#i've had this concept for so long

[mennany]

I did a thing

(Please tell me the fonts are readable. I spent probably 24~ hours on them just so I could use them in my art.)

Original by VioletMadness7 on Twitter/X!

[perikiro]

Two different takes on a Constructicon Prowl design just for fun!! (plus some thoughts under the readmore if anyone is interested dsbjds)

With the first design I wanted to try just taking their colour scheme and copying it over 1:1 (so primarily green, with purple as a secondary colour, black and grey as tertiary, a black helm and red eyes). I got too lazy to draw a full body lmao but his legs would also be green, probably purple on the feet.

The second design is an attempt at one that doesn't match their same distribution of colours but is still complementary to them. I wanted to go with predominantly black here because of A. Devastator's head being mostly black and B. since he's a pursuit vehicle I think a colour scheme with stealth vibes would suit him really well!! I would have made his legs black with purple thighs. Maybe with the caution tape pattern running down the sides of his calves, if I ever draw him again. (It would be along his sides in vehicle mode).

[bennetsbonnet]

Much has been made of Mr Darcy's "confession" to Elizabeth that he does not converse easily with strangers. It is repeatedly used to support neurodivergent interpretations of his character. And I suppose that when taken at face value, a character confessing that they do not easily converse with strangers and struggle to catch their tone or appear interested in conversation can absolutely scream AUTISM! (I say as an autistic person myself)

But this line is often taken in isolation. When considered in terms of the passage in which it appears in Chapter 31, it appears far less of a smoking gun than may initially be suspected. After some discussion about Elizabeth and Darcy's prior acquaintance in Hertfordshire, Colonel Fitzwilliam asks Elizabeth for information about Darcy's behaviour there. She readily supplies it:

'Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,' cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. 'I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.' 'You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.' 'I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party.'

What Darcy leaves out here is that it was he himself who chose not to be introduced to anybody. As we learn from the description of his behaviour at the Meryton assembly in Chapter 3:

Mr Darcy danced only once with Mrs Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.

Anyway, Elizabeth correctly does not buy his excuses. Not only does she respond with a cutting sarcastic remark, but she tries to bring the discussion with an end by speaking to Colonel Fitzwilliam:

'True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.'

But Darcy does not get the hint and continues conversing with Elizabeth rather than quitting while he's ahead. However, I don't believe him to be missing a social cue here. Rather, this is an exceedingly conceited man who cannot conceive that anyone would not want to speak to such a Superior Being as he and more-so, is determined to defend himself from a perceived slight against his impeccable character.

Then we come to the passage containing the oft-cited line which allegedly contains proof of his neurodivergency:

'Perhaps,' said Darcy, 'I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.' 'Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?' said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. 'Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill-qualified to recommend himself to strangers?' 'I can answer your question,' said Fitzwilliam, 'without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.'

Once again, Elizabeth does not buy his excuse for even a single second. She's fully aware of all the advantages a man such as he will have received in society (opportunities not open to women, might I add!) and draws attention to that fact. It's a brilliant, cutting line from her and she really set that one up for Colonel Fitzwilliam to deliver the knockout blow.

Not only do we have the testimony of Mr Darcy's cousin, that 'he will not give himself the trouble,' to appear cordial to strangers, but we have evidence from Wickham too. Although after this statement, Wickham quickly goes onto misrepresent Darcy's kindness to the poor, which contradicts Mrs Reynold's later testimony, I do believe Wickham to be telling the truth (for once!) here, when he tells Elizabeth in Chapter 16:

'Mr Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while.'

Which, again, demonstrates that Darcy is capable when he wants to be. That is the crucial point. Autistic people fundamentally lack the ability to understand social cues, they cannot turn it on and off as they please because they are snobs.

So, now we come to the infamous line about Darcy's supposed social struggles, and I hope that I've provided enough context to the line to make you see that it should not be taken at face value:

'I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,' said Darcy, 'of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.' 'My fingers,' said Elizabeth, 'do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.'

Again, Elizabeth is not buying his excuses for even a single second and tells him if he feels like that, maybe he should put the effort in. She has seen him in numerous social settings and been thoroughly unimpressed with his behaviour which, when you consider his rudeness to her at the Meryton assembly, she has every right to be.

So, what do I make of the line?

Well, I think it's abundantly clear that Darcy absolutely can speak to people when he wants to. Perhaps, in his mind, he struggles to make that deeper connection and make friends easily. But making friends is not always easy, it's a process you must invest time and effort into. If you do not do that, it stands to reason that you will struggle. Plus, if you hold others to ridiculous standards (as Darcy does) without recognising and fixing the flaws within yourself, you're not going to have deep, lasting friendships.

While this quote may appear to be a moment of vulnerability where he does confess a fault of his, which is astounding given his pride, personally I do not think it was not a soul-searching exercise. It was to make Elizabeth stop grilling him. It was self-serving. Although, I don't think he's entirely lying. Darcy is veeeery careful with his words and though this statement is not considered and perhaps comes out rather abruptly, it doesn't necessarily follow that it isn't true. I can imagine that it is probably something he's felt for a while, yet it is a rather desperate attempt to defend himself from a woman who sees right through him.

I think perhaps Darcy does realise that he isn't as naturally gifted as other men he knows (such as Wickham, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr Bingley) when it comes to forming acquaintances. However, he looks outwards and turns that bitterness against the world rather than looking inwards, reflecting upon himself and improving his manners which would be the correct thing to do. Thankfully, he later does this, but it took him twenty eight years...

In addition, Darcy appeared to have been under the illusion that he could coast by on Pemberley's reputation... which has always worked... until he met Elizabeth. For perhaps the first time, he encounters a woman who is not awestruck by him and his reputation and delivers the rebuke that he always needed.

So, while personally I'm inclined to believe there is some truth to his statement, as Mr Darcy is many things but he isn't a liar, I think it is said in desperation. His feeling stems from him knowing what he should do, but he can't be bothered to enact it... rather than any inherent social deficiency stemming from being neurodivergent.

Although, even if he does struggle socially, it's still no excuse for the rudeness he displayed to Elizabeth! My main issue with neurodivergent readings of Darcy is when they are deployed to defend his behaviour, when they attribute his rudeness to any potential neurodivergency and when they excuse his laziness. That is an awful message! Autistic people who struggle with social cues often do not, nor should they, go around insulting others. They should and often do put plenty of effort into being considerate and polite. In fact, I think, if anything, a love of rules makes us more likely to have good manners, rather than the reverse.

Ultimately, I'm not sure this line makes Mr Darcy the sympathetic-poor-sweet-innocent-shy-boy-autistic-representation that people want him to be. In fact it makes him look even worse, if anything. On matters such as these, he is every inch the conceited proud man he was widely believed to be at the Meryton assembly. Luckily, Elizabeth is an incredibly smart woman, who doesn't fall for it and immediately calls him out on his behaviour in a way that he has never experienced before. As she should!

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Father's Heart: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge

Let me tell you, I sure confused that Beast when I returned. Have you ever seen a cat pounce on its own tail? That was the look of confusion the Beast had when he saw me in his palace. Only this cat was enormous—standing seven feet tall on his hind legs—black as soot, with claws this long, and a mouth full of teeth like butcher knives.

"Where is your daughter?" he asked me. Yes, that's what he sounded like—all deep and raspy, like he was growling and purring beneath his words.

"At home," I said.

"You did not bring her?"

“You told me,” I told him, "that I could return to be devoured or send her to take my place. I returned.”

"She did not wish to save you?"

“I never told her. Do you think I could lay that kind of burden upon my own daughter? What sort of father do you take me for?”

He had taken me for a cowardly one, I guess, because it took me a long time to convince him that my daughters were all safely at home, and I didn't plan to fetch any of them. He didn't seem to know what to do with me after that. He wasn't as bloodthirsty as I'd have expected someone with that many teeth to be.

"You will be my guest," he said at last—and he didn't seem too glad about saying it. No doubt he'd have preferred a pretty young girl as a houseguest to a weathered old sailor. But he gave me run of the place—I could help myself to anything, go anywhere I pleased. I didn't understand it. He'd been ready to kill me for a rose, and now he was giving me everything in the house?

I wasn't about to complain, though, so I set about to enjoy the place. The Beast encouraged me to enjoy the luxuries of the palace, but I've always been a working man—I didn't fancy living the life of an idle aristocrat. Before the week was out, I was working in the gardens—the place was overgrown like you wouldn't believe. When I wanted a rest, I'd explore the castle, and boy, was there plenty to see. He had rooms upon rooms of treasures—paintings, silks, wines, musical instruments, even an entire room full of exotic birds! I'd made my living selling such things, and my head swam at the sight of it—a tenth of it would have been worth more than all the riches I could have transported in ten lifetimes.

I didn't make my fortune by having dull wits, and I didn't lose it for lack of courage, so it wasn't long before I began to piece together the truth of this place and confronted the Beast with it.

"How long have you been cursed, your highness?" I asked him one evening at supper.

That great big cat was so shocked he knocked a wine bottle off the table. "Who says I am cursed?"

"Blazes, man, I'm not blind! This palace is worth more than most of the kingdoms of the world put together. If there was a king out there this rich, you can bet every merchant in the world would know of him. He'd have destroyed the world's economy. Fairy magic's the only way you get a horde like this, but you, sir, are no fairy."

Now the Beast seemed intrigued. "How do you know that?"

"A fairy would never have let me live—if he promised to kill me, he'd have killed me. No mercy among their kind. Only a human could have changed his mind like that—for which I'm very grateful, by the way."

"You're welcome," he said, seeming dazed.

I went on, "You're definitely more than a dumb beast; you walk and talk and dress like a man, so it stands to reason you were a man once—that furry coat of yours is just some fairy shell. Same way all these riches are probably just dirt and ashes once you take away the magic. Which means you must have run afoul of a fairy sometime in your past, who decided to curse you with an animal body and then trap you in a palace full of false riches."

I looked at the furnishings, the food, the Beast's clothes—everything spoke of royalty. "Fairies always meddle with royals, so you must have been a prince. The seventh son of the king of Gher went missing just before I went on my last voyage, so I'd wager that he is you. Am I right?"

The Beast goggled. "I…can't say."

"Which means I'm right. No fairy worth his salt would let you say you were cursed. Which means all I have to do is figure out how to break it. Those fairies always give you a way out—the more improbable the better."

I came around to his side of the table so I could walk around him and examine him from all angles. "You were disappointed when I came—you wanted one of my daughters, not me. When I did come, you didn't seem too keen on killling me—which makes me think it was an empty threat, trying to convince me to send my daughter instead. Which means she must be the way to break the curse. What can she do that I can't? Easy—true love. No fairy would think a girl could love a hulking monster like you, so that would be their impossible way to break the curse. You needed, what—true love? Marriage?"

"I can't say," the Beast said, but I knew by his face that I'd hit upon the right answer.

"That makes things simple. You let me out once before. Let me go home again and fetch one of my girls, tell her there's a prince waiting for her, and bring her back to join you in wedded bliss."

He seemed genuinely horrified by that. "I…can't say."

"Oh, of course. It won't count if she knows you're a prince. Well, I'll leave that part out. Tell her that the Beast who spared my life is in need of more company. With a bit of time and a bit of encouragement from her old dad, we'll have you back in human form by Christmas."

He thought it was worth a try, and something he could arrange with the conditions of his curse. So I went home to my children, convinced my sons not to follow me to slay the Beast, and made the castle sound intriguing enough that all three of my girls agreed to join me. I thought that maybe Hope would be the one to break the curse—she's always been the boldest of my girls—but it turned out that my quiet, gentle Beauty brought out the soft side of the Beast. It was the cutest thing you ever saw, the way they'd sit together reading in the rose gardens, that great big cat as shy as a schoolboy with her.

It wasn't three weeks before the Beast worked up the courage to propose—and my Beauty accepted without hesitation. Then there was blinding light and earthquakes, and when the dust cleared, the palace was gone. We were standing in a clearing in the woods—and a black-haired prince stood where the black-haired Beast had once been.

He's an excellent boy—I'll be proud to call him a son. He doesn't mind at all that his bride's the daughter of a failed merchant or that she once worked on a farm. We'll all be moving to his palace across the sea to live as honored members of the family.

Which is why we're moving out on such short notice—his highness doesn't want to be away from his kingdom any longer than he has to. I'm sure you'll find someone else to take the old place off your hands.

No, you don't have to believe me, but it's much better if you do. You'll look much less like a fool once it comes out that it's all true.

[canisalbus]

So i remember an ask mentioning your mortal enemy, Felis Atra and their cats, and i thought it'd be fun to draw what Felis Atra's version of your italian dogs would be.

I think they would be called Butter Knife and Flamengo! Butter Knife is not his real name, it's an nickname given by his peers because of how harmless he is. I choose Flamengo because that's the name of Vasco's rival football team here in Brazil, so i thought that was the perfect name :)

Cat Machete was slightly inspired by the Oriental Shorthair cat because of their long noses and thin head shape.

Cat Vasco was inspired by the Scottish Fold cat, because FLOPPY EARS. I gave Flamengo longer ears and orange fur to make him more like his look-alike.

The last doodle is a reference to this ask (https://canisalbus.tumblr.com/post/728923918314946560/me-i-am-machete-ear-fan-number-1-those-ears) and contains the tumblr ask stand-in dog, whose cat version was inspired by the American Curl cat! They have round ears that are slightly floppy outwards.

Final notes: I know cardinal clothes don't come in vibrant blue, but i was ADAMANT on switching Machete's and Vasco's clothing color patterns. I would draw the rest of Butter Knife's and Flamengo's clothes, but i suck at designing cool outfits.

Speaking of outfits, for Machete's iconic void outfit, i figured it would be fun to make it more baggy for Butter Knife, in contrast to Machete's, that looks very tight-fitted. I think it's cute, it kinda looks like a sweater. Also i can't imagine a Machete doppelganger without high heels boots, so those HAD to stay.

Oh, and just to be clear, i'm not like, claiming ownership of these guys or anything. I just thought it would be a fun exercise. Hope you like them!! I love your art and your characters.

.

[johnnyshrine]

★ 100 // “The Holy Bible”

[cosmoskelpie]

My hand slipped...

[naomihatake]

A love so deep

Pairing: Roronoa Zoro x GN!reader

Synopsis: He loves you so deeply it defies the forces of nature.

Content warnings: weapons, loyalty, maybe it's fluff?

Word count: a few hundred words

A/N: Zoro brainrot hours. I'm around episode 330 of one piece so I don't know for sure if he ever harms any of his crewmates with his sword, so for now this is just a headcanon. Take it as you will, dear readers

Zoro Roronoa is loyal. He's confident, despite the monsters hunting him sometimes, screaming in his nightmares that he's not strong enough, that he has to get stronger and stronger and stronger in order to protect his friends, his lover. If he can't protect the ones he cares for at least through actions — because he's never been a professional at verbally expressing himself — then what the fuck is he even doing?

His will is stronger than steel. Maybe it's tied to his stubborn nature, to the fact that once he wants to do something, there's no way to stop him. His will is the highest and strongest mountain you'll ever lay eyes on and you're either able to accept it or not.

He wants to protect the ones he holds dear to his heart. Out loud there are rare times when he admits such things, but he's proved it countless times. He'll say things with a specific nuance and only his friends would know the deep meaning behind his words.

His will are his swords. His stubbornness runs through the hilts and rests in his scabbards, it makes his katana shine each time he draws them out. He's poured his everything into these swords, even the overwhelming and undeniable love he has for you. Weapons, objects he always used to kill, blades that sparkle with the remnants of blood.

However, not even once did his sword cut through a friend, through you. Even his very body would be manipulated by some supernatural force, the blades would only graze the skin, would mold into your skin and still not break through. There would be marks, it would be obvious something happened, but your blood will never get on his swords.

Especially if you trust him, his abilities and his katana. They're like an extension of his very being, of his own soul. Even the blades recognise you, your haki, your energy. Even their sharpness softens at the contact of your skin and stops, refusing to hurt you, someone he loves so deeply he doesn't know for sure what path he'll take if something happens to you.

And he'd be damned if you're harmed by him. He would rather die one thousand times and run with bare feet through hell than be the one to inflict pain on you.

And he trusts you just the same way he trusts his own will. Whatever weapon you weild, whatever power has been bestowed to you by a Devil Fruit — none of those matter. Deep down, he knows you're not capable of harming him or your friends.

Because, at some point, an enemy you're fighting against might laugh hysterically about how "You'll bend to my will, Pirate Hunter".

Both of you know that no matter what, none of your wapons will ever be drowned in the other's blood. His sword would stop at the contact with your skin and your bullet would ricochet against his bare chest.

A love so deep it defies the forces of nature. The string of trust is thick and stronger than steel, just like his will and your own.

This connection between him and you won't appear out of the blue, but it will certainly grow steadily and once it does, it's unbreakable.

[crow-caller]

I read a lot of YouTube comments, and I respond to a lot of them too. I don't know if this is... uncouth or whatever, but I do.

Sometimes, I get comments which are wrong. Sometimes they're abrasive. People who think trigger warnings are excessive, or that something I've called racist/ableist/antisemitic, Isn't. I do talk back to comments like this. And you know?

A Lot of the time, it works.

Most people who reply back consider what I say, and I've changed their minds. It's not that I'm some great writer, it's often that they are genuinely... confused.

A lot of people simply do not know Why trigger warnings matter, because their only context is mockery and extreme examples.

A lot of people don't know what institutional racism is. If you talk to people about things they don't understand, you won't have a scholarly debate— you'll have an argument where both sides thinks the other is an idiot. I had this recently.

I come at people with sympathy and then, gently, advise them. Do not talk to them like they're idiots or scum if you want to change anything. The above comment is saying "ableism isn't real", but what they unintentionally mean is "I don't know what ableism is so I don't think it's real." This is the case a lot of the time, because people's only context for what these terms mean is increasingly mockery, memes, and political ploys.

I was once a mod on the discord of a large gaming youtuber, a phenomenally half-toxic place— most regulars chill, most random lurkers posting the most atrocious memes and not getting why it was a problem. The head mod understood protecting lgbt+ people in the rules, but didn't Get nonbinary people — he was under the interpretation they were real, but the majority were attention seekers. He cited an account on tiktok, whose schtick was gathering and reacting to "blue hair pronouns" cringe. This was his only context beyond the moral instruction "our rules should protect lgbt+ people". He would have put that rule up either way, but only through discussing it did mods realize this was his opinion, and could explain why it was wrong.

I'm not advising everyone has to talk to everyone this way, I'm saying if you're going to engage, consider trying rather than venting.

[beans-in-a-toaster]

POV: you live in doctor who. You're on forums and in Discord servers and group chats, all of people interested in the Doctor.

(in the current era of the show, especially after Lucky Day, it's clear that in the modern day the Doctor is kind-of a known guy, but with very fragmentary knowledge about him that only a few piece together, and even fewer end up at the right conclusion. Also, all the UNIT and alien stuff being common knowledge too, with varying social takes on it)

The UNIT data leak hits, and everyone, including yourself, is fixated on using it for clues. And among a list of people, you see your own name, date of birth, your current address, details on your damn personality. No one in the groups luckily knows you by your actual name, and you're definitely not gonna dox yourself, so you just have to sit with that knowledge. That UNIT knows about you and that you're labelled as a "companion", whatever that means.

[kiitoskiitos]

main characters of a comic I'm hoping to dedicate a lot of my time to this year

[its-tea-time-darling]

nothing good is about to go down here babes...

part 2/? of babyboy's descent into madness (1, 3)

[thatgoddamngingerundercut]

and I begin to bloom like a lotus flower once again the Agust D trilogy

[thr0wnawayy]

Writing Exercise: Invertia

Lavender rays snuck through the blinds of the Ninth's room.

The Ninth.

Izumi still had trouble processing that the events of the past semester were grounded in reality.

But the beating of her heart, the rising and falling of her chest as she slowly came into consciousness. It reminded her that she was alive, she was real.

The pink haired protege stiffly raised herself into a sitting position, her neck popped as she looked to her limited edition 'All Blight - Incinerator collab' calender that had been given to her by that overly cheery classmate, Shoto Himura.

It was the Sports Festival today. Well, fuck.

Izumi ripped of the bedsheets and trudged to to bathroom.

Her pink hair shot in every direction, one wiry eye peered behind the rats nest, glaring at itself like death.

Deku broke contact to grab a comb and try to fashion her hair into something salvageable.

Izumi hissed through her teeth as she realized her mental mistake. Nevertheless, she continued taming her hair.

Her mother was likely out of the house again. Not that Izumi minded, that was natural given her position as the head of a major lawfirm.

Izumi had been taught more than enough to survive on her own. Born in a time where Heroes were only just exploding onto the mainstream meant more risks of a break in.

Cooking, cleaning and self preservation were all skills Izumi had learned by age 9, such was the life of a middle class woman and her unexpected daughter.

Izumi snapped back to the present, finding that she had been on autopilot again and was now standing in the kitchen, fully dressed in a crimson "Woop Weep' band tee and black cargo pants.

Izumi grabbed the necessary items, looking out the window to see the familar crimson sky, perfectly clear. Izumi knew she had plenty of time, maintaining a perfect schedule and living in Musutafu helped with that.

As the pot began to boil and the soba lay in wait, Izumi found her thoughts returning to the subject of her "friends".

Izumi never really had friends, so she didn't know if Shoto, Uraraka or Ida counted.

Shoto was the latest addition. Completely the opposite of what one would expect from Incinerator's son. The number 2 was as unwavering and intense as the Black-Fire she weilded. Shoto was, well, Shoto. Talkative and energetic, a boy who could see a butterfly pass by and have a million questions.

Ida was more in-line with what Izumi had come to expect from a Legacy kid, although Ida's 'devil may care' attitude to most things was something Izumi could appreciate. The ginger haired delinquent seemed to take things in stride, though she supposes coming from a long line of Villains will do that to you.

Uraraka was the most mysterious for Izumi, the one code she couldn't crack.

Izumi was blunt, she spoke her mind and gave no quarter. Uraraka's tounge was barbed and honeyed. She had a way to get you hooked on whatever she was offering.

Thats how Izumi wound up agreeing to train her in hand to hand combat. Techniques she had spent years honing on bullies, earning her 10 suspensions by the time she was in 6th grade (all off record of course, lawyer mom)

The lid rumbles. Izumi listlessly places the soba strands in.

As she waits for breakfast, She looks at this little bobble head her mother had bought her as a gag gift a few years ago. A very familair face stares back at her.

"Toroshinori..." Izumi answers to the open air.

She still remembers that day on the roof. Izumi had clung to the 'Blight of villainy' himself, and she knew they'd tear her apart if they ever found out what she'd shouted at him.

"Why do the bad ones always become heroes!?"

Izumi had been tired, the world's worst manipulator had told her to kill herself. Her mother had been overworked and every day it seemed like another so-called "hero" forgot what side of the law they stood on.

She'd almost opened the door to the stairwell when he spoke.

He'd poofed in a cloud of smoke, the smell of ash filling the air. The man who restored order, was laid bare in front of her. A man who despite hardship after hardship, kept on going.

They hadn't realized the stairwell door had locked until that point, trapped up there until All Blight could recharge.

He gave her his story and Izumi gave hers. Two souls, hurt by the world and looking to reshape itm

He said that he "liked her moxie" and offered to keep on touch. Who was Izumi to refuse?

Izumi looked up at the oven clock, right on time. She turned off the heat, strained the soba and grabbed her seasoning.

By this point it was automatic. Izumi knew just the way she liked her Soba, what techniques and intracies. The craftsmanship of a homemade meal was simply enjoyable to her.

Izumi ate, enjoying the serine silence of the house. Absorbing it, because the Sports Festival was going to be louder than Tear Lord's charity guitar tours.

And just like that Izumi felt her mood sour again. She was going to have to deal with those idiots again. Most of her classmates were alright, but then there were those.

Kaminari was the textbook definition of a misogynist. Constantly trying to mask it through a false veneer of chivalry. Mineta, the paranoid, who was more than likely going to go on a killing spree sometime in the future.

And then of course, Bakugo. The leech of U.Gen, constantly riding on the coat-tails of everyone else. Thinking he's playing 4d chess with his "rumors" when it's little more that locker room gossip.

He is simply repungent.

Izumi shrugs it off as she grabs her supplies. 'Eh, he'll probably have a breakdown the moment he washes out'.

U.Gen was no joke, failing here meant expulsion, effectively immediately. Only the top 50 would go on to the next semester and the only reason she knew that was thanks to Toshinori's messages, which she always appreciated.

The decision came into place following the Ice Hero: Endeavor's, forced retirement. No one knows exactly what happend, Shoto seems to buffer whenever she asks. But the bottom line was Endeavor shouldn't have gotten through at all.

Since then, U.Gen has had two major exams in the first year. Each at the end of the semester. The first, the SF, was meant to weed out incapable or/and unresouceful heroes. The schematics on the next one are vaug, but Izumi knew it had something to do with one's character.

-And would you look at that, she's already in the train. She really needs to stop getting lost in her own head, it's not beneficial.

The tram was packed, no suprise there. Mostly with people either going to work or going to have fun.

What else are they gonna go to? With her to the Sports Festival? That hasn't been open to the public since Izumi was a toddler.

Izumi snorted at the mental image of her in a TerraRiser onesie, complete with the black cape.

The speaker dinged, letting her know that her station was coming up. The concrete practically shifted beneath her feet as she leapt out the tram car.

It didn't take Izumi long to find the bus, Her English Teacher: Silencer mutely greeting her with a soft smile and a head nod, miming tapping a watch to tell her that it was time to haul ass.

It wasn't much different to one's that sent them to the DWJ, it was kind of nostalgic. Even if it relatively recent. Izumi took in a deep breath of filtered air as the bus began to move.

Showtime.

_______________________________________

Kamino Ward District.

The Drousy Djin Diner.

Thunk, Thunk, Thunk

Gloved fingers met the screen of a TouchPad.

Thunk, Thunk, Thunk.

Eerie bright blue eyes pwwred from behind Reddish-Brown locks. The Sports Festival was today...

A black haired girl twirled a clearly stolen pistol in her hand, her expression bored as sin.

A white haired vigilante postured with his back against the wall, waiting for his partner in business and crime to speak.

A dead man watches eagerly from behind the counter. His body as youthful as the day he "died".

The Brunette shifts upright, all eyes suddenly on him. He grins.

"Who's ready to make their mark?"

[rragnaroks]

hello. it is i, your friendly neighbourhood goblin that pops up every now and then to scream about something new.

i love damien haas.

this has been a psa.

[telesodalite]

Woe, unfinished, mildly edited, fulfire fic tid-bits be upon you

-

Like a magnet, his optics kept drifting back to Misfire's face. His stupid, strangely charming face.

For a short while, after Clemency, it had been that face that haunted some of his nightmares. His recalls blurring the lines between the strange reality of Misfire's hands reaching into him to lock his fuel pump back into the very spot he'd pulled it from, and the fear that just as easily he could pull it out again. They had been bloody dreams. Dreams that had him startling awake, gripping his chest in the vain attempt to close what wasn't open, before spending the rest of the day avoiding Misfire's optics.

But now things were different. Not Misfire's face. No, that hadn't changed much. But Fulcrum's dreams had definitely changed. To say the least of what all rolled around in his processor as he slept nowadays.

Some of those newer dreams had crept to the forefront of his mind as he sat there on the couch, staring as the lights of the screen reflected dully across Misfire's plating in hazy blues and greys.

The lighting made his colors seem muddy and faded, but Fulcrum didn't really care, nor did he care to think what it made himself look like. He was too busy bringing an empty engex can to his lips while he watched the crinkle of Misfire's nose as he barked a laugh at something Fulcrum didn't catch onscreen.

He'd started noticing it months ago, all the ways the silvery mesh of Misfire's face would scrunch up with his emotions. Those little crinkles along his optics and nose when he laughed or glared. The creases indented along his cheeks when he grinned. Fulcrum found himself quietly logging away these little details. Idle notes and observations that had suddenly started piling up in the corners of his processer.

He… He'd never really done that before? He'd never really noticed those sorts of things in other mechs.

The faces and expressions of his past colleagues never seemed terribly important. All the details of every smile and frown were never worth filing away, outside of few notable moments where those expressions reflected his work performance. But besides the smile that meant promotion, and the frown that meant he'd screwed up, nothing else was noticeable. Nothing was worth remembering.

But now the memory of every genuine laugh that bubbled out of Misfire sat comfortably besides memories of warm joyful optics that Fulcrum found himself collecting every time Crankcase cracked a rare half-smile for him, or when Krok placed a reassuring hand against his back, or the times Spinister spontaneously pointed out something odd but ultimately nice about his stupid frame.

He didn't really know why he was doing it, memorizing all these mundane little things, just to have them flit through his processer randomly. Maybe it was because those expressions, those details, felt… comforting? Comforting in such a strange and unfamiliar way. But, a good way. A good sort of strange, much like the mechs themselves.

-

-

He had stared for a long moment, the credits and their rolling tune playing somewhere in the background as Fulcrum stared back. But Misfire was never one for personable silence, even as the sound of some likely long dead Iaconian orchestra filled the room.

"What is it?" He asked, a small chuckle escaping him as he brought a hand to his face, "Don't tell me I've poured it all over myself again."

It had taken Fulcrum longer than usual to unstick his glossa from the roof of his mouth as he watched Misfire run a thumb over his lips, but eventually he had coughed out a small, choked, "No."

That had earned him an odd look at first, but with their fields loose and open, Fulcrum could almost feel the exact moment something clicked in Misfire's mind, as the idle comfortable static he projected in pulsing waves evened out into something openly curious and almost subdued.

It wasn't often Fulcrum felt him that clearly.

Misfire tended to keep his field fairly close, though, maybe not as close as the others did, what with how Crankcase kept an iron grip on his, and how Krok's always held an air of strained control, even when it slipped from him. But still, Misfire's was always hard to read, no matter the reach or depth of his field.

Even then and there, with it loose and unfiltered and buzzing with the engex running through his system, there was an ever present undertone of something indescribably jumbled about him, like too many feelings at once, each too vast and hurried for Fulcrum to really feel or understand.

It always seemed to stir the passive anxiety Fulcrum must've been forged with when Misfire's field brushed against his own. As facing the indescribable vague mess of Misfire felt like trying to untangle a pile of live-wires he couldn't even see.

It was almost frustrating in a sense, the need to try and sort and understand what wasn't even his to begin with. But at the same time it was almost exciting as well. It was like a game, like a puzzle he had yet to solve.

-

-

Finally letting his own can go tumbling to the floor to join Misfire's, Fulcrum had brought a hand to cover his face as he drew his legs up and leaned back against the arm of the couch, trying to suppress the fit as the sly look slipped from Misfire's face at the sounds.

While Fulcrum had laughed, and… snorted, embarrassingly, he had felt Misfire's field change again, brushing something fizzy and almost warm against his plating as Misfire's features softened.

"I'm looking at you," Fulcrum had said then between gulps of air, letting his hand fall from his face as he reached out to poke at Misfire's chest, "Dumbaft."

His finger had lingered over the thick plating there for maybe a little longer than necessary, drawing Misfire's attention as it slid down a little before pulling away.

Looking back up again with his helm angled slightly, Misfire had followed the sight of his hand leaving his plating to where Fulcrum let it fall between them.

"Wow…" Misfire had chuckled a little dryly, "I was gonna make it real easy for you. I was going to say something like, ''Do you like what you see?'' or-… or something like that. But now you've ruined it. Good job."

Meeting Fulcrum's optics again as he pulled his own hand back from Fulcrum's shoulder, he brought it to rest between them as well.

"And you're laughing at me," He said next, faking a small pout as his hand drifted closer to Fulcrum's, "Which totally ruins the whole vibe I was going for really. I mean, it's sort of hard to be all nice and suave-like when you're being laughed at. Total vibe killer. Bit of an ego killer too if I'm being honest. So thanks for that loser, thanks for saying I have a funny face."

With Misfire's fingers brushing distractingly past his own, Fulcrum didn't think before the words stumbled out of him.

"I like your face."

It came out almost matter of fact sounding, Fulcrum's laughter having died down while Misfire complained about it. But at the same time the words felt so simple, they came out so easily, and in a weird way they felt nice to say. But Misfire's optics had widened in surprise, his frame frozen and his field suddenly struck quiet, and despite the engex numbing his usual nerves, Fulcrum felt a sudden pang of anxiety because of it.

The silence in Misfire's field was terribly alien. It felt wrong, and something in Fulcrum spiraled to think he had caused it. But slowly, almost as if it were creeping forward, an odd almost scrutinizing uncertainty fanned outward in a careful wave. Misfire moved with it, leaning closer as he searched Fulcrum's expression for something.

"Oh yeah?" He'd said lowly then, and that sly look returned. But that vague uncertainty didn't fade with it, if anything, Fulcrum felt it strengthen. Caught between what he saw, in Misfire's easy smile and dimmed optics, and what he felt, in the growing hollow distance within their fields, Fulcrum found himself frowning and pulling back.

-

-

Growing frustrated with himself, and wanting that feeling back, he had pushed forward, shifting onto his knees as he reached for Misfire's face before the other could pull away from him entirely.

"I like your face." He said firmly, maybe too firmly. His expression still drawn into a frown as he pressed his fingers into Misfire's helm, brushing his thumbs across the silver mesh he'd been staring so intently at before. "I like your optics, and your nose. I- I like the way you smile. When you really smile, and when you laugh. I do. I'm not lying."

And oh there it was again, that little curl of warmth in Misfire's field. Almost a tangible thing, like a brush of ventilation, but Misfire wasn't venting. His mouth hung open ever so slightly, but no breath left him as he stared at Fulcrum with widening optics.

Spurred on by that tiny bloom of warmth, Fulcrum chased after it with slightly slurred words and clumsy hands as he tried to fix whatever he'd done wrong, hoping with each word that Misfire might soften and smile again.

"I like your expressions, and- and I like your voice," He said, glancing down at Misfire's parted lips, and laughing softly, nervously, as he continued, "Even when you say something so stupid. I like- I like the way it sounds. I like your accent, I like the way it makes your words sound. I- I like your- your mouth?"

Once more that weird but nice feeling settled in Fulcrum's chest. Those simple words felt good to say. It felt like a weight off his shoulders, like an admission he'd been waiting to say. About what and why? He wasn't really sure. But the warmth grew, and Misfire took a sharp vent inwards, and that felt right, so Fulcrum kept on.

"I like your helm," He said with a smile, reaching up to brush his fingers over the jutting finials there, before dropping his hands to settle lightly over Misfire's chest. "I like your frame, the colors of it. I like your-"

Before he could finish, Misfire was surging forward, knocking their helms together and nearly bruising the mesh of their noses as he tried for, and just barely missed, Fulcrum's lips.

-

👁👁👍