#Mike is the kidney

[glamrock-freddy]

Hmgnhm coughing up an au. Have some undercooked doodles

[kingofmyborrowedheart]

Knew I was going to be stressed and anxious for this election but this isn’t what I imagined.

[dire-kumori]

I hope you don’t mind me responding to your tags in a new post, @lonelyfreddles​. I just really wanted to say something, but I was worried the post was getting a bit long.

I like to think it could be a bit of both: Evan has moments of lucidity where he’s not so bad and the bloodlust isn’t so intense, but even then he can’t help but enjoy wielding some of that same power over Michael that Michael once held over him. Maybe he feels some small amount of guilt over it but reasons that he’s not really doing anything so bad to Mikey, just playing with him and showing him the kind of brotherly relationship they could have had all along if Mikey had been just a bit nicer. But then at other times all the pain and the terror and the betrayal just come flooding back and as a spirit ruled almost entirely by the emotions he felt during his death he loses his sense of self to hatred for the source of those negative emotions.

And perhaps Michael believes if he lets Evan take those emotions out on him, take his revenge, he’ll finally be able to move on peacefully and rest like he deserves to. Or maybe Michael’s just telling himself that to make it easier to deal with the fact that he’s likely not going to get out of this situation alive...

[kidneystheallpowerful]

That's fucking it, AROACE MIKE WHEELER

[probablyintensemuses]

Dating Armando Aretas Would Include:

Grumpy x Sunshine Edition

🎧- Enchanted: Taylor Swift

pairing: Armando Aretas x black fem! reader

themes: grumpy x sunshine w/drabble

warnings: mentions of trauma & abuse, strong language, and a bit of gore.

authors note: I saw Bad Boys 4 again last night and it’s really refueled my Armando obsession, so more headcannons, drabbles, and fics on the way.

✨First Encounters✨

You and Armando meet in the worst of circumstances.

He, his father, and Marcus were on the run as wanted men, and you were the first person Mike thought to turn to after the attack at Tabatha’s.

Which he wasn’t wrong, you’d give your left kidney to Mike he’s saved you so many times.

You had let them into your small apartment, offering them clothes, food, and shelter until they could get in touch with the rest of the Ammo team and sort this shit out.

Armando had taken an interest to you then. Your house was warm and cozy, lived in. A small, plush couch, next to a coffee table littered with medical books. A kitchen stacked with teas and espressos , a dresser with vintage vinyls and a record player beside it. This was the kind of house he’d like to live in if he lead a different life.

You remember walking over to him, a picture of your parents and you when you were young in his hands.

“Those are my parents,’ you say. “I was ten then.”

Armando’s gruff exterior takes over though, and he doesn’t give you as much as a word back, let alone a thank you for feeding and housing literal fugitives.

You figured it was just him though and let it roll off you back like water.

You all got some sleep and the next day Mike asks you to drive them out to Dorn’s house on the dock. You agree and begin to load up the truck with guns, water, food, and extra clothes for the drive.

This is when Armando starts to question who you are and the legitimacy of your actions. Last person Mike trusted fucked them over, and he wasn’t having that shit again.

So he pulls his father aside and confronts him on the situation: you.

“How can we trust her?” Armando says, not far out of earshot of you.

“She’s good for it, trust me.”

“Didn’t you say that the last time and we got sold out. Don’t forget there is fucking five million dollar bounty on our heads. We can’t trust no one!” He whisper-shouted.

Mikes shoulders dropped. “I saved her life when she was younger, and I used to work with her parents. Trust me, she’s not going to pull a fast one. Because if she was, she would have done it already.”

Armando looked over at you, you’re dressed in a tank top, and that’s when he notices the cuts and burns littering your left arm. He sucks in a deep breath eyeing Mike who looks at you with sympathy too. There’s a story there, he’ll piece it together later, but for now he guesses you’re his only hope of getting out alive.

✨Post-fallout ✨

After you didn’t screw them over, and got them safety to Dorn’s, Armando found himself limping towards your apartment, blood trailing behind his feet.

Mike had sent him, and for some reason, at that moment, your place felt like exactly what he needed.

With the last of his energy, he banged on your door. Shortly, you answered and immediately went into panic mode.

The moment you let him inside, Armando crashes to the floor, passing out.

You screech and get every first aide equipment you have on hand and begin to bandage him up and stop the bleeding.

It took two bloody, sweaty hours, but you eventually got him all closed up.

Armando woke the next morning in a bed he didn’t recognize. This sent him into a frenzy. He went to shoot up out of the bed, but the soreness of his injuries knocked him back down.

“Fuck,” he moaned, grabbing at his torso.

From the living room, you turn down your headphones at the sound of movement. Armando must be awake.

Two days of rest, not bad.

You move towards the microwave and reheat the breakfast you had made him, pour some orange juice, and bring a whole heck of a lot of water and pain-pills.

Tray in hand, you kick open the door and slip inside your bedroom.

“Good morning.” You smile, setting the tray on the bed by his side. “How do you feel?”

“What the fuck did you put in this.” Armando asks, eyeing the food.

“Eggs, bacon, and toast.” You snicker.

Armando lifts a piece of toast, taking a bite. “If I die from this, I’ll kill you.”

“Noted, Sarg.” You salute.

You watch Armando eat his food with a smile on your face.

Eventually he looks up at you scowling. “Why are you staring at me.”

You shrug. “I’m just happy you’re okay.” You say truthfully.

“Well,’ Armando takes a swig of water, downing the pills. “Go be happy somewhere else.”

Your shoulders drop and you let out a sigh, you knew Armando was tough, but geez, you practically saved his life. Would it kill him to be a little nice?

But still you smile when you say, “okay, well if you need me, I’ll be out in the living room studying. Feel free to roam around, I don’t mind.”

It was a couple hours before Armando had come out of your room, limping over to the kitchen and rummaging through your fridge.

“I’m making dinner right now,’ you say, pausing your television show. “It’s a roast with veggies.”

“I want a beer.” He grumbles.

“Well I don’t have beer, but I do have wine.” You say, pointing to you collection of reds and whites.

“ I don’t want wine.”

“Okay, so what do you want me to do?”

Armando comes over to you, cornering you into the tiny space between your sink and the counter. “Get me a beer.”

“Let’s start over,’ you stick out your hand for a shake. “I think we’re at a misunderstanding of our situation.”

Armando frowns at your response, grumbling Spanish curses under his breath and walking away, slamming your door like a toddler.

The roast was done, and eventually you got Armando to come and have dinner with you…kind of.

He sat on the couch and watched the news, for updates on the status for his search, and you sat at the table, contemplating what to do with him next.

✨Enemies, Friends, Roomates✨

Mike had told you harboring Armando would only be for a short while until he could figure something out with the D.A’s office….that was three months ago.

Eventually you got your bed back, Armando taking the couch, but not your sanity.

Living with Armando wasn’t easy. He was brash, stand-offish, stubborn, and mean.

You did everything to try and form some kind of bond with him, even buying him gym equipment offline, but it just never clicked for him.

Not until one night when you’re studying late for an exam and happen to fall asleep at the kitchen table, books all around you.

That’s when you fall into a nightmare. The man who ruined your life the star of the show, again.

It always starts the same. You and your parents living happily at the park. Your parents watch you as you swing higher and higher, giggles filling the air. Then a man appears at the edge of the park, beckoning your parents over. You scream and shout for them but they never turn back, they keep going to the man. And when he has your parents in his grip, he brandishes a knife, slicing them open.

You let out a blood curling scream, slamming awake and falling to the group. Sweat sticks your curls to your face as you cry and gasp for breath.

Armando’s up in a second, swarming you.

“Estás bien?’ He pats you down, checking you out. “What’s happened to you?”

You can’t do anything but cry. The man who’s ruined your life, he’ll never leave you…he made sure of that in many ways. His latching to you is so deep that you can’t even escape him when you sleep.

You finally are able to get some words out, tell Armando, “I had a nightmare. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,’ he helps you stand. “Maybe you should get some sleep in your bed.”

You’re shocked by his response, but you’re even more shocked by the way he helps you to your room.

“What are you doing?” You asks, confused.

“You just flew out your chair from a nightmare, what do you mean what am I doing? I’m helping you.”

“Yeah, I get that…but you never help me.”

Armando sighs, holding his hands at his hips. “You gonna tell me what it was about, or should I leave.”

You sigh. “When I was younger, my parents worked for the Miami Police Department. They were detectives and before I was born they ended up helping catch this serial killer. His name was Gunter Bennett but the media called him “The Gutter” because that’s how he killed. Years later, somehow he escaped prison. That’s when he came for my parents. He killed them in the middle of the night.’ You take an uneasy breath, finding birth relief and shock when Armando’s hand slips into yours. “And I was sure he was going to kill me too, but he didn’t…he did worse. He kidnapped me and kept me at some shithole for three years. Three.”

You rile up your sleeves and show all your burns and cuts. Armando remembers them from the first day he met you.

“It’s how I got these. That sadistic bastard,’ you cry. “He tortured me.”

Armando feels something in him snap hearing your story and seeing the ways it’s effected you, even now. He knows what it’s like to be harmed and loose the people closest to you.

So he shocks even himself with what does next, scooping you up like a wounded bird and nuzzling under the blankets with you.

You whimper and sniffle in his arms and he just hushes you, stroking your curls.

“It’s going to be alright, niña bonita, he’s gone now.”

Slowly, the exhaustion of work, school, and your tears overcome you and you both drift off to sleep in each other’s arms.

✨My Lover✨

Armando was jealous.

You two had just spent the day out shopping, laughing and talking. Hell, you two live together! And yet you’re grinding on another man at the bar?!

The glass in Armando’s hand shakes and chips as he squeezes it further.

“Relax, muscle milk. You’ll break the glass.” Marcus says.

Armando scowls at him.

“I’m just saying, if you love her, tell her.” Marcus shrugs, walking away.

Armando scoffs. Love? Yeah right.

Did he feel close to you, yes.

Want to spend every breathing moment with you, yes.

Touch himself in the shower thinking about you, yes .

Oh fuck…he did love you.

Fuck! He loved you and you’re grinding another man!

Armando pushed out of his chair, it clattering to the ground in his wake.

He stalked over to you, grabbing your wrist and putting room between you and the man you danced on.

“ ‘Mando, what are you doing?” You stumble, clearly drunk.

“Let’s go.” He grabs you, chest heaving.

“Hey, wait!” You swat at him as he drags you through the bar and out the exit. “Why would you do that?” You whine.

“Because you’re drunk.” He rolls his eyes, slinging his leather jacket over your naked shoulders.

“I’m not!’ You whine, stumbling, luckily Armando catches you with ease. “I am.”

“You are. Let’s go.” He says, slinging you and carrying you bridal shower.

“Ah,’ you say, wrapping your arms around Armando’s neck and snuggling into him. “My knight in shining armor always takes such good care of me.’ You lean over, smacking his butt with a giggle.

“Shut up.” Armando says, resisting the urge to crack a smile.

Home, Armando tucks you into bed. He’s just about to walk away when you snatch his wrist, pulling him on top of you.

“Let’s play a game,” you whisper.

Armando rolls his eyes. “What kind of game?”

“Truth for truth. I tell you a truth and you do the same. “I’ll start.” You giggle.

“Tonight went exactly how I planned.”

Armando pulls back. “What do you mean by that?”

You shake your head and pout. “Uh uh. You’re turn.”

Armando sighs. “I don’t actually find you that annoying…anymore.”

“Ah, I knew it!” You laugh.

“Knew what?”

“Game over.’ You slump and snore, pretending to sleep.

“Stop it, you knew what?” Armando lifts you.

You bop his nose. “I knew that you loved me.”

Armando’s eyes get big. “What?”

“Me and kelly paid that guy to dance with me. We knew you’d get mad and that was all the proof I needed.”

“You’re a dick.” He starts to walk away, but you grab him by his belt loop.

“Okay, I’m sorry.” You pull him back. “But you don’t have to be shy.” You hiccup.

Armando grumbles, nuzzling his face into your stomach. “And why’s that?”

You lift his head, angling it to face you. “Because I love you too.” You lean forward, placing a firm kiss onto his plump lips.

Armando reciprocates, opening his mouth turning the kiss fierce and hot. He climbs on top of you, mumbling against your lips. “And I thought you were supposed to be the nice one.”

You giggle. “Feels good to be bad for a change.”

[maroontragedy]

okay, so she released an official statement on the matter. and i LOVE how happy Mike (and the rest of the og members) looks in those videos. he also introduced all the members and said, "...and in the role of Chester Bennington this afternoon...is each of you" (and that made me sob).

so yeah, i'm happy for the band and looking forward to experiencing that and honouring him through music.

i was excited about Linkin Park's attempt at the new beginning (they deserve it, and no one and nothing can bring Chester back anyway) for a solid five minutes before discovering some things about the new singer.

now i don't know what to think or how to feel. i really wanted to go to a concert and honour Chester by singing and screaming to his songs with the rest of his (and the band's) fans

back to feeling empty i guess

[v-i-r-i-d-i-a-n]

I don’t think I’ll ever get over how Mike looks at Will- like so genuinely I don’t know I’ll ever fully comprehend or stop thinking about it

ID SELL MY KIDNEY FOR SOMEONE TO LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT

LIKE GENUINELY HERE MY KIDNEY IS YOURS

[transneilyoung]

david crosby and graham nash - definitely fucked definitely in love with each other in some way

neil young and stephen stills - didn't fuck but that isn't needed for the toxic yaoi to be real

robbie robertson and levon helm - this was real as hell

anything including bob dylan - obviously real

peter tork and mike nesmith - didn't fuck but should've

paul mccartney and john lennon - acknowledge as real on some level while deriving no pleasure from it

paul simon and art garfunkel - i would bet both my kidneys on it

[cazzyf1]

Mike Hawthorn's Last Day

A/N: 67 years ago today, Mike Hawthorn passed away. In memory, I've written up a piece on what Mike's last day would have been like. This is a fictional written piece, which I have taken creative liberties with, but every event written in this piece is what happened on Mike's last day. It's as accurate as I could make it. I hope you enjoy reading the piece and join me in remembering Mike Hawthorn today, Britain's first world champion.

Mike felt the pain in his kidney before he opened his eyes. It was the same stabbing pain that had become frequent as the months passed. Only a month earlier, at Christmas, he couldn’t even get out of bed; however hard he willed himself to, he couldn’t. The pain was that bad. 

What was there to do about it? He had one kidney taken out, but now the other one was dying, and there was nothing the doctors could do for him. He was dying. It was as simple as that. How long would it be now, years? Months? He didn’t want to think about it.

Mike wished he could stay in bed again, but he had too much to do. The life of a world champion was busier than he had ever imagined. God, if he had known how much people demanded his attention, he would have let Stirling win. Not that he didn’t enjoy all the rewards he got from winning. The endless supply of alcohol was more than welcome. But with everything that had happened this previous year, by the end, he was exhausted. 

But for now, he had to get up. 

As he slowly pulled himself together, he thought of all that was demanded of him today. 

The first duty would be to check in at his garage; then, he was off to London to meet York Nobel, a close friend, with whom he would discuss a deal where Mike would be involved in producing the Nobel car. Then, he agreed to meet Billy Butlin and Frank Farr for lunch at the Cumberland Hotel. There, they would be judges for a charity event in aid of the Invalid Tricycle Association. After that, it was onto Westbury Hotel to see Louise Collins.

Louise Collins. 

Mike paused for a moment as he got ready. A pang of guilt flashed through his chest as he thought of Louise, followed by the now familiar pain of grief as Peter’s joyful face appeared before his eyes. 

After Peter’s death, Mike had avoided Louise. He knew he had, though he wouldn’t admit it out loud. And Mike knew it hurt her as much as it had hurt him. But every time he saw her face, all he could feel was the overwhelming grief of losing his mon ami mate. Peter could have won the world championship. He should have won it. He deserved it. But it was ripped from him cruelly, and Mike was there to witness it. Mike couldn’t bear to be around Louise, knowing Peter should have been there. 

But he couldn’t run from that forever. Louise was a dear friend. He needed to talk things through with her. He wanted to speak to her about his life after winning the world championship. He wanted to hear about her life when she returned to acting. He wanted to talk about Peter with her. He felt ready. Yes, this was an appointment he couldn’t miss. 

Later in the evening, he also planned a business meeting with his close friend, Duncan Hamilton, to finally arrange their garage partnership. And to have a few pints in celebration. Then, finally, he was to be Guest of Honour at the annual dinner of the Farnham and District section of the Motor Agents Association at the Hog’s Back Hotel. 

Mike sighed wearily at the day ahead, the flashing pain in his kidney keeping him still. He swallowed down the grunt of pain that threatened to spill from his lips and forced him to keep preparing. His hands shook as he put on his shirt and blazer. 

He could do this. No matter how his body screamed at him, he would do it. 

Mike knotted his tie, leaving his well-known bowtie alone, and pulled his sports jacket over his clothes, preparing for how cold it would be outside today in January. 

Mike emerged from his room and slowly descended the stairs of his mother’s house. 

It wouldn’t be long until he moved out and down the road to his new home. A new home with his soon-to-be wife, Jean. His lips curled up as he thought about Jean and the life ahead of him. At least he’d be happy in the limited amount of time left.

His palm gripped the wooden bannister of the staircase, and the blood rushed to his head as he reached the end of the stairs. He felt his weak legs swaying and quickly sat down at the bottom of the stairs. Taking a moment to try and calm the waves that flooded over his brain.

He could hear movement in the kitchen next to the staircase where he sat, a hesitant sound of feet approaching. It wouldn’t be his mother. No, she would have already left for the day. It must be Mrs T. The housemaid was also the mother of a young boy who worked in his garage. She was a kind but respectful lady. He knew she wouldn’t ask him if he was okay. That would have been too impolite. 

Mike sat, resting his face in his palms as he felt nausea throughout his body. 

He was unsure how long he had been sitting there. Eventually, Mrs. T asked Mike, “Would you like a cup of tea?” 

A polite way of asking how he was. He knew he had stayed too long. “No, thank you.”

Mike sat there for a few more minutes, head in hand, feeling the pain shudder through him. He knew the time was ticking, though, and he still had much to do today. 

He needed to move now, or he never would. 

Clenching his teeth, Mike pulled himself up and looked towards the kitchen.

“I am off now, Mrs T; see you tomorrow.”

Mike staggered to the telephone. He had one call to make: to Jean. 

Jean wasn’t in Farnham; she was visiting her parents north, and Mike missed her. He needed to speak to her, to let her know how he felt. She picked up the phone, and Mike felt the pressure lift from his shoulders as he talked to her about his pain, how tired he felt, and how he did not want to go to London despite all the commitments he had made. As kind as always, Jean reassured Mike and told him he shouldn’t go if he felt poorly. Although Mike entertained the idea, he knew he had to go despite his unwillingness. 

After the phone call, he ran late and staggered towards his main comfort: his 3.4 Jaguar car. Newly fitted with modifications, it allowed him to drive faster on the roads than before. He could run circles around the police officers who tried to stop him now. 

Usually, for lunch, Mike would head to one of his favourite pubs, ‘Duke of Cambridge’, and have a meal made by Charlie and Marjorie Bishop. It was his daily tradition when in Farnham. But as he was to have lunch in London, he made sure to pop in and let them know he wouldn’t be eating in today before heading to his garage. 

Driving the all-so-familiar route, he arrived at his garage with time to spare. All the beautiful cars lined up in the garage window, ready for the lingering eye to come in and ask about one. 

Mike had intended to have his championship-winning Ferrari in the window, an attraction no one could resist stopping to look at. But Enzo Ferrari wouldn’t have that. He was too angry at Mike’s abrupt retirement. He’d likely never see that car again. He should feel upset, but all he felt was an embittered acceptance. 

The garage work was relatively simple. He mainly replied to all the new letters he had received while the mechanics worked on one of the latest cars. His office phone suddenly rang as he was writing a response to one letter. He picked up the receiver and said his usual formula greeting. 

“Hi Mike,” that familiar, light-hearted voice floated through the phone, pulling at his grief-stricken heart again. 

“Hello, Louise.”

“I just wanted to call and confirm our meeting time today. I’m about to leave Peter’s parents' house and head towards London.”

“Of course, three o’clock is still good for me,”

“Great, I’ll see you there, Mike.”

There was a silent pause between them, words on their tongues that they both wanted to say but struggled to. 

“I’m looking forward to seeing you, Louise; it’s been too long,” Mike finally said, recalling fond times of them all sitting about on Peter’s boat, taking in the sun. 

Mike was still wearing his shirt and trousers, protecting his delicate skin from the burning sun. Peter had emerged onto the boat deck, holding two pints, one for himself and one for Mike. When he saw Mike, he let out a bark of laughter.

“Come on, Mike, at least try to get a tan,” he said, holding out the pint that Mike gladly took.

“You remember what happened last time? I was bed-bound for a day because of those burns, and I had spent most of the day under an umbrella!”

They both sat on the boat's seats, looking at the ocean. Peter closed his eyes and drank in the atmosphere of the sea, which he so dearly loved. Mike watched and shook his head with a slight chuckle.

“I don’t understand you, chap. Why did you become a racer instead of a sailor?”

“Because of the bird's mate.”

They both laughed gleefully, thinking back to their own experiences with the perks of the racing life.

“And I hope that is bird now, Peter! I won’t stand any wandering eyes,” the light voice emerged behind them. Turning around, they saw Louise on the deck, walking towards Peter with a grin. Her hair was tossed into a bun, and her jeans rolled up for more effortless movement around the boat. For a Hollywood actress, she had adapted quickly to the life of a racing driver's wife. 

“Of course, my love, there is no one else for me,” Peter says, holding out an arm to wrap around Louise’s waist as she settles onto Peter’s lap. 

They settled into a peaceful silence as they drank and appreciated the view until Peter eventually spoke.

“I think you will win it this year, Mike.”

Mike turned and glanced at Peter. His blonde hair was dishevelled, and the beginning of a tan was emerging on his skin, but his lips were pulled into that smile that never seemed to leave his lips, especially when Louise was near. 

“Don’t count yourself out too soon, Pete; you are as close as I am to winning,” Mike said back, smiling at Louise and Peter as they snuggled closer. He looked back to the sea and took another sip of his beer, feeling at peace for the first time. 

He hadn’t realised at the time how special those moments were.

“I’m looking forward to catching up and hearing about everything you’ve done since becoming world champion…Pete would be proud.”

As Mike felt his eyes wet, he heard the disconnected dial tone, knowing Louise had put the phone down. He held onto the receiver momentarily as if expecting to hear Peter say something on the line, but he eventually willed himself to put it down. 

There would be time for reminiscing later.

The feeling in his kidney was dulled now, but the pain still lingered there, a constant reminder of the future he would soon share with Peter. Panic flared up again, so he pushed it away and focused on his current task. He continued writing his letters. 

Bill, his second hard man at the garage, approached him to tell him that an interviewer, Mike Priestley, had turned up, hoping to interview the world champion.

Mike bit back his tongue so as not to make a rude remark. He wasn’t fond of the press; he only liked being interviewed when he was ready to give an interview. But this is what life is like now. Plus, he had a few minutes before he had to start heading off to London. 

Mike headed outside, greeted the other with his usual wide-mouth smile, and showed him inside the garage to conduct the interview. 

The interviewer asked all the usual questions, to where Mike had practically rehearsed his lines for them now. This included the one about who he thought would be the next world champion, which intrigues most people. 

Of course, there were a few options for who it could be. Most would say, Stirling Moss. He had been so close to it this year. It would be natural for him to win in 1959. But Mike didn’t feel that way. No, he had a firm belief in this new driver. Phil Hill. Phil was a kind man and sensible driver; he didn’t push it too far and wasn’t as reckless as other drivers. Mike enjoyed being a passenger in Phil’s car, and he didn’t say that a lot about most drivers. Plus, it was Phil who helped Mike win his championship. If Phil hadn’t let him pass, he wouldn’t have had enough points to beat Stirling Moss. Yes, Phil Hill would be the next world champion. Mike was sure of it. 

The interview had dragged on by now, and Mike needed to get going. He bid the interviewer farewell, said goodbye to his garage and the mechanics for the day, and hopped into his Jaguar.

Mike started to drive out of Farnham, heading towards Guilford, which would take him to London for the competition. He headed onto the Guilford bypass, a long stretch of road atop a hill. There weren’t many cars on the road, so the journey was smooth until he stopped at the lights behind a vehicle. 

He immediately recognised the number plate belonging to his friend Rob Walker, who was sticking a two-finger salute out of the window as he saw Mike stop behind him.

Mike’s eyes narrowed as he saw the type of car Rob was driving. A new 300 SL Mercedes-Benz. He could tell Rob was challenging him. He could almost see Rob’s grin in his mind as he stuck his two fingers out. Rob knew how much Mike disliked the Mercedes cars. Mike smirked at the challenge, knowing the latest modifications on his car would make it easy. Rob didn’t know what he was getting himself into. 

They both speeded away, charging down the road and going at speeds far above the regulations that were allowed. The weather had turned grim, pouring down with rain on the road, but the wheels stayed firm on the road. Mike grinned, waving at Rob as he overtook the car and shot past.  

That will show him. He should buy a Jaguar car from me. The British do it best. 

The smile quickly fell through as Mike felt the burning pain from his kidney erupt again, causing his hand to shake. His kidney felt as if knives were twisting into it, determined to rip it from his body, and the growling vibrations from the car only aggravated it further. 

Ahead, there was a bright light, and a vehicle was approaching. In a cold, shooting moment of panic, Mike slammed on his car's brake, trying to bring down the speed he was going quickly. But it wasn’t quick enough. 

Mike started to see black spots in his vision, but he shook his head, trying to rid them. His hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white as he desperately tried to steer, but the vehicle, no the lorry, was approaching him too quickly. No, it wasn’t the lorry; he was going too fast. 

His body was engulfed in pain; every nerve ending felt scorched, and though he desperately tried to control his car, the weaker he became, the faster the car seemed to go.

As Mike's grip loosened, the car screeched, tyres spinning on the wet road. The pain in his side flared again, blurring his vision, but he couldn’t slow down. The road ahead seemed to stretch, growing darker until he felt his control slip away. The car spun, and his hands loosened the grip on the steering wheel as it revolved across the road, heading straight for a tree at the side. 

The impact came like a violent jolt, tearing through Mike’s body. It tossed his body like a rag doll against the wreck of his beloved Jaguar car. Mike’s body crashed into the back of the seats, his head hitting the back of the vehicle with force. 

Then, there was stillness. 

Mike lay there, feeling all the pain in his head, and his kidney started to slip from him. He thought about Peter, of his dad. Did they experience what he was feeling when they crashed? Did they experience this feeling of lightness? Was it like nothing was holding them down anymore?

They say your life flashes before your eyes, but Mike’s felt like one of those telly shows he loved watching on the box. He recalled his youth, his boarding school, and the mischief he caused. He thought about his parents, his dad’s support, and his mother’s love. She asked him to stop, but he didn’t listen. He remembered his first time racing, his first win, his first crash. The way he lay in hospital from his burns, the way Peter smiled at him as he took his pint from Mike’s hand. He thought about Louise and the way she cried in front of him. Is he going to be the reason she cries today? He thought about Le Mans, of the grief and pain. Grogger barked somewhere, and he saw his son dressed up in a mini version of his racing outfit—Jean’s lovely smile; of winning the 1958 world championship. Then everything started to fade.

He vaguely sensed that someone had approached him, but his vision slipped from him, turning white, and for the first time, feeling no pain at all, Mike slipped away.

[eretzyisrael]

Let’s not forget Jew dying in a Houthi jail

A Jew imprisoned on trumped-up smuggling charges by the Houthis is wasting away in a prison in Yemen. Levy Salem Musa Marhabi (Libi Marhabi) is entering his ninth year of imprisonment. The US Commission for International Religious Freedom has this profile of him: 

Levi Salem Marhabi was reported in September 2024 to be in solitary confinement and in poor health (photo: American Sephardi Federation)

“Libi Marhabi (Levi Marhabi) is imprisoned for his religious identity.

In March 2016, Houthi forces arrested Marhabi for allegedly smuggling an ancient manuscript out of Yemen.

On March 13, 2018, Marhabi was sentenced to three years and six months in prison.

In 2019, a Houthi appeals court ordered Marhabi’s release. However, security forces only released his non-Jewish co-defendants and have instead kept him detained, despite subsequent court orders demanding otherwise.

According to sources, Marhabi lives in inhumane prison conditions, where his health continues to deteriorate. He reportedly suffers from kidney and lung issues and has lost all his teeth from being tortured repeatedly.

In November 2020, U.S. Secretary of State Mike Pompeo called for Marhabi’s immediate release.

In October 2023, after the October 7th Hamas attacks on Israel, the Houthis reportedly placed Marhabi in a more dangerous prison ward with extremist prisoners who threatened him. After a ten-day hunger strike in protest of this new placement, Marhabi was placed in solitary confinement.

In May 2024, Marhabi reportedly grew physically ill living in inhumane and poor living conditions. Interlocutors report that Marhabi continues to deny Libi any contact with his family and that Houthi prison authorities have repeatedly withheld food, subjecting him to physical beatings, electrical shocks, and hours-long interrogations.

In September 2024, it was reported that Marhabi is in solitary confinement and is in poor health.”

Read statement in full

More about Levi Salem Marhabi

[fazgoo-connoiseur-1987]

Request!

Can you feed me more material girl Mike hunging with his material girl dad?

I still have another kidney :3

a couple of material girls hiding from the feds

[clockworkdragonffxiv]

I started my D&D campaign back in April of 2020 shortly after the COVID Lockdown hit. I was bored out of my skull and stressed, and a friend had expressed his frustration with his own D&D group and I just went "Fuck it."

I hadn't played DnD since college. I had never GM'd a tabletop game. But I had nothing better to do. So I went on to Discord into, like, the three channels I'm active in and rounded up a gaggle of friends from FFXIV and from my old City of Heroes group. For my starter campaign I used the very first Eberron campaign ever published for I think 3e or 3.5e, converted to 5e, "The Forgotten Forge."

And three and a half years, multiple cases of COVID, two rounds of cancer and chemotherapy, four or five moves, three kidney stones, multiple bouts of depression, and a half dozen job changes, we finally finished the campaign at level 16, having convinced the Lord of Blades to devote his talents to building the new Warforged nation and healing the Mournlands using the unique techno-organic warforged plants and animals we'd discovered, instead of his original plan which was to absorb the power of a Creation Engine and a Demon Overlord into himself, achieve apotheosis, and drown the world in a tide of blood.

My original plan for the final battle has in large underlined letters the phrase "Biblically Accurate Chainsaw Angel" and included a speech with lines like "LET THE SEAS BOIL AND THE SKIES FALL! LET THE WORLD BURN!"

Also probably ending up with the players picking the Red, Blue or Green endings from the End-o-Matic 9000.

But that didn't happen.

So instead, the campaign that started with our little group of heroes stumbling onto the murder of a professor with the clues to a hidden workshop, ended with the wedding of Seeker the Warforged Artificer, the man who'd talked the Lord of Blades down (despite having a Charisma of 8) and now holds the title of Maestro Seeker, is an advisor to the national leadership, and is the teacher of a whole new batch of warforged, and the warforged medic Solace, an NPC whose existence began as a joke about Seeker having a whirlwind romance with a medic in the space of about 23 minutes while the rest of the party were running errands.

Hot damn was that a lot of work. Three and a half years, and despite it starting in modules by the second I'd decided I didn't like the story as it was written, threw it out, and told my own story. Featuring friendly little fire elementals named Phil, packs of extremely patriotic and laddish mimics named Jimmy, an eight foot robotic sweetheart named Friend whose primary weapon was an equally massive tower shield and her totally-not-boyfriend warforged druid/allosaurus/swearasaurus Din, a wrestling match with a hobgoblin that nearly turned lethal when an 18 foot tall warforged titan came in with the steel chair, an alligator with a gun, and banishing the elemental dragon powering a flying battleship while A) the team was still on the battleship and B) it was still several hundred feet in the air and C) it was the only thing keeping it there... it's done.

And it was all worth it. God I love these guys. So here's to you, Katie, Jacquie, Mike, Stan, and Will. I'll see you all next week for our next adventure.

[crazycoke-addict]

I don't fuck with Mike Tyson nor do I fuck with Jake Paul. I hope that the fight ends with Jake bleeding badly and unconscious. While I hope that Mike Tyson gets his kidney burst or has a heart attack. Both of these men are pieces of shit, and abusers like them don't deserve to breathe the same air as their victims.

[ultra-raging-ghost]

"I always assumed the eggs were dragon kidney stones" -Mike 2024

[jubiilee13]

requests

im working on requests i swear!! ive been working on this essay all week and after i finish working on it writing feels impossible

but still send in requests! i have 3 im currently working on but i NEEEEED requests!

i take requests for

josh hutcherson

peeta mellark

josh futturman (kinda, only seen 2 episodes)

mike schmidt

bucky barnes

steve rogers

stucky

spencer reid

SO PLEASE SEND REQUESTS POOKSTERS ILL SELL MY KIDNEY FOR THEM!!!!!!