#'never better' me when i lie

[brightmalcolm]

1x04 // 2x01

So that's a "never better" shaky hand, then? Is that a thing?

[royalarchivist]

Tubbo: I don't know my left and right!

Bad: What do you mean you don't know your left and right?!

Tubbo: I'M DYSLEXIC!!!

Bad: That's got nothing to do with left and right!!!

Tubbo: Oh my god, it literally does! That's not even a bit, it's like the main thing of dyslexia! [Laughs]

Bad: I thought it was just like, mixing up the letters! You're saying you actually mix left and right difficult?

Tubbo: MATE– EVERYTHING'S MIXED UP!

Foolish: You know what, we'll see you on Twitter, Bad.

Bad: I– didn't know that, ok? I feel like��� that's not a real thing!

Tubbo: WHAT?!? I'm sat right here!

Fit: Hmm... That's a little problematic, isn't it? It's a little problematic. 🤨

Tubbo: This is just like the chairs! He hates everything about me as a person!

[ Full Transcript ↓ ]

—

TRANSCRIPT

Bad: Go to the left, go to the left and–

Tubbo: I don't know my left and right! This way?

Bad: Left. Left left left!

Tubbo: [Shouting over him] SORRY!

Bad: What do you mean you don't know your left and right?!

Bad: You got it!

Tubbo: Thank you.

Bad: Yippee!

Foolish: [Laughs as he imitates Tubbo] "I don't know my left and right!"

Tubbo: I'M DYSLEXIC!!!

Foolish: [Chuckling] That was awesome.

Bad: That's got nothing to do with left and right!!! I think you're just dumb!

Tubbo: Oh my god, it literally does! It literally does.

Bad: No it doesn't!

Tubbo: I feel– Dude, I– [Puts his head in his hands] Mate.

Bad: [Sounding a little less-certain] ...Does it?

Tubbo: Yeah, it does!

Bad: Does it actually?

Tubbo: Yeah, it does!

Bad: Wait, really???

Tubbo: YEAH!

Foolish: Way to go Bad, now you're just an asshole.

Bad: Aw... :(

Tubbo: That's not even a bit, it's like the main thing of dyslexia! [Laughs]

Bad: I thought it was just like, mixing up the letters! You're saying you actually mix left and right difficult?

Tubbo: MATE– EVERYTHING'S MIXED UP!

Foolish: You know what, we'll see you on Twitter, Bad.

Bad: I– didn't know that, ok? I feel like– that's not a real thing!

Tubbo: WHAT?!? I'm sat right here!

Foolish: [Laughs]

Fit: [Sarcastic] Yeah, it's not real guys, it's not real.

Bad: No, I feel like he's making this part up!

Foolish: You see how he was mansplaining it to you? He was kinda mansplaining it too...

Tubbo: [Rubbing his temples] Just mansplaining to me dyslexia.

Fit: Hmm... That's a little problematic, isn't it?

Bad: No! I'm just asking if he's being serious or not!

Fit: It's a little problematic. 🤨

Bad: So it really isn't obvious, like your words?

Tubbo: This is just like the chairs! He hates everything about me as a person!

[telesodalite]

Thinking about KrokFire...

Thinking about them sparring in the cargohold, because it's a long trip, and cabin fever is setting in, and Misfire is gonna pop a gasket if he doesn't do something about it soon, since flying in open space gets real boring real fast, and it's making everyone a little nervous, but Krok has time to kill, and maybe, quietly, he's also two steps away from doing something stupid just to feel alive again after cruising around pointlessly, mindlessly, endlessly, for so so long... (It's barely been a month)

And sure, Misfire is a terrible sparring partner. He has no technique, no concept of proper balance, or an inkling of how to use the weight of his own frame. He rushes headfirst like he's more bull than fighter jet, he talks too much, he spits, he bites, and he can't stand losing. But, in a roundabout way, it almost makes him the perfect partner in Krok's eyes.

Crankcase won't spar, "can't" he claims flatly, gesturing at the gaping hole in his helm, but Krok can respect his want for distance. That occasional flash of fear and frozen unease in Crankcase's visor in close combat doesn't go over his head. He knows that look. He gets it. He won't push.

Fulcrum... well, a streetlight might be a tougher fight, or at least it would stay up longer and complain less. So much for a once respectable officer of the empire. What was Deathsaurus' command thinking promoting anyone without any actual combat training? It would almost be pathetic if Fulcrum didn't find a way to put the vitriol of thrown fists into his words instead. Now there was some swears Krok hadn't heard in a couple millennia, it would be inspiring if it wasn't his own spark Fulcrum had been damning to the pits and back through a bloody nose.

Spinister? Now Spinister was a good fighter, a better fighter, Krok wasn't so prideful to deny that truth. He'd tasted the dust of the cargohold floor enough to know it was a definitive fact. But Spinister held back, he was careful, he matched Krok's pace, his movements, he held himself defensively, any attack was quick, simple, and merely restraining. It was less a fight, and more a waiting game until Krok finally gave up, and that... well, that did sting a bit.

But Misfire? Misfire was a different beast all together. Sure Krok could dance circles around the flier all day, but it wasn't totally effortless work, he had to stay sharp, Misfire was so predictably unpredictable, he kept him thinking, moving, on his toes, and maybe it felt good to sidestep another stupid headfirst charge, easily grabbing and swinging Misfire around by his arm, so unbalanced all Krok had to do was let him go, and the weight of his own frame would send him careening into the crates stacked around them.

Most days, Misfire would give up by then, pull himself off the pile of overturned cargo with no small amount of burning shame and frustration, as he avoided Krok's optics and stormed off into the bowels of the ship before Krok could say something to ease the sting of losing again and again. Misfire didn't want his apologies though, and even as a pang of guilt ate at him over it, Krok knew he'd be back eventually.

But today, too pent-up and bored to quit now, Misfire pushed himself back onto his feet and charged back in again, and again, and again.

And Krok moved with him again, and again, and again. It was almost repetitive, but lively enough that he could feel the energon pumping through his head, a thrumming beat in his audials that reminds him of deafening battlefields and roaring stadiums, and oh, he'd missed this feeling, the adrenaline, the movement, more so than he thought he did.

Maybe it's the overconfidence that gets him then, or the memories pulling him out of the present, but Misfire's fist suddenly comes slamming down into his mask, and for a moment everything becomes a blur, until he finds himself on the floor, clutching at the shattered metal falling from his face in disbelief.

Faintly he can feel the twinge of broken mesh, of pain pinching dully across scarred flickering sensors, and maybe it's the adrenaline that pulls a suprised and breathy laugh out of him as he stares down at the pieces in his hand.

Maybe it's also the disbelief, the sudden shock at being struck hard enough to break his mask, by Misfire of all mechs. Or maybe he's cracked his helm, finally snapping something important deep in his processor, some vital function that kept him sane all these years.

Either way, an old familiar buzz of heady energy fills his chest, loosening his joints and straightening his struts as he stands back up, brushing off the broken remains of his mask as he stares back at Misfire, barefaced and bleeding and amused as the flier's optics go bright and wide.

And all Misfire can do for a moment is stand there, wide-eyed and breathless, his own adrenaline filled frame and hammering processor still trying to make sense of the broken plating of his knuckles and the energon trickling down Krok's scarred lips.

But connections are made, and it's a panicked realization at first, a cold dread, a 'ohhhhh fuck oh primus I fucked up I'm dead I'm so fucking dead-!' sort of feeling, as Krok's marred face breaks into an energon stained grin. But then there's another feeling, growing somewhere underneath the panic, a sudden curl of heat in his chest, a flush of pride, conviction, a sort of frenzied joy at the sight of broken mesh and fresh energon, and another rush of hot anticipation as Krok began to move again, circling, waiting, an unspoken question in the air as he rolls his shoulders back and flexes his hands.

And Misfire answers eagerly, suprising himself almost as he charges foward again, wanting more of that feeling, wanting to win again.

It's not really sparring past this point, and somewhere in the back of their minds they both know that. Every strike, every kick, every punch, it's all thoughtless instinct, each clash of plating, and bite of denta, and scrape of fingertips, is part of a mad dash for victory in the gladiator pit of scrap and debris they've built around themselves.

Of course, it can't last forever. They're no real gladiators, no phase-sixers, no primes, and movements get sluggish, vents rattle and wheeze as coolant pumps reach their limits, and building condensation slides powerless punches right off of scuffed metal and mesh.

Even like this though, worn out and bleeding from more scrapes than he had half a mind to count, Krok is still better, and Misfire is still predictable, and it's no great feat to sweep his legs out from beneath him, landing him flat on the floor, wings spread out and chestplate heaving.

Overworked joints sharply protest as he goes to pin the flier down bodily, and finally Krok faces the fact he has to consider how to end this, so he might let his own beaten frame finally still for a moment to breathe.

But as Krok catches one flailing arm in his grip, scoffing at the desperation, still goading Misfire on even as he tries to end this, a hand stubbornly catches his throat, but stops before it can truly squeeze.

And once more they're not really moving, just staring, watching, but it's less wired and tense now, rather, its shaky, a little unfocused, as exhaustion filters out in heaving puffs of hot air between their frames.

Someone's plating is rattling, Krok isn't sure if it's his own or Misfire's, but the cost of adrenaline is painfully noticeable now. His grip loosens on Misfire's arms, and the idea of total victory is less sweet as his cables begin to ache throughout his inner-framework.

But Misfire's hand slides up to catch his jaw before he can lean back and relent to a truce, and he's pulling him closer, and Krok starts to push him off, call it quits before either of them breaks something past repair, but a flash of energon on Misfire lips catches his eye, and that hadn't been there a moment ago?

Before he can even begin to ask what that was supposed to mean, Misfire is pulling him down again, angling his helm upwards to feverishly meet his lips half-way.

Although the mesh of Misfire's face was throughly bruised and scuffed, Krok had frustratingly failed to return the favor of a busted lip. So, it had to be his own, smeared across Misfire's face at some point in the scuffle, it shouldn't have been interesting in the slightest, but Krok's processor was hazy, slow, and his optics trailed Misfire's glossa as he licked his lips and made an odd curious sound.

And maybe it was a stupid move to make so impulsively, one he'd regret making probably, but still too caught up in the waning heated high of the fight, Misfire figured he could worry about losing such a hard-earned battle later. Right now, this seemed far better than actually winning, and the taste of Krok's energon felt like a victory and reward nonetheless.

Bracing himself as Misfire wriggled his other hand free to splay out over his thigh, holding him desperately against his frame as he tried pulling him even closer, Krok considered the heat dispersion warnings flickering distractingly in his peripheral, and the very noticeable strain on his back and legs, even his arms.

It's not a great position to be in right now, after all they've done already. He'll regret it, he knows he will, his body will make sure of it, if Spinister doesn't first.

But then Misfire's glossa is sliding against the jagged edges of his teeth, and he's making hoarse little pathetic noises into Krok's mouth that stoke some sort of ego at having the flier so desperate beneath him, and Misfire's hands are warm and heavy over aching plating and seams, and really, on second thought, after weeks of boredom, why the hell not?

They've got nowhere to be.

[thedeafprophet]

I get so utterly upset when I don't eat that I geniuenly don't understand how I made it through those 2 years unable to eat while juggling 7 classes.

[also lowkey just like. hoo boy I probably was liable to reacting too strongly to things emotion wise pre-surgery]

[neon--nightmare]

forest fire by ajj is SUCH a loveball fresh song to me bro

[lovelytonys]

Finally reached the point in my Iron Man obsession where I watch Armored Adventures for the first time and I wish I actually watched this when I was a kid because I would have been LOCKEDDDDDDDDDD IN

[acourtofquestions]

"You'll come back," Manon said.

It sounded like more of a threat than anything

Dorian smirked. "Would you miss me if I didn't?"

Manon didn't reply. He didn't know why he expected her to.

He'd taken all of a step, when Asterin clasped his shoulder. "In and out, quick as you can," she warned him. "Take care of Narene." Worry indeed shone in the Second's gold-flecked black eyes. Dorian bowed his head. "With my life," he promised as he approached her mount and grasped the dangling reins. He didn't fail to miss the gratitude that softened Asterin's features. Or that Manon had already turned away from him.

A fool to start down this path with her. He should have known better.

The hours that passed were some of the longest of Manon's existence.

From anticipation, she told herself. Of what she had to do.

Abraxos, unsurprisingly, found them within an hour, his reins sliced from the struggle he'd no doubt waged and won with Sorrel. He waited, however, beside Manon in silence, wholly focused upon the gate where Dorian and Narene had vanished.

Time dripped by. The king's sword was constant weight at her side. She cursed herself for needing to prove-to him, to herself-that she refused to let him go into Morath for practical, ordinary reasons. Erawan wasn't at the Ferian Gap. It'd be safer. Somewhat. But if the Matrons were there … That was why he'd gone. To learn if they were. To see if Petrah truly commanded the host there, and how many Ironteeth were present. He had not been trained as a spy, but he'd grown up in a court where people wielded smiles and clothes like weapons. He knew how to blend in, how to listen. How to make people see what they wished to see. She'd sent Elide into the dungeons of Morath, Darkness damn her. Sending the King of Adarlan into the Ferian Gap was no different.

It didn't stop her breath from escaping when Abraxos stiffened, scanning the sky. As if he heard something they couldn't.

And it was the joy that sparked in her mount's eyes that told her.

Moments later, Narene sailed toward them, making a lazy path over the mountains, a dark-haired, pale-skinned rider atop her. He'd truly been able to change parts of himself. Had made his face nearly unrecognizable. And kept it that way.

Asterin rushed toward the mare, and even Manon blinked as her Second threw her arms around Narene's neck. Holding her tight. The mare only leaned her head against Asterin's back and huffed.

Manon hadn't dwelled long on what she'd say.

And as the three hundred Ironteeth witches filed into the hall, some coming off their patrols, Manon half wondered if she should have. They watched her, watched the Thirteen, with a wary disdain.

Their disgraced Wing Leader; their fallen Heir.

When all were gathered, Petrah, still standing in the doorway where she'd appeared, merely said, "My life debt for an audience, Blackbeak."

Manon swallowed, her tongue as dry as paper. Seated atop Abraxos, she could see every shifting movement in the crowd, the wide eyes or hands gripping swords.

"I will not tell you the particulars of who I am," Manon said at last. "For I think you have already heard them."

"Crochan bitch," someone spat.

Manon set her eyes on the Blackbeaks, stone-faced where the others bristled with hatred. It was for them she spoke, for them she had come here.

jacket, then hoisting up her white shirt. Rising in the stirrups to bare her scarred, brutalized abdomen. "She does not lie."

UNCLEAN

There, the word remained stamped. Would always be stamped.

"How many of you," Asterin called out, "have been similarly branded? By your Matron, by your coven leader? How many of you have had your stillborn witchlings burned before you might hold them?"

The silence that fell now was different from before. Shaking shuddering.

Manon glanced at the Thirteen to find tears in Ghislaine's eyes as she took in the brand on Asterin's womb. Tears in the eyes of all of them, who had not known. And it was for those tears, which Manon had never seen, that she faced the host again.

"You will be killed in this war, or after it. And you will never see our homeland again."

"What is it that you want, Blackbeak?" Petrah asked from the archway.

"Ride with us," Manon breathed. "Fly with us.

Against Morath. Against the people who would keep you from your homeland, your future." Murmuring broke out again. Manon pushed ahead, "An Ironteeth-Crochan alliance. Perhaps one to break our curse at last."

Again, that shuddering silence. Like a storm about to break Asterin sat back in the saddle, but kept her shirt open.

"The choice of how our people's future shall be shaped is yours," Manon told each of the witches assembled, all the Blackbeaks who might fly to war and never return. "But I will tell you this." Her hands shook, and she fisted them on her thighs. "There is a better world out there. And I have seen it."

Even the Thirteen looked toward her now.

"I have seen witch and human and Fae dwell together in peace. And it is not weakness to do so, but a strength. I have met kings and queens whose love for their kingdoms, their peoples, is so great that the self is secondary. Whose love for their people is so strong that even in the face of unthinkable odds, they do the impossible."

Manon lifted her chin. "You are my people. Whether my grandmother decrees it so or not, you are my people, and always will be. But I will fly against you, if need be, to ensure that there is a future for those who cannot fight for it themselves. Too long have we preyed on the weak, relished doing so. It is time that we became better than our foremothers." The words she had given the Thirteen months ago. "There is a better world out there," she said again. "And I will fight for it." She turned Abraxos away, toward the plunge behind them. "Will you?"

Manon nodded to Petrah. Eyes bright, the Heir only nodded back. They would be permitted to leave as they had arrived: unharmed.

So Manon nudged Abraxos, and he leaped into the sky, the Thirteen following suit.

Not a child of war. But of peace.

[murdocs-sweetheart]

Also like. The way Matty tells him she knows he’s more human than he’d have us believe. The way that you can tell it makes him SO uncomfortable and yea he does a decent job of hiding it but you can see it in his body language, the tension- he hates being reminded that he has all the same human failings as the rest of us. Those failings being compassion and altruism and the like lol

He’s got this carefully crafted persona (among others, each to fit an alias of his own creation) that he manages to keep up for most everyone around him.

He wants to be seen as a threat and so he is. Partially because he actually IS but also bc he leans so heavily into the unfeeling, cruel killer vibe.

He does this on purpose. And yea, some of it is just how he is, but a lot of it is him playing into everyone’s existing assumptions about him.

I do think that Murdoc is simultaneously both aware of the way he uses other peoples beliefs about him to construct his personality and also somehow oblivious to the fact that he does this just like how everyone else is a sum of their interactions with other people.

I think even he doesn’t realize how human he is sometimes, having denied that narrative of existence for so long. He forgets that he is just as human as the rest of us and he’s not happy about being reminded of it-

But like with every emotion he expresses, it’s done through several intricate layers of deceit.

He doesn’t really know if he remembers the last time he was open and earnest about any of his feelings-

Prior to me, anyway…

Something about me just.. made it easy to talk to me. Too easy. At first, he thought perhaps it was the anonymity of a computer screen between us. But as time went on and we learned more about each other (him finding out waaaayy more about me,at first, than I did about him) he realized that it was something about me specifically.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it but something about me was just enrapturing to him. He found himself baring his feelings to me about stupid, mundane stuff that he wouldn’t have to anyone else, in a million years.

It really was little things but those little things were so earnest in comparison to his usual deceptive behavior. He would tell me about how his day was, on the days when he didn’t have a hit to carry out, so he didn’t have to lie to me. He wanted to be able to be as honest as possible with me. That feeling in and of itself baffled him beyond comprehension.

And yet he kept doing it. Murdoc kept giving me little bits and pieces of his truth and I kept them with great care.

When we finally did meet up in person, it struck him, how much of an effect I had on him. How vulnerable I made him feel in some ways. And many months ago, before he’d encountered me, this feeling would’ve probably caused him to kill me- eliminating the source of his vulnerability.

But he was in too deep now. There was no way he could bring himself to kill me. Absolutely no way.

And it hit him, Matty had been right-

he was far more human than he’d ever let anyone know.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

hello!! i just want to tell you that your art is so goddamn scrumptious, you are literally feeding my xmen brainrot and I find myself smiling when i see your art come across my feed. I love how you draw charles, pretty privilege and post (lets be fr he's serving every time)

i hope you always have fantastic brainrot and id kiss your blessed hands for giving us the gift of cherik and charles xavier, you are literally an icon

hope you have a great day ahead of you and more!! you deserve it !!

well i'ma absolutely have a wonderful mornin after readin this AWWWW thank you so so much !!!! i haven't been postin xmen long, so it's been really heartwarmin seein the warm reception to my work in the wonderful tags people have been leavin on my posts- and especially gettin to answer the lovely asks y'all've been sendin in (❁´ ▽ `❁) !! im glad people also like my goofy text posts and esp quotes from my brother he really has no right being so funny at the most random times

i hope to be xmen posting a while: ive got at least 60 years worth of stuff to look through and ongoing, so i dont imagine my interest'll wane anytime soon :]] !!

[rxttenfish]

finally reading a chuck tingle book and. i'm. mmm.

[pochapal]

back to the magic/gambling thing that was brought up like forever ago

[figureitoutinthemorning]

He has decided to join me for Floor Time.

[maxiwaxipads]

Romarriche - “Your company is one of a kind… I would never lie to you. I would never say a half-truth or be quiet.” “What is it in your mind, Merold?” “Hearing your voice, complaint or not—it is music to me either way.” Merold - “If there is one constant in this world… Let it be you.” “You’re the cruelest and the kindest thing that happened to me.” “…If only you continued to look at me like that.” Romarriche - “…Merold?” Merold - “But~ It’s only a minor case of bad-mood-itis.” “So Romarriche, spoil me with a spar, will you?” Romarriche - “Merold.” Romarriche - “Look at me.” Merold - “…” Romarriche - “Is something… Wrong?” Merold - “Instead of a spar…” “I might want to lie down on your lap after all.”

[loverofallthingssmart]

number one suffering glorifier here. i hope they never recover i love bad endings i love sitting in the weight of misery literally so beautiful. its like an secret indulgence

[edderfly]

Edd

Edd

[great-tusk]

vent under the cut because I’m embarrassed. but no tws I can think of, so idk what to put here.

Lowkey don’t even think my oldest friends (isn’t saying too much, was like three years) are my friends anymore. I had a server for close friends and I’ve had like two people respond to me once and one short gaming sesh in months. And I try to talk like daily. I send things I think people would like, I talk about things going on with me, I send cute things, and literally nobody responds to any of it. So I think I’m going to stop trying and admit to myself that these people have not considered me friends for months and start trying to get over it 👍.

I literally sent a “hey guys I miss you!!!” message because it was the only way I could think to say it without sounding like I was guilt tripping and only one person responded only to say they’d be more active and they haven’t sent another message since.