#purpose of Machine Tools

[tinkatonnageoffun]

best named plane?

funniest named plane?

coolest named plane?

Hnnnnnnn.......

My knowledge on planes is lacking. I'm more of a ship gal, myself.

Flying fortress because fuck, dude, it sure is.

Thunderscreech because, well, fuck, it sure goddamn is, my ears-

And.... Hrmn.

Puff, the Magic Dragon. I used to get read that story before bed, and seeing that name attached to a gunship like that, often the last thing hundreds of people saw before they died, the symbolic mailed fist of the United States' butchery department... Well, it fits. Here, I'll throw you a photo for why it's called that.

[aso-bi]

New Special Interest Unlocked!

Bookbinding.

I am just so deeply in awe of the history of books and how they were made throughout. It's such an interesting thing to just learn about because I'd always loved books, but I had never given the process of creating one just ANY thought. I'm fascinated.

...Brb gonna stock up on material so I can bind books of my own.

[elegyofthemoon]

listen i also think 2b is hot but also i am very very tired of walking into the tags every now and then only to see sexy art of her this is not what im here for im here for the existential crisis

[bucketteeth]

Compact Track Loader Pallet Fork Attachments

Compact Track Loader Pallet Fork Attachments Fork Capacity and Length Pallet forks allow compact track loader drivers to handle, move, and transport materials on construction sites. The fork capacity and length and other factors like safety and durability are considerations to bear in mind when choosing a pallet fork attachment. With any heavy machinery, there’s risk involved. Pallet fork…

[angstandhappiness]

Lovely

no!! stop running!!!

i need to tell you that he held out his arms to take his baby!!!

but the child squirmed around and began wailing terrified by his father’s helm!!!!

and his father began laughing and his mother laughed as well!!

and from his handsome head he took it and placed it on the ground!!

and he kissed his son and swung him around!!!

and prayed that he would become better than him!!!

stop running this is important!!!!

[sikkaprecision]

Collets Manufacturers: Sikka Precision Technologies Your Trusted Partner for Quality Collets

 In precision engineering and manufacturing, collets are critical components that ensure the effective clamping and stabilization of workpieces and tools. Whether used in cnc collet chuck manufacturers in India lathes, milling machines, or grinding operations, collets are vital for achieving high levels of accuracy and minimizing machine downtime. Among the top players in the collet manufacturing industry, Sikka Precision Technologies has earned a reputation for delivering high quality, durable, and custom engineered collets. we will explore what collets are, why they are essential in manufacturing processes, and how Sikka Precision Technologies excels in providing world-class collets.

What Are Collets and Why Are They Essential?

A collet is a specialized tool holder that uses a clamping mechanism to securely grip a tool or workpiece, keeping it in place during machining operations. Unlike traditional chucks, collets provide a more accurate, uniform grip, which is critical for reducing vibrations, minimizing tool deflection, and ensuring superior precision during high speed operations. Collets are used in various applications like turning, milling, drilling, grinding, and tool holding operations.

The primary function of a collet is to reduce the chance of misalignment or movement of the workpiece or tool during machining, which can lead to inaccuracies and damage. Collets are particularly useful in CNC and automated machining environments where precise, repeatable actions are required.

Common types of collets include:

Spring Collets: These are widely used for general-purpose applications and provide reliable clamping force.

Precision Collets: These are designed for extremely tight tolerances and are used in high precision industries.

Tool-Holding Collets: These are specifically used for holding cutting tools during CNC operations.

R8 Collets: These are standard for milling machines and are used for tool and workpiece clamping.

Why Choose Sikka Precision Technologies for Collets?

Sikka Precision Technologies has built a solid reputation in the field of collet manufacturing due to its commitment to quality, innovation, and customer satisfaction. Here are some key reasons why Sikka stands out among collet manufacturers:

Precision Engineering

At Sikka Precision Technologies, the focus is on producing collets that provide exceptional precision and accuracy in every application. The company specializes in maintaining tight tolerances for minimal run out, which is crucial in industries that demand high levels of accuracy. Whether it’s a standard collet or a custom engineered options each product undergoes rigorous testing to ensure it meets the exacting standards required for precise machining operations.

Customization Options

Every business and machining operation has unique needs. Sikka understands that a one size fits all approach may not work for every customer. As a result, they offer extensive customization options, including variations in material, size, and design. Whether you need a collet tailored for a specific CNC machine or for unique workpiece dimensions, Sikka’s expert engineers work with clients to deliver perfectly customized solutions.

Superior Durability

Collets manufactures from Sikka Precision Technologies are built for longevity and performance. They are manufactured using high quality, durable materials such as high grade steel and carbide to withstand the wear and tear of demanding applications.

Innovative Manufacturing Technology

Sikka employs advanced manufacturing technologies and machinery to produce their collets. The company invests in state of the art equipment, ensuring precision and consistency in every batch. Through the use of CNC machines, laser systems, and other cutting edge tools Sikka produces collets that meet the highest industry standards and provide long-lasting reliability.

Cost Effective Solutions

While Sikka’s Collet adda Micro lathe machine manufacturers in india are known for their exceptional quality, the company is also focused on delivering value. The balance between quality and cost-effectiveness makes their products an attractive option for businesses looking for long term solutions without compromising performance. The reliability and durability of Sikka’s collets help reduce operational downtime and maintenance costs, ultimately leading to better profitability.

Fast Delivery and Support

Sikka Precision Technologies prides itself on excellent customer service. Whether you need a standard or custom Din collets manufacturers in India, their responsive customer support team ensures fast and efficient delivery, so your machining operations remain on schedule. Sikka technical support is also available to guide customers through any troubles hooting or inquiries regarding their collets.

Frequently Asked Question About Collets and Sikka Precision Technologies

1. What are the different types of collets, and how do they differ?

There are several types of collets, each suited for specific applications:

Spring Collets: Ideal for general purpose clamping, they are versatile and can accommodate a wide range of sizes.

Precision Collets: These provide a tighter grip with extremely low run-out, making them perfect for applications requiring very high accuracy.

R8 Collets: Commonly used for bt tool holder manufacturers in India is milling machines, these offer secure clamping for a wide range of tools.

Collet Chucks: Often used in turning operations to hold both tools and workpieces securely.

2. How do I determine which collet is right for my application?

Choosing the right collet depends on several factors, including the type of machining operation, the material being worked on, the machine being used, and the required precision. Sikka Precision Technologies offers consultation services to help customers select the ideal collet for their specific needs.

3. Are Sikka collets compatible with all machines?

Sikka collets are designed to be compatible with a broad range of machines, including CNC lathes, milling machines, and grinders. Custom collets can also be designed to fit specific machine models if needed.

4. How should I maintain my collets?

Proper maintenance includes regular cleaning, inspection for wear, and ensuring that the collets are free from debris that could cause misalignment. Periodic checks of the collet’s inner diameter and clamping force can also help maintain optimal performance.

5. Can I order custom collets from Sikka Precision Technologies?

Yes, Sikka Precision Technologies specializes in creating custom collets to meet specific customer requirements. Whether it’s size, material, or design, Sikka can tailor collets to your exact specifications.

Conclusion

In the world of manufacturing, precision and reliability are paramount. Collets are integral to achieving these goals, and Sikka Precision Technologies offers products that meet and exceed the standards required by industries such as aerospace, automotive, and general manufacturing. With their commitment to quality, advanced technology, and customer satisfaction, Sikka Precision Technologies is your trusted partner for high performance collets. If you’re looking for custom or standard collets that offer durability, accuracy, and cost efficiency, Sikka Precision Technologies is the ideal choice.

[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.

[sixeyesonathiel]

what happens when satoru gojo, age 8, discovers affection in the most annoying form possible?

a/n: satoru gojo was born the strongest but also the most emotionally constipated. this is what happens when an eight-year-old demigod gets hit with a fever and accidentally manifests a clingy, semi-feral bestie with the spiritual energy of a raccoon and the vocabulary of a broken answering machine. if you think about it, this is basically one-sided imprinting. twilight wishes.

anyway. you are soulmates now. he can’t return you. there’s no receipt.

the fever had lasted for days.

your body, or what would eventually become your body, didn’t exist yet when it started. when the boy with the six eyes lay burning and thrashing in a silken futon soaked through with sweat, whispering things no one could understand. he was eight. too small for that much cursed energy. too divine for the fragile vessel he lived in.

the gojo clan elders panicked. the medics couldn’t touch him. no barrier could stabilize him. and so, desperate, they turned to a half-forgotten ritual. the theory was simple enough: take the excess cursed energy he couldn’t contain and make it take shape. mold it into a vessel.

something that could carry the weight.

what they expected was a tool. a familiar. a shikigami to leech off the pressure.

what they got was... you.

not quite a doll. not quite a beast. pale and blinking, limbs shaking like a newborn deer. your skin shimmered faintly under moonlight, like dew on porcelain. two eyes that opened slow and unblinking, and a voice that came out in cracked syllables and broken sounds. you fell into the world with a gasp, like you’d been holding your breath for a thousand years.

and the boy—the one they called satoru—woke up.

his fever broke that night.

you didn’t know any of this, of course. you didn’t know your purpose, or why people stared at you like you shouldn’t exist. you only knew one thing:

he was warm.

so you followed him.

at first, satoru tried to ignore you. he walked faster. you ran after him like your joints were made of pudding, arms flapping, hair sticking up in tufts like static cling. your little feet slapped against polished wood as you tumbled through paper doors left ajar. you mimicked whatever you heard, a walking echo of servant chatter and household scolding.

he ducked through sliding doors; you smacked into them face-first with a dramatic thud, then clawed them open with stubby fingers and a war cry that sounded suspiciously like “no touching young master table yes!”

he once tried to hide behind a folding screen. you climbed onto a lacquered table, knocked over a bonsai tree, squatted there like a gremlin, and chirped “young master?” until a maid screamed and dropped a tray of tea with a shatter.

he told a servant to get rid of you. you reappeared at dinner an hour later with a leaf on your head, mud on your knees, and a fistful of vaguely rice-shaped pebbles you thought were food. you plopped down beside him, beaming like you'd just won a prize.

in one particularly dramatic escape attempt, he climbed halfway up a cherry tree, disappearing into the blossoms like a sulky cat. half-hidden among the pink petals, he peeked down, eyes narrowed. you stood at the base of the tree with a delighted gasp.

“go!” you chirped. “go—ru!”

he scowled. his pale hair, disheveled from the climb, was caught in the breeze, framing his flushed face like a wilting halo. “that’s not even my name.”

you pointed up at him again, nose scrunching with joy. “go!”

his jaw twitched. “you’re the worst little—” he stopped himself and clicked his tongue. “ugh.”

maybe you were.

you couldn’t talk well yet, just repeated whatever you overheard. “young master,” “this way,” “no touching that,” “off the table”—you strung them together like talismans, proud and fearless, like a goblin parrot in training. once, you ran after him yelling, “no touching young master table yes off!” until he turned with the most baffled expression, like you'd just spoken in tongues.

he started throwing off your trail. dashing around corners. hiding behind fusuma doors. pretending to tie his shoes, then bolting like the wind the second you blinked.

and you? you escalated.

you started crawling under tables, squeezing through servant hallways, perching atop window sills like an owl. you once disguised yourself as a folded futon and waited in his room for two hours until he stepped inside, sighed, and said, “absolutely not,” before turning around and leaving again.

when he looked annoyed, you giggled like it was the funniest thing in the world.

one afternoon, while he was mid-sulk beside a courtyard pond, you tiptoed close and stared. he pointedly ignored you.

“stop looking at me like that,” he muttered after a long pause, glancing sideways beneath thick lashes. he fiddled with the sleeve of his haori, brows knit tight.

you beamed wider. then reached out and poked his cheek.

“why frown?”

his breath caught. he flinched back so quickly it startled a nearby koi fish.

his cursed energy snapped to life—just a flicker, a breath—and suddenly your finger hit resistance. it hovered in midair, like touching a sheet of ice. your brows lifted. confused, you leaned in again, finger outstretched like a curious child.

still nothing. a perfect, invisible wall.

he was using infinity.

your bottom lip trembled. “meanie,” you mumbled, eyes big and glassy. your arms drooped. you stared up at him, unmoving.

and stared.

and stared.

he twitched. his shoulders hunched tighter. “you’re not gonna cry, are you? seriously?”

you didn’t answer. just kept staring. one foot shuffled in the dirt. a single leaf fluttered past between you.

he squirmed. “ugh, fine!” the infinity dropped like a curtain. “there. happy now?”

instantly, you lit up and poked his cheek again. “no frown!”

he jolted. “gah—!” then scowled, swatting your hand away like it burned. “what is wrong with you?”

but his voice cracked slightly at the end.

he tried to eat faster after that, hunching over his tray like a raccoon, scarfing down his meals before you could sit beside him. you followed anyway, hopping into the seat with a bright grin, swinging your legs like a clock pendulum. sometimes you tried to feed him from your own chopsticks. once, you pressed a dumpling into his cheek and declared, “for go!”

he sputtered. “do i look like a baby bird to you?!”

the servants whispered every time you passed. “it looks too human.” “should we seal it?” “it doesn’t even understand commands.”

you never paid them any mind. you only listened to him.

you curled up outside his room like a stray cat, snoring softly beneath the paper screen. you crawled into his futon without asking, worming beneath the covers like a cold octopus, limbs flopping all over him. you tapped your head against his shoulder when you wanted attention, tugged at his sleeve when he ignored you. when he glared, you tilted your head like a confused owl and poked his cheek again.

“why frown?”

he groaned into his pillow.

and then the strangest thing happened.

one day, he let you sit beside him without protest.

another day, he saved a bit of sweet mochi, eyes flicking to you before silently placing it in your hands, face turned away.

and then one day, you flopped into his lap upside down like a sack of vegetables, legs dangling off the side. he gave an exhausted sigh and muttered, “you’re such a weirdo.”

you blinked up at him, crumbs in your lashes, nose scrunched in thought.

he didn’t call you weirdo again. he called you something else.

and you smiled like you understood everything in the world.

[jupiterswasphouse]

Not certain if this has already been posted about here, but iNaturalist recently uploaded a blog post stating that they had received a grant from Google to incorporate new forms of generative AI into their 'computer vision' model.

I'm sure I don't need to tell most of you why this is a horrible idea, that does away with much of the trust gained by the thus far great service that is iNaturalist. But, to elaborate on my point, to collaborate with Google on tools such as these is a slap in the face to much of the userbase, including a multitude of biological experts and conservationists across the globe.

They claim that they will work hard to make sure that the identification information provided by the AI tools is of the highest quality, which I do not entirely doubt from this team. I would hope that there is a thorough vetting process in place for this information (Though, if you need people to vet the information, what's the point of the generative AI over a simple wiki of identification criteria). Nonetheless, if you've seen Google's (or any other tech company's) work in this field in the past, which you likely have, you will know that these tools are not ready to explain the nuances of species identification, as they continue to provide heavy amounts of complete misinformation on a daily basis. Users may be able to provide feedback, but should a casual user look to the AI for an explanation, many would not realize if what they are being told is wrong.

Furthermore, while the data is not entirely my concern, as the service has been using our data for years to train its 'computer vision' model into what it is today, and they claim to have ways to credit people in place, it does make it quite concerning that Google is involved in this deal. I can't say for certain that they will do anything more with the data given, but Google has proven time and again to be highly untrustworthy as a company.

Though, that is something I'm less concerned by than I am by the fact that a non-profit so dedicated to the biodiversity of the earth and the naturalists on it would even dare lock in a deal of this nature. Not only making a deal to create yet another shoehorned misinformation machine, that which has been proven to use more unclean energy and water (among other things) than it's worth for each unsatisfactory and untrustworthy search answer, but doing so with one of the greediest companies on the face of the earth, a beacon of smog shining in colors antithetical to the iNaturalist mission statement. It's a disgrace.

In conclusion, I want to believe in the good of iNaturalist. The point stands, though, that to do this is a step in the worst possible direction. Especially when they, for all intents and purposes, already had a system that works! With their 'computer vision' model providing basic suggestions (if not always accurate in and of itself), and user suggested IDs providing further details and corrections where needed.

If you're an iNaturalist user who stands in opposition to this decision, leave a comment on this blog post, and maybe we can get this overturned.

[Note: Yes, I am aware there is good AI used in science, this is generative AI, which is a different thing entirely. Also, if you come onto this post with strawmen or irrelevant edge-cases I will wring your neck.]

[yuuchama]

"Fascinating."

You tried to ignore Malleus Draconia and his commentary, despite him towering behind you. On occasion he would lean forward, in such close proximity that strands of his hair fell forward and tickled your neck.

"What purpose does this tool serve? Why do you simply not use magic?" he inquired.

"There is no magic in my world," you reminded him. "I guess people in the past used regular fire, but nowadays this is way easier. And safer."

Malleus took a step back as you moved to retrieve a plate. He kept his focus on the strange machine atop your counter. It ticked with each passing second. His curious green eyes were reflected in its shiny metal shell. He put his hands behind his back and watched like an old man observing street construction.

With a loud ding, two slices of bread jumped out from the device. You put them on the plate and hurried to spread butter before they cooled off. Malleus smiled with glee.

"Heh. How amusing. You never cease to amaze me with new things."

You offered him the first buttered slice, which he eagerly accepted. You'd never seen a man so enraptured by a toaster before. He dug his fangs into the golden-brown bread with a satisfying crunch.

"Only takes a couple of minutes," you boasted. "Anyone can use it, no magic required, and it cooks all sorts of stuff. Bread, frozen waffles... frozen pancakes..."

You realized maybe the toaster was not as versatile as you thought, but cooking bread and frozen breakfast goods was still plenty impressive.

Malleus polished off his snack by licking the crumbs around his mouth. "Delicious. Do you have anything more we can use? I would like to try operating this... toaster."

[bucketteeth]

Choosing The Right Compact Track Loader Attachments

Choosing The Right Compact Track Loader Attachments The right compact track loader (CTL) attachments can transform your business. Whether you work in construction, landscaping, or agriculture, there are numerous ways to maximize productivity with CTL attachments that suit your needs. Track loader attachments vary, and understanding each one’s function and purpose helps gain a better perspective…

[natalieironside]

I've decided I love writing ad copy actually if it's paratextual ad copy for fictional products. I can't wait for y'all to learn all about Herr Dr. Schwartz's All-Purpose Tool and Machine Oil, which is available in twelve exciting viscosities.

[saatorus]

had the brightest idea…sukuna x tattoo artist reader..😪😪

wc: 1.4k

warnings: smut (unprotected sex)

authors note: anon anon anon. i need to pull your head off so i can get access to your brain like kenjaku so that i can give your smart brain a lil smooch. this was fun to write :3

The first time he walked into your studio, he had zero tattoos. Just scars from what looked like getting into fistfights and that sharp, cocky grin.

You didn’t think he was serious. Guys like him—too smooth, too smug—usually just wanted to flirt and bounce. But he picked a design off your wall, pointed to his chest, and said, “Right here. First one. Don’t fuck it up.”

You didn’t. In fact, he looked almost… reverent, watching you prep. Like he wasn’t used to being touched gently.

You assumed he’d be a one-and-done. He was not. He came back the next week, shirt already off when he walked in. “What’s up, picasso shawty. Wanna do my ribs next?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, but you let him sit. Again. And again.

He kept coming back. More tattoos. Bigger pieces. One on his back. One winding around his thigh. Some you designed just for him—your art permanently etched into his skin.

Your studio’s small. One chair. Walls covered in sketches and post-it notes. Half your tools are secondhand, but your work is crisp—clean lines, solid shading. Sukuna never comments on it directly, but he never lets anyone else touch him. Not once.

You pretend not to notice how he watches you set up. The way he stares at your hands like he’s memorizing every move.

He’s always saying dumb shit.

“If I say something filthy mid-session, will you mess up on purpose?”

“If you talk while I’m doing linework again, I’m putting a Hello Kitty on your ass.”

“Tempting.”

You keep it professional for months. Years. But it’s not cold—it’s comfortable. Inside jokes. Dumb snacks during long sessions. Him crashing on your couch once when it got too late. You drawing a fake tattoo on his thigh with sharpie “just to mess with him.”

One night, you’re doing a detailed piece low on his hip. He’s quiet, for once. Then:

“You ever think about how many hours you’ve spent touching me?”

You blink.

“You ever think about shutting the hell up?”

But your voice cracks a little.

The shift is small. He starts showing up without appointments. You don’t kick him out. You start drawing designs with him in mind. You stop correcting him when he calls you “baby” just to mess with you.

One night, it’s late. Like should’ve closed an hour ago late. The shop is quiet, just the soft hum of the fluorescent light and whatever chill R&B playlist is still looping from your phone. You’re cleaning up after a late session with Sukuna—again. He’s lounging in the chair, shirt half-on, scrolling on his phone like he lives here now.

“You know I have other clients, right?” you mutter, wiping down your machine.

He doesn’t look up. “Yeah? You tattoo them like you do me?”

You pause. “What the fuck does that mean?”

He looks up now, real slow. Smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Means you get real quiet when you're working on me. Like you’re focused or… like you’re trying not to think too hard.”

You toss the rag on the tray, annoyed. “I don’t know if you know this, but that’s actually called doing my job.”

“You’re shaky sometimes,” he adds, casual. “Especially when I’m shirtless. Or when I ask for spots you gotta like, get on your knees for.”

You scoff. “You think you’re hot shit.”

He stands. Walks up, real close. “I know I am. But that’s not the point.”

Now he’s right in front of you. Not touching—but close enough that you feel him. Heat off his skin. The scent of his cologne and smoke and something distinctly him.

“You wanna do it or not?” he says, voice low, like he’s done waiting.

Your stomach flips. “Do what?”

“Come on,” he mutters, like he’s tired of the game. “You’ve been looking at me like you want to fuck me since the third tattoo. You gonna keep pretending or you gonna let me fuck you in that chair of yours?”

Your throat goes dry. You stare at him—cocky bastard, red eyes burning into yours, hands flexing at his sides like he’s holding back too.

You don’t say anything. Just grab the front of his hoodie and pull him in. Not your proudest moment professionalism-wise, but he kissed you like he’d been waiting for this.

The kiss is messy. Too fast. All teeth and tongue and breathless gasps. You don’t know who moans first—doesn’t matter. His hands are already on your ass, pulling you in like he’s starving.

You shove him back into the chair. Straddle him. His hands slide up your shirt, palms hot and rough, and he mutters, “Been jerking off thinking about this for months, fuck.”

Your fingers are already at his belt. “Shut up.”

“Not a chance,” he laughs, voice wrecked. “You’re gonna hear how bad I wanted this.”

You sink onto him right there, still half-dressed, the whole thing rushed and reckless. The studio smells like ink and sweat and skin. He’s gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. And you’re riding him like you’ve been needing it just as bad.

No soft words. No slow build. Just the creak of the chair. His filthy mouth in your ear. Your nails digging into his shoulders. And that broken sound he makes when you clamp around him, whispering “Fuck, don’t stop—”

Before you know it, you’re clamping down on him, hard, your orgasm washing in pleasurable waves over you. He follows suit, a final thrust of his hips, emptying his load inside of you.

The only sound is your breathing—still uneven—and the low thrum of the playlist you forgot was even on. You’re half-naked in your own damn studio, still straddling Sukuna in the chair, clothes tugged out of place, skin flushed and sticky with sweat and everything you’d been ignoring for way too long.

You shift off him with a wince. “Holy shit. That chair is not designed for fucking.”

He groans and leans back like he’s broken. “Speak for yourself. I’m thriving.”

“You’re gonna walk outta here bow-legged.”

“Shut the fuck up. I’ll limp home with dignity.”

You tug your shirt back down and start reaching for paper towels, the reality of what just happened catching up to your brain.

“Yo—chill,” Sukuna mutters, standing up behind you and gently taking the paper towels from your hand. “I got it.”

You blink, thrown off.

He gives you a flat look. “I just fucked you in your sacred little tattoo chair. Least I can do is wipe you down…and the damn chair down too.”

You snort, but your stomach flips at the way he says it—casual, like it’s no big deal, but not teasing either. 

He gently parts your legs, a grin on his face when he sees himself seeping out of you, wiping the mess clean. You lightly push your foot against his chest when he continues staring and he finally relents, snickering and grabbing your disinfectant spray.

He grabs a fresh towel, sprays down the chair, even gets the floor where one of you knocked over the rinse cup. You watch him for a second—shirtless, pulling on your pants and standing up—shakily— still flushed, watching the glint of his rings on his fingers as he moves. Like this is just part of the routine now.

“Don’t get used to this,” he says, not looking at you. “I just—y’know. Respect the tools.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So what, fucking me is now a line item on your cleaning checklist?”

He grins, tossing the used towel into the bin. “Only if it’s a recurring event.”

You scoff and toss him a water bottle. He catches it midair without flinching, cracks it open like this is just… normal now.

And maybe it kind of is.

He walks back over, presses the cold bottle lightly to your cheek with a smirk. “Still blushing?”

“Still annoying.”

“Still wet?”

You swat him, laughing despite yourself, but you don’t pull away.

There’s a weird quiet after that. Not awkward—just new. Like something’s shifted and neither of you’s pretending otherwise.

You break it first, voice lower now. “So… you still want that piece over your heart?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “If it’s your name? Yeah.”

“You’re so corny. That trend died in 2015.” You roll your eyes, but the smirk tugging at your mouth gives you away.

And when he leans in and kisses you again, actually moving his lips against you with a soft precision, different to how his tongue had been plunged into your mouth just minutes before. He grins—sharp— before uncapping the water bottle.

After a sip of the water, he looks at you over the bottle. “So… you free next week?”

You narrow your eyes. “For what?”

He shrugs. “Tattoo. Fuck. Hang out. Whatever. Don’t pretend you’re not thinking about doing it again.”

You groan. “You are so lucky you’re kinda hot.”

He winks. “And marked up like your own personal sex doll. Admit it—you liked the dick.”

You’re smiling this time. It’s different now. Maybe him being a regular wasn’t so bad at all.

[lafaiette]

People from the Heian and Kamakura eras, especially nobles and some Buddhist monks who had lived a refined life before taking the tonsure, were extremely critical about body deformations, scars, and everything that was considered "ugly".

For example, scars left on the body after maxibustion treatments were considered something ugly and potentially "polluting" (ugly = an offense to the gods), and some believed priests and monks who had these scars and other "unseemly" marks shouldn't perform rituals.

And just to suffer some more - from Essays in Idleness by the monk-poet Kenko:

"One day, Count Suketomo took shelter from the rain under the eaves of the gate of Tōji Temple, where cripples had gathered. Observing how strange and deformed they were with their warped and twisted limbs, some turned right back on themselves, it struck him that they were all quite unique and extraordinary, and should be more deeply appreciated. But as he continued to gaze at them his interest quickly waned, and he began to find them ugly and disgusting. There is actually nothing better than straightforward, unexceptional things, he decided. He had recently developed a pleasure in potted plants, and particularly enjoyed acquiring those that were twisted in unusual ways, but when he went home and saw them now it struck him that this was no different from his interest in the cripples. They lost all charm for him, and he had every one dug up and thrown away. Precisely so."

And Sukuna was born in such a world 🫠

One of the saddest elements concerning Sukuna's life is that according to Buddhist beliefs of the Heian era even babies in the womb were subjected to karma. If a baby was born dead, ill, or deformed, it meant they had committed a terrible sin in their past life, and so they had been punished accordingly.

(Same thing if a woman died while giving birth: it wasn't seen as a tragedy, but as a punishment for their bad karma.)

So Sukuna was basically resented and cursed since his very first breath: as soon as people saw this little four-armed baby with a "deformed" face and a second mouth on his stomach, they probably believed he had been some sort of monster in his past life and so deserved to be cursed. 🫠

[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.

[bimboficationblues]

one way I would explain a lot of Marx’s social theory, especially his later social theory, is “the tool wields the hand.” that is to say, at some point in history, people designed a tool to fulfill some end, and the design of the tool was informed by a social situation that had need of that end (for good or ill).

the way it was designed in turn shapes not just human behavior, but the automatic comportment of the body and the mind; repeated use through time and space and social processes makes us shift the way we move through the world until it becomes second nature, socially developed instinct, to make use of the tool and to do so in particular ways. to adjust ourselves *to* the tool. even if through some means - education, self-reflection, political activity - you become conscious of the tool and how it affects you, that doesn't necessarily mean you can stop using it, as long as your social existence still depends on it.

meanwhile, the end which the tool was meant to achieve takes on a life of its own, it appears as the actual agent in the situation, and human beings themselves are just the motor for ensuring the meeting between the tool and the end.

this is, for Marx, what value and money and machines and factories are: social technologies that were designed for some purpose - perhaps good, perhaps bad, but our dependence on their social existence makes condemnation, if not irrelevant, at least limited in scope and utility. but these technologies have become fetters, expressions of domination not just by other people (managers, bosses, capital-holders, politicians and lawmakers) but by a social situation that assumes its own perpetual self-expansion is a virtue. human potential expands - cooperation, new scientific advancements, the proliferation of certain forms of knowledge - but because that expansion is always turned towards one particular end, the actual horizon of human action and capabilities contract, as the whole world is turned into a giant factory in which human beings are its raw materials