#percussive vents

[babblingblackwhale]

We are still trying to find and arrange words for a longer post but we just watched a 15 min video of the Palestinian photojournalist Mohamed Obeid of who was illegally detained by the IOF recounting the horrifying ordeal of his kidnapping, torture and release and we were struck by the crucial role of Israeli doctors in sustaining, abetting his prolonged torture and that of other prisoners especially those with existing chronic conditions. When you put his testimony into perspective for how colonial doctors were crucial in participating in torture in the colonies (Frantz Fanon dedicates chapters of a whole book to addressing his experience of colonial doctors in French Algeria); the crucial role of doctors in regulating and maintaining the torturous conditions of incarcerated folks in prison in the US as they did during convict leasing as they did during slavery; the petition hundreds of doctors in the US signed against a ceasefire even when news was coming to us about the IOF bombing hospitals and killing Palestinians doctors, patients even new born babies in the NICU wards. We simply do not believe there is anything colonial medicine and its practitioners hold sacred. Their Hippocratic oath is a lie, they have no loyalty to their patients nor even their colleagues and they are just as responsible for the deaths of Palestinians as the soldiers in our eyes.

We don't know how they have managed to sanitize their legacy that people in the west specifically the US and now think of them as these righteous, long suffering healers who are trying to do right by their patients but even the state of care that disabled people experience should be enough to disprove this fantastic image. We are bitter because people in the US (including disabled people) are not connecting a lot of these dots because they seem to be pacified that this is "best" medical care they can get and we just need to continually nudge them into useless reforms. We do not know how we have come to such docile acceptance when we see how these doctors are complicit and perpetrators of so much violence. We will not be consoled by these cheap platitudes people give because these doctors who inherit their job manifestos, oaths, practices and licenses from the colonial physicians and regulatory boards of the 19th century are a source of danger to everyone because they lack the ability to assess their role within the eugenicist system they practice medicine within. Do not come into this post talking about good colonial doctors because good colonial doctors matter as little to us as good cops or imperial soldiers do. We can all see the world of difference between the Palestinian doctors, medical personnel whose loyalties and intentions are clearly to their people and their Israeli and western counterparts. We are not interested in manufacturing empathy for people whose job function gives them an immense amount of power to cause harm while they twiddle their thumbs and act as if they have no power to revolt against their hospital and insurance overseers.

[hey-scully-itsme]

i want to start learning violin but I know the second I tell my parents they’re gonna know it’s because of jack aubrey and they will laugh at me about it. like that old tumblr post abt someone who wanted to learn violin and their parents asked them what anime boy played violin. i will survive this great trial but at what cost

[iamthemaestro]

jeeeeeesus not happy with what the production team did to the piece I wrote and spent a very long time recording for this project and it is now irreversible. happy halloween i guess

[doublemegative]

i wish i joined marching band sophomore year. i’m not even wishing i’d done it freshman year too anymore. just one more year. i’d take it. i know i would be a completely different person, and honestly, i don’t really care. i just wish id known my friends longer. been playing front ensemble music longer. and there’s nothing i can do to change it, and sometimes it just feels like i’m going to carry that forever.

[shinobicyrus]

I’ve seen a lot of complaints about the Empire’s assault on the Path in Obi-Wan, harping about everything from how inaccurate the stormtroopers were, how stupid their formation was, how “hysterical” (🙄)Third Sister sounded yelling at them to keep moving forward. You know, the kind of insightful criticism one expects from a Youtube comment section.

Because all those comments completely miss the entire point of this scene.

Maybe I’m just weird, but was anyone else as shook watching this as I was? When a stormtrooper went down, the camera focused on that stormtrooper, just for a second or two. That’s never happened before. One of a dozen identical troopers is shot, falls hard the the ground, and we get a close-up on the blank Imperial mask while his comrades just walk over him without even slowing.

I actually pitied the stormtroopers, watching this.

Because that‘s the Empire. No clever tactics, no military strategy beyond brute force. Just a wall of white armor and red blasters steadily advancing, slowly overwhelming the desperate, outnumbered, terrified people trying and failing to hold back the tide.

Why waste time with subtlety when you can just crush everything in your path? Why bother trying to minimize casualties when you can easily replace your losses? It’s such an effective terror tactic, because if you shoot one, there’s another half-dozen identical, disposable soldiers to take their place. And the stormtroopers are just as unaffected by one of their own going down, because in the chaos of battle they’d have no idea who just got blasted in front of them; they’re as faceless and anonymous to each other as they are to the rebels.

With just a few clever cuts and camera angles, Obi-Wan made me terrified of the Empire.

[r3d-m3dic]

Why does my band teacher expect me to play marching bass music on concert bass 😭 it hurts because he has

1 rolling mallet

2 bass mallets (one is very heavy. One is very light)

i have to use both non rolling mallets. The weight difference is fucking me up. It hurts my arm, i literally couldn't play the entire thing. And the.. Actually here's a pic of our music.

look at that shit. Also it's way too small :(

Also there's no air conditioning so I'm fucking burning.

[spreadwardiard]

Megatron Does NOT Drunk Call His Ex

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Megatron/Orion Pax, Megatron/Optimus Prime

Summary: Megatron laments his break up while watching Orion Pax's coronation as Prime on the holoscreen.

Notes: I wanted to try my hand at the whole 'drunk calling your ex' trope, and had some fun with it. Takes place in that time between the disasterous senate meeting and optimus being formally named prime by the government. This is TFP/ Aligned

Megatron scowled as he smashed his digits roughly against the keypad to his door.  The numerals on the far left section of the pad were stuck again, not wanting to register his touch. He swiftly punched the mechanism in annoyance, and then tried again.  Percussive maintenance did its job and the pin finally registered.  

He tried not to think about how Orion had complained about the lock for at least a vorn before… Megatron grumbled at himself to stop that thought. Thinking about Orion Pax brought nothing but pain, but even Megatron knew that nothing would stop the onslaught of thoughts, memories and feelings that were certain to come for him in the night. 

It was a battle he had lost many times before, ever since their separation. It was easier to call it that, rather than what it really was: a break up. One he hadn’t actually even wanted to happen. One that was his fault- 

Megatron took in a deep vent, tried to reorient his thoughts to anything but Orion Pax. How the slag was he supposed to do that when he fragger’s coronation as Prime was scheduled to air any klik now? He hadn’t even seen the mech in what felt like ages… not since the argument. 

Frag… He’d already lost the battle, and it had hardly even begun. Megatron’s scowl deepened as he admitted defeat, and against his better judgement, grabbed a bottle of his finest high grade. He grimaced as he actually looked at the bottle in his servo, decorated in golden filigree and ornately etched glyphs. It was the bottle Orion had given him in preparation for their Rites. The thought stung like acid rain. 

He snorted out a forced laugh. The idea of he and Orion binding their sparks seemed laughably distant now. How fitting that he consume the high grade now, for Orion’s big hurrah. He didn’t even grab a cube to pour it in. He wouldn’t need one, he knew himself. The bottle would be empty before the night was over. 

Megatron popped the lid and brought the bottle to his derma, prepared for a harsh, but effective, high grade to assault his glossa. He hated that it was delicious, that Orion had probably paid more for this bottle than Megatron spent on fuels for half a vorn. He hated that it was supposed to be special… shared between them… that he had ruined it. 

At least his revolution was still going strong. The betrayal of Orion Pax may have hurt Megatron personally, but it ultimately strengthened the resolve of his followers. It was a bitter victory, he thought as he slunk back into his sofa, limp as an old thermal sheet. 

If he hadn’t lost his temper and let his paranoia get the better of him, he’d be at that coronation with Orion, not having to watch it on the holoscreen. He took another drink, as large as his intake would allow, before he turned on the screen, and found the correct broadcast. 

The newsmech drawled on about the excitement happening in Trion Square. Thousands of mechs had arrived to meet the newly designated Prime. Megatron snorted again as the crowd cheered in excitement.  They were imagining a glorious leader to light their darkest hour, but all Megatron could envision was the dorky archivist that used to recharge in his arms and who couldn’t remember to fuel himself. 

The bottle was at his derma before the grief that followed the previous thought could hit him. It settled hot in his tanks, and he forced a smile at the knowledge that liquid relief would be imminent. Once the warmth set in, the dulling of his processor would soon follow, and that aching emptiness wouldn’t be so painful. 

He missed Orion Pax and now that nearly a dozen stellar cycles had passed, he would finally get to see him again. On the holoscreen… But that was better than nothing, right? 

The newsmech continued their useless prattle, and Megatron watched lazily as the cameras panned the crowd, every so often freezing on the ornately draped balcony that he assumed Orion would appear from. Even from his out of date holoscreen, he could tell how exquisite the embroidery on the drapery was. It must have taken vorns to do by servo. It looked distastefully splendent next to the polished golden accents that Iacon was known for. 

How many drinks had he had already? His processor was starting to feel a bit foggy. He couldn’t remember. He took another. It didn’t matter anyway. It wouldn’t change what he’d done. It wouldn’t bring back what he’d carelessly thrown away in a foolish fit of paranoia. 

Megatron was ruthless with his words that cycle. He tore into Orion like a vicious beast. Orion visibly crumbled at his accusations of betrayal, and when he accused him of using their relationship as a means to gain power, Orion looked as if Megatron had stabbed him through his spark chamber. He would never forget the pain that had flashed through Orion’s field… 

He was such a slagging fool… It wasn’t until after Orion went off the grid to seek out the Matrix that Megatron put it all together. Orion had never betrayed him at all. The entire situation was carefully orchestrated by the Council to drive a wedge between them, and it had succeeded in that aim. Now, Orion was their puppet, without Megatron there to fend them off and it was all his fault. 

Megatron tore his optics from the holoscreen and looked at the bottle in his servos. It felt too light, and it took him a moment to register that he’d already drank nearly half of it. Orion hadn’t even appeared yet… It wasn’t his fault this stuff was so slagging good. Besides… this was a ‘drink to forget’ sort of night, and he sure as slag hadn’t forgotten scrap yet. Megatron took another drink.

It was harder to focus on the holoscreen. The newsmech was now apologizing for delays. Megatron couldn’t stop a laugh at that. Typical Orion Pax; late for literally everything. He’d have been late to his own forging if that were possible. 

Slag… he felt heavy as a load of cement… What the frag was in this? He hauled the bottle up to his helm, and shuttered his optics, before squinting at the glyphs. He couldn’t focus on them, they just appeared as far off, fuzzy and jumbled nonsense. There was about a third of the bottle left…. Maybe he’d had enough?

He should apologize. Megatron knew that. He’d thought about it time and time again, usually when he was like this and had nothing else to distract him from his woes, but his pride refused to allow that. He never had been good at admitting when he was wrong, and was even worse when it came to apologizing for it. 

What would he even say? Where even was he to start? ‘I’m sorry’ didn’t feel sincere enough, and anything beyond that was likely to just be excuses for his behavior.  He deserved this… what he’d said was inexcusable. 

Megatron ex-vented heavily. His frame felt like dead weight, and the longer he allowed it to melt into his sofa, the more annoying the constant pinging in his hip strut was. How long had it been alerting him of his discomfort now? He wasn’t paying attention. The ache in his spark was worse anyway. He took another drink. 

It wasn’t fair. He wished he could share the enthusiasm shown by the crowd on the holoscreen, but how could that even be possible? With Orion now under the watchful optics of the Primacy, he was as good as lost. The Prime may have had power of his own, but they always followed the will of the Council. Orion would be no different. The Council had too much sway, too much power, for one mech to defy them alone.

The pinging of discomfort in his hip was becoming too much to ignore. He shifted his mass to the side just enough to allow gravity to crash his upper frame into the sofa cushions. The high grade sloshed dangerously in its bottle, but miraculously did not spill from his sudden readjustment, even as he pulled his legs up with him and shifted for relief. 

The holoscreen was mostly forgotten. Instead, he pulled up his HUD and braced for the inevitable sting as he selected an image from his gallery, of Orion Pax lounging in berth. He had a datapad in his servo, and a soft, gentle smile on his face as he read aloud some poetry from the collection he’d been browsing. The poem had been romantic, though Megatron couldn’t remember it now. Orion had only read it to him once, and afterwards they’d ended up indulging in each other’s frames. 

Megatron remembered the interfacing, not the poem, and it stung more than he would admit even to himself. He wished he would have saved a memory file so he could hear Orion recite it over and over again. He wished he could hear him recite anything right now. He hadn’t heard his voice since- 

He cut himself off by forcibly closing the image, which, unfortunately, landed him right at Orion’s commlink. He stared at it for several kliks, toyed with the idea of calling before shooting that idea down with a slovenly scoff. No, the time for that had long passed, and Orion would be too busy to answer anyway, if he even wanted to. He’d convinced himself long ago that Orion had likely already blocked him from contacting him anyway. 

He closed out of his HUD and shuttered his optics. His frame was running hot from the high grade, and his fans finally kicked in to dispel the excess heat. Slag… he must look as pitiful as he felt. The great and mighty Megatron, The Champion of the Pits, brought to his knees over a slagging break-up. He was patheti-

His self degradation was cut off by a loud and sudden ping. It was a comm request, marked urgent. It was from Orion. It flashed at him across his HUD in bold, red glyphs, but that was impossible. There was no way it was real… His mind was playing tricks on him again. 

His optics darted to the holoscreen. Orion was supposed to have made his debut some time ago, but even with his optical inputs distorted from the drink, he could plainly see that Orion Pax was not where he was supposed to be. The ornately decorated balcony was still empty, and several important looking mechs shuffled around in distress at Orion’s truancy.

Megatron’s intake went dry, and that aching emptiness in his chassis returned full force as he, against his better judgement, accepted the incoming request. He tried to speak, but found his vocalizer needed rebooting. 

“Megatron?... Please, don’t hang up…” It was him… He sounded different than Megatron remembered. The reverberation of his voice was slightly off, like his vocalizer was now housed in a larger frame, but the voice was unmistakably Orion. 

Megatron wanted to respond, but his rebooting vocalizer prevented him from uttering more than a distorted and shaky “Hmmm?” 

“Thank Primus, you accepted my call. I was worried you wouldn’t wish to speak with me. I’m sorry I didn’t contact you sooner. There was so much happening, I hardly had a moment to myself befor-” It almost didn’t feel real. He’d so deeply convinced himself that he and Orion were too damaged for him to ever reach out. He had been certain that Orion had blocked him from contact. 

“...and after that I was taken to this strange tunnel system where they placed me in some purification pool…” Orion was rambling, but it didn’t matter. It just felt good to hear his voice again. It slid into Megatron’s processor like the richest of energon, and he was starving. 

“... -fter that I was chased by a small hoard of hibernating scraplets. I genuinely thought that I was going to offline down there…” This whole thing felt far too good to be true. Orion didn’t sound upset with him at all. There was anxiety in his tone, and judging by the speed of which he was speaking, he had a lot to say that he wanted, or needed to say quickly, but there was no anger or resentment, like Megatron expected.

“...-atrix of Leadership…” Slag… he wasn’t actually paying attention to what Orion had been saying this whole time, the high grade had only allowed him to process the smooth timbre of his voice. He tried to think back over what he’d heard, something about a pool of scraplets in a tunnel? . Slag… he still wasn’t paying attenti-

“Megatron… are you listening to me?” He flinched at the question. He was really regretting drinking as much as he had. If he’d have known Orion was going to comm him, he wouldn’t have had nearly as much. Megatron wet his derma before replying. 

“I’m listening.” He sounded weak, and he knew it. He hoped Orion didn’t catch the waver in his tone, his tell that he wasn’t being entirely truthful. 

Orion audibly sighed, but whether it was in annoyance or relief, Megatron couldn’t tell. 

“I know, I’m rambling, I’m sorry. What I’m trying to say is that the Matrix makes me feel things far more intensely than I did before. All it lets me think about is you, and our last meeting… how I fragged everything up that cycle… How much I miss you. I’m sor-” 

It took him several kliks to actually process what Orion was saying. Did he say: missed? He felt his spark practically jump in its chamber. Was that actually what he’d heard? That couldn’t be right… not after the cruel things he’d said. 

“You miss me?” Orion went silent, and Megatron realized that he’d cut him off, mid-sentence, likely in the middle of something important. Something that he, again, wasn’t listening to. He grimaced at his stupid mistake.

“Yes, I did say that.” Megatron tried to sit up, but found he only had the strength to roll onto his back. His frame was too heavy for him to hoist up. He draped his arm over his optics instead, to quell the spinning as his processor tried to adjust to his movement. He definitely had too much. The high grade was flooding his frame now.  It was a struggle just to keep his optics open. 

“Will you say it again?” He cursed himself for how desperate his request must sound. Orion was silent for several kliks, but the time felt like eons as Megatron waited.

“Have you been drinking?” 

Megatron groaned at the question, and that seemed to suffice as an answer for Orion. 

“I miss you, Megatronus.” He let out an ex-vent that he wasn’t aware he was even holding in. Maybe all hope wasn’t lost after all? Maybe he hadn’t completely destroyed the bond he held so dear to his spark. 

“I miss you too…” Megatron’s words slurred together and came out a jumbled mess. He barely got them out. The bottle he forgot he was holding fell from his servos, and he flinched at the sound of it crashing into the floor, the remainder of its content’s splattering across the tiles. 

“Primus… you are absolutely slagged…” Orion laughed softly, and it sounded like bells to his audials. The soothing sound reminded him of cycles long past, when they were happy together. 

“I miss you, Orion.” That wasn’t what he’d meant to say… He meant to ask Orion what the slag was in that fancy high grade to make him act like this. He’d be embarrassed if he weren’t fighting a system shutdown with all of his might. 

“Mega…” Orion’s voice wavered, and the pet name burrowed into his audials. Megatron wondered if he was going to cut the link. He wouldn’t blame him for doing so. He’d fumbled this opportunity in a grand fashion. “Can I come see you? Please?”

 Megatron almost couldn’t process that request. It was so far off from what he was expecting Orion to say that the glyphs simply didn’t make sense for several kliks. 

“Where are you?” Wasn’t Orion supposed to be doing that important thing right now? In Iacon? Halfway across the planet from him? Megatron turned his helm just enough to see the holoscreen. The balcony was still empty. The crowd was still in place. 

“I’m in Kaon… I-I fled my coronation and I… I didn’t know who else to run t-” 

“Please…” He didn’t even attempt to hide the desperation in his tone, he was too tired at this point. His frame may have been in the process of powering down, but his spark thrummed in a mixture of disbelief, longing and joy. 

“Give me just a few kliks… I won’t be long.”  Orion laughed again, clearly with relief and again Megatron was soothed by the sound more than he would care to ever admit. “Thank you, Mega. I was afraid you would turn me away. I was afraid we were…. Over.” 

“I don’t want us to be.” Megatron mumbled and vented softly. His processing subroutines were shutting down faster than he could reboot them. Orion said something after that, but Megatron could no longer process his vocals into anything that made sense. But at that moment, it didn’t matter. The blackout took him as Orion continued to croon softly to him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Megatron came online slowly in the morning. His helm was aching, but not as badly as he expected. He sank into his berth comfortably, and that helped to ease the discomfort his frame should have been feeling. After rolling onto his side, he slowly shuttered his optics, half expecting to be struck with pain, but pleasantly surprised that he was granted a painless view of his berth-side table. 

There was a nearly empty energon cube sitting precariously close to the edge of the table, with a straw sticking out of if. He couldn’t remember getting a cube before he shutdown… Come to think of it… he didn’t remember much of anything that happened after he fell sideways onto the sofa last cycle. 

He slowly sat up, while scratching the back of his helm as he tried to remember how the slag he’d gotten into his berth to begin with. He made a point of not recharging here. It was too big without Orion beside him.  

Orion! 

Orion had commed him last night! The ache in his processor surged as the memory of their conversation struck him all once. Orion called him and he bungled the entire conversation, but Orion had asked to see him.

Against his better judgement, Megatron swung his legs out of berth.  His left pede hitting the rim of something, and sending it careening against the berth-side table: a trash bin, likely set there in case he purged during the night. As he stood, the scent of fuel preparation struck his olfactory sensors. It smelled like fried mineral cakes and thickened energon syrup, the scent of the warmed syrup almost sickeningly sweet. His intake watered, and his tanks clenched in discomfort at their emptiness. 

There was no way… that had to have been a dream, a recharge flux from the high grade and the torture of watching Orion’s coronation.  A hallucination created to torment him for his mistakes.. Right?? There was no way Orion had really come and put him to berth, with a drink… right? 

He lurched towards the door, pausing only long enough for it to register him and open before stumbling out into his living quarters. He could hear the fuels sizzling in his prep station. Slung over the back of the sofa was a thermal sheet, folded, with a pillow resting on top.  

 It must be Soundwave… he must have checked in on the security feeds and saw him passed out on the sofa, and had come to clean up the mess. That had to be it… Even so, it he found more difficult to draw in a vent the closer he came to the dividing wall separating his living space from his fuel preparation area. 

“Megatron? Are you online?” 

Megatron paused in his steps as the unmistakable voice filled his audials. His intake went dry the moment he tried to speak, and he found himself at a loss for words. It wasn’t all a dream. Orion had called him.  He had wanted to see him. He was here… Right there, on the other side of the wall. 

He rounded the corner, needing to see it to truly believe it. Orion stood with his back towards him, obviously engrossed in the meal he was preparing. His frame was new…. He no longer wore a civilian model. He was taller, with a much sturdier chassis than before, and his arms thick with armor and weaponry. It was clearly the make of a warframe, but his colors were the same, familiar red and blue.

He finally felt like he could vent again, and when he did so, Orion turned his helm with a hopeful grin on his face. Their optics met, and Megatron had to rest his weight upon the wall to keep upright. He was beautiful. 

“Orion…” It was all he could say as a million thoughts and words tried to bombard him at once. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to apologize for, so many questions he wanted to ask. 

Orion shut off the flame on the unit, and slid something onto a plate before turning around fully. 

“I know there are many things we need to discuss. But I hope that it can wait until after breakfast. I made your favorite.” Orion held up one of the plates, stacked with mineral cakes, to emphasize his point, and as if on queue, Megatron’s systems loudly pinged a low fuel warning.

Orion laughed. “I guess I still have perfect timing. Sit down, I’ll bring it to you.” 

It was like they hadn’t fought at all… Megatron sat at the table, forcing a reboot to his vocalizer. Orion sat a hefty plate of mineral cakes in front of him, followed by utensils and the thickened syrup, ready to be poured. 

Orion sat down across from him, and reached across the table, where Megatron eagerly met him with his own servo, curling their digits together, as they used to do before meals in the past. His palm was warm, and it radiated down his frame, directly to his spark. Megatron looked up to see Orion smiling at him, in what appeared to be relief. 

Megatron returned the smile, before withdrawing his servo, his nerves now eased. Things were going to be okay, better than okay, if the cakes were anything to judge it by. Orion’s field tentatively reached out to his own, and he replied with his own. It was a quiet reunion, but it let him know that their love still stood strong, and that knowledge allowed him to fully enjoy his refueling. 

Afterwards, they would work out the rest, together.

[shibaraki]

HARBOUR ROSE ┊ COVE HOLDEN

synopsis: love casts it’s own net, and there’s only one man who can cut you free of this one.

tags: GN reader, childhood friends to lovers, ORCA employee cove, mer reader, ocean pollution (boooo) reader caught in a net, reunions, sooooo much fluff, developing relationship, happy hopeful ending

wc: 2.2K

↳ for the mermay collab hosted by the teahouse server ↰

The rain gives itself unto the sea. Each fragment becomes one with the tide that laps weakly at your body. With your tail curled, fins entangled in an old ghost net, you give into fatigue and rest upon the wet primrose sand. This net is unlike ones you’ve dealt with before. It is garish blue and tough, cutting uncomfortably into your fluke. Rope could be easily severed but this new material is stubborn, and painful.

A gust of wind dances through the marram grass. You breathe deeply, listening to the percussion of the waves, eyes trained on the secluded beach and drawn to any small movement. Something about this place calls to you in a way you cannot explain. That thought makes known a memory in the back of your mind which evades your grasp each time you seek it.

Frustrated, you poke a claw-tipped finger through the net and trace a line in the sand. You try to ignore the dull throb around your hips. Being tangled and contorted as you are has you restless, the urge to spread your fins and swim buzzing under your skin. Fighting the snare more would do no good. Struggle and you’d hurt yourself more.

Had the day been warm you might’ve found yourself in a little more trouble. At least the rain would keep the humans from the beach.

Or so you thought.

Fear seizes your body. In the distance, a bipedal figure walks along the shore. You press yourself low to the sand. The sound of your heart beats loud in your ears, now tucked flat to your head. Unperturbed by the thin rainfall the human keeps his gaze on the waves wearing only a pair of shorts and a thin white shirt, smiling softly as they crawl to kiss his ankles. He is tall and sun steeped, hair like seafoam laid flat to his forehead and cheeks. Markings decorate his arm like refracted light on the ocean floor.

Can you take me with you?

The memory is fleeting. A young child’s forlorn voice. Dusk had spread her fingers across an empty beach. A pink sky. Pink, like the hard shell wrapped around his arm.

Would you take me? the voice repeats. There are no other kids here. I don’t want to stay…

Your gills flutter, venting the air as you exhale shakily. The human is closer now. His gentle face twists with displeasure when a food wrapper rolls in on the next wave, littering the sand. You watch him huff, mouth downturned as he snatches it up. It kindles a little hope in you—

And it reminds you of a lonely human boy you met years ago when you were but a guppy yourself. His name… you liked it a lot. What was it…?

Your pod had migrated because the old nursery grounds were destroyed by fishing boats. Metal machinery and nets that stretched for miles dragged along the seabed. Sunset Bird proved to be a perfect place to wait out the mating season. You spent most of your time on the surface, playing in tide pools and sunning yourself in the grasses, kept company by little Cove Holden.

The human’s movements freeze abruptly a few feet away. In that instant your eyes meet; his own widen, expression flowering in surprise, hands fisted tightly at his sides and shaking.

You stare at one another. Time seems to have slowed to a stop. Over the pitter patter of rain you think you hear your name. Again, confident this time, as the human breaks out into a sprint. Sand kicks into the air. You flinch, inhaling sharply as the distance is immediately crossed and he is falling to his knees at your side.

“Oh my god. Oh my god,” he’s mumbling frantically under his breath, hands outstretched to hover over the lines of plastic knotted around your lower half. “It’s you. It’s really you. You’re hurt—” he jolts and begins patting at his short pockets, pulling out something small. A sharp blade folds out from within the case. You shrink, a reflexive whine building in your throat.

The human holds his breath. He swallows. You see his throat bob, ribs expand and deflate, calming the tremors in his limbs. “I’m sorry,” voice lowered into gentle reassurance, he tries to show you a tremulous smile. “I—I’m going to use this knife to cut the net away. Is that okay?”

You consider the sincere warmth in his gaze and nod as it washes over you. His smile widens. Telegraphing his movements piece by piece he cuts into the net, careful not to snag the frayed scales around your fins.

“I’m so sorry. We comb the shoreline as much as we can for litter but…”

A blush steadily spreads across his cheeks as your focus drifts back to him. Blue eyes flicker back and forth, around your face and back, pointedly avoiding your bare chest. Your nerves settle at that familiarity. The Cove you remember had been small, nervous and lost, but when he smiled he brought the sun with him. This Cove is so big, so at home in his body, and just as beautiful.

Tucking his fingers under the final line Cove slips the blade beneath and cuts you free. You feel the pressure alleviate. He gasps an awed sound as your fins fan out, almost sentient in how they stretch toward the cloud covered sky.

Turning on your hips, you sit upright and bend to rub the thin membranes between your finger and thumb. A wave rushes up and douses you in fresh sea water, soothing the ache. “You can’t help what the tide brings in,” you reassured, chewing the inside of your cheek. You glance toward him as he discards the net with a frown, “Thank you… Cove”.

Cove tenses, emotions flowing into him like a babbling brook. “Wow,” the word came out in a whisper. Then, even quieter, “You remember me.”

“Of course I do,” your voice is fragile as your throat adjusts to spoken words. It’s been a long time since you needed to use it. You smile gingerly, aware of the heat emanating from his body; longing brushes you like a thick fog. “You were my first friend, after all”.

Cove grins, misty eyes squinting. “You were mine too,” he tugs a necklace from beneath his shirt collar. Hung in the middle of his chest is a shark tooth. Serrated crown narrow and pointed, root uneven where it cusps, hale as the day you found it.

“You kept it!”

Suddenly coloured with embarrassment his hands return to his lap and he gives a nervous laugh. “I did. I could never forget you. When you didn’t come back the year after, I…” his features tighten as he restlessly fiddles the hem of his shirt. The fabric stretches thin. “I really thought I made it all up”.

Guilt crept in. You let it bleed through and soften your apology. “I’m really sorry, Cove. I wanted to come back, but—do you remember that big oil spill? A little further South?” Cove tilts his head, grimacing in recognition. You nod, “I couldn’t come this way for a while”.

You notice then that the rain has stopped; clumps of dry sand stuck to your hips and petrichor hung in the briney air. Cove is impervious to it all. “I understand,” he mumbled, giving you a meaningful look before his eyes darted back to the tides.

Tension seeped from his shoulders and you felt yourself relax in turn, instinctively leaning toward his warmth. He sucks in a breath. Any worries are put to rest by the soft intent in his eyes that belied his excitement. Emboldened, you reach up to tuck a wayward curl around the shell of his ear.

Cove quakes, jaw trembling where you linger. He makes a sound and only later do you realize it was your name. “You look so different now,” you murmur, trying to be delicate, lest you fracture the pleasant atmosphere and scare him away. “I almost didn’t recognise you”.

Your human glows ripe like an algae bloom. He leans into the cradle and touches your elbows, offering silent encouragement. “Oh. In—in a good way?” he asked, self conscious.

A grin splits your lips. Your other hand rises, cupping his face in your palms, amazed at the heat under his skin. “In a good way,” you echo an affirmative. Your gaze falls to his forearms. One a shock of blue, the pattern of the sea. The other is bare aside from a thin white scar. “And your strange pink wrapping is gone, now”.

“Ah, that’s right,” eyes softening in the late afternoon light, Cove’s lips thin into a small smile. You mourn for a moment when he releases you to trace the scar. “Yeah. I haven’t needed that for a long time. It’s all healed up”.

Overturning his arm he shows you the scar in full, winding from his inner wrist to the crook of his elbow. The tendons flex as his fingers move. You mirror his actions and follow the path with your fingertip. Bumps rise on his skin. You’d forgotten how reactive his body could be. “That’s good,” you reply, a little breathless. Brightening, then, when you remember, “This means you can swim now!”

“Yeah! I can surf, too. If you want we could paddle out further so it’s safer—for you?”

Cove taught you about surfing that first summer. Humans take boards into the ocean that can remain buoyed on the surface to ride the waves. Sometimes for sport, but mostly for fun. Visions of Cove finally alongside you in the water flood your thoughts. In your enthusiasm you push into his space and he tips back into the sand, bracing on his elbows. “Now?” you ask, practically draped over his lap.

A strangled noise gets caught in his throat. “Close,” he whispers, blinking rapidly. The red blush on his cheeks crawls down his neck to his chest, splotchy and honest. Sudden realisation appears to snap him out of his reverie. “I can’t today,” he hesitates, expression falling. Your mouth is inexplicably dry as his full lips jut into a pout. “I need to get back soon. If I don’t they’ll send someone to get me and I don’t want anyone else to see you”.

You stifle a wince when your fins flutter and fan out on display. Your body is just as honest as his. Deflecting quickly you tease, “Ah. Want me all to yourself again?”

Rather than fluster Cove’s features harden. “Yes,” he bursts, nodding firmly. You stare at him in wonder, and watch in silence as his mind races to catch up with his mouth. He clears his throat, shrinking back apologetically. Over the gentle sifting sand as a wave recedes he murmurs, “Sorry. I mean, I do want you to myself. But—”

“Cove,” his rambling stops at the fond intonation of his name. You dip forward until your nose bumps his cheek. You leave a kiss there, on the warm swell. “It’s fine. I feel the same”.

You’re close enough to feel his shaky exhale. Voice an octave higher, he squeaks, “You do?”

“I do,” you nod, reclining to give him some space and smile when he breathes a little easier. “I’ve waited to see you this long, I can wait a little longer”.

“You’re still so…” there’s that quivering smile again, blue eyes gleaming, face hemmed by unruly seafoam. Steeling himself, Cove rises to his feet and brushes the sand from his knees. “Then I promise I’ll be here tomorrow”.

“Good,” the tide crawls further, crashing against your hips. Foam fizzles along your tail. It calls you back to the currents. Cove watches you pivot onto your belly, turning to follow the next wave out. “I promise, too. I’ll be somewhere around here. Just call out to me, alright?”

“Okay,” he grasps the shark tooth necklace, rolling it between his thumb and finger, dithering on the shoreline with the net that had snared you tucked under his arm. Louder as the distance grows, he plucks up the courage to yell, “I missed you”.

You think of that second summer, when your elders told you the pod could not go back to Sunset Beach. How you had darted away to hide in the kelp forest, curled into yourself where you buried into the sand, stubbornly refusing to move. That grief had dulled significantly over the years yet a single encounter with Cove unearthed all those feelings without ceremony. Lying there, dormant and waiting.

Bobbing above the surface you cup your hands around your mouth, you shout unabashedly, “I missed you too!”

[docochocart]

DOCORONPA CAST (1/16)

ULTIMATE DRUMMER

Born into a northeastern suburb, Drummer was brought up by a supportive family in a calm and peaceful community. Despite this, Drummer's antisocial nature would define her childhood and leave her feeling isolated.

Singled out by other kids her age, Drummer was a target of constant teasing and bullying by her classmates. She never had the strength to stand up for herself due to her soft spoken nature.

Taken under the wing of her band teacher, she was introduced to percussion. Quickly, her Drumming developed into an obsession and a stellar talent. Drumming became a language for her to vent her frustrations, and soon other students would take notice of her talent.

After being approached by a group of girls in her band class, Drummer finally found friendship in 3 bandmates. Together the girls would play local gigs and write music together in their free time. For the first time in her life, Drummer felt like a part of a community.

In their junior year of high school, the girls would find their big break with their song "Cherry Fallout". The girls were quickly propelled to stardom, selling out larger and larger venues across the country.

Despite Drummer being the least popular member amongst fans, she was ecstatic to have this level of acceptance and success. But soon, this would all change.

After receiving an invitation to audition for Hopes Peak University, Drummer's bandmates would quickly turn on her. The girls told her it must have been a mix up, and for once Drummer stood up for herself.

Quickly exploding into a full argument between her and the band, Drummer left the group in a fury.

Now, with all bridges burned, Drummer is only a week out from her fated Hopes Peak Audition. Drummer's career is completely dependent on this going well. Wish her luck!

[babblingblackwhale]

This will be long so feel free to read in bits and chunks:

we have tried multiple times to begin this post and had to restart it again because while we are impossibly aggravated and would like to just post a snarling sound that conveys a fraction of our vicious anger but we really want if possible to not have tone muddy what could possibly be a learning moment for working, nondisabled folks invested in worker or proletariat revolution who may need one of the nonworking disabled folks whose lives literally depend on these exploitative labour economies to come out of the ether so they can realise that we are not some abstract nonentity living in bourgeois excess or whatever other Fantasyland they tell themselves is where nonworking, severely debilitated, multi-dimensionally poor disabled people live in.

There is a post (from user @/pure) making the rounds on here that has almost 2000 reblogs by someone who seems rightfully angry that gig delivery workers operate under brutal working conditions and earn sub-minimum wages because of capitalist exploitation from some tech CEO looking to accumulate profit due to wage theft. this series of posts (because this user made multiple) as far as we can surmise is an attempt to weigh in on a cyclic conversation that frequently pops up on social media whenever a disabled person (not always but quite often) comes online to vent about the ableist discrimination they experience from these same gig delivery workers who are over-exploited and overworked displace their anger frequently at disabled people who require certain service accomodations to be able to access their basic needs.

We could have left this as a direct reply on this post itself (and we still might) but we wanted to make a more encompassing post because there is a disturbing pattern of dismissiveness and shallow indifference that we want to draw out. We all know that a lot of digital discourses tend to be cross pollinated (so someone brings a discursive prompt from one social media to another) and we tend to be charitable when these moments happen (certain social media platforms lend itself easier access wise for some people, some people need a wider opinion range for whatever is being discussed, some people feel the need to share context for certain thoughts or videos that provoked them in some way) because people don't really have discussions in sealed, linear ways and the separation of these apps themselves are a myth sometimes it's genuinely interesting to see how conversations that begin elsewhere take a life of it's own in another place. Without derailing, we have come to believe that this resurged discussion about gig delivery workers and their treatment of app users who need specific accommodations that are often disregarded emerged from Twitter when a disabled user came to speak about their recent experience using a delivery app and some one most likely brought it to Tumblr.

We have come to realize there is a specific pattern that organizes how most viral attempts from disabled people to show how nondisabled working people (across class loyalties) treat severely disabled people as scapegoat or collateral damage in their war against the slaveholding oppressor capitalist class. We cannot sugar coat this: most working nondisabled people treat nonworking, disabled people with disdain, recipients of some mythical welfare, or relegate us to some abstract category of the "unthinking" nonentities that have nothing to say about "work", "labour", "value" working to prey on their bleeding hearts with our moral arguments. In these conversations - plural because we can see a throughline between this conversation about delivery gig workers, the one on Tiktok semi-recently about plight and shortage of care-givers in the US, the cyclical conversations across IG, Twitter (in fact any disability related forum) chronic medical burnout from hospital staff resulting in medical neglect- working nondisabled begin with most foulest assumption that the non working disabled person they are interacting with doesn't realize the larger structure of capitalist oppression at play and is simply displacing their unwarranted anger at this exploited working person. Instances of interpersonal ableism and discrimination gets dismissed as the worker in question simply having a bad day. Once that assumption takes root, that dialogue devolves because there is simply nothing the nonworking disabled person - who desperately needs an accommodation (because they are too sick to make it to what is considered a "reasonable" delivery place) from the gig worker in order to literally sustain themselves because they don't have a support system and the state and their so called community has left them for dead - can say that will not sound like some indulgence to the person who is feverishly bandying their support for workers liberation in that moment.

At some point nondisabled people must think of where nonworking, disabled poor folks exist and ask what they know of our lives because far too many leftists, radicals and worker liberationists have adopted a very eugenicist, puritanical epistemology of work and think they have the range to be in conversations they neither have the lived experience nor the curiosity not humility to engage in.

If we are being very honest, even the timing of when these conversations about pro-worker liberation emerge is extremely suspect because it is never taken to its logical conclusion- the internal contradictions of workers union and nor are the exploitative corporations union busting tactics aren't revealed, it never leads to splintered off conversations about how gig workers can pool their power to get better working conditions - it is merely used a discursive bludgeon to shut down disabled people who are just venting about the day to day accumulation of ableist treatment. We have to be honest about these things because why else do we have language to communicate with each other? disabled people who are not just reliant but practically need these services to survive are poor folks, housing insecure folks, debilitated disabled folks, mentally ill folks (we truly want nondisabled to fathom what it is like to be too sick to feed yourself or physically incapable of feeding without having anyone to help feed you and what it means to literally starve because a worker is having a bad day and can't be bothered to bring your food up stair cases). These services are practically the only way available to live to the next day so why would we go out of our way to make the person responsible for our survival miserable? Like don't just react, truly think about what we are saying here.

The thing that irks us the most about this projection of malice nondisabled radicals so easily adopt against (nonworking) disabled folks is that as a severely disabled, nonworking, bed-bound, multiply-marginalized, generationally poor, houseless black being who has even less of an access into the nonexistent state welfare services due to our immigration status, we see how desperate disabled people broadly (especially those not insulated by generational wealth, access, ans privilege) are to be in support and solidarity with working exploited folks especially with how much unpaid, exploitable labour is mined from racialized communities which then make us very vulnerable to debility and impairs our ability to continue to even generate labour that can be exploited and worse, impairs our ability to even resist these exploitative capitalist forces when we become debilitated and disabled. Yet nondisabled workers are always so gleefully displacing their anger and aggression on us simply because they can rather than see how deeply connected our struggles against the ruling capitalist class and the settler empires are. They rarely reach out to struggle against the state across any disability justice movement building yet they have the nerve to act as if a throw away statement saying they don't mean to be cruel to disabled people while simultaneously being callous and dismissive of disabled people's encounters with rampant, deleterious ableism and our experience of exploited workers can be neatly tidied into inconsequential in the grand scheme of "worker" exploration or the battle against wage slavery.

We have exhausted all our energy on this post and our joints hurt bad so we will stop now, we may add or refine when energy surfaces again. A lot of this might be disjointed but we will allow it be because our point stands

[raytorosaurus]

hi Raytorosaurus, in the beginning of your post you said Ray has done interviews, podcasts, and blogged in recent years, can you please link me to those things? I would be extremely and eternally grateful <3

yes ofc!! this one by tom bryant (author of not the life it seems) is my favourite! and not just because ray talks about how much he loves being a stay at home dad doing chores while his wife gets her master's degree. it's just sweet, and goes a little more in depth into remember the laughter's concept than some of these other interviews.

this one isn't remember the laughter related, but tom bryant also did this interview with him the year before, after he released for the lost and brave dedicated to leelah alcorn (cw non-graphic discussion of suicide). it's really fucking sweet. ray talks a lot about his family and about fatherhood and about how he wants to raise his kids to be as kind and socially conscious as possible in pretty much all of the interviews i've linked here, but i really fucking love this thing he says in this one in particular:

"If ever my son was having a rough time I would just hope that he would trust me and allow me to be there for him. It’s common for parents and older people to look at youth in a negative way and to not respect the young as people. My wife always says that a lot of parents treat their kids like property – the whole, ‘this is my house, these are my rules and you must abide by my law’. You have to put yourself on the same level as your kid, you have to relate to them as a person. I hope that there’s more understanding about the differences between people in the future that my son grows up in.”

at the risk of sounding like a broken record, this one is also really fucking sweet. again he talks about the values he wants to impart on his kids, and how his son is featured in the lucky ones playing his child's percussion set :'''')

this one is a bit longer and just rly cute lol like just fun vibes

there's a couple of shorter ones here and here that are also worth a read. there's also this review that i like - it's not 100% positive but the writer does make a point of saying he's shocked the album didn't get much attention despite ray having been in mcr. yeah me too dude :(

this is a podcast he appeared on - he did at least one or two others but i think sadly they've been lost to time :(((((( but god this one is so sweet he's just sooooo. so <3. ray also says the band broke up a few weeks after his son was born in september 2012 which is interesting lol.

sadly a bunch of his blog stuff has been lost to time because the wayback machine has done a spotty job of archiving it but you can try to explore around the archived pages a bit. if you click around to different dates or subpages you can see some of his photography (tho sadly a lot of it hasn't been saved :((( ) and a few blog posts. you might even come across his shitty vent poetry lol <3333

and then i love this interview sooooo much too like this writer really gets it. ray talks about how he got obsessed with this free climber after watching a mountaineering documentary which inspired the great beyond, so the great beyond actually features a fucking chalk bag as a percussion instrument because he's insane and i love him. it also has the line "enthusiasm leaking from him like a punctured capri-sun" LOL. and then it wraps up with this statement that i really love:

Mixed, engineered and almost entirely performed by Toro, ‘Remember The Laughter’ is very much this man’s pride and joy. Every nuance of the record is explained with intricate detail and the subject matter held within comes straight from his heart. Whether you like it or not remains to be seen, as its influences are often drawn from well outside the My Chemical Romance sphere. Whether you listen to it or not, though, really comes down to this: do you want to hear some honest music?

because honestly that's the one common thread through all of mcr's discography and every single one of their solo projects. they are all 100% earnest. they all access that honesty in different ways and ray's definitely not a super accomplished lyricist so some of the lines on rtl verge on corny or schmaltzy sometimes but they never, ever sound fake or inauthentic. he wrote the album imagining he was speaking the lyrics to his son to instill a sense of hope in him about the world so he'd grow up with the belief that he was capable of making it a better place and he fucking means every word of it bro. he's ray toro :( i like him :((((

[msbigredmachine]

TARGETS - 21 - The Decoy

Roman Reigns is an agent in the secret organisation The Authority and one of the world’s deadliest assassins. When he crosses paths with a mysterious woman during an assignment, he makes a life-changing decision that switches his role from the hunter to the hunted.  (AU Espionage Story)

TARGETS MASTERLIST

--------------

Seventy-two hours later

0047 hrs

Providence, Rhode Island

Xavier Woods rolled his eyes for the hundredth time, wondering when the hell he was going to get out of this shithole. Ever since the attempt on his life a couple of months ago in Las Vegas, he'd been hidden away in a bunker in an elusive Courthouse in Rhode Island, where he would remain in custody until the process for his entry into the Witness Protection Program was concluded. Unlike the lavish comfort of the hotel suite at the MGM Arena, this place felt like a fucking prison. Being miles away from civilization, there were no distractions for Xavier to indulge in. No cable, no PS5, no Wi-Fi, and shitty cell phone reception. He was under watch twenty-four hours a day and he felt like he was about to go apeshit. Why the fuck was it taking weeks to move him into the Program anyway? Especially if they knew his life was in grave danger?

Outside, his door was manned by four FBI Agents, all of whom were lounging and reading day-old newspapers. A fifth agent rounded the corner with two boxes of pepperoni pizza in his arms. "About fucking time, I'm starving," one of the agents said, throwing aside his newspaper and opening one of the boxes his colleague set down on the table.

The sound of an alarm suddenly rang all around the Courthouse, interrupting their meal. The Agents instantly dropped their pizza and jumped to their feet, hands reaching for the guns in their holsters. Suddenly, one dropped to the ground, unconscious, a tranquilizer dart sticking out of his neck. The other Agents raised their weapons to attack, but how did one aim at an unseen target? Left with this disadvantage, another fell. And another. And another. Within seconds all five men were down, out cold.

Xavier shot to his feet as he heard sounds of a scuffle outside his door. Suddenly it burst open and a Courthouse guard ran up to him, looking harassed. "Follow me sir," the big, burly looking man said with a heavy Southern accent. "I've got orders to get you outta here."

Xavier's eyes widened, fear coursing through his veins as he recognized the huge man immediately. This was the absolute last person he expected to see here. And this was the absolute last person he wanted to take him. "You gotta be fucking kidding me." Backing away, he whirled around and sprinted away, searching frantically for the imaginary way out.

The guard rolled his brown eyes, his accent transforming instantly. "Why do they always want to do it the hard way?"

As he spoke, Roman whipped out his gun, the butt of the weapon cracking over Xavier's head and knocking him out where he stood. Roman caught him before he hit the ground. "Fucking arrogant, slimy piece of shit," the guard murmured, dragging the prone body of Woods to the vent grill in the corner of the room. He used a screwdriver to unscrew the corners and stuffed Woods through the small space. As he followed behind, Roman pitched a timed grenade back into the room. A gift for the Feds, if you will.

Several FBI Agents had arrived at the scene as backup, and they took their command positions outside Xavier Woods's bedroom. The leader raised his hand in a signal to lead the charge into the room. They threw open the door, rushing in when they saw a small object roll towards them. They felt the impact of the explosion before they could decipher what it was. All of them fell to the floor, stunned and temporarily blinded by the percussive grenade, but alive. Barely.

Worried, Jasmine spoke into her earpiece. "Spice to Aquaman, I heard an explosion. Are you okay?"

"Why are you Spice and I have to be called Aquaman?"

"Because, doofus, my name is an actual spice and you look like Jason Momoa. Where are you? Did you get the cargo out?"

A heavy sigh followed. "Fine. Aquaman to Spice. Affirmative. The cargo is in my possession," was Roman's reply, "We move now. Watch my six in case anyone's trailing me."

Jasmine quickly shut the titanium suitcase containing the laptop and communications kit and moved over to the driver's seat, gun cocked and ready for any hostiles. Roman emerged through the rolling smoke, Woods slumped and unconscious over his shoulder. "Well, that was a mess," Jasmine smirked, putting her gun away.

Roman rolled his eyes. "It worked, didn't it?" He dumped Woods in the back seat, sitting him upright so he would look like he was asleep. Roman jumped into the passenger seat. "Let’s get the fuck outta here."

Jasmine revved the engine and they drove off.

—---------

Xavier slowly opened his eyes and was met with yet another fist in his face. Roman and Jasmine had taken him to an abandoned duplex in the outskirts of Providence to interrogate him. They had been in there for a while and so far, he wasn't saying a word, and it was pissing Roman off.

Jasmine watched as he laid into Xavier again, the man's dreadlocks flying as his head snapped backwards in a painful-looking angle. "Roman, what are you doing?" 

"I'm working." Another punch.

"You're going to kill him," she pointed out.  

"That was my left hand, sweetheart. Take a seat. We'll be done in a minute."

Jasmine sighed out loud. She knew she was bearing witness to another episode of the Samoan at his most blood-thirsty, but now was not the time to be reckless. "Roman, stop."

He ignored her. He squatted in front of Xavier and roughly patted his cheek. "Hey! Woods, wake the fuck up and look at me."

Xavier didn't seem to have heard him. Instead he was staring at Jasmine, his battered gaze traveling up and down the length of her delectable body. Roman raised his eyebrow, incredulous. “Is this piece of shit eyeballing my girl? Woods! I said look at me! Are you going to tell us why both our bosses want you dead or not?"

Xavier finally turned his attention to Roman. His hands were tied tightly behind his back, as were his legs, and was at the mercy of two deadly assassins. But he remained as defiant as ever, almost as if despite the precarious position he was in, he still had the upper hand. Spitting out the blood from his mouth to the side, he glared at Roman. "If you kill me, you got nothin’," he taunted.

"Oh, nothing would give me more pleasure than blowing your fuckin’ brains out." Roman stood back up and shook his head, losing patience. Jasmine checked her nails lazily as she spoke. "He does have a point, Roman."

Roman leveled his girlfriend with a glare. "You think you can do better?" he challenged, thrusting his gun at her and making an exaggerated sweeping gesture with his free arm. "Go ahead. Let’s see how much information you can get out of him."

Jasmine uncrossed her ankles and pushed off the wall with a smile. Both men's eyes were on her. "I'm not going to need that," she waved Roman's gun away, and looked over at Xavier with slanted, seductive eyes and an even more seductive smile. Roman's dark eyes narrowed as he realized her little plan, and he felt his blood boil and his fingers itch.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" Without waiting for her to respond, he grabbed her arm and dragged her away from Xavier and led her to a corner. Roman rounded on her, his face like thunder. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he hissed loudly. "You're going to seduce him? In front of me?"

Unbelievable! "Are you fucking kidding me? Now is not the time to be jealous!"

"What? I should just stand there and watch while you shove your tits in his face? Did you fuck him while you were with him? Is that what happens every time you've got to take out a motherfucker? Fuck him before you take him out?" Roman was livid. How many other men had put their hands on her, before and while they were together? How many had she allowed?

"This is literally not the time for this. Can you let me do my job? Huh?" she asked, rubbing her temple impatiently.

"I am only showing concern! You were his date that night. He put his hands on you then, and I am not cool with that."

“Seriously? Are you gonna stand there and tell me that in all the years you’ve been doing this, you’ve never fucked a couple of women to get the job done?” Jasmine challenged, “Look me in the eye and tell me that.”

Roman chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I was single then,” he defended lamely.

"That’s highkey the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard!" Jasmine snapped through gritted teeth. He was being exasperating. "I know you're tense right now and want answers, but do not take it out on me. Now take a break and let me handle this. As you know by now, I’m very good at what I do, and I know exactly what I'm doing."

"Do you?" he muttered under his breath, and he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. 

Jasmine glared at her boyfriend, unable to mask her hurt. She shut her eyes, calming, centering herself, and when she opened them again, she was cool, professional again, but there was an edge to her tone as she replied.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that to me," she told him curtly. They stood close, the air between them heated, tense. "I'm going back to talk to the hostage. When you're certain you're not going to make a fool of yourself, come back in. And you better not get in my way with your bullshit." She turned her back on him before she knocked his fucking lights out for disrespecting her like that. He wasn't the biggest person she had encountered before, not by a mile.

Roman watched her stomp away, his shoulders sagging with resignation. Yes, it was silly and immature of him, and it seemed like they were wasting time. But he just couldn't shake off the inkling in the pit of his gut that there was more to this situation they were facing. Woods was being too calm, too confident for his liking, and it felt like he and Jasmine were playing right into his hands.

Xavier smirked when Jasmine came back into his view. "Trouble in paradise?"

Her smile was gorgeous. "Forgive my partner over there. He's a bit...assertive." She reached up and pulled out the band holding her hair, letting the fair tresses fall around her shoulders. Xavier's eyes widened, and for the first time since his abduction, he looked a little nervous. She slowly approached him, her hair down, her slender body swaying, beautiful fingers on the buttons of her blouse. She looked absolutely ravishing.

"Xavier..." she uttered his name softly, "Xavier, we don't want to hurt you."

"We don't?" grumbled Roman.

"Roman, behave. We just want to ask a few questions, Xavier."

She moved behind him, her hand lazily trailing the chair, fingertips brushing his shoulder. She heard his breath catch as her fingers traced his chin, then his cheek. "We are aware of just how…controversial…you are. You've stepped on a few toes...pissed off some people. We understand that. All we want to know is why our bosses want to kill you, at such a high price for that matter."

She was close. She knew by the way Xavier's jaw clenched. He was struggling to hold tight, to remain stubborn. Roman was struggling as well. He gripped his gun tighter, his finger on the trigger, ready for anything.

Jasmine leaned down behind Xavier and let her slender hands slide down his chest, her face close to his ear, "That's all we want to know, Xavier. If you cooperate, all of this will be over. You have my word."

She waited for a response, then her eyes narrowed when she heard a chuckling sound, which she realized was coming from Woods. Standing upright, she looked at him in confusion and saw his head thrown back, laughing his head off. Jasmine and Roman glanced at each other. Something was wrong.

"Do you really think I'm going to fall for the tacky burlesque moves, sweetheart?" Xavier said, still laughing, but his eyes held a knowing, dangerous glint. "You're hot as hell, but not that hot, Jasmine...or is it Tatiana?"

Jasmine froze, staring at him.

"You tell me, Jasmine," Xavier went on. "Why would The Authority and F.L.O.R.A. come after little old me?" His grin spread at their widened eyes. "Yeah, I know exactly who both of y’all are. Of course you wouldn't know what’s really going on. Let me ask you another question; did you think your companies didn't know who each of you were? Did you think they appreciate this little romance y’all got going on, hmm? Did you really, Jasmine? Roman Reigns?"

Roman crossed his arms and glared at Xavier. Alarm bells were ringing in his head. But he couldn't quite point out why, and it unnerved him. "I knew you recognized me at the Courthouse," he said quietly. His hands were burning now. Aching for a kill.

"But how?" asked Jasmine, completely puzzled, "He's never seen you before!"

"Oh, but I have. They showed me your photos when they brought me in for this job." Xavier continued talking, sounding braver by the second. "You two are worrying about the wrong person. I'm not the one your companies are collaborating to take out."

Jasmine went pale. "Collaborating?"

Roman felt a chill course through his spine. The pieces were slowly coming together. "The hit in Las Vegas was a set-up," he said, turning to a stunned Jasmine. "This whole fucking thing is a set-up. It was never about Woods, babe. It was about us."

"Right you are, Reigns! Fifty points to Gryffindor! I'm not the target here. I never was. You are. Both of you. The Authority and F.L.O.R.A. realized your relationship could compromise them all, so they doubled up. They’ve been working together for months, trying to eliminate you both. And thanks to me, they're going to succeed and I'm getting the payday of a lifetime and my golden ticket outta this god-forsaken shithole of a country!" 

He grinned evilly at the two assassins. "So, with that being said, I hope you two have made peace with your Maker because you, my friends, are about to die."

-------------

Credit to the owners of the pics and gifs.

I've given up on the tag list. But please leave comments, I still love comments! ❤

[spiderh0rse]

felix's mind notes, part 2. e6-10 + THE FINAL EPISODE

e6

thorough scientific analysis! Technobabbles and looks around the thing.

He has no idea what he's doing.

percussive maintenance may or may not break his toe. Unsure.

he had a pediatrist!

kind of trying to flirt with Alyx?

gives up when she just ignores him.

doesn't know Mossman :(

Felix is supremely uninterested in saving people he just wants to leave

"Aw, dicks!"

running on his possibly-broken foot. I don't think it's broken but it sure is hurt

does not like train coffee

wants to trade his now normal gravity gun for Alyx's regular gun

has the gamer's instinct for telling when an ambush is coming up

kind of looking forward to watching the roller mines betray what they stood for

most genuine evil laugh I've ever heard! Complete with slamming his head into the glass repeatedly

"OH GOD IT HURTS SO GOOD"

"I'm really fucked up aren't I"

at LEAST wants coffee from this shitty train. Worse than coach

compares himself vaguely to a stalker

dislikes the idea of hope right now

e7

immediately worse framerate. The remade episodes have ended.

passes out in the train and flashes back to hl2

only knows five words in Russian. At least three are swears

the other two are да and нет. Yes and no.

climbs a fence pretty well

vague hints of Felix disliking cops

pretty sure Black Mesa is destroyed. Thinks he's unemployed before remembering Gman hiring him

thinks he may be gmans personal assassin. Close enough!

dislikes the combine going after him

gets SHOT in his LEG with NO HEV SUIT

agrees easily to being called Dr. Freeman

says he will Not forget the name Alyx Vance

e8

waking up! man this guy is just constantly passing out

thinks the stalker screeching at him is "Joni" (alyx) for a moment

thinks the gravity gun is heavy

wants a break from walking

he smells bad :( stinky

asks a couple zombies what their thoughts on Joni are. Dislikes her rn

"meepmeep in hell"

loves hoppers! Claims he never gets tired of them! So clearly he has some vague memories he just. Isn't realizing he has

thinks the HEV suit flashlight was bought for $6.99

claims hes crawled in hundreds of vents

his flashlight starts failing on him

fell in something wet :( hopes it isn't blood

feeling around in the dark. Finds a gun.

makes a bad pun, gets his flashlight back online for a second

seems distraught at not having gum

e9

gum! Five Gum! From Joni! Felix likes it

enjoying the gravity gun, it makes him feel like a Jedi

can APPRECIATE a good handgun

familiar with Starship Troopers! Has not actually seen it, just knows there's giant bugs.

reads wikipedia articles for movies he hasn't seen

LOVES wikipedia

has played or is familiar with Left 4 Dead

used wikipedia to help with his paper that got him his doctorate

never used a shotgun in Call Of Duty

distrusts trains. and he says this (release date anyways) EXACTLY three months after Amtrak's birthday

hates Joni's zombine pun

likes Spaceballs

does not envy the headcrab zombies. A headcrab would mess up his hair

he loves his hair. Middle part loser.

seems attached to the salesman thing

gets choked by a barnacle and is more concerned with telling Joni that his name is FELIX and not GORDON

fast headcrab,, messes up his hair

Felix's hair always looks like Gordon's no matter how much he styles it

Felix's girlfriend once almost made out with Gordon thinking he was Felix. Gordon did not correct her

poison headcrab does well and truly poison him badly.

he seems uninterested in his body going numb and his vision going out

THE FINAL EPISODE

wakes up. checks himself over quickly, all okay

hopes he's building up an immunity to poison headcrab

asks Joni to cover his turnin a wheel

opens it!

"now you're squishy and dead. Like jello."

likes jello, in particular lime green jello

stranglestrings... "It's like a suicidal person's dream" FELIX.

gets choked by another barnacle

does not respect the dead

disrespects Joni severely.

she shoots him for the insult! Whoops!

ragdolled Gordon Freeman model as Joni shoots it

references SOME game here but i don't know it

e10

THE NIGHTMARES

it's been YEARS since he had frequent nightmares. Has a single nightmare now and freaks the fuck out

back in college played 53 hours straight of Goldeneye. Endless nightmare torment since

dreams of his death often

has bigger problems than goldeneye nightmares

still thirsty :(

he has slightly below the average cat's reflexes, purportedly

lots of stranglestrings that need to be cut

puts on a silly voice and is blatantly making some kind of reference

commands the headcrabs to stop punching Felix in the face with themselves

"Everyone would be in perfect ha- Everyone would be smiling."

wonders if the zombine can smile

gamer.

even with his cynicism smiles from time to time. Hates the zombine for being SUPER CYNICISTS. makes the rest look bad.

warns Joni that being around him will bring her emotional state down

reminds himself that he needs to be complaining. Wants to complain about the big picture but instead will complain about those GODDAMN BUGS

happy now that he's complaining :)

very familiar with GTA but seems to have not completed it due to his cousin

cousin Roman? Roman! New name new name! Roman and Jessie, freeman cousins

Roman is a great cousin. And he's somewhere in Felix's idea of what someone fat is

Felix dislikes turning those wheels

the explosion was so bad it messed up his FOV!

"holy god" well yes usually he is

road rage! Attack the bugs!

i genuinely like his acting here when hes happy about the bugs all being blocked off

his glasses have not fallen off his face Once in the last week

considered getting contacts but keeps the glasses because they go well with his beard. Weren't you calling yourself a nerd for this earlier today, Felix

and his hair,, considers himself attractive.

his girlfriend also things he's attractive

she is either dead or around forty. Felix thinks she's probably moved on from him by now

his girlfriend is totally Chell btw

AND SHE TAKES HIS COFFEE

[spellbookscolopendra]

Tunnels of Love

It’s been three weeks since you’d crawled into the ship’s maintenance vents. Three weeks since the access hatch had slammed shut behind you, followed by the telltale sounds of a welder in action. You still had no idea who’d done it, of course. They hadn’t wanted to starve you out- you kept finding food left out, somehow. The good stuff, from the officer’s cafeteria. But you never caught them in action. The doors remained welded shut.

It was just you, the cleaning robots, and a *lot* of electrical equipment.

At first you gave the bots names. Then you started copying them, just to have something to do.

Honestly, it took you a concerningly short amount of time to start linking their parts up to your body. But you didn’t stop there, did you? It wasn’t just one set of spare parts. It wasn’t even just spare parts: there was plenty of material to manufacture your own metal limbs. The shaping was all percussive, but each addition made the work go faster.

You started dating the cleaning units. You gave up on the outside.

And then the vessel docked, and some poor fool unwelded the hatches.

It’ll be nice to have another member down here. And don’t you deserve one, for your work as the vent minder?

[jellyfish-er]

I think my best friend and I like each other

(for the sake of this post we're gonna call my bestie Lucas because that's close to his name)

I am currently in the midst of a talking stage that's fizzling out. I vent about it to my best friend, and he listens as he has always been there for me. I'm a female so people ship us, but it has always been whatever, and we just let it bounce off us. Withing the past month as my talking stages has been failing quicker and quicker Lucas has been showing signs. He will randomly call me specifically for no reason. My main group of four pretty much only does group facetimes so this was my first sign. Two when he asks what I'm doing (pretty much always my hair) I'll send him a pic and he is always obsessed. I have 3 out of seven classes with him and he always wait for me no matter how long I take and no matter how far away his class is. My locker is on the second floor of our school and his locker is downstairs and he will walk upstairs through the hella busy staircase just to get me so he can walk me to chorus (in the basement) and then book it back to the first floor for his percussion class. I'm a self-aware person and I know I am not the best singer, but I have improved in the four years I have done choir and Lucas has seen almost all of that improvement, and never lets me doubt myself and is always telling me I have a great voice. (he might be more delulu than me lol) . Lucas makes and effort to make it to all of the choir only concerts even if that means he skips his black-belt class which he can only miss once every two months. Lucas is a percussionist (a damn good one at that) and I do color guard, so we always find something to talk about with our music programs and there is never a dull moment. Lucas texts/calls me before and after every competition and comes to all of the home shows and performances. He met me right before I joined guard and constantly tells me how he has seen me move from a crappy first year JV to the strongest flag on varsity. We are both extreme swiftes and he has stayed up so many nights helping me make bracelets for the concert I went to/ going to. I do my best to make him feel like the best version of himself that he can be, but I don't think I could ever compare to has ability to complement people. He is he sweetest most thoughtful person I have ever met and that is probably why we have been friends for 3 years. We have gotten closer over the past year, and he knows me better than I know myself and the same goes for me. Lucas is super protective and it's so weird because when I get hit on, he always intervenes before i can say anything. I admire all of these things about him, and I think I might be falling for him. Please for the love of God send me advice because I don't know what the hell to do. We have been friends for so long and if we got together, it could seriously screw our friend group and even more if there were issues.

edit: I totally forgot to mention this which is dumb because its half the reason I made this post lol. He is always pushing my hair out of my face. I have long, red hair and he loves it when I put it up and is always complementing me on it but when I wear it down it tends to get in my face when I do literally anything and I have to shove it out but recently he has been walking up behind me and pulling it back or just when we're talking he will brush it out of my face or behind my ear or something with the comment "I gotta move your hair cuz otherwise I can't see your beautiful smile." I know it's dumb and childish but ITS SO CUTE.