#Single Purpose Machine Tools

[hrrtshape]

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　become the laziest shifter ,

shifting is not a labour camp. you are not laying bricks. you are not a victorian chimney sweep, coughing up soot and hoping the foreman doesn't notice you pausing for breath. shifting is supposed to be effortless. 

　　　　here's how to become one. 

　ʚ  stop trying so hard. seriously. shifting is not an algebra equation that needs solving. the more you obsess, the more you reinforce the idea that shifting is difficult, that it requires strain. it doesn't. it's like falling asleep. easy, natural, inevitable. you don't need to ‘do' shifting. you just allow it.

start ditching the obsession with techniques. they are tools, not commandments. if a method feels like a second job, drop it. some people shift while blinking. others shift mid-sneeze. some wake up shifted. some never have to think about it at all. you're allowed to be one of those people. shifting doesn't reward effort, it rewards ease.

people who shift aren't ‘lucky.' they just decide they've already won. embrace the delusion. belief isn't something you prove; it's something you wear like an expensive coat. you don't need external validation. your reality is dictated by you, not by polls or peer reviews.

stop tensing up in bed like you're about to undergo surgery. roll over like you've just been fed grapes by hand and have never known stress. get comfortable. let go. do you think nero worried about his shifting technique? no. he just made a decree and the world bent to him. you are your own emperor. decree your reality.

shifting doesn't need to feel like a cosmic event. no need for vibrating, levitating, the heavens parting. sometimes it's quiet. lose the expectation of ‘fireworks.'  sometimes it's like slipping into warm water, seamless and smooth. don't wait for ‘proof'. just shift.

stop acting like reality is a prison cell. you are not ‘trapped'. you are not ‘stuck'. you're just sitting in one room when you could walk into another. no chains, no locks, just a door.

　　　　　　or how to . . 　　　　　　　　　　become the laziest manifestor ,

manifesting is not an unpaid internship. you are not earning it through blood, sweat, and desperate scripting at 3 a.m. manifesting is a birthright. a casual shrug. a ‘wouldn't it be funny if. oh, look, it happened.' you are not grinding for your desires. 

　　　so let's talk about getting everything you want.

　⭑  in its core, manifesting is just deciding. it is not a scavenger hunt. it is not an exam. it is not a ‘what if'. it is a ‘this is.' people who get what they want simply assume it's already theirs. they don't waver. they don't worry. they don't ‘hope,' they know.

stop micromanaging the how. do you manually control your heartbeat? do you stress over each individual breath? no? then stop hovering over your manifestations like an anxious project manager. you want it. it's done. the ‘how' isn't your problem. the universe has already sorted the logistics.

start being delusional. your current reality is just a collection of past assumptions. want a new reality? adopt new assumptions. pretend you already have what you want. no, really. stop analysing. just be the version of you who has it. the world will catch up.

if you're ‘waiting' for your manifestation, you're reinforcing that it isn't here yet. and if you're reinforcing lack, you're just extending it. let go of ‘waiting.' live like it's already yours. because it is.

the universe is not a vending machine you need to shake. detach. you don't ‘make' things happen. you request them, step back, and trust they're coming. you ever seen a billionaire refresh their bank balance anxiously? no. they just know the money is there. treat your manifestations the same way.

you are already doing it. every single thing in your life right now, you manifested it. consciously or not. so you might as well start doing it on purpose.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　┊

stop making shifting and manifesting your part-time job. you are the main character, yes, but not the tragic, struggling one. be the one who gets what they want simply because they decide to. the one who moves through realities with ease, who manifests without breaking a sweat. become the laziest, most effortless version of yourself. because that's the one who wins without having to lift a finger.

[mrpenguinpants]

Marbled Steps

— Marble requires precision, care, and the right tools for the job. Not so different from people. With too much time, stubbornness, and bandages, even the toughest exteriors can be chipped away.

— Lighter

Part 2: Stepping Stone Light spoilers for Lighter's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

When I tell you how long I was uninterested in ZZZ until I got two-hit comboed by Lighter and Harumasa? I went a bit too crazy in the backstory but inb4 zzz rips my headcanon's away from me.

Lighter

When Lighter was first introduced to the Sons of Calydon, you knew he was bad news. It was written all over him. He had the dead-eyed stare of someone just coasting through life on autopilot, a man who moved because he had to, not because he wanted to. His knuckles—split, scarred, and raw—looked more like hardened sinew and calluses than anything resembling normal skin. It was the kind of damage that didn’t come from a single fight but months of them like his fists were tools and nothing more. And then there was his attitude—or lack of it. He didn’t talk much, hardly made eye contact, and moved with an almost mechanical precision. You’d met machines with more personality than that.

You were against him joining from the start. You didn’t care how good of a fighter he might have been or how Big Daddy swore he could be useful. There was something off about Lighter, something unsettling that tugged at the back of your mind like a warning you couldn’t quite articulate. But orders were orders, and Big Daddy’s word was gospel. So you swallowed your irritation, slipped on a pair of gloves, grabbed the man’s rough, battered hand, and dragged him toward your makeshift clinic without so much as a look back. The rest of the group had been watching the newcomer with wary curiosity, but you were more practical. There was no way you’d let those mangled hands spread whatever grime or infection he was carrying to the others. Your first moments with Lighter were marked by the stinging smell of disinfectant and cotton swabs as your audience.

After that disaster of an introduction, you rarely saw Lighter unless it was in brief, passing moments. He never lingered, never stayed to chat, joke, or even let himself absorb the group's chaotic energy. To him, everything seemed to boil down to business, payment, and the next job. He was like a ghost in the group’s midst, always there yet never really present. The Sons of Calydon had their share of larger-than-life personalities, the kinds of people who could fill a room just by breathing, but none of it seemed to leave an impression on Lighter. Everything they threw at him whether it was good-natured teasing, warm camaraderie, or even the occasional shouting match, bounced off him like rain drops against a stone wall. Not a crack, not a chip. For a while, you figured he’d just up and leave, disappearing into the wind in search of whatever suicidal purpose had brought him to this part of the Outer Ring in the first place. It seemed like something he’d do. Pack up without a word, leave everything behind like it didn’t matter, and press forward with the same hollow determination he always carried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you’d miss him all that much. How do you miss someone who never really lets you know them to begin with?

That’s why the scene you stumbled onto one afternoon caught you off guard and shifted your entire worldview. You’d been walking along the outskirts of Blazewood when you saw a group of thugs closing in on someone. At first, it was hard to tell who they had surrounded, the Outer Ring was full of conflict after all, and gang scraps weren’t anything new. But then you recognized the familiar silhouette. Lighter. He stood in the center of the group, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides. The thugs spat words about how “sticking your noses into other people's business,” was against the Outer Ring’s unspoken rules, accusations sharp and heavy with menace. You didn’t catch every detail, but the gist was clear enough. The Sons of Calydon had made enemies and, apparently, Lighter had been dealing with them all on his own. That realization hit you harder than you expected. You hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about conflicts between the Sons of Calydon and the other gangs. Had Lighter been dealing with this on his own? Stepping into fights, taking the heat, and keeping the peace in silence while the rest of you remained oblivious? The thought gnawed at you, unsettling in a way that lingered like a bad taste. It was just like him, wasn’t it? To keep the dirty work quiet, never letting anyone see the mess he was cleaning up.

Naturally—because really, what else could you have expected—Lighter had won the fight, even with the odds stacked heavily against him. It was hard not to feel a flicker of awe watching him fight with nothing but his fists. His movements were raw and unrefined, a brute force approach that relied on instinct and sheer willpower more than precision. Still, there was something almost mesmerizing about it, the way he pushed through every hit like it was nothing, determined to end the fight as quickly as possible so he could move on to whatever errand he thought was more important. But as the group's medic, it made you insane. Watching him use adrenaline like some sort of makeshift painkiller, ignoring injuries that any reasonable person would be on the ground crying about, was enough to make your blood boil. Your medic bay was the only place in the Outer Ring anyone could trust to provide reliable treatment, and Lighter’s insistence on throwing himself into fights like he was made of titanium was testing your patience. Seriously, how the hell was he still walking around like everything was fine after taking a beating like that? The man was a walking contradiction��a fighter who refused to stay down, but also too stubborn to take care of himself afterward. Part of you wanted to stomp over there, shake him until some sense rattled loose, and yell at him to actually rest for once in his life. The other part of you wanted to drag him straight to your clinic and lock him there until he got the idea through his thick skull.

Once the fight was over, the thugs sprawled out and groaning, your patience had enough. You marched over to him, your footsteps heavy with purpose, and stopped just short of planting yourself directly in his way. Lighter, of course, didn’t react to your presence. He probably knew you were there anyway because, on top of being the stubborn wall, he just had to be creepy like that. His knuckles were red and raw, and the bruise already blooming under his eye told you he’d taken a hit harder than he could have if he just stepped back instead of going for that last swing. The blank look he shot you, like nothing was out of the ordinary, only fueled the fire bubbling in your chest.

“Come on, you’re done here,” you snapped, grabbing him by the wrist before he could so much as protest. The man might’ve been stronger than you, but you weren’t about to let him wriggle out of this one. Not today. “We’re going to the clinic, and don’t even think about arguing. You can walk on your own or I’ll drag you, your call.”

Predictably, he grumbled under his breath, his resistance half-hearted at best. You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged—he wasn’t about to fight you on this, not when he was already spent. Still, he made it clear he wasn’t happy about it, his muttered complaints trailing behind you as you led him toward your makeshift clinic.

“If you don’t let me patch you up, I swear to Big Daddy I’m ratting you out,” you warned, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. “And you know the girls will overreact. I’ll even sit back with some popcorn and watch the fireworks if that’s what you want. So either you cooperate now, or you deal with them later.”

That finally got him to stop grumbling, though he shot you a glare that might’ve been intimidating if you weren’t already used to it. He let out a defeated sigh, dragging his boots as if to make the walk to your clinic as dramatic as possible. A groan escaped him as he muttered, “Whatever you say, firecracker.”

Despite the irritation brewing in your chest at the nickname, you felt a small flicker of satisfaction. At least he was coming with you—albeit reluctantly. You didn’t need to say it out loud, but deep down, you knew this stubborn idiot needed someone to force him to stop. To take a breath. To realize that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry everything on his own. And if that meant tracking him down to drag him into your clinic every time he came back battered and bruised, so be it. You've been meaning to work on your arm strength.

Of course, because Big Daddy had a knack, almost like a seer, for spotting the potential in people, Lighter eventually began to change. Slowly, he warmed up to the group, and something shifted in those dead eyes of his. A bit of light returned, faint at first, like the flicker of a dying match, but steady enough to notice. He loosened up, no longer wound so tight that you half-expected him to snap at any second. The coiled tension that once defined his every move started to unravel, replaced by something...well- alive. No longer waiting for someone to tell him what direction to throw his hands. Pieces of his old personality, buried under what felt like miles of dust, mud, and bad memories, began to surface. Little green buds sprouting where you hadn’t thought life could grow. It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing you’d see in some triumphant moment in the movies, but it was there. Small things. Like the way he'd actually sit down beside you around the campfire rather than brooding in the shadows or how his shoulders seemed just a bit less rigid when you needed to patch him up for the nth time.

He still wasn’t good with names, though. Not at all. The nickname "Firecracker" had seemed to stick and you had rightfully assumed he didn't actually know your real name. But for everyone else? It was like his brain short-circuited whenever he had to recall someone’s moniker. He’d stumble over syllables, brow furrowed like it was the hardest battle he’d ever fought until he finally landed on something almost right. You remembered the time he’d called Caesar “Seasaw” one too many times. The sight of watching him fumble, all rough edges and misplaced vowels, had been funny in a way you couldn’t quite explain that you couldn't help but laugh. Funny, but also strangely endearing. There was something about seeing this man, this stoic fighter who seemed born to brawl, turning pink at the ears, tripping over words like a schoolboy, that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely unreachable.

That didn’t mean he stopped getting into fights. Lighter was still Lighter. He kept his demons close, dragging them with him like shadows wherever he went. His fists still led him places, often leaving him knocking on your door at all hours of the day or night. He’d show up with a split lip, scraped knuckles that looked like they’d been dragged across gravel and that same hollowed stare that never quite went away, no matter how much light he’d let in. You’d huff, muttering something about how you weren’t running a full-time hospital, but he’d just sit there quietly as you patched him up, his silence heavy enough to drown out the room. Even though he had never "lost", he didn't look like a winner. Still...it was an improvement that he was at least coming to you rather than hiding away to lick his wounds by himself.

Once, you’d joked that he must like the color of his blood with how often he bled for no good reason. You’d expected him to brush it off, maybe fire back some sharp quip of his own, but instead, he’d muttered—deadpan—that he’d thrown up a few minutes ago just at the sight of it. That shut you up quick. You’d stopped making jokes about his health after that. It wasn’t as funny when you realized how thin the line was that he walked every day, or how much of himself he’d chipped away just to keep going. Baby steps, you had to remind yourself. You weren’t sure what exactly you were hoping for—some grand breakthrough, maybe—but you knew better than to expect too much too soon. Every failed attempt at getting him to crack a smile felt like a loss, but you’d tell yourself it was progress just to keep from giving up on him entirely. You weren’t going to admit it out loud, but part of you had started to care. A little too much, maybe.

While it was a slow and steady climb, everyone eventually reached the top. Sure, you haven’t seen Lighter let out a full-blown laugh like the rest of the group does, and honestly, you think you’d be terrified if you ever did. The idea of Lighter laughing, really laughing, feels like something unnatural, like it’d crack the very foundation of who he was. But still, progress is progress, and you can confidently say that Lighter has earned his place among the Sons of Calydon. He’s become a part of your little-found family, even if he fits into it like a jagged puzzle piece. He didn't even run away this time when you tried to take a picture to commemorate this grandiose development!

When Billy was let loose to pursue his own journey, it felt like the end of an era. Billy had been the group’s champion, the one everyone looked to when the fights got hard or the nights got dark. With him gone, the question of who would step up next loomed over everyone like a heavy cloud. Although, wasn't the answer obvious? It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself vouching for Lighter. It made sense, didn’t it? He was the best, after all—undefeated in every scrap, a relentless force that never seemed to break no matter what got thrown his way. His fists were as reliable as clockwork, and if anyone could carry the title of champion, it was him. The decision came easy for the group. A few voices of agreement, some claps on the back, and it was done. Lighter himself didn't agree with the results of the poorly run election, a grimace on his face pulling his mouth at odd angles, but alas, once you get the ball rolling there was no stopping. But the moment felt big, even if no one dared to call it that. There’s something about the way a shift like that cements someone’s place in the group, making them more than just a stray taken in. Lighter wasn’t just there anymore; he belonged.

To mark the occasion, Burnice cracked open a can of Nitro Fuel and passed it his way, the group’s rough equivalent of a ceremonial toast. But it was when you stepped forward, holding out something small but significant, that the moment truly landed. A red scarf—fresh, clean, and carefully presented by you, their makeshift doctor. A memento from Billy, just with a few added accessories to fit the newly appointed champion. You weren’t sure if Lighter even understood the weight of the scarf, but he took it without a word. For a heartbeat, you swore you saw something flicker behind his tired eyes—a spark of gratitude and resolve, maybe, or something close to it.

And then it happened. A sound so quiet you almost missed it. A soft laugh, barely more than a breath, escaped Lighter’s lips. It was faint and rough, like a memory of laughter rather than the real thing, but it was there. It wasn’t the kind of laugh you’d expect—nothing loud or joyful—but it was enough to make the moment stick with you. You didn’t comment on it, though. You just smiled and stepped back, letting the rest of the group crowd around him with their half-joking cheers and pats on the back. For all his deadpan looks and quiet stoicism, Lighter was their champion now. And if the soft laugh was any indication, maybe—just maybe—he was starting to believe it too.

Really, that should have been your first warning. A giant, blaring signal complete with flashing red lights and alarm bells. Seeing those lips part in a husky, unguarded laugh that escaped before he could regret it, and watching that light—soft but unmistakable—return to his eyes should’ve told you everything you needed to know: the next few months were going to leave you an absolute mess. How you didn’t notice it sooner is beyond you. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was because you had your hands full, or maybe you were just being an oblivious mule. Either way, it hit you like a freight train one day: Lighter was… really handsome. Incredibly so. Unfairly so. As the medic for the Sons of Calydon, you’ve seen more than your fair share of half-naked men and women—enough that the sight doesn’t even faze you anymore. A bare chest is a bare chest when you’re stitching someone up or doing routine physicals. And for the longest time, that applied to Lighter too. If he stomped into your clinic bloodied and shirtless, you were all business. It was just work. Professional.

But now? Now that Lighter had started to loosen up, to let himself belong among the group, you were seeing him in a very, very different light. From playing along with Caesar's ridiculous scenarios, staying sober so Lucy could finally stop playing caretaker and let herself relax, to turning the radio's volume down when he noticed Piper about to drift off to sleep. Most importantly, there was no damn distraction to save you when he pulled off that worn biker jacket and undershirt during sparring matches with Burnice. It made sense, you told yourself. He didn’t want his clothes to catch fire. Burnice’s sparring matches weren’t exactly gentle, and leather jackets weren’t fireproof. It was practical, completely logical—nothing more! Certainly not a ploy to make you feel like you are on the verge of seeing the gates of heaven far too early. And yet, there you were. Frozen. Staring. Watching droplets of sweat roll down the sharp lines of his abdomen like they were defying gravity just to mess with you. Forcing yourself to look away was suddenly a task requiring herculean strength. And the worst part? Your brain didn’t even give you a fighting chance. It wandered without your permission, a little voice whispering things like “Oh, so that’s what a body sculpted by fistfights and bad decisions looks like...what were we thinking about again?"

You were trying to be professional—really, you were—but it was getting harder every single day. Case in point: Lighter had just dropped onto the bed inside the medic bay after another job, peeling off his jacket with that same maddening, careless motion he always had—like undressing in front of you wasn’t a one-way ticket to your complete and utter ruin. And to make matters worse? He didn’t even have any real injuries! There was one—count it, one—itty bitty little cut on the side of his hip. Barely even noticeable. You were convinced he’d probably done it himself just to have an excuse to bother you. How dare he. You dragged in a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as if preparing for battle. Because you need to make it clear, this was life and death for you at this point.

“Really?” you said, deadpan, trying not to look directly at him as he lounged with that infuriatingly calm energy. “You’re out here making a scene over this?”

Lighter tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral but with just enough of a smirk to drive you crazy, “Didn’t say it was bad. Figured you’d wanna check.”

“You mean this tiny paper cut sent you crying here?” You let out an exaggerated sigh, forcing yourself to focus on the tiny cut on his hip as if it were a serious injury—though you couldn’t quite bring yourself to believe that. It was just a scrap. A tiny thing. Yet, there he was, acting like he was on the brink of death. You fumbled with the bandages, your hands betraying you as they shook more than they should have. You stared at the spot, trying to ignore how absurd this whole situation was, but still feeling the pressure of his steady gaze. Your fingers weren’t cooperating, fumbling as you tore off a thin piece of tape. This was supposed to be simple, yet here you were, making a bigger deal of it than it really was.

“Still standing, aren’t I?” Lighter cracked one eye open to glance at you, and for a second—just a second—you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of amusement. This cheeky brat.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath, finally pulling out the smallest bandage you could find. You crouched beside him, determined to slap it on and get him out of there as quickly as possible. But of course, when you leaned closer to inspect the so-called injury, you realized your mistake. Lighter hadn’t moved an inch, his posture relaxed, like this was just another ordinary moment for him. That lazy confidence of his made everything worse, making it harder to ignore the sharp, defined lines of his stomach, the way his skin felt warm even through the faintest brush of your fingertips. Your breath caught for a split second, but you forced yourself to focus. You swallowed hard, trying not to dwell on the way your pulse was racing, and pressed the bandage over the "wound", not letting your fingertips linger on the soft skin, “There. All better. You’ll live to fight another day, champ.”

You stood up quickly, your movements stiff as you gathered the scattered supplies, and turned your back to him, half out of instinct, half out of necessity. You couldn’t risk him seeing the way your cheeks had flushed, the heat creeping up your neck and settling on your face like an unwanted mark. The last thing you needed was for him to catch on to how much he’d affected you. No, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing. It would be far too embarrassing, and you definitely weren’t ready to face that kind of vulnerability, not with him, not yet.

Lighter let out a soft chuckle, the sound light and maddeningly soft. You hated how it seemed to echo in your chest, stirring something you couldn’t quite name. It'll be imprinting into the folds of your brain labeled specifically for his laughs because you were a psycho who did things like that, “Told you it wasn’t bad.”

“Next time you come in here for no reason, I’m charging you a medic’s fee. Double if you don’t bleed. Someone’s got to keep you in line,” you shot back, but your voice came out softer than you’d intended, almost warm. You couldn’t help it. The way the sunlight caught him just right, casting gentle shadows across the sharp planes of his face, made everything feel… quieter. For a beat, the air hung heavy between you, thick with something unspoken. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unreadable, and you felt a strange, unexpected pull.

“Yeah, but if I fall, I know you’ll catch me and pull me back," Lighter’s voice was casual, but it was heavy. Af if he was stating a fact or a universal truth. He tilted his head back against the wall, the gesture almost too relaxed for these words, as if time itself had slowed down just for him. His hand brushed over the bandages you’d carefully placed, the motion languid and unhurried like he wasn’t just tending to a simple injury but savoring the quiet, the stillness between you. Each pass of his fingers over the bandages was deliberate, a slow rhythm that seemed to draw out the moment, making it stretch and linger like he wasn’t in any hurry to go anywhere. What the hell? What are you even supposed to say to that? This is so unfair, super unfair.

“Anyway, you’re good to go,” you said quickly, your voice a little more strained than you intended as you tossed the used wipes into the trash, taking a small step back. You found yourself brushing your hand over your ear, almost absentmindedly, as if trying to shake off the lingering warmth of the moment, or maybe just to steady yourself. You couldn’t quite tell. You checked for any heat under your touch, feeling a bit self-conscious, but the action didn’t feel quite as innocent as it should have. “Try not to get into another fight before dinner, would you?”

You can hear Lighter stand, stretching with a deep, satisfied groan that you definitely didn’t file away in your mental catalog for later, “No promises firecracker. Some fights come lookin’ for me. I'll save you a plate, but don't take too long or I'll eat it instead.”

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, you couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at your lips as you waved him away. Damn him. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly fitted into his bones, made your heart do that annoying little flip that you couldn’t quite control. The smile lingered longer than you wanted it to, and you hated how much he could still get under your skin. Baby steps, you'd tell yourself, but still progress.

It wasn’t as if you’d ever expected anything to happen between you and Lighter. Sure, Caesar liked to go on about destiny and how her romance novels always had similar plots, but that didn’t mean anything. You were fine with things the way they were—really, you were. Your feelings weren’t so ridiculous or territorial that you’d go snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. In fact, you were glad that everyone thought of him fondly. He deserved that. He had a way of drawing people in, making them feel seen, and honestly, it was nice to know you weren’t the only one who appreciated that about him. Still, you just wished everyone would stop trying to play matchmaker. That, quite literally, would be the worst thing ever. Not because the idea of Lighter seeing you as something more wasn’t appealing—it was, and you’d be lying if you said otherwise—but because the Sons of Calydon collectively shared one working brain cell at best. The very thought of them trying to orchestrate a confession or some contrived romantic scenario was mortifying. Caesar, of course, was the ringleader of it all, constantly preaching her philosophy of bold, loud declarations of love, chest puffed up and voice ringing for all the world to hear.

And every time, you’d look her dead in the eye and remind her of the months she spent silently pining over her first love, fantasizing about confessions she never made until it was too late and they’d moved away. That love story had ended not with a bold declaration, but with an awkward goodbye and the realization that she never even liked them in the first place. Besides, the thought of your feelings being laid bare for everyone to see? If that ever happened, you’d find the nearest oil pit and swan dive into it without a second thought. The embarrassment alone would be enough to finish you off. No, it was better to keep things as they were, safe and uncomplicated, even if it meant ignoring the nagging thought of what could be. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid.

Burnice was only marginally better than Caesar. Sure, she wasn’t quite as loud about her “proclaim your burning love and passion” philosophy, but she had her own infuriating quirks—chief among them being her obsession with matchmaking. Maybe all that Nitro Fuel was starting to mess with her brain. She had an uncanny knack for spotting opportunities to stir the pot, and whenever the moment arose, she’d make a scene. Without fail, she’d find some contrived excuse to pull Lighter into your orbit, nudging the two of you together as if proximity alone would somehow spark a whirlwind romance. Never mind the fact that you already knew Lighter well enough—too well, really. You’d seen the man at his lowest, whining like a baby about heatstroke after stubbornly choosing to wear that ridiculous heavy leather jacket in the middle of a blazing afternoon. And yet, Burnice acted like you were strangers in need of a push, her attempts so blatantly obvious that you couldn’t look her in the eye for a week afterward. Those eyes of hers practically sparkled with mischief, and the memory of her smug expression alone was enough to make your skin crawl.

But what made it worse—so much worse—was that Lighter wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t oblivious to the madness unfolding around him, just tripping on the reason why it was happening. Perhaps it was an inside joke at your expense? You’d never forget the moment when he tilted his head, looking at you with that furious concern, about if someone broke your heart and if he needed to knock their lights out. It had been said with such casual sincerity that it had left you utterly speechless, your brain scrambling to decide whether to laugh, cry, or crawl into the nearest hole and never emerge.

Piper and Lucy, thankfully, had a more hands-off approach to the whole situation, though that didn’t mean they left you entirely unbothered. They understood, perhaps better than anyone else, how precarious the balance was. How one wrong step could send everything crashing down. Still, their restraint was only relative. Piper couldn’t resist her playful jabs, her slow teasing remarks always accompanied by that sly, knowing smile. And Lucy, ever the practical one, delivered her opinions with the sharp precision of a scalpel, cutting through your defenses whether you wanted her to or not. You half expected her to whip out a whiteboard filled with colorful markers. They had their arguments ready, like they’d been keeping a running list of evidence to throw at you. Piper, with her casual observations about how Lighter’s gaze lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking, and Lucy, with her unshakable conviction that you were too blind to see what was right in front of you. They’d remind you of the small, unmistakable gestures like the way Lighter’s posture changed when you entered the room, how his relaxed indifference seemed to shift into something sharper, more focused. They noticed how he always managed to save his best, most effortless smiles for you, how he’d offer help to you before anyone else without a second thought. Even your name, spoken in passing, seemed to make him perk up like he couldn’t help but respond to anything that revolved around you. Piper loved to point that out, making it seem like some grand cosmic joke you were too stubborn to get, while Lucy preferred to frame it as a ticking clock. To her, it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed him and decided to take their chances.

A gang of Thirens had made a pit stop in Blazewood, their arrival unexpected but surprisingly uneventful. They’d come seeking nothing more than a place to rest, not to stir up trouble, a rarity in and of itself. Kasa, seeing no problem in lending a hand, had granted them permission to stay, with the firm condition that they kept the peace. To everyone’s astonishment, they honored her terms without so much as a hint of hostility. It wasn’t often rival gangs showed even a sliver of willingness to cooperate, let alone behave like decent human beings. Rarer still were those who managed to charm the locals, but these Thirens were doing just that. Their easy smiles and polite demeanor had disarmed the townsfolk, who quickly warmed up to them. Laughter could already be heard echoing through the streets, strangers turned companions over shared drinks and stories.

But while everyone else seemed content to embrace the unexpected camaraderie, you were about two seconds away from dunking your head into the nearest barrel of cold water. It wasn’t the Thirens’ presence itself that rattled you, nor their good behavior, but something else entirely��an unspoken frustration simmering just beneath your skin. Your nerves felt frayed, stretched taut, and every moment of forced composure only added fuel to the fire threatening to ignite inside you.

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but the thought lingered: if you didn’t find a way to cool down, you might just explode like one of Burnice’s flamethrowers, leaving nothing but chaos in your wake.

"Wow, what's your workout routine? Your biceps are so defined."

Never mind cooling off, you were going to rip that lynx Thiren’s tail clean off and kick her straight to the curb before you even thought about dunking your head in cold water. The entire time she’d been in Blazewood, she’d grown bolder and bolder with Lighter, testing the limits of your patience with every sly remark and flirtatious gesture. At first, it was casual. A few light touches here and there, a fleeting brush of her hand as she laughed just a little too hard at one of his blunt jokes. You’d told yourself to let it go. She was a guest, after all, and the last thing anyone needed was unnecessary drama. But then she escalated. Full-blown wrapping her tail around his arm under the pretense of "measuring" the circumference of his triceps-to-biceps ratio? That was the last straw. If she was so curious, she could bring all her questions to you. You’d be happy to explain. Preferably while she was running as fast as her legs could carry her out of town.

Before Lighter can even begin to gently but firmly remove the tail from his bicep, another hand comes down with the speed of a strike, swatting the offending limb away with a swift motion—like a cat swatting at an annoying fly. And a cat would be the perfect comparison for how you look at that moment. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, claws metaphorically out and ears flat against your head in pure, unfiltered territorial instinct. Your hand immediately shoots up to wrap around Lighter’s other arm, the one that hadn’t been tainted by the lynx’s touch, and you pull it to your chest, holding it possessively. There’s no mistaking the intent in the way you hold onto him, the clear message that this one’s taken so back off.

You and the lynx share a pointed, searing glare. Neither of you bothers to mask the silent standoff, both of you sizing the other up in the most primal way possible. There’s no subtlety in this, it truly is an animal kingdom.

"Sorry, miss, but I need to borrow my gang member for some private business. I'm sure you understand," you say, your smile wide and innocent, though the murder in your eyes is as sharp as a blade. You glance up at Lighter with a pointed, almost desperate look, silently urging him to come with you now. Whatever expression you're wearing—serious, frustrated, or somewhere in between—it’s enough for Lighter to nod and start to move. But just as he takes a step, that damn tail wraps around his arm again, yanking him back like some sort of trap. The lynx’s sly, satisfied grin tells you everything you need to know. She wasn’t done playing yet. You grit your teeth. The only thing left to do is bargain with Burnice and make sure that tail goes up in flames. "Accidentally," of course.

"I'm sure your other members can be asked. You're all capable, aren't you?" The lynx sneers, her ear twitching in agitation as her claws come out in warning. You raise your chin, turning your nose up at her in response. You’d like to see her try. If she thought she could take a swing at you without consequence, she was sorely mistaken. The tension thickens, and it’s all too easy to imagine how this might escalate. You can feel your hands already twitching to grab for her, ready to turn this into a full-blown catfight. But before anything hits the boiling point, Lighter tenses beside you. With a quiet, fluid motion, he frees his arm from both your combined grips, gently but firmly pulling away. It’s a perfect, almost effortless escape, and in that moment, he stands between the two of you like the undefeated champion he truly is. Even between two people crying for his attention, he manages to slip by with ease, a subtle reminder that he’s always in control of the situation.

"Sorry, doc's orders," Lighter says smoothly, his voice laced with a calm finality that brooks no argument, "If you need anything, ask any of the Sons of Calydon. Like you said, we're all capable. And if you’re looking to step up your workout, speak to the boss."

Then, as if to punctuate the moment, he places his hand at the small of your back, his fingers blistering hot against your skin. With a slight push, he leads you away, his steps measured and steady, pulling you effortlessly from the chaos. You resist the urge to glance over your shoulder, but a small, spiteful part of you can’t help but wonder what expression the lynx is wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Maybe even a twinge of jealousy? The thought of her standing there, seething with frustration, gives you a twisted sense of satisfaction. You imagine her, the confident, bold creature who thought she had a chance, now left standing in your wake. But, frankly, you’re too absorbed in the rush you’re feeling—surging through your veins like wildfire. The excitement of the moment, and the subtle victory. It’s intoxicating. You feel like you’re walking on air, every step of Lighter’s guiding hand filling you with a heady sense of power. Maybe seeing the gates of heaven early isn’t so bad after all. The thought flickers in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The world is yours now, and nothing, not even a scorned lynx, can take it from you.

"So, you wanna fill me in on what that was firecracker?"

And just like that, you’re plummeting back to earth, gravity pulling you in hard. What was that? Did you black out for a second? Did some other version of you just take over and make a damn fool out of yourself? When did you get so bold, so… possessive? Your heart pounds in your chest as you replay every move, every look, every gesture, and it makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Mass hysteria, that’s it. That’s the best explanation. Maybe you’re just dreaming, wrapped up in some fevered nightmare. Any second now, you’ll wake up, face buried in a pillow, your heart still racing from the humiliation, and you’ll scream bloody murder into it, swearing never to think about today again. Or… maybe, if you're really unlucky, you’ll throw yourself into the nearest oil pit just to escape this entire disaster. Either way, neither outcome seems particularly comforting, and you’re starting to think maybe both sound equally tempting right now.

"Heat stroke-induced hallucinations. I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," you blurt, the words coming out quicker than your brain can catch up. You force yourself to sound blasé, like you don’t care like it wasn’t a big deal. But deep down, you know it’s a pathetic attempt at saving face. The lie slips off your tongue like water, but it’s as fragile as glass. Lighter’s response is immediate, a bark of laughter that fills the air around you, genuine and light, the kind that could make anyone laugh along, but at this moment, it only makes the pit in your stomach deepens. He knows exactly what you’re doing. He knows you—and here you are, pretending to be clueless.

The silence hangs between you both, a strange mix of relief and tension, and you can’t decide whether it’s a kindness from Lighter—letting you escape the awkwardness—or if he’s just as unsure of what to say next as you are. Either way, it's slowly driving you mad. You can feel your thoughts swirling, like a tornado of "What do I do now?" and "Did I just make a huge mistake?". Hell, you even jumped up from your seat and hissed like some wild animal. You glance at Lighter, his easy stride never faltering, the faintest hint of some satisfied smile still lingering on his lips. It's the perfect opportunity, he doesn't even look freaked out which means even if he doesn't reciprocate your feelings, he won't run for the hills. Lighter had followed you. He’d walked right alongside you, and then—he put his hand on your back. It’s still there. You can feel the warmth of it, his fingers almost too casual as they rest on you, a small gesture that has your insides doing flips.

Should you just go for it?

The thought of him being swarmed by others, other people constantly hanging around, making it harder to even get a moment alone with him, suddenly makes everything feel urgent. And the weirdest part? You can’t help but wonder if, for once, it’s your chance to actually get ahead of the chaos. But then there’s the other side of your brain, the one telling you to be careful. The one that reminds you that if this goes wrong, you’ll have to live with the consequences of letting things spiral out of control. It's all too much, too fast, but here you are, standing in the middle of the storm, unsure of whether you’re about to leap into it or run the other way.

Ah, screw it. Big Daddy didn't raise a quitter.

"Lighter, I—" You stumble over your words, your thoughts scrambling as you take a shaky breath, trying to summon the courage to say whatever it is that’s been building up inside you. For a moment, the familiar walls you’ve carefully constructed around yourself seem to crumble, and you feel the weight of it all. The hesitation, the fear, and your own uncertainty. You turn to look up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and steady, not teasing or playful as usual. This time, there’s something different, something deeper. Softer, quieter, more malleable. It’s as if he’s been waiting for you for a long time now. Is this what Lucy was referring to when your back was turned?

"Yeah?" he prompts gently, his voice low and coaxing, as if he knows you need a little push but won’t rush you. His eyes remain fixed on yours, unblinking and patient, making the air feel thick with anticipation. You hesitate, but only for a moment. The weight of his gaze doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did. Instead, it makes your heart race in a way that feels... almost comforting. You can feel the nerves slipping away, the words starting to form at the edge of your tongue.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath, and this time the words come easier, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

You glance up at him again, afraid of what you might see. Would he laugh it off? Or, worse, would he back away? Instead, you find his expression unreadable, but not unkind. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite place—a flicker of surprise, maybe, or understanding—but you don’t regret it. Not now. Not when you’ve finally let it out.

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

"Yo! There you both are! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

You jump away from Lighter as though he’d just set you on fire, a startled screech bubbling up in your throat before you force it down, stamping it out with all the dignity you can muster. Your heart pounds, and for a split second, you feel the world tilt on its axis. You whip your head around to find Caesar jogging toward you, waving her hand in the air like it’s just another day, completely unaware of the moment she’s just walked in on. Oh, sweet, oblivious Caesar...

"The Thirens challenged us to a friendly match! We can’t exactly go in without our Champion! You free to scuffle, Lighter? Oh, and if anything bad happens, I’m counting on you, Doc!" She beams at you both, her enthusiasm practically radiating off her, and just like that, you feel a little bit of the tension slip away. It’s impossible to stay mad at her when she’s looking at you like that. So full of excitement and energy, completely unaware of the chaos she just walked in on. Lighter, for his part, looks like a newborn fawn. His usual confident swagger seems to falter for a moment as he scratches the back of his neck, a slight blush creeping up his neck that he clearly tries to hide behind a forced grin. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly caught off guard by the sudden interruption.

"Uh, yeah, I’m in for a friendly match," he says, but his voice is a little too hesitant, a little too unsure. He glances at you like he's not entirely sure what to do next. “But, uh... firecracker, you're still good to patch me up afterward, right? Just in case things... get out of hand?”

He gives you a lopsided smile, and for a second, you almost want to laugh at how unlike him he seems right now. You can’t help but feel a bubble of laughter rise out of you as the sheer absurdity of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. The way Lighter is standing there, all awkward and fidgety, avoiding eye contact and tripping over words. You feel ridiculous, and you can’t tell if you're cringing more at how completely out of character this is or at how you’re both so blatantly fumbling through it.

You’re definitely not the smooth, cool-headed person you thought you were.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be there," you say, stumbling over your words like a clumsy fool. "Making sure you don't... uh, turn into a human pincushion, or whatever."

You wince the second the words leave your mouth. Human pincushion? Seriously? You could've come up with something better, but no, this is what happens when your brain turns to mush. You quickly look away, almost as if you're trying to disappear, but your cheeks are already burning, and there's no escaping it now. Lighter, looking just as silly, rubs the back of his neck in a way that makes him seem a little too much like a lost puppy. He’s not even trying to be smooth. He manages a half-smile, but it’s so awkward that it’s almost endearing.

“Right. Yeah, no one wants that. I’ll... leave the stabbing to the Thirens, I guess,” he says with a half-nod as if that makes any sense at all. It’s like the two of you are desperately trying to play it cool, but you’re both failing spectacularly. But then, like a breath of fresh air, Caesar’s cheery voice cuts through the ridiculousness. She grins, completely unaware of the awkward dance you two just performed.

"Great! Let’s go! We’re gonna show the Thirens who’s boss!"

And just like that, you both get swept up in her energy, still feeling a little bashful but grateful for the distraction. You chance a look at Lighter to see that he is doing the same, instantly averting both your eyes to the very interesting ground. Still, the top of the mountain is within sight.

Baby steps.

[never-rxne]

─── maybe i just wanna be yours.

sevika x masc!reader || 1.6k words

summary: you've known sevika since she was small. you may be the only person in the world who knows the woman behind the stoic mask, the only one she can talk to, let her guard down for.

but you are only second best. her eyes are always on the liberation of zaun.

and your eyes are only on her.

content warning(s): childhood friends to lovers. reader and sevika are close in age. reader is masc presenting/gender neutral. hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; yearning; mentions of violence and blood; mmm ambiguous ending.

"secrets i have held in my heart are harder to hide than i thought maybe i just wanna be yours i wanna be yours, i wanna be yours." — Arctic Monkeys. "Wanna Be Yours"

The tapping at your door again. 

Sevika is an unstoppable force. She moves through the world with purpose, with efficiency. Owns the ground her boots tread on. Does what she needs to survive. Takes what she can, gives nothing back. 

To most, she’s brutal. Heartless. A killing machine. Slams doors on every corner of her past. Kicks new doors open. 

But on your door, she taps. 

Only to you, she goes quiet. 

Then the real Sevika shines out, the Sevika you’ve known since she was a tortured, awkward teenage girl, dark brows drawn tight, stormy grey eyes glaring out at the world. Using her anger to shield her from her unforgiving life, the hits she’s taken, the disappointments and losses. 

Tap-tap-tap. 

The wood creaks as she shifts her feet. You can feel her hesitation through the closed door. Her shame. 

For a moment, you consider leaving the door closed. You consider staying seated at the table, your hands frozen over the tools and scraps of metal, waiting until she gives up and goes away. You know she knows you’re in here. Just as you can feel her presence, just as you knew she was going to be at your door before she even stepped into the apartment, you know Sevika can sense you on the other side of the door. Listening to her. Watching the shadows beneath the cracks. 

It’s the least she would deserve. 

How long has it been since you’d last seen her? Not a single note. Not a single word from her to let you know she’s still alive. 

That you were ever on her mind.  

You know if you ignored her, her pride would never allow her to return. Not until you sought her out first. Which you would never do, because if there was one thing Sevika had met her match in with you, it was dignity. Both of you guarded your dignities like jealous dogs. You would have to be on the brink of death before you ever admitted to yourself that you needed help, and she is the same way. 

Tonight, however, Sevika breaks the cycle. 

In a voice so quiet you could have mistaken it for the creaking of a distant floorboard, she says, “let me in.” 

It’s not a request. It’s not an order, either. But those three words catch onto your skin like hooks. In the space of that fleeting moment, all the resentments of the past silent months fall away. 

Almost embarrassing, how quickly you run to the door. How quickly you open it to her and let the cold light of the hallway spill into your small apartment room. 

Sevika had turned away from the door, as if preparing to leave. You can see in the angle of her broad shoulders that her own words had embarrassed her. This small admission of her need. 

She isn’t okay. 

Her mechanical arm (which you had watched her grow into, get used to, through each prototype, each Shimmer upgrade) has been torn off, leaving only the frayed ends of the wires. Blood and Shimmer stains the collar of her shirt, and her face is mottled with cuts and bruises. You smell the faint, familiar odors of sweat and oil and tobacco. She looks like she’s freshly crawled out of a fight in which she got the short end of the stick. 

“Fuck. Sevika.” 

She looks at you, exhausted. You feel sick with guilt for even thinking of ignoring her. 

“Get in here.” 

She lets you pull her into the apartment. Her eyes rove listlessly around the room, the mess of tools and half-built contraptions on the table. Then they come to rest on you. 

“Didn’t have time to call in advance,” she explains. “Sorry.” 

Sorry. A single word to brush away several months of silence, of worry on your end, of indifference on hers. You get it. Her frustrations with the Shimmer enterprise. Her relentless ambitions for a free Zaun. It isn’t that your hands weren’t full—building weapons and tools for the resistance, carrying messages for the underground newspapers that covered stories on the state of the Piltover-Zaun relation, stories that weren’t easily accessible to the lower class masses. 

But throughout all of it, you were thinking of Sevika. 

Wondering where she was sleeping. If she was taking care of herself. If she was even alive. 

Years ago, things between you had gone cold for a while. The biggest fight you had with her—the day she told you she was leaving Vander and his people, going over to Silco’s side instead. You’d called her insane. That he was building a drug empire, not staging a revolution. That Shimmer would throw her off the path, that it would ruin everything she had ever stood for. 

You look up into Sevika’s tired face, and see the same expression in her eyes as the first night you went to her after she had lost her arm. The same hesitation, the same nameless fear. Asking silently if you would take her back, if she was forgiven. 

Your answer? 

“Sit down,” you say. “Let me clean you up.” 

She moves to the table. You shake your head.

“The bed will be more comfortable.” 

From the stiff way she moves, you can guess she’s taken more hits than just a bloody nose. 

The mattress creaks under her weight as she sits down with a soft grunt. You retrieve some clean cloths from the kitchen and fill a small basin with warm water. When you return to the main room, you find her leaning against the bedpost. 

“Silco…” Sevika trails off as you gently tilt her face towards you, pressing the wet cloth to her face. “Silco’s gone.” 

“Gone?” You pause in your movements. “What, you mean he’s dead?” 

She grimaces. “Don’t know yet. He never returned to his office.” She looks at you. “You heard anything?” 

You bite back a sharp retort. Sure, I’ve heard loads. That’s just what I exist for, working my ass off for—listening for news of your boss. The same boss you lost your arm for. The same boss you think more about than ever once thinking to check on me. 

But you only shake your head. Even when you push her face to the side to inspect a cut along her hairline, your touch is gentle. 

In Zaun, no one can afford to be selfish. To expect anyone else to wait for them. You know this just as well as Sevika. 

You finish cleaning her face. She sits quietly, letting you wipe the grease and sweat from her neck. When you lean over her to unfasten the prosthetic attachment, she leans forward and rests her forehead on your stomach. 

She almost never invites physical contact this way. In fact, you can’t remember the last time she did. You feel a strange drop in your heart, a trembling hope and fear and violent want. But you hold back. 

“...Do you need something?” you ask the top of her head. The years and hard work are getting to her; the streaks of grey in her hair are telltale signs. The deep rings beneath her eyes. 

“I’m tired,” she says. “Feel like I’ve been running in circles for years now, and I don’t know what to do.” 

Slowly, you rest your hand on her head. The other you press into her back, wide and familiar, taut with muscle. You pull her closer. Rub circles into her shirt. 

You’re scared of the tenderness that rips open your chest now. You’re thrown back to a day years and years ago—a lifetime back, before things went bad—the first time you had kissed Sevika, both of you lonely and curious and slightly intoxicated by the atmosphere. The way she felt on your tongue, the way she said your name that night was frightening because it was so strange, so unlike Sevika, trembling and flushed and vulnerable. 

Never again had you kissed her that way, and neither of you had ever talked about that night. 

Sometimes, though, you wonder. If she ever thinks back to that night, if she seeks your confident touch every time she touches you now. 

Sevika looks up at you the same time you look down at her. Your eyes meet. 

“I missed you,” you say quietly. The words tumble into the air before you can call them back. And because she doesn’t dismiss them, because she doesn’t scoff or brush them aside, you go on. 

“I wish you came sooner. I wish you knew you can always come to me.” 

She looks away. “I do.” 

“You say you do, but you don’t.” You take her chin between your fingers, tilt her face back to look at you. “We’re too old to play hide-and-seek now, don’t you think?” 

Her dark lips, those same lips you watched tremble on a drunk night downtown when she told you about her fear that her father would die before she could speak to him again, curl into a half smile. 

You want to tell her things. Your heart might tear at the seams with all you feel for her. You want to tell her that her pain is yours, that nothing she could do would ever make you hate her. That everything she fights for is your fight as well. That you will never turn your back on her because you know where her heart is planted. 

And you know where your heart is planted, too. 

But that is a conversation for another day. Preferably a day she isn’t bleeding all over your clothes, a day when she isn’t lost and you aren’t hurting. There is still time. 

“Do you want to stay the night?” you ask her. 

Sevika gives you a single nod. She doesn’t have to say anything else, doesn’t have to do anything else. It’s all you needed to see that she has come here for that very purpose.

end note: rlly bangin out them self-indulgent fics these days lmaoo. i like this concept but i don't like this fic because i wrote it in one sitting hunched over like a goblin.. might return to it

[kroosluvr]

present day

if every day will be like this from now on, i'll look forward to every single one.

ok. Sits down. help meeee i tried using csp's comic tools for once (and also gradient maps + coloring w monochrome) to save time bUT I ENDED UP SPENDING THE USUAL AMT ANYWAY SO. . erm. WELL IT WAS FUN ANYWAYS

hiiiiiiiii i wrote this script 4 months ago nd finally did it (had this on the backburner for 20 million yrs bc i wanted to get out other angst bullshit first)

the parallels of goro's back (x3) on the first 2 pgs are kinda not 1:1 as i'd like but REGARDLESS i still like them. goro, who had utmost control over his life, running it like a machine, regardless of how he feels or if he's tired or if he wants to give up.......he was in control. knowing, of course, that his life is on the line at every waking moment, but since he was always on edge, always alert, he was still in control.

but now, surviving the long winter and coming out to the other side, he's lost that control AND that edge. now what is he left with? what is there left?

very speficially in the 2nd page.... i think its so <3 YAY <3 that goro, now, doesn't feel the need to take such spic-and-span clean-cut care of his appearance.., guy who rolls out of bed and throws on a shirt to go hangout w akira and sumire. he decides to tie up his hair and forgoes his gloves... feels more "comfortable" to change his apperance, to let down his guard a little. <- was the rough symbolism JKDSHKFS

sumire getting the choco croissant but letting goro have the first bite YEAHHHH WHATEVER

4th page symbolism is also rough i didnt think abt it too hard LMAO. 3rdsem goro watching his detective prince self leave. he knows acutely well that chapter of his life is over - whether he survives the long winter or dies in it. all that he knew - even though it was miserable and awful and frustrating and dangerous - is gone.

and now there's just this: the present day. whatever that means.

i think something important to me abt royal trio is just the idea of Learning To Just Exist: no need for a "purpose" or a "calling" or some overarching "goal". they just learn to exist.

and of course none of them really have a benchmark for "wow i like this i want to live like this" so they just roll with the punches, as they always have, but yknow. finally getting to live their honest student life as they always deserved

edit: and most importantly for goro, i think, is learning to cut himself some slack. "despite everything" he says, despite all the shit he's endured AND all the shit he's done, he feels like this is "right." whatever that means, he's ready to take it day by day to figure it out. AND THATS THE WHOLE THING Punches wall really hard

edit: I ALSO FORGOT. i think the sentiment of "being waited for" for goro means a lot. since he had to do everything by himself, fight for himself, decide everything for himself frm such a young age, the idea of akira and sumire waiting for him, inviting him out simply for him to be there -> is really meaningful to him, more than they could know.

edit AGAIN: also goro sleeping in means a lot to me. i imagine that guy has pretty terrible insomnia. ALSO HE HAS A BEDFRAME! i like the thought of his apartment being so /r/malelivingspaces throughout the game. he doesn’t deserve a bedframe. BUT HE HAS ONE NOW!

goros expressions in the last page gve me a hard time. sparkly....

also im SO freaking sorry if his voice isnt too well-written... i had a crisis over the wording while draiwng htis so much DSKHASKDASJK AND THE PANELING AND WHATEVERRR IDEK WHAT IM DOINGGG but it was fun!!!! exploratory..... regardless i will keep workign to do him and royaltrio justice. THUMBSUP EMOJI.

[waterfal-ling]

zenin's shadow - gojo satoru x reader

SYNOPSIS: Y/N, the outcast daughter of the Zenin Clan, a weapon forged from a forbidden union and raised in isolation. Gifted with immense cursed power, she is treated as little more than an instrument in the clan's pursuit of dominance. Her existence is one of obedience and sacrifice, a life defined by brutal training and a relentless drive to serve. Yet beneath the surface of her rigid purpose, a quiet curiosity about the world beyond the Zenin estate begins to grow. Despite the clan’s control, her strength, independence, and the haunting longing for something more are forces she cannot easily suppress. As she grapples with her role as a pawn in the Zenin Clan’s ruthless games, she must confront the delicate balance between her duty as a weapon and the desire for a life outside their cold walls. In a world where power, control, and family define everything, Y/N must explore the internal struggle of a girl caught between the chains of her bloodline and the faint hope for something beyond the shadows of her clan’s ambition.

GENRE: 18+, angst to eventual fluff

WARNING: graphic depictions of violence, profanity, self-harm, abandonment, mental health struggles, violence, abuse and trauma, gender discrimination (it is the Zenin's afterall), self-discovery -- will probably add more and the warnings for individual chapters if needed, grammar issues here and there - but I will try to catch them if I can.

TAGS: f!reader, strangers to friends to lovers, very slow-burn, angst to comfort to eventual fluff (but angst will be a very on-going thing), gojo being super mean - until he isn't, NOT-ADJACENT (will follow aspects of the original timeline, but I have changed the timings of things - e.g., Haibara and Nanami's mission happens on this chapter prior to the Plasma Vessel mission).

TAGLIST: OPEN

a/n: I have been looking for a story like this and thought "why do I not write it myself." I have not written an actual story in a minuteeee, so forgive me for the lack of dialogue in this chapter - or going forward. I will try to improve my grammar as I go (also shout out to grammarly). Additionally, I want to add that I will try to update every week, but I do have a full time job, so updates may be slow. The first chapter should be posted soon, once I figure out how to post anything since tumblr is not letting me share anything.

COMMENTS, LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED

CHAPTER 1: The Unseen Edge > next

The Zenin estate stood in eternal silence, a monolithic cold stone structure with a shrouded purpose. With its aged, worn flags, the courtyard stretched out before her like an empty battlefield, the sharp, frigid wind cutting through the air. It was a place where the sunlight seemed unwilling to linger as if even the skies above could sense the weight of the tragedy below. The estate was a labyrinth of oppressive halls and dim corridors, each corner hiding the darkness that held the Zenin bloodline together—secrets buried in the foundation of this ancestral house, its walls as cold as the hearts of those who inhabited it.

Her only companion was her training ground, a narrow courtyard with uneven stones. The world outside the Zenin gates was something she had never seen, never touched. Her hands were pale and practiced, the weight of her cursed tool familiar, though it was more of an extension of her body than anything resembling a possession. Her movements were precise and calculated, but no joy was found in them. There was no pride. There was only the quiet desperation of someone raised to obey, to serve, and never to question.

The Zenin Clan was a machine, grinding its members into a single purpose: power. And yet, she was something of a glitch in the design, a pawn with the potential to shatter the very foundation the clan had built its empire.

She had been born out of wedlock, a consequence of a fleeting affair between her mother—a woman whose name had long been erased from history—and a powerful Zenin man. Her birth was an event hidden from the eyes of the clan, a shame that would never be acknowledged. The moment her cursed energy had manifested, however, it had been impossible to ignore. It surged through her like an ancient, untamed force, a power that could not be contained by the delicate web of family politics.

Despite the tumultuous nature of her origins, her father had been forced to bring her into the fold—though not as a daughter, not as a person of value. She was a tool, a weapon to elevate the Zenin name. To him, she was an asset—a cursed daughter whose energy could be used to tip the scales in the clan's favor. Her mother had given her a name, a gift of love and identity, but that was stripped away with no regard for her. She was only the Zenin daughter, a pawn without a face or voice.

Her father had no interest in her humanity, and the clan, in turn, had no interest in her existence. She was not a daughter—she was the embodiment of their ambition, the living proof that the Zenin Clan could control the most powerful forces, even if it meant sacrificing everything.

From the moment her powers were recognized, she was severed from everything that could have made her feel whole. She was trained in isolation, pushed to the limits of her endurance, her strength honed not for survival but for the singular purpose of being a weapon. There were no games for her, no childhood pleasures. The other children in the clan played and laughed in the sun while she was in shadow. The difference between her and them was glaring and cruel: the boys were the heirs, the future of the Zenin bloodline, while she was nothing more than a tool to be wielded.

Her instructors, cold and distant, did not see her as a person but an instrument. They taught her obedience as much as technique. When she asked why she was always kept apart, the answer was as swift as harsh: "You are a woman. Play is a luxury for those who are born to rule. You must train, or you will never be anything."

Her mind, like her body, was forged in that same fire. Years of such words and training had worn her down and conditioned her to accept this path. But inside, the seed of something dangerous had been planted—curiosity—the longing for something more, for something beyond the endless cycle of pain and obedience. But a longing had to be hidden, buried deep, because the Zenin Clan did not reward curiosity. It punished it.

She had been forbidden to venture beyond the courtyard's walls, but sometimes, the pull of the kitchens would bring her close to the laughter of children, to the food she would never taste. Their joy felt like an unbearable weight on her heart, a reminder of the life she would never live. She had learned to keep her distance, to ignore the hunger gnawing at her soul. It was easier that way.

Her punishment for curiosity came swiftly: a slap across the face when she ventured too close, a reminder that her place was far from those who lived freely. "You are not like them," one of the higher-ranked women had sneered. You are here to serve, to be useful, nothing more."

And so she continued her training, her cursed tool always in hand, her movements becoming sharper, more deadly each day. Her only purpose, as always, was to serve the clan.

The courtyard was empty that day, but the stillness felt like the calm before a storm. She stood motionless, waiting for the mission to begin. Her eyes narrowed as she sensed the presence of cursed energy nearby—an unusual, twisting force that hummed with malice. Her heart quickened, her cursed energy thrumming in response, but she had no time for hesitation. When the mission was assigned, it was simple: eliminate a cursed user. A clean task. One that needed no questions, no emotions—just a job to be done. She didn’t need to know why, or who.

The early morning air at the train station felt sharp against her skin, the quiet hum of the platform interrupted by the steady shuffle of people. She stood at the edge, her gaze distant, feeling the subtle hum of cursed energy around her. She kept her awareness sharp. Her eyes scanned the crowd, but she had little interest in the everyday interactions around her. The sound of chatter, the clattering of train wheels, the laughter—it all blurred into the background. But something in the atmosphere today made it linger.

She noticed two figures standing near the end of the platform, moving in sync, their cursed energy standing out from the rest. Their presence was hard to miss.

One of them was a tall, serious figure—his posture straight, his expression calm but focused. The other was the complete opposite: relaxed, easygoing, his energy light and unburdened. His laugh was effortless, and his easygoing manner was a stark contrast to the first.

The two were talking in low voices, the carefree one laughing at something the other said, a genuine sound of amusement. It made her pause. The first man’s stoic composure was the complete opposite of the second’s casual ease. There was something about the second man—his laughter, his warmth—that made her wonder.

She watched them longer than she intended, but their eyes met for a brief moment. The serious man’s gaze swept across her, holding no judgment, but there was a quiet wariness. The moment passed, and she quickly averted her eyes, returning her focus to the world beyond.

She looked out toward the busy streets. The train station buzzed with life, the sounds of people moving, laughing, and talking. Children played, couples shared moments together. It was all so ordinary. But it felt so alien to her. She had spent so much of her life detached from these small, human experiences. She could only wonder what it would be like to be a part of it—to laugh for the sake of laughter, to live without a mission hanging over her.

Could that ever be her?

She shook the thought from her mind. She had a place, a purpose—moving forward, serving the clan. There was no room for such distractions.

The train ride passed by in a blur, the steady rocking of the carriage almost calming in its predictability. Upon arrival, the routine followed. The serious man and the carefree one stepped off the train together, but their path took them in the opposite direction. They were headed elsewhere while her mission awaited.

She didn't spare them another glance as she moved toward her target—an infamous cursed user whose trail had led her here. Her mind focused, her steps determined. The hunt was all that mattered. There was no room for hesitation or doubt.

As the evening drew near, the streets darkened. She walked through narrow alleys, her movements precise, like a well-rehearsed routine. The pulse of cursed energy was faint, but present—just out of sight. Her senses sharpened as she moved forward, aware of every detail.

But then, something strange stopped her in her tracks.

The veil.

Her cursed energy flared for a moment as the veil shimmered in the distance, a presence far beyond anything she had encountered before. It was overwhelming, ancient. She felt its oppressive weight, and for a brief moment, something inside her hesitated.

She had always been alone—detached from the world and its simple connections. But now, something stirred inside her. The serious man and the carefree one—they were already near the veil, facing this overwhelming presence. Were they truly capable of dealing with this?

She paused. Her instincts tugged her toward them.

For a brief moment, she was torn. Her mission was still the priority, but curiosity held her for a second longer.

The hesitation passed.

She moved toward the veil.

From the shadows, she observed. The two men were already in the midst of the challenge, their energies fighting against the overwhelming force. The carefree one, usually so lighthearted, now had a determined focus. The serious one remained calculated, but neither could match the power of what they were facing.

Her gaze narrowed.

She could end it.

Without a word, she stepped forward. Her cursed energy flared, cutting through the air with precision. In a single motion, the veil was shattered, the overwhelming presence dissipating almost instantly. She barely used any of her power; just enough to break through.

The two men looked at her in surprise.

The carefree one stood frozen, his mouth slightly open, caught off guard by the speed and power. He almost seemed like he might speak—perhaps thank her. But she didn’t wait for it.

With swift, decisive steps, she turned away. The air around her felt charged, like a storm about to break. She didn’t need their questions or gratitude. There was no need for thanks. Their curiosity wouldn’t change anything.

The serious man watched her walk away, suspicion beginning to flicker in his eyes. She could feel it—the shift in his focus.

Their gaze lingered, but she didn't look back.

The hunt wasn't over.

But as she searched for her target, the familiar pulse of their cursed energy faded. The trail was gone.

Had they sensed her power?

A feeling of unease settled in her chest, but she dismissed it quickly. There was no time for questions. The mission would continue, as it always did.

The mission was over, and the Zenin Clan responded swiftly and brutally. They were enraged by her actions, her audacity in interacting with the other sorcerers, and her independence. But their anger was muted by something deeper—the fear that her power was a force they could no longer control.

She was summoned back to the estate, her punishment inevitable. The scars would form, as they always did, the pain a constant reminder of her place. They believed this would break her. But they underestimated her.

The fire in her eyes could not be snuffed out by pain. It was a fire that would burn brighter and hotter until she would rise above them all.

She healed swiftly, the reversed cursed technique working magic on her body, but the scars on her soul remained. They could not touch those.

And so she endured.

She was a weapon, a tool of unimaginable power, but she was not finished yet. Yes, she was a Zenin daughter, but that was not all she was. And she would find a way to be more.

No matter the cost.

But the truth was, she was finished. The Zenin estate had no place for her beyond her usefulness. The fleeting moments when she could glimpse at something beyond the shadows—those brief seconds of curiosity—were long gone. The world outside was an illusion, a dream never meant to be hers.

She would always return to the cold stone, the empty courtyard, the echo of footsteps that meant nothing to anyone but herself.

The Zenin Clan had made her, and they would break her. And in the end, she would be no more than a footnote in the history of their ambition.

A shadow, always watching but never seen. A tool, always wielded but never acknowledged.

In this world, she was extra. Always a part of the background but never indeed seen.

[lxclerc]

𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬 | 𝐜𝐥𝟏𝟔

summary… charles tries to help his girlfriend study but that proves to be difficult when he doesn’t understand a single thing requested… yes! warning… none. pure fluff.

note… another old drabble request from the graves of my inbox. also as a med student, i adore this idea so much

𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

charles has never been the brightest tool in the shed when it came to academics. he supposes it comes with the occupation. growing up, he cared far too much about racing that he had no space left in his mind to care about school too. he was always meant to be a formula one driver so he never cared about the cell or the mitochondria.

ironically, you were the exact opposite. like him, you’ve known what you were meant to be the moment you got ahold of your first book. you’re going to be a doctor, a healer and you’ve dedicated yourself to that dream.

the human body is a beautiful machine, much like the universe. every little cell and atom circulating its vessel holds a purpose, creating a balance between life and death. it’s majestic, truly and a little bit scary. if one thing failed then the entire system could collapse and so you studied and studied and studied for ways to keep that system going, to cure ailments and diseases.

you thrive off academic validation and a minor superiority complex and yet somehow you’re the most anxious person charles has ever met.

he’s madly in love with you. this is a fact. him and his dream that required him to constantly put his life at risk and you with your dream of helping and saving people. really it was a match made in heaven. and charles is madly madly in love with you.

that’s the only reasonable explanation as he pulled himself out of his sim practice, seamlessly moving around the kitchen of your shared apartment as he prepared an ice coffee for you.

you’re drained and you’re on the verge of breaking down and so when he wrapped his arms around you and offered to help you study for your finals, you’d all but cried in gratitude.

no, charles leclerc didn’t care about the cell and mitochondria and but he cares greatly for you and so he’d study it if it meant you’d finally allow yourself to rest.

unfortunately for him, you’re way past learning about the mitochondria. instead you’re studying your worst enemy aka pharmacology.

“angiotensin receptor blockers prevent vasoconstriction and aldosterone release, causing a decrease in blood pressure and peripheral resistance,” you recite from the top of your head, still looking like you’re on the verge of tears but slightly better.

charles shook his head as he held the book you’d given him to help you study, his glasses on. “non, non, amour. it says here it’s ‘angiotensin receptor blockers selectively bind to the angiotensin I receptors in the blood vessels to prevent vasoconstriction and in the adrenal cortex to prevent release of aldosterone then lead to decrease in BP caused by decrease in peripheral resistance and blood volume.’”

you sigh again but couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped you. the first time he did it, you’d gotten frustrated but at this point, your brain is far too fried to even get annoyed at him. especially when even he looks like he’s about to start crying.

you pushed away the book from his hand, clumsily crawling over to him as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pushing him down so he’d be laying on the sofa and you on top of him.

“my love, i don’t need to memorize everything word for word from the book,” you explain as gently as you can for the third time. you know he’s just trying his best to help you.

“why?” he frowned. “wouldn’t it be better if you knew it exactly from the book?”

you giggled. “perhaps but no med student would ever survive memorizing twelve inch books word for word. we’d simply all break down and die.”

you hold yourself up, pushing his hair off his forehead before removing his glasses. he still looks confused but a lot of things honestly confused charles. thank god he has a smart girlfriend to explain everything to him.

“stop worrying about it,” you say. “i’ve studied enough and we both need a break.”

he sighed in relief, tightening his arms around you. “thank god i felt like my brain was put on a pressure dryer for a minute there.”

taglist: @ricsaigaslec @dragon-of-winterfell @coffeehurricanes @privcherry7 @miniminescapist @sebsdaniel @strelcka @writing-about-current-obsessions @amsofftrack @lostinketterdam @bisexual-desi @cialovessirlewis @multilovebot @lovelynikol16 @troybolton-14 @ohthemissery @dr3lover @myescapefromthislife @sunf1owerrq @the6ccnsp6cyy @t-nd-rfoot @navixfr @xjval @gridbunny

[technofeudalism]

"it's ridiculous to say it's easier to cheat academically now" every single student in the first world has a cheating machine in their pocket at all times everywhere they go that can tell them exactly what to think, say and feel and it completely and utterly replaces every part of the critical thinking process in every single way if you want it to. the basic entry point for cheating used to be, at minimum, having the money or the social capital to convince someone to help you cheat. if you cannot reconcile this, then my unfounded assumption based solely on vibes is that you are probably using or have used AI for academic purposes and are defending it solely on the basis that you feel called out for it. it's crazy that you'll get put on a cross on here for using AI for art but academically, the excuses are everywhere.

people have been cheating academically since the beginning of academics. the difficulty to do so, however, has absolutely steeply decreased. not only that, but why are we totally disregarding the fact that people who relied upon cheating the way that a huge number of students rely on ChatGPT today were already seeing reduced academic performance? like... we've known for years that regularly cheating and cognitive offloading the old way leads to worse academic outcomes. so why would the analysis be less critical when a far, far larger percentage of the student population is now doing so and using a tool that is far more accessible and efficient to make it possible?

if you want to make this a socioeconomic issue, which i agree it is, then fine. be a socialist. join an organization and advocate for free education, health care and housing. it is also absolutely an issue accelerated at break neck speed by COVID. but you have to start by acknowledging there is a problem. you need to put the AI down, even if it puts you at a disadvantage. at the very bare minimum, you need to stop using it to write and summarize for you. it will be more difficult, it will take more time, you will fail, it will be hard. but you need to stop letting the machine that is wrong all the time and easily manipulated by your own biases and the biases of it's creators think on your behalf.

[physalian]

Physh's Deep-Dive Editing Checklist

Based on a post I made elsewhere: I’m the type of writer who jumps at the chance to trim things from my WIP based on beta feedback. I can either spend a whole paragraph or more adding in lore/worlduilding/context for a joke that doesn’t land, or just delete the joke and carry on. Sometimes I really do want to keep a detail, and sometimes it’s just not that important.

So here’s some things I’m thinking about when I’m editing my own WIPs. Not every single scene goes through a gauntlet, I can sort the iffy ones from the solid ones pretty easily. This gauntlet is already for scenes where I’m like “This isn’t working but I can’t figure out why yet”.

Does this scene do at least two things at once?

If I have a heavy sitting-and-talking scene that’s just information and static movement, if the setting and timing don’t matter, if I could drop this conversation elsewhere with no changes, to me it’s not doing enough. So I justify its existence to myself.

If this is critical info, what other information could I be giving with the subtext, or things unsaid? What can I convey in the body language of the speakers about how they feel about what they’re saying? How do I ground it in this location, why are they having this conversation here instead of somewhere else? Is this room a place of security, or where anyone could walk in and eavesdrop, and are they concerned about being overheard?

Does this scene embody at least one side of my themes?

Your theme is the thesis of your book, and the more characters and circumstances that support (or argue against) your core message, the more cohesive the piece will feel.

This isn’t necessary for every single scene, as that would probably feel repetitive and too tight of a script, unorganic.

But if I have a theme of ‘absolute power corrupts absolutely’ and a subplot that takes up a fair amount of time that can’t speak to this theme either agreeing with it or criticizing it, I can either tweak the subplot so it fits better, or add it to ‘deleted scenes’ to maybe salvage later.

Am I advancing the plot, worldbuilding, relationships, or backstory?

I like very lean storytelling and not a ton of redundancy. Repetition is good, like a rule of threes, but rehashing the same concept with no new context, understanding, or relevancy is a bit of a waste.

Not every scene must advance the plot, but some forward momentum in one of these categories helps your book feel like it’s always working toward something and not stagnating. If you like a slower novel that marinates in itself, then that’s your taste. I’m very aware of when a story just plateaus, with themes and characters stuck in a proverbial waiting room for the next big event to move them all forward at once.

Do I have enough variety?

I am very prone to “sitting-and-talking” scenes where it’s not exposition, but it is two characters just dialoguing to each other. Dialogue comes very easy to me and I can let a scene run away from me and start peeling away from being grounded in the setting.

So if I have, say, 5 “sitting-and-talking” scenes (and they can be walking, or laying down, anything where they and their environment are divorced from each other) even if they’re all between different characters about different subjects, I’m looking for what I can have them be doing while they’re talking.

One or two of these in isolation isn’t bad! It’s when this becomes your only vector through which your characters have important conversations.

Maybe they’re also making dinner for the big upcoming feast, and I can detail all their movement with kitchen tools and ingredients, and have a bunch of background details about the recipe they’re making. Keeping it grounded in the setting.

Or they’re sparring, they’re making repairs to a necessary machine, they’re getting ready for an outing. Something that either speaks to who they are and their purpose in the story, or that will be important later.

Other things I’m looking for:

Is this foreshadowing subtle/obvious enough, where can I sneak in more details?

Are these big emotional beats balanced through the narrative or too rushed?

Have I lost any background characters that I meant to follow-up with?

Is the story too crowded, and if so, who can I cut so it’s not overwhelming?

Do the characters who need arcs have the page time necessary to see it fulfilled?

Where am I telling, not showing, and where can I change between the two for a better story?

Am I contradicting my lore, magic system, or worldbuilding in any un-justified way?

A non-exhaustive list that's hardly the end-all/be-all, just my proceses for the story that I want to tell.

[th4tsj4zzy]

i just like thinking about firefly

i just like thinking about firefly, who above all wants to be a normal girl and make friends and go to school and follow trends, despite being a machine whose only purpose is to fight and die.

i just like thinking about firefly, who is fascinated by machines and weapons because even though shes had her fair share of bad experiences with weapons, they had protected her against the swarm all those years ago and continue to protect her today.

i just like thinking about firefly, who had to deal with the crisis that comes with being a tool, a pawn for others to use, her entire life. who witnessed others just like her in appearance and situation crushed and left behind without a single person to mourn them but her and think, what did they even die for? who woke up in a field of dead bodies and not believing she was alive: how loney she must have felt.

i just like thinking about firefly, who has a tendency to get jealous of people, like how she says that she envies acheron for being able to dream when the only way she can is in penacony, or when she expresses how amazing she feels running and jumping and feeling what she wants without needing to worry about her health.

i just like thinking about firefly, who even though she wants to fight for life, is still bitter about the fact that no matter how much she wants it, she can never be a normal girl. not with her medical issues, not with SAM, not with her status as a stellaron hunter or an ex-glamoth cavalry member. how no matter how much she tries, she’s still as human as anyone else.

i just like thinking about firefly, who despite everything, decides to keep fighting for the chance to choose for herself. to defy her fate and live as firefly; not as a tool, but as a human.

[tobiasdrake]

Also, thinking about Devimon and Etemon.

Etemon is referred to as the King of Digimon, as well as the World's Strongest - though that latter part comes with an explicit disclaimer that it's self-proclaimed. But it hasn't been disproven prior to the Children's arrival, so he's at least up there.

Etemon is Old Power. He has an established power structure already in place when the children arrive. He has far-reaching authority across Server, with an forces at his beck and call all over the place. And his Dark Network is fucking everywhere. He's been in a position of consolidated power for what's suggested to be a pretty long time.

Like. He's been in power for long enough to have a tradition of annual concerts.

And though he's actively pursuing the slippery little kids, he's able to threaten the Chosen Children wherever they are by ringing up whichever of his forces are garrisoned over there.

Etemon is not just the World's Strongest (allegedly). Of the three villains prior to the Dark Masters arc, Etemon is the one with the most reach and political influence.

Vamdemon, the next villain, is a recluse living in an isolated castle he seemingly bulit himself, extensively studying Chosen Children lore with no influence beyond his walls. He holds no authority over DIgimon society and relies on his two minions, PicoDevimon and Tailmon, to interact with the outside world.

And Devimon?

Devimon doesn't have shit compared to them. And he knows it. He's a bottom-feeder in the hierarchy of wickedness. But on File Island, he gets to be a dark god.

"The strongest evil Digimon!" says Agumon, who later admits he's never left File Island. He doesn't know what's out there on Server, which is where this assessment of Devimon's power is coming from.

Devimon is, knowingly and on purpose, the big fish in this small pond.

File Island was supposed to be a safe place for the Isekai'd kids to be received and properly instructed. Gennai was meant to appear to them the moment they arrived in that forest.

They had the Tags over here waiting for the Children to arrive, a whole-ass temple dedicated to Digivice lore for them to study at, and Gennai was all set to meet them.

But then bottom-feeding Devimon also found File Island and realized it'd be a great place to bunker down and build up his master plan.

The Black Gears are Devimon's great equalizer against the likes of Vamdemon and Etemon. Though he's inferior to them in power, the gears - seemingly based on his Death Claw attack, which has the same effect - are capable of enslaving the minds of even Perfect-stage Digimon.

He came out here to the distant, isolated, and lowkey in power Tutorial Island, shorted out Gennai's signal, and also found the Tags that were waiting for the Chosen Children and shoved them in a hole.

Get that shit out of here. I have gear-making to do.

Then he set to work making fucktons of Black Gears and hollowing out File Island, turning the whole place into a fleet of ships to carry his Black Gears to foreign shores.

What's really interesting about this, however, is when you stop to consider his ambitions.

What is he making this huge surplus of Black Gears for?

The other side of the ocean is Server Continent. Who, exactly, is he invading?

That. Is fascinating when you stop to think about it.

The forces of darkness are not one big happy family. We know this. Vamdemon and PicoDevimon did not give one single solitary shit about what happened to Etemon, and in fact used his death as part of their own machinations.

Devimon is a weak bottom-feeder with ambitions of being king of the world, creating tools of mind control that can enslave even Digimon far more powerful than he is. Etemon is presently King of Digimon, ruler of Server, and World's Strongest (allegedly) Perfect-stage Digimon.

And there's a very real possibility that, had the Chosen Children not gotten between them, Devimon was days away from going to war with Etemon for power, prestige, and territory.

I wonder what that would have been like? A Devimon vs. Etemon war sounds really interesting as an AU.

But then he died.

And in his final moments he was like "HAHAHA You have no idea about the guy I was doing all of this to beat and you wasted this shit on me! You're all so fucked! HAHAHA!!!"

And he was almost right.

There but for the interference of Nanomon, the Chosen Children's arrival on Server would have been three minutes of bloodsport for Etemon and then right back to ruling his kingdom, never truly understanding either of the deadly forces that were knocking at his front door.

[williceunleashed]

Any headcanons about the shadow triad? (I love them sm and they're so underrated)

Ur art is rrly amazing btw!!

Thank you so much !!! :)

I'm still building a lot of stuff, and there isn't much on the Shadow Triad in canon material to work with sadly 😭 But here is what I have :

As in general interpretation :

I personally see them going through a very similar treatment to Anthea and Concordia, in that they exist for one purpose only. Anthea and Concordia were meant to take care of N, and don't know what to do with themselves in BW2 once he is gone. In the same way, the Shadow Triad is unable to let go of Ghetsis because their whole existence, for years, has been to serve Ghetsis and N.

Unlike Anthea and Concordia, they don't even have a unique appearance or even a unique name, they are considered as one single unit, blending their identities together. I think that, pretty much like the grunts, their sense of identity is barely existant anymore and they considered themselves more like a gog in a machine rather than individuals. They are pretty much the only high-ranking members with no identity at all.

I feel like they followed Ghetsis in BW2 because it was "comforting" to them. It was an harmful environment, and Ghetsis kept considering them like tools, yes, but it is the only thing they knew. While they seem to still respect N (I believe they call him "Lord N" in BW2 ?), they couldn't stay by his side. N stopped ordering the grunts and the Shadow Triad around, and therefore the Shadow Triad would have lost the only identity they ever knew. With Ghetsis, despite being treated like objects, they still feel like they have a "purpose" to accomplish, they still have a thread of an identity.

Even when Ghetsis is defeated for the second time and breaks down completely, the Shadow Triad still tries to defeat the protagonist (If I remember well, just like N, they are stationed in a specific spot and you can battle them post-game). They tell the player they want to defeat them in hopes to make Ghetsis go back to his "normal" (very evil) state. That's how bad they lack any identity outside of Ghetsis. Even when Ghetsis is reduced to nothing and has no one anymore on his side, the Shadow Triad sticks to him because Ghetsis' orders is all they know. They are really tragic characters man,,, they are like a black mirror to N, Anthea and Concordia,,,

Their sense of identity, or lack there of, is something really fascinating to me. Obviously they serve a special purpose, like Anthea and Concordia, but never even had the basic right to an individual name. I can't help but feel like it was done on purpose and not just as a quick cut, because damn Anthea and Concordia barely have a few lines but they still have specific designs and names. Same for the Admins in other teams. But the Shadow Triad is an exception to that. They would be close to "Admin" roles, but unlike all other admins in other teams, they lack any identity. I think they represent how Ghetsis treated his team members : Never as humans, only as tools who don't even deserve to be named.

In the same way as N, Concordia, Anthea and many grunts, they were victims of a master manipulator and years of brainwashing, neglect and abuse.

As for headcanons with my OCs / general headcanons in my story :

Dardanne never interacted much with them because Dardanne respects the higher-ups and wouldn't dare speak to them if not allowed to first.

Melony, on the other hand, proves himself to be a menace to society (AGAIN) and goes out of his way to talk to the Sages and the Shadow Triad as if they were besties. Melony's out of pocket behavior was, for once, a positive thing, as he ended up being one of the few people talking to the Shadow Triad as real people. He enjoys infodumping to them about Rattatas and will show them pictures on his phone. The Shadow Triad is very confused and doesn't know how to react at first, but they don't dislike the interactions.

In BW2, they grow closer to Melony and welcome his attention. The Shadow Triad are the only members in Team Plasma that Melony doesn't boss around, alongside Colress, because they are his favorite people (He doesn't hesitate to boss around Zinzolin and to ragdoll him into the walls tho).

Because Melony talks to them quite a lot, he is capable of differenciating them. They don't have individual names, so Melony took the habit of calling them A, B and C.

Melony seems to unconsciously understand that the Shadow Triad are very fragile mentally due to the severe abuse and brainwashing, and tends to care for them in a weirdly gentle fashion. He does his best to learn about the three of them as individuals and learn about their interests to offer them gifts or talk about their interests later.

Post BW2, after Ghetsis' mega breakdown, Melony is severely injured by Kyurem but survives. Once he is healed, he is more or less the head of the household, as Ghetsis is barely interested in being alive anymore. Melony attempts to keep the Shadow Triad functioning, but struggles a lot, seeing that the three of them are now completely lost, now that they can't serve their original "purpose" as tools. The post BW2 is still a wip, but I feel like the Shadow Triad deserves to heal a bit and take some sort of independance away from Ghetsis and Mel.

Personalities headcanons :

I think the three of them genuinely love pokémons and care deeply about their own pokémons. They treat their pokémons like family, because they don't have the occasion to bond with humans much.

A might seem like the most passive member of the Triad. He is aloof and distant at first glance, but can be very fun to be around once he trusts you. He is the most mischievous out of the Triad. A loves pizza. Bro can eat 10 of them in one evening. I think he secretly enjoys watching the cringiest romance movies. In general, his media tastes are really bad, but he can't help the guilty pleasure of watching all the Twilight movies in one go on a monday night.

B is the most expressive of the brothers. He is the most happy-go-lucky, but usually hides it being a very practiced emotionless mask. His favorite food is anything home-made. Maybe he even enjoys cooking himself in his leizure time. B might be the one who misses a "normal life" the most, and finds comfort in doing domestic stuff, such as tidying up places, cooking...

C might be the kindest of the three. He displays more mercy and is generally more gentle. He has many regrets, and might be the one who is the least attached to Ghetsis. He is fully vegetarian and loves playing with Pokémons in his off-time. Outside of his Shadow persona, he is kind of shy. He is generally a rather nice person, and would have probably been similar to N in term of kindness if he hadn't been brainwashed and abused so badly.

[mi-dori]

☆Strange Magic☆

●Prompt: In which your girlfriend has never seen a phone before so it was up to you to teach her about earthrealm's technology.

●Warnings: Clueless Kitana...Mentions of porn

■MK1■

Outworld was no stranger to magic; the civilians that reside in outworld know all too well about magic and its capabilities, so when Earthrealm's very own, Johnny Cage brought a phone in Outworld, it sparked the interest of many; including a certain blue princess.

Of course you owned a phone too, but you never thought it would be useful in outworld, not when Kitana found it and began inspecting it, holding it with great care and great interest. "So this strange device.... has magic?"

Kitana and you were currently seated on the bed, the phone in your hand. You finally decided to break down every detail of a phone to her, in hopes she'd understand, but poor Kitana had so many thoughts and questions and you were gonna answer every single one of them.

"No my love-well you could say it's kind of a magic but it's called technology."

"I have heard about that term before. Its sort of like scientific knowledge, correct?"

"That's correct. Over the past centuries, technology became advance and with each passing year, people created many useful tools using technology and they even brought about a phone. Technology these days became so advanced that people created robots and machines capable of completing tasks just as a human would."

To say Kitana was astonished was an understatement. Her eyes were wide open with shock... interest, so many different emotions. "So what exactly is the purpose of this phone?"

"A phone is used to communicate with others. Let's say if I'm right in this Palace and you're somewhere in Sun Do, using a phone, I can call you. It will only work if you have a phone as well."

"So it's like a technological pigeon?" She titled her head, making you break into a fit of giggles. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing... it's just the way you phrased it. Yes you could say a phone is like a technological pigeon, my love." She made an 'O' shape before urging you to continue.

"Phones are also used to take pictures, much like a regular camera. There's also features like games, video watching apps and so many more." With each feature you listed, you gave a brief explanation on every one, showing her demonstration on how to use it. Eventually, she caught ahang of it and by the time you were done, you were left tired.

"Y/n look! I killed the man!" Kitana shook you excitedly, a bright smile on her face. She was playing a game you had on your phone and you fought yourself to keep awake, however, she noticed. "Oh my love... I'm sorry I wore you out..." she sighed softly, placing the phone down as she positioned herself to hug you.

Unintentionally, she sat on the phone and turned on Siri who then spoke, "What can I assist you with today?" Hearing the voice, Kitana squeaked and jumped into your arms.

"By the gods! There's a woman trapped! Is this one of Shang Tsung's magic?!"

Laughing loudly, you shook your head at her comments. Well, you did forgot to explain to her like Siri so you took another few minutes to explain and demonstrate to about the strange woman trapped in the technological pigeon. Kitana was busy asking Siri the most out of pocket questions, and you were busy fighting sleep once more.

A few moments of silence passed and Kitana then asked, "what is porn?"

"Kitana what?!"

"You have it here on something called, Search History."

"Give me that. No more phone! Good night!"

With a pout, she laid ontop of you, sighing like a little child as you turned away with a red and embarrassed face. Well maybe you did have a few regrets about teaching her but there's nothing you can do, except clear your search history every day...

[busbybub]

261 jjk no one is born blessed everyone is born cursed and will die cursed that’s the whole storyline baby girls I hate to say it.

A story about powerful men using children soldiers to fight a war they don’t fully understand. Children losing their humanity, dying a bit more everyday until their demise. Not even a cog in a machine just a mere tool, used and easily disregarded once they no longer serve a purpose. Characters that not only didn’t get a chance to live but also don’t even get to die.

Gojo a character created to suffer, a character born with the sin of changing the world for the worst. A character forced to sacrifice everything, to never be given an ounce of humanity. A character that lived purely out of guilt for the suffering his existence caused and did everything in his power to make the world a better place for the next generation.

Geto realising someone has to be the villain, someone who did everything right, everything they were told to do and achieved nothing. I mean he saw Riko choose herself and wish to live get shot right in front of him. A character who sacrificed everything and it still wasn’t enough. Gojo only fully comprehending this after his demise. The anger, the guilt, the unimaginable amount of suffering.

Megumi who never got the chance to reach his potential, who just wanted to keep the ones he loved safe. But instead had to watch his potential be used to destroy everything he held close to him.

Yuta a teenager having to mourn his teacher and himself at the same time. A character that knew he was becoming a monster and wanted to die, forced to live and sacrifice his humanity to be a monster. To be a weapon.

Yuji born to protect forced to be protected. Born to sacrifice himself for others forced to watch others sacrifice themselves. He’s not sidelined he’s simply not being allowed to become the monster he was born to be.

Nobara desperate for freedom and connection flying to close to the sun. Just wanted a chance, a space to belong.

Maki desperately trying to make something of her self leaving her toxic family behind sacrificing her relationship with her sister. Then having to watch her sister sacrifice herself for maki to reach her potential.

Nanami who could never escape his guilt and couldn’t find a purpose away from his trauma. Accepting the responsibility to protect the next generation from suffering his friends fate ultimately accepting that fate for himself.

Not a single happy character huh. The red string of fate is suffocating. Pureeee evil gege. What have you been through?

[ptr-sqloint]

also can i hear about your ocs and world building and take on angels because i love them

Thank you so much for asking :D! i have a LOT to say:

so!

angels in my world building : basically angels are an tools with a single specific purpose built into them, and not sentient in the same way people are.

That purpose can go from something simple and 'mundane' to more impressive / elaborate tasks. Some transmit information, some are there to protect people/places, some are basically the rules of the world/nature, some are cataclysms.

The form they take depends on the job they have, and there are a few angels that have a physical body.

there's no god in the sense of a guy or a higher will/power, but you could say that the machine that is all the angels together functioning as a system is a sort of god.

there's also different categorizations of angels depending on the scope and magnitude of their influence. kind of like the difference between the weather and climate.

in descending order of magnitude:

there's the laws, the phenomenons, the cataclysms, the guards, and the instances. a law would be gravity or light and and an instance is the kind of angel that would appear and relay a message.

now! there are also man-made angels. Sort of. to make an angel first you need a preexisting physical angel that you are going to deface and destroy in part to take the building parts of your own angel. While the rates of success are not very encouraging, it is possible to make something mostly functional. But watch out!

for example, radio as a means of communication would be a functioning man-made angel.

now for the rest of the world building:

the world is very slowly deteriorating just through sheer age and entropy

angels can't really die or be destroyed but they can be wounded gravely to the point of being unrecognizable , this is how you get fallen angels

some of that resulted in a form of magic: making an image of something makes it more likely for that thing to be true. The effect is basically negligible if you make , say, a painting; but it can be amplified by repetition ( so lots of duplicates of the same image ) and using certain materials for the images. the effect lasts as long as the image does.

i have three special little guys: Galahad, Camille, and Alice

Galahad is nobility and was brought up to be The Knight Of The Prophecy TM since he was very young and so is very learned about lore and magic and that sort of stuff. He's also trans but doesn't know it yet , and he's not actually The Knight(also doesn't know that). He wants very much to fulfill that role tho, and a lot of his conception of himself as well as his self esteem hinges on being able to play that role well. He has quite a short temper and gets easily frustrated.

(the Prophecy TM is something vague about someone doing something that would permanently halt the deterioration of the word. It's vague because it's One Very Old image with a massive amount of repetition all engraved at the same place so it's Very Much up to interpretation)

Camille is the actual Knight. He's also a trans guy. Him being The Knight means that he has a physical angel inside of him. In his body growing around his organs like a dendrogaster parasite (not a fun time for him) it talks to him and sometimes influences his actions/perception of the world. Camille thinks that sucks immensely and wants nothing more than to be rid of it and of his 'destiny'. Especially considering it's pushing him to do some bad stuff. Otherwise he's a pretty cool guy, a bit clumsy and incompetent at a lot of things, but he's sweet .and he works as a courier.

Lastly there's Alice , she is a robot who was constructed using the brain and nervous system of a criminal, that was then linked up and put in a machine made for fighting. After a while , it was deemed unusable because of various issues, and was decommissioned. The organic materials were disposed of and the machine left in a scrapyard. A while after ( like a few decades ) it was woken up without any memory of her previous life / time as a robot. Mostly. She gets brief impressions and scraps of her memory as time goes on. Basically It is a robot and/or the woman haunting it 👍

i wrote more stuff about her in the replies of this post

[mmigrainee]

Have you ever shared how lothaire and cyric met?

Wife. I am aware it is you. You cannot fool me. 👁️👁️

But I'll use any excuse anyway. Thank you, talking about them makes me happy. 💜

The question is quite simple, but in order to answer it, I will have to rewind time a lot.

—

The Wretched

It was mentioned earlier that Lothaire is a bhaalspawn. And yet, I didn't mention before that besides divinity, his bloodline was 'blessed' with a magical gift. He was born a sorcerer.

His mother was a notably skilled magic user.(However, I would say that her gift was more of a curse to her for many reasons.)

Her gift was inherited by her son, but it manifested itself quite late. In other words, despite his predisposition to magic in theory, the first skills that young Loth mastered were rogue's skills.

As soon as Lothaire's magical abilities were fully manifested, he felt almost omnipotent. After all, being rather an unfortunate soul on the streets of Thay, he had practically nothing. The debut of magical abilities opened up new possibilities for him. Lothaire wasn't one to waste his chances, and his divine blood only favored him.

From that moment on, much more active attempts began to declare himself. Now his separation from others is proving advantageous to him. This exacerbated his already inflated sense of exclusivity. He is no longer an outcast. He now considers himself superior to others. Lothaire's curiosity, determination, cunning, and outstanding skill in manipulation were key characteristics for achieving his goals.

All this resulted in an unusual way.

-

One Single Chance

Lothaire's antics managed to attract the attention of the goddess of magic herself. The first year of the new M*stra's reign was marked by a rather questionable experiment. A chance, one might say. A child of Bhaal, bearing a divine nature and wielding powerful magic, could serve as an invaluable asset. Some may even characterize this as a form of goodwill gesture. Evidence that the capacity for destruction can serve benevolent purposes. That tainted lineage does not determine one's character.

From Lothaire's perspective, it truly represented an opportunity, albeit in an entirely different manner. His conceit allowed him to think that he could use it to his selfish advantage. As if he could outwit a deity. And despite his contempt for the gods, he agreed to her terms. ( Not as a chosen, obviously. )

However, they both quickly realized that the idea turned out to be quite a failure.

-

Shattered

Over time, Lothaire's contempt and frustration only grew more, he felt anger, knowing her intention to turn him into a convenient tool of her will. She, in turn, felt apprehension about his ambitions and tried to suppress them. Nevertheless, he persisted in his service to her. Up to a certain point.

The mere idea that the offspring of Bhaal served m*stra struck Cyric as both amusing and strange. This piqued his interest. He even condescended to satisfy his own curiosity personally.

Cyric found a mortal in a rather interesting situation. Surrounded by mutilated corpses and clearly looking for something.

The sight of the bhaalspawn, nearly wholly cloaked in blood in the semi-darkness, amused the god.

Despite the fact that in theory Lothaire should be hostile towards the Prince of Lies, he felt rather flattered to be in his presence. Surprisingly, Lothaire even showed respect for his authority by kissing his hand. They even indulged in witty banter, through which Cyric discerned Lothaire's true feelings towards the goddess.

"She is audacious. To seize a formidable weapon without the requisite skill to wield it is to invite harm upon oneself alone."

Lothaire Of Thay, to Cyric.

In any case, their meeting didn't lead to anything. It was a merely entertainment for Cyric in a way for the sake of satisfying his curiosity.

Later, they were too busy with their own business.

Lothaire persistently pursued his own machinations, ultimately incurring the ire of the goddess of magic. He was cast aside and denied access to the weave. Naturally, it deeply wounded Lothaire's pride.

However, the sole source of solace for his petty nature was the realization that he had proved her wrong. He humiliated her.

Lothaire was forced to return to the already familiar rogue craft. Utilizing his connections, he reestablished contact with the thieves' guild, and in addition to his usual activities, he used it as a tool to find a new way to use magic again, while conducting his own searches.

In summary, his endeavor was more than successful, allowing him not only to discover an alternative to magic but also to attain a semblance of immortality.

It also produced a highly undesirable side effect.

As a result of the mixing of his divine nature, the remnants of magic in his blood, the curse of the goddess and the influence from outside, he acquired incurable wounds.

Wounds that spread almost all over his body and especially his chest. Wounds that look like the result of burning from the inside. Wounds that can never be healed and worsen upon contact with the weave.

-

Where We Belong

Meanwhile, Cyric recalled the existence of Lothaire once more.

The prospect of possessing an almost immortal being of divine origin, endowed with such extraordinary capabilities, was undeniably... Alluring. Moreover, he appeared to be quite entertaining to Cyric.

After contemplation, Cyric manifested before Lothaire, making it sound like Lothaire needed Cyric's presence, not the other way around.

Although this was not true, and despite the fact that Lothaire could pursue his ambitions on his own, he decided to play along with the Prince of Lies.

Cyric stated that if Lothaire was worthy, he would find Cyric himself. That's exactly what Lothaire did.

Lothaire reached Cyric, declaring his loyalty.

Oddly enough, he ended up being honest about it. They have been inseparable ever since.

[jedi-order-apologist]

A Mechanical Assassin

In a city facing both the perils of nature's chilly disposition and mysterious deaths at the hands of an unknown technological marvel, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan track down the killer only to find that there is far more behind these attacks than they had assumed... Written for Fandom Empire Fandom Rush - Week 4: Star Wars and What-if AU - Prompt: Wintery Mix (Winter + Steampunk AU) and Gen Prompt Bingo Round 27 - Prompt: Snow and Ice and Creative Golf - Prompt: Wind

Obi-Wan pulled his cloak tighter across himself. It was a good, heavy cloak, but the alleyway was a wind tunnel, doing little to protect from the sleet and threatening to pull his hood back down. It was miserable, cold, and wet weather, that no reasonable person would be caught out in.

Master Qui-Gon, of course, was not a reasonable person. And so Obi-Wan was, as was often the case, denied a nice evening by the fireside with a book on venomous fauna and their habitats, and instead subjected to the elements in his own urban habitat.

Not that he could grumble too much, however, not when they had found what they’d been looking for.

The automaton was, Obi-Wan could concede, suffering the effects of the weather far more than either he or his master, with ice clinging to its metal frame and clockworks, its pneumatics struggling feebly to march it forward, without much success.

It was as the witnesses had described – humanlike in stature, but not in features. There had been no thought spared for the aesthetics of the thing, covered in a single dull shade of paint that was clearly only there to keep rust at bay, and its shape purely conceived for function alone. Unlike many of the automatons Obi-Wan was familiar with, that function was not for domestic duties or to demonstrate the skill of its inventor or to amuse a curious audience.

No, this automaton was an assassin.

It was something of an inevitability, really. There was not a tool in all of human existence that they could not turn to the purposes of violence and death. The question, then, was not so much “why?” or “how?” (though they weren’t entirely irrelevant), but “who?”. Who had both the means and the will to create a death machine that walked and killed like men?

Perhaps with it in front of them, they could find their answer.

CONTINUED ON AO3