#SOMETHING SOMETHING TRUTH. OR THE LACK OF IT.

[elbdot]

Ooooo. Alola disliking Mega evolutions but Haru and Guzma being okay with Dyna-/Gigantamaxing is so fun take

My understanding of pokemon lore and gimmick mechanisms are vague at the best, but honestly... If we remove the increase of size, what is the difference between mega evolutions and gigantamaxing?

Is Alolans issues with megas based on how it "forces" a physical change and therefore potentially painful for the pokemon? Gigantamaxing does the exact same thing or even "worse" changes (in my personal opinion: mega vs dynamax gengar)

Is their issue about mega evolution making the pokemon more violent? Dynamax raids and a huge part of the Galar story line proofs that dynamaxing does the exact same thing. One could even say it is even more dangerous since it can not be predicted/controlled without modern science.

Is it because Megas are based on "mystery energy"? Again... Dynamaxing...

So either there is history between Galos and Alola that has lead to huge bias or Alolans just like Galar's culture more due the similarities it shares with their own (the Galar Legue being quite similar to Alola's Island Challenge but with a big stadium fight at the end)

As said... I probably forgetting some lore that explains this all (outside the multiverse and Alola being older region than Galar, ergo could not comment about Dynamaxing in their pokedex) but I am really interested to see how the boys will justify their stand on dyna-/gigantamaxing IF you decide to take the story there.

I postponed answering this ask to THIS WEEK since my reply would've been quite spoilery for todays update

PERSONALLY I like to think that Guzma and Hau *ahem, excuse my strong language* are talking out of their asses and don't actually know much about Dynamaxing/Gigantamaxing and especially not the problems Galar is facing due to the unstable energies causing Pokemon to randomly turn gigantic in the wild.

If they were more informed about it, I think they'd be far more critical of it, since you are correct: Dynamaxing causes FAR more damage and is an active threat in the region, unlike mega evolution, which is a state that doesn't randomly happen and CAN be controlled.

But Hau and Guzma literally only know Dynamaxing from watching the League matches on TV - and with Galar hosting one of the biggest and most reputable Leagues in the world, how could there POSSIBLY be anything wrong with Gigantamaxing, riiiight?

It's the typical scenario we're all too familiar with of knowing a little bit but thinking we know everything about something without actually having done much research on the topic.

[righteousknighteous]

The steady beeping ought to be considered cruel and unusual punishment. There wasn't even a TV or a radio. Perhaps if there were SOME form of enrichment, the incessant nothingness might be considered background noise. The island had been a nightmare. Apart from those four-legged amphibious creatures with one big eye. They were okay.

But everything else was a mess.

The only thing that made it all better was being able to burn down the part of the island that was just jungle. At least that made a big enough fire to catch the attention of a nearby Border Patrol boat.

They... WERE Border Patrol, weren't they? They had the uniforms and the markings, but what was in that medicinal shot they injected? And why was it sleep-inducing?

Regardless, at least this is a hospital. Civilization. People. Everything will be fine once recovery is complete.

But there's a feeling. A feeling of being watched. This little private recovery room is nice and all, but there's something about the shut curtains on the windows that's really becoming concerning.

Bringing the IV drip is nothing like the movies. Or maybe it's exactly like that? Hard to say. At some point, it's left behind. Why bother? The magick seems to heal passively anyway. The door is more... fireproof than normal wooden doors. The magick is normally far more effective against even stone than flimsy wooden doors and glass windows. It takes some effort to blast the door off its hinges, only for soldiers in fancy black armour to storm in. There's something about their weapons that feels like they're tailor made to deal with Magick, and the scientist behind them is even dressed in sleepwear (a dove onesie, hood up, mittens off). Like she feels no threat while stood behind her four guards and was disturbed from rest. She has a clipboard and fancy pen (or mechanical pencil, hard to say) with her, and pushes up her reading glasses with a single finger as she observes it, mainly.

"Subject 89, as the only survivor of the Flight ER-63241 crash on the now disused Site 1, I have a few questions to ask you. You are expected to comply and answer with the truth or else we'll switch to doing things the cruel way. First and foremost..."

She looks up from her clipboard at last, her face a picture of seriousness, and a lack of humour or life behind her eyes.

"What the FUCK happened out there?"

You're in a hospital after surviving for 3 years in the wilderness. What a way to find out that plane crash didn't isekai you. Once everything settles down, you begin to wonder... If this wasn't another world, how are you able to use magic now, and why did that island have demon beasts?

[spencessocks]

through the silence

summary: bucky struggles with his inner demons and fear of hurting you, keeping you at a distance with his whiskey and self-doubt.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 3k

warnings: angsty sad bucky with a little bit of a drinking problem, happy ending

you fiddled with the lock, hands full with bags from the grocery store. the door swung open, he‘s sitting on the couch, seemingly zoning out before turning his head to you as he sees you walk inside, his gaze grumpy as usual.

"hi, buck." you said with a sigh.

after his pardon, you'd thought that it would all be a fresh start. he had been home for months, but the weight of the past never left him. his court-mandated therapy had maybe helped somewhat, but whiskey was what helped dull the edges, numbing the guilt and the nightmares.

the serum running through his veins made it hard for him to ever truly be drunk, but it wasn't for a lack of trying.

he nods silently as a greeting before taking another sip from his whiskey bottle, his eyes narrowing into a curious look as he gives you a once-over. he watches you from the couch for a moment, his eyes following you as you entered the kitchen. he couldn’t help but glance at the grocery bag you had set down.

“..whatcha got there?“

your eyes met his as you looked up at him.

"if you want more whiskey, you're out of luck." you quipped.

bucky let out a soft huff of annoyance at your blunt comment. he leaned back on the couch, his gaze shifting to the television instead.

“was just trying to make conversation, that's all.“

you let out a small 'mhm'. you couldn't help it. it seemed like every exchange you shared nowadays was some passive-aggressive back-and-forth, a dance between anger and frustration. you sighed, pulling out the groceries and setting them on the counter, trying to ignore the pit in your stomach. it was getting harder to reach him, to find the man beneath the silence and whiskey haze.

it wasn't always like this, you remembered when he first came home—how he tried, at least for a little while. he went to therapy, tried to keep a routine, even let himself smile every now and then. but that didn’t last. the weight of it all was too much, and he started retreating, piece by piece, until all that was left was this—Bucky Barnes, slumped on the couch, a bottle in hand, eyes empty.

it all had happened gradually. you had, in some ways, gotten used to this life. some days were harder than others, but you had largely given up trying to get through to him.

you wanted to help him—you really did—but the truth was, you didn’t know how. you had tried everything: patience, encouragement, giving him space, then not giving him space. nothing worked. every time you reached out, it felt like grasping at smoke, like trying to hold onto someone who had already decided to let go.

and maybe that was the worst part—you didn’t know if he even wanted your help. if he wanted to get better. if he wanted you around at all.

you were struggling too, though you never said it out loud. the weight of it all—watching him disappear into himself, the nights spent lying awake, wishing for things to be different and yearning for the past. it was exhausting.

so you stopped saying much of anything.

every conversation led to nowhere. empty words, half-hearted replies, moments that used to mean something, now stretched thin with tension. you missed him—even if he was right there.

but you stayed despite it all. you pathetically clung on to the moments you shared that weren't drenched in silence or awkwardness. like the nights when, despite everything, he still pulled you close.

there were times, in the quiet of the dark, when he would reach for you, almost instinctively. his arm would wrap around your waist, his fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt like he was afraid you’d slip away. he never said much, but you felt it—the way his breathing evened out when you traced circles on his back, the way his body relaxed against yours, like you were the only thing grounding him.

every nightmare he had, you were right there by his side. it was just routine now. you knew the exact things to say and do to bring him the comfort he so badly needed.

some mornings, if you were lucky, you’d wake up with his head buried in the crook of your neck, his hair tickling your skin, his hold just a little tighter, like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet. and then there were the rare days when he’d find you in the kitchen, his arms sneaking around your waist, pressing a sleepy kiss to your shoulder, mumbling something about how beautiful you were.

those moments kept you tethered to him, to the hope that maybe, somewhere beneath the weight he carried, the bucky you loved was still there.

bucky’s eyes were back to the television, but it was clear he wasn’t really watching it. the silence between you hung heavy, filled with all the things neither of you knew how to say. you turned around, packing away the groceries, and you could feel the weight of his stare on your back.

bucky let out a sigh, his voice low as he spoke again. “you know, it’s been a while since you’ve even tried to talk to me.”

you froze, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter, feeling a sudden tightness in your chest. you wanted to say something, to turn around and face him. but you couldn't. did he really think that things were fine?

you were worn down emotionally. it had been a while since you had tried to talk about things, and you felt pressure rising in your chest. you didn't know if you wanted to shout or cry. you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. you could feel it building inside you, the way it twisted your insides, the frustration that threatened to spill over. you didn’t want to snap at him, didn’t want this to end in a round of hurt feelings, but you were so tired, so damn tired of pretending that everything was okay when it wasn’t.

"i don’t know how, bucky," you said, your voice bearly above a whisper. "i don’t know how much longer i can keep doing this."

you couldn't face him in this moment. you didn't want to see the look on his face. a moment of silence passed between you, the weight of your words hanging heavily in the air.

a soft thud echoed through the room, the bottle of whiskey now on the coffee table. you heard footsteps approching the kitchen island.

"what are you saying?" he exclaimed, his voice cautious.

your heart felt heavy, weighed down by the truth you could no longer keep to yourself. you still couldn’t face him. you couldn't bring yourself to meet his eyes, afraid that if you did, the dam inside you would break. you weren’t sure if you were ready for that, or if you could even handle it. you weren't good at things like this.

“i don’t know, that i'm tired,” you whispered, your hands gripping the counter harder.

“i’m not just tired, bucky. i’m... i’m exhausted. mentally, emotionally... you can’t keep pushing me away like this and expect me to stay strong. i’m trying—i really am—but i don’t know how much longer i can keep pretending like i'm okay when i'm not."

your head hung low as you tried to maintain your composure. you slowly turned around to face him, your hands trembling slightly.

you could see his posture stiffen, the way his eyes shifted, guilty and conflicted. he opened his mouth to say something, but the words escaped him. you averted your gaze, unable to keep your eyes on his.

"i don’t want to leave. i don’t want to walk away from you, but i can’t keep losing myself in this—in us. i can’t keep putting on a brave face when every part of me feels like i'm drowning. i just don’t know how to keep going like this.” you had put it all out there, wiping a tear that you hadn’t realized had fallen.

you wanted to feel like you weren’t alone in this, like he would hear you and see you, but you weren’t sure if he would. you weren’t sure if anything would ever change. and that was the most painful, terrifying part—the possibility that time wouldn't heal this.

you tried not to think about it. losing him. the love you felt for him, you knew that would never go away—you'd live the rest of your life wishing things had been different.

finally, his voice broke through the quiet, rough and hesitant. “i didn’t mean for it to be like this," he said, his words slow, almost unsure. "i didn’t mean to make you feel like you’re... alone in this. i know I’ve been pushing you away.”

"but i don’t know how to fix it. i don’t know how to be... the guy you need me to be, not when I can barely stand myself.” he sighed, rubbing the back of his head.

your breath hitched in your throat, suprised at the vulnerability he was suddenly presenting you.

“i just—i'm scared, okay? scared that i'll make it worse, that i’ll drag you down with me.”

there was an ache in his words, a deep and raw honesty that you hadn’t heard in so long.

you stood still for a moment, letting his words settle in the space between you. his honesty hit you hard, more than you expected, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t just angry or frustrated. you felt a sadness—because you knew he didn’t want to be like this. you just couldn’t seem to find a way out of the mess you both were tangled in.

you finally met his eyes. your heart twisted at the vulnerability there, the way he seemed to shrink under the weight of it all. god, how did you get here?

“i…” you paused, swallowing the lump in your throat, fighting the wave of emotion that threatened to break through. “i’m scared too.”

“i’m scared that i'm losing you. sometimes i feel like i already have. i tried so hard, and i couldn't reach you. and i don’t know how to keep going like this, with this distance between us.”

you wiped your hand across your eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay, despite some of them having already escaped. “i don’t know how to help you when you won’t let me in, when you push me away like i'm... like i’m just a part of the mess you’re trying to escape.” your voice cracked at the end of your sentence, you looked away—taking a deep breath to compose yourself.

“but I’m not going anywhere, bucky. i’m here, and i'm trying to understand, even when it feels impossible. i just… i need you to meet me halfway. i can’t fix this alone.”

Bucky’s gaze softened, his eyes locked onto yours with a mixture of blame and something deeper—something almost like relief. relief that even after everything, you still were extending him an olive branch.

he wandered around to the other side of the kitchen island seperating you, now at your side.

your hands were softly clutching the edge of the counter, searching for comfort.

bucky stood there for a moment, just close enough that you could feel the heat of his presence, but far enough that the space between you still felt heavy. the quiet in the room stretched on, thick with unspoken words, as if he was gathering the courage to say something. then, without warning, he reached out, his hand brushing against yours, tentative, like he wasn’t sure whether you would pull away.

you didn’t.

he sighed, an abysmal, worn-out sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep within him.

“i'm sorry,” he murmured, his voice low, barely above a whisper. “i didn’t mean to push you away. i didn’t mean to make you feel like you’re not enough.” he paused, his thumb brushing lightly over your hand, the movement barely perceptible. “i’ve got these thoughts, these... memories that i can’t get rid of. they don’t stop. and sometimes, i’m afraid that one day, they’ll take over, and i’ll lose control. i know i was deprogrammed, i know he's gone, but the fear—it's still there. deep down, it’s still there."

he paused, swallowing hard, the weight of his admission sinking in. “i keep thinking that one day, i’m gonna snap, and i’ll hurt you. you’re the best thing that’s happened to me, i feel so undeserving of you. you’re everything I’ve ever wanted, everything good in this messed up world, and i... i don’t know how to be the man you deserve. i don’t know how to be the person you see when you look at me."

you breathed his name softly, "bucky..." your voice unsure, a mix of compassion and concern threading through each syllable.

he shook his head, running his free hand over his face as if trying to erase the doubts he couldn’t shake. "i’ve done horrible things. things i’ll never be able to make up for, no matter how hard I try. you know that. even now, i feel like i’m still that same broken soldier, still capable of hurting the people i love. you don’t deserve someone like me."

his words came out with such quiet devastation that it made your chest tighten even further. you could see how much he was struggling with the weight of his past, how it felt like a shadow he couldn’t escape, no matter how much time had passed.

"i look at you, and i see all the love and kindness you’ve given me, and i just—i feel like I’m not enough, like i’ll never be enough."

you felt an overwhelming mix of empathy and frustration swirling inside you. you loved him so much, more than he could ever know, and yet here he was, convinced that he wasn’t worthy of you. it hurt, but what hurt even more was that he couldn’t see it—that you had chosen him, not just once, but every single day. through every struggle, every painful argument, you had stayed.

"you don’t get to do that. you don’t get to act like you know what’s best for me, like my feelings don’t matter. i love you, bucky. i chose you. not because you’re perfect, not because i expect you to be someone you’re not, but because i see you. you. and i want you, just as you are."

you turned your body towards him, your eyes now staring up at him intently.

"you keep saying you’re scared of hurting me, but don’t you see? this—pushing me away, shutting me out like i'm not capable of helping you carry your burdens—that hurts more than anything else ever could." you exhaled sharply, trying to steady yourself. "i don’t need you to be perfect. i just need you to let me in."

you gripped his hand tightly in yours. bucky’s breath hitched as he stared down at you, his adam’s apple bobbing with the force of the emotions he was trying to hold back. his fingers twitched in your grip, and for a second, you thought he might pull away.

his chest rose and fell with a shaky breath, his blue eyes flickering back and forth into your intense stare. he was searching—maybe for reassurance, maybe for proof that you really meant every word. “i don’t know what to do.” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper, his eyes leaving yours as he stared off into the kitchen.

"let me in. that's your only choice if you want me to stay." you said, practically a demand.

bucky swallowed hard before his gaze finally met yours again. there was hesitation there, fear still lingering in the depths of his tired eyes, but there was something else, too—something softer, something that looked a little like hope.

he exhaled, shaky and uncertain, but then he gave a small nod. “okay,” he murmured. “i'll try.���

relief flooded through you, and you reached for his hand again, giving it a firm squeeze. “that’s all I need,” you said gently. “just try.”

bucky looked down at your joined hands for a moment, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin before he let out a quiet, almost self-deprecating chuckle. “guess that means i should probably start by putting down the damn bottle, huh?”

a small smile tugged at your lips despite the heavy conversation. “wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

without another word, bucky turned, walking back toward the couch where his nearly empty whiskey bottle sat on the coffee table. he hesitated only briefly before reaching for it, lifting it just enough to stare at the amber liquid inside. then, with a deep breath, he stood up straighter and walked toward the kitchen sink.

you watched as he uncapped it, his fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle before tilting it over the drain. the scent of whiskey filled the air as the liquid splashed against the metal, swirling away until nothing was left.

bucky set the empty bottle down with a quiet clink, then looked back at you. his expression was unreadable for a moment before he nodded, hands on his hips, as if trying to convince himself of his own decision. “there. that’s a start, right?”

you stepped closer, pressing your forehead softly against his shoulder, your fingers curling gently around his waist. “yeah,” you whispered. “that’s a start.”

he lifted his arms and wrapped them around you, pulling you into his chest. it wasn’t desperate or suffocating—it was sweet, careful. you melted into him.

he buried his face against your hair, his breath warm against your skin. “thank you, doll.” he murmured, so soft you barely heard it.

you squeezed him a little tighter, your fingers pressing into his back. “always.”

[thesensteawitch]

Something Is About To Be Revealed To You 🕊️

Pick A Pile Reading

Hey, lovely humans!

This is a collective reading so take what resonates and leave what doesn't.

To book a personal tarot reading with me either you can DM me or directly book from the link mentioned below:

Booking Form • Rate Card

Pile 1

Oh, you don't know how powerful you are! Soon you'll realize that your intuition has always been right about what path you must walk on. You don't know how successful you can be. Despite having a chaotic thought pattern, you have the strength to unravel the knots that bind you to a limited construct. Life will show you why it was necessary for you to walk away from certain connections. Currently you're healing a shadow of yours, but you're about to come out of it. You'll rise above the challenges and will realize it was no one but you who decided your life to unfold the way it did. You may feel that you're a restless rat, always distracted. But all this confusion is leading you to the truth. Your path is messy, confusing, and pretty lonesome, but you are very, very close to a breakthrough. This breakthrough is changing you from within and outside. Your intuition is telling you that something better is coming, but it's not here yet, right? Trust it while you're on your way to a better and more deserving reality. The only advice coming from the source for you is to stay focused on your goal. Don't change your plans just because you haven't seen the results yet. If you keep changing your plans, you'll only bring more delays and confusion. If you're wearing something in beige, white, black, or red, then this reading is definitely for you! Angel number 222. Ending this at 2:22 (You're on the right path!)

Pile 2

Soon you're being revealed to a whole new world. You seem so bored with where you are currently. Something unexpected can come in the form of a new idea or money that is going to make you feel more confident to start a new journey. You want to create something, but you lack direction or an outlet. You're soon receiving a call from the divine to do something extraordinary. You don't need to look for this blessing. It will naturally come to you within 3-4 days. Don't lose hope. And if you're wondering why this new idea and resources are coming to you, then the reason for it is your past karmas. It's a reward from the source. For a very few of you, I also feel that someone's going to reveal their feelings for you. This person has been waiting for the right moment to make a move. They are going to take a leap of faith toward you as you mean the world to them. And all of this is not happening randomly. As I said, it's a reward for your own actions. You've been waiting to see the difference in the outside world for the difference you have made within you. A lot of you have given so much time into loving and taking care of yourself that it is going to be reflected in your surroundings as well. Someone sees you as spiritual, grounded, and friendly. Also, as you begin this new project with the idea/resource/offer that you're about to receive, you'll be surprised to see how talented you are. Don't be so hopeless. I know a lot hasn't worked out in the past but this time if you choose to accept this blessing your whole world will change. Love finds you; you don't find it. Strength finds you; you don't find it. Wisdom finds you; you don't find it. You just need to keep your channel empty to receive from the divine. 444 is your angel number. If you're wearing something in brown, blue, orange, or yellow, then this reading is definitely for you.

Pile 3

You are on your way to understanding the divine. You're doing this by being less self critical and more accepting of your shadows. You're no longer afraid of the darkness because you know that to embrace light, one must accept the dark too. Currently you're choosing to live in solitude to receive the message from the source. Some of you are receiving messages through songs. Whatever you're seeking currently is intense. And what you seek is seeking you. So what's about to be revealed to you is exactly what you're trying to understand. This pile doesn't feel that God is too far to reach out to, but you wonder what makes your shadow feel that way. You're not suppressing anymore. You're embracing all of you! So beautiful and serene, pile 3. I also feel that a lot of you are wishing to find a divine love where both choose to heal together without being codependent. The song, ‘Dandelions,' can be significant. The deep reflection that you're in is bringing you closer to union. This union of Shiva & Shakti is happening within you first. What divine love feels like will soon be revealed to you. It feels like you're choosing to dive into your darkness and find the diamond. You're doing something only few dare to do. I am also getting the vibes of Mula and Ardra nakshatras. Deep and intense transformations bring wisdom to you. You're evolving, and the truth shall soon be revealed to you. Keep going and do the right thing while you traverse through this narrow path. If you're wearing something in grey or purple, then this reading is definitely for you.

[nrhshm]

Hello, I would like to have headcanons on what he likes and what he hates in a woman (Mihawk, One Piece). Thank you 🥰

Heya! I’m actually ınterested to know too! Lets fınd out together now, shall we? ☺️

Likes VS Dislikes in an S/o: Mihawk

● Likes ●

1. Grace and Poise

I MUST begin with this one, as Mihawk's known to carry himself with an air of nobility and grace wherever he went.

Thus, it is a standard upon all tolerable human beings to present themselves the same way.

And most importantly: His beautiful S/o.

HOWEVER, you'd be surprised to learn about Mihawk's second taste in women.

2. Opposites Attract

I'm not talking about this as a trope, but rather as something quite practical and possible.

A man who has spent his entire life living alone in a draculian castle with a gloomy, dark cloud above his head, and his job was just killing governmental targets and waiting for Zoro to get stronger. THE MAN NEEDS SOME SPICE!

So if a woman of smiles and spontaneity comes into his life, he will find himself strangely drawn in to know more.

Of course, not after trying to repulsively avoid her in any way possible.

It's a Yin and Yang compatibility, an eclipse where the both of them together can create something absolutely magical!

3. Independence and Strength

Okay this is a solid one. Every love story involves a woman depending on a man to protect her from any danger, and Mihawk is ready to put his title on the line if it comes to his s/o's safety.

But! Mihawk would find it more fascinating if his lover was able to handle herself efficiently during battle. Even better! It would straight up boost his ego, priding himself in her strength. He would even give her a subtle head rub or him just carassing her face with a soft expression.

4. Intelligence and Wit

Make no mistake, Mihawk hates naivety. Period.

The man appreciates a daily boost of knowledge and information, a challenging discussion that could lead him to new depths, or one of those debates where he keeps winning everytime.

His s/o can be clumsy, optimistic and almost out of this world, but he cannot bear a naive woman that takes things for granted and isn't grounded to reality's harsh truths.

Afterall, and as he puts it himself: "I'm not a kindergarten teacher."

Add to that trait, the last and most important one...

5. A Subtle, Unspoken Loyalty

And that is an understatement to every man, but to Mihawk it's a ground rule.

Loyalty is the most important thing to a swordsman, and loyalty is tested and proven in the most dire situations. And if his s/o does prove her loyalty to him, Mihawk will view her in a whole new light, a treasure in this world that shouldn't be wasted. His trust in her will be blind, and he will make sure to live up to her trust as much as that.

Mihawk is naturally loyal. If he loves you, he's loyal. If he loves you, he immediately becomes trusting and dependable.

This man is one of a kind when he's in love. DON'T TAKE HIM FOR GRANTED!!

○ Dislikes ○

1.Disrespect for His Solitude

It's a known fact that Mihawk enjoys his personal space and quiet lifestyle. It's something that will stay with him for the rest of his life.

So please, the "I can fix him" trope is out of the question.

A woman who tries to invade that without understanding his need for isolation would not last with him. If she does not respect his personal boundaries even as a married couple, Mihawk will cross a bold X on that. He can not tolerate foolish boldness to that extent.

2. Lack of Self-Respect

This one is quite obvious. Mihawk is a man who respects himself and expects the same from his partner.

So, a woman who constantly belittles herself, lacks confidence, or allows herself to be treated poorly would be unappealing to him.

What DOES appeal to Mihawk are the extraordinary, the people who stand out in a crowd.

Thus, petty habits such as this is a BIG no to him.

3. Lack of Intelligence or Depth

I've already mentioned this one. Mihawk hates the naive, pointless people.

He doesn’t seem interested in shallow or airheaded individuals. A woman with no depth in conversation or who lacks critical thinking would bore him. As simple as that.

4. Overly Competitive in an Annoying Way

I DID say, that Mihawk respects a strong independent woman, who can handle herself in tight situations.

But don't mix strength with delusion. This man dislikes pointless arrogance or someone trying to "prove" themselves to people constantly.

A woman who seeks to challenge him without true substance would be unimpressive and empty.

Yeah. These are the key highlights of Mihawk's refined taste in women. Good luck y'all!! 🤭❤️

[reallylilyreally]

(way more than) Seven Sentence Sun(Mon)day

tagged by @swifty-fox and giving you a sneak peek of "wild and wilder", which is the Bucks/Marge section of second string

“You and him make perfect sense,” John says, pulling back on the grief a little and buttoning up. “You can be together easily, no one will think twice or look twice, you can be married in a few years and happy and that will all be fine and wonderful.”

It's the truth, exactly what Gale knows he should want, what he used to want, from some faceless woman, before he knew them both, and he looks at Marge and knows they are both thinking the same thing. It wouldn't be enough.

“And me and him,” John goes on. “We could have something, maybe, for as long as we're stationed together, behind closed doors, as long as we're careful. I know men who do, who get away with it, but it's not for keeping. And I don't think I could start knowing I couldn't keep it.”

Gale has a dim vision of how that could be, getting to have John, his body and his mouth and his boundless love, and then having to give it up. Me neither.

“But you and me, Marge? Yeah, we could fall in love, we could do that, maybe, but we shouldn't. It'd destroy you and him. It'd destroy you. We should leave things as they are. I'm not going to ruin your reputation.”

Gale is supposed to be a leader. He's supposed to be able to identify the way forward, to make men fall in line, to make them believe in what can be done. He's supposed to be a gambler, he was born to it, he's supposed to be able to roll the dice. 

He does nothing.

Marge blows a raspberry. 

“Nonsense,” she says, and then laughs when they both jump at the noise. “Utter nonsense. Maybe that's true for ordinary people, maybe that's true if you've got no spine and no imagination, but you're not ordinary people. You're not ordinary men, you're pilots. And I know for a fact that neither of you lack spine or imagination.”

Gale smothers a laugh in his napkin because he doesn't know what else to do with the look on John's face.

“Don't be a coward, John,” Marge says kindly. “It doesn't suit you.”

tagging @euph0riacc and @escrivoir and @whirlpool-blogs

[loz-untold-myths]

♡ Untold Myths: Light & Time Event [2025] ♡

Day 2 | Light: Truth | Time: Lie

In the shadow of the thrones and the curtain hung behind them, where she stopped, the Prince of Hyrule lurked in the company of his advisors. Among them were councilmen of his father's court, knights, and three others: the magician he consulted about Zelda’s curse, an expert in herbs and crystals that crafted the finest of elixirs, and his personal bodyguard. Each of them were cloaked, as their counsel was a series of secretive endeavors; the prince sought their guidance with his own goals in mind. “I knew from the moment my soldiers returned that something was amiss.” The prince uttered to them, “If that curse is truly undefeatable, then my sister has already been bested by the prophesied calamity. Fae or not, she is unworthy of that power… Not even this celebration of her life could mask that from our people.” “Then do you suppose your help is no longer needed?” The magician whispered, his voice raspy from lack of use. “On the contrary. I'd like tonight to continue as planned. Zelda will be rid of her burden— one way or another. We will see to that. ” Waving a dismissive hand, the prince silenced any further questions.

I HAD to have at least one piece with Aidan and Zelda (Aidan being her brother's name). I thought they'd fit for a set of opposites; one is seeking a "divine truth" in her powers while the other brews a plot built upon lies. This probably is one of my least favorites of the pieces I've made this week, but it's probably fine. ^^" At the end of this week I'll be filling the "page space" of each illustration with their respective snippet, probably. Not that Zelda's outfit here is the same one she's wearing in the scene, though.

It's not too late to participate if you'd like! This event isn't strict at all. Find more info here! (And everyone else's entries as they're added)!!

Click for better quality!

✨️ Event Master Post

✨️ Untold Myths Master Post

༺

REBLOGGING IS ENCOURAGED, BUT DO NOT REPOST.

[shiftingfawnnn]

Letting Go in Shifting: The Key to Effortless Reality Travel

Shifting is often seen as something difficult, requiring hours of meditation, perfect visualization, or strict adherence to methods. But the truth is, shifting is natural and effortless—when you learn to let go. Many people struggle not because they are incapable of shifting, but because they are holding on too tightly to expectations, doubts, and limiting beliefs.

Letting go is not about giving up. It’s about releasing resistance and trusting that shifting happens when you allow it. When you stop overthinking, stop worrying about how it will happen, and simply let it be, you open the door to effortless shifting.

The Weight of Control

One of the biggest obstacles in shifting is the desire for control. People often think they need to “force” themselves into another reality, checking if it’s working every second, or feeling frustrated when results don’t come immediately. But shifting is not something you push—it’s something you allow.

Think of it like falling asleep. The more you try to force yourself to sleep, the harder it becomes. But when you relax and stop thinking about it, you drift off naturally. Shifting works the same way. If you constantly check, question, or doubt, you keep yourself anchored in your current reality. But when you trust the process and let go, shifting becomes as easy as dreaming.

Releasing Doubt and Fear

Doubt is one of the biggest barriers to shifting. If you are constantly wondering, What if I can’t shift? What if I’m doing it wrong? What if it never works for me?—you are reinforcing the belief that shifting is hard. The mind creates what it believes, so if you focus on struggle, you will experience struggle.

Instead of doubting, try shifting your mindset. Believe that shifting is already happening for you. Tell yourself, I am a limitless being. Shifting is natural. I allow it to happen effortlessly. When you stop fighting against your own mind and simply trust, your reality will shift to match your beliefs.

The Power of Detachment

Detachment does not mean you don’t care about shifting. It means you are no longer desperate for it to happen. When you desperately need to shift, you create resistance. You are telling yourself that you are lacking something, which keeps you in a state of not having.

But when you detach—when you say, Shifting will happen whenever it happens, and I trust that it’s already mine—you free yourself. You stop worrying about time, methods, and results, and shifting becomes effortless. The less you chase it, the easier it flows to you.

A great way to practice detachment is to remind yourself:

• I don’t need to shift—I choose to.

• My consciousness already knows how to shift; I just need to allow it.

• Whether I shift today, tomorrow, or next week, it doesn’t matter. I trust the process.

When you stop worrying about when or how shifting will happen, it happens faster.

Letting Go and Letting It Happen

So how do you actually “let go” when shifting? Here are some simple ways:

1. Stop Overthinking – Shifting does not require a perfect state. You do not need to visualize flawlessly or feel symptoms. Just relax and let it happen naturally.

2. Trust Your Subconscious – Your consciousness already knows how to shift. Give it permission to do so without micromanaging the process.

3. Detach from Time – The more you stress about when you’ll shift, the more resistance you create. Trust that it’s happening in the perfect moment.

4. Enjoy the Journey – Instead of making shifting a stressful goal, make it an exciting experience. Have fun with the process, and shifting will come naturally.

Letting go is the secret to effortless shifting. The moment you stop trying so hard and simply allow yourself to shift, you will. You are already capable, already worthy, and already shifting—just trust, relax, and let it happen.

[freetheshit-outofyou]

@dankempauthor, I boosted your image to share in it's own post because that is spot on. I'm also adding this writing I read a couple times a year that only those who have had blood on their teeth, and felt ALL of life for those chaotic moments of combat can know.

June 26, 2007, 3:51 PM

By Brian Mockenhaupt

I Miss Iraq. I Miss My Gun. I Miss My War.

A year after coming home from a tour in Iraq, a soldier returns home to find out he left something behind.

A few months ago, I found a Web site loaded with pictures and videos from Iraq, the sort that usually aren't seen on the news. I watched insurgent snipers shoot American soldiers and car bombs disintegrate markets, accompanied by tinny music and loud, rhythmic chanting, the soundtrack of the propaganda campaigns. Video cameras focused on empty stretches of road, building anticipation. Humvees rolled into view and the explosions brought mushroom clouds of dirt and smoke and chunks of metal spinning through the air. Other videos and pictures showed insurgents shot dead while planting roadside bombs or killed in firefights and the remains of suicide bombers, people how they're not meant to be seen, no longer whole. The images sickened me, but their familiarity pulled me in, giving comfort, and I couldn't stop. I clicked through more frames, hungry for it. This must be what a shot of dope feels like after a long stretch of sobriety. Soothing and nauseating and colored by everything that has come before. My body tingled and my stomach ached, hollow. I stood on weak legs and walked into the kitchen to make dinner. I sliced half an onion before putting the knife down and watching slight tremors run through my hand. The shakiness lingered. I drank a beer. And as I leaned against this kitchen counter, in this house, in America, my life felt very foreign.

I've been home from Iraq for more than a year, long enough for my time there to become a memory best forgotten for those who worried every day that I was gone. I could see their relief when I returned. Life could continue, with futures not so uncertain. But in quiet moments, their relief brought me guilt. Maybe they assume I was as overjoyed to be home as they were to have me home. Maybe they assume if I could do it over, I never would have gone. And maybe I wouldn't have. But I miss Iraq. I miss the war. I miss war. And I have a very hard time understanding why.

I'm glad to be home, to have put away my uniforms, to wake up next to my wife each morning. I worry about my friends who are in Iraq now, and I wish they weren't. Often I hated being there, when the frustrations and lack of control over my life were complete and mind-bending. I questioned my role in the occupation and whether good could come of it. I wondered if it was worth dying or killing for. The suffering and ugliness I saw disgusted me. But war twists and shifts the landmarks by which we navigate our lives, casting light on darkened areas that for many people remain forever unexplored. And once those darkened spaces are lit, they become part of us. At a party several years ago, long before the Army, I listened to a friend who had served several years in the Marines tell a woman that if she carried a pistol for a day, just tucked in her waistband and out of sight, she would feel different. She would see the world differently, for better or worse. Guns empower. She disagreed and he shrugged. No use arguing the point; he was just offering a little piece of truth. He was right, of course. And that's just the beginning.

I've spent hours taking in the world through a rifle scope, watching life unfold. Women hanging laundry on a rooftop. Men haggling over a hindquarter of lamb in the market. Children walking to school. I've watched this and hoped that someday I would see that my presence had made their lives better, a redemption of sorts. But I also peered through the scope waiting for someone to do something wrong, so I could shoot him. When you pick up a weapon with the intent of killing, you step onto a very strange and serious playing field. Every morning someone wakes wanting to kill you. When you walk down the street, they are waiting, and you want to kill them, too. That's not bloodthirsty; that's just the trade you've learned. And as an American soldier, you have a very impressive toolbox. You can fire your rifle or lob a grenade, and if that's not enough, call in the tanks, or helicopters, or jets. The insurgents have their skill sets, too, turning mornings at the market into chaos, crowds into scattered flesh, Humvees into charred scrap. You're all part of the terrible magic show, both powerful and helpless.

That men are drawn to war is no surprise. How old are boys before they turn a finger and thumb into a pistol? Long before they love girls, they love war, at least everything they imagine war to be: guns and explosions and manliness and courage. When my neighbors and I played war as kids, there was no fear or sorrow or cowardice. Death was temporary, usually as fast as you could count to sixty and jump back into the game. We didn't know yet about the darkness. And young men are just slightly older versions of those boys, still loving the unknown, perhaps pumped up on dreams of duty and heroism and the intoxicating power of weapons. In time, war dispels many such notions, and more than a few men find that being freed from society's professed revulsion to killing is really no freedom at all, but a lonely burden. Yet even at its lowest points, war is like nothing else. Our culture craves experience, and that is war's strong suit. War peels back the skin, and you live with a layer of nerves exposed, overdosing on your surroundings, when everything seems all wrong and just right, in a way that makes perfect sense. And then you almost die but don't, and are born again, stoned on life and mocking death. The explosions and gunfire fry your nerves, but you want to hear them all the same. Something's going down.

For those who know, this is the open secret: War is exciting. Sometimes I was in awe of this, and sometimes I felt low and mean for loving it, but I loved it still. Even in its quiet moments, war is brighter, louder, brasher, more fun, more tragic, more wasteful. More. More of everything. And even then I knew I would someday miss it, this life so strange. Today the war has distilled to moments and feelings, and somewhere in these memories is the reason for the wistfulness.

On one mission we slip away from our trucks and into the night. I lead the patrol through the darkness, along canals and fields and into the town, down narrow, hard-packed dirt streets. Everyone has gone to bed, or is at least inside. We peer through gates and over walls into courtyards and into homes. In a few rooms TVs flicker. A woman washes dishes in a tub. Dogs bark several streets away. No one knows we are in the street, creeping. We stop at intersections, peek around corners, training guns on parked cars, balconies, and storefronts. All empty. We move on. From a small shop up ahead, we hear men's voices and laughter. Maybe they used to sit outside at night, but now they are indoors, where it's safe. Safer. The sheet-metal door opens and a man steps out, cigarette and lighter in hand. He still wears a smile, takes in the cool night air, and then nearly falls backward through the doorway in a panic. I'm a few feet from him now and his eyes are wide. I mutter a greeting and we walk on, back into the darkness.

Another night we're lost in a dust storm. I'm in the passenger seat, trying to guide my driver and the three trucks behind us through this brown maelstrom. The headlights show nothing but swirling dirt. We've driven these roads for months, we know them well, but we see nothing. So we drive slow, trying to stay out of canals and people's kitchens. We curse and we laugh. This is bizarre but a great deal of fun.

Another night my platoon sergeant's truck is swallowed in flames, a terrible, beautiful, boiling bloom of red and orange and yellow, lighting the darkness for a moment. Somehow we don't die, one more time.

Another night, there's McCarthy bitching, the cherry of his cigarette bobbing in the dark, bitching that he won't be on the assault team, that he's stuck as a turret gunner for the night. We'd been out since early that morning, came back for dinner, and are preparing to raid a weapons dealer. Our first real raid. I heave my body armor onto my shoulders, settling its too-familiar weight. Then the helmet and first-aid kit and maps and radio and ammunition and rifle and all the rest. Now I look like everyone else, an arm of this strange and destructive organism, covered in armor and guns. We crowd around a satellite map spread across a Humvee hood and trace our route. Wells, my squad leader, rehearses our movements. Get in quick. Watch the danger zones. If he has a gun, kill him. I look around the group, at these faces I know so well, and feel the collective strength, this ridiculous power. The camaraderie of men in arms plays a part, for sure. The shared misery and euphoria and threat of death. But there is something more: the surrender of self, voluntary or not, to the machine. Do I believe in the war? Not important. Put that away and live in the moment, where little is knowable and even less is controllable, when my world narrows to one street, one house, one room, one door.

We pack into the trucks after midnight, and the convoy snakes out of camp and speeds toward the target house. I sit in a backseat and the fear settles in, a sharp burning in my stomach, same as the knot from hard liquor gulped too fast. I think about the knot. I'll be the first through the door. What if he starts shooting, hits me right in the face before I'm even through the doorway? What if there's two, or three? What if he pitches a grenade at us? And I think about it more and run through the scenarios, planning my movements, imagining myself clearing through the rooms, firing two rounds into the chest, and the knot fades.

The trucks drop us off several blocks from the target house and we slip into the night. As always, the dogs bark. We gather against the high wall outside the house and call in the trucks to block the streets. The action will pass in a flash. But here, before the chaos starts, when we're stacked against the wall, my friends' bodies pressed against me, hearing their quick breaths and my own, there's a moment to appreciate the gravity, the absurdity, the novelty, the joy of the moment. Is this real? Hearts beat strong. Hands grip tight on weapons. Reassurance. The rest of the world falls away. Who knows what's on the other side?

One, two, three, go. We push past the gate and across the courtyard and toward the house, barrels locked on the windows and roof. Wells runs up with the battering ram, a short, heavy pipe with handles, and launches it toward the massive wood door. The lock explodes, the splintered door flies open, and we rush through, just the way we've practiced hundreds of times. No one shoots me in the face. No grenades roll to my feet. I kick open doors. We scan darkened bedrooms with the flashlights on our rifles and move on to the next and the next.

He's gone, of course. We ransack his house, dumping drawers, flipping mattresses, punching holes in the ceiling. We find rifles and grenades and hundreds of pounds of gunpowder. And then, near dawn, we lie down on the thick carpets in his living room and sleep, exhausted and untroubled.

Many, many raids followed. We often raided houses late at night, so people awakened to soldiers bursting through their bedroom doors. Women and children wailed, terrified. Taking this in, I imagined what it would feel like if soldiers kicked down my door at midnight, if I could do nothing to protect my family. I would hate those soldiers. Yet I still reveled in the raids, their intensity and uncertainty. The emotions collided, without resolution.

My wife moved to Iraq partway through my second deployment to live in the north and train Iraqi journalists. She spent her evenings at restaurants and tea shops with her Iraqi friends. We spoke by cell phone, when the spotty network allowed, and she told me about this life I couldn't imagine, celebrating holidays with her colleagues and being invited into their homes. I didn't have any Iraqi friends, save for our few translators, and I'd rarely been invited into anyone's home. I told her of my life, the tedious days and frightful seconds, and she worried that in all of this I would lose my thoughtfulness and might stop questioning and just accept. But she didn't judge the work that I did, and I didn't tell her that I sometimes enjoyed it, that for stretches of time I didn't think about the greater implications, that it sometimes seemed like a game. I didn't tell her that death felt ever present and far away, and that either way, it didn't really seem to matter.

We both came back from Iraq, luckier than many. Two of my wife's students have been killed, among the scores of journalists to die in Iraq, and guys I served with are still dying, too. One came home from the war and shot himself on Thanksgiving. Another was blown up on Christmas in Baghdad.

Thinking of them, I felt disgusted with myself for missing the war and wondered if I was alone in this.

I don't think I am.

After watching the Internet videos, I called some of my friends who are out of the Army now, and they miss the war, too. Wells very nearly died in Iraq. A sniper shot him in the head, surgeons cut out half of his skull—a story told in this magazine last April—and he spent months in therapy, working back to his old self. Now he misses the high. "I don't want to sound like a psychopath, but you're like a god over there," he says. "It might not be the best kind of adrenaline for you, but it's a rush." Before Iraq, he didn't care for horror movies, and now he's drawn to them. He watches them for the little thrill, the rush of being startled, if just for a moment.

McCarthy misses the war just the same. He saved Wells's life, pressing a bandage over the hole in his head. Now he's delivering construction materials to big hotel projects along the beach in South Carolina, waiting for a police department to process his application. "The monotony is killing me," he told me, en route to deliver some rebar. "I want to go on a raid. I want something to blow up. I want something to change today." He wants the unknown. "Anything can happen, and it does happen. And all of the sudden your world is shattered, and everything has changed. It's living dangerously. You're living on the edge. And you're the baddest motherfucker around."

Mortal danger heightens the senses. That is simple animal instinct. We're more aware of how our world smells and sounds and tastes. This distorts and enriches experiences. Now I can have everything, but it's not as good as when I could have none of it. McCarthy and I stood on a rooftop one afternoon in Iraq running through a long list of the food we wanted. We made it to homemade pizza and icy beer when someone loosed a long burst of gunfire that cracked over our heads. We ran to the other side of the rooftop, but the gunman had disappeared down a long alleyway. Today my memory of that pizza and beer is stronger than if McCarthy and I had sat down together with the real thing before us.

And today we even speak with affection of wrestling a dead man into a body bag, because that was then. The bullet had laid his thigh wide open, shattered the femur, and shredded the artery, so he'd bled out fast, pumping much of his blood onto the sidewalk. We unfolded and unzipped the nylon sack and laid it alongside him. And then we stared for a moment, none of us ready to close that distance. I grabbed his forearm and dropped it, maybe instinct, maybe revulsion. He hovered so near this world, having just passed over, that he seemed to be sucking life from me, pulling himself back or taking me with him. He peeked at us through a half-opened eye. I stared down on him, his massive dead body, and again wrapped a hand around his wrist, thick and warm. The man was huge, taller than six feet and close to 250 pounds. We strained with the awkward weight, rolled him into the bag, and zipped him out of sight. My platoon sergeant gave two neighborhood kids five dollars to wash away the congealing puddle of blood. But the red handprint stayed on the wall, where the man had tried to brace himself before he fell. I think about him sometimes, splayed out on the sidewalk, and I think of how lucky I was never to have put a friend in one of those bags. Or be put in one myself.

But the memories, good and bad, are only part of the reason war holds its grip long after soldiers have come home. The war was urgent and intense and the biggest story going, always on the news stations and magazine covers. At home, though, relearning everyday life, the sense of mission can be hard to find. And this is not just about dim prospects and low-paying jobs in small towns. Leaving the war behind can be a letdown, regardless of opportunity or education or the luxuries waiting at home. People I'd never met sent me boxes of cookies and candy throughout my tours. When I left for two weeks of leave, I was cheered at airports and hugged by strangers. At dinner with my family one night, a man from the next table bought me a $400 bottle of wine. I was never quite comfortable with any of this, but they were heady moments nonetheless.For my friends who are going back to Iraq or are there already, there is little enthusiasm. Any fondness for war is tainted by the practicalities of operating and surviving in combat. Wells and McCarthy and I can speak of the war with nostalgia because we belong to a different world now. And yet there is little to say, because we are scattered, far from those who understand.

When I came home, people often asked me about Iraq, and mostly I told them it wasn't so bad. The first few times, my wife asked me why I had been so blithe. Why didn't I tell them what Iraq was really like? I didn't know how to explain myself to them. The war really wasn't so bad. Yes, there were bombs and shootings and nervous times, but that was just the job. In fact, going to war is rather easy. You react to situations around you and try not to die. There are no electric bills or car payments or chores around the house. Just go to work, come home alive, and do it again tomorrow. McCarthy calls it pure and serene. Indeed. Life at home can be much more trying. But I didn't imagine the people asking would understand that. I didn't care much if they did, and often it seemed they just wanted a war story, a bit of grit and gore. If they really want to know, they can always find out for themselves. But they don't, they just want a taste of the thrill. We all do. We covet life outside our bubble. That's why we love tragedy, why we love hearing about war and death on the television, drawn to it in spite of ourselves. We gawk at accident scenes and watch people humiliate themselves on reality shows and can't wait to replay the events for friends, as though in retelling the story we make it our own, if just for a moment.

We live easy third-person lives but want a bit of the darkness. War fascinates because we live so far from its realities. Maybe we'd feel differently about watching bombs blow up on TV if we saw them up close, if we knew how explosions rip the air, throttle your brain, and make your ears ring, if we knew the strain of wondering whether the car next to you at a traffic light would explode or a bomb would land on your house as you sleep. I don't expect Iraqi soldiers would ever miss war. I have that luxury. I came home to peace, to a country that hasn't seen war within its borders for nearly 150 years. Yes, some boys come home dead. But we live here without the other terrors and tragedies of war—cities flattened and riven with chaos and fear, neighbors killing one another, a people made forever weary by the violence.

And so I miss it.

Every day in Iraq, if you have a job that takes you outside the wire, you stop just before the gate and make your final preparation for war. You pull out a magazine stacked with thirty rounds of ammunition, weighing just over a pound. You slide it into the magazine well of your rifle and smack it with the heel of your hand, driving it up. You pull the rifle's charging handle, draw the bolt back, and release. The bolt slides forward with a metallic snap, catching the top round and shoving it into the barrel. Chak-chuk. If I hear that a half century from now, I will know it in an instant. Unmistakable, and pregnant with possibility. On top of a diving board, as the grade-school-science explanation goes, you are potential energy. On the way down, you are kinetic energy. So I leave the gate and step off the diving board, my energy transformed.

[theadhddimsenion]

What some people don't seem to understand is that blitz is the boss for a reason. No one can lead like he can. Allow me to explain.

Moxxie while he is the probably the best tactician i.m.p has he is often overly cautious and critical and more importantly he can't get people to repect him the way blitz can. Let's face facts here people no one is ever going to see moxxie as a total badass action hero because that's just not who he is.

He's a scrawny, bisexual theater nerd who gets pegged every night he's never going to be seen as practically intimidating or macho because that's just not who he is. In short the cold hard truth is that no matter how many times he proves himself moxxie will never be able to get the respect that his boss commands and that's OK. That said moxxie cannot lead for the simple reason that no one would listen to him besides his wife at most. All moxxies tactical expertise would be rendered useless if he tried to lead due to the fact that he is too nervous and just not respected.

Millie has the opposite problem as her problem because despite being the most level headed of the team she had no tactics at all besides just "leroy Jankiess!!!!"'s her way to victory and while that might work in the brutal combat of hell earth is a whole nother beast. Modern humans generally have a preference for ranged combat and it's pretty hard to make a pile of gore look like suicide so unfortunately for millie being the most emotionally stable doesn't mean much when you can't provide much direction.

Loona obviously can't lead with her lack for field experience and own mental health issues. She'd probably end up leading them into a trap or something after making a rookie mistake.

And stolas is just a secretary.

But above all blitz is the one who is always ready to make the biggest sacrifices we saw this when he gave up his bed for loona and even that for stolas and even his life for all of them and to me that is the mark of a great leader!

[in1-nutshell]

What if it was Ironhold who existed in the TFP universe instead of Ophelia and got adopted by Megatron?

How different things could have been and how does Megatron treats Ironhold?

Introducing TFP Ironhold!

Hope you enjoy!

TFP Ironhold

SFW, Platonic, Romance, Angst, Mention of injuries, Cybertronian reader

TFP

Megatron met the rumbustious youngling during the first days of the forming Decepticon army.

They had made quiet a show after making a dramatic appearance and demanded to be enlisted.

Who else would throw a mech almost ten times their size and blast a hole in a table, 3 times consequtively?

The topic of having a youngling enlist was controversial at first, at least until Megatron had a one on one with the youngling.

Megatron stands in front of the youngling. The youngling just shy of his shoulder. Impressive height for an impressive bot. They stand as tall as they can, optics not backing down from the leader. Megatron: “You believe to be Decepticon material young one?” The youngling crosses their arms. Youngling: “I thought that taking down the rude mech and the the three blasts in the same hole would have explained it sir.” Megatron: “Hmm, you have a fire in you. Something if harnessed correctly can become a dangerous weapon.” There is a heavy silence. Megatron smiles and holds out his servo to the surprised youngling. Megatron: “I can teach you how to control it, make it the weapon we need to dismantle the Senate. Are you willing to join our cause young one?” The youngling smiles widely and immediately takes his servo and shakes it. Ironhold: “It’s truly an honor sir! I’m Ironhold sir! When do I get to bash some guards tailpipe?” Megatron chuckles a bit at Ironhold’s eagerness. Megatron: “In due time Ironhold. In due time.”

They would be training on the slower days of the war for hours until one of them dropped from the energon loss or of lack of recharge.

Ironhold mostly falling under both those categories.

The youngling clawed and fought their way through the battlefield and through the Decepticon ranks.

From lowly soldier to becoming Megatron’s third in Command.

They made sure their name was something to be associated with surrender or termination.

There would be a foreboding shadow on the battlefield for the Autobot’s once there was any news of their arrival.

But as much as the Autobots saw them as a machine of war, it couldn’t have been further from the truth.

At least to those close to them.

It was often forgotten that Ironhold was in fact the youngest in the entire Decepticon armada.

Certainly, older than the Autobots youngest, Bumblebee, but still younger in comparison to the others.

Megatron was with Soundwave and Starscream in the main consule. Megatron: “Starscream, where is Ironhold? They were supposed to have returned from their mission by now?” Starscream: “I am not sure my liege, but surely Soundwave knows their location.” Soundwave nods. Megatron: “Well? Where are they?” Soundwave types a few things on the consule before a live feed took up the screen. Ironhold was play fighting with the minicons. Frenzy: “Get’em Rumble!” Rumble tries jumping on them, but Ironhold grabs him with one servo and presses lightly on the wall. Rumble: “Hey! No fair!” Ironhold laughs. Ironhold: “Nothing is fair in war Rumble.” Frenzy: “Or in love I guess.” Ironhold freezes at the comment and loses their grip on Rumble. Ironhold: “In what—HEY!” Rumble used the moment of distraction and leaped onto their face grabbing both sides of their face. Ironhold yelps in surprise as the minicon disrupts their vision. Rumble: “Surrender!” Ironhold: “Never!” Ironhold ends up falling on their back as Frenzy jumps in to try and restrain them while Ravage and Lazerbeak watch from afar. Back with the other mechs… Megatron: “… I was not aware they were fond of Rumble…” Starscream gives him a look of disbelief. Starscream: “With all due respect Lord Megatron, but how did you not know?” Soundwave proceeds to play small interactions of the two together. … there are a lot of them…

Megatron wasn’t opposed to the romance blossoming with Ironhold and Rumble.

It did not affect their progress in the war so why should he bother them.

The pinning between Ironhold and Rumble was a talk amongst the Decepticons.

A nice little gossip and nothing more.

Soundwave even gave them the green light to continue courting Rumble after finally coming clean to him about their feelings.

When news finally spread that Ironhold and Rumble were courting, there was much celebration and bets being paid up.

Megatron, once again, did not react much to Ironhold courting Rumble.

But he did demand one thing out of this.

Ironhold was venting heavy kneeling on the ground of the training room. Megatron: “You have become sloppy! Get up!” Ironhold shakingly gets up and holds their fisted servos up. Megatron fakes a punch to the right and hits them square in their injured side. They scream as some energon begins to come out of the wound. He delievers the finishing blow and Ironhold drops down. They groan clutching their side. Megatron: “Get patched up and return back here. You still have another cycle to make up from your absence with Rumble.” Ironhold shakingly gets up. Ironhold: “Yes Megatron…” They leave the training room and bump into Soundwave. Soundwave: “Ironhold—to the medbay?” They nod weakly as they let the communications officer help support their weight and head to the medbay together.

The minicons, Soundwave and many of the Con’s on the Nemesis were unhappy with the arrangement.

For every hour they wanted to spend with Rumble, they needed to add to their normal training sessions.

Ironhold would come to the medbay looking worse than they would from battle, but would always say it was worth it.

Rumble isn’t blushing, that’s just a trick from the light.

There was a slight reaction from Megatron years later when Ironhold had publicly announced that they would be performing the Conjunx rites with Rumble.

Now this made much more noise amongst the ranks.

Not many cons could say that they performed the rites, some were not even aware they existed.

This would be a joyous day for the Decepticons.

Ironhold is in the communication center helping Soundwave and several Vechicon’s. They would have been out on the field today with the others if they hadn’t been for their injured pede. Rumble suddenly speaks through their private channel. Rumble: “Hey Hold, how’s it going ova there?” Ironhold rolls their optics at the nickname. Ironhold: “Rumble you know that this channel is only for emergencies.” Rumble chuckles. Rumble: “Sure, and what about that little chat during the boring meeting 2 cycles ago? Was that an emergency?” Ironhold: “… It was a boring meeting, and you know it.” Rumble: “Sure and—” BOOM! Ironhold: “Rumble!? Rumble what happened?!” There were sounds of yelling and blasts in the background. Rumble: “It’s a Bot ambush!” They can see out of the corner of their optics Soundwave suddenly start typing faster, almost frantic. Ironhold: “Rumble where’s you location? I’m trying to send in reinforcements.” There is more screaming and blasts. Ironhold was trying to find Rumble’s group signal on the map. So many life signals fading and going out. Soundwave had activated his extra tentacles to the keyboards. Rumble: “FRENZY!” Ironhold : “Rumble get anyone you can to a safer place now!” More Autobot signals were appearing and closing in on the group. Rumble: “They just shot down Lazerbeak-- Oh Primus Ravage… Ravage what have they done to you…” Soundwave’s digits are now clearly moving at a frantic pace. Ironhold’s are moving just as fast trying to get them reinforcements. Ironhold: “Sweetspark listen to me. Find a hiding spot, reinforcements are coming--” Rumble lets out a somber chuckle. Rumble: “Don’t think that’ll be any help Hold.” Ironhold: “Rumble, what are you—” Rumble: “Sorry we couldn’t do the rites today… I’ll wait for ya in the Well Ironhold… Love ya.” BANG! BBBZZZZZZZTTTTTTTT!!!!! Ironhold’s spark froze up. Ironhold: “Rumble? Rumble! RUMBLE RESPOND! RUMBLE!” They start sprinting to the door with Soundwave hot on their tailpipe.

It was a massacre.

The entire away team had been brutally terminated.

The group of bots was just leaving when Ironhold and Soundwave arrived.

Ironhold didn’t even get a chance to see which bots had done this when they retreated.

While searching for survivors, they came onto a badly injured Lazerbeak chirping sadly by a Ravage, who had been ripped in half, and Frenzy, who was missing his entire right side.

Handing Soundwave Lazerbeak, they walked on trying to find their minicon.

Ironhold did find him in the end.

They found Rumble, offline, with a hole through his chassis.

His spark was missing from his frame.

Ironhold held onto his body and let out the most gut-wrenching scream their frame could have ever produced.

Many of the Decepticon’s who had accompanied Ironhold and Soundwave gave both higher up’s a moment of silence.

It was the least they could do.

After a bit, they quietly gathered Rumble and moved to get Frenzy’s remains.

Soundwave gathered Ravage’s parts while Lazerbeak perched sadly on his shoulder.

The rest of the reinforcements gathered the other bodies.

Back on the Nemesis, a small wake was held for the fallen.

Ironhold spoke nothing the entire ceremony, just standing by Megatron and Soundwave’s sides.

Megatron only placed a servo on their shoulder and told them to use this loss as fuel to finish the Autobots how did this to them, to Rumble.

They said nothing and continued to stare at the small caskets laid on the deck.

Their demeanor had changed drastically afterwards.

They were colder and quieter, almost Soundwave quiet.

The jokes were much rarer to find in their speech.

Battle injuries increased and Megatron couldn’t have been prouder.

These scars and slashes were proof of Decepticon deficiency and determination.

Something he used in his rally speeches much to Ironhold’s and most of the crews dismay.

Because they knew well that many of those wounds were from an increase training regime since Ironhold’s last snap.

Ironhold was holding their slashed side with a furious look in their optics. Ironhold: “I thought this wasn’t a weapons training session Megatron.” Megatron: “You need to be prepared for the unexpected Ironhold. Now get up.” He slashes the back of their pede causing them to yelp in pain and double down. Ironhold: “You know it’s a bit difficult to stand when someone is slashing at your pedes!” Megatron: “Do you think that the Autobots will care? Get up!” They just huff and strain to get up. They fail and are on the floor once again. Megatron laughs cruelly at them, something that chances them off guard. Megatron: “And to think if you weren’t so weak and pathetic Rumble would still be around.” Ironhold feels the world go to a grinding halt. Ironhold: “… What did you say?” Megatron: “It’s simple Ironhold. If you hadn’t been so weak, you would have been on the team Rumble was on.” Ironhold glares up at him. Ironhold: “Megatron…” He continues.  Megatron: “If you could fight better, you could have fought the Autobots.” Ironhold barely registers that they were now standing up. Ironhold: “Megatron--” Megatron: “But because you are a snivel weakling, because of your inadequacies, Rumble is—” SMACK! Megatron stumbles back, servo touching his faceplate. Ironhold had a clenched fist. It registered to both of them at the same time. Ironhold had punched Megatron in the face. He smiles and readies his servos. Megatron: “So you have that fire in you still? Or was it snuffed out like your Conjunx’s spark?” Ironhold was seeing red. Ironhold: “M-MEGA-ATR-RON!”

That ‘training’ session left Ironhold in the med bay for weeks.

During that time, Megatron had left to go into space.

Leaving Starscream to be the leader of the Decepticon’s.

They were just glad that they did not have to face Megatron immediately after waking up.

Or going straight into battle the first stable step they got.

Things were peaceful… until the death of the Autobot Cliffjumper.

Everything seemed to have spiraled out of control.

Megatron’s return brought many raw feelings that they did not want to voice out.

Even with it, they tried their best to persuade their once father figure to get rid of the dark energon.

All tries had ended up in vain.

They remembered gasping and clutching Soundwave’s servo like an anchor the moment Megatron’s signal went offline at the explosion of the spacebridge.

They remember the relief they felt seeing him okay.

Ironhold quietly walked up to Megatron in the quiet throne room. Ironhold: “Lord Megatron.” Megatron glanced at them then looked away. Ironhold: “It… it is good to see that you are online.” More silence. They move to touch his shoulder. Megatron: “Is your team ready for the energon raid?” Ironhold stops their servo and slowly lowers it. Ironhold: “Yes—” Megatron: “Then I suggest you start leaving before I start adding hours to your training.” Ironhold looks at him confused. Megatron: “You have clearly been slacking off since my trip to the cosmos and I am here to fix that mistake.” He turns around and looks slightly down at them. They were only a few inches shorter than him after all. Megatron: “Once you and your team return, you are to report to the training room. Am I understood?” Ironhold: “…Yes, Lord Megatron.”

[bignaturals-super]

as an occasional freak for the church, i’m really surprised i didn’t go insane for this movie earlier. but it took me a rewatch to really get my mind around all this movie was. so here’s some paragraphs about the things that reverberated in my head over and over and over again.

it’s a movie about questioning your certainty, and the necessity of doubt, and the process (and withholding) of grief in the catholic church, and subtle acts of faith beyond prayer and preaching doctrine, and about crises of faith, and tradition being used as a veil for bigotry. everything about this movie screams longing for spirituality and kindness and how absurd it is to be an outsider viewing the processes of catholicism. and it has yet to win any awards????? when’s the last time we had something like this??

mr. “very demure, very mindful…only a little chee chee out. not my cho cho” ralph fiennes did the breakdown of a lifetime. a priest with doubts, a priest who’s basically suicidal, who at the end of the day lost his *friend*, and we’re brought back to the process of grief in the catholic church (or the lack thereof). the moment he cried over those glasses was the anathema of the very thing he dedicated his life to and it added so much to the scene. and actually fuck it while we’re talking about fienne’s performance we might as well talk about thomas lawerence, the man himself. he’s been pushed to be inoffensive, but his goal is remain moral, and it’s difficult to appease everyone and follow the advice given to him it it’ll turn him into an immoral mam, and he faces the very real consequences of the very brave choices he makes in conversation and while investigating. and then he has to watch everyone else get away with skating through and brushing off, and tremblay tells him “no, i will pretend this conversation happened” and lawerence has to avoid choking him and himself when he goes “but it DID” and is still met with a lack of acknowledgment. and taking it back to the beginning of the movie when fiennes is like “hope the holy spirit will come and move us in the right direction!” and he says it so hollow and sarcastically, like he’s saying it because he’s wearing the robes, in the same way people who’ve been raised religious but are so detached from it still go “god forbid”.

little moment for the “proof of god” we get, beyond when fiennes finally is like “sure whatever, maybe i’ll be a good pope” and a wall explodes. but the little breath of wind and birdsong from the open window, disturbing the sterile, suffocating, closed environment they’ve created and the breezes ruffles the pages and it’s like “oh…god is there…”. it’s one of the subtle moments the movie gives us that i took, and ran wildly with. same with the subtle tie-ins for color and benitez’ truth. the blue chair, the lack of red around his waist, the womb-esque room we get the reveal in. the fact that the reveal isn’t a gag, or the start to a bad-ending but is instead hope. the subtle focus and constant reminder of the women’s work in the vatican, the way the director doesn’t let us forget about their importance. technology in simple forms being used to show how the catholic church cannot escape the march of progression, and cannot exist in a complete vacuum, tying in to the choices and hope had for the new pope. maybe this last one is just me but the dedication to aesthetics of this movie can be tied into the dedication to aesthetics (arguably to a level of godliness) of the catholic church.

and then there’s old man archbishop yaoi….the latin gesture of benediction to the turtle…and the homophobic italian that vapes. i watched this entire movie with my hands clasped in prayer (i’m not religious).

[ao3cassandraic]

Flooding the zone

Like many in the US right now, I'm having trouble holding my shit together. It's a day-by-day, night-by-nightmare thing. I do not read mainstream news. I have what social media I have left (including this hellsite) filtered to hell and back, because it doesn't take much to send me into a spiral.

So if that's you too right now, I feel you, and I swear I'm not writing this post to make it worse.

I'm writing it to ask us to think about what we're saying and doing and how we're spending our energy.

I'm not a political scientist, but I read a few. I'm not a labor theorist, but I am a union member and officer. Our situation in the US rhymes with other situations, geographically and historically, and one thing that's crystal clear is there are ways to stop this shit and it takes numbers and actions and often time.

The numbers are maybe smaller than you think? That one surprised me. Active resistance from maybe 5% of the population has stopped coups cold.

The rub is, best I can tell, that it's hard to say exactly which actions are gonna turn the tide, never mind when -- this shit's complicated and contextual and frequently opportunistic (as with President Yoon's faceplant in South Korea) such that even hindsight gets a bit murky.

So it seems to me that what it makes sense to do is flood the zone, as they say in American football, and keep flooding it. And yeah, that's a Steve Bannonism too, but what our enemies lack in ethics and care they make up for in cold hard strategy, so why not steal it from them?

(Part of my thinking is George Lakoff, too. Smart dude. Decent one, too. Check him out.)

Flood the zone with truth. Flood the zone with defiance -- it's our country too! Flood the zone with hope.

And not just once, but many times, because we can never know in advance the one time that'll put us over the top. Also because like almost any serious endeavor, resistance takes practice. As we practice, we get habituated to the practice and we get stronger and better at the practice!

I can attest to this myself. I spent most of my adult life pretty lousy at civic engagement (never mind resistance), if I'm honest. I voted routinely, but that was about it. I started switching it up in 2011 (I'm a Sconnie and Scott Walker sure did happen), though -- protests, donations, working the polls, union membership and then service, contacting my legislators, more protests, campaign work, some other stuff.

And now a lot of the above list is plain old routine, for me? It's ordinary as weather. It's just part of how I live my life. I bet civic engagement, including in the form of resistance, can become that way for you, too.

I believe a fair few of us can step onto the same road I've been on if we redirect some of our existing efforts -- because doomscrolling is an effort, venting is an effort, doomsaying and amplifying doomsayers is an effort. Let me gently suggest:

Instead of doomscrolling or ruminating: meditation, spiritual or religious practice if you have one, exercise if it's available to you, reading books or fanfic, doing puzzles or brainteasers (I have developed such a Squaredle habit).

If you can't scratch the doomscroll itch unless you're looking at something political, try Mariame Kaba or Rebecca Solnit or even Ezra Klein. If the problem is the doomscroll finding you, filters and blocks and getting away from algorithm-personalized platforms can likely help, and that last is a good idea all by itself.

Instead of venting to social media or into the void: vent at elected officials! You don't have to start with phone calls, or do them at all (I rarely do) -- remember, we're flooding the zone, and the zone's pretty big. Email or Resistbot or postcards are totally fine. More fun in groups -- postcard with friends!

If you can, try to angle your conversational contributions online and off-, including what you reblog/retoot/boost, away from venting and toward action and hope. This doesn't have to be because you're actually feeling hope -- it absolutely can be (and for me often is) a conscious strategy to develop fellow travelers and discipline my own mind and hands.

Instead of doomsaying, express hope and love and solidarity. Again, you don't always have to feel it -- it's a conscious organizing strategy, get me? If it helps you feel more hope and more solidarity yourself, and it may (especially as others respond to it), that's a grateful bonus.

Or consider a swear-jar strategy. Catch yourself doomsaying? Make a donation or email a legislator or whatever -- just decide on a useful action you'll take when you slip up, and hold yourself to it. Every time.

It's not hard to find people who say that all the above is performative, it's not action, it's not effective, ka-blah-ka-blah-ka-blah. I say that we damned well don't know that and that lots of small efforts from lots of people is totally how zones get flooded.

I also say that everyone starts somewhere, and that the zone ain't gonna flood itself.

Redirect even a little effort to flood the zone with me, please? Thank you. And my love to you and to all of us in these times.

[aste-te05]

Would you fall in love with me again?

A Optimus Prime x Human! Reader fic

Chapter 2: Problems Follow You

"Well this was a pretty positive outcome I'd say, I was pretty sure it was going to be a bit more..." he begins towards you pausing as you look at him and cock a brow. This man is really starting to get on your nerves, maybe if you get on Optimus' good side you can even have him banned from the base.

"Poorly?" you add. He looks at you and gives you an affirmative nod, shrugging as he does so.

You shake your head, not amused at the situation and choosing from now on, to just let whatever this agent- or general- say go in one ear and through the next. His poor choice of throwing you into the metaphorical deep end of the pool before letting you acclimate to the water is going to bite him in the ass later.

"So what now agent Fowler? Do I need to do a 'Welcome To The Team!' Quiz?" You say sarcastically, Optimus, whether it be his own choice, or him not wanting to leave you alone since if you ever got the chance you'd rip Fowler's head off his shoulders. Has been standing next to the two of you, watching the shit show unfold slowly as he continues to keep an eye on your already seemingly shaken frame, which more or less, kind of freaks you out.

"I think the next step is to get you introduced to the base and the rest of the team. You'll be staying with them until your house is done so it's best to get used to your new... housemates." Oh if he wasn't on thin ice before he is now,

He gives you a slight look, guiding you to what you assumed is the "hangout spot" or "main room" of the base. Optimus continues to linger in the area as he watches your eyes trace the ladders and platforms of your new place of residency. He watches in mild amusement every time you give Fowler a small scowl, or look of disgust. Between all the humans he's met in his lifetime you stood out to him. Continuing to monitor you both, he begins to remember the conversation he had earlier with Agent Fowler, it replays through his head loud and clear.

"She's one in a billion Prime, are you sure you want her on your team? I swear up and down there was steam coming up out of her ears when she saw what happened to her house. Thought she'd have to be restrained even." Whether it was Fowler exaggerating or just giving him the plain truth, Optimus gave no care for it. Fowler has been briefing him here and there ever since the incident. He can't help but feel guilty in a small sense. He was there, He saw what happened to your house, more so who happened.

It was suppose to be a recon mission, an energon mine has been sensed nearby and he took it upon himself and Bulkhead to investigate and do a perimeter check. Upon searching for the mine he found your house, a three story monstrosity, surrounded by open fields that seemed to go on for miles on end . He couldn't help but be charmed by your yard work with the vibrant flowers you planted all those years ago, the fairy lights you strung on your back patio, furnished with pieces of furniture and what he thought was a fireplace. It was a humble piece of work and he couldn't help but take it all in, he admired humans and their creativity he more so lacked himself. Turning away he looked at Bulkhead who seemed to be staring at his tracking device that sat in his hand rather worriedly.

"Seems like we got some special guests." They both looked at the sky to hear the sudden sound of jets flying ahead of them, he knew those weren't human jets, the way they moved, the way they glided like they owned the skies. He was all too familiar with the sight of Starscream and his Armada. In a flash the flying jets transformed mid air, landing in the soft grass behind where he and Bulkhead stood.

"Keep them away from the humans home Bulkhead, we must leave with no evidence that we were here." Optimus ordered, moving into something similar to a battle stance as Bulkhead did the same, nodding as he took note of Prime's order. Optimus knew how clumsy Bulkhead could be, how he doesn't monitor his surroundings as well. He vowed that this would be a battle fought swiftly and cleanly.

"You really think you'll leave without any fresh marks Prime!? How foolish of you both." The seekers shrill voice played through his head, it rung and pounded him like a hammer.

"I will see to it myself Starscream, that the only one leaving with fresh marks, is you." He draws out his energy blaster, ready for the offense attack.

----

"You okay Prime? Lost in your own bot fantasies or something?" Fowlers voice rang through the Primes mind as he snapped back to reality. He stayed standing confused as he looked at the pair. Only to see you yourself lost in thought as well, all the while glaring at the agent beside you. A sight that made Optimus smile to himself every so slyly.

"Sorry to interrupt, we were just about to take a look at the weapons room, care to join? so you can keep an eye on her?" The special agent remarks, giving you an odd look. Optimus can only nod silently as he continues to follow the two earthlings fairly close behind, keeping his eyes on the back of the females head, watching and waiting. Almost like he was scared she'd suddenly disappear after he just promised no harm would come onto the small human. Like something was just going to swallow her from the ground and take her away from here.

----

As you listen to Fowlers tour of the base you can't help but grow bored of the mans many speeches. Since when did you need a tutorial on how to survive a robot playground? Last you heard there wasn't such a thing. You take notes of the many towering doors your group passes, maybe they're the robots bedrooms, best to stay out of those. Not that you'd even run around here without supervision, this wasn't your home so you'll stay in one place majority of your stay. As you continue to walk the long winding hallway, you find your legs growing tired, a yawn escapes your already sleep deprived body, as you shoot Fowler a quick apology and cover your mouth you glance back at Optimus. your shocked to find him already staring back at you.

Has he been doing that the entire time?

You smile and give him a slight wave, turning your attention back to the tour, relief washing over you as you find yourselves back in the main room, seeming that the halls were just a simple long loop. Thank god.

"Alright well I'll be off then, base called and they said they need my assistance else where." You shoot the man another mean look. He seems to almost shrink under your gaze.

After everything that's happened he's going to leave you?? Just like that?? what an absolute asshole of a guy.

After a few awkward seconds Fowler continues to let out a small chuckle quickly rushing towards the elevator, and hurriedly gets inside, as he presses the button to the top, he gives a stern salute to you and Optimus before the pair of doors close on him.

As the sound of the elevator fades, you can't help but sway where you stood, like a little kid swishing their arms around as they wait for their mom to stop talking to the cashier at the register. You continue to sweat, looking around to say something, ANYTHING to keep this conversation between you and the big boss bot going. Finding nothing to say, you sigh before you turn to look up at him.

"So uh Optimus, I don't assume you have a bed I could possibly stay in for the duration of my time here? I'm sorry if it's rude to ask or if this is against your rules of hospitality but-" You pause momentarily, not wanting to get caught in a long rant you just sigh. "-I'm sorry that was rude, I just need to rest if that's okay." you admit, the lack of sleep hit you like a bus since you found your home in ruins. You had to rely to sleeping in your Jeep of all things, a bed was all you could really ask for in this case.

Optimus seems to be in deep thought, looking around the base searching for somewhere comfortable he could keep you, somewhere where he wouldn't have to worry about. It was this, that made you realize he did not in fact have a place for you to stay. Not a bed nor anything comfortable for you to rest on.

"It seems that Special Agent Fowler has not yet informed me that you would be in need of furniture to rest. If you need, I'll call him to let him know of the complication and we'll soon get it figured out. My apologies." He proceeded to put his finger to what you assumed was a com link of sorts. Not wanting to hear the complaints of the man of many words himself you tell him there's no need to bother him at this time so soon, that you'll easily find a place to lay.

The giant seems almost unsure, as he gives you a short apology. you reassure him and allow yourself to walk around in search of somewhere to safely snooze.

God this is gonna be the worst few months of my life.

__________________________________________

GOT ANY ONE SHOT IDEAS OR THOUGHTS YOU’D LIKE TO SHARE ON THE STORY!? My inbox is open feel free to ask or say anything I’m all ears! Everyone’s Welcome!

BIG ANNOUNCEMENT, After every saga I will be making an animatic based off of the story so once this ends feel free to look out for it <3 links will be posted at appropriate times

!!STORY IS ONGOING PLEASE BE PATIENT!!

-Jen

[lyricalchrysanthemum]

hey.

hey.

i know its been in his playlist for a long time but now im thinking really hard about rats died. piper.

[gnomeniche]

you Will read 3d workers island. it’s so detailed and rich. it captures an atmosphere of old internet rumors and creepypasta very well WHICH ties into the narrative’s themes of what outsiders see/don’t see in familial abuse situations + interpreting media and seeing a reflection of one’s experiences

i love the open-endedness about what is real or fiction. it works thematically whether you choose to see the creepiness as real or a rumor, whether the program is alive or not. i also love that even if nothing nefarious is there it’s still meaningful to the people who see themselves in amber