#best spoken

[liquidstar]

If my mom sees a significant amount of blood she gets lightheaded, and has fainted on some occasions. Once it happened when we were kids, I wasn't there to witness it but I heard the story from my dad. Basically my brothers, around 7 or 8 at the time, were playing outside while my mom was making their lunch, and she accidentally cut her finger. It wasn't anything serious, but it drew a fair bit of blood and she passed out. My dad saw this and rushed over, but he didn't really know what to do so he just sort of started slapping her to wake her up (not recommended, but he had no idea and panicked)

At that exact moment my brothers both came in from playing, and all they saw was our mom unconscious on the floor and our dad slapping her. So, like, without even saying a word to each other they both just INSTANTLY start whaling on him, like, full blown attack mode to defend our mom. Which obviously didn't help the situation, but she did wake up and everything was fine.

Now our dad says that he's actually really glad they attacked him over what they thought was going on, because it means he raised good boys. And I still think that's true, they're very good boys.

[englishjourney123]

Here, in This Video We covered "TOP 10 Effective Tips To Improve Your English Language - By English Journey" - New Ashok Nagar with practical tips to enhance your vocabulary, refine your pronunciation, and master English grammar.

Find Your True potential as a confident English speaker and Public Speaker with our comprehensive effective guide! Whether you're a language Passionate or a English Language Learner, we've got you covered.

You Can Join "English Journey" An Institute of English Language in New Ashok Nagar Delhi. a One Top Solution to Your Career and Life Growth.

Here, in This Video We covered "TOP 10 Effective Tips To Improve Your English Language - By English Journey" - New Ashok Nagar with practical tips to enhance your vocabulary, refine your pronunciation, and master English grammar.

Find Your True potential as a confident English speaker and Public Speaker with our comprehensive effective guide! Whether you're a language Passionate or a English Language Learner, we've got you covered.

You Can Join "English Journey" An Institute of English Language in New Ashok Nagar Delhi. a One Top Solution to Your Career and Life Growth.

LanguageLearning

EnglishLanguage

VideoCreation

CanvaTutorial

LanguageTips

LearnEnglish

LanguageSkills

ContentCreation

LanguageProficiency

GrammarSkills

PronunciationPractice

VisualContent

OnlineEducation

DigitalLearning

[rhiangalaxy]

A Wild Mobei-Jun Appears! (IAC Pt.5) (First/Prev/Next)

[ID: A Scum Villain Comic. The first panel shows a back view of Chibi!Plant Yuan watches the spirit eagle screens, the main one featuring Gongyi Xiao and Luo Binghe, to which a bubble next to him shows a :D!" face. Then the Spirit Eagle screens shatter, causing Chibi!SY to jump slightly. He turns with a concerned expression, frighteningly saying "A-Die-" As other voices scream out "What's going on???" "Lord Yue!" "What is the meaning of this?" "The Spirit Eagles!"

Panel two has Shen Qingqiu placing a hand on SY's shoulder, the other holding a closed fan with a concerned expression and saying "Stay here. Zhangmen-Shixiong and I will enter the barrier." SY protests with his fist slightly raised with a "But!" To which Chibi!SQQ points to him with an aggrieved look and states "You are to stay with your Mu-Shishu and Wei-Shishu. Understood?" Chibi!SY looks down at his fists with an "Understood" a box next to him saying "Already plotting his escape."

Panel three has Wei Qingwei and Mu Qingfang appearing behind SY to his surprise. WQW assures SQQ by saying "Don't worry. We'll keep an eye on him Shixiong." MQF with a concerned look has an hand placed on SY's arm and says "Just focus on getting the disciples to safety." Chibi!SQQ nods with a pinched look. It cuts to battle-torn Luo Binghe and Gongyi Xiao convered in various scratches and blood, both wielding their spiritual swords. LBH with a grimace states "Somethings not right..." To which GYX replies "I agree, I'm sure our Shizuns will do something-"

Panel Four is completely drawn in chibi style. A yell of "Shizhi!" startles both GYX and LBH. SQH appears with a closed eye nervous smile with his hands raised out as a bubble representing LBH goes "Shang-Shishu?" SQH replies "Ah, fancy meeting you guys here!" GYX asks "Have you come to help Lord Shang?" SQH nervously goes "Uh...yes! Of course! I'm here to get you both to-" He's interrupted by a rumble that causes LBH and GYX to tense up and stumble in confusion, LBH yelling out "What's going on?"

The final panel depicts Mobei Jun standing in front of the entrance to the Endless Abyss, an angered look on his face muttering the words "Huan Hua..." Chibi!LBH glares towards him whilst Chibi!GYX looks on with a concerned but confused look questioning "A demon lord?" Chibi!SQH stands nervously behind them, sweating with a :[ face. End ID]

[novelconcepts]

Read this article, and then put Liv Hewson in everything, because damn. They are a fucking legend.

[the-crooked-library]

opened tiktok (mistake number one, i know) and immediately saw someone saying that Thomas Hutter subverts the "disbelieving husband" trope which... listen i love a thoroughly pathetic mess of a man myself and i get that Ellen's other option is a 400yo evil corpse, but can we please not give him credit for things he didn't do?..

the literal inciting incident of the story is that Thomas DOESN'T listen to Ellen. he doesn't believe her. she tells him that she's got a bad feeling about this trip, begs him not to go, tells him about her nightmare - and what does he do? he calls it a childish fantasy, tells her to stop worrying, and implies that she would benefit from talking to a doctor. saying shit softly doesn't make it any less dismissive or insulting, like i'm sorry but this is peak Disbelieving Husband in a Horror Movie behaviour. he only changed his mind once Orlok put him through the horrors himself, which is also a perfectly standard thing for a Disbelieving Husband to do in the second act. furthermore, from the beginning of the film, he neglects Ellen's emotional needs, is uncomfortable with her abnormalities, and doesn't even really know what sort of gifts she likes - and again, these are all standard flaws for a Disbelieving Husband to exhibit. they're indicative of a disconnect between him and his wife that he continuously refuses to bridge.

caring for someone doesn't mean you can't neglect or harm them, and that applies to everyone - including Normal People like Thomas, like Harding, like Sievers, like the viewer; and that's the point of the film

[cod-thoughts]

I could offer you a warm embrace

Word count: 3.2k

Relationships: Ghost & Price, Team as family

Tags: Fever, a very sick Ghost, some cuddles, whump, hurt/comfort, fever-dream (ish)

Part of a project that has a tiny explanation here. Keep reading under the cut!!

AN: Hii!!!! @whumpwriterforlife Happy valentines day mate <3333 You were the first person to reach out to me in this fandom space, honestly, you're so brave it surprised me and made me try to reach out to more people so thank you!! Your writing is always such a treat honestly, you commented on my stuff and i freaked tf out i cant lie pfft. Thanks bud, you're very sweet and i hope this hit the spot for you <333

The safehouse was barely a step above a ruin.

A crumbling stone structure nestled deep in the hills, its walls thick with time, damp with the slow decay of years. It had long since been abandoned, left to weather and rot, but tonight, it was all they had. The wind howled through the cracks, carrying the scent of rain-damp earth, and the cold settled into their bones like an unwelcome guest.

They had done what they could—barricaded the entrance, laid tripwires, set up shifts for watch. It wasn’t much. If their pursuers were determined, this place wouldn’t hold. But the mission had gone to hell, and they were out of options. Now it was just a waiting game—hunker down, keep their heads low, and pray extraction came before things got worse.

Ghost was quiet.

Not an unusual thing. He was always quiet. But there was something about it this time, something different. Price noticed it first—how Ghost kept to the shadows a little more than usual, moving like he was conserving his energy rather than slipping through the dark. Soap noticed next—the way Ghost’s hands weren’t as steady when he adjusted his gear, how his fingers hesitated over the straps, fumbling for just a fraction of a second.

No one said anything.

Not at first.

They were all running on fumes. The cold had set into their muscles, exhaustion pressing heavy on their shoulders. It was easy to chalk it up to fatigue, to the weight of a mission gone sideways. And Ghost—Ghost didn’t complain. He never did.

But then came the little things.

The way Ghost shifted his stance more often than usual, like his balance was off. The way his breathing, usually so steady, had developed an uneven hitch. The way, when Price glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, he caught Ghost blinking like he was trying to clear his vision.

It wasn’t until Soap spoke up that the unease settled properly in Price’s gut.

“Ghost, you alright?”

It was casual, not yet concern, but there was an edge to it. A quiet alertness.

Ghost barely turned his head. His reply was little more than a grunt, a sound more breath than voice. He wasn’t looking at them—wasn’t quite looking at anything, his gaze unfocused, sliding past them as if there was something just beyond his reach.

Price’s brow furrowed. “Ghost?”

A second passed. Then another.

Ghost finally turned to them properly, shoulders stiff, weight shifting like the effort of responding took more out of him than it should have.

Then his knees buckled.

Price was already moving before the others could react. He lunged, catching Ghost’s weight before he hit the ground, staggering slightly under the sudden dead weight.

“Shit—” Soap was already pulling out a bedroll, Gaz tearing through their sparse supplies. “Did anyone see this coming?”

“Fuck—no, I—” Gaz shook his head sharply. “One second he was fine, now he’s just—”

Price gritted his teeth, adjusting his hold. Ghost wasn’t responding, his head lolling slightly, breath shallow. Not unconscious, but damn near it.

“What the hell is this?” Soap muttered, kneeling down beside them. He looked Ghost over quickly, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure where to check first. “Is he hit?”

Price’s stomach clenched. That was the first thought that slammed into his mind, too. The mission had been a mess. The firefight had been chaos. Had Ghost taken a hit and not told them? Was there blood soaking into his gear, seeping into the black fabric where none of them had noticed?

“Check him,” Price ordered, his voice tight.

Gaz was already on it, hands moving over Ghost’s gear, searching for blood, any sign of injury. “I don’t see—” He pulled off a glove and pressed two fingers to Ghost’s pulse point. His brow furrowed. “Shit. He’s burning up.”

Price’s grip tightened. The cold had been biting all night, the wind seeping into their bones, but Ghost’s skin—Ghost’s skin was hot.

Not just warm. Wrong.

Soap’s expression shifted. “That’s not normal.”

“No,” Price muttered. It wasn’t.

Price pressed his hand against the side of Ghost’s neck, fingers brushing damp skin just below the edge of his balaclava. Too hot. Too fast. His pulse beat hard, rapid, hammering against Price’s touch.

“He’s running a fever,” Price muttered.

Soap swore under his breath, rubbing a hand down his face. “Fuckin’ hell, that’s just brilliant. Out in the middle of nowhere, sittin’ ducks, and now we’ve got him—” he gestured sharply to Ghost’s limp form, “—burnin’ up like a bloody furnace.”

“Could be an infection, you sure he isn't hit?” Gaz’s voice was tight, controlled, but Price could hear the underlying edge of worry. “Maybe from somethin’ before we even started the op. Could be anything.”

Price exhaled sharply, thinking fast. They had been pushing hard for days—too hard. Not enough food. Barely enough sleep. The cold, the rain, the exhaustion. It didn’t take much to break a body down when it was already running on empty.

“We need to get him out of this gear,” Price said, already moving.

Ghost barely stirred when they started peeling back the layers of his tactical vest, his head slumping forward for a moment before Price steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. His skin was damp with sweat beneath his shirt, heat radiating off him in waves.

They worked fast. Boots off. Gloves. Vest. Jacket.

“No signs of injury, could just be a regular fever left for too long. Stubborn git.” Price responded.

When Soap reached the mast, he hesitated.

Price did too.

Ghost had never let them near it. Not even in the worst of times. Sure, they’d seen his face but always when Ghost wanted it to be seen. 

Price stared for a second, jaw tightening. Would Ghost even be aware enough to fight them on it?

A low, pained sound left Ghost’s throat—half sigh, half exhale—and whatever hesitation Price had vanished. Now wasn’t the time.

He unbuckled the hard-shell mask carefully and lifted the hem of the balaclava just enough to press the back of his fingers against Ghost’s cheekbone. The heat there was just as bad—too much. Ghost’s face was paler than it should have been, his cheekbones flushed with fever. His breaths came in short, uneven puffs, damp strands of blond hair plastered to his forehead.  

Soap exhaled sharply. “Yeah. That’s bad.”

Price didn’t answer. He already knew.

“Right, let’s get him on a bedroll,” Price said instead.

They maneuvered Ghost down carefully, making sure he didn’t hit the cold ground too hard. His body twitched at the temperature shift, a violent, involuntary shiver wracking through him despite the burning heat under his skin.

Gaz muttered another curse, reaching for their dwindling supplies. “We don’t have much.”

Price nodded. “Do what we can.”

Gaz tossed Soap a half-empty bottle of water, the closest thing they had to spare. Soap cracked it open and pressed it to Ghost’s lips.

“C’mon, big guy,” he murmured, tilting it slightly. “Drink.”

Ghost’s brows furrowed, his lips barely parting before he weakly turned his head away.

Soap huffed, glancing at Price. “You wanna try?”

Price took the bottle, shifting to a firmer, steadier tone. “I know you can hear me. Please, drink.”

Ghost’s breathing hitched, and for a moment, Price thought he wasn’t going to respond. Then, sluggishly, he obeyed—a few shallow swallows before his body betrayed him, his strength giving out mid-sip. Price pulled the bottle back before it could spill. He exchanged a look with Soap and Gaz. This was bad.

— 

The safehouse was cold. The kind of damp, deep-seated chill that seeped into their bones no matter how many layers they wore. But Ghost burned anyway.

Even with the wind creeping through the cracks, even as the cold pressed against his exposed skin, his body was a furnace. His clothes were damp with sweat, the heat rolling off him unnatural, suffocating.

And he was getting worse.

Price watched as another violent tremor wracked through him, his body caught in that awful contradiction—burning up, yet shivering like he was freezing. His fingers twitched, his breathing hitched, his entire frame too tense for someone whose strength had drained out of him moments ago.

Soap was still crouched nearby, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “This ain’t normal, Cap.”

No. It wasn’t.

Gaz finished rummaging through their meager supplies, his movements sharp, edged with frustration. “No proper meds,” he muttered, jaw tight. “No fever reducers, barely any clean bandages left—Christ, we weren’t packed for this.”

They hadn’t been. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Right,” Price exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “We do what we can.”

Soap nodded, already reaching for the canteen again. “He needs more water.”

Price turned his attention back to Ghost. He was still too out of it, barely responding, his body curling in on itself instinctively.

Not good. Not good at all.

Price shifted forward, pressing the canteen against Ghost’s lips again. “Drink, mate.”

A weak, incoherent sound left Ghost’s throat—half protest, half confusion. His head twitched, and for a brief second, he almost flinched away.

Price frowned. “Ghost?”

Ghost’s brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly, but his eyes didn’t focus. Didn’t see him.

Something in Price’s gut twisted.

Gaz leaned in, frowning. “Think he even knows where he is?”

Price didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure.

Soap muttered something under his breath, then tried again, this time tapping Ghost’s cheek lightly. “Oi. No slippin’ under now. C’mon.”

Ghost blinked sluggishly, his breath stuttering. His hands twitched, fingers curling weakly into the fabric beneath him.

Then, too softly, he mumbled, “—mm’fine.”

Soap huffed. “Oh, piss off. You’re about three seconds from keelin’ over again.”

No answer.

Just another, deeper shiver that ran through Ghost’s body like a tremor beneath the surface.

Gaz grabbed one of their scarves from the gear pile and dunked it into the last of the cold water before pressing it against Ghost’s forehead. The contrast should’ve made him flinch.

It didn’t.

Price hated that.

“We’re gonna need to keep him cool,” Gaz muttered. “His fever’s climbing.”

Soap let out a slow, tense breath. “How bad are we talkin’?”

Gaz didn’t look up. “Bad.”

Silence settled between them for a moment, heavy and tense.

Then—

Ghost moved.

It was a jerky, instinctive motion as his body tensed sharply, his head turning toward Price—like he was looking for something. No, not something.

Someone.

A single word left him, breathy, strained, barely above a whisper. “…Tommy.”

Price’s chest tightened. Soap and Gaz froze. Ghost’s brows knitted together, his fevered gaze glassy, unfocused. His fingers grasped weakly at nothing, twitching against the fabric of the blanket as if he were reaching for something that wasn’t there.

Someone that wasn’t there.

“Shit,” Gaz muttered under his breath.

Soap’s jaw worked, his expression shifting. Ghost made another sound, softer this time. He tilted his head slightly, like he was listening for something, like he was caught in some place between the present and the past.

And Price hated it.

Hated the way Ghost looked so damn young in that moment. Hated the raw vulnerability in his voice, the way his body curled inward as though he were bracing for something. Price swallowed. Then, slowly, he reached out and grasped Ghost’s hand. The barest twitch of fingers. A weak, barely-there squeeze.

Price exhaled, steady, grounding. “You’re alright,” he murmured. “You’re not there anymore.”

Ghost’s breathing hitched. Price didn’t let go. Didn’t move, and Ghost let him.

The rain outside had started again. A slow, steady drizzle, the kind that seeped into the walls and made everything feel colder. Ghost, however, still burned.

The fever had him in a chokehold now, dragging him deeper. His breathing was uneven, his body too warm, his skin damp with fever-sweat. Price didn’t like the way he twitched, the way his hands kept grasping at nothing. Restless.

Soap ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. “This is bad, Cap.”

“Yeah.” Price’s voice was low, tense.

Ghost shifted again, a sharp flinch, his body jerking slightly before he curled in on himself. His hand twitched against the bedroll, fingers flexing weakly, searching. Then, before Price could react—

Ghost moved.

It was messy, uncoordinated, his body acting purely on instinct. His arm stretched out, fingers brushing the fabric of Price’s pants. Then, he latched on. His fingers curled weakly into Price’s trouser leg, his grip shaky, barely there, but determined. His body curled further inward, and then—his other hand found Price’s wrist.

Soap and Gaz froze. Price stiffened.

Ghost wasn’t fully aware, wasn’t conscious enough to know what he was doing. His body was just reacting, searching for something solid, something grounding.

And right now, that was Price. Gaz opened his mouth then quickly shut it. Soap stared. “...Well, shit.”

Ghost shifted again, his burning forehead bumping against Price’s knee, his grip tightening. A low, barely-audible sound left him, something between a sigh and a broken exhale. Then, so softly, so hoarse and fevered, it barely registered they heard a soft whisper from him. 

“Please… don’t leave again.”

Price’s chest clenched. Soap and Gaz’s expressions shifted instantly. The weight of it settled in the room. Ghost’s breath hitched, his entire body trembling despite the heat pouring off him. His hand flexed around Price’s wrist, his fingers weakly curling like he was trying to hold on. Price exhaled slowly. Carefully. Then he moved.

He pried Ghost’s hand off his trouser leg, but before Ghost could react, before his body could start searching again, Price dragged him up. Slowly, steadily, effortlessly. Ghost was half-limp, fever-drunk, barely aware, but his body reacted instantly to the shift—his arms latched onto Price’s torso, his fingers gripping his jacket. His head slumped forward, and suddenly Price had an armful of Ghost, burning hot and trembling, face pressing against his chest.

Price didn’t breathe.

Soap and Gaz looked stunned.

Ghost didn’t move away. Didn’t even flinch. He just held on.

Price swallowed, his grip adjusting, one hand pressing against Ghost’s back, grounding. Ghost shuddered. His breath stuttered against Price’s chest, and then. Another broken, fevered whisper.

“…you always leave.”

Price shut his eyes.

Soap looked away. Gaz’s jaw tightened.

Price took a slow, steady breath. Then, carefully, he shifted his hold, adjusting Ghost’s weight so he wasn’t completely sagging forward. His hand moved in slow, grounding circles, steady, constant.

And Ghost let him.

Ghost stirred slowly, the weight of exhaustion pressing heavy on his limbs. Everything felt distant, like he was floating somewhere between sleep and awareness, his body still burning hot despite the damp chill of the safehouse. His head was resting against something warm, steady, the slow, even rise and fall beneath his cheek grounding him in a way he didn’t quite understand yet.

He barely had the strength to move, but instinct told him to hold onto whatever warmth he’d found. His fingers curled slightly, catching on the rough fabric of a jacket, and somewhere in the fog of his mind, something registered.

Jacket. Tactical. Cigar. Familiar.

His breath stuttered. Ghost’s eyes cracked open, blurry and unfocused, but what little he could see was enough to confirm it. Price.

His body locked up before his brain could even catch up. A deep, creeping heat that had nothing to do with the fever curled up his spine as he realized exactly where he was. Half in Price’s lap. Practically draped over him, his head pressed against Price’s chest, his fingers still tangled in the man’s jacket like he had a right to be there.

Oh, fuck.

Ghost’s body tensed automatically, preparing to pull away, but before he could move, a warm, steady hand pressed against his back. A quiet, grounding touch—not restraining, just there.

“You awake, Simon?” Price’s voice was rough with exhaustion, but there was something else there too—something tight, something relieved.

Ghost swallowed, his throat raw. He barely had the energy to speak, but he forced the words out anyway. “M’alright.”

A quiet scoff came from nearby. “Yeah? You sure about that?”

Ghost’s gaze flicked to the side, where Soap and Gaz were both watching him, their expressions hovering between relief and exasperation. Soap let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, but there was tension behind it, something raw lingering under his usual humor. “You scared the hell out of us, big guy.”

Gaz nodded, rubbing a hand over his jaw like he was still shaking off the last several hours. “Didn’t think we’d ever see you go down like that,” he muttered, voice low. “Wasn’t a good sight.”

Ghost blinked slowly, his mind still lagging behind, struggling to process what they were saying. He could feel it now—how exhausted they all were, how shaken.

They’d been terrified.

That realisation settled deep in his chest, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to say.

Before he could think of something, Price shifted slightly beneath him, exhaling sharply. “I—” He hesitated, his grip on Ghost’s back twitching before he let go entirely. His voice dropped lower. “I shouldn’t have let you—”

Ghost frowned, still groggy, but catching onto the way Price’s expression had tightened, the way he wasn’t meeting his eyes. Price reached next to him and grabbed Ghost's discarded balaclava, holding it out to Ghost.

Price rubbed a hand down his face. “Didn’t have a choice, but still. You wouldn’t have let any of us near you like that if you weren’t half-dead, and I—” His jaw tensed. “Took your mask off. You didn’t—”

Ghost sighed, cutting him off. “S’alright.”

Price’s brows pulled together.

Ghost let his eyes close for a moment, shifting slightly. He reached out and lowered his Captains hand holding the balaclava.

He was so damn tired, but he could still feel the weight of Price’s guilt, the way the man was clearly beating himself up over something that didn’t need to be a problem.

“It’s just you lot,” Ghost mumbled, voice slurred with exhaustion. His head tipped forward slightly, brushing against Price’s shoulder, and he didn’t bother correcting it this time. “Don’t mind it.”

Silence.

Soap and Gaz stared.

Price went completely still.

Again.

Ghost barely even noticed their reactions. He was too damn warm, still half-drunk on fever, and even though he should have felt mortified that he’d spent the entire night curled up against his captain, he just... didn’t care.

They were his team. His family. It’s okay.

Ghost felt a small, hoarse laugh rumble in his chest at the sheer shock radiating off of them. “What?”

Soap’s expression was priceless. “What—what do you mean, ‘what’? You just—” He gestured vaguely at the position Ghost had willingly settled back into. “You’re just—stay—”

Ghost smirked. “S’comfortable.”

Gaz covered his face with his hand. Price just let out a breathless, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head as though this entire situation was beyond him. He dropped the balaclava by his knee, happy to indulge in watching his lieutenants face split with a tired, lazy grin.

“You’re still delirious,” Price muttered.

“Mm.” Ghost let his eyes slip closed again. “Maybe.”

Price let out a soft exhale, and then—hesitantly, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself—his hand found its way back to Ghost’s back. Not holding. Not gripping. Just there.

The tension finally eased from the room.

Soap scoffed. “Christ, alright. Guess we’re doin’ this, then.”

Gaz muttered something under his breath about "never lettin’ him live this down," but there was no real bite to it.

Ghost just huffed a quiet, amused breath, body sagging slightly as exhaustion pulled at him again.

The fever had broken. But the warmth lingered, even in the cold and damp atmosphere, that warmth lingered. And not the feverish kind of warmth. The one filled by familiar sounds and smells and camaraderie. 

Yeah, it was okay, Ghost decided. 

[wtftaylr]

here have some Sadie Knox (my Courier Six) infodumping bc i am insane abt her rn

Sandra "Sadie" Knox / 5'2" / 34

Sandra Knox isn't her birth name, she got her first and last name separately from books she's read over the years.

Sadie is a scientist who worked as a courier and an overcharging con-artist repairman to save up caps to fund her research. She carries a notebook with her at all times, always scribbling down notes as it helps her think and process information.

Sadie is morally gray; a bit selfish and tunnel-visioned in her ways. Once Sadie has a goal, big or small, she’ll stop at nothing to achieve whatever it is. She has a unique way with words and can get you into trouble and out of it in the same sentence. This skill has saved her ass an insurmountable amount of times.

Due to her borderline extreme goal-contentedness, despite caring for those she loves and keeps close to her, she often comes off distant. Sadie has always had a rough time showing that she cares and her gestures can come off as awkward or forced. Her autism might be (is) partially to blame for this lol. Those willing to work past this awkwardness and allow her to adjust are rewarded with a ride or die friend for life.

She's got a reserve of pent-up rage. Though she can be quite irritable from minor conveniences [ex: she drops a pencil on the ground > emotional dysregulation from adhd rises > she's LIVID- ok she's fine now], she's not one to lash out at someone she loves. Her rage is kept internal and it weighs heavily on her shoulders.

Once speaking to Yes Man [before confronting Benny], she figures trying to get in on Benny's scheme is the opportunity she's been waiting for -- the prospect of a steady flow of caps excites her.

Oh and after her visit to BIG MT, she decides to help the Doctors by occasionally bringing them Mojave shit to research.

Sadie: look at the size of this legendary deathclaw hand. These things are large and terrifying, and despite the best efforts, nests continue to pop u-- Dr. Borous: the size of that hand.... Dr. Borous: it reminds me of my time in AMERICAN HIGH SCHOOL, when RICHIE MARCUS took his HAND to my FACE and BEAT ME SENSELESS behind the school. the AMERICAN HIGH SCHOOL-- Sadie: [patiently waiting bc she doesnt know when, or if, it is appropriate to intervene]

[signedjehanne]

people on tumblr will literally post things like “you have to eat vegetables and expand your palate i dont care if you are a picky eater because of autism (if i can overcome it you can too)” and everybody will reblog it being like “yes this is true for everybody no matter what” and think its okay. like sorry but that wont work for everyone and there is no one size fits all and some people will never be able to eat these things no matter how hard they try. im only allowed by my doctors to eat recreationally and not for nutrition, because my ARFID is so severe that i get my nutrition solely from a specially made formula drink. your suggestions of “try vegetables roasted!” or “try them in soup!” and assurances of “i did it, you can too!” don’t work for those of us with more severe mental illnesses and disabilities. stop tying a person’s worth to their diet and stop assuming everybody has the ability to do what you can.

[mystilotls]

The escalation from "I'm going to graffiti motivational quotes" to "I'm going to play obnoxious sirens of my voice everytime you get close" to "I'm going to unite with the server to bury you alive with your home, and I'm going to plant trees so it looks like you were never there" is certainly something.

[pencap]

the coward's way out

if the fates conspire that only one of us may live, then lover, it must be you.

i will save you the grand speeches about how you are good and deserving. you are. you are. you are, but in the end, that is not the reason why.

the world may call me brave or strong or selfless but lover, you know the truth don't you?

in the end, i am only more afraid of facing a world without you than i am of facing death of facing anything.

in the end, i am only too weak to be the one left behind to pick up the pieces of a broken life a broken promise a broken heart and keep on bleeding when the blood in your heart is already dry.

i'm sorry. i'm sorry. but will you let me be selfish one last time?

can i ask you to live for me? to face what i feared most so that i might find peace in my eternal sleep with a smile upon my face?

if it is cruel of me to ask, then i beg you to forgive me. or curse my name and hate me if you must, only live.

only live, my lover so that my life and my death and all that came in between may mean something. may mean everything.

[bucketsandraincoats]

dainix and alinua are besties. to me

[maximura]

Jung Wooyoung | Not Okay

[whatwooshkai]

Lucky Number 7!

"Designation?"

"Chase."

Chase keeps his finials pinned flat against his helm, doorwings wide and fanned to keep the bot behind him from getting too close, which they have been for the past five minutes.

He has a vibroknife in his subspace. He'd rather not use it- you can only make a first impression once.

The femme flips through a datapad until her optics go wide. "Oh," she murmurs, the dangling jewelry from her finials making a loud ting! when they flatten to her helm. "Oh, you're one of those. Hang on."

Chase's optic twitches. He is normally very good at keeping his emotions in check, and no one who knows him has ever seen his temper, and that's the way he wants to keep it.

But if one more bot refers to him as "one of those" he's going to do something stupid.

Chase hates doing stupid things.

"Okay, I got you right here!" The femme gives him a sheepish smile as she hands over a pair of keycards. "There was an issue with organizing the dorms this year. Normally you'd be put with other bots in your track but you ended up in the randomized group, so you'll be staying with a few bots from other tracks. That's not a problem, is it?"

Chase's finials lift slightly away from his helm. "That is fine," he says, accepting the cards. That is... probably for the best, actually. "Thank you."

"No problem!" the femme says brightly. "So you're in room 704. Elevators are on your left. Next!"

Chase shuffles away from the table, readjusting the bag he has slung over his shoulder, eyeing the key cards in his hand.

Primus, when was the last time he met new people?

The elevator is blessedly empty when he steps inside, and so is the hallway as he follows it down to his room. Well, he was in one of the last groups to check in, so that's expected.

The door has four slots for name tags, as all of the ones in this hallway do. Only two have been filled in so far, for mechs "Boulder" and "Heatwave". Both have little drawings on them, one better than the other's. However, both seem to have identical handwriting... interesting.

So it seems only two have checked in. Maybe he'll have a choice of berth, then.

Chase swipes the key card and gently opens the door.

There's two sets of bunk berths, a desk in front and behind each one. None seem to have been claimed, but on the left, there's a bag tossed on the top bunk and a few posters plastered up already, and some blankets and pillows piled up. And on the left, there's a bag on the bottom bunk, and-

Oh. He's being glared at.

"Another one?" the mech mutters, green optics narrowed at Chase. He's orange a white, with a scar cutting down through one optic. He looks about Chase's age. "'Oh, we'll get you your own room, Blades'! my aft. Mechs walking in every five minutes," he huffs.

Chase frowns. "The attitude is hardly appropriate," he says, and the mech's optics suddenly go wide, as if he thought Chase couldn't hear him.

He mutters something unintelligible and then turns over on his side, revealing a pair of rotors. A flight frame, then.

Blades. His name wasn't on the door.

Chase looks around at the other bags. So his choice has been made for him, then. As usual.

He sets his bag down on the berth to the left, projecting his calendar up on the wall. And then he sits.

He's not really sure what to do now. Conversation is not really an option, what with the less-than-warm welcome, and he has no need to explore the city he grew up in.

Well, that’s a bit of a stretch. He mostly grew up in various facilities around the city, but he spent enough time out on the streets to know it.

Besides… he’d really rather not risk running into his batch. Not alone, at least.

Even though his coding cries for them, his frame hurts without them, he couldn’t get out of berth for several days after they were officially separated-

He’s better now. He has to be better.

He’s never had to try and make new friends. He’s never had to make friends, period. Chase can’t remember the last time he met someone new before this week.

But it can’t be that hard, can it? Sure, this Blades is… hostile… but maybe the others are a little more friendly!

Speaking of- someone decides to kick the door open at that very moment.

Blades looks up, and slight relief teeks through his field as he lies back down. So one of the mechs on the door, then.

Heatwave, he imagines- only because the mech is hot.

He stops a few feet from Chase once he lays optics on him, but Chase can feel the heat he gives off from here. That has to be unnatural, surely. Even Ultra Magnus, the largest mech he’s ever met, did not give off that much heat.

Beyond the odd temperature, the mech looks friendly enough. He’s red, with bright and warm yellow optics, and twin scars cutting up one cheek. In his arms are a plethora of cubes and energon sweets, several shoved in his mouth as well.

He mumbles something Chase can’t make out around the food in his mouth, then tosses a cube at Blades. The flight frame mutters some kind of thanks, and the mech turns back to Chase.

He shuffles his items into one arm and offers a hand to Chase. He once again speaks, presumably introducing himself, but Chase can’t understand a word he says.

He takes his hand and shakes it. “You really shouldn’t speak with your mouth full,” he says.

Yellow optics narrow at him. “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want,” he snaps. There’s a thick accent there that the universal translator is doing its best to suppress. “I asked for your name.”

Chase’s doorwings flick and the mech’s optics only follow them for a second before training on Chase’s face again. “Chase,” he says. “I will have to ask you for yours again, I did not understand you. Also, please let go of my hand.”

“Heatwave.” A correct guess, then. Chase’s doorwings raise slightly, but Heatwave’s gaze doesn’t shift to them again. Instead, he keeps his optics trained on Chase’s face, who looks away from the optic contact. He does release Chase’s hand, though. “You should check out the mess hall,” he says, moving his quarry back to both arms. “Never seen so much fuel in my life.”

Chase watches him in mild fascination as he figures out how to climb the ladder of the bunk without dropping any of the cubes, and from there Chase can’t see what he does with them.

So he’s expected to go collect his own ration. Good to know.

…He should be trying to make more conversation, right? Blades might be a lost cause but Heatwave at least introduced himself.

He just… doesn’t know what to do from here. Should he ask what track Heatwave is in? He can guess, from the paint job, but would Heatwave even entertain that? He’s sure he knows what Chase is here for, and has thankfully not said anything derogatory about it… yet.

It’s not wrong to expect it to happen eventually, right?

Then he realizes something. “Where are the washracks?”

Heatwave leans out over the top of the bunk. “Hallway.”

Chase frowns. “Why?”

“What, never been in a communal wash rack before?” Heatwave asks, an oddly aggressive tone to his voice. “This ain’t no prissy enforcer academy, Chase. You’ll hafta get used to other mechs in your space.”

Oh, that accent is really coming out now. Chase wishes he could place it. “It is not a problem,” he growls, though it is… not ideal. The idea of sharing washracks with anyone other than his batch makes his plating crawl. He doesn’t appreciate the attitude, though.

“Whatever you say.” Heatwave leans back.

Okay. So far, his roommates are violently antisocial and rude. Wonderful.

It is now that the fourth roommate decides to show themselves, and Chase braces himself for the worst.

They gently push the door open, holding a datapad. They’re green and far more heavyset than any of the others, though Heatwave comes close. Blue optics widen at him. “Hello,” they say, in very thickly accented Common.

No universal translator, then. Interesting.

“Hello,” Chase says back, offering his hand. “Chase.”

“Boulder.” So that’s all four. Good. “I am… stop by for my datapad. Good to meet you.”

“And you.” Primus almighty, Chase wishes he’d met someone who wasn’t Iaconian before today, because all these new accents, and he can’t place a single one. Maybe if he knew what their mother language is, he could speak to them better? “If you speak in your native language, I can still understand it,” Chase says, tapping his throat.

“I know,” Boulder says. “But I like to make the effort.”

“Okay.”

Boulder turns away from him and grabs the datapad from their bag, before offering everyone a wave and leaving again.

Chase sits down on his berth again. Boulder seems nice.

…This might not be so bad.

[tiger-balm]

"[do you] need to have ego to know that you belong?" "I think its inner confidence, i wouldnt call it ego. it's through work and effort that you feel confident in yourself and your abilities. you want to play with swag but you don't have to be the coolest guy ever"

[crybabycinna]

UNCLE IROH HAS SPOKEN! (This tweet is old stfu I forgot I had this!) HE SAID AZULA DESERVES REDEMPTION! HE HAS SPOKEN!

[frightfullytreeish]

god eddie's going to say something that puts 'because evan' to SHAME isn't he