#Hazmat Surfing

[godwantsit]

[octoagentmiles]

Heyy! Your page is super cool! Do you have any headcanons of what the octonauts would do if you were sick?

Thank you 😌✨👍

Peso

Lil guy is LITERALLY a doctor. Best doctor in the ocean, actually. He can and will instantly cure you of all your ailments, with a single bandage and a sticker. Don't ask him how he does it—a magician never reveals his secrets. He has a habit of not sleeping when he has overnight patients, and you will be no exception. He'll stay up late with you, just to keep you company or get you a glass of water/medicine if you need it.

Barnacles

Self care?? Pshhhhhhhhhhhh-

- but if you or anyone else he cares about gets sick, he is THERE. He might hover over you a bit, but he means well. He'll make sure you have everything you could possibly need to feel better, or even just slightly more comfortable. He WILL carry you to the sick bay if you cough funny, and there's nothing you can do about it.

Kwazii

He has the strongest immune system you'll ever see- given how many times he gets slimed, inked, muddied, sneezed on, stung, bit, poked (am I leaving anything out?); he's resistant to almost everything. Knowing this, he'll stick by your side the entire time, making sure you're not bored or lonely. He's completely unafraid of getting sick. It might still happen, but he won't mind much (he'll get over it fast).

Tweak

She has the second strongest immune system you'll ever see: a side effect of growing up in the Everglades. She's a lot like Kwazii though, in the sense that she'll stick around you too. She won't barge into your room or follow you around the ship, but she'll let you hang out in her loft and play with her video games. She pours oil, rubs vinegar, and picks up globs of algae all with her bare paws; she is not a germaphobe even a little, but unlike Kwazii she has a more likely chance of getting sick from you. And that's a whole new problem to deal with. (See: Barnacles, but replace "you" with "Tweak".)

Dashi

I'm so sorry, but you will literally not see her again (in person) for the entire lifespan of whatever you have. She IS a germaphobe, and would NOT even DARE touch you with a 39+½ ft. pole. She would probably facetime you from the other side of the Octopod every couple hours though, just to check in on you. Y'know, make sure you're alive and all that. After you're 100% feeling better, she'll take you out surfing, or to do something else fun.

Shellington

He's pulling out all the books and "how to get better fast" articles he can find, because he doesn't like seeing you sniffly and gross. He'd like,, half dote over you, and half completely avoid you. He's the perfect mix of "concerned" and "not wanting to catch whatever's wrong with you". The Vegimals are immune to most people-diseases, so he'd ask them to look after you.

Inkling

He'd fill you with so much herbal tea and biscuits it'll be the only thing you can taste for weeks. He's not necessarily a germaphobe, but I feel like it could be really bad for him to get sick. He'll care for you like the loving grampa he is, while probably wearing a hazmat suit the whole time.

[newsource21]

It’s one of those “good news / bad news” days for all potential fall 2025 Dartmouth College applicants. The good news is you are once again going to be judged at least somewhat on your quantifiable intellectual merits. (Yay! Unless you’re stupid! In which case — dang!) The bad news is that this means you can’t get away with hiding that lame SAT score and applying “early decision” anymore to lock in a first-mover advantage. For the Ivy League university is formally reinstating standardized-testing requirements for all applicants to the class of 2029 after a four-year interregnum of test-free applications. It seemed at the time rather obviously like a dangerous experiment in admitting a wildly underqualified and unprepared student body — very much the equivalent of surfing the internet without a firewall, exploring a BSL-4 biolab in Wuhan without a hazmat suit, or cruising the French Quarter without French letters. It turns out that after four years of this, Dartmouth agrees, and it has decided to protect itself again. Dartmouth first “temporarily suspended” its SAT/ACT application requirement back in June 2020, during the height of the Covid-19 pandemic. I use scare quotes around the phrase “temporarily suspended” because it was understood at the time to be an act of educational activism made possible by the societal dislocation of Covid — a pilot program whereby Dartmouth could finally access a greater pool of minority applicants. (Yes, folks: It was a DEI initiative at its core.) The chronic underperformance of minority groups in standardized testing has plagued America for decades, but it has dramatically worsened in recent years; here was a way perhaps to — under the guise of a temporary Covid provision — level the playing field. (Last year, in a poorly timed effort to hop onto a stalling bandwagon, Columbia University announced that it was abolishing the SAT/ACT requirement permanently; the law school, tellingly, instead floated the idea of requiring a “video application.” Either way, it’s rather obvious what goal they’re working toward.) If for nothing more than black comedy, it would be fun to believe that the reason Dartmouth reinstated its standardized-testing requirement is that, having dispensed with the only neutral metric universities have to gauge applicants with, student quality precipitously dropped off a cliff. (Imagine some grey-templed guy with suspenders shaking his head disgustedly as he tosses yet another simpering “Dartmouth ’26” résumé into the trash can.) In all probability, however, what Dartmouth saw was something far worse: Even more rich white people were being admitted.

The cruelest joke about removing the standardized-testing requirement for elite colleges is that the policy — designed specifically as a way to increase minority enrollment — achieves the exact opposite of what colleges intend. Rich and privileged mediocrities used to have their parents donate to secure admission to elite schools. Now, in an era of exponentially increased competition for admission, the rich simply hire six-figure “college counselors” who stage-manage a child’s entire life down to the em dashes in their admissions essays. The one thing those parents and pros cannot do is walk into a testing room and take a child’s exam for them. (Well, not legally, at least; Lord only knows what some parents get up to.)

And the glorious irony of Dartmouth’s failed experiment is that it was these children — the least impressive of all, spoiled children of privilege without any real intellectual ability — who won big from Dartmouth’s woke move. My guess is that these types got in and accepted offers in disproportionate numbers . . . because all the other elite schools that still required an SAT score rejected them instantly. (Another big win for restorative justice!)

The beauty of standardized testing is that — no matter how many tutors paid for or practice tests taken — it ultimately tells real truths about the undeniable natural abilities of humans beyond the crude and forever visible markers of race and class. Tests are the great equalizer, the proof that while education is subject to class and privilege, intelligence respects no boundaries. I can do no better than to quote the editors of National Review on this subject:

Clinical studies have shown that standardized testing does exactly what you expected it would: It identifies intellectually gifted children from all strata of society, but even more crucially allows talented children from disadvantaged backgrounds (whether economic or minority) to shine in a way their local educational opportunities (or a chaotic home life) might never have permitted. It forms the essence of what any just conception of America as a so-called meritocracy was supposed to be about: You might have gone to Phillips Exeter Academy and had the best SAT tutors available to you — but this kid over here living above his parents’ corner store and studying when he doesn’t have to mind the shop? He took it once and scored a 1590.

So I, for one, applaud Dartmouth’s restoration of the SAT/ACT requirement for applicants, even if I wish I could believe that it was doing it because it feared that it was producing freshmen of lower intellectual caliber. Instead, you can bet that the real reason is that the policy was allowing too many rich kids who only looked good “on paper” to slip through the cracks. So now I suppose it’s back to the drawing board for the school’s DEI and admissions offices, working diligently to find a more effective way to discriminate.

[brandonwayneb]

fools acting like their hunting pedophiles while purposely using double bodies to traffic hiding white crimes under almost “unspeakable mass crimes”

white shame hiding mass murders, under playing ‘goo goo boo boo gaa gaa games’

making up old english common words to hide under “ribs” and “baby cribs”

then going around asking people if they want to be a FREE Vegetable wheelchair, drooling baby bib at white privilege, homicide gambling bids

say Gay Bull, gamble

say Bids, at calls DIBS and DABS

train’s psychological assaults Arabs,

at giving “belly flab”

at giving “flabby lips”

at saying make a “black nigger grave digger do a GIDDEON, GUIDE ON, saying APP RON, saying FAT APRONS, saying to blacks to hide their GIGS, at white illegal GIFTS says FIG, Newton

Figure Issac Newton

New Tone New Tune

says GIG,

says DIG,

says GID GUIDE DATA ON BASE

says hiding white privilege crimes under treating EVERY single black shipper as a RAT SUBWAY TUNNEL SYSTEM says

have EVERY single black person,

stuck at SIR ISSAC NEWTON

and then say TELE NUKE KEN

KENT, LIVE IN A TENT

KENT, BLAME BLACK BENDS

KENT, STEAL PRETENSE

white KKK trixxx

www kkk xxxx

warwicks illegal whites elitists casts

remember only healthy rights WICCA, or WE KICK THEIR BED PANDEMIC PAN PARTIES

saying WICCAN is not the fault of the white homo ideology nor the fault of global homicides,

however MASS MONEY research

however MASS LAB religious extortions

prove WIZARDS, LIZARDS, WITCHES in the same war for life, as ALL lives, however separatist “illegal whites”

factually social crimes are primarily related to white hordes, CREW SURF FIX

Save Healthy Irish Wicca,

Red Wicca is okay…

however examine “AXE GANG”

at “white double cross”

stolen global “RED CROSS”

not say

not sea

“white pen wheels”

UK 🇬🇧

England 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿

Two Red Crosses English On English Heritage Hide Rabbit Slaughter Hospital Hops, says

says, Butterscotch blame a Scottish

says, Blame PumpKin pumpernickel bread

says, Blame EYE RUSH IRISH RICH

says, blame to EYE STABS ARABS

ripping rabbits hides English language ROBOTS.

RABBITS, or ROBOTS

old white women lying to cover their husbands and white crews by saying “I just love them to bits”

saying “bits and bytes”

then fake claims ITTTT BIT ME!!!!

then spreading hazmat lies and misinformation at white privilege being exposed at treating paid shippers or tricked shippers into saying “VILLAGE” acting like every single person, is their own “country and village”

is how white skin crimes and white genocide crimes send hide “white privileged”

says “treat this like a village”

as they “lay or send cabbage into people”

taxi cabs,

and cabbage balls

stealing TAXI CAB BADGE

fake police, fake subs to hide homicide agents

saying baby CUBS…

Buckshots, Buckskin.

saying TAXI CAB, CABBAGE

white privileged public genocides stolen public roles

read again if you have doubts,

distinguish difference between rushing blame, or SMELLING MONEY first

[klaus-in-a-whole-foods]

Simple Plan drummer crowd surfing in a hazmat suit

[blasphemouskittens]

[stoneylandlord]

Let’s just let that sink in

[abc-masterranger]

ABC-Ranger: Das Unterzeug, Teil 1 - Im Sommer könnte man mit der Badehose in den Zodiac steigen. Zwar wärmen Zodiacs ein Stück weit allein durch ihr dickes Material , aber was ist bei Temperaturen unter 15°C? Weil man unter Vollschutz früher oder später ohnehin nass wird, bietet sich Neopren an. Viele ziehen auch Winterunterwäsche oder ganze Textil-Uniformen an. Neoprenanzüge sind meist Einteiler oder haben, wie hier, eine Latzhose. Damit verrutscht nix. Unter Vollschutz und im vollen Gerödel dürfte eine nasse und damit schwere Unterhose, die dauernd anfängt zu rutschen, recht nervig sein. Ein alter Surfanzug in 3mm Stärke ist da erst mal die ideale Lösung.

ABC Ranger: The Underwear, Part 1 - In summer you can wear the Zodiac with swimming trunks . Zodiacs warm to a certain extent just because of their thick material, but what about temperatures below 15 ° C? Because in the hazmat suit you'll get wet sooner or later anyway, neoprene is ideal. Many put on winter underwear or entire textile uniforms. Wetsuits are usually one-piece. This lad wear a sleeve-less one piece (long john) underneath the jacket and nothing slips. Wet and therefore heavy underpants that keep slipping can be quite annoying under the hazmat protection suit and all the additional stuff which is strapped on. An old surf suit with a thickness of 3mm is the ideal solution.

[sarah-sandwich]

Photo Credit:

https://unsplash.com/@markusspiske

https://unsplash.com/@a_d_s_w

https://unsplash.com/@gabrielj_photography

WIP Preview: Lemon Boy

This is not being posted yet! You may look at the word count of this post and think “WOW! She’s got a lot of this written!” but I in fact Do Not! That said, this is the next project I really want to dive into so maybe spring of 2021? idk

Summary:

Just kidding I don’t have an official summary yet haha But the premise is that it’s Endgame compliant (yes i know i’m sorrrryyyy i don’t control my plot bunnies) and Harley centric (although we do get some Peter POV). The snap happens. The five years happens. Endgame happens. Harley gets snapped. His mom and Abbie don’t. When he comes back after the snap, he finds his bedroom has been turned into a craft room and Abbie is no longer his annoying 16 year old sister. She’s 21, old enough to drink, and three years into a degree at Cornell while he’s still the same 18 year old he was the day he vanished in the middle of supper in a puff of ash.

Oh yeah, and his mentor (along with all of his plans for the future) is dead. Yippee.

This story begins two years later when his estranged uncle on his dad’s side passes away and he gets left his crummy old house in Queens (Abbie gets his retirement fund which she immediately dumps into her student loans and goes right back to being a broke college student but without the crippling debt. Woo!) He’s told the house is in bad shape but even without seeing it first, he has no reason not to go. He’s spent the past two years in Rose Hill fixing up the same 20 cars and coming home to the same rinky-dink apartment over the hardware store and eating the same frozen meals. He’s done. He’s ready. It’s time for a change.

He’s not ready for New York. The people. The culture. The living expenses. It’s all too much but he’s too stubborn to quit. The house needs some serious TLC and he’s got all the right skills to give it; he only needs a little extra income so he can afford all of the tools and materials. He puts out an ad for a roommate. There are three bedrooms and plenty of space even if the third bedroom is filled to the ceiling with his uncle’s junk and the upstairs bathroom is off limits until he can work up the nerve to go in there again. He thought the downstairs bathroom was grody but the upstairs looks like a portal to an alien planet. He needs a hazmat suit just to stand outside the closed door.

A ton of weirdos respond to his ad.

Bird girl. Satan worshiper. Face tattoos. Generic Douchebag™. Literal 13-year-old (literally!) Junkie x7. Weird guy who totally lied about why he was late to the interview but whatever. He’ll take the possible pathological liar with a time management problem if it means he doesn’t have to do anymore of these interviews.

Enter Peter (oh my god they were roommates)

Peter who has been going through the motions. He goes to ESU like he’s supposed to. He hangs out with Ned and MJ like he’s supposed to. He has brunch with Aunt May every Wednesday and volunteers half his Saturday at F.E.A.S.T. like he’s supposed to. He even spends a weekend with Pepper and Morgan at the lake house once a month. Like he’s supposed to.

Spider-Man is the only outlet for his grief and his rage. It bleeds from between fisted fingers every time he throws a punch. It follows after him like dark cloud to the point that even Daredevil has asked if he’s doing okay.

But Spider-Man doesn’t mix well with dorm life. After he almost gets caught by his roommate one too many times, he ditches the dorm and spends the tail end of fall semester couch surfing and staying in shelters. When he spots the ad for the ridiculously cheap rent where he’d get his own bedroom presumably with a door he can close, he jumps on it. Does it really matter if the person who put up the ad is sketchy? He’s Spider-Man. He can handle himself.

Then he meets Harley and Harley isn’t sketchy--he’s naive and way out of his depth here in the city. Somehow he walks the line between too kind and unpleasantly abrasive and Peter still finds himself liking him.

Oh my god why did I write so much

ANYWAY! So they learn to live together while Harley fixes the house and the house is a symbol of his mental health or whatever and as the house heals he heals and Peter heals and eeevveeeennntuaaalllllyyyy they maybe fall in love but it’s a slow burn bc they both have a lot of damage to fix first.

PHEW! Okay below the cut is a “snippet” (i can’t not over-write it’s a problem) from later in the fic after Harley discovers Peter is Spider-Man and they become something resembling almost friends. For reference, our lovely fic begins in March and this takes place somewhere around September. :) yay slow burns

Snippet:

“Will you come with me?”

“No,” Harley says, looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “Why would I do that?”

“I… Morgan misses me and she can be… a lot. It’d be nice to have a second person, I guess.”

Pepper is no longer willing to tolerate him avoiding the lake house. If he puts her off any longer he’s afraid she’s going to show up on their front stoop with Morgan in tow and force a visit. But being at the house where they held the funeral with Morgan who is so much like Tony… It hurts. And at six she has so much energy. It’s overwhelming to be the sole focus of it, especially when he’s struggling with keeping his emotions in check.

“So you only want me there so I can take the heat off you?” Harley crosses his arms and leans back against the counter, his sharp blue-eyed stare never leaving his face.

“No! Well, I mean… That’s not the only reason. I mean, I like you.” His heart skips a beat. Too truthful! Backtrack! “I like spending time with you.” That’s better.

Harley snorts. “Try again.”

“It’s true!” he insists. He never believes him. He could confess his big dumb crush right now and Harley would probably laugh in his face and tell him to quit messing around. He sighs. Time for the last resort. “They’ve also got a lab. Like a real one. The suit needs some TLC and it’d be good to have an extra set of hands.”

“There it is.” Harley stands straight, rolling his eyes, and ducks into the fridge. Peter rolls his eyes behind his back. “Coulda just led with that instead of beating around the bush.” He pulls out mayo, lunch meat, and cheese slices and lets the door fall shut behind him as he takes his sandwich fixings to the table. “If Pepper says it’s okay, yeah I’ll come. Want a sandwich?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Someday, he’s going to figure out how to get it through Harley’s thick skull that he really does like him. Hopefully without revealing his ever expanding crush.

~Harley~

The lake house looks just like how he remembers it. Picturesque. Like, something you’d find on some cottagecore Instagram--not real-life. It’s gorgeous, but he can’t imagine ever living in a place like this. He feels just as out of place as he did two years ago even though the grounds aren’t crawling with superheros this time.

“Thanks for driving,” Peter says for the third time since they left the house.

He doesn’t turn away from his careful consideration of the woods and doesn’t respond. He did that the first two times. Peter should know by now that he’d rather drive than be driven by Pepper’s chauffeur or security guard or whatever Happy Hogan is to her now that Tony’s gone.

Dirt crunches as Peter shifts his feet. He can see him fidget in his mind’s eye. He knows how his fingers knit and unknit when he’s nervous, how his weight shifts from the ball of one foot to the other when he’s uncertain, how he chews his lower lip when he doesn’t know whether to speak or stay silent.

He gives it another handful of seconds before he pulls in a deep breath of cool damp air and turns to face him.

“Ready?” he asks.

Peter unknits his fingers and tucks them into his front pockets. He nods, releasing his lower lip, and settles his weight on his left leg. “You?”

He shrugs then heads for the trunk to get their bags.

He never expected to feel ready. This is Tony’s house, Tony’s family. Two things he once thought he’d be allowed to experience with the man himself. Instead, he’s here is at Peter’s request. He wonders if Pepper will recognize him this time. He wonders if he’ll be that weird southern kid from the funeral or if she looked him up afterward. The worst option, and the most probable one, will be that he’s nothing more than Peter’s roommate. No connection to Tony whatsoever. Here only for Peter’s support at Peter’s request to be Peter’s guest.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Peter. He can admit that to himself if no one else—despite his better judgment, he’s gotten attached. But this, being here, is all tied in with those unrealized dreams. The ones that were crushed into a fine powder by Tony’s death and then ground into the soft fertile earth by Pepper Potts-Stark’s stiletto and her blank uncomprehending stare when he tried to explain why he was on her property on the day of her husband’s funeral.

He shuts the trunk and ducks under the strap of his duffel bag. When Peter tries to grab his backpack from his hand, he slings it onto his shoulder and out of reach.

“I can carry my own stuff,” Peter says petulantly.

“Yep. You leadin’ the way or am I supposed to figure it out on my own?”

Peter shoots him a sour look then stalks towards the house without a backwards glance.

He follows at a more sedate pace and tries to use the extra time to convince himself that whatever happens this weekend changes nothing. It means nothing. Even if Pepper hates his guts, he’s still in the same boat as he was last week. Even if she invites him back, he’s still some nobody from Tennessee. It doesn’t matter so he doesn’t need to worry about it.

He steps onto the porch behind Peter just as the front door opens.

He tenses up as Pepper beams at Peter, casts a throw away smile his way, and then wraps Peter in a warm hug.

“I’ve missed you,” Pepper tells him before releasing him onto put her hands on his shoulders and say, “You don’t get to go that long between visits anymore. Morgan’s been driving me up the wall.”

“Sorry,” Peter says and Harley can imagine his sheepish face and the real guilt hidden there.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Pepper says and then releases Peter fully and steps towards Harley.

Suddenly fearful of receiving the same hug treatment, he sticks out his hand and says, “Harley Keener, nice to meet you.”

Pepper regards him with a bemused smile, but shakes his hand anyway. “We’ve already met, haven’t we? At the—,”

“I wasn’t uh—,” wasn’t sure you’d remember, “—wasn’t sure if that counted,” he says.

“Of course it does.” She eyes the bags on his shoulders and directs a raised eyebrow over her shoulder at Peter. “You have your guest carrying your things?”

“You try arguing with him,” Peter says, crossing his arms over his chest and shooting Harley a dirty look. “His southern hospitality kicks in at the most annoying times.”

“Not my fault I was raised right,” Harley fires back.

Pepper laughs, light as air, and leads the way into the house as she says over her shoulder, “Well in that case, Peter will you show him where he can put them? Morgan’s taking a nap so be quiet on the stairs.”

“I wondered why I didn’t get tackled the second I stepped out of the car,” Peter says, keeping his voice down despite them being nowhere near the sleeping child.

Pepper grins. “She was not happy about going down so soon before you were supposed to get here. I had to promise her you’d play princess rescue with her so, sorry about that.”

Peter groans. “She always makes me be the princess though.”

“Maybe Harley can be the princess this time,” Pepper says and winks at him.

He blinks in surprise, not expecting to be brought into the banter. He shrugs. “I’ve been worse.” Peter and Pepper both watch him expectantly so he expounds. “My sister Abbie liked to play ninja attack and she was the only one allowed to be the ninja.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Peter, the fool, says.

Harley shoots him a flat look. “I had to pretend not to hear her coming and then get tackled and beat up by an enthusiastic eight-year-old with bony fists. Sitting around in a tower waiting for Prince Charming sounds like a walk in the park.”

“Spider-Man,” Pepper says with a smirk and a sideways glance at Peter who blushes.

“What?” Harley asks.

“Spider-Man rescues the princess,” Pepper tells him, grinning fully.

Harley glances at Peter and his lips twitch. “She makes you be the princess so she can be Spider-Man?”

“Uh, yeah,” Peter says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Harley grins, he can’t help it. “She knows, right?”

“Definitely,” Peter says, a reluctant smile curling his own lips as he looks at Harley.

“Wow. What a power play. I have so much respect for her.”

“Ugh, shut up. I’m going to regret letting you two meet, aren’t I?”

Letting. Like Peter has a claim on Tony’s family and is graciously allowing him to interact with them. His smiles fades.

“Umm, let’s get those bags put away,” Peter says after an awkward beat when Harley fails to respond with the clearly expected banter. “We’ll be right back,” he says to Pepper.

“Take your time and get settled in,” she tells him. “I’m still cleaning up lunch.”

He follows Peter up the stairs, careful to keep his steps light.

The first door they pass is open, revealing a clean and spacious master bedroom, shiny dark wood floors offset by the furry white rug under the bed and the soft lavender comforter. The next door leads to a bathroom big enough to fit both a shower stall and a jacuzzi with plenty of space to do jumping jacks in-between if the mood struck. They reach the end of the hall and closed doors on either side of the hall.

Peter opens the door on the left, leaving him to assume the door on the right is Morgan’s.

He steps into the room and Peter shuts the door behind him, probably to keep them from accidentally waking Morgan and then flops on the bed on his back like a starfish.

It’s a nice room. Not as big as the master bedroom, but bigger than either of their bedrooms back home. It’s tastefully decorated in that impersonal way guest rooms have, but he can’t help but notice little pops of personality, almost as though to signify who the room is intended for. There’s a Spider-Man plushie on the bed, an Iron Patriot action figure on the desk, and the eye mask on the nightstand has Grumpy from Snow White on it.

He doesn’t see himself here, but then he didn’t expect to.

“You can put those wherever. I usually just live out of my bag for the weekend. No point putting two shirts in the dresser, you know?”

Wait. What?

Is this meant to be where Peter’s staying or where he’s staying? The way Peter immediately made himself at home on the bed makes him think it’s where Peter’s staying, but Peter shut the door and hasn’t mentioned where he’s supposed to go. He doesn’t remember seeing another guest room and Peter would have mentioned it sooner if he’s supposed to be sleeping on the couch, right?

Peter sits up to look at him when he makes no move to set down the bags.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “D’you… I mean, I figured you’d be okay sharing a room since we do at home all the time anyway, but I can sleep on the couch if you want.”

What? They’re sharing? Harley looks down at the hard wooden floor under his feet. It’s going to be a bitch to get comfortable on. Sleeping on the floor is never truly comfortable, but at least back home they’ve got carpet with padding under it. Peter follows his gaze.

“I umm, the bed’s big so I thought it’d be okay if… I mean, if you’re not comfortable with it I’ll absolutely stay on the couch.”

He swallows thickly. It is a big bed. King sized, if he’s guessing correctly. Far larger than Peter’s tiny twin back home. It makes sense to share. Then neither of them will have to sleep on the hard floor or disrupt Pepper and Morgan by sleeping in the public living room. They could do it without touching. He might not even notice the body on the other side of the bed.

So why does the idea make him so tense? He’s already realized he’s okay sharing space with Peter. Small touches from him don’t set him on edge like May’s hug did. So what’s making him so uncomfortable?

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Peter says, getting to his feet. “I’m sorry. I should have talked to you about it. It’s totally understandable that you—,”

“It’s fine,” he forces himself to say. He’s not going to make this trip awkward by being the reason someone needs to sleep in the living room. If this is the arrangement Peter and Pepper decided would work best for everyone then he’ll make it work.

Mechanically, he walks to the far side of the room and sets his duffel and Peter’s backpack next to the dresser.

Now what?

They stand awkwardly—facing each other, but not making eye contact. What are they supposed to do? What does “settle in” mean if they aren’t unpacking? Pepper seemed like she didn’t want them back downstairs until she’d finished cleaning. How’s he supposed to keep busy in this house that isn’t his and is complete. Nothing needs done. What is he supposed to do?

“Sorry,” Peter says again, but he ignores him.

Sometimes he thinks Peter apologizes just to fill the silence. There’s no way someone can be sorry as much as he says he is.

The TV remote is on top of the dresser. Lacking any better options, they can at least drown out the quiet. He picks it up and aims it at the wall-mounted TV and freezes.

There, on a shelf next to the door, is a potato gun. Not just any potato gun. It’s his. He hadn’t noticed it was missing from the garage but there’s no mistaking it’s the very same homemade potato gun he once threatened Tony with a decade ago.

“Is that yours?” Peter asks, noticing Harley’s shift in attention. “I always wondered. Seemed like a weird decor choice, you know?”

I always wondered.

He sets down the remote and takes a step towards the gun, a lump in his throat and a stinging behind his eyes. He did care, didn’t he? He didn’t forget him. He… he…

“I’m going for a walk,” he says. His voice comes out too quiet, too strained.

“Umm okay? D’you want company?”

He shakes his head, not trusting his voice, and walks out the door, shutting it softly behind him. Thankfully, he doesn’t run into Pepper on his way out the front door. He thinks he maybe hears her call out, but by then the front door is closed behind him and he’s taking long quick strides, aiming for the narrow walking trail leading into the trees.

A Spider-Man plushie on the bed.

He needs to get into the tree cover. He needs to not be seen. He needs to be alone. Whether to think or not think… he’s not sure yet.

An Iron Patriot action figure on the desk.

He crosses the tree line. He doesn’t know where the trail leads or where he’s going as wood chips crunch under his boots but he doesn’t slow his pace.

The eye mask on the nightstand.

He can smell the lake from here. Marshy and pungent. Or maybe that’s just his imagination—a memory lurking beneath the surface of his thoughts. He rounds a bend and there’s a bench off to the side of the path. He collapses on it and puts his face in his hands.

A potato gun.

He sucks in a deep breath through his nose and releases it through his mouth. He remembered. He cared enough to go all the way to Rose Hill and get his potato gun. Did he steal it? He thinks Mama or Abbie would’ve mentioned by now if Tony Stark had paid them a visit while he was dust. He stole his potato gun and put it up on display in his guest room along-side mementos of Peter, Rhodey, and Happy. That’s where he ranked.

His breath hitches.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that’s he’s only finding this out now. It’s not fair that Tony’s dead and none of it actually matters.

It’s not fair.

[jenniferroland]

[starter for @loverot​]

"If you can look at what's there and not eat yourself hollow with shame, you are not human anymore."

Transferring out of Mount Massive to play brain scrambler in the middle of the Arizona desert was hardly a step up. She’d put in a request for leave numerous times and been denied on the grounds that her research skills and capability as a pathologist made her “too valuable an asset” to allow her to be off the asylum campus for any extended period of time. But when a handful of her female coworkers began experiencing hysterical pregnancies from proximity to the Engine, she was suddenly a liability instead. Never mind that she experienced precisely no negative effects from it; if anything, her mind felt sharper when working on location than it ever did in remote labs, like popping a handful of Adderall. 

The segregation came without warning. Experiments and treatments went unfinished; communications went dark; theories withered and died without the proper environment in which to nurture them. Uprooted and shipped away to some toxic waste dump, Jennifer Roland never felt more useless. 

Day in and day out, she sat behind a monitor, watching religious fanatics of varying degrees of insanity fight and fuck and feast and absolutely slaughter one another. The scheduled bursts from the Towers would resound, the crew inside the lead-insulated concrete shelters would shield their eyes, and shortly thereafter, an all-out shitfest would ensue on the screens in front of them. Recovery teams were dispatched to covertly collect any bodies they could, which were promptly tossed onto the slab in the operating theatre or iced in the morgue. Occasionally, they’d get a few on the table who just refused to fucking die, and in more than one instance, Roland would return to her quarters with a black eye or finger-shaped bruises branded into her throat. 

“That’s why you get hazard pay,” she can recall Jeremy Blaire assuring her over drinks. “Relax, Jen. The building is radiation-proof. The radio waves can’t hurt you in there.”

Once rare, those desperately clinging to existence (it could hardly be called life by the time they’d arrived at the lab) were showing up in higher and higher numbers. Their presence always fucked with the medical equipment — due to the high levels of radiation they were exposed to, she was assured by Dr. Ewen Cameron — but more than that, it was affecting people: relief nurses, research assistants, those who had the least contact with them. It was Cameron himself who paged her into the telemetry lab to show her the increase in radio wave blips on the radar, seemingly organic hotspots of radiation cropping up out of nowhere. The “feedback loop,” he’d called it: such prolonged exposure to such vulnerable individuals mutated them from receivers to projectors. 

These unholy fucks were walking nuclear reactors, and they were bleeding it inside the lab.

Between autopsies of lunatics and treatment of her infected staff, Roland accumulated the most exposure to these residual waves, which is perhaps why she held out the longest. While others were rushing to the bathrooms to puke their guts out or sobbing into their workstations, Roland kept the Towers from collapsing under its own weight. Just like she had at Mount Massive, at least in her own mind. Such responsibility, of course, takes its pound of flesh, resulting in a sharp uptick of headaches and irritability in the doctor.

In fact, she kept an iron grip on the facility, even as employee numbers began to drop. Some transferred; some just dropped dead. All were required to vacate the operating sector by 22:00 hours so that it could be “defunked” for the next day. Roland, of course, oversaw this expedition, which usually consisted of hanging out in a hazmat suit and surfing what little internet they were allowed access to while the facility was cleansed. The longer she sat at the computer, the more severe her migraines would become, which she chalked up to blue light exposure. 

But when the urgent email alert – MOUNT MASSIVE ASYLUM STAFF EVACUATION – popped up in her notifications, the pain in her skull went from throbbing to blinding. The computer mouse flew from her hand and shattered on the floor as she dug the heels of her palms into her eye sockets, desperate to relieve the pressure behind them. Searing white heat tears at her retinas and she’s utterly convinced that her brain is hemorrhaging. 

Through that glaring light appear misty shadows of men in lab coats, blurred as if through a foggy camera lens: men with clipboards and scalpels and blue latex gloves. A scrawny lad in his early twenties wriggles futilely on the table, strapped to the gurney by too-tight leather restraints around his limbs and forehead. He’s fully conscious but barely cognizant of anything but fear. She can hear the low timbre of male voices floating around her, murmuring words she cannot or perhaps will not comprehend. Her focus is on the young man before her and the muffled syllables he attempts to utter from beneath his oxygen mask. Cutting through the underwater noise is the sound of her own name, sharp and deliberate, and her gaze falls to the laryngoscope clutched tightly in her left hand. 

Shifting behind the boy on the table, she adjusts her grip on the tool and removes the oxygen mask from his face. He’s drooling quite profusely. With the sleeve of her right arm, she gently mops up his mess before prying his mouth open with her fingers. At this moment, his eyes snap up to hers, pupils blown wide with terror, and though his movement is highly restricted, it’s evident he’s trying to shake his head. The raspy frantic whisper of “no, no, no” does nothing to phase her colleagues. She attempts to quiet him with a soft shushing (to absolutely no avail) and inserts the curved blade into his throat. Tears, mucus, and saliva flow together as he struggles to breathe; his eyes plead for mercy, the lightless gaze of a soul all but relinquishing itself to the higher power of Death. As she preps the endotracheal tube for insertion, Jenny tries to swallow her nerves but they catch in her throat, dry and brittle. Guilt won’t save them now. 

“Oh, God, please—”

Roland’s torn out of the vision by the inescapable urge to vomit and she rolls onto her side to wretch away the venom in her memories. With no recollection of how exactly she ended up on the floor ten feet away from the monitors, she pushes herself up and wipes away the acid from her lips. Just like she had in her memory. 

And she feels sick all over again, but not just for the fate of that patient: for all the rampant fuckery shoveled upon her by Murkoff. Psychological manipulation, radiation poisoning, blatant sexism. She enlisted in this army to study genetics, not to torture the cognitively vulnerable to the brink of insanity. 

Fuck Jeremy Blaire. Fuck Murkoff. Fuck this Project Bluebird bullshit. 

On the way out the door, she flicks a half-smoked cigarette into the server room trashcan to trigger the emergency sprinkler system. Whoops.

                                                     * * * * * * * * *

She never liked the company cars, anyway.

As the frame of the Mercedes rolls into the lake behind her (and with it all traces of her identity), Jennifer Roland makes her way through the Mount Massive Wilderness Reverse to the runoff reservoir. Armed with only an industrial flashlight-stun gun and her unlisted phone, she’s well aware that this mission will more than likely be her last. But when you’ve got nothing to lose and an insatiable hunger for vengeance, death doesn’t seem so bad.

Tucking her hair up under her cap and securing her phone in the zippered pocket of her plastic splash suit, she hoists herself up into the drainage pipe that pours into the lagoon from the sewers. The hospital isn’t even visible from this side of the mountain; according to her map, it’s about ten miles through a sea of blood, shit, and god knows what else to Mount Massive Asylum. If she’d ever wondered how Andy Dufresne felt escaping Shawshank, this is about as close as it gets.

Rats and snakes are her only company for the first several miles but in the last stretch of three, the scent of fresh death hits her like a brick wall. Mutilated corpses litter the pathways, slipping into the murky sewage and compounding the horrific stench. The closer she comes to her destination, the more pungent the odor becomes until she’s stumbling upon half-dead patients and doctors alike, as lifeless and miserable as the Temple Gate victims. The feeling of another impending migraine strikes her but she presses onward. She’s not sure what’s more unsettling: the gut-wrenching screams coming from above her head or the periodic gaps of silence between.

Drenched in blackwater, Jenny navigates her way up into the hospital block, only to be met with the gory sight of her colleagues and former patients strewed about the ward like discarded toys. She stands gravely still listening for anything — a scream, a whisper, a breath — but no sound breaks the stony silence. The only living presence in the block appears to be a few very persistent bees buzzing around her head. The doctor carefully peels away her suit and the clothes underneath, tucking them away in an air vent and replacing them with the least fluid-drench patient uniform she can find. Thank you for your sacrifice, 937. 

Jenny’s exceedingly careful not to cause too much commotion with the beam of her flashlight as she stalks into the hospital security station and logs in under one of her former colleague’s ID. The security footage tapes appear to be highly corrupted, with some of the cameras shorting out completely, but through the hazy grey static, she can just make out a man’s shadow: impossibly tall, grainy, almost translucent, as though it were comprised solely of smoke. Shredding through its victims like razors through tissue paper. Clearly, this storm of fuck is just beginning.

“Ain’t a perdy sight, is it?” 

Hot, humid breath hits the back of her neck before she can react and a spindly hand clamps down on her wrist. 

“Not as perdy as them nails, brudder.”

“Don’t talk ‘im t’death. Get the goat and go.”

“Awful s-sorry ‘bout this, boy, but I gotsta.”

Jenny’s not keen to stick around to find out what exactly it is this dissociative man “gotsta” do. Firing up the switch on the stun gun, she jabs the pointed prongs into his throat and digs in. His grip on her tightens before it releases, the perp collapsing to the ground and clutching his bleeding neck with a frankly overdramatic gurgle. 

Roland flees through a labyrinth of plastic wrap and broken gurneys, but the heavy slap of bare feet limping on the floor behind her soon catches up. And just as she looks over her shoulder to catch sight of him, her ankle snags against a tripwire, knocking her face-first into the bloodied tile. That fall triggers the release of two sheets of barbed wire that rattle towards her, coiling around her legs and torso; clearly, this trap was meant for a bigger monster than her. The barbs easily rip through the uniform fabric to sink into her thighs, calves, stomach. The more she wriggles, the deeper they sink, and the shards of shattered glass on the floor only amplify the pain.

Her only chance to protect herself is the flashlight that launched no more than a foot away during the fall. If she can just tear her arm free-

The arch of a dirty foot secures its grip on the flashlight handle.

“Just like a coward t’run. That won’t do at-tall, Dennis.”

“You shouldn’ta run, boy. Now you’ll be all bloody fer the weddin’.”

He picks up the flashlight and turns it over in his hand, checking the weight and feel of it; he decides he likes it. 

He likes it even more when it cracks like a Louisville slugger against her temple.

                                                     * * * * * * * * *

Her muscles are stiff and achy when she regains consciousness, somehow sore and numb at the same time. The swelling beside her left eye blurs her vision slightly, but she knows she’s in some sort of chop shop, upright in a DIY-patient restraint system that would make even Hannibal Lecter shudder. Her instinct is to attempt another escape, to writhe her way out of these straps if she has to chew her shoulder off to do it. There’s no telling how much time she has before someone-

...Whistling.

[celsidebottom]

Some of my favorite lines from RQGG today (minus the bits where they read things in character because there are already so many)

“The banana forests of Scandinavia”

“Baby Empty.  YEET”

“#DropTheChild”

“Alexander Jail Newall”

“Tell me of the ghost rotor”

“We still got to use the ruler and that’s valuable in and of itself”

“The secret is the fourth dimension”

“The subgame of removing the bodies”

“Oh look!  Jonny’s named someone Michael!”

“When I give you guys power… boy do you go ham”

“HE’S A BAD COW”

“Sean Bean is an ancient being”

“Helen’s being filthy!!!”

“What’s a lead in line for Sean Bean?  Oh, bastard.”

“The cow has replaced everything”

“It’s really simple: Sean Bean is older than time itself.  He’s also fifteen people.  You are one fifteenth of Sean Bean. “

“Spies are inherently sexy”

“Convene the beans!”  “Bean con!”  “By all means, convene the beans!”  “The scene of beans has been seen”

“All aboard the tea trolley”

“Let’s round up some children”

“On stream, we’re family friendly so no families are dead”

“Three strong, northern, craggy dads”

“Immersed amongst the present spikes”

“I’ve got lots of money under my clothes”

“If there’s one thing I like more than money, it’s naked poor people”

“Come with me into the sexatorium”

“Our sexatoriums are drastically underfunded”

“The coolant pigs”

“My cat believes I am so incompetent that he brought me a marinated pork loin with a bit of cheese on top”

“I’m ready to Santa… the proper way”

“There are Macedonian… cosplayers…”  “Not in Sheffield!”

“For the sake of time, I’m just going to say you failed”

“Visit the north!  We’ve got above average schools!  Do you like cities?  We’ve got a few!”

“Imagine a three piece hazmat suit”

“It’s neck o’clock! Ding ding ding!  Everybody get some neck!”

“I love standing on dogs! Boo me some more!”

“Are you guys up for some mounting?”

“He starts and possibly never ends”

“Too much mounting. Not good for the health.”

“We got some Canadians here? Has Michael Buble come out of hibernation yet?”

“I would wash you like a mummy cat”

“I’ve taken up an extreme sport, say, sky punching”

“We do not speak of the bolo tie.  It is America’s greatest shame”

“I would make you a delicious deodorant pie and kill two birds with one stone.  And maybe you!”

“That I want to lick your armpit during sex is a bad thing?”

“I like stabbing people. Who would you stab, and why?”

“Cars Movie 5: Weird Sex Car”

“No third party lubricant for this guy!”

“You can’t get a good crumb on a child”

“That cacophony is the screams of our fans”  “Aww, that’s so personal!”

“I never took any anatomy classes.  I hear that was good call”

“CORN SMUT”

“Interwstong”

“What’s the difference between most people and dragons?  They don’t fireball themselves”

“Bryn looks like a cross between seventeen corgis and a whole ass dragon” vs “Bryn looks like a cross between a welsh cake and a tomato”

“My family is like Tim: just tremendous” vs “My family is like Tim: Insufferable and omnipresent”

“That cow looks scared of something.”  “It’s probably the knives”

“‘I’m Tim Meredith, I’m a high brow comic!’”

“I like my sex like I like my hummus: with peppers!”

“I came up here in good faith!”  “That was your first mistake.”

“You have to be Boris Johnson forever.”  “That’s the worst fate ever!”

“Zolf can swear! Struck by fucking lightning!”

“If I’m not directly talking I’m not interested”

“He’s a prospector with glorious thighs.  She’s an actual snake.  Haunches and the Snake.  Coming to CBS this fall to be immediately cancelled.”

“Haunches is a good character, you shouldn’t have given him to me.”  “You gave me a beer, it’s fine.”

“Fuck!  Piss!  Shit! They’re all on the table!  Oh no”

“Regular bits Tim”

“You keep your beautiful, chiseled face out of what we have”

“Where the fuck is the pickle?”

“You’re a half pint of horse shit.  You know that?  I take it back.  Full pint.”

“It’s a game about playing cards and trying not to make an erotic atmosphere, Tim.”

“You draw one and then you play?”  “You draw one and then you play.”

“It wasn’t a joke I just like the tiny island”

“It’s pickles all the way down”

“Lovecraft can take it, he’s dead.  Good.”

“I need the wet”

“When’s the last time you pitched a bail of hay, you fraud?”

“I think the last vaguely country thing I did… was carry a load of dead birds”

“Jane Prentiss?  Super good character.”  “I gave those worms a home!”  “And I have the world something to do!”

“This game is a thicc boi”

“This game is a chonky, chonky boi”

“I explained that I work with a podcasting company and she walked away very quickly, so, waitress at Nando’s, thank you for that”

“[A relationship is] not a competition, it’s a fight to the death”

“These are the traits I don’t want Alex to have”  “Insomnia went in the pile, that’s interesting”

“You’re a young ish man”  “That was a very big ‘ish’ and a very quiet ‘young’”

“Marriage is a lot like poker”

“‘I’m over my head in deadlines.’  And then I have a PTSD flashback to my actual life.”

“Aren’t relationships just sexy networking?”

“You ask a man if you can hold his baubles once…”

“Mike is now crowd surfing naked… Unfortunately, the cameras can only pan so wide… I think that’s his hand waving…”

“I’m not used to having emotions, I don’t know what to do with them.”

“Those wholesome bastards are gone now!”

“Asking for a friend.”  “You don’t have friends, Tim”

“I’m going to shuffle slow just to piss off Mike.  It’s just because I’m drunk… I am not abusing the alcohol!  We are in a consensual relationship!”

“A safe play by a safe man.”  “Saucy”

“Deal me in, motherhuggers”

“He knows how to play! That’s cheating!”

“What are we playing?”  “Doesn’t matter.”

“I got dukes coming out the butt!”

“Got dummy thicc stacks”  “Forgive me for being anti-meme but I’m going to take from your stacks… they’re thicc with one c.”

“I don’t trust you.”  “Why do you keep casting me as people who kill people?”  “Because I don’t trust you! What about this doesn’t check out?”

“I’m going to coup Alex because I don’t like having a job”

“Other gods, deities, and belief systems are available.”

[lorelounge]

Explain what is Reportage Photography?

Reportage photography is taking the most powerful images to communicate the atmosphere of an event and to preserve a moment in history. Reportage conveys the emotion felt by the subjects and helps you feel like you were there.

Is there a difference between Reportage and Documentary photography?

They two terms are used interchangeably, implying that they are the same.

Why is it so important to society?

Reportage truthfully informs the public in a series of images about what is going on in their, and other, societies.

Is there such a thing as a photograph that isn't reportage?

In a sense. Depending on the definition, the answer varies. Yes, every photograph captures a story, tells a narrative, but that may not make it a reportage. I suppose for it to be truly reportage, it would have to properly capture the atmosphere of the event.

Photographers

J. Henry Fair - that factory one

Michael Dyrland -Hazmat Surfing

J. Henry Fair is an American photographer and activist. He has two unique specialities - portraits of musicians, and abstract environmental pollution photography. He wants to use his photographs to tell stories about people and the things that affect people.

This is a photograph from J. Henry Fair's photographic series "Industrial Scars". This image was taken at a power-plant in Grevenbroich, Germany.

This is a very visually appealing image. The red pipelines create a contrast to the grey cooling towers and stark white smoke. The theme of air pollution is explored beautifully with the vast amounts of smoke rising to the sky. The height Fair would have had to have his drone just to fully capture the height and width of the factory is incredible.

Michael Dyrland is a self-taught entrepreneur from America that simply dreams of travelling the globe and going back home, able to share his story through his art. Telling someone's story through his art is what he wants to do the most.

His photograph in the series "Hazmat Surfing" shows a grim picture. The visual contrast between the grey sky and the green, disgusting ocean horrifically shows the deep pollution of the Los Angeles oceans. The camera sits in the water, showing both the surface and under the water.

[389]

In The Future, We Could All Be Surfing In Hazmat Suits - Aug, 11 2015

[rubbermax]

Many have asked where S and I live. So look for the blue arrow. You need rubber rainwear, wet suits for surfing and diving, drysuits, rubber hazmat suits, for work and play. And of course  latex for shopping and dining. And further -  this is an image taken in February. Ski slopes and snow are only 30 minutes away

[rottmntrulesall]

I love the implication that April got a crane license to fight stuff like a feral demonic samurai

Probably not JUST to fight feral Shredder.

I mean she DID get a hazmat suit and a kayak just to surf in the sewers so...

You never know with that girl.

[firefam911]

REWATCHING 911 - S2 E15

I have, coincidently, seen this one. This was the first episode I ever saw of 911 for some reason.

This is also one of the more boring episodes.

This does eventually have the "#2020 mood" gif st the end with buck being confused

Hen why do you have to have such a big heart

I knew that was buck in the hazmat suit bc of his little skip jump

He likes me. Well like him back.

Buck is always ready to swing that sledgehammer

Wow those docs called that death way too quick and the doc who called it was wayyy too chipper

Athena laughing during the interrogation is me

Yeah, but he only got stabbed. I love hen

Also karen!! I miss seeing your face! You're right who would be sick of planets

Eddie taking surfing lessons?? I need to see this thank you

I'm so confused can you start over? #mood

It's next episode with buck trapped under the truck isnt it? I'm not ready