his lungs. He releases you at once, and you flip to face him, astonished to discover Mando still reeling backwards, hunched. 

His anger is palpable. The hit hasn’t drawn blood, won’t even bruise, but it’s unexpectancy and your boldness fuels an animalistic fire within him - one that growls like a wounded loth cat rising on its haunches. Just as soon as he looks at you, you know; it's indisputable. You can’t win now, not when he’s like this.

So, you run for it. 

You dart into the encompassing forest, heels striking the ground at a pace faster than you thought yourself capable of. Mando is hot on your tail, his clanking beskar alerting you to his exact proximity. Fuck, he’s close. Not close in the sense where he won’t lose you, no, alarmingly close, as in, within reach of you. The ‘if you stop, I’ll barrel right onto you’ close. It takes all you have not to falter at the dizzying fear that strikes through you at the prospect.

Low-hanging branches whip at you, marring your face with thin cuts. Ede’s stuffy air lays thick on your tongue, the water vapour functioning as your current source of hydration. When your lungs start to seize, working overtime to pump oxygen into your fatigued body, you contemplate giving up. The spar already took so much out of you, you won’t be able to keep this up for long. And knowing Mando, this’ll only end once one of you wins. 

Nature makes the decision for you, a dense cloud of fog obscuring the bush that snags your leg. Your shoelace catches onto one of the limbs, and you’re sent toppling over, plummeting down onto your stomach. Your diaphragm spasms on impact, knocking the wind right out of you; you find that you can’t recoup. Mando upends you onto your back right away, forcefully straddling your waist to absolutely eliminate any chance of escape. 

He probably doesn’t register the viciousness he treats you with - or maybe he does, and just doesn’t care. In any case, he’s rough when he pins you down, a glove wound up in your hair, tugging at the roots as he jerks you. You observe your scrunched up face in the reflection of his visor, dirty and eyes wild. Your hiss is lost when he mocks:

“Accident prone. I win.” 

A flash of clarity overtakes you at the finality in his tone. No, he hasn’t. The dagger is still in your possession, wound in a fist above your head. And, for whatever reason, Mando still hasn’t restrained your arms. 

‘At all costs.’ It’s gospel. 

“Not yet.”

You smack the side of his helmet and shove the wooden knife down your bra. 

The deafening silence that ensues is so profound that it seems to have a quality of its own. Realistically, it’s impossible for everything to still all at once, but to you, in that moment, it does. The quivering leaves and croaking frogs dim; the ever-present, nearby rush of a lagoon ebbs to an unavoidable nothingness. It’s as if the planet is suspended in disbelief, much like the immovable man atop you. In the hush, you steadily grow sensitive to the weight of his thighs as they encase your hips, to the broadness of shoulders. He could cage you in completely should he please, tuck you in beneath his solid weight and hold you there with nothing but brute strength. Fuck, not like you’d resist though. His groin is stiflingly hot pressing into your pelvis like this. It brings out in you a wanton, sickeningly domestic desire - to nestle below him, exactly the way you were now forever, taking whatever he had to give you, swallowing him up with no exhaustion left to spare. 

Then, slowly - so achingly slowly - he drags his hand away from your hair. You gasp, eyelids drooping as he languidly reaches lower, taking his time to trace out the pout of your chin, the dip of your collar bone. He avoids your chest, his palm spreading over the length of your waist, kneading the flesh there. He pauses at the hem of your top, watching for your reaction, but when you don’t impede on his efforts, he continues. 

Gentle fingers comb beneath the fabric. His touch is feather-light, leather only ever skimming the surface of your skin. The shirt travels with him as he explores your torso, his thumb gliding around your navel, his pinky running along your soft curves. He takes his damn time reaching your breasts, but your top rolls over the apex of them when he does, exposing your plain bra to his ravenous study. There’s no room for embarrassment in your lust; your legs rub together needily, bent on easing the ache growing between them, uncaring of whether your assailant takes notice.   

If he does, he doesn’t mention it, his full attention now at your chest. You squirm, urging him to get a move on and take you already. He doesn’t like that, it appears, as he snaps a bra strap in warning. Your strained pants are very clearly audible afterwards, hinging on desperate for him, but the Mandalorian doesn’t make a move. 

“M-Mando, pl… ngh, please.” You’re begging now, whining. You don’t know what exactly you want - for him to fuck you right here on the forest floor like a heathen, perhaps. But you won’t know, not until he makes a move that transgresses teasing. 

And then, he does. You curse, nearly melting into the ground when a large palm meets you, squeezing the soft, pillowy flesh of your cleavage, caressing the swell of it. Stars, it’s so good. You can’t feel the warmth of his hand through the layers separating you, but the pressure he sets is strong and steady and fucking blissful. You release a low moan of encouragement. 

No sooner than when you do, his hands leave you.

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to process it, impaired by the smouldering desire awakened in his raunchiness. You’re both overstimulated and, remarkingably, understimulated at the same time, your thoughts that of a spice-dependent shell of a woman, imperceptive and dopey, looking for nothing but her next fix. Only when you gulp in a big breath do you make sense of the situation. Mando sits on you - in his hand, a wooden dagger. 

He… had he just-

“That’s… T-That is not fair.” You mewl. In your haze, you can’t tell if your displeasure is at losing or at Mando’s exploitation. 

He pats your hip in faux sympathy. 

“I won’t go so easy on you next time.” But fuck, you don’t want him to either.

chapter five →

[princessconsuela120]

So while writing the next two chapters I’ve realized there’s a lot of extra info I haven’t added so I’m gonna make this a second info page for Juno, broken down into sections!

Basics:

- Juno Marsh is the daughter of Sharon and Randy Marsh, and twin sister of Stanley Marsh, younger sister of Shelley Marsh. She is the youngest in the family.

- She lives in South Park Colorado next door to the Broflovski’s

- She had mid length raven black hair, and deep blue eyes.

- She owns a dog named Sparky.

- She is friends with her brothers friends, though her closest friend is Kenny McCormick.

- She is a junior at South Park High.

Friends:

Kenny McCormick - lead guitarist in the band Crimson Dawn. Best friends with Juno Marsh since preschool. Was turned mortal in 5th grade after a mission to defeat his curse set out by him and Juno, where they broke him of his curse. Big pothead, but not to the point where it’s a problem. Dumb on the outside, but is actually really smart. Works a job to provide mostly for his little sister. Karen adores Juno. Kevin McCormick and Shelly Marsh have been dating for 3 years, and were set up by Kenny and Juno.

Stan Marsh - lead singer in the band Crimson Dawn. Still best friends with Kyle. Short tempered, but actually very sensitive. Hates his family lovingly. Has depression, takes anti-depressants. Has an alcohol problem, though he’s trying very hard to fix it. Refuses to take off his hat, Juno had to get him to wash his hair more. Not as greasy as it was when they were kids, but not the best.

Kyle Broflovski - Has been in love with Juno Marsh since the 4th grade. He fell first she fell harder. The smartest in the class. Is on the varsity basketball team, number 19 (Juno’s bday). Still wears his hat all the time, hates his hair but has warmed up to it more. Hates anything to do with alcohol or drugs. Designated driver always. Helps his brother with homework. Babysits Ike with Juno frequently. An awkward teenage boy, though a lot of girls have crushes on him (including Juno).

Eric Cartman - Still an asshole. Is trying his best. Has chilled down a lot since 4th grade. Was put on medication and sent to therapy after being diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder, with the help of Juno. Almost flunked out of high school, Juno tutored him which led to discovering his mental illness. Is surprisingly a lot better after starting medication. He pretends not to tolerate anyone but actually has a soft spot for his friends. Is slowly working his way up to being forgiven, even by Kyle. Forgets to take his meds and can be insufferable when Liane doesn’t remind him.

Butters - still the sweetest boy alive. Was diagnosed with autism, with Juno’s help. Brought both Juno and Kenny to Hawaii, they’re his favorite people. Juno is the only one allowed to call him Leo. He’s softened up a lot after discovering that he isn’t crazy his mind is just a little different. Owns a cat named Oatmeal, she’s basically his service cat.

Craig Tucker - Cousins with the Marsh family (Laura is Randy’s sister). Very close with Juno, has a fake rivalry with Stan. Smoking buddies with Juno and Kenny.

Tweek Tweak - works for tweak bros with his family. Juno and Craig convinced him to form a new recipe for coffee, and has slowly derailed him from his meth addiction. He still has raging anxiety but is getting healthier. Tweek and Craig have been together since 4th grade.

Wendy Testaburger - Has been dating Stan off and on since 4th grade. Good friends with Juno Marsh, even if her and Stan are on a break.

Stick of truth:

Story will come later!

Juno is known as Princess Juno of the Nine Realms, Princess Juno for short. She is “married” to the elf prince Kyle, which United their kingdoms and made them king and queen.

Fractured But Whole:

Story will come later!

Juno is known as The Gemini.

Her abilities are cloning, power replication (can temporarily take the powers of an individual), yin and Yang ( damages all enemies but strengthens all teammates), and water manipulation. She had started her own super hero team against Coon and Friends titled Supers of Terrific Dare (STDs) with members; The Gemini (Juno), Mysterion (Kenny), Call Girl (Wendy), SheWolf (Annie), FashionMonger (Bebe), Barbaria (Red),

Nightshade (Nichole), Henrietta, Michael, Pete, Super Craig, Wonder Tweek. (Yes she gained girl and goth alliance, making her the strongest group)

More of the girls superhero’s I came up with come later in a character chart!

[literaticat]

Hi Jennifer, In response to a recent question about Russian folk/fairytale content in a children’s novel, you mentioned that apart from that specific content, folk/fairytales are generally a bit tough to sell. Is it because the market is saturated, or do you see another reason? I believe that children still like those kinds of stories, but maybe I’m wrong? Thank you.

When I was a kid in the 1900's, "Folk Tales" were an extremely popular and thriving subsection of Children's Books. They won lots of awards. (Some were fantastic. Probably all of them were well-intentioned. Many of them were seriously racist/problematic, actually!)

The thing about them is, as picture books, they are usually REALLY long and wordy and old-fashioned compared to much of what is popular today, and that TYPE of book (lengthy "storybooks" about sometimes real/sometimes entirely made-up but with a facade of "real" cultural legends) are just... not a thing anymore. You can still find them in the picture book classics section, or at the library, or at *particularly* deeply stocked bookstores (Wild Rumpus had a big folklore section last time I went!) -- but that KIND of book is really not published anymore. So if you go in calling your thing a "folk tale" it automatically raises red flags, such as: "this will be long. this will be old-fashioned. this might be racist."

There are still definitely 'riffs' on fairy tales (Three Little Narwhals or Little Rainbow Riding Hood are two made up examples) -- but they'd be written in a much shorter, punchier way, and they feel "modern" compared to those old-fashioned folk tales of my youth. So if you're writing one of those kinds of picture books, OK - just make sure it's VERY FUN and SHORT!

Basically: Unless you are bringing something astonishing to the table, I'd personally shy away from writing a straight-up, not-modernized or reimagined version of a fairy/folktale for any age range. (LOTS of them already exist!)

As for books that have a fairytale/folktale inspiration, well, there are MANY middle grade / YA books have a sort of "fractured fairy tale" element (reimagining Cinderella as, say, a cyborg or a space princess or a mermaid or a girl at the mall or whatever!) -- to the point where it's a bit cliche and editors sort of roll their eyes maybe, but hey, those books will always exist, nothing wrong with that. I would just perhaps not hinge my entire pitch on the idea of the 'reimagined fairy tale' bc it sounds kinda cheesy; instead I'd say what is great about THIS BOOK and maybe mention the Inspo as an aside, or just let it speak for itself. The exception might be if it is taking inspiration from a lesser-known / under-represented cultural tradition and it seems like it NEEDS to be said.

(Again, I'm not saying "never write a book that has some folk tale / fairy tale as its inspiration!" -- I'm saying, don't PITCH it like "oh this is based on Cinderella" and that's the only thing about it -- that's not an interesting enough hook, because there are ten bajillion Cinderella reboots already, and we can probably already tell it's based on Cinderella. What ELSE does it have going for it? Or how is this taking the idea of Cinderella and really turning it inside out / bringing something new and awesome to the table?)

[grahamstoney]

How To Start Your Own Religion

New Post has been published on https://grahamstoney.com/religion/how-start-your-own-religion

How To Start Your Own Religion

I don’t know about you, but personally I can’t think of any better way to stroke your own ego than starting your very own religion and amassing millions of devoted followers. Well, as long as it’s a successful religion that is; obviously there’s no point starting a religion that doesn’t outlast your own mortal lifespan. For a truly enduring sense of self-importance you want your followers to continue worshipping you for at least a couple of millennia and that’s going to be difficult if you don’t have any by the time you die.

Clearly the mythology surrounding Jesus, Buddha and Mohammed make them difficult role models to emulate, but if a B-grade science fiction writer can start his own religion in our own life times then you can do it too. So here are my tips on how to start your own successful religion:

Endow Yourself With Divinity

Having an easily recognizable icon to brand your religion will help too.

Nobody argues with God. Well, nobody that you need to worry about anyway. So if you want to start a religion, you need to claim some divinity for yourself. The simplest way to do this is to just outright claim to be the messiah from some ancient religion; but many have tried this and failed. A more effective way is to make ambiguous statements like “I am who I am”, and let your followers fill in the blanks. They’ll feel very smart for having worked out that you’re divine before everyone else, and will spend the rest of their lives spreading your gospel for you thus saving you a great deal of time and effort.

Claiming divine inspiration is important so that when you are questioned by the unbelievers down the track you have something to fall back on. Stories of archangels can come in handy for this, and stone tablets engraved with divine teachings have paved the way before you for centuries. More recently, golden tablets have come into vogue. Never mind that the alleged tablets always go missing; that just adds to the intrigue that helps keep your new belief system alive.

Create A Believable Doctrine

In philosophy, an idea needs to be logical in order to survive. In science, it needs to be testable. But in religion, it only needs to be believable; and the minimum standard required for that is considerably lower than you might first think. Remember to offer your new believers something of immediate value that humans crave, such as a sense of community and a way of dealing with their more troubling emotions.

Keep your kookiest ideas for your privileged inner circle. Once your believers are hooked into your mindset of unlimited possibility, eternal life and the potential for relief from their mental suffering, you can leave it until say level 4 to tell them that the earth was in fact populated by aliens from an exploding volcano.

Your doctrine doesn’t need to make logical sense; it just needs to be believable. In fact, too much logical sense can destroy the mind-fracturing hypnotic trance you want your believers in. You want some inconsistency in your doctrine in order to keep theologians speculating and arguing over for centuries to come.

Maintain An Air Of Mystery

People are fascinated by mystery. They want to know. They want answers. Once they have them though, they stop asking questions. Or rather, they’ll stop asking you. If you want your new religion to flourish you need to provide just enough facts to hook your believers in, but maintain an air of mystery that keeps them curious so they have to keep coming back for more. If you start pointing out too early in the piece basic facts like that the meaning of your life is whatever you choose it to be, or that so-called spiritual experiences are really just intense emotional reactions in our subconscious, you’ll just ruin it for everybody.

Most people have no idea [intlink id=”512″ type=”post”]how their own mind works[/intlink], and by maintaining an air of mystery you can use this to your advantage. Remember that 50% of people have a below-average I.Q., and that even an average I.Q. is… well… pretty average. Modern man is even less well educated when it comes to dealing with their emotions, which are the thing that cause us the most suffering. Offer almost any kind of relief from fear and grief, and they’ll come running.

Offer Something Your Followers Will Value

Your doctrine needs to make your followers feel some kind of benefit in following you while also maintaining your permanent position at the top of the pecking order. Humans are emotional beings constantly in search of safety to assuage our anxiety about dying. Your doctrine should incorporate elements that help deal with this primal fear.

Time-honoured approaches to this include an afterlife or some form or reincarnation. These are ideal hooks on which to hang your view of morality by tying it to eternal judgement after death if your followers don’t do what you tell them during this lifetime. Obviously nobody can really prove what happens to our soul after we die, which means you can make up whatever shit you like.

I can’t stress enough that the belief system you are teaching doesn’t need to be logical so long as it offers something of value. Despite hundreds of years of western science, we still respond to new ideas emotionally and then back rationalise with our own internal logic. Emotion always beats logic like rock beats scissors. Plenty of existing religions contain contradictory ideas which the faithful happily swallow, because of the other benefits the religion offers and the fact that they are often indoctrinated into it before they were old enough to realise that it’s obviously bullshit.

Get Yourself Some Disciples

Obviously in order to have followers spread your message for you, you’re going to need to have some. Getting yourself disciples is easier than you think as there are plenty of people desperate to escape their tedious, mundane lives to choose from.

If you can pepper your teachings with some simple practical wisdom like “Be nice to other people, and they’ll be nice to you” then you’ll attract a bunch of people who will be grateful for all you’ve done to improve their lives. Point out to them that you are the one true path to enlightenment, and they’ll be yours forever.

Once you’ve achieved sufficient critical mass, even smart people with low self-esteem will begin following out of sheer peer pressure. Eventually a government will form that takes on your ideas and encourage the rest of the masses to follow suit with draconian laws based on your teachings. Finally you’ll be home and hosed once an army or two launch a few crusades/jihads to impose your belief system on everyone else, backed with a moral justification for the reckless murdering and greedy pillaging of all those who don’t immediately recognise your divinity when faced with a lethal weapon.

Start Your Own Community

A few disciples are a good start, but you’ll need a whole community of people to promote your new-found wisdom to the world, with you as their guru. Communities are great because people naturally gravitate towards them. We evolved in small tribes no bigger than a hundred or so, so modern life forces people to group into smaller groupings where we feel safe. It helps give people a sense of us-and-them that’s important for feeling that we belong.

To use this to your advantage, you need to start a hierarchical community of your own that you can be the leader of. Endow your disciples with leadership responsibilities, and they’ll remain loyal to you as long as you keep stoking their self-esteem by privately pointing out that they’re better than all those plebs below them. Include some abstinence-based teaching that keeps your leadership hierarchy eternally restless and before long you’ll be making the Catholic church look like Lord of the Flies.

Declare Any Dissent Blasphemous

Religious ideas hold a special pride of place in believers hearts and we’ve often been taught that we should respect other people’s cherished beliefs no matter how ludicrous they may be. You can capitalise on this and reinforce it by declaring any dissent from your teachings to be blasphemous.

Somehow the mere fact that someone believes some crazy shit means that everyone else should at least treat that shit with respect. This will cover a multitude of sins on your part if you use it to your advantage. Punishments like stoning to death, burning at the stake, social ostracism via excommunication and more recently litigation have all been used by religions through the ages to deal with the sin of blasphemy by their detractors. This helps keep the faithful too frightened to speak up for themselves, and permanently angry with those who choose not to follow your teachings as a prophet.

If you declare that you are above insult and criticism, your followers will run riot killing anyone who speaks against you, for insulting their prophet. You might think that if your followers can’t handle the thought of you being insulted then their faith in you must be pretty insecure; but don’t worry, history shows that this will never occur to them.

Once the faithful are indoctrinated with an appropriate sense of self-righteousness over the idea that they are following the one true religion, the natural human tendency to avoid admitting to ourselves that we’ve been taken for a ride will keep your fancy new belief system rolling along for generations to come.

Teach Your Ideas To Children

Young children have fertile imaginations largely because their brains haven’t developed sufficiently for them to have strong powers of reason and a good grasp on reality yet. This makes them the ideal planting ground for your wacky new ideas. Once indoctrinated as children, it’s very difficult for adults to completely divorce themselves from the ideas they heard when they were too young to know any better.

As adults your followers will even argue in favour of beliefs that you taught them as children, having completely forgotten that they weren’t endowed with these ideas directly from God himself. Instead, they’ll think they came up with them through their own volition. Promote your ideas under the guise of religious education and you’ll be able to get away with all sorts of mental and spiritual abuse that would otherwise land you in jail.

Avoid Being Martyred Too Early

Although martyrdom has been a successful route to social immortality for many religious leaders, you want to think very carefully before following this well trodden path. A lot of martyrs end up forgotten altogether and even the successful ones don’t get to enjoy the full fruits of their labours. Before you fall for your own bullshit remember that like all other religious belief systems, yours is completely made up.

Once you’ve martyred yourself you’ll be out of the picture entirely and you won’t get to enjoy the lasting satisfaction which comes from being a household deity. Stories of your imminent return may keep your followers faithful and eager for centuries, but it won’t help you any. If you must die for your cause, try to leave it until old age was just about to take you out anyway.

[rrenginefitters]

What Is Included In The Reconditioning Service For A Range Rover 2.0 Engine?

The Range Rover 2.0 engine is a high-performance unit, delivering power, efficiency, and versatility. However, like any engine, wear and tear can lead to decreased performance over time. Rather than opting for an entirely new engine, reconditioning is an increasingly popular option. This process revives the engine's operational abilities while providing a cost-effective solution. Whether you are considering engine replacement or simply wish to enhance the performance of your current engine, understanding the reconditioning process is crucial. Inspection and Diagnostics: The First Step The reconditioning process for a Range Rover 2.0 engines begins with a detailed inspection and diagnostics phase. During this step, the engine is removed from the vehicle and thoroughly examined. Technicians utilize advanced diagnostic tools to identify specific issues like leaks, worn-out components, and performance irregularities. A comprehensive assessment of the engine block, pistons, crankshaft, and other integral parts is conducted. The goal here is to identify which parts require replacement and which can be restored. This phase also includes running tests to detect potential problems related to fuel systems, cooling systems, and electrical connections. Whether the engine is being reconditioned for general maintenance or complete engine replacement, diagnostics are vital to ensuring efficiency. Cleaning and Stripping Down the Engine Once the diagnostics are complete, the engine is stripped down to its basic components. Every part, from the cylinder head to the pistons, is disassembled and removed. After disassembly, the parts are subjected to thorough cleaning. High-pressure washing systems and industrial-grade chemicals are often used to clean every component. Cleaning removes all accumulated grime, carbon deposits, and oil residue that can hinder performance. This step is crucial in ensuring the engine’s reconditioned components work optimally. The thorough cleaning process can be considered as resetting the engine, providing a clean slate before reassembly. At this point, parts that need replacement are set aside, awaiting supply and fit services. Replacing Worn-Out Components with New Parts Replacing worn or damaged parts is a core element of the reconditioning service for a Range Rover 2.0 engine. After disassembly and cleaning, components like pistons, piston rings, bearings, gaskets, and timing belts are carefully inspected. If these parts do not meet the required standards, they are replaced with high-quality replacements. Choosing the right replacement parts ensures that the engine runs smoothly post-reconditioning. Parts that show signs of excessive wear or are beyond repair are immediately replaced. The focus is to achieve optimal performance while preventing future breakdowns. Engine replacement services that include supply and fit ensure the installation of new parts with precision. Reconditioning the Cylinder Head The cylinder head is a critical part of the engine that affects its overall performance. During the reconditioning process, the cylinder head is carefully restored to its original specifications. The head is machined, and components like valves, valve seats, and valve springs are inspected and reconditioned as necessary. Reseating the valves and ensuring the proper compression levels within the cylinder head is essential for efficient engine performance. This reconditioning ensures the engine operates smoothly without experiencing compression loss or other internal combustion issues. The cylinder head's reconditioning is often paired with engine replacement to provide the best performance possible. Crankshaft and Camshaft Reconditioning The crankshaft and camshaft play vital roles in an engine's function. These components are inspected for wear, stress fractures, or damage caused by heat and stress over time. If necessary, the crankshaft and camshaft are machined and polished to restore their surfaces. In severe cases, they are replaced with new components that meet the manufacturer’s specifications. Proper reconditioning or replacement of these shafts ensures that the engine’s moving parts function harmoniously, reducing the risk of vibrations or poor timing. This careful attention to the crankshaft and camshaft forms the backbone of a successful reconditioning service for any engine, including the Range Rover 2.0. Rebuilding and Reassembly of the Engine After reconditioning the engine’s components, the engine is meticulously rebuilt. Technicians carefully reassemble the engine, ensuring all parts are correctly installed, torqued to factory specifications, and lubricated. This includes installing the cylinder head, crankshaft, camshaft, pistons, and valves back into their respective places. During this phase, the new and restored parts are fitted with precision, ensuring the engine operates efficiently once back in the vehicle. The assembly process demands a high level of expertise, as even a small misalignment could affect the engine’s performance. The reassembly ensures that all components work together seamlessly, preparing the engine for its return to full operation. Testing and Tuning: Ensuring Optimal Performance Once the reassembly is complete, the engine is subjected to rigorous testing. These tests are designed to ensure that the engine performs as expected under various conditions. The engine is run on a test bench to evaluate factors such as fuel efficiency, power output, temperature regulation, and oil pressure. This phase also includes tuning the engine to meet optimal performance standards. Fine-tuning ensures that the engine runs smoothly with proper air-fuel mixtures, combustion efficiency, and timing. Any issues detected during testing are addressed immediately. These tests are critical to ensuring that the reconditioned engine meets or exceeds the original specifications. Installation and Final Checks The final step of the reconditioning service involves reinstalling the engine into the Range Rover. Once the engine is back in the vehicle, further checks are conducted to ensure everything is functioning correctly. Supply and fit services ensure that all components are installed accurately, including connections to the vehicle's fuel, exhaust, and cooling systems. Technicians run additional tests once the engine is in place to ensure there are no installation issues. This final phase guarantees that the engine performs to the required standards before it is handed back to the owner. This process ensures reliability, longevity, and optimal performance for the newly reconditioned Range Rover 2.0 engine. Read the full article

[mossyinkynebulous]

Hold up, Mossy lore time because it came to me and it's slightly funny. Throwing it under a break since it's a bit of a read and I don't want to clutter my dash too much. CW for needles btw

So, my 4th grade year, I'd be like 10, I fractured my tibia at softball practice bc they were teaching us how to slide. Well my family had been planning to go on vacation to Balaxi that year, but since I was in a cast we couldn't go anymore. Our next option was to go visit my aunt in Montana, but she ended up having to get a surgery and so we just decided to go somewhere else. Our next trip destination was Arkansas. I think it was around Murfreesboro, Arkansas because we were going to go diamond hunting or something like that.

So I got my cast off a couple weeks before the trip, but was still using crutches until my parents forced my to go without them out in the park because I was babying my leg. Which I was slightly, but up to that point it still relatively hurt to walk.

Anyways, not the point. We were staying in a motel that we found the day we got to the town because the one we had booked didn't have their pool up and working, and my mom really wanted a pool. That's also not relevant, but like, bruh, it's a pool who cares.

So it's the morning before we were going to the park and my dad asked me if I had brought an epipen with us. To which I confidently answered no, but I brought a practice one.

For those that don't have an epipen or haven't seen one before, the package comes with two and a practice epipen that very clearly says practice on it and looks very distinctly different so you don't mess up in an emergency situation.

Well, my dad asked me to go grab it and double checked with me that it was a practice one. Then said something along the lines of that since I was so sure that it was a practice one to go ahead and practice.

So I took the thing and sat down on the bed beside him and went through the directions. Taking it out of the container, reading that you swing it into your outer thing so that it clicks and then hold it there for three seconds. And I followed those directions to a T. Except the last one.

What I thought had been a practice epipen had been the actual thing and so my 10 year old self, that was in now way in need of use for an epipen, jammed that thing into my leg expecting just to soreness of jamming a blunt object, only to be surprised when this thick long needle goes into my leg with the associated pain. And so in my surprise I yoinked it back out because I didn't need the medicine in my system and two that hurt and the action of pulling it out will make it stop hurting.

I vaguely remember my dad saying something about how I was supposed to leave it in for three seconds and then heckled me a bit about it. My mom, who was in the bathroom at the time, came out to know what was going on because I made a sound when the needle went in and then proceeded to heckle me about it. And we kind of joked about the thing after that and how I was preemptively ready to go.

Also, for anyone who knows how expensive those things are, because they are ridiculously overpriced, I was under really good state insurance that covered all my medical costs, basically. Like it covered my braces and the two different inhalers I took and all my other meds so we weren't paying anything for my medical/dental/optical bills. Won't go into detail about how I came under that insurance bc that's a little too personal of lore, but yeah, the state paid for it and the American healthcare system sucks.

[digitalleo0]

THINGS TO KNOW BEFORE BUYING DIAMOND RINGS

Shopping for jewellery is always special and can get overwhelming at times. Owing to factors like high value, emotions, and a wide range of available options, getting confused is quite apparent and typical. Especially while buying diamonds or diamond rings in Brisbane, there’s so much about these exorbitant stones that one should know in order to make a valuable purchase. Diamonds are one of the oldest natural objects found on earth.

[longinfo]

Aluminum bitsafe

Common applications for 2xx.x alloys include automotive cylinder heads, exhaust system parts, and aircraft engine parts. The copper in its composition leaves it susceptible to corrosion, and it is less ductile and susceptible to cracks when heated. They sport the highest strength and hardness among all casting alloys, especially at higher temperatures. They are heat-treatable, meaning they can gain additional strength via the heat-treatment process (find our explanation on heat-treatment in our article all about 2024 aluminum alloy). 2xx.x alloysĢxx.x cast alloys use primarily copper as their alloying element, though magnesium, manganese, and chromium are often included. 1xx.x alloys are often used in manufacturing rotors or cladding corrosion-prone alloys. A rating of 1 is considered exceptional, a rating of 5 is considered very poor, and 2-4 fall within this range.ġxx.x cast alloys are commercially pure, unalloyed aluminum, which has exceptional corrosion resistance, finishing qualities, and welding characteristics. Note: Cells with no number indicate that the value is not often specified, or is too difficult to generalize. Note that the properties (cracking, corrosion, finishing, joining) are given ratings of 1 to 5, 5 being the worst and 1 being the best, and are generalized quantifications of their capabilities: Table 1: Different cast aluminum grades, with their general information shown. Below, in Table 1, is shown the different types of cast aluminum, their common alloying elements, and their basic material properties. The first three numbers indicate the alloy, and the fourth number indicates the form the product is in. Cast AlloysĬast alloys of aluminum are named using four numbers, with a decimal between the third and fourth digit. Elements such as copper, manganese, silicon, magnesium, magnesium silicon combinations, zinc, and lithium define the individual wrought aluminum alloy categories. Wrought aluminum accounts for the majority of aluminum products, such as those manufactured from extrusion or rolling. while still retaining ductility and other beneficial qualities.Ĭast aluminum alloys typically have low melting points and tensile strength when compared to wrought aluminum the most commonly used aluminum alloy is aluminum-silicon, which features high levels of silicon that enable the alloy to be easily cast. Conversely, wrought alloys have allowed designers to increase aluminum’s strength, corrosion resistance, conductivity, etc. Aluminum loses its ductility as more alloying elements are added, making most cast alloys susceptible to brittle fracture. This may seem like a simple difference, but the percentage of alloying elements has a huge impact on material properties. Cast alloys of aluminum are those which contain > 22% alloying elements by composition, whereas wrought alloys of aluminum contain ≤4%. Wrought AluminumĪluminum alloys can be broadly separated into two categories: cast aluminum alloys and wrought aluminum alloys. Shop now: Find the right aluminum for your project with thousands of material options available through Xometry, the industry's leading on-demand manufacturing platform. The following three digits describe specific alloys, hardening processes, and other information that could be useful to manufacturers, but will not be explored in this article, as they are more pertinent to alloy makers and not buyers. 4xxx, 6xx.x, and 2xxx, are all different grades of aluminum). Many of these alloys have been divided into classes, which are denoted by the first digit in their names (ex. They have organized the hundreds of aluminum alloys into grades, which are given four-digit identifiers that contain information about their composition and processing. is the foremost authority on aluminum metal and its derivatives in North America. This article will give a brief introduction to the different types of aluminum, how they differ, and which alloys are best suited for certain applications. This alloying process has allowed many grades of aluminum alloys to be produced, and there are so many grades that the Aluminum Association has classified these types of aluminum into categories based on alloying elements and material properties. Along with its abundance, aluminum has the ability to be alloyed – a process that improves a base metal’s properties by adding trace amounts of other metallic “alloying” elements into it. Aluminum is the most abundant metal on Earth, making it an attractive, cost-effective option for builders when considering metal for their project. Airplanes, computers, buildings, and other modern technologies all use specialized materials that allow them to complete amazing tasks, and one of the most important materials in this regard is the metal aluminum. When beginning any project, material selection is one of the most fundamental choices that can dictate its success.

[d3nt4l-d4m4g3]

A few days ago, I emailed my former professor about a paper on women’s food practices in the middle ages. At least, that’s what I told him it was about, initially. 

But actually, I wanted to discuss heresy. This professor teaches a women’s rights course every year. Every year at the beginning of the class, he calls attention to why he, a man, is talking about women’s rights. He looks us in the eyes and says, no one else is doing it, and I’m sorry it’s me.

This man made us read the SCUM manifesto, Gerda Lerner, Maria Mies. He grazed the subject of the Lesbian Sex Wars, delicately, so gingerly, posing the question: “Can sex work ever be just work?”  And my  (all woman) classmates, generally mute—in a Women’s Rights class, they all seemed averse to saying the word “woman,” at all. Then one woman raised her hand. and she said, “Sex work is real work.”  A statement that, as I hope you know, is a deflection and a discussion killer.  

At the time I was non-binary. Hah. I submitted a comic at the end of the year of my final project. My thesis for that project was this: the very language female people have to use for themselves was constructed by the patriarchy. for example, the english word “vagina” comes from the latin word for “sheath”. so the vagina invokes the act of penetration upon its utterance. Whereas the word “penis” has no clear etymological root, implying that it is original while the vagina is constructed for him. Why should I carry the fact that I will always be a tool, the hole, of the human that is man? My solution, at the end of the comic, was to continue using they/them pronouns, to shield myself from the horror of being a wo-man, a s-he—an appendage of Him. 

I got a good grade. A stellar report. And it wasn’t a bad comic, for what I knew then. For my condition of blindness and deafness. I made a compelling argument, using sources from class.  But oh, how much older I feel now. I’ve always felt old but now I feel almost like I’m dying. Like I don’t have enough time to fix the world before I disappear. And women’s stories never survive. They are not surviving. networks spring up like mycelium and then every century at least they are burned. Witchcraft is in the air shared by women in a room of their own, and witchcraft is doused in gasoline.

I don’t have enough time to explain how the veil lifted for me. Maybe I forget the big moment. the days after were a blur of searching the no-no tags like radical feminist, GNC, gender critical. Amazed at the wealth of journals that these women linked to with real statistics showing that children are being sterilized for no reason. Mostly gay children. like me, a lesbian, who now lives in a house with three  “non-binary afabs”. This summer, one of these women, who I have known since freshman year, will start taking testosterone, a procedure I took up  for three turbulent months during my freshman year of college. I get to watch her become what I turned away from, knowing the experience fractured my sense of self to a point of  terror and estrangement. I get to watch her hide from her problems and cut herself off from womanhood the way I did for 3 years. I am not a woman, so do I not feel Woman’s pain, she is telling me, I told myself, when I was in a dream.  She has so many problems, she laughs. But trans is a separate problem that has nothing to do with those other problems. A coincidence.

 (For any trans people reading this, you may think: This transtrender fake-trans never-was-trans woman is treating these nonbinary people as if they were dead! as if they weren’t happy people finally living their truth! —well. I put my mom through the process of trying to convince her that I should have always been a man. and I did lose her, for months. For her it was the height of cognitive dissonance that I should want to go on a life-altering hormone to cure my lifelong social awkwardness and self-hatred and self-harm and depression. And I blamed her for not accepting my real self. I was basically made to shun her and my family because of transphobia.. It is disrespectful to anyone’s sanity and integrity for me to perpetuate that cognitive dissonance in this post.)

So I eventually got through to the professor. I knew because of the texts he had us to read for class. He is gay.  He has read all the theory, and lives by it.  And no (woman) student wants to speak to him. To bring the theory alive. They cannot breathe into it and it sits dead in his mouth.

Maybe it is because he is a man. because the presence of one man in a space of all women immediately sends up alerts.  lockdown. Certainly that is the case. Radical Feminists here: I know he’s a man. But I don’t have a woman. And I felt on the strength of the texts he’d given us that he would be my best bet. Maybe somewhere in the corrupted, rotting heart of my college there was a person who knew about thoughtcrimes and was thinking them anyway.

My professor starts with diversion. He starts by talking about my paper. I find it disconcerting that he starts that way. I worry that he won’t want to refer to my email. Where I say: I have woken up from a dream to the apocalypse—Does this man think I’m crazy? Chipper and kind of frantically, he lists off  primary sources of medieval nuns and women saints. for my paper.  Does this man think I’ve turned into a bigot?  Am I confessing lunacy, like a flat-earther?

But I steer the conversation to the meat at his first tentative encouragement. I tell him something like: “children, mostly gay children, a whole generation of gay children, are being sterilized. Porn is a symptom of late-stage capitalism—men’s ownership of women’s bodies. trans is an extension of this. I was part of this. I was in a cult.” I was shaking a bit. I don’t think I’d uttered those words out loud. They sound crazy. Some of the things I said did sound far-fetched. disorganized, remote. But I prayed that my professor would believe some of it, any of it. 

 What I will say is that he believes me.  Thank fuck, right?

He tells me something along the lines of this, vocalizing my fears: 

that all of academia is being scrubbed of anything that doesn’t support Trans.

And it is trans-identified female students and women who are reporting him to Title IX, who spend all their time in his classes fuming at the lack of validation for trans women in the  history of women. My sisters, footsoldiers for the cause. What cruel irony. This man is holding onto this class by his fingernails, speaking through his teeth, hoping any of the twenty young adult women staring blankly or angrily at him will hear him and listen.

 Looking back, the professor’s responses to my emails are vague, completely refusing to acknowledge a point of view other than “WOW. I look forward to discussing this.”  I think he thinks he could be blackmailed. Anything he says on gmail dot com can and would be used against him. It’s like, really, really, really that bad. 

No ideology should involve a cultural cleaning of women’s history feat. witch hunts. 

I will end here with an excerpt from my first email to this professor:

I'm sure you know what a total bummer it is to realize this. 

[ejzah]

Omg I absolutely loved "There’s A Lot to Lose"! I hope you have some sort of follow up in mind with like Callen checking on Kensi, or any other angsty fics during that period in mind! Happy Easter and thank you for always writing!

A/N: Thanks anon! I’m glad you’ve been enjoying the stories, and I apologize for the delay in writing this (but isn’t that ever the case with me).

***

Second Chances

It’s three days since the team returned from Mexico and Sam hobbles along down the hallway of the post critical care wing of the hospital. Technically, he’s not supposed to be up and about on his own, but Sam Hanna has never been very good at following doctor’s orders. Besides, he tramped all over Mexico with police and criminals chasing him. He can handle a few hundred feet.

He pauses just outside Deeks’ room, taking a moment to observe before he’s noticed. Deeks lays asleep, head turned towards the blind covered windows, Kensi half-slumped on the edge of his bed. Sam doubts she’s left the hospital at all since they were admitted, even though Nell confirmed all her injuries were relatively minor.

He’s glad about that at least. There’s be more than enough fallout from this case.

Figuring he’s seen enough, he lightly knocks on the door, just loud enough to announce his presence without waking Deeks. Although, with the type of meds he’s probably on, Sam imagines he could probably sleep through another shootout.

Kensi jerks up at the sound, wild-eyed and on edge in the few seconds it takes her to realize Sam’s standing there. Even in the poor lighting, she looks exhausted.

“Sam.” She sound grateful as she stands, leaning over for a tight hug. When she releases him, Kensi’s eyes travel down to his bandage and booted feet, not missing that he’s grabbed onto her vacated chair for support. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting your leg?” she asks, mildly admonishing.

“Eh, I did earlier,” Sam says, shrugging off her concern. “Besides, G’s not really a great conversationalist right now.” It’s dark humor, given what they just barely survived, but he figures since their resident jokesters are out of commission, somebody has to pick up the slack.

“How’s he doing?”

“Better.” He thinks of the Callen’s struggled to stay awake long enough to complete the basic physical and respiratory therapy exercises every day. The blood he occasionally coughs up, sometimes with minimal activity. “It’s going to be a long road, but he can manage it. He’s tough.”

“He is,” Kensi agrees, rubbing at her elbows. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to come see you guys before but…” she glances over her shoulder, and Sam can tell she’s itching to go to Deeks again. That’s a good sign at least. Though, Kensi’s not exactly the type to abandon Deeks in his time of need, even if they had broken up.

“Hey, I understand,” Sam assures her. “After everything you’ve been through, after all you’ve done to bring him home, it’s hard to step away.”

Kensi nods, brows furrowing as she reaches over to brush his cheek. Deeks remains still, other than the even rise and fall of his chest, right hand loosely placed over the blankets pulled up to his neck. His skin is speckled with cuts, burns, and bruises, which somehow look worse in the dim lighting.

“What did the doctor say about him? Nell said his overall prognosis was good.”

“Uh, he has a severe, grade 3 concussion,” she says. She twists her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger. “You know, from the TBI. So that’s not great, but the doctor said it could have been a lot worse. There wasn’t any bleeding or fractures, or enough pressure to require surgical intervention at this point. The couple times he’s been awake, he seems to remember bits and pieces. I guess he’s lucky.”

“I suppose we all are.” Sam pauses a beat and then brushes Kensi’s shoulder, meeting her gaze steadily. “And how are you doing? I know things were kind of tense between you two when we left.”

Kensi sighs, lifting her eyes towards the ceiling. “I guess you probably know about our fight,” she guesses. There’s no judgment in her voice, though maybe slight exasperation.

“Barely.”

“Deeks and I had a…disagreement and I, I purposely misunderstood what he was saying. Tension was high and we were stressed, but it’s not really an excuse for what I accused Deeks of or almost leaving without him.” She pauses, swallowing deeply. “I guess what happened kind of put everything in perspective for me.

“Does that mean you made up?” Sam asks gently.

“When Deeks woke up for the first time, he said he still wants to get married and I do too. I love him more than anything,” Kensi whispers. Her voice trembles as she cups Deeks’ hand beneath the blanket. “But what if I can’t give him what he wants? I’m afraid he’ll just give in and do whatever I want to keep me happy, to keep us together.” Tears fill her eyes as she says the last few words. Her turmoil is almost tangible and Sam gently grips her shoulder, hoping to ground her, to steady her.

“Hey, you have plenty of time to figure that out, Kensi,” he says. “I know you two are going to feel like this is a sign to get married as soon as possible, that life is short, but don’t fall into that trap. Talk to each other. Work things out. Realize that you’ve been gifted a second chance and take it.”

Kensi nods jerkily, dipping her chin slightly, likely to hide oncoming tears.

“I’ll try,” she mutters thickly.

“You guys got this.” He pulls her in for a second, briefer hug. “And if you don’t, I’ll come kick some sense into both your butts.”

Kensi chuckles at that. “Thanks, Sam.”

“Anytime for family.”

***

A/N: Just a bit of angst as requested. I’m never quite sure how much anyone else on the team new about the fight, so I went with them having a basic idea. Additionally, the medical info about Deeks is taken directly from 10x06. I decided to keep it close to the timeline of the first fic. Hope you enjoyed!

Thanks for the prompt!