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#// negative #// activity notice #// hiatus

the salty af munday meme

Because, like it or not, we're not all balls of sunshine all the time. We can be pure salt when we want to be.

☠ What does someone have to do for an instant unfollow from you?

♥ What's the WORST thing that has happened to you rp wise?

♦ What was a mildly annoying thing that has happened to you rp wise?

♢ Has anyone ever tried to steal your blog? Your headcanons? Icons? All that jazz

♚ How many people don't like you?

⚜ How many people do you not like?

✮ Have you managed to stay away from drama?

☄ Have you ever been in the middle of drama?

☯ Have you ever tried to bring peace to a situation?

☼ How long do you stay mad?

☀ What's your rp pet peeve?

☁ Have you ever forgiven a partner when you shouldn't have?

☂ Have you ever been forgiven when you knew you shouldn't have been?

☢ What fads/trends are you so over?

☣ Have you ever rp'd with someone you knew for a fact was abusive but tried to give them a chance/to make up your own opinion on the roleplayer? Did they change or did you understand what people were talking about?

♨ Have you ever made a public call out post?

❀ What has made you completely lose your chill?

✿ What do you think about public call out posts?

✂ A fandom that you feel isn't open and accepting?

✉ A fandom that you feel is open and accepting?

✦ Thoughts on duplicates following you?

✧ Do you agree with reblog karma or is it forced interaction?

❥ Has someone ever ruined an FC or character for you?

❦ Has someone been jealous of you?

❧ Have you ever been jealous of anyone?

✖ How has Tumblr RP changed since you started?

♒ Thoughts on the fandom you're currently rping in?

❣ How salty are you feeling right now?

#ooc #[[ oh look ]]#[[ it's me ]]#[[ the serial disappear-er ]]

[[ Hey lovelies. Just a reminder that I tend to look at Tumblr at work on my phone and I can’t have NSFW on my dash. This morning I had to unfollow a couple of peeps to keep it clean. Please know that I love ALL my followers and I have only done this to prevent my boss from walking passed and seeing titties. ]]

#ooc #psa

sinnhelmingr:

Long fingers hover just above one of the brightly colored boxes dotting the shelves, paused only by the approach of another. A slight adjustment of the head is enough to bring the human into view.

Unkempt. Tense. Even so, he was far better dressed for the occasion than she. The fabric of her gown was a touch too warm for the weather, even with the shop’s air conditioning on. Still, she was more concerned with his clothes,and whatever might lurk beneath them – in a better way than the thought implied. Did he have some weapon to make him bold, unseen by her malachite eyes? Or was he simply ready to launch himself out of the aisle and all the way to whatever exit would take him first.

His voice was so gruff. It scraped her ears almost savagely, prompted another lilt of her head as if she might still shield one from the unexpected noise. The longer he spoke, at least, the better she was able to handle the sound, the way this realm could always settle better against her in time. At the very least, he was quite polite with his words while trying to drive her off so rudely from a public space.

“My own realm,” she echoed, sliding each word off of her tongue delicately. “I’m afraid there are not any stores in my own realm. Your government has nothing to worry about – I’m only here to make a purchase and go.” Turning her attention away from the man, she could already guess at the outcome.

“I can guess that none of you believe that, can I not?”

Give him that arrogant bastard Tony Stark, or the man out of time. Give him the green, eighteen-wheeler sized Hulk, or the child who had a strange proclivity to shoot spider webs out of his body. Anything other than this.

It would have been naive to expect the Goddess to roll over and do as asked. Optimistic, even, though that’s exactly what some had banked on happening. Said some had hailed from MI6, of course - as if Price didn’t need anymore proof that the entire organisation of spooks had their head in the clouds ( if not somewhere far less desirable ).

Frowning slightly at the rebuttal, Price stayed quiet, reading body language with a calculated eye, left hand easing it’s hold on his weapon. She wasn’t threatening, nor rude. But she certainly didn’t seem threatened, either. Or inclined to move along. Which was quite possibly the last thing Price wanted. Surely there was someone better equipped for this job, or were they still all gallivanting around the world, sinking his career with each new alien invasion ( brought on, no doubt, by themselves )?

“Wouldn’t believe it for a second, love. We’re cynics like that.” The endearment slipped from his lips - the far too young look of the immortal circumventing his speech. He doesn’t let it falter him, though. “Wouldn’t happen to be hiding a magical scepter under your skirts, eh?”

That particular gem of knowledge was why he was here. Trying to spook the mouse before the cat descended for a feast. There was a larger force than him waiting in the wings. Shifting a little - not closer, but to study his target from a better angle.

“... I can’t see one, but I’m also not so stupid as to think you’re here to admire our capitalist society. If you don’t have stores in Asgard, then you don’t need this one.” Price cocked an eyebrow. “What were you planning on paying for the Vita Brits with? Charm?”

#sinnhelmingr #v: do not flinch in the face of great adversity

phantom-warfighter:

“Joseph Allen. He served in the United States Army Rangers, last we did things together we were clearing a convoy in Afghanistan before he got plucked by General Shepherd. Then later….in that week, I hear that he was a terrorist.”

“Hm.”

It's been a long time since the name Joseph Allen has been mentioned to him. The memory of the kid - because at twenty-one years old, he had still been very much a kid in Price’s eyes - making his gut twist a little in guilt. If he’d foreseen what Shepherd had planned for Allen, he knows he would have done something to stop it.

But he hadn’t. Nobody had.

“Don’t believe everything you hear in the news, eh?” Price wasn’t bound by secrecy, but it was an uncomfortable topic. “Allen was no more a terrorist than you or I.”

#phantom-warfighter #v: did you think this had a happy ending?

dream-bringer:

The man takes a moment to really process what his friend is asking. It’s a big question, larger than the two of them, by far, but a straightforward one, an earnest one… an important one. Would he go back?

“Truth be told,” he muses, his voice a mixture of calamitous guilt and bitter mirth, “I’d go in a heartbeat.”

Gesturing to his body, he indicates just why he cannot do this. Of course John knows that, but the question had been hypothetical. It will have to stay that way, too, obviously. Anyway, even if he somehow re-grows proper hips and an arm, the United States military has different plans for him.

These plans include bunting, crowds, ticker tape, kissing babies and hopefully do not end with a bullet exiting the back of his skull from a firearm he’s been allowed to keep. Sandman does not consider himself fragile, of course, but this madness would drive even the most stalwart man to suicide.

It is a horrid thought and he shakes it off. He still has Carol to think of… She isn’t young anymore and she forgets a lot, but she remembers him and he owes it to her to keep on living. Her… and a whole host of other people.

“I’m not good for much else,” he concludes, lifting his glass once more and finishing it.

If Price hadn’t been honour bound to those left behind, he wouldn’t be standing here right now.

That’s the one thing he holds onto, now. If not for himself, then for the man he’d called his son. John ‘Soap’ MacTavish. The lad who’d followed him, trusted him, watched his back throughout the nightmare Price had unwittingly bestowed on them both. Where Price had been career man, Soap had cared about family. Fought for them, when Price had only seen revenge.

Bullets and blood and maybe no small amount of suffering to quench what he deserves. These things call to him, but not so loudly that he’ll forsake the survivors.

Yet, at least.

“I’d go in less than that,” Price murmurs, more so to himself that to Rex, though he does glance back at the man’s sudden movements. Broad and reminding them both of his old friend’s newfound limitations. “... You might be missing parts, Rex. But you could still give ‘em a good clobbering.”

The wink barely masks his own guilt - Price a glutton for punishment, though not without cause. He’d put Rex in that mine, and by extension, had lost his brother his limbs.

“Don’t sell yourself short, eh? If all else fails, we could always go into business. ‘The Cripple and The War Criminal’. Has a nice ring to it.”

#dream-bringer #[[ Price is not being PC ]]#[[ if you want it changed let me know ]]#v: did you think this had a happy ending?

@metalteamtruck continued from (x)

Banter is something Price can enjoy with only a few people, his dry, often acerbic wit and high stature leaving him with lost love in that regard. Gaz, particularly, had been an old hand at it; his former lieutenant having an incredible sense of timing whenever he dared to roast the Captain. Ash isn’t quite as biting in her word play, but she certainly wasn’t pulling her punches. It was like he was sitting next to someone who’d known him well before his officer years, well before propriety had gotten in the way of most his interactions.

Price appreciated that.

“I hate to be the one shattering dreams about who’ll eventually end up nuzzling your arse, but half of ‘the pretty ones’ are only a few years out of a coffin.” Rumbling with amusement, Price settles back in his chair, scarred hands folding across his stomach. “One of the quirks about moving up. Once people stop putting their boots on the ground to play war, you have to wait for old age to move them on. Though Jack, that’s MacMillan – you know him, don’t you, love? He’d tell you that it’s a case of the ‘more the merrier’. But I always say that politics turned his soul black years ago.”

A shake of his head, though his lips tick upwards regardless. “You and I? Our tier is the last honest one in this joint. If you’re smart, you’ll stick to patching up vehicles. Useful skill, better companionship. They complain less and have your back a lot more.”

He’s cynical. After nearly two decades of service under his belt, it’s hard not to be, though he knows he’s preaching to the choir. Ashleigh might have been a few years his junior, but she was in tune enough, observant enough, to have picked up on the nuances. She’s clever and passionate about her field, and as she starts talking about her craft, Price feels himself compelled to listen. There’s a happiness there – a brightness in her eyes that draw him in. He’s always had a healthy respect for machinery and enough training to fix basic failures when it broke down, but Ashleigh is a veteran of the glorified pit stop.

“… The 141 is one of the best outfits I’ve served with, but too many of the younger lads are bedazzled by the flashy toys Shepherd brings in.” Price smiles at her, his own little crow’s feet appearing around his eyes, rarely used laugh lines deeply accented in his face. “Older technology was built to last, but this new technology was built to be replaced. They say it’s cheaper, but in the long run…”

Price half shrugs, blue eyes meeting Ash’s gaze and holding it with an intensity that most people shied away from. “I’d like to see what you do with the old girl. Maybe you can show me, eh? Sounds interesting enough.”

There’s a level of exhaustion in his bones and the clock reads an ungodly hour, but Price isn’t so drowsy that he doesn’t see the sudden flush on her cheeks. Had she been rambling? Price wouldn’t deny it, but in all honesty, he’d been subject to far less fascinating tangents. “Always more whisky if you would rather talk. I’m not fussed if the nattering is about engines. Earlier I had one of the lad’s telling me about a rash he picked up on the town.”

The memory is not a pleasant one. “Now that was a lack of class, love. I wouldn’t dare share my whisky with someone of that ilk. You, though. Definitely a step up, though we might have a problem if my stone aged repertoire isn’t doing anything for you. It’s all I’ve got.”

#metalteamtruck #v: bad men don't sleep

avennataliepraxton:

Ave struggled to keep up, just a bit, considering that Price was much taller than she. Nevertheless, the medic kept up. Her river blue eyes gazed into the rec room as they passed. Gaz’s eyes followed her. He grinned mischievously as he ran his thumb across his throat. She glared at him, as if to remind him that she was the one stitching him up.

“Well, not that I’m responsible for,” she replied. “Lucky for them, it ain’t my hour to deal with ‘em. The boys usually get a lecture from me along with their stitches. It’s all a part of the job.”

“Still, I’ve seen my fair share of… interesting injuries. One of the Shadow Company boys came in here the other day with a nail in the palm of his hand like Jesus.”

The low murmur of familiar voices drifting into the hall made Price move a little faster as they passed the rec room; the cockney accent of Gaz a very effective deterrent. It wasn’t that Price didn’t like the cheeky bastard; he just didn’t quite have the energy needed for the man, with Praxton in tow.

It was only when she spoke - Price tactfully ignoring the brief glimpse he caught of the 141 lads from the corner of his eye - that he realized she’d slipped a little behind.

“I expect that gets you a few complaints, eh?” Slowing down for the shorter legs of Praxton, Price rumbled a chuckle. “What’s the old adage? ‘You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make them drink’. Some of the best men and women serve in this Task Force, but there is a sordid level of stupidity... Which only gets worse with Shepherd’s new pets. Mercenaries.”

Shadow Company left a bitter taste in his mouth - far too much secrecy and black ops around the group for his liking. “The Jesus lad with the hand... Probably should have chopped that one off, love. Might have taught him some humility.”

#avennataliepraxton #v: bad men don't sleep

@sinnhelmingr liked for a starter

The last time Price had been deployed on British soil, there’d been a home grown terrorist group, a hijacked bus, and a bomb threat that the SAS couldn’t ignore.

Not Gods.

Standing in the middle of a Tesco, plain-clothed and hand resting uneasily on a hidden pistol that would no doubt be highly ineffective against the woman before him, Price felt a very rare moment of hesitation. Dressed with the same ridiculous splendor of her father - a man whom Price would have no qualms about shoving a horn from the trickster God’s own helmet up his prim and proper, genocidal arse - the Goddess seemed to be browsing the cereals. As though it was an art gallery in her own realm.

'Ma’am,” Price began in a stern voice, finally strangling the cat that had his tongue. Despite looking half his age, the intelligence on Hel, mostly acquired through existing Norse mythology and partly acquired from a muppet with a flying hammer, suggested that Price was a baby in comparison. “I understand that Tesco is a convenience store, but the British Government has ordered me to advise that you shop in your own realm.”

Politeness wasn’t normally one of his virtues, but a certain level was required when talking to a being that had crossed space and time to look at Sugar Pops.

#sinnhelmingr #v: to be tagged #[[ mild crack?! ]]#[[ IF YOU WANNA GO AGAIN TELL ME ]]

dareandtheworldyields-blog

Please hit like for a starter, or reply for a starter in a specific verse.

Price has a new VERSES page that is currently expanding. Check there if you’d like something specific.

#starter call #military rp #indie rp #cod rp #[[ will get to replies a bit later ]]#[[ thought i'd throw this out again if anyone wants some love this weekend ]]

enduredxdefiance:

War watched him start to dab at her injury, noting just how deep it was. She flinched from the slight pain every time he made contact but, for the most part, she remained silent and still. The wound would definitely leave some kind of scar but, with any luck, it would heal up just fine. Lucky for her, her left arm wasn’t as bad. It had been significantly smaller compared to the one on her right arm.

War took serious note of his warning and immediately put the whistle down, not wanting to pass out on the floor while Price was trying to fix her up. That would just be another fuck up for her to add to the list and she didn’t wish for it to get any longer than it already was.

She took his rather stern words to heart, but she wouldn’t let them get to her. The young soldier would just have to adapt. “Yes, sir. I’ll work on it. I promise.” She wasn’t in the infantry anymore. People weren’t expecting anything major out of her here like they were there. She hadn’t quite gotten used to that yet. As one of the few female Marines to make it into infantry, she always felt like all eyes were on her. War was always the one supposed to go above and beyond all the others just to prove she was just as capable. In the 141, people already knew she was good enough, otherwise she wouldn’t even be there in the first place. It was a major change in mindset.

A sharp hiss escaped her lips briefly as he started the sutures, but they died down rather quickly as she adjusted. Her head lifted slightly in an attempt to peer over and watch Price stitch. War had a pretty good idea how to do it herself, but she wanted to see how Price did it to see if he did something differently than her. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she focused on his work, noticing how clean his stitching was. How the hell did he do that? His looked so much better than her own, causing her to feel just a little bit jealous…

“A truck? Eh, not quite. The guy was built more like a minivan. You see, some of the guys and I went out to the bar for a while…” That seemed to be how most stupid stories went around there these days. “We were there for about an hour and a couple of drunks got into a fight and, somehow, one of our guys got roped into it. Of course, then all of us got pulled into it and, long story short, some fucker got in a lucky hit with a bottle. Or maybe two.” Half of the crew in the infirmary were rolling in with some kind of injury from the fight and the other half were just miscellaneous. All the injuries had been pretty minor though. War’s was probably the worst one. “I didn’t think he got me that good at first but after we all got in the car I saw how deep it really was.”

Price was a man that could impart suffering on others that most would consider crossing the line, but that level of bastardry was one reserved for his enemies. Subordinates had and always would be people that Price was duty bound to look out for and protect, the rigors of military life having installed that in him the second he began climbing up the ranks. A good leader claimed responsibility and safeguarded his men. A bad one safeguarded himself.

War was a strong lass. Hard-headed, with a few more lessons to learn, but that was simply a hallmark of age. She was young, new to this close knit circle of the elite Special Forces. Guidance was what she needed, not a hotly tempered bollocking, and Price already knew his message had resonated. There was a look people tended to have around him when they were hanging off his every word, and he could see it. Amongst the grimaces and curiosity lingering in glassy eyes.

Each flinch was telling. A warning that he was causing no small amount of pain, but Price ignored it. Not because he was a cold bastard, but because the kindest thing for him to do in this situation was to be quick. Some things were always going to hurt. He couldn’t change that.

“Having a piss up at a local pub, eh? I expect I’ll hear about that in the morning,” Price finished up with the sutures, seating the last one delicately in her skin before cutting the surgical thread. “Probably not the kind of thing you should be telling your commanding officer, love.”

As one of the men in charge, it would fall to Price and Soap to enact any discipline Shepherd saw fit to deal out. It wouldn’t be the first time the General had received a call from a pissed off bartender – the establishment of the 141’s base having tilted the locals a long time ago. The money and broader dating pool from the natives had been a brief respite, but rowdy drunken soldiers always caused a stir.

“… Next time you get into close quarters combat, put your back against a wall. Stops the wankers from flanking your arse.” Price dropped the needle, wiped his hands and reached for some bandages – unrolling the white fabric. “I expect you lot left the bastards a little worse for wear, but there’s better ways to win a knife fight than with your fists.”

He eyed her knuckles, bruised and scraped. Most likely from belting someone in the jaw.

“Once you’re done mopping the mess halls floors tomorrow morning, you can come down to PT. Riley and I will show you how it’s done.”

#enduredxdefiance #long post

[[ Honestly terrible day at work and it’s followed me home. Haven’t been able to get pumped for the muse, which sucks because I was so excited for it earlier today. Like the most hyped I’d been about roleplay in so long. Sometimes I fucking hate my job. Anyway... I’ll be around on the weekend if I survive tomorrow. ]]

#[[ negative ]]#ooc

asoldierofrussia:

Finally he turns, the mention of Makarov breaking whatever restraint he has left.

He’s not going to talk about Vladimir Makarov with John Price. He never talks about Makarov, not even with Julia or Nikolai. There is nothing to talk about. Nothing Yuri could possibly say would ever change anything, and trying to say anything would only sound like he’s trying to make excuses for himself.

Had he not been so intent on dying once all is done Yuri might’ve been worried about going to prison, about being held responsible for all the terrible acts he’s committed. Perhaps he owes it to the world to stand trial, perhaps a better man would, but Yuri decided months ago that if he didn’t die trying to find Makarov then he’d kill himself after.

”I did not follow you. I never followed you,” he says, voice trembling with emotions he can’t quite place, with promises best left unsaid. “But I stood behind you. I had your back.”

Yuri looks down at his hand, the skin red and swollen from the abuse he’s put it through. There are hints of blood under the fingernails. He fights the urge to wash again.

He looks back at Price and tilts his head, something malicious gleaming in his eyes as he shows his teeth in what could have been a smile had it not been so toxic.

His voice is soft as he says, “Though I suppose you are right. John followed you with a son’s devotion and look where that got him.”

The mention of John almost does it. Almost breaks through the carefully crafted veneer of composure that encompasses him. Sometimes held against his skin like glue, sometimes with sticky tape in danger of losing the last of its adhesive stick.

Price made mistakes. Oh, how he’d made mistakes. Some poetic in their irony, some simply devastating in how they’d played out. He’d subconsciously chosen to be a martyr at a time where there was still people alive and depending on him to make the right decisions. The right calls.

Soap, fading from the word without the honour he deserved. Without a coffin or the flag draped over it. The marching band playing in a ceremony designed to give him the send off he deserved. Soap, lost beneath a tonne of rubble, the only solace in his death being that he did not go alone. The men who’d fallen beside him were strangers, yes, but they were all brothers in arms.

He’d never believed in a higher power himself. Always too skeptical, too cynical to ever think that there was some benevolent being out there. But Soap had, and some nights, Price thinks of the man and the rosary around his neck, and damn near prays to that bastard God, asking him to watch over the son he’d done far too much to lose.

“We all had a part to play,” the words are oddly calm, despite the violent need to grip his glass and throw it at the Russian’s head. The violent need to see it shatter and rip and tear for daring to open a wound (still) so terribly deep. “ But don’t you bloody think I don’t know who failed in protecting him. Whose hands are soaked in his blood.”

Mine.

It’s rasped, and guttural, and angry and pained. “...Whatever the two of you had was important to him, but if you’re going to question his decisions...” Price laughs, sharp, bitter. "A little Russian bastard happy enough to turn on his own? John had more loyalty in his pinky. Was it blind? Maybe. But my lad deserves more respect than to be used as a patsy for a shot at me.”

#asoldierofrussia

phantom-warfighter:

“Well, sir…regardless of what had happened in the past. I’m here to do a job and prevent incidents before the world realizes they’re on the brink of one. The 141 was well known for their methods and known as the best hand picked warriors from around the globe. While I also came here for a higher calling, I was hoping that this would give me some closure as to a friend of mine.”

“... You’re your fathers son, alright,” Price said, shaking his head a little at the strong sense of duty projected from the younger soldier, mildly unimpressed. He’d been like that, once, before bitterness and cynicism had burned those bridges and left him on a side of life he wasn’t sure he’d wanted to be. “We’re not here for vengeance, if that’s what you’re after. The cost of that is too high.”

A brief memory of what he’d lost in his own pursuit for revenge sparked in his mind, and he pushed it aside, hand subconsciously closing around his whisky glass.

“Who was the friend, lad?”

#phantom-warfighter #v: did you think this had a happy ending?

dream-bringer:

He knows John Price speaks with sincerity. With Rex, he always has. They have a sordid past, spotty with blood and gore, but solid. Hearing that he had been a last resort does not upset the now-Sergeant Major. Price is a methodical man and calling up an American fireteam had been dangerous with things the way they’d been at the time.

How could anyone have predicted that the 141 would be reinstated and that Sandman and company would be inducted into its shrunken ranks? The way Price speaks, it’s as if he’s able to hear, see and feel all–not to mention predict events, unfortunate though they be.

“I’ll always be all you have left,” Rex points out, tilting his water glass to suddenly-parched lips once more. He is tired, achy, old and growing more bitter by the day, but he is still far and away better off–psychologically, that is–than his companion. The drink has disappeared behind the mustache far too quickly.

Price laughs, the sound scratchy, hoarse. Hard liquor does that to him, and he signals the barkeep for another. He’s not going to get drunk. There’s too many eyes on him for that. But a little tipsy couldn’t hurt.

He forgets that his tolerance has gone to piss, after several years sober in a glorified pit.

“Between you and Mac, I reckon I’ll last.” Tonight. Tomorrow. Several weeks from now. Maybe a year. It’s all relative, really. There’s people baying for his blood. For Rex’s blood. For MacMillan’s. Here in the relative safety of a western country, they could all last. But somehow, living out the rest of his days, eventually turning into a man relying on a pension and the sordid lads at the VA for help, had never been what he had planned. It was all too Kosher for him. “... I know you can never go back, mate, but if you could...”

Price frowns a little, glancing at Rex. “Would you go back out there? Sometimes, jumping back into the skillet is all I can bloody well think about.”

#dream-bringer #v: did you think this had a happy ending?

avennataliepraxton:

Ave offered the captain a smile. Upon most of her first encounters with Price, Ave walked away thinking that the man was all business and no nonsensical. It was nice to see that perhaps the captain could have some sort of humor.

Part of her wondered if she were still under inspection. How Ave hated the feeling. Still, she knew that not playing the game was as bad or worse even then losing it. Ave was too competitive for that. She pondered on what exactly she might be guilty of. Heaven forbid she wasn’t doing a good job at her work. Though, Ave assumed it was because of her affections towards MacTavish.

“Why not?” she shrugged, smiling a bit. “My next shift ain’t until late this afternoon. I got nothing else planned.”

The way she spoke reminded Price that she was very much a yank, though he appreciated that she didn’t have quite the twang of the Texas cowboy medic, or proclivity to butcher her words like the angry Cajun woman recently recruited to Shadow Company.

“Nothing to do, eh?” Price says as he gestures for her to follow, already starting to set off for the mess hall. This time of the afternoon, it would most likely be quiet - everyone either out in PT, training in the gym or relaxing in the rec room. Lingering near the galley had a tendency to get you roped into working behind it for a shift, though Price had never had that kind of trouble. “No maimed or missing limbs to dote on? I don’t think I’ve ever had a day here without someone at least losing a sodding toe.”

#avennataliepraxton #[[ shamelessly injects my OCs ]]#v: bad men don't sleep

[[ I was trying to get through all the replies in my drafts, but the last two threads in there are so deliciously long that that I need more than 15 minutes to get through them and I need to hit the hay in prep for another stressful work day tomorrow. @enduredxdefiance, @metalteamtruck we’re coming for you tomorrow loves <3 <3. Replies are queued and will appear a bit later (provided I actually have some Tumblr sense and got the times right, haha.) ]]

#ooc

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