#just not sure how to articulate it entirely

[saixria]

The ICHBW live stream animatic is hitting me hard hours after the fact I’m not a crier but I’m actually tearing up. Now I can fully articulate what I love about Athena’s part. Athena’s character came together so well I love it and I think the visuals combined with a day more of thinking + discussing with friends really helped me better understand everything. Those last 90 seconds of ICHBW was the BEST PART OF THE ENTIRE SHOW. Ridiculously long Athena character analysis under the cut which quickly devolves into thematic discussion lmao

First of all, the expressions they have on the animatic makes it abundantly clear that ody and Athena weren’t separated. HER SMILE!! HER LIGHTNING SCAR!! ODYSSEUS’ EXPRESSION SOFTENED TO A SMILE AFTER GETTING OUT OF QUICK THOUGHT!! Odysseus definitely pieced together what she did for her right then, there’s no other reason for Jorge to show Athena showing Odysseus that scar otherwise. It’s like they immediately slid back into place like puzzles pieces even after 10 years. They’ve been changed in completely opposite ways. Odysseus the mortal has been turned to be less human, more ruthless, while Athena the immortal goddess has been turned to be more human, more empathetic. The latter partially because of Odysseus. Tbh Athena ever showing her face to Odysseus after My Goodbye and saying “I can’t help but feel like I’ve led you astray” is as close to an apology as it’s gonna get LMAO. The unresolved WOTM melody in the end is actually because their story together hasn’t ended, it’s because Odysseus doesn’t have to be her warrior of the mind anymore.

I once said that open arms is more than mercy, but treating the world kindly to lead to kinder souls down the road, to change the world for the better, and it holds true even more now. Odysseus is too tired for this. He’s just a man, he knows a better world is possible but he can no longer be a part of it. He can’t witness the better world in his short mortal lifetime, he just wants his happy ending with his wife. He doesn’t want to be Athena’s warrior of the mind anymore, and that’s ok. And yet, and yet he knows it is possible. He needs it to be possible, and he needs Athena to make it possible. Athena accepts it with a soft “very well”. That doesn’t mean they won’t ever see each other again, just that they no longer have that obligation of mentor-student, they’re just two old friends. They can rebuild their relationship slowly but surely with what they have.

Telemachus is the Warrior of the Mind now (AHHHHHH HIS ATHENA CAPE AND HELMET I LOVE HIS UPGRADE). From here, Telemachus and Athena are gonna truly fulfill Athena’s mission of “making a greater tomorrow” except it isn’t to turn the world more logical and ruthless like she once thought, but to make the world more empathetic and kind — she’s finally found what she was fighting for. Perhaps this is why the WOTM melody in God Games ended with Legendary — Telemachus is the new warrior of the mind. Odysseus fought for a world where his son can be safe and grow up kind and he succeeded in that. Far from war, Telemachus grew up able to afford kindness and empathy while also retaining the ability to be ruthless in face of obstacles — and now he can use this to change the world to Athena’s new ideal — where people held each other with more empathy — as Athena’s new Warrior of the Mind.

Athena’s verse existing is a sign of her reconciliation with Odysseus (in character might I add! I don’t think they’re the type to express their affection so easily, they know each other so we’ll that they just know), so instead her verse is there to expand on the show’s theme as I will be talking about next.

I absolutely adore the depth Athena’s ICHBW verse adds to the thesis of the show. I’ve always thought of epic as mostly being about how it was best to strive for a balance between ruthlessness and open arms, but circumstances only allowed Odysseus to become ruthless which was tragic, while different circumstances allowed Telemachus to be both. But it’s not just that. Sure it’s good to have a balance between the two ideaologies but what if we could make a world where ruthlessness wasn’t needed at all? What if we could be unconditionally kind and be treated with kindness in return instead of taken advantage of or hurt? Where, when given the choice between open arms and ruthlessness, people would choose open arms? It wasn’t possible for these characters, but it could happen someday in the future. If Athena and Telemachus can work towards that future so can we. So should we, considering we’re in a much better place compared to them. A friend of mine said this was a call to action to us in the present and I just. Have not been able to stop thinking about it.

Athena has always thought in “maybes” about her purpose. from WOTM to My Goodbye we’ll be fine to ICHBW. “Maybe one day…” -> “One day you’ll…” -> “maybe if I…” -> “what if…” it’s like she’s representing the future, the “greater tomorrow” of what could be, because as Odysseus said, she’s immortal and she will live to see it and change it. Circe saga has something similar — “Maybe showing one act of kindness leads to kinder souls down the road”, “maybe one day the world will need a puppeteer no more, or maybe one day the world will need a puppeteer more”. The connection of these hypotheticals “maybe one day” with a future world that could possibly be changed for the better by spreading kindness and open arms extends from Athena’s songs to There are Other Ways, one of the only times in the musical where, when Circe could choose between ruthlessness and mercy, she chose to show mercy and help them in hopes of spreading kindness to the world and making the world a slightly better place — aka a scenario that showed how unconditional kindness, “open arms”, could work, for kindness isn’t the inability to be cruel but choosing kindness even when you have the choice not to be. “Kindness is brave”, like Polites said.

Because of her immortality, Athena is the character who’s most connected to “time” in the musical with her time-related abilities like “time dive”, making people think quicker, having a domain essentially outside of time and space… She doesn’t just have a connection with the future but also the past. As someone who lives forever, she is the one who can connect the past, learning from past mistakes, to change the future: “To fall is to learn one way”.

Speaking of her connection to time, You can almost see that at one point Athena was the narrator of the story (see cut songs: full speed ahead demo and Ismarus) like Hamilton’s Burr: simultaneously an observer and a participant of the story. In the animatic of ICHBW she’s overseeing everything happening from her hour glass, wondering out loud from a meta perspective about the themes of the show, hypotheticals of what a different story, a different world could have looked like, and bringing everything to a close. It really feels like Athena is who’s gonna “live and tell their story” as per Hamilton, as always has been the case from burrthena narration days of Old Epic. She’s not just the bridge between the past and future but also between the story and the audience, by bringing up these themes on a meta level to directly tell the audience to make the world a kinder place, because we have the choice, unlike Odysseus who can only choose to accept his actions and move forward. Because she lives forever she can carry on their memories forever. She can keep telling their story over and over again to remind herself and others to change the world by showing empathy and open arms, and she will keep telling this story to us until ruthlessness is no longer needed in the world. The world where this is possible is not theirs but OURS. It is WE who have the chance to choose between ruthlessness and open arms and the show is telling us that, when we have this choice and aren’t forced to be ruthless, to always choose kindness and empathy. Like Circe, like Telemachus. So that we may impart some kindness unto the world and make it a better place.

“Maybe one day we’ll reach them and we’ll make a greater tomorrow then they’ll see I know we’ll change the world cuz we are the warriors of the mind!” — yes, they have reached us. We are all also warriors of the mind, doing our part to change the world for the better, to be kinder.

To me, one part of Athena’s character that’s never clicked for me was her motivation in WOTM. “Make a greater tomorrow” “we’ll change the world” why? How? What’s the point of including this in her song when it’s never come back up again? Now with the ICHBW verse, everything is tied up with a beautiful ribbon. She has always wanted to change the world for the better, and now she’s finally found out how — to spread empathy and Open Arms — and it’s inspired by the desire to help her friends, to prevent what happened to Odysseus from happening again, honoring him, just as how Odysseus tried to embrace Open Arms to honor his dead friends’ memories.

All in all, I’ve grown to genuinely really really like Athena’s verse in ICHBW. It’s so short but so effective at conveying so much. I hope that made sense bc it’s more a compilation of thoughts I had rather than a structured essay. Perhaps one day I will restructure this into a proper essay but not today for after all I’m- *gets shot

[orangedodge]

I like what Eve Ewing and Gail Simone have going on between their books. Having the two more earnest, more extroverted, friends try to fix things for their more transactional, introverted, friend, and accidentally blow up her entire life along the way, makes for a much more interesting, more authentic, inter-cast conflict than just having yet another misunderstanding superhero fight. It works because it's completely understandable and within Rogue's existing character that she would take this approach, that it would not occur to her that sending Bobby to Chicago would read, to Kate, as an invasive attack against her privacy and peace of mind.

When Rogue was in a similar place, years ago, having Ororo and Bishop just crash back into her life, bulldoze over all of her half-hearted protests, and drag her back onto the team anyway, was actually exactly what she wanted, but was unable to admit. The heavy handed approach worked for her. It's working for her again right now as well--dragged back into the X-Men by Scott, and bringing Kurt, Remy, Logan, and Jubilee along for the ride, and everyone already feels much better than they did before. It makes sense that in her mind, what helped her, and helped her other friends, will help yet again, and that Kate will feel better once she lets them in.

Rogue's really just being a good friend, in the best way she can. Her only error is in not realizing that not everyone processes grief in the exact same way that she does, or in ways she finds personally palatable (which is a lapse you don't see from an Ororo Munroe or a Dani Moonstar, who have more experience with personalities that really do want to be alone to sort their own misery).

You have to feel for Bobby, who plainly thought he was appearing in a completely different story than where he actually was. From his perspective, he's just returned from the dead amidst a harrowing time for mutants, discovered their home destroyed, and most of their people exiled, and that one of his closest friends has abruptly abandoned him, cut off all contact with everyone, and is being distant and abrasive when he only tries to make sure she's okay.

(It goes unsaid that Bobby has stood a suicide watch for her in the past, but that's a history I'm sure Ewing is familiar with. I don't think his sense of urgency and worry should be read as anything but honest).

Judging by how his reactions are drawn, in both the dinner scene and the closing pages, I don't think Bobby had any idea what the actual underlying issue was. I expect he thought he would just show up, shame Kitty a bit over her lack of friendliness, share some embaressing stories with her girlfriend, and they'd both laugh it off and bond over their shared trauma. He doesn't realize yet that the source of her grief is completely at odds with his own, or with Rogue's. Bobby is mourning the loss of home, and of safety, while Kate's grief is the fear that all of her most toxic beliefs about herself were right.

I don't think anyone has told him, for example, that Synch and Talon had her off murdering people in the hundreds, while Rogue's team was doing the resistance stuff. I don't think he has any way to put it all together until the end, when he realizes he's triggered a flashback.

Issue #4 would read very differently from Bobby's perspective, framed as being duplicitous and manipulative while he is, in actuality, doing nothing wrong. He's arguably being a little too pushy, but Kate hadn't actually articulated a sense of boundaries to him until days after his arrival, and he does seem to dial it back and give her space once that happens

The real issue is that Kitty doesn't believe that anyone would ever visit her out of a place of genuine care, without wanting something from her in return. It's why she's more tolerant of Emma's intrusion, despite the tension between them. That relationship is one founded on mutual use with clearly defined terms and no possibility for surprise or disappointment. Bobby is a friend that she fears being disappointed by. And so she assumes nefarious intent when he isn't overtly after anything: either that Bobby is trying to acquire her for some undetermined x-plot, or that he's actually a dangerous villain in disguise and a threat to the kids.

I think it works overall, successfully misleading the reader into thinking there really is something going on, while not having Bobby do anything to actually earn the distrust he's being shown. It's natural that Trista would pick up on Kitty's hostility and not know any better, and that Emma--who has the same people issues as Kitty--would echo the paranoia.

[jichanxo]

Talk about Higashi my eternal bbygirl

first impression: okay i can't remember my REAL first impression (i.e. when i first ever laid eyes on him) BUT he was my first favourite judgment character, before lost judgment happened. he's still really really great. love you higashi.

impression now: almost the same but he's just gone down the rankings in terms of favourites. he's still pookie wonderful handsome cute etc

favourite moment: when the group are interrogating yui mamiya and after hearing about kuwana's plan he goes "damn i'm kinda rooting for this guy" LMAO. higashi kaito files apron is also good. also forklift driving. and also him realising that the pretty lady he saved was saori and getting mad that yagami isn't picking up her call right away. sorry it's just a lot of Little Moments yknow

idea for a story: literally nobody cares but i would love to put higashi in the same room as kuwana. watch him go from "oh this guy hates yagami? maybe this guy will get me" and then it slowly dawns on him that no. no this guy is worse. higashi might "hate" yagami but he does actually truly hate kuwana. this idea will never not be hilarious to me

unpopular opinion: his design is underrated as HELL the sunglasses + earring combo is a deadly combination 🔥 he looks cooler and more yakuza-like than a bunch of mainline yakuza characters without being tacky. prescription sunglasses king. kissing him

favourite relationship: seeing him bickering with yagami has really grown on me a lot lately… funny of them

favourite headcanon: he's well liked by the kids at the arcade (though initially seems intimidating) and a great boss ❤ and of course he has a forklift license

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

Those Beyond The Wall

sequel/companion to The Space Between Worlds, set a decade later

character-focused sci-fi set in an area divided in two, the rich protected city on one side and everyone else in the post-apocalyptic desert

follows a woman who works under the Emperor in Ashtown, keeping the peace

when mangled bodies start showing up with seemingly no murderer, she’s tasked with finding the cause, and finds out that it’s the result of corruption spanning both cities and multiple worlds

explores oppression and messy revolution, police violence and apartheid

bi & polyamorous MC

[dreamwinged]

to be so honest im starting to think i really need to see a professional for my social anxiety

[potatobugz]

Noelle Holiday? (Yes this is a bingo request that I guess is a semi-sequel to the previous one for Susie)

thgey call her noelle holiday the way she. brightens up. your day

[figuringitoutasigoalong]

One of the older ladies in my Sunday School class stopped me after class and said she was praying for me, and asked how I was doing and I'm not gonna lie--

It meant so much that she had noticed that I'm not myself. That she had noticed that I'm struggling in a silent way that I can't even quite identify.

I don't think she can ever know just how much that means to me, because it just means so much.

[drdemonprince]

The conversations about accountability & apologies that we've been having in social justice circles these last few years have basically trained everybody to fawn.

We've been telling people that if they are accused of any wrongdoing or of hurting anybody's feelings, it is their obligation to apologize immediately, and never to hedge, disagree, or to explain their rationale what they've done.

In their apology, we expect them to articulate every single thing that they have done that was damaging in the strongest language possible and to declare outright that they have harmed someone, often multiple groups of people, even if they are not sure of the impact (or could not even possibly be sure).

If a person's apology is anything but immediate and entirely self-excoriating, we accuse the person of downplaying the damage they have done, failing to be accountable, and manipulating others.

In this way, we've made it impossible for a person to ever take their own side lest that be taken itself as a form of wrongdoing. We have trained our fellow social-justice-minded people to believe that if they do anything but worsen the case against themselves, they are being irresponsible.

I say we, in all of this, because I have partaken in all of this rhetoric, made these kinds of criticism, given accused people this type of advice.

And I have followed it myself, often to a damaging effect.

I have taken responsibility for problems in which I truly did not believe I played a part, I've overstated the damage that I've done so as not to risk understating it, I've ascribed malice to my intentions when I knew it wasn't there, I've agreed with people's most negative, bad-faith narratives about conflicts involving me that they were not even present for, offered up information about myself that was not a third party's business in the name of transparency, apologized for things I haven't done -- and in doing all of this, I have denied my loved ones the opportunity to really hear me about what I was going through and my motivations when I was in conflict with them, things that any true friend or close associate would obviously want to hear about if they cared about me.

This aim of giving the perfect apology and taking perfect accountability has been nothing but an isolating force in my life, because it has barred me from openly entering into necessary conflict with people when our needs were incompatible or they had hurt me just as much as I'd hurt them. The fear of being a manipulative, unaccountable DARVO-er has led me to roll onto my back and expose my belly, falling over myself with panicked apologies and the most unflattering information possible cast in the least explicable light, almost outright begging for others to become angrier at me and believing that it was only way I could ever possibly be accepted back.

We've drilled into people that the way to be good and responsible is to allow people to view us as negatively as possible, to even arm others with information that will confirm that point of view, and to never insert our own perspective or needs on the matter at all.

And yeah, there are a lot of shitty people out there who dodge accountability easily because their power ensconces them from any consequences. but the primary problem with that was never that they wrote a shitty notesapp apology that used the unforgivable phrase "I am sorry if you felt XYZ." The real problem was that there was no community that held enough influence to hold them to account, and for their victims there weren't ever adequate supports or protections.

instead of addressing any of that in a remotely systematic way, we have taken to picking apart every accused person's every word and deed for evidence of inner moral failure and created a culture in which we think we can determine a person's safety by how artfully they put words together when they are under threat. and what do you know, plenty of bad faith actors and conflict avoidant cowards and people who just dont understand what they are even being accused of can do that just fine.

[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

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.

[hexhomos]

Dropping into the Mel convo to add that I don't see how the stans that erase/ignore the Things She Actually Does And Says and claim she was just helping Jayce out of the goodness of her heart can claim that anyone pointing out that she's a billionaire imperialist who manipulated him for her own gain is racist when THEY'RE the ones claiming she spent all of season 1 helping a nonblack man for. idk. reasons. Why is it "better" for her to be a Black woman who supported a man and asked for nothing in return...?

That reading of her makes everything with her mother make no sense. Is she like, just mad her mom is interfering with her ability to Support and Love Jayce? Lmao.

The reading that the text and the inherent set up of the politics of Piltover/Zaun supports is a complex woman with her own personal motivations, wanting to live up to the image of the family she believes shunned her on her own (nonviolent) terms, using the craft of social engineering (manipulation, etc) within the political and economic sphere rather than through weaponry and warfare. She starts to shift due to growing some actual attachment to Jayce, but it's not a perfect switch flip, and then her mother arriving forces Mel to contend with what she had actually been doing by "preparing" the city for her family.

That's infinitely more interesting than "oh she just helped this guy out of the kindness of her pure heart and because he's hot" and also has canonical basis that can be pointed to In The Text. That's a complicated, multifaceted character. The fanon Mel who just helped Jayce because she's a good person is a flat, tired trope.

And personally, I find people who "love" characters but have completely inaccurate readings of them to be far more annoying than people who "hate" characters but understand them perfectly. Love/hate is just a matter of taste. If someone can spend time honestly analyzing a character, that's more important than ten thousand blandly positive comments or tweeted out fanfictions dressed up as appreciation.

Paragraph #2 on this actually blindsided me like I could kiss you on the cheek (consensually) rn I've never been able to properly articulate WHY the take rankled me so much even when I tried to see it from a completely best-possible-intentions perspective. And this gets it. It's like you're not even flattening her into a girlboss caricature, it's worse, you're actually making her a 2D saccharine pastry servant with no will of her own except furthering some man's narrative as his mommy and denying the one massive, defining character conflict Mel has in the entire show: she is her mother's daughter! She IS a wolf in sheepskin!

When you have all this power, all this privilege and resources at your disposal from day 1, and you choose to look the other way - what happens then? Is this really being kinder than her mother? Is this being merciful, or just prolonging a sort of system-wide torture? It's absolutely relevant to how we see kid-Mel in that flashback from s1 too. Her idea of mercy and salvation from her mother's more violent ends is to enslave someone. She puts it in gentle terms and dresses it up fancily as a beneficial thing to both parties, but that is what she is proposing, in the context of the Noxus' hostile invasion of Ionia; they'd chain that princess and mold her in training until she became an useful asset in their service. Is that kindness? Is that good? I don't think Mel is able to answer to this even in her big age during season 1.

She certainly thinks it could be, when compared to death, but it's also a lie she tells herself while she ignores the rest of the world and the place she holds within it. Mel hates getting her hands dirty, because she's never /had/ to do that to enjoy the brilliant spoils of success; her mother loves her enough to make sure she could avoid the bloodshed. She carries the strategist's fallacy of thinking whole wars and countries can be managed from the privileged seats up top, out of touch with the blood and gristle. From up there, when people die you don't see it. You can mark the numbers off as necessary collateral damage in the path to Exponential Growth.

The core assumption that has always bothered me is defining this as 'kindness' without actually examining what it says about her character and the story. She was created that way for a reason. She was clothed in this way for a reason. The first fact we learn about Mel in the first episode she appears in is that she is the richest person in the entire city, and then there is a 10 year timeskip, and she hasn't truly done anything to address or prop up the undercity at all (they are ONE city too, under her own philosophy; Zaun is only a separate entity in the mouths of the zaunites who want freedom.) In that context, when her goal of statecraft clearly is to continue advancing Piltover as much as it can be advanced and do nothing about the screaming bleeding diseased dying hordes below the bowels of her capital - is that goodness? Is that really better than mother? I think Mel's arc is about finding out really quickly and really horrifically that it isn't, and that she played a big part in making a lot of things worse.

It's not that she failed at her job, it's quite the opposite. She succeeded in her mission so incredibly well her mother could swoop into power in a single day and then put another hundred necks to the blade, no sweat, and Mel has to reckon with what that says about her, and what she thought of herself. The power she has obviously always had and never sought to use as it Should have been used.

The idealistic future-path here is that now in full control of her Mother's armies, she's returning to Noxus to challenge the predatory system it perpetuates on a world scale, but only god knows what we'll see come January. And all of this is infinitely more interesting to me than docile fandomized ship accessory n.9999

[radioactive-mouse]

i keep thinking about like. how the brutality levels vary between seasons and how secret life is the natural culmination of everything these people have been through and the watchers pushing everything to extremes. i’m going to try to articulate how crazy this makes me

3rd Life: god. 3rd life was a clear cut war. we haven’t seen a season since where nearly everyone has such an intense devotion to their chosen faction. the fact that there’s no precedent that they’re coming back next season, the fact that as far as they know, dying means staying dead, makes just how much they’re willing to go down with the ship that much more heartbreaking. grian ended the season exactly how it was played by damn near everyone else— i love you, i would do anything for you, i would rather die than keep going without you. the season of widows.

Last Life: and then they come back. and then ending things isn’t an option. and all of a sudden it’s not a war, it’s a death match, and damn is the competition is vicious. deaths are more often than not a vague, impersonal thing— not get away from my king, my husband, my charge— just the flash of a knife and a quick sorry, just playing the game! if 3rd life told you to hold the ones you love close, defend them to your last breath, last life urges you to burn that love out of your chest entirely.

Double Life: but everything slows down eventually. no more dying for the one you love— just learning to live with them. double life is about knowing that when you die, you will go together, hand and hand into the dark. a soap opera, the players joke. a small kindness, the universe replies. again, pearl wins the same way everyone else lost— no, not yet, please, just give us a little longer together, i’m not ready, i’m so sorry—

Limited Life: but the clock, unyielding, ticks ever onward. and god, everyone is starting to feel it. that sick, nauseating feeling of dread creeping up on them: what if it never ends? what if this is it, this is all that’s left for us— tearing each other apart over and over and over again, and for what? for a show? to feed those hungry things lurking in the dark? we’ll give them a show. bombs rain from the sky, the world shaking under the weight of it. there isn’t a thing left by the end that’s not rubble. we’re all doomed! the players cry, laughing with nothing but nihilistic, unrestrained joy. none of it matters! we come back again, and again, and again, have a little fun with it! light the fuse, collateral be damned. when death means so little, what’s the point in pretending they don’t take a little joy in it? we settle this like grian and scar before us, scott jokes, armor and weapons tossed to the side. are you insane? martyn thinks, remembering the hollow look that would wash over grian’s face when he thought no one was watching. it ruined him. it will not ruin me. this is a death match for a reason.

Secret Life: and here it is. the natural conclusion. this season is candy colored, the map dotted with cute pink houses and silly builds, the players all running around doing these ridiculous tasks. it’s so easy to forget how bloody this season was. unclosing wounds, bruises that don’t fade, the sting of fire or falling from a simple misstep. the hurt never goes away, but it gets easier to ignore— distract yourself with something silly to pass the time: spyglasses and frogs and the ugliest house you’ve ever seen and matching leather jackets and the doghouse and the relationSHIP and a weird tunnel full of doors and secret soulmates and god it’s almost, almost, enough to forget how much it all aches, how much the grief weighs on you, how many times someone you love has died, sometimes to your own blade. almost none of the grudges you hold are real by now, not really. not when you’re going to live and die with these people for as long as the hungry, many-eyed things delight in your suffering. you love each other, in the strangest way— sure you’ve all killed and betrayed each other in a thousand different ways, but at the end of the day, they’re all you have. clinging to each other in the face of the vast, unknowable horrors that drive you to slash each other to pieces. it’s still a game, after all. they’ve gotta figure out how to be good sports about it eventually.

[itsclydebitches]

Just finished Good Omens 2 and I'm honestly boggling at the Aziraphale hate because yes, his decision led to the angsty cliffhanger, but it makes SO much sense for his character. Not just in a "Religious brainwashing and sunk-cost fallacy" kinda way but also a "Aziraphale has no reason to believe this isn't the perfect solution" way. That scene among the nebula is crucial because it establishes that Crowley loved being an angel—reveled in his ability to create and allow his creations to grow kinda like plants—and the only problem was that someone else was calling the shots, someone who wouldn't listen to his criticism. Aziraphale has also spent 6,000+ years watching Crowley do good, all the while forced to deny the fact that he's "nice" lest embracing his original nature get him into trouble with hell. Now, Metatron comes along with an offer that fixes everything in one fell swoop. Crowley can be an angel again, be nice without censure, his ideas and criticisms will hold weight because he'll be answering to Aziraphale, and they'll be together.

It strikes me that Aziraphale isn't there when Crowley sees Gabriel's trial, ergo he likewise doesn't see the (non)acknowledgement that there's an institutional problem up in Heaven. There just happen to have been two archangels who called it quits. Same when Gabriel blurts that phrase out to Crowley. Aziraphale has always been more blind to the ways in which Heaven is "toxic" (for very understandable reasons) and this season he's continually sheltered from new evidence of its structural problems. The plot just preaches to the choir: Crowley. He likewise wouldn't see the conflict Gabriel and Beelzebub have caused as evidence of an underlying problem because that's a problem he and Crowley will no longer share. Why would they be worried about Heaven still being unable to accept partnerships between angels and demons when Crowley will no longer be a demon? And that's something he presumably wants based on Aziraphale's memories of him and the ongoing admission that he's lonely.

The way I see it, they got what they thought they wanted at the start of Season 2. Heaven and Hell are keeping an eye on them, but functionally they're left alone. Crowley can spend all the time he wants with Aziraphale and nothing comes of that except that they're both continually named traitors and the higher-ups grumble about it. If Gabriel had never shown up, things should have been perfect based on Crowley's "Let's just run away and have each other's company" standards. Better, even, considering that they get to be together on their beloved Earth, rather than being bored out in Alpha Centauri without any sushi, plants, books, or Bentleys. And yet... Crowley doesn't strike me as particularly happy. Because, you know, based on that kiss he wants to be with Aziraphale, not just literally be with him, but the point of this post is that his "Let's run away and be an 'us'" falls totally flat when he doesn't explain that specific desire to Aziraphale; the desire to change what an 'us' means. From Aziraphale's perspective they're already an 'us.' That was the entire point of "our side" in Season 1 and now they can continue to be 'us' up in Heaven. Plus, Aziraphale likely sees this as a sacrifice on his part. He will give up his bookshop, his Earthly indulgences, take on the responsibilities of leadership (which I don't think he actually wants for a variety of reasons), and spend the rest of eternity in a place where he's felt so small because he thinks that's what Crowley wants. Crowley was happy as an angel. Crowley wanted them to be together without risk of permanent discorporation. They were able to achieve that after not-Armageddon and he still wasn't happy... so surely those two things together will do the trick. Crowley never actually articulates how he wants their relationship to change and the kiss comes much too late, when he's already rejected what Aziraphale must see as a perfect, selfless solution he's secured for them. Even if Crowley wasn't always moving too fast for him, an overture of romance isn't going to go well after that.

Is this crushing and angsty and devastating as a hiatus? Damn straight, my heart it breaking. But it's a good setup. More importantly, it makes perfect sense for their characters, particularly when they're still talking past one another. Aziraphale is someone who has always moved more slowly as a matter of course, as an angel he has remained immersed in the rhetoric of Heaven, his main avenue of breaking free of that (Crowley) has a huge communication problem (to say nothing of his own denial. He only made headway with the help of Nina and Maggie, seconds before Aziraphale shows up), and Metatron (in a no doubt incredibly manipulative manner) has just offered Aziraphale a job that presumably makes him happy AND Crowley happy AND allows him to maintain the moral this-is-how-the-universe-works perspective he's had since he was literally created. Of course he's going to say yes to all that!! And sure, there are problems in Heaven, Aziraphale isn't completely blind, but he can fix them now that he's in charge. How? Well... he'll figure that out later! Kinda like how he's been making plans on the fly this entire season. That seems logical from his perspective, right? It's not like he's gotten a crash-course in the concept of the master's tools never being able to dismantle the master's house...

[sapphicdib]

I am sure you are all aware of the current state of the fandom. I have done my best to avoid all of the controversy, but seeing how others have voiced their concerns I would like to as well.

I, as an artist, do not feel safe in the Rain World fandom.

I have expressed this in the past, but I have been the victim of false pedophile and grooming allegations with the use of manipulated and doctored screenshots. I do not have the words to articulate just how psychologically damaging it is to have an entire fandom turn on you in an instant. To have your social life destroyed. To have hundreds or even thousands of people celebrate your downfall, simply because you annoyed them, because now they have a "reason" to. Watching this fandom gleefully parade around shaky evidence and happily participate in this type of behavior is sickening to me. It makes me worry that someday, I will annoy someone enough to have another false allegation made against me, and I will have to go through that again. There is a part of me that believes I would not survive such a thing. I am not trying to be dramatic when I say that, but people need to realize that "internet drama" can cause serious harm your mental health. I still have PTSD nightmares related to the callout post made about me from 3 years ago. This is not something you can just “get over”.

People need to remember fanartists are not paragons of grace, nor are they perfect. The fact that the internet has allowed people to dehumanize artists into "content machines" that must never slip up rather than human beings who are messy and awkward and can fuck up at times is sickening. I do not feel comfortable in a fandom that jumps at the opportunity to harass someone over a mistake, that stirs up a witchunt over what boils down to miscommunications. A fandom that treats every situation as black and white and doesn't wait for all the evidence to come out.

I believe nyuuronfly put it best in their post:

"It is not inspiring to sit around and get attention in an atmosphere where the more attention you get the more you know many of the eyes that are looking toward you are searching for a weak point to go after."

I understand revealing a lot of my trauma in this post is a potentially stupid decision, but I believe my story can help make people realize the genuine harm callout posts cause. It is not fun having to deal with constant paranoia that hundreds of people are praying on your downfall. I have considered not posting about, or simply deleting my rot au many times because of worry that someone will think it's too “dark” or “problematic” and decide I am the fandom's #1 punching bag for months.

As of now, I will not be deleting, nor will I stop posting art. But I have considered it many times, and this behavior as of late brought me the closest I've ever been to doing so. I love rain world and frankly, I don't want to feel this way about the fandom! I want this place to be positive, I want better for this game. I'm not mad, just disappointed.

TL;DR:

PLEASE for the LOVE OF GOD stop reblogging callout posts.

Fanartists are PEOPLE. They are giving you FREE art. Treat them better.

You are not immune to false screenshots, mob mentality, and black and white thinking.

Rain world is a gorgeous, creative, and deeply moving game. Please, let's work to make this community reflect that.

[thef1diary]

Behave | P. Gasly

Kinktober 9/11 - Spanking

Summary: Pierre finds a new way to punish you for misbehaving

warnings: 18+ smut, spanking, pussy spanking, spreader bar, unprotected sex

wc: 4k

kinktober masterlist

© thef1diary 2024. all rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate, or repost any of my work

“Someone needs to learn how to behave,” Pierre murmured, his voice low and rough. His hand moves to your waist, pulling you closer until you can feel the heat radiating from him, every breath fanning the embers of something wild inside you.

“Pierre,” you breathed, his name escaping your lips in a soft, desperate whisper. There’s a tremor in your voice, a quiet plea that you can’t quite articulate, as though you’re not entirely sure what you’re asking for—whether it’s mercy or more of his touch. Your gaze locks onto his, wide and pleading, searching for something in the storm of his eyes.

The atmosphere is charged, electricity crackling in the air as you hold Pierre’s gaze. His expression is full of heat and mischief, the corner of his mouth curling into a knowing smirk that sends a shiver down your spine. You can sense the shift in his demeanor—playfulness giving way to something darker, more intense.

“You know what happens to bad girls, don’t you?” He said as he stepped closer, his fingertips grazing your cheek before trailing down to your jaw, tilting your face up toward his. “I think it’s time I teach you a lesson, ma belle.”

Pierre’s words hang in the air as he leans in to brush a kiss against the edge of your lips—just a whisper of contact that only stokes the growing heat within you, far from enough to satisfy the desire simmering between you.

Before you can chase the sensation, Pierre slips back, his departure was swift as the fleeting kiss. He settles onto the couch, reclining with a confidence that sends a thrill through your veins. His gaze never strays from you, the weight of it heavy with intent as he parts his legs, creating a space meant just for you. He holds his hand out, fingers curling in a silent command for you to come closer.

“Viens ici,” (come here) he instructed, the French rolling off his tongue, low and smooth. There’s a dark intensity in his voice, a firm edge that leaves no room for doubt—you will obey.

You take a step forward, then another, until you’re standing between his knees, your breath shallow as the anticipation coils tighter inside you. Pierre’s touch is gentle yet possessive as he grips your hips, guiding you even closer. His fingers work at the waistband of your pants, and without breaking eye contact, he eases them down, inch by inch, letting the fabric slide to the floor. The cool air brushes against your newly exposed skin, heightening the sensitivity of every inch he reveals.

“Good,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as he slips his hand around to cup the back of your thigh, his thumb grazing the curve just below your hip. His other hand traces a path over your lower back, the warmth of his palm searing through you as he guides you down, draping you over his lap with deliberate care.

The position feels simultaneously vulnerable and thrilling—his arm settles over your lower back, keeping you pinned there, while the cool leather beneath you contrasts sharply with the heat radiating from his body. His hand rests on the curve of your ass, fingers spreading slightly to caress your skin. It’s a light touch, almost teasing, that sends a shiver through you before his palm lifts.

“Count them,” he instructs, his voice deep and commanding, the tone sending a shiver through you.

Before you can even prepare yourself, his palm comes down hard against your skin, the first smack landing with a sharp crack that reverberates through the room. The sting radiates outward, spreading into a heat that blooms across your flesh as you gasp in surprise. His hand doesn’t pull away; instead, it stays there, pressing into the warm spot he’s just marked, his fingers kneading the sore skin with a touch that’s both comforting and tantalizing, making the ache linger in the most delicious way.

“One,” you manage to whisper, your voice shaky as you draw in a breath.

Pierre hums in approval, the sound low and satisfied, as his hand lifts once more. This time, the blow is firmer, more deliberate, and the sting is sharper, making you let out a trembling exhale. “Two…” you whisper, feeling a wave of heat wash over you—not just from the spanks, but from the building tension winding tighter inside you.

His strikes follow a rhythm, precise and unhurried, each one calculated to draw a different response from you. As his hand lands again and again, your reactions vary—a soft gasp, a low whimper, the way your fingers clutch at the couch’s edge for something to hold on to. With each slap, you feel the warmth spreading further, the skin tingling under his touch, the heat pooling low in your belly.

Pierre’s hand drifts over the heated skin, rubbing the tender spots where the sting lingers. His fingers slip lower, tracing the curve of your thigh, barely grazing the edge of your underwear.

As his hand brushes over the fabric of your underwear, his fingertips pause for the briefest of moments. His touch shifts slightly, exploring, and he notices the dampness that’s begun to seep through the material, a subtle but undeniable sign of how his discipline is affecting you. A wicked smile curves across his lips as he presses his fingers against the growing wetness, a teasing pressure that makes your breath hitch.

“What’s this?,” he murmurs, his tone dark with satisfaction. “You’re already soaking for me.” His hand slips away just as you start to lean into his touch, and he brings it down again with a sharp swat, landing directly over the damp spot, the force sending a jolt of pleasure through you that mixes with the sting.

“Count,” he demands, his voice thick with control, his eyes watching intently as you struggle to catch your breath.

“Five,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you feel the heat building, not just on your skin, but deep inside you, the ache spreading and intertwining with the damp fabric pressed between your thighs.

Pierre’s grip tightens around the waistband of your underwear, and with a sudden, forceful tug, he pulls the fabric upward. The flimsy material digs into your skin as he shoves it between the cheeks of your ass, exposing you fully. The sensation of the fabric sliding against your most sensitive areas is a sharp contrast to the cool air brushing over the newly exposed skin, making you shiver as you feel both vulnerable and on display.

“There we go,” he says, his tone low and possessive, as his fingers trail over the freshly revealed skin. He lingers at the edges of the taut fabric, pressing it in just a bit deeper, the pressure sending tiny shocks of sensation through you. His other hand rests on the small of your back, steadying you as you shift involuntarily at the intensity of his touch.

The exposure makes each moment feel heightened, every breath you take sharper, as Pierre’s gaze and hands travel over your heated flesh. The vulnerability amplifies the ache inside you, making it difficult to hold back the tiny, involuntary sounds that escape your lips as his fingers trace the outline of your exposed curves.

“Now,” he murmured, his voice a rich rumble that sends a shiver down your spine, “five more.” His hand smooths over the exposed flesh, as if savoring the sight and the warmth radiating from your skin. “Don’t lose count or we’ll start from one,” he added, his tone laced with that same commanding edge that makes your pulse quicken.

Before you can fully prepare yourself, his palm comes down again, harder this time. The smack lands with a resounding crack, the sting spreading sharply across your skin. You wince at the intensity, but the rush that follows is undeniably intoxicating, the heat blooming in waves that seem to sink deeper.

“Six,” you breathed, your voice trembling with a mix of pain and pleasure, the numbers becoming harder to say as your body reacts to every smack, every caress that follows.

He doesn’t give you a moment to recover. His hand strikes again, the sound echoing in the room as the heat on your skin intensifies. You draw in a ragged breath, the sting blending with a swelling ache that pulses through you.

“Seven,” you manage to whisper, your fingers curling tighter around the couch, as if searching for something to ground you amidst the spiraling sensations.

Pierre’s fingers massage the tender spots, sending a shudder through you, and you almost lose yourself in that comforting sensation—until he pulls back and lands another firm smack.

“Eight…” you whispered, the sound breaking at the end, your whole body taut as the tension inside you winds tighter and tighter.

He leans in close, his breath warm against your ear as his hand hovers over your skin, a teasing pause that makes your anticipation spike. “Two more, ma belle,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with authority and a hint of satisfaction. Then, without another word, his palm comes down again, and this time the sting is more pronounced, the sensation vibrating through your entire body.

“Nine,” you gasped, the number leaving your lips in a rush as you feel his hand rub over the heated skin once more, his touch gentle but deliberate, as though savoring your reactions.

The final strike comes swiftly, without warning, and it lands with a force that sends a jolt of pleasure-pain straight through you, making your breath hitch sharply in your throat.

“Ten,” you choked out, your voice trembling as the lingering heat settles into your flesh, and the ache inside you deepens into a craving you can’t quite quell.

After the last slap lands, your body trembling with a mixture of relief and lingering ache, Pierre’s hands slide over your skin, gently massaging the sore, reddened spots as if to soothe the stinging warmth he created. His touch shifts from punishing to possessive, his fingers tracing along your curves in a way that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Good, you’re behaving,” he murmured, his voice softening just a fraction. “You took that so well.” His touch remains firm yet comforting, and as his fingers slip lower, teasing the edge of your underwear again, you feel his approval seep through his caresses, each one promising more yet leaving you on the edge, craving what might come next.

“But we are not done yet, mon ange,” he stated, his voice rough with desire. Before you could react, he scooped you up effortlessly, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs as he hoisted you into his arms. Instinctively, your legs wrapped around his waist, and the heat of his body pressed flush against yours made it impossible to ignore the pulse of need that had been building inside you.

As he carried you toward the bedroom, you couldn’t help but grind against him, seeking any bit of friction to ease the ache deep within. His cock pressed against you through the fabric, and the way you moved against him made a low groan escape his throat. His grip on you tightened, one hand sliding down to cup your ass, where marks were surely forming, encouraging the movement as your hips rolled against him.

“You’re that desperate, hm?” he murmured against your ear, his voice darkly amused, yet there was a hunger in it that matched your own.

When he reached the bedroom, he pinned you against the wall beside the door, his hands gripping your thighs as he pressed his body even closer to yours. His mouth found your neck, kissing and biting with just enough pressure to make you gasp. “Look at you,” he rasped, his tone a mix of approval and possession. “Grinding on me like you can’t wait a moment longer, behaving like a bad girl again.”

His lips captured yours before you could deny his claim, before you could tell him that you’d behave for him. The kiss was rough and demanding, as if he was trying to consume every bit of your desire. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the way his muscles flexed under your touch as you clung to him, and the undeniable erection pressing between your legs as you ground against him one last time before he pulled you away from the wall.

With a sudden movement, he turned and carried you the rest of the way to the bed, tossing you down onto the mattress with a mixture of gentleness and roughness that left you breathless. The cool sheets felt like a shock against your flushed skin, but before you could catch your breath, he was on top of you, his body pinning you down as he kissed you deeply, his hands already roaming possessively over your exposed skin.

As he moved above you, his chain swung between your bodies, the cool metal brushing against your heated skin with each of his movements. The feeling of the chain dangling against your chest, combined with the weight of his body and the way his mouth devoured yours, made your head spin with need.

Pierre shuffled down your body, placing a lingering kiss as he went, until he reached the hem of your panties, the dampening patch growing with each passing second. He slipped his fingers into the waistband, pulling it away in one fluid motion, tossing the sheer fabric aside like it was nothing more than a fleeting thought. He placed his hands on your thighs, spreading his fingers wide to savor the softness of your skin. His grip tightened, fingers digging into your thighs, eliciting a delicious ache that coursed through your body. With effortless ease, he parted your legs, leaving you beautifully exposed on the bed, entirely at his mercy.

His gaze instantly dropped to your pussy, the soft sheen of your desire compelling him to lick his lips, a sly smirk creeping across his face. He leaned closer, his lips inches away from your cunt. Pierre’s eyes flicked back to yours, searching for your reaction, and he found you watching him with anticipation, your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

With a teasing flick of his tongue, he parted your folds, savoring the sweet taste of your arousal. He dragged his tongue through your slickness, sending a wave of pleasure cascading through you. You arched your back instinctively, the sheets beneath your clenched fist crumpling as you felt a rush of warmth radiate from deep within.

Your other hand tangled in his hair, fingers curling tightly as you urged him closer, a soft whimper escaping your lips. He groaned at the sensation, pulling back just enough to place a soft kiss on your sensitive clit, igniting a spark that made you shudder.

Just as you surrendered to the sensation, he surprised you by bringing his palm down between your thighs, slapping your cunt. The suddenness of his touch jolted you, instinctively causing you to close your legs, a reflex born from both shock and desire.

He noticed immediately, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. “You can’t even keep your thighs open for me, can you?” he teased, a playful challenge lacing his voice. “If you can’t manage that, how do you expect me to believe you can be good, ma chérie?”

“Pierre—”

With a slow shake of his head, he stepped away from the bed, leaving you trembling with anticipation as he sauntered over to the closet. The cool air caressed your exposed skin, heightening your awareness of every sensation.

After a moment, he returned, and your breath caught sharply in your throat. In his hands was a spreader bar, its sleek surface gleaming under the soft light. It was crafted from polished metal, sturdy yet alluring, with two leather bands attached at either end—perfectly designed to secure your ankles in place. The sight of it sent a rush of heat flooding through you, a mixture of excitement and trepidation filling your veins.

“Maybe you’ll behave with this,” he said, his voice low and filled with promise. He approached with a predatory grace, the spreader bar held confidently in his grip. You could feel your heart racing as he knelt at the edge of the bed, his expression both commanding and enticing.

He gently tugged your legs apart, adjusting your position to accommodate the spreader bar. The cool metal felt foreign against your skin, and a thrill coursed through you as he positioned it perfectly between your ankles. You gasped softly at the sensation, the way it forced you open and vulnerable to him.

With deft movements, he wrapped the soft leather bands around your ankles, fastening them snugly to the ends of the bar. Each strap tightened around your skin, anchoring you in place and amplifying the thrill of submission.

“This will keep you spread and open for me,” he purred, his gaze roaming over your body with a mixture of hunger and admiration. The realization of your vulnerability sent a rush of heat flooding through you, a mix of anticipation and desire igniting in your core.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin as he surveyed the scene before him. “Just relax and let go,” he instructed, his voice a velvety whisper that wrapped around you like a warm embrace. “You’re safe here with me.”

With you secured and vulnerable, Pierre’s gaze darkened with a mix of desire and intent. He brought his palm down against your soft skin, the impact sending ripples of sensation through your body. The weight of his hand felt commanding, anchoring you in place as he explored.

“This time,” he said, a teasing smile playing on his lips, “you won’t be able to close your thighs.” His fingers began to trace lazy patterns along your inner thighs, the teasing caress leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The spreader bar held you open, and you could only gasp as he relished in your exposure.

As his hand came down against your pussy, the jolt of sensation shot through you like electricity. Your back arched instinctively, a desperate attempt to ease the overwhelming feeling that coursed through you. The urge to close your legs—to shield yourself from the intensity of his touch—surged within you, but the spreader bar kept you splayed wide open, a reminder of your helplessness.

“Please, please, please, Pierre,” you whispered, the words spilling from your lips like a breathless mantra. Each plea was laced with need, your voice trembling as you struggled to cling to some sense of control.

“Ah, there they are,” he breathed, voice dripping with mock satisfaction as though he’d stumbled upon a lost treasure. “There are your manners.” His thumb traced your folds, dipping ever so slightly in your cunt before sliding out and nudging your swollen clit.

The way he looked at you—half-chiding, half-amused—made your pulse quicken. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as he continued, “beg for me.”

His fingers worked against your pussy, spreading your folds while bringing his other hand down to slap your exposed clit. You cried out loud, his name falling from your lips over and over again, the sound a desperate plea for more.

You squirmed on the bed, the soft sheets beneath you contrasting sharply with the heated intensity of his hands. Each deliberate stroke of his thumb circling your clit sent spirals of ecstasy racing through you, drawing out breathy whimpers that filled the air. His lips curved into a smug smirk, clearly reveling in your response as he maintained his hold on the spreader bar with his other hand, effectively pinning you in place.

“Need your fingers,” you managed to mumble between your moans. “Please, Pierre.”

He chuckled softly at your pleading words, a wicked glint in his eyes that made your heart race. “Are you sure you want my fingers? Or do you want my cock?” he taunted, his fingers slowing for a moment, building the tension between you. You writhed against the bed, the desire pooling low in your belly, urging him to continue.

Your eyes widened, and a desperate string of pleas left your lips, asking for his cock.

With a knowing smirk, he withdrew his fingers, leaving you longing for the sensation you had just experienced. He unbuttoned his pants with deliberate slowness, his gaze locked onto yours, savoring the anticipation that hung in the air between you. Each movement seemed to amplify your need, the tension coiling tighter in your belly as you watched him.

As he pushed his pants down, revealing the hard evidence of his desire, he maintained his hold on the spreader bar. The metal gleamed in the dim light, keeping your legs wide open, utterly exposed to him. This position only heightened your vulnerability and eagerness, a thrill coursing through you as you felt the cool air against your heated skin.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice a low growl filled with hunger. “So eager, so ready for me.” You could barely contain the shiver that ran down your spine at his words, your body aching for him.

With one hand gripping the bar, he leaned on the bed, his desire evident in his eyes. As he positioned himself at your entrance, the world around you faded, and all you could focus on was the anticipation of what was to come.

He thrusts into you, allowing you to take him inch by inch, each moment stretched to savor the fullness. You could feel every ridge and contour as he filled you completely, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure racing through your body.

Holding the spreader bar high, he kept your legs spread wide, your ankles resting against his shoulders. This position intensified your vulnerability, leaving you utterly exposed to him, and every thrust felt deeper, more intimate. The way he held you like this made your heart race, your body arching instinctively to meet his every movement.

“Just like that,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire as he leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your skin. Each thrust sent waves of ecstasy crashing over you, and you couldn’t help but let out breathy moans that filled the air around you.

“More,” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need. “Please, don’t stop.”

With a knowing grin, he brought his thumb down to your clit, rubbing tight circles that ignited an entirely new level of pleasure. The dual sensations of his thrusts and the friction on your sensitive bud sent shockwaves through you, leaving you gasping. Your body responded instinctively, arching towards him, craving more as he skillfully kept the rhythm.

As your legs rested against his body, he delivered sharp slaps to your inner thighs, each one sending a jolt of arousal straight to your core. The mix of pleasure and pain kept you teetering on the brink, every hit leaving you more breathless, more desperate for him.

When his hand finally returned to your clit, rubbing faster and harder, the pleasure surged within you like a tidal wave, building in intensity with each stroke. Your breath hitched as the world around you faded, leaving only the two of you, the bed, and the intoxicating sensations he was creating.

As he continued to push you toward ecstasy, he delivered a firm slap to your clit, the sudden burst of sensation causing you to gasp sharply. That one deliberate action sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you, igniting every nerve ending as you felt the heat pooling low in your belly. It was a thrilling combination of pleasure and pain, driving you ever closer to the edge.

“Please…,” you managed to whimper, your voice barely above a whisper, pleading for release as your body instinctively responded to his every move.

With a final thrust and a precise flick of his thumb against your sensitive clit, you felt the world around you shatter. The climax crashed over you with an intensity that left you gasping his name, the sound reverberating in the air between you. Your body shuddered uncontrollably, waves of pleasure radiating from the core of your being, and in that moment, you surrendered completely to the overwhelming pleasure he had drawn from you. Each pulse of bliss washed over you, leaving you breathless and entirely at his mercy.

As the aftershocks faded, you couldn’t help but hope the spreader bar would see more use in the future—and if it meant you had to misbehave to make that happen, then so be it.

Taglist: @chilling-seavey @cheer-bear-go-vroom @ggaslyp1 @nominsgirl @moll1701 @mrs-saturday @teamnovalak @sassy-chan @ruti26-11 @kennysimp101 @falling-feels-like-flying @laeblue @tremendousstarlighttragedy @bountychanti @savewaterdrinkvodka @cloud-55 @aarchiives @holylovercopsludge @black-fireproofs @lazydragonpeach @biancathecool @myownwritings @rebelatbay @ethereal0810 @leclercsluvs @01rrdbull @fallingforfalll2 @lilorose25 @laur2608

[nhlclover]

BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION MATT REMPE

pairing: fem!reader x matt rempe

summary: matt makes sure to go all out for your birthday, hoping to make it one to remember.

warnings: sweet sweet fluff, reader not liking her birthday, brief crying (but out of happiness!)

wc: 1.4k

notes: fun little birthday celebration with matt :)

The morning light filters softly through the curtains, and before you’re fully awake, you feel the gentle brush of lips against your cheek, the warmth of a breath close to your skin. Blinking your eyes open, you see Matt’s face hovering inches away, his expression tender as he places soft, sleepy kisses along your forehead, down to the tip of your nose. “Happy birthday, beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low and full of affection.

Still half-asleep, you reach for him, pulling him closer, savoring the warmth of his embrace and the scent of him — a mix of his cologne and vanilla. You’re not entirely sure why he smells like a cupcake, but your sleepy brain doesn’t think about it much. The last thing you want to do is leave this cocoon, this perfect moment wrapped in Matt's arms. A contented sigh escapes your lips as you press your face into his shoulder, barely able to articulate anything beyond a soft, murmured, “Can't we just stay like this all day?”

You’ve never been one to celebrate your birthday with much fanfare. The thought of a day centered entirely around you has always felt a bit uncomfortable, and you’d rather let it quietly slip by with minimal fuss.

Matt chuckles softly, tightening his hold as if he, too, wants to savor every second of this peaceful morning. “That’s exactly why I planned something low-key, just the two of us,” he whispers, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your back. You can’t help but feel your heart warm at his thoughtfulness. He knows you so well — how the attention of a big celebration has always made you feel slightly on edge, how you’d rather not be the center of it all.

As he pulls you a little closer, he murmurs, “I know you don’t like all the fuss… but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to make today special for you.”

He presses a couple of kisses along your jawline, hands holding your frame tightly to his. Suddenly he pulls back as you let out a disappointed groan. “As much as I’d love to stay here all day… I actually planned something for you.” he says, his voice carrying the faintest trace of excitement, “And I put a lot of effort into it so you’re going to have to get up and at least see it once.”

Reluctantly, you let him pull you out of bed, the world outside seeming less enticing than the warmth you were leaving behind. He wraps an arm around your shoulders as you shuffle down the hallway, staying snug in Matt’s hoodie you slept in last night. When you reach the living room, your breath catches.

The room is transformed. Streamers drape from every corner, a riot of colors filling the space, and a little banner in your favorite colors stretches across one wall, proudly proclaiming, Happy 22nd Birthday! Balloons in every shade are placed around the space, while small decorations and a few scattered confetti glitters on the coffee table. For a moment, you’re speechless, turning slowly to take it all in.

“Did you seriously do all of this?” you manage, looking at Matt, feeling almost shy.

“Of course I did,” he says, looking at you with a mixture of pride and a soft, almost vulnerable joy that takes your breath away. “Oh, you have to come see the best surprise.”

You follow him to the kitchen which is where you see a cake sitting on the counter. It’s a beautiful mess: the frosting uneven but clearly, painstakingly applied, a little lopsided, and decorated with a generous helping of sparkling sprinkles. He must have worked on it for hours, trying his best, determined to make it perfect just for you. The sight of it, so personal, so filled with love, tugs something deep within you.

The gratitude, the overwhelming sweetness of it all, builds so suddenly that you feel your eyes start to prick with tears. You try to blink them away, but it’s too late; Matt notices. His face changes, his brow furrowing as he steps closer, hands finding your shoulders.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Did I…did I do something wrong?” There’s a thread of worry in his voice as he reaches up to gently cup your face, his thumb brushing away the single tear that’s escaped down your cheek.

You shake your head, a tremulous laugh bubbling up. “No, no… it’s just… no one's ever done anything like this for me before.” You gesture around the room, the carefully decorated chaos, the little details so clearly made with you in mind. “All of this… it just means so much.”

Relief floods his features, and he pulls you into a warm, solid embrace. His hands press firmly into your back as if anchoring you to him. “Well, it's your birthday, and it only comes once a year," he says, his voice soft but steady, almost as if he’s saying it to himself. “So, of course I’m going all out. You deserve every second of it.”

You sink into his embrace, feeling the truth of his words settle around you like a warm blanket. The tears fall a little harder because of that — the sheer simplicity of being seen, of being loved without conditions.

You pull back, a smile breaking through the tears as you look up at him. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice soft but full of emotion. You lean in, pressing a gentle kiss on his cheek, then another just shy of his lips. It’s a little kiss, but it carries all the gratitude, affection, and quiet awe you feel for him in this moment.

His eyes meet yours, his cheeks tinted a little pink as he grins back, clearly touched. “You’re so worth it,” he says quietly, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze before nodding toward the cake. “Now, let’s eat some of this masterpiece, yeah? And then — you still have to open your present!”

You both settle at the kitchen counter, laughter filling the room as you cut into the cake, teasing Matt about the abundance of sprinkles. You take a bite, tasting the slightly sweet, perfectly imperfect frosting. It’s delicious, mostly because you know he made it himself. “Matt, this is incredible, thank you.”

As you savor another bite of cake, Matt fidgets slightly, his eyes glimmering with eager excitement. He clears his throat, before reaching into his pocket. “Okay,” he says, looking almost bashful, “now for the real present.”

Matt pulls a small, velvet box from his pocket and places it on the counter between you two. Your eyes widen in surprise, and you look at him with a mix of curiosity and excitement. “Matt…” you start, but he cuts you off gently.

“Just open it,” he says, his voice soft.

You pick up the box, feeling a small flutter in your chest as you lift the lid. Inside, nestled in the soft fabric, is a gold charm bracelet with a single small charm dangling from it — a tiny, intricately detailed ice cream cone. You gasp softly, instantly remembering your very first date with Matt when you got ice cream, talking for hours until the diner had to kick you out.

“It reminded me of our first date,” he says, watching your reaction closely, “and every time you look at it, I want you to think about all the other firsts we’re going to have together.” He gives a soft smile. “And, I thought… maybe over time, you could add more charms. Little things that remind you of us — of things we’ve done together, memories we’ve made.”

His words settle over you, filling your heart in a way that’s almost overwhelming. Each little charm to come would be a reminder of this — of him, of this journey you were both on together.

You look up at him, feeling your voice catch slightly. “Matt, this is… it’s perfect. I love it,” you say, reaching for his hand. “Every time I look at this, I’ll think of you. Of us.”

He breathes a sigh of relief, his smile widening as he gently fastens the bracelet around your wrist. “Good,” he says quietly, leaning in to press a tender kiss to your forehead. “That was the idea.”

You lean back, the weight of the bracelet on your wrist a reminder of everything Matt has done to make this day special for you, to help you enjoy your birthday again. As you look up at him, your heart swelling with emotion, you can’t help but smile.

You press another soft kiss to his lips. “I think this might just be my best birthday yet.”

[artbyblastweave]

A tool I find generally pretty useful for thinking about and classifying superhero systems is the Wild Talents Axes of Design, a worldbuilding tool from an RPG that I have not and most likely will not ever play. The system categorizes and ranks superhero settings on four axes:

The Red Axis measures Historical Inertia, how much the existence of superhumans causes the timeline to diverge from our own. A high-red setting represents the standard implausibly-recognizable like-reality-unless-noted world-outside-your-window model. A low-red setting is a total alternate history.

The Gold Axis measures Superhuman Inertia (talent inertia in their internal jargon, but we've all got our own names for these assholes.) This one measures how closely superhumans hew to classic paradigms of heroism and villainy, as opposed to branching out into other societal roles or life outcomes. A high-gold setting is the prototypical endless monthly game of cops and robbers; A low-gold setting would be something like Wild Cards or Top 10, where career superheroes are a rounding error (or even a downright oddity) compared to people with powers.

The Blue Axis measures what they term The Lovely and the Pointless- essentially how much weirdness exists outside the superheroes themselves, or, more practically, how unified the setting's cosmology and power sources are. High-Blue settings are the bizarre and irreconcilable genre kitchen sinks full of aliens, gods, magicians, one million ways to get superpowers and three different kinds of time travel. Low Blue settings would be The Boys, Worm, or Wild Cards- any setting where there's a discrete reason that superhumans happened and nothing supernatural going on outside of that point of origin.

The Black Axis measures Moral Clarity, which is about what it sounds like. High Black Settings are the cartoonishly-clear-cut battles of good and evil, low black settings are omnidirectional amoral clusterfucks where the participants have superpowers.

(The joke, of course, being that if you crank all four colors up all the way, you end up with a full CMYK print, and a reproduction of the aesthetic of classic golden and silver age superhero faire.)

Obviously this isn't a perfect system- it suffers from the perennial, probably inevitable issue that the four of these don't granulate equally well but they feel the need to articulate five nodes for each of them, just to keep it neat- and consequentially it sometimes feels a little like they're struggling to justify why some of the arrangements that they're describing are meaningfully distinct from the nearest tick up or down the axis. I'm also not entirely sure how it integrates this fifth axis I think is pretty important- the question of the degree to which the public is aware of superhumans at all.

But it does provide some interesting and useful language for quick-and-dirty compare and contrast work. Watchmen is Low Blue, Low Black, Mid-Red High-Gold. Invincible is High-Blue Mid-Black High Red Mid-Gold. Worm is Low-Blue-Mid-Black-Low-Red-Mid-Gold. I don't even stand by these ratings necessarily, I just think it would be super neat going forward if I were able to throw out a phrase like "High-Blue interpretation of Superman" and successfully convey that it means we're finally gonna get to see Superman fight a wizard in live action, for example. I think there's slept-upon terminology available to us here