wall of amps

Lucio Valkyrie Suit | Dominion

Dominions are believed to look like divinely beautiful humans with a pair of feathered wings, much like the common representation of angels.

  • Lucio will grow small wings when Wall Riding or using 
  • Amp It Up.Sound Barrier grants Lucio and his team small halos.
  • Music replaced with an orchestral cover.

Ana | MoiraSymmetra | Zenyatta | Valkyrie Squad

Troian’s essay on mental illness

We were swimming our second lap in the lake when I lost the feeling in my toes. When you first jump in water this cold you scream, gasp for air, but immediately laugh because it makes you feel extra-alive. You learn, after a few jumps, you don’t have to fear the cold. If you move around, it fades away. Soon, it’s as if you’re inside a house looking out at a snow flurry as it lightly taps the windows. You know there is cold, all around you, but it can’t hurt you.

For a while, this kind of numb makes me feel invincible.

But now, after maybe a half-hour in the water, the cold has returned, and not just outside the window, it’s in my skin. Beneath the surface, I probably looked like a chicken breast sitting under plastic in a refrigerator of a grocery store, pale and goose-pimpled. Then it’s in my joints, making it difficult to move. Soon, it’s in my bones, so much that even though I knew I was kicking my legs, I couldn’t tell you where they ended and the water began. I wasn’t even sure if I had toes anymore.

Suddenly, I’m in very familiar territory. I know I should get out of the water before I hurt myself or make myself sick, but I just don’t. I keep swimming.

Here I am, 31 years old, and I’m still denying my body the one thing it is asking me to do: take care of it.


When I shot the pilot of Pretty Little Liars, it was December in Vancouver, and I was 24 years old. We were shooting a summer scene (the exterior of the funeral for Alison, the Queen Bee of Rosewood), and even though I don’t remember exactly how cold it was outside, I can tell you it was too cold to snow. The girls and I were dressed in skimpy black dresses with kitten heels and ballet flats. Later, in editing, they could push the saturation, add a golden filter, and BAM, it would look like we were sweating in July. But while we were shooting, well, it was December in Canada.

“Rolling!” yelled the assistant director, and wardrobe would rush in and apologetically remove the giant down coats from our shoulders. Everyone watched, hoping we could get the scene before our jaws locked or our shoulders unintentionally rose around our ears. Eventually, Leslie, our director, yelled “Cut!,"and the beautiful warm jackets reappeared.

Wanting to be the most professional I could be, I sniffed back the snot that was threatening to ruin every take and forced my shoulders to stay where they were, even though I could see my breath on the air. I looked around: Lucy, Ashley, and Shay all seemed cold but fine; they looked professional, powerful. Was I not cut out for this? I pushed that thought out of my mind. Suck it up, Bellisario, do your job.

There came a point when I mentioned offhand, "Huh, I can’t feel my feet.” “Stop!"a voice screamed, and an angel in the form of a crew member descended upon me and demanded I follow her inside the church we were shooting near.

She sat me down, removed my shoes, and began to rub my feet. She asked me to let her know when I had feeling in them again. "Don’t worry about my feet! They’re fine!"I tried to sweetly wiggle away from her, my eyes flitting to the crew that was waiting nearby. I was holding up production, a production that costs thousands of dollars per minute, all for my stupid comment about my stupid toes. I started to panic: Everyone is going to think I’m a diva, that I can’t hack it, that I’m a horrible actor, and they’ll never want to work with me again.

I am practiced at ignoring [my disease], for the most part, but it’s still there, finding new ways to undermine me.

But the angel remained resolute. She told me that she had worked with people who had lost toes to frostbite, and she wasn’t about to see me lose mine. Eventually, I announced (truthfully) that the feeling in my feet had returned, and she let me go.

I braced myself to be yelled at by someone, anyone, in a position of authority. How dare you hold up this massive production? How dare you be so weak? So demanding! But there was no punishment to be found, not even a sideways glance. Everyone just asked me if I felt better and felt ready to return to the scene.

Why did I need a complete stranger’s permission to take care of myself?


Seven years later (and wiser?), there I was, swimming in a lake for fun, and still I couldn’t do it. My friend and I had casually agreed to try for threetimes around the island in the lake. It was just a fun challenge when we jokingly announced it to the rest of the friends and family. But now, coming around the corner of lap two, I could feel my limbs shutting down. Just like in Vancouver, despite my body desperately needing something, I didn’t want to appear weak or let people down. Where was my angel to take care of me now?

So what? You might say. Don’t be crazy; you can get out of the water anytime. Who cares?Great question. I ask it of myself all the time. Who cares if I can’t swim that long in cold water? Who cares if I need to stop the scene to take care of my toes? Who cares?

I do, said a familiar voice inside my head. Oh, right. You.

My friend is a long-distance swimmer, and she seemed cold but ready to keep going.

"Troian, do you want to stop?”

That voice, that familiar voice in the back of my skull that tells me it cares. It cares if I demand things of a production, it cares if I quit early, if I fail. It is a voice I know intimately; it is my greatest and best of enemies. I know what that voice will say if I stop. I know the trouble I’ll be in.

“Nope,” I said, my teeth chattering with excitement. “I’m fine!” She wasn’t buying it, but matching my determinism, we went around again anyway. When we came in, who cheered for the cold and weary warriors? Who hoisted us up in honor and fed us warm drinks in celebration? No one, because this was a necessary challenge to no one but myself. There was no great competition, except between my body and my head.


As someone who struggles with a mental illness, my biggest challenge is that I don’t always know which voice inside me is speaking. My body voice, the one that says, Troian, I’m cold, get out of the lake, or my illness: You told everyone three times, so you can’t disappoint them. You are not enough. Who cares about the difference between two times around and three? I do.

There is a part of my brain that defies logic. Once, it completely convinced me I should live off 300 calories a day, and at some point, it told me even that was too much. That part of my brain is my disease, and there was a time when it had absolute authority over me. It almost killed me, and you can see that even though I have lived in recovery for ten years now, it still finds loads of fun, insidious ways to thwart me to this day. It was a difficult journey finding my way back to health. Through hard introspection, intense medical and mental care, a supportive family, friends, and a patient and loving partner, I survived, which is rare.

But I don’t want to just survive that part of my life. I want to create in rebellion. I want to stop looking at the clocks. I wanna get paint all over the floor and build a wall of feedback in the amp so loud that it starts a mosh pit as I scream back in the face of my disease: I AM ENOUGH!

It’s just not that easy. Sometimes I still find myself being pushed by an invisible taskmaster, working to the point of exhaustion, swimming with numb toes. The voice of my disease is with me every day. I am practiced at ignoring it, for the most part, but it’s still there, finding new ways to undermine me. That’s partially why I wrote Feed. I wanted to channel that voice into a story and out of myself. I wanted to create a character who also wondered how she could be enough.

Writing, producing, and acting in it helped me to get one more degree of separation from my disease in what I know will be a lifetime of work in recovery. It is my greatest hope that someone watching it, struggling with the same challenges I do, might think, What if I were enough too? So with all the courage I can muster, I give it to you, I give it to that one person, in hopes that it could make them feel enough.

Maybe by the time you see it, I will have gotten out of the cold water and be warming myself in the sun.

So my theater class is putting on the mini play Bad Auditions By Bad Actors and there’s and entire interaction that only brings Johnny Bravo to mind so I’m gonna write it as samurai bravo:


Director: Hi, thanks so much for coming in, Johnny. 

Johnny: I’ve got this thing to read. The thing I picked up outside with the lines?

Director: The audition scene?

Johnny: The one that says Romeo, I’m gonna read that.

Director: Great.

Johnny: Cause I saw the one that said Juliet and I was like “not this guy. I ain’t no Juliet.”

Director: Of course not. So, you’re going to be reading with Jack here. Just start where it says “my sweet.”

Jack: Romeo?

Johnny: MY SWEET

Jack: What o’clock tomorrow shall I send to thee?


Jack: I will not fail. Tis–


Director: Ok, great. I’m just gonna stop you there.

Johnny: OH! I was just getting to the good stuff.

Director: I’m just not sure Romeo is that angry in this scene. It should be sweet and passionate. 

Johnny: Yeah! Passionate! That’s what I’m doing like……I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I WANNA PUNCH A WALL!

Jack: Well, I don’t think he’s gonna punch a wall…….

Johnny: Cause, like, I know when I’m in love, and I climb up walls, I’m just so amped up by the time I get there, ya know. I’m like…….UUHHHH I LOVE YOU! LET’S DO PUSHUPS!

Jack: *thinking* He’s perfect.

This Is War (Daveed x Reader) Platonic

Word Count: 1,025

A/N: Daveed needed more fics than just my Lil Sis series. Enjoy!

You were sitting in your dressing room in between shows, feeling thoroughly exhausted. You had only been working at the show for a few weeks, so you weren’t used to the demanding schedule. You did, however, already feel like family with the rest of the cast. You double checked that your alarm was set on your phone to wake you up in time to get ready before closing your eyes and crashing.

“Hey (y/n), wake up,” you heard a voice say, poking you, followed by the sound of a camera shutter.

“Oh crap the volume was up” a different voice said.

“What do you want?” You grumbled, checking the time and seeing that you had only been asleep for thirty minutes and still had another hour and a half to sleep. You glanced up at your visitors, seeing Oak and Daveed standing awkwardly next to each other. Daveed had his phone in his hand.

“We’re going to order some food, do you want anything?” Oak asked as you leapt up off of your chair and onto your feet at lightning speed.

“What the frick Daveed?” You growled.

“What? You looked so cute sleeping,” he defended, holding his phone above his head where you couldn’t reach it.

“Delete it!” You whined, crossing your arms.

“I think I’m going to hold onto it. I can use it as blackmail,” he said smugly.

“You’re a prick,” you said under your breath, digging your wallet out from under a pile of t-shirts you had been too lazy to put back into your bag and handing Oak $5.

“Excuse me?” Daveed said, slightly offended, as you told Oak to just get you “Whatever”.

“You heard me,” you told Daveed as Oak snuck out the door. He knew where this was going and didn’t want to get involved.

“You’re just grouchy,” Daveed accused you.

“Yep. I’m grouchy, hungry, tired, and you’re a jerk,” you clarified. Part of you knew you were being unreasonably cruel to your castmate, but if there was anything you were self conscious about, it was being seen sleeping.

“We’re all tired, (y/n). You’re not the only one,” he shot back.

“If we’re all tired, then you should respect that some of us are trying to sleep to make sure we don’t pass out onstage tonight,” you raised your voice.

“If you didn’t want to be interrupted, why didn’t you lock the door?!” Daveed fought back.

“There aren’t any locks on these doors you idiot!” You yelled. Daveed’s eyes bore into yours for a moment before he turned on his heel and walked out of your dressing room, leaving you in eerie silence. You sunk down into your chair and stared at the wall, to amped up to sleep but too tired to do anything about it.

“Here you go. One order of ‘whatever’,” Oak knocked on your door a little while later, entering on your command.

“Thanks Oak,” you said, taking the sandwich from him.

“Daveed’s still mad at you. He wanted me to tell you, but I told him I wasn’t going to play messenger between you and that if you wanted to talk to each other you should just let your egos go and make up with each other,” Oak said.

“He’ll never forgive me,” you told him.

“You could always try. It would help the rest of us out. The atmosphere gets weird when there’s friction around here,” Oak mused.

“Well I’m not trying tonight. If I did that would be losing,” you said. Oak laughed.

“Is everything a competition between you two?”

“Yes,” you responded quickly. You and Daveed had spent the past few weeks trying to one-up each other. Most of the time it was little things, like who could drink their coffee the fastest or who could get ready for the show first. This time was bigger though, and you weren’t ready to lose.

You let the next show go by. Luckily you were playing Eliza, so there wasn’t much interaction between you and Daveed onstage. You got undressed quickly after the show and practically ran back to your apartment. As you collapsed on your bed, you started thinking of how you could win this competition AND make up with Daveed.

You knocked on Daveed’s door before quickly dashing back to your dressing room. You had left him a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a note that said “I’m sorry but I’m winning”. This was only stage one of your plan. Daveed continued to ignore you, but after the show you were getting changed into a t-shirt and leggings when you heard a knock on your door. You opened it up, revealing half of a sandwich.

“I’m sorry too but I can’t let you win” the note on it said. You weren’t expecting this to happen, but as the week went on you and Daveed still did not talk to each other. The only communication you had was through the gifts you would leave at each other’s doors. You left him a new tank top, a book you thought he’d like, some flowers, a print-out of some fan art you particularly liked, all with notes confirming your competition. Daveed responded with a pair of funny socks, a his favorite book of poems, a cactus, and a picture of you onstage during ‘That Would Be Enough’.

You were happily walking to his dressing room with your favorite vinyl in your hand. Daveed knew about your love for record players, and you were hoping he’d enjoy this record as much as you did. You put it down, straightening the sticky note on it before going to knock on the door. Your knuckles hit the wood once before the door swung open and you were engulfed in a Daveed hug.

“I give up, you win,” he said.

“So you’re not mad at me anymore?” You asked him.

“As long as you’re not mad at me,” he shrugged.

“I’ll only be mad if you take a picture of me sleeping. Other than that I hear I’m a relatively pleasant person,” you said with a smile.

“Sure you are.”


so here are some pics of my room since everyone always asks! sry that this so so long lol

here’s some stuff abt my room:

  • the framed posters in the first pic are all signed (except for the bottom left one). the frames also light up, but you can’t tell in this pic. i have 2 signed new politics psoter, 1 signed p!atd poster, one signed muse magazine w/ musos/concert tickets/etc, and a signed folie a deux vinyl+my pic with fall out boy. i also have a signed twenty one pilots poster and some signed tickets on my wall
  • also, above my amp i have david boyd’s (new politics) sweat towel from monumentour.
  • the posters in the second pic were both limited edition for the houston shows. the fob framed stuff is from when i met them during monumentour. i made the arctic monkeys jacket 
  • my guitars (left to right) are arabella (arctic monkeys), hysteria (muse), and jenny (walk the moon). i have two other guitars that aren’t in my room atm.
  • i have a lot of led lights on my walls which makes it look really cool at night, but you can’t see any of them in these pics since it’s so bright.
  • i have a lot of cacti, plants, and candles on my windowsill! i have my FOB meet and greet passes, san diego comic con badges, and a FOB light up stick hanging from my blinds.
Recovery- Luciper

OOC Reaper, Luci thrown into the shredder, I don’t know canon Talon and Reaper’s relationship, setting changed from a cell to infirmary cause I can’t hurt the little frog that much. For @luntian-berdengguhit… im going to go hide now. First OW fanfic, damn it bad, with what i remember in spanish class and google translate. Wee.

There’s blood, some violence, body horror(?), idk.

“Lúcio! Lúcio, luv!” D.va ran forward, Tracer right next to her. “Lúcio! It’s him, everybody!” The figure that sat in the distance was clearly the DJ, his hair down. Lúcio seemed to stare at the ground, unmoving.

“… Lúcio? Bro?” Lúcio didn’t move at D.va’s call, continuing to stand still. D.va slowed down, Tracer continuing to run forward.

“Lúcio, we’re here to- OW!” Slamming into an invisible wall, Tracer rubbed her head. “What the…” Reaching to Lúcio, Tracer’s fingers pressed on an invisible surface that fizzed.

“It’s a force field.” Soldier: 76 looked around, listening carefully for any Talon agents. Hanzo and Widowmaker hung in the trees, ready to shoot agents. “He’s inside it… Does anybody know a potential off switch?” Bastion beeped back, positioning to another area.

“Lúcio! Lúcio, can you hear us?” D.va banged on the field, yelling. “Lúcio!”

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