Rihanna just shared promo teasers for her highly anticipated beauty line (FENTYBEAUTY.com) dropping on Sept 8th at midnight.
What we know about this so far:
• there’s 40 shades of FOUNDATION!!!
• her beauty campaign includes models who are visibly Muslim (Halima Aden), dark skinned goddess (Duckie Thot), a gap toothed beauty (Slick Woods) and so many other diverse folks of different ethnicities and shades (wish the diversity bled elsewhere like where my fat girls at though, I think I saw a curvier girl but not sure?)
• Fenty Beauty is developed in the same lab as Kat Von D and Marc Jacobs, so we already know the make up’s formula WILL be 💣.com
Fly was an odd kid, even by odd kid standards. I met her in sixth grade, when our alphabetically ordered last names landed us in adjacent seats, and she turned to look at me with a cheerful, gap toothed smile.
“Hi!” She said.
“Hi.” I replied quietly.
I was shy and intimidated by my first day in middle school, but she wasn’t the least bit nervous.
what she means:
did Zuko ever meet that little boy from "Zuko Alone" again? that little gap-toothed troublemaker who treated Zuko like a brother? i know they parted on such bad terms when Zuko revealed his identity, and i really don't blame him because at that time Zuko was still kind of an asshole, but did they ever see each other after the war? did the little boy hear about how Zuko disowned his father and joined the Avatar? did he learn that Zuko was the one to fight Azula in that fateful battle? did Zuko visit an earth kingdom town one one of his royal trips and recognize him years later? did the little boy apologize for rejecting him? or did maybe he go to the fire nation to see if Zuko remembered him? did Zuko beg forgiveness for the crimes of the fire nation? did they make up? did they hug it out? did the little boy's brother survive the war? did he introduce him to Zuko? did Zuko insist on giving him the pearl dagger he tried to give him before he left? did the little boy accept it this time? did
so, to be blunt, the clique sucks. not all of you, no, but a majority of the clique sucks. a lot of us lack respect, not only for tyler and josh, but for other artists, bands, and their fanbase, such as melanie martinez and the crybabies. (the melanie hate was very very strong on the clique amino app)
i know i’m not being any better than they are now, by ranting about all this, but i NEED to get it off my chest.
let’s start off with the whole fake fan thing. there is no such thing as a ‘fake fan’! only NEW fans! if you meet someone who only knows the radio hits, introduce them to more songs! back when i first got into tøp, i bought a blurryface shirt with lane boy lyrics on it, despite only listening to the song a few times and i hadn’t memorized EVERY word. i wore it to church one night and a clique member ran up to me and busted out rapping the whole song and i got pretty freaked out! i told her that i’d only listened to the song maybe three times and she rolled her eyes, called me a fake fan, and left me alone with my little emo eyeliner and my little emo self. it hurt me, because she was degrading me in the fanbase for not knowing all the words to lane boy.
next let’s talk about faking suicide. that’s OBVIOUSLY not okay. suicide is a very, very serious thing that shouldn’t be joked about. i see it happen within the clique all the time, both real suicides and fake, and both hurt me very badly. but in different ways. do you realize how many people you’re hurting by faking your own death, all for attention? tyler isn’t going to write a song about you, you know, because you “died”.
now the address leaking, ah, the address leaking. that’s tyler and jenna’s personal life and their privacy. they had JUST moved into this new house! they must have felt so unsafe in their own home, which is supposed to be a place of comfort and protection from all you crazy, rabid fans trying to rip his clothes and steal his shoes. how safe would you feel if someone leaked your address online for the whole world to see?
next we have the crashed wedding. that whole thing was so, so disrespectful. that was josh’s friend’s wedding. if you were famous, and went to your friend’s big special day, and a fan decided to break in in the middle of it just to get a picture with you, would you feel annoyed or upset? because in the picture the girls took with him, josh looked pretty pissed. and josh has the right to say “no” to anybody who wants a picture with him. he doesn’t have to do whatever you say, your wish isn’t his command, and that goes for tyler too. ever wonder why they walk fast in public, and why tyler started hearing hoods and baseball caps to cover his face lately? to hide from us.
the crap with the crybabies. it’s nuts. y'all are making nasty comments about melanie’s appearance, and personally, i think mel is a very beautiful young woman. the real ugly people are the ones who made fun of her and her fans, they’re ugly on the inside. it isn’t right. i know that you would all feel awful if someone told you that your tooth gap was the 8th wonder of the world or made rude comments on your eyebrows. mel is a human being, and so are all of her fans, so start treating them with respect. because EVERY human deserves respect.
i understand why the clique is so hated. we’re mostly made up of awful people. i feel bad for tyler and josh because they deserve better fans than us. they deserve respectful, thoughtful people that wait patiently for new music instead of rabid, rude kids who spam their social media accounts, pretty much harassing them and pressuring them into releasing new music, commenting “i love you” constantly on their posts, and invading their personal lives and their privacy.
that’s it. that’s all i have to say. the clique sucks and i’m pretty ashamed that i even called myself a clique member. until you all clean up your act, i’m not one of you. i’m not a part of the clique anymore, i’m simply someone who listens to tøp. i’m just a fan. i refuse to identify as part of this madhouse called the skeleton clique. feel free to rb and rant about it yourself. i’m done
Lance had a game as a child, being
the middle child. He really didn’t get too much attention from anyone except
for the stray little one or two. Or when something drastic happened to him,
like a broken limb or something. Which is why he created the game. Whenever he
would talk, and he would notice someone not listening. He’d say something
crazy. He’d remembered one time specifically. He was maybe eight at the time.
With a gap-toothed grin and a mint green band-aid on his cheek as he babbled to
his mother. Wild hand gestures and crazy exaggerations as she chopped vegetables
at the stove. He remembered her nodding along, humming ‘yes’s and ‘okay dear’s
every so often as he paused.
“Hey Mama, I’m going to go off to
war and break my arm, okay? A hum.
“Okay mijo, go have fun.” Lance
frowned before he stumbled off. Later that day he did actually break his arm.
His friend’s mom had to call the ambulance and Lance’s mother hadn’t even know
he was at the hospital when his friend’s mother drove him home and talked to
Lance’s mother herself. Lance had smiled as he was smothered with attention and
love from Garcia’s mother. But, it wasn’t his mother’s attention. It wasn’t the
attention he wanted.
They’d never notice.
Even when he went off to Garrison,
the game continued. Telling instructors he was going to go clubbing. Or that he
was off to become a rebel fighter. Giving loud, exuberant stories about sailing
the seas. Hell. He told his best friend Hunk he was going to go throw himself
off the Garrison room. All he got was a absent minded smile and a ‘okay, see
you at curfew.’ Lance wasn’t even sure Hunk had heard the leaving part.
Then he was a paladin. One of five
defender of the universe, fighting an intergalactic war. He was the first one
chosen in over ten thousand years. And still, when he’d make jokes, or give his
serious opinions. No one heard him. After so many years of the same game, he’d
finally gotten bored. So, Lance did the only logical thing.
Change up the rules.
Allura was one of the few who
noticed him, so she helped him out with his little game. Smiled when he told
her the rules. How he’d say crazy things to see if someone was listening.
Except for now, just like that one time when he was eight. He’d actually do
them. And see how long it took for them to notice the changes.
First was with Pidge, he’d sat in a
room with her for three hours. Talking loudly and in great detail about the new
blue highlights he was going to get in his hair when they stopped off in the
next planet. How they’d be blue and teal and he was going to look like a god
damn gorgeous fucking mermaid. Pidge only ignored him, only noticing and
greeting him with a ‘huh?’ after three hours of Lance talking. The reason she
noticed him was because Allura had entered the room and called his name.
He’d gotten his hair dyed on that
planet, just as he said he would. And no one noticed.
The next one was his first ear piercings,
he had been sparring with Keith, spouting nonsense as they fought in hand to
hand combat. Lance was losing pretty much the entire time. But Lance knew that
wasn’t anything new. Keith barely could tell the difference from fighting a
training bot from fighting Lance. He got his piercing the very next day. Allura
had done them herself. After one of their self-care and venting sessions.
And it just spiraled from there.
Hunk was cooking one day as Lance was drawing and talking about a tattoo of the
ocean themed Lion he was going to get to cover most of his upper left arm.
Shiro was his verbal bouncy wall for both his right eyebrow piercings. Pidge,
that was his tongue piercing. Keith caused his lip piercings, both of them.
Hunk had driven him for the belly button piercing. Shiro had gotten him the
star tattoos on the corner of his right eye. It was fun yeah, Lance loved the
little changes in himself. Each one gave him confidence in his appearance, but
they also hurt him.
It was like a reminder. Each thing
he got was a time he was ignored. Rejected and alone. There were like constant
reminders of his failings to get the attention he craved. Even Allura was
getting agitated. Assuring him that she always noticed when he added the more noticeable
things, and being surprised and often delighted and intrigued to see the more
obscure and hidden changes. Lance always smiled when she fiddled with his new piercings,
buying him new shiny ones that she matched with her own ear piercings, when she
admired the progress he made in training, or when she traced his new tattoos
with delicate nails. In return he always helped to braid her hair, painted her
nails. Hell, he’d learned how to speak Altean for her. She was like the doting
big sister he’d always wanted. He’d always craved to have.
Most of the time, it was able to
shove away all of the bad thoughts. Enough to stave off the personal demons
inside of him. Clawing at him and constantly nagging at him. Reminding him that
he was just a speck in the universe. That he could die one day, and there would
be not a single person to mourn his death or go to his funeral.
Those thoughts hurt. Until
eventually, they didn’t. Soon the buzzing thoughts became normal in the back of
his mind. Fading to silence as his excitement and live retreated in the castle.
Being reserved for celebrations on saved planets, or for the Alteans that paid
him attention and treated him like the family he saw them as. The paladins only
seeing the bored, indifferent side that Lance adopted to deal with the people
who no longer seemed to even care what he did.
At least, he thought they didn’t,
but by the time they did notice he didn’t care whether they did or not.
It was a planet with a higher rate
of gravity and magnetic activity. Gahtic’al or something? It wasn’t in a tongue
that Allura talked about very often, but Lance was sure he’d get it by the time
he meant the natives. The only thing he recognized as noteworthy was as Pidge
announced they’d have to get rid of any metal they carried on them. Lance’s
eyebrow raised up. His tongue running over and rubbing against the metal in his
mouth. He almost felt anxious. It’d been a while since his skin had been bare
of piercings. But, Lance knew he’d have to take them out as he watched even
Keith give up his knifes. Lance sighed as he stepped up.
His hands were already reaching to
his ears to take off his piercings in his ears when he felt eyes on him. Shiro
was gapping at him as he pulled more and more metal off of his face. Then
incredulous as Lance even pulled up his shirt to get off his belly button
piercing. Shiro studied Lance up and down. There was three holes in each of
Lance’s ears, one industrial bar, and two piercing holes in his right eyebrow.
Snake bites, a belly button piercing. Were those tattoos on his skin too?!
Shiro gaped. He. When? Lance. Who cared more about his skin and hair than he
cared about his health, had piercings and tattoos? And dye in his hair?! Shiro
looked around, seeing more dazed and staring paladins. Guessing he wasn’t the
only one who hadn’t noticed. Maybe it had happened recently? Shiro looked back
to Lance, who looked calm and relaxed. Shiro was in awe.
The boy looked so different. His
body was stronger than Shiro remembered it to be, it was still lean. But with
obvious strength, power, and muscle tone that didn’t compromise the litheness
of his figure. His hair was brown with shimmering hues of blue and teal that
framed his tan and tattooed skin perfectly. His face was set in a neutral
expression. Not unfriendly, more of a calm blankness that looked like it could
change into the most heart warming smile, or the scariest glare in the world.
With a sharp jawline and the soft glowing blue lights of the ship, Lance looked
striking, almost ethereal. With sharp royal blue eyes that were trained on a
smiling Allura. What the princess did next surprised Shiro.
“Lance, your tongue piercing too?”
Lance seemed to gauge her words for a moment before he got them. Immediately
sticking out that long tongue, revealing a thick black metal piercing straight
through Lance’s tongue. Causing Shiro to catch a noticeable shudder run through
Keith. Almost making him smirk. Keith always had a thing for the blue paladin.
And a thing for piercings. Keith had to be in heaven. But, how long had Lance
had these piercings? Was Shiro so caught up in training and leading that he
hadn’t notice so many drastic changes in one of his paladins? Lance grinned at
“Thanks princess.” Pidge was the
first one to talk, pointing accusingly at Lance.
“What?! When did this happen?!”
Lance quirked an eyebrow at Pidge, the expression on his face was friendly, but
didn’t hold that same joking light it once did. Now it just seemed like a cool
neutrality, as if he’d just noticed Pidge’s shock.
“What? The tongue piercing? I got
that…” Lance frowned and looked to Allura, [When did I get the tongue piercing again?]
Shiro gaped as fluid Altean language left Lance’s lips, as if he’d spoken the
language his whole life. The other paladins’ reactions were much the same as
Allura answered back.
[I’d say, eight months ago? Your
newest thing was the industrial bar, which was about six months ago, and the
tongue piercing was about two months before that. Didn’t you get it at that at
the market place on Shero’sic?] Lance nodded.
“Yup. I remember now. It was eight
months ago. Remember? Because I got it shortly after my face tattoos.” Allura
“Mmm, I still like your arm tattoo.
But the stars are quite quaint.” Lance’s fingers brushed the two small stars
just at the outer corner of his right eye. Bringing Shiro’s attention to the
little stars that almost looked like beauty marks next to Lance’s almost
glowingly blue eyes. Lance placed the peicings into a small bag for safe
keeping and handed them to Allura to put with their other metal objects while
they landed on the planet. Lance looked back at them expectantly.
“Well? Don’t we have a job to do?”
And Lance walked away from them with Allura, leaving four shocked and confused
paladins in his wake. Just what happened to their blue paladin? When had his
body changed so much. So drastically in front of them without notice? When had
he matured into such a strong young man? Calm and patient. The gleam and
innocence of a child no longer in his eyes.
Above them, Cabal ships drag thick black smoke across the flickering twilight, and flames rise from the Tower. Legionnaires scour the streets, seeking out the cries of the wounded and afraid.
“Hush,” he says again, as the child starts to sniffle, and he pulls her into the shadows cast by an apartment block as a patrol makes its laborious way past. He was made to protect, made to serve, but he feels clumsy now; the hand on her shoulder is almost larger than her head and she has no armor to protect her bruised and burned skin from his rough gauntlets. When he tries to wipe the tears from her face he worries that he will be the one to break her.
He followed her screams, just as the Cabal did. He had no rifle to kill the Legionnaires that would have silenced her; dispatched the first one with his boot-knife but was not quick enough to catch the second unaware. It is dead, but his chest-plate is cracked and burned and the thing that eats the Traveler has also eaten his Light.
She is wearing yellow. A summer dress, for a celebration. When he offered her his gore-spattered hand she took it at once, and did not look back at the splayed and broken limbs visible beneath the rubble around her as though she knew there was no one left to wait for. He brushed dust and chips of concrete from the tight black curls on her head, and when she tried to smile her gap-toothed smile at him despite it all he knew that he would die the second death to save her.
They pick their way through dust-covered streets and alleys, one grimy hand holding his armored fingers, the other wrapped around the silent shell of his Ghost. He told her to keep it safe, and she clutches it to her chest with an intensity that would do any Titan proud.
To those behind the Wall, love and service. To those outside it, fury and fire. He is young: the Order’s maxim has never meant much to him, but here at the end of an Age he feels each word burning in his chest and he wraps his Mark around her shoulders like a cloak, like a little Hunter, to keep the nearness of the night from her as best he can.
When they hear the distant bursts of gunfire he waits until the chatter fades, then leads them in a different direction even though it gives him hope to know the City is still fighting. Perhaps if he ran to the violence he would find weapons or more Guardians, but he will not risk it. And so hours pass as they slink across the city, and as slowly as his wounds force him to move she still takes ten strides for every one of his. She has only one sandal, silver leather wrapped around a tiny leg, but he thinks that a single piece of armor is better than no armor at all.
He finds a battered pulse rifle in a street that leads to a square, tries not to wonder where its owner went. The magazine is full, but it is all he has and there is no Ghost at his shoulder to synthesize ammo. He bends to pick it up, never letting go of the hand that holds his own, just as a troop of Legionnaires turn the corner in front of them.
He pulls the child behind a crumbled wall. Waits one heartbeat, two; no slug throwers roar in response. Even so, they are between him and the direction he has lead, and he doubts he has the strength to cross the City again.
Love and service to those within. Fire and fury to those without.
The Legionnaires do not notice, but neither do they move on. More join them, and they begin to spiral out in all directions, continuing their search. It will not be long before they find him and the child. A narrow street, once hung with banners but now collapsing from the rooftops down, will lead her west, to the walls, away from Cabal patrols - as long as there is a distraction.
He lifts her chin as gently as he can.
“You have to run,” he whispers. He is bad at whispering. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“That way,” he says when she stares at him in silence, pointing with his outsized hand down the shadowed street.
He gives her a delicate push, points again. She blinks, once, then toddles into the dark, Ghost held close as though it will protect her. Perhaps, if there is a way to undo this disaster, it someday will.
He props the rifle atop the ledge, lifts his visor and sights with naked eye. There are so many, he thinks, and then bites back a laugh - there are only eight.
Love within. Fury without.
The rifle barks. One Legionnaire dies and the others spin in confusion, firing in the direction of his cover. He ignores them, squeezes the trigger again. And again. And again.
Love within. Fury without. Love within. Fury without. Love within. Fury without. Love within -
Something tugs his arm. He looks down into the eyes of the little girl, and pure terror finds him.
“I said run,” he growls, but she does not, her face set in a scowl. He shakes his arm and she does not let go.
A micro-rocket bursts against the barricade and he ducks, throws his body over her, sprays the rest of his bullets in response. The child buries her head in his cracked armor, her frail body shaking.
Never has he been so afraid to die.
He feels a fool. He tosses the rifle down, wraps one arm around the child and pulls her close. With the other he slams his visor shut. He takes a deep breath, and then another, and when at last there is a break in the constant fire he lurches to his feet, lifts the child to his chest, and runs.
It is hard, so hard, to move full Titan-plate without his Light to drive it. His body aches. Something inside is probably broken, and he does not know how long it takes a body to heal without a Ghost.
A slug hits him in the back and he stumbles but his armor holds, and he sprints down the street where he tried to send the child, the sound of jump-packs following behind. He ducks his head and cups himself around his charge, makes himself as big as he can, plows across the debris-choked pavement. The girl begins to cry again, though to his ears it is not the sound of fear but of fury, and before long he is roaring with it, and the two of them roar together down the long, narrow street as explosions scatter bits of ruins that once were homes. He does not know where he is going, knows only that he must go somewhere, that he will not stop until the child is safe or his legs no longer work; that when he has nothing left he will throw her from him and tear the Cabal apart with fists alone, Light or no.
He has stopped counting the impacts. Every step is a knife in his chest. The Legionnaires must be close but he does not turn, lest the shield that is his body fail. He can feel himself slowing, a sensation that fills him both with wonder and despair, but he cannot force himself to let her go despite his promise. Something cracks against the back of his leg, and he is too tired and too hurt to correct. He lands heavily on one shoulder, slides ten grinding yards, arms still wrapped around the child. At the very least, they will have to rip him apart to get to her. Maybe, if he dies quickly, they will not notice her at all.
Gunfire interrupts his thoughts, along with the sound of footsteps and the roar of Cabal. Hands grab him, drag him out of the street, but still he does not uncurl. He sees Hunter cloaks, Warlock robes, a Titan mark.
“Hush,” he tells the child, head still tucked close, while they cower in a doorway and around them Guardians fight.
“Hush,” he tells her, over their surprised cries of pain.
“Hush,” he tells her, over and over, until at last all is silent and he dares to lift his head and stand.
He helps the child to her feet, and though he leans against the doorway it is her tiny hand in his that keeps him upright. He looks around at their saviors: most are near as bruised as he is. They nod their heads, pat him on the back, and he opens his mouth to ask for forgiveness, for leading the Legionnaires here, but a Hunter shakes her head as though she knows what he will say.
Two Guardians lie dead. Truly dead. One Hunter, one Titan wearing the Mark of the Gatewatch. He waits the half-second for their Ghosts to revive them, feels sick when they do not rise. He swears that he will learn their names and add them to the Order of the Pilgrim Guard.
Someone makes cooing sounds and tries to take the child, tries to give her water, but she refuses to let go of his hand, refuses to surrender his Ghost. For a moment they stand there, all seven of them in a circle around her, and it is as though a different light has risen to bond them all.
They need ships. Weapons. Food, maybe. The child, at least, must eat. The Hunter offers water again, and he wonders how many new scraps of fabric she has taken for her cloak. A different Titan, this one wearing the Mark of the Six Fronts, hands him the dead Hunter’s rifle - then looks down at the child, still clinging to his hand, and passes him a sidearm instead.
They turn their backs to the Tower, and continue their slow march to the western wall. Perhaps they will find supplies along the way. If not, so be it - they are still Guardians, and they will save what light they can.
Love within. Fury without.
The Cabal have no word for ‘retreat.’ Soon, they will learn that the Guardians have none for ‘mercy.’